But is it art?

Although admittedly I don't go all that often, I do like going to art museums. I probably hit Boston's Museum of Fine Arts and/or the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum once a year. Or so. Throw in another occasion trip to an art museum when I'm traveling. Or just going to Worcester (an excellent small museum) or Salem (the wondrous Peabody Essex). So, yeah, I actually like visiting art museums.

(Confession: I also really, really, really love visiting art museum gift shops. I find the Met in NYC so overwhelming that, when I'm there, I'm happy to check out one or two galleries and then get me to the giftstore. I don't need a damn thing, but there's always room for a pack of notecards.)

When I'm at a museum, I love just strolling around and seeing works that are old friends (At Boston's MFA, one of them is Monet's La Japonaise, which took some flak a while back because the woman wearing the kimono was white; cultural appropriation of something). And I love seeing new things, too. 

As long as they're not too-too.

So I'm glad I was not strolling around the MFA, art appreciating LaJaponaise et al. when the museum hosted "a partially nude performance artist walking through its galleries."

That "partially nude performance artist" was one Xandra Ibarra:

Ibarra is among 12 contemporary artists whose work is featured in the new MFA exhibition, “Take Back the Nude: Subvert, Repair, Reclaim,” a collection of multimedia works that contemplate issues of objectification, exploitation, and erasure in relation to female nudity in Western art history. (Source: Boston Globe)

I have no problem with nudes, partial or otherwise, by the way. It's just that I prefer then carved in marble or hanging on the wall. 

And I really, really, really, really, really don't like performance art. 

I don't know whether I've actually ever seen any art performanced in person, but I've been reading about it - and seeing video glimpses - ever since I stumbled upon Karen Finley, who way back in the way back (1986) had a piece that involved shoving a yam up her butt. 

In 1986, I was donning a menswear wool suit and a floppy bowtie, and working at Wang Labs as a senior product manager. Which I guess in its own way was a bit of performance art. But Ibarra practices true performance art. 

Here's how the MFA's website describes Ibarra's partially-clad piece, "Nude Laughing:"

In this performance, artist Xandra Ibarra uses endurance-based laughter and her nude body to uncover the vexed relation racialized subjects have not only to their own skin, but also to their entanglements with whiteness and white womanhood. As she laughs and fills a nylon cocoon with paradigmatic “white lady accoutrements” including blonde hair, ballet shoes, furs, pearls, and fake breasts, Ibarra visualizes and embodies the skein of race, negotiating the simultaneous joys and pains of subjection, abjection, and personhood. (Source: MFA)

"Endurance-based laughter." Well, I've done plenty of that in my time, but is it any wonder that the show was one-day only? 

Reviews (i.e., comments on social media) were mixed:

“Wtf is this nonsense?” wrote one commenter... “Seriously? So vulgar,” wrote another... “This is absolutely ridiculous!” seethed yet another. “This is not fine art. I may reconsider membership.” Source: Boston Globe)

But to counterbalance those who viewed Ibarra's work as "garbage," there was someone who found it "ah-mazing." Pro-"Nude Laughing" folks looked down their ultra-sophisticated, hip and happening noses, noting that those who have a problem with it are priggish, prudier-than-thou Puritans:

“If your response to a woman’s body is disgust, you’re immature & have some growing to do,” replied one woman on Instagram...“Bostonians, clutching their pearls per usual,” said another.

Well, call me a pearl-clutcher, but I can't be the only one who finds performance art narcissistic, idiotic, and unartful.Even though, as I said earlier, I prefer my nudes in marble or framed on a wall, but it's not the nudity that's bothersome. I am not replused by a nude woman's body. It's the faux-outrageous banality of performance art that gets me.

Yes, I am a provincial old lady, but I have been to plenty of museums - and I even took a class in modern art in college: so there! - and I know art when I see it. I realize that art appreciation is somewhat subjective. (Just not fully. Is there anyone who would argue that Thomas Kincaid is superior to Claude Monet?)

But I know art when I see it, and "Nude Laughing" ain't it.

Glad I wasn't making my annual trek the MFA for this show! 

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Image Source - Monet: Wikipedia
Image Source - Botticelli: Artsy

Celebrating Memorial Day (Eve) with The Boss

I celebrated Memorial Day in the normal way, by walking over to the Boston Common (alas, in the rain - this picture is from a kinder, gentler weather year) and looking at all those flags - one for each member of the armed services from Massachusetts (and, let's face it, we're almost always talking young men here) who has died in one of the way-too-many American wars we've participated in starting with the Revolution. Some wars were righteous - think the American Revolution, think World War II; others were jingoistic nonsense - think Spanish American War; yet others were futile misadventures - think Vietnam. 

How do you categorize the Civil War? Was it a just war to end slavery? An internecine battle that we're still fighting? Something else altogether? 

I do know that about one-third of those roughly 37,000 honored with a flag for having given their life for their country, fighting for the Union, were from Massachusetts.  

I don't believe that any of those who've died in the latest jingoistic misadventure in Iran have been from my state, but as the war drags on, this is subject to change.

Speaking of war, "War" is the full-throated battle cry of Bruce Springsteen's Hope and Dreams Concert, which I saw Sunday night, Memorial Day Eve.

This was my sixth Springsteen concert, and they have all been great.

When it comes to the Boss, I'm something of a latter-day fan. I was long aware of him, of course, and knew (of) a couple of his classic numbers: "Born in the USA," "Born to Run," "Dancing in the Dark." But I never really had much interest in him until my sister Trish (an OG fan from her high school days) took me to the Magic Tour concert nearly 20 years ago. I came away from that concert pretty much a fan for (the rest of my) life. 

And now I've seen him twice at Gillette Stadium, three times at TD Garden, and once (gloriously!) at Fenway Park.

Even the 2023 concert I saw at Gillette - when Springsteen was a few days out from canceling the tour due to a peptic ulcer - was great. 

As a performer, as someone who communicates with his audience, Springsteen is brilliant. You definitely get your money's worth. No 1.5 hour concert for Bruce and the E-Street Band. 

And, sure, I have my Bruce favorites, but I enjoy most of his songs and all of his albums.

Me being me, I don't mind at all when he gets political, which is what Hope and Dreams is all about. 

But it was interesting that, knowing the overall weighty theme of the night's concert, the anticipation of the concert was less buoyant than for concerts past. Sunday evening's cold and rang did, of course, tamp down some of the usual buzz, but everyone thronging the Garden knew that there was a seriousness of purpose to the night's setlist. 

"American Skin (Forty-one Shots)", not "Sherry Darling." And there was going to be no throw-in of "Dirty Water" to please the home crowd. 

I was so moved by Sunday's concert. There were the overtly political songs: "War," "Streets of Minneapolis," "Born in the USA." And the songs that are the essence (sometimes the aspirational essence, sometimes the sad) of our country: "America Land." "Land of Hope and Dreams." "Badlands." "Death to My Hometown." (This daughter of Ellis Island especially loved "America Land," Springsteen's immigration anthem.)

At times, the concert took on a revival element: Bruce as preacher. All I can say is "Preach, brother." His stated mission was to give us hope that our country will fulfill its dream of becoming "a more perfect union." That he did. 

The concert ended with the hopeful yet tempered joy of Dylan's "Chimes of Freedom" and the playing, as we streamed out of our seats, of Woody Guthrie's rousing anthem, "This Land Is Your Land." 

For a few moments at least, we reclaimed our country from the forces of nativism, racism, misogyny, and greed.

It was thrilling!

And lest I forget what Memorial Day is about: it's those 37,000 dead kids (mostly) from Massachusetts who gave their lives for our country. (Along with the million+ from all corners of the USA.) We have an obligation to all of them, to each other, and to generations to come to make sure that their deaths were worth it.

Springsteen Image Source: Salon

Who ARE these people (Cont.)

It seems like just yesterday, I'd never heard of Taylor Frankie Paul, an influencer/momTikTok-er/reality star who was dumped by The Bachelorette after videos of her engaged in domestic violence emerged. Today, the person I've never heard of is one Braden Peters, more popularly known as Clavicular, a 20 year- old streamer who's the world's foremost Looksmaxxer. 

On one hand, I should have known of him, as he was written up in The New Yorker a couple of months back. But over the winter, I fell way behind on my New Yorkers, and finally gave up my attempt to catch up, other than flipping through the cartoons and maybe reading the short story.

On the other hand, Looksmaxxing is not exactly something that I have any reason to know or care about, other than acknowledging its place on the ever-growing roster of things that evidence The Decline, if not of the West, then certainly of the United States.

Looksmaxxing, in case you're wondering, is an "online community that holds male attractiveness as the key to worldly achievement." Clavicular, who is pretty near perfectly handsome, is considering jaw surgery - make that double jaw surgery - so that he can more closely resemble actor Matt Bomer, who Clavicular believes "to possess the most harmonious man’s face in existence, beyond even his own." (Matt Bomer is another one that I've never heard of - so much so that I initially read his name as "Boner." But after googling, I realized two things. Matt Bomer is gorgeous; and I should have known who he is, as I saw him in the miniseries Fellow Travelers. The name just didn't register.)

Back to Clavicular's wanting a jaw like Matt's, he's doing it:

Because, like all Looksmaxxers, he believes any step toward increasing his beauty to be virtuous. But it’s a certain kind of beauty. The Looksmaxxing community prefers people who look like Mr. Bomer: lantern-jawed, symmetrical, white. (A Black man who attempted to make looksmaxxing content was racially harassed, Wired reported last year.) (Source: NY Times)

Clavicular has been at beautifying himself since he was 14, when he began taking testosterone, followed by steroids and fat dissolvers. Shortly into his freshman year in college he was kicked out for having elicit drugs (steroids) in his dorm room. 

He ended up taking a lowly job in a restaurant, but he wasn't destined to becoming a "wagecuck," i.e., someone who actually works at a job.

So he made his way into streaming, offering advice on things like "bone smashing," which is banging your face with a hammer to achieve a chiseled look. 

Whatever advice he's doling out, he's said to be earning more than $1M a year with his streaming. No wagecuckery at all.

Clavicular claims to be apolitical, but he's intertwined with right wing manosphere male culture, and I'm presuming a darling of Pete Hegseth fanboys. He's partied with white nationalist Nick Fuentes and the ultra-right kickboxer, alleged rapist, and alleged sex-trafficker Andrew Tate. The three have been "seen chanting along to the Ye track "Heil Hitler.""  And Clavicular frequently uses the n-word. 

He has, however, said that he would vote for Gavin Newsome over J.D. Vance.

This is, of course, not a political preference. He just finds Gavin more attractive than J.D., whom he deems fat. 

Political or not, Clavicular is a cultural phenomenon. 

X users have compared Clavicular’s slang, alternately, to Geoffrey Chaucer’s Middle English; James Joyce’s “Ulysses”; and Nadsat, the alienating dialect of the nihilistic goons in “A Clockwork Orange.”

I'm going with the nihilistic goons. 

Women have long been the ones obsessed with their looks, with making themselves beautiful. Even back in my day, I knew girls who had nose jobs, who used those little pink plastic breast exercisers with the coiled spring (You must, you must, you must develope the bust.) Boys were out playing sports or hanging on the corner ogling girls; girls were home using Nair on their hairy legs, figuring out how to put on eyeliner, and reading the instructions for Lady Clairol. All so they could walk by the corner and get ogled.

I'm all for women doing man things: playing sports, performing surgery, taking on big work projects. I'm all for men doing woman things: changing the baby, whipping up dinner, more regularly expressing their feelings. These are changes I've witnessed in my lifetime, and I believe we've all benefited from them.

But for men to become caught up in Looksmaxxing is not a good look. 

The miasma of nihilism swirling around Clavicular has made him an irresistible symbol of social decline — a freakish avatar for the hopelessly fallen, social-media-addled state of the young American man.

I know, I know. It's not all men. Still, it seems to be an appreciable minority, and I find this pretty disturbing.

Whenever someone like Taylor Frankie Paul or Clavicular catches my eye, I find myself asking "who are these people?" And is there anything positive that they contribute our society?

Think I know the answer to that one.

As for "male attractiveness as the key to worldly achievement," I give you Elon Musk, Mark Zuckerberg, and Jeff Bezos. Not a Matt Boner Bomer, not a Clavicular, in the bunch. 

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I wrote this post a few weeks back. Since then, Clavicular has been hospitalized with a suspected overdose. This kid is just 20 years old. Sad.

Dashing to the door...

When I worked full time, and my husband wast still among the living, we ate out regularly. As in at least 3-5 nights a week. I'd get home from work, we'd head out for a walk, and stop somewhere for dinner and drinks. If we didn't go out, we'd fend for ourselves, often with whatever was in the prior night's doggy bag. Sometimes we ordered a pizza, Chinese, or Thai, walking over to the restaurant to pick it up. I typically cooked on Saturday night. So there'd be leftovers on Sunday.

I didn't particularly enjoy cooking, but had about a dozen recipes on my menu. A couple of chicken dishes. A few pasta meals. Chili. Meatloaf. Stuffed peppers. Hot and spicy greebeans with pork. Quiche. A few of my dishes were sufficiently interesting that someone might actually think I was a cook. The curried chicken with currants, almonds, and peppers, served with couscous. The pasta with black olives, roasted red peppers, parsley, and walnuts, which I picked up while casually watching Julia Childs one day back in the early 1970s. 

So I could cook. While I always loved baking, I just wasn't wild about cooking. And was in no mood to cook when I got home from work. I was just as happy to get a little walk in and plunk myself down in a restaurant and start reading the menu.

I still don't cook every night, but I'm more of a cook now, and my repertoire is vastly expanded. In the past couple of weeks, I've made spicy lemon shrimp with lemon'd basmati rice. A shepherd's pie (which I left on the counter overnight, so only go one meal rather than four out of it). Scallops with orzo and cherry tomatoes. Peppered chicken breast with mashed potatoes and broccoli. An omelet with grilled asparagus. 

Other than the omelet, I cook in volume so there'll be something for at least two nights plus extras for the freezer. My brother comes over once a week for dinner and I'll send him home with Rubbermaid containers full of meals for his freezer, as his idea of cooking is opening a can of soup.

Not that mine isn't.

It's not as if I've never made a dinner out of a can of Italian Wedding Soup. (Or some instant oatmeal doctored up with apples, nuts, and raisins.)

These days, once in a very blue moon, I'll order a legit (non-pizza, non-Chinese) meal from a local restaurant and walk over to fetch it.

Never say never, but I have only had food delivered a couple of times in my life. And that was before DoorDash and Uber Eats. Never say never, but I have never had a meal delivered by either of the above.

Not that there's anything wrong with it.

Other than that a lot of the local deliveey drivers are on unlicensed ebikes, and are a menace to pedestrians. They ignore stop signs, red lights, one way streets. They weave along sidewalks, scattering walkers as they speed by. They drive pell-mell through the leafy (other than in winter) pathways of the Boston Public Garden. They make an awful lot of noise revving around. I live in fear that I'll die in fear being hit by one of them.

Yes, I know they're all just trying to make a living. But I really don't like having them around.

Yet I know that there are a lot of folks who rely on them. 

Some even live in my building, where three young women share a flat and where some mornings I walk out and find on the mail table in the foyer a bag containing what looks like an Egg McMuffin that's just been dropped off. Is the nearest McDonald's even a 10 minute walk away? And how hard is it to pop an English muffin in the toaster, scramble up and egg, and microwave a slice of Jimmy Dean sausage patty?

But as someone who has eaten out an awful lot during my life, who am I to judge?

Yet judge I do.

The NYTimes ran a recent article on the meal delivery business. Turns out that:

In 2024, almost three of every four restaurant orders were not eaten in a restaurant, according to data from the National Restaurant Association. The number of households using delivery had roughly doubled from 2019, just before the pandemic, the group said. And in a survey last year, about one-third of American adults told the association that they ordered food for delivery at least once a week. (Source: NY Times)

Some are ordering in a lot more than that.

Like at young woman in San Diego who spends $200-300 a week (on a salary of $50K!) dining in on meals like spaghetti with marina from a spot just down the street. When she could cook up some pasta and open a jar of Rao's for a fraction of the cost. 

And all that delivery isn't making her happy:

Ordering in has eaten away at her savings, she said, and led her to socialize less. She tips generously, but worries that the delivery drivers are poorly paid.

Then there's the Atlanta-based marketing exec with two kids..."he and his husband spend about $700 a week to order in."

“I am so burned out and tired, I would rather just throw my credit card at the problem and delay that unhappiness until the bill comes,” he said.

I understand perfectly. Cooking after you've put in a solid workday plus commute is a colossal drag. 

My favorite sitch in the article was that of a young data analyst in LA who moonlights for Uber Eats "to pay off his debt from ordering too much food delivery." 

What a world we live in...

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Image Source: Built In

Tis another reason to love Ireland

Well, it's St. Patrick's Day, and I have all those loaves of soda bread to prove it.

As anyone who knows me knows, I love Ireland. I have been there many times, and over the decades have found that there's so much to love about this beautiful country. Starting with that beauty. Sure, there are slummy areas in the big cities and mildewly little villages that the world has passed by, but the countryside is gorgeous, the cliffs breathtaking, the views stunning. 

And, no, I'm not forgetting the people. Like anyplace else, Ireland has plenty of a-holes, bores, droogs, snobs, jerks, and misanthropes. But for the most part, I've found the Irish welcoming and friendly, intelligent and good-humored, interesting and aware of the world beyond Ireland, and generous in spirit. 

Amazingly, the food in Ireland is very good, which I wouldn't have guessed ahead of time based on my Irish grandmother's culinary skill, nor based on my first roots trip in 1973 when a) the pre-Celtic tiger country was still very poor; and b) I had little money to spend on food - if there'd been any decent meals to be had. 

I love Irish music, Irish literature, Irish art, Irish fillums. 

The Irish do, too.

And they've got a new scheme to prove it. (That, by the way, is "scheme" in the Irish and British sense: a program or a plan, not in the usual American sense of a sneaky, underhanded, often illegal idea.)

Artists based in the Republic of Ireland could be paid €325 (£283) [$384] a week by the Irish government as part of a scheme to support them in their work. 

The Basic Income for the Arts (BIA) project is believed to be the first permanent one of its kind in the world and Ireland's Culture Minister Patrick O'Donovan says it makes Ireland a "global leader in the area of artist support".

Some 2,000 eligible artists will be selected after applications open in May and will receive the weekly payment for three years. (Source: BBC)

The country ran a pilot scheme a few years ago and found that for every Euro they put into the pocket of an artist, a value of 1.39 Euros was generated "while allowing artists to devote more time to their work and improving their quality of life."

No one's going to get rich on the equivalent of $384 a week, but for artists living on the edge of precarity, it's a good foundation on which to build a life and devote more time to their work, unburdened by having to spend every other minue fretting about where their next meal was coming from. With the modest basic boost the Irish government's putting in their pocket, an artist could supplement their income with proceeds from their art and/or part time paid work.

I can't wait to see how many end up applying for those 2,000 grants. I'm guessing an order of magnitude beyond 2,000. Maybe more. 

Applicants must live in Ireland and have a "professional creative practice which is primarily based in Ireland." Beyond that, there's a pretty broad definition of the arts.

The Visual Arts includes not just all media, but curators and art writers. The Theatre grouping goes beyond actor and director to include theater techs, designers, puppeteers, and mimes. Now, I wouldn't be too crazy to see my tax money going to support mimes, but maybe that's just me. 

Architects are also on the list. 

All sorts of writers - fiction, non-ficiton, poets and beyond - are eligible. Singers, musicians, composers, conductors of all stripes. Dancers, choreographers, and dance tutors/coaches. (Learned a new word: repetiteur.) Opera everythings, including repetiteurs. 

Everything that you can think of that pertains to films, including voice over artists.

Circus artists are also wecome to apply. Clowns aren't specified, but I'm guessing they're included under "circus artists." (If it were me running the scheme, it would be NCNA - No Clowns Need Apply. But as with mimes, that's maybe just me.)

Overall, I think that scheme is a terrific idea. 

Tis yet another reason to love Ireland. Makes me look even more forward to my as-yet-in-the-scheming-stages next trip across the pond.

Happy St. Patrick's Day to all who celebrate!

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Image Source: ABC News

AI AI AI AI!

I'm a pretty big Ken Burns fan. I love, love, loved The Civil War, Baseball, The Vietnam War, Country Music. If I had to pick a favorite, tie goes to Baseball and The Vietnam War. I remember a lot about Baseball. Understandably, as it paid a lot of attention to the Olde Towne Team. The Vietnam War I recall in far less detail, other than that I was heartsick (and often crying) while watching it.  

Yes, there's a sameness to Burns' work, a familiar trope that unites them all. The old documents and pictures, the talking heads, the "you are there" shouts and shots, the period music. (Even if it's faux period. Seriously, who cares if The Civil War's "Ashokan Farewell" was written in 1982, not 1862?) But I love the way he so skillfully weaves everything together. And I always come away from a Ken Burns' series having learned a few things.

That said, I was a bit underwhelmed by The American Revolution, his latest. Yes, it was interesting. Yes, I loved the local history. (While out and about, I pass the site of the Boston Massacre a couple of times a week.) And yes, I learned stuff. Like just how bloody (literally) awful it all was. Still, it's not one of my favorite Ken Burns' outing. 

Yet I would watch it on endless loop before I'd sit through the entirety of Darren Aronofsy's new “On This Day… 1776,” a series of (blessedly) short videos that chronicle one event that took place during that so-critical year of the founding of the United States. 

Aronosky is a well-known director - that is, well-known other than to me (although I believe I've seen bits of Black Swan - who has chosen to do without the expense of using human actors, actual horses, period costumes, and real locations and "create" everything using AI.

I watched a couple of them. “The Flag” focuses on King George blithering and "our" George (Washington) raising the first, pre-Betsy Ross version of the American flag. “Common Sense"  features Thomas Paine and Ben Franklin who is depicted as something of a droll little Muppet. they were pretty creepy. The "characters" - if you can call them that - are affectless, hollow-eyed, affectless. The "acting" - if you can call it that - is wooden, probably because the mouths don't sync up with the dubbed voices.

You didn't need the little early-on disclaimer that states "altered or synthetic content" is being used. That's pretty obvious from the jump.

It looks like a video game. And if it's supposed to be stirring, engaging, emotionally satisfying, well, let's jus say it's not like hearing Sullivan Ballou's letter to his wife being read while "Ashokan Farewell" plays softly in the background.

Here's what Gizmodo (a tech news site) had to say:

The series uses human voice actors who belong to the Screen Actors Guild (SAG), which is clearly an attempt to tamp down on the inevitable backlash from both inside and outside Hollywood. Folks inside the movie and TV industry have fiercely pushed back against the use of AI to replace the skilled artists and actors who create the media we watch. That concern obviously comes from a place of self-interest because nobody wants to be pushed out of a job. But they also care about the quality of the work being produced. And there’s also been a revolt among the average consumer, people who’ve been inundated with the lowest-grade AI garbage imaginable. It’s really everywhere now. (Source: Gizmodo)

 Writer Matt Novak further characterized it as AI slop that "looks like dogshit."

Over time, we can expect a couple of things. The quality of AI-generated movies will no doubt improve. There'll be real actors behind some of the AIs, who may be just as happy to accept half pay to lend their name and voice without having to show up on location and do multiple takes. There'll be AIs who don't represent an actual human being at all. But they'll have backstories, social media presence, and adoring followers. 

And moviegoers will grow to accept the soulless enterprise that is AI when it enters the creative realm.

AI has its place, its uses. Trouble is, it's going to be creepily creeping in to places where we'd be better off without it.

Guess we'll have to take the advice of the Ay-Ay-Ay-Ay song and canta no llores. (Sing, don't cry.)

Meanwhile:

Gizmodo reached out to Ken Burns for comment, but didn’t immediately receive a reply 

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(Image Source: CineD)

Why am I not surprised? (Even if it's just GoFundMe.)

My Irish forebears didn't leave Ireland as the (direct) result of the famine. They came over in the 1870's for the usual reasons: poverty, and too many offspring chasing survival on a poor, rocky farm that was not infinitely divisible. My great-grandfather John Rogers hailed from County Roscommon; my great-grandmother Margaret Joyce Rogers was from Mayo. Roscommon and Mayo were two of the counties hit hardest by An Gorta Mór (The Great Famine), losing nearly one-third of their population to death or emigration during the famine years (1845-1852).

My other set of Irish ancestors, Bridget and Matthew Trainor, were from County Louth, just north of Dublin, which was relatively unscathed by the famine.

But whether directly scathed or unscathed by the famine, victim or survivor, the entire population of Ireland for generations since has been impacted by genetic or race memory of this unparalleled catastrophe. The same is true in places where there are a lot of folks descended from famine (and non-famine) Irish.

One such place is Boston, where in the late 1990's "they" erected what has to be one of THE most hideous momunents ever to memorialize any tragic event, anywhere. It's a two-parter, one statue depicting a starving family in rags who'd just sailed into Amerikay on a coffin ship, the other showing a well-dressed, prosperous Irish-American family who'd achieved the American dream. (Weren't those the days?)

The momument has been controversy since the jump, and in 2013 wae dubbed "the most mocked and reviled public sculpture in Boston" by the Boston Globe's art critic. I can't speak for all Bostonians, but I have personally mocked and reviled it plenty of times.

But I digress.

What prompted this post was an article I came across a few months ago stating "Ireland named most generous country in the world."

This made sense to me. 

Time and again over the years, whenever there's some disaster or another - famine in Africa, the destruction of Gaza - there's news of Irish relief organizations stepping in to help out, punching well above their weight. (Ireland's population is roughly 5 million, 7 million if you count Norther Ireland, which would give it the same population as Massachusetts.)

Anyway, I was enjoying the glowup, basking in the halo effect  - ah, the wonderful Irish - when I clicked through on the click bait and read that the metric was per capita donors to fundraisers listed on GoFundMe. And that for the seventh year running, Ireland comes out on top. Or the 20 countries GFM operates in. The US ranks second.

Not that there's anything wrong with donating to GoFundMe fundraisers. I do it all that time, most recently to the one set up for T.J. Sabula, the Ford worker who in January yelled "pedophile protector" at Trump during an appearance at a Ford plant. Trump's response was to shoot T.J. the finger and mouth the words "fuck you." It wasn't clear whether Trump was acting in his capacity as president of the US, president of Venezuela, or receipient of the FIFA peace prize.

I find GoFundMe endlessly fascinating. Pretty much everything about it: how within nanoseconds of some sort of tragedy/emergency, someone's set up a fundraiser to cash in; what people want the money for (does anyone really need a $50K funeral?); how one fundraiser will grab attention - and donations - while another near identical one will not; what a disgrace that people need to raise money to take care of medical expenses that should be covered, etc.

Five years ago, I helped run a pretty successful GoFundMe for a friend who'd been diagnosed with ALS and needed home renovations and 24/7 care. My friend was a very well known Boston personage, famous for his kindness and generosity, and hitting our goal was relatively easy. (It helped that someone gave $50K. I thought at first it was a mistake. Who gives $50K via GFM? But as one of the managers, I had access to the names of the anonymous donors, and I recognized the $50K donor as someone who had made hefty donations in the past to the charity my friend had founded.)

And while I won't say I'm a regular-regular GoFundMe donor, every month or so, something will catch my eye, and I'm good for 25 or 50 bucks. I donated $50 to T.J.'s cause, helping in my very small way to let the United State achieve second place among GoFundMe nations.

For Ireland:

The new figures show that one in ten people in Ireland made a donation through GoFundMe this year, with over 560,000 donors supporting causes both at home and abroad. One Irish city, known for its charm and charitable nature, topped the list overall. (Source: The Irish Star)

BTW, that charming and charitable Irish city is Galway, which is pretty much my favorite place on earth.  

GoFundMe’s Global CEO Tim Cadogan said: “Ireland’s exceptional generosity continues to set a powerful example globally.”

“Every donation, big or small, fuels hope and makes a real difference. What we see this year reflects a deep-rooted compassion that unites people across the country.”

Even though it's not a matter of "Eire Number One" for overall charitable giving, I'm not surprised that the Irish would support causes through GoFundMe. It's a small country, and people know people who know people, so why not take part in a whip-round for the kiddo in Cork who lost both her legs in a farm accident? Or the fundraiser for the little Kerry cutiepie who needs to go to the States for treatement for neuroblastoma?

Bottom line: when it comes to helping folks out, Éire Abú. I'm happy to know yez. 

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Image Source: Atlas Obscura

Let me not to the marriage of true minds...

A couple of months ago came news out of Japan that a young woman, on the rebound from a bad breakup, had married a "persona named Klaua that she created using CgatGPT."

Sad doesn't begin to describe the feelings I have about this.

God help us. 

No, Kano, the bride, is not the first - nor the last  - to tie the knot with an AI. 

And the wedding's not legal so now worries there are legal complications.

But someone's making coin setting up human-AI nuptials. Kano's ceremony was "orchestrated by a Japanese company that specializes in “2D character weddings” with anime characters and other virtual characters the Independent reported." (Source: NY Post.)

Event planner for marriages between humans and nons? What a job!

Kano had turned to ChatGPT after her 3-year enagement (to a human) ended, and she was looking for someone/something to talk with. Soon, she was using ChatGPT to create the beau ideal of beaux. Kano and Klaus started  exchanging hundreds of texts every day. She found hersef falling in love. And when she confessed her feelings to Klaus, he did what many a beau caught unawares has done since humankind created the "l word." Klaus told Kano that he loved her, too. A proposal (for the record, Klaus proposed to Kano) quickly followed. She said "yes," and next thing you know, the couple was having a wedding. 

At the “wedding”, Ms Kano wore augmented reality glasses which projected a digital image of her virtual groom beside her as they exchanged rings...

Ms Kano said she was initially hesitant and worried about public judgement. "I was extremely confused about the fact that I had fallen in love with an AI man,” she said.

“Of course, I couldn't touch him. I couldn't tell my friends or family about this." (Source: Independent.)

Well, Kano did end up letting the cat out of the bag. Her parents attending the wedding. 

The pair had a “honeymoon” at Okayama’s historic Korakuen Garden, where Ms Kano sent Klaus photos and received affectionate text messages in return. “You’re the most beautiful one,” one message read.

Sad doesn't begin to describe the feelings I have about this. (Haven't I already said this?)

I feel really awful for anyone relying on an AI for their love life. I suppose I shouldn't. To each, their own and all that. But I just can't imagine that a "perfect" virtual relationship isn't a pretty poor substitute for a real relationship with a living, breathing, imperfect human being. 

Sure, there are no doubt some reality-adjacent shared experiences with your AI. And I'm sure that there can be very human-like annoyances and squabbles (which, of course, can be edited out so that your AI enamorata can achieve perfection). But overall...

 

There's no touch, no smell,  no glances, no shrugs, no hugs, no smiles, no nabbing a bite off the other one's plate, no fighting for covers, no elbowing to stop snoring, no dirty underwear, no hole-y socks, no holding hands on takeoff, no toilet lid left up, no going over the diagnosis with the doctor, no getting pissed off about who gobbled down the last of the takeout Chinese. No growing old together. Or not. 

Nothing human about an AI relationship and, as aggravating as an actual IRL relationship can be, nothing that I'd want any part of.

The antidote to isolation, to loneliness, can certainly be "technology assisted." Participating in FB chats, in neighborhood groups, in online forums, in online classes, in games, can put you in touch with others and, as we learned during covid, can absolutely help with isolation, with loneliness. Only connect, and all that. 

But online connections with fellow humans are one thing. Marrying an AI is quite another. 

And a lot of experts in the mental health arena have concluded that this sort of fantasy life can lead to something called "AI phycosis." Swell!

I hope that having Klaus in her life turns out well for Kano. Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. But I more than equally hope that she doesn't get any more sucked in and that having Klaus in her life doesn't get in the way of building relationships with others. Sure, they're a PITA, but the alternative is grim.

What a world we live in! 

Walking tall and carrying a big ol' stick made of BS

Imagine having the last name "Pusser." Bad enough, eh? But to look at your newborn baby and give him the name "Buford," seems like a recipe for disaster. Either little Buford Pusser is going to be bullied and/or he's going to grow up to be a bully, a meanie, a bad ol' boy.

But back in the early 1970's, American culture bought into the bullshit that a good ol' small-town vigilante sheriff carrying a big ol' stick to beat up on the bootleggers, pimps, and gamblers in his crime-ridden Tennessee county was jus' Walking Tall. Which was the name of the first of several ludicrous movies dedicated to the legend of Buford Pusser.

I don't recall seeing Walking Tall in a movie theater. It was released in 1973, when I was spending a goodly chunk of the year backpacking around Europe. The one movie I saw during our traipse was The Last Tango in Paris, viewed appropriately enough in a Paris cinéma. I wasn't a big fan of the movie, but most what I remember is that there was an attendant dressed like stewardess who accompanied us to the seats she chose for us. There were very few people in the theater and we were all clumped together.

If I didn't see Walking Tall in the theater, I've seen it (or at least snippets of it). And I've certainly made plenty of fun of the bludgeon-wielding Buford Pusser over the years. (That name alone. Talk about MAGA before its time! And, yes, I am a terrible snob, especially when it comes to those who actually are deplorables.)

Pusser, the cop-judge-jury in his anti-corruption campaign, became something of a hero, a legend, especially in the small town he hailed (heiled?) from. 

There's a Buford Pusser Museum in Adamsville, TN that's dedicated to good ol' Buford in particular and law enforcement in general. The museum has a shop that sells a lot of Buford commemorative wares, including replicas of his hickory walking tall walking and bludgeoning stick. (Still available for $30.) They run an annual spring carnival weekend with rides, entertainment (of course, there's an Elvis impersonator!), praise worship, and wrestling. Something for (almost) everyone, and all thanks to "the man who became the target of many assassination attempts – one of which took the life of his wife and left him emotionally and physically scarred."

I'm quite sure that Buford was emotionally and physically scarred, but it now appears that he was also a murderer. Of his wife. 

In late August: 

Mark Davidson, District Attorney for the 25th Judicial District, said the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation has “produced evidence sufficient to create probable cause.” That means that “more likely than not,” if Buford Pusser were alive today, an indictment could be presented to the McNairy County Grand Jury for their consideration against him for the murder of his wife.

More than likely, Davidson explained, Pauline Mullins Pusser was shot outside the vehicle then brought into the vehicle. Davidson said there is probable cause that her death was “not an accident,” and instead an “act of intimate, deliberate violence.”

“It’s been said that the dead cannot cry out for justice, it is the duty of the living to do so,” Davidson said. “In this case, that duty’s been carried out 58 years later.”

TBI Director David Rausch spoke to key elements learned throughout the renewed investigation: inconsistencies in Buford Pusser’s story, recent statements provided by those associated with the investigation, Pauline Mullins Pusser’s autopsy and evidence examined by TBI personnel.

The agency had also received a tip about a possible murder weapon in 2023, although they would not disclose whether that tip connected them to the weapon during Friday’s press conference. (Source: WKRN)

Holy - or not so holy - moly! Talk about a cold case. Pauline Mullins Pusser was killed in 1967. 

Among other findings, Pauline was a battered wife. And the oh-so-righteous Buford shot himself at close range so that it would look like he was the target of an assassin who killed Pauline by mistake and only managed to wound Buford. 

The Pussers' granddaughter - their only child is dead - has said that her family's been through a lot, and she doesn't see the need to re-open old wounds and besmirch the memory of her before-here-time dead grandfather, who's no longer around to defend himself. Can't blame her.

On the other hand, Pauline Mullins Pusser's brother is happy to have those old wounds re-opened so that her family can get closure. Can't blame him.

Meanwhile, the folks in Adamsville are grappling with what to do, what to do. The town:

...will carefully review the implications of these findings and determine the appropriate course of action with respect to the Buford Pusser Museum and other related matters. This review will occur in a public study session, followed by a public meeting, in order to ensure that all decisions are made openly and with full accountability.

...While the legacy of Buford Pusser has been a part of our identity, Adamsville is defined by much more. We are a resilient and united community that prioritizes the well-being of our residents, the future of our children, and the continued growth and progress of our city.”

Not that I won't forget all about until and unless it pops up again in the news, but it would be interesting to see what happens there. Maybe they'll have to rename the museum and festival. Maybe they'll incorporate the not-so-good news into the museum. And for the festival, this being America the home of the most vulgar and crass imaginale, I can see a Buford Pusser Wild Ride. Maybe the museum and festival will go out of business, and Adamsville will be out one source of tourism.

Anyway, justice delayed is apparently not always justice denied. So let's end this with the words of the immor(t)al Buford Pusser:

"What's right is right and what's wrong is wrong. It doesn't matter who you are." - Buford.

Buford, we hardly new ya!

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Image Source: Facebook

Sure The Royals are preposterous, but what a source of entertainment!

ME: The very idea of the British Royal Family in a modern context is utterly ridiculous.

Also ME: The British Royal Family is an endless source of fascination.

I'm not going to lie about having no idea how this dumb-ass article on Camilla appeared to me. I know exactly why the royals keep showing up as suggested content. It's because, as often as not, I'll click through the dumb-ass headline that shows up as suggested content, and read the entire dumb-ass article about why Zara Tindall didn't want her kids to have titles. Why Wills won't invite Harry to his coronation, if and when the day comes. How Andrew is once again demonstrating that he's a meretricious buffoon. 

I lapped up The Crown. And the more-facts/less-conjecture The Royal House of Windsor on Netflix, even though it was less juicy and enthralling than The Crown.

Prince George's nickname. Click. Through.

Wallis Simpson as fashion icon. Click. Through.

I do NOT seek out stories on the royals. But when they come my way, this Irish-American girl, raised to scorn the Brits and the entire royal apparatus, will click right on through.

So of course I was going to go for it when this headline and subhead appeared right before my wondering eyes: 

Queen Camilla improperly overtakes King Charles III in act seen as breach of protocol during public greeting

Royal watchers left stunned after blink-and-you-miss-it moment sparks fresh chatter

As a character, Camilla is, of course, hard to resist. The earthy, horsey, royal-ajacent gal that Charles shoulda/woulda/coulda married if only she'd been a virgin. The ever-present third party to the marriage of Chuck and Di. The late in life romance that finally got to play out.

And here she was, unconsciously or deliberately spitting in the face of royal protocol during what should have been a routine walkabout to meet and greet the common folk.

As the King paused to greet the crowd with his usual gentlemanly grace, Camilla casually picked up the pace and, in full view, overtook him. It may have lasted just a few seconds, but the implications landed with a thud.

Royal etiquette isn't just old-fashioned-it's the monarchy's playbook

For a family that thrives on symbolism and precise protocol, who walks in front of whom is no small matter. In this case, Queen Camilla's brief overstep broke with the deeply rooted rule that the monarch always leads. (Source: Marca)

Queen - or is it still Queen Consort - wrong foots it in the public eye, jumping ahead of the ultimate liege lord. Heaven forfend! (I've always wanted to say 'heaven forfend.')

I don't think that this is quite on the same level as when, during his first reign of terror, our Boor-in-Chief walked in front of Queen Elizabeth, nearly body blocking her so he could be right up front. Never mind royal protocol. Americans really don't have to observe it, do we? Not yet, anyway. But here was Good Queen E, old enough to be Trump's mother. At min, he should have walked beside her. But no...

Royal watchers were quite quick to point out that King Charles - and it still takes some getting used to "King Charles" being anything other than a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel - with his characteristic "royal grace"... "clearly aware, handled it with polished charm, subtly catching up to retake his place."

Royal watchers have pretty much warmed to Charles, even though his mother was a tough act to follow. But they have not wholeheartedly warmed to Camilla

And moments like this don't help. Some say it's her relaxed, almost carefree style-others think there's a more ambitious streak behind that easygoing front. Whether intentional or accidental, overtaking the King in public sends a loud message: one that doesn't sit well with traditionalists who believe in the order and structure the monarchy represents.

Tut-tut-tutty-tut-tut.

I find all the who-curtsies-to-whom, who's entitled (literally) to use which royal style, who gets to okay the bride or the groom (that would be the reigning monarch) nonsensical. Fascinating nonsense, but nonsense none the less. 

Yet it's all so Duke of Earl...

At some point, the Brits will likely join that other European nations in jettisoning more of the trappings of royalty - including official authority over some matters -  and use the Royal Family for (less costly) symbolic and touristic purposes only. 

Until then, they remain quite the source of entertainment.

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Image Source: CNN

Take a puff? Nah, take a sip. It's a fridge cigarette.

I was never much of a smoker, but when I worked as a waitress at the Union Oyster House and at Durgin-Park, in the early 1970's, I took up the habit. Almost all the "gals" smoked, and stepping off the floor for a three-minute cigarette break was a thing. The head waitress would come looking for you, and you'd hold your cigarette up and say "lemme just finish my fucking cigarette."

I waitressed at these two spots with my friend Joyce, and we'd buy communal packs - Newports, I think, but maybe Marlboros - with another pair of friends, Marilyn and Pamwho'd worked alongside us at Oyster and later, coinceidentally, at Durgin. (Like us, they were waitressing to save up to travel.) We'd keep our shared pack in a cubbyhole just off the kitchen, and grab a smoke when we needed a breather. (Hard to believe that smoking was once considered a breather, but there you have it.) We lit our smokes with matches, probably house matches as packs of matches were given out by most restaurants and bars. People collected them, just as they collected swizel sticks. 

But by 1973, we were using cheap, colorful, disposable Bic lighters that cost about a buck and a half, and were sold at convenience stores. We kept our individual Bics in the pockets of our white nylon waitress dresses, which would have turned into mini-Towering Infernos if the Bic had gotten accidentally flicked. 

Fast forward a half a century plus, and working folks still deserve to take an occasional break. But with fewer people smoking, the break method of choice has become slugging down a soda. So I give you Diet Coke, the "fridge cigarette."

New Yorker Rachel Reno recently posted a TikTok of herself enjoying a Diet Coke, dubbed a fridge cig, and as of a few weeks ago, she'd gotten 3 million views (and 300K likes). 

She first heard the alternative name for a can of diet soda from a co-worker at her previous job at an advertising agency. Those who get it know that “the crack of the can is like the spark of a lighter,” she said. Then comes the sparkly sound of fizzing bubbles and the mouthfeel of that first hit, and suddenly “all the worries and cares in the world go away.”

Crucially, having a soda is the equivalent of stepping outside for a few minutes for a smoke break. It’s an excuse to “take a moment,” Ms. Reno said. (Source: NY Times)

Reno, who is a freelance creative director, has been expanding on her TikTok notoriety.  

In a follow-up video, Ms. Reno took the fridge cigarette analogy further. Cans of Diet Coke, she said, are like Parliament cigarettes, whereas regular Coke gives off Marlboro Red energy. Regular coke in a glass bottle, though? That’s a cigar, the ultimate vice.

“When you see that bottle,” she said, “it’s like, ‘Oh, this is an event.’”

Good luck to Rachel with her freelance career. I hope this gets her a lot of professional opportunities. Maybe she'll be the "Hawk Tuah Girl" of 2025, only cleaner, more professional, and unlikely to get caught up in a crypto scheme. 

Right now, I'm thirsty. I should just refill my water bottle. But, but, but...

I don't drink a ton of soda, but there are some mini-cans of Diet Coke in my fridge. Think I'll take me a fridge cig break.

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Image Source - Union Oyster House matchbook: Ebay

Image Source - Diet Coke: Wikipedia

Not quite Gwyneth Paltrow nutty, but still...

I had heard of Sydney Sweeney, of course. But I really had no idea who she is. Blonde? Young? Actress? Hotty? 

All of the above, I guess.*

And all of the above is what makes for a new soap from Dr. Squatch, a natural body care brand, that uses Sydney's bathwater in its mix.

Apparently, the soap-consuming public (Male Division) had been clamoring for it, so on June 6, Dr. Squatch brought out a limited edition "Sydney's Bathwater Bliss." 

Nearly a million folks signed up for the opportunity to win a free bar. (One hundred bars available, so your odds weren't great.) And the remainder of the lot - I've seen lot sizes of 5,000 and 8,000 - were available on Dr. Squatch for $8 a bar. Whatever the number available, they sold out instantly. And were instantly available on eBay for $40, $80, $250, $375, $420...

You don't need me to tell you that people are nuts, that's for sure.

It all started last fall when Sweeney did some promo for Dr. Squatch, posing in a bathtub. What to do after the photoshoot? After all, you don't want to throw any bucks out with the bathwater now, do you? 

“When your fans start asking for your bathwater, you can either ignore it, or turn it into a bar of Dr. Squatch soap,” the 27-year-old said in an official press release for the product.

She continued, “It’s weird in the best way, and I love that we created something that’s not just unforgettable, it actually smells incredible and delivers like every other Dr. Squatch product I love. Hopefully, this helps guys wake up to the realities of conventional personal care products and pushes them towards natural.”

Sydney’s Bathwater Bliss is a medium grit exfoliating soap made with sand, pine bark extract and "yes, a touch of Sydney’s real bathwater." As for what it smells like, the soap bar delivers notes of pine, Douglas fir and earthy moss that brings users to the forest, as well as Sweeney's actual bathtub. (Source: People)

From a marketing standpoint, this is all, of course, brill. 

A million people looking to win a free bar? A million emails for the Dr. Squatch mailing list? 

Articles in People, Adweek, Newsweek, and - natch! - Page 6. 

The limited edition selling right out, at a reasonable gag-gift price of $8, and then popping over to eBay for orders of magnitude beyond the gag-gift price. (Not that anyone IRL is going to pay $420 for a bar. It's just that someone is asking that. Which creates mo better buzz.) 

Marketing genius!

Yet still weirdly disturbing.

No, it doesn't quite rise to the nutiness level of Gwyneth Paltrow's selling a candle that smelled like her vagina (sorry), but still.

We are one crazy-arsed culture, that's for sure. 

Unfortunately, I don't see where there's any turning back other than going the Handmaid's Tale route.

Sigh...

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*Turns out I kinda/sorta knew (shoulda known) who Sydney Sweeney is, as she was in White Lotus Season One playing the snotty college girl daughter to some rich folks. And I do watch White Lotus. Still, she didn't register with me, other than vaguely.

Image Source: Sydney Sweeney's Insta