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Muslims in Space

“Dream! Dream Big! Dream the impossible! And make it come true…” – Anousheh Ansari

“Astronaut” seemed a feasible career path in the early 80’s. The Cold War was stoking an American passion for out-doing the Soviets, the movie SpaceCamp was ‘blasting off’ at the box office, and straight-faced teachers told children that we all had the potential to be astronauts. It was the ideal career with which to encourage youthful ambition – sort of like being a fireman, only less provincial. And what child wouldn’t get excited by the idea of blasting into space to float around in zero gravity, play with Slinkies, and drink Tang? But after the Challenger disaster, a teacher would sooner say “Who wants to die in a fiery explosion in front of the whole world?” than promote being an astronaut.

Personally, I’ve never dreamed of being an astronaut. My grandiose dreams involved less science: Fashion model, Olympic track and field star, Showcase Showdown winner on The Price is Right, wife of George Michael. As I grew older and lazier, I settled on a life of attainable goals and quiet desperation.

When I first heard about space tourism, I felt contemptuous of rich people buying a one-week space vacation for $20 million. How unfair to the people who legitimately pursue their dream of being an astronaut, and wind up spending their whole careers waiting for a chance that will probably never happen. I laughed sardonically at the shambles of Russia’s space program, that they needed to shuttle rich people as cargo to fund missions, and I also feared NASA may take a similar route and risk hampering scienitific pursuit so any rich putz (frigging Lance Bass?) can enjoy mind-blowing awe and unmatchable bragging rights.

I changed my mind about space tourism when I read about Anousheh Ansari, a 40-year-old Iranian-born business executive who returned from an 11-day journey to the International Space Station last month. Anasari is not only the first woman space tourist, she is also the first Iranian ever to be in space, and the first female Muslim. With so many “firsts” venturing to the final frontier, I did not think of this precendent until I read an article on how Ansari’s journey was covered positively in her native Iran by the press, and followed enthusiastically by many women. Said one Iranian feminist journalist, “I had never seen so much enthusiasm for an Iranian woman. Young girls talked about their dreams, and it was like their own dreams had come true.” Had Ansari not paid for her voyage, how long before a female Muslim goes to space?

Even if Ansari didn’t take the traditional route to the space station, her achievement is exciting young people about space exploration. And if humans are to fulfill the prophecies of Isaac Asimov, we need to stop sending scientists to test the effect of weightlessness on mold and how mice respond to aspirin, and start sending rich, photogenic people from all over the globe. Take of those veils, ladies, and slip on a pressurized space helmet!

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By Meredith – October 20, 2006

The ‘Stop the Proliferation of Nuclear Weaponry’ Shell Game

I get the feeling GW Bush doesn’t like games, not because he’s a straight-shootin’ Texan with a country to run, but because he seems easy to trick, to catch off-guard, to mercilessly swindle. He’s the kid who would draw the raised card from another player’s hand, or confidently hunker down to play Tic-Tac-Toe and get beaten with 3 O’s in the corners – the oldest trick in the book, or scatter his Monopoly real estate holdings all over the board. 

But GW Bush ran his Administration like a game. He assembled a team of all his friends instead of the strongest players. He trash-talked, menaced the referees, played to the crowd, cheated. 

And he played poorly, particularly the Stop the Proliferation of Nuclear Weaponry shell game. There’s three shells: Iraq, Iran, North Korea. Indeed, it’s an Axis of Evil Shells. Which shell has that nuclear stuff? 

George didn’t hesistate: He picked the Iraq shell. It was, after all, the easiest shell to lift, having been cracked by his daddy a decade prior. And it smelled like oil. Unfortunately, the shell only contained a crazed despot presiding over a country already riddled with internal strife. George peered incredulously at the mess he created by upending the Iraq shell, dumbfounded, then claimed he wasn’t really playing the Stop the Proliferation of Nuclear Weaponry shell game, we were playing the Spread Democracy to All of God’s Children game. 

Meanwhile, the Iran and North Korea shells became fearful that they would be the next shells overturned, and they flaunted nuclear ambitions to protect themselves. They didn’t need to worry though, because the Iraq shell exploded in Bush’s hand. He can no sooner pick another shell to invert than he can recruit a global coalition of a million strong to pick his nose. You lose! 

(I have just learned that GW Bush does, in fact, like Tee Ball.)

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By Meredith – October 19, 2006

Cheddar!

On Saturday, as we ventured north to Montreal, we stopped at Shelburne Farms in VT, a working farm on Lake Champlain that was started by some Vanderbilt in 1886 as a “model agricultural estate,” and now espouses conservation, sustainability, education, and razor-sharp cheddar.

The Vermont Cheese Council maintains a directory of cheese-makers that are open to the public and a handy “cheese map.” With public enthusiasm for Vermont diary primed by Ben and Jerry’s, Stonyfield Farms, and Cabot, it’s only natural that cheddar gets its fair share of tourist marketing. Vermont cheddar is America’s best contribution to the global cheese cache. I mean, there’s no competition. Colby? Monterey Jack? Muenster? American? None approaches the complexity of cheddar’s vaguely sweet, bacterial flavors.

Shelburne Farms seemed inviting to visit during a longish road trip. It has over 4.5 miles of walking trails through the property, as well as animals, gardens, a bakery, and an opportunity to view the cheese-making. This held particular interest after visiting a Beaufort cheese farm in the French Alps last year, where our tour group got to mingle in the barn before heading into the kitchen to witness the cheese production while eating, drinking, getting sprayed with distilled milk whey, and petting the dogs. Perhaps it’s that nonchalance about hygiene that gives Beaufort its pungent yumminess.

As one would expect from America, Shelburne Farms had more exacting sanitation standards, and glass kept us from sticking our dirty, farmyard hands into the shiny, modern separation vat. Too bad. Less bacteria for the cheese.

Still, Shelburne Farms produces raw milk cheddar, a rarity for a bigger producer, and it was tasty enough to enjoy for lunch with a baguette. After waiting in vain for some cheese action in the kitchen, we paid a quick visit to Lake Champlain then headed to Montreal. It’s a good thing we had our fill of cheese, because we went for dinner with friends to an Armenian restaurant. And Armenia has lots of piquant food, but cheese is not one of them.


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By Meredith – October 18, 2006

Mt. Jackson, Mt. Webster: Conquered

When I’m walking up a mountain, my body and mind are disconnected. Body progresses automatically over the trail’s rocks and roots, while mind mulls over randomness: New ways to cook squash, plots to Kurt Vonnegut novels, gifts I need to buy, if I’ve seen more than one movie with Angelina Jolie (incredibly, only Girl Interrupted). But invariably, after trudging steeply uphill for three hours, or hauling myself up endless slabs of granite, or hopping fearfully on rocks through mud and water, all my mind is concerned with is two things: 1- These ruggedized sneakers just aren’t cutting it, I’m really going to buy hiking boots, and 2-Why am I doing this?

I reach the summit and take in the view. Being on top of a mountain is an undeniable thrill. Even if there’s 0 visibility or an obscured view, the air’s scant-oxygen freshness is intoxicating. And as my body recovers and my mind forgets all about its recent agony, it thinks again: Why am I doing this? Why is hiking pleasurable? Why is this view magnificent?

Venturing into nature for no particular reason wouldn’t seem a logical compulsion for any human. Perhaps it’s an evolutionary relic from our hunter-gatherer days, when meandering through the woods would be a good urge. Or it’s more molecular; we are simply hard-wired to roam.

Or hikers are simply conquering modern-day malaise by seeking mini-adventures. Many hikers, myself included, have a “peak-bagging” mentality. I’m slowly ticking off summits from the Four-Thousand-Footers in the White Mountains I’ve done 5 out of 48. I toy with the idea of making a concerted effort to join the 4000 Footer Club and do all 48. It’s a distinction with well-deserved bragging rights.

43 to go. At this rate, I’ll be tramping up mountains when I’m 60, my mind wondering, why am I still doing this?

Actually, putting another feather in my 4000 Footer cap was probably the least interesting thing I did on my vacation, but it’s certainly the most photographed.


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By Meredith – October 17, 2006

One More Cup of Coffee Before I Go

I’ll sleep when I’m dead! is my all-time favorite quote about coffee. Some other goodies, culled from The Devil’s Cup by Stewart Lee Allen.

Coffee should be black as Hell, strong as Death and sweet as love. -Turkish Proverb

One need only compare the violent coffee-drinking societies of the West to the peace-loving tea drinker of the Orient to realize the pernicious and malignant effect that bitter brew has upon the human soul. -Hindu dietary tract

In a coffee house just now among the rabble I bluntly asked, which is the treason table.-Malone, 1618

I have tried to show the cafe as a place where one can go mad.-Vincent Van Gogh

What do you call a large, low-fat latte made with decaf espresso? A tall-skinny-why bother.-Grafitti in Brooklyn Cafe

Sleep? Isn’t that some inadequate substitute for caffeine?-Random Internet Message Board

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By Meredith – October 12, 2006

Fall Fruition

I know that posting pictures three times in one week may give the impression that this website is veering from verbal to visual, but it was a *quintessential* New England fall weekend, and pictures are all I have to show for it. (To stay inside and write would be indicative of a diseased mind, not to mention very rude to my father, step-mother, and sister, who drove up from Pennsylvania to visit.)

The wind was Canadian, with an appeasing sun that highlighted the effulgent foliage as it peaked like a boiling tea kettle. There were pumpkins to carve, apples to pick, leaves to crush under feet and bicycles, and other seasonal delights of Autumn to enjoy as Winter sighs her nippy breath on our necks.



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By Meredith – October 12, 2006

Mariah Carey’s Fan Mail

I’ve never written a celebrity fan letter. Anyone who would move me to write one is dead. Plus, it’s degrading. Celebrity fan letters are essentially a one-sided conversation, so the writer must attempt to elicit a response with pitiful fawning.

Mariah Carey gets the best fan mail because she appeals an array of people. A while back the Smoking Gun published a dozen of the 2000 pieces of fan mail found in a Manhattan trash bin (calling into question Mariah’s oft-bleated devotion to her fans and her scrapbooks of their pictures.) But I actually can’t blame Mariah for wanting these missives to be as far away as possible. Everyone wants something from her: A poster, an autograph, advice… to get into her mind, her soul, her pants…

From a guy who says her voice hitting that trademark high note gives him a “boner”: I’m very interested in what Nationality you are. I don’t have a clue? I’ve heard that you were Mexican. Puetorican, and even Black. I think you are part goddess myself… I’d appreciate a nice poster of you with your signature on it. I just can’t find any posters of you, anywhere

From a prisoner named Ralphie: Mabe if you want you could be my pen-pal. I could use a friend. I’m here cause of coke, but I’m learning to be a mason. I also go to NA and AA and Bible Study and GED classes.

From “a very handsome, intelligent, white gentlemen”: “I wanted to drop you a line and request a sexy photograph from you to put in my office. I’m one of those Wall St. rogues you’ve read about who takes over companies and is a maverick entrepeneur.”

From a female prisoner, who wants “Mirha” to be her “Dear Abby for a Day”: I have this girl that I broke up with and she’s on drugs… What should I do plaese help me help her before it’s to late

From a man who “uses” a lot of “quotation” “marks”: “Bravo, Mariah, Bravo!!!”

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By Meredith – October 11, 2006

Fan Mail

Normally , the emails I get from strangers who read my site are intelligently written, engaging, and very welcome. But today:

Hi I sent you a friend request in MySpace so you can check out my pics. Your site is really sweet. I love your new glasses. I alway like women who have lotsto say. Hope you will hace something to say to me soon. Did you like that robot you saw? I like music and football too.

My name is Jack H____ and I live in A____, Ohio. I’m 38, SWM, 5’11”, 180, brown hair/eyes, NS, DD free, and financially stable. I like movies, going out to eat, dogs, children, and golf. I’m looking for someone who is ready to settle down. A sense of humor and a willingness to be together is a must. Please email me and we’ll see what happens! (Stranger things have happened.)

As you can see, Jack foiled this site’s secret agenda: To snag a man. Yep, it’s all one big personal ad. If you’re looking for a obsessive lady who can’t let a day go by without composing lengthy blog posts… court me! (“A willingness to be together is a must”… duh).

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By Meredith – October 11, 2006

Prada Peepers

My first pair of glasses changed the course of my life. They were garishly big, oval white plastic frames with owlish flares at the hinges. Their necessity coincided with the beginning of middle school, sealing my caste as a nerd. Nerddom caused teasing from bullies, an urgency to excel in my classes, and countless nights at home with my stereo and a book. This ultimately lead to rebellion against suburban norms and eventual treat to Massachusetts. Maybe I should thank my first pair of glasses, but I can’t help resenting them.

So like an archetypical dork, I’m chortling over the irony that the most fashionable thing about me are my new Prada prescription eyeglasses. In fact, when I want to look good, I don’t reach for my contact lenses. I go with the Prada corrective eye wear.

I didn’t plan on getting designer frames. When Mr. Pinault and I went to Lenscrafters (so romantic… bespectacled fools in love), out of habit I headed to the cheap racks of bland, functional frames. They were crowded with disgusted teenagers and their mothers, who thought everything under $120 looked “fine.”

Then I had a long-overdue epiphany: Nobody’s forcing me to look like a dork. I hastened to the Versace/ Dolce and Gabanna/Prada racks, where posters of Giselle and Heidi Klum smiled at me, their spectacles conferring uncharacteristic warmth and intelligence. And as I slipped on crystal-colored Prada frames, I smiled back, feeling like this pair could also change the course of my life. Finally, I’ll be a cool kid.

glasses

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By Meredith – October 10, 2006

Foliage Fatigue

I always miss being in nature on a clear autumn day to witness the glorious, famed, unpredictable New England foliage when the intensity of color is at its all-important peak. So I’m emotionally prepared for another year of unsatisfying leaf peeping. It’s peaking north of Massachusetts this week, and next week, when I’m in Montreal/New Hampshire, it will be peaking here. I am officially divesting myself of giving a fig about foliage. But here’s a peek at this weekend’s pre-peak at the Ward Reservation in Andover. 



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By Meredith – October 9, 2006