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**** Modern Adaptations
In late spring, downtown Boston experiences a distinct uptick of Office Worker sightings. The Office Worker population is observed straying from their cubicles during all hours of the day in order to bask in the agreeable weather and forage for refreshing beverages. Curiously, this phenomenon is not confined to the characteristic rush hours or the mid-day feeding time.
With such an abundance of exposed prey mingling in a small area, it is no surprise that predators also converge. One such predator is the Marketer, typified by its eagerness to gnash on the Office Worker's thick rolls of nourishing disposable income. The Marketer is distinguished by its flashy appearance and loud vocal calls. By situating itself directly in the migratory routes of the Office Worker, the Marketer can more effectively lure the herd.
Observe:
"UNLEASH THE BEAST!" roars a particularly virile Marketer, perched atop a customized pick-up truck that is pumping generic heavy metal music. Lethargic Office Workers swarm the band of Marketers, who are all young, fit, and in their prime. The Marketers readily dispense cans of Monster Energy's (here) line of coffee-energy drinks to the Office Workers, all the while intoning their excitement about all the new Java Monster flavors. Notice how the Office Worker does not hesitate to grab whatever bait the Marketer brandishes. Few Office Workers can resist the call of the Marketer.
**** Happy Birthday Mr. P
To hear me go ON and ON about my own birthday, one would never guess that Mr. Pinault's birthday is the day after mine... that is, today! Of course, Mr. Pinault was born many, many years before me.
**** Driving a Car: Like Riding a Bicycle
The anticipation that preceded last weekend's road trip to Pennsylvania had overshadowed a tiny, worrisome detail, namely the "road trip" aspect. Nine months had passed since I had last driven a car. As I prepared to depart on my journey, I sat in the front seat of the
rental car - a 2007 Pontiac Grand Prix with air-conditioning that
could flash-freeze an elephant - and studied the Mapquest directions. So many miles on so many highways! So many
opportunities for my neophytic car-piloting ability to result in
a spectacular, fiery wreck!
Mr. Pinault bade me farewell. I kissed his face and tried to take him with
me. "I don't want to spend the whole weekend missing you," I cooed. "And, you could drive the rental car." Alas, the Pontiac Grand Prix was not a valuable bargaining chip, and I drove away, a dowager bereft of her doting chauffeur.
Traffic on the Mass Pike was heavy and frenetic. For the first hour, I was stuck in the right-hand lane going 50 mph behind a weathered Chateau motor home. I wanted to pass it, but couldn't bring myself to believe the mirrors or tear my eyes from the Chateau's ever-flickering brake lights. I listened to the same Misfits CD four times, terrified to turn my attention to changing it even though it contributed to my feeling of doom.
Halfway through Connecticut, I made a leap of faith and trusted my rearview mirror. But it was the stretch of I-95 into New York City that goaded my inner driver that has lain dormant all these months. I plunged through to the Bronx, infused with a certain feeling that all the sexy car commercials evoke: The freedom of an expansive highway system, the excitement of a fueled internal combustion engine, and the confidence that unrivaled driving prowess rest within my hands and right foot.
**** Metaphyladelphia
My long weekend in Philadelphia and its environs provoked many metaphysical quandaries. It was, after all, a trip down memory lane, a reversal of time's characteristic unidirectional flow that forced the physical body to exist in a persistent realm that had left the mind's immediate consciousness.
Why do the homes and schools look smaller? Why do the woods, flowers, and rivers look prettier? Why does my Mom look the same that she did on the day of my high school graduation? Is it my perception that has changed, or is it possible that the buildings shrunk, the nature is superior, and my Mom stopped aging 12 years ago?
Even a simple drive through my hometown proved to be intellectually exhausting. For example, if a field of grass is an empty space, and a 800+ unit retirement community called Shannondell (here) is erected on the empty space, does the field of grass still exist? And, of course, there's the troubling doctrines of modal realism (alternate realities). If all logically possible worlds continue to exist, then somewhere in this little 'burb of sprawl, there's a possible Meredith, carting the kids to Wal-Mart, coming home from her shift at the grocery store, or festering on a couch.
On Saturday, I had a feast of faux meats at Singapore Chinese Restaurant in Philadelphia with five lovely ladies, three of whom at least semi-regularly read this site (the other two favor bedtime stories about princesses). They speculated about what I would write on this blog about the lunch. And right now, they are reading this, recalling a memory of the past which was itself a memory of the future. Newton would be abhorred!
Most vexing dilemma: Where does one go to drink beer and shot pool in a town that they left when they were 18?...
**** Road Trip!
This is my last post until next week. I'm going on a road trip with my best friend Amy. It'll be just like Thelma and Louise, had Thelma and Louise been college-learned Yankees in good relationships who don't consider murder to be an affirmation of femininity and who don't "hoot" to express joy.
[This is also the last time I harp about turning 30, because it's getting downright unflattering...]
**** A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...
I was born 4 days after the original Star Wars was released, 30 years ago tomorrow. It's great to have this classic bit of science fiction cinema as my contemporary, for it's the perfect barometer to compare myself against. So who aged better... me or Star Wars?
Stars Wars started with a distinct advantage, as it was fully-formed upon birth, jumping out of George Lucas's mind like a battle-clad Athena. "After a generation of movies with tortured antiheroes who couldn't order a sandwich without making A Statement, it seemed remarkably fresh," says this tribute here. Me, I was just a baby.
Growing up, we've both had our Jar Jar Binks moments. And we've both reinvented ourselves: Me, continuously building on my strengths; Star Wars, rendering itself non sequitur ("Prequels included, the series still ends with Darth Vader smiling from the afterlife while Ewoks dance, which is like ending "Band of Brothers" in a disco roller-rink with Hitler doing the Hustle with Gene Kelly.)
30 years later, I'm in the prime of my life, and Star Wars is an entertaining but cheesy schlockfest with out-dated special effects. Still, Star Wars has the trump card: The entire franchise has made over $22 billion dollars, according to Forbes (here). I've made... nowhere near that amount.
**** It's the Springtime of my Life
Ten years ago, on the cusp of turning 20 years old, I complained to a Cumberland Farms co-worker - a mid-20s guy from Colombia named Diego - that my life was over. "I'm old," I moaned. "All the hot boys won't want me. I'm not a teenager anymore. It's all downhill from here."
Diego took my belly-aching quite seriously, which only lead to more consternation. Had he flipped my concerns away as feminine crazy talk, I would not remember what he said: "A woman in her 20s is in the prime of her life. Take care of yourself, and you've got at least 10 years before you hit the wall."
So here I am, hitting the wall. Eff you, Diego. Smacked with laugh lines and burgeoning chair butt. Bammed by official estrangement from distrustful youth. Walloped by the ticking of my biological clock.
I joke with Mr. Pinault that this is the last week he'll get to romance a woman in her 20s, so he better make the most of it, because it's all downhill from here, ha ha ha. I laugh; he doesn't dare. His mind computes all conceivable responses and weighs them against probable ramifications like tears and fury. "You'll always be a younger woman to me," he says. I preen and flirt, thinking, Smart man! And then he blows it: "Besides, no one can stay 29 forever."
Technically, the Fountain of Youth is accessible to delusional liars or suicides. But then again, I look forward to age 39, when I can look back on this moment with a grimace: "I though that was the beginning of the end? Stupid child!" (Can you sense the distracted preoccupation with mortality lately? My god, I posted a picture of a gravestone last Sunday. How ghoulish.)
**** Loot!
So far, I've received two birthday presents in the mail:
From DV, I got... an envelope full of perfume samples ripped from seemingly 100s of upscale glossy magazines. The envelope induced nosebleeds in postal employees across the country. It's great to know that my friends think of me as that crazy perfume sample lady. Thank you!
From RT (nee L), I got... a first edition printing of Kurt Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions. (!!!!) RT is presently in the Ukraine, so she's too busy bribing oligarchs and eating borscht to be reading this, but I was blown away. Thank you!
**** Chagrinning in Spinning
The Sunday morning spinning class is way more mellow than Saturday morning, which is why I only go if I'm feeling lazy. The instructor is a middle-aged yoga devotee who whispers about elevated heart-rates amid trance techno songs with names like "Blaze of Life" and "Soul Drumming." The regulars are a tight-knit group of forty-ish moms who regard the instructor as their Alpha.
Last Sunday was the instructor's birthday, and someone brought in a song to play, a comic spoof that riffed on hot flashes, memory loss, and the other inconvenient facets of female aging. They all found it hilarious. The instructor apologized to the one male in the class for "the surging estrogen in the class this morning." "Or lack of estrogen!" a woman called.
I suppose their good-natured acceptance of their gradual croning is admirable, but I don't buy it. I'm turning 30 in exactly one week, and my sole consolation is that I'm unscathed from the brunt of the physiological pitfalls of aging that the women in my spinning class found so mirthful. All my squibbles are vanities.
Like, about how my general appearance requires more maintenance as my hair loses its youthful gloss and my face melts out of its skeleton.
I'm trying to sooth my pride with philosophical platitudes, like: Why care about spreading hips when you've got a spreading 401K account? Is it better to have age-acquired wisdom and experience, or look cute in baggy sweat clothes and no make-up? And hey: 30 is 10 long years away from 40.
**** The Fundamental Things Apply As Time Goes By
Recently, I've been thinking about leaving Bank of America. It's hard to do, because it's a comfortable, stable relationship, and Bank of America is always there when I need a few fresh 20s to succor my lonely wallet. But Bank of America's little habits grate my nerve - the snap-judgment overdraft fees, the bizarre customer service behavior, the creepy megacorp polish of their marketing materials. I can't help but to fantasize about all the other banks out there, and what they're like to do banking with.
Then, in today's mail, I received a letter from Bank of America, informing me that "At 2:00pm, August 17 2007, we will be closing the Amherst Banking Center at 75 E Pleasant Street, Amherst, Massachusetts."
Why would I, a resident of Natick, care that they're closing a bank branch over 80 miles away? Because 12 years ago, that Bank of America was a Bay Bank, a bank that I excitedly signed up for as a college freshman. The balance of my savings account was perpetually $4.25, the exact cost of a veggie calzone from DP Dough. I can remember many hungry nights when that $4.25 taunted me with its inability to be withdrawn from an ATM. I was so young and reckless, and so, so poor!
Of course, relationships do change. BayBank became Bank Boston. Bank Boston became FleetBoston. FleetBoston became Bank of America. But even a dizzying series of buyout and mergers can't erase the history we have together. Somewhere in its megalithic computer system, it remembers that I joined Bay Bank 12 years ago. If that's not romance, I don't know what is.
**** The Final House
I didn't plan on posting a picture of a gravestone. Considering the day was spent on the Framingham Historical Society's Seventh Annual House Tour (here), I thought I'd come away with some quaint pictures of a rambling farm house from the 1780s, or a turreted Victorian, or a 20th century Tuscan estate. But whilst inside the fanciful 19th century home with four chimneys and 8-foot ceilings, poor Mr. Pinault was scolded by an elderly lady for attempting to photograph a charming bedside table. She primly noted that "There are no cameras allowed! These are people's homes! Have you no humanity, young man?"
We stopped at the only non private residence on the tour, a historic Congregational church from the 1850s. Refreshments were available (catered by Whole Foods, no less.) After snagging a few tarts from the clutches of three dozen greedy biddies, we headed outside to check out the cemetery. Strange, the weather had been rainy and gray all weekend, but the moment we entered the graveyard, the sun bloomed in a clear blue sky. And no one in the graveyard complained when we took pictures.
**** So, What's Your Take on Shags?
The two 'artists'/guerilla marketers who terrorized Boston last January by littering Aqua Teen Hunger Force electronic advertisements all over the city, and then enraged the public and the media by holding a sophomoric press conference about haircuts in the '70s ("What was it like to spend the night in jail?" "That's not a hair question"), are now trying to milk the attention for all its worth before their star power fades completely. The "Today" show doesn't want them, but today the Boston Globe published the "first extended interview" with the duo (here), in which they riff about peace and love and the fear-mongering media. The best part of the article was when the reporter mentions that the two artists are close friends who "share a penchant for at-times rambling soliloquies," hinting that maybe it was better when they refused to talk about anything but hair.
**** I'm with Stupid
While brainstorming possible post topics (Gordon Ramsay's 'your palates are effed' interview in the New Yorker, or CBS's new reality show Kid Nation, or the British sporting event called 'cheese rolling')... all my mind can stick to is this dumpy 50-ish woman who I saw today, pacing in front of South Station and bawling "Ok, I'm stupid! Yeah, I'm stupid! I'm stupid!" over and over again into a bulky cell phone held with a clumsy grasp.
I was embarrassed to witness her public spectacle amid the flurry of the afternoon rush hour commute, but also fascinated by her banal cotton slacks, stiff plastic raincoat, flat Payless shoes, and wind-tossed perm - the trademarks of an unassuming person who literally lives to avoid drama and scrutiny. Small pauses spaced out each self-proclamation of stupidity. Was she berating herself for forgiveness? Agreeing with her rebuker? Sincere? Sarcastic? Nuts?
I'm obsessively turning her over in my mind, picking her apart, speculating on her situation. Lady, whoever you are, you aren't stupid. You are a most glorious, pure expression of humanity's turmoil in a world where so much of reality is scripted, rehearsed, hyped, and performed. You are the diametrical opposite of Jenna Jameson publicly endorsing Hillary Clinton.
**** When I Grow Up, I Want to be a War Czar
A few months ago, Bush realized that the whole Iraq and Afghanistan thing was going badly because... no one was managing it! There was no 'one guy' who was aligning the goals and philosophies across scores of turf-conscious military and government agencies. Even worse, people were blaming Bush himself, as if Bush were somehow responsible. As if Bush were, like, the Commander-in-Chief who is bound by the US Constitution to manage the wars that he declares. Hell, Bush is just tired of dealing of the whole mess. Hence... a War Czar is born!
After at least three retired four-star generals ran screaming from the proposed position, today it was announced that three-star General Douglas Lute accepted. Bush describes Lt. Gen. Lute as "a tremendously accomplished military leader who understands war and government and knows how to get things done" (here), which is high praise... if it came from nearly anyone but Bush.
Analysts describe Lute as being "skeptical" of the troop surge and in favor of diplomatic resolution as opposed to military build-up. So Bush scoured the top ranks of the Pentagon, and ended up with a no-name three-star general who doesn't even agree with him! But it's a Catch-22, isn't it? Bush needed someone crazy enough to take the job and support Bush's vision, but anyone that crazy couldn't qualify for the job.
**** 5 Minute Train Poetry
"To the Pedals"
Your blossoms that only yesterday
dazzled my eyes,
piqued my nose, and
yielded silk to my touch
today are strewn on the sidewalk, marred and rotting,
and I have no choice but to trample them.
You would have been better off green:
boring green,
smelling nondescript and
feeling smooth and solid,
Enduring through the summer, ever green,
ever green, ever green. |
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**** Oy Vey
The Washington Times is reporting that NYC Mayor Michael Bloomberg is prepared to spend $1 billion of his fortune on a presidential campaign, should he decide to run (here). Insiders report that Bloomberg has met with Ross Perot's "senior people" to discuss the harrowing logistics of the rich guy third-party presidential run. Unfortunately, it cannot involve the late, great Admiral Stockdale as a running mate (here for the "Stockdale official site"... turn down your speakers, unless you like to groove on Taps), but when you've got a billion dollars, you can hire a whole army of old men to stand at your side and ask "Who am I? Why am I here?" (here for video of the surreal Vice Presidential debate from "Decision '92" featuring Dan Quayle, Al Gore, and Stockdale.)
The 2008 Presidential Election is on pace for record-breaking fundraising (here). The candidates are building up their arsenals by glad-handing wealthy contributors, with an occasional whistle-stopping the proles. I saw Mitt Romney on TV last week, eating at a local diner. He looked terrified, forking pie in his stiff mouth while a teased-hair waitress and a dozen cameras looked on. Are Mormons allowed to eat pleasurable foodstuffs like pie, in mixed company, with unclenched bowels?
Even though I voted for him as Governor as Massachusetts, I just don't see Mitt Romney winning. In fact, I don't see any of the current crop being wholly embraced by a majority of Americans. Maybe it's their fault, maybe it's our fault, but my point is: The more money that is involved, the more catty, corny political advertisements we will be subjected to.
Enter Bloomberg and his rich guy power grab. Welcome to my farcical dystopian nightmare. I have nothing against Bloomberg, but after 8 years of corruption and non-accountability, America needs integrity. We need a candidate who is buoyed to the top by the optimism and confidence of voters, not $1 billion dollars cash. We need... um... is Christopher Walken really running (here)?
**** 2 Hours of My Morning
I was awoken this morning at 5:30am by our upstairs neighbor, who has been christened with various nicknames like "Karate Horse" and "Old Elephant Legs," which evolved into my current favorite, "Stampy." Our ceiling/his floor has the integrity of a bayou shack.
Normally when I'm up at 5:30am, I'll go walking or gyming, but yesterday's mountain hike goaded several stagnant butt and thigh muscles, particularly this one three inches below my waist, two-thirds of the way around my hip. I call it the Slip Throttle muscle, because it's only ever used to brace the legs and steady the torso while sliding down a snow-packed hiking trail in a pair of heavy boots.
As I listen to Stampy finish his shower, I decided to take the early train to work. A rush of activity: Shower, dress, yogurt, walk to the station. The 6:48am express regulars are mostly skinny Type A stress cases. If the train is late, there's a lot of Blackberry fiddling, teeth grinding, and bitter muttering about MBTA accountability.
The train comes, and I sit in the last car and read the New York Times. At South Station, I join the slow-moving flood of passengers on the platform, baby-stepping behind two suits: "The invitation was addressed to Mary Ellen, not Mary Eileen," one is saying, while the other is chuckling and shaking his head. Then the traffic slows to a near-crawl. "What is that?" one suit says derisively, and I look up.
A young man with olive skin and long black hair is sitting with his back to a trash can. He's smoking a cigarette, which is flailing in his gesticulative hand, and he's braying in brash berserk bursts of foreign, slavic words. He appears amazed by the hundreds of white-collar workers streaming past him on the narrow platform. Perhaps he thinks we should not be there, or that we are there for his amusement. But we know that he is the oddity, the prowler, the gypsy on the South Station train platform at 7:30am.
**** Mount Libertarians
This afternoon I conquered another Four-Thousand-Footer in the White Mountains in New Hampshire (here for list): Mount Liberty, at a middling 4459 feet, has been peak-bagged. Six down, 42 to go.
It was a 6-hour journey via the Liberty Spring Trail, which is an alarmingly direct route. About a mile from the summit, we were reminded why they're called the White Mountains. About a foot of snow was packed onto the trail. It was slippery at times, but the snow allowed us to walk over the rocks that one typically has to scramble around.
HAPPY MOTHERS DAY! I dedicate this hike to my Mom. I wish I could have been with her today, but since I couldn't, I had to do something gargantuan, like climb a mountain in her honor. (Cleaning my room would have been too appropriate.)
And now for the triumphant summit photos, without which it would be all for nil...
**** Spinning Class Grammar Thoughts
In English, why are the words that identify leg-covering garments always plural, even when referring to a single clothing entity? Pants, slacks, trousers, shorts, overalls, knickers, breeches, tights, trousers, bloomers, jeans... I am wearing a pair of pants, and they are too big is such a grammatically strange sentence that I'm, like, troubled by it.
"A pair of ____s" implies a dichotomy of nether apparel, suggesting the usage evolved from how these clothes were once assembled. Tailors would sew one pant, then another pant, then converge them to construct a pair of pants, 2 pairs of pants, 1000 pairs of pants (equal to 2000 individual 'pant.') Grammatically, pants are similar to socks and shoes, though in practice they remained distinct individual entities as pants converged into one garment. A skirt, dress, shirt, jacket, but never a pant. A pant is something one does during spinning class when Paula cranks up 'Neutron Dance' and screams "Sprud! Sprud!" (see December 4 2006).
**** Herb Tea and Other Things
Today's guest blogger is my Grandfather Kraft, who has been dead for almost 20 years and never touched a computer. But I do believe he's the one I inherited my blogging genes from, as evidenced by a pamphlet that he wrote in 1970, called "Herb Tea and Other Things." Grandpa Kraft lived in Lancaster County, PA his whole life. He was a nonpareil urban gardener, a high school principal, and father of seven children. Oh, and his outstanding achievements in collegiate sports earned him an induction in the Millersville University Athletic Hall of Fame (here for the bio).
Gardeners and other Earthy types will enjoy his thoughts on herb cultivation, and everyone will benefit from learning the homeopathic benefits of goose grease.
I scanned and posted "Herb Tea and Other Things" here (opens in new window).
**** Naomi Sanitized
As an exemplary portrait of a Poor Little Supermodel, I suggest Naomi Campbell's diary of her five-day community service stint at the New York Sanitation Department (as appears in W magazine here). Poor Naomi only wants to take responsibility for the violence caused by her inability to handle alcohol and cocaine, and sweep rubbish and bond with her coworkers in peace.
But for some reason, the media just won't leave her be! It's as if they've never seen a supermodel perform court-mandated community service in a Guiliana Teso fur coat or a Dolce and Gabbana demi-couture gown before!
Naomi, you - a woman who is paid million of dollars TO WEAR CLOTHING that 99.999% of the human population could never wear - you are wondering why the media is so interested in documenting your humiliation when they could reporting on Iraq or Africa? Are you really that immune to absurdity?
**** Symphony Rage
On April 20, I wrote about the murmurs of consternation that broke out in Boston's Symphony Hall when a patron twice inappropriately clapped during musical pauses. Big whoop. Last night, at the season opening Boston Pops concert, a shoving match between two gentlemen interrupted the performance (here for 'the brawl at Symphony Hall.')
**** Local News
I miss living near academic institutions like Harvard and MIT. Being in close proximity to clever, bright-eyed over-achievers kept my mind young and fresh. Somehow, Framingham State College just isn't the same. It's making national news because two girls stole 1000 copies of the school newspaper that featured a photo that made them look fat (here). Honestly, they don't look fat... just trashy.
**** They Eat Babies, Don't They?
Today the Georgian vegan couple whose 6-week old baby son died of malnourishment was sentenced to life in prison (here). The jury had found the couple guilty of child cruelty and murder, agreeing with prosecutors who argued the starving was intentional. "They're not vegans. They're baby killers", a closing statement that caused sensational headlines around the world: "Vegans or Baby Killers?"
Good question. As shown in the Venn diagram below, I believe the couple is a rare intersection between the two sets. I have defined this set as "Stupid Vegan Baby Killers" and qualified it as follows:
Baby Killers: The baby was fed a diet of soy milk and apple juice, and was never taken to a doctor. Obviously, this is foolhardy baby-rearing.
Vegan: In their defense, the couple claimed they were "against animal cruelty... against animals being burdened" and wanted to raise their baby in accordance with their beliefs. Many fervent vegans devoutly believe their diet is the healthiest, most pure on Earth, so it is entirely plausible that they were deluded enough to think that their 3 1/2 pound baby was perfectly healthy.
Stupid: Unfortunately, the couple should have learned a *little* more about veganism before trying to apply it to a helpless baby. A quick consultation with a vegan friend confirmed that the vegan doctrine does not prohibit breast milk for babies. In fact, most vegans are strong advocates of breast-feeding, believing that dairy is not a "natural" part of the human diet only after a child is weened.
Certainly "baby killers" deserve life in prison. But what about "stupid vegan baby killers"? Haven't they suffered enough, what with their dead baby and their cheese-free lifestyle?
**** Bad Blood
This morning's annual physical exam went downhill at the mere mention of the blood test. My fight-or-flight instincts took over, and my head was as light as a hollowed egg. The worst thing I can do is to pretend nothing's wrong, so I lay down on the exam table and whimper, "I'm a fainter! Have been my whole life!"
In potential pass-out situations like blood tests, I usually follow my father's advice and tell a joke to keep my whirling mind occupied all the way to the punch line. But today, all wit eluded me. I looked glumly at the vampire: A formiable black woman who eyed me warily, having been briefed by my doctor that I'm, like, batshit insane about blood tests.
"I'm okay if I keep talking," I tell her. She nods encouragingly as she readies my right arm. "Usually I tell a joke, but I can't think of any at the moment."
"Just keep talking," she says. She speaks with a heavy accent that sounds Caribbean. "Make a fist."
So dizzy that I'm not cognisant of my own speech, I plow on. "I'm going to talk about the French elections. There was Sarkozy on the right and Royal on the left. It's kind of weird, but I was rooting for Sarkozy, because even though he's on the right, it's not like he was extreme. He wants sensible reform. He seemed level-headed, definately more in control of his emotions than Royal. She was unsure and inexperienced. And she played the gender card."
I can feel the needle pinch my arm. "Release your fist," the nurse says.
"But what really worried me was how she warned that people would riot if Sarkozy won. It's sort of a self-fullfilling prophecy, because now they have riots. And that's so undemocratic. You can't riot after a democratic election. You can't rally against the winner. The people have spoken."
"All done," she says, taping the bandage on my arm.
I breath a sigh. My triumph has restored me. "Thank you so much," I say.
"Thank you for telling your joke," she says, patting my shoulder.
**** BIOHazard
This week BIO 2007, the world's largest biotechnology conference (here), is happening at the new-ish Boston Convention and Exhibition Center, about 1/3 of a mile down the street from my office. For the 25,000 attendees, BIO 2007 means 5 days of non-stop learning, innovation, and networking; keynote addresses by Michael J. Fox, Queen Noor of Jordan, and industry kingpin James Greenwood; and plenty of after-hour schmoozing at hot-ticket events replete with biopharm executive delicacies like mushroom risotto and salmon (here).
For schmucks like me, BIO 2007 means not being able to cross the street for five minutes until the nice policeman stops the heavy flow of assorted livery and shuttle buses that are clogging Summer Street. It means 8 hours of particularly intense street noise: sirens, idling buses, honking horns, and the occasional heart-lurching brake screech followed by impassioned chiding. It means waiting in line in Dunkin Donuts behind a hodge-podge of lefty long-hairs and the riot police who itch to forcibly subdue them. And it means musing about the future impact of the conference, and whether something really great or really calamitous is brewing down the street. Yeah, it's the 2004 Democratic Convention all over again.
**** Two Birds and One Stone
Spent a quintessential spring day roaming Leominster State Forest (here). Saw many squeaky chipmunks who alerted us to the predatory hawks soaring above the trees. Watched dozens of rock climbers on the ledges, feeling no pangs of "that looks fun." Homeward bound, stopped at the Codman House in Lincoln (here), where many pretty song birds drift among the stately trees and gardens. The stone boy stares on, oblivious.
(All photos by Mr Pinault)
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**** Whole Foods Rant #365
Most Saturdays after grocery shopping at Whole Foods, I arrive home with a searing rant on the tips of my fingers. My rage usually abates when I gaze at the refrigerator full of tasty foods, but today, the rant persists.
The whole Whole Foods experience sickens me. I'm not even talking about the exorbitant prices, because I'll pay more money for better food. That's why I go to Whole Foods. In the suburbs, it's the most convenient oasis for foodstuff that my household consumes (at least until the farm stands open, which is soon).
But paying a premium should guarantee quality as well as dignity. Give me my dignity, Whole Foods. Assume that I'm shopping at your store because I want quality, not to stuff my face on the free samples that you invitingly litter around the store. It's out of hand. People rove the aisles, carrying a few token groceries, determined to suck down as many free samples as possible. I've been pushed by entire families honing in on free cookie bits. The produce aisle is safer since people seem less excited by melon and apple slices, but today, alas, there was dip.
What's more disgusting than the spectacle of people eating while they're walking around a store is that they seem to think it's good for them. Yeah, that's right fat boy, spear half a dozen cubes of cheddar that you barely pause to taste, grab a few olives, then snatch as many morsels of BBQ pork that you can before the obese individual behind you starts to get upset. It's all wholesome.
I understand that if Whole Foods wants to expand into the middle-class suburban frontier, it has to win over the local citizenry somehow. The end may justify the means, yet today, well...
In accordance with their Earth-friendly values, Whole Foods offers a "Green Bag" refund. At 5 cents a bag, using 8 bags a week, we save about 18 dollars per year. Obviously, we are not interested in the money, but it's nice to have incentive. Then, last month, I looked at our receipt and saw we were getting 10 cents per bag! This is significant, and I was so Whole Foods positive for a while. They're really trying to make a difference in American shopping habits, I thought.
But I found out the 10 cents bag refund was only for the month of April - to celebrate Earth Day. What kind of bullshit is this? Will the extra 5 cents a bag break Whole Foods? I've never seen anyone but us bringing our own bags in the Framingham Whole Foods... instead, I see a crowd of middle-class Americans, hoarding smoked salmon in tiny paper cups and sampling Kashi cereal with little plastic spoons. Eff you, Whole Foods. I'll see you next week.
**** Naming My Wholly-Theoretical Punk Rock Band
People enjoy naming things. Women spend many an idle moment pondering the name of their future children, while men mentally chew over names for cars, boats, and their, um, johnsons. (On doubly-related sidenote, check out bad names for your baby).
Me, I'm always on the lookout for a good name for a punk band, even though I don't play any instruments, I'm almost 30 years old, and I embrace the free market economic model. I'm not exactly in the position to coin an embodiment of nihilism and chaos.
But I was young and crazy once, and I trained my brain to be attuned to random inspiration for suitable monikers. I'll be in the train station, half-listening to a recurrent prerecorded announcement that ratchets my sub-conscious paranoia to dizzying heights, and suddenly think "What a good name for a punk band: The Unattended Packages."
So, that is why my first thought after reading this local new story here was "What a good name for a punk band: Christmas Tree Shoppe Bomb Scare." It is a bit of a mouthful, and it violates a trademark, but I think it's totally, like, rad.
****Teen Suffrage
"It is the duty of every citizen according to his best capacities to give validity to his convictions in political affairs." - Albert Einstein
The Austrian legislature has lowered the voting age for national elections to 16 (here), making Austria one of a handful of countries with a voting age under 18. Applause! Applause! In these modern times, age isn't a valid reason for disenfranchisement. If mentally batshit adults can be taken to the polls and ordered to pull a lever, well, why not a 16-year old?
As I steadily acquire age-bestowed wisdom, I try to keep in touch with my youthful mindset. Yes, 16-year old Meredith was rash, hateful of authority, and preoccupied with hair, clothes, and punk rock music... but like all teenagers, she was a sentient being capable of profound insight. And boy, was she pissed when she grew up and found out that 90% of adults use childish criteria like appearance, demeanor, and religious views to elect politicians.
16 is the perfect voting age, because they have the ability, time and hormones to get passionate, often about issues that adults delegate as secondary concerns like the environment, animal rights, social justice, free speech, and drug policy. Americans can bray about the quality of public education all they want, but it's the high school kids who have to sit in the dilapidated facilities, study for standardized tests, vie for the attentions of over-worked union employees, and dodge bullets from semi-automatic weapons.
The right to vote would give our young citizens incentive to learn about current events and the political system. Maybe they won't grow up and elect idiot Presidents. Additionally, 16-year olds are expert bullshit detectors, and don't hold pre-conceived notions about the status quo. They would inject a refreshing perspective into political discourse.
Right now, the Presidential candidate Who All The Kids Are Blogging About is Mike Gravel, a former Senator from Alaska who riled the Democratic candidates during last week's debate when he said Congress should pass a law making it a felony to keep troops in Iraq. He also turned to Barack Obama and demanded: "Who the hell are we going to nuke? Tell me, Barack. Barack, who do you want to nuke?" (here)
****Rocky XVI (and Marie)
It's amazing how quickly movies go to DVD these days. Last week we picked up Rocky Balboa and Marie Antoinette at the library. Funny, it was Mr. Pinault who wanted to see the Philadelphian savage and me who wanted to see the French hedonist. Even funnier is that Rocky Balboa's love interest is named Marie, and Marie Antoinette's husband is named Louis... which is French for Rocky, I believe.
Rocky Balboa wasn't half as bad as I expected... but I was expecting the crappiest movie ever. It was more sad than bad. It gave me fleeting joyful nostalgia, like when I find an old acquaintance on MySpace who I haven't thought about in a decade, and I scruntize their pics to guage how well they are aging and browse their profile to glean a sense of how normal and nice their life has turned out. And I laugh at them and promptly forget them ten minutes later.
Marie Antoinette was so excellent, especially since we went to Versailles last summer and saw her mock village "Petit Hameau" and other excesses (see right, and here for Frenchy pics). I loved how Marie Antoinette was portrayed as the leader of a cool kid's clique. I loved the '80s music soundtrack, the opulent clothes and food, and the ridiculous social structure of Versailles. And I loved how the movie evoked unexpected pity for the oblivious Queen, who was so sheltered and pampered that she really could have no concept of how disgusting her life was. |
At Le Petit hameau de la Reine, Versailles, June 2006
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****Abracadabra! (Gonna reach out and stab ya!)
Last Sunday I was talking to my father on the phone, and he mentioned that the city of Philadelphia - currently the murder capital of the United States, with more than one homicide per day (here) - is finally seeing its police department fight back. How can such insane urban violence be quelled? Increased patrolling in blighted areas? A serious pledge to improve the education and opportunities for young black males? Sure, MIGHT help, but Philadelphia is addressing the root causes of its ills...
...by cracking down on storefront fortune-tellers who violate a 1971 state law that makes it a 3rd degree misdemeanor to tell fortunes "for gain or lucre" (here). After all, taxpayer-funded social programs will only do so much when those thieving psychics are running loose on the streets, peddling magical mayhem, illicit witchery, and hit-and-run hoodoo.
The police exorcised Philadelphia of a total 16 psychics, astrologers, and tarot-card readers. As my father gleefully pointed out, "Not one of them saw the police coming!" Of course, there's no way of knowing how many true clairvoyants did see them coming and closed up shop in preparation. Luckily, the Philadelphia cops are sparing no effort in hunting them down to protect citizens from their black market black magic.
Next task for the Philadelphia PD: Those charlatanic Christians, who continue to reap significant dough in exchange for communing believers with a Holy Ghost by way of eating His flesh and drinking His blood to attain forgiveness and eternal life.
