From the Blog

Boston gets visibly stupider after Labor Day. I mean this literally. You can actually see the ignorance as the college kids file back into the city, skidding to a halt in front of turnstiles on the T, giggling and checking directions (“do we want Alewife or Braintree?”). They travel in loud, drunken knots – not something adults are immune to, but for college kids that’s the sole means of transit. They’re raucous without being poetic, enthusiastic without being purposeful, raunchy without being sensual. They are the worst minds of their generation and I keep waiting for them to be destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked.

Nothing paints this in brighter colors than the September 1st moving clusterfuck, where every college kid moves in and every summer subletter moves out on the exact same day. None of them own cars, and the ones who do are all moving to neighborhoods without parking. They move their shitty couches and particleboard desks from Allston to Mission Hill and back, wanting nothing more than a working fridge and a bathroom with nothing crawling visibly. They grind their apartments into dust while their landlord patiently ignores their calls.

(Seven years ago, a friend was trying to sell some property he owned in the Kenmore area. I mentioned, naif that I was, that he could always rent it to BU students. He was polite enough merely to laugh in my face. “Because that’s how you get rich in this town,” he said. “Renting apartments to college kids.”)

I speak with familiarity because that’s where I come from. I lived in shitty apartments, nailing things into the walls, stringing cables through fixtures that couldn’t accommodate them and letting things grow sticky in a fridge I didn’t own. Being able to comment with such disdain on something I lived through makes me a hypocrite poltroon jackass typical blogger conscious of irony. It’s a phase humans go through, like shitting their pants or liking RENT. You get through it as quickly as possible, and if you think the grownups are rolling their eyes at you because they don’t get it, ma-a-an, well, time will privilege their view.

A two-man panhandling team worked the MBTA Red Line on Monday evening.

One was dressed in full Army fatigues: BDUs, boots, cover, duffel bag slung over the shoulder. His jacket had a tag that said “U.S. ARMY” and a flag on one shoulder, but no other patches or insignia. As soon as the doors closed at Park Street, he began asking people for money. He claimed he needed bus fare to Philadelphia, but the amount he asked for kept changing.

The other boarded at the same time. Mid-twenties, dark hair short but not buzzed. “I got a few bucks for you,” he said. “I used to be’na Army.” He slouched in his seat. The jeans he wore had no crotch to them; just a ragged hole showing his faded briefs.

“Bet if everyone on this train pitched in a buck,” the crotchless man said, “you’d have bus fare.”

The complete lack of insignia on the Army man’s fatigues were one sign: no skill badges, no shoulder tab, no name tape. But even before I considered that, I had these two pegged as panhandlers. There’s that odd tone that beggars have, the combination of pleading and righteousness (“I just needa coupla bucks”). People who are genuinely entitled to money are more angry; people who are genuinely desperate are more tearful.

The two of them rode three stops, from Park Street to Central Square. As the train entered the station, the man in the wrecked jeans got up. He beckoned the man in fatigues with two quick fingers and stepped off the train. Maybe they were going to do the same routine inbound, although you have to pay to cross the tracks at Central.

A tweaker in surplus Army fatigues pleading for a fix bothers me in a way that your other Red Line panhandlers don’t. Not because I think it tarnishes the reputation of the Armed Services. It’s not my Army, and the people I know who’ve served will tell you there are plenty of tweakers in uniform.

It bothers me because it exploits such a dominant social trend. Most civilians can’t disrespect a man in uniform. They just don’t have it in them. So when a man in anonymous BDUs says he just needs a few bucks for bus fare, our first reaction – ignore him – gets overwritten.

I’m surprised we don’t see it more often.

Stayed in sick on Sunday and watched movies.

Hard Times: gritty drama about underground boxing in N’awrlins in the 30s. Starring Charles Bronson and James Coburn.


  • Some excellent work here by Walter Hill in his directorial debut. Bronson’s poverty, loneliness and taciturn nature are established in the first 5 minutes with some fantastic shots and maybe two lines of dialogue. Compare that to a 21st century story about a street fighter, which would rely on ten minutes of exposition, two flashbacks and a soundtrack featuring T.I. and The Game. (Note: I haven’t seen any 21st century movies about street fighters, but you just tell me I’m wrong).

  • Also some phenomenal cinematography as well. We learn everything we need to know about James Coburn’s character, a glib fight promoter, with one shot of him counting a bankroll while the palooka he backed struggles to consciousness at his feet. And Coburn’s the good guy.

  • Apparently, the uniform for a bare-knuckle boxer in the 1930s was a cheap jacket over bare skin. No shirts, no sweaters. Just tweed and pecs, baby.

  • Great supporting role by Strother Martin (the field boss from Cool Hand Luke, among other roles) as a hopped-up doctor. He delivers his lines with a practiced ease that’s fun to listen to.

  • The only weakness: we never really have cause to doubt our hero. He’s never tempted to throw a fight, never provoked to anger, never makes any stupid decisions and he’s never at risk of losing. That puts us at something of a remove from him for the entire film.

The Town: An excellent crime drama, worthy of inclusion with Heat or The Friends of Eddie Coyle.


  • We can say it now: Ben Affleck’s a damn good director.

  • And he’s getting better as an actor, but putting him against Jeremy Renner just makes Affleck look silly. Consider the first scene where Affleck and Renner walk into the Florist’s, early in the movie. Affleck walks in there like an actor playing a townie. Renner walks in there like some Blue Line punk whose nicest outfit is an Ed Hardy ensemble and whose idea of being subtle is rolling his sleeves down to cover his tats. I see guys like that – more likely, guys trying to be like that – in every bar in Somerville.

  • IMDb Trivia for The Town: Director/star Ben Affleck was most concerned that the actors not have phony sounding Boston accents. When Blake Lively read for the part of Krista, she sounded so authentic that he asked her what part of Boston she grew up in. She was born and raised in California.
    IMDb Trivia for Gone Baby Gone: Amy Ryan was so convincing with her Boston accent in her audition, that director Ben Affleck asked her what part of Boston she was from.
    That seems to be the story of Affleck’s directorial career: disbelief that people can pull off a Boston accent. It’s not feckin’ hard, dude. Don’t be such a feckin’ queah-baggah about it.

  • Speaking of Blake Lively: excellent as a made-up townie. I had to struggle to remember that I found her attractive in other things. And Rebecca Hall does a very good job as well. She and Affleck have an easy, unforced chemistry.

  • All that said, it felt like the movie had one piece too many. It’s not just about this crew – it’s about Affleck’s relationship with Hall, and about his dad in prison, and about FBI agent Jon Hamm, and about local crime boss Pete Postlethwaite, and about Affleck’s kid with Lively, and about Renner doing a bid, and this, and that. Too many threads lay across the surface and not all of them bring the same weight. Then again, IMDb tells me Affleck originally filmed a 4-hour cut (whaddaya, David feckin’ Lean over heah?) so maybe there’s some stuff missing.

  • (Compare this to Heat, where Michael Mann makes us care about Natalie Portman and Dennis Haysbert despite giving them about 10 minutes of screen time apiece. So Affleck’s not perfect yet. But he’s young, and very good for so young)

  • Says my manager: no way you could have a car chase in the North End like that. Twenty seconds in and you rear end a fish truck double-parked outside a restaurant. A guy in an oversized leather jacket gets out of his Cadillac to say a few words.

A few weeks ago, I got a mailer offering me a nice discount on any purchases from the New Hampshire Liquor and Wine Outlet. For those of you not from New England: the Outlet is the only chain of stores where hard liquor or wine may be sold in New Hampshire. Since New Hampshire has no sales tax, the discount on the final price, compounded with the savings on this coupon, more than paid for the trip. So Sylvia and I drove up to Derry on Saturday afternoon, taking in the gorgeous fall foliage on the way. I loaded up my cart with several massive bottles of mid-tier liquor – Tanqueray, Canadian Club, Smirnoff – and paid a mere pittance. A trifle, for the joy they’ll bring.

Jaunts like this remind me of why I’m not comfortable identifying with either of the major political mindsets in America – either conservative or liberal.

Conservatives tend to champion the “rule of law” as if it’s a value in and of itself. “Sure, the illegal immigrants in the Midwest aren’t committing crimes in record numbers,” they say, “but their very existence in the States is a crime.” Or consider Rudy Giuliani’s “broken windows” crackdown in New York City in the 90s. The idea seems to be that an environment of widespread lawlessness encourages greater crime. The problem – outside from a lack of empirical evidence in either Arizona or Manhattan – is that we’re all lawbreakers. We all scoff at the laws we find inconvenient and adhere to the laws we like, or the laws we can’t get away with breaking.

The relationship between New Hampshire and Massachusetts is a perfect example. There’s a long-established trend of Massachusetts residents motoring up north to buy wholesale clothing, cartons of cigarettes and liquor in New Hampshire. This trend is so well-known that massive corporations cater to this sort of thing, as American Express did when they sent me that discount mailer. The coupon rang up on the register as “AMEX MASS.” Now, there’s nothing illegal about a Massachusetts resident buying liquor in New Hampshire – provided he reports it at the end of the year and pays his use tax. Which I promise you, I am definitely going to pay come April 2011. You just see if I don’t.

But I know not everyone else abides the law as closely. So you’ve got an endemic, multi-generational culture of tax frauds in eastern Massachusetts. Has this driven up the crime rate in Boston? Does this make the North Shore a greater source of other forms of tax evasion than typical for the country? Because, if not, I think we need to reconsider the “culture of scofflaws” idea.

On the left side of the aisle comes the notion of the tax burden in the first place. Whenever I get into an argument over the justification of taxes, I’m told that they’re a “payment for services rendered” by the state and federal government. The same way I might pay two dollars for a gallon of milk, or a thousand for a computer, I pay the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and the U.S. Treasury several thousand dollars a year in exchange for bank bailouts, secret prisons in Afghanistan and ConAgra subsidies. Which I suppose makes sense.

I can understand the reasoning that taxes are money that I owe to the government (even if I’m not sure I buy it). But I can’t understand the reasoning that taxes are money of mine that the government already owns. And if you think I’m exaggerating, consider this Huffington Post article, about a series of tax loopholes that “cost the U.S. $60 billion a year” (the headline’s words, not mine).

The author’s mindset seems to be that Google doesn’t owe the U.S. money – rather, that Google was holding money that already belonged to the U.S. and hasn’t returned it fast enough. It’s the distinction between “I promised to buy you a six-pack” and “you put your six-pack in my fridge; let me get it for you.” I understand the former, but not the latter, especially if I bought the bespoke six-pack.

Google, Microsoft and the other companies who employ the “Double Irish” strategy aren’t breaking the law. They are taking advantage of loopholes in corporate tax law. You might consider that sort of behavior uncivic, if you think that people have an obligation to maximize their tax burden. But no actual human thinks that way. In fact, 100 out of 100 people I talk to think the opposite – that if you find a way to lower your tax burden, whether it’s through charitable donations or investment strategies or setting up a trust for your child’s education, you go for it. And you can see that sort of mindset in the New Hampshire Liquor and Wine Outlet, which advertises to Massachusetts residents to come thumb their nose at the law.

If you think I’m misunderstanding or caricaturing your view, let me know. I’d be happy to discuss it with you over a glass of illegal booze.

Aug
12

Friends of mine have posted this video twice so far this week, so I feel I ought to comment. It takes place in Boston’s Chinatown. (WARNING: features bat-on-head violence but no visible blood)

I don’t know why I feel obligated to comment every time someone takes an unwise risk and the rest of the Internet applauds it. But I don’t like people being self-destructive. I hate the culture of honor and the dumb things it makes people do. And I hate jackasses like this.

To recap what happens in the video: a drunken ass picks fights with passing cars. His friends make a feeble effort at holding him back but don’t try too hard, primarily “helping” by yelling, “Go! Keep going!” to the assaulted drivers. One driver gets it particularly bad: the instigator climbs on top of the driver’s car, slides off, and then punches either the rear window or the rear panel. He almost certainly did more damage to his fist than to the car in the process. So the driver speeds away from what could have been a much more dangerous scenario with, at worst, cosmetic damage to his car.

What does he do? He parks his car at the top of the street – with the door unlocked – and comes back with a baseball bat.

The drunk instigator’s friends go from being the driver’s allies (helping him get out of this one-way street) to his enemies (backing up their idiot friend). He is now in a four-on-one fight. He’s got an aluminum bat, but that doesn’t make him invincible. All it takes is one guy wrapping you by the arms while his three friends wail on you. Can’t swing your way out of that one.

Our batter goes from driving away uninjured to running for his life and taking serious damage to his car as the attackers lay into it with the bat he just gave them. And why? Because some drunk white guy called him a racial epithet and said, “Get out the car!” That’s a terrible reason to risk your life, to say nothing of your ride.

If you ever have the opportunity to walk away from a fight, take it. Keep your hands up and your eyes open, but take it. You never know if the other guy has a knife, a stick or even a gun in his pocket. You never know if he’s got a harder right hook than you do. Don’t start shit and don’t let people start shit with you.

This past Sunday was one of those days that vendors pray for: bright, temperate and 24 hours before a federal holiday. Everyone in Boston was out on the Common. Folks got outdoors even if they didn’t have a reason. Getting out after a long winter and feeling the sun on your face is reason enough. And any day that brings the tourists brings the hustlers.

“I got them ice cold drinks right here,” the kid behind the hot dog wagon called out. “Anything you want!”

“How much for a dog?”

“Three.” He was wrapping up a transaction with an earlier customer while answering me.

I handed him some bills. “And a bottle of water.”

“Go ahead and take it out of the cooler. Ice cold drinks! I got ‘em!”

A father and his seven-year-old daughter were studying the drinks on display while the counterman served up my dog. “What flavor is this?” He fingered a bottle of Gatorade’s newest offering – G2, blue like the afternoon – with suspicion. The kid picked it up and examined the front label. “Ten and five is your change,” he told me. To the father: ” ‘Frost’. Hot dogs! Water, soda, sports drinks, ice cold!”

They tried to hustle me at the Gamestop, too. I picked up used copies of Dead Rising and Soul Caliber IV. “Are you familiar with our discount card?” the counterman asked. “It gives you 10% off all used games. Not only that, but you accrue points with every purchase that you can trade in for rewards. Normally it’s $15 for a one-year membership, but today only I can sign you up for $11.88. And that 10% would be applied to today’s purchase. Is this something you’d be interested in?”

I shook my head.

“Don’t buy a lot of used games?” he asked, like he were making conversation with a stranger. Not $118 worth. But, as I’ve said before, I never mind when someone tries the hustle on me.

So Tuesday of last week, it’s pissing rain and blowing fifty as I stagger into the Copley subway station. I recall the Transit cops in neon jackets I’d seen scanning bags at one of the entrances to the Davis Square station that morning, in light of the Moscow subway bombing the day before. Sure enough, a tiny Asian lady in bright yellow sees my rain slicker and messenger bag and lights up. “Excuse me,” she says. “Could I ask you to step over to those officers in the corner?” I cock my head to get her to repeat it; I heard her the first time, but I want to formulate a response. She repeats it.

“Are you asking me if I consent to a search?”, I ask.

“That’s right.”

“I’m sorry; no.” One hand up in apology. “Does this mean I have to leave the station?”

I didn’t quite catch her response; I was already heading back upstairs. The rain had slowed, turning the evening humid but breezy: the temporary eye of the storm. I walked the half dozen blocks to Hynes and caught the bus to Harvard there. Nobody was scanning bus passengers.

We have security expert Bruce Schneier to thank for making the term “security theater” – or, the appearance of security in lieu of actual safety – popular. Checking people’s bags for explosives is a great way to keep people from blowing up trains; it’s a terrible way to stop terrorism. It’ll simply divert terrorists to unsecured outlets. Schneier suggests that improving U.S. intelligence on terrorist activities and beefing up emergency response would be more effective. In the event of a terrorist attack, intelligence will be more likely to trace the attack to its masterminds, and a stronger first response will minimize casualties and infrastructural damage. But that’s not proactive enough. Doing Something is better than Doing Nothing in the political realm, no matter what Something you choose to do.

This is pretty obvious if you think about it a moment. The only reason scanning random travelers bags should still mystify you is if you think preventing terrorism is the priority. It’s not. Stopping a repeat attack is the priority, because if 37 people died in Boston the same week from the same method as 37 people died in Moscow, half of the MBTA would be out of a job. Hell, if 7 people died. After an incident of newsworthy proportions in a democratic bureaucracy, the first question is always who could have stopped this. Consider all the focus put on the Phoenix memo following the World Trade Center razing; oh, if only someone had taken this seriously. Well, sure. If INS had forbidden all Egyptians to enter the country, the September 11th attacks couldn’t have happened either. Should every memo that crosses the FBI Director’s desk be taken as gospel? This is why “hindsight” isn’t considered a virtue: the ability to scrutinize the past and determine exactly what went wrong doesn’t make one a better leader. You prevent repeat attacks by anticipating the opponent’s strategy, not by obsessing over their tactics. But that requires foresight, unbiased thinking and sacrifices. Putting National Guardsmen at the airports with M16s takes a phone call.

Two blocks from the school where I study (and teach) jiu-jitsu is a bar called 21 Nickels. It’s built in the low, narrow style of urban bars: bar running from entrance to bathroom, row of bar stools, aisle and a row of tables. This makes sense in the heart of a city, where square footage is at a premium; less so in the Watertown suburbs. But architecture is a language; the space evokes a type of bar, just like the high ceilings and faux ranch construction of an Outback Steakhouse evoke a type of restaurant. Realizing that occupancy counts more toward rent than ambiance, however, the owners added a side car. Literally: a dining car, rolled up on the long-rusted tracks that used to bisect Watertown, welded onto the side of the bar and connected via two sloping walkways. The dining car’s windows, which look out onto the wild grasses between a clapboard tuxedo rental outlet and the local Armenian lodge, are framed with imitation velvet curtains.

The jiu-jitsu class goes there at least once a month, typically after the belt test and promotional on the fourth Thursday. The owner recognizes us and goes out of his way to accommodate our size and post-workout stink: grouping tables in the back, firing up a preliminary order of nachos before we even have to ask, pouring out pitchers’ full of ice water. Last time we were there he kept the kitchen open late. We migrated from our usual exile in the dining car (don’t mind us) to take over the front bar, which was empty save for a middle-aged Mediterranean romancing a bottle blonde with a tan like a Camry’s driver seat. Every time we’re there we order vast quantities of food and streams of beer, then try to split the check six or seven different ways. And they always oblige. Not that Watertown’s a bad neighborhood, but most bar owners would consider being known as “the bar where the jiu-jitsu school drinks” a sound business investment.

I can’t hang like I used to – I could never really hang – so I’m usually one of the first to go. 21 Nickels is covered in sports memorabilia, old press clippings and iconic photographs, like every local bar in every suburb in America. As I exit, I note one that strikes a subsonic chord in my gut every time. Google Image Search isn’t helping, so I’ll have to describe it; this’ll be a good exercise for me.

A white man – not just white, but white – in a turn-of-the-last-century suit and tie, chin at his chest, eyes closed, mouth curving into a smirk’s imitation of a smile. He hovers over the State House like a giant ghost rising out of the earth; it’s visible through his torso. Hundreds of hands reach up from the bottom of the illustration, clutching the air through which this titan passes. A vague limning along the top of the black-and-white drawing, perhaps meant to convey a halo over the hovering figure, suggests nothing so much as a slow dawning horror, especially as the rest of the picture is chiaroscuro black. The entire drawing invokes nothing so much as a Lovecraftian terror – Nyarlathotep, perhaps – and the listless hordes drawn toward him. “THE MAYOR OF THE POOR,” the caption reads. “ELECT CURLEY.”

Mar
02
Posted by Professor Coldheart at 7:00 am

The conjunction of Trinity Church, the Hancock Tower, the new Hancock building and several other massive structures around Copley Square creates a massive wind tunnel between Clarendon and St James Ave. On clear days, it’s bad; on stormy days it’s terrible. Walking from my office toward Fire & Ice for a quick dinner last week, I leaned into a gale. I pointed my umbrella in a dozen different directions, like a malfunctioning radar dish, to avoid the wind.

One strong gust lifted me onto my toes and then relinquished me with a snap. Looking up, I saw that the shaft of my umbrella had broken in two. What I’d thought was a metal rod with a wooden veneer was, in fact, genuine wood, unable to cope with the vortex of downtown Boston. I was holding a curved umbrella handle that ended in splinters, marching down St James with my first initial held proudly over my head. The ribs and fabric of the umbrella cartwheeled past me.

Sprinting back the way I came, I speared the remains of my umbrella with the splintery end, lest it bounce into an intersection and cause an accident. I tried to fold the top half closed, but the shaft had broken off too high. An umbrella works by affixing its ribs to a single ring around the handle; you open or close the umbrella by sliding this ring up or down. But the handle had broken off below where the ring would stay if the umbrella were closed. So I had no choice but to carry the open umbrella and the broken remains of its handle in my hands until I could find a trash can that would take them. Since the wind had not let up, the umbrella portion (which I was grasping by its freezing metal spindles) would fill its sails and jerk around, like a leashed Dalmatian. All this while I’m waving a jagged wooden rod over my head, for balance, and getting drenched.

I had a beer with dinner.

Feb
25

I work in Copley Square, one of the most photogenic neighborhoods of Boston. Once a week, if not more often, I cross the plaza to my office, by threading my way through crowds of Asian tourists. They live up to (down to?) the stereotype by pointing subcompact digital cameras in every direction and snapping pictures: some with family in front, some without. They’re not lacking for vistas: the square is bordered by the Boston Public Library to the west, Trinity Church to the east, the Hancock Tower to the south and Patrick Henry’s childhood CVS to the north. Amateur photographers pose their family members, who stand with hands folded in front of their waists or with arms outstretched. Look! Boston!

The reason Asian tourists descend on Copley Square in flocks of thirty or more has nothing to do with the square’s history and everything to do with buses. The tour buses that serve the Boston area make this neighborhood a regular stop. Copley Square didn’t play a role in Boston’s revolutionary history – in fact, it was a swamp back then – but it’s certainly photogenic. Tour bus companies recognized the square was photogenic and began including it on their tours. And now strangers to the city get out and take photos because the tour bus stops here.

copley_square

The history of Boston is neither so old, nor so mysterious, that we have to argue over which came first: did the tour buses decide Copley Square was a point of interest, or was it Copley’s status as a point of interest that got tour buses to stop here? The answer is clearly the latter. Yet seeing tourists pass through Copley Square always gives me an opportunity to revisit it with a stranger’s eyes. And I’m reminded of how much institutions – like tour bus companies – shape our view of the world, while the world also shapes the way these institutions grow.

And I hope that, in every busload, there’s at least one sullen teenager or cranky grandma who gets off the coach, draws their collar up against the St. James winds, and asks, “What’s so special about this place, anyway?”