nolan's strange magnetism

Cass, Diana, Nolan and I saw SuperDiamond (the alternative Neil Diamond experience) at the Belly Up last night.

We began with dinner and drinks at my place, then headed to the show. The openers, Urban Gypsys, were a funk band so good that even the whitest white boys in the audience found their inner groove and shook their asses.

Then, Surreal Neil and the Diamond boys took the stage in their sequined shirts, platform shoes, and ridiculously tight pants. Having gotten there early enough to stake out our spots right against the center of the stage, we were poised for a great view of Neil, which created all sorts of issues ...

I'm not above throwing an elbow when someone tries to weasel her way up front, especially if that someone is a bimbo who's never heard of the band and only wants to get up on stage. Let's just say that there were bimbos aplenty.

Take, for instance, the very inebriated blonde who kept rubbing herself all over Nolan. His back got more breast action than it's ever had, which is hilarious, given that she was so not his demographic. For some strange reason, Nolan also seemed to have victim written all over him. Earlier, he encountered an asshole who kept trying to berate him into trading spots with his girlfriend. But it was all good in the end.

Surreal Neil and the boys rocked out for nearly three hours, playing all my favorite Neil Diamond songs. We all loved it. As we were walking out, Diana kept saying how hot Surreal Neil was. Neil reached new levels of hotness with us all when Cass pointed out that he's a math teacher from Hayward who rocks out with his buddies on the weekends and makes ridiculous amounts of money while having a great time.

And not to brag or anything, but I wore my supacool Neil Diamond forever t-shirt purchased when I saw the real Neil last month in concert. I think it probably factored into me being the only woman who Surreal Neil actually kissed during the show. It was my hand, but that's not the point now, is it?

missing the mark

This NPR story comes to us all thanks to my friend Hilary.

She actually told her friend Andrea (a producer for All Things Considered) about Hanzi smatter, who followed up with a story. It became the most-emailed story on the NPR site for a few days.

NPR : Chinese Character Tattoos: Lost in Translation
Robert Siegel talks with Tian Tang, author of http://www.hanzismatter.com/ (a Web site dedicated to the misuse of Chinese characters in Western culture). Tang posts photos of Chinese character tattoos that either contain errors or carry no meaning.

Tang says as a Chinese American, he felt it was his "duty and honor to educate the public about the misusage of Chinese characters."

totally engorged

This article about a man's personal journey of discovery, as precipitated by a late-night Bowflex infomercial, just slayed (slew? whatever.) me.

A Better Body in 64 Payments
By STEVE FRIEDMAN
HERE'S how an infomercial works: One day life is good, and I'm munching on a sugar-coated, low-fat blueberry Pop-Tart in front of my television at 1:30 a.m., weeping quietly at Tony and Maria's first meeting in "West Side Story" because I know that staggering pain and death await them and all of humanity.

Between that moment and dawn's early light, for 20 minutes I remember only dimly, I stare slack-jawed at a television advertisement for a Bowflex home-exercise machine.

A few days later, five small-coffin-size cardboard boxes are crammed into my one-bedroom apartment, cutting off some of my favorite television viewing angles, tripping me on my late night sorties to fetch Fig Newtons from the fridge, unsettling me so much that I'm forced to add a pint of reduced-fat frozen yogurt to my Pop-Tarts, to soothe my nerves.

I call my friend Jack to complain. I do this because I blame him for my predicament. Jack is a voice-over actor who works out at a health club every morning and eats oatmeal for lunch.

A few days earlier we had been sitting at a Greek diner in the middle of the afternoon, because for the last five years neither of us has had what Jack calls "a no-win contract with the Man" and others refer to as "steady jobs."

We had been chatting about Venezuelan-style populism, Britney Spears and male-pattern hair loss. I was snacking on a cheeseburger and milkshake.

"You're Shamu," Jack said. "Don't you think you'd be happier if you'd eat like a human being instead of a tree sloth and start working out every so often?"

"I think tree sloths are vegetarians," I said.

"Who cares what tree sloths are? You're a whale! You've got to do something!"

But what? My knees are arthritic, so I can't play basketball or jog anymore. The pool at my fitness club is always crowded. It's too cold for bicycling. Sit-ups? On my hardwood floors? Why not just ask for serious spinal injury and months, if not years, of excruciating and expensive rehab.

And then I saw the Bowflex infomercial. "Pumped arms. Ripped abs. Legs of steel," it said. "Twelve pounds of muscle in six weeks," and "Results are easy, with just one simple workout, 20 minutes a day, three times a week." All for $25 a month.

Bowflex spent $16 million for paid programming on national cable channels in 2005, more than any other company spent on a piece of home exercise equipment, according to the Infomercial Monitoring Service.

I can understand why. Its message is clear and life affirming, potent and simple. I have heard similar exhortations from evangelists over the years and, more recently, from a girlfriend right before she dumped me. To wit: just because I'm an overweight, lazy, greedy, at times selfish, overeating, occasionally self-loathing and chronically underearning daydreamer, doesn't mean I'm beyond salvation.

Redemption is as easy as surrendering my will and a little cash to a higher power. Or springing for flowers and shaving more often and taking Katharine to a nice restaurant every once in a while. Or, in the case of the Bowflex, simply punching a few buttons on my telephone.

A week and a half later, after I have realized that assembling the Bowflex Xtreme 2 requires an advanced degree in biomechanics, after I have called the Bowflex folks to send someone over to put the thing together for me, and after I have learned that assembly costs an extra $200 or so that the infomercials don't mention, I open the owner's manual and fitness guide, searching for the easy-to-follow map to a world where no one will call me Shamu.

Instead, on the first page, I find this: "Please take your time to read through the entire manual before attempting to use your Bowflex Xtreme 2 home gym. You should understand how to properly set up and perform each exercise before you do so using Power Rod resistance." Slight problem: The manual is 69 pages. There are 75 different exercises. I feel a mood coming on. I fetch a few Pop-Tarts.

This isn't fair. One Bowflex magazine ad promised me "rock-hard abs, a sculpted chest, and powerful arms" as a result of exercising "just 20 minutes a day, three days a week." It didn't say anything about hours spent memorizing "success tips." And it certainly didn't mention the "Bowflex Xtreme 2 Body Leanness Program," which I found on Page 55, where I learn that "for maximum fat loss," I ought to stick to a daily diet of 1,500 calories. If I could stick to a 1,500-calorie diet, would I be sharing my living quarters with a machine that is nearly seven feet tall and looks like a mechanical octopus? I take out my fury on a pint of peanut butter cup ice cream, which I have stored for just such an emergency.

I wake the next morning filled with resolve and anticipation. I do three sets of bench presses, then seated shoulder presses, lat pull-downs and biceps curls. Afterward I am sweating a little, grunting and feeling extraordinarily fit.

"Behold the new me," I say to Jack, whom I have invited over to admire the Bowflex Xtreme 2. Jack inspects the resistance rod technology.

"I see you have it set on 'girl,' " he says.

The booklet offers seven training regimens, ranging from the 20-minute, three-day-a-week "better body workout" to the six-day-a-week, hourlong "body building" plan. I choose "advanced general conditioning," which means exercising 35 to 45 minutes, four days a week. On those days I also spend 30 minutes on the elliptical trainer at the gym. At the end of a week I have taken my belt in a notch. After two weeks I have lost five pounds. I don't wheeze quite as much on my trips for Fig Newtons. Also I now use bowflex as a participle.

"What are you up to tonight?" Jack asks one afternoon at the diner, where we are mulling over Villanova's prospects in the forthcoming college basketball season, the heavy toll globalization exacts on the poor and who is a better dancer, Christina Aguilera or Shakira.

"Not much," I say. "I'm just going to grab a salad, maybe watch a little TV, then do some bowflexin." I drop the g because I think it makes me sound more muscular.

In the middle of Week 3, when I look in the mirror, my arms are bigger and my chest and shoulders are more defined. I refer to my arms as guns now, as casually as possible and at the slightest opportunity.

"How have you been?" a magazine editor I used to date asks me when I run into her on the street one day.

"Not bad," I reply. "But the guns are kinda sore."

She frowns, pursing her lips.

"Probably because I've been doing so much bowflexin," I say.

She steps back.

I scream during my crossover high rear delt rows. (Don't ask.) I grow a goatee, which I think is slimming. I start slipping the word engorged into conversation.

"Don't you think," Jack asks one day over our afternoon coffee, "that December's a little late in the year to be wearing nothing but a T-shirt?"

"The guns need to breathe," I say.

"What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I'm getting healthy. And speaking of health, do you have any idea how many calories are packed into a bowl of oatmeal? Maybe you ought to think about that."

"I miss the old you," Jack says. "Plus you're never going to last on that thing."

But I do. I last, and I thrive. I have worked out with free weights before, and on Cybex machines and Universal equipment. I find the Bowflex Xtreme 2 a perfectly satisfactory alternative, solid and challenging. (So do legions of Bowflex users I encountered online, who seem to find success with the Bowflex in direct proportion to how much they use it.)

Virtually every exercise I have ever done with weights, or on a machine in a gym, I can do on my Bowflex. And the power rod resistance turns out to be a rather ingenious way that the Bowflex brains have figured out to simulate weight by pulling against heavy plastic rods. So what if I have a mechanical octopus as a roommate? It's working.

True, the heavy-duty plastic mat that the Bowflex is supposed to sit upon is an "accessory" that is an additional $99. True, the "satisfaction guarantee" refund offer would entail my disassembling the Bowflex Xtreme 2, packing it into its original boxes and paying for its shipment back to Bowflex. True, the manufacturer recalled more than one million devices in 2004 after reports of broken seats and collapsed benches on its Ultimate and Power Pro models. True, the Bowflex Xtreme 2 costs $1,599.

True, when a woman I'm dating discovers that I have ordered a machine advertised on an infomercial, she says, "I don't know what your mother did to you and I don't want to know, but don't call me anymore." True, the infomercial universe is filled with companies selling belts that promise to melt away pounds while you're lounging on a couch, miracle diets that will make you slender while you're slumped at your desk and other goofy sounding, if not fraudulent, gizmos and gimcracks. Can something called a Bowflex that comes from that same universe possibly be legit?

"As long as you stress the musculature in a similar manner, it doesn't matter if you're using a Bowflex or free weights or a similar device," said Glenn A. Gaesser, a professor of exercise physiology at the University of Virginia.

"The bottom line is they all work if you use them," Dr. Gaesser said, "But there's a caveat with the machines that make promises. If you work out 20 minutes, three times a week, yes, there will be a new body. But don't think it will look like a body builder or Lance Armstrong."

Keith Cinea, the senior education coordinator for the National Strength and Conditioning Association, said a better physique was part of a package deal. "It's resistance training, aerobic conditioning and your diet," he said. "Especially if you're looking at the body transformation they mention in their sales pitch, with just the machine, no, it won't work."

It won't? I need to change my diet, maybe even increase time on the elliptical trainer? This disappoints me. This makes me sad. I feel a mood coming. But I do not grab for a pint of ice cream, or reach for a box of Pop-Tarts. Those sad, fatty days are over. Shamu doesn't live here anymore. There's no room, not in my apartment. For this I salute the Bowflex Xtreme 2. As I salute, I check the mirror. The guns? Totally engorged.

splicing

I posted my profile on an online dating site and it's a bit over-the-top, even for me.
Giant disclaimer: A male friend of mine who's done online dating heavily influenced much of what's posted there. As he's precisely the type of person I'd like to date, I thought it made sense to listen to him. After all, the first rule in writing is to know your audience.

Anyhow, here's one of the responses:

Subject: Oh sure...
It always starts with comma splicing. Just this once. You're in a hurry, got things to do, who's going to notice this one time? Trust me, it's a short step from there to splitting infinitives (hell, it's just another kind of splice, really, right?), and before you know it, you're sticking prepositions at the end of sentences like the Administration stacking up new excuses for the war. It can only lead to the shame of dangling participles and introducing yourself at some 12-step meeting.

Although he's not my demographic, it's good to know that there are some seriously funny people out there.

about me

So I'm doing online dating for the first time in my life. This is the profile I posted.

My Self-Summary:
I'm irreverent and relevant. I literally and literarily alliterate, but don't be fooled, I'm not afraid to splice a comma if I have to. I've been told I give really good email, and I expect the same in return. I'm a former DJ, so don't try and fool me with any soulless emo. If you're talking post-industrial, you won't find me at the bar: I'll be shaking, but not stirring, my martinis on the dance floor. My dog's cool, so if you expect to get along with me, expect to get along with him. And I've got a traveling jones; I just can't wait for my next chance to go walkabout and earn some frequent flier miles. (Yes, that is an appropriate place to use a semicolon.)

The truth about me: I'm uber-literal and often way too analytical. I'm also comfortable in my own skin, direct, well educated, sincere, creative, sensual, vulnerable, and kind. I value honesty and am a good friend.

Some of my favorite things: Success, social justice, travel, politics, photography, long kisses, music, cooking, French, Spanish, living abroad, foreign films, indie films, dogs, cancer, NPR, David Sedaris, gardens, back scratches and rubs, flowers, history, dancing, tea, rain, yoga, art, reading the New York Times on Sunday mornings, organic produce from the farmer's market, the color green.

What I'm Doing With My Life
At this very moment? Frittering away time online and flirting with hedonism.

Occupation: Web diva (erstwhile lackey) by day.

Avocation: I'm a graduate student, two nights a week.

Preoccupation: Travel. I've lived abroad (France, Spain) and visited 14 countries so far. This year, I plan to see Peru and China.

I'm Really Good At
First, some things I can't do:

Hard math
Sing loudly on key
Suffer fools / tolerate willful ignorance
The same thing over and over again
Run a seven-minute mile -- yet
Thrive without social interaction
Still there?

Some things I can do:
The Hustle
Hold my own at trivia and word games
Bake/ cook from scratch
Touch my tongue to my nose
Use an incident light meter (and flash powerpack) in a difficult situation. (Need proof?)
Laugh at myself

The First Thing(s) People Usually Notice About Me
People usually comment on my sense of humor and my ability to have a conversation with most anyone about anything. And to pull in a relevant esoteric fact, unless the conversation's about the Bulgarian national soccer (sorry, futbol) team. In that case, we're all SOL.

My Favorite Books, Movies, Music, and Food are
I loathe this question, as my tastes are all over the map. But if I must ...

(a) Things I last read: This afternoon: The New Yorker and Bust magazines, this morning: The New York Times, last night: A Year in the Merde by Stephen Clarke, last week: Postsecret by Frank Warren, last month: The Partly Cloudy Patriot by Sarah Vowell

Favorite books: Me Talk Pretty One Day, Naked, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, The Power of One, The Oxford English Dictionary, The Joy of Cooking, The Professional Chef, America (Jon Stewart), Almost French, Madam Secretary, The Eyre Affair.

(b) Movies: Monsieur Ibrahim, Priscilla Queen of the Desert, Strictly Ballroom, Delicatessen, Election, Rushmore, The Royal Tennenbaums, City of God, The Big Lebowski, The Princess Bride, Big Fish, Before Sunrise, Amelie, Best in Show, The Motorcycle Diaries, Witness for the Prosecution, Amadeus, 12 Angry Men, Rear Window, The Sound of Music, Love Actually, The Shawshank Redemption, Blue, Dress to Kill, Dune (David Lynch version), High and Low, Memento, American Beauty.

(c) Music: The Divine Comedy, New Order, The Smiths, Lloyd Cole, Pulp, Ani DiFranco, Nouvelle Vague, ABBA, Queen, David Bowie, The Clash, Dido, Teenage Fanclub, Barenaked Ladies, James, Indigo Girls, Dean Martin, U2, Carla Bruni, Frank Sinatra, Frou Frou, Paul Simon, Sarah McLachlan, TMBG, Moby, Wilco, The Cure, Depeche Mode, Oingo Boingo, Johnny Cash, Madness, Elvis Costello, Elvis Presley, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The House of Love, Neil Diamond, Carl Orff, William Orbit, Paul Oakenfold.

(d) (Least favorite) foods: I detest avocado and sushi (I know it's heresy to say that in Southern California, but it really means more for the rest of you). I also abhor eggplant and most mushrooms. Otherwise, I'm pretty easy food-wise ...

I'm savoring:

A newfound varietal dark chocolate vice. Try the 71% ocumare sold at Trader Joe's.
The memory of a divine white slice near Grand Central Station a few weeks ago.
Finally, I wouldn't want to live if I couldn't eat sugar, salt, and garlic. (But probably not all at the same time.)

The SIX Things I Could Never Do Without
Food
Water
Oxygen
Sleep
Travel
Hope

Ten things I'd love to live without:
Self-indulgent patriotism
Fundamentalists of any religious stripe
An ignorant and apathetic electorate
The electoral college
Hate (in all its ugly manifestations)
Rampant consumerism
A pervasive sense of entitlement
The Patriot Act
Plastic people (Ashlee, Britney, Paris, and others of their ilk)
WAL-MART

I Spend a Lot of Time Thinking About
... things I plan to do before I die (which I'm not planning to do anytime soon).

Today's do-before-I-die list includes:

Finish graduate school
Run a marathon
Live abroad
Become fluent in at least two more languages
Make arrangements to donate my body to science

On a Typical Friday Night I Am
... out with friends at all the usual places (restaurants, dive bars, clubs, movie theaters, concerts, museums). Or, I might be at home, enjoying good food and drink with the aforementioned friends.

The Most Private Thing I'm Willing to Admit Here IsI'm a vapid, materialistic, selfish, and emotionally unavailable shrew who is needy, lazy, cruel, frigid, suffers from scurvy (and halitosis), and loves Ashlee Simpson. I lack any intelligence whatsovever, basic written and verbal communication skills, and am a fundamentalist who believes that a woman's place is in the home and that you should make all of the decisions for both of us. Oh, and did I mention that I'm ugly and will also hate your mother and your friends?

You should message me if:
The thought of a woman who can write, thinks quirky thoughts, can make you laugh until you cry, and might just be smarter than you makes you want to send me a ridiculously charming email.

I'm likely to respond if you're kind, literate, reasonably sane, and politically similar (read: uber-liberal; if you voted for G.W. or G.H.W. Bush, don't expect a response).

Bonus points if you're: self-confident without being arrogant, handsome but with facial quirks (not chiseled and magazine-perfect), a witty mofo, monogamous, taller than me, inclined toward some kind of art, grounded, interested in the world around you but not so hung up on politics that you can't talk about anything else, able to appreciate femininity while respecting equality, take-charge but not controlling, articulate, passionate about something, ethical, sincere, sensual, gainfully employed, fun, spontaneous, serious, fond of the smell of fabric softener, polyglot, goofy, interesting, able to handle conflict through communication, and someone with kindergarten-teacher patience.

Yeah, you do need to have a picture. I'm down with different, so it's okay if you look, think, or are different. And if you're almost eligible to join AARP, good for you -- but I'm really not interested.

note to self

how the irish grieve

A good friend of mine lost her Nana this weekend. She has returned home to celebrate the life of an amazing woman and to support (and be supported by) those who knew her Nana.

A wake makes incredible sense to me — talking, drinking, and experiencing grief as a group while telling stories of times gone by is how I'd like to be remembered. No somber, drawn-faced ceremonies. Just loved ones and talk. And perhaps, just perhaps, music and dancing.

Know that you are loved, A. And very much in my thoughts.

fearlessness

It began with my friend Eleanor, who is my archetype for fearlessness.

Then there was Ben's comment last week about his friend who bought an around-the-world ticket and traveled alone. That led me to remark that she must be fearless. And to think about my own fears.

Over brunch with pediaJen yesterday, I declared that I want to be fearless in how I live my life and the choices I make. I feel that I'm pretty far along that path, but that it's time to push myself a bit and to enjoy the rewards that come from taking chances.

Lest you think I've gone daft, I don't mean fearless in the foolhardy sense. Just as pain is the body's way of telling us that something is horribly wrong, a little fear (in the form of reason) is a good thing. But keeping my wits about me, I'm hereby banishing my irrational fears.

My first foray in fearlessness: online dating. Stay tuned for dispatches from the front ...

quotable

"Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication."
-Leonardo daVinci, (1452 – 1519), Italian Renaissance architect, musician, anatomist, inventor, engineer, sculptor, geometer, and painter.

small effing world

While at Decade for Brandon's 30th birthday tonight, I finally met the man who wasn't there. I also met his fiancee, whom he'll marry next week. In retrospect, I'm glad I didn't ask him to coffee all those months ago, for several reasons. But it's also nice to solve that little mystery and put the whole thing on the "resolved" shelf. The irony: I lost interest the second we began to speak. And, he's friends with Brandon to boot.

Tonight's theme was pretty much about reunions for everyone there. It was my first time showing up to the Zombie Lounge (a great seedy punk/ rockabilly bar which is all of three blocks from my house). While there, I saw at least ten people that I haven't seen since 2001, someone whom I've randomly run into three times in as many years, someone whom I haven't seen since a party at his house in October 2004, and I guy I used to date (who's now dating an acquaintance). Oh, and did I mention that I was also there with someone who used to date the same guy I dated? As Phil and William put it, the circles are starting to tighten and collapse on one another.

monkfish, vol. 4 in a series

For some bizarre reason, I've seen / discussed a monkfish once a month for the past four months. Here's the latest sighting, in the capable hands of one of my heroes:

da da da da

How very punk rock. A (insert pissed-off pun here) 76-year-old Frenchman attacked Duchamp's "Fountain" with a hammer yesterday.

‘Artist’ attacks Duchamp's famous urinal
76-year-old French man previously vandalized ‘Fountain’ in 1993
Duchamp’s 1917 piece — an ordinary white, porcelain urinal that’s been called one of the most influential works of modern art — was slightly chipped in the attack at the Pompidou Center in Paris, the museum said Thursday. It was removed from the exhibit for repair.

The suspect, a Provence resident whose identity was not released, already vandalized the work in 1993 — urinating into the piece when it was on display in Nimes, in southern France, police said.

During questioning, the man claimed his hammer attack on Wednesday was a work of performance art that might have pleased Dada artists. The early 20th-century avant-garde movement was the focus of the exhibit that ends Monday, police said.

A 2004 poll of 500 arts figures ranked “Fountain” as the most influential work of modern art — ahead of Pablo Picasso’s “Les Demoiselles d’Avignon,” Andy Warhol’s screen prints of Marilyn Monroe and “Guernica,” Picasso’s depiction of war’s devastation.

“Fountain” is estimated at $3.6 million.

california über alles

Last night, Arnold gave his State of the State address and said nothing.

How appropriate, then, to learn that the Dead Kennedys (avec Jello) are playing the House of Blues just in time for Eric's holiday in San Diego.

a memorable new year's eve

When I was in high school, my father used to say that I "ran with a certain crowd." My retort usually included a clarification that I, in fact, didn't run unless I was chased. By killer bees.

... which is why my plan to run a half-marathon in 2006 is so completely wacko to most of my friends. Anyhow, I decided to start 2006 off on the right foot and let Ben talk me into signing up for the Emerald Nuts New York City Central Park Run.

The weather was foul (snow, rain, hail, and sleet) as Ben and I raced the train to Hicksville yesterday afternoon. We caught it into the city and met Pete and Jen for dinner at Yaffa Cafe in the Village and then headed uptown for drinks at Brother Jimmy's Carolina Kitchen in Manhattan. I shouldn't have had that last shot, but we'll come to that later.

I've never done a "fun run," and laughed as I saw the reactions from Ben's friends when we told them our New Year's eve plans. Asim's response was probably the best. (We were eating dinner when Ben broke the news and Asim put his fork down and then looked down as he shook his head slowly from side to side.)

Anyhow, at 10 p.m., Ben and I left the warmth of Brother Jimmy's and headed for Central Park and the staging area. Once there, we danced and joined the mayhem, while watching the costume contest. Predictably, our favorites didn't even place, but that wasn't the point.

There was a dusting of snow everywhere, but the night was cold and clear when we lined up with the eight-minute mile people. Then the fireworks exploded and 5,000 people dressed in warm clothing took off. Mile one actually was an eight-minute mile. Mile two was slower and I think I made a snide remark about not drinking before a run again. But that didn't stop me from enjoying the champagne toast at mile 2 and then walking/ jogging the rest of the way. I have to hand it to Ben for being a good sport and letting me set the pace. I also appreciated all the onlookers cheering us on with high fives and shouts of "happy new year!!" along the course.

We finished at 50 minutes and I admitted that I had, in fact, had fun, although I had had my doubts earlier in the day and the week. We finished the night with calls to friends on the West Coast, and some hot cocoa and cookies before subwaying it back to Penn Station and the Long Island Railroad.

christmas in newark

It was quite an adventure getting to New York. Here's what I mean:

1. I reserved parking at 105 parking and pre-paid for the first night. When I pulled up to the lot three hours before my flight, the lot was closed, with a "full" sign in the driveway and no visible attendant. I was annoyed, but after 20 quasi-panic-striken minutes, I found parking with the good people at Wally Parker.
2. I got to LAX with plenty of time to spare, was flagged for a crazy security check that included a pat-down from a wisecracking TSA employee, them emptying all my carry-on items, and measuring my crochet hooks and scissors. (I got to keep everything.)
3. I called Ben, who couldn't stop laughing at the fact that I was still over two hours early for a domestic flight, despite the earlier misadventures that evening.
4. I was called to the desk, wondering if I was about to be bumped and got a pleasant surprise: A free upgrade to business class.
5. The flight was uneventful, other than the weird turbulence that can only be described as rollercoaster-like for the last hour.
6. As we circled JFK for landing, we were told that fog and a problem on the ground meant that we'd be diverted to Newark. I called Ben and gave him the news.
7. 20 minutes after landing at Newark, I was informed that I couldn't get off, as my luggage was checked. I called Ben and told him to sit tight.
8. 90 minutes later, I landed at JFK two hours after the originally scheduled landing time, collected my things, and wished Ben a Merry Christmas.

The rest of the day was great, and included gifts at Penny's house and dinner with the Bybees.

touching me, touching you

Geraghty and I both found this story on NPR's Web site after seeing Neil. I suppose I'm the only one that finds it ironic that a song by a "New York City born and raised" pop star is played during the eighth inning of every Sox home game.

The Mystery of 'Sweet Caroline' and the Sox
Morning Edition, September 30, 2005 · As a stadium anthem, it's not exactly "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." Susan Orlean visits Boston's Fenway Park to unlock the secret connection between the Red Sox, their loyal fans and singer Neil Diamond's 1969 hit.

pack up the babies and grab the old ladies

Holly Holy Sweet Caroline (bomp, bomp, bomp), good times never seemed so good. (So good! So good!)

Geraghty and I (along with 12,000 other people) rocked out with Neil Diamond and his 14-piece band at the Sports Arena tonight. I have to say that after 40 years, the man's still got it. He sang and spoke for two hours straight.

In spite of one friend who was openly derisive of my choice to see Neil in concert (you know who you are), I'm thrilled I went. In short, Neil rocks and is one talented (and totally effing cool) mofo. He even has a MySpace account. But I digress ... I hope to see him again (and take my dad with me next time).

The mixed crowd reminded me of the audience at the 2004 Simon and Garfunkel show. There was roughly the same proportion of older folks (30%), middle-aged people (40%), and a 20- and 30-somethings (25%). There were also some teenagers (5%) seeing the show, presumably with their parents. All 12,000 of us clapped our hands and sang together, like we were at Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show. Neil actually scored major points with me during that song, when he busted out the preacher persona and changed the lyrics to include "gay and straight" in his sermon on tolerance.

He also impressed me by being self-deprecating and humorous about his career, saying that commercial success meant eating three square meals a day and writing sappy songs while he worked on "the songs that mattered." He paid homage to his New York City, born and raised roots throughout the night; but during one deliciously schmaltzy juncture, I said "he's not New York anymore" to Geraghty. She (still being very New York) agreed completely and said "he's lived on the West Coast for too long."

The surreal Neil moment: To my left, the old woman two seats away pumping her fist in the air and shouting we're coming to America while in front of me, four scantily-clad T&A twenty-something women shouted the same thing, thrusting their hips from side to side like so many bump, bump, bumping go-go dancers on speed. Behind me, a pack of Australians in their late thirties also belted out the lyrics. All this transpired while the video screens flashed black and white newsreel images of immigrants at Ellis Island. It was so odd that Geraghty commented that she hoped everyone in the crowd pumping their fists actually understood the meaning behind what they were singing along to ...

Play Me, Neil. You are the sun, I am the moon, you are the words, I am the tune.

For those of you who missed tonight's unforgettable show, Super Diamond's playing the Belly Up on January 14!

calling all wilco fans

Jeff Tweedy's playing several dates on the West Coast.

Vancouver: Jan. 31
Seattle: Feb. 2
Portland: Feb. 3
San Francisco: Feb. 8-9
San Diego (Spreckles Theatre): Feb. 11
Los Angeles: Feb. 12-13

quotable

"I've come to the conclusion that boys are stupid."
-Tommy Ishida, my (female) friend and colleague, on dating and relationships

annus mirabilis

2005 was the hundreth anniversary of Einstein's "miracle year."

He recalled 1905 as the year when "a storm broke loose in my mind." That year, he proved the existence of atoms, devised the theory of relativity, and laid the foundation for quantum physics.

I admire his sense of humor and the nice way in which he made the most complicated things relevant to a lay audience. I especially love these quotes:

• "Imagination is more important than knowledge."
• "Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow. The important thing is not to stop questioning."
• "Reality is merely an illusion, although a very persistent one."
• "It's not that I'm so smart , it's just that I stay with problems longer."
• "When you are courting a nice girl an hour seems like a second. When you sit on a red-hot cinder a second seems like an hour. That's relativity."

mon bel amie

My fellow Francophile Diana sent me the most wonderful care package.

It contained several thoughtful gifts, including:
The score for Amélie
A big box of St. Louis sugar lumps
A lovely Mariages Frères loose tea
"Paris to the Moon"
A restaurant guide for Paris.

In all, a fantastique finals week surprise.

Merci beaucoup et Joyeux Noël à toi.

today's highs

This morning's NPR story on the New York transit strike grabbed my attention for a few reasons. I'm hopeful that it will be resolved soon because it's a rotten situation for everyone involved. And because I'll be there in four days.

Listening to the stories of New Yorkers walking 120+ blocks to work in "biting wind" and "bitter cold" left me slightly more grateful about my climate.

I may live in a cultural wasteland, but there is something to be said for wearing short sleeves and a light cardigan just a few days before Christmas. The downside: it has been so warm lately that Casey refuses to spoon with me at night.
Thanks for the map, Aaron.

la façade

Yesterday, someone commented that I "looked well-rested and relaxed" after our final exam. I'm not sure what kind of crack she was smoking, but I asked her to give me some, too.

Still thinking about it on the way home, I took this picture in my rearview mirror while waiting at a red light.

manumission

And so it ends with a whimper instead of a bang.

The final exam left most of us somewhere between deflated and irate. I came away knowing that I'd done my best, and that I won't be pursuing a career in quantitative economics. I felt better about my (qualitative) econ knowledge when I got my term paper back and saw that I'd earned a perfect score.

Afterwards, the MBA crew headed to chez Allison, got our collective drink on, and learned a choice Turkish idiom from Tuba.

For now, I'm free at last. Free to spoil my dear sweet Casey. Free to take care of last-minute Christmas shopping. Free to wash a mountain of laundry. Free to write my Christmas cards. Free to read a book for the sheer pleasure of it. Free to go to a concert. Free to leave town for my first vacation in 18 months. Free to daydream about the Fairytale of New York and a magical Christmas to come.

And free to slowly release the tension and dread that I've carried in my body and my psyche for the past few weeks. I yearn for sweet relief.

'tis the season to be scared of santa

My friend Jason just shared photos of his little boys with Santa. Kellen and Dillon are both smiling in the pictures.

Seeing the photos reminds me of a certain polaroid starring Santa and myself. My face is puffy and screwed up into a fearful smile. I must've been crying at first, but scared of my mother's wrath if the Kodak moment had been ruined.

It appears that I'm not alone. Check out the Scared of Santa gallery.

prisoners killing me softly

One of my econ classmates just slayed me with this note:

I was thinking, what if we all decided to do fairly poorly on the test. then I thought, yeah but someone wouldn't do it, and then I thought, that's a prisoner's dilemna! how appropriate. I think I might chart that out, hmmm, what would be the dominant strategy?

I'm thinking that I should heed another friend's advice re: my dominant strategy.

I’m not usually into violent imagery, but I think you should start channeling violent thoughts into this Econ test.

Be not merciful.

Kill it.

Eviscerate it. Slowly.

Make it suffer for all the joy it has taken out of your life.

Make its last moments on this earth filled with excruciating pain, pain so torturous that it writhes under your razor sharp #2 pencil.

Leave it in agony, worse than the agony known to the Sabine women, worse than the agony known to John Holwell in Calcutta, worse even than the agony of those forced to sit through the musical “Rent”…

what a year

Via Sandra

in the name of love

"For being shrewd about doing good, for rewiring politics and re-engineering justice, for making mercy smarter and hope strategic and then daring the rest of us to follow, Bill and Melinda Gates and Bono are TIME Magazine's Persons of the Year."

Apparently, Bono can save the world.

canine dancesport: a primer

A good friend sent me this NY Times article on Canine Freestyle.

I was simultaneously flattered and horrified that he thought of me when he saw the article.

Nonetheless, I read beyond the (admittedly hilarious) lead, and thought it appropriate to report the following pertinent facts:

1. Blame Canada.
The sport, if one can refer to it as such, began in Canada in the 1980s.
2. Blame New York.
Or more appropriately, one Patie Ventre, a New Yorker who started the World Canine Freestyle Organization from Brooklyn in 1999.
3. Freestyle is "a middle-aged-women-in-dog-sports phenomenon."
7,500 United States dog freestylers, the overwhelming majority of whom are middle-aged women, can be found in clusters all over the country. A minority enter competitions, either vying on video or in national live events.
4. It's not swimming.
Some are advocating the label "K-9 dance sport" instead.
5. There's no such thing as couple dancing in dog dancing.
Hands and paws are not usually clasped. The dogs follow verbal or hand commands to twirl and circle, weave in and out of the handler's legs to form figure eights, do side steps and kicks or jumps on hind legs. The dirty, if open, secret is that dancing dogs are an illusion: the music is chosen to fit a dog's gait, or the spring in its step, or its best tricks, not the other way around.
6. There are online support groups.
And there are also plans to begin the (online) International Canine Freestyle College by early 2006.
7. The dog determines the song.
Dogs and their handlers walk in a circle, while measuring the dog's natural rhythm by beats per minute. The handlers then choose the music from a book that lists songs by tempo.
8. It provides focus for canine delinquents.
Kathy Morris, co-owner of Jump Start, said that freestyle complements other dog activities and can work wonders for some dogs that regularly misbehave.
9. Costumes are optional.
To maintain decorum, freestyle competitions keep the costuming of the animals to a minimum, though the handler can get away with dressing up like Charlie Chaplin for theatrical effect.
10. New steps! New steps!
The Canine Freestyle Federation and the Musical Dog Sport Association have philosophical differences over freestyle moves and issues like attire and how much dancing the humans should do.

The article is a great read. (I've included it below and highlighted my favorite bits.)

Some final thoughts ...
A. Reason 459 for my divorce: My ex would sometimes clasp Casey's paws and 'dance' until Casey, snorting and indignant, freed himself and ran to me.
B. See the canines in action at www.worldcaninefreestyle.org or http://www.k9-freestylers.com/
C. Get support at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/K9DanceSport/.
D. I wonder if these ladies have ever choreographed a routine to "Atomic Dog."

Fetch! Roll Over! Heel! Now, Let's Dance!
By MIREYA NAVARRO
YORBA LINDA, Calif.
GRETCHEN MAVROVOUNIOTIS considered the theme songs from "Ghostbusters" and "Footloose" before settling on "Can't Stop the Music" by the Village People. The disco beat, she said, is the best for her dance partner, since it best shows off his forward weave and counterclockwise turns.

"What I like," she said, "is fast-paced music to keep up his enthusiasm, so he doesn't get bored and just plod along. I also look for music where you have transitions, where you can put in some of the flashier moves, like back up, turn around and back through my legs."

Ms. Mavrovouniotis, you see, dances with her dog. In the world of canine sports and shows, what is formally known as freestyle dancing does not rise to the level of performance usually sanctioned by the American Kennel Club, which regards freestyle as entertainment.

"A lot of our performance events," said Daisy Okas, a spokeswoman for the club, "are geared to what the dog was originally bred to do." That would be things like herding and hunting, not dancing to disco music in a sparkly collar.

But the canine freestyle movement rocks on, despite doubters and deriders, and the fact that the average dog owner may never have heard of it. Originally developed in Canada in the 1980's, and then transplanted to the United States in the 1990's, freestyle, inspired by musical equine dressage, occupies only a small niche in the world of dog activities: about 7,500 dog owners in the United States who compete, take classes for fun or perform in demonstration and charity events, estimated Patie Ventre, who started the World Canine Freestyle Organization, from Brooklyn in 1999.

Today dog freestylers, the overwhelming majority of whom are middle-aged women, can be found in clusters all over the country, organizing clubs with dozens of members or just a handful, to learn moves from one another. Some take classes or invite experts from other cities for workshops and seminars. They follow up by watching training videos. A minority enter competitions, which are held each year, either vying on video or in national live events held across the country.

Ms. Ventre, whose group stages international freestyle competitions patterned after the judging and scoring of figure skating, so believes in the athletic skills required by freestyle that she envisions it, someday, as an Olympic sport.

"The teams can capture you exactly like Torvill and Dean," she said, referring to the British ice dancing pair and Olympic gold medalists Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean. "That's the goal."

But while Ms. Ventre, 62, and Dancer, her border collie, may bring tears to the eyes of the audience with their waltz rendition of "Silent Night," (a video can be viewed at www.worldcaninefreestyle.org), there's no such thing as couple dancing in dog dancing; hands and paws are not usually clasped.

Instead the dogs follow verbal or hand commands to twirl and circle, weave in and out of the handler's legs to form figure eights, do side steps and kicks or jumps on hind legs. They also sometimes lose interest and wander off to sniff around. (A no-no in competition, just like excessive barking.)

The dirty, if open, secret is that dancing dogs are an illusion: the music is chosen to fit a dog's gait, or the spring in its step, or its best tricks, not the other way around. But when music and choreography are well matched, fans say, watching the connection between dog and person, and that final bow or dramatic leap into the handler's arms, can be an emotional experience.

The driving force behind freestyle, of course, is the dancing dog owner, a human breed capable of devoting huge amounts of hours, and kibble, to perfecting a synchronized step, and of explaining this pastime with a straight face.

"It's more like modern dance than ballroom dancing," said Ms. Mavrovouniotis, 43. "It's interpretative dance to music."

Ms. Mavrovouniotis, an engineer, said she had never danced much herself before she sampled a freestyle class about two years ago at the dog school where her two mixed-breed dogs, Apollon and Poseidon, took classes in manners and agility. She noticed that the freestyle seemed to suit them; Apollon appeared to relax around other dogs and Poseidon found an alternative to fetching, his first love.

Soon she was participating in video competitions and earning points for titles in the categories based on technical merit and artistic impression. Now she competes only with Poseidon because Apollon has a bad back.

The pair's next test is a video competition whose deadline is Dec. 31, sponsored by the World Canine Freestyle Organization, which is the largest group, with 1,000 members in the United States and 15 other countries. After spending about two months training Poseidon on his routine at her Irvine home in 15-minute daily increments, she performed for the video this week wearing a helmet, cargo pants and a reflective vest in honor, she said, of the construction worker member of the Village People.

Many freestyle adherents, however, say they are less interested in competing than in having a good time and bonding with their pets.

Donna Johnson, 55, said freestyle seemed like a calling for Huxley, her 1½-year-old golden retriever.

"Being a golden retriever, he's a showoff," Ms. Johnson said. "We tried agility, but he wasn't paying attention."

But in barely six weeks of freestyle classes, she said, Huxley has learned to focus on her and started work on weaving in and out of her legs, and doing spins and lateral moves, with a clicker as an aid and bits of liver as the incentive.

"To try to get a dog to go sideways is something else," Ms. Johnson said.

Ms. Johnson, who lives in Anaheim with her husband, Michael, said Huxley, who is rehearsing to the jazzy beat of "A Taste of Honey," as recorded by Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, seems to enjoy himself. "His tail is up and wagging," she said.

But there's more.

"There's like a spiritual connection between the dog and the owner," she said. "The dog is looking for you for the tiniest little moves."

But Ms. Johnson readily admits handlers have more fun than their dogs. Freestyle, she noted, is "a middle-aged-women-in-dog-sports phenomenon," many of them empty nesters like herself.

There was indeed quite a bit of laughter and cheering at a recent freestyle class on the grass of Jump Start Dog Sports, a dog school in Orange County where both Ms. Johnson and Ms. Mavrovouniotis train their dogs. Nine women and a sole male handler took turns going around signposts as their dogs performed heel work and, later, their solo routines. Patty Wiedeman, the instructor, kept busy shouting positive reinforcement while changing discs on a portable CD player.

To pick out the right song, the teams have walked around in a circle and measured their dogs' natural rhythm by beats per minute. The handlers then choose the music from a book that lists songs by tempo.

Poseidon impressed everyone by weaving backward.

"Very nice!" one student shouted to Ms. Mavrovouniotis. "That was great. You're doing very well with him."

Huxley, on the other hand, was in no dancing mood. He ignored the infectious beat of "Funkytown" to pull on Ms. Johnson's sleeve and at one point jumped up to playfully tug at her chest.

"All right, put him in his crate," Ms. Wiedeman instructed. "He can come out later."

Kathy Morris, co-owner of Jump Start, said that freestyle complements other dog activities and can work wonders for some dogs that regularly misbehave. "They learn to focus on their owners instead of having their own agenda," Ms. Morris said. "Because of the quick moves they learn dexterity. And you can't get mad at your dog doing this."

Tippy Sheppard, the owner of Buvi, a black puli with a class schedule more crowded than that of an overachieving seventh grader, confirmed that her overly independent dog has been tamed by his circles and turns to Bette Midler's recording of "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy."

"The dogs have much more opportunity to express themselves in freestyle than in any of the other things I've been involved in," said Ms. Sheppard, 62, a businesswoman who is married with two grown daughters.

To maintain decorum, freestyle competitions keep the costuming of the animals to a minimum, though the handler can get away with dressing up like Charlie Chaplin for theatrical effect. And among the main organizations, including the Canine Freestyle Federation and the Musical Dog Sport Association, there are philosophical differences over freestyle moves and issues like attire and how much dancing the humans should do.

"We want the dog to be the star," said Ann Priddy, a freestyle teacher in Richmond, Va., and the vice president of the Musical Dog Sport Association, which formed this year.

The efforts to define canine freestyle as it grows also include a possible name change.

"People think it's swimming," Loren Jensen Carter, founder of a two-year-old regional group in Arizona called Sonoran Canine Freestylers, said of the name "freestyle." She is among those advocating "K-9 dance sport" instead.

But Ms. Jensen Carter said that all the groups support one another in trying to advance their art form. Last April her group, with about 40 members, started online classes in choreography, music editing and other freestyle topics on its Yahoo site. She said there are plans now to begin the International Canine Freestyle College online by early 2006.

Ms. Okas, of the American Kennel Club, said even the traditionalists at the organization have allowed freestyle to warm up crowds before best-in-show performances.

"It's fun to watch," she said.

Ms. Okas said there is no evidence that the trend is about to take over the dog world. But she added: "People love their dogs nowadays. They're obsessed. You never know what's going to catch on."
Via Ben

quotable

11-year old Sam (Thomas Sangster) to his stepfather, Daniel (Liam Neeson) in "Love Actually:"

"Let's go get the shit kicked out of us by love."
-Richard Curtis, writer and director