| Monday April 30 2007 |
****Twiggies
I wrote the following essay on April's Vogue magazine when I took the Amtrak Acela train to Philadelphia over Easter weekend. I didn't initially post it because it reads like a overwrought collegiate women's studies essay. Yet now it's the last day of April, and I must justify the hours spent pouring over Vogue lest it be mistaken as non-scholarly enjoyment.
Hunting the magazine rack for a glossy mag with which to whittle away 5 hours of interstate train travel, I select Vogue because Scarlett Johansson poses on the cover, dolled up like an old-fashioned movie star. I project inordinate intelligence and wit on Scarlett, and so was disappointed by the article that discussed her love life, her shopping in Soho for a black pea coat, and her sampling of a frothy venison pudding.
The predominate headline on the cover ("Embrace Your Shape") should have clued me into that month's theme: We are all flawed beasts! In her Letter from the Editor, Anna Wintour acknowledges the fashion industry's current controversy over the BMI of runway models, which she neatly brushes away by alluding to Scarlett Johannson's "healthy self-image... a woman completely at ease with her small and curvy body." Which made me smile in horror: Scarlett was the cover girl because she represents a "diverse shape."
So ladies, let's embrace our shapes. If Scarlett can do it...
There's an article that begins "'God,' I once sighed to my boyfriend. 'I really hate my chin!" There's an article about the new chest of silicon implants (professional women in their 30s and 40s who make 50k a year.) There's an article called "Leg Envy" ("For me, the world is divided between those of us who are on good terms with our legs and people like me, who aren't.") What an uncomplicated philosophy to subscribe to! Dare I say that I envy 'leg envy?' But of course, all of the imperfect bitchers and moaners come to terms with their Quasimodo appearances by the end of the articles, usually by aid of plastic surgery.
Judging by the perennial supergamine waifs in the fashion spreads, April's Vogue isn't promoting a revolution within the fashion industry, but rather urging us size 6 fatties to accept our grotesqueness, and learn how to conceal our hideous flesh in designer clothes.
Conclusion: If you want someone to blame for all the eating disorders and self-starvation deaths, blame Kate Moss for making gaunt thinness so damn appealing to the eye.
| Sunday April 29 2007 |
**** A Walk in the Bog
It was a typical Sunday morning. We breakfasted on pancakes, fruit, and coffee, and watched George Stephanopoulos tease an admittance out of Condoleezza Rice that Iraq never posed an imminent threat to the US, unless imminent is redefined as vague and indirect. Good stuff.
But still, I had this lolling anxiety. The doldrums. Maybe it was the gray weather, or a bit of Sunday malaise. With no concrete plans, I had 20 hours of free time to devote to all the noncritical adult stuff I've been meaning to do, like reviewing my investments and researching future equity purchases. It was only 10am, and the day already felt wasted.
Enough!
We drive to the Blue Hills Reservation with full knowledge that spring's full eminence has yet to enliven the woods. Yet it's coming. The buds hang heavy from weathered limbs. Birds fly overhead lugging nest material. We venture on the bog walk (pictured right), testing our balance on the buoyant logs floating in the rich waters. We laugh and take deep breaths. Lorca sings in my head. Green, how I want you green, green wind, green branches.
| Saturday April 28 2007 |
**** Va-va-va-bloom!
My cubicle at work is decked out with 8x10 framed pictures of flowers. Given the exceptionally sterile nature of my office, the photos are a genuine hit. But it's been two years and the initial mania about Meredith's flower photographs has long subsided. Luckily, a timely trip to Longwood Gardens over Easter yielded dozens of choice floral pics with which to replace them.
The one pictured below I really like, but I nixed the idea of hanging it in my cubicle. I'm hoping people can immediately see why, because otherwise I feel slightly silly for saying that this is a downright lewd photograph of a flower.
It's botanic cheesecake, pollen porn, floral T & A. This is one carnal posy.
| Friday April 27 2007 |
**** Projectiles in the News
MIT students celebrated the end of classes by throwing a piano off a roof (here). Anarchist youth in Athens, Greece threw petrol bombs outside a police station (here). A minor Mass. state official threw a curling iron at a clerk who wouldn't accept her check - "Don't you know who I am?" (here). Hugh Grant has been arrested for throwing a pot of baked beans on a reporter (here). Vaulted periodical Us Weekly threw a party to celebrate "Hot Hollywood" - for only the hotties like, um, J. Lo and David Arquette (here). A Spanish judge threw the book at 3 US soldiers for the 2003 death of a Spanish journalist, charging them with homicide and indiscriminate attack against civilians during war for firing a tank at a hotel (here). And me, well, I just about threw up after reading about the naked, spread-eagle Paris Hilton sculpture with removable innards that aims to warn teens about the health effects of drinking (here).
| Thursday April 26 2007 |
**** That's So Raven
Dinner conversation progressed from discussion of a New York Times article about the quest for humanely-produced foie gras (here), to what makes certain meats a culinary taboo in a given society (brief segue over the startling revelation that Thursday night in the Pinault household was, in fact, horse night), to how animal intelligence can be measured (a subject that always invites my crusading rant about the underestimated wisdom of swine), to an article in Spiegel about research on the extraordinary cunningness of ravens (here).
Ravens survive by scavenging food from larger predators, an unpredictable enterprise that requires the most successful ravens to be audacious, deceitful, and clever. Unlike "dumb" birds, ravens didn't evolve with "the luxury of just doing the right thing automatically." They are excellent problem solvers. According to ravenlogists, they are cognitively equal to young human children.
All this raven dinner talk prompted me to Google-up a copy of Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven" (here) which I then attempted to read aloud rapidly. My lord that's a musical assemblage of words! By the time I got to "And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting," the household was covering its ears and screaming "Nevermore!"
| Wednesday April 25 2007 |
**** Where is My Mind?
#1
Slide card into slot. Enter ATM vestibule. Slide card into slot. Type PIN. Touch screen, touch screen, touch screen. Take cash. Take card. Take receipt. Toss cash in trash. Tuck receipt in wallet. Exit ATM vestibule. Walk a block to Cosi. Stop. Open wallet. Run back to ATM vestibule. Retrieve cash from trash. Smile at gawking man-filled suit.
#2
"Some of the spam I've been getting lately is just disgusting," small talks a co-worker.
"Yeah, me too. I think something's wrong with the sperm filter," I say.
"What?" co-worker says, smiling.
"Something's wrong with the spam filter," I sweat.
#3
Sitting in a never-ending meeting that mostly involved the dissection of Java code, I had the most inexplicable craving: Cinnamon Life cereal. Despite not having masticated Cinnamon Life in over 20 years, my taste buds could summon the exact piquant taste: Sugary, savory, and spicy, all at once, with each individual basket retaining the perfect amount of milk within its bower. It seems like just yesterday when I'd empty a sizable portion of Cinnamon Life cereal into a mixing bowl, plop down in front of Saturday morning cartoons, and dawdle over my breakfast until it was a nourishing brown mush of pedicel. That was the life!
| Tuesday April 24 2007 |
**** Artichokes
...A leaf for everyone, a meal for no one...
There are lists of the most popular search engines queries (here), and it's fascinating to know how hot Pokemon is, but I love these little glimpses into people's individual curiosities. What would most of us do without the Internet as an information source? What did we used to do? Speculate wildly about Anna Nicole Smith's lipstick, and then chalk it up to one of life's little mysteries?
INTERROGATIVE
I haven't posted these in several months so that I'd have more crude queries to distill into a powerful jolt of the really freaky stuff.
what is the green shine in roast beef lunch meat
what brand lipstick did anna nicole smith uses
what happens behind the doors of juvenile detention centers
what brand of coat is crispin glover willard
what is in asparagus that gives you foul smelling urine
what country has the largest percentage of obese population
what is the average amount of sick days a company gives
where can you find the game with baseball bashing with the kkk
which school kicked fabian basabe out
who was the first man to be pictured without a woman on the cover of ladies' home journal magazine
who is the world record holder for hiccuping the longest
did burt munro have any serious injuries on his journeys, and at utah
do hyenas migrate
i saw a show on maury about troubled teens and they sent them to a boot camp. can you tell me where they went
is is okay to eat seafood when a person has graves disease
why red sox wearing green shirts on april 20
how to save my frostbitten houseplants
how many calories are in a double chocolate chip frappucino
how many men died on the beaches of normandy
how to become a jagerette
how many riots have occurred at umass
how many men have you had sex with in your lifetime
how to make fanned diaper cakes
SMUT
sexy armenians website
nude photos of old woman
need matured gays above 50 age for sex in dubai
sirloin showdown porn pictures
tentacles clamped my penis
free home video getting undressed in public
army ass
explain why is it important to respect women
chubby lesbian chaser
ava dawn admire stripper in texas
underwater erotic action
adult photo of girls wearing diapers pictures
QUOTATION
"sweat lodge" "south bronx"
"mitt romney" and "my twinn"
"woman kills puppy"
vivid "sex and violins"
rodent hair "peanut butter" legend
"i want to cheat on my boyfriend"
"dave navarro's mother"
"living cast members" "it's a wonderful life"
"losing control" and "with the devil" and dance and lyrics
"homemade compost toilet"
"god has a hard on" lyrics
"dunkin donuts cup" "starbucks cup"
"doug meehan" gay
"walking on the charles river"
PERQUISITE
color coca cola bad luck southeast asia
hooters key lime pie nutrition
letter bomb green day film clip inclined swearing
things and munich
typical teenagers in the world or fahrenheit 451 amuse themselves by
movie about runners crossing the finish line holding hands
dunkin heinz cookies
nasty cookies
push the green button meatwad
marriage to an unattractive person
lack of snow effects new england ski resorts prophets
green eyes shes done some modeling and some acting lyrics
mcdonalds emotions
rudy guliani prostate
leland palmer carrot
a picture of tom brady sneezing
david beckham poeming
myths about aquarians and pieces being homosexual
dunkaccino and cumin
greed green irish tween
sausage dogs
| Monday April 23 2007 |
**** Boris with Democracy
It's all too easy to buffer Boris Yelstin's obituary with tales of corruption, leadership failure, and drunken debauchery (here), but in the grand scheme of Russian history, the 'Yelstin years' will be remembered as a downright magical era.
Yeltsin resigned in disgrace a few hours before the year 2000, saying that he believed Russia needed a fresh start for the new century. And, boy, what a century it was: Lenin and the Bolsheviks, two devasting World Wars, Stalin and the Gulag, an idiot named Khruschev, and the Cold War. But to Russia, the threat of nuclear annihilation was just another cataclysmal chapter in a history wrought with profound psychological fear and uncertainity. A co-worker who was born in Russia told me "One of the biggest differences between the US and Russia is scale. The Boston Massacre killed five people. Our massacres involve millions."
And suddenly, in the 1990s, Russia was independent and democratic, and it had this elected President named Boris who called communism "a pie in the sky" and was moved to open economic markets after visiting a Texas supermarket. Who cares if he was a corrupt drunk who committed numerous errors in rule? Who cares if he narrowly survived multiple impeachment attempts and his approval rating was a reported 2 percent by the time he left? Under Boris Yelstin, Russia underwent pendulous political, social, and economic change without millions of people disappearing. And when it was obvious he was a failure, he willingly left, without allowing his country to descend to revolution or coup. And that's an achievement that history will appreciate.
| Sunday April 22 2007 |
**** Vive la Republique... et le fromage!
The first round of the French Presidential election is over, and conservative Nicolas Sarkozy and socialist Segolene Royal, with 29% and 26% of the vote respectively, are advancing to the second round (here). Voter turnout was a record-breaking 85%, indicating the importance of this election to a pessimistic French nation. They want a candidate who will swiftly steer France away from the brink of decline by instituting lasting but painless social and economic reforms. Essentially, they want a political plastic surgeon.
Yesterday Mr. Pinault and I journeyed to Cambridge so that he could vote at the International School along with French ex-pats from all over New England. Looking around the school gymnasium at all the chic female voters, I suddenly understood the explosion of mass-market paperbacks that seek to teach American women to be more French (here). I was a wildebeest in a herd of gazelle.
Feeling threatened by so much raw sophistication, I quelled the urge to cause a scene by impromptu campaigning for right-wing extremist Jean-Marie Le Pen, a perennial candidate with an anti-immigration platform that brought him one step away from the French Presidency in 2002(here). "Vote Le Pen! Protect the Motherland from the invading swinish multitudes!" I dreamed about shouting so it would echo shockingly throughout the gymnasium. But instead, I sat quietly in the back, cursing my proclivity for sneakers.
Afterwards, we drove across Cambridge to Formaggio Kitchen (here), a specialty grocer that stocks an excellent selection of French cheese. The cheese counter was packed with Americans demanding brie, so we got in line behind a family who we had just seen voting at the International School. They recognized us, and the husband said to his wife "See, it's normal to buy cheese after voting!" Yes, but only if it's a French election. He then attempted to order comte cheese in centimeters rather than inches or pounds.
We got a mild Tomme from Savoy (pictured right) and a sheep-milk cheese I never had before called Brebis Ossau, which almost made me cry because it was so good. I could taste the wildflowers and fresh grass that the sheep grazed on in the Pyrenees, yet it had a nutty flavor to temper the sweetness. Vive la Republique! A country capable of making such divine cheese is worth saving!
| Friday April 20 2007 |
**** It's Not Over Until Someone Else Starts Clapping
Symphony-going is fraught with little rules of decorum, most of which can be and are ignored. The only undisputed rule is literally written on the wall, projected on the stage partition before the music begins: "Please turn off all electronic devices." A friendly reminder, under penalty of public mortification.
But a ringing cell phone isn't the only thing capable of evoking the ire of 2000 little old ladies. At last night's performance featuring violinist Anne-Sophie Mutter (here) and her ex-husband, conductor and composer Andre Previn (here), an enthusiastic attendee somewhere in the back of the first balcony twice reminded me of the most fundamental rule of watching a classical music performance:
Do not clap until someone else claps!
The problem last night had to do with the derelict's lack of understanding about movements, that just because the orchestra stops playing, doesn't mean it's safe to break out in pronounced clapping. The first time, people murmured. The second time, people were outraged. I've never seen such a fine class of people come so close to collectively snarling. Let me repeat:
Do not clap until someone else claps!
Yes, logically this rule doesn't pan out, because if everyone follows it, then the entire audience is left constipated with gratitude, and the orchestra is just sitting there in incredulous silence, and then the cello section starts bawling, the violists are abhorred, and the percussionists are retaliating. But rest assured, the audience is filled with classical music aficionados who are eager to demonstrate familiarity with a particular piece by getting off the first clap, and it will ring out and quickly be followed by a rousing applause, upon which one can safely begin to strike palms in appreciation.
| Thursday April 19 2007 |
**** All that Twitters Is Not Gold
Twitter is the latest cool internet Web 2.0 thing (here). Everyone's a-twitter for Twitter, "a global community of friends and strangers answering one simple question: What are you doing?" Using Twitter is reportedly as addicting as sugar-infused crack cocaine laced with nicotine. A general rule: When something is this addicting, it is stupid.
I do see potential value in technology that enables public messaging on multiple interfaces (the Web, IM, and mobile phones), and I think Twitter-like services will evolve into something functionally useful in wider society. But as it is used now, Twitter does not impress me. In fact, since I'm an old codger, I find a bulk of the banal chatter that Twitter emits to be morally repugnant and symptomatic of an ideologically-diseased world.
Twitter nurtures three increasing tendencies of today's technocrats: exhibitionism, voyeurism, and the proclivity to express oneself in easily-digestible factoids of 140 characters or less. A vast majority of Twitters revolve around everyday minutiae. People who Twitter can't complete a single life task without sending a broadcast to the world about it: Eating eggs and toast! Getting ready for spinning! Sitting on the train! Working at the office! Thinking about buying a new pair of sneakers! Blogging! I can't imagine strangers caring about this, let alone my friends. Will they want to read Twitters about how I'm writing posts for this web site when most of them can't even be bothered to read it?
Twitter is a tribute to our infinite vanity, our wanting to believe that the sands in our hourglass sparkle brighter, that they are not insignificant, that they will not be blown away and forgotten.
| Wednesday April 18 2007 |
**** The March Lion is Still Roaring
I walk to the train station, wearing the same coat that I've been wearing since November. I've grown to hate it. It taunts me if I reach for another in the closet: Yeah right, you're going to wear a jean jacket? You think that will keep you warm and dry? Who are you kidding, girlie. You need my thick down padding and weather-resistant shell.
Though it's drizzling, I don't carry an umbrella - partly out of irrational defiance, but mostly because they all suffer from mangled stretchers, broken ribs and torn canopies. My poor umbrellas - Nautica black, New Orleans Zoo tan and black, Brookstone super mini black. Thank you for your valiant service in the line of duty. I'm sorry you have become martyrs to a hopeless cause: Keeping me dry in howling sheets of rain. I will miss you. Until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand. Maybe you'll work better for God than you worked for me, eh?
The birds are chirping. What are they saying, do you think? Come mate with me! or Why is it so freaking cold! or All this rain is drowning the worms!
| Tuesday April 17 2007 |
****Cold, Dead Hands
I often find myself defending the American way of life to my European boyfriend - not out of patriotism, but out of my unflagging argumentative nature. I've defended ridiculous American hallmarks like heaping portion sizes, astronomical health care costs, cops who make 150k/year from overtime pay, rap music, local television news, fork switching, farm subsidies, and general apathy about world affairs. I love a good debate, even if that means arguing that being lazy, ill-mannered, and stupid are inalienable human rights.
And then, there's gun control, the issue that turned me from the Devil's advocate into the Devil herself. I used to agree that guns were too pervasive in America, that citizens should submit to gun control laws and surrender their arms in the interest of public safety. But as I explained the rationale behind the NRA's steadfast commitment to the right to bear arms, I found myself agreeing with the notion that, even in these modern times, the Second Amendment still applies.
Yes, I believe law-abiding citizens have a demonstrable need for personal protection. I believe that the people have the right to violently overthrow a government if necessary. I believe that stringent gun laws create a black market, making it easier for criminals to buy guns. I believe it all, in theory.
It's a hard thing to believe, sometimes. In the wake of the horrific shooting at Virginia Tech, my convictions are indefensible against so much terror, grief, and 33 bodies. I hope tonight's dinner conversation doesn't linger on gun control policy, because I will lose the debate.
On a side note, I can't believe that it was an English Major (here). People who willingly study English literature and creative writing would not seem capable of vengeful killing sprees. We are usually adept at taking the future's bleakness for granted and other people's cruelties in stride.
| Monday April 16 2007 |
****Marathon Monday: Report from Mile 8
Fears surrounding the Boston Marathon weather usually concern excessive heat, but this year, runners battled gale force winds and sub-40 degree temperatures. Boy, I'm glad this wasn't the year I decided to run another marathon in a qualifying time of 3 hours and 40 minutes so that I could run the Boston Marathon. Maybe next year.
Yesterday, when the media talked up the storm, many runners were unfazed. Cocky, even. Some maniacs even expressed excitement. "It adds a whole new dimension to the Marathon," one said (here). One woman from California admitted she had never seen a Nor'easter. "Rain, wind, cold," she said, a slight smile on her lips as if to say what else you got? "I know adverse conditions," scoffed Olympic Bronze medalist Deena Kastor, who was born in Waltham, MA. "I've gotten in training runs in snowy, windy conditions and in the rain" (here).
Luckily for them, the worst of the storm passed through early Monday morning. I was awakened at 5:15am by wind-driven rain rattling my windows like it wanted to get in. But by the time the elites passed Mile 8 in Natick, the rain had stopped and the wind subsided. Still, out of the 25,000 runners who flew past me in a cavalcade of footfalls and body odor, the only person who looked happy about the chilly weather was the man wearing a full-length cow outfit.
Below are the leading women at Mile 8. Combined, they have less total body fat than my right thigh. Number 6 in the blue shorts is the ultimate winner, Lidiya Grigoryeva of Russia. Deena Kastor, who finished 5th, is number 3. I *believe* the woman on the far left is Madai Perez of Mexico (finished 3rd) and the woman in front of her is Jelena Prokopcuka of Latvia (finished 2nd).
Below are the leading men at Mile 8. I took this picture not realizing that these two Kenyans were rabbits, whose job it is to set a fast pace for the leaders. Neither finished, but at this point they were minutes ahead of the pack of elite men, including fellow Kenyan and ultimate winner Robert Cheruiyot, who won for the 3rd year, with a time seven minutes slower than last year. The wind and cold did take a toll.
| Sunday April 15 2007 |
****Viva la Revolution
Last night, Gillette stadium in Foxboro, MA played host to a soccer double-header. First, the US Women's National team kicked the crap out of Mexico's women, winning 5-0 (here). Then the New England Revolution played their home opener against Toronto FC, the newest addition to Major League Soccer. The Revolution won 4-0 (here). Although the outcome of both games proved victorious for America, it flagrantly violated the trilateral stipulations of NAFTA.
The air was rift with calls for "Revolution! Revolution!" Spurred by the sporadic shotgun blasts of the mascot brigade (pictured below, holding flags), the largely young and entirely white crowd tossed flares, staves, firecrackers, stones, and stadium seats at the red uniformed Toronto FC players. After the Revolution's third goal, a posse of teenaged girls wearing identical Chelmsford Youth Soccer jackets lead a celebratory pitch invasion onto the field. Some of them attacked the opposing team with knives, while others sought to violently embrace Revolution heartthrobs like Taylor Twellman and Jeff Larentowicz.
The Toronto FC fans (pictured below) proved to be a small but feisty bunch. They sang songs and chanted even as their team bore out just how ineffectual they were. We took pictures so that we could identify them in the parking lot after the game, and then rough them up real good for holding allegiance to a team that is not the Revolution. After the effigy-burning of David Beckham, the cops descended with tear gas and batons. Major League Soccer ain't for pansies.
| Saturday April 14 2007 |
****Artful Dodgers
Bush Administration mouthpiece Tony Snow -- who doesn't know, will find out, will rephrase previously stated information, or just won't play that 'hindsight' game -- has been absent from his post for about a month while being treated for a recurrence of cancer (here).
In his absence, the daily press corps wrangling is being handled by his Deputy Dana Perino, a 34 year-old fast-talking bobbed-blonde. Her brief tenure has seen exemplary Bush controversies like the Scooter Libby verdict, the Walter Reed scandal, the US Attorney firings, and continuing societal chaos in Iraq (here for all the press briefings and gaggles ).
Given all that she's had to deal with, I am impressed with Perino. She's got a grace and humor that mitigates the frustration of her feigned ignorance. And instead of avoiding meaningful engagement by endlessly repeating the same snide official party line with slight variation, she says flat out: I'm not going to speculate on a wildly hypothetical situation at this time. I'm not going to comment on it. I just really don't have any more information. I just don't have a clue. And if she's feeling generous, I believe that that would have been within the realm of possibility. Her upfront manner of bullshitting is quite refreshing.
| Thursday April 12 2007 |
****Coup d'etat
Not to distract my mainly-American audience from our upcoming election - I know it's only one year and seven months away - but the French presidential election is in 10 days (here). Despite not having lived in France in over ten years, Mr. Pinault is gearing up to cast his vote, though like a surprising number of French, he can't decide which of the four leading candidates is most palatable.
There's front-runner conservative Nicolas Sarkozy; glamorous gaffe-prone Socialist Segolene Royal; the 'third man' Francois Bayrou; and Jean-Marie Le Pen, an elderly far-right racist. It's like staring at a cheese platter stacked with oily, processed, rancid cheese, and whichever cheese you pick, you have to eat every day for the next five years. Sacre bleu!
Many French are tempted to strategize instead of just voting who they like, because if no candidate wins 50% of the vote on April 22 - which seems likely - there is a round 2 election for the top two candidates. Last election, it was Chirac versus Le Pen, a scenario which horrified liberal France. (Think Bush versus Pat Buchanan. Who would you vote for?)
Le Pen doesn't seem likely to make it to the round 2 this year. As the election nears, voters are shying away from extreme candidates and favoring Francois Bayrou, a former Education minister who has adopted the persona of a farmer, and who I think looks like an older David Duchovny (here). But I can't believe the French would elect a candidate who doesn't allow them to be constantly outraged.
****God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut
Even though he was 84, the news of Kurt Vonnegut's passing surprised and saddened me (here).
It goes without saying that I am a stalwart Kurt Vonnegut fan. I voraciously consumed all his books as a teenager. The way he blended fiction, philosophy, and humor knocked me out. I always wanted to write exactly like him. I still do.
"We are healthy only to the extent that our ideas are humane."
(Kilgore Trout's epitaph in Breakfast of Champions)
| Wednesday April 11 2007 |
****Walking the Walk
In a bid to remind politicians that the typical American actually works for a living, a union for health care workers has invited all of the 2008 Presidential candidates to take part in the "Walk a Day in My Shoes" program (here).Yesterday John Edwards became the first candidate to take advantage of this prime publicity opportunity when he worked a shift alongside a $14-an-hour health care aid. Reportedly, Edwards found his slip-resistant, arch-supporting shoes to be quite comfortable.
Though there's no doubt about Edwards' motivations (Crown me thy populist!), the health care worker with whom he toiled seemed a little unclear on the concept, not realizing that she was the Poor Unfortunate that Edwards sought to bond with. Instead, the health care worker saw it as a chance to "educate the people who want to make decisions in the White House about what to do when they talk about health care."
It may be naive to assert that America's public health crisis can be solved by making politicans work in nursing homes, but in one 8-hour shift, John Edwards did more for health care than George W. Bush has in the past 6 years. Perhaps Bush should have tried serving breakfast and changing bed pans instead of cutting critical funding to Medicare and Medicaid, ignoring the growing numbers of uninsured, and opposing stem cell research. And dare I mention the war amputees? Is it too late to get Bush to walk a day in their shoes?
****Deriding the Bus
The MBTA has launched a new program to entice more people to ride buses (here). But who needs vehicle or service improvements when there's already this great bus system just sitting there, undiscovered. People just need to be encouraged to give it a try with innovations like... "new maps, schedules, and signs at 10 stations pointing out bus stops." Maps, schedules (!) and signs... who's the renegade thinker at the MBTA?
My history with the MBTA bus system is not very storied. I've taken several bus lines semi-regularly, but I never let my commute depend on a bus, for the simple reason that taking an MBTA bus is the most stressful form of transportation I've every experienced. The typical MBTA bus ride consists of standing in an aisle and being inadvertently molested ever time the bus suddenly breaks, surrounded by screaming groups of teenagers and smelly homeless men, at the mercy of a road-rage-prone driver who valiantly tries to stay on schedule despite non-yielding, rush-hour traffic. It's a Third World experience. It's worse than driving, worse than flying, worse than taking an Amtrak regional train. The only faster way to a heart attack is a steadfast diet of canned coup, cigarettes, and Crisco.
| Tuesday April 10 2007 |
****Uber-Model Material
America's Next Top Model held a casting call today in Boston for "ingenues who believe they're uber-model material" (here). With the glowing remnant of a Floridian tan, freshly-tweezed eyebrows, and a scant two weeks of root growth on my head, well, let's just say the planets are aligned. Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed about being a model. I can't sit another day in my cubicle, writing software documentation, knowing that I haven't given the high-stress, high-stakes world of top modeling my best shot.
But when I downloaded the eligibility requirements and 15-paged application (here), I discovered that only women ages 18 to 27 years are allowed to be America's Top Model. How utterly unfair. I'm sure the casting call will be filled with women who may be chronologically younger than me, but much, much uglier.
I am duly crestfallen, but at least I didn't start filling out the 15-paged application, which asks an encyclopedic range of personal questions like "How often do you get drunk?" "When was the last time you hit, punched, kicked, or threw something in anger?" "Have you ever been to a nude beach?" "If you could hold any political office, what would it be and why?"
(Can you imagine the political ambitions of America's Next Top Model candidates? I bet 70% of them say "President," simply because that's the only political office they are sure about. 15% will offer a hodgepodge of legitimate positions like "mayor" and "school board member," while the remaining 15% will write inappropriate things like "television reporter," "personal shopper," "school principal," and "princess.")
****Typo of the Day
"Workslows" instead of "Workflows", as in "[Product Name] maximizes a user's efficiency with highly customizable workslows." Thank goodness for spell check, or the Marketing department would've had my head.
| Monday April 9 2007 |
****Candy...
In college, I had a good friend, A., who was cynical like me, and we had a third friend, M. who was sweet-tempered and trusting. A. and I used to cattily but lovingly joke behind M.'s back that she thought about nothing but candy and flowers all day long. We laughed uproariously, imagining a "thought cloud" above her head, with swing dancing candy and flowers occupying her every waking moment.
One time all three of us were at a party, and after a few drinks were consumed, M. said something rather witless. "M., when was the last time you thought about candy and flowers?" A. asked her, nudging me.
M.'s face lit up. "Candy and flowers! Like Easter!"
(This random memory brought to you by Many Recent Thoughts of Candy and Flowers. I think I'm losing my edge.)
****...And Flowers
Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturbed. -Walt Whitman
Shooting artful pictures at Longwood Gardens in Kennett Square, PA (here) is the photographic equivalent of baking with Bisquick, painting by numbers, writing with Ad-libs, learning with Cliff Notes, or landscape gardening with Chia statues. Impressive results with minimal effort and ordinary talent. Creativity is only required to take a bad picture.
Yes, the relentless photographer is guaranteed a memory card full of flawless flora. But visual appeal of lush bloom is only one sensory dimension of a flower. No manufactured scent in the world comes close to the fragrance of a conservatory filled with many thousands of flowers flourishing within its subclimate labyrinths. I am helpless to convey Longwood Garden's olfactory experience, except by saying that my nose was, indeed, bedazzled.
| Thursday April 5 2007 |
****Gone to PA (Take Two)
I'll be in PA until early next week, taking the trip that was foiled three weeks ago by this ridiculous "spring" weather.
****Don't worry, be happy
I finished re-reading Aldous Huxley's Brave New World not long ago. I first read it in high school, and the only thing I remembered was how society had five classes of people (Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta, Episilon), which amused me because that's exactly how my middle school structured their academic track. Strangely, the English curriculum for us 'Alphas' consisted chiefly of ancient mythology and dystopian literature. Catcher in the Rye and Mark Twain were forbidden, but fantasy novels about hedonistic societies that revolve around casual sex and drugs? Your reports are due next week!
While Brave New World teems with heady ideas about society, it also explores personal happiness. Huxley creates a world where everyone is purportedly happy. The high-tech, consumer-oriented society is prosperous, peaceful, and free of institutions that can be a source of anxiety, like family, love, religion, war, poverty, and culture. But that's not what makes people happy. In fact, it forces everyone to find solace in soma, a drug that induces instant mindless happiness and makes users amendable to their empty existence. Soma is the ultimate happy pill, and the Brave New World thrives on it.
'Happy pills' are an intellectually repugnant notion. Except for the severely depressed, most of us feel that happiness should not be derived artificially, but from living a fulfilling life. Yet research on happiness has shown that 'creating' happiness is very difficult to do. Similar to how we have genetic set points for our weight, we are born with a capacity to experience happiness. Certain events like winning the lottery or buying a new car may temporarily raise our happiness, but eventually it will fall back to our set point (here).
Most of us bump up our happiness temporarily with our chosen 'happy pill', which are pursuits that enrich no one except the participant. Eating, drinking, smoking, sun-tanning, exercising, watching sports, driving fast, buying shoes, watching TV, praying, reading, listening to music - humans take happy pills all the time. And when we're not taking happy pills, we're giving ourselves reasons to take happy pills.
There's nothing wrong with it. Huxley wasn't rallying against drugs (this was a man who was injected with LSD on his deathbed. Last words: "LSD, 100 micrograms I.M.") but rather making a point about the importance of the freedom to choose our own happy pills. And hopefully, we will ingest happy pills that won't turn us into oblivious fools like soma, but that will enrich our lives by making us grateful to be here, to be alive, to be a part of a human race capable of profound beauty, complexity, craftmanship, kindness, and happiness.
| Wednesday April 4 2007 |
****Elegy for Clippy
Clippit, aka Clippy, the animated talking paperclip who served as the default Office Assistant in Microsoft Office, is dead. Yes, as of Office 2007, users can no longer rely on the context-sensitive advice of that persistent, big-eyed dancing paperclip (here).
As an online help author, I can vouch for the animosity that Clippy invoked. God forbid I'm ever in a meeting and Clippy unexpectedly springs to life on the monitor. Out of control online help! People glance at me as the presenter clicks in vain to make him go away, and the meeting digresses into a roundtable trouncing of poor Clippy. His intrusive willingness to help just touched a nerve.
Clippy became symbolic of just how lame Microsoft is ("You've got questions. We've got a dancing paperclip" - here). In 2001, Microsoft turned off Clippy by default, saying "Office XP is so easy to use that Clippy is no longer necessary, or useful" (here). Clippy lay dormant in the Help menu unless a user specifically turned him on. Apparently, no one did, and Clippy slipped quietly out of the Office product roadmap.
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And because Microsoft doesn't have the balls to publicly associate themselves with Clippy any longer, I will offer a eulogy.
Clippy was a triumph of documentation engineering. He was a pioneer in acquainting the general public with online help. Clippy helped millions of users who are too proud to admit that they sought his assistance. And that's too bad, because as a power MS Word user, I know two things: 1- That 80% of Word users use only 20% of its features, usually incorrectly, and 2- That Word is getting more powerful and complex, and a day will come when even the most virulent Clippy hater yearns for those friendly eyes and zany eyebrows to magically appear and do what he was programmed to do: Help. Clippy, your requiem is finished. It has made me sad, for I sang it with all my heart. |
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| Tuesday April 3 2007 |
****I Christen Thee Metallica
A couple in Sweden baptized their 6-month old daughter as "Metallica," and is now fighting the Swedish authorities to have her name officially registered as such (here). The couple is upset because Metallica cannot obtain a passport until her name is approved, which is holding up her European tour and disappointing legions of devoted fans.
Says her mother about the name, "It suits her. She's decisive and she knows what she wants." She also has a growling, macho cry that often digresses into breakneak-cadenced heaving before fading away into a distorted whine. She doesn't care much for breast feeding, having already developed a taste for whiskey. And needless to say, she's a head-banger.
No nickname for little Metallica has been decided, but her siblings call her Twisted Sister.
(I liked this story because as a teenager I dubbed myself "Megadeth." I've never been a fan of Megadeth's music, but it rhymed, and I didn't mind paying homage to a band whose debut album was called Killing is My Business... And Business is Good. But I stopped short of legally changing my name to Megadeth, because if I were to go to the trouble of changing my name to emulate a musical group, I would choose something more feminine, like Pantera, Mudhoney or Bangles.)
| Monday April 2 2007 |
****Space Race
Continuing with NASA's tradition of trail-blazin' innovation, today the space agency announced that astronaut Suni Williams will run the Boston Marathon at the International Space Station on a treadmill. "This will be the first time an astronaut in space will be an official participant in a marathon" (here).
THAT IS SO STUPID. (I never use all capital letters for emphasis. Only a taxpayer-funded, bureaucratic, hive mind PR campaign could drive me to typographical dramatics).
For starters, one is not 'running the Boston Marathon' simply because they begin to run on the third Monday of April at 10am EST. They have to be on the historic 80-year old course, starting in Hopkinton and spurred to the finish line in Copley Square by ebullient crowds of Bay Staters. If the Boston Marathon is opened up to proxy locations, well, people are going to be 'running the Boston Marathon' in Detroit. Hell, if 26.2 miles on a treadmill counts, well, this year I plan to 'run the Boston Marathon' by jogging in place for 6 hours in my apartment while watching the Game Show Network. Where's my press release?
Williams hopes that her run will inspire children to embrace daily physical fitness: "I think a big goal like a marathon will help get this message out there." Yes kids, if an astronaut can run a marathon in space, surely you can set a loftier ambition than mastering the art of eating with one hand and playing Second Life with the other.
By trumpeting this uber role model and her dubious feat, NASA wants to ween the public's mind away from former astronaut Lisa Nowak's unseemly attempted kidnapping. Perhaps they should have chosen an endeavor that does not allow people to legitimately wonder: Are adult diapers involved?
Okay, after that cheap-shot mention of The Adult Diaper, I will crawl back to a substantive rant: When it comes to real innovation, NASA may soon be eclipsed by private industry. SpaceX, a space tech company founded by the guy who started PayPal, is perfecting rocket launching... slowly, but surely. Check out the video of last week's test launch of the Falcon 1 (here). Stellar.
| Sunday April 1 2007 |
****Key West Photos
I'm truly sorry about this, but click here to see photos of my vacation to Key West.
Why am I sorry? Because looking at someone else's tropical vacation photos is about as thrilling as watching someone else receive a massage. I tried to make my photo spread interesting, with informative commentary and intermittent ridicule. I only included two butterfly photos out of a possible two dozen. And there are even some underwater photos of our snorkeling expeditions to the coral reef, taken with Mr. Pinault's waterproof Minolta.
But of course my Key West photos are dynamite. I'm sure the 1000s of other camera-toting Key West tourists think their photos are just as wonderful. Everyone has a camera. Some families had multiple photographers, with each child snapping away with their cheaper models while Mom or Dad took care of the authoritative record. I saw big fat drunk rednecks staggering down Duval Street, clutching beers with sleek silver digital camera dangling around their wrists. I heard elderly people bitching about memory cards. I ate breakfast next to two couples who tried for five minutes to get the perfect picture of their freshly squeezed OJ toast. Point, click, click, click.
****Believe Nothing Day
Every April 1st, I toy with the idea of composing an April Fools post, only to be overwhelmed by the jokey creativity required to concote a convincing whooper or ruse that renders all believers as fools. Hardy har har:
- "I quit my job to pursue my dream of becoming a full-time slacker. Please support my new lifestyle by donating money to my PayPal tip jar [link to Gotcha! April Fools! page]."
- "Try my special pancake recipe. Ingredients: 1/2 cup flour, 1 egg, 1 cup milk, and 1 cup salt."
- "Today, I confess. I am an imposter. My name is Martin Green, and I'm a 17-year old high school student from East Texas who enjoys watching TV, skateboarding, and Pizza Hut. Y'all been punked!"
Besides, everyone's guarded against shenanigans on April Fools Day. Me, I watch the local news, totally jaded. Yeah, right. Fire strikes Boston recycling plant! - Out of control taxi runs down pedestrians at Logan Airport! - Worcester man convicted of perjury sentenced to read book!. Yeah, sure. I'm waiting for the news anchor to break into a grin and declare "April Fools." And like anyone who expects reality to be rescinded, I'm still a damn fool.
