My goodness, can we just leave poor Paris Hilton alone? I mean, first she was behind bars fighting for her freedom; now she's busy trying to maintain her hard-earned integrity. With her occupied the way she is, who's left to speak for all of us who record ourselves having sex and then post it on the Internet? Without Ms Hilton as our spokesperson--without her to show us the way (and the how and the when and the camera angles) we're floundering here. My latest videos have been awful, rendering me old and decrepit and completely bereft of any sex appeal. I can hardly watch them myself, let alone share them with other fans of what I like to call noirotica. (It's all in the lighting--I don't use any.)
Oh I suppose the world could return to those dark ages when making love was more of a private act between two consenting adults, but then what? Do we go back to TVs with channel selectors way across the room? Minivans without DVD players? Video games without bleeding corpses and seizure warnings? Cameras with that stuff in them...you know, that stuff that looked all orange-y and filmy when it came out but somehow turned into pictures? Come on, you know what it's called! Never mind, I'll think of it.
Paris Hilton has taken us into the future, and you know, once there, you can't go back. We won't go back!
Oh yeah, film.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Buying Hopper
There's a painting by Edward Hopper, East Wind over Weehawken, that I always found evocative; but as with many of his paintings, I'm not quite sure what feelings it actually brings to mind or what the source of those feelings is. The painting itself, an oil from 1934 (just for reference, the widely known Nighthawks was done eight years later) is archetypal Hopper—untended houses on a deserted street, oddly mixed architectural styles, lawns overgrown and dried a pale yellow, cirrus and cirrostratus obscuring the blue sky, and an obvious lack of human life, save for some insignificant creatures barely entering the frame in the lower left. In the immense canon of his work, this particular piece garners very little attention; in fact, the exhibit currently at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston does not include it, though it does include Apartment Houses, its partner in residence (usually) at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts in Philadelphia.
I saw that Boston exhibit yesterday and it was spectacular beyond description. I realize that there is a glaring weakness about describing anything as being beyond description, but I really didn't come here to describe anything. The MFA website will suit you better—with pictures! I will say this: ordinarily I love to see the Monets and to just idle through the rest of the collection. But the Hopper exhibit was so exciting that, afterwards, the rest of the museum seemed dreary, dark, and uninspiring. If you've ever been there, you know that's not true.
But I really wanted to talk about merchandising. Now I'm not going to lament the commercialization of a fine artist or the degradation of art when it is placed on a refrigerator magnet or a bookmark or a dish towel. I just wonder if the artist himself—if Edward Hopper, who died forty years ago and who, for the most part, finished his active career nearly fifty years ago—could ever have envisioned a day when people would gladly part with $30.00 for a tote bag emblazoned with a Maine lighthouse. I don't think he was a humorless man, despite the starkness of so much of his work. But even such an incisive chronicler of the human condition would have been astounded at the money his paintings are earning past their basic sale and exhibition values.
Apparently Hopper hated commercial art, though he earned a living from it until his genius was recognized. That's why I wondered yesterday if the commercialization of pieces like Nighthawks and Chop Suey, as well as his numerous lighthouse studies, would have offended him, or if he would have simply bucked up, taken the millions, and run. And as I pondered those and other ultimate questions in that special gift shop devoted solely to the Hopper exhibit, I went for the bookmark, t-shirt, and hat; my wife, the tote bag. We'll share the book.
I saw that Boston exhibit yesterday and it was spectacular beyond description. I realize that there is a glaring weakness about describing anything as being beyond description, but I really didn't come here to describe anything. The MFA website will suit you better—with pictures! I will say this: ordinarily I love to see the Monets and to just idle through the rest of the collection. But the Hopper exhibit was so exciting that, afterwards, the rest of the museum seemed dreary, dark, and uninspiring. If you've ever been there, you know that's not true.
But I really wanted to talk about merchandising. Now I'm not going to lament the commercialization of a fine artist or the degradation of art when it is placed on a refrigerator magnet or a bookmark or a dish towel. I just wonder if the artist himself—if Edward Hopper, who died forty years ago and who, for the most part, finished his active career nearly fifty years ago—could ever have envisioned a day when people would gladly part with $30.00 for a tote bag emblazoned with a Maine lighthouse. I don't think he was a humorless man, despite the starkness of so much of his work. But even such an incisive chronicler of the human condition would have been astounded at the money his paintings are earning past their basic sale and exhibition values.
Apparently Hopper hated commercial art, though he earned a living from it until his genius was recognized. That's why I wondered yesterday if the commercialization of pieces like Nighthawks and Chop Suey, as well as his numerous lighthouse studies, would have offended him, or if he would have simply bucked up, taken the millions, and run. And as I pondered those and other ultimate questions in that special gift shop devoted solely to the Hopper exhibit, I went for the bookmark, t-shirt, and hat; my wife, the tote bag. We'll share the book.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Number 75, part II
In "Number 75" I lamented—no, actually I bitched and moaned—about the local Social Security Office. Follow-ups are important, though, and I did in fact receive my new Social Security card in the mail, not even ten days after my appearance—that was, you may remember, my second appearance. And because I'm a learner, albeit a slow one, I have not yet laminated it, nor have I even thought of carrying it with me because, as per instructions, I'm keeping it in a safe place.
In my previous post, though, I neglected to add one important element of that second visit. While I sat in that mausoleum waiting for my number 75 be called, someone's cell phone rang. I still use the word "rang" to describe that sound, though those phones seldom ring in the Alexander Graham Bellian sense of the word. This particular device played, what seemed to be a synthesized and perfectly awful version of "We Are Family," one that would have caused Sly and the entire Stone Family very little joy. I could hear only half of the ensuing conversation, but I did take note of the word tornado when it spilled into the room. I should add that the weather forecast had included the threat of thundershowers, and while tornadoes are rare in central Connecticut, they are not unheard of.
A few minutes later, my cell phone, which does not play "We Are Family" or any other butchered piece of music, "rang." It was my wife: a tornado warning had, in fact, just been issued for Waterbury, a city about twenty miles to the southwest. She was not panicking, but I knew that twisters generally move from southwest to northeast—a fact that would place us in the line of fire, so to speak. Of course I also knew, with my years of weather savvy, that tornadoes in this area seldom hold together that long. (This observation will come as little consolation to the 1989 victims of the Bantam tornado which also struck Hamden, about fifty miles to the south.)
Now I faced a dilemma. My spot in line, hard-won by an hour of surly waiting, would be jeopardized if I raced home to the rescue. Of course I wasn't sure how to rescue anyone from a tornado anyway other than to hide in the basement until it's safe to go back upstairs and sort out the rubble. And my wife did not seem panicky, despite the blackness of the western sky and the gusting winds.
"It'll never make it over the mountain," I said, hoping that there was a mountain between Waterbury and us. I know there are some hills—they're sort of like mountains.
I could have added some suggestion about the basement, but that would have been an intimation of danger, and there was the matter of my place in line.
In the end the tornado came nowhere near us; in fact, we saw little lightning or thunder until an hour or two later when another storm—much more violent—blew through and sent most of the dead branches in our trees hurtling into our lawn. I was home for that one. I was in the basement.
Life is filled with moral dilemmas, and I'm afraid my decision to retain my place in line is going to cost me. Not today, and maybe not tomorrow. But come the final reckoning someone guarding the gates of the heaven that I'm pretty sure doesn't exist is going to ask me to explain myself, and my only recourse will be to produce my nice new unlaminated Social Security card, which, of course, I will not be able to produce because it's in a safe place.
In my previous post, though, I neglected to add one important element of that second visit. While I sat in that mausoleum waiting for my number 75 be called, someone's cell phone rang. I still use the word "rang" to describe that sound, though those phones seldom ring in the Alexander Graham Bellian sense of the word. This particular device played, what seemed to be a synthesized and perfectly awful version of "We Are Family," one that would have caused Sly and the entire Stone Family very little joy. I could hear only half of the ensuing conversation, but I did take note of the word tornado when it spilled into the room. I should add that the weather forecast had included the threat of thundershowers, and while tornadoes are rare in central Connecticut, they are not unheard of.
A few minutes later, my cell phone, which does not play "We Are Family" or any other butchered piece of music, "rang." It was my wife: a tornado warning had, in fact, just been issued for Waterbury, a city about twenty miles to the southwest. She was not panicking, but I knew that twisters generally move from southwest to northeast—a fact that would place us in the line of fire, so to speak. Of course I also knew, with my years of weather savvy, that tornadoes in this area seldom hold together that long. (This observation will come as little consolation to the 1989 victims of the Bantam tornado which also struck Hamden, about fifty miles to the south.)
Now I faced a dilemma. My spot in line, hard-won by an hour of surly waiting, would be jeopardized if I raced home to the rescue. Of course I wasn't sure how to rescue anyone from a tornado anyway other than to hide in the basement until it's safe to go back upstairs and sort out the rubble. And my wife did not seem panicky, despite the blackness of the western sky and the gusting winds.
"It'll never make it over the mountain," I said, hoping that there was a mountain between Waterbury and us. I know there are some hills—they're sort of like mountains.
I could have added some suggestion about the basement, but that would have been an intimation of danger, and there was the matter of my place in line.
In the end the tornado came nowhere near us; in fact, we saw little lightning or thunder until an hour or two later when another storm—much more violent—blew through and sent most of the dead branches in our trees hurtling into our lawn. I was home for that one. I was in the basement.
Life is filled with moral dilemmas, and I'm afraid my decision to retain my place in line is going to cost me. Not today, and maybe not tomorrow. But come the final reckoning someone guarding the gates of the heaven that I'm pretty sure doesn't exist is going to ask me to explain myself, and my only recourse will be to produce my nice new unlaminated Social Security card, which, of course, I will not be able to produce because it's in a safe place.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
The squirrels are not feral—yet
Walkers in the park where I run (and sometimes on more injury-riddled days walk) have taken to feeding squirrels. At first it seemed a quaint pastime, harmless and benign. After all, they're cute little balls of energy—I'm talking about the squirrels now—and giving them an occasional handout seemed positively humane. But now that the balls of energy have transmogrified into panhandling rodents, maybe it's time to reevaluate the pastime.
First off, the squirrels are everywhere—in the trees, on the ground, in the space between the ground and the trees (sometimes referred to as the trunks) and on virtually every square foot of grass in that park. They exist in superfluity. If there is an opposite of an endangered species, they are it. There may be famines in several third-world countries, but these squirrels are in the midst of no such hardship. They are fat, healthy, and did I mention, EVERYWHERE? If ever an animal did not need human support to continue its species, it's the squirrel—especially the park squirrel.
The park squirrel, you see, is quite different from the backyard, bird-feeder-raiding squirrel to which you have grown accustomed. The backyard squirrel will run for its life if a human being treads in the same time zone. They're afraid of us, I guess because we're bigger, and so they forage with one eye on any human in the area. The park squirrel keeps both eyes on the human because one of those humans may very well have a bag of peanuts that he is willing to share. Foraging has become for the park squirrel, a quaint tradition, someone to tell the little squirrelings about while they're sitting around a bag of roasted peanuts on a winter night.
I know that no matter what I say here, I am not going to disabuse people of the habit of squirrel-feeding. So allow me to make a counter offer: I would like to introduce the gray wolf into the park's ecosystem, just as in Yellowstone a decade ago. Not only would these animals reduce the squirrel population, but since they don't much care for peanuts, walkers and runners would be less likely to carry bags of rewards with them. For one thing, the food would weigh them down, and they may have to walk or run fast in certain situations.
Wolves, as you know, are different from squirrels.
First off, the squirrels are everywhere—in the trees, on the ground, in the space between the ground and the trees (sometimes referred to as the trunks) and on virtually every square foot of grass in that park. They exist in superfluity. If there is an opposite of an endangered species, they are it. There may be famines in several third-world countries, but these squirrels are in the midst of no such hardship. They are fat, healthy, and did I mention, EVERYWHERE? If ever an animal did not need human support to continue its species, it's the squirrel—especially the park squirrel.
The park squirrel, you see, is quite different from the backyard, bird-feeder-raiding squirrel to which you have grown accustomed. The backyard squirrel will run for its life if a human being treads in the same time zone. They're afraid of us, I guess because we're bigger, and so they forage with one eye on any human in the area. The park squirrel keeps both eyes on the human because one of those humans may very well have a bag of peanuts that he is willing to share. Foraging has become for the park squirrel, a quaint tradition, someone to tell the little squirrelings about while they're sitting around a bag of roasted peanuts on a winter night.
I know that no matter what I say here, I am not going to disabuse people of the habit of squirrel-feeding. So allow me to make a counter offer: I would like to introduce the gray wolf into the park's ecosystem, just as in Yellowstone a decade ago. Not only would these animals reduce the squirrel population, but since they don't much care for peanuts, walkers and runners would be less likely to carry bags of rewards with them. For one thing, the food would weigh them down, and they may have to walk or run fast in certain situations.
Wolves, as you know, are different from squirrels.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Number 75
Dealing with the Department of Motor Vehicles can coax violence out of the most docile creature—we all know that. But until you have spent time in the local Social Security Office, it might be wise to refrain from any DMV diatribes.
Let me back up for a minute.
Having been a teacher all my life, and having been part of a discrete retirement plan, I never had any real use for Social Security. In fact, when Bush claimed that the system was in trouble, I didn't worry. I'm not insensitive. Actually I care very much for the millions who will depend upon Social Security in the decades to come, but I also know that Bush seldom knows what he's talking about and that this is merely another example. But even I had earned some Social Security income over the years, and so last April—now old enough to collect my nearly $100.00 a month!—I traipsed down to my local office.
To claim that the building is situated in a depressed part of New Britain, Connecticut, is redundant. Basically every part of New Britain, Connecticut, is depressed, as are the people who live there and many of their pets. This particular building is fairly new, having been built well after the Civil War and boasting, among other modern contrivances, a multi-directional elevator. (It goes up as well as down.) On the ground floor are the Social Security offices and their waiting room.
Admittedly not much can be done to pretty up a waiting room. Some places have a TV in a corner and it plays all day, but if you're one of those 200-channel cable/dish subscribers who complain there's never anything on, there's less in those places. So this waiting room had been stripped down of everything except a few signs—in Spanish and English—telling visitors to take a number and wait to be called. It's like a deli with no reward—no pastrami, no thin-sliced ham, no provolone or mushroom caps, nothing. I was number 75. Number 68 was being served. Number 69 took ten minutes. Only one window was accepting customers. It was not pretty.
Worse, this was my second trip there to resolve the same issue. On my first one the clerk, a very pleasant young woman who seemed to do everything right, asked to see my social security card, then responded with horror when I showed it to her.
"This is laminated," she said.
"Yes."
"When did you laminate it?"
"1973, near as I can remember."
"It's illegal to laminate a social security card," she said and politely confiscated it.
Considering the alternative—my waning years rotting away in a federal prison—I was glad to relinquish it. Anyone will tell you, rotting away at home is easier: the food is better, the clothing is more varied, and the operating system updates arrive regularly to make you feel current. In prison I'll bet they never heard of OS-X.
"We'll issue you another card," she said, handing me a form. "Fill this out."
And so I did, breezing through most of the answers with alacrity until I came to the blank where I was to insert my father's Social Security number. My father died in 1986, not that long after I laminated the card. He never was much of a talker, my dad, but even though we suffered some silent moments whenever we interacted, never were those moments so silent that he deemed it necessary to say, "Son, have I ever told you my Social Security number?"
I stopped and said to the clerk, "I'm afraid I don't know the answer to this." She looked at it and smiled. "Oh we don't need that." Rather than ask what I wanted to ask—then why is it here?—I nodded, and continued, and when I got to the blank for my mother's SSN (that's what they call it down there in bureaucraville) I never even slowed down, just left it blank. When I was finished with all the forms and had retrieved my documents of identity, I left with a letter proving I had been there and implying that I, like Arlo Guthrie in "Alice's Restaurant," had rehabilitated myself and would never laminate a government document again, especially the new card that would be arriving in two weeks.
It didn't arrive. Not in two weeks, or three, or four. Thus the second trip and the second wait. Now I have in my possession a second letter proving that I was there and applied for a replacement card. And I am confident that this one will do the trick; otherwise...and I mean this damn it!...I'll...uh... probably go back again. And take a number.
Let me back up for a minute.
Having been a teacher all my life, and having been part of a discrete retirement plan, I never had any real use for Social Security. In fact, when Bush claimed that the system was in trouble, I didn't worry. I'm not insensitive. Actually I care very much for the millions who will depend upon Social Security in the decades to come, but I also know that Bush seldom knows what he's talking about and that this is merely another example. But even I had earned some Social Security income over the years, and so last April—now old enough to collect my nearly $100.00 a month!—I traipsed down to my local office.
To claim that the building is situated in a depressed part of New Britain, Connecticut, is redundant. Basically every part of New Britain, Connecticut, is depressed, as are the people who live there and many of their pets. This particular building is fairly new, having been built well after the Civil War and boasting, among other modern contrivances, a multi-directional elevator. (It goes up as well as down.) On the ground floor are the Social Security offices and their waiting room.
Admittedly not much can be done to pretty up a waiting room. Some places have a TV in a corner and it plays all day, but if you're one of those 200-channel cable/dish subscribers who complain there's never anything on, there's less in those places. So this waiting room had been stripped down of everything except a few signs—in Spanish and English—telling visitors to take a number and wait to be called. It's like a deli with no reward—no pastrami, no thin-sliced ham, no provolone or mushroom caps, nothing. I was number 75. Number 68 was being served. Number 69 took ten minutes. Only one window was accepting customers. It was not pretty.
Worse, this was my second trip there to resolve the same issue. On my first one the clerk, a very pleasant young woman who seemed to do everything right, asked to see my social security card, then responded with horror when I showed it to her.
"This is laminated," she said.
"Yes."
"When did you laminate it?"
"1973, near as I can remember."
"It's illegal to laminate a social security card," she said and politely confiscated it.
Considering the alternative—my waning years rotting away in a federal prison—I was glad to relinquish it. Anyone will tell you, rotting away at home is easier: the food is better, the clothing is more varied, and the operating system updates arrive regularly to make you feel current. In prison I'll bet they never heard of OS-X.
"We'll issue you another card," she said, handing me a form. "Fill this out."
And so I did, breezing through most of the answers with alacrity until I came to the blank where I was to insert my father's Social Security number. My father died in 1986, not that long after I laminated the card. He never was much of a talker, my dad, but even though we suffered some silent moments whenever we interacted, never were those moments so silent that he deemed it necessary to say, "Son, have I ever told you my Social Security number?"
I stopped and said to the clerk, "I'm afraid I don't know the answer to this." She looked at it and smiled. "Oh we don't need that." Rather than ask what I wanted to ask—then why is it here?—I nodded, and continued, and when I got to the blank for my mother's SSN (that's what they call it down there in bureaucraville) I never even slowed down, just left it blank. When I was finished with all the forms and had retrieved my documents of identity, I left with a letter proving I had been there and implying that I, like Arlo Guthrie in "Alice's Restaurant," had rehabilitated myself and would never laminate a government document again, especially the new card that would be arriving in two weeks.
It didn't arrive. Not in two weeks, or three, or four. Thus the second trip and the second wait. Now I have in my possession a second letter proving that I was there and applied for a replacement card. And I am confident that this one will do the trick; otherwise...and I mean this damn it!...I'll...uh... probably go back again. And take a number.
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