Month: July 2014

No Snark Sunday: What the Hell, Gordon?

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Here’s a thing: We signed our daughter Rebecca up for soccer camp months ago at the Gordon summer program. Someone asked me, “What’s Bec doing for camp this week, and I said, “She’s off doing soccer at Gordon”.

“Oh. Gordon. Really? You support that place?” This was not a crazy activist, this was just a ‘normal’ person. I’ve gotten a similar responses from others:  “Hope they don’t give out t-shirts, you don’t want to be caught in one of those,” and “How do you take the gay out of Soccer? I thought that whole sport was gay” (funny).

Way to go Gordon college President D. Michael Lindsay. You just created controversy about where I send my Jewish daughter to soccer camp (which we’d signed up for months ago). You have created an association between the products your organization offers and intolerance. You may be, by certain metrics, a good evangelical Christian (but not a good Christian as Jesus stayed off the topic of sex and stuck to things like the poor) but, dork suit notwithstanding,  you are a shitty businessman.

Only buys his suits from straight people.

Only buys his suits from straight people.

When we first came to Gloucester back in the early ‘90s only a couple of years out of college ourselves, we were struck by something odd about the Gordon folks we met around town: They were all super nice and profoundly dedicated people. Not one of them preached at us. We wound up connected to them unexpectedly because we cared about the same things: the co-op, arts in town, education, the outdoors and the environment. It was odd because we expected them to speak in tongues, shout at us about how we were going to Hell and handle snakes and stuff. It turns out we were the ones who had incorrect preconceptions.

I wound up taking a job traveling all over the country and later the world building ropes courses and climbing towers for Project Adventure, which at the time was right next to Gordon. The job meant going out in a huge truck full of gear to remote locations with one other person who you’d bunk with in some pretty dicey situations. It was hard work a hundred feet in the air in all kinds of weather conditions, sometimes having to hump in gear and equipment over rugged terrain. You had to pick your assistant well as the work was dangerous and you were together 24 hours a day for weeks on end.

I would put dibs on any Gordon folks who applied over a regular construction dude, even if that guy had crazy mad building skills and the Gordon grad had none. Because the Gordon kids would be interesting to talk to on 12+ hour drives and they wouldn’t want to go to strip clubs, which I generally find depressing (though I’m not morally opposed to them). The Gordon folks wouldn’t want to listen to Howard Stern on the truck radio (again, I’m not morally opposed to him, I just don’t find him funny) like a lot of dudes and most importantly they were universally up for challenges and adversity of which there was an endless supply. Being with Gordon students and grads in that capacity turned me into a believer, not of Christianity, but in the quality of people being turned out by that organization.

Gordon graduates and students contribute immensely to the blooming cultural scene here in Gloucester. Art Haven, the Shakespeare production at East Gloucester Elementary a few years ago, much of the theatre in the Elementary schools and otherwise around town: all due to incredibly talented and dedicated Gordon people. They were not just filling existing roles but actively starting arts programs that did not previously exist. We secular and non-Christian parents in this town owe them a great debt.

The same goes for your beloved The Clam, some of the new hilarious and insightful clamtributors hail from Gordon. As I said before, Gordon students think about things in a bigger, deeper way and from unique perspectives. Some of them are even funny. On top of that we personally know Gordon graduates who are gay. YES GAY! GAYER THAN CHRISTMAS MORNING! We know Gordon graduates who are non-believers. SHOCKED INHALE! Yes, people from Christian colleges can too look around and say, “You know, even though I’ve been taught all this stuff, I just am not sure if some dude goes around sneezing out universes for kicks and then hangs back while people get holocausted but is at the same time totes pissed at homos”. We have dear Gordon friends rediscovering their Jewish identities. The Gordon people we have met are by no means monolithic or intolerant by any stretch, in fact quite the opposite.

The closest college to my home has never given me what I thought I really wanted: ironic stores, an indie music scene, crap bars, cheap street-food restaurants and the ability to take esoteric adult ed courses like, “The Mysteries of Tibetan Shoemaking”. But I’ve learned to settle on the graduates Gordon produces being wildly positive for my family and community.

Hampshire degree now more legit than one issued by Gordon

Hampshire degree now more legit than one issued by Gordon

But now, ‘D’ Michael Lindsay (The ‘D’ is for “Douchewagon”) has taken a massive turd on every Gordon diploma ever issued. Now, my Gordon graduate friends, every time you apply for a job or someone reviews your CV a vast majority (especially in this region) are going to see ‘Gordon’ and have some bile appear in their mouths. You’re going to spend the rest of your life explaining that shit.  At least Penn State grads can assure employers that it was not the official policy of the school to shelter Jerry Sandusky, it was just an athletic program allowed to run wildly amuck (which was, in fact, official policy). Not so with Gordon- this is an official action by the president assumedly with the support of the board and, weirdly, the president of Catholic Charities and the increasingly creepy pastor Rick Warren.

Straight-as-an-arrow Rick Warren eats a scrumptious dessert.

Straight-as-an-arrow Rick Warren eats a scrumptious dessert.

We are not lawyers at The Clam by any stretch, but we think you should sue that dude. You paid thousands upon thousands of dollars for a diploma that he just significantly reduced the value of in the job market. It would be as if the CEO of Ford decided to rename the F-150  “The Hitler Hauler”  You think the stockholders wouldn’t rebel? Stockholders obviously have a different set of rights than degree holders, but you paid for a brand that he is reducing the value of measurably. Legal readers, go put on your magic suspenders and wing tips and weigh in here.

What depresses me most about this thing is the good I’ve seen done in Gloucester by having Gordon people involved, now saddled to a brand of intolerance. You deserve better, Gloucester Gordon folks. Much better. Maybe you guys could all get together and figure out statement you can put on your resume after the  asterisk next to your Alma Mater. It sucks, but that might be your best option. Whatever you wind up doing I’m guessing it will be thoughtful and well executed, as everything you guys do tends to be.

Now I just gotta figure out how I’m going to explain this to FIFA when Rebecca makes it big.

 

Note: The “Hitler Hauler” joke was actually a historical reference, not a Goodwin. Google ‘Hitler and Henry Ford.”  Henry Ford was incredibly anti-semetic and is the only American mentioned in Mein Kampf. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Ford

What’s in a name?

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Today’s guest post is from Adam Kuhlmann who explores the Gloucester businessscape if it were freed from the shackles of context.

Tony Tally’s Petroleum World 27 Maplewood Avenue

What it is:

A full-service gas and vehicle inspection station, consisting of four pumps and a repair bay, owned by the patriarch of the Taliadoros family

What it sounds like: 

Michael Bay takes his kids to the amusement park

Michael Bay takes his kids to the Shore

A garish amusement park, endorsed by a NASCAR champion and underwritten by the Saudi royal family, celebrating the wonders of gasoline and related hydrocarbons.  Visitors can seek thrills on a variety of attractions, including Frack Mountain and The Kerosene River, as long as they adhere to the park’s strict no-smoking policy.

Nails Club 50 Maplewood Avenue

 What it is:

A beauty salon staffed by brisk, efficient technicians offering little conversation and a basic pedi for just $26.00.

What it sounds like:

A Berlin discotheque, specializing in a genre of trance music punctuated by the sounds of a construction site.

DJ Safetybarrel rips it, ja?

DJ Safetybarrel rips it, ja?

The Mexican Touch 185 Washington Street

 What it is:

 A take-out restaurant whose frugal menu includes burritos, empanadas, quesadillas, and—claro que sí—Black Forest cake

What it sounds like:

 A storefront in Tijuana that you hustled your kids past, after a fellow in rhinestone chaps tried to lure them inside to take a peek at his burro.

DO NOT look this up on Urban Dictionary...oops, there you go. Suit yourself

DO NOT look this up on Urban Dictionary…oops, there you go. Suit yourself

G33K 130 Main Street

 What it is:

A retailer of every type of game and game accessory, including costumes of Xbox characters immediately recognizable by the palest 1% of the population

What it sounds like: 

An internet start-up that, in an ill-conceived attempt to summon disruptive innovation, you enlisted your 16-month-old niece to brand.  Clutching your tablet computer in her sticky hands, she swatted at these four characters.

A cat would have also worked for this gag

A cat would have also worked for this gag

Raf’s Bait Wagon Transient

What it is:

A gentleman with a handlebar mustache who has modified his weather-beaten van so that he can cut, store, sell, and advertise fresh herring

What it sounds like:

See above.

Pretty much

Pretty much

Why the Goat, a Clamsplanation by Stevens Brosnihan

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Once again, the Clamticians have implored me to delve into the viscera of my creative faculties to expose an aspect of reality best explored via the unshackled mode of the visual arts. Today I am departing from my usual format and medium in an effort to expand modalities while at the same time embracing the lure of the literal.

Evidently, Clamedia International LTD is receiving an unprecedented number of angry and/or perplexed demands for an explanation as to why we have chosen a member of genus Capra (see below)

gclam

as opposed to Crassostrea (or phylum mollusca for that matter) to represent our corporate identity.

4504189378_7e8844b8f2_o

To be honest, we are all at a loss for words. We had an excessively heated and disastrously long argument about how best to ‘explain’ to our dedicated readers the significance of our choice. We came to blows, but then, we always do at corporate functions.

After a shit-ton of Jello™ shots and a few peyote buttons, I managed to ‘phase out’ long enough to pen this missive. In an effort to dispel any misinterpretations, I will approach the solution to this complex mystery with a straightforward answer.

steve

Gloucester Gothic, Goat Simulator, 2014

Ever since Kline’s voyeuristic prequel to Warhol’s ongoing and self-proclaimed sham, the art world has mourned the death of the avant-garde. Serious, exuberant discourse has given way to the absurd and to a complete loss of cultural identity. Like the universe’s first milliseconds, we are in an age where matter(the object) and energy(critical thought) are interchangeable and unfocused. There have been repeated attempts to coalesce this dark matter into something bold and philosophically evolved, but the results thus far have only been a series of commodifiable, and predictably inscestuous hacks. The art world exists for its own sake alone.

Yves Kline happening, 1960

Yves Kline happening, 1960

Now, the deterministic nature of the image is counteracted by the mind’s inability to filter the synaptic misfirings we equate with the miasma of non-linear and inchoate, pre-determinate metaphors. It is a fugue state from which we can never recover. The Image is continuously replaced by facsimiles of itself, branching fractally through iterations of the real only to be undone by it’s own interconnectedness with space-time. In effect, the object becomes that which it is not by revealing its underlying false self, only to be reborn again as infinitely variable simulacra.

Grazing, Goat Simulator, 2014

Grazing, Goat Simulator, 2014

Cultural indifference to or complete unawareness of humor has it’s roots in fascism. The right has usurped the left by implementing the chauvinistic mechanisms of design and appropriating ontological realms hither-to associated with anarchic ideologies. Humor has the potential to disrupt our concept of what is true while simultaneously exposing reality subversively, operating on the audience’s preconceptions to [de]construct a new, accepted norm. The sheep, or goats as it were, are in wolves’ clothing, ideology is dead, and humor must prevail.

Ascension, Goat Simulator, 2014

Ascension, Goat Simulator, 2014

The Gloucester Clam’s Tournament of Crappy Parking Lots: FINAL FOUR

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We’re down the the Final Four here in our Gloucester Clam Tournament of Shitty Parking Lots. This is where the shit gets real, folks. We’re so close to crowning the winner that I can almost taste it. “It” being the paint scraped from my bumper. Let’s get down to business and nominate our finalists!

bracket4

7/11 Bass Ave vs. Our Lady of Good Voyage Church

7/11 Bass Ave beat out St. Peter’s Square. Let that just sink in for a moment. We here at the Clam honestly thought St. Peter’s could have gone all the way and won the whole thing, what with its drunken weekend revelers, confusing entrance/exit strategies, and demand exceeding capacity. However, apparently 7/11 Bass Ave is even worse to our intrepid voters. That’s a fair assessment. The less-heroin-infested 7/11 a fucking awful shitshow not only for the poor drivers waiting fortnights to back out into at-speed traffic, but also for those heading back downtown on Bass Ave. As a cyclist who rides the backshore and heads home, I flinch instinctively when I ride past this lot. Undoubtedly, there’s always some huge truck with a throaty exhaust that just backs up at top speed without actually checking to see if there’s traffic in the road. “I DON’T KNOW WHAT RIGHT OF WAY MEANS, BUT CHECK OUT MY 40 INCH TIRES! VRUMMM!” Thanks, dickbag. Next time I’ll just pre-dial “9-1” on my phone before I drive by to save time.

Our Lady of Good Voyage Church advanced to the next round as well, beating out Gloucester Crossing. We sense a trend here – the parking lots that are bad not only to park in, but also to drive by, have been able to pull out wins in this round. And by God, trying to drive by lower Prospect when there’s church in session is pure madness. Why do we not ticket or tow the cars that ENTIRELY BLOCK THE WAY both on the sidewalk and on one of the busiest roads in town? Probably because everyone here is pretty much related by blood or marriage, and everyone’s been doing it for decades. I’m sure also that towing old ladies while they’re at church will probably get you run out of town by an angry mob with torches and fishing gear. We don’t deal well with change here, so maybe when my children’s children have grown, it will no longer be acceptable to just pull halfway up on the curb and leave your car there for an hour and a half instead of going a tenth of a mile to find a safe, legal spot. But probably not, this is Gloucester.

[polldaddy poll=8185410]

Destino’s vs Dogbar

Another surprising winner, Destinos took out the East Gloucester School last round. I guess the animalistic need for a cheesesteak and haddock chowder runs deeper in our veins than an animalistic need to pick up our kids on time at all costs. Destino’s and our other finalist, Good Voyage, work together hand in hand to fuck up that entire stretch of Prospect Street, which honestly even without those external factors is fucked up enough in its own right. I shall refer to that area as a “fucktastrophe.” The Destino’s lot, however, tricks you, like a cruel minister of Satan. You can pull in, absolutely sure there’s an open spot, only to realize a blue-haired old lady has parked directly in the middle of two spots and now you’re stuck trying to back out onto Prospect, but church is in session (is it ever not in session) so you have to do a hail-mary backup at warp speed. Pray. Pray hard.

Dogbar’s public lot, our last finalist, beat out the pothole and Keno-laden Tedeschi’s parking lot to enter the Final Four. Each was undoubtedly equal in the number of completely shithammered people stumbling through at diagonal angles, but Dogbar only has one tiny entrance/exit, so if you enter naively thinking there might be a space and someone else makes the same horrific miscalculation, there’s a cascade effect of people stuck, beeping, backing up onto Rogers where people aren’t pitying you for your mistakes, scraped trailer hitches, and swearing. I vote that instead of Jaws as the last movie playing at our new outdoor theatre at I4-C2, we just roll surveillance footage highlights of this lot. It’s probably equally scary. We’re gonna need a bigger lot.

[polldaddy poll=8185418]

Man Renders Lawn Uninhabitable, Reaps Benefits

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The Clam today features a submission from a mysterious contributor. One of the great things about Gloucester is you don’t see a lot of those ‘Chem Lawn’ spray trucks, mostly because the chemicals would take the paint off the boat you are getting around to repainting up on blocks in the side yard. Other towns are not so lucky.

Man Renders Lawn Uninhabitable, Reaps Benefits

by C.J. Andertone

Today Lynnfield, MA resident Tony Mancusio proudly shows off his large, grassy lawn from the driveway of his ample two-story home. “But don’t step over there,” he says. “They just sprayed.”

keep off the grass

keep off the grass

Mancusio, 54, a lifetime resident of the North Shore, had workers add a generous application of pesticide, assuring that grubs and leaf-eaters won’t damage his pristine green lawn. “Look at it,” he says, spreading his arms wide as in benediction, “It reminds me of the lawn I grew up with as a kid.” Little yellow signs warning of the application of pesticides blossom on lawns all across the region every spring, including in Mr. Mancusio’s near half-acre front yard. “It just makes sense, you know?” he says, crossing his arms and taking in the picturesque scene. “I mean, get the grubs before they get you. Am I right?” Asked whether any of his neighbors have complemented him on his beautiful lawn, Mancusio says, “I think they’re all a little jealous.” He pauses. “Except that old crone down on the corner. She says my runoff poisons the groundwater, the moles, and hurts the little freakin’ birdies that feed off the bugs that pass through my property.” He adds, “Screw the little birdies. I got a coupla blue jays that screech and make a fuss outside my window every morning at God’s first light. I hope they get sick and die, you know what I mean? The little bastard bunnies that ransack my garden, too.”

That ain't rain

That ain’t rain

“Still,” he says wistfully looking over the lush green grass, “I’d hate to be the guys that cut it. All that dust.” He shakes his head, pushes back his graying hair. “But hey, it’s a paycheck. Without guys like me, they’d probably be robbing liquor stores or something.” “When I was a kid we’d have great, grand neighborhood football games in my father’s yard. Everybody would come out and play. All the kids. Neighbors would watch. Mrs. Dunnovan bring over lemonade for everybody. It was real lovely.” Mancusio wipes at his eyes before adding, “Looking out here, it reminds me of when I was young and ready to take on the world.” He coughs, shakes his head, and says soberly, “But no way are some punks going to f**k up my nice, green lawn. No grubs, no kids, no freakin’ blue jays. I’m gonna retire in this house, and when I’m old and losing my marbles, I’ll still be able to look out here and remember what it was like for me when I was a child.”