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****Smoke and Spiders and other Post-Camp Joys

Today I unpacked all my camping stuff. I found two dead spiders in my sweat-and-smoke fumed clothes (I vengefully hope one of them is the effer who graced my left love handle with two Sacagawea Dollar-sized itchy welts). I fret: Can ticks survive laundry?

My campfire clothes infected the entire duffel bag with the smell of smoke, even my deodorant. But it's a price gladly paid for hours of satisfying fire-poking. When I was growing up, we used a wood-burning stove to heat our house; stocking the furnace with logs was my favorite chore. Thankfully, no pyromaniac tendencies emerged other than a love for watching fire, which I find as relaxing as waves crashing into the surf.

When I wasn't poking fire, I surreptitiously observed the five or so families in our little corner of the campground - the television, Mr. Pinault called them. (I know campgrounds with bathrooms, showers, and picnic tables are for families and wimps, but 29-year old women need plumbing lest they develop devastating corporeal awareness.)

At the campsite to our left was a nuclear family with two cute little girls, the youngest who crumbled under the stress of camping. She threw a three-day long tantrum of sobbing, anguished pleas that could be heard constantly and widely: "Mommy I want to go home! Maaahhhhh!" I watched the father attempt to teach her to throw a Frisbee, and she winged it straight at his head.

At the campsite to our right was a nuclear family with three pre-teenaged boys. I listened to them dine on burgers and chips on Saturday evening as I unwound from Mt. Lafayette:
"Why'd you take that much hand sanitizer?" the mother suddenly barked.
"Jason. You're wasting hand sanitizer!" the father said in a firm voice. "You don't need that much! Give some to your brothers!"
"Eww! He already started rubbing it in! It has his germs in it!"
"Take some hand sanitizer from your brother, NOW!" And so began World War III.
Later, over a pre-dinner beer, I told Mr. Pinault, "That family is so dysfunctional." Over our shoulders, the father yelled "Put down that stick NOW!" and we looked at each other. "Dysfunction," I whispered, nodding.

A few sites down was a little boy who I nicknamed Hail Mary after watching a fierce one-on-one tackle football game between him and one of the hand sanitizers. Most of the weekend, Hail Mary strolled the grassy common, tossing a baseball into the air and catching it in his glove, advertising his availability as a sporting playmate. It was sad, really. Hail Mary ventured near a group of teenagers playing horseshoes, trying to integrate himself by standing behind the pit and critiquing each throw until one of the teenagers nicely told him to get away. Soon after, Hail Mary's father ordered him to "play" closer to their campsite, where he paced and threw his baseball up into the air, "playing" catch with himself. No wonder he went berserk on the hand-sanitizing boy in football despite a 30+-pound disadvantage.

To witness other people's camping vacations was a little depressing. Family camping is cheap and certainly can be fun, but the total absence of privacy and modern amenities discombobulates parent and child alike. Monday morning, the air was filled with smoke as people burned the remnants of their wood and loaded their cars. Children didn't cry, families didn't fight... with the tent packed up and the end in sight, the mood was joyful. Indeed, depriving yourself of the accruements around which daily life revolves can be fun, but it's a lot more soothing to return to our homes and hide from the spiders.

****The Mountains

Sunday I climbed Mount Lafayette via Little Haystack Mountain and Mount Lincoln, along with seemingly hundreds of other people (as a ranger commented to me after the hike, "I bet it was like Route 128 during rush hour up there"). It took about eight hours but I emerged full of vigor, feeling invisible.

Monday I woke up on my 29th birthday, feeling 89. My quadriceps were screaming, my shoulders were burnt rosy red, and my body was just like "What did you do?"

Click here for photos.

****Memorial Birthday

I had planned the bulk of this evening around renewing my driver's license. Reflexively imagining a bureaucratic nightmare of lines and forms, I allotted two hours to the task of going to the Express Stop RMV at the Galleria. It took, like, 90 seconds.

So I wandered by the Charles River, taking in a quintessential Boston spring day. A touch windy, but with warmth that held promises of summer. Runners trotted around me. The Red Line train coursed across the bridge. Sailboats zig-zagged along the water. It was peaceful and life-affirming.

Suddenly, a sparrow plopped out of a tree about ten feet in front of me and landed on the sidewalk. The noise of impact was surprisingly resolute for such a tiny bird. I stopped to look at it. One leg twitched slightly as it completed its death throes.

Witnessing a bird undergo sudden natural death does not seem as auspicious having one poop on you. I walked home, horrified at what occurred in front of me, right when I felt invigorated by life and at peace with my impending 29th birthday. Yes, I'm old, but look what I've achieved: The ability to stroll through a prestigious cityscape at will, to enjoy idle moments appreciating the manmade wonders amid nature's beauty, to watch people vastly more successful than myself exercise, and to be proud of who and where I am. And then... dead sparrow.

I'm going camping this weekend. Many months ago I got it in my head that I wanted to climb Mt. Lafayette on my birthday, to prove to myself how far I've come in life. The younger Meredith would have never imagined she'd be climbing mountains. Then again, the younger Meredith would have thought me a big shallow dork. Happy Memorial Birthday.

****Omen

I

I met a guy, years ago, who called himself Omen. His real name could've been Paul or Charles, but he declared himself Omen and got his Phish hipster friends to go along with it. "Hey, Omen, you go to class today? Omen, man, those pants are so dank. Omen, hand me the remote?"

Obviously, asking Omen why he selected this particular epithet would have been very uncool, but much later, when reading through a list of Latin proverbs, I wondered if it could possibly be inspired by "Nomen est omen." Translation: "A name is an omen."

II

People have, by and large, stopped giving their children ominous names. Some parents do industriously research the meanings of their children's names to factor into their decision ("Forget Calvin! It means "bald one"), but most parents go by what sounds pleasing. Boy names are commonly "tried and true," while girl names follow their own mysterious and often tragic trends. Pretty soon, the world will be run by Brittanys and Ashleys.

Looking at a list of the top 20 baby names for 1977 (here), I see the names of probably 90% of my grade school: Michael, Jason, Christopher, David, Jennifer, Melissa, Amy, Jessica... In 2005, the boy's names are pretty consistent, while the girl's names are completely different: Emily, Emma, Madison, Abigail, and Olivia topping the list that includes surprises like Ava, Alexis, Alyssa, Mia, and Chloe. All names that sound exciting and original until your daughter informs you that she is, in fact, "Alexis G" in order to distinguish her from "Alexis D" and "Alexis F."

III

I remember Ramona Quimby, the heroine of my favorite book series, named her doll "Chevrolet," and moaned about how all the adults laughed at her for thinking it was the most beautiful name ever.

In this culture of branding, it is inevitable that more people give their babies names like "Armani", "Del Monte","Infiniti", and "Lexus." If names are truly omens, then what's in store for little Prada, Chanel, and Stetson?

After serving as a fashionable new accessory, the branded babies will grow less novel with each year. They'll never quite live up to their parent's expectations. They'll equate their own worth with the current hipness of their brand. Pity young Burberry Jones when Wal-Mart starts selling the Burberry Golf collection (here).

IV

In Germany, every child's name must be approved by the local Standesamt (office of vital statistics). According to German law, a name must clearly indicate the sex of the children (the "Madison" epidemic would have been squashed from the start), and must not "endanger the well-being" of the child by leading to... embarrassment, I guess. Women can hyphenate their name when they marry, but cannot give the the hyphenation to their child (here). To Americans, this may sound ludicrous, but the law has saved dozens of babies over the years from life as "Lenin, McDonald, Schnucki and Bierstubl, which translates roughly as 'little beer pub.'" Those are omens.

V

The Baby Name Finder (here) allows you to search on baby names by ethnic origin, letter beginning and ending, and the number of syllables. The first African name is "Aba," which means "born on a Thursday." (It's like in Bugs Bunny, when Bugs would say one word in a foreign "native" language and the English translation is three sentences? Eerily succinct.) The third name is "Adiel", which means "goat"... her name and her dowry? The sixth is "Audi", which means "last daughter." Please - no more daughters.

Number 36 is "Rashida," which was the name of the only black girl in my grade through middle school. She transferred into the largely white district, big and loud and complete with a name that signaled her otherness from all the Heathers, Jens, Jessicas, and Angelas. It means "righteous."

Quidquid latine dictum sit, altum videtur. According to the endlessly-amusing Baby Name Generator (here, in the 1940s, "Meredith" was a more popular name for boys than for girls (but still not very popular.) Originally a Welsh surname, it means "protector of the sea." An omen? Not yet, but we'll see.

****In the News

Empty Gestures from the Land of $1000/month Studios

I live in one of the truly unique towns in America, but sometimes, Cambridge needs to get a grip. Last week the City Council declared itself a "sanctuary" for illegal immigrants (here.) Great move, guys. So as soon the Mexicans huff across 260 miles of desert and evade the National Guard and Texas Militia, they're going to come straight to Cambridge, take our jobs, and send the rental market through the roof.

Oops! I Imperiled My Child Again!

Britney Spears almost dropped her baby in Manhattan Friday night, leading to speculation that Spears is "unfit" in ways other than the steadily accumulating body fat on her once-taunt midsection (here). Spears was filmed leaving her hotel "with Sean Preston in one hand and a glass in the other... she stumbled, her long pants apparently getting tangled in her open-toed shoes... Sean Preston's head flung backward, knocking off his orange hat." Read between the lines: She was holding her baby by the collar while guzzling Miller Lite and stumbling over her eff-me shoes. Picture that jaunty orange cap laying on the sidewalk, trodden upon by Mommy as she attempts to recover amid the gasps and flashes of the paparazzi... is there any greater argument for a CPS intervention, besides the media wildfire it would spark?

Three Gorges Dam = One Gorgeous Dam

Structural work on the Three Gorges Dam on the Yangtze River has been completed, making the largest hydroelectric dam in the world one step closer to being fully operational in 2009 (here). The controversial project has displaced over a million people along the river, many receiving little compensation due to corrupt bureaucrats. The dam is expected cause environmental mayhem: Killing fish, clogging pollution, upsetting the flow of silt.

In searching for information about this damn dam, I stumbled on an online China travel site that offers cruises on the Yangtze River, on "over 40 ships including most popular deluxe Victoria Cruises, 5-star luxury East Queen which Bill Gates chose to take, smaller but clean and comfortable Princess Sissi (here)."

Intrigued - briefly, insanely - by the idea of going to China, I delved further into the site, and discovered the "Cross-cultural Advice" section (here), which advises - repeatedly - Never wear green hats... it indicates that there is a problem with his/her marriage Interesting. From massive public works projects to green hats, the more I learn about the Chinese, the more I wonder about how weird life will be when they rule the world.

****T With Rage

I received a virulent anti-MBTA email from the otherwise affable Nate from Somerville, who has a similar Red Line commute to myself: "When it's good, it's good. When it's bad, I wanna stomp heads." It's good to know that I have readers who empathize with my rage - I feel like a little less of a bitch.

Nate shares my amazement over the impending fare increases, necessary for improvements like: Station intercoms that do not randomly broadast pre-recorded gibberish! "Don't you love how they announce a train coming about 30 seconds before it comes? Big help there. Really eases those last seconds of waiting after spending seven minutes wondering when the train is coming."

Indeed, perodic announcements about the next train's expected arrival would be an improvement... but what I just love about the pre-train announcements is how the MBTA's Inbound-Outbound terminology has been suddenly abandoned. Traditionally, to indicate a train's direction, the MBTA says it is "Inbound" (headed towards the nexus of the line - presumably the Park Street/Downtown Crossing/South Station area) or "Outbound" (headed away from the line's nexus.)

So trains headed in either direction could either be an "Inbound" or "Outbound" train. Without a firm grasp of this abstraction, even a map of the subway system won't help you to determine if you want to stand on the "Inbound" or "Outbound" platform. One time, in Kendall Square, I helped a young man who wanted to go to the JFK/Umass station on the Red Line: "You need to go there," I said, pointing to the Inbound entrance. He looked doubtful. "But I took the Inbound train to get here." Stop thinking logically, boy! This is the MBTA!

Anyway, in these new pre-train announcements, the MBTA calls trains "Northbound" and "Southbound." It's great to hear concrete geographical direction, but not helpful until the Inbound-Outbound signs plastered all over the system are removed and disavowed. I was in Central Square on the Outbound platform last week and the intercom announced "The next Northbound train is now arriving." "Is that our train?" I heard a women ask her friend. "No, we're going Outbound, not Northbound," her friend replied. Oh, you poor women, duped by the MBTA. Actually, you're going Outbound and Northbound... but the train will say "Alewife" on it. I can't blame you or anyone else if you don't want to get on it.

****Whole Milk Latte

Friday night, in line at the 1369 Coffeehouse, a curious yearning struck: Whole Milk Latte. My internal milk fat stores were screaming for repletion, having not seen a cheese course in more than a week.

The women in front of me both ordered small pots of tea with lemon, one black and one green. "I have to get up early tomorrow," explained the green tea drinker, as if a 7pm bender of regular tea would lead to a night of tossing and turning, her heart beating and eyes darting.

When I ordered "A single latte with whole milk, please" they looked at me like I said "Deep fried Snickers bar. Make it a double." The phrase "whole milk" perplexed them; why would any of their demographic sisters knowingly... indeed, willingly ingest twice the calories and four times the fat? They look uncomfortable to witness such gluttonous public gorging on 3.7% milk fat.

At the condiment counter, as I poured sugar into my latte (admittedly, the bulk of my dinner), a woman was ripping open packet after packet of Sweet and Low for her soy chai latte. Oh, sugar. You don't know what you're missing.

As an irregular drinker of milk and milk-based espresso drinks, I don't have much more to say about the subject, so I scavenged the Internet for quotes about whole milk. Strangely, the only good quote that specifies whole milk comes from rock hero/NRA board of director Ted Nugent:

If you want to get a sensual thunderbolt then you have got to be cocked, locked and ready to rock, doc. I find that whole milk and lots of Vitamin D help. - Ted Nugent

Turns out Ted Nugent is a veritable wellspring of insane quotes about food, including:

If you want to save a species, simply decide to eat it. Then it will be managed - like chickens, like turkeys, like deer, like Canadian geese.

My idea of fast food is a mallard.

Vegetarians are cool. All I eat are vegetarians, except for the occasional mountain lion steaks.

And for the literati, there is a classic McSweeney's List: Comments Overheard at a Brainstorming Meeting Between Ted Nugent and the Editors of Gourmet Magazine Where They Were Discussing the Upcoming Book 'Gourmet Magazine's Vegan Cooking with Ted Nugent' (here).

****Movie Review: Metal: A Headbanger's Journey

By delving into issues like Satanism, censorship, masculinity, and why glam rockers dressed like women ("There were guys on the Sunset Strip who wanted to eff the girls in Poison"), this documentary treats a low-brow subject with academic consideration. Dunn interviews metal-savvy scholars in addition to dozens of musicians, seeking to discover why heavy metal is dismissed and condemned by society. The answer seems to be: Because that's the whole point. Metal fans feel empowered and unified when prim women like Tipper Gore get flustered over Twisted Sister lyrics. (The footage of an articulate, flamboyant Dee Snider at the Congressional hearings on censorship is priceless - click here for the transcript of Snider wrangling with Al Gore). One fan laughs about how KISS songs convey this feeling that "there's people out there who, for some reason, want to stop you from listening to KISS."

Metal fans will get the most out of this documentary, but any music fan should find it interesting. Dunn traces the roots of metal all the way back to Wagner. He equates the metal singing style with opera, and the classic guitar solo with classical music. Insights like these are interesting to ponder, but Dunn never dwells too long on any single topic, and I wasn't too enthralled by seeing metal legends like Alice Cooper, Bruce Dickinson and Lemmy from Motorhead express their intellectualism. A well-done documentary that will have me digging for my Slayer tapes.

****Book Review: The Memoirs of Helen of Troy

I picked up The Memoirs of Helen of Troy (here) while searching the library stacks for fiction fluffy enough to wick away all the ponderous tomes and consequential current events. I wanted chick lit, but I couldn't commit myself to a book that wields savvy pop culture references as a literary device, about the insouciant concerns of young, single, educated women. Isn't life something more than confiding to your gal pals over Chardonnay and chicken salad about how you blew a month's rent on a fabulous Coach purse to comfort yourself in a time of romantic famine?

I can live in a world where the Iliad is rendered as chick lit, as long as it doesn't adhere to schmaltz. When I was in high school, the version of The Iliad that a sophomore carried indicated which academic track they were condemned to. The enrichment students like myself had a vague translation from the Greek, while the college prep students read the story in modern English, and the community college folk were issued The Red Badge of Courage instead.

This novel is Helen's life story, written in her voice ostentatiously to her estranged daughter Hermoine. Like most people living in the aftermath of the Trojan war, Hermione hates her mother, but Helen wants to set the record straight: All the troubles attributed to her renowned beauty were actually caused by power-hungry men and those meddlesome Greek gods.

If The Memoirs of Helen of Troy succeeds in doing anything, it makes Greek Methodology accessible to romance novel fans. After the suicide of her mother Leda, who conceived Helen when she was sexually assaulted by Zeus in the guise of a giant swan during a pagan fertility ceremony, Helen is left with an aloof father Tyndareus and a bitchy sister Clytemnestra. She solaces herself by over-exercising in the foothills of Sparta and drinking wine with her pal Polyxo. Then, Helen is kidnapped and held for ransom by the hunky Theseus, who resists her flirty charms save for one night of passion. "Make me a woman, Theseus. Completely," Helen begs, and then they "rapture like two wild horses racing head-to-head." Yow!

The book is faithful to the Iliadwith some interesting liberties. According to Homer, Priam secures his son Hector's body from a venegeful Achilles by appealing to his emotions. In The Memoirs of Helen of Troy, it is Helen who retrieves her brother-in-law's corpse from Achilles, in exchange for allowing Achilles to have her "like a boy." While this book does make some of the finer points of the Iliad more accessible, as a novel, it falls flat. It's obvious that Elyot struggled to write the battle scenes, which might be okay if the romance and the domestic scenes worked better, but it's formulaic drivel, and as historical fiction... well, it seems all Elyot knows for sure is that they ate figs and the Spartan women wore short skirts.

Being the hottest demi-mortal ever and a Spartan princess to boot, Helen is the original chick lit heroine. She's obsessed with her appearance ("I had always known that no woman could compete with my immortal beauty and my desirability"), comestics, perfumes, dresses. She constantly cat-fights with other women, and after a fling with her pretty Paris, in the end she realizes that it was her husband Menelaus who she loved all along... 20 years and 1000s of lives later.

But that brings me to the only redeeming thing about this book: Its constant reminders to the reader that Helen's beauty was a ruse for the Trojan War, that it was a convenient excuse for Agammenon to rally an army of treaty-bond former suitors. I remember reading one interpretation of the myth as being something like "the love between Helen and Paris was so pure, so everlasting that thousands of men willingly sacrificed themselves to preserve it." War is waged over ideals much more vile than beauty and love.

****It's Raining (Yawn)

This site routinely provides Boston weather updates due to my near-constant preoccupation with the subject, but since New England's record rainfall is currently global news, I don't need to mention it. In fact, I'm sick of weather talk. How about this rain, huh? Since everyone is paying rapt attention to forecasts, individual insight is not necessary. Yet still people regurgitate the 10-day weather outlook, as if they're the only ones who know. Oh, be quiet, you fair-weather weather fan. I'm hardcore weather.

The sun peeked out this evening for the first time in almost a week, but I was in ma lecon francaise, looking glumly out the window on a sunny Harvard Square with the rest of my class. I think even ma joli professeur francais wanted to say bon soir and go absorb some UV rays.

Despite the devastation of the flooding, let's look on the bright side of things and pretend the Merrimack is only half full. At least that worrisome drought is over. An aptly-named minor poet named Richard Loveman wrote It is not raining to me, / It's raining daffodils; / In every dimpled drop I see / Wild flowers on distant hills. Assuming the 12+ inches of rain hasn't washed all the flowers away.

****Spargelmeister

I did a variety of things during my weekend in Pennsylvania: Revisited Valley Forge National Park, went bowling, ate at a swank Manayunk restaurant, ate at a Red Lobster, attended to a Lutheran church service, and drove to Lancaster to hang out in the backroom of a historic seafood restaurant with several dozen members of my extended family. There, I ate asparagus.

It is the asparagus I will talk about, not because it was by any means the highlight of my trip. It's just that as far as vegetables go, asparagus is downright fascinating.

Asparagus has been cultivated for over 2000 years, and is mentioned in the oldest surviving cookbook, De re coquinaria from the 3rd century A.D. (here).

Asparagus is a word that is both singular and plural. Is it correct to say The asparagus is tasty or The asparagus are tasty? Both are correct... and quite true! Asparagus is an inkhorn term: A English word that was purposely "Latinized" by English spelling reformers in the 17th century. These much-derided grammar snobs deemed the Latin term asparagus to be more refined than the Middle English sperage. It was too refined for the common man, who derived the folky name sparrow grass from the Latin name.

The "proper" way to consume asparagus spears (meaning how the Queen of England does it) is by picking them up and eating them with your fingers. More specifically, "They are taken from the stem with the fingers. They are soaked in a sauce, if desired, and the soak part is introduced in the mouth with a single bit without sipping" (here). It sounds easy, but it can be tricky if the asparagus is overcooked to the point of drooping, and gushes green-infused juice when bitten. Perhaps because of graceless boobs like myself who cannot make this look like a refined table manner, or perhaps because treating asparagus like a french fry shocks the sensibilities of less-educated diners, etiquette guides usually relent: "Nowadays, the fork can also be used with this vegetable."

Of course, the most fascinating property of this dainty spear is its ability to infuse urine with a distinct ammonia smell. A majority of Americans have a gene that converts asparagus into "really foul smelling urine" (here), while others are not affected, and some can't even smell it in other's urine. Apparently, this phenomenon is not something most people mention in polite company. It took Babe Ruth to break the taboo: "Asparagus makes my urine smell funny... This is one way of identifying how closely related to Babe Ruth you are." I must be a distant cousin, at least. I'm not a scatological person, but I think it's kinda neat. Last night at the Connecticut rest stop on the way home, it was a nice reminder of the asparagus consumed at the lovely family gathering earlier in the day.

****Green Girls

It's been said that my sister and I only bear sisterly resemblance in pictures, as the photo from this weekend's Valley Forge excursion demonstrates...

****You Mother

I'm off to Pennsylvania this weekend to pay tribute to my mother, my mother's mother, and (unavoidably) the NJ Turnpike Authority.

Ah, Mother's Day. What started as a day to honor thy mother with flowers and loving sentiment has morphed into another opportunity to equate love with consumer goods. What are with these Mother Day Gift Guides that tout luxurious cosmetics and jewelry as the perfect way to show Mom you love her? And do you have a choice but to abide by these profiteers? "Sorry, Mom. I don't celebrate Mother's Day out of a personal conviction that it's gotten too commercial. What's for dinner?"

Hal Runkel, a national parenting expert, is calling for the abolishment of Mother's Day: “There should be no such thing as Mother’s Day... While it sounds great to have a day when we recognize and appreciate our moms who do so much in our families, what about the other 364 days" (here)? What do you mean, "What about the other 364 days?" Those are the days we slowly strangle Mom's soul.

I guess Hal Runkel is beholden of the philosophy that every day should be Mother's Day. You know what else every day should be? Earth Day. Christmas. My birthday. The day the bass players took over the world. New Year's Eve. The fact is, if every day was Mother's Day, the tenuous balance of trust and respect in the mother-father-child relationship would be profoundly usurped. The kids should serve mom breakfast in bed, every day? The father should cook, clean, and pretend not to resent the motherhood that turned his bride into a mess of stretch marks and nerves, every day? Fresh flowers and chocolates for Mom, every day? What kind of a "parenting expert" would advocate such insanity?

And even more, what kind of a mother would want her children to spoil her, every day? A bad mother. Good mothers like mine derive great satisfaction from fussing over their offspring; we should only deprive our mothers of that fussing for one day a year.

****He Didn't Start the Fire

Okay, technically, Daniel Biechele did start the fire at the Station nightclub that resulted in the deaths of 100 people. As Great White's band manager, it was probably his duty as well as his honor to light the pyrotechnics when Great White took the stage. I can only imagine what his other duties included: Handling child support payments, negotiating king-sized beds at the Motel 6, rallying the band to perform "Once Bitten Twice Shy" for the millionth time while discouraging them from playing new stuff. It's only rock and roll, after all.

"The devastation wrought by the conduct of [Biechele] is unparalleled in our state's history," the prosecutor told the court before yesterday's sentencing. His conduct? He wasn't drunk-driving or building bombs. Certainly in his wildest dreams Biechele couldn't imagine that the pyrotechnics would ignite the flammable foam negligently erected by the culpable criminals, the brothers Derderian. Biechele cried as he apologized, "I never wanted anyone to be hurt in any way...I never imagined that anyone ever would be" (here).

Reporters hounded the victim's families outside the courtroom after Biechele was sentenced, eager for the emotion-fueled sound-bites of outrage over the sentence of 4 years. The mother who shouted at Biechele's parents in the courtroom "You get your son back after four years!" could be relied on to comply: "Of course he is getting away with murder... four years for 100 lives he killed? It's a joke" (here).

In some states such as Maine and Connecticut, he would not have even been eligible for jail time, as negligence is clearly on the owners of the nightclub. To send him to jail is the height of vengeful justice. The sheer enormity of life lost from an event as random as a nightclub fire is punishment enough for Biechele. People who, say, kill someone in a car accident can hope to attain a life of some normalcy, but Biechele will never be at peace. He will anguish about it every day. The pain of losing a family member in such a unnecessary tragedy is unimaginable, but I have genuine sympathy for Biechele, who must bear more guilt than any of us will ever feel.

****Smiling in the Rain

I am only posting today something just so that creepy optical illusion picture from yesterday doesn't freak out my visitors. It makes me dizzy when I look at it.

Boston is being hammered by a stalled Atlantic storm system. I welcome the rain but spit on the wind. Not in the wind, just on it.

I saw a girl today walking down the street sans parapluie, wearing a big ole grin on her face as 25-mph wind hurled rain into it. She looked like one of those over-achieving collegiate femme nerds, with a tumefied backpack and practical, sporty style. And her "I'll smile in the rain" cheerifulness was admirable, but she looked like a lunatic. Somedays I try to smile for no reason except to brighten the world. Today I just couldn't muster the moxie.

Here's all I can offer to you today: www.bitchmakemeasandwich.com. If you're looking for my birthday present, may I suggest this lovely beer mug (here)?

****Four Eyed Monster

A mishap this weekend with an errant contact lens that was infused with tree debris for a full afternoon left me in glasses today. I wear my glasses maybe a half dozen times a year, making me preoccupied with them the entire day. I could feel them perched on my nose and was bothered by my lack of peripheral vision. Chiefly though, I felt like a dork.

Today I wasn't just a young lady, I was a young lady in glasses. She's an entirely different species. She's asserting her acumen, her identity as a brainy being. Spectacles confer intelligence, a stereotype that is not without both anecdotal and scientific evidence. Some studies have found a direct correlation between myopia and IQ, perhaps because the gene that determines brain size also determines eyeball size (here). When I started wearing glasses at age 12, I thought of it as my final merit badge for Geekery. My brother told me that I ruined my eyes by reading for hours on end, and I believed him. I felt like a martyr to obsessive literacy.

****Commence Speaking

It's that time of year when our nation's luminaries hit the graduation podiums to bestow parting wisdom on newly-minted college graduates. Many receive an honorary degree in exchange for their services, like actor Henry Winkler ("The Fonz") who is speaking today at the New England Institute of Technology (here). Because the Fonz is technology personified.

Some bigwigs speak at so many graduations that they are said to be "hitting the commencement trail." Hillary Clinton gave 5 in 2005, all but exhausting her options of colleges willing to invite her. Not to say she's hit the bottom of the barrel, but Hillary won't be doing a "search and replace" on her 1998 Harvard Medical School speech (here) to reuse it at Buffalo State College and Long Island University this year.

Noted rhetorician President Bush is speaking at 4 ceremonies this year, starting yesterday at Oklahome State Univeristy (here). Bush advised graduates to "harness the promise of technology without becoming slaves to technology... science serves the cause of humanity and not the other way around." What does that even mean? Is that veiled pontificatin' against stem cell research and finding new ways to abort the unborn? Or is Bush cautioning graduates about the dangers of engineering intelligence in artificial entities (killer robots, you know)? Bush also got some mileage out of OSU's mascot: "If you read the papers, you know that when some want to criticize me, they call me a cowboy. ... This cowboy is proud to be standing amidst of a lot of other cowboys." Way to pump those graduates up to go out into the world and wrangle cattle.

The irony of George Bush lecturing to the learned folk is not lost on anyone, including Bush himself, who riffed on the absurdity during his 2005 speech to Calvin College: "I was just telling Laura the other night about what fun it would be to come to Calvin College. I said, you know, Laura, I love being around so many young folks. You know, it gives me a chance to re-live my glory days in academia. (Laughter.) She said, George, that's not exactly how I would describe your college experience. (Laughter)" (here). Isn't it great to have a down-to-Earth president who can joke about how undistinguished he is?

Several Boston colleges have scored coups this year, with Condi Rice at Boston College, Les Moonves at Boston University, and Lance Armstrong at Tufts. Harvard University is hosting Jim Lehrer, a decidedly staid choice compared to John Lithgow in 2005 and Will Farrell in 2003 (who told graduates "You're young men and women whose exuberance exude a confident confidence of a bygone era. I believe it was Shakespeare who said it best when he said, 'Look yonder into the darkness for knowledge onto which I say go onto that which thou possess into thy night for thee have come with only a single sword and vanquished thee into darkness'" here).

Politicians and industry leaders are the traditional commencement speakers, but other famous people have realized the ego-pleasing boon of publicity to be had. Colleges want speakers who will wow and entertain the audience of future endowers. Bono's 2004 speech at University of Pennsylvania started off "My name is Bono and I am a rock star" (here). Richie Sambora spoke at Kean University in 2004: "I would appreciate it if you all referred to me as Doctor Sambora for now on (and I'll be asking my wife to do the same, since I've already bought her the nurse's uniform) (here). Jon Stewart gave a classic performance at his alma mater the College of William and Mary in 2004 (here.) "What piece of wisdom can I impart to you about my journey that will somehow ease your transition from college back to your parents' basement?"

For years I've been telling people that Wynton Marsalis was my commencement speaker, but it may have been his brother Branford. All I remember is Wynton/Bradford yelling at the rowdy crowd of graduates for acting like children in front of our families. The whole day is kinda hazy... I stayed up until 4am arguing with a guy I never met before about if the actor who played Cliff Claven in Cheers was one of the fighter pilots in the original Star Wars. I was wrong: Cliff Claven was in Star Wars. The cherry of knowledge on my college education...

****Making Strides

I always loved running. it was something you could do by yourself, and under your own power. You could go in any direction, fast or slow as you wanted, fighting the wind if you felt like it, seeking out new sights just on the strength of your feet and the courage of your lungs. -- Jesse Owens

I haven't been running outdoors lately. If the weather is the least bit imperfect or if I feel a mere twinge of laziness, I'll slink to the gym and leisurely pound the treadmill. But Saturday morning the weather was perfect: 69 degrees, sunny with some light clouds, and a calm breeze circulating pollen to which I am immune. My muscles were loaded with carbs from pigging out at yesterday's office pizza lunch, my iPod Shuffle was newly filled, my legs were freshly shaved, and my Saucony sneakers have a perfect 100 miles of tread-wear. The planets aligned for a jog.

The Charles River path was filled with groups of tourists, dog-walkers, and other exercisers. No citizenry is as appreciative of a fine Spring day as the beleaguered Bostonians. When I first started jogging the Charles River, way back in - is it possible? - the spring of 2000, the presence of witnesses to my huffing and shuffling annoyed me. The other runners seemed snide as they nimbly passed me, limping in their wake. Honestly, watching an out-of-shape person struggle to run is both amusing and pitiful. You can admire their gumption, but you do fear for their knees and heart.

But as my running improved, pedestrian traffic became a welcome distraction during the tedium that can be a long run. Today I probably passed hundreds of people in both directions, just long enough for my brain to assess their purpose on the path. Runners are, obviously, running but by analyzing their grace and stride, I can gauge if they are a rail-thin speedster, an all-around athlete, a solid life-long runner, or a weekend warrior trying to stave off a middle-aged spread. Walkers wear sweat clothes and carry water bottles, and pump their arms high up in the air, proclaiming to the world: I am exercising! Other walkers are less purposeful in their constitutional, wearing natty clothes and strolling in groups that have a tendency to spread out over the width of the path, obstructing impatient exercisers, especially the bicyclists and rollerbladers. I used to view them as a nuisance, but now I watch with interest the near-calamity that can ensue when a family on bikes attempts to pass a group on the narrow path, or when a walker steps in front of a mercurial rollerblader.

Today the most breathtaking creatures on the path was a group of 5 tall, skinny, coiffured young women wearing workout clothes that cost more than my Sunday best. They all had a bottle of Fiji spring water in one hand and a cell phone in the other, talking in what sounded like Castilian Spanish and walking about 2 miles per hour. I watched them as I approached them from behind, marveling at their otherworldly breeding. In between me and the sophisticates was a plump woman in jogging shorts with an ungainly stride that called to mind my blundering beginnings as a runner. She resolutely charged past the women. When I passed her, I noticed she had cellulite on her calves, a phenomenon I never thought was possible. That she can run with calf muscles literally riddled with fat gave me a little extra inspiration for the remainder of my jog.

****American woman, listen what I say

Today I was on the C branch of the detested Green Line today for, oh, about 40 minutes (the MBTA dares propose to raise fares to $1.70 from its current rip-off of $1.25? According to this article here, the 2007 increase will make fares comparable to "several of the nation's other largest transit agencies"... but gee, when I go to New York or Washington, I ain't sitting in no slow-moving trolley that stops every block, yields for cars, and invokes a feeling of "imminent derail" when it hits 10 mph. The MBTA justifies the fare increase by pointing at their $8.1 billion in debt, but this is symptomatic of problems that won't be fixed by tapping their existing riders for an extra .45 cents.)

I sat behind a young British man and an American woman who were comparing the relative virtues of the UK and America... rather, he trashed America and exonerated the UK of the same offenses, and she sat there like a Kewpie doll, agreeing with fawning flirtatiousness, enchanted by the sweeping generalizations uttered in his dashing English accent.

"British politicians are much less corruptible. Our electoral process is much cleaner, so we elect politicians who have a genuine desire to serve their government, not personally profit from it."

The American woman breathed, "Totally! We have, like, so much corruption and, like, bribery."

"Americans have no global awareness. They're so involved in their own lives. The British are curious about the world and stay informed about what's happening globally."

The American woman nodded vigorously, saying "It's so sick how ignorant we are."

"Americans are so spoiled. They don't realize how much less they pay in taxes or how cheap their petrol is. 'Petrol' is gasoline," he explained to her questioning look.

The American woman agreed, adding "And instead of appreciating it, we just get greedier."

The conversation continued like this for a while, to the point where I expected him to say "American women are all silly whores," and her to gush, "We are. We are."

****Googles

For several years I've observed this website's referring search phrases, and I can attest 1: This world has a lot of sickos, and 2: Internet users are constructing their search engine queries with increasing complexity. Instead of typing a single word that would return my site on page 150 of 2000, users string together specific keywords in hopes of honing in on what they seek. Of course, my site is irrelevant to everything, except the ones looking for "meredith green."

I am also getting a fair amount of traffic from Ask.com, which attracts less-adept Internet users who take comfort in Ask.com's gimmick: That all queries must be in the form of a question, just like Jeopardy...

(from Google)
alec baldwin likes chubby women
"his hugo boss suit"
dim sum girl lyrics
panera bread "corporate structure"
necco candy financial report
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nylon novels
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maury povich sandal
music /i-am in love with a stripper by mike
reporter "virgin boy"
drunker ladies pics
greek goddess,escort,detroit
men in suits and bulging crotches
beefy babes
down with toilet paper
butt pictures of baseball players
tom brady half naked pictures
"cindy fitzgibbon" feet
crystal meth in restaurant salt shakers
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singapore gals in one piece swimsuits
free movie david hasselhoff orgy party
american idol cattle call auditions
buttermilk yellow hourglass hollywood style suits
also non as the flying tomato who is a woman

(From Ask.com)
how to turn your unused basement into a yacht
when will the next earthquake hit san francisco again
what are the odds of catching meningitis
does anyone have any before and after plastic surgery photos of beautiful ivanka trump
should serial killers have communication rights with non family members
what was the meaning of tony soprano's dream about mistaken identity
do mormons spank their children
is singer peaches a transvestite
is "empire carpet" more expensive than home depot
what's green days website called
what does green days house look like
what kind of cigarettes does billie joe armstrong smoke

****Day without Immigrants

According to the Boston Globe, thousands of area students skipped school on Monday to take part in the Day Without Immigrants boycott, to show support for immigrant rights and make a statement about the impact of immigrants on America (here).

1 in 4 students at Chelsea High School were truant (here). And boy, did Chelsea High school suffer. With classes no longer crowded to the brink of chaos, teachers reported instances of effective discipline and widespread learning during the entire day. One teacher noted, "My class sizes were under 25 for the first time in decades. Every day should be a day without immigrants!" (I'm kidding, but I don't know about what.)

****Movie Review: Blackballed: The Bobby Dukes Story

This isn't the dumbest mockumentary ever made, though at times, Blackballed (here) was so dumb it almost seemed to be mocking mockumentaries. I mean, paintball is its own parody. Starring Rob Corddry of the The Daily Show, this 2004 low-budget film is currently enjoying a very limited theatre run - I saw it at the Brattle, which I've vowed to support through their cash-flow crisis even though I'm missing better-reviewed current releases at other theaters. Whatever. Blackballed has got "cult classic" painted all over it.

Bobby Dukes is a former paintball champion, banned for ten years from the (ahem) sport after he was caught "wiping" during a game. Older and balder, he returns from his exile to compete in a paintball tournament. After trying in vain to reconnect with his old team mates, he recruits a new team consisting of every known paintball player stereotype: The earnest nerd, the crackpot ex-Marine, the lazy stoner, the aging hippie, and the dorky kid sister who is always around when a substitute is needed. As predictably-motley as the ensemble and the plot are, the improvisation is so excellent that the humor is never quite quirky on purpose.

The camera work veered into Blair Witch jerkiness, and director Brant Sersen is obviously taking his cues from Christopher Guest, but I was rolling with laughter at least once a minute. "Kick their ass so hard that their ass goes up their own ass!" I can't begrudge it for being dumb when I'm laughing.

****When Walmarts Die

Is there anything worse than having a Walmart open in one's community? Look at the pestilence Walmart breeds: The Mom and Pop stores cannot compete with the always-low prices. The landscape becomes a homogenous landscape of big-box stores and parking lots. The populace begins to take delight in cheap consumer good acquisition, breeding a society of soulless denizens who value convenience, conformity, and cars big enough to cart home enough crap to fill the void in their life that TV isn't covering.

But there is something worse than a Walmart opening, and that's a Walmart closing. Having a new Walmart is the modern-day equivalent of a station stop on a cross-country train: Instant boomtown. Yes, the small-business owners leave, but they are replaced by other businesses - car dealerships, restaurants, gas stations - that don't have to compete head-to-head with Walmart and that feed off of Walmart's traffic. The town becomes a commercial destination and reaps tax benefits. And even if the jobs pay depressed wages, at least there are jobs. Once Walmart digs its claws in, the community depends on the Walmart. So what happens to this town when Walmart decided to leave?

Last year, I was talking to a co-worker who used to be a consultant for towns with wealthy home-owners eager to understand the future impact of proposed development. I told him about how I grew up in a small town with a sewer moratorium that prevented any commercial construction until the mid-1990s, and then the moratorium was lifted and the town imploded into a mess of chain stores and traffic lights. "There's even a Walmart," I said. The co-worker then proceeded to offer insight into the building lifecycle of a Walmart.

Because my company is all about building lifecycle, I knew what he was talking about, but for those of you who are not lucky enough to work in the field of facilities management, let me explain. Every building has a lifecycle. For example, a building built in 1990 may have a boiler that lasts 30 years, flooring that lasts 25 years, and an HVAC system that lasts 20 years. These building components must be replaced, totally or partially, in order for the building to function. In buildings that are built to last - office buildings, city halls, schools, hospitals - this lifecycle of replacement is a necessity.