For the past several months I couldn’t find a book to read. Many false starts with historical non-fiction, flippant chick lit, and the Cambridge Public Library Staff Recommendations left me prone to reading myself to sleep with magazines, which can’t quite induce relaxation like a book. But finally, I found The Lost Upland by WS Merwin, a Pulitzer prize-winning poet who dabbles in unclassifiable autobiographic prose (I found it in the Travel section). Set in a small town in southwestern France where Merwin vacations, the book leisurely examines the natives and their proclivities in language so rich that I scarcely note the lack of a sustaining plot to keep me going. Instead, I dwell on passages like these:
“How lucky I am,” she sometimes said, “to live here and have that lovely building to look at.” A pause. “Instead of living over there and having to look at our house. Besides, there has been no one of interest living over there for at least three hundred years.”
Jogging this morning on the Cambridge side of the Charles River Path, looking at the splendid Boston skyline, I could totally relate.
Bausch & Lomb faces a class action lawsuit over its ReNu with MoistureLoc contact lens solution, which was yanked off store shelves last week amid reports that it contains Fusarium keratitis, which can lead to fungal infections that can cause blindness.
Last week I heard something about some problem with some contact lens solution, but felt reckless enough not to investigate nor determine my brand of solution (knowing only: it was the kind that was on sale the day that I bought it). Product recalls never affect me; they always involve tires, children, and frozen hamburger patties. But yesterday, I learned, indeed, I was using Renu with MoistureLoc and had two more unopened bottles, just waiting to attack my corneas! MoistureLoc eye baths, three times a day! Will the fungus achieve significant growth in time for the lawsuit? With $75,000 at stake, I certainly hope I’ll be seeing some green!
At www.renulawsuit.com, a website of Parker and Waichman, LLP (“Have you or a loved one been injured do to the use of B&L ReNu Contact Lend Solution?”), I learned that “The infection can be difficult to detect and diagnose. Symptoms may include blurred vision, pain or discomfort in the eyes, sensitivity to light, and eye mucus/discharge.” Wow, that sounds incredibly vague! I may have a shot at some class action without sustaining permanent ocular damage.
Today I received an urgent letter from the Democratic National Headquarters. I know it ‘s urgent, because next to Delivery Priority checkbox, “Urgent” is checked, not “Standard.” Get that, USPS? Urgent. Make haste with this missive! Enclosed is: A letter from California Congresswoman Nancy Pelosi; the 2006 New Directions Survey; and a handy postage-paid envelope in which to mail the survey along with a membership contribution to join the exclusive Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee (DCCC).
The letter from Nancy starts off: “Dear Friend, I know that Democrats like you are determined to win back the House in November.” Actually, Democrats like me are determined to finish our Christmas shopping in November. Because I’m not spending another December fighting the Holiday shopping crowds. “But restoring the Democratic majority is only the first step in undoing the damage inflicted by the Congressional Republicans. We must also present a visionary agenda that moves America into the future.” Haven’t we heard this before? Doesn’t every candidate at every election present a platform full of visions of the future? And doesn’t the future happen anyway… and America is always there?
“That’s why I have sent you this 2006 NEW DIRECTIONS SURVEY… Your responses will help us formulate an action agenda and shape the Democratic message to counter the Republican assault on America and the foundation of our democracy.” What? The esteemed Nancy Pelosi needs my input on America’s future? I’d rather leave all that lofty dreaming to the career politicians, under the assumption that they best understand the needs and wants of the American people. Honestly, my most grandiose fantasies of the future include a Miata and a face lift. As far as America goes, as long as there’s electricity and I’m not forced to learn Chinese, the direction of our anemic imperialism is not something I want to take responsibility for.
The letter continues in this ingratiating manner, and then, almost as an afterthought, the solicitation: “I encourage you to join the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee (DCCC) by returning a generous contribution of $15, $25, $35 or even $50 along with your completed survey document.” It kinda sounds like I have to pay to get my opinions taken seriously. What am I, a lobbyist?
So what are the precious survey questions that Nancy is waiting with bated breath for me to answer and mail in with my DCCC membership contribution? “Non-partisan observers of Congress are calling the Republican leadership of the 109th Congress the most arrogant, unethical and corrupt in modern history. Do you agree or disagree with this assessment?” Who are these “non-partisan observers of Congress?” Who observes Congress unless forced by a political agenda? And how can I, a partisan non-observer of Congress, ever hope to form an honest opinion on their opinions?
Moving onto education: “Do you think Republicans in Congress are committed to improving public schools?” Define “committed.” I don’t think they spend their free time tutoring in ghetto classrooms, but I don’t think they’d do something as politically suicidal as commit themselves to not improving public schools. And in foreign policy: How comfortable do you feel with the President’s handling of the war in Iraq? ()Very Comfortable () Somewhat Comfortable () Slightly Uncomfortable () Very Uncomfortable. God, I hate questions like this, where I have to quantify my comfort level. I mean, I’m uncomfortable with anything that has resulted in tens of thousands of deaths, but a little more than “slightly” and a little less than “very.”
And how is this helping shape America? If the Democrats receive survey after survey endorsing Bush and his policies, will they bow to our will and support the Bush Administration? Or will they cash the check, and continue with their real agenda of attaining power and majority by exploiting popular liberal sentiment? I expect this kind of manipulative subterfuge from PBS and the Sierra Club, but it’s discouraging when the Democrats stoop to polluting our democratic process with effective marketing psychology tactics.
When I was at UMass, one of my best friends AB briefly dated a member of the Lacrosse team. The Lacrosse team was dominated by hippie jocks who supplanted their Lacrosse practice with juggling, hackey sack, ultimate frisbee, and spontaneous dance movements at Phish shows. We would go over to his dorm room, hang out with some of his team mates, and drink Long Trails. When we asked them about Lacrosse, they would say “It’s sweet.”
One night I taught a Lacrosse player how to play the card game Spit. We played for about an hour. Everyone else had left except AB and her boyfriend, who were curled up on his bed in the other part of the Z-shaped room.
“I’ll see you later,” I told the Lacrosse player, a short, muscular long-haired brunette with mutton chops.
“Come on, one more game?” he said, shuffling the cards.
“No, some other time,” I said, wanting to leave AB and her boyfriend alone.
“Come on! Let’s Spit!” he said. “You just can’t teach me a new game and leave.”
“It’s late. I’m too tired to play.”
“One more game! Come ON,” he said. He cut the cards and tried to force a pile into my hand.
“No,” I said, dropping the cards on the ground, backing away him. “I don’t feel like playing.”
He shrugged and put down the cards. “Okay. Well, thanks for teaching me to play. See you later.”
That was my uneventful exposure to collegiate men’s Lacrosse. I was surprised when I read I am Charlotte Simmons by Tom Wolfe, and he depicted Dupont University’s Lacrosse team as womanizing, hard-partying aristocrats capable of primitive hedonism that would have shocked the townsfolk of Gomorrah. I thought the whole book was sensationalized smut.
But the recent rape scandal at Duke University, on which Dupont is based, proved that Tom Wolfe did his research. It makes sense: What 75-year old man could conjure such a perverse picture of collegiate life in his head? I’m suddenly very scared for the future of America. It’s not going to be run by UMass Lacrosse players…
We were walking in the Noanet Woodlands in Dover, MA, on an early Easter afternoon. Gusty winds swirled around us, tempered by strong sunshine. I was babbling on about how O.J. Simpson’s double-murder trial had whetted the media’s appetite for round-the-clock coverage of inconsequential stories, when suddenly—mid-rant—my eyes locked onto something on the path.
A snake.
Twisting and writhing in a wild sine wave at my feet.
Before my brain fully registered what was happening, I screamed. Not a planned, rational scream, but a raw, reflexive one. The kind that escapes your throat without asking for permission. In a blind panic, I grabbed Mr. P’s shoulders and attempted to launch myself skyward, as though he were my personal jetpack.
Startled (and now thoroughly rattled), Mr. P shook me off and bolted about ten feet down the path. “What is wrong with you? It’s just a snake!”
Yes, just a snake. A harmless garter snake, no less—the kind I’ve encountered dozens of times before. I grew up surrounded by snakes: in gardens, in woods, even in lakes and rivers where we swam. I’ve petted snakes at zoos and museums, and I pride myself on respecting nature, including its creepy, crawly, slithery denizens. So what possessed me to scream like a damsel in distress? Blame it on a primordial instinct buried deep in the recesses of my brain.
Emily Dickinson put it perfectly: “I feel for them a transport Of cordiality; But never met this fellow, Attended or alone, Without a tighter breathing, And zero at the bone.”
What Miss Emily means, of course, is that snakes make her scream like a sissy too.
Snakes are arguably the most symbolic animals in mythology, embodying everything from renewal, immortality, and fertility to death, deception, and Satan himself. In Hinduism, snakes are sacred, second only to cows. Serpents slither through the legends of the Greeks, Norse, Egyptians, Mayans, Yorubas, and Buddhists. Even Ireland, which has never had snakes due to geological quirks, celebrates St. Patrick for his supposed banishment of them. Despite their lofty place in myths, Christianity casts snakes as the ultimate villains, damning humanity by tempting Adam and Eve with the fruit of sin.
These days, though, if you mention “snakes,” chances are someone will respond with, “On a Plane!” The phrase instantly conjures Samuel L. Jackson shouting his iconic (and profanity-laced) line. The title of Snakes on a Plane—a film entirely based on snakes wreaking havoc on an airplane—has captivated the imagination of millions. Why does Snakes on a Planework while, say, Bees on a Plane or Wolves on a Plane would flop? Perhaps it taps into mankind’s ancient fascination with snakes: their unsettlingly smooth motion, their inscrutable eyes, their aura of danger. Whatever the reason, it’s a concept that perfectly blends terror and hilarity.
But back to the Noanet Woodlands.
After the initial snake-induced panic subsided, we walked on. My eyes stayed glued to the ground, scanning for any telltale flash of scales that might send me into another frenzy. About ten minutes later, I spotted it: two bright yellow stripes cutting through the earthy greens and browns of the forest floor.
“Look, another snake,” I said, surprisingly calm this time.
We stopped, watched it bask in the sun, and snapped a picture. Then we moved on, leaving it to its quiet, sunlit existence.
I felt at peace with snakes on a walk. Snakes on a plane, though? There’s not a damn thing you can do about that.
Apple’s release of Bootcamp is expected to propel Macs into mainstream usage, but trust me: If I own a Mac, it’s already mainstream. When I tell people about my new Mac, everyone says “Congratulations!” and I smile proudly, humbly, like a new mother. Then they say, “Did you get the new one that runs Windows?” To which I reply, “No, I’m not an early adapter,” and then, realizing I sound lame, add “And I don’t want to spend anymore time using that foul Windows framework than I have to.” Which is true. Norton Antivirus warnings were popping up in my dreams.
Roid Rage
I feel sorry for Barry Bonds, who is facing steroid accusations, possible perjury charges, and “torrents of boos” during games. Like he’s the only baseball player who has used steroids. No, Barry Bonds is an easy target and famous enough warrant tabloidistic news coverage in the respectable media. I saw a headline on CNN TV news: “Bonds claims he is being perscuted by the media.” What do you mean “claims?” The very fact that this claim is splayed across the screen over riveting footage of Bonds at batting practice is indeed evidence of witch-hunting and People magazine-esque dirt digging. I think baseball players on steroids are like anorexic models: Let them damage their health if they want to succeed in their chosen vocation. It’s our fault for being thrilled by the results.
Mouth Wide Shut
Tom Cruise has given his pregnant wife Katie Holmes permission to use pain-killers when she spawns the child that someday, I predict, will amount to nothing. As a Scientologist, Cruise believes in drug-free deliveries that are done in silence. but public outcry in his fan base prompted Cruise to tell Diane Sawyer “The mother makes as much noise … and people… you know, she’s going through it. She does what she’s gotta do. OK?” So if Katie is yelling for an epidural, well, he’ll let her scream. And after the child is weaned, he’ll drag her unfit-mother ass to custody court. Cruise also recently revealed that he was routinely abused by his father, who he called “a merchant of chaos”. Picture a young, sweaty Tom Cruise, defiantly glaring at the man from whom he accepts verbal and physical blows, picking himself up from the floor to which he was pushed and emoting “You merchant of chaos!”
I’m typing this on my new Mac PowerBook (12-inch… I like small). I could no longer live with the impromptu blue screens on my detested Compaq notebook. The epiphany that I would eventually have to buy a new computer galvanized me to visit the Mac Store after work yesterday… 30 minutes later, I left with my gorgeous expensive little Mac and a product protection plan that actually means something. My profound joy goes beyond the surface happiness that the acquisition of material possessions usually confers. It’s like I’ve upgraded from living in a trailer in a tornado zone to a country villa surrounded by apple orchards.
I can’t decide what to do with my Compaq. My instincts are to keep it around, in case I should ever need an archaic laptop with a damaged hard drive that blue screens after five minutes of simple computing. But my 10-year old desktop from college is still packed away in storage under the same delusion. I may just follow the tenacious lead of Anya Major and take a sledgehammer to both of them.
Today I asked a co-worker who has young children if his kids still believed in the Easter Bunny. “No, we never tried to make them believe in the Easter Bunny,” he said. “I have a hard enough time lying about Santa Claus. I don’t think they’d fall for the Easter Bunny.”
To a young child, the idea of a human-sized bunny hiding eggs and baskets of candy in the house is just as plausible as the idea of a single man delivering stacks of presents to every Christian household in the course of a night by means of a flying sleigh. In fact, I’d argue it’s even more plausible. Because the legend of Santa Claus is so detailed, there’s a lot to doubt: The presents are made by elves? Santa personally maintains a list of who deserves presents? He keeps yearly tabs on my pant size? He puts everyone’s presents in his sleigh? These wingless reindeer fly? He really eats all those cookies? (My mother told me once that he fed most of the cookies to the reindeer.)
The Easter Bunny, on the other hand, doesn’t have a lot of myth to live up to. Little is told about his personal life or history; indeed, he’s a mysterious figure who simply enters the house, drops some candy into a basket, hids the basket somewhere in the house, and then hops away to the next house. Hey, it could happen.
After the first Christmas that I knew for sure that it was my parents putting the presents under the tree, when Easter rolled around, I asked, “Does this mean you’re the Easter Bunny too?” They seemed a little surprised that I still nurtured this Easter Bunny fantasy, perhaps figuring that the destroying the Santa Claus belief had matured my thinking about magical holiday icons in general. They confirmed that yes, they were the Easter Bunny. “And the tooth fairy?” I asked, already knowing their answer, sullen with the realization that life is a lot less magical than previously thought.
This week I’ve been as prickly as a saguaro cactus. As usual, I blame the weather. The Weather Channel keeps saying it’s will be warm so I dress like it’s going to be warm, only to have a cruel Canadian-sourced wind nearly rip my loose spring clothes off my body.
I’m not the only one on edge. This evening I witnessed a fight on the Red Line between two middle-aged women. It started immediately after the doors closed at South Station. “You keep hitting my with your ELBOW,” I heard one woman say near me. I turned and saw a large black woman with huge helmet hair glaring at an equally large white woman who was knitting with circular needles, who snapped, “Well EXCUSE me. I have my bag in my lap and this is the only way I can DO IT.” “Find a way to do it without HITTING me,” the black woman said, and then stood up and just started bellowing. She must’ve have a hell of a day. I didn’t think the knitter had it in her to pace such insane public rage, but she started yelling in this weird, hysterical whine. When the doors opened at Downtown Crossing – one stop and about 90 seconds later – T personnel was beckoned to intervene. Both woman were promptly taken off the train and everyone sort of shook their heads in a “that was sad but I’m glad I got to see it” sort of way.
While I’m not so revved up that I’d do anything like that… the following things inexplicably peeved me today:
The guy with glasses and a mini-goatee on the recumbent bike at the gym who was reading Hesse’s Siddhartha. Either you want to read about the spiritual journey of an Indian man, or you want toned hamstrings. Decide.
CNN’s headline for the article about Winnie the Pooh getting a star on the Walk of fame (“Star wears red shirt, no pants to Walk of Fame ceremony,” here). Because I clicked the link, expecting something a little more scandalous than Pooh.
The software salesman who twice use the word “automagically” during a demo to my work group. I know it’s old-school programmer jargon, but this is the 21st century. We know your software is not magic.
The woman walking her dog along the Charles River this morning who thanked her dog for heeding her command to “Stop. Stop. Stop.” eating geese shit. “Thank you,” she said to her jet-black hound, as if he had just given her a stock tip.
