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****Philadelphia Freedom and Boardwalk Funnel Cake

I'm leaving for Philadelphia tomorrow morning in a lame attempt to "get a jump on the holiday weekend traffic." Apparently, now you have to leave Wednesday night to avoid hours of tedious stop-and-go action. 40 million people are predicted to travel on highways this weekend, and I will probably see half of them on the NJ Turnpike.

But I have my reading, my knitting, and a French chauffeur, whose attempts to re-teach me stick-shift driving so I can take over the wheel have never come to fruit... which is probably for the better, cause though I'm an excellent suburban driver, I tend to space out on the highway.

July Fourths in Philly are always fun because Philly really considers it their holiday. Everyone stands an inch taller with pride. Moving to Boston, whose Boston Pops Fireworks displays out-entertain and out-class anything I've ever experienced in Philly, was sort of sad.

I'll be at the Jersey shore on the actually holiday... taking in 2 glorious miles of Ocean City boardwalk, huge waves of warm ocean water, and a whole lot of half-naked ugly people.

****Trivia Question

In honor my trip to Pennsylvania, home to more deer hunters per capita than any other US state or territory, I leave with this trivia question:

How many hours does a 150-pound person need to butcher deer in order to burn off a Grande Starbucks Caffe Latte Made with Whole Milk?

(The answer is here).

****Six Soupy Thoughts

With Boston submerged in a humidity wave, my brain don't work too good. Is there something about humidity that makes people dumber? The states of Florida and Texas suddenly make sense. Yeah, hell, I'll vote for a Bush.

Swollen with moisture, my brain is a stew of thoughts that I'm too lazy to suckle a comprehensive post from. So I'll just lob bits out for my own satisfaction and sense of accomplishment.

• "My battery is running low!" cried a Calvin Kleined girl into her cell phone, as if she is a medium for the phone. I'm ringing! I'm recharging! I'm vibrating! I'm roaming! I require maintenance!
  
• The worst last name ever, yet one of the most satisfying to say, is Slutsky. Today I talked to a man with such a last name. I'm dying to call him by his full name. Growl it, like a bear.
  
• Lately I've see more than a few spinach and strawberry salads, which is possibly the worst combination of two foods since chocolate-covered ginger, or ketchup and soft pretzels, or potatoes and salsa.
  
• My HMO is soliciting my feedback on my Primary Care Physician, who I don't like because he's impatient with my wholly reasonable questions that one might have for their Guardian of Personal Health. Believe or not, the nicest, most empathetic doctors are male gynecologists. One can feel uneasy about the motives behind their chosen vocation, but these men care.
  
• I'm listening to the new White Stripes album, Get Me Behind Me Satan. Good album, but too polished. I miss the raw, petulant Jack. And the drumming still sucks, which didn't matter when the guitar kinda did too.
  
• At the laundromat yesterday, I dropped a pair of freshly-dried panties on the ground , and a nearby young woman about my age looked sort of disgusted when I picked them up and put them in my clean laundry bag. I felt like I just picked up food on the ground and stuck in it my mouth, which would horrify most people, but what am I supposed to do about panties? Throw them away? Just leave them there?

****Beverage Review: Coke Zero

If any company deserves an innovative beverage engineering prize for routinely discovering tasty new ways to drum every last calorie out of a soda... it's Coke. Here we have Coke Zero, a soda with an appealing black motif on its bottling and a seriously refreshing blend of aspartame and acesulfame potassium.

Lots of medium-fine bubbles in a fine dark liquid. Its flavors elude the nose but dropped hints of licorice. A robust caramel blossomed on my palate, infused with strong varietal sweetener flavors. Lightweight but plenty of effervescence and a toasty acidity, with minerality lingering on a long finish. This drink will pair well with nothing, as it was intended.

When I first heard about Coke Zero, I thought about how many products these days incorporate the calorie count into the actual name of the product, like those Nabisco 100 Calorie Packs, or Pepsi One (which you can tell by the name is obviously an inferior choice. I mean, it has a calorie. One calorie. That's one more than Coke Zero. And it can add up. You have ten Pepsi Ones, that's ten calories. 3500 Pepsi Ones, and that's a whole pound. You have 3500 Coke Zeros, and that's zero, zip, zilch calories and one sleek-looking tummy. Multiple zero by any number and you'll get zero every time.) Can't wait for the "Big Mac 590," or the "Meat Lovers Pizza 4000."

The uber-yummyness of Coke Zero is lacking only in that my consumption of this product may lead to headache, dizziness, depression, migraine, fatigue, convulsions, vision problems, hyperactivity, nausea, irritability, insomnia, heart palpitations, memory loss, anxiety, tinnitus, vertigo, slurred speech, rashes, joint pain, breathing difficulties, menstrual irregularities, bloating, excessive thirst, tremors, numbness" or aggravate a case of "diabetes, multiple sclerosis, epilepsy, Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s disease, lymphoma, brain tumors, chronic fatigue and fibromyalgia, blindness, systemic lupus, Alzheimer’s, Lou Gehrig's disease, Lyme disease, Graves disease, non-Hodgkins lymphoma and heart valve disease (here).

****Where have you gone, Duchess of Oysterland?

Today on the T, I reminisced about the 2004 DNC. Hard to believe that nearly a year has past since the Democrats converged on our infrastructure-lacking town and pinned all their hopes on John Freaking Kerry.

What I remember most about the DNC, and in fact the whole reason why I was thinking about the DNC, is the constant haranguing about security on the subway: Blanket news coverage on possible terrorist attacks, recorded announcements about the need to be vigilant, and policies about bag searching made me scared shitless to ride the subway. They must know something! Every ride became a mini-nightmare in which my overactive imagination goaded thoughts of the train erupting into a fiery, slow-moving inferno of death, all in the name of John Freaking Kerry.

I no longer fear death on the T and am embarrassed to admit that I got caught up in the hysteria. But as Virginia Woolf said, "What is amusing now had to be taken in desperate earnest once." So the total blanketing on South Station in War of the Worlds advertisements is not appreciated and frankly a little unsettling.

Thanks to Steven Spielberg and Tom Cruise, here's a sampling of what T riders are forced to ponder as they wait for the train:

"With envious eyes, they watched and slowly drew their plans against us."

"They're already here."

"It seemed like the entire country was on fire."

"Are we still alive?"

****I'm Old!

The BBC has declared that the death of the cassette tape is imminent (here), with sales in "terminal decline."

Guess I won't be cashing in on my vintage Aerosmith and Devo cassettes anytime soon.

****Insanely Rich Person Dies

Taking pleasure in the untimely death of others is wrong.

But it's John Walton (here)!

He was a human being with inherent worth and dignity.

But he was the son of Sam Walton and heir to the Wal-Mart fortune.

He was a great philanthropist who aimed to help others with his wealth.

But he became rich off a company that is anti-union and keeps hundreds of thousands of hard-working Americans in poverty.

He was a husband, father, and honorable veteran who was awarded the Silver Star.

Okay, it's sad. But I'll still snicker that he's the latest millionaire to die piloting a private aircraft.

****Holiday in SoBro

****A Well-Hung Tomato

Spied this tomato at the vegetable stand in Downtown Crossing and felt strangely attracted to it...

It's not everyday one sees a tomato with a penis.

****Finagle a Bagel?

This week, with the nice weather and school year cessation, the Boston Children's Museum near where I work at the Fort Point Channel has been drawing hordes. My fancy lately is to get a toasted bagel for lunch (bringing the yummy sandwich innards from home), forcing me into the belly of the Moms and Kids Lunch Crowd. Finagle a Bagel has become: Finagle a Bagel? Can I take the 20-minute line of rambunctious children and their tired, simple-carb craving mothers to successfully finagle a damn bagel?

Luckily, Dunkin Donuts has a tavern-like, family-free atmosphere at lunchtime, as well as okay bagels that may be less worthy of finagling, but a lot more finaglable.

****What Would Twain Drive?

I could easily learn to prefer an elephant to any other vehicle, partly because of that immunity from collisions, and partly because of the fine view one has from up there, and partly because of the dignity one feels in that high place, and partly because one can look in at the windows and see what is going on privately among the family.

--Twain, Following the Equator

****Another Well-Used Gallon of Gasoline

Sitting at an outdoor table at Carberry's Bakery and Coffeehouse after work today, nursing a coffee and reading David McCullough's 1776, a sleek black Hummer comes within five feet of me as it prepares to pull into one of the parking spaces. Pop music of some indiscernible ethnic origin-- perhaps Indian or Middle Eastern-- blasts from within, over the din of the almighty Hummer 6.5-liter turbo diesel V-8 engine. The Hummer is forced by its 7,213 pounds of massiveness to back up repeatedly in order to angle its hulking, 184.5 inch long and 86.5 inch wide metal carriage into the puny space flanked by a Toyota and a Ford Focus. The deeply-treaded wheels mesmerize me as they turn to and fro, each maneuver a mini-military action.

After two minutes of parking, and a few more of idling with the music pumping, the Hummer powers down and a man of indiscernible ethnic origin-- perhaps Indian or Middle Eastern-- jumps from the drivers seat. He goes into Carberry's and emerges with a single coffee. After reboarding the Hummer, the music starts up and the Hummer begins its laborious disembarkment from the parking space: Back up, realign wheels, pull forward, realign wheels, back up, realign wheels, pull forward, realign wheels... After a dozen distinct maneuvers, the Hummer is finally extracted from its berth, and pulls out onto Prospect Street, almost squashing a bicyclist.

****Well-Off Journalists Ponder Class Issues

I've been devouring the NYT's special coverage on social class in America (here), which features dozens of articles "exploring ways that class - defined as a combination of income, education, wealth and occupation - influences destiny in a society that likes to think of itself as a land of unbounded opportunity." The series reaches the conclusion that upward mobility is a lot harder than we'd like to think, and social stratification is increasing.

Interesting stuff, but what annoys me is the "rich is good, poor is bad" perspective that pervades some of the articles. The truth is, class is necessary, and we shouldn't think that because one class has more ability to acquire material goods that they are necessarily worth aspiring to. A capitalist society needs a lower class; if the whole goal is to make money, menial, cheap labor is a necessity. Upward mobility is limited to the number of places in the higher echelon of society.

Picture a nightclub: the lower-class people outside have to wait for the high-class people who are partying hard inside to consume one- too-many vodka tonics before getting seduced by a skizz and leaving, or vomiting in the bathroom and deciding to call it a night. The outsiders must wait for the capacity to dip before the bouncer decides more people are needed to maintain the allure of the club and the health of its coffers. Getting past the bouncer may take time, but if they can mimic the appearance and attitude of those they want to be, they'll probably get to shake their ass on the dance floor.

The bouncer generally won't let in the people outside of the nightclub who are messed up on drugs, acting crazy, or shooting at each other. Immigrants also have a more difficult getting in, but maybe they are just happy in a line to a nightclub. Because what the NYT doesn't touch upon is that it's a lot better to be a poor person in America than a rich, powerful person just about anywhere else.

However, this analogy, as well as media coverage on class, is written from the perspective that all poor people aspire to get into the vaulted nightclub... an arrogant, elitist point of view. Most poor people just want to get by. They want accessible health, good schools, and to provide for their family. Abstractly, they may want to live in a mansion and have oodles of money, but moneyed folk would be surprised how content non-moneyed folk are with lives that do not revolve around luxuries.

****American Beer Festival: Quite Festive

More beer, more beer
All I want is more beer, more beer --Fear

Last night I went to the American Beer Festival (here) at the Boston Center for the Arts, which may seem a strange venue for beer sampling, but it validates the notion that beer-brewing is an Art that requires just as much skill and effort as painting or sculpture. It's just the presence of the Sausage Guy hawking hot dogs that sort of precludes it being a Fine Art.

Though it was the American Beer Festival, most of the brewers hailed from New England, Pennsylvania, Colorado, and California. Each 4 ounce sample of beer cost a dollar. I tried a lot of hoppy IPAs and laughed at the beer descriptions, which boasted of "flavors of bananas, cloves, and melons with a smoky note in the background" and "caramel sweetness balanced with distinct citrus and piney notes." Some of the flowery language made wine reviews sound downright scientific.

Single ladies of Boston, you missed out last night. Roughly 75% of the crowd was male and not as scruffy as you'd think. Once they ran out of ways to comment about beer to their friends, most looked amendable to female companionship.

I was surprised how hard those little 4 ounces of beer could hit you. In this case, a smaller portion worked against me, because there was always the sense that it had to be drunk fast to get to the next sample. Luckily, a huge salty soft pretzel washed down with yummy Amber Ale from Brooklyn absorbed all my tipsiness right up.

****Boston: The Best Pot Smokers in the Country!

Boston is abuzz about a new study that found marijuana usage in the Metro area is the highest in the US, with 12 percent of people over age 12 admitting to smoking weed in the past month (here).

This study proves marijuana has no widespread ill effects on society's populace except the munchies. (What, you think Dunkin Donuts was born in a vacuum?) I'd rather live in a city of weed-smoking liberals than a city of crystal-meth eating junkies. Methamphetamine is a real nasty drug. America should stop funding the war on marijuana and use all those millions of dollars to stop the perilous rise in usage immediately.

****Festival on the River

****Movie Review: Batman Begins

Yes, my greatly-anticipated Hollywood blockbuster has fell short of expectations once again! When will I learn? Certainly this movie is better than all of the other Batmans combined. And while I never saw George Clooney's interpretation of the Dark Knight in Batman and Robin, I'm willing to bet that Christian Bale is the best Batman ever: Gallant and strapping, but with an intensity caused by deep, panging emotional scars.

My interest in comics is cursory, but Batman was always the most interesting of the major action heroes. Batman's passion to fight crime was born from witnessing his parent's murder by a mugger: A traumatic experience inflicted by the violent, bleak society. His motive was actually an unhealthy obsession. He didn't come from another planet. His character's powers didn't come from radiation or toxic chemicals. It is the psychological side of Batman that Batman Begins explores.

The degradation and corruptness of Gotham city is a major theme, and the movie is blessedly free of gimmicks like Prince, bad bat humor, and cat women. But the script and the plot aims to be an epic and falls short. I blame the first half of the movie, a tedious mix of teary flashbacks and mad-crazy ninjitsu with a band of assassins.

Oh, and there's Katie Holmes, whose only great line was when she got past a police barricade by saying "I'm a Gotham City District Attorney!" Batman's devotion to such a nattering goody-two-shoes is not explained and hardly justified. We all know that Christian Bale's Batman would prefer a thinker. A subversive one at that, who keeps a website so that she can make fun of toilet cleaner commercials.

****Annoying Commercial Of the Moment

Seen On: Every freaking commercial break during FOX morning news, 6am-7am

The Product: Clorox Toilet Bowl Cleaner

The Adline:"What does your toilet say about you?"

The Characters: Sniffer, an ambiguously-aged white female who is visiting the house of Sheepish, a slightly-older white female.

The Plot: Sniffer enters the bathroom of Sheepish, who is watching from the hallway with eagle eyes. Perhaps there have been "problems" in the past. Sniffer contemplates the seemingly innocuous commode, takes a few whiffs and immediately looks disgusted. She backs away from the bathroom to the great consternation of Sheepish, who can only assume Sniffer inhaled fumes so noxious that she dare not bare her ass to them.

Sheepish frets about what she should do; how will she ever fit into normal society if her toilet smells like a toilet? Luckily, the good folks at Clorox, manufacturers of households products that make people's lives easier, healthier and better (here) and that cause allergies, asthma, birth defects, cancer, central nervous system damage, infertility, learning disorders, and miscarriage (here) have developed a surefire way to combat toilet smells: A toilet cleaner. Sheepish's prayers are answered. She can now clean her toilet with total peace of mind.

For some crazy reason, despite the incident during the last visit, Sniffer returns to Sheepish's home, and magnanimously gives the bathroom a second chance. She enters the bathroom, and this time there are colorful flowers emanating from the toilet bowl. Sniffer smiles in relief and enters the bathroom. Sheepish rejoices. Thanks to Clorox, the commode smells hygenic enough to accept bodily waste.

****My Day in Haiku

Weather Haiku
Twenty degree drop,
Boston wrung out like a sponge --
I am smiling.

Subway Haiku
T sits for one hour:
Medical emergency
Makes everyone late.

Super Veggie Wrap Haiku
Muenster Cheese, lavish,
and crisp green vegetables:
Yummy lunch for me.

Turtle Haiku
Old friend emails me
Kind words about this website:
Wonderful old friend!

en Haiku
Losing a drummer
Does not mean the music dies:
Your band is all you.

Work Haiku, No.1
Boss in Chicago
for handheld technology:
He is a good boss.

Work Haiku, No.2
Old boss eats donut,
Compliments my hair color...
Nothing different!

Billard Haiku
French man beats me twice,
victoire sur la boule huit:
but I win the night.

****Four Bits of Implicate Insanity

The way it is now, the asylums can hold the sane people, but if we tried to shut up the insane we should run out of building materials. --Mark Twain

Sometimes, all the unchecked insanity in the world overwhelms me...

I.
Michael Jackson, not guilty? The mother offered her son as a sacrificial lamb to a known pedophile for a big payout. She had bad intentions from the beginning, and maybe the boy was pressured to exaggerate, but come on. MJ obviously has an unhealthy interest in young boys. He's not into anal sex or anything too kinky, but I have no doubt that he "wanted to teach me [to masturbate] … so we were laying in the bed, and then he started rubbing me … he put his hand down my pants and he started rubbing me … my private area … he was masturbating me." Because we all know Michael Jackson 1- Has no sense of what's acceptable in society and 2 - Likes to make children happy.

II.
It's one thing when the US Senate issues a public apology for failing to enact federal anti-lynching legislation back when killing black people was a popular pastime (here), but are slavery reparations the answer to equalizing race in the US? Former Philly mayor Wilson Goode (him of the MOVE massacre) introduced legislation that would require Philadelphia banks with ties to slavery to pay reparations by extending credit to minority-owned businesses (here). While denying credit based on race isn't exactly utopian, slavery reparations are a slippery slope. Hey, if you need money, send your child to a slumber party with a rich, eccentric superstar.

III.
The purveyors of good taste that they are, eBay is banning auctions for tickets to Live 8, the mega-concert that will end all poverty. Forever. Live 8 organizers applaud the empty gesture, calling the auctions "sick profiteering" (here). Hey, you know what is really sick profiteering? Rock stars who use social causes to raise their own public profile. You think the other 364 days of the year, Mariah Carey, 50 Cent, Bon Jovi, and Faith Hill think about poverty? You think Pink Floyd is reuniting because they were moved by the plight of the hungry?

IV.
There is still a market for VHS tapes, and Wal-Mart will continue to cater it, the behemoth of crap merchandise proclaimed (here). Attention, Wal-Mart shoppers! You can buy a DVD player for the price of 4 VHS tapes in the next aisle over! Please dispense with the inferior technology and step into the 21st century!

****Got Juice?

Today, with a tropical dew point and a high of 92, the entire city of Boston transformed into an urban steam room.

In the office, the AC malfunctioned, just on my corner of the floor. I sat at my desk, sweating for hours, trying to work with the constant fear of BO in the back of my mind. It was like a gun to the head, I tell ya.

At the Au Bon Pain in Harvard Square, after failing to find a seat indoors I was forced to bake on the patio, and curse myself for being too much of a snob to drink iced coffee.

Then, knitting class: No AC. It "just hasn't been working right." There's nothing more miserable than trying to knit a wool sweater in a sweltering, seventeenth-century building while beads of sweat form on your forehead. It's like going bikini shopping in January.

I walked from Harvard Square to Central Square. As I approached the square, I could tell something was wrong. Scores of people sat on the lawn in front of City Hall with nary a gay wedding in sight. I noticed the 1369 Coffeehouse was empty, then realized that the entire block was without power. The main stoplight was out, Mass Ave was closed to traffic, and cops, fire trucks, and N'Star vans were everywhere.

I began to tremble at the thought of my hot little apartment with no electricity. I passed a Red Cross station in a parking garage, which was handing out bags of ice and setting up cots. I tore into my apartment building and found it scarily dark and quiet. But then again, it's been like that since the college kids took off. Panicking, I raced up the stairs, unlocked my front door, and was welcomed by a blaring TV, entertaining three waitresses who were gleeful that their local bar had lost power and closed for the night.

The TV never, and I mean never, sounded so wonderful.

(Somehow, despite my horrible luck today, my block was spared from the Central Square power outages caused by manhole explosions, here for story).

****Beach Day

I got my day at the beach today... ventured north of Boston to picturesque Ipswich and soaked up the sun when it peeked out from the gray haze. On the recommendation of a college friend 8 years ago, I picked Crane Beach (here), a private beach on a Wildlife Refugee that is noted for sustaining the survival of the threatened piping plover.

Though it was not perfect beach weather and the water's frigidness turned off even intrepid swimmers like myself, Crane Beach proved to be a treat: Clear waters, white sand, and seaweed that looked so robust I was tempted to collect some for a salad. And I've never been to a beach that didn't sell french fries; the snack bar served hummus wraps and burgers off an open-air BBQ. The crowd was easy-going, frolicking politely in a non-obtrusive way, and sported a ton of cute kids.

Eavesdropping is an inevitable pastime at a crowded beach. I heard parents talk to their kids and spied another little boy named Connor, like the little boy whose mother repeatedly said the word "poop" as a verb on the subway a few days ago. According to the amazing baby name wizard (here), the popularity of the name has skyrocketed. I also heard a little girl named Madison and a little boy named Sage, both hot names right now. No Merediths, not surprising since this name has been on a steady decline since its late 70s heyday. It's a little depressing to know that my name was fashionable when I was born, but it sure beats Olivia, which was the top girl's name in 2004 (here... the boring Jack was the top boys name).

The prevalence of little boys named Connor is one of the many mundane topics I thought about on this lovely beach day. It was just that sort of day.

****The Humidity is Making Me Feisty

Okay, to prove that I can rant about practically anything: Receipts. How many trees would be saved if, say, instead of automatically issuing a receipt, the clerk would have a button that they could press upon the customer's request? Some places have signs up next to the registers: Free $5 gift certificate if we don't give you a receipt! What, are they trying to make it into a game? Oh, let's go to Walgreens and buy some gum! Maybe the cashier will forget to give me my receipt! Ca-ching! I was Loew's movie theatre last week, and the concession stand had a sign: Free drink if you don't get a receipt! After purchasing a small popcorn, I noticed the cashier placed the receipt on the counter, and when I ignored it, robotically whisked it off the counter, as if she's done it one hundred thousand times before. Who the heck needs a receipt for movie concessions? After the movie, I had an Altoid craving, and stopped at CVS... $2.49 for the Altoids paid in cash, and look at what the cashier handed me (right). Those are coupons specifically targeted for me based on what I buy with my Extracare card. Sadly, all of them have to do with candy and make-up. But the point is, it sort of peeved me. I mean, this is a huge-ass receipt for a tin of Altoids. In conclusion, probably 90% of all receipts are gratuitous and I am enraged. For the moment, anyway. Until something else distracts me.

****Weightlifting Tip #45

When your chest is sore the day after a rigorous back workout, it's time to pay more attention to your form.

****Things Said by Strangers I Don't Want To Know

"I have to get orange juice. With this weather, I've been drinking orange juice, like, constantly, to replace my potassium, you know?" --Chick at the Co-op to friend

****Movie Review: Saving Face

There's a great moment in Saving Face when Joan Chen, who even in her 40s is still in possession of one of the most beautiful faces I've ever seen, wanders into a video store looking for Chinese-language movies. The clerk points her to a shelf, and she scans multiple copies of The Last Emperor and The Joy Luck Club... and the rest of the shelf is just Chinese porn. A nice little summation of Chinese cinema in mainstream America.

This movie is basically a comedy built on a screwball premise: Chen's character (a widow), pregnant at aged 48 by a man she refuses to name, is kicked out of her father's home and disowned until she marries, and hence moves in with her daughter Wil, a prominent surgeon who is uptight about her gayness but madly in love with a ballet dancer named Vivian.

Some unconventional twists and a fairly hot lesbian bed scene (not that I'm into lesbian bed scenes), but let's talk about equality. If it was a heterosexual couple making mooney faces at each other and flirting for half the movie, it would have been boring. It wasn't any less sappy because it was two women.

Happy love stories bore me, as do movies featuring wacky ethnic families clinging to tradition. Chen saves the movie from total hellish cuteness with her charisma and her ability to exhibit just the right amount of pain at her dilemma, which is predictably resolved in an unpredictable way.

****T-Friendly Beaches

To car-less Bostonians like myself, this Boston Herald story (here) about beaches that are public transportation-accessible may seem like a godsend, especially with humid, sweltering weather predicted for this weekend.

But it only emphasizes how dismal your choices are. There's Revere Beach ('OK, you won't find the pristine white sands of P-town or Nantucket here...'), Lovells Island (for the 'cold water aficionado'), Nantasket Beach ('officials promise it's now construction-free'), Constitution Beach ('if the sound of planes taking off and landing doesn't bum you out...'), Carson Beach ('this Southie beach has come a long way since it was closed in the early '90s for high bacteria levels'), Malibu Beach ('looks out over the world's largest copyrighted artwork - the rainbow-painted Boston Gas tank'), and Singing Beach ('if you're willing to brave the half-mile walk from the commuter rail station...').

****Naked Bike Riding: Two Birds, One Stone

Speaking of car-free diversions...

Heads up (and eyes politely averted): Tomorrow is the World Naked Bike Ride 2005, a protest "against oil dependency and car culture in the history of humanity. It is time to stop indecent exposure to automobile emissions and to celebrate the power and individuality of our bodies" (here).

****The Waco Resurrection: This ain't Donkey Kong

For anyone who secretly wants to be David Koresh, defending the Branch Davidian compound against Janet Reno's Federal Raiders, check out Endgames, a "new 3D multiplayer computer game series based on alternative utopias and apocalyptic moments" (here).

****How to be a Little Less of a Pig

A new diet book offers advice "for the weak." I assume they mean people with weak willpower, since the infirm generally don't care how they look in swimsuits.

Though the book is sponsored by the American Heart Association and touts a "no-fad approach," the diet promotes truly radical eating modification, like "Can't give up pizza? Try eating two slices instead of your regular three" (here).

Sigh. It's like the grapefruit diet all over again.

****Funnier Than Me

A friend who is noted for her wit (even if it is a tad smart-alecky) suggested a better headline for yesterday's post (see directly below) about the Fruit and Vegetables gang : "Urban Blight."

****Kicking it with My Homeboys, Leek and Fig

When I first heard about the "notorious West Roxbury gang known as the Fruits and Vegetables," I pictured an activist group of well-meaning white people who infiltrated poor urban areas and sought to cure the trappings of the ghetto environment... with fresh produce.

But no, it's a real gang, all violent and getting bagged by the cops and stuff (here... love the Google Ads for orange juice and dried strawberries that come up on the Boston Herald web page.)

I wonder what their gang colors are? Green? Orange? Plum?

****To the Scary Man with the Bad Sound System

You think you're cool because you've got the latest hip-hop cranked and you're driving around Central Square looking pretty dope with your gang colors on your head and tats on your arm. But unfortunately, the bass is rattling some loose part to your shitty old Hyundai, so all the pedestrians hear is an unpleasant metallic clatter, instead of the sweet, sweet bass on speakers that you secretly know are too cheap to be turned up all of the way.

Cuzz, the Fruits and Vegetables could eat you and your shitty ass speakers for a light, refreshing dinner.

********Can You Hear Me Now?

Scientists are realizing that when warnings of IMPENDING GLOBAL CATASTROPHE are framed in the soft, traditional scientific language of postulation and theory, it just gives us all an excuse to ignore them. That is why bold statements like this are refreshing: "Eleven of the world's most influential science academies warned world leaders that the threat of global climate change is clear and increasing and that they must act immediately to begin addressing its causes and consequences" (here).

No more pussy-footing the issue. No more "Well, the polar caps are melting, but because we deal in absolutes, we can't definitely attribute this to human activity, we can only speculate that BLAH BLAH BLAH." Not only did this allow us to ignore them without guilt, it gave our politicians license to repeal or ignore industry-unfriendly limits on greenhouse gases.

But what if this noncommittal attitude towards global warming wasn't all because of hedgy scientists who lacked hard data and evidence to say what they ALL know?

This week, it was revealed that a high-ranking environmental Bush aide and former oil lobbyist Philip Cooney altered the contents on memos penned by real scientists (here). Cooney, who has a Bachelors in Economics, inflated the standard scientific reservations expressed in the memos to produce "an air of doubt about findings that most climate experts say are robust" by making edits like inserting the phrase "significant and fundamental" before the word "uncertainties."

Well, all I can say is that I have significant and fundamental uncertainties about the Bush Administration's commitment to the environment. May you all burn in Antarctica.

****Try a Little Tender Fish

Since Mark had moved to East Cambridge, his intake of seafood increased markedly. His one-room apartment was next door and upstairs from a fish market. Every weekday coming home from work, he stopped and bought fish and potatoes. The owner, a thin old man who spoke sparingly in some Eastern European accent, routinely produced a perfect third of a pound fillet from any cut of fish. With his steady, beady right eye fixed on the flesh, and his left eye closed with a softness that caused the lid to shudder, he'd sigh noisily like a Tae Kwon Do ki-up and slice cleanly through the fish. His knives were all gleaming silver blades mounted on ball handles engraved with a single word: Maria.

When Mark got home with his two potatoes and his third of a pound of whatever looked good, he'd chop the potatoes, toss in some butter and oil, douse the fish in lemon juice, wine, salt and pepper, and stick it in the oven. Then he'd undress and throw on cotton slacks and a sweater, hang his suit up, and check his email. 30 minutes later, he'd eat with relish in front of the television, spearing shards of fish into chunks of potatoes and washing it down with imported beer.

The night that Dana called for the first time since the month before, he was eating swordfish. It was overcooked and each piece had to by chewed at least 20 times. He felt dejected, as dinner was usually the highlight of his evening. When his cell phone rang and he saw Dana Home on the Caller ID, a strange, good feeling pulsed in his chest, and he answered slightly dazed:

"Hi Dana."
"Hi. How are you?"
"Good. I'm good. I'm, uh, eating dinner."
"Is this a bad time?" she asked, a little too fast.
"No. Not a bad time. What's up?"
" I just wanted to call. To see how you were. Because last time we talked - "
"I'm sorry about that. It was a bad day for me." He paused. "I'm not always like that. Depressed."
"You were more angry, I thought. Or so it seemed."
She sounded slightly confrontational. It was a tone of voice he had gotten used to at the end.
"I'm sorry about that. Really. How are you?"
"You scared me, Mark." Hearing her voice say his name sounded foreign. It had always been hon or baby, never Mark, a name that was impossible to say tenderly. He pondered this, forgetting the accusation she had just made.
"Do you want to get a coffee sometime?" he asked, proud of himself for keeping enough of a distance by not asking her to dinner.
"Mark, that's not what I want. To see you, I mean. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"Sure I'm okay. I'm great." He tried to smile as he continued "Work is good. I'm playing golf every weekend. And I'm, uh, eating a lot of fish."
"What?"
"I'm eating a lot of fish. There's a fish market next door. I go there every day."
"Really?" She sounded fascinated; cooking fish for himself was quite unlike the hon or baby she had known who spent every night in a local bar, drinking imported beer and eating steak tips while chatting up the cute college bartender. "What kind of fish?"
"All kinds. Tonight I did up some swordfish. Yesterday I had cod. This guy gets really good stuff, really fresh."
"Wow. Mark, that sounds... that sounds nice."
"Yeah, well, it's convenient. And I've gotten really good at cooking it." He sensed the affect this was having on her. "If you ever wanted to come over sometime, see my place, I'll cook us up some sea bass."
"Well... I won't commit to it, but maybe someday. Someday soon."
"Okay." His heart beat strong and steady. He felt fantastic."Maybe I'll email you? Are you around next week?"
"Sure," Dana said warmly. "Email me. I'll let you get back to your dinner. Your swordfish." She paused. "Goodnight, hon."
"Goodnight, Dana." He hung up and picked up his plate, smiling into it as he chewed.

****Let Me Clear My Deep Throat

A lot of people are wondering how Vanity Fair, a magazine that in May 2005 featured the whory cast of Desperate Housewives on their cover, managed to write the way into respectable history books in June 2005 by getting the scoop of the century. Turns out the magazine that pays Teri Hatcher and company to bare air-brushed body parts will also pay to reveal who ratted on Nixon (here).

****Overheard on the Red Line After Work

"Connor, do you have to poop? Do you have to poop? Connor! Yes or no, you have to poop?" --Connor's Loud, Shrill, Fat Mom

****My Summer Movie Mini-Preview

Land of the Dead: Romero Returns

My favorite Horror movie of all time is Dawn of the Dead (Romero's original). Night of the Living Dead ranks high as well, though Day of the Dead, which completed the trilogy of zombie madness, just stunk and made me suspect that Romero was a 2-shot fluke. I have the sinking feeling that Land of the Dead, an obvious attempt to cash in on the slight revival of zombie movies, will not have the same low-budget charm. It's more real when a character is clumsily attacked by a random extra in dead silence, not charged by a computer-enhanced aspiring actor while orchestral music pulses in the background.

War of the Worlds: Whatever

I'm not going to see this. The endless preview only fanned my recent hatred for Tom Cruise. The total blanketing of the South Station Red Line platform in purposefully cryptic ads has made me loath Hollywood publicity in general. The special effects do look pretty amazing, but who cares. They always are.

Wedding Crashers: The One Mass Market Comedy I'm Pinning My Hopes On

For some reason, I'm all excited about the Owen Wilson/Vince Vaugh/Christopher Walken comedy. In fact, I subjected myself to mountains of spam by registering for a free movie pass here. I intuitively like all of the actors involved, and the ten-minute long preview couldn't possibly have revealed all of the funny parts, and even if it did, I'm sure the funny parts are all-the-more hilarious when taken in their proper context. BTW, in all of the promo pics, both Owen and Vince look about ten times younger than they do in the film. They looked horrible in the previews. Obviously, the rigors of filming a comedy about womanizers who go to strangers' weddings to get laid took its toll.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith: Faster, Angelina! Kill Kill!

This movie looks like crap. Of all the stupid-ass gimmicks... spouses that are both undercover CIA assassins, and have to kill each other. It's farcical, but plainly not done as a farce. Sure, sexy action movies is all Angelina Jolie is good for, but Brad! You are capable of so much more!

Batman Begins: To Turn Me On

I admit it, ever since American Psycho, I've dug Christian Bale. By perfectly playing a rich yuppie serial killer, he proved his worth as a character actor, so I'm hoping he'll take the dark, disturbed Batman, the most dark, troubled super-hero in comics, to a deeper level than Michael Keaton and Val Kilmer were capable of. And if he doesn't, at least I'll get my summer's fill of special effects.

Bewitched: Because Original Ideas Are Now Optional

Crap. Not only will I not see, I'm betting no one will. No one ever liked Bewitched anyway. In ten years, would you go see Sabrina the Teenaged Witch if they made it into a movie?

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory: Yummy!

Sure, it not original, but it's Tim Burton, Johnny Depp, and chocolate. Resistance is futile.

****Random Quote of the Day

Miss: A title with which we brand unmarried women to indicate that they are in the market. Miss, Misses (Mrs.) and Mister (Mr.) are the three most distinctly disagreeable words in the language, in sound and sense. Two are corruptions of Mistress, the other of Master. If we must have them, let us be consistent and give one to the unmarried man. I venture to suggest Mush, abbreviated to MH.

--Ambrose Bierce

(here for more exciting word etymology on titles)

****Ruminations on Ruminants

****The Ice Cream Season is Upon Us

Speaking of cows, this Tuesday through Thursday 11:30am-6pm, Boston's City Hall Plaza is playing host to Ben and Jerry's annual All-you-can-eat ice cream festival (for $7!) to benefit the Jimmy Fund. I know where I'm going for my lunch break... (here for info... here for all the flavors. Edy's Espresso Chip, Brigham's No Bake Cake, Baskin Robbins Hunka Chunka Chip! Sigh!)

****Movie Review: The Longest Yard

How many guilty pleasures can one movie brandish and still manage to carry a plot? In The Longest Yard, there's Adam Sandler, football, anti-authoritarian convicts triumphing over a sadistic warden and his guards, an AC/DC song, Courtney Cox in a bit part as a mega-bitch, and offensive jokes about gays, blacks, fat people, and Texans. Like pigs in slop we were!

I generally seek out movies that challenge notions and improve my world view. But when I need to laugh, I look to our modern clowns. And Adam Sandler was one of the best until he tried to be marketable with crap like The Wedding Singer and 50 First Dates. Thankfully, he is back to his Happy Gilmore/Billy Madison shtick as the badly-behaving guy with the heart of gold who would not hesitate to engage in a kinky photo shoot with an elderly tart (played by Cloris Leachman, ew) to help his rag-tag prison football team triumph over their guards for a ESPN-2 televised game.

And I laughed. Repeatedly and aloud. I couldn't help it. Not every joke flies, but that's typical Sandler. He'll throw a few duds just to keep up the general level of brainless hilarity, which is needed with the poignant moments squeezed awkwardly amid the exaggerated violence and crude jokes. And with Chris Rock as his sidekick, throwing around more black jokes than footballs, it is a surprisingly tight comedy

Burt Reynolds also stars in this remake of his 1974 classic (which was done with a tad more earnestness). This movie ain't gonna win any Independent Film awards, but at least it's making people laugh... which is more than I can say about nearly all of the movies currently playing at the Kendall Square or Coolidge Corner cinemas. Sure, I could have invested my movie-going time and money in a more intelligent movie, but sometimes you need to shut your brain off and imbibe your soul with mirth.

The average child laughs about 400 times per day, the average adult laughs only 15 times per day. --USA Today

****Rotgut Romps in Everyday Life

My roommates excel in turning nearly all their pastimes into drinking games. A board game becomes a drinking game ("every time your opponent gets a double-word score"), TV watching becomes a drinking game ("every time Paula Abdul sasses Simon.."), and, well, that's pretty much all they really do in their spare time, when they're not in bars.

As this page (here) shows, it is possible to mix intoxicating merriment with many activities not traditionally associated with spirits.

Now, if I could think of someway to turn "cleaning the apartment" into a drinking game (take a drink every time you find a Cheerio under furniture or an appliance? Finish your drink if you disinfect the toilet?)...

****Which Way Does Your Brain Swing?

The Guardian has an article about male and female brains (here). Simon Baron-Cohen explains his empathising-systemising (E-S) theory: "the female brain is predominantly hard-wired for empathy, and the male brain is predominantly hard-wired for understanding and building systems."

Two tests measure your ability to empathize (here) and systemize (here). I hate quizzes that employ the "Definitely Agree - Slightly Agree - Slightly Disagree - Strongly Disagree" format. It requires too much self-analyzing. I can tell you with only two questions: Does your brain carry a purse? Does it have a bone-crushing handshake?

Pontificating on the differences between the brains of men and women is back in vogue since the President of Harvard Lawrence Summers' infamous speech about women not having the brain capacity to excel in academia (a career-threatening move that has lead to unseemly obvious amends, like recently funding a $50 million dollar initiative on advancing women in the Harvard faculty here, which sounds sort of like affirmative action).

Personally, I've never believed that gender roles are entirely the result of misogynistic social construct. The key is testosterone, an oft-derided hormone that has driven humankind to realize its current potential... good or bad, testosterone has built our world. It drives men to dominate. There has never been a civilization that has primarily associated leadership and public authority positions with women, with the exception of a few near-mythical tribes.

Different is not bad. Most women don't want to spend their lives crunching numbers, studying theory and driving ourselves crazy with postulation. Most men don't either. It's a select few humans who are driven to do isolate themselves from the world in scientific pursuit.

But just because the female gender is not hard-wired for science, that doesn't mean the potential of women to benefit the greater good should be ignored, especially since war and feudal politics have evolved to be unnecessary. Politics would benefit from the empathizing female brain, yet women are rampantly under-represented. The WNBA is every bit as enthralling basketball as the NBA, but the league struggles to be taken seriously by the public. And don't even get me started on the latent discrimination that women face at nearly every office in the country.

****June Bugs

What joy have I in June's return?
My feet are parched--my eyeballs burn,
I scent no flowery gust;
But faint the flagging zephyr springs,
With dry Macadam on its wings,
And turns me "dust to dust."

--Thomas Hood (1799-1845)

I started off May 1 (here) anticipating that the impending weather would cause an awakening of lust for the world and every creature that walks upon it.

I talk about the weather too much on this website, but I savor walking around the city, and to battered by rain, wind and cold has overwhelmed my ability to cope with a profound disappointment... with the tempestuous Boston weather. Instead of praising myself for having the good sense and luck not to live somewhere threatened by tornadoes, hurricanes, and tsunamis, I pout like a child over drizzle.

I feel in my bones that June will be sultry.