Is it bizarre that, whenever I fetch the mail from the dingy wall-mounted letter box on our front porch, that I secretly thrill to the hope that someone sent me money? Even though my paycheck is direct deposit, even when it’s not my birthday or Christmas, even if the government would no sooner send us a check than it would send Ahmadinejad a fresh fruit basket, I still cling to the absurd aspiration that there will be a check, in the mailbox, for me.
Surely this is a sickness.
Posted in Existence.
– March 9, 2010
Last night after dinner, I had a choice: Watch the Oscar ceremony, or make sizable headway into For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway, which I am reading out of the pure abject shame of not yet having the pleasure.
Initially I choose the Oscars. Yes, I am ashamed. I watched ridiculous celebrities decked out in peacockery, many of dubious talents, earnestly honor each other while the camera perpetually panned the bored-looking audience in search of reaction. Every category is predictable. Why, I haven’t seen 80% of the nominated movies/performances, and my guesses were scarily accurate. The affair was redeemed somewhat by the comedic riffing of Steve Martin (who plays a mean banjo) but I started to drift off right around the Oscar for Best Make-up. I mean, really, life is just too frigging short.
So I picked up For Whom the Bell Tolls. I am enjoying it immensely, owing completely to Hemingway’s masterfully sparse use of language. He is the opposite of me, in that he can go entire chapters without using an adverb. When his language does flourish, it is simple and poetic, like in the following sex scene (which adroitly obscures any dirtiness while retaining the obvious sensuality):
Where there had been roughness of fabric all was smooth with a smoothness and firm rounded pressing and a long warm coolness, cool outside and warm within, long and light and closely holding, closely held, lonely, hollow-making with contours, happy-making, young and loving and now all warmly smooth with a hollowing, chest-aching, tight-held loneliness.
I wonder how Hemingway would have written this passage if he were writing today? The strict literary morality of his times weighed heavily on Hemingway’s prose; his more informal writing is rift with sex and blasphemy, and infinitely more entertaining because of it.
The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof, shit detector. This is the writer’s radar and all great writers have had it. (in the Paris Review)
If you can’t say fornicate can you say copulate or if not that can you say co-habit? If not that would have to say consummate I suppose. Use your own good taste and judgment. (letter to editor of Esquire magazine)
In Europe then we thought of wine as something as healthy and normal as food and also as a great giver of happiness and well-being and delight. Drinking wine was not a snobbism nor a sign of sophistication nor a cult; it was as natural as eating and to me as necessary. (A Moveable Feast)
To me heaven would be a big bull ring with me holding two barrera seats and a trout stream outside that no one else was allowed to fish in and two lovely houses in the town; one where I would have my wife and children and be monogamous and love them truly and well and the other where I would have my nine beautiful mistresses on nine different floors. (letter to F. Scott Fitzgerald)
Posted in Culture Of Sorts.
– March 8, 2010
{Note: After night skiing at Wachusett Mountain several weeks ago, I composed a post with several off-the-cuff observances. Most notably, I expressed surprise that I — a relative snow sports novice who only 5 years ago couldn’t stand up on skis — could ably coast down a trail that was labeled with a black diamond, and therefore concluded that the black trails at Wachusett were underwhelming compared to the black trails in the only other place I had ever skied extensively — the French Alps. It was just one of hundreds of “duh” conclusions I make on my little obscure website, and it might have gone unnoticed by the world had the post not found its way onto an online NE skiing forum. I became the object of a disdainful circle jerk of ski jocks who intepreted my remarks as evidence of a mean-spirited pompous attitude towards New England skiing and life in general. So for now on, whenever I blog about downhill skiing, I’m going to pretend that I’m speaking directly to a teeming lodge bar of armed beer-drinking skiers at 5pm. In other words… I’ll keep my snide thoughts to myself.}
This weekend we went to New Hampshire to revel in the spring skiing conditions that have prevailed after an iffy winter. After much debate as to which skiing disciplines we should undertake given the conditions and our inclinations, we decided to go XC skiing (skating) at Bretton Woods on one day and downhill skiing/snowboarding at Cannon Mountain the next day. (Snow, like youth, is fleeting, so every time we go skiing in the spring we tell ourselves that this could be the last time… but we’ll probably be back next week.)
Bretton Woods Nordic Center is, for my $17, simply the best trail system for XC skating in New Hampshire. The extensive trails are consistently wide enough to accommodate two skaters plus a classic skier in the tracks. The hills are (mostly) gentle and rolling, so a good skier can go downhill and then uphill without losing momentum. There’s some great flats, too, when you want to really burn some snow. Plus, all of this is within view of Mt Washington and the Presidential Range, as well as the idyllic and historic Mt. Washington Resort (a hotel so big that it has its own bed and breakfast.)
Mt. Washington Resort
Mt. Washington and the Presidentials
The weather was near-perfect: blue skies, high-30s, and a mostly calm wind. In the morning, the snow was still icy enough to make for good skating conditions, but the same sun that warmed us also warmed the snow, and by afternoon it was too soft to skate gracefully. Which was okay, because after two hours of XC skating, I can’t skate too gracefully anyway. Much better to fool around and gape at the scenery.
Posing on old railroad bridge
On the trails, the snowshoers threatened to outnumber the skiers. Indeed, snowshoeing just might save XC skiing centers, who have opened trails and stocked rental equipment to cater to this booming winter activity. I think that’s great, but seriously snowshoers: What is compelling you to walk on the groomed XC trails? You’re wearing… snowshoes. (I know, I know, I said I’d be nice. I don’t want to end up being pilloried on some online snowshoeing forum — those bitches are vicious.)
Although there were a good number of XC skiing experts/skilled amateurs at Bretton Woords, the skiing crowd was dominated by people over 50 and retirees — a fit bunch, and easy to banter with in the lodge, but still…. being in a room full of middle-agers wearing tight black pants can be, at times, jarring. For your comfort and safety, I will omit pictures. (God, I just can’t stop with the mean, can I?)
In the nordic center, a pair of ski jumping skis were propped up against a wall, perhaps to celebrate America’s unlikely success in the Nordic Combined events at the Vancouver Olympics. (And I thought we owned every type of ski possible!)
Skis for Jumping
The next day, bright and early at 8:30, we headed off to Cannon Mountain. Having driven past Cannon dozens of times on I-93, I was excited but nervous to finally ski its expansive, steep trails. I climbed Cannon during my 4000-Footer Quest, so I know that Cannon commands respect; there was no way I’d be coasting down its black diamond trails. It also commands views — terrifying views for the vertigo-plagued skier who looks out into the void in front of her and finds that her legs have become throttled by her mind, which is convinced she is on the cusp of skiing off a cliff.
Cannon Mountain from I-93
These days, Cannon Mountain is puffed with pride over Bode Miller’s performance at the Vancouver Olympics, since it was on these steep icy hills that Bode learned how to ski. And while Bode’s success can be attributed to many factors, I don’t think that spending his formative years on Wachusett Mountain would have prepared him to win Olympic Gold.
In the Cannon Mountain Lodge Bar
Aside from the Bode cache, the coolest thing about Cannon is the tram — a 70-person gondola that seemed to be the quickest way up the mountain. It allowed us to make roughly a dozen satisfying runs down various intermediate trails. By the end of the afternoon, my thighs were screaming obscenities.
View from Cannon Mountain Tram
Very good spring skiing — by mid-afternoon, we could have skied in t-shirts had the wind not been so biting at the top and had we not stupidly attached our lift tickets to our jackets. Not too much iciness, although reportedly a bit rough for the snowboarders.
Getting a suntan
Towards noon we ventured over to the “calmer” part of the mountain, with the green trails and family zones. On the quad chair lift, I overheard two little boys talking:
Boy A: I blew up my house once.
Boy B: You did? How?
Boy A: I don’t know. I touched something and our house blew up.
Boy B: Did you die?
Boy A: No, but my pet did.
Boy B: Your pet did? What was your pet?
Boy A: A unicorn.
My new favorite punch line is “Did you die?” said with sober sincerity. As in, Mr. Pinault tells me that he hit an icy patch on the Avalanche trail. “Did you die?” Of course he didn’t. Because rage melts ice.
Rage
Posted in 4000 Footers, Existence.
– March 7, 2010
My loathing of former President Ronald Reagan is epic. I can’t really back up my feelings about Reagan with a fact-based assessment of his political performance, impact, or legacy, but I’ve always clung to the notion that I would be a very different person had I not spent my formative years as a Reagan Youth. Like, I’d be successful and shit.
So I need not waste words elucidating my thoughts about the Republican Congressman from North Carolina who is spearheading a bill to put Ronald Reagan on the $50 bill (here). Come on, Congressman… is this really about honoring The Gipper? Or is this just a scheme to dishonor the hated Ulysses S Grant — commander of the Northern Union army during the Civil War — by removing his face from our monetary supply and thus further from our public consciousness, so that the South may finally rise again?
It’s fitting that Ronald Reagan’s likeness adorn a somewhat rarefied and elite bill. But it’s unfortunate for me, because if I ever spied that smug mug in my wallet, I would probably have to burn it.
Posted in In the News.
– March 4, 2010
Yesterday in the mail, Mr. Pinault received a thick pamphlet from Victoria’s Secret with a coupon for a Free Panty. “Why is this addressed to me?” Mr. Pinault asked, handing it me.
I cocked an eyebrow and asked with mock insinuation, “Is there something you want to share with me?” Of course we both knew it was a remnant of that magical time early in our relationship, when he would buy me panties and negligees and I would buy him wine guides and waffle makers as we wooed each other on our way to the altar. Now, as the memory of the honeymoon wanes and we remain bound together by our love, our history, and our mutual fear of lawyers, I get residual Free Panty offers and he gets home-cooked meals featuring carb-free fare like pan-fried giblets and meatza.
The coupon is promoting Victoria’s Secret’s latest collection, called “I Love My Body” by Victoria (here). See, you can’t really tell from the pouty look of stupefaction on this woman’s face, but she just loves her body. And ladies, doesn’t she just inspire you to love your body, too?
I wanted to throw the cursed tract into the recycling right then and there, but what woman can resist free panties? I ripped open the mailing to find the terms and conditions of my complimentary undergarment. That’s when I gleaned a lick of hope that this whole “I Love My Body” by Victoria thing wasn’t just about long-limbed stick thin women with big perky breasts loving their bodies, but “Every Body” loving their bodies, like Dove Soap’s legendary Campaign for Real Beauty. ”
A Body for Every Body?! Has a societal tide been swayed by the backlash against impossible beauty standards? Is Victoria’s Secret becoming inclusive of body types other than the traditional busty toothpick? Umm…
Apparently not. That’s when I realized that Victoria’s Secret doesn’t want me to actually love my body. Why would they? I mean, if I truly loved my modest bustline that is slowly succumbing to gravity, would I feel compelled to mutate its appearance so it more perfectly fits into an abstract ideal? No, they want me to love their bras, which they euphemistically call “bodies.” What a mind fuck.
Anyway… my intellectual outrage just can’t stand up against free panties. I guess we really are the weaker sex.
Posted in Americana.
– March 3, 2010
So the Vancouver Winter Olympics have come to an end. Life returns to normal. Americans can go back to forgetting about the existence of roughly a dozen arcane winter sports, Canadians can go back to being a boring place where nothing ever happens, and Norway can go back to XC skiing, which is apparently all that anyone in the country of 5 million ever does. Seriously, what a bunch of fiends.
And Russia can go back to the days of the Gulag, after an enraged Russian Prime Minister Medvedev spoke about his country’s dismal performance in rather omnious terms (here): ”Those who are responsible for training for the Olympics must take responsibility. They must have the courage to submit their resignation. And if they do not have this resolve, we will help them.”
Medvedev is so going to go soviet on their asses.
Even better was the Russian hockey coach, who threatened to publicly execute his team in Red Square after they lost to Canada 7-3. I think the Americans should follow suit, and send a strong message to the US men’s and women’s curling teams that we’re not going to keep on tolerating failure on the curling rink. Curlers better start bring home some medals or they’ll be drawn and quartered on the National Mall .
Of course, if anyone deserves physical punishment for their Olympic performance, it is the French short track team. Every time I watched Apolo Onho battle those wily South Koreans in men’s short track, there was always some French guy wiping out on the ice and taking some unfortunate Canadian with him. It was inevitable. “These French fall like dominos” became our household’s Olympic anthem (sung to the tune of These Girls Fall Like Dominoes).
Posted in In the News.
– March 1, 2010
New Hampshire finally got the snow they’ve been waiting for, with upwards of 2 feet of wet, fluffy stuff plopping down during this past week’s multi-day Nor’Easter. Unfortunately for the snow sporting folk, the snow was followed by a day of rain. An imperfect storm.
Our favorite XC ski area in southern New Hampshire strategized carefully to preserve as much snow as possible in the borderline conditions, grooming selectively. Not a good day to leave the backcountry skies at home, as none of our favorite trails were groomed, and we were wearing our piddly skating skis.
Here’s a rare picture of Mr. Pinault falling! Not that I didn’t take my fair share of spills on the ungroomed open slope, riddled as it was with pockmarks and ice pools. “Look, it’s Lindsey Vonn!” he called as I careened into a plush pillowy snow bank, to the amusement of a group of high schoolers (who, I must add, crashed way more than I did).
Here I am at the pinnacle of the open slope, looking out upon Mount Monadnock.
The XC skiing area was packed and there were a lot of characters out on the trails today. Sometime after noon, big fatty flakes started to float down from the sky, and I felt that finally, winter has arrived.
Posted in Existence.
– February 27, 2010
This past week I spent some time in an elementary school, training teachers in the use of my company’s reading software. The training went well, although nagging childhood nostalgia constantly threatened to decimate my attention. Elementary school: that magical time when the classroom teacher is beloved and her favor is curried, when it’s cool to be a good student, and when you don’t have to take a shower after gym class. Recess is taken for granted, doodling is a legitimate academic pursuit, and the social scene is fueled by cupcakes and pool parties, not by a fraught tincture of hormones and peer pressure.
When I entered the school, a taut line of children filed past me, silent and purposeful, conjuring instant memories of that weird time in life when you and your classmates could not transition from place to place without forming a line. (Sort of like living in Japan, I guess.)
The training was held in the school’s computer lab, which provoked wonder instead of nostalgia. Why, when I was in elementary school, the school had exactly one computer, and it sat in the library as if on exhibition. I have no idea if it served any practical purpose. We learned exactly three things about computers in elementary school: “This, children, is a computer,” said the librarian, pointing at the behemoth hot mess of plastic and fans. “This is a floppy disk,” she explains further, holding one up for our inspection. And, “You must never, ever touch the shiny parts of the floppy disk.”
This modern computer lab was well-furnished with 20+ compact personal computers and various audio-visual equipment. A color-laden bulletin board displayed grade-by-grade benchmarks for computer skills, such as “Kindergarten: learn to use mouse, logon, logout, start programs.” I felt vaguely threatened by these cyber-savvy kids, getting a 10-year head start on me. I remember my big challenge in kindergarten was using scissors.
It was a little surreal dealing with the teachers and school administrators as an equal; I felt residually cowed by their authority. The shoe was on the other foot — I was teaching them — and it wasn’t a shoe that I’d like to wear every day. Things went well, although…. teachers. Once they get to chatting, they are incorrigible.
When the training was over, the magnificent principal accompanied us out of the building. We passed lines of students as they snaked their way through the corridors. The kids looked at the principal with God-like respect, and — how pathetic am I?– I felt kinda cool for walking with the principal: that’s right, kids. I’m important. Then I felt truly cool because I realized that I’m playing some, tiny part in teaching these kids how to read. And I haven’t been that cool in school since the second grade, when my mom made ice cream cone cupcakes to celebrate my birthday with the class.
Posted in Nostalgia, The 9 to 5.
– February 26, 2010
Winter is not the season for perfume. Dry cool air, bulky clothes, and indoor confinement do nothing to enhance the sensory euphoria that ideally result when the chemicals within the scent smack up against the chemicals seething within a moist, warm, active human epidermis. You would not plant seeds in frozen ground, so why waste good perfume on dormant skin?
Besides which, in the winter, our noses are either flooded or arid, making the light, crisp florals that dominate the American mass market unpleasantly sharp. It’s like coming inside after shoveling two feet of snow from the driveway and drinking lemonade instead of hot cocoa or vin chaud. When you must scent — and yes, yes, we must — reach for the strong musky scents: the robust jasmines and strapping cedars, the woody bergamots and the comforting vetivers. And ladies, don’t shy away from smokiness. Nothing says “I’ve been keeping the homefires burning” like a whiff of caliginous efflux emanating from underneath layers of wool and synthetic fleece.
Davidoff’s Cool Water may sound like exactly the type of summery scent that men should shun in the winter months. And especially today, as Boston continues its third-straight day of torrential rain that is expected to continue well into next week, the last thing I want to think about is cool water, which is seeped into my hair, my shoes, the cuffs of my pants, my water-logged soul and its dripping wet logos.
But if ever there was a misnomed scent, it is Cool Water, which is not at all an aquatic scent. It is a hot smell that clings to the air like a cloud of stagnant gnats, as heavy as a polyester parka, as enduring as a brick chimney, as satisfying as a plate of ossobuco. A classic men’s fragrance, it is a scent that women want to curl up to on a cool, rainy night when the wind rattles the windows and the skies have turned to rivers.
– February 25, 2010
Other People’s Poetry!
Five Haiku
The wind
Undecided
Rolls a cigarette of air
The mute girl talks:
It is art’s imperfection.
This impenetrable speech.
The motor car is truly launched:
Four martyrs’ heads
Roll under the wheels.
Ah! a thousand flames, a fire,
The light, a shadow!
The sun is following me.
A feather gives to a hat
A touch of lightness:
The chimney smokes.
–Walt Whitman
The World is Filled With Unattended Packages
Wind is all we know these days. Ignore the snow, the cold,
but not the wind. In the fallow of pre-spring wood, we strolled
vulnerable, exposed, the wind catenating our quest
with the disquieting exaction of an uninvited guest.
And when my face shakes, it is the wind. When
I drift from your mouth and the words within,
it is not betrayal that the rebuff imparts.
It is the wind, chilling souls and racking hearts.
–Me
Posted in Culture Of Sorts.
– February 24, 2010
