For me, the Graduate Student Conference this weekend inspired a new way to stay awake during talks.
A game: Listen for the Dubiously Pronounced Word.
There's one in every talk. You just have to spot it. Sometimes it's clearly a case of the person being wrong. Then you get to spend a couple of minutes feeling superior and/or figuring out how you can formulate a question with that word in it, so you can say it right. But sometimes you can't decide if it's the speaker that's butchering a term, or if perhaps you have been doing so for years. Then you get to spend a couple of minutes trying to figure it out. Either way, that's 2 or 3 minutes you're neither asleep nor listening to the talk, which is a win-win. Plus, listening to individual words is way better than listening to whole sentences, much less trying to connect sentences together.
Some words from this weekend I used to be sure of, but am not anymore:
lascivious
aporia
eschewing
insidious
Now if there were only some way to make this a drinking game...
10 March 2008
18 February 2008
It's an election eve, so... my thoughts on our responsibilities tomorrow
I hope that everyone I know in Wisconsin votes tomorrow. More to the point, I hope you vote for Barack Obama tomorrow, and I'll tell you why.
If you're a Republican, sorry about your luck. Your vote no longer matters, and also, your candidate is a 71-year-old, Dubya-loving war hawk who has somehow managed to swindle the nation into believing he's a liberal. In other words: the moderates hate him because he's too much of a Bush clone (and they're right), and the conservatives hate him because they think he's a liberal (they're wrong). Let's assess his chances for victory in this climate, eh?
This idea that John McCain is a liberal is infuriating. Granted, in some miniscule ways he has inched away from the reactionary arch-conservatives. And the fact that he has an (albeit ill-deserved) reputation for being liberal and was nominated anyway is a promising sign that the Republican party is either moving closer to the center or fracturing in two, and either way I'm pleased to see the marginalization of the extreme right. Huzzah and all that, what what. But let us not allow ourselves to see liberalism in a man who: is advocating for corporate America to pay FEWER taxes than they already do, wants to make tax cuts a permanent part of the budget (wow, it's so smart to make decisions now about economic circumstances for the future that we can't predict... Bush made this same decision his first year in office), wants to see Roe v. Wade overturned and abortion made illegal, who has always been and continues to be a strong advocate of the war in Iraq (and who recently suggested keeping a military presence there for 100 years), and whose major campaign issue is the fear of future attacks from Islamic extremists.... (deep breath)... HE'S A HUUUUGE CONSERVATIVE.
Let's look at his more "liberal" tendencies: He isn't willing to ban gay marriage on a national level. Okay, sure, that sounds like something a Democrat would say. But McCain strongly encourages the states to do ban it, since "[t]he family represents the foundation of Western Civilization and civil society." Cue up the 1970s scary music and a graphic of two men holding hands. Now spiral it around and flash this up there in dripping-blood font: GAYS RUIN THE WORLD!
But how about his environmentalism? Surely the Republicans are scared for a reason, right? John McCain must love him some nature, and I bet he's ready to vote against all those big, bad coal companies and oil companies so that the bears can frolic! Oh, no, what will us fat-cats do?? Sleep tight, corporate America, John McCain's reputation as a tree-hugger is just a lot of smoke and mirrors. Know how you can tell? The League of Conservation Voters, a group that keeps track of how often congressmen cast votes to protect the environment, gives him a 29% (that's not good). When it comes time to choose between his friends in coal and oil or the environment, he goes with the former 71% of the time. (Hey, isn't that how old he is?)
To quote a recent op-ed piece in the Badger Herald: "Okay, so he is anti-gay, anti-choice, anti-environment, anti-civil liberties and pro-tax cuts for the wealthy and pro-elimination of social programs. Let us get one thing straight: John McCain is definitely not a Democrat and by no means a liberal."
But, hey, what do I care. He's not going to win in November because no one likes him and he can't lift his arms over his head (yeah, I'm making fun of his war injuries, sue me). What I actually want to say on this Election Eve is a message of positivity:
We are about to nominate either a black man or a woman as the Democratic nominee for president. People, this is big. Even bigger is that their minority status isn't even on the top 100 list of reasons to vote for them. They're both highly intelligent, educated and capable leaders. They both stand excellent chances against John McCain in the fall. We are staring down the opportunity of a lifetime, to begin the decades-long process of reversing the effects of the Bush administration, restoring our standing in the world, and sounding a war cry to mainstream racism and misogyny. We have a great shot at this so-inspiring-I-want-to-cry vision. We're polling high. Democrats are going to the polls in 2-to-1 numbers vs. Republicans. The nation wants change. If one of them loses in November, it will not be because the country's not ready for all of these things. The only way they won't get it is if we don't give it to them.
People, we have to pick somebody. We have to be what the Republican party always models for us and we never seem quite able to be: strategic and united. Even in this, the Republicans' least coherent election year in recent memory, they are still able to focus on November and pull out the right strategy: rallying around the guy with the best shot. There are very few lessons we need to look across the aisle to learn, but this is one of them. Let's stop yelling about who's the real "agent of change." Let's stop fighting with each other and start fighting John McCain. Let's face some facts:
I've never been entirely comfortable with the pragmatic decision. It certainly doesn't sound right coming from someone who supports Barack Obama for entirely un-pragmatic reasons. I like him because he has a vision for the future of this country, a vision that rests on equality, liberty and humanity more than on fear-mongering and us vs. them rhetoric. I like him because he's not afraid to take to the podium and flatly accuse this nation of having the wrong values, of protecting the rich and powerful at the expense of the poor today and the whole world tomorrow. He's not afraid to ask us to believe that we can make major changes in our country's values. These are not practical reasons to like someone. So, no, I don't usually advocate the practical vote. But this election is too important to throw away. If Hillary were the one surging ahead, I would vote for her tomorrow. The fact that the candidate I like is also the candidate with the best shot at victory is a coincidence that serves me well, though I admit looks bad for my sincerity. But hear me:
DEMOCRATS, FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIVES CAST A STRATEGIC VOTE TOMORROW. LET'S SHOW THE SUPERDELEGATES AND THE DNC THAT THE NATION IS BEHIND BARACK OBAMA.
Go get your democracy on tomorrow. Choose Obama and Barack the Vote.
If you're a Republican, sorry about your luck. Your vote no longer matters, and also, your candidate is a 71-year-old, Dubya-loving war hawk who has somehow managed to swindle the nation into believing he's a liberal. In other words: the moderates hate him because he's too much of a Bush clone (and they're right), and the conservatives hate him because they think he's a liberal (they're wrong). Let's assess his chances for victory in this climate, eh?
This idea that John McCain is a liberal is infuriating. Granted, in some miniscule ways he has inched away from the reactionary arch-conservatives. And the fact that he has an (albeit ill-deserved) reputation for being liberal and was nominated anyway is a promising sign that the Republican party is either moving closer to the center or fracturing in two, and either way I'm pleased to see the marginalization of the extreme right. Huzzah and all that, what what. But let us not allow ourselves to see liberalism in a man who: is advocating for corporate America to pay FEWER taxes than they already do, wants to make tax cuts a permanent part of the budget (wow, it's so smart to make decisions now about economic circumstances for the future that we can't predict... Bush made this same decision his first year in office), wants to see Roe v. Wade overturned and abortion made illegal, who has always been and continues to be a strong advocate of the war in Iraq (and who recently suggested keeping a military presence there for 100 years), and whose major campaign issue is the fear of future attacks from Islamic extremists.... (deep breath)... HE'S A HUUUUGE CONSERVATIVE.
Let's look at his more "liberal" tendencies: He isn't willing to ban gay marriage on a national level. Okay, sure, that sounds like something a Democrat would say. But McCain strongly encourages the states to do ban it, since "[t]he family represents the foundation of Western Civilization and civil society." Cue up the 1970s scary music and a graphic of two men holding hands. Now spiral it around and flash this up there in dripping-blood font: GAYS RUIN THE WORLD!
But how about his environmentalism? Surely the Republicans are scared for a reason, right? John McCain must love him some nature, and I bet he's ready to vote against all those big, bad coal companies and oil companies so that the bears can frolic! Oh, no, what will us fat-cats do?? Sleep tight, corporate America, John McCain's reputation as a tree-hugger is just a lot of smoke and mirrors. Know how you can tell? The League of Conservation Voters, a group that keeps track of how often congressmen cast votes to protect the environment, gives him a 29% (that's not good). When it comes time to choose between his friends in coal and oil or the environment, he goes with the former 71% of the time. (Hey, isn't that how old he is?)
To quote a recent op-ed piece in the Badger Herald: "Okay, so he is anti-gay, anti-choice, anti-environment, anti-civil liberties and pro-tax cuts for the wealthy and pro-elimination of social programs. Let us get one thing straight: John McCain is definitely not a Democrat and by no means a liberal."
But, hey, what do I care. He's not going to win in November because no one likes him and he can't lift his arms over his head (yeah, I'm making fun of his war injuries, sue me). What I actually want to say on this Election Eve is a message of positivity:
We are about to nominate either a black man or a woman as the Democratic nominee for president. People, this is big. Even bigger is that their minority status isn't even on the top 100 list of reasons to vote for them. They're both highly intelligent, educated and capable leaders. They both stand excellent chances against John McCain in the fall. We are staring down the opportunity of a lifetime, to begin the decades-long process of reversing the effects of the Bush administration, restoring our standing in the world, and sounding a war cry to mainstream racism and misogyny. We have a great shot at this so-inspiring-I-want-to-cry vision. We're polling high. Democrats are going to the polls in 2-to-1 numbers vs. Republicans. The nation wants change. If one of them loses in November, it will not be because the country's not ready for all of these things. The only way they won't get it is if we don't give it to them.
People, we have to pick somebody. We have to be what the Republican party always models for us and we never seem quite able to be: strategic and united. Even in this, the Republicans' least coherent election year in recent memory, they are still able to focus on November and pull out the right strategy: rallying around the guy with the best shot. There are very few lessons we need to look across the aisle to learn, but this is one of them. Let's stop yelling about who's the real "agent of change." Let's stop fighting with each other and start fighting John McCain. Let's face some facts:
Hillary Clinton is sagging behind. The only way for her to pass Barack Obama is by surging, and she's been on a rock-steady decline for months. There's no surge coming.
Obama is on the upswing and will almost certainly finish the primary cycle ahead in delegates and the popular vote (and Democrats ought to remember what happens when you elect the guy--or gal--who lost the popular vote... do we really want to go there?)
It's highly unlikely that, despite these trends, either candidate's lead will be clear enough to call a winner anytime soon.
If we don't call a winner before winter turns to spring, we are handing the election to John McCain, a man who might be four steps to the left of GWB, but is still four time zones away from the middle.
I've never been entirely comfortable with the pragmatic decision. It certainly doesn't sound right coming from someone who supports Barack Obama for entirely un-pragmatic reasons. I like him because he has a vision for the future of this country, a vision that rests on equality, liberty and humanity more than on fear-mongering and us vs. them rhetoric. I like him because he's not afraid to take to the podium and flatly accuse this nation of having the wrong values, of protecting the rich and powerful at the expense of the poor today and the whole world tomorrow. He's not afraid to ask us to believe that we can make major changes in our country's values. These are not practical reasons to like someone. So, no, I don't usually advocate the practical vote. But this election is too important to throw away. If Hillary were the one surging ahead, I would vote for her tomorrow. The fact that the candidate I like is also the candidate with the best shot at victory is a coincidence that serves me well, though I admit looks bad for my sincerity. But hear me:
DEMOCRATS, FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIVES CAST A STRATEGIC VOTE TOMORROW. LET'S SHOW THE SUPERDELEGATES AND THE DNC THAT THE NATION IS BEHIND BARACK OBAMA.
Go get your democracy on tomorrow. Choose Obama and Barack the Vote.
13 February 2008
08 February 2008
If that groundhog saw his shadow, he's a fucking marked rodent.
Two things have happened to me this semester, and I can't figure out if they're related to one another. First, and thankfully, I am starting to be able to detect minute improvements in my grad school thinking. For instance, when someone in class says, "This is so Kantian," I don't immediately think, "Fuck you." I often know vaguely what's being referenced. Universalism, aesthetics, teleology, something like that. Also, I find that when I say things in class this semester, I don't always have an out-of-body experience, and most of the time what I've rambled about doesn't make me want to crawl under the seminar table and spend the rest of the class building lego racecars. Most of the time.
I talk a lot about small victories in graduate school, but this is actually a huge improvement.
The other new thing this semester is that, paradoxically, I seem to care much, much less about my work. It's there, and I know I need to do it. But there's no panic, there's no Fear. Fear has been replaced with Priorities. I don't seem to need my entire weekend for doing work. Apart from this weekend, when I fucked myself with three mini-assignments (including a paper I can't seem to formulate a coherent thesis for) on top of all of my reading, most weekends, I think--dare I say it?--I might be able to kick back a little.
So, are these two things related? Or am I heading down a dangerous road of not reading but talking in class anyway? Am I headed down the highway to the danger zone? To a neighboring state that begins with a big old capital A?
Speaking of a different (but related) A, he asked me to update my weather blog. And I was feeling self-conscious that all I ever write about is the weather... it's like being that person at a party who has nothing to talk about, and since I usually feel awkward at parties, with nothing to talk about, it felt important that I try not to simply post over and over again about the temperature. But I do have a couple items of note that I wanted to share, and now that a request has been made, well, here:
It snowed 13 inches last Wednesday. 19 inches in some areas outside of the city. Apparently one of the 5 worst storms on record. 1,000 cars were stranded overnight on the highway. But the University opened in the morning! With a nice, patronizing note reminding us that the UW has only closed twice for snow in the last 18 years. That's cute and all, but when the city has declared an emergency, is woefully behind on plowing the streets, all the other public schools and all the other UWs are closed, and the UW Madison hasn't even begun to shovel its on-campus walkways... maybe it's time to put safety above pride? How many of those people who spent the night on the beltline were trying to get to/from the University? At the very least, the Chancellor needs to reword / make more public the snow policy, because it's not a great reflection on the school when most students believe that the school simply "never closes" or that the Chancellor adheres to some arbitrary snowfall total instead of actual city conditions. The students should at least believe their school puts safety before pride, even if it's not true.
And, finally, here's a screen capture from Saturday night:
HOLY SHIT GROUND BLIZZARDS??
You win, Madison. Game over.
I talk a lot about small victories in graduate school, but this is actually a huge improvement.
The other new thing this semester is that, paradoxically, I seem to care much, much less about my work. It's there, and I know I need to do it. But there's no panic, there's no Fear. Fear has been replaced with Priorities. I don't seem to need my entire weekend for doing work. Apart from this weekend, when I fucked myself with three mini-assignments (including a paper I can't seem to formulate a coherent thesis for) on top of all of my reading, most weekends, I think--dare I say it?--I might be able to kick back a little.
So, are these two things related? Or am I heading down a dangerous road of not reading but talking in class anyway? Am I headed down the highway to the danger zone? To a neighboring state that begins with a big old capital A?
Speaking of a different (but related) A, he asked me to update my weather blog. And I was feeling self-conscious that all I ever write about is the weather... it's like being that person at a party who has nothing to talk about, and since I usually feel awkward at parties, with nothing to talk about, it felt important that I try not to simply post over and over again about the temperature. But I do have a couple items of note that I wanted to share, and now that a request has been made, well, here:
It snowed 13 inches last Wednesday. 19 inches in some areas outside of the city. Apparently one of the 5 worst storms on record. 1,000 cars were stranded overnight on the highway. But the University opened in the morning! With a nice, patronizing note reminding us that the UW has only closed twice for snow in the last 18 years. That's cute and all, but when the city has declared an emergency, is woefully behind on plowing the streets, all the other public schools and all the other UWs are closed, and the UW Madison hasn't even begun to shovel its on-campus walkways... maybe it's time to put safety above pride? How many of those people who spent the night on the beltline were trying to get to/from the University? At the very least, the Chancellor needs to reword / make more public the snow policy, because it's not a great reflection on the school when most students believe that the school simply "never closes" or that the Chancellor adheres to some arbitrary snowfall total instead of actual city conditions. The students should at least believe their school puts safety before pride, even if it's not true.
And, finally, here's a screen capture from Saturday night:
HOLY SHIT GROUND BLIZZARDS??
You win, Madison. Game over.
02 February 2008
I think we pissed it off...
Anyone who thinks hell is hot has never been to Wisconsin.
This week the weather has actually turned agressor. Exhibit A: Last Tuesday the day started out in the low 40s. By 2:30 it was sleeting giant ice pellets, and by 7pm the wind chills were -30 and we had "blizzard conditions" during which it was advised to simply stay indoors, because frostbite could set into exposed skin in ten minutes. A SEVENTY DEGREE TEMPERATURE SWING in eight hours kinda makes me think Wisconsin doesn't want us here anymore. The 35 mph winds were howling "Get out. Geeettttt oooouuuuuuuuuut."
And exhibit B: Thursday we had an icequake. Yup. Plates of ice on the lake collided and the whole lakeshore shook. It felt like a bomb went off in the building I was in. It registered on the Richter scale. People, I think we need to take this seriously. Maybe we just shouldn't live this far north. If we all pack up quietly and head out to say, Arizona, maybe we won't anger it any further. There's a ton of empty space out there. We could totally just take it over. Anyone with me?
30 January 2008
Wisconsin, you've gone too far.
Really? Really, Wisconsin? I'm resigned to the 6-month winters. I'm resigned to the weeks when the wind chill dips to -30. I'm resigned to the fact that the University will never, ever close for the cold, and that when the public schools are closed and the undergraduates decide to just skip class, I will always, always have to bundle up and wait for the buses (which are running late, but of course you can't count on that, so just when the weather is the worst, you have to stand around outside, not moving, blasted by wind, your nose hairs, eyelashes, and contact lenses freezing, for longer than when it's nice out) and trudge down the icy wind tunnel that is N. Park St. and spend my day in a building shaped like a parking garage. This is the price of being a grad student in Wisconsin. Fine.
But when I put up with all of this, early in the morning, and I arrive at HCW *before* having my coffee, and I shed my layers and begin the slow process of bringing feeling back into all of my exposed skin for a long day of talking about books, I do NOT appreciate...
A. Fucking. Fire. Drill.
A 9:15 in the morning fire drill. With the wind chills outside at -28. Yep. I expected to get bent over, Wisconsin; I just didn't expect to get bent over this hard.
Taking a hard left here, the season finale of Lost is re-airing right now, in anticipation of the season premiere tomorrow night. They're trying to attract new viewers, which is a difficult thing to do with a continuous narrative. Close to 75 episodes have already been aired that build secrets and revelations on top of the ones that came before. To solve this problem, it seems, the producers (stand-ins? I think the real ones are on the strike) are re-airing this one 2-hour episode with a little scroll bar along the bottom that fills in the background. So, while Charlie's being tortured in the Looking Glass, the scroll bar reads: Charlie is a former rock star who's being tortured by the Looking Glass sisters because he's trying to un-jam the blocking frequency of the Others, but he already knows he's going to die because of Desmond's prophecy that he will die trying to save Claire, who's the blonde Aussie chick with the baby.
Seriously? This can't be working for people. Four things in that one convoluted sentence alone need explaining to even make sense. It's like watching a crazy-ass pop-up video, only you have to remember all the seemingly unrelated information and plug it together. Also, there's so much reading it's hard to follow what's going on in the actual episode. I want more Lost viewers as much as the next guy, but... um. There are a bajillion characters. Give or take umpteen.
OMG LOST PREMIERE TOMORROW.
And because I guess I'm just going errata-style here: While trudging up the walk to my apartment tonight, a helicopter with a searchlight flew overhead. I gotta say... I really hope they find who they're looking for. I'm pretty fucking terrified of anybody bad-ass to go on the lam in -30 wind chills. That's beyond bad-ass.
Moving on again: I love Prof. S. And I love his class. Most things about it. But one of the things I love (even though it's not actually lovable) is the way he doesn't actually answer questions.
Me: Prof. S., I have a somewhat historical-contextual question about the novel, that might be open to interpretation but that I'm just looking for some of your insight on. It's X.
Prof. S.: When I was a boy, my dad gave me a $2 bill and I still have it.
....
Prof. S.: So, any thoughts on an unrelated topic?
It's kinda awesome. Seriously.
It's gonna be a good semester. I think I'm figuring out how to do this grad school thing. Slowly.
But when I put up with all of this, early in the morning, and I arrive at HCW *before* having my coffee, and I shed my layers and begin the slow process of bringing feeling back into all of my exposed skin for a long day of talking about books, I do NOT appreciate...
A. Fucking. Fire. Drill.
A 9:15 in the morning fire drill. With the wind chills outside at -28. Yep. I expected to get bent over, Wisconsin; I just didn't expect to get bent over this hard.
Taking a hard left here, the season finale of Lost is re-airing right now, in anticipation of the season premiere tomorrow night. They're trying to attract new viewers, which is a difficult thing to do with a continuous narrative. Close to 75 episodes have already been aired that build secrets and revelations on top of the ones that came before. To solve this problem, it seems, the producers (stand-ins? I think the real ones are on the strike) are re-airing this one 2-hour episode with a little scroll bar along the bottom that fills in the background. So, while Charlie's being tortured in the Looking Glass, the scroll bar reads: Charlie is a former rock star who's being tortured by the Looking Glass sisters because he's trying to un-jam the blocking frequency of the Others, but he already knows he's going to die because of Desmond's prophecy that he will die trying to save Claire, who's the blonde Aussie chick with the baby.
Seriously? This can't be working for people. Four things in that one convoluted sentence alone need explaining to even make sense. It's like watching a crazy-ass pop-up video, only you have to remember all the seemingly unrelated information and plug it together. Also, there's so much reading it's hard to follow what's going on in the actual episode. I want more Lost viewers as much as the next guy, but... um. There are a bajillion characters. Give or take umpteen.
OMG LOST PREMIERE TOMORROW.
And because I guess I'm just going errata-style here: While trudging up the walk to my apartment tonight, a helicopter with a searchlight flew overhead. I gotta say... I really hope they find who they're looking for. I'm pretty fucking terrified of anybody bad-ass to go on the lam in -30 wind chills. That's beyond bad-ass.
Moving on again: I love Prof. S. And I love his class. Most things about it. But one of the things I love (even though it's not actually lovable) is the way he doesn't actually answer questions.
Me: Prof. S., I have a somewhat historical-contextual question about the novel, that might be open to interpretation but that I'm just looking for some of your insight on. It's X.
Prof. S.: When I was a boy, my dad gave me a $2 bill and I still have it.
....
Prof. S.: So, any thoughts on an unrelated topic?
It's kinda awesome. Seriously.
It's gonna be a good semester. I think I'm figuring out how to do this grad school thing. Slowly.
19 January 2008
15 January 2008
Back by popular demand: blogging. Back by grudging concession to the inevitable: the semester.
Welcome back. There are no new year's resolutions, but perhaps this is a resolution that could be put on some kind of ballot.
Proposal: Professors assigning a full week of reading to be done for the first class... is cheating. The academic calendar reports the semester starts January 22. All days prior to January 22 ought to be part of my vacation. If you can't shoehorn all the readings you want into the normal number of weeks in the semester, that's not my problem.
Corollary: Creating bonus seminar meetings during the regular semester is also a violation of my graduate student rights (hahaha), particularly when you hold them during finals week and require every single class member to give a presentation on extra reading, unrelated to their term papers, and allow the bonus session to go FOUR HOURS. (This, you may have heard, was one of many--but a particularly cruel--source of my end-of-semester ire this fall. I have four words for you: Don't. Take. Art. History.)
Exception: Classes held on Mondays. The semester starts on a Tuesday, so my Shakespare seminar doesn't meet until week 2, which means I won't even do the "advance" reading until classes have already started. This is acceptable, especially because the whacked out academic calendar screws this professor out of a week all the others get. In fact, "advance" ("bonus") reading should be reserved only for Monday professors, to allow them to catch up. The rest of you are just reinforcing an inequality!!
So, as you might infer, my vacation is drawing to its end. I know this because tomorrow I'm going to start reading Sister Carrie. The resumption of my work means I will be taking up blogging again, my age-old procrastination device. Since it's still technically my vacation and I lack the will to really summarize the end of my semester and my vacation thus far, I give you a haiku roundup:
-----------------------------
And if you made it this far, here is a slightly different, perhaps more profound summary of last semester: some randomly generated haiku assembled from rearranged blog entries in the recent past. You can have your own made here.
and my favorite:
and one i made from becca's blog that was too good not to share:
Here's to a new semester of feeling just shy of miserable.
Proposal: Professors assigning a full week of reading to be done for the first class... is cheating. The academic calendar reports the semester starts January 22. All days prior to January 22 ought to be part of my vacation. If you can't shoehorn all the readings you want into the normal number of weeks in the semester, that's not my problem.
Corollary: Creating bonus seminar meetings during the regular semester is also a violation of my graduate student rights (hahaha), particularly when you hold them during finals week and require every single class member to give a presentation on extra reading, unrelated to their term papers, and allow the bonus session to go FOUR HOURS. (This, you may have heard, was one of many--but a particularly cruel--source of my end-of-semester ire this fall. I have four words for you: Don't. Take. Art. History.)
Exception: Classes held on Mondays. The semester starts on a Tuesday, so my Shakespare seminar doesn't meet until week 2, which means I won't even do the "advance" reading until classes have already started. This is acceptable, especially because the whacked out academic calendar screws this professor out of a week all the others get. In fact, "advance" ("bonus") reading should be reserved only for Monday professors, to allow them to catch up. The rest of you are just reinforcing an inequality!!
So, as you might infer, my vacation is drawing to its end. I know this because tomorrow I'm going to start reading Sister Carrie. The resumption of my work means I will be taking up blogging again, my age-old procrastination device. Since it's still technically my vacation and I lack the will to really summarize the end of my semester and my vacation thus far, I give you a haiku roundup:
Just 'cause I didn't
fail doesn't mean I didn't
embarrass myself.
One-day term paper:
surprisingly effective
self-punching technique.
You actually can
go home again. You just have
to bring Valium.
Nobody throws a
party like my college friends'
all-nighter, black-out--
Hate everyone else
already; yuppie parties
make me hate myself.
Connecticut, you
are small and pretty but you
have I-95.
Beer and snow. Never
thought I'd say it: Wisconsin,
home sweet fucking home.
-----------------------------
And if you made it this far, here is a slightly different, perhaps more profound summary of last semester: some randomly generated haiku assembled from rearranged blog entries in the recent past. You can have your own made here.
i now see that if
i worked for the next two
hours without stopping
it's comfy it
has a sofa and a list
of prepositions
been in madison
like she never left like a
big lake almost 10
going to come the
fuck on i know it's the
easy part i hate
on the bus okay
look the bus will fill up and
you won't hear me
induced optimism
today is the second type
this takes the form
waiting look at that
list and think this is a case
of wikipedia
it was kinda cool
i liked doing it and
before you know it
hear is full of snow
and ice and if you don't
answer my questions
no it's not like
to touch strangers to pay the
price of touching them
where the hell did i
read this now i have to write
resigned to the fact
my mouth and it's a
store of life experience
of good waste to have
they start to sound like
sense and then there's grunting
and a couple of
and my favorite:
below the surface
of coherence he made two
fists and flailed them
and one i made from becca's blog that was too good not to share:
really wanted
this paper to be done but
i chickened out
Here's to a new semester of feeling just shy of miserable.
24 December 2007
The best present of all.
The. Mother. Fucking. Semester. Is. Over.
I flew back to Baltimore on Thursday, which meant stress, booze, and Xanax, because that's the cocktail I use to manage my severe flying phobia. I woke up the next morning, hung over from... life. And in an epic marathon finish, I wrote 19 pages on Friday, over the span of about 17 hours. The quality was about what you'd expect from such a showing, but I was damned if I was going to take an incomplete. It was the least human I've ever been in my life. I was a paper-writing shell of a person, filled with Badiou and self-loathing where my soul and organs used to be. My poor dear Rachael got off work (her last day of the year), and had to celebrate by watching me write.
BUT I'M DONE! Semester wrap-up to follow, at such point as I have regular internet access. Happy holidays to all, and to all a strong scotch.
Peace and joy,
J.
I flew back to Baltimore on Thursday, which meant stress, booze, and Xanax, because that's the cocktail I use to manage my severe flying phobia. I woke up the next morning, hung over from... life. And in an epic marathon finish, I wrote 19 pages on Friday, over the span of about 17 hours. The quality was about what you'd expect from such a showing, but I was damned if I was going to take an incomplete. It was the least human I've ever been in my life. I was a paper-writing shell of a person, filled with Badiou and self-loathing where my soul and organs used to be. My poor dear Rachael got off work (her last day of the year), and had to celebrate by watching me write.
BUT I'M DONE! Semester wrap-up to follow, at such point as I have regular internet access. Happy holidays to all, and to all a strong scotch.
Peace and joy,
J.
19 December 2007
Glorious Email Irony!
This semester has been nothing if not a series of triumphs and crushing blows to the ego. The self-esteem roller coaster that is grad school in a top 20 program has ultimately left me with one pervasive feeling: It is possible, though perhaps not likely, that I am a capable and intelligent person. I think that's what they want all of us to feel. When you brainwash someone, you have to break them down mentally and physically to the point where they're lying on the floor drooling and have completely resigned themselves to the combat boot on their windpipe. And that's where I am right now, two days left in the semester, bone tired, sick-feeling, with one last fucking paper to write, resigned to the fact that it's going to suck and the best my professors will think of me is, "Oh, her? I think I remember her. No... let's not kick her out of the program... not yet." So I'm a shivering empty vessel, which is how they've managed to implant their ideology: you're smart... maybe. I'm starting to see that the life of an academic is feeling that way forever.
Despite the fact that I've reached the 'acceptance stage,' I cannot really continue writing this post. I've finished with two classes, done all but my last touch-ups on a third, and have one entire term paper to write... by Friday. Oh, and I'm flying home Thursday. Which is tomorrow. It's gonna be a photo finish, kids. So, unless you happen to have a term paper out there on Badiou that I can have... No? Damn. In that case, I will just leave you with what I myself received this morning: a letter telling me I've been admitted to the grad program in English. Apparently my file never got processed, so just at the moment when I'm most considering quitting to become a... well, anything else, I get officially admitted. Just in time that I can't claim non-departmental status to get out of writing my papers, just in time to remind me that several months ago this was the thing I wanted most. Just in time to say, Hey, Jessie! You chose to do this for the rest of your life!
...Maybe I should notify them...
Despite the fact that I've reached the 'acceptance stage,' I cannot really continue writing this post. I've finished with two classes, done all but my last touch-ups on a third, and have one entire term paper to write... by Friday. Oh, and I'm flying home Thursday. Which is tomorrow. It's gonna be a photo finish, kids. So, unless you happen to have a term paper out there on Badiou that I can have... No? Damn. In that case, I will just leave you with what I myself received this morning: a letter telling me I've been admitted to the grad program in English. Apparently my file never got processed, so just at the moment when I'm most considering quitting to become a... well, anything else, I get officially admitted. Just in time that I can't claim non-departmental status to get out of writing my papers, just in time to remind me that several months ago this was the thing I wanted most. Just in time to say, Hey, Jessie! You chose to do this for the rest of your life!
Dear Jessie,
Your request to change your major area of study to English has been approved. We have notified the Office of the Registrar to make the changes effective Fall 2007. If this information is not correct, please notify us.
Sincerely,
XXXXXX XXXXXX
Office of Graduate Admissions
...Maybe I should notify them...
05 December 2007
Meat lockers and feelings of inadequacy.
Apparently in the county where my mom lives in West Virginia, the public schools close in honor of the first day of deer-hunting season. And they don't just close that day... they get the whole week off. What the shit...
I finished a paper! [Momentary pause for cheering!] ...And now I have to write two more in 15 days, and I have almost no work done on either of them. [Resuming regularly-scheduled puking into a bucket.]
But as always, grad school is best measured in small victories. And the fact that I got a seminar paper done, it didn't suck really bad, I kinda liked the topic, and it was reasonably within the page count (that's usually a huge problem for me)--that, friends, is what we call a minor triumph. However, handing it in today was highly anticlimactic. The professor's "Thanks" followed by setting it on her desk was a real pin in my delirious balloon of giddiness. Also a downer was then going right back to the library to collect books for my next one. And then thinking of the horrifying possibility that I could actually get a paper back while I'm still writing other ones. Shudder. Nothing like a prof's scrawled "what are you even doing in grad school" to keep your confidence up in the darkest depths of finals week.
But we all know professors aren't that on the ball. I will probably never see the paper again. The much more likely but equally unfortunate scenario I thought of is that she will now think I turned it in early because I think it's perfect. That there's no point keeping it for ten more days, because even given that amount of time, I could find nothing wrong with my work. And this, of course, will inspire my professor to scoff loudly and set about proving me wrong. See, if you turn it in the day it's due, and there's a crap-load wrong with it, you get the benefit of the doubt that you know what that crap-load is, you just didn't have time to fix it. Oh well. It's in, and I'm moving on.
Wilkie Collins, Duleep Singh, and the anxieties of the colonial body, here I come. Hooray..?
Oh, and: 7 more inches of snow last night. If you're keeping track, we've got a solid 10 on the ground right now, according to the local news, with a couple more coming tomorrow. Current temp: 0, feels like 0. If you're going to be miserable, you might as well be miserable in a meat locker, that's what I say!
I finished a paper! [Momentary pause for cheering!] ...And now I have to write two more in 15 days, and I have almost no work done on either of them. [Resuming regularly-scheduled puking into a bucket.]
But as always, grad school is best measured in small victories. And the fact that I got a seminar paper done, it didn't suck really bad, I kinda liked the topic, and it was reasonably within the page count (that's usually a huge problem for me)--that, friends, is what we call a minor triumph. However, handing it in today was highly anticlimactic. The professor's "Thanks" followed by setting it on her desk was a real pin in my delirious balloon of giddiness. Also a downer was then going right back to the library to collect books for my next one. And then thinking of the horrifying possibility that I could actually get a paper back while I'm still writing other ones. Shudder. Nothing like a prof's scrawled "what are you even doing in grad school" to keep your confidence up in the darkest depths of finals week.
But we all know professors aren't that on the ball. I will probably never see the paper again. The much more likely but equally unfortunate scenario I thought of is that she will now think I turned it in early because I think it's perfect. That there's no point keeping it for ten more days, because even given that amount of time, I could find nothing wrong with my work. And this, of course, will inspire my professor to scoff loudly and set about proving me wrong. See, if you turn it in the day it's due, and there's a crap-load wrong with it, you get the benefit of the doubt that you know what that crap-load is, you just didn't have time to fix it. Oh well. It's in, and I'm moving on.
Wilkie Collins, Duleep Singh, and the anxieties of the colonial body, here I come. Hooray..?
Oh, and: 7 more inches of snow last night. If you're keeping track, we've got a solid 10 on the ground right now, according to the local news, with a couple more coming tomorrow. Current temp: 0, feels like 0. If you're going to be miserable, you might as well be miserable in a meat locker, that's what I say!
02 December 2007
I get to bitch because I don't plan on doing anything about it... that's how it works, right?
If I had forgotten how bad snow removal in Madison is, it's all flooding back now. After this weekend's three-inch snowfall, the major roads are sort of clear, and the side roads haven't been touched. I don't really understand how, in a climate where it snows regularly, all winter, every winter, they're not ready for it. Although you couldn't really say that the plows and salt trucks (which are bad for the environment anyway--they should use sand) are behind, persay. It's not that they get caught unawares by the storm and can't keep up with it. That would be pretty pitiful anyhow, considering it only snowed three inches.
No, it's not so much an inability to deal with the snow as an unwillingness. Last night, after the storm was well over, all of the cross streets on the Isthmus were still completely white. And since there had been sleet, they were also covered in ice. The precipitation had stopped, but... were there plows out? Nope. It seems the city just decides which three major streets they're going to plow, and then they pack it it for the day. Mission accomplished! As of this morning, the bus lane on University Avenue, the major downtown campus artery, was still buried under an inch of snow and ice. And if you live on a side street, forget it, you're fucked. The people who live on the little roads going up from Gorham to Lake Mendota might have some of the prettiest houses and the nicest views, but during the most minor of snowfalls, they also live on an icy white slip-n-slide of death.
I wonder if the state thinks that Wisconsinites are just so rugged and hardy that they'll take care of it themselves. Sure, they must all have tire chains and four-wheel drive and personal plows--they're outdoorsmen! Maybe that's true in the more rural parts of the state, but here in Madison we're a bunch of crunchy, liberal, latte-drinking students. You need to plow us out! In the last twelve hours, I have seen three incapacitated vehicles, one the result of an accident, and two that had skidded into banks of snow and gotten stuck. There were policemen there helping, but not a plow within earshot. Oh, yeah, and all three of these accidents were within six blocks of my apartment.
For the love of god, people... THREE INCHES!
No, it's not so much an inability to deal with the snow as an unwillingness. Last night, after the storm was well over, all of the cross streets on the Isthmus were still completely white. And since there had been sleet, they were also covered in ice. The precipitation had stopped, but... were there plows out? Nope. It seems the city just decides which three major streets they're going to plow, and then they pack it it for the day. Mission accomplished! As of this morning, the bus lane on University Avenue, the major downtown campus artery, was still buried under an inch of snow and ice. And if you live on a side street, forget it, you're fucked. The people who live on the little roads going up from Gorham to Lake Mendota might have some of the prettiest houses and the nicest views, but during the most minor of snowfalls, they also live on an icy white slip-n-slide of death.
I wonder if the state thinks that Wisconsinites are just so rugged and hardy that they'll take care of it themselves. Sure, they must all have tire chains and four-wheel drive and personal plows--they're outdoorsmen! Maybe that's true in the more rural parts of the state, but here in Madison we're a bunch of crunchy, liberal, latte-drinking students. You need to plow us out! In the last twelve hours, I have seen three incapacitated vehicles, one the result of an accident, and two that had skidded into banks of snow and gotten stuck. There were policemen there helping, but not a plow within earshot. Oh, yeah, and all three of these accidents were within six blocks of my apartment.
For the love of god, people... THREE INCHES!
29 November 2007
Snow = :-) Cold = :-(
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.
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.
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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