Benchly'sWord

Up Up Up Up Up Up

2011-06-20T11:46:00.010-04:00

“[I]f you follow your heart, you’ll find your purpose and end up proving you were right all along.”

—Overly optimistic Benchly, May 21, 2009

I wonder if any of you have seen the original ending to the movie Sleepless in Seattle. The director, Nora Ephron, decided to cut the final scenes after a test audience nearly went so far as to cut them for her. As you know (or if you don’t, get ready to be spoiled), the theatrical version of the film ends with Sam and Annie meeting at the top of the Empire State Building where they introduce themselves and slowly exit the observation deck, neither able to hide their love-at-first-sight astonishment. Cue the credits.

What you may not know is what happened in the scene that originally followed. After cutting to black and a line telling us that 12 months had passed, we’re shown Annie, Sam, and Jonah eating breakfast in the kitchen of the Seattle houseboat. Sam is reading the newspaper, and Annie, while placing her cereal bowl in the sink, asks Jonah if he’d like more Kix. Jonah replies that he is full and runs into another room to turn on the television. Sam places the newspaper on the table, walks over to Annie, gives her a kiss as he places his bowl in the sink, and says he needs to balance the checkbook. Cue the credits.

So how does that make you feel? Disappointed? Relieved that Ephron ended it when she did? Desperate to find the lost scenes on the Internet? If so, let me save you the trouble. That scene was never filmed. It was never filmed because it was never written. And it was never written because Ephron knew better than to mess with the love story formula: Despite the obstacles of X and the efforts of Z, A and B live happily ever after (unless, of course, they were created by Nicholas Sparks’s imagination). Ephron may have taken an unconventional route in placing the Meet Cute at the end of her film, but she knew that once she had established their Happy Ever After, the only thing she could do next was cut to black, or, at the very most, a shot of hearts on the Empire State Building.

Another movie that followed to a T the same formula of X and Z and A meets B at the end was the tiny, near-perfect French film Happenstance. Some of you have seen this movie. Some of you haven’t. And only the most devout readers (read: reader) of mine might recognize it from the afore-quoted May 21, 2009 blog entry. Like most all of the entries leading up to it, that entry dealt with my struggles with relationships and my path in life. What sets that entry apart, though, is the fact that it was the last of its kind. And it was the last of its kind because it came just 9 days before I met the future Mrs. Benchly and found, with her, my Happy Ever After.

I bring this up today, in my first(!) entry of 2011, because I’ve begun to wonder, should I have followed Ephron’s cue and ended this blog with the above quote? You could argue that this blog has been more than just an outlet for my frustrations and joys with dating and relationships and the single life, but you’d lose that argument in as much time as it would take for one to quote my ninth blog entry. This explains, I think, why this blog has been so quiet for so long: Benchly’sWord, though occasionally home to a non-love-life-related insight or two, has always been about my path to love. And now that I’ve found love, my writer gut is telling me to cue the credits, or, at the very most, a cheesy musical montage featuring clips of previous scenes. But, as a writer, I need this creative outlet. So, what’s a blogger to do?

Like most of the questions I’ve posed through the years, I haven’t had a solid answer to the question of what should become of Benchly’sWord. Until today. Now that I can see clearly, it’s silly to think how long it’s taken me to figure out the next logical step for this blog, but I’ve been under the writer’s block weather for over a year: after a 7-month bout with Engagement Brain, I fell ill with a seemingly never-ending case of the Newlyweds. I still have most of the symptoms, but I’ve slowly been able to manage them, at least enough to be productive. And so it is that I can announce today my solution to my writer’s block:

I’m going to write a new story. In blogging terms, I’m changing directions. In movie terms, I’m writing a sequel. Sure, the sequel may have traces of the original in it (because, people evolve and so do relationships and I'll want to document those changes), but this story won’t be about my path to love. And it most certainly won’t be about reading a newspaper while eating breakfast. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what it’ll be about. Maybe it will be about creating a home. Or a family. Maybe I’ll find out Darth Vader is my father. Maybe Fredo will break my heart. Or maybe a shark will follow me all the way to the Bahamas to settle a personal feud. Who knows? What I do know is the first act of my life has been written and it’s time for the curtain to come up on Act 2. The lights are flashing. Please take your seats.

An Absentee Voter

2010-11-02T14:43:00.006-04:00

Today is Election Day. It’s a day when millions upon millions of Americans will record their voices with their #2 pencils, sharpened by hope; and it’s the rare day when each voice is as loud as the next one, even the silent ones. It’s a day when men and women will vote for their dreams, and the dreams of many men and women will be crushed. And it’s a day when your mind is warmed by feelings you have rarely felt since your childhood; when you think the world can be a better place and you can make a difference. It’s a day that often reminds me of the first time I ran for public office. Earlier this year when I announced my ultimately-brief candidacy for lieutenant governor of Vermont, I wouldn’t be surprised if you thought it was my first attempt at politics. That’s because not many of you have known me long enough to know that it was actually my second political dance, the first happening nearly 25 years ago.

In elementary school, lives were made by how well you fit in and, conversely, lives were forever scarred by how much you didn’t. And, in elementary school, you didn’t fit in at least once a week no matter how hard you tried. I remember bumping into Jennifer Person* on the school bus, hearing her complain that I had given her an instant cooties infection, and holding in the tears long enough to step off of the bus. I remember the shame I felt when Jacob VanRyan* accused me of wearing the same pair of jeans two days in a row. And I’m still sheepishly embarrassed whenever I think back to the day a substitute teacher incorrectly read my name during roll call—replacing my last name with my unconventional middle one—and traumatized me to the point of seriously considering changing my legal name.

Elementary school was war and every day was a desperate battle to survive embarrassment, irrational or not. It was the front lines of recess and gym class. It was the pulling rank in the cafeteria. It was the mutiny of friendships. It was the daytime bombings of spelling bees. It was the better funded and supplied (read: dressed and ice-cream-cone-holding) popular officers and the underfunded lower-middle-class privates who pretended they didn’t want to buy ice cream. It was the general teachers executing those who didn’t do their homework. And if you were lucky enough to survive the day, you retreated to your bunker at home, distracted yourself with toys and comic books, and did your best to avoid talking about “what you learned” in school because what you learned was that life isn’t fair. And who wants to hear that answer?

By 6th grade, I resembled a shy Corporal Upham kid doing his best to avoid being caught in any cross hairs. After 5 full years of surviving, I was getting pretty good at it. Considering all of this, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one surprised by my whimsical decision to enter my name into the running for my 6th grade homeroom’s representative to the elementary school’s student government. Why on earth would I volunteer for such a dangerous social mission as a school election, you ask? Truth-be-told, I vaguely recall doing so because it appeared that no one else was going to run, which made me all the more distressed when I discovered that I would in fact be running against the four most popular kids in my class.

After the shock of my announcement wore off, my self-appointed campaign manager friend and I mapped out my campaign strategy (I decided to play the “I’m a great listener” card) and began polling constituents, which, in elementary school terms meant we asked our classmates who they were voting for. After the primary dust had settled, it was painfully obvious that I was going to need three or four more votes to win. I don’t remember much else of the campaign season; I have a hazy recollection of one or two of my opponents bringing in cookies. But what I clearly remember is what happened the day of the election.

In the hour before the polls opened, my classmates and I were in the music room, learning how to play xylophones. My friends and I (read: The Party to Elect Bungalow Benchly) sat in front of the alto xylophones while my opponents played the bass xylophones. Our teacher’s ultimate goal was to have us learn a song, but this became next to impossible when all four of my opponents began fooling around with their bass xylophones. After ignoring repeated requests from the teacher to behave, all four were sent to the principal’s office. Jackpot.

On the walk from the music room back to our classroom, my campaign manager implored me to take advantage of the recent turn of events by calling out my opponents on their immaturity and irresponsible behavior. My campaign committee went desk to desk to remind voters of my clean record and a few classmates mentioned their temptation to switch parties. When my four recently-disciplined opponents returned to the classroom, it was time for us to give our speeches and it was time for the class to hear my voice.

Each election day, in the voting booth, with pencil in hand, I think of platforms. I think of campaign promises. I think of issues carrying more weight than they probably should. I think of bribes. I think of mudslinging. I think of lies and half-truths. I think of scare tactics. I think of racism and sexism. I think of Nazi/Hitler/Communist/Death Panel name-calling. I think of lack of substance.

Each election day, as I prepare to vote, I’m reminded of that fateful afternoon in elementary school and the excitement I felt at the possibility of serving my classroom. I’m reminded of my opponents. I’m reminded of the election-cum-popularity contest. I’m reminded of the emotions I felt after the results were announced. I’m reminded that I lost by three or four votes. And I’m reminded that I opted not to sling mud at my opponents in my speech.

And then I write down the names of those whom I feel would best represent me in their respective offices. I vote for intelligence. I vote for responsibility. I vote for experience. I vote for ideas. I vote for change when need be and I vote for the same when things seem to be working. Lately, though, I haven’t wanted to vote for anyone.

*Actual name.

The Wedding Planner

2010-10-29T11:46:00.004-04:00

And here's the second post from our private wedding website. Enjoy!

It's been 5 months since I last posted on this website and we're 3 1/2 month away from The Great Wedding Day of 2010 so you can be sure that quite a bit of planning has happened since I last wrote. Rather than spend the next few days telling the story of each and every step of the planning process, I thought I'd sum it all up with a list of the lessons we've learned thus far on our quest to get married:

1. While dessert is typically reserved for the end of a meal (unless you eat at Skinny Pancake where you can pass off dessert as your actual meal), in the meal called Wedding Planning, you actually get to eat your cake pretty early on in the process. My fiance and I tested wedding cake samples at the bakery at which she held down a part-time job in high school and when thinking about the best parts of the planning process, this step most definitely takes the cake. We designed our cake both inside and out, we ate more cake than should be allowed in one sitting, and we got a great price with the old friendly It's-Who-You-Know discount. When the stress of planning a wedding starts to get to us, the perfect antidote is a moment spent imagining the next time we taste wedding cake.

2. Everything in the world is Made in China. My fiance and I spent days upon days driving from store to store, Internet searching from site to site, looking for kitchen appliances, sets, houseware stuff, and dishware made in the USA and were disheartened to find limited and mostly discouragingly-expensive options at every turn. The biggest disappointment for me was when we selected a dish pattern that was both traditional and hip only to discover that Pfaltzgraff had moved its manufacturing overseas. In the end, we decided to skip registering for dishware altogether and keep the plates we had purchased secondhand for the wedding reception. Speaking of ...

3. I'm having fun planning a wedding on a budget and searching for shortcuts and work-arounds and cheap alternatives, while still guaranteeing a great celebration. From the save-the-date cards to the invitations to the reception dishware to the party favors to the cake toppers to the ring designs to this website, we're definitely making this wedding our own. Of course, it wouldn't be possible without a lot of help, which brings me to ...

4. Our loved ones. We have been given an amazing gift in life by being blessed with the love of so many wonderful people who have all helped us throughout this planning process. The advice, gifts, energy, creativity, volunteered time, and all the other countless contributions we've received since February have made our goal of planning a wedding in 7 months not only possible but, for the most part, stress free. But speaking of stress ...

5. When it makes Mama Benchly cry, you can rest assured that compiling the guest list is the most stressful part of the planning process. Finding that balance between what we want and expect from our day, what our families want and expect from our day, and what we can afford our day to look like is a delicate dance. And we all know how much I love to dance.

6. Getting a puppy while planning a wedding is probably not an accurate example of "good timing." We love Agatha and now that we have her, we can't imagine our lives without her, but having her around has definitely complicated the planning process a bit. For instance, it's tough to concentrate on the task at hand when there is a super tired and cuddly puppy resting her head on your lap.

7. Most every wedding-related decision you make carries with it a worst-case scenario that isn't all that bad and, in most instances, is something that will fade away over time, but the choice of photographer will affect you positively or negatively for the rest of your life. Considering the fact that finding a photographer who is qualified, creative, with a similar vision, and affordable is next-to-impossible, and it's safe to say that choosing the photographer is the most difficult step of the process.

8. I'm not exactly known for dressing up, and I'm most definitely not known for wearing rings, but it was pretty awesome to see myself in the mirror wearing the suit I'll be wearing on my wedding day, and it felt incredible to try on my wedding ring.

The Road Unexpectedly Taken, at 1 a.m.

2010-10-29T11:38:00.008-04:00

Note to readers: I apologize for my absence these last few months. As most of you know, I was a bit preoccupied planning my wedding to the now nicknamed Mrs. Benchly. I didn't have much time for blogging and what little time I had was spent crafting an update or two for our private wedding website. But now that the wedding is over and there's no need to worry about paparazzi crashing our wedding, I thought I'd share with you what little I wrote. And then, once I'm done with that, maybe I'll start writing again. I'm overdue ...

Imagine that you and your girlfriend (you know, the girlfriend to whom you are “practically engaged”) have decided that you want to get married in Maine in September 2010, 8 months away from the current pre-engagement calendar date. And imagine that her parents have called the two of you at 8 p.m. on a Friday evening to discuss, on speaker phone no less, a potential waterfront wedding venue 5 hours from you that they discovered earlier that day and which they strongly encourage the two of you to see for yourselves in the immediate future, which is parent-speak for “yesterday.” After consulting a calendar, you realize that unless you visit this venue in the next 48 hours, chances are such that you won’t be able to see it for another month, and just in case you dared to think that this decision was an obvious one, remember: your girlfriend’s good friend is driving in from Syracuse in 21 hours. With all of that in mind, what do you do?

For me, the whimsical-to-a-flaw boyfriend, the decision was easy: pack overnight bags, do a quick Internet search for a reasonably-priced hotel located in the area through which you’ll be driving at 1 a.m., leave home by 9:30 p.m., check in to the hotel, sleep for 6 hours, get up early, meet up with said girlfriend's parents, tour the wedding venue, and return home in time for the arrival of the Syracuse friend. For my responsible, realistic girlfriend with a sweet tooth for whimsy, the decision required a few minutes of careful consideration before she ultimately decided that my whimsical plan was the only option for us. And that’s how I found myself listening to my girlfriend sleep while I fought through my yawns to be able to see the mostly-deserted 1 a.m. Maine roads. And that’s how my fiance and I ended up at the Harpswell Inn in Harpswell, Maine 13 1/2 hours later. And that’s how we discovered the site on which our friends and family will gather 8 months from now to witness and celebrate our marriage.

A Flawed Life

2010-05-03T12:12:00.006-04:00

I remember getting into an argument with Mama Benchly when I was 7 or 8 years old and tantrums were the logical and normal choice of attack. The tantrum most likely occurred after Sisters #1 and 2 refused to include me in whatever it was they were doing at the time, as was their right and responsibility as older siblings. I pleaded with my mom for her to have one more child and to please make that child a boy. I wanted a brother to play with and my childhood thought process was able to gloss over the fact that such an age gap would have meant that I would have ended up being the one refusing to include a younger sibling in whatever it was I was doing. Mama Benchly’s response was simple: she and Papa Benchly had decided that all of the complications associated with my birth had meant that it would be greedy and dangerous for them to try for more.

Seven or eight years earlier, Mama Benchly was gardening in our family’s Champlain, NY yard one summer evening when her water broke. After rushing to the hospital 30 minutes away, and after a labor that lasted just 90 minutes, I entered the world. At first glance, it seems like the picture-perfect, normal delivery; however, a second glance shows that I gave them a scare by wrapping the umbilical cord around my neck as well as by having an irregular heartbeat. Add to that the fact that I was born with one less pectoral muscle than the normal baby, as well as the fact that a few short years later, two toes on each of my feet would have grown overlapping each other if it wasn’t for corrective surgery, and my parents understandably saw the warning signs written on their son’s pectoral-less flat chest: try for more and you might not be as lucky.

As you can imagine, considering how desperate adolescents are to fit in with the crowd by not sticking out of it, I had a difficult time coming to terms with my pectoral deformity. Though I always loved gym class, I dreaded changing into and out of my clothes in the locker room where I ran the risk of being exposed as a deformed imposter posing as a normal kid. (I’ve still mostly blocked out of my memory the times in gym when the instructor made our teams play “shirts and skins.”) And to be honest, finding peace and comfort with my deformity has been a lifelong struggle against which I often find myself losing. I’m still hesitant to remove my shirt in public, and while it took quite a bit of trust for me to reveal the deformity to past girlfriends (again, it speaks volumes about the kind of woman my future wife is, that I felt comfortable telling her about it on our third date), regardless of how much I’ve trusted my close friends, it’s 33 years after my birth and most of my readers (read: friends) will be hearing of it for the first time in this blog post. I imagine Sarah the L didn’t even know about it. So considering my age, it’s ironic to think that it took a juvenile insult thrown my way from an adult posing as an adolescent to help me come to terms with my deformity.

Like most kids in my generation who grew up loving baseball, trading baseball cards, and memorizing the statistics on the backs of said cards, I became an adult who finds pleasure in playing in a fantasy baseball league each year. And thanks to Mr. Extracurricular, I’ve had the pleasure of playing in a locally-based league for the past two years (complete with a live draft! [I know how this sounds, so don’t bother telling me]). We expanded the number of teams this year and in doing so we welcomed aboard a few friends and some friendly strangers. One of these strangers (for the sake of rhyming anonymity, I’ll call him Brat) beat a returning team in the first week of the season and then bragged about it on a message board (the fantasy baseball equivalent of trash talk). This week, after my team beat his team in what can only be described as a “thrashing,” I felt compelled to defend the aforementioned losing team’s honor by returning the trash-talking favor (word for word the way he had done so 4 weeks earlier). Brat responded by saying he wasn’t going to listen to someone who didn’t even have a pectoral muscle. Oh. (You see, evidently, Brat is friends with my exgirlfriend, she thought it appropriate to share this information with others, and Brat considers physical deformities as appropriate punchlines.)

Instantly, I was transported back to 8th grade swim class when one of my peers looked at my bare chest and asked me if a tractor trailer had plowed into it (I’ll give him retrospective points for his creativity). However, unlike that afternoon and all of the uneasy years that followed, after Brat's insult, I didn’t feel the urge to hide or be ashamed. Instead, I actually felt proud of my deformity because, 33 years into my life and I've finally realized that it’s my biggest flaw, and that rather than focus their attention on having one more deformity-free child, Mama and Papa Benchly instead raised someone incapable of poking fun at deformities; someone of whom they could be proud. I won't pretend that I'm flawless, or even close, but I'd like to think that thus far, I've lived a life of which my parents could be proud.

I emailed Brat a few minutes ago and mentioned that I thought his personal attack was uncalled for. I also wished him well this season and mentioned my envy at his foresight in adding a certain pitcher to his roster. I don’t know if he’ll respond but if he does, hopefully it’s to talk baseball. Isn’t that the normal thing to do?

Gumbo was his name. Oh.

2010-04-01T23:29:00.006-04:00

On any given day, at any hour, and regardless of the general mood of society, a quick stroll down Any Street always reveals an alarming number of folks displaying horrible parenting skills. Whether it’s the mother of two complaining to one daughter about how the other daughter is “being a bitch”; or the father showing his friend a picture of his teenage daughter and saying, “they didn’t look like that when we were that age!”; or the mother with the crying toddler shouting “don’t make me hit you again”; or the mother preaching hatred to her son; or the father letting his 8 year old kid watch the most recent Saw movie; I see on a daily basis inept parents handing out contagious doses of awful parenting to their children. And each time, I’m reminded of something The Doctor once told me. He said he and his wife wanted children because they had a lot of love to give and because they wanted the joys of a family, but in the back of his mind, he always found satisfaction in knowing that his good parenting skills might someday cancel out the bad parenting skills of at least one other parent. I’ll see your child growing up into a man who abuses women, and I’ll raise you my child who will volunteer at nursing homes.

Considering how many parents out there seem to be failing their responsibilities to their children and the world around them, I find myself especially thankful for my fiancé’s parents. Among the countless items on the list of reasons why I’m drawn to my fiancé, is that she, too, likes to make lists, and though I’m not entirely sure from which side of the Benchly family I inherited this trait, from the moments I’ve spent with her family, I can tell that she gets this trait from both of her parents. She is her father’s daughter with planning book in hand, carefully taking notes for current and/or impending projects, formulating ways to ensure that dreams become reality, and making sure she is prepared for every possible scenario life has to offer her. And she is her mother’s daughter sharing aloud each of her innumerable, and often times complex ideas for future events/plans, in a way that at times is only comprehensible to those who have spent enough time with her to have memorized the cipher necessary to decode her thoughts. As a result, I can’t remember a time when I knew her to be unprepared (except my surprise engagement, but that’s a story for another day) and each time I see her confront life’s challenges with the courage that comes with knowing life’s next three moves, I know that her parents did a great job raising her. (Note: they already blessed our engagement/marriage, so you know I’m not brown-nosing.)

It’s an item from one of my fiancé’s lists that inspired this blog entry today. A week or two after we met, I noticed a brief but ambitious list of goals for 2009 hanging on her wall. Without getting into too much detail, I’ll just say that it speaks volumes about the person she is that she was able to achieve most of those goals, including her desire to adopt a dog. She and I both had dogs in our youth and after our talks of love turned to talks of engagement, her itch to adopt a dog became our itch. We had love to give to a dog in need of love. And so we poured over countless websites looking for the right dog. A few adoption applications were turned down, a few were submitted too late, some dogs didn’t get along with cats (which mattered due to Othello’s veto power), and then finally, a no-kill animal sanctuary contacted us about an energetic terrier who had been rescued and who was looking for a home. We couldn’t resist his Benji-like appearance and the obvious wag of his tail captured as best as possible by the still photograph, and so we drove 6 hours to meet him. After a long walk around the sanctuary’s property on which we experienced firsthand what it means to hold the leash of an energetic terrier, we adopted him and drove him home (with a stop for a necessary bath along the way). He was Gumbo, our dog.

As I write these words, Gumbo has settled into his bed upstairs 10 weeks after we brought him home. The first few weeks he lived here, I often told friends, family, and strangers that he was a “work in progress”; an energetic puppy in need of a lot of training, and daily trips to the dog park. We gave him tasty treats for sitting, and we induced vomiting when he dined on our socks. We laughed as he navigated what appeared to be his first set of stairs. He took two emergency trips to the animal hospital in the first month. He met Othello and wagged his tail as Othello growled at him and slowly backed away. He devoured three rope toys and a few other chew toys. He slept at our feet while we watched LOST. He retrieved tennis balls and promptly lost them while getting distracted on the return trip. We took him on road trips with us and let him lean forward and rest his head on our shoulders. We loved him.

But Gumbo needs more than love. Gumbo was born on the street, and has spent most of his life hopping around from home to home, never certain when and where he’ll find his next meal, never certain if he should feel safe. And so Gumbo the loveable puppy is at times Gumbo the unpredictable, growling, barking, biting dog with sharp teeth. He guards his food. He sometimes guards his toys. He gets on edge when he senses food in the air. And more unpredictably, he gets on edge when he’s tired; when LOST has ended and we attempt to stand up, we’re met with a scared dog attempting to bite our ankles. If born into a different situation, if his litter wasn’t discarded by an inept human who was most likely an inept parent, he’d not only be the most adorable and loving dog ever adopted, but also the most trustworthy one. Unfortunately, that’s not the hand he was dealt in life. We don’t love Gumbo less for this, which makes what happens next especially difficult.

As you read these words, my fiancé and I will most likely be on the road to return Gumbo to the animal sanctuary. Gumbo needs the right kind of parent in his life: someone with no children in their lives; someone with experience dealing with the most serious rescue dog issues; someone who can love him as much as we do, but who will also be able to meet his training needs better than we have been able to. People have told me it’s not our fault; that we have been great parents to Gumbo; that we are giving him the opportunity to find his “forever home.” I hope they are right. I hope he finds peace in life, I hope he spreads joy, and I hope he brings a smile to the faces of those in need of the kind of smile that helps you forget how horrible this world can be.

He looks at the smiles of the crowd on the street ...

2010-03-02T19:59:00.005-05:00

This weekend, after helping Mama and Papa Benchly prepare for their impending move to a house called Happy Ever After, I slowly made my way through our downtown pedestrian-friendly marketplace to a local coffee shop. Along the way, I passed people preparing for their impending belated celebration called Mardi Gras. Kids wearing beads were crying after being refused additional beads, parents were wearing the kind of facial expressions usually reserved for traffic jams and school snow day closings, and other adults were screaming and swearing at the tip top of their lungs because society told them to do so. Yes, it was a Mardi Gras celebration alright, even if Mardi Gras (aka, Fat Tuesday) happened nearly two weeks ago.

I walked through the crowds wondering if anyone knew anything about the celebration they were celebrating, because, to be honest, I didn’t know that much about it myself. In fact, it wasn’t until last week and thanks to Trivia Night that I learned what the purple, green, and gold colors represented (justice, faith, and power, respectively [of course, what that has to do with Lent I don’t know]). And as sure as I am that society has lost sight of the meaning of Christmas and especially Easter, I’m fairly certain that most of those crying children and screaming adults would be surprised to learn that they were crying and screaming on a day associated with religion. How else to explain the Progressive Party-sponsored float I saw rolling by the coffee shop’s windows with campaign signs plastered on the float’s sides telling us how to vote next Tuesday?

I wonder if the separation-of-church-and-state¬−Progressives knew that they were openly condoning campaigning during a religious event. Not that I blamed them for missing the significance, especially considering how often people in this world (present company included) march blindly and aimlessly toward a common and often meaningless goal. And if you’re surprised that marching “blindly and aimlessly toward a common and often meaningless goal” is a segue into a discussion on marriage, and specifically, my impending marriage, you’re not the only one.

In case you missed the news (an unlikely scenario, considering that all of my readers [read: reader] can be classified as friend or family), I recently became engaged, which, I discovered, is a side effect to proposing to your girlfriend. And because all of the wedding books say so, my fiancé and I have been slowly creating a wedding website to send to our loved ones (if you want the URL, email me). One of the website pages we’ve created details our respective versions of how we met. In my version, I mention how, despite not knowing what I wanted in a life mate, I impatiently went out of my way to find her. Along the way, I attempted to verbalize the attributes that my soulmate would possess in the hopes that my friends would point me in the direction of someone with those same traits. I spent my days dreaming of what she’d look like, act like, sound like, what she would wear, how she would move, what she would say, etc., and I did all of this because I was marching toward marriage.

Since the day I began to expect things in life, my plan was to fall in love, get married, have a family, and live the rest of my life the way I always expected to live it: Happy Ever After. I marched toward that destination, never really knowing why I wanted to reach it, or even if I wanted to reach it at all. It seemed the logical choice for a goal, but only because it seemed to be everyone else’s goal. It wasn’t a meaningless goal, of course, but I certainly didn’t understand the meaning. I was celebrating Mardi Gras because Mardi Gras was there to celebrate. I voted Progressively because I was progressive.

But now that I’ve met the woman with whom I’m going to spend the rest of my life and with whom I’ll be heading toward a Happy Ever After, I can say without a doubt that in the days and months and years before I met her, I was ignorant of what love was, what my soulmate was going to look like, and why I was marching toward her in the first place. And I say this now knowing that in these days of bliss, I’m completely ignorant of what our love will look like in a year, or 10, or 40. How could I possibly know, right? And I guess that’s my point.

It’s taken me nearly 33 years and one long search for a dream to learn that I don’t really understand love and probably never will. 20 year old kids think they know everything there is to know about the world, 25 year olds know they don’t know everything and are eager to learn, and here I sit at 32 knowing that there’s more about this world that I don’t know than there are things that I will end up learning, and that’s the way it’s always going to be. But I’m OK with that because during every Mardi Gras from now until the end, and on every day in between, I’ll be marching in an amazing parade arm in arm with the great love of my life, always thankful that I found her in spite of my ignorance. And that’s most definitely something to celebrate.

Song of My Anecdotal Self, Volume 3

2010-01-05T00:20:00.003-05:00

I haven't been writing much these days, which, as you know, is a side effect of happiness. Or maybe the holidays. Actually, just happiness. But, of course, that doesn't mean I haven't been writing. I have been writing. I'm just a perfectionist and I have a hard time justifying posting anything that's not blog-worthy (read: long-winded, painstakingly rewritten, and inevitably belated). But those aren't words to describe the world we live in, right? We live in a world of quick sound bites, typo-loving tweets, trivial Facebook status updates, and news tickers running poorly abbreviated headlines at the bottom (and top) of our television screens. And though I refuse to accept defeat at the quick hands of the juggernaut ADD public enemy, I will acknowledge that it can't hurt to mix wonted whimsical words with my preferred pensive postings. And that’s where Facebook will come into play.

For those of you who count yourself among my private pool party of Facebook friends, you have the pleasure and/or pain of being exposed to my mostly daily Facebook status updates: those 420-characters of quickly-typed and somewhat-carefully-thought-through creative outlets of expression. Though fun to write, admittedly, most of the time, they’re not worth your time or mine. But every now and then I produce something I’m proud to share with my friends, and, more accurately, something I’m willing to share with the public. And thanks to my neurotic relationship with my gal Privacy, the public never gets to read it. So after silently castigating myself for my lack of blog posts lately, I decided I might as well share with you (read: you) what little writing I’ve produced lately. And so, anytime the Facebook status update creative juices produce something spectacular, or at the very least, something not-too-horrible, I’ll consider posting it here.

With that said, I’d like to share with you my most recent Weird-Al-like dodgeball-inspired spoof of Chris Brown’s song “Forever” (aka, the wedding dance intro song I've watched more times than I'll ever admit). And those who prefer the continuing story of Bungalow Benchly will just have to consider this a quick aside:

Benchly knows tonight is the night
to join him in the middle of Montpelier.
Feel the energy in the dodgers
throwing dodgeballs around you and at you.
He's gonna duck it there and gonna dive right there,
he won't be scared, he'll be there, dodgers.
He can dip anywhere, throw anywhere.
But first, here's his chance: watch the ball thrown at you!

It's like he waited his whole life to play dodgeball.
It's gonna be you, him, and the gym floor
'cause he's only got one night.
Dodgeball Night pleasure.
Dodgeball Night fun and dodge forever.
Forever on the gym floor!

On second thought, maybe I should stick to my regularly unscheduled blog posts.

Prose and Cons

2009-11-29T20:44:00.007-05:00

Earlier this year, just as the summer sun was readying itself for its moment in the New England spotlight, Othello and I moved out of our cozy (read: tiny) Old North End apartment and into our current bigger (read: bigger) New North End home. The move, though a good one, has had an unexpected side effect: instead of walking to work each morning with my time occupied by thoughts of the next great blog entry, I'm forced to spend my morning commute distracted by other drivers and the morning radio's news. Without that morning walk during which I habitually organized my thoughts on my life and the world around me and subsequently planned how to accurately and entertainingly present them in my blog, I've had a hard time compiling these anecdotes into entries worth reading. To compensate, I've changed my blogging habits, which is why I've spent many a recent evening patronizing Speeder's, Sapa, and Dobra: three (mostly) quiet coffee and tea shops where I can research (via both the Internet and people-watching) and imbibe in the token Generation X-Y beverage. And so it was that I found my inspiration for this blog entry while seated in a somewhat comfortable chair in Sapa eavesdropping on a what-seems-to-be weekly discussion/debate group.

We love to debate, don’t we? In November, within a span of seven days, citizens of a New England state voted to ban gay marriage, the New York Yankees won a 27th World Series championship, a U.S Army major killed 13 people and wounded 30 others, the U.S. House of Representatives passed a controversial health care bill, and the infamous D.C. Sniper was executed by lethal injection, and though some of these events were more important than others (obviously), they all shared at least one common denominator: their ability to divide people into a heated debate. Whether you were for or against gay marriage, capital punishment, universal health care, the “Evil Empire” Yankees, or a “turn the other cheek” philosophy made popular by the conservatives’ right-hand man, Jesus, and whether or not you made any of these opinions known, it’s a safe bet you found yourself residing on one side or the other of each respective issue. I’d go so far as to say that you took opposition to your stance personally.

And then, as if there wasn’t enough controversial newsworthy material making its way through the airwaves and Internet lately, ready to divide even the closest-knit friends and families, Sarah Palin released her biography (I’d call it an autobiography, but let’s be honest here: her coauthor did the writing.) and it had the expected result: the stage-right liberals criticized her, the stage-left conservatives praised her, and the moderate audience made another bowl of popcorn to enjoy while watching this free entertainment play out on a national stage.

I’m sure my readers (read: reader) will not be surprised to hear that I wasted no time tossing my opinion into each discussion salad, nor will they will be surprised to hear that I didn’t always have the popular opinion. I debated the Boston Red Sox fan, Mr. Extracurricular on his view that the Yankees were an “evil” corporation like WalMart (my argument was that baseball is just a game and if you want to claim moral high ground for other teams, let’s talk about the Boston Red Sox’s all-white baseball team decades after the color-barrier was broken); I called this guy a bigot in a Facebook dialogue that featured him comparing gay marriage to the marriage of a man and a dog (Seriously? I thought that argument died with the fear of catching AIDS from a toilet seat!) (my argument was that government should never have gotten into the marriage business in the first place and that it should start recognizing “civil unions” instead of marriages; but in the mean time, I was tired of people playing the “God loves everyone … except you” card to justify their bigotry); I referred to Sarah Palin as a “moronic conservative woman” to which one of my conservative female friends called my view one-dimensional; and then, after not heeding every warning known to man (emphasis on man), I questioned the necessity of requiring health care plans to cover abortions unless the pregnancy is endangering the mother’s health or is the result of rape.

Considering the sensitivity of some of these subjects, I was surprised to discover the one that affected me the most was the Sarah Palin diss, simply because of my friend’s response. This friend of mine (I’ll call her Maine Girl) is an intelligent, conservative woman who is devoutly religious. I haven’t flat-out asked her, but I’m fairly certain that she voted for the McCain/Palin ticket last November (I don’t mean to single her out because she’s most definitely not the only friend of mine to make that claim). In her response to me, she said that she wondered if I was capable of seeing only one side to an issue (i.e., the liberal side). And that’s what bothered me: I wasn’t sure that I was.

I have spent the last 10 years of my life passionately supporting the staple liberal points of view (gay rights, civil rights, social programs, less military, more education, peace, abortion rights, etc.), while patting myself on the back for being open-minded, and now I’m afraid that somewhere along the way, I lost sight of the justifications for one of the most important liberal commandments: Thou Shall Have Freedom of Speech. Sure, I’ve recognized everyone’s right to speech (e.g., when the Westboro Baptist Bigots visited my state earlier this year, I didn’t fight their right to be there), but I’ve done so with an attitude that listening to their speech wasn’t worth my time. And let’s not kid ourselves here: listening to the WBBs and the Facebook Bigot wasn’t worth my time except maybe for the opportunity each presented me to understand ignorance and hatred. But, not all opposing views are those of extremists and I need to remind myself that just because someone resides on the other side of the aisle, doesn’t necessarily mean he or she is wrong. And if I listened to the other point of view, I might learn something.

There is always, as Mama and Papa Benchly taught us over and over again, more than one side to the story. And even that’s not the whole truth because, in fact, in most cases (especially political debates), a good rule of thumb is to assume that there are at least three: your side, the other side, and the truth. So if it’s common knowledge that there are at least three sides to the story, why do we even bother debating? Why are we willing to debate our friends and strangers over a social-networking website; and travel 1,500 miles to protest for 3 hours; and organize a bunch of Craigslist strangers in a coffeehouse to discuss a weekly topic? To help me understand, I muted Van Morrison in my headphones and listened in on the discussion group.

The identity of the Sapa discussion group's organizer was quickly revealed through his group moderation tendencies and his propensity to dominate the discussion: he was both Jim Lehrer and John McCain. He did not hesitate to share his anecdotes, which it seemed, had been carefully recited on his morning walks to work, and he did not shy away from bold and controversial statements (e.g., “unlike men, women just don’t appreciate anything that has to do with physics”). Like me, like Sarah Palin, like the WBBs, like Mr. Extracurricular, he wanted others to hear his voice and the message it carried, because, like all of us, he believed deeply in what he was saying. And like all of us, there were folks who disagreed (shame on them if they didn’t!).

After eavesdropping for a bit on Mr. Anti-Women-in-Physics and without the acquisition of any real evidence to support this theory whatsoever, I’m going to try to answer my own question: we debate because we believe strongly about something (i.e., life, health, death, and all the controversial subjects in between), because we are deeply afraid that our beliefs are wrong, because the only way to assuage our fears is to be surrounded by like-minded people, and because, in the absence of a like-minded support group buffer, we are desperate to disprove opposing points of view so that our beliefs can be validated. In essence, we are all insecure schoolchildren hopeful that we can convince others that we possess that all-too-elusive cool trait, and the way to do so is to be the proud owners of indisputably right and morally-sound beliefs.

Feel free to let me know if you disagree, and I’ll do my best to listen.

In a Nutshell

2009-10-14T22:33:00.002-04:00

Here's a poem I wrote a few years ago...

You're born, you cry, they weep,
you eat and make a mess.
You grow then leave as they weep.
You live, settling for nothing less
than: you wake, you bathe, you dress,
you work, you eat, you sleep.
And what comes of it? I confess:
You age, you die, they weep.

Bungalow Benchly's Campaign Promises

2009-10-05T14:44:00.003-04:00

If elected lieutenant governor of Vermont, I promise the following:

- I will not raise taxes. (Of course, I couldn't raise them even if I wanted to because lieutenant governor doesn't have that authority, but it's still worth saying.)

- I will not embarrass this state. Brian Dubie hasn't really done anything embarrassing during his time as lieutenant governor, but let's face it, a liberal, hippy-loving state like Vermont needs a better name associated with it than Dubie. Just saying.

- I will work tirelessly to promote the great state of Vermont. We're more than just cheese, maple syrup, and ice cream, and I want to show that to the world. And if sending cheese, maple syrup, and ice cream to the rest of the world helps win them over, so be it.

- I will do my best to hear the concerns of all Vermonters by holding weekly get-to-know-how-well-your-lieutenant-governor-throws-a-dodgeball sessions every Monday night from 7 to 9 p.m.

- And finally, I will take a pay cut. Brian Dubie makes over $63,000 a year as a part-time lieutenant governor. It's not his fault that this is how much Vermont pays its Number 2 in Charge of Nothing, but still, I think the salary is crazy, especially in the current economy. And as lieutenant governor, I won't stand for it. And if the state refuses to cut my pay, I vow to donate at least $20,000 of my salary to the Vermont Foodbank and COTS.

I believe that Vermonters deserve better than a Bungalow-Benchly-less government and so I'm asking for your support and vote in 2010 because Yes Benchly Can!

Thank you, God bless Vermont, and/or have a nice day, and/or insert relevant salutation!

Bungalow Benchly for Lieutenant Governor in 2010!

2009-10-05T14:42:00.001-04:00

In case this campaign ever gets taken seriously (because it should be) I thought it best that I include a list of my "positions." Hypothetically speaking, because we're all human, the governor could die, and the lieutenant governor could assume that role and unlike Governor David Paterson, I'd actually want that job. So here goes:

- I believe in freedom of speech.
- I believe in a woman's right to choose.
- I believe in the right to bear arms.
- I believe in universal health care.
- I believe the minimum wage should be increased at the rate of inflation.
- I believe in the separation of church and state.
- I believe in civil liberties such as the freedom to marry whomever.
- I believe the children are our future.
- I believe the government should stay out of our homes and beds.
- I believe in the right to privacy.
- I believe in a government designed to support those who are unable to support themselves but that also prevents the abuse of those who wish to take advantage of such a system.
- I believe that marijuana should have the same legal restrictions as alcohol and tobacco.
- I believe the prisoners of our state should be forced to work on state farms and should be compensated with enough money to use to rebuild their lives upon release from prison.
- I believe companies should be rewarded for keeping jobs in the state.
- I believe in higher taxes for those who can afford it.
- I believe government should take a pay cut before education and health care do.
- I believe homeland security should focus only on our homeland and not the lands of other nations.
- I believe in the environment and our responsibility to protect it.
- I believe in me. Yoko and me, cause that's reality.

And if elected, I promise jukeboxes in all school cafeterias! Yes Benchly Can!

Bungalow Benchly for Lieutenant Governor of Vermont

2009-10-02T10:44:00.009-04:00

I would like to take this opportunity (read: free Facebook group and blog) to announce my candidacy for lieutenant governor of the fine state of Vermont. (I am not kidding.)

After several years of Dubie at the helm (read: waste of money), I think it's time that the Vermont people declared in a bold and unified voice (with a few calculated pauses for dramatic effect and breaths): "if we're actually going to spend money on this position, we should at least vote for someone with an even better name than Dubie, even if it is just a nickname."

The office of the lieutenant governor of Vermont is a very important job. The lieutenant governor is the president of the state senate. Of course, if there's no lieutenant governor, the constitution simply states that the senate can just pick someone else to be president, but still, Very Big Responsibility! And if the governor should fall ill, the lieutenant governor will be right at his/her side to provide OJ, medicine, and a cold washcloth for the forehead. And should that not work and the governor dies, the lieutenant governor becomes the governor. Whoa!

And I'm sure the lieutenant governor does tons of other fun stuff too, but just because I can't think of anything other than this primary responsibility of waiting, doesn't mean they don't exist.

And it's because of that responsibility of waiting, which, incidentally, I think I'm pretty good at (e.g., I once waited outside of Best Buy for four hours for a laptop!), and the weight of that responsibility one feels knowing that the governor's next cough could mean so much, that I have decided that it is absolutely imperative for the fine people of this fine state to pick someone with a lot of time on their hands to wait. And considering that I'm spending so much time on this Facebook group, I think we can all agree that I'm the right person for the job.

I love this state. I'm not particularly fond of its slogan "I LoVermont" because, let's face it, "LoVermont" is not a real word and I'm all about real words, and good grammar, and proper capitalization, but I love this state!

And speaking of proper capitalization, I think it's worth mentioning that "lieutenant governor" need not be capitalized unless it precedes the person's name who holds such a position. This bugs me. Same goes for the state senate and president and what not. They're not proper nouns! OK, I'm done venting.

I love Vermont! And I want to serve Vermont! So please vote for me, Bungalow Benchly for lieutenant governor. I want to be your Lieutenant Governor Bungalow Benchly! (See how I capitalized there?) For those who believe in God, God bless you and God bless Vermont, and for those of you who don't, have a nice day! And if you're agnostic, well, that's OK, too.

A Love/Hate Relationship

2009-09-02T09:47:00.038-04:00

As most of you have heard by now, after a woman compared President Obama to Adolf Hitler in a town hall meeting, U.S. Representative Barney Frank responded, "It is a tribute to the First Amendment that this kind of vile, contemptible nonsense is so freely propagated." I agree. She had a right to make the comparison, and Frank had a right to call the comparison vile.

For obvious reasons, this encounter was on my mind yesterday morning when a small group of extreme protesters (or, to be fair, "protesters who some have deemed to be extreme") visited Vermont to protest gay marriage as well as, it seemed to this biased observer, everything else. They were doing so on behalf of God. I'm not making that up. One of the women in the group said, "you're darn tootin' we're a hate group. We're preaching the hatred of God." I can't begin to imagine what makes these people tick; how one goes about justifying such a message. What I can state with full confidence, though, is that the majority of Vermonters disagree. And disagree they did.

As a writer, my predilection is to use visual aids only when they can complement the written word. After witnessing yesterday's events, though, I understand that the only proper way to document this story is to complement the photographs with captions.

This story is one of love and hate. While love is appropriate for all ages, the photo essay that follows might not be.

We love Viva Espresso for opening at 6 a.m. ...

... so that Sarah and I could get our coffee.

And then Jen showed up and was loved ...

... and reenacted the morning's news.

And then the sun showed up.

And we love the sun.

When we saw this, we knew Montpelier loved us.

And God loves Anne.

And other people showed up ...

... to show their love.

And this guy loved the shirt right off of his back.

And then the hate came.

But that didn't stop the love.

And love laughed ...

... and laughed ...

... because hate is no match for love ...

... and because the joke was on hate.

You see, every minute they hated, love raised money. (For more information, see the Facebook group Westboro Baptist Church Hates, Montpelier High School Donates.)

And raise money they did!

Even God helped.

And so did Peace.

And hate kept hating.

And we kept loving ...

... even when it would have been easy not to.

Because love has no limits.

Not even in the eyes of the law.

So we honked for love.

And we sang for love.

And we flew balloons for love.

And they kept on hating.

And we saw their hate ...

... and raised them peace.

And because of this ...

... we prayed for them ...

... and kept on loving.

Because why hate ...

... when you can smile?

Our love is divine ...

... no matter what they say.

And we walked proudly ...

... around town.

Wherever hate went ...

... love followed

(and the media).

And as much as hate tried ...

... love was right ...

... and strong.

And while hate disappeared ...

... love burned brightly ...

... on and on and on and on ...

Private Benchly

2009-08-17T16:09:00.012-04:00

Forgive me for this.

Although the Benchly’sWord Vault to the left will tell you otherwise, my most devoted readers (read: reader) will confirm that these are the opening words to my fourteenth blog entry of 2009. My last entry, a brief photo-essay documenting a recent trip to a local farm to pick strawberries was removed in an effort to preserve the anonymity of my girlfriend. I removed this entry after receiving a hostile comment posted by an anonymous poster (it’s funny how all hostile comments are anonymous) in which my girlfriend’s full name was used. The anonymous poster wondered if someone should warn my girlfriend of my past, which was ironic because my girlfriend is someone I can open up to about my past and also because some days it feels as though she and I are the only ones capable of living in the present. As a result, I’m forced to screen all comments and, though it makes my First-Amendment-bones quiver as if George W. Bush was in the room, all comments containing personal attacks, personal information, and/or foul language are now deleted. Who knew it would come to this?

One question I’m repeatedly asked is, “what’s up with your nickname?” (or some variation). In response, like a ballplayer reciting the daily, monotonous postgame “there’s no ‘I’ in ‘team’” sound bite, I explain the origins of the nickname, delving into as much detail as my mood and schedule will allow. Despite my predilection for long-windedness, though, one detail that is often lost in my explanation is the reasoning behind my use of the nickname as a pseudonym on the Internet. I don’t bother elucidating because I consider the explanation to be implied. The short answer is that I prefer anonymity; of course, when have you ever known me to be short?

When I started this blog, the second entry I published was a rant about a man whom I dubbed The Prick. I kept my real name and his out of the blog for the same reason: in case he ever read it. Even then, I recognized that anonymity was my only chance to feel free to express my uncensored thoughts, which was my only chance at producing anything worth reading. (Whether or not my writing is actually worth reading is a discussion for another day.) I wanted to be uncensored without risk of hurt feelings. What an unrealistic contradiction, right? I guess that’s the fate of a writer. From the very start when Professor Hudnall and others were teaching us the art of storytelling, we were told to write what we know. And then we graduated and entered a world where successful writers based some or most of their stories on their personal experiences, all the while pretending that any similarities between real life and the fiction presented in their work was a coincidence. The writer for the motion picture (500) Days of Summer even makes light of this when he prefaces his film with the disclaimer, “The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Especially you, Jenny Beckman.”

Regardless of how hopeless my goal of anonymity seemed to be, I had to try. I wanted my writing to speak for itself, not the facts and feelings behind the words. (And incidentally, to anyone who complains that I’m only telling one side of my life’s story, I say of course I am, and if you have a problem with that, get your own damn blog.) My writing is important to me and as such, this blog is doubly important. The birth of this blog came at a time when, as a writer, I worried that my creativity had died like a fly ball at the warning track on a windy day at Candlestick Park, and now, five years later, Candlestick Park has been torn down and replaced by a new literation-friendly ballpark. I built it and my blog counter tells me that people have come, so I must be doing something right. There’s just one tiny problem ...

As the Peer Pressure links to the left will tell you, like 200 million people around the world, I have a Facebook page. I created a page for the same reason some people buy an Oprah book; or like a certain band; or wear a certain style; or say a certain catchphrase: I followed the masses. And though I’m sure that once the American sheep herd starts to venture to a different networking hill, “Facebook” will be said with the same nostalgic-yet-disapproving tone as has been reserved for “Hootie and the Blowfish” and “skidz” (among other unpopular fads formerly known as popular), I will acknowledge that it has worked wonders in reconnecting me with lost friends, cultivating current friendships, and establishing new ones. Unfortunately, it has also introduced a new level of anonymity-related problems.

When I signed up for Facebook, I used my pseudonym. I did this because I knew my blog would be linked to my Facebook page and vice versa, and in order to preserve my anonymity and subsequently maintain a freedom to write in my blog, I needed to keep my name private on Facebook. I also set my Facebook profile settings as private as one can get without being unwelcoming to friends both old and new: stated simply, for a person to see anything other than my pseudonym and profile picture, he/she would have to be my Facebook friend. I’ve even gone so far as to use the pseudonyms for my nieces in the pictures of them that I’ve posted on Facebook. Sure, that’s a picture of me with Niece #3, but unless you know her, you don’t know her name or where she lives. I’ve done my best to create an online identity as close to the real one as is possible when using millions of ones and zeros. This has included dropping Facebook “friends” with whom I no longer maintain contact (including exes, former coworkers, etc.). And as a result, for the last Facebook year, my sense of privacy has begotten a sense of creative freedom. And yet.

A month ago, the anonymous poster left the aforementioned comment that included my girlfriend’s full name, a piece of information to which, in my perfect world, only my Facebook “friends” would have had access. I admit that there are loopholes through which an obsessive person could travel to ultimately find her way to private information reserved for my Facebook friends. It would be grossly naïve to think otherwise. And I admit that even though I’ve since taken additional steps to ensure my online privacy, there is probably a backdoor I’m missing through which someone may someday enter. This is the world we live in.

And I won’t forgive you for that.

Living is easy with eyes closed

2009-06-21T12:33:00.008-04:00

Let me take you down, cause we're going to...

Strawberry Fields forever...

where the strawberries are tempting...

and there's one for the flat...

and two for the belly...

and yet you are still able to pick enough...

to make these...

and this.

See you next year, strawberries.

Othello

2009-06-19T17:20:00.011-04:00

My elementary school art teacher, Mrs. Fennell was notorious for finishing her students' art projects. To this day, I still remember the pride I felt for the prehistoric drawing I created in her class; as well as the horror that followed as she took the art utensils from my hand to make some "improvements." If, when the English majors of the future are studying the life and writings of Mr. Bungalow Benchly, the question is asked, "why did Benchly decide to become a writer instead of an artist?," they'll find most of the answer from that fateful day in elementary school.

Thankfully, 12-year-old Grant Davis of Burlington, VT has never had Mrs. Fennell for a teacher. There's no telling what kind of damage she's capable of doing to his God-given talents:

October 2, 2010

2009-06-17T16:16:00.012-04:00

You can count this among a seemingly endless list of blog entries begun in a setting that has been an all too common one for me lately (as opposed to “not Uncommon”): the same coffee shop I once swore I could never love (because I considered it as cozy as an Amtrack train car rolling slowly through the bad parts of Connecticut [the parts I like to call “Connecticut”]) and the same coffee shop that, for the last 6 months, has served as the figurative and literal outlet for my creativity. A year ago, as I walked down Church Street on a rainy Jazz Fest day, I could have counted on one hand the number of times I had crossed over this particular shop’s espresso-scented threshold (preferring instead to patronize a rival and cozier [albeit slightly muddy] shop instead). A lot can happen in a year, though, and my change in coffee shop preference is just the tip of that life-lesson-flavored coffee cake. And so it was that one year later, on yet another Jazz Fest day, instead of walking by this shop’s doors, I walked through them without hesitation. Of course, it didn’t hurt that last year’s rains had been replaced with a hot and muggy day accurately described in Webster’s Dictionary under “unbearable.”

It’s worth noting that, despite my complaints to the contrary, these hot and muggy days are actually part of the reason why I love this town. Taken separately from the rest of the variety of weather in New England, and specifically, Burlington, these “unbearable” days don’t have much of a bright side to them; when considered with the rest of the 4-season (or is it 5?) package, however, and their purpose becomes clear. It seems that they were added to our climate to produce that all-too-elusive perspective: you know, the one that helps us appreciate the good times by reminding us of the bad. It’s the same effect that results from the bitter nose-hair-freezing winter temperatures of late January. This perspective is on the minds of every Vermonter in the summer when the college kids leave, the lake temperatures climb, the winter-stomped grass turns green, and every sunset seems to be drawn by a kindergartner with a 96-color Crayola crayon box; and in the winter when the temperatures are cold but bearable, the snow hasn’t yet been corrupted by exhaust and sanding, and the streets, lit magically by tree lights and a vibrant moon, with the mountains as a backdrop, make you wonder whether Van Gogh had ever visited Burlington.

The best part of our region’s different seasons is that all of them last a significant amount of time, and yet not one of them lasts too long. It’s almost as if each season is an equal part to a 4-course dessert meal. The strawberry summers end as you begin to crave the apple-pie falls, which end just in time for the hot fudge sundae winters, which last just long enough to make the lemon-tart springs seem like a well-earned reward for the belly-ache-inducing lengthy winter. Rinse off your plates and repeat, making sure, of course, to save your forks. As someone who appreciates whimsy as much as he appreciates structure, it’s comforting to have an idea of what to expect for your next meal, without quite knowing how the meal will be prepared. Will it be an unseasonably hot fall, or a spring whose afternoons are just aching to turn into summer? And if you’re unsatisfied with a particular season, don’t worry: next year’s offering will most surely please. Our seasons are Vivaldi recordings set to repeat; until the sun turns black, they’ll always come full circle.

We’re nearing the Summer Solstice yet again and as the sun perfects its six-month dance with prime time, I can’t help but focus on the connection between New England’s four seasons and my own life. (You had to know that this blog was going to be about more than the weather!) As I’m sure you know, there’s a sister phrase to the idiom “come full circle”: “what goes around comes around,” which basically means you end up receiving what you give (aka, karma). And I’m sure all four of my readers have considered this phrase on more than one occasion when contemplating the fate of someone who has hurt them (i.e., “just wait till he gets his ... what goes around comes around!”) or when dealing with a bad string of luck that leaves you with a sneaking suspicion that your past of giving poorly has finally come back to bite you on the receiving end. And I’ve thought these thoughts, too, but for the sake of today’s blog, I’d like to consider another point of view: “what goes around comes around” is just a five-word phrase for something Elton John could describe in three words: “Circle of Life.” Like the yin and yang, New England's four seasons, or a Quentin Tarantino film, when it comes to life, the beginning is the end is the beginning, and all points in between are connected.

With this in the front of my mind, like Neo at the end of The Matrix, lately I’ve felt as if the layers of my life and the world around me have been removed and in their place I can now see the patterns connecting us all that have always been hidden just beneath the surface: a book I finished editing over 5 years ago that found its way back into my life in the most symbolic of ways; the feeling that my penultimateness has faded away exactly when it was supposed to, and that my bad luck has rubbed off on someone deserving of it; the fact that a year has passed by me since the last rainy Jazz Fest and that the rain has been usurped by the sun; and the realization that I’ve encountered four very distinct seasons in the last 12 months: the incipient decline of autumn, the frost bite of winter, the rebirth of spring, and the life, love, and warmth of summer. What went around has finally come around back to me, as fast as it possibly could.

Little Plastic Castles

2009-05-21T15:46:00.008-04:00

After I left work the other day, I walked down Church Street to my bank to withdraw some money. The coffee shop that has been serving as the gateway to my creativity lately won’t serve me at all without cash. On the walk from the bank to the coffee shop, I spotted Sarah the L sitting outside, soaking in the sun and the words of her most recent read. (As small as this town is, I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to these pleasant surprises it has to offer its residents.) I sat down at her table and we caught up each other on our respective lives. We talked about past and upcoming events, what candy we’d choose to have a lifetime supply of (her choice was caramel, mine was truffles), shared life advice, and snuck in one or two metaphors and idioms for good measure. As always, our conversation helped me to finally articulate the thoughts that had been floating around in my head, and considering I was en route to another evening of writing (this blog entry actually), this encounter’s timing was impeccable.

Last month, one of the modern greats, Ray Lamontagne, came to town to play, sing, and prove once and for all that even the socially awkward have a place in the world. The show, albeit a little too short for my tastes, was everything I had hoped my second Ray concert would be. It began with six of my favorite notes (though, whichever saint watches over great musical act beginnings was napping because Ray quickly broke a string on his guitar and had to begin all over again), Ray’s voice filled the Flynn like a smoke ring from a velvet cigarette, his band complemented him without trying to steal the show, and the songs were arranged in a way that was both refreshingly familiar and delectably new. To make the night even more memorable, I experienced the concert in a second row seat next to my father, marking the first time Papa Benchly and I had been to a concert together since my parents took me to see Peter, Paul, and Mary, and the first time Papa Benchly had been to a rock concert in a long time. Mama Benchly doesn’t like to go to rock concerts and so my dad waxed poetic about the concerts of his past, which included The Doors(!). I think this father-son outing was yet another impeccably-timed surprise for both of us.

Papa Benchly accepted the invitation to join me at the concert approximately one hour before he accepted my extra ticket and joined me at the concert, and to ignore this detail is to sugarcoat a night coated with a bittersweet frosting. You see, the extra ticket was intended for Cherry on Top, and ultimately became Papa Benchly’s a few hours after my relationship with her ended. As much as she may have subconsciously expected it, my impression is that our break-up came as a surprise to her (even if we know it’s coming, we still don’t want to believe it). And with as many break-ups as I’ve been through in my life, I still don’t know that I’ll ever get used to the respective pains of breaking a heart or having my heart broken. But to ignore the next surprise of the night is to not acknowledge the other (equally distinct) half of that bittersweet frosting. You see, as great as Ray Lamontagne was, he wasn’t my favorite musical act of the evening. That honor goes to the opening band, the phenomenal The Low Anthem. You should expect to hear more about them in the next year. And I will expect to one day wax poetic to my son about the time I saw them open for Ray Lamontagne.

Whether you call them a box of chocolates (or caramel), coincidences, serendipity, or happenstance, we can all admit that life is full of these tiny surprises. Happenstance is the title of a French film starring one of my favorite actresses, Audrey Tautou, in a plot based on the Butterfly Effect, the theory that even the smallest variant can alter the future in grand ways (the original title was translated as The Beating of the Butterfly’s Wings). The movie was essentially the 97-minute feature-film-version of the ongoing TV series How I Met Your Mother. Both the film and the TV show revolve around a protagonist looking for his/her “true love”; the obstacles and triumphs each experiences along the way; and the seemingly-random, but ultimately-important events that point each in the right direction. And if you think I’m not a fan of both the film and the TV show, then, well, you haven’t been paying attention the last five(!) blogging years.

All of this is to say that the question that has been occupying my mind lately has been whether or not these moments in my life have a purpose; and to be specific, whether they can be interpreted as some sort of indicator of my life’s purpose. We all like to think we have a purpose in life. In the underrated film Road Trip, one of the characters says he can’t die young: “Something tells me the people of Earth are going to need me.” And I’d be lying if I said that on occasion, I hadn’t felt the same way. As chaotic and scary as this world can be, isn’t it comforting to think each life has a master plan in the shape of a big inviting safety net? Get your heart broken? Don’t worry, it’s just part of the plan. Your car got towed because you tested the Rite Aid parking gods one too many times? That’s OK, everything happens for a reason. Afraid of failing? No need to; failure is just a lesson waiting to happen. And the more we believe this, the less we fear those leaps of faith, the more confident we become, and the less inhibited we act. Through our acceptance of the unknown, we find our strength.

But what if we’re wrong? What if there is nothing guiding us except dumb luck and chance? What if we have every reason to be afraid and are naïve to think otherwise? What if, like Wile E. Coyote, we’ve run off a cliff and the only thing keeping us afloat is our ignorance of the air beneath our feet? And to beat this analogy to death, what if the path we Road Runners have chosen through the mountains of life is simply a Trompe-l'œil? As has been the trend lately, I’m afraid I don’t have an answer except to say follow your heart. And because the blessings in my life have me feeling overly optimistic today, I’ll even go so far as to say maybe if you follow your heart, you’ll find your purpose and end up proving you were right all along. In that sense, I guess Ray Lamontagne was right after all: “The answer is within you.”

A Dodgeball Haiku for CP

2009-04-30T11:55:00.002-04:00

The dodgeball I threw
would have flown for days and days
if not for your head.

Dodgeball Tournament Update

2009-04-28T21:58:00.008-04:00

Here's what my dodgeball team's uniform looks like for the upcoming charity tournament. Who says dodgeball isn't trendy?!

Thanks to the generosity of my family and friends and the family and friends of my teammates, our two dodgeball teams (The Monday Night Specials and the School Street Dodgers) have thus far raised a total of $920 for charity. There's still time to donate to help us reach and surpass our goal of $1000. If you're intersted, click on the link below.

And if you're interested in checking out some dodgeball action, we'd love it if you came down to vocally support us at the tournament. We'll even supply some noisemakers and pompoms to aid in your cheering. The games begin at 6 p.m., Friday, May 1 in the Shelburne Field House. We hope to see you there!

"Another boring romantic, that's me."

2009-04-26T11:32:00.011-04:00

Ms. Parker has often joked that in the game of our friendship, when points are scored for visits to the other’s home, I have thus far beaten her by a score of 5-0. Not one to be shutout, though, last month, Ms. Parker made the score 5-1 when she led off the third inning of our lives with a solo blast to left-center. For my baseball-challenged readers (read: reader) out there, that means she hit a homerun; and for those of you who are figuratively challenged by metaphors (or is that metaphorically-challenged, figuratively speaking?), that means she visited me in Vermont. Inspired by my close proximity to Ben and Jerry’s (or was it the other way around?), Ms. Parker and her cousin, Cousin J, drove up north to the land of cheese, maple syrup, gay marriages, and me (listed, of course, not necessarily in order of preference).

After a day spent sampling Vermont’s finest, the three of us settled into an American Flatbread restaurant booth where Sarah the L joined us, marking the first time those two Round Table friends had ever met. We ordered salads, a few drinks, and four different types of flatbreads split between two pies from our waitress who happened to be a friend of Sarah the L and proved as much with a hug. At some point during our meal, The Heinous Shrew walked by our booth on her way to crash her friend’s date. Later that night, Ms. Parker commented on how small our small city was and that she would hate to live in such a place where encounters like these were the norm. I think she’d probably go so far as to suggest that this is the same personality trait that makes her, in her opinion, a person whom the homeless find “unapproachable,” which, incidentally, recent trends would seem to suggest is a trait I don’t possess (but that’s a comment on my city’s homeless situation, which is best set aside for another blogging day).

Ms. Parker’s remark made me question my own reality: do I enjoy a city small enough that the aforementioned random encounters occur on an almost daily basis? Or would I rather live in a town with so many bars that hardly anyone knows my name? What’s my perfect balance of community and privacy? This is a question I’ve pondered on many occasions and quite often in the three weeks since I started this blog entry. And until four days ago, I didn’t have an answer. You see, I never know when I’m going to find the inspiration to write a blog entry, and when I finally start one, I never know how it’s going to end. My creative process resembles that of a junior high school metal shop class: countless bold ideas, quite a few stops and starts, and a finished project that never resembles the original plans. (That I’m even capable of producing a complete and coherent sentence is a sort of miracle in and of itself.)

Typically, most of my blog entries begin on my walk to work, an 8-minute jaunt filled with sounds of school children (if I’m on time), school bells (if I’m not), construction workers beginning their day spent fixing up a recently burned house, cars accelerating a little too fast for a side street, and the city busses idling as they wait for their respective passengers. Like that metal shop class, this walk doesn’t exactly overflow with inspiration. Thankfully, it’s what I learned in elementary school (how to be creative) and college (how to tell a story) that lets me utilize this time. And so, I spend my time daydreaming about my life, finding patterns and themes within that life, figuring out if they’re interesting to me, and then slowly attempting to make them sound interesting to you. Sometimes I end up with a finely crafted metal basketball hoop, and sometimes I end up with a pointless piece of scrap metal with no ending in sight. Whatever I end up with, though, you can rest assured it wasn’t what I originally planned to make.

My continuing struggle with the writing process was on my mind recently when I heard the claim that writers are a great source of wisdom because they spend their lives observing human nature in an attempt to accurately reproduce it on the page. The theory is that anyone who studies humans to the point when they know exactly what a fictional character would do in a hypothetical situation must understand nonfictional people in realistic settings. I hardly ever feel bold enough to offer a dissenting view in someone else’s house (especially this particular house), so I chose to keep my opinion to myself and instead share it here: I don’t agree.

I think writers only know what their characters would do in a situation simply because said characters reside in the imaginations of said writers. Claiming that an understanding of their character implies an understanding of society is not unlike claiming to know what another person is craving for lunch simply because you’re craving corned beef. And besides, to believe that this is proof that writers know the answers to most of life’s questions is to ignore how imperfect the lives of these writers are. We can’t answer most of our own questions, so how could we possibly answer yours?

In an effort to have some of my questions answered, and for reasons maybe Ms. Parker, Sarah the L, and Robin Williams would understand, last Sunday afternoon I found myself sitting next to Mary (nicknamed for various reasons) in a church she and her friends had started a few years ago. This is where I heard the theory about writers having answers, and this is where I met an assortment of characters whose (nick)names will have to wait for another day. And through these characters, I Ultimately found myself sitting side-by-side Mary in a Wednesday night discussion group, in front of a coffee table on which the homeowner had placed a coffee mug that had printed on it the name of Papa Benchly’s church. After quick Sherlock-Holmes-like detective work, I discovered that my father was a mentor to the homeowner. A small town, indeed.

The group’s discussion centered on the question, “What is church?” and at one point, a debate broke out regarding how many people were needed for a church to exist. Some claimed you needed a community to help your faith grow; I posited that only one person was needed “to go to church.” Mary’s view was that a person can only evolve (spiritually or otherwise) so much through the lessons he/she learns from personal mistakes; that to evolve to his/her full potential, a person needs to learn from others as well. I won’t say that I changed my opinion, but I will confess that Mary and the others convinced me that it does, in fact, take a village to evolve.

And that’s when I realized how much I loved feeling part of a community and the random encounters that accompany such a relationship. I don’t think I ever feel as alive as I do when one of my trees falls in the forest and my friends are around to hear it. Through these moments, I find joy, the answers to my questions, the inspiration to write, and sometimes even the perfect ending for my blog.

Mr. Benchly Plays Dodgeball for Charity

2009-04-15T09:44:00.008-04:00

As my readers (read: reader) know, for the past year, I have been part of the second greatest underground movement in our nation's history,* which also happens to be the greatest game in the history of elementary school games**: Montpelier dodgeball. Well, those of us who play Montpelier dodgeball figured that when you love something as much as we love dodgeball, the only way to love it properly is to beat it to death by playing it every chance we get. The reason I'm telling you this is because, as a reader of mine who is awesome enough to care enough about my writing to humor me by reading my blog entries about dodgeball, you're awesome enough to be invited to sponsor me and my dodgeball team in an upcoming charity dodgeball tournament. And because, after learning of an upcoming dodgeball tournament you were so excited you nearly peed your pants, I'll start a new paragraph to give you a moment to gather yourself.

The Montpelier dodgeball folks and I have registered two teams to compete in a dodgeball tournament. Our teams, The School Street Dodgers and The Monday Night Specials, named, respectively, after the place where we spent the last three months practicing, and the drink we consumed after each practice to wash away our dodgeball pains, will be competing against each other and other teams at 6 p.m. on Friday, May 1 at the Shelburne Field House. All proceeds of this tournament will be donated to summer camp scholarships at the Greater Burlington YMCA and Shelburne Field House, proving once and for all that summer camp in Shelburne isn't just for rich kids.

In the words of one of my teammates, we want to leave such an impression on the tournament folks that they would be crazy not to make this charity dodgeball tournament an annual (or, ideally, weekly) event. This involves: showing our incredible dodgeball passion (e.g., by scheduling tournament-preparation practices), our lively dodgeball spirit (we're also making up uniforms [read: costumes] for both of our teams), and our resourceful dodgeball fund-raising skills (that's where you come in).

In order to enter the tournament, we need to raise $200 per team (for the mathematically challenged folks [myself included], my computer calculator tells me that's $400 total). To make that aforementioned impression on the tournament folks, and to help as many area children as possible, we've set a goal of raising $1000. To do that, we're reaching out to our friends and family (that's you). It's our hope that you all will find it in your hearts and wallets to contribute whatever you can afford to this great cause. As Ira Glass is fond of saying during all those NPR drives, maybe that's the $3 a day you normally spend at Starbucks. Give up Starbucks for 8 days, and you can afford one donation of $25!

For those of you with taxes on their mind (and considering today's date, I'm pretty sure that that's everyone), it should be noted that although all donated money will ultimately be divided equally between the Greater Burlington YMCA and the Shelburne Field House, all donations made through the fund-raising website we've set up online will be sent directly to the Greater Burlington YMCA, which is a 501(c)3 charity organization. Therefore, any donation you make to support our dodgeball team in this event is tax deductible. If you're interested in making a donation, please click on the link below. Donating online is fast and secure, and I'll get immediate notification of your donation via email.

Please please please think about giving to this great cause, and when you're done thinking about giving to this great cause, please please please give to this great cause. No amount is too small, and, I'd be remiss if I failed to mention that no amount is too large either. I thank you for any support you can afford to give!

*The Underground Railroad is the first, obviously.
**Some argue that kickball is the greatest elementary school game; some even consider tether ball the greatest game. Obviously, these people are wrong. And dumb.

Migrate Love Story

2009-03-15T19:09:00.021-04:00

This morning, I heard the honkings of the first geese of the season returning to their northern homes after a winter spent vacationing in the southern sun. Their appearance is one rung in the ladder that leads my community from the desolate depths of winter up and out to our long-awaited Vermont summer reward. After brunch with my friend, Gina, I ventured downtown to Uncommon Grounds, navigating through a flock of college kids who had migrated down the hill after a winter spent in their dorms. I even saw the obligatory fraternity brother wearing his shorts approximately two weeks too early, which is yet another rung in that ladder.

I’m now sitting in the back of the coffee shop at a table at which, 6 years earlier, I awkwardly made conversation with a blind date. The blind date didn’t lead to anything (as was often the case back then in that infamous 2003) except a string of more blind dates at other Burlington establishments. In fact, if hard-pressed, I’m sure I could think of a date for 90% of the restaurants, bars, theatres, parks, and barns in the area. Let’s face it: the longer you live somewhere, the easier it is for you to find the remains of past heartaches splattered like graffiti love poems on the walls of businesses. If you add in the heartaches of all of your friends, you’ll find every inch of town covered with the tags of exes.

Last summer, while she and I were experiencing our respective relationship heartaches, Sarah the L and I noticed what seemed to be a trend in our generation: all around us (i.e., friends, relatives, coworkers, friends of friends, new roommates, etc.), couples were breaking up. Even Ms. Darling and I bonded over our respective break-ups. There was no overlooking it; the Summer of 2008 was the Summer of Lovesickness. I asked Sarah the L recently if she had any theories as to why this happened. Jokingly (I think), she blamed Barack Obama. She said in a “year riddled with messages of ‘change’ and ‘hope,’” ... people couldn’t help but wonder if they should upgrade their Bush for an Obama. She also thought the Summer of Lovesickness could be explained by a person’s reasonable tendency to respond to a friend’s “personal growth through trial” by reflecting on needed growth in his/her own life. Humans are impressionable creatures and for the same reasons a floor of college girls ends up on the same menstrual cycle by the end of a semester, a group of close friends most likely travels similar emotional-growth routes.

I posed this question to Sarah after a quick glimpse at an ex’s Facebook page (you do it, too) confirmed what I had long-before assumed: Hypothetical was now married (thus making her boyfriend’s Hypothetical now her husband’s Factual) and consequently, had become yet another in a long line of exes who had married the first serious boyfriend she dated after me (an ever-expanding sorority of women that also includes Widget, The Redhead, Stalker Girl, and The PT [it’s also worth noting that San Fran Girl and I never officially dated, but after our falling-out, she started dating the man to whom she’s now engaged]). This confirmed my long-standing belief that at some point in my life I had become Penultimate Man, the noble super-hero doomed to a life of boosting various women’s self esteems just enough for them to spread their wings and fly off to their future husbands. Considering I boosted Ms. Darling's self esteem before sending her back to her stripper-loving ex, I wouldn't be surprised if she got engaged to him within the year.

After spending a day contemplating my curse (aka, my exgirlfriends’ blessing), I asked Sarah what she thought it would take to become Ultimate Man. She wasn’t entirely sure because she has been dealing with similar demons, but she hoped one day soon she could rip open her shirt to show the world the blaze of UW (Ultimate Woman) across her chest, thus confirming my long-standing belief that she’s an exhibitionist.

Because I’m convinced that it is the perfect metaphor for every situation in life (including concerns about one’s penultimate tendencies), I’m yet again reminded of rock climbing. I haven’t talked about my adventures with rock climbing recently because after steadily improving for two months, my climbing skills have frustratingly hit a plateau. I should have known my progress would eventually decelerate: I have a history of excelling at a learned skill (e.g., guitar playing; mathematics; chess) only to reach my natural limit beyond which I can’t improve without prolonged resolute training, something my Benchly-of-Many-Skills, Master-of-None will-power has prohibited me from ever accomplishing. I’m determined to excel at this sport, though, and so I’m doing the only things in my control to ensure that that happens: consistent practice, and learning from other climbers. And as I direct my climbing questions to more experienced climbers, because I’m terrified of being Penultimate Man forever, I pose my relationship questions to my friends.

In addition to Sarah, I solicited love advice from CP and she responded with disbelief that I had asked her; she doesn’t consider herself an expert on relationships, though, she noted, her relationship had thus far survived 10 years. But truthfully, as much time as Sarah and I spend pondering how to keep love afloat, and as painfully educational as our break-ups have been, and as much success as CP has had at cultivating her love, and as much unsolicited advice as I’ve received in the last year, I honestly don’t think any of us have any idea of how to succeed at love with or without really trying. If you think I’m wrong, just look at our society’s divorce rates.

Uncommon Grounds is closing soon and I’m afraid, my dear readers (read: reader), that I don’t have an answer for you. I wonder if I ever will. And as I prepare to venture home against a gorgeous sunset backdrop (with views like this, can you blame the geese for coming back each spring?) while being serenaded with the sounds of college kids and geese, a bird that spends the majority of its life devoted to its “mate for life,” I can’t help but wonder if maybe I’m just looking for the answers in the wrong place.

An Academy Award Hangover (Volume II)

2009-02-23T14:17:00.004-05:00

What is it about the Academy Awards that annually knocks me off my feet with the kind of hangover usually reserved for fraternity brothers and twenty-somethings with low self esteem? Yet again, I’m writing an Academy Awards follow-up while struggling to overcome a migraine (this time the result of a sinus-hating cold). And, like a sorority girl trying to piece together last night’s festivities, I’m struck by the evening’s highs and lows:

1. Low. The hosting. Unlike the folks of Scrubs, I love Hugh Jackman. I think he’s talented, charming, funny, and someone I’d love to have a beer with, but as a host he didn’t work for me last night. I don’t think it was his fault though. I blame the producers/writers. His ode-to-musicals was too chaotic and poorly planned. With Baz Luhrmann creating it, you’d expect a masterpiece like his “Elephant Love Medley” from Moulin Rouge, but instead it was just a choppy mess with bad camerawork. You could use the same words to describe his opening number, but at least that one showcased more of Jackman’s charm (and an awesome Anne Hathaway as Richard Nixon!).

2. High. The speeches. Penelope Cruz’s speech was so endearing, I temporarily forgave the Academy for choosing her. I loved the whistle from Kate Winslet’s father. Man on Wire’s Philippe Petit stole the show in 15 seconds. The two Milk speeches (Sean Penn’s and screenwriter Dustin Lance Black) were poignant and worthy of Harvey Milk’s name. Danny Boyle was sweet. And the Ledger family was heartbreaking in their sincerity and humility. And none of the speeches went on for too long (including, thankfully, the one by Jerry Lewis). In fact, I can only recall one speech that required a musical exit cue from the Academy orchestra.

3. Low. The In Memoriam clips. My god, the Academy Awards reached a new low this year. Not only did they bring a gifted, but not-nearly-gifted-enough performer in Queen Latifah (why not Beyonce?) to center stage to sing an accompaniment that reminded me a little too much of a Miss America host serenading the new winner, but they turned the montage into a performance with bad camera angles and multiple shots that had me squinting my eyes to try to read the names of the deceased. In other words, in a montage designed to honor the dead, they did everything but honor the dead.

4. High. The presentation of the acting nominees by past acting winners. This part was classy. It was scripted, yes, but it was touching and, for the most part, not awkward at all. Cuba Gooding Jr.’s “let’s pretend I’m really pissed off” tangent directed at Robert Downey Jr. aside, I’d definitely welcome this format in future ceremonies.

5. High. Sean Penn. I wasn’t a fan of Penn’s win for Mystic River and truthfully, I thought Frank Langella should have won last night. But I have no problem with Penn winning for his portrayal of Harvey Milk. A few more roles like that one and I’ll start mentioning him in the same breath as Meryl Streep.

6. Low. Sexism. Jessica Biel became yet another attractive, young Hollywood woman picked to host the pre-Oscars Scientific and Technical Achievement Awards ceremony, joining an alumni list that includes: Maggie Gyllenhaal, Scarlett Johansson, Jessica Alba, Jennifer Garner, Rachel McAdams, Kate Hudson, and Charlize Theron. I guess coming from the Academy that always presents male acting awards after female ones, it shouldn’t surprise me that they’d be so sexist in their choice of host/hostesses, but for a town that prides itself in its quest for equal rights, it sure does show gender preference. How about making Hugh Jackman host the technical awards and bring back Ellen DeGeneres or give Tina Fey a chance to host the main event? Just a thought.

7. High. The presenters were mostly bearable tonight and included some really high notes like: Ben Stiller’s Joaquin Phoenix impression (which, I think Reese Witherspoon tried to respond to in a joke at Ben Stiller’s expense that fell flat); the Tina Fey-Steve Martin bit; and the James Franco-Seth Rogen one too.

All in all, a good show. Now if only my cold would go away…

And the Oscar goes to (Volume IV)

2009-02-22T12:10:00.011-05:00

Anyone who has wandered the aisles of a book store with me or spent more than two minutes in my apartment(s) over the years knows that I'm a book collector. Originally, I started by collecting first printings of my favorite authors (e.g., Heller, Vonnegut Jr., Chabon, Coupland, etc.) but then, after slowly running out of books to collect while simultaneously coming to terms with my book-collecting addiction, I focused my attention (read: wallet) on the award winners: the National Book Award winners and, of course, the Pulitzers for fiction. Considering that the Pulitzer board has been handing out the award for the last 92 years to over 80 different authors, and that a new award is given out each year, I don't think that I'll ever run out of books to collect.

I mention this for a reason I’ll discuss later, but also because it’s worth mentioning that if ever I do run out of books to collect, I know what I’ll start collecting next: Academy-Award-winning movies. Considering the number of times I’ve written about the Academy Awards, I think it goes without saying that I’ve got a little schoolboy crush on Mr. Oscar. With this in mind, you can probably imagine how excited I am that he’ll be getting dressed up in gold yet again this evening for the 81st Academy Awards. And since I’ve spent the last month withdrawing money from my bank account and depositing it directly into the accounts of the only liberals in our country NOT affected by the recession, I hope you won’t mind me taking the next few minutes to share with you a few comments about this year’s nominations and a few predictions (in bold), too.

Best Actor – Unlike most moviegoers, I have no qualms with the nominees for this year’s award. I’m sure 9 out of 10 doctors of film studies would have removed Brad Pitt’s name from the list, but I think it’s time we finally admitted the obvious: Pitt can act. Sure, sometimes he may pull a “George Clooney” and simply play himself in a film, but it’s got to count for something that when he’s on screen, neither men nor women can’t take their eyes off him (a la Tom Hanks or Meryl Streep). And I’m sorry, but only an actor with talent and range could pull off a character like “Benjamin Button.” Sure, maybe he should have been disqualified for the scene when he tried to convince us that he looked teenage-young, but still, face it: Pitt can act. With that said, he’s joined in this category by four actors at the top of their games. Richard Jenkins was perfect in The Visitor (and it should be noted, in Burn After Reading, as well), and Mickey Rourke (the likely winner) was unforgettable in The Wrestler (or maybe it’s the staple guns I can’t forget). But if I had any say as to who walked home the winner tonight, it would be either Frank Langella in Frost/Nixon or Sean Penn in Milk, and if I had to choose, I’d give it to Langella, though it’s worth noting that it’s a crime that Sean Penn could win for Mystic River and not Milk.

Best Actress – I don’t know what my problem is but this category is consistently the one for which I am the least prepared. I avoided Changeling for the same reasons that those 9 doctors would remove Angelina Jolie from this list: the paparazzi of the world have done everything in their power to ensure that I tire of the woman (and I’m especially bitter that she took a nomination spot reserved for Sally Hawkins for Happy-Go-Lucky [see it]. And while we’re on the subject, I should point out that the omission of Hawkins is further proof that the Oscars are flawed in their insistence on being different from the Golden Globes). Frozen River and Doubt were the next on my list but sadly, I didn’t get to see them in time. That leaves Anne Hathaway’s performance in Rachel Getting Married, and Kate Winslet’s in The Reader. Here’s where I’m torn. I love my wife, Kate Winslet, and I’d give her an award for walking down the street, but The Reader really disappointed me and her performance in it was less memorable than Hathaway’s. So when Kate Winslet wins tonight, I’ll be happy inside, and slightly bummed that she’s the next recipient of the Denzel Washington/Sean Penn/Julia Roberts/etc. Lifetime Achievement Oscar. By the way, my hunch is that, as always, this award should have had Streep’s name on it. Can we just acknowledge her as one of the three greatest thespians of all time and call it a day?

Best Supporting Actor – Oh boy, here we go with this year’s most controversial award. So first, a few housekeeping notes: sorry, Michael Shannon, but my $8 supported Revolutionary Road more than you did (and again, I’m especially bitter that you took a nomination spot reserved for Eddie Marsan for Happy-Go-Lucky [see it]); Philip Seymour Hoffman, I love you, but a) you were a lead in Doubt, not supporting and b) you don’t have a chance because you won a few years ago for Capote; and Josh Brolin, you were great in Milk (anytime it takes me nearly the length of the movie to figure out the actor playing a part, I know he’s done a great job), but you’re fighting for third place tonight. The main event is the bout between Robert Downey Jr. for his black-faced actor in Tropic Thunder and Heath Ledger’s made-up Joker in The Dark Knight. Heath Ledger is going to posthumously win (and deservedly so), but I think Downey Jr. was ten times better. I mean, have you SEEN him? His role was layered like a Kennedy wedding cake, and he nailed it. I can think of other actors who could have played the Joker (Johnny Depp and Penn to name just two) but I can’t imagine anyone else pulling off the part of Kirk Lazarus.

Best Supporting Actress – Here’s another tough one. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Penelope Cruz is the Heather Graham of foreign-language films and as such, should be disqualified from ever winning an Oscar. And I’m sure that any temptation the Academy had of giving Marisa Tomei an award for The Wrestler disappeared at the mere thought of My Cousin Vinny. Amy Adams is going to win because she should have won a few years ago for Junebug. Taraji P. Henson might take home one of the few awards for Benjamin Button, but I’d bet my money on Adams. And if Cruz wins, I may reconsider my love of the Oscars.

Best Director – Stephan Daldry doesn’t deserve to be here for The Reader, one of the great disappointments of 2008. In his place, we should have been debating whether or not the great Christopher Nolan should finally win for The Dark Knight or if we should force him to make an even better Batman film (borderline impossible) in three years in order to earn the award. David Fincher’s Se7en and Fight Club were better films than Benjamin Button, and I’m hoping the Academy remembered that. The mostly-dependable Ron Howard did a great job with Frost/Nixon but how hard is a movie that you’re treating like a documentary. Milk was a great film, don’t get me wrong, but I have a feeling it could have directed itself, whereas Danny Boyle’s magical Slumdog Millionaire was complex and without major flaw, all things Benjamin Button SHOULD have been.

Best Picture – Slumdog Millionaire is going to win tonight. Is there any doubt in your mind? It was better than Benjamin Button (I mean seriously, was there any need for those Hurricane Katrina scenes?) and WAY better than The Reader (Come on, with such an emotional subject matter, couldn’t you guys have put any emotion into this movie?!). That leaves Milk and Frost/Nixon. Truthfully, I suppose I’ll be happy if either of those two beat Slumdog tonight because they were both great movies, but should they win? Frost/Nixon delivered two great performances (Langella’s Nixon and Michael Sheen’s Frost [by the way, the Academy is going to have to learn Sheen’s name because this is his second role they’ve overlooked after his portrayal of Tony Blair in The Queen]), but I saw a similarly-styled 2008 film that was much better (the documentary nominee Man on Wire [see it!]) and that’s reason enough for this film not to win. Milk delivered one of the most memorable performances of the year (Penn’s Milk), but this movie felt too small to win such a big award. That leaves the aforementioned magical Slumdog Millionaire and the unanswered question: should it win simply because it’s the best of the bunch? And to debate this topic is to ignore what, in my opinion, is the far superior film of 2007: the snubbed Synecdoche, NY.

As I mentioned before, the Pulitzer board has been handing out awards for fiction for the last 92 years to over 80 authors. If you noticed the discrepancy in numbers, you most likely chalked it up to authors winning multiple times. While that has happened (e.g., Updike, Faulkner, Mailer), it doesn’t fully explain the discrepancy. The truth is, in 10 of those 92 years, the Pulitzer board decided that no book deserved the award. They got together, reviewed all entries, and essentially declared to the world that, “none of these books is worth our time.” And I have to wonder, why can’t the Academy do this? In the place of a less-deserving current film, why can’t the Academy instead award retroactive awards? For instance, Slumdog Millionaire is good, but it’s not as great as Brokeback Mountain or Shawshank Redemption so why can’t one of those films receive a retroactive award? Maybe this flaw is why I chose to collect Pulitzer books instead of movies.

*Worth noting: I’m serious about Man on Wire. You should see it. It’s everything a movie should be. Also, expect to see Happy-Go-Lucky win for screenplay (the award the Academy gives to the films it knows it snubbed in other categories). And here’s hoping Hugh Jackman is half the host Jon Stewart is, and twice the host David Letterman was.

The rain's turned into snow...

2009-01-28T20:09:00.004-05:00

Four years ago, Mia Wallace and I joined Sarah the L, Smoochie Poo, Peace Corp Girl, and Head in Hinesburg to mourn the end of yet another year while simultaneously celebrating the beginning of the next one. After Mia Wallace shared with me her belief that how you celebrate New Year’s Eve impacts how you spend the rest of the year, I made sure to do my part in helping to plan a great evening. I even went so far as to create the first of what has now been five straight Mr. Benchly’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve Super Mixes. I made a copy for each partygoer. And though I did my best to make the CD a soundtrack for the evening, what I was actually doing was attempting to create a soundtrack for my life.

I know I’m not alone when I say that I’m intrigued at the thought of having a movie soundtrack play in the background of my everyday life. Whether it’s an inspirational Explosions in the Sky song for the walk to the Election Day voting booths; or a heartbreaking Bright Eyes song playing on the drive home from a break-up; or the upbeat Belle & Sebastian song that makes the stroll down Church Street that much more entertaining; or the hopeful Beatles song seemingly inspired by that first kiss; I’ve often dreamed of my life being set to music. As Caden Cotard said, every person in the world is a lead in his or her story. If that’s true, don’t we all deserve a musical accompaniment?

One song that has never made its way onto one of my Super Mixes despite its rightful claim to be there is the late great Dan Fogelberg’s “Same Auld Lang Syne.” The song tells the tale of two old lovers running into each other in their hometown and then spending the snowy evening drinking and reminiscing of days gone by. They toast their past and their present, and they attempt a conversation riddled with “emptiness.” In one of my favorite lines, Fogelberg says that the two were “living in our eloquence.”

I can’t think of a better way to describe a conversation between two old flames than how Fogelberg paints the picture in his song. Anyone who has ever experienced such an encounter firsthand knows that interacting with an ex is a complicated dance: there’s the obvious connection that drew you to each other in the first place, but it’s been marred by whatever drama that inspired your break-up; depending on how much time has passed, feelings are either confused or gone altogether and with them has gone the love-is-blindness that helped you overlook your ex’s flaws. What remains and the only thing capable of sustaining the conversation is the eloquence of your words. But your relationship has already ended for good reason and it’s inevitable that you’ll “run out of things to say.” Such is your fate as exes.

Despite “Same Auld Lang Syne”’s especially relevant subject matter this past holiday season (considering my break-up with Ms. Darling in the rainy autumn), it failed once more to make the final cut for my most recent Super Mix. Instead, I tried yet again to create a soundtrack for my life and, as embarrassing as this is to admit, like a documentarian trying to rewrite history, my song choices reflected my hope at reconciliation with Ms. Darling. A few of you received copies of the Super Mix before, predictably, I realized how unhealthy such a compilation was; I suppose that these copies will now be considered collector’s items. The lesson learned here is that though we each are leads in our own stories, we can’t act out our lives; we can only live them. Since that day, I’ve done my best to live my life to the fullest.

What’s so sad about Fogelberg’s song is that it’s autobiographical; it’s a genuine soundtrack to his life because these are words he actually lived. And it’s a song that will never be mistaken for a hopeful one. At the end of the night, the old flames kiss and go their separate ways back to their separate lives. Fogelberg sings, “Just for a moment, I was back at school and felt that old familiar pain. As I turned to make my way back home, the snow turned into rain.” Ms. Parker and I have debated the meaning of these lines and I’m not sure that we ever settled on an ultimate interpretation, but I don’t think that it’s much of a stretch to say that Fogelberg was going for symbolism with his words. My belief is that the snow represented joy or hope, and the rain, sadness or realism.

This song and my interpretation of its symbolic lyrics were on my mind late last year on an unseasonably warm and rainy December day when, on my walk to work, I heard a woman say to her friend, "well, at least it's better than snow." As timing would have it (and you know how this blog and its author love timing), this depressing, global-warming-loving comment happened two days after I met Cherry on Top, and inspired me to write her an email to tell her about it. I told her that though I may not ski, and though I’ll most likely feel differently in April, even I will admit that in the winter, I prefer snow to rain. And later that day, as I typed another email to her, adding yet another page to this new chapter in my life, the rain outside turned into snow.

Let's go to the movies...

2009-01-22T10:19:00.006-05:00

It's that time of year again! The ego-inflating Oscar nominations have been announced, said egos have been inflated, and now I begin my 2-month quest to line the pockets of said inflated egos by seeing every picture nominated in one of the eight major categories (Picture, Director, Acting, Writing).

Having only seen Slumdog Millionaire, Rachel Getting Married, Tropic Thunder, and Happy-Go-Lucky, I've got quite a lot left but here's hoping I'll see most of the 14 remaining films with enough time left over to make some predictions:

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button; Frost/Nixon; Milk; The Reader; The Visitor; The Wrestler; Changeling; Frozen River; Doubt; The Dark Knight; Revolutionary Road; Vicky Cristina Barcelona; In Bruges; WALL-E

So who's with me?! Maybe I'll see you at the movies...

A eulogy of sorts

2008-12-28T18:19:00.007-05:00

There once was a man who lived to be 90. I have no memories of him to share, and I don't have any stories of him to call my own. But from the stories I've heard, and from the smiles on the faces of those telling those stories, he was a great man, worthy of a story, worthy of a smile.

I never knew him and I found out today that I never will, but I'm sad that he's gone just the same. I can only imagine what it must be like for those who did know him and love him. It's a testament to this particular man's greatness that I envy those in mourning for the love they felt and the man they knew.

Benchly'synecdoche

2008-12-22T00:58:00.009-05:00

Although I know it’s most certainly not his intention, the great Charlie Kaufman has a knack for timing the release of his movies to coincide with transitional moments in my life when I’m in need of some sort of guidance or inspiration. The words that pour off of his scripts directly through the movie screens have always seemed directed at me. I’ve come away from each viewing feeling refreshed or renewed in some way. Repeated viewings of Kaufman films provide further intellectual and/or spiritual stimulation, but nothing quite like the first time.

For instance, Sarah the L and I went to see Adaptation as my relationship with Widget was dying its fairly-quick-yet-painful-nonetheless-death and I found comfort in a scene between the sibling characters, Charlie and Donald. In the scene, Charlie remembered a time back in high school when the love of Donald’s life made fun of him behind his back. Donald said he knew they were making fun of him and Charlie asked why then did he look so happy? Donald replied that he loved her to which Charlie said, “but she thought you were pathetic.” And Donald’s reply shed light on Charlie’s heartache and mine: “That was her business, not mine. You are what you love, not what loves you.” Five years later and that scene still resides in the forefront of my heart and mind. And it was something I thought of when I walked into the theatre to see Kaufman’s most recent movie, Synecdoche, New York, all the while hoping I’d find some sort of new wisdom that might help point my life in the right direction.

I’ve spent the last week since viewing Kaufman’s latest trying to understand what my eyes saw. My first reaction was to compare the movie to an overhead projector straight out of a high school class. I left the theatre feeling as if, in an effort to tell the story of one man’s life, Kaufman prepared five transparent sheets, each with its own form of art (e.g., a Hemingway short story; a Norman Rockwell painting; an Annie Leibowitz photograph; lyrics to a Bob Dylan song; and a page ripped straight out of Grey’s Anatomy of the Human Body), and placed them down on the projector, one on top of the other. The end result, of course, was a blur of confusion with faint traces of unimaginable beauty, and the feeling that Kaufman had failed to bring meaning and understanding of life through art.

Now, six days later, I’m overwhelmed with the revelation that in his film’s study of the life of one man, this blurred confusion with traces of beauty is precisely what Kaufman was striving to achieve. How else to describe the indescribable life than to be unable to completely describe it? Even more mind-blowing was the realization that Kaufman came closer to bringing clarity to life than I originally thought.

The literary-ites among my reader(s), as well as those of you with an insatiable thirst for knowledge, are most likely familiar with the word “synecdoche,” but for those of you who, like me, spent their entire lives without hearing this word until Charlie Kaufman delivered it into our consciousness like a line from an Alexander Pope poem, I’ll give a brief lesson. According to my trusty dictionary, a synecdoche is a figure of speech in which either a part is used to represent the whole, the whole for a part, the specific for the general, the general for the specific, or the material for the thing made from it. For example, if I told someone to use his head, because I was talking about his brain (specific) but said his head instead (general), I’ve just used a synecdoche. Other examples include saying “steel” instead of “sword,” “wheels” for a “car,” and a “Judas” for “traitor.”

If you consider the definition for “synecdoche” when thinking of this film, it becomes clear why Kaufman titled the movie as such. Everything and everyone in this world is both the sum of its parts and part of the sum. In other words (some of which are Kaufman’s), every person in the world is a “lead in their own story,” but also the extra in someone else’s. Each person is a synecdoche. Furthermore, the tragedy of Caden Cotard, played brilliantly by the resplendent Philip Seymour Hoffman, is that his life’s work, which turns into a work of his life, cannot be completed until his death. Each separate moment of his life, including his death, makes up the bigger picture of his life and, thus, his life is a synecdoche.

As a writer, I found Kaufman’s film and this newly-learned literary term equal parts comforting and haunting. In “synecdoche,” here was a word that accurately described Benchly’sword: one blog made up of numerous individual pieces, each of which complete on its own but also meant to be combined with every other piece to define one person’s life. My life, as complicated as it can be in its worst moments (goodbye hugs void of any feeling on a cold fall evening), and as simple as it can be in its best (sleeping in on a cold, December Sunday morning), is one story made up of a seemingly-unending-but-obviously-inevitably-ending (and I’ll admit, oftentimes inappropriately long-winded) parade of anecdotes. This blog is my play and I am the lead character.

I’m haunted, however, because I know that though each posted anecdote may be complete, I’ll never be able to finish every anecdote of my life. As thorough as I am, it’ll be impossible for me to complete my life’s work. The best I can do is enjoy each moment (good or bad) and find solace in the fact that I’m able to share most of these moments with my reader(s). And if ever I’m lucky enough to be able to share them with my Maxine/Amelia/Clementine/Hazel, after all that I've been through in this life, and especially in this year, she would most certainly be the cherry on top.

"Life is what happens to you..."

2008-12-07T12:59:00.011-05:00

On the drive to the climbing gym the other night, while Mr. Extracurricular and I caught each other up on the happenings of our respective lives, I silently planned the climbs I was going to attempt that evening. Considering that each new trip to the gym carried with it an improvement from last time, I planned to conquer a personal-best 8 routes this time. And after a quick start up the white route and an equally quick (and efficient) trip up the red one, I tried my hands (and feet) at the black one in the corner, which was set one level higher than the beginner level. And that’s when I fell off. Disappointed but not discouraged, I next attempted an easier green route that had always seemed made for me. And then I fell off that one, too. Then the light blue one and the green one proved too challenging and I had to cheat a number of times on an easy blue one. I ended up leaving the gym with a bruised ego, a battered body, and the need to run home as quickly as possible to wash away the night with a hot shower. My plans did not come to fruition. (On a related note, Mr. Extracurricular’s plans also fell through when he realized the orange route he had not yet completed and which was proving to be his nemesis, had been replaced by another route.)

In the beginning of, at the end of, and even during my past relationships, among the number of things I’ve been called (including sensitive, over-sensitive, a leader, a follower, anxious to the point of creating an imbalance, etc.), the one that stands out the most (read: for the purpose of this blog entry) is “a planner.” And depending on the context and my mood, I’ve been known to take this as both a compliment and an insult. What I won’t question is whether or not it’s true; it is. Whether it’s the directions to Sister #2’s house for Thanksgiving, or a detailed itinerary of the hotels I’ll be staying at in England, or the iPod playlist started early in the year that’s called simply Possible Super Mix Songs, or the fact that I carry a first-aid kit on even the smallest hikes, or the fact that I’ll rent two or three different movies because I’m unsure of which one my movie date will want to watch, or when I run around town looking for the right flowers and dog bone, hardly a day passes for which I haven’t been preparing some sort of plan. Some exes found this annoying. Others thought it was cute and complementary. One even thought it was cute, annoying, and complementary.

I’m sure the Trash Heap would have a junior-high-school field day with this, but off the top of my head, I have no idea why I want my life to be so structured. It’s not like I was born on my due date or anything; I was early, with so much energy the doctor said my parents should just put shoes on me and let me walk home. And it’s not like my childhood had any major traumas that might force someone to desire stability in his/her life; it was your basic son-of-a-preacher-man life that was equal parts consistent and unpredictable. And it’s not like I spent my adolescence swimming in an abnormally large pool of plans; like everyone else, sometimes I had plans and sometimes I didn’t. So then what? We’re all reflections of our parents, right? Well, a thorough investigation of the Benchly house reveals the same varied qualities as the rest of my life: a checklist for every grocery item imaginable, printed out and used each and every trip to the grocery store, sitting beside a messy stack of random papers that may or may not have been placed there during the Clinton administration. Whatever the reason, I am who I am, I’m not going to change, and you can love me for it or not. Your choice.

The reason I bring this up is because lately I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time (even by my standards) thinking about plans, both made and broken. In the past month, I’ve made plans to spend time with pretty much every friend and/or loved one within driving distance (read: 3 hours or less). I’ve even made a handful of new friends (which is a big deal for me) and am beginning to include them in my plans. You see, I got pretty lazy about making plans with friends after Labor Day and have been trying for the past month or so to make up for it. As I’m sure you know, spending time with friends and loved ones is great therapy for the soul. And sometimes it’s comforting to sit back and think of all the people in this world who think of you every now and then. Doing so reminds me of a belief I heard once that a person’s spirit lives on so long as someone is alive to tell his/her story.

Also, in the past month, I’ve been doing my best to learn how to accept when plans change. To paraphrase one of my all-time favorite Douglas Coupland quotes, “sometimes I scare myself with how many of my thoughts revolve around making me feel better about not having plans.” It’s incredible to think that this latest obsession with plans is the direct result of one plan that didn't come to fruition: I had a cozy picture of a Thursday night in winter, waiting all day to finally be able to lay down on the couch to watch the newest episode of LOST, speculate about what’s going to happen the next week, and then fall happily to sleep. I’ll still be able to do this; just not the way I originally planned. And I’m planning to one day be OK with that.

"...still my guitar gently weeps."

2008-11-26T09:28:00.007-05:00

Contrary to popular belief, when I think back to my time spent at the University Whose Name Shall Never Be Said, my memories are primarily positive: the PFLAG skit with Little Amie, the road trips with Ms. Parker, downhill skiing in jeans and sweaters with True, etc. Included among the countless memories is the long-overdue day on which I mastered the world of irony. And in an ironic twist, this triumph occurred not in the classroom for which I was paying (and still am paying) for my education, but rather in the viewing of the film Reality Bites in which a character explains that irony happens when the actual result differs from the expected result. These thoughts were on my mind last night as I reached for the last rock of a rock-climbing route (the white one for the one of you keeping score at home) that had, in previous attempts, proven too difficult for my amateur (read: not-exactly-in-shape) skills. But since irony considers the sequence of events leading up to the result, first let me back up a bit.

When it comes to dating, I wouldn't exactly place myself in the same league as a Casanova, but I have had my fair share of girlfriends and thanks to the wonderful Internet, most of them have had the pleasure (or pain) of finding their (nick)name in my blog's print. For the most part, I've never considered this a bad thing. However, thanks to said wonderful Internet's ability to archive everything, I worry that my past is going to start coming back to haunt me. I saw it when one girlfriend became jealous of the Ghosts of Girlfriends Past, and I saw it again when another future girlfriend questioned the sincerity of my words.

It's an honest question: how sincere could a guy be when his written words from relationships long gone are similar to the words coming out of his mouth in the present? I'm sure you'll agree when I say that things said in current relationships are almost always unintended carbon copies of past relationship sweet nothings (who can go 15 years of dating without repeating some feelings along the way?). But only the fools stupid enough to blog their feelings get caught duplicating love and heartache. The closed-off souls who don’t share their feelings never suffer this fate. (I suppose an alternative solution is to date someone who shows no interest in your blog whatsoever, but what fun is that?) My most recent relationship, built on a blogging foundation, had to deal with this question of sincerity in the beginning before grabbing the next rock and pulling itself up to bigger and more relevant topics (read: when life gets in the way and love becomes complicated).

It's hard to imagine what life would have been like had I not walked down Church Street that fateful summer day, and some would argue that it's not worth the time and energy spent wondering. You can’t change the past; you can only deal with its consequences, make the most of the present, and put yourself in a position to enjoy the future. So regardless of why it happened, what happened happened and, through a series of mostly-related (emphasis on related) events, led me to join a local rock climbing gym to go climbing with my new friend, Mr. Extracurricular. Two weeks ago, I nearly backed out of a planned climb but I didn’t and the rock climbing walls kicked my butt for it by letting me complete only one route. Last week, against my instincts to stay home and not exercise, I went back and completed two routes and vowed to come back to do better. Last night, I found inspiration in the unlikeliest of people and completed six routes and found myself halfway up a route set at the next level.

As is often the case, in between climbs while giving our arms (and for me, my fingers) a rest, Mr. Extracurricular and I talked about the different challenges we face while climbing. I always feel a little embarrassed having a discussion like this with someone whose challenges are tackled on routes that are 3 or 4 levels more difficult than the ones I attempt, but Mr. Extracurricular humors me nonetheless. Now that I’ve learned to use my lower body more and my upper body less, for me, aside from building up strength and endurance, my biggest challenge is simply staying on course. Because multiple colored routes are entwined together on the wall, I often find myself skipping a challenging handhold on my route and instead opting for an easier one not intended for me. And so, if/when I reach the top, I’ve inevitably taken an unintended route. With this in mind, as I grabbed that final white rock, I wondered if I was being ironic. (I think because the outcome and the expected outcome were the same, I wasn’t.)

Although there’s no irony to be found in the rock climbing walls, it could be argued that the last four months of my life have been ironic simply because the expected outcome was never realized. While climbing to the top, I stumbled, the rocks moved on me, I reached for the wrong holds, and now I find myself perched high on the wall on a different course, looking up at a final rock I can no longer see. But I know it’s there and I’m not going to quit climbing simply because my instincts tell me to let go.

It’s hard to imagine how my life will change because I chose to join the rock climbing gym, but as always, I look forward to the climb.

Ready or not...

2008-11-16T17:28:00.010-05:00

The Benchly family likes to joke that I’m always the last one to know when something significant happens. For example, Mama Benchly told me once that one of my cousins had had a second child and I was surprised to hear that there had been a first one. And when Brother-in-Law #1 proposed to Sister #1 at a Thanksgiving with both of their families present, I was the only family member not in the room. It was for this reason that I made Sister #1 and Brother-in-Law #1 promise me that I would be the first family member to know if/when they got pregnant. And to this day, I still remember the giddy feeling I felt when my college roommate told me my sister had called and said it was imperative that I call her back that evening, which was eclipsed only by the giddy feeling I felt when she confirmed my theory: she was pregnant with Niece #1.

Ten years after finding out about the inevitable Niece #1, my nieces have multiplied by five, while the nephew count remains at zero, which, as far as I know, is where it will remain. (On a side note, I’ve always thought that if I was ever blessed with a family, that I’d only be able to bless my parents with more granddaughters. Of course, I also thought I was going to play for the Yankees so what do I know about my future?) Like Papa Benchly who has said he wouldn’t trade his granddaughters for all the grandsons in the world, I can’t imagine my life without my five nieces. Though the youngest is not yet two years old, each niece already has an established personality and I love to sit back and watch them learn their way through the world:

Niece #1 is a sensitive and curious leader who wants to love and be loved;

Niece #2 is determined and will make up her own mind about things thank-you-very-much;

Niece #3 is a tireless performer who probably loves to be tickled more than all the other nieces combined;

Niece #4 seems to have inherited traits of both of her sisters (#1 and #2) in that she wants to love and be loved but on her terms; and

I think it’s safe to say that Niece #5 will be running the family by the age of 4.

But as anyone with nieces or nephews will confirm, sitting back and watching is not an option. Aunts and uncles have important responsibilities and, ten years into my role as Uncle Benchly, I’m convinced that mine are to love unconditionally and to tirelessly entertain. The loving unconditionally part was easy: these girls were my first experience with instant unconditional love; they opened their eyes, I was in love. As for the entertaining part, my résumé includes helping Niece #1 learn how to play chess, taking Nieces #2 and #3 for a spin around the pool, watching Niece #4’s already obvious soccer talents, taking Niece #5 on my famous Uncle Benchly Airplane Express (complete with propeller sounds and arm wings), hundreds of board games, countless games of tag, and scavenger hunts, among many other activities including, I’m convinced, the most rewarding game of Hide-and-Go-Seek known to any niece or nephew in the world.

Whenever one or more nieces is gathered, it isn’t long before a game of Hide-and-Go-Seek is suggested. The rules are simple: everyone takes turns and we usually keep the hiding to one floor. So why is this game so rewarding for the girls? Simple. Because once a niece starts counting (hopefully to at least 20), despite my 6’2” Benchly frame, I squeeze myself into hiding spots in which no child would ever dream of fitting. And I stay there. I stay there despite the pain that, at times, has led me to tears; despite having to go to the bathroom; despite my nieces announcing that they’re giving up searching for me; and even despite the times when my nieces actually gave up searching for me. Occassionally, to keep their interest, I’ll wait until they’re in another room and I’ll shout out “I’m in here!” And if I feel that they’ve become more discouraged than a game for children should ever make a child feel, I’ll quietly leave my hiding spot and “hide” in plain view. After I’ve been discovered, I’ll convince the niece that I’ve been hiding there all along.

There have been times when my uncle tricks haven’t worked as well as I had planned (e.g., if Niece #4 or Niece #5 saw me hide and give away my hiding spot by staring at me and giggling), and there have been times when my nieces have shown that they’ve sadly lost some of their naïveté (e.g., when Niece #1 refuses to believe that I’ve been hiding in plain view the entire time), but for the most part, as long as I have enough time to hide, I have no trouble entertaining them with memorable hiding spots. Of course, how many children are capable of counting slowly when they’re overcome with excitement? And so, often times, they’re shouting “ready or not, here I come” when I’m obviously not ready. But as in life, when things happen before you’re ready for them, it’s in how you respond that determines your fate and so, with this in mind, I sprint and leap and shove myself into the best hiding spot available and hope that I don’t stub my toes along the way.

What do we do now?

2008-11-13T09:18:00.006-05:00

A week after Election Day, the BBGE gathered at The Dean's house to discuss Cormac McCarthy's The Road, the fictional tale of a father and son trying to survive in a post-apocalyptic world. Some sort of event happened an unspecified amount of time prior to the events described in the book, and resulted in the father and son wandering along a road in a desolate world, desperately searching for their next meal. The story takes place over a few months, and through the book's format, which is essentially one long chapter broken down into short, mostly-chronological anecdotes, the reader can't help but feel as if he/she is walking on the road alongside the protagonists, living each day as if it might be the last. Through McCarthy's borderline-monotonous-and-consequently-effective descriptions, it becomes extremely easy to empathize with the characters and the dire situation in which they find themselves. This book affected me by making me believe such a reality was possible, and by forcing me to wonder how I would handle such a dramatic life change. (We all know how much I love change.)

Considering that the recent presidential election was on the liberal minds of all BBGE members, it was surprising when no one wondered aloud who was running the country when this fictional apocalypse occurred. What was not surprising, however, was how quickly any of our conversations that night quickly transitioned into discussions on said election. As you probably imagined, like the majority of my fellow Vermonters, I celebrated Barack Obama's victory on Election Night, and like quite a few of those same Vermonters, I stayed up late to hear his speech; a speech and a moment that nearly led me to tears. I discovered that among my fellow BBGE members, I was not alone. Obama was an historic candidate on so many different levels and his campaign slogan "Change we can believe in," though awkwardly phrased, had inspired all of us nonetheless. And with 53% of the national vote, it could be argued that this country mandated that January 20, 2009 be a day of change. Whatever that vague change may be is still undecided.

While President-Elect Obama prepares to transition into the Oval Office of Change, we the voters return to our everyday lives with our everyday problems. The Professor remarked that, like so many others, she felt the symptoms of election withdrawal: the emptiness that can suffocate you when, after an 18-month election season, the need to check election polls and view SNL videos and discuss political gaffes has quickly vanished and been replaced by the realization that as historic as this moment was, none of your problems have disappeared. And it's in this moment that I'm reminded of the underrated 1972 film The Candidate, starring Robert Redford as Bill McKay, a 30-something son of a California governor hand-picked to lose a Senate election against the popular Republican incumbent. After surviving and thriving in a primary, a debate, and a tiring election campaign, McKay surprisingly wins a close election and responds by asking his advisors, "what do we do now?" In one of my favorite movie endings, the film ends without McKay ever receiving an answer. And I imagine that that’s kind of how this country is feeling right now.

A NY Times critic said it felt as if The Candidate "had been put together by people who had given up hope." I think it could be argued that Obama's campaign was so successful because it was aimed at inspiring the very same kinds of people capable of making such a film. After living so many years desperate to believe in a candidate, voters were ecstatic when they finally found someone about whom they didn't have to make excuses. Gone were the days of "he's great, but," and "I like what he says, but," and "sure, he has the same values, but," and in their place stood the realization that for the first time in their adult lives, they were face to face with someone in whom they could finally believe. Their Mr. Right, if you will. “He’s great,” without adding a “but.”

But "what do we do now?" When people get what they want, they often wind up wanting more. Who knows why really? Faced with an uphill struggle against two wars, a faltering economy, a record deficit, and hardly any national pride, my guess is no president could achieve instant results, no matter how Mr. Right he/she was, and so I'm curious to see how long the country gives Obama before they start giving up on him. And equally important is how Obama will respond if they do.

But I think that despite this country’s recent history of picking the wrong guy, she finally nabbed the right one this time. And I have hope that he will pass her tests with flying colors. I have to have hope. Because as great as Cormac McCarthy’s story was, no one wants to walk down a road alone.

Benchly'sleeve

2008-11-09T14:23:00.007-05:00

As Papa Benchly’s and my checkbook will confirm, nine years ago, I purchased four years of education at the University Whose Name Shall Never Be Said. And though I was paying for the classes, I found most of my education outside the classroom. While a student there, I wrote a newspaper column that often critiqued the university, its people, its departments, and its policies. And though I admit that the column was borne out of contempt for the university, I gradually found myself writing words that I hoped would help positively change the university (while maintaining my often sarcastic tone, of course). In a sense, I was seeking change I could believe in. But as President-Elect Obama and his supporters know far too well, when you criticize something, even if it’s something you love, often times the response is essentially, “if you don’t like it here, leave,” and criticism is most certainly what I received, even in the form of threats (unless, of course, those five fraternity brothers who showed up at my apartment were telling the truth when they claimed they only wanted to talk).

It was in dealing with negative responses to my newspaper column that I learned a valuable lesson in journalism: a journalist should respond to criticism only when there’s a gross misstatement of fact, when questions have been asked of the publication, or when the criticism needs some sort of clarification, lest the journalist risk alienating his/her readers with a most-likely never-ending argument/contest of who can have the last word. Most importantly, the very same freedom of speech that allows journalists and bloggers the opportunity to speak their mind must provide the same blanket of protection and opportunity for those who raise their voice in disagreement. And so, nine years later, these are the thoughts that are on my mind as I sit here and contemplate what, if anything, to do about the recent feedback hand I’ve been dealt on this very blog.

As my reader(s) most likely know, my last blog entry had the honor of receiving not one, but three comments from my fans (just about doubling my fan base), two of which from “Anonymous” could be classified as “Constructive Feedback.” (The other, authored by Ms. Darling, I’ve filed under “Obligatory Adoration.”) For the technologically savvy (read: those who can operate a mouse), I’ve included a link to these comments so that Anonymous’s words can speak for themselves.

For the technologically challenged, I’ll briefly summarize them here: Anonymous was concerned that my written words might be harmful; that good communication required listening, which became difficult when communicating in writing; that if I wasn’t open to stepping out of my comfort zone to listen to what others had to say, it would be because I was afraid to hear criticism or I was simply self-centered; and that if I stopped hiding behind my words, I’d be better off for it. A few days later, Ms. Darling’s sweet (pun intended) blog entry about me received another Anonymous posting, which seemed to be related (pun not quite unintended): “Be kind, and remember that while a second or third life can be lived online, you are still left with the first.”

I have no way of knowing if the comments from Anonymous #1 and Anonymous #2 are related, but for the purpose of this blog, I’m going to pretend that they are. And though I have a hunch that Anonymous #1 wasn’t responding to my blog but rather to my actions and/or inactions in my "first life," since she claimed to be “offering a response to some of [my] musings,” I’ll treat her comments as such. With that in mind, it seems to me that the argument being made here is that there is a time and a place for a blog, and that maybe Ms. Darling and I have crossed that fine line by speaking openly about our recent dating adventure/challenge, which has occurred fairly close (some would consider too close) in time to our previous relationships. I’m going to resist the temptation to debate who is right and who is wrong; with such an ever-changing technological world, I think even Emily Post would have trouble finding her social etiquette footing. What I will do instead is offer up for your consideration and clarification my brief (read: non-Benchly-like) philosophy on blogging:

When I first started blogging back at the obviously-trademark-infringed,-though-cleverly-named-nonetheless The Continuing Story of Bungalow Benchly, I had a discussion with Ms. Parker about how personal one’s blog entries should be. I don’t remember her opinion on the matter (I think she said if it was meant for your journal under your bed, it shouldn’t be in your blog), but I remember mine as it’s one I’ve tried to maintain to this day: I want to write only about what I would feel comfortable discussing face-to-face with anyone tomorrow. My aim has been to express the same respectful honesty in my happy-ever-after blogs as can be found in my heart-broken-again ones. And though, admittedly, a few of my blog tirades crossed a line (the snoring banishment episode comes to mind), I think for the most part I’ve done a great job. I may be a screenname as I post this, but as Anonymous #2 pointed out, I’m human first and foremost, and so it’s no surprise that I’ve made some blogging mistakes. At the very least, I can say that they’ve been genuine ones with honest intentions.

So to Anonymous #1 and Anonymous #2, thank you for your feedback. I appreciate that you’ve taken the time to read my blog and to consider all that I have to say. And I hope that you continue to do so. If you do, I promise you that what you will find is what you’ve always found: an honest, sensitive, and respectful portrayal of my feelings about my life and the world and people around me. Like my wet sleeves in my “first life,” I wear my emotions in my second life here on my blog. If I’m happy, if I’m sad, if I’m heartbroken, or if I’ve met an amazing woman and am hopeful that things will work out for us in the end, you can rest asssured that you’ll read it here, either boldly stated, or somewhere between the lines.

Away With Words?

2008-10-27T11:47:00.010-04:00

Two weekends ago, after a 3-person, 4-phone, 2-state, text-message, voicemail, super game of Telephone with Ms. Darling and her family, to ensure that she would return in time to the green mountains from her Beantown night with Madonna, Ms. Darling and I found ourselves at the Vergennes Opera House for a Friday night performance of The Foreigner, by Larry Shue, starring my friend Jay Peak, and with a brief cameo by his girlfriend Gee Wiz.

The Foreigner is a 2-act play that takes place at a fishing lodge in Georgia and centers around a pathologically shy and insecure British man named Charlie (played by Jay Peak who, jokingly [I hope] said he found some inspiration in the personality traits of yours truly) who, in an attempt to avoid any awkward social interaction with the other guests, pretends to be a non-English-speaking, non-speaking foreigner. When certain events force Charlie to communicate with the other guests in his pretend non-English language, hilarity ensues. And though the ultimate message of this play might be that even the unspoken word can communicate a human's inherent goodness, one lesson I drew from the play was the power of language.

As the banner on my blog confidently tells my reader(s), and as most of my English-major friends will attest to, the pen is often mightier than the sword. Words matter and are often more powerful than ever intended by the person communicating them. Exhibit A for this argument can be found no further than the fact that I still remember the five most negatively influential comments made in my direction, even though all occurred at least 12 years ago, and some, a quarter of a century ago:

"You're the worst sorry-assed student I've ever seen," said Gary Perry, 11th-grade chemistry teacher after discovering me looking at a college basketball tournament bracket in class; "God is ashamed of you!" shouted Chris Ortloff, a church member after I dumped a bucket of water on his son at a church youth group meeting (I asked Papa Benchly if God was ashamed of me. His paraphrased response was, "you shouldn't have done what you did, and that's not something God would condone. With that said, he probably had it coming."); "You're Benchly. You're asexual to us," said Ms. Scharf, describing why I was "just friends" with 8 women in college; "Ew, Benchly touched my arm! Now I have cooties!" screamed nameless female elementary school classmate when a bump in the road knocked me into her seat on the bus; and "That's not a real Dukes of Hazzard matchbox car, Benchly. You can't play with us," said nameless 1st grade classmate when I attempted to pretend that my orange matchbox sports car was The General Lee.

Though ranging from comical to typical to stereotypical to tragic, all affected me, and The Trash Heap would opine that all continue to affect me to this day. Words are powerful and have a shelf life that rivals that of even the most nonperishable foods. Whoever first claimed that names couldn't hurt you like a stick or stone was lying or kidding him/herself, just like anyone who claims to be rubber, not glue. For instance, the names with which you’ll inevitably tease me after I quote You’ve Got Mail in the next two paragraphs will most likely sting for a long time.

This past year, I’ve been proud of the blog entries I’ve been able to craft with the words that I’ve sewn together. After two depressingly barren years of blogging, I’ve doubled the number of entries from those two years and still have two months left in the year with which to write the stories of my life. In perfect contrast, however, I feel as though I’ve slowly lost the ability to verbally communicate effectively. Anyone who has suffered through my bumbling retellings of a story or a joke lately will surely agree. Like Kathleen in You’ve Got Mail, I always “get tongue tied and my mind goes blank. Then I spend the rest of the night tossing and turning over what I should have said.” I may have a way with the written word, but the spoken one feels increasingly foreign to me.

When I do “have the pleasure of saying the thing [I] want to say at the moment [I’m] wanting to say it,” as Joe Fox warns in You’ve Got Mail, “remorse eventually follows.” For proof of that, I need to look no further than the difficulty I’ve had as of late in my attempts to communicate my feelings to Ms. Darling or my frustrations with certain family members. In each instance, no matter how carefully-crafted each thought was, I exited the conversation either feeling as if I had failed to accurately express what I was thinking, or that I had said too much. Considering how important words are, I’ve started contemplating communicating only in writing. And if this wasn’t the first step to a J.D. Salinger-like reclusive lifestyle, I’d probably go for it.

After all I've said, if you're still left doubting the power of words, consider how they affected the life of Gee Wiz two weekends ago. After The Foreigner's curtain fell and the performers took their well-earned bows, Jay Peak stood in his rightful place at center stage, took Gee Wiz by the hand, and spoke the first nonfictional, but nevertheless well-rehearsed and deeply personal words of the night: a proposal. And in response, in between nervous snorts and tears of happiness, Gee Wiz uttered perhaps the most meaningful word of her life: "yes." And in response, we say, “Mazel tov!”

They grow up so fast, indeed

2008-10-15T19:23:00.005-04:00

The more things change...

the more things stay the same...

"With every mistake, we must surely be learning..."

2008-10-10T08:54:00.008-04:00

Thanks to the Photo Album Project of 2003–2008, the majority of my photographs since 1992 are now filed chronologically in no less than 10 albums, each with its own decorative cover carefully selected to suggest a maturity void of any effeminate qualities (see also my dark red, manly-patterned Martha Stewart comforter). Buried deep within one of these albums is a photograph taken at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC in 1994; a picture whose purpose is actually expressed in the biblical quote contained within its frame: "Only guard yourself and guard your soul carefully lest you forget the things your eyes saw, and lest these things depart your heart all the days of your life. And you shall make them known to your children, and to your children’s children” (Deuteronomy 4:9). In simpler (read: more John-McCain/Sarah-Palin-friendly) terms, the heart of this message is clear: honor history by learning from it and ensuring it isn’t repeated.

In an unintended bit of poignancy, this photograph is surrounded in these 10 albums by photographs of the various serious, semi-serious, and not-so-serious girlfriends/dates/girl-space-friends in my life, each of whom has been responsible for at least one valuable lesson about life, love, my flaws, my strengths, what I’m capable of in relationships, what I need to improve, what I want out of a relationship, what I shouldn’t put up with, etc. Whether it’s the woman who first called to attention my caretaker personality trait, or the ones who made me realize my susceptibility to dependency, or the ones who forced me to take responsibility for my role in our relationships, or the ones who helped me understand that disagreements can be healthy, I’ve learned a lot in the 15 years that I’ve been dating. And although I feel a tad shameful applying the lesson from a Holocaust-related-quote to a 30-something’s love life (I find my solace and justification in another lesson learned from the Holocaust: that each life is valuable and worth discussing), I think it goes without saying (though when has that ever stopped me from saying it anyway?) that if I ever want to find myself in a healthy relationship capable of sustaining the Long Haul, I need to protect these lessons learned from being erased in my memory like out-of-focus digital photos taken one-too-many-glasses-of-wine into a Friday night.

Now that I’ve started seeing a therapist, my past relationships have taken center stage in my memory’s playhouse. Although quite a bit of our 50-minute hours have been spent discussing the Benchlys who, in the last two and a half months, have started to resemble an overly dramatic and meddling family straight out of a bad 80s nighttime serial drama, we have also taken the time to figure out why my past relationships have failed, in hopes that my next one won’t. And though I finally caved at Mama Benchly’s twentieth suggestion that I seek therapy simply because I wanted to vent about my family, I’ll be the first one to admit how nice it has been to discuss my ideas/fears/questions about relationships with an educated, soft-spoken professional, affectionately nicknamed The Trash Heap (I can’t take credit for this one; this was Sarah the L’s idea). For although I pay her and so we’re naturally at risk for the “customer is right” mentality creeping in, her brutal honesty thus far has assured me that I can consider her opinion to be unbiased and caring.

The Trash Heap has been invaluable lately for a reason I’m sure my reader(s) won’t be surprised to hear simply because today I’m about as transparent as a political ad or election running-mate choice: I’ve started dating someone new. Her name is Ms. Darling (Ms. Parker: I have faith that you’ll figure this one out) and a darling she is. In the grand scheme of things, “what it is we’re doing” is fairly fresh and still carries with it that new car smell called Confidence that excitedly says, “This is the greatest car to ever be driven off the lot. I can’t believe it only has 2 miles on it! And look at the cup holders!” In other words, we’re still in that stage when you’re blown away by the refreshing and exciting new addition to your life, and you spend your time together discovering that second glove compartment or whether or not two bikes can fit in the back. But we’re not kidding ourselves. We’re hopeful that this is going in the direction of the Long Haul (and there are certainly days when I’m convinced that it is), but we expect road bumps. We expect headlights and taillights to go out, and maintenance required lights to go on. We expect them because that’s what our respective pasts have taught us, among many other lessons, and to remember and learn from these pasts is to honor them.

(I must admit, this time around I feel an overwhelming sense of comfortable calmness. Ms. Darling excites me and makes me feel relaxed at the same time. This is new for me and most definitely worthy of The Trash Heap’s input.)

I realized recently that the time has come to purchase an 11th photo album. I’m starting to feel overloaded with developed pictures awaiting their appropriate place in my chronologically documented history. Included in those pictures are new ones of Ms. Darling from the hikes we’ve been on, one of our marathon dates, the night we got lost under the stars, and a recent bike ride. These are moments I already know I don’t want to forget, lest these things depart my heart all the days of my life.

"It ain't over till it's over."

2008-09-24T15:27:00.015-04:00

Back in the mid-1980s, like most single-digit-old, elementary-school kids, I developed a strong case of America’s pastime. I'm pretty sure I joined Little League in 1985 simply because it was the thing to do, and when you consider my team's 3-year record of 3-45, it's remarkable to think that I've stuck with the game for so long. Not only did I stick with it, though, I also grew to love it, both on the field and off.

Around the same time that I learned how to play baseball, I began to take interest in watching it. I can still remember, with the kind of clarity that hardly ever accompanies a nearly 25-year-old memory, sitting in front of my grandparents' television in 1984, watching the Oakland Athletics play, and seeing their speedy outfielder Rickey Henderson steal second base and then run to third when the throw sailed into center field. I ran as fast as Henderson into the kitchen where my parents and grandparents were discussing parental/grandparental things and proudly declared that Henderson was my new favorite ballplayer. In the winter months, when Henderson was traded to the New York Yankees, I declared that the Yankees were my new favorite team. But let's be honest here: my heart ultimately would have led to the Yankees regardless of their roster. Like my father and his father before him, the Yankees were in my blood.

When my grandfather discovered my new love for his old team, it was like if the day you realized you loved candy coincided with the revelation that your home had a chocolate pond in its backyard. Suddenly, I was receiving hand-me-downs of the Yankees Magazine, I was going to an actual Yankees game with him and my father, and the sounds of a ballgame could be heard coming from the back room in his house nearly every time we visited. The games were on so often that I wouldn't have been surprised if the letters "WPIX" had burned themselves into the screen. The Yankees were in my blood, yes, and my grandfather ensured that it would stay that way forever.

As some or all of you know, Papa Benchly and I made a bittersweet pilgrimage to Yankee Stadium this past Sunday, the last day of summer. It was sweet because this was the first Yankees game that he and I had been to together in approximately 20 years. It was bitter because the Yankees had all-but-mathematically been eliminated from playing in the postseason for the first time since my senior year in high school. It was sweet because the pre-game ceremony paraded out a long list of Yankees, including two of our heroes: Yogi Berra for me and Bobby Richardson for him. And it was bitter because the ceremony had been planned to honor the final baseball game to ever be played in the cathedral, which can now, three days later, be referred to as "the old Yankee Stadium."

The flags atop the white frieze that helps to envelop the fans within the Stadium, sat motionless in the warm, summer’s night; if the ghosts of the building were going to have their way, we’d have to wait another day for the end of the seasons, both baseball and summer. Papa Benchly and I sat in the upper deck on the third base side (in about the same spot as where the entire Benchly family sat in 1987 when Papa Benchly and I were convinced by Mama Benchly that bringing the entire Benchly family to a Yankees game was a "good" idea [considering Sister #2 probably only remembers the music she listened to on her walkman, and Sister #1 probably only remembers Don Mattingly's butt, and Mama Benchly probably only remembers the incredible heat that forced us to leave the game early {!}, I think it's safe to say that this wasn't a "good" idea]). In the final game at Yankee Stadium, Papa Benchly and I sat in seats that originally cost 3 times as much as they did that fateful Benchly family day in 1987, and for which in 2008 we paid the scalper 10 times the face value: a price worth paying.

On the long and sunny drive down to the Stadium, Papa Benchly and I reminisced about past Stadium trips and how every trip culminated in a Yankees loss. We saw an Old Timer's Day game, an Opening Day game, a doubleheader, an extra-inning game, and the game in which Don Mattingly extended his home-run streak, among, we're pretty sure, many other games. And the Yankees lost every single one of them. It's safe to say that this affected me. When the Yankees finally made it to the World Series in my freshman year of college, I turned down the opportunity to buy tickets simply because I didn't want my presence to hurt their chances of winning. And when this losing streak was finally broken at an early-2001-season game against the Boston Red Sox, it required not one but two 9th-inning home runs to save the day. And, of course, that particular season marked the end of the team’s run of World Series titles so it could be argued that my presence at a regular season game changed the course of the postseason’s history. Needless to say, this was a curse my father and I hoped would be broken that night, but we understood: when it comes to baseball, the unexpected is expected.

For a long time, and including a previous post in this blog, I’ve been a fan of former baseball commissioner A. Bartlett Giamatti’s quote about baseball. He says we “count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive,” and that just when we need it most, “when the days are all twilight, it stops.” What I had never noticed until recently, however, was the rest of the essay from which this quote was taken, entitled “The Green Fields of the Mind.” In it, Giamatti expounds on his opening theory and how it relates to the illusion of eternity: “It breaks my heart because it was meant to foster in me the illusion that there was something abiding, some pattern, and some impulse that could come together to make a reality that would resist the corrosion; after it had fostered again that most hungered-for illusion, the game was meant to stop and betray precisely what it promised. There are those who were born with the wisdom to know that nothing lasts. I am a simpler creature, tied to more primitive patterns and cycles. I need to think something lasts forever, and it might as well be that state of being that is a game; it might as well be that, in a green field, in the sun.”

Anyone who has ever spent 11 hours in a car in one 24-hour span knows that the open road allows for the opportunity to get lost in your thoughts. And so it was that in between conversations with Papa Benchly, I found myself thinking about how my life had changed so much in 31 years while a building on a 5-sided plot of land had resisted corrosion and remained almost entirely the same. I couldn’t help but notice the differences: instead of being driven to the game, having my way paid for me, and discussing school and baseball, I drove us in my car, paid for my half, and found pleasure in our conversations about our family’s history, and baseball, and the upcoming election, and the economy, and the current Benchly family drama. 20 years later, while our relationship with one another had not changed, our relationships to the rest of the world had: I was now an adult, he was now a grandfather. And there we were driving to and from a landmark that, for my 31 years, had always been ready to serve as a backdrop to my life, and which, a few short hours later (after a long-overdue win), would no longer be available, and I realized that Giamatti was right: nothing lasts forever. Stadiums. Baseball. Youth. Life. And the only comfort I can find is that of a green field in the fading sun.

"Describe your ideal weekend..."

2008-09-15T17:32:00.022-04:00

A friend of mine who has tried unsuccessfully to find love from the online personals dating scene, recently decided to let her personals account expire. In 9 days, she will officially give up trying to find that all-too-elusive plug-in-the-wall love. Not wanting to waste those 9 days that have been paid in full, and in recognition of the fact that this friend is a good catch, I took it upon myself to play matchmaker. I devised a thoughtful (read: random and illogical) and carefully crafted (read: long winded) question and answer sheet designed specifically to help this friend find "Mr. Right." To paraphrase the official title, I called this the Operation Find Mr. Right.

Based on my friend's answers to the questions, I was able to find two eligible bachelors who seemed to be worth her time. However, because this is Burlington, VT ("where everybody knows your name..."), she had already been in touch with both bachelors and had identified them as jerks. Consequently, my career as a matchmaker was short-lived.

This experience reminded me of my own attempt to find love through the personals, which Sarah the L and I have affectionately nicknamed "2003." Following a break-up from a long-term relationship and its subsequent doomed rebound with Widget, I turned to the personals. This was at a time when online dating was still considered taboo (so much so that I honestly think this information will be news to my family) and eharmony was simply a misspelled word.

Like everyone else, in my profile, I did my best to accurately describe the kind of person I was, as well as the kind of person I was seeking. And like everyone else, I most likely exaggerated in an attempt to show my absolute best side. For if I've learned one thing about human nature, it's this: when people find themselves on display in life, be it as a guest at a party, or one half of a first date, or meeting potential in-laws for the first time at a family birthday dinner, they often end up in poses that reflect who they think they should be, rather than who they are. It's not a bad thing per se; rather, I think it's an attempt at self-preservation: we don't reveal our true and/or complete selves until we're comfortable and confident enough with our relationships to know that we won't get stomped on. This is reason #1 why I try to take first impressions with a grain of salt.

When I was searching for Mr. Right for my friend, I laughed upon discovering that, although the formats of the sites have changed, the content has stayed very much the same. There are still people who provide an impossibly long and unbelievable list of daily hobbies/extracurricular activities, which, logic suggests, is simply a laundry list of things done only once in a life thus far. There are still people who give just a little too much information in their profile. And there are still the spelling challenged whose errors are inadvertently comical. (For example, one guy said he was looking for a woman who “complimented” his qualities. Of course, we know he meant "complement," but still, can't you just imagine a guy asking a woman to applaud him at the end of their date?)

And, as was the case back in 2003, it appears as though the dating sites have continued the trend of making sure their users answer variations of the following questions: "What do you like to do on weekends?" "What's your ideal Saturday like?" "What do you like to do for fun?" I found myself wondering how I answered these questions as a 25-year-old, and whether or not those answers would be the same as the ones I’d give today as a 31-year-old. I’m sure the details have changed ever so slightly in that time, but I bet the general picture has remained the same:

I like to play Scrabble, and watch movies (maybe a good Coen Bros. movie), and daydream, and hike (Camel's Hump especially), and eat good food (maybe some thai), and read (for my book club or myself), and write, and play chess, and play softball, and go for a bike ride (onto the causeway), and lay out under the stars, and spend time with family, and cuddle with a pet, and go for a drive, and get lost in the woods, etc. And like everyone else, I guess I'm seeking someone who complements me and compliments me.

Benchly's Guide to Renting in Burlington

2008-09-12T09:22:00.019-04:00

After graduating from college, I decided to do the conforming nonconformist postgraduate thing of cramming my belongings into my car (a Plymouth Colt the size of Plymouth Rock [a rock that's far less impressive in person than in name]) and promptly heading out of town on the open road to a destination paved in gold where I was sure I'd find a job and, subsequently, myself. I said my goodbyes to my family including Mama Benchly who, because she's Mama Benchly, morbidly assumed this would be the last time she'd ever see me.

On my trip, I drove through my college stomping grounds, which, because I had graduated two weeks earlier, could now be referred to as my old college stomping grounds. After a quick overnight stop to see my college buddy Hugh, I resumed my trip, serenaded by a seemingly unending supply of cassette tapes, each of which was forever branded with my postgraduate taste in music (read: Dave Matthews and Counting Crows). 12 hours later, I reached my destination: a 2-3ish-bedroom, Wilmington, NC apartment occupied by my friend Scoot and her friend Susan. And then three weeks later, without a job or experiencing anything close to a moment of self discovery, and with ~$30 to my name, I packed up my belongings and begrudgingly headed home. (A side note: if you can believe it, if my car hadn't died in New Jersey, that $30 would have come close to paying for my entire trip home to Vermont. Oh to be 22 and paying less than $1 per gallon of gas again!)

After a 3-month stint as the Benchly Family Bum, I found a mind-numbing, yet well-paying job at the Evil Empire. A year later, after saving up a small fortune, I bought Inga Beep the Jeep (at $.89/gallon, you would have too), crammed my belongings into my new car, and headed out of town on the open road to my new home: a 2-3ish-bedroom, Burlington, VT apartment occupied by my coworker and soon-to-friend Veronica Japonica. And that's where I lived for the next seven years. When Veronica Japonica moved to California the following year, I had the pleasure and pain of having to find a replacement roommate, which went something like this:

1. Place creatively-crafted classified ad in the local weekly (read: liberal) newspaper, and do your best not to feel like you're selling yourself in the personals.

2. Screen 50-75 calls in the next week from interested potential roommates who:

- "can't believe how cheap your downtown Burlington apartment is";
- "is a totally laid back and mellow roommate who gets along with anyone, and I've called you three times so how come you haven't called me back?";
- "is, like, the ideal roommate";
- "is a quiet, peaceful roommate who should probably mention I'm a recovering alcoholic, and the anger management classes seem to be working";
- "is looking for a nice apartment for my daughter who is really nice...and...she's really cute too."

3. Interview the elite few who survived the screening process and do your best not to laugh when one of them says she loves to sing at home and then volunteers a completely tone-deaf rendition of "Puff the Magic Dragon."

4. Choose the person you're going to be living with for the next year, give or take a month-to-month. In this case, I selected Dexy's Midnight Runner, a UVM graduate student who reminded me of an old friend. One year later, when Dexy moved out, Veronica Japonica moved back in, and one year after that, when Veronica moved out again and in with her boyfriend/now husband Rick Springfield, I repeated the process and selected The Virgin Mary, who, in her phone interview, said, "I'm pretty much a loner who will be out of your hair most of the time, or in your hair if you want, too." After The Virgin Mary moved out and in with her boyfriend/now husband Joseph (notice a trend?), I repeated the process twice more to first select Closed Bedroom Door Roommate (CBDR) and then ultimately Julia Stiles.

This is the long-winded (read: Benchly) way of saying that I've had quite a bit of experience in the roommate search department, and less experience in the apartment search, which explains how unprepared I was when I began my latest apartment search last month. Suddenly, I was the one whose phone calls were being screened, who couldn't believe how expensive downtown Burlington apartments were, who was a quiet and peaceful roommate, and whose anger management classes seemed to be doing the trick. And remarkably, considering Othello and Burlington's blatant discrimination of tenants with cats, suddenly I was one of the elite few who survived the screening process and who was doing his best to sound completely "normal" and like the ideal roommate.

My first interview, for a 2-3ish-bedroom apartment close to the border of Burlington and its southern counterpart, was with Speed Guy, so named for his apparent choice of recreational drugs. He was super nice, but talked like he was being paid per character, and ran up and down the stairs like he was a toddler late for Saturday morning cartoons. There was also a photocopier in the living room; an odd decorative choice a roommate might someday regret should a weekend party get out of hand. During the interview, another potential roommate arrived and I found myself conducting the interview for her in the hopes that Speed Guy would pick her over me; that's how little I liked the place.

My second interview, for a studio a few houses down from The Virgin Mary and Joseph, went well until I entered the studio. I'm serious. I was charming. I sounded responsible and like the ideal roommate. And the studio was mine for the taking, and I would have taken it too except that it was essentially a kitchen hallway with closet space. Maybe I'm naive, or at the very least, way too influenced by Hollywood, but I've always envisioned a studio apartment as a large square room with hardwood floors, high ceilings, large windows, a loft bed, and enough room to distinguish between bedroom/dining room/kitchen. The one that I checked out was essentially a basement with carpeting and the kind of kitchen you'd find in a college's temporary housing built to accommodate hundreds of students displaced by renovations.

My third interview was for a promising 2-no-wait-3-bedroom apartment in the south end on the hill. The ad was misleading; I entered the apartment expecting a 2-bedroom living arrangement and was surprised to find 3 bedrooms and 2 roommates. Strike one. Strike two was the huge dogs who growled, barked, and showed their teeth at me the entire time I was there; the same dogs their owner, Clancy Brown assured me would be friendly toward Othello (I imagine Othello will end up rooming with another dog at some point in his life [he roomed with one when he lived with Montana Girl] but I think I'd rather he live with a dog his own size). Strike three was the kitchen with dishes piled in the sink up to and above the faucet. Strike four was when Clancy pointed out an extra room and said, though we would be paying equal rent, that this extra room was his and could be used only if I was quiet and didn't disturb his stuff. Strike five was Clancy pointing out that on a street with minimal parking, if the apartment received a parking pass, it would be his to use. Strike six was Clancy saying he'd get upset if his roommates made noise after 10 p.m., but that he tends to make a lot of kitchen noise at 5 a.m. Strike seven was that Clancy and only Clancy would be on the lease. He offered me the place. I declined.

After Clancy, I was discouraged to say the least. I replied to quite a few Craigslist ads and received only a handful of responses, most of which thanked me for my time but regretted to inform me that the apartment had been filled...in the 15 minutes since the ad had been placed. This is when I gave up hope. And that's precisely when a woman responded to my email and asked me to check out her apartment later that day. I recognized the woman's name and quickly realized that we shared a mutual friend: Sarah the L. Score. Mama and Papa Benchly were especially generous in letting me stay with them for a month, but as a 31 year old, I needed my own space or else I'd risk having my sanity go the way of the dodo bird. And that's why I wasn't above exploiting this connection.

When I looked at the place, a residential gold mine by Burlington's standards (front and back porch, huge yard, off-street parking, a large bathroom, rooms with character), I discovered that this woman wasn't looking for a roommate, but rather a tenant to share her downstairs apartment with another woman who had already been chosen to live there. Essentially, she was playing roommate matchmaker for the apartment she owned. And when her first choice backed out, I was offered the place. I gladly accepted and last week found myself yet again cramming my belongings into cars.

I can't say that this process has taught me much in the way of how to find an apartment in Burlington. If anything, it taught me how screwed up this town's housing situation is, and how lucky a person has to be to find a safe, clean, decent, affordable home. For every landlady like mine, there are 15 who end their ads with "sorry, no pets." And for every safe, clean, decent, affordable home like mine, there are 20 broken-down, dirty, overpriced holes in the ground owned by deadbeat landlords (you know who you are, JL). And no matter how hard you try, sometimes you end up finding a great home for a reason you never even considered.

After moving in, I learned that my new landlady had specifically chosen me because of my described personality traits but also because of Othello. As the proud mother of her own cat, she knew how difficult it was for kitty owners to find decent housing. Consequently, as Othello settles nicely into our new home, I've made sure to smother him with hugs and kisses for helping us get here. Not one for PDA, he then pushes me away, licks his paw, walks to the window sill, sits down, and keeps an eye on his new neighbors.

Where am I going?

2008-08-25T14:19:00.041-04:00

During a recent emotional Benchly family moment in the Benchly family kitchen, Papa Benchly gave me some advice that he had heard from a famous philosopher, which I'll try to paraphrase here: "there are two questions people ask in their lives: 1) Where am I going? and 2) who's going with me? And most people try to answer these questions in the wrong order."

The philosopher's point is that many people forget to identify themselves because they're too busy searching for love. And when they find that love but have no idea who they are, they're essentially not ready for the love. They're not ready because the changes they experience when they ultimately find themselves invariably take them in a different direction than their loved one. And so they grow apart from their loved one in spite of their love.

One could argue that it's for this very same reason that most high-school relationships don't make it off the life-long-commitment ground. I, for one, can only think of two high-school-sweetheart couples lucky enough to have evolved in the same direction. I'm sure you'd be hard pressed to come up with three.

The lesson learned here is so simple it could be a bumper sticker: find yourself before your love. And yet, I'm sure you'll all agree, it's not that simple at all. I'd go so far as to say that for the first ~10 years of my dating life, it was borderline impossible.

The last few weeks have allowed me the opportunity to consider what Papa Benchly said and how I could apply it to my life. I've lived enough life at this point to understand that we're all constantly evolving and that what I consider the norm today could be outdated, closed-minded, and/or illogical twenty years from now. In other words, where I'm going could change. It's for this reason that I think the philosopher's point would have been better expressed with different questions: Who am I? And who loves me?

As much as the world around us evolves, and as much as we constantly redefine what we want out of life, what makes up who we are (our core) never drastically changes. (Even when we experience a traumatic life event, our core doesn't change; it may be clouded/well-hidden by the event, but it's still there.) So once we figure out who we are, I think it's possible to completely understand who we're capable of loving.

With this in mind, and contrary to what some may think, I feel fairly confident in my understanding of who I am and, to a less-important extent, where I'm going. In fact, I'm so confident in who I am and where I'm going at this point in my life, that I'm not afraid to stop and sit down around town from time to time to absorb the life I'm living on my journey, for even when I'm sitting, I feel as though I can still see my destination on the horizon.

The only question that remains now, and one that I've begun to seriously reconsider is, who am I capable of loving? There's no guarantee in this life that I'll ever find an answer to that question and yet, I still have hope. That's just who I am.

BBGE Recap, Episode II

2008-08-20T09:52:00.009-04:00

August 19, 2008 – The Russian's new house (Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortensen)

For this recapper (Mr. Benchly), the Best Book Group Ever (BBGE) began at 6:15 p.m. when he realized he had forgotten to make a salad for BBGE. After a quick trip to the store during which he planned a salad that would require the least amount of work, Mr. Benchly placed said salad in his mother's wooden salad bowl and wondered aloud whether or not anyone in the book group would notice such a grown-up kitchen dish coming from such a non-grown-up. Unsure of which house was The Russian's, Mr. Benchly looked around and saw a number of BBGE cars parked on a corner and assumed they were on to something. He walked through the front door to discover The Russian, The Canadian, CAT, The Heinous Shrew, The Professor, and The Mother had already arrived. Any other time and he would have been embarrassed by his tardiness, but not while carrying a grown-up salad bowl. The Dean was busy being a dean; The Newbie was busy sleeping off her exhaustion.

The book group spent the first hour or so chowing down on appetizers on the kitchen counter (brought earlier by The Dean[?]). The salsa reminded Mr. Benchly of the salsa CAT served during a recent visit to her house, which was left over from a recent party at her house. The Dean was at this party and so Mr. Benchly's theory was that The Dean brought this same salsa to the recent party at CAT's house. It was fruity and good. There were other appetizers but this recapper didn't try any because he wasn't sure how to eat them. Other book groupers ate them, though, so he's pretty sure they were good.

At some point, discussion turned to CAT's recent trip out west with her soon-to-be live-in boyfriend, CAT Lover. After a few details that would subsequently be proven by other news to be inconsequential but which this recapper still remembers (e.g., CAT got free Cliff bars), CAT revealed that CAT Lover complemented the romantic setting of a gorgeous and isolated Wyoming mountain top with a question whose answer instantly made him CAT's soon-to-be live-in fiancé, CAT Lover. Book group was pleased. As was CAT. And then The Dean showed up and CAT gave him the abridged story (sans the part about Cliff bars), and The Dean gave CAT two hugs.

Other book group relationship news included The Heinous Shrew's decision to move into a new apartment with her boyfriend (aka, our veggie eggplant entrée chef) in the South End of Burlington. This recapper called her a traitor to the Old North End (ONE) while ignoring the not-discussed fact that he had also moved out of the ONE. The Heinous Shrew seemed happy with her decision, though slightly bummed that she would now have to cross Pearl Street for the first time in 13 years(?). There would be more relationship discussions, but not before dinner.

Dinner was served after 8 p.m. and consisted of said salad in the said grown-up salad bowl by Mr. Benchly, the aforementioned eggplant dish by The Heinous Shrew's boyfriend, brought by The Heinous Shrew, a cheese/tomato veggie side by CAT, chicken and Cornish game hens by The Russian, Great Harvest bread by Great Harvest brought by The Russian, and wine brought by The Canadian and The Mother. It was decided that yet again, the BBGE had compiled a delicious dinner. After a quick walk down BBGE nostalgia lane in which we determined that our little book group was nearly five years old, talk turned to The Dean's recent house guests who resisted the temptation to not pass gas in his house. CAT and The Mother thoroughly enjoyed The Dean repeatedly saying "fart." At this point, and maybe in an effort to prove that book group wasn't just about fart jokes, The Professor segued into a discussion on the book, which, unfortunately, it appeared as though only three and a half of us had read (The Professor, The Canadian, and CAT, plus half of The Dean). The Professor, The Canadian, and CAT gave us a very descriptive and rewarding panel recap and discussion of the book. For this recapper, it was like BBGE meets Cliff Notes. It should be noted that this panel discussion inspired The Mother to think about borrowing the book. Also worth mentioning is that she wouldn't be able to borrow it from The Canadian because The Canadian had borrowed it from the library per CAT's suggestion.

The post-dinner conversation over dessert brought by The Professor, ranged from The Russian's tales of tails and how close she and her boyfriend are to opening their doggie daycare business, to The Heinous Shrew trying to give away her 1-year-old drunk girl cat (so named because he was acquired last year from a drunk girl downtown), to The Russian trying to give away her parents' furniture (which both The Heinous Shrew and Mr. Benchly were interested in for their respective reasons), to the Front Porch Forum's ability to find this recapper's blog, to The Dean's recent adventures in dating. We discussed The Dean's options (Bachelorette #1 and Bachelorette #2); some of us liked #1 while others liked #2. The Heinous Shrew mentioned that The Dean should consider who was the easiest one to plan a date for and that's the one he "should do." This recapper was amazed at how red The Heinous Shrew's face turned at the realization of what she had said. And thanks to the wonders of the Internet, we even saw a picture of Bachelorette #1 who, most everyone agreed, was super cute. The Heinous Shrew was dubious and claimed the picture could just be an optical illusion. The Russian then showed us two options for her new business logo and per BBGE standards, some liked the blue while others liked the green. The Dean was dubious because colors always look different on a computer screen.

After settling down and choosing our next book, meeting time/location, and food/wine bringers, it was time (9:45 p.m.) for book group to come to an end. And as this recapper left The Russian's house with his mother's grown-up salad bowl in hand, and as he drove home to his parents' house where he's staying until he moves into a new ONE apartment with a new roommate September 1, he thought of all the changes happening in the BBGE's relationships, whether spoken or not. A lot happens in a month and he can't wait to hear everyone's updates next month.

The (Life) Choices We Make

2008-08-08T14:45:00.004-04:00

I slept in this morning, which is a luxury my new "home" now allows me to afford. My walk to work, though shorter, is still long enough to justify listening to my iPod and, with my carefully selected songs in hand and ear, I can feel, at least for five minutes of the day, like I'm caught in a movie's musical interlude that suggests both whimsy and the promise of things to come. I'm getting ahead of myself here.

This morning's walk to work was serenaded by Dar Williams' "As Cool As I Am," a song, which, embarrassingly, I still don't think I quite understand (maybe Ms. Parker could help me out here?), and yet which feels relevant nonetheless. But as I turned each corner on my way to my office home, my thoughts were not of her lyrics or the joys one feels when a short walking commute to work means saving gas money, but rather of how and why I came to be spending my work day mornings alone.

As all four of you know, it's been over three years since I was first introduced to Freckles and subsequently introduced her to you. I did so in a carefully crafted entry on carpooling, which I'm not entirely sure even the most faithful readers of mine would recall if I didn't link to it here.

I think it's safe to say that my readers quickly caught on to my love for Freckles. Maybe it was the sudden lack of blogging on my part (as Sarah the L knows, writer's block is the consequence of happiness and falling in love), or maybe it was the fact that I beat my readers over the head with our whirlwind romance. Whatever the case, I was happy and everyone knew it.

But as is sadly the case in life, people change, things change, relationships change, love changes, and Freckles and I found ourselves on opposite ends of our relationship's spectrum. One of us believed in us, and the other didn't anymore. One of us felt heartache for hurting a loved one, the other for being hurt. Both of us were terrified of losing a loved one. And so it was last week that I found myself with packed boxes, bags, and Othello in hand, failing miserably at settling into my parents' guest bedroom.

The day that I officially moved out of the apartment that Freckles and I had turned into a home, the rains poured harder than they had all summer. With no end in sight, I was forced to load the final items into my car while unable to dodge the raindrops. Three years ago, I described such a rainstorm as something "placed perfectly between miserable and pretty." This past week, it felt more like melancholy drowning in heartache.

A day later, as the rains stopped, the sun came out, and the inevitable rainbow appeared in the sky. We're shedding tears of sorrow, but at least the world is still hopeful. And I think of all the great times Freckles and I had together, and the love that we had, and the sadness we felt the last time we saw each other. But that I'll save just for me.

The Road Not Taken

2008-07-23T23:21:00.040-04:00

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:

With only a handful of minutes left before yet another July day abruptly leaves me behind, I've settled in The Blogging Chair and Othello has taken up residence on top of the purple coffee table-turned-footstool, his tail tapping against my outstretched legs as if to keep tabs on me.

Earlier this evening, Freckles and I returned from an all-too-short, 4-day family vacation in Bethany Beach, Delaware. And although he got quite a bit of love from Sarah the L in our absence, Othello is most definitely playing the part of Emotionally-Hurt Kitty. This is not to be confused with Heartbreakingly-Sad Kitty and Pathetically-Miserable Kitty. (Montana Girl wasn't kidding when I adopted him a few years ago: Othello requires more emotional attention than the next cat! Considering how emotionally sensitive I am, she also got it right when she called him my kitty soul mate.)

Freckles and I left Delaware a little after 10 a.m. and I expected us to arrive in Burlington shortly after 9 p.m. I expected an 11-hour trip because that's how long it took us to do the reverse trip 5 days earlier. However, despite a 20-minute detour in Millsboro, DE to find Grandma and Grandpa Benchly in the local cemetery, as well as 1-hour detour in Dover, DE (home of Dover Man, the invincible capital of Delaware!) to pick up an E-Z Pass for me, water for Freckles, and "cheap" gas (read: $3.89/gallon) for the car, we ended up arriving in Burlington 1 hour earlier than expected. If you ask me, the difference was the timing of the trip; in other words, we hit the streets of NYC before rush hour did. If you ask Freckles, the difference was the route.

Any Vermonter will tell you that there's no easy way to get there from here. We have two interstate highways: one travels from the northwest to central eastern Vermont, the other travels north to south but on the eastern border. And thus, anyone wishing to travel down the west coast of Vermont from Burlington has two options: 1) brave the local (read: the pharmacy-destined elderly) traffic on Route 7 and ultimately cross over to New York's "Northway," which I think is so named because Canada is north of the self-centered New York City, not the other way around; or 2) go 40 miles out of the way on our two interstates while hoping that the traffic-less route will save in time what it costs in gas. On the way home, we went the "Northway" route because Freckles didn't want to repeat our spontaneous adventures on our southbound trip. And although I was happy to oblige because I wanted to be home as quickly as possible, it wasn't because I regretted our ultimate southbound route; in fact, I'd probably do it again:

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

It was 2 p.m. on Saturday, and we had been in the car since a little after 8 that morning. We were stuck in traffic on I95 South, about 5 or 6 miles east of the George Washington Bridge (aka, the gateway to hell [aka, New Jersey]), and had been at a practical standstill for 10 minutes. Our planned route looked like this:

But traffic was going nowhere and it was going nowhere fast. While I cursed myself for daring to test the George Washington Bridge waters when we could have easily skirted around the city the "Northway," I silently prepared an imaginary alternate route in my head. With our road map placed conveniently in the trunk, I convinced Freckles to let me try a detour on a bridge that sounded vaguely familiar (the Whitestone) and which, the signs said, would take us south. 5 minutes later, while pulling an oh-my-god-we're-lost-in-Queens-again U-turn, I cursed myself for taking said Whitestone Bridge while silently preparing an imaginary way out of Queens. 45 minutes later when, without map, we arrived in New Jersey via the Bronx, Queens, Brooklyn, and Staten Island (while also enjoying a gorgeous view of the Manhattan skyline), I applauded my navigational skills while Freckles silently prepared to throw herself out the window. She claims we lost time, while I strongly believe my "Staten Island Detour Express" route saved us time:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Now, I learned my lesson and will most likely never be able to go the out of the way route with Freckles again, and maybe going on the Whitestone Bridge wasn't the smartest idea (when told about our I-95 South to "Staten Island Detour Express" route upon our arrival in Delaware, Papa Benchly's response was "why did you go that way?!?"), but I'm still a firm believer in the underlying philosophy expressed in this quote (one of my favorites):

Although a beach-bound Freckles will most likely disagree (as would a Yankee Stadium-bound Benchly), I think the trip should be just as important as the destination.

The Huddled Masses Yearning to Suffocate

2008-06-30T22:21:00.022-04:00

Hidden among the classic rock albums delivered to my 18-year-old-high-school-self's doorstep by BMG and Columbia House, the hordes of folk music that serve as a reminder of my post-college sensitivity, and the indie albums that symbolize my juvenile attempt to fit in by not fitting in, is a brown CD case that protects a 12-song album straight out of southern blues rock heaven. In another room, a Blockbuster-like collection of Academy Award winning films, Sundance Festival selections, and indie pictures surround a 2-disc edition of a classic movie starring two of my generation's greatest actors. The album is one of the top 20 selling albums of all time; the movie is in the top 10. Both were released in the 1990s, both received rave reviews, and yet, 10-15 years later, you'd be hard pressed to find one person who would admit to liking either of them. I'm talking, of course, about Hootie and the Blowfish's debut album Cracked Rear View, and James Cameron's epic film Titanic.

In the past few weeks, as I struggled through the BBGE's most recent selection, the painfully-easy-to-read Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult (a successful book because of its author's fame, not talent), I found a blog-worthy similarity between the fleeting fame of a band or movie, and the book's ongoing discussion of the fragility of a high school kid's popularity. Stated in such a simplistic way that would make Picoult proud (and concerned that you were trying to usurp her commercial success throne), the popularity of a high school kid, or of a movie, or of a band, is entirely at the mercy of those who deem it worthy of popularity. But as soon as enough of society has conformed and fallen in line with the beliefs of the masses, the popularity will spawn resentment and the masses will stop being fans.

I don't know what a sociologist would say about this phenomenon mostly because Sociology 101 was my first college class and, let's be honest here, who does well in their first college class? Even so, I do feel as though I have an idea of the mindset of the masses. For as long as I can remember, walking the line of popularity has always been a delicate balance between conformity and individuality. The two operated in an almost symbiotic way: you were popular because you didn't conform, but you stayed popular by not sticking out. In other words, you had to be different to get noticed, but like everyone else to be popular. Those who were just plain different were outcasts, and those who were simply carbon copies were followers. You had to find the balance, all the while facing the fact that the line between the two was constantly changing.

Most high school kids lack confidence, and so what usually happens in their quest for popularity is that they establish a unique identity, and when their fear of the potential wrath of the masses gets to them, they fall back in line. Although conformity brings with it less popularity, it's the safer side of that line. The kids who are ahead of their time and who make the "mistake" of not falling back in line quickly discover the hell that waits for them on the other side.

All of these thoughts were on my mind last week when Freckles and I went to see M. Night Shyamalan's The Happening in a local movie theatre filled to the brim with teenagers who all believed it was their responsibility to give a running commentary of the film (in between their cell phone calls, of course). Their immaturity and disrespect brought me back to high school, which, in a way, helped me understand why so many movie critics were quick to bash Shyamalan's latest.

The Happening is a story of a mysterious plague that begins to almost immediately kill off the northeastern part of the US. It's told through the eyes of a Philadelphia married couple (played by Mark Wahlberg and Zooey Deschanel), their friend (John Leguizamo) and his daughter (Ashlyn Sanchez). Without giving too much away, I'll say that the story is more about the couple than the plague (think Signs), that the couple's survival of the plague is subtly dependent on who they are and what brought them to that particular point in life (again, like Signs), but that, unlike Signs (a great movie in and of itself), Shyamalan doesn't spell out the ending with a climactic "Swing away, Merrill" line or a Sixth Sense-like twist. Instead, he hopes the viewers are smart enough to pick up on the subtle clues brilliantly acted out by Wahlberg and Deschanel. And because I wasn't as subtle as Shyamalan, you know how this story ends: the critics (read: masses) hated it.

The Los Angeles Times said, "Shyamalan favors the whimper over the bang," that Shyamalan failed to answer the question of what happened?, that "Wahlberg's displays of emotion never mesh[ed] with what's going on," and that Wahlberg's character should have thrown himself into a much more situation-appropriate sweaty mass panic." Even my beloved The Onion said, "Wahlberg's soothing, almost hypnotic vocal patterns seem modeled on the paternal purr of Mr. Rogers." What most every critic (save Roger Ebert) failed to understand is that Shyamalan took a thriller story and Hitchcocked the hell out of it. I'd even go so far as to say he one-upped Hitchcock because as great as Alfred was in building tension, his movies always had an expected bang. Shyamalan recognized that the more powerful way of telling this story would be to have the audience figure the bang out for themselves (whether in the theatre or on the drive home) and the fact that the ending wasn't as clear cut as The Sixth Sense would leave an unsettled uneasiness in every viewer, which is, incidentally, the kind of reaction you're looking for in a thriller.

But alas, in this popular eat popular world that hates Hootie because they love him, that sees Titanic five times before bashing it, Shyamalan never had a chance. He made a name for himself when he got Bruce Willis to act, but then he kept refusing to conform to the cookie-cutter standards of our society. He stuck his neck out, and with Jerry Bruckheimer special effects, we cut it off.

Good Night and Good Luck, Indeed

2008-06-13T17:11:00.011-04:00

A few years ago in my I-Don't-Care-About-Anything-Other-Than-The-Fact-That-I-Don't-Have-A-Girlfriend phase in which I blind dated the entire city of Burlington, Vermont, I met a girl once for coffee and Scrabble (I'm not really a coffee drinker, but I would have met up for crystal meth and water-boarding if it meant the chance to meet a girl). In honor of her heritage, we'll call her French Girl. French Girl and I spent close to 10 hours together that day experiencing the realized wet-dream of a bohemian like myself: smuggling wine into a French movie, gourmet hot chocolate, Scrabble, chess, and participating in a college psych experiment. In retrospect, the date would have been perfect if not for the fact that she chose the end of the date as the proper time to confess how unattractive she found me. But as we said good night and good luck in the dating world, I thought to myself how fortunate I was to have met her, for she was the one who first introduced me to Tim Russert (who, incidentally, she found attractive).

In the last few years, I have spent countless weekend mornings watching Meet the Press as well as numerous primary and/or debate evenings glued to NBC and MSNBC, forever on the edge of my seat, anticipating Russert's next insightful word. With a media so unabashedly biased that it makes The Onion look sincere, Russert's point of view was always refreshingly honest. His youthful exuberance captured my attention, his unmistakable intelligence made it easy for me to listen, and his controlled passion showed me that his was the voice of reason.

As a reporter, Russert informed the uninformed viewer by following the most important lesson of storytelling: show, don't tell. Rather than shout out opinion after opinion in an effort to win the Most Popular YouTube Soundbite of the Day award (an award co-owned by Keith Olberman and Bill O'Reilly), he stated all points of view equally and left it to the now-informed viewer to form an opinion. He believed that well-informed viewers were in a better position to make a difference in this world than viewers who had spent the last hour being brainwashed by media propaganda.

As an interviewer, there was no one better. Russert simply did not care whether the interviewee was Democrat, Republican, conservative, liberal, agnostic, religious, pro-life, pro-choice, etc. What mattered was his belief that everyone be held accountable for all opinions and actions, right or wrong. When one side did its best to spin an answer, as happens everyday in politics, Russert would counter with a hard-hitting, yet completely respectful and truthful follow-up question. What resulted, as evidenced by the most recent primary season, was a country full of conservatives applauding Russert's Obama and Clinton interviews, and liberals doing the same for the McCain ones.

And so it was that my heart broke at the news that Tim Russert died of a heart attack today at the age of 58. He was the kind of fair and balanced that Fox News unfairly claims to be, and he was the living embodiment of one of Edward R. Murrow's greatest quotes: "To be persuasive, we must be believable; to be believable, we must be credible; to be credible, we must be truthful." His passing leaves a void the likes of which the field of journalism hardly ever sees. He won't be forgotten and he most certainly won't be replaced.

If You Think This Blog's For You, You're Right

2008-06-04T22:39:00.018-04:00

After enjoying a fine evening of grilled cheese and soup (the preferred meal for any Freckles sick with a sinus headache) and another 4 episodes of The Office courtesy of Netflix, Freckles has gone to bed, Othello has gone to couch, and I've taken up temporary residence in The Blogging Chair. For those who have been to our apartment, The Blogging Chair is also known as The Big Comfy Chair, not to be confused with The Headache Couch (named as such because relaxing on it actually gives one a headache rather than take it away) and the fun-to-pronounce Poang (POANG!). It's the Blogging Chair because its comfort, size, and location are conducive to writing on a laptop. I'm relaxed and positioned just as I am every night I write and just as I was when the last photo in the "A Day in the Life of Othello" post was snapped. Except this time, I've placed a pillow between my lap and the laptop. I'll explain later.

Freckles and I have been binging on episodes of The Office ever since we finally caved in and watched an episode on late-night cable. It's hilarious and, for Freckles, the perfect antidote to a poisonous day at the Evil Empire. We just wrapped up the second season and watched an episode called "Conflict Resolution," which I've already placed in my top three favorite episodes thus far. In it, Dwight confronts Jim about all of the pranks he has pulled at Dwight's expense over the years (my favorite being when Jim paid each person in the office $5 to call Dwight "Dwayne" all day). The list of complaints, which has filled an HR storage box, is read aloud by their boss Michael. Freckles and I were rolling on the floor during this scene and consequently, we almost missed the subtle non-verbal clues acted out by the always-Emmy-worthy John Krasinski (Jim). His expression was equal parts pride for the painstakingly brilliant pranks he had pulled over the years, and regret at the realization that the time spent devoted to these pranks had left him on a career and life track toward nothing. In a way, in that moment, he grew up.

This scene and the path this character has taken in the first four seasons of the show struck close to home for me. For a number of years, I worked for the Evil Empire, which, in its lunacy, hypocrisy, idiocy, and blatant disregard for the health, well-being, and sanity of its employees, mirrors the office portrayed in The Office. Like Jim, I survived by establishing close friendships (with Sarah the L, CP, Soccer Mom, and Freckles), by entertaining myself with trivial activities (trivia questions and surveys on the dry erase board, snowball throwing contests, hiding a Bert doll from The Doctor, writing lame work-inspired poetry, etc.) and by taking advantage of every opportunity to go on break. (Incidentally, life was proven yet again to be quite repetitive when I learned that the new generation of Evil Empire suckers [read: employees] entertains themselves with a weekly cookie trivia game that I only wish we had in my day.) And like Jim, I stayed too long and, in doing so, wasted part of my life there. Fortunately, I left the company for a new job last year before the Evil Empire had a chance to rip out my soul completely, but sadly, I often find myself regretful for the many youthful years I spent in that lifesuck of a place.

If you hadn't already noticed by my Emmy-Award-for-Writing-unworthy subtly, for the first time since the great celebration last July, I'm feeling the emotional effects of turning 30. Maybe it's because an old college friend of mine, Hugh (named for his idolization of Hugh Hefner), is most likely spending these same weekday evenings fine-tuning the plans for his wedding later this month; or maybe it's the conversation the catcher on the other team had with Young Dude about Young Dude and Scarlett's new baby, right before Young Dude knocked in a run; or maybe it's because I'm now less than two years away from finally being able to afford the ridiculously priced Vermont houses, and all the happily-ever-after-with-Freckles daydreams that naturally accompany such a thought; or maybe it's because "subtle" is not a trait Freckles and her extended family have mastered when it comes to talking about marriage. Whatever the reason, my mind is overrun with thoughts of growing up.

It's because of my new post-30 mindset that I've now started to view my life and the lives of my loved ones differently. The life choices that I once believed to be mind-blowingly extreme (marriage, kids, buying a house) now seem real and logical, while the ones that I once considered familiar and normal (seeing if the grass is greener on the other side, wasting talent at a dead-end job, renting) now seem outdated, surreal, and age-inappropriate. Suddenly, Young Dude and Scarlett aren't crazy for marrying and having a child so young; suddenly, it was crazy for me to ever think that Hugh would never settle down; suddenly the thought of owning a house and paying a mortgage excites me rather than frightens me; though I've always considered Freckles my future wife, daydreaming now seems like it's slowly (Freckles would say "ever so slowly") becoming planning; suddenly, relationship problems should be worked out and it's NOT "the beginning of the end"; and suddenly, when it involves your inevitable future children, it's not so crazy to listen to the scientific findings that suggest the heat of a laptop placed on a lap can increase a man's infertility risk.

It may have taken me a year in my 30s to come to terms with the death of my 20s, but I now feel more confident than ever that my 30s will be just the way they ought to be.

The BBGE, and Bob's your uncle

2008-05-21T14:20:00.006-04:00

As some of you may know, I'm a member of Burlington's best book group ever, appropriately titled the Best Book Group Ever. Started many years ago through random connections on Friendster (the Myspace of 2004), the BBGE now consists of nine members: The Dean, The Professor, The Canadian, The Heinous Shrew, CAT, Mr. Benchly, The Russian, The Mother, and The Newbie. With this steady Who's Who of Burlington cast of characters in place, invitations to join are rare and not taken lightly. Mine came via CAT two years ago, and thankfully, I have yet to be kicked out. Since then, only The Newbie has accepted an invitation.

After our most recent gathering, I took it upon myself to write a recap for the BBGE's private website. Because I had fun with it, and because I've been slacking with the Blogger posts lately, I thought I'd share it with you, my faithful reader. And so, without further ado, I give to you a rare glimpse into the Best Book Group Ever...

May 20, 2008 – The Newbie's house (The Attack by Yasmina Khadra)

For this recapper, book group began in the Old North End when four ONErs (The Professor, The Dean, CAT, and Mr. Benchly) gathered at CAT's house so that we could carpool to The Newbie's house. (The Professor came bearing a fishbowl surprise veggie dish from The Heinous Shrew who could not attend.) Mr. Benchly was impressed with how environmentally conscious all of his carpooling book groupers were since The Newbie's house was only two or three miles away near Oakledge Park. At this point, it was revealed to him that The Newbie's house was actually in Essex, 20 minutes away, and Bob’s your uncle.

At sometime near 7 p.m., the ONEr carpool express arrived at The Newbie's newbie house, which is in an area of Essex nearly as wooded as Oakledge Park, but populated by not nearly as many drunk college kids. The ONEr carpool express arrived a few minutes after The Mother, and a few minutes before The Canadian. The other book group member, The Russian, could not attend, and Bob’s your uncle.

Our appetizer hour was spent circling The Newbie and her husband's new cardboard kitchen island on which olives, cheese, crackers, wine, and champagne were placed. (Mr. Benchly was pleased that there was a bowl in which to place the olive pits, as this is always a matter of social anxiety and distress for him and usually prevents him from enjoying more than one olive at a party.) Champagne was poured and we toasted to The Dean's new deanship, The Professor's new tenure, and The Heinous Shrew's ability to get her boyfriend to make her book group dish.

The pre-dinner/pre-book discussion ranged from whether or not any book group members could be classified as Dignified Middle Aged (DMA), to the recent home improvement work done to The Newbie's newbie home, to The Russian's upcoming housewarming party, to CAT's housing situation, to The Professor's drug-dealing neighbors, to an explanation of the phrase “and Bob’s your uncle” (a phrase this recapper so desperately wants to understand), to The Mother's new job at the Front Porch Forum, and to many other topics this recapper can’t quite remember. It should be pointed out that this recapper had two glasses of wine, two more than his usual.

Dinner was served at a little after 8 p.m. and consisted of the aforementioned fishbowl surprise veggie dish, a salad by The Canadian, asparagus by CAT(?), a Russian (?) chicken dish by The Newbie, and bread by Mr. Benchly by Red Hen Bakery. At this point, discussion turned to the book, and, disappointed by a lack of segue, CAT shared with us the segue she almost used before dinner. The Newbie, The Professor, The Dean, and CAT were quickly identified as the book groupers who had read the book. There was some speculation that Mr. Benchly had not read the book as a sort of retaliation against those who didn’t read his book for the last meeting. These rumors proved to be false. This recapper sensed that, all in all, the four readers enjoyed the book, and their discussion lasted 10–15 minutes (?).

The post-dinner/dessert discussion turned into a vent session about bad grammar (thus making this recapper extremely paranoid), as well as a confessional on past crimes of book groupers, which, for the sake of privacy and intrigue, will not be revealed in this recap. Needless to say, though, The Canadian should now be referred to as The Canadian Criminal. We then voted on CAT's book selections, planned our next meeting, said our goodnights, headed home a little after 10 p.m., and Bob’s your uncle.

Waiting for the "pony rides and dancing bears"

2008-04-10T00:01:00.010-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, while enjoying a relaxing dip in a pool of the harmonious bliss that results from an episode of the always entertaining and stimulating TV show Scrubs, I fell victim to the advertisers' oldest trick in the book when I was startled to attention by the first 30-second spot in an obnoxiously loud commercial break. A local Ford dealership wanted me to know that its special offer on SUVs had been extended for two weeks because "YOU ASKED FOR IT!" What bugged me more than the volume of the commercial was the fact that Ford had spent thousands of dollars to try to convince me that the reason it was extending its sales offer was because buyers wanted to buy its vehicles, and not because its SUV sales (and lack thereof) mirrored the sales of the black sheep in its family: the Edsel. Rather than admit that it can't give away its SUVs, it spun the truth to put itself in a positive light.

The Ford commercial reminded me of an America Online ad from the late 90s (back when AOL was THE place to go for e-mail and chatting). In its ad, AOL tried to convince the viewer that it was bringing people together. No matter what your relationship - family, friend, lover, you name it - AOL was making your relationship closer through the power of the Internet. I thought then what I think now: how could that possibly be true? The Internet takes away the tone of a phone call, the personality of a hand-written letter, the real hand-cramp-letter/long-distance-phone-bill energy it took to keep in touch with loved ones pre-Internet, and replaces all of that with a tool whose ability to abbreviate everything just reeks of inevitable laziness and apathy.

Back in the day, communication meant facial expressions, and hand gestures, and hugs. Nowadays, you can avoid all of that by copying and pasting a mass e-mail. Or if you prefer the small computers found in your phone, you can simply text your friends the heartfelt messages "wht up? where u @? im home. c u l@tr!" Back in the day, meeting new people meant social interaction in public and the character-building anxiety accompaniment. Now, a quick trip to Facebook or Myspace or AIM lets you "meet" everyone in the world behind the security and comfort of a faceless (read: inhuman) conversation. And, when the time is right, and you're ready to truly show yourself, Photoshop is standing by to crop your picture to put you in the best possible fabricated light.

With this in mind, how are AOL and all of its Internet-service-provider offspring possibly bringing people together when we're all cooped up in our homes staring at a computer screen? In the words of the extended version of the Scrubs theme song, "you found your love online...but you're just plugged into the wall."

But this is the way of the world: online shopping; self checkout lines; automated telephone lines ("Burlington" - "Did you say...'Berlin Town'?" - "No." - "Please spell out the name of the city"); German restaurants with robotic waiters; and my latest discovery: credit card-accepting vending machines so you don't need to ask anyone for change for a $5 bill. (We're such a plastic-obsessed country, that I honestly think the only way for homeless people to survive in the coming years will be to invest in a portable credit card machine ["Excuse me, sir. Could you please spare a swipe of your card?])

Technology has essentially removed necessary human interaction from the day-to-day life and to fill the void left by that lack of interaction, our society has created the always oxymoronically-termed "Reality TV." Now we don't need to go on dates because we can watch others go through that rejection process on The Bachelor or Next or Flavor of Love. And why go on vacations when we've got the Travel Channel? And who needs to worry about their career when they can obsess about Lauren Conrad's fake one? Don't want to spend time with your family? No problem; just tune in to see what the Kardashians are up to? Don't know who the Kardashians are? Don't ask your friend when you can Google it.

We're slowly becoming the world Ray Bradbury imagined 50 years ago when he wrote Fahrenheit 451. If you think I'm kidding, consider this: the protagonist in Bradbury's signature book, Guy Montag (OMG! Maybe he's Heidi's father!), came home from work everyday to a house with TV screens as walls (called "parlor walls"). The parlor walls played an interactive soap opera of sorts; "families" on the screen acted out a script with the individual viewer, thus saving the viewer from actual interaction with actual family. And if the viewers got bored with that, they could always place tiny radios in their ears and listen to their iPods...I mean seashell radios. What resulted was a world in which people didn't interact, much like the one in which we currently live.

And it's just one logical step from realizing that people aren't interacting with each other to the acknowledgment of the consequence: that people have stopped caring about other people. Road rage; cell phones in inappropriate public places; losing touch with loved ones who don't use email; a family friendly marketplace inundated with shouts of "I f**king hate ni**ers!" and "f**k this...f**k that s**t!"; local businesses closing shop because people who hate that the US offshores its work ease their misery by finding bargains at national chains and online stores; states allowing their employees to "bring their gun to work"; racist comments heard at every corner, silenced only long enough to catch the news about a suicidal Korean student gunning down a campus, or the people of an occupied nation fighting against the occupiers, before the comments about "Towelheads" and "g**ks" begin again; and even the simple act of cutting people in line.

Remote controls have replaced human interaction and the result is a society that doesn't respect itself. And if we're not careful, soon we'll all know the temperature at which books burn. But don't worry, at least you can buy a Ford to make you feel better about yourself. After all, you asked for it.

A Day in the Life of Othello

2008-03-24T23:54:00.009-04:00

Sleep on bed until...

Freckles finds you, which makes you want to...

Scratch something, which tires you out so you...

Sleep in the sun until...

Curiousity gets the best of you, which passes the time until...

Benchly comes home so you can sleep until...

Benchly gets up and makes you sleep by yourself until...

Freckles finds you, which makes you want to...

Scratch something, which tires you out so you...

Get into position to...

Sleep until...

Freckles finds you and you end up wearing...

Something like this, which makes you...

Daydream about getting a place of your own until...

Benchly lets you sleep again...

All Things Considered, I Hate the Media

2008-03-20T00:11:00.009-04:00

At the end of this week's Last (Wo)Man Standing dodgeball game, my team had three players to the other team's one. To even things out, one of my team's players ventured over to the other side of the gym to join the other team. As soon as he crossed the center line, my teammate pegged him with a ball, never once giving him a chance to resume the game. The consensus among the rest of the players (myself included) was that this was a dishonorable move on my teammate's part; that my teammate should have waited to give the other guy a chance to get ready to play. Regardless, play resumed and before we knew it, my teammate and I had knocked out the other team's final guy. So per Last (Wo)Man Standing rules, my teammate and I were now playing against each other. And when my teammate headed for the other side of the gym, I had an opportunity to peg him with a ball as he crossed the center line, but I chose not to for I believe in good sportsmanship as well as dodgeball karma. And that, my faithful readers, is why I would make a horrible politician. Because there's no room in politics for honor.

As I'm sure most of you have heard by now, New York's Governor Eliot Spitzer was caught with his red hand in a prostitute's pocket. I know you know this because you all have access to the Internet and most likely listen to public radio or read a newspaper or watch the evening or morning news. In other words, you know this, because the media won't let you overlook it. On the other hand, what you may not know, simply because it's a fresh story, is that the man who replaced Spitzer as governor, David Paterson, took the podium one day into his term, and admitted to numerous extramarital affairs. He did so because, in his words:

"I didn’t want to be compromised. I didn’t want to be blackmailed. I didn’t want to hesitate taking an action because the person on the other end might hurt me or my family.”

In other words, he was smart enough to know that in politics, the truth ALWAYS surfaces at the worst possible time (think Bill Clinton) and to avoid his personal past getting in the way of his new job, he had to come clean. And since he's the last Democrat in charge (Republican State Senate Majority Leader Joseph Bruno is now next in line), you know this is information his opponents would have paid good money to acquire. So rather than deal with anyone attempting to strong arm him in an effort to impede his ability to do his job properly, he nipped this problem in the bud.

When I heard this news report, after laughing about my former state's penchant for writing Saturday Night Live's skits, I did what Governor Paterson hoped I would: I moved on with my life. My hunch is I'm not alone. And that's why a recent NPR interview infuriated me so much.

NPR was interviewing Fred Dicker from the NY Post. I'm not a fan of garbage, so I've done my best to avoid the NY Post in my life, but as a faithful listener to NPR, I tuned in to what Mr. Dicker had to say. The interviewer played Governor Paterson's quote about blackmail and asked Mr. Dicker if it seemed reasonable. His response: "Not to me. This is a governor with 2,000 state police under his command. Last I knew, blackmail was illegal in New York. If somebody tries to blackmail you, you have a right to have them arrested and criminally charged." He even said that Governor Paterson's announcement made him feel "icky" and in need of a "figurative shower." The interviewer responded by citing the media frenzy over Governor Spitzer's resignation and how there hasn't been such a reaction to Governor Paterson's confession. She asked Mr. Dicker what he thought was going to happen, and this was his answer:

"There is a feeding frenzy in the press as we speak with people pursuing various angles. Were public funds used? Were campaign funds used? … A lot of people have questions about whether all the facts are out there now and the consensus is, amongst highest levels of state officials, that Governor Paterson has damaged himself and that his tactic of trying to be preemptive has not worked well and that, in fact, he has been damaged by his admissions.”

So what he's saying is that Governor Paterson should have kept his mouth shut because this was a personal issue that didn't affect his public role. This, from the very same biased writer who bragged, "I knew [Spitzer] was a fraud and a hypocrite from the day he swaggered into the capitol." From the very same writer who writes for a newspaper that decorates its articles about Governor Paterson with links to pictures of Governor Spitzer's prostitute and her family (including her grandfather!), as well as to other articles entitled "Spitzer's Disgrace Unmatched in NY's History" and "Shameful End as Spitz Quits." From the very same media that criticizes public officials who are dishonest.

In other words, Mr. Dicker is the media equivalent of my teammate pegging someone crossing the center line two minutes before wanting to cross the very same line himself. Five days after journalistically tearing apart Eliot Spitzer, he wants us to believe he wouldn't have done the same thing six months from now when Governor Paterson's perfidious past surfaced. And not only that, but he then crossed the self-righteous line and judged Governor Paterson for his honesty. This is the current state of our media, folks. They'll devour you like a pack of wolves the very second you screw up, and if you dare beat them to the punch and scoop their story, they'll castigate you for accusing them of ever being hungry for the story in the first place.

"If you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a ball"

2008-03-19T23:09:00.005-04:00

Once a week for the past two months, I've been playing in a local adult dodgeball league (you're jealous). Basically, about 15 grown men (sometimes a few women, though let's be honest: we're a bunch of dorks) gather in a local elementary school gym, do a few stretches (I learned the hard way that these stretches are important for a 30 year old to do), throw a little to warm up their arms that they're going to throw out anyway, and then split into two or three teams. Someone yells go, the players charge to the center of the gym to pick up the 6 nerf balls (they're about half the size of a bowling ball, a little bigger than a softball), and then we spend the next hour throwing the balls at each other.

The rules are simple: if you get hit by a ball, or if someone catches a ball you've thrown, you're out. But don't fret; if someone on your team catches a ball thrown by someone on the other team, or if someone on your team hits a player on the other team, you can come back into the game. Once all the players on a team are out, the other team wins. At the end, we play one final "Last (Wo)Man Standing" game in which players who are knocked out, stay out. The last player standing wins the weekly crown.

And thanks to what one player called my "Nolan Ryan arm," of the 7 weeks I've played, I've been the last man standing three times. And because we're a bunch of dorks, that means I get to have the official Dodgeball Golden Wrench:

We'll Just Be Over in This Corner Changing the World

2008-03-02T21:46:00.006-05:00

The day I turned 18, I headed to the local convenience store to purchase a pack of cigarettes and a lottery ticket. I didn't smoke, and the lottery ticket turned out to be a losing one, but it didn't matter. If the clerk hadn't asked to see my ID, I would have shown it anyway; that's how proud I was of the milestone I had reached. (On a side note, you should have seen how giddy I was when my insurance rates dropped when I turned 25.)

With that said, you can imagine how excited I was when I got to vote in my first election: Clinton vs. Dole. Since I was in college in November of 1996, my absentee vote for Clinton (of course I voted for Clinton, he Rocked the Vote and Arsenio) went by way of the Pony Express. The borderline-irrational excitement I felt at being able to finally exercise my American right was rivaled only by the extraordinary near-suicidal disappointment that struck me a few months later when I received word from the State of New York that my absentee vote had not counted for a hanging-chad like technicality.

Our country has always had trouble courting the average American teenage voter. With so many votes cast in an election, it's tough to convince the overwhelmed 18-year-old that his/her vote counts. And with that mindset as my foundation, after my vote (or lack thereof) in 1996, I gave up voting altogether. That is, until the Republican Party decided to back an idiot solely for his name.

***We break this irregularly scheduled blog entry to go off on one final (thankfully) anti-Bush tirade***

History will end up judging George W. Bush as one of, if not, the worst president in our history based on his determination to turn a terrorist attack on our country into a vengeful attack on an uninvolved country and make the rest of the world hate us even more, rather than use it as motivation to really protect our country from further attacks, but I could have told you how bad a president he was in the summer of 2001. People seem to forget that pre-9/11, W was on vacation 42% of the time. I don't know about you, but if in my first year of a new job I spent 42% of my time on vacation, I would have been fired.

And one more thing: imagine what kind of shape our economy would have been in now if, instead of pumping trillions of dollars into a new democracy halfway around the world that will never survive simply because it was forced down its people's throats, we spent the money on strengthening our border defense (seven years later and it's just as easy to get into our country as it was when W's father was president!). This country got out of a depression by employing its people to support a war; and it sure as hell could have stayed out of a recession by employing its people to build up and maintain our border protection.

***OK, back to the blog***

With the chip on my absentee ballot shoulder, and with the idiot Texan governor providing my inspiration, in 2000 I patiently waited in an overcrowded line with other inspired voters at a downtown-Burlington election site. Twenty minutes later, when I finally reached the front of the line, I was informed that I was in the wrong district and that I'd have to fill out an absentee ballot that would be delivered to my correct district after the election. Later that night, when my suspicions that my vote would never get counted took front seat in my thoughts, thousands of Florida voters went to bed unaware that they were about to feel the same way. At this point, two elections into my career as an American voter, I was fairly certain that I'd never wake up the day after Election Day feeling satisfied that my vote had made a difference. The unbelievable (in its stupidity) 2004 election results further emphasized my gut feeling.

And though the American voting process has kicked me in the aforementioned gut a number of times, I can't help but feel excited. You see, in two days, I'll be voting in the first presidential primary in my life that will make a difference. I'm not exaggerating. 1996 was Bill Clinton's reelection campaign (not exactly a popular moment for primaries); 2000 was Al Gore's campaign and his only serious competitor Bill Bradley never got out of the starting gate; and in 2004, my great Vermont state backed its son Howard Dean in the primary...weeks after he had dropped out of the race.

So here I am, ready for the new Super Tuesday, March 4, and after all that I've been through, you can imagine how bitter I am every time I read a news story that talks about Texas and Ohio. If I had a nickel for every time my state's primary was described in these articles in one line as "Vermont is also voting" (if mentioned at all), I'd have the kind of financial backing the Clinton campaign sees only when Hilary loans it her own money. For all the time and energy spent covering our hillbilly neighbor's primary, you'd think the media would have the courtesy to at least give us a headline or two. But since they won't, I guess I'll have to wait until November for my vote to count. Hopefully it will.

An Academy Award Hangover (Volume I)

2008-02-25T12:06:00.008-05:00

It's only fitting that I write this Academy Awards follow-up while trying to overcome the migraine I've had all day. Last night's Oscar telecast wasn't terribly long (at least by their standards) or painful, but it still left me feeling the kind of hungover you feel after a drunken night filled with extreme highs and miserable lows. Here are a few examples:

1. Low. Because I'm Mama Benchly's son who can't help but obsess with the morbid, each year I anxiously await the In Memoriam montage. As horrible as it is to say, I love being reminded of the entertainers whose deaths in the past year I had forgotten about. In years past, I've also enjoyed the running banter between Mama and Papa Benchly while the montage plays on the screen.

Mama Benchly - He died?
Papa Benchly - Yes.
Mama Benchly - Wow. (long pause). SHE died?
Papa Benchly - Yeah.
Mama Benchly - Wow. (long pause). I thought he was already dead?
Papa Benchly - I guess not.

Sadly though, I've recently begun to dread this yearly montage because, like the Academy's votes, it's just another form of a popularity contest. Last night's montage further justified my criticism when it omitted Brad Renfro (did he not pay his Academy dues?) and Charles Nelson Reilly (known more for his TV work, but a movie actor as well), and placed the great Heath Ledger in the coveted "most popular" final spot while banishing the greater Deborah Kerr to the obscure "Cinematographer/Art Director/Screenwriters-from-the-40s" middle section. It also guaranteed Roy Scheider a spot in next year's Benchly Oscar Banter simply because he died after this year's deadline.

2. High. The upset of the night saw Tilda Swinton cradling her little agent Oscar on stage. The Academy hardly ever gets the supporting actress category right, so I was ecstatic that when they did, they ended up rewarding an actress who is ALWAYS award-worthy.

3. Low. Freckles and I watched Ratatouille sometime last month. I'd be more specific about when we watched the movie, but I can't because it took us about 5 tries to finish the movie. It was a cute movie, but the fact that we had to stop it 4 times before ultimately finishing it shows just how underwhelming it was. I suspect that Persepolis should have won (I'll have to catch it on video), but I'm most pissed by the fact that The Simpsons Movie didn't even have a chance. Shame on you Academy!

4. High. I figured with three songs nominated from one movie, a split vote was all but gauranteed in this category, but from the sounds of the audience's reaction when Once's "Falling Slowly" was declared the winner, it seems as though the love song would have won on its own merits anyway. And the classy and best-host-of-our-generation Jon Stewart calling Marketa Irglová back on stage to give her well-deserved speech was, in my opinion, the highlight of the night. Even more so than seeing the awesome Glen Hansard on Hollywood's biggest stage just a few years after catching him on one of Burlington, VT's smallest stages.

5. Low. Speaking of Oscar songs, the Academy needs to do something about nominated Oscar songs and their respective dance numbers. As great as these songs are in their respective films, they just don't translate very well onto a televised stage. Since the votes have already been cast and these performances don't influence the outcome, the Academy should strip down the performances and make it more about the music and less about the movie scene.

6. High. The most ironic and unintentionally hilarious moment of the night was the US Army handing out the short documentary award to a film about a dying lesbian soldier's wishes to have her pension passed on to her life partner. In terms of awkward moments in Oscar-winning documentary history, this one rivals Michael Moore's passionate "Fictitious President" acceptance speech for Fahrenheit 9/11.

7. Low. The choice of presenters. Whatever points the Academy got for picking the relevant Jonah Hill, Seth Rogan, and Amy Adams they lost for their inexcusable selections of Miley Cyrus and Dwayne "Don't Call Me The Rock" Johnson.

8. High. If you're 44 years or younger, did you ever think you'd live to see the day when the Academy selected four acting winners born on foreign soil? What's better is the fact that as much as I wanted Ellen Page to win, all of the winners were most certainly deserving.

9. High. Finally, despite her best efforts, Freckles fell asleep halfway through the Oscar telecast, which is only appropriate when you consider that the list of movies she slept through this year includes: Michael Clayton, No Country for Old Men, Ratatouille, American Gangster, There Will Be Blood, and In the Valley of Elah. If we're lucky, she'll give us a blog entry to discuss her Best Naps awards.

And the Oscar goes to (Volume III)

2008-02-24T15:31:00.011-05:00

In the motion picture Pleasantville, a wonderful tale of a battle between enlightenment and closed-mindedness, the late-great J.T. Walsh utters one of my all-time favorite movie quotes. When the women of Pleasantville stop performing their housewife duties and leave the helpless men to fend for themselves in the laundry room and kitchen, the mayor of the city (Walsh) attempts to calm the anxious men of the town by saying, "We're safe for now. Thank goodness we're in a bowling alley!" Because Pleasantville is such a great movie, and because it says more than most about the world in which we live, hardly a day passes without it crossing my mind. And with the 80th Academy Awards (a celebration of great movies) just a few pre-Oscar shows away, this movie, and my favorite line from within it, are yet again front and center in my thoughts.

As I'm sure all of you know by now, this year's Academy Awards ceremony almost never happened due to the Writer's Guild of America strike. When the WGA went on strike, it seemed as though everyone around me panicked. My LOST friends and I stressed over whether or not the new season would be affected; Freckles worried that her new favorite show The Big Bang Theory would lose whatever appeal it had gained and would get pushed under the strike bus; Sarah the L and Mr. Mikes were left heartbroken at the thought of Grey's Anatomy's season ending prematurely; and pretty much everyone in my life let out a defeated sigh at the realization that our television future would most likely consist of recycled reality TV shows centered around personalities who wouldn't know responsibility if it bit them in their lipo-sucked ass. But then the WGA ended its strike, TV schedules slowly went back to normal, and now it looks as though we won't see much of a negative affect on the quality of unreleased movies.

Though I'm happy that I'll be able to watch my favorite TV shows and see quality movies for years to come, and though, as a writer, I'm happy that all of my better-paid comrades have returned to work, I can't help but wonder what J.T. Walsh's character would have said on a day like today. Because as nice as it is to have great writers entertaining us again, sometimes I wonder if TV and movies are our Pleasantville bowling alley; eg, our false hope and distraction from society's and our problems. With that in mind...

Because I'm a movie geek, I've yet again made an effort to see as many of this past year's award-winning and award-nominated movies as possible. And as in years past, I'm going to try my hand at predicting the winners of this year's Academy Awards (or as a former Evil Empire coworker of mine would call it, The Mutual Appreciation Club):

Best Actor - First and foremost, I'd like to congratulate the Academy for picking 4 out of 5 deserving nominees for this category. The one undeserving thespian, George Clooney, was rewarded for playing himself, which, could be argued, is how he plays every character. It seems as though the unfortunate side effect of his win for Syriana last year is that the Academy will now grade his performances on a curve from here on out. If you ask me, his spot on this list and, more to the point, the winner's spot on the podium, should have been reserved for Christian Bale's incredible portrayal of a pilot in Rescue Dawn. His role was more complex and impressive than Viggo Mortensen's gangster with an accent or Tommy Lee Jones's subtle and moving heartbroken father. Alas, he wasn't even nominated. As for the rest who were, as sad as it is to say, Johnny Depp has spoiled us with his endless string of remarkable performances so much so that the Academy will think he can wait another year for his turn. This is the Academy we're talking about, and their philosophy mirrors that of the Evil Empire: quantity over quality, which translates to handing out awards based on a body of work, not the role for which you're nominated. And that's why, my faithful readers, Daniel Day-Lewis will win tonight, and Johnny Depp will win for Pirates of the Caribbean 12. Day-Lewis was AWESOME and is most certainly deserving of an award, but though I haven't yet seen Sweeney Todd, my guess is Depp was even better.

Best Actress - This is a tough category for me because I've only seen 2 of the 5 nominated performances: Ellen Page's so-precious-you-could-just-hug-her-forever pregnant teen in Juno and Julie Christie's I-hope-my-wife-looks-like-her-when-she's-67 Alzheimer's wife in Away From Her. Marion Cotillard has won a few awards for her (I'm told) dead-on portrayal of French singer Edith Piaf but the Academy sure does avoid voting for its foreign members so I'll knock her out of the equation. If you ask me, there's no way in hell Cate Blanchett will win for playing Queen Elizabeth again when she didn't win the first time around. And sadly (because I love her), I doubt Laura Linney will take home the trophy tonight for the very same reason Johnny Depp won't. Which brings me back to the aforementioned Page and Christie. Ellen Page is getting a lot of flak simply for her age (eg, "how hard is it for a teen to play a teen?") to which I say "how hard is it to play an Alzheimer's patient when you're almost 67?" Both statements are ridiculous, and both emphasize what's wrong with the Academy's voting process. As in life, far too often, people are rewarded for the wrong reasons and that's what's going to happen tonight. Julie Christie will win simply because she's older than Ellen Page. She'll be deserving, but I guarantee you, if Page was 15 years older, after tonight, her name would forever be prefaced with "Academy Award Winning..."

Best Supporting Actor - Javier Bardem in No Country for Old Men. Period. Though I've only seen one of the other performances (the always great Tom Wilkinson), it doesn't matter. Bardem was brilliant and perfect. His movie on the other hand, I'll talk about in a minute. [One thing worth noting: Steve Zahn's glaring omission from this category for Rescue Dawn rivals that of Christian Bale's in the acting category.]

Best Supporting Actress - This one is INTERESTING. With three actresses playing three generations of one character, as the youngest, Saoirse Ronan was fortunate enough to do all of her work in the best of Atonement's three acts. Unfortunately for her, Vanessa Redgrave's portrayal in the third act was just as good. The elder member of this group, Ruby Dee, has won a few awards already and could win tonight, and if she does I say shame on the Academy. Off the top of the head, two days after viewing her American Gangster, I can think of two scenes in which she had serious dialogue, both of which lasted less than 60 seconds. She was good but Amy Ryan played a much more difficult Gone Baby Gone part just as well and I don't even think Ryan's performance is award-worthy. That leaves Cate Blanchett for her Bob Dylan role in I'm Not There, and Tilda Swinton's Evil Empire role in Michael Clayton. Honestly, I think they'll split the vote to Ruby Dee's benefit, but if I had my way, I'd give the award to Tilda Swinton. She was equal parts strong and vulnerable...what George Clooney should have been.

Best Director - Unfortunately for me, because my guess is it's a wonderful movie, and unfortunately for Julian Schnabel, because that means I'm yet another non-customer hurting his box office results, I missed The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. Fortunately for my prediction, the Academy doesn't like splitting the Director and Picture awards between two different movies and Schnabel's missed the Picture cut, so I don't think he has any chance of winning. Tony Gilroy produced a subtle and great movie in Michael Clayton, whose chances at winning tonight were ruined by its main character, George Clooney. Jason Reitman won't win because his movie Juno isn't big enough. The Academy in all of its size matters glory will instead focus on the two (or technically, three) director heavyweights: Paul Thomas Anderson (There Will Be Blood) and the Coen Brothers (No Country for Old Men). In my opinion, both directors should be punished for the last 20 minutes of their films, and Reitman should win by default. But of the two gaffes, the Coen Brothers' was the worse. So of the two, Paul Thomas Anderson should win. Will he? No. The Coen Brothers will because of the Depp Rule (aka, the former Martin Scorsese Rule and the former Morgan Freeman/Denzel Washington Rule). One more note: if Sean Penn hadn't won an acting award for Mystic River, he would have won this year's directing award for Into the Wild while riding the coattails of the former Sean Penn Rule.

Best Picture - This category depresses me for a few reasons: Atonement shouldn't be included in this group; Zodiac should have been included; and the wrong movie will ultimately win. In my opinion, only two of these movies survived the curse of the dreadful final act: Michael Clayton and Juno. Michael Clayton, though a good movie, pales in comparison to Juno. Stated simply: I'll remember Juno in two years while Michael Clayton will have morphed into one big Oceans 11/Out of Sight/ER blur. No Country for Old Men will win by a nose over There Will Be Blood because the Academy will yet again embrace its size matters motto that propelled The Departed, Chicago, and Lord of the Rings to victories in recent years. But the most deserving of the five, and hell, all 2007 movies is Juno. It was smart, crisp, complete, and flawless. It was Little Miss Sunshine times infinity. And it was everything the Academy never rewards, which makes me the kind of anxious only J.T. Walsh could assuage.

*Worth noting: expect to fall in love with Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova during their performance of "Falling Slowly" from Once. Ms. Parker will hate me for saying this, but this song should win tonight. And the movie, while not award-worthy, is certainly worth watching.
**Also worth noting: I'm boycotting the Best Animated Feature Film award for the worst omission of the night: The Simpsons should have been nominated. You agree.

Googleable

2008-02-09T20:52:00.000-05:00

Earlier this week, my colleague and I had a run-in with a chip-on-her-shoulder freelancer. In the bitterly sarcastic and condescending email she sent when returning a project, she questioned our expectations and standards for her work, while blatantly neglecting to do one of the tasks we had instructed her to do: resolve all queries by contacting the author on our behalf via email. After a long dialogue with the proofreader, my colleague and I decided to give her another shot. Later that day, as I found myself Googling the proofreader's name to see if I could learn anything interesting about her (you know you do it too), I started singing the song lyric "I can call you Betty..." as my daydream drifted 13 years into the past.

Like most other folks my age, my first taste of e-mail and the Internet came in high school when my father and I took part in the ever-so-important college campus tours. If you can believe it, I arrived at each campus reminding myself to ask the tour guide if his/her school gave its students access to e-mail. E-mail was such a novelty back in 1995, we actually wondered if it would be available at every school. It was a street in a strange world, it was my first time around, and I didn't speak the language. When I arrived at the University Whose Name Shall Never Be Spoken my freshman year, I was fortunate enough to be paired with a computer-savvy roommate who showed me the computer ropes, including the campus e-mail system. I wasn't able to e-mail any of my high school friends until after I told them my email address...via the Pony Express...but I had e-mail. Though, with its confusing lingo that convinced me it would never last (search engine, chatting, Yahoo!), the Internet would have to wait.

It wasn't until my senior year in college that I first discovered the wonders of the Internet. As chief copy editor for the student newspaper, I was responsible for checking the spelling in each article. For most words, that involved a quick search through Webster's (there was no such thing as dictionary.com at the time and spell check was painfully unreliable). For proper names, though, I relied on a more old-fashioned technique: a show of hands in the office. That is, until our editor-in-chief made the following suggestion: "why don't you search for it on the Internet?" (my generation's way of saying "Google it!"). Suddenly, if I needed information quickly, some fool out there had placed it on the Internet. When a debate erupted in the office as to what the correct words were to a Paul Simon song, 12-Times-Tracey and I raced to find Internet proof. Though I ultimately proved myself wrong (the words were not, in fact, "I can call you Eddie"), the speed with which I found the information justified my decision to dub myself The Internet King, a nickname that has stood the test of time and threat of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.

This nickname found its way into my daydream shortly after the Paul Simon song, and two minutes later, I was face to face with the aforementioned freelancer's Internet self via a most common outlet for anyone with a chip on his/her shoulder: a blog. How did I get there? Simple: I searched for her name on Myspace, found her page, and clicked on the link on that page. After finding her blog, I quickly realized there were a number of ways I could have stumbled across her blog such as: if I Googled her name and the word "edit,"; if I Googled her company's name and the word "blog"; if I searched for her company's email address on Myspace; etc. My point is this: she has made no effort to hide herself, her blog, and the easy connection made from her company to her blog (for the converse, try Googling my real name and see if you can find this blog). Consequently, it appears as though she doesn't seem to mind if her clients (read: my company's clients) find her blog.

With this in mind, I read her blog's most recent entry. For the sake of anonymity (in other words, I don't want these words to be Googleable and traced back to my company), I've taken the liberty of paraphrasing what she said in her blog. However, you can rest assured when I say that her version was nastier and more expletive-filled: "I edit crap all day long by academics who can't write a sentence to save their life....These authors are publishing books no one will ever read just so their colleagues can put them in their offices and say 'That's my friend, Professor Puff'n'stuff's book.'" She's walking down the street, wondering why she's short of attention, and woe her nights are so long.

And so, Monday morning, I'll be faced with a difficult choice: side with my freedom of speech instincts, pretend I never saw the blog, and hope that none of our authors has ever gone by the nickname The Internet King; or play with censorship fire, notify my colleague about the blog (which will most likely result in the end of our company's relationship with said freelancer), and prevent any harm that could most definitely be done by those chip-on-her-shoulder words. I can safely say that in my short career, I've never had to make a decision like this. It makes me feel like my role model is gone.

Obama as seen by my favorite writer (soon to be your favorite writer)

2008-02-04T15:23:00.001-05:00

Obama vs. the Phobocracy by Michael Chabon

"There are many reasons not to support Barack Obama's candidacy for president, but every one of them is bad for the same reason.

Because I have come out publicly for the senator from Illinois, I am often called upon to listen as people offer up -- with wistfulness and regret, or with a pundit's show of certainty, or with a well-earned but useless skepticism -- their bad reasons for not giving Obama their support. For a long time now, I have listened to these people with forbearance and with a sense of duty -- not to some principle of open debate or of the inherent merit in the free exchange of even meritless ideas, but rather out of obligation to the candidate whose cause I champion.

Because Obama appears to be a patient, forbearing man with a gift for listening, I figured I owed it to him to play the thing his way. So I have nodded and looked into their eyes and hummed sympathetically as people gave their reasons and made their excuses and generally offered up, as if they were golden ingots of profound wisdom, the handful of two-penny nails with which they plan to board up the windows of their hopes for themselves, their families, their country and the world.

But now, with everything seeming to come down, at last, to the first Tuesday in February, and in the wake of an all-out, months-long push by the cynicism industry to cook up an entire line of bad reasons ready to heat and serve, I admit that I'm getting tired of listening to rationales from people who know that Obama is a remarkable, even an extraordinary politician, the kind who comes along, in this era of snakes and empty smiles, no more than once a generation.

Oh, sure, most of these people tell me they would like to see Obama become president. No question, he comes off as at once brilliant and sensible, vibrant and measured, engaged and engaging, talented, forthright, quick-witted, passionate, thoughtful and, as with all remarkable people whom experience has taught both the extent and the bitter limits of their gifts, reasonably humble. In a better world, people tell me, in theory, sure, having a president like Barack Obama sounds great. But not, you know, for real. Not in the base, corrupt, morally spent, toxic and reeling rats' nest that we like to call home. Things are so bad we just can't afford to waste our votes, people tell me, on some fantasy super-president with magical powers. We need someone electable, someone, as I have been told repeatedly in the past year, who can win.

Of course this misses the point; it misses all kinds of points. In a better world, if there were such a thing (and so far there never has been), we would not need a president like Obama as badly as we do. If there were less at stake, if our democracy had not been permitted, indeed encouraged, to sink to its present degraded and embattled condition not only by the present administration but by a fair number of those people now seeking to head up the next one, perhaps then we could afford to waste our votes on the candidate who knows best how to jigger, to manipulate and to conform to the vapid specifications of the debased electoral process it has been our unhappy fate to construct for ourselves.

Because ultimately, that is the point of Obama's candidacy -- of the hope, enthusiasm and sense of purpose it inspires, yes, but more crucially, of the very doubts and reservations expressed by those who pronounce, whether in tones of regret, certainty or skepticism, that America is not ready for Obama, or that Obama is not ready for the job, or that nobody of any worth or decency -- supposing there even to be such a person left on the American political scene -- can be expected to survive for a moment with his idealism and principle intact.

The point of Obama's candidacy is that the damaged state of American democracy is not the fault of George W. Bush and his minions, the corporate-controlled media, the insurance industry, the oil industry, lobbyists, terrorists, illegal immigrants or Satan. The point is that this mess is our fault. We let in the serpents and liars, we exchanged shining ideals for a handful of nails and some two-by-fours, and we did it by resorting to the simplest, deepest-seated and readiest method we possess as human beings for trying to make sense of the world: through our fear. America has become a phobocracy.

Since I started talking and writing about Obama I have come to see that this ruling fear, and nothing else, lies at the back of every objection or reservation people raise or harbor regarding the man and his candidacy.

Fear whispers to us that white voters have a nasty tendency to tell pollsters, friends and neighbors that they support an African American candidate, then go into the voting booth and let the fear known as racism pull the lever.

Fear tells us that ugliness, rage and brutality are the central facts of human existence, that decency and tolerance are luxuries on whose altar our enemies will be only too happy to sacrifice us.

It is through our fear of falling prey to the calamity and misadventure from which the media promise faithlessly to protect us -- a fear manufactured and sold by the media themselves -- that we accept without question the media-borne canard (tainted, in my view, by a racism as insidious as any that hides behind the curtains of voting booths) that Barack Obama, a seasoned and successful 46-year-old husband and father of two, a man sweeping into the prime of his life with all his sails and flags unfurled, is too young and inexperienced for a job that demands vitality and flexibility and that, furthermore, has made nonsense of glittering resumes, laughingstocks of practiced old hands and, in a reverse of Popeye's old trick, ravenous alligators out of years of accumulated baggage.

Fear and those who fatten on it spread vile lies about Obama's religion, his past drug use, his views on Israel and the Jews. Fear makes us see the world purely in terms of enemies and perils, and leads us to seek out the promise of leadership, however spurious it proves to be, among those who speak the language of that doomed and demeaning, that inhuman view of the world.

But the most pitiable fear of all is the fear of disappointment, of having our hearts broken and our hopes dashed by this radiant, humane politician who seems not just with his words but with every step he takes, simply by the fact of his running at all, to promise so much for our country, for our future and for the eventual state of our national soul. I say "pitiable" because this fear of disappointment, which I hear underlying so many of the doubts that people express to me, is ultimately a fear of finding out the truth about ourselves and the extent of the mess that we have gotten ourselves into. If we do fight for Obama, work for him, believe in him, vote for him, and the man goes down to defeat by the big-money machines and the merchants of fear, then what hope will we have left to hold on to?

Thus in the name of preserving hope do we disdain it. That is how a phobocracy maintains its grip on power.

To support Obama, we must permit ourselves to feel hope, to acknowledge the possibility that we can aspire as a nation to be more than merely secure or predominant. We must allow ourselves to believe in Obama, not blindly or unquestioningly as we might believe in some demagogue or figurehead but as we believe in the comfort we take in our families, in the pleasure of good company, in the blessings of peace and liberty, in any thing that requires us to put our trust in the best part of ourselves and others. That kind of belief is a revolutionary act. It holds the power, in time, to overturn and repair all the damage that our fear has driven us to inflict on ourselves and the world.

And when we all wake up on Nov. 5, 2008, to find that we have made Barack Obama the president of the United States, the world is already going to feel, to all of us, a little different, a little truer to its, and our, better nature. It is part of the world's nature and of our own to break, ruin and destroy; but it is also our nature and the world's to find ways to mend what has been broken. We can do that. Come on. Don't be afraid."

The Pluperfect Entry

2008-01-31T19:11:00.000-05:00

I learned a new word the other day: pluperfect. At first I thought it was a typo, but my friend Webster quickly assuaged my doubts. Like nearly every other word in our less-than-pluperfect language, this word has multiple definitions. It can be defined as a "verb tense used to express action completed before a specified past time" - as in "He had done it when I came." In other words, this is the ugly tense often described as not pluperfect. In its other life, though, pluperfect can be defined as "more than perfect." As in better than perfect, or perfect plus one, or perfect times infinity. Or perfect times infinity plus one. I'm sure you get the point because I described it so pluperfectly [sic].

I came across this word in a resume. You see, one of my responsibilities at my semi-new job is to increase my company's pool of freelance proofreaders. So with the help of Al Gore's pet project, the Internet, I went in search of the English majors of the world who haven't yet succumbed to their grocery bagging fate. And that's when I found Pluperfect Girl.*

Pluperfect Girl is a proofreader/editor/writer extraordinaire! At least, that's what she would have you believe because, you see, not only does she have "excellent command of English," she's also the "pluperfect proofreader and editor." Now I'll be the first to admit that when it comes to our lovely language, I've never been close to achieving a black belt, as evidenced by my initial belief that "pluperfect" was simply a typo, but after learning about the word and in turn, discovering Pluperfect Girl's intent, I found myself plu-pissed (that is, more than pissed). I felt this way because nothing bugs me more than hubris. And you have to admit, "pluperfect" does an awful job of hiding its hubristic stench.

And so, in addition to learning a new word, I also discovered that pluperfect is the pluperfect word to use in your resume when you're just begging for someone to find an error. And when I found one, deleting Pluperfect Girl's resume felt pluperfect.

*Not her real name.

White Mountains or White Lies?

2008-01-09T09:25:00.001-05:00

Freckles will tell you that I've become quite addicted to the ongoing political debate in our country. And what I'm learning from this debate is that although (some of) the candidates are new, the script is very much the same. And it reads like this...

Last week, the early-bird caucusing Iowans selected Barack Obama as their Democratic Party choice for president. John Edwards and Hilary Clinton finished in a virtual tie for second, relatively far behind Obama. Poor Dennis Kucinich never had a chance. Again.

According to polls, a whopping (considering how many candidates there were) 41% of "first-time voters" (read: youth) voted for Obama. 29% of "first-time voters" voted for Clinton. So new voters turned out in record numbers and an overwhelming number of them voted for Obama. That's a pretty clear message, right? Well, according to Clinton, not exactly.

After barely mentioning youth her entire one-year-old campaign, Clinton responded to the Iowa result by saying it was clear that she was the voice of the youth. Say what? Obama played the young people trump card in Iowa, and realizing they just might be the key to victory, suddenly Clinton declared herself the voice of youth? OK. On to New Hampshire.

Though generally a dull state, New Hampshire was a hotbed of excitement the last five days. The highlight was undoubtedly the doubleheader CNN/Facebook debate, with the Republicans opening up for the headliners, the Democrats. (Facebook is my runner-up choice for the "Is That Really An Appropriate Presidential Debate Host?" award.) In that debate, John Edwards repeatedly described his campaign as "personal" ("personal cause"; "very personal"; "personal battle"; "deeply personal"; "personal"; "personal"; "personal"; etc). Though our trusty reporters (read: Tim Russert) called the debate a draw, it was clear to this unbiased viewer that Edwards scored quite a few direct blows to Clinton (my favorite being when he likened her to "the status quo"), while, in my opinion, performing far better than a stumbling Obama. If anything, and maybe thanks to redundancy, Edwards was convincing in his claim that his fight was personal. According to Clinton, though, he's not the only one.

Two days later, in one of her new "young people" speeches, Hilary Clinton responded by tearing up and saying that the election was "very personal to me." Move over Sally Field, because I think New Hampshire likes Clinton now, they really really like her!

So what happens next? Anyone who has ever followed politics or a good soap opera, could see the ending of this primary from a mile away. The New Hampshire voters, in all their "live free or die"/"you can't tell us what to do, stupid Iowans!" glory, voted for Clinton. Barely. (I'm not kidding. Though Clinton won the popular vote, Clinton and Obama secured the same number of delegates. That's how close it was.)

And then, while ignoring the fact that her speechwriters are up for this year's Best Adapted Screenplay award, Clinton delivered the most transparent, ironic line I've ever heard in an election...

[fade in]

[Int. A large New Hampshire gymnasium filled with thousands of screaming fans.]

(Clinton walks to center stage, shaking the hands of the people she passes by. After a few waves of the hand, and a grin that cannot be suppressed, Clinton steps up to the podium looking humble, yet presidential.)

Clinton (personally): "I listened to you and in the process I found my own voice."

(The fans scream.)

And scene!

Parker, Benchly, and True

2007-05-26T18:45:00.000-04:00

Near the end of the underrated motion picture Starship Troopers (which you should see not only for its eye-candy cast and unapologetically corny story but most importantly for its seemingly-psychic pre-9/11 commentary on the War on Terror), in a scene that shows a rare reunion of the three main characters after yet another gruesome and deadly military battle, one of the characters hugs the other two and says, "I don't know why, but every time the three of us are together I feel like everything's going to be alright."

For the first two years of college, Ms. Parker, True, and I shared nearly every waking moment together on the campus of the University Whose Name Shall Never Be Said. We cracked jokes, told stories, wrote songs, and believed ourselves to be the modern day Algonquin Round Table (as evidenced by two of our nicknames). Sadly, in the ten years since we parted ways, I can count on one hand the number of times the three of us have been together. When we are together, though, as was the case 6 weeks ago for Ms. Parker's 30th birthday, I find myself identifying with the Starship Troopers character's optimism.

A test

2007-05-24T16:19:00.001-04:00

This is a test, this is only a test. If this was a real blog entry, I would have put more thought into it or, at the very least, it would have been long-winded.

Rainy Day Limerick

2007-05-16T01:53:00.000-04:00

I wrote this while bored at work. Feel free to respond with your own...

There once was a man from Nantucket
who didn't see the ax in time to duck it.
Now the man's got no head
(at least he's not dead!)
and when you ask him his name he says _______.

Benchly At the Bat

2007-05-02T19:16:00.001-04:00

In honor of my summer beer-league softball team's first practice/scrimmage tonight, I'd like to share with you a poem I spoofed last year after CP and I challenged each other to a wiffle ball duel during our lunch break. With apologies to Ernest L. Thayer, I present to you, my faithful readers, Benchly At The Bat:

Then from five throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through Waterbury, and rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon Green Mountain Coffee and recoiled upon the flat,
For Benchly, mighty Benchly, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Benchly’s manner as he stepped into his place,
There was pride in Benchly’s bearing and a smile on Benchly's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he pretended to doff his hat,
No coworker in the crowd could doubt 'twas Benchly at the bat.

At least ten eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
And then five tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher, CP, ground the ball into her hip,
Defiance gleamed in Benchly's eye, a sneer curled Benchly's lip.

And now the little plastic sphere came hurtling with a wiffle sound,
And Benchly swung with all his might, nearly falling to the ground,
And missed the ball completely, for it curved as much as it sped.
"YES!" said CP, "No!" said Benchly, "Strike one," the umpire said.

With a smile of confidence, great Benchly's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult of the coworkers and bade the game go on;
He signaled to CP and once more the wiffle ball flew;
Benchly swung and missed the high heat and the umpire said, "Strike two!"

"Yes!" cried CP again, and the tension slowly grew,
But then she wasted the next two pitches and the count went 2 and 2 .
The coworkers saw Benchly’s face grow stern, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Benchly wouldn't miss that ball again.

The sneer was gone from Benchly's lip, his teeth were clinched in hate;
He pounded with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now CP holds the ball and now she lets it go,
And now the ball is shattered by the force of Benchly’s blow.

Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy for CP-- mighty Benchly hit one out.

The Evil Empire...or how I learned that the real world sucks more than I thought it did

2007-03-25T23:27:00.001-04:00

As is their legal right, the Evil Empire recently told a coworker of mine that he will be laid off in two weeks after his medical leave runs out because he was unable to beat his cancer in the federally-allotted 12 weeks of time. Once the lay-off is official, his health insurance will disappear and if he wants to continue fighting for his life, he'll need to foot the $350 monthly health insurance bill as well as continue to pay for what his health insurance won't cover.

In recognition of the fact that I need to tread very carefully when discussing anything about my company, I won't pass any judgment...but I hope that my faithful readers know that they are strongly encouraged to pick up the slack...

The Motley Fool, indeed

2007-03-07T20:55:00.000-05:00

Today I applied for a job at The Motley Fool. The text below is my answer to one of their application questions. As Freckles would say, "Balls to the wall, baby! Balls to the wall!"...

On March 7, 2007, I applied for a job at The Motley Fool and in the application, they asked me to describe "instances where your 'grammar neurosis' caused you to edit someone's work that maybe you shouldn't have." After much internal debate on what the proper etiquette was for such a situation, and after considering that the qualifications for the job posted included the “ability to roll with the punches and give a few, too,” I threw caution to the wind and edited their application to show that with the proper subordinate conjunction, their question should have looked like this:

"Please tell us about one or two instances when your 'grammar neurosis' caused you to edit someone's work that maybe you shouldn't have."

And the Oscar goes to (Volume II)...

2007-02-25T23:25:00.000-05:00

The 79th Academy Awards are just a few short minutes away from beginning and even though I don't have the time tonight for a thoughtful entry, considering I've spent the last month boosting the box office results for each major nominee, I have to at least TRY to make some predictions. So bare with me; this will be quick and unedited (unlike the Oscar telecast). Maybe, if I have the time, I'll submit another entry later this week with a more thoughtful discussion on each deserving and undeserving nominee. But until then, this will have to do:

Best Actress – Unfortunately, I didn't get the chance to see Volver and Penelope Cruz's performance in it but since I consider her the Heather Graham of foreign films, I feel confident in eliminating her from consideration. And sadly, I never got to see my girlfriend Kate Winslet in Little Children so I'll have to leave her out as well. Meryl Streep has grown on me as of late but even her most biased fans will admit her performance in The Devil Wears Prada wasn't worthy of an Oscar. Movie buffs will know that Helen Mirren's portrayal of the queen in The Queen has all but guaranteed her the trophy and I predict that she'll win; but my friends, do yourselves a favor and see Judi Dench's performance in Notes on a Scandal. It's equal parts heartbreaking and terrifying.

Best Actor – I am least prepared for this category, having only seen one of the nominated performances (Leo DiCaprio's in Blood Diamond). The trophy has already been engraved with Forest Whitaker's name, so I won't bother predicting another outcome. What I do have to say though is this: Leo's performance in The Departed was great and in any other year, it could have earned him the win; but his performance in Blood Diamond was a thousand times better. I'll even go so far as to say it was the best performance of his career.

Best Supporting Actress – Adriana Barraza and Rinko Kikuchi were solid in Babel, but I won't remember their performances in 6 months. And I'm sorry, but Jennifer Hudson, favored to win for her role in Dreamgirls, played a part the same way Kelly Clarkson or Carrie Underwood would have. She can sing; oh MAN can she sing, but singing shouldn't win you this award. And when Beyonce (Beyonce!) puts up an equally impressive performance in the same movie, that all but settles it: this award is between Abigail Breslin's 8 year old pageant girl in Little Miss Sunshine and Cate Blanchett's role opposite Dench in Notes on a Scandal. Breslin was perfect, but her part didn't really require any range. Blanchett's performance was as memorable as Dench's and that is why, in my opinion, she should be taking home another statue tonight.

Best Supporting Actor – To be fair, I'll leave Jackie Earle "Kelly from the Bad News Bears" Haley out of this discussion because I missed Little Children; or rather Burlington, Vermont missed the opportunity to screen Little Children. Alan Arkin and Mark Wahlberg were hilarious as the druggie-grandfather in Little Miss Sunshine and the sarcastic/vulgar cop in The Departed, respectively; but I'll argue that they didn't support enough. A lame argument but I just can't see them winning. And though he'll probably win, Eddie Murphey, in my opinion, was playing himself on drugs, which, in all honesty, could have just been himself. This award should go to Djimon Hounsou for Blood Diamond. It won't, but it should.

Best Director – This one is tough. Everyone says Martin Scorsese should win for The Departed (and he will) and I'll admit, it was an intensely entertaining movie. But it's not his best work and with so many layers to the movie, it felt too choppy for my liking. Babel was Crash with far fewer stories to tell, none of which are going to stick with me like Matt Dillon's racist cop or the locksmith and his daughter. United 93 was INTENSE. Holy crap! Some people boycotted this movie out of respect for its super-sensitive subject matter and as a columnist put it: "That's their right, and their loss." Do yourselves a favor and see it. You'll cry, you'll feel intense sadness, and you'll leave the theatre with an ironic sense of relief at having felt a long-lost feeling you once swore you'd never forget. With that said...The Queen, with its sensitive subject matter, can be considered United 93's equal. And in the awards world, equals cancel each other out. And that leaves Clint Eastwood's darling Letters from Iwo Jima. I hope Eastwood continues to make movies for another 30 years because he's perfected the art. And that brings us to...

Best Picture - This year's Best Picture race is by far one of the most difficult ones to predict from the last 20 years. Some claim Little Miss Sunshine will hit the third Shakespeare-in-Love Shot Heard 'Round the World, and though it's my favorite of the bunch, the more I think about it, the more I have to admit it's not worthy of the big prize. It's got a big heart, but it's a little movie. (With that said, if it wins, I'll be jumping for joy!) Like I said before, Babel was this year's Crash and I see that familiarity hurting its chances. I was surprisingly impressed with The Queen but the Academy will stop short after awarding Mirren. In my mind, this award is between Letters From Iwo Jima and The Departed. I can find flaws with the second one, but not the first. And so, it's my prediction that Letters From Iwo Jima will be the actual movie hitting the third Shakespeare-in-Love Shot Heard 'Round the World when it comes out of nowhere to blind side the other contenders with its heartfelt and brutal tale.

PS. Go Ellen Degeneres!

Random Acts of Friendster?

2007-02-23T16:28:00.001-05:00

I remember a few years ago when a guy with my same name contacted me to say "isn't it cool that we have the same full name?" Mister Benchly apparently wasn't as unique a name as I had originally thought. I quickly deleted his email and hoped he would disappear. But that pales in comparison to how freaked out I felt 5 minutes ago when I discovered my REAL doppelganger: http://www.friendster.com/243753.

Not only do we share the same name and age, not only is his best friend a girl named Sarah from the midwest, not only is he a blogger with a similar taste in music and TV, but he totally looks like me! Today I'm essentially wearing the same outfit and facial hair that he's sporting in the bandana picture! I am FREAKED OUT!

Random Acts of iPod?

2007-02-02T14:46:00.000-05:00

Conspiracy theorists have had a field day with the iPod's "Shuffle Songs" feature, whether or not it's completely random, and whether or not it's proof that the iPod is smarter than we think. Until today, I hadn't really noticed anything worth mentioning but then I began a shuffle of my own and here were the first three songs to play:

Mary Jo by Belle & Sebastian
Mary Jane by Alanis Morissette
Santa Maria by The Frames

Needless to say, I'm a little freaked out!

In the Words of My Good Friend, Stiller

2007-01-25T20:30:00.000-05:00

A few years ago, while navigating my way through yet another in a long line of depressingly long and overwhelmingly single Valentine's Days on which I lamented about commercial holidays, Mia Wallace and I discussed the expectations and insincerity of said holidays. My point was that flowers on Valentine’s Day, although nice, were expected and therefore lacked the sincerity of flowers on any other day.

To those who will listen and even those who have grown tired of listening, I voice similar frustrations every year around the December holidays. I think it’s great when people donate money to charity, but where are all the donations when the fat man in a Santa Claus hat isn’t begging for them with a bell outside the local mall? Why is it that most people need the holidays to feel charitable? It’s because of this lack of January-November charity that I often doubt the sincerity of those giving money into the big red December can, including myself.

One of my pet peeves in this world is people who do things not because they want to, but rather because they feel it is expected. I don’t like it that we live in a society that conditions women to think unshaven legs are less desirable than shaven ones; that conditions men to think crying is a sign of weakness; that conditions Christians to think God cares whether or not you’re wearing a tie in church; that conditions people to think piercings are acceptable only on the ear lobes of a woman; that conditions men to think that anything less than a dozen red roses hand-delivered February 14 is not acceptable; that conditions women to think anything less than a dozen red roses hand-delivered February 14 is not love; etc.

(In an effort to be as sincere as is humanly possible, this issue is one I overanalyze every day of my life and so, in an ironic twist that would make any writer proud, like the PC person so aware of race issues he thinks about the color of one’s skin enough to make him racist, I’m probably less sincere because of my overanalyzation. But that’s for another entry.)

I want to address what’s really on my mind and what inspired this rant: the office card. Like clockwork, at least once a week, someone from my office will approach my desk and declare in a hushed, matter-of-fact voice what kind of card they're presenting me as well as the reason for said card. (“Card for Bob. Grandmother died.”) At this point, I have approximately 5 to 10 minutes to determine the person about whom they're speaking, relate somehow to the event that inspired the card, and figure out what kind of short message I should write in it.

As an English major, and as someone who just finished venting about the insincerity associated with expectations, it’s not surprising when I say that I feel the need to be original in my office card entry and so, my first action is to scan the card to see what has already been written so that I avoid duplicating anyone. If it’s a celebratory card (like a birthday or wedding), that means I have to avoid jokes about working too much, working too little, drinking too much, drinking too little, and not “doing anything I wouldn’t do.” For mourning cards, that means I must avoid “thinking of you,” being “so sorry,” and including family “in my thoughts” or “prayers.”

It is at this point in the office card process that I typically suffer from an extreme writer’s block and the stress that accompanies all the pressure associated with performing a literary miracle in such an intimidatingly small timeframe, and I panic and write something either incredibly boring or so random it makes no sense (like the times I quote an imaginary friend named Stiller). For obvious reasons, I typically write the less-inspiring boring stuff in the mourning cards, and save the lines filled with randomness for the celebratory cards. Regardless of whether or not I find something original to say, I always end up struggling with my fear of insincerity so much so that I’m nearly always insincere.

And so, consequently, while a coworker struggles to deal with the loss of her father this week, instead of knowing how devastated I am for her because I can barely deal with the thought of that very same inevitable loss in my life, all she will know is that I am sorry and that her family is in my thoughts.

Mr. Benchly's New Year's Rockin' Eve 2007 Super Mix

2007-01-05T20:13:00.000-05:00

Not since the Oscar-Winning-Actress-Divorces-Non-Oscar-Winning-Actor-Husband has there been such an anticipated and general crowd-pleasing tradition as my annual New Year's Rockin' Eve Super Mix series. Although Ryan Phillippe, Benjamin Bratt, Alec Baldwin, Hank Azaria, and Chad Lowe have yet to listen to this year's installment, I'm sure they'd all find it a fitting consolation prize to their failed relationships. Yes folks, it's that good!

Sarah the L already has hers and she said it best: "[The kick-ass Mr. Benchly's Super Mix, which by far, is always the highlight of my year is] this year's latest and greatest." Other glowing reviews come from Rolling Stone (“I haven’t heard anything this year that’s as inventive [as Mr. Benchly’s Super Mix]”); Roger Ebert (“[Mr. Benchly’s Super Mix]” is the best of the Star Wars films, and the most thought-provoking”); and the BBC ("[Mr. Benchly's Super Mix] is a powerful testament to the suffering of the Jewish people during the Second World War...").

If you were the track listing on this CD, you’d be 18 world peace-inspiring, solid-gold lines of kick-ass, soul-pounding music written in a Times New Roman font!:

1. Stars – Your Ex-Lover is Dead
2. The Shins – We Will Become Silhouettes
3. Belle & Sebastian – For the Price of A Cup of Tea
4. Gomez – See the World
5. Matt Costa – Cold December
6. Rilo Kiley – Does He Love You?
7. The Postal Service – Be Still My Heart
8. Ray LaMontagne – Can I Stay?
9. Rachael Yamagata - Collide
10. John Eddie – If You’re Here When I Get Back
11. Pete Yorn – Suspicious Minds
12. Corinne Bailey Rae – Put Your Records On
13. Jack Johnson – Upside Down
14. The Fray – How to Save A Life
15. Ray LaMontagne - Empty
16. Ani Difranco – Imagine That
17. Andrew Bird – Tables and Chairs
18. Willie Nelson – Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain

Just like last year, I'm taking orders for this year's mix, and unlike last year, I'll deliver on my promise to send them to you. As proof, Montana Girl will be pleased to find this year's Super Mix as well as last year's mix in her possession in 2-3 days. I’ll also be sending out copies to the Redhead, Ms. Parker, and Mayday shortly (with complimentary 2006 mixes as well) so act now while supplies last. You won’t regret it!

Song Lyrics of the Day

2006-11-20T16:30:00.000-05:00

Who says songwriting is dead? Here are some lyrics from two of my favorite songs this month:

"Tables and Chairs" by Andrew Bird

I know we're going to meet some day
in the crumbled financial institutions of this land.
There will be tables and chairs,
there'll be pony rides and dancing bears,
there'll even be a band.
Cause listen, after the fall,
there'll be no more countries, no currencies at all.
We're going to live on our wits,
we're going to throw away survival kits,
trade butterfly knives for Adderral,
and that's not all.
Whoa, there will be snacks.

"Empty" by Ray Lamontagne

Lay your blouse across the chair,
let fall the flowers from your hair
and kiss me with that country mouth so plain.
Outside the rain is tapping on the leaves,
to me it sounds like they're applauding us,
the quiet love we've made.

Torn and Restored

2006-11-08T16:55:00.000-05:00

"Would you like paper or plastic?" "Would you like fries with that?" "Who can spot the dangling modifier?" English majors are familiar with these questions because, in their loved one's collective opinion, these questions accurately reflect the only possible postgraduate avenues down which someone with an English degree can travel. After the laughter from these career punch lines has died down, what everyone fails to explain to the English major is that variations of these jokes exist for other fields of study (philosophy, history, art, music, etc) and that hundreds of thousands of students around the world have been victims of these living-room/kitchen table verbal firing squads. In essence, as we venture off to the world of academia, our first lesson is that we are about to waste the next four years of our lives; that unless we choose science, or medicine, or technology, or education, we are wasting ours and our parents' money.

As I sit back and watch Freckles' brother (a recent college grad with a history degree) attempt to shield himself from the barrage of "do you want to teach history?" questions, I find myself yet again struggling with my own English-degree identity in this English-degree-fearing world. Yes, I'm an editor, but the qualifications for my job have slowly but surely begun to mirror those of a McDonald's manager and, though a respectable job, that's not the career path I envisioned the day I declared my major. The path I convinced myself I was choosing was that of a storyteller.

Although I've never felt emotionally or intellectually qualified to teach English, I can say without a doubt that I chose this path for myself because of the influence of two English teachers: my 7th grade English teacher, Mr. Gagnon; and Professor Hudnall in college. In his class, Mr. Gagnon once told a story from his childhood and after building up the suspense for 10 minutes, every eye was focused on him as he delivered the climactic ending that left every student in the room as full as a compulsive eater on Thanksgiving. If Ms. Parker's memory is as capable as I think it is, she'll swear that I'm confusing Mr. Gagnon with Professor Hudnall. I'm not, but to her credit, I easily could have interchanged the names because Professor Hudnall accomplished the same feat 9 years later. Though unique in every possible way, in my mind, Mr. Gagnon and Professor Hudnall will forever be linked by their ability to bring their students to the edge of their seats. They were teachers, of course, but like every English major before and after them, they were storytellers first and foremost.

After graduating college and entering the classroom-less real world, and while fine-tuning my own craft, I found myself starved for the good story that had been lacking for the first time since I was old enough to know a good story from a bad one. Consequently, I ate up all of the books a postgrad guy is supposed to (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance; Catch-22; On the Road; etc) and with my book clubs, that trend hasn't really stopped. I also watched as many movies as possible. Unfortunately, it seemed like I graduated college around the same time the majority of stories told in movies were dumbed down to reach a broader audience. But then, something wonderful happened. Either the film industry experienced an explosion of creative talent or I got better at finding the good stories. And so it was in 2001 that I found myself on the edge of my theatre seat on three consecutive occasions: Memento, Moulin Rouge, and Amelie. All three movies captured my imagination but as the first of the three released that year, Memento was the film that made me believe in storytelling again. (If you haven't seen it yet, I highly recommend it.)

Like a born-again Christian desperate to share his faith with anyone who will listen, I made all of my loved ones watch Memento; and like that very same born-again desperate to consume anything that tastes like the crack that is his newfound love of Christ, I have since made a point of watching all of the films by Memento's director, Christopher Nolan (Following, Insomnia, and most recently, The Prestige). Because Freckles was desperate to consume the crack that is her love of Christian Bale, she accompanied me to see The Prestige this past weekend. Like Memento, The Prestige had a symphonic feel to it; each scene was arranged and interwoven in a seemingly random way with a hint of purpose. The scenes began to harmonize near the end as a twisting crescendo built to a climax comparable to The Beatles' "A Day in the Life" or the movie Requiem for a Dream. And yet again, I left the theatre satisfied with and inspired by Nolan's work, as well as invigorated by a renewed faith in storytelling.

And so it was with great pride that I recently discovered that Christopher Nolan was once a student of English in London who had most likely shielded himself from the same barrage of "do you want to teach English?" questions that were fired in my direction 7 years ago. Now I don't pretend to believe that this common denominator means that I'll ever be as successful as Nolan has been, but I've also never been naive enough to think the size or reaction of an audience is proof of a good story. All that matters to me is that Nolan's success brings with it further recognition that there is a place in this world for storytellers and that we should stand as proudly as doctors and teachers. My only hope is that when my time has come to pass, and I'm asked what I've done with my English degree, I can say with confidence that I wove a few good stories.

Even Flowers Have Their Dangers

2006-10-17T18:26:00.003-04:00

Sister #1 and her husband celebrated three additions to their home this year: their third beautiful child, Niece #4; a new 2nd floor bedroom, built to accommodate Niece #4; and a second full bathroom, built to accommodate a household with 4 females. On a whim, I visited their home last Friday night to see the new bedroom and bathroom, but mostly to see my nieces. As my visit came to an end, Sister #1 walked me down to my car. A minute later, Niece #1 came outdoors with a concerned look on her face as she told us that her sister, Niece #2, was getting scared because their mother had disappeared. Sister #1 assured Niece #1 that everything was OK, we said goodnight, and they retreated into their home as I drove away. In retrospect, I figured that, most likely, Niece #1 was the one who was scared because although she likes to look after her sisters, she was worried that no one was looking after her.

While visiting with my sister, we briefly discussed the local news, which, for most of my faithful readers, became national news last week: the disappearance and murder of University of Vermont senior, Michelle Gardner-Quinn.

After saying goodnight to her parents, who were visiting for Family Weekend, Michelle ventured downtown to meet up with her friends. When she couldn't find her friends, and her cell phone died, she borrowed the phone of a considerate stranger. After failing to connect with her friends, the stranger was kind enough to walk her home. The video camera of a jewelry store captured footage of Michelle and her good-deed acquaintance walking up our city's hill to her home. Nearly one week later, her body was discovered near a gorge 20 miles away.

As only my most loyal readers will note, my hometown has not been without crime, as evidenced by the Great Inga Beep the Jeep Burglary; however, in the time that I've lived here, I've honestly never felt anything other than a refreshing belief that this place is where I needed to be if ever I wanted a lost wallet returned to me or if ever I wanted to be the "victim" of a random act of kindness. And after reading and listening to every news report I could find, it became increasingly clear that this sense of security had been shared by most, if not all the residents of our small community. So as law officials do their best to put together the pieces of this tragic puzzle (having arrested the stranger on unrelated charges), it's not without reason to say that the residents of our Queen City are doing their best to put together the pieces of their crumbled sense of security.

Considering my home's close proximity to the events of this crime, I'm sure it's no surprise when I say that my way of coping with this tragedy has been to reflect on my own life. Although my frustration with professional athletes who use the phrase "this puts things into perspective" surfaced yet again last week at the news of a professional baseball player's death, I admit that I'm guilty of feeling these exact same thoughts regarding Michelle's death; something like this really does help you remember what in your life should truly be valued, and what's extraneous.

At the top of the list of values for me, as always, are my loved ones. And just as I instinctively drive slower and much more defensively when my nieces are in the car, I feel the need to protect them from the evil in this world. I want to take Niece #1's hand and lead her back into her home and tell her that everything will be OK; she has her parents, and her sisters, and her uncle, and that's all she needs. But as hard as it is to admit, that's not what she needs. As her loved ones, we owe it to her to help mold her into someone capable of conquering the world; someone capable of making the right choices; someone capable of living a rewarding life. We can't shelter my nieces forever because in the end, they will need to deal with the reality that I'm dealing with today:

That as much as I want to, I can't rewind life like I can rewind the jewelry store camera tape. I can't walk Michelle and the stranger back down the hill until they disappear out of the camera's view. I can't walk them back to the bar and make better decisions for Michelle. I can't walk Michelle back up the hill to her loving parents. I can't walk Michelle back into their outstretched arms so that she can hug them goodbye once again and know that everything will be OK.

Sometimes Life Gives Us Lessons Sent in Ridiculous Packaging

2006-08-24T14:46:00.000-04:00

As it has every year, the Little League World Series has signaled the impending demise of the summer as well as all summer-related activities that have so mercilessly wedged themselves between my creativity and my blogging time. Each night, the boys of summer race to finish their seasons before the chill rains of fall arrive. After sacrificing my body on the softball field every day to help keep my men's league team's playoff hopes alive, I've spent my nights watching 10-12-year-old Little Leaguers pour their hearts onto a smaller field to help keep their dreams alive.

In an effort to keep this experience as rewarding as possible, I've done my best to avoid all the swearing, fighting, and anger that nearly always accompanies a men's beer-drinking softball league; I'm there to have fun and play an innocent and beautiful game I've loved since my Little League days. And so, it's disheartening to learn of recent Little League events that have shown a loss of that very same purity I've tried so desperately to recapture…

In a 9 and 10 year old Utah league, the team playing defense needed one more out to win the championship by one run. All that stood between them and their (read: their coach’s) dream, was the opposing team’s best hitter. But rather than take the opportunity to teach his young team about courage and playing their best, the coach decided to teach his team about strategy that’s only appropriate at a much higher level of play. He instructed his pitcher to intentionally walk the best hitter to face the worst hitter: a cancer survivor with a shunt in his brain. The boy struck out while the fans booed the pitcher, and the winning team’s coach got his trophy.

A Little League New England game between Vermont and New Hampshire also made headlines thanks to more controversial coaching. With his team up by a run and one out away from winning the game, the VT coach realized that one of his players had not yet batted; a rule violation that guaranteed a forfeit. Understanding that the only way for his team to win the game was if NH tied it and forced extra innings, he instructed his pitcher to intentionally throw wildly to let NH score. The NH coach quickly realized what VT was trying to do and promptly instructed his team to lose the game at all costs by swinging and intentionally missing the wild pitches; ignoring VT’s third baseman who stopped wiping away the tears from his eyes long enough to beg the NH coach to “please let him hit it.” NH struck out, lost the game, ultimately won by forfeit, and now stands two wins away from a Little League World Series title.

It’s sad to think that the once-in-a-lifetime/rewarding memories these kids will take away from this summer will most likely be overshadowed by the instances when the adults in their lives chose to manipulate their experiences by injecting the kind of reprehensible morals that only adults are capable of displaying. Because of this, I’ve found myself thankful for my own less-tainted childhood memories.

As a child of the 80s, my memories, at first glance, are carbon copies of everyone else's: Little League, We are the World, Hot Wheels, Swatches, Transformers, Bill Buckner, Bill Cosby, MTV, Reagan, the Challenger, Fraggle Rock, etc. Although it's slightly comforting to think about how I'm connected with millions of people through these memories, as an individualist, however, I'm also alarmed. Didn't I have any unique experiences? Isn't there a memory that only I can claim as my own? I'll worry about that in another entry; for now though, I'll focus on one other memory from my childhood: the Choose Your Own Adventure books.

For those of you who lived in a cave, or maybe Vermont, the Choose Your Own Adventure books led readers like myself through an exciting plot full of twists M. Night Shymalan could only dream of imagining and at nearly every turn, when the characters were faced with an important choice, the reader decided what to do next. Go to p. 47 if you choose to fight the rabid 1200-pound dog. Flip back to p. 39 if you want to escape in a helicopter with the cute girl. And just like in life, the first instinct, the seemingly obvious choice, isn't necessarily the right one. If you turned to p. 39, you discovered you crashed the helicopter and became trapped in quicksand. If you cheated (and we all did) and then flipped to p. 47 anyway, the 1200-pound dog wasn't rabid at all...just a lonely dog wanting to play fetch who ultimately led you to safety. Like snowflakes, no two Choose Your Own Adventures were alike, and so, in a way, I can consider these books to be my own unique childhood memory. And as has been the case in most of my entries, this revelation is directly related to the most recent events of my life. If you disagree, your helicopter has crashed and you are stuck in quicksand. If you agree, flip to the next paragraph...

When I was 4-months-fresh out of college, I accepted a unionized position at the Evil Empire, earning more than twice as much money as I had ever made in my life. (Of course, that’s not saying much when you consider my paper route/work study/sandwich shop/telemarketer/camp counselor background.) Within the first two hours of employment, the union representative was smothering me like a toddler on her newborn sister, and I was ordered to join the union and pay dues for this representation. Always the one to respond to orders as if they were given on Opposite Day, the adventure I chose was to join the union “under protest”; although represented by the union, I gave up my vote and voice in exchange for a world without dues. (At 22, I considered getting out of paying money to strangers as a wise financial decision.)

Through numerous twists and turns I won't discuss, it can be argued that my refusal to join the rabid-dog union led me safely through the 5 or 6 Lay-Off Marches to my current and much more English-degree-appropriate Evil Empire job. Like Marty saving the peeping-Tom George McFly, this decision made in the blink of an eye changed the course of my history. I won’t argue that my snap judgment was better than a carefully planned decision, however. Stated simply, the down-the-long-road fortunate effects of my choice were pure dumb luck and like the former Lay-Off March victims, my fortunes can change on a dime.

And so, yesterday, as I sat there and listened to the familiar “in an effort to remain competitive” speech, and quickly realized that I was most likely one year away from my very own Lay-Off March, I couldn’t help but think about those Choose Your Own Adventure books. With the nine lives I’ve lived at the Evil Empire, I feel as though I’ve already flipped to p. 39 to discover the helicopter crash and now I have the chance to take what I know and run to the rabid dog of p. 47. Like the kids of Little League who still have a chance to learn the values of honor and respect and fair play, I still have a chance to leave this place on my terms and discover new adventures. And in doing so, I’ll remember the valuable life lesson inadvertently provided by one more Little League team as it traveled home from a baseball tournament. When the team passed a kiosk selling popcorn, one player excitingly said, “Oh, popcorn! Let’s come back!” Another player responded that they couldn’t come back, “because we’re only 10 for one year.”

Apocalypse

2006-07-20T14:46:00.000-04:00

This week's sign that the apocalypse is upon us, or, at the very least, that the generation in my rearview mirror is dumber than it appears:

The Virgin Mary was telling a coworker about her Lebanese friend who is stressed out over what's happening in Lebanon when her coworker interrupted her to ask, "What's Lebanon?"

The Infamous Benchly Waterslide Incident of 1984

2006-07-20T14:35:00.000-04:00

At work, I was recently asked why I had a fear of pools/water and so I described in vivid detail, the events that transpired over 20 years ago that, to this day, still greatly affect me. During this global-warming-reminder of a summer, when water is our source of sweet relief, I think that maybe we could all benefit from this lesson-learned in water safety. And so, without further ado, I present my dramatic retelling of the Infamous Benchly Waterslide Incident of 1984:

Oh! the Infamous Benchly Waterslide Incident of 1984, a dark stain on our family's history. It was a hot summer day not unlike today, and my family ventured to the water park in Lake George, NY. With trepidation, I climbed the stairs with Papa Benchly to the top of the highest* waterslide in the park. The waterslide waters were fast** that day, my friends! But with encouragement from my father, I placed my 7-year-old body on the slide and pushed off into the dark, abysmally unknown water world. Five seconds later, as I slid faster and faster down this wet labyrinth, unbeknownst to me, in an effort to expedite the wait in line, the park attendee was forcing Papa Benchly to push off into the same slide despite his loud, vocal protest in which he cited various kinetic formulas. As I quickly neared the end of this ride, I slowly gained confidence in my ability to master the slippery world of water, but this ride was not to have a happy ending; indeed, it nearly had a tragic one. For as I reached the bottom, and with Mama Benchly standing in the pool with her loving arms outstretched, ready to catch me, Papa Benchly proved his various kinetic theorems by crashing into me and pushing me to the bottom of the pool. Emotionally crushed by my father's apparent attempt to murder me, I lost sight of any reason to live and decided to stay below the surface. If it wasn't for Mama Benchly, who snatched me out of the waters and carried me to shore, I might not be here today.

*Exaggeration.
**Unconfirmed. The waterslide park in question refused to comment on said accusations.