Saturday, October 29, 2005
Saturday, October 29th, 2005. Need I say more....
Friday, October 28, 2005
Arielle, who on the phone one cubicle over gets mistaken for a man at least three times a day, told me in her smoker's raspy voice this afternoon that I reminded her of Natalie Cole. "Around the eyes. I wasn't sure how you would take it since she's black," said she of seventies-era Boston when busing was a BIG THING. "I think she is beautiful," I replied. "I take that as a compliment." On the white side of things I'm told I resemble a bit Carly Simon. The lips. How about I resemble Anna Bloviations? Whatever...
Thursday, October 27, 2005
The Blogs They Ain't a Blowin'. When you get those three blasts out of the past that blow you away for a week, it's hard to focus on a blog -- three blasts from people who span the spectrum and who mean a great deal to you. When you have a new job that is engrossing and exciting, it's difficult to bloviate; it seems momentarily so banal (the bloviating). It's difficult to blog when your mind and body are kicking ass and lusting elsewhere far beyond the daily pages of what amount to journal entries. But this too shall pass.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Colonel Sassaman. Jesus can Americans be dumb. From the New York Times Sunday edition magazine we learn that Col. Nathan Sassaman is a good-looking military guy with a pre-Iraq-war stellar record: top West Point guy, star quarterback, father to beautiful children and husband to beautiful wife. So he goes to Iraq and tries to make a difference. And for a while he does. But then he gets tangled up into the Shiite/Sunnis 'thang and everything starts to get murky. The nineteen-year-olds who report to him and don't know quite what the f*** they are doing in Iraq in the first place (let alone where it is) start getting a little rough with the populace. Long story short, Sassaman gets booted out of the military because some of his guys throw two Iraqis into the Tigris river to 'teach them a lesson.' All in good fun of course. Well apparently one of the men died. Da-di-dah and Sassaman gets reprimanded and leaves the army. Granted had his men shot the two Iraqis we wouldn't even have a blog here. But I digress.
We learn from Sassaman and others that no, repeat no, courses are offered at West Point or anywhere else on insurgency warfare. All courses are run-of-the-mill conventional scenarios; Kick-Ass visible Army America kicks Country B's Conventional Army's Ass. And this is where American's dumbness comes into play. How, pray tell, was the American Revolutionary war won? Yes my friends. The colonies most surely didn't line up their men 'conventionally' to be slaughtered by the well-trained, well-equipped Brits. No siree. Those guys hid behind trees and employed the same kind of guerilla tactics the insurgents in Iraq are employing. And by the way, were no lessons learned from Vietnam?
We learn from Sassaman and others that no, repeat no, courses are offered at West Point or anywhere else on insurgency warfare. All courses are run-of-the-mill conventional scenarios; Kick-Ass visible Army America kicks Country B's Conventional Army's Ass. And this is where American's dumbness comes into play. How, pray tell, was the American Revolutionary war won? Yes my friends. The colonies most surely didn't line up their men 'conventionally' to be slaughtered by the well-trained, well-equipped Brits. No siree. Those guys hid behind trees and employed the same kind of guerilla tactics the insurgents in Iraq are employing. And by the way, were no lessons learned from Vietnam?
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Toto this isn't Kansas. You know you've changed districts when the constituent calls you receive no longer involve, 'I'm homeless, can you please find me a shelter,' to, 'I think it is outrageous that Countrywide Bank sent out my $100,000-plus CD-matured check by priority mail as opposed to overnight Fed-Ex'...
Refreshing. To go to a Council on Aging Meeting in a district where the elderly don't drop their 'R's (ok in this respect I'm a snob about accents) and the Rep gives a compassionate speech that makes you rather proud to be working for this person.
Family Bonds. Quality moments are historically arbitrary amongst families. Thanksgivings and Christmas can be busts but a random car ride to Midas Muffler can bring forth epiphanies of progress towards family connectedness. Go figure. The call to Mom this evening was such a moment. After: job is good, my hand is bad, hubbys are incurable, bathroom renovations are moving forward we started an out-of-nowhere conversation about grandparents. My maternal grandmother was a piece of work (to employ an understatement). She was an alcoholic for one. She was bitter for two (now THAT'S a story...). She was un-diagnosed, but most certainly clinically depressed for three, and had not a shred of warmth/love/sense of continuum that she cared to share with any of her offspring or offspring's offspring. Case in point: when I would visit her as a grandchild, she would send me across the street to a strip of green grass that served as a dividing line between two streets. She called this a 'playground.' There I would sit cross-legged until such time as she deigned to ring her little brass bell indicating it was time for me to cross the street into her Formica white kitchen for perfectly awful fried eggs. After eggs, I would sit in the living room with her and watch "As the World Turns" whilst she belted back her bourbon. As a grandchild I didn't take her eccentricities and addictions personally. I only felt sorry for her. I can only imagine what this ice-woman did to my mother... I am happy my mother shared some of that pain with me this evening. I have always felt it a shame that human beings do not have such a thing as collective knowledge-- knowledge that could be passed down through each generation: oh the stupid mistakes we could avoid!; oh the wisdom we would have within us!.
Family trees are in my mind completely uninteresting. I don't want to know who married whom; I want to know the joy, pain, and disfunctionality of it all. I want to pass that on. I want that continuum to be something that eventually gets hard-wired into the evolutionary process so that we might learn from said dysfunctional grandmother. So that we might learn to hug and love our children unconditionally. That we might not make drunken spectacles of ourselves. That we might not become bitter beings who serve up a gorgeous lamb dinner only to pronounce how nice it would be to be dead...And then our children might not become us....
Refreshing. To go to a Council on Aging Meeting in a district where the elderly don't drop their 'R's (ok in this respect I'm a snob about accents) and the Rep gives a compassionate speech that makes you rather proud to be working for this person.
Family Bonds. Quality moments are historically arbitrary amongst families. Thanksgivings and Christmas can be busts but a random car ride to Midas Muffler can bring forth epiphanies of progress towards family connectedness. Go figure. The call to Mom this evening was such a moment. After: job is good, my hand is bad, hubbys are incurable, bathroom renovations are moving forward we started an out-of-nowhere conversation about grandparents. My maternal grandmother was a piece of work (to employ an understatement). She was an alcoholic for one. She was bitter for two (now THAT'S a story...). She was un-diagnosed, but most certainly clinically depressed for three, and had not a shred of warmth/love/sense of continuum that she cared to share with any of her offspring or offspring's offspring. Case in point: when I would visit her as a grandchild, she would send me across the street to a strip of green grass that served as a dividing line between two streets. She called this a 'playground.' There I would sit cross-legged until such time as she deigned to ring her little brass bell indicating it was time for me to cross the street into her Formica white kitchen for perfectly awful fried eggs. After eggs, I would sit in the living room with her and watch "As the World Turns" whilst she belted back her bourbon. As a grandchild I didn't take her eccentricities and addictions personally. I only felt sorry for her. I can only imagine what this ice-woman did to my mother... I am happy my mother shared some of that pain with me this evening. I have always felt it a shame that human beings do not have such a thing as collective knowledge-- knowledge that could be passed down through each generation: oh the stupid mistakes we could avoid!; oh the wisdom we would have within us!.
Family trees are in my mind completely uninteresting. I don't want to know who married whom; I want to know the joy, pain, and disfunctionality of it all. I want to pass that on. I want that continuum to be something that eventually gets hard-wired into the evolutionary process so that we might learn from said dysfunctional grandmother. So that we might learn to hug and love our children unconditionally. That we might not make drunken spectacles of ourselves. That we might not become bitter beings who serve up a gorgeous lamb dinner only to pronounce how nice it would be to be dead...And then our children might not become us....
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
New Parameters. What a difference a new floor and a new Rep make. Floor Five means you have emerged from the basement bowels into the light. My desk sits next to a balcony with not much of a view but at least it has natural light. On day one, I came in early to listen to the new Rep at a press conference for his 'X environmentally-friendly bill' and was pleased and astounded to see a Representative of the House speak eloquently, coherently, and without notes. I have since learned that he is witty, funny, and appreciates sassy, intelligent women in his midst (enter Anna Bloviations and my colleague, Amy, a former Boston Globe writer). Newbie colleague Amy did blunder today in that she sent in amendments seven minutes too late (nobody ever told her that the amendments had to be in EXACTLY AT NOON or else...), or guess what, the Clerk's Office won't accept them even if you do have a verifiable computer problem that proves you couldn't have done otherwise. This is ridiculous when you consider all of the other really bad, wasteful, and corrupt things that go on...But the good news going forward is that said Rep now has two power houses on board and if he plays his cards right, we will do wonders for his career... No matter this glitch. In terms of my contributions to the office, my dear friend Bandit will appreciate the fact that I am now considered a de-facto computer wonder tasked with setting up a state-of-the-art electronic/virtual office...
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
A bathroom near completion? I don't think so... Yet the contractor looks at me with a straight face and tells me, yes, it is. Sure. I'm shooting for Thanksgiving.
Monday, October 17, 2005
9 a.m. Number 17. The 9 a.m. part is really moot given that 30 other people get the same time slot to appear at District Court X to appeal their tickets. What counts is part two: when you get your name on the sheet hanging outside the door marked Traffic Violations. If you consider that each person spends about 5-10 minutes being heard, you can pretty much figure out how long you'll be standing around and if it's worth it to you to do so. From the court's perspective it is a win-win situation 1) you are helping pay for their new court house they want via the umpteen quarters you must keep putting in the meter outside to avoid getting perhaps another ticket 2) the woman whose three toddlers are all screaming at once finally leaves thus forfeiting her right to contest her $100 ticket (in her case I would have pleaded temporary insanity) or 3) after waiting an hour-and-a-half, many will lose their appeal and have to pay the ticket anyway.
I was gullible in that when I read 9 a.m. on the summons we had received in the mail, I thought the 9 a.m. was meant for me. Had I known I would be sharing 9 a.m. with 29 other people I would have brought a book or newspaper with me. I felt better when I saw that everyone else had been duped too; there was no reading material to be seen. Cell phones are not allowed in the court house and to this I can only say thank god. No one in the random swath of humanity I encounter every day has yet to have had a conversation that hasn't made me want to get up and strangulate that person. As it turns out, actually, people are still pretty good at sitting around and doing nothing for two hours. Even the two teenagers I thought would surely be going through withdrawal symptoms without their cell phones waited patiently. The man sitting next to my right explained to me that he is a 'serial traffic violation offender'. Not drunk driving stuff -- just running stop signs, speeding, illegal turns and the like. At one point in his life, he lost his license for four years. While I puzzled over this, an officer opened the door and called out number 17 along with my last name. At long last I was inside the room, digital pictures in hand and ready to make my case. Unfortunately I learned that I am not allowed to represent my husband who couldn't make it to the hearing. Explaining to them that I was also in the car fell on deaf ears. They need to talk to the driver.... I am tempted to just pay the damn $100 and be done but now of course it has become the principle of the thing...They do at least promise to bump us up on the list next time we come given I've already waited so long this time around but it will still mean a fight with the spouse to get him to go with me at all ...
I was gullible in that when I read 9 a.m. on the summons we had received in the mail, I thought the 9 a.m. was meant for me. Had I known I would be sharing 9 a.m. with 29 other people I would have brought a book or newspaper with me. I felt better when I saw that everyone else had been duped too; there was no reading material to be seen. Cell phones are not allowed in the court house and to this I can only say thank god. No one in the random swath of humanity I encounter every day has yet to have had a conversation that hasn't made me want to get up and strangulate that person. As it turns out, actually, people are still pretty good at sitting around and doing nothing for two hours. Even the two teenagers I thought would surely be going through withdrawal symptoms without their cell phones waited patiently. The man sitting next to my right explained to me that he is a 'serial traffic violation offender'. Not drunk driving stuff -- just running stop signs, speeding, illegal turns and the like. At one point in his life, he lost his license for four years. While I puzzled over this, an officer opened the door and called out number 17 along with my last name. At long last I was inside the room, digital pictures in hand and ready to make my case. Unfortunately I learned that I am not allowed to represent my husband who couldn't make it to the hearing. Explaining to them that I was also in the car fell on deaf ears. They need to talk to the driver.... I am tempted to just pay the damn $100 and be done but now of course it has become the principle of the thing...They do at least promise to bump us up on the list next time we come given I've already waited so long this time around but it will still mean a fight with the spouse to get him to go with me at all ...
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Ribbons. A ribbon of sunlight flittered through the trees outside my bedroom window this morning. My squinching open eye noted it was the first sunlight New England has seen in nine days. I follow the ribbon of light down the hallway to the coffee heard brewing in the kitchen and pour a steaming ribbon of caffeine into my mug -- the one with the almost completly worn off logo of the company I used to work for. The sunny garden beckons but the wooden chairs outside are still water-logged and instead I sink into a leather chair to contemplate the ragged ribbon of water that has run down the middle of our newly painted living room. The water found its way through the loose flashing around the chimney and dripped into a blue bucket atop the mahogany mantle. The number of phone calls that will have to be made (not to mention money spent) to restore the ceiling begins to ruin my Sunday peace. I opt to swing into jeans and drive by Starbuck's for the NY Times Sunday paper. A ribbon of random brain function accompanies me the mile drive to Starbucks: I should have walked; it's beautiful outside. Maybe I shouldn't have used the F***-word last night when speaking briefly to the son. But god is he a selfish lout. I wonder how Friend who just had her thyroid removed is doing today. And then: Where have all the yellow ribbons gone, I wonder? The magnetic ones that read 'Support our Troops' it seemed everybody had on the backside of their car a few months ago.
Put into the context of there being a certain novelty to the stickers being magnetic, and the fact that innumerable numbers of otherwise intelligent people were still drinking the administration's 'framing'-of-the-war Kool-aid a few months ago, the gesture to stick a magnet on the back of your gas-guzzling SUV can be understood. The stickers were also ambiguous enough (unlike say: God Bless Our Troops or God Bless America) that you couldn't be sure whether the person was supporting just the troops, or the war, or both. But to remove the sticker? What is the ribbon of rationale behind that? Think about it: you have to walk out to your driveway, stand behind your car, and make a conscious decision to peel away the 'Support Our Troops' magnet. Is it dirty? Is the sun fading the yellow? Do you now not support the troops anymore? Or the war? And what then do you do with the magnet once it is in your hand? Throw it away? Stick it in your glove compartment? Report it stolen? It's as if people's convictions have become as impermanent as the bond that joins a paper clip to a magnetic holder: easily removed between thumb and index finger.
Put into the context of there being a certain novelty to the stickers being magnetic, and the fact that innumerable numbers of otherwise intelligent people were still drinking the administration's 'framing'-of-the-war Kool-aid a few months ago, the gesture to stick a magnet on the back of your gas-guzzling SUV can be understood. The stickers were also ambiguous enough (unlike say: God Bless Our Troops or God Bless America) that you couldn't be sure whether the person was supporting just the troops, or the war, or both. But to remove the sticker? What is the ribbon of rationale behind that? Think about it: you have to walk out to your driveway, stand behind your car, and make a conscious decision to peel away the 'Support Our Troops' magnet. Is it dirty? Is the sun fading the yellow? Do you now not support the troops anymore? Or the war? And what then do you do with the magnet once it is in your hand? Throw it away? Stick it in your glove compartment? Report it stolen? It's as if people's convictions have become as impermanent as the bond that joins a paper clip to a magnetic holder: easily removed between thumb and index finger.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Not a Chance. Mr. Squirrel didn't make it across the road today. I watched the car two cars ahead of mine hit it. By the time I approached, the animal's backside was unnaturally askew while at the same time the front of the animal clawed vainly on the asphalt -- its will to live willing it across the street -- its dilated eyes staring forward to the strip of green beyond. But to no avail. The crushed animal's backside would get it nowhere.
I swerved. And I certainly don't know why I swerved given that doing so did nothing more but prolong the agony of the animal. Had I met the same fate I would have begged someone to run me over. The gravel truck behind me took care of matters for me. I have no idea if he aimed purposely or was obliviously sipping his Dunkin' Donuts coffee when he ran the squirrel over but suffice to say it was obliterated in an instance. Only the black crows will acknowledge the squirrel's existence for a while to come. They are smart birds, crows (when was the last time you saw crow roadkill?). When the rush hour traffic has subsided they will swoop and caw to rip the pieces of mushy intestines from the bowels of the squirrel. And that will be that. Is there another squirrel out there that will miss it?
I swerved. And I certainly don't know why I swerved given that doing so did nothing more but prolong the agony of the animal. Had I met the same fate I would have begged someone to run me over. The gravel truck behind me took care of matters for me. I have no idea if he aimed purposely or was obliviously sipping his Dunkin' Donuts coffee when he ran the squirrel over but suffice to say it was obliterated in an instance. Only the black crows will acknowledge the squirrel's existence for a while to come. They are smart birds, crows (when was the last time you saw crow roadkill?). When the rush hour traffic has subsided they will swoop and caw to rip the pieces of mushy intestines from the bowels of the squirrel. And that will be that. Is there another squirrel out there that will miss it?
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
I will make herewith the admission that as far as men go, I expect little less than knights in shining armor riding preferably a: Doesn't-have-to-be-a-white horse- but-must-be-at-least-be-a-regal-one. We will not bore ourselves with childhood baggage as to why this is but let us say that to achieve this ideal, it has been necessary to weave this Knight Man out of many...; I require Gibraltar-rockness, humor, humility, eccentricity, brilliance, loyalty, reliability, creativity, erracibility, and sex appeal. If you are unfortunate enough not to possess a good number of these qualities then you are dead meat; my look will wither you, and god help you if I make a comment in your direction. I have been lucky enough to find many of the afore-mentioned qualities a la spouse and those he does not possess, I have been able to compensate via many a gratifying platonic relationship with other male friends (Austrians don't possess a gene for humor so I'll give that one away...). Admittedly (and like all human beings) we sometimes also have unplatonic thoughts. But thankfully there is a plethora of hot Hollywood movie stars/eye candy/etc. to keep the rollicking, you'd-never-really-do-the-stuff-you're-thinking imagination going. On the other side of that would be an affair, and that is indeed dangerous in the trade-off/risk territory and topic for another day. The emphatic and unanimous point I would like to make is that there should be no patience what-so-ever with whinny contractors, cowardly bosses, or pathetic co-workers without backbone to do anything except come up with excuses and spend a lifetime getting good at nothing. I honestly think that on another life path I might very well have ended up wielding a whip and black leather corset to beat the holy shit out of these wimpy men i.e. FINISH my bathroom, Contractor; STAND UP for something finally, Representative; and DON'T GO DOWN as an atrophied State Worker, Co-Worker: Get a life. Be a man....That goes for women too.
Thanks. I feel better now. My bathroom is still a gutted mess but I feel better... and god you'd never know I was an idealistic liberal would you...
Thanks. I feel better now. My bathroom is still a gutted mess but I feel better... and god you'd never know I was an idealistic liberal would you...
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Gabbling Gullets Get the Grub. In this case Anna Bloviations got a $20 gift certificate for her constructive contributions to improving the culinary ambiance of Restaurant 'X' i.e. on a whim we called the owner and conversed following Anna Bloviation's dining experience on Sunday. The $20 gesture was nice, although with this restaurant's flagrantly high prices, I'll get about half an appetizer out of the deal. But that's ok. Better service has been promised. I shall boast: 'That's my service you're seeing.... The way he pours water into everybody's glasses rather than just a random few? That's because of me.... '
Monday, October 10, 2005
Incongruous Dining. Finding a really good special-occasion restaurant on Massachusett's North Shore isn't easy. Not that they're aren't any to be found -- you'd just think there would be more around given the amount of disposable income at hand in many of the dozens of towns in the area. So it was a Great Event when my soon-to-be work colleague, a former restaurant critic for the Boston Globe, suggested Restaurant 'X', located 15 minutes drive from where we live. We invited another couple to share our adventure in celebrating a certain somebody's forty-sixth birthday (which I believe makes me now 'late forties' as opposed to forty-something, but I digress....). When they found out where the restaurant was located, they insisted we flip a coin as to whose car we would drive -- this due not to high gasoline prices but the fact that the new restaurant is located in a notoriously sketchy neighborhood. Not surprisingly, it sat like a neon-lit rose in the middle of a darkened patch of dilapidation ("OK, on the count of three, everyone make a dash across the street!"). It turns out the owner of this new restaurant is actually from this sketchy neighborhood. He was recently lucky enough to make millions in the high-tech arena and with I guess too much money and time on his hands, took it upon himself four months ago to single-handedly reinvigorate the neighborhood. Either that or he just wanted a good place to eat within walking distance of his loft apartment. Money being no object, it was a sure bet that the chef would be of excellent caliber and indeed the middle-European-style food is scrumptious. But for three reasons the restaurant will fail. Two of the reasons he probably can't do much about: 1) it's simply inconsonant to be spending $130 per couple while at the same time worrying about your car parked outside, and 2) designing the bar area at the far end of an elongated-shaped restaurant isn't a good idea. It means that your drinking patrons, many of whom might be in the company of someone they would rather not have everyone know about, must walk by the prying gazes of the eating patrons sitting at tables to the right and left in order to get to the bar. That said, it is the third reason, and one I cannot emphasize the importance of enough, that will doom this restaurant (and many others as well): If your waitstaff doesn't have its timing down, it doesn't matter how good the food is. Some tips:
- wait until your entire party has taken off their jackets and are settled before you hand them their menus.
- wait until everyone seated has his/her ordered drink in hand (and perhaps has taken a sip) before eliciting orders for appetizers.
- when pouring water, do the math and figure out how much you need; pouring two glasses full, the third an inch full, and leaving the last glass empty just looks odd -- especially when you leave to get more water but don't came back until quite a bit later.
- just because space is limited at the table doesn't mean it's ok to place the bread basket directly in front of one patron... 'do I look that hungry?'
- immediately replace all used silverware that was taken away after the appetizer, or, when a patron requests a fork and knife to accompany the main course because you took away his silverware earlier and now he has nothing with which to eat, hop to it! This will avoid the situation of your patron watching his $32 entree get cold as you tend to others.
- bring all the missing silverware to the table at once rather than just delivering one-found fork -- one that without the accompanying steak knife does the patron little good and has left the other patron who has no silverware feeling persecuted.
- try not to interrupt an animated conversation only to ask if everything is ok. If patrons are eating at a healthy clip and seem to be enjoying themselves, assume that they are ok.
- check the rim of the wine bottle before you begin pouring. A chip on the rim isn't a good sign that it will be accepted by the person who ordered it i.e. that's not why they call it Chard-onnay....
- don't tell me that the pumpkin broulee isn't available AND that it is so delicious....
Friday, October 07, 2005
At Heathrow, waiting for my Boston flight, I drink a 250ml glass of Chardonnay and watch citizens of the European Union along with a spattering of 'Other' nationalities (like Americans) canvas the made-in-China duty-free goods. The traveling Americans are starting to dress more European-like I notice but you can still spot them a mile away. It's their teeth that are primarily the give away (compared to the European's tobacco-stained, periodontal-diseased mouth, this is a good and redeeming quality in Americans).
Perhaps sitting alone drinking a glass of wine had given me a Desperate Housewife Aura because the young European man sitting at the table next to mine with his girlfriend/sister/friend(?) gave me the kind of gaze that makes you feel, well, tingly inside....There I said it. I'm forty-something and married, not dead. He was expensively clad (designer blue jeans, white t-shirt, short-cropped hair, nice watch, barber-cut stubbled beard) and clearly in command of knowing what best accentuated his striking good looks. But alas he then did something that made it impossible for me to further affix myself to the sexy bedroom-eyes image he had obviously spent a lot of time and money cultivating. Namely he chose to strike up a conversation with the woman sitting across from him. His insipid C2O innards came spilling out of his mouth with the consequence that I was later forced to switch from the Anna Bloviation's fantasy channel in my head to Jane Fonda in the movie Monster-in-Law on the in-flight screen. The disconnect that occurs between someone's outward projected image and the actual reality inside makes me think that the fashion industry has new markets yet untapped: a Clinique anti-stupidity cream for starters....and perhaps as well an Estee Lauder polish for speech.
Perhaps sitting alone drinking a glass of wine had given me a Desperate Housewife Aura because the young European man sitting at the table next to mine with his girlfriend/sister/friend(?) gave me the kind of gaze that makes you feel, well, tingly inside....There I said it. I'm forty-something and married, not dead. He was expensively clad (designer blue jeans, white t-shirt, short-cropped hair, nice watch, barber-cut stubbled beard) and clearly in command of knowing what best accentuated his striking good looks. But alas he then did something that made it impossible for me to further affix myself to the sexy bedroom-eyes image he had obviously spent a lot of time and money cultivating. Namely he chose to strike up a conversation with the woman sitting across from him. His insipid C2O innards came spilling out of his mouth with the consequence that I was later forced to switch from the Anna Bloviation's fantasy channel in my head to Jane Fonda in the movie Monster-in-Law on the in-flight screen. The disconnect that occurs between someone's outward projected image and the actual reality inside makes me think that the fashion industry has new markets yet untapped: a Clinique anti-stupidity cream for starters....and perhaps as well an Estee Lauder polish for speech.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
A Few October Harper's Index Facts to Boggle the Mind...
Rank of 2004 among the most fiscally reckless years in U.S. history, according to the comptroller general: 1
Total U.S. spending on poppy eradication and other antidrug efforts in Afghanistan last year: $780,000,000
Amount it would have cost to purchase the country's entire 2004 poppy crop: $600,000,000
Rank of 2004 among the most fiscally reckless years in U.S. history, according to the comptroller general: 1
Total U.S. spending on poppy eradication and other antidrug efforts in Afghanistan last year: $780,000,000
Amount it would have cost to purchase the country's entire 2004 poppy crop: $600,000,000
Styria Vacation 2005: Soon to be plucked from Herrn Melcher's vineyard, this bunch will be a small contribution to the next fruity Muskateller of the region.
Catholic Billboards. On every road in front of almost every house in Styria is a tribute to Jesus underneath which are often pagan offerings to the vineyard gods....
A Recurring Picture i.e. it got hot walking up and down the steep hillsides....
Chanterelles. One of many edibles found on our walks through the countryside. These are exquisite made into a sauce ladled liberally over dumplings.... Also to be found are apples, pears, plums, figs, kiwi, walnuts, chestnuts, and of course a plethora of grape sorts.
Schloss Gamlitz. A 12th century castle with three foot thick walls. Glorious, educational (thanks to the proprietors Mr. and Mrs. Melcher), and comfortable. An Anna Bloviation's recommendation.
