At some point in our adult lives we cross an invisible border where we begin to understand what a daunting — at times awesome — task it is to raise a child, and begin to marvel at the fact that all involved in our own upbringing survived it with only minor scrapes and bruises. 

My respect for my mother has only grown over the years.  When I think about the odds of this woman from some seriously humble origins raising a police lieutenant and two educators (my brother C. teaches Math and I consider my whoring about a way of educating the masses, and I used to teach English occasionally, too) when we all should have been bandits and rascals, it boggles the mind.  How did three bad boys turn into two fairly good fellows and one globe-trotting whore with a heart of gold the end?  It's like a fairy tale!

Truth is, I might have asked such a question a few years back, before my dad's battle with cancer, and then my mother's, immediately after my dad's death.  But even beating cancer doesn't tell the story.  Survivors come in all stripes.  But the questions my mother asked herself, and her God, and her family and friends in her time of struggle were questions of conscience, and while she retained every ounce of cussedness we've all come to expect from her, her sufferings didn't mire her in self-pity.  Instead they strengthened her sense of self, deepening her faith and teaching her new ways to put it into action.     

It's no surprise to me that one of the first things she wanted to do when she retired last fall (after getting a profile up on Match.com), was to go through training for home hospice, so that she could "give something back," repaying through service to others what others had given of themselves for her. 

Our relationship has both broadened and deepened in the last few years.  She's my hero, my mentor, my fashion role model, and I'm so lucky to be able to call her my mom.

So, I took the T to work Friday on account of the rain, and noticed on my return trip that the new art panels long promised for the station had finally been installed.  This will give you a taste...


(You can see all of the panels here.)

The idea was for artists to reflect "the spirit and vibrancy of the city," and I guess they did OK.  It would be silly to get all critical, given what they're replacing...


So not to complain about the works they ended up choosing, but I just have to say I was a little disappointed they didn't choose any of my entries. Since there were nine panels, I submitted three triptychs I thought were totally on-topic for the T...


I thought my artist statement was quite persuasive.  "By far the biggest demographic of riders on the T and its most vibrant and thriving population is, oddly, hardly ever acknowledged," I wrote.  "Davis is not immune to an outbreak of H5N1! T is for Tuberculosis!"

Not only is Somerville not ready for a serious Sars outbreak, it's obviously not ready for Sars Art, either.  At least there's something to look at now besides "Untitled (Vertical Scrap-metal Vomit With Site-Specific 'D')."  It's a staht.

I just happened to hear owner Giancarlo Sessa mention it this morning when I dropped in on the off chance they'd have gaskets for my Bialetti (they didn't, but they're easy enough to order online).  I did not leave empty-handed, however.  It would be almost impossible to.  I took away an excellent eggplant parmesan sandwich, some marinated artichoke hearts, and, best of all, some imported ribollita. 

Sessa's isn't doing anything special for the big anniversary (the ribollita was a good deal, though, I have to say).  When I congratulated Sessa, himself, who's in his mid-fifties, balding, and pleasantly plump, he told me, "when I started out I was tall, skinny, and had a full head of dark, curly hair, like you."

"So what's the lesson?" I asked him.

"Eat, eat!" He laughed.

Of course, Sessa is biased, but it's excellent advice, nonetheless.  That ribollita hit the spot. 

As Hillary Clinton noted the other night, when disappointing results from North Carolina and Indiana were coming in, calls for her to drop out of the race are nothing new. They actually began in the beginning, and crescendoed months ago, when she was still pretty much neck-and-neck delegates-wise with Obama. Her persistence in the face of what were then wholly unreasonable calls for her to give up her still very viable bid for the White House was precisely what we would expect from any true contender.

FOBOs (Friends Of Barack Obama, for the acronymically challenged) have at every turn for the worse defined the primary race as an attempt by a vile, petty little woman to harm the chances of a truly good and great man to save the nation from certain doom. They could easily have spun a different narrative, but were content to whinge and whine from Super Tuesday on that for Hillary Clinton to stay in the race would harm Democrats' chances in the fall. She was being illogical, selfish, and mendacious. That is, when she was not being vile, vindictive and malicious.

But it's not Clinton's bid for the top spot but the narrative FOBO's chose to define the primary in the hopes of winning it that may end up undermining them in the end. Their idée fixe — that Hillary would stop at nothing, even the utter destruction of the hallowed hopes of the better half of the nation, for her personal ambition, toppling in the process the One True Hope for Salvation — is certainly powerful, but it's also pure fantasy, albeit built upon female archetypes as old as humankind. Eve spoiled it for Adam. She bears responsibility for The Fall. As Eve was to Adam, so Hillary is to Barack*. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Hillary The Spoiler has been around from the beginning. So it's disappointing to see the likes of Nicholas Kristof recycling the tired narrative at this late stage in the game. Talk about the kitchen sink strategy, Kristof compares Clinton to Nader, who Democrats blame for Gore's loss to Bush, and Ted Kennedy, whom Kristof blames for Carter's loss to Reagan. By now, nearly every negative analogy has been hung around Hillary's neck in the attempt to bury her. We're scraping the bottom of the barrel here.

If Obama, who's outspent his opponent 3-to-1 in some states, has been unable to "close the deal" it's not Hillary's fault. The notion that shielding him from criticism is a strategy for success in the general election is obvious nonsense. The idea that had Hillary not picked up on her opponents' weaknesses the GOP would never have found them out has a childlike magical quality to it: if not for the Wicked Witch of the West Wing, The Enchanted Prince would be out of the Dark Forest and well on his way down the Golden Road to the White House by now!

It's a measure of the ravages of reality over the last eight years that many Americans cleave to fairytale narratives. Hardcore FOBOs are basically the flipside of Fundies who felt the same way eight years ago about their party's savior. They have pinned their hopes for change on the flimsiest of election year rhetoric partly because they want to believe in the fairy tale ending. But I think we're dealing with one of those never-ending stories here.

Kristof at least gives us a peek at the next chapter (SPOILER ALERT!), where we all make nice. This is the part of the story where Clinton "gracefully" concedes (notice how they always use this word "graceful" when urging her to exit — as if tempting the ugly duckling with the promise of swanhood). She gracefully acknowledges what has been obvious to everyone all along (she wasn't evil, just deluded — well, maybe a little evil, too), and makes way for The One. Exit the flying monkeys. Cue the singing Munchkins.

And while she clearly deserves a good swift kick on her way out, the media and even the haters will pitch in for a parting gift: Hillary will be forever dubbed, "She Who Made It Easier For The Next Woman Candidate." Oh, what a splendid honorific!

Just as the media all but ignored John Edwards while he was running, and then praised him when he dropped out as the true architect of Democratic reform ("both candidates left standing are, to a large extent, running on the platform Mr. Edwards built," Paul Krugman wrote in the Times a couple days after Edwards quit the race), colleagues and commentators who savaged her during her run for the nomination will praise Mrs. Clinton's effort in, if not smashing the glass ceiling in the end, at least being willing to crack her head banging against it repeatedly with all her might like a hysterical thrush crashing against a picture window.

Thank goodness the Little Prince was safe on the other side of the glass!
_________________________________________________
*Lilith, Adam's first wife, will serve in this context as well, particularly in the repeated references to Hillary as a witch.

My lilac's about to pop...


Hopefully the rain we're supposed to get will ease up before it's in full splendor.  The sweet scent of lilac is already intoxicating, but a couple of days from now it'll be like a crack.

Here's a view of one side of my garden from the gate. As you can see, I still haven't solved my little lavender problem...


I'm just thinking it may be too much of a good thing. 

Here's a different view, from what will be my secret little spot in the back corner once my Rose of Sharon (which is outside of the frame, off to the left) fills out a bit...


It doesn't look like much right now, but a little rain, a little shine, in a little time it'll be a real little slice of Heaven.

Here.

Do you think they mean "apathy"?

I think they mean "apathy".  Maybe "ambivalence" just sounds more Harvardy, or something.

Well, Hillary eked out a win in Indiana, but it won't be enough. Two percentage points just ain't gonna cut it, babe. Obama's victory in North Carolina, by contrast, was by a whopping 14 percent. While we here at mennonnsapiens could never endorse for president someone who bowled a 37 (we still don't know how that is even possible), we understand that everything in a campaign season is relative. You go into the general with the candidate you've got. If it is to be Obama versus McCain, Obama it is.

As The Times took a moment to remind us yesterday, the next president will likely have the opportunity to nominate at least one Supreme Court Justice (John Paul Stevens is 88) and maybe two (Ruth Bader Ginsburg is 75), and if they're lucky, maybe Scalia will get hit by an asteroid or succumb to a flesh-eating virus, or something. All the other arch-conservatives on the court are still in diapers (and not the adult kind). Aside from the mess in Iraq, which nobody's going to clean up any time soon, regardless of campaign promises to the contrary, the composition of the Supreme Court is the single most important issue in this campaign.

While meanies on either side of the Obama/Clinton divide demonize the other, neither candidate is perfect, or perfectly evil. Clinton's pugilism may have ended up being divisive, but look at what Bush has been able to accomplish with a 28% approval rating. While many judge him among the worst presidents in history, they are judging by standards wholly irrelevant to him, and to his administration's agenda, most of which, popularity be damned, he delivered on a silver platter with whipped cream and a cherry on top. He has been an extraordinarily effective CEO for his Have-More shareholders in this era of smash-n-grab politics.

I would only say to Obama fans, be careful what you wish for. The much-vaunted era of bipartisanship the Audacity of Hopers are planning to usher in is not only unlikely, it may not really be desirable. Some examples of bipartisan successes in the Bush years (and there were many): The War on Terror and the ballooning Defense Budget, wiretaps, and the absurd "economic stimulus payments" presently being mailed out. Sometimes bipartisanship is not the solution, it's part of the problem. 

Lucky for us, odds are Obama is using the current Commander-in-Chief's definition of "bipartisan" anyway.  When Obama, with childlike naïveté, says of the GOP: "I want to change them, I don't want them to change me," his arrogance nearly reaches the heights of The Decider himself.  Just like Bush, he's essentially defining "bipartisan" as everyone agreeing — with him.  But Bush had a pretty easy time of it, because lawmakers, who are paid nearly $170,000 a year and are thus all in the top 3% of income earners, stood to gain, themselves, from his agenda.  Obama's is not so appealing.  In this context, we don't so much need a painkiller as a shot of adrenaline.  Bipartisanship has a nice ring to it, but majority rules also does the trick.

I don't think we have much to worry about.  Any remnants of the grand dream of a political Age of Aquarius will surely evaporate in the coming months.  The general election will be nastier and more divisive than many imagine, and Clinton won't be there to kick around anymore.  If FOBOs think their candidate's been beaten up on in the primary, they ain't seen nothin' yet.  The Republicans wouldn't mind if it became a "referendum on race," and while McCain and the mainstream media will take the high road, you can be sure surrogates will be swiftboating away.

Look for more on Reverend Wright and Louis Farrakhan, and insinuations that should Obama be elected he’ll work for Reparations for descendants of slaves. This may seem laughable, but Obama has been asked about Reparations in the past. His initial response, when asked back in 2004, during the race for his US Senate seat, as reported in the Chicago Tribune – “Obama spoke about how slavery had left a stain on the country that has yet to be eradicated. Still, he said, he opposes ‘just signing checks over to African-Americans.’” – was equivocal enough to give the conspiracists who thrive in the hysterical hothouse of a Presidential election season something to chew on.

He has been asked since, of course. And his answers have gotten more specific. In February of 2007, he said, "The legacy of slavery is immeasurable, but the best strategies for moving forward would be vigorously enforcing our anti-discrimination laws in education and job training." In a debate among contenders for the Democratic nomination in July of ’07, he proposed “fixing public schools would be reparations to African-Americans for generations of slavery”.

This is an eminently reasonable stance, and an admirable policy goal. Infinitely more useful than Republican Presidential hopeful Alan Keyes’ proposal in a Republican debate to exempt African-Americans from taxation for a generation or two. But the truth is, any mention of Reparations at all – even the word itself – will be divisive and potentially deleterious to Obama's bid in the general election. So look for “Reparations” popping up a lot in the coming months. And for the next mutation of the Wright controversy to focus on Wright’s Reparations activism in a big way.

Debate on the question of Reparations may be the elephant in the room.  It is certainly part of the "open and honest conversation on race" everyone agrees we need to have. An election year is probably just not the best time to have it.

Ooh, they're good!  They know just how to hit 'em when they're down!  Here.

Smarter isn’t always better.

I was on  the phone with my mother yesterday morning, talking about the Democratic primaries.  Since we last spoke at any length about the campaign, some months ago, her enthusiasm for Obama had dampened a bit.  It was less her perception of Obama that had changed than her perception of his viability as a candidate.  She wasn't that concerned about the Reverend Wright business, but she wondered whether it might impact him in the general election. 

The real surprise was her newfound generosity towards Hillary.  You can't imagine the multiple drubbings I endured for my support of the Clintons in the '90s.  Hillary jokes were raunchy and rampant whenever I was around.  But a funny thing happened on the long slog to the '08 Indiana primary: people started seeing Hillary as a viable candidate in her own right. 

My mother blamed her own Hillary-hating past on Bill, who's been wisely dispatched (or is it exiled?) to rural North Carolina while Hillary works the banks of the Wabash.  Being seen as separate from Bill has done her some good in Indiana, seems like.  Her sheer tenacity and her goofy good humor in the face of a hostile press and an opponent who often comes off as a bit too self-assured (some might even say smug) for his own good, has convinced some hardcore skeptics that she's the better bet to beat McCain in the Fall.

Whether this means she'll win in Indiana, and by any kind of margin, is unclear.  But what it definitely means is that commentators who continue to flog the notion that she is more divisive than her opponent are living in the past.  By and large, aside from the hardcore haters, the more people have seen of Hillary, the less they actually hate her.  Sheer exposure has humanized her.  Yes, she's still seen as a scheming triangulater who will stop at nothing to win, but her opponent bowled a 37!  The more they see of Obama, in other words, the more doubts about his bowling abilities they have.   

And Obama's lackluster performance of late can't be blamed on anyone but Obama, himself.  Who told him it would be a good idea to be photographed throwing gutter ball after gutter ball?  If he has not learned, at his age, that you should never be photographed bowling unless you're in the PBA, I think it's legitimate to question what his judgment will be like as President. 

On the bright side, at least he didn't go bowling in public with Rev. Wright and Louis Farrakhan wearing traditional Somali garb and ululating whenever he managed to knock a pin down.  Thankfully, he's learned that much. I'm surprised he hasn't refused, rejected, and repudiated that 37, though.  I'm still waiting for the historic "Bowling Speech." 

So, could the Hillerator still get the nomination?  Rhodes Cook's done the math, and says, don't count her out just yet.  My mother seems philosophical about it.  McCain's too old, she told me.  Obama's too young.  She says she'd be fine with Hillary winning.  She just wishes they'd all leave the state.  "It's been nonstop for the last two weeks," she told me.  "I'm ready for Indiana to go back to not mattering."

No, I'm not talking about the Sox and the Rays.  Today was the Spring All-Garden Meeting for the Fenway Garden Society, and it promised to be a dramatic one.   The new board has apparently been pretty aggressive in enforcing certain rules and regulations, particularly height-restrictions on shrubs and trees in individual gardens, and it's got some of the gardeners all riled up. 

I have not had any run-ins with the new board's chainsaw-wielding henchmen, but Tony had some unsolicited assistance earlier this year trimming the magnificent rose-clematis combo on his fence.  It will come as no surprise to any of you with even a casual acquaintance with Tony to hear that he was quite literally hopping mad about it, too. (Despite this, Tony didn't show up at this morning's meeting.  His griping privileges have therefore been revoked.) 

And while none of my shrubs (two lilacs, a rose of sharon, and a fur) have been targeted for pollarding I was personally summoned by several other senior gardeners, who called me on my bat phone urging me to join La Résistance.  It looked like it was going to be a bloodbath.

And, indeed, there were some testy exchanges between officers of the Ancien Régime and la Terreur.  But the new President had come prepared.  He knew that the hot-button issue would be the board's unyielding demand that gardeners comply with tree and shrub height restrictions as stated in the Society's bylaws, and I have to say he was pretty effective in squashing dissent.

The board's position was hard to refute.  They claimed to have had run-ins with representatives from the several City, State, and Federal authorities who claim jurisdiction over different areas and aspects of the park, and who all have power, ultimately, to dictate important aspects of the Gardens' fate.  The Fenway Victory Gardens have always existed in a bureaucratic clusterfuck.  It's apparently the Historic Parks Department that has taken umbrage at the flagrant and rampant violation of height protocols.

I've always been under the impression that the five-foot maximum height restriction is a safety issue.  As it was explained to me, its purpose is to eliminate hiding places for rogues, rascals, and the various and sundry would-be evildoers who are usually quite content to roam the park in plain view. I'm certainly not opposed to public safety, plus clear sight-lines make for much easier cruising anywhere in the park. 

For those who protested, the President of the FGS ominously reminded gardeners that back in the day they used to plow the whole thing under every year.  He warned that if allies in the Parks Department weren't properly placated, Fenway gardeners could lose their unique privileges.  No other community garden has individual plots the size of ours, each with its own fence and gate.  He even went so far as to say that there were those who would love to see the gardens themselves, which they consider an eyesore, disappear.

But come on.  Is this an eyesore?...


Still, the not-too-veiled threat of having our fences ripped out, and our gardens plowed under annually was enough to strike terror into the hearts of all but the most hardened revolutionaries. 

It was Leo Romero, a section of whose garden (which he tends with partner Iory Allison) is pictured above, who spoke up.  Leo and Iory are true master gardeners, and Elder Statesmen of the FGS.  When the President suggested one word from the Historical Parks Commissioner and the bulldozers would be called out, Leo said, "it's true they used to plow it under every year, but that's when it used to be one big vegetable garden for the war effort.  The war ended in 1945!" 

And he's right.  Hardly anyone grows vegetables in the Fenway anymore.  Not only is the soil of questionable content, but theft is rampant.  The truth is, removal of the fences around individual plots would spell the end of the Fenway Victory Gardens.  I think everyone knows that.  Still, taken as a whole, the Gardens definitely have a funky old Fenway vibe on a good day, and look like a rural shanty town on a bad one.  Individual gardens like Iory and Leo's redeem us all, but who knows what the place will look like in another twenty-five years, if adherence to the bylaws, which is still pretty liberal now, were to grow more and more lax?

Especially with the neighborhood going seriously upscale, I could definitely see an overzealous City official or a much less community garden-friendly mayor than Menino moving ahead with leveling the lot.  I am inclined to agree with the board that now is the time to cultivate good relations with various organizations that hold the Gardens' fate in their hands. 

But it seems to me, after all is said and done, that the board should start by cultivating good relations with its members.  I get the feeling that's really what the brouhaha was all about.

I went to Mr. Crepe on Davis Square yesterday morning.  It was a little before nine, and the place was deserted.  I was surprised to see that it opens at 7:30 on Saturdays.  If the little ticket they give you with your order number on it is any indication I was only the second customer of the day.  And the girl at the counter was none too happy about it. 

I know how it is.  You're in The Zone, and customers are a distraction.  Plus, the first thing I said when I walked in the door was, "are you guys open?"  Which is an annoying question when obviously they are.  She sneered without looking up and reluctantly confirmed that they were. 

To be honest, I have never had much luck with the help there.  There's a young guy who I get the feeling thinks everyone is hitting on him, whom I have learned not to make eye contact with when ordering.  He's not even that cute. 

But the truth is, no human kindness escapes any of them.  At least not towards me.  And they have trained me not to attempt to show any myself by answering my innocent smiles with glares, or by returning my "good morning" with a brittle "can I take your order?" 

Whenever I complain about the service somewhere in my blog, I always get a comment from someone who says something like, "they shower me with flowers and serenade me at my table whenever I go in there."  Complain about the T, and, especially if Adam picks up the post over at Universal Hub, it's guaranteed someone will write to tell me, "it's always on time for me, the one time I took it, and, by the way their service is exemplary."  They often go so far as to imply if I'm getting bad service it's my own damn fault.

Now, I'm always open to the possibility that it could be me.  And I don't think I'm the only one who suspects he's being singled out for some reason for retail retribution.  Thank God for the internet, which is a great resource for those of us seeking confirmation of our subjective experiences in order to make sweeping indictments of others.

But the truth is: sometimes it really is just you.  The place this first occurs to most people is in bed.  I remember a particularly horrid little man I had been outmaneuvered into accompanying home for a mercy fuck asking me pityingly how long I'd been impotent.  "Only since we met," I replied. 

Sometimes we bring out the worst in someone.  There is something to be said for Physiognomy in this context.  Whether conditioned into us by images in advertising, or hardwired into the species (or both), we are constantly typecasting others on the basis of looks...

...whether they play to type is a matter of interpretation as often as not.  Still, I think there may be some basis for a theory of competing physiognomies. 

If, for example, a birdlike customer gets a catlike clerk, there'll be some tension between them.  You get a mongoose on one side of the counter and a snake on the other, there's gonna be trouble.  Elephants and mice.  Lions and gazelles. Tortoises and hares. All of these are potential customer service nightmares.

Whatever beast I resemble, it seems to be the natural enemy of crepe shop counter help.  And maybe even the crepe makers themselves.  because after devouring my breakfast crepe I looked down at my plate to find not one, but TWO EYELASHES!  And they weren't mine.  I did an inventory of them before I left the house. Someone back there is shedding.

But who sheds eyelashes like that?  One eyelash I can see, but two?  Why not twenty?  I mean, when does it end?  There were probably hundreds of them in that crepe I gobbled down without taking the time to examine it.  I walked around the rest of the morning feeling like I had an eyelash stuck in my throat. 

People complain about how machines are taking over.  But I actually prefer self-check-out at the supermarket to a surly clerk making minimum wage who wants to make sure I get exactly the minimum of service I'm paying for.  And now there's another argument in favor of the automaton: they don't have eyelashes.

There's been a lot of talk lately in my comments about "heteronormative" standards in gay dating. So I thought some of you might be interested in Boston's own Benoit Denizet-Lewis's recent piece in the Times Sunday Magazine about gay marriage, and why twenty-something gays in Massachusetts are "rushing to the altar," as he breathlessly puts it.

Many assumed along with Barney Frank, I think, that gay marriage was actually more for middle-aged lesbians than for club kids and go-go bois. This may have to do with the fact that the most salient and ultimately persuasive arguments for gay marriage were the most prosaic and at the same time the most poignant ones — hospital visitation in the case of illness and full inheritance rights in the case of a spouse's death. Isn't it romantic?

But it turns out twenty-somethings are doing it, too. Personally, I don't think it's really all that surprising that some kids are taking advantage of the right to wed. Any excuse to party. Nor is it surprising that trendy trend-spotter Denizet-Lewis spotted a trend here. That's what trend-spotters do, after all.

Well, first they feign surprise. He says he didn't know what to make of the fact that more than 700 gay men 29 or younger had married in Massachusetts over the course of nearly four years. There is a question whether +/-200 marriages a year constitutes a twenty-something stampede to the altar. That aside, the truth is, as big a deal as gay marriage is, marriage itself is not really that big a deal in a culture where divorce is always an easy out. Or it might be more accurate to say that these days you are free to take marriage as seriously as you choose, and that freedom now extends to gays in Massachusetts. Yay!

But Denizet-Lewis has a magazine feature to write, and focusing on how access to marriage has changed the practical aspects of some gay partnerships isn't very sexy. So he tries to spice it up a bit by suggesting that up until gay marriage the very idea of "gay men in a happy long-term relationship was an oxymoron," an astonishing claim by someone who has spent his life mostly in San Francisco and Boston.

I guess you have to chalk it up to PR. Denizet-Lewis's brand of social commentary on gay life is obviously meant to put things in perspective for straight people. Here's how he summarizes the heteroproofed version of gay culture for Times readers:

I entered high school in 1989, before gay teenagers started taking their boyfriends to the prom. If I was lucky enough to find love, I thought, I’d better hold onto it. And part of me tried, but a bigger part of me wanted to pitch a tent in my favorite gay bar. I wasn’t alone. Everywhere I looked, gay men in their 20s — or, if they hadn’t come out until later, their 30s, 40s and 50s — seemed to be eschewing commitment in favor of the excitement promised by unabashedly sexualized urban gay communities.

First of all, if you hang out in gay bars you mostly see other people who hang out in gay bars — surprise! But I can assure you there are a lot of gays who don't. They're all in the Fens. Secondly, it seems presumptuous to make a sweeping claim about generations of gays "eschewing commitment" in favor of sex. Is that what all those old barflies were doing? Or were they simply combining these things in unconventional (if unimaginative) ways that polite society might not approve of (whether or not they were engaging in them, too, on the sly)?

Denizet-Lewis may have some unresolved issues he's bringing to the table here. He explains away gay sexuality and the sexual exuberance that characterizes youth itself as something akin to PTSD.

No wonder, then, that in our 20s so many of us moved to big-city gay neighborhoods and aggressively went about trying to make up for lost time. And no wonder that some of us — myself included — occasionally went overboard.

So, what is Denizet-Lewis's answer to the "secrecy, manipulation or debilitating shame" of a gay adolescence? It is to excuse his typical twenty-something sexuality as a reaction to social injustice, and, of course, to apologize for "occasionally" going "overboard" because of it. I don't know exactly who he's trying to ingratiate himself to in this piece. But if he thinks that straight twenty-somethings aren't being just as naughty and nasty as you please, he's living in a Victorian fairyland.

What constitutes going overboard, anyway? He doesn't say, but it seems fairly obvious that what he is apologizing for is not his youthful sexual excess (which he doesn't seem to realize is universal to youth, not just gay youth). No, what he's apologizing for is old-school, pre-marriage equality gay culture, the gay culture that, he is slyly assuring straight readers, the institution of gay marriage, if his survey of the next gay generation is any indication, is nicely superseding.

He seems to want to argue that not only did previous generations of gay men never experience "happy long-term relationships," because society didn't sanction them, but that before gay marriage two men embarking on an intimate relationship never seriously considered questions of emotional commitment and sexual fidelity. He quotes an expert: "older gay men... often make a distinction between emotional fidelity and sexual fidelity. There’s an emerging rhetoric around monogamy among young gay couples. In that way, they’re a lot more like married heterosexual couples than they are like older gay couples.” Rhetoric is the operative word here.

But even so, I'm afraid the monogamy discussion predates marriage equality by a few millennia. Every man wants absolute fidelity from his partners and absolute freedom for himself. That's how it has always been, and marriage equality, as grand as it is, won't change it. What the rhetoric of monogamy indicates is not so much a generational shift as simple lack of life experience on the part of Generation Next.

But one thing gay marriage has definitely changed: it's provided plenty of work for a new class of "experts" on it. Some old experts are chiming in, too. Dan Savage kvetches:

Once, our relationships were only respected if we had remained together for a long, long time. Only longevity earned us some modicum of respect. Straight couples could always rush that validity by getting married. Now I just worry that some gay kids, desperate to have their gay love taken seriously, will wield their new marriage licenses and say: ‘See how real our love is? We’ve only been together five months, but we’re already married. You better respect us now!’

But so what if they do? I mean, really, so what?

That's basically what I took away from this article. In the end, like the whole marriage debate itself, it turns out to be much ado about nothing. Don't get me wrong, once it's on the table, there's no convincing reason to deny a marriage license to a same-sex couple. It's a big deal. But it's a big deal because it shouldn't be. The fact remains: marriage equality is one thing. Marriage itself quite another.

In struggling to make his point that gay married people are much like straight married people it's unfortunate Denizet-Lewis feels it necessary to apologize for gay sexuality. He apparently feels that in order to advance The Agenda, marriage must be seen as a cure for rampant promiscuity in the "gay community". It alone has the power to make us all grow up and become responsible monogamists.

But before judging him too harshly, remember: his naive view of marriage and neutered version of gay life have an immediate context: the battle for marriage equality in New York State.

One argument that some gay advocates of marriage equality seem to think appeals to their straight allies is that the availability of marriage will change the more unsavory sexual behaviors of gays. Opening up marriage to them will "tame" their wilder urges, the argument goes. That's why Denizet-Lewis's starts out with an apology for his own wretched excess: I'm sorry I went a little overboard in my twenties, but society oppressed me as an adolescent and left me with no other options but promiscuity in my adulthood!

But the truth is, as married people know, marriage is not a panacea. Even straight marriage is not a surefire cure for sex. Different people are attracted to marriage for different reasons. It works for some, not so much for others. Denizet-Lewis ends up discovering that gay people do have a lot in common with straight people, which is the point he's trying to make. But by focusing on the "rhetoric of monogamy" and suggesting that marriage will cure the gay lifestyle, which he characterizes as a form of wholesale "acting out" against oppression, he's romanticizing the institution itself while advancing the notion of Victorian hypocrisy that used to undergird it.

The most compelling argument for gay marriage has nothing to do with the sexual ethics of married people, gay or straight.  It has to do with 1,138 federal laws "in which marital status is a factor." It has to do with equality under the law. 

Why are some young gay people marrying in Massachusetts?  Simple: because they can.  Which is a good enough reason for me.

We had a pretty dry April, so I was actually happy to see the rain this week.  It seems to have come just in the nick of time, accompanied, of course, by copious complaining by folks who may have forgotten that what brings May flowers are April showers.  And that without Mayflowers, there would be no pilgrims.  No pilgrims, this place'd be overrun by Wampanoags.  You'd have casinos on every corner.  Not to mention, no Thanksgiving.  See, these clowns that bitch and moan about spring rain are the same ones who'd pitch a fit if they didn't get their turkey and dressing in November.

I like the rain sometimes, as long as it's within reason.  New England weather seldom is, but these past few days haven't been so bad.  It's been just enough to green things up.  Things look plump and fecund all the sudden...


In the Boston Garden...


...the pink DOGWOOD's in bloom. (how'd I do Tony?)

But the tulips still aren't givin' it up.  They're zipped tight.  Prim.  An orgy of prudes...


...but their time will come...

I would tell you to get out and smell the tulips before their time is past, but tulips don't really have a smell.  They are lovely, though.  And they're really poppin'!

In the Public Garden, of course...


...and in the Fenway Victory Gardens...


I have to admit I'm not emotionally as involved with tulips as I am with some other more frivolous flowers, but, like the Dutch, who've so taken to them (they're actually indigenous to the Middle East and Central Asia), they have an admirable economy and an appealing pragmatism.  

I was riding through the little corridor that runs between Back Bay Station and Mass Ave., and the crab apple trees are bursting with blossoms...

And they're so fragrant.  When I was growing up we used to have a huge crab apple tree in our side yard.  So when I smell that wonderful smell, it takes me right back to those happy days as a wee scamp, climbing trees on a summer day, launching crab apples at my siblings with my trusty slingshot, and spending the rest of the day hiding out under the evergreens, afraid for my life.  Ah, childhood!  Still, the fragrance is intoxicating. 

Here are a couple of the fading magnolias*...

____________________________________________
*OMG! Oops! Did I say magnolias?  These are DOGWOODS, of course.  Thanks, Tony!

I am often stopped on the street and asked, "excuse me, sir, but how do stay so sexy, smart, and slim?"  Is it Power Yoga?  Hours on the Treadmill?  Your fast-paced, results-oriented life?  And I always smile and yawn, and say, "Well, would you look at that?  It's time for my nap! You wanna have sex?"

That's the secret  to being sexy, smart and slim! Like most men, sex (among many, many other things) puts me right to sleep, and smart people know that sex is the best form of exercise you can get, and sleep is the best appetite suppressent there is!"  It's the circle of life!  Hakuna Matata! 

Now somebody's gone and written a book about it, so everyone will know!  I don't mind.  I'm all for people being as sexy and smart as they're capable of being (and they don't have to be mutually exclusive, y'know), and slim is in! 

Golly, all this talk about sleep is making me sleepy.  Plus I just had a huge chicken salad sub fom Emilio's.  Oh my God.  Better than sex.  I thought the chicken salad at Billy's was good.  But Emilio's puts celery in theirs.  I mean, that's why celery was invented.  Not to mention it's like five whole chickens-worth of chicken in their sub.  If the guys at Billy's weren't so much cuter, I would go to Emilio's for my chicken salad fix every day.

Anyway, I feel like a wolf who's just raided the hen house.  I gotta have a siesta, slim down a little before going out tonight...

First dates seem to come in a couple of varieties at my age: psychoanalysis session and job interview. Last week I had both. And the return of the Merchant Marine (thank God). Unfortunately, I don't have time to delve into the whole sordid tale here and now. But all will be revealed in time.

Sunday I had a psychoanalysis session with a nervous little Italian who had been living in Boston just over a year and apparently needed to vent. Hey, I understand. But that's what blogs are for. I mean, not two seconds into introductions he'd already launched into a critique of American manners and mores.

Don't get me wrong, there was a time when I would've been right there with him. I had culture shock something awful when I came back to the States in '03. I had that Madonna accent I'd picked up over there. That didn't help matters any. But even without the Madonna accent, coming home to Boston when you've been away awhile is like a belch in the face.

But lately, I'm impatient with this line. Yes, Americans are rude, ill-informed, self-centered, and incapable of real intimacy. So you wanna have sex or what? Effin douchebag.

But Luigi just couldn't let it go. And as sorta cute as he was (and he was definitely in the sorta category) the intensity of his desire for an instant and indissoluble bond with a Bostonian was immediately off-putting. I've been full-time in Boston for coming on four years now, and the truth is if someone's not an asshole to me right off the bat I don't know how to proceed.

He was still struggling, though. He had only recently been through what's known as the South End Salute, where the welcome wagon arrives, and some middle aged queen falls off (or was she pushed?), looks up and sees you picking up the pieces of her shattered tiara, and gasps "The One! I've found The One!"

You're lonely, new in town and a little desperate for a friend, and it goes from there. You share some very special, um, sex. A week later the two of you are trying to decide whether you should go with the Boston Terrier or the teacup Chihuahua, and talking china patterns. You can't believe how easy it was to find your soulmate. Ha ha! All those other losers are still looking! Not you! The One! You found him! WOO-HOO!

And a week after that he's not answering your phone calls. And when you see him at Club Cafe on the arm of another man, he walks right past you, like you don't even exist! Hey, did he actually just sneer and roll his eyes at you? Did he just whisper something into The New One's ear? Did they just look back at you and laugh?

Welcome to Boston!!! Enjoy your stay!!!

I tried to explain to him that it's a sort of tourist's rite of passage. Like getting pick-pocketed in Rome. But the truth is, as we discussed his man troubles over an espresso at L'Aroma on Newbury Street, I was thinking, well, there goes my game plan. This was not going to be a hook-up. This was not going to be a fun, raunchy, NSA romp. This was going to be "but I thought you were different."

So somehow it didn't surprise me when he seized my hands over the table and told me he loved them. Transference. He had been staring at them hungrily for several minutes.  I was like, well, they're mine. You can't have them.  I need them for things.  Please give them back. 

But what did surprise me was that it only took half an hour for our first big breakthrough. If I dump him now, I thought, he'll be a wreck. I have a responsibility to him to at least walk him to the T, make sure he catches his train, and then change my cell phone number. Once you stop having to change your cell phone number every six weeks or so you know your sex life is over.

I mean, nice guy, but yikes. When we were about to part ways after a short walk through the public garden he invited me to invite him back to my place.

I was like, "um, my place is a mess. I just painted. It smells of paint fumes. All the furniture's piled up in the middle of the room. It's really just... impossible for you to come back to my place. Ever. I mean, it's not you. It's me. It's totally me. It looks like it's gonna need another, I dunno, could be three or four... hundred coats in there. The walls are so porous. And then it also probably has to do with the paint. Y'know, I got the cheap kind. I get that from my dad. But you know, I'm committed to it now. I really like it. And I can't get Aztec Sacrifice in any other brand but that stuff I ordered from Mexico. I mean, I could get something close, but I really wanted that intensity. And Ralph Lauren Barn Red ain't cuttin' it."

He gave me a longing look.

"What about tomorrow night?" he asked.

"Oh. Did...did I mention my brain tumor? And I'm going on a trip. It's with the Make-A-Wish Foundation. It's a trip to um... Iceland. I'm leaving — Oh my Gosh! In, like, ten minutes! I really gotta go! Bjork is doing a benefit concert for me! Friðrik Þór Friðriksson is filming the whole thing!"

And I dashed off.

He has called and messaged me every day, at least twice a day, since.

The Seven Hills Orphanage welcomed its newest orphan last weekend, and as far as we know she is not a level 3 sex offender — woo hoo!

As we're all in the embryonic stages of this new housemate relationship, it's very important that we reveal only the best of ourselves, so that when the monster comes out it will have some impact. If you start out a monster, no one is surprised when you become one (hello, Hillary!), and then what's the fun in it? Plus, you know, when I pitch a fit I want people to know I'm pitching a fit, otherwise why go to the trouble? Pitching fits takes a lot of planning and coordination. Not to mention the cost of catering, clowns, and balloons.

So I was in the parapet rocking out when our new homie showed up. But the damnedest thing happened when she appeared at my door...

Before I get to that, you need to know I'm a huge fan of internet radio, and Pandora in particular, which applies the technology of the Music Genome Project, whatever that is. It has to do with some incredibly complicated, highly coveted, top-secret algorithm. But the interface is pretty simple: you pick a song or an artist to start off, and Pandora tosses out tunes that share certain attributes with whatever you've chosen. If you like what Pandora's spinnin', you give it a thumbs up. If you don't, it's thumbs down. It's like having a DJ in da house you're cooler than, who you can totally order around. "Play this! Don't play that!" It's like a combination DJ/Gimp, but you don't need the extra room in the sub-basement! And that huge ring of skeleton keys. I can never find the right one! Oy!

You can create "stations" based on an artist or a song, or a genre of music. I have everything from Air to Zhou Long. Over time you get a pretty good mix of old favorites and new tunes. Best of all, it's free! But if you've got it on in the background when people visit, they'll think it's your itunes on shuffle!

And while the free service has ads on the site, there's no talk, and no commercials between songs. A big plus for someone who can't stand listening to other people bang on, even with British accents — those Brits on the BBC sometimes sound so snotty and petulant! — while I'm forced to sit silent. Which is one reason I don't go to the theater that often: I always have to fight that urge to pull a 'Til Tuesday "Hush hush keep it down now voices carry!" in the middle of Act Two. Don't lie: you all have to, too. That's why no one goes to the theater anymore (unless it's to see a Ryan Landry show, where if you pulled a 'Til Tuesday, chances are no one would notice).

I used to listen to public radio a lot, way back in the day, before they started their never-ending fundraiser. Now every time you turn it on, it's "if you really loved us, you would pay for us." Well, even prostitutes have the sense not to hound their johns. Leave it on the dresser on your way out. The constant bitching and nagging gets on everybody's nerves.  Even if you gave them a million dollars