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Fly Away Home

Today at half-past-noon, I trotted back to the office with my Cosi sandwich. The sidewalks were packed with office workers and tourists all universally reveling in profound A++ balmy late summer sunshine. I encountered some co-workers who not only waved but grinned at me, giddy with the confidence that the superior weather practically mandated a long lunch break.

Go ahead, take a 2 hour lunch, a voice nagged me as I navigated bands of pedestrians, baby carriages, and sidewalk cyclists to my office front door. Somehow I made it upstairs, to my tiny beaten cubicle that sits 20 feet from a window. Somehow I forced myself to stop reading Olympics news updates and work. Another lunch hunched over my laptop, typing and scrolling with my right hand and clutching my flatbread sandwich in the left hand.

As I explained on Tuesday, for about 3 weeks I had no other music on my work laptop except the Grosse Point Blank soundtrack, I was steadily losing my mind as well as developing a searing hatred of the Violent Femmes and Pete Townsend. Luckily, the act of composing Tuesday’s post jogged my memory on Wednesday morning to bring a stack of CDs to the office. Mellow, upbeat tunes like the Allman Brother’s A Decade of Hits and Bob Marley’s Talking Blues are conducive to productivity.

Surprisingly, White Zombie’s La Sexorcisto has proved to be a powerful morale boaster. Maybe I just like the naughty feeling when “Thunder Kiss ’65” and “Welcome to Planet Motherfucker” blast through my earphones and my corporate compatriots are none the wiser. A little secret, like sexy black panties. Unfortunately it’s nearly impossible to concentrate with Rob Zombie’s howling in my ear, so I’ll go back to Bob Marley and find solace in the “Rastaman Chant”: When the work is over, we gonna fly away home now

Fly away to the White Mountains, actually!

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By Meredith – August 21, 2008

Pass the Pasta, Pancakes, Pizza

Last week, as Michael Phelps splashed his way to a historic 8 Olympic Gold Medals, the media was momentarily flummoxed about how to expand their already-blanket coverage on this newfound hero. After all, Phelps is a blandly affable guy who does nothing but sleep, swim, and eat. Hmmm… eat, you say? Tell us Michael, what exactly do you eat? And that’s how Phelps’ 12,000 calorie-a-day diet became international news, with many publications listing his daily menu along with visual reenactments to emphasize the grotesque amount of fatty and carbohydrate-rich foods that Phelps eats. It’s enough food to make even a glutton clutch his stomach in anticipatory digestive balking.

Michael Phelps burns more calories in his sleep than most people do while walking. What happens if he skips a meal? Do his cheeks concave and arms retract?

Mr. P is a swimmer, too. He swims about 3 times a week, 30-40 minutes a session. His spartan French appetite is consistent, except on days when he swims. Then, at dinner, he’ll have an extra sliver of cheese or a scoop of sorbet. When he read about Michael Phelps’ diet, he worried that he’s not getting enough calories to support his training regime. “You only swim 90 minutes a week,” I point out as he stacks slices of baguette next to his plate.

Just last week, I thought about how much more healthier Americans are these days. Everywhere I go, I see people exercising or eating sanely (or, if eating insanely, with guilt and shame). Of course, where do I go? I go to Boston and Cambridge. I go to the bike path. I go to the mountains. I live a cloistured urban existence among like-minded adults who take great satisfaction in healthy living. We take for granted that Americans in other parts of the country are tired of wallowing in their obeseness and have made commitments to taking daily walks and eating vegetables.

But I haven’t traveled outside of New England in awhile. A recent report entitled “F as in Fat: How Obesity Policies Are Failing in America” found that the obesity rates are rising in 37 states, and concluded that current policies to promote physical activity and sound nutrition aren’t widespread enough to make a difference. The report made the same damn recommendations that they always do: We need… more wellness programs! Community-based programs, school-based programs, workplace wellness programs, insurance-sponsored programs!

Come on. The American people have seen The Biggest Loser, and they know that the only way that an obese person can lose weight is to go on a drastic crash diet and engage in non-stop low impact exercise… for the rest of their lives. They’re not going to fall for those “programs” that advocate sensible change like taking the stairs and switching to low-fat ice cream. (And lest you think I’m being cheeky, studies have found that after a person packs on extra weight, the only way to lose it is to trick the body into thinking it is starving. It’s the brutal truth about dieting that the “wellness programs” won’t tell you.)

Another brutal truth: No amount of “wellness programs” in the world can combat Applebees and IHOP. In a recent New York Times profile piece on the chains’ new CEO Julia Stewart, the astute businesswoman who gave the world cream-cheese stuffed French toast discusses “Healthy indulgence rebranding” and points out “what people say they want and what they eat are often different.” IHOP’s PR director says, “We can’t seem to make things sweet enough for people.” But rest assured, they’ll keep trying.

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By Meredith – August 20, 2008

Grosse Point Blank Soundtrack: The Infinite Loop

My company instituted a corporate ban on streaming internet radio because it eats up bandwidth that would be better allotted to, say, sales demos and customer training class. In the past 3 weeks, I’ve managed to rip only one CD to my work laptop, the Grosse Point Blank soundtrack. Every day, I vow to bring in more CDs. Every day, I forget and wind up listening to the Grosse Point Blank soundtrack.

It’s an objectively great soundtrack, but when you listen to anything for 90 hours straight, it begins to gnaw at the fringes of your sanity. I now have impassioned opinions about each track, and since you’re here, I’ll share them (all from memory):

Blister in the Sun, Violent Femmes. Initially charming with its quirky, folksy edge, this song was an instant favorite the first time I heard it. But the magic wore off, particularly after its use in My So-Called Life when Angela danced her post-Jordan-Catalano-freedom jig. Suddenly, it became the anthem for every pseudo-rebellious teenager. Now, Gordon Gano’s voice grates on me, a petulant Bob Dylan whining in perpetuity.

Rudie Can’t Fail, The Clash. The song that started my love affair with The Clash. Back in 1991, I forked over $50 for a mail-order VHS of their movie Rudie Can’t Fail. Decades later, this song still lifts my spirits, even after hearing it a hundred times over the past two weeks.

Mirror in the Bathroom, English Beat. The soundtrack’s nod to the film’s absurd plot—an assassin at his high school reunion. Listening to it makes me crave “Save It for Later.”

Under Pressure, David Bowie and Queen. The iconic bass line is a siren call, but what elevates this song is Freddie Mercury’s audacious vocal range. His voice dances from playful scatting to a haunting whisper, culminating in that show-stopping high note that gives me goosebumps every time.

I Can See Clearly Now, Johnny Nash. I was convinced a woman sang this song until I learned it was a man named Johnny Nash. Even after dozens of listens, I still feel like my ears are playing tricks on me. I stand by my original belief: a woman is singing this song.

Live and Let Die, Guns N Roses. Axl Rose sounds like he’s recording this from the depths of a cannabis cloud. Even for Guns N’ Roses, he seems extra blitzed here.

We Care a Lot, Faith No More. This song wins the award for most-improved quota of listening pleasure on the whole damn soundtrack. I used to sort of roll my eyes at pre-Mike Patton Faith No More, but this song kicks ass. I love the funky bass line, I love the slippery, snotty voice of the singer, I love the rag-tag chorus of overly-passionate voices yelling “We care a lot,” I love the stupidly subversive lyrics: “(We care a lot) about you people! (We care a lot) about your guns! (We care a lot) about the war we’re fighting, gee that looks like fun !”

Pressure Drop, The Specials. Pure, reliable mood lifter. There’s nothing like the Specials to reset a day.

Absolute Beginners, The Jam. The time period of this song’s likability is roughly equivalent to the lifespan of a fruitfly.

Armagideon Time, The Clash. Considering how much I love the Clash, it pains me that this funky, political B-side is included on the soundtrack, because it’s forcing me to admit that the Clash recorded sub-par throwaway tracks.

El Matador, Los Fabulosos Cadillacs. How I love the first 20 seconds of this song. Such vigorous salsa, with playful whistles and an infectious drum beat. And then, what a pity, the singer start singing.

Let My Love Open the Door, Pete Townsend. Pete, no. Just, no. This song is the musical equivalent of a nausea-inducing smell. The only door it opens is the one to the nearest bathroom stall, where I’ll be dry-heaving if I have to hear it again.

Blister 2000, Violent Femmes. A re-make with squealing saxophones and violins and a dragging, lulling tempo. The world did not need this song. When it’s over, the soundtrack restarts back to track #1, to the original “Blister in the Sun,” and I silently make yet another a mental note to bring in new CDs to work tomorrow.

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By Meredith – August 19, 2008

Local Politics Gets Quite Dirty

In a Massachusetts special election last January, us citizens of the 4th Middlesex Country District elected longtime State Representative James Marzilli to the State Senate, and we were initially pleased by our good judgement. Marzilli championed our well-to-do beliefs regarding environmental and social welfare issues, and he was considered the shoo-in encumbent in the upcoming Democratic primaries. But then, earlier this summer, 50-year old Marzilli suffered an apparent mid-life crisis and went on a madcap groping spree that resulted in being charged with accosting four women in downtown Lowell. One of the steamy and unseemly incidents as reported in the Boston Globe:

[Marzilli] told her that he thought she was beautiful. The woman told police that Marzilli then reached toward her with his hands and attempted to grab her crotch, but she grabbed his hand to stop him and told him, “Don’t you dare.” Marzilli then made a lewd remark, the report said. The woman went to a nearby apartment complex and reported the crime to staff at the front desk. Two maintenance workers flagged down police, who caught up with Marzilli… he started acting nervously and ran away. He ran past a hot dog cart, causing several people in the area to dash out of his way… Marzilli ran down the center of busy Market Street, between cars, and in the opposite direction of one-way traffic, causing several vehicles to swerve to avoid him, police said. Officers caught up with Marzilli in a parking garage… Police said that Marzilli resisted arrest several times and that they twice threatened to use pepper spray to get him to place his hands behind his back. Marzilli told police that “his life was over and that we were destroying him,” according to the arrest report. The officers told Marzilli that he would be able to post bail and would be out by the end of the day, but Marzilli replied “you don’t understand… I’m a state senator,” the report said. Placed in the back of a police cruiser, Marzilli said: “I can’t believe this is happening… She was flirting with me… I was flirting with her.”

It appears Marzilli was not exaggerating when he once described himself as an “ultraliberal.” Marzilli faces up to 5 year years of jail time for the Lowell rampage and police are investigating other allegations. The local media expects to have more than enough fondle fonder to regularly disgrace Marzilli until his trial in April 2009. As for his former constituents, after we got over the shock that this runty man with a kind face and granola-tinged grooming was approaching strange women with pick-up lines like “Oh baby you are so beautiful, your body is so perfect” before lunging at their genitals… well, we’re the sort of upscale Catholic enclave that will quietly gossip and giggle about Marzilli’s woes while loudly looking to the future.

And as our front lawns make clear, the future is Ken Donnelly versus Jack Hurd, who will vie for the Democratic nomination that Marzilli fondled away. Their background, beliefs, and priorities are nearly indistinguishably neutral-Liberal, but the advantage goes to Hurd, simply because his campaign slogan is catchier than the Macarena:

hurd

And there you go. Normally a candidate with a sturdy Irish name like Donnelly would have the edge, but front lawns all over town agree that they want their voices “Hurd.” I have to admire Hurd for using his surname — probably the bane of his teenaged years given the crude rhyming potential — to concoct a genuine statement. I can just picture him on Beacon Hill, rallying against casinos with a thundering battle-cry: “I am Hurd, and I will be Hurd!”

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By Meredith – August 18, 2008

It was the best weather, it was the worst weather

Every year, Boston has an average of about 20 days of good weather. What constitutes “good” weather is subjective — for example, cold weather aficionados like myself find salvation in sunny autumn days with temperatures in the upper 50s. But by normal standards, good weather means a sunny, warm day in the mid 70s to mid 80s with low humidity, low winds, and not a hint of rain. And I swear we only get 20 of them. And today is one of them.

It being a Sunday, normally we’d take a day trip to the White Mountains in New Hampshire and bag a few 4000-footers, but social obligations kept us local. I was gratified instead to read a feature in the Boston Globe about the dangers of hiking in the White Mountains, and how “amateur” hikers often underestimate the ferocity of the weather and overestimate their preparedness. It’s nothing I didn’t already know after reading Not without Peril, an excellent book about 150 years of “misadventure” on Presidential Range in the Whites, whose author is quoted in the Globe article as saying “The biggest mistake is not turning back.”

Whenever we hike in the Whites, I’m haunted by the tragic stories in Not without Peril. I think about the woefully unprepared hikers who freeze to death. I think about the seasoned mountaineers whose experience gives them foolhardy courage to toil through storms and succumb to exhaustion and exposure. I think about the tragic accidents, the avalanches and falls into gullies and crevasses, that no amount of preparation or caution can prevent.

It’s scary and sad to think about people dying in the mountains that I revere, but it instills a great awe for the weather that this tiny range is capable of entertaining. Nature isn’t all singing birds and serene sunshine. Though, today it is.

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By Meredith – August 16, 2008

Journal Journey

I’ve been picking through my journal, the Moleskin one that I carry around most everywhere and into which I scribble long-hand musings, dreams, and fears. (My biggest fear? Losing the journal.) I decided to transcribe some random bits from the past summer. So here, with little redacting, is what I write about when no one is reading.

The First Wedding Dream

Last night I had my first dream about the wedding. Most of the guests were employees at [company where Mr. P and I met], though in reality we didn’t invite any of them. The reception was in a huge plain room with long tables arranged in a giant square. The only food was clear-broth soup in small cascading fountains, and people were sticking their bowls under the top part of the fountain. There were also basketball-sized balls of sticky rice upon which sat taper candles, and people were carefully spooning it into their soup. I introduced my Mom to Bev [accounts payable clerk who recently retired] and I remember thinking that they would hit it off because Bev was sort of a maternal figure to me when I first started working there. Bev complained to her about the presentation of the rice, and Mom asked me if any more food was going to be served. I didn’t know. I woke up confused, thinking for a minute that we really did invite Bev and all those other co-workers to the wedding. It was a prevailingly peculiar dream, with a touch of anxiety, although the presence of rice seems auspicious.

Empathy for Produce

Tonight we ate the first lettuce from the garden. I had started the lettuce from seed indoors, then Mr. P moved the sprouts outside, and they matured real fast due to all the rain. It tasted good, but what was funny is, I felt bad about harvesting and eating the lettuce that I planted and nurtured. Never mind could I kill and eat a pet chicken, can I kill and eat my lettuce and tomatoes? Christ, it would suck if I developed empathy for produce.

Pizza with Relish

I’m at Crazy Doughs in Harvard Square for dinner before French class. I’m writing this to avoid scarfing the two slices of delectable cheese pizza without measured breaks to savor and enjoy this tiny binge of junk food. Doughy, cheesy, vegetable-bare pizza on a Thursday night after spending the day sitting in an AC-ed office! I should be at Au Bon Pain with the other thirty-somethings, diligently picking at a salad. I’m surrounded by groups of college kids, all gangly and loud and eating their pizza with relish. Not actual relish, of course.

Literary Clown

I wonder if I will ever get the nerve to stop writing my website in order to concentrate on more ambitious literary endeavors. The website has become too comfortable and chore-like, and my creativity is suffering. Some days I feel like a clown, affably engaging in hackneyed verbal acrobatics, bereft of substance and true wit. Other days I can’t even muster that. Today I wrote about the Neil Entwistle verdict and wound up rehashing a discussion with Mr. P about the particulars of the trial. Ooo, so tedious and uninspired, so very very blog.

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By Meredith – August 15, 2008

Quote of the Day

People who try to pretend they’re superior make it so much harder for those of us who really are. — Hyacinth Bucket, snob extraordinaire

hyacinth

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By Meredith – August 14, 2008

In the News

I would say that the Olympics are distracting the American public from more ponderous world events such as Russia’s invasion of Georgia and the Taliban’s successful insurgency in Afghanistan, but that would imply that if the Olympics weren’t going on, people would stop watching “America’s Got Talent” and “So you think You Can Dance” long enough to pick up a newspaper and figure out that both crises can be chalked up in part to the failed international diplomacy of the Bush Administration. Instead, Americans are outraged that China would pull a Milli Vanilli with the little girl who sang during the opening ceremony because the real singer was not attractive enough to appear on stage. If only the national outcry over China’s occupation of Tibet had half of fury that we have about a lip-synching little girl! Gee whiz, I’m already sick of the Beijing Olympics. It’s been like 5 days already. Did the other Olympics last this long?

Police State

A neighborhood is so plagued with violence that police have placed it under 24-hour curfew for the past week. Any resident who ventures outside can be legally stopped, questioned, and, if necessary, jailed. Where is this degenerative city where pestilence trumps civil liberty? Iraq? Israel? China? Rio de Janeiro? Crawford, Texas?

Try West Helena, Arkansas, a town of 15,000 in one of America’s poorest regions. The police do not arrest people for violating the curfew, but only brandish military rifles while questioning people about why they are outside. Citizens who lack a “good answer” or who “act nervously” get “additional attention.” Wow, only in America. And parts of Africa, the Middle East, and Asia.

With characteristic indignant lovable fuming, the ACLU complains that these friendly little curbside police chats are “unconstitutional” and warns that any arrest resulting from the stops will likely be overturned. But the mayor of West Helena insists that “a judge will see it the way the way the citizens see it … some infringement on constitutional rights is OK and we have not violated anything as far as the Constitution.” Wait, the Consti-what? The What-ution?

The what-what?

I’m Scrubbin’ It

In Ohio, a Burger King employee was fired after posting a video on his MySpace page of himself taking a “soapy bath” in a utility sink at the restaurant. The worker was understandably let go because of hygienic concerns, but let’s break it down: He was bathing in a sink that was used to clean large pieces of equipment such as mop buckets. Is the concern that he would contaminate the sink, which would contaminate the mop buckets, which would contaminate the mops, which would somehow permeate the cleaning solution and contaminate the floors, bathrooms, and equipment, and then contaminate the food or the customer? Look at the high, mighty, and righteous Burger King who makes a fortune of off hawking heart attack burgers, cancer fries, and diabetes drinks, firing an employee for purporting to contaminate the sterile and healthful fast food environment.

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By Meredith – August 13, 2008

Wedding Pet Peeves

With my wedding day less than 6 weeks away, I’m steadily freaking out… for no reason. Everything has been acquired or planned for. All vendors have been secured. I’ve gotten about 80% of the RSVP cards before this Friday’s deadline. Hell, we’re actually already legally married.

There is little to do but be plagued with doubt over our decision to forgo many of the extraneous details that the wedding industry positions as traditional wedding day essentials. Will guests be scandalized by the lack of personalized cocktail napkins? Will everyone be inwardly scoffing at the wedding party’s non-uniform attire? Will my searing contempt of and refusal to allow Hokey-Pokey type dances ruin everyone else’s night?

Niggled by these and a million other questions, I recently read a message board that discusses wedding pet peeves on Boston.com , and was gratified to note that my judgment is somewhere between “acceptable” and “impeccable.” Here are some findings about wedding pet peeves:

‘Lack of open bar’ is the number one wedding pet peeve (which is funny because ‘unruly drunk guests’ appears to be the number two wedding pet peeve.) This confirmed my suspicion that all the other wedding stuff is just window dressing. Guests won’t remember if we gave out personalized water bottles or monogrammed candy bars, but they’ll remember if they had to pay for their own cocktails.

‘Garter/Bouquet toss’ is surprisingly high-ranking. Honestly, I briefly toyed with the idea of doing one or both, but rejected it because our guest list is about 90% non-single. In fact, nearly the only single people will be my siblings and various step-siblings, and how traumatizing would it be if the guy who catches the garter is related to the girl who catches the bouquet?

‘Chicken dances, macarenas, electric slide, hokey-pokey dances’ are just not my style. I get too distracted by the dualing desires to rip my ears off and scratch my eyes out.

‘Cake smooshing’ is just a shameful waste of cake, and if there’s one thing I’ll never, ever do, it’s waste cake.

‘Games to claim the centerpiece’ seem like a nifty idea when you’re in the wedding planning mode, but I can see how the execution of a wedding game can be tricky. (That said, ‘arm-wrestling’ isn’t strictly considered a game, is it?)

‘Cocktail napkins, favors, or any other disposal paper item that is personalized with names and date on them’ and ‘Photos of the couple everywhere’ didn’t have many detractors, probably because a wedding guest must be touchy bordering on priggish to get annoyed by a couple who posits their wedding day as a special event that glorifies their love. But while I don’t mind these things at other people’s weddings, the last thing I want to do is turn my wedding into a festival of idolatry. We are Bride and Groom… worship and honor us. Besides, as states above, all anyone will really remember is if there was an open bar.

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By Meredith – August 12, 2008

Olympic Marathon

Yesterday, Mr. P and I indulged in a marathon of Olympics viewing, hunkered down in our living room as thunderstorms raged outside. The guilt-laced pleasure of devoting nearly eight hours to televised sports was palpable. It was not even Thanksgiving. By hour four, my ad-saturated brain had managed to convince me that watching as much of the Olympics as possible was not only a justifiable use of my day, but my patriotic duty. And who knows? Maybe I really did need to buy a Toyota Tundra.

NBC’s cunning marketing did not need to work very hard to reel me in. I have always been an Olympics enthusiast. There is something captivating about seeing nations come together, competing fiercely yet united on a shared global stage. Pierre de Coubertin, the French visionary behind the modern Olympics in 1900, dreamed of using athletic competition to foster peace, believing that the youth of the world could compete in sports rather than engage in war. It is an idealistic thought. No geopolitical crisis has ever been resolved by synchronized diving. Still, I live by Coubertin’s sentiment, considering beach volleyball a perfectly reasonable stand-in for global conflict.

I love the Olympic events that stray from the typical American diet of spectator sports involving ball-handling, ball-whacking, and or stock cars. I love hearing coworkers lament their lack of sleep because they stayed up late to watch a swim meet. The Olympics heighten the drama of every sport they touch. Take women’s gymnastics, which is always a crowd pleaser. During the Olympics, however, the stakes add an exquisiteness to the tension. Who does not love watching those crestfallen, muscle-wracked little girls after a lifetime of fanatical work is undone by a hop and a wobble on the landing?

The Olympics awaken the fervent patriotism of my childhood. My most vivid Olympic memory comes from the 1988 Calgary Winter Games, when American Debi Thomas faced off against East German Katarina Witt in women’s figure skating. I can still hear Thomas’s coach delivering a final pep talk before her decisive long program: “You can do this. You can do anything. You’re an American.” Thomas faltered and finished with the bronze, and I learned that the spectator’s agony of defeat is laced with helplessness. It was then that I swore a silent enmity toward Katarina Witt and, by extension, East Germany itself. Because in my young eyes, figure skating was war.

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By Meredith – August 11, 2008