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Rebel Hell

My trip to Charleston, South Carolina made me think: Wow, what a pluralistic nation we are. It’s comforting to know that America isn’t entirely culturally homogenous because of retail chains with standardized business practices and products that have people from Maine to Texas to California drinking Frappuccino, wearing Crocs, and one-stop shopping at Target.

There are subtle differences. For example, we went to a bakery called “Atlanta Bread” that was exactly like “Panera Bread” except with less emphasis on salad. And there are not-so-subtle differences. For example:

Rock-solid Republican! Proud to be in the party of Bush and Cheney! Red States rule! It’s your fault that you’re poor and have no social welfare net! Yee-haw!
I imagined that branding oneself a staunch Republican would be slightly taboo given the party’s dismal approval ratings these days. But when it comes to Southern politics, rational logic does not apply. In fact, I bet the national backlash against Republicans only increases the party’s appeal in South Carolina. They’re rebels, after all. They’ll rebel against funding for public health and education, and be damn proud when they’re ranked near-bottom on nearly every social well-being index. Yee-haw!
I was interested to explore this bizarre psychology of having pride in spectacular defeat. We visited Fort Sumter, which is where the opening shots of the Civil War were fired in 1861, when Confederate soldiers lay siege on the fort until the Union surrendered it. On the ferry ride to Fort Sumter, I toyed with the idea of marching through the aisles of Southerners, singing “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” But that could have been dangerous. There was no smoking allowed on the boat, so half of the passengers were in the throes of a nicotine fit. And I know someone had a gun. Yee-haw!
The South seems especially obsessed with flags. Pictured below are the flags at Fort Sumter. Note the flag on the right – one of numerous flag iterations for the Confederacy. This short-lived design of the Southern Cross in a field of white was often mistaken for a white flag of surrender. Yee-haw!

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By Meredith – July 3, 2007

The Night of Laringo

Last week, I promised to share the most rambunctious collegiate memory that surfaced over the weekend in Charleston. I made this promise for two reasons: 1- I was hanging out with my “good influence” college friends who had limited exposure to my most flagrant lasciviousness. 2- I was fully expecting a particular story to be told, because it’s always told. It’s an amusing, unique, classic story that sends me into a spiral of red-faced cringing and forehead cradling. We could be at a wedding reception, sipping wine and talking about how beautiful the bride is, and out of nowhere someone will say “Hey, remember Laringo?” And then everyone else jumps on the pile, eager to share their memories of the most embarrassing night of my college life.

But amazingly, an entire weekend went by without mention of Laringo! My friends must be losing it in their old age. Indeed, the untold story left a void. A void that I will now fill…

I met Laringo at a party on Hobart Lane, UMass Amherst’s notorious off-campus non-Greek party spot. I was fed up with the idiots at the party, and noticed a very tall, porcine black kid quietly standing by himself. Right when I said Hi to him, Bizmarkie’s “Just a Friend” came on, and he amused me by gently mocking all the white kids dancing to the corny rap. I hung out with Laringo for a bit, then my friends went to another party and I decided to call it a night.

Laringo offered to walk me back to my dorm. I accepted; it was a friendly and normal gesture since we lived in adjacent dorms. When we reached my dorm, he followed me to the security desk and gave the security desk his ID to get “signed in” as my guest. This unhinged me. I was a tittle lipsy. “Um, oh, you want to come in? Um, well, I’m going to sleep. Um, I guess I’ll sign you in. Um, bye. Oh, um, you’re coming up? My roommates might be sleeping. Well, um, oh.”

Once he was legally inside of my dorm, Laringo followed me to my room, a large triple room where my roommates were hosting an informal gathering of about a half-dozen neighbors and friends. When we appeared, the room hushed. Laringo ignored everyone and walked directly to my bed. “Help me!” I mouthed to stunned onlookers as a fully-clothed Laringo climbed into my bed. He wordlessly stared at me as I paced near the bed and jabbered about how late it was, and how my roommates wanted to go to sleep, and how he should maybe leave.

Meanwhile, word spread like wildfire down the hallway: There’s a gigantic black man laying in Meredith’s bed! Within a few minutes, about 20 different people visited our room to gawk at Laringo. It was high entertainment. Finally, after about a half-hour, my roommates made it very clear that we were going to sleep, and Laringo finally got out of my bed and left our room without incident or fuss.

The night of Laringo made me a laughingstock of our entire floor. Even my “bad influence” college friends got in on the fun, leaving messages on my voicemail in their best ebonic accents (Yo baby, whazup, diz Laringo) and playing “Jungle Fever” on the stereo at random times over the next two years. The enduring appeal of the Laringo episode comes from a combination of things: That he was black, huge, and had beached himself on my bed; that I was noticeably distraught and babbling; and that when a group of us went to breakfast the next morning, I talked loudly about how horrible the situation had been before realizing that I had chosen a table right across from Laringo himself.

Posted in Massachusetts, Nostalgia.

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By Meredith – July 2, 2007

The Star Spinning Banner

At a 6am spinning class, a short-lived burst of mysterious energy during Kanye West’s “Gold Digger” faded quickly. I thought: What am I doing here at this ungodly hour? Why am I not sleeping? I turned down the tension knob on my bike to a flat road setting and decided to fake my way through the rest of the class.

Then Donna, the instructor, announced that the next song would honor the troops in Iraq. “If they can serve out there in the desert, then you can turn up the tension on your bikes.” Suddenly the studio filled with the sound of the National Anthem, a traditional marching band version with no vocals.

Arguably a spinning class is not the proper context for “The Star-Spangled Banner,” but America is a uniquely flag-happy nation that welcomes any opportunity for patriotism. We dutifully rose from our seats into the hill-climbing position, our legs gallantly spinning. By the end of the anthem, I felt invigorated. Land of the free. Home of the brave. Even in a spinning class, America’s pride manages to reverberate in our hearts.

Later that day, I read an AP article titled “Bush Urges People to Exercise,” which was not nearly as inspiring. “I exercise a lot because it’s good for my mind and it’s good for my soul,” said Bush, a mountain biker. Jesus Christ. What of Bush’s puny mind and his weak soul? During the same interview, Bush added, “A lot of the dietary problems are what people eat. Our obesity problem is not just an exercise problem, but a bad diet.” Good lord, Bush cannot even speak clearly about something as straightforward as our national fatness.

America would be much improved if, whenever Bush opened his mouth, someone blared a recording of “The Star-Spangled Banner” to drown him out. Whatever he is saying, do not look to Bush for guidance, strength, or inspiration. Look instead to that glorious composition that evokes the history, struggles, and triumph of our people. Remember our heritage. Keep it holy.

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By Meredith – June 28, 2007

The Reunion of Babb’s Babies

This weekend I’m off to Charleston, SC, for a much-anticipated reunion with my college housemates. In our senior year of college, the six of us lived in a squalid centuries-old house in Amherst that has since been torn down and replaced with a bank. The house was a nightmare: Fat mice in the closets, feral cats in the garage, and absolutely no counter space in the kitchen. We had a landlady named Marjorie Babb, a shrewy lady in her 70s who watched us with Mr. Furley-like moral scrutiny. “Babb’s Babies,” we were. (I just coined that term, but this weekend, I will campaign to make it stick.)

Despite now being scattered across the country, we convene semi-regularly. If it’s only a partial gathering, we’ll call an absent person and concoct a ruse to fool the person into believing something ridiculous. This has long stopped working effectively. “I don’t believe you,” one roommate told me last year when we called from Disney Land, saying that I had been chosen to star in that evening’s light parade. “Because whenever we get together, we call each other on the phone, and we lie!”

Yes, it’s true. I’m not sure why we do this, because we’re all such nice people. Except for me, of course, which is how I earned my nickname – “Old Salty.” I really can’t recall how earned this nickname. I think it has something to do with pirates and beer.

Lately, all of our reunions have been for our weddings. Everyone has been married except for me. Rather than sit around and wait for that to happen, we’re converging from all over the country to engage in ritualistic embarrassment by telling stories from our days of boozy debauchment. I’ll be back next week, and I promise to share the best one on this site.

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By Meredith – June 28, 2007

Johnny the Ladybug

A Children’s Story… Inspired by True Events

One summer morning, Johnny the Ladybug decided to fly to his favorite garden, where Johnny had been a larval only two months ago. Johnny wanted to visit his 3 brothers and his 3 sisters, who all had the same 7 black spots on their bright orange wing covers. Together, they would spend the day crawling through the long rows of corn, bean, and tomato plants, looking for tasty aphids to eat.

Johnny flew towards the garden through a canopy of trees, following alongside the train tracks. He soon came to a train platform where many people were standing. Johnny stopped to rest on a tree leaf and admire the people’s brightly-colored clothes. Suddenly, he heard a terrible noise. It got louder and louder, and a wind shook the leaf where Johnny was perched. Panicked, Johnny flew towards a woman and landed on her polka-dotted skirt.

Johnny clung to the cloth within the fold of the skirt. Something was wrong. The woman was moving! Johnny peaked out from behind the skirt. They were inside of a big box filled with rows of people. There was no grass for him to rest on, or plants to find aphids. A voice boomed, “This is the express train to Boston. Next stop, Back Bay.”

Johnny waited until the skirt stopped moving, then cautiously explored his surroundings. He walked along the skirt towards a faint light. His body brushed against something warm and soft, which jerked away suddenly. “A ladybug!” a feminine voice said. “Look, Mr. P! A ladybug is on my skirt!”

Johnny felt his whole body be lifted. He was in a person’s hands! The sensation was both thrilling and scary, and he began to run. “Ladybug,” a male voice said. “In my country, we call them coccinelle.”

“It’s good luck to find a ladybug on you,” the feminine voice said. “Don’t kill it! Let’s try to keep it until we get to Boston, and set it free outside.”

Johnny panicked and took flight. He flew above the people’s heads, searching for way to get out of this big, shaking box. Soon, his wings grew tired, and he landed on the hard ground to rest. “Now arriving Back Bay,” a voice boomed. “Please take all your personal belongings with you when you exit the train. Back Bay.”

Rumbling, all around! The ground shook! Johnny began to run in confusion. He imagined that if he just ran fast enough, he would soon be back in his garden, with his 3 brother and 3 sisters, and they would spend all day in the garden searching for tasty aphids to –

CRUNCH. Johnny the Ladybug, killed by a Teva.

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By Meredith – June 27, 2007

Algo-rhythms

While driving to Mt. Monadnock last Saturday, we turned on the radio. One station touted their ongoing “Whatever Weekend” after every song. Wow, whatever – a perfect example of the current popularity of random radio. Instead of catering to one genre of music (“The same 1000 classic rock songs!” “Today’s biggest hits, played until you are sick of them.” “Your only option for corporate alternative radio!”), stations are reaching out to variety-craving audiences who don’t care how a song is branded, they only care if it’s generally acknowledged to be an auditory delight. But they also want to be in constant suspense over the next song to come on the radio. They want zany surprises. They want whatever.

This shuffle-friendly radio listener likes rock and roll from any decade. Eighties pop is also essential, although novelty is eschewed in favor of respectable artists like Boy George, Bon Jovi, and Belinda Carlisle. They do like to be exposed to today’s latest hits, but with strict filters on teenybopper garbage. They’ll also groove on the occasional mainstream rap and country cross-overs, as well as tried and true oldies that have enjoyed a recent resurgence in pop culture.

Just as important as the niche-free content is the perceived randomness of the song order. Here’s an actual sample “Whatever” playlist: Madonna’s “Who’s that Girl” followed by Green Day’s “Holiday” followed by Tom Petty’s “Running Down a Dream” followed by Beyonce’s “Ring the Alarm” followed by UB40’s “Red Red Wine” followed by REM’s “Shiny Happy People” followed by Staind’s “It’s Been While” followed by the Police’s “Message in a Bottle” followed by Otis Redding’s “Dock of the Bay.”

For being so random, it flows suspiciously well, with extreme selections like “Holiday” and “Ring the Alarm” and “It’s Been Awhile” buffered by reassuring classics that anyone with a foothold into popular culture can enjoy on some level. In fact, the songs are too random. i-Pod users are familiar with that eerie occurrence when they are given two Beastie Boys songs in a row during shuffle mode, from a library of 5000 songs. Coincidence is a natural result of randomness, after all. On commercial radio, even the randomness is formulaic.

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By Meredith – June 26, 2007

La Vie en Rose

I saw the Edith Piaf movie, La vie en Rose. (Yes, another French movie. It’s not like we will only see French movies. It just so happens that whenever we scan the listings, the most interesting movie happens to be the French one. I mean, look at what is out now: The Waitress. Ocean’s 13. Once. Who wouldn’t choose the critically-acclaimed Edith Piaf bio over a date movie about a waitress who channels her emotions into pie-making?)

I liked La vie en Rose. I don’t feel like writing a formal review of it, but if I did, I’d give it two Green Thumbs (out of a possible three) and call it mind-blowingly entertaining, funny, sad, emotional, and dramatic. Too dramatic, in fact. I can’t count how many times Edith collapsed into sobbing hysteria, crying someone’s name: Titine! Momone! Papa Leplee! Marcel! Marcel!

Anyway, today I spent some time watching YouTube videos of Edith Piaf herself performing. Most of the videos are from her later years, in the late 1950s, when her myriad health problems and chemical dependencies had taken a toll, but the videos are haunting all the same. I like her performance of “Milord” on the Ed Sullivan show in particular. Some would call her one of France’s greatest singers. I would call her France’s only great singer.

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By Meredith – June 25, 2007

Herbonics

Today the Supreme Court decided 5-to-4 that schools can prohibit student speech that advocates illegal drug use, and that the phrase “Bong Hits 4 Jesus” does advocate drug use, hence ruling against the former high school senior in Alaska who infamously unfurled a 14-foot banner saying as much at a school-sanctioned event. The decision not only deals a blow to the First Amendment, it also will make teenaged stoners think twice before wearing their “Highway 420” t-shirts and green “Live Stoned” bracelets to school.

In the majority opinion, Chief Justice John Roberts painstakingly analyzed the banner’s “cryptic” message “Bong Hits 4 Jesus” in order to justify calling it pro-drug: “the phrase could be interpreted as an imperative: ‘[Take] bong hits…’ alternatively, the phrase could be viewed as celebrating drug use – ‘bong hits [are a good thing],’ or ‘[we take] bong hits'” (here for text of court opinion). In the dissenting opinion, Justice Stevens said “What is Chief Justice Roberts smoking?”

Personally, I support the Court’s decision, but only because of the message’s religious overtones. Hello? Seperation of church and state? I mean, “4 Jesus” is unabashed advocacy of the glorification and celebration of a religious figure. Our students have the right to go to school and not be blasted by pro-Christian messages about loving and supporting Jesus through bong hits. Students have the right to take bong hits for Allah, for Buddha, for Zeus, for Satan, for Shiva, or for their own spiritual edification. But public school is hardly the proper place to be influenced about for which faith they will take bong hits.

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By Meredith – June 25, 2007

Monadnock

When we heard that 3,165 foot Mt. Monadnock in southern NH called itself the second-most climbed mountain in the world after Mt. Fuji, we scoffed. What an absurd claim. Monadnock is an isolated mountain peak in a rural New Hampshire location. How many people actually drive to Jaffrey, NH for the express purpose of climbing over slabs of granite for 3-4 hours?

But after hiking Mt. Monadnock among literally hundreds of people this afternoon, I’ll believe the hype. Monadnock’s expansive views and central location draws altitude-seeking hikers from all over New England. It’s a challenging hike, but most physically active adults would have no problem, and kids love climbing over the trail’s rock slabs (low center of gravity sure helps). The longest stretch of solitude during the hike was for about 2 minutes. The rest of the 3 1/2 hour hike, we were passing families with young children, or being passed by groups of pre-teens and teenagers, or vying with comparably paced adults for breathing room.

I can’t say I enjoyed such a bustling trail. On most hikes, we run into maybe five or six groups of hikers. On a busy day, like at Mt. Lafayette last Memorial Day, we’ll see about 50 people and be bowled over by the popularity of our chosen hike. Hiking is about getting away from other people and their chatter, their whining, their self-congrulatory bragging about past hiking feats. When I reach the summit, I like to pretend that I have discovered something unique and powerful. I like to listen to the howling wind and contemplate the peace of a mountain summit. I don’t like finding an entire YMCA youth camp sitting around, eating sandwiches and hurling M&Ms at each other and just screaming. Mt. Monadnock made me feel like a sheep in a herd of humanity, looking to be entertained, enlightened, and fulfilled by the pursuit of a great panorama.

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By Meredith – June 24, 2007

Why I Turn My Nose Up At Your Lemonade Stand

I have nothing against entrepreneurship. In fact, it gladdens my heart to see such young children bilking consumers via a quaint business venture like a lemonade stand. In the age of Red Bull and smoothies, by purveying lemonade, you are tapping into nostalgic, romantic notions about summertime. I think that’s great, and I hope that you will grow up to be wildly successful capitalist pigs.

But for this lemonade stand to be a life lesson and not just a way to earn a few extra dollars, then I feel compelled to offer my feedback. Because you can give people fish… or teach fishing. And the latter saves a lot of money on a lot of crap like curbside lemonade. (There’s more than one definition for the word “patronize.”)

First, you need to work on your marketing. There’s thousands of advertisers out there, clamoring to whet my thirst with an exciting array of professional, polished beverages. The looseleaf paper sign with jagged pencil markings that say “Lemonade stand $1” may appeal to my sentimental whimsy, but it also makes me wonder if you stirred the lemonade with your snot-covered hands.

Which brings me to your overall corporate image. I mean, your lemonade “stand” is missing a stand. It’s a folding chair on the grass. Placed on the chair is a large plastic pitcher, a stack of clear plastic cups, and a can of lemonade mix. Mix! Oh, great, I love lemonade from a mix. So bland and sugary, without the sour zing of lemonade made from real lemons.

Manning the “stand” are three children, two of whom are rolling around on the grass with little regard to hygiene, none of whom is particularly cute. And when I walk by, the three children simultaneously train their gazes on me and chirp “Would you like to buy a lemonade?” Immediately I am alienated by the haughty expectant tone of voice, devoid of pitiful pleading. What, you expect me to just give you a dollar for a cup of water with lemonade mix stirred into it when it’s obvious zero effort and thought was put into this venture?

Do I even need to mention that it’s 75 degrees out and cloudy?

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By Meredith – June 23, 2007