"Harry" could be the end of the world as we know it

Some people will apparently do anything if they think it will get them here.

Tuesday was my first time in Times Square (more on this in a future blog post), and as I was taking in the lights and the colors and the overall energy of the place, I saw something highly disturbing.

Off to my left, on a huge video board, was an ad for Fox's new show "I Wanna Marry 'Harry.'"

As in Prince Harry ... of Great Britain ... son of Prince Charles and the late Princess Diana ... grandson of Queen Elizabeth II ... brother of Prince William ... brother-in-law of Princess Catherine ... uncle of Prince George ... fourth in line to the British throne ...

... but not really. The producers have found some guy who looks enough like Prince Harry if you squint hard enough and a dozen American women looking for their Prince Charming.

The most-charitable thing I can say is that maybe the whole thing is staged, not just the faux-Harry, but the women vowing for his hand. Maybe the women aren't being fooled, but are actually playing being fooled for the benefit of the television audience.

The reason I say that's the most-charitable thing is because of the alternative ... that there are 12 women (plus however many more were rejected during the casting process) who honestly believe that  Prince Harry, who can probably have just about any woman in the world he wants, would choose his wife on a reality television show ... and that his family would begin to allow such a thing.

Yet I fear this is the case.

And I die a little more inside.

The past appears out of nowhere

I have a friend who apparently spent all of her college years taking pictures of everyone she knew. I say "apparently" because I didn't notice it at the time, but the pictures keep showing up on Facebook, and let me tell you, the ones with me in them are tragic.

The one she posted the other day didn't have me in it, but was instead of a few people I worked with at my college radio station, including a girl who I had a particularly difficult falling-out with. I'll spare you the details, but it was ugly.

Fine, whatever, she's in the photo, no big deal ... until I saw her comment. The comment in and of itself wasn't anything noteworthy, but it was enough for me to realize who the person was doing the commenting, since she's now married and her last name isn't the same. And before you ask, yes, I looked, but I will withhold further comment.

But that old feeling came back over me of being faced with someone I didn't want to deal with. In this case, did I want to comment, where I would then be a visible part of the conversation and she could respond, or just let it go?

As it turned out, I said something. A few people liked it. She had nothing to say, at least not for the purposes of that conversation. What she may have said privately at the sight of my name, I don't know and I don't care.

So for now, our lives remain separate. Fine by me.

Travel Thursday: Asheville

A little bit of downtown Asheville

What is it about Asheville that gets me so much, to the point where my wife and I try to make sure we visit every time we go to North Carolina?

The best word I can come up with to describe the city is "cool." It's a very nice-looking city, especially in the downtown. It's weird and artsy and funky. And even though they weren't they the first couple times we went to visit, my wife and I even have cool friends there now.

But there are plenty of cool places. For beauty, it's hard to beat Vancouver. Weird, artsy and funky ... have you ever been to Austin, Texas ... or Provincetown, MA, for that matter? And even if that's not your style, it's hard not to get caught up in the seemingly endless party that's New Orleans or London.

So what is it, exactly?

I wouldn't call myself a "pork dork," but ... yum!

Asheville is a couple hours west of Charlotte, about four hours west of Raleigh, not quite a couple hours east of Pigeon Forge, TN (think Dollywood) or Knoxville. But it's not really near any of them, or seemingly much of anything else.

Instead, it's splendidly isolated, an oasis of awesome in the mountains. Not only does it seem like it's not near anything, I've never felt a need to be anywhere else when I'm there, even the time my wife and I were looking for a store and the best thing on the radio was John Tesh's radio show.

Maybe it's the classic nice place to visit where I wouldn't be able to live, but being there and walking around and taking in the atmosphere after dropping off the rest of the world at the foot of the mountains seems so ...

... cool.

Genius we can't imagine

Alex Beam wrote a piece in yesterday's Boston Globe about what he called "the Mozart problem" ... genius so total that it can inspire, cause despair in people who are themselves accomplished ... or both.

"Mozart, of course, was the shutdown corner for the ages. Here’s what Billy Joel, no mean music man himself, told The New York Times a few months ago: 'Mozart [ticks] me off because he’s like a naturally gifted athlete; you listen to Mozart and you go: ‘Of course. It all came easy to him . . . ’ Mozart was almost inhuman, unhuman.'”

If you think about it, there is some level of brilliance permeating every aspect of our lives. The lights we illuminate our houses with, the motors in the cars we get around in, the medicines that extend and save lives, the computer I'm typing this on and whatever you're reading it on ... these all exist because someone figured something out, and most of us can't conceive how they did it.

For those of us who write, like Beam, we chase the great writing. I read Kevin Cullen, and I know I could never be that good, but when I write here or elsewhere, I'm hoping someone who reads it enjoys it the smallest, tiniest fraction of a smidgen as much as I enjoy him, because that means I've done something.

However, I can't relate to someone who writes great music, because my mind literally does not work that way. How awesome must it be to put together music and lyrics (or not, if someone's writing a purely instrumental piece) that turns out brilliant? What must it be like to be Billy Joel, whose songbook goes back decades?

I heard an interview with Alicia Keys on NPR around the time "Girl on Fire" came out, and when she talked about the songwriting process, to me, it sounded like a bunch of babble from someone trying way too hard to sound deep. But I'm willing to guess it made perfect sense to her as she was saying it.

And what must it be like to be a scientist, doctor or inventor, to have done something that literally changes people's lives? How did Thomas Edison feel when he saw his light bulb in wide use? What would Alexander Graham Bell think of cellphones? Jonas Salk discovered the cure for polio ... and then lived another 40 years to see what his work did for the world.

How amazing is that? And wouldn't we all wish we could do something close to that, even once?

Travel Thursday: At the border

From what I can tell, not every border crossing is this nice.

The first time I ever crossed the U.S.-Canadian border was my senior year of college. It wasn't much of a trip. A few of us were visiting one of my ex-roomate's friends in Buffalo, and we decided to go to Niagara Falls, because that's what people do.

There was only one complicating factor. Our group was three Americans ... and a Canadian. She had lived in the United States since she was a child, but was never naturalized, so it got the border guard's attention to hear "America ... America ... America ... Canada." I'm not sure what the guard thought we might have been up to, but when she pointed at us and blurted out, "I'm with those guys!" he let us pass.

In the several times I've gone to Canada (or the one time I've gone to England) since then, one thing that hasn't changed is that I get very nervous at the border or Customs, even though I'm no threat to anybody and don't do anything illegal. Although there was the one time I was fortunate someone read her guidebook ...

When my then-girlfriend (now wife) and I drove from where I lived outside Albany, NY, up to Montreal, I nearly got caught daydreaming at the border, thinking that since she was driving, the agent would ask her all the "Where are you from?" "How long are you staying?" "What are you here for?" questions.

However, he also wanted to know what I was up to, and I really wasn't paying attention. Lucky for me, he realized I was more flustered than dangerous, and an international incident was averted.

But while we were in Montreal, I had the genius idea to buy some Cuban cigars for my brother, who liked to enjoy a stogie once in a while. Obviously, I know we have a trade embargo with Cuba, but Canada doesn't, so why not? (Did I mention that this idea was pure genius, if by "pure genius," you mean "really stupid"?)

Lucky for me, the guidebook-reader of the two of us said it's illegal to even bring things in from a third country, which put a much-deserved kibosh on that idea. Otherwise, I might still be in a prison somewhere.

A few years back, when we went to Vancouver, we stopped at the duty-free shop on our way back to Seattle and headed over to the Peace Arch, which is in the picture above.  As we walked over, we were very careful to stay exactly on the path to the road without cutting any corners, and we made very sure to use the crosswalk. Jaywalking may be cause for a small fine elsewhere, but we didn't really want to take the chance of what it would lead to at a border crossing.

Coming back from Quebec City into northern Maine, since we were staying in Augusta for the night before heading back to our home outside Boston, the border crossing is little more than a booth. Whoever works there must be really bored.

But the thing I found fascinating was that once we crossed the border, the next town was roughly 10 miles away, and there was nothing but woods on either side of the road. It struck me that this particular stretch of road, about as close to the middle of nowhere as you can find, existed for only one reason ... to get people to and from Canada.

It literally had no other purpose.

Travel Thursday: San Diego

I certainly understand this can be hard to get used to.

If you hate perfect weather and beautiful scenery, by all means, stay out of San Diego.

I mean ... 12 months of balmy weather and little precipitation can get downright boring, and really, if you've seen one zoo full of practically every type of animal there is, you've seen them all, right?

Sure, the cuteness is off the charts, but who needs that?

Maybe that's why the Padres and Chargers have to be mediocre or historically underachieving, to bring San Diego down to other cities' level.

Needless to say, just a terrible place to watch a ballgame.

However, for those of you who just can't handle the thought of constantly pleasant surroundings, I'm here to tell you that once in a great while, San Diego is something less than paradise.

I now pronounce you ... mad at your meteorologist.

Some days, you just have to tough it out.

Every morning on the local news, there was a segment called "When Will We See Sun?' The meteorologist's name was Jodi, although I don't remember if this was her. Unlike in the Northeast, where such a segment might try to answer the question of when the endless clouds, rain and/or snowfall will actually leave so we can feel like human beings again, in San Diego, it's when the "marine layer" (what we non-Pacific Coasters might call "fog") will burn off so another day of perfect activities may begin.

One fine morning, Jodi announced confidently that the marine layer would burn off late morning ... as she had every weekday we were there. With that in mind, my wife and I decided to head to Coronado.
It's a lovely area ... cute downtown, nice houses and hotels and miles of beaches. On a sunny day, I imagine it would be hard to beat.

Except on this day, Jodi was wrong. The marine layer didn't burn off. The sun didn't come out. We had to experience Coronado on ... a cloudy day.

To this day, if you say "San Diego" and "Jodi" around my wife, she will growl. I think she's plotting for the day when vengeance will be hers.

Beware of old guys carrying chairs.

Balboa Park is simply wonderful. Not only is it home to the San Diego Zoo (which we went to separately), it has museums, gardens, walkways, shops and restaurants. It's easy to spend an entire day there.

However, it's also easy to seemingly spend an entire day looking for somewhere to park. The place is kind of popular. As my wife and I circled the parking lot looking for a spot we thought we'd never find, I saw in the mass of humanity heading up the sidewalk an old man carrying, of all things, a chair.

OK, that was weird, but destined to be a footnote once we finally parked the car and began enjoying the park. Our first stop was lunch, where the waiter, making small talk, asked us where we were from. When we told him Boston, he said that was interesting, because there was a former Boston Celtics player in the restaurant.

The waiter pointed him out, and I spent the rest of lunch not wanting to be that guy ... you know, the one who stares during the entire meal when he finds out a famous person is in the restaurant and interrupts the meal to get an autograph. Plus, he looked like he was with friends.

He finished his meal not long before we did, so as we were getting up to leave, he was headed out the door after stopping to talk to a few people. Out on the sidewalk, I saw him again ... and he was carrying a chair.

You see, that old guy I saw as we were parking and the former Celtic we shared the restaurant with were one and the same ...

...

...

... Bill Walton.

Travel Thursday: New Orleans

Imagine walking past this every day.

I always tell people that if there was any doubt whether my wife is smarter than me, it should have been put to rest a couple years ago, when we spent her 40th birthday in New Orleans, and four months later, I spent mine in my office.

Not only was it my wife's idea to go to New Orleans, she also suggested getting a hotel in the French Quarter. Good call.

If David Simon wasn't also the man behind "The Wire," his series on post-Katrina New Orleans, "Treme," would probably be considered a masterpiece. An overriding message behind the series was the characters' ability to find joy of music, food and each other amid the ugliness, be it the devastation of the hurricane, the corruption both specific to Katrina and generally throughout the city ... even a pothole that was decorated because it was never repaired.

This is Fats Domino's piano, damaged during Hurricane Katrina and now part of the "Living with Hurricanes: Katrina & Beyond" exhibit at the Louisiana State Museum. Seeing the display will make you mad about Katrina all over again.

Although Davis McAlary would not have approved, we spent most of our time among the joyous. We stayed in the French Quarter, mere steps from Bourbon Street, and even though we aren't the types to be in a bar as sunrise approached (as we saw while being driven to the airport to go home), there was always a buzz in the air, like something exciting was about to happen.

For the most part, New Orleans has a higher class of street musician.

And exciting things will happen, so you'd better be ready.

I mentioned my wife's birthday. For dinner that night, we found a little Italian place that wasn't quite a hole in the wall, but probably not the first place you would look. After a terrific meal, we were heading back to our hotel on a warm New Orleans evening, we heard strange sounds coming down the street, drums and horns and other instruments that sounded like a marching band.

Because it was a marching band.

Mardi Gras was a few weeks away, and preparations had already begun, so our guess was that the band was rehearsing that night for the festivities to come. Needless to say, everyone on both sides of the street stopped to watch, clapping as the band went past.

I would have loved to take photos of the scene, and perhaps even tried to take a video. There was just one problem ... that night was the only time on the whole vacation I didn't take my camera with me.

I mentioned that my wife is smarter than me, but sometimes I prove she doesn't have a lot of competition.