On a little vaycay through Wednesday. Feel free to check out mennonnotes, as I’ll probably post some from there.

Lock your doors! Hide the OxyContin! Stuff@Night is why I stay home.

This free bi-weekly is so utterly naff, it could only have come from the Phoenix Media Group. The Phoenix markets itself as überalternative, but Stuff@Night is all the proof you need that it’s a front. And a flimsy one at that.

Possibly the single naffest feature of the rag is “booty call,” “because Boston stays up late (even when the clubs close)”. The idea is that you’re out late, and you’re so thoroughly, irredeemably pathetic that you either already have “booty call”’s number programmed into your phone, or you’re so bored you’ve picked up a copy of Stuff@Night, found the number inside, and actually called it and left a message.

Wanna know how something like the Imette St. Guillen murder could happen? It’s right here in “Booty Call”:

“I’m in a car with a random guy who’s giving me a ride home, and I heard something on the radio about lactive centers. Do I have a lactive center? Are you born with those, or do you grow them? And can guys have them? I was just curious. I don’t know. Lactive centers, huh? Who knows?”

Aside from that, most “booty calls” run along the lines of “I love Stuff@night and I love keg parties!” “I had a good night, drank some vodka, and I’m not that drunk, so I’m proud of myself.” And “Hey, Booty Call. I’m making a booty call because it’s in the morning now and I’m gonna do my thing like always: go to the computer and meet lotta girls in there, and have sex and get paid for it. Yeah, I know it’s funny how I do it. I know it’s crazy and everything, but it’s great. It’s great. I do it every time, I go meet lotta girls and have sex and get paid for it. And I’m enjoying this, I’m enjoying, but I gotta do what I gotta do. Yeah. Yeah. Bye.” This guy is probably a busboy at Chili’s. I think I may have dated him once.

When it comes to “sex,” Stuff@Night’s got a column under that heading in every single issue! This week’s theme? You guessed it: pap smears! Yeah, baby!

It is THAT NAFF, people.

There’s a letter in the Phoenix this week that sort of sums it up: “As for the Phoenix, what’s up with you? Are you owned by the Clear Channel now, or what? No, seriously, you are not progressive or hip. You are the frat boy in the pit, and we hate you.”

Went to see Yo-Yo Ma last night at Symphony Hall. There were actually three featured composers, but only one cello concerto (by Schumann), so Yo-Yo was there for that. Originally, he was to play a work for cello and orchestra by Osvaldo Golijov, written expressly for the BSO’s 125th Anniversary, but Golijov is having writer’s block, so we’ll have to wait until August for that. Schumann was sandwiched between György Ligeti’s Concert Românesc and Strauss’s Ein Heldenleben.

We sat in the student section way back in the back, and were treated to a lively and at times revelatory conversation before the show and during intermission by the two young ladies sitting right behind us. It seemed there was one who was rather worldly, while the other had never been out of the sorority house.

Before the concert the first one, reading Ligeti’s bio in the program, says to the second one: “Ohmigod, his dad, like, died in Auschwitz.” Her friend was like, “ich, what’s that?” The first, betraying no surprise at the question, answered matter-of-factly: “It’s, like, this big concentration camp.” The second one giggled, and sounding somewhat relieved said (I shit you not): “Oh, I thought it was, like, some disease.”

That was the grand-prize jaw-dropper. But there were plenty of other gems throughout the night. Second place: “Ich! Who’s Yo Ma-Ma?” (this was my friend’s favorite). And third: when the lights came up for intermission and people were getting up to stretch their legs, the chick turns to her friend and says: “Is it intermission?”

I don’t want to sound like a cunt, here, but (and here is your QOTD): am I wrong to think there should be a minimum of cultural literacy, particularly among our middle classes? Am I wrong to be appalled by this young woman’s obliviousness? I mean, it’s perfectly possible she was just rescued from a basement where she’s been locked in a box since birth. But if not, what does it say about us, about our society and culture, when someone can reach adulthood and the reaction they have to “Auschwitz” is “Gesundheit!”?

What a world, what a world! We’re doomed, WE’RE DOOMED!

Wow, “Missed Connections” on Craig’s List is picking up. Love is in the air, people!

Just a few of the most notable cries for help:

To My Bus Driver - m4m - 20

I hate it when you wear those blue reflective sunglasses - it completely hides your gorgeous blue eyes. I tried slipping you my number that one time - but I don’t think it worked. Are you not into guys - or just not into me? Either way - take it as a compliment - I think you’re HOT.

Karaoke Kween

There we were, at the bar. Karaoke night. You were so beautiful, you look like you could be the daughter of John Travolta. Our eyes connected more than once. Did you feel what I felt?

My Ganimide…

Tonight, our eyes locked and I knew it was love at first sight. Somehow, I feel like I know you from somewhere, like some forgotten realm of the universe where unicorns roam and theives run wild. Will you be my rougue? xoxo Inara

Bitchy Girl Who Tells Lies

Yeah, you. Fucking lying bitch. Had your fun?
You’re why I can’t stand women.

To the woman applying makeup on the Redline today at noon - w4w

1) Pumping your mascara wand introduces air into the tube, which makes your $30 mascara dry out really fast. 2) Using a METAL eyelash comb on the subway is a tragedy waiting to happen. Can’t you do your makeup at home? Or in the bathroom of wherever you’re going?

And finally, a poem (”Missed Connection” poetry is definitely not to be missed, people):

My beloved Tracy - m4w

They tell me you have died
But I don’t believe it, nor do I care
We will always be together

I feel so alive as I penetrate your sex
I can almost hear your moans of lust
I don’t think you are deceased
As I part your lips and feast
The way you smell
Is more delightful than ever
Again and again we consummate our love
Again and again you bring me to ecstasy
I feel you with my lust
You, you, you take it all

I revel in the touch of your flesh
To become one
Warm and cold skin joining again
And again to my desires I will succumb

I don’t care if you’re alive or dead
Lovingly your body I embrace
Your rotten lips still give head
I spill forth my love onto your rotting face

I hear them call me things
Which I don’t understand
But I don’t care what they will say
Your body belongs to me
To carry out my lusts
As I gaze upon your rotting face

(A Boston Baudelaire is born!)

In a couple of days I’ll be back in South Beach with my baby. And then, when I return, it’ll almost be time to get back out in the garden! I’ve got a plot in the Fenway. I’ll be starting a gardening blog, for those of you who might be interested: bostongrows.com. I’ll be sure to let you all know when it’s up and running.

You know, despite all the great fan mail I’ve been getting lately (thanks to “Christopher Walken,” who wrote this morning to tell me, simply: “You’re an idiot”–and a happy one at that, Chris!), I want you to know it’s not all fun and games here at chez T-fureur. We’ve had a mild winter, but a New England winter is a New England winter no matter what, and by March people tend to get a little testy. I know, my babies. I know. But here comes the sun. The thaw’s not far behind.

I mean, spring is six days away. SIX FREAKIN DAYS, PEOPLE! You feeling the love yet?

How about now? Feelin’ it?

Not yet?

There is, of course, no such thing as spring on the internet. And no such thing as love. Both spring and love have a smell, but the internet doesn’t smell like anything.

But guess what does.

That’s right: the T does.

There are all kinds of smells on the T, and with the thaw, and the sap running, soon, very soon, the brilliant bouquet of humanity will be in bloom again all over the Metro Boston area, from Alewife to Braintree! From Forest Hills to Oak Grove! Riverside to Lechmere! Bowdoin to Wonderland!

So get on out there add your stink to the mix!

If you want to see my brief pictorial review of the New England Flower and Garden thingy at the Expo Center, it’s here.

Met a friend who’d just returned from Israel in the People’s Republic of Cambridge yesterday. It was kind of an overcast Winnie-the-Poo style blustery day, which I like. My first memories were of days like that–I can’t say whether it was early spring or late autumn, but the pleasure I take in inclement weather is due to a kind of emotional atavism. It’s like liking Paul McCartney and Wings, who I learned the phrase “inclement weather” from, by the way. You remember the song, “With a Little Luck”:

There is no end to what we can do together.
There is no end, there is no end.
The willow turns his back on inclement weather;
And if he can do it, we can do it, just me and you.

I can’t say whether this is, objectively speaking, a good song. It’s inextricably tied to the mystical, blustery, happy-sad days of my childhood. I will say I’m grateful it was Wings on the soundtrack of my early days, and not, like, Billy Ocean.

Speaking of. We went to John Harvard’s Pub to hang out yesterday, and it was, like, eighties night, or something, and all my worst memories from high school came rushing back. Eighties nostalgia should be illegal. It was a decade without merit. And the music reflects that. But for those poor children of the Eighties, I guess Wham! is their Wings.

So we’re sitting there aghast, reliving the audio car crash of the eighties over and over, and my friend’s like, all that’s lacking is Billy Ocean’s “Get Out of My Dreams, Get into My Car” and sure enough, next thing you know, it was booming from the sound system. I think the chorus bears quoting at length:

Get outta my dreams
Get in to my car
Get outta my dream
Get in to the back seat baby
Get in to my car
Beep Beep, yeah
Get outta my mind
Get in to my life
Ooooooh
Oh I said hey (Hey) you (You)
Get in to my car

After all that desperate entreaty, did she ever actually get in? I don’t think she did. He’s still begging for it on the fade-out, isn’t he?

Whereas Sir Paul manages to get his rocks off in his pop song: “Can’t you feel the comet exploding?” Yeah, baby.

Anyway, the New England Flower Show’s going on at the Expo Center at the JFK/UMass stop. So when I got on the train there yesterday afternoon, you had quite a few passengers who looked like they don’t usually take the T getting on. Gingerly, with wide, sort of frightened eyes. And then they look at you sort of pleadingly, like, “please don’t hurt me!”

It’s hard to believe, when you use the T more or less daily, that there are really people who never do. Public space can be a scary place when you’re not used to it. And even when you are. There’s danger everywhere, from germs to bad behavior to the constant threat of bodily harm. It’s a wonder it works most of the time. I mean, it’s pretty amazing that people from vastly different socioeconomic backgrounds can all share the same train without incident for the most part. But I can see why SUV-suburbanites would be sceptical.

I brought along some reading that turned out to be somehow appropriate. I subscribe to The Atlantic Monthly, although for the last several years, since its neocon editorial shift, it’s been consistently irritating. There’s apparently a class of people out there who think it’s still 1954, and they all write for The Atlantic. There was a big brouhaha in the last issue on the subject of good girls giving blowjobs. For the trust-fund chicks in question a blowjob’s about the only meaningful job they’ll likely ever have. I say put ‘em to work!

In this month’s issue there were seven(!) lengthy letters to the editor on the subject of teenage knobgobblers. It’s supposedly an epidemic now. Ever since it was on Oprah. But come on. What happens to people when they have kids? Are their memories of their own teenage years automatically erased? I can tell you, and this is probably TMI, but when I was a teen, I didn’t have any trouble getting it, either. I don’t think it’s anything new.

The author of the piece, Caitlin Flanagan, laments: “What girls are discovering, to their infinite heartbreak, is that boys will happily agree to any form of sexual experimentation a girl cares to offer [duh], but will reserve certain honors for the girls who build power in the ancient ways.” It comes down to what evolutionary psychologists call the “Madonna/Whore dychotomy”–but our children aren’t learning about evolution in school, unfortunately, so they’re missing out on some vital information here.

She goes on: “If you want a boy to invite you to the prom, or to treat you well, or to speak highly of you to his friends, or to spend long hours thinking about how he can work his way into your heart—if what you want from him is courtship, romance, and respect—the very last thing you should do is ambush him with a sexual favor.” But what if you just like giving head? Help me out here, girls? Is it possible you could enjoy it? I had a girlfriend in high school who sweared she loved it.

Caitlin concludes: “That girls no longer know this to the marrow of their bones—that this knowledge comes to them in a slow awakening of misery and shame—is testament to how badly our culture has failed them.” Wow. It’s worse than reefer madness! Reminds me of the Victorian-era cartoons depicting the “two paths”:

So, girls, think twice before you give that first blowjob. It could lead to a life of complete and utter dissolution. And boys, for God’s sake, stop touching yourselves!

Anyway, we stopped into the Harvard Hillel Center before the pub, and, always on the look-out for free T-reading material, I picked up a copy of the Harvard Mosaic(a review of Jewish Thought and Culture)–although I see here that an annual subscription actually costs $25.65, which is $12.82 per issue. I wonder why I thought it’d be free?

Anyway, I guess that means I cadged a copy.

I wanted it, particularly, for an essay on “The Debate over Circumcision and Conversion in Nineteenth-Century American Reform Judaism,” which seemed like it would be ideal T-reading for the trip home, and was! The big question Reform Judaism was grappling with in 1843 was whether converts to Judaism should be snipped. In the able hands of author Lora Dagi, the debate reads like a thriller. It’s pretty riveting, let me tell you. Will they or won’t they snip it? The answer’s yours for $12.82.

Read about it here.

too-toooot!

There were a couple of interesting things in this week’s Dig, though the so-called “style guide” was not one of them. The sad thing about fashion these days is so much of it is so self-consciously unfashionable. And just a note to Ys or Nexters or whatever they’re calling you nowadays: be beautiful while you’re young. You have the rest of your life to be ugly. And you will be, trust me.

What I liked in this week’s Dig was “Oh, Cruel World!” which was relevant, as it so often is, to our mission here at T-rage! It was addressed: “Dear T riders clipping their nails in front of me,” and can be summed up thusly: “knock it the fuck off.”

Of course, there’s no question that clipping your nails on the T is mind-bogglingly appalling behavior. But I would add brushing your hair and eating to the list, too. I’m not trichopathophobic (if you are, you can go here for help), but there is something somehow slightly unsettling about a stranger combing out her hair next to you. Why should hair and nails cause us to recoil in disgust? For an interesting discussion of the matter, see William Ian Miller’s The Anatomy of Disgust . Whatever the cause, we all know the horror of finding a hair in our food.

But why eating? Well, eating as public spectacle is itself a recent evolutionary development. The restaurant dates back to just the 18th century. When people think of the modern restaurant, with individual tables, menus, and so on, most think of Monsieur Boulanger, of sauce fame, who opened one in Paris in 1765. By the way, Boston has the distinction of being home to the first restaurant in the Americas: Jullien’s Restarator, which opened in 1794.

When you look at the giant leap mankind took with Boulanger & Co., not to mention the millions of years of evolution that went into utensils, paving the way for necessaries like tables and table manners, fast food is as giant a step backwards for mankind. Here’s the thing: eating ain’t pretty. Especially ripping animal flesh from the bone. I’m all for it, but it ain’t pretty.

And if there is one rule I hold to steadfastly and believe wholeheartedly society should heed, it is this: by all means, unsightly things should be hidden from public view. Enough is enough. I know I’m turning Le Corbusier and all of modernist art and architecture and modern culture itself on its head here, but as Yeats once wrote (I have quoted him fondly before in this context and will again, no doubt): “The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told.” This is why most people don’t have sex in public, too, by the way. Because most of the time (and there are exceptions) sex is almost as disgusting to watch as eating. If you don’t believe me, get your camcorder out and shoot yourself doing it. Alone or in a crowd, doesn’t matter. You’ll see what I mean. Only thing is, you may want to shoot yourself afterwards, too.

No personal grooming, no eating, and please, no sex on the T. I mean, monkeys do these things in public, not people. Precious little sets us apart, let’s not forget that.

Speaking of. The other interesting feature in this week’s Dig had to do with porn star and hedgehog Ron Jeremy’s appearance at Northeastern. Talk about unshapely things. I have never seen this particular porn-hedgehog in action, and have no desire to, whatsoever, but I have to say I admire the guy for following his dick to its logical conclusion. 1,800 porn flicks he’s been in. Bravo.

(I was gonna do another picture here of human carnivores in action, but you can imagine it on your own, I’m sure.)

Many of you will remember this great moment in T-rider history, from the thursday, July 31st, 2003 edition of the Globe:

A 42-year-old Braintree woman gave birth to a baby boy while standing on an inbound Red Line train yesterday morning, refusing help from stunned passengers who heard her moan and seconds later looked down to find her baby on the floor.

Witnesses told police that Joyce M. Judge, a former nurse who later said she was on the way to a Boston hospital, kept quietly refusing help during and after the delivery.

“Thanks for your concern, we’re OK,” she said, according to Chris Chin of Duxbury. Standing 4 feet away from Judge, Chin said, he saw her tie the umbilical cord in a knot and wrap the baby in a silk scarf. “She cradled the baby in one arm and grabbed the handrail with the other and continued to ride the T and stare out the window.”

Bill Mahoney, also of Duxbury, watched the scene unfold: “It was simply surreal.”

Transit officials said they received a call from the train operator for medical assistance and had an MBTA official waiting at the JFK-UMass station on the platform when the train arrived. But Judge refused help and sprinted up a flight of stairs toward the turnstiles, MBTA Lieutenant Gary Fredericks said. She then grabbed some newspaper to wrap up the baby, ran across the platform toward Morrissey Boulevard, and hustled up another flight of stairs to the Columbia Road overpass.

MBTA police intercepted her and took the baby boy, who was breathing and kicking but not crying. As two officers examined the baby in the front seat of a police SUV, Fredericks said, Judge pounded on their backs and screamed: “Let me see!”

Mother and child were doing fine yesterday at Boston Medical Center, authorities said. Officials from the state Department of Social Services are investigating.

Clutching the faded pink and beige silk scarf, Judge sat in her hospital bed and told a reporter how she woke up at about 5:15 a.m. yesterday and began vomiting. She decided to go to St. Elizabeth’s Hospital in Brighton and left her two other children, ages 15 and 11, at the Motel 6 in Braintree, where the family has been living for the past year.

But once she was on the train in North Quincy, she felt the baby coming. “It wasn’t too painful, it happened so fast,” Judge said. “The contractions were from 1 to 2 minutes apart. I said, `Let me get off this train.’ ”

People, she said, started screaming. When asked why she refused help from other passengers, Judge said: “They couldn’t do anything on the train so I thought it was better to get to the hospital.”

Passengers said they were startled by the chain of events.

After the train left North Quincy, while crossing the Neponset River around 7:20 a.m., passengers reported hearing a muffled groan. Judge, dressed in a pink velour top and matching skirt, stood in the middle of the fourth car. Suddenly, her water broke.

“At first I thought someone spilled coffee, but it kept dripping,” said Chin, 32. “But she stood staring out the window . . . I started doubting what I saw.”

About 90 seconds later, Chin said, “I saw a head, then full baby fall out from her skirt, hit the floor sideways and slide the length of the doorway, stopping when he bumped up against the next row of seats. Still she stared out the window. Either she didn’t know it happened or didn’t want to acknowledge it.”

Judge bent down, picked up the baby and wrapped it in her scarf, Chin said.

As passengers slowly realized what had happened, witnesses said, the train rallied around the new mother.

People offered sweaters and implored her to sit or lie down. Still, Judge refused.

“I’m fine,” she repeated throughout the trip. “I’m fine.”

With the JFK-UMass stop still three minutes away, passengers, some of whom vomited in the wake of the bloody birth, inundated State Police with cell phone calls.

Dispatchers told passengers to ask Judge if she had passed the placenta. Passengers yelled back that she had not.

Dispatchers asked if the baby was breathing. Others yelled back that they weren’t sure.

At one point, Judge took some nearby newspapers and placed them on the floor to soak up the blood. Some witnesses heard Judge apologize for the mess.

After leaving the train and heading for the stairs up to the station’s main lobby, witnesses said, the placenta fell to the platform. Judge turned around, grabbed the afterbirth, put it in her shoulder bag, and headed upstairs.

“She just literally picked it up with her hand and put it in some kind of bag she was carrying, and this was in mid-stride . . . It was the craziest thing I’ve ever seen,” said Robert Busby, of Weymouth.

Lisa Judge of Rhode Island, who visited her sister yesterday, said Joyce Judge didn’t realize how dilated she was. “She said she thought she could make it” to the hospital, Lisa Judge said.

Lisa Judge said she has taken in her sister’s children at times when she has had “spells, she would turn inward and wouldn’t talk to anybody.”

Marie Judge of Roxbury, said her daughter seemed stressed recently and admitted she was pregnant only when Marie Judge confronted her a month ago.

DSS, which has no record of any prior contact with the family, placed Judge’s two other children in temporary custody yesterday. Denise Monteiro, a DSS spokeswoman, said the baby will not be released to Judge, who said she works for Boston Public Schools in food and nutritional services, unless the agency is convinced she can care for the child. The hospital is conducting a psychiatric evaluation of Judge, Monteiro said.

“We’re trying to find out what prompted this behavior,” she said. “It makes us concerned about her and it makes us concerned about her baby.”