Shameless

Whoo!

Hey kids. I'm still recuperating from my birthday festivities, but if you're jonesing for a fix, pick up the latest issue of Boston magazine. It's the Best of Boston issue, and I've got a couple non-Best items in the front of the issue. And my name's on the masthead!

. . . Nope. Still not old.

Things

Thing one: I am so very tired.

Thing two: What did Buddy Cianci do first after getting out of home confinement early on Friday? Went to Federal Hill for a three hour lunch. Told you.

Thing three: I did not see Buddy Cianci at Waterfire, though he was present. My friends and I decided that he should have been put on a gondola and floated through Waterplace Park like the local hero he is. And I was wrong-- he rocked a bald head on Saturday.

Thing four: Thanks to The Big Man Upstairs for a great beach day on Saturday and dry weather for the Police show tonight.

Thing five: The Police were awesome. I have no voice left and I thought I was going to pass out from heatstroke. I suffer for rock.

Thing six: However awesome the Police are, I wish they'd stop jumping around on stage like they did in the '80s. It's awkward and something they're not anymore. It's like when my Mom says "bling."

Thing seven: Bedtime now.

Rocky Point Awesomeness

Check this out. Thank God for MySpace, where I found this awesome piece of cinema.

You Must Be This Tall: The Story of Rocky Point Park.

Trailer here.

All you Rhode Islanders know what I'm talking about. Fuck. Yeah.

No New Tale to Tell, Twenty-Six Years on the Way to Hell

Aww, you shouldn't have!

Well, tomorrow's my birthday. I cling to my mid-twenties with bleeding fingernails, to be cruelly shoved into the abyss of my late-twenties next year. Instead of trying to round up all my friends into a bar they wouldn't be in if I didn't make them, drinking too much, seeing my ex on the train, then vomiting profusely upon arriving home (last year's celebrations), this year I'm going to the fine state of Rhode Island to celebrate with A. (Call me, Buddy! Get on yer best toupee! Drinks are on us!)

When I go through a hard time, I often think that maybe a future me is encouraging myself to get through it because shit gets better eventually. While I do get really down about life sometimes, I'd say I'm fairly optimistic. At this time last year I'd just been dumped, I was beginning to realize I lived in a shithole, I was totally broke in a scary way, and I knew I needed a new job. One year later I'm... well, still single but pretty okay with that, I live in an apartment that's great, I'm broke in a less scary way, and I have the job I thought it would take me years of freelancing to get. Last night my girls and I went to dinner, and I realized my friend Colleen was celebrating her one-year wedding anniversary this weekend.

"Holy shit," A said, "where did that year go?"

"Well," I replied, "I was miserable for about six months of it, so I guess that's where it went for me."

But I've got no complaints now. It all worked out for the best. So if you need me, I'll be drinking 'Gansett IN 'Gansett and rocking out to the Police to celebrate my good fortune.

Today the Way I Play the Game Has Got to Change

"I'm comin' out, bitches!"

Man, it doesn't get much better. It's going to be muggy and hot for my birthday weekend, so I'm hitting the beach on Saturday. While I'm there, I'm going to be on the lookout for one Vincent "Buddy" Cianci, who is snipping off his ankle bracelet at 12:01 Saturday morning and busting out of his nephew's house.

The ProJo is positively glowing with the news that Cianci will return to his daily life, with a countdown clock on its homepage and a forum for Rhode Islanders to post images and reports of Cianci's whereabouts. They may want to dial it down a little bit. They have death-sniffing cats to report on, after all.

Just Back Up Off Me

Oh for Christ's sake.
(Photo blatantly from Pink is the New Blog)

I care about what Lindsay Lohan is doing. There, I said it. I don't buy the magazines, but I read the gossip sites. I will watch Access Hollywood in a post-NBC Nightly News stupor from the hotness that is Brian Williams. While I hate Paris Hilton with a white-hot passion and wish her only the worst, I have some sympathy for Lohan in my cold dark soul.

Of the fuckups that currently populate the gossip columns, Lohan is the most talented. She was great in Mean Girls. My love for her version of The Parent Trap has been stated for the record in the archives of this site somewhere. I liked her in A Prairie Home Companion. When I was working out at the gym and her video for "Rumors" came on, I'd watch it. With the sound on. She was normal-sized redhead in a sea of blond famine victims, and I admired her for that.

A friend of mine argues that Lindsay is the greater train wreck of the celebrities that are in legal woes right now since Paris at least attempts to exert control over her image. I guess I am forgiving of Lindsay because she earned what she has. Her family wasn't rich, and it's very fucked up with a mother who wants to be a friend to her kids and a father who's had his own legal and personal problems. I can kind of see why Lindsay is careening out of control, while Paris doesn't have a problem in the world beside her own stupidity.

Not that driving around drunk and irate while carrying blow is an excusable thing. I just want to see Lindsay get some help and make some good movies again. She could skip making another album, though.

Wheeeeeere's Charlie?

Found him!

This morning, the aggressive Boston Now hawker doled out his papers. I didn't take one (I generally don't read until after coffee) but noticed the headline announcing the paper's quest to find plastic Charlie Cards. As you may guess, it didn't go very well.

A random survey of train stations found the cards, which work like a debit card, were often unavailable. It was worse for bus riders who depend on local stores to provide cards and add fare. In bus-reliant Brighton, Chelsea and Dorchester, six of 18 CharlieCard stores listed on mbta.com were either out of cards, had broken add-fare machines, or staff not trained to use the machines.

Considering that the MBTA is slow to make any changes at all, imagine my surprise when I got to the Lechmere busway this evening to find a T employee fluttering around the outbound busses asking if any passengers needed a Charlie Card, holding the passes fanned out like a hand of cards. I immediately started laughing and tried to take a picture, but I think he was on to me.

Way to go MBTA. That was the fastest I've seen you since you move since the out-of-service 87 bus blew by me last week.

Diamonds and Pearls

Upon reviewing my most recent posts, I realize they've mostly been about things I don't care about. I don't care about the iPhone, I don't care about Harry Potter. But I do care about some things.


Rock me!

In one week, I will be another year older and drinking before the Police show at Fenway. And I am PSYCHED. I can't wait to hear my favorite songs live on a warm night in late July (I hope it's warm, anyway) in one of my favorite places. I can only hope that Sting is feeling lonely in Boston and calls me up.


Gett off.

Last night was the Prince sing-along at the Coolidge Corner theater. I had a great time at the Ladies of the '80s sing-along last month, so I expected a repeat performance last night. Alas, it was not to be. While a crowd of Prince fans can't be expected to be sedate, the crowd last night was highly annoying. One girl, who was about sixteen, wore a dress that was shorter than most of my shirts. She had great legs, but it was way too short, and her white girl dreads and skinny hipster boyfriend made her highly punchable to Amy P. and I. There was also a douchebag who didn't understand the concept that he was in front of the screen for half of the theater, despite people booing him and one girl physically moving him to the side of the screen. During a lull before "Purple Rain" when he'd wandered back I finally yelled at the guy from the back of the theater.

"Get out of the goddamn way!" I yelled at his shaggy-haired shadow.

Most of the theater let out a whoop of agreement. The people on the stage booed back.

"What, do you want to be forty for the rest of your life?" He asked me. I don't know what this means. I can only hope that the crowd for Jiggy Crunk: the Pop Rap sing-along will be better.

So I still care deeply about music from the '80s.

Amy And The Order of Not Giving a Crap

There are moments in life where one feels truly alone. Walking down Revere Beach in February. Arriving at a Dunkin Donuts that mysteriously has no line. Getting one of the solo seats on the old Green Line cars. But I feel the essential loneliness of human existence most when a new Harry Potter book or movie comes out.


You can try your abracadabra shtick on me, Potter, but it won't work.

This month has been hard for me. The Order of the Phoenix, the latest movie from the series, has made a gazillion dollars since its release last week. The last book in the series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows will be released at 12:01 tomorrow, with millions of release parties tonight. Yet I feel nothing.

It's not that I haven't tried the Harry Potter Kool-Aid. In college, I read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone in about three days and loved it. I saw the movie and I own the DVD. But after I read Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets I was underwhelmed. It seemed like the same formula. I just didn't care enough to pick up the third book or see the second movie. Thus began my cultural isolation.

My friends talk to me like I've suffered some traumatic accident. "I'm so excited for the midnight release party. You're coming, right . . . Oh yeah. I forgot you don't like the Harry Potter books." It's as if I'd just lost a leg and they'd asked me to go dancing before they remembered I can't.

Some friends try to pressure me back into the fold. If I'd just try the third book, I'd get back into it. The books get darker. The kids get older and deal with hormones. Whatever. If you need me, I'll be at the bar like on any other Friday.

Missives

Or, I'm still too lazy to collect my thoughts for a whole post.

Dear Yasmin,

Thanks for keeping me from having any baby Amys before I am ready. You keep my skin clear, my periods relatively light, and my cramps from flooring me. However, I have gotten the notice that I skipped one too many periods in the past few months. Tomorrow I'll start the white pills. So if you could stop with the pre-cramp cramps, spotting, breast tenderness, and homicidal hormone rages, I'd love it.

Kthx,
Amy


Dear MBTA,
It should not take me an hour and twenty goddamn minutes to go from Somerville to Addis in the South End. Also, if a green line train is at Park Steet and there's a disabled car at Boylston, could you maybe make an announcement before the train pulls twenty feet into the tunnel and stops for fifteen minutes? I could have walked faster and would have relished the opportunity to know ahead of time.

GFY,
Amy


Dear Visa,

Any time you want to forgive my debts, I'd be happy.

Begging,
Amy


Dear God,
I know I've had a lot of good fortune in the past few months, and for that I'm very grateful. However, if I could ask just one more favor of you. I'd really like if you could have the weather be nice next weekend. It's my birthday, and I want to sit on the beach and fry myself. I am also seeing the Police and would prefer not to get soaked while doing so. Sting won't do me if I look like a wet cat.
Oh, and please don't let me get in any accidents or develop any illnesses until I get my health insurance.

Love,
Amy


Dear Body,

You've been working out consistently for a month now. Could you maybe do me a favor and lose five pounds? For fuck's sake.

Yours,
Amy

Brain Dump

Yes, I'm an asshole. I haven't written anything in nearly a week. I promise I haven't run away with a serial killer (yet) and have just been very busy doing other writerly things. I don't have a whole post in mind, so I'm going to give you the perennial favorite of lazy bloggers, a brain dump. My apologies.


I'm surprised too.

Last night, I watched Victoria Beckham: Coming to America. While I feared that watching this may have been the end of my ever knocking anyone for poor taste again ever, it was actually not bad. I love watching bloggers make fun of Beckham's paparazzi photographs because she always looks miserable, so I expected her to be a complete pill.

Much to my surprise, Beckham showed a lot of spark for a woman who hasn't eaten a sandwich since 1996. Though almost everything was clearly staged, it was still good. Victoria "needs" her driver's license, only to be driven around by a driver for the rest of the episode. Victoria meets botoxed LA housewives. The highlight of the show for me was when Beckham went to "confront" celebrity blogger and ugly motherfucker Perez Hilton and stated that she couldn't eat a cookie. "I can't be caught smiling, having a good time, or-- perish the thought-- eating."

I forgot (mainly because I never wanted to hear the words "spice" and "girl" near each other again) that the Spice Girls where experts at creating an image. Each girl in the group had her own persona, and Posh never let hers go. While Victoria isn't my new hero or anything, I think a little more highly of her than I did yesterday. But I still want to buy her a turkey club and fries.


Sweet God, I love Kyle Chandler.

Emmy nominations come out tomorrow, and Matthew Gilbert at the Globe believes that Friday Night Lights is going to get shafted. In the Boston.com polls this afternoon, 47% of those surveyed say they don't know who Scott Porter is, 45.5% don't know who Adrianne Palicki is, and a whopping 53.6% don't watch the show at all.

If you're not watching this show, we cannot be friends. It's an amazing show-- well-acted, well-written, and beautifully shot. I know I sound like those obnoxious people who yelled at you about not watching Arrested Development but please, please watch this show.

I'm a Real Live Wire

I'm not very comfortable in asking this question, but here goes.

Does anyone else think the guy who killed three people in New Hampshire last week is hot?



Look, he's hot here too. And I know he's completely fucked up and feels no remorse for killing three people. He's sick, and I'm sorry for those who knew the victims. But the sicko is cute on a purely physical level. Am I going to end up as one of those sad women who become pen pals with convicts and fall in love with them? Or am I going to find a pre-capture guy like him and end up chased around by some guy with a chainsaw and an affinity for Phil Collins?

I have skeeved myself out now. I'm going to have a stiff drink, go to bed, and call the therapist in the morning.

It Doesn't Hurt It Feels Fine

Ah, youth.

In a fit of youthful rebellion during my Emerson days, I got my upper left ear pierced. The fine folks at Evolution Piercing in Providence did a great job. For the first few days, I got a crash-course in exactly how much I use my left ear. Whenever I picked up the phone, the caller usually got an "Ow! Dammit!" as the receiver sent a jolt through the sore cartilage. The boy I babysit for was endlessly fascinated with the new jewelry, and grabbed at it when I picked him up, leading to an "Ow! Da--OW!" when he did it. But as the pain subsided, I liked my tame little display of rebellion. It bothered my mother. I could hide it under my hair for job interviews. Most days, it was the only earring I wore since I usually forget to put earrings in my lobes.

After working out today, I brushed my hair to even out the ponytail bumps. I'm not a delicate brusher, and like so many hairdressers before me, I gave the hoop a good tug. Usually, it's just a reminder of the initial pain of the piercing when it gets yanked, but as I lifted my hair to check for any bleeding I noticed the ball that holds the piercing on fell off. I looked around to see if I could find it, but had no luck. I debated leaving the hoop in and hoping it didn't slide off, but it looked stupid without the little red ball. Without a hint of pain, I took the metal circle out of my ear for the first time in at least five years.

The hole is already closing up without the earring in there. I know I could get another hoop at pretty much any store, but I'm not sure if I still want the piercing. Like one of those straw wish bracelets touristy stores sell children, I always kind of thought when the earring came out--be it by a stylist's brute force or a strong wave at the beach-- it was time to let it go. But it's the one physical thing that identified me as somewhat of a rebel since I don't like tattoos (on me) and I don't own thick-framed glasses. I guess I'll have to dust off my Docs and reminisce that way if the hole closes up.

No Money for You

File this bit of news under "No shit, Sherlock."

University fund-raisers are increasingly worried over young graduates like Minsky. They fear that with student debt ballooning today, campus coffers may be suffering tomorrow.

Private student loans are growing an average of 27 percent each year, according to the College Board. Almost a quarter of college students are turning to credit cards to help pay tuition, another study found.

I got my first alumni donation request before I'd even posed for pictures with my "receipt," known generally as a diploma. I'd just crossed the stage at the Wang, and along with a eleven-sizes too large t-shirt, I was handed a request to donate to the school. I immediately tossed the request. Fast-forward four years, and I still scoff whenever the alumni office calls to ask me for money.

The Globe's article kind of makes me feel guilty by listing all the kids who benefit from large alumni donations to financial aid. I got a decent financial aid package from Emerson-- they knocked about a third off my bill-- but I'm still in the hole about $60,000 for my entire education. I pay about $400 a month in student loan payments, which will jump to $530 in a couple of years. While I'm glad I have my degree (now more than ever), I simply can't give money to my alma mater. Hell, I haven't even donated to my friends' charity runs yet.

And even if I did have money to donate to an institution, I'd donate it to my other alma mater-- my high school. I was in there a month ago and my beloved stage is dug up and in dire need of refinishing and new curtains. I'm sure the TV studio could use some help too. The programs that typically get the shaft-- theater, art, TV, student writing publications-- got me through high school without losing my mind, and I'm sure they've helped the kids that came after me. Public school kids don't have a choice on where they go, and I think that kids can find out what they actually enjoy if given the opportunity to experiment. So don't call me Emerson-- once the Derjue Memorial Wing is built in my hometown, you can have what's left.

She Didn't Look Eighteen to Me

Hmm.

[W]e're especially prone to overestimating the ages of teenage girls. In the British study, bartenders were shown pictures of people aged 13 through 22 and asked to guess their ages. They judged about one of every five 13-year-old girls to be over 18, while they correctly identified the 13-year-old boys 97 percent of the time.

So sketchy guys may not be lying when they said "she looked eighteen to me, officer"?

HEY-O!

Yeah, I'm phoning it in. I was stupid enough to stand around in the driving rain (hey, Pete Bouchard-- what Annette and I were standing in was not "light rain" by any stretch of your weatherman hoodoo-voodoo terminology) to watch the very impressive fireworks.

Happy 4th of July, indeed.

And why doesn't America understand that not all songs about America are blindly patriotic? I mean, we went through with with "Born in the USA" and it continues with "Our Country." While I'm all about talking about the problems America has on July 4th, I don't think most of the audience gets the point. It would be like playing "God Save the Queen" on St. George's Day in England. "Oh yes, do save the Queen indeed. ::golf clap::"

Man. I need a nap.

That Don't Confront Me

Dear Sovereign Bank,

Hi. Amy here. I've unwillingly been a customer of yours since whatever chain of events led you to acquire my account from what was once Bank of Boston. I haven't left because a) I'm lazy and b) I am such a financial jackoff that I need that overdraft account you gave me. Generally, I'm okay with your big fees for using said account because I'm an asshole who never balances her checkbook.

However, when I checked my balance online tonight and saw my balance mysteriously dropped from a robust $1400 to $300 without my rent check clearing, I got a little nervous. I bought some new running shoes, but they didn't cost $1100. My long-overdue paycheck cleared, so I didn't see the problem. So I called you up.

I will give you props for having a very easy to navigate menu and for hiring actual English-speaking employees to staff the lines. The fact that you've only cleared half of my paycheck because it's a "large deposit" (doesn't feel very large) is not so nice. My direct deposit hasn't started yet, but the bills still have to be paid. Allegedly, the balance of my paycheck is going to clear Thursday morning, so I am left to pray my landlord won't cash my check until then. And yes, I'm sure I've read that little sign that says the first few hundred bucks alone posts right away, but could you reflect that in online banking next time? That was pretty close to a panic attack I just had, figuring I'd be back at the family's door, begging to move back into the spare room. I'm now going to drink Gansett and eat Pop-Tarts until I pass out to soothe my nerves.

But good work on the phone lady. She was nice to my broke ass.

Sincerely,
Amy

More Perfect Union

Tomorrow is America's birthday. America, it turns out, is a Cancer, which is something I hadn't thought about before but makes perfect sense.

Although generally they do not like confrontation, Cancers are not above seeking revenge against those that hurt them.

. . . Or preemptively seeking revenge against those who may hurt them in the future.

As disappointed as I am in America right now, George W., I still love it here. So, you know, go democracy and junk. I'm going to drink beer, walk around humming the 1812 Overture and/or "Our Country," and take in the fireworks over the lovely city of Boston.

I hope you all stay safe this weekend. Don't drown, develop fungal infections from your flip-flops, get your face or limbs blown off by illegal fireworks, don't drive drunk, don't strap your pets to the roof of your car, and don't even think about bringing booze to the Hatch Shell. But have fun, kids! Enjoy your personal liberty!


ooooo.

Ten

Saturday was perfect.

I woke up in my bedroom at my Mom's house to the sound of chirping birds. I don't have a clock, but since it was so bright I figured it had to be at least nine. I reached for my cell phone and was shocked to see it was only seven. Friday I'd called my friend S and told her I'd be ready by noon Saturday to see her, but wanted to get a beach run in before. Since I was awake, I stumbled downstairs to listen to the weather report.

"It'll be cool but sunny at the coast today, with a burn time of fifteen minutes," the weatherman said. I got my bathing suit on, hosed myself down with sunscreen, told my Mom I was leaving, grabbed the spare key to my brother's car, and took off.

I didn't think I'd stay at the beach for too long since the weatherman had called for it to be cool, and I did have goosebumps as I stubbornly drove with the windows down. WBRU had a countdown of essential alternative rock albums on, and I listened to Rage Against the Machine as I pulled into Dunkin Donuts to get my breakfast. After that, the next album was the Smiths, then the Cure. While it may not have been cheerful beach music, I couldn't have been happier driving the back roads alone, singing along with the radio.

Finally, I got to Narragansett. While I could have done a U-ie to get a closer spot, I parked along the sea wall and walked a mile or so to the beach. Elderly couples strolled along, and the old guys with Harleys jockeyed for a good spot along the wall. I practically ran to make it to Town Beach. After I paid, I got a spot right near the just past high tide water between a couple of families to keep away from teenagers. I spread out my blanket, took off my cover up, and took in some sun.

It couldn't have been a better day for the beach-- consistently sunny with a cool breeze. I ate my bagel, so happy I barely worried about whether my fish white belly was blinding any of the children nearby. I read my book for a few minutes, then listened to my iPod as I lay on my back. Once I got hot, I took a dip in the ocean. It was cold, but not as cold as the water on the North Shore last weekend, and the surf was rolling nicely. I went back to my blanket to dry off and read some more. I called S around 11:30 to tell her I'd be leaving the beach a little later than I'd planned. After I got off the phone, I began to feel the telltale tingle of sunburn and packed it in.

"I think you got a little too much sun on your legs," my mother said disapprovingly when I got home. I sat down and rolled my eyes until I got in the bathroom and saw the scarlet color of the backs of my thighs. I guess my legs hadn't had enough sunscreen applied to them. After my shower, I felt the sting clearly. I put on some lotion and then called S.

S and I went to a great cheap bar and then, after a few beers, went to Target. Despite the fact that I'd eaten, the sea air and sunburn in combination with the beer had me a little looped. I grabbed a toilet bowl scrubber for a dollar, which is exciting because I'd planned to buy a scrubber at Ikea and hadn't gotten to Stoughton to pick one up. I walked around the store with my find, muttering "bippity boppity boop" while waving the brush around.

"I don't think you're supposed to do that with that," S said to me.

After Target, I went home. Another friend and I were supposed to hang out, but she didn't get in touch with me until late, and I was exhausted and hungry. Finally, Sam came home from work and took me to Wendy's to get a snack. After eating a sack of crap, I passed out in my bed, happy to know I wasn't in a big rush today.