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****Gravity in the News

I bought a Sunday New York Times this morning. I dutifully picked through each section, scanning in vain for a story that could hold my interest beyond the first two paragraphs. Doesn't the news ever change? The woe of the Iraqi civilian continues... Iran is flexing its muscle as a nuclear threat... gas prices are pinching the American consumer... inefficiencies abound in the health care industry... Donald Rumsfeld could give a crap about his disaffected denouncers... blah blah blah. Holding the stack of news in my ink-stained hand, I began to resent the condemnation to absorb enough information to justify my $4.50 splurge. Fed up with all these articles of gravity and consequence, I got on the Internet and stumbled across three stories of gravity and no consequence.

Eight feet high and falling: Keith Richards fell out of a tree. Ha. Richards and band mate Ron Wood were climbing a palm tree at a resort in Fiji when Richards slipped, resulting in mild concussion (here.) Everyone wants to know: Why was 62- year old Keith Richards trying to climb a palm tree? For some reason, I am reminded of another venerable Englishman who suffered a head injury at the bottom of a tree: Why should that apple always descend perpendicularly to the ground? Why should it not go sideways or upwards, but constantly to the earth's centre?

Muslims in Space: Malaysia is preparing to select its first two astronauts to accompany a Russian crew aboard a Soyuz space craft to the International Space Station in 2007, and at least one of the chosen will be a devout Muslim (here). The issue of how and when to pray 5 times day is a logistical nightmare, not unlike when NASA mulled over a urination strategy for female astronauts for reportedly several years. A Malaysian professor has written a computer program that calculates the times and in which direction the astronaut should face, but bigger issues (such as how to kneel in zero gravity) still loom.

Vitruvian Man: Dan Brown, author of The Da Vinci Code, revealed that his writing habits include hourly breaks for calisthenics and gravity boots (here), which he credits for helping him develop the plot. I hope those that take this slapdash tome of crackpot ideas seriously realize it was written by a man who was high on his own blood.

****In the Eighth Circle of Hell...

I have a confession to make: I am a plagiarist. One time, when I was a freshman in high school, I had the youthful nerve to plagiarize Dante's Inferno, which I checked out from an indulgent librarian at the Audubon community library along with a stack of Sweet Valley High books. The lyrical prose of Dante was beyond me at that point, but the language struck me, and I wrote down particular phrases and incorporated them into my own poems, padding Dante's words with my own. I can't give examples of any of this, so you just have to use your imagination. It was nonsensical and meaningless, but Dante's words have inherent poetic resonance that not even I could destroy. I gave one of these poems and several of my own efforts to Mr. Ulrich, an English teacher who I wanted to impress. And he taped the Dante poem on his wall along with all the other student literary efforts that he found ground-breaking.

My plagiarized poem was on the wall for the rest of the year. The thought of getting caught didn't worry me, but I found myself repugnant enough to never plagiarize again. Sure, I sloppily cited works in college a few times. And yeah, this blog? I cull everything from LiveJournal.com, carefully removing all of the emoticons and acronymspeak. And the software documentation, well, it's taken from other manuals. It's not like anyone reads it anyway.

Plagiarism makes the news a lot. The navel-gazing media loves to shame those who infringe on the proprietary rights to words and ideas. The latest scandal is Harvard sophomore Kaavya Viswanathan, who received a half-million dollar book contract when she was eighteen and wrote the chick-lit bestseller How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life during her freshman year. After over 40 similarities between her book and another chick-lit book emerged, Viswanathan admitted she unintentionally and unconsciously copied, but claims "It’s a genuine, genuine mistake" and blames her photographic memory (here. If her photographic memory of other people's writing manifests when she writes, then why isn't there a mish-mash of plagiarism from 40 writers? It seems like such a waste, to have a photographic memory and use it to implant chick lit in your brain...

From page 67 of McCafferty’s second novel: “...but in a truly sadomasochistic dieting gesture, they chose to buy their Diet Cokes at Cinnabon.” From page 46 of Viswanathan’s novel: “In a truly masochistic gesture, they had decided to buy Diet Cokes from Mrs. Fields...” (More similarities here).

Viswanathan should've read the Inferno. She would have crafted the most harrowing coming-of-age youth adult fiction in recent memory and never would have gotten caught, although How Opal Mehta Committed Carnal Sin and Subordinated Reason to Desire does have a different ring to it.

****Got Gas?

When I write about American dependency on gasoline, I may imply that my non-car ownership makes me innocent of the social, environmental, and political ills caused by the internal combustion engine. But my life is as oil-fueled as anyones. I ride in cars, buses, taxis, planes, and I take advantage of a global marketplace that materializes within walking distance of my home. And with an impending move to the suburbs of Boston, I will soon acquire a car. I'm not going to live in the suburbs without a car like some liberal martyr, walking on a sidewalk-less road as cars whiz by at 50 mph.

Honestly, after seven years of public transportation, car rentals, the occasional inspired spat of biking, and (mostly) my own two feet, I look forward to sitting in traffic like everyone else. For a long time I wanted a Subaru Outback. So befitting of the image that I want to project to the world: A sporty, rugged individualist who isn't afraid to own a vehicle that the stereotypical lesbian-mobile. But most Subarus get gas milage that are shockingly below average (low 20s MPG highway), so I am considering a Civic... possibly a hybrid.

My concern about fuel efficiency is partly because $5/gallon is not far away, and supply disruptions may become a weekly reality. Remember the last time gas prices surged, right after Katrina? Americans felt helpless, vulnerable, and angry, like a drug-addicted prostitute who lives in constant fear that her pimp will start rationing her crack. It was the first time George Bush ever kinda-sorta asked Americans to curb their consumption. "We can all pitch in," Mr. Bush said. "People just need to recognize that the storms have caused disruption," he added, and that if Americans are able to avoid going "on a trip that's not essential, that would be helpful." ( here).

How is conservation even possible now? Sure, maybe some people can walk or ride their bike to the corner store to get milk and save that 2 miles of driving, but the vast majority of America is enmeshed in sprawl where any sidewalks are for recreation, not transportation. Millions of Americans are stuck driving low MPG vehicles bought when our oil pimps kept us deliriously high enough to believe that the times of abundance would never end. I hate to invoke the wisdom of Dick Cheney, but: "Conservation may be a sign of personal virtue, but it cannot be the basis of a sound energy policy."

In this year's State of the Union address, Bush said "Here we have a serious problem: America is addicted to oil, which is often imported from unstable parts of the world." here). It was like our lead pimp/crack supplier was blaming us for being a crack whore. It was confusing. Then this week, Bush ordered a federal investigation into "possible cheating, price gouging or illegal manipulation in the gasoline markets." What's going on?

The oil industry is the most exploitative and self-serving entity ever to exist in the free market, and it's downright scary the control that they have over the health of this world and the people within. A Shell oil boss once said "International oil companies, without exception, are very pragmatic commercial organizations. They don't have a theology" (here). Perhaps that's why Bush suddenly has all these ideological beliefs about oil. Is he belatedly realizing that politicians should serve the interests of America, not lobbyists? Maybe at one time, when campaign funds were needed and interests were conflicted, Bush cared about what the oil industry thought of him, but perhaps he's matured during his reign. He's got a legacy to care about.

But wait. After Bush makes all these righteous statements about protecting the consumer from the greedy oil men, he nonchalantly adds he will "temporarily ease clean air regulations that have caused gas shortages in some portions of the Northeast. "I think it makes sense that they should be allowed to, so I'm directing EPA administrator [Steve] Johnson to use all of his available authority to grant waivers that would relief critical fuel supply shortages. And I do that for the sake of our consumers" (I lost the link for this speech, but it was from CNN.) How much you want to bet all his tough talk about forcing energy companies to reinvest their profits in renewable energy research amounts to nothing, and the clean air regulations are already being ignored anyway? Yeah, I'll take the Civic Hybrid, and keep my bike tuned up.

****Learning Through Hunger

In French class, we are on the much-anticipated food chapter. Tonight, at 7:30pm, the cooking class across the hall filled our room with savory smells like garlic and meat. My light virtuous lunch of salad and yogurt became a source of profound regret as my stomach searched for something to digest. After struggling through a reading comprehension exercise about la cuisine grecque - des traditionels souvalakis, Tiropitta, Melitzanosalata - we practiced saying Je prefere la glace and J'aime beaucoup le frommage. So true. So very, very true. J'ai faim. J'ai faim. Hunger drove everything else from my brain, but I will certainly never forget those words.

****A Conversation with Lili Taylor

I didn't have an actual conversation with Lili Taylor. I don't just bump into Indie film queens on the subway or in the office cafeteria. I paid $8 to attend "A Conversation with Lili Taylor," a special event sponsored by the Independent Film Festival of Boston (here) at the Brattle Theatre. A rather paltry screening of Taylor's extensive filmography was followed by a moderated discussion led by the owner of the Brattle, then a Q and A session.

Lili Taylor is one of the few actresses I'd ever want to have a conversation with. She's had so many compelling roles, ranging from Corey in Say Anything ("Joe... likes gir-ls... with names... like Ashley") to Valerie Solanas in I Shot Andy Warhol , and recently was in Six Feet Under. I loved her in Dogfight, in which she is courted by River Phoenix because him and his soldier friends placed bets on who can find the ugliest date for the evening. I wanted to ask her if she was insulted that she was considered ugly because she doesn't look like a typical Hollywood actress, but I couldn't think of how to phrase the question without sounding freaky (though mine would have been better than the one from the self-described aspiring actress: "When you act, do you see your body as a vessel for your emotions?")

I took notes so I'd have something to write about today. It wasn't the most insightful conversation, but I will say Lili Taylor is as cool as I imagined her to be.

* When asked if she could walk down the street without being recognized, Lili told us about the stewardess on the plane to Boston who recognized her as JoJo from Mystic Pizza: "What was Julia like? Do you still talk to her? Have you been in anything else since?"

* Lili doesn't like doing television shows like Six Feet Under because the character is in the hands of writers. She had no idea what was going to happen to her character and couldn't develop it the way she wanted. She didn't continue to watch the show to find out what happened after her character's disappearance.

* A native of Mystic, Connecticut asked her to sign his copy of Mystic Pizza. "Ooo, VHS," the moderator commented when he brought it up to the stage.

* When asked which actor she enjoyed working with, Lili named Johnny Depp and then couldn't think of anyone else. "I hope Johnny doesn't here about this," Lili said. "He'll think I'm weird." During another question, she called her The Haunting co-star "Liam Neilson," and then looked around in confusion. "Neilson? Neeson? Anyone know?"

* When asked about her interests besides acting, Lili ran her fingers through her bountiful mane of reddish-brown waves (she was very jittery) and said "Well, I hung out at Peet's Coffee twice today." Taylor also enjoys "spacing out" and bird-watching in Central Park.

****Dim Sum Girl

About half the time, my iPod Shuffle is uncannily apt at providing a soundtrack for my current activity: Subversive hard rock when exercising; soothing rock when commuting; and upbeat electronica when generally out and about. Sometimes, the song and activity pairing may initially seem incompatible, but the Shuffle knows it will work. Like when jogging on a windy, misty morning along the Charles, and Mussorgsky's "Night on Bald Mountain" came on. I almost pushed "Forward" but the apprehensive violins kicked in and the horns belted out the sinister refrain, and my pace picked up as I imagined myself as a medieval royal foot messenger being pursued by an army of hooded barbarians carrying maces and spears. It was pathetically exhilirating.

But the arbitrary shuffling of songs can prove malicious. Yesterday, walking to the laundromat with both hands occupied by a sack of clothes, my Shuffle was pleasantly jamming an Aphex Twin song. Then synthesized pop music fades in:

"Yo, this song goes out to all you sexy girls who push the dim sum carts all over the world... you know who you are, babies... you work so hard and we love you so much.... check it out yo"

Oh no. It's the Notorious MSG, the Chinatown rap act that's more NSync than Biggie (here for MySpace). And with my hands confined to the task of sack-handling, I was powerless. Oh, Shuffle, must you be so cruel?

It’s been so long since I’ve seen you smile looking so good coming down that aisle with that sexy dress and a little dim sum makes me crazy when I order chow fun

Is this a joke? Honestly, I know people write bad lyrics, and Asians are prone to exhibiting cheesiness in their pop culture endeavors, but: Dim sum girl / you really rock my world / I never thought i’d find a girl from northern China / who make me feel so good seems to striving towards a parodic, Weird Al type of humor. But then, the song snaps back into straight sappiness - I don’t wanna live without you dim sum girl / take me away to your dim sum world / I want to hold you / I want to squeeze you / please say you will be mine - all mine - that makes me suspect the Notorious MSG is being sincere.

My ears started to bleed. Thankfully, I arrive at the laundromat, threw my sack of clothes on a washer, and jab furiously at the Shuffle's wheel. Ah, the Cure. The perfect laundromat music.

****The Should Not Poem

I shouldn't be writing a poem to you.
But when I think of you, when I do,
It is in idiom that cannot be spoken,
Lest it suggest there's something broken.

We share what we can to sustain our affection;
Ignoring the discomforts of stray recollection.
We fought for a love that habit sustained
And turned away when all promise was drained.

Now we have others with whom we measure
The habits and manners that gave us pleasure.
And that we are happy is not admitted.
Lest it suggest we dwelled when we should have quitted.

I shouldn't be writing a poem to you,
Poems are for lovers. But I do
Think of you in terms I cannot speak:
Of the life we gave up and the lives we will keep.

-MSG

****A Night at the Symphony

Going to Boston's Symphony Hall always makes me feel young and poor. Probably 80% of symphony-goers are retired with a money cushion plush enough to absorb Thursday evenings at the Symphony. Hell, I'll be happy if I'm that age and not eating dog food. For many of the geriatric patrons, the Symphony is one of the few public outings they can manage, both physically and mentally. The most challenging aspect is finding and getting to your seat (and, for some, not dying during the performance).

Symphony Hall may be one of the last remaining public places in Boston where attiring yourself in outlandishly formal clothing won't cause people to gawk in disbelief. Lord knows how many old biddies are eager to let the public meet their Saks Fifth Avenue finery. The old women compliment each other on shawls, dresses, and jewelry, hoping they choose someone cultivated enough to return the compliment. They look for people to exhibit rudeness so they can scoff at what bad manners that person dares brandish at the Symphony.

Similarly, they go out of their way to exhibit their well-bred habits. Waiting in a gigantic bathroom line, I thought about how much faster the line would move if every woman didn't try to make small-talk with the attendant, like "I know I'm wearing a mink stole and you're literally wiping my piss, but I need to prove that it's not beneath me to talk to you."

Still, for all the pretense of good behavior, when the music starts, all bets are off. The moment right before the conductor raises his baton to commence the first piece is the quietest the audience will be all night. I become acutely aware of all the sounds a human is capable of making. Last night the throat mucus was flying, exported in a range of hacking techniques ranging from abashed to aggrieved. People dozed off, their breathing sibilating to the timbre. Hundreds of fat saggy bottoms shifting in creaky wooden seats. And what the heck was the old man sitting behind me doing with his dentures?

Behind us sat two old couples who came together. These oldies really earned my ire when I heard the old man ask "Where's the girl who looks like Susan?" "Who looks like Susan? You mean a girl on the stage? One of the players?" "The girl... you know, the girl I said 'she looks like Susan.'" "No, I don't remember. What's she play?" "I don't know," the old man said, sounding frustrated. "There! That girl over there!" If he said "girl" one more time, I was going to turn around and on behalf of accomplished working women everywhere, of which I am not even one, demand to know if he would refer to a male professional classical musician as a boy. And then, as his ancient brain cells struggled to comprehend what was going on, I would give him a two-finger eyepoke.

Old people also appreciate how the Symphony qualifies as culture, but it's not the type of culture that requires effort and analysis to appreciate. No need to get technical when a simple "Ooh, I really love the melody of that one! And the harp! Oh, how I adore the harp!" suffice as a critique. Which is why the first piece that the Symphony played was about as well-received as a chorus of flatulent monkeys. Robert Spano raised his baton to the all-string ensemble, and the players proceeded to make noises the likes of which I've never seen emanate from a symphony orchestra. Nymphea Reflections, a 2001 composition by a Finnish-born composer named Kaija Saariaho, whose music employs "myriad new ways of bowing, blowing and plucking – coaxing perplexingly odd sounds from familiar instruments" (here) really blew my mind. Not because the music itself was particularly mind-blowing, but I was hearing it at Symphony Hall.

The sounds were not based on the traditional rhythm, melody, and harmony of classical music; each movement progressed in a series of dissonant tones crystallizing in a jarring cacophony of trembling strings and then diffusing again. The bowing was, indeed, amazing; the dynamic timbre would go from clamorous to cathartic in a single line. It was like a movie soundtrack for a horror movie, with no purpose other than to provide a backdrop of sonic tension for human acts so unnatural that they are natural. In the last movement, the musicians whispered a poem over the music, which scared the daylights out of people who didn't read the programs carefully enough to know it was a part of the piece.

Nymphea Reflections was like a meta hallucinatory drug-induced freak-out being iterated by a fifty people all stroking a hair bow against a wire attached to a hollow wooden vessel, and I'm sitting in Symphony Hall surrounded by two thousand old, rich people who just want to hear the Beethoven and Sibelius and don't want to be bothered by this tautological noise composed by a woman who is not only still living, she's living in Paris.

When the Beethoven Concerto commenced, I heard the old man proclaim to his friends "This is music!" Ooh, he deserved a double eye-poke for that one. Don't get me wrong, I love Ludwig, but coming right after Saariaho's nontraditional sonification, Beethoven seemed boring and excessive. So many notes with the sweeping scales and melodies, blah. I applaud whoever at the BSO put Saariaho on the program at the risk of alienating the old fogey symphony stalwarts. It was a defilibrator for their minds.

****My New Retirement Plan

Bausch & Lomb faces a class action lawsuit over its ReNu with MoistureLoc contact lens solution, which was yanked off store shelves last week amid reports that it contains Fusarium keratitis, which can lead to fungal infections that can cause blindness (here).

Last week I heard something about some problem with some contact lens solution, but felt reckless enough not to investigate nor determine my brand of solution (knowing only: it was the kind that was on sale the day that I bought it). Product recalls never affect me; they always involve tires, children, and frozen hamburger patties. But yesterday, I learned, indeed, I was using Renu with MoistureLoc and had two more unopened bottles, just waiting to attack my corneas! MoistureLoc eye baths, three times a day! Will the fungus achieve significant growth in time for the lawsuit? With $75,000 at stake, I certainly hope I'll be seeing some green!

At www.renulawsuit.com (here), a website of Parker and Waichman, LLP ("Have you or a loved one been injured do to the use of B&L ReNu Contact Lend Solution?"), I learned that "The infection can be difficult to detect and diagnose. Symptoms may include blurred vision, pain or discomfort in the eyes, sensitivity to light, and eye mucus/discharge." Wow, that sounds incredibly vague! I may have a shot at some class action without sustaining permanent ocular damage.

****The Lost Upland

For the past several months I couldn't find a book to read. Many false starts with historical non-fiction, flippant chick lit, and the Cambridge Public Library Staff Recommendations left me prone to reading myself to sleep with magazines, which can't quite induce relaxation like a book. But finally, I found The Lost Upland by WS Merwin, a Pulitzer prize-winning poet who dabbles in unclassifiable autobiographic prose (I found it in the Travel section).

Set in a small town in southwestern France where Merwin vacations, the book leisurely examines the natives and their proclivities in language so rich that I scarcely note the lack of a sustaining plot to keep me going. Instead, I dwell on passages like these:

****In the News

DOS Boot

Apple's release of Bootcamp is expected to propel Macs into mainstream usage (here), but trust me: If I own a Mac, it's already mainstream. When I tell people about my new Mac, everyone says "Congratulations!" and I smile proudly, humbly, like a new mother. Then they say, "Did you get the new one that runs Windows?" To which I reply, "No, I'm not an early adapter," and then, realizing I sound lame, add "And I don't want to spend anymore time using that foul Windows framework than I have to." Which is true. Norton Antivirus warnings were popping up in my dreams.

Roid Rage

I feel sorry for Barry Bonds, who is facing steroid accusations, possible perjury charges, and "torrents of boos" during games (here). Like he's the only baseball player who has used steroids. No, Barry Bonds is an easy target and famous enough warrant tabloidistic news coverage in the respectable media. I saw a headline on CNN TV news: "Bonds claims he is being perscuted by the media." What do you mean "claims?" The very fact that this claim is splayed across the screen over riveting footage of Bonds at batting practice is indeed evidence of witch-hunting and People magazine-esque dirt digging. I think baseball players on steroids are like anorexic models: Let them damage their health if they want to succeed in their chosen vocation. It's our fault for being thrilled by the results.

Mouth Wide Shut

Tom Cruise has given his pregnant wife Katie Holmes permission to use pain-killers when she spawns the child that someday, I predict, will amount to nothing. As a Scientologist, Cruise believes in drug-free deliveries that are done in silence (here). but public outcry in his fan base prompted Cruise to tell Diane Sawyer "The mother makes as much noise ... and people... you know, she's going through it. She does what she's gotta do. OK?" So if Katie is yelling for an epidural, well, he'll let her scream. And after the child is weaned, he'll drag her unfit-mother ass to custody court. Cruise also recently revealed that he was routinely abused by his father, who he called "a merchant of chaos" (here.) Picture a young, sweaty Tom Cruise, defiantly glaring at the man from whom he accepts verbal and physical blows, picking himself up from the floor to which he was pushed and emoting "You merchant of chaos!"

****Smashing Windows

I'm typing this on my new Mac PowerBook (12-inch... I like small). I could no longer live with the impromptu blue screens on my detested Compaq notebook. The epiphany that I would eventually have to buy a new computer galvanized me to visit the Mac Store after work yesterday... 30 minutes later, I left with my gorgeous expensive little Mac and a product protection plan that actually means something. My profound joy goes beyond the surface happiness that the acquisition of material possessions usually confers. It's like I've upgraded from living in a trailer in a tornado zone to a country villa surrounded by apple orchards.

I can't decide what to do with my Compaq. My instincts are to keep it around, in case I should ever need an archaic laptop with a damaged hard drive that blue screens after five minutes of simple computing. But my 10-year old desktop from college is still packed away in storage under the same delusion. I may just follow the tenacious lead of Anya Major and take a sledgehammer to both of them.

****Believing in the Bunny

Today I asked a co-worker who has young children if his kids still believed in the Easter Bunny. "No, we never tried to make them believe in the Easter Bunny," he said. "I have a hard enough time lying about Santa Claus. I don't think they'd fall for the Easter Bunny."

To a young child, the idea of a human-sized bunny hiding eggs and baskets of candy in the house is just as plausible as the idea of a single man delivering stacks of presents to every Christian household in the course of a night by means of a flying sleigh. In fact, I'd argue it's even more plausible. Because the legend of Santa Claus is so detailed, there's a lot to doubt: The presents are made by elves? Santa personally maintains a list of who deserves presents? He keeps yearly tabs on my pant size? He puts everyone's presents in his sleigh? These wingless reindeer fly? He really eats all those cookies? (My mother told me once that he fed most of the cookies to the reindeer.)

The Easter Bunny, on the other hand, doesn't have a lot of myth to live up to. Little is told about his personal life or history; indeed, he's a mysterious figure who simply enters the house, drops some candy into a basket, hids the basket somewhere in the house, and then hops away to the next house. Hey, it could happen.

After the first Christmas that I knew for sure that it was my parents putting the presents under the tree, when Easter rolled around, I asked, "Does this mean you're the Easter Bunny too?" They seemed a little surprised that I still nurtured this Easter Bunny fantasy, perhaps figuring that the destroying the Santa Claus belief had matured my thinking about magical holiday icons in general. They confirmed that yes, they were the Easter Bunny. "And the tooth fairy?" I asked, already knowing their answer, sullen with the realization that life is a lot less magical than previously thought.

****Needled

This week I've been as prickly as a saguaro cactus. As usual, I blame the weather. The Weather Channel keeps saying it's will be warm so I dress like it's going to be warm, only to have a cruel Canadian-sourced wind nearly rip my loose spring clothes off my body.

****Opening Day: It's deja vu all over again

Today is Fenway Park's 95th Opening Day (here), starting the annual five-month Red Sox season of endless small-talk about injuries, contracts, ticket prices, Yankees, and gossip culled from Boston Dirt Dogs (here). Perhaps my loathing of the Red Sox comes from being surrounded by literal fanatics, like when I was a pre-teen in the midst of New Kids on the Block mania and felt them to be talentless boobs (correctly, time told).

But the fact remains: I'm simply not a baseball person. Many people wax lyrical about how baseball is a metaphor for life; how the players with their no-nonsense grit and determination are our modern-day heroes; how it's the incremental differences in each game that determines the ultimate winner. Perhaps that is my problem. I don't see baseball's poetry; I see a drawn-out repetitive game in a long, boring season.

Football is a more apt metaphor for life. For one thing, baseball doesn't have a clock, and life revolves around time. Then there's the constant turmoil. From the moment the football snaps, chaos: Bodies flying into one another, the quarterback controlling the action with his decision as to where the ball goes, and the players either sticking to their pre-determined jobs or going where they see an opportunity to excell. The ball can go nowhere or end up in the other team's end zone. The possibilities are endless, and the action is constant.

Today a co-worker who is a particularly ardent Red Sox fan asked if I minded if he "blasted" (his words) the Opening Day game on a radio, at 2pm on a Tuesday. I said "I guess not" in a way that reflected my lack of enthusiasm, and he looked at me like I was a total bitch for not panting at the thought of hearing a baseball game at work. And this guy is a very nice and congenial man. I can only guess it's the baseball fervor.

I wanted to ask him why it's so important to hear the Opening Day game. Because it's not the first game of the season; they've played about five already. It's Fenway Park's opening day. It's only a special game if you have tickets to go to the ball park, because there's about 160 more games left in the season, all of which count just as much as this one. If a trip to the World Series depended on it, I would consent in a non-passive aggressive way. But it crystallized why Red Sox fans annoy me. They think that the Red Sox are so holy that anything done in their name is permissible. Whether it be rioting in the street or forcing your co-workers to listen to radio broadcasts, it's all okay, because the Red Sox are sacred.

Morris Raphael Cohen, a Jewish philosopher who said a lot of heavy things about pragmatism, logical positivism, and legal theory, is primarily remembered today for declaring baseball to be America's national religion. And I don't like people forcing their baseball religion on me anymore than I like Christians forcing their doctrine on me. You believe Jesus is magic? You believe the Red Sox are sacrosanct? Fine, but don't compel me listen to the worship.

****Marketing the Democrats

Today I received an urgent letter from the Democratic National Headquarters. I know it 's urgent, because next to Delivery Priority checkbox, "Urgent" is checked, not "Standard." Get that, USPS? Urgent. Make haste with this missive! Enclosed is: A letter from California Congresswoman Nancy Pelosi; the 2006 New Directions Survey; and a handy postage-paid envelope in which to mail the survey along with a membership contribution to join the exclusive Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee (DCCC).

The letter from Nancy starts off: "Dear Friend, I know that Democrats like you are determined to win back the House in November." Actually, Democrats like me are determined to finish our Christmas shopping in November. Because I'm not spending another December fighting the Holiday shopping crowds. "But restoring the Democratic majority is only the first step in undoing the damage inflicted by the Congressional Republicans. We must also present a visionary agenda that moves America into the future." Haven't we heard this before? Doesn't every candidate at every election present a platform full of visions of the future? And doesn't the future happen anyway... and America is always there?

"That's why I have sent you this 2006 NEW DIRECTIONS SURVEY... Your responses will help us formulate an action agenda and shape the Democratic message to counter the Republican assault on America and the foundation of our democracy." What? The esteemed Nancy Pelosi needs my input on America's future? I'd rather leave all that lofty dreaming to the career politicians, under the assumption that they best understand the needs and wants of the American people. Honestly, my most grandiose fantasies of the future include a Miata and a face lift. As far as America goes, as long as there's electricity and I'm not forced to learn Chinese, the direction of our anemic imperialism is not something I want to take responsibility for.

The letter continues in this ingratiating manner, and then, almost as an afterthought, the solicitation: "I encourage you to join the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee (DCCC) by returning a generous contribution of $15, $25, $35 or even $50 along with your completed survey document." It kinda sounds like I have to pay to get my opinions taken seriously. What am I, a lobbyist?

So what are the precious survey questions that Nancy is waiting with bated breath for me to answer and mail in with my DCCC membership contribution? "Non-partisan observers of Congress are calling the Republican leadership of the 109th Congress the most arrogant, unethical and corrupt in modern history. Do you agree or disagree with this assessment?" Who are these "non-partisan observers of Congress?" Who observes Congress unless forced by a political agenda? And how can I, a partisan non-observer of Congress, ever hope to form an honest opinion on their opinions?

Moving onto education: "Do you think Republicans in Congress are committed to improving public schools?" Define "committed." I don't think they spend their free time tutoring in ghetto classrooms, but I don't think they'd do something as politically suicidal as commit themselves to not improving public schools. And in foreign policy: How comfortable do you feel with the President's handling of the war in Iraq? ()Very Comfortable () Somewhat Comfortable () Slightly Uncomfortable () Very Uncomfortable. God, I hate questions like this, where I have to quantify my comfort level. I mean, I'm uncomfortable with anything that has resulted in tens of thousands of deaths, but a little more than "slightly" and a little less than "very."

And how is this helping shape America? If the Democrats receive survey after survey endorsing Bush and his policies, will they bow to our will and support the Bush Administration? Or will they cash the check, and continue with their real agenda of attaining power and majority by exploiting popular liberal sentiment? I expect this kind of manipulative subterfuge from PBS and the Sierra Club, but it's discouraging when the Democrats stoop to polluting our democratic process with effective marketing psychology tactics.

****Movie Review: Brick

This weird little movie (here for website) infuses a mundane suburban teenaged world with a seedy syndicate of drugs, money, and dames. A teenaged loner named Brendan investigates the murder of his ex-girlfriend, who left him to pursue thrills and hard-core drugs in the school's "upper crust" of the drug dealers, with who Brendan must now get chummy. The entire movie is presented in a terse film noir style. Indeed, it borrows heavily from '30s detective movies, with informants, femme fetales, and terse, rapid-fire conversations thick with slang, accusations, and denials. When Brendan goes to the Vice Principal, he wrangles information from him like a detective dealing with his go-to lawman.

I spent the first 30 minutes of Brick trying to figure out what the filmmaker Rian Johnson was trying to accomplish by turning a high school into a violent gang-style underworld of crime. At fist I thought he was failing miserably at making a social statement. Then the film noir went over the top, and I realized it was pure spoof and relaxed. Hollywood has long grappled with the difficulty of cinematically rendering the American teenaged experience in new and interesting ways. Because the American teenaged experience is, in a word, boring, so we get cliched drivel about sports, cheerleaders, haunted houses, and puppy love. Unfortunately, while I appreciated the movie's cleverness, I never enjoyed it, and the vocabulary and cadence of the slang was beyond me. An interesting movie that is more fun to think about on the way home.

****Snack Review: Golden Oreos

Snack manufacturers are a creative bunch. Every time I glance at a candy aisle, there's a tempting new twist on an old favorite: Dark chocolate Milky Ways, white chocolate Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, Butterfinger sticks, fudge Cadbury eggs, the log-like Kit Kat... and have you seen the many incarnations of the Hershey's Kiss? The attempt to make junk food new and exciting to America's sugar-loaded and fat-ladden palates is sort of pathetic, like a dumpy housewife getting a new hairdo to rekindle her sex life, or a dinky pizza parlor hanging an "Under New Management" sign.

Most new candy fails, but a few manage to successfully innovate and endure. The humble M&M, for instance, was inspired when Forest Mars Sr. saw soldiers in the Spanish Civil War eating pellets of chocolate pressed in sugar to prevent melting. He returned to America to invent the M&M, which became a winner in a public eager for a candy impervious to heat. The M&M's austere design allows for momentous transformation, and when the Peanut M&M was introduced, it soon outsold its progenitor. Then in the late 80's came a treat for the nut connoisseur: Almonds.

Almond M&Ms are my current favorite weekday lunch dessert. How I enjoy the twenty minutes of post-lunch grazing on chocolate-covered almonds and a cup of coffee. The presence of almonds assuages the candy guilt instilled by the food police; I can look at the fat content on the nutrition label and assure myself it's mostly the nutty healthy fat. And with only 200 calories, 2 grams of fibre and trace amounts of riboflavin and niacin, I am fully deluded into believing that this is health food.