(a combined 1 thumb out of 3 possible thumbs)
| Monday March 31 2008 |
**** Movie Reviews: Boarding Gate and Atonement
(a combined 1 thumb out of 3 possible thumbs)
Venerable publications rarely review multiple movies in one article, and when they do, it's because those movies are somehow linked. Perhaps they appeal to the same niche audience, or they are showing at the same film festival, or their strengths and weaknesses can be juxtaposed in a clever way. So I feel sort of lame saying that the only commonality between Boarding Gate and Atonement is that I saw them both this past weekend.
Since Boarding Gate (here in New York Times) bombed at the Cannes Film Festival, it is resigned to showing at small art house cinemas who eschew any movie with the potential for mild commercial success. Oliver Assayas wrote and directed this pseudo-thriller about a sexy Italian semi-hooker (played by Asia Argento, a sort of an Isabella Rossellini for the Maxim generation) who lives a kinky, crime-filled existence, then is involved in a murder and must make a tension-filled getaway to Beijing. It sounds really exciting, but the real killers were the superfluous dialogue and the wooden acting. And woah, what is Kim Gordon, bassist for Sonic Youth and Iggy Pop lookalike, doing in this film? No really, what was she doing? I couldn't tell if I was meant to understand the plot or if my mind just refused to properly digest all of the bloated lumps of conversation that dragged this film into the dirt.
It feels rude to dump on a movie when I was already convinced of its suckiness when I saw previews. I had no intention of ever seeing Atonement( here on Rotten Tomatoes), but the second-run movie theatre near my house has been obstinately screening it since its Oscar nomination and I finally gave in. I knew its polished cinematic loveliness would give it no reason to be little more than an emotionally hollow historical romance, but in all fairness, I feel that my low expectations stocked the inward groans and sighs that mounted as the predictable plot unfolded. Normally I dig movies set on sprawling British estates about clueless, idle aristocrats and their nuanced relationships with the servants, but this one strayed too far into The English Patient territory. And upon the ludicrous and patronizing ending, it suddenly turned into Titanic. Jesus Christ.
I guess Boarding Gate and Atonement have a few more things in common: Both were underwhelming, both are more satisfying to trash rather than watch, and both would have benefitted from a Philip Seymour Hoffman cameo in which he plays a droll policeman who frequently hand-cuffs the other actors, slaps duct tape over the mouths, and rants to them about their character flaws.
| Sunday March 30 2008 |
**** Gray Day
My New York City friends must think that I'm mighty cultivated, because whenever I visit, I clamor to be taken to museums. Of course, I hardly maintain such a regimented pursuit of culture in my hometown. But as a weekday reader of The New York Times, I often long to visit the exhibitions reviewed in Friday's Arts section. One such article about the Metropolitan Museum of Art's "Jasper Johns: Gray" (here) has been stuck in my head since February, making me a determined museum patron on this past weekend's trip to New York.
Johns was fond of using iconic imagery -- his most famous work is his American flag, with the stars lined up in an ominous grid. He also made counterpart prints for many of his paintings to experiment with his favorite motifs -- targets, maps, numbers -- and found the color gray to be effective in forcing the familiar shapes and forms to be considered literally. I found it alarming when I stared at the American flag in shades of gray and my mind supplied the colors. There were gray paintings with rectangles cut into the canvas, or glued-on forks and spoons, or a string draped across like a necklace. There was peace and serenity in Jasper Johns' gray works that, as the NYT raved, "amplifies gray into a color spectrum all its own."
Sometimes, art is so visually pleasing that it has the power to stand by itself, without a critic's interpretation or commentary to enhance its enjoyment. And then there's Jasper Jones, whose cryptic, aesthetically unpleasing paintings sent most of the museum patrons flocking the Gustave Courbet exhibit down the hall to relish in the classic, colorful scenes of animals, landscapes, and nudes.
Here is a slideshow of some works from "Jasper Johns: Gray."
| Friday March 28 2008 |
**** Surrealistic Love Boat
I'm not one of those people who says "Now I've seen everything!" Because that's a statement rift with superlative presumptuousness. How can anyone purport to have seen "everything"?!?
But I just watched a video of Andy Warhol's appearance on The Love Boat (here). And for the first time in my life, I'm compelled to state that I've seen everything.
| Thursday March 27 2008 |
**** Unidentified Flying Origami
Origami is one of many arts n' craftsy endeavors that I have taken up over my lifetime, earnestly determined to become a master artisan, only to be stumped by technique, short on patience, and bored silly enough to abandon the craft after about one week. (Other artistic undertakings include knitting, cross-stitch, embroidery, charcoal drawing, silkscreening, and scherenschnitte).
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| Wednesday March 26 2008 |
**** Honduran Cantaloupe
Last week the FDA issued an advisory that cantaloupes originating from a producer in Honduras may be tainted with salmonella. The agency has imposed an import ban on the melons after 50 Americans in 16 states and 9 Canadians have been sickened (here). The accusations have infuriated Honduran President Manuel Zelaya, whose questionable credentials, despotic tendencies, and fondness for televising government propaganda throughout his poor country (here) could have only resulted in the following response to the FDA's import ban:
"It's not in our fruit. It's not true what they are saying. Logically, we believe it is an error," Zelaya insisted (here) before he grabbed a cantaloupe, cut himself a slice, and "chewed vigorously. 'I eat this fruit without any fear,' he said with his mouth full. 'It's a delicious fruit. Nothing happens to me!'"
What do you think of that, FDA? Having second thoughts about your 'logical' public health guidelines? Look at the man, he's eaten the cantaloupe without fear and nothing happened to him within 5 seconds of its ingestion. Now that's logically delicious.
Zelaya is not a President to be trifled with. He's not afraid to eat the fruit. I'd like to see Chinese officials attempt similar sophistry with the blood thinner heparin (here)...
| Tuesday March 25 2008 |
**** La Pequena Hillary Clinton
For all of the French's intellectual and cultural posturing, when it comes to humor, they enjoy simplistic, physical comedy: Mimes, clowns, Jerry Lewis, Jim Carrey, and America's Funniest Home Videos are the sorts of entertainment that cause many a busted Gallic gut. Humor like Monty Python, the Simpsons, Steven Wright, and Tim and Eric is bizarre and ridiculous to the French, unless someone falls down, makes a funny face, or suddenly breaks out in pantomime.
Americans tend to take after our British forerunners, and find situations humorous when it involves a cerebrally-pleasing element like wit, irony, and satire. Generally, we find mimes to be creepy, clowns to be childish, and home videos of men accidentally getting hit in the genitals with baseballs to be lowbrow.
I can usually predict if my French husband will find something to be funny. For example, I knew that the infamous Sarah Silverman "I'm f***ing Matt Damon" video (here) would be beyond him. "Don't you get it? Not only are they publicly making Jimmy Kimmel a cuckold, but they're singing this elaborate song about how much they eff!" He stared at it, adapting the typical annoyance-twinged stone face that French people use to convey that the only way they could be less amused is if someone started wondering what happened to all of the French Jews.
But I was totally unprepared for his reaction to the videos of the Chilean midget who dresses up like female celebrities and dances around like an idiot (here for 'La Pequena Hillary Clinton' on YouTube). I showed him the video this morning at breakfast, expecting him to laugh with me about how the Internet elevates the stupidest crap to the public's attention. But instead, he was genuinely amused, charmed, even delighted. It kinda freaked me out, actually, how he wouldn't stop laughing.
| Monday March 24 2008 |
**** Dream Wedding
Dream interpretation is a primitive art that originated thousands of years ago, back when a hodgepodge of superstition, folklore, and generally crazy ideas abounded to explain the unexplainable in the absence of modern scientific methods. For example, astronomical, planetary and earthly phenomena were rationalized by mythical stories. "Dad, where does fire come from?" "Well, son, Prometheus stole it from the Gods." "What about ambrosia?" "Tantalus stole it from the Gods." "Why do we fight wars?" "The Gods." "Why does it rain?" "The Gods." "Why do we dream?" "Gods. Any more questions?"
Today, though it is commonly accepted that the constellation of Orion is not the bodily remnants of a gigantic hunter who was cast into the sky by the Gods, people are still certain that their dreams hold profound, mystical, and/or prophetic meanings. This belief gained widespread acceptance when a certain Viennese coke-head applied psychoanalysis to the dreams of his patients in order to forge a portal into the unconscious mind's forbidden wishes, fears, and anxieties, all of which involved phalluses and wombs.
The latest dream research suggests that dreams are not cryptic symbolic riddles to be decoded, but rather just the cerebral cortex's way of trying to create a story out of the fragmented brain activity during REM sleep. So while your brain is repairing and optimizing its neuronal connections, your dreams are being scripted from all these random mental flashes that most probably come from your short-term rather than long-term memory.
In other words, when I have nightmares about my upcoming wedding, maybe it's not my unconscious soul revealing my anxieties about married life, but rather a direct byproduct of the wedding planning process that has taken over most of my free time.
- I had a dream that, during the reception at the French chateau, the dance floor kept spurting deep, abyssal holes that swallowed guests and resulted in my arrest and imprisonment. Perhaps the dream came from a discussion about hiring a French DJ. (Freud would say that I was a closet whore.)
- I had a dream that I had decorated the invitations by smearing peanut butter on them to attain a distinct burnt orange sheen. Perhaps the dream came from a prolonged discussion about the layout, wording and styles of French versus American wedding invitations. (Freud would say that I had scatological hang-ups.)
- And last night, I had a dream that, as I walked down the aisle, I wore a bright-yellow bolero jacket, a matching baseball cap to hold my hair up, and green eye shadow that extended halfway up my forehead. Perhaps the dream was inspired by a magazine article I read about brides who do their own hair and make-up to save money. (Freud would say that I want to castrate my groom.)
| Sunday March 23 2008 |
**** Spring Ski
This weekend we journeyed to the XC skiing mecca Waterville Valley (here), with the express intent of enjoying our final ski for the season. Of course, since the trails still boost a foot and a half of packed snow, the ski season will continue well into April, but we were determined to make this our final hurrah, a resolution that was strengthened by skiing uphill for 2km on a black diamond trial called Criterion in the buttery springtime snow on top of a layer of ice.
Below is one of my favorite pictures from this long, fantastic XC season: Mr. Pinault skiing down the alpine-style open slope at Windblown XC. If you've ever been on XC skis, then you know that it takes an absurd amount of balance and skill to control those twiggy skis, especially while descending a long hill. To do this with style is Mr. Pinault's speciality.
Mr. Pinault is a rare lifelong Alpine skier who abandoned his easy-going, high-thrills sport in favor of the physical rigors of XC skiing. He does not miss the Alpine skiing lifestyle that much (the expensive lift tickets, the freezing mountain tops, the crowded lodges) but when we go to the open slope, he starts pulling out all his Alpine skiing moves like pivots, carving, and parallel turns, and he is so elegant and graceful that me and all the other snow-plowing skiers gape at him in disbelief.
| Friday March 21 2008 |
**** Happy, happy Good Friday
Today is Friday. Good Friday, in fact. Happy, happy Good Friday. I do not think that I'm making a profound declaration when I say that 4-day work weeks rock. In the foreseeable future, every Friday will be a good Friday.
So as if having Friday's off wasn't present enough, my new iPod shuffle arrived on my doorstep at 10am. For $49, it's stunning. I mean, it's teeny tiny and shiny and even the pinkie-height user manual is a thing of nano-beauty. I immediately synced it to my PowerBook and started filling its 1GB of memory with music files.
Within an hour, it was fully charged. I plugged in my new Sennheiser sport headphones (here), clipped the iPod shuffle onto my pants, and resumed my fortnightly house cleaning. Wouldn't you know, the first song to come screaming into my ears was Van Halen's "Jump" (here for YouTube video). Oh, the synthesizer... that opening primal yell... that awesome guitar riff. Why did the 80's have to end?
Luckily, Gang of Four's "Natural's Not in It" (here on YouTube as background music to a clip montage from the movie Marie Antoinette) shuffled on next, saving me from a full-blown episode of cock rock nostalgia that might of potentially involved purchasing Def Leppard's Hysteria in the iTunes Music Store.
Here's a picture of my new iPod shuffle, so that you may marvel in its petiteness. That's my thumb, and while my thumb is formidable, it's not that big. The engraving that I obsessed about last Friday is across the top.
| Thursday March 20 2008 |
**** Lingua Franca
Last night was the final class in my latest cycle of French classes. Yes, I have finished French Level 2... again. For the record, this is the third time I've taken Level 2. I first took Level 2 two years ago, then took Level 3, then after a discombobulating break, I returned last fall to a Level 1 and 2 intensive class. I then tried Level 3 once again but found myself lost in the first class, so I descended back to Level 2.
"It's not that I'm stupid, it's just that I don't try hard enough," I explain to Mr. Pinault, who like ma professeur is distressed by my inability to advance. I then try to blame Mr. Pinault for not adhering to a strict French-only speaking policy within our home. Of course, that would be a marital disaster.
The thing is, I love the English language. I love reading it. I love writing it. I love learning new words. I love finding out about its history, its evolution, the ways it can be used, and the ways it has been misused. I am and always have been a total English geek.
Intellectually, I know that learning French would not detract from my English, and may even enhance my all-around phraseology. But when I sit down to study my French vocabulary, I'm looking at boring, everyday communication: We live in an apartment. (Nous habitons dans un appartement.) That belt is inexpensive. (Cette ceinture est bon marche.) Who likes to do yoga? (Qui aime faire du yoga?) It's such linguistic regression.
Every French class, it's the same. 14 people sign up, all enthusiastic to learn French. Most commonly, they took French in high school or college, and they want to travel in France and not sound like an ignorant American tourist. But by the last class, it's me and maybe 4 or 5 other die-hards, and we're proudly conversing in stilted French like children. Oh well. There's always next semester.
| Wednesday March 19 2008 |
**** Philip Seymour Hoffman is Invading My Movie Theatre
Since the beginning of the 2008, the second-run movie theatre near my house has shown a total of three (3) movies starring Philip Seymour Hoffman, the award-winning actor whose immense talent is matched only by the girth of his second chin. Ha ha. Hell, since I've seen all three of the movies, it's obvious that I love the guy. In fact, when assessing if a movie is worth the time, money, and effort, Philip Seymour Hoffman is a pretty reliable indicator that it is, it is, and it is. Philip Seymour Hoffman is invading my movie theatre, and he's delightful!
I saw Before the Devil Knows Your Dead back in January and already discussed it on this website, so I won't rehash the oozing praise tempered by the pronouncement that "only a Schadenfreude connoisseur could of enjoyed it." Phillip Seymour Hoffman plays a totally gross, totally smarmy white-collar heroin addict who manipulates his brother into committing despicable crimes. I would totally see this movie again, except this time I would buy a nice, comforting tub of popcorn to help me cope with the repeated heart-arresting plot cruxes followed by the long periods of cold-sweat tension.
Next, Charlie Wilson's War came to town. It stars Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts, but only Phillip Seymour Hoffman managed to get an Oscar nomination for his portrayal of Gust, the low-brow CIA guy who helps House of Representative Wilson fund a secret war against the Russians in Afghanistan in the 1980s. I'm actually waist-deep in this book right now and it's an excellent history lesson, but for entertainment purposes, Philip Seymour Hoffman is absolutely the best thing about this movie. The audience scarcely reacted to Hanks or Roberts and their horrible faux Southern drawls, but they fell apart every time Hoffman opened his mouth and let loose another gem in his tough-guy Pittsburgher accent: "Can we just take a moment to reflect on all of the ways that you are a douche bag?"
And finally, last week was The Savages starring Laura Linney and Phillip Seymour Hoffman (duh) as two siblings who must care for their estranged, elderly father who is afflicted with dementia. The movie could best be described as a drama since it spends a fair amount of time on ponderous, uber-depressing subject matters like the guilt involved in placing family members in drab, harshly-lit nursing homes to avoid having to change their adult diapers. But a few jokes do fly, just to keep up the mood, and Hoffman's wise Big Brother matter-of-factness is decidedly more funny than Linney's feisty Little Sis neuroticism.
| Tuesday March 18 2008 |
**** Sidewalk Pedestrian
Walking from the subway to the office this morning at 8:30am, I trailed behind a woman with three-inch candy-apple red high-heels, a dainty black fedora, and peg-leg snakeskin pants peeking out from underneath a beige executive-style trench coat, smartly belted around her wispy waist. Her left arm was bent to support the crimson stippled handbag that was hooked over her shoulder, and her right arm casually reached up to hold the sheet of glossy black hair away from the tasteful wireless headset into which she was talking.
Women like this fascinate me. Theoretically, nothing is stopping me from buying the same fashionable clothes and accessories and, presto! I'm a fascinating woman strutting down the street. But even if I could bring myself to spend $800 on a pair of shoes and actually wear them outside my house, I would not be so ravishing. This women has an intrinsic glamour that I and 99% of all women don't have.
I grew tired of listening to the demure clank of the red shoes, tired of pondering her intangible excellence, so I increased my pace to walk past her. "Well, maybe you have to stop thinking about 'your life,' and start thinking about 'our life,'" the woman murmured into her headset as I neared her. "Our life, together... No, it is different. When you're making all these plans, you're not thinking about me. You're not thinking about us."
I was tempted to loiter within earshot of her dialogue, but I walked on, confident I had nailed her otherworldly quality: She's a living, breathing reality television show, always seeing herself through the camera lens, uttering dramatic soundbites, prepared for the glare of public attention. Some of us are performers, others, the audience.
| Monday March 17 2008 |
**** Beer Hats, and Other Kinda Funny Things
In honor of Saint Patrick's Day proper, pictured to the right is one more photo from yesterday's parade in South Boston. Yes, those are hats styled after mugs of beer -- the finest example of millinery for the masses that I have ever seen. Please forgive the mocking tone, but it's hard for me to discuss hats styled after mugs of beer without getting all highbrow.
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| Sunday March 16 2008 |
**** Saint Patrick's Day Parade, South Boston
Today we went to the Saint Patrick's Day parade in South Boston, reportedly the second biggest of its kind in the country (after NYC), expected to attract about 1 million spectators (here). I hadn't been to the parade in a number of years, usually because the weather is inevitably bad, and I don't feel the need to honor my sliver of Irish ancestry by facing a sidewalk crush of thousands upon thousands of drunk, rowdy Southie residents and their South Shore emulators all decked out in festive Irish-themed hats and jewelry, with a drizzly cold rain to top it off. That is exactly what we wound up doing, but at least I was mentally prepared.
We took the subway to South Boston and arrived at 12:15. The parade starts at 1pm, and already the sidewalks were jammed and the lines outside of the bars were long with people eager to pay a $20 cover charge to go inside and drink themselves blind. We walked about a mile down West Broadway and staked out on a curb on a hill. The crowd thickened with beverage-sipping revelers, and residents began appearing in their windows and rooftops.
The parade started with a caravan of Boston Fire Department trucks, blaring their sirens and horns at unsafe decibels. Then the Police Department came along on every imaginable type of vehicle: Motorcycles, cruisers, paddy wagons, specialized bomb squad vehicles, boats, horses, and bicycles. I'm not sure if this terrifying show of force is meant to instill civic pride in the crowd, or subdue any drunken mayhem that may be brewing.
After a few local organizations and politicians ambled by with simple banners, the marching bands and bagpipe brigades began to appear. By then, our prime location was overrun by a large family (ages 15 to 50, I'd say) drinking beer out of green Solo cups and jollily screaming at each other. We hung around a bit longer, then started the suffocating walk back to the subway station. I wanted to get out of there before the widespread puking started.
Two photos of the parade by Mr. Pinault
| Friday March 14 2008 |
**** iPod Shuffle Engraving
Today I rewarded myself for returning to employment by ordering a new iPod shuffle (here). My current iPod shuffle is almost two years old, and is of the archaic white plastic casing that resembles a medical device. Its formerly white cord has taken on an unsanitary gray pallor from being hung around my neck while jogging.
The new iPod shuffle comes with an optional free engraving on its case, so I decided to scour the internet for a meaningful musical quote that was 44 characters or less. Here is what I found, without attributions:"Music is what feelings sound like."All these struck me as sappy, so I picked "Without music, life would be an error," said by Friedrich Nietzsche. Due to the character limitations and general unease with the Aryan connotations, I did not include the second part of the quote, which is "The German imagines even God singing songs." Engraving my iPod shuffle with a Nietzsche quote makes me kind of a jerk, but I like how it sounds as if Nietzsche deduced this prognosis by employing a precise philological method while in the throes of a Wagner binge.
"Music is love in search of a word."
"Music fills the infinite between two souls."
"Music is an outburst of the soul."
"Music is the art of thinking with sounds."
"Music is the soul of language."
"Music is only love looking for words."
"Where words fail, music speaks."
"If music be the food of love, play on."
| Thursday March 13 2008 |
**** Rest in Peace
Yesterday, Lazare Ponticelli, France's last living veteran of World War I, passed away at the age of 110. "Today, I express the nation's deep emotion and infinite sadness," mourned French President Nicolas Sarkozy (here) before going to find the nation's solace 'tween the legs of the First Lady.
I know, that was totally tasteless. It's my grief, blinding me to all that is proper. You see, I am sort of related to Lazare. He was my husband's mother's father's cousin. Looking at the pictures included with Lazare's obituary, I can see a resolute resemblance to my husband, especially around the hairline.
So, my grandfather-in-law and Lazare were born together in Italy. Their fathers were brothers who emigrated to France with their families. At age 16, Lazare lied about his age to join the French Foreign Legion and defend his country against the invading Germans. After the war, Lazare and his brothers started a successful piping company in Paris. Like many very, very old men, Lazare's longevity gave him a unique perspective as well as a fondness for being blunt, saying recently "War is completely stupid" (here for NY Times obituary, which startled me when I read the newspaper on the train this morning).
Lazare was one of a half-dozen French survivors up until a year ago, and then they began dropping like flies. Mr. Pinault and I cheered him on to be the last veteran: "Go Lazare, go! Keep breathing! You can do it!" And he did: In January, the second-to-last French WWI veteran passed away, making Lazare the 'winner.' But, of course, there is no triumph in having outlived the other 8.4 million French soldiers. There is sadness of having witnessed so much death. There is the burden of receiving overwhelming appreciation when other men received none. And there is a loneliness of being a nation's last mortal link to one of humanity's greatest catastrophe, of holding the last living memories of battlefields, trenches, and the soldiers who fought in the Great War. May they all rest in peace.
| Wednesday March 12 2008 |
**** Hobbit or Hobbled?
Last year, Indonesian and Australian paleoanthropologists made a jaw-dropping announcement: The several 3-foot tall skeletons and single grapefruit-sized skull that were discovered in 2004 on a remote island in Indonesia are the remains of a distinct species of humans called Homo floresiensis, who branched off from human lineage at least 800,000 years ago (here). Not only did the species survive up until 12,000 years ago (as compared to poor Neanderthal's demise 24,000 years ago), it's the cutest species in the genus Homo yet. (Aw! I want one.)
The excitement over this newfound extinct hominid is only matched by the fervor with which the claims are disputed by scientists who feel that the skeletal remains are of modern humans who were afflicted with a genetic development disorder. These scientists point to recently-discovered inhabitants on another island 1000 miles north (here) to support their argument that the general human population in Indonesia at the time was on the smaller end of the human height and brain-case scale, and that these H. floresiensis skeletons were actually dwarfs or malformed humans.
In other words, heralding a whole new hominid species based on the discovery of a few exceptionally short people would be like pointing to women in California as evidence that the human race has evolved the ability to store fat exclusively in their lips, or pointing at the inhabitants of the state of Florida as evidence that the human race is severely mentally retarded. (Sorry, that was in extremely bad taste. I would like to pre-offer apologies to all severely mentally retarded people for comparing them to Floridians).
Regardless, the discovery of these little skeletons has captured the public's imagination, or at least the public who understands and accepts words like "genus," "evolution," and "human lineage" as not being sacrilege. Among these godless geeks, the Homo floresiensis' public relations has been helped by widespread media use of their nickname of the "Hobbit," after the Lord of the Rings. One can only assume that had the remains been discovered several generations ago, the newspapers would have dubbed the island "Munchkinland" and its inhabitants "Munchkins."
| Tuesday March 11 2008 |
**** Re-Employment Day #1
The first day at a new company is always stressful. The new employee is introduced to dozens of people. The new employee is inundated with critical information. The new employee is constantly wondering: Can I do this job? Will I like it here? Who will be my allies? Who will be my enemies? Where do I find the office supplies?
The first day that a former employee returns to a company that they had previously left is also stressful, but for different reasons. The new-old employee is re-introduced to dozens of people who they never thought they would work with again. Back for your second tour of duty, huh? There is no pressure to make a good first impression, but there is a certain amount of contrite sheepishness: Yes, I'm back. I was wrong to stray. I missed you all. The new-old employee is inundated with critical information that they had long since given their brains permission to forget about. The new-old employee is constantly wondering: Is so-and-so really glad to see me back? Does that white board have the same systems diagram on it? Will they ever fix the squeaky Ladies Room door? Why did I leave the first time?
Complicating the return of a former employee to a company is if, during the interim, the employee got married and changed her name. Fortunately, this deflects attention from any embarrassing circumstances surrounding the employee's return, such as getting laid off from the start-up that the employee ran away to join. New-old co-workers are compelled to focus on the more gossip-worthy fact that the new-old employee's new last name is the same last name of the French guy who also left the company the previous year.
| Monday March 10 2008 |
**** In the News
Google Maps Meat View
Yesterday the Boston Herald reported that Google Maps Street View captured Boston City Councilor Sal LaMattina on the sidewalk in front of his East Boston home, washing his trash cans with a hose, totally shirtless (here). I have nothing really to say about this, except: Yow, baby! Who cares if he's shirtless, it's totally hot to see a man engaging in supererogatory cleaning. Hey, Mr. Councilorbaby, come over to my house, I've got some trash cans you can hose down. Really.
Ban to the Bones
A parent in Waltham, Massachusetts is lobbying to have the best-selling novel The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold removed from the library shelf at her daughters' middle school due to its graphic and mature content (here). The mother clarifies that she's "not banning anything," she only wants the book to be permanently removed from the library so that no one can read it. Kinda exactly like banning, except without the word's ugly connotations and the sense that someone's intellectual freedom is being violated.
The Burkaberry
I admit, there have been days when I wished I could just crawl into a burkha. They look really warm and comfortable, and would make for a low-maintenance morning routine. Plus, I'd go through the world in my own little shell, protected from the prying eyes of man-beasts whose libidinous desires may be aroused by the sight of me in jeans and a sweater. So I was intrigued when I read about the Burkaberry -- a traditional burkha done entirely in Burberry's distinctive plaid, complete with stylish black mesh eye slit (here). But as tempting as would be to brandish the irony of wearing 14th-century desert garb designed by a luxury British fashion house, well, a black one would probably be much more slimming.
| Sunday March 9 2008 |
**** Too Wit
Today I voraciously consumed Viva la Repartee: Clever Comebacks & Witty Retorts from History's Great Wits & Wordsmiths by Dr. Mardy Grothe (here for scanned, truncated copy on Google Books).
Reading all these historical tales of great wit has humbled and rendered me shy to attempt wit of my own. So tonight I will cull just one of the hundreds of stories for your amusement. After weighing the attributes of various favorites, the following on page 140 jumped out:While browsing one day in a used bookstore in London, George Bernard Shaw happened upon one of his old books. Opening the book, he was surprised to discover it was one he had previously given -- and personally inscribed -- to a friend: To So-and-So, With esteem, George Bernard Shaw.
Instantly sensing a rare opportunity, Shaw snapped up the book, had it gift wrapped, and arranged for it to be delivered to his friend. Before doing so, however, he added a few words after the original inscription: With renewed esteem, George Bernard Shaw.
| Saturday March 8 2008 |
**** New Kids on the Block Flashback
Rumors are flying about a reunion of New Kids on the Block, the seminal late-80s/early-90s boy band whose music reached such heights of cheesy crappiness as to directly cause the subsequent public embrace of grunge and gangsta rap. Because the band originated from the Boston area, the local media is reporting these rumors and inducing vivid, jarring flashbacks to the year 1989.
I was the exactly the right demographic: 12 years old, female, white, middle-class, suburban. I liked music. I liked boys. I had the proven ability to get consumed by fads. But for some reason, despite the frenzied hoopla that emanated from the magazines, radio, and my peer group, New Kids on the Block just did not stick to me.
My circle of friends at the time had some hardcore NKOTB fans (I'm not naming any names, but you know who you are.) At the lunch table, they traded tidbits of personal information gleaned from Tiger Beat and SuperTeen magazines (Jordan puts ketchup on everything! Danny wears glasses off-stage! Donnie is learning Chinese!) They relayed news about tours or how the singles were faring in that week's Top 40. Most of all, they talked about which NKOTB was their favorite, and why.
At that point, I was looking beyond Top 40 radio and discovering Led Zeppelin, the Rolling Stones, and Janis Joplin -- music that seemed revolutionary in my cloistered suburban world. But if I had to feign delirium over five guys doing faux rap to synthesized pop in order to fit in with my friends, of course I tried. It was the first time I felt peer pressure, and I crumbled like a Chips Ahoy.
So, when it came time to enthuse about our favorite individual NKOTB, I picked Jordan. He was the most visually appealing to me, and I liked his name. Plus, Jordan was the most common crush to have. Had I picked Jon or Donnie, I would be at a loss to summon the requisite fervor. Joey was also popular, but too predictable and also short for my tastes. And picking Danny as my favorite would be like announcing that I'm a sick freak. No one liked Danny.
I couldn't keep up the charade of being a NKOTB fan for very long, though. I refused to buy their tapes, books, trading cards, lunch boxes, sleeping bags, or t-shirts, and my lack of merchandise revealed my lack of commitment to the band. By the time the band's popularity waned, I had long moved onto punk music. So, if there is a NKOTB reunion, maybe I'll indulge in a bit of nostalgia by hiding in my bedroom and blasting "Holidays in the Sun" (here on YouTube) while the rest of my peer group converges to relive the musical magic that was "Hangin Tough" (here on YouTube, if you're tough enough.)
| Friday March 7 2008 |
**** The Atlantic Drowns Britney
I suspect that I was not the only subscriber to The Atlantic Monthly who was shocked and dismayed to see Britney Spears on the cover of the April 2008 issue. I do my best to defend my home against the onslaught of Britney images that seek to tintillate interest in the ongoing dramas of this poor, ridiculous woman, but here she is, her face covering the Atlantic banner, looking vulnerable in a pair of oversized sunglasses, surrounded by cameras and outstretched hands. She is truly inescapable. (Heck, she's even on this web site.)
The Atlantic Monthly is supposed to be brain food, a source of informative coverage and commentary about foreign affairs, politics, and cultural trends. At least they could have stuck their Britney musings towards the back, with the book reviews, food and travel writing, and the monthly woman's essay that is usually backlash against the femininist backlash, backlash in support of the feminist backlash, or ranting about housework. I do not dispute that Britney Spears is a disturbing cultural trend, but finding her on the cover was like ordering a healthy grilled fish at a restaurant and being served fudge-drenched chocolate cake.
Of course I ate the cake. I totally lapped it up. The journalist splits his time following Britney's omnipresent pack of 30 to 45 "shooters," and expounding on this new brand of "powerful and lucrative" paparazzi, born out of "the online convergence of instant images and dramatic story lines [that] encouraged the idea that the news was filter-free and that readers were part of the story."
Candid shots of stars used to be fodder for marginalized tabloids, but in the past 5 years, mainstream media has grown ever-more eager for these pictures and video clips, too. And even the Atlantic, in the guise of reporting about the reporting, is eager to get a piece of the Britney bonanza.
| Thursday March 6 2008 |
**** Trip to the DMV
Taking my new husband's surname seemed like no big deal, until I found out that I needed to go to the DMV to procure a new driver's license. I even reconsidered: Should I really abandon my maiden identity? After all, I'm a modern woman, who dreads the DMV.
The Boston DMV opens at 8:30am, but I had a hard time dragging my disemployed ass out of bed, so I arrived at 9am to find a sizable crowd already fidgeting on the wooden benches in the waiting area. The Boston DMV has an automated deli-counter-style ticket system. My ticket was number F753, and had printed assurance that the current wait time was 22 minutes.
I surveyed the room for a place to sit. Since most routine licensing tasks can be done online, it didn't surprise me that the vast majority of the crowd appeared to hail from the offline lower echelons of society: Shady derelicts, fresh of the boat immigrants, and general white trash. I sat down and realized that I had self-sorted myself into a tiny cluster of blond women.
"Now serving, F722, at window number 25," the automated voice rang out. Given that I had been sitting for 3 minutes and this was the first number called, and I was still 30 numbers away... well, not a good sign. I finished filling out my form and pulled out the New York Times to read about how George W. Bush and John McCain ate hot-dogs together before Bush gave McCain his endorsement.
The woman in front on me sighed and tapped her long, red fake nails against the bench. She wore black leotard and an oversized orange and blue print jacket that covered her fleshy body. Her hair was long and ratty, with roots past her ears. I kept glancing at her, thinking how strange that her nails seemed to be the only part of her body that she cared about. Such are the profound thoughts that one can have in the DMV.
"Now serving, F735, at window number 18." A young black man in oversized jeans and black jacket had been inching over to the counters, and suddenly he darted over to a clerk. "Excuse me, was your number called?" a black woman's voice, and immediately all hell broke loose. I peeked around a barrier to see 8 black women, all DMV employees behind the counter, all talking at once at the young black man who was gesturing at a piece of paper that he held. The voices rose to a fever pitch then suddenly died as two security guards shuffled over, slowly, wearily, as if breaking up melees between the staff and the public was a routine task. I began to fear for my safety.
"Now serving, C302, at window number 15." Wait, what's this C bullshit? There's a whole other concurrent numbering scheme? The room is getting more crowded by the minute."Now serving, C303, at window number 8." More blond women squeeze onto my bench. It's 9:20.
"Now serving, F740, at window number 5." Back on the F numbers, so I relax and return to the New York Times. Did you know that the President of Turkmenistan is a former dentist named Gurbanguly Berdymukhammedov who wants to reward women for having eight or more kids by giving them a one-time bonus of $25, as well as free utilities, public transportation and dental care for life (here)?
"Now serving, F746, at window number 18." I'm so close. The population of the room has swelled to double the number of people since I entered 45 minutes ago. These people will be waiting for hours, and they know it. The room seethes with impatience as people audibly sigh, stare at each other, stare at the screen that displays the 'now serving' number.
"Now serving, F753, at window number 16." I triumphantly rise, philanthropically leaving my newspaper on my seat, and circumvent the barrier to arrive at window number 16. The black woman (they are all black women) assists me with my name change efficiently, yet as if I'm an inanimate object, a sandwich that needs to be sliced, slathered, stuffed, and then sent away with nary an acknowledgment that we were human beings who have interacted.
| Wednesday March 5 2008 |
**** Disemployment Day #11
Today's New York Times Business column (here) discusses how the federal government's unemployment rate is misleading because it does not include unemployed people who "do not have a job, have actively looked for work in the prior four weeks, and are currently available for work," which was the criteria for being unemployed that the Bureau of Labor Statistics established way back in the 1870s.
The "actively looking for work" distinction is important because the unemployment rate should not count people like stay-at-home moms, dot-com millionaires, 20-something trust-fund slackers, and retirees. But this also means that the 5 percent unemployment rate that politicians often cite does not include prime-age people who just can't compete in today's marketplace and have plumb given up. Think of the coal miners in West Virginia, or the furniture tradesmen of North Carolina. The article calls these people nonemployed. (By the way, nor does unemployment rate account for the 1% of the American population that is imprisoned, but that's another issue).
Since becoming disemployed, I have fallen into a routine where I leave the house between 10am and 1pm. This is prime time for us jobless folk to do our errands while the rest of the populace is settled into their offices. I see mothers pushing baby carriages or leading their babbling toddlers on the sidewalk. I see retirees bantering with store clerks and steering their Buicks down the street at 15mph. I also see a few, but not many, people in the prime of their life. It could be their day off, or they could be a second or third shift worker, or they could be "between jobs" like me.
But I live in Boston, an economically vibrant area where anyone willing and able to work can find something. I know there are places in America where there are no jobs, and I shudder to think about that sense of hopelessness. One factory shuts down and the entire town suffers. People compete for jobs at a Wal-mart, or do odd jobs to pick up cash, but they cannot find a good, steady job if it does not exist. They are nonemployed, idled, waiting, or not waiting.
**** Craigslist Ad: Really, Really Good Editor Needed
I saw this posted on Boston Craigslist in the Writing Gigs section. Damn it, I accept a job just yesterday, and now this golden opportunity comes along. My timing has always been unfortunate.
I'M WRITTIING A BOOK NEED A EDITOR
THE BOOK IS CALL LIFE OF A KID IN THE GHETTO..
CALL ME OR TEXT ME HOW MUCH /IS ABOUT 100 PAGES I HAVE 39 TO DO FIRST..
TEXT ME HERE 617XXXXXXX@TMOMAIL.NET
| Tuesday March 4 2008 |
**** Disemployment Day #10
Today is the 2-week anniversary of becoming disemployed. I'm not going to lie: Being disemployed is great! Without the grinding 9-5 routine to structure my every waking (and sleeping) moment, I feel calm and healthy. Monday is no longer a day to rue and dread, it's just... Monday. I am no longer compelled to squeeze all of my extended errands into Saturday and Sunday. I don't stare at the clock and wait for 5pm; I glance at the clock and think "Wow, 5pm already! Where did the day go?"
But I can never completely relax. The uncertainty of not knowing where, when, and what my next job will be nags at me. I've basically spent the past two weeks at home, sending out resumes, searching job boards, honing my pitch, checking my email, clutching my phone and waiting for my future employer to call.
Well, the end of disemployment is nigh. Today I accepted a new job, which is actually my old job back at the company I left last August, on a reduced-hour schedule. That's right, I'm working the dream: The 32-hour French work week!
Now I have a week to truly enjoy my disemployment: Daytime cinema, leisurely shopping trips, lunchtime wine, and recreational reading. Funny, I had purchased a clutch of bargain-bin hardcovers just before I was laid off, including Barbara Ehrenreich's Bait and Switch: The (Futile) Pursuit of the American Dream (here), in which the author goes undercover to expose layoffs, downsizing, and the rigors of attaining a white-collar job. For the past two weeks, I couldn't even look at Bait and Switch-- I even kind of blamed it for my disemployment -- but now I can't wait to dig in and bask in schadenfreude.
| Monday March 3 2008 |
**** Disemployment Day #9
Today, while working on my other website, I spent 45 minutes dealing with Dreamweaver's proclivity for formatting bulleted lists with all different sizes of round discs. I concluded that Dreamweaver arbitrarily sets the disc size in the WYSIWYG design view, and there's little recourse but to delve into its messy HTML code and manually set the size of each freaking. Little. Bullet. Disc.
I decided to take a walk. The afternoon was mild though windy, and the sound of melting snow and chirping birds calmed me as I strolled down the quiet residential street. About 1/4 mile from my home, I came upon a stockpile of discarded furniture set upon the curb for tomorrow's trash collection.
The trash-picking tendency that I inherited from my father nagged at me to stop and inspect the offerings. There was a large, sagging recliner with stained orange upholstery; a full-sized futon mattress; a wicker end table with dozens of cracked strands; and a straight-backed faux-wood chair with curved arms and a wide, brown pleather seat.
The chair caught my eye. The faux-wood was peeling a bit and it was cheap-looking, but it was structurally sound and I liked the spacious seat. We could use another random chair at our place, and it was manageable enough to carry home without causing a spectacle.
As I mentally prepared myself to actually pick a neighbor's trash, a Ford truck drove up and parked across the street. A pudgy older man wearing clean overalls and a plaid cap with ear flaps emerged and beelined to the recliner without looking at me. I started to pick up my chair when he said, "Hey there, ma'am, can you help me lift this into my truck?"
He seemed pained to ask this of a woman, but perhaps the fact that I was a fellow trash-picker mitigated his distress. "Okay," I said. He went over to his truck and opened the rear gate.
"You take the top," he said, bending over to get a grip on the base. "Shouldn't be too heavy. Just an awkward weight, you know?" We lifted together and leveled the chair in the air, then slowly walked over to the truck and put it down beneath the open gate.
He suggested that I stand on the open-air cargo bed to guide the recliner while he lifted. For some reason The Silence of the Lambs flashed in my brain, that part when the killer lures a victim into his van by asking her to help him move a piece of furniture. But obviously this would not happen in an open-air cargo bed, so I climbed up and tried to pull in the recliner while he heaved it into the air. With some difficulty, we were successful.
"Hey, thanks," he said. He smiled, although it was a stiff smile of an old man who does not smile often. "Thanks."
"No problem!" I said. He waved to me when he started up his truck, and I waved back. I was smiling broadly and suddenly eager to abscond down the street carrying my straight-backed faux-wooden chair.
| Sunday March 2 2008 |
**** Career Suicide
This weekend I was busy building my professional home on the Web. Yes, I've been cheating on you with my other domain name. And after hours of graphic-designing in Photoshop and layout-tweaking in Dreamweaver, it's looking like a place that I wouldn't mind prospective employers visiting.
I am still in the process of assembling my writing samples, though I've learned over the years that no one actually reads technical writing samples. They'll scan them to make sure they are presentable and authentic, but nobody ever, ever reads the effing manual.
So I decided to add a "Creative Writing" section to my professional website, under the assumption that prospective employers will read my creative writing samples, think "Hey, she can write," and offer me a job.
Thanks to this website, I have years worth of creative writing stored up, waiting to be re-tooled and unleashed on prospective employers. Maybe it's career suicide, but I can't help thinking that some crazy software person will want to hire me if they read this (here).
