This evening, Ross and I went to the wonderful Brattle Theatre in Harvard Square, where we saw a film that is at once hilarious, physically nauseating, sobering, and quite incredible. It’s called The Yes Men, and if you notice it playing at an independent theatre near you, I highly encourage you to go see it (if only for the sublimely ridiculous sounding French pop songs that are on the soundtrack). You may have heard of The Yes Men, or their hijinks. They are Andy Bichlbaum and Mike Bonnano, two prankster-activists who, among other things in their career of what they call “Identity Correction,”* have pretended to be officials from the World Trade Organization with names like “Granwyth Hulatberi” and “Hank Hardy Unruh,” making appearances at international conferences and on news programs while spouting ludicrous statements which are, if not strictly true, at least ones that they believe to be in the spirit of the WTO’s actions.

Like “Let’s recycle shit, so that we can make it into McDonalds hamburgers to feed to the starving in third world countries.” And “Slavery was bad, yeah. But if the North had just left the South alone, it’d all have worked itself out in the end, because slaveowners would have figured out that it’s much more profitable and less risky to employ people at insultingly low wages in their own countries.” (Andy’s earnest, detached delivery, slight frown, serious looking spectacles, and academic “ums” and “ahs” are perfect.) The scary part is that apart from one audience of college kids in Pennsylvania, most of their presentations meet with little more than polite applause and smiling nods (hence their name). One of their biggest gags involved Andy unveiling a skintight gold leisure suit with a big inflatable phallus at a conference in Finland, for reasons I will not reveal.

Go see the movie. Try to get it to play at your school. It’s not the greatest documentary ever made — it’s hard to follow at times, and I was left with a lot of questions — but it’s pretty smart, eye-opening, and you get to see a guy wearing a gold suit with a giant phallus attached to it. You can’t ask for much more than that. Visit The Yes Men’s website to read more. And if you live in Cambridge or Boston, dude. Why not become a member of the Brattle? 12 free tickets to great films (tickets which are ordinarily 9 bucks) for a $75 membership fee? As James Earl Jones says, “It’s kind of a no-brainer.”

* Wherein “honest people impersonate big-time criminals in order to publicly humiliate them.”

Oh, P.S:

:)

I forgot to mention (for the sake of — sort of — fulfilling the promise for etymological debate that we put on the front page) that the other night Ross and I agreed on the probable etymology of the word “condolences.”

The conversation went something like this:

Ross (typing an email): Is it “Send my condolences,” or “Send my condolence”?

Meera (laying about in bed after a long day of not doing much): Condolences. Why?

R: Rachel emailed to ask if I had another Gmail invitation lying around, because Reese is feeling a little left out.

M (Thinking: I really don’t get the fuss about Gmail. Maybe I should donate my account to charity.): Oh.

M (Wakes up a bit.): That word’s got kind of a nice obvious etymology.

R (Thinking: Geek.): It does? What, pray tell, is its etymology, word-princess?

M: Well, the “dole” part comes from dolour…

R: You mean dolor?

M: Um. Yes. Or as the French say it, “dooolooooouuuuuuurrrrrrrgggghhh.”

R: …..

M: And the “con” part means “with,” or “together.” I think.

R (showing off his Spanish): Yes, “con” means “with.”

M: So there you have it then. Con-dole-nces. Wonder what the “nces” part means.

R: type type type

M: Whaddaya say we put this scintillating conversation up on wordnerd?

R: Eh?

M: You know. “Etymological debate.” Except not so much with the debate.

So.

Next time we’ll aim for more debate, less “Uh huh. Probably.”

Oh, my sainted aunt!

I’m an aunt!

I would like to proudly announce the safe and healthy birth of my very own nephew, Asher Avinash Moey (unless they’ve gone and changed their minds about his name), on this the 22nd of July (21st here in the U.S., but I’ll grant that Singapore time is more important here), 2004. He weighs about 7 pounds, as far as I can tell (Dad said “over 3 kilos”) and I am sure he is absolutely gorgeous. Or at least that he will be once they clean him up. ;-)

Congratulations, Rani and Gabriel! Woo hoo!

For the past couple of days, I’ve been watching old episodes of Roseanne on TV in the mornings. It’s on back to back from 11 to 12, and I can now say that I finally understand what Peter has been going on about for all these years. This show is brilliant! Roseanne and Dan are caustic, fat, kinda ugly, wicked smart, and totally awesome parents, even while they’re swearing at their kids. Seriously, this is a wonderful family. Like that episode when Darlene (can I get some Darlene love?) gets her period, and Dan swats her on the shoulder and tells her “Good going!” Or the one where Becky wants an 80 dollar dress and Roseanne says no, lets Becky throw a tantrum, makes up with her, and then asks Dan to take back his shoes so she can get the dress. And Jackie. Ah, Jackie. When was a loser ever so much fun?

Can’t believe I have to start going to work week after next and won’t be able to watch anymore. Why isn’t this out on DVD??

Ok, look how gorgeous Ross looks when I take a picture of him…

And see what happens when I give him the camera?

I’m just saying. Actually, I kind of like that second picture. Especially since my skin is acting like I’m its worst enemy right now, and my bottom half is just about all I’d like to show you here.

(To clarify, these pictures were taken back in the late fall of last year, in Salem — I just got around to developing the roll. So no, it’s not THAT cold a summer in Boston this year.)

This is just a test to see what multiple entries look like in this template. To amuse you while I test, and in the spirit of sublime beginnings, here are a few of my favourite openings.

The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind
and another
his mother called him “Wild Thing!”
and Max said “I’LL EAT YOU UP!”
so he was sent to bed without eating anything.
Where the Wild Things Are — Maurice Sendak

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul Lo-lee-ta : the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
Lolita — Vladimir Nabokov

It was dinnertime in Greenbook, New Jersey, on a cold spring day in 1987, and Paul Erdos, then seventy-four, had lost four mathematical colleagues, who were sitting fifty feet in front of him, sipping green tea.
The Man Who Loved Only Numbers — Paul Hoffman

We went to the moon to have fun, but the moon turned out to completely suck.
Feed — M.T. Anderson

Don’t you know me, Kansas City? I’m the new Berlin Wall!
Hedwig and the Angry Inch — John Cameron Mitchell

The Deliverator belongs to an elite order, a hallow subcategory. He’s got esprit up to here. Right now, he is preparing to carry out his third mission of the night. His uniform is black as activated charcoal, filtering the very light out of the air. A bullet will bounce off its arachnofiber weave like a wren hitting a patio door, but excess perspiration wafts through it like a breeze through a freshly napalmed forest. Where his body has bony extremities, the suit has sintered armorgel: feels like gritty jello, protects like a stack of telephone books.
Snow Crash — Neal Stephenson

“Begin at the beginning,” the King said gravely, ” and go till you come to the end; then stop.”

— Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll