GUEST BLOGGER - BOYD HOWELL CHADWICK

Friends:

It is my pleasure to introduce to you my friend and occasional guest blogger, Boyd Howell Chadwick. Of the Newport Chadwicks. From prep school, to the Ivy League, to the squash court, Boyd’s insights and wisdom run deep. He’s here today with an important set of life lessons from which we all could benefit. Be sure to look for more posts by Boyd, as more lessons get learned. And unlearned.

Life Lessons

By Boyd Howell Chadwick – Capitalist, sailor, experiencer.

This is America. We’re Americans. We love a good list. When the whole of our existence can be broken down into easy to digest nuggets, it tastes better. Especially a list of important life lessons we may have been ignoring because bad things only ever happen to other people. But then the day comes when something bad happens to us and everything changes. When such a thing happened to me, I began to realize how important it is for you to know that now that I have learned things and you should learn them too. From me.

1. It’s good to be healthy:

I never get sick. I never broke a bone. I don’t have any cavities. I am a superior specimen, who has never missed a day of work due to illness. Then one day someone close to me got sick. Really sick. So sick they died sick. I realized in that moment that I had taken my good health for granted all my life. I felt like a jerk because I had such disdain for sick people. Now I know that people get sick and understand that I must quietly pity them.

2. Grief has no timeline:

How many times did I roll my eyes and say, “Get over it, Grandma. Pop Pop’s been dead for years.”? A lot. Then Grandma died. But before she did, she pulled me close and whispered to me that she hopes that one day soon, I lose somebody close to me and nobody will care. Now that I’ve lost a dear one, I regret my callousness. Mostly because the miserable old crone cut me out of her estate. Obviously my loss is more profound than hers, because I learned that I'm still sad years after somebody died.

3. You don’t know everything about other people:

Life is simpler when you can make assumptions about people by the way they appear. I know when people look at me they think “entitled douchebag,” and they may have a point. But now I’ve suffered loss, and so it offends me when people call me that. I used to not have time to consider the inner lives of the UPS guy or bank teller. Watching my friend suffer often made me sad, and strangers would encourage me with helpful platitudes like, “Why so frowny?” or “Cheer up, it’s not so bad,” or “What’s an entitled douchebag like you got to be upset about? Did your stocks take a tumble?” In those moments I could either have empathy for their intentions – maybe they were sad and seeing me sad made them sad and they didn’t want to be sad – or I could respond without compassion. I chose to respond sympathetically. “I’ve lost more money in the last 24 hours than you will make in your entire lifetime.”

4. Learn from the wisdom of others:

It turns out that other people have done, seen and experienced things that have changed them in some way. They have gained some sort of insight that is worthy of sharing. I never knew this until my friend got sick. Then I started telling people everything I’ve learned. They really seemed to care. Some people actually wanted share their stories with me, but I was wise and gentle enough to remind them that what I went through was different and more valuable.

5. Money doesn’t buy happiness:

Honestly, this one eludes me.

I hope you can appreciate what I’ve done here. I’m heading out to do stuff. If I learn anything, I’ll be sure and let you know. ~BHC

F*CK CANCER

In a span of 2 years and 8 days, I have witnessed two dear friends get diagnosed, and lose ugly battles with pancreatic cancer. I am not writing this to gain sympathy, for “my” loss is miniscule compared to the pain endured by their beloveds. There is another loss to speak of. Your loss. If you never had the pleasure of knowing Tom Cheever or Kevin Brooks. If you’ve never heard them tell a story, or improvise a song. If you’ve never witnessed them admiring their children, or looking into the eyes of the women they loved. If you’ve never seen their fantastic smiles or better yet, heard them laugh, then the loss is yours. Lives cut short (Tom 43, Kevin 55) from achieving professional, creative and personal goals. Happy, healthy, lives. Admirable lives. Imperfect, striving, beautiful lives. Potential unmet. Potential the entire world has lost.

When someone dies of cancer, it seems as though the same questions get asked. “Did he smoke? Was he overweight? Does it run in the family?” What people are really asking is “What did he do wrong to bring this on?” because, somehow we want to think that we’re immune. That if we eat this, don’t do that, or practice the other, then we won’t get caught in cancer’s ugly net.

Cancer doesn’t discriminate. It hates everything it touches. It’s in the air we breathe, the water we drink and the food we consume. We are playing Russian Roulette every day.

When I sat down to write this, I’d hoped for some kind of uplifting message. That we each walk our journey, and we never know where or how it’s going to end, and somehow that’s okay. Well, it’s not. It sucks. We are richer for having known Tom and Kevin and yet poorer for having lost them to a force that will not succumb. As the work they didn’t finish slowly fades, we’re left to carry on without them. I am humbled by cancer’s cruelty and powerless in its prevention. I have no lessons to share or wisdom to appreciate. These are but two men. Two men I have known, I have shared meals with and laughed with.  There have been and will always be others whose time with us isn’t nearly as long as should be, and we can only move through our grief hoping that one day the pain will ease. But it will never cease. And I guess that’s what it means to be human.

Life’s a bitch, and then you die.

Adding to the noise:

MORE IRREVELANT THOUGHTS ON WOODY ALLEN

I posted the Daily Beast “defense” of Woody Allen on Facebook, not because I believed it to be true, but to continue the conversation. The fact that this story has triggered such passionate discourse shows that this crime is more widespread than anybody wants to believe.

Let me be clear. I believe Woody Allen raped his daughter. I also believe that there is more that went on in those households than anybody will ever know. I further believe it’s fair to say that what we believe or don’t believe will have zero impact on Woody Allen. Hopefully Dylan’s letter will shine a light on an insidious crime and help to empower thousands of victims without a voice.

When it comes to the life and times of this “great American filmmaker,” the nation is suffering from a severe case of cognitive dissonance. We have willfully accepted the persona of the Neurotic Jewish Genius who manages to produce a movie every year. Yeah, the Soon-Yi thing is strange, but they seem normal-ish. You know, by ShowBiz Standards. (“ShowBiz standards,” one of life’s great oxymorons. The Entertainment Industry has always been the home to weirdos and perverts. It’s where the outcasts go to form their own cliques and get back at the people who bullied them as teenagers. Yes, I’m generalizing, lay off). Now you’re asking us to reconcile that benign image with the idea that he has committed the most heinous crime a person can commit? No thank you, that’s way too much work on our part. It’s much easier to pick apart a child’s words than to face the reality that the brilliant artist who wrote and directed some of our favorite movies is a creepy dirty pedophile. The Onion makes the point here.  

At least Roman Polanski had the good sense to be foreign. 

This mess got me thinking about Jerry Sandusky. His punishment was swift and stern. A beloved university was embroiled in scandal when the lengths it went to cover up his crimes were revealed. The court of public opinion convicted him early and easily. Of course he had his defenders, but they were dismissed simply as colluders with something to gain by standing up for the guy.

Dare I say that one of the differences between the two was the gender of their victims? Raping teenage boys is monstrous, but raping little girls (your own daughter, for crap's sake) is…heterosexual? Where is that invisible line among pedophiles that delineates creepy from criminal? Why are we so quick to dismiss young men who’ve been tormented by women?

Sexism is alive and well here in the good old USA. You’d think there wouldn’t be a double standard when it comes to such things, but alas, if Ronan had been the victim, this would be an entirely different conversation.

THE MALLING OF HARVARD SQUARE

I moved to Boston from Chicago in 1984. Much has changed since then, and much has stayed the same. Let’s face it, Boston is not exactly famous for being trendy. It’s the defining contradiction of our fair city – progressive yet conservative. Massachusetts was the first state to legalize gay marriage, but only repealed its Blue Laws regarding Sunday alcohol sales in 1994 (however, there’s still no “happy hour”).  Our universities lead the way in cutting edge research, yet our public transit system stops running at 12:30am. New Englanders pride themselves on a “Yankee Sensibility” of thriftiness and pragmatism. Spot a disheveled tweedy sort, wearing threadbare khakis and driving a 1979 Volvo with a low plate number, and you’ve got your eye on a bona fide blue blood. Cross that with a PBR swilling Somerville hipster in an ironic t-shirt, skinny jeans and unkempt facial hair, and you’ve got yourself what makes this place so achingly beautiful. 

Like any fogey, I look back on my early days in Boston and long for the perceived simplicity. Whether it was buying used clothes and records in Kenmore Square, venturing forth for cheap Indian food in shady Central Square or catching the Rocky Horror Picture Show at midnight in Harvard Square (and having to walk back across the river at 2 AM to campus because the T stopped running and the idea of taking a taxi was too exotic and expensive).

Harvard Square. Everybody has their own version. It’s easier to note what remains (The Coop, The Harvard Book Store, Mr. Bartley’s, Newbury Comics, The Brattle, Dickson Bros.) rather than what has gone since my discovery of it in the mid-‘80s (Mug ‘n Muffin, The Tasty, The Greenhouse, Coffee Connection, That weird English pizza place, the Army/Navy Store, Harrell’s, Wordsworth, the list goes on). And now the movie theater.

Harvard Square was one of my last choices to see a movie (that honor belongs to the Fresh Pond Cinema). The theaters are small, the screens are beat up, the sound is lousy, and their programming is unfocused. If I’m going to see a blockbuster like Harry Potter  or Men In Black, I’m going to make the effort to go the Common or out to a suburb-plex with comfortable seats and digital screens. If I want an independent arthousey flick, then it’s off to the Kendall, or better yet, The Coolidge.  But the Square was always there for a rainy afternoon middle of the road wide release movie, and for that I am grateful. (I do have a vague memory of going to see a Woody Allen double feature alone back in their revival days. It was my first time venturing into a movie theater without a buddy because the actual movie was more important than the socializing afterwards).

According to the Boston Globe, AMC is selling the space as it “disposes of older screens.” I’m sure the real estate is worth far more than the return on upgrading the movie going experience in those five little theaters. AMC generously suggests you visit their Boston Common (or Chestnut Hill, or Braintree, or Burlington, Framingham, Liberty Tree, Methuen, Tyngsboro or Dartmouth) location instead. That’s 124 screens. With parking.

The world was a different place when I was a student here. Cellphones were the domain of James Bond and Maxwell Smart. Cable television was a luxury enjoyed during Christmas vacation. If you wanted to see a commercial-free movie with nudity and swear words, you HAD to go to the theater.  Big single screen movie houses started chopping up their spaces to accommodate all the current releases so that we would come back again and again over a short period. That’s certainly what happened in Harvard Square, and to countless other old theaters across the country.  

With its Gap, Urban Outfitters, Bertuccci’s and three Starbucks locations, Harvard Square is a paradise for students whose parents are in town. And I guess that’s what it’s always been - A true Boston paradoxical contradictory hypocrisy: edgy but safe. A jumble of mixed messages. You’ve got your punks and your panhandlers, your upscale eating establishments, the ART, Passim and Tess with its $125 couture t-shirts.

As time marches on, there are more stores in the Square that can easily be found at the mall, and fewer that make it a destination for the offbeat and unusual.  This begs the question, what do we want? Do we, as Americans, seek the comfortable and familiar more than we admit we do? After all, we export so much of our culture that we can visit a foreign country and never engage in its native offerings.

What’s happening is not unique to Harvard Square. On a visit to Chicago, I was struck by the dearth of hot dog stands near my mom’s apartment in Wrigleyville and the proportional rise in Paneras.

Harvard Square will always have its charms. The Brattle has a rich history and continues to be a cinephile’s delight with innovative and original programming. The Comedy Studio at the Hong Kong provides a platform for up and coming comedians to work out. Casablanca never disappoints for drinks, snacks or people watching.  The Cambridge Artists' Co-op is one of my favorite places for beautiful one of a kind jewelry and accessories. And it will always annoy. Don’t consider driving unless you’re already a Cambridge resident or it’s Sunday, and Labor Day weekend is to be avoided at all costs.

The loss of the Harvard Square Movie Theater is one more step in the Square’s evolution. Where it’s heading is ultimately up to us.

I wonder what will go into that space. Gosh. I hope it’s J. Crew.

OLD FART

The name of the folder on my hard drive is “old fART” It’s an odd collection of fits and starts of sketches, essays, and random observances (“art” if you will). Most of it dates from the ‘90s, when I was busy running an improv troupe, and thinking very highly of myself. I never have the heart to read or delete any of it, because I want to believe that the ideas are strong, and that I really was a genius back then.

Like any old journal or record of the times, most of it is cringe-worthy, while parts of it evoke a nostalgia for what caused me to start writing about it in the first place. I once had an idea for an all lesbian musical revue called Dykes on Mics. Each sketch was a different “ike” word, including Dykes on Ikes, which was to look at lesbians in the 50s, there were Dykes on Hikes, Strikes, Spikes, you get the idea. Nothing ever came of it, but I still carry the image in my head that inspired it, an ensemble of butch lesbians, dressed in blue jeans, leather jackets, and Doc Martens with lacy ankle socks, doing a synchronized dance while riding tricycles and singing “we are dykes on mics.” Yeah, maybe one day, or maybe that image is enough. 

Certainly when I wrote those things, I imagined the next 15 years would play out a certain way. They most certainly didn’t. I certainly never could have guessed the loops, swerves, loves, and losses that have made my life what it is, and I guess that’s the nostalgia, for that of a 30ish performer who had big dreams and the balls to pursue them. And while part of me spends a little too much time in the bitterness of how those dreams eluded me, the me who wrote that stuff on my monochrome Mac Classic (flying toasters!) still resides in the optimism between the TV Producer, Playwright, and Certified Barista.

I’ve always loved a good cup of coffee. My mother and I used to sit in the morning after my brother and sister went off to school. She’d pour a little percolated goodness in my milk, and we’d read the paper and smoke. Well, she’d smoke. My smoking would come later. A habit I always “hid” from her, because she intimidated the hell out of me. While in college, I discovered The Coffee Connection. I loved that place. I drank Kenya AA every day. No matter how broke I was I never skimped on coffee (or my dog’s food. Trust me, cheap dogfood will make your dog fat and sick – spend the $$ for the good stuff). When Starbucks bought the Connection and eventually obliterated them, my heart broke. I was adrift in mediocre coffee when I discovered Peet’s while living in LA. I was saved, and was thrilled to see they had expanded to Boston when I returned in ’04.

When things were dim on the work front, I decided that it might be fun to learn more about coffee, and took a job in their Lexington (MA) store. I still work there part time, and am still a coffee snob, but have never been a fan of the milk drinks, because let’s face it, they’re not coffee drinks; they’re milk drinks. A medium latte is 2 oz of espresso and 14 oz of milk (technically, some of that is foam, but it’s still a cup full of dairy). With the exception of the temperature, that’s more or less what my mother was serving me when I was 4.

What does all this have to do with art? 1998 was my first visible disdain for the latte culture, and something inspired me to write a spoof barista union newsletter. Rereading it now, 14 years later, I’m tempted to clean it up and make it funnier. However, that doesn’t seem to fair to 30ish me, who had a point to make, no matter how inarticulate. So, here it is, unadorned, just a double shot – no foam, sugar or flavored syrup – drink it quickly, like the Italians, or linger like the French. Or finish it and sit there all day, like Lexingtonians.

written 19 October 1998

The Official Barista Union Page

Latest News & Happenings

•      Full length aprons for fall now in three fashion colours:  Loden, Pumpkin and Ochre

•      Half and Half vs. Cream.  Join us for a lively debate

We are a union divided--geographically so--on this hot button issue.  “I think it really just comes down to texture,” says Norma Bleen of Norman, OK.  Norman being in the midwest, is itself divided.  “Cream leaves your joe a caramel color,” betraying her preference, Norma goes on to say, “that you can tell which part of town somebody’s from by how they order their coffee.  Since we’re in downtown, we just ask, ‘smooth or chunky?’.”

Norma will be speaking at next spring’s Seattle Symposium:  Coffee Domination:  Ain’t nothing wrong with that.

•      Letter from the president--2% taboo

Tips of the Trade

•      Milk steaming safety

The union no longer endorses the “stick your finger in and see if it’s okay” practice to check on steamed milk.  Please use the thermometers.  New ones should be arriving shortly.  The Union thanks and acknowledges Rusty “Thumbs” Riley for his leadership in this area.

•      Gloves a fit for all hands

Taking a page from the exciting world of Golf, the midwest union members can now get tight fitting gloves made from an exciting new polymer developed by Maxwell House.  For years now our upper Great Lakes have been complaining of chapping in winter due to the deadly combination of tumultuous door swinging, steaming milk and cold coins.

•      Multitasking, how to be charming without late lattes

Charm.  Not a quality we’re known for.  It’s sort of part of our charm.  Why pay $2 for a steaming cuppa joe if you can’t have hardy handful of attitude served up with it?  When that morning rush comes and the lowfat halfcaf lattes are piling up, what do you do?  In order to fully address the question, we spoke to two of our liaisons. 

First Dennis Dupree who works for a major chain. 

We’re not supposed to have ‘tude.  If people want tude chances are they’ll patronize a real coffee hut. So we need to be chipper or no tips.  My trick for joy in the face of YUPPIES who are making more money than I’ll ever see is to swallow my anger and resentment.  I try to get there first thing in the morning, and make my self the most expensive roast  in the house and smile involuntarily from the high grade caffeine coursing through me.  It helps me feel superior without being patronizing.  I say helpful things like, “Enjoy the commute”, “Nice tie” these things remind me that I can be happy at a minimum wage (minus dues) since none of my clothes need to be dry cleaned.  I try to think about my guitar.

Crystal Brandiron who works at the Dire Cafe in Cambridge, MA, has this to say:

I have in intimidating tattoo on my right forearm.  I just roll my eyes at the customers and tell them to try and have a great day despite themselves.  And, I’m convinced it’s what keeps them coming back.  When we’re really busy, I always try and say something politically incorrect about their appearance.  Since we’re in Cambridge, I can count on their being so shocked, they can’t cope with their change and just drop it in the jar.

•      Strike Information

Happily, there are no strikes to report.  However, unrest is brewing in several geographical areas.  The fall cider season has made its usual dent in coffee sales. In Appleton, WI (coincidence?) Plotsky’s Lube and Joe reported double cupping on cider.  “Cider just doesn’t get that hot,” said Frank von Bruegger, aka Midwest Watchdog.  We’ll keep you up on developments.

Benefits Update

•      3rd Degree burns are now 100% covered

Thanks to a valiant effort leads by Rusty “Thumbs” Riley, a barista in Reno, NV.  Our health plan now recognizes both the common occurrence and the severity of such burns.  Health plan representative Dr. Arnold Profit calmly stated that he was confused and thought “1st degree were the bad ones,” and has thus flipped his policy.  So, stay out of the sun (as if) cause 1st degree burns can only now be treated with Solarcane, Noxema and Sour Cream.

•      Chamomile is a now available without a prescription

In a related note--to keep our overwrought caffeinated coffee constructors calm, dosages of Chamomile can now be found in every Zee First Aid Kit next to the Pain Aid.  Please do not touch the tea in the store, it is for the customers, and reportedly, a placebo.

•      Fee free coin wrappers available at the Credit Union

Roll those tips in style!  Free wrappers in fashion colors at the Barista Credit Union.  Also low low interest rates (15%-18%) for members needing a auto loans. 

OTHER PEOPLE'S CHILDREN

It begins around 40.  That ticking sound that started at 35 gets louder.  Whoops!  Forgot to have children. 

Now, as a lesbian, having kids is a little trickier since accidental pregnancies tend to not happen. Besides, I’d have to be really drunk.  Like that one time college.  Hey, we all experiment. 

Anyway, around 40, for those of us who expected to have kids by now and find ourselves without any, the ticking reaches a point of distraction.  So we consider the options:

1.     Anonymous donor/sperm bank which is kind of like a one night stand without the walk of shame.  But 50 thousand dollars? If I had that kind of dough, I sure as hell wouldn’t waste it on sperm, especially when there’s so much of it lying around. 

Which leads to the second option.

2.     Begin the mental inventory of male friends.  Who’s married?  Who’s single?  Old enough to remember “The Big Chill?”  Who’s Successful?  Artsy?  Who’s open minded enough to participate in this kind of life changing experience?  Should he be involved beyond donation?  So many questions.  Eventually leading this single girl to a drink and a cigarette – two things apparently frowned upon during pregnancy - puritans.

3.     Adopt one of them made in China models.

4.     Meet a woman who has already done the work.

It began innocently enough.  She was only 8.  Hmm…that doesn’t sound innocent at all, does it?  Let me rephrase, I met a woman who had an 8 year old daughter.  Let’s call her “Punky.”  Punky thought I started coming around the house to hang out with her while her mother cooked dinner.  It was fun.  We’d watch public television together, participate in learning crafts, and read.  Wrestling was frowned upon as promoting violence but we still managed a few body slams now and then. The next thing I knew, we started to become pals.  Until…Punky caught her mom and I stealing a smooch in the kitchen.  Not a big smooch, but a smooch nonetheless. 

And that’s how the war began.

Like most wars, this one was about territory.  And after a lifetime of absolute power, this princess wasn’t about to cede one iota of the kingdom. 

I never had a chance.  But that didn’t stop me. 

Reasoning with an 8 year old is an exercise in crazy, so explaining that adding me to the equation actually meant more love, not less, was interpreted as “I’m taking your mother and putting you on the next boat back to China!  bwahh hah ha…

I needed a new approach.  I resorted to bribes and trickery.

I happened to working for PBS on a kids show at the time, so needless to say, Punky was the Princess of Swag.  She was outfitted with hats, t-shirts, posters, pencils, stickers and anything else I could lift from the foundation.  Her response, “I love Ruff Ruffman.”  Then.  “But I still hate you!” 

When that blatant attempt failed, I began to feign interest in soccer.  Because really, what’s better than setting your alarm for 7am on a Saturday to watch a bunch of kids who barely understand the rules of Red Rover engage in a complex game of passing and goal scoring?  Week after week I saw a group of frustrated sweaty kids who for the love of God, should be home watching cartoons and eating Cap’n Crunch.  Plus there’s the added bonus of being an object of wonder.  Obviously, mom’s been coming to these games alone all year…they’re not sisters…ooh, lesbians.  How exotic.  Our politically correct exterior is compromised by our traditional upbringing.  Cognitive dissonance takes over so they say nothing, and stare.  And at least in the case of the fathers, and maybe one hot mom, imagine what we do in bed.

After about six months, Punky realized I was in it to win it.  I picked her up from soccer practice one day and we stopped at a local BBQ place for take out.  On the way over she complained that my car smelled like coffee, the radio was too loud and that I was not to speak to her.  After we ordered and were waiting for our food, there was one stool open by the window.  I offered it to her, but she refused, so I sat down.  As we waited, and she looked at everything but me, I could see how tired she was.  I sat there quietly, and the next thing I knew, Punky came over and rested on me.  For 15 seconds she was my kid.  This battle was mine.  But the war raged on. 

Even though she was not my girlfriend’s biological child, Punky learned a lot from her mother, especially when it came to trust. Every step closer - like that one - was met with tremendous recoil.  So every time Punky let me in, she’d push me back twice as hard – just like mom. 

Here’s a lesson for all you would be step-parents, pointing out this mirror pattern of behavior in answer to the question, “Do you think I’m a good mother?” is always a bad idea.

And so on it went.  Punky’s Sherman marching through my Atlanta.  I hate you, you’re not my mother, you can’t tell me what to do, you’ll never move in here, you’ll never marry my mom, I never loved you, I was lying, blah blah blah.  

I needed to retreat.  But there was nowhere to go. 

Mom defended Punky’s actions by suggesting I was assigning adult motives to a child.  I don’t know, she seemed pretty damn immature to me.  My suggesting she lend diplomatic relations to the turmoil turned into my making her choose between myself and Punky.  Speaking of childish motives!  Mom liked to point out that my “lack of compassion” stemmed from my not having children of my own.  Note to all of you single parents out there looking for love.  Saying, “You don’t understand; you don’t have children” is never going to make things better.

No, I may not have children, but I have been on the planet long enough to gain a little insight into the parent/child dynamic.  And whether they’re homemade or store bought, they’re still a reflection of you.  So the next time you’re wondering why Punky’s such a pain in the ass, and ruining your love life - look in the mirror. 

Cause I’m telling you – first hand – nobody can break your heart like a kid.