Friday, December 14, 2007

Head in a Vise 2

Does anyone even remember part 1? I do, of course, because it was my head in the vise. Another busy semester has ended, and after cramming in more work than I really thought was humanly possible into the last week and a half, I'm theoretically poised to spend a little quality time fucking off...to full effect, as Snoop says (the latter is a reference to the fourth season of the Wire, doubtless not lost on BEM and others). Something about the taste of leisure, though, feels more like alienation, or something. I'm having a hard time believing that I really don't need to be poking at my latest chapter or something. Of course, that will happen, but it needs to be not the ONLY thing I'm doing. On the agenda for the remaining days before I ship off to do my time in MT are things like Christmas shopping for the small selection of relatives I actually buy for--ah, the pleasures of having large, disconnected families--swapping library materials (the only time I hope to be driving to UB for the duration of the break), making these pumpkins cinnamon rolls that have been giving me wet dreams ever since I saw them on Isa's blog, and indulging in some kind of birthday festivities with my beloved Q. You only turn 32 once! Also in there are some tentative plans, like watching the most recent Pirates of the Caribbean, managing my gym time in such a way that I actually get to see the finale of I Love New York 2. Fuck you, that matters to me. Although, pretty much, I'll be shocked if Buddha doesn't win. Don't judge me, dick. As Gina says.

Not too much else, really. I'm surprised to find myself looking forward to the easy prep accompanying the research writing course I'm teaching in the spring, my anticipation of which is heightened by the fact that I have one of my best 101 students enrolled in it. Awesome! I always feel like a little bit less of a terrible teacher when I have a repeat student, though some niggling, naysaying part of my brain never fails to chime in with "the devil you know..."

As a parting gift, in so far as the conclusion of a blog is parting, I give you, by way of what I imagine is an introduction, the teacup pig. If these pictures don't make you want to curl up into a ball and die of cute poisoning, I don't think I want to know you anymore.


And...scene.

Friday, December 7, 2007

If I HAD money,

I would spend it HERE. Now you can start guessing which prize I covet the most. After all, the holidays are just around the corner....

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Do YOU Have Love?

Things have slowed down a little, which is a good thing and a bad thing. I need to be gearing up to get some work done over the break, and I have my students' final papers staring me down from the end of next week. That grading promises to be boatloads of fun. I just hope to god that they haven't all again chosen to argue the same thing about the same small selection of pieces. Whaddayathink? Yeah. I'm screwed. Ah well, at least I made it through the semester, mostly intact. I'm bizarrely looking forward to the comparatively easy work of teaching research writing in the Spring! More grading, more repetitiveness, WAY less prep. The nightmares should start right around the first week of January. Bring 'em on.

I guess my perception that things have slowed a bit is primarily due to some denial I've been cultivating. Does that denial have a face, you ask? Why, yes. Yes, it does. I've been unabashedly scouring youtube for the parceled up back episodes of A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila. I still have a wretched time getting her name right. For some stupid reason, my tongue doesn't want to say the 'l', so I'm always saying "Tia," even in the heat of an intensely nerdy discussion with q about the representation of bi-ness on the show. But, truly, the show has found a place in my not-as-guilty-as-you-might-imagine pleasures. I was trying to explain to Q last night what I find so captivating about it. I haven't quite articulated it to myself yet, but in a way I find it more compelling than other such reality shows. This is actually saying something as I've developed something of a penchant for the genre over the last couple of years. Blame it on my devotion to the treadmill. That's how it all began. As a sidenote, I actually had to plead the poor gym attendant today not to change the channel from vh-1 just as I Love New York 2 was coming on. I had, indeed, planned my trip to coincide with the new episode. Things look rocky in the house, by the way.


But the thing with A Shot at Love is complicated. The show is framed in such a way that, at the beginning, Tila was talking about trying to decide if she wants to be with a man or a woman. Now, closer to the end, she's getting a bit more ambivalent about this, talking instead about focusing on the person rather than the gender--a pretty standard bi line that drives non-bisexuals batso. Or, rather, it isn't that one discourse has replaced the other, but they are now woven together in the show. Depending on who she's talking to--the white, wealthy, suburban grotesques who exclaim that they never thought their son would bring "someTHING" like "that" home--or the suspiciously loving and non-prude extended family of our favorite "futch" (you guessed it, femme/butch)--she switches back and forth. I want to say that it radically doesn't matter who she ends up with, but... I'm always pulling for someone on these shows, but it seems less charged whether New York ends up with Buddha or Punk this time around (although, mark my words, it WILL be one of the two) than whether Tila chooses Dani or Bobby. This is all intimately bound up with the show's surreal subjunctivity, posing "straight" men against "lesbians" as though all's fair in love and war. The guys are so hysterical about affirming their heterosexuality that they are and have been way more violent than on any other comparable shows I've watched. The girls are constantly accused, by the guys and each other, of being indecisive, not knowing which (male or female) they want. One girl was kicked off really early in the show for messing around with a boy who is one of the final three. Not to be trusted.

All in all, the language of indecisiveness--always an important part of the drama in this genre-- is intensified as something intrinsic to bisexuality. At the end of the day, as Lorna likes to say, she's most likely to pick Bobby, thus proving once and for all that bisexuality doesn't exist. She likes the "softness" and "understanding" of a woman, but she gets really excited for the men, whose rough faces and strong hands she dwells on in every episode. Tila will go where the sex is, mark my words. Still, though, indulging in the fantasy of equality, which the show exploits with as much panache as is imaginable, I would love to see Dani win. Or lose and move to Buffalo. One of the two.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Mortiri Te Salutuum

That's one of the few phrases that actually stuck after two years of high school Latin. Perhaps further indicative of, as I've insisted to my sister on more than one occasion, high school is not nearly as much about education as it is, ultimately, survival. Anyway, we've just returned from our fabulous weekend in Ithaca. We splurged on a gay-owned b&b, where the owner, equal parts angel and sadist, stuffed us to the gills with three course breakfasts. Bless him, he veganized some of his usual suspects and conspiratorially commented that the other guests didn't need to know. So much delicious fatness. Above and beyond, though, was the amazing aromatherapy, surround-sound, five-headed steam shower. Holy fuck. Follow that up with the softest, fluffiest, robe and slipper combo you can imagine and settle in to watch Tila Tequila for a few hours and I'm completely in heaven. I'll save most of the reviewing for Q, perhaps, but suffice it say, we had a lovely time. Cornell brought out my good old undergrad resentment about the total college experience and that breezy, New England sense of entitlement. I'll refrain from elaborating and keep my self-righteous bile to myself. At least for now.

I close with a redirect, for those of you who feel meanly of yourself for not having taken the GRE, or who are, perhaps, mildly nostalgic about the verbal section. You also get to feel sort of smug for sticking it to the corporate world in that really vague, indirect way that websites with lots of ads offer. Also, it's bizarrely addictive. Check it out here, if you dare.

Saturday, November 3, 2007

It Is Broughten!

Halloween Food and Scary Movie Festival tonight at 28. I made the imperious, rather assholey move of deciding who would bring what and further demanded that all food be Halloween themed. Time will only tell what others have come up with, but here's what Q and I are taking.

First, bean dip. Tasty, spicy, creamy. Not particularly good for us. Decorated with tofutti-licious sour cream web and spiders I whittled out of olives. The spots of red on the particularly scary looking ones are sri racha. I went that way instead of Franks for the creepy and bloodlike vermillion hue. I think I get extra points since the olives were not pitted and thus extra tricky. Whatever.

We're also bringing dessert. I volunteered us for this honor because VCTotW has been burning a hole in my kitchen counter for weeks now. Well, maybe the metaphor doesn't work here, but you know what I mean. These are the red velvet cupcakes with buttercream frosting. I got the wrong kind of food coloring, so they came out more brownish-maroon than red. I had been looking forward to a scarlet-gore sort of effect. In any case, I hope they look like brains, but it took a couple tries to get the technique quite right. As with all such things, I know what I would do differently next time. Right now I'm just hoping they're tasty and nobody confuses the decoration for piles of sloppy intestines. What do you think?


Also, first ever food porn on Ignorance Toboggans!

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Wish Fulfillment



SNL Awesomeness, via SLOG.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Nausea, and some good stuff, too

Ugh. Does it make me a bad person that I was filled with loathing last night when my mother told me an "exciting" piece of family news? My mom uncharacteristically warned me that this is all very much, for the time being, on the down low (which apparently means I can't tell my sister, since she's the only member of my family whose knowledge of the secret might be of some consequence through me both in that I am actually in contact with her and she might actually give a damn). So here, the big secret: my uncle (aged...I don't know...but he's gotta be at least in his late forties as my mom's baby brother) has decided to propose marriage to his lovely girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend. I'm not sure what she qualifies as and my mom was clearly irritated at my raising such a frivolous question when faced with exciting and happy news and refused to answer my request for clarity. The would-be fiance is in her early 20s and recent left her home state, where she and my uncle dated for a couple of years, to attend grad school on the other side of the country. She's a splendid girl. Cute, very smart, slightly sassy. On my last trip home, I stumbled on a copy of Gender Trouble and presented it with her as a pre-grad school gift. She studies German history with an emphasis in Women's Studies or something of this variety. She's now been away from home for two years, I think, and she and my uncle have more or less kept up a long-term relationship. I say "more or less" because my uncle has always been...monogamy challenged? She always said if she ever found out about another woman it would be over between them. Things apparently changed this summer when she let my uncle know that she had met someone else, and since she's a self-proclaimed monogamist, my sense, and my mom's sense, was that things were over between them. My uncle was appropriately plied with drinks and good humor, I assume, and all was as it should be (I thought). Because, seriously, OF COURSE she would find someone else. Then, apparently, he's had the epiphany that if moving to where she lives is what is required to win her back, then goddamn it he's going to marry her and move. He's purchased the ring, and all that, and is apparently planning to pop the question on Christmas at midnight, where she will be staying at her parent's house (which is, by the way, in a really really rural part of the state). He's under a strict directive to inform my mother the next morning of how things turned out, so I'll be among the first to know, as I'll be home for the holidays this year. Seriously, if she says yes, it will make me so sad on more than one account. Then, again, if she says no, that will suck for different reasons. Thus the nausea. On the one hand, I'll have to participate in the celebration when a dirge seems more appropriate. On the other, just having to watch the vicissitudes of emotion on my mother's face betray her own emotional investment in this couple sounds excruciating. If I can manage to be drunk for that phone call (What do you think? Can I pull off a bender on Christmas morning?) it would be better for everyone, and if all else fails, it will be excellent practice in keeping my trap shut. Families are so good for such exercises in self-improvement.

The good stuff? I recently made the zombie finger cookies from Lindy Loo's fabulous blog, and they were fabulous. Most of them are hurtling through space for my stepfather's Halloween/Birthday party, but they were generally adored by all. STILL want to make some cupcakes, but I've not yet plucked up the checkbook to go purchase the pastry bag and all that. Reading Michelle Cliff and really liking her, so that's fun. However, I loved this comic from Married to the Sea. I hope you enjoy it as well.



Thursday, October 18, 2007

Holy Crap

Seriously. What a week this was. It all started off with receiving midterm essays from my students on Monday. Sixteen or so hours later, I had them all graded and commented on. And I was braindead. Poor Q, having to listen to me rant about how predictable and boring such papers can be. To give you all a hint of this mundanity, we've been through two thirds of a rather hefty anthology, read tons of stuff, and yet most of my students wrote on some combination of the same four stories. Seriously, what's up with that? I guess this phenomenon is just the literature class version of the "big game" essay in composition. I could go the rest of my life without ever reading another one of those things. It is, however, compelling evidence against the snowflake theory. I'd love it if there was a way to make students aware of this without crushing their mindgrapes completely. You know, they need a little juice just to get through the day.

What else? Work work work. It occurred to me that I needed to make a couple changes in my first chapter. Again. Then sitting down to do so proved to be this incredibly painful experience. I've looked at this freaking thing so much that out of sheer exhaustion I ready to just let it be what it is, come what may. I finally, after more hours than it really should have taken, managed to hammer something out. Hopefully when I go back to look at it on Saturday, I'll experience much less loathing. This is fascinating stuff, right?

Mina went to the vet today for her "senior visit." In cat years, she's 65, which seems so weird to me. I still call her "baby." Should I switch at some point to "grandma"? Two hundred and fifty dollars later, we walked out with the promise of a phone call in the morning to let me know how her blood screening worked out. I've got my fingers crossed really tightly that they don't turn up something awful. The whole experience prompted me to look at the pet insurance company websites, but ultimately decide against trying to pursue that option. For most of the plans, she's too old, and most don't cover pre-existing conditions, which I assume would her kidney problems and the teeth that the vet wants to extracted. Can you say suckage? Poor kitty.

Enough with the whining already! Q and I have lovely plans to get some delicious Chinese food tomorrow night and then go see Patricia Williams talk. I've offered my students an extra credit incentive to attend and write a response, and it will be interesting to see how many take me up on it. I'm thinking not many are planning on it, but perhaps that will change when I give them back their papers tomorrow?

Monday, October 8, 2007

In My Shoes

Recovering from another marathon Monday--seven hours on North Campus, and slowly letting a touch of bourbon ease the vise-like tension on my brain. The sea of my students' faces was particularly inscrutable today as they demonstrated their manifest lack of enthusiasm for Richard Wright and Nella Larsen. So, as in other days when class doesn't go as brilliantly and smoothly as I'd like, I'm feeling sort of slumped. Mostly, I hope to Yog-soggoth that yesterday doesn't prove any sort of indication of the way the rest of the week is likely to go. You know how people joke about doing ridiculous things, like putting on an article inside out or accidentally wearing different socks (though some of us [me] worry about this particular incident considerably less than others [queercat], occasionally even doing so on purpose when a pair of appealing and matching socks simply doesn't present itself)? Well, yesterday I got up at 6:15, walked the half mile to work, and went about my day for a solid hour before I realized that, yes, I was wearing two different shoes. Yes. Yes, I did. Luckily, they were sufficiently similar in color and material that nobody else noticed without having it pointed out. When Q showed up several hours later, my samaritan with a matching shoe discretely wrapped in a canvas shopping bag, this was the subject of general mirth (for my co-workers) and pinkness (for my gingery self). Ah well. Does this mean a need a day off?
Fucking wah, right?

My good news is that I was granted permission by our neighbors, the lucky owners of a monstrous squash plant that has taken over their front yard, to harvest the squash blossoms than have been growing in more or less abundance. Just to piss you all off, here's what we're having for dinner tonight: our beloved and ubiquitous kale, barbecued seitan ribs, herbed cream cheese stuffed squash blossoms, and baked sweet potatoes with cardamom butter. Suck it.

Saturday, October 6, 2007

Parents Gone Wild!

What a week that was. Extra hours at the co-op, loads of evaluations for the search committee, the usual labor of teaching, doing final revisions AGAIN on my first chapter to resubmit it to my committee. I don't know, maybe it wasn't all that much extra work. For the last couple months, though, I've been setting my alarm to get up at about seven in the morning to squeeze the maximum number of productive hours out of the day. Truly, most mornings, I wake up perfectly alert and ready to start the day. My own personal neurosis is that if I don't get up right away, the slowly seeping anxiety will begin to overtake me and completely ruin any semblance of rest above and beyond my standard eight hours. On Friday, though, I actually woke up and thought *ugh, again?*. (Note, for the full effect, you should hear this in the whiniest voice you've ever heard me use.) One class and one search committee meeting later, I was finally able to read some comic books and my assigned reading for Monday. It was kind of relaxing and lovely. Now I'm staring down the barrel of a day completely free for whatever research seems to me appropriate, relevant, and interesting. It's still disorienting to be able to read whatever I want to in the name of research. I suppose it's still akin to the giddiness of radical freedom when I remember being a kid and how badly I wanted to be able to go where I wanted, do what I wanted, etc. Is anybody else still thrilled that they've grown up and escaped their parents?

Also, the pumpkin pie brownies were pretty good. I made them in a 9X9 pan, and if I were to make them again, I'd make them in a round pan of some sort. It figures that I'm not enthusiastic since I'm not crazy about pumpkin in general. Q loves them, though, so mission accomplished.

Lastly, another one for you silly non-sloggers, particularly b. Dan Savage said he would file this one under "every child needs a mommy and a daddy," but I think something more like simply "American family values" would be appropriate. Be prepared to feel very self-righteous. http://www.parentsbehavingbadly.com/

Discuss.

Monday, October 1, 2007

Totally Fake

Why, totally fake? Because (and I know I'm unlikely to garner much sympathy from you lot) I've been busy, yet plagued by guilt for neglecting my blog so grievously. Teaching a survey class, as it turns out, is a fuck of a lot of work. I've almost got comp down to an art form requiring practically no prep, but to do this class right I've had to bone up on a lot of history and related stuff. My class seems largely benign (as in, NOT hostile, thank you god) but mostly very quiet. If they're not moved by the reading, I suffer. Today, I suffered. Last week, not so much. I actually composed a really frustrated blog entry a few weeks ago after trying to teach some Native American accounts of Wounded Knee. Or, really I should say after failing to do so. Then things looked up a bit. I'm managing my crazy stress better now. I'm no longer over-preparing quite so heinously as I once was. Also, seeing my office mates buried in comp essays makes me feel a minor twinge of relief. At least I don't have to talk about thesis statements, even if all my students are likely to write their Midterm essays on the "Yellow Wall-Paper." What can you do?

So, here comes the fakeness. Since I have nothing new to say, only teaching, dissertating, working, running when I can, have the following little shreds of candy. I don't know whether or not I'm the only SLOG fanatic, but on the off-chance I am...In response to extreme protests about the San Francisco Folsom Street Fair posters, which featured a playful rendering of the Last Supper complete with leather daddies and dildoes, Savage has compiled this great collection of other Last Suppers that apparently failed to garner so much outrage. For some reason, I find this endlessly entertaining. Lastly, I just got the famous vegan cupcake book, but lacking a pastry bag and some nice tips (I hope to acquire some soon so I can torture you all with cupcake porn), I'll be making these. We're going to be so deliciously fat.

Thursday, September 6, 2007

Updates, New Classes, Hot Freaking Weather

Blech. Ninety degrees today? You wouldn't think this is September, or maybe I'm remembering incorrectly the way this late summer thing goes down every year. That's funny because Q and I end up arguing every year about when it is precisely that real winter hits here in the frozen northeast. She generally takes the position that Fall sucks here, compared to the sylvan paradise where she roamed as a whimsical little nugget of a queercat, and that it's all over by some time in October. I'm sure she'll correct me if I'm wrong. I, however, being from a less wooded and more...arid and frozen place, find the falls here to be long and idyllic and lovely. Winter, proper, for most of the five years I've been here, doesn't really get going until the beginning of January. Let the weather polling commence, if you have it in you and feel so inclined.

In other news, I finally got the more or less full story about my sister's dogs if you'll be so kind as to remember my fairly recent post on the matter. As it turns out, my mom didn't have the full scoop because she was so relieved when my sister admitted that they were gone that my sister no longer wanted to talk about it. I can get that. My mom has a very utilitarian perspective on animals. Anyway, apparently what had developed over the last few years is that the dogs had been tearing to pieces any other animal they could get their paws on: birds, rabbits, raccoons, the pet hamster, etc. The behavior started very young and apparently just got worse. My sister said that the sheriff had been to their house once, and the health department more than that. The final straw came when they dogs ripped apart a raccoon on their neighbor's lawn. gshhh. The story from this point is that she got in touch with their vet, the Newfoundland rescue people, and so on, and the experts concurred that the behavior had been rewarded and distinctly not corrected for so long that there was no hope for the dogs. She claims she was roundly counseled to put them down before they decided to go after even worse prey--small children? Pet dogs? Basically, it's still their fault. However, I feel bad for her for having to make that decision. It's the kind of thing that I don't think you ever get out from under. If that makes sense. Again, ugh.

Not to close on that note, the new class seems to be going fairly well. I think my students are warming up a bit, and I'm figuring out how to aim my jokes so that they get them. I made a DOMA quip last week that I thought was clever but which fell so flat that the room instantly got quiet. I hate it when that happens. Other news? I'm fighting my sense of overwhelming dread about revising my third chapter. I drafted the bloody thing in July and then let it fester on my computer for over a month. Mostly I don't think it sucks too bad, but, as with everything else, there's still so much to do. No more whining about that for now. You're welcome.

Saturday, September 1, 2007

Consolation Prize

With Q off at her brother's ersatz wedding party-celebration thingy, I'm at home moping and trying to make the best possible use of my quasi-single time. Naturally, I'm drinking gin and watching movies that my lovely partner would never ever be interested in watching. The first movie I picked I actually discovered on a recent trip to Hollywood to get The Host for movie night. I picked up the case because of the picture. You should know, I'm a sucker for cover art. Knowing this about myself, though, means that I increasingly second guess myself when trying to pick out largely unknown horror flicks. Things in the industry seem to have changed over the last year five years or so. Used to be, you could tell the low budget, super bad movies simply by the title and the cover art. Thanks to increasingly good graphics, this is no longer the case. Good movies are more and more indistinguishable from bad movies. More to the point, though, is the way in which this ups the ante for the would-be horror connoisseur. It gives me genuine pleasure to know about sort of kick ass out of the way horror films. To get there, though, you have to be willing to slog through a lot of simply bad movies. This, I always contend to Q, is what separates the true horror fan from...everyone else. True horror fans are willing to take risks. Willing to sit through over half an hour of bad bad bad story and effects for just a few interesting and unconventional plot twists.

Speaking of, I rented this: The Thirst. Says Netflix "Clean and sober for the first time in years, Lisa (Clare Kramer) and Maxx (Matt Keeslar) are just beginning to get their lives together when they fall under the spell of the seductive Darius (Jeremy Sisto), the leader of a local vampire clan. Lured into his world, the couple soon finds a new addiction -- blood -- in this darkly humorous gore fest co-starring Adam Baldwin and featuring the music of Rasputina, Jack the Mad and more."


Of BtVS fame, Glory joins a band of vampires led by the fucked up brother, Billy, from Six Feet Under. Jayne of Serenity is also a member of this band, though cunningly here named Laine. In a small role is Andrew from BtVS as a petite dominant-in-training. He gets some of the best lines in the film. In my personal favorite, he informs the straightlaced and annoying protagonist that he has to be led through the s&m club on a leash and give him (Andrew) a blow job. All of this plus Rasputina led me to hope for a lot. I'm sorry to add, not so much in the delivery. It's rather shallow. Very derivative. The best and most flattering analogy I can give it is Modern Vampires meets splatter. I had never noticed how much Clare Kramer looks like Mena Suvari until I saw her without those curly golden locks. Trust me, this is the case. Whatever. Attic Expeditions was better.


Next up? Anatomy 2 .

Give me that good good Franka Potente lovin'. Uh huh.

Saturday, August 25, 2007

Finally out on DVD!


This: Aspiring stand-up comic Marty Malt (Judd Nelson) can get a laugh only out of his fellow trash man Gus (Bill Paxton), who accompanies Marty's deadly routines on the accordion. But things change for the duo when Marty suddenly grows a third arm out of the center of his back. They soon get an agent (Las Vegas royalty Wayne Newton), who books the act for a Hollywood TV appearance. Director Adam Rifkin wrote the warped cult comedy when he was just 19.

Netflix here has left off the brilliant trashiness of Lara Flynn Boyle in the role of Marty's sometime love interest. Picture a set flooded with trash, filth, and shadows--ala Naked Lunch.

Now if only I could get some dvd lovin of this persuasion:


Mmmmm. Helen Slater.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

No No No No Drama

August. What a strange month this has been. A week of cabinning. One significant addition to our small community (Once again, congrats to GC and the lovely T). School starts in less than a week but I seem to finally have managed a headspace where I'm blissfully in denial about it. After returning from Allegany, I had a couple days of blinding panic, threaded with existential despair. That mood has finally dissipated a bit and I'm now hoping that I've experienced the bulk of my craziness and stress well in advance of the main event. Penultimacy. Of course, a week into the semester, the weirdness will already have begun to wear off. Normalcy will be settling in like a warm blanket, and I can once again turn to the fresh terrors of dissertationism.

Much as I enjoy my time at my other job, the end of the summer inevitably finds me ready to vacate the retail space for most of the week. One day turns out to be the perfect amount of time to spend on a sales floor, being nice to irritable shoppers, and teaching my coworkers words like "vestibulary," "innocuous," and "superfluous". The bureaucracy bums me out. The capitalism bums me out. The bums bum me out. I'm also, increasingly, made to feel very old. I had the horrifying experience of discovering this week that many of my co-workers have never heard of Tori Amos. And the ones that have, don't know who Christian Slater is. Horror. When the hell did this happen?

I find myself groping for common ground. Validation. An anchoring sense that the people in my small community share in some critical ways an orienting grasp on reality. For example, the conviction that Tori Amos, whether or not you like her, is important. A worse example, and you may want to brace yourself for this one, follows.

Approximately five years ago, when I was doing my year in the Shen'do Valley with my sister and her family, she decided to buy my nieces puppies for Christmas. She did some research, and finally decided to buy, at considerable expense (think in the thousands), two Newfoundland female puppies. She did the whole thing, signed papers and agreements, flew them in from wherever it is their breeder lives, bought those hideous cages for them, etc. I must admit to not liking them from the start. They're reputedly very gentle and good with other pets, but one of the first things they did when they got big enough was tear apart the ducks that lived around the pond that was on the property. Also, they're water dogs, which means they have thick oily coats that smell like hell. They slobber. They roll in the mud and then lean on you. Eventually they got freaking huge, as they do. They're incredibly stupid. Untrainable, even. None of this is their fault. Our obsession with purity creates such critters. So, yes, I never liked them. I like small, clean, tidy dogs. Newfoundlands are the antithesis of this. I even have a story I liked to tell about how these dogs would lap tons of filthy water off the sidewalk and then come inside and throw it all up. All of this is not the point, though. The girls dug them. All was well.


Several years pass. The last time I visited, the family had more or less relinquished the downstairs of their sizable farmhouse to the dogs. They slept there on the destroyed armchairs all night. The kids took care of them, but I never saw them walked or really played with. Here's where the story takes a sinister turn. I was on the phone with my mom yesterday, and she was filling me in on all the changes that my sister has made to her house recently. My sister does this kind of thing often, completely changing up her living space in almost unthinkable ways. My mom is going there for a week to watch the kids so the parents can take a romantic vacation in the Bahamas. Then my mom says, "Oh, yeah, well since they got rid of the dogs--" I said, "What do you mean, 'got rid of them'?" And she said, "Yeah, they weren't staying on the property anymore, so they put them down." (here's the dramatic pause in our conversation where I grasp for the edges of reality) She eventually hedged a bit, saying that she wasn't sure what had happened, but it sounded a lot more like...simply hedging. I asked her, seriously, whether she didn't think there was something weird/awful/crazy about this, and she responded in a sort of shocked way. She had no idea there was anything to be upset about. It simply hadn't occurred to her.

So, yeah, the rest of the conversation was...stilted. I was so shocked I wasn't sure what to say. I'm now desperately hoping that there is more to the story. That my sister actually gave them away. Or if she didn't, that they were... I don't know...sick or something. I had to tell Q and a few other people before I was able to reestablish my ethical mooring. I had to ask, like I asked my mom, "Isn't that messed up? Aren't you seriously disturbed by this?" I mean, you wouldn't think one would need validation. Nothing so alienating as family.

Thursday, August 2, 2007

Matoes!



Yes, its true. I've actually grown something. The tomato is my first homegrown ever. I'm so proud.

Channeling Lorna

Why? Because for the first time ever, q and I have retreated from the blazing heat and sweltering stuffiness of the Livingston into the air conditioned refuge of Cafe 59. Q is plugging away on her second chapter, and I'm endlessly poking the chapter I'm now referring to, with a hearty chortle, my charticle! How delightful, yes? I wish I could take credit, but it was the neologism of my better half. Why "charticle"? Because it is a chapter that I'm trying, and perhaps failing, to convert into an article. Surely, you might think, it wouldn't be that much work. After all, the chapter was fairly well received and all that. I'd already done some revisions, and so on. Of course, what you would be forgetting is that for some of us (not all *coughqueercat*) the chapter must be fed into the proverbial grinder and what comes out may only bear a slight resemblance to the previous thing. In that spirit, I started out with a 50-odd page document. I've since cut approximately 20 pages and rewritten whole passages including the entire introduction.
And other stuff of course...transitions...blah blah. I realized all of a sudden that "barbaristic" isn't a word, though I had used it as one on my first page. Who would have thought? Not that I'm against coining words because clearly I'm all about it. And I would argue that academic writing is uniquely suited to the coining of neologisms. There are so many words that really should be words as well as so many that are words that nonetheless nobody knows. I was mildly shocked when I described something to a co-worker recently as gelatinous and she responded with a "huh?" "Viscous," I explained. "Huh?" she said. Not that such things really matter. They merely flag my particular brand of mudgeon. Which, indeed, has enjoyed free rein of late as my disdain for the "Can you double it? I'm walking" crowd intensifies. It all makes me think that the end of the summer heralds my return to the entirely different set of anxieties and difficulties that is teaching. Things to look forward to.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Moment of Zen

Or, okay, not zen, but something else entirely. Folks, today I decided to take the whole day off from any kind of responsible labor. I went to the gym, did an energizing seven miles, and devoted the rest of my afternoon to reading Almanac of the Dead and going to see the new Harry Potter film. I'm not sure whether or not this latter should qualify as a guilty pleasure, but I don't feel particularly guilty about it. Q and I have thoroughly discussed, and I think I'm pretty much on top of, the many problems with the Potter and the many more reasons why the phenom is simply annoying. Nonetheless, it's a pretty good story and I like keeping up with such things when possible. If I was a Potter nerd to the caliber of, say, BEM, I would have no doubt seen the film opening night. As it was, I waited until I had an afternoon of naughtiness away from my place of wage labor. I hoped the 3:50 showing wouldn't be TOO packed with bored adolescents whiling away a summer afternoon in the old, dark movie theater downtown. Here's the moment of zenishness: The theater was dead. I asked, anxiously, at the counter whether there was indeed a 3:50 Harry Potter and was assured that there was. I had not plugged two dollars into the parking meter for nothing, and I had been duped by those pesky parentheticals before. B and Q will no doubt recall the unfortunate Grindhouse event of the Spring of 07. Anyway, I bought my ticket, and the ticketseller promptly got on her walkie-talkie to announce that there was "one for Harry Potter," adding as an aside that I would be the only one in there. I think, though I'm not at all sure, that I stopped short of clapping my hands at this unexpected and very welcome news. I went into the theater, which was delightfully silent, and took my time selecting the perfect seat, dead center and I bit toward the front. I'm serious. It was something like pure, unadulterated joy. I was as tickled as a kid at a surprise birthday party. Right after I sat down, they started the movie. Then, after about five minutes, two women came in and sat in the back of the theater. They proceeded to do the commenting-on-everything-obvious thing that people like to do in theaters. "Yes," you want to say, "she really really is a bitch." "Oh my, I suppose that is the character's shoe left tellingly behind the bed." Whatever, it wasn't too bad, really. It was a little bit like having my lollipop stolen and was completely what I deserved.

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Senseless Distractions from Blogging

Well, not senseless, really. It's just that there have been a lot of things standing in the way between me and this silly thing lately. Okay, all summer. Not that I'm the worst of the lot. A certain g. crayon is, I believe, still outstripping me in this capacity. What can possibly be so important that I haven't found the time/capacity/incentive to update? Well, wage labor, for one. I sometimes think I'm the only person in my situation--the whole, fifth year PhD bit, to be working a non-academic job not only during the summer but over the entire year. My loved ones will chime in here and remind me of the possibility of taking the summer off if only I'd be willing to make one small concession and sign on the dotted line. And I might, some day. Maybe next year, but we'll see. It will probably all depend on a number of factors, but the primary struggle is between my frugal-to-the-point-of-being OCDness and my desire for free time. Also, the older I get and the more advanced in this here game we all know and love, the more I think that in the final analysis, (or, at the end of the day, as Lorna might say) the joke is going to be, finally, on me.

So, yeah, but what else? I could write about our broken front window, my ever-larger but still not red tomatoes, my frustration with my pepper plants for apparently not caring for my style of plant-lovin', my dissertation blues, but who wants to hear about it? I'd like to think I'm not so deluded. Yet.

Then again, I was mystified for a long time about the whole blogging phenomenon in general. I always thought, how bizarre that people would make their journals public. You know, as if anybody would care to read the kind of drivel that I, when I was better about writing every day in my own journal, would pour onto the pages. Then I started reading peoples' blogs, checking out cyber-high school (aka myspace), etc. The result was that I gained a deep appreciation for the pleasures of online voyeurism. What fun. This has led, of course, to the place where I can write a completely uninteresting blog entry and am complete unfazed by its lack of humor or other interest. This does not mean, however, that I will not obsessively check back for comments. Next!

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Another Version of the Story

I found the following version of the now infamous events at the California University where Mel was called upon to defend the representations of Mayan culture in Apocalypto:

Northbridge, CA (O! Online) - Students and faculty at Cal State University at Northbridge were shocked earlier this week as an enraged Mel Gibson used a knife to rip out the still beating heart of a faculty member, and Mayan cultural expert, who had sought to criticize his most recent film "Apocalypto" for unfairly stereotyping ancient Mayans. The Professor, Alicia Estrada, asked Gibson if he had actually read about Mayan culture before shooting his film. Gibson then produced a knife from the small of his back and shouted, "Lady, f**k Off! You want f**king cultural sensitivity? I'll show you f**king cultural sensitivity! Make a f**king movie out of this!"

According to stunned onlookers, Gibson then pounced on Estrada and within seconds of a few deft strokes of his knife, produced her still beating heart as she collapsed before the crowd. Other Mayan experts in the audience stated that it was obvious that Gibson had indeed done his homework, at least on Mayan ritual sacrifice.

Estrada and her heart were subsequently rushed to a nearby trauma center where she underwent an emergency re-implantation procedure. University and hospital officials have stated that Estrada is currently in serious, but stable condition, and expected to make a complete recovery.

No charges have been filed in the incident as yet. California State police authorities are said to be investigating, but Cal State University campus police are currently declining to press charges. A spokesperson for the campus police stated that the incident pales in comparison to other incidents in the past that have arisen during everyday academic discourse and debate between faculty members.

Mel Gibson's publicist, Alan Nierob refused to apologize for Gibson's behavior, and denied that the movie "Apocalypto" was racist in any way. "I can understand the frustration from the Mayan hecklers who were present, but they represent a conquered people. To the victor goes the spoils of history."


Yes, p and b were kind enough to rescue me from the sickliness of watching this film by myself. For two hours and twenty minutes we were entranced by the flying heads, still-beating hearts, a head wound that was miraculously like a fountain, and a trench filled with corpses that looked remarkably similar to the creatures filthy lab of creation in Jeepers Creepers. I hope everyone could follow me on that last one. Basically, Mel gave us the slasher part of the slasher film within an irresponsible work of historical (or maybe, historically inspired?) fiction. I expected this and it's what I was hoping for from the film, largely. What I only came to realize in my mild incredulity after the film was over was that I had actually, against all logic and reason, expected a bit more nuance from the creator of the JCM (that's Jesus Chainsaw Massacre--thanks Faust--for you uninitiated). Ah well. At least now we know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, why it is that Mel Gibson thinks that the Spaniards were so able to conquer Mexico--the Aztecs were soaked in unrepentant sin. Cortez and his band--themselves far from exempt from the indelible stain of the Black Legend--really made the world safe for Christians and other decent folk who will not (presumably) start slashing up captured foreigners with obsidian knives. Right. Don't you feel better now?

On a side note, I once again lost altogether my ability to *stop talking*. This happens whenever b and I get into academic debates, particularly involving the genre in which we are both so deeply invested. Even the well-timed and articulate p couldn't stop the deluge. Our party was broken up suddenly by q, who had very sweetly permitted us to keep her up a couple of hours past her accustomed bedtime. Her appeal for rest prompted me to kick out our still debating friends, to continue that conversation at some later date...perhaps. I slunk off to bed some time later, feeling sort of guilty and dirty anyway. Ah well.

Saturday, June 9, 2007

If You Don't Have Anything Nice to Say...

let Melville say it for you:

The Maldive Shark

About the shark, phlegmatical one,
Pale sot of the Maldive sea,
The sleek little pilot-fish, azure and slim,
How alert in attendance be.
From his saw-pit of mouth, from his charnel of maw
They have nothing to harm to dread,
But liquidly glide on his ghastly flank
Or before in Gorgonian head;
Or lurk in the port of serrated teeth
In white triple tiers of glittering gates,
And there find a haven when peril's abroad,
An asylum in jaws of the Fates!
They are friends; and friendly they guide him to prey,
Yet never partake of the treat--
Eyes and brains to the dotard lethargic and dull,
pale ravener of horrible meat.


And, incidentally, I really don't have anything nice to say. This poem is so much better and more interesting than any of the negative bullshit I might otherwise spew on your well-intentioned and unassuming readerly brains. Discuss.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

And Today's Headline Is...

HETEROSEXUAL, CHRISTIAN, OMNIVOROUS PARENTS PUT BABY IN MICROWAVE--NATION DIVIDED: CAN WE TRUST OMNIVORES TO CARE FOR CHILDREN? SHOULD STRAIGHT CHRISTIANS BE ALLOWED TO MARRY?

GALVESTON, Texas (AP) -- A woman blames the devil, and not her husband, for severely burning their infant daughter in a microwave, a Texas television station reported.

Eva Marie Mauldin said Satan compelled her 19-year-old husband, Joshua Royce Mauldin, to microwave their daughter May 10 because the devil disapproved of Joshua's efforts to become a preacher.

"Satan saw my husband as a threat," Eva Mauldin told Houston television station KHOU-TV.

A grand jury indicted Joshua Mauldin last week on child injury charges after hearing evidence that he placed the two-month-old in a motel microwave for 10 to 20 seconds. (Watch cops react to burned baby Video)

The infant, Ana Marie, remains hospitalized. She suffered burns on the left side of her face and to her left hand, police said.

Police said Joshua Mauldin told them he put Ana Marie in the microwave because he was under stress. Eva Maudlin denied it.

"He would never do anything to hurt her. He loves her," she said.

She is hoping to be reunited with her daughter, but Child Protective Services is working to have the parental rights severed.

Monday, May 21, 2007

Pronounced "Ah'-Sha"

I'm reminded more than once lately of one of Nietzsche's more catchy aphorisms. "It takes more courage to make an end than a beginning. All poets know that." I'm probably quoting him badly since the last time I read Zarathustra was when I was 18 and that's, well, many years ago now. Anyway, I've been, indeed, in the wells and caverns of the revisionist blues. Granted, I've been pretty lucky so far. I can only hope that my next four (gasp) chapters go over so well. I'm currently in the process of finishing up revisions of my second chapter. The first is already heavily revised and currently circulating with my committee. The quote above is applicable because I'm discovering that writing conclusions to chapters is a bigger bitch than I ever realized. I think I'm really bad at conclusions to begin with, and usually I end up doing some sort of verbal equivalent of the spastic jumps that really annoying man-child does on MAD TV. I hope to christ one of you gets that reference. ("Look what I can do!") I'm currently trying to tack on an at best subjunctive and at worst half-assed conclusion that gestures toward the argument I'll make in the next chapter, which I haven't written yet. I had a feeling that you all would be really riveted by this account of my revision process, but it's mah blog, so whatevah.

When I'm not slogging through my own prose, the summer is lovely. I've been getting work done, spending 30-40 hours a week smiling at strangers at my other job, working out at the gym (13 miles today! AND it felt great), and watching Dark Angel. There is still much work to be done, as there always is, but I always appreciate the winning combination of warm weather and no teaching! I'm also, perhaps as a way of distracting myself from the more difficult library books patiently awaiting my attention and which are much more pertinent to my next chapter, reading a bit more into the oeuvre of the deeply problematic and endlessly fascinating H. Rider Haggard. My dearest niece doesn't know if yet, but she's definitely getting She and Ayesha: The Return of She for her birthday this year. What a fun writer he is! I'm currently reading Allan Quartermain and it's cracking me up. Haggard is deeply obsessed with imaginatively penetrating (pun intended) the wilds of various non-European spaces. He's mostly into Africa, though the second She book mostly takes place in Central Asia. His rugged, manly, great white hunter protagonists go on the most brutal, exhausting, and excruciating quests before discovering--as they must--white people lording power over non-white people and white women threatening to destroy civilization as we know it. Herein are contained the great remaining mysteries of the world. Like I said, he's a great story-teller, and he completely cracks me up.

As a reward for bearing with this perhaps tedious exposition, here's some artist's rendering of the endlessly fascinating Ayesha.

Here, I'm pretty sure she's bathing in the eternal flame that gives her her immortal youth, beauty, and mysterious ability to rule superstitious minds (read natives) through terror. Make no mistake about it, her love kills mere mortals. In the world of Haggard, many mountains contain such a flame. The novels are finally unclear, though, about whether Ayesha power comes from Isis, to whom she was a priestess in her regular lifetime, or Set--the Egyptian version of the Devil.

Oh, Manichean Delirium! Angel? or Angelheart?

Monday, May 7, 2007

One of the Many Signs of the Apocalypse

Or at least this should be. I felt sort of, vaguely, validated when I saw this site for the first time. Validated not so much in the general sense as in my feeling of horror when Red Lobster aired a commercial featuring a tracking shot of lobsters scampering rapidly across the ocean floor to the soundtrack "Nowhere to run to, baby....nowhere to hide." This from a former seafood lover. Anyway, for your perusal and comment, my friends, I offer this. If you dare.

Tuesday, May 1, 2007

Who's the biggest loser?

I am, of course. And not in that lame, reality tv way.

I attempted the Master Cleanse this week. Ten days of syrup, lemon juice, and cayenne, supplemented by a quart of salt water first thing in the morning and some wonderful, cramp-inducing laxative tea. I tried and failed. To my credit, my generous friends B and Q assure me, I made it almost two days on the "lemonade." I like to think of myself as a ~fairly~ hardcore person in that I rarely do things half-assed, so I'm still feeling pretty lame for not being able to make it even two complete days on this cleanse. Some people do it for 40+ days. After something like 43 hours, though, I got absolution from the two people closest to the process, and dove into a rice cake. Exquisite. Then B made delicious tacos with brown rice, beans, red peppers, and his famous guac. I feel human today for the first time in two days. Most, but not all, of the online info I got about it exclaimed about how much energy the cleansers had. How light and clean they felt, how acute their thinking was, and so on and so forth. I felt like my calves were full of concrete, and I had almost no energy. My head felt like it was stuffed with hot, wet, cotton balls. Fully seed-of-doubted, I decided yesterday afternoon that I was going to the gym. After all, the master cleanse is supposed to be enhanced by exercise. You're supposed to exercise while doing it, though that sounds counter-intuitive. Anyway, I really really value my time on the treadmill. Saturday I ran fourteen miles and lifted weights. Add a hot shower, some soft clothes, and a good meal to that and I call it heaven. Yesterday, I went to the gym, hopped on the treadmill, and started to walk. I thought I'd be able to do at least a slow three miles, maybe at 5 (I usually run at about 6.5). I couldn't even run for a minute. I was immediately fatigued and felt like I was going to fall over. Then I tried to lift weights with approximately the same result. All I really wanted to do was stare into space somewhere warm. A bit teary-eyed, I fled the scene of my humiliation. That's when the absolution and rice cake episode began.

Thus endeth the fast. I completely suck. I AM the biggest loser. But I can think clearly again, and I think this might be a ten mile day.

Saturday, April 28, 2007

Oh Bleeding Nun, Bleeding Nun, Wherefore Art Thou, Bleeding Nun?

The latest stop in my sort of chaotic, researchy wanderings has included some plays by that most eminent of the Sturm und Drang persuasion, Friedrich von Schiller. The focus of my inquiry has been thwarted, though. I read, or thought I read somewhere, that the famous Bleeding Nun episode from Lewis's The Monk was borrowed from The Robbers. After reading all of the plays in the collected volume I picked up from the library, though, I'm disappointed in this regard. Not a single bleeding nun to be found amid the thwarted, young heroic barons and mistakenly murdered and wrongly imputed maidens. Not one. However, I've discovered something that Schiller does do remarkably well. Have this for a sample:

"I have been told that the great never know what misery is; that they fly from the knowledge of it. But I will teach the duke what misery is; I will paint to him, in all the writhing agonies of death, what misery is; I will cry aloud, in wailings that shall creep through the very marrow of his bones, what misery is; and, while at my picture his hairs shall stand on end like quills upon the porcupine, will I shriek into his affrighted ear, that in the hour of death the sinews of these mighty gods of earth shall shrivel and shrink, and that at the day of judgment beggars and kings shall be weighed together in the same balance."

And this from sweet Louisa, daughter of the town fiddler and prized primarily--as is typical of the logic of this kind of romance--for her artlessness and innocence. I still want my bleeding nun, but I see what the big deal is.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Ah, Spring!

Annoys me. Or, rather, it predisposes me to annoyance. I friend of mine from some years ago recently blogged about how Spring makes her feel...lascivious isn't quite the right word...randy might be. You know,

"The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies."

(NB: no dolphins splashing in the above, queercat)

For as long as I can remember, though, I do get the characteristic Spring Fever, accompanied by itchy palms and feet, the irrepressible desire to open windows and just BE in outside spaces, the longing to flee. What accompanies it, though, is not the desire to spawn with strangers, but a sudden and deep distaste for the flesh explosion that particularly comes along with warming weather in previous cold climes. Everyone who teaches can identify, I'd imagine. You suddenly come face-to-ass with all that flesh-ness previously hidden under $90 sweat pants and Ugg boots. And, it really isn't just that. Winter brain fog melts into Spring anxiety. At the moment, for example, I'm incredibly annoyed that, while I recalled all three volumes of Edward Long's 1868 History of Jamaica, the library only held Volume 2 for me. I, of course, checked it out and went merrily home, believing that the three had been surely collected in the one quite imposing tome I had received. As it turns out, this isn't the case. Really, though, this is my fault, and this is the place at which curmudgeons--whether Spring feverish or not--go bad. Had I been paying attention, I would no doubt have stumbled home weighed down with all 2000 odd pages of the thing. Instead, I sit here grumpily writing about undergraduate skin folds and the idiocies of library search and hold functions. Clearly, I need a life.

Still, I remember being a freshman (since none of you knew me then, let me paint this picture for you: extremely doughy, long and crazy red hair, facial piercings, chain-smoking, with that mushroomy look one gets from spending virtually all of one's time in a tiny dormroom slogging through the Bible and really anything else that made me feel a little bit less like I was wasting my life) and hating all the healthy hippies with their frizbee and their dogs, making happy homes on the campus quad at the first hint of Spring. Maybe my annoyance is vestigial, but I don't suppose it really matters.

Saturday, April 7, 2007

The Horror...The Horror




I realize that this post should really be entitled, Domestic Antics, part 2, but that didn't really work out so well. The complete lack of privacy during that little trip, complicated and improved by my beloved nephews who have no sense of personal space or time (bless them) rendered further blogging while in the thick of things impractical if not impossible. This means I'll leave you with the image of me stretched out on makeshift bed amid a tumble of laundry in the middle of the night, starving, and doing my best to ignore the inevitable squeaking of the poor hamster's wheel. I, Abject. Suffice it to say, it was lovely to be there and lovely to come home. The intervening eight and a half hour drive through a snow storm that stretched from Virginia to New York was not lovely. When I finally got here, the entire front of my car was covered with a thick crust of ice. It took a whole day of sitting in the sun and my strenuous efforts with an ice scraper to get it off. My ocd was tweaked with satisfaction, though, at the sight. billy, perhaps, can sympathize.

Since then things have been non-stop. My students are alternately adorable and terrifying. The weather is, by turns, lovely and crappy. People seem to be in the collective state of denial generally brought on by winter's death rattle. B, of course, in particular. Two weeks. Christ. Who ever heard of two full weeks of vacation in the middle of the semester? I'm telling you, Buffalonians are soft. In Montana, they never cancelled school no matter how bad the weather was, we only got one week off during Spring semester, and almost nobody went to college or left the state. So there.

I'm sort of on tenterhooks--not that I know what these are--this week. I'm getting ready to hand two very rough chapters in for comments, so I'm officially in self-flagellation mode. Writer's remorse, maybe? Brief periods of placid self-assurance are continuously swept away by a moment of horror in which I think suddenly of the worst thing that could be said to me about my project so far. With an effort, I quell the panic, and sink once again into comfortable denial. Okay, fellow writers, this would be a good moment for you to come clean about your own writerly loathing and, maybe, self-destructive behaviors. Surely, I'm not the only one, right? Ummm. Right? The above picture of one of my favorite horror villains is intended to give you the appropriate, visceral, organ-cringing sensation just in case you don't sympathize.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Domestic Antics, part 1

I name this part one because it seems that the following days must, inevitably, bring a part two. This because I'm spending part of this week visiting my sister and her family in VA. Things have always been a bit nuts here, particularly since their once smallish family has swelled to six (four kids, two parents--though the non-involvement of the father almost merits calling it five and a half). Furthermore, trip to VA always occasion a bit of nostalgia as I recall the little more than a year I once spent living here. It's a long story and one I won't repeat here, particularly since most of you undoubtedly know it. If you don't, you're not missing much. The point, here, is that there is always an element of the uncanny. Usually, it's fairly mild and I experience of few moments in which I sigh for the family experiences (as cool and loving aunt--not, repeat NOT, as mommy [or daddy for that matter]) that I'm missing living so far away and committing the unforgivable sin of having a life of my own so radically different from the one they live here in the Valley (pronounced Shen'n-doh). I've not been here, though, for about a year and a half, and things HAVE changed. My sister opened a small clothing shop downtown where she sells (you guessed it) clothing that she has not always made so much as embellished in her particular way. More time for this and away from the house has been really good for her and she loves her work. All good so far. That bad part is that the domestic chaos that used to greet me when I came for a visit has intensified ten-fold. I'll go into specifics a bit later, but the problem of it strikes me as quite troubling. I've before encountered these scenarios in which a married couple with subordinate whole areas of their home--if not their entire home--to the particular habits and tastes of children. You end up with big, empty spaces with some beaten up furniture lining the walls and toys scattered around the bare, hard floor--carpets no longer being realistic or desirable as things don't roll across them as satisfactorily and they're so much harder to clean. Plus, of course, rug burn. This is largely the case coupled with huge piles of laundry on the floor everywhere, mountains of plastic toys in the bathrooms, and no furniture capable of seating more than one adult at a time. What especially tweaks my 'mudgeon is that they've apparently abandoned (in despair no doubt) the whole project of washing glasses. Now an entire shelf in one cabinet in the kitchen is devoted to plastic cups. Single use brilliance. They use them once and throw them away. Routinely.
So anyway, I got into town yesterday evening, famished and ready to be done driving for a while. I met my sister at her shop because she had suggested we go out for a celebratory welcome drink at the Irish bar across the street. We ended up waiting for some of her friends who do some sort of zany birthday club thing. They were celebrating one of the lady's birthday by staging an episode of "What Not To Wear." You can imagine, perhaps, what happened earlier, but the evening culminated in them converging on my sister's shop where the birthday girl got to design a shirt that my sister will now make for her to her specifications. Unfortunately, they didn't show up for an hour and a half, by which time it was too late to do anything else. We went back to the house and I was told that I should prepare to bunk up with my youngest niece (13, a lovely girl) and my oldest nephew (5, very cute, and a total hellion). This in a tiny bedroom crammed with two twin beds and not even any room for my stuff. Instead, I recruited my nieces to help me set up a bed in an adjoining room containing only some piles of clothes and two chairs. The truly bizarre thing about this is that my sister was truly, deeply shocked (you should have seen the baffled look I got) when I said I didn't want to share the room with the kids. Am I fucking crazy or something? So I made my bed...sort of...and finally settled down to try to sleep when the kids' hamster got to work. Screeak Screeak Screeak Screeak Screeak. I tried to muffle the sound of his late-night aerobics with pillows, hoodies, concentration, exhaustion, and so forth. Finally, after about two hours, I got up and used some fishing line to tie the wheel in such a way that it wouldn't roll under his weight. Then I kept myself up for at least another hour worrying that the frustration might drive him to some desperate measures. I pictured my teary-eyed niece asking me why I drove her hamster crazy after he spent the night dive-bombing off the top of the wheel trying vainly to move it. What would a hamster do when pushed to the limits? I'm going to hell for sure.

Friday, March 9, 2007

Hoo-Haw Monologue

So maybe I know what you're thinking...long time, no blogging? Indeed. I've been trying to spare you all from my utter lack of inspiration that otherwise might drive me to blog about really annoying, petty quirkiness. Today, though, after unwisely and sort of accidentally drinking too much whiskey last night and keeping my poor sick girlfriend up longer than necessary by yammering at her about something or another, I'm feeling properly inspired.

It was conference week with my students. I decided, in direct contradiction to my usual way of handling graded papers (I throw them at my students while they're filing out the door) to give them back during the conference itself. This provided my students with the opportunity to emote and directly vent any grievances immediately and to my face. I was a bit worried about how this might go, having once (and ONLY once) given a papers back at the beginning of class and had to face an hour's worth of stony silence--an experience I will never repeat. Lesson learned. I'm happy to say that it went quite well, with the exception of one student who laughed at his A, claiming that he wrote the essay right before class, and who complained that we only read essays about racism--patently untrue, by the way. The rest of my students were remarkably positive and it ended up being a good experience. I think I'll repeat it in the future, unless I have a recurrence of the horror comp class. If you know me well, you know what I'm referring to here.

In other news, I saw a segment on the Tod
ay show about some students who were facing suspension at their high school for saying the word "vagina" at a school sponsored public event. Apparently, the three girls were doing some sort of performance that involved reading a passage from, you guessed it, the Vagina Monologues. They were directly told that they must either not perform or expunge the stanza from Ensler's book containing the offensive word. Of course, they did it anyway. The Today show hosted the three girls, the school's superintendent, and Eve Ensler to talk--quite briefly--about what happened. They claimed that an other performance had included the word "fuck" and had received no such prohibition of punishment (they are facing a one day suspension for "insubordination"). The reason for objecting to the word, which Katie Couric kindly reminded Ensler that some people do indeed find objectionable, was that there would be families and children present. SAVE the Child-wen! Protect innocence! This is almost as good as the theater that put on a performance of the Vagina Monologues, but who opted to advertise them, rather, as the "Hoo-Haw Monologues." For reals.

Monday, March 5, 2007

BOO!


Seriously, I'll write something of my own soon. This was just a bit too much to pass up.

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Snowflakes, Snowflakes, Read All About Them!

This just in...

By DAVID CRARY, AP National WriterTue Feb 27, 12:32 AM ET

Today's college students are more narcissistic and self-centered than their predecessors, according to a comprehensive new study by five psychologists who worry that the trend could be harmful to personal relationships and American society.

"We need to stop endlessly repeating 'You're special' and having children repeat that back," said the study's lead author, Professor Jean Twenge of San Diego State University. "Kids are self-centered enough already."

Twenge and her colleagues, in findings to be presented at a workshop Tuesday in San Diego on the generation gap, examined the responses of 16,475 college students nationwide who completed an evaluation called the Narcissistic Personality Inventory between 1982 and 2006.

The standardized inventory, known as the NPI, asks for responses to such statements as "If I ruled the world, it would be a better place," "I think I am a special person" and "I can live my life any way I want to."

The researchers describe their study as the largest ever of its type and say students' NPI scores have risen steadily since the current test was introduced in 1982. By 2006, they said, two-thirds of the students had above-average scores, 30 percent more than in 1982.

Narcissism can have benefits, said study co-author W. Keith Campbell of the University of Georgia, suggesting it could be useful in meeting new people "or auditioning on 'American Idol.'"

"Unfortunately, narcissism can also have very negative consequences for society, including the breakdown of close relationships with others," he said.

The study asserts that narcissists "are more likely to have romantic relationships that are short-lived, at risk for infidelity, lack emotional warmth, and to exhibit game-playing, dishonesty, and over-controlling and violent behaviors."

Twenge, the author of "Generation Me: Why Today's Young Americans Are More Confident, Assertive, Entitled — and More Miserable Than Ever Before," said narcissists tend to lack empathy, react aggressively to criticism and favor self-promotion over helping others.

The researchers traced the phenomenon back to what they called the "self-esteem movement" that emerged in the 1980s, asserting that the effort to build self-confidence had gone too far.

As an example, Twenge cited a song commonly sung to the tune of "Frere Jacques" in preschool: "I am special, I am special. Look at me."

"Current technology fuels the increase in narcissism," Twenge said. "By its very name, MySpace encourages attention-seeking, as does YouTube."

Some analysts have commended today's young people for increased commitment to volunteer work. But Twenge viewed even this phenomenon skeptically, noting that many high schools require community service and many youths feel pressure to list such endeavors on college applications.

Campbell said the narcissism upsurge seemed so pronounced that he was unsure if there were obvious remedies.

"Permissiveness seems to be a component," he said. "A potential antidote would be more authoritative parenting. Less indulgence might be called for."

The new report follows a study released by UCLA last month which found that nearly three-quarters of the freshmen it surveyed thought it was important to be "very well-off financially." That compared with 62.5 percent who said the same in 1980 and 42 percent in 1966.

Yet students, while acknowledging some legitimacy to such findings, don't necessarily accept negative generalizations about their generation.

Hanady Kader, a University of Washington senior, said she worked unpaid last summer helping resettle refugees and considers many of her peers to be civic-minded. But she is dismayed by the competitiveness of some students who seem prematurely focused on career status.

"We're encouraged a lot to be individuals and go out there and do what you want, and nobody should stand in your way," Kader said. "I can see goals and ambitions getting in the way of other things like relationships."

Kari Dalane, a University of Vermont sophomore, says most of her contemporaries are politically active and not overly self-centered.

"People are worried about themselves — but in the sense of where are they're going to find a place in the world," she said. "People want to look their best, have a good time, but it doesn't mean they're not concerned about the rest of the world."

Besides, some of the responses on the narcissism test might not be worrisome, Dalane said. "It would be more depressing if people answered, 'No, I'm not special.'"

Saturday, February 24, 2007

I, Mudgeon


So, yeah. It was a day of fighting off my own inner 'mudgeon. She's a bit singular, as the 'mudgeons tend to be, considered narrowly. Considered broadly, it is her imagination of her singularity that constitutes the very soul of the 'mudgeonliness. Permit me sloppily to quote one of my favorite wide-mouthed vixens: "Every schmo as the fantasy that the world revolves around the them. It rains. A car crash stops traffic. You say 'How could this happen to me.'" How indeed. C and I were just talking about these candid interviews that various shows (remember Street Smarts anyone? . . . um... anyone?) air where a camera crew asks seemingly common sense questions to people on the street, and we all get to chuckle at how shockingly ill-informed the American public is. It's a fun game, and helps cultivate a bit of the 'mudge in even your average, similarly shockingly-informed TV audience.

Anyway. Yes. A day for battling my 'mudge. Made all the more difficult by challenging myself to read the majority of Said's Culture and Imperialism. (On a mostly unrelated side note, for some reason I find this incredibly difficult to say. The syllables want to glide together in my mouth, inevitably coming out something like "cultulal imperialism") I almost made it, too. I let my self stop a few minutes ago to make dinner, rationalizing my slacking by owning silently up the fact that after 200+ pages, nothing the honorable Said wrote was any longer penetrating my rock hard 'mudgeonly cranium. The last forty pages will have to wait until another day.

What else? I have no idea, except that the bandying about of this film keep bringing to mind another film with a structurally similar title. If you haven't seen it, you might want to.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Chapter 2ish

Clearly, rock isn't dead. And for that matter, neither is punk, metal, industrial, gothic, etc. Those of you who would make such a proclamation must do so repeatedly and quietly, lest the rising hysteria of your assertions attract too much of the wrong kind of attention and throw suspicion on your project. I feel your fear. It's much too quiet out there in the world of adulthood. We miss the louder, more raucous days of our youths with all the eyeliner and the fuck-the-system sentiment. I know, I miss it too. Where the hell do all these 18 year olds get off talking about punk anyway? Since when is Hot Topic an authentic subcultural shopping mecca? This is a frightening world, my friends. These are frightening times. But I digress. . . What I mean to say is, rock is alive and well. For evidence of this fact, I need only urge you to navigate to the following URL. You will at once be overcome and astounded, and, I hope, in time, filled with hope: http://www.metalmontana.com/index.php . Let this put an end, once and for all, to the epitaphs for real music. Now I must go make cookies. Respectfully submitted, asenath.

Saturday, February 17, 2007

Thursday, February 15, 2007

Apocalyptic Ape-Men?

Incidentally, if I've subjected you to this dream-like, meandering description of a film I vaguely remember seeing thanks to my father's (thankfully) questionable judgment as to what constitutes appropriate viewing for children (A & T, take note), you might want to check this out: http://monsterhunter.coldfusionvideo.com/2019.html. I do not make this shit up. Now look into Mina's eyes.... deeper....deeper....

Fe-Mina Simone, AKA...

She looks sweet, doesn't she? C and I this morning were calling her hell-beast because she apparently took a disinclination to letting us sleep. She tried to bite my earlets out of my ears, puked on the kitchen floor, and harassed C out of bed rather earlier than she was hoping. This in addition to here usual game of plant-eating and trying in vain to open the closet door. I can't blame her for trying, I suppose, since it is the place in the whole apartment where she is most likely to want to be: dark, quiet, out of the way, vaguely musty, lots of shoes and clothes for her to cover with a stubborn coat of white fluff. In one of my old dwellings, she would crawl inside the furnace, which was bizarrely mounted on the wall. It was very disconcerting to me, but there wasn't much I could do about it.

See the look of insane determination? It's all in the eyes, see. Stare too long, and you, too, will be doing her bidding.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Two Nightmares about Teaching

1. The night before last: I was hanging out at a lunch table outside at some university campus. You know how geography smears into a weird bricolage of impressions of various places? So, yeah, I think it was a mixture of UB and UM, not that this is SO very important. Anyway, I'm at this table, probably doing research (because, what the hell else would I be doing?) and I suddenly have to leave right away. There's a younger guy sitting at the table as well, but I barely look at him. Anyway, I get up, gather my books, and leave right away. THEN I realize that, shit, I'm not wearing my glasses and I definitely had them at the table. I go back there, only to find a new group of students at the table. I ask them if they've seen my glasses, and they produce a pair that they found sitting on the table after the guy who was sharing it with me left. A light dawns and I suddenly know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this guy schemed in order to switch my glasses with his, which aren't even close to my prescription. I'm enraged, fuming, really, as angry as I can ever remember having been in my life. I know that new glasses right now (since I already used up my once a year free lenses and reduced fee schedule for frames) would cost me at least $300. I can't even think too clearly about that, though, because I'm so angry. Then, miraculously, campus police show up because they've apprehended the guilty party who is, indeed, wearing my comparatively quite stylish glasses. I'm so filled with rage that I start slapping him across the face repeatedly, calling him every bad thing I can think of, and it isn't doing anything to quell my anger. He just stares at me with this slight smile, totally unbothered. He's one of my students this semester.

2. Another miscellaneous college setting that, for some reason, I think is Illinois. I've never been there and perhaps that's why this dream is set there. It's a weird time. The sitting is being bombed by some enemy forces of some sort, and people keep assuring me that when they call in the leafblowers it will all be okay. A huge plane kind of collapses into the ground, killing everyone aboard, which was supposed to include me. But I'm teaching in this private high school, with the same students I have now. I'm trying to lecture about something, and one of my students keeps talking. I ask him once to stop, nicely, and then I slam my fist into the desk and tell him he needs to shut up while I'm talking. Everyone is completely horrified, the class ends, and the next teacher comes in. The offended student walks up to her, because she is my superior, and tells her (she's really one of C's past professors in AMS) that I struck him. The next thing I know, the school is considering firing me for hitting and student and I know that I'll never get another job if this happens. Meanwhile, people outside the university are freaking out about getting enough food, and these weird little gadgets that make polluted water drinkable. The funny thing is that I don't think I've ever even heard this particular student speak.


Everyone bored now?