In the beginning of October, we will be honeymooning in Granada, Spain, which is in Andalucia on the southern tip… home of stunning architecture, flamenco music, great hiking, tasty tapas, and exquisite aromatic teas!
[Mr. Pinault lobbied hard for Greece, but I had my heart set on Spain. After much debate, we decided to compromise and go to Spain. Ha. “If you didn’t want a wife, then why did you get married?” is becoming a familiar refrain.]
Posted in Trips.
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– February 13, 2008
Last night I listened to songs tagged “French” on Last.fm, trying to kill, with one stone, two albatrosses: the expansion of my musical tastes and the acquisition of French language skills. I heard some alarming French hip-hop. I heard a token Edith Piaf ballad followed by the avante-garde stylings of Brigitte Fontaine. I learned that Daft Punk was French. Then…
“Mr. P, come quick! It’s Carla Bruni!”
“WHERE?” Mr. P cried, racing into the bedroom. I pointed at the Last.fm widget playing Carla Bruni singing “Le plus beau du quartier” (which translates to something like the best-looking man in the neighborhood) and Mr. P looked amused but disappointed.
Carla Bruni is, of course, France’s newest First Lady, a 40 year-old former supermodel-turned-singer who regularly poises for ‘artistic’ nude photographs and has dated Mick Jagger and Eric Clapton. I expected Nicolas Sarkozy to do a lot of devisive things when he assumed office, but to divorce his wife and marry Carla Bruni seemed as probable as him invading Germany.
France takes pride in its view of sex as one of life’s basic pleasures. When I ribbed Mr. P about the Sarkozy-Bruni union, he initially defended Sarkozy for this reason and pointed to Carla Bruni’s vague ties to the art world. But then, like most French, Mr. P expressed bewilderment and disapproval for the actions of his President. Yes, Sarkozy deserves to have a personal life, but did he have to marry a supermodel so soon after his divorce? Not only does it hint of a world leader wasting his time and energy on his mid-life crisis, it has made him unseemly tabloid fodder.
And wow. What a crap singer Carla Bruni is. Like Belinda Carlisle without the passion.
Posted in In the News.
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– February 12, 2008
Yesterday Mr. P and I were going into Boston on the Red Line. The train car was almost empty except for three young men wielding a camcorder affixed to a tripod. One of the young men had his face painted white with flecks of black, like a mime, though he had no other tell-tale mime accouterments. He sat down near us and his friends sat across the aisle and pointed the camera at him. Except for some whispering between the two cameramen, none of them spoke a word.
Normally I don’t stare at people on the T, but the video camera invited me to gawk unabashed at the trio. To my disappointment, the mime did not make any overtly mime-like movements; he sat motionless with his hands on his knees and slowly moved his head from the floor to the ceiling. Once he stood up and I braced myself for action, but he soon sat down and resumed his stoic posture.
The train picked up more passengers as it passed through Cambridge. At Park Street, the mime rose and glided through the doors, followed by his friends and the curious eyes of a dozen spectators. I turned to Mr. P and said what I had been dying to say the whole time: “Did you notice how freaking tight their pants were?”
Yes, to me, the incredibly tight skinny pants made a bigger impression than the white face paint or the camcorder. I couldn’t get over how snug the denim cinched their skinny legs right down to their flat Converse-like sneakers. It seemed a profound generational fashion statement, probably born out of cargo-pant-backlash, that I couldn’t relate to at all. Except when I’m skiing in my sexy pants, I like my pants roomy and grungy. Woe, I’m old.
Posted in Massachusetts.
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– February 11, 2008
Last week, as I scanned the live music listings in The Weekly Dig, genuine panic struck when I didn’t recognize any of the bands playing at the music venues that I used to frequent, like the Paradise, the Middle East, and the Avalon. I can’t believe it. I stop paying attention to the popular music scene for five years, and everything changes!
Either I could obstinately huddle in my hovel and groove on the glory days with Jane’s Addiction, NOFX, and Aphex Twin (“Kids, don’t you know that music will never be better than the music of the 1990s?”) or I could make myself vulnerable by attempting to condition these old ears to appreciate new music.
Last week I joined Last.fm. These days, it’s not as difficult to keep up with what the kids are listening to as it is to keep up with how they are listening to it. Last.fm bills itself as a “social music platform… Show off your taste, see what your friends are listening to, hear new music, get personal radio, recommendations…” The Last.fm website is slick and vast, with bios, pics, videos and samples of thousands of artists.
After I created an account and downloaded the Last.fm “scrobbling” radio widget, I felt poised for musical discovery. Last.fm’s recommendations are based on the songs that you listen to and proclaim “love” for, so I eagerly searched for and played my beloved “golden oldie” music like Nirvana, Sonic Youth, and Fugazi. To my chagrain, Last.fm spat out recommendations for artists like Foo Fighters, Superchunk, and Minor Threat. I guess there’s no algorithm that computes modern-day equivalent of the Lunachicks.
On Last.fm’s Groups page, I found a Group called “New Music for Old People.” Ah, here are people like me who have already grappled with my dilemma! Unfortunately, the Group’s culmative Playlist is topped by Joy Division, the Clash and Radiohead, indicating that it’s impossible for even well-intentioned old people to dig new music.
Obviously, there was no quick and dirty way to discover new music except to actually listen to it. After more than a few hours of listening to Last.fm radio and resisting the temptation to scrobble comforting bands like the Misfits and Babes in Toyland, I’ve discovered a Canadian electronic musician named Caribou who, while not exactly new, is still recording and touring. In fact, Caribou is playing at the Paradise next month, and I’ve already bought tickets. Army surplus, flannel shirts, and Doc Martens are still cool, right?
Posted in Culture.
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– February 11, 2008
It’s the eternal blogger’s dilemma: Should I post a half-assed, uninspired effort just to fulfill my blogging duty and get on with my life, or should I admit defeat, skip posting and risk upsetting the blog groove? The bloggers who pick the former are the reason why so many blogs suck; the bloggers who pick the latter are the reason why so many blogs die.
Posted in Miscellany.
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– February 9, 2008
Iran’s shiny new space center was inaugurated on Monday, followed by the launch of a rocket that may someday carry domestically-produced satellites into orbit. State-run television claims the launch proves Iran has “joined the world’s top 11 countries possessing space technology” by being able to put satellite into orbit.
While Iran has indeed launched a rocket pointed in the direction of space, experts remain dubious about their ability to put a satellite into orbit using indigenous, Iranian technology. This feat has never even been accomplished by second-tier countries like Canada, Germany, Spain, and Australia. It would seem improbable that Iran, a country where women are still stoned to death for adultery would ever be able to launch anything more complex than a stone.
Posted in In the News.
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– February 7, 2008
News commentators have furtively analyzed Super Tuesday results for demographic trends to trumpet in headlines like “White males look like swing vote in Democratic nomination”. Of course they are. This is an unprecedented decision that white men must make: White woman or black man? Swing is an understatement. I’m surprised that their heads don’t whirl around like a top before exploding.
In the past, the media has helpfully coined the swing voting blocs with catchy monikers like Soccer Moms, Security Moms, Office Park Dads, and Nascar Dads. This year, it’s simply White Guys.
Posted in In the News.
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– February 7, 2008
Today is my two-week marriage anniversary. I can’t believe it’s been two weeks. How fast these precious seconds slip away. Our bonds of matrimony strengthen with each passing day, as we create precious memories, enjoy good times, weather the bad times, and bask in the sweet surprises that these glorious two weeks have yielded. Mr. P grows a bit more handsome every day, except last Friday, when he looked sort of tired.
I am referring to our “marriage,” which consisted of a civil ceremony, as opposed to our “wedding,” which is still to come. The marriage was necessary to begin the process of acquiring Mr. P’s Green Card — a surprisingly intense ordeal. Naively, I pictured us handing a gruff gray-haired judge our marriage license along with some old utility bills. He’d ask some questions, fill out a few papers, and then hand over a Green Card: “Have a great life together, you crazy kids!”
No. In this day and age, getting a Green Card involves lawyers, the Department of Homeland Security, truckloads of paperwork, and thousands of dollars in fees. As the Sponsor, I must prove that I am financially able to support the Alien that I propose to make part of this country. Of course, I pull in peanuts compared to Mr. P’s Payday candy bars, but they don’t care about the Alien’s salary. They just want to make sure the Alien doesn’t have tuberculosis, AIDS, smallpox, typhoid fever, yellow fever, scarlet fever, measles, diphtheria, or the plague.
Yes, just in case he carried any dirty immigrant diseases when he came to North America from France 12 years ago in the steerage class of a steamship, Mr. P must undergo a thorough medical examination complete with vaccinations and blood tests. It’s like a compulsory sanity test to gain entrance to an insane asylum.
I feel constantly compelled to clarify that while we got married in order to get Mr. P’s Green Card, that wasn’t the only reason. To suffer through the process of acquiring a Green Card, love is a prerequisite. I mean, that a beautiful American woman would marry an odd-looking Frenchman so that he could get a Green Card, that only happens in the movies.
Posted in Existence.
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– February 6, 2008
When it comes to days of the week, Tuesday doesn’t have much going for it. So it seems unfair that Tuesday’s two claims of fame – Super Tuesday and Mardi Gras – are falling on the very same Tuesday. Our attention is divided. There’s the masquerading hedonists engaging in wanton revelry, and then there’s the festive parade on streets of New Orleans.
Confession: I am a registered Democrat. Sentient beings have no other choice in the state of Massachusetts, because the only Republicans who dare run for office are self-made businessmen or wack-job crusaders against gay marriage. So my dilemma was… Hillary or Obama? Ah, it felt so good to actually weigh the candidates’ merits instead of figuring out who was the lesser evil. I’ve supported Obama all along, but lately the gender issue gnawed at me. Would I really vote for a candidate because she’s a woman? It turns out: Yes, I would, as long as she isn’t a war-mongering socialist.
Mitt Romney’s bid for the Presidency is rightfully doomed, but I did vote for Mitt as Governor of Massachusetts, so he occupies a teensy-tiny soft spot in my heart. Mitt, if you want to save your campaign, you better act fast. Too many boring Presidential candidates wait until after they lose the election to show their true personalities. Look at Robert Dole, who during his campaign was indistinguishable from a corpse, and then turned out be a comedic genius. And Al Gore, the “Little Wooden Boy,” totally thawed out.
Mitt, people make up reasons not to like you because there’s something intangibly repellent about your demeanor. It’s not your fault, but you Mormons have this creepy cultish non-emotional optimism that grates the nerves of all us non-believers. Your only option is to go publicly batshit nuts. Get thee to New Orleans, don a feather mask, hop on a float, and throw beads and doubloons to parade-goers who flash you their voter registration cards. Perhaps the convergence of Super Tuesday and Mardi Gras is auspicious. What have you got to lose?
Posted in In the News.
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– February 5, 2008
You may be imagining me cowering with abject shame over the failure of the New England Patriots to vanquish the New York Giants in last night’s Super Bowl. Yes, like many Patriots fans who brayed cocky predictions of victory, I was stunned by the Patriot’s lackluster performance, I was angered by Peyton Manning’s crowing from his luxury box perch, and I was enraged by the humiliating defeat of a team that had come so close to a historic perfect season (“The Patriots lost the Super Bowl. It is an alternate universe. It does not compute”).
But after some quiet reflection, I was okay with the Patriot’s loss. In the parlance of the ancient Greek world with which I equate the battle of modern football, the defeat of Bill Belichick was a textbook example of hubris. As Wikipedia explains, “Hubris… was considered the greatest sin of the ancient Greek world. The category of acts constituting hubris for the ancient Greeks apparently broadened from the original specific reference to molestation of a corpse, or a humiliation of a defeated foe, to molestation, or irreverent, outrageous treatment, in general”.
Since the beginning of the 2007-8 NFL season, when so-called SpyGate resulted in a hefty fine and the loss of a first-round draft pick, Belichick has sought not just to beat his opponents, but annihilate them. No coach in the NFL has ever ran up the score so flagrantly. When the Patriots beat the Redskins 52-7, Belichick committed the football equivalent of tying the Redskins to his chariot by their heels and riding around the stadium.
There is no sin in winning, but Belichick’s lack of joy was disquieting even to New England fans. We knew his pride tempted the other teams to retribution. It egged them on. It’s no coincidence that the Baltimore Ravens, the Philadelphia Eagles, and of course the New York Giants played their best games ever against the Patriots.
Americans instinctively route for the underdog. It’s not because we glorify mediocrity, but because we live in a meritocracy. We see evidence of the underdog’s advantage everywhere we look. So the Patriot’s downfall is not a complete surprise or even disappointment to me, and I am solaced by the Patriot’s otherwise phenomenal season. Bill Belichick remains, I’m sure, joyless.
Posted in Massachusetts.
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– February 4, 2008
