Update!

Ross said Rachel, Ross said Rachel, Ross said Rachel!

That is all.

My flatmate is a big freaky freak and she just freaked me out like whoa

I was watching Friends, right, and my nice flatmate Sarah came in to say something, and I had paused the episode so it was just one frame of it up on the screen, and it was just a frame of Joey and Chandler standing there not doing anything to give away what was going on, just standing with their mouths open because they were talking, and she said, “Oh, is that the one where they switch over?” AND IT WAS. (They switch over apartments.) I stared at her with a freaked-out look and she said, like it was supposed to make her freaky episode-identifying talent less freaky, “I can tell from what they’re wearing.”

Which made me feel better about my shameful Friends addiction that I have right now.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah

Okay, so my coping mechanism these days is watching Friends. Lots and lots and lots and lots of Friends. I have a ton of work to do, including a research proposal of 1500 words that I have no idea how to do, and a nasty play to read and be clever about, and some other stuff for my new class that I haven’t even looked up online because I’ve been too busy watching Friends. And I can’t stop because Ross, you know, he has a new girlfriend who’s English but I KNOW he isn’t going to love her forever, and furthermore I know that at the end of this season, Chandler (whose fault it is I’m watching this at all, damn you Matthew Perry and Studio 60 and my flatmates for laughing at me for not knowing who he was!) and Monica, they are going to have the sex. So I can’t really stop now. Besides there are six more seasons I haven’t seen, and I’m a completist so that just wouldn’t do.

I thought I heard someone coming down the hall to knock on my door, however, and I didn’t want to admit that I was still watching Friends and had been all day today (seriously, short break to get a candy bar and wash my hair, and allllllllll the rest of the day I’ve been at it), so I fetched the book I’m supposed to be reading and started to read it. I was going to skip the introduction so that I could finish the book sooner and be back to Friends, but when I opened the book up it was at the last page of the introduction and my eyes can’t stop themselves from reading, so I read it.

Number one, the man is oversharing. I’m going to tell you his name — Morris Kaplan — so that if you ever run into him In Life, you can let him know that it is way, way not okay to talk about the fantasy echoes of his own erotic history in an introduction to a history book, even if the name of the book is Sodom on the Thames. His attachment to these figures have vacillated between desire and identification, but he’s not going to track these trajectories in detail here, since each exerted its own fascination, at least for a time. (Thank God for small mercies.)

Number two, the second-to-last sentence in the introduction is, My erotic adventures in the archives have been a source of great pleasure.

I’ll repeat that for those of you who missed it: My erotic adventures in the archives have been a source of great pleasure.

I’LL JUST BET.

I got a reading pass to the British Library, but if this is the kind of activity that takes place in their archives, I’m having nothing to do with it! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Thanks a lot, Morris Kaplan, you big meanie, for spoiling my happy dream of scholarly peace at the British Library; now I’m just always going to be looking over my shoulder to make sure that you’re not having sex with the manuscripts (which by the way may not be specifically listed among the rules but you know and I know that it’s totally forbidden!). And you know what? I have Merlin Holland’s fax number, and I’m going to tell him about you!

Well, obviously I can’t read Morris Kaplan’s book anymore today. And the play I have to read for Early Modern Culture is on a high high shelf, so that’s out of the question; and I can’t do my research proposal because I haven’t read Morris Kaplan’s book yet. Really leaves me with only one option. Don’t blame me, blame Morris Kaplan.

(When I’m like the world’s leading expert on Oscar Wilde, I’m going to delete this post so it won’t be super awkward when I run into Morris Kaplan for real. Nobody give him the URL to my blog.)

The delicate art of making passwords

Passwords are tricky and uncool, and I hate it when something happens that makes me have to change my passwords. The earliest instance of this that I can remember is when Robyn figured out the password to my email account. It was “Lara”, which was the name of our second cat that we had briefly and then actually really did send to live in the country where she’d be happier but ultimately she was eaten by a coyote.

Robyn: What’s your password?
Me: I’m not telling.
Robyn: Is it Pepsi? (the dog)
Me: No.
Robyn: Is it Shadow? (the first cat)
Me: No.
Robyn: Is it Lara?
Me: I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO YOU ANYMORE.

Yes, even at a young age I was a past master of dissimulation.

So I had to change it then. And then this other time I discovered that you could put passwords on Word documents, which was the greatest discovery I ever made, and I made these incredibly long passwords based on whatever my eye fell on, and each document had a different one, and they were, like, “teenagewitch” and “paperclipbox” and “auntdorisclock”, and of course I forgot them all and lost everything that was in those documents. Then I swung way back and gave all my documents the same password and it was “book”. I thought that kept things simple. Short and sweet, and the middle two letters were the same, so I couldn’t mix them up. But after a while I had to give it to someone to avoid more hassle, and then I changed it to something completely different and totally unguessable by anyone.

And LSU! What the hell! Every five days they make me change my damn password! As soon as my fingers get used to typing the new password they’ve forced me to adopt I have to switch it again. And now Essex has done the same. I had a very good password that was easy to type and used lots of different letters and numbers in strange combinations but was entirely memorable. Dem them.

Furthermore, I think “book” is a fabulous password because WHO COULD EVER GUESS THAT? Its very simplicity makes it complicated! However, I cannot use it for anything because everyone wants you to have 6 or more characters and use capitals and lower-cases and numbers and symbols, which is much too much trouble. I do not think that the shift key should have any place in the typing of passwords.

Which reminds me: Anna used to insist that it was quicker and easier to do Caps Lock and then un-Caps Lock every time she had to type a capital letter. I explained to her that the Shift key was ultimately better, but she did not believe me and stubbornly persisted. For all I know she is still engaging in this errant activity today.

And passwords are a nuisance. Hackers, please desist. You are causing everyone unnecessary trouble.

One of those cruel jokes the universe plays on you sometimes

I don’t know if any of you ever read the awful book Bridge to Terabithia which was incredibly awful with all the awfulness. I’m going to go ahead and ruin the ending for you so that you won’t have to read it. The free-spirited running girl dies, and the running boy comes to terms with it in his own way. Okay. Save yourself the time and aggravation of ever reading it, or giving it to your children to read, or buying a copy to send to underprivileged children in inner-city schools or Africa and East Asia (if you are anxious about this, buy something good instead; I recommend Mr. Popper’s Penguins, which has a free-spirited penguin that does not die. Actually, several!). I hated that damn book, and now they’re making a damn movie of it with that little girl from Because of Winn-Dixie (who is cute and I have nothing against her whatsoever but I’m sure she could further her acting career in some other way than propagating the idea that this book is in any way good).

I went to this movie trailers website because I heard a rumor that there was like a clip of some footage from the 3rd Pirates of the Caribbean film, right, and there was a link! A link to footage of pirates! I was all excited because I’ve had a very nice day - my parents and younger sister and I all went to campus to be shown around, and we had nice fish and chips and I knew the guy at the shop was Greek even before he told us his daughter was called Constantina and my father and sisters and I talked about all the times he got hit on by dudes in his youth and all the exciting things he did as a youth like blow out his motor-scooter tires in Ville Platte and get given sausages and I learnt an amazingly interesting new fact - and I thought that footage from this probably very life-affirming movie would be just the perfect end to it. So I clicked the link, and DO YOU KNOW what happened?

That’s RIGHT! It popped up and it was all, Do you want to use Quicktime or Windows Media Player to view this exclusive footage from Bridge to Terabithia? and I was all, Neither! Get off my screen, you Satan, and give me my pirates!

Whatever. I’m going to bed. The film industry is dead to me.

Me = Pioneer; or, I never knew John Donne could be so sexy

I was at the National Portrait Gallery today, and my mum and I were going through the Elizabethan-times room, walking down one side of the room looking at all these people we sort of knew (like Nicholas Bacon. I mean, surely I’ve heard of him before and everything, but my brain totally blanked out and I had no idea where), and I glanced over at the opposite wall and saw this picture that looked very cool, all shadowy and mysterious. And I was like, Oo, a picture I don’t remember that looks very spiffy! Can’t wait to see!

And do you know, it was John Donne, and it was a brand new picture. By which I mean that everyone already knew about it and it was even inside of Anna’s Norton Anthology of English Literature, but I had never seen it before. The last time I was at the National Portrait Gallery, they TOTALLY didn’t have that picture! Theoretically I suppose I was aware that the National Portrait Gallery must acquire more things from time to time, but I guess I assumed that all the Famous Pictures in the world had already settled, and the National Portrait Gallery wouldn’t get anything old but only new things like pictures of Christian Bale and Prince William’s girlfriend and such.

I totally felt like a tremendous literary-portraity-ground-breaking pioneer person! I discovered a brand new painting of John Donne, everyone! And it is weirdly attractive. I don’t know how much of this is due to the fact that I know it’s John Donne and I admire his writing a lot, but I’m already drafting an email to the National Portrait Gallery to get them to start making prints of it so I can buy one and hang it up on my wall. This is what I have so far:

Darling darling National Portrait Gallery,

Please make a print of that sexy new picture of John Donne that you have so I can buy one and hang it up on my wall. I really deserve it because I am a lovely person and furthermore I donated five pounds to you when I visted last July, and I also purchased several items from your gift shop. Thank you.

I think that they cannot fail to see the rectitude of my arguments and immediately begin making prints of various sizes for my viewing pleasure (and, she said righteously, that of the nation. of all nations!). They could make profit! People never knew how alluring John Donne could be when set in a black background and given a caption about girls and such.

And a Muppet kissed me!

This bookstore I went to in Colchester where I wanted to steal these books

One time I went to this bookstore in Colchester and I wanted to steal these books. Because they were hardback first editions of Emily of New Moon and Emily Climbs, which are the books by the author of Anne of Green Gables that are better than Anne of Green Gables, and my mum and I love them so very very much, and I wanted to buy them but I could not afford them that week because they were fifteen pounds each which I did not have room for in my budget. And I wanted to steal them. I had a vision of me creeping out of the bookshop with the books under my sweater and when the lady noticed and raised a fuss I would shriek LEAVE ME ALONE THEY ARE FOR MY MOMMY!

And because I did not want to embarrass myself by calling my mother mommy, I did not steal the books. (But I would have liked to.)

The moral of this story is, have visions in which you say “mum” or “mother” and you will not be embarrassed out of taking books you can’t afford but really want and will give a better home to than the bookshop can.

You mean all matinees do not occur on Wednesdays?

You know what I did? Like a loser tourist full of ignorance? I made my plans for today based on the assumption that every show on the West End had matinees on Wednesday because Wicked’s matinees were on Wednesday, and that seemed like a really sensible day to have a matinee, it being the middle of the week and there being another matinee on Saturday (and everyone has matinees on Saturday). Oh, and I also assumed that every show on the West End sold day seats, where you can pay 20 quid or so and sit in the front front row and be spit upon whenever the chorus members lose control of their saliva.

(But I haven’t been spit upon yet.)

Both of these things were wrong. Most tragically they were wrong regarding the show I really really want to see while I’m here, Evita, which I want to see because it has Philip Quast inside it, and his magnificence as a vocalist is unrivaled by virtually anyone else I know. Although the Enjolras on the OLC of Les Mis is very good indeed. I get chills when I listen to him sing Javert. I don’t get chills from people’s voices very often (only him and Idina Menzel), and you know how fantastic it would be to hear both of the chills-producing vocalists while I am here?

Very fantastic. Right.

But anyway, they don’t have day seats, and they don’t have Wednesday matinees, dem them. Which means that I have to go down to Leicester Square and try to get discounted tickets, or else pay full price for the tickets, which I will do but I’d rather not. It also means I didn’t get to see it today. I shall see it tomorrow.

It will now be necessary for all shows on London’s West End to regulate their schedules so as not to confuse me. To give you an idea of the craziness and irregularity that goes on, Avenue Q just lost its mind entirely and gives Friday and Saturday matinevening shows at 5:45 and 8:45. I have no idea what that’s about. So this change is really for the West End’s own good. Do it now, theatres, and then when I am a fierce reviewer with a poison pen I won’t have a grudge against every show that comes to you. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. Remember how much more fun I will have writing bad reviews than good ones. I’ll say you have bad acoustics and gaudy ornamentation. I will. Don’t make me.

Oh! New Year’s Resolutions!

Okay, here are mine.

1) World peace. You don’t have to be a beauty pageant contestant to work towards this one! Opposing me is, let’s see, everyone in power throughout the entire rest of the world. But I will, as advised by a poster in my sixth-grade math teacher’s classroom, shoot for the moon, for I know that even if I miss I fall among the stars. Or, in this case, I fall into nuclear winter and death for everyone.

2) Publish a best-seller. Easy peasy. If Ann Coulter can do it– I won’t continue this thought. I don’t want anyone to associate me with her, mainly because it’s already tricky telling us apart, us both being tall (she is only five inches taller than I am) and blonde. The big clue to help you out on this one is that I’m not an evil bitch, and my hair is naturally this color.

3) Give up eating Brussels sprouts. Okay, I stole this one from someone else I read about sometime who gave up Brussels sprouts for Lent, but I just now went on Wikipedia to find out some nutritional information about Brussels sprouts (last time I looked up a vegetable (asparagus) on Wikipedia it told me they were like the healthiest vegetable ever and I felt really virtuous for eating two entire packs of them. That really has nothing to do with anything but I like to brag when I eat healthy foods of my own free will.). I was planning to make fun of Brussels sprouts for only having like 80% of your daily Vitamin A requirements in a serving or whatever it turned out to be, but you know what I found out? I found out that the standing record for speed eating Brussels sprouts is 44 in a minute. So I’m changing my resolution to beating the record for speed eating of Brussels sprouts. 44 a minute my ass. (See what a fount of wisdom Wikipedia is? The way, the truth, and the light, verily I say unto ye.)

In case you’re about to be all, It’s font of wisdom!, you are wrong. And in case now you’re about to be all, Anyone who said that it was font of wisdom would be so stupid and wrong!, you are also wrong. The OED will back me up on this (though not with a lot of clarity; it’s sort of roundabout, like they don’t want to commit to it, but I looked at it for a good long while a few weeks back, and I felt pretty certain about what they were getting at). Which leads me to my fourth resolution:

4) Have perfect grammar and diction at all times. No problem. I’m an English major. (This is, of course, my safety resolution.)

The reason my mother came to London

It was for the blue whale at the Natural History Museum, which luckily for her is just down the street from us (sort of. several streets. it’s complicated). The blue whale, you see, is the largest animal that has ever existed on earth ever, including the dinosaurs, and (my mother always pauses for this like it’s a punchline we’re waiting for rather than a scientific fact of which everyone is well aware) THEY ARE STILL WITH US. And then she pauses again. And sometimes she says WOW.

Anyway there’s a huge taxidermified blue whale at the Natural History Museum, and I think my mother wants to take every individual person that she knows down to see it so she can tell them this largest animal information and watch them be bowled over by it because (she says) you would have to be DEAD not to be impressed by the blue whale. The translation of this, I think, is that if you are not impressed by the blue whale in her presence, she will kill you and then you will be dead and unable to disprove her theory.

Also, people in London smoke a lot and bar poor Mum from a lot of pubs (ho, ho, ho, they BAR her from PUBS (I am only making this pun, Mother, because I am talking about you and you love puns and I always try to accommodate you)), so she has to find merriment where she can, and the blue whale is definitely the focus of her joy. I’m like, Hey Mum, want to get day seats to a play of your choice? and she’s like, Nah, I’d rather go see the blue whale. But thanks!

Basically, we didn’t need to come to London; we could have just gotten her a blue whale and put it in the backyard. Cause that would have been way easier.