I'LL BLOG WHEN I DAMN WELL FEEL LIKE IT

. . . and now I feel like it.

Since my last entry, so many fun links have come and gone, but I'll do my best to make this as entertaining as possible for the five or so people who may actually read it.

THIS is perhaps the best video/song ever made. Mj made me aware of it and since then, my life has been forever altered. The lyrics are profound; the special effects, spectacular. I just . . . I don't even know what to say . . . I am envious of his talent? I wish he and I were friends?

Apparently Maine passed a ban that prohibits smoking in cars when children are present. As a smoker, I think that is a completely righteous law. I always find it disturbing/gross when people smoke around children . . . freaks me out a little. Reason #4,562,981 why I should not have children (especially in Maine): I would be tempted to do THIS.

Speaking of children, I will be an auntie any day now. This is tremendously exciting and I have promised my sister-in-law that I will commence my niece's training for the National Spelling Bee within hours after her birth. My own National Spelling Bee hopes were dashed circa 1985, when after making it to the regionals, I came face to face with the word, "Fernbrake." A simple word, yes. But not so simple when you consider the definition. I can't . . . I can't talk about it. Nevertheless, being an aunt will give me the opportunity to live out my dreams vicariously. Let's just hope things don't turn out like THIS.

Now for some text message poetry; crafted from unaltered text messages I have received. I have only taken creative liberties by giving each one a title:

SOME DUDE

I've got some dude
sitting next to me
eating a hamburger and fries
and some other dude
eating pizza. Oh, P.S.
I'm on the train.

DO YOU THINK?

Do you think
it would be unprofessional
if I brought my laptop
into the bathroom and
did my work under
the automatic hand dryer?
It is
so cold
in here.

BABY

Baby, come
come talk to your friend
and hit things. You will
feel better.

REALIZE

I realize that you are
already enjoying a life
of poverty and chastity,
but I think Mr. Pope
might frown upon
the major themes
of your writing.

ON POSTMODERNISM

It's postmodern
if you say it while in make-up.
I'm pretty sure
he was.

THE CAB

In the cab.
All I could understand
in your message were the words
"laundry,"
"retarded," and
"Old Style."

WHERE YOU ARE

where you at,
homo?

HOW DID YOU KNOW?

How did you know
I have a Democrat foot fetish?
Did you find
that pair of
Ruth Bader Ginsberg's shoes
I bought
off eBay?

FOOTNOTES

Footnotes and I
are no longer
on speaking terms.

RABBIT PUNCH

Rabbit Punch
needs to lay
off the sauce.
Turning into
Billy Joel.

WHY?

Why
are their multiple photos
of the Republican
Gubenatorial candidate
on my desktop?

NORMAL PERSON

Why don't you load
my hard drive
with porn like
a normal person?


And in closing, I love THIS song. Only because I seem to quote the lyric "letters make words and sentences make paragraphs" in one form or another, at least twice a week. Oh college students! Not nearly as advanced as one might think . . .

Holy smokes! I haven’t blogged in a while! Truth be told, I was never going to blog again (but no harm, no foul – right?). Truth be further told, I haven’t had a moment to fritter away blogging. I’ve been hoarding my short bursts of free time, doing things like writing with a capital “w” and socializing and looking at art and making art.

Nevertheless, a miracle has occurred. I have a free moment and am too tired to do any of the aforementioned things and t.v. doesn’t amuse me these days (unless it’s “Check Please!”– fucking love that show). So here we are. Well, blog . . . this is awkward. This feels like when I was a kid and forgot to write in my diary for long stretches and then would frantically try to recount everything that had happened in the missing month . . . Speaking of which, my brother recently, during a visit to my parents’, found a diary I kept at the age of five. The diary was great – mostly filled by my attempts at spelling my own name and a retelling of a zoo visit where I wrote, “I saw a snack and ran away.” (A “snake” – kids don’t run away from “snacks.”)

Basically living at ef’s as I get my life back together post-grad school. She lets me live here rent free – but I do have to do things like give her cats medicine, and clean up after myself . . . you know, that shit. I’ve started referring to her apartment as “my place” – which is unhealthy. Occasionally, I move around the apartment and accurately identify things “ef’s COUCH,” “ef’s CHAIR,” “ef’s Netflix queue” – as a sort of reality check.

Speaking of reality checks . . . being a professor (while I quite enjoy it – especially the part where the students call me “professor”) is hard work. I thought my three-day-work-week would be that – but in fact, it’s a seven-day-work-week. An old prof of mine (whom I see, as I have a professor-ly gig at my alma mater) recently informed me that the profession will “take over your life if you let it.” Yeah. True. In the last three days, I’ve all but slept with Aldous Huxley (that’s how intimately I know him). I have become an authority on subject-verb agreement. I should be awarded an honorary doctorate in semicolons and, hot damn, I can quote motherfucking Plato. My “days off”? I research, read extensively and plan activities that might – just MIGHT -- make the students think in complex sentence form. For the most part, I’ve lucked out. My students (both in Wisco and Chi-Town) are super smart and engaged and engaging – but there is the occasional hiccup in our pursuit of wisdom and understanding. For instance, the day I explained Karl Marx’s theory of religion as “opiate of the masses” I had a student raise her hand (raise. her. hand.) to respond: “Uh, yeah. Well, I think this Marx guy is a total retard.” Agree to disagree. ‘Nuf said. Guess someone will be getting a big fat “C” for Thanksgiving! (I’m kidding – sort of.)

I eloquently told the student that when she introduces a term such as “retard” into the discussion “the level of discourse takes a nosedive.”

Speaking of “discourse taking a nosedive” (I’m all over the place – see what my profession, marvy though it is, has done to me?) This Mark Foley shit? Well, I think Wanda Sykes and Mark Acito (click “listen”) put it best.

Also, while I am hesitant to post this on my blog (as I will be ridding the item of its “coolness”) I am buying myself THIS. Love it. Love it. Love it.

George Harrison is conducive to syllabus building. I've spent the past 5 hours writing up lectures and lesson plans for both my Wisco and city jobs -- all the while listening to (over and over and over) a George Harrison mix dm made me a number of years ago. I re-discovered the mix while thoroughly cleaning my car out on Sunday. (The interior of my car, as many can attest to, was a microcosmic post-apocalypse wasteland.)

Sunday, after cleaning my car, I read and heavily annotated Plato's "Apology." After I finished "Apology" (which I read once many years ago) I actually exclaimed, "God that was good!" It was good. I found it arduous and boring when I was nineteen, but at thirty -- exhilarating. Ah, the joys of age. If everything I found boring at nineteen is that exciting now, hell, I need to re-read/re-watch/re-do/re-listen to a lot of stuff . . . Anyone have a copy of Crime and Punishment? Life of Brian? A time machine so I can attend Thanksgiving dinner in 1995? Paula Cole's debut album?

Started teaching at my city job last night. My students are great. Earnest and shy. But . . . um . . .the neighborhood . . .yeah. Gonna need some mace. On the "first day survey" I prepared for my students, many of them listed "moving out of the neighborhood" as their motivation to attend college. Can't see why. I mean, if you can disregard the empty lots, post-8:30 p.m. gunfire and small roving bands of dogs, it's a perfectly nice neighborhood.

Fortunately, I work the "night shift" with a few other grad school comrades.

It's no coincidence that our boss sent only those of us with cars to this particular campus. I now regret mentioning that I have a car. If I continue work for this institution, I can guarantee I "won't have a car" come spring semester . . . even if I do have a car, I won't.

The way the City of Chicago neglects its neighborhoods is an abomination. Really. The city could afford millions and millions to build a fancy/futuristic park in The Loop. The city could afford to introduce a bill banning foie gras, but the city can't be bothered to take care of their disenfranchised residents. It is shameful.

On this topic, there are two Links of the Day.

One is for a priority Chicago project (recently completed): THIS

The other is for a Chicago neighborhood I taught in last year: THIS.

I meant to rant about this in my last entry but forgot. So here goes . . .

Okay, I don't care what sort of so-called "shocking" tactics Madonna employs in order to gain attention -- she can make out with Brittany Spears, she can hump a goat, she can even crucify herself, makes no difference to me. But the latter, I must say, is the most desperate and desperately cliche bit of "performance" the hanger-on has yet to exploit. Um, "crucifying yourself"? Whoa! Madonna! You're so innovative! I mean, in spite of the fact that artists long ago did things like this and this. (The later is one of the more questionable student works in my alma mater's history.)

Or maybe your cleverness lies in its lack of new-ness. Maybe I should start wearing Doc Martens and flannel shirts again and listening to Nirvana all the time in an attempt to try and alarm my parents the same way it alarmed them in 1993 . . . hmm. Madonna, you might be on to something -- but you're not clever enough to figure it out.

Frankly, my dear, you're embarassing yourself . . . and those of us who in the 1980s begged our Catholic parents to let us listen to your then "scandalous" albums.

Your crucifixion thing is no more than a bit of opaque, adolecent "sadness poetry." Time to grow up, sweetie.

Why don't you devote yourself to your career as a rap artist -- wait, no. Um, how about Kaballah? Practicing your British accent? Writing children's books? You could make out with Lindsay Lohan (I hear she's a budding musician). Or you could . . . um, wait . . . remind me again, why are you famous?

ef returned from her travels yesterday -- which means I am once again relegated to the garage, but only for a short while. My city classes begin on Monday. I've been cramming all week in preparation, brushing up on rules of grammar, making note of easily forgotten "advice" I would like to impart, making certain I have thoroughly read all the texts my students will have to read. (In addition, I've been painstakingly preparing lectures for my other job in Wisco and in doing so have learned quite a bit myself.) I'm full of trepidation but know from past experience that once I'm in the classroom, I'll be "back in black."

I picked ef from the airport yesterday (or, rather this morning) at 1:40 a.m.. I had a hell of a time finding the international terminals and as I was circling O'Hare, chain-smoking to keep myself awake, recieved a text message from ef that read "the department of homo security says I can't use my cell phone now." And in my sleepy, semi-lost state irrationally (albeit passively) directed my anger at The Department of Homeland Security -- believing that they were somehow responsible for my not being able to find "Terminal 5." Paranoid bastard jerk-offs, is what I think I called "them" from the confines of my car as I entered the wrong roundabout, once again.

In terms of employment, I had much luck while staying at ef's apartment. Luck that ef attributed to San Simon. She even brought me a little wooden San Simon from Guatemala. He is fully pose-able and came with candles -- each a different color -- each color bears significance and is to be burnt depending on what it is you "want" from Mr. Simon. Fortunately, I want a great many things.

In light of the fact that I'm tired and have nothing terribly exciting to blog about, here is some Text Message Poetry (Part Deux):

WHY

why did I
eat so much chocolate and
where are you?

FUN

it was fun
i barfed
whoa
nelly

ON CHANGE *

change of plans for tonight
we're going to see
Oingo Boingo
with Rodney Dangerfield and
the guy from Christine
instead

* references the film, Back To School in which Sally Kellerman brutally murders every ounce of eroticism in the final passage of Joyce's Ulysses by suggestively reading said passage to Rodney Dangerfield.

In the spirit of retrospectives (of sorts), the Link of the Day was once featured on the late, great "Unbearable Lameness of Being" blog and one of my favorite internet clips (only because I so identify with this man and his sitting-in-the-trailer existential crisis): THIS.

I’m bored. Thought I’d blog.

I spent the vast majority of the day searching (unsuccessfully) for my birth certificate. This search merely confirmed something I’d long suspected: I never WAS born. All those angsty teenage years spent in my bedroom, listening to “I Am a Rock” (more like, “I Am a Nerd”) over and over while smoking weed out of a crude, aluminum foil pipe (“pleased to make your acquaintance, Alzheimer’s”) wishing I’d never been born – well, guess what . . .?

Frustrated, I returned to ef’s and resumed work on two stories I’ve been screwing with for a while. The most progress made was in my decision to, in one of the stories, change the name of an ill-fated goldfish from “Z-Man” to “Ed McMahon.”

Last night, I attempted to watch The Fog of War but apparently, as ef pointed out, that’s a movie I need to watch midday with a cup of coffee and a legal pad for note taking rather than late at night with a beer and a slice of pizza. Um, what’s that, Robert McNamara? “Complicated, complicated Vietnam War complicated, complicated”? I don’t quite follow . . .

I will attempt it again sometime, when it is daytime and I am fully sober.

Still completely obsessed with The Knife and I think I am therefore going to have to do something I haven’t done in a long while: buy an album. I haven’t been this excited about a band since I was a teenager (I did listen to things other than Simon & Garfunkle).

That said, Link of the Day (great song, super creepy video): THIS.

So many books, so little time. I recently finished reading Brave New World for the second time in my life. I’ll have to teach the novel in the fall and forgot how much I liked the book. While it didn’t freak me out the way it freaked me out as a teenager, I was astonished by its lasting relevance and for that reason am looking forward to discussing it with my students.

Thursday night, I was lying in bed reading BNW and fell asleep. I woke up early the next morning – I had to go over to the city college (my other teaching job) and fill out some paperwork. Only, I couldn’t find my glasses. Without the aide of glasses, I am blind. Without glasses, I cannot do the following things: drive, navigate a room (without knocking into things), read, make coffee, apply makeup, recognize faces unless they are within an inch of my own . . . this is a short list illustrating the extent of my handicap. I need glasses. I am blind. Needless to say, I began having a nervous breakdown that was not assuaged by the discovery of my glasses – they were in bed with me, one lens missing, one wire broken.

Anyone who reads this blog or who talks to me on a semi-regular basis is well aware of my penchant for using the “f-word.” Well, the stream of four lettered words that came out of my mouth that morning was truly amazing. I came up with some real inventive curse words – some so vulgar I embarrassed myself. (Also, I am given to fits of over-reacting – always have been.)

Fortunately, during my meltdown, I had clarity enough to remember that I have been keeping a spare pair of contact lenses in my wallet. (I mean, where else does a person keep contact lenses but in their wallet?) I will never again question my decisions in the placement of things – I won’t judge myself for keeping a fork in my purse or for having dice in the pocket of my winter coat or for having (no less) than twenty empty water bottles in my car. One never knows when these things might come in handy.

I did get my glasses fixed. I love them all the more now. And that was the most boring story ever. But someday I might be glad it’s on this blog. Someday when I’m in need of a really pointless, boring story – I’ll be glad I posted this.

Link of the Day: THIS.

Hosted a going away party for dv last night. It was actually a lot of fun – until the end of the night when I started bawling . . . but I felt that coming. I absolutely adore dv and were it not for her, I doubt I would have survived some of grad schools more intense academic (and social) drama. So many great memories with dv, my partner in crime and one of the best friends I’ve yet had.

One of the highlights of the evening came when I busted out some old poetry (from ten years ago) my old English Prof passed on to me during my interview. Nb chose one of the poems and began to read it aloud, using a highly affected, old-school, theatrical voice – kind of a cross between (the late, great) Kate Hepburn and (the late, great) Alistaire Cooke. It was hysterical and though I’d already had some wine, it wasn’t enough to numb the mortification . . . Our favorite lines were: “he could be anyone – instead he’s a carpenter,/ten years too old for me.” To which, dv remarked “What would that be? Eighty?” (I tend to likes the well-ripened types.) A series of wise cracks about the poem were made long into the evening – many regarding said lines. Aj said something like, “It could have worked out – if only he hadn’t gone to trade school.” I fucking love my friends. One of the things I thought last night was how truly blessed I am to be surrounded by other intelligent artists and writers – marvelous and marvelously gifted people.

These days everything seems to be coming into focus. Things in the world seem to hold greater significance than they ever did before. Oh, the powerful and transitive force that is change.

Anyway, moving away from the sap, I’m planning to drink down some of the beer arsenal left over from yesterday (we artisans like our drink – and we supply it in great abundance) and watch The Forty Year Old Virgin – a film I started watching back in January but never finished because the person I was watching it with was not interested in watching a movie.

I’m currently obsessed with a song by a band I recently discovered called The Knife. The song is called “Like A Pen.” It is fucking amazing – dark, lyrically strong, inexplicably hot. The Knife is a brother and sister duo out of Sweden – unlike Swedish musical gems such as Abba, Junior Senior and Mando Diao – The Knife actually speak English and have a good command of the language.

Another song by The Knife and a kick ass video is the Link of the Day: THIS.