| Friday November 30 2007 |
**** LAST! NATICK! POST!
Tonight is my last night in Natick, so before the PowerBook is slipped into its traveling case to be whisked away to our new apartment tomorrow, I thought I'd say goodbye to Natick.
So long, you dopey suburban mall town, with your fraying utility infrastructure, your abundance of Chinese and Italian restaurants, your steadfast refusal to institute curbside recycling, and your fierce townie pride. So long, Natick. I'll miss your, um, yeah.
| Thursday November 29 2007 |
**** Poetry in Notions
Technology conferences are fun, but exhausting. Today I headed back to the office, where life is relatively calm though sadly bereft of hourly snack breaks. After two solid days of networking, elevator speeches, marketing pitches, and attentive manners (you never know who's watching), it felt good to sit at my desk, pick through my email, and run my fingers through my hair with wild abandon.
On that note, today, let's talk about poetry. Fifty years ago, the poet Robert Graves said "There's no money in poetry, but then there's no poetry in money, either." Does this quote still hold true?
Is there money in poetry? These days, money can be made in anything that is aptly marketed. Look at how the movie Beowulf, based on a 1000-year old poem, is making piles of cash at the box office. Even poems that aren't visually aided by CGI or Angelina Jolie can perhaps benefit from Ruth Lilly's bonanza $200 million donation to Poetry magazine (here). Here is the obligatory "what would W.H. Auden say?" quote: "It is a sad fact about our culture that a poet can earn much more money writing or talking about his art than he can by practicing it."
As to whether there's literally money in poetry, well, poetry rarely discusses money. It's just not poetic or, frankly, cool. John Ashberry has an early poem called 'The Instruction Manual' (here), where he laments having to write a technical manual because he much prefers staring out the window and day-dreaming about Guadalajara. The poem is widely accepted to be about the power of the imagination to fulfil desire. But to me, who relates deeply to the writer of the instruction manual, this incredibly sad poem is about money.
So, the more complicated question: is there poetry in money? Money, like a poem, is a human invention that articulates a primitive instinct. I see that there is poetry in anything, just so long as the thoughts breath, the words burn, and last line unties a knot in the reader's soul.
| Wednesday November 28 2007 |
**** Day Two
Day Two of the high-powered technology trend conference felt less intense than yesterday. Attendees slouched deeper in their chairs, allowed their gaze to wander, and reacted less to the speakers, who spoke with less urgency. Perhaps it was bi-directional feedback of lethargy.
The best moment was when a British analyst quoted "William" Churchill... and not one audience member seemed fazed.
| Tuesday November 27 2007 |
**** Value Proposition
Today I attended Day One of a mid-sized, two-day technology conference sponsored by a business analyst group. I was sent by my company's C-level folks to be their "eyes and ears" (read: note-taker). Not being told to be a "mouth," I kept quiet in the back of the basement ballroom of the glitzy harborside hotel, listening to presentations and taking notes (a highlight: A Microsoft executive discussed acquiring start-ups like most people talk about buying shirts.)
The crowd was 90% men between the ages of 35 and 50... a real power crowd, fueled by buffets of refreshment food, an endless stream of beverages, and a lavish lunch. (Tomorrow I'll hide tupperware in my purse.) It wasn't until the cocktail hour that people asked me the question I'd been dreading all day: "What do you do?" I smiled mysteriously and claimed "They haven't invented a title for what I do."
Indeed, I felt mysterious all day. I stuck out. The bartender called me "Young lady" twice, and not in that "humoring a golden girl" sort of way. As one of the few women under forty, and the only blond, I got more than a few curious stares, and was evidently sized up as being not important enough to talk to except in the presence of cocktails. Wink wink. That's my value proposition.
| Monday November 26 2007 |
**** Pride and Punishment
I would like to publicly apologize to several family members in Philadelphia. On Thanksgiving, when we were discussing the Patriots / Eagles game that took place last night and that the Patriots narrowly won (here), my family predicted that the middling Eagles would challenge and even topple the almighty Patriots. "The Eagles are hungrier," my family said. "The Eagles have potential," my family said. "Feeley is a great quarterback, better than McNabb" my family said.
I offered polite smack talk, the type that is normal and expected when conflicting football allegiances face off in congenial surroundings. I almost bet my brother $100 that the Patriots would win by 23 points, which was the incredible Eagles-Patriots point spread offered in Las Vegas (here), but I backed off, pretending to respect their belief that the Eagles couldn't possibly bomb that badly.
But deep-down, I was laughing at them, uproariously. My poor family, with their fanciful notions that the Eagles could challenge the Patriot's obvious supremacy. I wished that the Patriots and Eagles were playing on Thanksgiving, so I could gleefully hoot in their faces every time that Tom Brady threw a touchdown to Randy Moss.
So last night, as I watched the Eagles aggressively battle the Patriots, I realized that this was my payback for sitting at the Thanksgiving table and pitying my deluded family. Even though the Patriots won, the Eagles came so close that, this Christmas, when the subject of the Patriots versus Eagles arises, I will be eating humble pie.
| Sunday November 25 2007 |
**** Yellow
Usually by Thanksgiving, the trees in Pennsylvania are bare, and the fallen leaves have turned into shriveling piles of detritus that rustle and shift in the wind. But this year, there were a good number of maples and oaks still shedding richly-hued yellow leaves on the landscape. Below is a canoe poised along the canal in New Hope, PA (here). Below that is a lovely maple along the banks of the Perkiomen Creek at Mill Grove in Audubon, PA (here). Both pictures were taken by Mr. Pinault.
| Saturday November 24 2007 |
**** Buy, buy, Americans Buy
As the Thanksgiving weekend winds down and the door-busting Black Friday sales abate, I urge America to make haste to the malls, the shopping centers, the internet commerce sites, and shop yourselves into a frenzy. Buy more than you think you need. Buy indiscriminately and lavishly. Buy until your credit card's magnetic strip is worn and useless. Buy, buy, buy.
This may sound uncharacteristic of me, but I am quite concerned that the product peddlers are using sneaky market reverse psychology to trap us in a quagmire of emotional impluses.
My suspicions were aroused when I heard the media outlets reporting on the holiday shopping season using strange themes like consumer restraint. The headlines said that one-third of Americans are planning to spend less during the 2007 Christmas season out of logical concerns about the contracting economy, softening house prices, high fuel costs, a weak dollar, and an environment that is buckling under humanity's consumption. All this bad news has many Americans believing that this is the year that they can finally exhale. That the mad consumer frenzy to acquire goods is over. That we no longer have to spend ourselves into debt to show our appreciation for our loved ones.
Many Americans have taken cues from the media and eschewed the Black Friday sales. They are proudly exercising self-control, taking on less debt, and reducing their overall materialism. And in the coming weeks, Americans will throw themselves into the pure joy of the Christmas season. They'll plan practical gifts. They'll donate to charity in other people's names. They'll plan hand-made crafts or baked goods to distribute. They'll regift without shame. They'll shake their heads at the commercials that blithely beseech them to spend big bucks on that perfect holiday gift.
And then, with about ten days to go, the tone of the media will change. Suddenly, the economy is fantastic. Holiday spending is up. The stores are packed and shelves are emptying. And Americans will survey their meager and pathetic clutch of presents, and imagine Mother unwrapping the second-hand DVDs of Will Farrell movies, and Father beholding the large Costco container of pretzel bits. America will collectively freak out, head to the mall, and outspend themselves on full-price products to rectify their initial spate of miserliness, resulting in a banner year for retailers and record levels of consumer debt.
So spend now, before you're conned into going for broke with 5 shopping days left...
| Wednesday November 21 2007 |
**** What I'm Really Thankful For
Yesterday I declared my thanks for receiving less search query hits involving naked Meredith Vieira. Ironically, this declaration of thanks will result in more search query hits involving naked Meredith Vieira. Happy freaking Thanksgiving.
If I may get serious for a moment: I have a lot to be thankful for this year. The Patriots are 10-0. The end of the Bush regime is in sight. The spinning instructor who plays too much country-rock music is on maternity leave. I am employed, healthy, and still reasonably good-looking.
And there's Mr. Pinault. Some readers of this web site with whom I'm not personally acquainted may wonder if Mr. Pinault is a real man, and not some fictitious French foil to my inner malcontent American. But he is so very, very real. And after countless walks in the woods, glasses of wine, courses of cheese, cups of coffee, kisses, movies, billiards, mountain tops, campfires, apres-skis, impromptu language lessons, and general lovey-doveyness.... Mr. Pinault has consented to ask me to be his wife.
Meaning that, some time next year, I will be Mrs. Pinault. Frequently asked questions regarding this announcement include:
1 - How do you pronounce "Pinault?" The French say "PEE-no" (exactly like "Pinot" Noir), barely moving their lips when the P is pronounced. But in America, I'll take the phonetic route, and say "PIE-nult."
2 - Will the name or URL of this website change? No way. This is the perfect opportunity to cloak this site in a thin veil of anonymity, as well as retain an illusion of crazy maidenship. This is where I will go to let my hair down, and rant about potato peelings, dishpan hands, and ring-around-the-collar.
3 - Will you wear white? Yes, and with a perfectly straight face, you imp.
| Tuesday November 20 2007 |
**** Gobble Gobble Googles
Yes, it's a special heart-warming Thanksgiving edition of my favorite search engine queries that brought people to this web site to huddle in the warmth of my gravy-like wisdom!
In the past week, I've received over 50 hits involving Squanto and Tisquantum, who I wrote about in Thanksgiving 2006 after reading 1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus.
50 hits for Squanto and Tisquantum! That's twice the number of hits than I received from people seeking nude photos of Meredith Vieira. It appears that I may be turning an important corner on the road to respectability. And for that, I'm very, very thankful.
INTERROGATIVE
what food makes girls horny
what does succotash look like
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how is the calvin klein advert for euphoria a myth
does meredith viera have penis envy
what is the wc fields quote about spending a year in philadelphia
why was burger king closed in central square
what does green discharge mean for a dog
how to use eyelash curler for thin straight eyelashes
who was the first us president to prove the pythagorean theorum
MISSPELLED
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how any cars cross the zakim bridge
jeusus freaks
candace cameroon
common tu tappel
como tappel tu translated
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pros and cons of al gore of the green house affect
CELEBRITY & BUSINESS & PRON
peace sign darfur tee shirt designed by celebrity
elizabeth baxter birney nude
idiot remark on maury povich
green day's favorite food
pillsbury doughboy controversy poking stomach
finagle a bagel upward mobility
brussel sprouts and chanel
going green environment and neiman marcus
holocaust designer plates crate barrel
orgy in brussel -gay
looking for fat women to love and to have sex.com
porn with tentacles and pie
sexy pulpous women
horny mennonite women pics
EVERYTHING ELSE
swiss chard poisonous
fluorescent muscleman paintings
john milton quote tattoo
semantic pox
norristown sucks
big mac methacton
santa claus hairstyles
egg nog lip gloss
funny stair injury pics
"green green"
| Monday November 19 2007 |
**** The Good Old Days, When We Were Literate
The National Endowment for the Arts today released an alarming report that analyzed data from over two dozen studies about the reading habits of Americans (here). No one is surprised in the least that young Americans are reading for fun less, scoring in tests lower, writing good worse, and growing into adult Americans who don't read or write good. (Pride prevents me from continuing before I clarify that the previous sentence is written poorly to make an important point: That my own command of the English language is, in fact, masterful.)
I could piously brag about how I've been a lifelong reader and smarty pants. But when I grew up, my choices of entertainment consisted of watching kung-fu re-runs on UHF television, renting a two-year-old movie on VHS, listening to my static music collection, or reading. And so I read, usually to enhance my knowledge about purient topics such as sex, hedonist subcultures, mysticism, and noncomformity.
If 15-year old Meredith had the internet, a cell phone and an iPod, there's no way she would have been holed up in her bedroom reading William Burroughs, Oscar Wilde, Sweet Valley High, and how-to manuals on astral projection. She would have been cruising eSpin the Bottle for hotties, fantasizing about being a Suicide Girl, and habitually downloading music at Insound.
| Sunday November 18 2007 |
**** Brussels Sprouts Pie
We were driving and we passed a farm stand with a sign, Pies! Pies! Pies! $10. The car discernibly slowed. Mr. Pinault made an interested noise. "Maybe we should -- "
"We're not paying $10 for pie when I can make better pie at home. I'll make one tonight," I promised. Because when a man craves pie, he's gotta have pie, and he doesn't care if he gets pie at home or at some random farm stand or even at a grocery store. And I don't like the idea of my man eating someone else's pie.
That evening, I surveyed the pantry. There was just enough butter for a crust, but limited options for pie filling: Bananas, a few Granny Smith apples, potatoes, green beans, an eggplant, and an assortment of salad fixings. Oh yeah, and 2 pounds of brussels sprouts.
I pondered the brussels sprouts. Ever since I first wrote about brussels sprouts last year, I've gotten many hits from Google searches for this trendy vegetable. And I've spied brussels sprouts on the menus of several swank eateries, including Sel de la Terre. Surely the internet must be brimming with recipes for Brussels Sprouts Pie.
But I found only a single Brussels Sprouts Pie recipe (here), with odd ingredients, including a "box" of Brussel Sprouts, 2 1/2 cups of skim milk, and 1/2 cup of sugar. I felt tempted to concoct my own recipe, but this is freaking Brussels Sprouts Pie. Experimentation might bring repellant results. Still, I omitted the sugar, used whole milk, and sauteed fresh BSs in garlic and onion and then roughly chopped it.
The resulting Brussels Sprouts Pie, pictured below, is as yummy as it looks. (Yumminess is in the eye of the beholder...) This is good pie.
| Saturday November 17 2007 |
**** Open Studios
Today we went to the Joy Street and Brickbottom Open Studios in Somerville (here). I'm ambivalent about attending Open Studio events. Because I'm not an artist, it's hard to make knowledgeable small-talk about artistic mediums and other technical aspects, which are the safest, most neutral comments should the artist look at me quizzically. Never open a conversation with "This is so interesting" or "You really like to work with purple!"
I enjoy mingling in an atmosphere of open expression. But I also feel invasive, like I'm inspecting an artist's work in their own space. I try to remain expressionless, with a slight smile to indicate I'm delighted by what I'm seeing. But I never laugh, even if I'm staring at a meticulously-painted and ornately-framed oil painting of a can of WD-40. Artists earnestly exist in a state of Irony.
I never go for the snacks or wine, because I don't want the artist to think I'm only there for the free booze. If I were at artist, I can only imagine exposing my inner sanctum of creativity to anyone who wanders in from the street, and watching them make consistent beelines for the Camembert wheel and Yellow Tail Shiraz. I would paint a series depicting people gulping wine and stuffing their mouths with crackers, and then exhibit the paintings at an Open Studio event. Take that, you leeches.
I leave an Open Studio event feeling a mixture of inspiration and jealousy. Why didn't I devote my life to writing creatively, instead of killing myself in a day job that leaves little left over for more serious endeavors? A person who aims at nothing is sure to hit it. I dwell instead on the inspired fervor, and I head home to create... dinner.
| Thursday November 15 2007 |
**** Young Wit
By now, everyone in my twice-a-week French class is aware that my sole reason for learning French is so that I may speak the native language of mon fiance, Mr. Pinault. As a modern-minded female who likes to set her own agenda, I'm a little sheepish that my ambitions should blatantly reflect my emotional dependance on a man, although my fellow students seem to find my endeavor to be admirable.
"I've had boyfriends where I don't even bother to learn the family members' names," the young urban sophisticate who is moving to Montreal admitted to me. "Like, don't clog my mind with too many details. So, for you to learn a new language, that's devotion. That's the sort of relationship I ultimately want to end up in.
"The last guy I dated had one kidney," she went on to tell me. I raised my eyebrows in surprised horror. "And, you know, they say that having one kidney doesn't make a difference, but it really does. He just seemed so fragile and bird-like all the time.
"So, you know, I want a guy with two kidneys, and a guy who knows the meaning of the word 'courtship,'" she said straight-faced.
"You like romantics," I stated sympathetically.
"No, really, he must know the meaning of the word. All the men I meet have such lackluster vocabularies," she said with a wink in her voice.
Ah, I love a good wit. Reminds me of myself, before I found my two-kidneyed prince.
| Wednesday November 14 2007 |
**** Library Feud
Excitement-craving library nerds like myself are riveted by yesterday's ousting of Boston Public Library president Bernard Margolis, whose successful 10-year tenure brought an increase in book circulation and improvement in local branch programs despite marginal increases in funding from the city (here).
Supporters of Margolis contend that Boston Mayor Tom Menino influenced the Board of Trustee's 7-2 decision not to renew his contract. Apparently, Margolis and Menino have been feuding for years. Margolis was told by mayoral confidants that Menino was fixated on forcing Margolis out because "he hates you" (here). Margolis further charged that Menino is an "anti-intellectual" who runs the city as if it were an authoritarian state. "I didn't think this was Venezuela," Margolis said. Zing!
I'm sure likening Menino to Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez will resonant deeply with anyone who knows who Chavez is, and who is hysterical enough to see any resemblance between a South American Socialist president and the mayor of Boston. And as for the anti-intellectual charge... well, Menino is a profound supporter of academic and intellectual accomplishment, so long as it helps the Red Sox win the World Series.
Menino declined to comment on Margolis, saying, "I'm not getting involved in 'he said, she said.'" Wait, which one's the "she"? This keeps getting juicier and juicier!
| Tuesday November 13 2007 |
****Angela
I physically and figuratively walked into my regular hair salon in Downtown Crossing. "Lauren isn't here today," the receptionist purred. "Angela can take you in ten minutes." I hesitated. Lauren does a decent job, plus she keeps the conversation light and pleasant. But my hair begged for a cut, and here I was, in the salon with an hour to spare. So I took a chance on Angela.
"Meredith? We're gonna make you look fabulous today." A chubby, nondescript woman around my age with a brash South Shore accent steered me over to the sink. It took her all of two minutes to have sufficient cause to declare "You're a quiet one, aren't you!"
Over the next 40 minutes, Angela talked non-stop. About her co-workers and the drama of her workplace, where everyone is always stealing each other's clients, grooming implements, and cigarettes. About her ex-husband, who purchased two condos and three cars in her name before emptying the joint bank account to take a gambling trip to Las Vegas, leaving her bankrupt and lovelorn. "I'll tell you my philosophy of life," she whispered in my ear, scissors poised at my neck. "Men suck. They suck." About her 5-year old daughter, who is a lot of fun, but whose own father can't remember to pick up from dance class because he's too busy drinking and drugging. About her mother, who wants to be paid to look after her own grandchild. About Vince Vaughn. Yes, Vince Vaughn, who she once drank with at the Viper Room in LA when she visited her brother 7 years ago, though her brother never visits her here because the weather in Boston is so shitty.
In the last 5 minutes, her virulent spew of words changed into tip-baiting flattery. "You look gorgeous. Your hair is so soft. I can't believe you're 30. You look like a baby. Your hair is perfect for this cut." I tipped Angela 25% and ran out of the salon, exhausted by the manic small-talk that she heaped upon me.
I should have known better. 'Lauren' is a name that fills me with warm fuzzy feelings because it's my sister's name. But 'Angela' is one of those female names that fills me with dread. Ever since grade school, where two of the nastiest girls were named Angela, I've been predisposed to not like any Angela, as well as any Missy, Crystal, or Sandra. My bias is usually bourne out by the fact that every woman with one of these names is unpleasantly crazy.
| Monday November 12 2007 |
****Got Hope?
In an ideal world, Bill Richardson would have a shot in hell. I wouldn't be bothered by John Edwards. I could live with Hillary Clinton.
But, Barack Obama is increasingly appealing. His much-buzzed-about speech at the Jefferson Jackson fundraising dinner (here on You Tube) really titillated me. It is striking in the style of great political speeches. It filled me with optimism that I can imagine Americans felt when they heard JFK speak. It was the best speech I've heard an American politician give in my lifetime... (yes, better than Bill Clinton.)
"I don't want to pit Red America against Blue America, I want to be the President of the United States of America."
The speech made me very against the idea of "living with" Hillary. I proceeded to Barack Obama's online store (here) and bought a "Got Hope?" t-shirt. Because today, I have hope.
| Sunday November 11 2007 |
****Movie Review: No Country for Old Men 
out of
Every time someone got killed on screen, a woman behind me in the movie theatre would exclaim "Jesus Christ!" Suffice to say, it began to sound like a Pentecostal revival meeting.
I knew the extreme violence in No Country for Old Men wouldn't be a typical sort of brainless, desensitizing cinematic carnage. After all, this is the Coen brothers. Nothing is gratuitous. Everything is pervasive, inescapable, and thus haunting.
Jesus Christ!
This movie gripped me, physically. I couldn't move or, frequently, breath. The crowded theatre would collectively recoil with horror. There are also hilarious moments, if you can relax enough to chuckle.
This movie is still gripping me, mentally. It'll continue to grip me for quite some time. I haven't felt this personally affected by a film since, weirdly enough, the Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room documentary in 2005. I guess stark-raving evil makes an impression on me.
Jesus Christ!
****The Last of the Foliage
Some late-season foliage in Leominster State Forest, courtesy of Mr. Pinault...
| Saturday November 10 2007 |
****Neanderthal "Feminism"
An article in the Boston Globe points to "Stone Age feminism" as a possible cause of the demise of the Neanderthals (here). The article cites evidence that females hunted alongside males, meaning there was equal opportunity stomping and goring by big beasts. This high rate of mortality among fertile women "could well have mean demographic disaster" and caused the Neanderthal extinction 30,000 years ago.
"Stone Age feminism?" It makes Neanderthal female sound like a strident crusader, asserting her right to hunt because she wants to be liberated from the cave. But she just couldn't maintain that delicate work/life balance, bringing her society to total annihilation.
What mammothshit. The article's writer ignores the logical conclusion that could be made from the evidence of female hunting: That the Neanderthals were increasingly stressed from the appearance of Homo sapiens in Europe 45,000 years ago. The species was struggling to compete for food, and the females had no choice but to join the hunt.
That's not "Stone Age feminism." That's our civilization's notions falsely applied to an alien society for a catchy headline. That's drawing a parallel between modern women who are fighting for equal pay, equal opportunity, and affordable child care, and Neanderthal females who were fighting for the survival of their species by hunting elk and reindeer. That's suggesting that the Neanderthal females serve as warning to humanity, that feminism is degenerative.
| Thursday November 7 2007 |
****Did we save room for dessert?
The food critic for the New York Times wrote a short droll piece (here) about the "patronizing language" used by restaurant staff, typified by "off-kilter pronouns" like frequent use of third-person, "hoary courtesies" like 'madam' and 'pardon,' and the "semantic pox" that is the word 'enjoy': "How are we enjoying things so far?"
I applaud the NY Times for giving attention to this issue. Truly, they are doing a public service for diners who have had it with polite waiters.
Why, just last week, Mr. Pinault and I went to Applebees to use a gift card generously given to us by my father. There's not too many Applebees in Massachusetts, but there is one in Quincy, not far from the Blue Hills Reservation. So, after a morning of hiking, we arrived at Applebees, famished.
The waitress was overly-attentive from the start. She carefully explained the menu: "These are our appetizers... burgers... steaks," she said as she pointed to the menu sections respectively labeled "Appetizers" "Burgers" "Steaks" in big bubble-letters. She lauded our selections, saying "Oh, the staff just loves the ciabatta sandwiches! We're so excited about them!" She repeated our orders twice and came back to verify my french fry seasoning preference.
Our sandwiches arrived in about five minutes, and appeared to have been assembled by a one-armed monkey. I have never eaten a sandwich that tasted so purely of mayonnaise. Still, hunger drove us to quickly demolish the food. "Well, it looks like someone enjoyed their lunch!" the waitress said, beaming at our near-empty plates. Something about the maternal way she said it just made me want to archly snarl "Who, bitch? Who enjoyed their lunch?" I think the food critic at the NY Times knows what I'm talking about.
| Wednesday November 6 2007 |
****The Needle Flu
Today a nurse came to my office to administer flu vaccines. She set up a makeshift clinic for the entire floor, including other companies, not far from my cubicle. I overheard about 50 people get flu shots. Amazingly, nobody seemed phased. If someone said something before receiving the shot, it was "Is it going to hurt?" Some girls who I recognized from the communal restroom giggled excessively, but that's normal for them. One man yakked on his cell phone.
I didn't sign up for a flu shot because I've suffered my whole life from needlephobia (or, as the Ancient Greeks called it, belonephobia). If I had received a flu shot, to avoid fainting, I would have had to: Put my head between my knees, take deep breaths, and recite a Gentile joke (here): A Gentile goes into a clothing store and says: "This is a very fine jacket. How much is it?" The salesman says: "It's $500." The Gentile says, "OK, I'll take it."
What's it like to faint, you wonder? As someone who has fainted over a dozen times, I am a self-proclaimed expert.
Prior to fainting, I will be light-headed and spacey from anywhere from 2 minutes to 10 seconds. I've improved with age, so now I can usually talk myself "back to Earth." By the time I realize that fainting is imminent, it's too late.
Suddenly I'm in a dream. It's a vivid, marvelous dream that takes place outdoors. Once I rolled down a grassy hill. Another time I jumped up and down in a shallow lake. Sometimes other people will be nearby. Never have my fainting dreams been bad or unpleasant.
I awake, always with someone touching or shaking me. This moment is always scary. Imagine waking from a deep sleep, in public, surrounded by staring strangers, with no recollection as to what just happened. I'm absolutely confounded. What happened to my wonderful dream? Why am I on the floor?
| Tuesday November 6 2007 |
****The Hollywood Writer's Strike
I considered not posting today, to show my solidarity with the striking Hollywood writers (here), whose demands include increased share of revenue from DVDs, increased residuals from internet distribution, and an end to their Dickensian working conditions.
But then I reconsidered... do I want to show solidarity, or should I turn scab and become a writer for The Daily Show with Jon Stewart? Since the quality of The Daily Show has dipped to the point where the loudest laughs are roused by Stewart flubbing a line or making a funny face, I think I can easily handle the snide absurdity... or, if needed, the absurd snideness.
In addition to talk shows, it was announced today that the strike has halted production of the three sit-coms: "Back to You," "Til Death," and "Rules of Engagement" (here). Since I've never seen or even heard of these shows, I don't know if this development will spook the television studios into returning to the bargaining table. Like 99% of Americans, I'm waiting until the strike retroactively affects re-runs of "Seinfeld" and "Friends" -- the last truly good sit-coms on TV -- before I give a shit.
Les Moonves, the CEO of CBS, has said that he foresees "no material impact" from the strike on the network's financials (here), which makes me wonder... if the writers aren't making anybody richer, then why are they employed in the first place? Why not just continue to stock the airwaves with dance contests for fat people judged by former 1980s Glam Rock stars, who all confined to a haunted ranch and are in sub-contest to win the affections of Katie Couric?
| Monday November 5 2007 |
****These Legs were Made for Walking
Most of my townsman would fain walk sometimes, as I do, but they cannot. No wealth can buy the requisite leisure, freedom, and independence which are the capital in this profession [of Walking]... You must be born into the family of Walkers. Ambulator nascitur, non fit. Some of my townsmen, it is true, can remember and have described to me some walks which they took ten years ago... but I know very well that they have confined themselves to the highway ever since, whatever pretensions they may make to belong to this select class.
-Henry David Thoreau, "Walking" (here)
November is the last month that I'll be living in Natick. On December 1, Mr. Pinault and I are moving to a spacious two-bedroom in a town on Boston's posh periphery that boasts urban perks like walkable main streets. Celebration! My household is a continual source of joy, but I do not hesitate to call the past year and 3 months of living in Natick a failure.
Natick is a sprawling middle-class suburb not unlike the one in Pennsylvania where I grew up. Age has given me enough wisdom to be able to articulate my dislike for suburban living in a manner untinged by teenaged angst: Walking is not pleasurable. (15-year old Meredith would liken the suburbs to a prison where all the other inmates are gleeful Earth-raping oil and money addicts who delight in their solitary confinement from global reality and moral imperative).
I find cheer and therapy in purposeful walking, but the suburbs makes it difficult, not only because of prohibitive distances, but because it's just not meant to be done. Who wants to walk on a sidewalk or, more likely, on the side of a road amid cigarette butts, coffee cups, and squirrel guts while speeding SUVs with tinted windows whiz by at 50 mph? It's stressful. It's demeaning. It's scary. The only option is to drive to a dedicated path specifically meant for exercise.
Walking is human. It's what we evolved to do. It defines us physically and mentally as a species. It keeps us and our planet healthy. Walking is freedom. It's not having to rely on oil cartels, the automobile industry, or taxpayer-funded public transportation in order to procure a load of bread. Walking is relaxing. It allows us to slow down and regard other pedestrians in recognition of our common humanity.
I can't wait to leave Natick and its steel-encased citizenry, and get back to the urban sidewalks! Should I ever move back to the suburbs, it's probably because my legs fell off.
| Sunday November 4 2007 |
****How Bout Those Pats?
Rugby is a beastly game played by gentlemen. Soccer is a gentlemen's game played by beasts. Football is a beastly game played by beasts. - Henry Blaha
The potential of football to incite depravity in its viewers became clear today while watching the New England Patriots tussle against the Indianapolis Colts. And I sat there with white knuckles, praying that Peyton Manning's pasty oblong face would get smeared into the artificial turf of the RCA Dome in front of those pasty oblong Indianapolis fans and that ridiculous cartoon blue horse mascot. Like, I really wanted Manning to get injured. I was bloodthirtsy.
What a game, though. Not only did the Patriots finally play against a worthy challenger, they vanquished them after trailing for three nail-biting quarters. Perfect. The only better outcome would be if Peyton Manning left the game paralyzed from the waist down.
Maybe I should stop watching football. Maybe I should stick to LOL Cats.
| Saturday November 3 2007 |
**** Movie Review: Gone Baby Gone 
(2 Green Thumbs out of 3)
Okay, I was determined to hate this movie, just out of Bostonian self-loathing. And I was kinda not loving it up until the last five minutes, when the ending (which I will not spoil even though it's a understated mental zinger rather than a spectacle) taught me something about movie endings: Sometimes the ending that you've been rooting for isn't the happiest. And those last five minutes were brilliant.
Anyway, on the shallow end of the pool: There are exactly three attractive people in Gone Baby Gone: Casey Affleck, who plays a private investigator in Boston's Dorchester neighborhood; Michelle Monaghan, who plays his partner in work and life; and Amanda, the four-year old girl whose disappearance they are hired to investigate in conjunction with the Boston Police Department.
Everyone else is so ugly that it made me re-think my post on October 27, 2007, in which I denounce Boston's rank of 16 out of 25 on Travel and Leisure's attractiveness survey. I mean, where did Ben Affleck find such wretched people? The thought that such repellent-looking humans may be existing in the same geographic vicinity as myself is so unsettling that I've decided to move back to Philadelphia... where the beautiful people are.
| Friday November 2 2007 |
****The Grind
I'd tell you why I've been so busy at work in the past week, but you'd probably die of boredom (which is better off anyway, since I would have to kill you).
But whatever. No one likes a whiner. There's a woman about my age in my biweekly French class who attends maybe 1 in every 3 classes. I would have expected her to stop coming, but she's shown a consistent half-assed commitment to learning the French language.
Once we were paired in a partner exercise, and I asked her delicately what keeps her away so often from class. "I have a really important job," she said. After more quizzing, she professed to be a software engineer in charge of keeping the company's most profitable web site 'going.' "I just can't make it to this class twice a week," she said with a faint Valley Girl twang that gave the impression of an aggrieved college girl forced to fulfill a language requirement.
Out of an effort to maintain an agreeable social exchange, I avoided the obvious: That this is a twice-a-week adult education class that she signed up for on her own free will. And that the busiest of people are never too busy to point out how busy they are.
| Thursday November 1 2007 |
****Halloween, Part Two
The song "Halloween" by the Misfits has been stuck in my head all blasted day. It's not even the well-known polished version from the album, but an alternate outtake from one of the many Misfits compilations that warped my perception of cool and dictated my personal style when I was a teenager. The band sounds half-asleep as they plod through their primitive melodic gloom rock. The microphone was apparently 10 feet from Glen Danzig's face as he chanted the lyrics, although he is clearly heard to moan the I remember Hal-o-ween-en-en, Hal-o-ween-en-en, Hal-o-ween-en-en, Halloween chorus over and over and over again.
Which is what echoed in my brain all day: Glen Danzig's lame laments for Hal-o-ween-en-en. Ugh. Quick, someone sing "Monster Mash" or "Thriller."
Nostalgia can be scary. Pictured to the right, circa 1980, are the Green children prior to some serious guising around the neighborhood. On the left is big brother Brian, Butterfinger aficionado, dressed as... a doctor? The Bionic Man? In the middle is Laurie, the Twix master, as the world's most anatomically correct Barbie Doll. And on the right is myself, Kit Kat keeper, as one seriously ugly little witch.
