Near the Blockbuster I go to, there's a new store, or a store with a new sign, or a sign I've never noticed before. The store/restaurant is simply called "Fish and Chicken," and it has two of those little cloth men on air vents in front of it (so they look like they're waving). Next to the bright red neon sign are several other blobs of neon, which may just be decorations, or may be symbols of some vaguely Asiatic origin. I'm not sure. But I am tempted to go get some chicken. But not fish. I'm not that crazy.
Anyway, I'm sick, and I have a headache, and I have an outline due tomorrow for a paper I have no clear idea about, so naturally I'm here blogging. Once I finish blogging, I plan to sleep. I plan to dose myself liberally with Nyquil, and hope that when I awake, my cold will be gone, as will my headache, and I will magically have a clear view of my paper. What can I say? I'm an optimist.
If said idea does not come through, I don't really care that much. The entire Vietnam War was a morass, why should my paper on said war be any different? This is excuse #3 I have to offer the professor. #1 is I'm sick, cut me some slack. #2 is I'm not a history grad student, and I have no idea how to write a history grad student paper. And then there's #4, which is I'm almost a dissertator and I just don't give a damn about your paper, as it's only for my minor, which is very small in the grand scheme of things. So back off.
I've noted I'm becoming increasingly hostile to the world of academia, or at least that part of it that thinks I still need to take classes. This is especially apparent in my other minor course, where I have dreams (during the lectures) of telling off the professor, critiquing his absolute failure to understand any basic pedagogical skills, lecturing skills, public speaking skills, or even any concept of what it means to study or teach history. In these fantasies, I then take over teaching the lecture just to prove I could do it better, even without any prior knowledge of the subject, and I do, to thunderous applause. Then I look up, realize only five minutes have passed, and he's still reading names off a sheet and telling us who they are. (I kid you not. It's like a study sheet for an exam, but that's the entire lecture, apart from him showing us pointless slides and rambling incoherently about common historical knowledge like the Boston Tea Party.) Then I die a little inside, because I know this will make the rest of my Tuesday or Thursday all the more crippling to me. Ask my office mates. I am positively hateful when I come out of that class.
Studio 60 was much better tonight. I really recommend it now. Echoes of Sports Night, which was always prime tv (or at least it was when I caught it in reruns on Comedy Central at 1:00 am).
Ok, that's all for me. If I'm not heard from after tomorrow, it's because my professor has killed me. And he could, too. This man traveled with guerrillas in Laos. He's on the CIA's angry list. He could probably kill me with a pen. And he gives a mean lecture (which I rarely appreciate, seeing as how I'm in such a bad mood from my earlier lecture).
In closing, some words of wisdom I heard on the radio tonight, as I took back my rental of Inside Man (which is excellent, watch it):
Do you believe in life after love?
I can feel something inside me saying, "I really don't think I'm strong enough."
Hah. Now it's stuck in your head, too. Feel my pain.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Monday, September 18, 2006
And so it begins
With the advent of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, I enter the new season of unheralded television addiction. This season marks the first time ever I will watch at least one show regularly for more than two nights a week. Whether that makes me somewhat of a problem or more like the majority of Americans, I can't say. I do know it makes me a man who doesn't care at all about his academics yet, and probably won't until at least another month has passed, or I have failed out. Either way, I blame prelims, as I can no longer read anything for more than a half hour without getting horribly irritated.
So anyway, my breakdown:
Monday: Studio 60. I missed out on Sports Night. I missed out on The West Wing. I've caught both of them in reruns, and loved the few episodes I've seen. I'm not missing out on this Sorkin project. Besides, Matthew Perry was always the best of the Friends, Steven Weber was the high point of Wings (though Tony Shaloub was cool), and that little dude from West Wing is pretty awesome too. The pilot was entertaining, but not mind-blowing. We'll see.
Tuesday: Veronica Mars. Bless you, CW, for bringing this show to network tv.
Wednesday: Lost. No surprise there. And Abrams is coming back to write and direct again.
Thursday: My problem day. Smallville and Supernatural on the CW, vs. Grey's Anatomy on ABC. Well, that's why God invented the VCR. Though it is odd that all the shows I watch because they're kind of good rather than really good are on Thursdays. (I know some of my readers may disagree about Grey's, but it gets repetitive with its use of voiceovers and pop music, which can distract.)
Friday: Drinking and partying. No room for tv.
Saturday: See Friday.
Sunday: I get up every week at 7:00 and do a little dance because Charmed is no longer on the air. Seriously, worst. show. ever.
So anyway, my breakdown:
Monday: Studio 60. I missed out on Sports Night. I missed out on The West Wing. I've caught both of them in reruns, and loved the few episodes I've seen. I'm not missing out on this Sorkin project. Besides, Matthew Perry was always the best of the Friends, Steven Weber was the high point of Wings (though Tony Shaloub was cool), and that little dude from West Wing is pretty awesome too. The pilot was entertaining, but not mind-blowing. We'll see.
Tuesday: Veronica Mars. Bless you, CW, for bringing this show to network tv.
Wednesday: Lost. No surprise there. And Abrams is coming back to write and direct again.
Thursday: My problem day. Smallville and Supernatural on the CW, vs. Grey's Anatomy on ABC. Well, that's why God invented the VCR. Though it is odd that all the shows I watch because they're kind of good rather than really good are on Thursdays. (I know some of my readers may disagree about Grey's, but it gets repetitive with its use of voiceovers and pop music, which can distract.)
Friday: Drinking and partying. No room for tv.
Saturday: See Friday.
Sunday: I get up every week at 7:00 and do a little dance because Charmed is no longer on the air. Seriously, worst. show. ever.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Dubs and the Goblet of Fire
Yes. I know. It's been a while. Freakin' Bourbon Samurai posted something more recently than me. I apologize.
This post's title has little to do with Harry Potter, and nothing to do with a particular tale of drunken escapades and insanity (a story I feel I tell far too often anyway). Rather, as the new school year starts, I realized that I am starting my fourth year here in Madison. That's as long as I was at Northwestern. As long as high school. More pertinently, that's akin to three defeats of Voldemort or his cronies, not to mention countless quidditch matches and hijinks. And what have I done in those three years? What can I look back upon, now that I'm entering my Goblet of Fire year?
Well, I passed prelims for one. Suck it, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
My Madison friends know, so this info is largely for my NU readers. I am now preparing to start my dissertation, my own version of the Triwizard Tournament, which lasts for several years and rewards me not with any large monetary reward (certainly not enough to start a Weasley brother joke shop), but with the honorific "doctor" before my name. But that's all in good time.
Since prelims ended, we've been partying and preparing for year four. I went on a fishing trip with the fam (driving through, amusingly, Bourbon, Missouri, home of the Bourbon Family Fun Center and the Bourbon RV Dealership), mocked Fangirl when she lost her wedding ring (proving, as I claimed, that God does not support alternative lifestyle choices such as hers), and began teaching literature yet again, praise be to Allah. I am currently taking two lecture courses to complete my minor, one of which seems to rock and one which seems to not, and I imagine soon I shall gather my forces for a foray into the world of prolonged academic research that will result in the grail of grails, the Dissertation Proposal.
So that's me for now. More forthcoming, I promise, with frequent updates.
Finally, a report on this year's crop of students:
Of the 52 I surveyed today, 28 claim that Batman would beat Samuel L. Jackson in a fight, whilst 21 claim Mr. Jackson could best the Caped Crusader, and three remained undecided. Most cite the Dark Knight's gadgets as his trump card, not to mention an ability to fly that I was heretofore unaware of. Although some feel that Batman's emotional instability is a weakness Jackson can exploit to his advantage. Or that, had Jackson the same resources as Bruce Wayne, he'd be a formidable opponent. Here are some choice comments:
"Samuel L. Jackson, of course. He'll kill you just as soon as look at you."
"Jackson, because in the later Batman movies he had nipples on his suit."
"They would both kill each other."
"Neither. They would join forces to fight Godzilla and Mothra."
"Samuel L. Jackson would because Batman is mortal, unlike Jackson."
"Did you SEE Snakes on a Plane?"
"Batman, but not the Val Kilmer or George Clooney version."
"Batman; Samuel L. Jackson is only a man. Batman is only a man as well but he has a childhood experience involving bats that drives him to win."
"Batman because he was trained in the orient to kick ass plus he's got a sweet utility belt."
"Hopefully Sam can kill George Clooney Batman."
"The people watching this fight are the real winners here."
This post's title has little to do with Harry Potter, and nothing to do with a particular tale of drunken escapades and insanity (a story I feel I tell far too often anyway). Rather, as the new school year starts, I realized that I am starting my fourth year here in Madison. That's as long as I was at Northwestern. As long as high school. More pertinently, that's akin to three defeats of Voldemort or his cronies, not to mention countless quidditch matches and hijinks. And what have I done in those three years? What can I look back upon, now that I'm entering my Goblet of Fire year?
Well, I passed prelims for one. Suck it, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
My Madison friends know, so this info is largely for my NU readers. I am now preparing to start my dissertation, my own version of the Triwizard Tournament, which lasts for several years and rewards me not with any large monetary reward (certainly not enough to start a Weasley brother joke shop), but with the honorific "doctor" before my name. But that's all in good time.
Since prelims ended, we've been partying and preparing for year four. I went on a fishing trip with the fam (driving through, amusingly, Bourbon, Missouri, home of the Bourbon Family Fun Center and the Bourbon RV Dealership), mocked Fangirl when she lost her wedding ring (proving, as I claimed, that God does not support alternative lifestyle choices such as hers), and began teaching literature yet again, praise be to Allah. I am currently taking two lecture courses to complete my minor, one of which seems to rock and one which seems to not, and I imagine soon I shall gather my forces for a foray into the world of prolonged academic research that will result in the grail of grails, the Dissertation Proposal.
So that's me for now. More forthcoming, I promise, with frequent updates.
Finally, a report on this year's crop of students:
Of the 52 I surveyed today, 28 claim that Batman would beat Samuel L. Jackson in a fight, whilst 21 claim Mr. Jackson could best the Caped Crusader, and three remained undecided. Most cite the Dark Knight's gadgets as his trump card, not to mention an ability to fly that I was heretofore unaware of. Although some feel that Batman's emotional instability is a weakness Jackson can exploit to his advantage. Or that, had Jackson the same resources as Bruce Wayne, he'd be a formidable opponent. Here are some choice comments:
"Samuel L. Jackson, of course. He'll kill you just as soon as look at you."
"Jackson, because in the later Batman movies he had nipples on his suit."
"They would both kill each other."
"Neither. They would join forces to fight Godzilla and Mothra."
"Samuel L. Jackson would because Batman is mortal, unlike Jackson."
"Did you SEE Snakes on a Plane?"
"Batman, but not the Val Kilmer or George Clooney version."
"Batman; Samuel L. Jackson is only a man. Batman is only a man as well but he has a childhood experience involving bats that drives him to win."
"Batman because he was trained in the orient to kick ass plus he's got a sweet utility belt."
"Hopefully Sam can kill George Clooney Batman."
"The people watching this fight are the real winners here."
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Risk Rules
1. Australia is the key to victory.
2. Madagascar is the Australia of Africa.
3. Japan is the Madagascar of Asia.
4. Quebec is the Japan of North America.
5. One soldier in Egypt is Duane "The Rock" Johnson as the Scorpion King.
6. Two or more soldiers in Egypt include Michael Clarke Duncan and the Gigolo.
7. One soldier in Alberta is Wolverine. Best at what he does when his back's against the wall.
8. Two or more soldiers in Alberta is Alpha Flight, there to support Wolvie.
9. Quebec houses the Prince of Canada, Wayne Gretzky.
10. However, he often has a body double stand in for him, and thus becomes the floating monarch, capable of popping up in any country.
11. When conquering Western United States, you are always doing it to go sleep with Catherine Zeta Jones.
12. Ukraine is weak.
13. Never get involved in a land war in Asia.
(These rules brought to you by many games of Risk at NU, and offered up in honor of Brownsox, who is going to Madagascar apparently.)
2. Madagascar is the Australia of Africa.
3. Japan is the Madagascar of Asia.
4. Quebec is the Japan of North America.
5. One soldier in Egypt is Duane "The Rock" Johnson as the Scorpion King.
6. Two or more soldiers in Egypt include Michael Clarke Duncan and the Gigolo.
7. One soldier in Alberta is Wolverine. Best at what he does when his back's against the wall.
8. Two or more soldiers in Alberta is Alpha Flight, there to support Wolvie.
9. Quebec houses the Prince of Canada, Wayne Gretzky.
10. However, he often has a body double stand in for him, and thus becomes the floating monarch, capable of popping up in any country.
11. When conquering Western United States, you are always doing it to go sleep with Catherine Zeta Jones.
12. Ukraine is weak.
13. Never get involved in a land war in Asia.
(These rules brought to you by many games of Risk at NU, and offered up in honor of Brownsox, who is going to Madagascar apparently.)
Friday, August 18, 2006
What the....?
Ok, my new "Stupidest Thing I've Seen on a Car."
First, I didn't think there could be anything stupider than an SUV Limo.
Then, I thought that could only be beaten by that stupid car that looks like the front end of a car with a rectangle for a back. I forget the name, but it looks like a freakin cube attached to the back of the car, in perhaps the most un-aerodynamic and unstylish design ever.
Today, however, I saw something that beat them both: spinning hubcaps.
Why on God's green Earth did some moron feel the need to keep his (and I'm almost positive this is a guy's invention, cause women generally aren't that stupid about their cars [except as drivers]) hubcaps spinning, even when the car is at rest? I mean, that's the sort of extra drain I would want to be putting on my batteries, considering how expensive gas is these days and how cars are already causing energy problems in America. And furthermore, it's patently unsafe! One of the first things my sainted father (who learned to drive on the mean streets of the Chicago ghettos) taught me behind the wheel was that you can always tell when some moron is about to ignore your right of way or run a stop sign by checking to see if his hubcaps are turning, or starting to turn. They're infinitely easier to spy than the wheels themselves, much more distinctive due to the usual markings, logos, or spokes on them (which are easily distinguished at rest or in motion), and just one quick way to keep yourself from getting killed by all the moron drivers out there.
Well, now the morons have come up with a way to counter that. You go, morons.
I imagine that eventually this will help in some evolutionary, Darwinian "Survival of the Fittest" process involving drivers, and the truly savvy of us will have to adapt. Unless we're so distracted by the constantly spinning hubcaps that we're all hypnotized, and run off the road.
I swear, sometimes I just want to mount a bazooka on my hood.
(Nothing else new to report. Prelims on Monday, studying hard, no wacky adventures.)
First, I didn't think there could be anything stupider than an SUV Limo.
Then, I thought that could only be beaten by that stupid car that looks like the front end of a car with a rectangle for a back. I forget the name, but it looks like a freakin cube attached to the back of the car, in perhaps the most un-aerodynamic and unstylish design ever.
Today, however, I saw something that beat them both: spinning hubcaps.
Why on God's green Earth did some moron feel the need to keep his (and I'm almost positive this is a guy's invention, cause women generally aren't that stupid about their cars [except as drivers]) hubcaps spinning, even when the car is at rest? I mean, that's the sort of extra drain I would want to be putting on my batteries, considering how expensive gas is these days and how cars are already causing energy problems in America. And furthermore, it's patently unsafe! One of the first things my sainted father (who learned to drive on the mean streets of the Chicago ghettos) taught me behind the wheel was that you can always tell when some moron is about to ignore your right of way or run a stop sign by checking to see if his hubcaps are turning, or starting to turn. They're infinitely easier to spy than the wheels themselves, much more distinctive due to the usual markings, logos, or spokes on them (which are easily distinguished at rest or in motion), and just one quick way to keep yourself from getting killed by all the moron drivers out there.
Well, now the morons have come up with a way to counter that. You go, morons.
I imagine that eventually this will help in some evolutionary, Darwinian "Survival of the Fittest" process involving drivers, and the truly savvy of us will have to adapt. Unless we're so distracted by the constantly spinning hubcaps that we're all hypnotized, and run off the road.
I swear, sometimes I just want to mount a bazooka on my hood.
(Nothing else new to report. Prelims on Monday, studying hard, no wacky adventures.)
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Tales from the Archives: Glory Days
This past Sunday, to commemmorate the Lady in Black's departure from Madison, she, The Puncher, and myself went to White Castle and 7-11. From Madison, that's a two hour drive each way, but with satellite radio and a little ingenuity, it can be a grand trip. Sadly, my companions did not appreciate the glory of Whitey's in the way I do (I believe the word each used was "vile"), but a quick trip to the nearby 7-11 for slurpees helped rectify things. Technically we got lost, but we were always headed in the correct direction, and serendipitously found the 7-11 without incident. Just goes to show, never trust directions from 7-11.com.
Anyway, in honor of that trip, I offer this far more amusing tale of an earlier White Castle run, in the glory days of my youth. (Not that this trip wasn't amusing, but it was a more "you had to be there" amusing.)
The time: December of 1998, a few days after Christmas.
The place: St. Louis, South Side.
Characters
Dubs, a young Northwestern freshman, back home for the holidays.
Kolya: Dubs' friend from high school, a fellow scholar of the Russian language and a thespian. See "zany" in the OED for further description.
Dr. H: Another friend from high school, a fellow thespian. Generally the straight man of the group, relatively speaking.
Nurseman: Ditto on the high school thing, cohort in many zany activities, including the yearly trips to Cuba (Missouri, not the island).
Preacher: Ditto, ditto. A rather religious fellow, despite the conflict of Catholic doctrine with his own alternative lifestyle choice. Generally abused (good-naturedly) by the above.
Some girl, a friend of Preacher, who I never saw again.
So it was about three days after Christmas, and it being St. Louis, there wasn't a lot to do. Our hero communicated with Kolya in an attempt to spark some post-holiday hijinks, and was told to meet at Kolya's house, where events were being set in motion. Sadly, this would not turn out to be the case, as this group couldn't come up with anything interesting to do, as there were no more good movies to see (this was the winter of Titanic). So Preacher offers up the option of going to a coffee shop down in the Loop (alternative side of town, a small district that tries to be the Madison of the city). And since we, at that moment, had no other ideas, we agreed. We split into the following cars: Kolya, myself, and Nurseman in the lead car, Preacher, Dr. H, and the random girl in the following. Keep this order in mind, lest nothing that follows seem strange or miraculous.
Now, as soon as we closed the door to our car, Nurseman rather vehemently states "I don't want to go to no f***ing coffee shop. I want to go someplace fun!" I naturally concurred, as I don't drink coffee and, at the time, didn't habitually frequent coffee shops at all, looking upon them as bourgeoise wannabe hippie (I believe the technical term is BoBo, or Bohemian Bourgeoise), so I offered up the workingman's alternative of White Castle. (Please understand that we are all upper middle class white men, all college students, who went together to an elite college prep high school, so there really was no actual class struggle being enacted here.) Well, since this was before the age of cell phones, we couldn't communicate our desire to our chums, so we decided to lead them to Whitey's eventually. Our "eventually," of course, began with a circuitous route through Forest Park, the uber-large park smack in the middle of St. Louis (our version of Central Park). The park really wasn't on the way to either WC or the Loop, but we were young and full of energy, and our parents still paid for our gas, so we went with it.
We led them on a merry chase through the park, and lost them at the circle in the middle of the park, which we proceeded to go around and around and around, a la European Vacation. I believe they broke off after the fifth rotation, while we continued on for a good six or seven more times around. We were now separated in a large, dark city park, so natuarlly we drove around looking for our compatriots. We got lost and nearly ran into the remodling of the Art Museum, while apparently our friends nearly got carjacked by a strange man who started following their vehicle on foot. We met back up after about 20-25 minutes, exchanged our brief stories, and promised to lead them straight on to the Loop, which we did.
Well, kinda. I believe the route we took was generally straight, although we did nearly frighten them to death by turning left from the far right lane, across their nose, determined to maintain our lead position. I believe we were trying to force them into following us to Whitey's by not turning, but when they didn't take the bait, we cut them off to prove our dominance. We arrived at the Loop, but since this is St. Louis, all the coffee shops were closed, except Starbucks, which we (sadly) went to, thus negating the entire point of going to the Loop in the first place. Practically crowing our superiority, Nurseman and I put in another bid for Castles, and they grudgingly acquiesced.
The particular White Castle we were headed for was back entirely the way we had come, right near Kolya's house, so it was a bit of a drive. During that portion of the trip, we concluded that Dr. H needed to be in our car, not theirs, so at a stop sign Nurseman and I jumped out of our car, mobbed Preacher's, and started slamming on the windshield to get the Dr. to join us. Naturally, he was confused by our antics, but determined to stay loyal to his (far lamer) car. As we were in a semi-dangerous part of town at this point, and two very conspicuously white gentlemen, we returned to our car and continued our trek. Along the way, I believe we did two Chinese fire drills, much to the consternation of our followers. After that, we proceeded to ride the "fun lane," which is what Kolya calls riding in the far right lane of a major thoroughfare at about 70 mph (speed limit 35). Since it's a heavily traveled road, the right lane, adjacent to the curb, is full of bumps, dips, and other bits of uneven road, so we bounce and jounce and generally destroy the shocks of his car. Again, our followers were less than amused.
We arrived at White Castle and demolished our respective portions of sliders, fries, and chicken rings. Gloriously sated by our descent into carnivorality, we decided then to go back the way we had come, to the Anheisur-Busch Brewery, to look at their Christmas Light display. As we were leaving, we saw two cop cars pull into the drive-thru, which led to Nurseman's now mythic statement "I didn't know pigs ate Castles! I thought they only ate doughnuts!" We, of course, burst out laughing, until we realized that our windows were down, and the aforementioned pigs were looking right at us. Oops. We quickly exited before they received their food, and proceeded to the Brewery to partake in some holiday cheer.
Exiting the display, our trailing car decided to take the lead and repay us for our own earlier behavior. Only they didn't have a roundabout drive to circle, so they found the next best thing: Busch Stadium. It's one big circle smack dab in the middle of downtown, and we circled it three or four times before they realized they couldn't shake us. We somehow forced our way back into the lead position, and, since it was late by this point, headed back South, to drop off Dr. H and the girl. Heading down I-55, we decided to finally pull the gloves off and really mess with the trailing car. So Kolya starts motoring, blasting down the highway at around 95 mph, leaving Preacher in our wake. We got fairly far ahead, pulled off the highway, did an inverse U-turn (on a fairly heavily-trafficked street), waited a few minutes, and got back on the highway, hoping to catch up with the other (now leading) car. This we did, right at the interchange onto highway 270, which is a left turn on ramp that calls for a roughly 45 mph speed and which we took at about 70, passing our friends on the inside and waving to them frantically (nearly scaring them off the road, or so we were told later).
We followed them back to the girl's house, where they tried to lead us on a chase through the maze-like subdivision. Unbeknownst to them, however, was that this bit of suburbia was well-knownst to me, as my aunt and uncle once lived there, and we visited often to use their community pool. So we foreswore their childish game and left them, heading back to Dr. H's house. Beating them by a good 5-10 minutes, we parked the car out of sight, ran back and hid behind the house (no fence, God bless it). I took one side, Kolya took the other, while Nurseman waited until their car arrived and utilized his stealthiness to circle behind their car. They sat in the car talking for a moment, and on signal, we three dashed madly from our respective hiding places, screaming and slamming our hands onto their windows, frightening them nearly to death.
That pretty much concluded our trip. Kolya took me back to my car, at his house, which was the last bit of irony, considering Dr. H's house was about 5 minutes away from my own. But like I said, we didn't pay for the gas, so we didn't care. That is, without a doubt, the most epic White Castle night I've ever been a part of, and hopefully helps to explain my deep love and nostalgia for the place. (And Kolya, Nurseman, Preacher, or Dr. H, if any of you are reading this and wish to add, please feel free. I'm sure I've forgotten something.)
Next time: Another White Castle incident, involving Skinny and his compatriot, the jug of gin, and our attempt to barter one of our female friends for said jug of gin.
Anyway, in honor of that trip, I offer this far more amusing tale of an earlier White Castle run, in the glory days of my youth. (Not that this trip wasn't amusing, but it was a more "you had to be there" amusing.)
The time: December of 1998, a few days after Christmas.
The place: St. Louis, South Side.
Characters
Dubs, a young Northwestern freshman, back home for the holidays.
Kolya: Dubs' friend from high school, a fellow scholar of the Russian language and a thespian. See "zany" in the OED for further description.
Dr. H: Another friend from high school, a fellow thespian. Generally the straight man of the group, relatively speaking.
Nurseman: Ditto on the high school thing, cohort in many zany activities, including the yearly trips to Cuba (Missouri, not the island).
Preacher: Ditto, ditto. A rather religious fellow, despite the conflict of Catholic doctrine with his own alternative lifestyle choice. Generally abused (good-naturedly) by the above.
Some girl, a friend of Preacher, who I never saw again.
So it was about three days after Christmas, and it being St. Louis, there wasn't a lot to do. Our hero communicated with Kolya in an attempt to spark some post-holiday hijinks, and was told to meet at Kolya's house, where events were being set in motion. Sadly, this would not turn out to be the case, as this group couldn't come up with anything interesting to do, as there were no more good movies to see (this was the winter of Titanic). So Preacher offers up the option of going to a coffee shop down in the Loop (alternative side of town, a small district that tries to be the Madison of the city). And since we, at that moment, had no other ideas, we agreed. We split into the following cars: Kolya, myself, and Nurseman in the lead car, Preacher, Dr. H, and the random girl in the following. Keep this order in mind, lest nothing that follows seem strange or miraculous.
Now, as soon as we closed the door to our car, Nurseman rather vehemently states "I don't want to go to no f***ing coffee shop. I want to go someplace fun!" I naturally concurred, as I don't drink coffee and, at the time, didn't habitually frequent coffee shops at all, looking upon them as bourgeoise wannabe hippie (I believe the technical term is BoBo, or Bohemian Bourgeoise), so I offered up the workingman's alternative of White Castle. (Please understand that we are all upper middle class white men, all college students, who went together to an elite college prep high school, so there really was no actual class struggle being enacted here.) Well, since this was before the age of cell phones, we couldn't communicate our desire to our chums, so we decided to lead them to Whitey's eventually. Our "eventually," of course, began with a circuitous route through Forest Park, the uber-large park smack in the middle of St. Louis (our version of Central Park). The park really wasn't on the way to either WC or the Loop, but we were young and full of energy, and our parents still paid for our gas, so we went with it.
We led them on a merry chase through the park, and lost them at the circle in the middle of the park, which we proceeded to go around and around and around, a la European Vacation. I believe they broke off after the fifth rotation, while we continued on for a good six or seven more times around. We were now separated in a large, dark city park, so natuarlly we drove around looking for our compatriots. We got lost and nearly ran into the remodling of the Art Museum, while apparently our friends nearly got carjacked by a strange man who started following their vehicle on foot. We met back up after about 20-25 minutes, exchanged our brief stories, and promised to lead them straight on to the Loop, which we did.
Well, kinda. I believe the route we took was generally straight, although we did nearly frighten them to death by turning left from the far right lane, across their nose, determined to maintain our lead position. I believe we were trying to force them into following us to Whitey's by not turning, but when they didn't take the bait, we cut them off to prove our dominance. We arrived at the Loop, but since this is St. Louis, all the coffee shops were closed, except Starbucks, which we (sadly) went to, thus negating the entire point of going to the Loop in the first place. Practically crowing our superiority, Nurseman and I put in another bid for Castles, and they grudgingly acquiesced.
The particular White Castle we were headed for was back entirely the way we had come, right near Kolya's house, so it was a bit of a drive. During that portion of the trip, we concluded that Dr. H needed to be in our car, not theirs, so at a stop sign Nurseman and I jumped out of our car, mobbed Preacher's, and started slamming on the windshield to get the Dr. to join us. Naturally, he was confused by our antics, but determined to stay loyal to his (far lamer) car. As we were in a semi-dangerous part of town at this point, and two very conspicuously white gentlemen, we returned to our car and continued our trek. Along the way, I believe we did two Chinese fire drills, much to the consternation of our followers. After that, we proceeded to ride the "fun lane," which is what Kolya calls riding in the far right lane of a major thoroughfare at about 70 mph (speed limit 35). Since it's a heavily traveled road, the right lane, adjacent to the curb, is full of bumps, dips, and other bits of uneven road, so we bounce and jounce and generally destroy the shocks of his car. Again, our followers were less than amused.
We arrived at White Castle and demolished our respective portions of sliders, fries, and chicken rings. Gloriously sated by our descent into carnivorality, we decided then to go back the way we had come, to the Anheisur-Busch Brewery, to look at their Christmas Light display. As we were leaving, we saw two cop cars pull into the drive-thru, which led to Nurseman's now mythic statement "I didn't know pigs ate Castles! I thought they only ate doughnuts!" We, of course, burst out laughing, until we realized that our windows were down, and the aforementioned pigs were looking right at us. Oops. We quickly exited before they received their food, and proceeded to the Brewery to partake in some holiday cheer.
Exiting the display, our trailing car decided to take the lead and repay us for our own earlier behavior. Only they didn't have a roundabout drive to circle, so they found the next best thing: Busch Stadium. It's one big circle smack dab in the middle of downtown, and we circled it three or four times before they realized they couldn't shake us. We somehow forced our way back into the lead position, and, since it was late by this point, headed back South, to drop off Dr. H and the girl. Heading down I-55, we decided to finally pull the gloves off and really mess with the trailing car. So Kolya starts motoring, blasting down the highway at around 95 mph, leaving Preacher in our wake. We got fairly far ahead, pulled off the highway, did an inverse U-turn (on a fairly heavily-trafficked street), waited a few minutes, and got back on the highway, hoping to catch up with the other (now leading) car. This we did, right at the interchange onto highway 270, which is a left turn on ramp that calls for a roughly 45 mph speed and which we took at about 70, passing our friends on the inside and waving to them frantically (nearly scaring them off the road, or so we were told later).
We followed them back to the girl's house, where they tried to lead us on a chase through the maze-like subdivision. Unbeknownst to them, however, was that this bit of suburbia was well-knownst to me, as my aunt and uncle once lived there, and we visited often to use their community pool. So we foreswore their childish game and left them, heading back to Dr. H's house. Beating them by a good 5-10 minutes, we parked the car out of sight, ran back and hid behind the house (no fence, God bless it). I took one side, Kolya took the other, while Nurseman waited until their car arrived and utilized his stealthiness to circle behind their car. They sat in the car talking for a moment, and on signal, we three dashed madly from our respective hiding places, screaming and slamming our hands onto their windows, frightening them nearly to death.
That pretty much concluded our trip. Kolya took me back to my car, at his house, which was the last bit of irony, considering Dr. H's house was about 5 minutes away from my own. But like I said, we didn't pay for the gas, so we didn't care. That is, without a doubt, the most epic White Castle night I've ever been a part of, and hopefully helps to explain my deep love and nostalgia for the place. (And Kolya, Nurseman, Preacher, or Dr. H, if any of you are reading this and wish to add, please feel free. I'm sure I've forgotten something.)
Next time: Another White Castle incident, involving Skinny and his compatriot, the jug of gin, and our attempt to barter one of our female friends for said jug of gin.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Awesome and Not Awesome
Awesome: Two nights in a row of drinking.
Not Awesome: The decision to eat Taco Bell for dinner and get pizza at 2am on Thursday.
Awesome: Veronica Mars. I highly recommend it.
Not Awesome: The Robert Duncan selection on my prelims list. He may or may not be a good poet. I can't tell, because all his famous poetry is not on my list. (Unless every anthology and website is wrong. Hillbilly, feel free to correct my ignorance if you wish.)
Awesome: Tomorrow's White Castle/Slurpee run. Two hours there, two hours back. No prisoners, no mercy.
Not Awesome: White Castle conquers all unawesomeness. No entry here.
Look for a full chronicle of our tale in the near future. And if we don't come back, avenge our deaths.
Not Awesome: The decision to eat Taco Bell for dinner and get pizza at 2am on Thursday.
Awesome: Veronica Mars. I highly recommend it.
Not Awesome: The Robert Duncan selection on my prelims list. He may or may not be a good poet. I can't tell, because all his famous poetry is not on my list. (Unless every anthology and website is wrong. Hillbilly, feel free to correct my ignorance if you wish.)
Awesome: Tomorrow's White Castle/Slurpee run. Two hours there, two hours back. No prisoners, no mercy.
Not Awesome: White Castle conquers all unawesomeness. No entry here.
Look for a full chronicle of our tale in the near future. And if we don't come back, avenge our deaths.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Chapter MCMLXVI: In Which Our Hero Crosses a Meaningless Milestone and Ruminates on His Profession
Everybody have fun tonight.
Everybody Wang Chung tonight.
Today I crossed off the one hundreth entry on my prelims reading list. Granted, there are one hundred and fifty entries on there, thus making one hundred only two thirds of the list. Also granted that of that one hundred, only twenty five are poetry (out of fifty two). Still, that one hundred feels pretty good to me. Hence the Wang Chunging. And my little 100 Dance, which was quite amusing, if constricted by all the books on my floor. Now, to further celebrate, I'm going to "read" one of the entries that I've already read in the past. As far as novels go, the only ones I have left are ones I've read before or ones I don't plan to read at all (I don't care how good it is, I'm not reading Meatless Days, a collection of short stories about living in Pakistan.) So perhaps I'll celebrate in the quiet madness of The Crying of Lot 49. Or just go nuts and skim through Storyteller, which I've taught multiple times. Do I know how to have a good time, or what?
Yesterday, before the giddiness and the dancing, I read Wallace Stegner's Crossing to Safety, an elegantly simple novel about friendship in 20th century America. This book is not very complicated, but is very heartfelt and touching, and I count it one of the gems I've discovered that I hadn't imagined before. The novel is particularly interesting as the main characters are either academics or the wives of academics, and they all teach at the University of Wisconsin-Madison in the late 1930s. So they go to parties on Van Hise (where the head of our graduate program lives now), they rent a boat from the Union and nearly drown in Lake Mendota (that's what they get for not having Fangirl as their sailing instructor), and they travel up and down State Street, among other things. I am pleased to note that many things have not changed in academia since the '30s. They still drink a ton (although I was disconcerted by the repeated instances of the wives getting hammered whilst pregnant), they still complain about grading papers, and they still worry about getting jobs and tenure (I guess the Depression is comparable to today's glut of the market). And, as an historical side note, the English Department offices used to be in Bascom Hall, apparently, before Helen C. White (our current home) was built.
Part of me enjoyed this reading because of the familiar references and literary discussions, in a kind of academic masturbatory way. Part of me also did not need to start feeling fear of being an academic failure, as one of the characters is, right before I take prelims. It was just close enough to home to really add to the nerves. Of course, he became a rich and successful novelist, but I don't really see that in the cards for me. But then, I guess that means I won't have a polio-stricken wife, either, which kind of balances the scales. Still, it was an enjoyable read, straightforward and honest, and well-written. Rather different from most of the other things I've read thus far.
Ok, back to the paper grindstone. Good luck to all my fellow readers out there, and to my boys and girls from elsewhere, raise a glass for me when you get a chance. I'll do the same for you tomorrow when I'm out drinking. Except for Hubris and Batkodez. You know why. (And Ford Madox Ford isn't on my list, so nyah nyah.)
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Sweet Jesus! The Books Are Finally Talking Back!
"The reader! You, dogged, uninsultable, print-oriented bastard, it's you I'm addressing, who else, from inside this monstrous fiction. You've read me this far, then? Even this far? For what discreditable motive? How is it you don't go to a movie, watch TV, stare at a wall, play tennis with a friend, make amorous advances to the person who comes to your mind when I speak of amorous advances? Can nothing surfeit, saturate you, turn you off? Where's your shame?"
Clearly Barth had never heard of prelims, which conquers all desire and shame. And sanity, for that matter, which makes Lost in the Funhouse a delightful read.
Clearly Barth had never heard of prelims, which conquers all desire and shame. And sanity, for that matter, which makes Lost in the Funhouse a delightful read.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Stepping Up to Do My Part
After having read a lot of Adrienne Rich today, I have decided that I'm not doing my part to oppress women. Sure, I may make the occasional joke or snide comment, but am I really doing all I can to keep women in their place, oppressed by the rightful patriarchy of America? Do I do my best to make marriage an oppressive institution that can only be rectified by the widespread acceptance of lesbianism? We all love lesbians, right?
Now, I know what you're thinking. Yes, it sounds horrible at first, to consider throwing away the decades of progress we've had since Rich was writing her poetry and her essays. Yes, sexism was a problem and remains one to this day, leading to unfair working conditions, salary disparities, sexual harassment, etc. Don't get me wrong, I'm anti- all that.
But at the same time, look at the benefits. Men got to feel superior and dictate what was good and what was bad. The notion of the Old Boy's Club was in full swing, and created a community in which men could share ideas and speak a language they all understood. As any theorist can tell you, community-creation is a good thing. Furthermore, oppression gave rise to Rich's own writings, and her quest for female community apart from patriarchy. It allowed for passionate and vitriolic prose and poetry, which sparked people to new levels of consciousness. It allowed for the contemplation of an alternative language, of a questioning of the basic tenets of our society. Through the pain of oppression, her work gained meaning and power. Is it so wrong to want to empower people like that again?
The greatest advances in American thought have always come in the face of great adversity. Therefore, I feel it is my duty to help create that adversity by reasserting my rights as a member of the American patriarchy. Those of you interested in more information, please contact me via my secretary, if she isn't too busy laughing at my inappropriate jokes or fetching things from low cabinets around the office.
(Also, reading Sinclair Lewis' Main Street, which for some reason I'm envisioning as a zany Jane Fonda Barefoot in the Park-esque farce, despite the fact that I know her spirit will be crushed in the end. But then, maybe that just shows my own views of what's funny regarding women, as stated above.)
Now, I know what you're thinking. Yes, it sounds horrible at first, to consider throwing away the decades of progress we've had since Rich was writing her poetry and her essays. Yes, sexism was a problem and remains one to this day, leading to unfair working conditions, salary disparities, sexual harassment, etc. Don't get me wrong, I'm anti- all that.
But at the same time, look at the benefits. Men got to feel superior and dictate what was good and what was bad. The notion of the Old Boy's Club was in full swing, and created a community in which men could share ideas and speak a language they all understood. As any theorist can tell you, community-creation is a good thing. Furthermore, oppression gave rise to Rich's own writings, and her quest for female community apart from patriarchy. It allowed for passionate and vitriolic prose and poetry, which sparked people to new levels of consciousness. It allowed for the contemplation of an alternative language, of a questioning of the basic tenets of our society. Through the pain of oppression, her work gained meaning and power. Is it so wrong to want to empower people like that again?
The greatest advances in American thought have always come in the face of great adversity. Therefore, I feel it is my duty to help create that adversity by reasserting my rights as a member of the American patriarchy. Those of you interested in more information, please contact me via my secretary, if she isn't too busy laughing at my inappropriate jokes or fetching things from low cabinets around the office.
(Also, reading Sinclair Lewis' Main Street, which for some reason I'm envisioning as a zany Jane Fonda Barefoot in the Park-esque farce, despite the fact that I know her spirit will be crushed in the end. But then, maybe that just shows my own views of what's funny regarding women, as stated above.)
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Urge to Kill Rising...Rising
The house next to our building has taken it upon themselves to throw a day-long barbecue, complete with live music.
I wish to murder them.
(Oh, and Cane is vile drek, made only viler by the Phish-like music coming from across the driveway.)
I wish to murder them.
(Oh, and Cane is vile drek, made only viler by the Phish-like music coming from across the driveway.)
Thursday, July 06, 2006
I Found My Thrill...
A voicemail I received last night:
Brownsox: Dubs, it's Brownsox, what's up? I miss you buddy. And man, we are... we are dying here, because...there are blueberries in my beer! Listen, here's Quantum, he'll tell you the same thing. Quantum!
Quantum: There are blueberries in mah beer!
Brownsox: Do you see what I mean? This is what we have to work with Dubs! Come out to the East Coast so you can help us! Because we need your assistance. We love you, Dubs baby.
Quantum (from background): They're in mah beer!
Brownsox: They're in his beer! Say it again.
Quantum: They're in mah beer!
Brownsox: They're in his beer. Help us, Dubs, help us. We love you. Buh-bye.
I..... I don't really know what else I can say about this. I just wish you could hear how earnestly sad they are, and slightly befuddled.
Brownsox: Dubs, it's Brownsox, what's up? I miss you buddy. And man, we are... we are dying here, because...there are blueberries in my beer! Listen, here's Quantum, he'll tell you the same thing. Quantum!
Quantum: There are blueberries in mah beer!
Brownsox: Do you see what I mean? This is what we have to work with Dubs! Come out to the East Coast so you can help us! Because we need your assistance. We love you, Dubs baby.
Quantum (from background): They're in mah beer!
Brownsox: They're in his beer! Say it again.
Quantum: They're in mah beer!
Brownsox: They're in his beer. Help us, Dubs, help us. We love you. Buh-bye.
I..... I don't really know what else I can say about this. I just wish you could hear how earnestly sad they are, and slightly befuddled.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Chapter CLXXI: In Which Our Hero's Orderly Life is Disrupted
This weekend, for once, I did not have to go to my friends. They came to me.
A friend of ours from college, hailing from the tiny picturesque hamlet of Lake Mills, WI, was getting married. As this village (Pop. around 4500) is only about 30 minutes from Madison (20 the way I drive, as I found out when we rushed to the wedding), my friends Bluesman and Memi were both staying with me rather than pay for hotels. I eagerly anticipated this, as I have a long history of crashing with friends, and felt delighted that I could reciprocate for some of my oldest NU gang.
Memi was coming in Saturday night for the bachelorette party, and the wedding was on Monday afternoon. This was all the information I had at the start of Friday morning, though I knew Bluesman was coming to the wedding itself, and I offered him my place to crash, which he accepted. I had been cleaning my apartment periodically throughout the week, whenever I took a break from reading, and planned to do glorious battle with the months of dust and debris in my living room on Saturday morning. I did not expect to survive, but the apartment would be clean for those who came after me, at least. I anticipated finishing Paterson on Friday eve, and getting a small amount of reading done on Saturday, then writing off Sunday and Monday. Seeing as how these are my "Old People Friends" from Northwestern, however, it couldn't be quite that simple.
On Friday afternoon, shortly before my eye appointment, Bluesman calls and lets me know he's on his way up, and would like to pass the night in my home. This provoked a frantic burst of cleaning, the total abandonment of Paterson, and the fortuitous cancellation of my study session with Nittany Lion, which all culminated in a clean living room, kitchen, and bathroom, an epic feat that shall be sung for ages to come, given the state of disarray I started with.
Saturday we two spent the morning downtown breaking our fast, and killing time until Memi's plane arrived (delayed, of course, courtesy of the good people at Northwest Airlines). We deposited her at the bachelorette party, and dined with Nittany and Red Headed Stepchild at a local beer-dispensary establishment named after a grandiose canine. (Side note: the bachelorette party spent the evening at Brocach [sp?], then returned to Lake Mills to celebrate further. I must wonder about the sanity of women who find the Faux-Irish Pub on the square to be the height of Madisonian Haute Culture.) We tried, later, to watch fireworks, which were thwarted by rain.
Sunday came and went, and for some reason still beyond me I drove 45 minutes to go to a drive-in movie showing of Superman Returns. The experience itself is worthwhile, but it isn't quite how I anticipated viewing the Man of Steel's return to the silver screen. And, because of these plans, I missed the rescheduled fireworks. Sadness. But it was fun nonetheless.
Monday, the wedding itself. Made the drive to Lake Mills in about 19 minutes, because my houseguests are chronically slow (sorry guys, but it's true). And Memi, if you're reading this, no noise about me being the last one ready. You'd be the last one ready as well if your houseguests were in your bathroom for an hour and a half, leaving you roughly seven minutes before your scheduled departure time. And it's my blog. So nyah nyah nyah.
The wedding was quite nice, if a tad short for my Catholic standards (25 minutes altogether). Readings from Whitman and e.e. cummings, showing the excellent taste of our friend the bride, who teaches high school English in Minnesota. Though I did have trouble keeping a straight face throughout, as during the vows I kept hearing Homer Simpson's wedding vows. In Rev. Lovejoy's monotone, "Do you take this man, in richness or in poorness, (poorness is underlined), in impotence and potence, in calm tranquility or blasting along the alkali flats in a jet-propelled, rocket powered... and it goes on like this!" Between that and flashbacks to various scenes from Wedding Crashers, I nearly lost it several times throughout. I tried to turn my stifled guffaws into some kind of faux manly sensitivity at the beauty of marriage, but I don't think anyone noticed.
Reception: Open bar + Ketel One = Happy Brian. Plus, the bride and groom are avid swing dancers, so the music was an eclectic mix of pop favorites and swing tunes. Though no power ballads. Seriously, what kind of wedding is it if there's no Journey or Bryan Adams? But the dancing overall was fun, as I like to dance quite a bit at these things, particularly after a few vodka tonics. And we did prove that "I Want it That Way" can unite a reception into a display of buffoonery unparalleled. Also, the Chicken Dance is apparently on the cusp of fame in India. Who knew?
As of today, my houseguests are gone, and my life is once again back on its orderly track. Read me some Sun Also Rises and Rez Sisters this eve, and looking to get back into the swing of things. Hemingway in particular is good after weddings, largely because his hatred of women really fights those sappy romance feelings one tends to get in the wake of events such as this. Papa H., combined with a strict moratorium on romantic comedies and love songs for at least a week, helps deny those destructive musings that make me feel actual feelings, instead of the cool self-deprecating comedic irony I coast through life on.
To close, three great moments of the long weekend:
1. Methodists as pixies, complete with pixie dust, or in street parlance, "meth." How we got there is unimportant. The point is we got there, and Memi was laughing for at least four straight minutes.
2. Mashed Potato Martini Bar. Quite exciting.
3. My in-depth analysis of Beowulf for the other guests at our table, in which I used my Master's Degree to prove that the poem is actually about the mutually destructive combat between Beowulf and a Zamboni Machine. Article forthcoming.
A friend of ours from college, hailing from the tiny picturesque hamlet of Lake Mills, WI, was getting married. As this village (Pop. around 4500) is only about 30 minutes from Madison (20 the way I drive, as I found out when we rushed to the wedding), my friends Bluesman and Memi were both staying with me rather than pay for hotels. I eagerly anticipated this, as I have a long history of crashing with friends, and felt delighted that I could reciprocate for some of my oldest NU gang.
Memi was coming in Saturday night for the bachelorette party, and the wedding was on Monday afternoon. This was all the information I had at the start of Friday morning, though I knew Bluesman was coming to the wedding itself, and I offered him my place to crash, which he accepted. I had been cleaning my apartment periodically throughout the week, whenever I took a break from reading, and planned to do glorious battle with the months of dust and debris in my living room on Saturday morning. I did not expect to survive, but the apartment would be clean for those who came after me, at least. I anticipated finishing Paterson on Friday eve, and getting a small amount of reading done on Saturday, then writing off Sunday and Monday. Seeing as how these are my "Old People Friends" from Northwestern, however, it couldn't be quite that simple.
On Friday afternoon, shortly before my eye appointment, Bluesman calls and lets me know he's on his way up, and would like to pass the night in my home. This provoked a frantic burst of cleaning, the total abandonment of Paterson, and the fortuitous cancellation of my study session with Nittany Lion, which all culminated in a clean living room, kitchen, and bathroom, an epic feat that shall be sung for ages to come, given the state of disarray I started with.
Saturday we two spent the morning downtown breaking our fast, and killing time until Memi's plane arrived (delayed, of course, courtesy of the good people at Northwest Airlines). We deposited her at the bachelorette party, and dined with Nittany and Red Headed Stepchild at a local beer-dispensary establishment named after a grandiose canine. (Side note: the bachelorette party spent the evening at Brocach [sp?], then returned to Lake Mills to celebrate further. I must wonder about the sanity of women who find the Faux-Irish Pub on the square to be the height of Madisonian Haute Culture.) We tried, later, to watch fireworks, which were thwarted by rain.
Sunday came and went, and for some reason still beyond me I drove 45 minutes to go to a drive-in movie showing of Superman Returns. The experience itself is worthwhile, but it isn't quite how I anticipated viewing the Man of Steel's return to the silver screen. And, because of these plans, I missed the rescheduled fireworks. Sadness. But it was fun nonetheless.
Monday, the wedding itself. Made the drive to Lake Mills in about 19 minutes, because my houseguests are chronically slow (sorry guys, but it's true). And Memi, if you're reading this, no noise about me being the last one ready. You'd be the last one ready as well if your houseguests were in your bathroom for an hour and a half, leaving you roughly seven minutes before your scheduled departure time. And it's my blog. So nyah nyah nyah.
The wedding was quite nice, if a tad short for my Catholic standards (25 minutes altogether). Readings from Whitman and e.e. cummings, showing the excellent taste of our friend the bride, who teaches high school English in Minnesota. Though I did have trouble keeping a straight face throughout, as during the vows I kept hearing Homer Simpson's wedding vows. In Rev. Lovejoy's monotone, "Do you take this man, in richness or in poorness, (poorness is underlined), in impotence and potence, in calm tranquility or blasting along the alkali flats in a jet-propelled, rocket powered... and it goes on like this!" Between that and flashbacks to various scenes from Wedding Crashers, I nearly lost it several times throughout. I tried to turn my stifled guffaws into some kind of faux manly sensitivity at the beauty of marriage, but I don't think anyone noticed.
Reception: Open bar + Ketel One = Happy Brian. Plus, the bride and groom are avid swing dancers, so the music was an eclectic mix of pop favorites and swing tunes. Though no power ballads. Seriously, what kind of wedding is it if there's no Journey or Bryan Adams? But the dancing overall was fun, as I like to dance quite a bit at these things, particularly after a few vodka tonics. And we did prove that "I Want it That Way" can unite a reception into a display of buffoonery unparalleled. Also, the Chicken Dance is apparently on the cusp of fame in India. Who knew?
As of today, my houseguests are gone, and my life is once again back on its orderly track. Read me some Sun Also Rises and Rez Sisters this eve, and looking to get back into the swing of things. Hemingway in particular is good after weddings, largely because his hatred of women really fights those sappy romance feelings one tends to get in the wake of events such as this. Papa H., combined with a strict moratorium on romantic comedies and love songs for at least a week, helps deny those destructive musings that make me feel actual feelings, instead of the cool self-deprecating comedic irony I coast through life on.
To close, three great moments of the long weekend:
1. Methodists as pixies, complete with pixie dust, or in street parlance, "meth." How we got there is unimportant. The point is we got there, and Memi was laughing for at least four straight minutes.
2. Mashed Potato Martini Bar. Quite exciting.
3. My in-depth analysis of Beowulf for the other guests at our table, in which I used my Master's Degree to prove that the poem is actually about the mutually destructive combat between Beowulf and a Zamboni Machine. Article forthcoming.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
A New Low
Ok, I've put up with a lot this summer with this reading list. I've dealt with:
-A bunch of Modernist poets who all seem to claim the same things and work in the same way, but who all seem to disagree with each other. As far as I can tell, the impetus to "make it new" involves writing incomprehensible drek that only a few people can understand, and even then only if you're a walking annotation. Still don't see why they disagree so much. (Though it was refreshing to see William Carlos Williams openly ripping into Pound and Eliot, as opposed to the passive-agressive junk most of the others indulged in.)
-Every minority in America feeling entitled to write fiction about a character trapped between two worlds. Yes, your plight is tragic, all you Hispanics, Jews, African-Americans, Native Americans, Eastern European Immigrants, etc. But for the love of God, have some consciousness of the works around you, and find a new trope to use for your pain.
-Three entries of Toni Morrison. Yes, she's good. But she doesn't deserve three novels on my list. Pick one or two, folks, and go with it.
-Eudora Welty. 'Nuff said.
But today was a new low. Today, I read The Magician of Lublin, by Isaac "Look at Me, I'm Jewish" Singer. Now, I may seem to bash the Hebrews a bit much in this blog, but I don't actively dislike their art. Henry Roth, quite cool. Saul Bellow, I'm growing to like. Bernard Malamund's The Assistant was refreshingly good. But Mr. Singer has no place on this list of mine. His text, The Magician, is not an American text. Yes, he was an American immigrant. But the text is about Poland. About Polish people in the 1800s. There are no Americans in it. No American themes. Very little mention of America at all, except as a far off place. And it was written in Yiddish, and translated to English by other people. I'm willing to put up with novels in Europe, because the ones on the list largely deal with American exiles or tourists. And I can put up with novels written by immigrants, dealing with American themes (Pale Fire, written by Nabokov, is perhaps my new favorite on the list). But there's no justification for The Magician of Freakin Lublin in any way, shape, or form. And it's not even a good novel. So I'm lodging a protest. Let it be noted. And then I'm finishing the book, because one of my committee members has written an article on it, so it'll most likely be on the test.
But on the plus side, it's still better than Nightwood.
-A bunch of Modernist poets who all seem to claim the same things and work in the same way, but who all seem to disagree with each other. As far as I can tell, the impetus to "make it new" involves writing incomprehensible drek that only a few people can understand, and even then only if you're a walking annotation. Still don't see why they disagree so much. (Though it was refreshing to see William Carlos Williams openly ripping into Pound and Eliot, as opposed to the passive-agressive junk most of the others indulged in.)
-Every minority in America feeling entitled to write fiction about a character trapped between two worlds. Yes, your plight is tragic, all you Hispanics, Jews, African-Americans, Native Americans, Eastern European Immigrants, etc. But for the love of God, have some consciousness of the works around you, and find a new trope to use for your pain.
-Three entries of Toni Morrison. Yes, she's good. But she doesn't deserve three novels on my list. Pick one or two, folks, and go with it.
-Eudora Welty. 'Nuff said.
But today was a new low. Today, I read The Magician of Lublin, by Isaac "Look at Me, I'm Jewish" Singer. Now, I may seem to bash the Hebrews a bit much in this blog, but I don't actively dislike their art. Henry Roth, quite cool. Saul Bellow, I'm growing to like. Bernard Malamund's The Assistant was refreshingly good. But Mr. Singer has no place on this list of mine. His text, The Magician, is not an American text. Yes, he was an American immigrant. But the text is about Poland. About Polish people in the 1800s. There are no Americans in it. No American themes. Very little mention of America at all, except as a far off place. And it was written in Yiddish, and translated to English by other people. I'm willing to put up with novels in Europe, because the ones on the list largely deal with American exiles or tourists. And I can put up with novels written by immigrants, dealing with American themes (Pale Fire, written by Nabokov, is perhaps my new favorite on the list). But there's no justification for The Magician of Freakin Lublin in any way, shape, or form. And it's not even a good novel. So I'm lodging a protest. Let it be noted. And then I'm finishing the book, because one of my committee members has written an article on it, so it'll most likely be on the test.
But on the plus side, it's still better than Nightwood.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
This may be one of my lucid periods
Who knew Ezra Pound was such a funny guy?
On America: "We get from every village the most ruthless and the most energetic. The merely discontented stop in England."
"As every living writer either has written, or is writng, on sex, sex, sex, till there is no end of x's..."
After complaining about and critiquing flawed architecture in New York, we get this simple paragraph: "I found it impossible to make a younger member of the architect's firm understand any of this.... But he will die, and Allah the all merciful will send us another generation." (I just love the image of an irate Pound pedantically yelling at some secretary that he doesn't like the building this guy didn't even design.)
On "literary" magazines in the early 1900s:
"It is well known that in the year of grace 1870 Jehovah appeared to Messrs Harper and Co. and to the editors of 'The Century', 'The Atlantic', and certain others, and spake thus: 'The style of 1870 is the final and divine revelation. Keep things always just as they are now'. And they, being earnest, God-fearing men, did abide by the words of the Almighty, and great credit and honour accrued unto them, for had they not divine warrant! And if you do not believe me, open a number of 'Harpers' for 1888 and one for 1908. And I defy you to find any difference, save on the page where the date is."
It's shocking how much I'm liking Pound. While I'll admit I haven't started the Cantos yet, his early poetry is quite stirring, and his essays are really amusing. Who knows, maybe it'll keep through the rest?
Or I may go insane trying to figure the rest of it out. Stay tuned.
(In other news, I took five hours off on Monday to read the new Star Wars novel. It was truly glorious.)
On America: "We get from every village the most ruthless and the most energetic. The merely discontented stop in England."
"As every living writer either has written, or is writng, on sex, sex, sex, till there is no end of x's..."
After complaining about and critiquing flawed architecture in New York, we get this simple paragraph: "I found it impossible to make a younger member of the architect's firm understand any of this.... But he will die, and Allah the all merciful will send us another generation." (I just love the image of an irate Pound pedantically yelling at some secretary that he doesn't like the building this guy didn't even design.)
On "literary" magazines in the early 1900s:
"It is well known that in the year of grace 1870 Jehovah appeared to Messrs Harper and Co. and to the editors of 'The Century', 'The Atlantic', and certain others, and spake thus: 'The style of 1870 is the final and divine revelation. Keep things always just as they are now'. And they, being earnest, God-fearing men, did abide by the words of the Almighty, and great credit and honour accrued unto them, for had they not divine warrant! And if you do not believe me, open a number of 'Harpers' for 1888 and one for 1908. And I defy you to find any difference, save on the page where the date is."
It's shocking how much I'm liking Pound. While I'll admit I haven't started the Cantos yet, his early poetry is quite stirring, and his essays are really amusing. Who knows, maybe it'll keep through the rest?
Or I may go insane trying to figure the rest of it out. Stay tuned.
(In other news, I took five hours off on Monday to read the new Star Wars novel. It was truly glorious.)
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Deja view?
Haven't posted in a while, not much new to say. The reading continues, though I am quickly coming to the realization that I will eventually run out of novels and plays to read, and will have to read some more poetry. This week, Ezra Pound and The Cantos, plus various other poems. Looking through them last night, Nittany Lion and I discovered sections in Chinese, and sections with Egyptian Hieroglyphics. Should be fun.
Today was a bit startling for me. I finished All the King's Men, beat Knights of the Old Republic again (I believe this is the sixth time, now. I have a problem.), and went to the library to get more books. I then proceeded to read Paula Vogel's The Baltimore Waltz, a delightful short play (50 pages, bless it) about fantasy and dying of AIDS.
The odd thing is, apparently I've seen this play before. As soon as I started it, I knew how it would end. I knew the things that were happening as they happened. And I could hear specific lines in my head, as if I'd heard them spoken before. Now, I have no memory of ever seeing this play or reading it, or listening to it on tape for that matter. But I did see quite a bit of pretentious student theatre in college. It's one of the downfalls of living in an arts dorm and hanging out with a bunch of theatre majors. And quite often, we'd go see these plays after having a few drinks, which might explain why I don't remember it. Or, conversely, I may have read parts of it aloud in a class that I can't remember. Or heard people using parts of it as audition pieces. Or for acting finals. I just don't know.
I've mentioned before the problems I have with my memory, and this particular occasion is slightly unsettling for me. It helped a lot with my retention and comprehension of the play this time around, so I'm not complaining, but I would like to know how I know this piece. So if any of my NU friends have any recollection of seeing this play with me, or taking a class with me where we discussed this play, or anything like that, feel free to chime in.
Recent Lessons of Prelim Summer:
-Black people didn't have the best places to live in urban areas in the 1900s.
-A play about lesbians is always amusing.
-Gertrude Stein is incomprehensible. And ugly.
-There's just something amusing about Freud and Jung riding together in the Coney Island Tunnel of Love.
-Starting a movie just to pass the time while you eat lunch is a bad idea, because you'll watch the entire movie rather than go back to work.
-Unlike many of my peers, reading for prelims has not affected my eyesight in the slightest. Because I have super eyes.
-When you're reading a book that you've already written on, and the professor you wrote the paper for is the head of the committee grading you, the fun part is remembering which parts of your paper he liked and which he didn't, so you can shamelessly reuse them later.
Today was a bit startling for me. I finished All the King's Men, beat Knights of the Old Republic again (I believe this is the sixth time, now. I have a problem.), and went to the library to get more books. I then proceeded to read Paula Vogel's The Baltimore Waltz, a delightful short play (50 pages, bless it) about fantasy and dying of AIDS.
The odd thing is, apparently I've seen this play before. As soon as I started it, I knew how it would end. I knew the things that were happening as they happened. And I could hear specific lines in my head, as if I'd heard them spoken before. Now, I have no memory of ever seeing this play or reading it, or listening to it on tape for that matter. But I did see quite a bit of pretentious student theatre in college. It's one of the downfalls of living in an arts dorm and hanging out with a bunch of theatre majors. And quite often, we'd go see these plays after having a few drinks, which might explain why I don't remember it. Or, conversely, I may have read parts of it aloud in a class that I can't remember. Or heard people using parts of it as audition pieces. Or for acting finals. I just don't know.
I've mentioned before the problems I have with my memory, and this particular occasion is slightly unsettling for me. It helped a lot with my retention and comprehension of the play this time around, so I'm not complaining, but I would like to know how I know this piece. So if any of my NU friends have any recollection of seeing this play with me, or taking a class with me where we discussed this play, or anything like that, feel free to chime in.
Recent Lessons of Prelim Summer:
-Black people didn't have the best places to live in urban areas in the 1900s.
-A play about lesbians is always amusing.
-Gertrude Stein is incomprehensible. And ugly.
-There's just something amusing about Freud and Jung riding together in the Coney Island Tunnel of Love.
-Starting a movie just to pass the time while you eat lunch is a bad idea, because you'll watch the entire movie rather than go back to work.
-Unlike many of my peers, reading for prelims has not affected my eyesight in the slightest. Because I have super eyes.
-When you're reading a book that you've already written on, and the professor you wrote the paper for is the head of the committee grading you, the fun part is remembering which parts of your paper he liked and which he didn't, so you can shamelessly reuse them later.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Reading Week Two: Electric Boogaloo
Well, I survived the birthday drinking, and am now officially 26 (as opposed to biologically, which doesn't count). Highlight was definitely when the director of the English graduate program bought me a glass of bourbon, which knocked me over the edge after all the other drinks I'd had. (Apparently, claiming you want to stay with beer so you can last longer is really an invitation for people to buy you shots and hard drinks.) Again, if you put it in front of me, I drink it quickly. As usual, memories fade after that last glass, causing me to lament my faulty genes and horrible memory. (Note: It isn't just drink. I have a horrible memory for my own past events. I don't really remember any of my childhood before seventh grade, excepting occasional flashes and moments. And yet I can remember intricate plot points of the novels I read. Does that seem right?)
Friday's festivities made Saturday's hell, as did my reading load. We're doing modernist drama this week in my study group, which means O'Neill, Williams, and Miller. If you ever want to feel great about being alive and the potential this world has to offer, stay as far away from these men as possible. If you want justification for suicide, however, start reading them all, one after another. On a Saturday. While hung over. In oppressive humidity. On little sleep.
Now don't get me wrong. These gentlemen are fine dramatists. I love Williams (still prefer Streetcar to Glass Menagerie), and Miller's fine as well. O'Neill, though, goes above and beyond. I'd read Long Day's Journey before, but just now for the first time read The Iceman Cometh, which for reasons I can't begin to articulate struck me more powerfully than anything else I've read so far. It's profound, shocking, and deeply moving. (Maybe more so since I too am accustomed to hanging around with a bunch of drunks, talking about the past. I believe it's all theatre majors do.) I can see why people say Long Day's Journey is the better play, as it is more concise and has a purity about it, but Iceman just hit me on a gut level, so I had to stop reading after I finished it.
(And yet Nittany Lion argues that Miller is the better playwright. Thoughts from the readership?)
I now have hung on my door the complete prelims list, all 13 pages of it, next to each other. Each time I finish an entry, I cross it off in red. Its ghostly white presence haunts my room, and is the first thing my eye is drawn to every morning when I awaken, and one of the last things I see before I sleep. This may reflect a severe unbalance in my mind, or a need to torment myself. I personally see it as akin to the photos that Rocky puts up before a fight, only to tear them down right before the bout. By removing them, the Italian Stallion sees no longer his enemies, but himself. Of course, he's looking in a mirror, not a wooden door, but I enjoy my metaphor. And I hope the tape doesn't hurt the door or the paint. Either way, I plan to dance and sing along to "Eye of the Tiger" just before the test.
Until next time, here's a list of things I've learned this week:
Family is pain.
Friends are just those that help sustain your own lies.
Women are liars and whores, or mentally unbalanced.
Destructive forces win out.
I become too invested in plays with idiots. (I have had repeated fantasies about traveling back in time to the Salem Witch Trials and just shooting the judges with a Glock. Thank you, Mr. Miller.)
If you have dreams, they will be crushed and you will be crushed with/by them.
The South is a funny place.
Except when it destroys you.
Southern Catholics are particularly conflicted.
Holden Caulfield is more annoying now than when you're a teenager yourself.
Saul Bellow is longwinded and full of himself.
Friday's festivities made Saturday's hell, as did my reading load. We're doing modernist drama this week in my study group, which means O'Neill, Williams, and Miller. If you ever want to feel great about being alive and the potential this world has to offer, stay as far away from these men as possible. If you want justification for suicide, however, start reading them all, one after another. On a Saturday. While hung over. In oppressive humidity. On little sleep.
Now don't get me wrong. These gentlemen are fine dramatists. I love Williams (still prefer Streetcar to Glass Menagerie), and Miller's fine as well. O'Neill, though, goes above and beyond. I'd read Long Day's Journey before, but just now for the first time read The Iceman Cometh, which for reasons I can't begin to articulate struck me more powerfully than anything else I've read so far. It's profound, shocking, and deeply moving. (Maybe more so since I too am accustomed to hanging around with a bunch of drunks, talking about the past. I believe it's all theatre majors do.) I can see why people say Long Day's Journey is the better play, as it is more concise and has a purity about it, but Iceman just hit me on a gut level, so I had to stop reading after I finished it.
(And yet Nittany Lion argues that Miller is the better playwright. Thoughts from the readership?)
I now have hung on my door the complete prelims list, all 13 pages of it, next to each other. Each time I finish an entry, I cross it off in red. Its ghostly white presence haunts my room, and is the first thing my eye is drawn to every morning when I awaken, and one of the last things I see before I sleep. This may reflect a severe unbalance in my mind, or a need to torment myself. I personally see it as akin to the photos that Rocky puts up before a fight, only to tear them down right before the bout. By removing them, the Italian Stallion sees no longer his enemies, but himself. Of course, he's looking in a mirror, not a wooden door, but I enjoy my metaphor. And I hope the tape doesn't hurt the door or the paint. Either way, I plan to dance and sing along to "Eye of the Tiger" just before the test.
Until next time, here's a list of things I've learned this week:
Family is pain.
Friends are just those that help sustain your own lies.
Women are liars and whores, or mentally unbalanced.
Destructive forces win out.
I become too invested in plays with idiots. (I have had repeated fantasies about traveling back in time to the Salem Witch Trials and just shooting the judges with a Glock. Thank you, Mr. Miller.)
If you have dreams, they will be crushed and you will be crushed with/by them.
The South is a funny place.
Except when it destroys you.
Southern Catholics are particularly conflicted.
Holden Caulfield is more annoying now than when you're a teenager yourself.
Saul Bellow is longwinded and full of himself.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Pigs on the Move
Prelims (n., pl.):
1. A series of essay tests taken, over the span of two days, covering 150 works of literature and criticism.
2. A rite of initiation that allows the graduate student to finally begin working on his or her disseration.
3. The locus of pain, rage, anger, and hatred for all things academic in a graduate student's life. The stealer of souls, killer of free time, and death of innocence.
There. For my non-Madison friends, that's what I'm doing this summer. The test is at the end of August (21-22, or 22-23, sometime in there). I have 150 plays, novels, books of poetry, and critical articles to read before then. All of us grad students have to do that, so if you feel sorry for me, feel sorry for my friends as well. And if you don't, well screw you. I'd like to see you do it. Except those of my elders who already have done it. You are the shining stars that give us hope.
By my calculations, if I want to finish the entire list, I have to read 1.67 entries per day. Today was Rabbit, Run (1 entry) and the Mamet (Glengarry Glen Ross and American Buffalo, two plays, one entry). Luckily, I've seen both of these plays before (the movie of GGR and Bourbon and Teach's AB), so the topics are familiar. But these are all very depressing works about the crushing nature of modern life, so my day has been kinda bleak. Later tonight, I plan to read some Capote and contemplate causes of murder in In Cold Blood. I have yet to start reading any actual poetry, as I am terrified of it. Seriously terrified.
Apart from prelims reading, it's been a fun few weeks, so a quick update. Back in StL, had fun with the folks, had a truly phenomenal steak dinner, tried to go to a Cardinals' game, failed, and toured the A-B Brewery instead, leading to pre-noon drinking of free beer. Good times. And who knew Busch made a stout?
Saw Wicked on Tuesday for my birthday. Red-Headed Stepchild and I drove to Chicago to see it, with fairly decent seats. Sadly, the elderly ladies next to me felt the need to discuss everything as it happened, including the priceless revelation that the one with the green skin was, in fact, the Wicked Witch of the West. They didn't realize this until after she had been onstage for about ten minutes, despite the cover of the program clearly showing her and the fact that everyone knows this already, as it is the entire concept of the play that she is different because she is green. But God bless them, it's elderly people like that who go to the theatre simply to buy seats closer to the center of the audience than my own, preventing me from fully appreciating the sets in ways they never could. But a wiser man than myself once said that there's a special Hell for child molesters and people who talk at the theatre. I can only pray he's correct.
On the drive back, due to an offhand comment of Red's, I am now contemplating a one-man play entitled Pigs on the Move. So far, it involves pigs attempting to better themselves, and a farmer's constant upbraiding of his no-account son for letting the pigs get further in life than him (the son). Look for pre-production come the fall.
And finally, I'll be a TA for Captain Americanist's lecture this fall, which is awesome.
Look for updates containing words of wisdom from my reading throughout the summer, as I can't imagine much else will be going on here. So far I've learned this:
-People in the '20s drank more, made more money, and generally got laid a lot more than I do.
-Jews are not entertaining (Sorry McJew, but read Awake and Sing! and you'll see my point).
-When white people write about sex, it's smut (Updike). When Native Americans do it, it's amusing cultural difference (Erdrich).
-The working world stinks, but if you curse a lot and hate women, it'll at least amuse others.
-19 page one acts are the greatest gift you can give a prelim student.
-Vietnam was, in fact, not a fun place to be.
-Education is the reducto absurdum of all human experience. And no battle is ever won. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools. (Now that's an enheartening lesson to start the summer with.)
1. A series of essay tests taken, over the span of two days, covering 150 works of literature and criticism.
2. A rite of initiation that allows the graduate student to finally begin working on his or her disseration.
3. The locus of pain, rage, anger, and hatred for all things academic in a graduate student's life. The stealer of souls, killer of free time, and death of innocence.
There. For my non-Madison friends, that's what I'm doing this summer. The test is at the end of August (21-22, or 22-23, sometime in there). I have 150 plays, novels, books of poetry, and critical articles to read before then. All of us grad students have to do that, so if you feel sorry for me, feel sorry for my friends as well. And if you don't, well screw you. I'd like to see you do it. Except those of my elders who already have done it. You are the shining stars that give us hope.
By my calculations, if I want to finish the entire list, I have to read 1.67 entries per day. Today was Rabbit, Run (1 entry) and the Mamet (Glengarry Glen Ross and American Buffalo, two plays, one entry). Luckily, I've seen both of these plays before (the movie of GGR and Bourbon and Teach's AB), so the topics are familiar. But these are all very depressing works about the crushing nature of modern life, so my day has been kinda bleak. Later tonight, I plan to read some Capote and contemplate causes of murder in In Cold Blood. I have yet to start reading any actual poetry, as I am terrified of it. Seriously terrified.
Apart from prelims reading, it's been a fun few weeks, so a quick update. Back in StL, had fun with the folks, had a truly phenomenal steak dinner, tried to go to a Cardinals' game, failed, and toured the A-B Brewery instead, leading to pre-noon drinking of free beer. Good times. And who knew Busch made a stout?
Saw Wicked on Tuesday for my birthday. Red-Headed Stepchild and I drove to Chicago to see it, with fairly decent seats. Sadly, the elderly ladies next to me felt the need to discuss everything as it happened, including the priceless revelation that the one with the green skin was, in fact, the Wicked Witch of the West. They didn't realize this until after she had been onstage for about ten minutes, despite the cover of the program clearly showing her and the fact that everyone knows this already, as it is the entire concept of the play that she is different because she is green. But God bless them, it's elderly people like that who go to the theatre simply to buy seats closer to the center of the audience than my own, preventing me from fully appreciating the sets in ways they never could. But a wiser man than myself once said that there's a special Hell for child molesters and people who talk at the theatre. I can only pray he's correct.
On the drive back, due to an offhand comment of Red's, I am now contemplating a one-man play entitled Pigs on the Move. So far, it involves pigs attempting to better themselves, and a farmer's constant upbraiding of his no-account son for letting the pigs get further in life than him (the son). Look for pre-production come the fall.
And finally, I'll be a TA for Captain Americanist's lecture this fall, which is awesome.
Look for updates containing words of wisdom from my reading throughout the summer, as I can't imagine much else will be going on here. So far I've learned this:
-People in the '20s drank more, made more money, and generally got laid a lot more than I do.
-Jews are not entertaining (Sorry McJew, but read Awake and Sing! and you'll see my point).
-When white people write about sex, it's smut (Updike). When Native Americans do it, it's amusing cultural difference (Erdrich).
-The working world stinks, but if you curse a lot and hate women, it'll at least amuse others.
-19 page one acts are the greatest gift you can give a prelim student.
-Vietnam was, in fact, not a fun place to be.
-Education is the reducto absurdum of all human experience. And no battle is ever won. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools. (Now that's an enheartening lesson to start the summer with.)
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
In which I defy augury
Longer post later this week. Just taking the moment to point out that, as of midnight, I am now 26. Back at Northwestern, we never planned to live past 25, seeing the obscene amounts we drank and the horrible Midwestern fried foods we ate (we seriously feared scurvy at one point). So this birthday is a milestone, in that I am the first of our drunken cadre to defy Death (at least this particular Death, as Quantum already surpassed his private death date, and my hat off to him).
Seeing Wicked in Chicago with Red-Headed Stepchild, then massive bar-hopping on Friday. Good times ahead, despite the reading load.
And if you're in Madison and reading this, and I haven't already invited you, you're invited to drinks this Friday night. Talk to me for details.
Seeing Wicked in Chicago with Red-Headed Stepchild, then massive bar-hopping on Friday. Good times ahead, despite the reading load.
And if you're in Madison and reading this, and I haven't already invited you, you're invited to drinks this Friday night. Talk to me for details.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
The getting of knowledge should be tangible. It should be...smelly.
There are times I loathe the internet. This is one of them (ironic, since I'm using it to complain).
In my research, I much prefer to actually read a text than find it online and read a computer screen. It's just me. I like the tactile presence and the ability to underline and jot notes in the margins. But, as I grade papers, I realize most of my students strongly disagree. They find online, read, quote, use, whatever, all without leaving their dorms. And I hate it. Because apparently this means that they don't have to cite page numbers when they quote, because there are no page numbers online. This is the type of thinking that leads to bad papers, irate teachers, and consequently, lower grades. And by irate I mean fuming, throwing things across the room, stopping grading so I can blog about it.
Rant over. Please continue on to read my previous post, which is much longer and far more interesting.
In my research, I much prefer to actually read a text than find it online and read a computer screen. It's just me. I like the tactile presence and the ability to underline and jot notes in the margins. But, as I grade papers, I realize most of my students strongly disagree. They find online, read, quote, use, whatever, all without leaving their dorms. And I hate it. Because apparently this means that they don't have to cite page numbers when they quote, because there are no page numbers online. This is the type of thinking that leads to bad papers, irate teachers, and consequently, lower grades. And by irate I mean fuming, throwing things across the room, stopping grading so I can blog about it.
Rant over. Please continue on to read my previous post, which is much longer and far more interesting.
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