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Beijing Opening Ceremony: Dazzling, Frightening, and Ultimately Hollow

Last night I watched large chunks of the dazzling 4-hour Olympic opening ceremony in Beijing. I was dazzled by the 2008 drummers playing on their strobing lighted Fou drums in perfect synchronicity. I was dazzled by the 2008 oscillating man-powered blocks, the 2008 tai chi masters, the calligraphy dancers, the flying acrobats, and the countless fireworks. In fact, the sheer scale of it all was dazzlingly frightening.

I started watching the ceremony sort of happy for China. I know how much energy and hope have gone into this Olympics. And same as how I don’t want to be judged by the actions of the US government, I refuse to begrudge the Chinese people for their government’s handling of Darfur and Tibet. In fact, it is in the Chinese people’s interest that I worry about the government’s human rights record. The whole “harmonious society” theme that the ceremony emphasized is chilling because China’s methods of achieving it involve jailing dissidents and restricting the freedoms of their citizens. It’s only harmonious if everyone follows the sheet music as composed by the Communist Party.

By the end of the ceremony, I felt sort of sick inside, imagining all of the effort and money that China spent in order to dazzle me and the world with inherently cheesy Peter Pan theatrics. What did it all mean, anyway? The opening ceremony is meant to honor the athletes and the universal spirit of competition, not laud the achievements of the host country. The final touch bearer, a former Chinese gymnast, was lifted high into the air to circle around the Bird Nest’s upper rim and then dramatically ignite the Olympic cauldron. Dazzling, yes…

…but it didn’t beat the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta, when Muhummad Ali lit the Olympic Flame. I’ll never forget the roar of the crowd upon seeing Ali receive the final torch, and this great man, this principled man who had thrown his Olympic Gold Medal in a river after being refused service in a “whites-only” restaurant, this man of legendary might, athleticism, and skill, he stood there fiercely with the torch raised over his head twice and he shook with Parkinsons. It was such a powerful sight, indelible in my brain and in my heart.

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By Meredith – August 9, 2008

Bike Path Follies

After last Sunday’s punishing jog on the rollicking trails of the Middlesex Fells Reservation, I took the week off from running. I walked, I biked, I laid on a yoga mat and breathed. By this mid-afternoon, my infamously massive calf muscles were twitching like a foxhound eager for a run. The gray sky seemed on the cusp of rupturing into thunderstorms, but I had checked the weather radar before lacing up my Nikes and running to the bike path. The severe storms in Providence and Worcester couldn’t possibly make it to Boston in an hour, so I relaxed and savored the sunless skies, foreboding breeze, and an iPod Shuffle full of Fatboy Slim.

The bike trail was being scantily used, mostly by elderly walkers toting umbrellas and groups of strolling teenagers who hang out in the adjoining ball fields. I am wary of what these teenagers think about me as I jog past them, sweating. I wouldn’t have thought they pay joggers any attention until one day when I heard a young man that I had just passed say: Dude, you see that jiggle? I cringe to think which jiggle. But today my rested muscles powered me along at a pretty good clip, and I felt that my prowess would douse any verbal or mental mockery.

Around mile 4.5, a teenaged boy on a bike passed me. He was about 30 feet in front of me when suddenly the back of his bike reared up. The entire bike flipped backwards about four feet high into the air, throwing him on the ground. He landed on his back with the bike on top of his legs. No, he wasn’t wearing a helmet. It was simply the most spectacular fall from a bike I’ve ever randomly witnessed.

Still running, I didn’t breathe until he got up and began inspecting his bike. I debated saying something to him as I passed him. He looked like a jock and I feared that teenaged macho pride would cause him to lash out at me, the sole witness to his embarrassing fall.

“Are you okay?” I asked, my voice oozing the real concern that I felt.

“Yeah, I’m okay” he said. “My jacket got caught in the mud flap.” I looked and saw a folded-up piece of fabric lodged in the metal sleeve that covers the top of the front wheel. I still can’t figure out how it go there.

“Oh, man,” I said, followed by a heartfelt “Shit.” I continued running, in disbelief that he was standing up and moving with such purpose.

About two minutes later, he passed me. “Hey, thanks for asking,” he said. “It’s a shame you didn’t have a hidden camera.”

“Yeah,” I said. “The flip actually looked really, really cool.”

He laughed and biked away with the eternal resilience of a teenager.

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By Meredith – August 8, 2008

Caveat Lector

At lunch today, my colleagues and I started swapping tales of our high school foreign language classes.

“I jumped around too much,” I admitted. “Two years of Spanish, one year of French, and one year of Latin.”

Latin? Eyebrows raised. It sounded so cultivated, so steeped in intellectual tradition.

“Well, I was really into English, and one of my teachers told me that learning Latin would help me master English grammar.” This was partly true. The less glamorous reality was that I was dodging Spanish 3 after barely surviving Spanish 2. Plus, I thought it would be pretty impressive to say I spoke a dead language.

Did a lot of people take Latin?

“There were about eight people in my class, and it was the only Latin class in the school. I remember one guy who wanted to become a pharmacist, and he somehow convinced two of his friends to join him.” (All three of them were notorious for being major druggies. Even Mr. Duffy, our stern and disgruntled teacher, knew it. Once, while explaining abstract nouns, he said, “I couldn’t put a pound of ‘speed’ on this desk. Though I’m sure some of you could.”)

Was it helpful?

“Honestly? Not really. It was brutally difficult, and I retained almost nothing.” The thing about Latin is that its vocabulary hasn’t evolved in centuries. While the students in French class were learning to talk about their favorite pastimes or ordering food in a café, we were conjugating verbs like ‘pillage,’ ‘lay siege,’ and ‘set fire.’ The practical utility was lacking, to say the least. But then again, no learning is wasted, right?” (A statement as hollow as it sounded. I can’t recall a single rare Latin phrase today, so even my bragging rights are shaky.)

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By Meredith – August 7, 2008

Green Card Day

Today Mr. P and I had the marriage interview to obtain his Green Card, the final step in a long road paved with lawyers, fees, and oodles of paperwork. At last, we would have an impartial government official to determine if our love is real or just a total fraud.

We met at our lawyer’s officer in downtown Boston so that she could accompany us to the interview at the nearby JFK Federal building. We followed her through security, and then to a mid-sized room filled with rows of well-padded seats that were less than a quarter occupied with other couples and their lawyers. Our lawyer had warned us repeatedly that we could be waiting for up to an hour, so imagine her shock when we were called 5 minutes later. “Fastest time in 6 years,” she swore.

The officer conducting our interview was a woman in her early 20s — probably in training, our lawyer told us later. She rifled through our stack of paperwork, made a few notes, then started questioning: “How and when did you meet? How and when did you start dating? Where did you go on your first date? When did you decide to make it exclusive?”

This last question stumped me. “It was always exclusive,” Mr. P declared, and we all laughed. I think the officer could sense a rapport between us, especially when I chided him for getting my birth year wrong. In any case, she then began reading off a laundry list of Yes-No questions for Mr. P about his illegal activities, like “Have you ever been arrested? Have you ever sold or trafficked drugs? Do you intend to practice polygamy? Are you or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party or any totalitarian party?” I managed to withhold a quip about the French Fifth Republic.

Then she declared that she was approving his Green Card, and we all smiled. After 30 minutes of logistical paper work, we were out the door. What a great moment for America, to open her tenacious borders to accept this Frenchman who I so dearly love into her beacon-hand as a lawful permanent alien resident!

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By Meredith – August 6, 2008

Reverse-Discrimination Cake Toppers

I was browsing for wedding accessories on Amazon.com when I noticed these Cake Toppers. The White Couple is $89.94, while the African-American couple is only $45.21. It’s a good thing that our Cake Topper has already been acquired, otherwise, I may be tempted to cause a mild wedding reception scandal in order to save $45.

amazoncaketoppers

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By Meredith – August 5, 2008

Bikini Wax for the Soul

It seems only the most obsessive bloggers are blogging consistently in the summer. Most of us leave a cyberspacial void of silence to speak for our summerly pursuits. Others, like the eminent Kottke, resort to blog re-runs. As the television likes to say, “If you haven’t seen it, it’s new to you.”

I’ve opted for the middle road: Mediocrity. Not scaling the peak of blogging greatness, but not muted by my own seasonal sloth. Mediocre blogging, the online equivalent of standing in a public place and reading a non-embellished short-term memoir to anyone who stops to listen. Like LiveJournal, with comprehensible grammar.

Here goes: I woke at 7:25am. I slept surprisingly well, considering the humidity clings to the walls of this old house like a noisome apparition. After reading a bit of Friday’s New York Times, I jump in the shower, then rouse Mr. P. At 8:30am, we walk to the local diner for breakfast with my family, who was visiting for the weekend. It was the first time I had gone to this diner, and was a bit disgusted by its oily, bland hash-browns. You know what I hate? I hate when my toast is served pre-buttered. I like to control the amount of butter on my toast. And, sometimes I want jam instead.

After seeing off my family, Mr. P and I lace up our sneakers and go to the Middlesex Fells Reservation for some hot-weather trail-running. With its rolling hills and well-maintained paths, the Fells is a good place for trail-running… but that doesn’t make it easy! Man, I sweat like a bear. After about 90 minutes of running through the woods, we decide to walk back to the car to cool down, which worked because it began to rain before we got there.

In the afternoon, we go to the cinema to see The Last Mistress, a steamy French flick about, well, a mistress. The New York Times adored it, but other reviewers emphasize the porn pedigree of director Catherine Breillat and the frankness of the sex scenes. It was actually quite romantic, though I guess I should be outraged by a movie that portrays a French man who is more in love with his hot-blooded brunette mistress than his cold, innocent blond wife.

Now it’s 8:13pm and I feel compelled by the clock to make dinner, though all this mediocre blogging has, like, killed my appetite. Maybe we’ll just have salad and cheese, and then go out for ice cream, although (this wouldn’t be mundane blogging without mentioning that) today has been sort of cool, humid, and rainy.

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By Meredith – August 3, 2008

She’s a Survivor – Living for the Apocalypse

The New York Times recently profiled a woman in western Massachusetts whose commitment to survivalism can only be described as extreme. She’s the author of Just in Case: How to Be Self-Sufficient When the Unexpected Happens, a manual born from her epiphany that “holy smoke, the cavalry doesn’t always charge in to rescue you”—a realization cemented by 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina. Her response? Become her own cavalry, armed with a “wicked good” grain grinder, a pressure canner, a solar oven, and enough cooking oil to rival a fast-food franchise. Each family member has a custom-packed survival backpack with essentials like water, tinder, and flashlights, all strategically stationed in their mudroom.

But here’s the kicker: how does anyone presume to write a guide for the unexpected? The irony is that by preparing, she’s expecting something, however vaguely defined. She hasn’t faced the unexpected; she’s constructed a detailed, anticipated scenario where her powdered milk and grain grinder will, presumably, be game-changers.

I’ve often wondered what my own fate would be in a near-apocalyptic world, where society’s remnants scrape by amidst the wreckage. As an unarmed urbanite without a lick of survivalist training, I’d likely perish before the first frost. If I were feeling ambitious, I might escape to the mountains with my camping gear and a questionable diet of roasted amphibians and fuchsia berries. Or, perhaps, I’d find refuge in an abandoned farmhouse with a pantry full of dusty canned beans. My most romantic vision? Moving into the Boston Public Library and fashioning a rat-hunting lifestyle worthy of post-apocalyptic legend.

But that’s just the speculative side of my mind. Mostly, I focus on living for the now. I prepare for the future in ways that align with current reality—I squirrel away money for retirement, hold a mix of 5-year and 20-year investments, develop skills to bolster my resume, and, yes, eat my share of Swiss chard. Preparing for improbable, cataclysmic events? Not on my radar. (Although, maybe after four more years of George W. Bush, it would have been.)

(Note: I did not read the book, just the NYT profile).

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By Meredith – July 31, 2008

Googles

Today the renowned economics blog Marginal Revolution posited that “A good blog writer can randomize the topic for you, much like a good DJ controls the sequence of the music”. Well, if that’s true, then I’m the best damn blog writer in the world… that no one has ever heard of. I’m a regular Mixmaster Meredith here. I’m more random than the Choas Theory in Monte Carlo.

Just look at a select few of the utterly random search engine queries that landed unwitting interneteers at my website…

INTEROGATIVE
who thinks that carmela soprano is greedy yahoo
where can i purchase cat’s pride litter in bulk
who are green days contacts
polar seltzer where in florida
why do walls and rocks look green in the rainy season
why mom likes disney world
what are wal-marts achievments
how to get fat
how do you play marco polo
what does it mean if i see a rat in the middle of the day
what is the effect of the contradiction in tecnique and treatment of a funeral in the “emperor of ice cream” by wallace stevens
what happened to k.b. toys in king of prussia
4000 footers do you have to start each peak from the ground
how to get fat
what is a jagerette
what does red weather mean in wallace stevens disillusionment of ten o’clock
what does it mean when your urine has a green tone to it
where can you buy chocolate cockroaches
are there any nude pictures of female astronauts
what color makes girls horny
is the west natick commuter stop scary
graffitized auto erotic what is it
can we eat grapes,wine and sing kumbaya
what is the green shine on meat

QUOTATION
“french toast” “always soggy”
“handsome is that handsome dose”
“american tourist in germany”
“tickle my sides”
fcc bureaucracy “free term paper”
“french movie” girl bicycle smile eighties
“sexy women’s volleyball team”
“the princeton review” 2008 rankings “unhappiest students”
“denise richards barbie necklace”
“short men” unattractive
vuitton “hyacinth bucket”
“cardio renew” hoax
knife car movie “shoulder length hair” driveway

CELEBRITY
denise richards covering her chest with a towel at the beach photos
green day’s billie joe remembers humble christmas
neil entwistle erection photo
winston churchill and asparagus odor in urine
albert camus “the point of tears” source
montel williams sleeve tattoo
paris hilton nude bong hits
jennifer aniston eating black pudding
belinda carlisle manufactured pop
new kids on the block wearing abercrombie and fitch that seafood makes me sick lyrics
jenna bush’s crotch

SEX & FOOD
laconia biker party sluts
drunk college girls busted cherries
sexualty love
amish sex.com
men rapeing men from hbo show oz
triathlon transition nude pics
babes in gym shorts
babes in furcoats
lemon-buttermilk pudding with huckleberry sauce
coke zero bloating
red lobster sensational seven cake
hare krishna sex meat lazy clean
illegal french toast in baltimore
green asparagus consume in norway

EVERYTHING ELSE
slogans on rise in price,save girl child, water conservation, save earth, global warming, football mania
striking it mega-rich
apply for welfare in rehobeth beach delaware
she got fatter and fatter
teen drug use with vinaigrette
nazi female concentration camp guards relaxing pictures
vegan fat ass size 14 bryant
crazy kids and dad
improper bostonian boston’s best maid
nature shack green green green green green green green green green
noxious odor,south boston,fort point
lovely teen apparel created by mormon moms as seen on the today show
tu tappel comment translated to english
letter in father day celebration usa infinitive
mbta jigsaw puzzles
green spongebob ecstasy
upper cass middle class trailer trash
drinking coffee skull pressure
drinking clorox can cause you to have an miscarriage
green ceramic cup with corn on top and war picture
tips for a harminous marriage
viagra for xenophobic aristocrats
that sheet on which she embroiled fantails once
none are green or purple with green rings
wallace stevens ice cream death motivation
my friend is a latent gold digger
math t-shirts at natick mall
airport screener feel bra embarrassing moments
make really annoying noise drinking straw
origins of male strippers
da da duh duh classical tune
cuckolding diapers

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By Meredith – July 30, 2008

Effed Company

I found out that the start-up company that I joined one year ago — the start-up that laid me off in March, sending me scuttling back to the stable company that I had left to join the start-up — finally died last Friday. It didn’t woo any venture capital firms, it lost its angel investors, it steadily shed employees, and then it just plum ran out of funding.

The start-up’s death will barely register outside of the government agencies that were piloting the technology (obviously indifferently); industry analysts who were paid to benignly analyze it; and a niche techie circle that keeps tabs on emerging competition.

So ends — completely– my dalliance with a start-up. It wasn’t the best experience, but I did learn a few things:

Lesson Learned #1: Don’t join a start-up that would throw money away by hiring a technical writer. Hey, I’m a good technical writer, but 99% of small start-ups don’t need a full-time technical writers. If documentation is a requirement, and if an engineer or QA can’t handle the documentation, the start-up should get a contract technical writer. But to throw money away on a recurring expense such as myself is just a deathwish.

Lesson Learned #2: Don’t join a start-up that would throw money away by hiring me. Maybe when I was younger I would have been keen on devoting all my life’s energy and time into a company on the outside chance that it would be bought up by a big company and I’d make a tidy amount on the meager options alloted to me. But probably not. I’ve always been sort of a slacker.

Lesson Learned #3: Don’t join a start-up that has already been abandoned by one of its founders, then been picked up and brushed off by a group of mostly outsider non-technical business people.

Lesson Learned #4: Don’t join a start-up full of creepy people. It’s very rare that I’m the most normal person in a room. In fact, it’s never happened until my first morning at the start-up, when bagels were brought in for my welcome breakfast and I was standing there thinking “Egads. These people are totally freaking me out.”

Lesson Learned #5: Don’t join a start-up that requires a security clearance. Even if you’ve got nothing to hide, the Single Scope Background Investigation (SSBI) will make you feel like you do. Have you lived in multiple residences? Do you travel to other countries? Have you had any contact with any “foreign nationals”? Your Diplomatic Security investigator needs to know everything you’ve done in the past 10 years. I complied. I was honest. But around the time that I making a list of people whom I dined in Montreal with 4 years ago, I knew it wasn’t worth it.

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By Meredith – July 29, 2008

Johnnie’s Foodmaster

Yesterday I was waiting for my clothes to dry at the laundromat when I decided to go next door to the Johnnie’s Foodmaster supermarket to buy some kitchen sponges. On the prestige scale of New England supermarket chains, the Foodmaster (founded in 1947) lurks near the bottom due to its dirt-cheap and paltry selection of processed and industrialized foodstuffs, its monstrous stacks of 5 for $1 canned food displays that crest each aisle, and its dour clientele who fall into the following 3 over-generalizations:

Old people who fully or partially lean on their carts that never contain more than 3 items and move slothlike through the store, staring at the shelves with looks of confusion and disbelief: “What the hell is this crap, and why does it cost so much?”

Chubby housewives in sweatpants who load their carts with bags of generic cereal and try to curtail the “We want Cocoa Puffs” tantrums of their offspring by passing out generic nilla wafers.

Middle-aged bachelors and male divorcees for whom food has become mere fuel for their hollow, pain-laden existence.

I’ve always avoided Johnnie’s Foodmaster. Even if I wasn’t a food snob who cherishes quality over quantity, who can taste the difference between organic and non-organic, and who gets upset at seeing obviously sick and undernourished people buying nothing but Ramen noodles and Funyons, I would never be able to get past the name. “Johnnie’s Foodmaster.” The retro twang conjures images of frozen foods, hamburger helper, and Jello, lorded over by a whip-yielding grocery maestro: The food master!

Upon entering the Foodmaster, I head instinctively to the center of the store. I pass a huge pillaster of boxes of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, and my stomach inexplicably gurgles with yearning for the gummy pasta and powder-based “cheese” that was the delicacy of my teenaged years. The last time I ate macaroni and cheese, it was in a fine restaurant that specialized in gourmet comfort foods, and the $18 dish featured foraged mushrooms and artisinal Swiss cheese. It was tasty but not comforting, same as how a silk blouse feels good against your skin but isn’t quite comfortable.

I mastered the urge to not grab a few boxes of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and continued to the cleaning supplies. I had to squeeze past a stationary elderly cart-leaner who seemed to have fallen asleep while inspecting tiolet paper. I retrieved my sponges and headed to the front of the store. When I stood in the short line at the cash register, I scanned the impulse items and was amused to see 4 cassette tapes hanging from the particle board above the conveyor belt. The nostalgia provoked by the Kraft Mac n’ Cheese quickly focused on the cassette tapes, and for a second I forgot what year it was. Today the NYTimes printed the upteenth article about the death of the cassette tape. But like some many other things, in the Foodmaster, the cassette tape has endured past its shelf life.

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By Meredith – July 28, 2008