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**** Campy
I'm off to Maine this weekend, for the first camping trip of the season! No, not the fall season, but the whole 2007 season. For some reason, Mr. Pinault has been reluctant to head out in the wilderness this year. Everytime I mention camping, he gestures towards the amentities of home that he cannot live without - the kitchen, the bathroom, the electrical grid - all the while massaging his neck and back, as if his muscles became sore from just the thought of sleeping on the ground.
But camping does have perks. The fresh air. The stars, crickets, and campfire. And, most importantly, it's dirt-cheap. For $20 a night, even Mr. Pinault can forget about his morning aches and sleeplessness.
I'll be back next week...
**** That Priggish Logic that makes Suits Who They Are
Lately I've been fetishizing suits. There's something intangibly interesting about people who surrender their identity, passions, and morals in the name of wealth, power, and luxury-living. Are suits made or born? I don't know, but my new job has taken me into the epicenter of Bostonian suits, and I'm finding them simply fascinating and entirely bland.
There was a suit walking in front of me today at lunch time, talking on his Blackberry. Among suits, this guy is an Alpha: Mid-40s. Impeccably groomed and attired. Intelligent face, strong jaw, broad shoulders, and a thick head of hair. His stride was resolute yet altruistic. His only fault was his tall, wiry body, as suits typical have a belly as a sign of puissance.
I couldn't help but to zero in on his murmuring...
"It's the last week of summer and the weather couldn't be better... So do I go in the office? Or do I go to the golf course?... Yeah, in the long run, it's much better for everyone if I go to the golf course... because otherwise, I'm going to regret it."
**** Mewling in the Blogosphere
My new job gratifies my intellectual appetite to the point where I'm terribly unmotivated to write here this week. Poor exhausted brain just wants to take assume child pose, take deep cleansing breaths, and unwind all those little contorted synapses. Ahhhhhh.
To draw an analogy to food: It like I've been eating nothing but pasta for the past 5 years. Hey, nothing's wrong with pasta. It's satisfying. But all of a sudden, holy effing christ, it's a potato! And I'm so excited to be eating this potato that I will focus all my energy on the potato. Does that make any sense? Should my brain go back to resting quietly in child pose?
I'm tempted to find a Republican to mock, but what choices! I ripped through the New York Times this morning to read all about the latest tawdry sex scandal (here). I just can't fathom a subculture of gay sex in airport bathrooms revolving around foot-tapping that it has become such a problem that the police conduct sting operations. I feel so naively female.
To tie an awkward bow on this rambling post: Did I mention that the bathrooms in my new office have quilted toilet paper?
**** Evil Eyes are Rolling
Lately I cannot even order lunch without aggravating a hapless clerk. But I maintain my innocence. I mean, I'm sorry that preparing a to-go bread and soup bowl at Au Bon Pain takes about two minutes, but really, shouldn't Au Bon Pain smooth out this process so that I'm not the target of everyone's quiet loathing? And if Sebastians had stipulated on their menu that "hold the lettuce, extra tomatoes" costs .75, then I could have saved the cashier a lot of grief (you'd think people making 8 dollars an hour would be sympathetic to my outrage). And Cosi sandwich lady, maybe I could have been a little more adamant when I said "No ham, please." I know it's pretty chaotic and loud. But is it really that big of a deal to make me another sandwich? I'm smiling and agreeable. Why are you looking at me like I'm the Anti-Christ?
**** First Day Jitters
Today was the first day of my new job. I didn't eat breakfast because I thought that my stomach would be churning with first-day fears, but since my commute to downtown Boston is essentially the same, I felt calm on the train... well, as calm as a tardy victim of MBTA incompetence can be. For sure my blood pressure could have cracked a nut.
When I arrived at South Station, a mild pang of anxiety flared and abated the hunger. I was tempted to turn onto Summer Street and go to my old office: "Meredith! What are you doing here? Why aren't you at your new job?" my former co-workers would say when I somehow bypassed security to appear at the team meeting that just happened to be rescheduled to Monday at 9am.
"I heard you guys have an opening for a tech writer, and I know someone who'd be perfect for the position," I'd say tentatively.
"Oh yeah? Who?" my former co-workers would say quizzically.
"Me," I'd say softly, unsure of their reaction, "if you'd have me back."
Emotions would swell. "Of course we'll have you back. We never wanted you to leave. You grew up here. You're family!" Smiles. Hand shakes. Bells would ring. "Hey, look. It's Meredith. She came back!" they'd say, as the entire office came running to rejoice my return, preferably with cake.
But, no. I walked down Atlantic Avenue to my new office. And while my new co-workers didn't greet me as if I were family, at least they gave me a nice laptop and a welcoming bagel breakfast. The affection and co-dependance, well, that will come with time and hard work.
**** I Love...
The free city! no slaves! no owners of slaves!
The beautiful city, the city of hurried and sparkling waters! the city of spires and masts!
The city nested in bays! my city!
The city of such women, I am mad to be with them! I will return after death to be with them!
The city of such young men, I swear I cannot live happy, without I often go talk, walk, eat, drink, sleep, with them!
-Walt Whitman, "Mannahatta" (here)
I spent three long days in Manhattan and Brooklyn, which was enough time to do the following:
* Arrive on a Peter Pan bus from Boston after an initially ordinary journey that deteriorated when the driver took an off-highway foray into the streets of the Bronx, subjecting us to 90 minutes of stop-and-go jerkiness and his own maniacal road rage.
* Discover that the threat of blogging is a formidable weapon of the passive aggressive house guest (thank you RT, KT, and most especially L!)
* Drink a fair amount of beer in various thematic Manhattan and Brooklyn bars, including a beauty salon, a Polynesian hut, a summer camp, and a bar with a bocce ball court.
* Get lost in SoHo, almost on purpose. All around me, cranky tourists swarmed the streets in unfathomable heat and haze, retreating into the polar-conditioned stores for respite. I felt bad for them. They journey to New York, shell out astronomical sums of money for a hotel, upend their concept of normal daily life, and in return, New York offers the same flipping chain stores and restaurants that they have back in Peducah Falls: Ann Taylor, Armani Exchange, Crate and Barrel, Pottery Barn, Office Depot, Victoria's Secret... and for those who want unique New York commodities, across the sidewalk on folding tables along the curb there's genuine curiosities like knitted chinese handcuffs, rubber ducky decor, shell jewelry, and cheap Chinese imports. Oh, the glamour of Third World sweatshop handiwork.
* Frolic at Coney Island, where I oohed and aahed over the view afforded by the Wonder Wheel (here) and experienced whiplashy thrills on the Cyclone (here).
* Gaze at the Brooklyn Bridge from a park in the Dumbo neighborhood of Brooklyn while contemplating metaphysical questions such as: Is the human race essentially good? Is pride more dangerous than greed? Are we just animals with an extra-dangerous capacity for thinking and doing? Can such magnificent creation - these bridges, that forest of buildings - withstand a contradictory proclivity for destruction - that gaping hole in the skyline where the Twin Towers once presided?
Brooklyn Bridge and Manhattan Skyline
Chinese Store in SoHo
**** Capiche
Despite this eponymous website that is read weekly by dozens, I'm not the most famous person ever to graduate from Methacton High School.
No, that honor goes to Eric, one-half of the comedic duo Tim and Eric (here), creators of Adult Swim sensation "Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job!" (here). I realized how famous he is when I opened this month's Maxim magazine and found myself staring at a Tim and Eric-oriented blurb.
Yes, in high school, not only did I totally know who Eric was... he knew who I was, too! In fact, he dated my best friend. I could tell stories, but after watching the "Office Chunky Capiche" videos featured Eric as Carol (here), well, I just can't top that.
[On a side note: When I was younger, a rumor said that WWF wrestler Ultimate Warrior was an alumnae (click here to see hysterical, terrifying video clips of the Ultimate Warrior's pre-match smack talk). But now the internet informs me that is totally false (here - like most wrestlers, Warrior is a product of the Mid West.)]
**** Gay Old Town
I spent two nights in Provincetown, the gay and lesbian resort town on Cape Cod (here).
Why would a straight girl like me go to P-town? Well, it's easily accessible by a ferry from Boston and can be readily navigated with a rented bicycle. The beaches, cycling trails, and downtown commercial district are stellar. Plus, I'd be going mid-week and avoid the crush of weekend crowds.
I also discovered that P-town is an exceptionally safe place for women to travel alone. Any unwanted male attention disappeared as soon as they realized that I wasn't a post-op transsexual. And any unwanted female attention just didn't happen, probably because no one mistook me for a lesbian... probably because I'm too pretty.
Since Mr. Pinault didn't go with me, the quality of photographs that I have to share is dismal. Wow and woe... it takes some serious lack of skill to make a place as colorful as P-town look so drab.
Picture #1 is the Pilgrim Monument, taken from the bay as the ferry approached the town. (And yes, for those of you unfamiliar with Provincetown, there is a 250-foot tall granite phallus in the town center to commemorate the first landfall of the Pilgrims and the signing of the Mayflower Compact.)
Picture #2 is a lily-pad-ladden pond in Beech Forest. Tadpoles are visible in the lower-right hand corner of the picture.
**** Vacation Week
Posting will be spotty this week, as I am deliciously between jobs and enjoying excursions all over the place...
**** Step Away from the Toy
I can only imagine the public relations juggernaut that Mattel mobilized to deal with their massive toy recall (here). CEO Bob Eckert's videotaped message to his 'fellow parents' (here) probably required more takes than OK Go's 'Here We Go Again' treadmill video (here). Eckert's sweeping, hypnotic hand gestures, his grave unsmiling face, and his 'toy recall' tone of voice strikes a perfect blend of sincerity, authority, and outrage: I'm as pissed off as you folks that our incompetence has endangered our precious, darling children... but we're going to do something about it. We're going to start doing our jobs, because it's the right thing to do.
And that Eckert managed not to directly mention the country of China yet still imply that it was entirely China's fault is genius. Notice how only a few of the recalled products involve lead paint. The majority involve magnets, which were presumably apart of design plans that were passed through multiple layers of toymaker bureaucracy before being sent to China. Surely someone at Mattel is paid to pick up on tiny choking hazards on the toys.
According to ABC News, in China, heads are rolling in the toy industry (here). No, not literally... that we know of...
**** Sand Dune Walk
We went walking in the sand dunes at Crane Beach in Ipswitch (here), which is one of the few places in New England where humans are allowed to explore the fragile dune ecosystem on (bare)foot.
There was all this crazy beach grass. And weird insects, like huge bright orange ants and invisible crickets. To say nothing of the rare shore birds guarding their nests with the help of electric fences.
I expected a leisurely walk, but sand dune walking proved to be an intensive cardio activity. Really works those ankle muscles. Foot exfoliation is an added bonus.
Both Photos by Mr. Pinault
**** Class Cues
IL told me a while ago: When two couples get into a car together, they'll indicate their social class by where everyone sits. If one couple sits in front, and the second couple sits in back, they're middle-class. If the men sit in front and the women sit in back, they're lower-class. And if they "switch" partners so one man sits next to the other woman, then they're upper-class.
Because this class cue was observed decades ago, all three scenarios revolve around a male driver. Presumably, feminism would allow for every conceivable configuration, so I asked: "What if a woman is driving, and both women sit in front and the men sit in back?"
"Extreme lower-class."
"Or the woman is driving, and the other man sits next to her and their partners sit in the back?"
"Extreme upper-class."
"Ok, the woman is driving, her man sits next to her, and the other couple sits in back?
"Extreme middle class. Or, as they're more commonly known, bohemians."
**** Not Good at Bye
Today was my last day at work. I'm not good at formal, permanent good-byes. My face oscillates between cheerful grins and woebegone grimaces. I laugh. I repeat myself. I may murmur nonsense. If there's a compliment or tender sentiment, I'll sigh "Awwwwwwww."
Today, as I forked berry cheesecake into my mouth at my late morning farewell celebration, I discovered that these bizarre mannerisms are exacerbated by sugar. At least I was way too hyper to get overly emotional. If my former colleagues of 5 1/2 years thought that my constant insane chuckling was amiss, surely they were disturbed when I squawked "I can't believe that I'm totally, like, unemployed for the next week!"
Really, though. I have the next week off and I feel really, really weird and unfettered. And sad. Too frequently in life, we discover how much we care about something only when we part from it.
But I'll survive. And I'll listen to the mourning doves near my balcony, drink my beer, peck away these words, and find solace in Seuss, who said "Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened."
**** Kitty
Pictured below is my sister's cat Kitty, who has a two-tone nose and a look in her eye like "Hurry up and take the picture, Mr. Pinault."
It's amazing how many pictures of pussy you can find on the Internet. Cats, I mean! Cat lovers seem particularly well-suited to Internet addiction, given our proclivities for quiet introspection, drive-by social contact, and celebrity sex blogs.
Speaking of addiction, I could play Kitten War all day ("Not all war is bad" - here). Then there's the Daily Kitten (here) and the classic Random Kitten Generator (here). Cute Overload (here) isn't limited to just cats - there's dogs, hamsters, moose - but they do have a special section called "Cats 'n Racks" that features pictures of women with cats down their shirts.
I like this blog about raising orphaned kittens (here), as well as this accompanying web site Kitten Baby (here), that gives interesting tips like how to feed a kitten from a bottle and then "stimulate a kitten's elimination," which still manages to sound really, really cute.
That's what I love about kittens. They can make something extremely gross look adorable. For a prime example, check out this video of "how to break up a cat fight" (here). It's probably the only video in the world that's tagged both "cute" and "vomit."
**** Notre Pain Quotidien ("Our Daily Bread")
Despite a passion for haute cuisine that has earned France a global reputation as a nation of deservedly-snotty gourmets, the staple food of the French diet is white bread.
Bread is a fact of life. It is a palate for jam, butter, and cheese. It is a sponge for the sauces and juices that remain on a finished plate. French don't even consider bread to be a food, same as how many people wouldn't consider water to be a beverage. Foie gras terrine with mushrooms soaked in white wine is food. A lush plate of coq au vin is food. River fish with saffron and herbs de provence is food. Of course, given the paltry portion sizes of French courses, bread bumps the caloric value of meals to "barely sufficient."
Bread to the French is what pasta and polenta is to Italians... corn is to South Americans... fufu and cassava is to Africans... beets and millet are to Russians... beer and potatoes are to Germans... rice and noodles are to East Asians... donuts and muffins are to Americans. But unlike many staple foods, bread is a high-maintenance daily habit, especially French bread, which with no added fat can morph from fresh-baked heaven to a dried out husk in less than a day. Hence, the procurement of fresh bread is a omnipresent preoccupation.
Mr. Pinault has assimulated to American life to the point where he is happiest when he is watching American football and drinking American beer with his beastly American girlfriend, but he'll never be able to relax in his own home unless there's fresh bread in the kitchen. I discovered this pretty quickly back in our dating days, when I poked around his kitchen and found the stale remains of about a half-dozen baguettes. It was a disturbing discovery. "Why'd you buy more bread when there's plenty?" I asked, pointing at the pile of baguette ends. Of course, it only took one meal of me stubbornly wrestling with a nub of stale bread while watching Mr. Pinault relish his fresh crusty doughy chewy baguette to rid me of the shame of throwing away stale bread.
Two small bread stories:
1. Once in a while, I'll bake my own bread, an effort that Mr. Pinault supports with an open mouth. His only critique: "Needs more salt." Salt seemed to me a curious consideration for bread. I then read a rather gruesome account of how baguettes were made in centuries past, usually by a much-beleagured baker's assistant who awoke at 3am to knead fermenting dough in a heated cellar. The baker's sweat would mix into the dough, adding a certain je ne sais quoi to the bread that apparently became a defining feature of the salty baguette. Maybe I'll try it some day.
2. One night, Mr. Pinault came in the kitchen to peek in the pots and found me crying as I chopped white onions for a stew. He offered a cure for onion-induced tears that he learned from his grandmother: Hold a piece of bread in your mouth as you chop. "That's ridiculous. I never heard of that before," I said, sniffling. He ripped off a piece of baguette and kissed my cheek as he stuffed it in my mouth. "Bread is the answer to everything," he said. And indeed, the bread relieved my eyes, gladdened my mouth, and revived my heart.
**** Maundy Tuesday
Five and a half years at the same company equals roughly 270 Tuesdays, and today is my last. Three more days. Please, hurry up and give me my farewell cake. I'm the walking dead.
I've thoroughly documented the transition of my responsibilities and assisted with the job description to advertise for my replacement. I spent today stuffing recycling bins with papers from 2003 and listening to office doors shut all around me. The dearth of work-related email confers a strange and unreasonable feeling of rejection from my co-workers. What, you don't want my input anymore? I'm off the project?
I've said my final farewells to a few who left for business trips or vacation. The mutual cracks in our voices is surprising.
When I came here, I was a 25 year-old girl with a liberal arts degree, aiming no higher than getting through the 9/11 recession without resorting to customer service. I was one of few women in a company of older men. I worked hard but resented the menial nature of my tasks. Twice, I tried to quit on the spur of the moment. Twice, they convinced me to stay "until you find something else." That was five years ago. (Finally, I found something else.).
Technical communication is more than dictating procedures. Users can figure out HOW to delete or create something in a well-designed software program, but they want to know WHY they should. Why is clicking that button so great? Why are the numbers in the report so high? Why is this software so freaking useful? To explain the WHY, I synthesized a large amount of domain-specific information about facilities management. As the company grew, my co-workers turned to the user's manual to understand WHY they should sell, market, and develop facilities management software. My terminology and phrasing became the standard way to refer to concepts. I was the voice of the software.
It's startling when people say I am a key person who will be sorely missed, because I was never the most important person in the room. But then again, I was always in the room.
**** My First Drug Test
Today I took a drug test as a pre-hire requirement for my new job. I've never had a urine test or anything like this before. Ten years ago I would have refused to take a drug test... purely on idealistic grounds, of course. To conduct a chemical analysis of one's urine is an invasion of privacy. But same as how mold forms on an aging cheese, I've grown a conservative crust, and I can see the wisdom of keeping the public safe from PCP-using MBTA conductors.
Of course, I'm a technical writer. By giving me a drug test, the public is safe from stoned user documentation: Click the Reports tab to set the report parameters, which display on the blue-colored section of the screen like fat-lipped fish resting in the waters of a salt-thickened sea or After you click Submit, a confirmation message displays within seconds, but in the meantime you can stare at a blinking yellow dot and remember that it's better to light a candle than curse the darkness.
Stupidly, yesterday at lunch I ate a half of a poppy-seed-covered roll before I remembered how poppy seeds can cause a false-positive result for opiates (another Seinfeld lesson learned.)
The internet convinced me that any effects from the poppy seeds would be negligible after a day, but I felt compelled to say something to the bizarre man who collected my "specimen," just in case my test came back positive. Maybe he could vouch for me: "Oh, don't worry about it. She mentioned to me that she ate this poppy-seed thing."
Instead, he denounced the idea that poppy seeds could cause a false positive as ludicrous. "These tests can tell the difference between poppy seed rolls and heroin," he spat. I laughed as if I were charmed. What is the etiquette of a drug test? How does one behave towards the urine-handling person? Ironically, my nervousness made me fidget and giggle like I was on drugs. Which I'm not.
**** He's Roving Home
The news that Karl Rove is leaving the White House startled me (as did this picture of him waving good-bye, looking as happy and carefree as a cruise-goer at a bon voyage reception, here). Because having an evil genius in the White House is better than having no genius at all.
I'm currently reading the Atlantic Monthly's massive cover story about how Karl Rove is directly responsible for Bush's "failed presidency" (here). The article makes Rove out to be even a bigger schmuck than I would have thought possible, with an unwillingness to listen to differing opinions, especially those of the public and media. Even Republican congressman were appalled by the Administration's imperial attitude.
But the icing on Rove's farewell cake is his reason for leaving: He wants to spend more time with his family. Karl Rove, family man! We never even knew he had a family, and now he's rushing back to Texas so he won't miss another year of birthdays, anniversaries, and Little League games, leaving poor Dubya in free-fall.
**** PA Road Trip
I'm off to Pennsylvania until the beginning of next week. I think it's okay, because I can hear these words echoing in the void left by universal vacation. I could say anything right now and no one would hear. Hence, "the streets are paved with dental dams" (see below).
**** Noho Way
The town of Northampton, MA was named by National Geographic Adventure magazine as a "top adventure town" (here).
Let me just say that I love Northampton. When I went to college in nearby Amherst, I hung out in Noho more than once a week. I still go back periodically because Northampton just may be the perfect town. It's tucked quaintly in the charming Pioneer Valley, with all of the urban perks (good restaurants, entertainment, walkable downtown) and none of the urban drawbacks (crime, impersonal bustle, homelessness aside from scenic downtrodden hippies).
But when I heard "top adventure town," I scraped my brain for all of the adventures that one could have in Northampton. The only thing to come to mind: Lesbians. They're everywhere. It's the lesbian epicenter of the world. Take the family to Northampton, and you'll have an adventure keeping the kids from staring at all the lovely hand-holding couples smooching on park benches. It's an adventure, all right. The streets are paved with dental dams. Be sure to bring your camera.
**** Coal Miner Fodder
6 coal miners are currently trapped in a collapsed mine in Utah (here). The mine owner claims that an earthquake caused the collapse, although seismic experts are unsure, and some evidence suggests that the mine practiced risky "retreat mining." It is not known if the men are dead or alive, but rescue effort are expected to drag on for at least a week...
Which is plenty of time to drum up public fascination for this latest gritty life-or-death mining saga! Nothing sells newspapers like a mining community exhibiting stoic grief and tearful frustration over the uncertain fate of their men trapped in a mine.
Reporters are flocking to the backwater town to drill into the veritable gold-mine of humble rustic folk, with their "somber expressions and the look in their eyes as they politely shake their heads, declining to answer any questions about what they feel or if they might know any of the six who earn their salaries working underground" (here). As an added bonus, there's the dramatic and talkative mining company CEO, who gives impassioned soundbites like "we're using every means known to mankind" and "I will not leave this mine until those men are rescued, dead or alive."
Will it end in tragedy? Will it end in miraculous survival? Either way, for the media, it's win-win!
**** I shit you not
As I said before, I'll leave the dream blogs to masterful dream bloggers like Officer Cool, but man oh man, I had a doozy of a dream last night.
I dreamt that I was attending a black tie dinner party with a crowd of well-dressed white people. Everyone was eating and drinking around a large round table. It was all very normal, except: The party's hosts were not only obliged to feed and entertain the guests, but act as surrogates for their bodily needs. In other words, the hosts were constantly leaving the table to urinate and excrete for the guests. I congratulated myself for having the good etiquette not to add to the hostess's "duties" by making her use the bathroom for me.
Freudian Analysis. To Freud, all dreams are about wish-fulfillment and displaced symbolism. Freud had a famous dream that he called "The museum of human excrement" (read about it here). In this dream , Freud cleansed a chair that was covered in excrement by urinating on it. Upon later analysis, Freud felt the dream signified his wish to cure the world of hysteria and perversion, and demonstrated that he was a superman capable of greatness.
Based on this, I interpret my dream as evidence that I don't need psychotherapy. And I'm awed by the ability of my subconscious to be ironic.
**** An Announcement of Consequence
For the past couple of days, I've had the nonpareil pleasure of dropping the following bomb in the course of normal conversation:
"So, I quit my job."
Reactions range from nonplussed shock to unfased approval to jealousy-tinged joy to the expectance of a punchline, because that's a joke, right? No, I'm serious. In two weeks, I will leave my company after 5 1/2 years of fiercely loyal service.
5 1/2 years! Long enough to see the company triple in size and append numerous multinational companies to the client list. Long enough to have written well over a dozen user manuals about various products, integrations, and customizations. Long enough that I have seen co-workers visibly age.
I accepted a new job at a start-up in Boston, not far from where I am now. The start-up will inevitably involve more work and more stress. It could crash and burn within a year, and I will be jobless and ruing the day that I traded in my cushy job for breakneck instability.
But I am young, and any investor will advise you to take risks when you are young. Because this start-up could crash and burn, but it also could be sold for a bizillion dollars. Then I could retire, buy a mountain villa, gather an army of resident felines, and spend my days as a cat blogger.
**** Risky Business
For many years, the following quote by Mark Twain was mandatory for impassioned valedictorians and graduation speakers: "Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the tradewinds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."
I don't think anyone has ever encouraged me towards real risk. Risk is not a suitable venture for females with middle-class upbringings and no marketable skills other than a knack for writing. In fact, risk isn't encouraged these days unless someone can tolerate the risk, which means that it's not really a risk in the first place.
Me quitting my job to take a new job at a start-up isn't a risk. Me quitting my job to become the next Mark Twain... that's a risk.
**** Spectatorship
Pictured to the right, courtesy of my camera's superzoom, is Mr Pinault, zipping up his wetsuit before the commencement of this morning's sprint triathlon in Greenfield, MA. Yow!
It was a beautiful morning to play spectator to the physical anguish of others.
I sat on a concrete and stone wall, watching the cycling portion of the race. Nearby a mother and her two sub-ten year old children waited in a state of cat-like readiness for Daddy to pass by. "Where's Daddy? Where's Daddy?" the son and daughter asked repeatedly, bouncing on their behinds. "I don't know, kids," the mother said with a light tone in her voice as she peered eagerly at the faces of the oncoming cyclists. "We should be seeing him soon!"
Finally Daddy was spied from afar. His fans sprung to their feet in anticipation of their hero's passage. "Daddy! Daddy!" the kids called to the lumbering Clydesdale man, pedaling bow-legged on his top-of-the-line racing bicycle. The son rushed to the side of the road, waving his arms. "Go Daddy!"
Daddy lifted his torso, turned to his family, raised his arm... and beamed his son on the foot with an empty water bottle. Several pieces of opaque cellophane floated to the ground. "Pick that up, will you?" he called as he sped away. Enthusiasm deflated, the family sat down, silent.
Surely a man cannot be expected to be Father of the Year in the midst of a triathlon. Yet one does not expect him to throw trash at his family, either.
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**** Gephyrophobia
I have an eccentric distant cousin who refuses to drive or be driven over bridges. I'm sure the Minneapolis bridge collapse (here) and the ensuing hysteria about general bridge safety (1 in 10 of nation's bridges are structurally deficient! screams media here) has validated her anxiety, heightened her resolve, and made her a forerunner in the Next Big National Fear: Gephyrophobia.
From what I've read, most people who suffer from gephyrophobia, defined as an abnormal and persistent fear of crossing bridges, are pathologically fixated on the idea of driving off of the bridge into the water. Perhaps it's never occurred to people to be anxious about the bridge's integrity. Until now.
President George W. Bush, known for his snappy and eloquent reactions to unexpected tragedy, has pledged federal support to rebuild the bridge. "We in the federal government must respond, and respond robustly, to help the people there not only recover, but to make sure that lifeline of activity - that bridge - gets rebuilt as quickly as possible." Yeah, whatever, Bush. You are doing little to quell the tide of gephyrophobia. Your credibility is nil. Everything you touch turns to rubble.
Speaking of phobias, I enjoyed this Photoshop contest of phobias (here), but only because of this visualization of luposlipaphobia, which every Gary Larson fan knows is the fear of being pursued by timber wolves around a kitchen table while wearing socks on a newly waxed floor. While I'm not an active sufferer of luposlipaphobia, the more that I think about it...
**** Googles
Today we have a new record for the *longest search engine query* ever to guide an unsuspecting netizen to this website! Congratulations to:
a stage actress in london opened a home and took in foster kids she was taken out of london with her sister during the war to protect them and she was traumatized by the lady who took them in when she killed a rabbit to eat she latter learned that she had blocked out the color red
Your rambling, superfluous complexity has confounded a search engine to the point that it has inexplicably guided you to me. I feel vaguely as if we know each other, as if I have seen you in a movie or a play, or read you in a book. Wait, are you a Beatles song?
Honorable mention goes to teenagers are showing an extremely cool indifference towards book reading now a days, which is showing an extremely weird wording.
INTERROGATIVE
why men go to prostitutes
who is afraid to drive the mt. washington auto road
what emotions does kenneth cole web site elicit
how many maximum grabs of carbs to stay in ketosis
having cup of coffee before gyming is good for health or not
can i watch a movie called glitter that has mariah carey in it on my computer
what liquor makes girls horny
what makes your urine smell foul in the morning
why is bowling green named bowling green on nyc metro
can peanut butter cure homos
who is the mayor of nyc
how to draw a squirrel cheerleader
SMUT
bugs under sexy shoes
i'll give my left nut to see...
toreador crotch
hot sexy women in sumter,s.c.
nude merkel montage
caned in pajamas at my english prep school
"sweet valley" wakefield spanking
"blondes are exotic"
pictures of naked cannonballs
MISC/PERQUISITE
bob barker reacts to rod roddy's death
paul banks, interpol, cocaine
"jumbo sacks" "shoulder "
"custard enema"
britney spears serves her mom with mysterious papers
cords for green day's holiday
lime green draft suits
techno beat from clorox commercial
mentally ill teens in institutions that wear diapers
classical music increase unborn baby iq
real world phoenixville
vivisection ugh
complex salacious removal
euroteens
vacational refreshment
**** Accomplished Poet, Thinker, Breast Man
I was excited that Charles Simic has been named the United States Poet Laureate (here). Excited because Simic is one of a handful of living poets whose work I can discuss knowledgeably, making me seem a whole lot more modern-poetry-savvy than I am.
The poem that springs to mind when I think of Simic is "Crazy about Her Shrimp," which is a glorification of pleasure and homage to Dionysus. I first read it in college and its sexiness floored me. In some recent interviews with Simic, he sounds somber and serious, but he's a hedonist at heart. Just what our country needs!
Crazy About Her Shrimp
We don't even take time
To come up for air.
We keep our mouths full and busy
Eating bread and cheese
And smooching in between.
No sooner have we made love
Than we are back in the kitchen.
While I chop the hot peppers,
She grins at me
And stirs the shrimp on the stove.
How good the wine tastes
That has run red
Out of a laughing mouth!
Down her chin
And on to her naked tits.
"I'm getting fat," she says,
Turning this way and that way
Before the mirror.
"I'm crazy about her shrimp!"
I shout to the gods above.
-Charles Simic
**** The Fort Point Channel Swim Team
I've worked in the vicinity of the Fort Point Channel for over 5 1/2 years, allowing me to observe the Fort Point neighborhood's amazing transformation from an artist's haven and underground crime mecca into a viable destination for business and leisure. Honestly, the scene in The Departed that was filmed across the street wasn't accurate, because when Martin Sheen was thrown off the roof, he didn't land on an office worker wearing casual Brooks Brothers/Ann Taylor, talking on a cell phone, carrying a laptop and leather gym bag.
Developments since I've been here include: the new Convention Center and its string of luxury hotels, the Moakley Federal Courthouse, the redesigned Children's Museum, the brand new Instititue of Contemporary Art, the Silver Line express bus to the airport, on-ramps to genuine Big Dig tunnels, and perhaps most notably, an outpost of famed bakery Flour, whose sugar brioche buns were the only reason that I went to the office today.
I guess I should apologize to all of the construction workers who I have previously deemed lazy, idling, lecherous, incompetent, and drunk. They have a flourishing cityscape that attests to their efforts. It's probably just a coincidence that they are on a break every time that I walk by. [Just the other day, I was walking back to my office with a small pizza box, and a pickup truck filled with construction workers drove past me. "I wanna eat your pizza!" one guy yelled. It's like I get older and older, but the construction workers stay the same age.]
Anyway, my main point: Today I saw two construction workers at lunchtime, SWIMMING in the Fort Point Channel. For those of you who never had the displeasure of seeing or smelling the Fort Point Channel, it's a small body of water that connects the Boston Harbor to inland industry (here for aerial view). Automobile bridges erected mid-century made it unusable for boats, and since then, it has essentially been used as an urban trashcan. Gillette Corporation infamously threw a secret "Boston Razorblade Party" in the channel that was discovered decades after the fact. Peer into the water, and you'll see a profusion of floating trash and dead jellyfish.
To see humans swimming in the Channel was sort of like seeing humans drink toxic sludge. People stopped, stared, gagged. "What are they doing?" one woman shouted at an onlooking construction worker. "They're cooling off, taking a break," the construction worker smugly said in a South Shore accent. "That's a good way to get a rash," I said to no one in particular. "I was thinking parasites," one man answered. "Sterility," pronounced another. "At least they're not putting their faces in," his friend said, "or they'd go blind."