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

Took a day-trip to Salem yesterday to check out the Peabody Essex Museum. It was a blustery day, so my friend Robert and I didn’t end up tooling around Salem much. The museum itself has plenty to offer, so we weren’t at a loss for things to see and do.

Robert was looking forward to the “Artful Teapot” exhibition (which was delightful), and one on the Taj Mahal (which was somewhat less than spectacular, if you ask me). I myself was looking forward to the maritime paintings, and the PEM is chock full of ‘em. Its collection is world renowned. Now I’m a big fan of landscape, seascape and skyscape painting, but when you can get all three in one, well, that’s value, people.

I’m not a naval buff or a nautical history nut, or anything. For me, it’s really all about the paintings. The play of light and shadow, the drama of the composition. That’s what it’s about for me.

Some artists and works of particular interest: Fritz Hugh Lane, a contemporary of the Hudson River School, and a pioneer of what would come to be called Luminism, is well-represented here with the aptly luminous The Steamer Britannia in a Gale, 1842, and the mystical, transcendent Twilight on Kennebec , 1849 (both below).

Another Luminist, Francis Augustus Silva, is also well-represented at the PEM. His View of Boston Harbor near Castle Island, 1872 (below), represents everything I love about the Luminists. There is an element of the Romantic in their work–the quality of light, the colors, convey a mood, a spirit. Certainly Silva was well aware of this. He himself wrote (as J.I.H. Baur recollects in an article on Silva in the November 1980 issue of Antiques):

“A picture must be more than a skillfully painted canvas; — it must tell something. Some men can never paint from memory or feeling — they give us the cold facts in the most mannered way. Many of our artists learn certain artists’ tricks and then repeat them continually, with no idea of the deeper meaning of the art, but only of the outside of things, and very trivial things at that. All earnestness of purpose is lost, and with them art becomes a useless field of affectation where their tricks of color and handling are displayed. The subject must convey no sentiment — call up no emotion, awaken no interest.”

Of course, Silva’s outlined here everything the Luminists were against. According to Lane and Silva (and other great luminists, like Jasper Francis Cropsey, the incomparable Frederick E. Church, John Frederick Kensett, and the brilliant Martin Johnson Heade–click here for samples of their work) color and light were spirit itself. And their paintings were to be not merely seen but felt. I don’t know about you, but I feel them.

Aside from the odd Luminist masterpiece, which got me all panty and breathless (Robert was like, “Head between knees! I’ll go out and see if I can find you a paper bag so you don’t hyperventilate.”) there were plenty of works depicting great galleons tossed about by sea storms, shipwrecks, sea serpents, walruses and slaughtered whales, erupting volcanoes and other various and sundry natural disasters that were worth the price of the ticket by themselves.

But the PEM is so much more than nautical lore and gore. They had an exhibition called “The Owl in Art and Nature” in the interactive “idea lab” that was abfab. There was a whole wall of stuffed birds, and works that captured the uncanny nature of the creatures, like Passage, by Sachiko Akiyuma:

There’s also the Yin Yu Tang house which they moved stone by stone from the Chinese village of Huang Cun and rebuilt on the museum grounds. If that’s your thing. In fact, for any and all things Asian, this is the place. If you’re turned on by Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and Asian “export art” you’re bound to go into seizures of ecstasy at the PEM. Just make sure you don’t swallow your tongue.

Salem’s about a half-hour by commuter rail from North Station, and the PEM is definitely worth the trip. Admission’s thirteen bucks.

Just wanted to mention, pick up this issue of The Phoenix, with “The Attack of the 50 Foot Oprah” on the cover. It’s about time someone did an expose on the most dangerous cult since Scientology.

I was talking to Itchy about it the other day. I’d seen Oprah’s self-serving speech at Coretta Scott King’s funeral and was telling him about it. Oprah gets up there and basically talks about Oprah, and how Oprah was privileged to know Coretta and how Coretta was royalty and Oprah was in her royal court, and how in Coretta’s presence she felt privy to a secret, and how if you want to know the secret you had to tune into the next Oprah. They also had a video presentation later in the service, a big chunk of which was devoted to the Oprah episode where Coretta got a total makeover courtesy of the Cult.

Itchy was like, “I just don’t see the appeal. What’s she got that I don’t? I want a religion! Why do people follow hers?” I said I thought it was simple. It’s an empire built on the two pillars of female identity in today’s America: the all-important hairdo, and the evil of cellulite. That’s it. And it’s such a central part of a woman’s world today that it’s enough. I’m not saying it ought to be that way, but it is, and that’s why she’s a billionaire. Same with Mary-Kate and Ashley. You think they’d be billionaires if they looked like Kelly Osbourne?

Anyway, pick up this issue and read it on the T.

I ran out of coffee a couple days ago, and hadn’t had a cup when I left the house this morning, and was feeling cranky. I usually don’t get coffee out. I have my beloved Bialetti Moka Express stovetop espresso maker. It makes two cups of espresso which I drink from a glass, not a cup. Throw out all that expensive espresso-making parphernalia you never use, because this is it. This is how real Italians (eh-hem) do it.

A Moka Express’ll run you about fifteen bucks. Get some Illy espresso coffee (they sell it at Whole Foods), and your happiness is assured. Sometimes when I’m a little low on funds I pick up a 10 oz. packet of Cafe Pilon for $2.69 and dump the contents into an Illy canister, and I’m stillhappy! Point is: you don’t need Starbucks. (Speaking of, there was an interesting piece in Slate about Starbucks’ espresso you might want to check out, if that’s your thing.)

Anyway, I went to Dunkin’ Donuts to grab a cup of joe this morning. There was a Starbucks across the street, but when I have to choose, I’ll take Dunkin’ Donuts. And it obviously has nothing to do with the coffee, per se. I like to think of it like this: if there was a rumble between Dunkin’ Donuts and Starbucks, who do you think would win? I think I know. But still I’d like to see it. And I don’t mean one of those mamby-pamby barista tournaments. I mean, brass knuckles and crowbars. And finger-snapping and dancing, too, of course. That goes without saying.

But, actually, before I could get my coffee (I got a muffin, too), I had to drop into the ATM. I was at Downtown Crossing, so I went to the one at the corner of Arch and Summer. But there were two homeless people inside, and they were just rising to greet the day. One was putting on his pants. And I can now report with confidence that homeless people are just like anyone else: it’s one leg at a time. Anyway, I didn’t want to disturb them, and there’s another ATM in the neighborhood.

On my way back to the T after the gym, despite the chill, I gave in to the temptation of Brattle Books on West Street. They have that outdoor browsing area with books priced from one to five bucks. I can remember when five bucks out there was unthinkable. It still is for me. Three bucks is my limit–I mean, if I’m bargain-hunting musty old used books. You pay five and it doesn’t feel like a steal. I don’t know why. That’s about the price of one of those so-called value meals at any fast food joint, but still.

I never leave empty-handed, and I always take away something I feel my library can’t do without. This morning I picked up The Essential Lippmann, Reinhold Niebuhr’sThe Irony of American History and a pocket-sized hardcover of Washington Irving’s brilliant The Crayon Miscellany, which is perfect for reading on the T, size and subject matter both.

What I like about browsing used bookstores is that you have no idea what you’ll find. That gives your finds a feeling of fate. I’ve been re-reading Lippmann lately. I just ordered A Preface to Morals, which I think is a great book, from amazon.com, so the Lippmann anthology felt right. Seems like I’m on the right track, you know. The same with Niebuhr. He’s been coming up a lot lately. The Crayon Miscellany is a freebie. I mean, it just jumped off the shelf at me.

On the way home there were two guys from Southie, one of whom had a bone structure and features as close to the Western ideal as I have seen. And then he opened his mouth. Had that Southie drawl. And that Southie attitude that goes with it. I’m not knocking it, it just seemed a little incongruous in this instance.

Male beauty is so misunderstood, though, isn’t it? One online source I consulted (answers.com) ranked determinants of male physical attractiveness this way: first and foremost, “sexual attraction for man by a woman is determined largely by the height of the man.” And you guys thought it was your shoe-size. If you make the cut, the next most important factor is a muscular physique. This, according to answers.com, “largely arose as a social backlash against effeminate homosexual men.” Um, OK. After that comes (I’m not kidding, either) “a unique hairstyle.” Then comes a “heavily-set jaw” and a big bone…through the nose. (Wikipedia’s entry for “Physical Attractiveness” is both instructive and entertaining here.)

Hmm. I think symmetry is important. And features in impeccable proportion to one another. And that’s what was so jarring about this bloke on the train. Still, an ideal is an ideal, and you get to a point where the ideal may not be attractive in reality. While the ideal may still be a touchstone, a degree of deviation from it may be more attractive than the ideal itself. Even so, those who approximate the ideal must be admired for the sheer fact that they do. That’s how we’re programmed. We have no choice but to admire them, even as we may resent them for not having done anything particularly admirable. But we don’t resent purebred dogs or horses for approximating the ideal, which is precisely why we breed them as we do.

Anyway, all I’m trying to say here is while I felt compelled to admire this fellow, it wasn’t a hubba-hubba thing.

There was a very nice-looking guy behind the counter at the munchie stand at JFK today listening to some hypnotic Arab pop. He looked to be of Arab extraction himself. Very nice, indeed. And nothing at all like this other bloke. Kinda scrappy. Finding awesome beauty in the little imperfections is what it’s all about. For the flawed masses, at least. It’s like people who are happiest when they’re saddest. (Saint John’s wort can help with that, by the way.)

I finally went out and got a TV. I’d been without one since October, when I moved in. I went through mild withdrawal, but after a couple of weeks I didn’t miss it. But this latest mining tragedy thing convinced me I needed to have one. (I wrote about it here, in case you’re interested.) Long and short of it is: if you didn’t have a TV there wasn’t really a story. I mean, of course there was a story, but the story wasn’t the story in the end, was it? It was a “mining tragedy,” which is a pretty established genre of tragedy. Not a lot of room for variation there. The story was the story of the story. And without a TV you didn’t really get it.

But I had forgotten, in the intervening months, how miserable I was supposed to be. All those smiling talk-show hosts are so busy hammering that home, aren’t they? Dr. Phil and Oprah. Even Lester Holt, with that crooked little smile and those sad eyes of his, was on NBC’s morning show this morning hocking “happiness make-overs” . And what are make-overs but an admission of misery so abject you have to annihilate the source of it?