Something Rich and Strange

The spareness of winter.

White house.



Sunset.



While there were still more leaves on the trees than on the ground, I was graced with another opportunity to see - and capture photographically - more of autumn's beauty. While much of the grandeur was above ground, it was also underwater, which is captured here.

On another, unrelated, note, the 2010 Formula 1 season ended today in Abu Dhabi. The bad news? Lewis Hamilton did not win the drivers' championship, although he did finish second in the race. The good news? Fernando "Rat Boy" Alonso remained a two-time champion. And the "kid" (Sebastion Vettel) won the race and the big prize.

I have a great affection for this time of year, although its intense beauty, which ends almost as quickly as it begins, leaves a longing for autumn’s brilliance that even a roaring hearth cannot satisfy. If April is the cruelest month, mixing memory with desire, then October is surely penultimate in its meanness, offering a blast of blazing color, then darkness followed by the pale stillness of winter.
 






For more fall photos, visit my Flickr Photostream.

Once upon a time, back in a kinder, gentler era called the 1970’s, a new magazine was launched by a bunch of over-educated Ivy League guys. Not content with their modest provincial publication called Harvard Lampoon, they decided to go big. Thus was National Lampoon magazine birthed in April of 1970.

For many years the Lampoon was synonymous with smart, sophisticated humor. OK, with a little raunch thrown in to ensure a wider reach. I remember reading a parody of Nobel Laureate Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ critically lauded work “100 Years of Solitude” re-named “100 Years of Solid Food.” Sometimes it was not only literature that was parodied, as in the send-up of Stephen King’s “Fire Starter” entitled “Egg Boiler.” The first line said something to the effect of “move over Sophocles, Stephen King is here.”

In addition to brief bios on some of the brilliant and the dead, recounting the often hiliarious antics that typically involved being stoned or drunk, this large-format book also has full-size reproductions of some of the magazine's funniest pieces. For instance, “Law of the Jungle,” a piece that occupies 12 pages with solid copy describing jurisprudence in the animal kingdom. According to the article, Lex Biologica preceded human law and was even present in Jurassic times. The example of Brontosaurus v. Tyrannonosaurus Rex is cited as a “fairly routine waterhole case in which a dispute arose following the closing of a traditional easement by a volcanic eruption” that made the animals aware of the need for an “orderly means of settling disagreements without bloodshed.” But as the next paragraph explained, not all species were on board with this concept:

“Unfortunately, the larger reptiles, particularly the dinosaurs, behaved like Norman Knights, refusing in many cases to accept unfavorable verdicts, and almost invariably resorting to the ancient custom of trial by eating.”

Many who were associated with the Lampoon staff over the years went on to achieve comedic greatness, such as John Belushi, Bill Murray and Chevy Chase. In fact, Saturday Night Live, which arguably changed comedic television in the United States, was largely stocked with Lampoon “graduates” as cast members and writers.

So for a literary escape that has stood the test of time, whether you’re drunk, stoned, or sober, this retrospective will have you laughing out loud.



Gallbladder, meet large intestines.

Recently, I made the unfortunate observation, using the television show “Mad Men” as a historical benchmark, that women haven’t made as much progress in the past few decades as we should have. For instance, we still earn only 75 cents on the dollar compared to men. There are only 15 female CEOs of Fortune 500 companies and it appears that we’re not gaining ground in that area, either. And this is despite the fact that women are graduating with business degrees at the rate of 2 to 1 over men. Figuring out why this is happening is the subject of a much wider and scholarly inquiry.

But what I want to address right now is one of the greatest indignities and inequities that is being perpetrated on women since foot binding: "shape wear."

For the blessed few of you who are not familiar with it, “shape wear” is the 21st century version of the corset or girdle – on steroids. It is in essence a garment that squeezes in or pushes-up flesh (read fat) that due to gravity or other circumstances isn’t residing where we – or society – think it should. So by sheer force (the miracle of Spandex), we are going to reposition it to a more aesthetically pleasing location.

Now, I’m all for looking the best a gal can, given her wherewithal (personal training, Botox, Mustafa), but squeezing the bejeezus out of the body’s largest and most malleable organ isn’t one of them. I mean, we’ve gone from burning our bras to now shelling out upwards of $75 to acquire, in the parlance of shape wear ad copy, “overachieving underpinnings” where “powerful compression” and “chic design” meet. The only place these two phrases should “meet” is in a hard drive, not your midriff. Oy.


 

Zipping down to the ground.

 


An instructor makes this crossing look easy (trust me, it wasn't).

 

For this one, you swing into the net from a rope, ala Tarzan. Yodeling is frowned upon.



When people ask me if I watch “Mad Men,” the award-winning series about mostly male ad execs in the 60s and the women that make them look good, I say no and explain why: because, from my perspective, there’s a lot that hasn’t changed since then. And it’s just too damn depressing. On the other hand, those heavy-handed sexist ads have changed, right? [Editor’s note: Readers younger than 45, please skip to the next paragraph.] Remember those airline ads from the 70's featuring a nubile woman in hot pants who says “I’m Bambi, fly me” (or words to that effect) that give sexual innuendo a bad name? That’s what I thought until I recently saw a commercial for “Just Men” hair color. Except in this commercial, it was the man being (potentially) sexually exploited. Somehow this equal opportunity sexism is not “refreshing.”

Here’s the “plot.” Two guys are up for a position; one younger and the other older as denoted by his gray hair. The man and woman doing the hiring confer about whether “energy” (young guy) or “experience” (gray guy) is key (the blatant ageism here is for another post; one “ism” at a time.). In the end, neither is compromised as we see the older guy now with darker hair accompanying the attractive and younger woman who presumably just hired him along an office hallway. She says, and I’m not making this up, in a rather salacious way, “I’ve got big plans for you.” Ewwwww.

OK. I’m going out on a limb here, but what man or woman would want the outcome of their job search to end in the likelihood that their boss or the person who hired them was throwing double entendres their way before the ink on the W-4 was dry? Such a situation will not end well; just ask Mark Hurd and his ilk.

We’ve come a short way, baby.

Last week one of the contestants – I mean co-stars – on a D.C.-based reality TV show revealed that her marriage had ended because of the program. Apparently hubby was none too keen about being followed around constantly by a camera crew. He was, he admits, embarrassed by the whole thing (I’m taking this as proof that the universe might not be coming to an end as quickly as I had anticipated).

That said, should anyone be surprised that the unreality of putting your life on display, and exposing parts of it that would normally remain private, might be too much for any relationship to bear? Reality TV is certainly littered with evidence that this is the norm, not the exception.

But what is really troubling is that while adults can decide when to walk away from circumstances that will likely characterize them as scenery-chewing egomaniacs, the children who are dragged onto this improbable stage have no say. They are ancillary victims of their parents’ poor judgment (the parents themselves being the primary casualties, though one could hardly apply the term victim here).

So instead of the home movies that innocently chronicled summer vacations and birthday parties, the kids of reality TV will now be able to watch their parent’s marriages unravel before their eyes (pause and rewind), if not “live” as a participant under the lens of a ubiquitous camera, then later when the show airs. This can be particularly painful given that these programs often air months after filming wraps only to open newly healed wounds. Even worse, the sorry examples of adult role models that inhabit reality TV are likely to pass along their shameless quest for attention to their children. Thus is reality TV propagated and populated.

Unfortunately, we won’t know the effect it has had on children for a while. In the meantime viewers will hopefully have the sense to tune out and turn away. Unfortunately, averting your eyes from a train wreck might be easier.

For the elderly, research has shown that intergenerational contact can have a positive effect on the quality and length of life. If so, the residents of Bhaktapur, Nepal, should lead fulfilling and long lives. Although age-integrated communities, where several generations live, work and play together, are not unique to Nepal, Bhaktapur provided a great visual example of how older inhabitants, thought sometimes looking a little cranky or taking impromptu naps, remain a vital part of the community.

For more pictures of Bhaktapur and other places in Nepal, Jordan and India, visit my Flickr site at right.

First let me say that Belgium is a lovely place; it epitomizes the charm long associated with Europe. The cities and country towns are picturesque, from the grandeur of Brussels with its palace-lined cobblestone streets to the villages nestled in the verdant rolling hills, stately church spires visible for miles. Down country lanes dappled cows graze lazily in flower-bordered meadows alongside rustic inns that welcome weary travelers out of the damp (and believe me, it is always damp) into fire-warmed parlors. Rippling streams meander . . .

Hey, speaking of rippling streams, I have never had to avert my eyes more often to avoid watching males of all ages brazenly urinating outdoors than I did in Belgium (and I’ve even been to a NASCAR race!). What is with that?

It must be the Manneken Pis influence. Said by some to be the top-tourist attraction in Brussels, the Manneken Pis is a fountain featuring a little boy, well, urinating. Outdoors. The statue is so popular that replicas of it abound in gift shops throughout the city. For instance, who wouldn’t be thrilled to receive a box of chocolates with candies in the shape of the little pisser? Or how about a mouse pad featuring the kid (partially) dressed as a musketeer? C'est mignon!

And nothing says “I Love Brussels” (actually, that’s exactly what is says) like a Manneken Pis refrigerator magnet. I’d call this bathroom humor, but there was nary one in sight.

Post script: In the continuation of a theme, I should mention that the rapper R. Kelly was on my flight home from Brussels.

Having always had a penchant for consuming foods and beverages in their eponymous locales (think hot dogs in Frankfurt and Manhattans in guess where), I could hardly go to Belgium without experiencing its version of the waffle.

For those of you not up on the provenance of your breakfast confections, the Belgian waffle’s popularity caught fire, like a Pop-Tart left too long in the toaster, during the 1964 New York World’s Fair. According to Wikipedia, it was introduced to fair-goers as the “Brussels” waffle. But its Belgian promoter, after “observing” that Americans were geographically illiterate, began marketing the product by its current nom de pastry.

As it turns out, this was a rather optimistic ploy to put Belgium on the map.

In a National Geographic poll, nearly half of young adults in the U.S. couldn’t find India on a map of Asia (hint, kids: it’s really, really big). It is likely that if they were asked where Belgium is they would say IHOP.

I have previously commented on the unpredictability and security-theater-of-the-absurd that is air travel today. But even I was a bit taken aback when, after taxiing to the runway at JFK on the way to Brussels last Thursday, the captain announced that we would be heading back to the gate because of a “security” issue. And oh yeah; “law enforcement” would be boarding and we should all remain in our seats.

Now, you may be thinking how nice it was for this pilot to be so candid with the 200+ passengers in his charge. My reaction, however, being a little closer to the action was more along the lines of “holy bleeping bleep, that is waaay too much information”!

Because if you were the subject of that security issue (and I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that you would know if you were), wouldn’t you be, say, alarmed? And given the fact that people have been known to ignite their underwear to make a statement about god (sorry) knows what, wouldn’t you perhaps become a little agitated knowing that your bust was imminent and your mission about to go unaccomplished? I mean, whatcha gonna do when they come for you?

In this particular case, gather your personal belongings and calmly exit the plane, as two gentlemen who looked to be of Middle-Eastern descent did, along with their escort of three uniformed (and packing) TSA cops. Thus began the 90-minute ingress and egress of an assortment of local and federal security personnel.

Since you are learning about this “incident” from my blog versus a major media outlet, you know that nothing nefarious transpired. The aforementioned passengers, in a cringe-inducing reverse perp-walk, were eventually escorted back to their seats at the rear of the plane for what I can only assume was a very relaxed and convivial seven-hour flight.

While I will probably never know the full story, what I could glean from eavesdropping in the galley while ostensibly waiting to use the lav was this: a fellow passenger dropped the dime (forgive me, but it is impossible for me to report on such things without lapsing into police lingo) on the two men, suspicions were thoroughly investigated (as we were assured many, many times by the various officials presiding over the event) and turned out to be nothing. Unless of course you were the two apparently innocent guys who were temporarily mistaken for terrorists. I just hope they were comped the $8 blankets.

The idea of a bunch of gals (or at least more than one gal) getting together for a “spa getaway” conjures images of fluffy white robes, mani/pedis, and sipping green tea while wearing a revitalizing cucumber face masque and listening to a recording of the pan flute. How gentile.

And boooooring.

The real Spa getaway (and yes, that’s Spa with a capital “S”) takes place this weekend, not in an exclusive new-agey enclave of pampered chicks, but the Ardennes Forest on the border of Belgium and Germany (think Wagnerian heroines with braids and breastplates versus Scrunchies and terry cloth sarongs). And this soundtrack is so soothing you need to wear earplugs (no offense, Richard. Really).

Of course (duh!), I’m talking about the 2010 Formula 1 (you know, the pinnacle of motor sport action?!?) Belgian Grand Prix at Spa-Francorchamps.

My BF1FF (best Formula 1 friend forever) Kimberly and I are doing a surgical-strike sporting mission to Belgium beginning on Thursday to take in what is generally regarded by F1 drivers and spectators alike as the best place to race and watch racing in the world.

So stay tuned, as Kimberly is not only a kick-ass graphic designer, but photographer, as well. I’m also trying to persuade her to come-up with an info-graphic for this event, so we’ll see (no pressure, but it would be soooo epic if you did). In the meantime, I can guarantee that a pic or two might pique some interest out there (oy, the alliteration!).

But don’t worry about the whole spa thing; we’re sitting in a covered grandstand so our coiffures won’t get ruined in case of (likely) inclement weather.

In Nepal, a child “safety seat” is between mom and dad on a scooter. And if a bus is full, you can just sit on the top or stand on the bumper, as the women in the picture below demonstrate during an early morning commute. Somehow, despite streets more clogged than Dick Cheney’s arteries, I never witnessed an accident. Not even a fender bender. Or as would be in the case below, a sprained ankle.

In India and Nepal, along with assorted livestock, dogs pretty much have the run of the place. You’ll find them weaving unscathed across traffic-clogged city streets and hanging-out pretty much where they want. These dogs walk themselves. And not a bark park to be found. The Nepalese and Indians apparently don’t understand that dogs long to socialize with other dogs in a controlled environment, preferably with Astroturf. That is, when they're not napping, oblivious to the noise and congestion surrounding them.

The best is always yet to come
That’s what they explain to me
Just do your thing, you’ll be king
if dogs run free.
                                             - Bob Dylan

Having just returned from a six-week adventure through India, Jordan and Nepal (with Abu Dhabi thrown in for variety), I must confess that I had the best intentions of blogging everyday to keep my vast fan-base (I think I may be up to double digits) rapt with interest. Sadly, intermittent lack of access to the Internet, and more fundamentally, electricity only hampered my good intentions (which have always been highly hamperable at best). That and the fact that I single-handedly ensured the survival of the local mosquito population wherever I went. And I still have symptoms, which under ordinary circumstances I would attribute to the beginning of a cold, but am now sure indicate the onset of a more life-threatening DTBNL (Disease to be Named Later for all you baseball fans out there). Oh yeah. I think I got heat stroke, too. Americans are such wimps.

“An adventure is never an adventure when it’s happening. Challenging experiences need time to ferment, and an adventure is simply physical and emotional discomfort recollected in tranquility.”

That was the problem! The literary fermentation process, unlike that of a vat of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill, cannot be rushed. So here’s what I’ve decided: blogging during travel, particularly to hot, humid, bug-infested places is unfair to my readership. Rather, I will let the recollections of my trip age like a bottle of Chateau Margaux and serve them only when they’ve matured. In a reworking of a famous phrase from vinter Paul Masson (as delivered by a sodden Orson Welles during a television commercial for the brand ), “I will blog no posts before their time.” Or something like that.

I finally got to Kathmandu,
It’s got Mt. Everest and Schumi, too.
Next week I’m gettin’ outta here,
But first I got a lot to do.

I got no beef against the Middle East;
They really can put on a feast.
But they don’t have that abominable beast,
(I’m sure it’s gonna show).

That's why I'm here in Kathmandu,
To the mountains is where I'm going to.
Yeti Air is gonna get me there,
I hope they get me back, too.

I guess I kinda miss the USA.
I’m going back there one of these days.
In the meantime I’m gonna stay,
Right here in Kathmandu.

With apologies to, well, everyone, but especially to Bob Seeger, whose work I mangled.

I never tire of saying that. Seriously, though, I need to leave ASAP because . . . I'm going to Kathmandu!

Just passing through Abu Dhabi on my way to Nepal on an airline whose name I'd never heard of let alone could pronounce. My first impression is that Abu Dhabi is a humid Las Vegas, without the slot machines. I was going to say "without gambling," but that wouldn't be true.

And oh yes. Sheiks do fly commercial (sometimes).

I arrived last night in Delhi at about 9 pm. Needless to say, what could be discerned in darkness, was minimal. However, one of the most spectacular “sites” was the highway that connected Delhi-the-city to the airport. Having ridden and worked on “thrill” rides at Disneyland in my youth, I was somewhat prepared me for the kind of excitement I would experience. Except in Delhi, unlike Disneyland, the cars (and indeed, all manner of motorized - and unmotorized - vehicles) are not on a track.

Nor were they usually in a particular lane.

Lane lines, of which there are two or three in most places, are really only guidelines. I take that back; they are mere suggestions of where you might want to position your vehicle in reference to another. How else would drivers, who instinctually know the correct number of lanes to form at any given point, be able to exercise their vehicular creativity? For instance, why squander the width of two lanes on only two cars when a scooter, “lorry,” minivan and cab will fit quite nicely, albeit it noisily?

According to my sage driver, Raj, three things are necessary to stay on Delhi’s roads: A good horn, good brakes and good luck. Fortunately, we experienced all three last night.

Today, I venture into the light, Raj at the helm, to experience Old and New Delhi. Buckled-up.

Photo credit

Just arrived in Hollywood and already I’m seeing stars (no, I wasn’t hit on the head by luggage in the overhead compartment that shifted during flight)! I’m staying with friends at an exclusive A-lister enclave at Sunset and La Cienega. Was able to surreptitiously snap a pic of Paul Sorvino (you know, father of more famous progeny, Oscar winner Mira, and star of TV and movies including such notables as “Repo! The Genetic Opera,” “Mafia Doctor” and “Vasectomy: a Delicate Matter”(in all fairness, he has had roles in some highly-regarded films and you can click here to view them).

To be accurate, I didn't see Sorvino in the flesh, but his bust (as in his sculpture, not his chest). I’m told it’s a self-bust, which makes this sighting (on his exclusive patio, no less!) all the more meaningful. In a nod to all my baseball-obsessed readers (you know who you are), he did play former Yankees coach Joe Torre in the movie-of-the-week epic, aptly named, “Joe Torre: Curveballs Along the Way.”

I’ll be on the lookout for more celebrity fodder over the next couple of days, so check back often. I’m told that we have a good chance of running into other mega wattage celebs, such as any Kardashian spawn and people who are famous for, uh, being famous (statistically, the latter is more likely due to a larger pool from which to draw).

Signed,

Your Wayward Hollywood Reporter

That television often panders to the lowest common denominator by airing such detritus as Celebrity Rehab and Bait Car, is not news. And yet I was shocked at what I viewed last night. On a commercial, no less. To describe what I saw would mean quoting a phrase that is often used in tandem with, “Does the Pope wear a beanie”? in acknowledging the obvious. And the answer to both is "yes."

If one did not already know what bears do in the woods when they’re not mauling or eating people, you would soon learn by watching any number of Charmin’s animated commercials. They depict cute cartoon bears who at least have the decency to do their business behind a tree. And like many cartoon characters, they have no visible genitalia, let alone a means to excrete either liquids or solids. So in the past the only evidence of what went on behind that tree is a little less Charmin on the roll. No more.

Following the use of what the viewer is told is an inferior brand of toilet paper, this adorable bear appears with the remnants of said toilet paper apparently stuck in the region of his, umm, tail. Now this is what is shocking. While we all know what a bear is purported to do in the woods (no, I will not lower my standards by writing the word that is an amalgam of “hit” beginning with an “s.” That’s just not in this gal’s stylebook.) But you can be sure that that substance is the bond that apparently affixes brands other than Charmin to the nether regions.

So in an effort to get to the bottom (sorry; I couldn’t resist) of how the heck P & G is getting away with such appalling advertising, I visited the Charmin Web site. In addition to employing every euphemism possible to describe what goes on behind bathroom doors, I clicked-through to Charmin’s Facebook and Twitter pages wondering what in the world would people post on a toilet paper site.

Leah: Where does a can go once it gets "canned"? [heh, heh; editor] Is there a toilet heaven for porcelain thrones who have really helped people enjoy the go? Some toilets saved the lives of people during Lebanon's War by offering a hiding spot.

And how about this gem from Twitter:

Annie: the toilet paper in Australia... has sailboats! Thanks to Bobby Sprinkles [I kid you not], our official TP correspondent! [ditto.]

All right. I’ve done my duty in warning you that P&G has gone too far with its unbearable television advertising. You may want to post a note to them. The bottom line: get a DVR.

Surely, Al Gore (you know, the inventor of the Internet) never envisioned all new forms of torture and torment provided by online connectivity for those trying to recover from a break-up. These days electronic savvy is de rigor for ex lovers. It's just as important to cut all ties in the virtual world as it is in the physical. For instance, you and your ex . . .

Source: I Love Quitters

Who knew a tractor could be so fun? And it also plows snow in the winter; sweet. OK, I now totally get the appeal of our Great Lakes State, although I've only seen a pond so far.

pure
–adjective,pur•er, pur•est.
free from anything of a different, inferior, or contaminating kind; free from extraneous matter: pure gold; pure water.

Today I will be experiencing firsthand – and for the first time - “Pure Michigan.” What that means, I have no idea. But it sounds good, doesn’t it? It’s the adjective the Wolverine state’s convention and visitors bureau would like us to believe embodies its environs. But what is particularly "pure" about Michigan?

It should be noted that when trying to position something positively, whether a person, state or policy position, it is not enough to simply replace the existing word or phrase with its opposite. This will only highlight the problem. For instance, to counter the perception (or reality) of high unemployment, “low unemployment” should not be used. Rather, to counter a belief, simply state it more euphemistically. Unemployment results in the formerly employed as having more leisure time. Likewise, in political spin (and really, there is nothing better), calling a proposed tax levied upon the physical expiration of members of that minute population composed of the uber-ultra-wealthy a “Death Tax” is pure genius. I mean, who among us, other than vampire-obsessed adolescents, thinks death is a good thing?

That said, based on demographic information from Michigan regarding, crime, drug use, the failing auto industry, unemployment and actual reasons tourists visit (hunting, shopping, beaches, sports), following are some of the potential runner-up campaigns that might have been launched versus "Pure Michigan":

Uncut Michigan
Michigan: Driven (Caution: use of the word “under” could be appended here)
Pharmaceutical Grade Michigan
Leisurely Michigan
Detroit is just one City Michigan
Michigan: Come Here and Kill Things
Roger Moore Was Wrong Michigan
Michigan: Buy Stuff Cheaper Here
The Lakes Really Are Great Michigan
Michigan: The Closest You Can Get to Canada Without [pronounced with-oot] a Passport

So what is to be made of these PR-generated phrases meant to entice us to visit more, eat more and buy more? Pure B.S.

“Joy and woe are woven fine, / A clothing for the Soul Divine.”
- William Blake

Meet “Death Bear.” The name sounds rather ominous as we humans expect our encounters with bears, outside of excitedly spotting them from the safety of a tour bus or in the zoo, to end badly (as indeed some have). And of course, Stephen Colbert regularly ranks bears the number one concern on his “Threatdown” list of things we should worry about.

But this bear is a kinder and gentler member of the of Ursidae family. Well, he’s actually not a bear at all, but a guy who lives in a so-called “cave” in Brooklyn. He is a performance artist by trade who visits those who summon him, in his bear’s head and black jumpsuit, to dispose of the lingering detritus of relationships, bad choices and whatever else is impeding people from moving on in life.

While you may think inviting a guy dressed as a bear to your home to pick-up that David Hasselhoff CD collection your ex left behind and never, inexplicably, retrieved, sounds a little, uh, too weird for you, there are alternatives.

In regard to relationships, what Death Bear really represents is a ritual denoting the passage of someone who had a significant impact on your life. Even if you called it quits, it still hurts. But, you cling to memories and in many cases, the material evidence of that relationship. Enter Death Bear, who takes these left-behind belongings and disposes of them permanently.

Rituals denote a passage from one stage of life to another. Typically, they occur in formalized religious ceremony, notably as initiations (think christenings and communions), weddings and funerals. Although some beliefs, such as Islam and Judaism, address the “undoing” of a marriage, there are few rituals that mark the end of a romantic relationship outside of a religious union. And despite the fact that there usually is not a legal dissolution to a “break-up,” the emotional transition is just as profound.

But don’t despair if you don’t live in Brooklyn or a “Death Bear” franchise hasn’t come to a convenient location near you. Devising your own ritual for parting ways, psychologists tell us, can be a healthy solution for moving on.

“A growing number of invented divorce rites have appeared in North America, even though we are a culture with little experience of rites that nullify,” says expert Dr. Ronald L. Grimes, who has written extensively on rituals in modern life. “Divorce is a rite that, in effect, undoes a previous rite, a wedding.”

For instance, divorce parties are becoming more common, complete with cake, balloons declaring “I’m divorced and happy” (or a similar message), and champagne. Usually, there is some “letting go” or destruction of objects that represented the relationship, such as rings, love letters and those annoying David Hasselhoff CDs.

And while it seems that more women have embraced the ritual of letting go of a loved one, men also have their ways of marking the end of a relationship. For instance, a friend of mine who had recently broken-up with his fiancé, hiked to a beautiful vista he loved overlooking a river far below. He then tossed a stone representing the emotional end to the relationship. And then walked away.

While there has been criticism of what is essentially a celebration of the failure to remain coupled, ritualizing this ending and the major life transition it represents, is generally regarded as a healthy step forward.

Symbolically “quitting” a relationship, whether it ends legally or just emotionally, can jump start the healing process and reinforce our connections to other friends and loved ones. It is not a celebration of what could have been, but what is yet to be.

It’s been two weeks since the “February Fury” blizzard hit D.C. But since there is no spare real estate to move the snow to from roads and elsewhere, we instead have mountains of snow – some 10’ feet high – accumulating on corners and along parkways. Turning a lovely mottled brownish-gray and dotted with a variety of trash. Rather than retreating, this snow bank looks like it’s about to devour this SUV, kind of like the “Blob” of old sci-fi movies*.

I am reminded of former Mayor Marion Barry’s (apocryphal?) answer to his plans to remove snow from a similar storm several years ago: “Spring.” Apparently the current D.C. administration has similar plans.

*Note to “Blob” movie fans: I know the Blob didn’t like cold, but technically, it isn’t real. So get over it.

Best self-help site on the Internet: http://www.seatguru.com/.

Hey. I coined a new word: litterally. As in "Her critique of reality TV should be – litteraly – regarded for what it is (unvarnished debris)."

It used to be, that discussing the weather was characterized as something one used for lack of substantive subject matter. Verbal filler. Since everyone, like it or not, was forced to experience their particular weather, it was often a conversational bridge to (in homage to Ted Stevens) nowhere.

Not anymore. Weather is the new darling of reality TV. No longer content to just be reported about, weather wants a starring role in its own series (I would mention said series here, but am averse to promoting them. Although you don’t need to look too far).

Weather has all the characteristics of the most popular reality TV stars. It’s impossible to control. You never know what it will do next. It doesn’t need a SAG card and will never demand residuals. Or a salary. And we all experience it 24/7.

What’s next? We need to find something ubiquitous that, like any realty TV star, is unpredictable, can be deadly and is creepy under a microscope (literally or figuratively). I nominate: mold.

Like weather, we all have to confront it (dude, I’m dealing with some serious colonization in my bathtub that Scrubbing Bubbles is wont to control). And as Ed McMahon could attest, were he still with us (perhaps due to mold?), it can be devastating and deadly. If not mold, then how about air (when it’s not being weather)? Lack of it is not so good and too much, not pretty.

So my point is: let’s embrace the ordinary stuff we take for granted, lest it spawn its own series.

AKA, expressing the appropriate mortification for your acts

"The only thing forbidden in our culture of exposure is the inclination to forbid – to set limits on disclosure."

Christopher Lash in an essay in the New Republic, August 10, 1992

Christopher Lasch, the American social critic, died two years after this was published, but had he lived, I think his suffering would have grown exponentially. If I believed in the supernatural, I would imagine him turning over in his grave if he could in fact see what was happening in our country – and world – today. What would he have thought of the Salahis, Dr. Phil, “Clean House,” and any number of media reports or programs that – proudly - bring to light the worst behaved – and behaviors – this society (and I use that term loosely) has to offer? The failings of individuals may be just that – failings – but the failure to acknowledge them as such is far worse, even if someone somewhere is willing to reward us for them. So to those afflicted with the psychiatric condition of Compulsive Hoarding Disorder, get some real help and stop competing with your fellow hoarders for the messiest house in America and your 15 minutes of fame on cable television. TMI, Dude.