Enlightenment vs. The Methamphetamine-Fueled Bender

People have long debated whether you have to be crazy to be a good writer / artist /musician. The short answer is, yes. Chances are, if you have the wherewithal to produce a work of true genius, you'll also end up lopping off an ear or stuffing your head in the oven. At the very least, you'll need to be a run-of-the-mill alcoholic, womanizer, narcissist or recluse. As much as we hate to admit it, living an upstanding life, striving to achieve your goals, being a productive member of society is boring. There are some exceptions. James Taylor seems to be living a nice, mundane life in Newton, MA. He's a good musician. Society can handle some moderate amount of pretty good music about being a friend (and I think even JT may have had a heroin-junkie period at some point). Martha Stewart would be considered an artist by some - a master of creating pretty things out of mundane objects. But, seriously, there is not one person in a single first world, TV-watching country that did not feel some minimal level of smug satisfaction watching that woman get hauled off to the can.

As I continue to read more about Buddhism, all of this becomes very problematic. If I start to take Buddhist principals to heart and become more calm and at one with the forces of nature, if I start treating all other beings with love and kindness and compassion and understanding, if I wander through each day taking deep, full breaths, a half smile on my face and an overall air of tranquility, what am I going to talk about with other people? Beauty and peace are all well and good. But, really, who wants to hear about that? Kibitzing about the twisted train wreck that is global humanity is one of the great pleasures in life. It's a fundamental building block of human DNA that dates back to the dawn of time. People can spend a little time contemplating the soothing elements of life. That’s nice. But it's discussion about idiots, douchebags, criminals, losers, scumbags, know-it-alls and morons that really gets the juices flowing. Spotlights on benders, murders, raves, falls-from-grace, scandals and affairs sell a lot more magazines than tales about being relaxed or having a productive day in the office.

So what's a guy to do who's trying, at the same time, to find some tranquility and have interesting things to write about? Maybe the solution is as simple as "everything in moderation." Including moderation. I haven't come across any yet, but there must be some Buddhist monks out there who spend, say, ten consecutive days meditating in silence and then every eleventh day just going ripshit crazy. Wander in the woods, write letters, polish up the sandals most days. And, once in a while, rage through town on a methamphetamine-fueled bender, go out drinking with a pack of high school kids, beat up a homeless guy, steal a hood ornament, break into someone's house, swim naked in their pool, crash a rental car, and spend the night at a sketchy motel with some dirty women they met at a dogfight.

All of this is an advance plea for help. If the Buddhism thing gets to be too much; if the next time you see me, I smile kindly, gently touch your shoulder and ask you a penetrating question; if I lose my cynicism and my junior high sense of humor; and if I stop writing about what a ridiculous bunch of imbeciles all human beings are, please give me a forceful smack in the ass and a cocktail. I could also use some updates about what's happening these days in underground, lunatic-fringe circles. I was never that cool of a guy - more of a tag along, jazz band clique type. I'm afraid my Brooks Brothers business-casual professional career hasn't helped much on that front. And I'm probably not nearly insane enough ever to become a great artist. So if you're a hipster, dope fiend, jetsetter or suicidal nutjob, send me a dispatch from the inside. I may find eternal bliss one day, but I'd still like to stay in touch.

Andrew and Brenda's Fairytale Weekend

It rained for almost 6 days straight this week in Boston. Work was a drag. And getting resettled into my workaday life was grim. It wasn’t just the weather and work and the mundane banality of daily life. It was more that I was readjusting from three days of living in a fairytale. My brother Andrew and his terrific fiancée Brenda got married last weekend! And what a spectacular event it was! Like they say about drugs, the higher the high, the lower the low. With festivities like the ones Brenda and Andrew put on, there’s no way the week that followed was going to be anything but a downer.

The show took place in New York City at the University Club, an architectural landmark that’s been in the same location – a stand alone building on 5^th Ave. and 54^th St. – since the time the Rockefellers and Vanderbilts were putting the final flourishes on their nearby mansions. It’s a club, a library, a hotel and a restaurant, where members and their guests can read, have cocktails a swim in the nude (if you’re a man) and generally escape from the noise and bustle of midtown Manhattan. Piano music wafts through the place. The walls of the three story high rooms are dripping with ornate mahogany woodwork. The valets know everyone by name. Jackets and ties are required at all time. If you don’t pass the dress code, you have to shuffle in through the service entrance to get to your room.

It took a half a day after arriving at the University Club on Thursday for my class warfare instincts to settle down. I bet the chambermaids aren’t that impressed by the 6,000 square foot oriental rug in the reading room. I bet the back of house area here isn’t any nicer than at the crappiest Howard Johnson in East St. Louis. I wonder what the presiding host would say if I came with a jacket and tie and nothing else. Oh, there’s another rule that you can’t walk around with your dick swinging proudly in the breeze? How long has it been since families like ours – Taiwanese and Jewish – were allowed in this place anyway? This place should be burned to the ground and the charred flesh of the old men inside ground up into burgers to feed the homeless people outside!

But then I settled in. And once I got the hang of dressing right, and was allowed to pass freely through the lobby, and have my lemonade freshened in the reading room, I thought, well this isn’t so bad I guess. The very rich and the very poor have been around since the dawn of time. No need to have a fit of liberal guilt every time I hang out in a nice place. Nothing wrong with enjoying the finer things in life once in a while. And it is kind of relaxing to sink down into a plush chair, read a magazine, and look up every once in a while to gaze out at all the tired riffraff shuffling by outside.

I spent Friday running errands and helping Andrew and Brenda get ready. The million little details they had been ironing out over the past six months were all coming together. Everyone was excited and seemed relaxed. Relatives were arriving in town. Clothes were being tried on. Last minute adjustments. Schlepping stuff here and there. Anticipation. A buzz in the air. There was a fun rehearsal dinner in The Village at night. Families got acquainted. Back slapping and hugging. Stories about the bride and groom as kids. Pictures. Drinking. After hours at a bar in midtown. And back to the University Club, where I slid back between the high thread count sheets in our faux Chippendale bed.

Saturday morning the preparations really got moving. The florist arrived. Lighting guys and sound guys hauled gear into the rooms where the festivities would take place later at night. The groomsmen buzzed around getting suited up, learning how to tie real bowties. The bridesmaids took turns with makeup artists and hair stylists at the St. Regis. Photographers set up quirky scenes in Madison Square Park and back at the University Club. The wedding party ran down 5^th Ave., pictures snapping. Tourists gawked and took pictures of the photographer taking pictures of the bride and groom.

And then, the main event! At 5:30, all the preparatory hustle and bustle at the University Club came to a halt. The guests were seated, talking quietly. Calm. Some piano music started. Andrew walked with our parents down a candle lit aisle to the front of the room and waited under a beautiful, backlit canopy of flowers and branches as the rest of the wedding party walked down the aisle. Big smiles everywhere. And then came Brenda. Brenda, who looks outrageously, movie star stylish on any given Tuesday morning, was stunning. The dress, the jewelry, the giant radiating smile. Andrew and Brenda stood in front of their families and closest friends looking truly happy. I helped officiate the ceremony with Brenda’s cousin. Friends read poems and gave testimonials. A great aunt and uncle sang a Mandarin song about two clay figures being melded into one. Vows were read with cracking voices. Rings! Husband and wife! Kiss the bride! Break the glass! They did it! My little brother was married! He found a great one! So did she!

The reception was spectacular. The rooms were like from a castle. Huge and beautiful. Striking anywhere, but almost unfathomable in the usually space-starved Manhattan. Guests circulated around. Cocktails. Jazz. Everyone happy. Love in the air. Brenda and Andrew glowed. Their first dance was perfectly executed. More amazing flowers grew from the tables. Parents welcomed relatives. Friends gave toasts. Plates of delicious food came and went. People from all over the world met one another. Two families became related. Perfect in every way. The last song was played at midnight and people started shuffling out. The young crowd moved on to the next venue – the former Grand Central Station office of an old New York financier, now a speakeasy-like bar. Nobody seemed at all tired. Too much excitement. Too much fun. Such a fun reason to get together.

On Sunday, people got together one more time for a nice brunch. People said their good-byes. The bridal suite was cleaned out. Gifts gathered up and brought home. It was time for me to go. Leslie was going to DC, so she got a cab and left for the airport. I went alone to get my car, paid $120 to get it out of the scuzzy-looking garage and drove back to Boston in the rain.

It was very sad. Just like it always is when you’ve experienced something so wonderful. Which, of course, always has to end. Wouldn’t it be great to always be around your closest family members and your best friends? And to celebrate life’s most touching moments? And to have a valet? And to be able to sit in a plush chair and listen to piano music? Once you have a taste of all that, how could it not be depressing to go back to your regular house – where a towel thrown on the bathroom floor stays there until you pick it up – and then wake up the next morning and go to work – where you have to, well, work. Work was extra hectic and intense when I got back. Deals to close. Piles of documents to read. So much less fun than a fairytale wedding.

But I’m OK now. Real life is just fine. You have to have the ups and downs. If life were spectacular at every moment, after a while, it wouldn’t be spectacular at all. You have to have a little run of the mill dreariness to be able to appreciate life’s great moments. Life is good. And I’m happy to have one more great memory that I’ll be able to think about forever. Thanks Brenda and Andrew! And may your lives be just the right mix of mundane and spectacular.

Big Hitter, the Lama - My Buddhist Awakening

“You know what the Lama says? Gunga galunga... gunga, gungalagunga. So we finish the 18th, and he's gonna stiff me. And I say, Hey, Lama, hey, how about a little something, you know, for the effort, you know. And he says, uh, there won't be any money, but when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consciousness. So I got that goin' for me, which is nice."

Carl Spackler

It’s been a long time since I’ve done a blog posting. It’s not that I stopped having thoughts about how ridiculous the world is. Or got hit by a truck. Or got “disappeared” by the government. Mostly I’m just busy at work and haven’t had much evening brain capacity left recently. But I’ve also dropped of the grid and become a Buddhist monk. Well, I haven’t actually done it yet. But I might soon.

I initially got turned on to some Buddhist stuff when my first law firm drove me to therapy. My therapist asked if I’d be amenable to meditation kind of stuff and I said, yeah, I’d be up for pretty much anything that would help me stop thinking about throwing myself in front of the subway every morning instead of going to work. She recommended that I read The Miracle of Mindfulness by Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese monk. What the hell. There was nowhere to go but up, sanity-wise.

The book was good. I found peace and tranquility for about a week until my high strung, type-A nervous default settings kicked back in. Then, recently, when poking around a bookstore in Brookline (ironically, the Hasidic Jewish epicenter of Boston), I stumbled across another book by Mr. Hanh that had only recently been translated into English. I took that as either a sign that I should continue my Buddhist studies, or that a publishing company marketing rep had done a good job of product placement. Either way, I bought the book.

I read it, and then read a few more things that Thich Nhat Hanh had written. And I gotta say, there’s some good stuff there. It’s a little disjointing to try to learn from the writings of an actual full-fledged, tea drinking barefoot Himalaya-hiking monk when you’re riding the subway on your way to the 37th floor of an office in downtown Boston. But on the other hand, this guy also spends most of his time working with lepers and dismembered children in war zones. So if he can find inner peace after a day in the field, it seems like I should be able to too, even if one of my clients is an asshole.

Here are some of the Buddhist principals that resonated with me:

(I’m paraphrasing).

You’re Not Such a Big Swinging Dick After All

It’s easy to get caught up in how monumentally important you are and what a crime against humanity it is when your latte gets made with 2% instead of skim, but consider this: all of the molecules that make up your body have been around for a trillion years. They’ll take the form of you, Joe Schmo, for a few decades - a blip in time in the grand scheme of things - and then you’ll decompose, get eaten by an animal or a microbe, and be recycled into something else. Buddhists don’t see people as individuals, but rather as brief “manifestations” of the larger universe. The current arrangement of molecules that is you is just a fleeting little moment. Nothing to get depressed about. But also no need to get all bent out of shape when the guy at the dry cleaner is being dickish to you. In a few years, his manifestation too will evolve and he’ll just be dust blowing in the wind, fertilizer for a shrub. You too. Relax, smile. It doesn’t matter.

Breathe

A huge component of meditation and Buddhism is breathing. Now come on. That is an attainable goal. However much of a loser you are, however much you’ve pissed away your life and led a sad, meaningless existence, you can at least breathe. And once you’ve got that down, it doesn’t take a whole lot more effort to think about breathing. Breathing is the interface between your body and the world around you. Without the oxygen pulled in by your breath, all of your systems - body, soul, consciousness - would shut down in a matter of seconds. That’s heavy. If you think about what a crazy process breathing is, and how nice it is that you’re able to do it every second of every day, that should make you a little cheerier.

Family, Community, Gravity, and Plate Tectonics Got You that Promotion

Everyone thinks that their successes are solely the result of their own brilliance, talent and dogged perseverance. That stuff is all helpful, but there are a lot more forces out there at work. I’ve written a dozen other blogs about the invisible-to-those-who-have-them forces of money, family and societal power that make privileged people think they’ve earned everything they have (or, as Molly Ivins put it when describing George Dubya, “born on third base and thought he hit a triple”). Buddhism’s less concerned about putting prep school kids in their place than on pointing out the larger environmental forces that contribute to the success of even the most Ayn Randian CEO. Like the oxygen that makes his lungs work and the rain that makes the plant grow that becomes food for the cow that gives its life to transform itself into the $400 midtown Kobe beef steak that feeds him. You get the point. A lot of forces in the universe have to converge to produce a human being. Have a little gratitude just for being one.

Live in the Present Moment

Here’s a mind-bendingly obvious concept: the past is gone and the future will never arrive. Thich Nhat Hanh talks a lot about washing dishes. I don’t think he has a dishwasher. He’s talking about doing them by hand. The Buddhist view is that if you’re 100% focused on doing the dishes, not thinking about anything else, just living in the moment, then washing dishes can be a wondrous miracle. OK, I know that sounds a little hyperbolic. Doing the dishes sucks. But I understand the point. Whatever you’re doing, it won’t get done any faster if you’re thinking about just getting done with it and moving on to whatever’s next. There never is any next moment. So why not just relax and engage with what you’re doing at the moment? This goes for anything - commuting on the bus, getting a root canal, pushing a piano up a flight of stairs. If you can make yourself see the beauty and relax in the face of that kind of shit, you’re really in good shape.

Getting a Sports Car is Not Going to Make You Happy

If, as so brilliantly articulated above, there is no moment but the present, you’re gonna be disappointed if you spend all your time looking forward to something that might happen in the future. That doesn’t mean you should stop flossing and making vacation plans. But don’t think that if you’re unhappy now, you’ll suddenly become happy if you get a raise or buy a new car or stop your receding hair line. All that stuff might give you a few minutes or weeks of satisfaction, but only until it hits you that you’re still you. And if you’re not a happy you now, chances are you won’t be later, even if you buy yourself a garage full of expensive stuff.

So there you have it. Three millennia of Buddhist doctrines distilled into a two page smartass account of all that’s important in the world. I gotta say, though, Thich Nhat Hanh and the Lama and those guys have some good things to say. If their ideas can actually get someone like me to slow down and relax a little, I guarantee it, it’ll work for you.

Marathon Matrix - Free Beer and Running for God

When people ask me how I liked a certain marathon, I tell them that the course was such and such and the fans were blah blah blah and the organization and hills and expo and weather were yadda yaddda. All nice but, ultimately, unsatisfying. What about the cold hard numbers? How did the race stack up, in a concrete, quantifiable way, with respect to the others I've run? In order to more efficiently convey to people the essence of a race, I've developed a patented, validated, reliable, research-based, generalizable statistically significant method of marathon evaluation. Here is the six part matrix:

1) Granola / Corporate Ratio:

Giant, corporate sponsored races tend to be well organized but impersonal. Small, grassroots races tend to be heartfelt but sloppy. It's great to have clocks throughout the course, lots of water stops and, as is the case in at least one race, an iPhone app that lets people track your progress real-time. But it's also great to have impromptu live bands, people banging on pots and pans in their yards, kids passing out orange slices and the general sense that the people in town are actually glad to have the event going on.

A "5" rating on the G:CR means perfect equality between granola (guy running the marathon dressed in a full-body banana suit) and corporate (glossy event program listing location of each porta-potty and GU station). A "1" rating means total lopsidedness towards one or the other end of the spectrum (no information about where to stay when you're in town; silent fans holding pre-printed "Go Runners" signs with corporate logos;).

2) Running for God / Charity / Because I'm Such a Serious Fucking Badass Factor:

In a democratic society, all citizens have the right to express their opinions by voting and wearing custom-printed wicking tee shirts. A marathon takes a long time to run - usually about 4 hours in my case - so you have lots of time to read about why exactly each person has decided to run. It usually has something to do with God encouraging this sort of thing (through some convoluted interpretation of a Bible verse), trying to raise money for people who have lost arms in combine accidents, or just to prove to the world what pain-resistant, odds-defying specimens of machoness they are (read more about running for charities here). There may not be anything wrong with all this, but I hate it. Why why why can't anyone take part in a race for the sole, unique reason that they like to run?

A "5" rating on the RFGCBISASFB factor means a relatively low percentage of prosthelytizing running shirts (or at least funny ones, like "Running for Mustache Awareness"). A "1" rating means that every single goddamn runner has to make it publically known what holier than thou reason they have for showing up.

3) We're All In This Together Factor:

In case it hasn't become abundantly clear to you yet, I am a cynical, cynical person. But the atmosphere at the beginning of a race makes me all soft and mushy, and I always start thinking about how great humanity is and how nice it is that we're joined together to take part in a common event. At least until everyone pops in their iPod buds and disappears into their own personal parallel universes. A lot of races have also started offering VIP tents at the end where paying patrons can have hot meals, cocktails and massages in a roped-off tent away from the unwashed masses. What kind of team spirit is that? At the end of a race, we're all unwashed masses; let's hang out and stink together!

A "5" rating on the WAITT factor means lots of chit-chat during the race and maybe even a high five with a stranger at the finish line. A "1" rating means running groups that only cheer for one another and excessive use of personal music devices. One single runner talking on a cell phone during a race (this happens; I'm serious) can lead to an automatic "1" rating.

4) Boredom Factor:

You might assume that if the city hosting a race is a boring city, there's not much they can do about it. Not true. You'd be surprised - when you've been running for a few hours and are verging on delirious - what kinds of things can be interesting. Pretty natural landscapes, nice skyline views, interesting paths through neighborhoods - all good. But equally interesting can be a fresh piece of roadkill, a funny sign, a loud domestic disturbance. Anything to break up the monotony. Race organizers don't necessarily think about this much, but any little thing that might cause a brain synapse to fire can make a race easier and more enjoyable.

A "5" rating on the B factor means varied landscapes and good signs ("run like you stole something", "you've got endurance; call me"). A "1" rating means a long slog through nowhere, with nothing to think about but your chafing nipples and blistery feet.

5) Free Beer at the Finish Line Factor:

This factor is simple. There either is free beer at the finish line or there is not free beer at the finish line. Note to race organizers who may try to game the system once my rating methodology becomes the global standard - this is an easy element to manipulate. Buy a keg, put it at the finish line, give beer to runners, don't make them pay for it.

A "5" rating on the FBATFL factor means there is free beer at the finish line. A "1" rating means there is not. There are no "2", "3" or "4" ratings on this factor.

6) Swag Factor:

It's pretty obvious that people love cool, free shit. Free is free, but the level of cool can vary greatly. (Of course, nothing is really free. With marathon entrance fees now often pushing $100, you are paying for every piece of free shit you get. But, since there's usually a six month gap between paying the fee and getting the shit, the shit feels free). And the cooler the free shit is, the more likely it is that it will be used beyond race day, thus potentially affecting future recall about how great the race was in the first place. A shirt and some kind of bag are pretty standard fare. Shirt quality is important. Weave, stretch, sizing, wicking-ness - all make an impression. The heft and design of the finisher's medal is important too. The ideal medal is beautiful, heavy and massive. You should feel equally comfortable hanging a medal in your living room and killing someone with it.

A "5" rating on the S factor means clothing made of beautiful rich, supple fabrics, and trinkets and accessories that turn heads on the subway. A "1" rating means a bunch of coupons for 15% off a footlong sub and a pair of last year's socks.

So, next time anyone asks me how a marathon was, I'll just reply with a number between 6 and 30. That's all they'll need to know. If it's a 30, I was welcomed with open arms into a beautiful city, saw mountain peaks and roadkill, made 50 new best friends, and drank beer all afternoon while wearing a magnificent new shirt. If it's a 6, I slogged through a desolate corporate wasteland and I'm now bored, angry and thirsty with nothing to show for the whole endeavor but two chapped nipples and a bag full of crappy coupons.

Note from the editor: the research and evaluation methods discussed in this post were created solely by Dan Janis, are all fucked up, jumbled, half-baked and don’t make any sense. Nothing contained herein has in any way been endorsed by, or is representative of any of the work of, Dr. Leslie K. Goodyear, Ph.D.

Voices in your Head – Not Just for Schizophrenics Anymore

Voices in your head used to be reserved for schizophrenics. We all have our borderline freak out periods, but it used to be that if someone was telling you what to do, and if no-one else was getting those instructions but you, you probably had some legitimate chemical issue and needed to be re-aligned with some powerful meds. No so any more.

I was out for an early morning run a few weeks ago somewhere outside of Plano, Texas. The sun wasn’t up yet. There wasn’t a car or another human being in sight. My path was lit by the signs from an endless expanse of low end strip mall stores. And then I heard the voice. Quiet at first, but getting louder as I jogged along. It was telling me that I could come in and get two hot dogs and a 32 ounce fountain soda for $1.99. Pretty stupid thing for an inner voice to be telling me. A little disappointing. Then I realized that the voice was real. It was coming from half a dozen TVs hanging over the gas pumps at a gas station. It was the ExxonMobil network, or something like that. An hour before sunrise. The gas station not even open. And some disembodied voice was trying to hawk dogs and soda pop to me.

It kinda felt like the last straw. Can’t a man run down the side of a Texas highway, virtually in the middle of the night, and just be alone with his thoughts, without a bunch of screaming TVs trying to sell him shit?

TVs have crept into just about every last public space. Bars, restaurants, stores, airports, waiting rooms – that’s old news. Now they’re in the back of cabs, in elevators and yes, hanging over gas pumps. (As a sidenote, the elevator TV network, aptly named “The Captivate Network”, has a bizarre fascination with body parts. I’ve learned from its “trivia” category that an average person’s skin, if removed and stretched out, would cover seven square yards, and that the average human heart weighs 11 ounces.) And there’s a difference between the TV you watch from your La-Z-Boy and the ones looking down on you from the walls of elevators. When you watch TV at home, at least you’re watching it of your own volition. If you’ve had a long day in the office, a crappy commute home, and you’ve finally put the kids to sleep and are ready to sit back and take in a good enlightening episode of Three and a Half Men, more power to you. You’ve made that choice. Enjoy. But when you’re assaulted by spewing TV vomit by no choice of your own, just because you opted to walk out the door, that’s not the same. It’s much worse.

While the entirety of network TV is really just filler to keep you seated for the ads, at least there are some occasional seven minute stretches of interesting or entertaining stuff that you might actually want to see. But the outside-the-house TVs – the cab TVs, the elevator TVs, the gas station TVs – are just pure advertising broadcasts. People who see them are on the move. No time to stop. So the ads have to come fast and furious, with almost no time at all for any content.

How did this happen? To figure it out, do what you do to figure anything out – follow the money. $241 billion (BILLION!) was spent on advertising last year (source – my friend Chris who knows all about this stuff, from http://www.businessinsider.com/us-advertising-spending-by-medium-2009-10). However you slice it, that is a LOT of friggin money. Someone is quite keen on getting a message out to us. And the message is, BUY MORE HOT DOGS AND 32 OUNCE FOUNTAIN DRINKS. To be inundated with ads at the gas pump is downright insulting! There you are, pumping gas, seeing your tab rack up real time on the meter. It’s like watching, almost literally, your money flow out from your bank account and into the coffers of an oil company. But having you stand there actively transferring over your funds is not enough. No, you have to be enticed to come into the shop afterward and pick up a few more consumer goods. When you’re done buying gas, waste no time! Buy more hot dogs!

It’s pretty obvious, and pretty obnoxious. So why do we put up with this? Because we’ve all tacitly agreed to go ahead and whore out our collective subconscious. Wherever there’s advertising, there’s a little something in it for us. A few bucks paid to a shop owner, a little bit of a subsidy for ball park tickets. Maybe even a free tee shirt! And at what cost? It seems like there’s hardly any cost at all. No-one feels like ads affect them. We’re all smarter than that. We do what we want. No talking gas pump is going to make us do anything we don’t want to do. But it does! Businesses know what they’re doing. That $241 billion isn’t being floated out there without a whole lot of thought being put into it. And the persistent drum of ads creeps in, gets inside us, penetrates deep into our subconscious.

And before you know it, without even realizing why, you order a Bud Light. Because some little voice in your mind is telling you that if you have a Bud Light in hand, there’s just a teensy bit more of a chance that that ridiculously-out-of-your-league girl at the other end of the bar is going to wander over, say hello, drag you back to her love palace and have her way with you. Or your gut tells you you should buy your sweetie a $60,000 Lexus for Christmas. Or you feel suddenly, inexplicably, a little hungry for two hot dogs and a 32 ounce fountain soda.

Well I for one am not going to take it anymore. This intrusion into my personal space has gone on for too long. Corporate America is not going to brainwash me into forking over my hard earned dollars for junk I don’t really want. I am going to start boycotting not just all businesses that advertise in the elevator, in the back seats of cabs and over gas pumps, but all business that advertise at all. I guess I won’t be able to buy beer or order pizzas for delivery. I’ll have to cut out a lot of entertainment. Do public utilities advertise? Yeah, I think they might. Guess my house will be cold and dark. I won’t really be able to eat much. Probably have to just live on tap water. But that’s OK. I’ll have my principals and my dignity. I’ll show corporate America. I may be cold and naked and starving, but we’ll see who has the last laugh.

Freedom From X-Ray Photos of Our Anonymous Junk

There has been a lot of ranting recently about the new full body scanners in airports. Travelers can submit to the scan or opt instead for a physical pat down. As I understand it, the scan produces an x-ray like image of your body. The people looking at the images can't see your face, and they're located in a different room, or even in a different building. You're exposed to radiation when you go through, just as you are simply by being on a plane. The statistic I read is that the radiation from the scanner is the equivalent of seven extra minutes on a flight.

Here is my take on the issue.

First, I just assume that from the moment I stick a toe through the door of an airport until I roll my Chevy Impala out from the rental car garage, every law of logic, rationality and common sense will be defied. Travelers are hysterical about terrorism, airport workers are paid minimum wage, rules designed to be foolproof don't allow for an ounce of personal discretion or nuance, and the people who have the authority to change anything aren't located anywhere near the actual airport. So, since it's futile, pointless and aggravating to even try to figure out how an airport works and why you have to do the things you have to do when you arrive, my strategy is to submit to everything, question nothing and try to find my happy mental Zen garden. TSA guy wants to lick my laptop screen, remove my kidney and sniff between my toes. Great. Not a problem. Just show me where to sit. And, if I leave myself enough time, I like to have a beer after making it through security and amuse myself by seeing how hoppingly furious everyone else gets because of whatever absurd injustice they've had to endure. You have to show ID to get a beer, of course, even if you're about to turn 100. That's the rule.

Next, if it's a privacy thing that concerns you about the scanner, consider this: does the TSA guy in the next building even want to see you naked? Are you really as sexy as you think? Statistically speaking, probably not. Have you ever paid attention to what the people around you actually look like? I'd say that about one person in 300 would qualify as "hot." There are regional differences. That's the national average. The rest of us fall on the physical hotness scale somewhere between "borderline tolerable" to "frighteningly heinous." For all the collective anxiety that's been expended worrying about whether some homeland security pervert is checking us out, or whether a headless x-ray of our naked selves is going to somehow go viral on the Internet, the reality is that you're more likely to be mentally undressed while out walking your dog in old sweatpants, or jogging in the park. Chances are, the TSA guy would probably get more excited watching a new episode of Two And a Half Men than looking at a scan of your junk.

Finally, I can't help but notice the strange political undercurrents of the body scanner issue. From what I can tell, the people protesting the loudest are the people who are most gung ho about hunting down terrorists and protecting our American way of life. The right to be free, to bear arms, to drive an SUV must be defended at all costs. We'll send our kids to war, invade whatever country it takes (even if it's not the right one) and spend some inordinate amount of our national budget to keep our country safe. But if some minor infringement on our personal space is required - a quick x-ray snapshot of our anonymous junk - that's just too much. Rights are rights and the government shouldn't be able to force such humiliation and oppression upon us.

To summarize: Airports may be ridiculous. Security regulations may be nothing more than window dressing. The TSA guy may be violating the core of your rights as an American. But you have the power to rise above. Just relax, submit, have a cocktail and visualize yourself in front of a pull-down canvas Olin Mills waterfall. Appreciate the miracle of modern technology – that that you can cross the country in a five hour flight instead of an eight month wagon train. You can always opt for a pat down. And you can always take the bus.

Chicken Parms in Boston – Trends, Highlights and Thoughts

I’ve never been much of a foodie. I tag along when people want to go to a nice restaurant and try to swish my wine and savor the flavors. But usually, by the time I wake up in the morning, I couldn’t tell you what I ate the night before. However, due to a unique cosmic convergence of circumstances, I have become a somewhat renowned connoisseur of chicken parmesans in the metro Boston area.

I’ve loved chicken parm since I was an infant. And when I got into running a few years ago, I was delighted to discover the concept of carbo-loading before a long run. The theory is that if you gorge yourself on pasta and carbohydrates the night before a long run, you’ll have extra energy reserves packed away and ready to go when you start pounding the pavement. I have no idea whether there is any actual medical support for this concept, but who am I to judge. If a magazine tells me that my health and well being will be enhanced by eating a chicken parm and a vat of pasta, that’s all I need to hear. And so, every time I have a run of more than 13 or so miles scheduled, I go out the night before in search of some breaded, fried poultry and a side of pasta. I feel that, in the name of health and nutrition, eating anything else would be downright dangerous.

I haven’t yet reached such a level of national culinary fame that I have to disguise myself when I go out to chicken parm establishments. Which is nice. I can just stroll into any Italian restaurant, evaluate the full experience and share it with all of you lucky diners. All of the chicken parms I review here have one thing in common: they are huge. Any moderately legitimate chicken parm should be accompanied by a massive bowl of pasta and should be able to feed a family of four. A chicken parm weighing in at less than three or four pounds isn’t even worth discussing. Anyone who knows me will confirm that I am notably adept at putting down a chicken parm. When a waitress brings out my entrée, gives my 130 pound self the once over, and says something like, “well good luck finishing that,” I chuckle condescendingly and dig right in. I’ve encountered chicken parms of truly epic girth and have never, not once, left even a little morsel on my plate.

I don’t know how many chicken parms I’ve had. Probably thousands, maybe millions. Here are my reviews of the top five most notable chicken parms I’ve experienced in metro Boston.

Galway House – 720 Centre St., Jamaica Plain

The Galway House is my old standby. Most people know it as the place to go if you want to catch up with Jamaica Plain’s old timer alcoholics. The décor consists of posters and plaques that say things like “Loose women tightened here,” and “Beer – helping ugly people get laid since 1862.” But they also have a borderline respectable menu, including two chicken parm options – entrée and sub. The sub bun gets soggy pretty fast, but it’s a nice alternative if you’re only planning to burn, say, 1000 calories the next day, or if you just can’t handle a full throttle chicken parm. The entrée is served on an old white plate by a surly waitress and comes with a side salad and towering pile of mediocre, overcooked pasta. In a word, perfection. Close to my house, cheap and massive, you can understand why a Galway House chicken parm is what is sloshing through my intestines during most of my long runs.

Delfino – 754 South St., Roslindale

Delfino is a little more on the elegant side. It’s a nice place for a date, assuming your date won’t be disgusted watching you put down a massive, breaded expanse of poultry. There’s a small open kitchen and a few counter seats where you can watch all of the food being prepared. The chicken parm is quite tasty, and they’ve got a legitimate wine menu, nice salads and good desserts. The good desserts are irrelevant if you’re going to have the chicken parm, though; anyone who tells you they’ve had a Delfino chicken parm and a dessert is either morbidly obese, lying or bulimic. Delfino also attracts people who are into “taste” and “quality” and so can be crowded at times. Call ahead or go early to get a table.

Bertucci’s – 683 VFW Parkway, West Roxbury / Vinny Testa’s – 867 Boylston St., Brookline (before going out of business)

Bertucci’s and Vinny Testa’s are chains owned by the same publicly traded corporation. Vinny Testa’s went out of business. But since my review of it is identical to Bertucci’s, I’ll include it here. I could try to describe these restaurants myself, but nothing I could say would be as elegant as the descriptions in their parent company’s Securities and Exchange Commission filings. As so eloquently stated in its 10-K for the fiscal year ended December 31, “Our Bertucci’s restaurants are full-service, casual dining restaurants offering high quality, moderately priced Italian food. Our Vinny T’s of Boston restaurants are full service, casual dining restaurants based upon re-creations of the high quality neighborhood Italian eateries prominent in the neighborhoods of lower Manhattan, Brooklyn, the north-end of Boston and South Philadelphia in the 1940s.” Pure poetry. If you’ve ever been to a Bertucci’s and liked it so much that you’d like to have the exact same experience, with the exact same decor, with the exact same industrially-prepared food, with the exact same six pieces of flare, and with the exact same scripted lines recited to you by your waitress, you’re in luck. You can just go back to any other Bertucci’s. Or an Olive Garden too (or a Chachki’s). Same restaurant, different shareholders. And don’t forget to upgrade your Bud Light to a super size party mug for just an additional $2! As for the chicken parm, sufficiently huge and edible to serve its purpose. Nothing to jump up and down about, but it’s got enough calories and chicken parm flavor to get you through a 20 miler.

Vinny’s Ristorante – 76 Broadway, Somerville

Vinny’s Ristorante is a lot of fun, and very unique. There are a few animal issues - a cat that lives in the dining room and a minor infestation of fruit flies - but the chicken parm is extra delicious and comes with even more extra-ly delicious homemade pasta. The most unique thing about Vinny’s is that you have to walk though a deli / convenience store to get to it. The dining room is in the back, past the convenience store. The bar is actually in the convenience store. If you’ve ever been out buying Saran Wrap and thought, man, I could really use a drink, Vinny’s would be perfect for you. Do your errands, have a cocktail served up by a friendly bartender, and then adjourn to the dining room for some really much better-than-average pasta and chicken parm.

Papa Razzi – Chestnut Hill Mall, Brookline

Papa Razzi is another corporate owned chain with a dozen locations in Boston. They have photos of celebrities all over the walls. Get it? The location I go to most is the one in the Chestnut Hill mall - ‘cause it’s closest to my house. The Papa Razzi chicken parm is pounded flatter than most, so that its surface area is striking - enough to cover a plate that could be mistaken for a pizza. The wait staff has that certain chain restaurant minimum wage-esque quality - enthusiastic and entirely incompetent. One thing to look out for is the tables that are outside of the restaurant. A few faux-plants and barriers cannot hide it; you are sitting IN the mall. I can see how, if you had been locked up in a Soviet gulag for a few decades, it might be exciting to eat your dinner while watching 14 year-olds with six figure allowances shop with their immaculately quaffed mothers-who-lunch, but for people like me who generally take capitalism for granted and are mildly repulsed by snobishness, it’s nauseating. Better to wait an extra few minutes for a table inside under a framed poster of Marilyn Monroe.

So those are my most notable Boston chicken parms. Someday, I hope to quit my job, set out on the road and investigate chicken parms throughout the world. In the meantime, please, my people on the street, send me your thoughts, photos and, even better, samples of, your favorite breaded, sauced and cheese-covered poultry delicacies.

2010 Musings on the City of Lights and Ozzie Osborne

Leslie and I saved up our allowance and went on a nice trip to Paris this year. Leslie had never been. I had spent time in France as an exchange student in high school, studying abroad in college and on vacation from the Peace Corps after college. Here are some of my thoughts from this most recent visit to France.

Me, Now and Then

Paris is just a beautiful city. I thought it was paradise the last time I visited. Of course, the last time I visited I was on vacation from my village in Mali. And so going from a mud hut with no plumbing or toilet paper to one of the most sophisticated and spectacular cities anywhere (and one where I could get Pizza Hut and drink the water), well, it’s not really a fair comparison. It’s like an old riff Eddie Murphy used to do about how, if you’re starving, and someone throws you a cracker (I think he was talking about getting laid, but the point is the same), you’re gonna think it was the best cracker ever invented in the world – “oh damn, that shit is good. What is that, a Saltine? No, no wait, a Ritz?” I was so impressed by Paris last time I was there that I want back to Africa, quit the Peace Corps and came home.

The Dan visiting Paris had also changed in some ways. In addition to being 21 years older than on my first visit, I had saved up a few more sheckles and so was able to experience some different slices of what Paris had to offer. Like eating at restaurants and staying in hotel rooms that didn’t have other beds in them where strangers were sleeping. Not to knock the entertainment culture of studying abroad – sitting on the Seine with four friends, a loaf of bread, some cheese, three bottles of red wine and a harmonica (total cost - $15, including the harmonica) is good fun. But eating hot food at a restaurant with cloth napkins is nice too.

Le Foot Locker

The most noticeable change in the Paris landscape since I had last been there is the number of American chain stores. There are Gaps and Foot Lockers and Abercrombies all over. And, of course, Starbucks and Starbucks and Starbucks. It’s not a new trend, or a surprising one. The capitalist tradition of hawking junk to anyone with a few disposable Euros marches inevitably forward. But it really is a little sad to see just how widespread it’s all become. Granted, the Champs Elysees has always pretty much been a big outdoor shopping mall (albeit one that’s sandwiched in-between the Arc de Triomphe and the Louvre). But it used to at least have some element of flagship store glamour and excitement. You could see the yet-to be released new Bentley models or check out some $100,000 Montblanc watches. But a flagship Niketown store just doesn’t have the same allure.

Ozzy Osbourne’s Certain Je Ne Sais Quoi

A wonderful new development throughout France is the sound glyph that gets played at the airport and train stations before every announcement. It’s an eerie, futuristic synthesized human sound that makes you feel like you’re about to be transported into the future, and like there may be something lurking in the future that you’ll be terrified to see. You can hear the sound glyph in the first few photos of the montage above. The best thing about the glyph is that it’s a shameless rip-off of an Ozzy Osborne lick from Crazy Train. Whether by design or by some hilarious consequence of cosmic randomness, I am positive that at any given time, a quarter million people are now wandering around France trying to figure out why they can’t get Ozzy Osbourne out of their heads.

Running in Paris – Dog Shit and Cobblestones

I wasn’t much of a runner the last time I was in Paris. This time, I gave it a shot. Paris is not known as much of a running city. And for good reason. The streets are crowded, the sidewalks are cobblestone, Parisians have no idea what to make of runners, and there is dog shit everywhere. If you’re aware of all this, you can make necessary accommodations and have a good time; if you’re paying attention, the dog shit piles can make a challenging obstacle course, building agility and foot-eye coordination. But if you’re not aware or paying attention, there’s a very good chance you’ll end you end up stepping in dog shit, spraining an ankle and getting run over by a car. It’s apparently even worse for women. Here’s how Betsy Mikel of BootsnAll travel guide described the female running experience:

“Female runners might be a little startled when running in Paris. This is why. Most Parisian women don’t run. Female runners on the streets of Paris don’t make sense. So they get stared at. They get laughed at. They get spoken at. Just put on your mean face and ignore any commentary. If you get the heebie jeebies from some weird French dude giving you the wrong kind of compliment, here are some ways to avoid them:

* Feign deafness if you run into unwanted comments or stares.

* Keep running. You might be challenged to strop and give someone a piece of your mind if you hear something inappropriate. But it’s really not worth it. Finish your workout and channel your anger towards devouring a delicious French pastry afterwards.”

Essential Conversational French

Before we left for our trip, I taught Leslie these essential French phrases:

“Bouff”: Loosely translated as “what you’re saying is so obvious, stupid or ignorant, I’m not going to even dignify it with an actual word.” A sound that’s meant to come across more as a physical reaction to what someone has said – like a choke or a cough – than a response articulated through language.

“Mais bien sur que si”: “Of course it is.” French is the only language I’m aware of that has a special word for “yes” used only when contradicting something. “Oui” means “yes” in most cases. “Si” means, “yes, contrary to what you have just said.”

“Oui, mais”: “Yes, but…” This acknowledges that some tiny portion of something a person has just said could potentially be accurate or valid, but only when qualified with much more information. It’s a recognition that the person you are talking to is not a total idiot, but just mostly an idiot whose statement could potentially be salvaged by some additional input from you.

Teaching someone these three noises / phrases may seem mean spirited and cynical, but not really. It’s not to say that you never have any non-confrontational conversations in French. It’s just that if you don’t speak French, but can respond to people with these nuggets, you’ll have a better chance of them leaving you alone, or at least understanding that you’re wise and sophisticated enough so as not want to bother responding to them.

The English to French translation that had me totally stumped was trying to explain to my French family outside of Paris what our cat’s name – Cletus – meant. “Uh, well, do you know The Dukes of Hazzard? No? Well, um, redneck? Trailer park? Forget it.”

Paris has changed some over the decades. I probably have too. But it’s still one of the most wonderful places in the world. A few new different nuances around the edges, but the essence of the French (not literally, although that’s changed some too) will always be what it is. If you’re afraid of a little poo, the occasional condescension from a waiter or falling asleep with Ozzie in your head, stay away from Paris. But if you can get past those minor impositions, don’t let yourself die before getting there.

We're Not Gonna Take What Anymore?

One of the highly obnoxious, latent human attributes that surfaces with a vengeance in election years is the need to feel oppressed. Somehow, raging against the perceived sources of our oppression scratches such a deep rooted psychological itch that who our oppressor is becomes an almost fundamental component of how we define ourselves. It's a schwaggy little shitstain of human nature but politicians sure are good at exploiting it.

There are a lot forces in the world that keep us from doing whatever we want whenever and wherever we want. And being able to point to some person or group that's the reason for our oppression just feels so damn good.

I'm not talking about the real, serious hardcore - genocide / abuse / rape / slavery / capital O - kind of Oppression, but rather the vague feeling of perceived slights - the ongoing, omnipresent feeling that there's someone out there behind the curtain who's keeping us from being rich, tall, handsome, successful and attractive to babes.

Republicans feel oppressed by government. Democrats feel oppressed by corporations. Rural midwesterners feel oppressed by the eastern elite. The eastern elite feel oppressed by the ignorant masses. Corporations feel oppressed by limitations on free markets. Workers feel oppressed by corporations. Bible thumpers feel oppressed by gays. Atheists fees oppressed by bible thumpers. Gun nuts feel oppressed by big city folks. Hippies feel oppressed by gun nut militias. The rich feel oppressed by taxes. The poor feel oppressed by the rich. Kids feel oppressed by their parents, and parents by their kids. Libertarians feel oppressed by everyone.

Nobody has described this facet of human nature more articulately than renowned anthropologist and sociologist Dee Snider and his Twisted Sister colleagues. As stated so eloquently in the 1984 transvestite-ish power anthem "We're Not Gonna Take It":

We've got the right to choose it.
There ain't no way we'll lose it.
We'll fight the powers that be.
Just don't pick our destiny.
Oh you're so condescending.
Your gall is never ending.
We're not gonna take it anymore.

Click HERE for the video.

What's brilliant about this song is that you have know idea what "it" is. "It" and "the powers that be" can be whatever force it is that's oppressing you. It wasn't just Dee Snider's crazy blond frizzy hair and lipstick that helped Twisted Sister sell a bajillion copies of the Stay Hungry album. It was that they had created a pissed off fight song that could be cranked up in the face of any minorly irritating oppressor that ever existed in the world.

More often than not, the oppressor is not an actual person, but a force, an enigma, a caricature based on a stew of ignorance, exaggeration and imagination. The rougher the stereotype the better. The less information, nuance and perspective, the easier the rant.

Why so much focus on being oppressed? Maybe because it's fun to talk about? There are only so many things you can say about being blissfully happy and satisfied. But if you're oppressed, you can rant about that all night. Or maybe it's the team building aspect of it. How better to bond with other people than by having a common oppressor? The more us vs. them the world is, the tighter knit the "us" group feels. Maybe it's that everyone loves the underdog? The triumphant, the powerful, the successful inevitably start to be too proud and too cocky. Too big for their smug, self-satisfied britches. The winners are the condescending ones Twisted Sister is talking about. In the face of the beaming victors, maybe being oppressed gives you the moral high ground and makes you feel a little better about getting the short end of the stick.

Capital "O" Oppression can spur people to action and lead to positive change. People who are Oppressed can fight for their rights, break free from their shackles and transform the world into better place. The little "o" oppressed, on the other hand, more often just become angry, bloviating Glen Beckian douchebags who blab on forever about whatever forces in the universe are holding them back, without any real thoughts about how, or even any genuine desire to, make things better.

If you're in the former group, good for you. Rock on. Power to the people. If you're in the latter group, I suggest that you consider your predicament in the context of a slightly larger picture backdrop.

Astronomers, philosophers and men of the cloth can't, to date, say for sure whether conscious, thinking beings have ever existed on any of the millions of stars in any of the billions of galaxies in any of the trillions of universes that preceded us. The entire 4.4 billion year old existence of Earth is just an almost imperceptible bat of a cosmic eyelash in the grand scheme of things. And organisms more complex than bacteria and slime didn't arrive on the scene until the last tiny little sliver of time in the Earth's history.

So, just existing at all and having the neurological wherewithal to boot up your Macbook and read a blog puts you in a pretty privileged position. Having an opposable thumb and living at the tippy top of the food chain are gravy. And living in an era in which robots build our sneakers, jet engines carry our big asses around the world and where one of the most pressing health issues is that we're prematurely fattening our kids to death is really pretty spectacular.

So how about this assertion. If you are a human being who is:

1) living in the United States in the year 2010;
2) not clinically depressed or suffering from any other diagnosable mental disorder;
3) making over $30,000 a year;
4) in moderately good health; and
5) not involved in an abusive relationship or physically being held hostage,

then, as far as freedom goes, I would venture to say that the modern world has bestowed upon you about as much say over how your days play out as just about anyone ever. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that you shouldn't get your Twisted Sister on. No way. Crank it up. Rage against the machine. Fight the powers that be. But just don't forget what a privileged evolutionary moment in the history of the universe it is that we're living in. You can bitch about your oppressors, but you may not have it so bad after all.

Deb from GE Capital – Lending a Hand and Jammin’ with Bob

I still read The Economist most weeks. And I still think it’s an interesting and worthwhile magazine. But I still come across an ad in The Economist every now and then that makes me want to enlist in some radical Anarchist group, or at least throw myself in front of a subway on my way to work. And when I saw this ad that involved a bank, nice guitars and musicians, I felt even more nauseous than I usually do when reading an Economist ad:

The copy says: “People don’t just come to GE Capital for money. They come to us for help. To build something. The word ‘lend’ has a couple of meanings. Like the part where it’s not simply about expecting something in return, to lend a hand. We’re helping to bring music to people. What’s better than that? GE is invested in Taylor Guitars.”

And there’s ol’ Bob Taylor, President of Taylor Guitars, and sweet Deb Barker of GE Capital sittin’ around in the Taylor warehouse jammin’, like Deb decided to stop in unannounced one Thursday night with a six pack to see if Bob wanted to just shoot the shit and jam a little.

The whole idea of this is so ridiculous and so nauseating, it’s hard to know where to start. So let’s take it from the top.

First of all, I think anyone who has ever learned to play four chords on a guitar would agree with me that Deb Barker does not play guitar. It looks like the photographer for this ad shoot got Deb’s fingers all set up to play an open E major chord. I don’t know what she’s doing with her right hand, but it’s not something I’ve ever seen anyone do while playing a guitar. She might have a prosthetic arm, or no nerve endings in her fingers, but she is most definitely not strumming that nice Taylor guitar that Bob let her play with.

Next, let’s discuss the idea of GE Capital focusing on the “lend a hand” part of lending and not the “expecting something in return” part. I suppose it’s possible that Deb extended a big hefty term loan to Bob and told him to just do his best, have fun, make beautiful music and get her the money back whenever he thought the time was right. If that were the case, I’d say Deb was about as legitimate a banker as she is a guitar player. In reality, when Bob’s business softened, it wouldn’t matter how many super fun hang-out sessions Deb and Bob had and what total BFFs they had become. When clarifying to Bob about the whole “not expecting anything in return” for the cash, it’ll turn out that Deb neglected to mention that, well, she didn’t expect anything other than for him to meet his default trigger covenants and to service his debt payments on time. And at the end of the day, if Bob sold three less Taylor guitars in a year than contemplated by the financial projections he used to get the loan, then Deb would call Bob’s loan and swoop in to foreclose on his business so fast it would make Eddy Van Halen’s head spin. And if Deb’s boss at GE Capital got wind of her having lent money to Bob “to help bring music to people” and without “expecting anything in return,” Deb would be shit-canned faster than BP’s CEO after the oil spill.

Lastly, does this ad actually work? Aren’t the people who read The Economist supposed to be sophisticated, world travelling business titan types who make cold, rational decisions based on the hard numbers and without the childish distraction of emotion and feeling? Does anyone see this ad and think “wow, you know, it really would be nice to borrow money from a bank that just wants to lend in the ‘lend a hand’ kind of way. And that Deb, she looks like she’d really be a fun friend, and she must play guitar really well.” Are The Economist readers really such incredible schmucks, just like all the rest of us hoi polloi? GE Capital and its ad agency obviously think so.

There’s nothing wrong with GE Capital. It’s a bank. It lends money and tries to make money, which is the reason banks exist. And there’s probably nothing wrong with Deb Barker, except that she looks stupid trying to pretend she plays guitar. And there’s nothing wrong with a bank saying that it lends money to “lend a hand… without expecting anything in return” except that it’s ridiculous, bogus and such outrageous bullshit that it’s insulting to even utter the words. If Bob Taylor decided he needed some funds from GE Capital to expand his business, that’s all well and good. But if he was looking for a cute friend to gab and noodle with, he should go play some bar gigs and try to pick up a groupie.