| Thursday December 27 2007 |
**** Top Ten Bests of 2007
This is my last post of 2007. As usual, I feel compelled to sum up the year with an original aggregation of easily-digestible factoids and minutiae. And as usual, my creativity fails me, so instead I present: MeredithGreen.com's Top Ten Bests of 2007!
These are the posts that I judged to be my most genuine and masterfully-crafted posts, with a bias towards heady topics, lengthy compositions, neat-o ideas, and pretty pictures. Without further ado, in chronological order...
Monday January 29, 2007 - The Three Unwritten Laws of Pedestrian Mobility
Wednesday February 14, 2007 - Googles / Looking for Love (In all the wrong places)
Friday March 9, 2007 - Coca-Cola's Soda Coda
Monday March 19, 2007 - Explaining Hooters Restaurant to a Frenchman
Sunday April 1, 2007 - Key West Photos
Tuesday May 8, 2007 - Bad Blood
Wednesday June 6, 2007 - Squirrel Tails
Wednesday June 27, 2007 - Johnny the Ladybug
Tuesday September 18, 2007 - Forky's
Monday October 8, 2007 - Rainmaker
What will 2008 have in store for this website? Oh, a decline in writing quality... a dearth of fresh ideas ... a continuing stagnation of web technology... and lots of wedding talk. You have been warned.
Happy New Year to everyone!
| Wednesday December 26 2007 |
**** Go Warsaw!
I am impressed with the travel site Kayak.com (here), which uses Ajax technology to automagically update the screen without the user having to click Go or Search or Find or whatever. Since Kayak's sorting and filtering functionality makes Orbitz looks like a 90-year-old clunky piece of archaic Web engineering, I did not hesistate to switch to Kayak for my online travel reservation needs.
Kayak's business model apparently includes baiting its registered users to make trips to emerging tourist locales. I received an email today that suggested booking a flight to Warsaw, Poland. To the copywriter who was forced to write the following blurb to entice Americans to travel to Warsaw, Poland in the dead of winter... I admire your creativity and your gumption. Good strategy, to confront that whole ghetto connotation in the first line, and then quickly focus on Warsaw's attributes, like its vodka, its "energized" prostitutes on the "Pissup" tour, and the opportunity to drunkenly roam the town without any of the locals caring or, indeed, noticing. "And did you tour any of the sight while you were in Warsaw?" "No. I would've loved to see the castles and museums, but sadly, none of the tours were in English."
And here is the text of Kayak's email, luring me to visit Warsaw...
If your only association with Warsaw is its ghettos, you're missing out on a luxurious and cosmopolitan city - and the birthplace world-renowned vodka. Kick off the new year with a visit to the Koneser Warsaw Vodka Factory. Located in a complex of historically listed buildings dating back to 1897, this factory now cranks out 16 million bottles/year and produces brands such as Metropolis and Legenda. Get there early as the tours usually wind down by 1pm. (Bring a Polish friend though, as tours are probably not available in English) Looking for a more social experience? The Warsaw Pissup Tour offers extensive tasting and "energized" companions. Afterwards, spill into the Old Town Square Market and peruse the bars, restaurants, and boutiques. Or satisfy something besides your palette and visit the Royal Castle, Wilanow Palace, and Historical Museum of Warsaw.
| Tuesday December 25 2007 |
**** Christmas Merriment
We spent Christmas weekend in Philadelphia with my family, and returned today. There's nothing like spending Christmas Day on interstate highways; the holiday brings an air of jollity to the maniacal pilotage that the Garden State Parkway necessitates.
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| Friday December 21 2007 |
**** The Gift of the Magi
Everyone knows the plot of the short story "The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry: Wife cuts off and sells her beautiful hair in order to buy a platinum chain for her husband's prized watch, which he sells in order to buy his wife a set of tortoise shell combs (here for story). The end result is that their gifts are mutually useless. She cannot wear her combs without her hair, and he cannot use his watch chain without his watch.
The last paragraph of the story compares the hapless couple to the magi, the "wonderfully wise men who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger," because the couple smiles and shrugs at the loss of their treasures. They are content because they know that their love is the greatest treasure. The last lines of the story are poorly punctuated, but nonetheless sublime: "But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Oh all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi."
Conventional wisdom holds that the moral of "The Gift of the Magi" is that the exchange of material objects isn't as important as the realization that love is the most precious possession. I say, the moral of "The Gift of the Magi" is that you should always ask your loved one what he wants for Christmas. Don't aim too high. And above all, be practical. If he can't feel the love emanating out of a package of Hanes Tagless Boxer Briefs with ComfortSoft Waistbands (here), then romance is a lost cause anyway.
| Thursday December 20 2007 |
**** Gentle Snowfall in the Evening
Boston got another 5 inches of fresh white snow today, covering the 15 already-sooty inches that we received last week. I strolled through the Boston Common after work, enjoying the relaxed, festive ambience of a gentle snowfall in the evening. I furtively snapped a picture and let Mr. Pinault edit it, to make it beautiful.
**** Christmas Googles
Yes, Christmas is bearing upon us like a determined, bawling three-year old with sticky hands advancing on a wrapped present. I've been precoccupied with other things this year, but if the decorations, music, and jolly-drunk people everywhere didn't clue me in, then a quick glance at the search engine phrases that landed people at this site sure did remind me: 'Tis the season.
XMAS
what if mozart wrote "i saw mommy kissing santa claus"
stephen hawking singing sleigh ride
mary kissing baby jesus' face
santa figurine exhausted
eggnog lipgloss
12 days of black christmas song velveeta
muscle santa
gods gift to us christmas baby jesus present
regifting poem
cryptic clues for christmas songs and carols
gay hunky santa pitchers
santa vanity photo
xmas song jingle balle jingle bale on youtube
INTERROGATIVE
what vitamin makes penis larger
how much does a cowboys laptop cost
what was green days first song
what did river phoenix whisper to lili taylor in 'dogfight'
does ivanka trump smoke
what do they call a quarter pounder with cheese in paris and why
is it daniel craig in armani code ad
MISSPELLED
masterbation
wiscousin
ravilois
bosten red sox mens necklace
grils that wear dipers
CELEBRITY & BUSINESS & PRON
ani defranco breast implants
sexy girls spitting green phelgm
green-green porn
green vegetables made me young and sexy
longest time wearing a thong days in a row
red sox gouging consumer
crescent roll penis
forced to stare at my own naked pic
french live mating girls
laura bush offical cowboy texas cookies
green day's adulthood
tastless porn pictures
celebrity nuding
julia louis dreyfus smoking foot long cigars
peyton manning "aerobic instructor" commercial
EVERYTHING ELSE
poems of sunny days with verbs for children
explicit step by step research paper free high school deforestation
pronounce pinault
chubby-wife
red sox south american dictator shit learning children
pap smear cried
pie charts of drunk drivers compared to normal drivers
lists of school of military/firing squad in the philippines
funny but true email circulating about the first snowfall in ohio areas
oscar wilde dead baby joke
funny picture or cartoon of an alien green card united states
staring at a painting for 5 mins causing suicide
white itchy welts on midsection
butterfinger transcendent
iliad best-picked men
pig brains flushots
this humble green could fix diabetes
"baby boomers" linguistic narcissistic
"grape nut" spanish translation
green scarf and prison gangs
chopped brussel sprouts pie
googles
| Wednesday December 19 2007 |
**** Effing Start-Up
It looks like I'll reach the end of the year and still be employed at the young start-up that I joined in August, which is more than I expected when I quit my cushy corporate job. I'm learning a lot, making more money, and enjoying myriad responsibilities, yet I have found that the primitive start-up environment is a bad influence on my character.
Loud, unrestrained spewing of vile expletives is acceptable in the office. To rebuke a swearer by asking "Is vulgarity your only condolement for anger?" would not be befitting of the laid-back spirit that draws so many corporate refugees to start-ups in the first place.
One day, a co-worker was dropping the F bomb so frequently that finally his boss said something: "Cut it out, or someone who's walking by might think it's the name of the company."
I've always been the highly-suggestible type, so I've developed quite a potty mouth as a result. "You shitting me?" I said at dinner tonight to a startled Mr. Pinault. (Incidentally, he has also picked up slang from his company, as evident from his inordinate use of the word "sucker." "Let's finish this sucker," he likes to say, his French accent smoothing the hard "ck" into something docile.)
My job is also affecting what goes into my mouth. The company Christmas party was last week. With an eye on the budget, they could choose between a sit-down dinner at a fine restaurant, or hors devours with a three-hour open bar. They choose the open bar. With little more than shrimp and carrot sticks to soak up endless glasses of wine and some concoction called Pink Cement, I still managed to be the most sober mothereffer in the room.
| Tuesday December 18 2007 |
**** Secret Santas
At work today, I entered the Ladies Room. Two young women from the company across the hall are in front the mirrors, applying makeup and talking to each other's reflections.
"I totally need to go to Borders," the straight-haired brunette says, fixing her hair around her beige wool cap. "I need to get a present for Shannon for Secret Santa."
The curly-haired brunette sucks in her breath. "I think Shannon is my Secret Santa," says Curly.
"No, she's not," says Straight. "I know who it is, and it's not Shannon."
"Omigod, who is it?" Curly squeals.
"I can't tell you," Straight insists.
"Tell me! Tell me!" Curly says, an edge in her voice.
Straight takes a breath. "It's Katie."
Curly gasps. "Omigod! How do you know?"
"Angela told me, because I told her this morning that Valerie said that Katie was going to buy the chocolates that Allison got, so I thought Katie had Allison, but Angela heard from David that Katie told him that she had you."
"Oooh, Katie. She's so sweet. She got me the cutest gloves!" Curly says.
The two girls zip up their purses, and walk to the door, their heels clacking sweetly. As they leave, Straight adds "David has Brooke," and Curly replies "Yeah, I know. Tina told me."
| Monday December 17 2007 |
**** You Down Wit' GOP?
Has there ever been a more absurd field of Republican Presidential Candidates?
Yesterday, Republican candidate Ron Paul raised a record-setting $5.2 million in a fundraising frenzy that was timed to coincide with the 234th anniversary of the Boston Tea Party (here). In Boston, as a Nor'easter storm blew freezing rain onto snow-clogged streets, 400 Ron Paul supporters marched from the State House to Faneuil Hall to hear speeches by prominent Libertarians and to stage a lame reenactment of the Tea Party by "tossing banners that read 'tyranny' and 'no taxation without representation' into boxes that were placed in front of an image of the harbor."
If I were a Republican, Ron Paul would be an attractive candidate. He's sort of the Thinking Man's Evolution Disavower. And apparently Paul supporters are big into symbolism, because by donating $5.2 million to the Presidential campaign of Ron Paul, they are essentially tossing their money into a dark, cold abyss, not dissimilar to the Boston Harbor.
What suddenly became so wrong with John McCain? His support for Iraq has always squared with the Republican base's suppport, and he has more universal respect than any other candidate. Is McCain's banter just not as endearing and light-hearted as Mike Huckabee's?
Allow to say a few things about Mike Huckabee. I mean, America, hello? Remember the last time you fell in love with a Republican contender based solely on his affable charm and Christian credentials? Huckabee is a man who once said "I may not be the expert that some people are on foreign policy, but I did stay in a Holiday Inn Express last night" (here). It's only funny because it's true.
It's strange to admit now that I once voted for Mitt Romney as Governor of Massachusetts. I voted for Mitt Romney because he seemed competent to do the job of Governor. (Ironically, aside from Utah, Massachusetts is probably one of the few states a Mormon could get elected in.) But privately, I find the core Mormon beliefs to be batshit insane. Angels and golden plates are one thing (I refer you to South Park's take of Mormonism, which is chillingly accurate - here), but these people believe that the Garden of Eden was actually in Jackson County, Missouri and that the first Native Americans were whites from Jerusalem. Nope, I must concur with the Christian Right: Mitt cannot believe that and still get to be President.
I didn't know much about Fred Thompson, aside from the fact that he is certainly the ugliest contender. So I read an article called "What you may not know about Fred Thompson" (here), and found out that he led an effort to derail a piece of legislation called Aimee's Law. As a general rule, any politician who opposes any law named after a little girl is an asshole.
Finally, there's Rudy. The fact that Guiliani has yet to commit a major faux pas or a crime on the campaign trail is surprising. I had him pegged as the candidate most like to go out in a Howard Dean-like roar.
| Sunday December 16 2007 |
**** Revenge
A 16th Century English clergyman and metaphysical poet named George Herbert famously said "Living well is the best revenge" (here). What is less noted about George Herbert is that he died at the age of 40. Living well, obviously, has a lifespan.
"If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?" -- William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice
And if you attempt to illegally steal $1200 from our security deposit, shall we not revenge? And if you verbally belittle me over the phone, shall I not go to my web site and proclaim that Mufeed Ashoo is a pig-effer?
Sure, I could "live well," and hope that this somehow avenges the wrongs that Mr. Ashoo had done. But living well is finite and futile. The Internet is forever and fully searchable by Google.
| Saturday December 15 2007 |
**** Snow = ski
Despite the best efforts of the Bush Administration, the phenomenon of snow in the Northeast during the winter months ain't going away anytime soon. And I believe even the snow-haters welcomed this past week's snow. After last winter's dry, warm spell, winter's constipation has ended with a cathartic dropping of a fluffy foot of powder. Ahhhh. Relief.
For cross-country skiers like Mr. Pinault and I, a mid-December snow is an early Christmas present. This morning, we headed to Windblown XC, just across the state line into New Hampshire. I stepped into my bindings and started skiing as if the 8-month hiatus never happened. I also crashed while going down the Alpine-style open slope as if I've been crashing my whole life. Pictured to the right is Mr. Pinault on the open slope, smiling because he was born on skis.
However, those little XC skiing muscles that lay dormant - the lateral head of the triceps, the hip adductor brevis - those were screaming injustices soon after lunchtime. (Rest up, my little muscles... New Years in the French Alps is only two weeks away...)![]()
| Friday December 14 2007 |
**** What a country
My original idea for this post was to write on an article in today's New York Times about how homemade bombs exploded outside of two Baghdad liquor stores, killing two and wounding seven (here). Says the article, "Liquor stores are frequent targets of bombings and other violence by Islamic militants seeking to end the sale of alcohol here." I mean, what kind of an effed-up killjoy do you have to be to believe that drinking alcohol is more evil than detonating bombs?
But it's Friday, so let's move onto the lighter side of life. Paris Hilton is belatedly hopping onto the Green bandwagon by making some lifestyle changes to help the environment (here). Besides ordering her servants to change all of the light bulbs in an unspecified number of the Hilton's vast real estate holding and shopping for a hybrid car, Paris is making it a point to turn off the lights, TV, and running water when she leaves the house. !!! Who the eff leaves the water running when they leave the house? And for turning off her utilities when she's not using them, she wants... what, our respect?
Obviously even the light news is stressing me out. So I'll sum it all up with a link to 33 of the Best Beer Pong Tables Ever Created (here).
| Thursday December 13 2007 |
**** Real live snow!
Massachusetts got whupped by fluffy, light, fast-falling snow this afternoon. Thousands upon thousands of geniuses waited until the first snowflakes fell before leaving work simultaneously, creating a traffic nightmare (here) that public transported pedestrians like myself could have a nice chuckle over, had we not been struggling to walk on unshoveled sidewalks through a blinding snow.
At least this isn't the South, where snow warrants hysteria, panic, and hundreds of totaled Camaros.
This is the first snow in a long time where I've had a driveway and sidewalk to shovel. The second I got home, I cleared off 5 or so inches. You know, to stay ahead of the storm. I went out two hours later, and plan to make one more trip after dinner. I would post a picture of me shoveling, but honestly, shoveling ain't the most flattering activity. So instead, here's the radar. As of 8pm, the storm is tapering down, with totals expected to reach a foot.
Where are my skis?!?![]()
| Wednesday December 12 2007 |
**** Private Dancers
Today about 25 young members of the Boston Ballet (here) came to my office building to perform selections from The Nutcracker on a temporary stage in the lobby (yes, it is a massive lobby). The lunchtime performance featured most of the favorite characters - Sugar Plum Fairy, Coffee and Tea, the Russians - but lacked a Clara, which is sort of like The Wizard of Oz without a Dorothy.
I grabbed my provisioned box lunch and sat in a folding chair on the edge of the audience, just in case I wanted to leave early (I mean... no Clara? What is up with that?) I wound up sitting right next to the makeshift "backstage" area for the dancers. I munched potato chips as they stretched and preened, telling myself that they were envious of my curvy chest and hips.
What amazed me wasn't how flexible and gaunt the dancers were. It was how hard they breathed after leaving the stage. Their little bodies gulped air as if they just surfaced from the botton of the Atlantic Ocean. Even the graceful, effortless Sugar Plum Fairy started panting like a dog the second she left the stage.
For the finale, all of the dancers ascended the temporary stage for synchronous jumping. The scenery behind the dancers shook violently, and the audience murmured as fluff and glitter began falling from the tottering cardboard castle. Luckily, the show ended, everyone applauded, and the dancers took lavish bows before rushing off the stage, impassive and breathless.
| Tuesday December 11 2007 |
**** Street View
Today Google Maps unveiled its Street View feature for the city of Boston (here for article). Street View allows you to see actual photographs of the streets on a map. It's useful technology to see what a particular restaurant or store looks like before you go there.
According to privacy advocates, it's also useful technology if you're an Orwellian Totalitarian Fascistic tyrant conducting visual surveillance on a sheep-like populace to find out whose shutters need painting or who has left their recycling bins on the curb one day last summer.
Me, I could have played with it all day. There's a draggable icon person that you can put anywhere on the map, and then pan and zoom in order to fully gawk at the surroundings. I revisited some of my old apartments and offices. I hung out in Harvard Square then jumped over to Boston Harbor. I swung by my current office at International Place, and found a group of short-sleeved tourist walking by the main entrance (pictured below). Pretty cool.
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**** Retort of the Day
Speaking of Boston's streets... I love 'em, really I do. Boston is one of the greatest walking cities in America, because Boston is so cramped that there is no more room for any more cars, so pedestrians always get the priority of mobility. Unfortunately, this confers a sense of entitlement that has also made Boston a city of jaywalkers. I'm waiting for the day that a crowd of morning commuters crossing against a traffic signal in a critical mass is mowed down by a red-faced taxi driver who has worn out his horn.
Today, as I walked to the Post Office during lunch, I waited to cross Atlantic Avenue. A BMW ripped through the intersection just as the Walk signal light up. "Haven't you ever heard of a Red Light?" a man shouted at the car. He was crossing the street about 20 feet away from the intersection on a step-saving diagonal, and so therefore was nearly hit by the BMW.
The woman driver leaned out and hollered "Haven't you ever heard of a cross-walk?" before speeding away. Zing!
| Monday December 10 2007 |
**** 'Twas the Season
Two more weeks until Christmas. That's right, only 14 days. If you aren't already sick of looking at your Christmas decorations, if you haven't already gained 5 pounds from unrestrained holiday drinking and eating, if you haven't invaded your local Wal-Mart to rip down the aisles with a shopping cart crammed full of Chinese-made products while screaming like a stressed chimpanzee, well then YOU BETTER HIT YOUR INTERNAL PANIC BUTTON AND GET A MOVE ON.
Breaking news! A woman in Cedar Rapids has all of her Christmas shopping done, according to this news article called (really) "Meet someone who has all her Christmas shopping done" (here). This is human interest reporting at its most cloying, complete with a picture of said woman looking smug, relaxed, and like a veritable well of tips from Real Simple magazine. She completed all of her shopping by Halloween because she refuses to let Christmas sneak up on her. "My innate nature is to plan and prepare," she says. Ha, I like that. Much more genteel than "I'm anal-retentive, fearful of spontaneity, and possibly OCD."
That woman's philosophy on holiday shopping is about as joyless as Pope Benedict's, who recently gave his annual admonishment about materialistic Christmas in which he warned that our children are being lured into the "dead-end street of consumerism" (here). Poor Pope. He says this every year with little public acknowledgment of his concerns. Maybe he should make all shopping in the months of November and December a mortal sin. Then we'd all have to be done our shopping by Halloween.
| Sunday December 9 2007 |
**** Ikea Binge
No residential move is complete without a post-furnishing trip to Ikea.
Six years ago, the closest Ikea was in North Jersey. Three of us rented an SUV and left at 6am. We returned at 10pm. I can remember unloading the car in the dark, staring at the tiny pictures on the identical sheets of corrugated cardboard packaging: "Are these my shelves? Whose Kolsvik is this? What the hell is a Jerker?"
Three years ago, Ikea had inched closer in Connecticut. Still, interstate highway travel didn't exactly soothe my nerves after fighting through the packed, chaotic showroom and having a nervous breakdown in the self-service furniture warehouse while picking out the parts of my bed.
Now the Boston metro area has an Ikea of its very own in Stoughton, not 30 minutes from my house. Having a close-by Ikea takes the edge off the decision-making. We got a new coffee table, two table tops and eight legs, a few rugs, a Leksvik chest with 5 drawers, and a Leksvik linen closet, all of which fit neatly into the back of a Honda Civic. Ah, the wonders of flat-packed furniture...
And self-assembly. Says Ikea's website (here) "While our furniture may seem attractive on the showroom floor, it takes on a whole new kind of beauty inside the cardboard boxes." Yes, the beauty of picking through bags of widgets and screws, of squinting at the instructions and counting holes to figure out the orientation of a wooden plank, of discovering the hex key has bored away the skin on your index finger. The beauty of a Leksvik linen closet (pictured right), standing intact, holding towels.
| Friday December 7 2007 |
**** Tales from the T
It is my profound pleasure to re-start my "Tales from the T" feature, after 15 agonizing months of "Tales from the [Commuter] Rails." To be back on the sleek, swift Red Line after experiencing the choked crawl of the Purple Line is a relief.
And the people on the T are so much more interesting to observe and eavesdrop on than the zombies on the Commuter Rail. Just yesterday, I overheard a young man discussing an intoxicated young woman who getting quite randy at a gathering of college students, and she totally attempted to put her legs behind her head while wearing a short skirt and thong underwear. It's zany banter like this that will keep me young.
Today I got off the train at Alewife (here) to find a troop of Boy Scouts selling, of all things, fudge. Yes, fudge, in plain white boxes, under a sign that identified their troop and proclaimed "Fudge! $5." I did a double-take. Girl Scout cookies are prurient enough, but .am I the only one with a scatological mind that the sight of Boy Scouts hawking fudge seems incredibly wrong?
Oh, I love the T. It's like a Fountain of Youth for my inner bawd.
| Thursday December 6 2007 |
**** Book Review: "Suite Francaise" by Irene Nemirovsky
It's hard to say how much of my emotion over this remarkable novel was provoked by the tragic, extraordinary 'story behind the story.' Irene Nemirovsky, born a Russian Jew, was an internationally-recognized novelist who lived most of her adult life in Paris. She started writing Suite Francaise at the beginning of World War II, envisioning an epic in five parts about events that were unfolding in occupied France. Nemirovsky completed the first two parts before she was arrested and deported to Auschwitz in 1942, where she died. Her two daughters held onto the handwritten manuscript for 64 years before one of them transcribed it, and Suite Francaise was published in 2006 to great acclaim.
And rightly so. Suite Francaise (here on Amazon) is engrossing, with simple, real characters, precious details, and fast-moving action. The first part "Tempete en juin" ("Storm in June") deals with the mass exodus of Paris in June 1940 and follows an array of characters as they flee the city amid the chaos and fear. Yet there's an unmistakable absurdist comedy to it all, and more than once I laughed aloud at the famous novelist who is briefly separated from his car and servants, or the middle-class family who packs their linens and silverware as if preparing for a summertime trip to the countryside.
The second part "Dolce" ("Sweet") focuses on a village called Bussy and the surrounding farms where some of these characters reside. The tone is more serious; day-to-day life during the German occupation is vividly depicted (Nemirovsky spent the last year of her life in similar environs). The nuanced interaction between the French citizens and the German soldiers is fascinating; there are collaborators, resistors, but most prevalently, sympathizers.
The storyline in "Dolce" revolves around Lucile, the pretty wife of a French PoW in Germany. She sort of falls in love with the German commander who is billeted at the house that Lucile shares with her severe mother-in-law. When Lucile and her German's relationship becomes physical, "she felt nothing, nothing but the cold buckle of his uniform pressing against her chest... He was whispering to her in German. Foreigner! Foreigner! Enemy, in spite of everything." This relationship, while schmaltzy, depicts the ambivalence that the French have for their occupiers. With their young men gone, the French make the German soldiers surrogate fathers, husbands, and sons, but only on the surface.
My heart broke when I came to the end of the second part, because the story is unfinished, and because the story is unfinished.
| Wednesday December 5 2007 |
**** When Pigs Die
11 employees at a pork processing plant in Austin, Texas have been diagnosed with a rare, chronic neurological disease called CIDP (here). Several teams of health department staffers are converging on the plant to investigate the unusual outbreak. While the exact cause of the disease is not known, some health experts believe that "exposure to blood and pulverized tissue" might have something to do with it. Either that, or some really bad candy found its way into the vending machine.
One sick worker is a 15-year veteran of "carving meat out of the back of the butchered pigs' heads with a small knife." She is now debilitated by constant pain and will probably never return to work, which she finds "depressing" because "she liked her job and is sorry she can no longer do it...'I hope that my arms aren't so weak that I can't at least get a desk job.'"
That poor woman, robbed of her cherished livelihood. I can only imagine how she feels, knowing that she'll probably never again engage in the butchery of a pig's decapitated head. How she will miss the smell of the pig's brains as they are sucked out of the skull not five feet away from her! To think that she may have to settle for a boring, non-bloody desk job.
| Tuesday December 4 2007 |
**** On Luck
To the Chinese, luck is a human attribute, similar to intelligence, beauty, wit, or talent. Each person possesses a level of luck - good, bad, or middling - that can vary, similar to how one's health, wealth, and happiness can be improved or diminished. Whereas Westerners consider luck to be chance occurrences beyond one's control, the Chinese consider luck to be an attribute that can be improved with beneficial feng shui. I like the Chinese view of luck, because life is not as random as all that. There are lightning strikes and lotteries, but generally, we reap what we sow.
"Being deeply learned and skilled, being well trained and using well spoken words; this is good luck" - Buddha
When I was in second grade, it was all the rage to carry a rabbit's foot on a keychain for good luck. I remember stroking the soft fur, avidly believing in the power of the rabbit's foot (although what is luck to a second grader? Finding a quarter? Getting to stay up until 9pm?). Then, one day as I sniffed curiously at the foot's unusual musky smell, a repelling thought dawned on me: This was once attached to an actual rabbit. I stopped carrying it. After all, the foot wasn't so lucky for the rabbit.
"I'm a great believer in luck, and I find the harder I work, the more I have of it." - Thomas Jefferson
Coincidentally, around this time in my life, my favorite breakfast cereal was Lucky Charms. In hindsight, I recognize that my passion for Lucky Charms blossomed under a targeted marketing strategy by General Mills that flooded Saturday morning cartoons with vivid commercials revolving around Lucky the Leprechaun ("They're always after me Lucky Charms!") Yeah, sure the cereal is "magically delicious"... it turned out, the magic ingredient is sugar.
"Just tell yourself, Duckie, you're really quite lucky!" - Dr. Seuss
I'm thinking about luck today because of last night's Patriot's game, in which they narrowly defeated the Baltimore Ravens 27-24. The Boston Globe wrote an article entitled "Luck helps keep perfection alive" (here): "The Patriots never lose. Most of the time they dominate. Some of the time they are clutch. And sometimes they are just plain lucky. Last night they were clutch. And lucky." Indisputable. But as I said before, we reap what we sow.
"I wasn't lucky. I deserved it" - Margaret Thatcher
| Monday December 3 2007 |
**** First Snow
Boston got its first messy splash of snow last night, with two inches of the white stuff followed by a day of steady drizzle (here). I woke up this morning to the sound of snow shovels steadily scrapping the sidewalk, and I sighed contentedly at this quintessential sound of winter. Then, an ungodly noise ripped through the calm. Shit. One of the neighbors has a snow blower.
The snow complicated the first day of my new commute. I now take a regular Boston subway line into the downtown instead of the blood-pressure-ratcheting commuter rail. To get to the subway, I must walk for 25 minutes on a dedicated bike path (here). Including the walk from the subway to my office, that's more than an hour of walking a day. With such an active commute, I'm forgoing a gym membership and investing in fashionable weather-proof gear.
For now, all I have is my rugged hiking boots, which did serve me well as I trotted through the slush on the bikepath this morning. Reportedly, there's vicious feuds between the various clans of mobility that crowd the path (bikes versus feet versus bladers versus dog walkers). There are admonishing signs every 100 feet: Keep to the right of the path! Today though, I had the path all to myself, which was good because I couldn't tell left from right from middle.
Whatever your natural feelings are about snow, they are intensified during the year's first snowfall, even if it's a paltry two inches that dissipated in the rain by the time you hit the streets. Many of my co-workers stayed home. One who braved it to the office told me "I had to get out of my house. My sons are going bonkers."
Me, I agree with Calvin and Hobbes: Getting an inch of snow is like winning 10 cents in the lottery.
| Sunday December 2 2007 |
**** Moved
I change residences roughly once every year and a half. And it gets harder every time. The physical rigors of hauling my possessions all over town is still bearable, but realizing the crappiness of my furniture is dismaying. Surely there is some metaphor to be divined when your furniture can be readily disassembled into planks and poles.
The move went very well. We started loading the 16' moving truck at 10am and finished loading at 1pm (breaking for a snack of leftover wine, cheese, and stale bread - "like French laborers"). Then we drove to our new place and started unloading at 2pm. Unfortunately, while our new apartment is simply charming, it's only accessible by creaky, winding, narrow staircases with oddly spaced stairs. We finished at 6pm, returned the truck, and then partied with a feast of healthy-style Chinese food and rum-spiked juice.
Oh, how my muscles ached this morning, not only my arms and back, but my quadriceps and calves. I felt as if I had hiked Mount Washington carrying a box of books. Since my mattress was laid on the floor, I struggled to overcome the pain and stand up. How I longed for my bed frame!
But I stood up and started unpacking. There are kitchen cabinets to be filled, built-in dining room casework to be lined, and closets to be occupied. And there are many planks and poles to be assembled, to be fastened together with wood pegs and screwed with hex keys, so that life may abide.