I caught the last half of Next Stop Wonderland, which was released back in ‘98 but which I did not rush right out and see at the time for some reason, last night. Let me just say, first of all: she should have gone to Brazil, because if there were a Wonderland II, Orange Line (Next stop: Roxbury Crossing!), Hope Davis would have found that the dude whose armpit she wound up in (the actor’s name is Cheeseman, for chrissake) was a freakin crystal meth addict who was going to end up stealing her paychecks and blowing all their income on cross-dressing prostitutes he’s picked up at Jacques, thus forcing them to live two blocks from Jackson Square.

I did find the scene where she finally meets Mr. He’ll-Have-To-Do fairly accurate, I have to say. She’s on her way to the airport via blue line train, to catch a flight to São Paulo with some guy (well, not just some guy–the muito delicioso José Zúñiga, for the love of pete) she met only a couple days before. But she’s got misgivings. See, he’s a little too something for her. You know, his je ne sais quoi is off the charts. Mostly what he had too much of, seemed like to me, was sex appeal. Because everyone else in this movie was just utterly Blah. Ol’ hopeless Hope could’ve used someone like José to find her freak switch, and flip it on for her. Instead, she finds herself in thin-lipped Cheeseman’s armpit, totally intoxicated by his cheesiness, apparently, and they run off to Revere Beach together. Now, that’s romance!

Anyway, what I found accurate, as I was saying, was when she’s on the blue line train, before ending up in Cheeseman’s armpit, and she looks around at all the people crowded into it during the morning rush hour, and it’s like the train of the living dead. I thought, right on. That’s it. You look around on the T and that’s just what you see. Zombies. Thinking to themselves: “why can’t I just die, already?”

And then she runs off with one of the living dead, to have zombie crack babies (hey, that’d be a great name for a band, don’t you think?)! And José finds another blonde on the plane to make eyes at and serenade with samba. All’s well that ends well.

Check out these shots of the Moscow subway.

I opened the old mailbag this morning and found this letter from Lars in Assen (that’s in the Netherlands–no, seriously):

Dear Mike,

What does constitute an architectural abomination?

Love, Lars.

That’s a good question, Lars!

There are buildings in Boston, as in any city, that are bad, but when does bad become abominable? Well, size is definitely a factor. I mean, take the Abominable Snowman.

If it turned out he was four-foot-three he would probably be downgraded to “the Annoying Snowman.” (And his salary would, of course, be adjusted accordingly.) He might even turn out to be “the Cute, Goofy, Lovable, Harmless, and Simply Misunderstood Snowman.”

In which case, calling him “abominable” would not only seem slightly malicious, it would probably say a lot more about those who called him that than it would about him in the end. So, we need to be mindful.

But context is also a factor. Our four-foot-three “Lovable Bumble” might still behave abominably towards a tribe of arctic pygmies who stand, on average, three-foot-four. To them he might still be justifiably “abominable.”

It may be instructive to have a look at an example or two of architectural annoyances that, to the untrained eye, might seem abominable, and might well be abominable in another setting, but don’t quite make it here.

On a walk through the business district yesterday looking for abominations I came across this slightly menacing structure on the corner of Franklin and Congress, which gave me pause:

It has some of the markings of an abomination, to be sure. The crappy materials and cursory construction. The lame trope of the round columns that weakly protest: “I am not just temporary shelter. Would I need ROUND columns if I were?” But ultimately I had to conclude over and against its pathetic protestations, that, indeed, it is a temporary structure that had only been pretending (and pretending poorly) to be permanent just long enough to get itself built in the first place. And, unfortunately, abominations are forever. So, no dice.

And let’s be frank. It simply isn’t enough of anything to be truly offensive. It’s like someone shouting an insult from a passing car. And? It might sting for a moment, but then it’s over, and you get on with your life. A true abomination does not run from confrontation. It seeks it out. And strikes again and again and again. It does not toss out a random insult from a safe distance. Determined, relentless, it seeks to crush everyone and everything in its wake with the insult of its undeniable existence. It is so big it easily snuffs out any protestation. “I AM!” It roars. “what’s done is done and cannot be undone!” Like Evil itself, once conjured it is so big it must be endured, for, barring a bigger evil bringing it down, it simply cannot be destroyed.

Of course, architectural abominations are of their very nature hugely imposing. They are the bullies of the urban landscape. Their size alone renders them powerful, and amplifies their disregard into a sustained psychic assault. Regardless of their original intent, they do violence to being simply by being.

It might be heresy to say it these days, but the World Trade Center towers in New York City were abominations, and the fact that there were two of them, side by side, was so in-your-face, it left no room at all for doubt. One was the insult, the other the injury. That it took an act of pure evil to bring them down shows you how close to pure evil they, themselves, were.

Unfortunately, I fear that what will replace them will be even worse. Because these new structures will be so overloaded with supercynical symbolic significance–I mean, “Freedom Tower”?–they’ll be giant glitzy beacons of kitsch. They’ve redesigned one with some flashy-ass diamonds on top that’ll light up at night.

But New Yorkers will adapt and eventually embrace whatever obscenity ends up scrawled on their skyline, because, frankly, what else can they do? Sometimes there’s nothing for it but to turn the other cheek. What we saw with the WTC, once the structures were gone, could only be defined as an architectural version of the Stockholm Syndrome. The bullied found that they had actually learned to love these bullies. New York and the world belatedly embraced these abominations.

But, I digress.

Our little architectural annoyance on Franklin and Congress with its ridiculous round columns tries in vain to convince us that it really is a permanent structure–it aspires to be abominable!–but it’s painfully obvious, even to the untrained eye, that it is a heap of concrete and glass just waiting to collapse in on itself. This whole building is merely a prelude to rubble. And abominations, as I’ve said already, are for the ages.

But what can it do but pretend? If it didn’t at least make some gesture toward pretending it was an actual building no one would feel safe enough–and just enough–to actually go inside it. It is not a great pretender (we’ll see some of those later), but it doesn’t need to be. It’s like those party-filler people you have to have at a gala, who everybody knows are just bodies, and nothing more. They make a cursory effort to dress for the occasion, but they still come off as shabby. And you don’t have to look closely to see it. They just don’t have it, whatever it is. That somebody thing. That golden aura of somebodiness. Instead they have the dull, brownish patina of anybodiness, like so many old spoons in a forgotten drawer somewhere.

You feel sorry for them, in a detached sort of way, but you realize parties need bodies, and not every body is going to be somebody’s body. Likewise, cities need buildings. What if you threw a city and no buildings came? Well, you’d be Des Moines. This little building knows what it is, and knows that knowing entails making some kind of minimal effort, however transparent, to pretend it doesn’t know. That’ll get you in the door.

But it’s clearly not an abomination. An architectural annoyance is as bad as it gets.

Contextwise, it is also at a definite disadvantage, being right across from–actually under the rump of the Level 1 Abomination of 100 Federal Street, dubbed “the pregnant building,” which is actually as close to an architectural rendering of a teatless Venus of Willendorf as a 1.3 million-square-foot office tower can get.

Now, I want to be perfectly clear about this. I have nothing against the Venus. Some of my best friends are, er, Venuses. But again, it’s a matter of degrees. The original Venus of Willendorf is 4 3/8 inches tall. The version on display at 100 Federal Street is 36 stories. And frankly, I don’t want to be standing under her when she drops her load, whatever her load may be. Know what I’m saying? Plus, like I said, 100 Federal Street has been rendered teatless, and…I mean, come on. If you’re gonna do it, do it.

But that’s not why 100 Federal Street is an abomination. It’s an abomination, first of all, because it’s plopped itself down in the middle of things without any attempt at all to harmonize with its surroundings. Look at the picture. It looks like an elephant in a crowded elevator. All the other buildings are like, “damn, guess I’ll, er, get out of your way.” That’s not how to be a nice building. That’s not how to make friends in the city.

It’s an abomination, secondly, because its proportions are clumsily provocative, but to no end. It provokes you and offers you nothing for your trouble. Like a chunky old painted harlot in a seedy bar who at last call, when you’re finally drunk enough, you find still just wants to talk. And what she wants to talk about is her sciatica, or her lifelong battle with lupus.

It’s not a sexy building. And while there’s no crime in not being sexy, a smarter building, like the Fiduciary Trust Building down the way at 175 Federal Street–

–can work it. Fiduciary Trust is a lovely structure, in its modest way. It knows its limitations, which is certainly the most important thing to know. It knows that black is slimming, which is the next most important thing to know. It’s a tad mysterious, with a tale to tell, but it’s not going to ram it down your throat. You’re going to have to notice it first, and then buy it a few drinks, and then a few more drinks, and then tease it out. But it’ll make it worth your while. It’s a Dorothy Parker kind of building–clever, incisive, sardonic, like “A Certain Lady”:

Oh, I can smile for you, and tilt my head,
And drink your rushing words with eager lips,
And paint my mouth for you a fragrant red,
And trace your brows with tutored finger-tips.
When you rehearse your list of loves to me,
Oh, I can laugh and marvel, rapturous-eyed.
And you laugh back, nor can you ever see
The thousand little deaths my heart has died.
And you believe, so well I know my part,
That I am gay as morning, light as snow,
And all the straining things within my heart
You’ll never know.

Oh, I can laugh and listen, when we meet,
And you bring tales of fresh adventurings, —
Of ladies delicately indiscreet,
Of lingering hands, and gently whispered things.
And you are pleased with me, and strive anew
To sing me sagas of your late delights.
Thus do you want me — marveling, gay, and true,
Nor do you see my staring eyes of nights.
And when, in search of novelty, you stray,
Oh, I can kiss you blithely as you go ….
And what goes on, my love, while you’re away,
You’ll never know.

Have you forgotten 100 Federal Street yet? The most abominable thing about it is that it’s such a behemoth it will be there forever, simply because it’s too much trouble to tear it down. Abominations, I can’t stress enough, are built to last.

I’ve been on the T these past few days a little more than usual (which lately has been never). See, mein netter kleiner Freund, Marcus, doesn’t have ein nettes kleines Fahrrad, so we are at the mercy of die Arschloche am MBTA.

I don’t think I have to say I have not been particularly heartened by anything I’ve seen since my return to the scene. One thing I experienced firsthand last week was the switch to AFC at Hynes. All I can say is I’m still amazed that so far this has been a bloodless transition. In fact, the way this system is being implemented—the brazen incompetence—the bald disregard for common sense—the in-your-face if-you-don’t-lke-it-then-walk attitude—we should be calling for that smug little weasel Grabauskas’s head on a freakin platter.

But then you get on the T and look around, and it’s like, Crikey, this is the muck at the bottom of the gene pool here. Somebody get the algaecide and the leaf rake quick! Seriously, look around. The T should be charging five bucks a trip. Ten. I mean, why not? Anyone with any self-respect has already found an alternative mode of transportation.

I know, maybe I’m being a little harsh, but I was on the T the other day and it was one of those morning rush hour trips where we rolled out of the station, got about ten feet and then stopped, sat for a minute, rolled another three feet, stopped again, and so on. It took us about twenty minutes to get from JFK to Andrew. It seriously would have been faster to walk. But you look around, and people were just, like, “what?” It’s business as usual.

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. Just as a nation gets the leaders it deserves, and a park gets the squirrels it deserves, a city gets the subway it deserves. Suck it up, Boston.

HERE.

When this last weather system blew through there were some breathtaking skyscapes. Sometimes I have to say I prefer clouds to clear skies. These clouds weren’t really all that threatening. It was like a crowd of clouds just mulling around in the sky. Like Democrats, they were all sort of just kicking around individually, digging their own cloudness, each expressing its own version of what it means to be a cloud, ultimately blowing over prettily, but impotently, unable to gather into a storm like those angry thunderhead Republicans, to rain on everyone’s parade. Sometimes we need a storm, but these little clouds–multitudes of them–couldn’t muster one.

My friend Robert dragged me out to the “mega-maze” near Clinton, Mass., on Labor Day, where I took these shots:

The maze was a nightmare, by the way. I thought, how difficult can it be to find your way through it? They said it could be done in half an hour. Don’t believe it. We were wandering around in circles for over three hours in there. I kept telling Robert, “always go right!” But he was sure the rule was “always go left!” We never settled this dispute. The fact is, after about an hour, I didn’t care whether it was right or left, I just wanted out. Robert took this as a victory, and we took every left for about the next hour before he, too started to question his dogmatic approach.

I thought, if we ‘d had the foresight to position a couple of gay guys at the exit, we could use our gaydar to get out, but lacking that, I really had no plan of escape. It was clear to me, though, that, as is the case outside the maze, the dogmatic approach was not the way inside it, either. Hour three brought a decided shift in policy to pure pragmatism–the whatever-it-takes approach–including but not limited to bribing and then threatening the snarky high school kids who work in the maze and know all the shortcuts, brazenly cutting through “no access” passageways, and finally screaming “help! I’m having a baby!”

Ah, the mega-maze. It was a lot like my mega-life. The thing I have to say I enjoyed most about it was watching dads with their families in tow totally losing their shit. You know, these dads were like me, thinking, this is kid’s stuff–we’ll be in and out of here in no time. They start out all confident–shouting “This way! That way! Straight ahead!” Then two hours later you’d see them looking all knotted up, just this side of furious, about to go postal. They should probably think about having metal detectors at the entrance. There were some old-school dads in there that were the type that can’t ever be wrong, and can’t be contradicted. It was hardest on them, of course. You made way for them when they were tearing through, with their frightened brood struggling to keep up. You knew everyone was gonna get a whoopin’ that night, for no other reason than all-knowing dad couldn’t find his way out of the mega-maze, and totally lost his shit.

If you’re on the edge, the mega-maze is not a good idea. Really. Because, obviously, it’s just too easy to see it as a metaphor for life.

But there were also new-school dads who were perfectly happy to have mom take charge and get lost. And there were plenty of people who apparently enjoyed the challenge of finding their way through the maze. Bully for them, right?

We had not eaten lunch before entering the maze at noon, and I was starving and sunstroked by the time we emerged, and babbling about a minotaur. Robert gave me a firm smack in the chops and told me to snap out of it, it was nonsense–we could not have encountered the Minotaur because we were in a maze, not a labyrinth! In the first place. And secondly, there was only one Minotaur, and he was in King Minos’s Labyrinth (the original labyrinth) in Crete, not outside of Clinton, Mass in the friggin Mega-maze. We did, however, see Paris Hilton and Fabio in there. I am sure of that.

Back in my beloved Dot, the clouds continued their magnificent march across the sky:

Clouds have been a source of such fascination through time. They have inspired artists and poets since the dawn of time. The tradition lives on on the web, of course, in places like the Cloud Appreciation Society (CAS for short). They have a poetry section on their site, as any “appreciation” site worth its salt should. I liked this one, From Duncan Edwards in New Orleans:

closer than breath through a telescope,
dreams lie in wait.

blessed impermanence writ,
up there,
a bit.

(Glimpsing clouds, uptown New Orleans, April 2006)

What is it about clouds and dreams? Actually it’s not hard to figure out, is it? They pop up, change form as they drift across our mind’s eye, and dissolve, leaving nothing in their wake. Ouch.

Clouds as dreams. Clouds as emotions. Political clouds. Little Democratic nimbus clouds: drifting hapless, passive, “that can quietly watch and no more.” Or the “bulbous cumulus” Neocon cloud “that/thinks to force the world to be/and then blows itself out.” Clouds that look like cats, butterflies, a mother’s smile. Thieving clouds. Mocking clouds. Phantasmic, arty-farty, musical clouds (hmm). Shangri-La clouds. Clouds as God “thinking aloud.”

I don’t know if clear skies inspire as much poetry as cloudy ones. But I suspect not.

QOTD: what’s better for contemplation: cloudy or clear skies?