13
Aug

Kids’ll eat ivy, too…

It is indisputable. There is no greatest male tennis player of all time. Please stop arguing about it.

******

Pete Sampras: Never won the French. Never won 3 Slams in a single year.

Roger Federer: Never won the French. Fewer hall-of-fame tennis players in his era.

Bjorn Borg: Never won a hard-court major. Career was too short.

Andre Agassi: Only finished the year #1 one time. Career was too uneven.

Jimmy Connors: Never won the French, though he did win the U.S. Open on Clay. Far fewer Slams than the top of the list. Most Slams came early, with fewer hall-of-fame players in his era. Kind of a dick.

Ivan Lendl: Never won Wimbledon. Kind of a dick.

John McEnroe: Never won the French or Australian. Fourth or fifth best player of his era. Kind of a dick.

Mats Wilander: Never won Wimbledon, though he won the Australian on grass. Dominated for too short a time.

Boris Becker: Never won the French. Only six slams in a career that never left the Open Era.

Stefan Edberg: Never won the French. Only six slams in a career that never left the Open Era.

Rod Laver: Only won four slams in Open Era. Played at a time when tennis was dominated by four nations.

John Newcombe: Never won the French. Played at a time when tennis was dominated by four nations.

Rafael Nadal: Never won a hard-court major. Don’t believe he ever will.

10
Aug

Great moments in stock photography

Someday, I’m going to include this in an e-mail titled “colonoscopy results.”

08
Aug

Austin Band or Community Calendar Event?

Debt Management
Hot Talk Speaker Series
Metropolitan Breakfast Club
Picnic in the Park

03
Aug

Music matters

On a conference call, killing time before the last boss dialed in, my coworkers listed the first band they ever saw live: Bruce Springsteen. U2. Jimmy Buffett. Then it was my turn.

Unrest.

You know — Teen Beat Records? DC Scene in the early 90s? They played the Blind Pig in Champaign! With Versus!

Even from 500 miles away on a conference call, I could sense eyes on the ground, gentle shuffling away, like so many events, so many parties. I should have gone with REM. Pity me.

30
Jul

In the creative writing workshop of my nightmares

It’s not a symbol. It’s a driving force.

22
Jul

George Saunders, “The Braindead Megaphone”

An occasional feature best describe as: “Bullet points about something.”

• Title essay is thoroughly insulting. Its thesis is that today’s popular discourse is so insipid, it dumbs everyone down. This is based on the idea that TV news and right-wing broadcasters are the only stimuli the “people” of the essay have. This is the entire extent of the content of the essay.

• Surprisingly, the travelogue essays are very low on insight. Often, they’re populated by interesting tour guides and in-depth examinations of George’s emotions, but no leading details or conclusions outside the obvious (e.g., People in Tibet are spiritual; U.S. Border Patrol is problematic).

• The essays on writing, however, are excellent. Saunders’s explication of Donald Barthelme’s “The School” is exceptional, and captures the delight that can come with connecting with a piece of writing. His piece describgin his history with the efficiency of language in “Ethan Frome” is another piece I would steal were I teaching a workshop.

• Ultimately, I abandoned the book with the same Saunders-fatigue that accompanied “In Persuasion Nation”. His original content — absurd, recast workplace parodies — was necessarily limiting, and I’m glad he’s tried to move beyond it, but his newer voices seem unformed.

16
Jul

Humpday Telecommuting


Sometimes I miss being in an office. Sometimes I wonder if regular exposure to the calisthenic conversation of greetings and recaps of Survivor (that’s still popular, right?) would improve my verbal wit, allow me to roll with the punches, go with the flow and perhaps even revel in shared experiences. Shared experiences that involve pleats.
I wonder if my career would have taken off, if I would be a widely recognized Juggernaut of Corporate Communications, if the Convention of Vice Presidents of Regulatory Affairs would invite me to be their keynote speaker (it’s in Indianapolis this year — I have misgivings about the Conventioneering Model for Urban Development, especially when Philadelphia is your role model), if I would demand a contingency list involving fragrances, Camper shoes and Penguin clothing. I guess that would be counter to the whole pleats thing.
But today, I was walking through the Back Bay, and I saw 25-30 employees of a Company Offering Solutions in an office building courtyard, decked out in Claiborne for Men and Talbot’s for Women, eating pasta salad on paper plates, talking about this lunchtime snack as the highlight of humpday.
And I decided telecommuting was OK.

06
Jul

Outside a Shop on South Congress

“Your bubble machine is out of soap.”
“Yeah. Monday’s never a good day for me.”

01
Jul

And I would know…

A combination BookPeople event celebrating Kimberlie Dykeman’s motivational book (“Soap Box”) and an international victory for Tito’s Handmade Vodka. It’s like having your birthday on Christmas!

27
Jun

Austin Band or BookPeople Erotica Section?


Spankable Asses
Hot Chocolate
Succulent

18
Jun

270 Designated Hitters

The DH rule was established in 1973 to drum up offense in the American League. Who, it was argued, paid good money to watch the pitcher’s woeful attempt to swing a bat?

I’ve always hated the incongruity of the DH rule. Everyone bats and fields with two, and exactly two—exceptions.

To fix both problems, why not split scorecards entirely? Managers could set a 9-man batting order of the team’s most productive hitters, then have a separate card of fielders? Some players may still play offense and defense, like the two-way players of NFL yore.

Here in Boston, for example, Coco Crisp may play defense-only in centerfield, pushing Ellsbury to left and allowing Manny to join Ortiz as an offense-only weapon. Fenway fans could be spared the ignomy of watching Julio Lugo wave at any fastball above 79 MPH.

Thus, offense would become king in perpetuity, perhaps boosting fan interest and ticket sales to the benefit of owners. Meanwhile the players’ union would enjoy an increased number of players with daily value, creating, at a minimum, more middle-class baseball salaries.

So that’s settled. Where’s Bill Veeck?

17
Jun

You know what I’m talking about, right, guys?

I don’t intend to mention my ex-wife all that often here (that’s what fiction’s for), but she was — perhaps still is — someone proud to declare herself “high maintenance.” It’s not an uncommon phenomenon; many women under 25 (and some over) seem to revel in the categorization, as if stating its truth excuses it.

(When else is “high maintenance” a good thing? The new Ford Focus — now with higher maintenance!)

My best guess is that the high maintenance trope is related to the continued popularity of sudsy doctor shows (Grey’s Anatomy), in which people are desperate to feel wanton emotion, tickling fingers on the inside to remind you you’re alive, in the moment and part of the world. This can take many forms: squealing with cute at pictures of kittens, grumbling that your husband is a slob, crying about a fictional baby fighting for her life against all odds or complaining to your husband that cleaning the house highlights your inadequacies as a homemaker.

(It can also involve the sympathy one can gain from another $650 in unexpected repairs.)

Not that the beleaguered ex-husband is any less repellent.

09
Jun

Back when I had an office facing the intern pool


“He’s amazing to work with. He’s on top of everything. He’s like Superman!”
“Does he wear a little suit?”
“No. He wears a suit that fits him.”
Picture stolen from Flickr. Sorry.

07
Jun

At a Law Firm in Charlestown


“The carrots and sticks are out of balance!”

05
Jun

The Rays! The Rays!

I think it’s seven kinds of awesome that the Rays are good enough to engender this level of hostility! More pics at Big League Stew, and video at MLB.com.

04
Jun

Eastern Standard in Kenmore Square

“They told me I’d go through denial, anger, bargaining, grieving, then acceptance.”

“Which one are you at now?”

“Still drinking.”

03
Jun

Bukowski’s in Back Bay

“I’m not drunk. Just awkward.”

02
Jun

The study of everything is the study of nothing

As I dodged load-bearing mirrored columns at the Au Bon Pain, soon-to-be-disappointing chicken sandwich in hand, I watched a 25-ish woman carrying two fistfuls of garbage from trash barrel to trash barrel.

Near my chosen table, one man held court, explaining that “She always does this. She looks for recycling bins, gives up, then throws it all away.” He lifted his fist for the bump, receiving it from a bearded friend, who then departed. The other friend waited for the inevitable return of our hero’s significant other, and accompanied them out the door. The friend headed south, and the couple headed north.

The man wrapped a beleaguered arm around his love, perhaps pleased to have applied new semiotics to the fist bump: “My girlfriend is predictable and lame.”

(Picture stolen from Flickr.)

01
Jun

Small-town intrigue

Historically, F_____ Studios has been the province of the Boston School, a Mennonite lot that believes that the progress of the visual Arts (capital A) ended with John Singer Sargent. Much of the building continues to stock law offices and bank lobbies with lifeless, realistic paintings of pottery on mantles, fruit in baskets and dessicated former CFOs.

A couple months ago, there were rumblings of a power play involving the building’s attendant charity group to raise the prestige of the building by bypassing the usual cooperative rigmarole and installing a fella named Nelson Shanks into one of the largest units.

Now, I’m not one for photorealistic work, but I did some research on the man and discovered this:

To this, I answer, because we must.

31
May

Rogue was airbrushed but Storm was all natural

I bristle every time someone brings up the upcoming presidential election. It isn’t because I support an unpopular political party (LaRouche! Wooooo!), but I dislike the implication that all in sight are of like- and right-mind.

Even aside from my irritation that, to so many in Boston, an Obama presidency represents some sort of panacea (I will wait expectantly for the headline: “Barack Obama elected. Housing values up 44 percent.”), it’s the Bush-bashing part of the evening I hate, chiefly due to the depressing lack of rhetorical originality. I wish only for the wherewithal and charisma to interrupt: “Bush bad. Got it. So how about that Marvel Comics swimsuit issue?”

A million years ago, while my first wife was in her Ayn Rand phase, we spent an evening at a University of Texas grad student party, populated by entitled suburbanites annoyed that their advanced degrees in Native American Studies weren’t going to yield suitable salaries. This, it was concluded was due to “capitalist bullshit.”

One fella held court for at least 10 minutes describing his tele-polling job (which he held long enough to become a manager), using the phrase “capitalist bullshit” at 30-40 second intervals like a slam poet, never recognizing that when you hold a job for more than a week, you are inherently complicit in that position. At best, you’re a mercenary, at worst, a hypocrite.

But the overwhelming assumption that all were of like-mind chased me and the ex off, subjecting me to an objectivist screed on the drive home that opened up a new host of problems.

30
May

You got Schaal in my Bakhtin!

You’ll have to forgive my certain forthcoming inaccuracies, for my Big Book of Semiotocians is buried amid a couch, a saxophone and decades of artwork in the climate-controlled catacombs of the Extra Space on the Newton-Watertown line. During my most recent visit, I learned that one of my neighbors has a similarly sized space for her non-seasonal clothes. She rolled palette after palette of silver Sak’s bags from her Infiniti, only to return with more of the same.

Anyway, I’ve always enjoyed Mikhail Bakhtin’s take on comedy, carnival and the role of the audience. He took a Marxist view of the democratization inherent in audiences in Rabelais and His World which I totally buy. Somehow, in the broadness of a crowd, there’s a homogenization of shared experience.

I thought of Bakhtin while watching the delightful Kristen Schaal and Kurt Braunohler:

Now certainly, if you’re going to the Hot Tub Variety Hour, you’re probably pretty similar to your theater neighbors anyway, but even at this Australian Comedy Festival, they get the same reaction.

If you watched that sketch again, you may be an even bigger Flight of the Conchords fan than I am. Regardless, I’m impressed at how effectively the commercial break, occurring mid-sketch completely undermines the performance.

But I do think the tide of shared experience does create a homogenization, ticking off the same neural pathways and giving you something to talk about at parties. It’s a broader crowd, yet they laugh in all the same places. Marxism and theater! Who knew?

Gotta run — off to watch that Simpsons episode where Sideshow Bob steps on rakes nine times in a row. Oh - here it is!

27
May

Talking Ragtime

On Tremont Street, near the confluence of Chinatown and the South End, I heard two girls talking shit.

“You been talkin’ shit about me?”

“No! Nu-uh.”

“You lyin’ to me! You talkin’ shit right now!”

About 300 feet after I passed them, I saw two more groups, one Asian, one more mixed, and a chubby kid, maybe 11 years old, shouted, “Chick fight!” He sprinted across Marginal Street, leading the multinational stream of tweens—black, white, Asian, Dominican.

Nothing brings people together like a chick fight.

24
May

Man to plastic surgeon before entering the recovery room

“Hey, I remember you! You worked on my first wife!”

22
May

I’m not going to buy video games as an art form…

…until the dialogue improves.

21
May

THE American Idol post

My entire AI viewing total includes perhaps 150 minutes, most of those by accident, the rest while a little tipsy. Yet somehow I’m aware that someone named David Cook sang a U2 song the other night, and that one of my favorite TV-critics-with-a-blog, Alan Sepinwall actually implied that Bono ought to be included along with Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston and Celine Dion as a singer that should not be attempted.

Have you ever listened to Bono through headphones? The man may actually be tone deaf. Or at least delusional. Maybe just Irish?

Anyway, despite my lack of AI viewing, I’m also aware that David Cook is the finalist with more “integrity”, while David Archuleta is the finalist “most likely to sing Disney’s Aladdin on Broadway while high on mescaline”. David C. sang a Collective Soul song, which is as real as it gets, dawg, while David A. murdered the living hell out of “Imagine.” (That I feel compelled to defend this awful song bespeaks the complexities of the human mind.) It was never meant to involve trills.

David A. reminds me very strongly of Eric S., a high-school classmate of mine, who was a good singer and a terrifically talented pianist. He played with our jazz band, and never missed an opportunity to dump 14 notes into a measure where two would have done just fine. One of my jazz band instructors (I’m getting cooler by the word, am I not?) kept making him listen to Count Basie, desperate to impart some level of restraint into Eric’s 17 fingers (seven imagined). Didn’t happen, because Eric was 16.

David C. reminds me of the lead singer of Collective Soul, at least as I imagine him. He’s Canadian, right?




 

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ABOUT THE BLOGGER

Ben is a writer living in Boston. He finds his day job difficult to describe succinctly, which makes him unpopular at parties. He can be reached at btg50284 -at- gmail -dot- com.