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Spreading Christmas Fear

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

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By Meredith – December 21, 2006

Tales from the Rails

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

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

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

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

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By Meredith – December 20, 2006

A Christmas Gift for the Ladies

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

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

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By Meredith – December 20, 2006

The mood at Gold’s Gym is black

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

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

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

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

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By Meredith – December 19, 2006

12 Minute Train Poetry

Ode to $10 Lip Gloss

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

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

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By Meredith – December 18, 2006

In the News: Holidays Cause Eating, Drinking

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

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

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

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By Meredith – December 18, 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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By Meredith – December 17, 2006

Movie Review: Inland Empire

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

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

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

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By Meredith – December 16, 2006

Remains of the Day

Feel Good Story of the Day

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

Prank of the Day

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

Wise Quote of the Day

“Wisdom is not a product of schooling but of the lifelong attempt to acquire it.” – Albert Einstein

Wilde Quote of the Day

“America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between.” – Oscar Wilde

Somber Quote of the Day

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

Commuter Rail Quote of the Day

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

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By Meredith – December 14, 2006

Mockin’ Around the Christmas Tree

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

I was surprised that the Pope demands the same earthly extravagances as shopping malls and downtown commercial districts, which use over-sized trees with a vast void under its branches to festively and subliminally remind us to engage in out-of-control consumer spending. It’s a startling blend of “religious” and “secular,” like a praying Santa figurine stuck in a nativity scene (presumably to present Baby Jesus with a TMX Elmo doll.)

Confusion over what’s holy and what’s heathen is growing increasingly divisive, as symbolized by the annual debate over “Christmas” vs. “Holiday” trees. Invariably, someone contends that the public display of trees endorses Christianity and belittles the existence of all other faiths, which forces Christians to galvanize in the “war against Christmas” by asserting their right as Christians living in one nation under God to do whatever they want, including worship their beloved tree.

But there are no Christmas trees in the Bible; the decorating of a tree was a pagan tradition, co-opted by early Christians who arbitrarily associated it with their most holy holiday. And now the Christmas tree is reverting to its pagan roots becoming an icon of our intolerance, proclivity for environmental destruction, and, above all, our insatiable greed. (Having thoroughly established the link between Christmas trees and Satan, I can safely get one without feeling bourgeois, or, even worse, Christian.)

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By Meredith – December 13, 2006