Monday, July 28, 2003
22 and still getting carded
Hi, all. I know it's been a while, so I'm tempted to apologize. But, hell, I know my readers. "I'm sorry" doesn't cut it here. "You're welcome" does.
In any event, it's been a week of tiny pleasures and equally tiny atrocities—a week of feeling guilty for the good things and the bad. So, to inaugurate this mutual return to internet banality, I have a news item: the United States' greatest moral transgression since Kissinger's involvement in Chilean realpolitik. I try not to post links here, but said link is worth the read. This new DOD initiative enables the government to generate—in good faith?—a list of individuals with demonstrated financial interest in the incidence of specific terrorist acts. A voluntary list, no less. A word from your local Delusionist: it doesn't matter if the government is your bookie. Having established both motive and knowledge of the incident before the fact, you're begging for an espionage indictment.
Otherwise, I don't have much to share right now. I taught last week and, sadly, didn't learn that much. But I did go to Kamp Saturday night; I got hit on and got my cards read. According to Madame Shy, I wasn't spiritually ready for graduate school last year. I know, I know. I said I know. But nonetheless, the good Madame tells me that I'll get into graduate school this year, move far away, leave most of my friends behind, eventually find significant professional success and meet a helpful blonde martyr. Doesn't sound like a bad life to me. I mean, martyrs are cool. Though I take an earlier statement back: they don't have it easy.
In any event, it's been a week of tiny pleasures and equally tiny atrocities—a week of feeling guilty for the good things and the bad. So, to inaugurate this mutual return to internet banality, I have a news item: the United States' greatest moral transgression since Kissinger's involvement in Chilean realpolitik. I try not to post links here, but said link is worth the read. This new DOD initiative enables the government to generate—in good faith?—a list of individuals with demonstrated financial interest in the incidence of specific terrorist acts. A voluntary list, no less. A word from your local Delusionist: it doesn't matter if the government is your bookie. Having established both motive and knowledge of the incident before the fact, you're begging for an espionage indictment.
Otherwise, I don't have much to share right now. I taught last week and, sadly, didn't learn that much. But I did go to Kamp Saturday night; I got hit on and got my cards read. According to Madame Shy, I wasn't spiritually ready for graduate school last year. I know, I know. I said I know. But nonetheless, the good Madame tells me that I'll get into graduate school this year, move far away, leave most of my friends behind, eventually find significant professional success and meet a helpful blonde martyr. Doesn't sound like a bad life to me. I mean, martyrs are cool. Though I take an earlier statement back: they don't have it easy.
Monday, July 21, 2003
A fine vintage: full body; not too dry ; hints of raspberry, fascism
When it comes to viticulture, I'm as dumb as Drew Barrymore. Which is to say, I'm ignorant but experienced. I do know one thing, though: I am unable to drink red wine. As Liza Minelli would say, I get sho shloppy, daralingg. Which is a shame, because my blood and body are wholly sympathetic to Port. However, your fears to rest; the demons to bed—because I'm not the worst sympathizer out there.
In other news: I started teaching again today; more emails from the anonymous emailer, who has abandoned phallicmetaphor@specialolympics.org for the more tactful sleazyfirstmove@joycebrothers.net; I was approved for health insurance; I contemplated the cherry tree in a way I haven't done since my childhood.
In other news: I started teaching again today; more emails from the anonymous emailer, who has abandoned phallicmetaphor@specialolympics.org for the more tactful sleazyfirstmove@joycebrothers.net; I was approved for health insurance; I contemplated the cherry tree in a way I haven't done since my childhood.
Sunday, July 20, 2003
The message is the massage. Ewww.
A few posts ago, before my joking—you see? joking! joking!—threat to go Aum on the MTA, I asked for some responses to dirtypeaches. Yes. Which you're reading right now. No. Don't act so surprised.
In any event, I received such a response this morning. I was delighted, to be sure—a letter, a letter from the front! Said response, however, was from an email address I'd never seen before and said email address was a figure of speech with a distinctly penile connotation. Uneager to lose yet another reader, I refuse to disclose the address here. But I will make a plea: whoever you are, cockeuphemismofyourchoice@hotmail.gov, please reveal your identity. And clarify the text of your goddamn email. Right now the only thing more obscure than your identity is the meaning of your message.
In any event, I received such a response this morning. I was delighted, to be sure—a letter, a letter from the front! Said response, however, was from an email address I'd never seen before and said email address was a figure of speech with a distinctly penile connotation. Uneager to lose yet another reader, I refuse to disclose the address here. But I will make a plea: whoever you are, cockeuphemismofyourchoice@hotmail.gov, please reveal your identity. And clarify the text of your goddamn email. Right now the only thing more obscure than your identity is the meaning of your message.
Saturday, July 19, 2003
How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Chair
First, though, an aside: the Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) had better watch its ass. Under no circumstances, MTA, are you allowed to levy fare increases or mug or try to kill the people I care about. This is your only warning. Another offense? I'm coming down to handle this in person. And you don't want that.
And yeah, I got a new fucking chair. My sincere thanks to Tyler, as pictured in this photograph (which he prefers).
And yeah, I got a new fucking chair. My sincere thanks to Tyler, as pictured in this photograph (which he prefers).
Friday, July 18, 2003
James and the Giant...Seafaring Display of Feminine Sexuality
When I was in elementary school, I was one of the few children that didn't like Roald Dahl. I had learned to read at too young an age; I was jaded; and the novelty of reading had worn off by the time I turned seven or so. I was content to play sports and eat candy and ignore the other kids' discussions of Emile Durkheim and Isaiah Berlin.
Durkheim and Berlin, of course, were vehicles for discussing the various ethical and social mechanisms that appeared to motivate Dahl's fiction. As an example, take Danny, Champion of the World, or whatever that shit novel is called. As I remember it, the other boys and girls discussed the possibility of good parenting being necessarily against the law; the application of the ethical parent-child structure onto the construct of the municipality-citizen; the problem of retribution as one of action and one of motivation (particularly as it would function within a Chomskyan Body Politik). In reading Danny, Protagonist of the Worst Children's Novel You Can Buy, I saw none of this junk. I saw a man and a boy stealing chickens, breaking various limbs, doing poorly in school and eating lots of things that included both sausage and cheese. In my mind, Donny, Chessmaster of the Luton Juvenile Hall was too realistic to glorify such deviant behavior. Hey, kids! Go steal things and do poorly in school and eat lots of sausage and cheese, even though they don't go together, worse than orange juice and chocolate. Such virtues, I thought, were best left to fantasy—like Dahl's James and the Giant Peach.
Now, I never loved James and the Giant Peach. On occasion, I feigned love in the hopes of gaining social acceptance. But it was my favo(u)rite of Roald Dahl's books. I thought it was pleasant and nice and warm and funny and innocent. And it did, believe it or not, romanticize the notion of The Peach in my mind. The Peach became something beautiful and elegant and passionate, quite unlike Dahl's novel. But those salad days are over. You try indulging your newly acquired internet-mania and searching for "dirtypeaches" on Google and clicking on the second link. I swear, I've never thought of peaches sexually. But I do now. And—scarred—I blame Roald Dahl.
I should rename this site "Lecherous, alcoholic, British children's novelist is/are drunk off his ass and yours."
Also, if you read this bit of inscribable space, would you mind telling me? Six Degrees of Peaches Malloy.
Durkheim and Berlin, of course, were vehicles for discussing the various ethical and social mechanisms that appeared to motivate Dahl's fiction. As an example, take Danny, Champion of the World, or whatever that shit novel is called. As I remember it, the other boys and girls discussed the possibility of good parenting being necessarily against the law; the application of the ethical parent-child structure onto the construct of the municipality-citizen; the problem of retribution as one of action and one of motivation (particularly as it would function within a Chomskyan Body Politik). In reading Danny, Protagonist of the Worst Children's Novel You Can Buy, I saw none of this junk. I saw a man and a boy stealing chickens, breaking various limbs, doing poorly in school and eating lots of things that included both sausage and cheese. In my mind, Donny, Chessmaster of the Luton Juvenile Hall was too realistic to glorify such deviant behavior. Hey, kids! Go steal things and do poorly in school and eat lots of sausage and cheese, even though they don't go together, worse than orange juice and chocolate. Such virtues, I thought, were best left to fantasy—like Dahl's James and the Giant Peach.
Now, I never loved James and the Giant Peach. On occasion, I feigned love in the hopes of gaining social acceptance. But it was my favo(u)rite of Roald Dahl's books. I thought it was pleasant and nice and warm and funny and innocent. And it did, believe it or not, romanticize the notion of The Peach in my mind. The Peach became something beautiful and elegant and passionate, quite unlike Dahl's novel. But those salad days are over. You try indulging your newly acquired internet-mania and searching for "dirtypeaches" on Google and clicking on the second link. I swear, I've never thought of peaches sexually. But I do now. And—scarred—I blame Roald Dahl.
I should rename this site "Lecherous, alcoholic, British children's novelist is/are drunk off his ass and yours."
Also, if you read this bit of inscribable space, would you mind telling me? Six Degrees of Peaches Malloy.
Wednesday, July 16, 2003
The Virtues of Rice Wine
I really hate rice. It's bland and it's filling, sort of like seawater, sort of like him. I realize that billions of people live on almost rice alone; I feel so bad for them.
Knowing this, you could correctly assume that I grow uncomfortable when I see bags of rice. And so when I opened a package from Ben this morning I was, well, uncomfortable. In a box was a bag of basmati rice. But here I'll make the distinction between a bag of rice and rice bags. Because I received a rice bag filled with a bottle of vintage, tawny port. Ben, thank you.
I should add that I wasn't surprised to receive such paraphernalia from Mr Petrosky, who has a unique relationship to rice. There are stories—I'm Rice; I'm Couscous—but they're not mine to tell.
Knowing this, you could correctly assume that I grow uncomfortable when I see bags of rice. And so when I opened a package from Ben this morning I was, well, uncomfortable. In a box was a bag of basmati rice. But here I'll make the distinction between a bag of rice and rice bags. Because I received a rice bag filled with a bottle of vintage, tawny port. Ben, thank you.
I should add that I wasn't surprised to receive such paraphernalia from Mr Petrosky, who has a unique relationship to rice. There are stories—I'm Rice; I'm Couscous—but they're not mine to tell.
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
The Face of Garbleton
"Pfirsiche, it's sooo, like, MCM11 to excerpt Barthes."
"But I enjoy Barthes, you preachy, Virilio-sucking plutocrat."
"But he's sooo cliche, yes."
"Losersayswhat."
"Ce qui? Oooh, oooh—is that Badiou reading US Weekly?"
SNAP! Onward, Christian soldiers.
"Garbo," Barthes writes in "The Face of Garbo," "still belongs to that moment in cinema when capturing the human face still plunged audiences into the deepest ecstasy, when one literally lost oneself in a human image as one would in a philtre, when the face represented a kind of absolute state of the flesh..."(56 Mythologies)
I've never been lost in the folds of Garbo's Nordic aura. It's pretty, though. You have me there. However, I am drawn into the face of Jean Stapleton with some regularity. To be honest, I can't look at the Face of Stapleton without wanting to cry; there's something inexorably pathetic about her face, absolute in its way I suppose, that appeals to my inner housewife. Or my inner naive churchgoer, or doting mother, or murderously churchgoing and perhaps murderously doting housewife. And just as the Face of Garbo is perfectly suited to the cinematic image—still shots and soft lighting/soft lines emphasizing her ecstacy-inducing Swedish head—the Face of Stapleton is perfectly suited to television. In my mind, the face of Stapleton is too powerful in both its ethos and pathos to enjoy unmitigated representation, or at least representation as self-indulgent as we find in cinema. The Face of Stapleton requires constant tempering and interruption: Archie's mores, Rob Reiner's self-serving altruism, canned laughter, close shots that don't last longer than a glance. Edith's face necessitates perptual comic upstaging. After all, we don't want our audiences jumping to their deaths, do we? And we can't possibly acknowledge that such a tortured mixture of pathos and ethos is more than a peculiarity of the frame. Indeed, the Face of Stapleton is almost always on the camera's left—literally a fraction of what we perceive and relegated to a position where it is less likely to consume us whole. Yes, yes, fine: this is all nonsense. But I'm surprised you got this far.
For reference, Providence's UPN affiliate shows an hour of All in the Family every afternoon. I love the show, but truly: I can't often bear to watch.
"But I enjoy Barthes, you preachy, Virilio-sucking plutocrat."
"But he's sooo cliche, yes."
"Losersayswhat."
"Ce qui? Oooh, oooh—is that Badiou reading US Weekly?"
SNAP! Onward, Christian soldiers.
"Garbo," Barthes writes in "The Face of Garbo," "still belongs to that moment in cinema when capturing the human face still plunged audiences into the deepest ecstasy, when one literally lost oneself in a human image as one would in a philtre, when the face represented a kind of absolute state of the flesh..."(56 Mythologies)
I've never been lost in the folds of Garbo's Nordic aura. It's pretty, though. You have me there. However, I am drawn into the face of Jean Stapleton with some regularity. To be honest, I can't look at the Face of Stapleton without wanting to cry; there's something inexorably pathetic about her face, absolute in its way I suppose, that appeals to my inner housewife. Or my inner naive churchgoer, or doting mother, or murderously churchgoing and perhaps murderously doting housewife. And just as the Face of Garbo is perfectly suited to the cinematic image—still shots and soft lighting/soft lines emphasizing her ecstacy-inducing Swedish head—the Face of Stapleton is perfectly suited to television. In my mind, the face of Stapleton is too powerful in both its ethos and pathos to enjoy unmitigated representation, or at least representation as self-indulgent as we find in cinema. The Face of Stapleton requires constant tempering and interruption: Archie's mores, Rob Reiner's self-serving altruism, canned laughter, close shots that don't last longer than a glance. Edith's face necessitates perptual comic upstaging. After all, we don't want our audiences jumping to their deaths, do we? And we can't possibly acknowledge that such a tortured mixture of pathos and ethos is more than a peculiarity of the frame. Indeed, the Face of Stapleton is almost always on the camera's left—literally a fraction of what we perceive and relegated to a position where it is less likely to consume us whole. Yes, yes, fine: this is all nonsense. But I'm surprised you got this far.
For reference, Providence's UPN affiliate shows an hour of All in the Family every afternoon. I love the show, but truly: I can't often bear to watch.
Monday, July 14, 2003
Please sir, I'd like some whore.
"Whore" might be my favorite word. Etymologically it can't be beat; and given English's phonetic proclivities, it's particularly useful in puns. Don't get all wide-eyed; you've seen me do it twice:once above and once in my dispatch "Germ Whorefare." (Cf. previous peaches.) But don't get too impressed either. I certainly don't stand up to the Dorothy Parker challenge—absinthe and antifreeze in the skull of the author of "The Ballad of Reading Gaol" and the greatest answer to perhaps the greatest paronomastic problem ever posed.
Hmm. The tangents I take. Originally, I was going to compare whores and escorts, asking why anyone would choose an illegal prostitute over a legal one. But all this talk of Dorothy Parker is making me nostalgic. And all I can do is think of her face.
Hmm. The tangents I take. Originally, I was going to compare whores and escorts, asking why anyone would choose an illegal prostitute over a legal one. But all this talk of Dorothy Parker is making me nostalgic. And all I can do is think of her face.
Saturday, July 12, 2003
American Spastic
Well, if it's Men's Health it must be true: the muscle spasms, sciatic shooting pains and femoral atrophy are of "psychic" origin. Forget the x-rays that suggest the need for an MRI, or the diagnosis of extant (degenerative) osteoarthritis in my spine. It's all in my head? It's all in my head!" Yeah, in my dreams.
Otherwise, this dispatch is for one bayou-bound Victorian. From what I hear, the girl I call Vantastic is nursing a bruised digestive system. She's a girl for all seasons, she is—and if I'm lucky, she'll forgive the contradictory catachresis of Tudor and Victorian terms. But rather than write about her, which I could do for quite a while, I think I'm going to give her a call.
However, in a last ditch effort to avoid a sentimental or emotionally cloying dispatch, I present the first item on my Christmas wish-list. Earrings so stylish that you need a prescription to wear them.
Otherwise, this dispatch is for one bayou-bound Victorian. From what I hear, the girl I call Vantastic is nursing a bruised digestive system. She's a girl for all seasons, she is—and if I'm lucky, she'll forgive the contradictory catachresis of Tudor and Victorian terms. But rather than write about her, which I could do for quite a while, I think I'm going to give her a call.
However, in a last ditch effort to avoid a sentimental or emotionally cloying dispatch, I present the first item on my Christmas wish-list. Earrings so stylish that you need a prescription to wear them.
The Future Lasts Forever
I have to wonder: when is my back going to mend? Like the current administration's approval ratings, and perhaps George Tenet's self-esteem, my pain continues to fluctuate. If the cards are in my favor, I'll be seeing an orthopaedist this week—who, unlike my donkey of a chiropractor and well-meaning family and friends, will discuss curative rather than preventative measures. Not that I don't appreciate advice in the preventative vein; but this episode, so far as I can tell, is far from over. I'll worry about the future when the present is very much the past.
It's a shame I don't have a wife to kill.
But for making my day today, I do have one person whom I'd like to thank. A few weeks ago, my father got me a subscription to The Atlantic. My first issue arrived this afternoon; David Quammen's article on Nicolae Ceausescu's hunting habits elicited my first spontaneous smile in days. Dad, thank you.
It's a shame I don't have a wife to kill.
But for making my day today, I do have one person whom I'd like to thank. A few weeks ago, my father got me a subscription to The Atlantic. My first issue arrived this afternoon; David Quammen's article on Nicolae Ceausescu's hunting habits elicited my first spontaneous smile in days. Dad, thank you.
Thursday, July 10, 2003
Someone to Swatch over me
Enjoyed a few hours with Tyler this evening; we laughed; we didn't dance; but he did watch me drink and tell me a plan to stage farcical papal drama for Telemundo. Currently, there are two photographs of Tyler available online: there's the one he wanted me to use and there's the one I'm using.
Despite all that blond hair, and that what-do-you-mean-Santa's-dead face, Tyler did manage to put my mind in a vice tonight. Who'd a thunk he had a Timex that pays for gas and groceries? I now regret that earlier posting I did on internet-savvy Luddites. (Cf. "previous peaches.")
Despite all that blond hair, and that what-do-you-mean-Santa's-dead face, Tyler did manage to put my mind in a vice tonight. Who'd a thunk he had a Timex that pays for gas and groceries? I now regret that earlier posting I did on internet-savvy Luddites. (Cf. "previous peaches.")
"I think identity is an important part of who you are."
Like the title to this dispatch? I think it's charming—in the way I find charm in Lenny's "Huh huh, I like to pet the rabbit, George," and Shine's "Huh huh, whosealuckyboydaddyI'maluckyboydaddyha-a-a-a-ah." A student said this bit on identity about 8 hours into yesterday's 20 hour workday. The younger children were forced to work among the vertical looms, if only because their small limbs could fit between the strands. We were an army of armless mouths, eating every meal as if it were a pie-eating contest. God, why did I ever take that Slater Mill internship—
This afternoon I took a nap, though. Those of you who know me, Peaches "dirtypeaches" Malloy, know that I never take naps. But I was so deliriously tired that sleep itself seemed endlessly erotic, along with foot binding—the three inch white lotus. Oh, shut the hell up. You know I'm joking about the feet.
This afternoon I took a nap, though. Those of you who know me, Peaches "dirtypeaches" Malloy, know that I never take naps. But I was so deliriously tired that sleep itself seemed endlessly erotic, along with foot binding—the three inch white lotus. Oh, shut the hell up. You know I'm joking about the feet.
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
You have time to read this? I'm jealous.
It's been a few days since my last dispatch; I apologize. I'm in the middle of another 65hr work week. Each day: 4 hrs of teaching, 2 or 3 hours of planning (or 4 hours of conferences) and then about 10 hours of grading papers. To quote Uncle Howie, with his operatic Brooklyn accent: "Well, Jawsh, that's whoy they cawl it wirk."
It's 1am now; if I get to sleep by 5 I'm going to build God a playground. (I teach at 9.)
It's 1am now; if I get to sleep by 5 I'm going to build God a playground. (I teach at 9.)
Monday, July 07, 2003
Complexiglassworksofarthistoricalnarratavism
Today was a complex day. As, like, I told my guidance counselor in high school, I'm just really emotionally like complicated and I don't think anyone really understands me or my vision for the mural. Eh, like close enough.
For efficacy's sake, I'll itemize, which is itself a hegemonizing of various -izations. An aside: while teaching today, I noticed some lexical similarities between contemporary American critical theory and Snoop Dog. Spivak: problematize the colonized. Snoop: problematizize the cozolinized. After my article on revelatory ironies in Joyce and O'Connor, I plan on writing on Mystikal's allegorization of Zizek's fetishistic categorization of anti-contextualist hermeneutics. But I digress. The items of the day: now, in order.
1 Mild, perhaps, unimportant lumbar discomfort.
2 Teaching.
3 Mild to moderate lumbar discomfort.
4 Visit to chiropractor.
5 Moderate lumbar pain, though certainly not the worst I've have.
6 A trip to the mall.
7 Saw a Rocky Balboa figurine that resembled Gabriel Byrne. No link, because I think I hallucinated this one.
8 Sad, sad extended flirtation at Restoration Hardware. Clerk: very cute but very dumb. Customer: not cute, not even remotely, but oddly unwilling to settle.
And some other shit, including favors requested and requests retracted, gifts bought and parents bickered with. I'm tired of you, website. I need to grade papers...where's your God now?
For efficacy's sake, I'll itemize, which is itself a hegemonizing of various -izations. An aside: while teaching today, I noticed some lexical similarities between contemporary American critical theory and Snoop Dog. Spivak: problematize the colonized. Snoop: problematizize the cozolinized. After my article on revelatory ironies in Joyce and O'Connor, I plan on writing on Mystikal's allegorization of Zizek's fetishistic categorization of anti-contextualist hermeneutics. But I digress. The items of the day: now, in order.
1 Mild, perhaps, unimportant lumbar discomfort.
2 Teaching.
3 Mild to moderate lumbar discomfort.
4 Visit to chiropractor.
5 Moderate lumbar pain, though certainly not the worst I've have.
6 A trip to the mall.
7 Saw a Rocky Balboa figurine that resembled Gabriel Byrne. No link, because I think I hallucinated this one.
8 Sad, sad extended flirtation at Restoration Hardware. Clerk: very cute but very dumb. Customer: not cute, not even remotely, but oddly unwilling to settle.
And some other shit, including favors requested and requests retracted, gifts bought and parents bickered with. I'm tired of you, website. I need to grade papers...where's your God now?
You know he's losing it
So on 19 August, Artie and I are seeing Belle and Sebastian play at Prospect Park. Izzy might be joining us; and if I like you, you should come too.
Otherwise, I'm one foot out the door toward the doctor's office. I started teaching today—more on that some other time—and I started to feel the spasms in the last hour of instruction. You want learnin'? I'll learn you—I'll learn you real good. Go out back and cut me a switch as thick as my spine...
Otherwise, I'm one foot out the door toward the doctor's office. I started teaching today—more on that some other time—and I started to feel the spasms in the last hour of instruction. You want learnin'? I'll learn you—I'll learn you real good. Go out back and cut me a switch as thick as my spine...
Sunday, July 06, 2003
Ships that suck in the night
Professors Russom and Rooney, I, hence, disagree. Some sounds are inherently meaningful. Like "ick," "ack" and "Omigod, I went from having a lively night planned to being an alcoholic in a bar watching Fox." That last one is a single sound. Maybe a diphthong.
So originally, I was supposed to have dinner with A this evening. But she had to cancel, so then I was planning to meet B and C tonight for a drink. But B and C weren't answering the phone, so I left a message saying I'd be at the bar, grading papers until they arrived. On my way to the bar, I spoke to D, who's currently living quite far from here and who tonight was enjoying dinner and a movie with a friend from his new job. Happy for D, and missing him nonetheless, I entered the bar, where, as I said, I would grade papers until I saw or heard from B and C. At the bar, I ordered a pint of E, sat down and noticed that F(ox) was showing movie G tonight. I took out the paper of student H and, not one word into my first comment, my pen ran out of I. And, if you want to make the joke for me, it looks like I'm running out of J as well.
Otherwise, I have a link for you—one I should have posted a very long time ago. I present you, which to say me (because I'm the only one who reads this fucking thing), with JudyJudyJudy.
So originally, I was supposed to have dinner with A this evening. But she had to cancel, so then I was planning to meet B and C tonight for a drink. But B and C weren't answering the phone, so I left a message saying I'd be at the bar, grading papers until they arrived. On my way to the bar, I spoke to D, who's currently living quite far from here and who tonight was enjoying dinner and a movie with a friend from his new job. Happy for D, and missing him nonetheless, I entered the bar, where, as I said, I would grade papers until I saw or heard from B and C. At the bar, I ordered a pint of E, sat down and noticed that F(ox) was showing movie G tonight. I took out the paper of student H and, not one word into my first comment, my pen ran out of I. And, if you want to make the joke for me, it looks like I'm running out of J as well.
Otherwise, I have a link for you—one I should have posted a very long time ago. I present you, which to say me (because I'm the only one who reads this fucking thing), with JudyJudyJudy.
You Can Count on Me
I think I've finally gotten my web counter working. Fuck my luck, I'm pathetic—next thing you know I'll be checking Apple for updates on the aluminum 15" powerbook, going through Friendster withdrawal and seriously considering the possibility of internet dating. Uh, yeah. About that.
In any event, I saw Nathalie do this once, so I'll try it now. Come on Google, Daddy needs...some attention from strangers.
adenosine triphosphate;
Movado wrist watches;
gravlax;
Louis Althusser;
pick-up lines;
lindane toxicity;
Aqua Velva;
card counting;
Jews with horns;
umbrellas and all things good come rain.
In any event, I saw Nathalie do this once, so I'll try it now. Come on Google, Daddy needs...some attention from strangers.
adenosine triphosphate;
Movado wrist watches;
gravlax;
Louis Althusser;
pick-up lines;
lindane toxicity;
Aqua Velva;
card counting;
Jews with horns;
umbrellas and all things good come rain.
"Don't get your hopes up, girl. He's homotextual."
The only thing on television right now is Star Trek: First Contact. And that's why this post is on books.
Like Drew Barrymore, I'm usually reading several things at once. And like Ms Barrymore, I assume, I don't usually finish a given work—novels aside. But then again, I don't read too many novels in my spare time. Given my fragmented/ing reading habits, I find that non-fiction is much better at my bedside. I'm also guilty of textual discrimination: there are those texts I read and those that I read. Below is my table-top; can you sort the goats from the sheep?
Plato's Ion and Phaedrus, duly and dutifully translated by Benjamin Jowett.
Andres Gide's Strait is the Gate, which Joel recommended and which I'm enjoying so far.
William Gaddis' The Recognitions, which is slow slow going but maybe the best novel I've read since Naipaul's A House for Mr Biswas.
Ian Littlewood's Sultry Climates: Travel and Sex—more about "erotica" than I would have liked, but still entertaining and intelligent.
The Merck Manual; like most neuroses, hypochondria requires constant watering and attention.
And don't even ask me about Marxist philosophy and medical ethics—which is to say, my current teaching load.
Like Drew Barrymore, I'm usually reading several things at once. And like Ms Barrymore, I assume, I don't usually finish a given work—novels aside. But then again, I don't read too many novels in my spare time. Given my fragmented/ing reading habits, I find that non-fiction is much better at my bedside. I'm also guilty of textual discrimination: there are those texts I read and those that I read. Below is my table-top; can you sort the goats from the sheep?
Plato's Ion and Phaedrus, duly and dutifully translated by Benjamin Jowett.
Andres Gide's Strait is the Gate, which Joel recommended and which I'm enjoying so far.
William Gaddis' The Recognitions, which is slow slow going but maybe the best novel I've read since Naipaul's A House for Mr Biswas.
Ian Littlewood's Sultry Climates: Travel and Sex—more about "erotica" than I would have liked, but still entertaining and intelligent.
The Merck Manual; like most neuroses, hypochondria requires constant watering and attention.
And don't even ask me about Marxist philosophy and medical ethics—which is to say, my current teaching load.
Saturday, July 05, 2003
Fade to Back
My sister left this afternoon. I'm sad to see her go: we ate lots; she gave me a wonderful birthday gift; she helped me try to hang a picture on the wall. Huh? Huh. And contrary to what she/you may think, I had a great time despite mounting evidence that...
...my back is again outward bound. Unfortunately, I had a Hoegaarden with lunch, so the soonest I can take Relafen or Valium is tomorrow morning. But unless the pain gets much worse, I think I'm going leave those vials unopened. I don't enjoy teaching while coked to the gills, particularly as I'm not teaching O'Neill.
NS: ...I wear a vial of your filthy bathwater around my neck...
...my back is again outward bound. Unfortunately, I had a Hoegaarden with lunch, so the soonest I can take Relafen or Valium is tomorrow morning. But unless the pain gets much worse, I think I'm going leave those vials unopened. I don't enjoy teaching while coked to the gills, particularly as I'm not teaching O'Neill.
NS: ...I wear a vial of your filthy bathwater around my neck...
Thursday, July 03, 2003
Scent and Sentimentality
Yesterday, despite its shitty beginnings, turned out nicely. Thanks to Nathalie and Joel, for their voices and their time.
God, if I weren't so me, I'd be getting sentimental. You'd be able to smell the emotional agon. I can't let this emulate the scenes cut from "Welcome to the Dollhouse."
Director Todd Solondz's note to ugly leading girl: Your, uh, this thing's got to go. When did this film become about you? And why do you write about having friends instead of doing stuff with them? Go chew on a football and jump on or in front of the first train that passes, you waste of my SAG medical benefits.
Ick, I'm getting mean. I wish I had more material; of course, if I said that to anyone in my family, they'd tell me that calico is going to be four fifty a yard at Morris', you know, right next to the glatt butcher and just across from where Sadie's doctor—her tumor, he removed.
God, if I weren't so me, I'd be getting sentimental. You'd be able to smell the emotional agon. I can't let this emulate the scenes cut from "Welcome to the Dollhouse."
Director Todd Solondz's note to ugly leading girl: Your, uh, this thing's got to go. When did this film become about you? And why do you write about having friends instead of doing stuff with them? Go chew on a football and jump on or in front of the first train that passes, you waste of my SAG medical benefits.
Ick, I'm getting mean. I wish I had more material; of course, if I said that to anyone in my family, they'd tell me that calico is going to be four fifty a yard at Morris', you know, right next to the glatt butcher and just across from where Sadie's doctor—her tumor, he removed.
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
He has his eye on the sparrow
A bird just shit in my hair and on the back of my neck. Not much shit, but enough. Enough.
Weighting for Godot
So while it still hurts, I think my back is now "in." But after 10 days of complete inactivity, I've gained six pounds; I've acquired the equivalent of a foetus.
Then let's hear it in chorus, mes anges: ABORT! ABORT! ABORT!
...but aye, there's the rub: with my skanky Girl Scout of a chiropractor telling me to avoid physical activity for the next month, how do I go about this? Short of a coat hanger designed by Slim Fast, I'm looking for suggestions.
Then let's hear it in chorus, mes anges: ABORT! ABORT! ABORT!
...but aye, there's the rub: with my skanky Girl Scout of a chiropractor telling me to avoid physical activity for the next month, how do I go about this? Short of a coat hanger designed by Slim Fast, I'm looking for suggestions.
Tuesday, July 01, 2003
Germ Whorefare
I'm tired of reading articles on anti-bacterial soap. It does good things and it does bad things; we all know this. And rather than bicker over staph resistance, it seems that we soap users should focus on more important things—like people who don't use soap at all.
However, and this comes from a boy who likes a little cavicidal excitement in his washroom, something does need to be done about how soap is marketed. To be specific: the three dimensional, anatomically correct panda floating in my bottle of Softsoap is suspended in the act of washing his own armpit. Are we to assume that the panda is washing his armpit with handsoap? Is he using his handsoaped armpit to scrub and sanitize his paw? At this point, I think it's a miracle our kids can read at all.
However, and this comes from a boy who likes a little cavicidal excitement in his washroom, something does need to be done about how soap is marketed. To be specific: the three dimensional, anatomically correct panda floating in my bottle of Softsoap is suspended in the act of washing his own armpit. Are we to assume that the panda is washing his armpit with handsoap? Is he using his handsoaped armpit to scrub and sanitize his paw? At this point, I think it's a miracle our kids can read at all.
Sabotage is a lost art
Foucault and Laporte saw them coming: internet savvy Luddites. "Dude, after I graduate from Wharton and grab a few million in options by the time I'm 30, I'm gonna take the system down from the inside."
Crazy...like a Fox
I think it's at the end of "Clear and Present Danger," a Harrison Ford vehicle if I've ever rented one. Something like "Come on Jack, every hear of the old Potomac two-step?" "I'm sorry, Mr President. I don't dance."
So it's one step forward, two steps back. Or one step forward, two steps back and then another two steps back just in case the plebes remember that they're living under martial law. Fox News, in a temporary fit of journalistic integrity, covered this week's soft shoe pretty well: Bill "I hate fags" Frist proves that he's a sore loser and that he still hates fags. Way to reduce the Constitution to a solely repressive apparatus, you senatorial fuckhead.
So it's one step forward, two steps back. Or one step forward, two steps back and then another two steps back just in case the plebes remember that they're living under martial law. Fox News, in a temporary fit of journalistic integrity, covered this week's soft shoe pretty well: Bill "I hate fags" Frist proves that he's a sore loser and that he still hates fags. Way to reduce the Constitution to a solely repressive apparatus, you senatorial fuckhead.
