Wait, wait.... nope. Still not a genius.

Now it's cold. Sixty to zero in two days. Okay, so I just wanted to invert that phrase. It's not zero. It's actually thirteen. But that's pretty damn close. Plus, I live on the Ameri-tarded measuring system, so thirty-two is my zero. The point is, it's cold. And I made an important discovery, which is that my coat stops being effective somewhere between thirty and thirteen degrees. Which means I need a new coat. A Wisconsin coat. Anybody know where I can buy parkas that aren't ugly?

It was sixty degrees over Thanksgiving weekend. We went for walks every day. We visited the arboretum. I mean, everything was brown and crunchy, but at least I was outdoors without wishing I were dead. And speaking of brown and crunchy, I have to say that Madison in the winter is disappointingly drab. Aside from the older neighborhood streets--which is thankfully where I live--the architecture here would make an incredible case study in why not to build an entire city in the 1970s. The spirit of Madison seems to bubble up over the boxy prison-buildings, and there are parks and trees everywhere, people with dogs, the lake full of sailboats, sidewalk cafes.... oh, wait, all of that is only in the summer. Now the trees are bare and hide nothing; the lake is gray and empty; all the people shuttle by in puffy coats and fuzzy hats*; and sidewalk life, dog walking, and lingering conversations in the street have given way to an intense desire to be indoors NOW. So now I can see the buildings. And they're ugly.

*Why, oh why, didn't I buy a fuzzy Russian hat while I was in Moscow?

I still like Madison. She's my dog.

So this was the first time I hosted a holiday. My mom came here and slept in my guest bedroom. She offered to help me with my dishes. I took her on fun little outings and excursions. I thought it would make me feel old, but it didn't. It made me feel like my mom was old. It made me think of us hosting my grandmother for holidays--she'd fly in by herself, shuffling through airport security and take up awkward space in our house for a few days, seem sort of small and disconnected. My mom does none of those things. She's active and fit, energetic, and young. Still in her 40s. But it made me see her set apart from our home, adrift like my grandmother. It changed the way I saw our dynamic, and that made me see her as old, as less attached to a set of symbolic anchors, somehow drifting apart. I don't know. I guess I can't explain it. It seems like something DeLillo would explain perfectly (I'm reading White Noise right now, which incidentally is incredible).

As if my mother sensed that I passed an entire weekend without feeling old, she sent me the link to a story about a child music prodigy. And within four seconds I went from feeling like a reasonably self-assured twenty-something who's pretty cool and has a whole adult life with which to do great things... to feeling like a giant dried-up waste of good organs. Then I stopped making it about me and decided that this kid (Jay Greenberg) is pretty damn cool. He's 14 and hears entire symphonies in his head, just like Mozart did, which is... absurd and phenomenal. He could name instruments before being taught to and could write symphonies without knowing how to play any of the instruments. He goes to high school and Julliard at the same time. He's being called the first real musical genius in a couple hundred years. I read a bunch of articles and watched the 60 minutes special on him, and the one thing I wondered about, which no one brought up... are his pieces any good? Or is that a stupid question? Okay, he has an almost supernatural ability to hear and write music. That's so astonishing as to defy language. But is that kind of genius necessarily accompanied by creative genius as well? Is it possible to have a Mozart-like genius for musical comprehension but to hear and record derivative drivel? Or is this kind of prodigy-level of fluency all by itself the measure of "good"?

I am consumed with the hope that this kid is the real deal. I'm really fascinated by this stuff, because I don't understand what it is. I mean, seriously. Explain it to me. Is it a genetic mutation? Is this the beginning of the wimpiest X-Men ever? There isn't even a musical history in this kid's family, and he hears symphonies. I've often wondered if the age of the classical prodigy is over, now that we give that kind of music so little cultural space, and kids rarely grow up exposed to it in the same way they used to. But the idea that without any exposure this kid knew how to write symphonies suggests something very elemental about that kind of music. I've feared sometimes that we've murdered our modern-day geniuses in the crib with Jessica Simpson and flourescent lighting. So what's the explanation? We all have talents, that's what makes us different. But this kid is abnormal. Is it mutant DNA? Reincarnation? Growing up on a nuclear test site? Honestly. Let's talk about this. I don't know what the answer is, but I think it's pretty cool.

Feel like crap now? Me, too. So if you'd like to see something at which I achieve brilliant levels of mediocrity, check out my latest book review in the City Paper.

I will post pictures of my apartment next time.

And for an update: I am still burping a lot. Like all the time.

Excuse me for one second, I need to whine.

It is currently 39 degrees and raining, which is probably the worst weather I can imagine. You might say, "How about 33 degrees and raining?" But the closer you come to freezing, the more likely it is that what you actually have is a wintry mix, which, while horrendous, accompanies the possibility that school might close or that it might turn to snow. No, 39 and raining is the worst.

And I must point out that it was simply 39 and cloudy when I left my office 20 minutes ago to walk to the library. A block from my destination, when it was stupid to stop, take off my backpack, and dig out my umbrella, God poked a hole in his waterbed. In an absurdly short amount of time, my jeans were soaked. You know how that is. When you're walking in the rain, for some reason, your thighs take the worst of it. Which is so awesome, because that also happens to be where your pants are the tightest, thus not only clinging inescapably to your skin but also drying incredibly slowly!

And you know the only way to really deal with a situation like this is to take off your pants and put on something so amazingly dry that you do a little dance inside your warm, dry pants. But here I am, all settled into the library for a day of studying, with wet, cold, clingy jeans. Oh, and it's not raining anymore.

I'm taking my pants off.

Also... in other absurd news, Jada Pinkett Smith has a metal band?

Study study study.

My subconscious is a HUGE DORK.

So I had this dream.

In which Samuel Taylor Coleridge and John Keats were engaged in a kind of vicious rivalry. Yes, that's right: a poet-rivalry. And one evening, by chance, they found themselves in the same tavern. And again by chance, a bar fight broke out. Keats was right in the thick of things, and when shit got heavy, he ended up killing a man. Well, Coleridge was hanging out on the sidelines, and he captured the moment of the murder... with a daguerreotype. And later had a crisis of conscience about whether to publish the daguerreotype in a periodical. He wanted to, because it would bring down Keats, but he didn't want to be vindictive.

Nevermind that the daguerreotype antedates Coleridge's death by 6 years and Keats' by 19.
Nevermind that you couldn't really print daguerreotypes in newspapers.
Nevermind that the daguerreotype took several seconds to expose and thus could not freeze-frame a murder in a tavern.

I think the thing to focus on here is how AWESOME my subconscious is.

On flakes, Fergie, and faith

It snowed again. It was only an inch and a half. But it was real snow. And it's still out there. I looked on weather.com to see how things were going in good old Maryland, and it's in the 60s this week. So maybe the weather is making me grumpy. But I'm pretty sure not even in New Zealand on a crystal beach could I abide the new Fergie song. Non sequitur? Whatever.

I had some trouble with the Black Eyed Peas signing on what was obviously not much more than a pair of tits. I had a bigger problem when they released a song containing the line, "my lovely lady lumps." I blamed Fergie. Now I'm sure. She is in fact incarnated evil in the form of bouncy fleshy merchandising. WHAT THE HELL DOES THIS MEAN:

"How come every time you come around, my London, London bridge wanna go down?"

IT DOESN'T. MAKE. ANY. SENSE. It's a children's rhyme morphed into some bizarre meaningless sexual allusion. I mean, I went there with Beyonce when she called it 'jelly.' I even went there with Ciara when she called it a 'milkshake.' But a giant iconic piece of architecture? Which part of you, Fergie, is like a bridge? What does it mean for that to collapse? Just because you gyrate and bite your lip at the camera does not mean that you can turn any combination of words into a sexual reference. AGHHH. But I'm getting worked up at the wrong person. She's clearly just a pair of tits. Some jackass in a suit wrote this song. In about five minutes before the staff meeting. And a group of suits said, "GENIUS!"

I'm not naive. I know that for years and years now we have stopped demanding quality in music. But are we really at the point where nonsensical crap isn't even something we can identify? Okay, a lot of great music doesn't make sense. But this isn't great music. In fact, I'm pretty sure that not only does the chorus not make sense, but the verses are a complete rip-off of "Tipsy" by J-Kwon. So we're stealing, and not even from a good store. Son of a bitch, Fergie. (Though I have to admit to kind of liking the J-Kwon song. See, I'm not a total music snob.)

Also, the new Outback Steakhouse commercial features a cover of "Wraith Pinned to the Mist (And Other Games)" by Of Montreal. The cover goes, "Let's go Outback tonight / Life will still be there tomorrow." Instead of "Let's pretend we don't exist / Let's pretend we're in Antarctica." I think the guys at Pitchfork said it best: something along the lines of, "who hears bouyant Elephant 6 indie pop and thinks, 'STEAKS!!'" I don't know what I think of it yet. Just that it's bizarre. Most people I know have never heard of Of Montreal. And then I was sitting on my couch watching TV and there they were on an Outback Steakhouse commercial. I can't decide if they're sellouts or if they just think that's kind of ironic.

____________________


Moving on from pop music. A Jehovah's witness came to my door last week.

ME: (opening door)
HIM: Hi, I'm spreading the word of the Gospel.
ME: Oh. Thanks, I'm not interested. (shutting the door)
HIM: (shouting through the door): HE'S COMING!!!

Yes he is. And he is the police.

I think it's one of Kevin's teachers who invites Jehovah's witnesses in, acts interested, and then says, "Wait, only 144,000 of us are going to be saved? What if I'm taking your place? What if I'm bumping you out of heaven?" Seriously. Why do they proselytize? Doesn't every new convert reduce their odds? He's coming. Aren't you going to feel like an ass when you're number 144,001. And I'm standing in front of you. Ha ha.

What the hell. The things people are willing to believe.

_________________


The Democrats are my unreasonable faith. I need to believe that they're going to finally extract their balls and do something in office. Investigate corporate kickbacks. Make a plan for withdrawal in Iraq. Impeach the president. It's going to happen. It has to.

Yeah. And the guy at my door will be one of the 144,000.

Throw out your televisions

also on my election night rant... WHY ISN'T THERE CONSTANT NEWS COVERAGE? WHY IS LAW AND ORDER ON WHEN WE ARE ENGAGED IN KICKING ASSHOLES LIKE SANTORUM OUT OF OFFICE?

And on a similar tangent, why is everything on TV now an 'event'? It's a fucking ER 'event' every single episode. The last time I checked, an event was the Million Man March, 9/11, or, I don't know... AN ELECTION.

Next week is a "very special Deal or No Deal." I'm not kidding.

Here lies Jessie; she died in a fit of patriotic agony.

Elections get me all worked up. It's some kind of combination of deep lurking patriotism and heartburn. The waving American flag graphics on the news, the thought of millions of families in their living rooms waiting to see what form the government will take--it's almost enough to make a girl well up with democratic pride. I think, too, it takes me back to a very particular era for my family. You know, when we liked each other. Election '92 I was 10. Only dimly aware of the electoral process. My parents, being news junkies, had kept me somewhat in the loop about the Arkansas cowboy who'd grabbed the nation by the balls--and the nation liked it. But I can't say I really cared about the outcome. I sensed that my parents cared, but I had no idea why. Then, on Tuesday--a school night--my dad drove me all the way out to my uncle's house, two hours away. My family used to get together a lot, but a mid-week party was unheard of. We were up late into the night, or what seemed late for a 10-year-old on a Tuesday, and when the news anchors called the victory for Clinton, my entire family broke into "Happy Days Are Here Again," and my grandmother started crying. I had no idea what was so important, but I knew that something serious had happened and that it made me feel like I wanted to be a part of it. I think that's part of how I still feel on election days. I know; it's cheesy. Sometimes that shit gets me. Despite appearances, I am a patriot.

And, I think, that's why this election in particular is so important to me. It's not just that the Democrats have a chance to take the House and the Senate; these are good things, but I can't convince myself that they will change the course of the next two years so dramatically. The Republicans are already moving away from Bush.

And it's not just that I've been burned in every election I've so far participated in. Though I have. This was my fourth time voting. Let's review. 2000: Bush steals the election. I stay up all night and fall asleep after crying. 2002: Bob Ehrlich wins the governorship in Maryland. I stay up all night and fall asleep after crying. 2004: Kerry comes close but falls short; almost all of my faith in the country falls apart; I stay up all night and upon hearing the official result in the morning, have a quick cry before work.

No, it's not just all of those things. Though for once it would be nice to vote for the guy who wins. (The only races in which this has happened are, to the best of my knowledge, uncontested Sentate seats and maybe the executor of wills.) No. I don't even care so much if the Democrats win because they're Democrats. I care because I need to believe that our nation has any threshhold of political indignation. My patriotism is on the line. If Michael Steele wins in Maryland... I just... I don't even know what will happen to my faith in the voting public. How can we stare down the barrel of en endless mideast quagmire, corporations running a congress which has its dick in every intern it can find, and a looming energy crisis the administration seems to want to ignore... how can WE NOT DEMAND CHANGE. Is so very much of the country so very wedded to the idea of gays not having abortions that they will not stand up for education, the future of the planet, and the 18-year-olds dying in the desert? It boggles the mind that anyone can watch the news and go to the polls and vote red. BOGGLES.

This is what happens to me every election night. I have palpitations.

The early returns are in, and the Democrats have picked up two Senate seats--Ohio and PA (go the eff home, Santorum!). But this is how it always happens. It looks very, very good, and then Dan Rather says, "wait, it seems Al Gore has NOT won Florida." So I'm not holding my breath just yet.

Everyone say a prayer for Maryland.
<3.