Skip to content

Crappy Halloween

The genesis of this article about a family struggling with the anger and devastation wrought by pumpkin thieves, probably began when the ever-vigilant reporter spotted the admonishing handwritten sign on their lawn – To whoever stole my kid’s pumpkins! Thanks for ruining his Halloween you jerk! He grew them himself!.

“Hmm… my journalist instincts tell me there’s a story behind this,” the reporter thought as he reached for his cell phone to alert the news desk at the Press and Sun-Bulletin of Greater Binghamton, NY.

A total of eight pumpkins, grown by 10-year old Dylan on his grandmother’s farm, were stolen from the front porch, and neighbors reported seeing “remains” further done the street. The police sheriff seems nonplussed, saying “you think it’s safe on your porch — it’s not.” The family, who “loves pumpkin seeds,” obviously needed some way to vent their rage… so the sign went up. “I wanted the people who did it to know that I was ticked,” said the father. The sign might make the family feel better, but it will probably make the criminals feel even better. Because petty mischief is only truly rewarding when it senselessly hurts someone’s feelings.

Every year, the backlash against Halloween mischief increases. Being scared on Halloween is sort of the point, but we’d rather be scared of witches and ghosts then be forced to confront our real demons: American teenagers. Many towns impose a curfew on teenagers, and some urge merchants to “refuse sale of such items as shaving cream and eggs to minors.” Would-be vandals are warned that they will be prosecuted “to the fullest extent of the law”. In Texas, pet owners are encouraged to keep their animals, especially black cats, indoors in order to thwart that seasonal urge to inflict animal cruelty.

The public panic and efforts to sterilize our funnest holiday are scary enough, but no phenomenon sounds Halloween’s death knell like “malloweens,” when flourescent-lit shopping centers in sprawled communities hand out candy to trick-or-treaters and entice their parents to shop. Sounds really spooky.

Posted in Americana, In the News.

Tagged with , .

Comments Off on Crappy Halloween

By Meredith – October 27, 2006

Apple Soused

My household has changed since we brought home roughly 1/4 of a bushel of apples last Sunday. Most notably, it smells like there’s 10 pounds of apples slowly fermenting in the drafty conditions of their indoor environs. They sit in a bag on the dining room table, taunting us with their impelling need to be consumed. The sheer abundance has led me to do crazy things, like almost add a few to Monday night’s soup of leftovers, and interrogate poor Mr. P daily about his apple consumption. “You forgot? I ate two apples today, and two yesterday. You better start pitching in. mister. My intestinal tract can’t handle this by myself.”

Making matters worse, we picked what appears to be kinda lousy apples. Some weren’t ripe, some are mealy or tart, others are riddled with disease and scars. What looked and tasted okay in the orchard is suddenly unappealing when there’s yummy, flawless supermarket grapes and pears in the refrigerator.

There are a few gems. As always, the late-season Cortlands are my favorite: A yielding but firm texture, not too sweet, not too tart. And this year, we got a real surprise with the pink-fleshed, yellow-skinned beauty pictured to the right, which is sweet and crisp as a Hershey’s Crackle bar. Research leads me to suspect it’s actually called a Surprise apple, although the orchard didn’t list these on their map. Why aren’t there more of these? What an effective tool for parents trying to push apples over all the faux-colored snack foods.

As my enthusiasm for eating raw apples wanes, I’m strategizing usage for the remaining 7 pounds or so. Last year we made pies, but pies don’t use that many apples. So we’ll probably throw them all in the juicer. Because one apple a day might keep the doctor away, but two apples a day is making me ill.

surprise

Posted in Culture.

Tagged with .

Comments Off on Apple Soused

By Meredith – October 26, 2006

Careless Love

The Ancient Greek language has been dead for 2500 years, which is a good thing. With its highly inflective morphology and complex diacritics, it was a bitch of a way to communicate. I know nothing specific about Ancient Greek, except this: There are four words for “love.” Eros (passionate love), Philia (platonic love), Storge (family love), and Agape (charitable or philosophical love, like loving your fellow man). 

English, a language of relative imprecision, defines Love as profound affection for another person, with qualifiers or context denoting its specific meaning. In colloquial usage, people use love to express an exuberant feeling for a person, place or thing. The Greeks recognized that love for your mother was different from love for Zeus, or love for your lover, or love for the olives and figs that sustain your existence. We use one word to articulate everything from love for another human that is life-affirming and unquestionably mutual to love for a person, place, or thing that is totally oblivious to your existence and would endure with or without your individual devotion. It is not enough to like or enjoy, and it is weird to adore or relish, so we love everything. 

What do I love? I love my family. I love my friends. I love my high school enrichment teacher. I love my spinning instructor. I love the woman who works at Au Bon Pain who giggles after everything she says. I love David Lynch’s movies. I love Wallace Stevens’ poetry. I love Calvin Trillan’s writing. I love Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. I love Carmen McRae’s voice. I love hot tubs. I love when I finish a jog and could do more, but I don’t. I love finding a book in the library that I was going to buy. I love having my hair washed at the salon. I love when long-lost friends find me on MySpace. I love Willem Dafoe, Tom Brady, Tom Waits, Christian Bale, and Richard Dawson (original host of The Family Feud and villain in Schwarzenegger’s The Running Man, where he shouts “Who loves you, and who do you love?” You, Richard Dawson.) I love coffee, cheese, bread, tomatoes, chocolate, mustard, vanilla cake, and cold sparkling water. I love walking fast on a cold, sunny day. I love eating a big meal after a solid day of hiking or skiing. I love cardigans and tight black pants. I love remembering to use my CVS ExtraCare coupons. I love watching skinny bike messengers on skinnier bikes weave through downtown traffic, free as doves. I love when the Walk signal comes on right as I approach, and I can cross the street without pausing. I love the New Hampshire mountains and the New Jersey shore. I love waking up in a tent after a good night’s sleep. I love when I’m in a car and “Slow Ride” comes on the radio. 

Love: An empty, imprecise word, over-used when it is not accurate, and underused when it is accurate. What do I really love? I love any person or animal who has brought me durable happiness on purpose. The end.

Posted in Existence.

Tagged with , .

Comments Off on Careless Love

By Meredith – October 25, 2006

In the News

Political Stratagem

Vice President Dick Cheney announced on a talk-show that Hillary Clinton could win the presidency, calling her a “formidable candidate” who should not be underestimated. I’ll never agree with anything that comes out of that man’s mouth. Either he’s deeply out of touch with America, or using reverse psychology to stoke the Democrat’s confidence in a candidate with a snowball’s chance of winning, or trying to galvanize Republican voters to stay with the G.O.P. lest his bleak prophecy come to fruit.

Cheney went on to assert that he would not run for President. “It’s firm, final, fixed, irrevocable… If nominated, I will not run; if elected, I will not serve.” You can believe him, too. He was elected Vice President and, as far anyone knows, hasn’t served a single day.

The Six-Pack Diet

Sanitary piping at sorority houses are in universal duress as a new study reveals that the average college freshman gains anywhere from 3.6 to 7.8 pounds. Binge drinking, unhealthy food choices, and a drop in physical activity are cited as probable causes.

I actually lost about 10 pounds during my first year at college. UMass is practically a fat camp. The dining hall food toed the line of inedible, the vast campus was served by a lousy shuttle service, and late-night snacking was accompanied by alcohol-induced vomiting and subsequent early-morning nausea that staved off the urge to eat breakfast. That’s my diet advice, kids: Always drink until you puke.

Mating Calls, Cries

Studies have found two more activities that may lower a man’s sperm count: Taking antidepressants like Prozac and talking on mobile phones for prolonged periods of time.

Maybe this explains why men who chatter constantly on their cells are such a turn off: They have a 40% less chance of being able to impregnate me. And while every woman loves a man who can cry, we generally avoid men who cry repeatedly, and for no reason. I don’t wish infertility on any human, but it’s amazing at how natural selection has synced with our doped-up and wireless modern world.

Iceland Goes Ahab

Iceland has broke a 20-year International Whaling Commission ban on commercial whaling by killing an endangered fin whale. Finally, a chance to try that recipe for whale mincemeat pie!

Countries as seemingly as advanced as Iceland, Norway, and Japan justify the senseless slaughter of these intelligent, sentient beings by asserting that commercial whaling is essential to their economy and a part of their heritage. But by that logic, America should be allowed to reinstitute the enslavement of African-Americans. Slavery is excellent for the economy (those migrant worker salaries are back-breaking), and it’s apart of our illustrious heritage.

Posted in In the News.

Tagged with , , .

Comments Off on In the News

By Meredith – October 23, 2006

Don’t Vote for Rich Tarrant: That Mother Laid Me Off

While driving through Vermont, I saw dozens of yard signs for Rich Tarrant, the Republican challenger for the US Senate seat that will be vacated by famed Independent Jim Jeffords. Rich Tarrant… why does that name sound familiar? I wondered, figuring it bore resemblance to most politicians’ names, with a solid-citizen resonance and WASP-y twang.

Then, in a hotel room, we watched a televised debate of the Vermont senatorial candidates, which wasn’t much of a debate because Tarrant’s main competition, Rep. Bernie Sanders, didn’t show – perhaps wrapped up in his present obligation of serving in the House of Representatives. Tarrant scored a crowd-pleasing zinger during his opening remarks (I’d like to thank every one for coming out today, especially my opponent) and immediately established himself as an asshole.

Why does he look so familiar? I wondered. Of course, he looks like what I’d conjure a Vermont Republican to look like: A mane of well-groomed gray hair, fit and trim with an air of ruggedness, and a constipated, forced smile. As he humbly asserted his qualifications, I tuned him out until I heard “I founded the largest public company in Vermont in 1969…”

“Hey, I worked for the largest public company in Vermont!” I said aloud, and the realization of why Rich Tarrant seemed familiar suddenly dawned: He was the founder and chairman of the board for IDX Systems Corp, a Burlington, VT-based health care technology company that I worked for briefly and laid me off right after 9/11. The lay-off process was prolonged over a two week period and crammed with information sessions, job placement assistance, and cloying sympathy, as if “We’ve dropped you, but we want you to land on your feet!” (I much preferred the quick tear-off-a-bandaid method employed by my first company, which gave me an hour to clean out my desk before escorting me out with a taxi voucher.)

The lay-offs at IDX were a smart business decision. Four years later, IDX was bought by General Electric for $1.2 billion, giving Richie-Rich Tarrant plenty of free time to pursue other activities, like… run for the Senate!

Since that mother laid me off, I admit bias when asking Vermonters not to vote for Rich Tarrant, so here are a few facts: He gives money to Bush, he’s a social conservative, he has no political experience, and he’s been involved in several corporate scandals. But most damning, Rich Tarrant is another rich businessman spending his way into politics, further fudging the line between “politician” and “lobbyist” and trumpeting that apocryphal mantra, “Government should be run like a business!” Careful, Vermont. Rich Tarrant just might lay you off, too.

Posted in In the News, The 9 to 5.

Tagged with .

Comments Off on Don’t Vote for Rich Tarrant: That Mother Laid Me Off

By Meredith – October 22, 2006

Commuters Say the Damnedest Things

Woman on cell phone: “Hi it’s me, I’m on the train… No, we’ll order pizza… No, I want pizza… No, pizza tonight… I want pizza… I don’t care… No… No… We’ll discuss this at home. Over pizza. Bye.”

Young Indian-American girl to father, on platform: “Daddy, I want a yellow shirt, and a yellow bag, and yellow hair.”
Indian father: “Ha ha ha. Yellow hair? Ha ha ha. That would look really bad.”

Man on cell phone: “Keith, it’s Dad. Are you there? Keith, please pick up. Keith, pick up the phone. If you’re still sleeping I’m going to be really mad. Keith? Keith! [loudly] Keith, wake up! WAKE UP. Wake up NOW. KEITH.[sighs] Well, give me a call when you get this. Love you, bye.”

Woman commuter to train friend: “I think I’m the only person in the world still on the Atkins diet.”
Friend: “You look great!”
Atkins woman: “Thanks. I know about 50 ways to cook eggs.”
Friend: “Wow. Like, how?”
Atkins woman: “Oh, omelette, fried, scrambled, frittata… I make this quiche, only instead of crust, I use sausage patties.”
Friend: “Wow. That’s really… resourceful.”

Regular commuter to fare-collecting conductor: “How ya doing today?”
Old, fat, townie conductor: “To be honest, my abs are killing me. I’ve been doing these crunches, and it just rips me open.”

Posted in Massachusetts.

Tagged with , .

Comments Off on Commuters Say the Damnedest Things

By Meredith – October 20, 2006

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!

Posted in In the News.

Tagged with .

Comments Off on Muslims in Space

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.)

Posted in In the News.

Tagged with , .

Comments Off on The ‘Stop the Proliferation of Nuclear Weaponry’ Shell Game

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.


Posted in Trips.

Tagged with .

Comments Off on Cheddar!

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.


Posted in 4000 Footers, Trips.

Tagged with .

Comments Off on Mt. Jackson, Mt. Webster: Conquered

By Meredith – October 17, 2006