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Translating Fritalian

When the Carlyle Group purchased Dunkin Donuts last year for $2.4 billion, they set ambitious growth targets that could not be met by mere donut flavor innovation. Instead, DDs decided to revive their languishing image with an advertising campaign called “America Runs on Dunkin,” which is based on market research that shows consumers want to identify with their coffee cup. This cup of coffee, this is who I am.

In order to forge a unique identity, DDs brands themselves as the antithesis of their most notable rivals. A paper Starbucks cup says: I enjoy sitting idly in a comfortable couches, listening to jazz, and contemplating life’s infinite largess. A stryofoam Dunkin Donuts cup says: I’m a frazzled, on-the-go American in need of caffeine and sugar to fuel my toxic, stressed-out, sleepless lifestyle.

The “Fritalian” commercial draws the battle lines by taking a thinly-veiled swipe at the Euro-stylings of Starbucks. In the 30-second commercial, a group of normal-looking people stand in a coffee shop, staring at the menu with total befuddlement, singing “My mouth can’t form these words. My mind can’t find these words. Is it French or is it Italian? Perhaps Fritalian.”

Americans, Dunkin Donuts forgives you. You’ve been a loyal Dunkin Donuts customer for most of your adult life, but at one time or another, you put on lofty airs by frequenting a certain other coffee chain. And – admit it – you were way over your head.

There you were, the hard-working American consumer, already inundated with cryptic words like “WiFi,” “Nanotubes,” and “Hazbollah,” struggling to draw on your 3 years of high school foreign language to pronounce “venti” and “macchiato” so you won’t look like a total fuck-face in front of these hipsters with their prominent tip jars and those yuppie professionals who know all the “coffee ordering” ropes by virtue of their trust fund youths and European vacations.

Americans, you don’t want to be degraded. All you want is a cup of coffee to fuel your go-go lifestyle. So come to Dunkin Donuts, where you can proudly speak American when you order your Dunkaccino.

Posted in Americana.

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More Lasciviousness

Today on the train, I sat behind two mid-teenaged boys. For much of the trip, I could only see baseball caps and hear back-and-forth mumbles that averaged two words per utterance. Then one youth stood up to wrestle something out of his deep-pocketed jeans, and a cursory glance turned into a pensive gaze.

15 years ago, his cuteness would have unleashed a dizzying surge of boy-crazy hormones. His abundant mess of curly, shoulder-length hair would be enough to drive me wild, let alone his big brown eyes, strong youthful jaw, and a killer cleft in his hairless chin. The 15-year old Meredith would be beside herself.

Age does strange things to a woman, like make it impossible to feel even a twinge of physical attraction for any man who doesn’t have a college degree. I speculate that this does not happen to men, that comely teenaged girls are a constant captivation throughout their lives. But it’s a relief not to be beholden to the charms of teenaged boys, because then I’d have to compete with teenaged girls. And I couldn’t do that even when I was a teenaged girl.

Posted in Existence.

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Indian Men Exposed

A survey found that men in India have difficulties using condoms that are sized for an international market because the condoms are too big. The survey could have stopped there and left the reader to make the obvious conclusion, but like a mother determined to discuss her teenaged son’s inseam measurements, relentlessly plowed on to scientifically prove that Indian men lack the penal girth to properly use the condoms that were designed for the world’s average man.

I first read about this on the BBC, of all places, which reported the story in its typically staid fashion: Indian men are smaller, measurements were taken, and if you think for a minute we’re being gleeful, we hasten to remind you that this inadequacy results in condom failure, which leads to AIDS and unplanned pregnancy, which is legitimate news that necessitates us making a public proclamation about India’s penis size.

Then, bizarrely, the story appeared on the local news – at 6pm! It was even used throughout the broadcast as a teaser: “Coming up next, why men in India have trouble using condoms.” Mr. Pinault and I howled fiendishly, imagining all our Indian neighbors hastily turning off the news so their families wouldn’t be forced to contemplate their patriarch’s shortcomings. But for non-Indian men, it was a feel good story, like being in an international locker room.

Posted in In the News.

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Arbored

Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps a singing bird will come.– Chinese proverb

At Weir River Farm in Hingham, a Sunday morning walk in 50-degree sunshine respited creeping Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), which I only claim to have because the acronym is catchy.

Posted in Massachusetts.

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Top 5 Hated Christmas Songs

5. Jingle Bells

As a rule, I love Christmas songs that glorify bells: “Carol of the Bells,” “Silver Bells,” “Sleigh Ride,” “Christmas in the Drunk Tank.” But thanks to those Jingle Dogs, all I hear are barks, not bells.

4. I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

It’s cute if you’re in on the joke, but if you’re not… man, what a mind-fuck.

3. Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer

I have major philosophical problems with this one. The song is a self-fulfilling prophesy; the only reason Rudolph goes down in history is because we keep singing this song. The whole Rudolph myth sprung from crass commercialism, with no basis in tradition, logic, or science.

2. Holly Jolly Christmas

Something about the phrase “holly jolly” being sung repeatedly just grates my nerves. It tries too hard. It’s the musical version of that sweaty, red-faced guy at the Christmas party who is so determined to be merry that he gets shamelessly wasted.

1. Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer

If you’re eight years old and your Grandmas are still alive, this is the best Christmas song ever. It’s essentially a children’s song, with that hokey beat and novelty twang, sung by a guy named Elmo. Hysterically funny. But musical maturation inhibits the ability to rejoice over silly songs. The giggles have faded, and the inevitable listening of this song has become an annual dread that’s enough to make me go Jew.

Posted in Americana.

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Artichokes

…A leaf for everyone, a meal for no one…

Another month, another batch of my favorite search engine queries, which are increasingly persnickety, perhaps because my site would not rank in the top 50 million for any really popular queries that have entire industries devoted to garnering revenue-generating clicks (although, a tip for enterprising pervs: Judging by the plague of hits for porn involving Meredith Vieira, there is a market need going unsatisfied.)

The sophistication of the queries compelled me to break them down into categories. Some qualify for two or even three categories, like woman who find children’s entertainer ‘the great zucchini’ sexy, which is slightly all of the following: Interrogative, Smut, Celebrity, and Misspelled. I picked Smut by virtue of the subject’s moniker.

The last category, Perquisite, contains queries that don’t fit under any other category, but tickle my aesthetic sense, like a bonus for doing this website. More satisfying than money or recognition, it’s gratifying to know that the authors were here, on this website, if only long enough to think “Why, this has nothing to do with knitted toilet tissue covers!”

INTERROGATIVE

why do the jets disintegrate on my hot tub

places to eat in wisconsin dolls that ar highly expensive

what is the name of the girl in the royal caribbean cruise commercials that refuses to smile

is armani code for men the same as armani black code for men

is racism fueled by jealousy or fear

is there a connection with target stores and the french

what does the clean cover of ritual de lo habitual say

where is a poem about a boyfriend stealing your moms money

why rosie palm is better than girls

SMUT

umass sluts partying

sluts dressed in skirtsuits

x-rated pictures of men in kilts

redneck licking hoi

nude red headed males

gay hang outs in ventura california

spanked fat chicks

woman who find children’s entertainer ‘the great zucchini’ sexy

teens rape couth on tape

“mary lou’s coffee” hooters

CELEBRITIES

“emily post” holocaust interview

“hitler’s last meal”

mitt romeny boxers or briefs

chris farley’s unmade movie

email jokes about george bush the dumbo

bond casino royale daniel craig “blue eyes” “contact lenses”

piet mondrian stray

marietta fortune

olsen twin crackman

diagnosing matt damon in goodwill hunting

joakim noah’s religion

barry gibb denim shirt

QUOTATION

“eye mucus” idiom

“closet chubby chaser”

“lust for the gutter”

“women on top” “role reversal”

“stripping to my bra”

rape wedding crashers “gone with the wind”

“bend it like beckham” “orientalism”

older woman younger man “middle east”

“cambridge inspired me”

“coke zero” headache

MISSPELLED

puetorican god

hiring outside tiolets for weddings

pitchers of kegel exercises

becuise have you

see my nude stoking

PERQUISITE

ban deodorant loneliness

ban drinking ensure right before you eat make you gain weight

meth joke mini bake oven

meredith meeting clorox

subtle to violent ways to seek revenge

bale strapping hummer

knitted toilet tissue covers

priam retrieves hector’s body

nutrition for gyming

going to get an office job and make a lot of money like the rest of the phonies

her ass

Posted in Miscellany.

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Boxing Dead Horses

Sylvester Stallone is currently promoting the latest and promised-final installment of the classic cinematic series that started 30 years ago. Rocky Balboa should logically be called Rocky VI, but for artistic and/or marketing reasons, opts for a ring of distinction. Everyone loves saying “Balboa.” It’s just one of those fun words to pronounce, like “amoeba,” “languid,” and “cuspidor.”

Stallone appeared in the broadcaster’s booth on Monday Night Football in Philadelphia, shocking the world – or at least my household – with his bizarre appearance: That of an aging jock with face bruised by Botox. Yesterday, he hit a Boston boxing club with the promise that “there will be no more, because I can’t do no more”. No more? Please, no! It’s entertaining to watch Stallone continually desecrate the only good thing he’s ever done in order to star in a movie. Remember in Spaceballs, when a TV movie critic reviews Rocky 5000? Yeah, it could happen.

Next up: Rambo IV: Pearl of the Cobra, to be released in 2008. What, no John J. Rambo? What the hell is Pearl of the Cobra, and how will a 62 year old action hero compellingly deal with the situation?

Posted in Americana.

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Guising

I sat behind an all-male train klatch on the way home from work. The highlight of one man’s day: “After lunch, my boss dressed up like Keith Richards,” he said, his voice suppressing mirth as his jowls shook. “He had a wig, a guitar, a leather vest. He even pierced his ear to wear the earring.” 

“He pierced his ear?” An older man with an impeccable mustache frowned. “They have clip-on earrings. Lord.” But the other men laughed. “Nobody dressed up at my office,” another man said. “Except, well, we had a Sexy Witch at reception.” 

The other men chortled huskily. Who doesn’t love a nice piece of Halloween eye candy sauntering around the office in a black tube dress with Elvira-esque hemming, knee-high black leather boots, and a pointy black hat atop of a feathered nest of hair? Who doesn’t love Sexy Witch? 

I’ve read a few articles recently about the overt sexuality of adult women’s Halloween costumes. Many women see Halloween as a chance to get all whored up without fearing their own morality. Sexy Mrs. Santa, Sexy Referee, Sexy Snow White, Sexy Nurse, and the classic School Girl. 

In middle and high school, the popular girls were always Sexy Babies. They’d dress in flimsy pajamas and puffy slippers, put their hair in pigtails, clench a stuffed animal, and occasionally dangle a pacifier around their neck. Even though it wasn’t revealing, they were still walking around in pajamas, looking obscenely innocent and nubile. (I was Sexy Freak… but every day was Halloween for me). 

The popular boys always dressed up like women. I attributed this to latent transvestite tendencies until I saw a heavy metal documentary that explored why glam rock bands like Poison and Motley Crue dressed up like women to sing about their heterosexual prowess. “Dressing like a woman is the most macho thing you could do,” someone pointed out. Indeed, a boy with any doubts about his peer acceptance would never don a dress and heels. Only a cocksure young alpha male could flaunt his undisguised masculinity under a wig and heavy make-up. 

As for me this year, I went as a documentation coordinator (cue the chuckles). I sat at home with a bowl of micro-boxes of raisins, waiting for trick-or-treaters who never came. I can’t say I was surprised. Halloween in my neighborhood had grown quieter, more subdued.

But as I listened to the rumbling train and the chorus of chuckles, I felt a small pang of nostalgia for the absurdity and audacity of Halloween—the day when costumes become a canvas for revealing not just what we want to be, but what we believe we can get away with. And as I grabbed a box of raisins and popped a few in my mouth, I thought, Well, more treats for me.

Posted in Culture, Nostalgia.

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Red’s Dead

Red Auerbach, the greatest coach in NBA history who lead the Boston Celtics to win 16 championship over 30 years, has died at age 89. A person doesn’t achieve such success without having a fair amount of wisdom tucked in their brain. Here are some Red Auerbach quotes I particularly enjoy: 

“The only correct actions are those that demand no explanation and no apology.”

“He who believes in nobody knows that he himself is not to be trusted.” 

“Basketball is like war in that offensive weapons are developed first, and it always takes a while for the defense to catch up.”

“The commercial class has always mistrusted verbal brilliancy and wit, deeming such qualities, perhaps with some justice, frivolous and unprofitable.”

“To a father, when a child dies, the future dies; to a child when a parent dies, the past dies.”

“Just do what you do best.” 

Posted in In the News.

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Chemical Apple Pie

In searching for the proper oven temperature for baked apples, I ran across this recipe (here) for “Chemical Apple Pie (No Apple Apple Pie.)” The ingredients are typical of many apple-baking recipes, except instead of apples, there’s “25 buttery round crackers.” The description says “If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that there were really apples in it. This is an old chemistry lab experiment to teach the limits of human sense.” 

Often when pie-d (pie-ified?), apples become almost unrecognizable, so maybe the only thing such an experiment would prove is that pie eaters look for the taste of butter and sugar, not for the bedrock on which they are slathered. Still, I had an insane urge to make a Chemical Apple Pie – insane not only because it’s essentially a Cracker Pie, but also there’s still pounds of apples in the larder, and to not use apples would defeat the purpose of baking. Besides, though Chemical Apple Pie is a great name for rock band or a collegian literary magazine, it’s not a particularly appetizing appellation for breakfast.

Posted in Miscellany.

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