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Unidentified Flying Origami

Origami is one of many arts n’ craftsy endeavors that I have taken up over my lifetime, earnestly determined to become a master artisan, only to be stumped by technique, short on patience, and bored silly enough to abandon the craft after about one week. (Other artistic undertakings include knitting, cross-stitch, embroidery, charcoal drawing, silkscreening, and scherenschnitte).

In fact, origami was one of my earliest artistic failures. Back in the 80s, origami was a trendy past time for kids, and I tried to master this ancient Japanese art using an origami “kit” with an instruction book and special origami paper squares. I remember having difficulty conceptualizing the required folds from the two-dimensional illustrations with the dotted lines, arrows, and shaded sections. Even today, staring at the origami instruction to the right, I am utterly confounded and slightly angered.

I muse upon origami because of this article about how Japan might launch 8-inch by 4-inch origami shuttles from space to travel back through the atmosphere to Earth. The idea and spacecraft design comes from the head of the Japan Origami Airplane Association, who “spent 18 months figuring out how to fold a perfect origami spacecraft from a plain sheet of paper — without cutting, stitching or taping it — and tested hundreds of designs in the process.”

It’s an idea that’s crazy enough to appeal to lots of Japanese, and the Japanese space agency has promised to fund feasibility studies for this origami shuttle. The biggest challenge isn’t that the paper will disintegrate during re-entry (the paper is coated in heat-resistant sugar cane fibers), but that “there is no way to track the paper craft or predict when or where they may land.” Could you imagine: Suddenly, an origami space shuttle descends from the ski? Little yellow men, anyone?

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Posted in In the News.

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Honduran Cantaloupe

Last week the FDA issued an advisory that cantaloupes originating from a producer in Honduras may be tainted with salmonella. The agency has imposed an import ban on the melons after 50 Americans in 16 states and 9 Canadians have been sickened. The accusations have infuriated Honduran President Manuel Zelaya, whose questionable credentials, despotic tendencies, and fondness for televising government propaganda throughout his poor country could have only resulted in the following response to the FDA’s import ban:

“It’s not in our fruit. It’s not true what they are saying. Logically, we believe it is an error,” Zelaya insisted before he grabbed a cantaloupe, cut himself a slice, and “chewed vigorously. ‘I eat this fruit without any fear,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘It’s a delicious fruit. Nothing happens to me!'”

What do you think of that, FDA? Having second thoughts about your ‘logical’ public health guidelines? Look at the man, he’s eaten the cantaloupe without fear and nothing happened to him within 5 seconds of its ingestion. Now that’s logically delicious.

Zelaya is not a President to be trifled with. He’s not afraid to eat the fruit. I’d like to see Chinese officials attempt similar sophistry with the blood thinner heparin …

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La Pequena Hillary Clinton

For all of the French’s intellectual and cultural posturing, when it comes to humor, they enjoy simplistic, physical comedy: Mimes, clowns, Jerry Lewis, Jim Carrey, and America’s Funniest Home Videos are the sorts of entertainment that cause many a busted Gallic gut. Humor like Monty Python, the Simpsons, Steven Wright, and Tim and Eric is bizarre and ridiculous to the French, unless someone falls down, makes a funny face, or suddenly breaks out in pantomime.

Americans tend to take after our British forerunners, and find situations humorous when it involves a cerebrally-pleasing element like wit, irony, and satire. Generally, we find mimes to be creepy, clowns to be childish, and home videos of men accidentally getting hit in the genitals with baseballs to be lowbrow.

I can usually predict if my French husband will find something to be funny. For example, I knew that the infamous Sarah Silverman “I’m f***ing Matt Damon” video would be beyond him. “Don’t you get it? Not only are they publicly making Jimmy Kimmel a cuckold, but they’re singing this elaborate song about how much they eff!” He stared at it, adapting the typical annoyance-twinged stone face that French people use to convey that the only way they could be less amused is if someone started wondering what happened to all of the French Jews.

But I was totally unprepared for his reaction to the videos of the Chilean midget who dresses up like female celebrities and dances around like an idiot (here for ‘La Pequena Hillary Clinton’ on YouTube). I showed him the video this morning at breakfast, expecting him to laugh with me about how the Internet elevates the stupidest crap to the public’s attention. But instead, he was genuinely amused, charmed, even delighted. It kinda freaked me out, actually, how he wouldn’t stop laughing.

Posted in Culture.

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Dream Wedding

Dream interpretation is a primitive art that originated thousands of years ago, back when a hodgepodge of superstition, folklore, and generally crazy ideas abounded to explain the unexplainable in the absence of modern scientific methods. For example, astronomical, planetary and earthly phenomena were rationalized by mythical stories. “Dad, where does fire come from?” “Well, son, Prometheus stole it from the Gods.” “What about ambrosia?” “Tantalus stole it from the Gods.” “Why do we fight wars?” “The Gods.” “Why does it rain?” “The Gods.” “Why do we dream?” “Gods. Any more questions?”

Today, though it is commonly accepted that the constellation of Orion is not the bodily remnants of a gigantic hunter who was cast into the sky by the Gods, people are still certain that their dreams hold profound, mystical, and/or prophetic meanings. This belief gained widespread acceptance when a certain Viennese coke-head applied psychoanalysis to the dreams of his patients in order to forge a portal into the unconscious mind’s forbidden wishes, fears, and anxieties, all of which involved phalluses and wombs.

The latest dream research suggests that dreams are not cryptic symbolic riddles to be decoded, but rather just the cerebral cortex’s way of trying to create a story out of the fragmented brain activity during REM sleep. So while your brain is repairing and optimizing its neuronal connections, your dreams are being scripted from all these random mental flashes that most probably come from your short-term rather than long-term memory.

In other words, when I have nightmares about my upcoming wedding, maybe it’s not my unconscious soul revealing my anxieties about married life, but rather a direct byproduct of the wedding planning process that has taken over most of my free time. I had a dream that, during the reception at the French chateau, the dance floor kept spurting deep, abyssal holes that swallowed guests and resulted in my arrest and imprisonment. Perhaps the dream came from a discussion about hiring a French DJ. (Freud would say that I was a closet whore.)

I had a dream that I had decorated the invitations by smearing peanut butter on them to attain a distinct burnt orange sheen. Perhaps the dream came from a prolonged discussion about the layout, wording and styles of French versus American wedding invitations. (Freud would say that I had scatological hang-ups.)

And last night, I had a dream that, as I walked down the aisle, I wore a bright-yellow bolero jacket, a matching baseball cap to hold my hair up, and green eye shadow that extended halfway up my forehead. Perhaps the dream was inspired by a magazine article I read about brides who do their own hair and make-up to save money. (Freud would say that I want to castrate my groom.)

Posted in Existence.

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Spring Ski

This weekend we journeyed to the XC skiing mecca Waterville Valley, with the express intent of enjoying our final ski for the season. Of course, since the trails still boost a foot and a half of packed snow, the ski season will continue well into April, but we were determined to make this our final hurrah, a resolution that was strengthened by skiing uphill for 2km on a black diamond trial called Criterion in the buttery springtime snow on top of a layer of ice.

Below is one of my favorite pictures from this long, fantastic XC season: Mr. Pinault skiing down the alpine-style open slope at Windblown XC. If you’ve ever been on XC skis, then you know that it takes an absurd amount of balance and skill to control those twiggy skis, especially while descending a long hill. To do this with style is Mr. Pinault’s speciality.

Mr. Pinault is a rare lifelong Alpine skier who abandoned his easy-going, high-thrills sport in favor of the physical rigors of XC skiing. He does not miss the Alpine skiing lifestyle that much (the expensive lift tickets, the freezing mountain tops, the crowded lodges) but when we go to the open slope, he starts pulling out all his Alpine skiing moves like pivots, carving, and parallel turns, and he is so elegant and graceful that me and all the other snow-plowing skiers gape at him in disbelief.

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Posted in Trips.

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Happy, happy Good Friday

Today is Friday. Good Friday, in fact. Happy, happy Good Friday. I do not think that I’m making a profound declaration when I say that 4-day work weeks rock. In the foreseeable future, every Friday will be a good Friday.

So as if having Friday’s off wasn’t present enough, my new iPod shuffle arrived on my doorstep at 10am. For $49, it’s stunning. I mean, it’s teeny tiny and shiny and even the pinkie-height user manual is a thing of nano-beauty. I immediately synced it to my PowerBook and started filling its 1GB of memory with music files.

Within an hour, it was fully charged. I plugged in my new Sennheiser sport headphones, clipped the iPod shuffle onto my pants, and resumed my fortnightly house cleaning. Wouldn’t you know, the first song to come screaming into my ears was Van Halen’s “Jump”. Oh, the synthesizer… that opening primal yell… that awesome guitar riff. Why did the 80’s have to end?

Luckily, Gang of Four’s “Natural’s Not in It” shuffled on next, saving me from a full-blown episode of cock rock nostalgia that might of potentially involved purchasing Def Leppard’s Hysteria in the iTunes Music Store.

Here’s a picture of my new iPod shuffle, so that you may marvel in its petiteness. That’s my thumb, and while my thumb is formidable, it’s not that big. The engraving that I obsessed about last Friday is across the top.

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Posted in Existence.

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Lingua Franca

Last night was the final class in my latest cycle of French classes. Yes, I have finished French Level 2… again. For the record, this is the third time I’ve taken Level 2. I first took Level 2 two years ago, then took Level 3, then after a discombobulating break, I returned last fall to a Level 1 and 2 intensive class. I then tried Level 3 once again but found myself lost in the first class, so I descended back to Level 2.

“It’s not that I’m stupid, it’s just that I don’t try hard enough,” I explain to Mr. P, who like ma professeur is distressed by my inability to advance. I then try to blame Mr. P for not adhering to a strict French-only speaking policy within our home. Of course, that would be a marital disaster.

The thing is, I love the English language. I love reading it. I love writing it. I love learning new words. I love finding out about its history, its evolution, the ways it can be used, and the ways it has been misused. I am and always have been a total English geek.

Intellectually, I know that learning French would not detract from my English, and may even enhance my all-around phraseology. But when I sit down to study my French vocabulary, I’m looking at boring, everyday communication: We live in an apartment. (Nous habitons dans un appartement.) That belt is inexpensive. (Cette ceinture est bon marche.) Who likes to do yoga? (Qui aime faire du yoga?) It’s such linguistic regression.

Every French class, it’s the same. 14 people sign up, all enthusiastic to learn French. Most commonly, they took French in high school or college, and they want to travel in France and not sound like an ignorant American tourist. But by the last class, it’s me and maybe 4 or 5 other die-hards, and we’re proudly conversing in stilted French like children. Oh well. There’s always next semester.

Posted in Existence.

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Philip Seymour Hoffman is Invading My Movie Theatre

Since the beginning of the 2008, the second-run movie theatre near my house has shown a total of three (3) movies starring Philip Seymour Hoffman, the award-winning actor whose immense talent is matched only by the girth of his second chin. Ha ha. Hell, since I’ve seen all three of the movies, it’s obvious that I love the guy. In fact, when assessing if a movie is worth the time, money, and effort, Philip Seymour Hoffman is a pretty reliable indicator that it is, it is, and it is. Philip Seymour Hoffman is invading my movie theatre, and he’s delightful!

I saw Before the Devil Knows Your Dead back in January and already discussed it on this website, so I won’t rehash the oozing praise tempered by the pronouncement that “only a Schadenfreude connoisseur could of enjoyed it.” Phillip Seymour Hoffman plays a totally gross, totally smarmy white-collar heroin addict who manipulates his brother into committing despicable crimes. I would totally see this movie again, except this time I would buy a nice, comforting tub of popcorn to help me cope with the repeated heart-arresting plot cruxes followed by the long periods of cold-sweat tension.

Next, Charlie Wilson’s War came to town. It stars Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts, but only Phillip Seymour Hoffman managed to get an Oscar nomination for his portrayal of Gust, the low-brow CIA guy who helps House of Representative Wilson fund a secret war against the Russians in Afghanistan in the 1980s. I’m actually waist-deep in this book right now and it’s an excellent history lesson, but for entertainment purposes, Philip Seymour Hoffman is absolutely the best thing about this movie. The audience scarcely reacted to Hanks or Roberts and their horrible faux Southern drawls, but they fell apart every time Hoffman opened his mouth and let loose another gem in his tough-guy Pittsburgher accent: “Can we just take a moment to reflect on all of the ways that you are a douche bag?”

And finally, last week was The Savages starring Laura Linney and Phillip Seymour Hoffman as two siblings who must care for their estranged, elderly father who is afflicted with dementia. The movie could best be described as a drama since it spends a fair amount of time on ponderous, uber-depressing subject matters like the guilt involved in placing family members in drab, harshly-lit nursing homes to avoid having to change their adult diapers. But a few jokes do fly, just to keep up the mood, and Hoffman’s wise Big Brother matter-of-factness is decidedly more funny than Linney’s feisty Little Sis neuroticism.

Posted in Review.

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Sidewalk Pedestrian

Walking from the subway to the office this morning at 8:30am, I trailed behind a woman with three-inch candy-apple red high-heels, a dainty black fedora, and peg-leg snakeskin pants peeking out from underneath a beige executive-style trench coat, smartly belted around her wispy waist. Her left arm was bent to support the crimson stippled handbag that was hooked over her shoulder, and her right arm casually reached up to hold the sheet of glossy black hair away from the tasteful wireless headset into which she was talking.

Women like this fascinate me. Theoretically, nothing is stopping me from buying the same fashionable clothes and accessories and, presto! I’m a fascinating woman strutting down the street. But even if I could bring myself to spend $800 on a pair of shoes and actually wear them outside my house, I would not be so ravishing. This women has an intrinsic glamour that I and 99% of all women don’t have.

I grew tired of listening to the demure clank of the red shoes, tired of pondering her intangible excellence, so I increased my pace to walk past her. “Well, maybe you have to stop thinking about ‘your life,’ and start thinking about ‘our life,'” the woman murmured into her headset as I neared her. “Our life, together… No, it is different. When you’re making all these plans, you’re not thinking about me. You’re not thinking about us.”

I was tempted to loiter within earshot of her dialogue, but I walked on, confident I had nailed her otherworldly quality: She’s a living, breathing reality television show, always seeing herself through the camera lens, uttering dramatic soundbites, prepared for the glare of public attention. Some of us are performers, others, the audience.

Posted in Existence.

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Beer Hats, and Other Kinda Funny Things

In honor of Saint Patrick’s Day proper, pictured to the right is one more photo from yesterday’s parade in South Boston. Yes, those are hats styled after mugs of beer — the finest example of millinery for the masses that I have ever seen. Please forgive the mocking tone, but it’s hard for me to discuss hats styled after mugs of beer without getting all highbrow.

Yesterday, before heading to the parade in South Boston to mingle with people wearing beer hats, local and state politicians gathered for the annual St. Patrick’s Day breakfast. The eggs, sausage, and white pudding are incidental; it’s really a political ‘roast’ where participants show off their sense of humor by making speeches and singing songs featuring mild zingers aimed at their political peers. Pointed remarks at others are usually tempered with self-deprecating put-downs. The event is just funny and suave enough to arouse suspicion that armies of comedians, image consultants, and politically-astute focus groups are somehow involved, resulting in the political equivalent of a Starbucks Breakfast sandwich.

Back when Massachusetts was ruled by a contingent of Irish politicians, the breakfast was a forum for artful teasing, a major facet of Irish humor. Massachusetts politics has since diversified to include numerous Italians, blacks, whites of indeterminable identity, and even a Mormon, so the clubby, relaxed feeling of the breakfast has been lost. It now comes across as stilted and painful for everyone involved. When it was former Governor Mitt Romney’s turn at the 2005 breakfast, he took a peremptory stance by rapidly exhausting an array of Mormon jokes before anyone else could: “Saying he is against gay marriage, Romney said that, as a Mormon, he believes ‘marriage should be between a man and a woman. And a woman. And a woman'”.

But (no surprise) Mitt really did not get the point: The ribbing and sparring is meant to bolster support for one’s political agenda, not make oneself the horse’s ass of a joke. According to the Boston Herald this year “most of the humor was focused on local issues, with the hot-button casino controversy taking center stage… After pro-casino Governor Deval Patrick sang the merits of his proposal, Sal DiMasi, the powerful House speaker who’s against allowing them in, reminded him that when it comes to gambling, ‘The House always wins'”.

Perhaps the burden of being inoffensive and hilarious is too heavy for the politicians in the age of YouTube, because this year, local comedian Steve Sweeney delivered a few jokes seeped in local humor. Spoofing the presidential candidates, Sweeney joked “‘Change, change, change, we want change.’ These guys are starting to sound like homeless people on Boylston Street.” Ha ha. I’m glad that someone has the balls to stick it to the city’s homeless at the Saint Patrick’s Day breakfast.

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Posted in Massachusetts.

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