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I’m not a packrat, but I have an eye for memorabilia, socking away strange little keepsakes that would otherwise land in a dumpster. Examples include circuit boards from the PDP-11 system I managed in college, and the brass corporate mission plaque from MediQual, my first post-college employer.

Another such item is a poster-sized oil painting that hung over Sapient’s front desk back in 1995, when I was first hired by the nascent internet consulting company.

It was an original composition by Courtney, Sapient’s receptionist, who had recently graduated with a bachelors degree in studio art at Dartmouth College. Painted a year earlier, it depicts a streetscape of brownstones in Boston’s South End, where she lived.

During her years at Sapient, Courtney left the front desk and led new employee orientation, then ran Sapient’s People Strategy Organization (aka HR), and finally took overall responsibility for corporate culture. Over that time we had several moves and refreshes of our office space, and her painting was thrown into permanent storage and forgotten.

When the Dot-Com bubble burst, Sapient needed to shrink its physical footprint. Being a curious little opportunist, one day I accompanied our Operations team as they cleaned out one of the storage areas. Unearthing Courtney’s painting, and knowing that she was no longer around, I received permission to adopt it.

That was around 2002, toward the end of my tenure at Sapient, and just after my purchase of a condo in Boston’s Copley Square. When I brought the painting home, it took pride of place on the brick wall in my front entryway. And there it hung.

Years later, before I left Boston, I reached out to Courtney and offered to pay her or give the painting back. Despite initial interest, she never made arrangements to pick it up, and I never heard from her again.

The painting has been with me for nearly two decades, and now graces our Pittsburgh dining room. It is a treasured reminder of Boston, my time at Sapient, and the Back Bay condo I loved.

It’ll surprise those of you who know me best, but aside from my 2016 mention of my condo sale, I haven’t posted about money at all in four or five years, mostly because “people get funny when you talk about munny…”

But since money is one of my six necessities for happiness, and because things are afoot in that department, I’m going to correct that with a two-part look at money and investing. This first part will be a retrospective covering the 25-year period from 1990 to 2015, and a followup post will discuss more recent developments since moving to Pittsburgh.

The Windfall

The event that kickstarted my savings was, of course, working at Sapient. I joined a startup of 120 people, and during the dot-com boom we grew to over 3,600 staff, went public in an IPO, and were added to the prestigious S&P 500. We were one of the biggest internet darlings, and my Sapient stock options made me a moderate but comfortable nest egg.

On one hand that was just an unexpected windfall: a completely arbitrary gift from the heavens. On the other hand, I worked my ass off at Sapient for seven long years, and my coworkers did the same… That windfall was the result of our long hours, huge sacrifices, mental discipline, and collective business and technical acumen.

I was a pretty conservative stockholder. I never wrote covered calls against my Sapient stock (i.e. selling others the right to buy my stock at a particular future price), nor did I use my Sapient holdings to buy other equities on margin (i.e. borrowing against unrealized paper gains). Thus I avoided the pitfalls that claimed some of my coworkers’ fortunes when the internet bubble deflated. Some simply held their stock for too long and watched, paralyzed, as it spiraled into the shitter. Others got hit with margin calls, which forced them to sell their stock well below its peak.

I was a little bit wiser and a fair bit luckier. I knew buying on margin was stupid, and also that tying up 99 percent of my net worth in one volatile internet stock was even more stupid. Instead of thinking the stock could only go up, near the top of the bubble I decided to cash out most of my stock and use the proceeds to buy a condo. I attribute the fortuitous timing to blind luck, but financial wisdom drove my decision to move my tenuous paper gains into something less volatile, e.g. real estate.

Not that I wasn’t making big mistakes of my own. When I sold, I incurred a ludicrously heavy capital gains tax burden, which threw me into the dreaded Alternative Minimum Tax category. Then I compounded the problem by not knowing enough to file quarterly estimated taxes, which incurred substantial penalties. I know: “First World problem”. But let me tell you, writing an obscenely huge tax check to the government ranks as one of the most painful things I’ve ever done. Lesson learned!

Congratulations on Your New Mortgage!

Those who parrot conventional wisdom will tell you that carrying a mortgage is a smart way to force yourself to save money, and that you get great tax benefits by writing off your property taxes and mortgage interest payments. Then you sell your home for maybe 50 percent more than the original purchase price. Sounds pretty awesome, doesn’t it?

It isn’t. Consider your expenses.

No one lends you money for free. When you add up all your mortgage payments, you’ll find that over the course of the loan, you pay back two to three times the amount you borrowed. That’s like going to the bank every week and depositing $300, but only being credited with a $120 deposit!

Then add on all the ancillary costs: local property taxes, mortgage insurance premiums, home insurance, condo fees, utilities like heat and water and sewer and electricity, maintenance and repair, and more. Now your 50 percent profit is looking mighty thin.

But you won’t see that 50 percent profit anyways. Remember that when you sell your home, you’ve also got to cover the real estate agent’s fee and closing costs. And if there’s still any profit left, don’t forget the tax the government will levy on your capital gain.

Sure, sometimes owning a home makes financial sense. But much of the time it doesn’t, and it’s a ludicrously inefficient way of saving for your future.

Unemployment, or “Quasi-Retirement”?

So after selling my stock, my main job became ensuring that I could pay for that mortgage lunacy. For the next decade, I bounced around five jobs, quitting twice, being laid off twice, and taking severance when one employer got bought out. That’s pertinent because I learned one of the most valuable financial lessons of my life after leaving Sapient due to my first layoff experience.

Being laid off ain’t so bad at first. You might get some severance pay, and you’ll get unemployment insurance checks. You might be able to get by for a while; I did. I even kept my mortgage payments up! But a year later I had a problem: how to pay the mortgage when both my severance and unemployment ran out?

About the same time, I realized something important while doing my post-layoff income taxes. My only income that year came from my severance and unemployment checks. Then, when I looked at my deductions, I got those promised mortgage interest and property tax deductions, which would offset about $25,000 worth of income. Basically, those huge deductions offset all of my meager income, which meant I owed zero taxes!

But with my severance gone and unemployment ending, I was in a really strange position. I had a huge liability to pay (my mortgage), but no income, and a huge $25,000 tax deduction which I couldn’t benefit from unless I had income! If only there was some way to apply the deductions to my mortgage payment…

That’s when I remembered my other big, forgotten asset: my retirement savings. There was plenty of cash in my 401k and IRA, but since I wasn’t retirement age, I would have to pay regular income taxes on anything I withdrew, plus a 10 percent penalty.

But if I only withdrew $30,000, that “income” would be completely offset by my mortgage deductions, plus my personal income tax exemption. Essentially, I could withdraw a certain amount from my retirement account, and—thanks to those mortgage deductions—pay *no income taxes on it at all*, just the 10 percent penalty! Then I could use that money to pay my mortgage, and everything would be copacetic!

Now, I wouldn’t advise normal people to raid their retirement account. But compared to my Sapient windfall, my IRA was a small part of my net worth. I always expected to finance my retirement with the proceeds from my Sapient stock (now tied up in my Back Bay condo), rather than my comparatively small “retirement” account. So it actually made sense to raid my IRA account.

That worked out so well that I took three years off between Sapient and my next job. I recharged my utterly depleted energy levels, did lots of biking, traveled, and generally just enjoyed the hell out of life. It felt like taking three years of my retirement and pulling them forward into my forties, when I could enjoy them more fully than if I were older. It was an immense, immense blessing.

And boy, did I internalize that lesson! When I went back to work, I dedicated myself to building up my savings, so that when I was laid off again in 2008, I could afford to take two years off without having to raid my retirement account. And another whole year off in 2014, when my employer was bought out. And I converted the majority of my IRA to a Roth IRA, a taxable event that was made easier by having no other income for that year, but large mortgage deductions.

To be honest, in the 16 years since Sapient let me go, I’ve spent more time unemployed than employed. Having the financial resources to take a year or two between jobs, bringing several years of my retirement forward, has been one of the greatest blessings and most valuable financial lessons of my life.

Taking Stock

After leaving Sapient, my financial life was mostly quiet, since most of my net worth was tied up in my condo. I did hold some money back, so that I had a little cash to invest elsewhere.

At first I tried my hand buying individual stocks, but being very uneducated about the market, I had mixed results at best. Looking back, I’m surprised at how many individual stocks I bought. At various points I held: Cardinal Health, Staples, Fleet Bank / BankBoston, gold miner Freeport McMoran, MBNA, and Sprint.

I never made real money on any of those stocks, and eventually accepted the fact that I was taking too much financial risk and not reaping any reward. And more than anything else, I wanted to keep those assets safe, so that they would cover my expenses if I had the opportunity to take time off between jobs. So I satisfied myself with the much safer alternative of just buying and holding less volatile mutual funds.

Paying the mortgage and shepherding my assets, alternating between work and time off: that’s how more than a decade would pass. That would change dramatically in 2016, but that part of the story will be told in my followup post: The Ghost of Munny Present…

So I moved. Issat such a big thing?

For me, absolutely! Never in my life have I moved this far, and never before have I relocated beyond the familiar woods and towns of New England. Previously, my longest move was only half as far as this one, and that was more than 25 years ago!

It’s not just the distance that makes the move a big deal, but also the tearing down of my Boston life.

When I arrived in Boston, I spent the next quarter century carefully constructing my ideal life: a meaningful career, an amazing home, and financial stability, surrounded by intelligent and interesting people, in a vibrant and captivating city. With the passage of time, I exceeded my own expectations and achieved the life I’d dreamed of.

Obviously, the symbol of that success was my condo: my ability to finance it, its history, and its location at the very center of Boston’s urban life. Directly outside my bay windows were the Hancock Tower, the Pru, and the unforgettable campanile of New Old South Church. On any given day, if I looked outside I would see horse-mounted policemen, streetcorner buskers, shoppers indulging in posh Newbury Street shoppes, Hare Krishnas chanting, Critical Mass or charity rides, Patriots or Red Sox championship parades, the Pride spectacle, First Night festivities, classical or pop concerts in Copley Square, all manner of political rallies, the finish of the Boston Marathon, or the seasonal Santa Speedo Run… You get the idea: there was always something going on, and thanks to where I lived, my life was more eventful and enjoyable… Which makes it very difficult to walk away from.

For all these reasons, I love Boston more than anywhere else in the world. It was the home that I created with a reasonably successful adult life, and my condo was the physical symbol of that achievement.

Hopefully that helps you understand why leaving my condo and my city behind is such a big deal for me. I am turning my back on everything that I love and know and rely upon, and beginning again from nothing. It’s a huge challenge, and moving out of the safe, familiar, and controlled is not something I’m very comfortable with.

As if all that weren’t enough, I’m embarking on living with a woman for the first time in 22 years. Although my previous attempts didn’t last terribly long, I’ve hopefully learned something from those mistakes. But after two decades of happily living alone, cohabitating will be yet another major challenge to adapt to.

At the same time, the Boston I love has been changing out from under me. I’m reminded of how fleeting happiness can be, and that even if we could keep things from changing, humans aren’t wired to be happy in a static situation, no matter how pleasant.

So that’s the background. For some people, moving is just a regular and routine part of life. But after comfortably “settling down” in Boston, I find it downright scary to pull up roots and transplant myself into an utterly unfamiliar city.

I’ve now been in Pittsburgh for two weeks. On the positive side, the mundane, practical aspects of integrating households have gone well, and kept me from excessive navelgazing (until now). Food and cooking will probably require the most adaptability, thanks to the most obstinate gas stove in the history of mankind.

In the meantime, the chaos of moving has thankfully relieved me of the duty to observe this year’s holiday season. Thanks to record-setting warmth, I’ve already completed four bike rides, exploring 75 miles of local streets: every road steeper than anything in Massachusetts. And I’ve had a few social encounters, which will remain a perpetual work in progress.

The attempt to sell my Boston condo has begun, although there’s stress there due to this being my first time through that process, as well as some chaos introduced by my real estate agent. I’m hoping it will be unexpectedly painless, but that’s probably not realistic. But there should be a bucket of munny at the end of it…

Which leaves the relationship to talk about. Inna and I have worked surprisingly well together thus far, given our historically divergent tastes. Although we’ve been close friends for 18 years, it’s still very early days and our relationship will evolve quite a bit over the coming weeks, months, and hopefully years.

With such a basal change, it will probably be decades before I can conclude whether moving out of Boston was the right thing to do. But had I not done it, I would always wonder whether I should or shouldn’t have. Making the move was the only definitive way to find out, and it makes sense to do it sooner, while I am still hale enough to handle the transition.

I’ll miss Boston and my friends there terribly, but after two weeks away: so far so good, at least.

Because they only last 45 minutes, summers in New England can get pretty busy. Take the past couple weeks, for example. Here’s a day-by-day account of the past 14 days…

17 Wed

After a regular day at work, I received a call from someone interested in buying my condo unrenovated. That was about an hour before my contractor arrived to sign the contract for my bathroom renovation, which I then put off until I had a chance to speak to my real estate agent. And an hour after that, my best friend Inna arrived from Pittsburgh to begin a two-day visit.

18 Thu

Spent the day with Inna, but also met with the real estate agent to determine whether to proceed with my renovations or not.

19 Fri

Spent the morning with Inna before seeing her off on a flight to Germany. Spent the remains of the day packing for the next day’s bike ride.

20 Sat

Spent about nine hours in the saddle, biking 130 miles from Boston to Provincetown in my annual Outriders ride (writeup). Kicked around Provincetown until my late-night ferry back to Boston.

21 Sun

One precious day of rest, which was badly needed, since I seemed to be developing a sore throat.

22 Mon

After a regular work day, ran home to change into fancy clothes for an evening cruise of Boston Harbor to celebrate my employer’s 10,000th client. Very tired from too much socializing, biking, and lack of sleep!

23 Tue

You might call this a day of rest, except that it included work, laundry, a grocery run, and packing for another bike ride. And my sore throat was getting worse…

24 Wed

I biked in to work, and after work biked out to Waltham to pick up my registration packet for the weekend’s MS Ride.

25 Thu

Led a contingent of co-workers on a 70-mile bike ride up to Ipswitch and back for Buildium’s beach day summer event (writeup). More energy-sapping socializing! Kinda scraped myself up playing beach soccer.

26 Fri

A regular work day, but it included a free, private ice cream truck as a reward for being nominated in Boston’s best places to work survey!

27 Sat

Woke up at 4am to ride down to UMass Boston, and then another 100 miles to Bourne with friends from Buildium for the Cape Cod Getaway MS Ride (writeup). Stayed overnight in a Mass Maritime Academy dorm. (Note that I said “stayed overnight”, not “slept”.)

28 Sun

Sunday’s 75-mile MS Ride to Provincetown was cancelled due to weather: 55 mph winds, record cold, and record rainfall. We got soaked to the bone just getting from the cafeteria to the bus outside that would bring us back to Boston, and I got completely and utterly drenched after riding 4 wind-blown miles from UMass back to my condo. Yes, I still had my cold, too.

29 Mon

After working half a day despite illness, Inna flew back into town for another quick visit on her return trip from Europe.

30 Tue

Took half a day to see Inna back to the airport and on a flight home, and then enjoyed a surprise four and a half hour planning meeting due to shifting priorities at work that promise to make the next few months extremely challenging.

Knowing how insane June was going to be, I intentionally left this Fourth of July holiday weekend COMPLETELY open. So now I’m enjoying napping throughout the day, recovering from my cold, being completely anti-social, and writing up some blog entries to share what’s been going on.

It was nice to have interesting things to do in June, but I’m very happy to have this brief, quiet respite at the moment.

Patriots’ Day is a state holiday, which my employer honored until this year, having been purchased by a company in Las Vegas that doesn’t think particularly much of Massachusetts’ Revolutionary War history.

The Boston Marathon, which takes place on that day, finishes a block—150 yards—from my condo. Between setup, tear-down, and cleanup, it royally screws up transportation for most of a week. Street closures bring most of the neighborhood to a standstill. They close my MBTA station (Copley) and you physically cannot cross Boylston Street without going a mile out of your way.

Since I would be unable to get to work (or back), I chose to work from home on this year’s Patriots’ Day. In the evening, I also had an appointment to pick up my new bike and do a full fitting, although I didn’t know whether I’d be able to get through the crowds to get to the bike shop!

For most of the day, I ignored the race. Public events are common where I live, whether it’s the Walk for Hunger or a pride parade or a Critical Mass ride or a sports team celebrating a championship or a free concert or a political rally or the Santa Speedo Run or whatever. I mostly tuned out the race’s PA announcer, the shouting vendors, and the partying revelers. Once or twice I looked out my window to see the crowds of exhausted runners walking down Boylston Street, having just crossed the finish line.

Just before 3pm I heard a loud boom. Yes, it might have sounded like a canon, but the first thing I thought of was that someone had taken a huge dump truck and dropped it from 20 feet up. It was an echoing heavy metal sound, like a big truck carrying steel I-beams hitting a wall. Except the concussion was a lot stronger than that. My building was rocked, and a dozen building and car alarms were going off.

Twelve seconds later, as I wondered what was up, I heard the second blast. It was further away from me, but still didn’t sound normal. I got up and went to the window and saw hundreds of panicked runners, spectators, and volunteers streaming out of Copley Square, running down Dartmouth Street toward me. (That’s my condo in the news photo at right.)

Something very bad had obviously happened in the square. I looked for the smoke that would be the tell-tale sign of an explosion, but there was none that I could see above the single row of five-story brownstones between me and the finish line.

My first instinct was to share the news. I went to Facebook and entered what I knew:

Something bad at the marathon… People running all over. Two huge booms, whole building shook, emergency vehicles all over the place.

My next instinct was that this was going to be national news, and I should reach out to friends and family who might wonder if I was injured, so that was my next task.

After that, there was just a whole lot of news watching, and checking out my window as runners, volunteers, and spectators fled the area, rescue vehicles swarmed in to assist the injured, and law enforcement units sealed off the neighborhood.

As it turned out, the first bomb blast was a block from me (see the map), right near my bank and across the street from the Boston Public Library. The second was a block further up, across from Lord & Taylor and my walking route to my neighborhood grocery store.

Although cell service was initially flooded—and despite persistent reports that the police had intentionally terminated cell phone service city-wide—service freed up as people gradually left the neighborhood. I spent the next couple hours fielding inquiries from friends via cell phone, Facebook, instant messaging, and text messages.

Despite all the chaos, I still thought that I could make my bike fitting appointment across town, and brought my old bike down to the lobby. On the way out the door I heard another muffled boom which apparently was a controlled detonation of an abandoned bag that wound up being completely innocuous.

On the street, thousands of people were milling around aimlessly, and the cops had cordoned Dartmouth street off at Commonwealth Avenue. What that meant is that my building was squarely on the edge of the lockdown zone; We could go in and out the main (north) entry, but the side (east) and rear (south) doors were off limits.

I biked off through streets that were largely empty of cars, but with a large number of pedestrians walking around obliviously. Once I got to the bike shop, I saw the “closed early” sign and turned around and made my way home. Knowing Comm Ave would be a mess due to the marathon, I took my only other alternative: the Charles River bike path.

While crossing the Dartmouth Street footbridge over Storrow Drive, one matronly lady headed in the other direction yelled at me, “Don’t go there! The police are there!” to which I, of course, responded, “I live there.”

A few minutes after I got settled back into my apartment, our fire alarm started going off. I assumed the cops had decided to evacuate us, but I checked the hallway and actually smelled smoke. So I started going through the handy list of evacuation tasks I keep by the door. Grady the cat, who up until now had shown absolutely no evidence of concern, was (justifiably) spooked by the blaring fire alarm and it took me a while to corner him and get him into his carrier.

As it turned out, one of the residents had burned dinner. What an irresponsible thing to do, given all the other stuff going on in the neighborhood that needed the fire department’s attention! After a bit of fresh air, the residents were let back inside to soothe our now doubly-jangled nerves.

As night fell, outside my window Newbury Street—which was within the lockdown zone—was absolutely deserted except for cops and military personnel. Absolutely no one was allowed into or out of most of the Back Bay. Huge situation response trucks took up station as the police began to comb through what they termed a “crime scene” that was several square miles in area.

I had planned to take the next day (Tuesday) off to ride my new bike. Despite not having the bike, with the entire neighborhood sealed off there was very little point in trying to get to work, so I took it as a vacation day. And if I could get out and pick up the bike, then I’d take it for a bit of a shakedown cruise.

That morning, one positive development was that the cops opened up Newbury Street to traffic, reducing the lockdown zone a bit and ensuring that my building, at least, would be accessible.

I wasn’t home for much of the day, tho. It was an amazingly stressful and hectic day, made worse by the continuing closure of the Copley MBTA station. At a high level, it went like this…

Walk half a mile to Hynes station. Get past National Guard troops. Take the trolley to the bike shop in Brighton. Take the new bike for a 16-mile test ride outside of the city. Take the trolley back to Boston. Walk half a mile home from Arlington station. Have a Pop-Tart and a glass of juice. Ride the old bike two miles back out to the bike shop. Have an abbreviated fitting done. Ride the old bike two miles back home. Walk half a mile to Arlington station. Take the trolley back out to the bike shop (don’t forget all the National Guard watching this). Ride the new bike two miles home. Turn around and walk half a mile back to Hynes. Hop an MBTA bus to Central Square in Cambridge. Inhale a burrito. Walk to my meditation center for my Tuesday night practice group. Meditate for an hour, then socialize a bit. Walk back to Central and hop the MBTA bus back to Hynes. Walk down to the Fenway Whole Foods, since the two grocery stores that are nearer to me are in the lockdown zone. Too late; they’re closed, so buy milk and OJ at a nearby CVS. Shlep those another mile back home. Collapse.

After just five hours’ sleep, Wednesday I went back to work. The lockdown zone shrank a bit more—down from 17 blocks to 12—freeing up Hereford, Berkeley, and Clarendon. Investigators concluded that the bombs had been constructed of pressure cookers, nails, and metal pellets, and announced that they had obtained surveillance video evidence showing a suspect.

Thursday President Obama (and many others) came to town for an inter-faith ceremony. That night the FBI released photographs of the two suspects.

Friday I was going to bike to work, because it was going to be the warmest day in more than six months, but that plan came to a crashing halt when I learned that shortly after the photos had been released, the bombers had engaged the police in firefights in Cambridge and Watertown, and one of them had been killed. The police had most of eastern Massachusetts completely locked down: no Amtrak, no MBTA, no commuter rail, no cabs, all businesses closed, and residents were told to stay indoors all day.

Despite live news broadcasts all day long, literally nothing happened in the 18 hours after the firefight. After a fruitless search of the neighborhood in Watertown where the surviving suspect was last seen, the police gave a press conference wherein they lifted the stay-put order. On the good side, that meant that the Amtrak would be running Saturday morning, when I had plans to travel to Maine.

But going outside sounded like the height of folly to me, because the second suspect was still armed and on the run. I guess the cops were probably hoping that he’d just turn up somewhere.

Which, as it turns out, was exactly what happened. A man just outside the cordoned-off part of Watertown found the remaining fugitive injured and semi-conscious, hidden in a shrink-wrapped yacht in his backyard, and the police came and took him into custody.

With the second suspect on the way to the hospital, the whole area burst out in celebrations. Of course, even despite the all-clear and the police high-fiving one another and the T being opened, Copley Square MBTA station remained closed, and the entire 12-block area around my apartment was still off-limits to the public.

That pretty much killed the day Friday.

On Saturday I did manage to get out of town on the Downeaster, and returned again on Sunday night. Copley and my neighborhood still off limits.

Monday. Still off limits. On the way home from work, I stopped at the grocery store, then lugged my provisions a mile and a half home. But the FBI turned the site back over to the city of Boston.

Tuesday. Still off limits. CIMC had a special evening gathering, led by the three guiding teachers.

Finally, on Wednesday morning they opened things up. After nine days of being unable to use my MBTA station or cross my neighborhood, the marathon (in both senses of that word) was finally over!

So that’s what happened. Now for a few thoughts…

One oddity is that I remember having the thought—sometime in the week leading up to the marathon—that we hadn’t had any major national emergencies in a long time, and that we were probably due. I don’t recall what prompted that thought, but I am certain it happened.

Although thinking back on it, Back Bay has been through a lot lately. We just got through a region-wide road closure due to a massive blizzard, but before that we spent 48 hours without power after a substation failure, and a week without drinking water when a 10-foot water main broke out in Weston. And then there were hurricanes Sandy and Irene.

I’m disappointed that I didn’t do more to help other people over the past week, to put my compassion practice into action. While I was probably right in telling myself that I wasn’t needed at the bomb scene, I probably could have helped stranded runners or traumatized spectators. But I guess there’s something to learn from my inaction, and hopefully I’ll do a better job next time.

On the other hand, one close friend said it was unexpectedly thoughtful of me to let people know that I was okay. And another friend used the word “compassion” as one of the three things that she thought I epitomized. So that was mildly reassuring.

Speaking of compassion and first responders, I saw an interesting reaction to the bombing that spoke eloquently to me about how men’s manifestations of love and compassion go unseen and unacknowledged. Here:

I had an amazing insight about men. This one insight seems life-changing to me: “Acts of heroism are acts of love.”
 
Why is this life changing? Because I don’t think the narrative out there right now is that men are constantly involved in deep, fundamentally good, acts of love. All the time. Men are not talked about, as a group, as being demonstrative of their love. Of being ongoing catalysts for acts of goodness. And yet they do that all the time. I think the narrative is that men take heroic actions because they are told it’s a role they must play, because men are “supposed” to be strong, supposed to be brave. Because they are “manning up” the way they were taught to. If love is talked about with men, it is in the context of sexuality. When men are called “lovers”, it is often code for “womanizers”. But men act in love, and show that love, all the time. For some unfathomable reason, we call it something else.
 
I don’t think men get enough credit for love.

I think my meditation practice really helped me deal with a situation that would otherwise produce a lot of anxiety and emotional discomfort. While I saw and acknowledged my own emotions, I was much more intrigued by the reactions of the people around me.

For several days, the main question on people’s minds was the search for “who”: who did it?

Lots of people either undertook their own search for the culprit based on photographs that had been posted or formulated their own opinions based on little to no data. But realistically, no private citizen was going to identify the bomber; that’s what we pay our law enforcement agencies for. Get out of the way and let them do their job!

As my teacher pointed out, this compulsion comes entirely from mental discomfort, because the identity of the bomber has absolutely no relevance for most of us. In fact, if the bomber had never been found, it would have made absolutely no material difference in most people’s lives. So why did they spend so much mental energy and anguish trying to answer this question? That kind of desperate, undisciplined thought is the symptom of someone with an undeveloped sense of self-awareness.

Then, after it was learned that the suspects were pretty average Cambridge kids, the next question everyone was asking was “why”: why would someone do such a thing? This was prevalent both in my family as well as from other practitioners at CIMC, and it really surprised me.

I think the very question is indicative of cultural bias. While many of us say that we respect and value other cultures—especially in a highly educated, multi-cultural town like Cambridge—very few of us understand what that means in practice. It’s frustrating that I have to spell it out, but people from other cultures will have different values! They won’t be the same as ours.

While a Buddhist might value non-harming above all other things, and your average American Christian might value order and stability, someone from a foreign culture might consider those less important than individual freedom or cultural preservation or economic fairness. Why would someone bomb innocent civilians? Because it’s important to them within the framework of their values.

I don’t understand what is so mysterious about the fact that other people might have different values than yourself. Why is that so incomprehensible? But people really seem to operate on this unspoken assumption that everyone shares their values. That’s not true even within a family, never mind across vast ethnic, religious, geographic, and political divisions!

I heard the phrase “I don’t understand” so many times that I wanted to grab people and shake them. Of course you don’t understand! You’re not *trying* to understand. A criminal’s actions only make sense when viewed through *their* value system; of course it doesn’t make sense if you insist on viewing it through your very different values. That’s like wondering why birds don’t save their energy and just drive south like the rest of us, rather than fly. Of course it doesn’t make sense if you insist on interpreting bird behavior using human norms and values!

But this question of “why” is even broader than that. Sure, any seemingly “inexplicable” act (criminal or otherwise) can be partially explained by understanding the values espoused by the protagonist. But what about acts of nature or acts of “god”? Aren’t people are just as prone to ask “why” in response to a tsunami or a wildfire or a landslide or a cancer diagnosis?

I find this baffling, because change is inevitable and life is very fragile. These aren’t just platitudes to make you feel better (in fact, they should make you feel quite insecure). But more importantly, these are the incontrovertible base assumptions and conditions that we live under! There doesn’t need to be a *reason* for something bad to happen, because bad things are a part of life, an indisputable fact. All this breast-beating and asking why they happen is like asking why nitrogen happens or bemoaning the law of gravity. If you are asking why it happened, you really need to reexamine the mistaken assumptions you live by.

In contrast, I suppose I should point out something uplifting, too. With so much focus on the bombers and their actions, consider the correspondingly much greater number of people and acts of kindness and compassion that took place over the past week. We should all be heartened by the vastly larger outpouring of support for those affected.

I want to particularly highlight two tweets that crossed my feed shortly after the bombing. In the midst of the chaos and terror, many people thought of giving blood to help the injured. But still, I was amazed by this:

Red Cross reporting sufficient blood in banks at this time. Some marathoners ran directly to MGH to donate after blasts.

I can’t imagine finishing a marathon, running an extra mile, and then having blood drawn. Simply amazing! Not especially smart, but amazing.

But I really felt a deep pride in my city when I read the next tweet. How does Boston respond to a terrorist attack? Like this:

I have no idea how we are supposed to react to something like this, other than love each other more.

I’ve always loved this city. It’s a wonderful mix of ambition and compassion, competitiveness and brotherhood, pride of place and openness, history and innovation, intelligence and grit, vibrant city culture and outdoor activities for the athletically inclined. Boston isn’t perfect, but it strives mightily to be the best. And contrary to the intentions of these terrorist wannabes, the marathon bombing they undertook did something very special: it provided us with a rare opportunity to demonstrate love for our city and our fellow Bostonians, and it bound this great community together more tightly than ever before.

I love that dirty water. Aw, Boston you’re my home.

Heck, I’m so moved I might even include Cambridge…

The emergency evacuation list posted by the exit contains the following items:

• Cat in cat carrier
• Shut off water and electricity
• The important papers pouch (wills, passports, insurance, safe deposit box keys)
• Digital camera, after shooting to document the current state of the apartment
• Laptop, cords, backup DVDs, portable hard drive, and USB memory stick
• Cell phone and cords
• Wallet, cash, keys
• Warm clothes if wintertime
• Flashlight

I have a nightlight in the bathroom. It’s one of those jobbies with a little light detector, so it only comes on at night. It manages to avoid its own light confusing itself by directing the light down, while the light sensor is located on top of the unit.

What do you think would happen if you were to use two mirrors to redirect the nightlight’s output up and back and down onto the sensor?

Well, I can safely say that empirical testing shows that the damned thing will, in fact, go berserk. When it’s dark it lights up, which makes it light, so it shuts off, which makes it dark, so it lights up, which makes it light, so it shuts off, which makes it dark, so it lights up, which makes it light, so it shuts off, which makes it dark, so it lights up, which makes it light, so it shuts off, which makes it dark, so it lights up, which makes it light, so it shuts off, which makes it dark, so it lights up…

About six times per second, I’d estimate. If it was a little brighter, your bathroom could be transformed into strobe suitable for a 1970s disco lounge! But if it was a little brighter, it might also not exhibit such manifestly dim behavior.

Funny that just as I’m putting so much time and energy into being someone else’s pillar of strength, so many bad things are happening to me.

Yesterday it was the bike. I took my bike to the shop for an unrelated fix, and they say they need to replace the headset, which they installed brand new just five weeks earlier.

As if that wasn’t enough gross incompetence, they don’t have the parts, and the guy who took my bike apart isn’t capable of putting it back together again using the old parts, so I have to survive the next ten or more days without my primary mode of transportation to my job or to the hospital to support my best friend in her time of need, and without any ability to continue training for my charity ride.

On top of the existing issues with the ceiling leak, falling behind in class, and being behind schedule in the fundraising for the charity ride, this is really getting discouraging. June (and perhaps now July?) seems to have been officially declared “National Kick Orny in the Teeth Month”. What crisis am I gonna have to endure next?

Today’s Boston Globe has an article on Newbury Street’s DuBarry mural, which depicts nearly a hundred famous Bostonians in a trompe d’oeil façade.

The mural sits just outside my condo’s bay window, and is a well-known and popular landmark. Every day without exception, a dozen or so Back Bay shoppers and sightseers stop and photograph the painting. Numerous tour busses stop here to disgorge their camera-wielding passengers, who gather uncertainly in the middle of the busy parking lot that faces the mural, gazing silently up like a flock of emperor penguins. And, of course, there’s the constant stream of Duck Boat Tours, whose announcers also point out the mural on their loudspeakers as they swing by.

The accompanying photograph was taken in May of 2001, the day I moved into my condo. As you can see, there were maybe a half dozen small areas of damage in the middle of the mural where the brick was exposed. As usual, click for bigness.

Today, I would say that nearly a quarter of the mural is gone, either fallen, as you see, or peeled off. The mural’s decay has been precipitous, and it has become an eyesore, although the tourists still come by the dozens and take their pictures still. Hence the concern over the mural’s fate that you can read about in the article.

Amazingly, the article even mentions the “homeless squatter” that I wrote about a year ago in my journal entry “Home is where you hang your cinder block…”.

The renovation of the building—which excludes the mural—has been going on all winter, and looks like it will continue for quite a while to come.

Pathetically, the question of ownership and responsibility for the mural’s party wall remains an unresolved issue between these two prominent businessmen. The mural’s prognosis remains uncertain.

List five things you'd like to accomplish by the end of the year.

1. Get a job; got any leads?
2. Learn a lot in my Flash animation class
3. Finish three new stories for DargonZine and get the other participants in DZ’s big common story arc to finish their parts
4. Get the DargonZine poster and biz card designs finalized
5. Survive the goddamned holiday season

 

List five people you've lost contact with that you'd like to hear from again.

1. Linda (The Ex)
2. Gordo Cur-chaser (college wombmate)
3. AmyJean (crushness)
4. Lt. Fairbank (former co-worker, he was a fungi)
5. Nichols (childhood best fred)

 

List five things you'd like to learn how to do.

1. Compassion
2. Drum (set, hand, all of it)
3. Draw
4. Sail
5. Select men’s clothing (the world’s most elusive skill)

 

List five things you'd do if you won the lottery (no limit).

1. Many new bikes and cool cycling equipment, and go see the Tour de France!
2. Many new computers
3. Renovate the bathroom, replace the electric baseboard heat, fix the hardwood in the entryway floor, re-paint Puggle’s room, buy new appliances, get better lighting, new window treatments, get the A/C inspected, fix the cocktail table finish…
4. Pay off my mortgage and buy my uncle’s former camp up in Maine
5. Try writing professionally

 

List five things you do that help you relax.

1. Bike
2. Meditate
3. Sit in the sun on one of the docks along the Charles River
4. Go off in the woods somewhere
5. Snuggle with Puggle the Fuzzle!