The Celtics got bigger and Oranger on draft night

That’s right folks, I’ve been dating a girl from Syracuse, NY and the Celtics drafted 2 players from Syracuse University. What can I say, I’ve been in Danny Ainge’s ear.

#21: Jared Sullinger, OSU, 6’9” PF

#22: Fab Melo, SU, 7’0” C

#51: Kris Joseph, SU, 6’6” SF

We needed to get bigger and that was clearly Ainge’s priority too. Jared Sullinger was one of the top players in the country but some back issues caused him to drop. He is a rebounding monster and has a solid offensive game. People are comparing him to Big Baby but with a better basketball IQ.

Fab Melo is a 7-footer (you can’t teach size) and a dominant shot-blocker. He could end up a Bill Russell-lite. He needs to work on his offensive game although he is athletic enough to figure it out.

Kris Joseph led SU in scoring the past 2 seasons but isn’t expected to contribute right away. He could end up being a solid player off the bench and would do well to shadow Paul Pierce.

These picks don’t really help us conceive if Kevin Garnett will be returning. Sullinger and Melo could either be his replacements or protégés. Preferably, he would come back to teach them everything he knows, which is a lot. Especially Melo and Joseph who are behind the 8-ball defensively since they played zone in college but will be playing man-to-man in the pros.

I rate the Celtics’ draft as a solid B+. That grade goes up to an A if Sullinger’s injury is nothing serious and he can be the same player he was at Ohio State. Melo also has great upside but will need to learn to become the anchor of the team’s defense. Great upside, great potential, great picks.

Book Review: Barrel Fever

Brigid has been telling me to check out David Sedaris for the longest time. I didn’t know anything about him except his sister Amy was the star of Strangers with Candy and that he was gay. That's all the info I needed as I dove into his first published book of stories, Barrel Fever.

I found it a very odd collection of tales and couldn’t make sense of it one way or another. I couldn’t tell if these stories were pure fiction, partly real, him narrating, someone else’s account, etc. It was jarring to go from story to story with absolutely no carry-over. I couldn’t follow it.

Maybe the jocosity was over my head or maybe he hadn’t found his “voice” yet and I should have tried one of his more recent books first. Or maybe he and I don’t have the same type of humor. It happens. But there was one story I liked and have transcribed it by hand below. Both because I like it that much and to save you the time of reading the rest of this book.

“The Last You’ll Hear From Me”

Dear Friends and Family,

By the time you receive this letter I will be dead. Those of you attending this service are sitting quietly, holding a beautiful paperweight, a gift from the collection, which, in life, had been my pride and joy. You turn the paperweight over in your hands, look deep inside, at the object imbedded in the glass, be it a rose or a scorpion, whatever, and through your tears you ask, “What is death like?” By this time I certainly know the answer to that question but am unable to give details. Know only that I will one day meet you upon the grassy plains of Heaven, where, with the exception of Randy Sykes and Annette Kelper, I will be tickled to embrace you and catch up on all the news. When the time comes I probably won’t be too thrilled to see my mother either, but we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it.

If my instructions were followed the I wanted them to be (see attached instruction envelope #1), this letter is being read to you from the pulpit of The Simple Shepherd Church of Christ by my best friend, Eileen Mickey (Hi, Eileen), who is wearing the long-sleeved Lisa Montino designer dress I left behind that always looked so good on me. (Eileen, I hope you either lost some weight or took it out some on the sides or you’re not going to be able to breathe. Also, remember it needs to be dry-cleaned. I know how you and your family love to skimp, but please, don’t listen to what anyone says about Woolite. Dry-clean!)

Most of you are probably wondering why I did it. You’re asking yourselves over and over again, “What could have driven Trish Moody to do such a thing?”

You’re whispering, “Why, Lord? Why take Trish Moody? Trish was a ray of bright sunshine, always doing things for other people, always so up and perky and full of love. Pretty too. Just as smart and sweet and pretty as they come.”

You’re probably shaking your heads and thinking there’s plenty of people a lot worse than Trish Moody. There’s her former excuse for a boyfriend, Randy Sykes, for example. The boyfriend who, after Trish accidentally backed her car over his dog, practically beat her senseless. He beat her with words but still, it might as well have been with his fists. He struck her again and again with words and names such as “manipulative,” “jealous,” “childish,” and others I wouldn’t justify in print. The dog’s death was a tragic accident but perhaps also a blessing in disguise as Randy tended to spend entirely too much time with it. The dog was in danger of becoming, like Randy himself, spoiled and disobedient. Besides that, being a registered breed it was headed for unavoidable future hip problems.

What did Trish’s mother say when her daughter, heartbroken over her breakup with Randy, came to her in search of love and understanding?

“If you’re looking for sympathy you can find it between shit and syphilis in the dictionary.”

Perhaps my mother can live with slogan such as this. I know I can’t.

Neither can I live surrounded by “friends” such as Annette Kelper. Poor, chubby Annette Kelper, who desperately tries to pretend that nobody notices the fact that she’s balding on top of her head. That’s right. Look closely – balding just like a man. Perhaps Randy feels sorry for chrome-dome Annette. Maybe that’s why he was seen twice in her company in a single five-day period. Seen standing together in the parking lot of the Burger Tabernacle (her home away from home) and seen huddled together, laughing on the escalator of the Crabtree Valley Mall. Annette, my supposed best friend, who secretly wanted and coveted everything I owned. Annette, always in my corner, the balding, chubby girl who said to me, in the spirit of friendship, “You’ve got to loosen up a little, Trish. People aren’t things that you can own and control and arrange to stay a certain way.” I remember she said it to me in the bedroom of my own home, her hand on my shoulder, facing left so that I could clearly see how those two top teeth of hers are turning brown as a result of a cheap root canal. I remember feeling sorry for her.

Is everyone on earth as two-faced as Annette Kelper? Is everyone as cruel as Randy Sykes? I think not. Most of you, the loved ones I left behind, are simple, devoted people. I urge you now to take a look around the room. Are Randy Sykes and Annette sitting in the audience? Are they shifting uncomfortably in the pew, shielding their faces with the 8½ -by-11 photograph of me I had reproduced to serve as a memento of this occasion?

(Eileen, read this part real fast before they have a chance to leave.) Randy Sykes’s dick is the size of my little finger and that’s when it’s hard. And I’m not counting the nail, just the finger! He had sex two times with a boy at Camp Ticonderoga when he was in junior high school. Maybe that explains why he loves it when somebody sticks their finger up his butt. He used to beg me to do that but I refused. I said, “No way, Randy.” He used to do it to himself all the time. That’s why I never held hands with him. His hands stink! He secretly thinks he looks like Marlon Brando, but take a good look – a young Marlin Perkins is more like it! Maybe that’s what he sees in Annette Kelper – he’s an animal lover. She used to come to my house crying, her breath smelling a mile off like her uncle’s dick. She said he forced her but that’s a lie because you don’t force whores and that’s what she is – a whore. Annette and Randy deserve each other. Dick-Breath and Stinky-Finer riding up and down the escalator at Crabtree Valley, up and down, up and down. Fancy little shit-heads! Look at them, take a good hard look at them. It’s their fault I’m dead. They are to blame. I urge you not to take those paperweights and stone them. Release your anger! The Bible says that it’s all right to cast the first stone if someone dead is telling you to do it and I’m telling you now, pretend the paperweights are stones and cast them upon the guilty. I’ve put aside my savings to pay for damages to the walls and windows. It’s money I was saving for my wedding and there’s plenty of it so throw! Hurt them the way the hurt me! Kill them! No one will hold your responsible Kill them!

(Eileen, I’m going to allow a few minutes here because it might take a while for certain people to get into the swing of it. Pop in the cassette marked “Stoning” and wait until both Randy and Annette are lifeless. Wait until everyone has finished with their paperweights and then I want you to hand the microphone over to my mother. Watch the way she trembles and stutters and remember every gesture as if you were me.)

Good Eats: Mama Iguana's

(If you want to hear about our food adventure at Jacob Wirth, read Brig’s insightful post.)


Mama Iguana’s – what a great name. I wonder if she’s a real woman. This Mama Iguana was located across from the Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield, MA. It’s a pretty good location considering the only other eateries immediately within the vicinity are Max’s Tavern (a sports bar) and Subway. We debated for about a second between Max and Mama and the lady won out.

As you may have guessed, Mama Iguana’s is a Mexican restaurant. A pricey Mexican restaurant. I get that Taco Bell isn’t realistic but even a place like Margarita’s has “genuine” Mexican food while still offering reasonable prices. Mama advertised a burrito at $15, 2 chimichangas for $13, and 3 tacos for $14. Those aren’t hellacious but they’re not exactly comfortable.

And speaking of not being comfortable, when we walked up and tried to enter we found the door to be locked. Somebody then told us that the dining room was closed and only the patio was open. Maybe that would have been nice if we weren’t still in the midst of 90 plus degree, humid weather. And if there weren’t these little annoying flies around because of how close we were to the water.

The food wasn’t bad but no one was in love with it. My burrito was a good size but it was served more like an enchilada with melted cheese and marinara sauce on the outside making it impossible to eat with my hands. And that’s the best part of eating Mexican; tacos, burritos, hell I even eat quesadillas with my hands. But not at Mama’s.

Holy Matrimony and Half-Court Shots

On Friday Brig and I headed up to Saratoga Springs, NY for our friends’ wedding. I know it’s what every best man/maid of honor says in their speech but it’s true: at some point it stopped being our friend’s wedding and instead became our friends’ wedding.*

The wedding and reception were in the same place. I think everyone preferred not having to drive anywhere else but that meant when the wedding area wasn’t sufficiently cooled down that the reception area also wouldn’t be nicely AC’d. It was a pretty big wedding and what really surprised us was just how young the crowed was. It almost seemed like there were little to no family members present and instead it was all friends. Which they have a lot of. That culminated in a packed dance floor, though, which is always more fun. The DJ played some “parents’ songs” during dinner but then it was all more modern music from there on out. We tossed on our favors (sunglasses that said Alvin <3 Becky on the side) and rocked out.

Seated at our table were some of our old friends from AVID. There were 10 of us at the table and 6 worked there at one point in time. Only 2 are still there (plus the bride) but we all picked up right where we left off; which was ridiculous when we were in the workplace sober so you can imagine drunk at a wedding. At one point the girls went to the bar to get drinks for the table and apparently the bartenders were taking a break or something so they grabbed double the number of beers we needed and a full bottle of wine which we hid under the table.

The next morning was a mess. I was hurting from mixing alcohol all night (What’s the saying? Beer before liquor makes you sicker and then if you add wine too you’re an idiot?) and apparently somewhere along the way Brig lost her car keys. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so paralyzed in my life. They weren’t in the room; they weren’t in the car; they hadn’t been returned to the motel lost & found. We literally didn’t know what to do. Even if we called a locksmith to get us in the car we still wouldn’t have been able to go anywhere. We were far away from home and had to check out of the hotel in a couple hours. There was a lot going on in our heads. Brig tried calling her parents (because we were supposed to meet them later that day) but they were already on the road and had their phone turned off. Her next call was to AAA because they always seem like the right choice when you’re in a bind. While she was getting transferred to the right person she walked over to her bed (our room had 2 full beds for some reason) to shake out the sheets again. This time we heard a rattle. She had slept with her keys! Some princess she is.

Thankfully we were on our way and made it to Springfield, MA soon after her parents arrived. We had a nice picnic lunch looking out on the Connecticut River and then headed into the Basketball Hall of Fame. This is Brig and mine’s third HoF visit after baseball and tennis. At first blush it seemed pretty small but of course basketball has only a fraction of the history that baseball does. But it ended up being a really in depth look at the sport’s past and I think everyone was really happy with what we were able to see.

What really set them apart though was their interactive areas. At one spot you could play a “virtual” game using your shadow against a video game player. Another spot measured your vertical leap and the most fun one was to see how high you could get to bring down a rebound. There was this basketball attached to a mechanized contraption and the guy running it would raise it 2 inches each time. I managed to get all the way up to 9’4” and bring the ball down before retiring after 1 try at 9’6”. I could still touch it but there was no way I was getting 2 hands around it and pulling it down. It was a great workout though. Then there was a booth where you could be the play-by-play announcer for a sports clip and record your own commentary. Brig did a great call of “Havlicek stole the ball!” In another area you could do a SportsCenter type thing on camera and watch it on playback.

Our last stop was the basketball court that was the center of the complex. No one’s allowed to play 1-on-1 (even if you’re not causing trouble, like the girl told us when she pulled us aside, whoops) but there is a full court. Then there are like 6 different styled hoops off to one side starting with the original peach basket (FYI there was no backboard. I tried a layup before realizing it was impossible) and moving up to today’s current basket. Then there was another section of 4 different sized hoops purely for dunking. I slammed it home on the 3^rd basket but couldn’t manage to get it on the full-sized hoop. I always hit the rim but just can’t quite get it over the cylinder.

On the drive home we got caught in some of the worst rain I’ve ever had to deal with on the road. I put it in my top 3 all time. But we survived. And since we survived, we finished watching season 2 of The Walking Dead which not everyone on the show survived. I’m glad we got into this show because it’s really cool. Can’t wait for Season 3 in October!

*Even though the groom’s a Giants fan.

Book Review: Born Standing Up: A Comic’s Life

Maybe it was my fault for assuming a book written by a comedian, about his years as a stand-up comic, would be funny. In any case, it isn’t.

What it is is an autobiography of Steve Martin’s early life and career as he became a performer whose act evolved from magic to music to comedy. He tells us about his time working at DisneyLand in the magic shop; his experience writing for the Smothers Brothers TV show; and his appearances on Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show. All of this ended up molding his comedy act and making him (at the time) the best-selling stand-up comedian ever.

Of course, this is a book solely about that time in his life so once he decided to retire from stand-up in 1981, and focus solely on movies, the book ends. We get some mention of The Jerk and his hosting appearances on SNL but nothing on what made him a household name. It’s a bit disappointing.

The most interesting takeaway from this read was how Martin’s relationship with his family was close to non-existent. He had practically no contact with his parents or sister for upwards of 10 years. His father never respected what he did and always had negative comments about his work. It was impressive to see how that kind of home life is what initially drew him to extracurricular activities such as magic and comedy so he could spend more time outside of the house. And that it would pay off doubly when he became so extremely successful.

"Midsummer, Tobago"

by: Derek Walcott

Broad sun-stoned beaches.

White heat.
A green river.

A bridge,
scorched yellow palms

from the summer-sleeping house
drowsing through August.

Days I have held,
days I have lost,

days that outgrow, like daughters,
my harbouring arms.

When did I become so mournful for the past? I feel like it started a few years ago after I moved to Boston. Everything I talk about now is "Remember that time..." or "That's the place where..."

It's sad because I can never go back there but it's also sad because I feel like I'm almost ignoring the present. Like why am I looking back on my life so early in my life? I should still be living it not already reminiscing!

The Avengers

The Avengers was released in the U.S. on May 4. Brig and I saw it yesterday. Yeah, we’re busy people but we’re also lazy people. We were going to go on Mother’s Day (May 13) but were too tired after a day with my family. That snowballed into us forgetting about it (during opportune times) until yesterday when we wrapped up a nice Sunday at about 11:30 am. So to fill the 10 ½ hours until the Mad Men finale we decided to finally Assemble.

The movie was expectedly awesome and actually pulled at the heartstrings a little bit. I think Hulk absolutely stole the show and Captain America really felt like the leader of the crew. Hawkeye and Black Widow didn’t even feel forced in as mere mortals and both held up well without super powers. What really dawned on me was just how jackass-y Tony Stark is. He’s the hero of the Iron Man movies because he’s sarcastic, bombastic, etc. but it plays because we’re rooting for him and solely him. In this movie he was surrounded by other characters we could root for and he came off as a whiny brat. That is until [REDACTED]* died and the responsible, leadership role was thrust on him. He always takes it but only after someone close to him gets hurt/killed/captured. It just especially stood out here when you have the likes of Captain America, Thor and the rest offering their services immediately.

What I thought was really great was how The Avengers didn’t feel like Iron Man 2.5**. It started and ended with Tony, the battle revolved around his new skyscraper and even Pepper Potts was in a couple scenes, but Joss Whedon did a great job of having other characters share the lead. And Whedon gave fans what they wanted to see with a lot of initial in-fighting between the troops and answers to questions such as “Who would win if Thor’s hammer smashed into Captain America’s shield?”

The film was exceptionally well done and let’s just say I can’t wait for The Avengers 2 in 2015.

*No spoilers in case some other slackers haven’t seen it yet either.

**Iron Man 3 is already scheduled for release next May.

A great commencement speech for the Millennials

Wellesley High School teacher David McCullough, Jr. gave a fantastic commencement speech to the school's 2012 graduates. I am reposting it (from my source) here.

Dr. Wong, Dr. Keough, Mrs. Novogroski, Ms. Curran, members of the board of education, family and friends of the graduates, ladies and gentlemen of the Wellesley High School class of 2012, for the privilege of speaking to you this afternoon, I am honored and grateful. Thank you

So here we are... commencement... life’s great forward-looking ceremony. (And don’t say, “What about weddings?” Weddings are one-sided and insufficiently effective. Weddings are bride-centric pageantry. Other than conceding to a list of unreasonable demands, the groom just stands there. No stately, hey-everybody-look-at-me procession. No being given away. No identity-changing pronouncement. And can you imagine a television show dedicated to watching guys try on tuxedos? Their fathers sitting there misty-eyed with joy and disbelief, their brothers lurking in the corner muttering with envy. Left to men, weddings would be, after limits-testing procrastination, spontaneous, almost inadvertent... during halftime... on the way to the refrigerator. And then there’s the frequency of failure: statistics tell us half of you will get divorced. A winning percentage like that’ll get you last place in the American League East. The Baltimore Orioles do better than weddings.)

But this ceremony... commencement... a commencement works every time. From this day forward... truly... in sickness and in health, through financial fiascos, through midlife crises and passably attractive sales reps at trade shows in Cincinnati, through diminishing tolerance for annoyingness, through every difference, irreconcilable and otherwise, you will stay forever graduated from high school, you and your diploma as one, ‘til death do you part.

No, commencement is life’s great ceremonial beginning, with its own attendant and highly appropriate symbolism. Fitting, for example, for this auspicious rite of passage, is where we find ourselves this afternoon, the venue. Normally, I avoid clichés like the plague, wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole, but here we are on a literal level playing field. That matters. That says something. And your ceremonial costume... shapeless, uniform, one-size-fits-all. Whether male or female, tall or short, scholar or slacker, spray-tanned prom queen or intergalactic X-Box assassin, each of you is dressed, you’ll notice, exactly the same. And your diploma... but for your name, exactly the same.

All of this is as it should be, because none of you is special.

You are not special. You are not exceptional.

Contrary to what your u9 soccer trophy suggests, your glowing seventh grade report card, despite every assurance of a certain corpulent purple dinosaur, that nice Mister Rogers and your batty Aunt Sylvia, no matter how often your maternal caped crusader has swooped in to save you... you’re nothing special.

Yes, you’ve been pampered, cosseted, doted upon, helmeted, bubble-wrapped. Yes, capable adults with other things to do have held you, kissed you, fed you, wiped your mouth, wiped your bottom, trained you, taught you, tutored you, coached you, listened to you, counseled you, encouraged you, consoled you and encouraged you again. You’ve been nudged, cajoled, wheedled and implored. You’ve been feted and fawned over and called sweetie pie. Yes, you have. And, certainly, we’ve been to your games, your plays, your recitals, your science fairs. Absolutely, smiles ignite when you walk into a room, and hundreds gasp with delight at your every tweet. Why, maybe you’ve even had your picture in the Townsman! And now you’ve conquered high school... and, indisputably, here we all have gathered for you, the pride and joy of this fine community, the first to emerge from that magnificent new building...

But do not get the idea you’re anything special. Because you’re not.

The empirical evidence is everywhere, numbers even an English teacher can’t ignore. Newton, Natick, Nee... I am allowed to say Needham, yes? ...that has to be two thousand high school graduates right there, give or take, and that’s just the neighborhood Ns. Across the country no fewer than 3.2 million seniors are graduating about now from more than 37,000 high schools. That’s 37,000 valedictorians... 37,000 class presidents... 92,000 harmonizing altos... 340,000 swaggering jocks... 2,185,967 pairs of Uggs. But why limit ourselves to high school? After all, you’re leaving it. So think about this: even if you’re one in a million, on a planet of 6.8 billion that means there are nearly 7,000 people just like you. Imagine standing somewhere over there on Washington Street on Marathon Monday and watching sixty-eight hundred yous go running by. And consider for a moment the bigger picture: your planet, I’ll remind you, is not the center of its solar system, your solar system is not the center of its galaxy, your galaxy is not the center of the universe. In fact, astrophysicists assure us the universe has no center; therefore, you cannot be it. Neither can Donald Trump... which someone should tell him... although that hair is quite a phenomenon.

“But, Dave,” you cry, “Walt Whitman tells me I’m my own version of perfection! Epictetus tells me I have the spark of Zeus!” And I don’t disagree. So that makes 6.8 billion examples of perfection, 6.8 billion sparks of Zeus. You see, if everyone is special, then no one is. If everyone gets a trophy, trophies become meaningless. In our unspoken but not so subtle Darwinian competition with one another--which springs, I think, from our fear of our own insignificance, a subset of our dread of mortality--we have of late, we Americans, to our detriment, come to love accolades more than genuine achievement. We have come to see them as the point--and we’re happy to compromise standards, or ignore reality, if we suspect that’s the quickest way, or only way, to have something to put on the mantelpiece, something to pose with, crow about, something with which to leverage ourselves into a better spot on the social totem pole. No longer is it how you play the game, no longer is it even whether you win or lose, or learn or grow, or enjoy yourself doing it... Now it’s “So what does this get me?” As a consequence, we cheapen worthy endeavors, and building a Guatemalan medical clinic becomes more about the application to Bowdoin than the well-being of Guatemalans. It’s an epidemic--and in its way, not even dear old Wellesley High is immune... one of the best of the 37,000 nationwide, Wellesley High School... where good is no longer good enough, where a B is the new C, and the midlevel curriculum is called Advanced College Placement. And I hope you caught me when I said “one of the best.” I said “one of the best” so we can feel better about ourselves, so we can bask in a little easy distinction, however vague and unverifiable, and count ourselves among the elite, whoever they might be, and enjoy a perceived leg up on the perceived competition. But the phrase defies logic. By definition there can be only one best. You’re it or you’re not.

If you’ve learned anything in your years here I hope it’s that education should be for, rather than material advantage, the exhilaration of learning. You’ve learned, too, I hope, as Sophocles assured us, that wisdom is the chief element of happiness. (Second is ice cream... just an fyi) I also hope you’ve learned enough to recognize how little you know... how little you know now... at the moment... for today is just the beginning. It’s where you go from here that matters.

As you commence, then, and before you scatter to the winds, I urge you to do whatever you do for no reason other than you love it and believe in its importance. Don’t bother with work you don’t believe in any more than you would a spouse you’re not crazy about, lest you too find yourself on the wrong side of a Baltimore Orioles comparison. Resist the easy comforts of complacency, the specious glitter of materialism, the narcotic paralysis of self-satisfaction. Be worthy of your advantages. And read... read all the time... read as a matter of principle, as a matter of self-respect. Read as a nourishing staple of life. Develop and protect a moral sensibility and demonstrate the character to apply it. Dream big. Work hard. Think for yourself. Love everything you love, everyone you love, with all your might. And do so, please, with a sense of urgency, for every tick of the clock subtracts from fewer and fewer; and as surely as there are commencements there are cessations, and you’ll be in no condition to enjoy the ceremony attendant to that eventuality no matter how delightful the afternoon.

The fulfilling life, the distinctive life, the relevant life, is an achievement, not something that will fall into your lap because you’re a nice person or mommy ordered it from the caterer. You’ll note the founding fathers took pains to secure your inalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness--quite an active verb, “pursuit”--which leaves, I should think, little time for lying around watching parrots rollerskate on Youtube. The first President Roosevelt, the old rough rider, advocated the strenuous life. Mr. Thoreau wanted to drive life into a corner, to live deep and suck out all the marrow. The poet Mary Oliver tells us to row, row into the swirl and roil. Locally, someone... I forget who... from time to time encourages young scholars to carpe the heck out of the diem. The point is the same: get busy, have at it. Don’t wait for inspiration or passion to find you. Get up, get out, explore, find it yourself, and grab hold with both hands. (Now, before you dash off and get your YOLO tattoo, let me point out the illogic of that trendy little expression--because you can and should live not merely once, but every day of your life. Rather than You Only Live Once, it should be You Live Only Once... but because YLOO doesn’t have the same ring, we shrug and decide it doesn’t matter.)

None of this day-seizing, though, this YLOOing, should be interpreted as license for self-indulgence. Like accolades ought to be, the fulfilled life is a consequence, a gratifying byproduct. It’s what happens when you’re thinking about more important things. Climb the mountain not to plant your flag, but to embrace the challenge, enjoy the air and behold the view. Climb it so you can see the world, not so the world can see you. Go to Paris to be in Paris, not to cross it off your list and congratulate yourself for being worldly. Exercise free will and creative, independent thought not for the satisfactions they will bring you, but for the good they will do others, the rest of the 6.8 billion--and those who will follow them. And then you too will discover the great and curious truth of the human experience is that selflessness is the best thing you can do for yourself. The sweetest joys of life, then, come only with the recognition that you’re not special.

Because everyone is.

Congratulations. Good luck. Make for yourselves, please, for your sake and for ours, extraordinary lives.

David McCullough Jr

Untitled

I was looking for something to post today and came across this quote I’ve held onto for a while:

fuck the poets of the past, my friends.
there are no beautiful suicides
just cold corpses with shit in their pants
& the end of the gifts.

I have no idea who said it but I saw it on a PostSecret way back in the early days. Seeing it today made me think of our dearly departed Lane Pryce. Don told him to come up with “an elegant exit” presumably for his resignation but which Lane took literally.

He was gifted with numbers and certainly didn’t get the respect for A) creating SCDP (in what’s still the best season finale of the show) and B) keeping them afloat after Lucky Strike left. Yet the poem is right… Lane was scared (shitless) of what would happen to him. But whether he did it in the Jaguar, in his office, with Pete’s rifle or down the elevator shaft, death is nothing if not gruesome. They teased it out of us by showing Joan trying to get in his door, then showing Pete’s reaction to looking over the divider, and eventually we all wanted to see. Well, we got our wish.

Mad Men

I have to talk about this… Mad Men is getting crazy. Like really crazy. Last week Joan become a SCDP partner by whoring herself out for the company to win the Jaguar account. Don gave a rousing speech the week before explaining how their agency would be defined by their first car and yet he seemed unhappy after finding out they won the account. It’s all about the chase with him.

Of course, Peggy didn’t care about the Jaguar win either because she wasn’t assigned to it. This led to her taking job interviews and pulling Don aside to give her resignation(!). How could Peggy leave SCDP? Is she leaving the show entirely or will we follow her new life? The show started with Peggy joining SterlingCooper so how could she not continue in at least some part? Of course, we’ve seen many people come and go from the show and we’ve never followed anyone after they left the company so even though Peggy has been one of the central characters since Day 1, I don’t foresee any more movie theater handjobs.

Then this week we got the death that’s been hinted at all season: Lane(!). First, there was the mention early on that Pete kept a rifle at the office. Then, there was the time Don pushed for the elevator and it opened up to an empty shaft. Clear indicators that someone was going to expire at the office, Miss Blankenship-style.

Of course, we knew Lane had embezzled from the company and something was likely* going to happen but when Don forced his resignation I thought that would be the end of it. Instead, Lane jumped into the new Jaguar his wife bought him (with money they don’t have) and tried to kill himself. Ironically, the car they all know is shitty and still want to represent and sell to other people of course won’t start and Lane can’t even go out the way he wants. Instead, he heads to the office over the weekend and we see him typing a letter (Resignation letter? Suicide note?). Monday morning he’s late and Joan goes to unlock his office but there’s a desk in the way. She goes to Pete’s office right next door and tells him she thinks something is wrong. Pete hops on his couch to look over the divider and sees Lane hanging from a noose.

What’s really shocking about all this action is that there’s still one more episode left in the season. Either of the past two weeks could have been a season finale so I’m really expecting something huge to happen next Sunday. Everything is on the table and nobody is safe.

*I say “likely” because Mad Men doesn’t always go anywhere with their plot lines. Remember when Lane found that guy’s wallet and took the picture out of that girl? That never went anywhere. Then the season premiere where SCDP became an equal opportunity employer and hired Dawn who had exactly 1 episode (with Peggy) and hasn’t garnered any time since?