no.43 - Grand Theft Auto IV

Unsurprisingly, the latest Grand Theft Auto game has generated controversy, backlash, back-backlash and, in just a few short bloggy hours, back-back-backlash, as if backlash were a form of ping pong.

Susannah Breslin, on her blog rails against feminists railing against the game, suggesting that what men really want is a hooker they can f*ck and run over.

Really? I can tell you that one thing this man wants is for Susannah Breslin to learn how to create a paragraph break on her blog.

Breslin's larger point — that men have always had, and always will have twisted fantasies about sex — may be true. But her acceptance of it? What ever happened to hope for our better selves? Have we really given up? And then to attack feminists for not giving in? It's enough to make a man write incomplete sentences.

I haven't played Grand Theft Auto IV so I can't speak to the content or context of the game. I am conflicted because I want to play — not to kill hookers and run them over, but because the game's story and acting have been given high marks, the environment is immersive and, especially, the characters are reported to be interesting and well written.

If I understand correctly, you don't have to kill hookers, right?

I am not so troubled by the reality that many video games are violent. The reason games tend towards violence actually has less to do with our bass selves and society and more to do with what is easy to program, write and design.

What I am bothered by is that the depictions of women appear uniform, unlayered and depressing. If I am going to be depressed I'd just assume visit my local art house theater and at least be challenged in something other than my on-screen driving skills.

Let's be honest here. GTA would come with a vial of crack if Rock Star Games thought it would boost sales and not shut them down. Their only concern is with how many units they sell, leaving the question of why men (or boys) would buy a game where they can pretend to screw and kill a hooker.

The answer is not that men - most men, want to do these things in real life. The answer is that they want to try something shocking and boast to their friends about how cool it was. And it is here that the game fails them, because at this point, is it really shocking?

No, I think that shock will return as the technology improves and GTA VII: Chinatown presents you with a scenario where that hooker you banged and killed turns out to be a character based on an instantaneous scan of your mother... your sister... your mother... your sister... your mother... your sister... your mother... your sister

no.42 - Stimulus Shmimulus

The government has begun sending out its "rebate" checks in a plan to stimulate the economy that is about as well conceived as the Iraq war.

You will get a check for $600 or $1200 and, I am assuming, a note from George W. Bush begging you to please spend it on something - anything - but for God's sake don't you squirrel it away and save it.

And really I have to agree because a year from now the value of the dollar will probably be half of what it is today — especially if you like eggs or other food, or anything that is delivered by truck, train or mule.

In total, the Government is "giving" the American public $152 billion dollars to spend on crap* so that companies selling crap* will be $152 billion richer. The companies, in turn, will be able to continue to report record earnings for another half hour.

Of course, there is a small chance that some unpatriotic Americans will choose to pay off a crumb of the unbearable debt load they have been tricked into, but I think it's more likely people will spend the entire check on gas for their strangely obese SUV's. This may not solve the problem with the economy (or the environment) but which certainly make the oil companies happy. Is it possible that is what George really wants?
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*Speed Racer toys from China, Blue-Ray players from Japan, or a sweater from God-know's-where, like the one my wife recently bought at Target that she was able to wear once before it unraveled into a pile of cheap frayed yarn in our dryer.

no.41 - Pissa Pie

The other day, at a playground far from our home, my daughter suddenly needed to pee. Cambridge has many fine parks, but not one has a toilet. The common and popular solution to a full child bladder is to find a secluded corner, drop your child's pants and let them urinate in right there in the park.

I am sympathetic to this conundrum, but I don't approve of this popular solution. That spot that seems like a good place to hide is a good place to hide; which means it is exactly where the next kid to play hide and seek is going to hunker down in a wet mud of urine and, on a very unlucky day, feces.

So, rather than foul the park, I picked up my three-year-old and walked to Village Grill & Seafood, a pizza parlor doing a lazy business just before noon. I asked the woman behind the counter if she had a bathroom even though I know they must have a bathroom because where are they going to do their pooping? The park?

The woman carefully replied they have no public restroom.

I know I am expected to give up and shrug, as if fooled by this. But because I am who I am, I reworded my question.

"Yes, but do you have a bathroom?"

"We have no public bathroom." She said again, practiced, dispassionate, careful to include the word "public".

While this was going on, my daughter was listening, holding the contents of her bladder.

"What's she saying?" my girl asked, with an obvious interest in the outcome of this negotiation.

I looked at the woman for a sign that common human decency would kick in and she would give a three year old a break. Like many Greeks I have known, most of them relatives, there was a stubborn, almost strangely proud look on her face as if to say, "we gave the world democracy and now you want to use the toilet in my pizza parlor?"

I considered playing my Greek card, though my Greek is very poor and I could think of no logical way to work my name into the conversation. Besides, my grandfather's decision to leave Naxos should not be the golden key to the toilet.

"What's she saying?" My daughter asked again. My stubborn Mediterranean blood decided on what came out of my mouth next.

"She is saying she doesn't ever want us to shop here." I said and walked out the door.

And I never will - no matter what Ben Affleck may think of their pizza.

Across the street we found a convenience store that, despite having a neon pink "no public bathroom" sign taped prominently to the wall, still let us use their toilet. The woman behind that counter had a little shred of empathy left in her.

Did I buy something on the way out? You bet I did. And now I will go out of my way to buy a thing or two there when I can.

no.40 - Dr. Michael Salzhauer

Cosmetic surgeon "Dr." Michael Salzhauer has written a children's book called "My Beautiful Mommy" which explains to young children how their ugly mommies can look "more beautiful than before" through the magic teddy bear of plastic surgery. (That's how it's depicted on the cover.)

If there was ever a more appropriate title to be published by a vanity press, I've never heard of it. Parents purchasing this book may need to skip over the portions of other children's books which suggest you like yourself the way you are, which is probably for the best as these older books do not coordinate well with television, advertising or with Salzhauer's wallet.

The book explains that "Mommy" needs to have her bumpy nose fixed and, while she's at it, she is going to get her tummy tucked because it got all messed up having a kid. The child in the book does not appear ask the question I would have asked under the circumstances; "Can Dr. Salzhauer give me some extra arms?"

(Spiderman had it done.)

Dr. Salzhauer feels he is doing this for the good of large-nosed, little-boobed mommies everywhere. Others may disagree, but I for one don't believe he has written this book to cash in from book sales or to get his name out in front of a gullible, insecure, flabby-middled public. No, I think he wrote it so he could justify to himself his idiotic, dangerous and predatory profession. This is a self-published vanity pressing.

Nevertheless, I have some suggestions for "Dr."Michael Salzhauer's future publishing career:

• My Botched Mommy
• Free to be... anyone but you
• Timmy Tummy Tuck and his Super Stomach Stapler
• Mommy's immobile face still loves you: The Polar Expression
• Mommy's giant rack is not for baby
• The Blubber Battle Book

I also wish Dr. Salzhauer luck with his multiple forthcoming surgeries which will transform him from looking like a sallow faced dweeb-eyed shmuck to the muscle-bound pinhead he is portrayed as in the book. I don't know what is involved, but I am sure he will explain it with grace, tact and dignity to the four young children he careful mentions in his every press release.

As a final note, I must applaud Vic Guiza for what I can only assume was his secret attempt to sabotoge "Dr." Salzhauer's book. Vic's abominable, charmless, incompetently rendered and muddy-colored illustrations must be the work of someone who hated every soul-crushing moment working on the book. The "publisher" notes Vic has won the " Dragon Pencil Gold Medal of Honor for best illustrated children's book in 2007" an honor bestowed upon only a handful of illustrators hired to illustrate books by the Dragon Pencil book company. I can only assume an artist of this high merit choose to make it look like the book was outsourced to Mexico for cheap labor.

no.39 - Marathogger

Every year, just before the Boston Marathon, there are joggers out for their morning jog who just "happen" to stray onto the marathon route.

They seem surprised to find thousands of people lining the road. They keep jogging with a mild look of confusion on their glassy faces. Apparently they managed to forget that today was the biggest running event in Boston; an event so big the entire city shuts down; an event so well known and anticipated that villagers in Kenya and farmers in Russia train to participate for years.

It must be nice to roll out of bed, throw on your sweats and pretend to you are every bit as much an athlete as Robert Cheruiyot or Dire Tune (Dire Tune, by the way is the coolest name of all time - sorry Ute Pippig.)

I've seen this happen for several years now. But today I saw a new and more pathetic variation where joggers finished their joggings near the finish line so they could mill around Boston feeling awesome and basking the in the good will the spectators show towards anyone sweaty and tired.

Do you think Rosie Ruiz started her running career this way?

no.38 - The Hitler Yardstick

Among Hitler's many crimes, it often goes unnoticed that he quietly lowered the bar for human behavior. He is in constant use as a yard stick. Often the very worst human beings are measured against Hitler as if there were an on-going run-off amongst the evil, soulless leaders of the world to see who is worst.

But more frequently, the rest of us get measured against him or measure ourselves. When compared with Hitler's genocidal programs, a little shoplifting, a bit of tax evasion, or an afternoon's embezzlement all seem tame.

It's a simple out. Contrast any of your petty transgressions against the man widely considered the the most evil in history and you automatically come out on top:

"Come on, I didn't share my appetizer with you. It's not like I'm Hitler!"

"Gimme a break. I drown a few Kittens in a sack and suddenly I'm Hitler?"

"All I did was invade one little oil rich country, — I'm hardly Adolph Hitler."

Even in the absence of others to argue with, one can soak alone in a tub, thinking about the orphanage they defrauded and console themselves knowing you aren't quite as evil as the leader of the Third Reich.

And then there is that 1/365.75th of the population who must suffer the comparison mearly because they arrived in the world on April the twentieth.

I know about this. My best friend growing up shared a birthday with Adolf Hitler (still does, actually). I suppose an astrologer might find this significant, but I do not. I have never seen Ralph give any sort of hate and spittle filled oratory, nor has he attempted to annex any of his neighbors (not even the Klutchnicks). Unless one considers skill at RISK to be evidence of despottery, Ralph should never have had to suffer the comparison.

no.37 - The Speed of a Girl

For many years, I had a ritual on Saturday mornings of racing a two hundred yard dash. My competitors were Fourth, Fifth and Sixth Graders at the enrichment program where I teach. Our finish line was the gates of a distant playground. The race was not a formal affair, but rather a contest in which the last party to arrive was briefly considered to be a spoiled egg.

Before we would begin, I would often be told by a boy or two that I was going to lose - big time. Sometimes these boasts would be accompanied by a short resume of accomplishments like: "I'm the fastest kid on my soccer team," or "I have track shoes."

These pronouncements were irrelevant. I could easily beat them to the playground, often turning around to face them as I ran backwards across the designated finish line.

Perhaps I should not have taken pleasure in victory over kids a third of my age, but if they began to trash talk, all bets were off. Who can help but feel a little satisfaction in defeating someone who thinks they are entitled to victory?

Then, one morning, I remember seeing a tall fifth grade girl appear to my right during the race. She had not said a word in the brief moments leading up to the race. I looked at her, more than a little surprised that she was keeping up my pace.

"Now you're gonna have to try," she said casually, pouring on the speed. I pushed on as fast as I could, not wanting to admit that up to that point I had been trying. Her small feet flew across the grass at a rapid staccato pace I did not consider natural. She easily beat me by several yards.

As I tried to recover my breath and my dignity, the girl proudly informed me she was the fastest girl her age in the state — maybe the country — and that if I wished, one day I would be able to watch her run in the Olympics on television.

Behind us, the remaining pack of runners thundered in. The boys in the group were bewildered and dejected because boys almost always expect to defeat girls in athletics. This despite years of warnings by situation comedies. The girls were asking; "How'd you do that?" as if she possessed a secret trick that might allow them all to defeat boys and teachers everywhere.

The girl's accomplishment as an athlete made my defeat easier to justify, but obscured the fact that those grumbling boys weren't so very far behind me. Though I failed to notice it, I was slowing down and age was creeping up

no.36 - The Speed of a Boy

Last night, while archiving old tapes, I came across some video of myself running. The footage in question was not exciting sprints from my youth or analysis of my long distance form. No. It was ridiculous scenes of my friend Sean and I engaged in an absurd, poorly-acted chase with an improvised plot.

It all amused me until I remembered how fast I once had been. Through the grace of youth and genes I had once been given the gift of speed.

Looking at the footage I began to feel something akin to regret. It is hard not to long for a time when I was free to play in a field all day and to videotape the nonsense to boot.

But the beauty of that spring day and the ridiculous behavior captured on that videotape obscures the fact that 18 years ago I had no real job, few prospects and a lot of worry. I was thin and quick, yes, but I was taut with with a gnawing worry at my uncertain future.

no.35 - Sylvia Browne

Sylvia Browne is a purported psychic and callous human being who has made millions of dollars pretending to know the future and speak to the dead.

She preys especially upon distraught parents, manipulating them into believing she has information on what has become of a missing or dead child, and then coldly spins lies to profit from their misery. (read on...)

Sylvia Browne is just one of a long line of so-called mystics who claim to have other-worldly power. What makes her special is the measure of her contempt and disregard for other human beings. She is a grouchy, unfeeling woman who can not even be bothered to put on the show that was once part and parcel to mediums. She disgorges terse pronouncements about the fate of missing loved ones, wrongly declaring abducted children dead, dead children alive and never looking back at the harm she has left in her fraudulent wake.

She does not care that she is wrong. She has never apologized, and why would she? There is no profit in it for her and she gives no indication of having a normal response to human emotion.

All of this might lead one to believe I think Sylvia Browne possesses no special ability, but this is not the case. Her hubris is nearly beyond measure as is the capacity of those who believe in her to let themselves be taken for a very ugly ride. As evil as she may seem, the mental contortions and distortions of reality she must employ to look in the mirror each morning suggests to me she is truly mentally ill.

Unfortunately, there is no known treatment, psychic or otherwise, for a sociopath.

For more information on Sylvia Browne I highly recommend the site: stopsylviabrowne.com

The image below is available for download and distribution:

no.34 - Powerslessness

Yesterday, as my daughter and I were walking up the stairs she said to me, "I have Clifford in my head from this morning."

We have talked about how a song or a sound can get stuck in your head, for good or for ill, so I asked her, "What do you hear?"

"From when they were near the lighthouse," she said, as though this should be obvious. There had been a moment where they listened to the sound of the ocean.

My daughter leaned in, put her head next to mine and then said in a hush:

"Listen..."

She thought I could hear what she heard. She thought I could listen to her mind! When I explained that I could not, she seemed genuinely surprised.

It's a good lesson for me to remember that, even though she is very, very smart, she is still very small and working out the mechanics of the world. While I would dearly love to hear what goes on in there, I know that it is better that I cannot and one day, she will be glad for the privacy of her mind.

Still, it would have been nice to hear the sea and surf through her ears - to have that power for just a minute or two.

no.33 - the Amateur

How did an observation about apparent customer complaints between two different brands of camera (Canon and Nikon) bring me head to head with a self-proclaimed amateur gynecologist and the decline of modern society?

(read on...)

Without prolonging this blog entry with the entirety of my post to the photography forum (which you can read here or here), suffice it to say the replies to my post consisted mostly of two sentiments.

One was that I had "waayy" too much time on my hands. The other was that I had not done my "study" with enough depth, breadth, or scientific rigor.

Many of the critiques posted both these criticisms at once, without any apparent awareness of the contradiction of suggesting I spent "waaaay" too much time in my research while simultaneously berating me for not having spent enough time in my research.

But I am not ready to declare irony dead, nor am I willing to write the experience off as a loss, because someone actually responded to my post thusly:

I'm more of an amateur gynecologist than you are an amateur statistician. At least I know where to look for *my* data. And I have direct knowledge of my customers' satisfaction.

I'll give you a moment to digest.

I would be lying if I said I did not take a bit of giddy glee in my reply: "That must be a real savings for you and your family." But my delight is really not something to be proud of as it is exactly the sort of belittling snipe that I dislike.

The amateur gynecologist did not provide a useful critique, but he did produce an amazing bit of writing. It reveals so much about the writer that I envy his ability to convey so much in so few words.

I could parse all day the self-satisfaction, the bravado, and what I hope is the writer's complete misunderstanding of the mechanics of the gynecological profession. But this is the thing about online forums everywhere - people may post with varying degrees of anonymity, but they still can not help but reveal themselves.

Consider, for a moment, the dozen or so postings in which someone in the forum, excited at his or her own wit, thought to elongate or emphasize the "way" in "waaaaay too much time." I don't blame them for not reading through all the posts - but it must be depressing to learn how woefully unoriginal you are when you look at yourself through an internet post.

The amatuer gynecologist was, I hope, unique.

Forum posts so often attempt to degrade or diminish others because, whether we want to admit it or not, we aren't so far from the chimpanzee cage. There is a fight for dominance and status even when there are bananas for everyone.

For example, take the sleepy arrogance of this response:

"As a scientist... imagine how impressive I find your methodology to be."

To which I wanted to reply, "As an artist, imagine how impressive I find your photography to be," but did not, because it would have reduced us to a state of virtual poo flinging and, to be honest, I kind of liked his photography. But he, like so many others, pretend to expect from my single post a complete scientific study, worthy of journal publication, because it allows him a sense of superiority.

If you wish (and you have waaayy too much time on your hands) read here and here to see for yourself the many, many responses. This, I'm afraid, is the kind of virtual community we build for ourselves. What a shame that when we are put into these nearly consequence free worlds of semi-anonymity, we so often fail to muster the best of ourselves and rather bring out the worst.

no.32 - Ninety-Nine

I don't know why the number 99 should be such an awful thing, but it is. As I stood atop the Empire State building with my wife and daughter, this knowledge was brought home to me as my new camera, (a Canon 40D) ceased to function on the very first day of our trip, displaying the dreaded, ambiguous error 99, ruining any plans I had to take photographs of New York, or my family.

This is the ninth time in two years I have suffered through this error which has rendered various pieces of photographic equipment useless. (Nice work Canon).

Of course, 99 is just the messenger in these events, but it still sits there, grinning and useless, conveying nothing but the fact that I am screwed.

99 is bad mojo and I don't even believe in mojo. Stick a horse-shoe on it all you like 99 Restaurant, your food won't be any less greasy or your waitresses any less surly. (We all know you are just the Ground Round without peanuts on the floor.)

One time we were visiting friends in Iowa who were caring for a cute, but heartbreakingly abandoned little boy who kept singing out "Nine E Nine, Nine E Nine" because his mother had left on the ninety-nine train.

99's biggest claim to fame - besides not quite being 100, is the aggravating song about the bottles of beer, rarely seen through to the end, but which is essentially wielded as a weapon by passengers on road trips.

Now it is true that when I was 15 I heard the song "99 Luftballons" and fell in love - and this was before I saw Nena or her leather pants. I was standing just outside my brother's and my room listening intently, hoping he did not notice me. If he knew I was enjoying that song, waiting to hear who was singing, he almost certainly would have have turned it off.

But, I hasten to point out that the 99 balloons in the song do, in fact, start a nuclear apocalypse, so I think 99 still can be considered to suck even if that song is still totally awesome.

I would have preferred to make this my 99th post, but the Demons come when they come.

The last thing my camera saw

UPDATE: About a month after this post, yet another 99 Demon was found which required me to post this entry.

no.31 - The April Fool

Many years ago when I was a teacher in an after-school program for kids, I struck upon a plan of counter intelligence for April Fools day by untying my shoes.

I walked around all day with my shoes untied so each giggling child who looked at me and said "Your shoes untied" would be met with my earnest reply;

"Thank you! It's a really good thing you told me! I could have tripped. I could have been hurt. I could have ruined my shoe!" I made an obvious gesture leaning down to tie my shoe. "A fox could have mistaken my lace for a noodle and tried to slurp it up! I could have rolled down the stairs. Thanks a lot for looking out for me! Thank goodness you were here!"

Some kids thought this was pretty funny. Most disliked being foiled and stomped away in a huff.

This is problem with April the first. The merry prankster is almost never expecting the tables to be turned and is rarely prepared for a return in kind. So don't be too upset if, for example, some kids band together and tie your shoelace's together because you are walking around with them untied. Trust me, you deserve it.