Romancing New England's Roads, Or There's No G,P or S in Romance

I wish Garmin gave me options. Why can't my GPS voice seduce me into keeping right or entering roundabouts? Make it a man with a slight accent, like a spy or a butter spokesman, so it feels like an intimate encounter each time he leads me astray. Then I'd be less likely to curse him when he drags me under Boston Harbor and abandons me like a mangy stray or has me making donuts in Providence that would put the fifteen million Dunkin Donut franchises in New England to shame.

He might offer more than "arriving at destination" when I passed the TAPS office in Warwick, Rhode Island, enough times to be categorized as a crazy-stalker fan. He might have said, "Look, over there. The suburbans block it, but it is there. Do you trust me?" He might have praised my ability to parallel park in Boston instead of insisting where I'd gone wrong. He might have understood my complete and total devotion to him at the exemption of all other navigation tools and how a belly full of lobster and butter sedated my most basic situational awareness. The nowhere, Maine streets had no lights, but it wouldn't matter. He would be the Columbus to my Pollyanna in a plastic bib.

He might have pulled me aside and explained to me what the hell a roundabout was and why Plymouth drivers are so quick to shoot the native bird. Was it the New York plates? Did the whole Yankees/Red Sox thing extend to the region's very infrastructure? I'm sure our Pilgrim ancestors would have swelled with pride as I, a mere refugee from the genteel South, showed my bird prowess as well.

Instead, Garmin gives me a pushy pitchwoman with a "recalculating" stutter. There would be more romance in Fantasia's voice, but together we conquered four states in nine days and she did work through the adversity of ancient rock, a NPR show on bedbugs, and Hootie-no-more-a-blowfish, ad nauseum.

Tomorrow: Romancing the Yankee Accent: The Language of Seduction

Romancing Public Transportation, or There's No T in Romance

The "T" in Boston is part rail car, part subway and wholly an experience for someone who has not relied on public transportation since I was knee-deep in snow at the high school bus stop thinking, "Oh, no, you did-ent" as my dad drove by trying everything he could to embarrass me. The T is like that, without the love. Or the deodorant.

Mother Nature ordered up a tepid bowl of crazy-downpour my Boston day. I swiped at the condensation gathering on the windows of the rail car and drew vague stares. I suppose if I'd spelled out "tourist" in the fog, it would have been no less obvious, but I did want to see Boston. On the college line, the other passengers were soldiers of rain (whatevah) and how-will-I-ever-repay-my-loan seriousness. I traveled ten stops before I realized I was a stowaway. On the Dart bus in Dallas if you don't pay, you might be spot-checked and asked to leave. On the T if you don't pay, the driver crushes you with bi-fold doors. Good thing Samuel Adams is there to numb the pain and embarrassment.

Free Boston Lager samples at 10 am and the ZZ-Top-ish guy from the commercials? Yes, there is love in Boston, though not for poor Sam Adams. You see, Mr. Adams was just not enough of a hottie for the beer company's logo, so they tapped into Paul Revere's likeness. He was to early twentieth century beer as Fabio was to the non-butter industry.

After a drenching day of Freedom Trails, dark pubs and creepy strolls, I was starting to feel the romance. I was no longer a stowaway to Boston life, but a ticket-carrying commuter who'd mastered the art of seriousness. I no longer met other's eyes or held doors for strangers or smiled at someone for no reason. I was certifiably Bostonian on my last commute out of the city's heart. I had internalized the city, felt its weight and movement on my bosom. I had surmized that the T's "request stop" button was not in fact in the crotch of every male in Boston as I had once believed, but perhaps merely an indication of cotton-blend shrinkage. But Boston had one more lesson for me.

On the green line, near Boston University, the vessel as packed as a telephone booth in a 1950's diner contest, I came to understand the true meaning of "beantown."

And I wept.

The romance was gone.

Tomorrow: Romancing New England's Roads, Or There's No G, P, or S in Romance

Romancing New England

I could begin with a quote, as writers often do:

"New England is quite as large a lump of earth as my heart can really take in."
~Nathaniel Hawthorne

or...

I could write a poem, but I might struggle with finding a word to rhyme with bunghole, as in Bunghole Liquors in Salem, Massachusetts:

Zoom it, Vortexers. It's there. And here. Nothing captures Autumn in New England like koozies that read "Planet Bung Next to Uranus", right?

But mostly, I could just give it the Vortex 10 treatment. This is no moth-ball smelling, photo album-snoozing regurgitation down recent-memory lane. This is Romancing New England, Vortex-style.

Each day for ten days I'll dish out a tiny, meaty portion of my quest to capture that elusive, famed, romantic state-of-mind that eclipses New England this time of year. Did I find it in the portrait of Barbara Bush on river rock? Or in the Mary Poppins-holding-umbrella flight through a downtown Boston alley? Or in the quiet moment of fail when I realized my continental breakfast had to be eaten outside in 40 degree post-dawn Maine? The Vortex 10 list will swell as steady as my stomach on chowdah and lobstah, so pull up a feed and check back often. Maybe you'll find New England, like I did, somewhere between a Hawthorne and a bunghole.

Seriously, what rhymes with hole? Filet of Sole? Hairy mole? Yeasty roll?

Tomorrow: Romancing Public Transportation, or There is No T in Romance

Time Waits for No Hottie (and Other Ponderables)

Really? It's been that long? Huh. Wow, do we have some catching up to do...

Last month, Stephen Hawking's The Grand Design hit bookshelves. A follow-up to his 1998 release entitled A Brief History of Time, his latest embraces new theories about the creation of the universe. In A Brief History of Time, he wrote, "If we discover a complete theory, it would be the ultimate triumph of human reason--for then we should know the mind of God." In somewhat of a reversal, his newest work indicates, "Because there is a law such as gravity, the universe can and will create itself from nothing. Spontaneous creation is the reason there is something rather than nothing, why the universe exists, why we exist. It is not necessary to invoke God to light the blue touch paper and set the universe going." Many believe he is simply clearing up the nebulous entity he skirts around in his other works in favor of a more direct approach to what he's believed all along. Truly, does this surprise anyone? Makes for splashy headlines, though.

In other shocking?-not-so-much novel news, Louise Patten, writer and granddaughter of Charles Lightoller, the senior-most officer to have survived the Titanic tragedy, has revealed in an interview that coincides with the release of her new fiction novel, Good as Gold, that a steering error was to blame. According to Patten, her grandfather failed to disclose the error during inquiries on both sides of the Atlantic for fear it would mean financial ruin for the ship's owners and his fellow employees with the parent company, The White Star Line. Patten's version of the disaster plays an important role in the story of an ugly duckling conformist who uncovers secrets behind her family's bank and attempts to right the wrongs of her family's past.

Robert Zemeckis, the movie director who brought us Romancing the Stone and the Back to the Future franchise to name a few, is returning to the time travel genre in Timeless. Warner Brothers is keeping the log line under wraps for now. And speaking of Back to the Future, Christopher "Doc Brown" Lloyd has signed on to play a time traveling scientist in a 3D Imax documentary called Time: The Fourth Dimension.

Oh, and remember the Most Attractive Male Physicist's Vote we stumbled across last week? We now have pictures! And voting bubbles. Two days left to cast your vote. Democracy is such a beautiful thing.

The next two weeks I'll be traveling all over New England in search of moderate temperatures, non-cow scenery and history far beyond "Remember the Alamo!" I promise to return with tales of adventure and vacay pictures, ad nauseum, as they relate to all things Vortex.

Be well until then.

A Window to 1922

Photography has never been my thing, which is surprising given its role in my novel The Night Caller and another novel still fermenting in my brain. I do love the photographs that give us a window to the distant past.

Kodak recently posted the 1922 original Kodachrome motion picture film test reels from George Eastman's collection online. Keep in mind this is thirteen years prior to the first full-length color motion picture.

A little like time travel, don't you think?

524

I finally saw the movie Julie & Julia. I know! My Netflix account is as neglected as the moon in daylight (~Jonathan Swift). The tag line of the movie said something about how Julie Powell embarked on this 365 day/524 recipes challenge to "enliven her uneventful life." Mostly, I'm thinking she feared her blog well would runneth dry.

When I started this blog almost four years and seventy-some followers ago, I worried my well would runneth dry, too. So I did what any self-respecting organizational freak would do: I made a list. A list filled with nuggets of inspiration. A list brimming with narrow, exclusively time-travel-themed post ideas. A serious list filled with serious topics and serious philosophical explorations of time travel. Nowhere on this list, I assure you, would you find Fabio, Elvis or appropriate homage to The Hoff.

And then one day, my head hurt. Wasn't physics the one thing I hated, really hated, about high school? Sure, the teacher was a Michael Vartan-esque hottie, but the stupid jumping-up-and-down-on-an-elevator essay question single-handedly bludgeoned my GPA. Why was I trying to explain wormholes? If blog readers want wormholes, they'll go to forevergeek or discovery. I only had to know enough to be a dangerously awesome force in time travel romantic fiction. So things like quantum holograms became quavering Holloway and alpha brain rhythms became alpha male-isms. I had pop culture fish to fry.

Did I lose direction? Not really. Did I loosen up? Holy hell to the yes. But there are still days when I come to the keyboard without a plan. And that is where five hundred and twenty four of anything is tempting.

So in the spirit of Julie & Julia, I give you a list of what 524 might look like at The Vortex:

524 Elvis songs, complete with annotations on the lyrics where his barely-contained studio gyrations caused a hiccup in his voice.

524 WTH moments in LOST, the series

524 absurd fictional methods of time travel

524 romantic faces of Fabio

524 Macgyverisms to Win a Girl's Heart

524 Pretentious Coffee shop Patron Profiles

524 Lines of Dialogue I Would Have Written Had I Not Been Writing a Daily Blog

524 Writing Rules I Stopped Following

524 Plot Notes Mined from My Vacuum Bag

524 Inventions to Torture the Nub Who Unleashed the Bamital Virus on My Hard Drive

524 Sentences in Fiction That Make Me Realize I Have Much Left to Learn

524 Never-Before-Used Physiological Character Responses To Convey Emotion. Okay, that well would dry up in, oh, a week. These are my biggest hurdle when writing.

524 Things a Romance Novel Hero Would Never Say

524 Ways to Romance a Physicist

Speaking of Physicists, time is running out to nominate your favorite hottie in ZapperZ's Most Attractive Physicist Contest. I, for one, am hoping for a photo gallery at voting time. It's just the kind of superficial-meets-science we love here at The Vortex.

What would your 524 look like?

Chasing Beautiful

Friday came and went, a bizarre, high-noon filled with all manner of beautiful and horrible. Which is why I rarely go to my hairstylist anymore. Don't get me wrong-she is talented and amazing and I do love me some sleek-cut locks, but it's the forced conversation with subtitles missing, the small-talk that leaves me feeling like an Us Weekly celeb gossip follower, and vanity with a hefty-enough price tag to make me say, "Yeah, I think I'll go all Crystal Gayle next year." But let's start at the beginning: the beautiful.

Ever hear a song for that first time that makes you want to stay too long in a hot car when you're running late and you don't notice the seat belt cutting you or people passing by? The song was layered and sad and rich and powerful. It made me wish I was a better writer. In those four minutes, it knocked every other favorite off its pedestal. The song, you ask? You'll have to read on to find out.

So I sat in the hair stylist's chair, this orchestral/rock masterpiece in my head and laid out my wishes: Layered, resting on my shoulder. Not on the shoulder of the invisible fairy dangling from my earlobes. My shoulder. Yeah, this was the horrible part. That fairy? Apparently, she does exist. But then my horror at my own insignificant misfortune was underscored when the woman in the chair beside me had a stroke. She was smiling and peaceful and there one minute and not the next. They came and asked her questions she couldn't answer and carried her away. I felt blessed to be able to stay and make that small talk and have too-short hair. I paid too much and left.

Later that day, I searched the internet using the lyrics I remembered. Maybe I wanted to recapture the warmth in the car, those few fleeting moments when the day had been beautiful and everyone was smiling. I watched the video on YouTube, tried to align the lead singer's voice with his surprising Ozzy-esque appearance, mourned that my interpretation did not come through visually. Yes, music is more powerful when listeners take the meaning and make it theirs. But mine wasn't theirs, so I just close my eyes when I hear it and it stays on that pedestal.

If you're curious, it's here.

What was the last song that fell instantly into your favorite category?