Bryan Adams Blog

Adams Family Christmas

This is Bryan. Bryan has been sick for nine days. His glands are swollen, he’s congested, and his cough would make Kerberos himself pee on the kitchen floor. But until he has a temperature that’s higher than 102, the doctors won’t give him antibiotics. Today, he hacked up a loogie that, if properly expectorated, could break a window. Bryan is sick of being sick.

This is Mom. Mom was talking to a woman in the grocery store about how bad the weather was getting. Mom said she hoped it held off. The woman said that God was trying to tell us that he’s still in control. Mom is freaked out by religious nuts.

This is Dad’s ass. When the weather that Mom had been talking about finally hit, it knocked down the power lines that deliver electricity to his house. Because the electric company is evidently staffed by monkeys, they power was out for 84 hours, starting at 6:30am on December 23. His house got down to 48 degrees inside, and he had to keep a bonfire running to prevent his hot tub from freezing. Dad is so mad at American Electric Power, he let me put this picture of his ass on the blog, just in case someone from AEP finds it. Dad hates the electric company.

This is the tree outside dad’s house. It got covered in ice and fell down. Perhaps God is trying to tell us that he hates trees. The tree doesn’t have feelings anymore because it’s dead.

This is Emily. There’s nothing really wrong with her.

This is Laura. Laura is writing her senior thesis at Bryn Mawr on the later philosophy of Wittgenstein and conceptual artist Joseph Kosuth. Her computer started crashing, and she gave it to her brother, Bryan, to fix. He noticed that the hard disk seemed to be malfunctioning. Five reboots later, the hard drive was deader than a doornail, taking her thesis with it. Also, all of her iTunes music. Laura wants to cry all the time.

This is Sonia (sort of). Sonia was driving back to Montreal from New York when someone mentioned that she had a flat tire. While trying to find a gas station with an air pump, Sonia was hit by a snow plow. She is ok, thank God. Her car is not. Sonia will have to get someone to fix her poor, mangled car. Sonia is scared of her car and promises never to scare Bryan ever again, ever.

This is the entire Adams family trying to play a board game in the dark on Christmas. They all hope you had a better Christmas than they did.

Oh Baby

I missed last week's post because I was on vacation in Seattle. Actually, I've had more vacation in the last two months than I've had in the last five years. It's been great. One of the best things about travelling on vacation is that it gives you a chance to see how other people live. The midwest certainly has its own charm (you have to like red), but the parochialisms of other parts of the country are intriguing as well.

One thing I've noticed without regard for regional partiality is the presence of babies in fancy restaurants. On a recent trip to Phoenix, we stayed at the Four Seasons, which is about as swanky a place as you can get. (I say this with confidence because we saw Peter Lynch, who was staying at the same resort.) The Four Seasons takes pride in catering to its guests' every whim, and not being resentful while doing it. Everyone should get to stay there at least once. But a two-year-old? Can he really appreciate that level of service?

My husband and I were seated for dinner in their restaurant overlooking the desert as the sun was setting. The weather was so beautiful, we were seated right near the open doors to the outside deck. It was a beautiful, romantic setting. The menu is strictly gourmet, where they list every ingredient and the prices are in whole dollars. As we perused the menu, the maitre d' seated a party of four with a toddler at the next table - right in line with our view of the desert. These were young people probably in their thirties, and the little boy was about eighteen months old. He was, of course, adorable, but not in this setting. Now as someone who really loves babies, I nevertheless hated the distraction he presented all during our dinner - and theirs. There was barely a moment when all four of the adults were seated at the table. One of them was usually up walking the child around, since he couldn't help squirming in his high chair. Now, I don't blame the child at all - he was, after all, doing what comes naturally to a toddler. But I do blame the parents who brought him. These are people who have not fully accepted what it means to become a parent. To these folks, having a child means assimilating the kid into your existing lifestyle with as few alterations as possible. This leads, I think, to lots of frustration for both the parents and the child, not to mention innocent bystanders. What possessed these parents to bring this kid to a five-star restaurant? We spent nearly $150 for our dinner alone - an amount that would have represented our entire week's food budget when we were their age. How could they justify the expense for their dinner when they couldn't really enjoy it? Certainly the Four Seasons offered in-room babysitting, and certainly they could afford it. Wouldn't the child, the parents, and their guests all have been better off if they'd chosen that option?

I'd have considered this an aberration, except that the very same thing happened on our trip to Seattle. We were having dinner in a lavish dock-side restaurant, when a large party that appeared to be a family came in with a toddler in tow. He was cute as could be, and he was a typical toddler. He smacked his high-chair tray with his silverware, he screeched when he was scolded to behave, he wiggled and squirmed until someone took him out of the high chair and let him walk around the restaurant. Having been a mother to three babies, you'd think I could just ignore his antics. But, I couldn't. His behavior was just completely distracting from the overall atmosphere.

I remember very vividly what it's like to have a little kid. They're adorable and exasperating at the same time. At regular intervals, the kid needs a break from you, and you need a break from the kid. This is what drives (or used to, anyway) the teen-age economy - the need for regular babysitting. My husband and I learned our lesson the hard way - we left a totally untouched meal at a local cafeteria-style restaurant when Bryan was about six months old. Bryan was a handful as a baby, and he kept us on our toes. Every outing with Bryan was an adventure, and we did our best to keep him in line. But this particular day, he decided that he just didn't want to sit still, despite the fact that we chose a restaurant where you didn't have to wait for either the food or the check. So, I sympathize with parents who are still learning the ropes. But, by the time the kid's a toddler, you should realize what the kid is and isn't capable of, and which environments are appropriate. Sometimes accommodation is more important than assimilation, and if you're not ready for that, then maybe you're not ready to have kids.

Is It A Sin To Compare Jesus To TiVo?

No Christmas season is complete without someone reminding us to remember the True Meaning of Christmas.

I had a very personal brush with the True Meaning last week. An old college friend was in town for residency interviews, and we got together for a few drinks. He's a conservative Christian who goes to med school in Texas, so you can imagine that our views on the world are somewhat divergent. By way of example, I'll merely point out that, in response to my question about who he thought was a political moderate, he mentioned Bill O'Reilly (a man who's so moderate he thinks Jews should accept Christian proselytization in schools or move to Israel).

As two beers turned into eight and 6:30pm turned into 11:30pm, I eventually succumbed to one of my most powerful temptations: I had a conversation about religion. I've had such a nice time in the two Bible classes that I took this year that I forgot how awful most religious discourse is. This was no exception. Thirty minutes of intense discussion revealed that he thought that (1) my volunteer activities were bad because I wasn't doing them through Jesus, (2) I was only taking Bible classes because I felt guilty about my lifestyle, and (3), I was headed for eternal damnation because I didn't believe in Jesus as God's son.

And that's the true meaning of Christmas, right? Jesus was the Greatest Gift The World Has Ever Known (TM), and so we give each other gifts in remembrance of that, right? If so, I am compelled to observe that the GGTWHEK (TM) came with a pretty sizable catch. I mean, let's look at John 3:16

For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.

See, the "who believes in him" phrase kind of sticks in your throat, doesn't it? It's a gift ... to those who believe. Kind of like agreeing to work with people ... who share your goals. Or not shooting people ... who don't piss you off.

Or it's sort of like this: TiVo keeps encouraging people to give TiVo boxes as gifts. And TiVo is certainly an excellent gift -- you should get one soon before Microsoft and Comcast have Michael Ramsay's legs broken. But if I got just a TiVo box for Christmas, I think I'd be a little off-put. See, once you have the box, you still have to purchase a subscription from TiVo for a dial-in service that allows your box to download the programs guide! Otherwise, the TiVo just sits there and records whatever you're watching. You can't tape shows, you can't save them, and TiVo won't recommend things. It's not really TiVo without the dial-in service! So a TiVo box is a gift ... to those who are willing to buy the lifetime subscription to TiVo Central.

Only Jesus is like ten times harder to use, because you can't just buy the lifetime subscription -- you have to believe. I've prattled on enough about my problem with this aspect of Christianity, so I will only make the following observation: I can't control what I believe. If you come to me, for example, and told me that God caused the face of the Virgin Mary to be burned into a grilled cheese sandwich, and I don't belive you, then we're at an impasse. I cannot force my brain to believe what you're telling me. Some collection of neurons stubbornly refuses to fire when this grilled cheese is stuck into my face, and there's nothing I can do about it. It's like asking me to run 100 meters in under 10 seconds. Some people can do it, but I can't. And no amount practice or demonstration or instruction will change that fact. And so if I can't believe in Jesus as God's son, and I can't be saved without believing in Jesus, then what?

So that, my friends, is the true meaning of Christmas. Jesus was born for your salvation, and if you don't believe that, well, then let's just say you shouldn't worry about packing a sweater for the afterlife. Now who's up for some caroling?

The Bad Side of Blogging

While it probably seems like it's all champagne parties and celebrity gossip backstage here at the Bryan Adams Blog, I am sorry to report that, in fact, it's become quite awful. I've adapted to much of the awfulness. I'm fine, I guess, spending the first fifteen minutes of every day deleting 415 spam comments. I'm fine bugging sysadmins every time the database corrupts. And I'm even fine with the random people who read here and then leer at me in real life.

I am not fine, however, with having a stalker.

One day, about two months ago, a person calling herself "M" left an unintelligible comment in pidgin English. It mentioned Karl Watson (who runs a Bryan Adams fan club in the UK) and Room Service (Bryan Adams' new album), so I figured it was one of the many knuckleheads who can't differentiate between me and this guy. I deleted it and moved on.

M did not, in fact, move on.

Instead, M began what can only be described as an insurgent campaign against my occupation of my own name. She attacks with multiple emails every night, coming from multiple IP addresses and bearing multiple return email addresses. Some of the emails ask me if I will sing something for her at my show, some of them are these long explanations about how she was almost raped, some of them tell me to pray to some wacked-out saint, and most of them implore me to write her back, which I never do. She even signed off with "FUCK YOU" on a couple of them. And she continues to leave comments on the blog, and although I delete them and ban the originating IP, she comes back in different forms, always bearing the name "M."

The straw that broke this camel's back came yesterday and today, when M told me she has purchased a $58 astrological reading for me from some on-line astrologist. I received it via email, and while I'm sure Sonia will be happy to know that 2005 will be a good year for my love life, I pitched it into the trash. I then received several follow-up emails asking me if I got it.

Believe me when I say that I have tried the appropriate channels to stop this. I wrote to the good folks over at bryanadams.com and asked them if they had any idea who this person was. Michelle, the BA fan club director, wrote M an email, but M simply replied with more inscrutable hysteria. I also wrote to the MIT harassment office -- a group of people who are employed to prevent MIT students from being harassed -- and I was informed that "fans" are a natural phenomenon when you "share your deepest thoughts on the internet" in the form of a blog. I still grind my teeth when I read that phrase.

I have received 87 emails since November 1. This has to stop, so I am reduced to writing the following open letter to M.

Dear M:

I know your English isn't good, so let me make this as clear as I can.

Not Me

Me

Not Me

Me

Not Me

Me

Not Me

Me

Not Me

Me

Stop sending me email, retard.

--Bryan Adams (NOT THAT ONE)

Sometimes, You Don't Even Have To Comment

From the AP news wire ...

Standing before thousands of Marines, President Bush asked other Americans on Tuesday to make the war their own by helping battle-weary troops and their families.

"The time of war is a time of sacrifice, especially for our military families," Bush said, wearing a tan military jacket with epaulets. "I urge every American to find some way to thank our military and to help out the military family down the street."

Army Spc. Thomas Wilson of the 278th Regimental Combat Team that is comprised mainly of citizen soldiers of the Tennessee Army National Guard, asked Rumsfeld in a question-and-answer session why vehicle armor is still in short supply, nearly two years after the start of the war that ousted Iraqi President Saddam Hussein.

"Why do we soldiers have to dig through local landfills for pieces of scrap metal and compromised ballistic glass to uparmor our vehicles?" Wilson asked. A big cheer arose from the approximately 2,300 soldiers in the cavernous hangar who assembled to see and hear the secretary of defense.

Rumsfeld hesitated and asked Wilson to repeat his question.

"We do not have proper armored vehicles to carry with us north," Wilson said after asking again.

Rumsfeld replied that troops should make the best of the conditions they face and said the Army was pushing manufacturers of vehicle armor to produce it as fast as humanly possible.

And, the defense chief added, armor is not always a savior in the kind of combat U.S. troops face in Iraq, where the insurgents' weapon of choice is the roadside bomb, or improvised explosive device that has killed and maimed hundreds, if not thousands, of American troops since the summer of 2003.

"You can have all the armor in the world on a tank and it can (still) be blown up," Rumsfeld said.

Oh. Canada.

Part of the reason Canada is so lame, I think, is their hysterical system of measurement. They say that something costs $100, but it's really only like $83.50. They say you can drive 100km/h, but you can only really go 62mph. They say that it's really cold when it's -9C, but it's actually only in the teens. Really, Canda, settle down. The only three things you have that we should copy are universal health insurance, the two-dollar coin, and curling. Everything else -- hockey, shitty roads, poutine -- you can keep.

I went to Canada this weekend so that I could take Sonia dress-shopping. Normally, I don't really care for shopping, but Sonia gets such glee from trying on clothes that the excess glee is enough to warm even a -9C day. So we executed our battle-tested two-person clothes-shopping plan. We go into a store and spread out and look for suitable candidates, meaning, in this case, no sequins, no floral prints, and no hairy fringe. We reconvene and then go through some peremptory challenges (her: "too sack-like", me: "too slutty"). Any remaining dresses are tried on, and I am allowed to make any comment I want, so long as it's followed with some kissy-face: "Well, that one's nice, but your ass looks big and I think your hooter's going to fall out. Mwoo-mwoo-mwoo (fish-face-kissy-noises)." After seven stores and four hours, my penis finally falls off and I offer to pay for any goddamn dress that will allow us to go home.

That evening, as a reward, we went to a Brazilian restaurant and had churrascaria, which I believe is Spanish for "meat on swords." Basically, you give them a set amount of money and then they send a parade of men with, yes, meat on swords. They hack off some of the meat, you eat it, then another man comes over and does the same thing, and so on. It's sort of like gastrointestinal gambling; the price of the meal is like the over/under, and you're betting the over on yourself. Sonia and I both won money, and I celebrated an all around great day with a two-man performace: my laptop playing Spider-Man 2 and me, providing hilarious and flatulent interjection.

Normally, driving back to Boston after such an experience would be a complete downer. However, the five-and-a-half hours flew by due to two enjoyable listening experiences. The first was listening to an Audible book on tape about American history from 1920-1950, thoughts about which I will share later this week. The second was a pair of National Public Radio stories that serve to illustrate the immutable fact that NPR absolutely rules.

The 9:30a news feature was about a new study out of UCLA that suggests that race-based preferences in law school admissions actually produce fewer and lower-quality black lawyers. The author of the study was on the show to discuss his findings, and, as loyal readers might suspect, I disagreed with him quite strongly. Mostly, I yelled back at the radio that he was underestimating the value of networking with other top law students. Because NPR is NPR and they always think of everything, they followed this piece with an interview from a professor at Harvard Law School who said, among many other things, that the UCLA study underestimated the value of networking with other top law students. Ah, NPR, last bastion of reason in a conservative-crazed world.

And just as I was getting comfortable, they followed that piece with a news item about the ongoing battle between SCOTUS and the fifth-circuit court of appeals over the latter's application of the death penalty. In particular, this segment highlighted the significance of an 8-1 decision from 2002 that held that Texas' jury selection methods in capital trials unfairly purged juries of minorities. SCOTUS urged the lower court to rethink it's "dismissive and strained interpretation" of the evidence supporting the idea that a southern, all-white jury might not, you know, give a fair shake to a black defendent.

And it was right about at this point in the story that I thought, "8-1? Who was the ..." when NPR gleefully pointed out that the lone dissenting opinion on that 2002 case was ... wait for it ... Clarence Thomas.

Ah yes. The system works.

A Good Closer

I'm a fan of well-written prose, whether it's formal or informal. I do a lot of writing in my job, and I enjoy the challenge of putting my thoughts precisely into words. I also like to send cards and notes to my friends, and with the holidays approaching, I'll have my fill of writing in the next few weeks..

For me, it's not the content that I spend the most time on, it's the closing. Those simple words that wrap things up, like a hug good-bye, or a handshake, before you leave. I almost never read the text of a card I receive - my eyes race to the bottom of the page to see who sent it and how they signed it. Sometimes I'm saddened at the lack of emotion expressed - like the time I got a birthday card from my parents that was signed merely, "mom and dad." And other times, an unexpected gush of emotion may make me blush, like the time our custodian at work gave me an elaborate thank-you card for a Christmas gift I'd given him, with the closing "love." That simple word sort of changed our relationship, though I wonder if he really meant it?

Sometimes, the closing is obvious and simple. At work, my closing is almost always "very truly yours." If I have an ongoing professional relationship with the recipient, it's often "best regards." I don't have to give a lot of thought to the choice of words in that situation. Those words act as a handshake. It's also pretty easy when I write to my kids or dearest friends. Then, "love" is the best closer. Of course, there are variations, such as "love always," or "with all my love," -- phrases that emphasize just how much you care about the person. There are also phrases that lighten things up, like, "love ya lots," or just "love ya," or a 70's throwback, "luv." These are all lighter expressions of a pretty strong emotion, which work with people you care a lot about, but you're not sure just how you should say it.

When my relationship with the recipient of my correspondence is somewhere between "like" and "love," that's when the closing is the toughest. "Sincerely" seems much too formal and remote. I once received a card from someone with the closing "fondly," which I interpreted to be somewhere between "sincerely" and "love," which is about where I'd have pegged our relationship. Sometimes I want to close with "your friend," but that sounds like something a kid would say. I love some of my friends, but not all of them, and I feel it's important to differentiate between them. The former pastor of our church signs everything "love, joy, and peace," which is completely apropos for someone in his position, and really does cover every possible wish you could have for someone. I kind of wish I had an all-purpose closing like that so I didn't hesitate every time I come to the end of a personal letter or a note. There's always the 'nothing' closing, where I just chicken out and merely sign my name. But I'm never proud of that. It's like my reader knows I was at a loss for words just when I should have known what to say. I hate that feeling, and it's bad enough in person. When you write, you can't even stammer. You just leave a vast emptiness on the page.

So does the closing really matter to people or is this just one of those things I obsess about that's totally pointless? And does anyone have a suggestion for their favorite expressions of affection, or lack thereof? I would be forever grateful to hear them.

Quizzically yours,
Patty