My blog started out last year as a record of how I was adapting to all things Wisconsin. Living in the Midwest, handling grad school, restraining the urge to commit suicide due to the mid-winter tundra. As a staunch opponent of winter, I often treated my blog as more of a weather-logue, and I have gotten away from that this year. I wouldn't want anyone to think that it's because I approve of winter any more than I ever have before. No, quite the opposite. The last several days have involved a whole lot of "Holy Fuck"s muttered into the scarf wrapped around my mouth. And it's not even that bad yet. This morning was a measly 15 ("feels like" 2).
So in honor of the 100% (!) chance of 3-6 inches of snow this weekend*, a weather recap: This fall has been quite gentle. Aside from the occasional wicked swings (a couple of 80-degree days in October), the daily temperatures have followed a steady drop-off that has hewn closely to recorded averages. Still... there's a degree or two, I think it's about 33, where suddenly it's cold. Damn cold. The wind kicks off the lake, and even when I'm crossing the street in front of HCW I'm thinking maybe it's just not worth going in today.
That happened. And I'm sad. Expect many more snow totals and wind chills in posts to come. Also, page counts. It's snow season and term paper season. Everything is happy!
* Source: weather.com, a notorious coterie of liars and charlatans.
29 November 2007
28 November 2007
Why am I insane?
Sometimes when I come home to my apartment, and my boyfriend's not home, I get freaked out that some creepy stranger is lying in wait for me. There are any number of sneaky nooks a bad guy could camp out in, but invariably it's the bathtub that pushes me over the edge, and I have to pull back the curtain and check. It's irrational, yes, but there's just all that space in there. And everybody knows baddies hide behind curtains. But I wondered tonight what I would actually do if I poked my head around the curtain and there was a large stranger standing in my tub. The answer? Instantaneously stop living. Dead. The big graduate school in the sky.
So, maybe it would be slightly better, even if there was a creepy dude in my shower, to ignore him and hope he decides to leave?
So, maybe it would be slightly better, even if there was a creepy dude in my shower, to ignore him and hope he decides to leave?
Am I missing something? Should I not write blog posts after midnight?
Why is it that in bad movies and TV shows, when someone gets locked in a freezer by a villain (usually a meat freezer of some sort), he doesn't jog in place or do jumping jacks? Wouldn't this help? Or is this yet another exposure of my very tenuous grasp of Science?
20 November 2007
Proof that grad school gets inside of you... in a bad way.
Many of you know this story by now, and for that I apologize. But it's too good not to record.
My boyfriend--I won't name him, even though you all know who I mean (somehow it seems to jive with standards of so-called 'professionalism' to blog anonymously, and adhering to this norm lets me delude myself into believing I'd ever have enough readers for my blog to affect my professional life... plus this is not the most flattering story I've told about him, though it is funny)--My boyfriend often does not meet his goals. Let me not suggest that he's not highly productive and successful. Because he is. But he's also capable of astounding feats of procrastination, self-delusion, and deferral. These two things add up to the mystique of his spontaneous success, which though I find it irksome I have to admit has some basis in reality. The reality of naps, youtube, and facebook video games. And the reality of generally brilliant performance as a student. I know. It needs to be studied.
Despite his occasional (frequent) lapses into the unproductive, he always approaches his day with a surge of panic-induced optimism. Today is the day I do all the shit! (he says). But because of said lapses, he also occasionally (frequently) ends his day in a fit of remorse and self-flagellation. These moments are invariably punctuated by two phrases, said aloud, while muttering around the apartment at night, trying to collect the fragments of his lost time. "Tomorrow is going to be a huge day." And "I cannot have any more days like this one."
But on with the story at hand. A few nights ago I awoke around 4 A.M. to the sounds of my boyfriend talking in his sleep. He doesn't do this very often, and it's usually just like anyone else talking in his sleep: gibberish making border raids on the coherent. (Sorry, I couldn't help myself... everyone in my Weds. seminar gets that one.) He mumbles a couple of words that, strung together, start to sound like sense, and then there's grunting and a list of prepositions. You know how it goes. The other night was no different, except that he was particularly loud and enunciating particularly well. There was a certain intentionality to his speech, garbled as it was. I was about to go back to sleep when, amidst the babble one sentence emerged, clear as a distress signal in the noise, a cry for help from the subconscious: "I can't have any more days like this!" Dead asleep, his voice yet had the tone of resignation and panic that accompanies the lucid versions of this statement.
And then, before he once again sunk below the surface of coherence, he made two fists and flailed them about above his body. Not to this point have I seen such a powerful testament to the fixed and thorough permeation of our souls by the monster graduate school.
On a related note, two graduate student characters in a story I wrote recently have the following exchange about grad school:
I hereby put out the call to finish the sentence, "Graduate school is like ______."
My boyfriend--I won't name him, even though you all know who I mean (somehow it seems to jive with standards of so-called 'professionalism' to blog anonymously, and adhering to this norm lets me delude myself into believing I'd ever have enough readers for my blog to affect my professional life... plus this is not the most flattering story I've told about him, though it is funny)--My boyfriend often does not meet his goals. Let me not suggest that he's not highly productive and successful. Because he is. But he's also capable of astounding feats of procrastination, self-delusion, and deferral. These two things add up to the mystique of his spontaneous success, which though I find it irksome I have to admit has some basis in reality. The reality of naps, youtube, and facebook video games. And the reality of generally brilliant performance as a student. I know. It needs to be studied.
Despite his occasional (frequent) lapses into the unproductive, he always approaches his day with a surge of panic-induced optimism. Today is the day I do all the shit! (he says). But because of said lapses, he also occasionally (frequently) ends his day in a fit of remorse and self-flagellation. These moments are invariably punctuated by two phrases, said aloud, while muttering around the apartment at night, trying to collect the fragments of his lost time. "Tomorrow is going to be a huge day." And "I cannot have any more days like this one."
But on with the story at hand. A few nights ago I awoke around 4 A.M. to the sounds of my boyfriend talking in his sleep. He doesn't do this very often, and it's usually just like anyone else talking in his sleep: gibberish making border raids on the coherent. (Sorry, I couldn't help myself... everyone in my Weds. seminar gets that one.) He mumbles a couple of words that, strung together, start to sound like sense, and then there's grunting and a list of prepositions. You know how it goes. The other night was no different, except that he was particularly loud and enunciating particularly well. There was a certain intentionality to his speech, garbled as it was. I was about to go back to sleep when, amidst the babble one sentence emerged, clear as a distress signal in the noise, a cry for help from the subconscious: "I can't have any more days like this!" Dead asleep, his voice yet had the tone of resignation and panic that accompanies the lucid versions of this statement.
And then, before he once again sunk below the surface of coherence, he made two fists and flailed them about above his body. Not to this point have I seen such a powerful testament to the fixed and thorough permeation of our souls by the monster graduate school.
On a related note, two graduate student characters in a story I wrote recently have the following exchange about grad school:
"It's like paying someone to poke you in the face with a screwdriver and call you stupid."
"It's like being a prostitute and getting paid in I.O.U.s"
I hereby put out the call to finish the sentence, "Graduate school is like ______."
18 November 2007
Reading theories of tourism... touring the internet... same thing.
I've got some questions I'd like answered.
1.) How does doing literary criticism fit into your personal ethics? (No, I'm not going to elaborate that question at all.)
2a.) Do you know where I can get cheap frames and mats?
2b.) Or alternately, do you know of a cheap and easy mounting technique that meets archival standards and doesn't require expensive equipment? I've got some digital prints and I could frame them, but I'm interested in learning how to mount them. I'd prefer a backing with some depth to it, not something very flat.
As a reward for answering either of these questions, check out this sweet base-jumping video. You can check it out even if you don't answer my questions, but I'm watching you. Seriously.
Happy Sunday.
1.) How does doing literary criticism fit into your personal ethics? (No, I'm not going to elaborate that question at all.)
2a.) Do you know where I can get cheap frames and mats?
2b.) Or alternately, do you know of a cheap and easy mounting technique that meets archival standards and doesn't require expensive equipment? I've got some digital prints and I could frame them, but I'm interested in learning how to mount them. I'd prefer a backing with some depth to it, not something very flat.
As a reward for answering either of these questions, check out this sweet base-jumping video. You can check it out even if you don't answer my questions, but I'm watching you. Seriously.
Happy Sunday.
13 November 2007
Don't mess with my secret lair!
There's a place on campus where I particularly like to go to read. I'm not going to say where that is (even though most of you know already) because it's a small space and within that small space, there's just one seating apparatus that I like. One seat on the whole of this campus. It's comfy, it has a view of the lake, and it's next to an outlet. I know! Shockingly, I usually don't have to fight for it, either. This is the major reason I'm not telling you where it is. There are lots of other comfy seating arrangements in this... room... but a serious lack of outlets in general. So I more or less understand when someone needs to use it. (Though I'd be lying if I said no irrational rage bubbles up anyway, kind of like when someone sits on the seat on the 81 bus that I always take--of course they don't know, but they somehow should). But yesterday, yesterday!, before I had my computer out and plugged in, some dude took the last outlet spot for his computer and then took a ninety-minute nap on the floor! Oh, my inner Miss Manners was tee-ohed! If that seat were not so cradlingly comfortable and the view not so soothingly serene... I swear I would have done something drastic, like... unplug his machine. Yeah, I know.
11 November 2007
Steve Carell, did you mean to get on the career elevator to the basement?
Coupla things. I posted a ranting blog about etiquette several months back. I'd like to add something to the list of holding doors, taking bus seats, and getting up from classes: ELEVATORS.
This is a tri-fold problem for the general public. First are the people who walk up to the elevators where you're waiting, look at you for a second, and then reach out and push the button that's already lit up. There seems to be some bizarre human elevator-related anxiety. If I don't push the button myself, how can I be sure that it's going to come?? The light could be stuck in the "on" position! This person waiting could be stoned or retarded or in a waking coma! How could I live with myself if I didn't take every possible precaution against being skipped by one or possibly more elevator cars?! Basically what I'm saying is don't be a douche.
Secondly, you get on in the order you arrived. This is a special problem in the HCW elevator lobby. Yes, it's a tiny portico, and people aren't very good about moving all the way in. And yes, the elevators don't come very frequently, so people tend to stack up waiting. I do understand why you need to come inside and why it's impossible to form a line for the elevator. But try to remember that when you need to come and shove your way into the room and stand right in front of the elevator, it's because there are too many people waiting. People who got there before you. DON'T BE THE FIRST ONE ON THE ELEVATOR. In other words, don't be a douche.
Finally, when the doors finally open, and it's actually your turn to get on an elevator, try to restrain yourself from pushing past the people trying to get off. The elevator is not going to leave without you. The riders will exit, which will hold the doors open, and then they will stay open long enough for you to board in a restrained fashion. It's not like getting on the subway where you only have a few precious seconds to beat the closing of the doors, and where you may actually risk life and limb to do so in some cities like Moscow, where the doors don't have object sensors and I saw a man get stuck, Winnie-the-pooh style, and have to be yanked through by his fellow passengers while the train was departing. Elevators don't do that. The doors take forever to close and if they start to... you can put your hand out, and they'll open! Stop pushing your way on to elevators!
People, don't be a douche.
But on to much more pressing matters. Is it pretty much just accepted at this point that Steve Carell is trying to climb up inside of Jim Carrey, or at least his career? Aside from the fact that he took on the sequel to Carrey's Bruce Almighty, he's clearly going for the guy-with-infantile-but-of-the-moment-sense-of-humor-proves-his-chops-through-touching-but-lighthearted-role-and-captures-all-demographics thing. Even the title Dan in Real Life figuratively evokes The Truman Show. But I'm trying to picture SC in a role as heartbreaking as Carrey's in Eternal Sunshine, and I can't get there. Probably I would have said the same thing about Jim Carrey at the time, but all I keep seeing is Brick Tamland's vacant, constipated expression. And you know what? That's timeless. I don't still find The Mask funny, but I bet Anchorman's sense of humor will stand the test of time. So what I'm saying, Steve, is don't make any poor decisions. Well, any poorer than you already have.
Too many italics in that last graph. Tired fingers. Ciao.
This is a tri-fold problem for the general public. First are the people who walk up to the elevators where you're waiting, look at you for a second, and then reach out and push the button that's already lit up. There seems to be some bizarre human elevator-related anxiety. If I don't push the button myself, how can I be sure that it's going to come?? The light could be stuck in the "on" position! This person waiting could be stoned or retarded or in a waking coma! How could I live with myself if I didn't take every possible precaution against being skipped by one or possibly more elevator cars?! Basically what I'm saying is don't be a douche.
Secondly, you get on in the order you arrived. This is a special problem in the HCW elevator lobby. Yes, it's a tiny portico, and people aren't very good about moving all the way in. And yes, the elevators don't come very frequently, so people tend to stack up waiting. I do understand why you need to come inside and why it's impossible to form a line for the elevator. But try to remember that when you need to come and shove your way into the room and stand right in front of the elevator, it's because there are too many people waiting. People who got there before you. DON'T BE THE FIRST ONE ON THE ELEVATOR. In other words, don't be a douche.
Finally, when the doors finally open, and it's actually your turn to get on an elevator, try to restrain yourself from pushing past the people trying to get off. The elevator is not going to leave without you. The riders will exit, which will
People, don't be a douche.
But on to much more pressing matters. Is it pretty much just accepted at this point that Steve Carell is trying to climb up inside of Jim Carrey, or at least his career? Aside from the fact that he took on the sequel to Carrey's Bruce Almighty, he's clearly going for the guy-with-infantile-but-of-the-moment-sense-of-humor-proves-his-chops-through-touching-but-lighthearted-role-and-captures-all-demographics thing. Even the title Dan in Real Life figuratively evokes The Truman Show. But I'm trying to picture SC in a role as heartbreaking as Carrey's in Eternal Sunshine, and I can't get there. Probably I would have said the same thing about Jim Carrey at the time, but all I keep seeing is Brick Tamland's vacant, constipated expression. And you know what? That's timeless. I don't still find The Mask funny, but I bet Anchorman's sense of humor will stand the test of time. So what I'm saying, Steve, is don't make any poor decisions. Well, any poorer than you already have.
Too many italics in that last graph. Tired fingers. Ciao.
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