Paul E. Fallon's Blog, page 6

Urinetown at Lyric Stage

Urinetown: The Musical

Lyric Stage Boston

September 20 – October 20, 2024

Little Sally (Paige O’Connor) tries to escape from Office Lockstock (Anthony Pires, Jr.) in Urinetown: The Musical.
Photo by Nile Hawver

What do you call a musical whose heroine spends the second act kidnapped, gagged, and bound to an office chair in an underground sewer? What do you call a musical whose hero dies an ignoble yet hilarious death? What do you call a musical whose intrepid chorus rebels against Power only to recreate the stink years? Obviously…you call it Urinetown: The Musical.

Lyric Stage’s production of this “exuberant musical comedy with a truly dreadful title,” is pitch perfect at every turn. The cast of fourteen, under Artistic Director Courtney O’Connor’s snappy direction, pour out of every niche and aisle of Lyric’s cozy theater, and fill the main stage with catchy songs, clever choreography, and punch lines that land solid in your gut. The set of shattered plumbing fixtures is effectively atrocious. Ditto the outlandish, threadbare costumes.

The plot of Urinetown is simple as it is broad. A twenty-year drought has delivered a shortage so severe that all water is rationed, dribbled out to the people by the private company UGC (Urine Good Company). People have to pay to pee! From that premise, no potty joke remains unzipped.

Urinetown premiered on Broadway in 2001, garnered ten Tony nominations, and won three. Like all great musicals, major themes underpin the lightheartedness. More than twenty years later, the show’s prescient exposure of our climate crisis, it’s satire on capitalism, populism, corruption, and bureaucracy percolates beneath the surface silliness. Nevertheless, the human capacity to rise in stirring song transcends evil, without ever dampening the hysterical antics of townspeople writhing to relieve themselves.

Even as Urinetown parodies corporate greed, so too it parodies itself as a Broadway musical. Theater aficionados will find traces of Kurt Weill, Les Miz, and Bob Fosse embedded in the song and dance. But you’ll be laughing so hard you’ll likely miss them. Not to worry. The tunes are so hummable, they’ll accompany you beyond the theater, and into the real world where—say it isn’t so Little Sally—we are running short of water.

Leopoldstadt

Leopoldstadt

The Huntington

September 12 – October 13, 2024

Leopoldstadt at The Huntington. Photo by Liza Voll

Leopoldstadt is an epic play. The Huntington has created an epic production.

Tom Stoppard’s highly autobiographical play is the sweeping tale of an extended Jewish family from the glorious dawn of the Twentieth Century, through a pair of World Wars and the Holocaust, to the paltry trio who remain by the 1950’s. A story that could easily fill an eight-part television mini-series is contained to a mere two acts on stage, while infused with intellectually satisfying commentary on culture, politics, and mathematics that Netflix will never deliver.

The Huntington’s production rises, in every respect, to the daunting heights of the script. The set is all sinuous curved surfaces, rich in art-nouveau details that proclaim the glory of 1899 Vienna, even as they become downright gloomy by World War II. The opening scene costumes are sumptuous, while again, as each era proceeds, they become trimmer, even shabby.

The thirty-six characters spread over four time periods are portrayed by twenty-two different actors. In truth, I often did not know who was who or how they served the story, but the opening bustle of an opulent family gathering with sixteen mothers and husbands and cousins and children made the last scene’s meeting of the three remaining Merz’ all the more meager. Not to mention the repetitive power of the final lines, iterating how each of the extended family member died: Auschwitz. Auschwitz. Auschwitz.

The play is about the Holocaust. And so much more. Eldest son Hermann converts to Catholicism under the false illusion that assimilation will yield equality. Cousin Ludwig, the university mathematician who acknowledges that his life has no real purpose, lives comfortably in his quest to prove the Riemann Hypothesis, which posits how prime numbers are distributed. Mathematical puzzles permeate the play. I wondered what purpose they serve until cousin Ernst, keen to the reality that the affluence and surface acceptance of Jews in 1900 Vienna is impermanent, advises, “The rational is at the mercy of the irrational. Barbarism will not be eradicated by culture.”

Thus, this family descends into the hell of the Twentieth Century, Riemann’s’ Hypothesis remains unsolved, and the threat of barbarism eradicating culture shadows over us even today.

Let the Season Begin!

The Hound of the Baskervilles

Over the years The Awkward Pose has evolved. This blog, initially centered on yoga, became a forum about Haiti post-earthquake, then a chronicle of bicycling across America (a couple of times) while our nation descended into divisiveness. Recently, it’s been a potpourri of personal essays.

For the past three years I’ve written articles about Boston-area theaters for NETIR (New England Theatre in Review). I’ve seen some extraordinary local theater—more than thirty performances last year alone. NETIR is an archival record, published after the theater season is over. Therefore, what I write is already history. So this season I’ve decided that when I see inspired local theater, I’ll post it to The Awkward Pose in real time.

Perhaps it will motivate local readers to attend some of the terrific theater Boston and Cambridge offer. Perhaps it will move distant readers to discover local theater wherever you live. Either way, I hope it will encourage everyone to support local theater, an art form that no screen can rival.

The Hound of the Baskervilles

Central Square Theater

September 12 – October 6, 2024

An empty stage. The ghost light. What a perfect welcome to a new season of theater.

Central Square Theater kicks off its 2024-2025 season with Steven Canny and John Nicholson’s creative retelling of The Hound of the Baskervilles, directed by Lee Mikeska Gardner and showcasing the versatility of three stellar females: Aimee Doherty, Jenny S. Lee, and Sarah Morin.

Yes, Watson, your deduction is correct. A mere three women present this entire Sherlock Holmes’ mystery, portraying a dozen or so Victorian men, along with a few rather dazzling damsels. However, truth be told, the piece lacks one major component of the original—it’s not the least bit scary. Rather, it’s funny. Very, very funny.

CST’s Hound is a riotous concoction of stodgy source material, stirred to a Monty Python level of comic excess, laced with pop-culture references, served up in female drag. Within the space of a few minutes I caught allusions to Barry Manilow, The Man from UNCLE, A Chorus Line, and Goodnight Moon. And the really weird thing is: each out-of-context reference makes perfect sense in this zany interpretation.

Not every aspect of the production is perfect. The set is rather banal, the stage is actually too large for all the bounding and hiding, and the second act goes on a bit too long. But such criticisms are minor compared to the perfect synchronization of actor, lighting and sound throughout. There are moments when the actors literally change character every line, but the audience stays with them because each character, no matter how minor, is so well crafted.

There are even moments when the actors play Aimee, Jenny and Sarah themselves, commenting on the play even as they are performing it. Ultimately, this meta- aspect of the play is what makes the entire evening so worthwhile—and hilarious. The quick change, the aside wink, the in-joke that we all get because we are all together in the flesh. These are elements of art and performance that do not translate to the screen. That energy, that passion, that sense of commonality can only be felt live and in person.

So don’t just sit there, reading this on your screen. GO!!!!

Summer Fun of Water and Sand

I pedaled over to Revere Beach on a gorgeous July day to see the sand sculptures at the 20th Annual Revere Beach International Sand Sculpting Festival. Got say, Revere Beach is looking better than any time in my 40+ years around Boston. The crowd was large and friendly and full of energy. What the artists do with nothing but sand and water is amazing.

My favorite was “Fish Rising” by Karen Fralich of Canada. I loved the fine gradation as sand went from smooth to rough, as well as the sculpture’s dynamic shape.

Sculptors came from the US, Canada, Europe, even Japan. There were lots of girls and young women. Alas, not a single sculpture of a man.

Also, lots of cats; no dogs. This one had amazing fur.

The winner of all categories apparently captivated everyone but me. Congratulations to “Blending In” by Jobi Bouchard, also of Canada.

Happy August to all!!!

The Circles of Verizon Hell

Several folks told us we had antiquated internet and streaming services; that Cambridge is no longer a Comcast-captive town; we should upgrade our package and pay less for more options. We made a spreadsheet of our respective costs, my housemate discussed what we wanted with a salesman in advance, and made an appointment at the Verizon store.

All images courtesy of Reddit

I showed up for our 3 p.m. appointment on time. A cheerful guy came up and said he’d be right with me, then went back to another customer. Dante’s first circle of hell is limbo, where I loitered as it became clear that the staff wait on people as they arrive. So why bother making appointments? More than fifteen minutes later, the salesperson attended to us. My doctor’s office is more punctual.

We had a list of the services we wanted. Combine our two phone lines to one account, add internet, MAX, Netflix and You Tube TV. The salesperson began with, “Let’s switch your accounts.” We paused. “First, we want a list of what this is going to cost.” “Oh, I can’t do that. You Tube TV is a separate platform and requires perk service.” “Do I buy it through Verizon?” “Yes, but I can’t give you that in an accounting.” “Why not?” “Because it’s a separate platform.” “So, can you give us the total cost, with the platform?” “No.”

This triggered the I-hate-to-shopper in me. I skipped right over the most enjoyable circles of hell: lust, gluttony, and greed, and dove straight into anger. “Don’t yell at me,” the salesperson said. “What do you want me to do? I ask for a monthly total of what this is going to cost and you tell me you can’t give it to me.” “I can give it to you, just not in a printout. I will have to add the YouTube TV by hand.” “Whatever.”

The salesperson jabbed his at tablet. This is one of those stores designed to be spare and uncomfortable. No real counters, no cash registers, just a quad of guys in black wandering with tablets. The lack of pen and paper make my nervous. Nothing feels solid.

“I’m having technical difficulties.” He kept poking. Finally, he disappeared and reappeared with a single piece of paper. The strangest price list I’d ever seen. The cost of Internet, with a discount applied. Blank space. The cost of my phone. An icon. The cost of my housemate’s phone. Turn over the second side. The cost of Max and Netflix. A credit for Loyalty 55+. A Bold cost of the next bill (including various start-up charges). Bold monthly cost.

Then the salesperson stated pointing at the sheet. “Ignore this $5. This $10 is for the YouTube Platform, then we subtract $15 from that. Add five dollars per month to the bold cost, and the $72.99 for YouTube TV service.

“Do you mind if I write on this?” “By all means, it’s yours.” I tried, unsuccessfully, to make notes of what he had said. Then I realized, all the line items were in my housemate’s name. We’d requested the service in my name. “We can’t do that because you have a metered service.” “Can I switch to an unlimited service?” Back and forth we went until, another bizarre price sheet later indicated that the same set of services in my name would cost $37 per month more than in my housemate’s name.

At this point I have descended beyond anger. Every word and printed figure illustrated circle six, heresy. Thus I arrived at the seventh circle of hell: violence. Fortunately for the salesguy, though I am a master of anger, I’m milquetoast at violence. Never hit a person in my life and besides, this guy’s just a pawn in corporately concocted confusion. We are not supposed to understand our internet bills, by design.

To save the mysterious $37, we agreed to put everything in my housemate’s name. I envisioned the hell that will ensue should he ever move, but the near-term result was good for me: after a few more password exchanges, I was free to go.

Since you’re always just one bike ride away from a good mood, I took a nice pedal along the river to cool my jets and rise out of Verizon hell. When I got home an hour later, I was surprised my housemate wasn’t there. Until I got a call from him. Still at Verizon where they needed me for another round of password exchanges. To what end I do not know.

Finally, after two and half hours in the store, my housemate returned, apparently all settled. We had a drink and shared our frustration until we could laugh about it.

The next day my housemate got a call from the salesguy. The discounts on his quote were wrong; our service will cost more than he described. I expressed no surprise. After all, the eighth circle of hell is: fraud.

Riding the Backs of Hillbillies to the White House

When I first heard that J.D. Vance was being considered as Donald Trumps running mate, I knew it was a perfect match. Two privileged white huskers shoveling fear into the hearts and souls of folks reaching out for a savior, with absolutely no intention of delivering any real salvation.

Donald Trump and J.D.Vance. Photo courtesy of Entertainment Weekly

Hillbilly Elegy, Vance’s memoir of growing up in Appalachian Ohio, was a best seller in 2016. Talk shows, radio news, book reviews, all were abuzz over this guy who captured the essence of what ills working class America. I read the book, but my reaction was quite different. I had little empathy characters who came across as complaining, or lazy, or both. And I held no elevated esteem for Mr. Vance. Fine that he chose to leave his roots, go to Yale, and become a successful lawyer. Not fine, in my mind, to profit on their misery without using his privilege to better their condition.

Eight years ago J.D. Vance was a distinguished author, a darling of the enlightened left, and a fierce critic of Donald Trump. He once compared Trump to Hitler, which only now do we realize might have been intended as a compliment. Today, Mr. Vance is the perfect heir apparent to Donald Trump. Obsequious to The Donald in the present, fully prepared to stir the pot of any culture war necessary to distract the electorate from their true intentions. Each magnificently capable of winning the heart of their base without doing a damn thing to deserve it.

I take no satisfaction in being clairvoyant. But six years, I picked at the loose threads of J. D. Vance’s Appalachian credentials. Unfortunately, my assessment holds up all too well.

_ _ _ _ _

Three Strikes Against Hillbilly Elegy

Posted 03/20/2018

When I read Mitch Dunier’s Sidewalk I am filled with empathy for black men, often drug users, living on the street. When I read The New Jim Crow, I seethe over the injustice of systematically containing their imprisoned brothers. When I read Evicted, I ache for the poor women struggling to raise their children against all odds. When I read Rachel Aviv’s “How the Elderly Lose Their Rights, “I root for the victims. When I read Hillbilly Elegy, my heart turns cold.

When I absorb, second hand, the consequences of being black or brown, a woman, even an old person, the foundational source of his or her disadvantage is clear to see: skin color, gender, wrinkles. I’ve spent considerable time contemplating why, when I seek complementary sympathy for Appalachian folks, I fail.

First. I find is easier to be empathetic toward someone whose life circumstances are remote from mine. Since I have no perspective from which to judge their disadvantage, I take others’ struggle at face value. However, the more someone seems like me, the less empathy their plight evokes. The characters in Hillbilly Elegy look too much like the people in power—angry white males—and too much like me, to merit special consideration. The fact that these folks fail to create viable lives, whether measured by economic success or personal satisfaction, doesn’t move me because, frankly, blue collar Middletown Ohio is not all that different from blue collar Toms River, New Jersey. J.D. Vance’s family and neighbors are too much like the people I grew up with: loud, labile, and distrustful of anything beyond their circle; quick to damn a changing world, resistant to change with it. It’s difficult to feel sympathy for a narrow, gloomy worldview I’ve spent a lot of energy trying to escape.

Second. Hillbilly Elegy draws parallels between the people of Appalachia and other disenfranchised groups in our nation. However, there’s a big difference between a woman or person of color struggling against a system that oppresses them, and someone who is simply too tribal and fear-driven to act as his own change agent. Suggesting the equivalence piles undeserved credence on Appalachian complaints, and undermines the plight of those whose disadvantages are externally imposed.

Third. What is the author’s responsibility in all of this? We applaud people who rise above the difficulties of their youth, and we don’t expect everyone who moves up to return to his roots. My time in Haiti taught me not think ill of capable, educated Haitians who stay in the US rather than plough their talent back into the Magic Island. Each person gets to determine his own balance of personal opportunity and cultural reinvestment. But there’s something disingenuous about a man who escapes Appalachia, goes to Yale, becomes a West Coast lawyer, and then writes a book about how we’ve failed his people. That’s a level of guilt I refuse to shoulder, from a guy who’s pretty much shirking it himself.

Reading Hillbilly Elergy was like cycling down a long, unmarked, dead-end road. These folks don’t have any good way to move forward, and an awful lot of backtracking just to get on the main road. It also brought me to my personal limits of empathy. Not a comfortable place to be. It also signifies another similarity between the titled hillbilly’s and me. We are imperfect human beings, every one of us.

An Open Letter Following the First Presidential Debate

I am pleased to share awkward pose duties this week with John Bringenberg, author, father, and concerned citizen who presides over an NGO focused on sustainable living.

Photo courtesy of Rosie Kerr on Unsplash

Dear Jill, Dear Barack,

I think you know that you have a vital role that is hugely important to the public and the institution of Democracy. Yet your larger role is even more important as a personal and trusted confidant of one of the best presidents and career public servants US history will document.

It is time for Joe to be a grandpa. It is time for Joe to be an esteemed former president working on legacy and his post presidency impact as a citizen. An excellent driver his entire adult life … it is time to take away the keys.

You know this to be true. You know this to be the best path forward. And, you know the manner in which you can reason and support the President in this difficult life decision and intersection.

The gravity of this change and also the handling of the steps that follow must be carefully architected. Joe has spent his entire adult life and career supporting his ideals and the truth of his party. His party now requires his retirement — with your help — to bring clarity, pride and resolve to this decision. Joe can and will go down in history as a “country first” old guard public servant, true to his conviction and with a career of legislation, policy making, cross-the-aisle relationship building and results brokering.

We witnessed the unfair and unreasonable, yet historic outcome of Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s decision in her early ‘80’s to stay the course rather than retire and continue as a leading figure for progressive interpretation of the laws of the land. This, only to succumb to a SCOTUS scramble by the majority Senate party throwing the highest court into imbalance for possibly a generation or longer.

It is a grave error to expect November voting to follow reason,

common sense or to separate saints from sinners.

Such miscalculation can forfeit Democracy as we know it.

Further, those who would rally in support of Joe and dismiss his performance as a bad night, grossly miscalculate the dynamics and variables of today’s voters, Republican party and the rabid + blind following of Trumps’ well-honed mob-boss charisma. It is a grave error to expect November voting to follow reason, common sense or to separate saints from sinners. Such miscalculation can forfeit Democracy as we know it.

Consider this election amid the ever-reinforced mis-information, the echo chamber of social media, the reach of the Fox Network, 3rd party candidates. Ask yourself who was the more qualified, experienced choice for President in 2016? Ask yourself next, after 4 years of the most dysfunctional and corrupt administration, with a shattered record of resignations and terminations of team from cabinet to agency brain drain exodus … Ask yourself next, after dozens of indictments and conviction of rape and felony, how is Trump the one of two candidates with a higher approval rating? If you’re expecting common sense to lead to the rise of Biden and the fall of Trump, we could be under a dramatically different government set of rules beginning in 2025.

There can be zero reliance on good sense. What is needed is knockout charisma, command, experience, rebuttal and confidence. My shortlist is Gavin Newsome, and a distant second pick, JB Pritzker. The last time a governor from our most populous state ran for president, the Republican party was very happy.

Now is the moment to get this right, because there is no second guessing the peril if the democratic party does not field a unified party behind a strong and high-profile middle-aged candidate. A key covenant of a change now is party agreement for total unity behind a single strong candidate. A candidate up to the task of running the presidency and putting Trump in his place with energy, oratory, charisma, credibility, instant recognition, command of facts … all helping to bring the country back to a center of truth and decency.

The country and the democracies of the world are counting on your next step.

Before Amazon…Before UPS…Before Western Union…Before the Pony Express…

Revere’s Midnight Ride by Edward Mason Eggleston

Recently, I’ve been reading Revolutionary War history, in particular Nathanial Philbrick’s Bunker Hill and Stacy Schiff’s The Revolutionary Samuel Adams. Both great reads by historians with a knack to turn past events into page turners.

In each book, one character keeps popping up again and again, always ahead of the crowd, always delivering urgent news just in the nick of time. Paul Revere.

Most of us are familiar with Longfellow’s classic opening:

Listen my children and you will hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere

The poem immortalizes a singular feat of night riding, run-ins with British scouts, near escapes, and ultimate success. Written 87 years after the event, the 1860 ode came at a time when, on the cusp of an even bloodier war, Americans were in dire need of a heroic tale.

What most of us don’t learn—either in school or from Longfellow—is that Paul Revere’s midnight ride was just another jaunt for a man who delivered revolutionary messages all over the place, all the time.

Paul Revere had a particular set of credentials for his undertakings. He was a solid Son of Liberty, though not a member of the Loyal Nine, the inner sanctum who orchestrated rebellious activity. Thus, he could be completely trusted, yet, if captured, the rebellion would not lose its leader.

Neither author claims Revere to be an outstanding horseman, but he must have been. In page after page from 1768 right up through 1776, the guy delivered intelligence on time, every time. A record that could make even Jeff Bezos blush.

As the Boston troublemakers sought to bring other colonies to their cause and eventually declare a new nation, Paul Revere’s rides got longer. More than once, he rode all the way to Philadelphia to deliver messages too timely or controversial for regular post. Despite all his hours in the saddle, Revere managed to father sixteen children, which pretty much squelches the notion that horseback riding causes infertility in men.

After mentioning messenger Revere again and again, Philbrick took a sidebar that I find both humorous and apt:

In an age when communication between the colonies could take days and even weeks, Revere provided the patriots with a decided advantage over the less nimble British. But the peripatetic silversmith was much more than the colonial equivalent of a Pony Express rider.

What was that advantage? Paul Revere was a messenger spurred on by deep belief in the missives he delivered.

Happy Independence Day to all!

Paul Rever’e’s most famous ride. Map courtesy of Wikipedia

Say No to Swag

The only way we are going to create a just, equitable, sustainable, and resilient society is by starting to live in ways that are just, equitable, sustainable and resilient. At a grand scale, this requires complete rethinking of our aggressive, consumptive society. But at the micro level, each of us can do our little part by pushing back against the flood of—junk—that crosses our path.

Twenty-five years ago I received a package in the mail from the Greater Boston Food Bank that contained a ceramic spoon holder in appreciation of a donation I made. I tossed the unwanted object, sent them a curt email questioning why money targeted to feed the hungry was spent on trinkets, and found another local food organization to support. GBFB has never gotten another dime.

Two decades ago I started passing up swag pushed at me at conferences. “But it’s free!” A huckster inevitably proclaimed. “So then, it’s probably not worth much.” I’d walk on to the next booth, happily empty-handed.

UMass Amherst, photo courtesy of UMass Amherst

Last week I received an unexpected package in the mail. I groaned at the return address: University of Massachusetts Foundation. Both of my children went to UMass, had a great time, and got solid educations. After they graduated, I rerouted annual donations from my well-endowed alma mater to UMass. Within a few years they assigned me a donor liaison; the poor guy persistently tried to meet with me as I invented new ways to say ‘no.’ To keep him at bay I told him my annual donations would continue and that UMass was in my will. Please don’t bother me anymore.

Yet, despite my desire to support higher education on the low-down, this package landed at my door.

A maroon folder with a handful of brochures ripe with photos of smiling graduates and catchy titles like, “12 Ways to Make a Meaningful Difference,” “A Tax-smart Way to Give through your IRA,” and “Personal Estate Planning Course Lesson Book.” Plus a letter from Joseph J. Kayne, Senior Director of Gift Planning, welcoming me to the William Smith Clark Society. In addition, there was the maroon blanket with UMass Amherst logo.

Why are they sending me a blanket? To keep me warm in the grave? Actually, the blanket wouldn’t keep anyone warm. According to the tag, it’s 50% polyester, made in Honduras. What is UMass thinking? Sending me this rag with thousands of miles of carbon footprint, and enough plastic fibers to choke a school of fish.

Without waiting the recommended cool down period, I spewed off an email to Mr. Jayne:

I received today in the mail a package from the UMass Foundation with a folder of pamphlets, a letter signed by you, and a blanket with your logo.

None of which did I ask for. None of which do I want.

I do not give money to UMass so you can give gifts to me. I give it to educate students.

I have no interest in the William Smith Society; please refrain from sending me any other materials, in any media.

I realize that I may be a minority in not wanting merch for my philanthropy, but I think it is important that you realize that some donors consider it a breach of purpose. You should not by default think that someone who gives money to UMass wants an unsolicited gift of a 50% plastic blanket. It is an unsavory use of resources at so many levels.

I prefer you focus on educating the future.

Paul E. Fallon

Within an hour I received a polite response from Mr. Jayne, apologizing for their overreach in thankfulness, and informing me that he will “make a note in my file.” His message implied that the note would be to leave me alone, though I could well imagine him writing, “This guy is a total crank. Contact him at your peril.”

I won’t cut UMass out of my will over a blanket, though the thought did cross my mind. I love the wonderful opportunities UMass provided my children and many others like them. Besides, I have no reason to believe that UMass spends more on development than comparable universities. Every school has whole staffs who spend all day every day flattering donors, soliciting money, sending out swag. A cost of doing charitable business which has nothing more to do with teaching students than a ceramic spoon holder does with feeding the hungry.

I don’t believe that anyone donates to charity because they want a spoon holder or a blanket. It’s ridiculous. Superfluous. If we all just stop accepting these pens and notepads and coffee mugs and T-shirts, the swag will disappear under the weight of its own uselessness. And in some small way the world, by every measure, will be a better place.

Cool Car

Summer is nigh, time to be light, even a bit silly.

The other day, riding my bike, this car passed me. Wow! First thing I noticed was the color, some kind of mango peach. Very tropical. Then of course, there was its relationship to the ground. Tight. As if the static earth and the moving vehicle were kissing cousins. The black accents. The spoiler. The articulated rear exhaust. Also the model: Camry. When did a Camry become hot?

Lucky me, the light ahead turned red and the car stopped. I rolled alongside and, in classic old white guy fashion, chatted up the driver.

“I love your car.” “Thanks.” A heavyset guy with dark skin and even darker sunglasses.

“Did you customize it yourself?” “Yeah.” A Dominican Republic tassel dangled from his rear-view mirror.

“You from the DR?” The guy flashed a wide smile “DR forever!”

The light turned green. “Enjoy your day.” “You too, man.”

The car lumbered off. Not too fast. Because really, it’s too low for speed. I pedaled behind, enjoying its sinuous contours and lush finish. Savoring our innocuous, pleasant interchange.

A few blocks ahead, the driver turned and parked. I detoured to take these pics. I just love this car.

Perhaps the most un-American thing about me is that I can like things—all sorts of things—without the slightest desire to possess them. A trip to Restoration Hardware triggers the same feelings as MFA’s Colonial furniture gallery. Cool stuff to see, but nothing I’d ever care to own. I certainly have no interest in owning the most American possession of all: an automobile. Yet I was smitten by this souped-up Camry gliding along a Cambridge Street. It brought me joy on a long, warm day. Joy I ricocheted back to its proud owner.