Friday night

After mojitos and grilled fish in Saugus, we headed home. Speed Racer flew along Route 16 (the Road With 1000 Names), windows open in spite of the the cold. Shostakovich's Ninth was cranking on the radio when we hit Everett. "Just like old times," Pablo commented. This led to a bout near hysterical laughter.

Cape Cod Jalapeño and Aged Cheddar Potato Chips

Submitted by Christopher Burns

"If you live in the Northeastern part of the country, as I do, you know that for us spicy food is not really considered a source of regional pride. In the rare event when a brave New Englander voluntarily ingests any substance hotter than white bread, he usually does so in a restaurant containing "Mexican" or "Indian" in the title, or some other such classification that tells him: "Don't worry. This food is not from around here. You are sampling the native cuisine of a mysterious region far, far away." This comforts him, and, as he wipes the sweat from his brow, he smiles and takes comfort in the knowledge that, when he is done with his meal, he will return to his world of bland food and liberal ideology, safe for now from all outside influences.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I discovered these chips. I was in Ohio, of all places, when the "Cape Cod" printed in large blue letters caught my eye, and made me yearn once more for the simple pleasures of clam chowder and state-sanctioned gay marriage. Brand loyalty left over from my childhood drew me to the Cape Cod chips, but a Midwest-induced thirst for adventure forced me to pass on the original variety. That was when I picked up the green bag, the familiar lighthouse on the front complemented by a wheel of cheese and what appears to be an absurdly large jalapeño pepper (the length of the pepper and the diameter of the cheese are inexplicably equal). Taking this as proof of the New Englander's complete ignorance in the ways of the spicy pepper, I decided to try the chips, unsure of what to expect.

My first reaction was one of complete shock. Not only were the chips very spicy, they were also extremely tasty! They actually tasted like jalapeños! It was clear right away that this was no attempt by the good people of Hyannis, Massachusetts, to create just another overly spicy but completely tasteless snack food. In order to get this perfect an end product, they must have gone to great lengths to accurately reproduce the taste and spice level of a jalapeño in chip form, and I applaud their efforts. The cheese is an afterthought, adding a hint of sweetness that is welcome but largely unnoticed. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I finished the bag as quickly as my Irish Catholic taste buds would allow. But how could such a snack come from the land of lobster and tax inflation? For now, I choose to ignore such questions and instead revel in the delicious incongruity."

-from McSweeney's Reviews of New Food

The Broadsheet (ha! Get it?) purports to keep women abreast (snort!) on The Issues affecting them.

Call me silly, call me hypersensitive (just don't call me premenstrual!), but just because I may have a pair of ovaries, more estrogen than testosterone in my chemical mix and a set of bumpers on my chest, doesn't mean I share the same perspective as Salon's (hopeful) target readership for this 'cheeky, new' blog for women.

-thanks, Nappy, for linking me to all that pink.

Unjust bosses shorten employees' lives?

Not surprising; I went home early today with a raging headache and a dull thumping in my chest because of what I had to deal with. I wonder how much my lifespan is shortened by the fact that I take orders from no less than six people - many of whose requirements are in direct conflict with those of their colleagues.

***

Nick, who will now be known as Mr. Apropos as Hell, comes up with les mots justes (from Office Space, of course):

Peter Gibbons: It's a problem of motivation, all right? Now if I work my ass off and Initech ships a few extra units, I don't see another dime, so where's the motivation? And here's another thing, I have eight different bosses right now.

Bob Porter: Eight?

Peter Gibbons: Eight, Bob. So that means when I make a mistake, I have eight different people coming by to tell me about it. That's my only real motivation is not to be hassled, that, and the fear of losing my job. But you know, Bob, that will only make someone work just hard enough not to get fired.

Yup, that about sums it up.

A while back, Norm asked for three favorite poets in his latest poll. After a fair bit of dithering, I decided to go with my first impulse and stay (relatively) local:

Robert Frost

Walt Whitman

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Enjoy.

This Monday's flower is a will-o'-the-wisp inspired by a very strange but also very beautiful film.



More on the weekend and Sergei Paradzhanov's Color of Pomegranates later on. It's a busier than usual Monday here in reporting land.

Why I'm rooting for the White Sox.

Chicago

HOG Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation’s Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:         
 
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.         
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,       
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle,         
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse. and under his ribs the heart of the people,
                Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
">
-Carl Sandburg, 1916

*****

The Astros have Clemens, but this is what the Sox represent to me. Sorry, Nappy.
 

A little perspective.

Hotel Buckminster has its dark history. So hasn't the Radisson on Stuart Street (formerly Hotel 57), not to mention the Omni Parker House (and not because of the rolls, mind you, unless you're still following Atkins).

Passing by the local middle eastern market this afternoon, I noted a dark car with tinted windows pull up in front of me. The driver got out, went to the rear passenger door and opened it. Out came a woman who looked about my age clad in black from head to toe. The driver shut the car door and then accompanied the lady into the market.

Say what you want about cultural diversity, I'm always going to find the sight of a chauffered car pulling up to a neighborhood bodega a weird sight.

Last night I dreamt that one of my coworkers, a pani like me, was giving me the requirements for some reports she needed in Polish. I answered back in German. It was strange because, in the waking world, she talks to me in Polish and I usually respond in English.

This one goes out to all my overeducated girlfriends overlooking the undereducated Mr.s Right right under their noses.

Elouise

I know you been to college
I can tell by how you walk
I know you been to college
I can tell by how you talk.
Take off those glasses girl,
Let me feel your pain.
Take off those glasses girl,
I wanna feel your pain.

Elouise, Elouise, Elouise,
Where on Earth you goin'?

Been down to the gym, tryin' to be all I can be.
A little discipline's all you really need.
Got a condo in Modesto with a heated swimming pool
Talkin' condo in Modesto with a heated swimming pool...

Elouise, Elouise, Elouise,
I wanna take you higher...

Tell me true,
Are you where you wanna be?
Are you ready to be challenged
Are you ready to be free?
Free to make the kind of life I know that you deserve
Free to make the kind of life
I think you know what I'm talking about

Elouise, Elouise, Elouise
Where on earth you going...

-Chuck Prophet

***

A lot of talk about the education gap between men and women seemed to focus on the issue of women not being able to find men who were their educational or intellectual equals. I guess that this could be a problem if you're treating finding a partner like interviewing job candidates. Otherwise, I don't see an issue (aside from the obvious problem of men getting shortchanged by the educational system).

All these odd, Keeping-Up-With-the-Joneses criteria that women (and a lot of men here in the northeast) keep coming up with make me wonder sometimes. Why keep putting up barriers between yourself and possible happiness? Who cares if he drives a garbage truck, works for UPS, owns a convenience store? Do you feel safe, protected, secure when you're with him? Does he make you feel special? Do you feel like you could talk and talk with him and never run out of things to say? Can you be comfortably silent with him? Does he love your children if you have any?

Some of my happiest girlfriends got over the marrying below them thing. So their guys might not have the same educational background as they do, that's only one (relatively small) aspect that can be overlooked pretty easily in the scheme of things. For them, it's not about being equal in everything so much as being complementary.

***

I forgot about the sense of humor thing. He's got to have a sense of humor that jibes with yours. Then it doesn't matter if he's way smarter than you are, even.

What if...

John Adams and Adrian Belew were to marry and honeymoon in Bali?

This, maybe.

Next Galak tika performance. (Community Music at its best.)

Next performance of a work by Evan Ziporyn.

Darn straight I'm going to try to see both.

If what they say about protest babes is true, I'm quite certain that the Democracy for Belarus movement will be successful.

-(great job, Publius!)

Another sign that we're becoming a theocracy.

Faith expressions on coffee cups. Oh my Gawd! Jesus Coffee! Quick, start the boycotts!

Civilization doesn't end at the coasts.

As we former Buffalonians stranded in Boston like to say, "if you're making fun of Buffalo, you've never been there."

I've been mulling over moving back for a number of years, as I miss home. Have been campaigning pretty hard for friends to come along and see what life can be like in an area that has just about all the amenities of Boston (cultural and otherwise), friendlier residents and is actually affordable. Looks like a diaspora of sorts has already begun.

-via Universal Hub

"Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday, Mr. President,
Happy birthday to you."




(Image via Katrin.)

One benefit afforded to us where I work is access to an EAP. Lately, due to a combination of issues that I can only describe as the "swings and arrows of outrageous fortune," I have been availing myself of this program. I'm pretty certain that I don't need anything long term, as my emotional makeup combined with some good work done years ago seem to have made for a strong base. Every now and again I do get broadsided, which is what led me to seek help.

How funny to be back in a therapeutic relationship. Though I'd never ruled out ending up on the couch again, it does take a bit of getting used to. Yes, I am a gregarious sort - have been told that I am the antithesis of a wallflower (ha!). I'm not used to having someone sitting across from me asking me about me, about how I am doing, about what's on my mind, though. The act of focusing on myself, on emptying everything in my heart and brain to this professional, of actually trying to make sense of the confusion going on around me feels alien but cathartic. Naming the issues and the players has pushed something forward and has been motivating me to start cleaning house, so to speak.

I think it would be less exhausting (and perhaps less painful) if I didn't have so much untangling to do, if there were one part of my life that didn't feel as though it were spinning out of control. For example: the awful dysfunction at work would be easier for me to deal with if I didn't have to go home to the latest family drama. I'd feel better about (finally!) having my sanctum sanctorum if it weren't so damn pricey (thus making quitting the job right now a very irresponsible thing to do). I'd love to be able to go to the guy for a hug, some calm, nice words, but he's often unavailable. On top of that, has his own issues to deal with. (At least my side are honest about their insanity.) I don't feel good unburdening to friends, as they all have their trials ranging from annoying to grave.

Thinking about this all hurts. Expressing it provides a little release. Seeing the therapist rolling her eyes or bouche bée at something I've just recounted makes me laugh, and the laughter helps the hurt. Last session, she asked me if I'd ever considered writing a book. I asked her if she thought my stories that fabulous. No - things were strange and stressful, but she was getting a good feel for what was going on and actually enjoyed the narrative. Mentioned that I really do need to take up yoga or something to 'take care of me,' as I'm so busy taking care of everyone else. I did tell her that I had a blog and (strange!) she laughed outright. No plans for a book, though.

As Yet Unrecognized by Microsoft Windows.
BY ADAM CHAPMAN
- - - -

My MP3 player
My digital camera
My oven
My right to be happy
Dr. Dre
Me (when I'm not in disguise)
When my girlfriend is in one of her moods
Better Than Ezra (featuring DJ Swamp)
Taiwan (as a sovereign entity)

(Ouch on that last one.)

-via McSweeney's Internet Tendency.

It strikes me as odd to purchase items from a museum gift store that don't represent what one saw in the museum at that time. Still, on occasion, I do it.

This time around, probably influenced by the Katz portraits and scultpure I was surrounded by in the exhibit hall, I picked up a couple Will Barnett cards:



Silent Seasons - Summer



Silent Seasons - Winter

(Would have loved prints of the whole series, but they didn't carry any. Sometimes a girl has to make due with what she can get.)

There is something so engaging about Barnett's work, much like Andrew Stevovich's, and to a lesser degree, Katz's. It could be a reference to the heavy formality of ancient Egyptian figure painting. Could also be an aspiration on my part towards a sort of cool, expressionless, almost iconic self-control that his subjects seem to exude.

Bruce over at MassBackwards has a roundup of commentary regarding his post on restriction of choice in Boston and how it may have led to the death of an older woman in Southie last week.

-via Universal Hub

I don't have a gun, don't have mace (which has to be registered, as well). Too much of a liability here in Boston, where I might be criminally charged or sued if I were to hurt or kill in self defense. Even if there weren't that liability issue, there'd be the problem of stigma: I could totally see being discriminated against for housing or work here if a potential landlord or employer were to catch wind of the possibility of me having a weapon. Wish people here didn't have to be so narrow-minded about these things.