Crazy Girls
I’ve watched all the current episodes of HBO’s new hit series, GIRLS, created by the fresh-faced writer/director/actress, Lena Dunham. And while a part of me really wants to like it for what’s courageous about it (young, unheard-of showrunner, making a conscious effort to glamorize a small, unsexy part of New York), I can’t get past the glibness that overrides the sweet parts of each episode like a stock car barreling into the stands and killing the first three rows of spectators.
The most recent episode, wherein Dunham’s character, Hannah, travels to her parents’ home in Michigan is the best crystallization of the show’s problem. For the first time, Hannah meets a male character whose purpose is something besides making her look like a trod-upon voodoo doll for humiliation; and their interaction is very charming. Contrast that with all the other plebs from her high school days, the most unfortunate of whom is a clueless hottie who’s about to move to L.A. to become a dancer, and you have the show’s paradox. You want to root for this girl, Hannah, but not at the expense of sacrificing your sympathy for pretty much, well, everyone else.
Mostly, GIRLS constantly reminds me of LIKE CRAZY, a wonderful movie about two post-undergrads that nails the behavior and chemistry of real people trying to sort through what’s important in their mid-twenties better than anything else in recent memory. And for what it’s worth, it was shot on a DSLR, probably for pennies on the dollar compared to an episode of GIRLS, and it looks a lot better. It’s a great little movie, if you find yourself needing something to watch:
OH, Hi Boston Police Department!
Just a quick stop n’ chat to bring you up to speed on a couple really frustrating points, since private citizens don’t seem to have much recourse (and we’d rather NOT have to take unnecessary gruff from the police—trust us).
Here’s the scenario:
There’s been a massive BWSC project going on in South Boston for weeks now, which has caused various blocks to be shut down (at random, without notice) during the day. OK, not really a big deal. But when the neighborhood is all one-way streets, grid-style, you often have to drive the wrong way down a street to exit the block due to cordoned-off sections of a street not open to traffic. Still, no big deal—there are usually signs posted alerting drivers to these kinds of detours.
This morning, on West 2nd St. at least, there were no such signs posted that would be visible to the dozens of residents who can only turn left (one-way street, remember) to exit the block when they leave in the morning. There were no construction cones or workers blocking the street. There was a passageway wide enough for a car to pass through at the end of the block (corner of W. 2nd & E St.), and no police stationed within sight to ward off oncoming drivers. When this is the case, we, the residents, are going to assume it’s OK to drive through, since this construction is a part of our daily existence.
When I drove through said passageway, I saw that there was a police officer stationed on the far side of the intersection (NW corner of W 2nd and E). He was not visible to anyone looking down (westward) W 2nd. Street because of the mass of construction vehicles parked in front of him. He was on his cell phone when I entered the intersection, but hung up abruptly and ran in front of my car when he saw me, stopping my progress. He motioned for me to roll down my window. Here’s how the ensuing exchange went:
BPD OFFICER: What’s your excuse?
ME: For what?
BPD OFFICER: Driving through this intersection.
ME: Well, there were no detour signs posted today, so I assumed I could drive down the street the normal way.
BPD OFFICE: Cut the shit.
ME: What?
BPD OFFICER: How long you been living here?
ME: A few years, why?
BPD OFFICER: And how long’s this (construction) been going on?
ME: A few weeks, why?
BPD OFFICER: Right, a few weeks.
ME: So I’m supposed to know what way to drive every morning whether or not there are signs posted and whether or not there’s someone directing traffic?
BPD OFFICER: Get out of here.
And then he waved me away, with a truly unnecessary degree of contempt.
Before I tell you the things I really resent about that exchange, I should mention my one-year-old daughter was in the backseat looking at us while the conversation took place. So, here you go:
1. From his points and tone, it’s clear that the first concern here is NOT the lives/routines of the residents of this neighborhood. I take issue with his posturing. We are the ones being inconvenienced every day (going on at least a month now) by whatever the BWSC is doing. It’s not an inconvenience to the police who have to deal with us walking/driving down the streets. That’s what they are supposed to do. Private citizens do not cater to the whims of the police—it’s the other way around.
- “Cut the shit” is an exact quote. He swore in front of a toddler (plainly visible, and making lots of noise) who is more than old enough to understand him. Taking my kid out of the equation altogether, for the sake of argument, is it acceptable for him to swear at ME like that? Again, I take issue with the idea that this is part of the job or something. How many jobs are there where you’re allowed to use profanity (aggressively) with customers/clients without repercussion?
I did stop by the South Boston precinct and tell the desk clerk (a younger female, who was very nice and listened attentively) about the incident, asking if they could at least let the detail officers know which side of the intersection to stand on so we’re not confused about where we’re allowed to drive in our own neighborhood on a daily basis. She promised to let her supervisor know about the unpleasant exchange I had, and characterized the officer’s behavior and language as “unacceptable.” I thought I’d try the old open-letter route as well, to see if anything actually happens. Probably not, but I’m not asking for regime change either.
I agree with her assessment, BPD. It is unacceptable for an officer to speak to a private citizen this way for something as trivial as what I’ve outlined above.
I realize this all sounds like a rant from some stay-at-home Dad, but hey—today was my day off. When I’m not at my day job or one of my two freelance gigs making extra money, I spend the day taking care of my kid. I’m sure you can relate to that; and I’m sure you wouldn’t want me cursing in front of your kids in your free time either.
For John McGann
Like so many of my friends in Boston and around the country, I am heartbroken today. The incredible musician, John McGann, passed away unexpectedly, leaving a void in our musical community that cannot be filled. The sadness I feel for John’s family, colleagues and network of students is difficult to describe, since I did not know him as intimately as they did. But ultimately, I think that distance may reveal just as much about John’s nature and hugeness of heart as anything else. John McGann was exactly the kind of person we all aspire to be—the most idealistic version of ourselves on our best days. Creatively and personally, his passion and genuine nature were obvious to anyone who met him.
I got to know John shortly after moving to Boston five years ago; and although I never had the pleasure of studying with him, I had many choice opportunities to pick his brain about music at jams and parties. He was inspiring and unpretentious, always content to take a back seat while other people soloed. But there wasn’t a musician in town who didn’t hang on every note when it was John’s turn to take a break. That’s because we knew we were about to hear something real, something personal, something purely musical—the kinds of phrases we all wish we could improvise. I can recall, with perfect clarity, a jaw-dropping solo he played over “Monroe’s Hornpipe” at a jam in Roslindale—a musical moment I tried to recapture for hours that night, playing until early in the morning, trying to figure out what he’d been doing until my hands were sore.
No one would think the kind of sentimentality I’m engaging in here more ridiculous than John would either. A few minutes after the aforementioned mind-blowing picking session, we were sharing a drink and talking about how the Red Sox would fare in the coming season (he didn’t mince words when it came to baseball or jokes). This casual, offhanded and elegant gregariousness was a trademark of John’s—his huge, beaming smile barely masking the urge to make a wisecrack and then segue into a discussion of George Harrison’s guitar solos. For guys who love music, life and all the intoxicating grit that comes with its dirtiness, energy and passion, John McGann was a patron saint.
Although John was a virtuoso musician outside academia, his students will undoubtedly carry on his legacy. We can hear it already, in the playing of soloists in many different genres, who’ve taken what John has taught them and pushed the boundaries of what’s hip while working in a traditional framework. Ten years from now, new musicians will pick up their records, learn their licks and try to bend them in their own way, thereby creating something new in the process. And my guess is that these passionate individuals will dig into the pasts of their heroes, discover who they learned from and stumble across John’s name. Then they’ll think, “Let me see what this cat was all about,” and the fun will start all over again. Even though tonight it feels like a pillar in the house John built has fallen, the bones of that house are strong.
But mostly tonight I am just thinking about John and his family—how sad he must have been to have left them so soon, and how sad they must have been to let him go. I hope they find some measure of solace in the immense pride and love John inspired, knowing that every moment he spent teaching or sharing his love for music has created a far-reaching bond which cannot be broken.
God be with you ‘til we see each other again, John. My metronome is on.
