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Boris with Democracy

It’s all too easy to buffer Boris Yelstin’s obituary with tales of corruption, leadership failure, and drunken debauchery, but in the grand scheme of Russian history, the ‘Yelstin years’ will be remembered as a downright magical era.

Yeltsin resigned in disgrace a few hours before the year 2000, saying that he believed Russia needed a fresh start for the new century. And, boy, what a century it was: Lenin and the Bolsheviks, two devastating World Wars, Stalin and the Gulag, an idiot named Khruschev, and the Cold War. But to Russia, the threat of nuclear annihilation was just another cataclysmal chapter in a history wrought with profound psychological fear and uncertainty. A co-worker who was born in Russia told me “One of the biggest differences between the US and Russia is scale. The Boston Massacre killed five people. Our massacres involve millions.”

And suddenly, in the 1990s, Russia was independent and democratic, and it had this elected President named Boris who called communism “a pie in the sky” and was moved to open economic markets after visiting a Texas supermarket. Who cares if he was a corrupt drunk who committed numerous errors in rule? Who cares if he narrowly survived multiple impeachment attempts and his approval rating was a reported 2 percent by the time he left? Under Boris Yelstin, Russia underwent pendulous political, social, and economic change without millions of people disappearing. And when it was obvious he was a failure, he willingly left, without allowing his country to descend to revolution or coup. And that’s an achievement that history will appreciate.

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Vive la Republique… et le fromage!

The first round of the French Presidential election is over, and conservative Nicolas Sarkozy and socialist Segolene Royal, with 29% and 26% of the vote respectively, are advancing to the second round. Voter turnout was a record-breaking 85%, indicating the importance of this election to a pessimistic French nation. They want a candidate who will swiftly steer France away from the brink of decline by instituting lasting but painless social and economic reforms. Essentially, they want a political plastic surgeon.

Yesterday Mr. Pinault and I journeyed to Cambridge so that he could vote at the International School along with French ex-pats from all over New England. Looking around the school gymnasium at all the chic female voters, I suddenly understood the explosion of mass-market paperbacks that seek to teach American women to be more French. I was a wildebeest in a herd of gazelle.

Feeling threatened by so much raw sophistication, I quelled the urge to cause a scene by impromptu campaigning for right-wing extremist Jean-Marie Le Pen, a perennial candidate with an anti-immigration platform that brought him one step away from the French Presidency in 2002. “Vote Le Pen! Protect the Motherland from the invading swinish multitudes!” I dreamed about shouting so it would echo shockingly throughout the gymnasium. But instead, I sat quietly in the back, cursing my proclivity for sneakers.

Afterwards, we drove across Cambridge to Formaggio Kitchen, a specialty grocer that stocks an excellent selection of French cheese. The cheese counter was packed with Americans demanding brie, so we got in line behind a family who we had just seen voting at the International School. They recognized us, and the husband said to his wife “See, it’s normal to buy cheese after voting!” Yes, but only if it’s a French election. He then attempted to order comte cheese in centimeters rather than inches or pounds.

Tomme

We got a mild Tomme from Savoy and a sheep-milk cheese I never had before called Brebis Ossau, which almost made me cry because it was so good. I could taste the wildflowers and fresh grass that the sheep grazed on in the Pyrenees, yet it had a nutty flavor to temper the sweetness. Vive la Republique! A country capable of making such divine cheese is worth saving!

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It’s Not Over Until Someone Else Starts Clapping

Symphony-going is fraught with little rules of decorum, most of which can be and are ignored. The only undisputed rule is literally written on the wall, projected on the stage partition before the music begins: “Please turn off all electronic devices.” A friendly reminder, under penalty of public mortification.

But a ringing cell phone isn’t the only thing capable of evoking the ire of 2000 little old ladies. At last night’s performance featuring violinist Anne-Sophie Mutter and her ex-husband, conductor and composer Andre Previn, an enthusiastic attendee somewhere in the back of the first balcony twice reminded me of the most fundamental rule of watching a classical music performance:

Do not clap until someone else claps!

The problem last night had to do with the derelict’s lack of understanding about movements, that just because the orchestra stops playing, doesn’t mean it’s safe to break out in pronounced clapping. The first time, people murmured. The second time, people were outraged. I’ve never seen such a fine class of people come so close to collectively snarling. Let me repeat:

Do not clap until someone else claps!

Yes, logically this rule doesn’t pan out, because if everyone follows it, then the entire audience is left constipated with gratitude, and the orchestra is just sitting there in incredulous silence, and then the cello section starts bawling, the violists are abhorred, and the percussionists are retaliating. But rest assured, the audience is filled with classical music aficionados who are eager to demonstrate familiarity with a particular piece by getting off the first clap, and it will ring out and quickly be followed by a rousing applause, upon which one can safely begin to strike palms in appreciation.

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All that Twitters Is Not Gold

Twitter is the latest cool internet Web 2.0 thing. Everyone’s a-twitter for Twitter, “a global community of friends and strangers answering one simple question: What are you doing?” Using Twitter is reportedly as addicting as sugar-infused crack cocaine laced with nicotine. A general rule: When something is this addicting, it is stupid.

I do see potential value in technology that enables public messaging on multiple interfaces (the Web, IM, and mobile phones), and I think Twitter-like services will evolve into something functionally useful in wider society. But as it is used now, Twitter does not impress me. In fact, since I’m an old codger, I find a bulk of the banal chatter that Twitter emits to be morally repugnant and symptomatic of an ideologically-diseased world.

Twitter nurtures three increasing tendencies of today’s technocrats: exhibitionism, voyeurism, and the proclivity to express oneself in easily-digestible factoids of 140 characters or less. A vast majority of Twitters revolve around everyday minutiae. People who Twitter can’t complete a single life task without sending a broadcast to the world about it: Eating eggs and toast! Getting ready for spinning! Sitting on the train! Working at the office! Thinking about buying a new pair of sneakers! Blogging! I can’t imagine strangers caring about this, let alone my friends. Will they want to read Twitters about how I’m writing posts for this web site when most of them can’t even be bothered to read it?

Twitter is a tribute to our infinite vanity, our wanting to believe that the sands in our hourglass sparkle brighter, that they are not insignificant, that they will not be blown away and forgotten.

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The March Lion is Still Roaring

I walk to the train station, wearing the same coat that I’ve been wearing since November. I’ve grown to hate it. It taunts me if I reach for another in the closet: Yeah right, you’re going to wear a jean jacket? You think that will keep you warm and dry? Who are you kidding, girlie. You need my thick down padding and weather-resistant shell.

Though it’s drizzling, I don’t carry an umbrella – partly out of irrational defiance, but mostly because they all suffer from mangled stretchers, broken ribs and torn canopies. My poor umbrellas – Nautica black, New Orleans Zoo tan and black, Brookstone super mini black. Thank you for your valiant service in the line of duty. I’m sorry you have become martyrs to a hopeless cause: Keeping me dry in howling sheets of rain. I will miss you. Until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand. Maybe you’ll work better for God than you worked for me, eh?

The birds are chirping. What are they saying, do you think? Come mate with me! or Why is it so freaking cold! or All this rain is drowning the worms!

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Cold, Dead Hands

I often find myself defending the American way of life to my European boyfriend – not out of patriotism, but out of my unflagging argumentative nature. I’ve defended ridiculous American hallmarks like heaping portion sizes, astronomical health care costs, cops who make 150k/year from overtime pay, rap music, local television news, fork switching, farm subsidies, and general apathy about world affairs. I love a good debate, even if that means arguing that being lazy, ill-mannered, and stupid are inalienable human rights.

And then, there’s gun control, the issue that turned me from the Devil’s advocate into the Devil herself. I used to agree that guns were too pervasive in America, that citizens should submit to gun control laws and surrender their arms in the interest of public safety. But as I explained the rationale behind the NRA’s steadfast commitment to the right to bear arms, I found myself agreeing with the notion that, even in these modern times, the Second Amendment still applies.

Yes, I believe law-abiding citizens have a demonstrable need for personal protection. I believe that the people have the right to violently overthrow a government if necessary. I believe that stringent gun laws create a black market, making it easier for criminals to buy guns. I believe it all, in theory.

It’s a hard thing to believe, sometimes. In the wake of the horrific shooting at Virginia Tech, my convictions are indefensible against so much terror, grief, and 33 bodies. I hope tonight’s dinner conversation doesn’t linger on gun control policy, because I will lose the debate.

On a side note, I can’t believe that it was an English Major. People who willingly study English literature and creative writing would not seem capable of vengeful killing sprees. We are usually adept at taking the future’s bleakness for granted and other people’s cruelties in stride.

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Marathon Monday: Report from Mile 8

Fears surrounding the Boston Marathon weather usually concern excessive heat, but this year, runners battled gale force winds and sub-40 degree temperatures. Boy, I’m glad this wasn’t the year I decided to run another marathon in a qualifying time of 3 hours and 40 minutes so that I could run the Boston Marathon. Maybe next year.

Yesterday, when the media talked up the storm, many runners were unfazed. Cocky, even. Some maniacs even expressed excitement. “It adds a whole new dimension to the Marathon,” one said. One woman from California admitted she had never seen a Nor’easter. “Rain, wind, cold,” she said, a slight smile on her lips as if to say what else you got? “I know adverse conditions,” scoffed Olympic Bronze medalist Deena Kastor, who was born in Waltham, MA. “I’ve gotten in training runs in snowy, windy conditions and in the rain”.

Luckily for them, the worst of the storm passed through early Monday morning. I was awakened at 5:15am by wind-driven rain rattling my windows like it wanted to get in. But by the time the elites passed Mile 8 in Natick, the rain had stopped and the wind subsided. Still, out of the 25,000 runners who flew past me in a cavalcade of footfalls and body odor, the only person who looked happy about the chilly weather was the man wearing a full-length cow outfit.

Below are the leading women at Mile 8. Combined, they have less total body fat than my right thigh. Number 6 in the blue shorts is the ultimate winner, Lidiya Grigoryeva of Russia. Deena Kastor, who finished 5th, is number 3. I *believe* the woman on the far left is Madai Perez of Mexico (finished 3rd) and the woman in front of her is Jelena Prokopcuka of Latvia (finished 2nd).

Below are the leading men at Mile 8. I took this picture not realizing that these two Kenyans were rabbits, whose job it is to set a fast pace for the leaders. Neither finished, but at this point they were minutes ahead of the pack of elite men, including fellow Kenyan and ultimate winner Robert Cheruiyot, who won for the 3rd year, with a time seven minutes slower than last year. The wind and cold did take a toll.

Posted in In the News, Massachusetts.

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Viva la Revolution

Last night, Gillette stadium in Foxboro, MA played host to a soccer double-header. First, the US Women’s National team kicked the crap out of Mexico’s women, winning 5-0. Then the New England Revolution played their home opener against Toronto FC, the newest addition to Major League Soccer. The Revolution won 4-0. Although the outcome of both games proved victorious for America, it flagrantly violated the trilateral stipulations of NAFTA.

The air was rift with calls for “Revolution! Revolution!” Spurred by the sporadic shotgun blasts of the mascot brigade (pictured below, holding flags), the largely young and entirely white crowd tossed flares, staves, firecrackers, stones, and stadium seats at the red uniformed Toronto FC players. After the Revolution’s third goal, a posse of teenaged girls wearing identical Chelmsford Youth Soccer jackets lead a celebratory pitch invasion onto the field. Some of them attacked the opposing team with knives, while others sought to violently embrace Revolution heartthrobs like Taylor Twellman and Jeff Larentowicz.

The Toronto FC fans (pictured below) proved to be a small but feisty bunch. They sang songs and chanted even as their team bore out just how ineffectual they were. We took pictures so that we could identify them in the parking lot after the game, and then rough them up real good for holding allegiance to a team that is not the Revolution. After the effigy-burning of David Beckham, the cops descended with tear gas and batons. Major League Soccer ain’t for pansies.

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Artful Dodgers

Bush Administration mouthpiece Tony Snow — who doesn’t know, will find out, will rephrase previously stated information, or just won’t play that ‘hindsight’ game — has been absent from his post for about a month while being treated for a recurrence of cancer.

In his absence, the daily press corps wrangling is being handled by his Deputy Dana Perino, a 34 year-old fast-talking bobbed-blonde. Her brief tenure has seen exemplary Bush controversies like the Scooter Libby verdict, the Walter Reed scandal, the US Attorney firings, and continuing societal chaos in Iraq (here for all the press briefings and gaggles ).

Given all that she’s had to deal with, I am impressed with Perino. She’s got a grace and humor that mitigates the frustration of her feigned ignorance. And instead of avoiding meaningful engagement by endlessly repeating the same snide official party line with slight variation, she says flat out: I’m not going to speculate on a wildly hypothetical situation at this time. I’m not going to comment on it. I just really don’t have any more information. I just don’t have a clue. And if she’s feeling generous, I believe that that would have been within the realm of possibility. Her upfront manner of bullshitting is quite refreshing.

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God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut

Even though he was 84, the news of Kurt Vonnegut’s passing surprised and saddened me.

It goes without saying that I am a stalwart Kurt Vonnegut fan. I voraciously consumed all his books as a teenager. The way he blended fiction, philosophy, and humor knocked me out. I always wanted to write exactly like him. I still do.

“We are healthy only to the extent that our ideas are humane.”
(Kilgore Trout’s epitaph in Breakfast of Champions)

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