little more natalie dee for the soul...

gestalt

simple, powerful quote that helps to illustrate the gestalt theory of psychology:

I do my own thing and you do your thing.
I am not in this world to live up to your expectations.
And you are not in this world to live up to mine.
You are you, and I am I.
And if by chance we find each other, it's beautiful.
If not, it can't be helped.

the darkness

today i'm wearing a huge knit poncho thing that's probably just an afghan with a hole in it. regardless, it's warm, and my office is not. i'm quite content - it feels like i never got out of bed this morning. small problem, however - i'm a devout sitter.

you see, i have a toilet in the office bathroom that i'm pretty sure is mine exclusively. (remember pop up videos? how about the episode that features jewel in the bathroom? jewel and vh1 taught me that the first toilet stall is the LEAST used, thus it has become my favorite. without getting into specifics, i've devised experiments to determine my ownership of this toilet, and it is unquestionably mine and mine alone on MOST days.) as i am the only regular user of this toilet, i like to sit on it. none of this squatting bullshit - if i want to squat, i'll go to the gym. when i have two minutes to myself in the bathroom, it's like a zen moment to collect my thoughts and cease the swirl of bad energy created by unrelentingly cranky media folk.

sounds nice, right? so i stumble in slowly around 7 this morning, coffee having not yet kicked in, and i realize that i am very nearly about to dip my poncho fringe into the holy waters. oh hell no. thus, i do what any rational human being would do - i flip the back of my poncho over my head and settle in. the overall effect of being encased in a tunnel of black alpaca is similar to the feeling of waking up with a VERY full bladder in the middle of the night - turning the bathroom light on would push you to TRUE wakefulness, and no one wants that, so you manage in the darkness and wander back to bed. it's just a pause in the program.

so now here i am, the first one in the office bathroom, a pile of black sweater sitting on my private toilet, listening to the arcade fire on my ipod, and pondering the rest of my day. the stall door opens, and a woman from the neighboring ad agency screams (who else starts their workday at 6:45?). i fall on the floor, entangled in sweater mass, pantless, and thrash, whacking my grey matter on the tile.

somehow i can't find the motivation to continue this day. someday i will blog about something important. my toilet is no longer my own, and i hate my sweater. that is all.

halloween consultant, part deux

per usual, the morning news provides...what ARE you going to be for halloween? the non-expert gives new life to your everyday household objects. (who takes care of you, baby?)

* * *

Question: You guys have any Halloween costumes I can put together? Last year my boyfriend and I went as a bus full of nuns in a car accident—so not happening again.—Katherine B.

Answer: We hate to hike old trails. How about costumes you can build with three items available in the typical American household?

Ingredients: Sunglasses, a white dress shirt, men’s briefs
Costume: Tom Cruise

Ingredients: Sunglasses, a white dress shirt, boxers
Costume: Truman Capote

Ingredients: Three cardigans
Costume: Edith Bouvier Beale (Grey Gardens)

Ingredients: Car battery, a pair of googly-eye glasses, and a Steve Gutenberg poster
Costume: Johnny Five (Short Circuit)

Ingredients: Pipes, more pipes, a ringing telephone
Costume: Danny Boy

Ingredients: White pants, white T-shirt, a bucket of red paint
Costume: A house painter

Ingredients: Black pants, white T-shirt, a bucket of red paint
Costume: A newspaper

Ingredients: Tuxedo shirt, dead body, ketchup
Costume: Vampire

Ingredients: Tuxedo shirt, dead body, Worcestershire sauce
Costume: Waiter in a vampire restaurant

Ingredients: Black turtleneck, black stretch pants, white face paint
Costume: Mime

Ingredients: Black turtleneck, black stretch pants, pixie appeal
Costume: GAP commercial

Ingredients: Three pairs of socks
Costume: A dog

Ingredients: Karate top, tube socks, Maglite
Costume: Luke Skywalker

Ingredients: Three footnotes
Costume: Mark Foley (because they come on the bottom of a page)

Ingredients: Two bungee cords and a blond wig
Costume: Marilyn Monroe

Ingredients: Bandana, cowboy hat, toy gun
Costume: John Wayne

Ingredients: Bandana, clown make-up, real gun
Costume: John Wayne Gacy

Ingredients: Three pairs of contact lenses
Costume: Steve Buscemi

Ingredients: The truth, three chords, red guitar
Costume: Bob Dylan

Ingredients: The truth, three chords, red iPod
Costume: Bono

Ingredients: Bone, thugs, and harmony
Costume: Bone Thugs-N-Harmony

Ingredients: Black shirt, black leather pants
Costume: David Copperfield

Ingredients: Black shirt, black leather pants, concho belt
Costume: Sexy David Copperfield

—Published October 20, 2006

so listen, the river's four feet deep, and you could take a ferry...

...which you should do, because as you found out at age eight, your oxen are shitty swimmers. ALL DAY i've been consumed by the thought of finding a version of the classic oregon trail to play. (whatever, i'll make up the eight hours of work sometime.) ayudame?

i sporadically claim alliance with wake forest, thus i snicker...

funny, because i don't know how i feel about my alma mater...via the onion

Tim Duncan Releases Decade Worth Of Pent-Up Emotion After Spurs Preseason Loss
October 19, 2006 Issue 42•42

SAN ANTONIO—Star Spurs center Tim Duncan has issued a public apology for his "unacceptable, inexcusable behavior" last Saturday night following a preseason loss to the Orlando Magic, saying that frustration and disappointment with his low-scoring, six-rebound performance caused "ten years' worth of unexpressed emotions to burst out of me like… like something I don't even know what."

An "agitated" Duncan responds to reporters' questions in a brusque tone of voice at a slightly elevated volume.

No criminal charges, police reports, or even complaints have been filed against Duncan, who was last seen leaving the Alamodome after giving what reporters are terming "mildly animated" answers to their post-game questions at a "slightly elevated" volume.

"I simply lost control during my post-game comments, and I did not give the press the full half-hour they are entitled to," said Duncan, who is on record as calling the Spurs' play during the game "bad," "real bad," "awful," and "very, very bad indeed" several times over the course of the 28 minutes he spent with reporters. "Anyone who knows me knows I never use language like that. I can only ask the city of San Antonio to forgive me for my outburst and give me a second chance."

"I was angry," Duncan added. "I even felt mad. I never want to go through that again."
Duncan claims that, after speaking to reporters, he was filled with a level of emotion that caused his memory to become unclear. However, Duncan is fairly certain that he turned away from reporters after insufficiently thanking them for the interview, walked to the parking lot with unusual briskness, and climbed into his car in a blatantly agitated fashion.

Witnesses' accounts bear out Duncan's version of events, with several onlookers saying Duncan "slammed" the door of his 1992 Buick LeSabre closed before driving off. Spurs guard Tony Parker, whose car was near Duncan's, denied rumors that Duncan was muttering grumpily to himself, but said Duncan did exhale audibly twice while getting his car keys out.

"Looking back on it, I think he was sighing in a frustrated or even exasperated manner," Parker said. "I thought about saying something, but I didn't know what. I'd never seen him like that. Frankly, I was a little scared."

"I should not have driven in that condition," said Duncan, who has implored the children of San Antonio not to emulate his actions or regard them as "cool." "I know better than to operate a motor vehicle while upset or in a highly emotional state of mind, but I did it anyway. I only wish I had exercised the self-restraint to let it go at that."

Traffic cameras tracked Duncan traveling from the Alamodome at up to seven miles per hour over the speed limit, twice driving through yellow lights, to a convenience store near his home, where the store's security cameras show him purchasing highly caffeinated beverages and several unhealthy snacks. A clerk at the store says Duncan consumed three of the soft drinks in his car while listening to barely audible music on his car's radio before driving off several minutes later.

Duncan's mid-'90s four-door sedan was found in the parking lot of his nondescript apartment building Sunday morning, having impacted a tree at what insurance company investigators say was an "extremely low" rate of speed, inflicting almost $140 worth of damage to the car during what they say seems to be an abortive attempt to park while slightly jittery from an excess of mild sugar stimulants.

"I do not wish to discuss that at this time," Duncan said. "I'm just glad no one was hurt while I was experimenting with Coke, or Pepsi, or root beer, or whatever it was. I just remember going into my apartment, turning on the television, unblocking Showtime, and calling up a few girls from church to say 'hello' and 'how are you doing.' Frankly I'm mortified, and in light of my actions, I wouldn't blame them for being cross with me in return. I was brought up to respect women, not to place telephone calls to them at what might possibly be well past their bedtimes."
Duncan recalls nothing else until 9:30 the next morning, when he woke up two hours late, unshaven, and dressed in unusually brightly colored clothing. Duncan immediately contacted the police, and was relieved to find he had in fact broken no laws.

Duncan has assigned himself 120 hours of community service working in hospitals, neighborhood improvement projects, and on highway-beautification crews for his "reckless endangerment" of the people of San Antonio.

"I promise you," the dry-eyed Duncan said in an unusually well-modulated voice, "you will never see anything like that from me again."

girl, you cannot make this shit up

ew. i love me some natalie dee...

the disco queen, the octopus, and the compulsive counter

“If you create round characters,” said Dr. Gambone, my creative writing professor, “they may not do what’s expected of them. I’m just warning you. They’re manifestations of your subconscious mind. Let go. Relinquish your hold on them. Let them make the story – a plot borne out of character. Breathe some life into them, inflate them, let them become people that you can know.”

I inwardly rolled my eyes. Brilliant as my professor is, it didn’t seem feasible that I, control freak extraordinaire, would develop a tribe of imaginary friends to draw into my assigments for Intro to Fiction Writing E-25. Dubious, I read the two chapters on characterization, and began taking notes. At the beginning of the class, we were instructed to pick out a notebook that suited our individual needs, and carry it with us at ALL times. Kathryn assisted me in this arduous task. I wound up with a very Harriet the Spy-like red leather bound piece, pen contained neatly within, and I began to observe. Notes from the coffee shop, notes from the office, notes on the train. Conversations from the supermarket. Bizarre names overheard at the bar.

Then it happened.

While reading business publications for work the other night at the kitchen table, I pushed my glasses up and rested my eyes on my palms. What the hell? Behind my eyelids, I could see a small girl in an octopus costume. How bizarre. Later on, as I grew more tired, my inner monologue seemed to be stemming from an ex-disco queen, languishing on a couch in sweatpants while smoking a cigarette. While reading an old art history essay from Wake on a particularly splotchy Picasso pen-and-ink, a character in my head began to consider the painting, touching the spots under the glass while moving her lips quietly to herself – OCD, of course. She’s about fifteen. Now these three have taken up residence in my head. They can’t live together – how could they? But they’re currently homeless. I have no idea what to do with them, but they’re coming into their own and won’t stay put for long…here we go.

Plotline suggestions are more than welcome.

six degrees

so as i was galloping down the stairs at the harvard square t station last night, i almost flattened a girl. i put a hand on her arm to apologize, and she turned - long dark hair streaked with raspberry, olive skin, black plastic eyeglasses, requisite earth-tone hued jacket. i looked at her curiously - maybe she'd gone to notre dame? i certainly recognized her.

"i'm sorry - are you okay?" i asked.

"yeah, i'm fine, don't worry about." she smiled.

we parted ways - she went back toward boston, i hopped the braintree train, and it dawned on me - jill carroll, the christian science monitor reporter who'd been kidnapped in iraq. huh.

interestingly, when the news of her kidnapping broke, i'd looked up carroll on our media database at work, but CSM had removed her, probably to prevent an influx of email. now she's back, reporting for the monitor and studying at - you guessed it - harvard. go figure.

livening up family parties, one chest rumble at a time...

scrabble's getting old, you say? not digging the world war II stories the seventy fourth time around? how about some laser tag, grandma?

"Bonding in the Battlemaze" by Christopher Monks, via The Morning News

I shot my Aunt Maureen first. She had her back to me, waiting for Uncle Dick to walk by—big mistake. Unfortunately, before I could celebrate, my mother appeared out of nowhere and popped me in the shoulder. Bright colors flashed everywhere. My chest rumbled.

Laser tag was a lot harder than it looked.

It was my mother’s 59th birthday, and her friends and family were laser-shooting the hell out of one another. I hadn’t participated in an activity that involved pretend shooting since I was a child, when I played army games with my friends. We’d run around the yard doing our best Rambo impersonations—until my hippie parents found out about it and gave us a guilt trip for glorifying war and trampling their azaleas.

Now, many years later, I am the father of two young boys, and far more lenient when it comes to imaginary violence than my parents were. Both my sons have an uncanny knack for turning any found object into a sword or bazooka, and I’ve decided that praising their ingenuity is more important than quelling their desire to make-believe kill each other.

However, it seems that my parents’ attitude toward violence has become as lenient as mine over the years. One only had to witness my mother’s glee as she took down her brother and then her best friend with successive laser blasts to see this was true. While her chosen codename, “Aquarius,” lacked the aura of intimidation, she more than made up for it by kicking laser butt all over the Battlemaze. She shot me five times in total, twice in the chest. Me (codename: “Rambo Blade”), her only son. I had hoped we’d team up and go after my father. Once and for all, we could teach him a lesson for years of bad table manners and showing up 10 minutes late to every non-sports-related event in our lives. But from the get-go it was apparent Mom was on a solo mission of her own. Thus I resolved to take down Dad (codename: “The Lone Ranger”) all by myself.

But after one sight of him, it was clear he’d be too easy a target. His giant chest pack fit clumsily over his torso, and he seemed to have trouble figuring out which end of his gun the laser shot out of. Upon hearing him call out, “Have we started yet?” a good two minutes into the game, I decided there were bigger fish to zap.

My next target was my wife (codename: “The Shadow Keeper”). She did a lot of trash talking in the lobby, just as a group of eight-year-old boys from another birthday party looked on, bewildered. “I’m so going house on you!” she taunted.

I didn’t quite know what “going house” meant; she teaches high school and is more up on slang than I am. Still, I refused to let her bully me and suggested we wager on the battle: Whoever had the lowest score at the end of the game would have to change our younger son’s diapers for an entire month. I was pleased when she accepted, imagining 30 days off from listening to our two-year-old critique the size of his bowel movements. But unfortunately, just like Aquarius, the Shadow Keeper proved a challenging foe, or better put: She was way more awesome at laser tag than I was. Whenever I thought I had her cornered, she’d bounce a laser off a mirrored wall and nail me. It totally sucked.

Just as he did, my wife and mother jumped out from behind a wall and fired at him merrily, sending his target lights into a red blinking fury. I hadn’t expected to be so bad at this; my peacenik upbringing must have stunted my laser tagging skills. All that time pretending to be Rambo was spent in vain; those azalea bushes died for nothing. Worse yet was seeing the delight my wife and mother took in going house on me and everyone else. It was like they’d been waiting for this all their lives. Toward the end of the slaughter, the two of them joined forces, taking out four cousins, two significant others, and a sister-in-law. I desperately wanted to join them, but I knew that chances were they’d just add me to the body count. Again. So I reset my sights on the one opponent I was sure I could vanquish: Dad. He was the guy who taught me non-violent opposition and the words to “Give Peace a Chance”—and for this he would pay.I found him alone, readjusting his chest pack in a dimly lit section of the Battlemaze. I refused to feel sorry for him, no matter how helpless he appeared. Dad was mine. I would house him big time.

Stealthily, I waited for the right moment to pounce. Shooting Dad in the back would be too easy; Lieutenant John Rambo wouldn’t go out like that. So I shouted my dad’s name, prompting him to turn, but just as he did, my wife and mother jumped out from behind a wall and fired at him merrily, sending his target lights into a red blinking fury.“Thanks a lot,” Dad said, convinced I had set him up. And then, just like in some dumb war movie, he raised his gun and shot me.

Over the rumbling of my chest pack I heard him shout: “Yahoo!” Then he gave my mother and wife low fives, and they all fired on me again. As the lights on my chest whistled and flared, I vowed revenge—or at the very least, a sequel. And next time, I’ll bring my sons, who can be on my team. I only hope the Battlemaze has a changing table.

hi readers. remember sometime around january 1st when i vowed to do only what makes me happy? guess what - i lied. i've done a crappy job sticking to my resolution, and now i'm entrenched in a little bit of muck. i'm going to think about it, and i'm going to get back to you. i read over my old posts today, and the voice was strong and good and quirky and fun. i'm mulling it over, but i want my voice back. more later.

so...

i'm heading down to DC for the weekend a) to help maura move back into her apartment prior to senior year at GW (yay!) and b) to see some of the people i love the most. hopefully it'll provide a much-needed break from the norm and a battery recharge. things i'm looking forward to upon returning:

• kickball on sundays!
• beginning a creative writing course
• fall riding season
• masterworks of indian painting at the mfa
• dog walks on the beach without the entire population of marshfield/duxbury
• starting over, starting fresh, starting anew on lots of things

see you post-cocoon.

i got a shoutout...

...from my linda (on the day i wore her sweatshirt to work).

http://www.lindadearie.com/notes.html

excuse me, miss? your lack of taste is showing.

i can't help it, i think this is just cool...via NYT.

Dupri to Be Musical Director for AmsterJam
By THE ASSOCIATED PRESS
Filed at 1:46 p.m. ET

NEW YORK (AP) -- Though musical mash-ups are the hot trend, Jermaine Dupri doesn't necessarily see the blending of two songs to create another as something new.

''I've always mixed different music with other music (as a DJ),'' said the top producer/performer.

Now, Dupri will do it once again as musical director for the Aug. 19 AmsterJam concert in New York City, where acts such as the Foo Fighters, LL Cool J, Busta Rhymes and Tom Petty will blend their music with that of other acts live onstage.

''What you hear will be my creation basically ... or how I think the mash-ups should go,'' said Dupri in an interview with The Associated Press this week. ''I'm kind of visualizing this from a DJ perspective.''

Dupri, 33, will decide how the artists' songs will be blended.

''LL Cool J and (reggaeton star) Tego (Calderon), that's going to be a hard one,'' he said. ''As the music director, I have to step up to the plate.''

This is the second year for AmsterJam, an all-day festival.

it's life. life is messy.

how difficult can that be for one perfectionist to understand?

ed just shared a great kipling poem with me...my gift to you on a sweltering summer's day. stay in your offices and try to look busy - evaporation is a real threat today.

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired of waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master;
If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings -- nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run --
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man my son!

to know lutz is to love lutz...

a story of survival, by my dear friend dave lutz:

Wakkondot: ooh
Wakkondot: PS
Wakkondot: i rescued a baby bat last night
Wakkondot: i fed it with pedialyte and a brush
alannahbean: are you keeping it? loving it?
Wakkondot: and made a fake roost
Wakkondot: and put it out last ngiht
Wakkondot: its mom came and got it
Wakkondot: i saved him
alannahbean: i love that story
alannahbean: that is precisely why i adore you
Wakkondot: it was soooooooo coool
Wakkondot: i made a roost with some drawer liner, a cardboard box, and a ripped pair of boxers
Wakkondot: then fed him with the pedialyte
alannahbean: :-)
Wakkondot: i had to climb up on a ladder
Wakkondot: and put the "fake roost" up 10 feet
Wakkondot: and check later
Wakkondot: i had to handle the little bat with gloves
Wakkondot: it was soooo cool
Wakkondot: you know, little brown bats can eat 800 mosquitos a night
Wakkondot: and they only have 1 offspring a year
Wakkondot: so he was important
alannahbean: i want to hug you.
Wakkondot: haha
Wakkondot: so he survived
Wakkondot: that should give you good dreams

the official, published bat story: http://therhombus.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=63245

$135 million for Klimt’s “Adele Bloch-Bauer I” is a deal if you keep A-Rod in mind.

via The Morning News...

The stratospheric price that cosmetics maven Ronald S. Lauder shelled out for Gustav Klimt's 1907 society portrait Adele Bloch-Bauer I—reportedly $135 million, the most ever paid for a work of art—is the least of its luxury attributes. Everything about this gold-flecked portrayal of a Viennese sugar-manufacturer's wife radiates luxury, one of the three things (along with calm and sexual pleasure) that Baudelaire said we require from great art. The painting will look right at home when it arrives on July 13 (the day before Klimt's birthday) in Lauder's jewellike Neue Galerie at Fifth Avenue and 86th Street in New York. Through shrewd acquisitions and smartly turned out exhibitions, no American has done more than Lauder, a former ambassador to Austria, to raise the visibility (and enhance the value) of often neglected German and Austrian art in the United States.

First, the painting itself is made of luxury materials. Under the joint inspiration of Japanese lacquer and the Byzantine mosaics he'd studied in Ravenna, Italy, Klimt, son of an engraver in precious metals, applied generous expanses of gold and silver leaf directly onto the canvas. The result is that Adele's head and hands seem to float in an entirely artificial world, like Yeats' fantasy in "Sailing to Byzantium": "Once out of nature I shall never take/ My bodily form from any natural thing,/ But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make/ Of hammered gold and gold enameling." The luxury effect is enhanced by exotic symbols and swirls that Klimt has borrowed from Egyptian and Mycenaean art and woven into the gilded fabric of Adele's cascading dress.

Second, the painting shows a prominent member of Vienna's wealthy industrial elite and was commissioned to show off her expensive charms. Women like Adele Bloch-Bauer flocked to Klimt's elegant studio, which was outfitted with Josef Hoffman's Wienerwerkstatte furnishings, and paid a high price for the master's attentions. The resulting painting, displayed in the intimacy of the bedroom, was itself the ideal emblem of opulence.

And third, the painting confirms the turn-of-the-century Viennese conviction that sex was the proper province of the rich and cultivated. In his voluminous pleated blue smock, Klimt—who once drew a self-portrait of himself as genitalia—played the sexy artist to the hilt. Part of the commission seemed to be that rumors would be spread of some hanky-panky between artist and model. Lauder bought the painting from Adele's niece, Maria Altmann, who once asked her mother about a possible love affair. According to Carol Vogel's June 19 report in the New York Times, Altmann's mother was furious and exploded, "How dare you ask such a thing? It was an intellectual friendship."

Intellectual friendship was foreplay at a time and place when, under Freud's tutelage, sex had gone upscale. The working classes copulated and procreated, but sex, as portrayed by Klimt in his swooning The Kiss (also 1907), was something properly performed, like Schubert or Beethoven, in upper-class drawing rooms. The femme fatale (or, in Freud's parlance, castrating female) was in vogue; Richard Strauss' Salome premiered in Vienna in 1907, and the American dancer Ruth St. Denis enthralled Viennese audiences with her erotically exotic performance art. Adele Bloch-Bauer, who entertained Strauss in her stylish salon, seems to have welcomed the femme fatale treatment, via a silver choker (symbolizing decapitation, according to Klimt scholar Alessandra Comini) of precisely the kind depicted in his notorious paintings of the biblical heroine and man-killer Judith.

But one generation's femme fatale is the next generation's comforting maternal presence. Walter Pater thought there was something kinky about the Mona Lisa: "like the vampire, she has been dead many times." Now she looks tame enough, with or without a moustache. Whatever sinister behavior Adele Bloch-Bauer was scheming while coyly rubbing her slender hands is gone with the wind. In the Klimt portrait, she looks like a preoccupied mom at a members' opening at the Met. "This is our Mona Lisa," Lauder said, plausibly enough. "I never saw her smile," Mrs. Altmann said of her aunt.

Maybe she sensed what was coming. As Robert Frost once wrote, "Nothing gold can stay." The Bloch-Bauers were Jewish and the Nazis liked Klimts. Adele died in 1925 of meningitis. After Germany annexed Austria in 1938, her husband fled to Switzerland, where he died in 1945, having left his art collection behind. The Nazis put three of the paintings in the Austrian Gallery and sold the rest. A complicated restitution case played out over many years, eventually going to the U.S. Supreme Court, which ruled that Mrs. Altmann, who lives in Los Angeles, could sue the Austrian government in American courts for her family's lost property. In January, she was awarded the portrait of her aunt along with four other Klimt paintings, including a later portrait of Adele and three extraordinary landscapes (a genre in which Klimt excelled). During the legal maneuvering, Ronald Lauder remained a staunch supporter of Mrs. Altmann, and his loyalty was richly rewarded in the privately arranged sale.

As for the $135 million, the price seems low to me. Most art prices seem low to me. What's a reasonable price for a one-of-a-kind masterpiece? If the Texas Rangers once paid Alex Rodriguez twice that amount to play shortstop for 10 years, hasn't Lauder gotten his Klimt, which he owns in perpetuity, for a steal? (I'd rather have Adele on my wall than A-Rod on my team.) Fortunately for the rest of us, Lauder's luxury object will be available to all of us, radiating luxe, calme, et volupté forever. As for the fate of the other four paintings in Mrs. Altmann's collection, also on view at the Neue Galerie through Sept. 18, stay tuned.

survive this.

Some of you may not recall that at the Emerge holiday party 2005, I received a dare. A powerful dare. The worst kind of dare. A challenge couched in those magic words… “you won’t do it”. Stupid, stubborn, pigheaded and Italian, the infamous “you won’t do it” is the only surefire way to motivate me. This was the reason for the first Survivor application. Done on a whim, taped by a coworker, dashed off to meet the deadline prior to the close of the year, I didn’t think much of my three minutes of VHS whizzing off to LA until my phone rang three weeks later. Would I fill out the supplementary application and return it to the production offices? I suppose so. How odd. Would I then come to the final round of psychological testing in Boston? No, thank you, I will not take the entirety of my vacation time to sit in a hotel and be deprived of sleep and food. Thanks for playing. Check.

SO.

With the next season of Survivor upon us (and I don’t actually watch the show with any regularity), I was surprised to receive an invitation to a Boston area casting call. Several producers would be present, I was informed, along with the camera crews from CBS. Would I attend? Why not.

I bid the Emergites a fond adieu in relative secrecy yesterday and slowly rolled (decidedly at the speed of a paraplegic turtle) to Jordan’s Furniture in Reading, of all places. For you non-Massholes in the audience (hang in there, brave souls), Jordan’s is a monstrosity of a furniture store that features a major iMax theater, several full-seating restaurants, and a Disney-esque candyland. The parking lot looked like the unlikely union of Burning Man and a Kelly Clarkson concert – half idol-bearing, tie-dyed, camo-wearing freaks, half elementary school teachers and their stalwart, l.l. bean-touting significant others. Throw in a sprinkling of fifty-something North Shore moms wearing J.Lo jeans, and that was the representative sample of Boston. The “line” (clumps of humanity) stretched from the front door and snaked around the four sides of the parking lot. As there wasn’t a chance that I’d turn around just to sit in traffic, I took my Umberto Eco novel from my bag, tucked my skirt between my legs, and folded up on the pavement to wait…

and wait…

and wait.

Around 7:00, an ambiguous be-suited fellow with a media badge came out to the massive tiki-encrusted barbecue and started sending people home under the premise that with taping only occurring for another hour, there was NO way that we were going to get in. I waved him over, pulled out my email info, and showed him. Immediately, I was pulled from the line, and brought into the store, where several casting directors, producers, and Danielle from Survivor Panama were sitting in some very excellent air conditioning, chatting to a group of typical Boston Rob-types in Sox hats and a handful of medium-height, darkly-complected girls with big white teeth. With our powers combined, we were…the callback group.

The people outside were elbowing for a chance to record a three-minute video with the CBS camera crew while holding a number (how very Holocaust). We, however, had the opportunity to do a ten minute tape that was more of a conversational interview, and parts of our group interaction were also recorded. The girls were all bubbly, young professionals who clearly do not sunburn and can run not one but several miles. The guys were blue-color Bostonians who regularly do not use their Rs.

How much did I weigh, they wanted to know. Would I be open to gaining twenty pounds before any filming? The hungry girls get crazy, they said. Could I run a mile? How fast? Tell us about the horses. Are you close with your parents? Can we contact them? Who’s your best friend? Tell us about her. Your boyfriend? Can we talk with them as well? How did you get that cut on your calf? You’re only really scared of bellybuttons? We can’t work with that. How about spiders? Tarantula in your shower what? What are some topics that you wouldn’t be able to discuss at a dinner party? Ever been arrested? What do you normally eat? If you could be stranded with anyone, who would it be? Can you swim well? Do you excel at any sports?

The friendly suit from before pulled me aside as I was leaving. “Listen, advice for you – make another tape, and send it to LA. Have it postmarked by Friday.” From here, 800 people across the nation will make psychological testing rounds in thirteen major cities, including Boston. From there, 48 will go to LA for finals, and 16 from that group will be sent to the filming site.

Hmm.

i'm verklempt!

it appears that all of the geeky t-shirt wearing during your formative years worked - we've saved something. sort of. who doesn't love manatees?

via CNN.com...

Florida takes manatee off endangered list

MIAMI, Florida (Reuters) -- Florida's wildlife commission voted Wednesday to remove the manatee from the state's endangered species list, a move environmentalists fear could erode safeguards for the popular sea creature.

State officials said the "downlisting" to threatened from endangered would have no impact on protections afforded the massive, lumbering marine mammal often called the sea cow.
Manatees inhabit Florida's canals and coastal waters, where they are frequently killed or injured by boats.

A survey this year found about 3,100 remaining manatees.

State officials say manatees no longer qualify for endangered status, which is reserved for creatures that face extinction.

Environmentalists, citing predictions the manatee population could decline by 50 percent in the next 45 years, say the criteria need to be changed.

The Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission voted unanimously at a meeting in West Palm Beach to change the manatee's status. But the move will not take place until commission staffers draw up a plan to ensure the creature's continued recovery, which could take a year, an official said.

"Whatever protections we woke up with today we go to bed with tonight," commission spokesman Willie Puz said.

The manatee remains on the federal endangered species list and is protected by other federal laws.

Slow-moving and herbivorous, manatees can eat up to 15 percent of their body weight daily. On average, adult manatees are about 10 feet long and weigh about 1,000 pounds.

They are vulnerable to speeding boats because they often drift lazily at or just below the surface of the water. They are also killed by cold weather and red tide algae blooms.
Patrick Rose, an official with the Save the Manatee Club, said the downlisting could weaken protections and decrease government funding at a time when threats from boats, red tide and loss of habitat are rising.

"The world is going to think the manatees are doing a lot better when they're not," he said.

because my pictures would be of bagels, almonds, and gnocchi...

...for your eye-hunger, here's bobo's rather brilliant food blog. she's traveling in taiwan.

sugar and spice and everything else

...i give to you, dear readers...

lindee's summer collection!

resurfacing...

as some of you know, i took a bit of a break from blogging because i was feeling self conscious about broadcasting to the general public. however, i've since recovered enough to buck up and respond to the complaints of my former readers. the past two months have been a bit blurry - lots of scurrying around, bemoaning the state of my planner, and frequenting the planes, trains, and automobiles. while i think of something to write about that isn't a catalogue of my days, give this a whirl: http://jacksonpollock.org/

after a dramatic gesture this morning, i'm again toeing the waters of my blog. (sorry for the momentary lapse - if i can fling myself headlong into the icy waters of the atlantic in may and october, then surely i can handle the lukewarm puddle that is the blogosphere...right.)

anyway, get this: i went to bed last night at 8:45. that's right. 8:45. a geriatric bedtime, you say? fine. call me sophia petrillo. but i was tired and i'm reading a book that's so.damn.good.

wenz's dad lent it to me - after much hesitation, i relented (okay, he pushed the book into my hands while i was sitting at their kitchen table). it's not that he doesn't make good recommendations (wenz's dad, bill, is essentially my second father at this point, and happens to be a very smart guy)...it's just that lately he's been trying to get me to read books about the historical beginnings of household items like screws and salt.

moving on.

i found myself holding chuck klosterman's killing yourself to live. klosterman's a rock writer for spin magazine, and can somehow make a marvelous turn on intimidating topics like death for the sake of art. he writes in a tangible fashion, installing mental footholds on obscure theories of his own invention. anyone who can clearly articulate his/her hypotheses about life's great mysteries is just neurotic enough to have put thought into them - any reader with entertainment ADD will appreciate this. another noteworthy detail - throughout klosterman makes musical references that bill is planning on downloading and compiling into a sort of soundtrack to the book. it's going to be amazing. i recommend STRONGLY.

since klosterman is pretty much a pop culture encyclopedia, he doesn't stop with physical descriptions of the women in his life - they've all been wrapped up neatly in two or three song references. for someone who's considering surgical ipod implantation, this is extraordinarily helpful. (thanks to someone on toxicuniverse.com for extracting this paragraph from the book - i live in a cube, so my clandestine novel reading isn't as clandestine as i'd thought. oops.)

klosterman writes:

"If Dianne is Dolly Parton's Jolene and Lenore is a fusion of the Big Bopper's libido with Nikki Sixx's scariest wet dream, Quincy is akin to the girl in Ben Folds Five's 'Kate,' multiplied by the woman described in Sloan's 'Underwhelmed,' divided by the person Evan Dando sings about in the Lemonheads' slacked up, Raymond Carver-esque ballad 'My Drug Buddy.' And I realize these are obscure fucking references, but some people demand obscurity."

that's love. if someone's artistic vision is to make you into a musical formula...man. swoon. add that to the list of girlish aspirations.

this is uninspiring. maybe i need a break.

here, there, everywhere...

i feel like i've been bouncing around non-stop since thursday (the emerge launch event - great success!), so while i get my bearings and actually work, check out the south by southwest blog compiled by boston globe music writers.

sidenote: congrats to the wfu equestrians on a rumored-to-be-great home show. missed you this year, ladies!

chickenette of the sea!

alannahbean: would you feel comfortable if jessica simpson was your acting lobbyist? http://www.cnn.com/2006/SHOWBIZ/03/15/simpson.bush.reut/index.html

Mac12234: ms. chicken of the sea? i think not.

Mac12234: although, she and bush would probably really connect. i feel as though they're on the same level.

mélange

first, and most importantly, happiest of birthdays to my first grade lockermate and brain buddy extraordinaire, one hal mackins. hal, a newly minted member of the old fart club, is happily living out his PR dreams on the west coast and currently serves as my career mentor from afar. a sourdough salute to you, old friend. tear it up.

secondly, i had a steamy and stomping post written in my head about one of my pet peeves - the one-way friend. (i can just hear my mother in my head, "they make street signs in honor of people like you...one way!!") the ironic thing about having a pet peeve is that you generally acquire them due to a very personal association, meaning you've often violated your own peeve - thus, a projection of disappointment with yourself/irritation. (i'm toeing the lines of psychology, one of the few majors i left untouched during my undergrad career - knowledgable folk, i beseech you - ignore me.)

so back to the peeve. first of all, guilty as charged - i don't pick up the phone as often as i should. but, i've sadly realized there are people in my life who will blatantly borrow hours of time as you help them work through a meltdown, and then, when you need them...disappear. there are two kinds of conversations you have with these leeches:

scenario 1: offender calls you...
::ring::
you: "hey, X! what's shaking?"
X: "hey! not much. how are you?"
you: "pretty good! how are yo-"
X: "i have a situation with Y, and it's a loooong story, but here's what happened, and i just need some advice..............................................................................................................." <--- representative of hours upon hours of breaking down a ten minute scenario and transposing various analyses based on the color sweater Y was wearing, whether or not Y snapped his/her gum at moment of impact, blah blah blah. why does this bother me? because i've only recently realized that i do this very thing and it must be extraordinarily dull for the listener.

scenario 2: you, obviously in need of advice, call offender...
::ring::
X: "hey there!"
you: "hi, X. how are ya?"
X: "good, how are you?"
you: "not so good. actually, i was wondering if...."
X: "oh, yeah, that sounds bad, but unfortunately, i've got to run. i'm supposed to have dinner with that guy/girl i told you about last week? yeah, exciting, s/he broke up with significant other, so i think this is actually a date, and..."
you: "right. have fun." (brain: "i hope your potential has the herp, you dinkhead, have fun.")

(editor's note: i love that i wasn't actually going to write about this.)

so listen. i'm freaking sick of this, you guys. if i ever pull the offender card with you, CALL ME OUT. and if you pull the offender card with me, expect me not to be sympathetic when you get herpes because you blew me off in my time of need. capisce? be nice to each other. be considerate. i will gladly give you hours of my time and ear space if you will, in turn, do the same for me when i legitimately need it. i will give and give and give...as long as you give back. if this is a foreign concept, i strongly suggest that you pick up a copy of the book how to win friends and influence people by dale carnegie. oldie but goodie. we all need reminders sometimes.

i've always had a misplaced gratitude to the state of massachusetts for making moderately illogical behavior legal and vice versa. on the books are the following laws:

-in salem, even married couples are forbidden from sleeping nude in rented rooms.
-it's illegal to wear a goatee without a license.
-dueling with water pistols is a punishable offense.
-in the city of boston, it's illegal for someone to take a bath unless ordered by a physician.

one notable traffic statute that causes mild alarm from visitors to the commonwealth allows us to drive in the breakdown lane during rush hour (something like 6 - 10am, 4 - 8pm). as this allows me to get up and down the highway at a much faster clip during my commute, i've never really complained, and often admire the little pregnancies in the breakdown lane installed for ACTUAL breakdowns during rush hour. like many massholes who'd rather drive 80 mph (bumper to bumper, i might add) at 7am than think about safety, i've never questioned this policy - until this morning. cruising along, singing badly drawn boy, the car behind me so close that the dude driving (and shaving) is practically in my backseat, i noted with irritation (and difficulty, due to glaring sun and dirty windshields) that the car in front of me hadn't reached the ideal cruising speed of 78. not only that, but by peering through my windshield, i noted that it had, in fact, come to a DEAD HALT in the middle of the breakdown lane - with miles upon miles of sturdy, european-made four doors and SUVs bearing down on it. god forbid - someone BROKE DOWN IN THE BREAK DOWN LANE. holy crap. without having the time to look or do much else, i slammed on the brake and yanked the wheel hard to the left, just fitting into a space between an 18-wheeler and a volkswagen. had i been anything larger than a saab hatch, let's just say this blog would've been discontinued. i guarantee that the car that had been using the breakdown lane for its god-given purpose didn't survive the morning commute. i, on the other hand, will never, ever drive in the breakdown lane at rush hour again. oh, massachusetts. reconsider this one. people will die.

impressions from a time when you weren't even a glimmer

thoughts on laying claim to pieces of history that were not yours to begin with (mostly by virtue of the fact that you didn't yet exist)...

much like wearing a piece of your grandmother's jewelry or using your dad's old golf clubs in the backyard, marcel van eeden's self-charged artistic mission involves drawing a daily picture based on an image captured prior to his birth in 1965. how is this any different, i wonder, from writing a historically-based novel or making a film like schindler's list? you weren't there, you didn't live through it, you only have someone else's renderings to draw from...i'm not sure why this is innovative. art constantly stems from artifact across all media.

(from the morning news)

PSA: why march 1st is important

in tribute: happiest of birthdays to two of my favorite people. 2-3 shout out to wenz, my voice of reason, the little mermaid. thanks for not divorcing me when i make you glue seashells to your bra. mazeltov! the big 2-4 hey to nate stoooart, science guy, frisbee thrower, and ladies' man extraordinaire. nate, thanks for not divorcing us when we make you wear a bra period. hip hip, loves! have a wonderful day!

i'mb fide. fide!

if i were to personify my immune system, it would look a bit like wayne knight in jurassic park - slovenly, unkempt, squirmy, selfish, allergic to functionality, and hawaiian shirted. that being said, my immune system DOES NOT WORK. i would like to trade in for a newer model, please, and preferably one that has never had chronic fatigue, but features resistance to mono, chicken pox, and most importantly, the cold.

i woke up this morning in a puddle. drool city. (i'm sorry, this blog was never meant to center around my bodily functions.) an experimental swallow and excavation of the nose crust led to the undeniable conclusion: cold is coming. again. body, what's the deal? you're well-fed, regularly exercised, warm and vitamined. you're young and flexible and provided with ample amounts of fresh air. you grew up in a BARN - clearly you should've developed some sort of resistance by now. but no, benedict arnold, you choose to fell me when i just do NOT HAVE TIME FOR THIS SORT OF THING. we're getting a divorce.

question: has anyone successfully put the kibosh on a cold in its ugly adolescence? megs, who is in the same shoes, advises skipping the airborne as it as 1000% RDA of vitamin C, which can apparently cause stomach cramps and the like (no thank you, sir, i will not have another). help help help!

edit: this just in on today's daily dog (many thanks to the PR world for being timely purveyors of scandal) regarding Airborne: http://www.bulldogreporter.com/dailydog/index.html#3358

roll with it, baby

couldn't agree more. as much as traditional education has made us "trained thinkers", time and experience is proving that living stems from feeling. let it all go. from the boston globe:

Thought for thinkers

'Follow your gut,' study advises on big decisions

By Gareth Cook, Globe Staff February 17, 2006

Scientists have some remarkable new advice for anyone who is struggling to make a difficult decision: Stop thinking about it.

In a series of studies with shoppers and students, researchers found that people who face a decision with many considerations, such as what house to buy, often do not choose wisely if they spend a lot of time consciously weighing the pros and cons. Instead, the scientists conclude, the best strategy is to gather all of the relevant information -- such as the price, the number of bathrooms, the age of the roof -- and then put the decision out of mind for a while. Then, when the time comes to decide, go with what feels right. ''It is much better to follow your gut," said Ap Dijksterhuis, a professor of psychology at the University of Amsterdam, who led the research.

For relatively simple decisions, he said, it is better to use the rational approach. But the conscious mind can consider only a few facts at a time. And so with complex decisions, he said, the unconscious appears to do a better job of weighing the factors and arriving at a sound conclusion.

The finding, published today in the journal Science, would have practical implications if borne out by further research.

This is because the new research challenges the conventional approach to making everyday choices that shape so much of life.

But the work is also important, scientists said, because it provides more evidence for a profound reconsideration of the nature of the human psyche.

After Freudian psychology, with its focus on repressed desires, fell out of favor, psychological research largely dismissed the idea that the unconscious played an important role in mental processes. More recently, though, in research popularized in Malcolm Gladwell's bestseller ''Blink," scientists have been finding evidence that the unconscious is not just relevant, but that it is smart.

''There is a bit of a revolution going on in psychology the way that we look at the unconscious," said Timothy Wilson, a professor of psychology at the University of Virginia. ''It is a very different unconscious than Freud imagined."

''Blink" largely focused on snap judgments, such as deciding whether a couple was likely to divorce by watching them for a few moments. But the Science article looked at what the researchers described as the ''deliberation-without-attention effect." This was described as the power of the unconscious mind to process information and to mull through possibilities without the person being aware of it.

In one experiment, students were asked to pick one of four cars based on a list of positive and negative attributes. A description of each car's attributes was flashed on a computer screen for eight seconds, according to the paper.

First, the experimenters provided a simple choice, where each car had a list of just four attributes, some positive (''has good mileage") and some negative (''has poor leg room").

Half of the students were asked to think about their choice for four minutes. The other half were asked to do challenging, distracting puzzles for four minutes, preventing them from consciously considering the car options.

In this experiment, the conscious thinkers did a better job than the distracted students of selecting the best car, which was the only one with three positive characteristics; other cars in the experiment had fewer.

Next, the researchers did a similar experiment, but with a much more complicated choice: Each car was described with a list of 12 attributes rather than the four in the prior test.

This time the students who were not allowed to think consciously about the decision did a better job of selecting the car with the most positive attributes.

continuing the saga on the final frontier of social taboos...(a tribute)

From: Alannah
Sent: Friday, February 24, 2006 8:17 AM
To: Meghan
Subject: RE: i know this is mean

What kind of big thoughts? I consumed an Odwalla superfood juice smoothie, does that count as getting things done? I was being bad and downloading new music to test drive before the rest of the office got here (and most of them work from home today). Now I’m going to poop and think about how much it’s costing the client I choose to bill for this chunk of time. How lovely is that? ::Settles back into chair:: Lie down on my couch, Meggie, let’s discuss the nature and root of these thoughts.

alannah
______ public relations

________________________________________________________

From: Meghan
Sent: Friday, February 24, 2006 8:16 AM
To: Alannah
Subject: RE: i know this is mean

LOL. hold on. give me a moment to recover from the giggles of you billing your clients for your morning consultations.

Meghan

________________________________________________________

From: Alannah
Sent: Friday, February 24, 2006 8:25 AM
To: Meghan
Subject: RE: i know this is mean

Let’s see…today I displeased with _______…they’re getting billed $75/hour for my time…(75/60) x 6 minutes of relaxation with the Boston Globe (“current events study”) = $7.50. That’s a poop worth two grande lattes at Sbucks, darling.

alannah
_____ public relations

________________________________________________________

From: Meghan
Sent: Friday, February 24, 2006 8:26 AM
To: Alannah
Subject: RE: i know this is mean

I love how you're an out of the closet poo'er. Just go for it!

Meghan


Moral of today's story? Just go for it with gusto. Have some style. Poop. The final social frontier of social taboos.

for the artophiles (i made that one up): 5-0! hit the deck, it's the carabinieri!

so kathryn and i are doing the self magazine challenge which involves a daily poll. yesterday, as i clicked in to lamely record my pre-dawn jaunt with the mollster, i noted the question of the day: should employees who are obese or smokers be required to pay more for their health insurance? the results were heavily (no pun intended) slanted with about 82% of the respondents saying yes, they should be required to cough it up (this bad pun ALSO unintended, sorry). not sure how i honestly feel about the subject, but all of you ladies out there hopped up on fitness endorphins are sure snappy with that judgment-passing (on day THREE of your diets, sisters - how many of you hit the ice cream hard last night?).

so you're obese. so you're dragging on the butts. countless studies show that you're without question hacking away at the quality of your health. well, what about the workaholics in the crowd? stress level city, friends. bad for you all around, countless more studies have proven. so if the same theory applies, and your employees are pulling down ten to twelve hour days for you, should they also be required to fund more of their own insurance?

if you'll recall, i spent a few weeks on crutches recently and hated every second of it. my arms were black and blue, my back was sore, and my other joints were stinging from repeated, awkward hobbling. however, my recovery time would've been a LOT shorter if i hadn't had to go to work. the extra stress of three weeks on crutches probably contributed to the several follow up appointments that occured DURING work time. thus, my being at work resulted in having to take more time off, (because when i wasn't working, rest assured, i was parked on my couch). sooo. for being a diligent employee and working even though i knew i was only hurting myself more, do i owe the company more for my health insurance? i think not.

certainly, obesity and smoking aren't really contributing to the company in any way, but i think there's a huge grey area surrounding who should and shouldn't be stepping it up on insurance rates, and it's probably best to just not go there, particularly when you're feeling all righteous from your ten minute jogs, girls. snap!

an old habit...

...of looking like she's moving fast. it keeps people from asking too many questions.

-storypeople

you wake up to the buzz of the alarm clock. it's a relief that the vibrations belong to something electronic, because you're pretty sure that if someone shook you at that obnoxious rate, they'd hear the pieces of your insides rattling around. the step down from clouds nine to three and a half is pretty steep, and disappointing to report. so you don't.

shower, shave, swab ears. find jeans. feed dogs. flip laundry. locate breakfast, lunch. pack. pop green tea in the microwave, start the car. grab the newspaper to bring into the house - except you're on the ground, because your heel got stuck in that driveway crack that's been there since you moved in. it's been covered and refilled countless times, but it always surfaces. in fact, your shoe is sticking out of the driveway, and you're lying under the bumper of your car (which conveniently tried to catch your head on the way down). so you do what you need to do, what you've needed to do - you curl up in a ball and cry in your driveway, marking the turquoise lining on your tweed coat, snotting into your mittens, holding your turtleneck up to your nose in an effort to block the new sunlight and buy yourself a little bit more time. and then you're done. your tea is ready. the car is warm. the red spots from ugly-crying will fade on the way to work. you're fine. you're back. you're okay. you always are, after all.

yeah, i'm back.

a word from our arty chick sponsors...

next week there'll be more content, but for now, check out/support the wearable/writeable art of bobo and lindee!

tripping down memory lane

thanks to hal for the continuation on the full house themed updates...

D.J.: You have the brain of a paramecium.
Steph: Maybe I have the brain of a paramecium, but you only have the brain of one mecium.

creepy in a fun way, like james spader or bellybuttons

(sorry for the lack of original content, been busy!)

one of my all-time favorite movies, sick as it may be, is silence of the lambs. for all of you fellow enthusiasts out there, i suggest you check out lotion by the greens keepers...you'll have to hear it to understand, but it's pretty clever as well as catchy.

lyrics:

I'm looking down the hole, you're looking up at me
You're cold and tired, that is easy to see
Lower the rope to you, a bucket on the line
Your membrane will be soft and smooth, and your heart will be mine!

It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again
It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again
Yes Precious, it gets the hose
Oooh ooh oohOooh ooh ooh

The look inside your eyes drives me from control
Evoking visions of my favorite caserole
And if I eat your heart, I'll also bite your soul
And when I'm done with that, I'll use your skull as a bowl

It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again
It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again
It gets the hoseIt puts the lotion in the basket
It puts the lotion in the basketIt puts the lotion in the basket
Yes it does

Put the lotion in the basket
Put the lotion in the basket
Put the lotion in the basket now
Put the lotion in the basket now
Yes it does
Oooh, ooh, oohOooh, ooh, ooh

The night is very cold, I'm feeling kind of weak
I think I'll make myself a cap from your right buttocks cheek
And then I will go walking with my little dog
And then I'll bury you underneath a log

It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again
It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again
Yes it does, Precious
It puts the lotion in the basket
It should put the lotion in the basket
Oh put the lotion in the fucking basket, bitch
Put the lotion in the basket
Oooh ooh oohOooh ooh oohOooh ooh ooh

breaking down barriers...

you know you love it. the rush, the urgency, the sense of relief...why can't we talk about it? in the spirit of being a straight shooter (almost a pun, oh my). i present to you...

the best places to poop in boston! hoorah!

ladies! the moment we've all been waiting for!

i present to you the uncle jesse jean designed by chip & pepper...yes, this is a full house reference. insanity.

how marketing works...

you see a handsome guy at a party...

funny for all of you soft business types.

proof positive!

last night i recovered my favorite fountain pen (yes, hal and alli, the one with the sheep on it) and a bag of both blue and black ink cartridges. with nothing but enthusiasm, i reassembled my pen at the office this morning, intent on doing my morning to do list in loopy, artistic, fountain pen-affected scrawl. gleefully, i printed out my pre-fabbed checklist format (yes, i made it myself. what? ::makes chuck norris face::)

::scratch. scritch.:: nothing.
::scratchscratchscratch!:: nothing.
::tap tap scratchscratchscratchswivel!:: niente.

pretty typical for a fountain pen that's not often used. brilliance strikes, and i put the nib in my mouth to suction the ink a bit (a strategy that's worked before with said pen). perhaps i overestimated my sucker, because black ink exploded, filling my mouth. (stop being dirty. it gets worse.) shocked, i did the natural thing and swallowed a pile of black ink. (now i know what a lady squid feels like. don't recommend it.)

panic ensues! i smile in the mirror (well, gape dramatically), and all of a sudden i look like a repulsive villain fresh from a stephen king thriller. never fear. there's obviously whitening toothpaste and a toothbrush in my desk for after-lunch brushes. i shove the necessary appliances in my back pocket, hop on the crutches, and start hobbling pathetically down the hall, through our neighboring ad agency. my lips are turning black. i see no less than seven people on the fifty foot trip to the bathroom. horror. i am the lagoon creature on crutches with dental implements leaking from her back pocket.

you'll all be happy to know that crest whitening toothpaste works wonders. the ads don't lie. ten brushes later while perched precariously on crutches (and waving my hand under the motion detectors on the sink) i've returned to a slightly blue-tinged but brilliant smile. under the fluorescent lights of the office, however, my teeth are glowing. moral of the story? don't do the things i do. ever.

call for expertise!

i spend lots of time in my car. and i mean lots. my office is a bit away with traffic, my friends in the city are farther, and i'm a busy girl. this is okay, because:

1. i like my car. it feels like a tiny airplane.
2. when i'm driving, i'm generally headed to out to see people i enjoy.

that being said, i've developed a habit. not only am i generally wiggling around and singing while killing time in traffic, but i'm also checking license plates. strangely, the people i love generally drive one of the following cars:

-jeep grand cherokee (traditional)
-volkswagen passat
-saab 9-3
-ford explorer (traditional)
-subaru (the boob)

almost without exception, the cars in question are either black or silver. thus, i'm constantly checking these cars as i pass them on the road. as a result, i've become really familiar with the consistencies among license plates on different types of vehicles. there was a point where i was memorizing as a i drove along without really thinking about it and could reiterate the license plates of the last ten volkswagens i'd passed, but i was developing headaches and killed that habit pretty quickly. being a visual learner, i don't see the numbers as much as the patterns of the numbers, and now i'm wondering why this happens?

for example:

-on a saab in massachusetts, it's pretty common to see something like 13(#)(#) Y (C or D).
-on a ford explorer made in the mid nineties (the boxier ones), the tags frequently read 4(combination of 5,6,7,8 in the next three slots) JD.

i've heard that license plates are made sequentially, but do dealerships issue requests for license plates in clusters? does anyone know?

lions and tigers and percosets, oh my.

that's all i've got for today. sorry kids.

anyone (particularly recent graduates) looking for a job in the Boston area in the advertising space? media/web slant. let me know.

i'm on freaking crutches for foot pain that's mysterious in nature. mind you, not fun mysterious like dark strangers and the rubik's cube - like "when did i break something?" mysterious. RAR. MRI in the morning. love welcome.

to whomever...

...signed me up for the e-newsletter from www.indie-music.com - thank you!

fine lines between fiction and reality - or the battle of the sexes? subtitle: doomed by X chromosomes and alligators

"fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities. truth isn't." - mark twain

preface: i just can’t fathom how i could have possibly missed this fact, or how so many of my fellow girls frequently choose to ignore the evidence. please consider this a PSA to my gender.

so last week, i’m sitting at dinner with a dear (male) friend, getting him up to speed on the social happenings of our mutual friends. most of these stories involve interactions with members of the opposite sex, because hey, we’re a representative sample of today’s twentysomethings on fairly solid career tracks. we have degrees, jobs, and places to sleep – what other variable is there, really, besides who might be sharing the other half of the bed? in terms of education, we’re wrapping up. we’re old hands at finding food, tying shoe laces properly, and brushing our teeth. but when it comes to boys and girls, we’re busily trying to isolate the unknown in the equation and calculate the hell out of it…right? not necessarily.

there’s a pattern developing. girl and boy meet. girl and boy hang out. boy says something, or nothing. girl misinterprets. girl takes information to friends. girl analyzes, analyzes again, analyzes to a pulp until she extracts the information she was looking for – boy clearly was having a bad day. boy proves her wrong – he meant what he said. he didn’t want to see her anymore. thus, he no longer calls. girl, don’t be dumb. pay attention.

guilty as the next chick of beating a situation to death in my head, with my friends, in my head, over email, in my head, on IM…i sullenly stuffed my face with naan bread while dear friend kind of raised his eyebrows. clearly, i was about to have a moment, and he wasn’t about to jump in while the wheels were turning. suddenly, i stabbed my fork in the air. “i’ve been thinking about this a lot, and i have words for it!”

“yes?” said dear friend, “let’s hear it.”

“guys are straight shooters. girls have to editorialize everything. would the problems not be solved if girls took everything guys said at face value?”

“i've known this for so long. nice work.”

“thanks,” i said smugly, shoveling in chicken masala.

triumph! i will break gender barriers! i will be even blunter. i will encourage my friends to stop with the fiction and save the adjectives for nights of grey’s anatomy reruns and coronas. i will be helpful and buck the pattern by being the girl who gets it. i will –

flash forward to this morning. i’m dreaming that i’m on safari, hacking through the jungle, leading people to safety. (don’t ask.) alarm goes off. i leap from my jungle tree branch, catlike, and pounce on the offensive noise. i hear a sharp “snork” in the dark. whirl around – there’s a dark object on my floor. dear god, it's moving. it's alive. it's on my floor. it snorks again and begins to crawl out from under my bed – alligator! i glance around the “jungle” for my glasses, scream like a schoolgirl, and make a beeline for…my closet. (sidenote: if you ever need a chick to run UP the stairs in a horror movie with a killer in hot pursuit, i’m your girl.) luckily, i stabbed myself in the arch with the rather sharp heel of a green suede pump, and came to my senses. panic subsides, but the truth remains – the tendency toward fiction dies hard. damn you, X chromosome. i’m in trouble.

hey, did i mention that i'm not wearing any pants?

as a special request from manning, a tribute:














p.s. - the quality of this blog is rapidly deteriorating, and i'm not sorry. the ratings are good.

curious...

who's in

-boylston, ma
-reston, va
-palo alto, ca

?

brilliant!

oh man. have we got a project here...

Guinness ice cream
(Makes 1 quart)

1/2 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
1 cup whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
2/3 cup Guinness stout
2 tablespoons plus 2 teaspoons molasses
4 egg yolks
1/3 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

1. In a medium saucepan, scrape in the vanilla bean seeds. Add the pod, milk, and cream. Bring to a boil over medium heat. Turn off the heat, cover the pan, and let the flavors infuse for 30 minutes.

2. Meanwhile, in a small saucepan over medium-high heat, whisk together the stout and molasses. Bring to a boil and turn off heat.

3. In a large mixing bowl, whisk the yolks, sugar, and vanilla extract. Whisk in a few tablespoons of the hot cream mixture, then slowly whisk in another 1/4 cup of the cream. Add the remaining cream in a steady stream, whisking constantly. Pour the mixture back into the saucepan.

4. Stir the beer mixture into the cream mixture. Cook the custard over medium heat, stirring often with a wooden spoon, for 6 to 8 minutes or until the custard thickens enough to coat the back of the spoon.

5. Strain the mixture into a bowl and refrigerate for at least 2 hours or overnight. Process the custard in an ice cream maker according to the manufacturer's instructions.

Many thanks, boston.com

"Omarosa likens the candidate-selection process to sausage-making..."

if you've ever

a) watched reality tv
b) seen omarosa in action and said, "god, what a bitch"
c) deigned to consider a casting call

give this a good read.

via ryan, who was born for tv, and the morning news. :)

augh augh augh!

so, my alarm never went off and i got up three hours late this morning. back to back meetings...eep! (yes, the "wild eep" from the early mac days, you remember.) if anyone would like to guest-blog today, send your submissions over and i'll post throughout the day!

recommendation from jess...

...and you'd better embrace it, because she's way smarter than you. (that's how they like it at emerge.)

trust me on this one!

excitement! does anyone want to go and see these with me? particularly dana schutz! if it requires bribery, lunch is on me. who takes care of you, baby?

anyone else interested in what it would sound like if kay hanley and jenny lewis had a love child who (naturally) fronted a band from new orleans? leave/send your info and i will reciprocate with the goods.

i hate taking life seriously. it'll stop after this post, i promise.

if i could make this friends only, i would, but i can't, so i won't. consider yourselves to be initiated. let's talk kryptonite.

i've become very aware recently of people's personal limitations due to candid conversations with family members and friends. turns out a large percentage of the population is starting from a sub-par physical or emotional level each and every day - kind of begins to shed light on things like road rage, failed relationships, or forgeting to renew your car's inspection sticker. when you're not performing on an optimal level all of the time, stability and attention to detail can go by the wayside. i digress. what i was really saying is that very few people spring out of bed, dance a few steps of the charleston, and say "woop! i feel fricking dynamite today!" (if you do, love you. high five, brother.)

i spent a long time...years, really...wading around in a greyish and largely fictional mucky, emotional pile. i had extra energy to fixate on things like A- v. A, weight, social standing, etc. furthermore, i was able to beat myself up about some inachievable standard of perfection regularly. what a crummy way to go through the day. it took physically feeling like shit to realize how counterproductive all of this "activity" was.

senior year, i was lucky enough to get mono. lucky. i'm not kidding. i certainly had a full plate, and couldn't afford the downtime. i'd regularly slept four hours nightly for the past eight years. immunosabotage now forced me to my bed for seventeen hours each day. after the initial virus itself passed, i didn't actually feel much better. i could swallow, sure, but god...i was just...so...tired.

"chronic fatigue syndrome," said a doctor at mass general, "we don't know much about it, but it looks like you have it. the symptoms fit." "great," i said, "what should i take for it?" "nothing, actually," he said sheepishly, "we can't treat it. it will probably take years for you to fully bounce back." what? sounded like bullshit to me.

i did some reading. lots of reading, actually, because every piece of medical literature published on the topic seemed intentionally vague. not contagious, not really well recognized, just marked by inexplicable fatigue and the magical ability to contract every cold and flu bug circulating. aka, every so often (once every two weeks?) i feel as though i've been run over by a truck for no good reason. getting dressed is a challenge. breakfast, lunch, and dinner are nauseating. going to work is equivalent to running a marathon after sitting down for a week and eating nothing but cheese fries and coke. washing my hair is like lifting two lead pipes to my head. i don't talk about it, generally. i don't want to. i don't want anyone to know if i'm having a slug of a day, if it's more than i can fathom to drive up the highway, if i'm not okay with being the company cheerleader.

i'll tell you what's been really interesting, though. i think my prior, overdramatic self would've a) complained a buttload and b) returned to bed, feeling sorry for herself. the past two and a half years have been a pretty steady upward progression. before, when every day was essentially the same, i had to invent reasons to differentiate them from each other. now, on the thirteen days out of fourteen that are normal, i wake up feeling kick ass. i love my days, i love my friends, i love my job, i have a really, really wonderful family, some pretty amazing mentors, and a smooth little path. the stuff that was important to fixate on just a few years ago no longer registers on the worthwhile scale. it's easier to keep "drama" in perspective.

my personal kryptonite? it's a tiny, green glowing pebble. my albatross? compared to almost everyone else's, it's a hummingbird. a crappy day just makes the others more dynamic. high five, friends. it's not all about me anymore, and i'm grateful.

this is what abrasive, ethnocentric feminism sounds like...

generally when i come across a vaguely feminist statement, i mentally give the author a "there there" pat on the back, applaud her academic prowess and slightly holey theory, and continue on my merry, hopefully genderless way. yes, i appreciate diversity, support people who think, and try to remain open minded, but something about gail dines' assault on spielberg's munich made me want to look up the woman on mediasource, call her desk, and leave a message along the lines of "get a grip, you turdish waste of grey matter". (maturity is my specialty, and yes, i DO have access to journalist of the year's contact info. HA!) gail, spielberg told a story. ONE STORY. this particular story did not feature a female, jewish protagonist. go write your own, or shut up. am i being insensitive? read for yourself:

Invisible in Hollywood: Jewish women
By Gail Dines January 16, 2006

STEVEN SPIELBERG has done it again. He has managed to make yet another film about Jews that reduces Jewish women to caricatures. Only this time, instead of simpering victims, we are either loyal, hapless wives committed to tortured Jewish men, or kindly grandmothers who run a country but leave the real work to men.

The controversy that this movie has stirred up in the Jewish communities just adds insult to injury, as Spielberg has been castigated as a self-hating Jew who is a shill of the Palestinians. At the risk of being similarly labeled, this Jew is outraged, not because ''Munich" sympathizes with Palestinians (which it doesn't; its pro-Israel sentiments are clear), but because it is one more example of how Jewish men relegate Jewish women to roles that are supportive at best and belong in the silent era of movies, at worse.

While Jews are no longer the major owners of corporate media, they disproportionately fill the ranks of producers, writers, and actors. Yet for all this presence, when was the last time you saw a richly textured Jewish female character? TV character Jerry Seinfeld, another angst-ridden Jewish man, managed to avoid dating a self-identified Jewish woman in New York for all of the show's eight years. But then why would he date a Jewish woman if his cloying mother was an example of what was on offer?

The most prominent Jewish woman in the movies recently was played by arch WASP Meryl Streep in ''Prime." Written by a Jewish man (Ben Younger), this film tells the story of another suffocating Jewish mother who, for all her training as a therapist, is an overbearing, control freak who threatens to cut her son out of the family should he marry his blonde lover, played by Uma Thurman. Next to the shiksa goddess image of Thurman, Streep's character is dumpy, poorly dressed (even though she is a professional New York woman) and wholly unattractive in big glasses and bad hair. She repeatedly scratches her body, waves her arms in an ungainly manner, and speaks with her mouth full. Not one of the many reviews mentioned how the elevation of Thurman's goyish beauty depended on the debasement of Streep's ''Jewishness." Stereotypes always dance in pairs, never in isolation; for Jewish women, our stereotype serves to enhance and elevate hegemonic, Christian beauty.

The one place in popular culture where Jewish women reign is the Jewish American princess jokes. Here we are depicted as grasping, selfish, lazy, and sexually manipulative. Have you heard the one about how you stop a Jewish woman from having sex? You marry her. Encoded into these jokes is a level of misogyny that goes unrecognized by the mainstream Jewish community. The only critiques come from Jewish feminists. JAP jokes serve to help Jewish men bond with their non-Jewish brothers on the backs of Jewish women.

Missing from these images is the authentic story of Jewish women. During the Holocaust, we fought together with Jewish men in the resistance and died alongside them. We have been at the forefront of liberation movements, including feminism, gay rights, antiwar protests, and peace movements in Israel. Israeli women were the first to build joint Jewish-Palestinian movements, not because we are simpering victims or overbearing mothers, but because we have a long history of activism, courage, and a commitment to sisterhood.

At the end of ''Munich," the lead character, Avner (played by Eric Bana), is despairing over the fact that he has ''killed seven men." Well, actually, he has killed seven men and one woman, but she is invisible to Spielberg, and indeed to the movie reviewers, as not one mentioned this glaring omission. Jewish women are the disappeared of Hollywood because we are women and it is the sexism of men, not just Jewish ones, that makes popular culture a wasteland of sexist images that ridicule, degrade, and caricature real women's lives.

Hopefully, the next movie Spielberg makes about Jews will be a talkie for Jewish women.

by the way...who else is online today?

tequila is spelled P-I-S-S O-F-F

it's a pretty well known fact that if you're one of the only people working on a holiday, the productivity level is going to take a hit. that being said, let's kill some time.

friday night was a blast. there was great pizza (hawaiian!), multiple stellas, a roofdeck in beacon hill with a great view, mild temperatures, and random backbends to make life a little more exciting. two or three hours of sleep and a full day at the barn later, i thought i might be ready to do it again.

hauled my tired bod back into boston in time to catch the beginning of the pats debacle (this is where things began to go awry). as there was ZERO action in the game, manning and i went over to lucky's, part of a set of trendy hipster dives that have popped up around boston in the past few years. a friend of his from law school was getting engaged, he said, and this get together was just to have a few drinks, chat, and watch the game. great!

i've often said that i could talk to a wall about nothing for at least twenty minutes. i even managed to get excited over some girl's library sciences degree on friday night. after saturday, however, i am forced to retract that statement.

manning and i arrived at lucky's and were immediately introduced to everyone...in pairs. unless we were all being loaded onto noah's ark, this was a married party. i grabbed my margarita with both hands, licked a chunk of salt off, and took a big, long drag. "jeffandkate, roryandjulie, johnandeve..." i repeated after manning's soon-to-be-married friend. i backpedaled for awhile, surviving on "what do you do?" conversations which inevitably turned into "how long have you guys been together?" within three minutes. "we're not. we're friends from high school." "oh." they'd respond, looking at me as though i had leprosy and my scales were showing.

"hi, i'm julie!" said a petite brunette with a big smile. "hi, i'm alannah, nice to meet you," i said, wagging my tail and shaking her hand as i glanced at the score of the game and threw up a little in my mouth. "what do you do?" julie asked. "i'm in PR, what about you?" "i'm a MAHM!" she squawked in excited, midwestern tones. ::salt lick, gulp:: "that's wonderful! how many?"

she beamed at me. "one little girl. anita marie. she's one. our biggest challenge right now has to do with breast feeding. let me tell you, lactating..." an hour. this discussion continued for an HOUR. lactating? hi. i don't have children. i'm not married. i don't even have a boyfriend. i have a DOG, and i'm not even doing a good job with that. dear god. get me out of here. ::salt lick, gulp. gulp. gulp.::

i looked at manning in panic, but, fascinated by a lovely but married irish girl, he misinterpretted my "i'm miserable" face as "the patriots are dying a slow and untimely death."

three margaritas and four turnovers by the pats later, even manning was ready to leave. "did you notice that they were all married?" he asked. i glared. tequila makes me grumpy. lactating makes it worse.

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Alannah!

1. Alannah can eat up to four kilograms of insects in a single night!
2. Alannah was first discovered by Alexander the Great in India, and introduced to Europe on his return!
3. If you lace Alannah from the inside to the outside, the fit will be snugger around your big toe.
4. It's bad luck to whistle near Alannah.
5. Alannah has little need for water and is capable of going for months without drinking at all.
6. A rhinoceros horn is made from compacted Alannah.
7. You should always open Alannah at least an hour before drinking her!
8. Moles are able to tunnel through 300 feet of Alannah in a day.
9. People used to believe that dressing their male children as Alannah would protect them from evil spirits.
10. Banging your head against Alannah uses 150 calories an hour.

http://thesurrealist.co.uk/trivia.pl" method="get" style="background-color:#5F5F42;color:#CFCF95;padding:4px;text-align:center">I am interested in - do tell me aboutherhimitthem

as you all know, i love my job. i love it in sickening amounts, i really do. but i tend to pile my long days on the front end of the week. by the time i get to thursday afternoon, i'm a little crazy. i could seriously climb walls. it's beautiful outside today. i have nothing. i'm huddled up inside of my turtleneck, which is topped by a pile of hair, reading glasses, and buggy eyeballs. help.

perfect timing is my forte!

"and then your bagel caught on fire? what is that a euphemism for?" asked an older woman at the barn who patiently listened to my story. i should've answered "interference by the universe".

friday morning, 7am, i tripped happily into bruegger's for my standard work day breakfast - whole wheat bagel, toasted with light cream cheese, odwalla spirullina juice. i noted that there was a guy in line in front of me - tall, floppy brown curls, funky glasses, nice jeans, chucks, and an elon sweatshirt. feeling the need to speak with everyone who wears north carolina college apparel, i chirped, "hey! did you go to elon?"

guy: "why yes, i did, did you?"
me: "nope, but i went to wake forest, right down 40."
guy: "did you like north carolina?"
me: (smile) "nope, not at all! did you?"
guy: "not at all. so we ran back here. what do you do now?"
me: "i work in PR. what about you?"
guy: "i actually am an assistant teacher at the _____ school...but i don't think i like it."
me: "oh, i know where that is. i train horses down the street, so i pass it all the time, and some of my students are in first grade there."
guy: "you train horses? that's awesome. i love horses. yeah, i don't think i'll do more than a year there, i'm in a grad program at harvard for art and museum studies."
me: "you ARE? that's what i'd love to be doing if i weren't in love with my job now - i was an art history major -"
guy: "that's so funny, because i'm actually working on a PR project for the museum of fine arts right now, and-"

at this moment, my bagel gets stuck in the toaster and bursts into flames. my new friend has paid for his breakfast, so he's standing there when the manager is grabbing the fire extinguisher and combating my incinerated whole wheat lump. the woman who negligently allowed this to happen is waving her arms and yelling "i sorry! i sorry!" and to me "i SO sorry! SO sorry!" i'm saying, "that's okay, no really, don't worry about it! the next one doesn't have to be toasted!" and the people in line behind us are grumbling with displeasure and sneaking toward the door. i am leaning over the sneeze shield to reassure the woman, when new friend taps me on the shoulder and says, "hey, good luck with this, it was really nice speaking with you." i yelp, "you too!!" and go back to the smoky mess that is somehow my fault.

read: that would've been the perfect opportunity to hand him my card and say, "i know art, i know PR, let me know if you need another set of eyes/brain cells." crap. perhaps i'll run into him again. OH, the cosmos.

update:

at home with the flu. please direct all questions/comments/well wishes to the dibona family landline. death. ugh.

sidenote: medical people - a week ago i would've told you that i had a headcold. three days ago i would have called it a sinus infection. new years eve i start projectile vomiting? what kind of progression is THAT?