****Look at Me
Here are some highlights from my birthday yesterday ("highlights" meaning "times when a camera was nearby")...
My chauffeur. |
Our chariot, the Scion. |
Shooting pool in Allston. |
Cake time. |
This is what 27 looks like. |
My present: The chic necklace around my neck. |
****Part Three: 5 Years Later, 27 Years Ago...
Note: This month marks the 5-year anniversary of my graduation from college, my move to Cambridge, my 22nd birthday, and the start of my first real job. As an exercise in narcissistic personal reflection, I will be writing about various facets of my life. Part One: The Job. Part Two: The City. Part Three: The Age.
So it's my birthday today, but I'm more excited that it's the first day of a whooping 9-day vacation. Forget Happy Birthday... can I get a Hell Yeah?
I realized I was an adult when I would have to work on my birthday. How unfair! Doesn't the World realize that it's my special day, and I should be anointed with presents and cake?
During the dot-com frenzy, when local companies ran radio advertisements looking for computer-savvy workers, one of them gave this pitch: "Competitive pay, excellent benefits, and you don't have to work on your birthday!" I'm sure it was one of the first companies to implode. But at the time, I thought it was a smashing thing for a company to do because working on your birthday makes you feel insignificant.
Yesterday a co-worker inquired what I was doing over my 9-day vacation (Hell Yeah!) and I made reference to "covering my eyes and screaming in anguish for my fading youth." I was joking, like what women are supposed to do as they get older and they are embarrassed that the World is witnessing the decline of their delicious fertile lushness.
But, judging from the horrified look my co-worker gave me, it's too early to imply that I'm over the hill. The World looks at me that same way I look at teenagers and college kids. And that's the maddening thing about getting older. Age brings experience and experience brings wisdom, and any illusions I had at age 22 about my worldliness was just foolhardy confidence. But when I'm 32, I'll look back on age 27 in much the same way.
I look forward to amassing years of experience (my current favorite euphemism for aging). Right now I'm reading Napoleon: A Political Life by Steven Englund, a book I could have never tackled 5 years ago because the historical context and political nuances would be beyond me. I'm the lone technical writer at work, something I could have never handled 5 years ago. And I'm just downright better at life in general now.
22 was one of those awkward years. I was a freshman in the corporate world, shaking off my collegian tendencies like trying to get by on 3 hours sleep. I hadn't figured out that appearance is everything, and would swagger into the office with unwashed hair, jeans and a beer-perfumed sweatshirt. I would grab three muffins at the breakfast buffets and high-tail it back to my desk, unaware that people would think me a strange glutton. And I jumped at every opportunity to not work. If it snowed, I would come in late or leave early, even though I took the subway two stops. I took a sick day about every two months, and would leave early for a "medical appointment" or "family emergency." Once, it was raining buckets, and I told my boss that my landlord called to say my apartment was flooding, and I had to go home.
Ha. Ah, the recklessness of youth.
About three weeks before I turned 22, at my college job as a cashier at Cumberland Farms in Amherst, I begrudged my age to the assistant manager, an older, married student named Diego. "That's the perfect age," I had said. "19. It's downhill from there."
Diego laughed at me and declared women in their 20s were a thousand times more exciting and interesting than teenaged girls. "But only if they don't let themselves go," he said. "There's nothing more sad than a woman in her 20s who lets herself get all fat and ugly and stupid. It's a waste."
In other words, some people age well, others age poorly. It's entirely up to ourselves and our circumstances which way it will go.
Me, I could only get better with age. To age poorly just seems really irresponsible.
****The World is Watching!
At Harvard this week, Amy Norah Burch, an undergraduate coordinator for the Committee on Degrees in Social Studies, was fired for comments she made about Harvard on her web log (here for Harvard Crimson story).
The provocative comments on her blog included threats ("I am two snotty e-mails from professors away from bombing the entire Harvard campus" and "[I'm] ready to get a shotgun and declare open season on all senior faculty members and students who dared cross [me]") and not-flattering comments about specific, named supervisors (so-and-so's "random freaking out” and “anal retentive control freakishness.”)
Burch included a link to her personal site in her work e-mail signature. Her personal site included a link to her blog. So, if the web site is directly accessible from all her email, she shouldn't be surprised that her supervisors will see the blog. This is Harvard, after all. They all have blogs. And she shouldn't be surprised that they'd be offended and a little alarmed at these public declarations of shooting Harvard students and faculty. It was like she wanted people from work to read it.
Currently, on the web log in question, all posts are removed and this message displays: Voyeurism is bad. Please go peep someplace else, Tom.
Apparently, you can still be a moron and work at Harvard. Comforting. Looking at a person's blog is hardly voyeurism. You can't treat public web pages like a personal venting diary. You can't come of sounding like a high-strung sociopath ready to go on a rampage.
I mean, I can't tell you how downright disturbing this page would be if my identity wasn't connected to it. Much more entertaining, I'm sure, but distressing.
****Licensed to Chew
The notorious ban on chewing gum in Singapore has been lifted (here)! Free at last! But don't break out the Big League Chew just yet: Only 19 medicinal brands of gum will be allowed, such as those intended to wean users of nicotine addiction, and you will need a licence and identity card just to buy a pack. Anyone found dealing gum illegally will face up to two years in jail.
To most Americans, to have to show an ID to buy gum is nutty. To ban gum is invasive anal-retentive fascism.
But when faced with comparable threats to our privacy, we take it on faith that privacy breaches are for our own good. That we're being protected from non-specified threats of terrorism.
This week in Boston it was announced that the MBTA will begin random ID checks on riders. "The MBTA police are preparing to conduct ID checks on the 1 million commuters who hop aboard trains and buses each day" says the Boston Herald (here). This has some people enraged, but others (perhaps scared by the unrelenting warnings from our government about impending terror attacks) complacent.
No. No. No. I refuse to show my ID to ride the subway. I will say "I don't have it" and then they can do their worst. What, are they going to start requiring people to carry identity cards for our own protection? Has this country gone mad? We cannot perpetuate this culture of fear by pretending random ID checks with protect us from terrorists. It's bad enough we have those static-ridden "If you see something, say something" security messages broadcast every two minutes in every station.
God forbid another act of terrorism happens in this country, and of course I don't want it to happen in Boston. But I also don't want to live in a country where I am constantly thinking about terrorism and homeland security. That's not healthy. I don't want to have to show an ID to a uniformed person to ride the T.
I'm sure Singapore thinks it's well-protected from the threat of gummy litter. They swaddle themselves in strict laws and heavy penalties, and take comfort in the fact that their outlandish gum bans are worth it. That the right to chew gum isn't worth the disgusting public menace of discarded chewed gum.
But there are other threats that I'm sure they haven't even contemplated banning. Like paint and rocks that could fall into the wrong hands and turn Singapore into an unseemly mess. And if that happens, think of all the citizens of Singapore who have been deprived of gum when the real menaces lurked out of sight and out of mind.
****Big Oat Attack
More than a year ago, despite the fact I was running 25-30 miles a week and walking frequently, I started to gain weight. Just a few pounds, but since my activity level was high, I knew something was wrong with my diet.
I finally figured out it was my morning oatmeal, which I took to work every day in a tupperware container. I would just fill up the container with oatmeal and happily consume it all. I never seemed to get full, so I figured it was the right amount. Upon investigation, I was eating about 3 cups of oatmeal, which is 6 servings at 150 calories a pop. Yep, 900 calories of pure carbohydrates, every single morning, on top of two other meals and a generous amount of snacking.
I bought a smaller container that could only fit 1 cup of oatmeal, and that small change gradually flattened my oatmeal belly. It drove me crazy that I could've been eating three donuts for breakfast and not gained as much weight. I mean, out of all the things I could gain weight on... why'd it have to be oatmeal?
There is a point to this parable. On Monday night we saw Super Size Me (here), that much-hyped documentary in which the filmmaker Morgan Spurlock consumes nothing but McDonalds for 30 days (and, it should be mentioned, intentionally limits his physical activity and walking).
I'll make a documentary in which I eat nothing but plain cooked oatmeal for thirty days, but I can't measure the portions, and I have to eat until I'm full. I guarantee I'd gain just as much weight as Mr. Spurlock ( my cholesterol would be, like, negative 10... but my colon would be in constant turmoil).
Click here for my review of Super Size Me.
****Whacked!
I was worried about the Sopranos. This season, the show veered boringly into touchy-feely land, with the appearance of Steve Buscemi as Tony Soprano's cousin Tony B. and the momentary separation of Tony and Carmela Soprano. A couple of weeks ago, we were subjected to a 25-minute dream sequence. I mean, when the show has so many unfinished plot lines in reality, who wants to ponder the meaning of Tony Soprano's dreams about horses and doing it with his best friend's wife?
But last Sunday, the show redeemed itself. First, somewhat expectedly, Tony and Carmela reunited after Tony consented to buy Carmela a $600,000 plot of land (as an investment). Carmela is such a whore and I don't think she even knows it. Loved how Tony couldn't stop eating the home-cooked dinner she served the night he moved back into the house.
Then, Tony basically admitted that he's going to have to whack Tony B. to stop a mob war. Good thing, too. I don't think Steve Buscemi was a believable Soprano. Just didn't feel the latent rage, and besides, he's puny.
THEN, I couldn't believe it: Adriana, fiancee of Tony's cousin Christopher, token Jersey Girl, and the show's main bit of eye candy, got whacked soon after she reveals to Christopher that she's an FBI informant. His first instinct was to choke her within an inch of her life, then (after they both sobbed helplessly on the couch, reminiscent of that scene in Goodfellas right before they cooperate with the FBI) Christopher solemnly agreed to join the Witness Protection Program with her. "I could finally write my memoirs," he says.
Christopher then went out to get cigarettes at a gas station and, as he stood in front of his luxury SUV, he spied some NJ white trash family piling into their station wagon. From mob to slob? he thinks. Next thing we know, Silvio is whacking Adriana in the forest. Love doesn't always prevail.
The reason I think our culture is obsessed with Mob stories is because they are essentially morality tales that can only fit into the context of a hyper-violent, closed society like the Mob. Did Adriana get what she deserved for living high off of the plunder of the Mob, then talking to the FBI about it? Should she have run away from her beloved Christopher, who abused and demeaned her, and saved herself? Did that even cross her mind, or was she so confident of their mutual love that she assumed she was above retribution from the Mob?
Next two whacks, I predict: Tony B. and Paulie Walnuts.
****Look at the Kitty
We could never seem to get good picture of our princess Coffee. We thought she was just pitifully un-photogenic. After several intense photo sessions over the weekend that all ended in her running to her food dish for comfort, her regal cuteness still proved elusive to capture for posterity. But the picture on the right of her perched happily on my fold-up laundry basket came close. Unfortunately, the camera adds ten pounds, which is 130% more than she actually weighs. Look at the way her paws are crossed, like she's posing for her class photo. Aahh. |
 |
****Don't Panic
What's Hollywood have cooking in that big ole kitchen of degradation and creative liberties?
A movie version of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (here for sparse movie production site; here for IMDB). Douglas Adams, the creator of the original BBC radio series and author of the book, is doing the screenplay. Seems like an ambitious project, but it could be really good if enough resources are put behind it.
I'm dying to know: Will John Malkovich, cast as Zaphod Beeblebrox, actually have two heads?
****Have you Ever Seen The Rain
Right now there is an intense thunderstorm outside, but weather.com merely claims it is "Cloudy. 51 degrees."
T-storms on a Monday morning. Yeh, lets go to work.
****"Damn Thee, Thigh of Jelly!
Yesterday I bought a swimsuit. It seemed like such an event that I cleared my calendar for the whole day to take a mere trip to the mall.
I detest swimsuit shopping, but it's not like I stand in the dressing room, sobbing and grabbing fistfuls of hip fat, cursing my weakness for frozen yogurt with roasted peanuts and chocolate sauce, and just generally acting all crazy like that dumpy cartoon strip loser Cathy (who compulsively shops for swimming suits).
No, it's just that buying a swimsuit has too many variables involved for a non-shopper like me. All those decisions are too stressful. Most clothes, I can tell within two seconds if I'd wear it. But swimsuits require contemplation. 2-piece? Separates? One piece? Skirt? Color? Pattern? Fastener? Fabric? Sporty? Feminine?
And while I think my body's nice, I don't feel obliged to bare a large percentage of my pubic area to strangers. Modesty is an underrated virtue. Swimsuit designers don't help, as the selection of reasonably-priced swimsuits that provide skin coverage are typically targeted at larger women, and therefore aren't flattering and chic even on a slim woman.
Because of the cool weather, I had to bundle up for my walk to the Cambridgeside Galleria. Every layer would require an extra thirty seconds in the dressing room later, I knew. It seemed like a bad day to buy a swimsuit. I went to Sears first. After staring glumly at the five racks of suits and determining that I would never wear them, I went to Filenes, where, after four trips to the dressing rooms, I decided on a black two-piece that I could conceivably also wear to a Poison reunion concert. The bottom is a non-fitting miniskirt-type thing, and the top is a halter bra with a brass horseshoe holding the cups together.
As is typical at the Filene's in the mall, none of the registers have cashiers, so I ended up circling the store until I spied a line of six or so people at a register. I wait in line with my swimsuit behind this young chubby Hispanic girl, who held no items to purchase and constantly looked at a nearby rack where her mother and father held up shirts for her approval. When the girl is at front of the line, she just stands there, shaking her head at everything her parents show her.
By now there are three people behind me, and the cashier gives her a look but she still doesn't move, and finally her mom comes rushing over with a hot-pink sleeveless T-shirt that says (I swear) "I shop with the rich girls."
The worst part about buying a bathing suit is having to remove the sanitary strip from the crotch after you buy it. It's just too gross. I think the cashiers should do that as a complimentary service, like when the fishmonger cuts the skin off of salmon fillet.
****Five Years Later, Part 2: The City
Note: This month marks the 5-year anniversary of my graduation from college, my move to Cambridge, my 22nd birthday, and the start of my first real job. As an exercise in narcissistic personal reflection, I will be writing about various facets of my life. Part One: The Job. Part Two: The City.
As a teenager, I reckoned city living was inherently bad for humans. Humans evolved to live in nature with a close-knit tribe, not in concrete stacked up against strangers. I decided to go to a rural college, but in a truly infamous college town, to ensure I'd find my tribe. So I picked UMass Amherst.
Amherst was great, but I'd never be able to live a non-academic oriented life there, so 5 years ago, I moved to Cambridge (Harvard Square) for the first time. It was where the jobs were. I hungered for expansive culture and a cute little apartment in a bustling urban environment.
I naively assumed that Boston was a big enough city that college kids couldn't possibly be everywhere. But they are. I then moved to Brookline (near BU), then back to Cambridge (Cambridgeport), then Boston (Allston), then back to Cambridge (East Cambridge). And here I am. 2 of my jobs have been in Cambridge as well, the first being not 1/2 mile from my current apartment.
I'm sure if I were a college kid, I'd love living in Cambridge, as choke full of Nuts as it is. And indeed, Cambridge (and Boston, to a lesser extent) has perks that wouldn't be here if not for 250,000 college kids in the region: Galleries, museums, art movie theatres, clean pool halls, clubs, eclectic stores, good cheap restaurants.
And the majority of college kids are smart, socially-responsible people, I know. Yet some of them are silly, like the perfect-looking babes walking around in groups of three or four, all with their shopping bags and shiny hair, or the ubiquitous lone jock flying down the street in his SUV with NJ license plate... probably to get more beer from the corner store.
But the mere presence of so many free-wheeling, young college kids causes near-constant resentment, even if one is satisfied with their own life. Half of them are pampered by indulging parents, and own better things than I do. Most of them don't seem too stressed out. Even when I see them reading or working in coffeehouses, they all sip coffee and look mildly contemplative. And they're all so damn attractive, blissfully ignorant of the perils of tanning and diet pills.
I don't want to stay here the rest of my life or anything. In fact I've made it a goal to leave here by or during age 28. That's a year. Don't know where I'll go, but it won't be just across the river again. This city can strangle you after awhile. It's small, crowded and expensive, especially if you're a lowly 20-something who can't afford to buy a $400,000 condo and must pay a scary percentage of her salary to live in a non-decaying apartment in a moderately-safe area.
A couple of months ago, a man who lives in Cambridge public housing and makes 20K/year won a 50 million dollar lottery jackpot, and plans to give it all away (here). And that sums up Cambridge for me. It's an unreal place filled with unreal people who think and do unreal things.
And, dammit, five years after college graudation, isn't it time to move out of this college town and get real?
****Song and Dance
Song Airlines (a division of Delta, the airline that caused my travel woes a couple weeks ago, here) is giving away 5000 free plane tickets to passengers who are nice to one another or stay upbeat in a difficult situation (here). Flight attendants will get four tickets to disperse at their discretion. The following scenes are guaranteed to play out on Song flights this summer... I'm staying clear:
Unnecessary Kindness
"Here, let me help
you with your bag."
"No, thanks, I've got it."
"I said, let me help you with that bag!"
"Give me back my bag, freak!"
"Hey! I'm just trying to be nice, dammit!"
Competitive Kindness
[Two women at gate
door]
"After you."
"No, after
you."
"I insist."
"No, I insist."
[loudly, to ticket taker] "I insisted first."
Sacrificial Kindness
[restroom line after
dinner]
"Here, you go in front of me."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure, go ahead. [rivulet of urine streaks down pantyhose] I
can hold it."
Unrewarded Kindness
[Flight Attendant
approaches passenger who hit call button]
"Can I help you, sir?"
"Yes, I wanted to tell you that the man in 14D needed a pen."
"Oh, well let me see if we--"
"No, no, its okay. I took care of it. [smiles humbly] I loaned
him one of mine."
Annoying Kindness
"Hey everyone! I know we've been sitting on this runway for four hours, but I bet, if we all think really hard, the lightning will stop, the sun will come out, and we'll be on our way! Come on everyone! [singing] The sun'll come out, tomorrow..."
No Kindness
[Flight Attendant
spies friend]
"There you are! Okay, here's the ticket. Have a great time in Hawaii."
"Thanks! Shouldn't I do something... kind?"
[laughs uproariously] "Yeah. Sure. Knock yourself out."
****That's Arthur Guiness talking
I know the rest of the world resents the pervasive spread of American culture, but to blame us for the Ireland smoking ban in pubs seems a wee bit unfair (here for accusation by FOREST, Freedom Organisation for the Right to Enjoy Smoking Tobacco).
Apparently, American activists promoting a "US-style anti-smoking culture" forced Ireland to "unduly sanitise its social life".
Hey, I kinda agree with FOREST that universal smoking bans are rubbish, but by blaming America, they're just jumping on the whole anti-America bandwagon on a totally inappropriate issue. "Suck your tobacco proudly, lad! Suck it for Ireland! Smoking bans are for Yanks."
****Boycotted!
In the Boston Globe letters section (here):
AS OF May 17, my family will not patronize any Massachusetts business, purchase any products originating there, or visit, for any reason. You are driving our nation down the path of decadence. -JOHN C. O'NEILL, Keystone Heights, Fla.
That certainly showed us. Quick, repeal the laws and revoke the licenses. We're losing business from Floridian assholes.
****Five Years Later, Part 1: The Job
Note: This month marks the 5-year anniversary of my graduation from college, my move to Cambridge, my 22nd birthday, and the start of my first real job. As an exercise in narcissistic personal reflection, I will be writing about various facets of my life. Part One: The Job.
I hate to admit it: Working for the past 5 years in cubicles has irrevocably changed me and my outlook on life.
I hesitate to discuss the finer points of my job because my web site is hardly anonymous. I've allowed the occasional comment on the multitudes of unfortunate Desk Job Dieters in the past, and I really shouldn't even go there.
Today though I will articulate my feelings about working in the corporate world. First, I feel lucky to have my job. It allows me to to what I love (write) while giving me a huge amount of independence, the ability to be productive, and the opportunity to work with a lot of very driven, very intelligent people who respect my domain knowledge.
Then again, I'm not the corporate type and never planned on working in an office. When I was young, offices seemed alien. My parents were both teachers who discussed school politics, which are very different from office politics. They were in unions and never had to kiss up to VIPs or screw over a fellow drone to make themselves look better. And TV never depicts the reality of office life. People in offices had affairs, screwed around, were each others best friends and mortal enemies. Movies showed offices as being rift with slutty secretaries, white-collar crime and stuffy old white men who could make or break a person's lame-brained/heartfelt/courageous/last shot at ultimate success.
I didn't adjust well to office life at my first job. The work day seemed impossibly long. I remember being stunned that the lunch hour didn't count towards my 8 hours. I hated being indoors, I hated staring at a computer, I hated sitting, I hated making small talk in the kitchen, I hated being forced to interact with people I didn't care for, and I hated myself for working in an office because it was only for the money. 2 hours after my work day ended, I was already dreading the next day.
The company itself may have had a lot to do with it, but I hated my next two jobs as well. Coming of working age during the dot-com frenzy, lay-offs were an unsettlingly normal part of working life. I assumed that I'd always be targeted if costs needed to be cut. I assumed that nothing I could do couldn't be done by someone else who was more productive. I assumed this because I kept getting laid off.
After my third technical writing job and the IT job market simultaneously disappeared, I decided to do something else. I needed a job that paid more than $10/hour to survive, but my qualifications suited me for little more than being office help. With little effort, I landed a job at my current company as an assistant.
At first, the unrelenting monotony of copying papers, assembling reports and being a slave appealed to me. But I grew to hate being thought of as a mindless office bunny, and after a year, clawed and coerced my way into my present position... as the lone technical writer in my company's software department. I've been there for 2 and a half years, and I've finally accepted that I'm so settled that they are not going to fire me unless I commit a grievous error. (And there's only so much damage a technical writer can do.)
Corporate life has given my life the Routine. Without the Routine, there's chaos. I'll be late to work, or sleep-deprived, or unprepared, or wearing the same clothes three days in a row. At times I abhor the Routine, but if I step away from it, I'll yearn for the Routine with all my being. The Routine makes me content: I go into the office, work in my cube, go to meetings, and go home.
I like to pretend that everyone out there loves reading about my job. This delusion was bolstered by this random guy at a party who claimed my job sounded "really cool... really interesting." Sad thing is, he meant it. Perhaps his job was so boring that my boring job seemed exciting. Scary.
Since I graduated college, I've become more organized, more attentive to my personal appearance, more focused, and a helluva lot more savvy about computers, building inspections, and the art of kitchenette small talk. And I've realized that the world needs office drones, and office drones need offices. Could I ever go back to a shitty customer service job? Could I take a job with no predictability and stability? Have I crawled into my shell and grown too big to crawl out?
****Party Like the IOC
So, the International Olympic Committee has decided where they want to be wined and dined and wowed in the next 14 months: London, Madrid, Moscow, New York and Paris (here). Good choices! I certainly wouldn't mind free, perk-filled vacations to any of those places!
Not surprising, the IOC declined to visit Istanbul and Leipzig. I mean, where's the glamour there? But I was surprised Havana and Rio de Janeiro failed to make the cut. After week upon booze-filled week streaking across Europe, who wouldn't want to dry out on a beach? But I guess day trips from Madrid can suffice.
****We Do!
I would be wasting a good opportunity to sermonize on matters of historical importance if I failed to note that Monday at 12:00am, Cambridge made history by being the first US municipality to legally issue marriage licenses to gay couples (here for compete Globe coverage).
The rest of Massachusetts followed suit, albeit an unhistorical nine hours later. (We're the smartest and sneakiest.)
And guess what? The world has yet to end. The social order has not crumbled. God has not cast us into the lake of fire and brimstone to be tormented day and night for ever and ever. People are not marrying their pets.
In fact, life is great. When the last time you looked at the front page of your newspaper and saw the glowing, ecstatic faces of brides and grooms who are living out their dreams? How could any American have the nerve to say that these people don't have the right to do this?
****Pissed on Pasta! Bonkers on Bread!
Attention aspiring angst-ridden Pop Rock singers! Looking for that extra edge in your carefully-choreographed stage conniption? Can't muster a modicum of malice on your macrobiotic menu?
Maybe you should start snacking on pretzels and bagels. According to talentless Avril Lavigne, carbs are to blame for her angry lyrics: "I was eating bad stuff... Lots of sugar and carbs, junk food all the time. It makes you very irritated." (here)
So not only have carbohydrates caused the obesity epidemic, but now we know what to blame for the pervasive malice of rage-filled music like this: I don't know how I'll feel / tomorrow, tomorrow, /I don't know what to say, / tomorrow, tomorrow / Is a different day / It's always been up to you, / It's turning around, / It's up to me, / I'm gonna do what I have to do.
Hmm. If carbs are to blame for that kind of galled ranting, Zack de la Rocha must have an IV slowly dripping pure carbs into his veins.
****When Elderly Attack, Part 2
Our roads are clogged with old people who have lost the ability to be safe drivers. It is a crime that people over 70 can drive cars without annual reassessment. Society has wisely cracked down on Drinking and Driving, but why do we allow drivers who may be just as incapacitated on our roads?
I've ranted about old murderin' George Russell Weller before (here), when he killed 10 people in a disaster that gave new meaning to "lead foot." In NJ yesterday, another elderly man named Andrew Pachana, who I bet should not have been driving, has killed one woman and injured eight others after "losing control" of his car in a church parking lot (here and here).
While I'm not Out of Control Car expert, that rampage sounds a bit excessive to chalk up "losing control" of a car: Going 30 feet in reverse, then going 80 feet forward, accelerating to the point where the car becomes airborne when it hits a hedge and only stopped by a Ten Commandments statue. Sounds to me like he went Weller in that parking lot and will get off scot free ("no criminal charges are expected.")
****Colin Blockage
en, AS and I watched Colin Powell on Meet the Press yesterday morning. Suddenly the camera moved off Powell and focused on a palm tree. We cracked up as Russert continued his question. We laughed so hard we didn't hear the apparent on-air argument between Powell and his press aide, who attempted to stop the interview (here). One of the best moments on Sunday morning TV in recent memory.
Even better was the next segment, when John McCain categorically attempted to brush off Russert's incessant needling about whether McCain would consider being Kerry's running mate by pleading for a shot of a palm tree. Classic.
****Give Me All Your Money
On Friday night, I loitered on the corner of Harrison and Beach Streets for an hour, waiting for the unpredictable $10 one-way Chinatown bus on which my dear friend from New York City traveled to visit me. As I stood watching the cars slowly snake through the compact city streets, a wiry mid-30ish man carrying a duffel bag approached me.
"Hi. I'm trying to get to New York City and I need $3.50. Can you help me out?"
I've remained committed to my principles on giving money to strangers for years: I never do it. Never. The only situation in which I would consider doing it is if the person appeared to be on the brink of death. I can't justify giving money to one panhandler and not giving it to another, and I certainly can't give money to every panhandler I encounter.
I also don't like taking my wallet out in public, especially when I'm alone and stationary on a Chinatown street corner. So I said my standard "Sorry, I don't have any money" and looked away.
"You obviously have money," he said, his voice suddenly loud and harsh. He looked me up and down (I purposely had dressed in cheap baggy pants so I wouldn't be mistaken for a Chinatown prostitute... again) and stepped closer to me. "You have money somewhere."
"I don't have any money," I repeated. Feeling threatened, I asserted my 5-inch height advantage over him by straightening my spine and staring directly into his slightly-crazed blue eyes.
"You're a liar. You have money so don't tell me you're sorry," he sneered, and walked over to another young woman waiting for the bus to arrive.
This encounter angered me. That this man would not accept my obvious but polite lie illustrated a trend: The brazen retort of the slighted panhandler. In Philadelphia, a young man decked out in trendy raver clothes (hardly thrift store finds) said a similar thing to en after we rejected his request for spare change "Don't tell me you're sorry. You're not effing sorry," he spat. And I've observed multiple instances of panhandlers mocking pedestrians in Downtown Crossing and Harvard Square.
My story doesn't end there. Feeling uncomfortable, I decided to go into a Chinese Coffee House to wait for the bus. I purchased a coffee and sat down. About five minutes later, the wiry panhandler came into the store. He approached two young Asian men who were eating meat buns and snarled "I thought you didn't have any money. Where'd you get the money to buy that?"
After a long pause, one of the young them meekly started to say "I need money to... buy things for myself..."
"Yeah! Okay, sure. Well thanks a lot. Thanks a lot, you effing asshole. Luckily someone helped me out!" The wiry panhandler then went up to the counter and ordered a bun. The bun cost 85 cents, but he only wanted to pay 75 cents because he didn't want to break a five. The woman refused to give it to him, and he said "How about 75 cents and a kiss?" and then stuck his face near hers. She recoiled and ordered him to leave, repeatedly calling him crazy, but he snatched the bun, slapped his change on the counter, and left.
This man's blatant narcissism sickened and scared me. He's mad that people who didn't give him money are buying food for themselves? He sees the world in terms of "Haves" and "Have Nots," and anyone who isn't obviously a Have Not must be a greedy Have. Irrational entitlement with a dollop of rage.
It reminded me of a woman who panhandled daily near my old apartment in Harvard Square. Every day, sometimes twice a day, she said to me as I passed "Excuse me ma'am, do you have any spare change?" Most of the time I would simply shake my head, but other times I was so tired of her incessant pleas that I would pointedly look away. Why did she have to ask me every single day?
Regardless, she always wished me a nice day as I walked away. At the time her politeness further annoyed me. But now I realize that she was showing that she didn't expect anything from me, that she understood I may not want to give her money, and she bore no ill will. And for that, I almost wish I had given her a few coins once in a while.
****Reading, Writing and Oral Sex
Here's an innovative way to cut teenaged pregnancy rates: Teach kids oral sex. A British government study found "Pupils under 16 who were taught to consider other forms of 'intimacy' such as oral sex were significantly less likely to engage in full intercourse" (here).
As I recall it, my middle school health class would erupt in manic giggling when the teacher merely said the words "penis" or "ovary." I can only imagine the hilarity and trauma such a lesson would cause.
****My Lord
Marilyn Manson is set to star as a pot-smoking Jesus Christ in George Romero's Diamond Dead, a movie about a rock band that makes a deal with the devil (here). Cue ironic "The Passion of the Christ" references...
****'Only nut cases want to be president'
Kurt Vonnegut penned this diatribe (here, in In These Times) which I relished in reading. 81 years old and still writes with a cutting acerbity.
A sample: If you want to take my guns away from me, and you’re all for murdering fetuses, and love it when homosexuals marry each other, and want to give them kitchen appliances at their showers, and you’re for the poor, you’re a liberal. If you are against those perversions and for the rich, you’re a conservative. What could be simpler?
****Who's the Kitty?
The Infinite Cat Project (here) is a truly cute glorification of cats.
****Quote of the Day
Good breeding consists in concealing how much we think of ourselves and how little we think of the other person.
--Mark Twain
****Metapost
My brain is pretty blank today. If my brain were unemployed, it would be wearing a bathrobe and slippers, sitting on the couch and zoning out in front of the TV, muttering the occasional "You go, Judge Judy... you... go..."
The rest of me went to work and did the whole "productive member of society" thing. Unless you want to hear my diatribe about Why Microsoft Word is Satan's Word Processing Program, then I suggest you dispense with the whole "How was Work" bull. Yeah.
And when I wasn't being a productive at work, it nagged at me: What should I write about for my site today? Christ, what should I write about tomorrow? Or the day after that? Why did I start a daily journal site when there are a finite number topics on which I can interestingly pontificate (in public, that is)? Dear God, why did I set voluntarily myself up for failure and stress?
So, what you get today is a metapost, a post about posting. It's the adult equivalent of when a student writes a creative writing piece about how they have nothing to write about. Or the author attempting to write away writer's block by writing about writer's block.
Not that I'm blocked. I mean, I could whip up a post about anything. I was actually considering writing about India's caste system, the history and nuances of which I find to be fascinating. Or I could talk about how I ill-advisedly watched Nick Berg's final moments off of the Internet. Made it through the four minutes of Arabic proclamations, but when the beheading started... well. I pass out when I get my blood pressure checked. To think I could handle watching a person being beheaded in cold blood with a knife was a tad delusional.
I've been doing this site for a little over a year now but still haven't really come up with a definitive theme. I think a definitive theme would certainly increase readership; I'd have a niche audience who would know they could go to my site and find reliably good information about [definitive theme]. But I pride myself on having no specialized interests in anything. That is, I've got a brain like an artichoke: a taste for everyone, a meal for no one.
(Yeah, I've gotta stop using my brain in similes. It's just creepy).
I've also been thinking about if I should enable Comments after each post. I want to because many times I feel like I'm talking to a wall. I mean, I don't know if anyone reads this site. I get a ton of search engine hits but that doesn't mean anything. If I had Comments, then I'd know for sure that no one reads my site.
No. Really. Comments seems like too much pressure to readers. I always feel pressured to leave comments if someone says something cool and no one leaves comments saying as much. Plus, it would be depressing if I had Comments and no one ever left any. Most people don't leave comments unless at least 10 other people have before them.
So to sum up: Brain dead. Work productive, despite. Not Blocked. No more Beheading! Artichoke brain. Comments?
****Bueno No!
Today my company had our Quarterly Lunch Meeting, complete with a bountiful Mexican food buffet. Faced with copious amounts of leftovers, the Administrative Assistant who organized the lunch sent out an email to everyone, saying that we should feel free to take leftovers home, and that the food was on the sixth floor (which is my floor).
About an hour later, a co-worker who I recognize only by sight (which is rare) wondered around my cube corridor. I was engrossed in my work, when he approached my desk:
"Do you know where the leftovers are?"
"No, I don't," I said. I didn't see food in the kitchenette when I passed it on my way to the restroom, and I didn't know where else they could be. He kept staring at me expectantly, so I said "Sorry, I don't."
"An email was sent out, saying they'd be on this floor?" he said, as if trying to jog my memory, as if I were an effing moron. "The leftovers from the lunch today?
"I haven't seen them," I said brightly. "Why don't you ask [the woman who sent out the email]?"
He looked at me like I was being difficult, then abruptly walked away without thanking me or apologizing for interrupting me.
It's not like I sit at the reception desk on my floor. I'm tucked away amid the techies, hunched over my computer. Is it fair for me to assume that he thought it was okay to ask me because I'm a young, attractive woman who obviously can't do anything as a career except something that involves keeping tabs on the location of leftover Mexican food?
Not that there's anything wrong with dealing with lunch leftovers, because I have had to do that before, but he didn't know that. He just assumed...
****Spotless Minds
If you could erase someone entirely from your memory, would you?
Who would you want to erase? Someone who makes you so angry or depressed that the mere thought of them is traumatizing? Someone who you love deeply but you can no longer be with? Someone whose abuse or corruption impairs your ability to live a normal life?
These are the interesting questions raised by Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind, starring a joyless Jim Carrey and a crazed Kate Winslet (here for my review).
It's an intriguing premise: A new form of high-tech psychiatry in a quick-fix world that has evolved beyond talking therapy and ineffective mood-altering drugs. After you break-up with a boyfriend, have him erased from your memory and you won't waste another second of your time or energy mulling over the relationship.
Of course, sane people can see why, even if the technology did exist, this is hardly the solution. But it made me ponder the whole notion of high-tech psychiatry, which would basically amount to mind control with machines.
****Like, Get Over It
That class was, like, such a waste of time, I heard one likely college student say to another in Downtown Crossing today.
5 years after graduating, I've formed opinions about which of my college classes were and were not a wastes of time:
Not Wastes of Time: Technical Writing (got me a job), Public Health (taught me about the intricacies of health insurance), Political Science (taught me that sometimes you have to get up at 7:30am), aerobics (taught me that not all group exercise is like high school gym class) and Computer Science (taught me to use a command-line interface and got me a Teaching Assistant gig that looked prime on my resume).
Waste of Time: (Well, this is a toughie because I believe that even if a class doesn't impart any knowledge, the whole process of learning confers intangible benefits like discipline and mental conditioning... however, that being said, I took a class so offensive to the whole idea of impartial intellectual inquiry that a professor doing nothing but belching for 60 minutes would have taught me more than) Women's Studies 101.
I took Introduction to Women's Studies because it satisfied a General Education requirement, was an easy A in an otherwise arduous semester, had an excellent reading list, and because my friend MW was taking it. About half of it class would have been superb if it were a history class. But as a Women's Studies class, it sought to relate every historical instance of inequality to our personal lives. It was geared to enrage us more than educate us.
In other words, it taught me and the 300 other (mostly) women in the class that women are victims of society.
I have since concluded that going through life with an academically-validated victim mentality is not helpful, and that while sexism exists, to chalk up every little unfairness to sexism is ultimately self-defeating. Power comes from confidence, and walking around thinking about the wage gap and glass ceilings doesn't inspire confidence.
And I wish that since Women's Studies felt obligated to dictate how women should feel about her place in the world, it would have taught me confidence instead of telling me that men are constantly and unconsciously looking to oppress me.
****Delta Airlines Ruined My Day
I know hearing other people's airport horror stories isn't that exciting... but all the same, here's a peachy one from my otherwise wonderful trip to Pennsylvania.
Sunday 5:10pm : I was sitting on a small commuter plane that was all ready to take me back to Boston. Everything was right on schedule. The door was closed and they played the safety message. I was pleased as punch because my flight to Philadelphia the previous day was delayed 1 1/2 hours due to unspecified "maintenance." Delta was atoning for this; in forty minutes, I would be in Boston.
5:12pm: The plane is not moving. Not concerned yet.
5:20pm: The flight attendant announces that the pilot is on the phone with the maintenance department. Apparently the dashboard computer is not "synching" with another computer and they have to reboot it.
5:35pm: Everyone is ordered to get off the plane. "Hopefully maintenance will fix the problems and we'll be seeing you folks real soon."
5:45pm: I stand on the tarmac, waiting for someone to unload the plane-side luggage. Two planes go by and everyone covers their ears because it is deafening. After 10 minutes, our luggage is unloaded and we trudge back to the gate.
6:10pm: Our flight has been cancelled. Everyone rushes the Delta tickets counters.
6:30pm: After standing in line, a nice Delta ticket agent tells me I'm booked on the next available flight to Boston: a 8:30pm US Airways flight. She tells me to go to Terminal B. She tells me to hurry, because I can be put on the US Airways stand-by list for an earlier flight (of course, she is telling everyone this.) She gives me an $8 food voucher and tells me she is sorry.
6:35pm: I hurry from Terminal E to Terminal B. It's a long way by foot, about 20 minutes of rushing through crowds of people moving at a crawl pace because they are distracted by the plethora of food and crap stores.
6:55pm: Arrive at Terminal B. I mistakenly assume the Delta woman gave me a boarding pass, but I just got an itinerary. I'm instructed to go to the US Airways ticket counter to get my boarding pass.
7:00pm: There is a huge line at the ticket counter. In front of me is a late 30-ish couple that... well, they look like hicks. The man is short, with a ratty ponytail, a Nascar T-shirt and jeans. The woman is slightly off looking, with long plain hair, a T-shirt and gray sweat pants. Looking at the chic luggage of the yuppie woman in front of them, she makes a comment to the man: "Next time we go we'll have to get something like that." "Don't be stupid," he snaps. "That costs hundreds of dollars." He gets this look on his face like "This is the last time I take her out of West Virginia." It was the one amusing moment of the whole night. I almost forgot about my unfocused murderous rage.
7:30pm After I get my boarding pass, I find out my flight is leaving from Terminal C, so I hurry through more crowds.
7:35pm: I am worried I'll miss my flight. Forget standby. My boarding pass has a red line on it, meaning I was selected for special security screening. I am put in a line of about ten women because there are no female body screeners available at the moment. Finally one comes over and slowly begins searching us for bombs.
8:00pm: Freaking out, I run to the gate, only to find out the flight has been moved to ...Terminal B.
8:05pm: Wait in another line for special security check. This line goes a little faster.
8:10pm: Grab a $2.50 soft pretzel with my $8 food voucher because there is no time to get a real dinner. The pretzel man laughs when I ask if I get to keep the difference.
8:15pm: Arrive at gate. The plane is being boarded, to my relief. I get on the plane and finally relax. I'm going home... or am I?
8:30pm: The pilot announces that the runway has been closed because there is a lightening storm.
8:45pm: Runway is still closed.
9:25pm: The ramp has been opened. But now air traffic is backed up.
10:20pm: We are 10th in line for take-off.
10:40pm: We take off.
11:30pm: We land in Boston.
12:00am: I pay $30 for a cab ride home because I'm not riding the subway by myself at midnight.
I'm writing the meanest letter ever to Delta. And it's pretty disturbing that BOTH of the planes I fly on Delta this weekend were about to take off, then got delayed or canceled because they discovered mechanical errors at the last minute. Let's hope they are always that lucky.
****Going to PA
Off to Pennsylvania to visit family... Be back Monday...
****Mother's Day Musing
To say that my Mother cultivated my love of the written word is an understatement. Both of my parents read to me almost every night for many years. For birthdays and Christmas, I always got books. We took weekly trips to the library and, later, Borders Books in Bryn Mawr (back when it was, like, the only one all of the Philly suburbs). I was encouraged to excell in reading and writing. Granted, I innately gravitated towards these endeavors, but without my Mother, these whims would have never developed into what is on many levels my livelihood. Children need to be nourished on so many levels. School, television, and MTV can only do so much. Without attentive and indulging parents, too many talents are mired in mindless pop culture like dolphins in a tuna net. So a very Happy Mother's Day to my beloved Mother...Without her, I fear I'd be working at Bickfords, writing orders on a pad. |
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****Guided by Bob and Beer
Guided By Voices is dead! (here for announcement.)
But I guess solo Richard Pollard won't be too different than GBV. Ever since Tobin Sprout left, it's essentially been a one-man band.
My throat did tight, and I will mourn...
Alright
for our
lives to be once again
like it once was
in the ice age, in a kingdom long ago;
without songs, without hope, without meaning,
and therefore
always having the same effect
without ever knowing why
****Tales from the T
4/14/04 Red Line After Work
Two male teenagers who I suspect are autistic board the train, their blank faces furtively studying the ground. One of them is talking so loudly that everyone on the car cannot help but listen. “Did Matthew block you?” he asked several times. I gather he was talking about IM. I can’t make out the response. “Matthew asked me how big I was,” he went on to say. “And I said ‘You mean how much I’m packing in my pants?’ and he said ‘yeah’, which is funny because you and I just had a conversation about it.”
4.20.04 Red Line After Work
You can gauge how nice the weather is by counting the young women shod in shorts and flip-flops who board the Red Line at Park Street carrying recently-procured shopping bags and bottles of Fiji water. After spending 9 hours in an office hunched over a computer, to watch them all bustle around looking for seats and chirp exuberantly to each other is… um, just great. Yeah. Spring is great.
4.27.04 Red Line After Work
A smooth-voiced male conductor reminded everyone to take their “coats, backpacks, purses, briefcases, bags, children, cats, dogs, and chickens” with them as they exit the train. It was creepily reminiscent of Paul Gerrish, conductor/failed comedian (about whom a very cool film student from Emerson College is doing a documentary on, which I will be appearing in). Here for me on Paul Gerrish...
May 4, 2004 Red Line Before Work
At Downtown Crossing, a tall, regal and extremely decked out older woman gets on. I take in the tight curled blond hair cemented into place on the top of her head; the thousand-dollar handbags and luxury-label clothes; and the excessive makeup and jewelry, and think "Poor lady. For all the effort she put in, she looks like a rich transvestite." Then, upon closer inspection, I realize that she is a transvestite, and suddenly the excessive femininity doesn't strike me as excessive, it strikes me as a job well done.
05.06.04 Red Line Before Work
Sex and the City may be over, but the series is still alive in the minds of many single urban women who fancy themselves real-life Carrie Bradshaws and mimic her shallow existence because they can't find inner happiness through a simple, non-glamorous existence that doesn't involve spending lots of money on unnecessary clothes, make-up, and shoes, and drinking in bars to meet total jerks to have sex with, and then telling yourself and your friends that it's empowering and fabulous sex because otherwise you must face the fact that he used you but it's okay ... now you have something to gab about with your fellow Single Urban Gals when you get together to go shopping, or eat out, or ride the subway.
Wait. Carrie Bradshaw and her Whore Crew would never take the subway, a point missed by two obvious Sex and the City Disciples who were taking flamboyantly on the Red Line at 7:30am. These women looked about 40 and sported no wedding rings. If they have kids at home, those poor slobs don't get half as much attention as Mommy's eye makeup.
"Oh, who'd you go out to dinner with?" the brunette bellowed. "Oh, everyone," the blonde gushed. "Anna Marie?" the brunette prodded. "Yes, Anna Marie, and Mike." Oh. Everyone.
Both had their feet crammed into toeless, pastel high-heels... expensive shoes that obviously weren't meant to squish the wearer's foot fat so that the shoes themselves practically disappeared.
Not exactly spring chickens. The blonde looked like one of those deluded women who thinks men love her humongous, double-D chest, and takes great pride in it even though it's obvious her chest stores the body fat that her bulging stomach and thighs refused to accommodate. The brunette had that "too many Long Island Iced Teas" bloat , and donned this garish bright red-silk Chinese-style coat with shoulder pads stacked to her ruby-twinged ears. Both wore enough make-up to paint a house.
The blonde perched like Jabba the Hut on a seat across from me, while the brunette stood in front of her, constantly moving her ridiculous feet to avoid face-planting every time the train changed speeds.
"That does it, we're having a party!" the blonde announced. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her screening the faces of other T riders, trying to ferret out if anyone was looking at her. I think it was just me. She fascinated and repelled me, like most crazy people do.
"A party, oh good!" the brunette said, her Dior tote swinging gaily at her side.
"And everyone has to bring one long-stemmed rose, and one bottle of champagne!" the blonde proclaimed, obviously delighting in her boundless sophistication.
"Oh good, champagne," the brunette said. "And roses, ooh. Bill sent me roses."
"Roses! From Bill?"
It sort of saddened me to see them excited to have strangers overhearing their inane banter. And that's the problem with being a Sex and the City Disciple, because your life can't be glamorous unless other people think it is.
****SHAME
The Muslim world is looking at this picture and thinking: American women are so liberated, they delight in sexually humiliating men. Democracy and equal rights for all! Let's all get Constitutions! It doesn't do too much for Women in the US Military. Proponents always cite the positive humanitarian image that women project; to a strife-ravaged populace, foreign chicks with guns are so less scary than foreign men with guns. Unfortunately, this sort of sadism won't convince anyone that GI Jane is Mother Theresa in cargo pants. Every rational person knows that not every American soldier would do this. And they know that torture has occurred in every vast army ever assembled. But only American soldiers would be dumb and pompous enough to take pictures of prisoner abuse in this day and age and think it's okay. Look at Pvt. Lynndie England, a 21-year old from a West Virginia trailer park. I could totally kick her ass. That scrawny redneck. |
Join
the Army, travel to exotic, distant |
According to her mother Terrie England (here), these pictures are "stupid, kid things — pranks... And what the (Iraqis) do to our men and women are just? The rules of the Geneva Convention, does that apply to everybody or just us?"
Um... actually, they apply to everyone.
The picture is so sickening to me that I hesitated at putting it on my site. But I think it serves as a metaphorical reminder that our military is not infallible. We're not always crusading liberators bringing tidings of peace and joy throughout the world. Most individual soldiers are virtuous and above such behavior, but there are yahoo soldiers who think of themselves as conquerors entitled to do whatever the eff they please. And they're not really too different from their Commander-in-Chief.
****Quote of the Day
I don't consider myself a revengeful person... I'd say I possess "a highly developed sense of justice." But is there such a big difference between revenge and justice? Revenge is said to be done out of spite, while justice is redressing in accordance with society's mores. Revenge is emotional, while justice is blind... ideally. It's an oft-blurred line these days. I pondered this as I gazed upon this bull fight back his tormenting Toreador. Arguably self-defense is depicted in the below picture, but the bull is probably feeling vengeful, and I'd say it's justice.
MA Governor Mitt Romney, still bucking like an enraged bull over that fact gay marriage has become legal under his watch (here), is looking to bring the death penalty back to MA after 20 years (here for story).
I go back and forth on the death penalty. Intellectually I oppose it... but once in a while, I'll hear about a murder so sickening in its pointlessness that I'll think "If that happened to my loved one, I'd want the effer to fry." Since I can only support that death penalty when under a particularly vulnerable emotion, can I consider state-sanctioned killing to be justice?
An even more pressing question: Is Mitt Romney intent on turning MA into Utah?
All the old knives that have rusted in my back, I drive in yours.
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****We're No. 1
Yeah, Cambridge is expensive, snotty, and riddled with sheltered academics. But this month I'm geniunely proud to be a Cantabrigian.
Cambridge officials have announced that at midnight on May 17 we will be the first US "municipality to allow same-sex couples to apply for marriage licenses" (here for Boston Globe story).
****Kennsch de Wayne?
A German car magazine (of course) found in a survery that male BMW drivers report having the most sex, on average 2.2 times each week. For women, the equivocal "French car drivers" reported 2.1 times per week (here for Boston Globe blurb).
Like I care. But it's a good excuse to bring out my pictures from the BMW museum in Munich.
Oh, wondering about the title of this post? Look it up yourself on the Alternative German Dictionary (here). German slang is hilarious. Schlampenschlepper, Bierficker, Busengrapscher, Hosenscheisser... They seem almost onomatopoetic.
Mark Twain said some great things about the German language, which he had a very difficult time learning (here for quotes). He blamed the language itself for the difficulty. My favorite:
My philological studies have satisfied me that a gifted person ought to learn English (barring spelling and pronouncing) in thirty hours, French in thirty days, and German in thirty years. It seems manifest, then, that the latter tongue ought to be trimmed down and repaired. If it is to remain as it is, it ought to be gently and reverently set aside among the dead languages, for only the dead have time to learn it.
****Catchy Hooks and Trashy Looks
Guns N' Roses "Sweet Child of Mine" is the greatest guitar riff ever, according to Total Guitar magazine's reader poll (here for BBC story...here for Total Guitar). Wow. GNR, once regarded as an Eighties Metal hair band favored by trailer trash, third-world countries, and teenaged girls, now enjoys respectability that only time could give them.
I 'm a little confounded by this crowning, though I've made no secret of my love for GNR. But that riff can get old... and it's in a love song, for chrissakes. The context of the riff is arguably just as important as the actual riff. The song is almost soothing. And the greatest guitar riff ever can't be soothing.
After some deep soul-searching, my favorite riff is "Your pretty face is going to hell (Hard to beat)" by Iggy and the Stooges. I didn't pick a slightly-obscure riff on purpose, but if I don't take cultural impact into account, then this really is my favorite riff. It exemplifies rock and roll perfection, with a distinctive hook layered over fast-tempo, upbeat heavy blues, punctuating Iggy's snide growls and an impatient rhythm section. Baby, this riff is all meat and no cheese.
****Bless The Nation
On April 19 I wondered why more Liberals weren't outraged about the Howard Stern FCC fines (here for my post).
So I was gratified to see Howard Stern on the cover of The Nation this week... (here). Intially amused, but gratified.
****I'm a Walnut
What kind of nut are you? Take the Planters quiz (here). And Planter's knows nuts... so it's official. Why do I find it soothing to look at Mr. Peanut? He's one of few advertising icons that does not inspire total ire in me. I think if I had to choose a fictional advertising character to befriend and hang out with, I'd choose Mr. Peanut. He looks like an intellectual who can party like a champ. |
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****Pissing on a soldier's grave
Once again, my alma mater is making headlines across the state. A Graduate Student named Rene Gonzalez wrote an Op-Ed piece where he says Pat Tillman, football-star turned Army Ranger who was killed in Afghanistan, got what was coming to him because he was acting out "nationalist-patriotic fantasies forged in years of exposure to Clint Eastwood and Rambo movies", and furthermore, Tillman is not a hero. Here's a sample (here for entire piece):
You know he was a real Rambo, who wanted to be in the "real" thick of things. I could tell he was that type of macho guy, from his scowling, beefy face on the CNN pictures. Well, he got his wish. Even Rambo got shot in the third movie, but in real life, you die as a result of being shot. They should call Pat Tillman's army life "Rambo 4: Rambo Attempts to Strike Back at His Former Rambo 3 Taliban Friends, and Gets Killed."
But, does that make him a hero? I guess it's a matter of perspective. For people in the United States, who seem to be unable to admit the stupidity of both the Afghanistan and Iraqi wars, such a trade-off in life standards (if not expectancy) is nothing short of heroic... he shouldn't be hailed as a hero, he should be used as a poster boy for the dangerous consequences of too much "America is #1," frat boy, propaganda bull.
Boy, I'm so proud to be a UMass Amherst graduate. Between the riots, budget cuts, protests, and the President ousting, we've got sheltered know-it-alls spewing hateful trash in the Daily Collegian.
I don't support the way the war is handled, and I question if we should be in Afghanistan. But like most people, I have enough decency to know that mocking dead soldiers is a sure sign that you're intellectually immature and a horrible person to boot. Gonzalez has a right to say these things only because thousands upon thousands of men like Tillman have died defending our ideals of freedom.
(Right Thoughts posted a picture of Rene Gonzalez here... if Gonzalez can tell Tillman was a real "macho" guy from his picture on CNN, then I think it's fair to say that Gonzalez looks like a total self-assured academic schmuck.)
(Gonzalez, apparently a coward who can't defend his own idiocy, has apologized here...)
****The King is Dead! Long live the King!
This morning it was with great sadness that I learned Elvis A. Presley has passed away last Monday April 26 (here for obituary).
According to the obituary, Elvis was born Feb. 17, 1937 in the town of Eaton (Wisconsin), son of the late Henry and Hattie Mayer Baer. He was employed with Neenah Foundry for 27 years retiring in 1998.
I guess the King of Rock and Rock was also the King of Metals!