SENATE REPUBLICANS BALK AT LARCENY REFORM BILL

WASHINGTON - GOP senators emerged today in nearly unanimous opposition to the larceny reform bill passed in the House earlier this week by a margin of three votes.  The thirteen-hundred-page piece of legislation would place severe restrictions and oversight on the unlawful or fraudulent removal of another's property without the owner's consent.

"This is just another grandstanding effort on the part of Democrats to make us seem out of touch with Main Street," said Sen. Ron Furcover (R) of Texas.  "The truth is that our colleagues across the aisle are trying to stifle free enterprise under the self-serving premise that theft is somehow 'wrong.'"

"It's independent operators and small businesses who will suffer the most under the provisions of this bill.  If you impose too many restrictions on car thieves, they'll quit the business and swell already bloated welfare rolls.  This would cause additional hardship on chop shops which would be forced to purchase their 'raw materials' at higher prices on foreign markets.  And hasn't the Slim Jim industry suffered enough from those new OSHA regulations?"

Other senators objected to the speed with which the measure was being brought to a vote.  “This bill needs further debate,” stated one opponent.  "There has simply not been ample opportunity to dither and dither until the whole matter collapses in a heap of bipartisan ennui."

The most controversial provision calls for an HGOB, or Hot Goods Oversight Bureau to monitor the fencing of stolen property.  Democrats claim that this will allow for greater transparency of these transactions, although in deference to Republican criticism, they stopped short of insisting on a regulated exchange.

According to Sen. William T. Overture (D) of Wisconsin, "This will insure more equitable taxation and relieve the burden on the average citizen...well, I mean unless it was his stuff that was 'relieved' in the first place."

But even this compromise is unacceptable to critics.  "The liberal establishment and the Washington insiders are hell-bent on increasing the size of government," said Harry "The Shiv" Barlow of the Canarsie Institute and Social Club, a conservative think tank.  "Why do we need a costly bureaucracy when Big Louis and Tommy Four Fingers can cut their own deal much more cheaply?"

There is much speculation about the influence of well-funded lobbying groups on the debate.  Supporters of the bill point to large campaign contributions and gifts made to opposition senators by QAPAC, the Questionable Acquisition Political Action Committee, including late model Cadillacs and junkets to Sicily.

"There was absolutely no quid pro quo involved.  These are scurrilous charges meant to distract the public from the real issue which is governmental interference in the unlawful practices of its citizens," said Sen. Phil McCoffers (R) of Nebraska, who was awarded QAPAC's coveted Charles Luciano Medal at their convention in Jersey City last Month.

Despite the best efforts of opponents, a vote is expected in early June or as soon as Senate officials can locate the missing rostrum and several green "Aye" voting buttons.

THE GOOD OLD DAYS OF VAMPIRES

Nostalgia, like arthritis and constipation, is a curse of the elderly. Some get teary about the house they grew up in or the joys of their high school years.  Others yearn for their first car or the songs that accompanied their courtship.  Personally, I pine for the days when vampires didn't look like J Crew models.

It's hardly news that the undead have returned as a major force in popular entertainment.  The Twilight series of books and movies and the HBO series True Blood have captivated a new generation of gore-addled youth.  But compared to their predecessors, this crop of vampires is a pretty anemic lot.  I've only seen a few episodes of the TV series and a couple of trailers for the movies, but what I have seen is about as scary as a Clearasil ad.  The "children of the night" have devolved from Dracula to Dawson's Creek of the Damned.

My love of the bloodsucking genre dates back to my childhood when Chiller Theater on Channel 40 in Springfield would show horror double features on Saturday nights.  The movies were the classic 1930's films about the unholy trinity - Dracula, Frankenstein, and the Wolfman - along with their sequels, "Return of...", "House of...", and "Bride of..."  My first vampire role model was the great Bela Lugosi, who played Bram Stoker's Count with a debonair malevolence yet to be matched.

But for sheer terror, you cannot beat F.W. Murnau's Nosferatu (1922.)  I first saw it in a college course on German Expressionism and nearly ripped the writing board off my lecture hall seat from fright.  While the film is technically primitive, the brilliant Max Schreck endowed his vampire with a repulsive exterior that perfectly matched his soulless interior and evil inclination.

Which brings me to problem number one with contemporary vampires; the notion that they can be good as well as evil.  A good vampire is as ridiculous a concept as a helpful tornado or beneficial dose of the clap.  Once you allow them moral ambiguity, you effectively neuter the species and turn their gruesome behavior into nothing more than an alternative lifestyle.  Where's the conflict?  A vampire saga used to be a battle where heroic but fragile mortals fought against more powerful and thoroughly depraved creatures bent on enslavement and exsanguination.  Today, it's just a cross-cultural teen romance with some supernatural arm wrestling thrown in.

Not only are today's hemoholics well intentioned, they are sometimes cast as the sympathetic victims of anti-vampire prejudice.  Aren't there enough real issues of bigotry and hatred to be dealt with in the world?  Can't we have one fictional realm apart from Santa's list where there's a general consensus on who's good and who's bad?

Once you allow a vampire to be just like you and me except for an unusual eating disorder, you drain the genre of its primal terror and diminish its ability to be cathartic.  I also think you lose the fun, but that's likely a factor of my age as are my other preferences for how the undead should be portrayed.

• Vampires don't have gooey romances with mortals.  Even during the censorship-heavy thirties, it was all about sex and blood, not dinner and dancing.  Vampires don't have "relationships" and never discuss their feelings.  They don't have any.

• Vampires don't shop at Urban Outfitters.  Draining blood requires a more formal look than a trip to Starbucks.  A frock coat with black pants a la Schreck is acceptable, but the full Lugosi monkey suit and cape is preferable.

• Vampires come from Eastern Europe.  I know it's the era of globalization, but what else has Romania to boast about? The rec room of a split-level in Dayton is no place to stow a coffin.  Home should be a castle in the Carpathians with a weekend retreat in Berlin or London to stock up on fresh provisions.

• Similarly, Vampires speak with an accent.  Lugosi's Budapest-flavored speech and drawn-out cadence were the result of never learning English properly, but the effect is unsettling.  No one is afraid of a vampire who sounds like a GAP clerk or Delta Airlines pilot.

• Vampires don't drink artificial blood.  You might as well have them swig Red Bull.  I'm not a natural food fanatic, but the organic stuff right from the source is the only way to go.  Which would you prefer, biting a beautiful woman's neck or dropping by 7-Eleven for a six-pack?  "Try new Plasma Lite® - more taste, less clotting."

Immortal though they may be, I don't expect the vampires of yore to make a comeback soon.  Kids today won't even watch a black-and-white movie much less a seventy-five minute parlor drama starring a tuxedoed Hungarian with halting English.  But back when visual effects were in their infancy, there was a greater reliance on mood and character to make the audience shriek, and I doubt any of today's blood-sucking millenials have that power.  You don't need garlic or wolfbane to scare them off; just threaten to block their Facebook pages.

TUFTS UNIVERSITY'S "TAKE AN UNDERGRAD FOR COFFEE" APPEAL

On Tuesday, I received a letter from Lawrence Bacow, president of my alma mater, Tufts University. He asked me to become a participant in the school's Student Ambassador Program - well, me and 93,000 other alumni, but I'm still honored and humbled by the offer.

According to the letter, "Our graduates provide valuable models for Tufts' current students and faculty, who look to them for guidance and inspiration." How do they know I can guide and inspire? Are they tailing me? I thought I saw some guy duck into an alley when I turned around suddenly the other day. He could have some incriminating shots of me spilling mustard on myself at the deli - there's some fine inspiration for the students.

I wish I had known about this sooner; I would have dressed better and shaved more often.

The letter goes on to say, "The Student Ambassador Program connects some of the university's most thoughtful and engaged students with graduates who can share unique perspectives on Tufts." I do recall some unique perspectives from my college days. There's the view of the third-floor bathroom ceiling in Carmichael Hall that I experienced while sprawled on the floor from too much cheap bourbon. And up on the library roof, there was that spectacular scene of Boston at night as it was being stomped into rubble by a giant Richard Nixon (1969 was a bad year for lefties but a great year for acid.)

"In the next few weeks a student ambassador will contact you with an invitation to meet for an hour to hear your thoughts on Tufts...The conversations this program fosters will help us learn how we can best support our alumni on their lifelong professional and personal journeys." Regular cash stipends would be nice, or maybe they could just cover my cable bill.

I think I'll accept the invitation when my student ambassador calls. It might prove useful for him or her to hear about my time on the Medford Campus, and I'm all for the university being more responsive to the needs of its graduates.

I'll start off by imparting all the life lessons I learned at Tufts to my young colleague:

• Don't take girls to Paul Newman or Warren Beatty movies.
• If you mislabel the page numbers in the middle of a ten-page paper, it becomes a fifteen-page paper and professors are none the wiser.
• Dark beer is the perfect complement to a Reuben Sandwich.
• Theater majors are easy.
• A fifteen-page paper becomes a twenty-page paper if you gradually expand the margins and triple-space around quotations.
• Mutton chops are seldom a good look.
• "Adult Entertainment" has nothing to do with age or maturity.
• You can make a pipe out of anything.
• Choose some old disgruntled professor who's being forced into retirement to be your advisor. He'll sign your degree sheet without looking too closely.
• Don't drink cheap bourbon.

For the most part, these precepts hold up well today. It's true that Paul Newman is dead and thus not the box office draw he once was, and Warren Beatty now looks like the villains he played against in Dick Tracy, but you can swap in some new pretty boy and the rule still applies.

When we get around to discussing ways the university might better prepare its graduates for the real world, I'll make a suggestion. No student should be granted a degree of any kind without first becoming a licensed plumber or electrician. Drains will always clog and light fixtures will always short out, but your comprehensive knowledge of Melville won't fix either. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but the pipe wrench clobbers them both.

As for improving alumni relations, having collected the equivalent of Latvia's GNP from us for four years, Tufts might show more personal interest in our wellbeing. I'm not asking for much - an occasional phone call or letter, a nice card around the holidays - just a sentimental little something that says, "I'm thinking about you beyond your capacity to fuel our endowment."

And the Student Ambassador Program is a step in the right direction. I have no doubt that it's an altruistic endeavor on the part of the school and not simply another sleazy ploy to bleed the last possible cent out of its former students and sharpen the scythe for the current crop. In our hour together, I'm sure my ambassador and I can cover all the issues raised by the president's letter in a lively give-and-take over lattes at Starbucks...provided, of course, that Bacow picks up the tab.

Selling Coals to Newcastle; Adventures in Pointless Marketing

In recent years, the most popular concept in the advertising world has been viral marketing, the use of social networks and word-of-mouth to increase brand awareness and sales. Lately, I've been besieged by a different form of advertising that I like to call sterile marketing, the targeted promotion of products or services to consumers who haven't the slightest interest in or use for said goods, or the necessary funds to purchase them. I can't understand why companies spend years and fortunes analyzing demographic patterns, economic trends, and sales data to pinpoint their most likely customers, and then decide, "Nah, forget about them. Let's go after this bozo instead."

About a month ago, I received a fancy invitation from Ferrari of New England to test drive the latest model of their California series (see my earlier post "Dear Ferrari of New England...") I had never made inquiries about the car or contacted the local dealership about taking one out for a spin. Furthermore, I'm currently unemployed and as likely to buy a Ferrari as a timeshare at Windsor Castle. Yet not to be outdone, Maserati of New England has recently sent me a similar offer.

Why me? Even when gainfully employed, I was never in the financial stratosphere where such purchases occur, and I've never owned one of those Beryllium or Manganese American Express Cards which entice their holders with high-end promotions. Perhaps these firms discovered my fondness for all things Italian, although in practical terms, it's now limited to Louis Prima and Chef Boyardee. I do like small European cars, but the only way they could know that was if they traced the burned-out clutches from my '85 Rabbit. Whatever the reason, I'm just waiting to hear from Lamborghini and Bugatti before I rate the world's best performing sports cars that I can't afford.

People's exhibit #2 is a catalogue that was sent to my wife by The Pondguy, purveyor of supplies for ponds, lakes, decorative pools, and water gardens. In this one comprehensive volume can be found such useful items as "Faux Boulders", "Cascading Waterfall Kits", and the indispensable MuckAway™ pellets which release "natural bacteria designed to...convert muck into an odorless gas." It's too bad they don't work on the human digestive system.

However aesthetically pleasing or effective these products may be, they are of limited interest to city dwellers. It's the rare condominium apartment that has its own cascading waterfall, and the only "pond" we have to deal with is the sewer overflow during winter storms. There's Jamaica Pond, a small body of water about three miles from our home, but it's cared for by the Boston Department of Parks and Recreation, and I assume they've got their own catalogue.

Across this vast country though, there must be thousands of people who own property with ponds. There are plenty of wealthy folk with fountain-ringed palazzos and golf course grounds keepers who would surely find these products helpful. What breech of commercial sanity drove The Pondguy to hawk his wares to a women's clothing retailer and an out-of-work television editor?

But at least we're alive. My favorite sterile marketing scheme was from the Easter Seals 2010 fundraising drive. Last week, two large identical envelopes came to our house addressed to Mr. Felix Brawer and Mr. Morey Hunter, asking for donations to this worthy cause. The gentlemen in question, my father and father-in-law, passed away several years ago and were thus disinclined to contribute.

Don't think it's so easy to rectify this situation. I have tried for years to get their names off various mailing lists with only limited success. Apparently, companies and charitable organizations don't like to lose potential customers and donors, whether they're breathing or not. I once had the following phone conversation with a certain charity which will remain nameless.

Solicitor: "Could I please speak with Felix Brawer?"

Me: "May I ask what this is in reference to?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm only authorized to speak with him. Is he at home?"

"He's not, but..."

"I'll call back at another time. When would be convenient?"

"There's really no good time because..."

"Is there some other way we can contact him?"

"Possibly. Do you know a good medium?"

"Excuse me?"

"Or perhaps a necromancer?"

"I don't understand."

"Mr. Brawer is deceased. I'd appreciate it if you would take his name off your mailing and phone lists."

"I can't do that without proper documentation."

"I have to provide you with documentation, or you'll keep calling and sending him mail?"

"That's our policy."

"Good luck with the campaign."

So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, the final frontier of advertising - pitching the dead.

A Geezer Manifesto

Having reached the milestone of three score years, I find myself faced with the challenge of how best to spend my remaining time on Earth. My first task will be to drag out this period for as long as possible, wringing every last nanosecond out of my potential lifetime. I will do this with a positive outlook, improved diet and exercise, and plain white envelopes stuffed with twenties for the Grim Reaper.

Of course, the simple pursuit of longevity isn't enough for a fulfilling existence. A life must have purpose and direction; there must always be meaningful goals, self-sacrifice, and higher aspirations than one's own selfish desires. I guess that rules out just waiting around for the Bruins to win the Stanley Cup.

But the pitfalls are many in our dotage. Old age has a habit of making us ornery, entitled, and, um...indiscreetly loquacious. The inevitable aches and pains of senescence can cause even the most stoic soul to become whiny and irritable, and I was already there at eighteen. The increase in irrational and offensive speech may also have a physical basis, but I think it's mostly that oldsters don't give a damn what other people think. Entitlement is a thornier philosophical issue.

Many subscribe to the belief that wisdom comes with age. Sorry, but only wrinkles, cataracts, and memory loss come with age, so you better have some wisdom before you get here. Many also believe that experience is the best teacher. If so, how do you explain old guys in whale pants? In fact, hanging around the planet a long time does not rightfully confer upon you anything other than the nickname "Pops."

And yet, we expect deference as we get older. We demand blind acceptance of our opinions, inflated praise for our accomplishments, and complete tolerance of our foibles. In return, we'll take your seat on the subway and complain if our soup isn't hot. Forgive me, my fellow geezers and geezettes, but this is neither becoming nor fair. I hereby pledge that I will not fall victim to this syndrome, and I swear to uphold the following ten principles of proper geriatric behavior.

1) There is no age-related immunity for the "ten items or less" restriction.

2) All grandchildren are created equal. Your Kenny is not superior because he can sculpt an airplane from his boogers.

3) Eyebrows should be trimmed before they resemble furry welcome mats.

4) Success or failure in the bathroom does not have global implications. It is not necessary to have daily briefings or issue press releases.

5) Automobile turn signals were not installed as holiday decorations nor is their use optional.

6) "When I was your age" is not the opening clause of every sentence in the English language.

7) No whale pants. Ever.

8) A thermostat is a device with settings below eighty-five degrees.

9) Once whiskers turn gray, clean-shaven or full beard are the only acceptable looks. The two-day growth is allowed if you're in a back alley sucking down Thunderbird.

10) There is no such thing as "The Divine Right of Codgers."

"DEAR FERRARI OF NEW ENGLAND..."

Dear Ferrari of New England,

I can't tell you what a thrill it was to receive your invitation for a test drive of the new Ferrari California.  At first, I thought there must be some mistake, but since you've seen fit to send me a reminder, I can only assume you're serious.

It has been my lifelong dream to pilot one of your legendary sports cars, and the California would more than fit the bill.  I yearn to hear the low growl of its 4.3 liter 460 horsepower direct injection V8 engine, to climb through its 7-speed dual clutch gearbox, to accelerate from 0 to 60 in less than 4 seconds, and to cruise the highway at its top speed of 193 mph with the wind whipping through my hair.  Of course, given the traffic on Rte. 1, I'll have to settle for stop-and-go at 15 mph with my hair drooping on my forehead.  No matter.

I feel it's only fair to apprise you of some misgivings.  My eyesight is a tad compromised, and I was only granted my license (daylight restricted) after presenting the Registry with a medical file the size of the Oxford English Dictionary.  Also, the last car I drove with a standard transmission was a 1985 VW Rabbit whose top speed could be seriously challenged by an Amish buggy.  My heart may be a Ferrari, but my driving skills are strictly Ford Pinto and my reaction times best suited for a Schwinn Cruiser.  If you're OK with this, I'm ready to roll.

I don't wish to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth, but I wonder what I did to deserve this opportunity.  I have never been to your Norwood showroom, nor have I ever made inquiries about purchasing one of your automobiles.  I'm neither wealthy nor the heir to a fortune, and I don't travel in the circles of those who are.  Frankly, I've always thought my chances of owning a Ferrari were about the same as owning a space shuttle.

Not to belabor the point, but I've been unemployed for over a year, and I've read that the California sells for just under $200,000.  Unless it sells for $195,000 under $200,000, it's unlikely I can drum up the cash.  Further, while looking for work, I have survived on the largesse of the Mass. Dept. of Workforce Development.  I can only imagine how the taxpayers of Massachusetts might feel about my wheeling around town in a nicer car than the Governor's.

But obviously you know all this, or you would have never courted me in the first place.  And unless you have a sudden change of heart, I'll be down on the Automile as quickly as my ten-year-old Camry will get me there.

Gratefully yours,

Jeff Brawer.

THE HUNK OF TIN

It was a 1960 Bonneville coupe, robin's-egg blue where it wasn't rusted and only slightly bigger than the QE2.  You could ram it into a telephone pole at sixty and not feel a thing for fifteen minutes.  It had a 389 V8 engine, a Hydra-Matic transmission, and upholstery of the finest Corinthian plastic.  The power steering was so sensitive that the slightest adjustment would send you careening over three lanes of traffic, and the brakes needed only the lightest tap to throw you into the windshield and bring the car to a raucous halt.  There were no seatbelts.  The radio was strictly AM and owed its reception to a bent wire hanger stuck in the hood.

It cost seventy-five dollars and was ugly as sin.  I loved it.

It had no speedometer needle, so I painted one on at sixty-five.  I figured if I were ever pulled over, I could show it to the cop to prove I hadn't been speeding.  It only occurred to me later that once the car stopped, the speedometer should read zero.  This didn't augur well for my future as an engineering student.

I dubbed it the "Hunk of Tin" after a popular car commercial of the late '60s in which two stereotypical Mexicans in serapes and sombreros made fun of a gringo asking directions to Baja.  "You loco?  You goin' to drive thees hunk of teen through de Baja? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"  The gringo survived, and I had the perfect name for my car.

In the summer of '67, just before my freshman year of college, I used the Hunk to go back and forth to my job.  I worked at my father's textile plant, something I had done off and on for several years.  In order to show there was no preferential treatment for his children, my father gave my brother and me the lowliest jobs at the lowest possible pay.  My specialty was stripping bobbins, pulling the last bits of tangled thread off the spools that were placed in shuttles on the looms.  When the bobbins were almost empty, they would be dumped into large wood bins where they formed an enormous multicolored Gordian knot.  It was my job to disentangle this mess and remove the empty bobbins for reuse, a process that caused extreme strain on the back and multiple splinters under the fingernails.  My brother had the more glamorous job of crawling under the looms and, with oil dripping in his face, vacuuming lint off the machinery.

But the Hunk's raison d'etre wasn't the daily commute nor its true home the backstreets of Holyoke.  Like its owner, it lived and breathed on the Mass. Turnpike. 

I had a long history with the Pike.  I first traveled the road a month after it opened in 1957 to see an eye doctor in Boston.  During my childhood, I rode the Pike west to summer camp and east to the Cape.  By the time I could drive and long before James Taylor immortalized it, Interstate 90 from Stockbridge to Boston was embedded in my genome.

Every weekend that summer, the Hunk and I would traverse the state in search of knowledge, thrills, and love.  With a death grip on the huge blue steering wheel and shrieking the lyrics to Sgt. Pepper over the noise of the wind, I would be jumping in anticipation of the next adventure or savoring the one I'd just had.

Most of the knowledge came in the form of cultural enlightenment and involved bombing around Boston with my friend, Dave.  Club 47 in Harvard Square was in its final years but still drew top talent.  At that tiny but fabled venue, I heard Patrick Sky, Tom Rush, Spider John Koerner, Mose Allison, Buddy Guy, and other folk, jazz, and blues legends of the day.  At the Brattle Theater, I saw Humphrey Bogart and Marx Brothers movies on the big screen for the first time.  It's one thing to watch Casablanca on a small TV and another to sing the Marseillaise at the top of your lungs with two hundred other film buffs in proud defiance of Major Strasser.  It was as close to fighting the Nazis as a post-WW II kid could get.

For thrills, I took my first baby steps into intoxication and altered consciousness.  One night when my parents were out, Dave and I raided my father's supply of Colt 45 and learned first-hand the joys of oblivion and the price you pay for it, the freedom from inhibition and the enslavement to the toilet.  I also had my first taste of weed that summer, smoking a few bowls with a certain family member who shall remain nameless to protect the not-so-innocent.  As you might expect, the colors were vivid,  the music transcendent, the food incomparably delicious, and the revelations earth-shattering.  And like all novices, I learned two hours later that the colors were ordinary, the food unexceptional, and the revelations nutty.  Only the music remained profound.

As for love, it may be a stretch to call my night at the Berkshire Theatre Festival romantic.  It was more an exercise in teenage hormonal madness, and she was to blame.  "She" was a stunning blond girl who sat next to me in the first row of the balcony during The Skin of our Teeth with Anne Bancroft.  In the middle of the first act, she started pressing her leg against mine - the girl, not Anne Bancroft.  At first, I thought it was an accident, but when I moved my leg slightly, she moved hers right back.  Since the play was in progress and her parents were sitting on her other side, my options were limited to sweating profusely.  This agonizing flirtation went on for three acts and two curtain calls, and I left the theater bent over, clutching my program judiciously.  During the drive home, a friend explained what happened on stage while I was in the silent and unfulfilled throes of passion.

The Hunk survived into the following summer, but it had lost its mystique and only provided transportation in the geographical sense.  I had spent the year in Boston and had acquired that strange combination of arrogant sophistication and disdain which typifies the newly-emancipated college student.  I was a seasoned drinker and smoker and had won and lost my first girlfriend.  And jaded fool that I was, I cared less about new experiences than the pleasurable repetition of the ones I knew.  The Hunk was just a car and a rapidly deteriorating one at that.

It's only in the reveries of my later years that it returns as the magic carpet of my youth.