Say Goodnight, Fiorina

How appropriate that in a campaign built on lies, a person can get shitcanned for telling the truth:

Asked by a St. Louis radio station whether she thought Republican vice presidential nominee Sarah Palin could run a company like Hewlett-Packard, Fiorina responded: "No, I don't."

The McCain folks are pissed.

"Carly will now disappear," this source said. "Senator McCain was furious." Asked to define "disappear," this source said, adding that she would be off TV for a while ...

Fiorina was booked for several TV interviews over the next few days, including one on CNN. Those interviews have been canceled.

No $50 million golden parachute on this ride down, I guess. But who will cry sexism on Palin's behalf now?

What's so frustrating is OF COURSE none of these political contenders could run a major corporation. That's not what they've trained to do. Even George W., who *had* an MBA, couldn't helm Hewlett-Packard. But putting Sarah "Bush in a Skirt" Palin in office would be worse than average, an awful lot like putting Norville Barnes in charge of Hudsucker Industries. Except that Norville Barnes was authentically a nice guy, not someone who fired her enemies and appointed old high school friends with no experience to run million dollar agencies.

Sarah Palin is officially Not Fun Anymore, even if she does have an action figure.

Please Note

It's unsettling to see one's bra size in the NYT mag prefaced by the words "startlingly large." Especially because I suspect the author has his facts wrong. Seriously, here's me:



And here's Katie Price:



No comparison, right? Right. But why should I expect fact-checking from the NYT? Last week Mo Dowd claimed Hillary went to Wesleyan. (The snobby, media-elitist northeastern liberal arts college Hill attended was, as everyone knows, Wellesley.)

Speaking of secondary sexual characteristics, Mr. Ben and I saw fabulous cabaret/burlesque Saturday night, courtesy of Lazy Rizo and the Assettes. In fact it's the only successful burlesque/cabaret I've ever seen -- it managed to be hilarious and sexy and entertaining all the way through.

In one incredible number, a man who began tap-dancing to "Momma's Little Baby Loves Shortening Bread" in a sailor dress and pigtails transformed, via striptease, into glitter Jesus, backed up by a bouncy version of "Let The Circle Be Unbroken."

Digest that if you can.

The next day, for a change of pace, Mr. Ben headed off to a patriotic photoshoot and the LES Pickle Festival while I hit up the Brooklyn Book Festival with friends. We got to see Richard Price (the Wire, Lush Life), A.M. Homes (the L Word, the Safety of Objects), Simon Rich (SNL, the New Yorker), Russell Banks (Cloudsplitter, Affliction), and Jonathan Franzen (the Corrections, How To Be Alone). FOR FREE. And Franzen flirted with me! Okay, he didn't, but he could have -- we spoke briefly, and he gazed at me with his sad, soulful eyes.

This was definitely an "I <3 NY" kind of weekend.

brightening

Wow! Both my parents are energy lawyers who have worked for the federal government off and on their whole lives, and they never had this much fun. But then, aside from Jay McInerney, and, we now know, members of the Bush administration's Interior Department, who does?:

The report says that eight officials in the royalty program accepted gifts from energy companies whose value exceeded limits set by ethics rules — including golf, ski and paintball outings; meals and drinks; and tickets to a Toby Keith concert, a Houston Texans football game and a Colorado Rockies baseball game.

The investigation also concluded that several of the officials “frequently consumed alcohol at industry functions, had used cocaine and marijuana, and had sexual relationships with oil and gas company representatives.”

The investigation separately found that the program’s manager mixed official and personal business. In sometimes lurid detail, the report also accuses him of having intimate relations with two subordinates, one of whom regularly sold him cocaine.

The culture of the organization “appeared to be devoid of both the ethical standards and internal controls sufficient to protect the integrity of this vital revenue-producing program,” one report said.

The sexual relationships with oil and gas company representatives sound particularly enticing, don't they? Also the paintball outings, because god knows they're hard to come by.

I am trying to be in a better mood about things. The oh-so-wise Gail Collins is telling me to be, for one. Also, contrary to expectations, Rushdie's entertaining but narratively muddled Enchantress of Florence was not even shortlisted for the Booker this year, which means all status quos change eventually. AND the Large Hadron Collider succeeded in creating a small black hole but not in destroying the world. This feels like a good thing right now, although ask me again if McCain/Palin are elected.

NOTE: Do you ever think about the fact that life could end suddenly, in a flash, depriving all the religions of the world of ever knowing whether they were right?

glum.

The events of the past couple weeks have been dragging me down bit by bit, especially as we near the end of my favorite season:

• kind rejections
  
• an extended meal with the Russian hordes. Hours at a time of food I can't eat, drinks I can't drink, and jokes I don't understand tends to get to me, but yesterday's get together was harder than usual.
  
• misuses of the word "limpid"
  
• the disrespect shown to the em dash in my office
  
• the delayed launch of Unigo
  
• The Year of Magical Thinking
  
• of course, Palinpsests. The country loves it some Sarah, while I am scared to the soles of my feet of this book-banning beauty queen and her effect on national polls.

I am scanning the horizon for mermaids or bright spots, anything that might cheer me up:

• The New Yorker Festival. I'm on Year 5 in the city and I've never managed to get to one of these events. Will this be the year?
  
• Unigo launches tomorrow, 9/9! This is it, folks, the real deal, the website I've been helping conjure out of the ether for the past eight months: The next medium-sized thing. Tell your friends.
  
• "America's Next Top Model"

Honestly, I can't think of other specifics. There has to be something to look forward to! Please, Send Help.

ETA: Gawker mocks my pain and friends email me reassurance. Already I feel somewhat better. Thanks, pals and blogs!

Sarah, Palin and Tall

The Mommy Wars rage on around and about Sarah Palin, yesterday's Bold, Maverick Choice and tomorrow's Harriet Miers:

“When I first heard about Palin, I was impressed,” said Pamela Moore, a mother of two from Birmingham, Ala. But upon reading that Ms. Palin’s special-needs child was three days old when she went back to work, Ms. Moore began questioning the governor’s judgment. Partly as a result, she plans to vote for Senator Barack Obama. ...

Her thoughts were echoed by some Republicans, including Anne Faircloth, daughter of former Senator Lauch Faircloth of North Carolina. Being a governor is one thing, Ms. Faircloth said, and Ms. Palin’s husband, Todd, seems like a supportive spouse. “But running for the second-highest office in the land is a very different kettle of fish,” she said.

Many women expressed incredulity — some of it polite, some angry — that Ms. Palin would pursue the vice presidency given her younger son’s age and condition. Infants with Down syndrome often need special care in the first years of life: extra tests, physical therapy, even surgery.

Sarah Robertson, a mother of four from Kennebunk, Me., who was one of the few evangelical Christians interviewed to criticize Ms. Palin, said: “A mother of a 4-month-old infant with Down syndrome taking up full-time campaigning? Not my value set.”

What a thankless job it is, in America, to be a woman in the public eye making decisions about family. And what a thankless job it is, as well, to be the vice president of a man who lets the press know you were his third choice because he wasn't allowed to ask out either of his preferred dates. How tacky is that? John, will you keep your aides in order, please? They're embarrassing both you and your "soul mate."

The GOP has suddenly become the party of drama, of chick flicks and Lifetime movies. Good for them for defending the ability of women to raise children and have jobs, at least. And good for them for being able to change their tune so fast! The opinion-makers were far less happy about the idea of Palin before the decision was made, according to this hilariously off-message Fox News clip.

While we're on the subject, good for Obama for refusing to engage with this tawdriness and pointing out his mother was only 18 when he was born. Truth be told, Obama doesn't have to do much except keep campaigning and keep Biden from putting his oh-so-tasty foot in his mouth. And Biden's doing pretty well so far:

If Sen. Joe Biden was hurt that Republican operative Karl Rove called him a “big blowhard doofus” at an event in Minneapolis Monday, he didn’t show it. On hearing the news, Biden grinned and said “he’s a great American.” ... A reporter asked if the senator would now answer to “Senator Doofus.” “You can call me anything you want,” he said. “I learned a long time ago you can call me anything you want.”

Oh, I hope the rest of the campaign continues to be chock full of vituperative mothers-in-law and fake blog entries about Foreign Policy that end, "In conclusion, Foreign Policy is a complex but fascinating topic." Please, Election 2008, tell me you're not done entertaining us yet.

Also, Remember This?

On a day when Obama prepares to speak again, let's all take a moment and review where we were four years ago, when a state senator for Illinois ascended the national stage for the first time.

Four years ago, when that speech first blew my mind, I had just begun working at what I like to call the Very Important Talent Agency, a place where I was sworn at, berated, objectified, and sexually harassed, and generally introduced to the "real world." Although we peons were encouraged not to let a lunch break distract us from our ten-hour days, I would sometimes slip out for some stabilizing fresh air.

On one of those days, which coincided with the Republican National Convention's takeover of NYC, I had the good fortune to be hit on by an aging delegate:

i was eating lunch in an outdoor plaza and a delegate (complete with cowboy hat -- they seemed to come standard) started a conversation. his mother sat next to him, spilling things on her blouse and sometimes chiming in.

... him: so where are you from?
me: dc
his mother: she's from new york, of course.
him: no, mom, she's from washington.
his mother: ohhh. (clear implication: if there's any place worse than new york ...)
him: so what's your name?
me: ester.
him: that's a great name.
me: it's a little old-fashioned.
him: i like old-fashioned women.
his mother: [spills something on herself]

And, to keep injecting sex into this political conversation, here's Rude Pundit's totally obscene take on the Convention so far. Enjoy.

Remember the Maine

On our trip to Maine last week, we decided that we had to eat either blueberries or lobster every day. In effect, we decided to eat lots of blueberries, because it turns out that lobster is hella expensive even in Maine, where I figured they basically give you two just for waking up in the morning. But we all got gold medals in blueberry eating: in pie, in muffins, on yogurt, on ice cream, and straight off the bush.

Also, I learned that Maine is about much more than food. It's also about really cold water. The water up there was clearly on loan from Titanic. One lovely day, just outside the idyllic, remote town of Machias, we decided to risk hypothermia, just for fun. We swam out to a bridge, let the river's rapids carry us, screaming, to the other side, and then swam quickly towards shore to avoid getting dragged out to sea and ending up dropped on a beach in Newfoundland looking like the Montauk Monster.



It was awesome. And, to thaw out our purple fingers afterwards, the lovely family we were visiting gave us all china teacups of homemade lobster bisque. It was as salty as the many locals who cut their eyes at us at rural gas stations along Coastal Route 1.



We also spent one long, hilarious night playing Settlers of Catan, a German colonialist board game. It's like Diplomacy meets Monopoly meets Sim City, and it's so absorbing we were up til 2:00 AM. We didn't even remember to watch the Olympics.

The area where Ben's dad has a beautifully decorated house is peaceful and small; there was very little to do except to tire ourselves out walking in the woods or on rocky beaches during the day, cook a lot, and then fall into a stupor not long after sunset. We did make it to an adorable little library, watched over by a woman who knew the name of everyone who came in. I listened to her making personalized recommendations and I realized that, in another life, I would totally be her. And pretty happy, too.

A Country Song

I had to agree with George Stephanopolous about the DNC stage: gross. Barack Obama's head appearing in that screen, framed by neon lights, made him look like he was inside a jukebox, some kind of alien warlord informing a fifties diner that he is going to attack.

But that's my only complaint. Ted Kennedy looked even stronger last night than he had the last time I saw him, speaking at my little brother's high school graduation. How can you not go all mushy and sentimental when you hear him he say, "I promise you, I will be on that Senate floor on January 5"? Remember to factor in that you have your period in this scenario, with hormones coming out your eyes. Okay, go.

Michelle, meanwhile, is a goddess, and her brother is adorable. You don't get to see that kind of close sibling relationship too often; the narratives of Father-Son, Mother-Daughter, Parent-Child, or Feuding Siblings take up too much space. And, of course, with this convention, the narrative of the Clintons Hate Obama but Love the Kennedies who Love Obama. It's a country song!

God, I'm tired of thinking and hearing about Clinton and her disgruntled, spiteful supporters. It's like no one ever lost a primary before. "It is a fact that millions of Americans voted for Mrs. Clinton this year," acknowledges the NYT. Well done, factcheckers! Millions of people also voted for Jesse Jackson when he ran, but you didn't see him hosting cry-ins about not making it to the White House.

Silver medal, Hillary! It's not so bad! Other fabulous women have had to settle for silver. Try to do it with some grace.

Meanwhile, in *actual* drama, four people have been arrested for plotting an assassination:

The police said they had found two rifles, one with a scope, in the car, along with walkie-talkies, a bulletproof vest and licenses in the names of other people.

And enough meth to power ten long-haul truck drivers.

Luckily we're being prayed for: the DNC even has an official prayer guy! And Tara Leigh knows him! Because apparently the world of Christians who are willing to chill with Democrats is very, very small.

Remember the Maine

Kicking my feet up in Bath, Maine, en route to Macchiasport. The houses are old, the locals are salty (and eco-friendly!), and the lobster rolls are very tempting. Thus far in my life the only lobster roll I've ever had was in Chelsea Market in Manhattan. That's gotta change.

Back next weekend!

Olympic Madness

This is like the movie version of My Fair Lady, with the studio casting Audrey Hepburn instead of Julie Andrews and then using Marni Nixon's voice: the little girl who sang in the opening ceremonies was the face China was looking for, but the voice was provided by a less adorable seven-year-old. God, how depressing. We'll never get over our perfection-obsession, will we?

(Because I can't resist the Biblical reference, I have to admit this quote also sprang to mind: "The voice is the voice of Jacob, but the hands are the hands of Esau.")

Predictably, people are pissed:

The outrage was especially heated over the cold calculation used to appraise the girls. “Please save the last bit of trueness in our children,” wrote one person with an online name of Weirderhua. “They think Yang Peiyi’s smile is not cute enough? What we need is truth, not some fake loveliness! I hope the kids will not be hurt. This is not their fault.”

Another person added: “Children are innocent. Don’t contaminate their minds!”

Though I'll happily debate the "children are innocent" canard, otherwise I agree. It's this kind of stage management that makes people either strive for the unattainable or become cynical about everything. Like the New Yorker article about photoshopping, which made it clear you can never fully trust what you see. Do you think there would be so much conspiracy theorizing -- about the moon landing, 9/11, and Britain's 7/7 -- otherwise?

The idea that a child needs to not only have the best voice but the best look is American Idol-type nonsense. So is the idea that no female Olympian is complete, not even with a gold medal, if we don't know that she also has a husband and a baby in the wings, as a Johnson & Johnson ad last night made clear, or is about to start a family, as the media and announcers during the women's beach volleyball competition kept stressing. Already they have to compete in bikinis, so that we can objectify them even as we admire them.

Seriously, isn't it enough that these athletes do unreal things with their minds and bodies to perform for us on an international stage? Do we really need them to shrink back to human size once the cameras are off?

Welcome to the Team, Condi!

Everyone's letting the masks slip these days! Is it the August heat? First Paris Hilton reveals that she's actually shrewd and funny. Then Morgan Freeman decides to stop pretending his marriage is working (he and his wife have been secretly separated since December!). Now Condoleeza Rice has admitted she's an Obamaniac:

"Look, I’m a Republican, all right? Senator McCain is a fine patriot and he would be a great president. But there’s something to be said for fresh blood." ... Rice was also asked “Would you feel safe with a President Obama?” to which she responded, "Oh, the United States will be fine."

Check out that future tense! Very sly.

I'm going to try to move away from thinking about politics and polls all the time, the ridiculousness of which this New Yorker piece captures nicely. If only there were more distractions. At work, we're grinding through the last month before we go live -- exciting but stressful -- and mourning the sudden loss of our CTO. The office feels a bit like a bachelor pad these days, lacking necessities like toiletries and water (not to mention an HR department and an Office Manager) but boasting a big-ass flatscreen TV and an X-Box to go with it.

When I told a friend about the X-Box, she replied, impressed, "Are you guys like Google now?" The answer is, Absolutely, if the employees at Google have to fish used paper towels out of the trash can to wipe their hands.

Largely, the boys in the office are thrilled to get to play Rock Band and Avatars Play Soccer and Shoot That! And That Too! Get Him!. But I'm past the point in my life where I can enjoy watching other people work a controller. At least you can use the X-Box to play DVDs. Chipper McCheerful and I are staying after work to watch Season 3, Disc 3 of The Wire.

A Good Year

dancey dancey
Originally uploaded by shorterstory.

Instead of doing work, I'm reading archives, since work right now makes me cranky and archives make me agreeably nostalgic.

One year and sixteen days ago, Mr. Ben studies -- hilariously -- for the Bar.

One year and five days ago, I reflect, "I’ve had over a year to get used to the idea of being a "wife." I’m not quite there yet. I am more comfortable with the idea of being a "bride," anyway, but that’s largely because my mother has made it easy on me. And now the wedding is in five days. FIVE DAYS!"

And one year ago, a woman on the street gives me a pre-celebration blessing: "'My GAWD,' she twanged, hand over heart, 'you look so beautiful! You look just like I did before MY first marriage!'"

Here is the wedding entry. Thanks to mystical good fortune, I am as happy now as I was then, although I am still not yet okay with the idea of being a "wife." Perhaps I can just be a Newlywed for a really long time.

Happy One Year, baby.

Top Five Things Wrong with McCain's Newest Ad

#5) Britney Spears <3s President Bush. Remember this, from 2003?:

CARLSON: You're going to be on the National Mall [in Washington, D.C.] soon performing for Pepsi and the NFL and also to support our troops. A lot of entertainers have come out against the war in Iraq. Have you?

SPEARS: Honestly, I think we should just trust our president in every decision he makes and should just support that, you know, and be faithful in what happens.

CARLSON: Do you trust this president?

SPEARS: Yes, I do.

This interview also includes the following unrelated, hilarious exchange:

CARLSON: You worked with Pepsi for a long time. Candidly between you and me, how much Pepsi do you think [you drink] on an average day?

SPEARS: I really do like Pepsi.

CARLSON: Really?

SPEARS: I really do.

CARLSON: What's your favorite kind?

SPEARS: My favorite kind of Pepsi? Pepsi's Pepsi.

CARLSON: You don't drink Diet Pepsi.

SPEARS: No, just regular Pepsi.

Britney is my idol. Okay, back to the list!

#4) The Hiltons <3 McCain, or <3ed, anyway, to the tune of $4,600, the maximum allowable donation to his campaign. Now, not so much.

#3) McCain <3s 25-year-old blond heiresses. His own wife was one when he met her.

#2) The world <3s Obama -- why isn't that a good thing?

#1) The GOP <3s celebrities.

This shit makes me tired. Worse is the most recent deflating Gallup poll, which puts Obama only one point ahead. In one corner, you have a young, dynamic, intelligent, good-looking, thoughtful, church-going family man. In the other, you have the technologically illiterate Grampy LaGrumps who traded in his first wife for a far younger lady, one who came with a well-connected political father and no embarrassing personal disfigurements. And voters are painfully divided?

Well, as I do every four years around this time, I will try to keep from sliding into cynicism about the American people.

Everybody wins!

Everyone has a flatscreen today these days. I was thinking that as I sat on a wooden bench in the DMV this morning, clutching a see-through bag which contained everything anyone would need to steal my identity and take it to Bolivia without first making sure it has its shots. The DMV has no TV, flatscreen or otherwise; it doesn't even have a clock. I was looking around for a telegraph machine, whose clicks could perhaps be pleasantly distracting, but all I saw was a small fuzzy scrolling marquis comme ca:

In between text ads for the jewelry store next door and jobs in the police department, the marquis informed me, in its Lite Brite way, that there would be a TOTAL SOLAR ECLIPSE tomorrow but that no one would be able to see it but NASA. This struck me as a little bit unfair. Then again, anything seems unfair when you're shuttling from window to window only to pause and smile hopefully at a machine that decides whether bouncers will smirk at you for the next five years.

They took my DC license -- goodbye, friend! -- and gave me in exchange a woeful slip of paper that functions as both a temporary ID and a receipt. Thanks a lot, fellas.

The office now has a flatscreen, which makes it that much more pleasant than the DMV. Right now it's leaning up against the wall, but some point it will hang gloriously above us, attached to cable and everything and maybe an X-Box. This led my coworker, Chipper McCheerful, to say: "I've been looking for a game for our conference room, but it's difficult. It has to be a game that everyone can play and a game that nobody loses."

Lifestyle Justified!

Studies in newspapers exist to confirm what we already know. All the same, sometimes it's nice to get that little refresher, like someone handing you a towel when you've just stumbled into a puddle of doubt. Two studies recently have functioned in this cheerful way: first, this one showing there is no difference anymore between the math scores of boys and girls. And second, this one, letting us know that living together before marriage decreases the likelihood of divorce!

None of this would have happened had Betty Friedan not thrown down her apron.

The researchers found no difference in the scores of boys versus girls — not even in high school. Studies 20 years ago showed girls and boys did equally well on math in elementary school, but girls fell behind in high school. "Girls have now achieved gender parity in performance on standardized math tests," Hyde said.

And as for the "living in sin" business:

The odds of divorce among women who married their only cohabiting partner were 28% lower than among women who never cohabited before marriage, according to sociologist Daniel Lichter of Cornell University in Ithaca, N.Y.

For people who believe in sin cohabitation can still feel wrong, of course. But I like that it has been proven to have the social utility I instinctively believed it had. What pleasant news to come along right before my very first wedding anniversary.

Not a Novelist

On Saturday, Mr. Ben and I went up to Chappaqua where his father, in an expansive mood, was hosting a party for MDs who can hold their liquor. At one point I found myself out on the patio with a small crowd of them, all women.

Russian #1: How is your novel?
Russian #2: It has a happy ending, no? After all, you are American.
All Russians: [Laugh]

I admitted that yes, my book has a relatively happy ending. They cut me with their eyes, then began talking with each other about ballet.

A half-sloshed neurologist told me about his new apartment and his new wife. "I've had three of these already," he said, holding up his vodka glass. "I plan to get drunk."

"I'll be right back!" I replied, escaping.

I ended the evening playing ping pong in the basement with a seven-year-old who looked like a Hanson. He told me he was from Maui and that I was 35. Neither of these things turned out to be true, but he was very convincing.

Winners of the Hot Stuff Competition!

ben brunches with hotties
Originally uploaded by shorterstory.

Pictures from birthday brunch (and another recent outdoor foodsy events) are up on Flickr. I wore a pretty dress! And for once, I was not out-boobed by Rebecca (to my left in that picture, in the amazing bright red 1940s number).

Whatever happened to the eye of the beholder?

I remember enough from working in textbooks to say with 92.6% certainly that this Natalie Angier piece about mirrors will be anthologized up the wazzoo. It's got everything! References to popular Greek myths, a sprinkling of statistics, some fluff, some science, all in two highly-readable pages. My beef with Angier's latest attempt at channeling Malcolm Gladwell? This graph:

In a report titled “Mirror, Mirror on the Wall: Enhancement in Self-Recognition,” which appears online in The Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin, Nicholas Epley and Erin Whitchurch described experiments in which people were asked to identify pictures of themselves amid a lineup of distracter faces. Participants identified their personal portraits significantly quicker when their faces were computer enhanced to be 20 percent more attractive.

20% more attractive, Natalie? Wow! You mean there's an objective standard to these things?

The fact that people conceive of themselves as better looking than they are is fascinating. But the idea that readers will take it for granted that there is a concrete way to look 20% more attractive -- fewer wrinkles? smaller nose? fuller lips? -- makes me want to walk into walls.

Luckily I've been in too good a mood lately to let an ideological disagreement get me down. Birfday Saturday was all Food-Show-Food-Show, with friends along for the loopy ride. Show #1, the Dark Knight, was great, as I'm sure you've heard: too long -- two movies buckled together, really, and played consecutively -- but seriously well-directed. Still, my favorite parts all had to do with Heath Ledger. [SPOILERS AHEAD!] He has the most compelling performance and the funniest lines, and he gets to mock one of my least favorite cinematic/psychological conventions, the idea that all crazy adults had a pivotal moment in childhood that made them the way they are. It was my father, the Joker says, and you feel for him, you really think he means it. Then, later, equally seriously, It was my wife. He tries to tell a third story when Batman, who, of everyone, understands him best, cuts him off.

Watching the Joker, I found myself thinking about the line from the New Yorker's recent piece on Obama: "Who sent you?" But just like that article ends up shrugging and admitting no one sent Obama (there wasn't much dirt on him to dig up, it turns out) it's not nearly so simple in the Joker's case either. He is chaos, manic, like Twain's Mysterious Stranger. Whether that's intended to be a commentary on terrorism or God or the weather -- whatever we Americans can't control -- is up in the air. But regardless, it works. Throughout the movie, I was scared enough that my hands were shaking. [Okay, spoilers finished. Those were pretty minor/pathetic spoilers too, but I'm trying to be sensitive.]

Show #2 was the very meta, very enjoyable [title of show], which just opened on Broadway. (It moved after running at the Vineyard for a while.) Much like Passing Strange, which Mr. Ben and I saw recently, it's a smart, self-aware musical targeted at young people. Apparently, in the case of the latter, the strategy didn't quite work out, which is really too bad. I'm glad we got to support it a little bit and I hope [title of show] has better luck.

Near misses

1) The just-escaped-from-Jurassic-Park-sized spider on the bathroom faucet. Mr. Ben, kill it!

2) Spider #1's cousin, Spider #2, which was like Spider #1 only on HGH, on the living room curtain. Mr. Ben, kill it! I don't care if you're still in a towel. Are you crazy? This thing could eat me *and* my breakfast of Trader Joe's yogurt and Kellogg's 19s while you locate your pants. Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease. Thank you.

3) The bird that shat two inches to the right of my lunch and three inches away from my lap, managing, miraculously, to hit nothing except table. Mr. Ben, kill it! Er, just kidding: vegetarian. Also, Mr. Ben is at work, and he probably doesn't have a bow and arrow.

Birfday tomorrow! In honor of which I have enjoyed much delicious food all week, including an Eat Like Ester sundae bar at my office this afternoon consisting of lo-sugar soy ice cream, fresh fruit, & granola. My coworker, Chipper McCheerful, consulted my mother, who suggested that he "put candles in a banana and pour sugar-free chocolate syrup over it!"

CMcC also contacted my brother who's studying for the bar and thus couldn't contribute. But he replied anyway: "I will not forget your kindness to my family, when I am emperor."

Marrying Mr. Ben apparently entitles me to birfday recognition from his family as well as mine. (This is Reason #32 to tie the knot. Reason #28 is the kitchen gadgets. Reason #12 is that you can leave the lights on when you do it because you no longer need to hide from God.) I walked home from the fancy-pants, totally yummy celebratory dinner last night with an huge potted orchid and a gift card to Anthropologie. Once birfday week is over, I am going to be waddling around town in some very high-end clothes. Look out, world!

Obama shrugs off New Yorker cover

"It's a cartoon. ... I haven't spent a lot of time thinking about it."

While everyone else chokes on the foam coming out of their own mouths, Obama manages to convey that he's not angry about being satirized and that he understood the magazine's intent; THEN, he apologizes to Muslims. I will go into a happiness coma if a man this calm and intelligent gets to sit in the Oval Office.

Speaking of elections & cartoons, this Kansan gets my vote, and he'd get my $8.34 too if I could use PayPal (can't. complicated.).

{found @ Gawker}

Quote of the Day

COWORKER 1: Hey, Ethan Hawke married his nanny. Everyone's doing that.
ME: Nannies are the new secretaries.
COWORKER 2, WHO SITS ACROSS FROM ME: Good for him! I had this great nanny when I was eight ...
ME: He didn't marry his own nanny; he married his kids' nanny.
COWORKER 2: Oh. That's not as fun.

please, no more Geniuses

Note: over the course of this narrative, I'm going to put in bold every statement that turned out to be a lie.

On Saturday, I brought my 3.5-year-old iBook into the Apple store in Soho, bypassing the serpentine line of suits clamoring for their new iPhones. The Genius at the bar told me everything was fine. "It's a software problem," he said. "That's easily fixed."

No sooner had I turned to smile hopefully at Mr. Ben than the Genius changed his mind.

"Oops," said the Genius, a word they should be forbidden from uttering. "Spoke too soon. Your hard drive is failing. Luckily you caught it just in time. If you want to buy a new computer today, we can transfer everything over. No problem."

Downstairs we went, kids in a candy store, to pick out a MacBook. Neurotically, I kept urging everyone to hurry. "Don't worry," the saleslady said. "It'll be fine." She entered our info into the queue so that the data transfer would happen ASAP.

At the register, I gave the checkout lady a username and password for the new computer. "Okay, great," she said. "We'll call you in 24 to 48 hours and you can come pick them up!"

Three hours later, my cell phone rang. "I'm sorry," said the Genius. "Your hard drive pulled a Tim Russert -- sudden collapse, nothing we could do. I hope you backed everything up!"

The next day, Mr. Ben and I dragged ourselves back to the Apple store to get our new machine and the sad empty shell of my old one. "At least we'll be able to set it up tonight," said Mr. Ben, trying to be comforting. And indeed, within minutes, shiny white Mr. Macbook was glowing on the desk like a beacon. Forget the past, it seemed to say. I am the future. I am Eve. What is your password, please?

I entered the password. No, it said sweetly. The password.

Mr. Ben and I tried every permutation of the word we could think of. We checked the receipt: there the word was written correctly. But whatever Genius had set up our machine for us must have misspelled it in such an ingenious way we couldn't guess the mistake. Exhausted, irritated, and hot, we shut off Eve and went to sleep.

This morning a Genius in Austin, TX, sounding anxious about my commitment to Apple based on the sourness of my recent experiences, guided me through resetting the password. Once Eve allowed me in, I found a document that reported what the old mis-typed password had been: there was an "e" where an "a" should have been. "Sorry about all of this!" chuckled the nervous Genius.

The Mac is dead! Long live the Mac!

new media

How sweet is this nifty Blogger customization thing? I don't know it took me so long to catch on to it.

I feel very With It, technologically, today: aside from changing this page all around, I started a Facebook group that already has almost 100 members, the vast majority of whom are complete strangers. Yes! I am an accidental activist. You're a feminist, right? Aren't you tired of being bombarded with weight loss ads all the time while you're TRYING TO CONCENTRATE on your word-finding games? Join us!

Tomorrow I have to bring my poor stuttering iBook into the Genius Bar and they will tell me whether its soul can be saved. Hopefully the fuzzy feeling I get from watching Wizard of Oz for free on Pier 46 tonight with friends will last long enough to carry me through that ordeal.

free movies!

The NYT just published a chart of free outdoor movies for this summer. Here's my edited list, virtually all of which I'd be interested in going to, though it would take a lot of momentum to get me to Hoboken or Williamsburg on a skool night. I've bolded the ones that are REALLY exciting.

Thursday, July 10: “Stand By Me,” Brooklyn Bridge Park

Friday, July 11: “The Wizard of Oz,” Pier 46, Hudson River Park

Wednesday, July 16: “Almost Famous,” Pier 54, Hudson River Park; “Wag the Dog,” Riverside Park

Thursday, July 17: “Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” Brooklyn Bridge Park

Monday, July 21: “Arsenic and Old Lace,” Bryant Park

Tuesday, July 22: “Wet, Hot American Summer,” McCarren Park Pool

Wednesday, July 23: “Election,” Riverside Park; “Michael Clayton,” Hoboken, N.J.

Friday, July 25: “E.T.,” Pier 46, Hudson River Park

Monday, July 28: “The Apartment,” Bryant Park

Friday, Aug. 1: “The Iron Giant,” McCarren Park Pool

Tuesday, Aug. 5: “On the Town,” 55 Water Street; “Mean Streets,” McCarren Park Pool

Wednesday, Aug. 6: "The Manchurian Candidate,” Riverside Park

Thursday, Aug. 7: “Pleasantville,” Brooklyn Bridge Park

Friday, Aug. 8: “The Goonies,” Pier 46, Hudson River Park

Tuesday, Aug. 12: “Manhattan,” 55 Water Street; “28 Days Later,” McCarren Park Pool

Wednesday, Aug. 13: "Harry Potter & The Order of the Phoenix,” Hoboken, N.J.

Thursday, Aug. 14: “Cabaret,” Brooklyn Bridge Park

Friday, Aug. 15: “Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory,” Pier 46, Hudson River Park

Tuesday, Aug. 19: “Velvet Goldmine,” McCarren Park Pool

Wednesday, Aug. 20: “All The President’s Men,” Riverside Park

Thursday, Aug. 21: “Being There,” Brooklyn Bridge Park

Friday, Aug. 22: “Shrek,” Pier 46, Hudson River Park

Tuesday, Aug. 26: “Imitation of Life,” 55 Water Street; “Blue Velvet,” McCarren Park Pool

Thursday, Aug. 28: “The Shining,” Brooklyn Bridge Park

Writin'

The worst writing I've seen in a while comes courtesy of the Washington Post, in an article called (appropriately) Blood on the Mountain:

High on the mountain, the sun has to fight its way down through the thick forest. The light takes on a spectral elegance, as if yellow diamonds are falling to the ground. ... But a murderer was in these woods, too. And he brought darkness to the light.

On the cheerier side of things, this interview with Meryl Streep in the Guardian almost made me want to see Mamma Mia!, despite my hatred of all things Abba. (I couldn't even sit through Muriel's Wedding, and I have abiding respect for Toni Collette.) The paper, for what it's worth, seems to agree with me:

Streep plays an older woman called Donna who runs a B&B on a Greek island which has been infected by a terrible plague: nobody can stop singing Abba songs, until some god, in the form of the end credits, intervenes.

For some reason, the reporter seems to think Streep has never done comedy, which ignores how hilarious she was in Adapation and Postcards from the Edge. Maybe the laughs didn't make it across the Atlantic.

Also, the website Cityfile, for which I had a Secret Internet Part-Time Job last year, has finally launched. I wrote about thirty profiles for them, including ones for such yellow diamonds as Ann Coulter, Lucianne Goldberg, Ken Auletta, the little Foer boy, and lots of others, including agents/editors whose names I've forgotten. Browse! It's fun.

"i got the gun, you got the briefcase"

Especially now that I've finished the second draft of my book and sent it out to its probable first round of rejections, my favorite thing to do is watch dead TV shows on DVD. First it was My So-Called Life, which I re-experienced, giddily, on Netflix. Now it's the Wire, which, being five or so seasons, is going to take me longer. I'd heard and ignored hype about this show for years, figuring it would be somewhere on the spectrum of Law and Order, Homicide, and the Sopranos: male-focused, testosterone-y cop drama with lots of posturing and blood-letting followed by snarky courtroom scenes. I could do without.

Only when someone whose artistic opinion I respect told me it was maybe better than the Sopranos did I finally decide to give it a chance. The first few episodes were fine, if a little rough, but to be fair, David Chase's folks didn't really get their act together immediately either. Around Disc 3 of Season 1, with the cohesion of the police group and the increased centrality of Omar, one of the more compelling "bad guys" I've seen on television, I realized I was really into it. And this clip, from an episode I haven't even seen yet, is a pretty good explication of why.

"Is there really such a thing as black holes?"

"Waaaaaaaaalllll-E." "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeevuh." That is what is going on inside my head, a constant loop of one adorable robot voice speaking to another adorable robot voice. If I could get a guarantee that my kids would be as cute as those little Pixar creations, I would have them. (That's one consideration not addressed by this otherwise thoughtful NYT magazine article about why Europeans won't breed. I mean, seriously, reproduction is a risk. What if your kids have terrible taste, or grow up to be barbaric, vote-rigging, African dictators instead of awesome neurologists?)

Without giving too much away, because you should really see the movie yourself and be surprised / delighted, Wall-E is essentially one long much more artistically-impressive Mac vs. PC commercial. One that makes clear that the future belongs to Macintosh. Also to females, maybe, for some reason. Do you think that's because Eve, the sleek, more advanced, little i-pod of a robot, needed to be female for the story to make sense, or because, like the hipsters & artists who love them, Macs are inherently feminine?

Putting aside the question of how something with no genitals or reproductive capability could be sexed at all, it was nice to see a non-princess female character in a starring role in an animated movie. A non-princess, non-love-interest character would be even more impressive. I can only think of a handful in the Pixar/Disney canon, and the standout is probably Dory in Finding Nemo, a movie also written by Wall-E auteur Andrew Stanton. Also the fabulous Edna in the Incredibles, which is still my favorite Pixar flick (or "Pick"). Interestingly -- not that I'm drawing conclusions -- Dory is voiced by a famous lesbian and Edna by a man.

The little girl sitting next to me at the sold-out Friday night showing I went to had lots of questions for her mother, including the one that's functioning as the title of this post. It was also pretty cute, although less cute than robot kissing. But, then, isn't everything?

"Dishonesty is the second best policy"

George Carlin is dead and I missed the Mermaid Day parade. At least other timelier folks took cameras: The story of *how* I missed the parade is a comedy of errors -- after all, I was there. At least I got to see some detritus/aftermath. Photos TK.

That picture of the mermen comes courtesy of JJ, who takes awesome pictures her own self. She and Charrow, my oldest & bestest, the fantastic creature who wore a tiger-print dress to my rehearsal dinner and then a suit to my wedding, will be moving here in the fall. Next summer we will all be arm and arm on W10th, yodeling at the passing sea creatures and painted 'mos. I cannot wait.

While sweating to the oldies in Atlanta, the team of Charrow & JJ has created these cards of which I am in dire need. They're like a ink blot test: do you see narcissism? Self-sufficiency? Energy independence? Masturbation? Confuse your friends! They're for sale here.

Things I Do To Endanger Myself

Twice so far today I've put my health at risk: first, I ate a raw tomato, which is currently the equivalent of eating a raw egg.

Then, this afternoon, against the specific advice of Anthony Bourdain, a man you do NOT want to cross, I bought half-price sushi at Chicken Deli. How could I resist eight California rolls for $2?

If I die, please tell the coroner I went to my grave thrifty. And make sure to order the pine box.

It *Is* In Washington, D.C. ...

Me: Mike, did you see this?
Mike: Oh my god! Racists are mean. Well, I guess they'll have to get used to calling it the Black House.
Me: The Darkie House. Or maybe they could just call it The Ghetto!

(link via Wonkette)

ETA: The GOP is shocked, shocked and appalled. It will not tolerate -- "or profit from" -- racism. I guess that means no more ObamaMonkeys, either, huh? Damn PC-police, always ruining the fun.

ups and downs

Governor Deval Patrick's daughter is heading off to home-of-the-homos Smith College in the fall, and she'll fit right in. Yay, Katherine! And well done, daddy Deval, who apparently is the a poster-child for PFLAG:

"he didn't know that I was gay [when he helped legalize gay marriage in the state]," the 18-year-old recalls. "So, for someone so publicly to fight for something that doesn't even affect him was just like, 'That’s my dad,' you know?" she says with a laugh. "That’s all I could think. I was very, very proud to be part of this family, and this state in general."

"It was great. I'm very glad," she adds, looking at her father. "Don't cry, Dad." Patrick's eyes are brimming with tears, prompting some good-natured teasing from his daughter. "He's done some good things," she says with a laugh, patting his arm. "I appreciate it. Want a tissue? Oh, God. He's a crier."

Less amazingly adorable? Strawberry Shortcake's hideous makeover:
They've taken a beloved, asexual childhood icon -- and they've tried to make her cool. Strawberry Shortcake isn't cool! She's Victorian! And she isn't supposed to look like the demon lovechild of the Little Mermaid and Polly Pocket in truly awful high-waisted pants. That's way worse than when Marvel unconsciously created Gay Ken in 1993:

it gave Ken a purple mesh T-shirt, a pierced ear and the name “Earring Magic Ken,” and it can set off a brand crisis on a global scale. ... Earring Magic Ken is the industry’s nightmare. The character, who had blond highlights in his hair and a leather vest, drew howls from consumers, who did not see him as a realistic boyfriend for Barbie.

Summer in the city!

All of a sudden I totally can't stop with the pictures. I got this from a very entertaining, globe-trotting LJ friend (not to be mistaken for a person I know in real life) and I feel that it's sort of appropriate, given the weather. The tagline at the top, in case you can't read it, says, "A tedious adventure-romance!"

Chase me down with poison-tipped spears if you must, but I have to admit I don't mind heat. Of course, this a little extreme, especially for early June. Luckily our apartment is a bit of a cave and has remained cool for the most part. We haven't had to turn on our A/C yet and we even managed to cook last night. Come visit! We have a hose we can spray you with in the backyard!

We packed our bathing suits when we down to Swarthmore this past weekend for Mr. Ben's five year reunion, thinking we could sneak down to the Crum. There was no time but I'm definitely putting it on the agenda for next year, when I am the star and Mr. Ben is the spouse. There were no non-Swarthmore spouses at his reunion, it should be said. Marrying a non-Swattie five years out is, apparently, as unthinkable as working for profit. Every conversation I had with someone led to them telling me about their good works or their Ph.D. program. "And what's *your* thesis about?" I asked, over and over again, batting my eyelashes like Scarlet O'Hara.

At breakfast on Sunday, I had the surreal experience of bonding over Henry Fielding with a boy I last saw dirty dancing on-stage with a friend of mine at Sager, Swarthmore's annual sextravanagza ("boys wear a dress, girls wear less!"). In fact I have a great picture of him pretending to bite her face. He's now doing a doctorate in British literature at UVA. Naturally.

On the subject of bad boy behavior, please do yourself a favor and read this amazing article about how McCain ditched his first wife after she was in a disfiguring car accident. Of course, we can't turn on our backs on every politician who commits a sexual indiscretion; we understand that tremendous, unfeeling egotists must screw around, trade up, be cruel, and generally make themselves feel sexy and powerful at the expense of their wives. So, as a society, we seem to set the bar pretty low: no transporting multiple hookers across state lines and no sex with children.

All the same, McCain's story takes my breath away. I mean, you know it's bad when people are willing to go on the record:

Ted Sampley, who fought with US Special Forces in Vietnam and is now a leading campaigner for veterans’ rights, said: ‘I have been following John McCain’s career for nearly 20 years. I know him personally. There is something wrong with this guy and let me tell you what it is – deceit.

‘When he came home and saw that Carol was not the beauty he left behind, he started running around on her almost right away. Everybody around him knew it. ‘Eventually he met Cindy and she was young and beautiful and very wealthy. At that point McCain just dumped Carol for something he thought was better.

‘This is a guy who makes such a big deal about his character. He has no character. He is a fake. If there was any character in that first marriage, it all belonged to Carol.’

Even Ross Perot joins the beat down!

Ross Perot, who paid her medical bills all those years ago, now believes that both Carol McCain and the American people have been taken in by a man who is unusually slick and cruel – even by the standards of modern politics.

‘McCain is the classic opportunist. He’s always reaching for attention and glory,’ he said. ‘After he came home, Carol walked with a limp. So he threw her over for a poster girl with big money from Arizona. And the rest is history.’

When a self-centered Texas billionaire calls you out, you know you're in trouble.

Ready, Set, O!

The primary season is blessedly, finally over. Slate's Hillary Death Watch moved her chances down to a red zero. And as to speculation that she should/could be put on the ticket -- an idea on par with inviting the Macbeths to come along on your summer vacation -- Beam had this to say:

Clinton's handling of the past two days has all but closed off the possibility of an Obama-Clinton ticket. And that's just one of the 78 reasons Clinton won't be veep. Obama could never run as anti-Washington yet pick the personification thereof as his second. Clinton would never be able to cede the spotlight, as VPs must. And Bill's presidential library would pose its own set of headaches, the Wall Street Journal reports today. If there were a Hillary Veepwatch, it would be hovering around 0 percent, too.

Please let it be true.

Meanwhile, isn't our new President-to-be handsome? Wasn't that fist bump great? And don't you think he should be outfitted in a mandatory bulletproof vest for the next five months?

Boxing

Today I received a hardback copy of The Writer's Brush, a fifteen-pound coffee table book of mysterious provenance. It arrived in a bland, brown box with no return address or identifying marks; inside, there was no packaging, no note, and no explanation. If you sent me this book, please let me know so I can thank you appropriately.

I also received the Baz Luhrman Red Curtain Trilogy Box Set. This is less of a mystery: I found it on half.com for $15. Yay! But one of the movies is missing. Boo!

One of the boys in my office crinkled up his brow and told me I didn't strike him as the Luhrman/Leonardi diCaprio/pomo-musical-lovin' type. I guess folks at work only know me as that married, sarcastic Jewish vegetarian who proofreads other people's stuff for fun and doesn't eat sugar. ... Actually, that's pretty nail-on-the-head, isn't it?

ETA: Wow! My eBay/Half.com seller apologized like mad and overnighted me an ENTIRELY NEW BOX SET. This means I now have two copies each of the "Exclusive: Behind the Red Curtain" DVD, Moulin Rouge, and Strictly Ballroom. Takers?

Cosmo fever!

After a marketing blitz that began *months* ago and amped up to one weeklong, deafening SQUEEE!, Sex and the City made over $50 million in its first weekend, unseating Indiana Jones -- and people are surprised. In fact, Hollywood is still sort of peeking between its fingers, trying to figure out what happened. A NY Mag blogger tries to explain the phenomenon in terms the studios might understand: the women are like superheroes! And doesn't everyone like superheroes?

Choice quote:

No, not the kinds of female superheroes invented by men for men, vinyl-clad fantasies like Electra or Catwoman. The women of SATC don't fly or have awesome weapons or even drive very often — but they do save each other from bad guys.

This post helpfully breaks down an opening-night audience with pie charts and quotes.

I may as well admit, I absolutely contributed to the SATC orgy this weekend. Two friends and I structured our Saturday around getting tickets and then seats. I felt rather proud of myself for planning it all out well. Then the movie started, a sentimental moment made my eyes prick, and I realized the one thing I had forgotten: I was PMSing. This means I cry--plentifully, hard, and at the drop of a hat.

I usually deal with this by milking the cow, watching tragic West Wing eps. But there I was, far from my laptop and confronted with four sweet, flawed, familiar characters I had come to care about after years of watching and rewatching them. The tears, they did not stop. The movie is two and a half hours long; I estimate that I cried through at least forty-five minutes of it.

As embarrassing as it is, the weeping did accomplish something: I was too busy emoting to get worked up about the film's idiotic missteps, like Jennifer Hudson as Magical Negro, the one throwaway Charlotte subplot, and the last line. If you cry through something, you are almost guaranteed to come out feeling fond of it. Then, clearly drunk from dehydration, I bought Seasons 3 & 4 on DVD for a half zillion more femme points and $40. Je ne regrette rien.

chocolates in the bath

It's Sex and the City weekend! I'll bet NYT cover girl Emily Gould is thankful that Carrie Bradshaw has taken over to absorb the criticism of everyone who hates materialistic, solipsistic, oversexed women who have been liberated by feminism and the internets. (I did find it sort of ironic that when the worst of the shitstorm was bearing down on her, she was liveblogging a marathon viewing of the series.)

Meanwhile I've enjoyed rewatching some of the episodes, remembering both what I like about the series (Miranda!, Steve, latter-day yiddishe Charlotte) and what drives me crazy (Carrie, Big, Samantha when she's flirting). David Edelstein sums up my ambivalence, as well as how I think I'll feel about the movie. So does this video, starring and directed by one of my co-workers:

Choose your indigestion

The only thing more disturbing than John McCain rebuffing a calm, reasonable, sincere Ellen Degeneres on the subject of gay marriage?



A mummified fetus:

Both via Jezebel.

Enjoy your memorial day weekends!

Party Accomplished

It rained all over our housewarming on Sunday, our very first attempt at hosting a party in New York City. We had intended to debut our fab backyard and so, in addition to cleaning and readying the inside of our apartment, I weeded and scrubbed the deck chairs. Clearly, washing patio furniture is the NYC, rain-summoning equivalent of washing your car. But the food was great, and the drinks, custom made by our mixologist friend Marie, were better still. We got to show off our wedding swag -- because a registry is the #1 way to up the ante on your kitchenware -- and introduce folks from our different worlds who had never collided.

Mr. Ben and I were also captured taking some time off from prep work to enjoy ourselves at another party. (Thanks, Fauxtobooth!) There I met a Wii for the first time and discovered that though I am wretchedly bad at Wii Baseball and Wii Tennis, somehow I am a savant at Wii Bowling. Who knew?

Also, the only thing more fun than an inebriated congregation of like-minded individuals? An American history quiz. Knock yourself out, fellas. I got at 81.67% and it's a damn good thing I did, or else Swarthmore would ask for its American History degree back. And I have to admit, I was pretty scared throughout. Who the hell knows what battle happened at Yorktown vs. Saratoga?

Fun with Dick-Heads and Janes!

One of my coworkers, a fellow who is afraid of vegetables and took years to work up the courage to get a Legend of Zelda tattoo, likes to send me retro sexist imagery from the internets. This is partly because I've established myself as the Feminist of the office (I can't imagine how that happened). Despite my being card-carrying and all that, the Collective Leadership of the Feminist Cabal allowed me to retain my sense of humor. Each of these makes me giggle.

Two are from that Great Things repository, Boing Boing, and the last comes from the very ether.

Also, I have now been to L.A. and I'm adding it to my ever-growing list of Mediocre American Cities, right behind Tucson and Atlanta. Seriously, what the hell is the point of a "city" that's really an over-priced network of neighborhoods where parking costs a thousand dollars, gas costs even more, and the buildings are only one story high? I did like the ocean, though I only saw it from a distance since the foul weather (srsly!) kept us from the beach.

Though Seattle is kind of similar, being short, modern, and pretty spread out, at least it's verdant and pretty and has a more mellow vibe. There's something girl-next-door-ish about Seattle, whereas LA is that sorority-girl-next-door, and Tucson is that vacant-frat-boy-next-door. And Atlanta is the suit-next-door who doesn't give Halloween candy to trick or treaters.

Anyway, vacations are always nice and it was good to see my family & the folks I know who are stranded on that coast. Mr. Ben suggested, brilliantly, that we visit the UCB Theater out there, and Asssssssssscat, featuring Tim Meadows, was awesome. I liked its West Hollywood digs, too, as much as I liked anything I saw besides the Getty and the Getty villa. General warning, though, for anyone who wants to follow in our footsteps: you cannot buy tickets at the box office itself so make sure you do so on the 'nets before you leave home. If you run into issues, like we did, the coffee shop on the corner, across from the Scientology Castle, has free wireless. You're welcome.

For the first time, I'd rather have Showtime

I came late to the This American Life party, possibly because my parents only listened to the news on NPR and I never knew the station offered more. Over several years, I gradually broadened my public radio horizons until I am now a junkie. Brian Lehrer, Radio Lab, Morning Edition, even Jonathan Schwartz. I am a *monthly sustainer*, god help me.

This, of course, drives me further into deep blue-state-stereotype territory. As it is, I begin way too many sentences with "Oh! Have you read that piece in the New Yorker?"

Still, I am now at the TAL party. The food is great, the music is great, and I'm standing there, in a small group of funny dorks roughly my age, laughing at something once of them just said about the NYT Thursday Styles section, when I realize: HBO has lost its hold on me. Showtime has, in addition to TAL, Weeds, Californication, and Dexter. HBO? has reruns.

This is a jarring realization, but life goes on, the earth only spins in one direction, and we all must put our brave faces on as we march into an uncertain future.

When I listen to the podcasts at work, I picture Ira Glass as the Verizon guy (who apparently has a brain tumor?). This is embedded enough that last night, when I saw Ira Glass live at the TAL show at NYU, his voice felt disassociated from the guy onstage. Still, the two-hour multimedia extravaganza was fucking awesome, the best live show of anything I've seen since August: Osage County. And now I am stuck yearning for pay cable so that I could watch Season 2. Maybe WNYC will offer THAT as its thank you gift this spring!

Also: the Rebecca who introduced me to TAL has a new blog called the Opposite of Static, which is a lovely name. Maybe I only think that because it reflects a sentiment I agree with, that all of us are several different people simultaneously, the selves that we were & the selves we will be, and that we are morphing and changing and being holograms of ourselves at any given moment.

I have four Rebeccas. That seems excessive, doesn't it?

Irritating Ivy Leaguers

Male*
and
female.

Full disclosure: some of my best friends are Ivy Leaguers and my brother is Cornell class of '03. Although Cornell barely counts, right? Back me up, children of privilege!


*I know this link is old but I hadn't seen it before and perhaps you haven't either. I would hate for you to have missed out.

Bring it home, B.O.

Asheville <3's Obama, according to this short graphic series from the NYT, and western North Carolina is less sure of him (one character in the strip shouts from the sidelines, "He's a Muslim!"). This jives with what I saw when I was there: Obama signs all over! Interestingly, where there weren't Obama signs, there weren't McCain signs either, even in the wealthy, white Atlanta areas.

Obama seems to be moving with more purpose these days (cutting off the batshit crazy Jeremiah Wright, for one thing). Hopefully it will be enough. I can't handle this race much longer. I can't lose any more respect for the Clintons or Americans in general; it will be bad for my liver.

Kalamazoo and tigger too

birdy brain
Originally uploaded by charrow.

JJ, as depicted here in a piece of Charrow art, was one of our hosts for the past few days as Mr. Ben and I sojourned in the Southlands. These strange foreign lands, as it turned out, didn't feel as strange or foreign as I expected. In fact, Atlanta reminded me strongly of Seattle, only with more traffic and way less charm. People in Seattle also get bonus points for friendliness compared to their Southern counterparts, unless you count the bum in Asheville, NC, who, trying his hardest to make us feel at home, called after us, "Happy Hannukah!"

JJ was an excellent sport over the weekend in Asheville, where we were up to our chins in Judaica with Mr. Ben's family the entire time: she nibbled matzoh for breakfast without complaint and sat through both seders. Even when Mr. Ben's mom's SPP (straight person partner) Harry played Hebrew songs on his new harmonica with more exuberance than skill, JJ didn't flinch. A righteous woman, who can find her? Her worth is above rubies.

I realized during the service that these seders consist of lots of lying to God, and not just the standard "You're so merciful and gracious!" stuff. Just for example, there's a long prayer where the chorus goes, "It would have been enough!" -- i.e., if God had rescued us from Egypt but not parted the sea so we could get through, it would have been enough. The song continues, mentioning how the Lord brought us to the land of Israel and vanquished our enemies and built us the temple. But of course, if God had done one or even some of those things and not the rest, it wouldn't have been enough, not by a long shot. We wouldn't be here to tell the tale year after year.

Later, there's a true whopper set a beautiful, ghostly melody. It goes like this, roughly:
I have been young
And I have grown old
Yet never have I seen a good man starve.

I mean, please. We teach this stuff to children?

After the second seder Sunday night, without waiting for the dough to rise, we packed up the Honda and sped past Bob Jones University and Clemson U., the South blurring into fast food chains and churches in the dark outside my window. Charrow and JJ's Little Five Points apartment is beautiful, all old wood and bright colors and windows everywhere. Mr. Ben's mom's house was the same way, charming and well-lit. (Not that I can complain about real estate, but we do pay the same for our place as my MIL spends on hers, only hers includes several bedrooms, a backyard, a stained-glass pantry, and more nooks and crannies than an English muffin.)

I hadn't seen Charrow since she guest-starred as Maid of Honor in the production that was my wedding nine months ago. That is much too long. She and JJ will be moving up here in the fall and the fall cannot come fast enough.

Disturbia: Women Who Make Us All Look Bad edition

It's been a week for disquieting news from the womb-bearers. First, there's this new book by a plastic surgeon to help small children understand why their mommies are voluntarily going under the knife. There's no explanation given except the mother's dream of looking like a pageant winner.

To start with, the mother looks fine; by the end, post-procedures, she looks like a more exaggerated cartoonish version of herself, in hot pink no less. The once-skeptical daughter looks thrilled. Thanks, newly high femme Mom, for perpetuating irritating stereotypes! (Via Newsweek)

Next up, the abortion art installation from Yale, created by a student who inseminated herself and then induced miscarriages.

She speaks, yet she says nothing: "I believe strongly that art should be a medium for politics and ideologies, not just a commodity," Shvarts said. "I think that I'm creating a project that lives up to the standard of what art is supposed to be."

Uh huh. Well, does the project speak for itself?

The display of Schvarts' project will feature a large cube suspended from the ceiling of a room in the gallery of Green Hall. Schvarts will wrap hundreds of feet of plastic sheeting around this cube; lined between layers of the sheeting will be the blood from Schvarts' self-induced miscarriages mixed with Vaseline in order to prevent the blood from drying and to extend the blood throughout the plastic sheeting.

Schvarts will then project recorded videos onto the four sides of the cube. These videos, captured on a VHS camcorder, will show her experiencing miscarriages in her bathrooom tub, she said. Similar videos will be projected onto the walls of the room.

I think her uterine lining must be smarter than she is. This is why I kind of hate art. It gives people cover to be snotty & self-absorbed.

I have only divided outrage left for the Georgia belle who was scared to be Michelle Obama's roommate at Princeton. She and her mom are still semi-racist but reflect ruefully on their fears at the time. Michelle Obama turned out to be the stately, witty, graceful woman we all know, but she and the Southern GOP-member-to-be never exactly bonded. Perhaps out of guilt, the belle and her mother (who still doesn't believe in intermarriage) are considering voting for the big O. How many such sins do you supposed will be atoned for at the ballot box this year?

portrait of the teenager the artist used to be

One of the many dangers of Facebook is that someone from your past will scan in pictures from your past, the dark, shadowy, awkward, pale, bespectacled parts, the parts where you wore your brother's t-shirts and tended to stare at people. These pictures will appear for the world to see, including your newlywed, who will take one look and say, sounding almost impressed, "Wow! You look as bad as you possibly could!"

He lacks imagination. I could have boils, or bugs crawling on me. My skin could be peeling off along with leprous chunks of my nose. My hair could stick straight up high enough to be measured in inches like Marge Simpson's, the way it did from 2nd grade through 4th when my mom finally let me grow it long.

But the fact remains that the boy next to me looks about 4 years old and drugged, and I look like the 40 year old who drugged him. What is amazing, though, is that, when this picture was taken, one of us was already getting sexual attention from the opposite sex, serious adult-like attention, attention which occurred in the safety and comfort of a Jerry's Subs and Pizza bathroom. Prizes for anyone who guesses which of us that was!

six word memoirs

In the spirit of this project, I've been brainstorming six word memoirs of my time at Swarthmore for work. So far I've come up with:

“dorks everywhere! never been so happy”

“I learned to love my belly”

“School funded film about dancing tampons”

“They say, ‘Wait til college.’ They’re right.”

These are sort of rosy ... maybe I'll write a more cynical series. Ones for my actual life would be even harder. I could write one for Mr. Ben, who is finally getting sworn into the New York bar tomorrow morning: "After 3.5 years, attorney at last."

ETA: More cynical ones:

"Four full years of sensitivity training"

"Blissful navel gazing in ivory tower"

Stasis again

We have moved! And I have a new mantra, or a new blessing, rather: May everything that goes wrong be minor and manageable. We were lucky enough in that respect. A tire went flat only once the car it was attached to had come to rest close to 4th avenue, a street with not one but TWO tire shops in the immediate vicinity, as well as a couple gas stations.

The movers showed up a half an hour early, definitely before we were ready to receive them, but my mother, the brigadier general of Venezuela, preceded them and threw the apartment into shape.

The movers also asked, on the spot, for twice as much as we had agreed on. Luckily that had initially agreed to perform for so little that twice as much -- which we bargained down anyway -- still felt like a good deal.

Nobody broke anything or even really scratched anything. Nobody was lamed or maimed, although we were shamed a little when my mom saw the filth that accumulates in a fridge that goes uncleaned for years. Nothing we couldn't survive. In my head I am still the teenager who would recycle clothes rather than go to the bother of doing laundry, so I feel proud of myself that I voluntarily do dishes as soon as I'm done with them, even if scrubbing fridge shelves with regularity remains beyond me.

The new apartment feels somewhat magical. Doors! Who knows where those could lead? Doors are a slippery slope. For now we leave them all open. The first morning I ventured OUT of the bedroom to eat my cereal; and Mr. Ben followed me, knotting his tie while standing behind me. When I looked around and smiled at him, he replied sheepishly, "It's weird being farther away from you than this. I'm not used to it."

I haven't yet asked the washer/dryer to dance. It makes me shy. But the new stove works! And the backyard works! It sits there and looks pretty, just like it is supposed to. You know what also works? The free cable and the free wireless internet. Though both, I accept in advance, are probably temporary, for now I thumb my nose in the direction of Time Warner. Who needs you, Mr. Man? I got rhythm, I got music, I got our WEDDING VIDEO in three versions -- tall, venti, and super-sized -- and who could ask for anything more?