Well, not screaming. But it was a terrible nightmare. I was supposed to be teaching these third-graders, but I had no lesson plans and no idea what third-graders were supposed to learn. There were two other grown-ups in the room with me, one of whom was evaluating me, and the other was the science/math teacher. So I was all, “Yeah, well, right now it’s the science and math unit!”, and I was hoping the science and math teacher would take over, and give me time to think of a language arts lesson plan; but instead she just stood there watching me expectantly. I said, “Okay, fractions!” and all the kids waited patiently and I said, “One half plus one half equals a whole. Get it?” and drew a picture of a sliced-in-half pie on the chalkboard.
“Jenny,” said the science and math teacher. “They don’t learn fractions until eighth grade.”
“No,” I said anxiously. “Third grade. They learn fractions right now. With pie.”
“It’s 3.14159 et cetera,” said the science and math teacher to the students. “Remember that, students. You will need it to decipher the circle that Jenny drew on the board for you.”
“Wait, we aren’t doing geometry!” I said.
“You brought it up,” said the science and math teacher gently.
“Not pi,” I said. “Pie like apple pie.”
“You’re being very irrational,” said the science and math teacher.
“Is this your normal teaching method?” said the evaluator. “Why haven’t you asked the students to tell you about themselves? These students don’t even know each other’s names. How can you try to teach them Euclidean [only she pronounced it Oyclidean] geometry on the very first day when you don’t know anything about them?”
IT WAS AWFUL. I woke up shaking and couldn’t get back to sleep, but I didn’t remember what the nightmare was about until just now. I thought it must have featured horrific monsters. But no. Just teaching.
This nightmare brought to you by:
1. Several of my friends becoming teachers
2. Talking to my sister about fractions last night – she was fantastically good at them when we learned them in (she says) fourth grade (but I thought we learned fractions in third) (but she remembers it very vividly and I'm sure she is right). So I was off about the fractions by a year.
3. Explaining to tim that I am bad at teaching. Also, the Oyclidean business is tim-related because she one time told me that Euler is pronounced Oiler and it always makes her want to call Euclid Oyclid. Also if it weren’t for tim I doubt that the irrational joke and the five digits I can remember of pi would have made it into this dream.
Showing posts with label Implausible Scenarios that I Think of in my Brain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Implausible Scenarios that I Think of in my Brain. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Girl detective
So today I was going through pictures of my work, right, and I found a picture in this office with a fish. In a fishbowl. And at first I was just all, aw, the leetle fish. Look at the pretty colors. Isn't it nice? La la la. I carried on going through the pictures, whatever whatever, and after a while it hit me: That is a picture of a fish on my desk. My desk does not have a fish on it. WHERE IS THE FISH?
I thought maybe the fish was somewhere else around the office and I just hadn't seen it, so I went hunting. I looked all around my desk. I looked in the meeting room area. I looked in the kitchen. I looked in the stuff room & the other stuff room & my boss's office.
NO FISH.
By now I had begun to suspect that somebody, sometime, had come into this office and played a game they called UP UP UP with the fish!, and had had poorer balance than some players of this game, and the fish in question had not had the good fortune to land in a pot full of water from which it could continue to express its dismay about the turn the game had taken. There are no pots full of water in this office so it couldn't have fallen into one, and I was growing ever more worried about the fate of the fish.
When my boss came back, I said, "Those pictures of the office are very good,"and he said, "Oh, you like them?" and I, having achieved my segue with a minimum of effort, said severely, "WHERE IS THE FISH?"
"Fish?" he said.
I would make a fantastic investigative journalist. I wouldn't let people get away with anything. I did not let my boss get away with this. "THE FISH FROM THE PICTURES," I said.
"It's gone," he explained.
"BECAUSE YOU KILLED IT?" I said.
I know, I know. I missed my calling. I should have become a journalist as previously noted, or possibly an expert interrogator. I would not need to torture people sneakily, because I would get the truth out of them using only my words.
The fish didn't die. You will be relieved to hear. The fish from the pictures was someone else's fish. Not an office fish. Not somewhere dead of neglect in this office because I didn't know about it when I started working here.
Phew.
(Mumsy, don't worry - that is not really what happened. I did not go snooping through the rest of the office, or interrogate my boss. I asked politely and he explained politely. I did not really miss my calling to be an investigative journalist or witness interrogator; I know that my true calling is to be a writer of amusing fictions.)
I thought maybe the fish was somewhere else around the office and I just hadn't seen it, so I went hunting. I looked all around my desk. I looked in the meeting room area. I looked in the kitchen. I looked in the stuff room & the other stuff room & my boss's office.
NO FISH.
By now I had begun to suspect that somebody, sometime, had come into this office and played a game they called UP UP UP with the fish!, and had had poorer balance than some players of this game, and the fish in question had not had the good fortune to land in a pot full of water from which it could continue to express its dismay about the turn the game had taken. There are no pots full of water in this office so it couldn't have fallen into one, and I was growing ever more worried about the fate of the fish.
When my boss came back, I said, "Those pictures of the office are very good,"and he said, "Oh, you like them?" and I, having achieved my segue with a minimum of effort, said severely, "WHERE IS THE FISH?"
"Fish?" he said.
I would make a fantastic investigative journalist. I wouldn't let people get away with anything. I did not let my boss get away with this. "THE FISH FROM THE PICTURES," I said.
"It's gone," he explained.
"BECAUSE YOU KILLED IT?" I said.
I know, I know. I missed my calling. I should have become a journalist as previously noted, or possibly an expert interrogator. I would not need to torture people sneakily, because I would get the truth out of them using only my words.
The fish didn't die. You will be relieved to hear. The fish from the pictures was someone else's fish. Not an office fish. Not somewhere dead of neglect in this office because I didn't know about it when I started working here.
Phew.
(Mumsy, don't worry - that is not really what happened. I did not go snooping through the rest of the office, or interrogate my boss. I asked politely and he explained politely. I did not really miss my calling to be an investigative journalist or witness interrogator; I know that my true calling is to be a writer of amusing fictions.)
Friday, August 21, 2009
One of those epiphanies it would have been better to have had sooner
I was in high school before I realized that the phrase "to jew someone down" is a reference to - you know - Jews. For years and years and years (not because I am stupid! but because I didn't hear it that often and so I didn't think about it that much), I totally thought it was an onomatopoeic approximation of the sound of a power tool. You know, JJJJJJJJJEWWWWWWWWWWWWW - like, whittling something down. I thought jewing someone down meant wearing them down until they could take it no longer and gave you the price you wanted, or possibly wearing down the price with a power tool type thing. When I hear that phrase, that's still what pops into my head.
But then this one time I was talking to one of my friends at lunch about this girl in my elementary school who used to bring Fudge Rounds to school, and she would never share. We used to offer her huge portions of our own lunches in exchange, but the only trade she would accept was two (two!) of those yummy cafeteria rolls. I was telling my friend, "One time I jewed her down to - I just realized what that meant."
Then I felt guilty.
I just wanted to tell y'all that. I have a picture of a power tool in my head right now. JJJJJJEEEEEWWWWWW. Do you understand the noise I'm making? The J is a soft J like in Arabic or French.
But then this one time I was talking to one of my friends at lunch about this girl in my elementary school who used to bring Fudge Rounds to school, and she would never share. We used to offer her huge portions of our own lunches in exchange, but the only trade she would accept was two (two!) of those yummy cafeteria rolls. I was telling my friend, "One time I jewed her down to - I just realized what that meant."
Then I felt guilty.
I just wanted to tell y'all that. I have a picture of a power tool in my head right now. JJJJJJEEEEEWWWWWW. Do you understand the noise I'm making? The J is a soft J like in Arabic or French.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Babysitters' Club
I found this website where this chick is rereading all the Babysitters' Club books. I don't know about you, but I was addicted to these books when I was small. I remember one time Anna's best friend offered to give me Super Special #10, the one where they're all in Peter Pan, if I would finish making the cookies she and Anna started to make and then got tired of. This was, like, the best deal ever, and when I conducted a purge of all my BSC books (dammit, wish I still had them), I hung on to that one particular book.
I just reread it this week, and here is my question. I get it that Jessi's being super bitchy in this book, and I get it that the boss-man of the play might not want to give the part of Peter Pan to a middle-schooler. But then he goes ahead and gives it to Kristy; so it's not about her age. And frankly, nobody in this play is going to be super-talented! So why would he NOT give the part (or any part!) to Jessi, who at least can dance and is accustomed to being on stage? He doesn't even give her a speaking part! I feel like this is an example of Ston(e?)ybrook racism, as we witnessed in Jessi's first book. But nobody even brings this up! HE IS BEING A RACIST PRICK AND NOBODY CARES.
I can't remember how they deal with Jessi and racism in the BSC books, apart from the one where she first moves to town, and also that Super Special that takes place at camp, where Mallory and Jessi are supposed to be like junior counselors in training, and their fellow campers don't like them because they're being stuck-up little snots (well they are!), and to show they don't like them, they call Mallory and Jessi "Oreos", and that's where I first learned that term, and I remember being like, Speaking of that, Oreos are delicious, and I went and stole a bunch of cookies from the long thin tin where we used to keep our cookies. Stolen cookies are always sweeter. I wonder if my parents knew how many of those cookies I stole and ate at a time.
Anyway, I'm very entertained by this website. She makes fun of Claudia's clothes. Even at age ten, I thought Claudia's clothes sounded fucking stupid. Why was she always wearing oversized shirts? Does she not have any normal shirts? I feel like Claudia would grow up still wearing these wacky fashions into her mid-thirties, which would be really tragic, but here's what it would lead to, ultimately:
Mmm, this is almost as satisfying as imagining what Buffy would do if she ever met Edward Cullen.
I just reread it this week, and here is my question. I get it that Jessi's being super bitchy in this book, and I get it that the boss-man of the play might not want to give the part of Peter Pan to a middle-schooler. But then he goes ahead and gives it to Kristy; so it's not about her age. And frankly, nobody in this play is going to be super-talented! So why would he NOT give the part (or any part!) to Jessi, who at least can dance and is accustomed to being on stage? He doesn't even give her a speaking part! I feel like this is an example of Ston(e?)ybrook racism, as we witnessed in Jessi's first book. But nobody even brings this up! HE IS BEING A RACIST PRICK AND NOBODY CARES.
I can't remember how they deal with Jessi and racism in the BSC books, apart from the one where she first moves to town, and also that Super Special that takes place at camp, where Mallory and Jessi are supposed to be like junior counselors in training, and their fellow campers don't like them because they're being stuck-up little snots (well they are!), and to show they don't like them, they call Mallory and Jessi "Oreos", and that's where I first learned that term, and I remember being like, Speaking of that, Oreos are delicious, and I went and stole a bunch of cookies from the long thin tin where we used to keep our cookies. Stolen cookies are always sweeter. I wonder if my parents knew how many of those cookies I stole and ate at a time.
Anyway, I'm very entertained by this website. She makes fun of Claudia's clothes. Even at age ten, I thought Claudia's clothes sounded fucking stupid. Why was she always wearing oversized shirts? Does she not have any normal shirts? I feel like Claudia would grow up still wearing these wacky fashions into her mid-thirties, which would be really tragic, but here's what it would lead to, ultimately:
CLAUDIA
(in the 360)
Um, well, this is a great off-the-shoulder oversized blouse with a short neon green skirt and polka-dot tights and ballet shoes. I would wear this like to hang out with my friend Stacey in New York City. She's super sophisticated because she's from New York City. I just think this is a really fun outfit that really reflects my personality.
STACY
There are just so many things wrong with this.
CLINTON
My eyes are burning.
STACY
(bunches the blouse together in the back)
Look what a great figure you have!
CLAUDIA
Yes, I can eat a thousand tons of junk food and never gain weight.
STACY
Oh shut up.
CLAUDIA
Or get pimples.
CLINTON
Why would you want to hide this great figure under all this SHIRT? When you wear this outfit, it makes you look frumpy and stumpy. Let's take a look at an alternative, okay?
Cut to: Cute, elegant manikin outfit
CLAUDIA
But this is so booooring!
STACY
This is not boring, this is elegant!
CLINTON
See, Claudia, this is an outfit that's genuinely sophisticated-
STACY
Which is what we want for you!
CLINTON
Yes, we do. See this ruching below the bodice? That's the kind of lovely feminine detail we want you to look for, that's going to accentuate the narrowest part of you, and really show off that adorable little figure.
(in the 360)
Um, well, this is a great off-the-shoulder oversized blouse with a short neon green skirt and polka-dot tights and ballet shoes. I would wear this like to hang out with my friend Stacey in New York City. She's super sophisticated because she's from New York City. I just think this is a really fun outfit that really reflects my personality.
STACY
There are just so many things wrong with this.
CLINTON
My eyes are burning.
STACY
(bunches the blouse together in the back)
Look what a great figure you have!
CLAUDIA
Yes, I can eat a thousand tons of junk food and never gain weight.
STACY
Oh shut up.
CLAUDIA
Or get pimples.
CLINTON
Why would you want to hide this great figure under all this SHIRT? When you wear this outfit, it makes you look frumpy and stumpy. Let's take a look at an alternative, okay?
Cut to: Cute, elegant manikin outfit
CLAUDIA
But this is so booooring!
STACY
This is not boring, this is elegant!
CLINTON
See, Claudia, this is an outfit that's genuinely sophisticated-
STACY
Which is what we want for you!
CLINTON
Yes, we do. See this ruching below the bodice? That's the kind of lovely feminine detail we want you to look for, that's going to accentuate the narrowest part of you, and really show off that adorable little figure.
Mmm, this is almost as satisfying as imagining what Buffy would do if she ever met Edward Cullen.
Friday, June 12, 2009
In which I make it clear that I don't understand finance
Now, I hesitate to announce this to the internet. I’m sure that no sooner will I write these words down, than I will have an enormous crash into misery again. But for the past week I have been weirdly happy. I am just full of this sense of well-being and satisfaction, which it has been a long time since I have felt this way for nearly a week. I have all this equanimity and calmness. It’s very odd, following as it does upon several months of depression, and I have been trying to account for it.
And this is what I have come up with. My serotonin levels are up because of bananas. Yes, bananas. Previously in my life I have been known to say that I cannot eat bananas, because as soon as I eat two bites of a banana, it feels like my entire digestive system is full of banana, backed up all the way up my esophagus, so if I eat another bite of banana, there won’t be anywhere to go because my esophagus is already full, and it will just sit in my mouth until it rots and fruit flies start gathering around it.
(Ew, that was really gross.)
But then I started eating bananas, because I don’t eat enough fruit, and bananas travel relatively well and keep for a relatively long time in comparison with other fruits, and they’re cheap. Nowadays, I eat a banana every day at lunch, and I have been doing this for a while, and what has happened, my friends, is that this investment in bananas, is now paying off in SERIOUS MAJOR HOPEFULLY LONG-TERM TRYPTOPHAN DIVIDENDS.
(I am not entirely sure what dividends are. They’re what investments pay off in, right? Isn’t that what dividends means, when they aren’t the top halves of fractions?)
Because when a mommy tryptophan and something complicated with chemistry, there becomes serotonin! Get your tryptophan from carbohydrates rather than poultry, and it will give you happiness. I read an article.
And this is what I have come up with. My serotonin levels are up because of bananas. Yes, bananas. Previously in my life I have been known to say that I cannot eat bananas, because as soon as I eat two bites of a banana, it feels like my entire digestive system is full of banana, backed up all the way up my esophagus, so if I eat another bite of banana, there won’t be anywhere to go because my esophagus is already full, and it will just sit in my mouth until it rots and fruit flies start gathering around it.
(Ew, that was really gross.)
But then I started eating bananas, because I don’t eat enough fruit, and bananas travel relatively well and keep for a relatively long time in comparison with other fruits, and they’re cheap. Nowadays, I eat a banana every day at lunch, and I have been doing this for a while, and what has happened, my friends, is that this investment in bananas, is now paying off in SERIOUS MAJOR HOPEFULLY LONG-TERM TRYPTOPHAN DIVIDENDS.
(I am not entirely sure what dividends are. They’re what investments pay off in, right? Isn’t that what dividends means, when they aren’t the top halves of fractions?)
Because when a mommy tryptophan and something complicated with chemistry, there becomes serotonin! Get your tryptophan from carbohydrates rather than poultry, and it will give you happiness. I read an article.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Poor door.
There’s this old (or middle-aged maybe? I haven’t looked at her that closely) lady with a poodle in town, and she’s always taking her poodle for walks around campus. When I’m driving near the lakes, I often see her and her poodle out walking, and because the lady is I guess really reluctant to get wet, she always brings an umbrella on her walks, and the poodle has to carry the umbrella in its mouth. The poodle never looks any too thrilled about this. When they are stopped, waiting to cross a road, the poodle puts it down on the ground, and it always seems reluctant to pick it up again when they start walking. I feel sorry for the poodle.
Because I am sometimes sad, I have been assigned to stop noticing that I’m sad, when I’m sad, and instead pay close attention to things that are happening around me. This is a good strategy for not being sad at work, but it does give me other things to worry about. For instance, today I noticed that the lock on the bathroom stalls is bolted in with two bolts that look like eyes, and then a wide piece of metal that looks slightly like an animal face; and now when the door is bolted, if I tilt my head sideways, it looks like a sad-eyed creature is holding the door closed with its mouth. And I keep thinking of the poor poodle with the umbrella and how sorry I am for it, so I feel like I have to pee really really fast in order to minimize its suffering.
Fine, then, human tendency to anthropomorphize! YOU WIN THIS ROUND, but I WILL BE BACK. And I hope you noticed that I DIDN’T CARE AT ALL when my friend fed baby birds to her snakes but in fact thought it was a TOTALLY EXCELLENT STORY. So THERE.
Because I am sometimes sad, I have been assigned to stop noticing that I’m sad, when I’m sad, and instead pay close attention to things that are happening around me. This is a good strategy for not being sad at work, but it does give me other things to worry about. For instance, today I noticed that the lock on the bathroom stalls is bolted in with two bolts that look like eyes, and then a wide piece of metal that looks slightly like an animal face; and now when the door is bolted, if I tilt my head sideways, it looks like a sad-eyed creature is holding the door closed with its mouth. And I keep thinking of the poor poodle with the umbrella and how sorry I am for it, so I feel like I have to pee really really fast in order to minimize its suffering.
Fine, then, human tendency to anthropomorphize! YOU WIN THIS ROUND, but I WILL BE BACK. And I hope you noticed that I DIDN’T CARE AT ALL when my friend fed baby birds to her snakes but in fact thought it was a TOTALLY EXCELLENT STORY. So THERE.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Many different thoughts to think
So this weekend was slightly depressing. I got food poisoning or something, and I spent all day Sunday dealing with that (v. v. yucky) and trying to figure out how to cheer myself up from food poisoning, a difficult proposition as you will know if you have ever been food poisoned. Eventually I hit upon the ABC sitcom Better Off Ted, and that worked brilliantly for a while. But there are only seven episodes, and I had soon watched them all, and then I washed YouTube videos of Portia de Rossi being awesome, and then I finished doing that and I lay around on the couch for a while moaning miserably. Not much fun if you have ever done it. And then I decided to go to the library.
I love the library.
The library was mostly a success. I got some books about book publishing, about which I always want to know more things, and I got some books about books, which is fun. I decided which ones to get by looking at their indexes for authors I liked, and then quickly reading what they had to say about authors I liked. And if they said things like “Have His Carcase was tedious and awful, and Gaudy Night was pretentious”, or “The Horse and His Boy was racist and sexist and stupid”, or “Oscar Wilde was not a good writer and nobody really likes him”, I put them back immediately and stuck my tongue out at them. Whereas if they didn’t say anything like that, I checked them out.
(Oscar Wilde was a good writer, and everybody liked him.)
Anyway, on the way home, I was driving, driving, driving, and for the first time ever I was glad they put up that stop sign by the golf course. I had pulled to a stop at the stop sign, and a raccoon crossed in front of my car and trembled and waddled towards my front wheels. And it was a baby raccoon. It waddled so adorably. It had a little sweet face. It looked up at me beseechingly like it was saying, Please, Jenny, please do not kill me. I am too young to die. I have not yet begun to live. I have rooted in very few garbage cans. Please spare me.
Of course I could not drive forward with a teeny weeny little baby raccoon staring up at me with “Please spare me” eyes. The car behind me honked, and I quickly decided how it would go if the raccoon didn’t move, and didn’t move, and the car behind me got very angry. I would get out of my car and shoo the baby raccoon away. And perhaps that would not work, and the car behind me’s owner would get out and yell mean things like “CRAZY WOMAN DRIVER” and I would say “You know not whereof you speak! In front of my car is a tiny little baby raccoon! Its life has hardly begun! I cannot kill this tiny raccoon, and you shall not force my car to go forward to kill this teensy sweet baby animal!” It would be very dramatic and exciting. I would stick to my guns and not allow the raccoon to be destroyed. I would say “Shoot if you must this old grey head / but spare this raccoon from being dead”, except I would come up with a better rhyme at the end.
In the event, the raccoon waddled adorably away before the car behind me could honk any more. Phew.
Oh, and then? When I got home? I read a story on my friend’s Facebook wall that was the perfect counterpart to my raccoon event. See, apparently she went outside one day recently and found a bunch of baby birds that had fallen out of their nest and were chirping unhappily at her. If it had been me, I would not have known what to do with them, because I would have worried that I would mess up everything and do things totally wrong; but fortunately she was the one to find them, and she used to work for a veterinarian, so instead of freaking out and standing there staring at them in chagrin before eventually deciding to leave them alone and hope that the mama bird found them and everything worked out okay, she FED THEM TO HER SNAKES. Waste not, want not.
I love the library.
The library was mostly a success. I got some books about book publishing, about which I always want to know more things, and I got some books about books, which is fun. I decided which ones to get by looking at their indexes for authors I liked, and then quickly reading what they had to say about authors I liked. And if they said things like “Have His Carcase was tedious and awful, and Gaudy Night was pretentious”, or “The Horse and His Boy was racist and sexist and stupid”, or “Oscar Wilde was not a good writer and nobody really likes him”, I put them back immediately and stuck my tongue out at them. Whereas if they didn’t say anything like that, I checked them out.
(Oscar Wilde was a good writer, and everybody liked him.)
Anyway, on the way home, I was driving, driving, driving, and for the first time ever I was glad they put up that stop sign by the golf course. I had pulled to a stop at the stop sign, and a raccoon crossed in front of my car and trembled and waddled towards my front wheels. And it was a baby raccoon. It waddled so adorably. It had a little sweet face. It looked up at me beseechingly like it was saying, Please, Jenny, please do not kill me. I am too young to die. I have not yet begun to live. I have rooted in very few garbage cans. Please spare me.
Of course I could not drive forward with a teeny weeny little baby raccoon staring up at me with “Please spare me” eyes. The car behind me honked, and I quickly decided how it would go if the raccoon didn’t move, and didn’t move, and the car behind me got very angry. I would get out of my car and shoo the baby raccoon away. And perhaps that would not work, and the car behind me’s owner would get out and yell mean things like “CRAZY WOMAN DRIVER” and I would say “You know not whereof you speak! In front of my car is a tiny little baby raccoon! Its life has hardly begun! I cannot kill this tiny raccoon, and you shall not force my car to go forward to kill this teensy sweet baby animal!” It would be very dramatic and exciting. I would stick to my guns and not allow the raccoon to be destroyed. I would say “Shoot if you must this old grey head / but spare this raccoon from being dead”, except I would come up with a better rhyme at the end.
In the event, the raccoon waddled adorably away before the car behind me could honk any more. Phew.
Oh, and then? When I got home? I read a story on my friend’s Facebook wall that was the perfect counterpart to my raccoon event. See, apparently she went outside one day recently and found a bunch of baby birds that had fallen out of their nest and were chirping unhappily at her. If it had been me, I would not have known what to do with them, because I would have worried that I would mess up everything and do things totally wrong; but fortunately she was the one to find them, and she used to work for a veterinarian, so instead of freaking out and standing there staring at them in chagrin before eventually deciding to leave them alone and hope that the mama bird found them and everything worked out okay, she FED THEM TO HER SNAKES. Waste not, want not.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Casting about for something brilliant to say
You know how sometimes when you are talking to someone about something, you quickly run out of things to say about that topic? Like, I don't know, bricks. Here are some things I think about when I see bricks:
1. Why are some brick houses so ugly?
2. If I stole those bricks and got some planks from somewhere, I could make a bookshelf.
3. One time, Frank Gilbreth showed off his leet brick-laying skillz to his future in-laws.
4. That Ben Folds Five song that I didn't realize was about abortion until someone pointed it out to me, just another of many examples of me totally ignoring what song lyrics are plainly saying
5. The weird old-timey British compliment
Although all of these things run through my head when I see a brick, none of them are likely to lead to really good conversations. So if I am with you, and we get onto the subject of bricks, the conversation will probably trail off slightly.
Today I was walking with my father, and we were checking out dandelions, and I was thinking of things to say about dandelions. I told him how Mumsy correctly hypothesized that you would be more likely to get your wish if you blew from the bottom of the dandelion (by the stalk), and then I had nothing else to say about dandelions, so I was thinking about them, and it occurred to me it's very lucky for dandelions that people think blowing dandelions away will grant you a wish, because, ta-da! instant fertilization.
In fact, like, weirdly lucky for dandelions.
My Latin teacher used to tell us useful information that she said would save our lives someday (such as, hit a marauding alligator on its nose and poke its eyes and scream really loudly because it won't like that and will waddle away). So here is something that I thought of today that might save your life someday, and I told it to my father, and I am telling it to you, and I recommend that you pass it on to your friends and relations and possibly Homeland Security so that we can ALL BE PREPARED.
This wish business with the dandelions? I have used my deductive skills to deduce that it's an alien plot. Aliens, for some unfathomable alien reason, have a vested interest in ensuring the long-term prosperity of the dandelion. They have infiltrated Earth and spread this rumor about getting wishes, in order to ensure that dandelion spores are spread far and wide. So if ever you are walking around, and aliens land in front of you, and you are panicking because you are afraid that they are going to take you onto their ship and do bad things to you, here's what you do. (Don't smile - they might think you're baring your teeth.) You say, "Welcome to DANDELION LAND! Is it not glorious? We only regret that we do not have MANY MORE DANDELIONS to offer to you, our distinguished visitors!" And then they will spare your life.
You're welcome.
1. Why are some brick houses so ugly?
2. If I stole those bricks and got some planks from somewhere, I could make a bookshelf.
3. One time, Frank Gilbreth showed off his leet brick-laying skillz to his future in-laws.
4. That Ben Folds Five song that I didn't realize was about abortion until someone pointed it out to me, just another of many examples of me totally ignoring what song lyrics are plainly saying
5. The weird old-timey British compliment
Although all of these things run through my head when I see a brick, none of them are likely to lead to really good conversations. So if I am with you, and we get onto the subject of bricks, the conversation will probably trail off slightly.
Today I was walking with my father, and we were checking out dandelions, and I was thinking of things to say about dandelions. I told him how Mumsy correctly hypothesized that you would be more likely to get your wish if you blew from the bottom of the dandelion (by the stalk), and then I had nothing else to say about dandelions, so I was thinking about them, and it occurred to me it's very lucky for dandelions that people think blowing dandelions away will grant you a wish, because, ta-da! instant fertilization.
In fact, like, weirdly lucky for dandelions.
My Latin teacher used to tell us useful information that she said would save our lives someday (such as, hit a marauding alligator on its nose and poke its eyes and scream really loudly because it won't like that and will waddle away). So here is something that I thought of today that might save your life someday, and I told it to my father, and I am telling it to you, and I recommend that you pass it on to your friends and relations and possibly Homeland Security so that we can ALL BE PREPARED.
This wish business with the dandelions? I have used my deductive skills to deduce that it's an alien plot. Aliens, for some unfathomable alien reason, have a vested interest in ensuring the long-term prosperity of the dandelion. They have infiltrated Earth and spread this rumor about getting wishes, in order to ensure that dandelion spores are spread far and wide. So if ever you are walking around, and aliens land in front of you, and you are panicking because you are afraid that they are going to take you onto their ship and do bad things to you, here's what you do. (Don't smile - they might think you're baring your teeth.) You say, "Welcome to DANDELION LAND! Is it not glorious? We only regret that we do not have MANY MORE DANDELIONS to offer to you, our distinguished visitors!" And then they will spare your life.
You're welcome.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
OBEY ME
March 4th, the only day of the year that's a command. I've decided that from now on, I shall celebrate this day by being really bossy.
I just glanced back through my blog entries for previous March 4ths, and they seem to revolve around the general theme of irrational thoughts I have thought of. In 2007 I was complaining about how I seem to have expected that British rain would not make me wet because it was not very strong. In 2008 I discussed the possibility that I had stigmata. And in the interests of continuing this tradition of chronicling silly things I have thought of on March 4th, I will tell a story that I was initially thinking was much too embarrassing to tell.
You know how sometimes you see T-shirts or bumper stickers or whatever that say to do something more? Like, I don’t know, Walk More if the car is owned by an environmentalist, or – or, I know, like that Improv Everywhere scene they did about Look Up More. You know what I’m talking about? Well, every time I see a bumper sticker for St. Thomas More, that’s what I think they’re saying. St. Thomas More. Like More St. Thomas! The world has a dearth of St. Thomas lovin’!
I have had more and more sympathy with St. Thomas as I’ve gotten older and older. If I went out to get pizza and beer, and then I came back to see my friends who were in hiding because they had been affiliated with a recently-executed political criminal type, and they were like OUR RECENTLY EXECUTED FRIEND JUST VISITED US AND HE IS BACK FROM THE DEAD, I would also not be inclined to believe them. I would probably say “Yeah, okay, guys,” and discreetly conceal the beer from them because I would think that whatever they were on, it would probably be better not to mix it with alcohol. I get the point Jesus was making about faith, but all the same I can’t help feeling that St. Thomas’s reaction was the only sane one for a person to have – and furthermore, I don’t think it’s nice for Jesus to be singling out St. Thomas and fussing at him, because none of the other disciples were taking anything on faith; they just happened to be there when Jesus showed up the first time.
I think Jesus may have had some other problem with Thomas. Maybe he was mad that Thomas didn’t come to dinner with the rest of the disciples the night Jesus was there; and sure, Jesus knew that Thomas probably just needed a break from spending tons and tons of time with all the disciples, and he knew it was unreasonable to be mad at Thomas for not being there when made his grand entrance, but he still felt kind of hurt even though it was irrational and he knew it was. So he came up with this business about blessed be those who have not seen and have believed?
(Oh my God, look at this Caravaggio picture – this makes me like Thomas even more. It’s a picture of him feeling Jesus’s wounds, and his facial expression is priceless. He’s like SHIT MAN I AM PRODDING YOUR RIGHT LUNG!)
But I like Thomas in general. I like it how Jesus is like “Y’all know where I’m going,” and Thomas is like, “Um, no, we don’t, dude.” And I like it how Jesus wants to go back to Judaea to see Lazarus all dead, even though the Jews tried to stone him there one time, and the other disciples are all We don’t want to, it is frightening, and Thomas is all, Come on, guys, act like proper disciples! Let’s DO THIS. And that’s all I can remember about Thomas. However, that is a lot of good qualities. Thomas asks questions when it is appropriate to ask questions, and he is not a wimp or an idiot like a lot of the disciples seem to be. (Oo, and I just looked him up on Wikipedia, and Wikipedia says Thomas was a total badass preacher going farther than ANYONE ELSE WENT. Everyone talks about Peter, but did he go to Persia and China? No. No, he did not.)
All this to say that when I see a bumper sticker that says “St. Thomas More”, I imagine that the owner of the car is promoting intelligent, critical, question-asking, but still enthusiastic, Christianity, essentially saying “Ask questions! You can do that and still become a saint! Liiiiiiiiiike Thomas!” Which I support! Hurrah for critical Christians! And then I think that if they made one bumper sticker like that, they must have made a bunch which means a bunch of people have them, and I start thinking how cool it would be if I could track down all the people who have that bumper sticker and we could get together and have meetings where we would moan about other Catholics who were making us look bad like THE POPE, and talk about how much we like Stephen Colbert, out there representing for smart Catholics, and have fun Bible study where they would tell me interesting facts like how the genealogy in the beginning of Matthew is implying that Mary was sexually suspect.
As you can imagine it is always rather a letdown when I look again and realize that’s not the point the bumper sticker is making.
I just glanced back through my blog entries for previous March 4ths, and they seem to revolve around the general theme of irrational thoughts I have thought of. In 2007 I was complaining about how I seem to have expected that British rain would not make me wet because it was not very strong. In 2008 I discussed the possibility that I had stigmata. And in the interests of continuing this tradition of chronicling silly things I have thought of on March 4th, I will tell a story that I was initially thinking was much too embarrassing to tell.
You know how sometimes you see T-shirts or bumper stickers or whatever that say to do something more? Like, I don’t know, Walk More if the car is owned by an environmentalist, or – or, I know, like that Improv Everywhere scene they did about Look Up More. You know what I’m talking about? Well, every time I see a bumper sticker for St. Thomas More, that’s what I think they’re saying. St. Thomas More. Like More St. Thomas! The world has a dearth of St. Thomas lovin’!
I have had more and more sympathy with St. Thomas as I’ve gotten older and older. If I went out to get pizza and beer, and then I came back to see my friends who were in hiding because they had been affiliated with a recently-executed political criminal type, and they were like OUR RECENTLY EXECUTED FRIEND JUST VISITED US AND HE IS BACK FROM THE DEAD, I would also not be inclined to believe them. I would probably say “Yeah, okay, guys,” and discreetly conceal the beer from them because I would think that whatever they were on, it would probably be better not to mix it with alcohol. I get the point Jesus was making about faith, but all the same I can’t help feeling that St. Thomas’s reaction was the only sane one for a person to have – and furthermore, I don’t think it’s nice for Jesus to be singling out St. Thomas and fussing at him, because none of the other disciples were taking anything on faith; they just happened to be there when Jesus showed up the first time.
I think Jesus may have had some other problem with Thomas. Maybe he was mad that Thomas didn’t come to dinner with the rest of the disciples the night Jesus was there; and sure, Jesus knew that Thomas probably just needed a break from spending tons and tons of time with all the disciples, and he knew it was unreasonable to be mad at Thomas for not being there when made his grand entrance, but he still felt kind of hurt even though it was irrational and he knew it was. So he came up with this business about blessed be those who have not seen and have believed?
(Oh my God, look at this Caravaggio picture – this makes me like Thomas even more. It’s a picture of him feeling Jesus’s wounds, and his facial expression is priceless. He’s like SHIT MAN I AM PRODDING YOUR RIGHT LUNG!)
But I like Thomas in general. I like it how Jesus is like “Y’all know where I’m going,” and Thomas is like, “Um, no, we don’t, dude.” And I like it how Jesus wants to go back to Judaea to see Lazarus all dead, even though the Jews tried to stone him there one time, and the other disciples are all We don’t want to, it is frightening, and Thomas is all, Come on, guys, act like proper disciples! Let’s DO THIS. And that’s all I can remember about Thomas. However, that is a lot of good qualities. Thomas asks questions when it is appropriate to ask questions, and he is not a wimp or an idiot like a lot of the disciples seem to be. (Oo, and I just looked him up on Wikipedia, and Wikipedia says Thomas was a total badass preacher going farther than ANYONE ELSE WENT. Everyone talks about Peter, but did he go to Persia and China? No. No, he did not.)
All this to say that when I see a bumper sticker that says “St. Thomas More”, I imagine that the owner of the car is promoting intelligent, critical, question-asking, but still enthusiastic, Christianity, essentially saying “Ask questions! You can do that and still become a saint! Liiiiiiiiiike Thomas!” Which I support! Hurrah for critical Christians! And then I think that if they made one bumper sticker like that, they must have made a bunch which means a bunch of people have them, and I start thinking how cool it would be if I could track down all the people who have that bumper sticker and we could get together and have meetings where we would moan about other Catholics who were making us look bad like THE POPE, and talk about how much we like Stephen Colbert, out there representing for smart Catholics, and have fun Bible study where they would tell me interesting facts like how the genealogy in the beginning of Matthew is implying that Mary was sexually suspect.
As you can imagine it is always rather a letdown when I look again and realize that’s not the point the bumper sticker is making.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Miscellaneous reflections following my first day of work
At work we have snacks in jars, and one of the jars is all full of animal crackers, and they are the brand of animal crackers that is rhinos and goats and cows and donkeys and elephants and buffalo and camels and lions, but no monkeys. Not a monkey anywhere. That must be a different brand, with the monkeys. But every time I eat animal crackers, I think of this time Oz told Willow that the monkey was the only animal cracker animal with clothes, and he wondered whether the monkey mocked the other animal crackers with his monkey pants. But there are no monkeys in my animal crackers. It always bugs me a little. So does eating camels. I love camels! I don’t want to eat them! When I am scooping up animal crackers for myself, I try to steer around the camels.
I do not much care for black coffee, which is quite bitter, but I drink it anyway because I am 1) afraid of becoming a yuppie and thus disinclined to purchase trendy mocha-type drinks; and (more important) 2) too lazy to bother about putting it sugar and cream and then stirring it adequately so it doesn’t all settle on the bottom. I greatly enjoy writing in coffee shops because sometimes really awful people come in for long or short lengths of time and talk about all the really awful things they and their friends have done, and it is fun to eavesdrop on them.
My new laptop has a clit mouse. I have not used a computer with a clit mouse since before I learned what a clitoris was. Fortunately (fortunately because otherwise I would kill myself) it also has a touchpad.
Whenever I see those signs that say “No shirt, no shoes, no service” or “Shirt and shoes required” or whatever, I always always check myself to make sure I am meeting these requirements. I have not paid a lot of attention to this previously, but I was strolling into the library yesterday on my lunch break, and I did it twice in such rapid succession (at the entrance and then at the door to the stairwell) that I couldn’t help but notice. My brain went, Shirt? Check. Shoes? Check. Okay, we’re good to go! My feet paused for this moment of consideration. I guess in case I ever lose my mind and accidentally go out without a shirt on, this will be handy because I won't also have to get booted out of a library or wherever.
That's silly.
On my lunch break after going to the library, I read Lux the Poet, which I had on hold at the library and which had just, just, just come in when I got there. I am reading it as a substitute for Suzy, Led Zeppelin, and Me, which I have not yet read because I’m delaying gratification until some as-yet-undetermined point in the future. I still really like Martin Millar. His books are so sweet. Lux the Poet is all about an angel who got framed and booted out of heaven so she’s doing loads of good deeds to get back into heaven. Except that’s not what it’s all about, that’s only one bit of the whole thing. But it’s my favorite bit, although the other bits are also good. The aforementioned angel is very tired but she carries on giving coats to bums and helping little old ladies across the street because if she carries on doing that long enough, she’ll get to go back to heaven again. There is also a funny poet not altogether unlike the poet in The Graveyard Book (the poet in The Graveyard Book was not heavily featured enough for my tastes, so it’s very pleasing to be reading Lux the Poet so soon after), and a girl with a film, and an angry thrash metal band called the Jane Austen Mercenaries. Martin Millar makes me smile.
Also, an unexpected side effect of becoming a rockin’ guitar chick: The cuticles on my right hand are suffering. I am a compulsive cuticle-pusher-backer, and I ceaselessly push back the cuticles on one hand with the fingernails of the other. Now that I am keeping the fingernails on my left hand trimmed very short in order to play chords more effectively (dude, C#m is unreasonably difficult. It’s almost a C! Why must I spread out my fingers so dramatically just to play it?), those fingernails are not long enough to push back the cuticles on my right hand. IT IS DRIVING ME INSANE. I am thinking of playing only chords that require three fingers, and giving up using my ring finger in guitar-playing, just so I can grow that fingernail out and continue pushing back cuticles when I wish to push back cuticles.
And before you ask – No, pushing back my cuticles does not give me hangnails. I’ve been doing it for a while and I have cuticle-pushing finesse now. Lucky me.
I do not much care for black coffee, which is quite bitter, but I drink it anyway because I am 1) afraid of becoming a yuppie and thus disinclined to purchase trendy mocha-type drinks; and (more important) 2) too lazy to bother about putting it sugar and cream and then stirring it adequately so it doesn’t all settle on the bottom. I greatly enjoy writing in coffee shops because sometimes really awful people come in for long or short lengths of time and talk about all the really awful things they and their friends have done, and it is fun to eavesdrop on them.
My new laptop has a clit mouse. I have not used a computer with a clit mouse since before I learned what a clitoris was. Fortunately (fortunately because otherwise I would kill myself) it also has a touchpad.
Whenever I see those signs that say “No shirt, no shoes, no service” or “Shirt and shoes required” or whatever, I always always check myself to make sure I am meeting these requirements. I have not paid a lot of attention to this previously, but I was strolling into the library yesterday on my lunch break, and I did it twice in such rapid succession (at the entrance and then at the door to the stairwell) that I couldn’t help but notice. My brain went, Shirt? Check. Shoes? Check. Okay, we’re good to go! My feet paused for this moment of consideration. I guess in case I ever lose my mind and accidentally go out without a shirt on, this will be handy because I won't also have to get booted out of a library or wherever.
That's silly.
On my lunch break after going to the library, I read Lux the Poet, which I had on hold at the library and which had just, just, just come in when I got there. I am reading it as a substitute for Suzy, Led Zeppelin, and Me, which I have not yet read because I’m delaying gratification until some as-yet-undetermined point in the future. I still really like Martin Millar. His books are so sweet. Lux the Poet is all about an angel who got framed and booted out of heaven so she’s doing loads of good deeds to get back into heaven. Except that’s not what it’s all about, that’s only one bit of the whole thing. But it’s my favorite bit, although the other bits are also good. The aforementioned angel is very tired but she carries on giving coats to bums and helping little old ladies across the street because if she carries on doing that long enough, she’ll get to go back to heaven again. There is also a funny poet not altogether unlike the poet in The Graveyard Book (the poet in The Graveyard Book was not heavily featured enough for my tastes, so it’s very pleasing to be reading Lux the Poet so soon after), and a girl with a film, and an angry thrash metal band called the Jane Austen Mercenaries. Martin Millar makes me smile.
Also, an unexpected side effect of becoming a rockin’ guitar chick: The cuticles on my right hand are suffering. I am a compulsive cuticle-pusher-backer, and I ceaselessly push back the cuticles on one hand with the fingernails of the other. Now that I am keeping the fingernails on my left hand trimmed very short in order to play chords more effectively (dude, C#m is unreasonably difficult. It’s almost a C! Why must I spread out my fingers so dramatically just to play it?), those fingernails are not long enough to push back the cuticles on my right hand. IT IS DRIVING ME INSANE. I am thinking of playing only chords that require three fingers, and giving up using my ring finger in guitar-playing, just so I can grow that fingernail out and continue pushing back cuticles when I wish to push back cuticles.
And before you ask – No, pushing back my cuticles does not give me hangnails. I’ve been doing it for a while and I have cuticle-pushing finesse now. Lucky me.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
I really love Shakespeare
Like, hey. William Shakespeare. What a cool guy. I like him for very many reasons, like because he writes good. And because I read this book that said he was probably Catholic. Catholic! Woohoo! And I am Catholic! UP WITH PAPISTRY!!! And because, okay, he was this random-ass Stratford kid who came to London to make his fortune and he wound up being the greatest writer ever. And because he was total actor scum and he was all writing plays just to pull in the groundlings; and because SUCK IT ROBERT GREENE.
And because this is from a play of his that is supposed to be a crap one (Troilus and Cressida):
And also this is too:
And because, hello? Mercutio? How much does Mercutio rock? I know everyone loves it when he tells Tybalt "Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives", but I seriously love it when he tells Tybalt that.
Sidebar: Tybalt's such a ridiculous person. Do you get the feeling that Tybalt was the loser Capulet cousin when he was younger? Like at Capulet family reunions Tybalt was the one who got teased for sucking his thumb and wasn't allowed to play on the swing set with all the other little Capulets even though he really wanted to because they thought it was funny when his face turned all red and he started pulling up grass and throwing it all around and trying to hit everyone with sticks? And then when he grew up he started to be all like NOBODY MESSES WITH THE TYBALT but everyone still kinda made fun of him behind his back? I know Juliet's officially upset when Romeo kills him and she's all "who else is living if those two are gone?" but she gets over it pretty fast once she figures out Romeo's alive; and I'm thinking her initial reaction is a little overdone on account of she secretly feels guilty for that time at the last Capulet crawfish boil when Tybalt caught her laughing helplessly at Sampson's Little Tybalt in a Tantrum impression.
And don't get me started on Malvolio, or Sir Andrew Aguecheek. I can't even remotely read or watch Twelfth Night with a straight face.
Oh my God, and that scene in The Tempest where Miranda sees all the people for the first time? I love that scene. Actually I love The Tempest generally. One time I saw a glorious production of it at the Globe, and Ferdinand shook my hand because I was a groundling and it was for sure the best play I have ever seen ever.
Well, whatever. I won't go on. I love me some William Shakespeare. I sometimes have anxiety about what I will say when I run into him accidentally-on-purpose in heaven. Because, you know, I don't want to be like DUDE I AM YOUR BIGGEST FAN because a, I don't think that's true, and b, I bet he gets that all the time, and c, I want to say something much cooler than that. I'm just afraid that in the moment I'll forget the cool thing that I have prepared to say (I'm sure I'll think of something before I die, but if not I'll just avoid Shakespeare until I've got something good), and end up looking like a dumbass. In front of William Shakespeare! Nobody wants that.
However, if there is any justice, my pal Will will know about all the times I got really upset when other people made fun of him. Like today we were discussing Herman Melville's thing about Hawthorne's short stories, and Melville gets persnickety about how everyone admires Shakespeare so much, when there are other writers that are just as good if everyone would just admit it. I know this isn't making fun of Shakespeare in any way, but it still kind of pissed me off. I was feeling belligerent, and if Melville had been right there, I would have probably made a rude noise at him and flicked him in the face.
All through class I kept thinking angry thoughts about the mean things I would say to Melville if I ever got the chance, and then I started thinking about other people who have had some nasty things to say about Shakespeare, like Robert Greene and Samuel Johnson. And you know, that's all fine because I can write them off. Robert Greene, does it make you sad that the only reason anyone knows who you are anymore is that they think it's hilarious that you got all snarky about The Greatest Playwright of All Time. This is like that time that Alfred Douglas renounced homosexuality forever and converted to (I'm sorry to admit) Catholicism, and then got remembered only because of having lots of gay sex in his youth. Teehee.
And as for Samuel Johnson, you know, WHATEVER, Samuel Johnson, your dictionary was NOT THAT GOOD.
But here's something sad. Neil Gaiman – you know Neil Gaiman that I love? – had several bits about William Shakespeare in his Sandman that made me feel really, really sad. In Sandman, William Shakespeare is just a nothing writer until he makes a deal with Dream, and Dream gives him the power to write super duper good, in exchange for which he has to write two plays just for Dream (A Midsummer Night's Dream and The Tempest). I feel torn about this. On one hand, I love the scene where Dream goes to get The Tempest from Shakespeare. It's a poignant coda, and I love Dream to shreds. But mainly I am just upset that Neil Gaiman's effectively talking trash about Shakespeare.
I know! It's fiction! Obviously Shakespeare did not really make a deal with Dream! Nevertheless I find it upsetting how Neil Gaiman that I love is making unpleasant insinuations about William Shakespeare that I also love. If I meet Neil Gaiman I won't mention it, but whenever I read these bits of Sandman I feel like Neil Gaiman is a big bully using his Writerly Awesomeness to make people think unpleasant things about Shakespeare. Inside my head I'm definitely being Tybalty and going, "Quit it, Neil! Cut it OUT! I didn't do anything to you! You're being REALLY IMMATURE! LEAVE ME ALONE!" while Neil Gaiman continues, relentlessly, to have written unpleasant things about my boy Shakespeare.
And because this is from a play of his that is supposed to be a crap one (Troilus and Cressida):
Margarelon: Turn, slave, and fight!
Thersites: What art thou?
Margarelon: A bastard son of Priam's.
Thersites: I am a bastard too; I love bastards; I am a bastard begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in every thing illegitimate. One bear will not bite another, and wherefore should one bastard? Take heed, the quarrel's most ominous to us: if the son of a whore fights for a whore, he tempts judgment: farewell, bastard.
And also this is too:
Thersites: Agamemnon is a fool to command Achilles; Achilles is a fool to be commanded of Agamemnon; Thersites is a fool to serve such a fool; and Patroclus is a fool positive.
Patroclus: Why am I a fool?
Thersites: Make that demand to the Creator. It suffices me thou art.
And because, hello? Mercutio? How much does Mercutio rock? I know everyone loves it when he tells Tybalt "Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives", but I seriously love it when he tells Tybalt that.
Sidebar: Tybalt's such a ridiculous person. Do you get the feeling that Tybalt was the loser Capulet cousin when he was younger? Like at Capulet family reunions Tybalt was the one who got teased for sucking his thumb and wasn't allowed to play on the swing set with all the other little Capulets even though he really wanted to because they thought it was funny when his face turned all red and he started pulling up grass and throwing it all around and trying to hit everyone with sticks? And then when he grew up he started to be all like NOBODY MESSES WITH THE TYBALT but everyone still kinda made fun of him behind his back? I know Juliet's officially upset when Romeo kills him and she's all "who else is living if those two are gone?" but she gets over it pretty fast once she figures out Romeo's alive; and I'm thinking her initial reaction is a little overdone on account of she secretly feels guilty for that time at the last Capulet crawfish boil when Tybalt caught her laughing helplessly at Sampson's Little Tybalt in a Tantrum impression.
And don't get me started on Malvolio, or Sir Andrew Aguecheek. I can't even remotely read or watch Twelfth Night with a straight face.
Oh my God, and that scene in The Tempest where Miranda sees all the people for the first time? I love that scene. Actually I love The Tempest generally. One time I saw a glorious production of it at the Globe, and Ferdinand shook my hand because I was a groundling and it was for sure the best play I have ever seen ever.
Well, whatever. I won't go on. I love me some William Shakespeare. I sometimes have anxiety about what I will say when I run into him accidentally-on-purpose in heaven. Because, you know, I don't want to be like DUDE I AM YOUR BIGGEST FAN because a, I don't think that's true, and b, I bet he gets that all the time, and c, I want to say something much cooler than that. I'm just afraid that in the moment I'll forget the cool thing that I have prepared to say (I'm sure I'll think of something before I die, but if not I'll just avoid Shakespeare until I've got something good), and end up looking like a dumbass. In front of William Shakespeare! Nobody wants that.
However, if there is any justice, my pal Will will know about all the times I got really upset when other people made fun of him. Like today we were discussing Herman Melville's thing about Hawthorne's short stories, and Melville gets persnickety about how everyone admires Shakespeare so much, when there are other writers that are just as good if everyone would just admit it. I know this isn't making fun of Shakespeare in any way, but it still kind of pissed me off. I was feeling belligerent, and if Melville had been right there, I would have probably made a rude noise at him and flicked him in the face.
All through class I kept thinking angry thoughts about the mean things I would say to Melville if I ever got the chance, and then I started thinking about other people who have had some nasty things to say about Shakespeare, like Robert Greene and Samuel Johnson. And you know, that's all fine because I can write them off. Robert Greene, does it make you sad that the only reason anyone knows who you are anymore is that they think it's hilarious that you got all snarky about The Greatest Playwright of All Time. This is like that time that Alfred Douglas renounced homosexuality forever and converted to (I'm sorry to admit) Catholicism, and then got remembered only because of having lots of gay sex in his youth. Teehee.
And as for Samuel Johnson, you know, WHATEVER, Samuel Johnson, your dictionary was NOT THAT GOOD.
But here's something sad. Neil Gaiman – you know Neil Gaiman that I love? – had several bits about William Shakespeare in his Sandman that made me feel really, really sad. In Sandman, William Shakespeare is just a nothing writer until he makes a deal with Dream, and Dream gives him the power to write super duper good, in exchange for which he has to write two plays just for Dream (A Midsummer Night's Dream and The Tempest). I feel torn about this. On one hand, I love the scene where Dream goes to get The Tempest from Shakespeare. It's a poignant coda, and I love Dream to shreds. But mainly I am just upset that Neil Gaiman's effectively talking trash about Shakespeare.
I know! It's fiction! Obviously Shakespeare did not really make a deal with Dream! Nevertheless I find it upsetting how Neil Gaiman that I love is making unpleasant insinuations about William Shakespeare that I also love. If I meet Neil Gaiman I won't mention it, but whenever I read these bits of Sandman I feel like Neil Gaiman is a big bully using his Writerly Awesomeness to make people think unpleasant things about Shakespeare. Inside my head I'm definitely being Tybalty and going, "Quit it, Neil! Cut it OUT! I didn't do anything to you! You're being REALLY IMMATURE! LEAVE ME ALONE!" while Neil Gaiman continues, relentlessly, to have written unpleasant things about my boy Shakespeare.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Knowledge is power
But for real. It is. Having new knowledge makes me feel really mighty, even when it is knowledge that can never possibly be useful for anything, ever. Like Merlin Holland's fax number. Or Samuel Pepys and his amusing use of French. Or the word for "black stockings" in French. All of these things, they make me feel stronger and more prepared for everything that happens.
Like! Scenario! Okay, it's The Last Judgment, and all the living and the dead rise up and get set to be judged, and Robert Browning's standing next to me in line (they've got it set up by birthdays, obviously), and we're chatting, and he gets all judgy about, I don't know, about how much trashy TV I watched during my lifetime. Something like that. Well, okay, he's all being a douche to me, and finally I get fed up with it, and because of my KNOWLEDGE, I can say to him, "Oh yeah? Oh yeah, Robert Browning? Well, YOU didn't know what twat meant! The OED, the OED, had to come find you and stage an intervention, that's how much you didn't know the meaning of that word!" And he'll be really embarrassed and back off and beg me to lower my voice and assure me that it's nothing, really, even he could enjoy a good episode of Gossip Girl and I shouldn't feel ashamed that I had used my valuable time on earth watching it.
Now, granted, this exact scenario will never occur, because for one thing, I don't think the Lord is going to arrange us by birthday (height would be much more fun); and for another thing, Robert Browning is a sweet dear and would not be a douche to me at all. But, you know, if anything like this ever does happen, I am prepared.
Similarly, if there's some major Oscar Wilde emergency, I can get in touch with Merlin Holland. Like if I suddenly discover a cache of nasty letters from Alfred Douglas in my attack. Yes, it's unlikely, but what if I did? What would I do with them if I couldn't fax Merlin Holland an urgent note asking him what my next move should be?
I only mention this because the other day some furniture got delivered to my house, and the invoice was on my kitchen table, and then underneath it there was a list of all the other deliveries that were going on that day, and I just happened to glance down at them, so now I know who else got furniture delivered that day. And it pleased me, because in case I ever run into Clem and Susan Mallory of Magnolia Drive and they turn out to be vicious killing machines and they have thrown aside all those who have tried to fight them and are advancing on me, I can be like "Oh Clem? Susie? I just have to ask before you kill me – how are you liking that cinnebar mahogany chair with the polyurethane foam cushions in leopard-print with small tufts?", at which point, astounded and alarmed by my KNOWLEDGE, they will pause just long enough for one of the people they thought they killed to come up behind them and crush their skulls with an axe.
And that's nothing to sneer at.
Edit to add: I was counting all the recent posts I've made about books and writers lately (many!), and I reread this one and realized that I wrote "attack" for "attic" when I was talking about Lord Alfred Douglas. I was going to fix it, but it's so clearly one of those mistakes you make because your brain is thinking something else while you're typing, and that particular mistake seems very characteristic of my relationship to the idea of Lord Alfred Douglas and his entire psychotic messed-up family.
Like! Scenario! Okay, it's The Last Judgment, and all the living and the dead rise up and get set to be judged, and Robert Browning's standing next to me in line (they've got it set up by birthdays, obviously), and we're chatting, and he gets all judgy about, I don't know, about how much trashy TV I watched during my lifetime. Something like that. Well, okay, he's all being a douche to me, and finally I get fed up with it, and because of my KNOWLEDGE, I can say to him, "Oh yeah? Oh yeah, Robert Browning? Well, YOU didn't know what twat meant! The OED, the OED, had to come find you and stage an intervention, that's how much you didn't know the meaning of that word!" And he'll be really embarrassed and back off and beg me to lower my voice and assure me that it's nothing, really, even he could enjoy a good episode of Gossip Girl and I shouldn't feel ashamed that I had used my valuable time on earth watching it.
Now, granted, this exact scenario will never occur, because for one thing, I don't think the Lord is going to arrange us by birthday (height would be much more fun); and for another thing, Robert Browning is a sweet dear and would not be a douche to me at all. But, you know, if anything like this ever does happen, I am prepared.
Similarly, if there's some major Oscar Wilde emergency, I can get in touch with Merlin Holland. Like if I suddenly discover a cache of nasty letters from Alfred Douglas in my attack. Yes, it's unlikely, but what if I did? What would I do with them if I couldn't fax Merlin Holland an urgent note asking him what my next move should be?
I only mention this because the other day some furniture got delivered to my house, and the invoice was on my kitchen table, and then underneath it there was a list of all the other deliveries that were going on that day, and I just happened to glance down at them, so now I know who else got furniture delivered that day. And it pleased me, because in case I ever run into Clem and Susan Mallory of Magnolia Drive and they turn out to be vicious killing machines and they have thrown aside all those who have tried to fight them and are advancing on me, I can be like "Oh Clem? Susie? I just have to ask before you kill me – how are you liking that cinnebar mahogany chair with the polyurethane foam cushions in leopard-print with small tufts?", at which point, astounded and alarmed by my KNOWLEDGE, they will pause just long enough for one of the people they thought they killed to come up behind them and crush their skulls with an axe.
And that's nothing to sneer at.
Edit to add: I was counting all the recent posts I've made about books and writers lately (many!), and I reread this one and realized that I wrote "attack" for "attic" when I was talking about Lord Alfred Douglas. I was going to fix it, but it's so clearly one of those mistakes you make because your brain is thinking something else while you're typing, and that particular mistake seems very characteristic of my relationship to the idea of Lord Alfred Douglas and his entire psychotic messed-up family.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
The good news is, it's not stigmata
I've been having this cut on my leg for the longest time ever. I mean weeks and weeks, at least five weeks I would say. And it was just a little cut and I only noticed it periodically because it's at a tricky place on my leg, sort of on the inside of the bottom of my calf. And I never wear shorts, so there aren't really many occasions on which the inside of the bottom of the calf gets a lot of attention. But as I say, it's been weeks, and I was starting to get a little worried. Usually minor cuts and bruises on my legs aren't worth remembering. I would love to be as graceful as a swan (the nicest compliment I ever remember getting as a kid was when my choir teacher asked my mother if I was in ballet because I was so graceful), but in fact I am just about the clumsiest person in the world and I am constantly bashing into things. When I was tiny I bashed into things so often (with my head) that my mum got worried and took me to the doctor to see if maybe I was giving myself brain damage.
(Yeah, think about that, bitches. Think how smart I could've been.)
Well, as I say, being a remarkably clumsy person, I thought nothing of this cut for a while but then it wouldn't go away and it wouldn't go away and finally I started getting a little superstitious and checking it every couple of hours to see if it had gone away. Because imagine if it was a bizarre supernatural cut that was meant to be the signal for the beginning of a bunch of really excellent supernatural adventures, and I was so oblivious that finally the Supernatural Adventure Scheduling Panel got mad and was all "Oh, for God's sake, this girl's never going to notice a thing that changes with this cut. Give her supernatural adventure to that other little blonde girl we had on the string." I mean, how bad would that be? I'd really just regret that forever.
The other possibility, of course, which I'm sure would have leapt into your mind even if I hadn't brought it up already, is that it was stigmata, perhaps only the first in a whole stigmata series to appear in all the appointed places. And, okay, it wasn't quite on my ankle, but it was only a teeny bit above my ankle, and you know what? I wasn't there! I don't know where they nailed the foot nails in! I was seriously about to send an email to Mel Gibson to ask him about this when I found out what was up.
My boot was doing it. Damn boot. It had a tag, and when I wore these boots, I noticed that the tag was irritating, but it was only a little irritating, and if I flipped it outwards, my trousers covered it and it stopped hurting. And I know I sound really stupid now, because a smart person would have realized OF COURSE what was going on, but in my defense I have to say two things: 1) I have a really active imagination, and when one thought takes over my brain it's sometimes difficult for a different (yes, I'll admit, possibly a more rational and viable) thought to get past the first thought, and it is much more fun to believe I have stigmata or an upcoming supernatural adventure; and 2) I have two pairs of heeled boots, and one of them (not the ones that gave me the cut) come up a lot higher on my leg than the other, and I have had the higher pair for longer so in my brain when I put on heeled boots I am wearing shoes that come up higher than the place where the little cut was.
I cut out the tag. I'm sort of sad there's no supernatural adventure in store for me, but I'm glad it's not stigmata. I don't want people bothering me for the rest of my life trying to do pesky exposes.
(Yeah, think about that, bitches. Think how smart I could've been.)
Well, as I say, being a remarkably clumsy person, I thought nothing of this cut for a while but then it wouldn't go away and it wouldn't go away and finally I started getting a little superstitious and checking it every couple of hours to see if it had gone away. Because imagine if it was a bizarre supernatural cut that was meant to be the signal for the beginning of a bunch of really excellent supernatural adventures, and I was so oblivious that finally the Supernatural Adventure Scheduling Panel got mad and was all "Oh, for God's sake, this girl's never going to notice a thing that changes with this cut. Give her supernatural adventure to that other little blonde girl we had on the string." I mean, how bad would that be? I'd really just regret that forever.
The other possibility, of course, which I'm sure would have leapt into your mind even if I hadn't brought it up already, is that it was stigmata, perhaps only the first in a whole stigmata series to appear in all the appointed places. And, okay, it wasn't quite on my ankle, but it was only a teeny bit above my ankle, and you know what? I wasn't there! I don't know where they nailed the foot nails in! I was seriously about to send an email to Mel Gibson to ask him about this when I found out what was up.
My boot was doing it. Damn boot. It had a tag, and when I wore these boots, I noticed that the tag was irritating, but it was only a little irritating, and if I flipped it outwards, my trousers covered it and it stopped hurting. And I know I sound really stupid now, because a smart person would have realized OF COURSE what was going on, but in my defense I have to say two things: 1) I have a really active imagination, and when one thought takes over my brain it's sometimes difficult for a different (yes, I'll admit, possibly a more rational and viable) thought to get past the first thought, and it is much more fun to believe I have stigmata or an upcoming supernatural adventure; and 2) I have two pairs of heeled boots, and one of them (not the ones that gave me the cut) come up a lot higher on my leg than the other, and I have had the higher pair for longer so in my brain when I put on heeled boots I am wearing shoes that come up higher than the place where the little cut was.
I cut out the tag. I'm sort of sad there's no supernatural adventure in store for me, but I'm glad it's not stigmata. I don't want people bothering me for the rest of my life trying to do pesky exposes.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Breaking my promise almost at once
Okay, I know I swore, no more Buffy the Vampire Slayer posts, but this is too funny and I have to. But no more after this, I swear. For real this time.
So I have this aunt who is totally fantastic in every way. She is brilliant and strong-minded and articulate and generous and just a totally good person whom I want to be just like when I grow up. (I know, I'm grown up, but it sort of doesn't count until I'm as awesome as my aunt.) And even though I admire her just absolutely vastly, I do acknowledge that our taste in film is a little different.
Actually, I can't figure out her taste in film apart from it is definitely different to mine. She baffles me. But as a trend it seems like she prefers cheerful films that don't have a ton of violence, or else moving and redemptive films that don't have a ton of violence. That said, she one time became so hooked on Firefly, which she was watching with my sister Anna, that she watched "War Stories" without Anna to tell her when to close her eyes. And for those of you not in the know, that's the episode where Mal gets brutally tortured with the electrocution and the ear being cut off and the yucky thing that went CLAMP and did all little squirmy things underneath his skin – ew, it was gross.
Well, yesterday my sisters and I had our Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathon as scheduled, and it was great fun, and we had it at my aunt's house. And all day long I felt guilty and chagrined because my aunt and uncle sat in the room and watched it with us, and I was like, God, I'm totally ruining their day, making them think they have to sit in here and watch this show they probably don't even like just because we're over at their place.
Around 5:30, in the middle of an episode, my sisters and I had to head home for dinner. And I figured we'd just take the DVD and finish watching it at our house, because it wasn't a good episode for Aunt Becky, being the one where (HA HA HA) Jenny Carpenter gets brutally murdered. (Lame loser totally deserving everything she gets because she is lame and does not do justice to the very cool name of Jenny.) But Aunt Becky was all, We can't finish? Can you come back after and we'll finish it? which, sure, we were up for.
Well, after dinner we came back, we finished the episode, and I was pretty much thinking that the episode in its great unpleasantness would have put Aunt Becky off Buffy the Vampire Slayer permanently, but you know what she said, do you know? She said, "Do y'all have time for one more? Do you have to get back?"
Not really.
And then at the end of that episode, she looked guiltily at us and said, "Do y'all have to get home right now?" and when we all looked at her in surprise, she said, "Well! It's not often I get to spend a whole day with y'all!"
Sure, uh-huh. That's what the allure was. She wanted to hang out with us. Yeah, sure. We buy it, totally, we're completely taken in by that excuse, yup, it's all about the aunt-niece bonding experience. SURE IT IS.
And at the end of that episode (a semi-depressing one because they were playing like Angel was nice again), it was 10:00 at night and we'd been at her house since 11:00 that morning, with the break for dinner, and she looked at me sideways and held up one finger and mouthed "One more?"
Moral: It's not just me. That shit is addictive.
And you know what, you know what? Before Angel got evil, I was thinking that he wasn't going to be a very good villain and I was really not looking forward to him being a villain because I was all, Ugh, I can't maintain a crush on someone who's a lame villain, cause you know, if they're going to be bad they shouldn't do a half-assed job. But in fact the wicked Angel is so creepy. He sends little creeping creepy things creeping up my spine. I can't maintain a crush on him while he's evil because he's just SO DAMN CREEPY. Which isn't to say I didn't want him to kill Jenny Carpenter, because I really did (ugh, she sucks so bad), but still I get all tense and antsy every time he's on the screen and I totally don't like it when he's around or like thinking of being around, or when he's just hanging out with Spike and Drusilla (Spike! Aaaaaaaaand Druuuuusilla! I love Spike and Drusilla!) and the possibility of him being around other people is hanging in the air. It's very uncool. I wish he'd get good again. Spike is a more relaxing villain. In fact the centipede guy was a more relaxing villain.
And I miss Oz, whom we haven't seen in a while.
And you know what else, since I can't ever make another of these posts without being a promise-breaker twice, I have to say this. A while back there was an xkcd cartoon (PS, today's one is the best ever even though like tim I don't believe it's true and actually he MADE ME LOSE) that mentioned choreographing elaborate fight scenes in his head. Which, though it made me laugh, was not one of those things that I myself do, and I remember thinking when I read it, Huh, what a weirdo. But ever since I've been watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I have totally started doing that. When I come into a room I start looking around gauging what things could be used as weapons and whether there's anything around that could be used as a stake, and how I would play it if each person in the room suddenly turned out to be a vampire/demon. My brain's all, Okay, well, I could take these pens and hold them in a cross position, and then if Sarah could grab that pencil and stab it from behind really hard – but would the graphite in the middle disqualify it for use as a stake? And frankly, we can't be completely positive that Sarah wasn't herself turned into a vampire just now while she was supposedly fetching more paper clips. So okay, then the other option is the blinds, I could open the blinds. Hold the pens like a cross while I go over and open the blinds and then POOF FIRE no problems there. But if the sun isn't streaming directly in, or if it's behind a cloud, I can't totally count on that working, so let's see, there's several trash cans, but only one of them is metal instead of plastic – not very useful; it's like they want us to be weaponless in here – whereas that bobble-head Yoda is actually quite heavy so I could throw that, and although I'd hate to waste the expensive technology there's always the possibility of smashing the demon's head into the computer screen in order to disorient it, but I have to be careful not to let it get its hands on that piece of wood that used to be a shelf because if it hit me on the head with that it would hurt pretty much a lot and huh, I should really bring a lighter in here because if I tossed it into the recycled paper box and then smashed the vampire sideways with that picture frame into the burning box then it would ignite very handily.
Which I'd feel dumber about if not for this: My ex told me once about this video game he used to play where you got points for chasing ambulances, and he said that when he had played it for a while and then he went out in his real car, whenever he would hear sirens he'd be like SWEET! AN AMBULANCE! and have the instinct to go haring off after it. And this is similar. And as we have seen the XKCD guy does the same thing. Ah, validation.
So I have this aunt who is totally fantastic in every way. She is brilliant and strong-minded and articulate and generous and just a totally good person whom I want to be just like when I grow up. (I know, I'm grown up, but it sort of doesn't count until I'm as awesome as my aunt.) And even though I admire her just absolutely vastly, I do acknowledge that our taste in film is a little different.
Actually, I can't figure out her taste in film apart from it is definitely different to mine. She baffles me. But as a trend it seems like she prefers cheerful films that don't have a ton of violence, or else moving and redemptive films that don't have a ton of violence. That said, she one time became so hooked on Firefly, which she was watching with my sister Anna, that she watched "War Stories" without Anna to tell her when to close her eyes. And for those of you not in the know, that's the episode where Mal gets brutally tortured with the electrocution and the ear being cut off and the yucky thing that went CLAMP and did all little squirmy things underneath his skin – ew, it was gross.
Well, yesterday my sisters and I had our Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathon as scheduled, and it was great fun, and we had it at my aunt's house. And all day long I felt guilty and chagrined because my aunt and uncle sat in the room and watched it with us, and I was like, God, I'm totally ruining their day, making them think they have to sit in here and watch this show they probably don't even like just because we're over at their place.
Around 5:30, in the middle of an episode, my sisters and I had to head home for dinner. And I figured we'd just take the DVD and finish watching it at our house, because it wasn't a good episode for Aunt Becky, being the one where (HA HA HA) Jenny Carpenter gets brutally murdered. (Lame loser totally deserving everything she gets because she is lame and does not do justice to the very cool name of Jenny.) But Aunt Becky was all, We can't finish? Can you come back after and we'll finish it? which, sure, we were up for.
Well, after dinner we came back, we finished the episode, and I was pretty much thinking that the episode in its great unpleasantness would have put Aunt Becky off Buffy the Vampire Slayer permanently, but you know what she said, do you know? She said, "Do y'all have time for one more? Do you have to get back?"
Not really.
And then at the end of that episode, she looked guiltily at us and said, "Do y'all have to get home right now?" and when we all looked at her in surprise, she said, "Well! It's not often I get to spend a whole day with y'all!"
Sure, uh-huh. That's what the allure was. She wanted to hang out with us. Yeah, sure. We buy it, totally, we're completely taken in by that excuse, yup, it's all about the aunt-niece bonding experience. SURE IT IS.
And at the end of that episode (a semi-depressing one because they were playing like Angel was nice again), it was 10:00 at night and we'd been at her house since 11:00 that morning, with the break for dinner, and she looked at me sideways and held up one finger and mouthed "One more?"
Moral: It's not just me. That shit is addictive.
And you know what, you know what? Before Angel got evil, I was thinking that he wasn't going to be a very good villain and I was really not looking forward to him being a villain because I was all, Ugh, I can't maintain a crush on someone who's a lame villain, cause you know, if they're going to be bad they shouldn't do a half-assed job. But in fact the wicked Angel is so creepy. He sends little creeping creepy things creeping up my spine. I can't maintain a crush on him while he's evil because he's just SO DAMN CREEPY. Which isn't to say I didn't want him to kill Jenny Carpenter, because I really did (ugh, she sucks so bad), but still I get all tense and antsy every time he's on the screen and I totally don't like it when he's around or like thinking of being around, or when he's just hanging out with Spike and Drusilla (Spike! Aaaaaaaaand Druuuuusilla! I love Spike and Drusilla!) and the possibility of him being around other people is hanging in the air. It's very uncool. I wish he'd get good again. Spike is a more relaxing villain. In fact the centipede guy was a more relaxing villain.
And I miss Oz, whom we haven't seen in a while.
And you know what else, since I can't ever make another of these posts without being a promise-breaker twice, I have to say this. A while back there was an xkcd cartoon (PS, today's one is the best ever even though like tim I don't believe it's true and actually he MADE ME LOSE) that mentioned choreographing elaborate fight scenes in his head. Which, though it made me laugh, was not one of those things that I myself do, and I remember thinking when I read it, Huh, what a weirdo. But ever since I've been watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I have totally started doing that. When I come into a room I start looking around gauging what things could be used as weapons and whether there's anything around that could be used as a stake, and how I would play it if each person in the room suddenly turned out to be a vampire/demon. My brain's all, Okay, well, I could take these pens and hold them in a cross position, and then if Sarah could grab that pencil and stab it from behind really hard – but would the graphite in the middle disqualify it for use as a stake? And frankly, we can't be completely positive that Sarah wasn't herself turned into a vampire just now while she was supposedly fetching more paper clips. So okay, then the other option is the blinds, I could open the blinds. Hold the pens like a cross while I go over and open the blinds and then POOF FIRE no problems there. But if the sun isn't streaming directly in, or if it's behind a cloud, I can't totally count on that working, so let's see, there's several trash cans, but only one of them is metal instead of plastic – not very useful; it's like they want us to be weaponless in here – whereas that bobble-head Yoda is actually quite heavy so I could throw that, and although I'd hate to waste the expensive technology there's always the possibility of smashing the demon's head into the computer screen in order to disorient it, but I have to be careful not to let it get its hands on that piece of wood that used to be a shelf because if it hit me on the head with that it would hurt pretty much a lot and huh, I should really bring a lighter in here because if I tossed it into the recycled paper box and then smashed the vampire sideways with that picture frame into the burning box then it would ignite very handily.
Which I'd feel dumber about if not for this: My ex told me once about this video game he used to play where you got points for chasing ambulances, and he said that when he had played it for a while and then he went out in his real car, whenever he would hear sirens he'd be like SWEET! AN AMBULANCE! and have the instinct to go haring off after it. And this is similar. And as we have seen the XKCD guy does the same thing. Ah, validation.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Splurge
Well, all the hoarding of my Bongs & Noodle gift cards is at an end. I've been hoarding them pretty well since Christmas – I bought and returned Special Topics in Calamity Physics and Atonement, but that doesn't count – and today I spent most of them. But money well-spent, I think, and now there will by joy in my heart.
I bought the following:
Vampire Weekend's CD. I've had "Oxford Comma" stuck in my head ever since Neil Gaiman mentioned it on his blog a little while ago, and I've been thinking for a while that I should do something radical and buy a CD. I haven't bought a CD since Phantom of the Opera when I was about, I don't know, thirteen maybe? But I wanted to support Vampire Weekend because I like "Oxford Comma" a lot and because they are an indie band (hooray for that!) and because they are cute, like children who are still deciding whether or not they want to be collar-popping sorts of people or tattoo sorts of people.
The Go Fug Yourself book. Oh, how I love that website. I love it to pieces. I discovered it a few years ago, when I was still working at Co-Op, and it has been an ongoing love affair since then. And now I have it in book version!
A book called Forever by Pete Hamill. I tried to get it from the library when I went today, and they didn't have it. They didn't have it in Fiction so I went and looked it up in the catalogue, which claimed that it was in Large Print, so I went over there with my conscience saying "You shouldn't take books from Large Print when you can read just fine! You should leave those for little old ladies!" and the other part of my brain assuring my conscience that the little old ladies didn't want this book and if they did it was just too bad. At which God promptly reached down His sacred hand from heaven and swiped it from the Large Print section. I even got a librarian to come help me look for it. No good. It was gone, gone, gone. Two other unfortunate things happened in the library (see below), but anyway I really wanted to read Forever – it's about a guy who can live forever as long as he never leaves Manhattan, and it's meant to be very swashbuckling – and I went and looked at it when I was in Bongs & Noodles, and then I saw that the main character, he has the same birthday as the main character in a story I'm writing, and – as with the story I'm writing – this is a relevant point to his family. (It is also my extremely cute little cousin's birthday, and he does things like include "gnome hats" in his school lists of things that are cone-shaped.) So sign from God. So I bought it. Fingers crossed.
You want to hear what happened at the library? Well, first, in the grand tradition of male librarians JUDGING US, the librarian who was checking us out JUDGED US. Robyn and I were talking about voting, and how important it is, and how much we admire her friend for being proactive about registering all their friends to vote, and how chagrined we are that a very, very smart friend of ours declined to vote in the primaries, and anyway the librarian said "I guess you two support Obama or Clinton?"
And I said, "McCain supporters also want people to vote. Everyone wants people to vote."
And he said, "Nah, it's just your age. I figured I was safe."
You know what I hate? When people tell you you're only liberal because you're young. Nuh-uh! Shut up, librarian-stupidhead. If you can't recommend other books that we might like based on our present selections, don't say anything at all!
The other thing was way more of a bummer. Today in the library I was walking through the adult fiction section, and a string hit me in the face. In actual fact it was the string of a sign that used to hang there and I guess had fallen down, but when I felt it on my face my brain just immediately assumed it was like in Albertson's where they have balloons floating around in certain areas and the strings are just dangling down and you can pull them down and buy/play with the balloons. So in my mind I was like, "Oh hooray! A balloon! This is so unexpected!", and I reached up and pulled the string to get the balloon.
But no balloon. It was such a let-down.
I bought the following:
Vampire Weekend's CD. I've had "Oxford Comma" stuck in my head ever since Neil Gaiman mentioned it on his blog a little while ago, and I've been thinking for a while that I should do something radical and buy a CD. I haven't bought a CD since Phantom of the Opera when I was about, I don't know, thirteen maybe? But I wanted to support Vampire Weekend because I like "Oxford Comma" a lot and because they are an indie band (hooray for that!) and because they are cute, like children who are still deciding whether or not they want to be collar-popping sorts of people or tattoo sorts of people.
The Go Fug Yourself book. Oh, how I love that website. I love it to pieces. I discovered it a few years ago, when I was still working at Co-Op, and it has been an ongoing love affair since then. And now I have it in book version!
A book called Forever by Pete Hamill. I tried to get it from the library when I went today, and they didn't have it. They didn't have it in Fiction so I went and looked it up in the catalogue, which claimed that it was in Large Print, so I went over there with my conscience saying "You shouldn't take books from Large Print when you can read just fine! You should leave those for little old ladies!" and the other part of my brain assuring my conscience that the little old ladies didn't want this book and if they did it was just too bad. At which God promptly reached down His sacred hand from heaven and swiped it from the Large Print section. I even got a librarian to come help me look for it. No good. It was gone, gone, gone. Two other unfortunate things happened in the library (see below), but anyway I really wanted to read Forever – it's about a guy who can live forever as long as he never leaves Manhattan, and it's meant to be very swashbuckling – and I went and looked at it when I was in Bongs & Noodles, and then I saw that the main character, he has the same birthday as the main character in a story I'm writing, and – as with the story I'm writing – this is a relevant point to his family. (It is also my extremely cute little cousin's birthday, and he does things like include "gnome hats" in his school lists of things that are cone-shaped.) So sign from God. So I bought it. Fingers crossed.
You want to hear what happened at the library? Well, first, in the grand tradition of male librarians JUDGING US, the librarian who was checking us out JUDGED US. Robyn and I were talking about voting, and how important it is, and how much we admire her friend for being proactive about registering all their friends to vote, and how chagrined we are that a very, very smart friend of ours declined to vote in the primaries, and anyway the librarian said "I guess you two support Obama or Clinton?"
And I said, "McCain supporters also want people to vote. Everyone wants people to vote."
And he said, "Nah, it's just your age. I figured I was safe."
You know what I hate? When people tell you you're only liberal because you're young. Nuh-uh! Shut up, librarian-stupidhead. If you can't recommend other books that we might like based on our present selections, don't say anything at all!
The other thing was way more of a bummer. Today in the library I was walking through the adult fiction section, and a string hit me in the face. In actual fact it was the string of a sign that used to hang there and I guess had fallen down, but when I felt it on my face my brain just immediately assumed it was like in Albertson's where they have balloons floating around in certain areas and the strings are just dangling down and you can pull them down and buy/play with the balloons. So in my mind I was like, "Oh hooray! A balloon! This is so unexpected!", and I reached up and pulled the string to get the balloon.
But no balloon. It was such a let-down.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Interesting side effect of using ear buds
I have often before had the experience of pareidolia, which is a phenomenon in which people find specific images or sounds in random stimuli, says Wikipedia, or more simply, that thing where people see Jesus in their pancakes, only mine is the auditory kind. If my brain is not focused on something else, and if there is a bunch of white noise, I very often hear music that is not actually playing. It's fascinating for me because I can actually sing along with it and there are harmonies and instrumentals which apparently my subconscious remembers perfectly although I can't remember them when I consciously try to think of them later.
Unfortunately this isn't really under my control. Sometimes when there is white noise I will catch a few things that sound vaguely like a song I know, and then SNAP, on goes the pareidolia in full force, and I hear the entire song and sometimes some more songs from that same album, and then after a while, SNAP, off it goes again. I think there's a certain factor of belief involved here – if it seems viable that someone nearby is playing the song I think I'm hearing, I'm far more likely to go on hearing it. Otherwise it clicks off quite rapidly.
Alas.
Because I like listening to music. It is especially soothing when I am falling asleep. And if I could do it reliably, then I would be just as cool as all the members of my family (everyone but me and my father) who see pictures when they close their eyes. In fact I would be cooler. Because music is better than pictures. And I would say, "Nyah nyah nyah, family. I fall asleep to the sounds of Pachelbel's Canon," and I would blow a raspberry, even though I am a lady and such things are usually beneath me.
Here's the thing though! It's thrilling! Since I've started using ear buds, this pareidolia thing has been happening more and more often. I think my brain has been completely taken in by the ear buds so when I am listening to music with them my brain thinks that the music is actually inside of my head. The ear buds really do produce much the same effect as this pareidolia business, except clearer and louder and more easily controllable.
So now my brain does not get all skeptical when it hears music and does not say "Well, hey, I know that sounds like 'Wrapped Up In Books', but let's look at this critically, shall we? Who would be playing Belle and Sebastian in the office and just happen to put on your favorite Belle and Sebastian song? Now, really, Jenny, is that likely?" NOW it is just like "Hey! It's Belle and Sebastian! Ear buds are keen!" and I try not to remind it that I haven't got my mp3 player with me, because THIS IS TOO AWESOME.
P.S. I'm not crazy. Just suggestible.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Naughty words in songs
I have two things to say about my youth and the word "damn" in songs.
1) I have never been comfortable with lame substitutes for naughty words. If you are going to think "God damn", there is really no point in you bothering to say "Gol durn" instead. I mean, seriously, do you think that God is that easy to fool? To this end, I never ever sing the right words to "Mariah" when it says "And now I'm lost, so gol-durn lost, not even God can find me". (P.S. Yes he can. And feed you to a whale.) I always say "goddamn". And I think I will probably still go to heaven.
2) I never used to say naughty words. In fact I don't think I said a single naughty word until I was in sixth grade. Straight through fifth grade, I still got big eyes and gasped if one of my peers said a dirty word, and I was liable to find it so remarkable that I would mention it to my family that afternoon. Of course, once I hit sixth grade it was like a demon had been unleashed and I was cursing like a sailor, and this was greatly exacerbated by the nine months I spent in England where everybody curses and they even say words that we don't say here because England is just much better at cursing.
However, even in my tender elementary school years, I had been told that it was okay to say naughty words if they were part of an (un-naughty) song. Like "Someday Soon". I am extremely fond of "Someday Soon", and I always have been, and at one point Judy Collins says "He loves his damned old rodeo as much as he loves me", and I was not too shy to sing that properly. In fact, since I knew it was okay to sing the wicked word because it was part of the song, I used to sit in the very front seat of the school bus, right behind the bus driver, and sing "Someday Soon". I was kind of hoping he would turn around and say "What is this language? I am shocked, shocked, that a nice little girl like you is using such revolting words!", at which point I would say with some superiority, "Excuse me, but that is part of a song. I am not saying a wicked word, I am just singing a song. Anyone who knows anything is well aware that you can say those things if they are part of a song."
But he never turned around and scolded me. I really couldn't understand why he was so reticent. I gave him several chances. I would sing that line a couple of times over, so that in case he missed it the first time, there'd be a rerun straight away for him, but nothing. Sometimes I even sang "damned" extra loud, so that maybe he'd only hear that word, and he'd try to get me in trouble, but I would be above it because it's in a song.
I guess he knew the rule too. Damn him.
1) I have never been comfortable with lame substitutes for naughty words. If you are going to think "God damn", there is really no point in you bothering to say "Gol durn" instead. I mean, seriously, do you think that God is that easy to fool? To this end, I never ever sing the right words to "Mariah" when it says "And now I'm lost, so gol-durn lost, not even God can find me". (P.S. Yes he can. And feed you to a whale.) I always say "goddamn". And I think I will probably still go to heaven.
2) I never used to say naughty words. In fact I don't think I said a single naughty word until I was in sixth grade. Straight through fifth grade, I still got big eyes and gasped if one of my peers said a dirty word, and I was liable to find it so remarkable that I would mention it to my family that afternoon. Of course, once I hit sixth grade it was like a demon had been unleashed and I was cursing like a sailor, and this was greatly exacerbated by the nine months I spent in England where everybody curses and they even say words that we don't say here because England is just much better at cursing.
However, even in my tender elementary school years, I had been told that it was okay to say naughty words if they were part of an (un-naughty) song. Like "Someday Soon". I am extremely fond of "Someday Soon", and I always have been, and at one point Judy Collins says "He loves his damned old rodeo as much as he loves me", and I was not too shy to sing that properly. In fact, since I knew it was okay to sing the wicked word because it was part of the song, I used to sit in the very front seat of the school bus, right behind the bus driver, and sing "Someday Soon". I was kind of hoping he would turn around and say "What is this language? I am shocked, shocked, that a nice little girl like you is using such revolting words!", at which point I would say with some superiority, "Excuse me, but that is part of a song. I am not saying a wicked word, I am just singing a song. Anyone who knows anything is well aware that you can say those things if they are part of a song."
But he never turned around and scolded me. I really couldn't understand why he was so reticent. I gave him several chances. I would sing that line a couple of times over, so that in case he missed it the first time, there'd be a rerun straight away for him, but nothing. Sometimes I even sang "damned" extra loud, so that maybe he'd only hear that word, and he'd try to get me in trouble, but I would be above it because it's in a song.
I guess he knew the rule too. Damn him.
Friday, January 25, 2008
A point to consider
If life were like One Tree Hill, then Clinton and Obama would be having a secret affair.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
A compulsive reader
I am compulsive with regard to reading. Now, this seems to imply that I read compulsively; i.e., that I cannot stop myself from reading in the same way that I cannot stop myself from checking my holds at the library twenty times a day to see if they have come in yet (two of them came in today!!), or checking out where my packages have gotten to so far when I order things from the internet. And that's true. But it's also true that I am a person in whom sometimes my reader-self and my compulsive-person-self come together in a glorious alliance to bring out the Crazy that lurks within my soul
Case in point: A few days ago I bought Special Topics in Calamity Physics from Bongs & Noodles, because it looked good and I read a bit of it at the store and it made me smile, and I hear good things, and I love, love, love, love buying new books I have never read. It is very exciting. However, I rarely do it because I can't rely on the books being any good. And I don't want to waste my precious money (in this case, my exceedingly precious Bongs & Noodles gift cards) on books that aren't going to be any good, because there are far too many extremely good books out there that I want to own.
Yet I bought Special Topics in Calamity Physics. The plan was to read it very carefully, so as not to bend the spine, which I am quite good at, and then if it turned out rubbish, I would return it in perfect condition and get something else instead. I don't anticipate it turning out rubbish.
I also did really underestimate my compulsive nature. I read about twenty pages of the book and was swamped with panic that I was going to bend the spine, and it's stressful reading something you absolutely can't do anything bad to OR ELSE – no wonder people never want to borrow books from me! (but that doesn't mean you can do anything bad to my books that you borrow; I still want them back perfect OR ELSE) – so I reserved a copy at the library.
Which I went and picked up today, along with (!!!!) Dark Shadows, 40 episodes from around the time of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy's assassinations.
And when I got through checkout, I glanced at my stack of books and didn't see the cheerful yellow-and-red paperback spine of Special Topics in Calamity Physics, and I threw a small fit because it was gone and that meant I'd left it somewhere lying around the library and I wasn't going to be able to find it even though I really really really wanted to read it, and you'd have thought from my fussing noises that I didn't have a brand new pristine copy at home waiting to be read. I could picture the library copy too – a big paperback just like mine, but with the cover curling up and a small rip in the bottom corner of the front cover, and the sides of the back cover starting to peel and the spine all cracked – and that's how I described it to Anna, who is a good person to have around when you lose something because she always gets a description and asks where you last saw it and then goes and tracks it down.
Actually it turns out that the library copy was hardback and I had it all along and I just hadn't noticed it because the spine is much more dark and sober-looking than the front cover.
However, the image in my head of the paperback library copy is very clear, and it haunted me when I thought I'd put it down somewhere unfindable because I knew that once having seen that image in my mind I would never be able to read my new copy at home, because I would be too chagrined at the notion of doing that to the book and then not being able to return it to the bookshop even if I DESPERATELY wanted to once I finished the book and it turned out to be rubbish or not rubbish but just not good enough to ever want to read again.
Er.
I'm not crazy.
Only a small part of my brain was thinking this. The part that peddles a special brand of Crazy in which I occasionally indulge. Most of my brain was thinking, Well, shit, that was dumb. Now I'm either going to have to risk damaging my own copy or wait a few more days to read this book. There was just a small, small section – the Salesman of Crazy section – that viewed this as a major catastrophe.
(A word which incidentally I never write, read, or think without remembering The Trumpet of the Swan.)
I think the sane part of my brain knew perfectly well that I had the book all along, and was just doing this to me as a cautionary measure, to remind me to listen to it and not to the Crazy Salesman. And thanks, sane bits of brain, I guess. I felt really stupid when I noticed I had it all along, though, and you could have told me straight away instead of letting me run around crazy like antelope in rainy season, but, y'know, whatever. I guess I'm glad you're looking out for me.
P.S. I am super duper excited about Dark Shadows. I mean, you just have no idea. Seriously, what is better than a soap opera from the sixties that was getting bad ratings and decided to put paid to that problem by introducing a vampire, who was so popular that the soap opera became a total cult classic and has now been released in its entirety on DVD? A show to which my godmother and Johnny Depp were both devoted, the latter to such an extent that he yearned and yearned and yearned to be Barnabas the Vampire which now that he is rich and famous he can and will arrange to be?
Nothing in the world since the beginning of time has ever been or will ever be better than that. INCLUDING THE CREATION OF MAN. (Sorry, God. You can't fight the truth.)
Oo. Except for cilantro. But NOTHING ELSE.
Case in point: A few days ago I bought Special Topics in Calamity Physics from Bongs & Noodles, because it looked good and I read a bit of it at the store and it made me smile, and I hear good things, and I love, love, love, love buying new books I have never read. It is very exciting. However, I rarely do it because I can't rely on the books being any good. And I don't want to waste my precious money (in this case, my exceedingly precious Bongs & Noodles gift cards) on books that aren't going to be any good, because there are far too many extremely good books out there that I want to own.
Yet I bought Special Topics in Calamity Physics. The plan was to read it very carefully, so as not to bend the spine, which I am quite good at, and then if it turned out rubbish, I would return it in perfect condition and get something else instead. I don't anticipate it turning out rubbish.
I also did really underestimate my compulsive nature. I read about twenty pages of the book and was swamped with panic that I was going to bend the spine, and it's stressful reading something you absolutely can't do anything bad to OR ELSE – no wonder people never want to borrow books from me! (but that doesn't mean you can do anything bad to my books that you borrow; I still want them back perfect OR ELSE) – so I reserved a copy at the library.
Which I went and picked up today, along with (!!!!) Dark Shadows, 40 episodes from around the time of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy's assassinations.
And when I got through checkout, I glanced at my stack of books and didn't see the cheerful yellow-and-red paperback spine of Special Topics in Calamity Physics, and I threw a small fit because it was gone and that meant I'd left it somewhere lying around the library and I wasn't going to be able to find it even though I really really really wanted to read it, and you'd have thought from my fussing noises that I didn't have a brand new pristine copy at home waiting to be read. I could picture the library copy too – a big paperback just like mine, but with the cover curling up and a small rip in the bottom corner of the front cover, and the sides of the back cover starting to peel and the spine all cracked – and that's how I described it to Anna, who is a good person to have around when you lose something because she always gets a description and asks where you last saw it and then goes and tracks it down.
Actually it turns out that the library copy was hardback and I had it all along and I just hadn't noticed it because the spine is much more dark and sober-looking than the front cover.
However, the image in my head of the paperback library copy is very clear, and it haunted me when I thought I'd put it down somewhere unfindable because I knew that once having seen that image in my mind I would never be able to read my new copy at home, because I would be too chagrined at the notion of doing that to the book and then not being able to return it to the bookshop even if I DESPERATELY wanted to once I finished the book and it turned out to be rubbish or not rubbish but just not good enough to ever want to read again.
Er.
I'm not crazy.
Only a small part of my brain was thinking this. The part that peddles a special brand of Crazy in which I occasionally indulge. Most of my brain was thinking, Well, shit, that was dumb. Now I'm either going to have to risk damaging my own copy or wait a few more days to read this book. There was just a small, small section – the Salesman of Crazy section – that viewed this as a major catastrophe.
(A word which incidentally I never write, read, or think without remembering The Trumpet of the Swan.)
I think the sane part of my brain knew perfectly well that I had the book all along, and was just doing this to me as a cautionary measure, to remind me to listen to it and not to the Crazy Salesman. And thanks, sane bits of brain, I guess. I felt really stupid when I noticed I had it all along, though, and you could have told me straight away instead of letting me run around crazy like antelope in rainy season, but, y'know, whatever. I guess I'm glad you're looking out for me.
P.S. I am super duper excited about Dark Shadows. I mean, you just have no idea. Seriously, what is better than a soap opera from the sixties that was getting bad ratings and decided to put paid to that problem by introducing a vampire, who was so popular that the soap opera became a total cult classic and has now been released in its entirety on DVD? A show to which my godmother and Johnny Depp were both devoted, the latter to such an extent that he yearned and yearned and yearned to be Barnabas the Vampire which now that he is rich and famous he can and will arrange to be?
Nothing in the world since the beginning of time has ever been or will ever be better than that. INCLUDING THE CREATION OF MAN. (Sorry, God. You can't fight the truth.)
Oo. Except for cilantro. But NOTHING ELSE.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Am I in love with Daniel Craig?
Well, not really. But kinda. A very platonic kind of love.
To me Daniel Craig has always been like Pierce Brosnan and Patrick Dempsey -- everyone has the hugest crush on him and they go on and on about his sexiness, and I just don't find him even the tiniest bit attractive but instead I kind of dislike him.
(Seriously, people, what do you see in Patrick Dempsey?)
Now, in fairness, this may be because I saw him (Daniel Craig) first in a film about Sylvia Plath, and he played Ted Hughes and wasn't awfully nice to Gwyneth Paltrow (surprise, surprise), and it put me off him for life. I really have very unkind feelings toward Ted Unpleasant Wanker Hughes, so if you want me to fall in love with you, don't come to my Halloween party as Ted Hughes. However much you might be tempted to.
For the interested, Ted Hughes ditched Sylvia Plath for Assia Wevill, who was a refugee of Nazi Germany, and then after a while he kept cheating on her too, and she killed herself and their four-year-old daughter, whose name, I swear to God, was Alexandra Tatiana Elise. I could not make that shit up. Ted Hughes was such an unpleasant wanker. I always try and feel sorry for him because I know it must have been sad when his insane lover murdered their daughter, but I just can't make myself even the tiniest bit sorry for him because he was such a jackass.
So of course many of these feelings translated to anger with Daniel Craig and a total inability to find him in any way attractive. And he's old! Isn't he old? Is it just me, or does he look quite old?
But that's irrelevant now, because now Daniel Craig and I can be BFF if we ever meet.
This is what happened today. I was doing some research at work, and a fortunate combination of keywords (this often happens -- I learn so much from the brief excerpts of websites that turn up on Google) produced a page that seemed to suggest that Daniel Craig had proposed a slight break from tradition for the next James Bond film. And when I got home I looked it up on the internet to discover whether I had read it correctly.
And yes! I had! So, announcement:
Daniel Craig is pushing the producers to let James Bond experiment with his sexuality a little bit, and by "experiment with his sexuality", of course I mean HAVE SEX WITH DUDES. Daniel Craig is all, Well why not? I have gay fans too, yo! I'm up for it! Let's go!
HELL YEAH.
The Internet thinks this is a great idea or a disgusting perversion of a classic character and homosexuality is immoral. Which is fair enough. James Bond has always been all about sexual morality, and it would be an awful shame to change that now.
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