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.
Posted in Miscellany.
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– August 5, 2008
I had high expectations for Joshua Ferris’ 2007 debut novel Then We Came to an End. The novel’s milieu is that of an Chicago advertising agency that is facing financial dire straits just after the burst of the Internet Bubble of 2001, the sort of “Hey I can relate to this” theme that validates my workaday feelings of frustration, disbelief, fear, and utter dependance. It’s as familiar and comforting as Dilbert or Office Space, yet the backcover boasts raving endorsements from The New York Times Book Review and other literary illumnaries. Could this be the canonical classic that sets the standard for office lit?
The most conspicuous sylistic element of Then We Came to an End is that it’s written (almost) entirely in the first-person plural. For example, from the opening paragraph: “We were fractious and overpaid. Our mornings lacked promise. At least those of us who smoked has something to look forward to at ten-fifteen.” Gradually the individual co-workers who make up the collective “we” are identified and developed. Most are stereotypes and not one of them is entirely likable. They steal, lie, bicker, gossip, and, as the lay-offs ramp up, grow paranoid and spend most of their time thinking of creative ways to pad timesheets and look busy. Overall, a pretty realistic bunch in corporate America.
Like many literary aspiants who atrophy in a bill-paying occupation, I sometimes fantasize about using my deadening existence as the basis for great work of literature, like how Bukowski turned his gig as a postal worker into the sublime Post Office, or how Joseph Conrad’s stint as a steamboat captain in the Congo insprired Heart of Darkness . But Then We Came to an End makes me seriously question if such a thing is possible from the vantage point of the modern office environment. Sure, hijinks like hiding sushi in a detested co-worker’s office or getting into a fight with the office coordinator about purloined desk chairs are amusing, but they hardly speaks for the human condition.
Ferris knows this, and attempts to inject some meaning and excitement into the novel with a variety of heady sub-plots. One characters dies, one has cancer, one is pregnant with a married co-worker’s child, one’s only child is kidnapped and murdered, and one is getting a divorce and suffers a complete mental breakdown that drives him to go on a rampage with a paintball gun. The result is an office that looks nothing like any office I’ve ever heard of, and whatever poignancy Ferris musters comes from these extraordinary circumstances. But then again, what can he do? Attempt to draw significance from a vacuous office where nothing much happens except meetings, lunch, and lay-offs? Would that have been as entertaining?
As a writer and reader, I was intrigued. But as a cubicle denizen, not so much.
Posted in Review.
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– August 5, 2008
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.
Posted in Existence.
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– August 3, 2008
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).
Posted in Existence.
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– July 31, 2008
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
Posted in Miscellany.
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– July 30, 2008
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.
Posted in The 9 to 5.
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– July 29, 2008
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.
Posted in Americana.
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– July 28, 2008
As the Boston French Film Festival wraps up at the MFA, Mr. P grows increasingly frantic. Another year will pass before he can indulge in the small-budget cinematic treasures of his homeland, so we scour the schedule with care. Among the offerings, Shall We Kiss, a romantic comedy by rising French director Emmanuel Mouret, stands out as the most tempting choice. Braving the Sunday crowds, we settle into a packed theater filled with Francophiles and Francophones for 96 minutes of quintessentially French cinema.
Shall We Kiss is an utterly charming film about adultery (leave it to the French to make infidelity feel adorable). The story begins with Emilie and Gabriel, two attractive strangers who meet serendipitously in the streets of Nantes. Over dinner, sparks fly, but when the night ends, Emilie refuses Gabriel’s request for a goodnight kiss. Her reason? Kissing, she insists, can be far more dangerous than it seems. To prove her point, she recounts a tale that takes up the bulk of the film.
Her story follows Judith and Nicolas, best friends whose close bond teeters into the territory of intimacy—with kisses, then sex—before blossoming into forbidden love. Complications ensue as Judith, already married to Claudio, fears hurting her husband. Nicolas, undeterred, devises a bizarre plan: he ropes in his freshly-ex-girlfriend Caline to seduce Claudio, paving the way for Judith and Nicolas to be together. Naturally, the scheme is as outlandish as it is amusing.
Emilie’s story is playful and witty, capturing the lightheartedness of a French sex farce. Yet the film’s real intrigue lies in the unspoken tension between Emilie and Gabriel. As the night stretches on, the weight of their unsaid—and unkissed—desires grows heavier. In a clever twist, the final scene reveals Emilie’s personal connection to the Judith and Nicolas saga, elevating the film from a charming romantic romp to something far more intelligent and nuanced.
With Shall We Kiss, Mouret delivers a film that is as much about the complexities of love and relationships as it is about the power of restraint. It’s clever, understated, and quintessentially French—making it the perfect finale to the festival’s lineup.
Posted in Review.
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– July 27, 2008
“Total physical and mental inertia are highly agreeable, much more so than we allow ourselves to imagine. A beach not only permits such inertia but enforces it, thus neatly eliminating all problems of guilt. It is now the only place in our overly active world that does.”
–John Kenneth Galbraith
Today we spent a bulk of the day lounging on Crane Beach in Ipswich. There was more sun than last weekend’s beach trip, and hence more crowds, more sunscreen, and more incentive to dip into the 61-degree water.
Here I am in Mr. Pinault’s wet suit. I had never worn a wet suit before, and was a bit alarmed at its snug fit. But it did keep me warm and buoyant enough to swim for about 10 minutes, until I grew paranoid of any errant great white sharks who might mistake me for a baby seal. So I plowed out of the water — a bit of a spectacle, yes — and peeled off the wet suit to enjoy the enforced enertia of my beach towel.
Posted in Existence.
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– July 26, 2008
We took a post-dinner walk to our local ice cream parlor. Mr. P was unduly shocked into giggles when I ordered my vanilla frozen custard with chocolate jimmies. He thought “jimmies” sounded like a euphemism for a man’s, um, family jewels. After I dispelled that notion, he then was most curious about these elongogated flecks of confection.
“We don’t have jimmies in France,” he said, eying my cup covetingly.
I cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah, that’s what I hear.”
Posted in Existence.
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– July 25, 2008
