thursday december 28 2006

 

****2006: Crazier than Soup Sandwiches

My last post of 2006. Woo-wee! I'd like to thank everyone who takes the trouble to read this website, because it's damn troubling. How finely can I chop the English language before we cry?

To stick a toothpick in 2006, here is my own personal In/Out list, modeled after the popular magazine space-filling feature that reinforces observed trends by juxtaposing cultural phenomenon in a Hot/Not, Cool/Cold, Chic/Geek dichotomy. 'In' is my current modus, while 'Out' is helplessly 2006.

In	Out
Nesting	Dating
Worrying about getting hit by a car in Natick	Worrying about getting hit by a bullet in Cambridge
Prada Eyewear	Contact Lenses
Despair over Global Warming	Anger over Global Warming
"That's so odd"	"That's so retarded"
Relish-based salad dressing	Mustard-based salad dressing
T-Mobile	Sprint
Baby Shower Gifts	Wedding Gifts
NY Times and The Economist	Wall St Journal and The Atlantic Monthly
Dreams of traveling in Spain	Dreams of traveling in Japan
Puma	New Balance
Mozart Piano Concertos	Beethoven Piano Sonatas
Wasting time on You Tube	Wasting time on Flickr
Waiter Rant	New York Escorts Confessions
Businessmen on the Commuter Rail	Future Businessmen on the Red Line
$30 haircuts from Lauren	$40 haircuts from Charbel
Pinot Gris	Riesling
Resigned Acceptance	Quiet Desperation

wednesday december 27 2006

****The Fast After the Feast

Anecdotal evidence suggests that everyone got what they wanted this holiday season. And even if they didn't, it's okay, because no one I know wanted, like, a kidney.

But wait! What about the retail industry itself, who so graciously provides the trinkets with which we express our affections? With holiday sales growing only 4.5% from last year, it looks like they will be denied their holiday wish of the forecasted 5% growth, which was already the lowest increase in sales since 2002 (here).

My heart aches for the American retail industry. They're like a mother who spent all day cooking up a feast only to have her smorgasbord daintily and politey picked at: "Oh, it all looks really good, but I already ate... It's all so filling... I'm just not hungry, thanks." Ingrates! Don't you know that megabusiness treasures our frenzied holiday consumption of their wares? The America that they cater to doesn't know the meaning of the word 'leftovers.'

And now it's time for dessert, and they're offering some sweet deals. Americans, redeem yourselves. Hunker down and cram .5% more consumer goods down your gullet. Don't give me that "I don't have the room for more" crap... there's always room for 50% off seasonal decorations. What's the matter, you've had enough of the mall? You're going to hide in your homes with your families and enjoy each other's company? Wusses. Look at England, they're rioting for post-Christmas sales (here). Now that's showing gratitude for the retail industry.

tuesday december 26 2006

****James Brown is Dead

At this moment, snippets of Christmas melodies are repeatedly jin-jin-jingling or fah-lah-lah-lahing in the heads of half the populace of America. The ability of Christmas songs to infect the human auditory cortex with mental recitals is on the same contagion level as kitchsy advertising jingles, sit-com themes, and teenybopper pop hits. In other words, crappy music is often tortuously catchy music.

Christmas morning, as I sipped coffee and engaged in pre-gifting pleasantries with family, my pliable hippocampus seized on a very unusual theme. We were discussing how James Brown had died. My aunt commented, "It was unusual, instead of saying 'James Brown has died' or 'James Brown dies at 73,' the radio station said 'James Brown is dead.'"

James Brown is Dead. The words whisked me out of my father's kitchen and onto memory lane, to a run-down standalone nightclub in Malvern, PA called Breakers that I frequented as a teenager. Breakers catered to alienated suburban kids by playing the most popular songs in every musical genre that appealed to them, from industrial to metal to rap to techno to punk to ska to indie rock. My friends and I were avowed punks, but we would dance to anything, and we grew to love all of the regular Breakers' songs, including L.A. Style's techno rave anthem "James Brown is Dead."

And dammit, it was a childbook Christmas morning, and "James Brown is Dead" invaded my head like a nest of bedbugs: The infectious refrain of the slightly amused male voice declaring "James Brown is Dead," the frantic patterns of techno beats and chanting, and jarring visuals of 16-year old Meredith on the dance floor, gyrating her honed techno steps to impress some loser named George or Mikey or Tim with how she knows exactly when to stop dancing and thrust her arms in the air to proclaim "James Brown is Dead" (here for the video on You Tube, which is enjoying timely popularity)

I ate eggs, I opened presents, I watched others open my presents, I even listened to notoriously infectious Christmas songs like "Santa Baby" and Mariah Carey's farcical hit, but all I could hear is: "Duh duh duh dadada duh duh duh dadada JAMES BROWN IS DEAD." Occasionally, celebration distracted me, but then I'd realize "Hey, 'James Brown is Dead' is no longer stuck in my brain... oh, eff. There it goes again..." And there it remained for the rest of Christmas, until on the journey home, listening to 107.5 FM outside of New York, a song came on that instantly evicted "James Brown is Dead" from my brain:

"Mama, come here quick, / bring me that lickin' stick."

Thank the Lord. He is alive, and he is funky.

thursday december 21 2006

****Spreading Christmas Fear

I'm off to Pennsylvania until mid-next-weekish. Can't wait to gather with my family under the Christmas trees, to exchange news, memories, and tidings of comfort and joy. Or tidings of "wow, it's a [insert product name]." Pity my family. They open my presents guardedly, never knowing what the Christmas terrorist will bring this year.

****Christmas in the News

The newspapers and weeklies run a little thin this time of year, but I'm not complaining. The only thing worse than getting depressed about Iraq, Ethiopia, and Democratic Presidential hopefuls is getting bored by holiday-themed news articles.

According to an article about Christmas in Japan, "few people know about the Christian roots of Christmas and the holiday has become a time for unbridled consumption and gluttony" (here). Ah, Japan, it's like looking in a magnifying mirror sometimes.

Meanwhile, in Tel Aviv, Christmas "passes with little fanfare...life in most of Israel carries on as normal" (here). "Normal" is sort of relative, after all.

The Pope spoke about a need to protect Christmas against secular trends (here), saying that "false prophets continue to offer cheap salvation which ends up in deep delusions." Careful, Pope! You've pissed off the entire Muslim world this year. Is it wise to slander Wal-Mart?

Prince William will be celebrating Christmas this year at his Army barracks, missing the royal festivities for the first time ever (here). The Prince must remain at the military academy to prepare for an invasion of lap-dancers with six-packs.

And we're all dying to know how George Michael will be spending Christmas. Turns out, he'll be with his father, watching TV and eating chocolates (here). Sounds they'll have a gay old time!

It just wouldn't be Christmas without the near-pathological efforts of a Christmas light enthusiast making headlines. This year, it's a man in Ohio (known for a previous display featured in a beer commercial) who spent $204,000 on 80,000 lights (here). Who loves you, Baby Jesus?

wednesday december 20 2006

****A Christmas Gift for the Ladies

Stephen Hawking and his second wife (her first husband invented that dreamy voice synthesizer) mutually filed papers for divorce (here). At last: Hunky Hawking is back on the market. Gravity, hold me back.

Tabloids are reporting that the Hawk was having an affair, which he denies. But it wouldn't surprise me... Stevie knows that quarks aren't the only things in the universe that come in different flavors. Yow, baby! Big Bang and Black Holes!

****Tales from the Rails

This morning, as I walked to the end of the train platform, I noticed a woman. She was about 40, average height and weight, smartly dressed in an long ivory wool coat, wool slacks, and heeled boots, carrying a sturdy black leather purse that she probably didn't hesitate to spend four figures on, because women like her believe that any lacking in their appearance is redeemed by a designer purse.

I noticed her because I was admiring her. Since I've moved to the 'burbs, my style cues no longer come from college girls and urban hipsters, but from classy women who abide in suburban enclaves. I want timeless elegance and subtle originality. I want that refined polish that effortlessly elicits inconspicuous obeisance from strangers. I want people to ponder if I'm a smarty or a sexy.

When I was about ten feet away from her, the woman turned to peer down the platform. I almost gasped: On the crown of her highlighted blond head was a gaping bald spot about the circumference of a soda can. I stared it in disbelief. Would she knowingly showcase a bald spot? Wouldn't she conceal such a bold deviance from typical feminity?

Maybe a clump came out on her pillow or in the shower, and she had nary a clue of her hair's treasonous egress. Troubled, I continued walking down the platform, running my fingers through my own hair. What if, one day, I stood on the train platform, ignorant of a hideous blemish laid bare for the world? Will the world be allowed to reckon my bald spot before I am?

tuesday december 19 2006

****The mood at Gold's Gym is black

About ten days ago, a personal trainer at my gym named Craig - as much a gym fixture as the bench press - died from complications after being stabbed just after Thanksgiving. He was working as a nightclub bouncer on Lansdowne Street when a man attacked him with a knife (here for story).

Reaction to Craig's death ranges from shock to blinding rage. Craig's injuries were deemed "non life threatening," and the hospital released him in questionable condition two days before he died (apparently, Craig lacked health insurance - my gym took up a collection for his medical expenses). The man who stabbed Craig turned himself last week, maybe because dozens of vigilante bodybuilders were looking for him. The 20-year old murderer was involved in a fatal beating in 2001, but released as a youthful offender after he was deemed incompetent to stand trial.

The senselessness hits home as I play voyeur to the grief in Gold's Gym (not to sound self-centered, but the bleak mood was affecting my workout). Craig was very attention-grabbing: 6 foot tall, 230 pound muscle man, striding through the gym unsmilingly, his brawny arms covered with tattoos. Fearless. One weekend morning, I came in wanting some coffee before my spinning class. I was surprised to see Craig at the reception desk. Up until that point, I didn't know he worked there. I approached him with my dollar bill. "Hi," I said brightly. He stared at me without malice, more like "what, dopey cardio girl?" I felt weird ordering a coffee as if I was at Starbucks. "I'm going to grab a coffee," I said, dropping my dollar bill on the counter and hurrying over to the carafes. He grunted.

Obviously I hardly knew him, but I'll eulogize him anyway. Because the fact that he was so devoted to his body, which gave him his life and living, strikes me as all the more tragic. He sculpted and tattooed himself into a work of art. But unlike a painting, song, or poem, his masterpiece cannot endure now that he is gone. Destroyed by a coward and a knife, and all that remains is a circle of grieving bodybuilders "hearing thunder in the skies, knowing it's Craig working out in heaven" (here).

monday december 18 2006

****In the News: Holidays Cause Eating, Drinking

An alarming study revealed that holiday-related stress results in hedonistic behavior such as eating and drinking, particularly in women (here).

This mounting public health crisis of "comfort eating" during the holidays must be stopped. For centuries, the public assumed that they were eating cookies and drinking eggnog because they were celebrating a holiday. It turns out we're coping with stress by enjoying life. How pathologically unhealthy of us!

Experts recommend that instead of celebrating the holidays normally by relaxing with family and friends over good food, women should opt for a strict regimen of self-depravation by "saying no to that serving of delicious roast beef, lasagna, chocolate or chilled glass of white wine." Because nothing de-stresses a woman like nibbling on a carrot stick while everyone else noshes on chocolate.

****About Me

My 'About Me' page (here) has a snazzy new pic... of me. I mean, it's about me. Even though the photo implies I visited a Glamour Shots store, I'm actually in my living room. Every man should have a hobby, and Mr. Pinault fancies photography. So yesterday, he dragged me out of my muumuu state of mind to get gussied up for a portrait. He used a film camera mainly, but also took a series of digital shoots. (I think it was all a ploy of Mr. Pinault's, to get me to do my hair and make-up on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Because otherwise, why would I bother?)

********12 Minute Train Poetry

Ode to $10 Lip Gloss

Grabbed in Heathrow Duty Free madness,
Bullish that you could dispel sadness
of forlorn lips, once addicted
to constantly being lipsticked.

DKNY Lip Gloss, Red Delicious,
10 dollar whim of capricious
Traveler who would be lost
Without lips shiny, ruddy, glossed.

sunday december 17 2006

**** Book Review - The Blind Side: Evolution of a Game by Michael Lewis

When I was a little girl, my only exposure to football was at family holiday gatherings, when my uncles planted themselves in front of the big screen TV. I thought football games lasted for 8 hours. Sometimes, I would try to watch football, but I never knew what was going on. My uncles, all big, sporting men, would explain: "See that guy, the quarterback? He moves the ball up the field by passing it to the other guys on his team. Those guys lined up try to stop them from moving the ball. And those other guys try to stop the guys who are trying to tackle the guy who has the ball." And so the explanation continued: Downs, interceptions, time-outs, kicks... yeah, whatever. I'm just a little girl.

I ignored football through high school and college, thinking it to be a refuge for dumb, aggressive jocks. Then, one cold winter day when there was nothing to do but wait for bread to bake, I began watching a Patriots game. And in one fell swoop came a deep comprehension of football, a profound appreciation for its strategy, and the belief that Tom Brady was a God.

A good, handsome quarterback is essential, but what about all those other positions? The Blind Side focuses on the position of left tackle, which has evolved from just another offensive lineman to one of the most strategically-important and lucrative positions on the field. The left tackle guards the quarterback's blind side, and in today's NFL where the quarterback is a precious commodity, the left tackle must stop him from getting sacked (or thinking he's about getting sacked.) To do this, the left tackle must be a "freak of nature... a rare beast... Incredibly nimble and quick feet.. the body control of a ballerina and the agility of a basketball player." And 300 pounds, minimum.

A rare beast. After explaining why the NFL covets left tackles, the book introduces Michael Ober, a black teenager in Memphis with no father and a crack-addicted welfare mother. By the age of 12, Ober was "completely free of social obligations... he played games from morning until late at night." Instead of going to school, he focused on his true ambition: To be the next Michael Jordan. He learned to move around a basketball court with control of every one of his 350 pounds.

Through a stroke of luck, Ober ended up at the ritzy Briarcrest Christian school, where a big black kid can't help but to stand out. He struggled with academics but excelled in sports, earning him the attention of a rich white Evangelical family called the Tuohys, who eventually adopted him. Ober wanted to play basketball but was steered to football (and dabbled in track and field. The first time he picked up a discus, his adopted sister called her father: "Daddy, I think you better come over here and see Michael through the discus. It looks like a Frisbee.")

Ober's story is the focus of roughly 2/3rds the book. Ober was born to be a left tackle, and when a grainy VHS tape of him playing began circulating, college coaches from all over the country courted him. Ober's story is an interesting way to discuss the evolution of the left tackle position. His own evolution from semi-orphaned ghetto child to a college football player with serious NFL prospects is absorbing and touching, even if you can't tell a left tackle from a kicker.

saturday december 16 2006

****Movie Review: Inland Empire

Watching a David Lynch film is like visiting an old friend, an eccentric gallivanting friend with consistent hang-ups and inconsistent grasp on reality. And if you have met my friend David, and you found him entertaining, then you will love paying a visit to Inland Empire. But if you've never met him, I wouldn't suggest trying to introduce yourself with this three-hour epic of surreal, non-linear intangible brilliance.

To save us all a bit of trauma, I won't go into the plot, which was semi-understandable for the first hour but then unravels into a patchwork of nightmarish confusion and stays there. Maybe a second and third viewing will help glean more sense of the narrative, but it may be futile. And that's fine. I stopped puzzling out what was going on and let the lush jarring Lynchian madness cascade over me.

Secrets. Flash backs. Flash forwards. Talking rabbits on a sitcom set. Movies within movies. Whores doing the Loco-Motion. Gypsy curses. Laura Dern brilliantly holding it all together, except when she suddenly starts being another character. I think it can all be summed up by the end credits, in which a troupe of young black dancers joyously lip-synch to Nina Simone's "Sinner Man." It's a celebration of life, and there just happens to be a monkey there, too.

thursday december 14 2006

****Remains of the Day

Feel Good Story of the Day

The 'world's tallest man,' a 7ft 8.95in Mongolian Herdsman, saved the lives of two dolphins using his immense armspan, which allowed him to reach into the dolphins' stomachs to remove plastic shards (here). This heroic act is so unlike those other Guinness World Record holders who achieve their feats and then just sit back and receive accolades. He's like a superhero, using his power to save the day, not to mention save China some face after today's other Chinese dolphin story: The ancient white dolphin of the Yangtze River is now extinct (the "feel bad" story of the day - here.)

Prank of the Day

Thousand upon thousands of Belgians, including several politicians, were panicked when a public TV station interrupted a broadcast to announce that their country had been split into two (here). Although it wasn't meant to be a joke (the journalists wanted to call attention to the growing number of Dutch-speaking separatists in Flanders), who can deny the humor in imagining Belgium suddenly ceasing to exist? If Iraq can continue to flourish as one nation, surely Belgium will endure.

Wise Quote of the Day

"Wisdom is not a product of schooling but of the lifelong attempt to acquire it." - Albert Einstein

Wilde Quote of the Day

"America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between." - Oscar Wilde

Somber Quote of the Day

"'I am ready to die,' said Osama Abdi Rahim, dressed head to toe in camouflage and marching around with a loaded rifle. He is 7 years old." (here from NYTimes article 'Somalia's Islamists and Ethiopia Gird for a War').

Commuter Rail Quote of the Day

On the train ride home, I sat behind a man who suckled pungent Chinese food for 20 minutes, which got him 'in the mood' to talk dirty on his cell phone: "You walking, babe?... Yeah, I can hear your shoes... Sexy shoes... Clack clack clack, like a horse... yeah, like a horse I want to ride..." Apparently, the mare was spooked, because talk soon turned to possible restaurants for dinner.

wednesday december 13 2006

****Mockin' Around the Christmas Tree

The Papel Christmas tree arrived at the Vatican after a journey beset with more problems than the Exodus (here). The 106-foot, 9-ton fir tree from Southern Italy was put on Earth expressly so the Pope's henchman could cut it down, haul it via helicopter to St. Peter's Square, and adorn it as a simulacrum for the Heavenly creator with whom Pope Benedict XVI enjoys a direct dialogue. (Vatican janitors, however, are already complaining about the pine needles.)

I was surprised that the Pope demands the same earthly extravagances as shopping malls and downtown commercial districts, which use over-sized trees with a vast void under its branches to festively and subliminally remind us to engage in out-of-control consumer spending. It's a startling blend of "religious" and "secular," like a praying Santa figurine stuck in a nativity scene (presumably to present Baby Jesus with a TMX Elmo doll.) Confusion over what's holy and what's heathen is growing increasingly divisive, as symbolized by the annual debate over "Christmas" vs. "Holiday" trees. Invariably, someone contends that the public display of trees endorses Christianity and belittles the existence of all other faiths, which forces Christians to galvanize in the "war against Christmas" by asserting their right as Christians living in one nation under God to do whatever they want, including worship their beloved tree. But there are no Christmas trees in the Bible; the decorating of a tree was a pagan tradition, co-opted by early Christians who arbitrarily associated it with their most holy holiday. And now the Christmas tree is reverting to its pagan roots becoming an icon of our intolerance, proclivity for environmental destruction, and, above all, our insatiable greed. (Having thoroughly established the link between Christmas trees and Satan, I can safely get one without feeling bourgeois, or, even worse, Christian.)

Saint Santa

tuesday december 12 2006

 

****Translating Fritalian

When the Carlyle Group purchased Dunkin Donuts last year for $2.4 billion, they set ambitious growth targets that could not be met by mere donut flavor innovation. Instead, DDs decided to revive their languishing image with an advertising campaign called "America Runs on Dunkin," which is based on market research that shows consumers want to identify with their coffee cup. This cup of coffee, this is who I am.

In order to forge a unique identity, DDs brands themselves as the antithesis of their most notable rivals. A paper Starbucks cup says: I enjoy sitting idly in a comfortable couches, listening to jazz, and contemplating life's infinite largess. A stryofoam Dunkin Donuts cup says: I'm a frazzled, on-the-go American in need of caffeine and sugar to fuel my toxic, stressed-out, sleepless lifestyle.

The "Fritalian" commercial draws the battle lines by taking a thinly-veiled swipe at the Euro-stylings of Starbucks. In the 30-second commercial, a group of normal-looking people stand in a coffee shop, staring at the menu with total befuddlement, singing "My mouth can't form these words. My mind can't find these words. Is it French or is it Italian? Perhaps Fritalian."

Americans, Dunkin Donuts forgives you. You've been a loyal Dunkin Donuts customer for most of your adult life, but at one time or another, you put on lofty airs by frequenting a certain other coffee chain. And - admit it - you were way over your head.

There you were, the hard-working American consumer, already inundated with cryptic words like "WiFi," "Nanotubes," and "Hazbollah," struggling to draw on your 3 years of high school foreign language to pronounce "venti" and "macchiato" so you won't look like a total fuck-face in front of these hipsters with their prominent tip jars and those yuppie professionals who know all the "coffee ordering" ropes by virtue of their trust fund youths and European vacations.

Americans, you don't want to be degraded. All you want is a cup of coffee to fuel your go-go lifestyle. So come to Dunkin Donuts, where you can proudly speak American when you order your Dunkaccino.

monday december 11 2006

****Indian Men Exposed

A survey found that men in India have difficulties using condoms that are sized for an international market because the condoms are too big (here). The survey could have stopped there and left the reader to make the obvious conclusion, but like a mother determined to discuss her teenaged son's inseam measurements, relentlessly plowed on to scientifically prove that Indian men lack the penal girth to properly use the condoms that were designed for the world's average man.

I first read about this on the BBC, of all places, which reported the story in its typically staid fashion: Indian men are smaller, measurements were taken, and if you think for a minute we're being gleeful, we hasten to remind you that this inadequacy results in condom failure, which leads to AIDS and unplanned pregnancy, which is legitimate news that necessitates us making a public proclamation about India's penis size.

Then, bizarrely, the story appeared on the local news - at 6pm! It was even used throughout the broadcast as a teaser: "Coming up next, why men in India have trouble using condoms." Mr. Pinault and I howled fiendishly, imagining all our Indian neighbors hastily turning off the news so their families wouldn't be forced to contemplate their patriarch's shortcomings. But for non-Indian men, it was a feel good story, like being in an international locker room.

****More Lasciviousness

Today on the train, I sat behind two mid-teenaged boys. For much of the trip, I could only see baseball caps and hear back-and-forth mumbles that averaged two words per utterance. Then one youth stood up to wrestle something out of his deep-pocketed jeans, and a cursory glance turned into a pensive gaze.

15 years ago, his cuteness would have unleashed a dizzying surge of boy-crazy hormones. His abundant mess of curly, shoulder-length hair would be enough to drive me wild, let alone his big brown eyes, strong youthful jaw, and a killer cleft in his hairless chin. The 15-year old Meredith would be beside herself.

Age does strange things to a woman, like make it impossible to feel even a twinge of physical attraction for any man who doesn't have a college degree. I speculate that this does not happen to men, that comely teenaged girls are a constant captivation throughout their lives. But it's a relief not to be beholden to the charms of teenaged boys, because then I'd have to compete with teenaged girls. And I couldn't do that even when I was a teenaged girl.

sunday december 10 2006

****Arbored

Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps a singing bird will come.- Chinese proverb

At Weir River Farm in Hingham (here), a Sunday morning walk in 50-degree sunshine respited creeping Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), which I only claim to have because the acronym is catchy.

   

saturday december 9 2006

****Top 5 Hated Christmas Songs

5. Jingle Bells
As a rule, I love Christmas songs that glorify bells: "Carol of the Bells," "Silver Bells," "Sleigh Ride," "Christmas in the Drunk Tank." But thanks to those Jingle Dogs, all I hear are barks, not bells.

4. I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus
It's cute if you're in on the joke, but if you're not... man, what a mind-fuck.

3. Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer
I have major philosophical problems with this one. The song is a self-fulfilling prophesy; the only reason Rudolph goes down in history is because we keep singing this song. The whole Rudolph myth sprung from crass commercialism, with no basis in tradition, logic, or science.

2. Holly Jolly Christmas
Something about the phrase "holly jolly" being sung repeatedly just grates my nerves. It tries too hard. It's the musical version of that sweaty, red-faced guy at the Christmas party who is so determined to be merry that he gets shamelessly wasted.

1. Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer
If you're eight years old and your Grandmas are still alive, this is the best Christmas song ever. It's essentially a children's song, with that hokey beat and novelty twang, sung by a guy named Elmo. Hysterically funny. But musical maturation inhibits the ability to rejoice over silly songs. The giggles have faded, and the inevitable listening of this song has become an annual dread that's enough to make me go Jew.

friday december 8 2006

****Artichokes

...A leaf for everyone, a meal for no one...

Another month, another batch of my favorite search engine queries, which are increasingly persnickety, perhaps because my site would not rank in the top 50 million for any really popular queries that have entire industries devoted to garnering revenue-generating clicks (although, a tip for enterprising pervs: Judging by the plague of hits for porn involving Meredith Vieira, there is a market need going unsatisfied.)

The sophistication of the queries compelled me to break them down into categories. Some qualify for two or even three categories, like woman who find children's entertainer 'the great zucchini' sexy, which is slightly all of the following: Interrogative, Smut, Celebrity, and Misspelled. I picked Smut by virtue of the subject's moniker.

The last category, Perquisite, contains queries that don't fit under any other category, but tickle my aesthetic sense, like a bonus for doing this website. More satisfying than money or recognition, it's gratifying to know that the authors were here, on this website, if only long enough to think "Why, this has nothing to do with knitted toilet tissue covers!"

INTERROGATIVE
why do the jets disintegrate on my hot tub
places to eat in wisconsin dolls that ar highly expensive
what is the name of the girl in the royal caribbean cruise commercials that refuses to smile
is armani code for men the same as armani black code for men
is racism fueled by jealousy or fear
is there a connection with target stores and the french
what does the clean cover of ritual de lo habitual say
where is a poem about a boyfriend stealing your moms money
why rosie palm is better than girls

SMUT
umass sluts partying
sluts dressed in skirtsuits
x-rated pictures of men in kilts
redneck licking hoi
nude red headed males
gay hang outs in ventura california
spanked fat chicks
woman who find children's entertainer 'the great zucchini' sexy
teens rape couth on tape
"mary lou's coffee" hooters

CELEBRITIES
"emily post" holocaust interview
"hitler's last meal"
mitt romeny boxers or briefs
chris farley's unmade movie
email jokes about george bush the dumbo
bond casino royale daniel craig "blue eyes" "contact lenses"
piet mondrian stray
marietta fortune
olsen twin crackman
diagnosing matt damon in goodwill hunting
joakim noah's religion
barry gibb denim shirt

QUOTATION
"eye mucus" idiom
"closet chubby chaser"
"lust for the gutter"
"women on top" "role reversal"
"stripping to my bra"
rape wedding crashers "gone with the wind"
"bend it like beckham" "orientalism"
older woman younger man "middle east"
"cambridge inspired me"
"coke zero" headache

MISSPELLED
puetorican god
hiring outside tiolets for weddings
pitchers of kegel exercises
becuise have you
see my nude stoking

PERQUISITE
ban deodorant loneliness
ban drinking ensure right before you eat make you gain weight
meth joke mini bake oven
meredith meeting clorox
subtle to violent ways to seek revenge
bale strapping hummer
knitted toilet tissue covers
priam retrieves hector's body
nutrition for gyming
going to get an office job and make a lot of money like the rest of the phonies
her ass

thursday december 7 2006

****Boxing Dead Horses

Sylvester Stallone is currently promoting the latest and promised-final installment of the classic cinematic series that started 30 years ago. Rocky Balboa (here on imdb) should logically be called Rocky VI, but for artistic and/or marketing reasons, opts for a ring of distinction. Everyone loves saying "Balboa." It's just one of those fun words to pronounce, like "amoeba," "languid," and "cuspidor."

Stallone appeared in the broadcaster's booth on Monday Night Football in Philadelphia, shocking the world - or at least my household - with his bizarre appearance: That of an aging jock with face bruised by Botox. Yesterday, he hit a Boston boxing club with the promise that "there will be no more, because I can't do no more" (here). No more? Please, no! It's entertaining to watch Stallone continually desecrate the only good thing he's ever done in order to star in a movie. Remember in Spaceballs, when a TV movie critic reviews Rocky 5000? Yeah, it could happen.

Next up: Rambo IV: Pearl of the Cobra (here), to be released in 2008. What, no John J. Rambo? What the hell is Pearl of the Cobra, and how will a 62 year old action hero compellingly deal with the situation?

****Poeming Dead Horses

I wrote a poem about dead horses in college. Yeah, I was one of those girls. It's called "The Horse on the Road," about driving through Lancaster PA on Route 30 and seeing an Amish buggy whose horse was hit by a car.

I just searched my treasure trove of college papers, but before I could locate the exact text, I got distracted by my 65-paged collection of suburban renegade vignettes that I wrote for an independent study.

One is about when I worked as a directory assistance operator for Comcast Cellular. This goes out to Amy, Nerdy, and my sister: "Comcast Connect this is Meredith speaking how may I help you... Your number is 8350727 and I am putting you through at no additional charge..." Ah, happy times. Is it any wonder I wrote poems about dead horses?

wednesday december 6 2006

****Trendy Vegetable Alert: Brussels Sprouts

When I recently saw several Thanksgiving meal planners that included brussels sprouts in lieu of green beans, I knew that brussels sprouts were poised to become the next trendy veggie. Pretty soon, everywhere you look... brussels sprouts.

Which will be interesting, because brussels sprouts have the worst reputation of any vegetable in American parlance. "Eat your brussels sprouts" is a phrase often attributed to mean parents who seek to subjugate their offspring by forcing or bribing them to consume noxious-smelling, bitter mush. Many adults automatically eschew sprouts, harboring memories of ill-prepared sprouts from their youth standing in the way of the right to eat dessert.

Many of the culinary pitfalls associated with brussels sprouts are due to over-cooking. They will not be mushy, nor will they smell terrible, if they are not over-cooked. They will be robust with unique, nutty flavor and fucking delicious.

How to cook brussels sprouts
1. Remove the outer leaves and any excess stems from the sprouts and rinse well. I've heard that you should soak them in salted water for 10-20 minutes to kill any bugs under the leaves, but I figure they're doomed anyway.
2. Using a small amount of boiling broth or salted water, braise/steam sprouts for 5 minutes.
3. Meanwhile, cook some garlic in a small amount of butter/oil. If you like garlic, use 2-3 cloves. If you love garlic, use 5-6 cloves. If you don't have garlic, use an onion.
4. Drain the sprouts as best you can over the sink without losing any down the drain, and add to the garlic pan.
5. Add some salt and pepper. If I'm feeling crazy, I throw in a bit of cumin.
6. This is the important part. You can either add a tiny bit of broth/water, cover the pan, and braise them for 5-6 minutes, OR turn the heat to med-high, grease the pan with butter/oil, and saute for 8-10 minutes. For a bit of crunch, stop when they look like the following picture. If you want them softer, or if you have a boyfriend who likes over-cooked veggies, continue until they are a light shade of brown.
7. Before removing from the pan, squeeze half a lemon over them so they sizzle with citrus gusto.
8. After consuming and enjoying the sprouts, eat ice cream for dessert. You earned it.

tuesday december 5 2006

****Avocadoey Fraud

A Los Angeles woman is waging a fraud lawsuit against Kraft Foods for marketing a dip that contains less that 2 percent avocado as 'guacamole' (here). "It just didn't taste avocadoey," said the woman, who is seeking unspecified damages, possible class action, and a court order preventing Kraft foods from calling the processed glop of modified food starch, oil, corn syrup and food coloring guacamole.

The article is vague about the woman's intentions. She could be out to make a buck. She could have suffered emotional scarring from the shock and humiliation of serving a three-layer dip that was devoid of avocado. Or she is an honest crusader who seeks to preserve guacamole's integrity from those that deceive customers into believing they are participating in a normal culinary experience, not eating the byproducts of Jello-manufacturing.

But I have to agree with Kraft foods, who says, "We think customers understand that it isn't made from avocado." Because when you buy anything from Kraft foods, you must know it's not real food, it's a hodgepodge of processed starch and artificial flavoring, meticulously formulated in a laboratory to pique the taste buds of the typical consumer who was weaned on fast food and frozen meals and who has never knowingly ate a real avocado. This is, after all, the company that gave the world Velveeta and Cheez Whiz. (Maybe they could call the dip "Avocadoey.")

monday december 4 2006

****'We Got Physical, Vocal': Decades Later, Aerobics Instructors Lose Tone

By all appearances, Paula is the epitome of good health. As a professional fitness instructor since the aerobics craze began in the early 1980s, her decades of constant exercise in a stress-free setting confer an inner glow that outshines her perfect fake tan. She is petite, with a midsection like slabs of granite piled upon perky summits encased in a fluorescent pink sports bra. Despite certain inevitable signs of age, Paula is so well-preserved that many people size up her teased dyed blond hair half pulled back in a scrunchy and think "Valley Girl."

As Paula strides into the spinning studio, the class gawks at her Barbie body with admiration. Paula is the perfect advertisement for the body-transforming potential of her craft. Her pupils are lucky to have such a perfect specimen of physical discipline to inspire their fat asses through the spinning class.

"Hi. How's going everyone," she says in a little-girl soprano voice with endearing scratchiness. She beams at the class of 7 women and 3 men as she cues up her CD. "Dudes, unfortunately the microphone is, like, broken. But you'll have no trouble hearing me. I'm totally loud. I've been doing this for more years than I want to admit!" The class laughs, loving her tiny concession of fallibility.

"Let's get started with some simple upper-body stretches," Paula says as she hops on her bike and begins to pedal. The room pulses with high-energy techno-pop music amid the drone of spinning bikes. Paula's voice bellows above it all: "Ahm-zuh! Boo-buh! Bruh! Bruh!"

Though her volume is impressive, every noise issued from Paula's pink-frosted lips is utterly indecipherable. The spinning participants intently watch Paula and each other to figure out what they should be doing. What's the next position in the drill? Should they be working hard or recovering? Does Paula like the energy she sees, or does she know they could be working harder?

"Ooo-ruh! Cloooo-uuh! Yuh! Yuh!"

Paula's voice suffers from the aftereffects of aerobics instruction during a time when studios weren't equipped with stereo gadtry and wireless headsets. The repeated, often-frenzied strain on the vocal cords combined with high-impact exercise resulted in countless voice disorders among these iconic 80s symbols. It is a hidden toll that no one wants to talk about, or listen to.

"Yuh yuh! Too-kii-woo-uhhhhh!"

There is no mistaking Paula's desire to motivate her class. As a practiced veteran, she knows the class relies on her to kindle a dormant passion for exercise, so rarely do 20 seconds go by without Paula issuing a command ("Tum-to-cluh!"), praise ("Yoo-woo-guh!"), humor ("Doo-yoo-wun-uh-gome?"), or... something ("Zo-to! Zo-to!") But her rampant enthusiasm comes at a high price: Stressed vocal cords, exhausted larynx, and a tonal quality like a cross between Bob Dylan and a didgeridoo.

sunday december 3 2006

****A Nation of Fatalists

When it was 60 degrees in Boston on December 1st, hee-haw banter about impending global environmental catastrophe filled the balmy air: "Guess we have global warming to thank for this great weather... Global warming isn't all bad... I'm loving this Greenhouse Effect!" Of course, the temperature is now a brisk 30 degrees and the first snowfall is on the way, so the blip of spring weather is a distant memory and any thought of global crisis is stashed away with our light-weight coats.

Anecdotal evidence corroborates mounting scientific substantiation that winter weather is perceptibly not what it used to be. When I was in England, I asked an elderly Scotsman about the weather in Glasgow. "I used to get two feet of snow on my driveway, but not now, what with the global warming." Reflexively, I made a joke: "Shoveling must be easier!" and he stared at me gravely. Apparently, the rest of the world doesn't want to 'look on the bright side' of global warming. They want to do something about it.

According to a Pew Global Attitudes survey from June 2006 (here), 47% of Americans are "Only a little/Not at all" concerned about global warming - the highest of any country surveyed. Americans don't accept that scientists are in widespread agreement that global warming is real and caused by human activity, perhaps taking cues from our ruling politicians, who hold up a few global warming critics as proof that science is 'undecided' in order to avoid doing anything about it.

Even people like me who are concerned and want to take personal responsibility - recycling, turning down the heat, buying local produce - we know it's a drop in the bucket compared to the drastic societal changes that would be needed to make a difference. Our little jokes about global warming are not out of ignorance, but fatalism. And that is sad, because America is not a nation of fatalists. In America, nothing is predetermined. Nothing is inevitable, not even the end of the world.

saturday december 2 2006

****England Pictures

Click here for photos and light commentary on my recent trip to England.

This England never did, nor never shall, / Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror. - William Shakespeare
England has four seasons. But do we have to have them in one day? - Oscar Wilde
I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too. - Queen Elizabeth I
Froth at the top, dregs at bottom, but the middle excellent. - Voltaire

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