The Green Home

tuesday october 31 2006

**** Guising

I sat behind an all-male train klatch on the way home from work. The highlight of one man's day: "After lunch, my boss dressed up like Keith Richards," he said, his voice suppressing mirth as his jowls shook. "He had a wig, a guitar, a leather vest. He even pierced his ear to wear the earring."

"He pierced his ear?" An older man with an impeccable mustache frowned. "They have clip-on earrings. Lord." But the other men laughed. "Nobody dressed up at my office," another man said. "Except, well, we had a Sexy Witch at reception."

The other men chortled huskily. Who doesn't love a nice piece of Halloween eye candy sauntering around the office in a black tube dress with Elvira-esque hemming, knee-high black leather boots, and a pointy black hat atop of a feathered nest of hair? Who doesn't love Sexy Witch?

I've read a few articles recently about the overt sexuality of adult women's Halloween costumes (here for one, but last week's NYT had a better one.) Many women see Halloween as a chance to get all whored up without fearing their own morality. Sexy Mrs. Santa, Sexy Referee, Sexy Snow White, Sexy Nurse, and the classic School Girl.

In middle and high school, the popular girls were always Sexy Babies. They'd dress in flimsy pajamas and puffy slippers, put their hair in pigtails, clench a stuffed animal, and occasionally dangle a pacifier around their neck. Even though it wasn't revealing, they were still walking around in pajamas, looking obscenely innocent and nubile. (I was Sexy Freak... but every day was Halloween for me).

The popular boys always dressed up like women. I attributed this to latent transvestite tendencies until I saw a heavy metal documentary that explored why glam rock bands like Poison and Motley Crue dressed up like women to sing about their heterosexual prowess. "Dressing like a woman is the most macho thing you could do," someone pointed out. Indeed, a boy with any doubts about his peer acceptance would never don a dress and heels. Only a cocksure young alpha male could flaunt his undisguised masculinity under a wig and heavy make-up.

Me, this year I was a documentation coordinator (har har). I waited patiently for trick-or-treaters, but got none. Too bad, kids: The micro-boxes of raisins are mine, all mine.

monday october 30 2006

****Muslims in Space

"Dream! Dream Big! Dream the impossible! And make it come true..." - Anousheh Ansari (here)

"Astronaut" seemed a feasible career path in the early 80's. The Cold War was stoking an American passion for out-doing the Soviets, the movie SpaceCamp was 'blasting off' at the box office, and straight-faced teachers told children that we all had the potential to be astronauts. It was the ideal career with which to encourage youthful ambition - sort of like being a fireman, only less provincial. And what child wouldn't get excited by the idea of blasting into space to float around in zero gravity, play with Slinkies, and drink Tang? But after the Challenger disaster, a teacher would sooner say "Who wants to die in a fiery explosion in front of the whole world?" than promote being an astronaut.

Personally, I've never dreamed of being an astronaut. My grandiose dreams involved less science: Fashion model, Olympic track and field star, Showcase Showdown winner on The Price is Right, wife of George Michael. As I grew older and lazier, I settled on a life of attainable goals and quiet desperation.

When I first heard about space tourism, I felt contemptuous of rich people buying a one-week space vacation for $20 million. How unfair to the people who legitimately pursue their dream of being an astronaut, and wind up spending their whole careers waiting for a chance that will probably never happen. I laughed sardonically at the shambles of Russia's space program, that they needed to shuttle rich people as cargo to fund missions, and I also feared NASA may take a similar route and risk hampering scienitific pursuit so any rich putz (frigging Lance Bass?) can enjoy mind-blowing awe and unmatchable bragging rights.

I changed my mind about space tourism when I read about Anousheh Ansari, a 40-year-old Iranian-born business executive who returned from an 11-day journey to the International Space Station last month (here). Anasari is not only the first woman space tourist, she is also the first Iranian ever to be in space, and the first female Muslim. With so many "firsts" venturing to the final frontier, I did not think of this precendent until I read an article on how Ansari's journey was covered positively in her native Iran by the press, and followed enthusiastically by many women. Said one Iranian feminist journalist, "I had never seen so much enthusiasm for an Iranian woman. Young girls talked about their dreams, and it was like their own dreams had come true." Had Ansari not paid for her voyage, how long before a female Muslim goes to space?

Even if Ansari didn't take the traditional route to the space station, her achievement is exciting young people about space exploration. And if humans are to fulfill the prophecies of Isaac Asimov, we need to stop sending scientists to test the effect of weightlessness on mold and how mice respond to aspirin, and start sending rich, photogenic people from all over the globe. Take of those veils, ladies, and slip on a pressurized space helmet!

sunday october 29 2006

****Chemical Apple Pie

In searching for the proper oven temperature for baked apples, I ran across this recipe (here) for "Chemical Apple Pie (No Apple Apple Pie.)" The ingredients are typical of many apple-baking recipes, except instead of apples, there's "25 buttery round crackers." The description says "If you didn't know any better, you'd think that there were really apples in it. This is an old chemistry lab experiment to teach the limits of human sense."

Often when pie-d (pie-ified?), apples become almost unrecognizable, so maybe the only thing such an experiment would prove is that pie eaters look for the taste of butter and sugar, not for the bedrock on which they are slathered. Still, I had an insane urge to make a Chemical Apple Pie - insane not only because it's essentially a Cracker Pie, but also there's still pounds of apples in the larder, and to not use apples would defeat the purpose of baking. Besides, though Chemical Apple Pie is a great name for rock band or a collegian literary magazine, it's not a particularly appetizing appellation for breakfast.

****Red's Dead

Red Auerbach, the greatest coach in NBA history who lead the Boston Celtics to win 16 championship over 30 years, has died at age 89 (here). A person doesn't achieve such success without having a fair amount of wisdom tucked in their brain. Here are some Red Auerbach quotes I particularly enjoy:

"The only correct actions are those that demand no explanation and no apology."
"He who believes in nobody knows that he himself is not to be trusted."
"Basketball is like war in that offensive weapons are developed first, and it always takes a while for the defense to catch up."
"The commercial class has always mistrusted verbal brilliancy and wit, deeming such qualities, perhaps with some justice, frivolous and unprofitable."
"To a father, when a child dies, the future dies; to a child when a parent dies, the past dies."
"Just do what you do best."

saturday october 27 2006

****Crappy Halloween

The genesis of this article (here), about a family struggling with the anger and devastation wrought by pumpkin thieves, probably began when the ever-vigilant reporter spotted the admonishing handwritten sign on their lawn - To whoever stole my kid's pumpkins! Thanks for ruining his Halloween you jerk! He grew them himself!. "Hmm... my journalist instincts tell me there's a story behind this," the reporter thought as he reached for his cell phone to alert the news desk at the Press and Sun-Bulletin of Greater Binghamton, NY.

A total of eight pumpkins, grown by 10-year old Dylan on his grandmother's farm, were stolen from the front porch, and neighbors reported seeing "remains" further done the street. The police sheriff seems nonplussed, saying "you think it's safe on your porch -- it's not." The family, who "loves pumpkin seeds," obviously needed some way to vent their rage... so the sign went up. "I wanted the people who did it to know that I was ticked," said the father. The sign might make the family feel better, but it will probably make the criminals feel even better. Because petty mischief is only truly rewarding when it senselessly hurts someone's feelings.

Every year, the backlash against Halloween mischief increases. Being scared on Halloween is sort of the point, but we'd rather be scared of witches and ghosts then be forced to confront our real demons: American teenagers. Many towns impose a curfew on teenagers (here), and some urge merchants to "refuse sale of such items as shaving cream and eggs to minors." Would-be vandals are warned that they will be prosecuted "to the fullest extent of the law" (here). In Texas, pet owners are encouraged to keep their animals, especially black cats, indoors in order to thwart that seasonal urge to inflict animal cruelty (here).

The public panic and efforts to sterilize our funnest holiday are scary enough, but no phenomenon sounds Halloween's death knell like "malloweens," when flourescent-lit shopping centers in sprawled communities hand out candy to trick-or-treaters and entice their parents to shop (here). Sounds really spooky.

thursday october 26 2006

****Apple Soused

My household has changed since we brought home roughly 1/4 of a bushel of apples last Sunday. Most notably, it smells like there's 10 pounds of apples slowly fermenting in the drafty conditions of their indoor environs. They sit in a bag on the dining room table, taunting us with their impelling need to be consumed. The sheer abundance has led me to do crazy things, like almost add a few to Monday night's soup of leftovers, and interrogate poor Mr. Pinault daily about his apple consumption. "You forgot? I ate two apples today, and two yesterday. You better start pitching in. mister. My intestinal tract can't handle this by myself."

Making matters worse, we picked what appears to be kinda lousy apples. Some weren't ripe, some are mealy or tart, others are riddled with disease and scars. What looked and tasted okay in the orchard is suddenly unappealing when there's yummy, flawless supermarket grapes and pears in the refrigerator.

There are a few gems. As always, the late-season Cortlands are my favorite: A yielding but firm texture, not too sweet, not too tart. And this year, we got a real surprise with the pink-fleshed, yellow-skinned beauty pictured to the right, which is sweet and crisp as a Hershey's Crackle bar. Research leads me to suspect it's actually called a Surprise apple (here), although the orchard didn't list these on their map. Why aren't there more of these? What an effective tool for parents trying to push apples over all the faux-colored snack foods.

As my enthusiasm for eating raw apples wanes, I'm strategizing usage for the remaining 7 pounds or so. Last year we made pies, but pies don't use that many apples. So we'll probably throw them all in the juicer. Because one apple a day might keep the doctor away, but two apples a day is making me ill.

<img src="../Images/Misc/surprise.jpg" width="450" height="455">
The Surprise Apple

wednesday october 25 2006

****Careless Love

The Ancient Greek language has been dead for 2500 years, which is a good thing. With its highly inflective morphology and complex diacritics, it was a bitch of a way to communicate. I know nothing specific about Ancient Greek, except this: There are four words for "love." Eros (passionate love), Philia (platonic love), Storge (family love), and Agape (charitable or philosophical love, like loving your fellow man).

English, a language of relative imprecision, defines Love as profound affection for another person, with qualifiers or context denoting its specific meaning. In colloquial usage, people use love to express an exuberant feeling for a person, place or thing. The Greeks recognized that love for your mother was different from love for Zeus, or love for your lover, or love for the olives and figs that sustain your existence. We use one word to articulate everything from love for another human that is life-affirming and unquestionably mutual to love for a person, place, or thing that is totally oblivious to your existence and would endure with or without your individual devotion. It is not enough to like or enjoy, and it is weird to adore or relish, so we love everything.

What do I love? I love my family. I love my friends. I love my high school enrichment teacher. I love my spinning instructor. I love the woman who works at Au Bon Pain who giggles after everything she says. I love David Lynch's movies. I love Wallace Stevens' poetry. I love Calvin Trillan's writing. I love Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. I love Carmen McRae's voice. I love hot tubs. I love when I finish a jog and could do more, but I don't. I love finding a book in the library that I was going to buy. I love having my hair washed at the salon. I love when long-lost friends find me on MySpace. I love Willem Dafoe, Tom Brady, Tom Waits, Christian Bale, and Richard Dawson (original host of The Family Feud and villain in Schwarzenegger's The Running Man, where he shouts "Who loves you, and who do you love?" You, Richard Dawson.) I love coffee, cheese, bread, tomatoes, chocolate, mustard, vanilla cake, and cold sparkling water. I love walking fast on a cold, sunny day. I love eating a big meal after a solid day of hiking or skiing. I love cardigans and tight black pants. I love remembering to use my CVS ExtraCare coupons. I love watching skinny bike messengers on skinnier bikes weave through downtown traffic, free as doves. I love when the Walk signal comes on right as I approach, and I can cross the street without pausing. I love the New Hampshire mountains and the New Jersey shore. I love waking up in a tent after a good night's sleep. I love when I'm in a car and "Slow Ride" comes on the radio.

Love: An empty, imprecise word, over-used when it is not accurate, and underused when it is accurate. What do I really love? I love any person or animal who has brought me durable happiness on purpose. The end.

tuesday october 24 2006

****In the News

Political Stratagem

Vice President Dick Cheney announced on a talk-show that Hillary Clinton could win the presidency, calling her a "formidable candidate" who should not be underestimated (here). I'll never agree with anything that comes out of that man's mouth. Either he's deeply out of touch with America, or using reverse psychology to stoke the Democrat's confidence in a candidate with a snowball's chance of winning, or trying to galvanize Republican voters to stay with the G.O.P. lest his bleak prophecy come to fruit.

Cheney went on to assert that he would not run for President. "It's firm, final, fixed, irrevocable... If nominated, I will not run; if elected, I will not serve." You can believe him, too. He was elected Vice President and, as far anyone knows, hasn't served a single day.

The Six-Pack Diet

Sanitary piping at sorority houses are in universal duress as a new study reveals that the average college freshman gains anywhere from 3.6 to 7.8 pounds (here). Binge drinking, unhealthy food choices, and a drop in physical activity are cited as probable causes.

I actually lost about 10 pounds during my first year at college. UMass is practically a fat camp. The dining hall food toed the line of inedible, the vast campus was served by a lousy shuttle service, and late-night snacking was accompanied by alcohol-induced vomiting and subsequent early-morning nausea that staved off the urge to eat breakfast. That's my diet advice, kids: Always drink until you puke.

Mating Calls, Cries

Studies have found two more activities that may lower a man's sperm count: Taking antidepressants like Prozac (here) and talking on mobile phones for prolonged periods of time (here).

Maybe this explains why men who chatter constantly on their cells are such a turn off: They have a 40% less chance of being able to impregnate me. And while every woman loves a man who can cry, we generally avoid men who cry repeatedly, and for no reason. I don't wish infertility on any human, but it's amazing at how natural selection has synced with our doped-up and wireless modern world.

Iceland Goes Ahab

Iceland has broke a 20-year International Whaling Commission ban on commercial whaling by killing an endangered fin whale (here). Finally, a chance to try that recipe for whale mincemeat pie (here)!

Countries as seemingly as advanced as Iceland, Norway, and Japan justify the senseless slaughter of these intelligent, sentient beings by asserting that commercial whaling is essential to their economy and a part of their heritage. But by that logic, America should be allowed to reinstitute the enslavement of African-Americans. Slavery is excellent for the economy (those migrant worker salaries are back-breaking), and it's apart of our illustrious heritage.

monday october 22 2006

****Don't Vote for Rich Tarrant: That Mother Laid Me Off

While driving through Vermont, I saw dozens of yard signs for Rich Tarrant (here for official campaign website), the Republican challenger for the US Senate seat that will be vacated by famed Independent Jim Jeffords. Rich Tarrant... why does that name sound familiar? I wondered, figuring it bore resemblance to most politicians' names, with a solid-citizen resonance and WASP-y twang.

Then, in a hotel room, we watched a televised debate of the Vermont senatorial candidates, which wasn't much of a debate because Tarrant's main competition, Rep. Bernie Sanders, didn't show - perhaps wrapped up in his present obligation of serving in the House of Representatives. Tarrant scored a crowd-pleasing zinger during his opening remarks (I'd like to thank every one for coming out today, especially my opponent) and immediately established himself as an asshole.

Why does he look so familiar? I wondered. Of course, he looks like what I'd conjure a Vermont Republican to look like: A mane of well-groomed gray hair, fit and trim with an air of ruggedness, and a constipated, forced smile. As he humbly asserted his qualifications, I tuned him out until I heard "I founded the largest public company in Vermont in 1969..."

"Hey, I worked for the largest public company in Vermont!" I said aloud, and the realization of why Rich Tarrant seemed familiar suddenly dawned: He was the founder and chairman of the board for IDX Systems Corp, a Burlington, VT-based health care technology company that I worked for briefly and laid me off right after 9/11. The lay-off process was prolonged over a two week period and crammed with information sessions, job placement assistance, and cloying sympathy, as if "We've dropped you, but we want you to land on your feet!" (I much preferred the quick tear-off-a-bandaid method employed by my first company, which gave me an hour to clean out my desk before escorting me out with a taxi voucher.)

The lay-offs at IDX were a smart business decision. Four years later, IDX was bought by General Electric for $1.2 billion, giving Richie-Rich Tarrant plenty of free time to pursue other activities, like... run for the Senate!

Since that mother laid me off, I admit bias when asking Vermonters not to vote for Rich Tarrant, so here are a few facts: He gives money to Bush, he's a social conservative, he has no political experience, and he's been involved in several corporate scandals. But most damning, Rich Tarrant is another rich businessman spending his way into politics, further fudging the line between "politician" and "lobbyist" and trumpeting that apocryphal mantra, "Government should be run like a business!" Careful, Vermont. Rich Tarrant just might lay you off, too.

sunday october 22 2006

****Fall Fruition

I know that posting pictures three times in one week may give the impression that this website is veering from verbal to visual, but it was a *quintessential* New England fall weekend, and pictures are all I have to show for it. (To stay inside and write would be indicative of a diseased mind, not to mention very rude to my father, step-mother, and sister, who drove up from Pennsylvania to visit.)

The wind was Canadian, with an appeasing sun that highlighted the effulgent foliage as it peaked like a boiling tea kettle. There were pumpkins to carve, apples to pick, leaves to crush under feet and bicycles, and other seasonal delights of Autumn to enjoy as Winter sighs her nippy breath on our necks.

<img src="../Images/Misc/fall2006i.jpg" width="250" height="397">
Apple-Pickin' Dad

<img src="../Images/Misc/fall2006f.jpg" width="350" height="526">
Bad Apples

<img src="../Images/Misc/fall2006g.jpg" width="550" height="366">
The Mr. Pinault Pumpkin Tries to Scare the Laurie Pumpkin 

friday october 20 2006

****Commuters Say the Damnedest Things

Woman on cell phone: "Hi it's me, I'm on the train... No, we'll order pizza... No, I want pizza... No, pizza tonight... I want pizza... I don't care... No... No... We'll discuss this at home. Over pizza. Bye."

Young Indian-American girl to father, on platform: "Daddy, I want a yellow shirt, and a yellow bag, and yellow hair."
Indian father: "Ha ha ha. Yellow hair? Ha ha ha. That would look really bad."

Man on cell phone: "Keith, it's Dad. Are you there? Keith, please pick up. Keith, pick up the phone. If you're still sleeping I'm going to be really mad. Keith? Keith! [loudly] Keith, wake up! WAKE UP. Wake up NOW. KEITH.[sighs] Well, give me a call when you get this. Love you, bye."

Woman commuter to train friend: "I think I'm the only person in the world still on the Atkins diet."
Friend: "You look great!"
Atkins woman: "Thanks. I know about 50 ways to cook eggs."
Friend: "Wow. Like, how?"
Atkins woman: "Oh, omelette, fried, scrambled, frittata... I make this quiche, only instead of crust, I use sausage patties."
Friend: "Wow. That's really... resourceful."

Regular commuter to fare-collecting conductor: "How ya doing today?"
Old, fat, townie conductor: "To be honest, my abs are killing me. I've been doing these crunches, and it just rips me open."

thursday october 19 2006

****The 'Stop the Proliferation of Nuclear Weaponry' Shell Game

I get the feeling GW Bush doesn't like games, not because he's a straight-shootin' Texan with a country to run, but because he seems easy to trick, to catch off-guard, to mercilessly swindle. He's the kid who would draw the raised card from another player's hand, or confidently hunker down to play Tic-Tac-Toe and get beaten with 3 O's in the corners - the oldest trick in the book, or scatter his Monopoly real estate holdings all over the board.

But GW Bush ran his Administration like a game. He assembled a team of all his friends instead of the strongest players. He trash-talked, menaced the referees, played to the crowd, cheated.

And he played poorly, particularly the Stop the Proliferation of Nuclear Weaponry shell game. There's three shells: Iraq, Iran, North Korea. Indeed, it's an Axis of Evil Shells. Which shell has that nuclear stuff?

George didn't hesistate: He picked the Iraq shell. It was, after all, the easiest shell to lift, having been cracked by his daddy a decade prior. And it smelled like oil. Unfortunately, the shell only contained a crazed despot presiding over a country already riddled with internal strife. George peered incredulously at the mess he created by upending the Iraq shell, dumbfounded, then claimed he wasn't really playing the Stop the Proliferation of Nuclear Weaponry shell game, we were playing the Spread Democracy to All of God's Children game.

Meanwhile, the Iran and North Korea shells became fearful that they would be the next shells overturned, and they flaunted nuclear ambitions to protect themselves. They didn't need to worry though, because the Iraq shell exploded in Bush's hand. He can no sooner pick another shell to invert than he can recruit a global coalition of a million strong to pick his nose. You lose!

(I have just learned here that GW Bush does, in fact, like Tee Ball.)

wednesday october 18 2006

****Cheddar!

On Saturday, as we ventured north to Montreal, we stopped at Shelburne Farms in VT (here), a working farm on Lake Champlain that was started by some Vanderbilt in 1886 as a "model agricultural estate," and now espouses conservation, sustainability, education, and razor-sharp cheddar.

The Vermont Cheese Council (here) maintains a directory of cheese-makers that are open to the public and a handy "cheese map." With public enthusiasm for Vermont diary primed by Ben and Jerry's, Stonyfield Farms, and Cabot, it's only natural that cheddar gets its fair share of tourist marketing. Vermont cheddar is America's best contribution to the global cheese cache. I mean, there's no competition. Colby? Monterey Jack? Muenster? American? None approaches the complexity of cheddar's vaguely sweet, bacterial flavors.

Shelburne Farms seemed inviting to visit during a longish road trip. It has over 4.5 miles of walking trails through the property, as well as animals, gardens, a bakery, and an opportunity to view the cheese-making. This held particular interest after visiting a Beaufort cheese farm in the French Alps last year, where our tour group got to mingle in the barn before heading into the kitchen to witness the cheese production while eating, drinking, getting sprayed with distilled milk whey, and petting the dogs. Perhaps it's that nonchalance about hygiene that gives Beaufort its pungent yumminess.

As one would expect from America, Shelburne Farms had more exacting sanitation standards, and glass kept us from sticking our dirty, farmyard hands into the shiny, modern separation vat. Too bad. Less bacteria for the cheese.

Still, Shelburne Farms produces raw milk cheddar, a rarity for a bigger producer, and it was tasty enough to enjoy for lunch with a baguette. After waiting in vain for some cheese action in the kitchen, we paid a quick visit to Lake Champlain then headed to Montreal. It's a good thing we had our fill of cheese, because we went for dinner with friends to an Armenian restaurant. And Armenia has lots of piquant food, but cheese is not one of them.

<img src="../Images/Misc/fall2006d.jpg" width="400" height="504">
Centrifugal Cheddar at Shelburne Farms

<img src="../Images/Misc/fall2006e.jpg" width="600" height="399">
Thoroughly Cheddared and in Heaven at Shelburne Farms 

tuesday october 17 2006

****Mt. Jackson, Mt. Webster: Conquered

When I'm walking up a mountain, my body and mind are disconnected. Body progresses automatically over the trail's rocks and roots, while mind mulls over randomness: New ways to cook squash, plots to Kurt Vonnegut novels, gifts I need to buy, if I've seen more than one movie with Angelina Jolie (incredibly, only Girl Interrupted). But invariably, after trudging steeply uphill for three hours, or hauling myself up endless slabs of granite, or hopping fearfully on rocks through mud and water, all my mind is concerned with is two things: 1- These ruggedized sneakers just aren't cutting it, I'm really going to buy hiking boots, and 2-Why am I doing this?

I reach the summit and take in the view. Being on top of a mountain is an undeniable thrill. Even if there's 0 visibility or an obscured view, the air's scant-oxygen freshness is intoxicating. And as my body recovers and my mind forgets all about its recent agony, it thinks again: Why am I doing this? Why is hiking pleasurable? Why is this view magnificent?

Venturing into nature for no particular reason wouldn't seem a logical compulsion for any human. Perhaps it's an evolutionary relic from our hunter-gatherer days, when meandering through the woods would be a good urge. Or it's more molecular; we are simply hard-wired to roam.

Or hikers are simply conquering modern-day malaise by seeking mini-adventures. Many hikers, myself included, have a "peak-bagging" mentality. I'm slowly ticking off summits from the Four-Thousand-Footers in the White Mountains (here for list) I've done 5 out of 48. I toy with the idea of making a concerted effort to join the 4000 Footer Club and do all 48. It's a distinction with well-deserved bragging rights.

43 to go. At this rate, I'll be tramping up mountains when I'm 60, my mind wondering, why am I still doing this?

Actually, putting another feather in my 4000 Footer cap was probably the least interesting thing I did on my vacation, but it's certainly the most photographed.

<img src="../Images/Misc/fall2006a.jpg" width="400" height="602">
Freezing on Mount Webster

<img src="../Images/Misc/fall2006b.jpg" width="600" height="415">
Mr. Pinault on Mount Jackson <img src="../Images/Misc/fall2006c.jpg" width="600" height="399">
On Mount Jackson - I'm that Pink Thing 

thursday october 12 2006

****Misty Mountain Hop

I'll be gone until mid-next-weekish for my annual Autumn mountain trip (on the itinerary: Rutland, VT; Montreal, CAN; and Conway, NH.) I must go dig in my closet for my scarves and sweaters. I love pulling seasonal clothes out of storage. It's like getting a whole new wardrobe that's been pre-engineered to my liking.

So in place of anything meaningful to share, I will quote a fellow commuter on the train who held up a newspaper about yesterday's Manhattan plane crash to his friend and bellowed "Yankees Suck!" in typical brute Red Sox succinctness. And his friend half-smiled and said "Proof positive."

****One More Cup of Coffee Before I Go

I'll sleep when I'm dead! is my all-time favorite quote about coffee. Some other goodies, culled from The Devil's Cup by Stewart Lee Allen.

Coffee should be black as Hell, strong as Death and sweet as love. -Turkish Proverb One need only compare the violent coffee-drinking societies of the West to the peace-loving tea drinker of the Orient to realize the pernicious and malignant effect that bitter brew has upon the human soul. -Hindu dietary tract In a coffee house just now among the rabble I bluntly asked, which is the treason table.-Malone, 1618 I have tried to show the cafe as a place where one can go mad.-Vincent Van Gogh What do you call a large, low-fat latte made with decaf espresso? A tall-skinny-why bother.-Grafitti in Brooklyn Cafe Sleep? Isn't that some inadequate substitute for caffeine?-Random Internet Message Board

wednesday october 11 2006

****Fan Mail

Normally , the emails I get from strangers who read my site are intelligently written, engaging, and very welcome. But today:

Hi I sent you a friend request in MySpace so you can check out my pics. Your site is really sweet. I love your new glasses. I alway like women who have lotsto say. Hope you will hace something to say to me soon. Did you like that robot you saw? I like music and football too.

My name is Jack H____ and I live in A____, Ohio. I'm 38, SWM, 5'11", 180, brown hair/eyes, NS, DD free, and financially stable. I like movies, going out to eat, dogs, children, and golf. I'm looking for someone who is ready to settle down. A sense of humor and a willingness to be together is a must. Please email me and we'll see what happens! (Stranger things have happened.)

As you can see, Jack foiled this site's secret agenda: To snag a man. Yep, it's all one big personal ad. If you're looking for a obsessive lady who can't let a day go by without composing lengthy blog posts... court me! ("A willingness to be together is a must"... duh).

****Mariah Carey's Fan Mail

I've never written a celebrity fan letter. Anyone who would move me to write one is dead. Plus, it's degrading. Celebrity fan letters are essentially a one-sided conversation, so the writer must attempt to elicit a response with pitiful fawning.

Mariah Carey gets the best fan mail because she appeals an array of people. A while back the Smoking Gun published a dozen of the 2000 pieces of fan mail found in a Manhattan trash bin (calling into question Mariah's oft-bleated devotion to her fans and her scrapbooks of their pictures.) But I actually can't blame Mariah for wanting these missives to be as far away as possible. Everyone wants something from her: A poster, an autograph, advice... to get into her mind, her soul, her pants...

From a guy who says her voice hitting that trademark high note gives him a "boner": I'm very interested in what Nationality you are. I don't have a clue? I've heard that you were Mexican. Puetorican, and even Black. I think you are part goddess myself... I'd appreciate a nice poster of you with your signature on it. I just can't find any posters of you, anywhere. (here)

From a prisoner named Ralphie: Mabe if you want you could be my pen-pal. I could use a friend. I'm here cause of coke, but I'm learning to be a mason. I also go to NA and AA and Bible Study and GED classes. (here)

From "a very handsome, intelligent, white gentlemen": "I wanted to drop you a line and request a sexy photograph from you to put in my office. I'm one of those Wall St. rogues you've read about who takes over companies and is a maverick entrepeneur."(here)

From a female prisoner, who wants "Mirha" to be her "Dear Abby for a Day": I have this girl that I broke up with and she's on drugs... What should I do plaese help me help her before it's to late (here)

From a man who "uses" a lot of "quotation" "marks": "Bravo, Mariah, Bravo!!!" (here)

tuesday october 10 2006

****Prada Peepers

My first pair of glasses changed the course of my life. They were garishly big, oval white plastic frames with owlish flares at the hinges. Their necessity coincided with the beginning of middle school, sealing my caste as a nerd. Nerddom caused teasing from bullies, an urgency to excel in my classes, and countless nights at home with my stereo and a book. This ultimately lead to rebellion against suburban norms and eventual treat to Massachusetts. Maybe I should thank my first pair of glasses, but I can't help resenting them.

So like an archetypical dork, I'm chortling over the irony that the most fashionable thing about me are my new Prada prescription eyeglasses. In fact, when I want to look good, I don't reach for my contact lenses. I go with the Prada corrective eye wear.

I didn't plan on getting designer frames. When Mr. Pinault and I went to Lenscrafters (so romantic... bespectacled fools in love), out of habit I headed to the cheap racks of bland, functional frames. They were crowded with disgusted teenagers and their mothers, who thought everything under $120 looked "fine."

Then I had a long-overdue epiphany: Nobody's forcing me to look like a dork. I hastened to the Versace/ Dolce and Gabanna/Prada racks, where posters of Giselle and Heidi Klum smiled at me, their spectacles conferring uncharacteristic warmth and intelligence. And as I slipped on crystal-colored Prada frames, I smiled back, feeling like this pair could also change the course of my life. Finally, I'll be a cool kid.

<img src="../Images/Misc/glasses.jpg" width="300" height="451">
Prada Glasses = 50% Less Dork

monday october 9 2006

****In the News

Office Bound

Today is Columbus Day, one of those sick and twisted minor patriotic holidays when everyone gets the day off except me. I escaped from the office for a true lunch hour, which I spent walking in Downtown Crossing amid tourists and shoppers. Yeah, it was nice day, 76 degrees with clear sunny blue skies... but it was undeniably breezy, almost downright windy. Ha. Hope you enjoyed your windy day off, folks.

Guerrilla Marketing

Concerned that recruitment numbers will not sustain current and future hegemonic military actions, the US Army is preparing to unveil a snazzy new multimedia ad campaign that Army Secretary Francis J. Harvey says "speaks to the essential truth" of being a soldier (here). Wait, I'm confused. Will the ads feature well-discplined, sexy soldiers completing missions by virtue of iron determination and cool gadgetry... or a pile of dead humans?

Most notably, the Army plans to replace its slogan An Army of One with Army Strong, which conveys to prospective recruits that "you will gain physical and emotional strength, as well as strength of character." Hmmm... Army Strong strikes me as too vague, too Rorschach-inkblot to carry such a nuanced message. I'm not in their key marketing demographic, but the slogan makes me think "Army STRONG. Civilian WEAK. Foreigner WEAK. Prisoner WEAK. Army STRONG! STRONG kills WEAK!"

Size 0s and a 20

I didn't feel the need to comment on the recent controversy within the fashion world when models with a BMI below 18 were not allowed to strut the runways in Madrid (here), until I saw a picture of Jean Paul Gaultier's size 20 model in black lingerie (here). If this controversy is over promoting health, is he trying to promote obesity as the healthy alternative to repugnant thinness? Why not use nothing but size 6-10 models, for now on? Must everything in the depraved world of high fashion be so extreme and shocking?

Nuclear Kimchi

This morning, the local news segued from "North Korea Tests Nuclear Device" to "Brad and Angelina's Bodyguard Gets Out of Line with Paparazzi." At first I wanted to hurl my water bottle at the TV in Gold's Gym, but then I realized anchor-bunny Christa Delcamp delivering news of historic importance was sort of irritating anyway.

I wonder if the typical starving North Korea is pleased with his country's accomplishment. Government propaganda probably works better on a full stomach. (Click here for some kitschy but disturbing North Korean propaganda films.)

sunday october 8 2006

****Foliage Fatigue

I always miss being in nature on a clear autumn day to witness the glorious, famed, unpredictable New England foliage when the intensity of color is at its all-important peak. So I'm emotionally prepared for another year of unsatisfying leaf peeping. It's peaking north of Massachusetts this week, and next week, when I'm in Montreal/New Hampshire, it will be peaking here. I am officially divesting myself of giving a fig about foliage. But here's a peek at this weekend's pre-peak at the Ward Reservation in Andover.

<img src="../Images/Misc/ff06a.jpg" width="500" height="363">	<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"> Mr. Pinault taking a much better picture (see the grand finale below) at the lake at the end of the bog boardwalk. </font></p>
<img src="../Images/Misc/ff06b.jpg" width="550" height="366">	<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif">Frog by Mr. Pinault </font></p>
<img src="../Images/Misc/ff06c.jpg" width="550" height="366">	<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif">25 Miles from Boston Skyline with a Streak of Red Leaves by Mr. Pinault </font></p>
<img src="../Images/Misc/ff06d.jpg" width="550" height="365">	<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif">Foliage around a Bog's Lake by Mr. Pinault </font></p>

saturday october 7 2006

****Book Review: The Story of a Life by Aharon Appelfeld

A keen interest in Holocaust memoirs feels a bit ghoulish, like historical rubber-necking. I've read quite a few, from classics like If This is a Man by Primo Levi and Night by Elie Wiesel, to slightly obscure ones like All but My Life by Gerda Weissmann Klein, The Defiant by Shalom Yoran, and The Painted Bird by Jerzy Kosinski. And though I'm affected by the horrors these books lay bare, no other genre of literature offers purer exemplification of mankind's resilience. These are books told by survivors who are innate writers, who would have written books even if they hadn't lived through the Holocaust.

Appelfeld grew up in Romania. The first few chapters he reminisces about vacations to his Grandparent's village in the Carpathian mountains. He dwells on detail: The food, the tiny synagogue, and the touch and sight of his mother. This is all he has left of his family. By the time he is eight, his parents are dead and he has escaped from a concentration camp. For the next three years, he hid in the woods of the Ukraine, occasionally working for peasants, but mostly on his own - hiding, walking, foraging. In 1946, he sailed to Isreal and began keeping a diary, a mosaic of words in German, Yiddish, Hebrew, and even Ruthenian. I was not able to connect words into sentences, and the words were the suppressed cries of a fourteen-year-old youth who'd lost all the languages he had spoken and was now left without a language. (The book was translated from Hebrew.)

Appelfeld studied at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. His unstructured childhood was still very much inside of him. Throughout my university years I wrote poems, but these were more like the howls of a wounded animal... Mother, Mother, Father, Father: Where are you? It wasn't until Appelfeld gained a sense of belonging in his community - playing chess, attending social clubs, drinking coffee with other writers- that he could control his burning desire to dwell on the past, and begin to write with perspective.

In between narratives about his experiences, Appelfeld muses quite a bit about writing and language, and what it means for a survivor to write about these things. After he wrote his first book Smoke in 1962, I was labeled a "Holocaust writer." There is nothing more annoying. A writer, if he's a writer, writes from within himself and mainly about himself... Theme, subject matter- all these are by-products of his writing, not his essence... Only the right words can construct a literary text, not subject matter.

Appelfeld's prose is powerful and spare, philosophical and elegant. I would recommend this book even to people who shy away from Holocaust memoirs, because to Appelfeld, the past may have constructed who he is, but that's not only who he is. Above all, he is a writer.

friday october 6 2006

****In OPEC We Don't Anti-Trust

America is rejoicing over the return of low gasoline prices after that nasty spike of $3 gallons. Cheap gas flows once again in the US, just how God intended. But don't think of OPEC as a friendly petrol salesman whose heart breaks watching America pay out the nose for energy, or a crazy crude dealer slashing prices to get rid of new inventory. Less oil demand in the US has caused a surfeit of oil, which lead to falling prices at the pumps and less money for the OPEC. OPEC is alarmed enough to be "toying" with the idea of holding an emergency meeting so they can work out a plan to cut oil output by 4% (here). Just in time for Christmas: $80 barrels!

The US government is understandably "dismayed." "We still need oil for sure. We still need all the oil we can get," the US Energy secretary Sam Bodman said (here). Maybe he's trying to bluff OPEC into not lowering their output, but the humble desperation seems all too real. OPEC is knows we'll pay whatever they charge.

OPEC abides by its own economics: That of a monopoly. Oil isn't a free market. If OPEC were based in the US, you can bet everyone involved would be in jail or (more likely) paying fines for restraint of trade violations. But OPEC has always maintained (and the US always agreed) that its cartel activities are essential for the stability of the energy markets. Well, that's true... if by "stability," you mean "gouging," and by "energy markets," you mean "oil addicts."

In no way do I advocate that the US attempt to apply anti-trust laws to OPEC, or that OPEC be dissolved and oil become a free market commodity. (can you say "armaggedon?") But this is one more example why the US really, really needs to get serious about divesting ourselves from the world energy market: So our Energy secretary doesn't give wussy soundbites about the greedy whims of a foreign-run cartel.

thursday october 5 2006

****Makeover-o-Matic

I read once in a lad magazine aimed at white-collar men with disposable income that women, though they protest otherwise, adore being paid compliments by strangers. In fact, women live for it. It's why they spend hours perfecting their appearance: To bait flattery, inflate their self-esteem, and possibly enjoy an intimate encounter with the type of hunk that reads lad magazines.

Maybe I wouldn't mind the unsolicited attentions of men if they looked as if they read lad magazines. I don't know though, because the only strange men who pay me compliments look like reprobates. Yesterday in South Station, after I bounded up a flight of stairs, a man disembarking from the adjacent escalator said "You're in great shape! Look how you went up those stairs!" He was in his late 30s, about 5'2, wearing baggy jeans and a torn windbreaker. His face had that Skeletor-look that afflicts many rail-thin men after decades of fast-food and alcohol. When he smiled, I saw a tooth. And to top it all off, he was genuinely impressed at my prowess on a flight of roughly a dozen stairs. I couldn't help it. I flinched and ran away.

Certainly I don't take it as a compliment when the compliment comes from the dregs of society. I reason that they have nothing to lose by attempting to flirt with a female who's, like, so out of their league. But then I fret: What if they don't see me as being out of their league? What if I'm comparable-looking to women they've successfully "had" in the past? I don't spend an enormous amount of time on make-up, hair, shoes, and all of the other trappings women employ to signal willing sexuality, but do I look downright lower-class?

Maybe I should beautify my plebeian aura. I booted up iVillage's Makeover-o-Matic (here). I didn't feel like registering in order to upload my own photo, so I selected the model that best represented my self-image at the time, gave her a new hair-do, teeth whitening, color contacts, and make-up... and the results are quite striking (here). Guaranteed to stave off compliments from any man, whether he reads lad magazines or hawks Spare Change newspaper.

wednesday october 4 2006

****Artichokes

I used to call these "Googles" because Google used to be the only search engine that I got hits from, but currently most of these search terms come from Yahoo, with minor amounts from Google, MSN, and AskJeeves.

And as my archives flourish into a stew of rant and reflection about nothing in particular and everything in passing, the mishmash of search phrases that bring users to this site is impressive. From inquisitive eaters of bland green beans to perverts looking for very particular porn specimens of, this site is like an artichoke: It has a leaf for everyone, but makes a meal for no one.

mexican panhandlers dressed as nurses
become a jagerette
white faux fur collar philadelphia eagles coat
long sports knickers, __ fours
wife or word trade center victim sequins
pronunciation of phytochemicals
i just can't relate to 99 f the population
automated waitress

naughty moms eager sex with sons
hot sexy girls in sex party in germany
hollywood actress sharon stone hot non-nude pic
sexy women's volleyball team photos only
malaysian stewardess sex scandal
naked nubile nude young women's photos
sexy non nude pre teen
pictures of female sports reporters interviewing naked males

why green beans are tasteless
walmart t-shirt obesity
wal-marts business relationship with snickers
colored defecation, green
green apple mr. bonbons
calories in goodfellas solo
confront an adult nose picker

princess sissi coloring pages
my twinn doll relaxed hair feel
what goes with a green and tan bedroom set
wooderson halloween costume
rabbits mating movie

condi rice / possible suitors, boyfriend's
"doug meehan" gay
"approaching""express line""actions"
"bush administration euphemisms"
alec baldwin comfort eat
jeff skilling lusty

what are the names of the people in green days band
what are green days most common songs
green days salary
what kind of pants does billie joe armstrong wear

narcissistic yuppie drivers suv
jock raped barfed
hand sanitizer huffing
methacton underground
who is the model in the ban deodorant advertisements
explain camera techniques used in the film the english patient
25000000000 cups
where in the u.s was the first bank atm installed especially for rollerbladers
roses are red, violets are blue, my mind keeps wandering off, cause i'm thinking of you
life is not a bowl of cherries, black girl
french guys

<table width="50%" border="0" align="left" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" bordercolor="#003300" bgcolor="#009900"> <tr> <td height="26">tuesday october 3 2006</td> </tr> </table>   ****On the DocTrain <blockquote> On a day-to-day level, my profession as a documentation coordinator is extremely comfortable: Surmountable challenges, perpetually-extended deadlines, and no direct supervision (I'm an autonomous resource attached to an engineering manager). Yet it's a job that most people can't feign interest in. I dare not attempt to regale anyone with my job's crises and dilemmas: How do I deal with customizable workflows and modularized branding? Should I document known software bugs and limitations? In how many ways does MS Word suck? (Is anyone reading this?) Today I attended DocTrain at UMass Boston (here), where I fiendishly networked with people who have opinions about these issues. Even the exhibitors didn't care about the attendees' existence beyond potential revenue sources: "Oh, you use Doc-to-Help? And you have no interest in using our tool? Oh, okay. Here's our product brochure and the corporate swag that lured you to our booth. Enjoy the conference." (And poor me at the Adobe booth, once they found out I was a lone writer with no need for multiple software licenses, I didn't even get offered a T-shirt). The typical technical writer is a follower, not a leader (you make the product, I'll write about it.) In between panels on perennial doc concerns about content management and the user experience, I found myself around a lot of meek people who flipped through brochures while grazing on the buffet. Not willing to indulge in either activity, I gathered confidence from my Calvin Klein suit jacket and smart, blond bun, and began chatting up writers. "So, which tools do you use?" is the perfect opening line. Career tech writers can talk at great lengths about tools, and within 5 minutes we'd be laughing like old friends about our shared peeves and horror stories: Last minute product changes, dealing with legacy doc, sharing content with other departments, and reconciling marketing's description of a product with reality. How I relished in feeling as if my existence is a valid one! Even if it was as pathetic as it sounds!

<table width="50%" border="0" align="left" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" bordercolor="#003300" bgcolor="#009900"> <tr> <td height="26">monday october 2 2006</td> </tr> </table>   ****Technical Difficulty <blockquote> Recent problems with how this site displays (Chinese characters in Safari, HTML tags in IE) prompt a public confession: I do this site entirely by hand-coding HTML in a .txt file, which, in today's world of readily-available blogging software packages, is utterly ridiculous. The strange text rendering is probably caused by my bad habit of editing my site's .txt files in both Window's Notepad and Mac's TextEdit, which screws up the encoding. I've investigated other ways to deploy this site other than the HTML equivalent of churning my own butter, but software is either expensive or would require that I "do something" with three years of archives or would just rob me of the control that the HTML allows (I don't want "comment" functionality... ) But the layout of my site isn't too hot, and my current method is time-consuming and buggy, so a new solution must be found. For now, I apologize for any strange formatting or characters... it's all because of my miserly, old-fashioned ways. Since I just spent a lot of time fiddling with HTML code in an effort to fix things, I don't have time to say much else say today. So here's a picture of the most life-like robot I saw at NextFest yesterday. I wanted to feed him soup. He moved slowly, but his facial expressions were realistic. I heard one teenager ask, "Is he gay?" <img src="../Images/Misc/nextfest3.jpg" width="394" height="525">

<table width="50%" border="0" align="left" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" bordercolor="#003300" bgcolor="#009900"> <tr> <td height="26">sunday october 1 2006</td> </tr> </table>   ****Back from the Future <blockquote> I've seen the future at the Wired NextFest in New York City ("the premier future-focused event in the US"), and it's filled with robots, video games, lasers, synthetic instruments, and corn. Yep, the future looks suspiciously like the present, which is not surprising, if it can currently be shown in an exhibition. My favorite exhibit was the Atari Rabbit Theatre, featuring 100 electronic bunnies performing an opera. I also enjoyed Alex Hubo (pictured below on the left) from the Korea Advanced Institute of Science and Technology, "the first ever walking robot with an expressive face." Very impressive. I can only imagine the long hours that Korea's brightest scientific minds spent to get a robot to dance to MC Hammer's "U Can't Touch This." Still, nothing I saw at the NextFest was half as entertaining as a squirrel seen in Brooklyn's Botanical Garden (pictured below on the right.) It was hanging upside-down by its hind legs from a sunflower, unabashedly feasting on sunflower seeds. I'd like to see a robot try to do that. <img src="../Images/Misc/nextfest1.jpg" width="300" height="409">  <img src="../Images/Misc/nextfest2.jpg" width="419" height="300">