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<table width="50%" border="0" align="left" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" bordercolor="#003300" bgcolor="#009900"> <tr> <td height="26">Wednesday February 28 2007 </td> </tr> </table>   ****Talkin' Bout Me Generation <blockquote> A decades-long study of college students using the Narcissistic Personality Inventory (NPI) concluded that two-thirds of today's students are overachieving in narcissism, a 30% rise since 1982 (<a href=" http://www.nytimes.com/aponline/us/AP-Self-Centered-Students.html" target="_blank">here</a>). Psychologists are alarmed that efforts to build self-esteem and confidence in early childhood has resulted in self-obsessed, attention-seeking adults who react poorly to criticism and fail to cultivate meaningful relationships. Stupid psychologists, you don't know me. I have an eponymous insular website because I'm special. I'm special because I have an eponymous insular website. Talk to the hand. When I was in college, we were labelled apathetic. Fate had cast us on the brink between Generation X and Generation Y: Too young to appreciate MTV in the 80s, but too old to evolve with the internet in the 90s. We had the cynicism of the slackers as well as the medicated blind ambition of the millennials. Not only didn't we care about the world, we didn't care about ourselves, perhaps because we didn't know who "we" were. But the pendulum keeps swinging, and it all works out in the end. The Greatest Generation selflessly saved the world, and beget the individualistic Baby Boomers who defied the world, and beget the present crop of narcissists who love themselves too much to allow their world to end. Their children will be so horrified by their parent's egotism that they will selflessly devote themselves to creating a socialist utopia of caring and sharing and environmental stewardship. And then their children will elect the 21st Century Reagan. </blockquote> ****Our Daily Bomb <blockquote> Many parts of Iraq are stable now. But, of course, what we see on television is the one bombing a day that discourages everybody. - Laura Bush on Larry King Live, 2/26/2007 (<a href=" http://thinkprogress.org/2007/02/26/laura-one-bombing-day/" target="_blank">here</a>, where it's noted there is an average of 185 insurgent attacks in Iraq every day - <a href="http://www.crooksandliars.com/2007/02/28/the-daily-show-on-laura-bushs-media-excuse/" target="_blank">here</a> for The Daily Show response) I haven't heard deep concern about the morale of the troops in Iraq... our troops, who have volunteered to serve the country, are willing to go into combat multiple times, but that the concern is with the people on the home front. And I can understand that. And I - and that's one reason I go out of my way to constantly thank the family members. - President Bush, White House Press Conference, 2/14/2007 (<a href=" http://www.whitehouse.gov/news/releases/2007/02/20070214-2.html" target="_blank">here</a>) I heard a loud boom. - Dick Cheney, 2/27/2007 (<a href="http://www.thetranscript.com/headlines/ci_5322382" target="_blank">here</a>) Every morning on the train, I open the NY Times, and I hear bombs. The bomb story in Section A is an unofficial regular feature, like the (Weather Report and the Financial Indices. It usually (takes place in Iraq, although it could be Pakistan, Israel, Lebanon, (or Africa. Sometimes it's a car bomb, a suicide bomb, a train bomb, or (a military bomb. Sometimes responsibility is claimed. Sometimes there are descriptions of anguished relatives, stunned onlookers, or scattered body parts. It's always the mention of strewn teeth that gets me. When there's teeth, I must stop (reading. I look around the train, at my fellow passengers who are (reading, typing, talking or sleeping, and I think: What kind of (explosion would it take to disperse their teeth? Then I'll turn the pages to the National Report, where "Battle in Maine Pits Lobstermen Against Fisherman" and "Texan Calls for Takeover of State's Juevenile Schools." Where I never hear bombs, but maybe, if I listen hard, I'll hear a boom. </blockquote> <table width="50%" border="0" align="left" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" bordercolor="#003300" bgcolor="#009900"> <tr> <td height="26">Tuesday February 27 2006</td> </tr> </table>   ****Reviews of Perfume Samples from March 2007 Marie Claire<blockquote> Ralph Lauren - Romance ("The Women's Fragrance") I actually own a bottle of Romance. It's my favorite Ralph Lauren scent, which I discovered one day in Macy's when I was hog-tailed by a elderly sales lady with a smoker's croak who made me sniff dozens of Ralph Lauren perfumes. I was insulted to be pegged as the Ralph Lauren type - so sensible and American mass market - and tried to assert my tastes as more sophisticated: "They're too full of air. Do you have something muskier, more sandalwood or vanilla?" But she persisted with the Ralph Lauren and presented me with Romance ("the hottest seller, everyone dies for it"). The floral and citrus scents are bolstered by a solid hint of wood finish. It was acceptable. I bought a small vial of it so the perfume counter lady would untie me. Calvin Klein - Euphoria Blossom ("A new fragrance") Perfume houses are eying the emerging lucrative Asian market, which eschews hard, androgynous notes like jasmine and oakmoss. So this spring, the hottest scents are floral and fruity, and Calvin Klein nabbed the generic "blossom" tag to capitalize on textbook Orientalism that Edward Said himself would turn up his nose at. It's a cloying fragrance, with a sharp fruit smell. The sample extolls its "sparkling citrus, delicate orchid and dewy blossoms," and I can't argue with that assessment. But I'm beyond the age of innocent candor when it would be truthful to smell like a blossom. Especially an euphoric, dewy one. Prada - Eau de Parfum Tendre ("Introducing the new Eau de Parfum Tandre") To the woman whose most glowing touchstone with high fashion is Marie Claire and other glossy magazines designed to foist ready-to-wear fads on the clueless herds, Prada is the ultimate indicia of all that is glamorous and powerful. Sure, the cowering and supine waifs wearing Prada in the fashion spreads may not appear fearsome, but any woman in $1500 pants commands our awe and respect. Yeah, the devil totally wears Prada, but the devil doesn't smell like Prada. She wouldn't be as effective in inspiring trepidation and commanding obedience smelling like fresh-cut potpourri. </blockquote> <table width="50%" border="0" align="left" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" bordercolor="#003300" bgcolor="#009900"> <tr> <td height="26">Monday February 26 2007 </td> </tr> </table>   ****Movie Review: The Last King of Scotland <img src="../Images/1gtsm.jpg"> <blockquote> I know it's lame to declare "Forest Whitaker should totally win an Oscar for his portrayal of Idi Amin in The Last King of Scotland!" when the Academy Awards were, like, so yesterday, and he won the Oscar as was widely predicted. But I was convinced Forest Whitaker should win even before the Oscars ceremony - hell, even before I saw The Last King of Scotland. I've admired him ever since he hustled Paul Newman in The Color of Money. I loved how he could turn a random one-scene role into a performance. I marveled at how he used his lazy eye. I was obsessed with Ghost Dog. Plus, he's playing Idi freaking Amin, dictator of Uganda, murderous tyrant and a helluva nice guy. Compared that to the hollow Hollywood stereotypes played by Leonardo or Will Smith. It's like competitive diving, how each dive has a "degree of difficulty" on which scores are based, and the Idi Amin is a reverse 3 1/2 somersault with a gun to the head. Whitaker's consuming and ferocious portrayal makes this movie worthwhile. Otherwise, it's an interesting but unoriginal story about Amin's Scottish personal physician, Nicholas, who comes to Uganda after finishing medical school, craving adventure and exoticism - "We don't have monkeys in Scotland! If we did, we'd probably deep-fry them." One thing leads to another, and soon Nicholas is a reluctant but proud member of Amin's inner circle. He's a doctor, he's Amin's closest advisor, yet he's naive about just how hazardous to one's health the Ugandan government can be. In ways involving hooks. The ending is entirely predictable and ho-hum. The story lags, but is still a treat for anyone who is fascinated by demagogues (although it's debatable if you people deserve treats or treatment). </blockquote> ****Ad Nauseam <blockquote> I made it through about 45 minutes of last night's Academy Awards (<a href="http://www.oscar.com/" target="_blank">here</a>). Supposedly Hollywood has made an effort to tighten up the broadcast, with abridged song and dance numbers interspersing hurried banter and curt back-patting ... but the commercials just kill me. It turns our most hallowed cinematic achievements into a labored platform for selling L'Oreal cosmetics and Diet Coke. </blockquote> <table width="50%" border="0" align="left" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" bordercolor="#003300" bgcolor="#009900"> <tr> <td height="26">Sunday February 25 2007 </td> </tr> </table>   ****Bon Ski <blockquote> <table width="100%" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="2"> <tr><td valign="top"> Why is Mr. Pinault so tired that he must lounge in the shelter (see below)? Because it was the fifth straight weekend of XC skiing, this week at Notchview in the Berkshires of Western MA (<a href="http://www.thetrustees.org/pages/1401_ski_notchview_.cfm?redirect=yes" target="_blank">here</a>). It was the best day yet for skiing this winter, with a solid foot of snow to cover the ungroomed backcountry trails. We went off-piste to test how much I've learned this year. Apparently, the only thing I've learned is: Complaining and whining does little to help you avoid trees. The fifth straight weekend? But there were no pictures last weekend! Oh, but of course we went last weekend! It was the first time there was significant snowfall close to home, so we ventured just across the NH border to Windblown XC. Windblown (<a href="http://www.windblownxc.com/" target="_blank">here</a>) is a large trail system in the woods, so the camera didn't come because there are no scenic photo opps. The trails were packed with groups of families and novices, trudging on the trails like elephant herds, stopping every minute to consult maps. It was noisy and chaotic, with parents yelling at kids ("Alyssa and Austin, stop! Turn around! That's a black trail!" a mother bawled in vain from a trailhead as her little angels set off to certain doom), kids yelling at parents ("I'M COLD! I HATE THIS!"), and just a general abundance of family fun. We feel like every weekend could be the last with snow, so we go every weekend. Because it's not just fun, it's exertion in nature, going uphill slowly and downhill in a blaze, gliding on the straight-away, an expression of will and strength and power. </td><td valign="top"> <img src="../Images/Misc/skiglove.jpg" width="200" height="275"> </td> </tr> </table> <img src="../Images/Misc/skilove.jpg" width="443" height="375">    <img src="../Images/Misc/skilove2.jpg" width="238" height="375"> </blockquote> <table width="50%" border="0" align="left" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" bordercolor="#003300" bgcolor="#009900"> <tr> <td height="26">Friday February 23 2007 </td> </tr> </table>   ****Bread and Sickness <blockquote> My early-morning energy is legendary. Some say I wake up at 4:59am, seconds before the alarm. I burst forth from bed, snarling as I do handsprings to my closet to dress for my morning constitutional, my inner vim bubbling restlessly for the day to begin. So upon waking this morning at 8am and feeling as if I had undergone week-long brain surgery, I knew that my vim was sick. I don't get sick with the frequency or intensity that other people do. She's got good genes, some scientists would say. She eats her veggies and gets regular exercise, others maintain. The last time I was confined to bed was about four years ago, and the ailment subsided within a day. Colds and bugs are usually sniffles and coughs, and headaches are always fixed by chugging a liter of water. But I felt "literally exhausted," which is what I said when I called out sick at work for first time in two years. I think it scared my manager. I dozed in bed for another three hours until hunger roused me to cook eggs. I dawdled over my coffee and watched YouTube clips of Richard Dawkins, the evolutionary biologist/vehement atheist who all the kids are listening to. <table width="100%" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="2"> <tr><td valign="top"> I contemplated how to spend my day of rest, and decided to bake bread. I used to bake bread every week, back when my salary was 25k and my rent was $600 a month. Here's me being homey: Baking your own bread is fun, tasty, and will save you money. And kneading dough is therapeutic and arm-toning. I'm surprised gyms don't have kneading machines and group classes. "Knead! Knead! Work that dough! Push! Push! And roll it out..." And there's nothing more restorative than the smell of baking bread. Oh, to have nothing but time and confinement to one's adobe... sick, but baking! (Speaking of baking... I should clarify that the Ronald Reagan cake that was pictured a bit ago was not made by me - I lifted it off of the web from some Republican's blog. My handiwork is a little more demure, as shown by the crescent roll on the right). </td><td valign="top"> <img src="../Images/Misc/breads.jpg" width="300" height="253"> </td> </tr> </table> </blockquote> <table width="50%" border="0" align="left" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" bordercolor="#003300" bgcolor="#009900"> <tr> <td height="26">Thursday February 22 2007 </td> </tr> </table>   ****Nemo malus felix <blockquote> "No one bad is happy," or "No bad man is lucky," or "No peace for the wicked." In a NY Times article (<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2007/02/19/world/europe/19castle.html?_r=1&pagewanted=print&oref=slogin" target="_blank">here</a>) about Archduke Franz Ferdinand's great-granddaughter, 'Her Serene Highness Princess Sophie Hohenberg,' and her quest to reclaim her lineage's castle in Konopiste, it is noted that "the walls of the castle's public halls are mounted with some of the roughly 300,000 animals that Franz Ferdinand shot during his lifetime. It is a phantasmagoric display of bison heads and dear antlers and boar tusks and wood grouse tail feathers, each mounted on a wooden plaque inscribed with the date and place where they were shot." Talk about aristocratic excesses. 300,000 animals. Legend has it that one of the more 5,000 deer killed by Ferdinand was a rare albino buck. White stags appear in numerous anglo-saxon myths and legends (<a href="http://deerhounds.blogspot.com/2006/11/white-stag-in-perthshire.html" target="_blank">here</a>), and it is believed that killing them brings bad luck (unless you're the president of the Saxony Hunting Federation, and you use yer huntin' science to conclude "the white deer is a mutation. It does not belong in the wild; it should be shot" - <a href="http://www.dw-world.de/dw/article/0,2144,2224454,00.html" target="_blank">here</a>). While we can never know if World War I was caused by bad luck wrought when an avid hunter threw superstition to the wind, the sheer amount of violent death associated with Ferdinand's existence haunts me: 300,000 animals felled, him and his wife hunted themselves in Sarajevo, and the resulting monstrous folly of treaty that left 40 million people dead or wounded. Some of us live our lives as if touring a castle, tip-toeing in awe, taking care not to touch anything. Others, well, they inherit the castle and decorate it as they see fit. </blockquote> <table width="50%" border="0" align="left" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" bordercolor="#003300" bgcolor="#009900"> <tr> <td height="26">Wednesday February 21 2007 </td> </tr> </table>   ****The Suck of the Irish <table width="100%" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="2"> <tr><td valign="top"> A few weeks back, the Boston Celtics were skidding on what would ultimately be an 18-game losing streak (<a href="http://www.radionz.co.nz/news/sport/200702201629/celtics_avoid_nba_record_losing_streak" target="_blank">here</a>) - a franchise record and not far from the NBA record of 23 successive losses. Did the death of Red Auerbach curse the season, or is the incompetence of Celtics General Manager Danny Aigne finally at an apex? A sports editorial in the NYTimes by Harvey Araton compared the managerial failures of Larry Bird, Isiah Thomas, and Danny Aigne, and concluded "Aigne has done the worst job of the three... where is the national condemnation for collapsing the most storied NBA franchise of all?" Me, I did a bang-up job of Danny Aigne condemnation in 2003-2004, when he ascended to his post and disassembled a perfectly adequate basketball team in the name of his fiendish future vision. I stopped caring about the Celtics altogether on or around January 28, 2004, when I wrote an analysis of Danny Aigne's strategy for "How To Ruin a World-Class Basketball Team." I got my old-school Celtics shirt (pictured right) in college from a guy who coveted my old-school Phillies shirt, and wanted to trade. I accepted the trade because I would rather have a green shirt than a white shirt with red stripes (a trade that has more logic than most of Aigne's, incidentally). The Celtics shirt is so paper-thin and holey that it will disintegrate if it is ever washed again, so I leave it tucked in my drawer and relish in the metaphor. </td><td valign="top"> <img src="../Images/Misc/celticsshirt.jpg" width="330" height="248"> </td> </tr> </table> <table width="50%" border="0" align="left" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" bordercolor="#003300" bgcolor="#009900"> <tr> <td height="26">Tuesday February 20 2007 </td> </tr> </table>   ****Tom Brady, Failed Trojan Man <blockquote> An English degree dooms a person to a lifetime of quixotic ideas and fits of fancy. After countless hours spent picking through archaic and classical texts, one does glean analytic skills, mental discipline, and linguistic prowess. Unfortunately the actual knowledge of, say, the plot of Love's Labour's Lost or the context of Beowulf has little practical application in today's media-saturated market-driven world of disposable heroes and disparate belief systems. Yet these little berries of scholarship refuse to lay dormant in my temporal cortex, causing some 'crazy notions' to come to fruit. Like on January 21 2007, when I extolled the chivalry and valor of Patriots quarterback Tom Brady and even likened him to the virtuous Trojan prince Hector. After news of his possible wedlock paternity with his ex-girlfriend (<a href="http://www.boston.com/sports/football/patriots/articles/2007/02/19/tom_bradys_former_girlfriend_pregnant/" target="_blank">here</a>), clearly, Tom Brady is no Hector. Hector would not be romping around Paris with a nymph named Gisele after refusing to commit to Andromache and knocking her up with Astyanax. Of course, maybe Andromache purposely got pregnant because she sensed Hector and her were drifting apart... or maybe Zeus made one his infamous 'divine interventions' (wink wink nudge nudge). Regardless, Brady's unchinked moral armor has been breached. He must now prepare to be strung behind a chariot and dragged through the mud by the tabloids. Join me next time, when I'll compare Hillary Clinton to Dido, Howard Stern to Ozymandias, Steve Jobs to King Midas, and the cast of Ocean's 11, 12,and 13 to the Argonauts. </blockquote> <table width="50%" border="0" align="left" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" bordercolor="#003300" bgcolor="#009900"> <tr> <td height="26">Monday February 19 2007 </td> </tr> </table>   ****Movie Review: Letters from Iwo Jima <img src="../Images/3gtsm.jpg"> <blockquote> I was swayed to go see Letters from Iwo Jima by a NYTimes review that called it "true to the durable tenets of the war-movie tradition, but it is also utterly original, even radical in its methods and insights" (<a href="http://movies2.nytimes.com/2006/12/20/movies/20lett.html?pagewanted=print" target="_blank">here</a>). My delicate constitution can't cope with bloody schlock that typifies the war-movie genre, but Clint Eastwood is offering something akin to art that considers a timely yet age-old question: When the cause is futile, how do soldiers face the prospect of dying for it? I didn't see Flags of our Fathers, which is the battle of Iwo Jima from the American perspective. It was released last fall to tepid reviews and lousy box office. That Letters is embraced by movie-goers while Flags was ignored might indicate a war-weary public not keen on glamourized, patriotic, flag-waving movies. We don't want triumphant cinematic allegory when a real-life war in the newspaper haunts us daily with tales of unwinnable skirmish. We want catharsis. The central figure of Letters is a humble Japanese baker-turned-foot soldier named Saigo, who wants to survive the war to see his family rather than kill Americans for the Imperial Homeland. All of the Japanese soldiers know they will be killed (or kill themselves) in the battle, but Saigo is hopeful. He shares the audience's horror over the fanatical self-sacrifice of Japanese soldiers. Our empathy for Saigo underscores the brutal machoism of the Japanese military code, and ultimately of war in general. This is an intense movie. The battle scenes are not expansive, but intimate, dimly light in black and white, and often gruesome. But it's not the grenade hara-kiri or the suicide missions that haunt me most. As Eastwood intends (laying it on a bit thick), it's the letters, feverishly written by Saigo and several other characters, including the sympathetic Japanese commander General Kuribayashi (played by Ken Watanabe). The letters are the soldiers' only means of comfort as they sit in their dark caves, caught in the grind of Imperial Japan's war machine, awaiting their fate. The letters are the soldier's only way to remain human. Yes, they were the enemy, but they were human, and perhaps the greatest tragedy of war is how easy it is to forget this. </blockquote> ****Hail to the Disbelief <blockquote> It would seem prudent for President Bush to respectfully lay low this Presidents Day, so we could reflect wistfully on the men who made this country great. Instead, he's at Mount Vernon, honoring "the first George W.", who he claims would have supported "[our] work to advance the cause of freedom around the world" (<a href="http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070219/ap_on_go_pr_wh/bush_george_washington;_ylt=AneiaCkdSoQ2SoG6WrABmJmyFz4D" target="_blank">here</a>). Is anyone advising our President about things like public opinion? If you're feeling mutinous this holiday, check out <a href="http://www.wellingtongrey.net/miscellanea/archive/2007-02-18%20--%20what%20would%20george%20w%20bush%20do.png" target="_blank"> this flowchart</a> that plots out the complex thought process behind George W. Bush's 'War on Terror.' </blockquote> <table width="50%" border="0" align="left" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" bordercolor="#003300" bgcolor="#009900"> <tr> <td height="26">Sunday February 18 2007 </td> </tr> </table>   ****Peanut Buttery Salmonella <blockquote> Industrial food complex intrigue, as 'The Hunt for Peanut Butter Salmonella Source Continues' (<a href="http://www.medicalnewstoday.com/healthnews.php?newsid=63229" target="_blank">here</a>). A classic whodunit, with over 300 victims seeking medical attention. The weapon? PB&J sandwiches, the culinary epitome of American innocence, laced with salmonella. It took 6 months for FDA health inspectors to discover the scene of the crime (<a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/blogs/2007/02/16/couricandco/entry2485464.shtml" target="_blank">here</a>), and now try to narrow their leads. Was it the jars? The equipment? The failure to heat the peanut butter to the proper pathogen-killing temperature? The FDA's slowness in finding the source of the contamination is the latest evidence that our food and drug regulations need an overhaul. In place of educating the public about the truths of food safety, the FDA simply reacts to outbreaks, doing nothing to assuage the irrational and rational fears that these outbreaks breed. I still won't eat an egg unless it's cooked into rubber because of the hysteria in the '80s about salmonella in raw eggs. But only 1 in 20,000 eggs is contaminated with salmonella, and the chances of getting sick from that 1 egg is miniscule. Peanut butter is allowed by law to contain certain amounts of rodent hair and insect fragments (<a href=http://www.sixwise.com/newsletters/05/06/29/how_many_insect_parts_and_rodent_hairs_are_allowed_in_your_food.htm" target="_blank">here</a>). Accepting these "natural contaminants" is actually better, as it reduces the need for pesticides and food processing. Nature' s bounty should not be sterilized into nutritional oblivion. A healthy adult does not need to consume only pasteurized milk and irradiated meat if it is handled properly. The FDA warns everyone off foods that are not processed enough, all the while urging us to stay away from foods that are highly processed. Is it any wonder we're a contradictory nation of picky over-eaters? </blockquote> <table width="50%" border="0" align="left" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" bordercolor="#003300" bgcolor="#009900"> <tr> <td height="26">Saturday February 17 2007 </td> </tr> </table>   ****Tales from the Rails <blockquote> I board the train, take the window seat of a two-seater, and am well into the New York Times Arts Section by the Back Bay stop. The train is packed with office workers intent on starting their three-day weekends, as well as travelers with luggage. The empty seat beside me is immediately claimed by a large man who throws his briefcase and black leather duffle down, then disappears, presumably to hang his heavy coat on the hooks by the doors. The boarding passengers, many of whom will be forced to stand, believe that I have thoughtlessly left my belongings on the seat next to me. I do not realize this mistaken impression until I hear: "Bitch," a young man in office garb snarls at me, with the glares of a half-dozen other riders affirming his pronouncement. Hell has no wrath like a train traveler who believes they are witnessing an egregious breach of train etiquette. "Excuse me, can I sit there," demands a stringy older woman with a dripping Worcester accent. "It's not mine," I say loudly. "I don't know where he went." She glares at me. Everyone gives me "looks" as the line shuffles down the aisle. "Could you move your things?" a man asks, aggrieved. "Those are mine!" a voice declares. My seat mate has returned, neatly sitting down beside me and sighing as he opens a manilla folde