factoid from a nestle chocolate wrapper

Q: Which laundry detergent keeps clothes clean in Uzbekistan: barf, puke, or vomit?
A: Barf

Upon further investigation, I learned that the good people at Nestle were not trying to pull a fast one.

Barf is made in Iran and is a best-seller in Central Asia and the Middle East.

Here is the English blurb on the side of the box:
Combination of T.A.E.D. with perborate in Barf, delivers effective bleaching and hygienic performance, even at cold wash.

Barf with finely balanced formulation, removes even the most stubborn dirts without causing any harm to clothes.

With inclusion of soap in Barf formulation, the softness and texture of fabric is preserved.

playing it straight

This op-ed piece contains spoilers. You have been warned.
And, yes, this is the same Dan Savage who writes the love/sex advice column "Savage Love." Again, consider yourself warned.
Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Ex-Gay Cowboys
By DAN SAVAGE
Published: February 10, 2006
First, a little of that full disclosure stuff: I have not actually seen "Brokeback Mountain" or "End of the Spear," both of which I'm going to discuss here.

But since when did not seeing a film prevent anyone from sharing his or her strong opinions about it? Before the posters for "Brokeback Mountain" were even printed, everyone from the blogger Mickey Kaus to the Concerned Women for America to gay men all over the country had already said a lot about the film. (Their opinions were, respectively, con, con and pro.)

So, let's get to it: Remember when straight actors who played gay were the ones taking a professional risk? Those days are over. Shortly after Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal, both straight, received Oscar nominations for playing gay cowboys in "Brokeback Mountain," conservative Christians were upset when they learned that a gay actor, Chad Allen, was playing a straight missionary in "End of the Spear."

"End of the Spear" tells what happened after five American missionaries were murdered in 1956 by a tribe in Ecuador. Instead of seeking retribution, the missionaries' families reached out to the tribe, forgave the killers and eventually converted them to Christianity. An evangelical film company, Every Tribe Entertainment, brought the story to the screen. In a glowing review, Marcus Yoars, a film critic for Focus on the Family, noted that the "martyrdom" of the slain missionaries has "inspired thousands if not millions of Christians." But after conservatives took a closer look at the cast list, the protests began. Many felt Chad Allen's presence in the film negated any positive message.

The pastors claim they're worried about what will happen when their children rush home from the movies, Google Chad Allen's name, and discover that he's a "gay activist." ("Gay activist" is a term evangelicals apply to any homosexual who isn't a gay doormat.) They needn't be too concerned. Straight boys who have unsupervised access to the Internet aren't Googling the names of middle-aged male actors gay or straight — not when Paris Hilton's sex tapes are still out there.

Frankly, I can't help but be perplexed by the criticisms of Mr. Allen from the Christian right. After all, isn't playing straight what evangelicals have been urging gay men to do?

That's precisely what Jack and Ennis attempt to do in "Brokeback Mountain" — at least, according to people I know who have actually seen the film. These gay cowboys try, as best they can, to quit one another. They marry women, start families. But their wives are crushed when they realize their husbands don't, and can't, ever really love them. "Brokeback Mountain" makes clear that it would have been better for all concerned if Jack and Ennis had lived in a world where they could simply be together.

That world didn't exist when Jack and Ennis were pitching tents together, but it does now — even in the American West. Today, the tiny and stable percentage of men who are gay are free to live openly, and those who want to settle down and start families can do so without having to deceive some poor, unsuspecting woman.

Straight audiences are watching and loving "Brokeback Mountain" — that's troubling to evangelical Christians who have invested a decade and millions of dollars promoting the notion that gay men can be converted to heterosexuality, or become "ex-gay." It is, they insist, an ex-gay movement, although I've never met a gay man who was moved to join it.

This "movement" demands more from gay men than simply playing straight. Once a man can really pass as ex-gay — once he's got some Dockers, an expired gym membership and a bad haircut — he's supposed to become, in effect, an ex-gay missionary, reaching out to the hostile gay tribes in such inhospitable places as Chelsea and West Hollywood.

What should really trouble evangelicals, however, is this: even if every gay man became ex-gay tomorrow, there still wouldn't be an ex-lesbian tomboy out there for every ex-gay cowboy. Instead, millions of straight women would wake up one morning to discover that they had married a Jack or an Ennis. Restaurant hostesses and receptionists at hair salons would be especially vulnerable.

Sometimes I wonder if evangelicals really believe that gay men can go straight. If they don't think Chad Allen can play straight convincingly for 108 minutes, do they honestly imagine that gay men who aren't actors can play straight for a lifetime? And if anyone reading this believes that gay men can actually become ex-gay men, I have just one question for you: Would you want your daughter to marry one?

Evangelical Christians seem sincere in their desire to help build healthy, lasting marriages. Well, if that's their goal, encouraging gay men to enter into straight marriages is a peculiar strategy. Every straight marriage that includes a gay husband is one Web-browser-history check away from an ugly divorce.

If anything, supporters of traditional marriage should want gay men out of the heterosexual marriage market entirely. And the best way to do that is to see that we're safely married off — to each other, not to your daughters. Let gay actors like Chad Allen only play it straight in the movies.

Dan Savage is the editor of The Stranger, a Seattle newsweekly.

on being in the know

H: "So I heard in a meeting today that [the head of HR] is retiring in June and [the head of IT] is retiring in December. "

Aaron: *bug-eyed silence*

H: "The person who said it prefaced her remarks by saying that she had been surprised to learn this information a few months ago. I commented that I didn't know until she announced it.

So much for MarComm being in the know."

Aaron: "Clearly, not always. Sometimes. But not often."

one small step for google ...

Google's done it again.

This time, it's the Google Maps - Lunar Landing Sites. Be sure to go a step at a time and zoom all the way in. Afterward, read the FAQ.

For the record, I'm still having google's baby. And despite the fact that Ben wants to marry them, I've let him know that he'll have to get in line. (Feminist or not, I'm not doing it out of wedlock.)

vanity fair

Asim, you can have Keira. I think Scarlett's much more attractive.
Scarlett, Keira bare all for Vanity Fair.

les trois couleurs

I just finished Krzysztof Kieslowski's trilogy. I did not see the ending coming. At all.

I enjoyed the themes (liberty, passion), symbolism (eye-popping color), tone, and interconnectedness of each film. But I enjoyed Blue most of all.

meet fred, the undercover cat

On the one hand, this story sucks. On the other, it's awesome.

But I'm left wondering what sort of pension benefit Fred will get.

Undercover Agent in Fur Snares a Fake Veterinarian - New York Times
The place was New York City. Crime was the dish of the day, and the main course was injury to an animal with a side of petty larceny. The victim was Burt. Burt was a Boston terrier. He was about to find a friend who looked more like a foe.

Fred was an alley cat in Brooklyn before he went undercover with Carol Moran, an assistant district attorney. The case involved Burt, a terrier, and a sham veterinarian.
The case unraveled over six months, with an indictment this week. The details spilled from court documents and interviews with investigators and Burt's owner, Raymond Reid.

For four years, Burt had been under the care of Steven Vassall, 28, an unemployed lab technician who styled himself a licensed veterinarian. Mr. Vassall gave Burt vaccinations and heartworm treatments and sometimes boarded him. Mr. Reid liked Mr. Vassall. Mr. Vassall made house calls.

Mr. Reid left for vacation in August, but he got an urgent call from Mr. Vassall. Burt was in a bad way. Burt had swallowed a foreign object. Burt was going to die.

Mr. Reid came home and said he wanted to see Burt. Mr. Vassall let Burt out of the car and drove away. Burt had an open wound along his abdomen, and he was licking the blood.

Mr. Vassall sent Mr. Reid a bill for $985. Mr. Reid called the Brooklyn district attorney.

The district attorney, Charles J. Hynes, put his top investigators on the case. Rackets Division. Senior people. A sting was arranged. An apartment was wired. But this mousetrap was all spring and no cheese.

Carol Moran was working a steady 9 to 5 in the district attorney's office. She had 22 years on the job. For this case, she was going to need a sidekick. That's where Fred came in.

Fred was the strong, silent type with no place to come in out of the rain. He was an alley cat from the streets of Brooklyn, long and lean with thick black stripes. Ms. Moran took a shine to him right away. She adopted him from Animal Care and Control.

Fred never asked to be a hero, but he needed work. And neutering. Mr. Vassall agreed to end Fred's sex life for $135. Last Friday, he picked up Fred and the payment. Fred was in a carrying case. The payment was in cash.

Mr. Vassall was charged with unauthorized veterinary practice, criminal mischief, injuring animals and petty larceny. He was free on bail but could not be reached; his phone was disconnected. His lawyer, Royce Russell, declined to comment.

The victim was stitched up. The hero wore a badge to meet the news media. His big green eyes looked past a dozen TV cameras. A dozen camera operators made kissy noises.

A tabloid reporter asked the district attorney a tabloid question.

"This is the first, Nance," Mr. Hynes said. "First undercover cat."

Then Fred took a nap in the corner. Tomorrow was another day. His owner said neutering was still in the works.

the vitamin c myth

There's no doubt that Vitamin C is good for you. But, contrary to popular belief, a mega-dose of Vitamin C is not an effective cold remedy.

Looks like we'll have to spend some time in bed to fight this one off.

quotable

"Hate is too great a burden to bear. It injures the hater more than it injures the hated."
-Coretta Scott King (1927 – 2006) , wife of the assassinated civil rights activist Martin Luther King, Jr., and a noted community leader in her own right.
Via Diana

the paki mack agenda

I give The Paki Mack Agenda five naans.

In his own words: Friendly brown guy. Not a terror threat. Likes to eat, drink, and be merry. And currently transplanted to Phoenix, so help me. No, really. Help me.

Full disclosure: Omer's a college friend and another wacko liberal.

touché

Via Diana

this bowl's for you

I know it was a few days ago, which in pop culture years is so, like, three years ago, but I am taking a marketing class right now.

So here are the Super Bowl commercials, courtesy of Google Video.
Via googleblog

real beauty

It's a man's world, but there are very few times when I would actually like to be one. One of those times is when I see how un-self-conscious most men are about their bodies.

That's because I don't know a woman who doesn't wish she was taller or shorter, thinner or curvier, had bigger or perkier breasts, clearer skin, different eyes, or better hair.

On the one hand, it's admirable to strive for a goal and to better oneself. On the other hand, the self-loathing that leads to eating disorders and a multi-billion dollar cosmetic surgery industry gives me pause. In short, most women have bought the beauty myth (to one extent or another).

And I am one of those women.

Consider this: I've never traded on my looks. In fact, I didn't really believe that I was attractive until not that long ago. Part of it was reality: I never was the prettiest girl in class, and I never defined myself in terms of beauty. (I always thought — and still do— that my intelligence is my most attractive quality, because to me, smart is sexy no matter how you slice it.)

Do I blame society? Check. Do I blame my mother? Of course. And do I, at thirty years old, now own my issues and work at loving myself everyday? Damn skippy.

Enter Dove. Dove (ostensibly) sells beauty products, but I would argue that they (like all beauty products) are actually in the business of selling hope. Now, they've formulated the campaign for real beauty.

The whole phenomenon fascinates me. And I'm sure that I'll be writing more about it after doing some reading.

i'm gorgeous inside

One of my male friends recently told me (tongue in cheek, but truthfully) that the best advice he ever got re: women was the following:
Always tell the smart ones they're pretty. And always tell the pretty ones they're smart.

Brains ego: I'm always confident, but often wrong.
Beauty ego: I've never doubted my mind, but I never attempted to trade on my looks because no one ever called them out as something to trade on until about six months ago.

Another male friend recently asked me some tough questions about my self-esteem. The crux of it was getting at why my perception of self had shifted.

It changed because of me. And I believe that as it changed in me, others came to see me as I see myself. (The bit about external beauty wasn't really crystallized in my own mind until late last summer, which is why I finally put the whole list in writing.)

Part of it was weight -- but that wasn't all of it. For example, I weighed less than I do now when I got to college. But I never thought I was beautiful then, much less verbalized that thought.

I wasn't comfortable in my own skin for lots of reasons. As I get older, I'm more comfortable with myself. I like myself more than I ever have. I own who I am (and am not) and am confident in my talents. And I'm a lot more secure as a result. I have a great therapist and amazing friends to thank for that transformation. My therapist asked the right questions, challenged me, and gave me reality checks that weren't always fun, but always necessary. Today, she's one of my favorite people on the planet.

When people focus on an aspect of you, and praise it, then you come to define yourself that way (at least I did). So, I was always the smarty pants. And when you add to that the self-loathing my mother has about her own weight issues and the way she made them mine, it made me recoil from ever defining myself around physical attractiveness. When I was unhappy in my relationship and putting on weight, it as even easier to never want to define myself in terms of looks.

So, yes, physical weight was a psychic weight on me. But more than that, it was the gift of seeing myself through someone else's eyes that led to the final, conscious, shift. Although he was less-than-honest with me about lots of other things, dating Harry was good for me, if nothing else, because he verbalized about what he saw me as: a smart, beautiful, kind woman.

Hearing those words from someone else confirmed what I already knew to be true.

long may you rev

A guy I know favorably compared women (in the abstract) to the new Mustang.
It was funny. And he had the good sense not to talk about a model with the top down.

But I draw the line at these ringtones.

¿dónde está tu duende?

Well I'll be damned. I learned a great new word (in two languages) this morning.
du·en·de
n. The ability to attract others through personal magnetism and charm.

[Spanish dialectal, charm, from Spanish, ghost, from Old Spanish, owner, proprietor, from duen de (casa), lord of (a house) : duen, lord (from Latin dominus. See dem- in Indo-European Roots) + de, of (from Latin d. See de-).]

But a few other sources say that duende means "hob, sprite, puck, elf, goblin" in Spanish. (I can see how the etymology evolved and how one is really a characteristic of the other, but wonder why the good people at Dictionary.com got it so wrong. )

Bilingual superfriends to the rescue ... how common is this word en Espanol? I've never encountered it as such — instead, I've used pícaro to describe people with these qualities.

blushing intensely

The hardest thing about dating is breaking up. I briefly dated someone last fall and it was incredibly difficult to tell this person why I couldn't be with him. When he argued with me during the breakup, I could tell that I had really hurt him and that left me sad and frustrated about our friendship ending. But it also convinced me that I was doing the right thing.

It's now been several months and he joined me (and several friends) on an outing this weekend. We all had a great time.

Yesterday, out of the blue, he sent me this. I'm humbled. But more importantly, I'm glad to know that our friendship is on solid footing again:

I've said this to my friends the last couple of days, now I repeat it to you:

Sometimes you see someone you once dated, however briefly, and think "what the *fuck* was I thinking?!?" But sometimes you see the person and it rips your heart out. But sometimes, if you're very very lucky, you see the person and say to yourself: "Wow. This woman is absolutely gorgeous, and is a completely amazing person, and I totally see what I was thinking. And... she was right, it wouldn't have worked."

I couldn't have hoped for anything better.

i heart the amateur gourmet

Homeslice has got it going on.
His recipe for success: humor + good food tips = http://www.amateurgourmet.com/.

picturesque

It's been about a year since I finished printing forty days in France (a black and white photo series taken in January and June-July 2004).

I spent this afternoon spotting prints and then busted out my mat cutter, mounted, and framed my seven favorites. After consulting with Z and Mrs. Z on the layout, the photos now adorn my kitchen.

I'm pleased with the results.

quotable

"No cometas el mismo error dos veces, al menos que te convenga."
-Mae West, 1893-1980, la mujer que sacó la sexualidad del dormitorio y la llevó a la pantalla

¡Gracias, Mercedes!

intelligent design

Have I mentioned that I love engrish.com?

quotable

online dating dispatch, vol. III

Giant disclaimer: I am honest to a fault and perhaps too direct. But I am who I am.

I'm a few weeks into this adventure. I've met some cool guys, and also learned a few things:

1. Smart is sexy, no matter how you slice it.
2. I don't do well with highly-NP people, even if they are sexy as hell. Think "she makes the sign of a teaspoon, he makes the sign of a wave" -- they're all concept, I'm all detail. And that does not make for easy conversation. I also have a low tolerance for extreme ambiguity.
3. Having similar interests, politics, and social values is a good start, but not enough.
4. Some people are just better online than they are in person.
5. Going dutch can be a very good thing. That way, he doesn't feel used and I don't feel guilty.
6. In order for there to be a ping-ping, it has to be mutual. Corollary: There's no chemistry if only one person has a spark.
7. If there's no ping-ping, move on. Quickly.
8. It is possible to be clear that you're not interested without being hurtful. Everyone's on the losing end of rejection at some point. But I still find it easier to be rejected than to hurt someone else's feelings.
9. I need banter, push-back, or someone with enough spirit so as not to be confused with an invertebrate, even if he is smart, cute, and reasonably housebroken. If I think I could eat you for breakfast at-will, I lose interest.
10. There's a lot to be said for making new friends this way.

full stop.

The telegram has gone the way of the Dodo. (stop)

Effective Jan. 27, 2006, Western Union discontinued all Telegram and Commercial Messaging services. (stop)

I suppose I can cross "learn Morse code" off my to-do list now.

coconut macaroons

These are Nolan's favorite macaroons. Scott asked for the recipe while still chewing his first bite. Ben liked them so much that he wasn't willing to share them with anyone except me. I thought Eric was going to rip my arm off when I took the last one a few years ago. And yes, my female friends also like them very much.

8 large (8 oz) egg whites
2 1/2 cups (17.5 oz) sugar
1/2 tsp salt
2 TBSP honey
5 cups (11.25 oz) unsweetened, shredded dried coconut. Do not substitute sweet supermarket coconut.
1/2 cup (2.5 oz) all purpose flour
1 tsp vanilla extract
4 oz semisweet or bittersweet chocolate, chopped (optional)

In a large saucepan with a heavy bottom, warm the egg whites, sugar, salt, and honey, stirring over medium heat. When the whites are warm to the touch, add the coconut, flour, and vanilla. Continue cooking over medium heat, stirring constantly until the mixture is slightly dry and the bottom has just begun to sizzle and scorch. The mixture should be very thick. Cool. Chill until cold. (You can refrigerate this up to one week before using it.)

Position two oven racks in the center and upper part of the oven. Preheat the oven to 350F.

Form the mixture into 1-1/2 inch mounds with your fingers and space them evenly on parchment-lined baking sheets. Bake for 18 to 20 minutes, rotating the baking sheets and switching racks midway through baking so the macaroons brown evenly. Cool.

Melt the chocolate in a clean, dry bowl set over barely simmering water. When the chocolate is almost completely melted, remove the bowl from the heat and stir until it is fully melted.

• Holding each cookie by the top, dip the bottom in the chocolate, removing any excess by scraping the bottom against the rim of the chocolate bowl. Set the cookies on the plastic-lined baking sheet with the chocolate side down.
• Drizzle tops with chocolate.

Refrigerate until the chocolate has hardened (about 10 minutes), and serve.
Makes 30 macaroons.

Note: These freeze very well. Don't double-pan when baking them. Temper the chocolate by keeping it under 90F to prevent it from blooming later.
Recipe from Cindy Mushet

busy bees

As heard at lunch today:
Happy: "I don't have a free night until next Thursday."
Kevin: "Me, too."
Brianna: "I'm busy until May 2008."
Allison: "I'm booked until May 2010."
Jeff: "Yeah, I'm not doing anything tonight."

quotable

"I'm going to raise my kids Catholic, if nothing else so that they get the jokes."
-Allison Dolan

charm and unanswerable indignation

It turns out that Steven Morrissey is even smarter than I thought.

Here's his Oct 2004 statement urging American voters to vote for John Kerry for President:

With all my heart I urge people to vote against George Bush. Jon Stewart would be ideal, but John Kerry is the logical and sane move. It does not need to be said yet again, but Bush has single-handedly turned the United States into the most neurotic and terror-obsessed country on the planet. For non-Americans, the United States is suddenly not a very nice place to visit because US immigration officers — under the rules of Bush — now conduct themselves with all the charm and unanswerable indignation of Hitler’s SS. Please bring sanity and intelligence back to the United States. Don’t forget to vote. Vote for John Kerry and get rid of George Bush!

Apparently, he's always been a bit of a politico:

Morrissey has always been outspoken and is known for never holding back when disparaging political leaders he does not approve of. His most famous enemies have been The British Royal Family, former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, current Prime Minister Tony Blair, and current US President George W. Bush. Morrissey's first solo album, “Viva Hate,” included a track entitled “Margaret on the Guillotine,” a tongue-in-cheek jab at Prime Minister Thatcher. British police responded by searching Morrissey’s home and making him the subject of an official investigation. Many of the officers were said to be embarrassed at the absurdity of the situation, some even asking for Morrissey's autograph. Not to be outdone, Morrissey’s follow-up single included the B-side “Such a Little Thing Makes Such a Difference,” whose lyrics end with a caustic “Leave me alone, I was only singing/You have just proved again, most people keep their brains between their legs.”

2245 dead. how many more?

The state of the union? We're totally fucked.
Now that that's out of the way, here's my favorite story to come out of last night's non-event:

Capitol Police arrest antiwar activist Sheehan
In her blog, Sheehan wrote that her T-shirt said, “2245 Dead. How many more?” — a reference to the number of soldiers killed in Iraq.

She said she had one arm out of her coat when an officer yelled, “Protestor.”

“He then ran over to me, hauled me out of my seat and roughly (with my hands behind my back) shoved me up the stairs,” she wrote. She was then cuffed and driven to police headquarters a few blocks away.

“I was never told that I couldn’t wear that shirt into the Congress,” Sheehan wrote. “I was never asked to take it off or zip my jacket back up. If I had been asked to do any of those things...I would have, and written about the suppression of my freedom of speech later.”

Note: A republican congressman’s wife was also removed for her ‘Support the Troops’ shirt.

When did the Bill of Rights stop being applicable to citizens sitting in (of all places) the Capitol ?
Amendment I - Freedom of Religion, Press, Expression.
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

on a clear day, you can see forever

Last night, The Red Fox Room included its share of regulars, crooning the standards. And it made my heart glad to see the really old guys get up there and sing.

But my favorite moment was when the nervous 20-something indie rock girl got up, summoned a piercing voice that I couldn't believe was inside her, and belted out "On a clear day, you can see forever."

I must not have been the only one to appreciate it, because as we left the nearly empty bar, my favorite old guy (in his Mister Rogers sweater and glasses) finished the night with the same song.