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Dearly Departed Leader

A Japanese professor wrote a book that speculates North Korean dictator Kim Jong II died of diabetes complications in 2003 and was replaced by a body double. How many headshots of roly-poly 5’3″ Asian men did the National Defence Commission of North Korea have to sift through before they found their man? “This guy’s bouffant is knocking me out, but his jowls just aren’t convincing.”

The professor, an expert on the Korean peninsula, cites as evidence Kim’s whirlwind diplomatic activity leading up to 2003 followed an abrupt, unexplained retreat from the public eye. This could be explained by death, but it could also be explained by a reversal in North Korean policy, assassination fears, despotic whimsy, or a preemptive sequestration upon the mortifying release of 2004’s Team America: World Police, in which Kim is portrayed by a marionette who, among other things, throws UN weapons inspector “Hans Bwix” into a tank of sharks. What dictator wouldn’t turn a little bashful?

Also noted in the book is how American spy satellites photographed Kim in 2006, and he apparently grew 2.5 centimeters. So maybe it was a body double pretending to be the deceased Kim. Or, the real Kim decided to enhance his height with a pair of heel lifts. Or… wait, America has technology to measure a person’s height to the millimeter from space, and I still can’t find a freaking functional Coinstar machine in all of Boston? Priorities, people!

The professor admits his Kim body-double theory may sound fantastic, but points out in North Korea, “fantasy and reality are not mutually exclusive.” Think of North Korea as Disney World, except all the food kiosks are barren, all of the attractions are in permanent renovation, and all of the magical characters have been rolled up into one tyrannical little villain named Dear Leader who drinks $800,000 of Hennessy a year. It’s the crappiest place on Earth.

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By Meredith – August 25, 2008

The Twins

We went to the White Mountains in New Hampshire with four primary goals and one secondary goal. The four primary goals: To conquer Mounts North Twin, South Twin, Galehead, and West Bond. The secondary goal: To not incur any disfiguring mishaps such as a sprained ankle or broken bone. While safety is always an objective, it was more dire with only a month to go before the wedding and honeymoon. All goals have been attained, although my quadriceps are sore enough to have me walking with a slight grimace for the next couple of days.

On Friday at 11am, we set out on the North Twin Trail with our backpacks loaded for two days of hiking and an overnight stay at the AMC Galehead Hut. Ah, memories! This trail served as my White Mountains introduction six years ago when my ex-boyfriend and I twice hiked this trail to the North Twin summit, back when I was a hiking novice who wore sneakers, carried no emergency gear, and wheezed like a dying woman during the unrelenting elevation gain. When Mr. P and I reached North Twin’s summit in 3 hours 30 minutes, I realized that my ex-boyfriend and I never actually finished North Twin! Both times, we stopped at a outlook .1 mile from the wooded summit and assumed we had made it.

Here we are posing on the North Twin outlook, with Mount Washington and the other Presidentials looming in the distance.

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From North Twin, it was an easy mile to South Twin. The weather was calm but hazy. An AMC naturalist told me later that the White Mountains are at the convergence of 3 major storm systems and therefore often collect air pollution from the entire East Coast. We had both summits to ourselves, except for the flies that feasted on our sweaty flesh.

After bagging South Twin, we continued onto the Galehead Hut, the AMC’s most remote full-service hut. In the summer it accommodates 38 guests with co-ed bunkrooms, compost toilets and cold running water, and a “hearty” dinner and breakfast served by the hutkeepers, college-aged men and women who are often seen scrambling up trails with loaded packs of food. While the hutkeepers have a certain youthful glamour about them, the truth is they’re kinda like flight attendants in that they spend a bulk of their time preparing meals and cleaning bathrooms.

After checking into the hut and claiming our bunks, we set off to bag Mount Galehead, an easy 25-minutes from the hut. Galehead is a wooded summit, but we hung out on an outlook and pounded one of the massive cans of Heineken that we lugged up the mountain. Every day of hiking should ideally end with a beer.

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Dinner at the hut was edible and filling, with a nice soup and salad followed by bowtie pasta coated in a saltless film of cheese. The hutskeepers billed dessert as a “sweet surprise,” so my raised hopes (chocolate cake!) crashed like my blood sugar when I saw the lemon-icing shortbread cookies. After dinner and a game of Scrabble, I snuggled in my bunk, in the hut-issued wool blankets that smelled vaguely of vomit, and tossed and turned while listening to a nearby man’s buzzsaw snore. I knew I slept because I kept waking up. My left hand and wrist were experiencing an allergic reaction to several fly bites received earlier in the day. By morning, my fingers were plump like sausage and my knuckles were buried in an alarming expanse of swollen flash.

After a breakfast of oatmeal and pancakes, we set off at 7:30am on our ambitious 9-mile hike. It started off going .8 miles from the hut back to South Twin’s summit. With the 1000-foot elevation gain, it took a sweaty hour, but it would be the hardest part of the day. Then we headed to West Bond mountain, one of the Bond mountains that are famed for their unerring beauty and remoteness (see Bondcliff mountain below). We wanted to do all of the Bonds, but we were 5 hours from the car and due back in Boston that night. So we headed back to the Twins and down the North Twin Trail, half-exhausted but content with our journey.

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By Meredith – August 24, 2008

Mount West Bond 4540′ August 24, 2008




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By Meredith – August 24, 2008

Mount North Twin 4761′ August 24, 2008





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By Meredith – August 24, 2008

Mount South Twin 4902′ August 24, 2008




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By Meredith – August 24, 2008

Mount Galehead 4024 August 23, 2008




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By Meredith – August 23, 2008

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:

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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