Family Intervention at IKEA

For years and years I heard about the wonders of IKEA: how the furniture, rugs, lamps, dishes -- you name it -- were hip-looking and cheap as hell. But, interestingly enough, Massachusetts had no IKEA store. In fact , the closest one was over the George Washington Bridge in New Jersey! So, when one finally opened just South of Boston, I was psyched. My husband and I did our homework, checked out the website, had a good idea what we wanted, but we were also kind of excited to experience the international phenom that is IKEA. So, on a Saturday we put our two children in the car and suggested that although this was in deed a trip to a furniture store -- this might even be fun.

First sign we were in for trouble: the building and parking lot were overwhelming in their size -- and yet we still only managed to get one of the last parking spaces in the whole joint. But, we were still game -- even after walking the length of several football fields to the entrance.

Then things got weird.

At some point early on, my husband and I realized that we were being herded in a specific path. (He and I don't take easily to being herded. We attribute it to our on-going struggles to shake off the effects of being raised within organized religions.) Then we were handed a checklist that we didn't understand and a tiny pencil, like the ones you get at miniature golf courses. We started shuffling through display rooms with countless other customers, dutifully following the arrows on the floor, but kept wondering aloud, "Where are the bookcases?" Diningrooms...kitchens...livingrooms...kids rooms -- we just wanted to buy some bookcases! When we finally saw something close to what we wanted in one of these faux-rooms, we couldn't find a price on it. It took a while to find an IKEA folk, but when we did she responded brightly that we had to write down what we wanted on the checklist and then get all the way to the end of the shuffle-path to find it in bins. Bins? I had no idea furniture could come in bins.

This predicament started wearing my family thin almost immediately. The lighting was too bright, there were way too many people, and there were way too many things to look at, period. By the time we got to the place where the bookcases lived, the heart of the shopping experience, my kids were at each others' throats and then turned on us. "Why are we still here?!" they pleaded. "When can we go home?!" We tried our best to make our choices quickly, but the checklist was still throwing us, and despite the fact that there seemed to be lots of individuals who had the trade-mark Swedish flag-colored IKEA shirts, no one seemed particularly ready to assist us. But somehow, we made our selection and realized that the numbers to the right told us what BIN to go to in order to find the bookcases. Got it! "We're thirsty?!" my kids whined.

"We are too, but we're almost there!" we rallied.

Several departments more through the shuffle-path and we were practically dragging each other, human chain style, in order to make it to the end.

Went to the correct aisle, found the correct bin and...half of what we needed WAS NOT IN STOCK!

"Are we done?" my kids asked hopefully.

"Jesus, I guess," I responded.

After wrestling half of what we needed into our car, I mentioned aloud that we would have to come back for the rest of the components. My eight-year-old took this as a cue to plead: "Please do it when I'm at school!"

Lessons Learned for next trip to IKEA:

• Find out what time they open on any day but Saturday or Sunday
• Check stock availability on line before going to the store
• Bring a canteen and compass
• Leave word with a love one when you expected to return

Note: I wish I could take credit for the ball-crawl picture above -- the trip to IKEA might have ended on a much more fun note -- but I got it from a website called "Writer's Block Magazine."

How I Used to Be Funny (Maybe)

I have been gone a while -- from the blogshere that is. This has been for several reasons:

• The community outreach project I run is finishing up a big grant and trying to russel up some new money.
• Both of my children play baseball in the spring -- on two different teams -- which means lots of games and practices and interesting conversations with other parents (see previous post).
• My husband travels for work in the spring -- which means single parenting (and God bless you all who do it for real, 24/7.)

But also, or more likely as a result, two more things played heavily in the last couple of months:
I got sick -- as in "You need to get an MRI to rule out anything scary" sick.
and
I stopped being funny.

So here's more: The MRI showed nothing scary -- but getting the MRI was VERY SCARY. I hate small places, kids -- and an MRI is nothing but a small place. So I guess I am not dying but I am still feeling ill -- so the tests continue. Meanwhile I am getting acupuncture, which seems to be helping -- and will contribute, at least, to future posts about my groovy-goolie acupuncturist team/married couple.
And then there is the funny -- or lack there of. Besides having less time and energy to write, I did not feel funny or anything close to sharp. So I didn't write. I watched Bugs Bunny a lot, trying to get the funny back. But I kept thinking -- "Now that is funny, and I am not." I mean, how can you top Bugs swatting away a giant bull, snorting at him from behind, exclaiming "Stop steamin up my tail! What are ya tryin to do? Wrinkle it?!"

So I ask any of you who might stumble over this blog to be kind and encouraging. Not only am I working on getting well, I am nursing a funny bone and I can use all the help I can get.
Heard any good jokes lately?

Take Me Out to the Ballgame?

Having grown up with five brothers, I had a rocky road into figuring out how female relationships worked. The communication was the toughest part. I found growing up that men pretty much said what was on their minds, while women used all sorts of complicated double meanings, kooky eye contact that changed the meaning entirely, and switcheroos -- in which you thought you were going to discuss one thing, only to end up talking about another.

The ironic thing is that my chosen profession includes talking with people (often times women) who are in some kind of crisis or high stress situation. This has been the case for so many years that my husband refers to the show Intervention as "your people." Somehow, it has all worked so far. But...

These two sides of my life recently collided at, of all places, baseball practice.

My son has played with roughly the same group of kids for three seasons -- which means, I have interacted with the same group of moms. The first year, I took myself out -- mostly because I would use the endless innings in which kids were learning to pitch (and sides batted around) to catch up on paperwork or watch my daredevil younger son on the adjoining playground. The central group of moms took this as a snub -- and in the coming years, a reason to not remember my name. The second season, I helped during warm-ups and some practices -- and was, frankly to my surprise -- the only woman who did this in the whole town. Freak Mark number two. Season three I gave it the ole college try and sat with the ladies -- only to be largely ignored and not included in their reindeer games.

So, when I arrived at one of the first practices this year -- 8:30 a.m. on a Saturday -- I decided to sit alone and skip the whole thing. Soon enough, a new mom came and sat next to me. She introduced herself and asked which one was my son. When I returned the pleasantry, she reported, "I've got two kids on the team -- only they've got two different fathers and my ex has his other kid on the team too. So I'm here watchin three half-brothers. They get along, but the one got ADHD, the other one -- we don't know what his story is. Just rude. But what do you expect? He was born 3 months early and weighed two and a half pounds."

Oy, I'm not working, I thought. "Jeez." I commented -- which apparently was more than enough encouragement to go on.

She explained that she had grown up in this town and knew everybody who had. She observed the other moms and declared that several where "no bargain." "Like my neighbor," she went on. "I've known her since kindergarten and she knows I went down a tough road, but I've been sober since the Superbowl, so fuck her. Yeah, I blacked-out and don't remember a damn thing about the Patriots -- so I said -- forget it, and got engaged to a sober guy. But anyway,"

(Author's note: this woman is talking to the side of my head. In my failed attempt to discourage her, I am not giving her any eye contact. Conveniently for her, she does not seem to need any.)

"The thing is, my neighbor still acts like I'm some kinda head-case -- when everybody knows that the guy she married is gay. Been gay since the third grade! So they're divorced now -- so ha-ha, I guess your shit does smell, Cheryl."

Being ignored by the mean moms was starting to look pretty dreamy. But it wasn't until the started describing the fight she was in that resulted in her losing her front 4 teeth -- and the oral surgery required to replace them that I excused myself to the bathroom and never came back to sit with her. I wondered if this made me a mean mom too? Or am I just acknowledging that it is a long way until baseball season is over and self-preservation is golden?

All I know is the empty patch of grass on the hill behind the dugout is mine -- and I'm bringing paperwork with me next time.

God, Sex, and/or Quarterbacks

It is difficult to live in Massachusetts and despise the quarterback of the New England Patriots. To say a word against Tom Brady during the historic winning streak this year was to chance backlash from the sweetest of folks.

TOM BRADY?? What could anyone have against Tom Brady??

You'd think he was the baby Jesus!

Well, he bugs the crap out of me -- the kind of jock who was the opposite of my black-clad, pot-smoke-smellin-self in high school. Sure there's other stuff: he left a pregnant girlfriend to date a super model, he routinely wears a Yankee cap -- but it really all comes down to the "My shit don't smell" factor. So shoot me -- not only did I speak against this christ-child-wanna-be -- I also refused to buy my seven-year-old a Tom Brady poster. I told him that he could buy one with his own nickels and dimes -- but that I didn't want to spend money on any picture of the yutz.

Now I understand my son wanting it -- and even being ticked-off when I wouldn't buy it, but that is nothing compared to the number of adults who have been shocked by my actions.

One friend told me I was a control freak -- and that I better get ready for parenting through a very rough adolescence.

One told me I shouldn't impose my own taste on something that was to go in my son's room.

One told me I was the meanest mommy (okay, that was my son.)

My response was that beside the fact that I really DON'T have to buy something for my child just because he wants it -- I am not raising my children in some opinion-free zone! They are encouraged to share how they feel about stuff -- and I do the same. When did it become popular to believe that parents should not let their kids know their personal opinion for fear that they will stunt their intellect or the sanctity of their childhood. What if it were porn? Would I be obligated to buy that for my son because he wanted it?

Now, don't get me wrong. My son knows this household is still free to be you and me. You can like Tom Brady. You can invite him to your birthday party. AND you can buy his poster with the money you squeezed out of raking the leaves last fall. Make those choices: today it is which athlete you like, later on it will be which kid you think it hot, or what church you want to join. God, sex, and/or quarterbacks -- we all can weigh in on our own, and everyone is entitled to their opinion.

So, what did my son learn? He decided to become a pollster. Mom thinks Brady is a jerk (check)and would not spring for the poster. Dad likes Brady just fine (check) and made sure a little boy version of the quarterback's jersey was underneath the tree on Chistmas morning.

What You Know If You're Irish For Real

On this Saint Patrick's Day, I am reminded of my connections to the fair isle. Having not yet made it to Ireland myself, I rely on my mother's connection to the place and a few friends who grew up there. And then there is the fact that I live in Massachusetts, which somehow makes you Irish-by-association. But with all those factors considered, my very favorite story about Ireland involves my friend Kerry and a ditzy Irish-wanna-be girl.

Kerry was raised in Ireland and came over to Boston during the big wave of visa-waving young adults who fled their homeland in the mid-80's. He has since come to own several very successful Irish bars -- and looks as if he had to brawl for every single dollar. Kerry is not tall, but is strong, has jet black hair, ice-blue eyes, a nose that's cleary been broken several times, and a scar that runs the length of his cheek. Let's just say -- from the look of him, you'd never try and stiff him on a tab. But the other thing to know about him is he's a big mush when it comes to his wife, kids, and friends -- and that he has a very quick wit that waits for no one.

Once at a party I was standing beside him when a ditzy, chatty woman started talking to Kerry simply because he had a brogue. Kerry has pointed out to me before that a brogue helps if you're running a bar in Boston, but everywhere else it can be a pain in the ass because, as he said, "You're either seen as the ambassador to Air Lingus or people are after your Lucky Charms." Plus, in this case, we were kinda drunk. And so, when this woman approached him grinning from ear to ear opening the conversation with a too-excited, "Are you from Ireland??" Kevin just sighed and nodded.

"Ohhhhh I love Ireland," she gushed. "We went last year and I just loved everything about it! The landscape is so beautiful and the people are so friendly! I want to live there!" and then finally stopped and took a breath, gazing at Kerry dreamily and then wondered aloud, "Why would you ever leave?"

Kerry took a deep drink of his beer, leaned forward, looked the ditzy chick in the eye and said in his deepest brogue, "Because it fookin sooks."

Yes, the moral of my story is that Ireland sucks. Kerry's message to us all is that he could have stayed in Ireland and been a "fookin bootcha" as his butcher-father and grandfather before him -- or he could have got the hell out and been rich in America.

Somewhere along the way he learned how to pour a great pint of Guinness and what else do you want on this day of pride in one's heritage? God bless and may you be in heaven an hour before the devil knows you're dead.

Cake Me

I make it a habit to ask people about their favorite birthdays and also their favorite birthday cake. My husband's was from childhood and featured plastic depictions of the Beatles. How cool is that? Drum set and all.

When I was little, I remember being in awe of a classmate who had a Barbie cake. For those of you who have never seen such a thing -- it involves placing a Barbie in the middle of a dome cake and then icing it to look like her ballgown skirt. When I asked my mom to make me one (Barbie cakes were not available in bakeries back in the day -- although I am told that now they are) she told me, "No way." My mom was really not the baking type -- and she also thought it was a little gross to stick a doll in a cake.

So I settled for the traditional one with the frosting roses, white cake and white buttercream on the outside. What is strange though is that very cake is now my favorite kind. Interesting what adaptation can do.

My favorite birthday has multiple answers -- which I allow in my version of this game. One was when I turned nine and my father returned from Japan with a beautiful geisha doll for me. The other was when I turned thirty and many friends celebrated with me at a since-demolished but wonderful dive called The Ratskellar (The Rat to us regulars). There was a great live band, a lot of beer, and a biker who wanted to kiss me.

What was (were) your favorite birthday(s)?

What is your favorite kind of birthday cake?

Really Love Your Peaches, Want to Shake Your Tree

I have stumbled upon a surprisingly interesting book, The Botany of Desire which explores our relationship to plants. It asserts the uncommon question: Do plants exert an influence of humans rather than humans only exerting their will over plants?
This requires a real shift of lens. For instance, can we consider the survival of some domestic variety of plants to be solely the work of man or can we credit the uncanny "ability" of some plants to push themselves to the front of the class, demanding to be taken in, fed and nurtured? Think of which animals have become domesticated. Did they get there by being unattractive, undesirable, useless? In this way, dogs and cats are brilliant as is -- say -- the apple.
And speaking of the apple -- isn't it interesting that the apple should be the symbol for desire and temptation in the Garden of Eden? Which leads me to my question:

What fruit would you assign as the symbol for desire and temptation? Why?

Massachusetts 9*1*1

I heard a story on the radio recently about an effort to establish a law in Massachusetts regarding the abuse of 9*1*1. In short, it will be against the law to harass a 9*1*1 operator.


Hmmmm...harass? I thought. What is involved in harassing a 9*1*1 operator?

I imagined people calling up and freaking out about ambulances that hadn't arrived yet -- kind of like bitching at the cab dispatcher. But, no. The radio story asked the same question and went on to play clips from actual calls as examples of what crossed the line.

One man yelled at the operator because traffic was really bad on the Mass Pike.

One woman called to complain that the local weather forecast had been wrong and it was raining hard.

I wish I were kidding.

This made me wonder about what people are thinking. When did 9*1*1 being only used in case of emergency get lost? When did the concept of emergency get lost? Apparently these people felt the need to talk to someone -- okay vent at some one -- but since when did personal frustration prompt a call for municipal help? I can understand calling a spouse or friend to blow off some steam during a traffic jam or unanticipated weather experience. My sainted husband has supplied a sympathetic ear through my years and years of commuting. But all I expect from him is an understanding, "Sorry -- that sucks." What do these callers expect from 9*1*1?

The only answer I can come up with is that driving alone in your car can be a very isolating experience. Why not call someone who is paid to answer? It is a community resource after all.

Well...I didn't say it was an answer that made sense.

Tag

I have been thinking a lot about graffiti and I've found some company in it. The novel The Fortress of Solitude by Jonathan Lethem, the film Bomb the System, and the television documentary NY 77 all explore the practice and the meaning of painting or writing on the property of others.


It has helped me to remember the graffiti of my youth; a time when it seemed all the trains in New York City were covered from top to bottom, inside and out, end to end. It was a time when a debate raged in many cities about whether the stuff could be called art. Some argued that it was white snobbery that refused to admit this new form of expression had merit. Others suggested that to recognize it as art would rob it of it's true mysterious identity as "underground". Others pushed the notion that graffiti was simple cowardly vandalism and to allow it was to support a general sense of lawlessness -- something the urban areas of America did not need more of in the late '70s and early '80s.



The Fortress of Solitude and Bomb the System present a different part of the story though. They do not spend so much energy debating whether graffiti is art -- as they do exploring the power of the act of making one's mark. To put down your symbol, to tag, is to take possession of that space. The more you do it, the more you own. The tougher the place you tag, the higher your esteem. Graffiti artists of the late '70s in New York vowed to keep coming back every time their work was covered up or wiped away, painting in increasingly dangerous situations, and tagging objects of much higher risk but greater power -- such as police cruisers. This was the tactic taken instead of quitting -- this was bombing the system.


In real life, it took some concessions from both sides of this war for it to simmer down. In many cities, programs would be developed to give space and credit to young urban artists while police focused on cracking down in specific public areas. Interestingly, both of the young men in the novel and film reach a point of loss and frustration. Both reach a place in which the act of tagging no longer thrills them; no longer lights within them a sense of power.

Thinking about graffiti makes me notice it more. I find myself wondering, as I did when I was little: How did they write that way up there? How did they paint that so perfectly when they must have been hanging upside down? How could they create pictures with such amazing color while painting in complete darkness? And why?

It makes me acknowledge someone who cut out the middleman and decided for himself whether his work deserved public exposure. I believe what matters is that I saw it at all.

One Thing Leads to Another

It was clear from a young age that our first child was different. Speaking his first words at 6 months and sentences at 8 months, he taught himself to read when he was 3. How did we find out he could read? No "CAT" or "HOP" for him. On a visit to Boston Harbor he turned to us and asked, "Why does that boat say Lexington? Lexington is a town."


Proud? Well, sure. But my husband and I were also freaked out. We knew that this meant he would soon be smarter than us -- and I mean SOON. As he grew we knew we had to balance out his public school experiences with opportunities to hang out with his people. And we are lucky enough to live near a place where his people tend to mingle. The place my son proclaimed it no fair that you had to be big to go to -- the place, he cried, that should have a kindergarten: Massuchusetts Institute of Technology (MIT).

One MIT gig that we have made a tradition is MIT FAT. What is a MIT FAT, you ask? It is an event held on the Friday After Thanksgiving -- and a day in which people come far and wide to show off chain reactions they have made. These chain reactions need only start and end with a string pull, but can do anything in between (well, I think there are rules about fire, explosives, and too much liquid). Once folks set them up, the chain reactions are connected to one another to create a system that fills a gym. Its like one gigantic Rube Goldberg-type device, and is incredibly fun to watch -- but what is even more fun for my boy is the chance to chat with folks who think about the same kind of things he does.

At the latest event, last month, I found him talking with a teen-ager about the guy's choice to have part of his chain reaction feature a figure depicting Loiuse Pasteur getting dunked in milk, while a figure depicting Sir Isaac Newton got run over by a huge rolling apple. The teen-ager said, "It's just supposed to be funny."

"Huh," my boy (10 years old these days) said with a straight face. "Seems more ironic than funny." To which they both busted out laughing. I just watched, a stranger in a strange land.

Then, it was announced that the Master of Ceremony was Arthur Ganson.

"ARTHUR GANSON!" my son cried. "Mom! Look! It's Arthur Ganson!"

I felt like an old lady in a pillbox hat peering at the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. "Who is Arthur Ganson?" my silly, unscientific-self asked.

And bless my son, he told me. Ganson is a scientist/inventor/sculptor who creates what can only be described as beautiful machines. Here is one: Ganson's Machine with 23 Scraps of Paper.

In yet another example of how great it can be when he gets to hang with his people, my son hustled up to the MC and asked excitedly, "Can I have your autograph, Mr. Ganson?"

It was clear the man had never been met with such a request before. "Sure," he finally said, and kindly did so.

Now my kid has Arthur Ganson's autograph in his room. And when he closes his eyes at night I can only imagine what he is seeing.

When Artist = Asshole

I just read Joyce Maynard's book At Home In the World, an account of her life and her infamous year in the company of J D Salinger. I am a great fan of Salinger's work and came to Maynard's book cautiously. After all, what good can be said about an affair between a man in his fifties and an 18 year-old girl? At the very least it isn't a fair fight (girl who thinks she is grown up meets man who is) -- at its worst, all definitions of adult aside, it could be a hell of a lot more sinister. Certainly, there is the "It was the style at the time" argument, pointing to the example of the Mia Farrow/Frank Sinatra relationship (made even a little bit stranger by the fact that Farrow looked like a 15 year old BOY -- Jeez Frank). But anything involving Salinger is different because of his complete retreat from public life. To become involved with him means cutting oneself off from a lot of the outside world -- which interestingly enough Maynard seemed all too happy to do. The story goes that she was a strongly hyped young writer, which included her picture on the cover of the New York Times Magazine and book deals galore -- all bagged in her freshman year at Yale. But she was very unhappy in school, more than a little freaked out by her sudden fame, and with no useful input from her parents Maynard hightailed it up to New Hampshire at Salinger's invitation and disappeared into his world.

And so, what does Maynard have to report? Guess what: Salinger is strange. He eats really weird food and is grumpy. The sexual relationship was odd and didn't work out. She was clingy and he got bored. Depending on who you are, reading her account could make you admit that interpersonally he is a messed up guy or that you think she is a bitch who should have never told the story or that Salinger is a pedophile whose work is worth shit because of that fact.

It is this last take I find the most interesting. If we find out an artist is an asshole, does that change the worth of his or her art?

Picasso was a notorious asshole -- although in Repo Man it is claimed that no one has ever called Picasso an asshole -- I find that hard to believe -- I mean look at that face...he was clearly smackable. Word is he was terrible to the woman in his life and not all that fun at parties. And yet, one of, if not the most important painter of the 20th century. Personally, when I look at Picasso's work I don't think about who he was at home.

And yet -- then there is Woody Allen. From what I have heard, his relationship with Mia Farrow was unconventional to say the least, but even in that context, his decision to make Farrow's daughter his lover and then wife is very creepy. I have loved Allen's films, but I must admit I have gone to see very little of his work since that story broke. Why? I think he really baffled me in a way I find hard to shake when I see his work. Is it because his movies seem so autobiographical? Is it because Allen so often turns to the camera in order to have an intimate conversation with the viewer that I feel compelled to yell back, "Yuck! What the hell have you been thinking, you kook?!"

If we sign on to be fans, do we sign a waver to personal behavior?

Here is another take on what it means to be a Salinger fan. After publishing At Home in the World, Maynard put her letters from Salinger up for auction at Christies. Because Salinger had sued over his letters becoming public in any way, Maynard anticipated that there would be a call for an explanation from his fans. Maynard noted that she had been very careful not to quote the letters directly in her book, but having used them for inspiration in writing her memoir said they no longer served a purpose for her and so she had decided to sell them in order to pay for her children's education. Surprising to some (including me), the letters went for a relatively low price -- and the new owner stated that he had bought the letters with the sole purpose of returning them to Salinger. What other writer, actor, artist, politician would inspire such loyalty in this day and age? What asshole for that matter?

Oh! To Be Little with Too Much Time on Your Hands

I have vivid memories of being told that I had to get ready for bed early in order to be allowed to stay up and watch The Brady Bunch followed by The Partridge Family. To say I loved these shows would be an understatement. I was simply devoted to them. In fact, I spent a lot of non-viewing time thinking about the characters and making up scenarios for them. These scenarios would sometimes bleed characters from one show to the other -- which of course really did happen occasionally (i.e. Sonny and Cher on "Scooby Do") -- but as my overly-intense-emotional-self tended to lean, I made the characters far too involved in one another's lives.



I wondered how long it would take Keith to break Marcia's heart.


I wondered if Laurie was a little too sophisticated for Greg.


I worried Danny wouldn't get along with anyone.



I thought the littlest kids might have fun together -- although the tambourine girl always seemed a little ... aloof.



And what about the adults? Would Alice leave Sam the Butcher for Rubin Kincaid?


Or would Mr. Brady end up having an affair with Shirley Jones? Not to worry!




I also LOVED The Courtship of Eddie's Father and therefore imaged that maybe Carol Brady could jump over there and get married to that poor widower Bill Bixby.

And then maybe the adorable nanny Mrs. Livingston could retire...or take Mr. French's place on Family Affair when he keeled over from a heart attack. Because even at 7 years old, I could sense that Buffy and Jody's dad was simply not going to remarry. Alcoholism? Rage issues? I am not sure, but there was something wrong over there. Which is why I was not surprised when I overheard the grown-ups talking about how Buffy and/or Jody and/or the teen aged sister ended up flipping out on acid in real life. Meanwhile, Mrs. Livingston could have saved the day with her soothing Japanese ways.

If they had only listened to my recasting ideas...lives could have been spared.

Prince! Prince! Prince! Let's Talk About Prince!

The Artist Formerly Known as Merely Kooky has finally gone off the deep end. Not content with simply turning his name into an unpronounceable symbol, he shaved the word "slave" into his facial hair -- all in the name of getting out of his record contract. Well now it seems that none of that is enough. No. Now he hates his fans. And not in that general funk "stop looking at me because I hate myself" kind of thing that Kurt Cobain had going. Prince is SUING his fans -- trying to get them to stop posting about him, and even making photos of their own Prince-tribute tattoos public.


Well you don't have to taunt me twice Prince. I could have gone my whole life without posting about you -- but now I have to. You leave me no choice.

According to the Prince fan site prince.org, they have been sent a "DMCA takedown notice and at least two Cease and Desist letters from attorneys representing Prince. Their demands for removing content and mandating how we would refer to Prince, if obliged, would essentially mean the end of any discussion of Prince-related topics, hosting of images (even of people\'s symbol tattoos!) and more. We at prince.org will not stand for this, and have joined forces with the other affected sites to tell our side of the story and stand up to what are, in our opinion, bullying tactics designed to silence freedom of speech."

I must admit I have been in a fan. I loved Purple Rain -- and other fantastic singles such as "Kiss" and Sinead O'Connor's recording of "Nothing Compares to You." I have bought the man's albums! I have dug his solos and appreciated the whole presentation enough to stifle a giggle at the general tiny-guy-in-high-heels element. I even praised his creativity with the symbol/beard shaving bit. But now I feel committed to my own civil disobedience.

So! Let's go to the fans' new hangout. Come on Prince -- you can come too! Oh...and one more picture...

And one more for good luck...

*giggle*

A Real Bad Case of the Uglies

The other day I went through a real bad case of the uglies. It surpassed the level in which I wonder how long my teeth have been grey. It surpassed the level in which I calculate how much money it would take to replace the entire wardrobe that no longer suits me and then give up. It was to the level in which I concede that I have the beginnings of a hunchback and therefore will end up a hideous hag.

This pushed me to emergency measures: shoe shopping.

This is my remedy of choice instead of prolonged self-loathing or dedicating myself to eating as much chocolate as possible. I figure shoe shopping can not make me heavier or crankier and if I go to Payless or Parade of Shoes -- I won't even be that much poorer.

And it was during this trip to the shoes store that I realized shoe shopping saves women from many of the pitfalls of clothes shopping. If I dared to go clothes shopping while suffering from the Uglies I would end up feeling pissier about my hunchback or freakishly broad shoulders or my breasts that are either too large, too small, or too saggy (depending on the garment being tried on). This simply does not happen with shoes. They either fit or they don't fit and if they don't it is not because of my foot being somehow unacceptable -- it is because of some flaw in the shoe. When a shoe is too tight I do not think, "Shit, my toes are fat." No. I think, "They've got no business labeling this an 8 1/2!"

No wonder women seem drawn to shoe addictions. No matter what your hips look like, you can always have adorable feet.

What You Need to Do to Get Candy

I am glad to know almost every kid in my neighborhood. Having lived here for some years now, I have had the chance to observe a couple of them move from early childhood to pre-adolescence. And that is how I have come to peg a couple of kids who I am sure will grow up to sell drugs.

There is nothing like Halloween as a check-in with the neighborhood kids' progress. Like the trip to the bus stop each year on the first day of school, you get to see who has grown, who is missing a tooth, and who has made that crucial leap to young juvenile delinquant. When the group of kids that included the future-drug-pushers came to my door this past Halloween night, the first thing I noticed was that the costume selection was a little random. When I asked, "What are you supposed to be?" there was a collective shrug in response.

I decided that some tough love was in order.

"Well," I said returning the yet-untouched bowl of treats to my hip, "You gotta be something to get candy."

One kid raised a hand, "I'm an evil jester." Okay -- fair enough. He did have the Scream mask and a jester hat on.

"How bout you, Tim?" I asked the boy wearing a shirt on that said got candy? on it. "I'm a kid who wants candy."

"Sure," I responded with the bowl still on my hip. "Okay Justin," I said turning to the kid I KNOW will one day sell my child weed. Surveying his blue hoody and jeans, I raised my eyebrows at him.

"I'm a skateboarder," he said hopefully.

I sighed.

I shifted the bowl to the other hip. The boys stood quietly.

"Fine!" I exclaimed, offering the bowl to pick from. "But next year I want some imagination! Nothing lame or NO CANDY! Got it?"

Dutifully, each boy took only one piece of candy and each said "Thank You."

Aaah...they're good kids.

Oy!

Jeez Loiuse! I knitted until my hands cramped. I thought I was having a stroke at one point. And then I cried for a half an hour.

My children will not go to school tomorrow (oh. I'm sorry. Today.) and I will not go to work. We will make our pilrimage to Fenway.

And why?

Because anything is possible.

Superstition in Culture and Sport

I attended a meeting recently in which the name of a person who had died was mentioned. Without missing a beat the woman beside me and I both murmured, "God rest his soul." We then looked at each other, surprised.

"Irish Catholic?" she said.

"Of course," I answered.

The other members of the meeting who had heard the exchange weighed in on whether they thought it was a kind, spiritual gesture to wish someone's soul rested or if it was simply old-fashioned and creepy. My cultural partner knew what I knew -- saying such a thing only has one explanantion: superstition.

Pushed to explain I would have to admit to all sorts of irrational thought processes that add up to the dead having enormous power to mess with the living. I would have to admit that I follow some superstitions to the letter and ignore others all together. I would have to explain how I am also known for responding to spontaneous superstitions in order to feel more at ease. I would have to effectively describe how this is different from an obsessive compulsive disorder.
And I would have to admit that baseball was the sport seemingly created for me and my kind.
The team I adore is in the World Series and is favored to win. Indeed, the first game, last night produced a lop-sided win for my hometown boys. So why am I making no predictions about the Red Sox? Because speaking of an outcome to the series, even the outcome of a single game yet unplayed is not something I can do. Thinking about it can even make me uncomfortable.

There are other conventional baseball superstitions I follow faithfully, such as not discussing a no-hitter while it is still in progress. But then there are the superstitions of the moment mentioned above, such as not being able to stay in a room while Josh Beckett pitches (because my husband will not stand for me turning the channel). Why? Hmmm...I don't know. I only know it was so. My husband follows some superstitions, but points out that there is no comparing his behavior to mine -- which I would have to agree with. When tickled by my compulsions, he will openly mock them, which left me with no choice but to insist that he could not talk to me or look at me for the second half of the fourth and final game of the 2004 World Series. A woman has gotta do what she's gotta do.
Now that it is a new World Series, I had to visit Fenway Park down the street from where I work, and perform my World-Series-only ritual of kissing the brick of the grand old place. You know...for luck. What if I hadn't done it? Well, it's not as if they could go 86 years without winning it again.
Shit. Did I say that out loud?

You Can Take the Punk Out of the Catholic Church, But You Can't Take the Catholic Church Out of the Punk

I *heart* the Dropkick Murphys.

After all, they are a Boston punk rock band that uses traditional Irish instruments and melodies alongside speed-metal drumming. So...what kind of chance did I have? The love was just waiting to happen.

But what sets these guys apart is that they don't sing about suburban angst or the old, tired Mom-and-Dad-never-loved-me crap. They sing about neighborhood guys dying in Iraq, brothers dying of "the drink," and hopes that maybe we can meet on the other side after we all die. LOVE IT! And the Irish melancholy doesn't end there. They sing about growing up with the Catholic Church wanting your soul, Department of Social Services taking your kids, and losing your leg in a freak pirate accident (I'm not kidding -- the chorus is about shipping up to Boston to get a wooden leg).

So check 'em out. They are loud and fast and full of good ole' Irish Catholic fun.

http://www.dropkickmurphys.com/

More to Read!

To anyone who has been following the story of Mac, Ellen and Charlie -- there is a whole 'lot more posted as of today at http://tellmeastorymutha.blogspot.com/. Scroll back to get to the beginning -- and thanks for giving a damn.

Do You Have the Crystal Balls for the Post Season?

Now that the Red Sox have won their division title, Red Sox Nation is off to another post season. It makes me think of the historic 2004 season, of course -- but also of a conversation that happened two years before that between a fellow die-hard Sox fan, a psychic, and me.

The fellow die-hard fan was my friend and co-worker, Juan. Whenever we saw each other, no matter the time of year, we would greet each other with a check-in on whatever recent news there was about the Sox -- the latest trade, the latest rumor, the latest standings, the latest game. The conversation I am thinking of started in much the same way, but then a new co-worker joined us and Juan suddenly turned to her and said, "Ellen, someone told me you are a psychic."

Ellen calmly replied that she was.

And so Juan jumped on the chance. "Can you tell me how the Sox are gonna do?"

Ellen didn't miss a beat. She soberly instructed him, "You have to ask me the question you want answered."

"Okay," Juan said. "Will the Red Sox win the World Series this year?"

Ellen looked at Juan for a couple of minutes in silence and then said, "Do you really want to know?"

Juan blanched a little. "No," he said.

And that is what being part of Red Sox Nation in October is like. The Boys look great, but they held a 12 game lead at one point in the season, that by the end had dwindled to a nail-biting 2. And the post season will be no cake walk.

I begin knitting each September in order to have something to do during these trying times. Depending on how the Sox do, I will have several Christmas presents finished by Halloween.

Scout THIS!

My younger son wants to be a Cub Scout.



You would think any parent would be excited and proud. But no -- pinkos that we are, my husband and I were immediately unsure and then came the actual first "pack" meeting. That was when the concerns really began to flow.

It makes me wonder what Cub Scout Leaders think when a parent asks if his child has to march with the war veterans in the town Memorial Day parade. Couldn't the kids be separate from the soldiers? Well sir, this is the Scouts. I also wonder what it feels like to wear a neckerchief in your 40's.



I wonder what my son thought when I asked him if he felt like doing the oath each meeting. When he shrugged, I pointed out that, for instance, there was a bit about God. "That's cool," he told me. "I believe in God." I do too -- and again, most parents would smile warmly at their little angel. I crinkled my brow and worried that the whole "Law of the Pack" thing sounded too much like the Hitler Youth.

But who are we to put a cramp in his little scout-heart? Off he goes to cook-outs, go-cart derbies, sleep-overs, and Christmas toy drives. God bless him and God bless America. He can learn a sense of social questioning and healthy cynicism right here in the bosom of his family. No uniform required.




This is post is dedicated to my sweet Sheila, who got out of the Tower six years ago today.

The Terrible Twos Conspiracy

In my opinion two-year-olds get a bad rap. Two-year-olds are trippy little strange beings that can be fun to watch. They play with things like pretzels and barrettes. They like to be naked. They have no problem dancing in a supermarket aisle. They make up words and say them with conviction, giving you the dick-face when you don't understand what they are saying. They insist on being called names other than their own. Their heads are too big for their bodies.

So why the rep? I believe that Terrible Twos thing was started by a three-year-old to cover up the real truth -- that Threes are the ones to look out for.

Three year olds tend to be in a bad mood most of the time. They do not want to be treated like babies -- but they are not yet a "kid." They want to run with the big cats, but they may still have trouble making it to the toilet in time. They want to engage in the rough and touble fast paced life of the kindergartener -- and yet they may still have a blanky that must be produced imidiately with the day goes sour.

I was recently staying with family and had the great good fortune to get well-acquainted with a three-year-old I am related to by blood. He is a funny guy, smart, curious, and not in the mood to hear anything even close to "no" -- ever. In fact, when I did tell him to stop doing something, he looked at me with one of the most pissed off expressions I have ever seen on a human face. He turned on his heel, began to exit, but then decided to turn to me again and yelled, "I'M GONNA TELL MY MOMMY AND YOU'RE GONNA BE IN BIG TROUBLE!!!"

When his mother told him that I was his auntie and must be obeyed, he refused to come out and talk to me again. For the rest of the day, he would side-ways glance at me and then give me the cold shoulder. Such is the life of a three-year-old. It is hell.

But don't get me wrong. I found him beyond adorable. I wanted to eat up his feistiness with a spoon. Three or not -- I love the feisty ones. And that, my friends, explains a lot.

Hey! Whatcha Got in the Suitcase?

Here is a story I have been told...and I have told it is true.

A young woman was hired to watch a house for a family while they traveled, which included checking in on the family's dog. Unfortunately, the woman found the dog dead. She called the family's vet who told her to bring him the dog. Without a car of her own (and no cab money?) the woman decided she had to take a public bus to the vet's office. But -- how could she transport the dog in a way that would not cause a disruption? The woman decided upon a suitcase. Now on the bus, the woman was approached by a man who volunteered to help her carry the suitcase once her stop arrived. The woman agreed. Much to her horror, when she stood for her stop, the man punched her in the face and ran off the bus with the suitcase. So...I've got some questions for you to consider: Is this a theft she must report? How much could you get for a dead dog at a pawn shop? Would it make everyone happier if she told the family that she buried the dog?

Speaking of Men...

Fascinating creatures -- men. I have had my eye on them for some time. And it has been my pleasure to read three books recently that depict men who are interesting, complex, soulful, and genuine -- in other words, real.

Easter Rising by Michael Patrick MacDonald
I have raved before about MacDonald's first book All Souls, a telling of MacDonald's family history in South Boston. Full of tragedy and dark humor, the book sheds light on the gritty details of growing up in the Southie of the '70s. In his second time out, MacDonald goes even deeper to tell his own story. MacDonald's unflinching style satisfies again as we learn more about his view from the projects, but this time we ride along as he gets out of that world and into another -- a world, MacDonald claims saved his life. That world was the Boston Punk Rock scene. Fueled by The Clash, Mission of Burma, The Buzzcocks and Gang of Four (to name a few), MacDonald, underage and determined to see something other than the Reagan for President and Ireland Forever signs of his neighborhood, takes us over the Broadway Bridge into makeshift clubs to hear the Dead Kenendys, Siouxie and the Bandshees, and the roots punk/reggae of Mikey Dread. The rebellion that this music and underground scene kick off in MacDonald leaves him dressing like a freak, hiding in bathrooms to sneak into shows, and somehow -- alive. His brothers and friends dying around him, Punk is his ticket out to a place in which he can feel comfortable and understood. Sounds like home to me.

The World Made Straight by Ron Rash
It is interesting to imagine how a book that begins by telling the story of how a teenage boy gets caught stealing marijuana plants turns into a historical novel about the end of the American Civil War. But you don't have to, because Ron Rash does it for you. The unlikely pair who drive this story are the boy and the town drug dealer/former school teacher. The two stumble into a friendship that begins to evolve into that of parent and child, but the town in which they live has a deep and violent history that both fascinate and cripple the two men. Rash's writing is poetic and spare. A southern writer that breaks the mold, and yet somehow captures the elusive world of Appalachia.

Gilead by Marilynne Robinson
Certainly other female writers have created wonderful male characters, but Robinson goes so much farther in this novel about an elderly Southern minister. Having married late in life and now facing the fact that his health is failing, he decides to write a journal to his young son. Stories unwind for the boy flowing through a voice so solid and complex, it is a wonder. Robinson allows the reader to consider what events in one's own past might summarize who you are, what lessons you might feel compelled to describe to a child who will grow up without you, and how to explain the things you haven't done or meant to do. This novel is both serene and deep, a treasure.

Thoughts On a Home Run

I remember watching Hank Aaron beat Babe Ruth's record. I remember debates on sports talk shows arguing how much greater Ruth was than Aaron. Many said there was no comparing them -- the time between men was far too great to judge one against the other, the game of baseball too different from one era to the next.

But I love Hank Aaron and I don't love Barry Bonds.

And so today, I am sad that Aaron becomes a kind of footnote to the circus surrounding Bonds.

If it is any consolation Hank, my son traded his Bonds card months ago and has your picture hanging in his room.

Queer For Harry, Part 2

*Spoiler Alert: If you give a damn, I am talking here.

Even though I was very anxious to get my hands on a copy of the seventh Harry Potter book, I was stuck in an airport, trying to get home from a business trip the night of its release. After many delays, I ended up in my car heading home from Logan around 11:30 p.m. -- and so I made a deal with myself: I was too tired to stop at any big, bright super-store like Target or Barnes and Nobles, but I pledged to stop if I found a little book store open for the midnight release. No luck for 15 miles, but then a couple minutes before 12, I saw it -- a tiny shop in the town just East of mine, windows bright with light and parking lot full.

The interior was decorated and the entire staff dressed as different characters from the series. Some adult and child customers had gone to the trouble of dressing up too -- featuring a great kid Dumbledore and an adult Ron Weasley. So I paid my money and took my place in a short line winding through the store's book shelves to the front...and then I got a load of the folks I would be standing in line with.

The three girls in front of me were somewhere around 15 years old and each dressed as students from Harry Potter's school, Hogwarts. Their outfits included knee socks, pleated skirts, ties colored to indicate which house they were from and black robes. From the number of words that were streaming from them rapid fire, it was clear they had drank several liters of coke in preparation for the "marathon reading session" they had planned for the rest of the night. Standing with them, wide-eyed and speechless, was the sole little brother who had somehow begged in on the midnight trip. A boy approached him with a freshly bought copy of book 7 in his hand.

"I know what the last line is," the boy declared.

"We'll KILL you Colin! So just get lost!" one girl screeched.

"Tell me," the little brother whispered. But the spoiler boy suddenly looked filled with remorse.

"I won't," spoiler boy said. "It'll give too much away."

As we got closer to the front of the line, the girls got whipped into a frenzy. One produced a camera, squealing, "You have to take a picture the minute the book hits my hands."

I noticed people waiting for the boxes holding the books and wondered how many would be on e-Bay within the hour.

Well the girls got their books amid barely contained screams and I volunteered to take a picture of them all together with their copies. Picture snapped, they thanked me and ran out the door, across the parking lot and into a waiting car.

When I left the store I was smiling and very excited (in my own way) to have my own copy. But I couldn't deny a little knot of anxiety in my gut. I must admit, I had been worried for some time that the temptation to kill her main character off would be too great for Jo Rowling and it mattered to me that she not do it. Millions of kids, I kept thinking, millions. The dozen or so child fans I had talked with about the ending in the last several weeks all acted tough about the prospect of Harry's death -- but they didn't fool me. It would suck, and I didn't want her to do it.

On my way across the parking lot, away from the other store customers, I paused under a lamp post to disturb the brand new spine, and flipped to the very last page.

"All is well."

Ah, and so it is.

Thanks Jo.

"Two Guys Walk Into a Bar..."

After a long absence (in which I may or may not have been battling the forces of a certain blond hate-bomb), I have the audacity to break my silence only to ask a favor. Hold on though...it is for the sake of art...and I promise it doesn't involve 'N Sync (pictured here, sorry).

I need a joke for a story I am writing.

I want it to be told by one guy in his 30's to his two friends (one guy in his 30's, another in his 50's). These guys are all white, have worked as laborers together for a long time, all born in Massachusetts. And I don't care if it is dirty...just so it is funny. PLEASE and thank you.

I Beg of You: Pass It On!

All I can say in my defense is that she started it.

She called me godless for being a liberal. She insulted the 9-11 widows. She said that all public school teachers were alcoholics and child molesters. And to top it off she made a hell of a lot of money doing it. She is flat out wrong on her facts on a regular basis and yet so few people seem able to control themselves long enough to call her on her crap that she skates by with a smirk and a hair toss time after time. I am insulted to share the same gender with her. If this is a woman, let me be a squid.

Which leads me to my next topic. I would like to start a horrible rumor about her just like she started the godless rumor about me and my kind. Read on and help me out.

Ann Coulter is actually a man with top surgery.

Say it out loud. Say it to everyone you meet. If they ask you why you think so tell them her neck is clearly that of a male with a barely shaved Adam's apple.

I appreciate all your help on this. It makes me feel better.

Word Power

When asked to describe his performance in a recent rough start against the Yankees, Curt Schilling -- a man never found speechless -- selected the word "Craptastic."

I immediately found the need to incorporate it into my conversations.

Q: "How're you doing?"

A: (with a smile) "Craptastic."


Q: "Hey, you wanna go see Shrek the Third?"

A: "I heard it was craptastic."



And: "My chances of getting my first novel published are craptastic."



Like Curt, I reserve the right to make up my own words when necessary. For instance, I conjure up images of famous people as a descriptive aid:
Instead of finding a word meaning "a complex mix of earnest and creepy" I might say: "Sorry, I don't mean to go all Anthony Perkins on you."

Or I use variations on Yiddish: Instead of trying to describe an unidentified bunch of glop, I might say, "What is all this shmutz?"

It's fun and if Shakespeare made up words, why can't I? It's a free country. And after all, isn't that why we're fighting that craptastic war in Iraq?

Identify Your Jam

Something new at Fenway this year is that they play a short excerpt of music as each Red Sox player comes to bat. My sense is that each is set to express something about that individual -- but it would be interesting to know if the player has any say in the selection. The only one I recognized right away was "Iron Man" for Mike Lowell, and considering he lead the league in doubles last year, this makes sense. The others were tougher to identify, but got their point across. David (Big Papi) Ortiz has a powerful slow jam while Julio Lugo has something Latino in flavor. Varitek's is a straight ahead, no nonsence rock drumming -- while Dustin Pedroia, one of the youngest players, has a kind of boodie-call selection.

It made me wonder what I would pick as my bit of music and I would have to say it depends on the day. Get on my wrong side and it would be "Bulls on Parade" by Rage Against the Machine. Catch me in a good mood and it would be "Just like Heaven" by the Cure. But if I had to pick one, it would probably be the openining to the Talking Heads version of "Take Me to the River" -- you don't know what to expect from that one, but it's got soul.

What would your jam be?

Honor Thy Mutha

Growing up in a house full of brothers, I understood how to hang with boys and men from a young age. I tended to be shy around girls and women because I had a hard time following their cues. They seemed to talk in code, every word and look having a double meaning. When I was with my brothers and their friends I understood that when you thought you were being insulted you probably were -- but unless their was a harsh tone to go along with it, the insult was meant as a ribbing, a way to feel part of the group. In the company of girls I felt the opposite was true -- if you thought you were being paid a compliment, chances were somebody either wanted something from you or was actually insulting you through the backdoor. I found it spooky and so I kept my mouth shut and prayed no one would notice me.

Somewhere in my adulthood I started to relax around other women -- but tended to gravitate towards the ones who spoke plainly and had a good sense of humor. When I became a mother I even started to attend a mothering group and found the company very reassuring. But every once in a while the old code would pop up and turn me off immediately. When another mother says, "My goodness! Is your son always this energetic?" she is actually asking you if you have tried him on medication for hyperactivity yet. If she says, "He sure is smart. You must work with him a lot," the translation is , "I'm not sure why you would try to raise a freak but everybody is entitled to their goals."
Defensive?
Yeah, probably -- but it is from years of being on the other end of a bad connection. I often feel as if I was raised in a different culture. One in which eye lash curling was never covered, and a compliment was a compliment.

Hope you had a happy Mutha's Day -- and I mean that sincerely.

Oh Captain, My Captain!

I was in Fenway Park last night to see the Red Sox beat the Mariners. It was not a pretty game -- but it was an exciting one, wit