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****But I'm Wild at Heart!

Yesterday at the Brattle Theatre in Harvard Square, I saw my second favorite movie : David Lynch's 1990 masterpiece Wild at Heart, starring Nicolas Cage at his pinnacle of integrity, Laura Dern at her pinnacle of cuteness, Crispin Glover at his pinnacle of kookiness, and Willem Dafoe at his pinnacle of coolness. It also sums up Lynch's entire body of work in one line of dialogue: This whole world's wild at heart and weird on top.

****In Which the Digital Camera Leaves the House

****Hey Mr. Ancient Hippie Man, Play a Song for Me

Practically all my life, I've had to justify my love for Bob Dylan to many people. I've defended his nozzle voice, his folksy rhythms, and his cheesy old-hippie persona time and time again, trying to explain... it's all about the lyrics, people. Bob Dylan is our greatest modern day minstrel, and his erring command over lyrical song-writing allows me to overlook the acoustical guitars and a gratuitous use of an organ.

I have listened to Bob Dylan since I was 13; I randomly got a cassette tape of his Greatest Hits after joining Columbia House Music Club under several names to repeatedly "Get 12 for the Price of One" (which you can do online now! here). The juxtaposition of "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35" followed by "Blowing in the Wind" blew my immature mind; who the eff was this guy?

Soon, I got book of his lyrics at the local library. It was the most subversive book I ever checked out from the Audubon library, except for maybe the Freudian Interpretation of Dreams. The stark beauty of the written word helped me overcome his dated musical styling. This guy was hip.

As I evolved from classic rock aficionado into teenaged punk, when I dared mention Bob Dylan to a friend, they would stare at me as if my green hair had suddenly turned brown and sneer "Hippie."

****The Snow

****Amazon Yellow Pages

Amazon has unveiled their new Yellow Pages service that lets you search for a business and browse photos of its location (here). According to the NYT (here), A9, the subsidiary of Amazon that developed the search service, used an SUV equipped with a digital video camera to document the street locations, for a total of 20 million photos in 10 initial cities.

Pretty neat, but the purpose of having the photos is a little unclear. An executive for A9 says it will show searchers "the availability of parking and a sense of the neighborhood." It strikes me as being an inevitable gimmick. As I browsed through photos of Cambridge businesses, I actually recognized people who commonly hang out on the streets. The photos for the Courthouse Seafood Restaurant that I used to live next to, for example, shows the owner of a nearby dry cleaner talking to a bunch of men on the corner.

****Crazy Weather Guy

This weather man from Charlotte NC (here for video clip montage) is blissfully out of his mind. Tragically, he was recently fired after checking into rehab (here). Shame. He's worth more than all of the weather bunnies in Boston.

****Retraction

Yesterday I was under the mistaken impression that the suicidal driver of the SUV that caused the train wreck in California remained in his car and managed to survive. He actually bailed at the last minute. The story is significantly less amazing to me now.

****City Sidewalks, Shitty Sidewalks

10 more inches! Walking on slush and ice veiled sidewalks flanked by foot-high snow banks can drain all enthusiasm for winter. The best is when you're walking, and you reach a curb that has been plowed shut, and there's a little six-inch wide tunnel carved out by previous pedestrians through which you have to navigate. Really works the tiny stabilizer muscle that normal walking can't touch. Stumbling to the laundromat yesterday, I felt like Roald Amundsen scouting the South Pole.

And while the city of Cambridge promises here to "clear the streets as soon as possible," when it comes to sidewalks, property owners are only required to shovel "within 12 hours after snow stops falling in the daytime, and before 1 p.m. when the snow has fallen during the night," making some lovely forced street walking.

I call for the city of Cambridge to take responsibility for clearing all of the sidewalks instead of relying on residents and property owners to shovel lest face a paltry $25 fine. Yep, $25. Who wouldn't be tempted to pay $25 in lieu of shoveling two feet of snow?

****Suicide Utility Vehicle

How about that California trash crash, in which a suicidal SUV driver parked his car on the train tracks, derailed a Metrolink train into another train, killed 11 commuters and injured 180 more... and survived (here). Damn, SUVs really will protect you in a crash.

Incredible story. Loved this quote from a survivor: "I heard a noise. It got louder and louder. And next thing I knew the train tilted, everyone was screaming and I held onto a pole for dear life...It was like nothing I've experienced in my 6 1/2 years of taking the Metrolink." I would certainly hope not!

****Noted

Yesterday 36 American troops died in Iraq, the highest body count since we invaded Iraq 22 months ago: 31 marines died when their helicopter went down in a desert, and died in insurgent attacks (here).

The death toll for US soldiers is now 1418 (here). The total cost for the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan may top $300 billion (here).

****Cool?

****Wal-Mart Facts.Com

Facts and truth really don't have much to do with each other. --William Faulkner

For the past couple of weeks, every time I visit CBS news, a large banner ad at the top of the window piques my interest: Wal-Mart Facts.com! Get the facts! (here)

Well, I happen to crave fact, especially when it involves America's favorite discount retailer, home of every-day low wages, vicious union busting, and taxpayer subsidized health "benefits."

The mere existence of Wal-Mart Facts.com shows that the ruminations of dissent regarding the community repercussions and business practices of this corporate gorilla are trickling into the mainstream. Numerous books that discuss the downside of having a Wal-Mart in every community have been recently released (here), so Wal-Mart seeks to defend themselves with this site "to provide our associates, customers, supporters and friends a place to get complete, timely and accurate information" (here).

Wal-Mart Facts.com is plastered with images of happy, diverse associates, all smiling in their spiffy blue smocks. A whole section of the web site is devoted to their associates, because "At Wal-Mart, we believe a job is about more than work and wages." Indeed! Jobs at Wal-Mart are ultimately about cutting costs for you, the consumer, who certainly doesn't want to pay extra so that Wal-Mart associates can live in luxury.

Oh, Wal-Mart Facts.com lists some of the fantastic salaries and benefits that the Wal-Mart work force receives, such as "Wal-Mart’s average full-time hourly wage nationally is $9.68 an hour." Who in their right mind thinks that this is a livable wage? This is not a wage that can support a family, not a wage that a Union would settle for, and certainly not a wage that can replace a factory wages, which is what many Wal-Mart employees would be earning had not Leviathans like Wal-Mart forced manufacturers to go overseas in order to meet the cheap wholesale prices that Wal-Mart demands. Though the wage is framed as being generous on the site, the fact is: Wal-Mart wages are pretty darn pitiful.

Regarding Unions, we learn: They may be right for some companies but there is simply no need for a third party to come between our associates and their managers (here). While I do not support Unions in every sector of society, the fact is that when dealing with a billion-dollar company that employs 1.2 million associates and has the power to drive down wages for millions of workers of their competition, a Union is necessary. What stops Wal-Mart from taking advantage of their workers? What power do these workers have? Are we supposed to trust Wal-Mart when they say: Wal-Mart’s position on unions. It’s all about taking care of our people. If we do that and do what is right for our communities, we will be fine. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Who will be fine?

Browsing through this site and its sanitized corporate speak that addresses dozens of issues and allegations against Wal-Mart, it is evident that Wal-Mart has a huge effect on nearly everything in American society. They are pop-culture gatekeepers that "does not carry music that has the “parental advisory” label which warns parents about explicit lyrics... to provide music selections that we believe our customers want to buy (here)." They are “the world’s most efficient consumer empowerment machine... The Wal-Mart model of operating at the lowest cost and passing the savings on to the customer has had the effect of raising the standard of living for millions of Americans." Yes, but at what cost for America?

****Visited by the Football Fairy

Yesterday two fierce football games anointed the warriors who will do battle in America's most sacrosanct sporting event. And do you believe it: My previously voices vision (here) of an Eagles/Patriots match-up have come to fruit!

The frightful snowstorm that dumped two feet of snow onto Boston allowed me to watch both football games without feeling lazy. Initially, the back-to-back victories of the only teams in the NFL I have ever cared about thrilled me; then, I realized that I would have to place my allegiance into one team. Because to watch the Super Bowl and say "Oh, I'd be happy win either a Patriots or Eagles win" just seems lame.

I imagine the Patriots will be favored in the odds. While my mind and body are for the Patriots... my heart is with the Eagles. Philly deserves a Super Bowl win; its long-embattled sports teams have not brought much glory to a region that places so much of their happiness into major league sports, and that's sort of sad. Plus, I've always been a sucker for the underdog.

****Back in the Saddle Again

I took a spinning class at my new gym. I haven't been spinning since the hallowed days of glitzy Healthworks a couple of years ago. The instructor was a substitute. He was quiet as he intently adjusted and then assumed the instructor's bike, wearing a sweatshirt and nylon sweat pants. "I'm obviously not Abby," he said, Abby being the instructor that appeared on the BSC class schedule. "I'm Bob. We're going to start out with a 5-minute warm-up and stretch, work out for 30 minutes, then cool down for 10. Do what you can and stay at a level that you're happy with."

Bob looked around the room meekly at the 15 fit men and women on spinning bikes in front of him. "Everyone's all set? Good. We'll warm up with the lights on and music off."

After a warm-up suitable for geriatric patients, in which he lead us in gentle arm and torso stretches as we peddled, Bob said "Let's take it up to a 3," referring to the 10-level scale that spinning instructors use to gauge workout intensity as it relates to the adjustable tension on the bike.

He turned off the lights and put on an upbeat Dave Matthews song. "Let's start pedaling to the tempo of the music and keep it here."

In the back of the room, I dutifully pumped my legs to the crappy soft rock and amused myself by staring at the bobbing behinds of my classmates. After a hectic day at work, it felt good to unwind and imagine I was cruising on my bike on a desolate road on a cool, sunny day.

Suddenly, one of the more obnoxious Blink 182 song's came on. "Let's take it up to a four and push it a little more," Bob called, his voice loud and intense. We switched into third position, which is when you hunch over the bike with your butt sticking up. Then we did some second position, which is standing upright. "Harder," he yelled when the music got really loud. "Push push push!" Bob got off his bike and removed his sweats. My initial impression of Bob being out of shape was dashed when I got a look at his tightly muscled body, that of a male gymnast.

An incredibly loud and high-energy cheesy techno song came on; right on cue, Bob tossed his shirt aside and started dancing. Like, we're all on these bikes, and he's dancing around the front of the room, doing all these fancy kicks and stuff, sporadically shouting things like "Push push push!" and "I'm seeing some great form here! Great form, all across the room!"

From there, spinning took an incredibly scary tone. He turned into a football coach who shouts at his players as they high-step through the holes of a line of tires. Bob just never stopped yelling or moving. When he got on his bike, it was to lead us through drills that involved him telling us to turn the tension knob up, up, up and "Push! Push! Push!" He watched himself a lot in the mirrors. When he got off to dance, he would weave through the rows of bikes and yell. Just... yell.

Several females in the class looked downright horrified. Maybe they were regulars, and Bob's style was quite different from Abby's. I pictured Abby to be like this Healthworks spinning instructor who was a new-age flake. She acted like spinning was no different from yoga, and would pepper her classes with calming visual metaphors ("Imagine you are painting whirly circles in your favorite color with your feet as you pedal") and descriptions of the topography of the United Arab Emeritus. She pumped us up with Blues Traveler and cooled us down to Enya.

"Okay, take it up to a seven and when I have the urge, we'll hit second position," Bob yelled as the class entered its zenith. "Push push push! I want you to push that wheel! I like the energy I see out there! I like the form I see out there! Take it to the next level! Push Push Push!"

Granted, his maniacal mannerisms distracted me from the tedium of stationary bike exercise. Riveted by Bob's contemporary Russian folk dancing knee bends mixed with techno-paced hip thrusts, and impressed by his consuming enthusiasm for the quality of our workout, time passed quickly; before I knew it, we had begun our cool down. Bob got back on his bike and said "Let's all focus on bringing our heart rates down."

Yes. Let's.

As I left the gym, Bob was at the front desk talking with one of the manager-types. Somehow he recognized me under my coat hood, and interrupted himself mid-sentence to lean over the desk and assertively bark "Thanks for coming out. You have a great evening." Startled, I said lamely "Thanks... thanks for a good class..." and sort of waved as I scuttled away in terror.

Fear-based spinning classes totally rock.

****GREs: Because Circles, Exponents, and Fractions Matter

This morning, after several rescheduled attempts, I finally took the GREs.

I don't have much to say about it. In fact, my brain feels as if it has been kicked in the groin, so I don't have much to say about anything. Except... no gum while taking the test? No gum? What, am going to scribble formulas on a piece of chewed gum? Will it give me special test-taking powers? Is the gum going to disturb fellow test-takers as much as Mr. Sneezy or Ms. Prolonged Sigh?

Excuse me if my writing lacks a certain pizzazz today, as my powers of self-expression have been exhausted on the essays. I am bound by a signed agreement not to reveal the topics, but I'll say I spent 45 minutes pasting together random thoughts about the societal effects of televised government proceedings and another 30 minutes churning out crap about an imaginary dietary supplement named Zorba. Sweet Jesus. Why couldn't they ask me to rant about corporate crooks or riding the T?

If I needed proof that my writing is as intricately tied to the use of a thesaurus as Bukowski's was to the abuse of alcohol, this was it. It was painful because my essay scores were supposed to be so shiny that the eyes of the college admissions staff would be temporarily blinded before they could see the Math scores.

For those who don't know, the GREs are now taken on things called "computers." These computers are smart enough that the level of difficulty can be adjusted for each question, depending on if you answered the proceeding question correctly. If you're doing well, it gets harder. I almost started crying when I realized the Math section was going way better than I thought it would. It was basically checking to see if I could at least add and subtract.

These "computers" can also display your score when you finish the test (except for the essays). My score was about what I predicted before I took the test, and much better than I forecasted during the test. No, I will not reveal my score, except I did slightly better on Verbal than Math. While the score won't get me into Harvard, any fine state university would be glad to have me. Unless they're, like, really good.

I will now commence with the massive GRE Practice Test Workbook Bonfire that I have been dreaming of for months.

****Procedure: Drive Chicks Crazy on the T

1. Board on a sparsely-filled train car where half the seats are filled.
2. Approach an empty seat next to a thin, fashionably-dressed woman, who will slightly brace herself with expectation for the adjacent seat to become occupied.
3. Remain standing.
4. Glance at the seat, as if you are assessing the area of square inches available on the seat when taking into account the girth of the woman's back side that may or may not be overflowing onto the empty seat.
5. Remain standing.
6. Shot her a look that says you're peevishly confident that there's no way you'd fit into seat that her gargantuan hips is partially co-opting.
7. Sigh.

****My New Toy

I've been so busy adoring my new digital camera that I don't have time to post. Here's one of the first pictures I took. It's a plow truck, going nuts on the parking lot next to my building at 4:30 am. Something I want to remember forever!

****Vampires of Birmingham

The Guardian discusses the alleged Vampire attacks in Birmingham , in which unidentified persons were bit by a man on a "rampage" in several unreported attacks (here).

Though the police have dismissed the Vampire as an urban myth, the citizens of Birmingham are reportedly terrified, no doubt fueled by colorful reports from a local news outlet: As the sun dips below the rooftops of sleepy terraced streets, residents rush home, quickly gathering up playing children, because after night falls a vampire hungry for blood stalks. Reports of a Dracula-style attacker on the loose biting innocent people has spread terror throughout neighborhoods in Birmingham, causing many to fear the darkness of the night.

In America, if we hear that a man is trolling the streets biting people, we wouldn't think "Vampire." Visions of "crack fiend" or "wacko off his meds" come to mind. I guess our news writers suffer from a lack of imagination.

****Grilled Rice

Condoleezza Rice, who I have vast amounts of respect for as a person if not a politician, faced an irate Barbara Boxer during her confirmation hearing to replace Colin Powell as Secretary of State (here). Boxer told Rice that her loyalty to Bush "overwhelmed your respect for the truth." As CNN puts it, Boxer said Rice "has not acknowledged those deaths, has not laid out an exit strategy for Iraq and has been unwilling to admit mistakes -- including going to war over weapons of mass destruction found later not to exist."

I really hope someone is held accountable for the mess in Iraq. But one powerful person can not be the scapegoat for what is ultimately a war over cheap oil, oil that all Americans consume with great vigor and waste and that our politicians are obliged to supply for us to maintain our great American standard of living. The majority of Americans supported this war without question of the intentions of our decision makers and with very little dissent. We all have blood on our hands.

****A Knock on the Door

"Hi, I'm from the apartment directly above you. And we have a band. And we were wondering if it was cool if we practiced two or three nights a week in our apartment, with a microphoned vocalist and amplified guitars and a full drum set. Don't worry, we don't have a cow bell! We wouldn't ever play past midnight. So is that cool?"

I've suspected for awhile that people these days have a lot of gall. Whether it's by littering two feet away from a trash can, or by emitting 120 decibel laughter on the 7:30am train, or by being generally oblivious to the hardships that their community faces, or by asking their neighbors if they don't mind an active drum set above their heads three nights a week until midnight... yep, people have a lot of gall.

Where does this gall come from? Assuming most people innately possess a smidgen of empathy, I blame: Overindulgent parents, reality television that places a premium on the insipid thoughts and peeves of the individual, and the need to shelter one's self from the harsh reality that life is a bitch, and while it would be hunky-dory for you if you could practice with your band in your apartment building, the cold hard truth is that you will have to shell out $150/month for a practice space for your band, you ballsy hip college boy you.

****American Toilets are Panicked

Not that America heeds health advice from our Government (we prefer the crazy new notions of dietary book-peddlers), but we should all take notice of the updated USDA Guidelines for a Healthy Populace or At Least a Populace That Can Move Without a Seated Mobility Scooter, which encourages us to "Consume 3 or more ounce-equivalents of whole-grain products per day, with the rest of the recommended grains coming from enriched or whole-grain products" (here).

Woah. Can you imagine what would happen to our septic systems if every man, woman, and child traded their Krispy Kremes and Wonder Bread for oatmeal and slabs of 100% Whole Wheat Hearty 9-Grain goodness? It might clean out the arteries, but it would certainly clog up the sewage pipes.

****Snowy Football Games!

Allow me to once again enthuse about the beauty of football games played in the snow. Unfortunately, for much of yesterday's Patriots/Colts game (which the Pats won, like I never doubted they would, 20-3) the snow made the television screen look warped.

Earlier, I watched the Eagles soundly thwack the Vikings while I walked on a treadmill. I seriously craved a walk on the Charles, but the prospect of multi-tasking with brisk walking and leisurely football watching won out over venturing out in the frigid cold.

I used to only watch Patriots games. But I'm finding that watching other teams play only increases my appreciation of how totally God-like Tom Brady and the Patriots are.

I'm envisioning a Patriots vs. Eagles Super Bowl. My allegiance would be torn! If any city deserves a Super Bowl win, it's the citizens of Philadelphia. But a Patriots win would make me just as happy.

****Sands in an Hourglass

****La Mala Educación

I took Spanish in middle school because everyone said it was the easiest language to learn. After three years of totally hating it, I switched to Latin, which was absurd. So I took a single year of French. My lack of consistency in a single language required me to take four semesters of a language in college, so I returned Spanish because I reasoned it would be the most useful.

Of course foreign language classes as they are taught in America are a waste of time. A language cannot be learned through vocabulary drills and light memorization; it requires sink-or-swim immersion and a serious commitment to go beyond assigned class material. But all my teachers dutifully went through the motions with full knowledge of the slim chance that any one pupil would retain more than a few random words.

Indeed, the only thing I clearly remember from one semester of Spanish was watching Women on a Verge of a Nervous Breakdown. Subtle hints of a deeply conflicted and diseased mind pinned together the dark screwball comedy kindled a deep interest in the films of Pedro Almodóvar.

I suppose the movie was shown to our Spanish class to inspire love for the Spanish language as it is spoken by the always-enthralling characters of an Almodóvar film, but who needs to learn the language when you’ve got subtitles?

La Mala Educación’s rave reviews had me dying to see the film, as did memories of my own bad education in español.

Click here to read my review of La Mala Educación.

****Vera Drake

On the same day that I saw Mike Leigh's Vera Drake, in which the title character is an illegal abortionist in mid-20th century London, I happened to read an article in this month's Atlantic Monthly called Letting Go of Roe (here), in which the pro-choice author Benjamin Wittes argues that it is time for the Democratic party to stop crusading for the federal protection of Roe Vs. Wade.

I agree with some of what Wittes puts forth, namely that allowing abortion to become the main issue on which Supreme Court justices are appointed is deeply unhealthy for this country. I have always been staunchly pro-choice, but I detest the mindset that many voters have about pro-choice candidates: As long as he or she is pro-choice, that's good enough for me!

But then I saw Vera Drake, a chilling and powerful reminder of what might happen if the right to abortion is not protected. And while I still don't agree with one-issue voting, you can bet that I'll slip a little something extra to NOW in my annual donation.

Click here to read my review of Vera Drake.

****I Had A Dream About This Place: The Films Of David Lynch

The Brattle Theatre in Harvard Square is screening all of David Lynch's movies starting at the end of January. Check out the calendar here. It is a David Lynch fanatic's dream come true.

****How I Know the New Singer of the Dead Kennedys

In the summer of 1999, I attended an orientation session for incoming Freshman at my chosen college, UMass Amherst. Unlike the majority of matriculates who came from Massachusetts high schools, I did not know a soul. But within about an hour, I befriended a couple who also hailed from the Philadelphia area: A cool, friendly girl named Deena and her boyfriend Jeff.

We soon discovered that Jeff and I were both in a program that grouped higher-achieving pre-English majors on the same residential floor and made us take some English classes together. Through this program, I eventually made many of my closest college friends, but Jeff was not to be one of them.

I made plans with Deena and Jeff to hang out in Philly before the semester started. I liked Jeff; we shared an interest in punk music, and he was an intelligent guy. The first night we hung out, they met me at the King of Prussia mall as my shift at the Coffee Beanery ended, and I convinced them to follow me in Jeff's parent-purchased Jeep-like car to my friend's house. When we got there about 20 minutes later, Jeff was simply livid. He accused me of taking them to the middle of nowhere without warning, and complained that he wouldn't have enough gas money to get home. When we left my friend's house, I followed him to a gas station and paid for his gas. Then, about a week later, I went to his grandiose house in the swanky Main Line suburbs, where it was obvious his every whim was catered to. And I paid his gas money?

When school started, we hung out together pretty frequently, but soon an unflattering impression formed, that off a pompous rich kid who got off on baseless, dogmatic arguments that were enraging to participate in. Jeff was fiercely Straight Edge and derided those who weren't. My cigarette smoking was a constant issue for him. Personally, I thought this was hypocritical because he had a girlfriend who (I assume) he engaged in sexual relations with, consumed animal flesh with delight, and chugged numerous cans of Pepsi.

But that was besides the point. Jeff was incapable of admitting fault and spewed his views on everything with a closed mind. Gradually, I grew apart from Jeff. The exact details are hazy. By Senior year, we were on polite speaking terms if we should run into each other, but there was always sort of an undercurrent of mutual hatred. Jeff went onto Grad school in California and we never spoke again.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, through a college friend I come to learn that Jeff is the new lead singer of one of the greatest punk bands ever: The Dead Kennedys.

And the screaming in my ears has not stopped since.

(Here: Meet Jeff Strategy. He is decidedly no Jello Biafra, except for maybe the raging ego.)

****McDonalds Thinks We're Dorks

Why are the McDonald's commercials in other countries so much cooler than the McDonald's commercials in America? Witness this advertisement for the McShoarma (here), a turkey pita that actually looks edible.

Israel gets a Pulp Fiction spoof. America gets a bunch of fresh-faced tools rapping "I'm Lovin' It" as they forge co-dependencies with McGriddles.

****Irony in the Laundromat

The man who works the counter at the laundromat/dry cleaners has the worst BO ever. It's of the revolting kind that I always suspect will stick to me. Oh, he is very nice, always smiling and making non-intrusive small talk to me when I come in, but he smells as if his clothes have never been washed... despite being an employee and possibly part owner of a laundromat.

Though I fear for the purity of my just-laundered clothes, I really do appreciate the irony.

****Bowwow Bestiality

A New Jersey man is charged with repeatedly sodomizing his neighbor's dog, a female Rottweiler named Precious (here).

Sorry. All I could picture when I read this story was a man mounting a dog, muttering "My Precious. Ooh. Must have the Precious. We wants it, we needs it. My Precious."

****Dave Barry Stops Beating the Proverbial Dead Horse

Dave Barry is retiring his humor column, with vague threats of a possible future return (here). Oh, whatever will I do? I won't have the Dave Barry column to pointedly ignore in the Boston Globe Magazine any more.

****Incentives to Praise God

A church in Florida giving away a 2003 H2 Hummer during an upcoming week-long church conference (here), raising condemnatory eyebrows from some who question the general piety of offering a door prize to lure parishioners into accepting the word of God as well as the What Would Jesus Drive set.

****A Short History of the Evolution of Beer

Beer. Reportedly the first alcoholic beverage known to Mankind, beer was first brewed from fermented bread by the Sumerians as early as 10,000 B.C.. Getting sloshed on beer is condoned by a whore in the Epic of Gilgamesh, the oldest written story on Earth. Beer brewing was soon practiced in every corner of the world, from the ancient Egypt and Chinese to the native inhabitants of North America and the monks in Europe. There's just something about beer that people seem... well, almost genetically-inclined to enjoy.

As modern civilization developed, the customs surrounding the imbibing of beer became as important as the drink itself. Individuals could survive without round-the-clock tribe interaction, so what better way to be sociable than to gather in a tavern and ingest a drink that compels one to be social? Flagrantly, habitually, sometimes embarrassingly social.

American beer has a long history. The Colonies were choke full of breweries from the start. The hard-drinking Pilgrims had a two-quart daily ration of mead... for breakfast alone. In the mid-1800s, the number of breweries in the US peaked at around 4500, but the numbers sharply declined when Prohibition became perhaps the stupidest Constitution amendment ever (or should I say "to date"?)

In the second half of the 20th century, beer production became industrialized, leading to the soda-like filth that ravages the stomachs, livers, physiques and family lives of millions of Americans. Beer drinking is chiefly associated with sport spectators, construction workers, and college kids.

To non-binging or non-indulging Americans, dedicated beer drinking is an at-best silly and at-worst deadly pastime that detracts from the finer things in life. Like wine drinking. And coffee drinking. And Blood of Christ drinking.

But nothing can stop the billion-dollar shareholder-driven companies from peddling their watery ales to the masses of America via big-budget ads with sexy and loose singles shaking their impossibly nubile bodies to inane jingles.

****Book Review: Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris

I always regarded David Sedaris as more of a humorist than a writer. Still, I envy his style: Compact vignettes wrapped in humor and meaning, dripping with autobiographical details, and garnished with social contemplation. I tore through this book. It made me giggle. Still, the narrative intrusion bothered me; at times, he was like a gay Erma Bombeck, which isn't a bad thing, but it won't save modern literature either.

****Book Review: Mrs. Kimble by Jennifer Haigh

I received this book for Christmas from my father, who thought that it was about a man who had three wives concurrently (also the impression I got from reading the cover). Instead, the three wives of Ken Kimble are spaced over his rolling-stone lifetime, and are separate and very different marriages. At first this disappointed me, as serial monogamy is less interesting than polygamy, but I was soon drawn into the story of this charismatic manipulator, who remains a shadowy figure throughout the book. I liked how his story was told through the point of view of his wives and only son Charlie. An easy but always-engaging read.

****so much depends upon a pair of boots glazed with rain water beside the white chickens

Ah, the weather. So tedious to discuss, yet so integral to our lives. It affects our moods, activities, domiciles, food supply, transportation, and, perhaps utmost, our shoes.

My poor all-weather boots, purchases five years ago at Sears, are doomed. Last winter, they slipped subtle hints of their fatigue by leaking trace amounts of water. Yesterday, with about three inches of snow followed by several hours of famed New England "wintry mix," several pints of Boston slush found its cold wet way through the cracks in the exterior.

Every curb in the city has a moat of dirty water in front of it; the more industrious pedestrian will diligently circumnavigate around the water, but after I stepped in one camouflaged as concrete and soaked my feet and socks, I threw caution to the wind and simply plowed through every four-inch puddle in my path like a madwoman.

Speaking of annoying winter moments, yesterday morning, luxuriating on a treadmill with my own *personal television monitor*, I flipped through all of the local news stations. All of them devote about half of their coverage to the weather whenever the slightest flake is forecasted. We get gutsy on-location reporters who are actually outside. In the snow. Pointing at cars and plow trucks and just generally looking uncomfortable, like "Hey, what am I supposed to say? It's just snowing."

When they toss it back to the anchors in their nice warm studio, those air heads bleat inanities like "You'll definitely need to scrap your car this morning" and "Give yourself a few extra minutes on the roadways" and "Grab a blanket to stash in your car in case something tragic happens." Now that I don't live with my parents, I don't know what I'd do without my local news anchors to advise me in these hard, hard times of snow.

****Turning the Office onto Aphex Twin

Gradually, my office is discovering the Shared Music feature on iTunes. For about a month, I was the lone music sharer. Several co-workers quizzically asked me about the appearance of "MGreen's Music" in their iTunes window. Now we have 4-5 regular sharers. What a blast to see the totally random assortment of bad to kitschy to enjoyable music that people listen to. I feel as if I'm peering into their souls.

Me, I'm suddenly very conscious about the music on my computer at work. People may respect me for the Beethoven and Mozart, but what do they make of the extensive Aphex Twin selections? (Note to self: Delete all Peaches).

****NYTimes Vindication

Sideways made everyone's Top 10 list this year, an inexplicable universal lapse in taste that speaks of American film's dismal state. I gave it a tepid review myself (here), pulling a few punches because I figured I just didn't get it. Wouldn't be the first time the genius of a movie that everyone heaps accolades upon totally escaped me.

But one lone contrarian who writes for the New York Times has appeased me somewhat by calling it the "most drastically overrated movie of 2004" (here).

****The Bride

A picture of me with the beautiful New Year's Bride...

****Zen Thought of the Day

Actor Richard Gere is working with a pro-peace group to urge Palestinians to vote in the upcoming presidential elections. He has recorded a radio message that starts off:

"Hi, I'm Richard Gere and I'm speaking for the entire world" (here).

Chilling.

Yes, the Middle East peace process will surely thrive with more Hollywood celebrity involvement, especially from a Hollywood Buddhist best known for his pro-prostitution films Pretty Woman and American Gigolo.

****The Life Aquatic

 

monday january 3, 2005

 

****Filene's Peep Show

Founded in 1908, the ineluctable appeal of the bargain outlet Filene's Basement (here) has made it a venerated Boston institution.

The main attraction is the designer apparel with often-repeatedly slashed prices. The fluid store layout allows you to assemble a whole outfit and then quickly locate matching shoes, handbag, scarf, and gloves. Then there are the hills of clothes that require you to burrow like an insane groundhog while scanning tags for sizes, prices, and Automatic Markdown start dates. Plus, shopping among the mixed clientele of unabashed fashionistas, horsey Revere housewives, and dazed tourists makes us a community. Because, deep down, women are really all the same creature.

The icing on the cake: Who doesn't love venturing into the women's fitting room and catching an eyeful of nude female flesh? For free.

The women's fitting room is an communal dressing room with about a dozen full-length mirrors, each flanked by a clothes hook. For the first-time shopper, it is a bit of a shock: You collect the number of items tag from the eagle-eyes attendant, turn a corner, and are faced with a dozen women in various states of undress. Women often enter the dressing room and just stand there, perhaps experiencing an unpleasant high school locker room flashback, perhaps regretting their day's choice of underwear, perhaps wondering if they're on a hidden camera television show: How can a place that appears in all of the travel guides not offer partitioned dressing rooms? Am I in Boston or Bogota?

After the First Timer recovers from the shock of witnessing strange women pushing rolls of thigh fat past cinched waistbands, she will usually try on clothes with the goal of covering herself as much as possible. But general apathy paired with widespread female American body anxiety will stop other women from snickering at any cellulite-ridden butt fat flapping around as one extricate's oneself from a pair of cigarette pants in a standing position.

Demureness is a quality that is only good in small doses, in the right situations. At a church function, for example, it is entirely correct to repress the urge to take off your blouse and shake your hips to "Onward Christian Soldiers." But Filene's Basement is a decidedly ungodly place, forcing women to choose between cherished modesty and a $49 BCBG party dress. Most women pick the dress.

I used to be mortified to undress in front of strangers, but overcame my bashfulness after discovering a passion for saunas. At first, I was averse to lounging around a tiny, over-heated room with nude and towel-draped strangers. Keeping my eyes open seemed a bad idea, so I would snap my eyes shut and manually secure my towel around my body. But after four or five otherwise-relaxing sauna visits, I observed many women displaying nude bodies that I judged to be much worse than mine. Who knew human skin had a limitless capacity for stretch marks?

One day, I entered the sauna to find it empty except for a young woman with a smooth, lean naked body, laying on the beach with knees bent and slightly spread apart. Her crotch faced me directly; it resembled Hitler's face in numerous ways, all too explicit to explain here. It felt strangely rude to cover myself with a towel, so I gathered my courage and sat there, nude. Other women came in and barely glanced at me (perhaps blinded by the young lady's crotch) and I began to relax.

The morale of the story: Getting undressed in public is not always good, but it is not always bad. In fact, you can make the sauna or the communal dressing rooms at Filene's a real fun place by whipping out a camera and pretending to take pictures of the other women. They're scream in delighted surprise, and you'll laugh like old friends when you reveal that the camera is not loaded. Instant anxiety buster.

 

sunday january 2, 2005

 

****The Year so Far

Does one's activities on New Year's Day set the tone for the rest of the year?

First, I woke up at 7:30 am. Practically the middle of the day!

Then, I ate a seriously large amount of food at the Hotel Marlowe buffet brunch, including three (3) buttermilk biscuits and a muffin.

Then, after several attempts to work on a short story, the sunny and pleasant 55 degree day lured me outdoors. And I headed straight to Filene's Basement. Feckless consumer spending!

Then, I went to the Sports Depot with my roommate and her co-workers, who spun tales of their pyschiatric ward patients as we drank beer and ate pub food. We then went to Silhouette's in Allston, the Dive Bar of the Year according the Boston Phoenix, and played darts and touchscreen video games.

Then, because my day wasn't ridiculously hedonistic enough, I watched Cops. And loved it.

Perhaps I should have made a resolution or two after all.

 

****Nothing is free

Sometimes, when I see a pop-up internet ad advertising $50 gift certificates for Red Lobster, I feel a stab of... what if it's for real? Should I click on it to get me some of that Hepatatis B Halibut?

According to an eye-opening article on news.com, most web offers are too good to be true: Complaint sites are filled with messages from consumers who say they participated in such programs only to come up empty-handed (here).

These people are surprised enough to complain? They thought that all they have to do in life to get a free i-Pod was click on a flashing, animated graphic?