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****In the News

Guerilla Marketing

I arrived at South Station tonight to find total chaos: Hovering helicopters, bomb-sniffing dogs, dozens of MBTA policemen who milled about with their game faces on (when not a single MBTA cop is humming the A-Team theme song under his breath... it's serious). The trains were being searched while repeated announcements forbade people from standing on the platforms before the boarding call. I was exhilirated! Terrorifed! What in the world is happening in Boston?

Turns out it was a promotion-gone-awry for Aqua Teen Hunger Force (here), one of the Cartoon Network's Adult Swim shows. Heh. Homeland Security, protecting us from Master Shake, Frylock and Meatwad.

School Nuding

Say what you will about the high school student in Ohio who slathered his naked body with grapeseed oil and then lasciviously terrorized the cafeteria, "screaming and flailing his arms until police twice used a stun gun on him" (here). Yes, he may have traumatized some virgins, but it's so refreshing to see a school rampage that doesn't involve weaponry and trenchcoats - so innocent, like a Porkys prank from the 1950s. I hope to see more boys expending testosterone like this greasy, naked young man.

Getting the Raw Prawn

The previous story almost qualified as headline of the day, until I read "Aussies to drink purified sewage" (here). With much of Australia in the grips of a severe drought, the state of Queensland will soon introduce "recycled, purified water" into the drinking supply, and the rest of Australia may soon follow suit. Though water planners swear the quality will be meticulously maintained, many Australians are understandably leery about drinking water that was once liquid (or semi-liquid) household and industry waste. Australia, if you're okay drinking XXXX Beer (it's called XXXX because you can't put 'shit' on a beer label), then sewage should be quite refreshing.

Try to Run, Try to Hide

Unable to ignore increasingly freakish weather patterns, Americans are developing a consciousness about global warming, same as how an earthly appearance of Jesus Christ would pack churches and return the clergy to their former vaulted status. Who can we believe in during these unseasonably warm and hurricane-plagued hours? Must we resort to the dark art of science and its shadowy practioners, scientists?

This week, Congressional hearings are being held over the Bush Administration's interference with the research of climate scientists at agencies such as NASA and the EPA (here). Out of 1600 scientists surveyed, 43% reported that their scientific work had been "revised in ways that altered the meaning of scientific findings," while 38% had "direct knowledge of cases where scientific information on climate was stripped from websites and printed reports."

Who knows the pervasiveness of this conspiracy? They could have known and actively censored global warming evidence for decades. The organization Global Cool, which works with rock stars to raise awareness about global warming, announced that they have uncovered a "secret poem" that was recorded by legend Jim Morrison shortly before his death that "seems so relevant to the environmental challenge we face" (here). The poem, called Woman in the Window, features the chorus "Just try to stop us, we're going to love" - a shocking prophesy of the denial of carbon emissions and, um, our will to defiantly love. Take that, Bush! Cause you can suppress 1,600 government-funded scientists, but the Lizard King will not be silenced.

****English to French to English

I vaguely mentioned to a friend in an email that I was working with translations of my work. She inquired, translations of personal writing or work-related writing? It is work-related, alas (French and German user manuals) but then I wondered what this website would be like in another language. Since the chances of me learning another language while living in the US remain slim, there's only one way to experience me in French: If I run text from this website through Google Translate (English to French), then run it back through (French to English)... well, hours of amusement:

My preferred phonetic weakness was a report/ratio about the services disease of the laughter, called the "crawfish is better medicine."

Ok, I am a short and large housewife inhabitant in Sprawlfuck, America.

Americans, you do not want to be degraded. Thus come with the toric thrusts from Dunkin, where you can proudly speak American when you order your Dunkaccino.

Horses can still be sold with the factory of adhesive by pigs called Napoleon or with humanity killed in the slaughter-houses, but the carcass resulting from horse cannot by not attacked at the time by the exotic meat fanatics in Europe and Japan.

When I recently saw several planners of meal of thanksgiving that the Brussels sprouts include instead of French beans, I knew that Brussels sprouts were carried in balance to become next the vegetarians the last cry. Enough soon, everywhere you look at... cabbages of Brussels.

As a resistant user of MS Word which works in the hundred-paginated documents filled out of graphs, of the correspondences, the models of gauge, markers of index, and all other small bells and whistles which makes Word approximately as effective as Chevy Tahoe...

Howl of Bob right or to not never move decree. When it is assembled on its bicycle, it was to carry out us by the exercises which made it take part saying to us to turn the button of tension towards high, to the top of, to the top of and "Push! Pushed! Pushed!" It was observed much in the mirrors. When it is descended to dance, it would weave by the lines of the bicycles and the howl. Just... howl.

****The Three Unwritten Laws of Pedestrian Mobility

Dear Lady in Burberry Scarf on P508 Express Train:

Humans are ruled by sequences of overlapping laws issued from institutions and authorities, such as governments, religions, community associations, employers, and parental guardians. These laws and the consequences of violations are explicitedly spelled out: Kill another human, go to jail and hell. Sexually harass a co-worker, get fired and fined. Don't help Dad clean the garage, lose allowance and incur the wrath of God.

But not all laws are written down. Society operates on a system of universal etiquettes so we don't devolve into feces-throwing, hedonistic barbarians who enfringe on the personal liberties or comforts of our fellow man. What stops us from noisily farting in public, picking our noses and eating it, screaming into cell phones? Why do we wait in lines, cover our mouths when we sneeze, hold doors open for others, say "excuse me" and "thank you"? Because life is just nicer.

You, lady in Burberry Scarf on P508 Express Train, appear to have a firm grasp on most unwritten laws. You appear to have a job, since I see you everyday and I wouldn't even notice you because you seem perfectly normal... except for your brazen disregard of the Laws of Pedestrian Mobility. But I can excuse you, because they're unwritten laws, things that most of us just intuitively know and abide by. You have gone through life without getting the memo. Allow me:

Law 1: Mobility, not Motility. Motility refers to a spontaneous or random movement. Think of children playing 'tag'... the trajectory of a plastic bag caught in the wind... the sinuosity of a drunk man's stagger. Mobility is more predictable. Planes, cars, boats, bikes, space ships, even pedestrians all heed logic in order to ensure safety and efficiency. For example, if you are walking down a train aisle, the people behind you cannot anticipate that you will, for no apparent reason, turn around and walk into them. And they cannot yield, even if you push. Similarly, if you are walking on a crowded, narrow train platform, frantic weaving between other moving people in a ridiculous effort to hasten your journey is discouraged.

Law 2: Recognize informal queues. Generally, when a random group of people are waiting to fulfill a mobility transition, the person who is closest goes first. For example, when a train stops on a platform, the person who happens to be standing in front of the door boards the train first, followed by people who are close by. Rarely is it acceptable to squeeze through a gathered crowd to physically assert your desire to board the train. To not recognize informal queues is an endorsement of chaos.

Law 3: Merge like a zipper. When two lines of pedestrians are merging in the same direction, the "zipper" method should be employed. The pedestrians move forward one-by-one, alternating from each direction so it is always understood whose "turn" it is to proceed forward. When you don't merge like a zipper, it hits a snag, resulting in collisions and confusion.

Three little laws, so engrained in common sense that it seems ridiculous that I actually wrote them down for you. That's why they're unwritten laws, dig?

Sincerely,
Pushed, Shoved, and Snagged

****The Burger Epidemic

I re-watched Super Size Me, to indulge Mr. Pinault's Gallic passion for expressing outrage over obese America. The documentary is more entertaining than muckraking, but I like how the ghastly effects of Morgan Spurlock's 30-day Big Mac attack reinforces my virtuous aversion to processed foods of convenience, and all but kills my occasional craving for the Hot Fudge Sundae.

Spurlock is not shy about implicating McDonalds and other Big Food corporations for marketing yummy, dangerous food to naive consumers, who assume if breakfast wasn't supposed to have 1,220 calories, 61 grams of fat, and 188% of my RDA for cholesterol, why would McDonalds sell it? (check out the ingredients list for the Deluxe Breakfast here ). If I wasn't supposed to eat fast food every day, why is it so ubiquitous?... All the people in the commercials are thin, healthy, and happy... If it was really bad for my health, wouldn't someone tell me?

Do people really not know that McDonalds food is not healthy? Is personal responsibility dead? Does the government need to outlaw junk food in order to stop people from eating themselves sick? Spurlock, like the lawyers who sued the McDonalds, shrugs off the notion of personal responsibility as downright quaint in this advertising age. They refer to the obesity epidemic - epidemic, like influenza or malaria. As if people have no choice as to whether they will "catch" obesity. Oh no, my stomach is jiggling and my butt's huge! I think I'm coming down with obesity. I wonder where I could have caught it?

****Movie Review:Notes on a Scandal

Notes on Notes on a Scandal: Ah! a diarist. I am inclined to instantly like those who share my proclivity to use the written word as a means of reflection. Indeed, narrator Barbara (Judi Dench) seems, at first, one of my brethren: Hard, cynical, disdainful of the "proles" that she lives among but acutely distances herself from. Yet she needs them, not for human companionship, but as fodder to fill the pages of her notebooks.

And oh, the material that Barbara culls from the new art teacher named Sheba (Cate Blanchett). Finally, a colleague who lives up to Barbara's standards, a "kindred spirit," even though Sheba is the opposite of Barbara: Young, beautiful, optimistic, kind, and married with children. The stage is set. Enter, the scandal...

Who doesn't love a good scandal! Certainly Barbara isn't complaining when she discovers Sheba's secret. She knowingly blackmails Sheba into becoming a close friend, but seems to forget her own power as Sheba acquiesces to her overtures. And then, delusions. Psychological warfare. Lies. "Don't you know it's terribly rude to read someone's diary?" Oh, yes, I love a good scandal.

****Wish Upon a Bone

Plucked from the bird's breast, Ready when its dried. Seized in a wishing contest, Steady as its pried - And a pull, push! Twist, SNAP. The divide of bone Grants the winner's wish (if remained unknown.) --poem by MSG, photo by Mr. Pinault

****Lion Hearted

A 65-year old Californian woman is credited with saving her husband's life from a mauling mountain lion (here). The couple was hiking when she heard her husband utter a "different, horrible plea for help", and turned around to see the mountain lion wrestling him to the ground. She fought by beating it with a log and poking its eyes with a pen until the lion released the husband and fled.

Wow. I wonder how I would react if Mr. Pinault and I were hiking and a mountain lion attacked him. Would I muster the selfless fortitude to repel the lion? Or would I take my revenge for the time he taunted me for being scared of a snake: "Come on, what's to be afraid of? It's just a little mountain lion! Stop screaming, you're causing a scene!"

(See April 17 2006 to relive the madness of 'snakes on a walk"...)

****Hungry for a Horse

A US federal court upheld a 1949 Texas law that bans the slaughter of horses for meat (here). Horses can still be sold to the glue factory by pigs named Napoleon or humanely killed in slaughterhouses, but the resulting horse carcass cannot by preyed upon by exotic meat fanatics in Europe and Japan. Instead, the horses will be buried in graveyards and given 3-volley salutes.

A deciding judge poignantly pointed out, "The lone cowboy riding his horse on a Texas trail is a cinematic icon. Not once in memory did the cowboy eat his horse." Well, of course not in the movies. How terrifying would it be if Roy Rogers suddenly whipped up some Trigger kebobs?

But in reality, a starving cowboy stranded in the tumbleweed with a dead horse would surely be tempted to grill an equine steak (apparently, horse meat has a slightly sweet taste, like a combination of beef and venison.) To evoke cinematic ideals in deciding court cases is primitive. Like, "We never see people in the movies using the bathroom. Therefore, companies don't have to allow their employees to take bathroom breaks."

Though Texas judges should be applauded for their convictions about slaughtering horses for meat, do not overlook their mindless zeal in slaughtering humans for justice! Vengeance stew is a dish that's both un-American and high in cholesterol.

****Meta Me

Blog-wise, I've been a low-achiever. It's being busy at work. It's the cold weather. It's the dread of staring at a computer screen with no idea what to write about. It's the lack of a niche topic. It's the suspicion that I'm posting to an audience of porn-seeking Googlers and Yahoos. It's the necessity to write things too personal to tell the world. It's living in a boxy apartment in this turtle shell called Natick. It's being too exhausted by the state of politics and society to get angry enough to rant. It's hormones. It's my iron-deficient diet. It's the drop of my coffee consumption to two cups a day. It's the monotony of the commuter rail. It's the lack of cats, kids, a home, and a car. It's knowing everything has already been said. It's the fear that no one cares. It's the fear no one understands. It's that so much of life happens in my dreams, and it is all as incomprehensible as crayon soup.

****Microsoft Ingenuity

I thought I'd seen every error message that Microsoft Word was programmed to throw at me. As a heavy-duty MS Word user who works in hundred-paged documents replete with graphics, cross-references, template styles, index markers, and all the other little bells and whistles that makes Word about as efficient as a Chevy Tahoe, I've spent a large percentage of my life clicking through error and warning dialog boxes as application struggles to cope with my megalith manuals.

So today, when updating the template of a 148-paged document caused MS Word to hang, I was stunned when the following message appeared:



Apparently, MS Word failed in a new and spectacular way that I've never seen before, but how endearing. It admits 'hey, I'm really fucking this shit up,' and understands that I'm staring at the screen in eager anticipation. Yet instead of coming out and saying MS Word crashed, it makes the termination of the program and loss of my unsaved changes entirely the fault of me and my impatience. It's a brilliant dialog box, really.

****Cold Called

Ring ring! Ring ring! I pick my office phone: "This is Meredith."
"Good morning! How are you today!" a woman's voice tidily booms.

I loath responding to this question until I know who the caller is (Are you asking me for money? Offering me money? Telling me my identity's been stolen?) but I tersely say "Fine."

"Wonderful! My name is L____ N____, and I'm calling from S_____P____. We're a Boston-based group of seasoned consultants that specializes in producing technical, product, and software documentation."
That's odd. That's what I do, too. "How can I help you?"
"Well Meredith, I'm told that you're the person to talk to regarding the documentation needs of [my company]. Is this correct, and do you have a few minutes to answer some questions?"
"Yeah, sure."
Sales Lady: "How would you rate the quality and accuracy of [my company's] documentation?"
Me: "Well... it's pretty good." (Considering I'm devoting my life to it.)
Sales Lady: "Okay, that's good to hear. Has [my company] seen an increase in the need for documentation in the past year?"
Me: "Maybe." (Is documentation ever a need?)
Sales Lady: "Would [my company] be interested in outsourcing your documentation projects to a company with a proven track record for success?"
Me: "No, we're all set."

Hmm. It's so rare that a person is directly asked if they would like their job to be outsourced. Maybe teams of 50 writers at big fancy company with stuffed budgets could get away with outsourcing some of their doc work, but I'm a lone wolf, loping madly out of the cross-hairs. It's too late, though, she unleashes her sales pitch: Slicker than Teflon, she extols the virtues of her company knowing that at any second I could hang up. "Reliable" "professional" "cost effective"... the adjectives fly fast and furious.

Me: "I'm sorry, I'm just not interested."
Sales Lady: "OK. I'll tell you what, if I could get your mailing address so I can send out some brochures about our services -"
Me: "No, it's okay. I'm sorry to be rude, but we get a lot of sales calls. I'd appreciate if you take [my company] off your list."
Sales Lady: "Perhaps there is someone else at at your company who would be interested in our services -"
Me (sneering): "Nobody here's interested in your services. Good day." Click.

****The Sack of the Patriots

Like the garment manufacturers who pre-print thousands of AFC Championship t-shirts for both teams before the game starts, I had already drafted my Victory! post to glorify the Patriot's win. However, their 38-34 loss (here) does not render irrelevant the gist of my premature post: that Tom Brady is a demimortal in possession of otherworldly powers, and Peyton Manning is, comparatively, a boob.

That the Patriots were even playing in the AFC Championship game is a testament to Brady's prowess, leadership, and chivalry. Yet a precision throwing arm can't compensate for lousy receivers and a sluggish offensive line. The Colts are a much better team than the Patriots, but Manning is an above-average QB who is so busy filming commercials and endorsing products that he will never catch up to Brady's stats.

I always imagine football as a simulated war, with each game a battle and each play a tactical maneuver. If we still waged war in the manner of Ancient Greece, the NFL football players would be our lauded soldiers, and Tom Brady our Hector. Mankind has outgrown its appreciation for exacting spear-throwers and valiant charioteers, but we will not fail to be enchanted by a golden boy with a football.

Here were the best picked men
Detached in squads to stand the Trojan charge
And shining Hector, a wall of them bulked together
Spear-by-spear, shield-by-shield, the rims overlapping,
Buckler-to-buckler, helm-to-helm, man-to-man massed tight
And the horsehair crests on glittering helmet horns brushed
As they tossed their heads, the battalions bulked so dense
Shoulder-to-shoulder close, and the spears they shook
In daring hands packed into jagged lines of battle
Single minded fighters facing straight ahead,
Achaeans primed for combat
--The Iliad

****Unpardonable!

After the timely passing and berserk canonization of Gerald Ford, GWB issued the customary proclamation (here) directing that the US flag be displayed at half-staff for 30 days - until this Friday. While most flags currently remain in the proper mourning position, I have noticed a few Old Glories fluttering at the top of the flagpole.

I urge my fellow citizens to be vigilant about any flag transgressions that they should witness during the tail end of our Executive-ordered period of grief. Whether the offender be a highway toll station, a Red Roof Inn, or a private citizen with a flagpole in their yard, it is your civic duty to confront such sedition and demand the flag be lowered. A full-mast flag is an effrontery not only to Gerald Ford, the man who healed our nation by refusing to hold the highest elected official accountable for his high crimes and misdemeanors, but to any American who has lived a long, full life and died of natural causes.

****Cold, Sweat, and Cheese

A day of cross-country skiing has many benefits. First, there is something profoundly peaceful about gliding through a forest that has been hushed by a beguiling shroud of snow. Second, the amount of energy slowly and (almost) unnoticeably expended warrants an apres-ski meal that is life affirming, such as a traditional Gruyere and Emmenthaler fondue (yes, fondue can be eaten anytime, but so can wedding cake and Eucharist wafers.)

But the most tangible advantage to XC skiing is sweat. Yesterday, we journeyed to Waterville Valley, NH - the closest Nordic center with enough snow to have open trails. The temperature was 8 and the wind gusts reached 40 mph ("feels like -15"). When preparing to venture into such conditions for several hours, the instinct to swaddle one's self in layers of wool is fierce. However, after ten minutes on the trail, the simultaneous arm and legs movements cannot fail to generate feelings of toasty contentment even in negative wind-chills. (Happening upon a yurt also helps).

 

 

****Juice Abuse

A Florida woman is suing Kraft Foods for labeling their juice-less Capri Sun juice drinks as All Natural despite containing high-fructose corn syrup (here). The lawsuit is backed by the CSPI (here), who never hesitates to drip sarcasm when it comes to the nutritional claims of the food industry: "Unless you and your chemist friends are prepared to undertake a little Manhattan Project in your kitchen, you won't be brewing any high-fructose corn syrup from scratch ... unless you happen to be equipped with centrifuges, hydroclones, ion-exchange columns, and buckets of enzymes."

Kraft Foods, which rues the day that the public learned to decipher food labels, has been working for "about a year" on repackaging Capri Sun to replace All Natural with No artificial colors, flavors or preservatives - the health claim of last resort that still manages to resonate positively with the public, the wink-wink nudge-nudge "you know it's a product of industrial cogging, but rest assured it doesn't have anything like FD&C Red No. 40 or Sodium Propionate... at least that the FDA has identified."

****Reading the Subtitles

The only thing worse than watching the morning local news is watching the muted morning local news in closed-captioning. Sometimes the transcribing responsibilities are apparently taken over by a crack-smoking monkey who is prone to banging the stenotype in hooting frustration. My favorite phonetic foible was a report about the health benefits of laughter, called "Lobster is the best medicine."

But some days, it's a godsend to have the news anchors' hokey, jabbering small-talk sterilized into a noiseless transcript. Today the foxy business correspondant finished up her segment with the story about how the citizens of China may successfully drive a Starbucks franchise out of the Forbidden City (here). The attention turned back to the two anchors, seen boisterously talking and waving their arms as they transitioned to a commercial break. Their words scrolled across the screen: "I like Starbucks. Starbucks makes us warm. Starbucks drinks make us warm. We need warmth. Starbucks can stay here."

****Train Man

Today I took a later train home, and sat near a train klatch of older men who lounged comfortably at the tables in the middle of the car. The conversation was dominated by a boisterous man with a shrill voice, who acted sort of like a moderator: "I heard this, what do you think about this, you're wrong because of this..." Several times he yelled in excitement, causing more than a few people to "shush" him.

I managed to tune him out, until I heard him say, "I accidentally got on the third car last week, and you know who I saw? All the people who used to ride in this car! Until I came along!"

****Twain on Jane

Mark Twain quotes are Focaccia for the Soul. Even when they're slathered in sentiment that I don't care for, the underlying doughy slabs of wisdom are always worth relishing.

To wit, Mark Twain on Jane Austen (here):
*Jane Austen? Why I go so far as to say that any library is a good library that does not contain a volume by Jane Austen. Even if it contains no other book.
*It seems a great pity that they allowed her to die a natural death.
*I often want to criticise Jane Austen, but her books madden me so that I can't conceal my frenzy from the reader; and therefore I have to stop every time I begin. Everytime I read 'Pride and Prejudice' I want to dig her up and beat her over the skull with her own shin-bone.

Comic hyperbole aside, Twain must find something redeeming in reading Austen - otherwise, why would he say Everytime I read 'Pride and Prejudice'? Perhaps Twain, like so many other English scholars, could not fully accept Austen as a major writer because her gushy tomes dealt with tedious upper-class precoccupations such as marriage and courtship. But these were the primary obsessions of the society in which she was cloistured. This was all Jane Austen knew, and Twain himself once said "Experience is an author's most valuable asset; experience is the thing that puts the muscle and the breath and the warm blood into the book he writes." And who can deny the vitality of Austen's writing when she very properly satirizes her society's rituals all the while appealing to the romantic notions of her readers? It is her deadpan seriousness about the trivial that makes it all seem so absurd.

****Reviews of Perfume Samples from February 2007 Marie Claire

Only two perfume samples?! What a friggin gyp! One would imagine that the February issue would offer an array of redolent scents to romantically cloak the stenches of humanness. Because on Valentine's Day, it's the man's job to buy the flowers, the jewelry, and the dinner, and the woman's job to emanate grapefruit, vanilla, and ylang ylang.

But for the target demographic of Marie Claire, maybe only two samples are necessary. Young women either do or don't believe in Valentines Day. Women who do believe seize the opportunity to indulge their fanciful notions about romantic love, mainly that men are base creatures who respond to subtle cues gleaned from their primitive senses. Women who don't believe seize the opportunity to assert their independence: I'm strong enough to be alone, and I'll be damned if I smell like I want to cuddle.

Estee Lauder Beautiful Love ("The new fragrance that celebrates the love you share")
What does "romance" smell like? Our cave-dwelling ancestors would describe the scents of dirty laundry. Scientists talk of chemical pheromones, while researchers have found "sexy" smells to include pumpkin pie, doughnuts, and Good and Plenty candy (here). But I say screw science and all its animalistic trappings, romance smells like this classic floral/jasmine combination.

Launching just in time for Valentine's Day, Beautiful Love joins a cadre of sex-inducing Estee Lauder perfumes with foreboding names like Beyond Paradise, Pleasures in the Garden, and Youth Dew. It's a teasing yet purposeful scent that can indicate both sexual readiness and meticulous domesticity: this female believes in potpourri and toilets that smell pleasantly chemical. Go ahead and express ardor in fits of beautiful love.

Lucky Brand Jeans Lucky number 6 for Women
This one's for the cool girls. The hip girls, technorati girls, mentally provocative girls, girls who dabble in at least 3 fine arts or DIY hobbies, girls who deride Valentine's as just another commercial holiday on which several luxury industries depend to peddle the tokens of modern affections that have become void of emotional meaning.

Yeah, Lucky number 6 is a pleasant smell, with its unisex overtones of citrus and amber, but it's also astringent smell. It may induce headaches. Maybe even a nosebleed. You certainly won't want to spend the rest of your life with it.

****Celebrating a Dream

This afternoon, a friend called my cell phone, unaware that I spent the holiday sequestered in the office. She mentioned liking something I wrote on this site, so I pandered: "What should I write about today? You name it, I'll write about it."
"Well, it's Martin Luther King day. Write about him," she said.
"No, I can't write about Dr. King. He was a hero, a saint, a martyr. He's, like, sacred."
"Exactly. Write about how great and revered he is," she said.

I thought about this. A casual admirer like me just can't do justice to MLK. But my friend is one of the nicest people in the world. In fact, all my friends and family are exceedingly kind and noble, probably because only such upstanding souls are charitable enough to be around someone as withered and cruel as myself.

The best way for me to pay tribute to Reverend King is to spew virulence on Utah, whose state legislature is constitutionally bound to open their annual session on the Third Monday of January. Unable to be humbled by any racial diversity, a change to honor MLK day is called "cumbersome" (here). Oh, Utah. You yourself have always been kinda cumbersome.

Utah's refusal to honor MLK is but one of its damning quirks. This is a state where little girls are named Abcde, Hoette, Saunsceneyouray, Serenity Fawn, X Y Zella... and little boys are named Antrim Zeezrom, TrinityMichaelJosef, Nightrain Lane, Kaiden Chipper (here for 1000s of very odd, actual "singularly Utahn" first names ). They call their NBA team the Utah Jazz instead of the Utah Latter Day Saints or the Utah Tabernacles, as if jazz was ever played in the state besides a high school marching band's rendition of Peter Gunn. And the Mormons, who don't want to integrate, they want to convert, and until everyone else in the world is Mormon, they're going to hide from the sinners in the Jello Belt (here). Yes, the Jello Belt - apparently, green jello is to Mormons what grape soda is to Blacks.

Right now, my kind friend is thinking "Did she really just write that in her post about Dr. King?" but in my defense, I didn't have off work today. I couldn't devote 8 hours to reflecting upon Dr. King's legacy of tolerance, and now I'm turning into a Republican lawmaker from Utah.

(Click here to read MLK's "I Have a Dream" speech and watch the video - if you only have 3 minutes, start it at minute 13).

****Sampling the Holistic Life

Last Saturday was 'New Year Detox Day' at the Framingham Whole Foods, which regularly holds events to educate consumers about all the exciting organic foods and supplements that will holistically heal them of disposable income.

Our grocery shopping naturally coincides with these festivities, though it's a lousy time to shop. The prospect of free food lures a consumer that is more 'Stop and Shop' than 'Whole Foods,' if you get my drift. "This is non-dairy dip with organic capers and pressed flaxseeds," says the earnest representative from the manufacturer, as people literally push each other to dunk fistfuls of baguette slices into the paste-like substance. Some people do not even appear to be shopping, like they were just driving by and decided to stop and pilfer a snack.

Stuffing my face in a supermarket aisle makes me feel grubby, but paying for a week's worth of Whole Foods groceries confers a sense of entitlement. So I grabbed a few of the detox supplements:

I decided to try the Bach Flower Remedies Olive Energize serum (here), a "flower essence" oil (here) that touts itself as a "homeopathic, natural alternative to restore energy when you are physically and mentally exhausted... to leave you feeling more confident, centered, energized and focused." I think it's legal.

Sunday, Dose 1: The encapsulated oil is to be emptied in .5L of fresh spring water and sipped in intervals through the day. I use half-liters of Poland Spring sparkling water, worrying vaguely that the carbonation may diminish the oil's rejuvenating, stress-fending properties. My mind and body felt alert and positive, but don't discount my other Sunday morning all-natural energy restorers: Waffles, coffee, and George Stephanopoulos (he's so homeopathic.)

Monday, Dose 2: I felt good, but Mondays can be the best day of the week if you do nothing all weekend but relax and watch football. However, the oil's promised kick to my confidence never registered; I had a nagging sense that it was not just a bad hair day, it was the worse hair day ever.

Tuesday, Dose 3: Finished off my .5 liter of Energize water in 3 minutes. I was really thirsty. Since I'm supposed to sip it, that may explain why, come evening, I felt as stressed as the tires on a Fung Wah bus.

Wednesday, Dose 4: I tested my energy with an early morning spinning class. I heard rumors that this particular class had some hardcore spinners. I needed cocaine and a pound of sugar to keep up with these maniacs - flower essences just didn't cut it.

Thursday, Dose 5: Woke up at 1:30am for my restroom break. Usually I'm not fully awake - I'm actually proud of how close to unconscious I can be and still successfully use a toilet. But when I went back to bed, I tossed and turned until 3am. As usual, when I can't sleep, I fret about my health: "I haven't had my moles screened for melanoma in several years... My diet lacks iron... Carpal Tunnel Syndrome is a when, not an if... stress will probably kill me." Then I mulled over the irony of how the serum confers more energy with which to stress out.

Friday, Dose 6: What should I clean first - the bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, living room? Maybe I should start a load of laundry? I'll hand-wash some sweaters, then reorganize my closet? Sort through my bills? Clean out my cachet of half-used beauty products? Reduce my collection of old sneakers? Bake a loaf of bread? Launder sheets? Look for hiking boots on the internet? Screw it all and sit in the sauna? Yes, that.

Saturday, Dose 7: I had a wet dream, meaning I dreamt I wet the bed. I woke up, convinced that a wetting had occurred, and was relieved that I hadn't actually relieved. Could the Olive Energize serum be causing this fitful sleep? I thought about counteracting it with the Rescue Sleep serum, which promises "natural relief of occasional sleeplessness caused by stress and repetitive thoughts." But then I'd be on a holistic rollercoaster of uppers and downers. There's only one thing to do: Toss the remaining dose of Olive Energize in the trash, and face life without the flower essence edge.

Tonight George W. Bush will unveil his latest strategy for re-accomplishing the mission in Iraq. The mission was originally accomplished in 2003, when Bush announced that major combat operations in Iraq had ended in "victory," but some unresolved issues - mainly societal chaos - still linger (here). [It's called Doublethink, people. You've had 6 years to get hip to it.]

The revised Iraq strategy is expected to include a "surge" of 20,000 troops, including 6 National Guard brigades (here), which will leave America's homeland defenses in the hands of the National Park Service, the Boy Scouts, and whatever armed citizen militias step up to the plate when the 3.25 million-strong Chinese People's Liberation Army comes rolling in.

Experts predict that the war in Iraq will be the glaring rubric of Bush's disgraced legacy (here), supplemented by the following follies:

   * International disdain. Bush's pig-headed policy of unilateralism has made him the most ill-received American President ever. Remember when Bush Senior threw up in the Japanese Prime Minister's lap? GWB has been vomiting in the world's lap for the past six years.
   * Budget Deficit. We all know a person whose out-of-control spending - whether on housing, vacations, clothes, a war to foist democracy on an unwilling populace - shows total disregard for their budget. What a reckless idiot, we think. But no one goes as far as GWB, who purposely reduced America's take-home pay in order to please the bosses. Bush's fiscally-unsound tax cuts have broke America.
   * Dismal domestic performance. Bush catered to conservatives, and not even to their complete satisfaction; America's still got a fag problem. As proof of his 'compassionate' nature, Bush repeatedly cites his support of the "No child left behind unless they're stranded in the Superdome" Act. And as for Homeland Security, seriously: Why is Bush's reaction to 9/11 considered a strength? His administration allowed the attack to happen.
   * Catastrophic environmental 'not-my-problems'. Good news! The bears in the Moscow Zoo have gotten over their warm-weather-induced insomia and have begun to hibernate (here). More good news: NOAA, the federal weather agency, has acknowledged that human emission of heat-trapping gases is changing the weather (here). The funny thing is, these government scientists are even slower than Bush, who said in 2005: "I recognize that the surface of the Earth is warmer and that an increase in greenhouse gases caused by humans is contributing to the problem," which means he's not ignorant to global warming... he just doesn't give a shit.

In short, even if the Iraq situation is miraculously salvaged so that the violence stops and a semblance of normalcy occurs, Bush's legacy looks bleak. Planning for Bush's Presidential Library has begun, and Southern Methodist University will be the likely site (here) Although some SMU faculty is opposed, who can deny the fittingness of Bush's papers, records, and possibly even his corpse residing at a private, vaguely religious school nicknamed 'Southern Millionaire's University,' known for its passion for Greek life and athletics, and mediocre academics? Not only do I applaud the choice, I will personally donate a copy of My Pet Goat to the Bush collection.

****Great Moments in Personal Hygiene

After reaping a bonanza of new products from holiday gift-giving with which to sanitize, hydrate, exfoliate, deodorize, clarify, repair, ameliorate, penetrate, and generally beautify her external anatomy, our Heroine, dazzled by the array of bottles on her bathroom vanity and blinded by fresh steam from her shower, seizes a vial of moisturizer to daub on her rawly-shaven legs, after which she perceives a dull stinging that crescendos into searing distress, upon which it is discovered that the moisturizer is actually a non-organic thickening hair serum that is clotting her leg's blood vessels so that the ivory white skin erupts into a rash of thrombus.

She bites her lip, bravely endures.

****Joan Crawford Quotes vs Angelina Jolie Quotes

Movie stars just aren't what they used to be. Joan Crawford: Iconic, sultry, hard-working movie actress with talent, wit, grace, and poise. Angelina Jolie: Flash in the pan pin-up girl with notable lips who will make a great mommy.

Joan Crawford Quotes	Angelina Jolie Quotes
I never go outside unless I look like Joan Crawford the movie star. If you want to see the girl next door, go next door.	If I make a fool of myself, who cares? I'm not frightened by anyone's perception of me.
I need sex for a clear complexion, but I'd rather do it for love.	I need more sex, OK? Before I die I wanna taste everyone in the world.
I love playing bitches. There's a lot of bitch in every woman - a lot in every man.	I love to put on lotion. Sometimes I'll watch TV and go into a lotion trance for an hour. I try to find brands that don't taste bad in case anyone wants to taste me.
Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell.	I never like being touched, ever. People used to say I held my breath when they were hugging me. I still do.
If you've earned a position, be proud of it. Don't hide it. I want to be recognized. When I hear people say, 'There's Joan Crawford!' I turn around and say, 'Hi! How are you!'	I am odd-looking. I sometimes think I look like a funny Muppet.

****We are the Champions

One of Kerry Healey's last acts as Massachusetts Lieutenant Governor was to officially declare me a champion, which is pretty sweet of her, considering I once officially declared her a bitch. Yes, the entire town of Natick can boost of being legislated champions, now that the State acknowledges our slogan "Home of Champions" (here), coined when Natick's firefighters apparently won the 1891 National Hook and Ladder competition. (I can't find any substantiating evidence that there was such a competition, let alone that Natick firemen were the champions, but since no other town has claimed they won the 1891 National Hook and Ladder competition...)

The same 'champion nickname' bill also recognizes Brockton as the 'City of Champions'... a most charitable designation. Brockton has masqueraded as champions for the past 50 years, refusing to bow to Natick's prior claim on the moniker. Brockton feels that they are a city of champions because of two boxers, Rocky Marciano and 'Marvelous' Marvin Hagler. I'm sorry, but rearing two men who were notable for their ability to punch another human being unconscious hardly qualifies the whole town as champions.

The pride in our 1891 fire company's exploits has not diminished with time or obsolescence, because champions are not born, they are inspired by the traditions of their community to triumph. Here's enduring proof that Natick's nickname 'Home of Champions' is no mere political patronage:

* Champion shoppers: The glorious Natick Mall was the first indoor mall in the Boston area, opening in 1966. The mall is currently undergoing expansion plans that will make it the 12th largest mall in the country. Those who would refute this feat as a consequence of Natick being the retail dumping ground of NIMBY richies in Wellesley and Newton should be reminded that a little-known prerequisite to being a champion is living within walking distance to a Neiman Marcus and Nordstroms.

* Champion demographic curio: Natick is the center of population in Massachusetts, a feat achieved by no other town in the entire state.

* Champion corporate flunkies: Natick is prime land for farms... cubicle farms, that is. As evidenced by the number of world-renown companies that are headquartered in Natick - BJ's Wholesale, Cognex, MathWorks, Boston Scientific - our educated, obedient workforce wins a blue ribbon.

* Champion cobblers: Some of the greatest people ever have lived in Natick - Harriet Beecher Stowe, Doug Flutie, John O'Hurley (Peterman in Seinfeld), Rob Patterson (current guitarist for Korn)... Perhaps the most illustrious was Henry Wilson, the 'Natick Cobbler' who became US Vice President under Ulysses S. Grant. From cobbler to Vice President - he must have made some pretty great shoes.

****Headless Steel

****Hay Day

66 degrees in Massachusetts on January 6. If it had to be a day so freakishly warm as to kindle niggling unease about Mother Nature's sanity, I'm glad it was a Saturday.

We walked on crowded trails in the Noanet Woodlands, laughing about how just last week we literally froze our faces off in Maine. We also plotted to pillage the inevitable "Going Out of Business" sales that will be plaguing New England ski shops this spring. I loved watching the horses graze on the farm that adjoins the reservation, also reveling in the weather's aberrance.

He is pure air and fire; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him; he is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts. - William Shakespeare, Henry V

****Riot of Passage

My alma mater UMass only makes headlines in Boston by virtue of its collegian buffoonery. Most recently, 5 students were expelled for riot-related offenses committed during a massive December 15 melee that lamented the vanquishment of the football team (here). The UMass Police website posted pictures of rioting students to be identified and disciplined (here). I love the file names: "firestarters.jpg", "girl white tee not dispersing.jpg", "burning shirt 2.jpg", "lighting bushes3.jpg." It seems like just yesterday, I was setting fires and taunting cops for the glory of UMass Athletics.

Nostalgia for my salad days ("when I was green in judgment") manifests from time to time. I considered asking for a UMass sweatshirt for Christmas, but I'd be mortified to wear it around Boston. Whenever I see the UMass-emblazoned gear, it's apportioned by a flagrant dumbass.

Like the two young men drinking brown-bagged bottles outside of the Federal Reserve building at 12 noon, apparently with delusions of Boston being this gotham city of cheap thrills. The UMass sweatshirt is donned by the indignant loud-mouth who resists his friend's efforts to tug him away when four security guards confiscate their booze: "What! It's a free country! We're not bothering anyone!"

Or at the busy intersection outside of South Station. Pedestrians make orderly use of the four-way walk signal, and a scuzzy Cadillac takes advantage of a slow walker to attempt a right turn. But glaring pedestrians crossing in other directions block the Cadillac from completing the turn, mooring it in a cross-walk clogged with haranguing commuters: "What are you doing? Move! Get out of the way!" So the Cadillac inches awkwardly into the intersection, turning slightly to expose its license plate frame to a disdainful world: University of Massachusetts, so proud, so stupid.

****Snakes on a Train

This week, the MBTA slapped riders with a sizable fare increase (here) that was perfectly timed to punctuate the mass confusion over the rollout of the new $85 million "Charlie Card" automated fare system (here), which is touted as proof that fare increases lead to fabulous improvements, like: Now you put your money into a machine instead of giving it to a person!

Who is Charlie, this transit mascot , you wonder? Charlie is the fabled hero of the 1959 Kingston Trio hit "The MTA Song." He is stuck on the train because he can't pay the exit fare. What is an exit fare, you wonder? An exit fare is way to increase fares without having to upgrade collection equipment, by collecting a second fare from exiting riders. So, I can only assume the MBTA is exhibiting its trademark absurdist wit by branding the new system with this victim of archaic transit equipment. Plus, lest we forget, they eliminated exit fares - meaning everyone pays more except the folks who ride Charlie's line.

Subway fares went from $1.25 to $1.70, bus fares went from $0.90 to $1.25, and subway monthly passes skyrocketed from $44 to $66. Some simple math indicates that the average commuter who rides the subway twice a day, five days a week will save exactly $2 by buying the monthly pass. (Better not take a sick day.) Commuter rail riders face an average 22 percent hike - me, I now pay $186 a month for the pleasure of my Zone 4 pass. More math: Assuming I take the train a maximum 20 times a month, that's roughly $9.30 a day. That is cheaper than driving ($4.40 for tolls, $9 for parking, and maybe $2 for gas.) But if I car pool with 1 person, suddenly driving is attractive. And if I car pool with 2 people - an actual choice for me - then the train becomes a costly luxury.

Yes, but doesn't taking the train spare you the aggravation of the highways? Hm. The joke about the commuter rail is: It always runs on time, except in the winter (snow on the tracks), the summer (heat expands the tracks), the fall (leaves on the tracks), and spring (when they do track repairs.) And when you're behind the wheel of a car, your adrenal cortex isn't at the mercy of a unionized workforce, and your butt isn't squished against the meaty thighs of a snoring, pastrami-digesting middle-aged man who is probably named Charlie. My theory: the MBTA is dealing with famously over-crowded trains by reducing ridership rather than upgrading service. And it just may work.

****Some say the world will end in wire, Some say in lice

With the holidays over, do you feel cynical, fatalistic ... maybe even downright nihilistic? Try channeling those glum energies into a suitably morose but distractedly constructive exercise, like pondering Discover.com's 20 Ways the World Could End (here).

The optimistic pessimist in me hopes for #2 Gamma-ray Burst. BOOM: Clean, instantaneous, and with no residue of our errant civilization for future sentinent beings to pick through and muse about our failings, unlike the human-triggered disasters (i.e., #9 Global warming, #11 Biotech disaster) or willful self-destruction (i.e., #15 Global war, #17 Mass insanity).

#18 Alien invasion tweaks my interest because it's poetically just that we be subjagated into nonexistence by a higher life form like defenseless animal. It's the dodo's revenge! I also like #16 Robots take over, because it's got Darwinian continuity. But as a bleak realist, my money's on Doomsday scenario #8 Global epidemics. Hell, why not - all my money. I've seen lattice-based pandemic models that make my immune system shirk in fear.

Since several fanciful fates are included (#12 Particle accelerator mishap, #20 Someone wakes up and realizes it was all a dream), I feel entitled to advance my all-time favorite: Zombies. "When there's no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth" (here for Wikipedia on Dawn of the Dead, a stellar cinematic dramatization by prophet George Romero). Zombies relentlessly feast on humans, leaving decreasing pocket of survivors who eventually succumb to the Pandora pitfalls of human nature. That's so much cooler than boring and predictable #7 Flood-basalt volcanism.

If I've depressed you, take this Charles Shultz quote to heart: "Don't worry about the world coming to an end today. It is already tomorrow in Australia." And then be cheered than there was once such a man like Charles Shultz.

****And the Parent of the Year Award Goes to...

The "swank" factor for Maine inns can be positively correlated with a high percentage of SUVs in the parking lot with NY and NJ license plates. Our inn was uber-swanky - a resort, even. There were way more families than couples. Wealthy families, since it's an exponentially more expensive option than a week-long rental. Not quite Rockefeller-wealthy, but you probably don't worry about college tuition if you're laying out $25 nightly for an 8-year old's dinner.

The ambience in the inn's common areas would have been pleasant if not for the domineering presence of indulged brats exhibiting no shyness over public outbursts. I realize that children have a tantrum phase, and sometimes even the most stalwart parents cannot dissuade little Brianna or Tyler from sitting on the floor and wailing. But I'm not blaming the 5-year old for having a meltdown while the adults dawdle over their torte and port after a 2-hour formal dinner.

Parents often respond to ill-behaved offspring with empty threats ("You keep this up and you can't go to the arcade later"), though most child psychologists confirm that this is not an effective long-term behavioral modification strategy. I suspect such parental admonishments are designed to publicly acknowledge the egregious behavior of their little monster and demonstrate a firm willingness to correct it. Alas, they do little to brighten the spirits of the audience (us). I'm sure not thinking "I hope that kid keeps doing cannonballs in the pool! Then he won't have a PlayStation tonight! Ha ha ha!"

"Stop it now! People are trying to relax and don't want to hear that!" said a mother to her young son as he hooted and jumped in the lobby. How nice that the mother acknowledges what a pain in the ass her son is. How horrible that she does nothing to correct it except appeal to a young boy's undeveloped empathy.

Only one parent won my genuine admiration for his parenting skills. In the outside heated 92-degree pool (pictured below, courtesy Mr. Pinault), three sub-10-year kids were stopped by their father from playing Marco Polo. They acquiesced, but demanded to know "Why can't we play Marco Polo, Dad?"

The father picked up one of his sons and held him out of the water in the freezing air. "Because no one in this pool paid good money to listen to you guys play Marco Polo. Not even me."

****New Year, New You

I woke up this morning in Bethel, Maine at 8:30 am, body throbbing from back-to-back days of alpine and nordic skiing, stomach groaning from a 5-course dinner, and brain shrouded in the wooly effects of celebratory wine and champagne (not discernibly mitigated by virtuous water-drinking from 11pm to midnight.)

Every New Year, I am determined to start the year off right. At that point, the 'right' thing to do would've been to go back to sleep until check-out time and counted the day as a rest day, but instead I donned jogging gear and headed out in the freezing rain to the hotel's recreation center, which includes a humble gym with mid-1980s cardio machines and weights.

I hit the treadmill on 5.5, slowly shaking off my hangover, thankful none of my running muscles seemed to be too affected by skiing. On the treadmill next to me was a slightly older, plump woman who started off walking and then took off in a tortured, unsteady gallop that was punctuated by raspy panting. Within 10 minutes, we were both perspiring cleansing rivulets of sweat. She was trying to make a new habit, I was behooved by an old habit, but on New Year's morning, both can result in some pretty gnarly running.

****Maine Lines

A scant two inches of snow fell while we were in Maine, barely enough for a few hours of nordic skiing. The official XC trails wind through a golf course, but since the underlying gravel made skiing impossible, we glided through the golf course fairway, basking in the freedom of trail-less skiing.