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.)
Saturday, August 19, 2006
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.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Baby Don't You Wanna Go...
I've recently reread The Count of Monte Cristo, and I've come to the conclusion that our lives are not so dissimilar. We both underwent extremely harsh educations in stone prisons. And we both plan to use our knowledge to revenge ourselves upon the world (except he punished the guilty, while I plan to punish future students). In other words, it's been finals week here, and I had to write a long, ill-prepared paper and take a laughably easy final (maybe not easy, but laughable in the amount of work I put into it). So now summer is here, and escaping the Ivory Tower is, in its way, not unlike Edmond Dantes' escape from the Chateau d'If.
This is my long way of saying I haven't posted because I've been busy. So this post will be mostly highlights of the past few weeks, including tales of the sublimity of sleep, editing at the mechanics, and many instances of the truly bizarre.
First, the wonderful. I passed my Spanish for Reading Knowledge Test with an Advanced Proficiency. (For those of you not in the know, we at Madison need two foreign languages for the PhD. This test officially counts as my second, and I got a higher proficiency than I needed.) Of course, this is odd as I believe my translation included the fact that Hemingway led an elite band of guerillas into the heart of Paris during WWII. But who am I to question the wisdom of our teacher? Or of Papa H, for that matter? Further proof that he could so take Henry James.
That same morning, I saw two homeless men get kicked out of McDonald's for rolling joints on the counter. The management took offense to this, and apparently it wasn't the first time, as the manager told them he'd warned them about that before. Still, it was testament to the egalitarianism of the homeless, as the one had no weed, while the other was willing to share his excess. Truly, the meek shall inherit the Earth.
That evening commenced our grad student conference, which continued all weekend. It went well, though it occupied the majority of my time. Our keynote was fun, and I actually managed to pay for her expenses, something I was fearful of (I am treasurer of our little group, for my out of town folk).
That Friday, following the conference reception (wine and keg, small bits of food), we took the keg off to our friend Sarah's place (you may think this isn't a nickname, but oh, you'd be wrong. And it's even a nickname with layers). I, sadly, was staying somewhat sober, as I had my car with me. That night was perhaps the most surreal party I've been to in a long time. I had dropped folk off, went to get dinner, and returned. Upon arriving, I found my cohorts shooting at each other with a toy bow and arrow (yet with metal-tipped arrows). Sarah, when told I had gotten my own dinner as opposed to ordering pizza with them, seemed to believe I had ordered my own pizza, and asked for money to pay the guy when he got there. Repeated explanations did not help, but led to the following:
Me: I didn't order pizza.
Sarah: So how much money do you owe?
Me: None. I got McDonald's.
Sarah: Did you pay for it already?
Me: They generally don't let you leave without paying there.
We eventually got that settled, but the hilarity continued. Now this next section involves several folk I can't come up with good nicknames for, as I don't really know some of them that well (or well enough to know personal quirks and habits to mock). I'll just list several things, as any attempt to impose linerarity will be antithetical to the tone of the evening. In the course of the night, these things happened:
-The Norwegian shot Winter with the arrow, who shot her back in the neck, at point blank range (child's toy, no harm done, though the Norwegian would not shut up about it, as she was drunk, along with everyone else).
-The Norwegian, Winter, and UnionMan all played leapfrog, until the Norwegian's necklace broke and scattered in the grass, except for a few pieces, one of which UnionMan ate in front of her mockingly.
-The Norwegian and Winter tried to drunkdial me while I was standing right next to them, but they didn't know the last four digits of my number, so they called four random people before getting the sequence right.
-I broke the bow and arrow, as the string slipped off and it fell to the concrete, which was apparently too much stress (but it survived all the drunks pulling on it just fine). I then gave it back to the child, while Fangirl tried to explain how some carpenter's glue would fix it right up. My suggestion of duct tape was summarily ignored.
-Winter kicked UnionMan in the face. Because he asked her to.
-I got monster hiccups (again, while sober), which continued for almost half an hour and which I used to punctuate important points in the conversation.
-I believe we terrified some poor guy from Dartmouth, friend to Fangirl and her partner, who was visiting.
-I heard numerous repetitions about just how "carnivalesque" the party was, all of them from the Dissertator.
I can't remember much else, just the general surreal atmosphere of the night. If anyone recollects other choice moments, feel free to comment.
After the conference, things settled down. I wrote a 17 page paper in about three days, and edited it the morning it was due while I was at the mechanic getting my car fixed. Then I slept a lot. This weekend, having finished the only hard thing I had to do and thus nearly ending my semester, I decided to read Monte Cristo, a 1500 page epic, thus proving I am truly a nerd. Between that and replaying KOTOR 2, I've managed to waste the better part of a week. But I did study for my history final for a whole hour and a half (I had to read about the Carter and Reagan years for one of the essay questions). And I managed to sleep in till 11:30 today, only leaving the apartment to get dinner.
Now, I have to grade 12 portfolios tomorrow, as I am going to Chicago on Friday. I'm going in to see the Freshman 15 show (my old a cappella group), and to hang with Bluesman on Friday, brunch with Memi on Saturday, and then drive to the old homestead on Saturday to spend Mother's Day with the folks and recuperate for a week in St. Louis. I'm going in early, taking the Norwegian to O'Hare, thus freeing up the day for some fun Chicago stuff (Liquor Barn, Herm's, etc.). If I come back with a bottle of Napoleon Brandy shaped like Napoleon, all the better.
Next post, I explain to my out of town friends exactly what the term "prelims" means, and how exactly I'll spend my summer vacation. Start praying now.
This is my long way of saying I haven't posted because I've been busy. So this post will be mostly highlights of the past few weeks, including tales of the sublimity of sleep, editing at the mechanics, and many instances of the truly bizarre.
First, the wonderful. I passed my Spanish for Reading Knowledge Test with an Advanced Proficiency. (For those of you not in the know, we at Madison need two foreign languages for the PhD. This test officially counts as my second, and I got a higher proficiency than I needed.) Of course, this is odd as I believe my translation included the fact that Hemingway led an elite band of guerillas into the heart of Paris during WWII. But who am I to question the wisdom of our teacher? Or of Papa H, for that matter? Further proof that he could so take Henry James.
That same morning, I saw two homeless men get kicked out of McDonald's for rolling joints on the counter. The management took offense to this, and apparently it wasn't the first time, as the manager told them he'd warned them about that before. Still, it was testament to the egalitarianism of the homeless, as the one had no weed, while the other was willing to share his excess. Truly, the meek shall inherit the Earth.
That evening commenced our grad student conference, which continued all weekend. It went well, though it occupied the majority of my time. Our keynote was fun, and I actually managed to pay for her expenses, something I was fearful of (I am treasurer of our little group, for my out of town folk).
That Friday, following the conference reception (wine and keg, small bits of food), we took the keg off to our friend Sarah's place (you may think this isn't a nickname, but oh, you'd be wrong. And it's even a nickname with layers). I, sadly, was staying somewhat sober, as I had my car with me. That night was perhaps the most surreal party I've been to in a long time. I had dropped folk off, went to get dinner, and returned. Upon arriving, I found my cohorts shooting at each other with a toy bow and arrow (yet with metal-tipped arrows). Sarah, when told I had gotten my own dinner as opposed to ordering pizza with them, seemed to believe I had ordered my own pizza, and asked for money to pay the guy when he got there. Repeated explanations did not help, but led to the following:
Me: I didn't order pizza.
Sarah: So how much money do you owe?
Me: None. I got McDonald's.
Sarah: Did you pay for it already?
Me: They generally don't let you leave without paying there.
We eventually got that settled, but the hilarity continued. Now this next section involves several folk I can't come up with good nicknames for, as I don't really know some of them that well (or well enough to know personal quirks and habits to mock). I'll just list several things, as any attempt to impose linerarity will be antithetical to the tone of the evening. In the course of the night, these things happened:
-The Norwegian shot Winter with the arrow, who shot her back in the neck, at point blank range (child's toy, no harm done, though the Norwegian would not shut up about it, as she was drunk, along with everyone else).
-The Norwegian, Winter, and UnionMan all played leapfrog, until the Norwegian's necklace broke and scattered in the grass, except for a few pieces, one of which UnionMan ate in front of her mockingly.
-The Norwegian and Winter tried to drunkdial me while I was standing right next to them, but they didn't know the last four digits of my number, so they called four random people before getting the sequence right.
-I broke the bow and arrow, as the string slipped off and it fell to the concrete, which was apparently too much stress (but it survived all the drunks pulling on it just fine). I then gave it back to the child, while Fangirl tried to explain how some carpenter's glue would fix it right up. My suggestion of duct tape was summarily ignored.
-Winter kicked UnionMan in the face. Because he asked her to.
-I got monster hiccups (again, while sober), which continued for almost half an hour and which I used to punctuate important points in the conversation.
-I believe we terrified some poor guy from Dartmouth, friend to Fangirl and her partner, who was visiting.
-I heard numerous repetitions about just how "carnivalesque" the party was, all of them from the Dissertator.
I can't remember much else, just the general surreal atmosphere of the night. If anyone recollects other choice moments, feel free to comment.
After the conference, things settled down. I wrote a 17 page paper in about three days, and edited it the morning it was due while I was at the mechanic getting my car fixed. Then I slept a lot. This weekend, having finished the only hard thing I had to do and thus nearly ending my semester, I decided to read Monte Cristo, a 1500 page epic, thus proving I am truly a nerd. Between that and replaying KOTOR 2, I've managed to waste the better part of a week. But I did study for my history final for a whole hour and a half (I had to read about the Carter and Reagan years for one of the essay questions). And I managed to sleep in till 11:30 today, only leaving the apartment to get dinner.
Now, I have to grade 12 portfolios tomorrow, as I am going to Chicago on Friday. I'm going in to see the Freshman 15 show (my old a cappella group), and to hang with Bluesman on Friday, brunch with Memi on Saturday, and then drive to the old homestead on Saturday to spend Mother's Day with the folks and recuperate for a week in St. Louis. I'm going in early, taking the Norwegian to O'Hare, thus freeing up the day for some fun Chicago stuff (Liquor Barn, Herm's, etc.). If I come back with a bottle of Napoleon Brandy shaped like Napoleon, all the better.
Next post, I explain to my out of town friends exactly what the term "prelims" means, and how exactly I'll spend my summer vacation. Start praying now.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Sequels are Rules
This post will require some filler from my NU friends, with whom we were wacky.
The title is taken from a saying of Quantum's, that "Games are Rules." Sadly, I was not at the drunken revels that produced this tidbit of wisdom, nor do I quite know what it means, but the implication seems to be that games, in a strictly ontological sense, are only a composition of the rules that create them. I'm sure others could expound on this theory at length, but I merely bring it up as a tie in to my actual point.
In undergrad we came up with a loose set of rules governing movie sequel titles. Every Movie 2 must be, in some form, "The Revenge." The revenge of what was always unspecified, for that extra ominous bit. The third, taking it's cue from the Darkman saga, had to be "Movie 3: Die Movie, Die." Then, because we figured sequels had really hit their peak with the Leprechaun series, the fourth movie in a non-trilogy series must be "Movie 4: Movie in the Hood," whilst the fifth would inevitably be "Movie 5: Movie in Space." We felt that the transition from hood to space only made sense, as once one was in space, the odds of returning to Earth (and to the hood, no less) were astronomically (pardon the pun) slimmer.
Now, this isn't horribly inventive, but it did afford us no manner of glee. And, more important to this post, it spawned one of our truly marvellous running gags. I believe it was Irish McJew who had to watch Cyrano de Bergerac for a film class (or a French class, or a French film class), and this prompted him and Quantum to come up with the sequels, according to our schema. Which gave us the following:
Cyrano Deux: La Vengeance: In which Cyrano is awakened from cryogenic sleep in the late 20th century only to be horrified at the burgeoning European Union and it's trademark currency, the euro. Thus prompting the catchphrase: "La Euro? Sacrebleu! La vengeance, c'est ma noit" (I am unclear on the spelling, as I never took French. Roughly, it translates to "The vengeance, it is now!" Feel free to correct me if you want, McJew). I believe in this film, Cyrano would battle the euro, and, somehow, cyborgs (though the cyborgs may have been in a later film).
Cyrano Troix: Mort Cyrano, Mort. Don't remember the plot of this one, or if we even expected the franchise to go this far. I believe it involved some kind of long-lost enemy of Cyrano's, maybe a returning character presumed dead in the first film.
Cyrano (French for Four): Cyrano dans La Ghetto (Cyrano in the Hood, again feel free to correct my spelling): I forget what Cyrano did in the hood, but I believe the movie would also feature Snoop Dogg, who had just made cinematic history with his recent release Bones (which, sadly, we never did see).
And then there was Cyrano Five: Cyrano in Space, whose French I don't even pretend to remember. This may have been the one where Cyrano fought the cyborgs. I do remember that, after seeing Jason X: Jason in Space (where Jason got an upgrade), we felt that Cyrano in space had awesome potential for slaughter and French taunting.
Anyway, if you're one of my old NU folk and you remember this gag, feel free to add in any other information I'm missing. Might be worth a laugh, and I have very little else to post, since the semester is winding down and we're all busy. Or maybe I'll have a hilarious post tomorrow about how much the mechanics are going to charge me to fix my car, which has taken to stopping at random times. Just pray I make it to the dealership tomorrow.
Question of the day: Who was Sloopy, and why did he need to hang on?
The title is taken from a saying of Quantum's, that "Games are Rules." Sadly, I was not at the drunken revels that produced this tidbit of wisdom, nor do I quite know what it means, but the implication seems to be that games, in a strictly ontological sense, are only a composition of the rules that create them. I'm sure others could expound on this theory at length, but I merely bring it up as a tie in to my actual point.
In undergrad we came up with a loose set of rules governing movie sequel titles. Every Movie 2 must be, in some form, "The Revenge." The revenge of what was always unspecified, for that extra ominous bit. The third, taking it's cue from the Darkman saga, had to be "Movie 3: Die Movie, Die." Then, because we figured sequels had really hit their peak with the Leprechaun series, the fourth movie in a non-trilogy series must be "Movie 4: Movie in the Hood," whilst the fifth would inevitably be "Movie 5: Movie in Space." We felt that the transition from hood to space only made sense, as once one was in space, the odds of returning to Earth (and to the hood, no less) were astronomically (pardon the pun) slimmer.
Now, this isn't horribly inventive, but it did afford us no manner of glee. And, more important to this post, it spawned one of our truly marvellous running gags. I believe it was Irish McJew who had to watch Cyrano de Bergerac for a film class (or a French class, or a French film class), and this prompted him and Quantum to come up with the sequels, according to our schema. Which gave us the following:
Cyrano Deux: La Vengeance: In which Cyrano is awakened from cryogenic sleep in the late 20th century only to be horrified at the burgeoning European Union and it's trademark currency, the euro. Thus prompting the catchphrase: "La Euro? Sacrebleu! La vengeance, c'est ma noit" (I am unclear on the spelling, as I never took French. Roughly, it translates to "The vengeance, it is now!" Feel free to correct me if you want, McJew). I believe in this film, Cyrano would battle the euro, and, somehow, cyborgs (though the cyborgs may have been in a later film).
Cyrano Troix: Mort Cyrano, Mort. Don't remember the plot of this one, or if we even expected the franchise to go this far. I believe it involved some kind of long-lost enemy of Cyrano's, maybe a returning character presumed dead in the first film.
Cyrano (French for Four): Cyrano dans La Ghetto (Cyrano in the Hood, again feel free to correct my spelling): I forget what Cyrano did in the hood, but I believe the movie would also feature Snoop Dogg, who had just made cinematic history with his recent release Bones (which, sadly, we never did see).
And then there was Cyrano Five: Cyrano in Space, whose French I don't even pretend to remember. This may have been the one where Cyrano fought the cyborgs. I do remember that, after seeing Jason X: Jason in Space (where Jason got an upgrade), we felt that Cyrano in space had awesome potential for slaughter and French taunting.
Anyway, if you're one of my old NU folk and you remember this gag, feel free to add in any other information I'm missing. Might be worth a laugh, and I have very little else to post, since the semester is winding down and we're all busy. Or maybe I'll have a hilarious post tomorrow about how much the mechanics are going to charge me to fix my car, which has taken to stopping at random times. Just pray I make it to the dealership tomorrow.
Question of the day: Who was Sloopy, and why did he need to hang on?
Monday, April 17, 2006
Where Was Moses When the Lights Went Out?
The title of this post directly relates to the homily at our Easter Vigil mass on Saturday. Bear with me.
For the past few years, I've been going to Easter Vigil mass as opposed to the Sunday morning one. Last year, several of the Madisonian Catholics all went together, and since then it's become an expected thing, to the point where we made plans to go to mass together then go out for drinks afterward. This promised to be particularly interesting this year, as I had given up alcohol for the Lenten season, and Housefan (she of speakmemory, linked to the right, and one obsessed with Hugh Laurie) had been talking this up to the point where I felt like I'd be letting her down if I didn't get hammered. That's the context going in. But first, the mass.
Our coterie consisted of myself, Housefan and her husband the Wedding Singer (still not sold on that nickname, but I've used it before), CryptoJew and Tennessee Stretch (suck it, TS), and the Lady in Black, and of course we were all dressed up in our Easter finery. The mass itself ran the usual 2:45, with a few highlights:
1. The awesome cantor man who sings the opening chant (which lasts about five minutes). I never see this man except at Easter vigil, and despite the claims of my comrades, I believe they keep him locked in a closet for the rest of the year.
2. The usual Gloria, but in a higher key (fun for tenors, not fun for the bishop), which lessened the fact that it is an inferior Gloria, in that it has no understanding of proper phrasing.
3. The baptism of the new catechumins, which featured what can best be described as calliope music, during which I nearly made the Lady in Black burst out laughing just by exchanging a sardonic glance at their choice of instrument (with later reflection upon the sheer potential for trilling in the operatic style, reenactment available upon request).
4. The woman who gave her small children each a lit candle, which led to my fascinated guesses as to when they would set themselves or her on fire.
5. The bishop's wonderful homily, which deserves a bit of discussion. Our bishop enjoys the formula homily, where each homily deals with three points, all somewhat connected. It wasn't a bad homily per se, but I knew we were in trouble when he found it somewhat unusual that the first reading was Genesis 1, where God creates the heavens and earth. (For you non-Catholics, this is not at all unusual as it is the first reading every Easter vigil.) Now, our bishop went into an extended metaphor of the importance of the creation of light as precursor to all, thus mirrored by the internal light of the soul, yada yada yada. He sustained the metaphor, and it worked, but he began with this gem: "And how could God see this creation he had made, and see it was good? He could see it because he first made the light." Never mind the fact that God is, by nature, omniscient and omnipotent, and could see very well without any lights. Unless you imagine God wandering around blind in darkness for the timeless period before creation, and then suddenly realizing "Holy Me, I can't freakin' see! I should make a light, because I have that power! I truly am awesome, in the biblical sense of the word." That realization colored the rest of the homily for me, which was only made worse by his extended football metaphor in the third point. But oh well, as I said to my cohorts, at least he stayed away from the hating of the gays and the abortions this year.
After the mass' conclusion, the six of us retired to the Old Fasioned, a local purveyor of food and spirits, to celebrate the risen Lord. Holding true to my completely meritless theory that sticking with vodka will lessen my troubles the next morning, I decided to start our revels with a Ketel & tonic, which would prove to be my drink of choice for the evening. During the course of that night, we drank various amounts (with myself and the Wedding Singer greatly outpacing the others), we ate enough fried food to kill a non-Wisconsinite, and we told ribald tales of debauchery and insanity (as apparently I had never told the married couple my Harry Potter tale, that old chestnut was dragged out somewhat reluctantly, as I realize it's perhaps my most oft-repeated tale). During our time there, I believe I had three mixed vodka drinks and one straight glass of Grey Goose L'Orange, just for a change of pace. I fully intended to stop there, but then Nittany Lion called and said he was coming out, so I decided to keep drinking in celebration. I believe I had another K&T before he got there, then two more while he was there.
Naturally my memory is spotty toward the end of the evening (I have a horrible memory while sober, and being drunk only accentuates what I firmly believe to be a genetic defect). I remember leaving, but not paying, though I'm told I did (can't wait to see that bill on my credit card). I remember being driven home, but not the shouting in the streets that apparently I took part in. I remember getting home and eating the ears off my chocolate bunny (thinking it would lessen my drunkenness if I had food in my stomach). Apparently I watched an episode of Firefly (Borders Rewards Card, thank you), had the good sense to hang up my dress clothes, and passed out, contact lenses still in.
I awoke the next morn, luckily early enough to still make the brunch time I had set with CryptoJew, TS, and LiB, back at the Old Fashioned (where they serve a mean breakfast as well as their impressive bar). I woke to discover I was still of a less than sober state, took out my contacts (catching one in the holder and ripping it in half in the process, as I would discover later), and took about a 45 minute shower to gather my wits. Sadly, my wits had other ideas. So I went to brunch, which was lovely, came home, rewatched the episode of Firefly I had apparently watched the night before, ate more of my bunny, and took a very long nap. I capped the day grading papers and eating for Easter dinner beans from a can, as I had nothing else that would sit well in my hungover state. Oh, and I got a phone call from my brother, who informed me that my mother, at the family party, was well on her way to achieving the state I had achieved the night before, along with her myriad brothers and sisters. I love my family.
Thus concludes my Easter tale. I only hope the actuality of events lived up to the hype. And to Housefan, two addendums to your post:
1. It's not that I'll drink anything in front of me, but that if you put a drink in my hand, I'll drink it quickly because it's there, regardless of whether it is mixed weakly or pure alcohol. It's my tragic flaw. Though I will also drink almost anything put in front of me, thanks to the training I received with Quantum et al. Partial list of things we drank at NU: margarita from a jug (just add you, chugging contests), Jeremiah Weed Bourbon Liqueur, Jeremiah Weed mixed with Tabasco Sauce, Captain Jack Cuervo, the fruit punch made of the nine or ten bottles of Pucker Quantum had leftover (mixed in an unwashed cooler and ladled out with an empty cup), the crazy stuff Bourbon Samurai got at a gun show from a man with an unmarked jug, and the mead Uber260 made in his basement, fermented in tupperware containers (which we drank to the toast "Blindness and Death," and which luckily caused neither).
2. It wasn't a pint glass full of whiskey, but a pint glass full of five different kinds of whiskey (and a dash of cherry coke to delude ourselves into calling it a mixed drink).
Happy Holiday, all. Christ is Risen, Alleluia, Alleluia. Unless you're Jewish. (Yes, I mean you Irish McJew.)
For the past few years, I've been going to Easter Vigil mass as opposed to the Sunday morning one. Last year, several of the Madisonian Catholics all went together, and since then it's become an expected thing, to the point where we made plans to go to mass together then go out for drinks afterward. This promised to be particularly interesting this year, as I had given up alcohol for the Lenten season, and Housefan (she of speakmemory, linked to the right, and one obsessed with Hugh Laurie) had been talking this up to the point where I felt like I'd be letting her down if I didn't get hammered. That's the context going in. But first, the mass.
Our coterie consisted of myself, Housefan and her husband the Wedding Singer (still not sold on that nickname, but I've used it before), CryptoJew and Tennessee Stretch (suck it, TS), and the Lady in Black, and of course we were all dressed up in our Easter finery. The mass itself ran the usual 2:45, with a few highlights:
1. The awesome cantor man who sings the opening chant (which lasts about five minutes). I never see this man except at Easter vigil, and despite the claims of my comrades, I believe they keep him locked in a closet for the rest of the year.
2. The usual Gloria, but in a higher key (fun for tenors, not fun for the bishop), which lessened the fact that it is an inferior Gloria, in that it has no understanding of proper phrasing.
3. The baptism of the new catechumins, which featured what can best be described as calliope music, during which I nearly made the Lady in Black burst out laughing just by exchanging a sardonic glance at their choice of instrument (with later reflection upon the sheer potential for trilling in the operatic style, reenactment available upon request).
4. The woman who gave her small children each a lit candle, which led to my fascinated guesses as to when they would set themselves or her on fire.
5. The bishop's wonderful homily, which deserves a bit of discussion. Our bishop enjoys the formula homily, where each homily deals with three points, all somewhat connected. It wasn't a bad homily per se, but I knew we were in trouble when he found it somewhat unusual that the first reading was Genesis 1, where God creates the heavens and earth. (For you non-Catholics, this is not at all unusual as it is the first reading every Easter vigil.) Now, our bishop went into an extended metaphor of the importance of the creation of light as precursor to all, thus mirrored by the internal light of the soul, yada yada yada. He sustained the metaphor, and it worked, but he began with this gem: "And how could God see this creation he had made, and see it was good? He could see it because he first made the light." Never mind the fact that God is, by nature, omniscient and omnipotent, and could see very well without any lights. Unless you imagine God wandering around blind in darkness for the timeless period before creation, and then suddenly realizing "Holy Me, I can't freakin' see! I should make a light, because I have that power! I truly am awesome, in the biblical sense of the word." That realization colored the rest of the homily for me, which was only made worse by his extended football metaphor in the third point. But oh well, as I said to my cohorts, at least he stayed away from the hating of the gays and the abortions this year.
After the mass' conclusion, the six of us retired to the Old Fasioned, a local purveyor of food and spirits, to celebrate the risen Lord. Holding true to my completely meritless theory that sticking with vodka will lessen my troubles the next morning, I decided to start our revels with a Ketel & tonic, which would prove to be my drink of choice for the evening. During the course of that night, we drank various amounts (with myself and the Wedding Singer greatly outpacing the others), we ate enough fried food to kill a non-Wisconsinite, and we told ribald tales of debauchery and insanity (as apparently I had never told the married couple my Harry Potter tale, that old chestnut was dragged out somewhat reluctantly, as I realize it's perhaps my most oft-repeated tale). During our time there, I believe I had three mixed vodka drinks and one straight glass of Grey Goose L'Orange, just for a change of pace. I fully intended to stop there, but then Nittany Lion called and said he was coming out, so I decided to keep drinking in celebration. I believe I had another K&T before he got there, then two more while he was there.
Naturally my memory is spotty toward the end of the evening (I have a horrible memory while sober, and being drunk only accentuates what I firmly believe to be a genetic defect). I remember leaving, but not paying, though I'm told I did (can't wait to see that bill on my credit card). I remember being driven home, but not the shouting in the streets that apparently I took part in. I remember getting home and eating the ears off my chocolate bunny (thinking it would lessen my drunkenness if I had food in my stomach). Apparently I watched an episode of Firefly (Borders Rewards Card, thank you), had the good sense to hang up my dress clothes, and passed out, contact lenses still in.
I awoke the next morn, luckily early enough to still make the brunch time I had set with CryptoJew, TS, and LiB, back at the Old Fashioned (where they serve a mean breakfast as well as their impressive bar). I woke to discover I was still of a less than sober state, took out my contacts (catching one in the holder and ripping it in half in the process, as I would discover later), and took about a 45 minute shower to gather my wits. Sadly, my wits had other ideas. So I went to brunch, which was lovely, came home, rewatched the episode of Firefly I had apparently watched the night before, ate more of my bunny, and took a very long nap. I capped the day grading papers and eating for Easter dinner beans from a can, as I had nothing else that would sit well in my hungover state. Oh, and I got a phone call from my brother, who informed me that my mother, at the family party, was well on her way to achieving the state I had achieved the night before, along with her myriad brothers and sisters. I love my family.
Thus concludes my Easter tale. I only hope the actuality of events lived up to the hype. And to Housefan, two addendums to your post:
1. It's not that I'll drink anything in front of me, but that if you put a drink in my hand, I'll drink it quickly because it's there, regardless of whether it is mixed weakly or pure alcohol. It's my tragic flaw. Though I will also drink almost anything put in front of me, thanks to the training I received with Quantum et al. Partial list of things we drank at NU: margarita from a jug (just add you, chugging contests), Jeremiah Weed Bourbon Liqueur, Jeremiah Weed mixed with Tabasco Sauce, Captain Jack Cuervo, the fruit punch made of the nine or ten bottles of Pucker Quantum had leftover (mixed in an unwashed cooler and ladled out with an empty cup), the crazy stuff Bourbon Samurai got at a gun show from a man with an unmarked jug, and the mead Uber260 made in his basement, fermented in tupperware containers (which we drank to the toast "Blindness and Death," and which luckily caused neither).
2. It wasn't a pint glass full of whiskey, but a pint glass full of five different kinds of whiskey (and a dash of cherry coke to delude ourselves into calling it a mixed drink).
Happy Holiday, all. Christ is Risen, Alleluia, Alleluia. Unless you're Jewish. (Yes, I mean you Irish McJew.)
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