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Pizza Talk

[At surprise company pizza lunch party]

Co-worker [older male, new at company, never introduced]: Did you just say ‘hi’ to me?

Me [mouth full of pizza]: No.

Co-worker: It’s so noisy in here. I don’t normally hear things. Hope you don’t think I’m crazy.

Me: Not at all. (flashing grin, preparing to introduce myself)–

Co-worker: Although everyone at this company seems crazy! Even you, and I don’t even know you!

Me: (still smiling, preparing to introduce myself–)

Co-worker: But I have nothing against crazy people. Schizophrenics can be fun. And clowns too. We’re all either one or the other.

Me: (big bite of pizza)

Posted in The 9 to 5.

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Hawking the Boston Metro

Metro is a free daily paper distributed in Boston and other urban areas around the world, typically ones that have public transportation hubs teeming with commuters too cheap to buy a real paper ( or “young and ambitious professionals” – here). It provides general news in easily-digestible tidbits (“fits into a 15-minute read”), sloppy copy-editing (“proudly urban attitude and style”), and cheap, finger-staining ink.

The Boston Metro is widely available in newstands, but during rush hours, strategically-placed human hawkers offer copies to the commuters pouring in and out of busy subway stations. Since the Metro is free, it relies heavily on the hawkers to keep those circulation numbers high for advertising revenue.

So how do the Metro hawkers convince people to take possession of such a crappy paper? Well, Metro hawkers are a pretty scruffy bunch. I’ve never seen one Metro hawker who doesn’t give the appearance of being flagrantly mentally incapicitated or homeless. Some of them act just batshit. The top five scary and/or obnoxious Metro hawkers who I come in contact are:

1. The man who repeatedly groans “Tro Tro Tro…” without even insinuating an M
2. The man who throws in the occasional mention of Jesus Christ
3. The woman who squawks “Metro it’s free!” in a hysterical monotone
4. The man who stares, stone-faced and mute
5. The man who kinda sings, kinda pleads “Get on the Metro, get on the Metro, get on the Metro…” as he bobs to and fro in an uneven cadence

Posted in Massachusetts.

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Nemo malus felix

“No one bad is happy,” or “No bad man is lucky,” or “No peace for the wicked.”
In a NY Times article (here) about Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s great-granddaughter, ‘Her Serene Highness Princess Sophie Hohenberg,’ and her quest to reclaim her lineage’s castle in Konopiste, it is noted that “the walls of the castle’s public halls are mounted with some of the roughly 300,000 animals that Franz Ferdinand shot during his lifetime. It is a phantasmagoric display of bison heads and dear antlers and boar tusks and wood grouse tail feathers, each mounted on a wooden plaque inscribed with the date and place where they were shot.”

Talk about aristocratic excesses. 300,000 animals. Legend has it that one of the more 5,000 deer killed by Ferdinand was a rare albino buck. White stags appear in numerous anglo-saxon myths and legends (here), and it is believed that killing them brings bad luck (unless you’re the president of the Saxony Hunting Federation, and you use yer huntin’ science to conclude “the white deer is a mutation. It does not belong in the wild; it should be shot” – here).

While we can never know if World War I was caused by bad luck wrought when an avid hunter threw superstition to the wind, the sheer amount of violent death associated with Ferdinand’s existence haunts me: 300,000 animals felled, him and his wife hunted themselves in Sarajevo, and the resulting monstrous folly of treaty that left 40 million people dead or wounded.

Some of us live our lives as if touring a castle, tip-toeing in awe, taking care not to touch anything. Others, well, they inherit the castle and decorate it as they see fit.

Posted in In the News.

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Tom Brady, Failed Trojan Man

An English degree dooms a person to a lifetime of quixotic ideas and fits of fancy. After countless hours spent picking through archaic and classical texts, one does glean analytic skills, mental discipline, and linguistic prowess. Unfortunately the actual knowledge of, say, the plot of Love’s Labour’s Lost or the context of Beowulf has little practical application in today’s media-saturated market-driven world of disposable heroes and disparate belief systems.

Yet these little berries of scholarship refuse to lay dormant in my temporal cortex, causing some ‘crazy notions’ to come to fruit. Like on January 21 2007, when I extolled the chivalry and valor of Patriots quarterback Tom Brady and even likened him to the virtuous Trojan prince Hector. After news of his possible wedlock paternity with his ex-girlfriend (here), clearly, Tom Brady is no Hector.

Hector would not be romping around Paris with a nymph named Gisele after refusing to commit to Andromache and knocking her up with Astyanax. Of course, maybe Andromache purposely got pregnant because she sensed Hector and her were drifting apart… or maybe Zeus made one his infamous ‘divine interventions’ (wink wink nudge nudge). Regardless, Brady’s unchinked moral armor has been breached. He must now prepare to be strung behind a chariot and dragged through the mud by the tabloids.

Join me next time, when I’ll compare Hillary Clinton to Dido, Howard Stern to Ozymandias, Steve Jobs to King Midas, and the cast of Ocean’s 11, 12,and 13 to the Argonauts.

Posted in Culture, In the News.

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Movie Review: Letters from Iwo Jima

I was swayed to go see Letters from Iwo Jima by a NYTimes review that called it “true to the durable tenets of the war-movie tradition, but it is also utterly original, even radical in its methods and insights.” My delicate constitution can’t cope with bloody schlock that typifies the war-movie genre, but Clint Eastwood is offering something akin to art that considers a timely yet age-old question: When the cause is futile, how do soldiers face the prospect of dying for it?

I didn’t see Flags of our Fathers, which is the battle of Iwo Jima from the American perspective. It was released last fall to tepid reviews and lousy box office. That Letters is embraced by movie-goers while Flags was ignored might indicate a war-weary public not keen on glamourized, patriotic, flag-waving movies. We don’t want triumphant cinematic allegory when a real-life war in the newspaper haunts us daily with tales of unwinnable skirmish. We want catharsis.

The central figure of Letters is a humble Japanese baker-turned-foot soldier named Saigo, who wants to survive the war to see his family rather than kill Americans for the Imperial Homeland. All of the Japanese soldiers know they will be killed (or kill themselves) in the battle, but Saigo is hopeful. He shares the audience’s horror over the fanatical self-sacrifice of Japanese soldiers. Our empathy for Saigo underscores the brutal machoism of the Japanese military code, and ultimately of war in general.

This is an intense movie. The battle scenes are not expansive, but intimate, dimly light in black and white, and often gruesome. But it’s not the grenade hara-kiri or the suicide missions that haunt me most. As Eastwood intends (laying it on a bit thick), it’s the letters, feverishly written by Saigo and several other characters, including the sympathetic Japanese commander General Kuribayashi (played by Ken Watanabe). The letters are the soldiers’ only means of comfort as they sit in their dark caves, caught in the grind of Imperial Japan’s war machine, awaiting their fate. The letters are the soldier’s only way to remain human. Yes, they were the enemy, but they were human, and perhaps the greatest tragedy of war is how easy it is to forget this.

Posted in Review.

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In The News

Guerilla Marketing

I arrived at South Station tonight to find total chaos: Hovering helicopters, bomb-sniffing dogs, dozens of MBTA policemen who milled about with their game faces on (when not a single MBTA cop is humming the A-Team theme song under his breath… it’s serious). The trains were being searched while repeated announcements forbade people from standing on the platforms before the boarding call. I was exhilirated! Terror-ifed! What in the world is happening in Boston?

Turns out it was a promotion-gone-awry for Aqua Teen Hunger Force, one of the Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim shows. Heh. Homeland Security, protecting us from Master Shake, Frylock and Meatwad.

School Nuding

Say what you will about the high school student in Ohio who slathered his naked body with grapeseed oil and then lasciviously terrorized the cafeteria, “screaming and flailing his arms until police twice used a stun gun on him.” Yes, he may have traumatized some virgins, but it’s so refreshing to see a school rampage that doesn’t involve weaponry and trenchcoats – so innocent, like a Porkys prank from the 1950s. I hope to see more boys expending testosterone like this greasy, naked young man.

Getting the Raw Prawn

The previous story almost qualified as headline of the day, until I read “Aussies to drink purified sewage.” With much of Australia in the grips of a severe drought, the state of Queensland will soon introduce “recycled, purified water” into the drinking supply, and the rest of Australia may soon follow suit. Though water planners swear the quality will be meticulously maintained, many Australians are understandably leery about drinking water that was once liquid (or semi-liquid) household and industry waste. Australia, if you’re okay drinking XXXX Beer (it’s called XXXX because you can’t put ‘shit’ on a beer label), then sewage should be quite refreshing.

Try to Run, Try to Hide

Unable to ignore increasingly freakish weather patterns, Americans are developing a consciousness about global warming, same as how an earthly appearance of Jesus Christ would pack churches and return the clergy to their former vaulted status. Who can we believe in during these unseasonably warm and hurricane-plagued hours? Must we resort to the dark art of science and its shadowy practioners, scientists?

This week, Congressional hearings are being held over the Bush Administration’s interference with the research of climate scientists at agencies such as NASA and the EPA. Out of 1600 scientists surveyed, 43% reported that their scientific work had been “revised in ways that altered the meaning of scientific findings,” while 38% had “direct knowledge of cases where scientific information on climate was stripped from websites and printed reports.”

Who knows the pervasiveness of this conspiracy? They could have known and actively censored global warming evidence for decades. The organization Global Cool, which works with rock stars to raise awareness about global warming, announced that they have uncovered a “secret poem” that was recorded by legend Jim Morrison shortly before his death that “seems so relevant to the environmental challenge we face”. The poem, called Woman in the Window, features the chorus “Just try to stop us, we’re going to love” – a shocking prophesy of the denial of carbon emissions and, um, our will to defiantly love. Take that, Bush! Cause you can suppress 1,600 government-funded scientists, but the Lizard King will not be silenced.

Posted in In the News.

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English to French to English

I vaguely mentioned to a friend in an email that I was working with translations of my work. She inquired, translations of personal writing or work-related writing? It is work-related, alas (French and German user manuals) but then I wondered what this website would be like in another language. Since the chances of me learning another language while living in the US remain slim, there’s only one way to experience me in French: If I run text from this website through Google Translate (English to French), then run it back through (French to English)… well, hours of amusement:

My preferred phonetic weakness was a report/ratio about the services disease of the laughter, called the “crawfish is better medicine.”

Ok, I am a short and large housewife inhabitant in Sprawlfuck, America.

Americans, you do not want to be degraded. Thus come with the toric thrusts from Dunkin, where you can proudly speak American when you order your Dunkaccino.

Horses can still be sold with the factory of adhesive by pigs called Napoleon or with humanity killed in the slaughter-houses, but the carcass resulting from horse cannot by not attacked at the time by the exotic meat fanatics in Europe and Japan.

When I recently saw several planners of meal of thanksgiving that the Brussels sprouts include instead of French beans, I knew that Brussels sprouts were carried in balance to become next the vegetarians the last cry. Enough soon, everywhere you look at… cabbages of Brussels.

As a resistant user of MS Word which works in the hundred-paginated documents filled out of graphs, of the correspondences, the models of gauge, markers of index, and all other small bells and whistles which makes Word approximately as effective as Chevy Tahoe…

Howl of Bob right or to not never move decree. When it is assembled on its bicycle, it was to carry out us by the exercises which made it take part saying to us to turn the button of tension towards high, to the top of, to the top of and “Push! Pushed! Pushed!” It was observed much in the mirrors. When it is descended to dance, it would weave by the lines of the bicycles and the howl. Just… howl.

Posted in Miscellany.

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The Three Unwritten Laws of Pedestrian Mobility

Dear Lady in Burberry Scarf on P508 Express Train:

Humans are ruled by sequences of overlapping laws issued from institutions and authorities, such as governments, religions, community associations, employers, and parental guardians. These laws and the consequences of violations are explicitly spelled out: Kill another human, go to jail and hell. Sexually harass a co-worker, get fired and fined. Don’t help Dad clean the garage, lose allowance and incur the wrath of God.

But not all laws are written down. Society operates on a system of universal etiquettes so we don’t devolve into feces-throwing, hedonistic barbarians who enfringe on the personal liberties or comforts of our fellow man. What stops us from noisily farting in public, picking our noses and eating it, screaming into cell phones? Why do we wait in lines, cover our mouths when we sneeze, hold doors open for others, say “excuse me” and “thank you”? Because life is just nicer.

You, lady in Burberry Scarf on P508 Express Train, appear to have a firm grasp on most unwritten laws. You appear to have a job, since I see you everyday and I wouldn’t even notice you because you seem perfectly normal… except for your brazen disregard of the Laws of Pedestrian Mobility. But I can excuse you, because they’re unwritten laws, things that most of us just intuitively know and abide by. You have gone through life without getting the memo. Allow me:

Law 1: Mobility, not Motility. Motility refers to a spontaneous or random movement. Think of children playing ‘tag’… the trajectory of a plastic bag caught in the wind… the sinuosity of a drunk man’s stagger. Mobility is more predictable. Planes, cars, boats, bikes, space ships, even pedestrians all heed logic in order to ensure safety and efficiency. For example, if you are walking down a train aisle, the people behind you cannot anticipate that you will, for no apparent reason, turn around and walk into them. And they cannot yield, even if you push. Similarly, if you are walking on a crowded, narrow train platform, frantic weaving between other moving people in a ridiculous effort to hasten your journey is discouraged.

Law 2: Recognize informal queues. Generally, when a random group of people are waiting to fulfill a mobility transition, the person who is closest goes first. For example, when a train stops on a platform, the person who happens to be standing in front of the door boards the train first, followed by people who are close by. Rarely is it acceptable to squeeze through a gathered crowd to physically assert your desire to board the train. To not recognize informal queues is an endorsement of chaos.

Law 3: Merge like a zipper. When two lines of pedestrians are merging in the same direction, the “zipper” method should be employed. The pedestrians move forward one-by-one, alternating from each direction so it is always understood whose “turn” it is to proceed forward. When you don’t merge like a zipper, it hits a snag, resulting in collisions and confusion.

Three little laws, so engrained in common sense that it seems ridiculous that I actually wrote them down for you. That’s why they’re unwritten laws, dig?

Sincerely,

Pushed, Shoved, and Snagged

Posted in Existence.

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Wish Upon a Bone

Plucked from the bird’s breast,
Ready when its dried.
Seized in a wishing contest,
Steady as its pried –

And a pull, push! Twist,
SNAP. The divide of bone
Grants the winner’s wish
(if remained unknown.)

–poem by MSG, photo by Mr. Pinault

Posted in Culture.

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Movie Review: Notes on a Scandal

Notes on Notes on a Scandal: Ah! a diarist. I am inclined to instantly like those who share my proclivity to use the written word as a means of reflection. Indeed, narrator Barbara (Judi Dench) seems, at first, one of my brethren: Hard, cynical, disdainful of the “proles” that she lives among but acutely distances herself from. Yet she needs them, not for human companionship, but as fodder to fill the pages of her notebooks.

And oh, the material that Barbara culls from the new art teacher named Sheba (Cate Blanchett). Finally, a colleague who lives up to Barbara’s standards, a “kindred spirit,” even though Sheba is the opposite of Barbara: Young, beautiful, optimistic, kind, and married with children. The stage is set. Enter, the scandal…

Who doesn’t love a good scandal! Certainly Barbara isn’t complaining when she discovers Sheba’s secret. She knowingly blackmails Sheba into becoming a close friend, but seems to forget her own power as Sheba acquiesces to her overtures. And then, delusions. Psychological warfare. Lies. “Don’t you know it’s terribly rude to read someone’s diary?” Oh, yes, I love a good scandal.

Posted in Review.

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