Tag Archives: Steve Safran

Shouting Into the Echo Chamber, by Steve Safran

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On Monday night, Steve and I had a late, text-y discussion wherein we commiserated about the Angry Internet in the face of recent Supreme Court decisions. Our fingers typed less about women and their parts and protection than how social media was failing to provide grown-up discourse. My drafts folder holds similar sentiments, but Stevie’s here are smarter. And he’s braver than I am.

Shouting Into the Echo Chamber, by Steve Safran

One of the many wonderful things about the Internet is that it gives a forum for focused debate on issues of importance. It allows earnest and sincere people to have a platform from which to share their beliefs and learn from others. So, of course, we don’t use it that way.

Here is a sampling of the thoughtful statements and rejoinders that spewed forth from this past week’s Supreme Court rulings:

(SCOTUS) Wants to enslave women— all of us. How can they be so hateful. #ImpeachTheFilthyFive

(SCOTUS IS) Disgusting misogynistic racist scumbags. #WarOnWomen.

(The ruling is) against Hobby Lobby and now (the Supreme Court) hates the country. Laughable. F@UCKING LEAVE. (The ruling was in favor of Hobby Lobby. I hope he’ll F@CKING STAY.)

Oh– I should mention something. All of these were aimed at @SCOTUSblog – which isn’t the Supreme Court’s Twitter feed. How do I know? Two reasons. 1. It says so, right there at the top of the feed and 2. The Supreme Court doesn’t have a Twitter feed. I mean, come on. Does anyone think the Supremes would Tweet?

@RuthBG: h8 Scalia but ❤ Bieber 2 much 2 deport.

But these comments are from just a handful of anonymous hatebags, right? Nope. Look at your Facebook feed, and you will see your perfectly rational friends get into reductionist lathers.

Here is my disclaimer: My opinion on the Supreme Court decisions this past week has no bearing on this column. I am not going to get into a debate over right and wrong, because the very idea that decisions are “right” or “wrong” is exactly the problem. We have opinions and biases. Too many of us seek information that supports our biases (“Confirmation Bias”) and reject information that does not.

That’s a shame, because within the lengthy Supreme Court rulings are some pretty remarkable works of legal prose. A dissent can often be the most compelling part of the debate. Witness Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s withering and wonderful 36-page dissent in the Hobby Lobby ruling. If you supported the outcome and aren’t interested in the dissent, you’re missing a master class in Constitutional Law. Taking a 40-page ruling and reducing it to “The Supreme Court Hates Woman” is like saying Moby Dick is about a guy who hates a whale. You can’t fit a ruling on a bumper sticker or a Tweet or an insult plastered over a picture of John Roberts. Even if he’s got that Mona Lisa smile thing going on and you can’t decide if he’s proud or just got the last donut in the chambers.

When the Supreme Court rules against us, they are fascists (“They’re in Bush’s pocket!”) and when they rule in favor of a cause we hold dear (e.g., gay marriage), they are wise and learned (“The Supreme Court is modern and progressive!”)

There were two especially fascinating rulings this week. I say “fascinating,” because within each the Court gave a remedy. Now that’s really cool. In the Hobby Lobby case, the court ruled that the store could indeed have health insurance that didn’t offer birth control, but offered that the HHS could pick up the tab instead. In the case striking down the Massachusetts buffer zone law, it suggested the state use existing law concerning harassment, intimidation, and obstruction. Massachusetts legislators are going to hammer out a new law that fits the Court’s recommendations.

Think about that. The Massachusetts ruling was a 9-0. This wasn’t an “Old White Guys Hate Women” decision. Every justice concurred that the 35-foot buffer zone was a violation of the First Amendment BUT, they demurred, “If you want to protect the women, here’s how you would do it…”

Compare that to the ruling against Aereo, a company that was– and here I will opine– blatantly ripping off TV stations with mini satellites and rebroadcasting their work via the Internet for a monthly fee. Here, the Court didn’t say “But Aereo could tinker with a couple of things and we’ll be cool, K bro?” When the Court offers a remedy, it’s like your dad saying, “You know I can’t give you permission to drink a beer. So I’m just going to put this can of Bud down and go work in the shop. But remember: I can’t give you permission.”

I like having my opinions challenged. Over the course of my adult life my position has changed on the following topics: gay marriage, guns, the war in Iraq, the death penalty, and the durability of the music of Billy Joel. Think about the college professor or the TED Talk you saw that changed how you saw something. Remember the joy you felt realizing it was time to rethink your idea on the topic. Honor that memory with a shot. Maybe with a chaser. Remember: Britt runs this blog. (Editor’s note: Britt recommends bubbles, and the general honoring of memories where a noted shift in thought leads to better conversations between us.)

We have to give rulings some time to breathe. And we need real outcomes to judge the prescience of our judges. In the 2010 ruling Citizens United v Federal Election Commission, the Supreme Court ruled that corporations could not be restricted in the size of their donations to political campaigns. The outrage was along the lines of “Corporations will buy elections!” But look what happened last month to Eric Cantor, the Majority Whip from Virginia. He got smoked in the primaries by an unknown, and Cantor had a more than 25:1 cash advantage. Funded by all sorts of interest groups, Cantor spent millions. Dave Brat spent $200,000. Brat won.

The Supreme Court may not always rule the way you want. That presents you with the marvelous opportunity to learn and discuss. Shouting into the echo chamber that “The Supreme Court should do its homework!” won’t change anyone’s mind. Debate. Agree your opponent has valid points. Engage in persuasive argument. These are the real tools of change. They may not change the Supreme Court’s rulings. But they will, occasionally, change the way you think.

Especially about Billy Joel. That stuff just doesn’t hold up. I’m not debating you on this.

 

OPINION

 

STRONGER THAN EVER… by Steve Safran

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For me, the most amazing people at the Boston Marathon are not the winners. To be sure, running 26.2 miles in two hours and change is an astonishing feat. But to my mind, it’s everyone else who runs the Marathon who is the best.

That’s pretty easy sentiment, I know. But consider nearly every marathoner runs knowing he won’t win. Won’t even come close. Can you think of any other sport where that’s the case? Any other event in life? Even lottery ticket buyers hold a small hope for a win. Joe Marathon runs knowing he won’t.

And that’s what’s so great about The Pack. They’re running for the joy of it, for a personal best, in memory of loved ones, to raise money, and for 30,000 other reasons. They run to run.

And man, do they run.

I had the good fortune of covering the Boston Marathon for Boston.com. I reported from the start in Hopkinton and from the finish in the Back Bay. (The media bus with police escorts is the only way you’ll find Stevie “running” the route.) I’ve never seen the rested and carb-loaded athletes at the Start or witnessed their transformation at the Finish. When you see the runners in Natick or Wellesley, they’re still in pretty good shape. By the time they hit Boston, they look like Hell. They also look fantastic. Every quadricep, every ligament, and every other whatever Britt can recall from gross anatomy– they’re on display, steeled for the goal. These aren’t just people who put on a kick to the finish; they kick the finish in the ass.

So yes, I saw the winners race past to triumphant finales. But it was another runner I won’t forget. His fall was dramatic enough, collapsing maybe 50 yards shy of the finish line. And then a fellow runner stopped. He stopped. He likely didn’t know the guy who fell. Maybe he was on pace for a personal best. But he stopped, helped the stumbling runner to his feet, and together, arm-on-shoulder, they finished.

Name another sport where those two “losers” are such winners.

As I write this, I’m in the Back Bay station, waiting for the commuter rail. I feel undeserving of the Gatorade I’m drinking. Runners are here waiting for the train, too. I don’t know why that strikes me– but it does. These champions just ran the freakin’ Boston Marathon, and they’re standing here like any other commuter. They have to go to work tomorrow. They’re just average folks who happen to be the best athletes in the world.

Sportsmanship at its finest.

Sportsmanship at its finest.

Moist Ointment Crunching… by Steve Safran

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A one-word text launched this discussion.

“Misophonia.”

I had no idea why she texted it, or what it meant, but a quick Google search made it clear. I share this strange quirk with a relative, and she found that our mutual desire to pummel you for loud snacking has a name.

Misophonia— literally “hatred of sound”– is a neurological disorder in which negative feelings (anger, flight, hatred, disgust) are triggered by specific sounds. Hearing crunching noises makes me angry. This isn’t mere annoyance; I’m not bothered. I want to hit. Eat all the chips you want, just not near me. I can eat chips. The sound of my own crunching doesn’t bother me, which is odd since, presumably, it’s loudest inside my own head. Misophonia might also mean “irrational asshole.”

We didn’t even know we had misophonia until just a few years ago, when she casually mentioned that the sound of her husband eating nuts made her want to throw them (and presumably him) across the room. Poor guy just wants to have peanuts while he watches baseball.

It’s not quite a psychiatric disorder, at least not according to the DSM-5. And that thing thinks everything is a disorder. Consulting the DSM-5 about a disorder is probably listed as a disorder. This bit of nuttery lives in its own netherworld between normal and “Seek help.” And it’s so obscure, spellcheck continues to insist we have “mesothelioma.” I’ll pass.

Are we rare birds, those of us who want to throttle peanut crunchers? I put it to the crowd, launching the query on Facebook and Twitter about sounds that make people equally as crazy. I was fascinated:

“Crinkling water bottles. I’ll threaten to throw a kid out of class for that,” wrote an otherwise normal friend.

“Other people eating bananas make a very mooshy sound. Ugh,” wrote a woman I’ve known since I was five, around whom I almost certainly ate bananas.

This column could have ended there. But the conversation became even more compelling. People started bringing up certain words that bothered them. I didn’t even know words could make people cringe. I’m not talking about dirty words, words about gross things, or words about naughty bits. I mean words like:

“Moist.” “Squirt.” “Taffeta.” “Shirk.” “Panties.”

Dave, a guy I’ve known since Kindergarten, can’t stand the word “defrocked.” And he’s not even Catholic.

But Debby wins for Most Misophonic. It turns out she’s a self-described Rain Man savant of bothersome words. Just have a gander— a moist, crotchety gander:

“Ointment”

“Secretion”

“Mustard”

“Custard”

“Mayonnaise” (And I’m starting to wonder how she orders lunch…)

“Girdle”

“Mushy”

And also, “Something about ‘envelope’ makes me uncomfortable.” There might be a chapter in the DSM-5 for Debby.

Alice doesn’t like “titillate,” possibly because it starts rudely. Ditto Gina with “crotchety.” It’s probably the same problem Heidi has with “penal.”

Ken is offended by “offended,” but he has no problem offending me. Lindsay wrote: “‘Penetrate’ and ‘Penetration.’ I can’t watch football because of it.” Dan added: “My mother hated ‘buttocks’ for some reason.”

The two threads brought in 165 comments. 165! The only time you even come close to that number is when Facebook forces friends to observe your birthday.

I will carry on in life with my untreated misophonia, giving Dorito-eaters wide berth. And I’m enlightened now about all these unsuspecting trigger words. Around me, do not crunch. Around women, do not bring up “panties.” And around Debby… just don’t speak.

DILBERT

The Data Set of Me, by Steve Safran

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Stevie has a bee in his bonnet, and I quite agree with him. As an immunologist, it’s difficult for me to find common ground with those who eschew science. However, I’ve always maintained that we cannot judge the well-meaning parents of children who suffer from autism or other disorders (wrongfully) attributed to vaccines. I cannot sit here on the Throne of Science and proclaim that I wouldn’t fall into the Data Set of Me if something awful befell my child. However, those feelings–given the political power of a movement of healthy, smart people– can be murderous.

You are a great person. You’re smart, you’re educated, healthy, and, if I may say, damn fine looking. Hell, you’re one of the best people I know.

But you, fabulous you, are not a data set.

“Who is this guy to tell me I am not a sufficient collection of statistically reliable information gathered by appropriate methods in order to reach or disprove a conclusion?”

Of course, to most of you, that sounds silly, right? (You are smart and good-looking, after all.) But there are people who make important decisions according to this very mindset: “It happened to me, therefore it must be so.” Examples? Sure.

“I got a flu vaccine and then I got the flu. Therefore flu vaccines are ineffective.”

“Some former Playboy model’s kid had a shot and now he has autism. Therefore, shots cause autism.”

“My daughter isn’t having sex, so she doesn’t need to worry about HPV or cervical cancer.”

“I believe in my God, my religion, and those rules. Therefore, yours are wrong.”

Of these, the one I actually find acceptable is the one about God. At least it’s an opinion. You have yours, I have mine: we’re cool… at least around these parts where we’re unlikely to kill each other about our differences.

What is worrying me–what is literally killing us– is the Data Set of Me. This is the mindset of the anti-vaccination crowd. Vaccines are not a faith, but a tool. Immunity is not a religion, but a biological reaction. Life-threatening infections cannot be staved off with kale. And the medical establishment is not willfully denying you alternative options to avoid whooping cough. And yet, the Hot New Fad for 2014 is the “Anti-Vaxxer” Movement. Quack science has found its ducklings.

Like many avid Internet users, I have grown apathetic to the sharing of misinformation by the misinformed with the misguided. Except this stupid sharing is really, really dangerous. And no oddball theories about GMOs or drug company profits or doctors who want to keep you sick (or endorsement of anti-vaccine chiropractors) are deemed too oddball to “post” and “like.”

We live in a generation that has never seen smallpox, measles, mumps, rubella, or polio take the life of a child we know. There are hundreds of thousands of people alive right now because of the miracle of inoculations. Maybe that’s the power of fervent prayer, incredible quinoa consumption, and wild coincidence. Or, just possibly, vaccines prevent disease. The bee in my bonnet is that statistically-proven, medically sound information can be unintelligently debunked with blogposts from people who cite The Data Set of Me, and scare others into giving in to their basic fears of shots (they’re ouchy!) by suggesting the risks of vaccines outweigh the benefits. When there is no, none, ziltch, zero, nada proof that this is so.

The Anti-vaxxers hurt more than our logical sensibilities. They’re killing our children. If your kid isn’t vaccinated, the “herd immunity” is compromised, and we’ll fall like cows at the hands of drunken high schoolers. Our family docs, our pediatricians, and our CDC are urging you to search for information that is true, and reminds us:

“Perhaps the greatest success story in public health is the reduction of infectious diseases resulting from the use of vaccines.”

Let’s consider that statement from the CDC with at least as much weight as Tammy’s Facebook post about not being anti-vaccine, per se, but pro-safety. (Those who deny their children shots consider the Anti-Vaxxer epithet derogatory). Recently, a Dutch group studied why Tammy is so insistent her kids don’t need shots. And because here at East Meets Breast, we aim for understanding, let’s find out what makes Tammy tick… so we can stop that clock.

The delightful Dutch, with real surveys and statistics, found that Tammy believes her healthy lifestyle is sufficient to prevent diseases. She delivers organic meals to breast-fed, hand-washing children and believes that these are adequate “preventive” measures. Tammy also is an amateur immunologist and worries the host defenses of her newborn will be incompetent to handle a barrage of antigens. Well, she’ll say it this way,

“A baby’s immune system has built up thanks to the mother, and it is not desirable in my eyes to give the child all kinds of substances that can disrupt the whole immune system.”

Tammy thinks that the risks associated with the vaccines (and she still supports discredited evidence linking them to autism) certainly outweigh the benefits because the diseases her healthy kids might contract could then be, quite easily, treated with antibiotics. Also, Tammy deems “natural” immunity superior to vaccinated immunity and would rather her child contract the (potentially fatal) disease and combat it with his own, uneducated battery of T- and B- cells than risk exposure to dangerous aluminum and mercury. More than one study has also shown that Tammy’s fears are supported by her community and usually at least one alternative care provider who disparages the use of vaccines.

To be fair, a certain proportion of the whooping cough cases from the Pacific Northwest in 2012 can be attributed to decreased efficacy of the vaccine. However, the dramatic increase in its incidence (and preventable deaths of children) has doctors pointing fingers at the Anti-Vaxxers. The anti-HPV crowd baffles me even more than people who can drink gallons of liquefied vegetables. Here is a vaccine that can prevent cancer. CANCER. Unfortunately, Tammy doesn’t believe that, either, and places her trust in cauliflower and the chiropractor.

Right now in California, where vaccination is falling out of favor more quickly than Duck Dynasty, people are dying from the H1N1 flu: 28 humans… dying. And across the world, vaccine-preventable outbreaks will astound you. To be reasonable, some of these can be chalked up to non-compliance or access rather than political Anti-Vaxxer beliefs. Also, recent media scares that (European) H1N1 vaccines may cause narcolepsy in young children (notably, so does contracting actual swine flu), give less thoughtful people an excuse to skip their appointment at CVS.

Ultimately, this plea is to champion science above fear, and to encourage a more thorough browsing of the Internet for medical information if your family doctor or pediatrician isn’t reassuring you with statistics backed by the keenest minds in medicine. There is simply no legitimacy to people spouting opinions that are anti-science. Prior to the vaccine, every year whooping cough was like having three 9/11’s. Worse, actually: three 9/11’s with children as the primary casualties. Can you even imagine the panic if that were to happen today? If something were killing thousands of our children yearly, what would you risk to stop it?

You are a fine person, and a reasonable one too. Engage Tammy in a dialogue apart from her kale-crunching crowd and acupuncturist. Spread good information.

Get the shots.

Stevie and I summed up all of the evidence for you...

Stevie and I summarized all of the evidence for you…

“F” is for Florida, by Steve Safran

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In 1973, my whole family lived here. Twenty-six of us were in New England, and that was just on my mother’s side. From Nana and Papa right down to lucky cousin #13, most of us lived within 20 miles of Boston and braved entire Red Sox seasons and decades of snow-melt sprinkling and shoveling together. When power went out in one of our towns, we just packed up and piled into the closest cousin’s house that still had cable. Today from that group, it’s just Aunt & Uncle #1 and cousins #2 and #3 who still need puffy coats. The rest moved to Florida.

Florida.

My grandfather moved the family hardware business in the mid-‘70s (one I regret not going into, given its success), choosing America’s longest-lasting penis joke as a permanent residence. He eventually lured the majority of the family to follow him to the crotch of the nation. Well, one moved to Louisiana. But that’s just the Florida of the South. Ask northerners who move to Florida why they would do that on purpose, and they’ll tell you, “I got tired of the cold.” To which I add, “You’re always cold. Now you’re just cold when it dips below 70.” I was born in a snowstorm in January– about a mile from Fenway Park. Two things I know and love are snow and baseball. Why would anyone leave this? We hearty few refuse to fly south to escape weather that was designed for unflattering jackets and four months of whining because we’re New Englanders! But to add insult to frostbite, we have to hand over entire paychecks to JetBlue to visit these thinner-skinned relatives… in F-ing Florida.

With our holidays wrapped, and family fleeing to Friggin’ Florida, it was time to reunite the best substitute for actual blood relations: old friends. Agent 99 and I had a little cocktail party last weekend. Britt, Tony, the splendid Gammonses-Browns and Jason gathered at my Mall-à-terre. I made rum punch and 99 shared her mulled wine recipe. (“Just put in these spices and a lot of alcohol.”) With some amusement, I noticed that when drinking, we all turn into ersatz cousins, brothers, sisters and those two uncles who know exactly how to fix the world. Uncle Left wants to have a 100% inheritance tax (“Fuck You, Trust Funders!”). Uncle Right is tired of the slackers (“Fuck You, Freeloaders!”). And at the end of the night everyone still loves each other, making plans to do it all over again next year.

I dropped off my snowbird parents at Logan Airport early Friday morning, feeling like they must have when they delivered me and sister Boo to summer camp: “Have an awesome time in the sun… see you in two months!” Actually, I suspect they felt a mixture of relief and excitement to be rid of us for a handful of weeks. But there was probably a bit of that aren’t-you-lucky-to-avoid-local-weather-and-responsibility sentiment. Now it’s their turn to enjoy rest and relaxation in perfect, puffy-coat-free weather. Escaping frozen pipes and ice dams and slippery sidewalks and AccuWeather warnings of a doozy of a storm on the way, my parents were only too happy to get settled in Fabulous Florida.

But after only twenty hours in penis-shaped paradise, a text from Mom:

“Snow?”

Enjoy the storm.  I certainly will be.

Refusing to leave the blue zone...

Why New Englanders have only f-bombs for Florida…

‘Tis the Season

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Much like my favorite atheist Jew, my blogger friend Rob is a vocal non-believer. But lately, it’s his fellow There’s-No-Big-Guy friends who have been gnawing at his patience with their smart-alecky, know-it-all-ness. And although he recently posted a list of five things we Believers should do differently (e.g., stop trying to convert him), what he really wants—what most of us really want—is for open discussion and kindness to prevail. Steve and I had a popular discussion about this a year ago, and it continues to be read almost daily as Google searches for religious themes click unsuspecting readers over to our back-and-forth about the essential absurdity of Faith. (Essential for me… absurd for others.) In a world that seems broken with all of its celebrity worship and gun-toting children, where jobs can’t be found and tires are being stolen off of cars, where insane, angry people blow up innocent athletes… well, we’re all looking for something, right? The discussion of God, whether He is or is not, and regardless, how to multiply kindness in our midst … well, that’s the most important discussion we can have.

Rob adorably asserts we share the same opinions on just about everything, even though 20 years and half a planet separate us. We’re in agreement right up to where I believe Jesus died on a cross to change the world (and did). And though he takes a more logical approach to Biblical things, I cajole him into admitting a glimmer of Faith, because certainly someone who talks about it with such frequency and respect couldn’t possibly be a nihilistic heathen. Although admittedly, the heathen post will always trump in entertainment value the vague, otherworldly musings of annoying zealots, especially this time of year. Overused “blessings” can make the season sound quite sneezy. An Atheist’s 5-Step Guide to Being Religious begs a thoughtful rebuttal from a mouthy Jesus Girl. But having spent the past week entirely at Church planning and organizing our annual fundraiser, I’ve had few opportunities to bump up against non-believers who question my passion for a supernatural, undead Jew.

What I can share is why this is an excellent time of year to visit Church… whether you Capital B believe or not. The birth of a baby that saves the world is at least as compelling a story as a gaggle of pitch-perfect Austrians. And the music of the season is equally fantastic. Ave Maria? O Holy Night? Goose bumps and damp eyes all around. You’ll find throngs of robed singers eager to belt out harking heralds for all ye faithful at Church, where it smells wonderful, and where real candles glow, and where sacred music is always free. What if we all attended a service of Lessons and Carols and murdered the melody of Once in Royal David’s City together? I strongly believe a community that sings together is more likely to contemplate community. There’s just something about gorgeous music wafting up toward stained glass that makes our hearts swell with the fantastic notion that everyone deserves to have similarly swelling hearts, and inspires our Scrooge-y souls to consider the most vulnerable among us. Of course this can happen outside of Church… but come inside, light a candle, sing along, see what happens.

Saturday night was our annual Trinity mini-reunion, fancy dress grown-up party at Steve’s. Steve recently guest-blogged about this year, which began with a new friendship: Agent 99 joined our gang with sparkly aplomb. Our chat chat chatting about times long past and what’s happening now was accompanied by mulled wine and bubbly wine and savory bits and sushi. We were over-served and we overstayed, which is the mark of excellent hosting. We just weren’t finished celebrating our collective fabulousness (my impression, and these old friends kindly tolerate my vanity.). To prolong the fun, Tony—whose scotch consumption made Honda-maneuvering a bad idea—came home with me and found himself in the hustle bustle of Church readying at 9am the next morning. He could have easily slept in, begged off, pleaded atheist, feigned ill, or claimed hangover… but Tony accompanied The Family Lee to sit in pews and listen to an Advent season sermon.

Our Church prints a weekly leaflet to avoid hymnal page ruffling, provide sit-stand-kneeling directions, and offer words to un-memorized prayers. For the kiddos, it’s also an effective tool for marking time, and answering the rather frequent query, “is it almost over?” But Tony didn’t even crack its cover. Instead he put it aside and just took it all in, approaching this novel church-going more like a college class he was auditing for the day than a zoo exhibit we insisted he see. Eventually it was time to take the sacrament of communion, and well-dressed ushers politely nodded that it was our turn.

“I think I’ve gotta be a part of this thing,” said Tony… who quite possibly hasn’t had the merest sliver of host in years. We bellied up to the rail together. It could have been Cathy’s sermon, which was intelligent and uplifting, thoughtful and soul-touching; maybe it was the chance meeting and Tony’s introduction to some of my favorite Churchy friends; possibly it was Michael’s incredible organ solos with pompadour-flipping gusto. Or perhaps it was just the sense of community and a collective mindfulness of those who don’t have that component of cozy goodness in their lives. Gotta be a part of this thing? Well, exactly.

Maybe you go to Church all of the time, or maybe the idea of pew-sitting and communion-taking gives you all sorts of heebie jeebies. Or maybe (Rob?) you’ve been wondering if you should see what it’s all about, or start going again, or finally find a place that feels like a spiritual home. ‘Tis the season for that. Come inside, light a candle, sing along… see what happens.

For local readers: Carols By Candlelight, A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols. Thursday, December 19th. Church of the Redeemer, Chestnut Hill.

The Redeemer in the snow...

The Redeemer in the snow… where miracles happen.

December, by Steve Safran

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December. This is a notable month for me and Britt. It was two years ago that we shared our respective big news, albeit on markedly different fronts. I moved out of my home, in the first step toward a divorce. Upstaging me considerably on the Oh Crap meter, Britt told us, her friends, that she had breast cancer.

It took years to work up to a divorce. Britt stole all my thunder with one mammogram. I have yet to forgive her fully.

So, for both of us, December 2013 marks the second anniversary of our reorganizations. Britt’s changes involved an unplanned physical assault on her body and peace of mind, a year’s worth of rotating relatives, hair loss, hair growth, and a blog. My reorg was self-imposed, required the packing and unpacking of many boxes, job changes, post-marital dating (and a blog). Within a span of three months, I’d lived in three different locations, finally settling into an apartment near Nordstrom’s. I hardly expected that years of domestic disharmony would lead to the mall. But for me, Black Friday simply means I can’t get out of my driveway.

The second part of my reorg was my mental health. I had suffered years of depression and anxiety. Although I have regulated the depression, the anxiety remains. I suspect it always will. A visit a couple of years back to Dr. Drug Dispenser yielded this diagnosis: “You’re fucked.” Not kidding. Direct quote. Let it be noted that I, like Britt, do not approve of candy-coated health information. “Fucked” was an excellent diagnosis, accurate and pithy.

In what now seems an absurdity, one year into my reorg in December 2012, I became a producer on a series for the Discovery Channel called “Amish Mafia.” The highly rated “reality” show was a lot of fun. The pay was good and the hours, though long, were tolerable. But the commute blew. It meant weekly trips to New York City, coming back to Natick on weekends to cram in a week’s worth of quality time with the kids. And the awesome paycheck was largely wasted on overpriced New York sublets. After two seasons, I’d had enough, and announced The Amish would have to keep being Amish without my guidance.

Reorganization needs support, and I had plenty. My family and friends were there. Last December, when I was at a particularly low point, I arranged a “grownups cocktail hour” over here above the mall so I could spend an evening drinking and laughing and reminiscing with Britt and our other college cronies. When reorganization leaves you feeling adrift and lonely, seeing old friends in their holiday finest and reminding you that you are loved and occasionally funny… well, that helps.

You know what else helps? Fate. Luck. Love. Britt would call it the Holy Spirit (and there she goes, wielding her editorial power), but I wouldn’t. This December also marks a year since my first date with a woman I met on Match.com. She billed herself as “Agent 99” and, as I am a huge “Get Smart” fan, drew my attention immediately. After a few exhanges, 99 and I took our virtual relationship into a nice restaurant. I met this smart and funny and pretty woman. I also love the fact that she found a typo in my Match.com bio describing myself as an annoyingly fastidious writer. My life turned on a typo, unearthed by Agent 99.

This December, I don’t have a job and Britt has chin-length hair. Our reorganization continues. But as the pair of us head into another holiday season that evokes all sorts of bad memories, an intervening year creating better ones makes it all seem like there are many reasons for drinks to be poured. And next week is the second annual Grownups Cocktail Hour.

HELLO DECEMBER

A love letter to baseball, by Steve Safran

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Many of us are feeling the nostalgia-twinged excitement tonight. Go, Sox!

Mom didn’t expect to see herself on the bright, new, hi-def Enormo-tron overlooking 36,000 people. None of us had ever been on Fenway Park’s big screen before. But there we were, enormously memorialized during Game One of the 2013 American League Division Series. How many lucky guys can boast attendance at this game, accompanied by the parents who birthed him into this great (Red Sox) Nation? Me. I can. Look at us.

Dad, Mom, her nose, and me

Dad, Mom, her Band Aid, and me

Mom wishes she’d timed the nose-mole removal a little better, since now her Band-Aid schnoz is captured forever, both here and on the JumboTron. We’re too superstitious to have arrogantly assumed this game would foretell future pennant grabbings. But now, my childhood team of bearded heroes is headed to the World Series, and the Jumbotron still of me, my parents, and one of my oldest friends gains even more sentimental cache. Also, superstition dictates that Mom cannot remove the Band Aid until this wraps up in November.

At the risk of having a puck hurled at my head, I’m partial to baseball over other popular sports in these parts. Playoffs in basketball and hockey are interminable. They’re playing when you file your taxes, hunt for eggs, and plan brunch for Mom… and they’re still at it when you put out the patio furniture and buy socks for Dad. That’s not a playoff system– that’s three entirely different cute kitties on the calendar. Baseball? Lose three out of five and you’re gone. And I’ve been to some magical nights at Fenway. As Humphrey Bogart once said “A hot dog at the ballpark beats a steak at the Ritz.” A bad night at the park–with the parking ticket and the drunk asshole and the Sox breaking our hearts–that’s still a damn good night.

A life-long love affair with the Red Sox, fostered by their parents, and shared with their best friends is a significant part what makes Bostonians of all ilk high five in the streets and feel Boston Strong. And tonight, on the eve of the first night of the World Series, I’m writing a love note to the Red Sox, to Fenway… to Baseball.

Dear Baseball,

I saw your gorgeous, green Fenway field for the first time in 1975– the very year the Red Sox came thisclose to winning the World Series in what is agreed to be one of the great Fall Classics. I was the seven year-old boy who cried when Fred Lynn crashed into the wall in Game Six, so worried for my idol that I sobbed myself to sleep that night. There was something about Carlton Fisk, and I missed the rest of the game, but Dad has his I-was-there story for all time.

That home run I hit in Little League in 1979? That cemented our bond, baseball. Maybe it was a grounder that went through the shortstop’s legs, allowing me to scoot from one base to another in a comical series of bad throws. Never mind all that. It was a Home Run, with merit trophy proof of my commitment to you… even if it was for coming in second.

I dozed off every summer night to announcers calling your plays on AM radio. Stu loved you as much as I did, and took me to game after game—a childhood relationship chronicled in Fenway ticket stubs. So I know you were sad, too, when it happened, losing one of your purist fans on September 11th when I lost my best friend.  After that we became even closer, baseball. Your games took on new meaning—weightier and urgent– as I root hard enough for the both of us.

A love note to you inevitably includes a family history of heartbreaks. Papa was a Boston Braves fan who was 20 when Babe Ruth played his final, sad year on the club. Dad once left a game early with his father, only to see a Ted Williams homer sail over his head as they walked behind the Green Monster. And me? Well, I died a little in 1978, 1986, and 2003. But then, in 2004, you rewarded us for our faith in you. (Because we know you love the Sox, too.)

Passing on our passion for you to our children is like a covenant in this town. My middle son was born in the fourth inning of a Sox game in 1998. I held him and explained your rules… starting in the sixth. Appreciating the subtleties of baseball, I told him, is a lifetime commitment. Baseball, you are the great imitator of life, providing the perfect proverb for my kids: though you may fail most of the time, you will still be a hero as long as you stay at the plate.

“How can you not get romantic about baseball?”  asked Billy Beane, echoing our feelings exactly. You are our shared history, our shared hot dogs, our shared disappointment, and tonight, our shared excitement. You’ve provided the venue for me to bond with my family, reminisce, enjoy new friendships, honor old ones, and drink an immoderate amount of beer. But you are a fickle lover, baseball, and I won’t implore you to bless our Sox tonight. We’ve got this covered. We’re Boston Strong. And Mom’s still wearing that Band Aid.

With great love, and a Pedroia jersey,

Steve

Confessions of an Introvert, by Steve Safran

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Steve, rather splendidly, invites you into the mind of the introvert.

Here’s what you might not know about introverts: we love to party. Man, we love a good party. Stock a room with a dozen friends, cold beer, cheese cubes and The Beatles, and we’ll have a blast.

But then we have to go. And man, do we have to go. It’s nothing personal. Introverts need to recharge.

And that is the best and most brief description of “introversion.” We’re not necessarily shy or aloof or jerks (although I’ve been called those.) Instead, we’re running our engines at a different RPM. We’re not anti-social. At least, I hope that any of my friends will tell you I more than occasionally RSVP, “oui” and leave the home. But after being social, what I need, desperately, is the opposite. My friends know this to be true: Steve needs recharging.

Here is what introverts are not:

1. Shy
2. Anti-social
3. Wallflowers
4. Hateful of large crowds
5. Unwilling to speak in public
6. Unhelpful
7. Self-centered
8. Scared to try new things
9. Lazy
10. Constantly on edge.

Here’s what introverts are:

1. Open to new ideas
2. Comfortable around friends
3. Often gifted public speakers
4. Sometimes stupid and thoughtless
5. Helpful, but needing a little reinforcement
6. In need of quiet time
7. People who get it the first time. Or don’t. But repeating won’t help.
8. Easily frustrated by people who assume them to be on the previous list
9. Loyal as all get out
10. Seriously, we’re not shy. But we like to observe.

In my days as a speaker on the topic of local television, I would often be invited to conventions or station group meetings. What I loved: doing my presentation. What I hated: the small talk before. The times I’d get in the night ahead of the talk and a group would gather were social torture for me. I’d feel obliged to chitchat, but was so awkward that I came across as aloof (possibly feeble-minded). “Who the hell is this guy? He can’t even talk while playing pool.” Give me an audience, however, and Awkward Guy disappears. It was, therefore, a great compliment when one of the station managers said to my boss “Steve comes across as this shy wallflower, but get him on stage and he’s a dynamo.” (His word.)

But when the talks were over, I’d need to go back to my hotel room. Need. Show me Vegas, and I’ll show you a guy happily entombed in room darkening drapery. Vegas is an introvert’s biggest challenge. It’s like our final exam.

The best of my friends are used to my unpredictable recharging requirements. I can’t say they love it, but they know it happens. The nights will come, and I simply can’t go out. I will happily host a small gathering, but a large room full of strangers with Solo cups is, unquestionably, my darkest hell. I don’t work rooms. They work me.

Which isn’t to say I can’t handle crowds. Take me out to the ballgame. Fenway Park is my second home. (It certainly costs a second mortgage.) It’s the context. If I’m at a function full of people I don’t know, I can be OK – and if I have a “party sherpa” who will stay with me, introduce me to people, and not leave me stranded with the closetalker, I may even enjoy this. But when I need to leave, I need to leave.

Introverts, therefore, present a conundrum to those who love them. How can someone who is so outgoing at times be so quiet? Why does he save his “Big Personality” for other people and not me? Isn’t it convenient to suddenly need to leave? The answer lies in what’s left in “the tank.” After about six or seven innings, a manager may ask a pitcher if he has anything left in the tank. If the answer is “no,” the pitcher is out – no matter how good a game he has been throwing.

Think of an introvert as a gas tank in a gigantic, earth-unfriendly SUV. We can be big and loud and charming right through the appetizers, but if used too fast, we’re going to need to fill up again. And we intend to do that. After a nap. Trying to keep us going on “empty” will be as difficult as trying to push the Land Rover to Citgo.

(Extroverts, I’ve noticed, don’t run dry. They have a tanker on standby ready to refill them in midair with high-octane jet fuel, Red Bull, another witty anecdote, and a “funny dream” to share.)

I can see why anyone involved with an introvert would find it challenging. I’m here to tell you: we’re worth it. We’re sensitive – and we’re wicked empathic. We feel. We feel like crazy. We feel our feelings and we feel yours, too. We’re friggin’ feeling machines. This isn’t plain old sympathy – “Oh, Kimmy… that’s so sad your Aunt Esther died.” It’s being sad, right there with you, going to your aunt’s funeral: “I can’t believe Aunt Esther died!” I’ll lament. People will console me.

There’s something about “coming out” as an introvert that surprises people about me. It’s right up there with telling folks I have depression. My personality type is not what people expect, and once, rather unkindly was characterized as a passive means of garnering attention: “You just want someone to sit there and hold your hand.”

But that’s exactly it. That’s how you deal with an introvert. No solutions, no cheap sentiment or chipper clichés. You hold their hand, find their coat in the pile on the bed, and then the door. Maybe you even draw them a bath, pull the shades, and leave them be. The down time passes. The battery recharges. The tank refills. And now we’re able to be your dynamo.

Time to go home.

Time to go home.

 

The Juicer

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I bought a juicer. For Bernie. For his birthday.

This was the lamest birthday present of all time since 1) it suggests we are fat and unhealthy and in need of liquid veggies we’re too lazy to chew, and 2) Bernie would never, ever go to Williams Sonoma and just buy the most expensive model, and also 3) my dear husband’s Asian sensibilities make him averse to cold veggies in a that’s-been-growing-in-compost-so-should-be-annhilated-with-heat kind of way. So, really, a lame ass birthday present all around. Couple the expensive kitchen appliance with my mother’s adorable notion that Bernie would ever pair these with his new tuxedo:

"Pumps" with bows. Yikes.

“Pumps” with bows. Yikes.

…and we have a banner birthday haul for my Yankee Doodle Bernie.

To be honest, I wanted the juicer. The near quarterly weigh-ins at routine physicals, specialty appointments, and biannual oncology checkups are an annoying reminder that if I don’t stay svelte, I’m not giving my all to the Big Cancer Fight. A recurrence would be devastating. But thinking I barbeque potato chipped my way back to chemo could possibly make it worse. So, I’m juicing and I’m skinny and feel healthy and look fabulous. But here’s another bit of honesty: it’s sort of gross, it’s a pain in touchas, and I’m fucking hungry.

All that aside, dear Stevie recently bought a juicer, too. Now that he’s a (part-time) New Yorker, this was de rigeur. Although no one thinks he’ll actually, really–like ever– use the vegetable pulverizing product (Steve being a man more commonly associated with beer and grilled meats on sticks), here’s how he summed it up:

I’m pleased about the raw food craze. At last– something I can cook.

He also admitted that it was a bit of a social pressure purchase. I mean, isn’t everyone juicing? Ginger infused kale drinks have replaced our soy mocha latte afternoons as sneakily as Macklemore lyrics have infested my 8 year old’s daily lexicon. And as long as “The Popeye” at the local juicing joint costs as much as an hour of babysitting, we’ll all find ourselves at Williams Sonoma asking ridiculous questions about pulp… and then we’ll stare at the ridiculous appliance that is now the kitchen counter equivalent of the NordicTrack. Because it’s a bitch to clean. And no matter how organic, vegan, honeybee-defending healthy you might be, at some point (if you’re like me) you will grow tired of liquefied salad… and will crave grilled meat on sticks.

But for now, I’m still juicing. Because I am vain, and drinking all of these cucumbers and spinach and parsley and carrots and celery and apples and peppers has me glowing with health and smug superiority. “Oh, me? I have a Breville. OH MY GOD, it’s life-changing. Yes, so easy to clean. Have you tried Swiss chard?” Lies… all lies. Also, completely unsustainable, because 40 years of habit and million years of evolution require that I… at least occasionally… need to eat grilled meats on sticks. Drinking all of these veggies has me skinny-fabulous, but also feeling like a huge phony… because I totally know all of the words to Macklemore songs, spend untold hours on Candy Crush Saga, and can finish a bottle of Prosecco without any help at all. The juicing, Cancer-defying,Facebook-game-addict-wino is about as congruent as Bernie in a pair of bow-adorned flats.

hee hee

Bernie’s opinion of bow-adorned flats…

My adorable husband, who received no real birthday present at all, is oddly supportive of the juicer purchase. Although he has no interest in green, pulpy beverages, he is happy to imbibe fruitier options: mashed pineapple and orange and mango are met with yummy noises and great enthusiasm…

… but also the slightest suggestion that these fruity, healthy juices might be improved with Meyer’s Rum. I married the right boy.