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thursday november 30 2006

 

****Wal-Mart's Haute Couture

Wal-Mart announced disappointing November results, with sales falling for the first time in a decade (here). With 6,000 stores and nowhere else to go, Wal-Mart is forced to seek innovative ways to expand its girth, including new market offerings like generic prescription drugs and stylish, high-end products. (They tried exhausting a last bit of exploitation from their workforce of 1.3 million, but selling their employee's kidneys had little market appeal.)

Unfortunately, Wal-Mart shoppers balk at swallowing anything beyond cheap staple items like laundry detergent and socks. For example, take Metro7, the depressingly aspirational line of women's clothing that includes a $12.94 Romantic Poet Blouse in Black, Bordeaux, Eggshell, or Storm - "an easy way to inject some Edwardian style into your wardrobe" (here); a $12 Faux Fur Bag with "silky luster... for a wildly sumptuous look" (here); or $19.94 Women's Plus Velveteen Jeans - "Rhinestones sparkle in place of rivets and even take center stage on the waistband's button" (here). (By the way, all of Wal-Mart's apparel is proudly made in "USA and/or Imported.")

Metro7! Metro7! Wal-Mart's coiffured, degreed marketing team dreamed up this name for their chic new line of clothes when trying to mindmeld with the typical Wal-Mart lady shopper...

Wal-Mart Marketing Exec 1: Okay, I'm a short, fat housewife living in Sprawlfuck, America. What entices me to splurge on mass-produced clothes that vaguely resemble what the Oprah's audience and other upscale TV folk wears?

Wal-Mart Marketing Exec 2: It needs to signal, 'This ain't the sensible, flesh-hiding cotton sack that you wear to the Chinese food buffet.'

Wal-Mart Marketing Exec 3: Flashy Fox... Style Kitty... Trendy You... Hottie Rayon...

Exec 1: I've got my GED and I'm pulling minimum wage at KFC. I'm gearing up for an evening of dive-bar beer and chicken wings with the girls, and I want to cheat on my boyfriend just to cause drama in my monotonous life. What convinces me to lay out a day's salary for a pair of ankle boots?

Exec 2: It needs a name that says, 'You will look as trendy and cute as those rich bitches who shop at the mall.'

Exec 3: Exotica Now... Limit 00... Mod Head... Chichi Urban...

Exec 1: Urban. Hm, it's on the right track, but implies 'clothes for black people.'

Exec 2: These clothes need to say, 'You will look like an urban white person.'

Exec 3: [Flipping through thesaurus] Burghal, central, city, megalopolitian, metropolitan, oppidan...

Exec 1: Metro! Like that newspaper everyone reads! [Goes to white board, scrawls 'Metro' and stares at it. Then, in a burst of inspiration, adds '15'.] Metro 15!"

Exec 2: No, less than 15. A single digit says 'These clothes will be flattering and sleek, even on you."

Exec 3: Metro 1, Metro 2, Metro 3...

Exec 1: Whatever. We'll run it by a focus group, see which number makes them squeal like pigs. No space though - the smaller the name, the more we'll save on labeling materials. [Yawns] I'm going to get a sandwich at Cosi. You want anything?

Exec 2: No, I'm doing lunchtime Pilates.

Exec 3: Metro4, Metro5, Metro6...

wednesday november 29 2006

****The Land of the Loo

tuesday november 28 2006

****Does England Make My Butt Look Big?

monday november 20 2006

 

****Cheerio, Squanto

I'm off to Merry Old England, so this will be my last post until the middle of next week (I'm leaving Wednesday, but I need hours to pack, re-pack, fume over the sheer American-ness of my wardrobe, and squeeze my medley of personal hygiene products into travel-sized bottles.)

I will be spending Thanksgiving amid a people who do not partake of the ceremonious turkey, green bean casserole, and pumpkin pie, who won't be watching football and exchanging Xmas lists, and who won't whip themselves into a consumeristic frenzy in the name of the Christ child. Lousy Church of England infidels.

Since I just finished reading 1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus (here on Amazon), I have a new historical perspective on Thanksgiving. The Wampanoag Indians allowed the Pilgrims to settle in Plymouth because they wanted a military alliance against another tribe. The smallpox plague had already ripped through entire villages of Wampanoag, so these dirty, hairy whites with knives and guns started to look useful... if they could manage to survive.

So the Wampanoag helped the Pilgrims by giving them a Indian who they were holding captive. His name was Tisquantum, which means "Wrath of God." We know him as Squanto. Tisquantum learned to speak English when he was kidnapped to Europe to be exhibited as curio. Textbooks portray Squanto as a friendly Indian who helped the Pilgrims grow corn. He was vital to the Pilgrims in many ways, but he was also trying to orchestrate a complex power grab in the Wampanoag tribe, telling Indians that he could protect them from the plagues of sickness that the English were capable of unleashing.

This all makes Thanksgiving very sad to me, because it was a time of incompatible high hopes. The Pilgrims had high hopes they'd make it in the New World, and the Indians had high hopes that they could persevere. But then Tisquantum died. And then more Indians died, and entire villages were wiped away and re-occupied by new English settlers, and within twenty years, all Indian society in New England was destroyed. Pass the mashed potatoes and gravy, happy Thanksgiving.

sunday november 19 2006

****Movie Reviews: The Departed and Casino Royale

Since I moved out of the urban oasis of art-house cinema and into the suburban barrens of megaplex theatre, my movie choices are more conforming to the rest of America's, and all I've got to say is: Wow. No wonder we're a nation of angry hedonists. In the past week, I've seen two violent Hollywood action-thrillers, more than I usually see in a year. I feel unglamorous for choosing a career not involving guns, villains, undercover work, or courting death on a daily basis.

The Departed is gritty cop/mob thriller packed with A-list hunks and directed by Martin Scorsese (yeah, he's a genius, but still doing mob movies that are noticeably not as good as Goodfellas or Casino). Matt Damon is unconvincing as a crooked cop, Jack Nicholson is a caricature of himself as a mob boss, Leonardo DiCaprio emotes as a gritty undercover cop, and Mark Wahlberg steals the show as an asshole but righteous cop.

The Departed's opulent violence, action, and suspense are stellar, but the tedious story-line drags, and the plot is too contrived for Scorsese to showcase his directorial finesse. What I found most interesting was the Boston cityscape. Part of the movie was filmed in the Fort Point neighborhood where I work. It's South Station! The State House! That guy just died a horrible death right across the street from my office! I won't spoil the ending, but egads. The carnage.

I just had to see Casino Royale, if only to ogle Daniel Craig as the blond Bond. Honestly, I loved him. I never really bought into the notion that a brunette man would be capable of being a double-O agent for British intelligence. They seem to need a lot more gadgets to succeed than the blond Bond. With his rippling body of muscle, icy blue eyes, and hint of ill-breeding, he got the job done with only a few fancy speedsters and a portable heart defribliator.

But the blond Bond is still suave and charming, and Daniel Craig is a much better actor than Pierce Brosnan. The action may be too spare for some people, but it's quality action, not quantity action. And the Bond girl, named Vesper Lynd ("'Vesper'? I do hope you gave your parents hell for that!") wasn't half bad, although [spoiler spoiler spoiler I knew she was doomed when Bond told her he loved her.]

Both movies had me engrossed and entertained, yet offered no 'take-away' lessons to apply to my own life, except: Maybe I should get a gun. And a really cool cell phone. See one of them. See both of them. Or see Happy Feet and remain sensitive to violence.

saturday november 18 2006

****It's the End of the World

<img src="../Images/Misc/worldsend2.jpg" width="650" height="412">

friday november 17 2006

****Suicide Mission

An asteroid is hurtling through space at 30,000 mph and headed straight for Earth. Who will save our imperiled world? We are conditioned to kinda-sorta believe in super-heroes. When I first pondered the solution to this theoretical but wholly probable global catastrophe, Mighty Mouse, Superman, and Ben Affleck came to mind, as did, briefly, Jesus.

But we'll have to place our faith in NASA instead. The Space Agency is in the early stages of planning for "killer asteroids" by pursuing the strategy of sending an astronaut to "poke [the asteroid] with a stick" to alter its course (here). Other asteroid experts feel that the job could be accomplished by robots or explosions, but NASA is keen on a manned asteroid mission - not only to advance human exploration of deep space, but to put a human face (and American flag) on a world-saving endeavor, ensuring mo' funding, mo' funding, mo' funding.

The current logistical problems with sending humans to deep-space are not getting them there, it's getting them home. NASA could have people on Mars within a decade, but not in a spacecraft equipped with enough fuel and supplies to return them to Earth for their ticker-tape parade. Yet it may be inevitable and necessary to incur casualities in order to progress to where we wouldn't incur casualities. In other words: Omelets require broken eggs.

If NASA proposed to give astronauts one-way tickets to an asteroid or to Mars on fact-finding missions or for experimental purposes, would there be any takers? People volunteer to die for less worthy causes all of the time. Not exactly a Hollywood ending, but maybe martyrs to the cause of space exploration get a few extra virgins in Heaven than the typical provision of 72.

It's something to consider. NASA is still the world's most dazzling space program, yet it takes baby steps to avoid error. In September, they announced a manned Moon mission in 2020 (here.) China wants to have taikonauts walking in space by 2008 and on the moon by 2024 (here.) At this rate, I'll never get to retire on the Sea of Tranquillity.

thursday november 16 2006

****Sands in an Hour Glass

It's kind of sad when you look back on a busy day at the office, and your greatest accomplishment was subliminating the urge to snack on the leftover Halloween candy and assorted home-baked goodies in the kitchen area because you've eaten pie for dinner every night this week.

****Laissez faire, Laissez aller, Laissez passer

Milton Friedman, the economist who turned me from idealistic socialist to grudging capitalist to idealistic libertarian, has died at age 94 (here). Here are some epigrammatic nuggets of Milton's sapience:

What kind of society isn't structured on greed? The problem of social organization is how to set up an arrangement under which greed will do the least harm; capitalism is that kind of system.

If you put the federal government in charge of the Sahara Desert, in 5 years there'd be a shortage of sand.

Most of the energy of political work is devoted to correcting the effects of mismanagement of government.

History suggests that capitalism is a necessary condition for political freedom.

The greatest advances of civilization, whether in architecture or painting, in science and literature, in industry or agriculture, have never come from centralized government.

Governments never learn. Only people learn.

Inflation is the one form of taxation that can be imposed without legislation.

Nobody spends somebody else's money as carefully as he spends his own. Nobody uses somebody else's resources as carefully as he uses his own. So if you want efficiency and effectiveness, if you want knowledge to be properly utilized, you have to do it through the means of private property.

A society that puts equality - in the sense of equality of outcome - ahead of freedom will end up with neither equality or freedom.

I'm in favor of legalizing drugs. According to my values system, if people want to kill themselves, they have every right to do so. Most of the harm that comes from drugs is because they are illegal.

Only government can take perfectly good paper, cover it with perfectly good ink and make the combination worthless.

****Hoy Hoy!

I've pretty much stopped watching network TV shows, including The Simpsons. The degraded quality was just depressing. I prefer to remember its glory days, when its kinetic intelligence made my jaw drop. The Subtly Simpsons page has a huge collection of Simpsons quotes that demonstrate "subtleties of language, esoteric allusions, or just plain wit."

wednesday november 15 2006

****Tales From the Rails

South Station Platform, 4:55pm. In the heart of the urban circulatory system, I cruise the platform to Track 3 like blood in a marathon runner's aorta.

Assess the trajectory and speed of office workers; adjust path as necessary. Dodge the human bullets hurling towards the Norwood train. Sidestep the travelers as they haphazardly dart, turn, and stop with their rolling luggage and hulking duffles. Grant generous spatial privileges to the meandering kids, preoccupied mothers, and easily-startled infirm. Avoid eye contact with the EuroTeens wanting free money. Play pedestrian chicken with the snappy Suits who regard civic gallantry as a sign of social castration.

Then: Blockage. A tall obese man with untidy beard, for whom walking is a challenge that he complicates by holding a fountain drink in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. I see him plodding towards me, his arms splayed out over his rotundness at right angles. As I artfully dodge a distracted gadgeteer, I am forced into a path that is flanked by shopping bags and baby carriages, a path destined to be claimed by his protracted width. His arm collides with my body, knocking the cigarette from his doughy hand and forcing me to automatically stop and apologize.

But he was so consumed in his journey to his train seat that he didn't seem to notice. He plods away with the determined sluggishness of a plaque-ladden artery, and I surge away like a secretion of epinephrine.

tuesday november 14 2006

****Sisterly Love

Today is my sister Laurie's 32th birthday. Since I'm not in Pennsylvania to joke about how the birthday cake will set off the fire alarm, I decided to share memories of our childhood, back when we were a single familial entity referred to as 'the girls.'

My father has two stories about Laurie that he loves because they showcase her dogged resolve and innate wit (in other words, she's stubborn as a bull and as caustic as me.) Both stories involve my father's habit of unabashed 'citizen curbside recycling' (or 'trash-picking.')
The first story: One night, my father trash-picked a working synthesizer keyboard, and my sister, a prodigious piano student, started enthusiastically playing. "This is just like Courtney's!" Laurie said, referring to our down-the-street neighbor friend. "That's because it was Courtney's!" my father informed her. Laurie then refused to touch it, and the keyboard mysteriously disappeared by the next day.
The second story: While he waited for us to finish showering after swim practice, my father would sometimes wax his cars in the parking lot. This would duly embarrass us. My father felt vindicated when, one day, we spied another parent waxing her car, probably inspired by my Dad. "She's your kind of woman, Dad," Laurie said sarcastically. "I bet she picks trash, too."

One of our greatest family achievements was surviving a vacation to Egypt in the mid-80s. It was the most puke-filled family vacation ever, and my sister kicked it off with a five-hour stretch of vomiting on the plane. That's how I learned what a barf bag was. My big sister taught me, like she taught me everything.

monday november 13 2006

****Reviews of Perfume Samples from December 2006's Marie Claire

<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"> Escada Into the Blue ("A New Fragrance for Women")

<p> "Into the Blue." Such a cryptic prepositional phrase, I thought, pondering the image of the sparkly blue bottle pictured on the sample. Where is "the Blue?" Who or what will be going there? How long will he, she, or it be there? Then I took but one whiff, and entered the Blue.

<p> Synesthesia is a rare neurological condition in which two or more senses are consistently coupled, enabling the afflicted to see colors when hearing music, or taste food when speaking, or have "feelings" about individual alphanumeric characters (here). There are many forms of synesthesia, but never a documented case of someone smelling a perfume sample and then seeing a color.

<p> Until now. Via the olfactory receptors deep within my nostril, my mind was sent spiraling into a vortex where everything was Blue. I thought I had died and was viewing the world from limbo, and everything earthly was a noxious object capable of infecting me with the stench of patchouli and gardenia. Dear god, it was a freak out. Do not smell or go into the Blue.

<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"> Very Irresistible Givenchy ("Sensual Eau de Parfum")

<p> How many roses had to die for this? If "irresistible" means "smells like a floral shop's refrigerator", then it is "very." Did that make any sense? I think this killed a few brain cells, to tell the truth.

<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"> Armani Code ("The secret code of women")

<p> Ah, what would I do without my monthly dose of Armani Code? I so look forward to peeling back the sample's flap to engorge my nostrils with this flavorsome scent: A strong citrus, rounded out with a warm vanilla, all the while dropping hints of jasmine and cedar. It affirms my femininity, yet assures me I'm a complex and autonomous being. And then the exposed fragrance gradually wafts off the paper, dead in the air, and I'm back to being some woman sniffing perfume samples on the train like some sort of derelict. Until next month, Code.

sunday november 12 2006

****(Yesterday was) Armistice Day

<p> I will come to a time in my backwards trip when November eleventh, accidentally my birthday, was a sacred day called Armistice Day. When I was a boy, and when Dwayne Hoover was a boy, all the people of all the nations which had fought in the First World War were silent during the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of Armistice Day, which was the eleventh day of the eleventh month.
It was during that minute in nineteen hundred and eighteen, that millions upon millions of human beings stopped butchering one another. I have talked to old men who were on battlefields during that minute. They have told me in one way or another that the sudden silence was the Voice of God. So we still have among us some men who can remember when God spoke clearly to mankind.
- Kurt Vonnegut, Breakfast of Champions (1973)

Not many World War I veterans are still alive. Wikipedia lists 51 'verified veterans of the First World War' (here), but that list seems to be outdated - yesterday, France claimed only 3 veterans (here), out of 8.5 million French soldiers who served.

One of these 3 French WW1 veterans happens to be Mr. Pinault's great-uncle (his mother's father's brother, Lazarre Ponticelli, born in Italy in 1897, joined the French Foreign Legion in 1914 at age 16, now 109 years old). Monsieur Ponticelli could not attend the grand ceremony at the Arc de Triomphe (according to Mr. Pinault, he doesn't like cars). This French site has pictures of Monsieur Ponticelli being honored yesterday at a ceremony in his Parisian neighborhood. I think he bares a resemblance to Mr. Pinault, although old people are sort of like Rorschach blots in this regard.

****Moment of Zen

Be a bud sitting quietly on the hedge. Be a smile, one part of wondrous existence. Stand here. There is no need to depart. - Thich Nhat Hahn

<img src="../Images/Misc/zen.jpg" width="300" height="425">

saturday november 11 2006

****Jury Duty: A Boring Civic Adventure

7:50am: I report for jury duty at the courthouse in Cambridge on a beautiful Friday morning. As I approach the doors, a wiry man in scuzzy clothes whizzes by me. "Community service is this way," he yells in my face. I stare at him. "You here for community service?" he yells. Maybe I should have dressed up a little more.

7:55am: I'm watching a security guard go through my bag after it went through the x-ray. "I saw a knife," he said. "You have a knife in here?" "No." "Sure looked like a knife to me." Again, maybe I should have dressed up a little more. After determining a tin of Altoids was probably 'the knife,' I was allowed to enter the courthouse.

8am: After checking in, I sit in a large room surrounded by bored citizens. One table of older, trim women chatters away like old friends. Could they have known each other before, or are they the types who create meaningful social contact everywhere they go? Next to me, an older man with closed eyes and his arms crossed over his giant gut breathes heavily, lulling me into a trance.

8:30am: Action! We're instructed to move into the large assembly room. There's probably 200 people - mostly white, many as casually dressed as me. An official lectures us about the systematic checks that are in place to ensure we don't leave before we're told. "If your number is called and you're not here, you'll be marked absent for the day and re-summoned to serve," he keeps saying with a mocking lilt.

9:00am: After watching a 17-minute orientation video about how jury duty works (featuring a cameo by MA Supreme Court Chief Justice/Activist Judge Numero Uno Margaret Marshall, with her clipped, posh Boston accent), we are free for a break until 9:55. I'm realizing every time they give us has a buffer to accommodate the lax attitude most people have about jury duty.

9:30am: In the cafeteria, sipping a coffee and listening to two employees debating if they should change the lunch special because of ingredient constraints. But what if someone was really looking forward to the Beef Stroganoff?

9:55am: I open my book, 1491. The seat becomes uncomfortable. Conversations spring up around the room. "Why don't they have TVs here?" a woman complains. Indeed, I'm surprised the product peddlers haven't tapped into the captive audiences in jury lounges across America. If there was a TV playing nothing but commercials, I guarantee these people would watch it.

10:30am: A 20-minute break is announced, but I stay put, reading about the amazing cultivation of maize in Mesoamerica. The mood in the jury room is approaching frustration.

11:15am: An official tells everyone to gather in the jury assembly room. "I have good news and bad news. Those of you who wanted to serve on a jury today... I'm sorry, but you will not get that chance. All of today's trials have been settled, because you people were here, ready to serve on a jury if you were needed. Thank you for being here today. You are free to go." A round of applause breaks out. Some people really do seem disappointed not to have been impaneled, but mostly there is elation: It's Friday, it's before lunch, and the weekend has started!

1:30pm: After shopping and walking around sunny, 60 degree Boston, I'm settling down for lunch at the Atrium Cafe, thanking the American judicial system for my afternoon of freedom.

friday november 10 2006

****Movie Review - Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan

My expectations for Borat were stocked by rave reviews and a preview that had me in hysterics. It seemed as if it would elevate the overdone 'fish out of water' gags to a fresh, subversive level, with Borat using his outsider status to poke fun of America ("We support your war of terror!" he announces to a cheering crowd at a rodeo) and reveal our xenophobia. Instead, Borat makes America look kinda good. And who wants to see that?

It's Coming to America crossed with Candid Camera: Borat is a journalist sent from his country to make a documentary about America. It's filmed so that many of the participants don't realize this bumbling foreigner is actually a comedian making a movie. Unfortunately, Borat plays the clown, going out of his way to appear backward and uncouth to provoke the unsuspecting people he encounters. He asks stupid questions, says offensive things, and they reasonably get upset. Ha ha. Look, he travels with a live chicken in his suitcase.

Even when Borat catches someone in an unflattering light (like when he asks the clerk at a gun shop what the best gun is for killing Jews, and the clerk doesn't hesitate to recommend a 9mm), it only proves that Americans are pretty open to foreigners and their wacky schemes. Except when you go around trying to kiss strangers on the NYC subway. What do you expect is going to happen?

I did laugh, but it was all very stupid. It takes more than a zany foreign accent and wrestling with an obese naked man to sustain me for an hour and a half.

thursday november 9 2006

****The Decider

Donald Rumsfeld earned a distinction of hatred when, years ago, I read a news story about the war in Iraq, and he said idiotic things that melted away any hope that the situation was in capable hands. It may have been any one of these quotes compiled by the BBC (here), like:

<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"> We know where they [Iraq's WMD] are. They're in the area around Tikrit and Baghdad and east, west, south, and north somewhat. (MARCH 2003)
[Osama Bin Laden is] either alive and well or alive and not too well or not alive. (OCTOBER 2002)
And it is not knowable if force will be used [in Iraq], but if it is to be used, it is not knowable how long that conflict would last. It could last, you know, six days, six weeks. I doubt six months. (FEBRUARY 2003)

Despite Rumsfeld's rampant optimism that the invasion was going well and US troops would be coming home in the near, unspecified future, Rumsfeld never said anything that inspired my civilian confidence in success. And when military leaders risked career suicide to publicly question Rumsfeld's strategy and competence, (here), I thought, who can ignore this?

George W. Bush is, of course, the master of ignoring dissent. In April 2006, Bush said "Don Rumsfeld is doing a fine job... I say I listen to all voices, but mine's the final decision... I have strong confidence in Don Rumsfeld. I hear the voices, and I read the front page, and I know the speculation. But I'm the decider, and I decide what is best. And what's best is for Don Rumsfeld to remain as the Secretary of Defense" (here).

Fans of The Daily Show will recognize this quote as the impetus for the cartoon character "The Decider," (here for original, here for the second one).

Unfortunately, the Decider can't decide what is best. Somehow, firing Donald Rumsfeld will be another bad decision, if only because there are no good decisions to be made at this point. We can't leave, we don't want to stay, the death toll mounts and Iraq is nearing chaos. Can any one person salvage this, especially another historic Bushie chosen by the Decider?

<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"> Once in a while, I'm standing here, doing something. And I think: 'What in the world am I doing here?' It's a big surprise. (MAY 2001)

wednesday november 8 2006

****Rainy Day Boredom

<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"> "If something is boring after two minutes, try it for four. If still boring, then eight. Then sixteen. Then thirty-two. Eventually one discovers that it is not boring at all."- John Cage

Obviously, John Cage had never been on a treadmill. I was bored as hell, so I decided to move to the elliptical machine so that I could read The Economist.

After about ten minutes, a stocky woman who I've seen around the gym got on the elliptical next to me. Two minutes later, she turned and said matter-of-factly "You go faster than me."

Surprised, I said "Yes," already having noted her lethargic pace as compared to my honed elliptical gait.

"But see I have mine on 40 resistance, and you have yours on... 25," she said, peering over to stare at my display.

"Oh, yeah, right," I said.

"That's the only thing that works for me," she explained. "Slow pace, lots of resistance." And then, over the course of about five minutes, she engaged me in a detailed discussion of her exercise regimen. It was like reading a "Success" profile in Shape magazine: Pilates and yoga once a week, lifting weights twice a week, two hours of plodding away on an elliptical a week. 25 pounds lost.

"So, what do you do?" she asked when she finished.

"I write software manuals," I said.

"No, what do you do in the gym?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't work here, in the gym," I said, concerned that she mistook me for someone else.

"No, how do you work out when you come here?" she asked. She thought I was really dumb, but she's one of those people who probably often gets confused in casual conversation.

"Oh! Sometimes I spin, sometimes I run, sometimes I do this. It depends what I'm in the mood for."

"Ah." She looked away. I took the opportunity to turn down the resistance and begin to ellipse like a maniac, my entire body in brisk motion, and I waved goodbye to her with a dumb smile.

tuesday november 7 2006

****O Mihos! my Mihos!

<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"> "Votes are like trees, if you are trying to build a forest. If you have more trees than you have forests, then at that point the pollsters will probably say you will win." - Dan Quayle

I could never fathom voters who claimed to be 'undecided' right before an election. In the last Presidential race, right until the end, a small but not insignificant percentage of the population couldn't decide between Bush and Kerry. What else are these poor confused souls undecided over? Boxers or briefs? Heavy metal or country? Cats or dogs? I mean, how fucking multi-faceted are their opinions and how nuanced are their belief systems that they can't decide between two men who represent diametrically opposing views on every platform point?

But there I was, standing in a middle school gym, my ballot in hand. Undecided. With two candidates, it's easy. But with three...

Last week, I decided to vote for Democrat Deval Patrick, who will be the next Governor. I can live with Deval. But I'd be lying if I said I liked Deval. I wanted to stand behind the Democratic party and send a wake-up call to the Republicans crooks in Washington: This Massachusetts liberal is angry, and she's voting Democrat.

<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"> Always vote for principle, though you may vote alone, and you may cherish the sweetest reflection that your vote is never lost. - John Quincy Adams

As I walked to my voting kiosk, I suddenly heard a Big Fat Greek Independent shouting in my ear with a gruff South Shore accent: "This year, you have a real choice. So if you get stuck with four more years of politics as usual, it's your fault" (here). That voice, just try to ignore it. Screw principles; I voted for Christy Mihos.

monday november 6 2006

****Emily Post-Modern Etiquette

The stick lodged in Emily Post's ass was so big that it indentured her to write a handbook on Proper Ass Stick Insertion called Etiquette in society, in business, in politics and at home, published in 1922 (here).

Emily Post decreed proper etiquette for all of life's trivial situations so that those who wish to convey a sense of affiliation with "Best Society" can brandish these subtle commodities to Mrs. Toplofty and Mr. Worldy. But to Miss Post, demonstrating good manners was only the half of it. Etiquette must be internalized, so it appears instinctual rather than conscious obedience. You cannot be seen hesistating for a minute over the pace with which you imbibe afternoon tea, or when to take off your gloves upon entering the opera house, or how to react when a courtesy bow is "cut" by the recipient, or which sauce boat to pour over your roast partridge. It should appear as innate and natural as a ballroom promenade.

By successfully acquiring an Emily Post up one's ass, anyone can have the outward manifestation of a manner-conscious, well-bred person (as long as they have a trim maid with a low voice and quiet courteous manner answering the bell to their well-appointed house, a butler to engage and apportion work to the footmen, a housekeeper to take charge of the cadre of maids working to maintain the appearance of the house and all of its contents, a cook who submits daily menus, a nurse, a personal maid, a valet, chauffeur, and gardener.)

90% of Emily Post's dictums are irrelevant to the average modern working-class slob such as myself, but here are five favorite Emily Post mannerisms that transcend time and social class.

<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"> 1. A gentleman never discusses his family affairs either in public or with acquaintances, nor does he speak more than casually about his wife.

Conversation in my office ranges from co-workers doing impressions of their tantrum-throwing kids to discussion about what foods their wives craved during their pregnancies. How can we rebuild the barrier between office and home so that I never again overhear a co-worker bragging that he 'chopped down his wife's cherry tree'?

<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"> 2. Do not attract attention to yourself in public. This is one of the fundamental rules of good breeding. Shun conspicuous manners, conspicuous clothes, a loud voice, staring at people, knocking into them, talking across anyone - in a word do not attract attention to yourself.

Consider the stranger who egotistically believes he merits the attentions of others by virtue of his big, fat mouth. And oh, look at her! On her cell phone, with a tube skirt on a 50 degree day, laughing as if possessed by mirth! And listen to the song bird, singing along with her iPod, because the world craves the sounds of her voice singing Destiny's Child a-capella. I used to think of them as annoyances, but now I think of them as ill-bred. It's so much more satisfying.

<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"> 3. Nothing shows less consideration for others than to whisper and rattle programmes and giggle and even make audible remarks throughout a performance... If Mary and Johnny and Susy and Tommy want to talk and giggle, why not arrange chairs in rows for them in a drawing-room, turn on a phonograph as an accompaniment and let them sit there and chatter!

I had exactly the same thought once at the Symphony: Can't these geezers stay home with their phonographs and let me listen to the Rachmaninoff concerto without their incessant prattle?

<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"> 4. Never speak of your husband as "Mr." except to an inferior.

This one I agree with, but it was kinda a shocker because I call my boyfriend "Mr. Pinault" all the time on this site, grossly unaware of the implications. So I'll just clarify that I don't think of anyone as "an inferior," I just think of him as a superior. My superior, in fact. In keeping with Emily Post's philosophy, I live to please him, and if that gives me the right to call him by his first name, it might as well give me the right to vote.

<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"> 5. A "show-girl" may be lovely to look at as she stands in a seemingly unstudied position and in perfect clothes. But let her say "My Gawd!" or "Wouldn't that jar you!" and where is her loveliness then?

Wow, it's like Emily Post looked into a crystal ball and saw Paris Hilton.

sunday november 5 2006

****Front Yards across Massachusetts Agree: No on Question 1

saturday november 4 2006

****The Passion of Pastor Ted

Who doesn't love watching a hypocrite fall from his bully pulpit? There's so much to love, lately. Ted Haggard stepped down as president of the 30-million member National Association of Evangelicals and resigned as head of the 14,000-member New Life Church amid unseemly allegations about his personal life (here). His gay prostitute accuser has voice mails of Paster Ted requesting meth for their next encounter. Pastor Ted denies any gay sex was involved (only massages), but owned up using meth, citing "curiousity." It's funny, doing meth and getting massages from a gay prostitute is something I've personally never been curious about. It must be a Christian thing.

Evangelicals believe two things. 1:All other religions worship demons and 2:You must live every aspect of your life within the framework of the Bible. Evangelicals rely on their Leadership to issue biblically-oriented proclamations about everything from stem cells to global warming to how to vote. I'm all for belief systems having a concrete basis, but they cede control of their minds to conservative bigots who quote from an ancient book that has been translated and interpreted countless times over hundreds of years. The Word of God, as told by Ted Haggard.

There are lot of beautiful ideas in the Bible. It is poetic, thought-provoking, and comforting. For example, the Bible contains over 300 bible verses that speak in favor of helping the poor (here). But Evangelics focus on errant phrases that condemn homosexuality to make a communal stand against gay rights, to say that homosexuality is a disease and a perversion. So, it is only fitting that Ted Haggard's former flock will shun and eschew him, using the scripture as justification for intolerance instead of basis for forgiveness.

(Here is a seriously great 9-minute YouTube video about Ted Haggard called "The Root of all Evil?", narrated by atheist scientist Richard Dawkins, who annihilates Pastor Ted in an interview. Apparently it's easy to fluster meth addicts.)

friday november 3 2006

****Au Naturel Artichokes

By publishing the search engine phrases that bring people to this site, I'm basically putting up signs on the web highway that say: "Exit here for meredith viera nude pictures" or "Come see meredith baxter birney nude free."

And it's those scores of people who scour the web for the afore-mentioned atrocities that I want to ask: Why would you want to see naked pictures of either woman? Do you fantasize about what Vieira must look like nude when you watch her on TV? She may act cute, but she's a 53-year old woman with three kids, and she wouldn't be the host of the Today Show if their were genuine nude photos of her floating around the internet. She's a newswoman. She's got integrity. And Meredith Baxter is almost 60. Are you looking for pictures of her in Elyse Keaton years? Do you watch the re-runs and find yourself attracted to her fresh-faced Aryan charms, and think: She must have done porn.

You have probably scanned the site to determine that there are no nude photos at all here, and have returned to the search results to fulfill your prurient quest. I don't take it personally. Judging from what all my visitors are searching for, I'm not really giving anyone what they want, like...

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thursday november 2 2006

****Debate!

Last night Cokie Roberts moderated the final debate between the four candidates who seek to grab the gubernatorial reigns from Mitt Romney's half-hearted grasp and steer Massachusetts away from the brink of decline (here for debate transcript). There's Kerry Healey, the very steely Republican and current Lieutenant Governor; Deval Patrick, the earnest Democrat; Christy Mihos, the independently-wealthy Independent; and Grace Ross, the Green-Rainbow wallflower.

All the polls have Deval Patrick leading by at least 25 points; barring a gaffe of Mark Foley-like proportions, he's the shoo-in victor. But the other three went down swinging. The format of the debate allowed the candidates to ask each other questions, and Christy Mihos in particular decided to get his money's worth:

<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"> Mihos: My question is for [Healey]. Lieutenant governor, you flip-flop on MCAS, illegal immigration, parental consent for abortion, and as of late, independent oversight for the Big Dig. Your unfavorable numbers are at 59 percent. You can't win. At this point, why don't you drop out and support me and let me take on Deval as the only alternative?
Healey: Christy, Christy, Christy. Christy, I've got 50 good ideas to move this commonwealth forward.
Mihos: And I've got one: for you to leave right now and I'll move it forward.

It's true that if Christy Mihos had won the nomination from the Republican party, he would have had a chance. He's a born-and-bred local with all the alluring business qualities of Mitt Romney (but no wacky Mormonism or visions of grandeur). And Kerry Healey ran a terrible, dirty campaign, with TV ads that made me feel like I lived in the Heartland. The ads were all about how Partick, a former lawyer, defended rapists and cop-killers, leaving voters to make the obvious conclusion: Deval Patrick is in favor of crime! He fucking loves it! If he becomes governor, he'll probably legalize rape and cop-killing!

<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"> Mihos: Deval, you claim that you represent change, yet I've went on and I looked at your contributions and they are some of the most noteworthy special interests, big unions, construction lobbyists, construction unions, Big Dig lobbyists and all. You have said that you're going to be the agent of change here. You're just politics as usual.
Patrick: Is that a question?
Mihos: Yeah.

I'd never heard of Deval Patrick before he entered the race with his grassroots, door-to-door campaigning that won him a resounding nomination over long-entrenched MA politicos. And I don't mind him. I think the Romeny administration balanced the budget so Mitt can say he balanced the budget, and slaughtered the taxpayer-spending that makes Taxaschusetts great. I like taxes, so I'm sure to be thrilled with Deval. Besides, he doesn't annoy me like Kerry Healey does. I'll go nuts if I have to see her in the news for the next four years.

I will vote for Deval Patrick, but of course, it's Grace Ross I really want to vote for. How appealing these third-party candidates can be. With no chance of winning, they spurt all these marvelous ideals without having to present a concrete plan and with no pressure to ever fulfill them: And most of us in this state need new jobs and we need better incomes and we need affordable housing... And we need to actually turn government back into government where the riches go to all of us so that we all have survival and we don't have kids killing themselves, each other, in the streets, and we have enough housing and jobs for everybody. What would Grace Ross do if she actually won?

wednesday november 1 2006

****Pocket World

To reward me for being savvy enough to subscribe to their venerable publication, The Economist sent me the 2007 edition of Pocket World in Figures (here.) It's 250, 4 by 10 inch pages filled with countries, commodities, diseases, possessions, social ills, social practices, all correlated with numbers.

<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif">Highest quality of life: Zurich, Geneva, Vancouver (Boston is #36) - Lowest quality of Life: Baghdad.
Top Producer of Raw Wool: Australia - Top Consumer: China (who are top consumers of, like, everything)
Most Computers per population: Switzerland - Most CD Players: Norway - Most telephones: Bermuda (by a landslide) - Most Cars: New Zealand - Most Car Accidents: Qatar
Highest inflation: Zimbabwe - Lowest: Libya - Best Air Quality: Uganda - Worst: Bangladesh

It's interesting, but I feel a fair amount of animosity towards the book. The stark lists of numbers raise too many questions. While I can interpret many of the numbers (thanks in part to reading The Economist,) I often wonder: Why? Why Brazil has the highest rate of primary school enrollment, why men in Lebanon are the most obese, why the US is only #28 for highest defense spending as a % of GNP? Am I supposed to find this out on my own?

But what irks me most is how it presents the world in numbers. It's like looking at a beautiful baby and picturing DNA strands. It's like eating dessert and calculating calories and fat grams. It's like gazing at the stars and thinking physics. Facts. Figures. Data. Numbers. How neatly it distills this recondite world, and how handily it fits into your pocket.

<p><font color="#333333" size="-2" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"> <img src="../Images/Misc/numbers.jpg" width="500" height="304">
   Humanity Molecules</font></p>