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BY LINDSEY CANANT

Photo Credit: Dan Watkins

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By Jonathan Soroff

Parting the Velvet Ropes

Anyone who calls Boston’s social scene provincial has never been to the ICA’s Spring Gala, which rivals the parties covered by the international gossip rags except that you don’t get jet lag.

To honor the artist Dr. Lakra, whose work the ICA is showing, the museum commissioned him to design temporary tattoos. Although some guests had real ones, fashion pixie Mary Nobile-King decked herself and her gaggle of gay boys (yours truly included) in Chanel tattoos, complete with understated interlocking C’s. Cocktails and dinner took place in an office building overlooking the harbor at sunset, with the light reflecting nicely off the likes of latter-day Frank Lloyd Wright Charles Renfro, über art collector Barbara Lloyd, the vastly entertaining Ofer Nemirovsky with the ever-lovely Shelly, mega-benefactors Fotene Demoulas and Tom Cote, Samson Projects wonder-couple Alexandra Cherubini and Camilo Alvarez, and oh-so-many equally glittery others. The live auction item was a Goyard handbag designed by Dr. Lakra, and it fetched $21K (perhaps because WBZ-TV’s Lisa Hughes was modeling it). Afterward, there was an impromptu dance party on the way to the dance party, which was held on the harborside pavilion at the ICA, and provided an opportunity to see people like style-maker Jane Miller, British equestrian Paul Butterworth and the beyond fabulous Karen de Temple.

It also provided my favorite moment of the evening: VIPs had bracelets to enter through the back, and museum director Jill Medvedow forgot hers. After an awkward pause, someone said, “For Chrissakes, she runs the place,” and the security guard wisely stepped aside.

Here’s to the Ladies Who Lunch

Perhaps it was rebelling against tradition, or the threat of bad weather, that led many of the women to go hatless at a luncheon that usually resembles the Royal Enclosure at Ascot. Whatever the reason, the Emerald Necklace Conservancy’s Party in the Park had decidedly less, and less elaborate, headgear this year. Of course, that made cheek-kissing much easier (who really wants a scratched cornea from saying hello?). Ditto for navigating the crowd with a glass of Champagne in a flower-bedecked tent on the Fenway, where the couture quotient was high and the estrogen level palpable due to stunning specimens like sexy do-gooder Corinne Grousbeck, the flawless Kristan Fletcher, fashion maven Katie Schuller Bleakie, arts patron Linda Cabot Black, nightlife czarina Kristina Lyons, and even a few pairs of socially prominent first and second wives—which was handled with ladylike diplomacy. For those who were drinking, the wine flowed freely. For those who were eating, the first two spa-cuisine courses were followed by a mango tart rich enough to justify seconds. For those who had to get back to the office, the coffee couldn’t come fast enough. The top remarks:

“The baby came out 11 pounds, vaginal,” to which someone else responded, “Was he carrying a briefcase?” And, speaking of the lack of hats, one iconoclastic Brahmin said, “I’m too short to wear one. They make me look like a mushroom.”

As Seen on TV

What’s Hot and Pink? Get your mind out of the gutter. It’s a fund-raiser for the Breast Cancer Research Foundation, held at the Four Seasons and chaired by the likes of international Renaissance woman Evelyn Lauder, the home team’s Stacey Lucchino, brunette bombshell Andrea Brooks, the swanlike Linda Waintrup, and purveyor of bubbles and baubles Elisha Daniels, along with honorees sneaker magnate Paul and Phyllis Fireman.

WCVB-TV’s Kelley Tuthill did an excellent job of emcee’ing, while the Bristol Lounge did an outstanding job of accommodating the after-party. Which brings me to the party favor: a pink Snuggie. The event was so much fun, I spent the following day recovering, wearing it curled up in front of the TV.

Hear Her Roar

It was a major scheduling coup to get first ladies Diane Patrick and Angela Menino—along with such high-powered fellow honorees as harbor mistress Vivien Li, Red Sox brass Meg Vaillancourt, mega-philanthropist Barbara Lee, TV pocket pal and event emcee Janet Wu, to name only a few—in the same room at the same time. Throw in superstar Queen Latifah and you’ve got yourself a miracle. So it doesn’t really matter if other things didn’t go exactly as planned (like someone hijacking the microphone) when the Boston Women’s Fund held their benefit at the Mandarin Oriental.

Just being in the same room as so many admirable and accomplished women was enough to make me want a sex change. Except, to paraphrase Queen Latifah, that would mean I’d be bitching about cramps every month.

Photo captions, top to bottom: Emiley Lockhart at Party in the Park; Caroline Taggart, Rob Sachs, Marie Schwartz, Mark Schwartz, Fotene Demoulas and Tom Cote at the ICA; Gretta Monahan at the Hot Pink Party

Photo Credit: Tom Hahn

By Ezra Dyer

I love going to new grocery stores. You get in a rut patronizing your neighborhood store, and in my case, that’s always been a Stop & Shop. With all due respect to the former Beacon Hill Stop & Shop—and the current Southie and Quincy locations—ol’ S&S doesn’t exactly offer a luxury shopping experience. Often, my cooking plans have been stymied when my local outlet didn’t carry some exotic ingredient like ginger or cilantro. I recently explored the Whole Foods that replaced the Stop & Shop in Beacon Hill, and the sheer bounty of gourmet excellence made me feel like a Soviet defector from 1985: “Vat is this? Merchant in store will make sandwich fresh, not pre-wrapped in plastic? Finest restaurant in Moscow no offer lobster mac-and-cheese pizza! Glorious America Whole Foods!”

So when a new BJ’s opens in Quincy, I decide to check it out. I’ve never been to one of these club stores, but my mother swears by them. She’s always telling me about the great deal she got on some unlikely piece of merchandise that I wouldn’t expect they’d have at a place like Costco. For instance, “I bought a new parachute at Costco, and even though I don’t skydive, they were only $27 apiece, but you had to buy a 10-pack. So if you know anybody who needs parachutes, I’ve got a bunch out in the garage, next to the case of snow tires.”

My mission at BJ’s is simply to buy dinner. I’m not even sure you can do that there, but I sign up for a temporary membership and head into the maw of the beast to find out. BJ’s has a rep for selling everything in massive quantities, but when you see it for yourself, you realize that the stereotype isn’t exactly accurate. In reality, BJ’s sells everything in gargantuan giant enormous massive quantities. Want some plastic forks? How about 700 plastic forks? Or 760 Tootsie Rolls? Or a 20-pound bucket of laundry detergent? BJ’s seems aimed at people who’re either provisioning ships or shopping for the whole darn cult.

Dinner will be a challenge. All I want to do is grill some meat and veggies, but BJ’s doesn’t really do single servings. If you’re looking for a 14-pound tube of hamburger, you’re in the right place. Likewise a 16-pound slab of rib eye. But this isn’t à la carte shopping. I spy some intriguing mango-and-jalapeño chicken sausages and decide to give them a try. And hopefully I’ll like them, because now I’m committed—they come in a 10-pack. I give up on buns when I can’t find anything smaller than a 16-pack. I also score a six-pack of corn. So, only twice as much as I need. I contemplate making a salad before realizing that BJ’s produce packages require a salad bowl the size of an above-ground swimming pool.

Dinner in hand, I take a spin around the rest of the store to see if there’s anything else I need. I’m tempted by the Worcestershire sauce in a two-bottle package—30 ounces in total. (Or, as I call it, a lifetime supply.) I pass on that but grab a bag of Starbucks coffee that I calculate will make about 70 12-ounce cups at 33 cents each. I pick up an eight-pack of toothbrushes—a nice find, because when I drop my toothbrush, it never lands in the sink. It always lands behind the toilet. Or in it.

All in all, I get the BJ’s allure if you’re looking for prepackaged food or non-perishable items, such as a DVD of the complete first season of Renegade, starring Lorenzo Lamas ($7.99). You can buy just one of those, although I’d understand if you wanted two or three. Contemplating such weighty matters, I’m not paying attention as the cashier rings me up. When I reach my car, I realize that everything I bought is just sitting loose in the shopping cart. I guess you’re supposed to grab a few of the free boxes they keep at the front of the store—so you have some way to corral your new treasures. But I didn’t know. I didn’t realize BJ’s has its own rules for the checkout procedure. I feel like a foreigner—one who’s ready to defect back to the familiar embrace of the Stop & Shop motherland. At least, until 2013, when I’ll need more coffee and toothbrushes.

Photo Credit: Katie Little

By Ezra Dyer

What if you could reach across national borders, languages and cultures to meet people from all over the world who share your passions and your dreams? Thanks to a new site, you can do just that. Chatroulette is a simple program that connects your webcam to another person’s, allowing you to make friends and gain fascinating insight into their lives. And by “gain fascinating insight,” I mean “see their schlongs.”

A recent episode of South Park implied that Chatroulette is populated entirely by guys who are busy masturbating. Now that I’ve tried the site, I can say that South Park took some liberties for the sake of making a joke. Because Chatroulette is, at most, only 75 percent guys masturbating.

I start by firing up the site and, after giving it permission to access my webcam, my face pops up in a window. Directly above sits another window, where randomly selected strangers will appear. There’s a button marked “next” to bypass people. Likewise, the person on the other end can next your ugly self. And that’s about it. If you hit it off with someone, you can talk or type messages. It’s like having a pen pal on your computer! So goes the theory.

I’ve never used my webcam, so I’m mildly horrified to see how creepy I look sitting at my computer. Maybe it’s the angle of the camera or something, but I wouldn’t blame anyone for nexting me. Something makes me seem strangely intense, like the cops are knocking at my door, and I’m thinking about where to hide my victims.

Nonetheless, I steel my courage and hit next, summoning my new friend. Here’s a log of my first 30 seconds on Chatroulette: Dude with no shirt. Dude. Empty couch. Penis. Couple lying in bed, with the guy asleep. Porn ad. Guy and his penis. Empty couch again. Dude, dude, dude, dude, dude and his penis. Dude wearing a creepy mask, with some guy in the background packing a bong. Two girls, sitting on a couch. What?

“Look at him,” one of them says. “He looks so shocked!” She sounds British. Well, of course I’m shocked—I’m looking at clothed British girls instead of naked dongs. Before I can tell them so, they next me. Like I said, I don’t blame them.

I’m pretty trigger-happy with the next button myself, to the extent that I don’t manage to actually have a conversation. Imagine walking into a party where nobody knows anyone else: strange social dynamic, right? Now imagine walking into that party and half the people there are naked guys. Whether that makes the party better or worse depends on your perspective, I suppose. But, in my brief time on Chatroulette, I pretty much wear out the next button.

I venture back the following day, to see if maybe I’d caught Chatroulette at an exceptionally skeevy moment. Nope. It’s more of the same. From which I must conclude that “Chatroulette” is a misnomer. First, nobody’s chatting. And second, even in Russian roulette, there’s only one bullet in the gun. In “chat” roulette, nearly every chamber is loaded. With wieners.

You could say that Chatroulette epitomizes the unpredictable nature of the Internet—the Russian teenager who started the site probably thought that people would actually use it to talk, not that it would quickly morph into the world’s worst sausage party. But more than anything, I think Chatroulette underscores the differences between the sexes. Namely, women think they’re raunchy, but guys truly are.

According to the Sex and the City representation of the modern gal, ladies can shame men when it comes to frank language and shocking sexual escapades—oh, you’d be horrified if you knew what the girls really talked about amongst themselves! But when anonymous webcam connections became a reality, who dropped their pants and began flashing the world? Guys did. Because guys are pervs.

While I don’t know how many pervs are on Chatroulette, given the global reach of the Internet, it seems like a pretty small group. I kept encountering the same people repeatedly, and at one point I was even paired up with myself. Well hello there, handsome! Aside from the British chicks and the girl in bed with the sleeping guy, I saw a grand total of two other girls. They both nexted me. I guess they were looking for someone who’s a little more Brad Pitt. Or a lot more naked.

Photo Credit: Mark Wragg

By Nick Altschuller

Summer is the season to let go. You exercised for months, so now, feel free to grab that fourth hotdog. This winter, you actually watched The Blind Side, starring (Oscar-winner) Sandra Bullock. In August, wash that down with The Expendables, starring (Fulbright scholar) Dolph Lundgren. You put in the time to psychically and culturally better yourself. Summer is when you flush all that hard work down the toilet. It’s awesome.

Then there’s the beach read, the written word’s version of the Travel Channel. You can pretend you’re learning, but you’re really just watching a fat man trying to keep down a seven-pound burrito.

There are principles to this form of escapism: 1) It’s a throwaway. If the book falls in the Sandals pool, there are 1,000 more copies waiting at the airport; 2) The plot typically involves lawyers or lovers; and 3) I tend to stay away. I once read Jennifer Weiner’s Good in Bed, and my testicles still haven’t redescended.

I enjoy noir. One of my favorite authors is Ken Bruen, and in his stories, damaged men riddled with self-hatred get blackout drunk and kill each other. They’re a joy.

The books of Elin Hilderbrand are the polar opposite, but just like noir, her beach reads have a formula. In her novels, beautiful people deal with unexpected love and loss against the backdrop of Nantucket. Her latest tome, The Island, focuses on Birdie Cousins and her daughter, Chess, who loses her Ivy League fiancée in a mountaineering accident. Or there’s A Summer Affair, in which a car accident forces Claire Crispin to give up her dream of glassblowing. Seriously.

I sound pompous, but these novels are popular. In the public library system, more than a third of all the Hilderbrands are checked out. For Bruen? Just 17 out of more than 200.

I try to be objective about these things, but the first page in Hilderbrand’s The Castaways had me cringing. In walks Sergeant Dickson, but uh-oh, he’s “without his usual peppermint breeze of self-confidence.” (Only in Nantucket do the cops smell like candy.) Seems Tess and Greg MacAvoy drowned, and now their close-knit group of friends is coming apart at the seams. I’d tell you more, but I barely cared myself. What kept me engaged was detecting the beach-read components.

First, everyone comes prepackaged with adjectives. Characters aren’t developed as much as traced from preexisting archetypes. Thus we mourn the loss of Greg, who “had six-pack abs and the shoulders of Adonis” and a voice “somewhere between Frank Sinatra and John Mayer.” I read that, and I’m glad Greg is dead. There’s a palpable sense of laziness to the description, like the novel was written by someone on vacation, not for someone on vacation. This is a world where thunder sounds like “someone on the second floor was picking up large pieces of furniture and then letting them drop” and points of comparison include “the Chief was so humorless, he made Jeffrey feel like Jay Leno.” (Any place where Leno is the apex of comedy isn’t a place I want to visit.)

Pronouns also play an immense role. As in a Dick and Jane book, the subject of each sentence is explicitly stated and underlined; like Hilderbrand is worried we’re going to get the staggering amount of six total characters all jumbled. What’s worse is that the characters are endlessly thinking about one another. Delilah’s mad at Tess. Phoebe loves Addison. I once decided to count the number of first names on the page I was reading. 37! After that, each page read like roll call at an elementary school for children with incredibly unimaginative parents.

Of course the biggest device is that we’re constantly forced to acknowledge the drama. I’m nearly paying a compliment when I say that The Castaways reminded me of Anna Karenina, the last novel I made myself read. For 800 pages, Anna weeps and frets about which rich jerk she should spend her life with, until she finally throws herself under a train. Coincidently, the 7:10 to Moscow is my favorite character in that book.

Beach reads are about escape, but to enjoy the story, you have to go someplace unexpected. I already know how to be white and privileged. Give me switchblades. Give me renegade cops. Give me homicidal motorcycle gangs on a killing spree. And then, I can relax.

Photo Credit: Chris Beddoe

By Ezra Dyer

I hate hiring people to do things. It’s emasculating, because usually you’re paying some guy to come over and perform a task that you ought to be able to do yourself, if only you weren’t a useless, tender-handed liberal-arts major. For instance, I look at cracked tile grout on a bathroom floor and think, “I should be able to fix that.” It’s only when I’m on my hands and knees at 3 am, mopping grout off the bathroom mirror and the dog, that I realize I’ve overestimated my abilities.

I started the grout project at around 9 pm, thinking I’d be done by 10, and it could dry overnight. By 9:30, I’d gained a new appreciation for the miracle of linoleum. Excess grout kept creeping out of the neat floor grid and up onto the tiles, where I’d smear it around like a grout Picasso and then yell at it. There’s probably a better procedure. My back and knees started getting sore around midnight, which prompted me to take a few beer breaks while resting my weary haunches on the only seat available. Take-home lesson: When you’re sitting on the toilet, drinking Old Milwaukee and yelling at your bathroom floor at 3 am, you should’ve hired someone.

I had slightly better success tuning up my lawnmower, a hand-me-down that doesn’t so much mow the lawn as give it a stern talking-to. When I’m done mowing my lawn, I actually hear the grass laughing. So I tried to fix the mower, a process that involved tasering myself with the spark plug and eventually removing grass clippings from the gas tank.

I convinced myself that my work actually accomplished something, since my mower now sounds like a Sopwith Camel getting shot down by the Red Baron (sadly, this is an improvement). But my true feelings toward it were revealed when I almost trash-picked an ancient, wood-handled, rotary-push mower that my neighbors put out on the curb. In the end, I decided it was better to have a crappy power mower than to look like an escaped landscaper from the “American Gothic” painting. 

After the grout debacle and the standoff with the mower, critics might say that I shouldn’t rent a wetsuit and attempt amateur underwater construction work in the Atlantic Ocean. To those naysayers, I reply that I’m a better swimmer than you think, mom. I have a mooring in Quincy Bay. It’s a 250-pound hunk of iron with a ball floating on the surface. The ball disappeared in March, for reasons known only to King Neptune. So I bought a mask and snorkel, rented a wetsuit and paddled around in an inflatable boat with my face in the water. I was the absolute picture of suave dignity. Eventually, I found the mooring. Which meant I had to dive down, down—seven feet down, to the very bottom—and clip a carabiner and rope on the chain, so I could haul it to the surface.

I can’t overstate how terrifying it was to look into the inky blackness of the harbor, knowing I had to go down there. The rusty neck of the mooring loomed into view like a shipwreck, and I had thoughts of the movies Jaws, Jaws 2, Titanic and Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest. I took a deep breath and was kicking my way down when I disturbed a crab lounging on the chain. He was six feet across and had claws like bear traps. Maybe he was a little smaller. I don’t know. But Deadliest Catch caused me to shoot out of the water like a breaching whale, landing in my rubber boat, where I spent the next few minutes calmly screaming “Get it off me!” while hyperventilating.

After allowing suitable time to convince myself that the renowned Ama divers of Japan regularly exceed the punishing depth of seven feet, I tried again. Fighting the buoyancy of the wetsuit, I kicked my way down to the bottom, found the end of the chain and clipped the carabiner to it. SeaQuest complete, I returned to the surface and filled my searing lungs with delicious oxygen. Then I leaped back in the boat before any disgusting aquatic animal could touch me, a circumstance that might’ve caused me to sprint across the surface of the water and keep going until I reached St. Louis.

But the deal was done. I executed an underwater mission at the ocean floor. Am I the bravest person you know? Maybe. But if you try something like this yourself, I suggest you buy your own wetsuit. You never know if someone wearing one of those rentals might’ve seen a really scary crab.

By Jonathan Soroff

A Stroll Down Memory Lane

Weird statistic: The deadliest cancer—which kills more people every year than the next three most-common cancers combined—receives the least amount of funding because of the stigma attached to it.

But it’s not just smokers who increasingly get lung cancer, which was the point of Spread the Word, a swanky luncheon held at Pine Brook Country Club in Weston (where, incidentally, my stepfather and mother were longtime members).

On hand were cochairs Sondra Levinson and Meryl Bralower, and such patron ladies bountiful as Susan Poduska, Liz Novack, Cheryl Franklin, Judy and Leslee Shupe, Harriet Lewis and Amanda Korff, who presented an award in memory of her mother, Marjorie, to WCVB-TV Channel 5’s Heather Unruh.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the house, but lest it sound mawkish, the food was superb, the flowers were lovely, and emcee Susan Wornick lightened the mood with remarks like, “Oh, shit! You guys know all my jokes, but laugh anyway!”  

In short, it was a memorable afternoon (in the room where both my sisters got married), but when I went to use the men’s room, there was a sign taped to the door that said “Ladies,” forcing me to use the locker room. They’ve redone it since I was a kid, and it’s almost nice enough to make me want to start playing golf again. How about a Marjorie Korff Memorial Golf Tournament (hint, hint)?   

Clean Up on Aisle Nine

It’s amazing how some incredibly boring-sounding evenings in Cambridge end up attracting such interestingpeople.

That was the case when the Cambridge Health Alliance held its Art of Healing Award Dinner at the Charles Hotel. Looking natty in his bow tie was the first honoree, Dr. Ron Weintraub, and his red-headed pistol of a wife, Margo Howard (the syndicated columnist, daughter of Dear Abby and Budget Rent-a-Car heiress), reformed journalist Fiona Luis, eminent pediatric surgeon Lucien Leape, samurai poker player and esteemed law professor Charles Nesson, broadcasting babe Robin Young and celebrity chef Jody Adams, who arrived moments after a New Orleans–style brass band led everyone into dinner.

The evening’s most amusing exchange: Development beauty Selena DellaRocco said, “I’m the director of major gifts,” to which a man responded, “In my neck of the woods, that means jewelry.”

For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow

No one deserves a little pomp and circumstance more than war hero/real estate magnate/community activist/musician/nightclub owner Marvin Gilmore Jr., and he got it on Massachusetts Lafayette Day. French consul general Christophe Guilhou made Gilmore the first black man from Boston to win France’s highest decoration, the Legion d’Honneur, in a State House ceremony, with the Comte de Lafayette and such Francophiles as Caron LeBrun and Armand Andreassian looking on. Then it was down the hill to the Union Club for lunch—a fitting venue, given that the walk there went past the statue in Boston Common of the all-black 54th Regiment, and the club was founded in the 1860s by a splinter faction of blue bloods who thought the members of the Somerset Club weren’t strongly pro-Union enough. Before lunch, though, there were more medals to hand out—seems Gilmore never bothered to pick up the six he earned for distinguished service in World War II.

There also was a full honor guard from the 54th Regiment, with flags, rifles and the whole shebang Lest it sound suffocatingly formal: When Col. Sterling MacLeod took to the podium, he asked, “Where’s Marvin?” to which someone in another room shouted, “Getting a beer!”

All Creatures Great and Small

Given the parking options, it can take a lot to lure people to a loft deep in the North End, but Chad Jackson and Kathryn Burton’s hospitality made it worthwhile when they hosted a party for the Manomet Center for Conservation Sciences.

Besides learning about sandpiper migration (a bird, weighing as much as a AA battery, goes from the Arctic Wildlife Refuge to Guyana and back every year), guests saw spectacular photos of bears getting uncomfortably close to the researchers. They also got a chance to schmooze with the lovely Lacy Garcia and her improbably tall fiancé, Jack Roosevelt, international man of mystery Christian Bailey, interior designer to the stars DD Allen (if she’s good enough for Oprah…), latter-day Billy D. Williams Darryl Settles, force of nature Beatrice Roy (Jackson’s mother), laugh-riot Rosie Howells, two people who had last seen each other at a jazz festival in Panama City and one guest who said, “Just coming to the North End makes me gain 15 pounds.”

Photo captions, top to bottom: Meryl Bralower and Heather Unruh at Spread the Word; Margo Howard at the Art of Healing Award Dinner; Marvin Gilmore Jr. and Charles Yancey at the State House ceremony; Darryl Settles and Beatrice Roy at the Manomet party

By Jonathan Soroff

Balanced Nutrition

The theme was “classic noir,” the dress code black-tie and the mood decidedly madcap when the Museum of Fine Arts held its annual Summer Party.

The swanky evening unfolded beneath the Sargent murals in the rotunda and the Old Masters in the central hall, and pretty much everyone was there, channeling their inner Barbara Stanwycks and Robert Mitchums. Present and accounted for: art dealer Jon Shore, gorgeous French export Catheline van den Branden, man-about-town Peter Creighton, expectant news anchor Frances Rivera and her handsome husband, Stuart Fraass, cosmetics mogul Coco Grace, clothier-to-the-stars Alan Rouleau, the chap from Chappaquiddick Justin Dangel, the breathtakingly beautiful Charlotte Ross, BSO babe Nina Jung, PBS stud muffin Jared Bowen and countless other bright young things, who ingested, imbibed and danced the night away.

“I love parties at the MFA,” observed one guest, “because if the people bore you, you can always look at the art.”

However, the evening’s most amusing remark came from the person who ordered a martini, very dry, straight up, with a twist, took a sip, and said, “Mmm! Vitamins, minerals and vodka!”

Turning Frowns Upside Down

An intimidatingly attractive crowd, flashing blinding Pepsodent smiles, turned out for the Tooth Fairy Ball, held at the Franklin Institute to benefit the Forsyth Institute, which provides free dental care to underprivileged kids.

The event featured a best-smile contest (with categories that included “Most Mona Lisa”) and wines paired with an artisanal-cheese tasting. (Get it? “Say cheese!”) Among the inordinately good-looking crowd were InterContinental cutie Liz Driscoll, real-estate hotties Levi Reilly and Carolyn Hern, the beyond stunning Ssanyu Nutt-Birigwa, babe-a-licious brunette Katherine Armoutsoglou, tech vixen Jessica Corlett and Gallic funboy Tristan Govignon (both serving as judges), the ever-sexy Thom Delahunt, who came out of retirement to DJ the party, and one woman who said, “Let me think about it. I’m going to the bathroom, and that’s where I do my best thinking.”

“This is an interesting party because none of the faux-cialites are here,” another gal added. “You know who I mean: those totally delusional narcissists who think they belong on the cover of Vanity Fair?”

True enough, but, that said, one guest was overheard whining: “My sister sold her house in the Hamptons. Now what am I supposed to do all summer?”

Punk’d

By far the best practical joke we’ve seen recently: Devilishly clever real-estate developer Peter Georgantas and his partner-in-crime, Steve Kempainen, broke into their friend’s house one weekend while he was away. “He has the best deck on Beacon Hill facing the river,” Georgantas says. “It’s got an outdoor kitchen, gas fireplace, TV, living room, dining area, etc. So we added the only thing it was missing…”

Now it also has a wicked pissah view.

Photo captions, top to bottom: Frances Rivera at the MFA Summer Party; Levi Reilly and Carolyn Hern at the Tooth Fairy Ball

Photo Credit: Dan Watkins

By Ezra Dyer

I’m on a plane, and the passenger next to me eyes my book—Stieg Larsson’s The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. She says, “Oh, I just finished that one, and I’m on the second one. Isn’t it great?” This question puts me in an awkward position. Because, no, I don’t think it’s great. In fact, I think it might be the worst book in the English language.

I ordered Larsson’s blockbuster because I’d heard so much about it and figured it must be pretty good to achieve such widespread popularity. Boy, was I wrong. Or, as Stieg Larsson might’ve put it, “Ezra was excited he had ordered the book, as excited as he could have been in the passive voice. But his excitement was as misplaced as a buffalo at a boat show.” And yes, “as a buffalo at a boat show” is an actual simile from the book. It’s also probably the most inspired prose in the first 100 pages.

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo was originally written in Swedish, and the English version reads as if it were translated by Google and edited by a Pomeranian. Actually, correction—that would imply that it’s been edited at all. If jarring lapses in logic distract you from a story, then TGWTDT will pose some challenges.

For instance, on page 18, we’re learning about the protagonist, Mikael Blomkvist. Larsson likes to make sure we’re well-informed on everyone’s real-estate holdings, so we find out that Mikael bought his apartment during “the go-go eighties” from a guy who had to move out because he “suddenly got a job at a dot-com company abroad.” Right. Remember the ’80s dot-com boom? I illegally downloaded lots of Tiffany and Flock of Seagulls to my tape deck. If that seems sloppy, we later learn that Mikael also has a summer house “worth millions,” a “cottage of 270 square feet.” Unless somebody missed a decimal point, that means his summer house is the size of a generous parking spot. No wonder he’s such a tormented soul—his feet stick out his front door when he sleeps.

The book’s namesake, Lisbeth Salander, gets more generous character development. Let me summarize: she’s a cute Goth chick. How cute, though? “Her extreme slenderness would have made a career in modeling impossible.” So the only thing holding her back from a modeling gig is her… slenderness? You know, I watch a lot of America’s Next Top Model (I mean, my wife watches a lot of America’s Next Top Model), and Tyra is always saying, “You could be a model, if only you weren’t so slender.”

But anyway, fine. She’s an almost-model in the looks department. That’s page 39. You’ve got your mental image of Lisbeth Salander—she’s like Kate Moss with black lipstick. Fast-forward to page 113, and Larsson throws in one more detail about his title character: “She herself was four feet eleven and weighed 90 pounds.” I’m no fiction expert, but isn’t it a bit strange to wait 74 pages to mention that your title character is a dwarf? Seriously—the Little People of America defines dwarfism as “an adult height of 4'10" or shorter, among both men and women, although in some cases a person with a dwarfing condition may be slightly taller than that.” If Stieg Larsson wrote The Autobiography of Malcolm X, page 113 would include the line, “Malcolm X was black.”

OK, some books are driven more by the plot than by characters. But the plot is also stupid. One crucial part of the story concerns a heating-oil truck that flips over on a bridge to an island. Nobody can enter or leave the island, because the truck might explode—“it would have been the same as climbing over a bomb.” The only problem is that heating oil—aka, diesel fuel—doesn’t explode. Even the dumbass Times Square terrorist didn’t fill his Pathfinder with heating oil. Maybe diesel is more explosive in Sweden.

The truck plays a pivotal role early on, as we learn during Mikael’s lengthy conversation with a mysterious old man I call Old Man Exposition. This guy is gonna tell us the whole sordid story that drives the book. But not right away, because this wizened Swede is in no rush to move things along. Mikael, like the reader, wants to know what’s going on. He says, and I quote, “I’m mostly curious about why I’m here,” “Why me? What makes you think I’d be able to help you?” “What exactly is it you want me to do?” “Tell me what you want,” “Tell me what you want me to do,” “Tell me what this job involves,” “What are you getting at?” and “What is the real objective?” Finally, eight pages later, Larsson decides we’ve had enough SUSPENSE, and Mr. Right-to-the-Point says, “What I want is for you to solve a mystery.”

Like Mikael Blomkvist, I’ve got some questions. How do Random House editors ignore sentences like, “What do you want to revenge?” How does a writer manage to use the words “was” and “has” 13 times in a half-page? Why, in a book originally published in 2005, does Larsson explain what an iPod is? When he writes, “They had lain head to foot for hours and talked about the future,” does that mean that two people were talking to each other’s feet, 69-style? When a character says, “Forgive me for bothering you like this unannounced, so to speak,” why does he add the “so to speak”?

Are you dying to read this book yet? Well, then let me provide you with a pulse-pounding excerpt to stoke your excitement: “He had hesitantly plumped for the Social Democrats, there being nothing in his imagination worse than three more years with Gösta Bohman as finance minister and Thorbjörn Fälldin (or possibly Ola Ullsten) as prime minister. So he had voted for Olof Palme, and got instead the assassination of his prime minister plus the Bofors scandal and Ebbe Carlsson.” Whoa, be careful you don’t get paper cuts from turning the pages so fast.

I think the Swedish chef from the Muppets was more articulate than Stieg Larsson. “Bork bork bork, a dead body! Bork bork!” But if you enjoyed this book, then I have some additional reading recommendations for you: IKEA assembly instructions, a Saab 9000 owner’s manual, the side of the Absolut bottle that you’re clutching as you wistfully recall the Faulknerian prose of the Harry Potter novels. The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo is a mystery. I’ll say.

By Jonathan Soroff

Support You Can Count On

If I had a Children’s Action Corp, I’d make them dress up in cute uniforms and sing to me, like the von Trapps, and maybe even massage my feet. But apparently Robert F. Kennedy had other ideas in mind.

At Embracing the Legacy, the annual fundraiser held at the John F. Kennedy Library, the organization chose to honor such passionate advocates for youth services as mega-philanthropists Steve and Joan Belkin, the right Hon. James T. Brett (of the do-gooding Bretts) and Teach for America founder Wendy Kopp.

On hand to fete them (and schmooze amongst themselves) were red-headed scion Joe Kennedy III and the breathtakingly lovely Lauren Birchfield, brunette babe Amy Belkin (looking stunning in a dress that BFF fashionista Harley Bilzerian found for her), Red Sox owner John Henry and his stunning bride Linda Pizzutti, gazillionaire Democratic operative Chris Gabrieli, the comme il faut Nancy Belsky and her other half, Mark, Wellesley’s most social couple, Lynne and Gary Smith, and others of comparable wattage.

The VIP reception was followed by cocktails, which ended with waiters and waitresses performing the thankless task of trying to herd everyone into dinner so the bestowing of awards could begin.

Overheard by the bar:

One man greeted a female friend by saying, “You look fabulous,” to which she responded: “Thanks. You know, at my age, it’s all about the bra.”   

Auto Eroticism

Light-years away from your typically stuffy fund-raiser, the Lupus Foundation of New England hosted a happening cocktail party at the Larz Anderson Auto Museum, and even more refreshing, it wasn’t all the usual suspects.

Against the backdrop of all those classic cars, there was classic jazz (courtesy of Al Copley, who flew in from Europe just to be there), classic food (courtesy of Fireplace owner Jim Solomon, who schlepped all the way from the other side of Brookline to be there) and classic cocktails (courtesy of a bartender who deserved a medal).

Board chair Pat Fraser was there, looking lovely, with her husband (and self-described “appendage”) Edgar Milford, as were aptly named fashion plate Jewel Ford, vivacious editor Sheila Horowitz, maraschino cherry fan Joanna Haas, Rulala babes Maura Howley and Rachel Solomon (Jim’s wife), the beyond gorgeous Jenna Jarosz, whose mother, Beverly, is the foundation’s development director, and one woman who said, “I had an international marriage. I’m not really sure whether or not I’m divorced.”

Responding to a disparaging remark about Nantucket, another woman said, “I was married on Nantucket,” prompting someone else to ask, “And how long did that last?”

Other topics of conversation ranged from the Kardashians to butt waxing, which made for an edifying evening, especially when one man pointed at a car from the 1960s and said, “Is that a chick magnet, or what?” To which another responded, “I had a similar one in college, which must mean I’m old, ’cause I’m sure as hell not rich.” 

You Are Hereby Banished From Red Sox Nation

It was hard to know what to pay attention to—the models or the clothing—when Fashionably Late at the Liberty Hotel hosted its final affair of the season to benefit Room to Grow.

Among the bold-faced names strutting their stuff on the catwalk were lovable restaurateur Dante de Magistris, incurable ham Christopher Myers, fashion luminaries Alexandra Hall and Lisa Pierpont, natural born Zoolander Mike Diskin, Colombia’s answer to Ricky Martin, Ricardo Rodriguez (who brought along his own cheering section), tall, dark and handsome Paul Epstein (whose wife, Saskia, runs the organization) and others who were just too sexy for their shirts.

Aside from the fact that it was somewhat sweltering on the fifth floor and the unpleasantness of snippy girls with clipboards bossing everyone around (apparently, they’re an indispensable part of any fashion show), it was a thoroughly entertaining evening.

My personal highlight: When the woman next to me asked who Paul Epstein was, I explained, “Saskia’s husband and Theo’s brother,” to which she replied, “Oh. Who’s Theo?” 

Photo captions, top to bottom: Joe Kennedy III and Amy Belkin at Embracing the Legacy; Jewel Ford and Sheila Horowitz at the Lupus Foundation party; Paul Epstein at Fashionably Late

By Ezra Dyer

Photo Credit: Nikada

I enjoy drinking games. Beer die, beer pong, Beirut, kings, flip-cup, yee-haw, boat races—I’ve done them all. Usually badly and with great enthusiasm. I’m not a snob about drinking games. In the name of athletic competition, I’ve chugged lemon-lime Mad Dog and funneled beer with Spam and mayonnaise in it. I even enjoy playing the stupidest drinking game yet invented, three-gulp. (If you manage to drink your beer in three gulps, then you, umm… well, that’s it, actually.) But I just can’t work up much enthusiasm for the latest craze. I’m sorry, but I’m taking a pass on bros icing bros.

The idea behind “bros icing bros” is simple: Ambush your friends with Smirnoff Ice. Then they have to drink it. Unless they’re ready with an Ice of their own, in which case you have to drink both Ices. And the context of the situation doesn’t matter. Board meeting, operating room, funeral—you have to play. Perhaps you’ve recently been on a plane that was inexplicably delayed at the gate. You know why? Because the pilot got totally iced by his bropilot.

My problem with bros icing bros is that it’s predicated on irony—you see, the type of guys who call each other “bro” are the type of guys who’d drink Jäger bombs, not malternative beverages! That’s unexpected and therefore humorous! But here’s the problem: Grown men are buying Smirnoff Ice for the express purpose of playing this game. I know at least two who’ve done so in recent weeks. In fact, the reason there haven’t been any terror attacks lately is because Osama bin Laden has been too busy icing his bros. According to intercepted terrorist chatter, he now calls himself Brosama Been Icin’.

Now, if you had some Smirnoff Ice left over from a party, and you invented this game to get rid of it, that would be funny. But if you drive to the store, pull out your wallet and purchase a six-pack of Ice, that’s no longer ironic. It just means you really want to drink a sweet, sodalike alcoholic beverage. While on one knee. And if you enjoy Smirnoff Ice, or Twisted Tea, or Mike’s Hard Lemonade, more power to you. But just don’t pretend that you’re unhappy about it, because the punishment for not playing the game is—get ready—you don’t have to play the game.

That’s right. If you opt not to drink when presented with an Ice, then you’re forever barred from playing. Which means that if you don’t play a game that you don’t want to play, the consequence is that you can’t play it. That’s like telling me, “If you don’t watch this episode of The View right now, you’re never going to be able to watch it again!” Really? Awesome.

BIB began at colleges, but I was at a cookout in Needham when I first got iced. And that should tell you all you need to know about the game. Some fads stick around because they’re actually fun (see: flip-cup, Beirut, or drinking every time LeBron James does something egomaniacal), but I think this one has run its course. When guys are saying, “Honey, could you hold the baby while I chug this Smirnoff Ice?” you’re probably looking at a trend on the wane.

Plus, isn’t this game sexist? Why can’t women carry around Smirnoff Ice all day like a bunch of d-bags? I don’t think I’m the only one who’s pondered this question, based on the fact that someone has already reserved the web address hosicinghos.com.

Just so I don’t feel like a complete Grumpy Gus about a game that’s hip with the kids, allow me to suggest some variations on bros icing bros. Because, for a game to become a fixture, it must evolve—basketball, you know, was once played with hula hoops and monkey skulls. And now it’s only played that way in certain Maine men’s leagues.

So how about this: If your bro hands you a baby, you have to adopt it. If your bro hands you a photo of Ben Franklin, you have to go fly a kite in a lightning storm. If your bro gives you some cilantro, you’ve got to add it to whatever you’re cooking, even if you’re allergic and think it tastes like soap. That’s just bros spicing bros!

For my part, I’m out. Banished like Pete Rose. The second time I was iced, I refused the Smirnoff and drank a beer. Which, you know, isn’t allowed. But that’s OK, because I’m already working on two new drinking games that I think are going to be quite the rage. I call them “golf” and “fishing.” The best part is, they can even be combined with other games. Although, I admit, it’s hard to hit a lob wedge while playing Edward 40-Hands.

By Nick Altschuller

The Great Gatsby threw dazzling garden parties. He wore a pink suit and silk shirts in coral, lavender, faint orange and monograms of Indian blue. He was a shiny neon sign obsessed with a green light who paraded around town in a yellow Rolls-Royce.

I always related to the narrator, Nick Carraway. He’s quiet, reflective and, like myself, I think he’d be perfectly content with a Honda. Of course, we’re happy to dabble in grandeur, and when I received an offer of a Rolls-Royce for the weekend, I grabbed it. My friends were getting married in Newport, and here was a chance to turn Aquidneck Island into my own East and West Egg.

I was nervous on my way to pick up the 2010 Phantom Drophead Coupe. (That’s pronounced coo-pay. I don’t know why, and I didn’t want to ask and embarrass myself in front of the car.) There’s a 453-hp, 6.8-liter V-12 engine under the brushed, stainless-steel hood. It has 21" wheels, teak decking inspired by America’s Cup yachts and dealer options that cost well over my car’s resale value. The Phantom is meant to stand out, and as such, it’s a very polarizing vehicle.

I wasn’t even out of the driveway before I received my first thumbs-up from a passerby. Less than a mile later, the first middle finger was waved in my direction. “I think this guy is giving you the finger, too,” my girlfriend said during mile four, as an 18-wheeler swerved near, blaring its horn. “No, never mind, he’s giving us the ‘let’s switch’ sign.’” It was rush hour; I was antsy and picturing a truck tire destroying the $12,000 paint job on my $500,000 loaner. So I flipped a bird of my own.

It was hard to relax in my luxury automobile. I admit, during that first afternoon I was a bit of a pill. Seems the Rolls is more fun to be driven in than to drive. The America’s Cup styling is appropriate because at 18-feet long and almost three tons, the Coupe steers like a boat. This isn’t a vehicle for hairpin turns. For my passengers, though, relaxing wasn’t a problem, and they all took the opportunity to lounge in the sun, role play as young moguls or simply sleep on this leather sofa on wheels. Meanwhile, I just kept my hands at 10 and two, smiled nervously at other drivers and exhaled deeply whenever I stepped out the suicide doors.

But I always looked forward to climbing back in. One has to show off a little, and the following day we left downtown Newport, cruised past the vineyards and the polo matches, and made our way to the modest, West Egg side of the island, where I had to make a vital stop: my high school.

Of course, being July, no one was there. Not my stentorian dorm master. Not the girl who took me as her pity date to the winter formal. Just some sad summer-schoolers, who hopefully learned from an alum that with a little hard work, you, too, can fake a better life.

On the way out of town, I learned that being rich apparently saves you money, as the hotel elected not to charge me for parking. After all, a Phantom out front is a free boost to an establishment’s cultural cachet. That, or my cargo shorts and old T-shirt suggested that I might not have the cash on me.

Fifty miles later, we made one last stop by my folks’ house, where my father got a kick out of pushing all the buttons on the dash, which he’s always yelled at me for doing. He even described the Phantom as “sexy,” a word I don’t recall him saying before. My mother enjoyed a Sunday cruise, but afterward confessed she’d prefer something she could abuse, which was disconcerting to hear, both as her son and the owner of her old car.

In the end, the Phantom was fun to drive, in no small part, because it gave my friends a chance to climb behind the wheel, to imagine themselves as the owner of a seaside mansion or a shiny pink suit. I was happy to observe, then hand back the keys and write it all down.

Take the Martha’s Vineyard Museum, which chose to honor the island’s contributions to World War II at its annual gala, held at Tower Hill, the house on Edgartown Harbor run by the Vose Family Trust.

For example: Who’d have guessed that of the 22 veterans recognized, 14 were still alive, or that one helped liberate Buchenwald, while another was a classmate of Anne Frank’s?

The gala, held under a tent P.T. Barnum would’ve been proud of, attracted the elite likes of journalistic superstars Charles and Charlayne Hunter-Gault, historian David McCullough, goddess Charla Jones, Hollywood bigshots Amy and Andy Heyward (who has 400 pairs of glasses that he matches to every outfit), lovely Wampanoag Berta Giles, the world’s chicest nonagenarian, Molly Cook, auctioneer Karen Keane, Beacon Hill power couple Tim and Ellen Guiney, a man in full-dress uniform, a woman inexplicably dressed like a stewardess and a particularly low-key ICA trustee who said, “Even though we’re not sitting at the same table, I’m sure you’ll be laughing at the same things we are.”

Regarding the social Olympics of Martha’s Vineyard, one guest said, “People here answer every question by telling you exactly how long they’re here for and how many years they’ve been coming to the island. I asked one man something about his work, and he said, ‘Well, we’re here for four months of the year, you know.’” 

Monthly Contest

Go-to-hell pants—those trousers that are usually lime green or brick red and embroidered with lobsters or

 pheasants or tennis rackets—are a summer perennial among preppy Wasps and those who wish to be mistaken for them. Sometimes, they’re a seizure-inducing Lily Pulitzer print, or four clashing panels of Madras, but no matter what, they all send the same message: “I don’t care if my outfit makes your eyes bleed.”

It turns out there’s a subtler, slightly less aggressive variation, which we’ll call “You’re Cordially Invited to Screw Yourself” pants. The finest example I’ve seen of these is the Mylanta-colored khakis pictured here. It takes a confident guy to carry off pants the shade of an antacid, and the first reader to correctly guess the identity of their owner will win an Improper Bostonian T-shirt, which doesn’t so much scream, “Go to Hell!” as, “Order Me a Drink When You Get There!”

Photo captions, top to bottom: Amy and Andy Heyward at the Martha's Vineyard Museum gala; mystery Pants

BY JONATHAN SOROFF

Yo, Ho, Ho and a Bottle of Fun

How many blondes does it take to throw a cocktail party?

Apparently two, and they should preferably be news anchors, like WCVB-TV Channel 5 on-air minxes Bianca de la Garza and Susan Wornick, who tag-teamed as the hosts of the Summer Soiree at Splash Ultra Lounge.

A benefit for the Zack Heger Foundation, which funds muscular dystrophy research, the party attracted the eclectic and interesting likes of Heger’s parents—Margie Lamir-Heger and Rodney Heger (who are cordially divorced), her second husband, orthopedic surgeon Jack Tierney, bubbly fashion plate Julie Burke, JP hipsters Peter Kasper and Flo Zimmerman, Renaissance man Conrado Bondoc, and PR princesses Kristen Daly, Nicole Russo and Diane McNamara, as well as lots of sparkly others, sipping cocktails on the Miami-inspired rooftop and trying not to trip into the ankle-deep swimming pool/fountain.

As is typical of most summer soirees, there was much talk of trips to the beach or the mountains, but somewhat less typical was the woman who said, “This weekend I’m going to my lesbian cousin’s pirate-themed wedding on a lake in Vermont.”

When pressed for details, she added, “A lesbian folk singer is walking them down the plank.”

Everything else sort of pales in comparison, so I mumbled something about not having any real plans for the weekend in the hopes that I might get invited. (After all, how many pirate-themed lesbian weddings do you hear about?)

“I’m bringing my daughter,” the woman said, after some outright begging on my part. “She’ll find it wildly entertaining.” (Well, I should certainly hope so.)

In any case, the party was perfectly lovely, the rain held off, and the scallops wrapped in bacon were so enticing that I couldn’t resist burning the inside of my mouth on one. Thankfully, there were cocktails to dull the pain, and by the time I left, there were still lots of hot young things arriving. Long story short: a summer party worth remembering, even without lesbian pirates.

Hitting the Deck

If you build it, they will come. Which is pretty much what happened when über-chef Jody Adams built an outdoor patio at her Harvard Square eatery, Rialto.

As for who “they” were, the tanned and attractive guest list included alluring and appealing characters like the newly (re)married Robin Culbertson, foodie flack Chris Langley, bivalve god Patrick Woodbury, hospitality hotties Dan Avery and Benson Willis, the startlingly handsome Michael Murphy (a Harvard grad student who’s already designed and built a hospital in Rwanda), his partner in do-gooding, Minda Nicolas (freshly back from a long stint in Africa), food writer Andrea Pyenson, the Charles Hotel’s ever-dapper GM Alex Attia and one man who said, apropos of pretty much nothing, “Sexual savant. That’s what I want it to say on my business card.” (Memo to him: I get a spam e-mail almost daily offering 500 free business cards. It might be just what you need.)

Needless to say, the food was superb, the tasty gin concoctions flowed like tasty gin concoctions should, and the party offered a perfect vantage point from which to watch cast members of the A.R.T.’s The Donkey Show practice their guerilla disco tactics on unsuspecting passersby.

What more could you ask for on a Thursday night in July?

I Stand Corrected

I wish I could say that I did it on purpose, to see if anyone was paying attention, but I’d be lying. Fortunately, the very observant Sylvia Bagley of Salem sent me a handwritten letter in which she pointed out that I’d referred to syndicated advice columnist Margo Howard as Dear Abby’s daughter, when, in fact, her mother was Ann Landers. Of course, the fact that Ann Landers and Abigail Van Buren were twin sisters and famous rivals makes my mistake even worse, but what renders it unforgivable is that Margo is my friend. So, thank you, Sylvia and Margo: I owe you dinner, and you can sit next to Dollface.

Photo captions, top to bottom: Bianca de la Garza, Margie Lamir-Heger and Susan Wornick at the Summer Soiree; Sean Griffing, Jody Adams and Chris Langley at the Rialto party

Photo Credit: Hulton Archive

By Ezra Dyer

Heather and I recently had a baby. More precisely, she had a baby. I was present in the hospital room, but the fact is, eating pizza and drinking beer isn’t the same as giving birth. This is why I refuse to ever use the phrase “we’re pregnant.” We didn’t each have half a baby that somehow merged into a person when we bumped our fists together like the Wonder Twins. Hey, if “we” were pregnant, then someone would’ve thought to offer me some painkillers in the delivery room. I have very strong empathy, you know.

Immediately after the baby’s month-early grand debut, we were faced with a problem: deciding what to call him. We figured we had time to figure that out, but of course, that notion was dashed by our super-baby’s mere eight-month gestation. So they wrote “Baby Boy Dyer” on his hospital wrist bracelet. I kind of liked that one, actually. Baby Boy Dyer sounds like he’d travel the country, hustling chumps at pool halls—always a nice career option to put out there for your newborn. But eventually, he’d need a government name.

It’s not easy to name a person. I can’t even decide what to name a boat. I mean, Dixie Normous is funny now, but will it be funny the 100th time I say it on the radio? (Of course it will.) I did successfully name two dogs. My only misgiving? I didn’t call one of them Critter.

So I’m not an expert in the name game, but I do know that you should resist the urge to focus-group your choices. A name should be the product of a dictatorship, not a democracy. If Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta had consulted her friends and family about what to call herself, it’s highly doubtful that her mom would’ve said, “You know, I think you should go with ‘Lady Gaga.’”

No, you should never tell anyone what you’re thinking of naming your kid. Or if you do, you should give them a decoy name. Like, “If it’s a boy, we’re leaning toward Jambalaya Monstro, but Nerville Underarm Codbody is in the running, too. If it’s a girl, we’re gonna go with Heather Jr., because there just aren’t enough girls named Junior.” Then, whatever you name the kid will be a relief.

There are three main factors to consider when selecting a moniker. The first thing to think about is how other kids will pervert and make fun of it. Second, you should test how it sounds when you’re yelling it in anger—you want something that rolls off the tongue when you’re screaming it across a crowded Chuck E. Cheese. And finally, you need to find a name that hasn’t already been tainted by someone you know. Even if I loved the name Luke, I couldn’t name my kid that, because I knew a Luke in preschool and he always had a snotty nose. I can’t saddle my son with a 90 percent likelihood of being the snotty-nose kid. Because that’s how that works.

Eventually, with Baby Boy Dyer on the verge of going on the birth certificate, we went with Rhys (pronounced “Reese”). It was weird enough to satisfy me while being normal enough to placate everyone else.

Rhys passes the acquaintance connotation test, since neither of us knows anyone with that name. Monosyllabic, it’s easy to yell angrily. However, I’m afraid that it does provide the rotten little children of the future with quite a bit of ammo on the mockery front.

“He’ll be called ‘Rhesus Monkey,’” said my mom, who’s perhaps assigning too much simian expertise to grade-schoolers. But “Reese’s Pieces” is inevitable, and probably so are “greasy monkey” and “Rhys-tard.” Then again, I was called Ez the Lez, and I turned out just fine, after the prison stint and years of therapy.

Trying to predict taunts is a losing battle, anyway. My parents couldn’t have guessed when they named me that a cartoon called The Smurfs would feature a cat named Azrael—and that this would become a taunt to apply to a kid named Ezra. Nor could they have foreseen the arrival of an alt-rock band that would lead to everyone calling their son “Better Than.” They probably could’ve predicted the Ez the Lez thing, though. Point being: If a punk calls him Rhesus Monkey, he’ll just laugh it off while beating the kid up and ostracizing him from the popular clique.

Bottom line? Names are arbitrary. If Rhys hates his, he can always go by his middle name. Nobody makes fun of Jambalaya Monstro.

By Nick Altschuller

Last month, I signed up for the Lowell Sun Half Marathon, a race more than four times the length of any I’ve run before. I’m aiming to finish in just under two hours, a time that’s perfectly respectable but that won’t impress anyone, which pretty much describes me as an athlete, as well.

In the sports world, compression gear is a hot commodity. Recovery socks are getting full spreads in running magazines. NFL players are currently shrinkwrapping their brawn under compression shirts. A few years ago, NBA commissioner David Stern got his undies in a bunch as superstars like Kobe Bryant and Dwyane Wade took to wearing tights.

The company that supplies Wade with his stockings is McDavid, Inc., one of several firms now fabricating recovery gear. About six years ago, McDavid found the world of spandex had gone slack. “It got to the point where every average Joe mowing his lawn was wearing Under Armour,” says marketing director Rey Corpuz. Working with Olympic hopefuls, McDavid created a line of products designed to both boost performance—by increasing support and the flow of oxygenated blood to the focus area—and aid in recovery, as increased circulation prevents blood from pooling and lactic acid buildup. Of course there’s an aesthetic hurdle. When actually wearing the gear, you feel like the guy who brings cleats to the company softball game.

“I’m going to be honest, you look a bit like a douche,” my girlfriend said, as I modeled my pants and knee-high socks. “Is that really going to help you when you’re not a peak performer?” I was going to find out.

Due to a weekend wedding, I missed 11 scheduled miles of training, so I had planned a rigorous week of catch-up. Three hard days in a row had me ready when my apparel arrived on Wednesday. That night I slept in McDavid’s True Compression Recovery Pant ($75). Like Superman’s pajamas, they were cozy and gave my thighs a snug eight-hour hug.

The next day I stepped onto the treadmill like someone walking across hot coals—expecting the worst and hoping for the best. I wouldn’t say my legs felt peppy, but they weren’t sore, and I banged out four miles at a decent clip. Facing another four on Saturday, I slept in the socks and used Friday to put my legs through a gauntlet of squats, lunges and sprints, all exercises proven to rip my muscle fibers like cheap burlap. 

With another night in the pants, my legs felt fine, considering. A Saturday run in the socks, minus the stares, was quite comfortable. After one last night with vacuum-sealed stems, I awoke on Sunday to face the final leg: seven miles, 90-degree heat and what seemed like a headwind at every turn. 

Running in the pants was like putting new tires on a car with no fuel, as I stumbled around for an hour, pain free but exhausted. Though there’s a sense your muscles are pulled into action, like a puppet tugged by a string, and the stocking did provide a breezy cool I hadn’t felt since a grade-school production of Robin Hood.

The benefits are hard to quantify, as you can’t objectively measure an absence of aching or a slight increase in energy. I tend to agree with the case studies showing recovery gear decreases delayed muscle soreness but offers no real performance advantage. But what does the man on the street say?

“You’re at least a little less sore the next day,” says Will, an employee at Marathon Sports and a fellow former member of the Bates College track team. With a half-marathon time around 1:20, Will often runs in calve sleeves, but he admits, “some days your legs just feel better than others.”

“It’s probably—next to minimalist shoes—the fastest-growing market in running,” says Justin Burdon, co-owner of South End Athletic Company. A near four-minute miler while at Boston College, or as I prefer to call it, “the inferior B.C.,” Burdon refrains from compression gear. “I’m not in competition anymore, so it’s not something I really need.”

At $20-$60 just for socks, I’d pass, too. I especially wouldn’t shell out $200 for the new Saucony recovery suit, unless I wanted to complete the superhero ensemble. But with the gear already in hand, it’s going to get some use. An advantage, even minimal, even fictitious, needs to be grabbed this many miles from the finish line.

Photo Credit: Kyrylo Chelnokov

By Ezra Dyer

Once upon a time, I knew how to take a vacation. Spring break, senior year of college, I was a leisure expert. For a solid week, I sat on the beach, slept ’til noon and did my part to bolster the share price of the Bacardi company. I had no schedule. I definitely had no goals. My only accomplishment: the discovery that a pair of empty Heineken mini-kegs could be strapped to my arms and used as makeshift swimmies in the pool. That was important work, but it happened by accident, like the discovery of penicillin and Kate Gosselin’s career.

My definition of a great vacation is that you’re depressed when it ends. It’s like the phenomenon of Sunday depression (which arrives on the tail end of a great weekend) but more intense. After that spring break, I was bummed out. After my honeymoon: bummed out. After my weeklong vacation on the Cape this past month: sort of relieved.

This was my first full week away in four years, so I was ready for some serious relaxation. I fit a week’s apparel in a carry-on. If I ran out of clothes, I just wouldn’t wear any. The house we rented had a hammock. I planned to get so relaxed that tree sloths would climb into the hammock and check my pulse.

Except that somewhere between college and your early 30s, the definition of a vacation seems to change. Instead of doing as little as possible, vacations turn into a contest to see how many activities can be crammed into a single day. I guess the idea is to wring as much fun as possible out of a limited amount of time, and that’s a normal impulse. But over a week on the Cape, there was only one day when I didn’t get up before dawn. And if you’re waking up to an alarm—never mind before sunrise—then you’re doing vacation wrong.

It sounds churlish to whine about golfing and fishing, but I fail to understand why these activities need to be undertaken at first light. Especially golf. At least with fishing, there’s a primitive sense of adventure when you’re heading out into shark-infested waters to do battle with the fanged monsters of the deep. There’s a purpose to that, and if you’re bad at it, you can at least blame the fish. But golf? I suppose there’s a thrill to sneaking your cooler of beer past the ranger, but you can do that in the afternoon, too. So why arrive at the unholy hour of 6:30 am?

The rationale, as I kept hearing it, was that when you get up that early, you finish early and have the whole rest of the day. The whole rest of the day to do what, is the question. And the answer is: more activities. You’re definitely not getting into that hammock.

Which is OK, actually, because I’ve come to the conclusion that hammocks are ridiculous devices. Whenever you have a hammock, chances are you’ll also have access to a bed. And if hammocks were more comfortable than beds, we’d all sleep in hammocks every night, and mattresses would be relegated to Corona commercials and beachfront resorts.

We rented a great house in Chatham, but even that aggravated me on some level. When you’re in college, you cram so many human beings into a rental that you’ve got people sleeping on the couches, on the lawn, inside the chimney—and as a consequence, everyone pays $5.64 for the week and you don’t really think about the total outlay. When you’re a grownup, you actually start doing the math and realizing what insane money the homeowners are making over the summer. Then you get resentful and jealous. At least, I do.

The healthy perspective would be to say, “Well, I’m really fortunate to be able to rent this place for a week,” but I am a shallow and covetous person. I don’t want to just visit for a week. I want to stay there all summer, complaining about the riffraff as I sip a martini on the third deck of my yacht, The Condescender.

I realize that complaining about a vacation is asinine. But I’m really just being self-critical about my own approach to leisure. When we arrived at the house, I saw that the prior tenants had left their schedule on the bulletin board. And I made fun of it not just because it was deeply hokey—stuff like, “Muffy and Wormington will give a presentation on their trip to Myrtle Beach”—but because of the very idea of making a schedule for a vacation. But on most days, their only listed activity was “happy hour.” Perhaps at some point, you need a schedule to tell you that you have no schedule.

By Jonathan Soroff

Jerusalem first captured my imagination when I went there as a five-year-old. What I remember from then is a camel ride, ice cream on demand, a few too many Bible stories, more Arabs than my parents generally had at their dinner parties and the King David hotel—one of the great, old grand hotels, where everyone from the Emperor Haile Selassie to my grandmother has stayed. (Fun fact: On the autograph hallway that runs the length of the lobby, Günter Grass is next to Metallica.)

I hadn’t been there for over 20 years, but when we arrived, our room on the sixth floor offered the perfect diorama of the Old City—the gigantic Fabergé egg–like Dome of the Rock, peeking up over the fortifications built by Suleiman the Magnificent in the 1500s, the Jaffa Gate with its breach in the wall created in 1898 so that Kaiser Wilhelm II could enter in his carriage, etc., etc.

In all its storied, stony magnificence, the Old City hasn’t changed much, and I was excited to see it again alongside my S.O., Sam. The first morning, we headed straight for the Western Wall—the holiest place in Judaism, where millions of notes to God are crammed into the cracks between the ancient bricks, amid a murmuring, bobbing, black-and-white sea of Jews praying fervently. Like Christian pilgrims have done since the Crusades, we traced the Via Dolorosa, where Christ dragged his cross, to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where he’s supposedly buried. We ate the best damn falafel I’ve ever tasted for lunch and had dinner accompanied by the first of many bottles of excellent Israeli wine.

It was hot—Biblically hot—as we toured the Jerusalem Archaeological Park. A layer cake of excavations, it includes an Ummayad palace courtyard, a Romanpromenade littered with columns, Byzantine and medieval houses, and the ancient Hulda Gates. We had enough time to read War and Peace as we waited among a mob of sweaty tourists to climb up to the Temple Mount, the second holiest place in Islam. It’s the site of the Al-Aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the Rock, which contains the stone where Muslims believe Mohammed was carried off to heaven on a white horse, and which Jews believe is the same stone where Abraham almost sacrificed Isaac. Unfortunately, Jews also believe it’s directly above the remains of the second Temple, and standing above such a holy place is a decided No-No. That’s a shame, because the mosque and the Dome are magnificent, but it’s an even bigger shame that foreigners are no longer allowed inside—the contentiousness of religion and politics writ large.

Feeling our way through the maze of the Arab Quarter, we left the Old City to see the Garden of Gethsemane,where Jesus said his last prayers and at least eight of the olive trees are old enough to have heard him. We shopped in the souk in the Old City, and outside, at a shopping mall redolent of Rodeo Drive. The restaurant at the David Citadel Hotel ensured we were well-fed, and the bar at the Mamilla Hotel (along with two women from the U.S. Consulate) ensured we got blind drunk.

There was a day spent at Yad Vashem: The Holocaust Memorial, which, despite the horror of its subject matter, is the most beautiful building I’ve ever seen. It was designed by Cambridge-based architect Moshe Safdie, who seems to have designed everything in Jerusalem since the Ottoman Empire, except the YMCA. That wasdone by the guy who designed the Empire State Building. We spent an afternoon in Bethlehem, feasting on shawarma, seeing the Church of the Nativity and marveling that most Westerners are too afraid to visit because it’s in the Palestinian Authority. A walk along the ramparts of the Old City to the Damascus Gate offered breathtaking views, and the ruins underneath offered a nice spot to cool off.

A lot of people—Israelis especially—are quick to dismiss Jerusalem as “the place where people do nothing but pray.” Yet it’s all that faith—on display in the people and preserved in the stones— that gives Jerusalem its powerful hold over me. Neither Sam nor I subscribe to a particular belief, but we both kept remarking how extraordinary it is to witness such religious conviction in others.

That’s why it was so funny when we boarded the El Al flight for home and were seated next to a teenage girl whom the stewardess asked to move. It turned out that the man she was trading seats with was an Orthodox Jew who couldn’t be seated next to a woman on an overnight flight. “So it’s OK for him to sit next to a gay couple?” I asked. And for the next 12 hours, he pressed himself against the window, his nose buried inside a copy of the Talmud. The irony of the situation made me think there must be a God.

Clockwise from left: the Jerusalem Archaeological Park, the Church of the Nativity, the Dome of the Rock, the view from our room at the King David hotel, the Damascus Gate, the Western Wall, the Garden of Gethsemane.

Photo captions, top to bottom: The Dome of the Rock, the Church of the Nativity

Photo Credit: Steve Debenport

By Ezra Dyer

I’ve learned a lot from watching Home and Garden Television. For instance, instead of buying a coat rack, you can just get an old door. Then simply strip, sand and prime it. Sand it again, then paint and glue mirrors to it, drill holes for the hooks, screw in the hooks, get a studfinder and laser level, mark the wall and anchor the door using heavy self-tapping lag screws. Voilà! Your foyer just went from drab to fab in less than 37 hours!

Oh, there’s more. Thanks to Income Property, I know how to remodel my basement so that some creep can live down there. Holmes on Homes taught me everything I know about fashion, which is why you’ll never catch me without my overalls, gold chain and tank top. And from Property Virgins, I’ve learned that many first-time buyers have less self-awareness than a manatee in a shipping lane. “What were these people thinking with this wallpaper!” the property virgin will gasp, while apparently forgetting that she sleeps in a bed with stuffed animals at her parents’ house.

Obviously, I watch a lot of TV—a lot of HGTV. So naturally, I have some ideas for the programming lineup. Don’t get me wrong; HGTV already has a lot of great shows, like Bang for Your Buck, which features psychic women who reveal exactly how much value a remodeled room will retain when the home is sold at some future date. That’s quite a talent. But there’s always room for improvement, which is why I humbly offer the following all-new concepts.

Unrealistic Projects With Ezra’s Parents: In this show, people with no carpentry skills will begin ambitious remodeling projects. Will they call a professional contractor before the new bathroom looks like an especially disturbing Salvador Dalí painting? No, they won’t.

 Bedbug Bonanza: Top designers remodel bedrooms to make stylish use of bedbug infestations.

Horrible, Horrible, People Shop for Condos: I’m sorry, they’ve already got this one. It’s called Selling New York.

Mighty Mantown With Butch Teste: Host Butch Teste helps homeowners design personalized “mantowns,” with fun and imaginative features such as big-screen TVs, custom poker tables and mistress’ quarters.

Fantastic Foyers: Do you think a foyer is just a weird non-room that sort of leads to other rooms? Well, you’re wrong. Watch as we up the antechamber with the wildest foyer makeovers you can possibly imagine. Chandeliers? Sure.

Real-Estate Investing with Chamillionaire: Rapper Chamillionaire shows what happens when you spend two chamillion dollars on a Houston mansion and then walk away from the payments. Hint: You still get to keep your cars!

The 1,000-Pound Contractor Who Didn’t Know She Was Pregnant: Let’s steal some of TLC’s thunder.

Property Sluts: A show about people who’ve signed a few purchase-and-sale agreements, if you know what I mean.

Staging Your House to Sell It to Aliens: Don’t let your house languish on the market once the aliens land. Start staging it now, with alien-savvy touches like neutral colors, tasteful sconces and the ceiling-mounted face-toilets that such buyers demand.

Watching Paint Dry: Will this paint ever dry? There’s only one way to find out.

Rent or Buy?: Each week, a team of real-estate experts helps one lucky subject decide whether to buy a home or rent one. Factoring in historical data, tax implications and opportunity cost, the experts will dramatically reveal the answer: You’re totally screwed either way.

By Jonathan Soroff

As a kid, I was in a school play called Appointment With Death. It was an Agatha Christie story set in Petra, which a 19th-century poet described as “a rose-red city half as old as time.” I’ve wanted to see it ever since, and I’m pleased to report that a visit to the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan is like living an issue of National Geographic.

Amman, its capital, looks like the love child of Cairo and San Francisco—steep, densely populated hills, with the green light of a mosque on every corner. Not exactly where you’d expect to eat some of the best Asian food you’ve ever tasted, but the Four Seasons delivered exactly that, while shopping in the souk yielded everything from rugs to Yemeni coffee to spices like za’atar.

Wadi Rum is the desert in the south where Lawrence of Arabia fought (and the movie was filmed) in a dramatic, Mars-like landscape. Huge rock formations, seven-story sand dunes and jagged mountains are punctuated with fissures where ancient travelers carved petroglyphs, and in-between, vast stretches of wind-swept emptiness.

Our guides were Rakkan (the owner of Terhaal Adventures) and his Bedouin friend, Salem, who had two modes: singing and sarcastic. I can’t overstate how nice it was to be around someone who wouldn’t know a Kardashian from a pistachio nut. His camp was a barracks-like setup of goat-hair tents, with a communal area of cushions.

Because the desert gives the hinges of hell a run for its money, the Bedouins sit in the shade and drink coffee or tea during the heat of the day. Even when we climbed a mountain, Salem stopped near the top to gather wood and pick a clump of something green. In the shade of a rock, with a view that would’ve staggered Ansel Adams, Salem boiled tea with wild thyme. For coffee, he roasted green coffee beans on an open fire and then mixed them with cardamom.

For such a caffeinated society, it’s amazing the Bedouins aren’t bouncing off the canyon walls but are extremely laid-back. They eat, sleep and breathe camels—which are their favorite topic of conversation. There’s even a joke: When dinner is served, men go first, camels second and women third. Lest that sound sexist, female camels are valued more highly than males, and for three days we tried to help Salem find one of his herd with her baby. We spent an afternoon helping to fill the water troughs tucked into cracks in the sandstone, but despite seeing a camel’s ugly mug every time we turned around, there was no sign of her until we were leaving Wadi Rum. He called to her from half a mile away, and she came trotting.

But still, we hadn’t seen Petra. Until a few decades ago, Bedouins lived in the ancient city, which was settled more than 3,000 years ago. They now live in a nearby hill town, which boasts several excellent restaurants, among them Petra Kitchen. Patrons there help prepare traditional Arab foods, and I now make a mean baba ganoush and a fatoosh salad to plotz over. Afterward, some lemon-mint tobacco in a water pipe, aka “hubbly bubbly,” was just the thing to aid digestion.

You can’t describe the scale or magnificence of Petra, the capital of the Nabataeans (look ’em up in the Old Testament). Visitors enter through a mile-long chasm made famous by an Indiana Jones film that launched a thousand souvenir shops. Sheer stone walls, 300 feet high, enclose you, and just as the claustrophobia begins to seep in, you turn a corner and glimpse a sliver of the gigantic, ornately carved façade of the so-called Treasury Building (which was actually a temple). It’s jaw-dropping, and just the beginning of a naturally fortified city that includes houses and shops carved into the multicolored sandstone, royal tombs to rival any pharaoh’s, a “monastery” high atop a mountain and an amphitheater dating from the Roman era. The only thing more mind-boggling than Petra itself is the fact that only a third of it’s uncovered. The rest is still buried under eight meters of sand.

On our way out of the country, we got a glimpse of two royal nature preserves—Dana and Wadi Mujib, which boast stunning vistas and amazing biodiversity, plunging from alpine heights to hundreds of feet below sea level. Leaving Jordan was like waking up from a dream out of 1,001 Nights, and by all appearances, King Abdullah II and Queen Rania deserve all the adoration they enjoy. I just hope that when I go back, and I certainly intend to, the Bedouins still don’t know what a Starbucks is.

Photos captions, top to bottom: Salem making tea in Wadi Rum, the Treasury Building in Petra

By Nick Altschuller

I was at the gdgt tech expo and feeling out of touch. Powerline network kits? Dual USB GPS car chargers? These aren’t the gadgets of my youth. I worked at a Brookstone. A waffle iron/alarm clock that plays humpback mating calls, that’s a gadget. A FreeAgent GoFlex TV? That’s just a…well, it sort of…OK, I have no idea.

The very first booth I visited hammered home my Luddite status. “So, what do you guys do?” I asked a representative from Springpad.

“I’ll show you. Do you have an iPhone or a Droid?”

“I have none of those things.”

And then we shared an awkward silence.

There was only one person in attendance who appeared to understand my unease. A man with no companion, looking a bit lost, and a bit ridiculous in a white, skintight, electroluminescent costume.

“Hey, Tron Guy. What are you doing here?”

“I’m just here for Lenovo.”

“What do they have you doing?”

“Just standing around, bein’ Tron Guy.”

Not on my watch, friend. Averting my eyes from his unfortunate spandex bulge, I put Tron Guy to work explaining one of the featured products. Seems Lenovo developed a kind of one-handed keyboard remote to make surfing the Web on your TV easier. Sadly, I don’t have the Web on my TV. In fact, I realized, I’ve never actually seen one of Tron Guy’s YouTube videos. I’ve never even seen Tron. That’s when my shame spiral really started to spin.

I don’t have the Internet on my phone. I don’t even have wireless! I have no DVR. My non-HD TV is longer than it is wide and weighs more than my oven. What can I do? Teach me, Tron Guy! “What’s the name of this device?”

“I don’t know.”

Well, if a man dressed as a computer program can’t be relied on for technological expertise, that certainly levels the playing field. With renewed confidence, I wandered over to the Kodak booth to speak with a nervous young man about the PlaySport video camera he had submerged in a fishbowl. I guess being waterproof at 10 feet is impressive, but why would I choose the PlaySport over the PlayTouch, with its on-screen editing and better Web connectivity? “If you go scuba diving—well, shallow scuba diving,” he replied.

Shockingly, it appeared I was the most tech-savvy person in attendance. So, as a man who still listens to cassette tapes, I present the gdgt Best in Show.

3. Scvngr, based in Cambridge, is a free, location-based app like Foursquare and Gowalla. The difference? Rather than simply “checking in” at a participating location, Scvngr presents you with challenges. Board the Fung Wah Bus, snap a picture of yourself making it to New York without catching on fire, earn a discount on your next trip. I have my suspicions about these apps, as my friends who use them don’t seem to derive any real enjoyment, but Scvngr has two things in its favor. One, it just received $4 million from Google Ventures, so you might as well get used to seeing it. And two, its 21-year-old CEO dropped out of Princeton and, according to The New York Times, now works 96 hours a week. Here’s a kid who’s torching his youth to help others have fun. I hope the inevitable truckload of cash offers some comfort.

2. “They come from the planet blõôh located in the galaxy 4210,” said the guy from Mimobot. Finally! Something I can understand. Based in Allston, Mimobot makes flash drives designed to look like characters from Hello Kitty, Star Wars and more. The flash drives come with an amusing backstory, but they don’t really do anything besides store data. Is it silly? Yes. Do I want a $40 C-3PO? Yup.

1. Another free app, the Woburn-based HeyWire allows you to text or chat with anyone around the world at no cost. With streamlined connectivity, you can be reached simultaneously by phone, Facebook, IM, smoke signal, whatever. “So I can never hide?” I asked the rep. “You’re not the first person to say that,” he confessed.

At what price, privacy? About $120 sounds right, which is what my abacus tells me I’d save if I cut texting from my phone plan. With an extra $120, maybe I could upgrade to a smartphone and actually use these programs. Or I could go to Brookstone and buy three RC helicopters and an electronic bottle opener. When it comes to gadgets, I’m a purist.

By Jonathan Soroff

The Emperor’s New Show

Schlepping all the way to Salem was well worth it when the Peabody Essex Museum unveiled its exhibit, The Emperor’s Private Paradise, Treasures From the Forbidden City, showcasing the contents of Emperor Qianlong’s private retreat.

On hand to mark this auspicious occasion were assorted high-level Chinese diplomats (who thankfully kept their remarks briefer than most high-level diplomats do), along with local panjandrums like mistress of the Mandarin Oriental Susanne Hatje, culture vulture Jared Bowen, Skinner Auctioneer’s Karen Keane and her other half, Dan Elias, MFA head honcho Malcolm Rogers and others of an equally sparkly ilk.

Needless to say, the objects on display were magnificent and everyone oohed and aahed appreciatively, one guest making the interesting and valid observation that more people saw the loot that night than had in the past 100 years.

The evening’s most amusing remark: the woman who said, “That was just like eating Chinese food. In an hour, I’m going to want to see it again.”

A Rose By Any Other Name

Behind every great woman are a bunch of other great women, and you couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting one at the Anti-Defamation League’s luncheon at the Mandarin Oriental to honor Carol Fulp as 2010’s Woman of Valor.

In addition to Fulp (a high-profile exec who was tapped by President Obama to represent the U.S. at the 65th United Nations General Assembly), there was ADL board chair Esta Epstein, previous recipient Linda Whitlock, the right reverend Liz Walker, Red Sox first lady Stacey Lucchino, the irrepressible Mary Kakas, adventurer and free spirit Linda Schwabe, force-to-be-reckoned- with Jacqui Budd, politico Andrea Cabral, Chestnut Hillbilly Kathy Taylor, philanthropist Carol Goldberg and just about every woman (and plenty of men) with juice in this town.

Meanwhile, one of the speakers tried out Fulp’s new honorific, calling her “Madame Ambassador” and “Excellency,” to which another piped in, “Just don’t call her late for dinner.”

Better Homes and Hangout

How many movers and shakers can you fit into a $12.5 million, 12,000-square-foot mansion in Chestnut Hill? Well, it was hard to count.

For starters, One Starry Night—a benefit for the Greater Boston Food Bank—was spread throughout the palatial house built by Mark Andrus and Marty Dykas. There was someone rolling cigars and a whiskey bar in the basement, a raw bar and a jazz combo in the garden, a tarot-card reader and jewelry designer in two of the second-floor bedrooms, and a Newbury Street art gallery exhibiting its wares on the third floor. Then there was the distraction of food by the likes of Michael Schlow, Evan Deluty, Tim Fonseca, Mario Capone and Andy Husbands.

Nevertheless, the eclectic crowd included such powerhouses as Brookline doyenne Diane Gordon and her other half, Lloyd, the stunning Alicia Winn and her hubby, Arthur, car czars Ernie Boch Jr. and Don Rodman, style avatar Omid Maxey, latter-day Warhol girl Brelyn Spindel, financial whiz-kids Paul and Wesley Karger, fashion plate Lisa Pierpont, iconoclastic thoroughbred Sukey Forbes Bigham, a guest who took one look around and said, “Nice little starter house,” and another who got lost trying to get from the basement back to the first floor.

The evening’s most priceless exchange: One person teased Boch, saying, “Why don’t you just buy this place?” to which another added, “Yeah, Ernie. You’re trying to downsize, aren’t you?”

In Memoriam

In the history of the Four Seasons, the valets have never parked as many cars as they did for the hordes who came to pay their respects to the family of Joan Cutler, the Boston philanthropist and socialite who died in September at her home on Cape Cod.

A clear indication of how deeply she’ll be missed, that statistic pales in comparison to the amounts of money she gave away with her husband, Ted, to such causes as the Crohn’s and Colitis Foundation, Emerson College, the Greater Boston Food Bank, Boston Ballet, Silent Spring Institute and countless others, not to mention such civic-minded gestures as funding the lighting of the trees along the Comm. Ave. Mall (a charmingly extravagant gift to the citizens of Boston, and one for which the Cutlers received inexplicable criticism).

But far from being a checkbook Patron Lady Bountiful, Joan Cutler gave her time and energy, leveraging her connections and her fearlessness in asking other people to donate to worthy causes. And unlike many women who attend galas and benefits to see their names in print or climb some invisible social ladder, she genuinely enjoyed herself and was as friendly with the person who sold her the ball gown as she was with the society crowd she wore it around.

A tremendous light has gone out. Boston is a poorer place for it. And if she’d been alive to see all those cars being parked at the Four Seasons in her honor, Joan Cutler would’ve been incredulous (and slightly embarrassed) by all the fuss, and she would’ve said something along the lines of: “All this, and we’re not even raising money for charity?”

Photo captions, top to bottom: Jared Bowen and Susanne Hatje at the Peabody Essex Museum; Governor Patrick and Carol Fulp at the Anti-Defamation League luncheon; Michael Schlow and Evan Deluty at One Starry Night; Joan Cutler

Photo Credit: eliandric

By Ezra Dyer

I’ve always thought I was bad with names. When people approach me at parties and begin chatting in a familiar fashion, I’m often gripped by cold dread—I should know who this person is, but I don’t. I presumed that this character flaw stemmed from intellectual laziness on my part, but now I’m not so sure. The New Yorker recently ran a story about a disorder called prosopagnosia, and by the time I finished reading it, I was certain that I’d found a clinical rationale for my social awkwardness. You see, I’m not bad with names. I’m bad with faces.

Prosopagnosics suffer a mental short-circuit that prevents them from recognizing faces. The worst of them can’t recognize themselves in a mirror, but there are varying degrees of the affliction. I belong to the ranks of the moderately face-blind, and there’s no shortage of evidence to support my self-diagnosis.

For example, Heather has two friends named Lauren and Katie. At one point, after I’d known both of them for a couple years, Lauren stopped by our apartment. Now, Lauren and Katie look superficially similar—blonde hair, about the same height. On this day Heather wasn’t home, and without her cues, I couldn’t figure out who I was talking to. So I took a guess, committing the conversation to a Katie-centric direction. The blonde girl looked increasingly perplexed, and then abruptly asked, “Do you think I’m Katie?” Well, I had a 50-50 shot. If I’d known then what I know now, I could’ve said, “Oh, sorry, I suffer from prosopagnosia. You should feel bad for me, instead of just thinking I’m a weirdo.”

Another time, I was walking down Newbury Street and encountered an old editor of mine. I greeted him by name and asked how he was doing. Except, this was just some stranger who might’ve looked vaguely like the guy I thought he was—and who apparently had the same name, which kept him engaged long enough to completely confuse both of us. By the time we parted I’d figured out that I’d accosted a random pedestrian, but I never admitted it, and he surely went on his way wondering what the hell had just happened. Experiences like this have taught me never to trust my brain when it says I recognize someone out of context. The Black Eyed Peas could walk past, and I wouldn’t look twice.

That’s not an abstract example either. A few years back, Heather and I were walking through the Frankfurt airport when the Black Eyed Peas strolled by in the other direction. Now, this was before the Black Eyed Peas were quite as ubiquitous (and Fergilicious) as they are now, but come on. Is there any more recognizable collection of individuals than the Black Eyed Peas? I walked right past them. Heather, incredulous, said, “Did you not just notice the Black Eyed Peas?” I turned around in time to catch Fergie’s lovely lady hump on the retreat. Thanks to my prosopagnosia, I was two-thousand-and-late.

A lot of face-blindness research is coming out of Harvard, so I decided to take one of the tests to assess the extent of my disorder—or whether I really just suffer from acute obliviousness. I went to the website Faceblind.org and fired up the Cambridge Face Memory Test.

The test presents you with a series of faces, in black and white, with no hair. They apparently want to minimize the chance that you’ll cue on some obvious external signifier. As in, “OK, I see a meat suit, that must be Lady Gaga.”

You have to study the faces and then pick them out of a lineup. When I began the test, I laughed at the impossibility of the challenge—everyone looked like Sinead O’Connor. But when I completed the test, I was surprised to find that I scored 75 percent correct, about 10 percent above the threshold for face-blindness.

My method, apparently successful, was to memorize individual features that corresponded to particular faces—a nose here, a jaw there. Basically, I just looked for the facial-structure equivalents of a peg-leg or a meat suit. That gave me a fine test result, but I still have a hard time believing that my face-recognition skills are on the right side of normal.

There are constant reminders of the fact that I’m not, in fact, on par with the general populace in this area. I’ve watched Good Will Hunting, The Informant! and all three Jason Bourne movies. One recent night, halfway through 30 Rock, it dawned on me that Liz Lemon’s boyfriend looked familiar. “Is that Matt Damon?” I asked. Heather replied that it was. She didn’t even sound surprised.

Photo Credit: Alexey Bushtruk

By Ezra Dyer

Once upon a time—say, college and the five years thereafter—I’d only get a hangover if I really worked at it. And there were certainly times when I got what I deserved. Like the morning after the Captain convinced me to press ham against the glass at a hockey game and then run shirtless out into the winter night while being chased by security. That hangover, I earned.

But drinking habits change. Right out of college, when you’d go to the doctor and he’d ask how many drinks per day you have, you’d say, “None, Sunday through Thursday. As for Friday and Saturday, I don’t count them. What do I look like, a freshman?”

Eventually, the pattern changes. You don’t have those big nights as often, and your body adjusts its tolerance downward. It’s a subtle process, and one that you don’t really notice until you unwittingly exceed your new, lower limits.

I learned about my new hangover threshold last summer, when my brother-in-law, Rick, invited me to a weekend-long golf tournament. Each year, his friends convene for the Chilly Mac Cup, which consists of golf interspersed with whiffle ball, grilling, beer pong and other contests of athleticism. There’s an impressive video of one Chilly Mac participant chugging a beer and then executing a running forward-flip over a medium-size hedge. Each participant is provided with a commemorative stein shaped like a boot. It’s a well-run program.

This is a two-day event, so I decided early on that I’d take it easy on Friday—it’s a rookie mistake to go too hard on the first night and ruin yourself for the next day. On Night One, I’d phantom out early.

The challenge of phantoming is that you don’t want to get caught. And I was bagging early enough that I’d definitely be mocked if anyone noticed me leave—we’re talking about 9:30 pm. So instead of trying to score a bed in the house, I retreated to the car I was driving as part of my auto-reviewing duties: a four-door Jeep Wrangler Rubicon. The Wrangler is a lot of things—off-road champ, summer convertible, a vehicle that is somehow both a chick car and a meathead-mobile—but it is emphatically not a Sealy Posturepedic. I awakened at 6 am feeling like I’d spent the night inside a barrel filled with conch shells that was dragged across the actual Rubicon by doped-up pack mules. 

I found Rick inside the house, curled up on a couch. “Why didn’t you sleep at one of the other houses?” he asked. “There were empty beds a couple blocks away.” Other houses? When I’d picked Rick up the day before, he wasted no time telling me his new favorite joke. (“What’s red and smells like blue paint?... Red paint!”) But over the subsequent two-hour drive and 18 holes of golf, he neglected to mention that the Chilly Mac Cup included more than one house. As I attempted to straighten my buckled hobbit legs and remove the right angle from my neck, I mentioned that this would’ve been good intel to have.

We proceeded to the golf course, a gathering feeling of unease settling over me. You know you’re getting a hangover when certain unremarkable sights become unreasonably disturbing. You’ll drive past a medical supply store and see some giant stainless-steel bathroom device in the window, and the sight of it will suddenly trigger a sense of impending doom. On this particular day, I think it was a poster advertising a fast-food breakfast sandwich that sent me into a funk. How do they make those eggs so fast? Is that pallid yellow patty even chemically related to eggs at all? They microwave it. Blug… Vurp…

By the time we teed off at the second hole, I realized I was in the grips of a creeper hangover—the kind where you wake up and feel OK, then gradually admit that you’re not OK at all. By the third hole, I was heading for the bushes. Where I hurled, much to everyone’s delight.

I gutted out the rest of the front nine, stopping every couple holes to dry heave. After nine holes, I bid the Chilly Mac adieu, heading home with my head bowed in shame and confusion. I’d called Heather before I retreated to Hotel Wrangler, and she confirmed that I didn’t sound drunk. What happened? It used to be that I could get drunk without getting a hangover. Now I can get a hangover without getting drunk.

They say it takes seven years for your college drinking habits to change. I say it took 11 years for my drinking habits to come full circle—back to early in my freshman year of college, when four beers would constitute a big night. Well, that’s the case once again. Trust me, I counted.

By Jonathan Soroff

Pass the Ripple

Most 100-year-olds could use a little work, if not an outright facelift, which is why the Esplanade Association celebrated the park’s centennial with a gala dinner-dance that did justice to the beautiful setting, underneath a sumptuously decorated tent on the banks of the Charles.

The evening’s honoree was pops maestro Keith Lockhart, squiring his stunning spouse, Emiley, who glad-handed with such nabobs as BSO head honcho Mark Volpe and the perfectly lovely Martha, tech mogul Jord Poster, the elusive Rich Levitan, sailor and sportsman George Parkman Denny, Beacon Hellion Joan Jolley, T-shirt and Frisbee gajillionaire John Jacobs, the sparkling Carla Cabot, investment guru Peter Monaco and the fabulous Sarah, banking behemoth Chad Gifford, babe-a-licious blonde Kathy Burns and her handsome husband, Michael Greeley, and one woman who said, “I’m here with my gay husband,” to which he added, “And I left mine at home!”

As bidding in the live auction got underway, the auctioneer prompted the crowd by saying, “It’s just money. It’s paper. It gets in the way!” This prompted one guest to say, “There’s nothing more entertaining than watching rich people bid $20,000 on something they don’t really need.”

However, the evening’s most amusing remark came from the man who said, “I never thought I’d turn out to be one of those people you saw drinking in the park.”

The Closet Door’s Ajar

How many handsome men can you fit into the ballroom of the Four Seasons?

Ask the people at the Point Foundation, a scholarship fund for LGBT youth, whose annual fund-raiser attracted the likes of board member Michael Poirier, Boston Spirit publisher David Zimmerman, dashing equestrian Paul Butterworth, eternal party boy Bill Emery, attorney-at-large Mark Young, banking hottie Wendell K. Chestnut, the improbably tall John Koss, and one person who introduced a friend as “the eyes, ears, nose and throat of Boston… but mostly the throat.”

Meanwhile, when another guest was told that one of the speakers was going to be Katherine Miller, the West Point cadet who transferred to Yale because of the military’s policy on lesbians, he exclaimed, “Oh, honey—if you don’t ask, I won’t tell!”

Jeepers Creepers

Photo Credit: Eric Antoniou

I hope Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie never get married if it means more nights like the fund-raiser for MassEquality—an intimate evening with Macy Gray at the Wilbur Theatre, followed by an after-party at the W Hotel.

The concert attracted the likes of aristocratic literary agent Esmond Harmsworth, the amazingly undead Joshua Janson and his adorable husband, Ben McGuire, Kiss 108 heartthrob Jim Clerkin, the aptly named Woody Woodworth, ink-stained cutie Scott Kearnan, Hostess snack cake Brett Casiraghi and hordes of equally entertaining others.

The pop star performed a 90-minute set that included a Radiohead cover and soon-to-be hits from her new album, and went through at least four costume changes that ranged from a giraffe-print, Bea Arthur caftan with Muppet-fur sleeves to a Diana-Ross-meets-Janis-Joplin ballgown.

Meanwhile, one admiring fan said, “I’ve never seen false eyelashes you could rake a yard with.”

Monthly Contest

Opening Night at the Boston Symphony Orchestra always attracts a well-dressed crowd, but this year it included a white-hot Boston designer whose purse contained the following: a needle and a spool of black thread, Life Savors, a wallet, lip gloss and a cellphone. The first reader who can correctly identify the fashionista in question will receive an Improper Bostonian T-shirt, which never goes out of style.

Photo Captions, top to bottom: Keith Lockhart and Jeryl Oristaglio at the Esplanade Association gala; Joel Nolan, John Koss and Gregory Sawicki at the Point Foundation fund-raiser; Macy Gray at the Mass Equality fund-raiser

Photo Credit: Dan Watkins

By Nick Altschuller

Energy drinks are a multibillion-dollar business. Names like Red Bull and Monster stand at the top of the category, but parasitic brands such as Steaz, NOS or KaBoom are around to fight for the crumbs of profit.

My friend Adam is in the drink biz as the associate publisher of Beverage Spectrum Magazine and BevNet.com, and together we once toyed with the idea of entering the market. We even had product samples made of a shot we called Midnight Oil, but our plans never got off the ground. It may have been our complete lack of drive, capital or business sense, but failure was practically assured anyway. The category is oversaturated, and some people had doubts about the name. One former intern, Kyle, said it sounded like a sexual lubricant.

With the market sealed, some entrepreneurs have created an equal and opposite reactionary product: relaxation drinks. In the same cans packed with caffeine and B vitamins come beverages like Tranquila and iChill, infused with rose hips and kava root. The sector has little traction at the moment, with the sales leader pulling in just $5 million in revenue, but that just means there’s opportunity for growth. So I decided to investigate the competition. As I was also starting a new position, I figured my nerves could use the help. Plus Kyle had returned as our new editorial assistant. Here was my chance to help with his first-week jitters, and exact revenge for that lubricant comment.

“This tastes like Dimetapp mixed with beer,” said Kyle, sucking down a Drank. Debuting in this region last December, Drank is the category’s most recognizable name. With ingredients like valerian root—which some studies have shown causes abnormal heartbeat—and melatonin—which can disrupt circadian rhythms—Drank pulls no punches in knocking you out. Never comfortable chatting with strangers, I chugged a can before an interview and magically transformed into punch-drunk Charlie Rose. I faltered; I stammered; I did everything short of drool. Across town, Kyle eventually passed out, missed two phone calls and ended up in bed by 9:30 pm.

Before a night out, I gulped a can of Lean, similar in formula to Drank. After meeting up with my girlfriend, she took one look in my dreamy, slightly glassy eyes, and accused me of being high.

There are less severe alternatives. Some, like Novocaine, which Kyle deemed a complete failure, feature kava root extract as the main active ingredient. I rather liked the Relaxing Tea, but even these lighter drinks come with printed warnings to not exceed two bottles per day. All of them claim to be lifestyle beverages, but I can’t see how you can consume them while simultaneously leading a productive life. The only time I could draw a positive effect was when I’d face a project, drink a can, and then try and get everything completed before the melatonin kicked in.

 That may have been the wrong approach, so I called Drank CEO Peter Bianchi, who apparently drinks his product throughout the day. As Bianchi sees it, Drank is a safe alternative to “the bottle of Jack Daniel’s in your drawer for when you’re pulling your hair out, or the bottle of Valium your doctor prescribed.” At Hunter S. Thompson, Inc., yes, I suppose Drank is a healthier choice. But what of Drank’s clear allusion to drank, aka lean, aka the recreational consumption of prescription-strength cough syrup? Hedges Bianchi, “In ‘I Gotta Feeling,’ when Fergie says ‘Drank!’ she’s not talking about promethazine, she’s saying ‘Let’s have a drank.’ This is a celebratory beverage.” I voiced my doubts about the product’s viability, but Bianchi assured me, “Call BevNet. They’ll tell you this is the most explosive category in the industry.”

“Well, anyone with a brand is going to say that,” said Adam, later on the phone. Fresh from a Vegas trade show, he’d seen a lot of new entrants to the market, but said, “It’s still such a young category. Distributors are still hesitant and worried to pick up unknown products, just because they don’t want to be burned.”

While unpaid bills are an understandable concern, the bigger problem might be a target demographic too tired to purchase another can.

Truth be told, I drank a Red Bull before writing this. I needed the energy, and getting tasks done is what eliminates my stress. The two fingers of whiskey is the reward, not the crutch. But when the time comes to relax, I don’t always need the help. I’m already sleepy.

By Jonathan Soroff

I Dream of Genie

If the Storybook Ball had really granted my wish, as the invitation promised, I’d be on a beach in Bali right now, but no matter. The Aladdin-themed gala for MassGeneral Hospital for Children transformed the Park Plaza Castle into the durbar of a maharaja’s palace, full of palm trees, candlelight and billowing fabric, where guests feasted at long tables and could, if they felt like it, feed their dates a date.

Unfortunately, the only monkeys were wearing tuxedos, but all of Boston’s worthies were there, like cochairs Bill and Alli Achtmeyer, smoldering blonde Darlene Jordan, the lust-provoking Mark Schwindenhammer, a male model claiming to be emcee Lenny Clarke, yummy mummy Maggie Seelig (celebrating her 21st birthday) and her partner-in-crime Lori Sidman, their adorable other halves, Jonathan and Matthew (respectively), red-hot mama Nancy Adams, and Newbury Street’s answer to Tom Ford and Nate Berkus, Michael Tilley and Peter Griglik. The evening was so entertaining, it wasn’t until days later that I learned my boyfriend had played a carnival game and won a gift certificate for a three-month membership to the Sports Club/LA. But he can’t remember what he did with it.

The Time Warp Again

One of two things was bound to happen: I’d either feel like a fossil or discover my inner teeny-bopper—at Sense-ation, a fund-raiser for the Mass Eye and Ear Infirmary held at the Renaissance Boston Waterfront Hotel and featuring a performance by New Kids on the Block. It was hosted by Celtics poobah Wyc Grousbeck, and his wife, Corinne, and Now-Approaching-Middle-Age Kid Joey McIntyre and his stunning model of a wife, Barrett, and it attracted the likes of über-chefs Lydia Shire and Michael Schlow and every fat cat who eats at their restaurants.

Dinner was better than I expected, and everywhere you looked was someone whose name regularly appears in bold print. When the New Kids took the stage, it was like 1988 again.

“For 14 years, we were in a hyperbaric chamber,” joked McIntyre, who does look good, as do Donnie Wahlberg, Danny Wood and Jonathan and Jordan Knight. But as entertaining as the evening was, it made me feel old as dirt.

Feed the Need

Besides sounding like a breakfast cereal best eaten in the nude, Lovin’ Spoonfuls is a charity that rescues food for the needy. An everyone-who’s-anyone crowd showed up for its very first fund-raiser at Myers + Chang.

A short list: Hizzonah Tom Menino, Renaissance woman Sharyn Fireman, design avatar Daren Bascome with daughters Cole and Mande, morning mouth Matt Siegel, the impish Benson Willis and his always-smiling husband, Dan Avery, etc. The good news: The evening was a success, and everywhere you looked was delicious grub by the likes of Ming Tsai, Joanne Chang and CJ Husk from Island Creek Oysters. The bad news: The charity relies on uneaten food, and there wasn’t a morsel left.

O Tempora, O Mores!

It’s not often that a presidential motorcade bumps up against a Roman orgy, but that’s what happened when the Boston Lyric Opera held its Roman Affair at the Mandarin Oriental Boston, next to where President Obama was speaking.

Photo Credit: Roger Farrington

The opera event was undoubtedly the more elegant and entertaining of the two—an ersatz birthday party for everyone’s favorite syphilitic fleshpot, Nero, and although one guest complained about the lack of nude slaves to hand-feed her grapes, the evening was fit for an emperor. On hand for the debauchery were cochairs Lynn Dale and Frank Wisneski, opera stalwarts Steve and Jane Akin, music-lovers Suki and Miguel de Braganca (sporting a laurel wreath), red-headed siren Doreen Corkin squired by the handsome Chris Mitchum (a dead ringer for his movie-star father, Robert), bubbly blonde fashion plate Jill Goldweitz and the dashing Mo Levitt, party pair Susan and Bill Poduska with his son, John, and daughter-in-law, Heather, and the rest of the Boston crème de la cream pie.

Guests were treated to musical interludes ranging from opera to a breathy Marilyn Monroe impersonation, and the evening raised coffers of gold for young performers, which led one speaker to remark on how wonderful the “emerging artists program” is. “That all depends,” whispered one guest, “on exactly what’s emerging and from where.”

Photo Captions, top to bottom: Maggie Gold-Seelig and Lenny Clarke at Storybook Ball; Joey McIntyre at Sense-ation; April Soderstrom and Ming Tsai at Lovin’ Spoonfuls; Committee members Jane Akin and Kyla de Asla at the Roman Affair.

PHOTO Credit: JUSTIN HUTCHINSON/GETTY IMAGES

By Ezra Dyer

For my birthday this year, Heather gave me an electronic tablet device. It’s thin, wireless and I use it just about every day. No, it’s not an iPad. In fact, that iPad’s a bunch of frip-frappery that’ll rot your brain. At least, that’s what my Kindle tells me.

That’s right, I’ve got a Kindle. I can’t use it to play Angry Birds or find the nearest massage parlor or digitally attach a mullet to a photo of my dog. It won’t make fart noises, even if you squeeze it in your armpit. Sliding your finger around on the screen will accomplish nothing except smearing around your finger grease.

And that non-touchscreen is also non-color. Below it are buttons, just like on the Tandy 5000. The Kindle is so low-tech it should be displayed in the Louvre with the Code of Hammurabi chiseled into it. In fact, the Kindle’s so old-school that Andy Rooney bought one. He used it to start a fire, so he’d have enough light to read a book.

In the age of do-everything electronic devices, the Kindle does very little. And that’s why I love it.

The Kindle combines the instant gratification of the Internet with the easy-on-the-eyes, extended-attention-span appeal of books. You decide you want a novel, and a minute later you have it, beamed through the air. And then, when you start reading, the e-ink screen eventually makes you forget you’re not reading an actual book—to the point that you occasionally grab the side of the thing and try to turn the page. Sure, the Kindle’s graphics make Oregon Trail look like Avatar 3D, but for reading text—you know, actual sentences filled with words—it’s the best thing since dead trees.

And Kindle is a total snob. When you power it off, the screen morphs into a crude likeness of Ralph Ellison, Charlotte Brontë or some other author. If the Kindle wore glasses, they’d sit low on its nose and it would glare sternly over them if you made any noise in the library.

So far, I’ve used the Kindle to get about halfway through a new Bill Bryson title. While reading said book, I’ve not taken any detours to check e-mail or Facebook or look at a photo gallery of dogs wearing Halloween costumes. Which brings me to another point—the Kindle’s dedicated bookishness is a buffer against the relentless onslaught of electronic media, which I feel is gradually making me stupider. Or is it “more stupider”? I’m not sure anymore.

I consider myself well-informed, but reading magazines and newspapers doesn’t fire the same neurons as reading books. And if you read online, you inevitably get sucked into the endless comments that accompany every story. Those exchanges are articulated in Internet-speak, a language entirely devoid of nuance or originality.

With Internet-speak, everyone picks up on trendy phrases and thus ends up sounding like everyone else. You might write that something is an epic fail and it should die in a fire. Or maybe you’re in a more charitable mood and throw out some FTW’s. Either way, you end up sounding like a generic Internet person. I try to purge my writing—even Facebook posts and text messages—of all Netspeak, lest I lapse into the habit. Sometimes I fail. Like I did right there, because the word “fail” is now a registered trademark of 13-year-olds writing from their moms’ computers.

I’m a realist. No matter what you do, some portion of the material you read is going to subconsciously influence your own writing. With that in mind, I’d rather have my brain full of Bill Bryson than the breathless yammering of some belligerent half-wit drooling out strings of “Epic fail!” and “FTW!” Did you know that every time you read an emoticon, you kill a brain cell? And every time you write one, you kill 10. Kindle told me that.

Besides, I’m already too in thrall to the Apple empire. I have an iPhone, a MacBook, iPods and a .mac e-mail account. Every morning, Steve Jobs sends me an e-mail and tells me when I’m allowed to go to the bathroom, and he sends electric shocks through my iPhone if it detects that I’m saying nice things about Windows or Adobe Flash. Frankly, Kindle and I have had enough.

Sure, I’m sitting here writing this on my sleek, sexy MacBook Pro, but I can’t wait to fire up the Kindle and have Bryson teach me about the history of Victorian architecture. Right after I take a look at these dogs dressed as lobsters.

By Jonathan Soroff

Cash, Checks and Credit Cards Accepted

It’d better be a doozy of a party to get all the socialites out on a Monday night (their maids get a day off; why shouldn’t they?), and Chefs at the Table didn’t disappoint.

A benefit for Kids Can Cook, the affair took place at the charity’s South End headquarters, where chefs like Evan Deluty, Jim Solomon, Will Gilson, Paul O’Connell and Louis DiBiccari prepared four-course dinners for the likes of retail diva Donna Montgomery, the ever-irreverent Ofer Nemirovsky and his stunning wife, Shelly, the improbably tall Ari Nachmanoff and brunette bombshell Denise Korn, real estate babe Beth Dickerson and the dashing David Drubner, fitness model Tom Potter and so on and so forth.

I lucked out by sitting at the South End Buttery’s table, and I felt utterly buttery by the end of the evening. As for the half of the tent who couldn’t hear me during the live auction because of the sound system: You bid $10,000. Pay up.

But Can He Walk on Water?

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but bullying will not be tolerated.

That was the message (at least, sort of) when Rocca owners Gary Sullivan and Michela Larson hosted It Gets Better, a fund-raiser for The Trevor Project, which combats suicide among LGBT teens.

Cohosting at the chic South End eatery was its celebrity chef (and former reality TV star) Tiffani Faison (joined by fiancée Kelly Walsh) and the governor’s daughter, Katherine Patrick. The predominantly gay, strictly A-list crowd knocked back cocktails, nibbled on delicious food and videotaped inspirational pep talks to be broadcast on YouTube. Among the people I got to rub up on: über-talented singer/songwriter Melissa Ferrick, party boy Chris “Tobie” Tobeck, Channel 7 smoke-show Ryan Schulteis, éminence grise Jerry Feingold, blue-eyed Southern gentleman Tony Glad, silver fox Liz Page, design avatar Javier Cortes and his studly stallion, Gary Arena, Egyptian Adonis Hazem Elbialy, stylist to the stars Sal Malafronte and his boy toy, Darin Contini, peripatetic shutterbug Izzy Berdan, Wasp-in-recovery Ty Dowell, drag divas Ms. Kris Kneivil and Fena Barbitall, corn-fed cutie David Brown and the dashing Ben Perkins, and the absurdly handsome John Gould.

Random snippets of conversation overheard: “Bison ‘moo,’ don’t they?” and “Every time I hear someone say ‘chickpea,’ I get the urge to chirp.” However, the evening’s most amusing exchange came when one guest said, “Did you see the pack of photographers outside, waiting for the mayor like it was the Second Coming?” To which someone else responded, “Christ wasn’t in office as long.” 

Goy Vey

Sixty is the diamond anniversary, and I went to the Schepens Eye Institute’s 60th anniversary gala at the Mandarin Oriental, Boston thinking the party favor might be from Harry Winston’s.

Chocolates aren’t bad, though, and it was a thoroughly elegant evening. I spied with my little eye cochair Rosalie Cohen and her marble man, Bert, fashion plate Paula Jaq’lyn with the dapper George Brown, pretty in pink Kay Lyons and the ever-affable Peter, publishing poobah David Jacobs and the ethereal Gen Tracy, honoree Dr. Tatsuo Hirose, and many more worthies than I could count.

Among them was one grande dame who said: “We’ve had a place on the Cape forever, and we’ve got a place in Palm Beach. But we just sold our house here, which I was sad about. So I told my husband: ‘We need to buy a condo in Boston,’ and he said, ‘It’ll be cheaper to stay at the Four Seasons whenever you want.’ So that’s the plan.”

Where do I sign up?

Meanwhile, the evening’s most entertaining exchange took place between two Jewish friends, one of whom lives on the North Shore. “Is there even a synagogue in Essex, or do you have to go all the way to Ipswich?”

“Gloucester,” the other guy said, “and I think the rabbi moonlights as a fisherman.”

Photo Captions, top to bottom: Logan Jones and Kathryn Yee at the Chefs at the Table benefit; Chris Tobeck and Ryan Schulteis at the It Gets Better fund-raiser; Rosalie Cohen and Kay Lyons at the Schepens gala.

Photo: Christine Glade

By Ezra Dyer

I hate my bed. Two years ago, we bought a new bed, and ever since my spine has been slowly forming into the shape of a question mark, as if to ask, “Why did you buy such a bad mattress?” It felt comfortable at the furniture store, but soon after we got home, I realized that the Scoliosis-o-pedic and I were never gonna get along. The problem: It’s too soft. Despite being labeled “Euro Firm,” this quivering bag of Slinkys is as firm as Kirstie Alley’s resolve. On each side of the bed, our bodies have formed sunken depressions like shallow graves, the stuffing of the mattress having somehow migrated to the middle, creating a sheer outcropping between us. I’m considering the construction of a tunnel or canal so as to facilitate trade and communication across this daunting escarpment.

Normally, you’d smooth things out by flipping your mattress. But I made the mistake of buying a pillow top, which is unflippable. One side is the pillow, and the other side is rusty nails. So once your body compresses the top into Sleepless Hollow, there’s nothing you can do. I sleep on my back every night, because turning on my side forces my body into a U shape, and I awaken with my head cocked to the side like a dog that just heard the words, “Who’s that? Who’s there?”

The upshot is I don’t have bedbugs. I brought some back from a trip, but they tried my mattress and decided to drown themselves in the toilet instead. I’ve considered it myself.

I mention all this by way of explaining that I don’t get the best night’s sleep, even under ideal circumstances. And these are not ideal circumstances.

I haven’t slept through the night in four months. Actually, that’s not accurate. I had a few solid nights at one point—I was on a business trip. A beautiful, beautiful business trip. Now I’m on the verge of telling Heather that I have some important assignment and just booking myself into the nearest Marriott for a few nights. The culprit, if you haven’t guessed, is the baby. I’m ready to join the Tea Partiers in demanding my country back, but just specifically the part where fathers didn’t have to do anything except drink Scotch and be aloof. I’m pretty sure that the average man couldn’t recognize the sound of a crying baby prior to 1973. He’d say, “Honey, go look under the eaves. It sounds like we’ve got a raccoon trapped up there.” Them’s were the days.

I’ve traditionally been able to wake up at night, motor around in a state of borderline somnambulism, then return to bed and slide right back to REM sleep. Thanks to the Iron Maiden mattress, I’ve discovered that if I stay awake for 15 minutes I may as well go out and do some midnight street racing, because I’m not falling back asleep.

I lie there, trying to relax, but my brain begins mulling topics of great importance. Why do people repeat a word three times for emphasis? I hate, hate, hate that. Why, when male comedians imitate women, do they always talk with a lisp? I don’t think I know any woman who has a lisp, and yet, in the world of male comedians, every woman sounds like a falsetto Sylvester the Cat. Thufferin’ thuccotash! And what the hell is succotash? It sounds like either some kind of disgusting food or an industrial byproduct. Either way, catchphrases involving ancient foodstuffs and/or aluminum smelting underscore how outdated Looney Tunes were, even back in the ’80s. Well, that and the casual racism.

And on it goes like this, until the sun comes up, and I arise like a sunken-eyed creature of the underworld, set loose to torment and affront all whom I encounter. I’m like the McDonald’s “Don’t Talk to Me” coffee guy, except that instead of saying “Ugg! Durrr!” when people ask me a question, I just go straight into a violent outburst.

I’m not sure what the solution is. A new mattress would help, but that’s only half the equation. I’ve written about how I’m against medicating children, since we generally seem to have decided that behavior once thought of as “being a kid” is now aberrant and treatable with drugs. Well, a person’s entitled to change his mind. If I can’t return to the laissez-faire fatherhood role of the Mad Men days, I’ll settle for some Flintstones Ambien.

By JonaTHan Soroff

Husbands Add at Least 10 Pounds

If I were one of the ladies dedicated to restoring Edith Wharton’s historic home in Lenox, I’d sell T-shirts that read, “I got mounted at the Mount.”

Fortunately, the Boston Committee of the Edith Wharton Restoration at the Mount had a much better, infinitely more tasteful idea. It hosted an evening at the Chilton Club that featured a reading of Wharton’s short story “The Mission of Jane” by two of Boston’s finest actors, Karen MacDonald and Paula Plum (in drag), preceded by never-ending hors d’oeuvres and followed by a surprisingly delicious dinner.

The comme il faut crowd included the likes of iconoclastic thoroughbred Sylvia Pope, the highly cultured Bea and Jane Roy, le maîtresse of Mount Vernon Street Suki de Braganca, the Nefertiti of Newtonville Martha Volpe, and the righteous Reverend Barbara Nielsen (who’s usually in Palm Beach by this time of year).

The evening’s most Wharton-like moment: a guest saying, “You look great,” to which the compliment’s receiver replied, “I guess divorce looks good on me.”

Sex Sells

Everyone’s mad about Mad Men. How else to explain the Rogerson Communities 150th anniversary gala at the Fairmont Copley Plaza, where advertising mogul Jack Connors was honored, and a cadre of prominent hotties were made up to look like the midcentury minxes on the show? Present and accounted for: diamond dealer Donna DePrisco, kabuki socialite Marilyn Riseman, diminutive stick of dynamite Emily Rooney, banking behemoth Joe Campanelli and the flawless Carolyn, über-do-gooder Don Rodman, the formidable Britt D’Arbeloff, plus a gazillionaire who said, “I spent 17,000 f@#*ing dollars in a charity auction last night for Lady Gaga tickets,” and a woman who said, “Just like my husband, staring over everybody’s shoulder to see if anybody more important is there.”

However, the party’s best exchange took place when one of the Mad Men fembots said, “I feel like a tranny hooker,” to which a friend responded, “Go stand next to Marilyn, and you’ll look like you’re not wearing any makeup at all.”

Zero Percent Fat

Room to Grow describes both the charity and the dinner at its gala, which left a few guests complaining that they were still hungry as they exited the Park Plaza Castle. If you’re giving money to a charity, though, wouldn’t you rather see it go to the cause than to the caterer? (In a similar vein, tasteful notices announced that dispensing with valet parking had saved $10,000.) And the wine flowed freely enough. The evening also offered a visual feast in the form of imaginative decor and Uma Thurman. The tragically gorgeous actress (a board member) mixed and mingled with the likes of Fenway sachem Theo Epstein and his wife, Marie Whitney, his twin brother, Paul, and his wife, Saskia (the charity’s head honcha), emcee Mary Richardson, catalogue-ready couples Jeff and Nicole Bellows, Robin and Tripp Jones, and Lei-Ann and Ryan Field, and equally sparkly others.

Best silent-auction item: doubles tennis with the Epstein twins. Best line of the evening: an award-winning TV journalist joking: “Tyngsboro? I’d only go there on assignment, like maybe a fire.”

All Things Considered

With so many recognizable voices from NPR, walking the ballroom of the Seaport Hotel at WBUR’s 60th anniversary gala sounded like driving the length of Vermont. The days of tote bags and coffee mugs are over; the silent auction had prizes like a week at Ron Ansin’s house on Mykonos and fencing lessons for two, while the live auction included $15,000 worth of landscaping and lunch with Click and Clack. Other on-air talent on hand: the stunning Robin Young, both Bobs—Littlefield and Oakes—and NPR White House correspondent Ari Shapiro (a younger, hotter Anderson Cooper who also sings in the band Pink Martini). Then there were heavy hitters like real estate titan Don Chiofaro, power couple Michael Winter and Deb Goldberg, enlightened crusader John Rosenthal, newlyweds Ted and Ella Saunders, the unsinkable Mary Kakas, and Quinn Ferree from the band Indobox.

Overheard when a pair of distinguished gentlemen discovered the bar was beer and wine only: “You’d think after giving as much money as you have, they could at least get you a glass of Scotch.”

Photo Credit: Room to Grow: Leo Gozbekian

By Nick Altschuller

I think it was Street Fighter III. Or maybe it was Mortal Kombat I was playing when my father first snuck up behind my usual perch on the couch to say, “You’re not going to play those things when you’re older.” He instead preferred that I “read challenging books.”

My dad thinks of video games as a waste of time. This stance has always struck me as ironic, as it comes from a man who brags about once being able to spend all day at the movies for a nickel.

The fact is, my generation was the first to be born into the era of video games as an influential pop product, an effect only accelerated by games moving out of the arcade and into the home. We’re a generation of cartridge blowers, of Genesis defenders. Ask any guy between the ages of 30–39 about the Contra code and get ready for an immediate recitation of directions and letters, an involuntary response as natural as blinking or breathing. While my father may have been awed by the deeds of Long John Silver in Treasure Island, I marveled at the unstoppable force that was Bo Jackson in Tecmo Bowl.

One of my childhood’s most iconic games was 1993’s NBA Jam. The premise was simple: a two-on-two battle between professional basketball stars. The gameplay was outlandish, with players performing acrobatic dunks from outrageous distances. Secret characters, like Bill Clinton, could be unlocked, and a comic voiceover peppered the action with taglines like “He’s heating up” and “Boomshakalaka!” which have become part of the sport’s actual lexicon. Riding the popularity of the NBA’s heyday and featuring life-like player models—an innovation at the time—NBA Jam made over $1 billion in quarters.

Released earlier this month for Xbox 360 and PS3—it came out in October for Wii—NBA Jam’s sentimental hold on my peer group can be seen in a Gchat conversation I had with Improper sports editor Rich Levine.

Rich: We on for Jam tonight?

Me: just bought it

Rich: BONER

Yes, products like NBA Jam are a direct call to our adolescent selves. As Rich explains, it’s all about nostalgia. “I can suddenly get back to my teens,” he said.

Nostalgia was also the first word from my friend John, a man who owns every system from the Neo Geo to the Virtual Boy, and an NBA Jam Tournament Edition T-shirt. Explaining NBA Jam’s appeal, he said, “It’s one of those games that anyone can pick up and play.”

And we did, at which point we were almost immediately reminded of perhaps the game’s greatest strength—infighting. NBA Jam has few rules, little strategy and only one guiding principle: Victory is never assured. As such, it’s easy to feel cheated, and half your time is spent complaining. As the rounds progressed, the swearing increased, insults were lobbed and farts were directed at faces. I suppose the adult equivalent would be arguing politics.

Solo play throws the game’s biggest negative into relief—its lack of depth. Amazingly, the core content hasn’t changed at all in 17 years, and different modes like 21 and Backboard Smash aren’t worth more than a glance. In nostalgic cinema terms, they’re the needless CGI aliens added to reissued editions of Star Wars. Online play, however, is a welcome addition, evoking the near-forgotten social pressure of arcade play without the anxiety of having to ask your parents for more quarters.

After our final contest, Rich concluded that he liked the game, but it didn’t quite bring him all the way back. “That’s probably my fault,” he said. “Got too old.” John, on the other hand, has since contacted me repeatedly, looking for a rematch.

My enthusiasm splits the difference. Were NBA Jam a downloadable title with a corresponding price point (as its producers originally intended), I’d say it’s an essential purchase for anyone who once longed for a pair of Reebok Pumps. However, its current $50 price is a prohibitive toll for memory lane.

But, with disc in hand—and much to my father’s consternation—I’ll continue to play, perched on my own couch, on a TV that sits between my armchair and bookcase. My Xbox next to Anna Karenina. The games stacked next to my copy of Moby Dick. Fittingly, my current station in life at a point somewhere in between.

PHOTO Credit: Dieter Hawlan

By Ezra Dyer

My mom’s been hassling me lately. She’s all like, “Clean your room!” and I’m all like, “Later, I’m busy!” and she’s all like, “If you don’t clean your room, you’re grounded!” Yeah, as if. I’m meeting my friends out at Bugaboo Creek tonight and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop me. And when I get home, I’m gonna play video games as much as I want. And drink beer, maybe. That’s why it’s awesome to be 33.

I’ve ignored my old bedroom at my parents’ house for perhaps a decade, and now my mom’s campaigning to evict my treasured possessions. My problem afflicts most people who, post-college, move to an urban apartment. There’s a discrepancy between the volume of your accumulated stuff and the size of your first abode, which typically offers the airy spaciousness of an airplane bathroom. So you leave all your things behind at your parents’ house—but just until you move into a bigger place where you’ll have room for it. Suddenly, it’s a decade later and your mom’s all in your face about how she’s gonna throw away your sweet 100GHz PowerMac. Ha. Good luck getting anyone to take it. You know how much lead is in that thing?

The crux of the problem is that my mom already has too much stuff. When I told her that my friend John works as a producer on one of those hoarding shows, she said, “Maybe if I made my place worse I’d qualify for them to come here and clean the house.” Now, John tells me that when he goes to a hoarder’s house to shoot an episode, he wears flea collars around his ankles. I informed my mom that this isn’t the sort of domestic condition that you’re supposed to achieve on purpose. That’s like saying, “I want to strike up a game of duck-duck-goose, so I’m going to start huffing paint until A&E shows up and puts me on Intervention. That’ll get a roomful of people together!”

I figured I’d show up, clean out a few dresser drawers and be on my way. When I arrived, however, I discovered that this initial trip is just scratching the surface. For instance, do I really need keg cups from a party that happened in 1997? I’m thinking it’s a little late for re-admittance.

I can probably also live without the scraps of written correspondence from old girlfriends. One letter, from a girl I briefly dated in college, begins, “My brother said you called the other day, but of course he didn’t get your number (which is impossible to find, even through information), so I haven’t been able to call back.” Think about this for a moment: A girl wrote a letter, by hand, and put it in the mail because that was literally the only way she could communicate with me. I’m surprised she didn’t go on to describe the quality of her crops and the sad matter of Uncle Jed, who was struck dumb by a thunderclap en route to buy a new buggy whip from the local provisioner.

It’s true that I’m a little bitter that I had to laboriously write letters like some kind of Victorian squire, while my collegiate successors casually send sext messages floating through the air with the ease of a Brett Favre pass. I’m pretty sure the Latin on my college diploma translates to, “You were 10 years too early.”

Going back further through the archives, I found a bunch of report cards. The underlying theme of them all is that I was a little bastard. On one report from grade six, the numbers 10 and 12 are marked next to several subjects. The corresponding chart indicates, “10 = Inattentive, wastes time” and “12 = Unsatisfactory conduct in class.” Another teacher wrote, “Ezra has a natural ability with language. He could do a tremendous job if he tried.” Wow, tough crowd. On a basketball-skills evaluation, a coach wrote, “Could stand to show a more positive nature.” A French teacher surmised, “Ezra should no longer spend time playing the class clown.” Finally, though, a math class progress report shows some positivity, beginning, “I emphatically believe Ezra is an excellent student,” and continuing, “His grade is sure to improve due to his superior intellectual ability.” Then I remembered that in that class, the teacher let us write our own evaluations. I thought the handwriting looked familiar.

I’m sort of enjoying going through this personal archaeological dig, but I’m realizing that I never would’ve missed this stuff if I hadn’t laid eyes on it in the first place. The solution, then, is to ignore whatever else is in that old room. We tend to fetishize our own pasts a little too much. Plus, I think I hurt my back carrying my old computer.

By Amanda Knorr

Who needs zippers? With their flat bottoms and cinchable tops, bucket bags are the ultimate spill-proof purse.  These charming carryalls go with everything, and the unique shape makes a statement all its own.

Alexander Wang Diego bag $825 at Barneys New York, Copley Place, Boston | 617-385-3300 | barneys.com

Cinched suede bucket bag $128 at Madewell,
329 Newbury St., Boston | 617-424-0904 | madewell.com

Bucket bag $19.99 at Zara,
212-214 Newbury St., Boston | 617-236-1414 | zara.com

Melie Bianco bag $86 at Crush Boutique,
131 Charles St., Boston | 617-720-0010 shopcrushboutique.com

Photo Credit: Dan Watkins

BY JONATHAN SOROFF

Houston, We Have Liftoff

How many parties does it take to launch a major architectural addition to the Museum of Fine Arts? Apparently, several.

The new Art of the Americas Wing and Ruth and Carl J. Shapiro Family Courtyard—designed by Sir Norman Foster—were christened with a seemingly endless series of celebrations, including a black-tie Opening Gala that attracted the likes of head honcho Malcolm Rogers, board head Barbara Alfond, master of minimalism Ellsworth Kelly, senatorial centerfold Scott Brown and his wife, Gail Huff, celebrity chef Ken Oringer with his parents, Joan and Irwin, and his stunning wife, Celine, NY art-world nabob Arthur Cohen, fashion avatars Alan and Be Bilzerian, the statuesque Joyce Linde (looking stunning in a dress from Alexander McQueen’s last collection), and so on and so forth.

The guests themselves got to be the art thanks to a black-and-white photo booth that projected two-story images on the wall. The food and drink were difficult to put down in order to check out the new gallery space, but the band eventually managed to get some booties shaking on the dance floor.

Overheard by the bar: “Can I get you a drink?”

“No, I’m good.”

“I know. I’m trying to get you to be bad.”

Meanwhile, a week later, another soiree attracted a somewhat younger and decidedly less formal crowd for America Remixed, a dance party featuring the über-cool band The Brazilian Girls (sample lyric: “Pussy, pussy, pussy, marijuana”). Present and accounted for: the sister act of Samantha and Kimberly Strauss, traveling dervish Andy Levine, impish stud Parker Treacy, blue-blooded literary agent Esmond Harmsworth, Gallic funboy Eric Jausseran and every other bright young thing in Boston.

The evening’s most amusing remark: the guest who said, “I love your pants. How do I get them off you?”

How Much Is That Kandinsky in the Window?

This year, the thing I coveted most at the Gala Preview for the Boston International Fine Arts Show was only half a million dollars, but I exercised self-control and concentrated instead on socializing with such worthies as the dapper father-and-son combo of Frank and Steve Avruch with the lovely Bette, Harvard factotum Philip Lovejoy, do-gooding blue bloods Jeffrey and Jane Marshall, arts patron Joan Bennett Kennedy, Brahmin doyenne Julie Sprague, silver fox Tim Leahy and others of their ilk. The evening, which raised money for the Boston Symphony Orchestra, was held at the Cyclorama. When asked to identify one of the passed hors d’oeuvres, the server’s answer prompted one guest to say, “Who you callin’ a pumpkin tartlet?” But the evening’s funniest observation came during a conversation about the charity circuit: “A friend of mine who lives down South just got an invitation to a Humane Society Pig Roast.”

Maybe Dr. Scholl’s Stock Is Undervalued?

The term hedge fund doesn’t generally conjure up a case of the warm and fuzzies, and the organization Hedge Funds Care might make an easy target for sarcasm, but there’s no denying that the group raises serious dough for some very worthwhile children’s charities. Take the fund-raiser that transformed the lobby of One International Place into party central to raise money for Parents Helping Parents, a child-abuse prevention and treatment group. All the heavy hitters were there, mixing and mingling among the likes of cochairs Connie DeBoever and Jeff Crispen, and the sibling tag team of John and Kathryn Talanian. The silent auction featured the usual mix of expensive booze and temporary gym memberships (a winning combo), and for a mere sawbuck, you could buy a chance to see the premiere of the Meet the Fockers follow-up, complete with VIP access to the cast party. In fact, the evening’s only downside: The marble floors made some of the fairer sex less than comfortable, like one who said, “I made the worst executive decision of my life tonight—to break in a new pair of heels.” Then again: Who ever said fashion was pretty?

Photo Credits, top to bottom: Alli Achtmeyer at the MFA Opening Gala; Tim Leahy at the Boston International Fine Arts Show Gala Preview; Connie DeBoever and Jeff Crispen at the Hedge Funds Care fund-raiser.

Photo Credit: Erin Patrice O’Brien/Getty Images

by Ezra Dyer

People who have assistants are typically high-powered, type-A, ruthless corporate titans. “Talk to my assistant.” “Make an appointment with my assistant.” “How did you get past my assistant?” These are the kinds of statements I’m used to hearing, although I’ve never issued them myself. But I’ll say it now: I need an assistant.

Lately, the tornado of life has been spinning my Dorothy of details into the Kansas of neglect. Obviously I need more free time—time to concentrate on writing great sentences like that last one. But right now, my precious brainpower is consumed with small tasks that are, frankly, below me. Like not forgetting my Kindle on a plane, for instance.

Loyal readers of this column may recall that I recently got a Kindle. Nearly as quickly, I lost a Kindle. Because it’s electronic, you’ve got to turn it off when a plane is landing. And because it’s so slim, it’s very easy to forget in the seat-back pocket of a United flight to San Francisco. All ended well, as I was re-United with my Kindle the next day. But all of that stress and heartache and minutes on the phone could’ve been avoided if I had someone to look after me. Someone who realizes that since my brain is full of big ideas, the little ones often get squeezed out.

I’m still working on sending out gifts for weddings from 2009. I have a backlog of incomplete thank-you cards dating to last summer. A mirror in our downstairs vanity fell, and I have no idea how to fix it. Someone hacked my website and shut it down. This means that some random geek put more effort into shutting down my site
than I do into running it, but I’m just glad someone cares.

These are the kinds of situations where it’d be handy to have an assistant. Or an intern. Though I think The Improper said I couldn’t have an intern. Or was it the courts? I’m so bad with details. See, this is why I need an intern.

So what’s in it for you? Let’s face it, kids: You’re not getting a job without some experience. Actually, you’re probably not getting a job, period. But experience can’t hurt! At the very least, you’ll learn important things about the publishing industry, like how I take my shirts from the dry cleaner (no starch).

Little-known fact: Due to cutbacks in the business, many newspapers and magazines are now entirely written by unpaid interns. Not this one, though, and certainly not this column. Which I’ve got to wrap up soon, so I can get back to my dorm and drink Four Loko—I mean, get back to my house, because I’m an old writer guy and definitely not a sophomore at BU named Cody who works in a cage at The Improper offices.

Anyhow, as my servan—I mean, as my assistant—you’ll have to conform to my schedule, which means you’ll have to come to my house. I live in Quincy. I don’t want to name-drop, but so did the Craigslist Killer. It’s not all glitz and glamour, though. This can be a hard city, a place where fortunes are made and lost in the blink of a Keno game. You’ve got to understand that if you come here every day, the Q will change you. Many a starry-eyed dreamer took exit 12 only to discover the fantasies of fame and riches denied by the metaphorical traffic jam of the Neponset Bridge construction. That and the literal traffic jam caused by the Neponset Bridge construction.

So what does this job pay? Well, you can’t put a price on happiness. Which is good, because you’ll definitely be unhappy. But as the expression goes, it beats digging ditches. And you’ll learn the truth in that, after you finish digging my new ditches. Why do I need ditches, you say? Never question me! You’re fired.

Applications must be accompanied by references, preferably to my favorite scenes from Billy Madison. Priority given to applicants with experience in aluminum smelting (you’ll see). Applicant must be able to wear a Bluetooth headset while looking nervous and walking several paces behind me. Candidate should have strong tolerance for despair. Be aware that résumés that include adverbs will be thrown away immediately. Salary negotiable, but it’s zero. Look at it this way—you’re getting in on the ground floor. Of a ranch. But that’s better than the basement of a skyscraper.

Right now, kid, you’re still green. But that’ll wash off once you’re done pretending to be Godzilla for my amusement. Why, yes, of course there’s copper in that paint. Quit complaining. You sound just like Cody.

Photo Credit: Dan Watkins

By Amanda Knorr

There’s nothing childish about these charm necklaces. They’re sophisticated, but their DIY look is sure to spark conversation. From lockets to flea-market finds, each one has a unique, personal touch.

(in order from left to right)
Poms & Trinkets Necklace $38 at Anthropologie
799 Boylston St., Boston | 617-262-0545
anthropologie.com

Charm Necklace $344 at Patch NYC
46 Waltham St., Boston | 917-292-2640
patchnyc.com

Wicked Peacock Design Necklace $88 at Cibeline
120 Charles St., Boston | 617-742-0244
cibelinesariano.com

BY JONATHAN SOROFF

Putting Their Money Where the Mouths Are

Cash doesn’t grow on trees, which is why it’s a damn good thing that the Grow Clinic at Boston Medical Center has a small forest of philanthropists who attended its Food For Thought Gala at the Mandarin Oriental, Boston.

On hand to raise money for malnourished kids and to fete über-benefactor Don Rodman was a bevy of bighearted big shots, including Judaism’s answer to Santa Claus, Ted Cutler, with his offspring Ellen Calmas and Joel and Randi Cutler, the beneficent Steve and Joan Belkin with their brunette bombshell of a daughter, Amy, twin financial whizzes Wes and Paul Karger, snack magnate Mark Andrus with stunning jewelry designer Brelyn Spindel, political smoothie Mike Ross, delectable duo Christopher Myers and Joanne Chang, the irresistible Mary Wolfson and her other half, Bob Rosenberg, attorney-at-large Jon Norris, Back Bay bluebloods Leigh and George Denny, design avatar Manuel de Santaren, Beacon Hill babe Meg Gordon, dapper developer Robin Brown and the lovely Marcia, Republican also-ran Charlie Baker, gorgeous blonde emcee Heather Unruh, and so on and so forth.

In fact, the crowd was so scintillating that the staff had a hard time herding the guests in from the cocktail party and getting them to sit down for dinner. Eventually they did, at tables set with edible centerpieces that were later recycled for the charity’s food pantry.

Overheard by the bar:
One guest, describing the charity’s mission, used the term “underserved youth,” to which another guest responded, “That would be me. I’m going to get another martini.”

Steppin’ Out

Don’t tell the Rockettes, but the ladies of the Vincent Club are at it again and better than ever.

A quick primer for the uninitiated: An all-female club dedicated to raising money for Vincent Memorial Hospital—the women’s health arm of MGH—it’s a bastion of high-Wasp Brahminism. For 110 years, its members staged an annual show that featured “the Drill”—an intricate marching routine—as part of an elaborate original musical that also included a torch number, a flapper scene, etc. (Fun fact: Tommy Tune got his start with the Vincent Show). In 2002, however, they canceled this time-honored tradition, which seemed to have gone the way of white gloves, handwritten thank-you notes and the three-martini lunch… until they decided to revive it last year.

And thank goodness they did. This year’s Vincent Carol was a delight, attracting the blue-blooded likes of Vicky (aka Mrs. Thomas Handasyd Perkins Whitney XIV) and her affable other half, Tom, their show-stopping daughter, Blake, chanteuse extraordinaire Evelyn Treacy and the very lucky Michael, moderator Cokie Perry and her proud hubby, Lee, the eternally lovely Cassandra Henderson, the improbably tall Nicholas Holder and his twinkle-toed wife, Mary Kay, red-headed siren Doreen Corkin squired by the debonair Chris Mitchum, babe-a-licious blondes Jennifer Donaldson and Kimberlea Tracey, grande dame Hope Baker, the lovely Lydia Kimball, thoroughbreds Susan Hunnewell, Lee Sprague and Carla Cabot, and numerous post-debs, young-marrieds, yummy-mummies and post-facelift socialites, accompanied by the men who love them.

The cabaret-style setting was intimate, the show was exactly the right length, and the witty repartee flew fast and furious. The following are a few examples:

“I love these veiled insults, like, ‘Who did your makeup?’ if they think you look like a hooker.”

“I specifically had my hair done to look Kwanzaa-ish.”

“All I want for Christmas are the two front diamonds in that necklace.”

And (my personal favorite): “She looks terrific. She just can’t smile too much, or her belly-button shows.”

In short: Job well done! Now how about resurrecting the three-martini lunch?

Captions from top to bottom: Paul Karger and Pamela Vargas at the Food for Thought gala; Cassandra Henderson, Vicky Whitney and Jane Marshall at the Vincent Carol

Photo Credit: philpell

BY EZRA DYER

How many of us know what our significant others do at work? You may have an idea, generally, of what they do, but I’ll wager that few us have much understanding of the day-to-day lives of our girlfriends or boyfriends, husbands or wives. For instance, I know that my wife, Heather, sells cosmetic lasers, that her territory is New England and that one of her company’s products resembles the robot from the movie Short Circuit. Beyond that, I don’t really know what she does, which is why I propose Take Your Husband to Work Day. To my surprise, she agrees. Which proves she’s either exceptionally forgiving or has a short memory, since the last time I entered her workplace I was dressed as a giant bean and gave her a lap dance.

On the morning of Take Me to Work Day, I arise early and begin getting dressed. Heather eyes my jeans and says, “No, you’ve got to wear business clothes. You’re taking this seriously.” I thought I was taking this seriously. I mean, I’m wearing pants.

We get in the car and plot our plan to sell the hell out of some lasers. We’re heading to Rhode Island to hit a few doctors’ offices, maybe a medspa or two, and spread the gospel about lasering your way to aesthetic perfection. I’m ready to deal.

“You’re not coming in,” Heather tells me when we arrive at the first doctor’s office. “Maybe you can come in on a later one. Here, I’ll park the car so the sun’s not in your face.” I sort of get the feeling that I’m considered a liability. Experience has made me well-attuned to that sentiment.

A few minutes later, Heather returns with a brochure—from a competing company that beat us to our target. The brochure features before and after photos of a woman’s thong-clad buttocks, which, quite honestly, look pretty good to me even in the “before” photo. “I know you’re not going to want to hear this,” I tell Heather, “but that company has better asses. Their ‘before’ is better than your ‘after.’”

“That’s not the point,” Heather replies. “The idea is to show a big change, so you want to start with a worse one.” I disagree. People don’t want to look at gross butts when you’re trying to sell them something. If I were in charge around here, the brochure butts would go from nice to nicer. That’s what sells lasers, I tell you.

We get back on the road. At the next stop, Heather tells me to come with her. “What am I going to do?” I ask. She tells me to just stand behind her and keep my mouth shut. “Managers come along all the time, and they usually just observe,” she says. As we walk in, I try to assume a managerial demeanor. Which is slightly difficult, since I’m acutely aware that I have three stitches in my neck from a recent dermatological adventure. I feel less like a salesman than a goon, the muscle of this operation. “Hey, you wanna buy this here laser, or what? I think it’d be in your best interest to do business with us, ’cause it’d be a shame if you went with another company and then came to have… regrets.”

As Heather chats with the receptionist, I hang back and try not look like Menacing Mr. Stitchneck. Heather asks to see the doctor, the receptionist politely shuts her down, and we’re on our way. “That’s how it usually goes with a cold call,” Heather says as we walk to the car. This whole cold-call concept seems to leave room for improvement. Here’s my innovation: calling ahead.

We hit a couple more spots and then take a lunch break at Panera Bread. In the parking lot, Heather points out a man and a woman in a car facing us. They’re wearing business attire, and one of them has a laptop open. “I guarantee that’s a rep and a manager doing a ride-along,” Heather says. It occurs to me that they probably assume the same about us. “Let’s make out,” I say. “That’ll freak them out.” I go in for a kiss, but the latent static electricity in my head-to-toe wool causes me to lip-taze her, and both of us recoil sharply from the shock. Now the people in the other car are indeed looking at us in confusion—from their perspective, they just saw two coworkers about to lock lips before a lightning bolt shot out of their faces. You hang around a Panera parking lot long enough, you see some things.

At the end of the day, we’ve covered 146 miles, and I haven’t helped close any deals. Now that I know more about Heather’s job, though, I have an idea of how I might assist. But I need to hit the gym for a few months first if we’re going to improve those butt photos.

Photo Credit: Art-4-Art

BY NICK ALTSCHULLER

I don’t go to great lengths to improve my appearance. Shaving on consecutive days is something I did in my teens, back when the ritual was a novelty, not an annoying necessity. The hairbrush has only recently become part of my grooming arsenal. But I floss (almost) every night, so let’s not start throwing stones.

A couple of weeks ago, I was flipping through the channels and landed on a show called Bridalplasty, a terrifying program in which young women compete for implants, nose jobs and other procedures in the hope that, on their wedding days, they’ll be able to unveil themselves as completely unrecognizable to their husbands-to-be. The show came up in a conversation with a friend, who, it turns out, never misses an episode. A nurse practitioner specializing in skincare, she shared delightful stories about wealthy, Percocet-addled housewives and desperate boob-flashers soliciting illegal, direct injections of silicone. As the images swarmed in my imagination, the world of medical aesthetics became a canvas for Charlie and the Juvéderm Factory, or a painting by Hieronymus Bosch by way of Us Weekly. Seeing the fear in my eyes, she offered to guide me through some of the outer circles of beauty’s inferno.

Preferring to remain anonymous, I’ll refer to my friend as Joan, in honor of Rivers, the patron saint of aggressive measures. So it’s fitting that the first thing she did when I arrived was sandblast my face. Technically a microdermabrasion, Joan exfoliated my features with a small plastic node attached to two tubes: one for sucking in my skin, the other for barraging the surface with aluminum oxide crystals. Aestheticians normally keep the suction power to around 35 kilopascals, but as a nurse, Joan was free to crank the dial to 48. The process sounds unpleasant, but it’s relaxing, like being cleaned by a toothy vacuum. 

The next logical step was to smear my face with acid—10 percent glycolic, to be exact. To me, the notion of a chemical peel has always brought to mind a Mission: Impossible-esque revelation, with the recipient literally peeling off a latex mask to reveal his true, debonair self. In reality, the person underneath looks like a guy who fell asleep on the beach, as, before it’s neutralized, the acid evokes the feeling of a freshly smacked sunburn.

Then it was time for some real pain. After extracting the pores of my nose with a “scoop” and a “spear,” Joan unholstered her laser gun for some hair removal on my throat. What followed was five minutes of penitence for every sinful ingrown hair, each exploding follicle snapping like a rubber band against my jugular. The smell of burning beard was disturbing, but what really had me nervous was the final step: Botox.

I’m more comfortable communicating with a smirk or a shrug than with actual verbalization, so I find my frown lines useful. Now with five shots of botulism between my eyebrows, my preferred method of expressing disdain has been paralyzed. “People are going to say ‘Oh, Nick, you look so happy!’” Joan assured. That’s not something I’m used to hearing.

“You look like you got beat up,” said my father. It was Christmas morning, my neck was irritated, my forehead slightly swollen and ruddy cheeks were emerging from underneath a shedding layer of epidermis. My skincare session produced no holiday miracle, but as the days progressed, I found myself rounding into a smooth New Year’s baby. But a mere $559 in procedures won’t sway me from my austere grooming habits. I don’t fit the type, do I?

“I have everyone from landscapers to pro athletes’ wives,” said Joan, correcting my assumptions. With an age range of 16 to 86, her customers’ motives vary beyond the vanity stereotype. “There’s people who got laid off and feel like they’re competing in a younger job market, or people that just got divorced and maybe they’re not feeling so good about themselves.”

Like buying a new shirt, there’s an element of pampering coupled with a moment of trying on a fresh persona, a fleeting version of you. But for now, I’ll stick with my current method of revitalization: a winter beard, grown to shroud, and to be shaved on my birthday, revealing a newly exfoliated, inescapably older me.

BY JONATHAN SOROFF

High Ho, Silver!

There’s nothing a thoroughbred appreciates more than another thoroughbred, which explains why the blue-blooded horsey set was out in full force for the cocktail party at Jacob Wirth to benefit the Friends of the Boston Park Rangers Mounted Unit.

Helping to ensure that Boston’s green spaces will continue to be patrolled by guys resembling Dudley Do-Right were such prominent animal lovers as philanthropic fun-couple Cokie and Lee Perry, Beacon Hill doyenne Biddy Owens and the dapper Bob, equestrian stud muffins Tony Corey and CJ Menard, the blonde triumvirate of Laura Baldini, Alexandra Dowling and Julia Owens, latter-day Diana Vreeland Tonya Contos, Cambridge homey Charley (Curly) Aldrich, Mandarin Oriental marvel Edwina Kluender, Turkish delight Handan Titiz, salty sailor Sinan Kunt and Chestnut Hill chatelaine Gale Minot, with her pretty and pedigreed goddaughter, Nina Coolidge (celebrating her 25th birthday).

The cozy crowd gathered in a corner of the restaurant to sip adult beverages, and the buffet boldly included sausages on sticks. Needless to say, there was no shortage of witty repartee. To wit:

“If Alexander McQueen being dead is your worst problem, you’re doing OK.”

“Sorry for spilling. I was attacked by a Chanel bag.”

And my personal favorite:

“If it weren’t for the shakes, I wouldn’t get any exercise at all.”

Brother, Can You Spare a 20?

If the term “coming out” means anything to you besides the announcement that someone’s gay, you should’ve been at The Boston Park Plaza for the Boston Cotillion: the annual presentation of the season’s debutantes. 

Like swans swathed in white ballgowns, the young misses of 2010 included Constance (Coco) Gardner Minot of Boston, Sarah Elizabeth Dale of Weston, Stephanie Katharine Moroney of Manchester by the Sea, Kathryn Carr Whitelaw of Weston, Katherine Winslow L’Heureux of Dover, Mary Livingston Kinsella of Dover, and sisters Amelia Marie, Francesca Cabot and Olivia Paine Metcalf of Newton.

Needless to say, Stephen Cabot Metcalf was the hardest-working dad in deb-land that night (not to mention the most out-of-pocket). Other proud parents included the youthfully dewy Lynn Pantano Dale, the eternally attractive Gale Minot and accomplished equestrienne Mary Chilton Crane, while those on hand to witness the proceedings included the lovely likes of Lucy and Nina Coolidge, Amory and Hilary Minot,
Blake Whitney and Susan Hunnewell.  

Watching the formal introduction to society was like witnessing a John Singer Sargent painting or an Edith Wharton short story come to life. Each girl was accompanied by two escorts and presented by a male relative, and after curtsying beneath an arbor of evergreens, she proceeded down a receiving line of prominent females.

One major bummer: Due to bad weather, one of the debs didn’t make it home from London in time. The other major bummer: As one guest pointed out: “This is a Wasp party. Of course it’s a cash bar.”

I Could’ve Danced All Night

The Winter Ball, meanwhile, also held at The Boston Park Plaza (and on the same night as the Cotillion), was more like a scene out of F. Scott Fitzgerald.

The black-tie shindig serves as an annual reunion of sorts for people who only see each other once a year, around the holidays, and it skews heavily toward prep schools and elite colleges. The bright young things, some accompanied by parents, mix with a more geriatric element (there for the dancing) and a slightly aspirational crowd (there because it sounds fancy). 

With such a potent cocktail, it’s no surprise that rambunctiousness ensues, and there to witness the shenanigans were such so-and-so’s as Jack Roosevelt and his blushing bride, Lacy, exotic pair Dartagnan and Renuka Brown, the overly educated Parker Treacy, dapper maverick Carl Deane, the highly distinguished Juan Uribe, the toothsome twosome of Liza Winship and Molly Storer, and (for the first time I can remember) a man wearing a yarmulke.

Among the choicest conversations overheard: 

“I went to Princeton.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s a small community college in New Jersey.”

And, in somewhat poorer taste (but no less amusing):

“She looks fresh off a stripper pole.”

“Think those are really hers?”

“Yes. The sugar daddy obviously bought ’em for her.”

Photos Credits from top to bottom: Charley Aldrich, Alex Dowling and Julia Owens at Jacob Wirth; A debutante going down the receiving line at the Cotillion; Juan Uribe and Lacy and Jack Roosevelt at the Winter Ball

Photo Credit: Paul Pegler

BY EZRA DYER

We’ve all heard a lot about WikiLeaks lately. For the uninformed, WikiLeaks is a secure website that allows whistleblowers to share sensitive documents without revealing their identities. So far, leaks have revealed shocking insider information from international diplomats, such as this assessment of Fidel Castro’s health, circa 2006: “Will not die immediately but will gradually lose [his] mental faculties and will become increasingly weaker until he dies.” Whoa, hold the phone! You mean Castro isn’t leading sunrise yoga classes outside the Havana Curves anymore? I was under the impression that he’s the picture of good health.

Unfortunately, most of the documents have been pretty boring. But I happen to know that we’ve only viewed a mere fraction of the material. You see, I have a source within WikiLeaks who’s given me advance access to forthcoming revelations. That’s right—WikiLeaks leaks.

Item one concerns Bank of America. According to my source, they may sign you up for “advantage with tiered interest checking” for $25 per month. With this fantastic, consumer-friendly plan, you pay a $25 monthly fee if you have less than $10,000 in your account. The upshot, though, is that they’re paying you interest: .05 percent APR. So, let’s do the math: You get charged $25 per month, but at the end of the year, your $9,999 will have earned… $5! Thanks for the sweet deal, Bank of America! You’re welcome for the TARP money.

Moving on to the world of fashion, you’ve probably noted the trend of girls wearing tights and equestrian boots. Confidential cables reveal that this fashion was conceived not by clothing designers, but by Tiger Woods, Jesse James and Bill Clinton. One leaked correspondence includes the statement, “Guys, I can’t believe how [redacted] awesome it is that we got chicks to dress like this in public.”

Incoming intercepted cable: Diplomats still use something called “cables” to communicate. Maybe they should upgrade to something more modern and secure, like Teddy-Grams.

Freshly sprung leaks even stretch to the realm of unsolved mysteries. You know all those blackbirds that fell out of the sky in Arkansas? There have been some pretty stupid theories about why this happened, including the idea that they were all scared to death by New Year’s Eve fireworks. The truth is that those birds were in a cult, and it was a case of mass avian suicide. Which coincidentally happened right after they flew through the military’s new invisible Arkansas death ray.

On the subject of corporate espionage, I’ve learned that Shaws has a plan to undermine Stop & Shop management through a mole planted in the company. The mole? The official photographer who shoots the staff photos that hang on the wall near the checkout. Leaked cables indicate that Shaws intends to demoralize Stop & Shop employees through the use of poor lighting and mid-1980s backgrounds. But guess what? That photographer is a double agent who’s doing the same thing to Shaws, and also every supermarket you’ve ever been to.

In matters of national security, I call your attention to those Truvia sweetener ads, the ones with the cutesy singsong chick crooning that it “comes from a little green leaf.” Top-secret communications reveal that this song was composed in North Korea, with help from Charles Manson and the girl from Scrubs who carried around the ukulele. Also, Truvia is made from the bones of dissidents.

There are so many juicy scandals and cover-ups that I have a hard time knowing what to release next. But check this out: I have leaks from realtors revealing their strategy for subverting owner-posted rental listings by bombarding the owners with obvious scams. I now understand why, when we listed our apartment on Craigslist, I immediately got a message from a guy named “Mack Johnson” who claimed to be in Ireland. I kept up an exchange with him just to see what he’d say, which led to the following awesome e-mail: “I have an uncle in the state that will handle the payment for me. And as for the Lease and application and form, i will have that best filled physically appending to signatories.” Best filled physically appending to signatories? I thought that was just Irish English, until WikiLeaks pulled back the curtain on Real Estate Agents Maddening Average Shelter Sellers (REAMASS).

Although that doesn’t explain why, when I listed a couch, my first enquiry was from someone named “Rage Grghghr” with an e-mail address that ended in .tv. Does that mean Rage Grghghr lives in my TV? And does anyone know how to send a cashier’s check to the Sudan?

From what I understand, WikiLeaks is outraged that its compromised information has been compromised. That’s why I’ve installed a “dead man’s switch” on my computer that will release even more scandalous news should I disappear. What do bedbugs have in common with Syria, the corn industry and Kathie Lee Gifford? You’d better pray you never find out.

BY JONATHAN SOROFF

Twee Huggers

New England is nothing if not historic, but it costs Historic New England (formerly the Society for the Preservation of New England Antiquities) a pretty penny to foot the bill for all 36 of the properties it oversees. Which explains its centennial gala—the first big-ticket, black-tie soirée of the year.

Held at the Fairmont Copley Plaza, cocktails were served in the oh-so-rococo Venetian Room, followed by dinner in the Oval Room, where legendary interior designer and guest of honor Bunny Williams cracked up the crowd by announcing that she felt overdressed standing in front of a giant scallop shell (think the naked redhead in the painting by Botticelli). Williams brought along some of her posh New York friends, including the über-fabulous Duane Hampton (widow of Mark and mother of Alexa—and if you don’t know who they are, read a design magazine). In terms of local gentry, there were lots, including the evening’s chair, Joan Berndt, Forbes rich-lister Ned Johnson and the lovely Lillie, MFA head honcho Malcolm Rogers, Gallic antiquarian Francois Badonnet and his other half, Steve St. Peter, Cambridge art collector Susan Paine, statuesque brunette Barbara Jordan, the delicious Chrissy Kazis and her main squeeze, Mitch Sayare, bowtied Brahmin Emerson Tuthill, the debonair Reed Coughlin with his stunning other half, Kate, the breathtaking Katherine Chapman and countless, equally well-shod others.

It was a perfectly elegant evening and over all too soon. But not before the opportunity to overhear the following:

“I know they have gays in Kansas. They just don’t marry French people.”

And:

“Preserving New England antiquities is extremely important, which is why my wife goes to Canyon Ranch so often.”

If Religion’s the Opiate of the Masses, What’s TV?

At this point, pretty much every American subculture has been dissected on film, so why not the struggling (often for good reason) music scene of Lower Allston?

Quiet Desperation—a demented, improv TV show that airs Fridays at 11 pm on My TV and features a cast of 200 local comics, musicians and actors—held a launch party at the Fenway hangout Church, and you wouldn’t think there was enough marijuana on the planet (never mind other mind-altering drugs) to produce this “alt-reality” parody. Think Jersey Shore meets SNL meets a spin-off of The Office called The Unemployable.

At least a fraction of the purposefully marginal talent involved were present, like nonstop cut-up Mehran Khaghani, the hirsute Rob Potylow, chain-smoker Tom Dustin (the only American ever to win a Canadian Comedy award), the hilarious Joe Wong (who headlined at the Radio and TV Correspondents Dinner and was reportedly funnier than Joe Biden), executive producer Scott Matalon, Niki (not my real name) Smokes, tall drink of water Benny Bosh and the puckish Warren Lynch, along with more people with dreadlocks, curious facial hair and unusual piercings, all tattooed and dressed in vintage somethings topped with knit caps.  

The drink of choice was cheap beer, with the hipster manqués drinking Narragansett and the old-schoolers PBR, while the smell of pot radiated from some of the guests like perfume on a five-dollar hooker.

“We should be in jail for what we’re broadcasting,” said one cast member. “It’s the craziest shit anyone’s ever seen on TV.”

A bold statement, but aside from FoxNews, possibly true.

Contest of the Month

The first person to correctly identify the designer of this killer outfit—spotted at the opening of the MFA’s new wing—will win an Improper Bostonian T-shirt. Not quite as chic, we know, but we never claimed to be Vogue.

Photos Credits from top to bottom: Chrissy Kazis and Mitch Sayare at the Historic New England gala; Benny Bosh, Warren Lynch and Niki Smokes at the Quiet Desperation launch party; The mystery outfit

Photo Credit: Dan Watkins

By Amanda Knorr

Plum, red wine and deep-purple lip shades added some drama to the Spring 2011 runways. While I usually stick to my light pinks and neutrals (saving darker hues for Halloween), there’s something refreshing about a dark lip paired with a floral-print dress. Makeup artist Lauren Genatossio advocates the look and shares her how-to tips for those eager to test it out:

1. At first glance, many of these shades will look black in the tube—don’t let that scare you. When applied, they turn into a sheer or matte version of a rich plum color that will flatter most skin tones. While I prefer this look on olive skin tones, it can be quite successful on fair skin, too.

2. If you want a deeply saturated, high-fashion/runway version of the look, use a lip brush to methodically apply the shade with short, even strokes until the area is completely pigmented. If you’re a bit nervous of the commitment, use the tips of your finger to gently build the pigment onto your lips. When you get to a level that feels comfortable, stop. This effect is more like a lip stain and can be just as glamorous, but far easier to wear.

3. Despite the fact that you may often see dark lips paired with a smoky eye, I often just leave the eyes clean, keeping the lipstick the main focus. Strike a great balance by blending a light yellow-gold shadow over the entire eye area and evenly coating your lashes with a glossy black mascara. The look will complement the dark lip without overpowering it.

Photo Credit: Jon Schulte

BY EZRA DYER

Growing up in Maine, power outages were a fact of life. It was a fun irony that we lived within the evacuation radius of the Maine Yankee nuclear power plant, yet the reactor’s energy often failed to make the 15-mile trip to our house. But in the boonies, you expect power outages. You’ve got woodstoves and lanterns and guns. Up there, you’re basically one step away from living in the 1800s anyway, so a blackout is no big deal. But when you live eight miles from the Massachusetts State House, as I do now, you don’t expect to lose your power. Which makes it all the more traumatic when it happens.

In 10 years of living in Boston, I’d never experienced an electrical outage. So far this winter, it’s happened twice. You know those “dig safe” signs that warn about buried power cables? In my neighborhood, you can dig wherever you want, because all the power lines are strewn overhead in a festive high-voltage tangle. At least until it snows or a sparrow alights on a line, at which point the wires collapse into the street, plunging us all into a state of pitch-black anarchy.

The romantic notion about power outages is that they give you a chance to ditch the Internet and TV and connect with your fellow human beings, playing Scrabble by candlelight and sipping hot chocolate beside a roaring fire. The truth is that you’re plunged into a terrifying, Mad Max postapocalyptic dystopia, a nightmare from which you can’t wait to awaken.

When the lights go off, you immediately realize how many devices in your house require electricity. The stove. The furnace. The coffeemaker. (For about a half hour, I seriously ponder whether I can boil water on our gas grill and MacGyver myself a cup.) And what if I want to shred some papers? I can’t, which makes me suddenly want to shred some papers. That pedal-powered, solar-backup shredder looked silly when I saw it in the Brookstone catalog, but who’s laughing now?

I can live without lights. I can live without Internet. I can even live without TV, because TLC airs reruns of My Strange Addiction, so I won’t miss the upcoming episode about the guy who can’t stop hiring albinos to dress in Revolutionary garb and joust aboard model trains. But heat is hard to do without. So, with nightfall approaching, the thermometer dropping, and still no power, I make an executive decision: We’re going to a hotel.

But first, we have to get off the island. “But Ez,” you say, “I didn’t know you lived on an island.” Well, neither did I. When I first moved to my neighborhood, I heard old-timers say things like, “Around here, there’s one way in, and one way out.” But I figured they were just being dramatic, because in two years, I’d never seen the road flood. Well, it’s a weakness of human psychology that if something’s never happened to you personally, you expect it never will. In the financial world, this kind of event is called a “black swan,” which means an event so rare, it’s like a ballet movie that guys might want to watch because it involves hot, psycho lesbians. Right now, we’ve got a meteorological black swan on our hands, because my path down Sea Street is impeded by about 100 yards of actual sea. A line of cars stretches to the water’s edge, and, on the far shore, a tow truck is winching a Cadillac out of the abyss while the chaos is filmed by a news team. Somewhere in Florida, a bunch of tan jerks are watching all of this on TV and snickering over their daiquiris.

This kind of moment tests your manhood. Do you turn back with a whimper and hope the industrious fellows at NStar can restore the electricity before your starving dogs start gnawing on your frostbitten extremities? Or do you point the wheels into a washout in the hopes that you’ll make it to the other side and on to the paradise of the Hampton Inn?

Here’s the calculus: Is it worth the risk of total vehicle destruction, hypothermia and drowning just for a few hours of takeout pizza and cable TV? Of course not. But now that I pulled out of line and up to the edge of the water, turning around would make me look like a total wuss.

So, the Hampton Inn was great. But next time the lights go out, we’ll head to Patriot Place and kill some time shopping. I expect they’ll have power at the Bass Pro Shops. And if not, at least they’ve got lanterns and guns.

Photo Credit: Libby Chapman

BY NICK ALTSCHULLER

My life’s most excessive purchase is my iPod Touch. I employ no apps. I don’t go online. I’ve never used it to watch a movie, and it holds little music. On the sliding scale of extravagance, I’m like the guy who buys a Porsche just so he can drive it in rush hour traffic.

During my own commute, my iPod serves its primary function as a podcast delivery device. I have a regular lineup of shows, all of which could fairly be deemed “mainstream.” But on occasion, I do find myself checking out the dustier corners of the iTunes library. It reminds me of when I was a kid, taking my first exploratory steps away from the music on pop radio. To stimulate intellectual growth, sometimes you have to shock the system. So for a week, I strapped my headphones on like defibrillator paddles and plunged into the auditory fringe.

Perhaps still channeling my younger self, the first area I turned to was porn, and the show Porn++. The podcast features two guys dissecting scenes from current and “classic” adult movies. You’d think having been on the job since 2008, the hosts would’ve seen everything by now, but as they trade breakdowns, the commentary is often interrupted with an ear-shattering “WHHHAATT!?,” as if somehow a particular bout of fellatio finally took sex into the 21st century. The show’s only highlight was the coda, during which they discussed whether or not their parents knew about their side job. Said one cohost to the other, “In hindsight, I recommend you don’t tell your dad.”

On the opposite end of the spectrum was Help Me Quit Porn. I was hoping for a cheeky peek at religious self-righteousness, but after a bitching Christian rock intro, the show turned out to be just a recount of one man’s struggles followed by quiet prayer. It’s actually quite soothing, like having a remorseful Mr. Rogers discuss his dirty habits, then read you a passage from Corinthians.

Thinking elicited fear would be a good measure of a podcast’s success, I turned to the supernatural. Sadly, the only alarming thing the Northwest Georgia Paranormal Investigation Team had to share was the bitter announcement that a team from Tennessee got first dibs on a haunted swamp house. On The Paranormal Podcast, hyperdimensional physics expert Mike Bara announced that “Newton, Einstein and quantum mechanics are all wrong,” and that the 2012 apocalyptic nightmare can be avoided through the power of positive thought. He may be an idiot, but he’s not a dull listen.

Boredom did, however, strike when I tried to learn about other people’s hobbies. The hosts of The Antique Auction Forum brought on Mark Moran, author of price guides on everything from salt and pepper shakers to West German pottery. I feel I owe my brain a sympathy card. Then there was Crafternoon Tea with Auckland’s own Grannyg, aka an hour in which I could actually feel my body aging. Steam Geeks promised a breakdown of True Grit and a discussion on the influence of Westerns on the steampunk sub-genre of science fiction. Oddly, however, they began the show with more than 30 minutes of comparative whiskey tasting, and the subsequent hour was a wash.

Deciding to indulge my own nerdy tastes, I dug for podcasts about movies, video games and comic books. I found Boston Bastard Brigade, a show that perpetuates negative stereotypes about both nerds and Bostonians. But I encourage you to check out Giant Fire Breathing Robot if you’d enjoy a lengthy commentary on how awesome it’d be to have director Kevin Smith’s baby.

My podcast search’s one salvation was Band in Boston. Light on chatter, and with tastes skewing toward Americana, the hosts list the weekly lineup at some local clubs and play select tracks. It answers the question, “I wonder what a band named Cat-Tooth Jim sounds like?” (Pretty good, actually.) The interludes allow the mind to wander, which is part of the reason I assembled my regular lineup in the first place.

Like picking your particular brand of cable news, sometimes your brain just needs the guise of edification in order to unwind—a springboard into daydreaming. All I ask, and what my quest failed to find, is that a podcast give me what I want to hear, and the freedom to not listen.

BY JONATHAN SOROFF

Just Bead It

Fat Tuesday on a Saturday night in January? Why not? Especially if it’s Big Night, the annual blowout for Big Brothers/Big Sisters that’s like a frat party for billionaires, held at the Boston Convention and Exhibition Center.

Instead of kegs, there’s a bar in every direction. Instead of pizza, there’s a four-course feast prepared by best-selling cookbook authors Michael Schlow, Chris Schlesinger, Angela and Seth Raynor and Joanne Chang. And instead of some stoner’s crappy band, there’s music by the white-hot Michael Franti & Spearhead, followed by the legendary Neville Brothers.

First-class all around, thanks to the precedent set by the party’s founder, hedge fund dodecadillionaire Jim Pallota, and the continued largesse of beneficent bigshots like cochairs Joe Ayoub and Tim Dibble and honoree Marty Mannion.

The award for Mardi Gras MVP goes to one of two hot blonde moms, Courtney Forrester or Ashley Bernon—depending on whose booze-goggles you were looking through while they were dancing dressed as New Orleans Saints cheerleaders. Truthfully, I don’t remember. But I know it was an amazing party.

Kome on Down

Wait a second. A networking event in Boston with as many black, Asian, Latino, gay and trans-whatevered people as pasty-faced, polyester-wearing white people? And at a bar where you can get a decent drink?

Such a thing exists, every other month, with the intentionally misspelled (we hope) Get Konnected, held at Art Bar.

The star of the evening was competitive squash player turned culinary cottage industry Ming Tsai, signing copies of his new cookbook for the likes of Harvard factotums Bob Mitchell and Loc Truong and former Mayor of Cambridge Ken Reeves.

The crowd was interesting, as was the food, and among the amusing comments overheard was, “I like connecting with people on every level: professional, personal and physical.”

Playing With Fire

What’s hot about firemen? To begin with, “They’ve got big hoses,” as Lenny Clarke pointed out at the Boston Firehouse Chili Cookoff to benefit The Greater Boston Food Bank, held at the Four Seasons.

Clarke, along with the hotel’s executive chef, Brooke Vosika, officiated the competition, and guests got to vote on 13 entries, which ranged from spicy turkey to smoked brisket. Even better, they were served up by guys in uniform, at least 12 of whom were hot enough to make one of those cheesy calendars (I counted).

I ate my weight in chili, while getting rip-roaring rambunctious with the likes of TV Diner babe Jenny Johnson, the hardest-working man in showbiz, Billy Costa, yummy mummy Julie-Hume Gordon, bombshells Samantha Strauss and Julia Owens, stalwart partygoers Lynn and Gary Smith, and others too delightful to mention.

The Hormel Trophy went to Engine 24 and Ladder 23 from Dorchester, and there were many utterances of “yum” and “this is delicious.” In fact, the only criticism came from a high-powered PR exec and well-respected Wellesley mom who said, “Beer and wine are a no-brainer with chili, but they really oughtta have a martini bar.”

All Dressed Up

Here’s to the Ladies Who Lunch. At least the ones who attended Dress for Success’ annual luncheon at the Fairmont Copley Plaza.

Not only was the food good, but it was hosted by luscious-to-look-at WCVB-TV Channel 5 reporter Shayna Seymour, and it was laid-back enough that more than a few of us felt comfortable availing ourselves of the wine.

Along with a handful of alpha males, there was enough high-powered estrogen to fuel Wonder Woman’s invisible airplane. For example: force of nature Jacqui Budd, banking babes Vicary Graham and Joanne Jaxtimer, presidential confidante Carol Fulp, bouclé’d blonde Kristen Daly, tall drink of water Dusty Rhodes, fur-swaddled mountain lioness Mary Kakas and the indomitable Pat Kreger, to name a small fraction. The awards presentation was blessedly brief, and the awards themselves were crystal high heels, which prompted one guest to say, “I’d rather have a real pair of Manolos.” 

The first reader to guess which husband of a flawlessly put-together insurance executive wore the insulated L.L. Bean duck boots pictured here will win an Improper Bostonian
T-shirt. It might not keep your feet dry, but you could probably
use it to dry them.

Photo Credits from top to bottom: Red Sox owner John Henry and his wife, Linda Pizzutti Henry, at Big Night; Ming Tsai at Get Konnected; Lenny and Jennifer Clarke at the Boston Firehouse Chili Cookoff

Photo Credit: Dan watkins

Sandy Block is vice-president of beverage operations for Legal Sea Foods.

White wine season will be back. It may not seem like it now, but it’s bound to happen. So why not experiment with some high-quality, underdog varieties, with which you can wow your friends and make a personal statement?

The keys to quality in these three winners are hand harvesting from old vines, infertile soils, minimal intervention in the natural process and limited production.

Luigi Ferrando Erbaluce di Caluso Piedmont, Italy, 2009 (Available by order). This is one of those secret heirloom grapes the Italians unleash upon the jaded palates of the world every so often. Originating in the Alpine foothills of northern Piedmont, the name erbaluce relates to the grapes’ copper-pink appearance in the autumn sunlight. Floral in aroma, with hints of apple and tropical fruit, this wine has bright acidity and a tight core of underlying mineral flavors that make it a natural with scallops and shrimp.

Domaine de Villaine Aligoté Bouzeron, France, 2009 ($25, Formaggio Kitchen, Cambridge). De Villaine makes the Rolls-Royce of aligoté. The grape used to be grown all over Burgundy, but it can turn into nasty swill unless it’s handled properly. Owned by the man who runs the greatest pinot noir estate in the world (Romanée-Conti), Villaine makes an aligoté from organically grown grapes that’s fresh and lemony with silky, apple-like, soft-spice undertones. Since 2009 was such a ripe year, this wine has more flesh and roundness than any I’ve ever tasted. Enjoywith lobster and crab.

Donelan Family “Venus” Sonoma, 2008 ($63, Urban Grape, Newton). Made mostly from the northern Rhône roussanne grape with a touch of viognier mixed in for aroma, this wine is amazingly rich but low in alcohol (12.1 percent). With a waxy, herbal, lanolin fragrance and creamy, anise-like, subtle fruit flavors, Venus finishes on a long vanilla-bean spice note. This super-concentrated white will warm you up and pair beautifully with earthy dishes and slow-cooked stews.

Photo Credit: Robert Churchill

BY EZRA DYER

We take jealousy for granted. It’s such an integral part of human nature, in ways big and small, that we don’t really think much about it. Someone snakes a parking spot right in front of your building: jealousy. You see an ugly guy dating a chick who’s a nine: jealousy. You read that unfunny ventriloquist Jeff Dunham made $30 million last year: blind rage. And also, jealousy.

Now, I’m not complaining. Relative to most people who’ve ever lived, I’ve got an unimaginably great life. For instance, I’ve never even had a cavity. But if I did, I could get anesthesia while it was filled, an option unavailable to even the richest Babylonian, or a contemporary British person. Yet my own good fortune doesn’t mean I can’t be jealous. After all, without jealousy, Shaq might still be a Laker and Rock of Love would have no premise.

But I’ve noticed that, lately, my jealousy seems to be strengthening in unreasonable ways. Every time I see an ad for The Social Network, I become gripped with a powerful and unreasonable envy toward Mark Zuckerberg. Which really makes no sense at all.

I think my Zuckerberg envy is rooted in the fact that no other entrepreneur on the planet has become so rich for doing so little. He had one good idea, and now he’s worth billions of dollars. I’ve always considered Mark Cuban to be the poster boy for “rich beyond proportion of actual accomplishments,” but Mark Zuckerberg could afford to buy Mark Cuban and rename him Mark Zuckerberg Jr. just for sport.

However, I’m neither a computer programmer nor an entrepreneur. So envying the founder of Facebook is as pointless as envying people from the future. Incidentally, I also envy people from the future.

Think of the crap we have to put up with that future people won’t. Right now, we’re saddled with cars that don’t fly, skateboards that don’t hover and a men’s fashion scene that continues to resist the double necktie. So thanks, Back to the Future Part II. Thanks for predicting a bunch of cool stuff that didn’t actually happen, except for cell phones, awesome TVs and Major League Baseball in Florida. I suppose I could watch Back to the Future Part III and feel superior to people who lived in the Wild West, but the Wild West always looks like a lot of fun. There’s a documentary about it that I recommend called The Three Amigos.

You should have plenty of time to watch it while you’re waiting for your yeti mailman to deliver your copy of the New England Journal of Hypothermia on his snowmobile. Not that you should really worry about hypothermia. You’ll probably have a heart attack from shoveling long before it sets in. Which brings me to the subjects of my most acute jealousy: people who live in warm places.

True, some people think winter is fun. I’m sorry, but the fact that ice fishing is an approved form of recreation proves that winter isn’t fun. Not so long ago, you endured the winter only vaguely aware that people elsewhere spend January weekends playing golf beneath the blazing sun. Now, thanks to the diabolical Mark Zuckerberg, that fact is shoved in your face on a daily basis. I’m on the verge of defriending everyone who lives south of Rhode Island just so I don’t have to see any more obnoxious “Today was a great beach day!” updates in the middle of February. One guy who lives in Tampa recently posted a photo of some palm trees with the caption “Feels like summer!” and for a few minutes I seriously pondered the logistics of driving 24 hours to punch someone in the face.

I myself was recently in Orlando for a couple days—where it was a balmy 55 degrees—and to avoid New Englander envy I refrained from posting any photos of myself in the hotel’s lazy river. (Yes, I shivered my way around a lap of the lazy river, just on principle.) The experience might’ve been pleasant, actually, had some craven nine-year-old not shoved me and my floaty-tube into the middle of a fountain while I helplessly yelled, “Dude, cut it out!”

Kids can get away with that crap because they know you legally can’t retaliate by dunking them until they’ve learned a valuable lesson about messing with a man’s lazy-river time. Well, guess what, kid? I can drive a car and go buy ice cream whenever I want. I can play any video game and watch any movie. I can warm up after the lazy river by buying a drink for myself. And maybe, while I’m at it, one for your mom. You should be jealous.

By Jonathan Soroff

The Kids Are Alright

The weather outside was frightful, but the crowd was quite delightful; in fact, pretty much all the town’s pretty people turned out at the Liberty Hotel for the Winter Warm Up party to benefit Youth Design.

A program that provides high school students with paid internships in the design field, the charity was founded by Denise Korn, who clearly has a lot of admiring friends and colleagues, as they braved Snowmageddon to be there. Among them: cohosts Erica Corsano and Ricardo Rodriguez, the rarely glimpsed Rich Levitan with his whirling dervish of a wife, Anna, red-hot redhead Amy D’Ablemont Burns, silver fox Marty Jones, design avatar Matthew Bacon, Karmaloop cuties Jackie Munoz and Sara Garcia, the tall, dark and handsome Daren Bascome, Lev “Freshy-Fresh” Glazman, style icon and It-Girl Liana Peterson Krupp, Back Bay yummy mummy Maura Connolly, latter-day conquistador Javier Cortes, real estate mack daddy Rob Caro, and so on and so forth, ad infinitum.

The evening began with a cocktail reception, and some welcoming remarks that made cocktails all the more welcome, and continued with a dance party that attracted a young, sexy, artsy crowd—think of the cast of an MTV reality show minus all the neuroses and drug problems. The room, meanwhile, was decorated with orange banners and big orange Y’s, which some board members stuck to their chests.

“You look like you’re wearing a Yale sweatshirt,” said one guest, “except that it’s Princeton’s colors.” 

In other sartorial news, kabuki socialite Marilyn Riseman (who wasn’t there) seems to be passing the fashion baton to her granddaughter, Joanna Prager (who was), while another guest asked, “Does this look better buttoned or unbuttoned?” to which a friend replied, Mae West–style, “I don’t know. I’ll tell you later.”

However, the evening’s funniest exchange took place when a guest said, “Now you have me all confused,” to which another responded, “I have that effect on people. I confuse myself most of the time.”

Poor Camel...

Celebrity sex tapes are a dime a dozen. 501 C-3 sex tapes? Not so much. That was only one of the things that made the Planned Parenthood fund-raiser at the Mandarin Oriental, Boston interesting.

Another was the guest list, which included national head honcha Cecile Richards (the bane of many Capitol Hill existences), honoree Ilene Greenberg, the hale and hearty George Denny and his activist wife, Leigh Weatherly, arctic blonde beauty Jen Hawkins and her other half, Tom, education czar Tom Payzant and his other half, Ellen, the formidable Brit d’Arbeloff, Room to Grow chief Saskia Epstein and her husband, Paul, political activist and supermarket heiress Deb Goldberg, eminent architect Clement van Buren and Cantabridgian do-gooder Jill Bresky, philanthropic party pair Sherif and Mary Nada, the honorable judge Nonnie Burns, Brookline eminences Coco and Kyra Montagu, bright young things Alison and Zander Packard, the tweely named Tee Taggart and Jack Turner, a whole lot of pro-choice Republicans (judging by the applause generated by Richards’ shout-out to their support) and one woman who said, “I just got back from Palm Beach, and every single woman there had had so much plastic surgery they all looked like they were
in shock.” 

As for the sex tapes, these, of course, refer to the video showing a Planned Parenthood employee behaving badly, which has become a YouTube sensation. (According to Richards, it was an anomaly, and the offender was fired.) Also, demonstrating how divisive the issue is, a security detail wearing glaringly obvious ear-pieces was stationed outside the ballroom.

Not that it wasn’t a celebratory affair, full of witty repartee, like the person who looked at the smoked salmon on the plate and said, “Bad breath! See? Even the meal is a prophylactic!” 

It was also highly edifying to learn that the very first I.U.D. was invented by some ancient wag who figured out that stuffing a camel’s uterus with a date would prevent pregnancy.

Something I’m sure to bring up at my next dinner party.

Ding, Ding, Ding!

We have a winner: Bootylicious fashion plate Laura Baldini won our last contest, correctly guessing that the dress worn at the opening of the new MFA wing was from the final collection of Alexander McQueen. Girl knows her haute couture.

Credits top to bottom: Jackie Munoz at Winter Warm Up; Ellen Payzant, Cecile Richards and Tom Payzant at Planned Parenthood

Planned Parenthood images: Lipofsky.com

Photo Credit: Ayzek

BY Nick Altschuller

They say there’re no atheists in foxholes. By the same measure, most of us don’t believe in ghosts, until we have to go down to the basement and flip the circuit breaker. Apply the right pressure and even the most rational mind will dart to illogical places.

I, myself, am an open-minded agnostic with wavering thoughts on the supernatural. My stance sounds noncommittal, but I prefer to think that I’m prudently hedging my bets. I’m not expecting to meet St. Peter or the Ghost of Christmas Past, but I won’t be struck speechless should our paths cross. I don’t think Molly Powers communicated with my dead relatives, but that didn’t stop my hands from getting clammy.

Molly Powers is a psychic medium with an office in New York and a small, dimly lit room at Oriental Medicine in Cambridge. She describes her role as “literally the vessel between the spirit world and the psychical world.” It’s a grave description that belies her personality (or performance) as a cheerful young woman just trying to make good with an unasked-for gift. Put more casually (and rapidly): “Me, Molly Powers, from Lowell, Mass., raised Irish Catholic, father’s in church everyday saying the rosary. What do I do with this? I don’t tell him; he’ll have another heart attack.” Whether you view her sessions as treatment or a cheat, the woman is a hoot.

“You ready to go for a little ride?” she asked, before we called upon my grandparents. No matter the truth behind her service, it’s impressive to watch Powers work. Through rapid-fire speech with the dead or the client, it’s essentially storytelling through sonar. Powers quickly bounces ideas, and by reacting to your affirmations or denials, she crafts an imaginary relationship. If you wanted to, you could direct your own revelation.

Our conversations started with my paternal grandfather, a man I don’t really remember. Fittingly enough, he just wanted to talk to my dad. My father’s mother, whom I never met, also had little to say. But they did leave me with some months and numbers. Apparently all spirits do this, as if they want loved ones to consult their supernatural almanacs.

We moved on to my maternal grandmother, and things began to click. Powers didn’t see my grandfather around, which was accurate. She said my grandmother wanted me to know that she loved our house and hated her nursing home. She explained that my grandmother kept pointing to her hip.

In real life, my grandmother entered a home after slipping on some ice. I remembered visiting and hearing her blame that small accident for the loss of her independence. Then I remembered lots of old ladies hurt their hips, and no one feels comfortable in a nursing home.

“What kind of candy did my grandma keep in her purse?” I asked, deciding to get direct. “I see something in a silver wrapper, like a Hershey’s Kiss,” Powers replied. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but I owe my affinity for caramel to the sticky little squares wrapped in clear plastic grandma always kept in supply. Envisioning my grandmother’s service, Powers saw arrangements of red flowers. As my mother later pointed out, “Your grandmother always said, ‘Don’t give me flowers when I’m dead, give me flowers when I’m alive.’” Ending with my maternal grandfather, and forgetting that she’d already left him out of the picture, Powers stated that this was the grandparent I really knew well. The man’s been dead since the 1950s.

For a skeptic, the question about mediums is whether the profession is defensible or deplorable. Powers has worked as a counselor, and I don’t doubt her compassion, but her clients include grieving widows and families of suicide victims. If you don’t believe in her abilities, you have to acknowledge that what she’s doing is lying to sad people for $175 an hour.

But clients do find comfort. Perhaps there’s no real treatment, but there can be a spiritual placebo effect. It’s sugar-pill therapy, but a rational mind doesn’t care as long as the symptoms fade.

We lie to ourselves all the time, especially about matters of the unknown. Psychic mediums, rituals of luck or superstition, the vat of worms that is prayer; they’re all attempts at finding an answer. If you pick the petals off a flower and end on “she loves me,” you know that may not be the case, but it’s the result you were looking for.

Photo Credit: Steven von Niederhausern

BY EZra Dyer

Every three months, when my college’s alumni magazine arrives, the first thing I do is scan the boldfaced names in the class news section. I’m not sure why. Thanks to Facebook, I have a pretty good idea of what my fellow alumni are doing. Recently, I even saw one of my classmates on TV during a presidential address. I’m unclear on the exact nature of his job, but there was one moment when Obama looked in his direction for approval, at which point he nodded. As a friend admitted in an e-mail, seeing one of our contemporaries hobnobbing with the president on national TV caused him to experience “a serious ‘what the f*** have I been doing with myself since college?’ moment.” He dealt with the sudden shock of introspection the same way I would—by changing channels and watching South Park instead.

Which brings me back to my college magazine. Every so often I get an e-mail saying, “Tell us what you’ve been doing lately, and we’ll run it in the class news column.” I’ve never responded. On one hand, I don’t flatter myself by thinking that anyone cares where I live or who I saw at what wedding. On the other, my inveterate need to boast isn’t really satisfied by my current circumstances. I don’t merely want to inform my classmates about my life. I want to punish them with it and make them feel bad about themselves. Otherwise, what’s the point?

To that end, I’ve drafted a class news update for myself. The following might not all be true, technically, but lots of people exaggerate on their résumés. I think of this less as fact and more as the roadmap to success that I’m avidly pursuing. So here’s what everyone’s missed since we collected our diplomas.

______________________________________________________________________________

Ezra Dyer tells us that after college, he worked as a ski bum. Specifically, he designed the popular Aspen program wherein rich people use the indigent as skis—hence the term. “My skis were chattering today, so I gave them some Thunderbird wine and they settled right down,” reported an enthusiastic customer named Oprah.

Ezra soon moved to Boston, where he assumed a condescending attitude toward Northeast ski resorts. “Stowe is pretty good,” he’d tell girls at the Beacon Hill Pub. “It reminds me of the bottom 10 percent of Crested Butte, down near the parking lots.”

While working on his JD/PhD/MBA in legal business biochemistry, Ezra found the time to write a critically acclaimed history of cottage cheese and all its dwelling-themed-cheese predecessors—cabin cheese, bungalow cheese and refurbished-condo cheese. He’s also developed a new lightweight cottage cheese, so you can save money at salad bars that charge by the pound.

In 2006, he thought of a new source of energy that would be infinite, cheap and nonpolluting. Then he forgot what it was. He didn’t worry about remembering, because that wasn’t even the best idea he had that day. The best idea was a concept for a reality show about a group of depraved steroid-abusers in New Jersey. He pitched the show as “The Real World meets HBO’s Real Sex meets Shrek.” We know it now, of course, as Hard Knocks Season 6: The New York Jets.

Last month, while on a trip to see the pyramids in Egypt, Ezra casually told a cab driver, “Hosni Mubarak displeases me.” Just saying.

On another recent trip, Ezra was detained at the airport on suspicion that he was smuggling three pythons. It turned out that two of them were just his arms.

The third? That was a Madagascan ground boa. Ezra explained that he trained it to tow his carry-on luggage, thus leaving his hands free to practice kung fu. The security people then presented him with a MacArthur Genius Grant and let him fly the plane to his destination, which was a private island on the moon.

In 2008, Ezra created a novelty product called the Mandelier, a chandelier fitted with hooks to hang tools, remote controls and bottle openers. It wasn’t any stupider than the Shake Weight.

Ezra’s wife recently got her body-fat measured. The result came back in the range for “elite athlete.” This is true, actually. Ezra’s not sure how this information is relevant to class news; he just wanted to brag.

Currently, Ezra’s busy testing the iPhone 5 for Apple. Thanks to his suggestions, the birds are now 60 percent angrier. Sure, the holoscanner could use a higher farkle rate, but as Ezra told Steve Jobs, nobody’s perfect. Well, almost nobody.

BY JONATHAN SOROFF

Cupidity

Anyone who thinks Valentine’s Day is for suckers might’ve been convinced otherwise by the American Repertory Theater’s Love Letters to the A.R.T., held at the Back Bay Events Center.

To begin with, the hokey touches—balloons, red decor and heart-shaped hors d’oeuvres—were justified by their beautiful execution, and the event attracted the likes of iconic actress Karen Allen, singer/songwriter Sally Taylor (the wildly talented offspring of Carly Simon and Sweet Baby James), her husband, reformed male model Dean Bragonier, the sexiest widow this side of the Pecos, Joan Parker, theatrical trailblazer Oskar Eustis, System of a Down frontman Serj Tankian, the A.R.T.’s Thing One and Thing Three—Bob Brustein and Diane Paulus—sex on legs and two-time Tony nominee Gavin Creel (who obliged yours truly by goosing master of ceremonies Jared Bowen) and any number of drama queens, kings and lovers, who mixed, mingled and flirted shamelessly.

Dinner was punctuated by performances of a romantic nature, including the recitation of love letters and enough carnal innuendo to fuel an English sex farce. In fact, if anyone there didn’t get laid that night, he or she better have a good excuse.

Gone Skiin’

A gap has been filled in the winter social calendar of the young and the guest list, some of whom came from as far away as New York for the Boston Winter Ball. A black-tie smackdown held at the Fairmont Copley Plaza to benefit Children’s Hospital Boston, it attracted an astonishingly good-looking assemblage of leggy beauties, trustafarians and recent college grads.

Present and accounted for: good-time guy Mike Huffstetler, Miami party boy Sam Siegel, New York junior socialites Carolyn Wilde and Kristine Mackenzie, brunette bombshell Whitney Burbank and the plaid-clad David Dingman, the gainfully unemployed Jake Pelletier, latter-day Jacqueline Smith Jenny Lawhorn and lots of people who looked like extras on Gossip Girl. The only no-show: life of the party Ali Torabi, who was busy skiing in Aspen, so his friends put a life-size cardboard cutout of him by the bar. 

Mid-Century Modern

The mania for Mad Men as a party theme isn’t running out of steam, judging by the Steppingstone Foundation’s Crystal Ball, held at the Four Seasons. There were more bobby pins in that ballroom than you could shake a martini at. Among the admirers of the era, when getting bombed at work was considered essential to the creative process, were such party peeps as art dealer Charlotte Riggs and the dashing Brendan Hall, handsome scamp Bill Deacon, the statuesque Teresa Adam, 15-501 dwellers Mike and Allyson Tarson, numerous other Don and Betty Draper manques, and one guy who looked more like a Hassidic Jew than an Eisenhower-era advertising executive. The evening’s funniest exchange: “Your hair looks amazing! Does it hurt?”

“No, but I wish I owned stock in Aqua Net.”

And I’m the Duke of Westminster

It’s impossible to imagine a more elegant evening than Feast of Music: the black-tie hoedown to benefit the New England Conservatory. Following cocktails, guests were ushered into the ballroom of the Fairmont Copley Plaza, which looked like an English garden in June. (As one guest put it: “This is better than the flower show.”) A feast of English food (only good) was accompanied by British-inspired performances that ranged from Gilbert and Sullivan and Sir Edward Elgar to a piano duet that sounded like someone put George Gershwin in a blender with the Beatles, assorted nursery rhymes and the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

On hand for the festivities were Staples founder Tom Stemberg and the always stunning Katherine Chapman, Beacon Hill homeys Miguel and Suki de Braganca, lovely laugh-riot Pam Lazarus and her other half, Nick, British consul to Boston Phil Budden and his American-born wife, Deborah, piano man Cameron Stowe, department store heiress Hope Baker, junior socialite Ashley Wisneski and her father, Frank, his new bride, Lynn Dale, Anna Karenina reincarnation Rita Rudyak, tall drink of water Gerrit Peterson, and dashing architect Juan Guillermo Uribe Rubio (try saying that three times fast).

After dinner, guests repaired to the Oval Room to dance the night away to the Bo Winokur Orchestra (full disclosure: He played at my bar mitzvah). The evening’s funniest remark: “I have a Lhasa apso, which are supposed to be reincarnations of the Dalai Lama. So when he takes a shit in the corner, he gets royal dispensation.”

Credits top to bottom: Gavin Creel at Love Letters to the A.R.T.; Whitney Burbank and Carolyn Wilde at the Boston Winter Ball; Teresa Adam and Bill Deacon at the Crystal Ball; Cameron Stowe at Feast of Music

BY EZRA DYER

Lately I’ve seen a few stories about how dominant new tech companies don’t actually employ many people. One oft-cited stat claims that Twitter has 350 employees. Personally, I find that hard to believe. If you’ve ever used Twitter, you know that number seems high by about 345.

Yes, I’m now acquainted with the vagaries of Twitter, for I have joined the tweeters. I know that I made fun of Twitter and said that it dumbs down our national discourse, but what’s that expression about a foolish consistency? A foolish consistency is a hobgoblin.... A foolish consistency is a hobbled goblin on your mind? No—if you’re foolish, a hobbit will gobble your mind. That’s it, I’m pretty sure. Anyway, does Twitter make people dumber? I dunno.

So I’m on Twitter. I couldn’t resist. Legions of fans were constantly begging me to start tweeting. By which I mean one person casually mentioned that I should try it. OK, people, I give in! Everyone stop with the petitions and whatnot that I imagine you were probably planning. Everyone in Libya, you can settle down now. I’ll tweet for you, my loyal followers.

Even someone new to Twitter can immediately spot some things that need fixing. For one, there’s that word “follower.” Once upon a time, you had to be a cult leader to have followers. Now just anyone can do it. Well, I think that “follower” is a weird, overwrought word to apply to people who read your tweets, and I refuse to use the term. I vow that if you choose to read my feed, I won’t call you a “follower.” I’ll call you a “minion.” Here’s a tweet: Do my bidding! #iamacultleader.

Those of you who still don’t tweet will wonder why I used a # sign right there. Well, I’m not entirely sure myself. You see, Twitter has its own silly language. You can design a whole website without knowing HTML, but Twitter requires you to learn all its little codes to make sense of what you’re reading. Sometimes Twitter makes me feel like a farm boy who wants to learn how to talk to an Italian supermodel. It’s possible that I’ve seen too many ads for Rosetta Stone at the airport.

The urge to check Twitter is the same psychological imperative that drives people to play slot machines. The occasional reward stimulates your brain in such a way that you come back for more. Most of Twitter is a desolate crap-tundra of banality, but then you read Rob Delaney’s observation that humans are superior to lions because we have butt cheeks, and it’s all worth it.

However, like I said, there are some kinks to work out. For example, it seems like a minority of tweets are actually original information. A lot of them are people’s responses to something that someone wrote as a message. When you publically reply to a tweet, it’s like cc’ing the entire world on an e-mail, except that you only get to see one side of the conversation. Daniel Tosh, for instance, is hilarious, but his Twitter feed is awful because he live-chats with fans. Here’s a sample of his Twitter feed: “One of these days you will.” And “I have better things to do.” Hey, me too!

Thus I generally haven’t responded to people’s messages because I want to avoid Tosh-like corruption of my pristine Twitter feed. That policy may be impolite, but I’m still working on my Twitter etiquette. My friend Katie has been on Twitter for a couple years, so I asked her if it’s rude not to reciprocate on following—it seems that if someone follows you and you don’t respond by following them, you’re essentially proclaiming that you’re awesome and they’re not. “I’ve gotten yelled at for not following people,” Katie tells me. “One guy sent me an e-mail because he was mad that I wasn’t following him, but he was following me.” Personally, if I follow someone and they don’t follow me within 24 hours, I’m going to take it very personally. Yeah, I’m talking to you, Steve Martin. You only follow 34 people, and they’re all nobodies like “Bill Cosby” and “Jim Carrey.”

Twitter is fun and all, but I’ve found that 140 characters is actually too many. Who has that kind of energy? So I’m soliciting venture capital for a new social networking product that’ll only allows 100-character haikus. It’s called HiKu, but nobody has the patience to say that, so the shorthand is just “Hhhhhh.” I can’t reveal our entire business plan, but the “%” sign figures heavily on “Hhhhhh.” If you want in on the ground floor, I’m tweeting about it right now, my minions.

Photo Credit: Ariana Smart Truman

BY KYLE WRIGHT

John Collins is the founder and artistic director of Elevator Repair Service, the New York–based theater company behind last year’s Gatz at the A.R.T. Collins returns to Boston to premiere The Select (The Sun Also Rises), a staged reading of Ernest Hemingway’s novel, at ArtsEmerson’s Paramount Center through March 20.

You found success translating the work of Fitzgerald [Gatz] and Faulkner [The Sound and the Fury]. What made you want to tackle Hemingway?
We asked ourselves: If we want to make a trilogy, who should be the author? The Great Gatsby and The Sound and the Fury are very different, but if there were qualities and themes that linked them together, I think those points lead to Hemingway. I like American modernist writing.

Did you always intend to create a trilogy?
No. It started with an impulse. When we began work on Gatz, we weren’t thinking about staging novels. Somewhere in the middle of The Sound and the Fury (April Seventh, 1928) I really started thinking about the trilogy more seriously.

What about The Sun Also Rises made you think it would translate to the stage?
We settled on Hemingway first, and just started reading. When we got to The Sun Also Rises, we were so taken with the dialogue. It was a tone and language that sounded familiar and could feel contemporary.

Did the process differ from past productions?
Each has presented us with unique challenges. We’d previously tried to bring the text to the stage verbatim. But that wasn’t an option here. We had to build a play out of it. The narrator has a relationship with the audience and we needed to find the flow. Here, the challenge was on us, but in the past the challenge has maybe been placed more on the audience.

Photo Credit: Mark Barton

The Select (The Sun Also Rises) was work-shopped at ArtsEmerson and now you’re
returning to the Paramount Center to show off the final result. What keeps you coming back to Boston? 
Rob Orchard worked very hard to bring Gatz to the A.R.T. I really trust him and he gave us important support. The Paramount Center is a big theater for us. Presenters feel like they can put us in bigger spaces, and the workshop gave us the chance to really fine-tune it. It was a privilege that no one else gets.

Now that the trilogy is complete, what’s next?
We want to throw all this out the window and try something completely different! I’m thinking something with a contemporary writer. There will be somebody working with us as we go.

By Sandy Block, M.W.

Even on a shoestring, buying top-quality wine is a cinch. True, there’s huge quality variation in the popularly priced $12 to $20 range, but that’s why blind tastings were invented: to uncover the gems.

The following are standouts. Perhaps they won’t provide a full religious experience, but they’re easy-drinking winners on which you can stock up without breaking your budget.

Ken Forester “Petit Chenin” Chenin Blanc Stellenbosch
South Africa, 2009 ($9, The Wine Cask, Somerville). Chenin blanc is the underdog white grape you root for because it’s so good, so versatile and yet so underappreciated. This modestly priced beauty is bone dry, soft and mellow, with pear and honey aromas and a gentle, slightly spicy finish. It’s not complex, just kick-back delicious, and it’ll complement everything from salads to roast chicken to fish.

Fumanelli Valpolicella Classico Veneto
Italy, 2009 ($15, Bauer Wine, Boston). Valpolicella is one of those regional Italian wines that’s been around forever, but, because of big brand mediocrity, can be easy to overlook. Some of the passionate smaller estates like Fumanelli are creating magic with the obscure corvina, rondinella and molinara grapes that this area of northeastern Italy has produced from time immemorial. This one has a creamy texture to go along with raisiny, almond-like, chocolate aromas. Its jammy plum fruit, low tannins and intense ripeness are plain irresistible, balancing just about any casual dish.

Paul Janin, Domaine des Vignes des Jumeaux Beaujolais-Villages
France, 2009 ($17, Brix wine shop, Boston). The year 2009 is something special in Beaujolais, and certainly the greatest vintage I’ve ever experienced. This estate wine has a fragrance of super-ripe boysenberries; its flavors burst on the palate, a lush, intense mouthful of red fruit and rich, mouth-coating spices. The quintessential red wine to pair with fish, it can be enjoyed a bit on the cool side, and is also great for quaffing without any food at all.

Bramosia Chianti Classico Tuscany
Italy, 2007 ($14, Charles Street Liquors, Boston). As a category with an enormous range in quality, it’s not surprising that Chianti confuses people. This wine is from the most prestigious centrally located production zone. Bramosia features a profusion of ripe, tangy cherry fruit with smoky undertones and a smooth, lingering finish. It offers great balance and is ideal with pasta.

Photo Credit: Dan Watkins

By Amanda Knorr

Leave your hair color out of the equation. Black mascara looks great on everyone, and the right wand makes a big difference. These three have you covered.

The Everyday: A mascara that never gives you raccoon eyes.
Black Lush Mascara
$12 at Sarra | 840 Summer St., Boston | 617-269-8999 | sarraboston.com

The Lengthener: The spherical wand targets small lashes underneath and to the sides of the eye.
L’Oreal Telescopic Explosion Mascara in Carbon Black
$9.49 at CVS | 240 Newbury St., Boston |617-236-4007 | cvs.com

The Volumizer: The formula and brush are thicker, covering more area. This one’s a top choice for nighttime.
Christian Dior Diorshow Mascara in Black Out
$24.50 at Sephora | Prudential Center, Boston | 617-262-4200 | sephora.com

Photo Credit: Dan Watkins

By Amanda Knorr

When little white dresses start appearing everywhere, you know it’s springtime. These are lightweight, flowy and will never go out of fashion. Complement them with a flat sandal or a high platform heel.

From left:
Vanessa Bruno Athé Dress
$410 at Dress | 221 Newbury St., Boston | 617-424-7125 | dressboston.com

Free People Dress
$148 at Mint Julep | 6 Church St., Cambridge | 617-576-6468 | shopmintjulep.com

Velvet Dress
$135 at Wish | 49 Charles St., Boston | 617-227-4441 | wishboston.com

BY JONATHAN SOROFF

Cadavers R Us

Historic New England hosted a Preview Party for its first annual Decorator Showhouse at the Lizzie Borden B&B/Museum in Fall River (which it acquired from the financially strapped owners), transforming the defunct (and controversial) inn into an interior designer’s wet dream.

Among the international names who participated were second-generation New York giant Alexa Hampton, accompanied by her stunning mother, Duane, Latin hotties Manuel de Santaren and Carolina Tress Balsbaugh and West Coast tastemaker Hutton Wilkinson, while the guest list included latter-day Ricky Ricardo Juan Prieto, porcelain beauty Trevania Henderson, yummy mummy Molly Dunne, the ubiquitous Arthur and Alicia Winn, iconoclastic Brahmin Sukey Forbes Bigham, Texas babe Biddy Owens and the dapper Bob, and a woman who said, “I’m not getting design inspiration, but I am getting a few ideas of what I’d like to do to my in-laws.”

Some of the designers had fun with the house’s macabre history (blood-red walls in the living room and axes over the dining-room fireplace), but otherwise the whole thing erred on the side of tastefulness. As one guest put it: “A couple of dead bodies would liven up the place.”

Hot ’N’ Spicy or Honey BBQ?

It was a multinapkin, finger-lickin’ fun affair when the Museum of Fine Arts and the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum joined forces to host the Great Boston Wing Competition under a giant tent on the Fenway.

The stakes were high. Guests got to vote on the chicken (which ranged in heat from the merely jerked to habañero hot, and in color from Thousand Island orange to a shade of red not found in nature), and also on which museum’s bazillion-dollar expansion is better: the MFA’s new Norman Foster–designed Art of the Americas Wing or the Gardner’s Renzo Piano–designed addition.

Both Pritzker-prizewinning architects were there, mixing and mingling with the likes of über-philanthropist Barbara Hostetter and her cable-magnate husband, Amos, the extended Shapiro clan—most notably Chestnut Hellions Linda and Dan Waintrup and the Strauss girls, Sam and Kim, assorted Fidelity Johnsons
(Lillie, Ned, Ed, Beth and Abby), Cantabrigian grande dame Ann Gund, her famous architect husband, Graham, and senatorial spouse Gale Huff with her husband, Scott Brown (looking slightly underdressed in his barn coat). Among the cooks competing: Ken Oringer, Michael Schlow, Ming Tsai, Joanne Chang and Juan Saldana, who isn’t even a professional chef. Still, he won the taste test, although there was talk of disqualifying him once guests learned that his wings were actually cui, or guinea pig, a delicacy in his native Peru.

As for which museum won, the competition was a draw, after someone who identified herself only as “Mrs. Jack” stuffed the ballot box with votes for the Institute of Contemporary Art.

It’s a Jungle Out There

Zoo New England hosted its annual black-tie gala inside the African Savannah Pavilion at the Stone Zoo. Instead of a predictable safari theme, it opted to go with “Yeti and Sasquatch.” Consequently, the fun began early, when nearly all the guests descended on iParty to buy their costumes, but the drinking didn’t begin in earnest until everyone was gathered ’round the kegs at the cocktail reception.

Spotted among the throng: pre-facelift socialites Joanna Prager, Julia Owens, Julie Hume Gordon, Laura Baldini, Joanna Humphrey and Ashley Bernon, the naturally ageless Doris Yaffe, Harvard president Drew Gilpin Faust, prize-winning writers Dick and Doris Goodwin, literary agent (and offspring of eccentric English press baron Lord Rothermere and a Texas oil heiress) Esmond Harmsworth, his other half, sailing champ Jim Richardson, animal-loving real estate scion Bruce Beal, Napoleonic potentate Dick Friedman and his flawless wife, Nancy, and one woman who said, “I was going to wear a fur coat, and then I remembered I’d done that at an MSPCA event and it didn’t go over so well.”

Unfortunately, the evening was cut short when a lion escaped its enclosure and mauled diminutive party boy Joshua Janson, an incident blamed on lax security, the victim’s filet-mignon breath and the fact that he was taunting the beast. In any case, not since the Perkins School for the Blind’s Pin the Tail on the Donkey Tournament has an event ended so abruptly. The Bristol Lounge at the Four Seasons will be observing a moment of silence, while the liquor store on the corner of Clarendon and Dartmouth is accepting donations to cover Janson’s medical expenses.

Oh, and by the way… April Fools’!

Credits top to bottom: Duane Hampton and Bunny Williams at the Historic New England Decorator Showhouse; Michael Schlow and Evan Deluty at the Great Boston Wing Competition; Joanna Humphrey at the Zoo New England gala

Photo Credit:Sumnergraphicsinc

By Ezra Dyer

With the health care system a source of constant debate, I’ve decided to do everyone a favor and fix it. After giving the matter several minutes of thought, I’ve found the solution that’ll ease the burden on hospitals and drastically lower medical costs: Ban WebMD. Because if you were to remove everyone who went to the doctor because of something they read on the Internet, emergency rooms would be quieter than the Situation’s audience at Donald Trump’s roast.

Back in the old days, you’d get a strange ache or spot on your skin, and you’d say, “I should really see a doctor about that.” But, by the time you got around to actually making an appointment, the problem would’ve cleared up on its own. The only people at the doctor’s office were sitting in a pool of blood and/or on fire.

Now you get a headache and you go on WebMD to see if it’s serious. And, according to my interpretation of WebMD, it’s always serious. WebMD tells us that a headache might be caused by stress or eyestrain. Or carbon monoxide poisoning. Or encephalitis. Can we interest you in meningitis, or perhaps an abscess of the brain? It’s probably an abscess of the brain. Take two aspirins and don’t call me in the morning, because you’ll be dead.

I’ve tried to rein in my WebMD searches ever since an especially silly trip to the emergency room. One night I’m eating a steak and accidently inhale as I’m swallowing. It goes down the wrong pipe, I cough and that’s the end of it. Or it would’ve been, were it not for ol’ Doc Internet. My lungs still feel irritated, so I consult the Web to learn about the consequences of trying to eat and breathe at the same time. The answer, of course, is deeply disturbing.

For one thing, did you know that dogs can’t choke on their food? That hardly seems fair, given that dogs also have sharp teeth, fur and other advantages in life. But we humans can suck food right into our lungs, where it sits and causes pneumonia. Happens all the time. Granted, usually to senior citizens. But with my luck, I’d be the exception. If I were a patient on an episode of House, they’d say, “We’ve never seen pneumonia in someone so young. That’s why we’re going to treat you for amyloidosis and then break into your apartment.” 

I call my friend Dave, a doctor, and ask him whether I have enough time to make out a will and go skydiving naked except for a Richard Nixon mask and a pair of Uggs. He replies, “I think that if you had a piece of steak in your lung, you’d know it.” Well, that settles it. I’ve heard from an actual doctor. I’m being silly—so I go directly to the emergency room. Because I know for a fact that my left lung is now 40 percent rib eye.

After a lengthy wait at the E.R., at 1 am a weary doctor sits down to ask me my problem. I inform him that I have it on good authority that steak particles are giving me pneumonia. He calmly explains, in layman’s terms, that I’m a moron. I go home and think about how I’ll live differently now that I have a second chance at life. Maybe I’ll try to be better about recycling, or stop putting voodoo curses on my enemies. The world is my oyster.

At least until I eat some oysters in New Orleans. Shortly thereafter, I break out in a rash. Since it appeared by my foot, I presume it’s from some nefarious bayou vegetation I might’ve touched. But I can’t rule out a food allergy. Or bedbugs. When it comes to skin, WebMD has an especially lengthy and disgusting menu of afflictions. Do you know what a carbuncle is? I do now, and I can tell you that “draining the carbuncle” isn’t a euphemism. It goes without saying, but the section on carbuncles includes the phrase “fatal if not treated.”

However, given my experience with the meat-in-the-lung fiasco, I decide to handle things the old-fashioned way: by doing nothing. So far, I’m still alive. I haven’t generated any paperwork at an insurance company or a hospital. And my leg is looking less repulsive by the day. In fact, I’m looking at it right now and OH GOD, the spiders, the spiders are hatching everywhere!

Whoa. Hold on—that was actually just something in my eye. I get these floaty things sometimes. I should probably get them looked at. But I probably won’t.

Photo Credit: Katie Noble

BY NICK ALTSCHULLER

In the 1940s, a casual California eatery with a yellow-and-red color scheme began serving cheap burgers to an eager public. With booming success came expansion and a wave of copycats looking to cash in on the model.

Of course I speak of In-N-Out Burger, the chain that’s captured the hearts and stomachs of both chefs and the foodies who love them. Trying to find the key to its appeal, I asked my Facebook friends for their opinion—and subsequently received more comments in less time than anything I’ve ever posted, including links to my own work. (I in no way found that insulting.) As a coworker later put it, “Imagine if you went to a McDonald’s and it was really clean, and people knew their shit.” Loyalists cite the secret menu, which offers the allure of the esoteric, or the dedication to freshness. In fact, In-N-Out policy requires all new restaurants to be within 500 miles of a distribution center, which is why our area currently lacks an outpost.

But we do have Four Burgers. And Flat Patties. And b.good, and 5 Guys, and Boston Burger Company and other establishments capitalizing on the burger-culture cachet. Each offers a look into why the model is thriving, and why we can expect more iterations.

UBurger is a local chain with three locations in the city. Like In-N-Out, it offers a West Coast–style, flat patty burger made from fresh beef ground daily. And like its forebear, everything on the menu is ordained as free of fillers, additives and preservatives. Owned by Christians, all In-N-Out items arrive with Bible verses, but both companies seem to operate on the principle that eating of the sacred cow is some kind of cleansing act. However, digging into a plain hamburger (lettuce, tomatoes, onions, pickles, house spread) wasn’t a revelatory experience. The burger ($4.25) looks pristine, like the photographic lies used in Burger King adverts, but the product doesn’t taste much different than a Whopper. The one distinguishing factor, the house spread, was dolloped in a nearly undetectable amount, but I assume it represents one of the atolls on the Thousand Island archipelago.

While UBurger illustrates the profitable benefits of fast and cheap, other chains appeal to gourmand sensibilities. The hamburger has recently become an object of playful worship for chefs and restaurateurs. Icon Thomas Keller celebrated the anniversary of the French Laundry with In-N-Out. Says Beau Sturm, co-owner of Somerville’s Trina’s Starlite Lounge, “It’s the benchmark for what everyone’s doing,” adding that their house burger is “absolutely ripping off the In-N-Out product.”

Predictably, the hamburger craze struck years ago in New York, with restaurateur Danny Meyer creating an empire of Shake Shacks, and chefs like Daniel Boulud preparing burgers with price tags reading like traffic tickets. Last year, Boston heard rumors of a Shake Shack hitting the Common and witnessed the coming out of its own hamburger aristocracy (Back Bay Social Club’s $21 burger comes to mind).

Into that fold comes 5 Napkin, expanding from three locations in Manhattan with a new spot on Huntington Ave. “We’re not just a burger place,” co-owner Andy D’Amico says. “It’s a concept and a restaurant.” Appropriate, as takeout is geared to the corporate crowd. More stylized than the flip-and-fry flat patties, 5 Napkin’s versions are 10-ounce pucks cooked to temperature. What’s sacrificed in speed is made up for in juiciness, with giant dripping hamburgers ($8.95) requiring a serpentine mandible technique. Conscientious suits may opt for a sixth napkin to tuck under their collars.

After cheap and hedonistic comes the last piece in the procedural: hip. Tasty Burger, by Fenway, embodies that attribute, right down to the remodeled garage location and retro signage. Here the hamburgers ($4) come hot, salty and charred, as if straight from a backyard Weber. (There’s also the In-N-Out–esque option to double the beef.) As you wash it down with a tall boy served by a bartender with funky facial hair, Arthur Fonzarelli gives a thumbs up from his pop-art print on the wall, assuring you this is cool.

When our region finally got a Sonic in 2009, there were three-hour backups on Route 16. The arrival of In-N-Out could create a flame of hysteria unseen since Krispy Kreme landed in Medford. Of course, that donut shop has closed. Flames die out. “For trendy foodstuffs are as roses, whose fair flower, being once display’d, doth fall that very hour,” said Shakespeare through a mouthful of jellied eels. For burger fans, it’s time to strike while the grill
is hot.

BY JONATHAN SOROFF

OK, But What Kind of Thermometer?

So what, exactly, does the South End taste like? Going by the crowd at Taste of the South End, it’s a lot of delicious food mixed with designer outfits, gym-toned bods, people whose fabulosity quotients are astronomically high and a handful of drag queens.

Held at the Cyclorama, the event, which benefits the AIDS Action Committee, attracted the likes of brunette bombshell Laura Elkman, perpetual scallywag Alex Clarke, hairless DJ Barry Scott, country bumpkin Jeff Coakley, city slicker Chris Horan, bright young things Spencer Corkin and Gillian Marino, Argentine heartthrob Santiago Castillo and Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence Novice Sister Rosetta Stone and Sister Eunice X, who was having a bit of trouble with her wimple.

The tastings dished out by the neighborhood’s best restaurants were delectable, a few people seemed to get a bit tipsy and any occasion that allows for the use of the word “wimple” automatically belongs in the thumbs-up category.

Referring to the restaurant Sibling Rivalry, one guest said, “There’s none of that in my family…except that the kids like me better.”

The most amusing exchange, however, was:

“That just warms the cockles of my heart… and elsewhere.”

“Good. I’ll take your temperature later.” 

Who’s Sari Now?

Sitars, silk and samosas aren’t exactly the first things that spring to mind when you think of France. But the former colonial outpost of Pondicherry (aka the Riviera of the East) is the region of India that most warmly embraces the land of ooh-la-la. Hence the theme of a cocktail reception and exhibit at the French Cultural Center.

Rose petals were strewn on the steps leading into the Back Bay townhouse. Franco-Tamil music filtered through the drawing rooms. Delicious Indian food was served, and, needless to say, the wine was better than anything you’d get at a party commemorating the British days of the Raj.

Present and accounted for: ski bunny Sukey de Braganca, dashing Swiss diplomat Pascal Marmier, the devilishly handsome Pierre Noinski, Czar Nicholas II doppelgänger Krystian von Speidel, Dover-bred Indian adventuress Cynthia Frederick (visiting for a month) and a sexy assortment of other Francophiles and -phones.

The entire evening was charmant in the extreme, and no one seemed to notice the one tiny detail that would’ve undoubtedly offended the French sensibility: There were swastikas (albeit of the Indian variety) embroidered into the
colorful silks festooning the doorways.   

The Nouveau Riche Are Coming! The Nouveau Riche Are Coming!

No one bothered to hang a lantern in the Old North Church, and, in any case, the guest of honor presumably arrived by airplane, but super-luxe silversmiths Christofle hosted a party to benefit the Paul Revere House at its swanky Back Bay boutique.

The director of their “haute orfevrerie” workshops, Jean-Claude Bourbon, was on hand (wearing what looked like an oversized christening gown, but what is presumably the garment sported by French master silversmiths) to explain the artistry and craftsmanship involved in making the gleaming objects on display. These included a sculpture of a sailboat cutting through the waves, a two-tiered Champagne bucket connected by art-nouveau rose vines and a four-foot silver palm tree that houses a Champagne bucket on top and flutes hanging underneath like coconuts. (Presumably, they’re going after the Dubai market).

Guests such as bubbly PR babe Arin Starzyk, Back Bay socialite Joanna Humphrey and antiquarian Marc Glasberg “oohed” and “aahed” appreciatively, but the evening’s highlight came when one guest pointed at a gigantic sterling ice bucket costing somewhere in the six-figure range and said, sarcastically, “I’m registering for my wedding. What do you think?”

Credits top to bottom: Novice Sister Rosetta Stone, Karen Bresler and Sister Eunice X at Taste of the South End; Cynthia Frederick and Krystian von Speidel at the French Cultural Center; Jean-Claude Bourbon at Christofle’s fund-raiser for the Paul Revere House

Photo Credit: Carolina K. Smith, M.D.

BY EZRA DYER

In supernatural lore, a full moon leads to all sorts of craziness. In fact, the very word “lunacy” derives from “lunar” and the belief that the moon can drive you nuts. Personally, I don’t buy into the superstitious notion that the moon makes you crazy. But my dog does.

Recently, you may recall that a particularly close orbit resulted in a so-called super moon. That night, Heather and I go out to dinner, and when we return we find the upstairs office in total disarray. A trash can is overturned, papers and empty coffee cups are strewn about the floor, evidence that our Labrador-
     basset-hound mutt, Dino, had been in the grips of
     major lunacy while we were away.

That kind of thing is pretty standard for Dino, whose large nose and small brain regularly compel him to ransack rooms in pursuit of alluring scents. Fortunately, I soon spot the object of his attack: a bottle of Advil, chewed up and empty. It had been zipped inside a toiletry kit, itself buried within a carry-on bag. But he found it, pried it open and ingested nearly a full bottle of ibuprofen, executing the bad-dog equivalent of an Oceans Eleven–style heist.

A small amount of Advil is probably OK for a dog, but a full bottle is bad news. I immediately start squirting hydrogen peroxide down his throat to make him vomit, per the advice of the emergency vet. Unfortunately for our other dog, Manny, we can’t be absolutely sure who ate the Advil (it was Professor Plum in the library!), so he gets the peroxide cocktail, too. After seven tablespoons, he still refuses to throw up—possibly out of sheer resentment—so I let him off the hook. Manny spends the rest of the night farting, which means he has more fun than the rest of us.

Even though Dino fully upchucks his dinner (and presumably the pills along with it), we aren’t done. The vet wants him to come in. It’s now 10 pm on Saturday night. So Heather packs him in the car and calls two hours later with the diagnosis: The situation is grave. Gravely expensive. 

“They can keep him overnight, but it’s $2,000,” Heather says. Well, sorry, Dino. I haven’t drawn a hard line on how much I’ll spend to save a dog, but I’m quite certain that $2,000 is considerably above that line. Even the amount we’ve already committed to the Dino Preservation Fund—$765 for the midnight vet visit and some stomach-coating medications—is a galling amount to spend. Somewhere in Nicaragua, a child with a cleft palate is saying, “Señor, you could’ve spent that money on my operation, but I suppose that you had to save your only pet. He is, after all, your sole cherished dog. What is that you say? He is your second dog? I see.”

After a few more tests, the tab is up to $900. Think about all the fun things you could do with $900. Maybe buy a couple of tickets to Miami for the weekend. Or perhaps you’ve heard of the Zombie of Montclaire Moors, a tasteful statue available from SkyMall for a mere $89.95? I could’ve bought, like, 10 zombies, or maybe five zombies and three Garden Yetis (those are more expensive). Or, you know, there’s the charity thing. To compromise, I’ll leave the SkyMall zombies to a deserving charity in my will. In any case, our little trip out to dinner cost an even $1,000—$100 for the food, and the rest because of what Moron Dog did while we were out eating it.

A couple of days later, Dino is still alive and seemingly none the worse for wear, but the fun isn’t over. He’s now on an elaborate medication regimen—two pills, three times a day. One pill has to be dissolved in water and administered with a syringe an hour before eating. The other has to be chopped in half and can’t be taken within an hour of the first. Oh, and you’ve got to wear rubber gloves and thoroughly clean up the dust after you’ve divided the latter medication, because it has a minor adverse side effect—it causes miscarriages. And of course, the dog that created this situation by eating a stockpile of pills naturally refuses to swallow any more, running away when he sees you grab the bottle labeled “Doggie Tummy Medicine/Abortion Tablets.” It’s a good time all around.

According to Yahoo, the next super moon is Nov. 14, 2016. If Dino’s still dimly treading the Earth on that date, I’m locking him in a cage and letting him deal with his lunar issues in a controlled environment. This whole thing—from the money to the stress to the activated-charcoal puke on our bedroom floor—has been a major headache. I could use some Advil but, you know.

Photo Credit: Dan Watkins

By Sandy Block, M.W.

If you have access to a cellar, and you plan on staying put for the foreseeable future, storing a few special bottles can elevate your wine appreciation to a new level. Relatively few wines improve with age and most are released for sale “ready to drink,” but it’s a misconception that only the most expensive and heartiest reds are ideal cellar candidates. If stored properly—in a dark place below 60 degrees with humidity of about 65 percent—the following relative bargain wines each have potential to provide a stellar tasting experience five, or even 10, years down the road.

Domaine de la Pepiere, “Clos des Briords” Muscadet de Sevre et Maine sur lie, 2009 ($16, Wine & Cheese Cask). Muscadet’s well-earned reputation as a light, crisp wine to drink within a few years of production is only a part of the story. The region’s best wines share enormous aging capacity. With a whiff of sea air and brisk mineral-like flavors balanced between lemon and green apple, this wine can be enjoyed now or held onto for, yes, 10 years. At that point, the humble muscadet takes on fleshiness and expresses a range of subtleties only hinted at now.

Sybille Kuntz, Estate Riesling “Trocken” Mosel, 2008 ($17, Vinodivino). This bone-dry riesling features crisp acidity and a sharp bite of citrus. I call it riesling for the sauvignon blanc lover. Sweeter rieslings are noted for their ageability, but the structure of this wine will also give it a good five-year ride, during which time its petrol-like earthiness will further emerge.

Domaine du Viking, “Tendre” Vouvray, 2009 ($21, Bauer Wine). Another Loire Valley standout, this estate chenin blanc has it all: honey and pear aromas, sugar balanced with vibrant acids and a long mineral-like finish. It’s irresistibly delicious now, but will one day be practically immortal. I’ve recently had Vouvrays of this quality from the 1950s that still showed plenty of life.

J.P. Brun, Domaine Terres Dorées, Morgon, 2009 ($20, Wine Bottega). The 2009 vintage was historically great in Beaujolais, and the best wines, such as this estate-bottled “cru,” feature masses of red fruit, firm acids and an uncharacteristic note of chocolaty spice. Morgon is one of the top villages for aging, and this velvet-textured wine has at least 10 years ahead of it, at which point it'll start tasting more like pinot noir as the soft-spice undertones develop greater clarity.

Muga Reserva Rioja, 2006 ($33, Cambridge Wine & Spirits). From one of the classic producers of Rioja, this Reserva balances bold tobacco and red-berry qualities with smooth textures and somewhat chalky spice-accented tannins. It’s fully enjoyable now but will repay another five to seven years of patience, during which time its flavors will become more subdued while latent complexities of the fruit and oak appear.

By Amanda Knorr

Don’t fuss with clasps. Torques are easy to throw on, adding instant elegance to casual outfits. Wear them with scoop-neck tank tops, or let them peek out from underneath button-downs.

Classic:
Alexis Bittar Freeform Collar
$375 at Neiman Marcus | Copley Place, Boston 617-536-3660 | neimanmarcus.com

Edgy:
Fallon Labyrinth Maze Collar
$395 at Barneys New York | Copley Place, Boston 617-385-3300 | barneys.com

Funky:
Tribal Collar
$135 at Nomad | 1741 Mass. Ave., Cambridge
617-497-6677 | nomadcambridge.com

Photo Credit: Dan Watkins

BY JONATHAN SOROFF

Everyone’s a Critic
It’s always astonishing what MassArt manages to scare up for its annual auction. This year, my personal favorites were the Cindy Sherman tea set (donated by the Barbara Krakow Gallery) and the “Die-Pod,” whichs looks like a ’50s-horror-movie poster showing a woman sitting by a tombstone with iPod controls superimposed on its surface (created by Class of ’03’s Nick Rodrigues).

Among those inspecting and speculating on the art, or simply schmying around at the gala preview party, were the auction’s patron twins, Paul and Wes Karger, and their respective beauty queens, Pamela Vargas and Ashley Bickford, collector and connoisseur Allison Salke, boho hipster Zach Lanoue, brunette beauty Sondra Levenson and her husband, Norman, the quintessentially cute Marty Dykas, the unfortunately heterosexual Matt Greer, wee slip of a jewelry designer Brelyn Spindel and her main squeeze, Mark Andrus, who’s interesting career path has included working as a therapist, making a fortune off pita chips and now developing real estate.

The evening’s funniest remark: Regarding a photo of three poodles, one guest said, “Personally, I prefer those paintings of dogs playing poker.”

Food, Glorious Food
Community Servings’ big simkhe, LifeSavor, began, as per usual, with a lavish cocktail party at the Langham Hotel, where everyone who’s anyone socialized like mad and then went out to the city’s top restaurants for dinner. But not before bidding on silent-auction items.

One prize was an evening on the town with me, and I’m proud to say that I went for more than tickets to a horse show. More importantly, there was the possibility of having at least a few words with such lovable types as dual citizens of Boston and Bangkok Oedipus and Amy, the absurdly charming Jack Ribakoff with the absurdly gorgeous Jennifer Kim, girlfriend of a future FedEx CEO Alana Hagarty, hipsters of the North Shore horsey set Haskell and Alison Crocker, the chronically delightful Bonnie Berger, the criminally blue-eyed Rob Gravis, his handsome other half, John Milligan, crazy-cat-lady trapped in a gay man’s body Shawn McBride and his translator, Daron Manoogian, tall drink of water Deitrich Falkenthal, suaveness personified, Serge Denis, the mayor himself, Tom Menino, smoking hotness Ben Perkins, and I could go on and on.

In return for getting auctioned off like livestock (did I mention that I went for more than a horse show?), I was awarded dinner at Lucca Back Bay with the thoroughly agreeable likes of latter-day Dorian Gray Andrew Rogal and his exquisite young thing, Rachel Gilson, and über-groover Laura DeLuca (aka DJ D-Lux), along with her man, Adam Wheeler. As for the guy who won an
evening with me: Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go to
a horse show? 

Sacre Coeur!
Short of hopping a flight to Paris (which means dealing with jet lag and Parisians), you couldn’t imagine a more Moulin Rouge–ish evening than Commonwealth Shakespeare Company’s Soirée à Paris, held at the Mandarin Oriental, Boston.

A mime (yes, you read that correctly) greeted guests, and during the cocktail hour, some plein-air painting was done indoors by someone impersonating Georges Seurat, while can-can girls and hot guys (one thing Paris does have) worked the crowd. This included new board members Sam Mazzarelli, John Raftery and Bryan Simmons, luscious minx Marisa Greenwald and her handsome brother, Michael, gazillionaire former lieutenant governor Kerry Healey and her husband, Sean, hunk o’ burnin’ interior designer Michael Ferzoco, and someone whose false mustache made the rounds of several tables.

Like a real night in Paris, I have absolutely no memory of how it ended, but apparently it did, because I woke up in
      my own bed the next morning, without any jet lag, but une
      peu de gueule de bois.

Photo Credits top to bottom: Marty Dykas and Matt Greer at MassArt’s auction; I’m an auction item at Community Servings’ party; Kier McDonough and Anja Kola at Commonwealth Shakespeare’s gala

BY EZRA DYER

Wherever you live, your perception of normal is pegged to your immediate surroundings. If you live in Manhattan, you don’t blink at paying $2,000 a month to reside in a glorified closet. If you’re in L.A., you might not notice weeks of consecutive sunny days. And if you live in Boston, you’re accustomed to accepting a certain measure of aloofness from your fellow citizens. If strangers in Boston try to strike up a friendly conversation, I reflexively assume they want to drug me and steal my internal organs. That hasn’t happened, of course, but only because I don’t talk much to strangers. 

After 10 years here, I just take it for granted that any random person on the street will be rude, cynical, sour, dour, drunk, icy, confrontational or some combination thereof. But with my recent travels taking me to the South and Midwest, I was reminded that elsewhere in the country, people are friendly to each other. I swear it’s true.

A few weeks ago, my buddy Murph and I were driving through rural Michigan when we stopped at a Subway for lunch. When the woman assembling my sub asked if I wanted anything on it, I asked for some Dijon.

“You want what?” she replied. “Dijon? I’ve never heard of that.” She shook her head in wonderment, acting as if I’d requested her to slather my turkey-on-wheat with gold leaf and present it in a humidor of the finest mahogany. I tried to act as if I’d indeed asked for something unusual, but I’m not very good at feigning sincerity. So my mouth said, “Oh, yeah—the spicy mustard is what I meant. Sorry about that,” but I’m pretty sure my face was saying, “Who the hell reaches adulthood without ever encountering a jar of Grey Poupon?”

The interaction only got more bizarre from there. I assumed I’d embarrassed her with my worldly knowledge of exotic condiments, so I expected a typical Northeastern response—i.e., for her to serve up the rest of my order with a dose of ire toward Mr. Fancy Dee-john. Instead, she doubled down on the good-natured cheer, explaining that I’d happened to order the sandwich of the day, and she seemed genuinely happy for me that this fortuitous selection resulted in a bill of only $2.99. Confused by her chipper demeanor, I muttered something about turkey and went on my way.

As we walked into the parking lot, Murph observed, “I think that girl wanted to give you some smooches out behind the Dumpster.”

So he picked up on the odd vibe, too. But then Murph is also a Northeasterner, so I think it’s entirely possible that what we perceived as flirtatiousness was actually just an example of typical congeniality. Hey, that girl wasn’t totally adversarial—she must want me!

I had another encounter with friendly strangers down in New Orleans. My brother-in-law, Rick, and I were playing golf. As a twosome, we got paired with a couple of Southern guys in their 70s. One of them was wearing a pith helmet. While I was entertained by the thought of meeting someone who owns and uses a pith helmet, I was bummed at the prospect of censoring my behavior for five hours. To make matters worse, Pith Helmet committed the cardinal sin of random golf pairings: giving swing advice.

After a particularly disastrous drive that landed several fairways to the right, Pith Helmet solemnly said, “Now, Ezra, I’m gonna give you a tip that’s gonna straighten that right out.” Great. I can’t wait. “You’re gonna line up with your front foot a little farther back, relax your grip… and make sure you keep your pecker to the left.” Pith Helmet laughed uproariously. He got me. I’ll admit that I didn’t see that one coming from a guy dressed for a safari with Teddy Roosevelt.

A few holes later, Rick remarked, “Man, everyone’s so friendly down here.” Pith Helmet’s buddy agreed, saying, “That’s true. We just met you boys, and I’ll bet you already feel like you know us well enough to buy us a couple beers.”

We didn’t actually do that, because, post-golf, we were in a typical Yankee rush to get somewhere else. Namely, a bar where some of Rick’s friends were congregating. Outside the bar, we’d barely sat down at a sidewalk table when a guy walked by wearing a toupee. And not just a toupee, but one that resembled a terrible bowl cut. A member of our party, a lifelong Bostonian named Ed, regarded the bad hairpiece with a look of disdainful wonder and blurted, “Who made your wig, Moe Howard?” It was the first mean-spirited thing I’d heard all day. I laughed my ass off.

You know, I think it’s lame when Southerners fly the Confederate flag. But the ones who insist on referring to the Civil War as “The War of Northern Aggression”? They might have a point.

BY NICK ALTSCHULLER

Lunchtime in the financial district. I’ve got a meeting with an important source. I show up early, place an order and wait. He slinks in, shakes off the rain and darts his head both ways, like he’s about to dash across the Central Artery. “I want to make sure there’s no one here I know,” he says, peering down at the notebook to my left, and the martini to my right.

A few days earlier, I was slumped on a couch at the Four Seasons, trying to enjoy my first martini lunch. As usual, my timing was off. It was 1:30 pm on a Friday, and my visions of smarmy masters of the universe abusing expense accounts had materialized as a roundtable of young mothers. Highballs and cigars had been replaced by a fleet of $600 strollers and a couple of put-upon nannies.

With the resurgence of craft cocktails and the popularity of Mad Men, the allure of the three-martini lunch has grown. Imagine a world where a Manhattan and a nap is good business, not grounds for dismissal. Its disappearance is often blamed on Jimmy Carter, who condemned the practice during his 1976 presidential campaign. Carter has always been known as a bit of a buzzkill. His opponent, Gerald Ford, called the three-martini lunch “the epitome of American efficiency.” Ford was known to fall down a lot.

Looking for expert advice, I turned to Improper contributor John Spooner, who’s worked in the Boston financial scene for decades. “It’s like being in training,” he said. “If your body gets used to it, you learn how to handle it.” In the gin-soaked ’60s, he explains, everyone went out for lunch, “and I used to think that if I had a drink, I’d dare get on the phone and pitch, whereas before, I wouldn’t.” Today, with the speed of business increasing and downtime dropping, Spooner says 98 percent of his coworkers eat at their desk, the lack of social lubricant leading to an office life both “less civil and less civilized.”

Case in point: my lunchtime source’s Blackberry perched next to my martini. We were at Brandy Pete’s, a bar that opened at the end of Prohibition and in which the lunchtime drink special is now a “skinny” margarita. As we sat among suits slurping iced teas, my source—in his 20s and representing the newest generation of Boston finance—explained why the three-martini meal is dead (or at least restricted to Europe). There’s the financial liability. There’s intense competition. Then, of course, there’s perception. It’s not that people don’t indulge, they just save it for dinner, as “someone who drank at lunch could have a problem.” I asked the waitress to chase my martini with a pint. “That’s a much more common order,” she said with a coy smile.

“I think she admires my bravado,” I said.

“Yeah, she probably also thinks you have no job,” replied my source.

The following day I returned to the Four Seasons, and as I waited for another friend in finance and watched Toyota execs sip ice water, I knew it was time to kick off the training wheels. The Bristol Lounge had designed a new cocktail menu, and we were going to wade our way through. As inebriation took hold between rounds of tasty tangerine sidecars and something called “Pork Chops & Apple Sauce,” I determined that our changing cocktail culture is just as much to blame for the demise of the martini lunch as our evolving business practices. Things are bigger and faster now, arguably better. But Don Draper could drop a project in the mail and knock off early. Savoring the simple pleasures, his celebratory aperitif would be free of yogurt. There’s a dignified afternoon tipple, and then there’s bacon bourbon.

Regardless of the vehicle, I found alcohol slightly improved my focus upon my return to the office. It was mostly out of guilt, as I figured I was already drunk, so I shouldn’t try to get away with slacking, too. My drinking partner reported that she multitasked her way through the afternoon. Of course, all plans for the gym were scrapped and replaced with more drinking, so, between the martinis and the Chesterfields, it’s not hard to see how previous generations amassed so much cognitive heart failure. It’s a difficult pace to maintain.

The following day I conducted an interview at Eastern Standard. I had something dry with a twist. She drank something dark and bitter. Leaving after a single, satisfying drink, I thought I’d alchemized the formula for happy productivity. Then I forgot my notebook on the bar, never to be seen again.

By Amanda Knorr

There’s no single, perfect pair of sunglasses. This season, whether purple or red, aviator or oversized, you can’t go wrong. Pick a pair that complements your face shape, and let the rest be a matter of taste.                                             

Best with: Diamond, heart, oval or round face shapes

Ethel + Myrtle sunglasses
$22 at Crush Boutique
131 Charles St., Boston | 617-720-0010 shopcrushboutique.com

Best with: Heart, oblong, oval or round face shapes

Robert Geller Andreas sunglasses
$270 at Stel’s
334 Newbury St., Boston | 617-262-3348
shopstels.com

Best with: Square face shapes

Sunglasses
$6.95 at H&M
100 Newbury St., Boston | 617-859-3192 hm.com

Best with: Heart, oval or round face shapes

Gucci Aviator sunglasses
$265 at Neiman Marcus
Copley Place, Boston | 617-536-3660 neimanmarcus.com

BY KYLE WRIGHT

Hedda Lettuce (real name Steven Polito) is a drag comedian and singer. She’s appeared on TV series including Sex and the City, Ugly Betty and Project Runway, and films like To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar. The self-proclaimed “Queen of Green” appears at the W Boston Hotel on April 30.

What do you think of Boston’s gay scene?
I think in order to fit in, one needs to wear Abercrombie & Fitch and a baseball cap. It’s like sex, though. You need the right amount of foreplay to loosen everyone up, and then it’s very fun!

Is it easy being green?
I hope you aren’t calling me easy! Being green is very important, and sometimes remembering to recycle can be a lot of work.

What are your five makeup essentials?
I’m a drugstore kind of lady, and I’d say a really good Cover Girl mascara, some Max Factor cover-up, moisturizer, lip liner and—well, you can’t buy this in a drugstore—but good bone structure. Have you seen my cheeks?

Do you only eat organic?
No, my diet varies. I’m an equal opportunity eater. I like white men, black men, Asian men…

What’s the most uncomfortable thing in your wardrobe?
My breasts are very large and heavy. I’ve been thinking of downsizing, but that’s not what my public expects.

Have you ever played with a Cabbage Patch doll?
Goodness, no. Cabbage makes me incredibly gassy.    

BY JONATHAN SOROFF

How Much Is That Warhol in the Window?
It was home-decor porn of the highest order when the Cyclorama hosted a gala preview party for AD 20/21, a contemporary art and furniture show to benefit the Boston Architectural College.

On hand to plotz over the gorgeous objets and artwork were such tastemakers as the evening’s honorees, Massimo and Lella Vignelli, BAC head honcho Ted Landsmark, discerning connoisseur Edwin Steel, studly mag editor Kyle Hoepner, the delightful Daria McLean, dapper siblings Paul and Andrew Snider, Ralph Lauren smoothie Darwin Cordoba, sporty shorty Stephanie Scavullo of Porsche Design, and male model Cory Martin, looking almost as good as the goods he was modeling.

Among the evening’s most amusing comments: One guest, leaving early, said, “I’ve gotta run, but I’ll see you soon at something else with expensive crap to look at.”

Well-Aged
To look as good at 40 as you did in your 20s is no mean feat, but Masterpiece Theatre has managed to do just that.

To celebrate the show’s anniversary, WGBH hosted a gala at its Brighton studios, where the guests included the show’s host, impish actor Alan Cumming, executive producer Rebecca Eaton (who was just named one of the 100 most influential people in the world by Time magazine), PBS president Paula Kerger, ’GBH grand poobah Jon Abbott, cellist/guitarist Yair Evnine, Cantabridgian party pair Ann and Graham Gund, Chestnut Hellions Cokie and Lee Perry, the soignée Wendy Shattuck and her main man, Sam Plimpton, beneficent benefactors Margie and Paul Kargman, and one woman who said, “I’m appalled by Congress trying to… well, scratch that. I’m appalled by Congress, period.”

The general consensus was that the party itself was a masterpiece, and one guest said, “Imagine how dull this would be if it was for the anniversary of Nova.”

I Love the Sound of Breaking Glass
Maybe it’s Dale Chihuly’s universal appeal, or the winter that wouldn’t quit, or the fact that the Museum of Fine Arts is an ideal place to diddle away an evening, but for some reason, the opening night reception for the glass-blower’s new exhibit was packed to the rafters with everyone fabulous from near and far.

Among them: sexy mamacita Olivia Ives-Flores, up-and-coming artist Erica Chin, museum muckety-muck Ranch Kimball, the swanlike Stephanie Warburg, Venezuelan smoothie Raphael Jaimes-Branger and the sweeter than Tupelo honey Elliot Wright, financial titan Robert White, diminutive PR powerhouse Barbara Quiroga, the ever-charming Leathermans, Elizabeth and Bill, and one dignified older gentleman who said, “It would be fun to rent this out for a private party and have everyone tripping on mushrooms.”

However, the evening’s most amusing moment took place in the courtyard during the cocktail hour, when the sound of breaking glass had two guests simultaneously shouting, “It wasn’t me!”

Contest of the Month
The first reader to correctly match the quote with the event where it was spoken will win an Improper Bostonian T-shirt:

Events: A) Planned Parenthood’s fundraiser; B) AD 20/21; C) the Commonwealth Shakespeare Gala; D) Masterpiece Theatre’s 40th anniversary

Quotes:
1. “We’re having sexual trivia on the second floor.”

2. “You need 1,000 square feet of space per year that you’ve been married.”

3. “Your mother had 17 kids?!? Did she end up with graffiti on her uterus?”

4. “Once there’s an umbrella up your ass, there’s no point in opening it.”

Credits: Ted Landsmark with a modernist sculpture by Elie Nadelman at AD 20/21; Rebecca Eaton and Paula Kerger at Masterpiece Theatre’s 40th anniversary; Dale Chihuly’s glass at the MFA

Photo Credit: Sawayasu Tsuji

BY EZRA DYER

The most I’ve ever weighed was 195 pounds. That was during the summer after my freshman year of college. I learned the harsh reality of the Freshman 15 when I caught a glance at my reflection and realized that I looked like a pregnant lady with chest hair. Horrified, I intensified my workout habits and knocked that number back down to around 185, where it remained for years afterward. Until the other day, when, in a fit of unfortunate self-awareness, I decided to weigh myself and discovered that I’d set a new high score. One that begins with a “2.”

There are lots of explanations for this. Did you know that when a scale tells you that you weigh more than you expected it’s because angels are sitting on your shoulders? That’s what my mom says. OK, not really—my mom doesn’t believe in God. Just kidding. Maybe she does. She says Grace a lot, but mainly when she’s talking about her favorite actress, Grace Jones. What? No, I’m not trying to change the subject.

I spent a moment on the scale staring in disbelief and simmering with outrage over this transparent conspiracy. “Of course this scale weighs heavy,” I thought. “The gym wants you to think you’re fat so you keep renewing your membership.” Then I realized that the gym was going to extraordinary lengths to rig not only its scales, but its mirrors. Amazing what some people will do for a buck.

Eventually, I came to terms with the fact that I’m on my way to being one of those people the evening news films from the neck down waddling around a food court during a segment called “Food Courts Filled With Record Number of Losers.” So the question is: What do I do about it? My wife, Heather, says I should just eat less, but that’s crazy talk. She’s into all that holistic hippie stuff, like salads and not eating after you’re already full. But dieting like that can start a yo-yo effect. Look at Heather—she’s skinny now, but 10 months ago she had this big stomach on her. Her sister’s even worse. She’s also skinny, but she’s ballooned on three different occasions. Now she eats healthy stuff to set a good example for her three kids.

Rather than diet modification, I’ve decided to try reshaping my exercise habits. In the past 24 hours I ran seven miles, and half of that occurred before the unholy hour of 7 am. That’s when Heather works out, and I’ve realized that I have a much better chance of exercising if someone else is sharing the pain. I’m sure she appreciates my company. Instead of a solitary run at daybreak, maybe listening to some music and thinking about her plans for the day ahead, she gets to spend 40 minutes listening to grunting, burping, complaining and worse. I bet she’s pretty excited that I’ve synced up our routines.

If extra doses of exercise don’t immediately show results, I’m willing to consider the nuclear option: P90X. If you haven’t heard about P90X, it’s an easy daily routine to help you get in shape. All you need is an hour and a half a day and the willpower to bring your heart to the brink of explosion.

I’m amazed that P90X has caught on the way it has here in the nation of lipo, seven-minute abs and ephedrine pills. America loves shortcuts, and P90X is essentially the opposite of that—“Hey, wanna get in shape? Well, instead of working out for an hour a day, how about working out really hard for an hour and a half? After just three months of excruciating torture, you’ll have the body you dreamed of—if you survive!”

None of my friends have made it to Day 90 of the program, not for lack of willpower but for lack of a spare 90 minutes. I suspect that the satisfied customers in the P90X infomercials are all hobos, because who else has the time? No, you cannot have 50 cents for the bus. Not until you tell me how you got those massive lats.

All I know is that I’d better get this situation reversed, because a new study just found a link between weight and brain function. The heavier you get, the more you impair your cognitive abilities. Apparently, it has something to do with metabolism, whatever that is. Me not know this word. Me hungry! Obama no born America! Durrr!

Or I could just get a second opinion. Which is to say, try a different scale. So that’s exactly what I did. And scale number two had a more optimistic outlook: 190 pounds. Just like that, I’m two-thirds of the way back to my target weight. Now I just have to figure out what to do about these mirrors.

Photo Credit: Dan Watkins

By Sandy Block, M.W.

Pinot blanc is an ideal springtime quaffer. What’s appealing is the soft texture, intriguing earthiness and subtle spice on the finish. Think of this relatively obscure variety as a stylistic cross between unoaked chardonnay and pinot grigio. It’s among a handful of wines that should immediately come to mind whenever you want a white without intense fruit or dazzling acidity.

While pinot bianco from Trentino in northern Italy holds great options, the French region of Alsace is a favorite source, with wines tending to be a bit milder in character. You can’t go wrong with the following Alsatians, each a blind-tasting winner. Enjoy these estate-bottled wines with lighter fish and vegetable dishes, or just well-chilled in the late-afternoon sun.

Willy Gisselbrecht Pinot Blanc 2009 ($13, Bauer Wines) Gisselbrecht is a domain that has remained in the same family for centuries, and their pinot blanc is a supple charmer, with fragrant spring apple and herb aromas. Fresh and peachy on the palate, its round texture finishes off with slightly bitter stone-fruit flavors. It’s one of those delicious wines that doesn’t take center stage, but provides harmony and balance.

Léon Beyer Pinot Blanc 2009 ($18, Broadway Marketplace) Beyer is a family producer with a history of vineyard ownership dating back to 1580. Known as a gewürztraminer specialist, Beyer makes a delicate, light, stylish pinot blanc with faint aromas of toast, tobacco and apple. It's crisp, lean and dry in style, with a lingering, earthy finish. Beyer blends in significant quantities of Auxerrois, which imparts body.

Domaines Schlumberger, Pinot Blanc “Les Princes Abbes” 2008 ($15, Brix) The Schlumberger property is undergoing a full transition to ultra-organic, biodynamic farming. This is a slightly richer expression of pinot blanc, featuring smoky, almost tropical aromas. Made with 70 percent Auxerrois, it’s apple-like with a suggestion of lemon zest that balances the gentle pinot blanc fruit. 

By jonathan soroff

Nice Backhand
It’s one of the world’s strange ironies that The Perkins School for the Blind has one of the most beautiful campuses in town. And it’s one of Boston’s claims to greatness that the school is located here (OK, well, Watertown, but same diff).

Their annual Possibilities Gala drew a big-name crowd, not surprising given that the co-chairs were Corinne Grousbeck (wife of Celtics owner Wyc), Katherine Chapman (wife of Staples founder Tom Stemberg) and Kevin Bright (the executive producer of a little TV show called Friends). Among the high-wattage guests on hand: presidential hopeful Mitt Romney, actor/comedian Lenny Clarke (who recently shot a pilot that’s going to be a huge hit), A&E hottie Lynn Hoffman (who confided that her first kiss was with Friends star and fellow Newton native Matt LeBlanc), brunette bombshell Linda Henry and her Red Sox-owning husband, John, concessions gajillionaire Joe O’Donnell and the lovely Kathy, yummy mummy Evelyn Treacy and the dashing Michael, flower czar Ted Winston and the stunning Simone, rapier wit Tom Matlack and the lovely Elena, and so on and
so forth.

The evening’s entertainment included performances by Perkins students, along with rock legends Peter Wolf and Bob Weir (as in J. Geils meets the Grateful Dead).

However, even more entertaining was when one woman asked another what fillers she was using to get rid of her wrinkles. The answer: “It’s called getting fat.”

Especially If You’re His Wife
It’s been described as “the Southie Prom,” and the description has merit. The McCourt Foundation Gala, held at the Boston Harbor Hotel, raises money to support Alzheimer’s and M.S. research, and the Irish construction dynasty is as salt-of-the-earth as they come. Staff and several hundred friends cut loose like it were St. Patrick’s Day, and everything from the food to the music to the guests was completely unpretentious.

On-hand: family rapscallion Ryan McCourt and his gorgeous fiancée, Charity Chamillard, handsome scamp Matt McCourt with his gorgeous wife, Ali, and delightful mother, Ginger, the statuesque Nancy Brady and handsome devil Arjun Maini, Stella owners Evan and Candace Deluty, radio bigmouth Greg Hill, Irish imp Ryan McDonough, laugh riot Amy Gallant Sullivan, and one man who identified himself as “the token fat guy.”

The evening’s funniest remark, however, came from the guest who said, “What’s the last thing you wanna hear when you’re having sex with Willie Nelson? ‘I’m not Willie Nelson.’”

Night at the Museum
There’s no other way to put it: the Institute of Contemporary Art’s annual spring gala, Party on the Harbor, is dead sexy.

To begin with, it takes place inside one of the city’s coolest buildings. Then there’s the guest list, which I suspect was deliberately purged of anyone who’s not genetically blessed and fashion-forward. For example: leopard printed mountain lioness Mary Kakas, artiste Tristan Govignon, travel mogul Andy Levine, designer extraordinaire Eric Roseff and his handsome husband, Collin Sullivan, incorrigible scamp Mark Bombara and the absurdly good-looking Ben Wood, real estate mack daddy Cliff Long, ubiquitous fashion designer Michael DePaulo, eminent eye surgeon Caroline Baumal and her nightclub-owning other half, Jack Bardy, the unfairly handsome Franklin Ross, blue-blooded party girl Kimberlea Tracey, the sexiest couple on Newbury Street, Michael Tilley and Peter Griglik, über-hotties Jeff Merselis and EJ Zhang, Our Lady of Chanel Mary Nobile King, French Library head honcha Catheline van den Branden, and one guest who said, “Even the straight men here are so hot they look gay.”

The cocktails flowed freely, the dance floor was jammed, and by 10 p.m., every hipster within a hundred-mile radius was there. Or, as one woman put it: “You usually have to get jetlag to go to a party this fun.”

Photo Credits: Lynn Hoffman and Lenny Clarke at the Possibilities Gala; Arjun Maini and Nancy Brady at the McCourt Foundation Gala; Jeff Merselis, Mary Kakas and EJ Zhang at Party on the Harbor

Photo Credit: Emily Knudsen

by ezra dyer

Hey, college seniors! You guys having fun? You ready to throw down? Summer’s here, classes are just about wrapped up, and you don’t have a care in the world. Well, except for that one thing about getting a job and supporting yourself and forging a career in the unforgiving crucible of the modern, globalized, post-recession job market. But other than that, it’s party time, bro!

As a wizened survivor of college graduation, I feel it’s my duty to impart some wisdom to you starry-eyed youngsters. Right now, you may feel like you’re graduating at the absolute worst time. Rest assured, you’re right. You would’ve been much better off in the class of 2004. Or maybe the class of 2014. But right now? Yeesh. I just did a job search on Monster.com, and there was only one organization with an opening. And it was Al Qaeda.

But don’t worry, none of your peers have jobs, either. I graduated into one of the hottest economies in history, and at the moment we were handed our diplomas, only one of my friends had work lined up. And your first job after college is like your high-school sweetheart—seemingly important at the time, but probably not part of your long-term plans. Speaking of which, when an interviewer asks where you see yourself in five years, don’t say, “In prison.” Unless you’re interviewing for a job at a prison. You go to enough interviews, you learn little tricks like that.

Assuming you’re among the majority of seniors with no encouraging prospects, you’ve got a few options for the coming year. First of all, you can punt on the issue and head to grad school. I don’t recommend this course of action. I never went to grad school myself, but I think that if you’re going to return to school, you should wait until you’re much older than everyone else. Then it’ll be super funny when your hologram professor tells you to turn your holobook to section pi, and you pull out your Texas Instruments TI-82 and go, “Hey, leggo my Eggo!” I think I just wrote the proposal for the next Zach Galifianakis movie.

Your next option is to take a year off. Beware: Taking a year off can often lead to taking a decade off. At first, your friends are really jealous that you’re bartending in East Timor while they’re slaving away at a full-time job. Then you’re tuning skis in Montana while they’re getting promoted. Then you’re leading whitewater rafting trips in Norway while they’re getting promoted again. Eventually you die in a shark attack off the coast of South Africa. The lesson: Never be a free spirit.

You could also start your own company. Maybe you have an idea for a business, but everyone says it’s stupid. That’s great, because these days all the hottest companies are stupid. Zynga, the company that created Farmville, is worth $10 billion, and their business plan is predicated on people spending real money to buy imaginary sheep. Think of an idea stupider than that, and you might be the next tech mogul. (More bad news: It’s impossible to come up with something stupider than that.)

The stupid beverage business, however, is still wide open. Combining alcohol and caffeine seems to be a no-no, but what about alcohol and aspirin mixed with lightly carbonated guava juice? You could call it Guava Lava. There you go. You can have that. You’re welcome.

Finally, you could do what I did—move back in with your parents while halfheartedly looking for a job. Sure, there’s the glamour of free laundry, but eventually you’ll want to head out on your own. And when you do, you’ll find that college isn’t really over. You’ll have no money, so you’ll live with roommates (just like college). Because you live with roommates, you’ll spend a lot of time hanging out and playing video games (just like college). And because many of your friends are in the same predicament, you’ll regularly get together and have house parties (just like college). By any reasonable definition of emotional maturity, you’ll still be a college student until at least 2017.

So don’t get too stressed about the coming months. And when you’re at a job interview and they ask where you see yourself in five years, say “In a mirror that’s also a time machine.” Because why not? You probably aren’t getting that job anyway. You may as well crack open a Guava Lava and raise a toast to the class of ’11. Just be careful not to cut yourself, because that stuff really thins your blood. Which you’ll need to sell, starting next month.

Photo Credit: Dan Watkins

by nick altschuller

The beard is for the solitary man. The look is tough and rugged, worn by men of the earth—the lumberjack, the sailor. Yet the beard is a mask. The beard is for the guarded, the quiet. The beard is a shield. It’s a cowboy hat turned low over the eyes. It’s Jack Nicholson’s sunglasses. A man’s beard asks a stranger to notice his appearance, and to please quash any urge to strike up a conversation. The more isolated the man, the longer the thicket: a monk’s whiskers impress, a hermit’s beard is nonpareil. But the beard is good company, a faithful pet to scratch. I’ve grown a few in my day, and each time I raise the clippers to shear my face, I feel I’m about to harm something innocent.

My winter beard had overstayed its welcome, and my girlfriend, Susan, had started making subtle hints that it was time to shave. I’m good at ducking subtle hints, but once it became a birthday request, I relented. A lover of fools, she asked that I keep a mustache for her party. Out of curiosity and revenge, I left it on my face for more than a week. 

For both our sakes, I avoided the tired pedophile jokes and went with the horseshoe mustache, a favorite of bikers and Sam Elliott. Unlike the beard, which can act as a social cattle-catcher, I found a mustache invites friends to openly comment on your appearance. “Very Dukes of Hazzard,” said one pal. “You look like you’re about to do something indecent,” said another. The general consensus, after an hour or a beer, was that the look succeeded.

Counterintuitively, silence was agony. Around strangers, at the gym or on the street, people can just assume you’ve lost a bet or happen to be a big Freddie Mercury fan. It takes a brave man to flaunt an assertive mustache.

But while beards are for loners, donning a mustache initiates you into a brotherhood. On day two of my experiment, Susan and I shared a table at a snazzy restaurant, my furry horseshoe announcing its presence among the suits and Châteauneuf-du-Pape. In a brief, beautiful moment, I locked eyes with a waiter clearing dishes. Beneath his nose grew a majestic handlebar fit for a vaudeville star. We froze, then shared a quick nod of mutual admiration. “That was so strange,” said Susan. “It’s like you’re in a club.”

The following day we stopped for pizza. The cashier, sporting a mangy slug of hair on his lip, charged Susan $2.50 for her slice. He then pointed at my face and declared, “His is free.”

This sort of support is lovely, but in pensive moments I would reach for my chin, forgetting I’d lost the comfort of stroking my beard. In desperation, I’d twist the wispy ends of my horseshoe, like an adolescent fondling the tattered rags of a treasured security blanket.

There are rough moments with a temporary ’stache: the sideways glances, the coworker who plainly states, “I hate your face.” And there is the nightmare scenario I created by carrying a six-pack of cheap beer, a powder keg ignited by one slanderous spark: “You look like such a hipster.” From there the shots kept falling. “How’s that all going to fit on your bike?” “Yeah, go back to Jamaica Plain.” I ran from the room suffering the type of anguish only Morrissey could understand.

Life with a mustache is an odd experience, as the world reacts to a patch of hair you tend to overlook. It’s like walking down the street with your fly down. You friends will tell you the truth, but strangers may get uncomfortable.

On my mustache’s last night, I put it to a final test. Turning to two women in a bar, I asked, “Does this look work?”

“No,” said one.

“Yes,” said the other, and both walked away wearing equal looks of disgust.

Dejected, I spun back toward the bar to find a fresh shot of whiskey. “What’s this for?” I asked my friend.

“It’s not from me, it’s from him,” he responded.

From behind the taps, the bartender motioned to his moustache and bobbed his head in approval.

Cheers to the gallant mustachioed. Maybe one day I’ll rejoin the ranks.

by jonathan soroff

Boys’ Night Out
I’m not entirely sure why people who spend their days gambling staggering sums of money would want to play poker at night, but the Texas Hold ’Em Tournament to raise money for Children’s Hospital Boston attracted some of the city’s biggest financial players to the Boston Harbor Hotel.

 Among them: VC titan David Fialkow and his friend, Aerosmith axe man Tom Hamilton, Rue La La founder Ben Fischman, private equity whiz Rob Small and lots of other people who got hit with the lucky stick.

Overheard by the bar: “Did I read your company got a billion-dollar valuation?” to which the answer was, “Yup.”

Overheard by the TV, where players could sit out a hand: “Dude, don’t ask me questions about my sister—you’re like a walking erection.”

Make Mine a Cuba Libre
The weather was more like a Yorkshire moor, but that was about the only un-Havana-like thing at the Cuban art auction held in the courtyard of the Cambridge manse of architect Graham Gund and his arts-patron wife, Ann, to raise money for the Friends of Caritas Cubana.

The mojitos kept coming, the pressed sandwiches were finger-lickin’ good and the evening raised a ton of dough thanks to guests like mustachioed muchacho Juan Prieto, his cousin, Micho Spring, Cambridge art collector Barbara Lloyd, the improbably tall Jack Roosevelt and his fiery Latin bride, Lacy, big pharma honcho Ed Garmey with the swanlike Sophia Carroll, privateer Andrew Cabot and his jewelry-designer wife, Maud, über-hipsters Camilo Alvarez and Alexandra Cherubini, and one woman who said, “I should have worn wedges. Heels plus cobblestones equals me dead or killing someone else.”

Meanwhile, the evening’s archest remark was: “She doesn’t do anything by half measures…except marriage.”

Eyes Are the Ones With Lashes
The Hot Pink Party was a high-gloss gala done in bubblegum hues held at the Museum of Fine Arts to benefit the Breast Cancer Research Foundation.

On hand for the big-ticket evening were such eminences as New York philanthropist/photographer Evelyn Lauder, Boston/Berkshires/Palm Beach tastemaker Sandy Krakoff, 24-hour party people Linda and Dan Waintrup, Chestnut Hillion Roberta Cohn and her heart-surgeon husband, Larry, brunette anchor-babe Kelly Tuthill, filmmaker Christy Scott Cashman, yummy mummy Linda Pizzutti Henry and honorees Nancy and Richard Kelleher, who were presented with a piece of Dale Chihuly studio glass for their collection. Guests, meanwhile, were treated to a dinner prepared by celebrity chefs Ming Tsai, Daniel Bruce and Michael Schlow, as well as a performance by Grammy-winning Israeli violinist Miri Ben Ari, whose corkscrew curls
                                                                                                deserve an award of their own.

“I wanted to wear a pair of my wife’s panties, but she wouldn’t let me,” said one man who wasn’t wearing any pink, while a woman who was accused of the same thing countered with, “Not that you can see.” But the evening’s choicest comment?

“That guy in the hat’s giving me a breast exam with his eyes.”

Girls Will Be Girls
Party in the Park, also known as “the hat party,” is an estrogen-fest held beneath a giant white tent on the Fenway to raise money for the Emerald Necklace Conservancy.

The ladies’ luncheon, lushly decorated and awash in Champagne, attracted the usual suspects, among them: cochairs Katie Schuller Bleakie, Jane Roy and Holly Safford, pre-facelift socialites Julia Owens, Julie Hume Gordon and Kristan Fletcher, ethereal beauty Trevania Henderson, force of nature Christine Tuttle, Mexican Cleopatra Evelyn Peralta, fashion avatar Leslee Shupe and a few token males, like head honchos Mark Volpe of the BSO and Malcolm Rogers of the MFA, in addition to just about every heiress, trophy wife, female CEO and power chick within a 250-mile radius.

Like all good hen parties, there were some extraordinarily catty comments, like, “You look better than Princess Beatrice!”

However, the best conversational volley was:

“You’re too skinny. You look like a chopstick.”

“I have irritable bowel syndrome.”

“Either that, or you take eight Adderall a day and eat one gummy bear.”

Credits:
Rob Small at the Texas Hold ’Em Tournament; Shelly Nemirovsky and Maura Connolly at Friends of Caritas Cubana, Linda Pizzutti Henry at the Hot Pink Party, Jeannette Hsu McSweeney and Sarah Monaco at Party
in the Park

Photo Credit: Denis Tangney Jr.

BY EZRA DYER

About five years ago, I was in Southie enjoying a beer at Murphy’s Law when a local woman began chatting with a friend of mine. The Southie denizen asked, in a friendly way, “Where are you from?” My friend replied that she lived just up the street. “That’s not what I mean,” said Southie Woman, a hard edge creeping into her voice. “That’s where you live, but where are you from?”

I enjoy a good catfight as much as anyone, but I took that as our cue to get out of there. Not because the place felt dangerous (though, depending on the time of night, it sometimes does) but because I have no patience with people who assume proprietary airs about entire neighborhoods. Oh, so you grew up on East Fifth and I grew up in Maine? Then excuse me for patronizing this bar that you don’t own. Heaven forbid you go out at night in a huge city and encounter someone you don’t know from grade school.

When I lived in Southie—which wasn’t that long ago—the place was a fair bit more hardscrabble than it is now. I once saw a toothless, incoherently drunk local communicate his feelings toward outsiders by dropping his pants and mooning me. It wasn’t unusual to witness a guy puking on the sidewalk at 2 pm on a Tuesday. One Halloween, I decided to put a bowl of candy at the front door, trusting that trick-or-treaters would hew to the honor system and take one piece at a time. Five minutes later, it was all gone. Including the bowl. Southie has a way of reminding you that civilization is a tenuous thing, with anarchy constantly lurking at the fringes.

This isn’t to say Southie is a bad place. I loved it, but its famous, charming grit is rooted in a foundation of genuine seediness. Where the Institute of Contemporary Art now stands, I once witnessed a performance piece I call, “Strippers stripping in a bus parked in an abandoned lot.”

Now the area is teeming with restaurants, nary a stripper in sight. Across Broadway, the M Street Beach was rebuilt with tons of new sand, becoming a destination for people other than New Year’s Day masochists. Restaurants bloom along Broadway. Where once the most exotic foodstuffs in Southie were found on the dusty shelves of Stop & Shop, you can now go to American Provisions and buy things with the word “artisanal” in the name.

Sometime within the past few years, Southie turned a corner. And I’m disgruntled about that, because it happened right after I left. Hey Southie, I would’ve liked some Indian food and Chimay on tap and maybe access to a dock that’s not controlled by an insular townie yacht club. New Southie has all that stuff, and I missed it.

I get a time-lapse view of Southie development because I still go to Shag for haircuts. I used to live down the street and became friends with Sandy, the owner. When I walk into the salon, a loft space in an old warehouse, most of the people who work there probably assume that my presence is part of some kind of amnesty program for uncool guys who are afraid of tattoos. I would wager that I’m the only person who goes to Shag for a boy’s regular.

However, should I decide to get more adventurous, I can consult my friend Krishan, who just opened a hair-extension store on the west side of town. In keeping with modern-Southie, hipster-yuppie aesthetics, his business is housed in an old boxing gym and looks like a high-end vodka lounge. He’s got some extra space, which I’ve recommended he convert to an underground speakeasy with open-mike nights and dedicated parking for fixed-gear bicycles.

No neighborhood is static, and places are always creeping toward either gentrification or decline. Right now, Southie is in that sweet spot between upscale appeal and hardscrabble authenticity. I’m jealous of the people who live there—by bravely parking my BMW on the street, I helped pave the way for yuppie heathens. And now Southie is like the new South End, only cooler.

Well, not quite. The other day I turned on the TV to see that the morning news was all about Southie. “Police broke up brawls at Carson Beach over the weekend,” said the anchor. “A thousand teenagers gathered to watch rival gangs fight.”

I’d assumed that these days Southie would be more likely to host a flashmob than an actual mob, but there it is—on one side of town, there’s a Legal Seafoods with a retractable roof. On the other, we have gangs fighting on the beach. Or, as I like to call it, “a little something for everyone.” Southie, don’t ever change.

BY JONATHAN SOROFF

I’d Pay to See That, Too
F. Scott Fitzgerald was wrong when he said, “There are no second acts in American lives” (just ask the cast of Celebrity Apprentice). And no one disproves that theory more than Condoleeza Rice.

Last time I saw her, she was getting into or out of a helicopter, looking super-serious as secretary of state. Next thing I know, an invitation arrives to see her play the piano in a concert at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, to raise money for the Forsyth Institute and Classics for Kids Foundation.

So sue me. I never got the memo that in between childhood and running the country’s foreign policy, she had trained to become a concert pianist. I haven’t read her memoir.

But plenty of people who have were there, clutching copies of the book to be autographed, as guests filed from the cocktail reception into Smith Hall to have their pictures snapped with her. She was then accompanied by world-renowned cellist Michael Reynolds in a program of Bach, Brahms and Schumann, and I may not be the world’s most discerning judge, but she played beautifully. (It was also a relief to learn that the knitted brow she wore throughout Dubya’s tenure didn’t have anything to do with him; she does it while playing the piano, too).

Among the worthies on hand to witness the show were City Hall denizens Tom Menino and Cecily Foster with their respective spouses, Angela and Paul, real estate mack daddy Arthur Winn and the stunning Alicia, the super-social John and Shelley Keith, über-philanthropist Don Rodman, high net worth guru Robyn Redfield, and so on and so forth.

Following the concert, an elegant dinner was served in the Pavilion, and the general consensus seemed to be that it was an altogether exceptional evening. As one guest put it: “What’re they gonna do for an encore? Have Hillary Clinton and Madeleine Albright mud-wrestle?”

Wasn’t That on an Episode of Will & Grace?
If you’re ever dying to find a glass of white wine, the Design Center is a safe bet, since they always seem to be hosting a reception for some worthwhile thing or another.

Recently, this turned out to be the Women’s Lunch Place, which presented a display of artwork by its clients (homeless women and children), some of which frankly was better than the objects the decorators in the surrounding showrooms fob off for a fortune.

Present and accounted for: the boyish and holding Tylden Dowell, bio-tech babe Jennifer Kim, the relentless Shawn McBride and his other half, drily wry Daron Manoogian, international activist Doris Yaffe, piano-playing hottie Cameron Stowe, Community Servings sex-kitten Tim Leahy, and one man who said, “You say I have good taste like it’s an accusation,” to which his friend responded: “You’re allowed do that at the Design Center.”

Turnaround’s Fair Play
The World Trade Center always seems a bit cavernous for a party, but not when the guest list tops 1,000, which was the case at the 20th annual Voices & Visions gala to benefit the New England Home for Little Wanderers.

The theme was “Cultures of the World,” and the artwork done by children served by the agency gave it an Epcot Center vibe, with everything from hieroglyphics to modern graffiti on display. There was also a silent auction so big you would have had to forego everything else at the party to take it all in. During cocktails, guests could hobnob with the likes of CEO Joan Wallace-Benjamin and her handsome, high-powered lawyer husband, Milton, the evening’s honorees, Coldwell Banker head Rick Loughlin and Walgreen’s exec Stephen Pemberton, and pretty much everyone who works at their respective companies, which made for an interesting dynamic—all the brokers trying to work the pharmacy big shots to see if they were in the market for real estate.

The evening’s Wonder Woman award goes to WCVB beauty Liz “Never Let ’Em See You Sweat” Brunner, the evening’s emcee, who made it there from the TV station by the skin of her teeth. An accident on the Mass Pike made her so late that she leapt from her car to the stage in two strides of her stilettos, looking as poised and composed as a beauty pageant contestant and later joining the Voices of Renaissance Choir in a song.

The funniest part of the whole thing: Before leaving the station, her driver had checked with the traffic helicopter, which leads me to believe that the pilot was trying to get back at Brunner for all the snowstorms she warned him about this winter.   

Credits:

Condoleeza Rice playing the piano; Sharon Reilly and Shawn McBride at the Women’s Lunch Place event; Liz Brunner singing at Voices & Visions (photo by Michael Blanchard)

Photo Credit: ranplett

By Ezra Dyer

My parents were hippies, and my childhood was filled with granola and compost. As an adult, my flower-child upbringing carries peculiar benefits. For instance, if I’m ever in the mood to freak someone out, I can drive to Newburyport, knock on the door of a particular house and inform the owners that I was born in their bathtub. (Hospitals are where the man wants you to be born!) Hopefully they’ve remodeled.

While I spent my childhood going to Bob Dylan concerts and stacking wood for our Scandinavian stove, other kids were skiing and playing golf—you know, mindlessly embracing the bourgeois leisure pursuits of the oppressive patriarchal power structure. I didn’t realize that I wanted to be a stuffy rich guy until I got to college, and by then it was too late. If you’re not playing golf by age six, you may as well not bother. I mean, if a finely tuned athletic specimen such as myself can’t get the hang of it, then there’s really no hope for anyone.

I’ve taken lessons. I’ve practiced at the driving range. I bought a driver with a club head the size of a wheel of Parmesan. But I’m still bad at golf, and I’ve reconciled myself to that reality. When I take a swing at a ball, I look like a caveman learning to use kitchen utensils. There’s no hope for me.

Or is there? I recently read about a golf ball that got banned by the USGA back in 1981. It’s called the Polara Ultimate Straight, and the manufacturer claims the ball flies straight up to 75 percent of the time. In the name of investigative journalism—and of hustling money from my friends—I bought a box of Polaras and put that claim to the test. I had to order them online (about $38 a dozen, with shipping) since they’re not sold in Massachusetts, which added to the illicit appeal. On my way to the course, I was careful not to get pulled over, lest a cop find my stash of primo stuff. “Polaras, son? I thought you said there was no contraband in this vehicle. You’re on your way to Mexico to trade these for doobies and booger sugar, aren’t you?”

Since golf is only interesting if you’re playing it, and actually not even then, I won’t bore you with the details of my Polara-juiced round. But I will say that their claim is true: aided by the banned balls, I crushed drives dead down the middle, my horrific slice magically corrected. The balls are labeled with an arrow, and you simply point the arrow where you want it to go. Then, somehow, it does.

After one staggering drive, my brother-in-law, Rick, rolled up in the cart and declared, “Cheater!” To which I replied that he was also a cheater, given the PGA’s stance on golf carts (i.e., you can’t use a cart, but you can use an actual human being, a person with hopes and dreams and possibly a family, to carry all your heavy stuff like a bipedal mule).

The Polaras shaved a few strokes off my game, but I was still the worst player in our group. However, I normally have a very short attention span where golf is concerned—after about an hour, I’m so frustrated that I’m skipping holes to practice bootleg turns with the cart. The Polaras, though, had me looking forward to every tee shot, when I could rear back and crush the ball down the fairway just like someone who knows what he’s doing. Admittedly, I don’t, but was I cheating?

I say no. Paying for an unfair advantage is a time-honored strategy. As Don McLean sang in “American Pie,” “Bye, bye Miss American Pie / Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry / So I bought a Go Fast Pass at Six Flags and got to ride the waterslides while everyone else waited in line like a bunch of idiots.” Look, if the Supreme Court says that corporations can make unlimited campaign donations—otherwise known as paying for an advantage—then who am I to shun the humble Polara?

If you want to be a purist, then go walk around a field in Scotland whacking a dried sheep bladder with a piece of driftwood, which I’m pretty sure is the deranged, whiskey-induced recreational activity that spawned this dumb sport. Meanwhile, I’ll be teeing up my $3 golf balls and out-driving the guys who started playing when they were toddlers. What am I supposed to do—practice until I’m good, like some kind of foreigner? I may have been born in a bathtub, but it wasn’t yesterday.

By Amanda Knorr

In summer humidity, achieving a sleek, shiny ’do is a challenge. You need a simple way to fight flyaways, and these salon favorites keep everything under control.

Works on straight and curly:
Oribe Impermeable Anti-Humidity Spray
$40 at Salon Mario Russo
9 Newbury St., Boston | 617-424-6676 | mariorusso.com

For shine and detangling:
Shu Uemura Essence Absolute Nourishing Protective Oil
$65 at Salon Capri
31 Lincoln St., Newton Highlands | 617-969-1970 | saloncapri.com

Perfect for fine hair:
Bumble and Bumble Defrizz
$27 at Salon Marc Harris
30 Newbury St., Boston | 617-262-2222 | salonmarcharris.com

Photo Credit: Dan Watkins

Photo Credit: Denis Tangney Jr.

By Nick Altschuller

City dwellers have a love-hate relationship with tourists. The two key positives are:

A) Their presence reassures urbanites that they live in a place so cool that other people choose to vacation there, and;

B) Tourists spend lots of money.

The negatives include sidewalk-clogging, under-tipping and a manner of dress that makes East Coast elites feel even more superior. Of course, a resident’s biggest fear is to be seen as a tourist, effectively being branded as an outsider. The Dutch used to drape unfaithful wives with snakes and parade them through the streets of Amsterdam. That’s probably what it’s like being caught taking a trolley tour.

Fear and shame mean that many Bostonians’ knowledge of their heritage ends with foggy memories of high school history class. But an out-of-town guest is an opportunity for a refresher course. My girlfriend had visitors, a newly married Texan couple, so for two days we whirled through the city. I’d say I went through the gauntlet so you don’t have to, but, at some point, you should. Just don’t start at Cheers.

“You should have no inherent reason to go here,” said the confused husband, watching young foreigners snap photos by the bar’s entrance. Cheers went off the air 18 years ago, so I couldn’t actually explain the appeal of Sam Malone bobbleheads or headshots of a sassy Shelley Long. I doubt WKRP in Cincinnati is flooded with sightseers. Perhaps the crowds are drawn by the enduring sex appeal of Kirstie Alley.

Tougher explanations continued across the street, though I bet most conversations about the Swan Boats go this way:

Husband: So you don’t go anywhere?

Me: Nope.

Husband: And you don’t row or paddle or anything?

Me: No, only the dude in the back.

Husband: Poor bastard.

Once we hit the Freedom Trail, things got more educational. We visited the final resting places of Samuel Adams and Mother Goose at the Granary Burying Ground, or, as I had previously known it, that creepy graveyard by the Beantown Pub.

Down the block sits the Omni Parker House Hotel, home of the three most interesting pieces of Boston trivia that I know, and that I repeat at every opportunity: Malcolm X was a bellman there, Ho Chi Minh was a baker, and it’s the birthplace of Boston Cream Pie. We stopped in for a taste in a gift shop full of “Pahk the Cah in Hahvad Yahd” T-shirts. I learned that I prefer the Dunkin’ Donuts version, which I think actually makes me a more authentic local.

The search for trivia continued after a brief stop at what our guests referred to as “Nathaniel Hall.” There’s not a whole lot to grab your attention—they have Gaps in Houston—but we did see two separate buskers playing pan flutes, which provided a haunting soundtrack for our walk to the Union Oyster House.

Over pints of local beer, we learned that the restaurant played host to the first recorded use of the toothpick. King-to-be Louis Phillipe lived upstairs, tutoring, and probably bedding, the neighborhood girls. Heady stuff.

From there we hit the North End, passing my least favorite attraction, Paul Revere’s house—he lived there for seven years; it’s like visiting where John Hancock bought his quills—and stopping at my favorite, the Old North Church. They say the crypt is stacked with dead redcoats. As a neighbor who believes in ghosts, that’s frightening to hear.

The quintessential capper was the Duck Tour. Aboard “Tub of the Hub,” we learned about the official children’s book of the Commonwealth (Make Way for Ducklings) and its official stone (Roxbury pudding). And, driving past Copley Square, we saw another pan flutist. Said the husband, “Maybe it’s the official music of the Commonwealth.”

I’ve visited lots of cities in my time and retained very little information. But after our weekend tour, my daily commute is enriched. In the Back Bay, I’m now reminded of Zabdiel Boylston, who fought smallpox. When I pass Gilbert Stuart’s gravestone on the Common, I know that he painted the portrait on the dollar bill, and is surrounded by dead British soldiers (they’re everywhere, it’s terrifying). Like youth on the young, local history is often wasted on Midwesterners. I’m not saying you wait in line for an hour for a cannoli from Mike’s Pastry, but it might not hurt to brush up on the Battle of Bunker Hill. At the very least, you’ll have an alternative should your old college roommate want to sit on Norm’s barstool.

BY jonathan soroff

Well, He’s Probably Better Than Wagner
The State House is known more for political antics than acoustics, but the Great Hall was an eminently appropriate place for the Boston Landmarks Orchestra to host its annual gala.

The evening introduced the group’s new maestro, Christopher Wilkins, while honoring founder Charles Ansbacher. On hand for the festivities: Ansbacher’s widow, Ambassador Swanee Hunt, State House top dog Deval Patrick, Back Bay doyenne Pamela Humphrey, the über-philanthropic Wendy Shattuck and Sam Plimpton, board chair Jeff Makholm, yummy mummies Rachael Goldfarb and Penelope Savitz, the hot and heavy Adi Toledano and Molly Schoeck, stunning young things Molly Storer and Lindsay Lightman, and the delightful Priscilla Douglas.

The performances all earned standing ovations (and not just because there was no place to sit down), while the wine flowed like the legislature was in session.

The evening’s most amusing remark: Boston Philharmonic conductor Ben Zander, who was leaving the next day for a tour of Eastern Europe, said, “I’m taking 150 teenagers, and no chaperone except for Mahler.”

All’s Fair in Fashion and War
I was robbed. I say this without rancor, but at the 15th annual Rose Garden Party to benefit Park Arts, my hat was, quite simply, beyond fabulous.

The party took place in the magnificent Kelleher Rose Garden in the Back Bay Fens, and guests sported chapeaus of every description while sipping Champagne, nibbling tasty tidbits and taking time to smell the roses (for the record, the most fragrant variety was Golden Celebration).

Of course, if there’s a hat contest, there have to be judges, and therein lies the rub: I was one of them, along with hat designer Kathleen McDermott and the Museum of Fine Arts’ Katie Getchell. This, of course, disqualified me, which is why I bear no ill will toward Milton popinjay Brian Saipe and his vintage boater (which paled next to my Ted Baker original). The other winners included Ruby Andrew, whose New Orleans funeral hat won Most Elegant, Marianna Toroyan, whose pheasant-feathered number was Best Garden Party Hat, and Holly McGrath, whose hat was elegantly decorated in Boston Bruins colors with black crepe and yellow orchids. Then there was Linda Dineen, who incorporated a cellphone holder into her fascinator, and Mary Kakas, sporting a replica of Pippa Middleton’s from the royal wedding. Also on hand: the bubbly Connie Brown, Gardner head honcha Anne Hawley, the beautiful-in-blue Mimi LaCamera, outgoing MassArt head Kay Sloan, power chick Dora Lewin, BSO factotum Kathleen Drohan and one guest who explained her bareheadedness by saying, “My hat’s off to whomever got all these roses to go into full bloom on cue.”

The most amusing exchange was from three friends, discussing their worst blind dates: “I flew to L.A. to meet this guy.”

“Mine was in Italy.”

“Well, I went on a three-day blind date at sea.”

To which the other two responded in unison: “OK, you win.”

In Memoriam

Boston has lost one of its swans, as Truman Capote might have put it. Susan Spooner was a true lady—gracious, vivacious, quick to laugh or to lend an ear, with understated but impeccable taste and an eye for beautiful things. Needless to say, she was a staggering beauty, as well as a wonderful mother and the wife of my mentor and colleague, John, which is how she became my friend. I’m tremendously proud to be able to say that, but I’m certainly not alone. She was someone anyone would instantly want as a friend.

Much of that had to do with her generosity of spirit, which on a civic scale is obvious in the legacy she left behind at the Huntington Theatre and the New England Aquarium, to name only two of the many beneficiaries of her tremendous positive energy. On a personal level, it’s obvious in the fact that a mutual friend said to me, after hearing that she had died, “I didn’t even know she was sick.” Not that Susan was embarrassed by her illness. She just didn’t like to make anyone feel uncomfortable. And so her death leaves us with an unsolvable riddle: The world has lost some of its beauty, yet it’s a much more beautiful place for her having been here.

Credits:
Christopher Wilkins and Benjamin Zander at the Boston Landmarks Orchestra gala; Peggy Dray, Angela Menino and Mary Kakas at the Rose Garden Party

BY EZRA DYER

As you are surely aware, this is the Boston’s Best issue—obviously the most thorough compendium of things that are the best heretofore assembled by human hands. I daresay it even stands as the best of the Bests. Yet I always strive for improvement. I eat excellence, wash it down with a tall glass of perfection, gargle with superiority and brush my teeth with raging ambition. And that’s why I’ve decided to refine this prestigious issue by creating my own Best list.

This is my chance to express my own personal opinion on matters large and small (something that’s hard for people to do these days). While the regular categories are jury-selected and carefully deliberated, my addendum can make no such claims. It should not be interpreted as even remotely useful, and should probably be torn out and held above the magazine as a parasol, so as to prevent harmful ultraviolet light from damaging the more valuable sections. Enjoy.

BEST LOOK: To the guy who rides past my house every morning on a ten-speed, wearing cutoff jean shorts and usually no shirt. He rides with no hands, sitting upright, smoking a cigarette. He cycles past on a regular schedule, which initially made me think that he commutes to work. But then I started wondering what kind of job has a jorts/no-shirt dress code. I mean, that’s what I’m wearing right now, but it’s casual Friday.

BEST MALAPROP: To my wife, for calling me “dumb as a doornail.” Don’t you mean “dead as a doornail?” I asked. She replied that doornails are also dumb. I can’t disagree with this.

BEST AWKWARD RESPONSE: To me, for my response to my mother-in-law’s well-wishes on Father’s Day. She said, “Thanks for giving me such a wonderful grandson.” My response: “Uh… my pleasure?”

SECOND-BEST AWKWARD RESPONSE: Also to me. My neighbor showed me a photo of her three daughters, who range in age from 14 to 19. They were all pretty, but I’m not sure how an adult guy is supposed to react to a photo of someone’s teenage girls. I mean, would it be weird if I said, “What a bunch of babes!” or would that be a compliment? It’s the first time I’ve been in this situation. Whatever the case, I’m positive you shouldn’t say what I actually said: “Which one’s 14 and which one’s 19?”

BEST STEVEN WRIGHT JOKE ABOUT A LAZY SUSAN: And the winner is: the joke I thought up while pondering whether to toss the lazy Susan that’s collecting dust in our basement.

So here’s what Steven Wright would say about that: “My lazy Susan broke the other day. I was going to fix it, but I didn’t have the energy.” Feel free to use that, Mr. Wright.

While we’re on the topic, it’s a little-known fact that the lazy Susan was independently conceived by two inventors at about the same time. But the second inventor brought the product to market too late, and by that point the name had already become famous. That’s why Susan, lazy as she was, became an overnight millionaire, while the industrious inventor of the Short-Arm Sally is buried in a pauper’s cemetery.

BEST THING ABOUT THE BRUINS’ $157,000 FOXWOODS BAR TAB: The one bottle of complimentary Champagne. I’m sure we’ve all gawked at the Bruins’ exorbitant bill, but the thing that stands out to me is not the $100,000 bottle of Champagne they ordered; it’s the free bottle they were comped at some point before that. I mean, free Champagne? I thought I was jealous of the Bruins players before, and now this. These hockey guys waltz into a bar carrying the Stanley Cup, and all of a sudden people are just giving them a whole bottle of Champagne. For free. I’ll bet those guys were kicking themselves the next morning, because if they’d spent $300,000, they probably could’ve gotten two bottles of free Champagne. You’ve gotta spend money to make money.

BEST HOMOPHONES: Hey/hay. Next time you drive past a field of hay, yell, “Hay!” The other people in the car will ask, “What?” because they think you mean “hey.” Then you point at the bales of straw and repeat, “Hay.” Then everyone has a good laugh over the absurdity of the English language.

It is my hope—nay, my fervent determination—that these important selections will help you live a fuller and more rewarding life, or else I have failed. But I know that I haven’t. Because I’m the best.

by jonathan soroff

Raising the Roof
There are worse places to spend a balmy spring evening than the top of the Taj Hotel, overlooking the Public Garden in full bloom. In fact, I forgive anyone who didn’t say hello to me at the second annual Friends Council Roof Party for the Boys & Girls Clubs; the view was a spectacular distraction.

Then again, so was the uniformly good-looking crowd, which included such pre-face-lift socialites as Ashley Wisneski, Maggie Moran and Kelly Boullet, the latters’ husbands, Bill and Nicolas, salty dog Peter Creighton, the North End’s answer to Liz and Dick, Matteo Gallo and Nicole Velucci, the achingly lovely Sophia Carroll, Chappaquidnick Justin Dangel, a woman who said, “Cute dress. Too bad about the girl wearing it,” and another who said, “A guy asked me to give him a chest bump just to see my boobs pop out of my dress.”

The sold-out crowd watched a hip-hop performance by dancers from the Blue Hill Club (that’s Dorchester for all you newbies), and the speaking program was blessedly brief. All in all, a lovely evening that earned bonus points because I got a flirtatious look from a leggy blonde, and she wasn’t even a drag queen.

Food, Glorious Food
This year, Chefs in Shorts was more like a wet T-shirt contest, but the drizzle did little to dampen spirits at the fund-raiser for the Greater Boston Food Bank, held at the Seaport Hotel/World Trade Center.

Some of the city’s best chefs (all violating the dress code, I might add) lined the outdoor promenade, and the smoke from their fires combined with the humidity to make a mouthwatering aroma that clung to my clothes for the rest of the evening. Later on that night, someone asked me what “smoky cologne” I was wearing. Even the sushi station smelled like barbecue.

Among the notables on hand: National Geographic Channel heartthrob Pat Spain, photography’s answer to Batman and Robin, Michael Blanchard and Ryan Stranz, hump-busting PR people J.P. Faiella and Mariellen Burns, such big-hearted big shots as Marc Orfaly, Tony Bettencourt and Josh Childs, three suckling pigs roasting on a spit behind the guys from Market,
and a man who fist-pumped and said, “Lobster roll? Hell,
yeah!” without the slightest trace of irony.

However, even funnier was one woman who dissed another by saying, “What the hell are you wearing? God gives us a pattern. You don’t need that.”

Admittedly, when they asked me to emcee a party called Illumina La Notte, I thought I was getting involved in some heavy Harry Potter shit. But alas, the Young Patrons of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum were simply using Italian on the invitation to their annual gala, which the Improper sponsored, at the Mandarin Oriental.

A live jazz trio greeted (and occasionally drowned out) the guests at a VIP cocktail hour, where head honcha Anne Hawley looked as lovely as always and invited everyone
to take a good look at the architect’s rendering of the museum’s new Renzo Piano–designed wing. (The unanimous verdict: looks like an awesome place for a party.)

Present and accounted for: High priestess of goodness Jessica Gifford and her fiancé, the hale and hearty Andrew Nigretti, Texas hold ’em champion Julia Owens, cerulean-eyed beauty Julie Hume Gordon, her devastatingly handsome husband, Phil, sex bomb Bryan Flynn and his smokin’ hot girlfriend, Joanna Humphrey, the champagne-loving Charley “Curly” Aldritch, bewitching blonde Laura Baldini, winemaker Brian Smith of Loca Linda (translation: “Crazy Beautiful”), and one woman who said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear the last 10 things you said because I was busy sucking in my stomach.”

The evening’s best toast: three friends, comparing plans for the weekend, drank to “A well-spent weekend, spent getting wasted!”

Credits:
Bill and Maggie Moran at the Friends Council Roof Party for the Boys & Girls Clubs; Marc Orfaly at Chefs in Shorts; Joanna Humphrey and Bryan Flynn at Illumina La Notte

Photo Credit: Dejan Ljamic

BY EZRA DYER

As a columnist, I’m used to controlling my work. If you read something in this space, it’s because I wrote it. I have the final say, and there’s no way that my editor, Andrew Rimas, adds his own text after I submit my copy. Andrew Rimas, who is extremely handsome, would never insert a plug for his latest book, Empires of Food, available at all fine booksellers and online. Sure, he’s much smarter than me and I’m horrible to work with, but he knows that this column is mine and mine alone. In conclusion, Andrew Rimas is awesome.

Television writing, however, is a collaborative exercise. And I know this because I just spent a week in L.A. working on the new Speed series, The Car Show. It’s hosted by Adam Carolla with an ensemble cast that very occasionally includes yours truly. But my main role was writing. Which is to say, writing things that were inevitably way too long
or complicated to work on TV.

For instance, in print I might tell you that The Car Show airs on Speed on Wednesdays at 10 pm. But in TV-speak that information would be reduced to an index card that reads “Shameless plug.” Fortunately, I’m an adaptable craftsman of language, an engineer of prose who’s attuned to the song of succinctness, a Warren Buffett in the economy of words, a consummate professional who truly, deeply—nay, thoroughly!—appreciates how the medium of television requires a particular brand of direct, right-to-the-point brevity. It’s not like in magazines, where you’re paid by the word.

But before I could start working, I had to adapt to my temporary turf. To an East Coast denizen, L.A. is alien in a lot of ways. For instance, I still don’t understand why highway route numbers require a definite article. You don’t say, “I’m stuck in traffic in the Redondo Beach,” so why do you say, “I’m stuck in traffic on the 405”? It doesn’t make the sense.

And the studio itself was initially intimidating. The show is taped at FOX, in the same complex where they shoot the FOX NFL Sunday pregame program. I like to think of myself as worldly and jaded, but upon arrival at the set, my first thought was, “Dang nab, that there’s a whole mess ’o lights up in the ceilin’!” On the second day of shooting, I’d be out in front of those lights, talking about a segment in which I raced AC/DC lead singer Brian Johnson across Manhattan—he in a Lamborghini, I on the subway. If you’re reading this hot off the press, that segment aired last Wednesday. Now that’s the kind of seamless cross-promotion that we in the business call “synergy.”

As a writer, I was near the bottom of the studio pecking order. But I definitely outranked the audience warmer, the unfortunate soul tasked with entertaining the studio audience during lulls in the taping. The audience warmer has a microphone and attempts to engage the crowd, usually with mixed results. If you’re considering this job, here’s my advice after four days of observation: Stay away from racial jokes. One warmer was so bad that I grabbed the mike and asked the crowd, “What’s brown and sticky? A stick.” And they laughed. Or maybe they were just loudly shivering—the studio is kept at roughly minus-20 degrees so that nobody sweats on camera. You might die of hypothermia, but you won’t look shiny.

I arrived in L.A. a greenhorn, but by the seventh episode I was a pro. I knew how to find the closest non-reserved parking spots in the garage, where to cadge free food at lunch, and how to pitch a sophisticated, thought-provoking segment that involved a toilet seat emblazoned with flames and the words, “El Jefe.” Spoiler alert: The toilet seat did not end up in the show. Even though we also added a badge under the lid that read, “Turbo.”

So that idea didn’t work. You know what did? Getting 40 scantily clad models and challenging them to pile into two Mini Coopers. That segment turned out great. And I’m proud to say it was all my idea. Was it really? No. But like I said, TV is a collaborative effort. Which means that if you’re even in the same zip code when something good happens, you should probably try to take credit for it.

Obviously, I’m now a seasoned TV writer. But don’t worry, I haven’t gone all Hollywood on you. Sure, I just adopted an orphan from the island of Una Una and renamed him Pancake, I’ve grown a beard and I only eat avocados that are stored in a hyperbaric chamber. But I’m keeping it real. Hey, how about those Red Socks? They’re looking pretty good, which is more than I can say for traffic on the 93.

Photo Credit: Simon Simard

Nick Altschuller

The adage says, “Never let them see you sweat.” But none of us have had employment trials like new Market chef de cuisine Matthew Barros. In addition to the interviews and the hidden scouts watching him work at Myers + Chang, the young New Bedford native faced a night of cooking for the man himself, Jean-Georges Vongerichten. Of course the legendary chef made him wait, and invent dishes from a mystery basket under his intimidating gaze. “It was just complete eyes locked onto me the whole time, looking to see if I had a clean station, clean jacket, clean apron,” Barros says. “It was interesting, and nerve-racking.” But once you’re battle-tested by the boss, a demanding Boston public is a breeze.

by nick altschuller

Food challenges hold a peculiar allure. Events like the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest or shows like Man v. Food have earned real followings, and as they require physical exertion and stamina, parallels can be made to traditional sport. But perhaps the biggest difference, among many, is that sports can inspire the onlooker. A child watches David Ortiz smash a homer and vows to become a ballplayer. No one watches a man ingurgitate a wheelbarrow full of pulled pork and thinks, one day, that’s going to be me.

Yet there I was, staring at the Tasty Burger Challenge. On the menu, it reads like a provocation: three half-pound hot dogs topped with a split cheeseburger, chili, cheese sauce and bacon, served on a sub roll. Thinking of it as a schoolyard dare may be the key to understanding why someone would choose to pack their esophagus like a musket. If someone calls you a chicken, sometimes the only proper recourse is to eat a family-size bucket of extra-crispy.

Knowing I’d need help, I turned to Belmont native and competitive eater Crazy Legs Conti. The record holder in such prestigious categories as beef brisket and Twinkies, Conti told me to eat the toppings first in order to save my strength for the frankfurter Cerberus. But what about chugging water beforehand to stretch my stomach? “Don’t chug anything except mental awesomeness,” said my seasoned guide. “Maybe listen to some pump-up music. Something good, like Air Supply or early Menudo.”

Of course, I’d need a partner, someone to share in the pain and potential glory. Thankfully, I know many men with voracious appetites. Barrel-chested heroes who can destroy a hoagie, sub or grinder without pausing to belch. Regretfully, they were all out of town.

So on the big day, I arrived at Tasty Burger with my girlfriend Susan, a compact young blonde annoyed at not having been considered my first option. I’d paid for this gaffe with a barrage of trash talk, but once we learned that no woman has ever completed the challenge, we came to an understanding. We would support each other through this test, and I would witness her smashing chili-covered meat into her face and still find her attractive.

Contenders have one hour to complete the challenge. Once the timer begins, things progress in a gaseous haze, but these are moments of clarity I’ve been able to scrape together: 

Hot dog #1: As tracks from the Rocky IV soundtrack hit your ears (part of chef Greg Weinstock’s special challenge mix), your mind begins to open to the notion of beating Matthew Hummel’s record of 17 minutes, 31 seconds. Your empty stomach is already on board. And, initially, your tongue raises no protest. When you’re facing 4.5 pounds of food, flavor is a vital factor, and Tasty Burger delivers. First one down in eight minutes.

Hot dog #2: Crazy Legs’ advice helped my speed, but his plan was abandoned out of necessity halfway through round two. The frank’s flavor, at first meaty, turns salty, then altogether noxious. Chili, bread, lashings of hot sauce, they were all mixed in to cloak the flavor. Second down in 17 minutes.

Hot dog #3: Susan hit a food wall. Sitting by the corpses of her massacred wieners, I entered a horrible fever-dream. Paying for my sinful gluttony, the last devil dog seemed to extend into infinity. Swallowing turned to choking down, and with each bite, Satan taunted me with the forcemeat’s tumescence. Gathering my strength, I knew that, like Orpheus and Eurydice in their jaunt through the underworld, Susan and I would make it through together as long as I didn’t look back. Finished in 58 minutes, four seconds.

Your body has a lot of questions after a victorious food challenge. The most pressing is, “When can I throw up?” The calorie count is of course a morbid curiosity, but it’s the salt that gets you. Just one hot dog holds about 1,800 milligrams of sodium. I wasn’t hungry for two days after, but I’ve never been thirstier.

It’s achieving this kind of hideous benchmark that makes the experience worthwhile. I’m only the fifth person to complete the Tasty Burger Challenge, and that does give me some level of pride. More importantly, I know that, should my heart pop now or I live the extra 60 years I have planned, I will never eat a bigger, unhealthier meal. I extended myself and found one of my life’s boundaries. It’s not a first kiss or a graduation, but it’s a place I’ve seen and can now never return to, and I’m richer, and slightly fatter, for the experience.

By jonathan soroff

Does Neil Armstrong Know About Us?
I expected them to be passing out space condoms at Ben Mezrich’s launch party for his new book, Sex on the Moon, but it turned out to be unnecessary.

Not that the crowd wasn’t super sexy. Assembled at the W to fete the author were such luminaries as Mezrich’s stunning wife, Tonya, the book’s protagonist, Thad Roberts, party pair Tiffany and J.B. Dowd, pulchritudinous news anchor Bianca de la Garza, Kabuki socialite Marilyn Riseman accompanied by her pre-facelift socialite granddaughter, Joanna Prager, stylist extraordinaire Liana Peterson Krupp, the dangerous duo of Laura Baldini and Evelyn Peralta, hair deity Sal Malafronte with his boy-toy banker Darin Contini, beauty pageant judge AJ Williams, babe-a-licious brunette Jessica Naddaff, Mandarin Oriental wonder-woman Edwina Kluender and her husband, Brian Adams, the Four Seasons’ answer to Julie McCoy, Kristan Fletcher, and the devilishly handsome Dave Khtikian, the larger-than-life Ashley and Paul Bernon, hipster hotelier Tim Brett and his stunning girlfriend, Liza Gorman, and several guys wearing space suits (which, truth be told, looked like they would be impossible to have sex in, and not just on the moon.)

The decor and the DJ kept the vibe space-age mod, while the vodka flowed freely and guests asked Mezrich to sign copies of his soon-to-be bestseller.

The evening’s most amusing remark: Regarding the book’s title, one guest said, “I’ve heard of the mile-high club, but this is ridiculous.”

A Little Night Music
While Native Americans would call for rain by dancing, the Boston Symphony Orchestra does it simply by hosting Opening Night at Tanglewood.

Without fail, the gala kickoff to the symphony’s summer season in the Berkshires conjures up a torrential downpour, but miraculously, the sky always seems to clear up and the sun peeks out by the time the big shots arrive under the white tent on the lawn of Highwood, the Victorian mansion where cocktails and dinner precede the concert.

This year, there was an Italian theme (hence the party’s title: “La Prima di Tanglewood”), and on hand to make sure the food was on par with a Roman orgy was celebrity chef Lydia Shire, who cooked up a storm that rivaled the weather.

Present and accounted for: Governor and Mrs. Deval Patrick, dance-world legend Mark Morris (who popped in unexpectedly), gala cochairs Susie and Stuart Hirshfield and Robin Richman and Bruce Auerbach, his sons, Erik and Phil and daughter-in-law Anna, the BSO’s grand high poobah Mark Volpe and the delectable Martha, force of nature Nancy Feldman, the ever-delightful Carole and Ed Rudman, fashion plate Joyce Linde, the adorable Dan Mathieu and Tom Potter, velvet-throated radio personality Ron della Chiesa and his sexy mamacita, Joyce, Western Mass. bluebloods Kevin and Kristine Sprague, puckish party guy Peter Hansen, Cantabridgians Bill and Lia Poorvu with their son, Jonathan, and daughter-in-law, Amy, banking babes Dora Lewin and Dyan Goodwin with their respective spouses, concert pianist Michael and Renaissance man Rob Serio, and one woman who observed that conductor Charles Dutoit “could use a new colorist.”

Dinner was delicious, the concert—featuring works by Bellini, Rossini, Verdi and Respighi—was an Italian feast unto itself, and the after-party back at Highwood… well, let’s just say that what happens at Highwood stays at Highwood.

The evening’s award for silliest thing to worry about went to the woman who planned to wear the same dress the following night at a party in Newport, and wondered, “Is anyone from 413 going to be in 401?” However, the most amusing comment came when someone mentioned the nearby yoga retreat Kripalu, which prompted another guest to say, “It’s fabulous… except that the whole place smells like feet.”

Credits: Bianca de la Garza at Ben Mezrich’s book party; Dora Lewin and Deval Patrick at Opening Night at Tanglewood

Photo Credit: Fleyeing

by ezra dyer

Some people can look at a blank canvas and see a beautiful painting. Others can regard an empty lot and envision a towering skyscraper. I have the ability to examine a driveway and decide whether it should be remodeled in the likeness of the TD Garden basketball court. It’s just a skill that I have, and everybody knows it. That’s why the Celtics asked me to help judge the Re/Max of New England Home Court Program. It sounds like a television show where you convict criminals from the comfort of your own living room, but it’s not. (But if it were, it would be hosted by Judge Remus Maximus.)

Home Court is a contest where Celtics fans send in an essay and photos of their busted home basketball hoops. From the 10 finalists, we judges pick three winners. The lucky three get a new driveway court, along with a Celtics-themed bedroom redecoration and a visit from a player. And while the renovations are nowhere near as elaborate as Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, at least the winning fans don’t have Ty Pennington following them around, alternately whispering and screaming.

[If Ty Pennington even got near my house, I’d call Billy the Exterminator to get him out. I like the cut of that guy’s jib. Speaking of ex-Terminators, I wonder how Arnold is holding up? He’s probably hiding in some mountain cabin, just playing cards. You want to know Arnold’s favorite card game? Old Maid.]

Like I was saying, my strengths are judging renovation contests and staying on topic. I know a little bit about outdoor hoops because I had a court at my house when I was a kid. My court was dirt, with a wooden backboard nailed roughly nine-and-a-half feet up on the side of a building. In retrospect, it’s probably not a great idea to shoot 10,000 shots on a rim that’s the wrong height. It’s like studying for the bar exam using textbooks written in Esperanto. Hey, I think I just found an excuse for my entire high-school basketball career.

My fellow judges and I gathered at Celtics headquarters to review the applicants. I’d tell you who the other judges were, but I don’t want any jilted contestants to get mad at the entire group. If you want to get mad at someone, get mad at Roger Clemens for dating Casey Anthony. Is that true? I don’t really care, as long as you’re thinking about Roger Clemens instead of me.

The problem with judging things like this is that you don’t want to be mean to anyone. And yet, the rules require you to reject seven of these applicants. So a sort of ruthless calculus emerges. It’s not the salad bar at the Olive Garden, people. We don’t have unlimited resources.

Everyone’s got a different method of narrowing the field. One judge concentrated more on the photos of the applicants’ homes than on their stories. “I don’t know, that looks like a pretty nice house,” he’d say. Then I’d protest that the owner takes care of 15 orphans and his underwear has itchy tags and his dog got sprayed by a skunk, so life is not all peaches. And the other judge would reply, “Yeah, but look at the size of that yard.”

In the end, I think we picked three worthy candidates. But all of the finalists were worthy. And that’s the problem, whether you’re me or Steven Tyler or some other fabulously wealthy and famous person who judges things. So I’d like to give next year’s class of applicants some advice on how to get noticed. You want to be earnest, you want a good story, and you want to throw in a little tidbit that shows you’re a real fan. Here’s an example of an ideal application:

My name is Billy, and I’d like to tell you about my court. For a hoop, I use a discarded toilet seat. For a backboard, I have a big piece of asbestos. I don’t have a ball, so I use a squirrel skull that I found in the woods after the mudslide hit our house. But don’t feel bad for me; the mudslide put out the fire. So I’m a very lucky girl. Except that I’m named Billy. My dad wanted a boy. That’s the last thing he said to me before he went to the store for cigarettes in 2003. I’d take some photos of my court, but right now there are wolves on it. Somebody told me that my court is on a Superfund site, but it doesn’t seem super-fun to me. In conclusion, Brian Shaw was underrated. Sincerely, Billy.

To everyone who didn’t make the cut, I say try again next year. Just remember that next time, you’ll be competing against a canny adversary named “Billy,” who might’ve scored more than six points in high school, if he’d had a better hoop.

by jonathan soroff

That’s What Friends Are For
OK, so some of the guests weren’t exactly spring chickens (I number myself among them). Nevertheless, the Young Friends of the Public Garden’s Summer Kickoff Party, held on the rooftop of the Taj, attracted a young-at-heart crowd, as well as damn near every pretty young thing in the city.

Among them: committee member and hat model Kate Pokorny, incorrigible scamp Joshua Janson, the achingly lovely Katherine McCord, grad student Graham Lincoln, blonde bombshell Samantha Strauss, brunette bombshell Charlotte Lewis, the ever-dapper David Wedemeyer, the distinguished David Webster (sporting a loden jacket he just picked up in Austria), the hale and hearty Pete Gori and his colleague from Chicago, Chad Funk, über-mensch Josh Zakim, the super-stylish Aaron Pike, threads peddler Riccardo Dallai Jr. and the delightful Hadley Quish, to name a mere smattering.

The elevator doors kept disgorging gorgeousness while the Prosecco flowed and everyone ogled the raffle prizes—among them, a pair of $8,000 diamond earrings.

Grand old man Henry Lee, the organization’s founder, expressed delight with the turnout, and everyone appeared to enjoy themselves to the utmost.

The evening’s most amusing remark: When one guest was asked why he had gotten involved with the charity, he said, “Because at Christmas, it looks like a drunk four-year-old put up the decorations, and I wanted to do something about it.”

And Never the Twain Shall Meet
Pop Quiz: Dancing on the Dock is:

(A) How a drunk Bostonian might pronounce the name of a 1984 Bruce Springsteen hit.

(B) A party organized by the Esplanade Association.

(C) Both of the above.

If you answered C, you may have been one of the highly attractive people who were drawn to the banks of the Charles for an evening of dinner and dancing on the dock at Community Boating.

Present and accounted for: Back Bay doyenne Jeryl Oristaglio and her other half, Steve, Queen of Cambridge Maggie Gold-Seelig, rum runner Nelse Clarke, attorney-at-large Evan Kushner, the naturally carbonated Lori Sullivan, foxy blonde Leigh Denny, redheaded siren Karen DeTemple, yummy mummies Rachael Goldfarb, Mary Baranski, Joan Rosenberg and Jennifer Donaldson, pied piper Chris Tobeck, North Shore blue blood Gen Tracy and her adoring husband, David Jacobs, yoga goddess Bethany Cantin, bright young thing Chynna Pope and others of an equally glittery ilk.

Following a finger-lickin’ good barbecue, it was time to merengue, salsa and otherwise boogie the night away.

Overheard by the bar:

“I’m not on a diet, but I am gluten-free. Glatt gluten-free.”

Then there were the friends making plans for the weekend:

“Are you coming to Martha’s Vineyard?”

“No, I’ll be on Nantucket.”

“Oh. My condolences.”

Contest of the Month:
The first reader who can correctly guess the identities of the two men wearing matching white Italian driving shoes at Tanglewood will win an Improper Bostonian T-shirt… which you can still wear after Labor Day.

Credits: Joshua Janson and the raffle’s diamond earrings at Young Friends of the Public Garden; Joan Rosenberg and Jennifer Donaldson at Dancing on the Dock 

BY EZRA DYER

Last year, I wrote a story on barefoot running, and the experience precipitated a change in my running style. Instead of landing on my heel, I now land on my forefoot. I’m not the only one embracing a more natural stride. Last fall, I went to a NASCAR race in Florida, and my buddy Elliot came along for the festivities. When we woke up the morning of the race, I was surprised to see him pull on a pair of ultra-minimal Vibram FiveFingers to go for a jog. It’s safe to say that Elliot didn’t have a lot of company on his morning run around the Homestead RV lot. Which is probably lucky, because barefoot running is likely the type of thing that most NASCAR fans view with abject derision, like Hondas or science. (Just kidding, NASCAR fans. I know some of you own Hondas.)

While I’ve adapted to a new style, I’ve never consulted with anyone to find out if I’m doing it right. I just figured, “Run like you’re barefoot, except wear shoes because the ground is gross.” So when New Balance offered to analyze my stride at its sports research lab in Lawrence, I decide to take advantage. We’ll test my running style and attempt to quantify perfection.

At the lab, deep in the bowels of an old mill building that houses the New Balance factory store, I meet with a fellow named Trampas. Trampas has a PhD in biomechanics, so having him analyze my stride is kind of like having Stephen Hawking do a tune-up on your ’79 Malibu. He ushers me to a treadmill that’s surrounded by instrumentation to measure the magnificence, or lack thereof, of the running specimen. I lace up a pair of fresh shoes and climb aboard.

Before I reveal the staggering results of my test session, I should probably explain why I have a soft spot for New Balance. Outsourcing is the norm for shoe companies, but about 25 percent of New Balance shoes are produced domestically. Of course, some of its shoes are still made in the kind of bleak industrial setting that would make Charles Dickens shudder in horror at the sheer oppressiveness of the scene. I’m talking about Skowhegan, Maine.

New Balance, to its credit, has a factory in Skowhegan. And I can make fun of Skowhegan because I’m from there—well, not Skowhegan, thank God. But Maine. And people from Maine like to abuse Skowhegan. Even if, like me, you grew up in an even smaller town, one whose major claim to fame is a historic cow pound, which is a big circle of rocks where they once kept cows. I know what you’re thinking, and sometimes even I wonder how I made it through childhood without dying of excitement.

After a quarter-mile run, we check out the super slo-mo video, shot with a high-speed camera. And it turns out that I have decent form. My foot lands square and doesn’t torque sideways. Trampas tells me that, if anything, I need to increase my cadence, the number of strides taken for a given distance. My stride is a little long, which increases “braking,” the tendency to slow down as your foot lands. Apparently you run more efficiently if you take those dorky little runner-guy strides. I could try that, but I have an inherent problem with running that way: People might see me. I mean, I’d probably be more efficient if I wore flimsy nylon short-shorts, too, but you don’t see me wearing those outside the comfort of my airplane seat. (They’re comfortable for traveling, OK?)

So I’m happy to say that my stride is basically the envy of all Kenyans. There’s only one more thing to discover: What’s inside my shoes. You see, I walked into New Balance wearing a pair of shoes from a competitor. I don’t want to name names, but it rhymes with “crikey.” So when I’m done with my industrial espionage on behalf of Reebok—I mean, “taking notes for this column”—I hand Trampas my old shoes, and he fires up the saw in a room dedicated to shoe dissection. A moment later, my old footwear is halved. Surprisingly, they’re not filled with magic leprechauns, flubber and banshee breath, as marketing campaigns might have you believe.

In addition to the awesomeness of having a guy with a doctorate degree sever my shoes like some kind of shop-class miscreant, this exercise is economically fruitful. Because now I need shoes, which means that someone in Maine will make another pair. Then that Skowheganite has money to buy something he or she needs, like Truck Nutz or Allen’s Coffee Flavored Brandy. Friggin’ Skowhegan. Probably doesn’t even have a cow pound.

By Jeffrey Cattell

TJ Douglas, owner of the Urban Grape:

Cool Ranch Doritos
Pair with Charles Smith Royal City Rosé ($36)

“This wine, with hints of smoky dried raspberries and strawberries, would mix well with the freshness of Cool Ranch. It’s a mix of salty and savory for an overall clean taste.”

Peanut Butter and Jelly
Pair with Marenco Brachetto D’Acqui ($25)

“It’s a sparkling red wine so it’s festive, but its low alcohol content makes it good for a lunchtime PB&J pairing. And this is one of the few wines in the world that actually tastes like grape.”

Juicy Fruit Gum
Pair with Poochi Poochi Sparkling Sake ($17)

“It matches some of the fruity sweetness of the gum on the front, but the bubbles give lift in the back for a dry finish, so the sake wouldn’t overpower the Juicy Fruit.” 

Kraft Easy Mac
Pair with Grandmaster Chardonnay ($12)

“The buttery and juicy overtones of the wine would work well with the creaminess and cheesiness of the Kraft.”

Top Ramen Noodles
Pair with Loca Linda Torrontes ($18, liter bottle)

“On the front it offers a kind of fruity taste with tons of floral and pear notes. But it also has really high acidity which would definitely work well with the saltiness of Ramen.”

The Urban Grape
7 Boylston St., Chesnut Hill
617-290-6290 | theurbangrape.com

By Sandy Block, M.W.

As fall approaches, the cravings for Port begin to build. If you have a sweet tooth, it’s an amazingly delicious drink and the best match for chocolate ever. (My general rule: One decadent pleasure may be enough, but why skimp?) And for cheese addicts, there’s a Port for (almost) every one of your favorites.

The following represents great value in the most popular high-end categories. Remember, unlike most other wines, you can open a bottle, pour out a wee dram, recork it and not have to worry about deterioration for weeks.

Quinta do Noval 10 Year Old Tawny ($33, Martignetti’s, Brighton) Aged tawnies are magical expressions of what can happen when you allow a complex wine to develop in cask. Noval makes one of the best, a touch on the nutty side, with pronounced toffee and espresso notes. This is killer with lighter-milk-chocolate–flavored desserts, like a creamy mousse. If you prefer cheese, try Tête de Moine from the Jura, a delicate but tangy semihard cow’s milk variety.

Fonseca 20 Year Old Tawny  ($50, Atlas, Medford) At 20 years, Ports become a touch drier, but also much more concentrated and velvety. Fonseca, known as “the Margaux of Port,” walks a tightrope between lusciousness and vibrant intensity. It’s browner in color, with butterscotch, maple and fresh fig scents. Try this heady drink with a chocolate nut torte, or a great Spanish sheep’s milk cheese like Zamorano.

Fonseca Late Bottled Vintage 2005 ($23, Marty’s, Newton) This is one terrific bargain. Unlike most LBV, Fonseca’s Port is “traditional,” meaning unfiltered, so it’ll throw a touch of sediment. Deep ruby colored with a black cherry and mint aroma, it has more tannic brawn than the tawnies. Loaded with blackberry, clove and dark cocoa notes, it’s a great match for bittersweet chocolate or slightly salty cow’s milk cheese from Lombardy.

By Amanda Knorr

Of all the prints displayed on the fall runways, one stood above the rest. Polka dots were a designer favorite, with Marc Jacobs, Stella McCartney and Diane von Furstenberg all embracing the bold pattern. Try a black-and-white combo—it’s sophisticated and forever classic.

Skirt $29.95 at H&M
100 Newbury St., Boston
617-859-3192 | hm.com

iPhone case $40 at Kate Spade
117 Newbury St., Boston
617-262-2632 | katespade.com

Rain boots $125 at Kate Spade
117 Newbury St., Boston
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Earrings $20 at Urban Outfitters
361 Newbury St., Boston
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Toile jacket $100 at the Velvet Fly
28 Parmenter St., Boston
617-557-4359 | thevelvetfly.com

F.U.S.H. sweater $112 at Holiday
53 Charles St., Boston
617-973-9730 | holidayboutique.net

by jonathan soroff

Spot On
Many countries need and deserve our help, and in the early ’90s Croatia was certainly on the list. Yet even now that they’ve recovered from the war, I’d still like to buy them a vowel.

Take Mljet, for instance—the last island on our sailing trip along the Dalmatian Coast, from Split to Dubrovnik. I’ve never seen a prettier spot: The electric blue Adriatic forms two inland saltwater lakes, and in the middle of one is an island with a 12th-century monastery. I ate one of the most memorable meals of my life on Mljet—wild boar, shot that afternoon—and the people couldn’t have been more hospitable. But I’ll be damned if I could wrap my tongue around the name of the place.

That was pretty much the case wherever we went, beginning on the mainland, in Split. We were shown around by a local, Andro Tartaglia, who owns an outfit called Meridien Adventures. The country’s second biggest city, Split is built in and around the remains of the Emperor Diocletian’s palace, and the exterior (in pretty good shape after 1,700 years) contains labyrinthine alleys punctuated by piazzas and Roman ruins. Diocletian persecuted the Christians mercilessly, so it’s worth a chuckle that he wound up buried inside the basilica, and there’s an undeniable charm to the incongruity of stores selling the latest sneakers and T-shirts inside a structure whose original inhabitants wore togas and sandals. 

We chartered a 40-foot sailboat with a skipper from Hvar Adventure, and we cruised out past Brac, the island where the marble for the White House was quarried. Hvar was our first stop and probably the glitziest of the islands we visited. The town square—dominated by the lion of Venice—is lined with cafes where sleek tourists fresh off their yachts indulge in the Croatian equivalent of Nantucket barhopping. Still, the place is nowhere near as developed as, say, the Algarve, and retains a tremendous charm.

The Dalmatian Coast is rocky, with mountainous islands covered in pine trees, and on our second day, we dropped anchor in a little cove. After a swim in water so clear you could see straight to the bottom 20-feet below, we strolled through vineyards to a tavern where we ate octopus salad, a mille-feuille of eggplant, cheese and tomato, and kebabs large enough to choke a horse. All this, of course, was washed down with local wine. Then we went for another swim and set sail for Vis.

The island’s old port, Kut, is home to the Villa Kalliope, a restaurant set in a sculpture garden where we enjoyed scorpion fish and the owner invited us to join his poker game. In the morning, it was blowing 40 knots, so we opted to stay in port and explore. We’d brought along bikes and rode to Komiza, a town on the other side of the island, dominated by a Romanesque church, a citadel with a clock tower and cafes lining the waterfront. We resumed the eating and drinking at a restaurant built inside a 19th-century lobster hatchery, which was delightful but for a table of 55 voluble German tourists.

Korcula, which we sailed past the next day, is the purported birthplace of Marco Polo, and it’s a wonder he ever left such a sweet spot. At sunset, we reached Lastovo, the only Dalmatian island whose main town faces inland and away from the sea, either to defend itself from pirates or because the pirates lived there, depending on whom you ask. A cove where we encountered a boatful of naked Russians was followed by spiny lobster for dinner.

After visiting Mljet, we returned to the mainland. Dubrovnik, Venice’s greatest rival and the former Republic of Ragusa, is a walled city-state that successfully played the Italians off the Turks and maintained its independence until the Hapsburgs added it to their empire in the 1800s. One of Europe’s true gems, the limestone “Stradum” is worn to a high gloss and lined with treasures like the Rector’s Palace, the Church of St. Blaise and Onofrio’s fountains. The narrow side streets, meanwhile, offer an escape from the hordes disgorged from cruise ships, and our meandering walk led us to a wine bar where the owner uncorked some of the finest reds I’ve ever tasted.

It was the perfect way to say good-bye to a place where, incidentally, we never set eyes on a single white dog with black spots. But I’d gladly go back to the Dalmation Coast 101 times.

Captions: Sam Mazzarelli pilots through the Adriatic; the seaside town of Kut, famed for its tasty scorpion fish

Photo Credit: Pali Rao

Ezra Dyer

As The Improper’s 20^th anniversary drew near, I reminisced about my first months on the job. I started here in 1999, so the evidence of my early employment is in the form of actual print photos, the kind you developed from real film. As I pawed through Rite Aid envelopes full of prints from the early 2000s, a remarkable theme emerged: Most of these photos were actually good. When the price of each print came to about a dollar, including the costs for film and developing, you tended to self-edit, distilling your life down to the high points. In the film era, you didn’t say, “Hey, the sky looks crazy!” and casually fire off 10 exposures without thinking about it.

Today, I have enough crazy sky images in my iPhoto library to publish a coffee-table book called Whoa, It’s Sunny but Look at that Storm Coming. That’s if any of the photos were worthy of printing, which they’re not.

Pre-digital camera, the story of my life is chronicled by just a few hundred photos. And that’s enough. I was a kid. I played sports. Later I went to some parties. You get the idea. Then in 2004, I got a digital camera. My computer now contains 11,140 images, most of which are terrible.

My early digital photos aren’t bad. They tend to capture important moments. But in 2004, a camera was still something you had to carry with you, so you only had one if you knew you’d be around some photo-worthy scenes. Now everyone has a camera at all times, digital storage is essentially limitless, and I have 2,000 photos of my dog.

That’s just an estimate. I counted 219 photos of my dog before I got bored, and that only covered the first year we had him. When you’re sorting 11,000 photos, boredom sets in quick. Every photo from either a wedding or Christmas is interchangeable with any other photo from a wedding or Christmas (hey, people dancing or opening gifts!). And some of my photos are just embarrassing. Did I actually drive to Vermont to look at foliage? That doesn’t fit with my dangerous-sexy gangsta persona, but there’s an iPhoto album filled with trees, proving I really did go leaf peeping. I probably also bought maple syrup, but hopefully I ate the evidence.

Don’t get me wrong, there are some powerful photos in the collection, too. Like the shot of the fake mustache that I found discarded on the sidewalk in New York City. (It had a certain lonely gravitas.) And the pictures from my own wedding are pretty good. Not random-mustache-on-the-sidewalk good, but better than the ones of other people’s weddings. Bold assertion: If photos were to cost a dollar, nobody would take photos of other people’s nuptials.

The object of photos, ultimately, is to jog your memory and help you relive a particular experience. But they often send me off on tangents completely unrelated to the moment chronicled by the camera. For instance, on our honeymoon, Heather and I stayed at a hotel where they made little animals out of the towels. There’s a shot of a towel-swan or some such thing on our bed. Now, looking at that image should prompt me to think about our trip and how great it was, but instead I start brooding on how hotels are getting out of hand with the whole personal-touch obsession. I’m especially concerned about the craze of folding the first sheet of the toilet paper into a little triangle. I don’t have many rules for toilet paper, but one of them is: Don’t use toilet paper that a stranger has fondled. When I see that folded piece of paper, I skip ahead one full rotation to get to the untouched territory. Between that, the towel swans and the facial tissue folded to resemble a Japanese fan, where does it stop, hotel management people? When you’re in a hotel room, you want to think that you’re the first person who’s ever been in there. You don’t want to imagine someone creeping in to make origami out of your underwear.

Maybe in a couple of months I’ll take another stab at enjoying my honeymoon pictures. In the meantime, my photo avalanche deepens. I got a new cell phone two months ago, and it already holds 404 images, which means that I’m averaging more than six a day. That sounds frivolous, but how else would I document the fact that I received a piece of mail addressed to “Zra Dyger”? I mean, that’s crazy. But not as crazy as the sky the other night.

Nick Altschuller

Often the most stressful part of the workday is just getting to the office. The noise, the congestion, the sea of bitter faces. A friend’s therapist recognized that her commute was compounding her anxiety. So she recommended my friend get off her bike and start squeezing onto the T.

For years, Boston was ranked as one of the worst cities in the world for biking. But in 2007, noted cycling enthusiast/mayor Thomas Menino launched an initiative to reverse this reputation. The biggest step has been the implementation of Hubway, a near six million-dollar bike-sharing program that debuted in July.

There are now 600 bicycles stationed at 61 kiosks, stretching from the North End to Allston. For prices ranging from $5 a day to $85 a year, the bikes provide an intriguing alternative to cabs and public transportation. (Key addendum: That price remains at its base as long as you return your bike every 30 minutes. An hour ride would cost a casual user an additional $6, and from there prices can escalate into the prohibitively expensive.)

On the surface, the program is fun, green and healthful, the commuting equivalent of forgoing a steak for a salad. In practice, the program can be disappointing, like forgoing a steak for a salad.

Boston is notoriously difficult to navigate by car (and, because it follows the same basic rules, by bicycle). My commute takes about 35 minutes if I walk, 25 if I take the T and 20 with Hubway. In my first rush-hour ride, I had more scares and broke more laws then I thought I could squeeze into a 15-minute window.

I went the wrong way down one-way streets. A valet almost clocked me with a car door. I rode on sidewalks and ran red lights—although I don’t feel so bad about these last two. (Sidewalk riding is only illegal in “business districts,” and the state has yet to define what that actually means for cyclists, while getting a head start at a red light is apparently the bicycle version of jaywalking.)

Part of my performance can be blamed on inexperience, and I’ve gotten better. What worries me is the riders I’ve seen who are much worse. Drunk kids biking the wrong way down Cambridge Street at night. A woman struggling to pedal ahead of a wailing ambulance. There’ll be growing pains in a city adjusting to a new system. The problem is many of these riders aren’t wearing helmets.

Hubway is already popular. Since July 28, there have been more than 42,000 rides. Cities of comparable size with their own bike-sharing programs, like Denver and Minneapolis, have taken months to reach that number. But according to city statistics, 28 percent of riders aren’t wearing a helmet. That’s about 12,000 helmetless Hubway trips in just over a month.

The good news: Hubway makes it comically easy to purchase a helmet. They have street teams and local stores selling them for $8. They’ll even mail you one. Only someone who’s already suffered brain trauma could avoid owning a helmet.

MassBike executive director David Watson recognizes the influx of new riders. The number of cyclists has quadrupled in the last three years, and according to Watson, “There’s definitely a learning curve.” MassBike has begun offering free one-hour classes to Hubway users, and Watson cites studies showing that getting more bikes out on the road actually makes cycling safer. Says Watson, “Everyone has to become aware, so it essentially forces the issue.”

Many more bikes are coming. In the next few years, the city envisions adding more than 4,000 additional bikes and 200 kiosks, with Hubway’s reach extending into Brookline, Cambridge and Somerville. Thankfully, the infrastructure is changing, too. Says urban planner and Boston “bike czar” Nicole Freedman, “Would I expect someone like my grandmother to be biking across the city now? No. But five years from now, will the infrastructure work for someone like my grandmother? Probably, yeah.”  Recently, more than 38 miles of bike lanes have been added, with lanes coming soon to the Greenway and Mass. Ave.

I’ve yet to find Hubway’s place in my life. Walking’s just as good for my health, and it saves me from biking’s minor heart attacks. But I have a dear friend (who owns a much better TV than I do). Getting to his place for football games is a huge pain by any way other than taxi. This fall, cycling could merge cohesively and cost-effectively with my sloth, and that’s when I’ll know if we have a system that works.

by jonathan soroff

Much Ado About Something
Lucky for them, the rarefied group who gathered at The Sports Club L.A. before Opening Night of the Commonwealth Shakespeare Company’s free Shakespeare on the Common was already tanned and toned enough to brave the exercise floor of the tony gym and assemble on its roofdeck, with its wraparound view of the park.

Hosted by Ritz dwellers Anika Agarwal and Amit Gupta, the cocktail pregame attracted such lovers of culture as someday surgeon Todd Theman and money man Dennis Hong, Argentinean smoothie Gustavo Posse, the stunning Dara Bernard and her husband, Thierry, the eternally effervescent Kelly Shacklett Boullet and her other half, Nicolas, Brookline art collectors Michael and Barbara Greenwald, South End art patrons Trevania and John Henderson, arctic blonde art dealer Anja Kola and her husband, Kier McDonough (aka Kiefer McDougal), music booster and unrecognized royalty Janet Goff, the unsinkable Doris Yaffe, Gallic funboy Eric Jausseran, a guy named Ben who said he was a writer accompanying fashion plate Tonya Chen Mezrich, the shockingly beautiful Bianca de la Garza and her squeeze, Nantucket dreamboat Jess Williams, etc., etc.  

After getting well lubricated, everyone headed over to the Common for the performance, and there was nothing not to love about the production, although some guests found the porta-potties less than appealing.

“Where’s your friend?” one attendee asked at intermission.

“She went to the Four Seasons to use the bathroom.”

But as the saying goes, “All’s well that ends well,” which actually happened to be the play. The cast party afterward was a different story. A late-night bacchanal where guests cut loose with the cast, held at the Ladder District hotspot Kingston Station, was undeniably a great time. Unfortunately, though, it ended with a midsummer night’s hangover.

Luckily, the Invitations Were Written in Ink
For a charity with a name cuter than “Puppies and Ice Cream,” Cradles to Crayons’ parties certainly pack a wallop.

The group, which provides disadvantaged kids with the necessities they need to flourish, hosted its Summer Sunset fund-raiser at the Liberty Hotel. The sophisticated soiree attracted organizer and radiant ball of gorgeousness April Soderstrom and her cochair, Mike Morris, blueblooded knockout Jessica Gifford, Hingham’s own Timmy Brett, the inevitable Mike Ross, bearded hottie Scott Haavisto, the smokin’ Nancy Brady, the flawlessly dressed Gustavo Leon, superhero on the D.L. Ben Rawitz, polite young whippersnapper Rob Finnerty, and talent specialists Jennifer Plant and Laura McMackin, along with one man who claimed to have been out a few nights before and inexplicably found in his pocket the following: a gram of weed, a gram of hash, a pot lollipop, a rhinestone mustache, alcohol swabs and 10 unidentified pills. Hunter S. Thompson would be proud, and it’s important to point out that there were no signs of any illicit behavior at the party, although if there were, I was too buzzed to notice. Kidding! (Sort of.)

The award for best go-to-hell pants goes to Tyler Finnegan and his lime-green corduroys embroidered with martini glasses and cocktail shakers.

The evening’s most amusing conversation, meanwhile, between a group of chatting friends, included the following exchange:

“You’ve got a bit of meat on your chin.”

“And it’s only 7:30!”

Contest of the Month
The first person who can correctly guess whether Tyler Finnegan bought his eye-popping go-to-hell pants in Palm Beach or Nantucket will win an Improper Bostonian T-shirt, which you can embroider with whales, lobsters, pheasants, or whatever the hell else you want.

Captions: All’s Well That Ends Well; Cochairs Mike Morris and April Soderstrom at Cradles to Crayons; Contest of the Month: Tyler Finnegan’s go-to-hell pants

Photo Credit: GlobalP

by ezra dyer

Boston has its share of rich people. I once met a bodyguard whose job entailed following a BU girl to class because she was worth $750 million. But in Boston, money keeps a low profile. The secret gardens on Beacon Hill are a perfect metaphor for the New England attitude toward wealth—from the street, you’ve no idea of the lavishness that’s behind those walls. If you have money here, you’re usually not a dick about it.

That is not the case in Pebble Beach, Calif. At least, not during the annual car show that I attended last month. Pebble Beach is a fascinating petri dish of humanity. This isn’t how the other half lives. It’s how the other half of the other half of the other half of the other half lives.

As you quickly perceive in Pebble Beach, super-rich people are easily bored. That, coupled with the competitive urge to one-up your peers, leads to extreme eccentricity. You’re taking a limo to the party? Well, I’m taking a hot air balloon towed by a team of eunuchs!

That didn’t really happen, as far as I know. But I did go to a party where a guy brought a parrot. And another guy showed up on a Segway and rode it around indoors. And another guy showed me his $700,000 watch, which I knew was a $700,000 watch because he told me.

When I first saw Parrot Man, I figured he was some sort of entertainer. This impression was supported by the fact that he was wearing a robe of the finest silk and pointy shoes. The getup screamed “middle-aged white guy on his way to a Halloween party dressed as Aladdin.” Did I mention that this was a middle-aged white guy? With a parrot.

I kept waiting for the parrot performance to begin, but when I asked around I learned that this guy was just some dude, and that bringing a parrot is his signature thing. Over the course of the night, I never heard the parrot talk, but I imagine it knows how to say, “I have a pathological need for attention because my parents didn’t love me, AWWWK!”

Attention-seeking connects many Pebble Beachers. The impulse that causes you to paint a Rolls-Royce purple or bright yellow (I saw both) is the same one that compels you to ride a Segway into the middle of a shoulder-to-shoulder party. When I first spotted Segway Guy, his assistant was clearing a path for him through the crowd, and I thought, “Well, he must be handicapped. Because nobody could possibly harbor such a crushing need for acknowledgement that they’d ride a Segway up to the buffet table at a crowded party.”

But then I started thinking about it. What kind of disability would render you able to stand for hours but not walk into a room? And consider the context: There’s a guy over there wearing genie shoes with a parrot on his shoulder, so how are you going to trump that? Maybe by riding around on your gyro-scooter like a seven-foot-tall bionic dork.

Finally, there was Watch Guy. “Guess how much this watch costs,” he said. “I don’t know, $50,000?” I replied. “No,” he said. “It’s $700,000. Well, not quite. $690,000.” With that line, Watch Guy flawlessly executed the biggest humble brag in the history of humble brags—you know, he wouldn’t pay 700 grand for a piece of man jewelry. Just 690.

I took a photo of the six-figure wristwear and e-mailed it to my friend Greg, a watch aficionado, to find out if Watch Guy was telling the truth. Greg wrote back that the watch was legit, adding, “Seems like an awesome guy with a huge wang. Hopefully you got to hang out with him for most of the weekend. No doubt there were hot chicks hovering around.” Strangely, there were not.

I heard more mind-boggling stories over the weekend, like the one about the guy who ordered a fully loaded Rolls and, upon receiving the $750,000 invoice, sent it back in a fit of pique—he wanted them to make it more expensive so that the price would begin with an eight.

New England has its idiosyncratic tycoons, too. But ours do cool stuff like buy sports teams and make them competitive. That said, I do think that the Boston masters of the universe could learn a thing or two at Pebble Beach. I’ll bet Fidelity would be a more interesting place if Ned Johnson had a parrot.