Little Victories

We’ve moved!

If you’re reading this, you’ve stumbled across “Little Victories” using an old link. While you’re free to take a look around, this site will be closing shortly, and no new stuff is going here.

Why? Because “Little Victories” grew up- it became “The Little Victories” and moved to its own website, www.thelittlevictories.com.

So go there now!

You make Foie Gras.

As a couple of you may know, I had applied early this semester to return to the Daily Free Press as a columnist, in an attempt to write opinions that reached not only people on Facebook and the internet, but thousands of people in the BU community. Yesterday I was denied that position, for reasons I won’t enumerate here. But one part of the rejection phone call stuck with me today: ”Those columns you wrote with your application were great,” the woman on the other end of the line said. “We really enjoyed them.”

Hoping she was right, I’ve decided to do something a little bit different: I’m going to relaunch my blog.

Now I know what you’re thinking: You want to relaunch a blog you launched in… March? But at the six-month point in the live of “Little Victories,” it’s time for a little bit of a change. We’re moving the blog within the month to a more friendly (read: slightly less nerdily-named) domain, www.thelittlevictories.com, and renaming the blog to match. The three columns I wrote for my FreeP application will be published first, leaving a foundation for all the fun, witty, interesting stuff I want to write about.

I’m also (as another class project) starting a news blog- instead of Little Victories providing news (via my DFP articles) and opinion, they’ll be split off into two separate blogs. .Comm Ave News, my new news blog, just went live at www.bentimmins.com/news.

All of this sounds kind of grandiose (maybe too much, considering all I’m doing is buying a new domain and using WordPress a little bit differently), but what I really want is to hear what you want to read. I’ve gotten suggestions for one column, and it’s sitting on a Post-It note on my desk, which means it’s going to be done (thanks, Jackie!), but this blog is only as good as its writing, and its writing is only as good as its ideas. And I run out of ideas a lot.

So shoot me a text, email, facebook, or twitter. Talk to me!

And remember (this is so contrite, and I’ve been waiting to say it all night): when life hands you a big defeat, just think about the little victories.

For those of you reading this who aren’t familiar with the situation at hand, here’s a little bit of background:
Pottstown Mercury (Local Paper) Initial Article [Pottsmerc.com]
360-Degree coverage of the events [Pottsmerc.com]

Here is my statement to the members of the school board:
“Good evening, My name is Benjamin Timmins and I am a 2008 graduate of the Owen J. Roberts High School, a rising Junior at Boston University, and a resident of South Coventry Township.

I have heard many excuses as to why five members of the board, a small selection of which are ineligible to be re-elected this fall, took action against the intentions and opinions of the masses of Chester County. I now understand why you have done this: you have forgotten which building you are sitting in.

For the past fifty years, this building, the Owen J. Roberts High School has produced world-class students, with the Class of 2009 one of the most talented on record. Many students are going to world-class universities this fall. Many of us are going back.

It was the Owen J. Roberts High School that taught students about the power of history. From the French Revolution all the way to the Zapatistas, history has taught us something very simple: the power of a well-dressed white man is only proper when checked by the well-versed masses.

With the recent, unilateral browbeating of the public by the School Board at OJR, history has frowned on us. Contrary to the racist comments allegedly made by a member of this board, history has taught us that diversity of person and diversity of mind is proper to maintain a flourishing community, and I see none of that here.

You have purchased high priced lawyers, why may be sitting behind me, and infused national politics onto a local, theoretically non-partisan stage. We cannot merely stand by and watch this.

Tonight’s motion to instate Dr. Barry Flicker, in the words of former Alaska Governor Sarah Palin, is ‘politics as usual,’ and ‘more of the same.’ It is our duty as citizens to combat this.

It was Myra Forrest who sent me a letter in May of 2008, when I turned 18, who asked me to register to vote in Pennsylvania, and the Owen J. Roberts High School that taught me how to cast my ballot. I will be doing it this fall, against the group of five. I only hope my fellow citizens do the same.

Thank You.”

2 Cambridge Worlds Collide in an Unlikely Meeting – NYTimes.com.

From the lead that demands the reader to recognize its impartiality to the quotes and interviews that suggest not “an awesome get” but true, honest research, the Times has produced a piece on the Gates arrest in Cambridge that brings the sort of journalism we need.

Too bad it’s the kind we probably won’t read: the Times, knowing that we’ve already been beaten to death with 24-hour newsmedia racial postulation and talking heads for weeks now, put the story on Page A13 this morning.

Have we become so Media ADD that by the time a news organization gets its shit together and delves into a story, we’re already sick of it?

I went into the journalism trade because I wanted to communicate with people, and moved to Magazine Journalism because I hate being rushed. I like breaking news for the same reason I like Twitter: it brings me up to date on the bare essentials of what’s going on in my world. Much as I’m not going to use Twitter for true research, however, I’m not going to expect the 45-minute type-jobs peppering my morning paper to give the kind of 360-degree portrait of an event I expect from Magazine (read: slow) journalism.

While I’d usually start a post that talks about weird, unfounded fears by claiming to be a sturdy, not-easily-scared person, the sad part about this post is that I can’t make that personally true. I don’t like getting into trouble, horror movies, or playing with fire.

Despite my relative shortcomings in real life, however, where I enjoy an argument is in conversation, where I actually enjoy disagreeing with people, working to make my point clear, and persuading people to see things, in some way or another, the way I do. While that last point generally doesn’t work well, I enjoy having a lively debate- it’s usually the one place I’ll shed some fear and work hard.

Over the years, I’ve had to stand up for my chosen profession a few times at gatherings, countering the all-too-common “oh, you’re a journalism major? The mainstream media is the devil” with my own blend of “well, it’s all how you look at it,” “the media’s coverage of events is only as good as the market that is watching it,” and “Dick Cheney shot a dude in the face- of course it had to go in the newspaper”. But despite the fact that I enjoy the David vs. Goliath feel of sticking up for the MSM, I’m irrationally afraid of one thing.

Old white men.

Please, allow me to explain: when I start a job, I usually make it my point to put my best foot forward, and the first few days/weeks usually go well. At the point where I feel I am comfortable with my job is the time I usually call the “colossal eff-up” time- aptly named for the colossal eff-up I usually make. Case in point: after about three weeks of Valeting cars in Downtown Brookline, Mass, I thought I was comfortable with the operations, and enjoyed my work. One evening, a Ford Explorer pulls up outside the front entrance, and I valet the car. Easy, simple, common, successful- until I realized that the car was driven by a customer picking up take-out.

The man, obviously peeved by the fact that his car wasn’t to be touched by a then-18-year-old, he threw open my door, and in a very angry tone, instructed me to “get the hell out,” asked me in no uncertain terms if I had “joyridden the car” (boo-boo, there ain’t no joy in driving an Explorer, believe you me), and then peeled away. Since then, angry white men have taken a special place in my book: the place I try not to think about.

Why do Old White Men (herein identified as “OWMs”) scare me? It’s all about… closure. Speak with an OWM about something, and he is not only right about anything that comes out of his mouth, you are woefully mislead, you young thing. This is usually communicated in low growls, using words like “you don’t know jack”. Their experiential learning exceeds any degree, and they’re not afraid to communicate that, either: “You have a B.A. in Communication? I was in the Navy…now shut the hell up.”

That finality? That’s the issue. Whether it’s the man in front of me in the Self-Checkout line yelling at the machine and stabbing the screen with his middle finger (hitting the wrong button, mind you), or Ted Stevens (Disgraced former Alaska Senator who bears an uncanny resemblance to the old man who pulled me out of his Explorer) yelling about getting fired or Bernie Madoff, the old white man whose car I undoubtedly would have valeted at some point and drawn his anger, I’m scared of the old white man.

I’ve even got two old white man grandfathers! While I’m not exactly afraid of them, I won’t debate either one of them: my paternal grandfather recently called Supreme Court Nominee Sonia Sotomayor “a piece of shit” (take that, Senator Sessions! You got one-upped by a high school dropout from Revere, Mass!), and my maternal grandfather has equated my penchant for gun control (no, I don’t think that civilians need to carry assault rifles, and people die every day from un-controlled guns in Philadelphia) with a strong dislike of the United States.

The good thing about OWMs, however, is that they are somewhat of an endangered species. As OWMs vote Republican, many have seen their collective levels “taken down a peg” with the 2008 election of a Democratic Supermajority, not to mention the election of a Black president, a woman almost get elected president, and the nomination of a Latina judge to the Supreme Court.

Like the kids in Middle School who relish watching their bullies get disciplined for things, my favorite part of the OWM is the downfall: the descent by Congressional Republicans into crazy, babbling idiots is so good, I’ve started to watch C-SPAN just for shits and giggles.

Will it temper my fear? I hope so- I’ve been channelling my inner “The King and I” by laughing at things that scare me. You know what Reader’s Digest (the OWMiest magazine, ever) says: Laughter is the Best Medicine.

Okay, okay- I know all of you indie folk will cringe at the thought of me singing the praises of Matchbox 20, but I kind of liked them in the 90’s. And they had that good song last year, too.

But this isn’t just about music- it’s actually my response to my last posting, the one where Glenn Beck says that allowing homosexuals to marry is like allowing me to marry my car (sorry, 2001 Mercury Sable, you’re not my type). So here it is:

Rob Thomas: The Big Gay Chip on My Shoulder [Huffington Post]

I think Rob touches best on what I hold to be true: Civil Unions are just Civil Unions. They’re documents that signify to the state (but not to the federal government) that two people happen to be living together, and want the state to recognize it. It’s… a piece of paper.

And a piece of paper is good! Good-ish.

Cultural Conservatives tell me that I should be happy just with Civil Unions- that my brand of love is so drastically different from theirs that I’m not welcome to signify my love like they do- with big, white weddings, limos with the cans dragging behind and the “Just Married” sign on the back, gaudy honeymoon suites and bottles of champagne.

Of course, I’d beg to differ. My girlfriends all have some image of what their weddings will look like, and they all look forward to their choice of flowers, gowns, and bridesmaids. Ask them why they want to get married, though, and they can’t really put their fingers on it. “I don’t know,” they stammer.

And that’s the funny thing- neither do I. My wedding won’t be all white, I want it to be small, and sexually-charged honeymoon suites just make me laugh. But not unlike my friends, I want to be married… and don’t know why.

Could it be because love is irrational? Well, duh- any Hollywood movie can tell you that. But what it’s nearly impossible to show is that love is love, no matter what person you love (PERSON. So help me God Pat Robertson, if you tell me that homosexuality is like bestiality I’ll put your King James Bible where the sun can’t shine).

So I’ll take a Civil Union, but I’ll be settling. I’d much rather be married…and so would you.

I think everyone should see this video. I’m not going to comment on it for a little while- I want this YouTube compilation (Courtesy of Media Matters) to speak for itself.

[YouTube]

Music today seems to be experiencing a turnover, and this is most definitely a good thing. So I’ve got a list of new-s for you to peruse. Take a look:

- Lady Gaga is the new Madonna. She’s fantastic, she’s a complete star, she has talent, and enjoys wearing costumes that, instead of curving, shoot off at angles (see: 1980’s pointy bra vs. Triangular Shoulder Pads at the Dancing with the Stars Finale)

- This makes Madonna the new Cyndi Lauper (awfully nice has-been whose tours are stocked primarily with gay fans)

- Judging by Cyndi’s looks, this makes her the new Amy Winehouse.

- Adam Lambert is the new Steven Tyler. Granted, I was probably saying last year that David Cook (who unlike Glambert actually won American Idol) should be the new, less-sterile-and-far-more-endearing Lifehouse or something, but Lambert has some real star power. And he sounds like a love-child of Steven Tyler and Robert Plant.

- Steven Tyler can stay Steven Tyler. Hell, he’s so awesome, he doesn’t even need his music to stay Steven Tyler. Steve, I’ll give it to you just for your part in “Be Cool” and the Rock n’ Roller Coaster at Disney.

- Spencer Pratt is the new Soulja Boy: the ubiquitous, talentless Rap hack that everyone will catch onto. Just check out his new single! (Warning: listening to this song in its entirety can cause cancer of either the man or lady parts. Click accordingly.) [iTunes]

- Because Soulja Boy’s new song was actually kind of good (I mean, it had a real beat!), and everyone still loves him (but doesn’t know why), this makes him the new Eminem- the semi-talented kid who makes music that people somehow enjoy.

- Eminem’s new song was pretty good, too, and he’s playing it less controversial, so elevate him to Busta Rhymes status- was big once upon a time, still makes good music, but nobody listens to it.

- Drake is the new Mario. I mean, the kid from Degrassi can sing? R&B? With a remix coming out from Swizz Beats? Enough said.

- And finally, Jamie Foxx is the new Beyoncé. I mean, he can act (we’ve known that forever), he can sing while acting (known that for a while), but you can’t get his song out of your head, either- and you don’t want to. Not unlike her… (GOT ME LOOKIN SO CRAZY RIGHT NOW YOUR TOUCH GOT ME LOOKIN SO CRAZY RIGHT NOW)

- Beyoncé will never NOT be Beyoncé. I love you, B.

EDIT (May 23): “Old Time” by Eminem is actually really good- dare I say, grown up? Kudos to a rapper who used to be loved only by fat white trash.

There’s an axiom that says “Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely”. And it’s been used for a long time in a number of different ways: we use it to describe the feeling of being able to annihilate nations at the touch of a button, the greedy power of running a huge company, or even the power-crazed mannerisms of 9-year-olds when they’re left at home for a few minutes in charge of their younger siblings.

Germany knows a thing or two about absolute power corrupting absolutely.

Now, wait a minute. Before you close this page, telling me you’re angry that I would say such inflammatory things, this isn’t THAT kind of blog. I’m actually talking about the Volkswagen Jetta.

I remember the first time I experienced the Volkswagen Jetta- I was 10. My father, who had just taken delivery of his ‘99 Jetta, took it out for a spin with me in the back. Coming up to an intersection with a clogged left lane, my father tapped the gas and flicked the wheel to the right.

In a second, the car surged forward, jumped to the right, and zoomed through the green light like it was nothing. Zippy, the black ‘99 Jetta, was born. Naturally, being a Volkswagen from the late 90’s, Zippy had a fair share of problems, most notably the part where the engine seized with less than 50,000 miles on it. But it was always fun, even before I could drive, to ride in the little black zoomy thing.

We sold the Jetta in 2002 and bought a Mercury Sable (a car that made up for being catastrophically uncool by being stupidly reliable), and my mother won’t buy Volkswagens ever again, but the VW “bug” still bites me today.

It was my grandmother, actually, who got me going again, when in 2005 she leased a Jetta. Naturally, the same VW sense of one-uppance ran through the car: most small cars have four speeds, but this one had six. Most small cars have four cylinders, but this one has five. Most small cars are built to be very light. This one is built like a tank. It’s all very…German.

And the thing went like stink.

For those of you who don’t know what “torque” is, it’s basically this: when you push the gas pedal in your car and your back is smushed into the seatback, you’re experiencing torque. Well, the Jetta had lots and lots of it. I drove it back to Pennsylvania once and the car was brilliant- it just loved to go everywhere fast. It blasted through Connecticut (the worst driving state on the east coast), the twisty-roaded National Park I accidentally detoured through, and the curvy roads around my house. By the time I returned to MA I had suffered more than my fair share of dirty looks in my hometown for speeding.

So when my grandmother decided to lease a new Jetta (in the same color, mind you), I was elated- when VW fixes things, they fix them very well, and VW had had three years to make the compact sedan better. So when I had the chance to take it for a spin down the Mass Pike and into Logan Airport, I was excited. I strapped in, pulled out onto the street, and pushed the pedal.

And nothing happened.

Remember that “torque” thing I talked about earlier? The old Jetta had so much when you accelerated from a stop that once, while on a liquor run with my father, I managed to get some serious wheelspin. The thing used to thunder forward and now… nothing. It just takes ages to get moving. Drive like you know what you’re doing (using the “manual” mode and starting not in first but in second), and it’s even slower.

So what gives, you ask? A German car company just committed regime change, that’s what.

In the old car, anyone could drive like they were competing at Le Mans, and it was simple: push the pedal a little bit, look at the speedo, and bam- you’re driving through a town at twice the speed limit.

Now, it’s still got enough power to get you from point A to point B quickly, but its lack of low-end grunt means you sound like a boy racer when you do gas it. You’ll find yourself, then, looking at the speedo and realizing that no, in fact, you’re not speeding much at all. VW just turned an unintentional sports car into a glorified grocery getter. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and Volkswagen just kicked corruption out.

And a German car company just subtly told someone to slow down. A GERMAN car company.

EDIT (May 5): I checked with Edmunds, and the 2009 Volkswagen Jetta is actually faster than the 2006 version, by 20 horsepower and somewhere near a second in the 0-60 time. But with 7 fewer torques (available 1,000 revs later), it explains the lack of muscle-y feel. Nerd moment… over.

Some quick housekeeping first: I checked out my Google Analytics today and saw that my page is actually being viewed! Thanks to everyone who’s reading, and hope you like what you see.

Now, let’s talk about my masculinity. Let me actually step back: let’s talk about my lack of masculinity.

My favorite cars are convertibles, I used to watch The Hills, and I like guys. I also like to refer to colors not by their names but by good adjectives- as I write this I’m sitting in a Mango chair wearing a Limeade shirt. I am, in short, a woman, save for the no-no bits.

My newfound athleticism isn’t even masculine: I love to run (happiness is a three-mile run through Brookline or Back Bay), but I’ll never be “that guy” in the gym, pounding back Muscle Milk in between sets on the weight machines. In fact, I spend most of my time at the gym on the elliptical (ladies, never flirt with a man who uses an elliptical- he’s guaranteed to like the Scissor Sisters and Vodka/Cranberry mixers).

All of this has a dreadful effect on my ability to, um, fight. I have had one fight in my entire life, and it consisted of a kid pushing me out of a chair after I called him gay (Yeah, it was in seventh grade. And yeah, karma’s a bitch). My tailbone was sore for a week.

So when I’ve begun to read about more and more robberies happening around BU’s campus, my first reaction (naturally) was not to scoff and say, “heh, I’ll show those muggers what’s what!” and then crush a beer can against my forehead. My first reaction was to google “where to buy mace.”

Mase, for those of you who don’t know, was a great rapper in the 90’s who left the rap scene to become a minister. Mace, however, is the name brand of pepper spray, a “chemical irritant” that when sprayed in someone’s face temporarily blinds them while you run away and scream like you’re filming your own scary movie. Marketed for women as a deterrent against would-be rapists, it’s great for anyone.

But anyone can’t buy Mace in Massachusetts. Thanks to Massachusetts gun control laws, Mace and other “chemical irritants” are characterized as self-defense mechanisms– you have to get a Firearm Identification Card to buy it, something that involves a criminal check and fingerprinting.

Now, I’m almost willing to take the T down to Boston PD and fill out forms in order to have peace of mind when walking home from the library at ridiculous hours of the night, but the whole thing…skeeves me out.

I mean, my grandfather thinks that I’m a communist because I vehemently support the Assault Weapons Ban (You give me one good reason why I should have an AK-47. No, I’ll wait.). If I get a card that allows me to buy a firearm, that whole visage collapses.

And in the case I get caught in the wrong place at the wrong time and end up being the next Phil Markoff, it’s only a matter of time before the roving reporters at the Daily Free Press find records and make some inferences. All of a sudden “Ben Timmins was unlucky enough to be at the scene of the crime” to “Ben Timmins is a brutal murderer.” (Note: I want to be called the “WordPress Killer”)

And while I love giving interviews, I don’t want to be vetted by the national media.

Seriously- my face on the cover of People Magazine?