Art Changes

What does an art museum do when about 80 percent of its gallery space is closed for renovation? The Columbus Museum of Art, in the midst of a three-year renovation and expansion project, provides an interesting option. Curators have selected about 40 works from the permanent collection to hang in a few unaffected rooms. The choices mainly play on how artists use light in their works, peaking with a trio of Monet, George Bellows (a Columbus son), and Dan Flavin -- an impressionist, a realist and a cheeky post-modernist -- in one corner. The special exhibit is glass sculpture by Dale Chihuly, whose work is fun and intriguing. While not a pure art exhibit (though that hasn't stopped the Brooklyn Museum these days, either, where it has a splashy collection of rock and roll photography), Chihuly is an undeniable crowd-pleaser with a long connection to Columbus, which is important when the museum needs to work extra hard to bring crowds.

The curators push the crowd-friendly approach further, with neat results. Around the centerpiece sculpture of Chihuly's, a glass garden of sorts, are several current-day Etch-A-Sketches, so you can recreate it with your friends. In one of the galleries displaying the permanent collection are a few small tables so children, in size and spirit, can draw and play with blocks to learn about the creative process.

The museum's registrar told me (oh, yeah, the other crowd-friendly change: having the staff mingle with visitors) the hands-on approach is inspired the education department. Interacting with the subject matter has long been a staple of science museums, he said, and people are more likely to remember the lesson if they can mold it themselves. "We're still learning what it means," he said of how visitors and staff meld the changes with the typical museum-going experience.

Sure, the arts, particularly in a city's lead museum, are always a formal, if not chilly affair, but they shouldn't be stilted and they shouldn't be exclusive. Too often the greats are viewed as only the domain of the highbrowed few. Great artists, their champions and their presenters know how to expand the audience to everyone, and expand everyone's palette. With so much of its building closed, the Columbus Museum of Art had to think differently about how it presents its art so its crowds didn't dwindle to a damagingly small number. The purists will probably scoff at their choices, but wonderful art is only at its most powerful when as many people as possible can immerse themselves in it and have fun doing so. If these changes help achieve that, bravo.

Am I A Whole Foods Republican?

Sometimes, the Wall Street Journal's editorial pages, generally defined by an ignorance-is-bliss philosophy, are worth something. Last week, Michael J. Petrilli, a research fellow at the Hoover Institution, published a provocative op-ed, arguing that the Republican Party should embrace intelligent policies and court college-educated voters if it wants to return to the political majority.

This column is heartening for several reasons: It rejects the party's populism, favored by Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck, et al, in favor of respectful rationality. It wisely dissects voting trends to show college-educated voters are a growing section of the populace, disputing the idea that pandering to the hotheaded masses is good strategy (which must, in part, drive the turn toward spiteful politics, in addition to these people's general anger with the world). It recognizes the party's anti-illegal immigration and anti-gay marriage positions are racist and homophobic, sometimes covertly so and sometimes obviously so. And it realizes people don't always conform to stereotypes: Some might shop at Whole Foods, that "symbol of progressive affluence," but "lifestyle choices aside, they view big government with great suspicion." Petrilli writes, "The first step is to stop denigrating intelligence and education...It's good news that America is becoming better educated, more inclusive, and more concerned about the environment. The Republican Party can either catch this wave, or watch its historic opportunity for "resurgence" wash away with the tides."

Petrilli's essay hit close to home. While I don't shop at Whole Foods, the namesake of his new bloc (and think one can eat and shop responsibly without patronizing it), I fit all the other distinguishing characteristics he lists: appreciating diversity, living in urban walkable settings, and believing in environmental stewardship, community service and a spirit of inclusion. I don't usually have a suspicious view of big government. Then again, I tire of union politics and like charter schools, two un-Democratic positions. I also like my politicians to be fiscally responsible, and prefer compromise to the intensely partisan, often unrealistic view that the left wing of the party takes as it unsuccessfully tries to cement a Democratic majority (though, to be fair, the Republicans' right wing unsuccessfully attempted to do the same).

A crisis of confidence ensued: Am I really as true a Democrat as I've long thought I am? Maybe I should be an unenrolled voter, or vote for Republicans more often? Then, I realized, among other things: I believe health care is a right, not a privilege, and access should be extended universally; abortion should be legal, as should gay marriage; science has proven climate change is happening because of man-made activities, and must be dealt with (which has a very good chance of yielding its own economic innovation); preemptive foreign policy isn't wise and war must be considered carefully. I'll stay in the Democratic column for now, thanks, but thanks for getting me thinking, Mr. Petrilli.

Update: The New Yorker this week published a lengthy profile of Whole Foods' founding CEO, John Mackey, who gained notoriety last summer for his op-ed in the WSJ arguing against the Obama administration's health care policy. A friend's sister said in September that she has stopped shopping there as a result, though I haven't seen her since. Perhaps there aren't as many Whole Republicans as Mr. Petrilli thinks. (In the somewhat more distant past Mackey also badmouthed his former competitor Wild Oats, which Whole Foods eventually bought, on Internet chat sites under a pseudonym. Oh, the Internet.)

Though Mackey generally came across as inconsiderate if passionate, the story highlighted two important questions: The age-old punk-rock conundrum of whether a cultural phenomenon can remain true to itself and the cause once it gets big and popular, and whether capitalism can produce social good. Mackey firmly believes the answer to the latter is yes -- Whole Foods' impact on generally more responsible and healthier eating habits suggests he's correct -- and for that, I must respect him.

My Life Is "Top Chef"

When people ask me about graduate school, I often compare it, for better or worse, to "Top Chef." Really, the similarities are uncanny: A group of 30 students, slightly larger than the roughly 16 on the show, with a studio course as each semester's centerpiece. We all work in the same space, each with his own desks, like the "Top Chef Kitchen." Assignments are distributed to us all at once, after the professor calls us into a huddle. As we work on them, the professors visit our desks to ask what we're doing and to make suggestions, aka Tom Colicchio's "sniff and sneer." We have various levels of reviews and critiques, leading up to "final review," when an outside panel of professionals visit to listen to five-minutes (or longer) presentations, just like the "celebrity chefs" who make cameos. Then, they compliment and/or criticize based on what they think.

Having real life resemble reality is an interesting experience, though sometimes a disheartening one because evaluations become as arbitrary and subjective as possible. If one professional's reaction is disdainful but another's is praiseworthy, you only experience one or the other based on pure luck. (Sometimes you have both.) If one professional finds nothing to like in anyone's projects, but you avoid him and receive a glowing review, that doesn't say much about your skills beyond having a good luck of the draw. Sometimes it's hard to learn much from these reviews, except: Life depends on luck as much as it does skill, and life is tough.

After glumly thinking about this on a recent weekend, I read Peter Schjeldahl's brief review of Urs Fischer's mid-career retrospective at the New Museum in the city. Among the rabidly harsh comments, here's the conclusion: "If you spend more than twenty minutes with the three-floor extravaganza, you’re loitering. The New Museum could just as well not have done the show while saying it did. The effect would be roughly the same: expressing a practically reptilian institutional craving for a new art star." That's it. Years of work by Fischer, a complimentary profile of him in the same magazine a few weeks earlier, accolades from many other sources and, bam, one of the country's biggest art critics tears you to shreds in three sentences. That's how the worlds of art, design and the physical environment work, I suppose. Better be able to shrug it off and go at it all over again.

Two Years Running

This blog's two-year anniversary passed unnoticed earlier in this month, in the midst of finals, but I'll briefly recognize it by writing how surprised I am this is still going. Blogging is surprisingly fun, and I sure needed an outlet when I started it. In fact, I think my mid-conversation rants have shrunk considerably. Most fun (and embarrassing) is when my friends admit they actually read it, though I don't think one needs more than two hands to tally my base of regular readers.

Really, it's nice to have an outlet for twirling words, something that always deserves more practice and should never be ignored. Consider it my little homage to writers such as Messrs. Angell and R.W. Apple Jr. Also in honor of Apple, the prodigious, prolific and portly former Times reporter, whose collected articles on food I'm reading, I indulgently ordered an appetizer with my pho this afternoon, on my annual holiday trip to Pho Pasteur (or Le's). Heading to the gym shortly after may have been a mistake.

Welcome Back, Roger Angell

Catching up on old New Yorkers, I must note the return of Roger Angell, the magazine's longtime fiction editor and chronicler-extraordinaire of baseball, who had his first full story in about 15 months in the Nov. 30 edition. As usual, it recapped the postseason, which this year featured the Yankees' first World Series win since 2000.

All one needs to like Angell's writing about baseball is an appreciation of wonderful sunny days and brisk fall nights, where both seem like the perfect settings for running across a field or sitting in the stands and taking in the twilight, and an appreciation of language that never fails to describe it all delicately and effortlessly. Nothing happens and no player appears in Angell's prose without a well-chosen adjective. Some of the latest examples from this story: "the same Dorothea Lange expression"; "a soggy loss"; "Chase Utley, the classy Philadelphia second baseman"; "that almond-colored bat held still." Liking baseball is helpful but not required to enjoy Angell's work. In fact, Angell's writing might make you a baseball fan even if you think you don't like it. I easily forget his tolerance of the Yankees, though, based on the above photo, he appears to be a Mets fan too. Perhaps he just loves life.

His stories are becoming all the more precious these days because, at 89 years old, he may not be around to write them much longer. The stepson of E.B. White, raised in the New Yorker's offices and a staff writer since 1944, he is the most iconic, full-blooded (blue-blooded?) New Yorker New Yorker in my mind, and it's always a pleasure to see that he's still typing on his keys.

Maybe Those Chickens Have Hatched

Speaking of the owners of Boston's sports franchises, the Herald reports that Patriots owner Robert Kraft has successfully petitioned the Brookline Health Department to keep chickens in his manse's backyard. Apparently, he already has a few at his Cape Cod home, but his grandchildren like them so much, he wants to have the chickens around when the kids visit the urban estate.

Two very cool friends and I sometimes talk about when you know something is no longer cool. My general rule of thumb is: Once the Times has written about something, it means that thing hasn't been cool for about six months. In certain situations, I'll soften that standard to three months. That Robert Kraft keeps chickens in his backyard, a growing trend the past few years, as part of the renewed interest in food culture/politics and local farming/economies, confirms that having chickens in your backyards hasn't been cool for about three years. Also not in chicken-raising's favor: The New Yorker has published two stories this fall involving staffers' adventures in eating homegrown eggs. First, Susan Orlean gushed about it and then, Elizabeth Kolbert, perhaps jealous, followed.

I love local farms more than most and travel out of my way to compare one stand's broccoli to another's. However, the interest in raising chickens at home, especially in semi- or fully-urban settings strikes me as a poor allocation of resources and expertise, if not an overly fussy attempt at personal image-branding. Community gardens are wonderful community-uniting endeavors. Raising chickens in your backyard doesn't quite seem to qualify.

Then again, maybe it's idiotic of me to judge food habits based on whether or not they're cool. If vegetable stock is no longer in, I surely am a loser.

Pags = The Problems Of Being A Hobbyist Politician

Last month, in one of my now-completed courses, I was one of three of about 65 people to raise their hands when asked who voted in Cambridge's municipal elections. For some reason, I doubt that number will be much higher for the Dec. 8 Senate primary to replace Ted Kennedy. As a friend recently noted, the problem with the Democratic candidates in this fall's compressed campaign is it's hard to imagine any of the four as excellent senators. I was first planning to vote for Steve Pagliuca, the former Bain Capital executive, co-owner of the Celtics and exceedingly wealthy Weston resident who briefly considered buying the Globe, but now appears in its pages every day because of the campaign.

The allure of the businessman-turned-politician is never-ending. "If only government could be run as a business," we think, always forgetting that government, inherently, isn't a business. In fact, one of government's chief duties is to help those cast aside by business, but I'm susceptible to the siren's call too. "If someone was talented enough to become a wealthy, successful businessman, couldn't he apply the same skills to creating an effective, compassionate government?" Bloomberg largely helps show the answer can be yes. These days, when our country sits in a two-year-old recession largely because of financial "products" that weren't as ingenious as promised, I like the idea of electing a financial executive who understands these concepts exceedingly better than the typical politician and can devise a way to regulate them such that recent history doesn't repeat itself.

However, when much of your campaign's economic rhetoric takes on a populist edge, as Pagliuca's has, you've created your own large problem. Pagliuca can criticize Wall Street, but, as as a former private-equity executive, he's also Wall Street. That private equity is more about restructuring companies, often involving laying off lots of workers, adding lots of debt and reselling the companies for lots of profit for the private equity managers, compared to venture capital, which is more about growing companies, doesn't help. Of course, those inside an industry know its foibles the best, but he doesn't make a compelling case for building on his background to create a growing economy that benefits as many as possible. (David Bernstein, the Boston Phoenix's political writer, has noted the same.) And, of course all political advertisements are overblown, overly simple and misleading. But to have your tag line be"Pags = Jobs" is generally absurd and smacks a little too much of Tammany Hall -- i.e. "A vote for Pagliuca means we'll find a job for you in a patronage machine."

Searching for politicians who are true to themselves is an often fruitless endeavor, but Pagliuca's campaign, only a couple of months after he wasn't able to buy the Globe, seems like a wealthy guy rooting around his pockets for his next act rather than doing something out of conviction. I'll probably opt for someone with more genuine conviction, though I'm not settled yet on who that exactly is.

Update: I voted for Congressman Michael Capuano, who lost by a very wide margin. Turnout was quite low throughout the state. The polling place in my school had no more than 100 people the whole day, which is disappointing. I love to vote. Voting, wearing my "I voted" sticker, and buying a $1.00 gingerbread cookie at 8 a.m. to support a local school's field trips fund makes me proud.

Design Is Everywhere

As the previous post suggests, I've been thinking about design much more than ever before. It's funny how it penetrates every space in subtle ways that we often don't think about -- for example the men's bathroom. Several weeks ago, I realized how ingenious the urinals in my school's bathrooms, designed by this company, are. Not only do they have bumblebees sitting in their basin, which, no matter how much you resist, focuses your activities more than the typical urinal. They're also waterless, which saves countless gallons every day. They're an example of design making things cleaner and more efficient -- in the bathroom.

I had been embarrassed about thinking about urinals so much, until I walked past an architecture student's studio desk and saw a pile of library books, all about designing bathrooms. People don't just think idle thoughts about bathrooms, they take a programmatic, academic approach. Brilliant. Really, bumblebees are only the tip of the iceberg: There's also the size of the stall, the automatic sink, the automatic hand dryer, etc. Though, as one of Richard Lewis' old jokes goes, It's a shame the toilet seat can't be automatic. There's no way to get around having to sit on it.

OK, This Is Undeniably Cool

The New Republic's excellent blog on urban policy, "The Avenue," introduced me to what's one of the coolest things I've seen recently: A piano staircase installed in a subway station in Sweden. Its intent -- to encourage people to walk more often than riding the escalator, and be healthier -- may be difficult to achieve, but it's a wonderful example of how design can make the urban landscape a more joyful, playful place. Good for Volkswagen, the project's sponsor, for supporting such free-thinking fun.

The video has also separately made its way around my classmates' e-mail accounts and one says the Museum of Science T stop has something similar, though I've never been. The Kendall Square station, the closest in the system to MIT, has a fun feat of engineering above the tracks to create a clatter that's worth discovering.

John Cusack Must Have The World's Biggest Record-Buying Habit

How else to explain his selection of acting roles? Cusack is the star of my two favorite movies, "Grosse Pointe Blank" and "High Fidelity," witty, meaningful films about being cool and growing up that are untouchable. Yet he's also the star of "Con Air," "Must Love Dogs," and, now, "2012," an apocalyptic action film whose ad featuring a Tibetan monk standing atop the Himalayas looking at waves swallow smaller peaks is simply strange. (This doesn't even begin to address all the movies in the middle of the spectrum, both good and bad, such as "Bullets Over Broadway," which is decidedly in the former category.)

Now, of course, every actor and artist has his high and low points, and sometimes takes roles that can only be explained by the paycheck they provide. But Cuscack's payday valleys are about as depressed as they come. Surprisingly enough, he seems to skate by without too much criticism, unlike Robert DeNiro, whose inglorious coda has been filled with mistakes, though Cusack certainly hasn't come close to reaching the peaks that DeNiro has.

Maybe it's Cusack's still-boyish face that makes action-movie producers recruit him so vigorously, because it serves as a nice contrast to the impending doom and mayhem. "Nothing like a Boy Scout to have around wrongdoing," they must think. But then what does Cusack think while reading the script for 2012? "12,000-foot-high waves, yeah!"? Just because they're lusting after you, Mr. Cusack, doesn't mean you have to take it. Hopefully he doesn't come across this post and sue for defamation. Really, I love him and only want the best for him.

By the way, if you've never seen "Grosse Pointe Blank" or "High Fidelity," stop reading this blog and watch those movies. They're wonderful.

Nah, I'm Glad I'm Growing Old

In 2002, Karen O was on fire. I fondly remember seeing her band, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, open for Sleater Kinney that fall in what was then called Irving Plaza. She was electric; nothing could touch her or contain her, and the same could pretty much be said for the band's first full-length, released the following year.

Then, a funny thing happened: Karen O and her band mates aged. Same thing happened to the Strokes, another tectonic-plates-shifting downtown band, but the Yeah Yeah Yeahs have handled it far better. Not only are they still a band, but a couple of months ago, they released one of the best records I've heard this year. Over time, the band has shifted from cheerful bluster to maturity, and have struck the right notes. There are a lot more synthesizers, keyboards and drum machines this time, but in a carefully composed, refreshing way. The song "Maps," a relative commercial success from that debut record, the one where Karen O implored, "Wait! They don't love you like I love you," showed the Yeah Yeah Yeahs could write a heartfelt, penetrating ballad whenever they wanted to. Now, it seems, that's what they want to do almost all the time and it works.

Karen O's style used to be hipster hedonism for the sake of hipster hedonism. She still wears the wackiest, most enviable outfits, but there's something different about her these days. Rather than using her body to clear out her own space onstage, as she used to do, her movements and personality are now designed to drawn you in. As she's aged (and she turns 31 on Sunday), it's almost like she's come to value true friends and the wonder of leaning on them for support, all while staying unpredictable. I want to be that kind of old.

I Don't Want To Grow Old

Last week, Pitchfork opened its review of Julian Casablancas' debut solo album by comparing his underwhelming recent performance on "The Tonight Show" with the incendiary debut his old band, the Strokes, made on Letterman in late fall 2001. Once again, Pitchfork was right. (As proof of its influence, the day the review was published, there were dozens of comments on YouTube for the first time in a long time, mostly affirming, if not outright copying, what Pitchfork's critic wrote.) The Strokes' performance was ridiculously incredible. Heading into the guitar solo, Casablancas swats down his mic stand ferociously; when he returns to sing, he tugs at his shirt collar just as maniacally. Around him, his band mates rip through their parts with such wonderful nonchalance -- an easy mannerism to execute when you don't have to play more than four notes in a song.

"Is This It," the Strokes' first record, isn't a perfect record musical note for note, but it most certainly captures a period of time perfectly. Late fall 2001, when the city was fragile from the Sept. 11 attacks, yet bursting with all this creative energy, bitter and growing, its cool neighborhoods not yet caricatured and pervasive -- that's "Is This It." No record released since then has encapsulated a moment better than they did. It's certainly a contender for a generation-defining record.

Casablancas was 23 years old at the time of the Letterman performance; the rest of the band was about the same age. I don't want to quickly judge his most recent output because I've barely heard it. But, at the same time, to be so relevant and untouchable and vigorous at that age, and then defined by it and forever compared to it, is as good an argument as I've heard for wanting to remain in one moment forever and never grow old. My friends and I occasionally discuss bands that have improved through their careers -- a harder feat than the opposite trajectory. Though if the start is so incredible, is it so bad to be born fully formed and at one's peak?

So Much For Deval Patrick

That sound Deval Patrick hears is probably the last nail being pounded in his political coffin. Last Sunday, the Globe published what I think is the most embarrassing one I've read in weeks: The transportation reform his administration has been touting since the summer for, among many reasons, saving money by curtailing bureaucratic waste, is actually only saving Patrick's staff from itself because all the waste comes from within.

Patrick's administration, writes Andrea Estes , has "presided over much of the growth in spending he must now rein in," as six-figure salaries have doubled, transportation secretaries, of which there have been three, earn 25 percent more than previous governors' predecessors, and "new appointees have been simply layered over old ones, with the displaced workers given new titles." Overall, the payroll has increased by 20 percent under Patrick.

All politicians place their own ills on the broken system their predecessor of the opposite political party left them. Patrick's administration has been particularly fond of laying blame at the feet of the 16 years of Republican governors that came before him. To do that now, though, considering this report, would be offensively disingenuous. The state's transportation system needs to be changed for many reasons, but one large one is Patrick's staff doesn't know to run the system. The story essentially says, Patrick has no ability to direct a government and lead, and it might be correct.

The Globe has caught the Patrick administration lying before, particularly with how it sought to promote a hack senator to a plum, overpaid job. And voters next year will care much more about his ability to improve what they perceive to be the economy than anything else when they decide whether to re-elect him. But I find this revelation much more crushing because it strikes at the philosophical core of who Patrick actually is as a person. He says he believes in reform, when, really, he fits the Republican caricature of a caricatured liberal: A tax-and-spender who loves adding to the payroll and size of government.

Better Late Than Never

Pitchfork released its version of the top-200 albums of the 2000s what seems like (Internet) eons of weeks ago, but it's still worth commenting about. For all the criticism the site takes -- and sometimes deserves -- I found the list quite well chosen.

Absent are the blog-buzz bands such as Wavves, Girls, the Black Lips and whoever lives in Bed-Stuy these days who occupy the hype cycle for increasingly brief spins without releasing music of much substance. Present are the indie stalwarts who are stalwarts because their well-rounded, sometimes unassuming but consistently excellent music endures. It's no surprise "Funeral," "Turn on the Bright Lights" or "Girls Can Tell" made the list (though the last was lower than it deserves), but there were also many welcome inclusions that I thought, given the hype-driven bent of Pitchfork the past three years, would be missing. "The Tyranny of Distance," "Bows and Arrows," Califone and the New Pornographers all deservedly made the cut. Even the Constantines' "Shine a Light," a routinely overlooked record, is there!

It's understandable that some records recede and others gain with time, as their influence and quality become apparent. Yet, Pitchfork's editorial approach these days is confusing. The constant superfluous news updates and use of the "Best New Music" tag to push the site's taste/scene making rather than simply good records directly counter the top-200 list's principles. In its evaluation of the decade's music, Pitchfork embraces those records that stayed faithful, but the rest of the time, its writers chase 15-minute crush after crush, which leaves bands chewed up in the hype cycle over and over again.

Then again, perhaps I'm so pleased with the list because I own 12 of the top-20 records. Anyway, to the good times: An acoustic performance by Britt Daniel, Spoon's lead singer and songwriter, of "Anything You Want," my favorite song of theirs from "Girls Can Tell":



Update: For those who prefer a number-crunching take on the top-200 list, here's an interesting one that looks at how many of the vaunted records were criticized or overlooked at the time of their release, and vice-versa. I think the most insightful comment is this one, about the difference in the number of "Best New Music" records to those that made the top-200 list: "Still, this stands as evidence that ‘Best New Music’ is not necessarily the same thing as ‘Music with the Best Staying Power’ or ‘Most Important Music.’"

"From Stardust to Sentience"

"From Stardust to Sentience," by the High Places, is easily the song I've listened to most in the past year. Even after all the repeats, it's one of the most preciously beautiful pieces of music I know. The band, a duo, doesn't play actual instruments very often, but in this song, they make their drum machines, percussion, keyboards and the like rattle, stumble, pulse, waft and float in a way that suggests every moment of life is ethereal, but also for the taking.

Mary Pearson sings perched high above it all (appropriate for the band's name, no?) and lilts her way through a vocal melody that is more evocative than concrete. The only words I can decipher are "Your million-year-old...." something ("car parts"? "boyfriend"?), yet the words, in the end, are irrelevant when she hits the notes she does.

Lately, I've taken to lying on my playroom floor while listening to the song, to relax. I breathe deeply and spread my arms; confusion melts and my mind slows. Few other songs have that affect. Above is a video someone made of himself dancing ballet to the song. It's kind of ridiculous, but I figured I'd promote someone's else strange reaction to "From Stardust to Sentience." Also, there's no official music video, and YouTube's live versions of the song don't do it justice. This ballet dancer had the forethought to include the studio rendition.

Georgia Hubley + 20 Years = Drew Faust

Last week, I had the pleasure of going to a lunch featuring Harvard's president, Drew Gilpin Faust, and Housing and Urban Development Secretary and GSD alumnus Shaun Donovan. Amid their interesting comments about public service and housing policy (and remotely interesting comments about how great Harvard is), I was struck by how much Faust looks like Georgia Hubley, Yo La Tengo's drummer, with 20 extra years. It's really uncanny, perhaps extra uncanny considering the age difference between the two. What is it that's so funny about people looking alike?

Hubley is probably rock's most charming drummer. While her husband, Ira Kaplan, Yo La Tengo's leader, has spastic moments on stage, she sits behind her kit, effortlessly rolling off her toms, hitting her high hat and staying on tempo, with her well-composed ponytail and look of bemused exasperation on her face. "Oh, boys," I imagine she always thinks about Kaplan and bassist James McNew, "you can exert all the effort you want. I'll sit here and be rock's most charming drummer without breaking a sweat." There's always a rough road and an easy road, and she makes me wonder why I would ever choose the rough one. Funny how I'm the one who has spastic moments on stage.

Not surprisingly, my girlfriend and her friend, our drummer, model their rock lives on Hubley. Or at least I think they do. Anyway, to the good times, here's the video for "The Summer," a splendid, delicate song by Yo La Tengo, from 1992, where Hubley provides backup vocals and a wonderful change in rhythm mid-song:

Go Away, A-Bombs from A-Rod

It seems nearly inevitable that the Yankees will win this year's World Series -- their lineup is too deep and C.C. Sabathia too good a pitcher every three days (which maybe only one or two other pitchers can do these days). Fa fa blip blip.

Rooting for the Yankees is like rooting for Wal-Mart -- corporatism wins, independence loses, money trumps homegrown talent, the megalopolis defeats the hometown yet again. While fathers obviously don't want to inflict pain on their children, raising one's kids to be Yankees fan is almost like teaching them the wrong life lessons. "No need to persevere, son. Forget about the idea that you can go anywhere with talent. Throw enough money at a problem and you'll solve it. Without the money, though, you'll probably be thwarted. Heartbreak? You'll never know it," he says. "Why dad?" the son asks. "Because you're a Yankees fan," the dad replies.

The idea that the Yankess were going to abandon their free-agent-driven approach to team-building has proved short-lived. Thirteen years into the era of Derek Jeter, Mariano Rivera, Jorge Posada and Andy Pettitte, the only other homegrown players to last successfully have been Robinson Cano and Melky Cabrera. After a one-year break, Brian Cashman et al are back to throwing money at the problem. Sure, other teams in all professional sports do this, but there's something overwhelming plastic and unlikeable about the players the Yankees select. The egomania of Alex Rodriguez and do-gooder talents of Marx Texeira are nauseating. While they sit on opposite sides of the spectrum, there's little genuine about either. It's almost impossible to be someone who yearns for the real thing and is a Yankees fan.

Thanks to the obnoxious home run call by John Sterling for Rodriguez, even more nauseating than the third baseman himself, for the post's title. A former co-worker said I do the impression very well, and watching Yankees games without me isn't quite the same. It's one of the higher compliments I've received the past couple of years.

"What Was It Like Back Then?"

In my challenging, occasionally obfuscating course on the history and theory of planning, the professor recently asked for our thoughts on the role of nostalgia in design. Several people, mostly in the urban design program, raised their hands to dismiss it. Here are my notes: "Nostalgia suggests an uncritical look at the past, distorting its memory; focusing on the past, instead of innovating and looking toward the future. But what about the desire to re-live? A puritanism tied to modernism, rejecting romanticism."

What about that desire to re-live? Surely there doesn't have to be something inherently hokey about fondly remembering the past. Nostalgia is a sign that perhaps something, however hard it is to define, might have been better back then. Is there always another peak coming around the corner or should we strive to hold on to what we've got?

On a related note, Kairos Shen, Boston's chief planner, told me and my classmates during a tour of his office last week that "most of the buildings we're putting up now are designed to fail in 25 to 30 years." (Someone asked him about his thoughts on historical preservation and, in his circuitously insightful way of answering questions, he landed briefly on construction quality. Obviously, he prefers the older over the newer.) I cite it because: If things were right in the past, build on them for improvement; don't reinvent them. Nostalgia can be productive, no?

The post's title is a lyric I wrote for one of our songs. It's about my favorite highway, but also, I think, about going home. Then again, there are only 38 or so words in the song.

Tom Cruise Was Filming Near My House

Tom Cruise's and Cameron Diaz's newest movie, an action film strangely titled "Wichita" for now, spent the day shooting about four blocks from where I live. The location is a stretch of auto repair and towing businesses, so perhaps they needed something "industrial-looking." (Unfortunately, my walk to school this morning didn't bring me close enough to see.)

Cruise and Diaz (and Katie Holmes and children, natch) have been traipsing around Boston the past month shooting this movie, as have many other actors working on other projects in about the past two years, because the Legislature decided to extend rather generous tax credits to the industry to entice it here. Productions have certainly come, with people such as Bruce Willis in tow, but the benefit are eminently debatable.

CW Unbound, the impeccable blog run by the impeccable think tank MassINC, has a very good summary of the state Department of Revenue's report on the credits. I give greater weight to the facts that Massachusetts collected 16 cents of taxes for every dollar of tax credit and much of the gross salaries are going to out-of-state actors, over the estimated $870 million of economic activity the credits have generated.

Sure, tax policy should be used to create incentives and persuade people and industries to do one thing instead of another, e.g. come to Massachusetts to do business. However, government has to be very careful about the industries it decides to favor. Movie productions' broader economic benefit is similar to the nature of the on-location shoots happening in metro Boston: They swoop into town, create a noticeable ruckus and then leave very quickly, leaving people starry-eyed in their wake. You'll talk about them for awhile, but won't have much to talk about. The downstream benefits are hard to identify because the business is very self-contained, hiring people who production directors already know and hiring them for relatively brief periods of times, without needing ancillary support for sustained periods.

Really, the biggest beneficiaries of this are the Herald's love-to-hate-'em "Track Girls," who run the paper's gossip page. Though, which makes for worse copy: Writing daily updates about what Cruise ate for dinner, as they do now that Boston is "Hollywood East" (as they like to call it), or writing about H-list celebrities and the wives of the city's sports stars, as they used to -- and still regularly -- do?

Thanks to LCD Soundsystem, which has made regular appearances on the blog the past couple of months, for inspiring the post's title.

Update: The WSJ has a good story in today's paper about Iowa's experience with subsidizing the film industry. It ended with directors using tax credits to buy Range Rovers.

The Sequel to "The Sequel to Your Life" Post

Prompted by Pavement's reunion, Sasha Frere-Jones and his New Yorker music critic pal, Kelefa Sanneh, weigh in on the the last five years' rash of them, and firmly come down on the side of bands that stick to the hallowed back catalogue. Sanneh says Dinosaur Jr. was "revelatory" when it reunited for a string of shows in 2005, but now, after two new albums, "is a band in a more traditional, less thrilling, and probably more sustainable sense: three guys with a strong track record and a new CD to flog."

Again, I don't see what's wrong with reconvened bands putting out a new record. Why not exercise your talents? Of course, the point it moot if time has eroded a band's skills so much that version 2.0 is embarrassing to watch. But, come on: Why not smoke 'em if you got 'em (as I'll never forget a referee saying to me and several others on the foul line during a rec-league game in sixth grade or so, as we waited for a player to shoot two free throws)? I find the reunion tour a crasser way to cash in on one's legacy than an album.

As further proof of Frere-Jones' skills, read the wonderful quips he placed next to readers' suggestions for other band reunions here and here. He must breathe witty insights into pop. I can't quibble with the lists he compiled, though perhaps will add Whiskeytown, the Dismemberment Plan and a circa 2002 concert of the classic Startime International lineup -- the Walkmen, the French Kicks and the Natural History. Not that any of those bands rank close to being my favorites, but it would recapture a certain mood. But there I go lusting after a concert...

The Language of Common Life

It's always funny when you realize that other people notice things that you thought only you thought about. The latest example: The Times' delicate handling of offensive band names, which I've written about in these pages before, is something other people think about! None other than Sasha Frere-Jones, Earth's best music writer, noticed the Times' ongoing dilemma with Fucked Up, the semi-melodic punk band on Matador, who recently won the Polaris Prize:

"The other upside to Fucked Up winning this prize is that we get to watch The New York Times figure out a way to report it," Frere-Jones writes, noting that the Village Voice's music critic Rob Harvilla has even more fun with it. Harvilla finishes his blog post by writing, "Thank god I wrote for an alt-weekly." Who knew the things that make me chuckle make them chuckle?

Banning Fucked Up's name from the Times makes much more sense than outlawing "Pissed Jeans," which prompted my original post. In fact, for those following at home, this is the first time profanity has appeared in these pages. Thanks to Fucked Up, whose prize-winning album inspires the post's title.

"Wait, That's Sam Yoon's Music!"

Strangely enough, the Boston mayoral race now resembles an episode of the WWF's "Monday Night Raw." After finishing third in last week's primary, knocking him out of the race, City Councilor Sam Yoon has joined forces with the second-place finisher, fellow Councilor Michael Flaherty, to form a tag-team against Mayor Menino.

This is a wise strategy from one perspective. Menino only earned about 51 percent of the vote in the primary. With Menino's two most potent challengers joining forces, for the first time there's a realistic chance that he'll be toppled. Of course, this depends on Yoon's and Flaherty's followers finding the other as appealing. But if they didn't vote for Menino the first time in a nonpartisan election, they probably won't vote for him given a second chance.

This is a hilarious strategy from any other perspective. The idea of a mayoral ticket has never existed before, and it certainly left Menino flabbergasted (“What do you mean ticket?’’ he told the Globe). More than anything else, it reminds me of a WWF wrestler rushing to the ring from backstage in the middle of a fight, to illegally beat up on a wrestler who he "hates." The referee hopelessly starts ringing the bell to signal the match is over. The crowd starts booing or cheering. Jim Ross shouts, "Wait, that's the Mad Dog's music! What is he doing here?!" Too funny.

Even in the above photo from today's Globe, where they're triumphantly raising each other's arms, Yoon and Flaherty look like they should be in tights and greased in palm oil. That doesn't mean I wouldn't vote for them, though, if I had the option. In fact, maybe I would solely because of this maneuver.

Update: The Herald has taken to calling the Flaherty-Yoon duo "Floon," which I can only assume is an attempt to discredit them. That's somewhat surprising considering the Herald has never been kind to Menino, but then, the paper's general MO is saying no one ever does anything right. Not sure how anyone can live like this, but the Herald's newsroom manages it.

Kanye Was Half-Right

Sure, Kanye West was a boorish idiot for accosting Taylor Swift in the middle of an acceptance speech at the MTV Music Video Awards two weeks ago. But as poor as his medium was for trying to make the point, his message was dead on: the video for Beyonce's "Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)" is one of the best ever. The colors, the staging, the outfits, the impossibly high heels, the impossibly long legs, the impossibly coordinated dance moves.

The whole video combines the simple and the outlandish in a captivating way. Unfortunately, you have to click here to view it. Her record company has banned embedding it.

The Sequel To Your Life

Oh, wow: Pavement, the namesake of this blog, is reuniting! Every music Web site made a gigantic deal of it earlier this week as the news trickled, while, true to form, Pavement and its longtime label, Matador, shrugged their shoulders.

Pavement is easily the band at the top of my list of ones I've yet to see in concert. They've only announced two shows so far, for Sept. 21 and 22, 2010, in Central Park. But should they come to Boston for a tour, I'll do my best to be there. (A new classmate and I were joking Wednesday about how ridiculous it is to have tickets go on sale more than a year in advance of a show, but the first and only one on sale so far sold out after two minutes. I suppose indie-rock kids can plan 12 months in advance, as the Times wondered this morning.)

Since the Pixies reunited for the failed 2004 Lollapalooza tour to lucrative excitement (the tour's failure wasn't their fault), countless critically loved, commercially overlooked bands from the 1980s and early 1990s have done the same. As is the case with all art, time creates fondness, and it certainly helps when your former 20-something fans are now at least in their late-30s, with higher salaries. Dinosaur Jr., the Feelies and Mission of Burma quickly come to mind as other examples. Hand in hand with the phenomenon is one, largely driven by the All Tomorrow's Parties festivals, where popular indie bands perform their trademark record, first song to last, live.

In art, the pinnacle of one's career is so much more glaringly obvious than anywhere else (though maybe that's only the case because an artist's career is public and, say, an accountant's, isn't). I suppose that's because good art takes such effort to produce, meaning only the highest echelon can do it for more than a brief period of time, and even they have missteps too.

It's understandable why fans want to dwell on the pinnacle -- who wants to listen to/read/watch something bad? But the moment an artist steps back and performs a 10-year-old record note for note, front to back, hasn't he also admitted that his best moments are in the past, at least for now? Why this phenomenon of reliving the past is so much more prevalent in rock confuses me. I don't think Philip Roth is going to announce a book tour where he'll read "Portnoy's Complaint" anytime soon, so why rock and roll?

My good friend, who says choosing your favorite Pavement record is like choosing your favorite child, e-mailed to say he hopes they don't make another album. He's probably right, considering their oeuvre is untouchable and peerless. But, then, what's so bad about them making another record, so they don't only re-live the past and acknowledge it's better than what there is now?

Anyway, to the good times: The video to "Shady Lane," directed by Spike Jonze, from which this post's title takes its name, is above.

We Built This City

Three weeks ago, the Globe published a scathing story on Boston Mayor Thomas Menino's role in guiding city development during his 16-year tenure. Essentially, concluded the reporters, development has followed Menino's whims: a new zoning code in response to an addition to a house in Roslindale he didn't like; choosing the tops on new office towers (he apparently loves roofs and doors); unrealized, scattered proposals to move City Hall to the underdeveloped South Boston Waterfront and build a 1,000-foot-tall skyscraper, among others.

Six days before a primary Menino is sure to win (as he is the general election), further extending his streak as the city's longest-serving mayor, this is something very important to ponder. Menino's tenure is hard to criticize; Boston circa 2009, compared to the country's other major metropolitan areas, is relatively well positioned. It has strong business and education institutions, attractive neighborhoods and cultural attractions and a decent crime rate, though is very expensive and has an anemic population growth rate, as is the case with most Northeast cities.

However, when the man subsumes the institution -- in this case, it's the Boston Redevelopment Authority, the city's planning and redevelopment agency -- problems arise. Every individual falters, and when politicians falter, they often do so in extended streaks. The strength of the institution compensates for this, but the BRA's has been purposefully eroded by Menino, who, to simplify, tells the agency whether to approve a project. There's no check, which, of course, is important for democracy's sake. When it comes to urban planning, that's even more important so that a city doesn't implement ideas that send it off track for years to come.

In a book on Boston's planning history I recently read, the author recounted how the city's postwar development was at its finest when the BRA was at its finest and an equal to the mayor's office. The conclusion isn't terribly surprising, considering egotistical power is never a good thing. Everyone prefers rational, predictable decision-making to whimsy. But is Menino's model of benevolent paternalism (authoritarianism?) enough to merit voting him out of office?

Update: The general idea of this post also applies to the mayor one major city south of Boston, who decided last year he didn't want to live a life of philanthropy, so he convinced the city council to extend the city's term limits so he could continue doing "what's best for everyone."

Sincere Apologies To Everyone Who Walks

The worst part about my job the past four years was how much it required me to drive: My beloved 2003 red Subaru Outback station logged more than 120,000 miles in that span, primarily because my commute was at least 35 miles each way for all of it. Now that I'm a student again, I can refreshingly walk to campus every day in 20 minutes (and walk most places in general because I live in Cambridge, Mass.)

Walking everyday is an amazing eye-opener to how frustrating cars are -- the stopping, the starting, the swerving, etc. How I navigated the intersection of Beacon and Cambridge streets has acquired a new level of amazement. But, to bury the lede, the main point of this post is how much cars dominate the road no matter where you are while walking. Each time I cross a street, even if it's a quiet intersection without lights, I have to look carefully for cars turning or nudging out to make a turn. Sometimes, I find myself having to stare intently at them to ensure they see me. I realized a couple of days ago that I'm sure this is exactly how I drive, so, to all walkers out there, I now know what it's like and I'm sorry.

So, Um, Is Bangor, Maine, Cool?

If the Internet's greatest power is its centrifugal force -- art, business, politics, etc, can be produced anywhere and sent everywhere with a high-speed connection -- why are people moving to already existing cities with already established scenes instead of creating their own? Bangor, Maine, may be an extreme example, considering its harsh weather, but: Couldn't, or shouldn't, Bangor be cool?

I visited Bangor last month for Kah-Bang, an indie-rock festival held in a park on the Penobscot River, which runs through downtown. The show was exceedingly cool, with great performances by Ra Ra Riot and Ida Maria, but I was also struck by downtown itself: about seven blocks by seven blocks, with lovely, old-style New England facades and, on a summer Saturday afternoon, almost entirely empty. There were several unused storefronts and, aside from concertgoers who decided to take a walk (and stop somewhere for a beer), barely anyone around.

In an interview with the Bangor Daily News, the festival's organizers explained they conceived it while sitting at a bar, talking about how cool it would be to have an indie-rock show in Bangor. Actually executing such a festival, they argued, is "further proof that Bangor is finally turning the corner and building a head of steam as far as there being a real art and music scene in the Queen City. All it takes is a few motivated people to make cool things happen."

Indeed. Whoever serves as Bangor's mayor should hitch his tenure to those organizers. They're the people who make places exciting, attractive and buzz-worthy, which, with some luck and 15 years, turns into families and businesses, people patronizing other businesses and a busy downtown. Convince the council to approve property tax breaks for opening stores in specific buildings downtown, incentives for licensing art galleries/spaces, group marketing for local businesses with the city's planning office. Whatever it is, the mayor needs to go to that bar, talk to those organizers and create a strategy for what they think would make Bangor work. It starts by creating your own scene and exporting it.

Being Uncool Is Cool And Being Cool Is Uncool? Or Is It The Other Way Around?

Exhibit A of why I like New York: The lemon sherbert popsicle I bought from an indie ice-cream truck at the corner of Spring and Mulberry Streets two weeks ago. Exhibit B: People are turning unused Dumpsters into swimming pools.

Exhibit K of why I don't like New York: It's cool this summer to have a (small) gut. Exhibit L: It's cool this summer to pretend you're not living comfortably, and order a six-pack for your table instead of bottle service. Exhibit M: Manhattan is a mall.

There are no Dash Snows or Karen Os in Boston -- or general scenes to speak of. In fact, until starting here six days ago, I didn't think there were any hipsters. Of course there is pretension in the air; there is anywhere with a general population that is well-educated and well-compensated. But it's not material and hype-driven. Most places accept you when come as you are. I don't know anyone who objects to that.

My ambivalence toward New York is never-ending, perhaps most cheekily expressed by the lyrics of LCD Soundsystem's "New York, I Love You, But You're Bringing Me Down," whose cheeky video, featuring Kermit the Frog, is above. An excerpt: "New York, you're safer / And you're wasting my time / Our records all show / You were filthy but fine / But they shuttered your stores / When you opened the doors / To the cops who were bored / Once they'd run out of crime."

Circa 2009, in the decentralization that dominates everything about the Internet era, do we really have to be in New York to be at the epicenter of business, arts, life, etc? To be with it? To be cool? (Can anyone understand what being cool is?) Isn't the city's current overriding legacy that of an epicenter of the global financial crisis and recession? Who knows? Sure, there's exaggeration in this post, but, at least on a personal level, the thrill I experience in New York is no longer what it once was. I'm unsure if I'm happy about that.

Farewell, Edward M. Kennedy

There probably will never be another American family like the Kennedys, if for no other reason, almost no one has nine children anymore. But it's also increasingly rare that wealthy families decide to devote their entire brood to public service, or care about the less fortunate in a profound, lasting way; to think Eunice Kennedy Shriver, who died two weeks ago, was relatively little known in the public mind, yet founded the Special Olympics. (Obviously, it helps to make millions upon millions before sending one's children off to public service.)

Kennedy's death is profound because he embodies an unimaginably complex mix of enormous legislative achievement, glamorous wealth, personal tragedy and personal idiocy in a way that few can ever hope to replicate. Watching people lined up for half a mile outside the JFK Library makes me cry. What is more Boston than a moment of silence for a Kennedy before a Sawx game? Kennedy is further proof that: Boston Is A Brotherhood.

Believe The Hype

There's something thrilling just about walking up three flights to the High Line, New York's newest park. Usually, climbing stairs happens inside or is at least done to an enclosed destination, such as an elevated subway line. But not here. Everything is open; and when I entered, a breeze picked up, and I found my heart beating a little faster with anticipation, like when an amusement park ride reaches a scary moment.

Strangely enough, the High Line is a slightly intimidating park. It's a bit out of the way-- it now starts at the intersection of Gansevoort and Washington streets and heads north to 20th Street and 10th Avenue; eventually, it will reach 34rd Street. It takes some background knowledge to know where the entrances are -- unlike, say Central Park, with its large and open arms -- suggesting a nightclub rather than park. It's downtown, meaning there are many more well-dressed hipsters walking the trail than you find at other parks (though there are families and tourists too). It's publicly owned, but was a chic philanthropic cause among New York's finance and media circles. (Barry Diller and his wife, Diane von Furstenberg, and Philip Falcone and his wife are the two biggest donors. The largest amount of staff is in the fundraising department.) It has its own sleek logo.

So what. Everything else about the trail more than overcomes this. The benches, which rise out of the ground as cantilevered stone and wood, and grass stalks, some of which poke out of slits in the walkway as though they're weeds, are playful without being annoyingly cheeky. There are a surprising number of nooks for something not terribly wide or long, so you don't believe you've experienced the whole thing after one walk. The faux-beach, wooden lounge chairs are a great play on city sitting options, a small part of what makes the High Line so much fun: Its ability to mix settings and the noisily urban and the quietly private over and over again.

Obviously, the High Line is a park, so it's removed from the general froth of every Manhattan block. But it's also only three stories above the street -- not in its own separate area -- so New York, the country's most vertical city, keeps happening around you every step of the away. Fashion billboards are at eye level. Cabs, restaurants, living rooms and cubicles are within view. But then there are the grasses and other vegetation not found anywhere else in the city. Then there are the benches and chairs, where you can sit, quietly converse and relax. And it's a trail, meaning people are leisurely walking, rather than rushing past. (I was there on a cloudy Saturday morning, so perhaps in attractive weather, the High Line is thronged and annoying.) But then there's all the people-watching, a defining feature of city life. There are even depressed bleachers with a wall consisting of a glass pane at the bottom, which don't seem to have any function except to allow you to watch others.

The High Line is never static; your experience constantly shifts under your feet. It provides that most alluring of perspectives -- "What does this street look like 30 feet higher?" It never allows you to be fully at ease, which is perhaps what an urban park should be.

(Photos are my own; taken via cell phone.)

Update: Serge Kovalevski, in yesterday's Times, throws a little, deserved jab at the High Line, questioning the salary and consulting fees it pays its foundation's president while the organization seeks to fund the park partially via a neighborhood improvement district. Why is the story deserved even when it's premise is thinner than similar ones usually are? Because everyone's cage should be rattled once in awhile.

Thank You, 98.5 FM

Upon CBS Radio's announcement last month that it was turning 98.5 FM into a sports-talk radio station in Boston, Bill Simmons gleefully wrote on his Twitter page about the possible impending demise of WEEI, the market's dominant and generally putrid sports station. He compared WEEI to the Soviet Union circa 1986, seemingly very strong but actually capable of imploding. WEEI certainly is a much smaller institution than the USSR, but, as much as I like the idea, I'm not ready to write the station's obituary.

Nonetheless, from the small portions I've heard so far on 98.5, it's wonderful to have the competition. The mid-afternoon show hosted by Michael Felger and Tony Massarotti is wonderful: They have a great repartee, developed from their years together writing for the Herald, are knowledgable about all of Boston's sports teams, make interesting comments and, most importantly, let each other and callers finish their points without interrupting at the first word they disagree with. The nighttime host, Damon Amendolara, who I've never heard of before, is a reasoned, patient person. (The midday hosts, however, are acerbic and hyperbolic.) Overall, it's a pleasure to listen.

Who would've thought? There might be an opening in the market for well-informed, temperate radio where people talk to each other, rather than scream over each other? No way. If the station fails, as previous sports-talk competitors have in Boston, it might be proof that the broader populace doesn't like to think. Though this is the populace within sports-talk radio, so it's certainly possible they don't like to think. Few of WEEI's hosts do.

Update: Driving to New York this afternoon, I had the pleasure of listening to WFAN's star host, Mike Francesa. He understands multiple perspectives, refrains from vilifying athletes and makes good, overlooked points, such as today, when he highlighted Joe Mauer, the Minnesota Twins catcher in the midst of one of baseball's best years ever. Few on the East Coast realize this, including myself before today, but Francesa does. He even lets callers make their comments, but doesn't give them too much time, which is when they wander into neverland.

Cornell Essay, March 2009

Today's broadcast of the NPR show "On The Media" compiled its recent pieces about the Internet's broad effects on information consumption and society. Inspired by how I thought it affirmed several of my thoughts about how we use the Internet (which is ironic considering how I address below that topic of affirmation), I decided to post an essay I wrote in March for a scholarship application at Cornell. The application's directions were open-ended, so I launched into one of my favorite topics.

For several reasons, I didn't publicize it until now. Consider it my equivalent of the rehashes that all media outlets use through the summer doldrums (not that I'm out of ideas for posts). Oh, and I wasn't awarded the scholarship. Here's the essay:

"The infinite space of the Internet is intimidating. Type a search term into Google and millions of results return in one-tenth of a second. When I write a comment at the bottom of a news story or post a new entry on my blog, I might be planting my rhetorical flag in cyberspace, but I also might be shooting an arrow into the darkness, never to hit a target, never to make an impact.

"The Internet is championed as the great democratization of information. It makes previously unimaginable amounts of content available to everyone. It educates everyone and levels the playing field by making policy, politics, scientific research, financial data and opinion available for all to see. But is there a point where it all becomes too much information?

"As happens with all consumer products, the Internet has intended and unintended effects. In the fields of academics, arts, politics and policy, the Internet exposes people's work to audiences whose size and reach was once thought impossible. For example, it gives unheralded art and its practitioners' careers oxygen they probably deserve. Nonetheless, the effect that troubles me the most is how the Internet fragments thought and community by creating an ever-expanding database of niche publications and discussions that are delicately crafted to find the most specific of demographics. There's something for everyone out there in cyberspace and yet, we only seem to be finding the content that confirms what we already know.

"After a few years working in the journalism business, I can point most readily to the news phenomena the Internet has created. At best, there is Politico, which features excellent reporting and analysis, but rarely pokes its head outside of the "Swamp," aka Washington, D.C., to engage in something broader that resonates with the rest of America. At worst, there are the Huffington Post and the Drudge Report, whose undercurrent of bias is never far from the surface and whose writers never seem terribly interesting in heading to the other side of the partisan field to see if they have anything in common with the other team.

"Content such as these publications only strengthens the echo chamber the Internet was supposed to demolish. It's become quite a cacophonous room at that, considering how there's space for everyone and everything online. Rather than use search engines to find what is new and curious, we settle for what we already know. We nod our heads in affirmation -- 'How could we be so right again and they so wrong?' -- when maybe we should search for something that furrows our eyebrows in puzzlement and provokes thought for the rest of the day.

"Postmodernism, among all its definitions, teachers that there is no omniscient voice and no way to wrap our arms around all of a topic's discourse. The Internet confirms this idea. To yearn for some sort of central repository of thought we can all access via the Internet is outmoded and unproductive. However, the hyper-proliferation of niche sites is also unproductive. In a time where our country's leader and much of the public say they want to embark on an era of post-partisanship, why does so much on the Internet seem to separate us in our preferred corners and cliques? Terry Teachout, the arts critic for the Wall Street Journal and Commentary magazine, often writes about how the explosion of cable television and the Internet has eroded culture's middelbrow. Where one was once able to find great art broadcast to the masses, now everyone turns on his own channel, crafted just so, according to his tastes. The same cannot happen when it comes to public discussion. We must push ourselves to remain engaged with everyone on the Internet and avoid using it as a misguided tool that confirms the correctness of our opinions and hardens the divides among communities."

Cars Are The New Social Security?

There's plenty to dislike about "Cash For Clunkers," the federal program that gives new car buyers up to a $4,500 rebate as long as the new car is marginally more fuel-efficient than the old one. Aesthetically, the phrase is irritating, cooked up by Democratic strategists and tested to death in focus groups. Philosophically, the program misses the mark on several levels.

Sure, the first week of the program, in late July, is responsible for the best sales month the car industry has seen in 11 months, but the impact is artificially inflated. The rebate compresses sales that were at least likely to happen at some point into a small time frame. That aids the Obama administration, which will be able to point to an improved third-quarter GDP as another sign of the national economy's recovery, but won't help sales afterward. After the program expires, sales will probably drop significantly. The only purchases that weren't going to happen eventually are probably by people wealthy enough to quickly buy a new car when the government offers a rebate; they were probably driving newer, more expensive cars than the ones this program is supposed to target. The trade-in program rearranges the pie; it doesn't expand it.

Because of the potential marginal differences in fuel-economy and the program's brief time frame, the environmental effectiveness isn't as deep as it could be. If federal legislators want to coax U.S. car owners to rid themselves of their inefficient cars as one way to tackle environmental pollution and climate change, the best, longest-lasting way to do is raising the federal gasoline tax.

Doing so automatically creates the stable market parameters car makers need to dive into efficient-car production. The tax doesn't have to jump immediately to a certain, intimidating, politically untenable point either. It can increase two cents per gallon per month over a two-year period. People won't notice. Considering oil is a volatile commodity that itself can help produce a recession, the tax can even be partially relaxed when per-barrel prices are astronomically high. In the 21st century, taxes have strictly become a means of raising money to pay for government, instead of also being a mechanism to promote good behavior and dissuade bad behavior. Why can't it include the latter too?

Congress' decision last week, at the Obama administration's urging, to triple the trade-in program's funding from $1 billion to $3 billion creates an alarmingly dangerous precedent. Legislators added the money because extraordinary demand exhausted the $1 billion much quicker than expected. Well, of course it was used quickly. Who doesn't want the government to subsidize the purchase of a new car?

By adding so much more money, Congress creates a precedent for the next time the money is used and car dealers and buyers clamor for even more. Car dealers are a more powerful constituency than one would expect because there are many in every congressional district and they represent some form of down-home, nostalgic Americana. If their industry associations believe business will tank once the program ends, they will lobby forcefully to extend it again. The program's end-date and allocation of money were already arbitrary, making them easy to funge again.

Now that the government is subsidizing car sales, Sen. Richard Shelby, R-Ala., is correct to say, What's next? Socks? Refrigerators? Flat-panel TVs? The financial system had to be rescued to prevent the apocalypse and I'll grudgingly say the same about GM and Chrysler because the unemployment rolls would've swelled to a crushing level if both died. But that doesn't mean car purchases are the logical next step. Federal subsidies should exist for programs that benefit the neediest and broadest swaths of the population -- Medicare, Medicaid, food stamps, heating oil, housing. Industrial policy doesn't qualify.