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In the News – Jan 2005

Bowwow Bestiality
A man in New Jersey has been charged with repeatedly sodomizing his neighbor’s dog—a female Rottweiler named Precious.

I know. Horrifying. But also—come on. All I could picture was Gollum mid-thrust, whispering “My Preciousss… we wants it, we needs it… must have the Precious.” Then I died, went straight to hell, and this headline was the welcome mat.

Dave Barry Puts Down the Joke Stick
Dave Barry is retiring his humor column. Possibly forever. Possibly not. The man is a master of vague exits.

I, for one, will deeply miss skipping over his column in the Boston Globe Magazine.

Praise the Lord and Pass the Horsepower
A church in Florida is giving away a 2003 H2 Hummer as a door prize during their upcoming week-long revival.

Apparently, the Holy Spirit moves in mysterious ways—and occasionally needs 10 mpg to do it. While some are clutching their WWJD bracelets and asking, “Would Jesus roll coal?” the rest of us are just here for the altar call raffle.

Posted in In the News.

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Irony in the Laundromat

The man who works the counter at the laundromat/dry cleaners has the worst BO ever. It’s of the revolting kind that I always suspect will stick to me. Oh, he is very nice, always smiling and making non-intrusive small talk to me when I come in, but he smells as if his clothes have never been washed… despite being an employee and possibly part owner of a laundromat.

Though I fear for the purity of my just-laundered clothes, I really do appreciate the irony.

Posted in Existence.

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History of Beer

Beer. Reportedly the first alcoholic beverage known to Mankind, beer was first brewed from fermented bread by the Sumerians as early as 10,000 B.C.. Getting sloshed on beer is condoned by a whore in the Epic of Gilgamesh, the oldest written story on Earth. Beer brewing was soon practiced in every corner of the world, from the ancient Egypt and Chinese to the native inhabitants of North America and the monks in Europe. There’s just something about beer that people seem… well, almost genetically-inclined to enjoy.

As modern civilization developed, the customs surrounding the imbibing of beer became as important as the drink itself. Individuals could survive without round-the-clock tribe interaction, so what better way to be sociable than to gather in a tavern and ingest a drink that compels one to be social? Flagrantly, habitually, sometimes embarrassingly social.

American beer has a long history. The Colonies were choke full of breweries from the start. The hard-drinking Pilgrims had a two-quart daily ration of mead… for breakfast alone. In the mid-1800s, the number of breweries in the US peaked at around 4500, but the numbers sharply declined when Prohibition became perhaps the stupidest Constitution amendment ever (or should I say “to date”?)

In the second half of the 20th century, beer production became industrialized, leading to the soda-like filth that ravages the stomachs, livers, physiques and family lives of millions of Americans. Beer drinking is chiefly associated with sport spectators, construction workers, and college kids.

To non-binging or non-indulging Americans, dedicated beer drinking is an at-best silly and at-worst deadly pastime that detracts from the finer things in life. Like wine drinking. And coffee drinking. And Blood of Christ drinking.

But nothing can stop the billion-dollar shareholder-driven companies from peddling their watery ales to the masses of America via big-budget ads with sexy and loose singles shaking their impossibly nubile bodies to inane jingles.

(Ever notice how mass-marketed trends feed off each other? Concurrent with the notion that one is physically incapable of having a good time unless one purchases and ingests copious amounts of beer, other media messages bombard us about the importance of purchasing and ingesting health foods, and the wonders that caffeine can do for a weary fatigued soul. Hence:)

Beer has evolved to B*e, with the “E” denoting something “extra” (the E being an exponent, which I don’t know how to insert in HTML). Pronounced B-to-the-E, this fruity new flavor of Budweiser, spiked with caffeine, guarana and ginseng, is the latest in “a long line of innovative beers by Anheuser-Busch… a distinctive new product for contemporary adults who are looking for the latest beverage to keep up with their highly social and fast-paced lifestyles”.

“Hey man, I don’t need your Miller beer dragging me down! I want a beer that can keep up with me!”

be

The promising rise of the micro-brewery and the increase in home-brewing enthusiasts has not quelled the popularity of shitty corporate beer. With the spawn of B-to-the-E, it is obvious that the once-proud American beer culture will no longer slowly evolve over decades. Beer will be violently and disgustingly innovated by the sick minds in Marketing.

In conclusion, Beer has evolved from the Sumerians to a product that is decidedly “outside the boundaries of the taste adults would expect from a traditional beer,” just like the press release says.

So, what’s next for Beer? As is the nature of American innovation, the possibilities are only limited by the imagination of a money-hungry capitalist, the enthusiasm of a focus group, and the standards of the FDA. I’m seeing Viagra Beer, Nicotine Beer, Antioxidant Beer, Zoloft Beer, Birth Control Beer, The Morning After Beer, Anti-Bacterial Beer…

Posted in Americana.

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so much depends upon a pair of boots glazed with rain water beside the white chickens

Ah, the weather. So tedious to discuss, yet so integral to our lives. It affects our moods, activities, domiciles, food supply, transportation, and, perhaps utmost, our shoes. 

 

My poor all-weather boots, purchases five years ago at Sears, are doomed. Last winter, they slipped subtle hints of their fatigue by leaking trace amounts of water. Yesterday, with about three inches of snow followed by several hours of famed New England “wintry mix,” several pints of Boston slush found its cold wet way through the cracks in the exterior. 

 

Every curb in the city has a moat of dirty water in front of it; the more industrious pedestrian will diligently circumnavigate around the water, but after I stepped in one camouflaged as concrete and soaked my feet and socks, I threw caution to the wind and simply plowed through every four-inch puddle in my path like a madwoman.

 

Speaking of annoying winter moments, yesterday morning, luxuriating on a treadmill with my own *personal television monitor*, I flipped through all of the local news stations. All of them devote about half of their coverage to the weather whenever the slightest flake is forecasted. We get gutsy on-location reporters who are actually outside. In the snow. Pointing at cars and plow trucks and just generally looking uncomfortable, like “Hey, what am I supposed to say? It’s just snowing.” 

 

When they toss it back to the anchors in their nice warm studio, those air heads bleat inanities like “You’ll definitely need to scrap your car this morning” and “Give yourself a few extra minutes on the roadways” and “Grab a blanket to stash in your car in case something tragic happens.” Now that I don’t live with my parents, I don’t know what I’d do without my local news anchors to advise me in these hard, hard times of snow.

Posted in Existence.

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Zen thought of the Day

Actor Richard Gere is working with a pro-peace group to urge Palestinians to vote in the upcoming presidential elections. He has recorded a radio message that starts off:

 

“Hi, I’m Richard Gere and I’m speaking for the entire world”.

Chilling.

Yes, the Middle East peace process will surely thrive with more Hollywood celebrity involvement, especially from a Hollywood Buddhist best known for his pro-prostitution films Pretty Woman and American Gigolo.

Posted in In the News.

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Movie Review: The Life Aquatic

 

Bill Murray was the main reason I loved movies when I was growing up. His hilarious irreverence and intelligent deadpan came to stand for everything I believed creative endeavors should encompass. He starred in three of my favorites: Ghostbusters, Meatballs, and Caddyshack. And though he wasn’t in other films I loved (like Star Wars, The Wizard of Oz, and Clue), I was and still am confident the presence of Bill Murray could only have made those movies better. Come on, he’d be a great Scarecrow.

I am not alone in my worship of Bill Murrary, but surely I was the only American teenaged girl to whom Willem Dafoe was a dazzling sex symbol. Him playing Jesus in The Last Temptation of Christ was sorely tempting to me. Sargeant Elias in Platoon still serves as my blueprint for that sex robot I’m gonna build someday. And as Bobby Peru in Wild at Heart, Willem revealed just how dirty-nasty he could be.

 

Oh Jesus! You are a God!

Oh Jesus! You are a God!

 

 

Given my devotion to these two actors, you can imagine how excited I was that they were both featured in The Life Aquatic (with Steve Zissou), the latest Wes Anderson flick. Ah, but age can be cruel.

 

So you want a plot summary? Look elsewhere, because I don’t have the energy to explain all the little storylines that Wes Anderson slapped together. Watching the movie distracted me from watching the movie. 

I’ll admit, Wes Anderson has style. His attention to detail is impressive. Just check out this movie’s IMDB Trivia page so you too can bask in all of the little In jokes that you would never know otherwise. Anderson is also very good at subtly establishing long-running gags; throughout A Life Aquatic, we see a bunch of unpaid interns being systemically brutalized. 

However, Anderson’s preciseness with the little things may distract him from tying it all together. He’s like a poet who writes words that sound pleasing together, but overall suffers from a dearth of depth. The Life Aquatic was all over the place, and after awhile I got tired of it. Too much wackiness. Too little sustenance.

If anyone can make a movie good, it’s Bill Murray. He lifts mediocre movies to the realm of delightful, like What about Bob? and even The Man who Knew Too Little, which I believe he should have won an Oscar for. Though Murray was a shiny spot in this movie, even he is powerless among a way-too-motley assembly of way-too-wacky characters, plowing through an unfocused, lame script.

The soundtrack by Mark Mothersbaugh (who has done the soundtrack of several Wes Anderson movies as well as hundreds others) was excellent. I was genuinely joyous to hear the original Iggy Pop version of “Search and Destroy” instead of some lame cover. The music even worked when it bordered on whimsical, which is more than I can say for Owen Wilson.

I can see how many people would like this movie. Perhaps my salivating anticipation of this movie ruined it, but somehow it just didn’t gel for me. And Willem with a German accent just ain’t Willem, though the tight shorts were appreciated. Yow-za!

Posted in Review.

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Filene’s Basement Peep Show

Founded in 1908, the ineluctable appeal of the bargain outlet Filene’s Basement has made it a venerated Boston institution. 

The main attraction is the designer apparel with often-repeatedly slashed prices. The fluid store layout allows you to assemble a whole outfit and then quickly locate matching shoes, handbag, scarf, and gloves. Then there are the hills of clothes that require you to burrow like an insane groundhog while scanning tags for sizes, prices, and Automatic Markdown start dates. Plus, shopping among the mixed clientele of unabashed fashionistas, horsey Revere housewives, and dazed tourists makes us a community. Because, deep down, women are really all the same creature. 

The icing on the cake: Who doesn’t love venturing into the women’s fitting room and catching an eyeful of nude female flesh? For free.

The women’s fitting room is an communal dressing room with about a dozen full-length mirrors, each flanked by a clothes hook. For the first-time shopper, it is a bit of a shock: You collect the number of items tag from the eagle-eyes attendant, turn a corner, and are faced with a dozen women in various states of undress. Women often enter the dressing room and just stand there, perhaps experiencing an unpleasant high school locker room flashback, perhaps regretting their day’s choice of underwear, perhaps wondering if they’re on a hidden camera television show: How can a place that appears in all of the travel guides not offer partitioned dressing rooms? Am I in Boston or Bogota?

After the First Timer recovers from the shock of witnessing strange women pushing rolls of thigh fat past cinched waistbands, she will usually try on clothes with the goal of covering herself as much as possible. But general apathy paired with widespread female American body anxiety will stop other women from snickering at any cellulite-ridden butt fat flapping around as one extricate’s oneself from a pair of cigarette pants in a standing position. 

Demureness is a quality that is only good in small doses, in the right situations. At a church function, for example, it is entirely correct to repress the urge to take off your blouse and shake your hips to “Onward Christian Soldiers.” But Filene’s Basement is a decidedly ungodly place, forcing women to choose between cherished modesty and a $49 BCBG party dress. Most women pick the dress.

I used to be mortified to undress in front of strangers, but overcame my bashfulness after discovering a passion for saunas. At first, I was averse to lounging around a tiny, over-heated room with nude and towel-draped strangers. Keeping my eyes open seemed a bad idea, so I would snap my eyes shut and manually secure my towel around my body. But after four or five otherwise-relaxing sauna visits, I observed many women displaying nude bodies that I judged to be much worse than mine. Who knew human skin had a limitless capacity for stretch marks?

One day, I entered the sauna to find it empty except for a young woman with a smooth, lean naked body, laying on the beach with knees bent and slightly spread apart. Her crotch faced me directly; it resembled Hitler’s face in numerous ways, all too explicit to explain here. It felt strangely rude to cover myself with a towel, so I gathered my courage and sat there, nude. Other women came in and barely glanced at me (perhaps blinded by the young lady’s crotch) and I began to relax.

The morale of the story: Getting undressed in public is not always good, but it is not always bad. In fact, you can make the sauna or the communal dressing rooms at Filene’s a real fun place by whipping out a camera and pretending to take pictures of the other women. They’re scream in delighted surprise, and you’ll laugh like old friends when you reveal that the camera is not loaded. Instant anxiety buster.

Posted in Massachusetts, migrated.

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The Year So Far

Does one’s activities on New Year’s Day set the tone for the rest of the year?

First, I woke up at 7:30 am. Practically the middle of the day!

Then, I ate a seriously large amount of food at the Hotel Marlowe buffet brunch, including three (3) buttermilk biscuits and a muffin. 

Then, after several attempts to work on a short story, the sunny and pleasant 55 degree day lured me outdoors. And I headed straight to Filene’s Basement. Feckless consumer spending!

Then, I went to the Sports Depot with my roommate and her co-workers, who spun tales of their pyschiatric ward patients as we drank beer and ate pub food. We then went to Silhouette’s in Allston, the Dive Bar of the Year according the Boston Phoenix, and played darts and touchscreen video games.

Then, because my day wasn’t ridiculously hedonistic enough, I watched Cops. And loved it.

Perhaps I should have made a resolution or two after all.

Posted in Existence.

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Geometry Lessons

It’s amazing how the mind, given time and unuse, can suppress entire academic disciplines like geometry… but not plot lines to A Team episodes.

My GRE class is awakening all these memories of 6th grade geometry class: Mr. Brandt, who made us sit alphabetically order all year long. He had a giant compass that he armed with blue chalk, and I coveted it. These details I remember vividly, but not so much the blather about triangles, parallel lines, alternating interior angles, and so on.

Perhaps this is why, in my GRE study class, I have become the annoying “older student”, who is paying for this class out of her own pocket and sacrificing her leisure time, so, dammit, she’s going to understand triangles at the expense of the sanity of her fellow pupils by interrogating the teacher at every opportunity.

My GRE teacher is an interesting man, obviously passionate about teaching. He prepared for our geometry review by carefully illustrating each concept on a large pad of paper so we can gaze appreciatively at his handiwork while he expounds on the wonders of the isosceles right triangle.

He talked about inscribed polygons, which is a polygon whose angles all intersect with a circle. “And here is the most beautiful inscribed polygon of them all,” he said dramatically, flipping the sheet of paper and revealing:

The “beautiful” pentagram!

I’ve learned in GRE class all about this lovely cult of Greeks who called themselves the Pythagoreans who worshipped the Pentagram. I believe the teacher is trying to make the material interesting by talking about satanic math, but this is all I managed to retain about geometry. And it won’t be on the GRE.

While my hopes for an outstanding Math GRE score fade with each GRE lesson, I am a sentence completion demon: 30 out of 30 on the sentence completion practice questions, which I blazed through on the 20-minute subway ride from Alewife to Kendall, surrounded by tipsy college students singing U2 songs. Hey, if I learned nothing at UMass, I learned how to block out the noise of drunk college kids.

Speaking of geometry, tonight en and I are eating at the swank restaurant Radius. Because geometry is everywhere, once you are reminded of its fundamentals.

Posted in Miscellany.

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The Beastie Boys are no longer Beastie, nor Boys: Discuss

About four months ago, I acquired the Beastie Boys latest release, To the 5 Boroughs. During the first listen, I mentally composed a seething, hate-filled lambasting of the release, vowing to inform the world that this was not only the worst Beastie Boys album ever, but perhaps the biggest musical travesty of the year.

What stopped me at the time from penning a To the 5 Boroughs poison ode was nostalgia, an emotion I wrestle with all too often.

I remember as an innocent pre-teen hearing Licensed to Ill and seeing the “Fight for your Right” video (and being stunned to find out that my beloved Susanna Hoffs, singer of the Bangles, was dating one of these rapping ruffians!) I didn’t like rap music, but the Beastie Boys were funny, smart and some of their riffs (“Brass Monkey” and “Paul Revere” in particular) stuck in my head. In high school, I drove around suburbia with my friends, blasting Paul’s Boutique and Check your Head while shaking my romp. In college, my roommates and I would spontaneously dance to Ill Communication.

Indeed, looking back on it, as I made my tumultuous sojourn through life, the Beastie Boys were always there. I took them for granted and never really got too crazy into them, but in my musical diet, they were staples. Why?

Because they were fun. When you dance to the Beastie Boys, you can whip out even the most absurdly dorky dance moves and still look cool.

Because every song featured a delightfully original hook that ever got old, whether it be musical or verbal or often times both. Do you know how many times I’ve sung along to “The Sounds of Science”? 100s upon 100s of times.

Because they could be righteous without being preachy. Like in “What Goes Around, Comes Around” : “With two black eyes, your girl ain’t that pretty… Why do you want to treat your girl like that?” I mean, is there a cooler way to rally against domestic violence?

Compare this with the Beastie’s rampant left-wing activism of the past four or five years. To quote a band who recognized that a band whose public image has overshadowed their music should just expire themselves (Sex Pistols): NO FUN.

I have no problem with bands evolving, but judging from To the 5 Boroughs, the Beastie Boys music has become secondary to their preachy message. And yes, we must all admire them for this message, but boys, you’ve become musically boring. People bought the album because you’re living legends, but let’s face it you so-called Beastie Boys: You released a downright shitty album.

Posted in Nostalgia, Review.

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