Lifestyle Features

Hot love

SARA FAITH ALTERMAN — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 23:57:52 GMT

Taste the flames inside Boston's secret world of fire artists
For once, a scantily clad goth woman swinging chains of neon-orange fireballs over her head isn’t doing so because I’ve pissed her off.

For once, a scantily clad goth woman swinging chains of neon-orange fireballs over her head isn’t doing so because I’ve pissed her off. Instead, this neo-renaissance nymph is gracefully snakelike, smiling and shimmying like a modern day Gypsy Rose Lee — only with globes circling her head like flaming Milky Way moons. This act, seemingly reckless and so dependent on her mastery of the physics of circular motion, is actually a very delicate dance.

The fiery orbs on her chains are known as “fire poi”; the woman, Dominique Immora (her stage name), is a “fire spinner.” She’s just one of several performance artists who are lighting the Boston-area dance world on . . . um . . . yeeeah.

Of the four elements of nature, fire is by far the sexiest, druggiest, and rock-and-rolliest. After all, Hendrix didn’t climax his performance at Monterey by dousing his guitar with water. Fire has danger appeal, and, here in Massachusetts, an air of forbidden fruit, thanks to our infamously Puritanical blue laws, which prohibit almost anything that involves an open flame, short of a cookout. This buzz-kill legislation would seemingly put a damper on Dominique and her fireballs, but it hasn’t fazed her or the tenacious coterie of locals who, while pussyfooting elvishly in secret nooks around Greater Boston, are slowly preparing the fire arts for their moment in the spotlight.

Quest for fire
Why are people so obsessed with fire, anyway? From Prometheus to Lucifer to Smokey Bear (“Smokey the Bear” is, surprisingly, incorrect. Who knew?), our most notorious mythological characters and feared eternal punishments are associated with blazes of glory or damnation. Our heroes fight it, our mavericks play with it. It’s in our bellies, under our asses.

A high-school history teacher of mine once told our class that the Huns, ignorant to the concept of cooking, used to sit on their meat to warm it, creating a primitive, smelly tartar of sorts. I don’t know if that’s true, but surely we’d still be attempting to warm up the fruits of yesterday’s kill by shoving it under our freezing haunches were it not for the magical cooking properties of fire.

Indeed, perhaps our cat-in-a-shiny-thing-factory infatuation with all things ablaze comes from biological inherence. After all, fire is our friend. We need it for heat, for light, for transforming sinewy animal flesh into savory, juicy hunks of culinary glory (duh, Huns). Fire fueled technology booms, gave us more effective weapons, and allowed us to see the people we were killing with those weapons after the sun had set. And, of course, without soft candlelight, mustachioed creepers with beer bellies and only a general geographic clutch on the lady button wouldn’t have a shot at getting laid. Without fire, the world would be a colder, darker, hornier place.

Old trickster

IAN SANDS — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 04:30:50 GMT

At age 78, able-bodied Alan Abel’s life is still one big joke
On New Year’s Day 1980, telegrams sent from Utah arrived at the New York Times and the Daily News announcing that 50-year-old media hoaxter Alan Abel had suffered a heart attack at a ski resort near Orem, Utah. He left behind a wife, Jeanne, and daughter, Jennifer.

HOAX-US POCUS: Alan Abel posing as Jim Rogers, founder of a group that sought to abolish breast-feeding, calling it incestuous and responsible for many of society’s ills

On New Year’s Day 1980, telegrams sent from Utah arrived at the New York Times and the Daily News announcing that 50-year-old media hoaxter Alan Abel had suffered a heart attack at a ski resort near Orem, Utah. He left behind a wife, Jeanne, and daughter, Jennifer.

It seemed like a tragedy, to be sure.

In the obituary published the next day, the Times wrote, “Mr. Abel . . . made a point in his work of challenging the obvious and uttering the outrageous.”

News of Abel’s fate sparked an outpouring of tribute. Mourners sent more than 100 letters to his old house in Westport, Connecticut, bemoaning the loss; several dozen orders for flower arrangements were placed with a florist.

Only thing was, Abel wasn’t dead.

He’d been holed up at a friend’s apartment in New York City.

The whole thing started when, during negotiations with a movie studio for rights to his life story, he overheard two lawyers in an elevator saying they should wait until the prankster died, then “buy the rights for peanuts from his estate.” So Abel decided to oblige them.

A few days after the obits ran, a second flock of telegrams went out to the press reading, REPORTS OF MY DEATH HAVE BEEN GROSSLY EXAGGERATED. THERE WILL BE A NEWS CONFERENCE TOMORROW AT 12 NOON AT THE BILTMORE HOTEL.

It would be the first time the Paper of Record would have to retract an obituary.

Modest beginning
Abel, bless his heart, has been pulling shit like that for nearly 50 years. In 1959, he embarked on his first high-profile hoax, a tongue-in-cheek crusade to clothe naked animals “for modesty’s sake” under the banner of the Society for Indecency to Naked Animals (SINA), a stunt that landed him and SINA’s “president” (actor/writer/friend Buck Henry) guest appearances to explain their position in character on the CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite and the Today Show. The campaign was an attempt to poke fun at the professional moralists of the ’50s, do-gooders who were, according to a write-up on Abel’s Web site, “busy censoring bikini-clad women, outspoken books and films, and classic statues.”

Since the SINA gag, Abel has baited media into covering a fictitious Jewish grandmother’s presidential campaign (1964); his very own “Omar’s School for Beggars” (1975), which he says was “a satirical commentary on the rise of unemployment and homelessness in America”; a sham wedding he threw for former Ugandan dictator Idi Amin and a WASP (1979); and a campaign to ban breast-feeding (2000).

Scars & stripes

JULIA RAPPAPORT — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 04:47:36 GMT

American vets discover that their military uniforms — like their service — look better on paper
“Dude, that shit right there? That’s Iraq.”

PAPER VICTORY: At Combat Paper workshops, veterans cut up old military uniforms, then transform the pieces into paper pulp and works of art.

“Dude, that shit right there? That’s Iraq.”

Aaron Hughes, tall, lanky, and blond, held a handful of sand — the stuff that poured out when, with one rip, the 26-year-old veteran split his standard-issue camouflage shorts at the seam. “One year, three months, and seven days. I was stationed in Kuwait and drove a truck back and forth to Iraq,” he says at a workshop on Martha’s Vineyard, tearing his shorts into thin strips. “It’s a long time.” Hughes last touched those shorts when he stepped off the plane from Iraq in 2004.

Hughes, a Chicago native, is one of a growing number of veterans from Boston to Los Angeles who are taking their uniforms out of the closet — seizing the buttons off their Navy blues, ripping their undershirts, and shredding their Army fatigues. Then, in workshops across the country, such as the one in the Vineyard, the vets mix the government-issue rags with water and beat the fibers down to pulp. At the end of the day, the uniforms are reborn as an artistic form of paper. They call it Combat Paper.

“I have a love/hate relationship with my deployment,” says Hughes. “I speak against the war, but I still miss my cot. I only had two uniforms and I wore them every day. It was a security blanket. When you’re cold, you wrap yourself in your shirt. You use it as your pillow. But it’s also a uniform, a symbol of oppression, power, control, and obedience. To turn it into something else is liberating.”

DIY therapy
Drew Cameron, a Vermont-based Iraq War vet who started the controversial Combat Paper project in May 2007, also describes the healing that comes when a veteran takes apart his or her uniform and gives it new life as “a liberating act. It’s deconstruction in a literal and metaphorical way. We are deconstructing memories and experiences while at the same time cutting up, taking apart, and remaking our uniforms.”

It is a healing process independent of psychologists and psychiatrists, a deliberate move since the Veterans Administration benefits offered to returning vets often do not include proper therapy. “It’s a purposeful activity that is self-initiated in a group,” says Sharan Schwartzberg, professor of occupational therapy at Tufts University Graduate School of Arts and Sciences. “The activity is transformative and it has symbols. . . . It can be so supportive.”

Photos: Boston Fashion Week 2008

JOHN NIKOLAI — Thu, 18 Sep 2008 21:39:03 GMT

Lingerie on the runway and more
Photos from the La Perla's fashion show, and YourBeautyIndustry.com Launch Party and Fashion Show, at Boston's Fashion Week 2008.

La Perla Fashion Show - InterContinental Boston
Photos by John Nikolai

Fallopian follies

KARA BASKIN — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 17:38:51 GMT

While celebrity sages salivate over Hollywood babies, Beltway pundits are spinning the latest wave of ovarian escapades. Have girls really gone wild?
Speculating on celebrity baby “bumps” is Hollywood blood sport.

Speculating on celebrity baby “bumps” is Hollywood blood sport. Ashlee, Nicole, the much-maligned Jamie Lynn Spears — all were outed by the press before they could even register for Diaper Genies. (A moment of silence for Lisa Marie Presley, who appeared on the cover of a tabloid looking like Wilfred Brimley in a muumuu and subsequently admitted to carrying twins.) Now, thanks to Sarah Palin’s impregnated teenage daughter, Bristol, trashy baby fever has come to the nation’s capital — a place where, until recently, sex had its proper place: under Oval Office desks and in airport-bathroom stalls. But suddenly, babies have become a campaign-trail tool, like George W. Bush’s cowboy act or Bill Clinton’s saxophone. Will it work?

I hope not — it’s a pretty thin MO for someone with as much diplomatic experience as, I don’t know, me. In searching for a vice-president, John McCain sought someone with no knowledge of Iraq, social views befitting a Victorian mixer, and a vagina. I can just picture the crusty Arizona senator sending his minions scampering to find a nice lady politician, someone those pesky women voters could get enthusiastic about after all that Hillary Clinton hullabaloo. If this election is going to be about change, the blustering ex-POW can play with the best of them. “Hey, Obama, you might be black — but I’ve got a girl on my team! And from Alaska, too!” Who cares if she’s a lightweight with as much foreign-policy expertise as Tom Arnold? McCain needed a strident hockey mom as the antidote to Hillary Clinton’s power pantsuits and Obama’s rousing rhetoric. Can you really blame the old geezer?

Too bad Bristol’s fickle fallopian tubes are likely to be her mother’s undoing. You don’t get to campaign as a family-values, pro-woman candidate who also opposes abortion and sex education — because those stances do more for unplanned pregnancy than cheap wine and Barry White. And you can’t exactly sing the praises of abstinence education when your own 17-year-old daughter is a waddling testament to its impotence.

Palin’s handlers would have you believe that she’s just itching to become a grandma. Her office released this statement, which would throw a diabetic into convulsions: “Our beautiful daughter Bristol came to us with news that as parents we knew would make her grow up faster than we had ever planned. We’re proud of Bristol’s decision to have her baby, and even prouder to become grandparents.”

Night of the living geeks

NEELY STEINBERG — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 15:30:54 GMT

Romancing the nerds
I’ve never dated a geek. Nor have I ever envisioned myself doing so.

JUST ONE OF THE CROWD: Our correspondent dons complimentary geek specs for a photo-op with James.

I’ve never dated a geek. Nor have I ever envisioned myself doing so. I grew up playing sports; in college, I was a party girl. I know the basics of using a computer, but the only thing C++ means to me is that it’s almost a B-minus. Granted, I do have a couple things in common with geeks — like my affinity for video games and my obsession with Star Wars — but, as Master Yoda might say, a romantic connection that does not necessarily make. Lately, though, I’ve been expanding my horizons, which is how I ended up at Central Square’s Pandemonium Books this past Saturday attending Sweet on Geeks singles night.

Sweet on Geeks (sweetongeeks.com) is the brainchild of Joyce Dales, her husband, and her brother, all self-described geeks, who started the dating Web site geared toward the typically dateless, in 2006.

“We actually came up with the idea when my husband and I were joking that we needed a space just for geeks for my brother to find a wife,” says an ebullient Dales. Her company now also hosts singles nights across the nation.

I showed up prepared to stand out like a sore thumb. I dressed to the nines; my hair perfection; my makeup flawless. If there’s one thing I’ve learned after years of dating, it’s that you can’t (and shouldn’t) deny being your true self. Turns out it’s a dating tenet that geeks embrace as well.

The first person I met was called Hecht. He was a tall, lanky fellow, dressed in full army fatigues, and had recently returned from Iraq. Hecht was exceedingly friendly and candid. He talked a lot about geek life and attempted to “break down some of the lingo” for me. While he was completely proud of his geek status, he did vent his frustration about being labeled. “It’s unfair,” he said, “because you get stigmatized a lot.”

Then there was James, a sweet, gentle guy in a black shirt, black kilt, and Tevas, who is pursuing his Master’s in information technology; Joseph, a portly photographer who described himself as “a different kind of geeky”; the suit-wearing Gregory, a computer consultant who had once repaired Hawk missiles in Korea; and Kat, an affable woman with a Dr. Who symbol tattooed on her arm.

The night’s festivities included speed dating, raffles — prizes included Star Trek action figures, a Yoda stuffed animal, and the like — and lots of board games, such as Agricola, which, I was informed, is the most popular game on boardgamegeeks.com.

A Bathroom Tour of Boston

K BONAMI AND GUSTAVO TURNER — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 14:05:50 GMT

Stall-by-stall through 33 of the city's most distinctive restrooms

Face it -- there is someting about living in Boston that drives people to drink. A lot. And while old demon alcohol is doing unspeakable things to your brain cells, liver, and dignity, the water it uses as its host makes its way through your addled body in search of a porcelain conduit to the sea, to the sea, to the open arms of the sea.

But bar bathrooms are much more than mere chambers of bolidy relief. They also provide a welcome haven for an array of private activities that, for whatever reason, must be conducted away from the bustle of curious patrons, bartenders, and waiters, and the distracting din of TV sports, bands, DJs, and jukeboxes.

This, then, is our visual survey of some of the most transited Bar Bathrooms of Boston. We hope you'll have a good time reminiscing over it, mounting it over your own toilet, or even playing some kind of perverted game of drunken Bingo ("You did what in there?!?"). Download a copy of the poster, suitable for framing, at the end of this slideshow.

Click here to download a .pdf of our Bathroom Tour of Boston in poster form

SEND US YOURS: Did we miss a good one? Send photos from your phone or email to yourpics@phx.com. We'll publish the best in a future issue.

Bathrooms of Boston: The Beehive
Photo credit: k bonami

Ask me anything

CAITLIN E. CURRAN — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 17:50:30 GMT

A free instant answer to any question is just a text away. But what do ChaCha’s guides have that , say, librarians don’t?
It used to be that, if you had a burning question, you had to a) ask your mom; b) consult a Magic 8 Ball; or c) trek to the top of a mountain to seek out a sagacious, all-knowing guru.

It used to be that, if you had a burning question (depending on the degree of difficulty), you had to a) ask your mom; b) consult a Magic 8 Ball; or c) trek to the top of a mountain to seek out a sagacious, all-knowing guru. Now all you have to do is search the Interwebs.

But while most knowledge seekers turn to Google and other search engines, newer sites like Yahoo Answers utilize an approach that’s so archaic, it’s practically Luddite: they employ actual people to answer your questions, via wiki-style community contribution. ChaCha, a new company that launched this past January, is taking that idea one step further, by having employees (ChaCha calls them “guides”) personally research your questions online, and text message you an answer. It’s like having a smart cabana boy. And it’s free.

Here’s how it works: anyone in the US with a cell phone can send a text message to 242-242 (“ChaCha,” get it?), asking any question: will it rain today? What’s in hummus? When will Guns N’ Roses release Chinese Democracy? Within about 10 minutes, a guide should text back the answer. (Probably. Mainly chickpeas, tahini, and olive oil. Maybe never.)

“Most services out there just take what’s on the Web and refit it for a text message,” says Susan Marshall, vice-president of marketing for ChaCha, on the phone from their Indiana headquarters, in reference to similar, but automated, question-answering services, such as Google SMS. Hence the often frustrating and irrelevant answers Google SMS can return — like wrong places or “no results” — when all you want is the name of that damn pizza place on Brighton Avenue. “People want simple answers to questions, and with the guides, we’re able to give them that.”

Marshall says ChaCha currently employs approximately 15,000 guides, who field millions of calls each month — about 500 answer questions each hour. Typically, a guide earns 20 cents per text-message answer, though ChaCha seems to be in a constant state of re-valuating its payment system and its guide-training process, and restructuring its Web site. The whole operation is funded by advertising sponsors (whose one-line ads appear at the bottom of some of Cha Cha’s texts) covetous of an aggressive text-messaging demo.

I texted ChaCha on a Thursday afternoon. “What’s the best strategy for kickball?” I queried, smart-assedly. Moments later, my phone buzzed to life with a text reply: “Surprisingly, it’s best to kick low toward third base, as outfielders will catch most harder kicks.” It was almost like texting with a very wise friend — except that my friends don’t usually send advertisements for Coke Zero with their messages.

Unhinging the binge

CAITLIN E. CURRAN — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 21:58:27 GMT

Some drinks are just too good to chug
I have a possible solution for the binge-drinking quandary: be more discerning about what you pour down your throat.

America has a tendency to dangle alcohol in front of its youth like a freshly baked forbidden brownie: booze is all over highway billboards, in the windows of the fluorescent-lit liquor stores that line our streets, and at the core of nearly any MTV or VH1 reality show.

But it’s the same old story: old enough to die in uniform, too young to drink. In August, former Middlebury College president John McCardell enlisted more than 100 university leaders, including Lawrence S. Bacow from Tufts and Jack M. Wilson from the UMass system, to form the Amethyst Initiative — a group calling for nationwide “re-examination” of the age when people can legally buy or consume alcohol. The Amethyst campaign implies, but never states directly, that the United States should once again lower the drinking age to 18, as it was in many states until 1984, when the feds blackmailed states with federal highway funds to raise it to 21.

“Adults under 21 are deemed capable of voting, signing contracts, serving on juries, and enlisting in the military,” reads a statement on the Amethyst Initiative’s official Web site (amethystinitiative.org). “But are told they are not mature enough to have a beer.”

The fairly obvious argument goes that the illegality of alcohol makes it more appealing to those under 21, the same way that Prohibition did. And the fact that it’s against the law isn’t really stopping anyone, anyway. In Europe, offering a glass of wine to a teenager at dinner is no big thing; in America, it’s almost grounds for accusations of child abuse. Consequently, the first two or three years of college for Americans are usually spent scheming to find that sweet, prohibited nectar — an older (and willing) sibling or a fake ID suddenly become vital to one’s partying existence — and then consuming it as quickly as possible.

Binge drinking, that nasty frat-house habit that college presidents are also seeking to abolish, may indeed have something to do with the fear of being caught — an attempt to consume as much as possible and get rid of any incriminating evidence before dawn. My theory, though, is that students chug because their drinks-of-choice taste so bad. Anyone who’s ever imbibed cheapo light beer or, god forbid, malt liquor will agree: that stuff’s not easy to get down. And the mixed-drink options at your average college party are even worse: gin mixed with Pepsi, vodka mixed with Diet Coke (for those avoiding that freshman 15), and, on special occasions, the syrupy TGI Fridays–brand strawberry daiquiri mix paired with suntan-lotion-flavored rum.

Get over it

CLIF GARBODEN — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 21:17:42 GMT

What every freshman should know about going to college in Boston
Okay, you survived the college-application process; you filled out the miserable FAFSA forms; you sweated out the wait for acceptance letters; and cut your best financial-aid deal.

Okay, you survived the college-application process; you filled out the miserable FAFSA forms; you sweated out the wait for acceptance letters; and cut your best financial-aid deal. You blocked traffic in front of the dorm while you unloaded your shit, met the pimply-faced assholes who will be your roommates, waved goodbye to your trepidatious parents, and now you’re on your own. You the man!

Actually, no, you’re not. Back in high school, to hear you tell it anyway, you were a goddamn god; now you’re just somebody else’s pimply-faced roommate. Get over it. And while you’re binding and gagging that unearned ego, get prepared for an entire semester’s worth of smaller adjustments. Long before your time, a comedy troupe called the Firesign Theatre preached: “Everything you know is wrong.”

They were right. Boston isn’t wherever you’re from, and there are lots of notions and expectations new students in our city need to put behind them. Like, immediately.

Among the more immediate are ZEBRA CROSSINGS — those inviting pathways of diagonal white lines painted on the street at intersections. You may think there’s a law that cars have to stop and let you cross if you so much as cast your shadow onto one of these. After all, pedestrians have rights! Inside a zebra crosswalk, you’re as safe as if you were flanked by the offensive line of the ’78 Steelers. There is such a law, but if you believe the rest, you’re going to die. In Boston, no car even slows down for a mere mortal. You can explain about your rights to the EMTs as the ambulance mows down other pedestrians rushing you to Mass General. The only safe way to cross a Boston street is in the middle of the block. That way you can spot anything that might run over you in time. We are not kidding about this.

Do you believe in BIKE LANES? Yeah, hey, everybody wants to be green. Don’t pollute; ride your bike to class. The city encourages this by painting more lines on the streets— lines defining narrow makeshift corridors between the cars parked at the curb and the cars weaving in and out of traffic at 40 miles per hour. Like zebra crossings, bike lanes are not safe havens. They are death traps. If, asserting your rights as a cyclist, you pedal along them, you will 1) have to stop short for a double-parked UPS truck; 2) be hit by the opening door of a parked car; 3) be sideswiped by somebody driving like a drunk Asian nun on a cell phone. You’re better off taking your chances in the real traffic lanes. Trust us.

Love us, don't leave us

NINA MACLAUGHLIN — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 20:47:23 GMT

Advice from sadder but wiser Bostonians
Let’s skip the sugarcoating. Boston can be a tricky place.

Let’s skip the sugarcoating. Boston can be a tricky place. We’re a grouchy lot, set in our ways. Our winters are cold, our bars close too early, our rents are too high, and the chip we wear on our shoulder turns us into grizzled provincial hunchbacks. But before you hop a bus back to mom and pop in Dallas or Trenton or Butte, please know, it’s not all bitching and bitterness. In fact, what you’ll find here — if you let it, and you should — is that Boston provokes a singular sense of loyalty.

Over time, slowly, it will burrow beneath your skin, lodge itself in your heart and head. As you shotgun beers in sweaty Allston hovels. As you feel the heady press of humanity riding on the Green Line. As you cross the Mass Ave bridge, on foot or bike, and your heart swells to see Boston rise above the river in all its grace and majesty. If it doesn’t happen right away, don’t fret. You’ve got a lot to learn; Boston’s got a lot to teach you. And lucky for you, wide-eyed younglings, freshmen and -women, we’ve been wandering this city for a while. Below, staffers here discuss some of the things they wish they’d known about Boston, and offer tips on how to get the most out of this place, your new home.

Pedal pushing
I wish that someone had told me sooner to get a bike, and ride it everywhere, even in the winter. Sure, narrow streets and aggressive drivers abound, and pedaling around the place is frightening at first. But what you’ll quickly learn is that pretty much anywhere you want to go is easy to get to by bike. Cambridge to Allston? Fifteen-minute ride. Newbury Street to South Boston? Twelve minutes. And there’s the added bonus that you can always park right in front of wherever you’re going. No longer will I sacrifice hours of my life searching for the only two visitor parking spots that exist in the North End. And you don’t need to go to the gym because it’s a workout just getting to and from where you want to go. Take that, freshman 15!
— Caitlin E. Curran

Can the Natty Ice and know your local brews
There may not be more breweries per capita in Boston than in any other American city, but the ones we do have are truly world-class. So here’s some advice: drink well.

Dated advice

NEELY STEINBERG — Thu, 04 Sep 2008 15:30:14 GMT

Old-school words of wisdom for a better college sex life
To boink a lot or not to boink a lot?

Illustration by Ward Jenkins

If I knew in college what I know now about dating, well, I’d be in exactly the same place I am today, 10 years after graduation — single and still somewhat baffled by men. Seriously, though, I may not be the best person to dole out advice, but I did somehow make it through college and a decade worth of post-college dating experiences, which I believe, in some infinitesimally small way, qualifies me to give guidance to you, my younger brethren. So, here we go . . .

DATING DILEMMA NO. 1 Casual sex in college: to boink a lot or not to boink a lot?
DATING DILEMMA SOLVED The goody two-shoes over at Harvard’s True Love Revolution celibacy club would have you believe that sex before marriage is anathema. Then, of course, there’s Harvard’s Lena Chen (class of ’09), the self-proclaimed nympho, who has chronicled her many sexual exploits across campus in her aptly named blog, “Sex and the Ivy” (sexandtheivy.com).

Yuppie logic aside, I suppose there has to be a happy, healthy medium when it comes to the horizontal tango. But there is a school of thought (which I share) that says too much casual sex in college can be harmful for women. I’m sorry to dabble in double standards here (hey, life’s not always fair, as you will eventually discover, my naïve little friends), but, emotionally speaking (and this may or may not be a compliment), men seem better equipped to handle one-night stands than are the fairer sex. But because our highly sexualized culture, and a powerful collegiate hook-up culture (check out BU Professor Donna Freitas’s recent book Sex and the Soul for more on this), promulgates the notion that the way to a man’s heart is through a great blowjob (okay, well, I’m sure that helps), or the way to true empowerment is through complete sexual liberation, women find themselves engaging in behavior that they often regret the next morning, when the guy’s out the door faster than you can say “fellatio.”

So ladies, if you’re looking for something long-term, try developing another, more substantive connection — intellectual, spiritual, platonic — with the object of your desire first before giving up the goods.

Then again, this is the 21st century, and I did graduate way back in 1999, which means my advice is possibly antiquated. I will therefore concede that there are plenty of collegiate women today who absolutely love to get after it, chasing orgasms like a storm-chaser races after tornadoes. If you firmly believe you’re emotionally prepared for fleeting dalliances, and if you’re in the slim minority of females who can actually orgasm consistently despite the status of your paramour, then I say . . . well, get after it!

Photos: Bread and Puppet Theater

GREG COOK — Sun, 31 Aug 2008 18:01:22 GMT

Photographs from Bread and Puppet performances in Vermont

This week, thePhoenix.com art critic Greg Cook visits Glover, Vermont to report on Peter Schumann, 74, "one of America's greatest living artists," who is stepping down as the director of the long-running Bread and Puppet Theater, whose mixture of papier-mache, populist angst, and radical politics have been a staple of New England folk culture since the 1960s. Below are Cook's photographs of Schumann and his troupe in action.

Peter Schumann on stilts. His Bread and Puppet Theater is about sustainable, communal living, about redemption and acceptance — while also being a strict hierarchy devoted to producing Schumann’s vision. In recent years, Schumann has said he wasn’t concerned about what happened to the theater after he retired or passed on — that it was papier-mâché, not built to last. But he’s now decided that he must consider the people who have helped him achieve his vision. Over the past winter, he began talks with his family and Bread and Puppet’s inner circle about maybe perpetuating the theater’s museum, archive, print shop, Vermont performance spaces, and perhaps even some sort of repertory of shows.
Photo credit: Greg Cook

The Gadfly

GREG COOK — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 15:45:08 GMT

Bread and Puppet Theater founder Peter Schumann is a national treasure. Maybe that’s why George W. Bush wants to bury him.
Nestled in the verdant mountain valley of Glover, Vermont, way up in the northern part of the state, is a farm of rolling meadows, pine forests, and gray barns, all under vast skies.

DADDY LONG LEGS: Peter Schumann, 74, is the father/founder of Bread and Puppet Theater, and is one of America’s greatest living artists.

Nestled in the verdant mountain valley of Glover, Vermont, way up in the northern part of the state, is a farm of rolling meadows, pine forests, and gray barns, all under vast skies. It’s the home base of Bread and Puppet Theater, the landmark political troupe that has been pricking US presidents and policies with a unique brand of street theater since John F. Kennedy was in office. The theater has been resurgent since George W. Bush took the reigns in 2000, so I ask founder Peter Schumann, now that the ghastly Bush era is mercifully lurching to its end, what’s next? “To protest the new era that’s coming after the Bush era,” he says in his native German accent, “which is the same era as the Bush era.”

Schumann warns of a continuing era of gluttonous, bullying American consumerism, no matter who sits in the Oval Office. “It’s the sad late stages of this form of capitalism that can’t possibly be longer with us,” he says. “That will kill us for sure. . . . It just doesn’t work.” And he dismisses the notion that the advisors to a potential Barack Obama administration would be much different: “The same old mass murderers that were responsible for incredible events in this world like East Timor or the starvation of the Iraqis during the [’90s] blockade.”

Photos: Bread and Puppet performances in Vermont. By Greg Cook.

Such fiery rhetoric is evidence of the continuing radicalism of a theater born in New York in 1962, when the fledgling experimental troupe made its name protesting the Vietnam War with papier-mâché masks and giant puppets. Many imagine that’s where the theater ended. Others know it’s still active, but write it off as a quaint hippie relic.

Perhaps that’s because Bread and Puppet pulled itself off the art world’s radar by relocating to Vermont in 1970, far from major theaters and galleries. It pursued a rigorous but populist “cheap art,” the most magnificent expression of which was an annual epic outdoor summer pageant featuring casts of hundreds and audiences of tens of thousands at the Glover farm. This single giant weekend extravaganza was discontinued in 1998 — the crowds grew unmanageable and that year a man was killed in a fight — but since then, the theater has presented an annual series of smaller shows on summer weekends. Many in New England grew up seeing the performances, but often, upon reaching adulthood, came to dismiss them as fluff for children.

What? This old thing?

JACQUELINE HOUTON — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 18:58:56 GMT

A guide to Boston's secret trove of peculiar artifacts
Glossy guidebooks often extol Boston as one of America’s most “European” cities, a euphemism that means that we’re . . . you know, wicked old.

Glossy guidebooks often extol Boston as one of America’s most “European” cities, a euphemism that means that we’re . . . you know, wicked old. But for a town that incorporated way back in 1630, we look pretty damn good for our age — and what’s more, we use our years to our advantage. While other cities bulldoze buildings after only a few decades, we bedeck our centuries-old edifices with bronze plaques, call our crumbling cobblestone streets charming, and use our rich history to rake in the tourist dollars.

But the Freedom Trail, our many museums, and other well-trod tourist stops hardly have a monopoly on historical treasures. Much of the oldest and most valuable stuff ends up at the area’s archives, less-familiar but fascinating institutions that are kind of like our collective civic attic. While you could spend hours rifling through the junk upstairs at your great-aunt Gertrude’s without ever finding even one item worth a 90-second spot on Antiques Roadshow, these carefully cataloged collections allow us to peer into the past (and occasionally lay hands on it) without having to brave clinging cobwebs or the musty stench of mothballs. From the papers of presidents to the diaries of everyday folk whose names have been forgotten, Boston’s archives offer researchers intimate insight into bygone eras. And the treasures they preserve aren’t just rich in history — sometimes they’re downright freaky. We’ve tracked down some of the weirdest artifacts from the archives’ collections, and the strange stories behind them — from a Continental Army cross-dresser, to a Founding Father’s shocking scheme for cooking his Christmas bird, to an author who devoted himself to his story (literally) — are well worth dusting off.

Where to dig it
Many of these antiquarian treasure chests open reluctantly. Some operate by appointment only, and artifacts are sometimes stored off-site, so call ahead and check out the online catalogs before making a visit.

For security's sake, be prepared to fill out a brief application, show ID, and check your bags — nobody wants these treasures wandering off. Laptops and pencils are generally welcome, but pens are verboten to prevent any indelible accidents, and don't you dare let your cell phone's ring tone disturb the peace of the reading room.

BOSTON ATHENAEUM | 10 1/2 Beacon Street, 617.227.0270 | open Mon, from 8:30 am to 8 pm; Tues through Fri, from 8:30 am to 5:30 pm; and Sat, from 9 am to 4 pm (except during summer) | reference@bostonathenaeum.org

BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY | Department of Rare Books and Manuscripts, third floor of the McKim Building, 700 Boylston Street, 617.536.5400 | open Mon through Fri, from 9:15 am to 4:45 pm | rarebooks@bpl.org

BOSTONIAN SOCIETY | 15 State St, Boston, 617.720.1713 x12 | open Tues through Thurs, from 10 am to 3:30 pm | library@bostonhistory.org

HOUGHTON LIBRARY | at Harvard, Harvard Yard facing Quincy St, Cambridge, 617.495.2441 | open Mon and Wed through Fri, from 9 am to 5 pm; Tues, from 9 am to 8 pm, and Sat, from 9 am to 1 pm | houghref@fas.harvard.edu

HOWARD GOTLIEB ARCHIVAL RESEARCH CENTER | at BU, 771 Comm Ave, Boston, 617.353.3696 | open Mon through Fri, from 9 am to 3:45 pm | archives@bu.edu

MASSACHUSETTS HISTORICAL SOCIETY | 1154 Boylston Street, Boston, 617.536.1608 | open Mon, Tues, Wed, and Fri, from 9 am to 4:45 pm; Thurs, from 9 am to 7:45 pm; and Sat, from 9 am to 4 pm | library@masshist.org

SCHLESINGER LIBRARY | at Harvard's Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study, 10 Garden Street, Cambridge, 617.495.8647 | open Mon, Tues, and Fri, from 9:30 am to 5 pm; Wed and Thurs, from 9:30 am to 10 pm; and Sat, from 10 am to 4 pm

Better late than never
Though its libraries boast 15 million books today, Harvard started out with a mere 400 volumes, bequeathed to the two-year-old college by a clergyman in 1638. In exchange, John Harvard got to lend his name to our most venerable institution of higher learning — not bad for a guy who keeled over from consumption 16 months after he arrived in New England. However, his legacy was nearly flambéed by a 1764 fire, which incinerated all but one of the original books.

The HOUGHTON LIBRARY has the only known survivor, a 1634 edition of The Christian Warfare Against the Devil, World, and Flesh, a screed brimming with brimstone that escaped its own fiery end thanks to an absent-minded senior named Ephraim Briggs. When Briggs, who’d borrowed the book as part of his theological studies months before the fire, returned the tome to Harvard’s president the day after the blaze, it was quite overdue. Legend (popular among students, but inaccurate nonetheless) has it the president profusely thanked him for safeguarding the treasure — and then, in a show of priggishness that would have made its puritan founders proud, promptly expelled poor Ephraim for his delinquency.

Slideshow: Cloud life

K BONAMI — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 20:15:24 GMT

Cameraphone sky shots from around town

Photo credit: k bonami

Pick what you eat

DEIRDRE FULTON — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 20:09:56 GMT

Fans of organic food: Stop talking, start weeding
In just a few hours, go beyond the agri-tourism of picking berries or apples, and actually learn something about the land.

When I arrived at Rippling Waters Organic Farm in Standish around 8 am last Wednesday, several young women in their 20s were clustered around their farm manager, Julee. They were going over the morning’s tasks, which involved weeding Field D, removing juicy, leaf-devouring caterpillars from tomato plants, harvesting chard, and bagging produce for a Portland food pantry.

“Who wants to do hornworms?” Julee asked, referencing the caterpillars. This is not a particularly popular chore, it seems. I said I’d do it.

So began one of my days volunteering at a local farm, a surprisingly easy gig to set up, and one that increasing numbers of young people, both in New England and nationwide, are pursuing with varying intensity (see further down, “Levels of Commitment”).

Many of this generation’s locavores have read the requisite Michael Pollan tomes, developed relationships with their favorite farmers’ market vendors, and maybe even taught themselves some elementary food-preservation techniques — to keep yummy veggies year-round rather than having to buy produce out of season from some far-off place. What comes next, in the quest for sustainable-food street cred?

For some, it’s working on a farm, planting seeds, cultivating what grows, and pulling ripe produce straight from the ground. How better for this generation’s sustainable-food junkies to put their pitchforks where their principles are, than to actually learn (by doing) on small organic farms?

Of course, we recognize that not everyone who’s interested in sustainable agriculture is willing to don overalls for the long haul, or to buy a farm and become a full-time farmer. That’s why we’re sharing this well-buried secret: With just a few hours, you can go beyond the agri-tourism of picking berries or apples for personal gustatory enjoyment, and actually learn something about the land. Organic farms are so chronically understaffed that there’s always room for an extra set of hands, especially during these late-summer weeks, when harvesting is at its peak. In most cases, all it takes is a phone call and some free time to set up a volunteer gig. (To that end, we’ve included the names and contact info for some New England farms that welcome volunteers.)

Though you might go home with a few surplus tidbits, the bulk of the food a volunteer harvests ends up in someone else’s belly. But the increased understanding, however superficial, of what it takes to put that food on our plates? That stays in the harvester’s brain with as much tenacity as the dirt under her fingernails.

The truth is up there

JAMES PARKER — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 18:58:32 GMT

Clouds, sun dogs, and the dream of an atmospheric education . . . How one former TV reporter brought his sky gospel to the people
The sky’s on the move again, he can feel it.

Clouds, "Motion of the Ocean" (from We Are Above You) (mp3)

Slideshow: Cloud life: Cameraphone cloud pics from around town. By k bonami.

The sky’s on the move again, he can feel it. Mute, significant dramas of cloud in the late summer — huge manifestations, each one different, churned by its own bucking thermals and pockets of glare.

“This has just been the lengthiest skein of towering cumulus clouds,” says Jack. “In 30 years of almost excessive sky watching, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

And as to his mission, his vocation, there have been the usual celestial hints. Drifting serendipities. Prods of light, directing him.

“That’s the way it’s always worked with this thing,” he says. “Sometimes it’s like going up a glass mountain in Vaseline shoes. But there are connections, things falling into place, constantly. And then you have to follow them.”

There’s the organization — For Spacious Skies, a culturally mobile philosophical/meteorological think tank dedicated to the promotion of “sky awareness” — and then there’s the man: Jack Borden. And at this point, three decades into the story, there’s really no telling them apart. Who hasn’t Jack talked to, lectured, belabored, over the years, in his stop-start jazzy/professional cadences? Who hasn’t he laid his sky trip on? Educators, aviators, politicians, weathermen, mental-health professionals, prison administrators, conservationists; TV, radio, print . . . he’s crisscrossed the continent, pitching for the heavens, puffing his cloud patter. And the message? It’s really very simple.

“There are benefits — moral and aesthetic and educational benefits — to be derived from just being aware of what’s going on over your head.” Borden’s slogan Number One: “No kid who appreciates the beauty of the sky is ever going to mug a Cumberland Farms cashier!”

Jack, at 80, is avid, dogmatic, wry, ebullient, tireless. At 50, he must have been formidable; at 30, a maniac. His conversation is fast-moving and tangential. He has crystalline recall. We pass six overheated and talk-filled hours as interviewer and subject, in the course of which I fortify myself with (tallying it all up) a PowerBar, a mug of tea, a bottle of water, a swordfish steak, a Caesar salad, a Heineken, and two French rolls. Jack’s total intake: a cup of coffee and a root beer.

MEFA madness

KARA BASKIN — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 21:25:54 GMT

No need to panic over student loans. Just pay more.
On July 28, news broke that the Massachusetts Educational Financing Authority had fallen on hard times.

On July 28, news broke that the Massachusetts Educational Financing Authority (MEFA) had fallen on hard times, and the 26-year-old nonprofit college-loan agency was suspending all lending efforts due to capital-market dislocation. Roughly 40,000 loans totaling a reported $510 million were issued in 2007; this year, the good times are officially over. Students who depended on the agency to help finance their college educations are going to have to look elsewhere for cash.

MEFA issued this grave-sounding statement in the wake of the news: “As disruptions in the capital markets continue, MEFA regrets that at this time we have been unable to secure funding for 2008–2009 academic year education loans. While we continue to pursue every possible option, raising the necessary funds to offer fixed-interest-rate private-education loans is taking longer than originally projected and has become even more challenging. Thank you for your patience during these unprecedented economic times.”

The timing was unfortunate, to say the least. MEFA confirmed its woes just before August 1, when many tuition bills come due. The media was quick to pounce on MEFA’s troubles as a massive crisis, but is the truth quite so bleak?

Well, yes and no. The circumstances that forced MEFA under do indeed indicate a grim forecast for the national economy; however, local students have options — albeit at a price.

Other people’s money
Economic times might be tough, but for what it’s worth, local college administrators don’t appear particularly alarmed. “It seems like more of an inconvenience than a crisis,” says Patricia Reilly, director of financial aid at Tufts University.

While MEFA’s loans were by far the most attractive, thanks to their fixed rate, there are other choices. Federal PLUS loans, at an interest rate of 8.5 percent, are available to parents of dependent students. And other federally backed lending programs — namely low-interest Stafford and Perkins loans — are out there for students who qualify, though the amounts you can borrow through such programs is limited, and there are need-based eligibility requirements.

Students are also free to prowl the private-lending jungle, populated by non-federally-backed lenders offering variable-interest rates.

Though MEFA officially announced its plight at the end of July, those in the know had been bracing for this eventuality for some time. For anyone looking, the writing was on the wall. According to Tom Graf, president of MEFA, the agency had been in touch with parents, students, and colleges as early as winter 2008, warning them that funds might dry up due to economic tumult. Ostensibly, college financial-aid offices were aware of the precarious situation long before the news was confirmed, and should have communicated it to parents.

Mound wisdom

MIKE MILIARD — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 21:29:12 GMT

Cartoons of pitchers and catchers talking are a New Yorker staple. What is so funny about rubbers?
The first pitcher/catcher cartoon in the New Yorker was also the simplest.

The first pitcher/catcher cartoon in the New Yorker was also the simplest. Drawn by Garrett Price, in the June 14, 1941, issue, it depicts a catcher, decked out in the tools of ignorance, face mask still on, approaching his pitcher for a powwow.

His advice: “Strike him out.”

“I’ve always loved that one,” says New Yorker (and, we should note, Boston Phoenix) cartoonist David Sipress. “When the manager or the catcher go out to the mound to talk to the pitcher, everyone in the world, on some level, is thinking, ‘What the fuck? What in the world could possibly be useful or relevant in what he’s saying?’ ”

This past June, Sipress drew another one-panel for the New Yorker on the same subject. Standing on a sandy mound in the middle of Shea Stadium, a right-hander complains to his backstop: “I know I could keep my slider down if they would just fire the manager.” (For those not up on the minutiae of New York baseball, that’s a sly commentary on the travails this summer of since-canned Mets skipper Willie Randolph.)

Between Price and Sipress’s cartoons, there have been at least 20 other visits to the pitching rubber in the pages of the New Yorker over the years.

In April 2001, Michael Crawford made light of Orlando “El Duque” Hernandez’s remarkably acrobatic wind-up. “Gimme a hand,” the Yankees righty, his cleat lodged inside his elbow, said to his approaching battery mate. “I’m stuck.”

In October 2006, Leo Cullum imagined a catcher’s novel remedy for a bases-loaded jam: “Let’s go slider, fastball, curve, beanball, fight, ejection, shower, beer.”

This past June, Danny Shanahan sketched a pitcher peering plateward, a pigskin in hand, about to go deep. “There’s your problem,” the catcher opined.

Cartoonists often indulge in certain visual tropes, over and over again, notes Sipress. The Grim Reaper. Aliens. Cats and dogs. Snowmen. The Pearly Gates. Medieval prisoners hanging from shackles in dungeons. The wild-eyed street prophet wearing a sandwich board.

The pitcher-catcher conversation is just another example of that grand tradition. In fact, Sipress sees the pitching mound as analogous to another classic set piece. “The mound is a little like a desert island, in that there are these two people in an isolated place.”

I suggest that two people talking in private, each counting on the other in an intimate codependent relationship, suggests another cartoon cliché: the husband and wife in bed. Sipress agrees, adding that “it’s like two people in bed in the middle of a stadium. The absurdity of them having a private conversation in the most public arena is ultimately what’s so funny.”