Erin Chack

JO411: The Great Seabream Cook-off

2011-09-07T07:58:00.000-07:00

My first attempt at photojournalism. Photos are mine, words aren't.

JO411: Capital Idea: Filthy MacNasty's

2011-09-07T07:34:00.000-07:00

A sample of my weekly Capital Idea for TNT Magazine (top left).

JO411: Sounds of Summer

2011-09-06T18:04:00.000-07:00

Page one of an eight page spread I wrote for TNT Magazine's summer concert edition:

JO411: TNT Weekender

2011-09-06T18:00:00.000-07:00

One of a few Weekender's I did for TNT Magazine's print edition:

JO411: Christchurch earthquake: skateboarders make most of destruction

2011-09-06T11:59:00.000-07:00

This one earned the top hit on Google News (if you happened to be googling "Christchurch skateboarders").

JO411: Katie Price posts photo with new man Leandro Penna

2011-09-06T11:54:00.000-07:00

My first attempt at celebrity sleaze writing.

JO308: Parking in North End to temporarily get harder

2011-09-06T11:50:00.000-07:00

As seen on Boston.com.

JO308: The trick for skateboarders at Nashua St. Park? Dodging police

2010-11-17T18:24:00.000-08:00

Because skateboarders have been victimized long enough.

JO307: "Home Skate Home: Boston Skateboarders Struggle To Gain Acceptance In A Stiff-Necked New England Community"

2010-05-02T12:43:00.000-07:00

There’s a place in Boston just north of Science Park where the esplanade takes an unexpected turn and the lulling of highway cars gives way to the unearthly rumble of 55-millimeter polyurethane wheels on rough pavement. Here in the shadows of the Zakim Bunker Hill Bridge dozens of skateboarders gather on any given day to skate the marble ledges, sets of stairs, and egg-shaped concrete spheres that line the Charles River. These knee-high ovoid statues—presumably laid by a giant, flightless, cement bird, since they appear to have no other purpose—have given this popular skate spot the nickname “Eggs,” and for skaters in Boston, it is the closest they’ll ever get to a proper skatepark.

But where skaters see an accidental skatepark, Boston’s authority figures see liability, loitering, vandalism, and destruction of city property. Overbearing signs line Eggs and disparage skateboarding in red, capital letters while the Nashua Street Jail looms just on the other side of the street, an unintentional reminder of where the city would prefer to see these kids spending their time.

With 4.5 million people living in the Greater Boston Area, it comes as no surprise that a surplus of skaters are attracted to this New England concrete jungle. Stairs, ledges, platforms, cement banks and handrails may seem like metropolitan byproducts to most people, but to the thousands of skaters that call Boston their home, these obstacles represent the same sort of recreational playgrounds as a tennis court or a baseball diamond. The only difference for skateboarders is that taking advantage of their chosen obstacles can result in fines, tickets, and a lot of trash-talk from disgruntled security guards.

“Security guards always hassle you when you’re just trying to skate spots,” says Sean Colello, 21. They say things like, ‘If you keep skating on these ledges, you’re gonna ruin them! They aren’t meant for you to skate on.’ Well what are they meant for? They literally serve no purpose other than aesthetics. No one even notices if ledges are worn down or not.”

Knobbed ledges and barriers blocking skate spots along with frequent calls to the cops send a clear message to skaters; you are not welcome here.

To subdue these skater-versus-authority tensions, many cities have built skateparks to offer a safe and legal supplement to street skating. From New York to California, skateparks are starting to become as common as other obscure sports halls, like bowling alleys or squash courts. One can find a skatepark in practically every city in America; every city, that is, except Boston.

“I miss going to skateparks a lot,” says Mike Leone, 18, who lives in northern New Jersey and goes to school in Boston. “When I’m home I can walk to a park. There are a lot in my area.” He counts eight on his fingers.

“When I was first starting to skate, skateparks made it so much easier because they put every kind of obstacle in one area,” Leone continues. “Really, skateparks are about having a lot of fun with friends—sometimes I won’t skate for an hour, I’ll just hang out with kids that are there.”

Joe Antenucci, 20, agrees, “Skateparks are just so relaxing. They’re a great place to learn and meet up with friends.”

Boston Proper is littered with over two dozen baseball diamonds, a handful of tennis courts, and countless basketball hoops but not a single skatepark.

“It’s because everyone looks at skateboarders as hoodlums,” says Colello. “But most of us aren’t bad people. For some skaters, skating is an outlet to get away from high school drama and peer pressure. It’s a way for kids to do something more introverted and focus on their own abilities instead of worrying about if they are the best on a team.”

Skateboarding has been met with sideways glances ever since it erupted onto America’s streets and empty swimming pools during the early 1970s. Pioneered by longhaired renegades with a reckless disregard for rules, boundaries, and bodily harm, the then nascent sport of skateboarding acquired an extremist reputation it has yet to shake. But today, the sport has migrated from the fringes of society to mainstream America; in its 40 years skating has gone from an underground culture of madcap punks to a pervasive lifestyle that has influenced much of pop culture. There are skateboarding video games, TV shows, clothing stores, instructional DVDs, toys for children—it has permeated nearly all facets of commercial society.

Now skateboarding has evolved into a culture of over 12 million and a multi-billion dollar industry. It represents a healthy, active alternative sport for youths and adults alike that offers true freedom of expression combined with real athleticism in the way no ball-and-stick sport ever could. But the bias of skateboarding as an illegitimate, nonconformist sport has held firm.

“I think people feel that skateboarding is kind of a rebellion thing,” says Antenucci, who plays collegiate baseball and skates. “It’s like if you do something other than the accepted football or baseball it comes along with these negative stereotypes like destruction, laziness, and drug use. And all they see is danger in the sport.”

But studies show that despite skateboarding’s reckless attitude, it does not push the limits of safety. According to the US Consumer Products Safety Commission, “skateboarding is a relatively safe sport with statistics indicating that it ranks below all major sports including basketball, football, hockey, baseball and soccer, and even non-contact sports such as fishing and golf in terms of numbers of hospital visits per participant.”

The real danger comes from skating in undesignated areas like the streets where cars, uneven pavement, and debris pose a threat to the untrained skateboarder. Instituting a skatepark offers a safe and fun alternative for skaters—especially young, inexperienced ones who could only benefit from such a training facility.

But the extreme preconceptions that surround skateboarding have held the sport back from gaining the support it needs to flourish in certain stiff-necked communities like Boston, the unofficial capital of prim New England. As a result of Boston’s reluctance to embrace the sport, skaters have taken it upon themselves to keep the scene alive and thriving. But it can be hard to nurture a garden in barren soil.

In the mid 1990s, a Boston artist and self-proclaimed “community mover and shaker” named Nancy Schön, most famous for her “Make Way For Ducklings” sculpture in the Boston Gardens, created “The Tortoise and the Hare” sculpture to be featured in Boston’s popular Copley Square. When she went back to visit her artwork weeks after its induction to the square, she was horrified to find it scarred with the deep grooves of metal on metal; skateboarders had been using her precious sculpture to practice grind tricks. Schön, initially enraged, spoke with the kids and realized that skating her sculpture was their only option since the city offered no legal place for skateboarders to practice tricks.

Schön immediately became involved with advocating a proper skatepark for Boston’s extreme sports athletes. She approached the city to petition for a skatepark, but was redirected to the Charles River Conservancy (CRC), a group of likeminded activists who were also looking for a way to involve the young people in their renovation of Boston’s downtown parklands. In 2000, they began organizing and planning a committee that would construct Boston’s first public skatepark; The Charles River Skatepark, to be built just blocks away from it’s unintentional predecessor, Eggs.

The park hopes to provide the 25% of greater Boston’s youth, as well as growing numbers of young adults, that participate in action sports (skateboarding, inline rollerblading, BMX riding, razor scootering) with a venue where they can safely and legally practice, exhibit and compete. The 40,000 square foot concrete super-park, featuring a synergy of design input from over 400 local skaters, will offer an array of street-inspired elements mixed with traditional park staples. As one of the largest parks in the country, the Charles River Skatepark would cater to all skill levels and offer a viewing platform for pedestrians to watch and “be entertained by elegant and daring displays of talent.”

Fast-forward ten years and over two million dollars in generous donations and fundraising later and the CRC has yet to break ground.

“They have been talking about this skatepark for years now,” says Leone. “But it’s never going to happen.”

The problem lies in the ambitiousness of the plans and the number one killer of all projects; money. What started out a $1.1 million project to be opened in 2007 has mutated into a $2.3 million juggernaut to start construction in 2009. A year later, over two million dollars stews somewhere in an idle bank account, the site remains a dusty, barren wasteland, and the CRC refuses to comment.

Skaters, on the other hand, aren’t so quiet.

Online message boards and chat rooms buzz with disappointment—even anger—at the broken promise of this super-park. Kids are outraged that the money they’ve donated to the cause and time spent fundraising for the park has seemed to disappear into the ether of public construction projects. But mostly, they hate not knowing what will happen next.

“What's the scoop on the park?” wonders one disappointed skater on a message board. “The [CRC] website is absolute crap, lots and lots of people have donated money (myself included) and yet nothing has happened. The skaters of Boston could have purchased land and built their own park at this point.”

Another skater is less polite, “I live in the neighborhood, and I haven’t seen shit being done there, ever!”

“I wonder why the people in charge haven't supplied us with new information? Hello...is there anyone out there working on this?” says another.

Speculation points to the infamous Big Dig—or as it is less commonly known, the Central Artery/Tunnel Project—Boston’s very expensive mega-project to reroute traffic flow downtown. Estimated at $2.8 billion, the Big Dig was the most costly highway project in the history of the United States. Before rocky relationships between the project manager and the Massachusetts Turnpike Authority (MTA) cut the project short in 2007, it caused arrests, escalating costs, shoddy workmanship, leaks, and even the death of a motorist. The CRC planned on constructing the Charles River Skatepark during the time of the Big Dig to consolidate construction costs, but due to the astronomical budget increases and premature termination of the project, construction of the skatepark was delayed—indefinitely.

In the meantime, Boston skaters wait patiently while any news of restarting construction adds a glimmer of hope that there might one day be a legal haven for action sports athletes in their own city. But for now, skaters are learning to adapt, just as they always have since the days of bailing out swimming pools to skate the smooth concrete and building ramps out of scrap wood and street signs.

Less mystical than the concrete bird that laid the giant stone eggs at Eggs are people who care enough about the skate scene to take matters into their own hands. Broderick Gumpright, Boston legend and unofficial parent of the Boston skate scene, has been working tirelessly to bolster Boston skateboarding culture ever since he migrated from Brewster, Mass. to Beantown in 2000. Once in Boston, Gumpright invested every cent he ever made from a soul-crushing office job into a skateshop called Orchard located in Mission Hill. With the shop as his platform, he and the other Orchard managers have done everything in their power to keep the scene’s heart pumping strong by putting on events from video premieres to art shows to skate jams to demos and parties.

“Skating needs shops like us,” says Gumpright, 31. “We teach kids the way and pass on advice. We connect with them—we’re not just some Walmart trying to make a buck. We want to add tangible culture.”

Orchard’s most recent donation to the skate scene will come in the form of a moving van. On the 15^th of May, Orchard will pack up shop and move two miles down the road to Allston, into a space twice as big as their current shop with high ceilings and an even higher rent. Featured in the center of this new skateboarding mecca will be a four-foot mini-ramp (a half-pipe ramp with walls that do not reach a complete vertical angle).

Why might a shop sacrifice low rent costs, a well-known location, and possible liabilities all for one four-foot ramp to skate?

“To save us,” says Gumpright.

It may not be a 40,000 square foot concrete dreamland, but for those in Boston who just want to skate, it’ll have to do.

JO307: "For Sam Dykstra, Sports Are Life And Hopefully Livelihood"

2010-04-14T12:24:00.000-07:00

You can tell a lot about a person by looking at his bedroom. The color of the walls, the location of the bed, the messiness of the floor; these details give insight into the intricacies of one’s personality. Sam Dykstra, for example, has a ten-foot mural of the iconic Red Sox Stadium’s Green Monster painted onto a pitched wall in his bedroom, complete with giant scoreboard and clear, blue, perfect-day-for-baseball sky.

“The ironic thing is that the score on the mural shows that the Red Sox are losing,” says Dykstra, age 19. “But it’s significant because it’s the score during Ted Williams famous last at bat. We painted it right after he died.”

His passion for the details and appreciation for sports history separate Dykstra from the other aspiring sports writers at Boston University’s College of Communications. Where others see a glamorous job of rubbing elbows with Derek Jeter and attending free All Star Games, Dykstra sees—well—nothing; he’s blinded by his love for the game.

Dykstra grew up an hour outside Boston in a town called Palmer, which meant Boston’s quadruple sports dynasty—Red Sox, Celtics, Patriots, Bruins—played essentially in his own backyard. When applying to colleges as a senior, he was immediately drawn to this New England sports Mecca, the home of his heroes.

“When I applied to BU, the Red Sox, Patriots, and Celtics all won championships the same year. It was the perfect storm of sports.”

And these new surroundings certainly electrified Dykstra. Once enrolled at Boston University, Dykstra took to the journalism scene like a hockey player to ice. Already equipped with a byline that packs an impressive punch, he immediately became involved in BU’S Daily Free Press, becoming Associate Sports Editor with four beats. He has written about everything from women’s golf to the Boston Bruins and hopes to one day cover the king of BU sports: men’s ice hockey.

“It’s different than writing for a high school paper,” says Dykstra, who served as the Editor in Chief of his. “In high school the football coach is probably your gym teacher too. But in college, the coaches are sometimes featured on ESPN. It can be intimidating.”

Dykstra currently sits at the fulcrum of his young career where interviewing sports figures still elicits the tingling thrill of being star struck. His work with the Daily Free press has gained him access into professional athletes’ locker rooms, media rooms, and fancy buffets for the press. This “red carpet treatment,” as Dykstra describes it, would be enough to make anyone’s head spin, but for Dykstra, nothing compares to being up close and personal with his idols, the professional athletes themselves.

“Interviewing Tim Thomas and Zdeno Chara of the Boston Bruins was such a cool and weird experience,” says Dykstra. “I called my mom and made her watch ESPN just to see my arm holding a recorder in the corner of the frame. To be two feet away from such famous people is pretty unreal.”

But don’t write Dykstra off as just another sporto with a pen in his hand. After a career in sports writing, Dykstra’s next dream job, oddly enough, would not take place in a football stadium or a baseball park but instead in the competitive setting of America’s political arena. Dykstra says he would be willing to hang up his baseball cap for a suit and tie if it meant he could work as the press secretary for the president. And it’s hardly a pipe dream for Dykstra; he currently studies political science as both a concentration and a minor. His journalism background would give him the advantage of anticipating the reporters’ questions before they ask, according to Dykstra, which would only benefit in controlling the president’s image. And really, with the aggressive nature of today’s politics with its all-star players and competitive debates, a switch from sports to politics doesn’t seem too unfitting.

But for now Dykstra concentrates on making sports his life. What sports in particular? Dykstra says, “Any sport. Basically if it’s athletic or competitive, I’m into it.” Dykstra concedes to getting pretty hyped up over curling during the Vancouver Winter Olympics, a sport that most people greet with a scoff or a jeer. What makes Dykstra different from most people is that under the faded Red Sox cap that he’s never seen without, he does not think about what makes a sport cool or uncool, he only thinks about the sport. And that’s all he ever thinks about.

JO307: "J.D. Salinger dies at 91, but has Holden Caulfield died with him?"

2010-03-25T14:01:00.000-07:00

If you attended high school in America you have almost certainly met Holden Caulfield at one time or another. Perhaps you came across him in ninth grade English or were introduced to him by a friend in Lit class senior year. One way or another, if you can read you probably have stumbled across him, and you are probably pretty happy you did.

“Catcher in the Rye was probably the last book I actually read,” said Sean Colello, a 21-year-old mathematics major at Manhattan College. “I loved it. Holden was the only literary character I actually could identify with because he wasn’t some big hero, he was just a lost and confused kid like everyone is at that age.”

But when J. D. Salinger passed away at the age of 91 last January, many people have questioned whether young Holden has died with him.

“I’m not sure the latter-day teenager would find comfort in Caulfield the way a few generations past have, because I suspect they are no longer exactly teenagers anymore,” said Elizabeth Wurtzel, an outspoken author of books with titles containing phrases like “Prozac Nation” and “A Memoir of Addiction.”

The modern teenager has undoubtedly evolved since the 1950s, when Holden ruled the world. It’s only natural for things to have changed since the days of sock-hops and diner dates, which were popular over half a century ago. “Poseurs,” have replaced Holden’s “phonies.” We download movies onto our laptops instead of going to see the pictures. We rely on ruder go-to curses than “goddamn.” But Holden’s angst, his disappointment in the adults in his life, his disorientation in the world, his need to escape all the tinsel and glitz—it’s all still as accessible to today’s teens as a copy of Catcher in the Rye in a used bookstore.

Still, people, or more specifically adults, are skeptical about whether or not Holden can still resonate with today’s youth.

“I have a teenaged son, and I doubt that Salinger would hold, for him, the appeal it had for me,” says Jay Parini, a literature professor at Middlebury College. “[Holden’s] voice has, perhaps, been so absorbed by the culture, so transmogrified by movies and endless TV shows that feature more up-to-date versions of Holden Caulfield, that I could no longer find it thrilling”

While many adults doubt that innocently retro Holden still resonates with today’s technology-absorbed, Aderol-addicted teens, the younger generation still has faith in the 16-year-old hero.

“Sure, we live in a different world than Holden lived in, but inside our hearts and minds we haven’t changed much,” says Emily Chack, a fourteen-year-old high school freshman. “Teenagers will always be dazed and confused, no matter how much we may rely on TV and the Internet and so on.”

Much like when Peter Pan left Neverland and forgot how to fly, adults who have grown up, started families, and moved on past their teenage years can’t seem to understand that today’s youth are just as angsty and rebellious as ever because they’re so disconnected from what it means to be angsty and rebellious.

“For better or worse, we will always be as messed-up inside as Holden was. He doesn’t represent teenagers of the 1950’s, he represents the mystery of being at an awkward age in the very awkward institution of high school. And that, unfortunately for teenagers, will never change,” says Colello.

DC&Baltimore Trip

2010-02-21T19:46:00.000-08:00

Some photos from a trip I took with some goons this summer:

JO307: "Massachusetts turns from blue to Brown: Republicans win the senate special election"

2010-02-21T18:22:00.000-08:00

Scott Brown, the relatively unknown Republican state senator in the true-blue state of Massachusetts, clinched a surprising victory in the special senate election last night over Democrat Martha Coakley to fill the late Edward M. Kennedy’s seat.

Brown, who trailed in the polls as early two weeks ago, is the first Republican to represent Massachusetts in the senate since 1978. Despite his recent obscurity, Brown pulled off a decisive five-point triumph for the Republicans over Coakley, the state’s attorney general who was the favorite to win for many months during the campaign.

With just 12% registered Republicans in the state of Massachusetts, it was truly the Independent voters who swung the election in favor of the little-known Brown. Independents were attracted to Brown’s promises to stabilize the economy and battle unemployment rates, which were issues that weighed heavily in the minds’ of the Bay State voters who have been hit hard by these tough economic times.

“Tonight the Independent voice of Massachusetts has spoken,” Brown said in his acceptance speech, openly crediting the non-partisan voters for his win.

Coakley’s defeat has caused much apprehension in Washington since Brown now holds the pivotal 41^st Republican seat, giving the red states enough edge to ruin the two-thirds Democratic majority. Brown’s leverage allows him to block the Democrats from passing the controversial health care bill, which Ted Kennedy openly advocated during his extensive time in the senate. Up until Kennedy’s death, the bill represented a distant but hopeful reality for the Democrats. The issue of health care gave this election national, if not global, attention and opened much debate among voters.

“Republicans could make this health care bill better,” said John Chack, age 60, a concerned out-of-state voter from New Jersey. “Together they could make a bill that everyone supports, whether they’re Democrat or Republican. Opposition in Washing is a good thing sometimes. But giving the Republicans a chance in the senate is giving them the chance to block out the bill completely.”

Besides the health care bill, Brown’s election forecasts changing political tides that may have further implications than just Massachusetts. The Bay State, known for its overwhelmingly Democratic positions, has elected a man that stands as President Obama’s political antithesis. Brown’s views are as rigidly Republican as they come; he supports waterboarding, opposes gay marriage (in a state that has legalized it), and has strong anti-immigrant views. Even after Obama, who won 62% of votes in Massachusetts during the presidential election, made appearances in Boston to endorse Coakley and encourage Democrats for their support, the Democratic voice of Massachusetts was essentially silenced by Independents and Republicans who want to see change in Washington’s agenda. Democrats in Congress facing midterm elections are understandable uneasy.

While the Democrats continue to play the blame-game over why this election turned red, Coakley’s loss comes down to a passive campaigning strategy full of political missteps that could have been avoided. Even with the support of the late Ted Kennedy’s widow Victoria Reggie and Barrack Obama, Coakley was unable to recover from her utter complacency and outright mistakes, like calling Red Sox pitcher Curt Shilling a Yankee fan, misspelling Massachusetts in a campaign ad, and making sarcastic remarks about shaking hands with voters.

With the Democrats scrambling to recover from their campaign blunders, Brown swooped in as the charismatic Average Joe with all the answers, and secured a conclusive victory. He now holds more than a seat in the senate; he holds the fate of every American who is in need of a national health care system.

“I feel very strongly about the state of America’s health care system,” said Christopher McFarlane, 50, of Cambridge, Mass. “I am concerned for what will happen to it with Brown in the senate seat.”

JO307: "The Solution To Your New Year's Resolution"

2010-02-21T18:20:00.000-08:00

What’s affecting most Americans but most likely won’t last until 2011? If you said Obama’s Health Care plan, kudos to you for your political awareness, but the correct answer is New Year’s resolutions. This year, I resolve to find out why such an empty tradition has continued to thrive despite the fact that most people’s resolutions are out quicker than a lightweight drinker at a New Year’s Eve party.

In order to get the firmest of grasps on this slippery New Year’s tradition, I decided to start at the very beginning (which I’ve come to understand is a very good place to start). New Year’s resolutions date all the way back to ancient Rome circa 153 BC, when Romans would worship to a mythical king called Janus for forgiveness for the previous year’s sins. Janus, whose name is the origin of the English word “January,” had two faces, giving him the ability to look both over the past and into the future and therefore making him a suitable god of the New Year.

Fast-forward two-thousand years or so, and the idea of new beginnings still holds true; the only difference being that while the ancient Romans prayed for forgiveness from their enemies and a chance to start over, we pray for flatter tummies and for Nicorette gum to be on sale so we can finally quit smoking. According to a 300,000 person survey conducted by TheGoalsGuy.com, some of the top New Year’s resolutions include losing weight, sticking to a budget, reducing debt, quitting smoking, spending more time with loved ones, and finding one’s soul mate.¹ It seems no resolution proves too ambitious for the New Year’s traditionalist; while some of us resolve to skip the morning Egg McMuffin and grab an apple instead, others hope the mystical powers of the New Year will pop them into some sort of Romantic Comedy parallel dimension, where soul mates are as easy to come by as teenaged girls at a Jonas Brother’s concert.

But what’s most wondrous is not what people resolve but why they choose to wait all the way until January 1st to nix their vices. What’s so wrong with a Tuesday in August or a day in mid March? Perhaps the symbolic throwing away of last year’s calendar full of missed appointments and failed rendezvous gives us motivation to start anew. Perhaps the ending of the holiday season leaves us with an empty feeling that used to be filled up by holiday cookies and eggnog. Perhaps the excuse of a “New Year, New Me” is too good to pass up.

“It does seem kind of silly, doesn’t it?” a friend says to me over coffee. “If people were serious about making a change in their life, they wouldn’t wait until New Year’s. So you get people making up half-hearted resolutions at 11:58 pm on December 31^st that don’t even last until February.”

I’m sure if we delved deep into the human psyche or decoded the details of our DNA somewhere between Desire to Mate and Need for Food would be our animalistic disposition to Adhere to Silly Traditions. In all seriousness, we are a society that annually displays a giant pine tree in our living room and begs for candy from strangers while dressed up like Bugs Bunny or the Wicked Witch of the West. So in the eternal words of Morrissey, “is it really so strange” that once a year we make an empty vow to be the best version of ourselves for the upcoming twelve months, even if we know it will only last until Groundhog’s Day? At least with New Year’s resolutions we’re not depleting our natural forest resources (ahem, Christmas…) or encouraging childhood obesity (I’m looking at you, Halloween…). For at least the first two months of every year, we pledge to cleanse our collective souls of the past year’s shortcomings and become a New Us, a Better Us, the Best Us.

And what better time of year to start this national soul cleansing than January, the bleakest of months, when our tans have long since faded and our wallets have been recently emptied by the holiday hysteria. January, a time where the only holiday that looms on the distant horizon is Valentine’s Day, a Hallmark-manufactured pseudo-festivity in celebration of Romance-Novel-inspired love. And come on, we don’t even get a day off of work for that.

I say, why not simply accept the New Year’s resolution delirium? If we can believe a giant rabbit lays colorful eggs in our homes, we can believe that this year, our New Year’s resolutions will last a full 365 days. When you come right down to it, most holidays are in the spirit of make-believe, why should New Year’s Eve be any exception? So apply for that gym membership. Stock up on those nicotine patches. Subscribe to a long-distance calling plan. If you don’t, just know that somewhere in Holidayland, Santa Clause and the Toothfairy are judging you. This year, let’s resolve to suspend our disbelief and give into the New Year’s nonsense. ‘Tis the season, right?

CO201 Profile: "Boston's Hardest Working Skater"

2010-02-21T18:15:00.000-08:00

Read it here.

CO201 Film Review: "Coraline's Psychological Plot Will Push Your Buttons"

2010-02-21T18:10:00.000-08:00

In a world where children’s movies are becoming more and more censored from life’s grisly unpleasantries, it’s nice to know there still exist filmmakers who aren’t afraid to send shivers down kids’ spines. The wonderfully creepy “Coraline” is rated PG (for Pretty Ghastly), but my advice to any parental moviegoers is to only bring kids in diapers--after watching the eerie, frightening scenes in “Coraline,” believe me, they’ll need ‘em.

“Coraline” is by no means a gory, gross-out flick like many “scary movies” that have graced theaters in recent years. Instead of inducing your gag reflex, it will stand your neck hairs on end and have you sleeping with a nightlight. “Coraline” presents a new kind of fantastically thrilling fear that plays off of a very real subconscious unease. The fright elicited by “Coraline,” suitable for (brave) children and adults alike, excites and entrances in a way no PG film has since “The Nightmare Before Christmas,” which is appropriate since both flicks share the same master-of-thrills director Henry Selick.

Selick’s version of “Coraline” is an adaptation of Neil Gaiman’s 2002 cult novella of the same title, but his translation onto the silver screen is careful not to leave out any of the unsettling imagination that haunts the pages of Gaiman’s masterpiece. In Selick’s model, Coraline Jones (voiced by Dakota Fanning) is a brave, blue-haired adventuress who just moved into an apartment full of tenants as wacky as the building’s flamingo-pink siding. After getting the cold-shoulder from her stressed-out, over-worked, grayish mom and dad (“Coraline, I don’t have time for you right now,” mom tells Coraline without looking up from her laptop), Coraline goes exploring for excitement and attention. What she finds is a peculiar wallpapered-up door concealing a magical tunnel that transports her to a paralleled universe where colors appear brighter, food tastes better, and--most importantly--her “Other Parents” (Teri Hatcher and John Hodgeman) smother on love and attention. This new world seems oddly perfect, but there are subtle, eerie details that let on something is not right: for one, every person in the Other World has shiny, black, unblinking buttons for eyes, and if Coraline wishes to stay, she must sew on a pair of her own. This proposition is one not often seen in kids’ movies--it’s both highly imaginative and extremely unnerving. It seems to play on a very real fear of giving up our sense of individual reality--blinded by conformity, so to speak--since our eyes represent so much of our identity.

Children will walk away clearly understanding the movie’s vague tagline, “Be careful what you wish for” but parents may pick up on the deeper theme Gaiman and Selick play at. The love battle between Coraline and Other Mother is like a page torn from a psychology textbook--Freud himself could not have provided a more accurate example of motherly oppression. Other Mother is a tyrant reminiscent of our own mothers, the one we come to know (or invent) somewhere in our preteens years when the war for establishing our own independence seems to outplay America’s Revolutionary. But how much of the “battle” is simply Coraline’s fantasy of supportive parents gone awry? Selick makes it easy to root for Coraline in her fight against the iron-fisted Other Mother, except when considering this Other World may not lie behind a door in Coraline’s living room so much as in the dark corners of her adolescent mind. As is his style, Selick does a fine job of leaving the boundaries of real world, parallel world, and Coraline’s imagination undefined so that astute viewers will be left guessing how much of what Coraline experiences is “real” and how much is an invention of her disdain for her inattentive parents. It quickly becomes apparent that the Other Mother/Coraline battle may be Coraline’s imagination’s response to fill the void created by her actual, neglectful parents. Real or not, the conflict between these two women feels thrillingly familiar but exponentially more exciting than any mother-daughter clash ever brought to the big screen before. The psychological implications are refreshingly smart, but subtle, making for an intelligently gripping plotline that’s not overplayed.

The spellbinding dreamscapes Selick creates with his clay (clay! Not sterile computer-generated images) transport you directly into the film, a feat facilitated by his subtle use of 3-D. Instead of pummeling the audience with three-dimensional objects that fly off the screen, Selick gracefully uses the effect to establish a true sense of space and depth, so viewers feel as though they are literally seated inside the scene with the characters. Selick’s use of 3D is so gentle that when the theatre lights flip on after the movie ends it won’t feel like a 3D hangover so much as waking from a very real dream. In fact, the only flat part of “Coraline” is the voice-overs done by some of the actors. Hatcher, Fanning, and Hodgeman don’t bring much to the film other than vocal inflections, but it is hardly noticeable with the surreal set design and thrilling plot doing so much of the talking.

In any case, “Coraline” is a true work of art, from the handcrafted clay masterpieces to the deeply unsettling psychological plot. It redefines “children’s movie” by mixing fantasy adventure, dark comedy, and sinister thrill with that happily-ever-after ending in a way that is—in a phrase—right on the button.

CO201 Memoir: "Oil and Water"

2010-02-21T18:07:00.000-08:00

I left for Sanibel Island, Florida as Erin Maureen, a girl looking forward to the life-changing adventures and exotic experiences that I was bound to encounter; I came home from Sanibel Island, Florida as Erin Maureen, a changed boy.

I was eight years old and about to embark on my first real vacation; one that required a plane, a real hotel, and something ominously referred to as a “boarding pass.” These fancy traveling jargons were not in my eight-year old vocabulary. Usually, vacation meant “driving” in a “car” to stay with “family.” The novelty of it all should have alerted me that something catastrophic was bound to happen, but I was blinded by my third grade innocence.

Around the time my parents announced we would be traveling to Florida for our family vacation, I had just reached the peak of my childhood awkwardness. There were many nicknames that aptly described my gawky appearance: Stringbean, Stretch, Spindles—the list goes on. Of them all, I always appreciated the nickname Scarecrow, since it seemed to encompass all of my positive attributes—my gap-toothed grin, unruly straw-blonde hair, flimsy limbs, and unexplained predilection for overalls. It’s true; I wore a lot of overalls. But I wore them with one strap unbuckled so it would hang at my waist because I was not a weenie. In fact I was pretty well-liked as third-grader—obviously, not for my innovative fashion sense but for my unrivaled Wiffleball skills and never-ending supply of tasteful poop jokes. Despite all of these highly coveted eight-year-old qualities, there was one thing I truly lacked; grace. I knew it and my third-grade peers knew it—especially Marissa Summers.

Marissa and I were by no means enemies, just opposites. Her sleek, brunette hair always stayed tamed beneath floral headbands that coordinated nicely with her unwrinkled outfits. Her fingernails were always shell-pink or baby-blue or sea-green, not stained playground-brown. Her handwriting tests boasted friendly, encouraging comments scrawled across the top, not with the question-mark-frowny-faces I often received. I’m sure she never forgot to change her underwear (guilty) or wore the same braids in her hair for three days straight (again, guilty). She was cool in a Jackie O. kind of way—classy, but in my opinion a little boring. Marissa Summers was the water to my oil; we didn’t exactly mix.

My family vacation to Sanibel Island presented a rare opportunity to one-up the watery Marissa Summers. Florida was a legitimate vacation, a high-class vacation, a Marissa Summers vacation. In the first few days alone, my family and I partook in the chicest of activities—swimming in the crystal-blue ocean, canoeing through the otherworldly everglades, and playing a magical game called shuffleboard. But the more caught up I got in my ritzy vacation, the more tangled up my hair became; in my excitement I often forgot to comb it or wash it properly and in a matter of a few days it became on big, salt-watery, sun-bleached, sandy mess. Once, while running late to see the Sanibel Island Wildlife Museum, I grabbed my hairbrush intending to give myself a quick ponytail, my usual pièce de résistance, when it snagged in my knotty hair-nest. Gripping the handle more firmly, I gave the brush another forceful tug: Again, nothing. Then two hands, the handle lodged within in my white-knuckled fists—yank, yank—but no give. In a last resort panic I surrendered the brush to my mother, hoping she could fix the mess.

Fifteen minutes later, Mom managed to force my hair into an unintentional dreadlock ponytail.

“That’s it,” said Mom. “We’re getting your hair cut tomorrow.” The tone in her voice suggested that she meant it as a kind of threat but I could not have been more overjoyed.

A haircut! I thought. What a great idea! I had figured I could use an updated look to match my new tan. Marissa Summers would be so jealous. I thought of her, the trendiest girl in the third grade, shivering in the cold New Jersey wind.

The next day, the whole family loaded into the white rental car and headed for the mall. I imagined a classy, tropical mall unlike the dumpy shopping centers we had in New Jersey. What would a Floridian mall sell, I wondered. Grass skirts? Coconut bras? I was but a ball of wonderment.

When we got inside, my family split up. Dad and my two sisters went left towards the clothes and toy stores; Mom and I took a right towards the hair salon.

I tugged at her shirt. “Mom,” I said. “I want layers in my hair. I want long layers like Liz has.” Like all little sisters, I always wanted to copy my older sister. This both infuriated her and entertained me.

“Layers?” Mom said. “They’re a lot of work; you have to wash them and blow dry them everyday. You can’t even comb your hair on your own.”

I promised her I would keep up with it. When we arrived at the hair salon, I flipped through the glamour magazines on the coffee table while my mom talked to the receptionist. My index and middle fingers glided over the glossy pages like a pair of Olympic ice skaters and then came to a chilling stop over one picture.

“Like this, Mom. See how her hair is all different lengths? See? That’s what I want. Tell the lady I want my hair like this.” I was still at that age where a brick wall separated me from talking directly to adults. My mom served as interpreter.

The hairdresser, Debbie as her SuperCuts nametag announced in purple capital letters, escorted me to my chair and draped me in a satin, cheetah-print cape. Having already spoken to my mom, there was no need for trivial pleasantries. Debbie got down to business.

As she began to cut, I stared at my reflection in the lighted mirror in front of me imaging new hair against my sun-kissed skin. Then I imagined Marissa Summers’ face, gazing upon my hot, new look. I smiled. A freshly cut piece of hair slid down the cape and landed in my lap like a long, wet worm. It was nearly eight inches. “This woman is serious about her layers,” I thought, as I closed my eyes, listening to the peaceful snip, snip of her scissors. I nodded off, able to feel the ghost waves of the ocean washing over me. I think I dreamt of Marissa Summers and how badly she wanted to be friends with me.

“OK,” said a voice, waking me from my nap. “All done.”

My eyes popped open and scanned the mirror for my new layers. What they found instead was a terrible, short, pageboy haircut. Was I still dreaming?

“What do you think?” asked Debbie.

I could not speak. My voice caught in my throat. Oh God, I thought. She cut so much she snipped my vocal chords too! I cleared my throat and tried again. “Where are the layers?” I stammered, my voice trembling on the edge of a total meltdown.

“Right here, sweetie,” said Debbie. She used the tip of her scissor to emphasize the different lengths in my short, short hair. “See? One, two, and three.” Short, shorter, and shortest.

I looked at my mom, hoping for some sort of explanation or at least a condolence, but all she could offer was, “You look adorable!”

Traitor.

I slipped out of the chair like a zombie, unable to talk or change the horrified expression on my face. Wobbly legs walked me out to the mall hallway. I stood there gaping, unblinking. “Marissa Summers,” I mumbled, the words escaped from my lips like drool.

And then it hit me like a shuffleboard disk to the face and tears as salty as the Atlantic flowed in rushing streams down my cheeks. My mom came and knelt down next to me attempting to lighten my spirits with compliments, but we both knew this was a battle she could not win. I do not know how long I was standing there, blubbering, but a woman came up to my mom and me to see if everything was all right. My mom, either embarrassed by the spectacle I caused or irritated by my inconsolability, looked at me and said, “You tell her.”

Through my heaving sobs I managed to say to the woman, “I… hate... my… new… haircut!”

“Hey…” she said softly like a mother cooing at a baby. She took a knee next to me and put a tan hand on my shoulder. I remember feeling the warmth of her palm through my Florida souvenir tee shirt. I remember the way her eyes flickered between both of mine like a soap opera star. I remember smelling sunscreen and salt water on her skin. But what I will never forget is what she said next.

“You are a very handsome little boy.”

My face contorted. I looked at my mom in horror. A single guffaw escaped her lips like a caged bird darting towards freedom; her hands slapped over her mouth in an effort to catch it before it got away. Too late. Despite my mother’s initial attempts to cover it up, the truth was I had no choice but to return to school—return to Marissa Summers—as an androgynous mess.

* * *

During the remaining days on Sanibel Island, the hotel room became my jail cell. I sat, a prisoner on death row, waiting to face my fate: judgment was in the hands of my third-grade peers—Marissa Summers sat like the high justice. But in the weird way that things always work out on their own, my return to school wasn’t the dramatic, life-ending embarrassment I hyped it to be. There were initial puzzled expressions, cautious questioning, and forced compliments but in the end, my new hair fit my graceless style. Thanks to the short hairstyle, my Wiffleball game improved since my hair never covered my eyes, and I could get away with not shampooing my hair for days. Sometimes it would get oily, but I eventually learned to just accept it. I never found out what Marissa Summers thought of it. I stopped caring. Oil and water have a funny way of separating over time.