Poetic and Ruthless: How We Still Shutter From The Work of Joyce Carol Oates

by Wesley Boudreau

BOSTON — The Boston Book Festival is an annual gathering of local book stores, literary journals, educational institutions and academic reviews. On October 16th Boston was home to the second annual Book Festival. With attendance growing, interests heightening, and anticipation for fascinating, relevant literary guests, the festival looks to be here to stay. The overlaying feeling of this year’s festival was picturesquely New England, a typical fall day of about 50 degrees, dense cloud cover, and enthusiastic festival goers. As you walked around to the different booths you noticed the surprising variety of organizations involved, from WGBH to Google for example. When discussing the reason for their attendance with a volunteer, it was stated that Google simply volunteered a pavilion and the most money out of good spirit. The festival attracted thousands in 2009 and in 2010 was expected to grow even larger. Google’s pavilion was the largest tent set up — rightfully so, only to reflect their egos masked by their generosity. Nevertheless with large companies now involved the option for large more ‘expensive’ guests are invited. This was true in 2010 with an even larger turn out that in 2009.

Joyce Carol Oates described as dangerous and a master of the short story agreed to come to the Boston Book Festival this year to promote her newest collection and speak on her technique and background. This was a window into Joyce Carol Oates that any literary type would not avoid — to hear from the best, and hopefully absorb some Oates energy if you will.

Inside Trinity Church on Copley Square in the grand hall the attendees gathered anxious to see Oates in person and to hear her speak of ‘how she does what she does’ and ‘how she does what she does so damn well’ An hour was allotted to a writer that could go on for days so the mood here was tight and riveting. The first half was devoted to a reading from her new collection, Sourland. A piece titled “Pumpkin-Head” was chosen and shocked the diversely aged audience. The piece was of love, loss, and renewal with acts of violence and rape mixed in. This may have disturbed an unprepared audience waiting to hear from a tale of interpersonal struggle and the like. But if you know Oates she always surprises, and when she does, it’s always a little too much.

The unprepared interviewer a television personality, Faith Saile had to tread on water while Oates relaxed lazily on a nearby island. Someone in touch with reality and treacherously so needs an interviewer over prepared to the point of exhaustion. Saile struggled to keep up with joke after joke Oates remarked stemming from the simple, generic questions she was handing out. The interview process almost felt like Saile – a seven-year-old girl pitching to Oates – an experienced MLB all-star. Nevertheless all of Oat’s witty remarks revealed some truths about her technique, style, creative motivation, and background.

By the time the interview was finished the audience didn’t know exactly what to think leaving Trinity. Perplexed, divided, shocked, content. They just witnessed a world renown author share a piece of her work and a piece of her mind to the “Pumpkin-Head” interviewer, maybe they’ll go and buy the book now.

A Call to Action

by Micaeli Rourke

Emerson College, this is a call to action.

Put away the blazers and break out the sweats. We are still in college.

In the three years that I’ve attended our decent institution, I have become more and more alarmed at the student body’s need to “professionalize.” Obviously,we attend a vocation-based liberal arts school, but I worry that our efforts seem to be focused more on advancement than actual education; on networking more than learning. I fear that we have thrown the term “liberal arts” to the wayside, as we fight tooth and nail to secure a job post-grad.

The four years that we spend on Emerson’s campus will be a period in our lives like none other. Never again will you be able to see your news editor at a basement party in Allston, and never again will you be able to mess up without serious repercussions. I think we should value these years as a time to absorb absolutely as much knowledge as possible, while creating relationships that will benefit us both personally and professionally. Stop spending so much time looking the part, and focus on actually learning something for learning’s sake, rather than “I have to.”

The basis of my argument is something I’ve felt since my freshman year. Here I was, a naive and enthusiastic 18-year old, new to this city and this microcosm of society that we call Emerson. I remember sitting in the window of the Emerson Cafe, people watching and thinking to myself, ‘Is that kid even in college? Why is he dressed like a lawyer?’ As I watched my classmates bustle past, iced coffee in hand, eyes dead set on their Blackberries, I couldn’t help but imagine what their rush was.

Where are you going that’s so important that you don’t even have the time to wipe that frown off your face?

I feel a large part of my contention lies in the typical dress of our school. Being a Broadcast Journalism major, I find myself in 8am classes with people dressed to the nines, as if they were actually going on air at a real news station. Don’t get me wrong, I dress for success, but not 24/7. Sometimes I feel better sporting my ripped jeans and tie-dye t-shirts, because it’s college and yes, I did wake up 10 minutes before my class started.

I think it’s easy to forget what other colleges are like, while in the rat race of our day to day lives. I always think that if I went to a state school, the student body might dress a bit differently, and be a bit more focused on having a blast in college, rather than creating a stunning resume. Of course, I’m not discrediting all that Emerson students achieve. I find our breed of students to be truly the most ambitious people I’ve ever rubbed elbows with. All I’m saying is, there is a delicate line between being driven, and being obsessed with self-advancement.

So the next time you don’t feel like primping before class, don’t bother! Wear your pajamas if you feel so inclined, just as long as you learn something from the class you attend. If you’re considering leaving the Quidditch to do major-related activities, pick up that broom and keep playing! College is a time not only to learn, but to play. So, I beg you Emerson, alleviate your stress-induced frowns, and remember that college is an experience to be lived, not to be perfected.

A Rant About Records

by Katie Ouellette

Many people use music as a means of self-expression; record companies use music as a means to produce revenue. No matter what genre of music is popular, artists can be marketed to fit current trends. Radios will play the same infectious songs hourly, so those songs are constantly on listeners’ minds. Then listeners will purchase the songs simply because the artists are familiar to them. The music industry cares less about artists making quality music, and more about how they can make consumers buy their product.

In the early days of recording, performers were hyperaware of the scrutiny that could arise from their intonation and timing on a record, which was permanent proof of their work. Those musicians had to be confident in their music before committing it to a lasting medium. Today, auto-tune can correct imperfect tuning, and parts of songs can be realigned so that timing is perfect as well, due to the ease of digital recording. By hiding these inconsistencies, average performers can sound just as good as truly talented performers. It is no longer necessary for a group of gifted musicians to collaborate and create a song and practice until they get make it flawless. Many instruments could be eliminated entirely. A keyboard can produce most instrumental sounds, so a single person could create a song just using a computer, which seems like a pretty joyless approach to music.

The mark of an amateur musician is the reliance on technology and concert gimmicks. Record companies can tack a musical career onto any pretty face to draw in fans. Why spend time perfecting pitch when you can gloss over your mistakes with auto-tune? Why bother practicing a song with a band for hours on end, when you can splice the different parts together instead? Why sing live at a concert, when your recording is already perfect? They might not go through the necessary hard work that more senior musicians have done before them. There are new artists that actually produce honest music on actual instruments, and they have the potential to become professionals, but the true amateurs will continuously take shortcuts. If the artists have the look, and technology can supply the talent. Their careers will be short lived. Or, at least, only as long as their record companies are willing to put up with them.  

Professional musicians need to have talent to provide them with a stable career. They have to continuously produce quality albums, without the shortcuts. You can only depend on technology to give your music a backbone for so long. These artists take the time to make their records as they envision them: real instruments, real vocal talent. If they’re lucky, they don’t have a label holding them back.

Although modern technology can fix the mistakes of amateur musicians, it is helping music progress in ways we have never seen before. People can develop new sounds and methods that we never would have considered. Independent artists can record and promote their music without signing to a record label. Although plenty of performers do not possess musicianship worth promoting, many talented acts have been discovered over the internet. With more ways to create music than ever before, we are going to have to deal with the no-talent superstars and the ratty garage bands that think they will make it big, but maybe we can find some musicians that are truly gifted. Look at the credits in the CD booklets that no one ever looks at. Does the artist use instruments? Does the artist actually play the instrument themselves, or do they depend on outside help? Then take a good listen to the music itself. Does it sound a little too perfect? Does it sound like a human actually crafted this? And if all else fails, pay attention to the artists who aren’t signed to a big label. They’re more likely to be the real deal.

Editor's Note: The Wrong Fight For Humanists

by Jacob Sorgen

When the State University of New York at Albany announced that it was cutting its degree programs in French, Italian, classics, Russian, and theater, the discussion over the value of humanities and arts education reentered the reform-charged arena of contemporary education policy. The empirical data and economic discussions (how we quantify teachers and who pays for it) have exhausted themselves. Now the public, education activists, and press outlets need a new reason to fight, and this month it’s curricular content.

There is no stronger supporter of humanities and arts education than me, yet I find myself puzzled at the separatism academics, policymakers, and advocates take to this issue. It’s not a new discussion by any means; the post-industrial economy and globalized marketplace have been corporatizing and vocationalizing higher education for years now and the call for specificity and professional degrees have been met with equal decrees for a non-material approach to an economy that relies increasingly on the trade and exchange of ideas rather than products. But every time humanities and arts education is discussed, it becomes a fight for face time instead of a collaboration of ideas.

Lawrence Rothfield, a professor of literature at the University of Chicago and co-founder of the Cultural Policy Center has called time and again for those working in the humanities and arts to try and integrate cultural discussions into larger frames rather than continue to bite at the heels of policymakers and education administrators:

“Why should humanists get involved in issues that are better addressed by administrators, economists, lawyers, and the policy analysts? If you leave the support of the humanities to the policy people, they may not do it at all. Deans and college presidents are overwhelmed with the demands of administering. Policy analysts have no particular reason to focus on culture unless they are incited to pay attention – as they were lured into what became environmental studies by appeals from environmentalists thirty years ago.”

Those interested in preserving humanities and arts education in this country need to become humanist policymakers and understand that they are not an ignored voice but a crucial note in the larger chord of education policy. The issue at hand is not saving the humanities; it’s creating a model of education that the humanities play a role in alongside the economics, law, management, and administrative practices of institutions. You can’t convince every person in this country that they have the right and the responsibility to a liberal arts education. And why should it be? The universal agreement in the fundamental importance of economic stability does not send every child in America to a degree in finance. It’s not about universality. It’s about collaboration and equality of curriculum. There are several ways humanists can take action instead of sideline critiquing:

-> Work towards moving humanities education away from its label as an elitist or upper class field of study. The liberal arts are not reserved for Harvard scholars stowed away in the candlelit corners of old libraries. Humanities education is rooted in the development of critical thinking and communication skills, creative problem solving notably with respect to technological innovations, and an understanding of different cultural traditions and laws. These are skills and concepts that could serve a contractor in southern Texas with a diverse work force and changing immigration law and trade policies far more than a Rhodes scholar. Taking humanities out of large-scale institutions and into communities, making the arts accessible and affordable to all, seeking humanistic inquiry to real-world issues can all work towards new and far more realistic understandings of the humanities.

-> In a similar vein, we cannot go back to a time when there did not have to be practical applications or economic benefits for a field of study. Work to build new applications for humanities and arts study, develop interdisciplinary curriculum with business and entrepreneurship, economic and development, and international affairs programs. The emerging field of cultural policy (something I’ll explore next month) covers a vast array of issues from intellectual property and free speech rights to cultural labor law, trade policy, international relations, economic development, and urban planning. Cultural policy is poised to play a major part in the development of the knowledge economy and the globalized marketplace and just as health policymakers are most effective if they have actual medical knowledge and practice, so too should cultural policymakers have deeply rooted understandings and experience working in cultural and artistic fields. We can build the utility of humanities and arts education without losing the scholarship.

-> Use the critical thinking skills and creative analyses at the helm of humanities study for self-reflection. Humanities and arts advocates tend to be very critical of everybody else at the table and not enough of themselves. Most people fighting for dramatic public education reform do not believe public education is a bad idea, they think it needs to change and grow as the world does. In that spirit Humanities educators could benefit greatly from looking at their own curriculum and program designs and acknowledging faults, reimagining approaches, and sharing the responsibility in making the humanities a pillar, not the only one standing but just as crucial to educational infrastructure as any other field, of education in America.

Average

by Jared Jacovich

There are so many things I wish I was instead of average. I wish there was one distinguishing feature about me. Something that would make people stop and stare or strike up a conversation. Nothing grotesque or debilitating mind you. No Phantom of the Opera-esque facial deformities or cleft palettes for this guy. But maybe some ambiguous facial scarring to give the impression I have a dark mysterious past wrought with violence and danger. Or even just a more prominent chin so my face doesn’t give the impression of freshly risen dough. I hear chicks dig those kinds of things. Some vaguely pseudo-scientific study has confirmed the fact, I’m sure. I read somewhere facial hair is a decent substitute for those of us lacking action hero jaw lines but no one has gotten laid with a mustache since the seventies and the best I can do below the mouth is exaggerated neck hair. Few know what it’s like to walk around with an Amish neck-beard that looks at home above a butter churn or in the front of a horse drawn carriage with a “slow vehicle” sign in the back.

Right-handed, five-foot-ten, and just over five and a half inches below the belt. Oh, and white. Whiter than Elton John running through the snow. If mayonnaise and tartar sauce had some sort of depraved self-aware condiment baby it would cringe at the mere idea of my paleness.

While I’ve always been average, there were times of distinction to note before I settled into true mediocrity. When they were picking teams for dodge ball in high school I was always middle of the road. Not last with the tragically overweight and socially inept, but most definitely not first with the already steroid enhanced future gym teachers and minor league athletes. My voice had dropped to an unsettlingly low octave for a fifteen year old, but I still maintained the hairless, scrawny stature of your average prepubescent male. Soon I realized if I yelled “pick-me” in the most commanding tone I could muster I could avoid the humiliation of being picked last. Eventually my stature evened out and everyone else’s vocal cords caught up, leaving me unremarkable once again.

Part of the my high school experience and the most important thing I learned in those four years was how to fit in. How to walk like a normal member of society (confidently, and with a purpose). How to talk like someone with a degree of social acumen (don’t confuse anyone, they react with anger and mean names). How to dress like you didn’t jump into your dryer and come out with whatever stuck to you (find the guy who gets laid the most and wear what he’s wearing). These are things I found myself doing to avoid getting chewed up and spit out by high school society. The things I did just to go from chronically picked on to face in the crowd. They worked.

Picture a grocery store check-out clerk. Now, put him in a sensible white shirt, black slacks with a few nondescript stains from dropping a bag of flour here and there, and a black tie he keeps pre-tied in a ragged excuse for a double Windsor knot so he can get a few extra minutes of sleep on early days. Picture him driving a white Toyota Corolla to work everyday with crank windows and a blown-out speaker system he plays the same radio station on the ten minute drive. He maintains a constant state of mediocrity. Not quite clean-shaven but definitely not looking like he should be cutting down trees and rolling logs instead of checking out groceries. His shirt is missing the last button, but he haphazardly tucks it in so you can’t tell. The top button is left undone for comfort’s sake and he only buttons it for the fifteen minutes his boss isn’t in his back room office masturbating. His hair is disheveled, but not in the elegant indie-rock front man kind of way, but the sticking up at odd angles Charles Manson mug shot type of way. You see him mechanically pushing shopping carts around a half empty parking lot for hours on end. Occasionally he takes one too many carts and ends up having to heave them in the proper direction or let go of the back and run forward to stop them from hitting an old lady in an electric scooter with a basket full of cat food for her twenty cats she thinks are her children. She probably eats the damn cat food herself. He smiled at the thought of her broken body in the middle of the asphalt. It is not the first time he has fantasized about enacting some sick form of revenge on a relatively innocent bystander.

“I don’t know what happened officer. One minute he was calling for a price check on my box of Fiber One and the next second he had ripped his shirt off and was climbing the display cases.”

“He had already thrown an entire case of prune juice at an old lady in a walker and hit an old man in the back of the knees with his own cane when three cops jumped on his back.”

“Right before those officers pepper sprayed him he was stalking through the aisles wielding a Swiffer WetJet like a halberd.”

I was “that guy” for two years and I’d like to kindly request of you the next time you go to your local grocery store you do your best to not set one of “those guys” off.

There is a terrifying moment in the life of every cashier, carriage boy and waiter where they are struck with the stark realization of how replaceable they are. They need only look around them and see a million walking mannequins modeled after themselves. Here and there a different wig or colored contact but all with a similar look in their eye and willingness to step in for you. My life was undeniably mundane. Get up. Go to school. Go to work. Go home. Go out with friends. Smoke weed in a fast food parking lot and then play video games. Go home again. Do homework. Sleep. This process played itself out daily, with minimal variation for longer than I cared to admit. This is the modern American suburban opera and I was playing the role of Suburban Teen #9,999,999. It wasn’t a speaking part.

It’s not that I didn’t realize this depressing truth, I just was content to ignore it for as long as possible. Perhaps because I was aware of what an uphill struggle getting out of average-ness is. A stark realization we live in an era where everything you’ve ever thought, said or done has already been thought, said or done by someone else fifty years ago, and they did a better job of it. Throwing house parties when my parents left was done better in countless teen comedies my friends and I worshiped and related to as if they represented our actual lives in any way. My parents getting divorced was par for the course. I’d always wondered what took them so long and whether or not they’d held out for seventeen years to cling to some vestiges of individuality themselves, to not be like all the other parents. Hemingway and Cobain killed themselves better than I could or anyone else ever will, and I didn’t even own a shotgun. It’s all been done.

So now, you’re of course telling me to go do something different. Make a change. Get in a car, drive to New York, and rent a studio apartment and become some sort of freelancer, as if this hasn’t been done a million times before by a million angst ridden self-proclaimed artists. “What’s stopping you?” you’d ask of me. Stop complaining about how average you are and go do something to change it, you say. My response is, if it’s such a great idea, why haven’t you done it. I can tell you. You’re afraid to fail. God forbid you make it all the way to the city and find out you suck at whatever it is you do. You’re better off thinking you’re better than you are. Whatever it is you do, there’s a 99% chance there’s someone already there doing it better than you. The crippling fear of rejection and failure coupled with the unbearable desire to do something keeps you complacent. Keeps you “What-iffing” until you look down at your beer belly, feel the beginnings of male-pattern baldness and hear the walls of your cubicle closing in.

I’ve gotten to the point now where I’m begging for something terrible to happen to break the monotony. Something so awful I’m excused from small talk forever. I want to never talk about the weather, how my parents are doing or how my day has been ever again. I want to never have to use the word “fine” to describe a situation. “Fine” isn’t an emotion or a state of being, it’s nothing. It is “I don’t care and neither do you, so why are you asking me a boring question” in four letters. I’m hoping for bipolar disorder so I can never be “fine” again. Every manic depressive I meet is just much more interesting than I am. The last one I knew let her boyfriend beat up on her but wrote a hell of a short story. I periodically consider making a conscious and fully lucid choice to develop alcoholism just so I can have something to struggle against other that choosing which type of soda to drink for lunch. It worked for Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Joyce. Green Peace and the military both seem like fantastic options at this point as well, maybe I’ll do both. Grabbing a gun or a case of bottled water and heading off to foreign lands to kill/feed people seems like a viable solution to this problem, until I get back and become one of those assholes who thinks he’s better than everyone else because he’s seen a third world country. I’ll probably even tell people how much it “changed my life” and such.

“Changing your life” isn’t enough anymore, everyone’s had their life “changed” by something. No, now you need more than a life changing experience. You need to be famous. Lucky for you, it’s only a mouse click. In the age of the viral video, it seems all you have to do is tape yourself getting kicked in the balls in the most elaborate manner possible and you become an instant celebrity, whatever that means, I imagine a whole new set of problems. Is some idiot who knows how to string together a few dick jokes and use Windows Movie Maker a celebrity if a couple million people saw him on the internet? Is it better to be known as the guy who fell off his roof because his son managed to fire a golf ball into his man bits from forty yards away than not known at all?

It makes me think maybe I was better off as the mop-headed, glasses wearing nerd who spent all his free time playing video games or buried in a book. Although, I do get laid way more often now (Note: Any number is higher than zero).

Much of my time is devoted to reconciling my average-ness by somehow fitting my B pluses, cliché summer jobs, and equally white brunette girlfriend into this ideal of uniqueness I’ve been made to feel is my American right. I find myself clinging to whatever detail about me I can rationalize as unique, whether or not it actually is. My girlfriend wears a hearing aid and nineteen years of artery clogging fried food haven’t caught up to me yet. Everyone’s trying to be a unique and beautiful snowflake. There is no such thing. We are at best a drop in a downpour. Either way you disappear when you hit the ground.

You're Such a Pretty Melody

by Jordan Stillman

I’m thirteen years old and I love Avril Lavigne. I dragged my Dad to the concert in the middle of nowhere (Lowell, Massachusetts) just to see the girl. He obliged ever so graciously. Avril herself was actually pretty terrible. She was shy and awkward in front of all these people but I was more concerned with the man opening for her. His name was Butch Walker and he changed my little thirteen year old life. I was this punk ass kid that thought she was so cool and knew all this stuff about music. I was clearly a “punk rocker” because I listened to Avril Lavigne and Simple Plan. Clearly… But Butch, he was a real musician. He walked out on stage and he owned it. He approached the microphone and just looked larger than life filling that monstrous stage with his presence. When he touched a guitar it was like magic happening before my very eyes. It resounded in an explosion of intensity. I mean, damn. He was good. I went home that night after my first “legit” concert and I looked this Walker guy up. I typed his name into Google and wham bam thank you ma’am there he was. At that point he only had two albums available for sale. I talked to my dad and we bought the first one. And just like that we were hooked. It was that easy.

Damn, damn, damn I love you…

Very quickly Butch turned from an ordinary musician to something of an icon. He was everywhere, in my life anyway. The only person I know who might like Butch more than me would be my father. Once he got that album (Letters at the time) it was all over the place. He would listen to it in the car whenever he picked me up from school. I’d pop open the passenger side door and “So at last southern California sunsets like a long goodbye” would float out the speakers and bury itself in my ear. So At Last was and to this day still is my Dad’s favorite song. I can testify this by the number of times I have heard it repeated. Butch was not only in the car, but he was in the house. I would stay over on the weekends and Walker melodies would be blasting, not at any quiet volume, out of the stereo in his office. Butch was the go-to CD for any and all car rides, travelling, background music – anything.

Gradually our infatuation grew more intense. My Dad picked up not only Butch’s first solo album, Left of Self-Centered, but also all the albums he had made before with his band The Marvelous 3. Butch became a nucleus around which we could gravitate and come together. Butch was contagious. Once you listened to him it caught on like wildfire. It was like playing telephone. I’d whisper the lyrics in one ear through a song played in the car or a video I showed and suddenly they were an addict. The love of Butch spread to my brother, my mother and my friends. You just couldn’t help liking him. I knew it would only be a matter of time before I went to see his beautiful face again.

The next time I went to see Butch it was just me and my Dad, yet again. Ironically enough I was going to an Avril Lavigne concert, but this time I was there just for Butch. When he came on stage we were the only people in the stands who stood up screaming, yelling, and singing every single one of his lyrics dancing around. I don’t know if Butch saw us there, but I really hope he did.

What can I say? I come from race cars and pop rocks…
I own every single one of Butch’s five albums plus the couple of extras he has thrown out there. I have pretty much lost track of the amount of times I have gone to see him. They all blend together into one mind-blowing experience. Each time is unique but they all have the same intensity. He steps out on that stage. Sometimes he starts rocking the fuck out, pounding on his guitar. Other times, especially recently, he begins real quiet playing alone on stage with just the keyboard before moving on to guitar. Then his whole band is on stage and it is loud and beautiful and pounding against you, hitting you like a wave you hope never goes away. He sings real soft, letting the meaning sink into every lyric with so much passion that the whole place would go dead silent with only the words of the song hanging in the air. Other moments consist of pure intensity as he rips into his guitar, wailing, back against the floor, playing so hard the strings simply pop off. From Butch I learned the meaning of showmanship. He comes out there and plays like it is his last chance on earth. I have never been disappointed by him. And he really cares. He talks to the audience. Banter. Tells us a story. Tells us nonsense. But he is always right there with us.

I got a lot through Butch. Mostly I learned a lot about music. I found out about a lot of cool bands. Anyone who tours with Walker Walker, as my Dad so fondly calls him, is always a talented individual and often end up successful. I learned more about myself and my own limits. When his Lets-Go-Out-Tonites tour came to the Axis in Boston there were sign-ups for karaoke in between sets. I actually went up and sang in front of the whole damn club. It was that old angry Alanis Morisette tune (what isn’t?). It was…invigorating. And I owe it to my old friend Butch.

Maybe it’s just me…
Butch was there for me when nobody else was. I would be pissed off, upset, confused and I would pop in that album, any of his albums, and it would speak to me, soothe me. Those lyrics would sing me a lullaby of relatability and confidence. He would tell me I know, I understand. This is happening to me too. This has already happened to me. I’ve gone through it and it is all going to work out okay. He would tell me stories of love lost, of people’s demises and how they ended up so far from where they began. He whispered tales of romance and rock and roll. There were songs about parties that ended badly and shoes that were lost in the process. Butch would talk about wearing his night clothes in the day time and how he was the best thing she never had. And I listened. I listened so hard with ears wide open taking in every single syllable of every verse, chorus and bridge inside me, internalizing, and letting it back out in whatever way I needed to. Sometimes I sang it. Sometimes I cried. Sometimes I just jumped around with a hairbrush in my hand pretending to be the rock star I wished I could be. But every step of the way Butch was there taking me along for the ride.

Butch will always be a huge part of my life. His songs mean something to me. I admire him for all the things he can do. I mean he plays guitar, bass, drums, piano, banjolin, sings, and writes all his own music. What more can you ask for in a hero? He brought my family together in ways I don’t think anything but music can. Butch is the hero for the masses. His fan base is small when you compare it to some other artists but we are tight knit, loyal and dedicated. Whenever I go to a show I see familiar faces. Butch is an artist who will keep playing until he simply can’t anymore. Music and Butch Walker are synonymous. And that’s why I love him.

Yes, This is Probably Illegal

by Katie Oullette

The T hosts all walks of life at all hours of the day- well, at least until 12:30. In the morning, the business men and women scurry to work. They poke their heads out of the office again for lunchtime and 5 o’clock. Those are probably the peak hours for the subway. For my visit at 10 o’clock on a Thursday morning, I wasn’t really expecting many passengers. At the Boylston stop on the Green Line, an elderly tourist couple helped each other up the stairs, while people in top hats and clown noses paused outside the station with pamphlets in hand. If that was an indication of the types of people I would observe that day, I didn’t know what to make of it.

When I headed down, two college-age guys were already waiting on the platform for Boylston Outbound. Maybe they were heading home after a morning class. Maybe they were heading to a morning class. Maybe they weren’t in college at all. They each had their headphones in, and were lost in their own worlds. However, they were conscious enough of this world to realize they shouldn’t get on the E Line, like I did. I had boarded the train without a second thought. The E Line didn’t have many stops appealing to the everyday public, so unless I wanted to get off the first official E stop at the Prudential or ride all the way to the Museum of Fine Arts, I might have attracted stares from residents returning home. Maybe I should have put my ended up leaving at Copley, along with hundreds of elementary school kids (and their chaperones) from the car in front of me. They all wore nametags and held hands, and I figured that their teachers must have orchestrated a fieldtrip to the Boston Public Library. They presented a cuter kind of chaos than the T was probably used to. Those kids must have been excited to leave school, for matter the reason. I didn’t see where they were headed, because following them would have been severely creepy, and I then had the right mind to catch the C Line.

The C Line wasn’t as crowded as the E Line, so I got a seat. Across the aisle from me was a mother in a black sweatsuit holding a water bottle and a baby. The baby was also holding a bottle, but he seemed more transfixed with my jeans than his milk. The mother seemed tired and bored, and was staring into space. I was curious where she was going. She was heading away from downtown, and towards the residential areas on the C Line. Was she returning home after picking up her son at morning day care? Was she visiting her mother? Wherever she was headed, the baby seemed more excited to be on the train than she was. 

Further down the T, there was a man reading a Chinese newspaper, and a short man in a scaly cap. The short man had on quite a puffy jacket for a mild day in October. When I accidentally made eye contact with him, he immediately looked away. Did he know he was the subject of study? Was he embarrassed because he had my momentary attention? Both men departed at the Hynes stop, like myself, and quickly became lost in the crowd. I don’t think either of them were professors at Berkley, and they didn’t join me on Newbury St. Their stories continued without me, and I haven’t the foggiest clue of what they would have entailed. 

Later, around 11 o’clock, I boarded the Green Line Inbound at the Hynes. So did a girl with black leggings and a jacket that looked like the fabric love child between Van Gogh and Picasso’s works, and was just long enough to be appropriate. She wore an equally colorful scarf. A boy about her age (grad school?) let her go on first- whether for chivalry, or an appreciative view from the back, I wasn’t sure. She sat in the first single seat, and he opted to stand. I sat in an otherwise empty double across from them. The train was relatively sparse, so I wondered why the tan sweatshirt, baggy jeans, and dirty sneakers-clad boy was standing. Perhaps his stop was soon, but we went by Copley and Arlington without him leaving. I think he wanted to appear more manly, and impress the girl by his ability to stand on the T. They both got off at Boylston with me, and I concluded that the girl was an Emerson student. The boy continued on to an office that had “Adult Internal Medicine” labeled in several different languages on the windows. Maybe he went there to cure his heartbreak from not talking to the girl, or maybe he just had a stomachache. 

That was the end of my observations for the day. You can gather a small picture of a person from their clothes and destinations. I felt as if I were separated from the other passengers- I was an observer, and they were the observed. But they could have observed me just as easily. I wonder what people would have assumed when they looked at me: a girl of average height, with hair pulled into a ponytail, jacket, jeans, sneakers, and a purse that kept falling off my shoulder. Avoiding your gaze, but noticing you all the same. In the end, I was no different from them. I was just another passenger on the T trying to get from one place to another.

The Pastry Trail

by Ross Wagenhofer

The Freedom Trail is a wonderful walking tour of various old landmarks important in the early days of this grand country. Spanning a decent portion of Boston, the red line that marks the trail winds through such places as Samuel Adam and John Hancock's resting place, the Old South Meeting House, Paul Revere's old house, and the site of the Boston Massacre. These places remind us of the numerous freedoms that past men have fought and died to grant us. Freedoms such as expression, religion, the press, the right to bear arms, and the unalienable right to eat pastries.

It would be difficult for one not to notice the myriad pastry shops that line the Freedom Trail. Pies, cakes, cannolis, bars, and sweets of all kind have and shall always have a special place in my heart, both metaphorically and in the form of plaque. Health risks aside, few can say they don't get enjoyment out of an excellently crafted cheesecake, or a finely prepared Boston Cream Pie. That is why my friend and fellow Common Voice writer Jordan and I decided we would try and chart a different kind of Freedom Trail, a trail that marks not important sites on America's road to independence, but something equally as savory, something that holds just as dear place in the hearts of American: pastry vendors.

Jordan and I started the journey on Columbus Day at the Boston Common. We found the red line that would mark our path for the rest of the trip. Jordan commented, “It's like the yellow brick road, except red and this one leads to freedom!” And pastries, she neglected to mention. We walked along the path up to the State House, and our first stop on the Pastry Trail.
So we're a far leap away from the cornbread that most people ate during revolutionary times, (and thank god). I have no doubt, however, that had Jefferson, Washington, and gang tried one of Capitol Coffee House's muffins, they would have been proud indeed of the country they helped found. The aptly titled Capitol Coffee is directly across the street from the State House, and was stop number one on the Pastry Trail. The little joint is a fairly typical coffee purveyor, offering baked goods along with the black stuff. It started its life in 1977 and has been giving customers good food and coffee, along with a great view of the side of the State House, ever since. I purchased a blueberry muffin and took it to one of the seats facing toward the State House. Jordan and I looked at the side of the State House while we shared the muffin, both nodding as we took the first bites; it was as soft and warm as you could hope a muffin to be. After finishing the muffin, I waved goodbye to the eagle statue I could see outside, and we left Capitol Coffee House.

On our way to the next pastry shop, we passed the Park Street Church and the Granary Burying Ground. The Granary Burying grounds hold the bodies of Samuel Adams, John Hancock, and Robert Treat Paine, all signers of the Declaration of Independence. I gave a silent thanks as I passed the cemetery, for it was these men that through their actions had allowed me in 2010 to sample baked goods from around the city of Boston. Such noble men.

Near King's Chapel, Jordan and I spotted Bruegger's Bagel Bakery and headed inside. It was another fine coffee shop, although this time considerably bigger than the homey Capital Coffee House. If you couldn't guess from their name, they had a large bagel selection to choose from. Jordan and I settled on a sugar cinnamon one with cream cheese. Upon picking it up, my fingers were immediately coated in sticky sugar, a coat of adhesive glue that refused to come off despite my best attempts at clean-up with a napkin. Only matching the intensity of the stickiness was the bagel's taste: fresh and oh-so sweet. If anything, I might describe this particular bagel as excessive. I don’t mean that in a completely disparaging way, but it did lack the subtleties of a more finely crafted bagel, instead opting for as much hyper-sweet sugar coating as possible. I should pause here to note that much of today’s culinary experiences, not just pastries (although especially pastries), suffer from this same defect; they go for over-the-top punch in sacrifice of nuance. This is America, after all, home of the mega-big and hyper-sized. And indeed, the sheer number of sweet shops that can be found on a trail that celebrates our freedom can be seen as an example of this over-saturation, this preference for blunt quantity over more refined quality. Despite all this, Jordan and I were ultimately pleased with our experience, and we retired from Breuggers and headed on our way.

Moving past the Old State House and the site of the Boston Massacre (now an intersection), we made our way to Faneuil Hall. There we found two wonderful stops on the Pastry Trail: Carol Ann Bake Shop and the North End Bakery. From the Carol Ann Bake Shop I nabbed a slice of cheesecake,  and from the North End Bakery, a slice of Boston Cream Pie. Four forks now between us, Jordan and I took the pies (or is cheesecake considered cake?) to a stand-up eating area and went to town (The Town, that is) on the goods. Tourists swarmed around us, but we barely noticed as we relished the desserts. My first bite of the Boston Cream Pie took me to a place I hope I can one day revisit, and a similar story for the cheesecake. The former was definitely heavy on the cream part of Boston Cream Pie, and the top and bottom halves of the slice began to slide apart at the flowing white middle seam as Jordan and I stuck our forks in. This is a compliment, mind you, as the cream was considerably delicious. The cheesecake from Carol Ann was good as well, but it didn’t rise above the mark like the Boston Cream Pie did. If you're going to stop by Faneuil Hall, don't cheat yourself and stop at one of these two bakeries.

Upon exiting Faneuil Hall, Jordan and I found ourselves in the North End. The colors of the Italian flag hung around us as we stumbled upon Lula's Sweet Shoppe, formerly of Hanover Street, and the next stop on the Pastry Trail. Lulu's specializes in cupcakes, and I being a big fan of the peanut-butter / chocolate combination, bought a chocolate cupcake with peanut-butter frosting. The cupcakes at Lula's are immaculately dressed with frosting and sprinkles, so even before tasting one I was sure it was going to be a trip. I sliced the cupcake in half and handed one half to Jordan. So we didn't influence each other's opinions on the cupcake, we timed our first bites so they occurred at the same time. It turned out we didn't need such precautions, as it would have been impossible to find any fault with the chocolate pastry. I need to make a special note about the peanut-butter frosting, as I doubt I will often find frosting on equal par with the stuff that topped this cupcake. This cupcake, more than anything else I ate that day, comes with my most earnest recommendations.

Both Jordan and I were feeling particularly free after stopping by Lula's, and in an attempt to keep that feeling, we went just down the street from Lula's to the 24-hour bakery Bova's. Bova's is an Emerson staple, so I'm far from unacquainted with the shop. Jordan wasn't feeling too well after the previous sweets, so I got to tackle a Reese's Conga Bar alone. Essentially a giant Reese's Peanut-Butter Cup, the bar was probably the richest things I ate on the Pastry Trail, another good example of the quantity-over-quality thing I was talking about earlier. Despite my stomach beginning to protest, I ate the entire thing, unable to stop. Bova's has a pretty large selection of different pastries, including some pretty awesome canollis, but I suggest no one passes up trying one of these Conga Bars, but only if you think you’re up eating the equivalent of nine or ten Reese’s Peanut-Butter Cups at once.

It was my turn to feel ill after Bova's. I needed some time to digest, and was given that time by way of an immense line leading out of Modern Pastry, the next location on the Pastry Trail. Modern Pastry is a medium-sized bakery deep in the North End, and taking the long line as a cue, a popular place for pastry lovers the city over. It’s been around for over seventy years, run by the same family throughout its existence. If its popularity was any indication, then Modern Pastry was a top-tier pastry pusher, and despite my stomach hurricaning around, I was looking forward to sampling its wares. Since Jordan had been left out of the last stop, she got to choose the dessert here; she got a canolli. The cool thing about Modern Pastry and their canollis is how they prepare them. One orders a canolli at the counter with all the desired ingredients and size, and they make it fresh right then and there. When we received our canolli, it was still warm and the powdered sugar on top looked like it had just settled. I let Jordan have the majority of the canolli, but the few bites I did have were splendid. While chewing on the canolli, I couldn't help but reflect on how the Founding Fathers left England to found the United States so one day, some odd 250 years later, I could be sitting here eating an Italian dessert. Ah, freedom!

Saying goodbye to Modern Pastry, Jordan and I traveled further up the Freedom Trail, following the red line up past Paul Revere's old house. What a rinky-dink place it looked like. We continued on to the Old North Church and Copp's Hill Burying Ground. While moving past the Old North Church, I accidentally got in line with some elderly folks waiting to go inside the church, thinking they were waiting to cross the road. I stood patiently before I felt Jordan pulling on my shirt, pointing to the crosswalk. It was a close call; I almost got trapped inside the historic old church. Who knows how long I would have been wandering around, hanging with the elderly, before I got out of there.

Immediately across the street was the eight stop on the Pastry. Cafe Lil Italy was it's name, and upon entering the little coffee shop, I was immediately struck by the chill-ass vibe I got form the place. Lit primarily by the sun through the windows, the cafe's interior was sleek and dark. A glass case held an assortment of different muffins, bagels, and scones. I chose one of the latter, and Jordan and I took it to a small table in the corner. Despite now being later in the day, the scone still tasted fresh. The scone had an innocuous appearance, so I was surprised to find it lemon flavored. The lemon was far from overpowering, and I was able to enjoy a treat that didn’t try and beat me over the head with flavor. My chair squeaked as I leaned back, scone in hand, looking outside at the Old North Church across the street. The atmosphere of Cafe Lil Italy provided me with this opportunity of relaxation, and I took it in as if I was a long-time patron.

Jordan finally had to suggest we take our leave of the cafe. I was content to stay and enjoy my surroundings, but dammit, we had a trail of pastries to forge! Onward we went, across the Charlestown bridge heading toward the USS Constitution and the Bunker Hill Monument. Along the way we found the final stop on the Pastry Trail, the chic and modern Sorelle Bakery and Cafe.

The Sorelle Bakery and Cafe was definitely more of a coffee shop than a bakery, but it still had a decent selection of cookies and muffins to choose from. Jordan and I decided to keep it simple and went for a large chocolate chip cookie. We took advantage of Sorelle's outdoor seating, the only outdoor seating on the Pastry Trail, to enjoy the cookie. It came wrapped in plastic, and removed it, I broke the cookie in half like a communion bread loaf, and Jordan and I ate it in relative silence. The tourists had thinned out here, so we were the only people around. The cookie was dry and bland. I can’t say much more than that, and really, I wasn’t expecting much from its initial sorry and lumpy appearance. I dutifully ate the entire thing, then turned to Jordan.

“Well, shall we?” I asked, this time the one to spur us on.
“We shall,” replied Jordan.

According to the map, the Bunker Hill Monument was the final destination on the Freedom Trail. We walked through the picturesque neighborhoods of Charlestown to get to the large obelisk. It didn't take very long before the large spire was before us, looming up in the sky as our finish line marker. “That's it, I suppose. The Pastry trail is done,” I said. And it was. Following the Freedom Trail, Jordan and I had stopped and sampled nine different pastry shops and bakeries, all the while taking in the old sites of freedom around Boston. We'd forged a brand new path, the glorious and grand Pastry Trail. We were the Lewis and Clark of desserts.

I Am Facebook

by Alecsandra Washburn

I am Facebook’s lack of insecurity.
It was a Friday. I was sipping mocha in Em Café with my best friend. I turned to her and said, “I’m going to take the bus to New York City for the weekend to see Ryan.” To the boy in skinny jeans sitting next to me this statement likely sounded normal.

She knew better. 
She knew I had never been to New York City.
She knew I had never met Ryan. 
She asked, “You’re going to get on a bus and go to a strange city you have never been to before to spend the weekend with someone you met on Facebook a year and a half ago?”

This is how two of my other friends reacted when told them.
Friend One, “You’re like Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail!”
Friend Two, “You’re going to get raped. You’re going to get raped, slashed, and dumped in the Hudson. I’ll start sending out the funeral e-vites.”
Response to friend Two, “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine!”
Friend Two, “You can’t know anything about this guy. You met him on Facebook. You don’t control Facebook.”

Friend Two is incorrect.

Rule #1 of Facebook: You have control.
In an interview with Tech Crunch, Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg said, “People have not only gotten more comfortable sharing more information of more kinds, but also with more people, so long as they can control it.” Zuckerberg isn’t wrong. You, your friends, your parents, your professors, everyone is sharing more and more of themselves online. Facebook launched in the spring of 2004 with 6,000 original members. Since then the cyber world has been bombarded with updates telling us Joe K. is now single and Catey S. ate a blueberry bagel for breakfast. From life altering relationship changes to the minutia of breakfast choices, Facebook gives users a chance to share everything about themselves with their friends. This concept, instead of scaring away potential Facebook users, has harnessed in the masses. By the time summer 2010 wrapped up, Facebook boasted 500 million registered, individual Facebook profiles.

The huge numbers spike came amidst widespread media panic over Facebook’s so-called “inadequate” privacy settings. Facebook isn’t protecting its users. Facebook’s privacy controls aren’t clear enough. Facebook gives too much information to second and third party sources. Facebook caches too much of each user’s information. But somehow, Facebook grows at a rate of over 600,000 new users every single day.

If the world truly believed Facebook was in control of their cyber lives, and not the other way around, each of the site’s 500 million current users would delete their profiles in millisecond.

Go to your Facebook page right now. Click on ‘Application Settings’ in the top, right hand corner. Then select ‘Granted Additional Permissions’ from the drop down menu. The page not only tells you precisely what information you are sharing with precisely what second and third party sources, but also let’s you adjust it however you like. With a measly fifteen seconds of pointing and clicking, you just decided everything Facebook says about you.

I am Facebook’s curiosity.
Friends One and Two asked how I met my mysterious Facebook bff.

I first ‘met’ Ryan my senior year of high school. We both joined the same Facebook group. People within the group started friending each other. Because we were both members of this group, Ryan and I followed suit  (Hey! It was high school!). We started Facebook chatting. Within minutes we discovered that a) We both liked both the band called Cake and the food, b) We both enjoyed David Fincher movies, and c) We both sympathized with the political viewpoints expressed on The Daily Show.

Ryan and I kept chatting.

Rule #2 of Facebook: Friends create common interests.
Facebook’s 6,000 beta members all share one commonality. They were all Harvard University students in spring 2004. Zuckerberg quickly realized that his brainchild brought his university together on one website, a first. He proposed his new website might be popular on other college campuses too and, following up on his successes with the red line’s most prestigious school, Zuckerberg expanded his pet project to 40 other universities across the country. Facebook rapidly became cult phenomena among college students nationwide. Why? Exclusivity. Users needed a .edu address in order to join the site.

The site expanded again in 2005 to include high school students. Again, exclusivity and common interest was vital. Facebook spread like wildfire within the under 18 crowd. For a high school student to join Facebook another student must first confirm them. In a world where lacrosse captains govern, and the effect of gossip on students functions like an ever-changing line graph, Facebook was the perfect tool.

Facebook brought in the over 22 generation by adding company based networks shortly after inculcating high school students to the swiftly growing network. Soon your grandmother, your second cousin, your twelve year old sister, everyone you know, everyone you will ever know, and everyone you will never know will be on Facebook.

Despite the massive numbers increase over the past six years, and a constant urge to revolutionize in the cyberverse, the Facebook experience remains unchanged. Generally, people don’t use Facebook as a search engine for things they’ve never heard of.  You don’t join the site to look for new interests. You join because of an interest you already have. If you like The Strokes in real life you can ‘like’ them on Facebook. From there you can meet people who also like the band. But what’s more likely is that you will look and see how many of your friends already know all the words to Soma. Facebook makes users feel comfortable by providing them with what they already have, backing them up on what they already know.

I am Facebook’s unflinching bravery.
Numerous Facebook chat sessions and text messages, four or five phone calls, and a year and a half later, Ryan and I decided it was time to meet outside the safety of our net universe.

I got a roundtrip ticket to and from the big apple. At first I didn’t tell people. I couldn’t. The idea sounded crazy even as I was packing my bag the day before the trip.

I knew Ryan so well. Over a year and a half I had learned so much. His favorite movies, his favorite television shows, his dog’s names, his slightly sadistic sense of humor. Ryan had become one of my best friends, despite the distance. Using that twisted logic, why wouldn’t I go meet my best friend?

Friend Two, “You realize you just said ‘Meet my best friend’, right?”
Response to Friend Two, “But I already know him!”
Friend Two, “You know him on Facebook and somehow you feel comfortable meeting him in real life?”

In the last few days before my trip I thought a lot about what Friend Two had said. How could I know someone I had never met? How did Facebook make me feel comfortable enough to travel alone to a strange city to meet a strange person?

I thought over my conundrum on the bus to New York.

Rule #3 of Facebook: You have no reason not to be yourself.
Facebook is, at its core, an information aggregator. You input information; Facebook spits it out at whomever you tell it to. Then, Facebook takes this information and gives you new information. If you tell Facebook you love Cabbage Patch Dolls, Facebook spams your sidebar with advertisements about Cabbage Patch Dolls. You will be happy, because you will have learned how to acquire more Cabbage Patch Dolls. If you don’t love Cabbage Patch Dolls, don’t tell Facebook you love Cabbage Patch Dolls.

Users tell Facebook as much or as little as they like. The more you let Facebook know, the better it knows you and the better it can suggest things to you. Sure, Facebook sometimes slips up by suggesting your exes in the ‘People you Might Know’ app, but Facebook is right in telling you that you would probably like Torchwood because you listed Doctor Who in your ‘Favorite Television Shows’ box.

Facebook’s algorithms work hard to connect you with people not unlike yourself. The world’s largest social network (in amount of users the world’s third largest country) introduces you to books you might like to read, activities you might enjoy, people you should get to know, and people you already know that you should get to know better.

I am Facebook’s sigh of relief.
My bus was an hour and a half late getting to New York. The driver dropped us off on the wrong city block. I found myself standing alone on the corner of 37th waiting for my “friend”, and I started panicking.

“What if he’s actually 500 pounds and uses Photoshop for all of his profile photos?”
“What if he has an annoying verbal tick?”
“What if he dresses like someone on LATFH.com?”
“What if this ends like a Liam Neeson movie?”

Then I saw Ryan crossing the street. Instantly, I knew him. After all, I had stalked enough of his Facebook profile photos.
Those first five minutes were strange but fascinating. I knew so much about the person beside me but it was the first time I had seen him.

Five minutes later we were in a pizza joint and he was pretending to swallow my nose. Strangeness and fascination evaporated. My cyber best friend had suddenly become my new yet very old, real life, material best friend.

I could poke him without clicking my track pad.

The Final Rule of Facebook: You ARE Facebook.
How many times a day is there a blue header in the top of your web browser? In the app on your phone? Facebook has become an extension of what we are. We trust it because we made it and we use it all the time.

Without Facebook, without trusting the Facebook moto/interface/connecting goal, I would be down and out one best friend. Good thing I don’t live under a rock. What Zuckerberg told Tech Crunch is only half right. People are sharing information in more ways, but we aren’t sharing more information. We used to share with letters, emails, phone calls. 17th century poets shared information through circulating manuscripts. Now we can share by one click on a friend’s Facebook wall.

Technology is ever changing, but you aren’t.