Gubblebum

Two weeks ago, I returned to my Alma Mater and happened to catch a dance show. The way I put that makes it sound like I was lounging on a cruise ship somewhere in the Aegean Sea. The "dance show" was, in truth, a mid-semester professional performance choreographed by the college's dance professors and starring the department's strongest students. One of the pieces, entitled "Hot Mess", was an experiment in high-femme camp aesthetic. Featuring songs by groups like the Eurythmics--well-known for gender-bending--the dance straddled the line of female performance and the grotesque. The stand-out number for me was set to "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)".

I love Annie Lenox's performance in this video; it's basically Cabaret redux. And there's a cow. What's not to love?

Liveblog--State of the Union and Responses

2011-01-25T23:01:00.001-05:00

So I came in about 15 minutes late to the broadcast. The president was talking about Sputnik. Or maybe he wasn't, but he was saying something about how the U.S. needs to pick itself up (I hate gendering the country, so no 'herself' here) and compete in the global economy, especially against China. There was a lot of inspirational rhetoric meant to propel the American people into a fervor of competition. I'm sure we'll hear a lot of talk from Glenn Beck about how he's using communist tactics or whatever to make the U.S. a duplicate of China or Soviet Russia.

I was thrilled that Obama payed special attention to education. It worries me, as always, that the measures of "academic success" will likely depend on test scores. I'm hoping that Obama will keep the plans tailored to each individual district--hopefully, this will enable teachers to address issues of intersectionality, language, lgbt, and minority rights. Oh, and sex education. Like that's ever gonna happen, but I'm hopeful.

I was upset that Obama concluded with a nod to the myth of meritocracy. Yeah, you made it. And so did Joe Biden. And John Boehner. So what? Everyone can achieve the American Dream now? And what was all that about the military? I don't support wars based in opportunism. Well, I don't really support wars at all. But he really whitewashed that whole debate.

And is it really true that not a single person in the room would rather call another country their home? Did they conduct a poll?

And now I'm watching the Republican counteraddress. Blah, blah, blah. Actually, he had some good points at the beginning, if you're a moderate. Which I'm not. But to say that "open-ended" health-care coverage is too much is disgusting. And as for his promise to replace HCR with a cheaper, more effective solution, I say--show me. Not that I believe you.

Republicans and libertarians, it seems, care more about the theory of government than actual citizens.

OMGGGG GREECE IRELAND AHHHH WE'RE DOOOOMED

Yeah, yeah.

Blah, blah, personal responsibility, blah. That's become my least favorite phrase in the English language.

The Greatest Nation on Earth, blah.

Wait....Reaganomics helped the poor?? Bullshit. That Welfare Queen myth is never going away thanks to that man.

Oh wait, here comes Bachmann.

Tea Party apparently a force of good.

Spend, spend, spend. Failed stimulus.

HOW DOES NO ONE KNOW THAT THE STIMULUS DID NOT, IN FACT, FAIL??

Ooh, a chart!!!

Wishing she were more crazy right now. It'd be more entertaining.

Where did her Gabrielle Giffords ribbon go??

They're telling us which lightbulbs to buy!!! How did I know this would come up? Because helping the environment is un-American, you know.

World's finest healthcare? Lie.

"Obamacare"? Check.

Free-market solutions. Check.

"Obamacare". Check, again.

Highest corporate tax rate in the world? Good.

Anyone remember that this woman once said that not all cultures are equal?

"Just the creation of this nation itself was a miracle". Yeah, a miracle of Native genocide.

Can't stomach any more.

Garbo Today

2010-09-20T00:19:00.001-04:00

Garbo Today by Kitty Galore featuring a beret hat

Were Greta Garbo alive today, I wonder if her look would resemble something like this.

October 23, 1929

2010-09-19T14:19:00.001-04:00

October 23, 1929 by Kitty Galore featuring a leather handbag

A modern re-imagining of the day before the rich got poorer.

Inglourious Basterds

2010-09-12T17:16:00.000-04:00

I called my mom this afternoon to wish her a happy birthday, and to tell her about a fantastic movie I saw last night.

Our conversation went thusly:

Me: I saw this great movie last night. Inglourious Basterds.
Mom: Oh, yeah...is that the one about the goats?

...pause...

Me: No.
Mom: Does it have that little Boston guy in it?
Me: No, it's not a Matt Damon Movie. And George Clooney's not in it either.
Mom: So you're going to see this movie?
Me: I said that I saw it last night.

*both crack up*

You should definitely see this movie. It's not about goats.

It's about a small group of Jewish-American soldiers (headed by Tennessee goy Brad Pitt)--calling themselves The Basterds--who drop into Germany to "kill us some Nazis" (the 'a' in which is pronounced like the 'a' in patsy). There are explosions and lots of scalping. I couldn't really watch that part.

The stunning Ms. Laurent plays a young French-Jew who escapes the violent death that claims the rest of her family. Unbeknownst to the Basterds, Melanie has her own plans for killing Nazis...but I won't give you anymore information about that.

I couldn't help but notice that her costume here references what the title character of Fassbinder's The Marriage of Maria Braun wears at one point in that film. That sounds really vague, but knowing Tarantino, it was probably a reference.

But don't go just to see Laurent and Pitt. Go to see this guy.

This is Christoff Waltz, and he is unbelievable. Hard to believe that his role as a Nazi detective and commander was almost played by THIS guy:

Yup. Almost. Then Tarantino decided to go with a native German actor.

You know what, if I hadn't seen Waltz's performance I might be able to see DiCaprio in the role. I think he could pull it off. But never, never, NEVER with the madness, cruelty, and yet the almost-sweetness that Waltz brought to the role.

If you don't see it, I'll never know, but please do. For your own enrichment.

New Semester, New Outfits

2010-08-31T15:07:00.000-04:00

The first week or so of school I dress really well. The rest of the year I just go to class and have dreams about forgetting to put on a shirt.

See my Brita filter behind me? Yeah, I'm being really good this year.

I've also been reading a lot of Nylon recently. This is a good thing and a bad thing, and if you see the cover, you'll know why.

It's a fashion magazine that basically combines the good and the evil sides of Dov Charney--the solid, innovative fashion spreads with well-made garments on the one hand, and ridiculous Hollywood pandering on the other. And racism.

If I edited Nylon, I'd keep all the great fashion stories and interviews, but feature up-and-comers instead of overplayed celebs like Lohan or Paris. I'd feature people who DO shit. And readers write in asking for a Green Issue--great idea--featuring Natalie Portman--yeah, cause THAT'D be fresh and interesting. I still haven't forgiven the rape-apologist for signing that Free Polanski petition (you too, Woody. Though I can't say I was surprised.)

So much of Nylon IS fresh and interesting; I wish they didn't rely on overexposed celebs, trends, and skinny white people.

Bromances are old news

2010-08-25T08:02:00.000-04:00

I stayed up late last night sipping hot cocoa and watching Flesh and the Devil, a silent classic starring Greta Garbo and John Gilbert.

People who haven't seen a silent film before have this strange idea that they're, well, silent. In fact, silent movies were meant to be shown with a score, played live at the theater. The result of me watching this, of course, was that my mom--who had been on the computer--was unaware that I was watching a movie until I was a third of the way through it.

There are three great things about this movie.

1. Garbo, obviously. She looks like she's swallowed a lightbulb. In a good way.

2. What Garbo is wearing.

I love everything about this outfit: the soft collar, the rose, the silk headband in her ridiculously perfect hair...

Tell me you don't want this. Go ahead, try.

This makes me wish people would wear hats more often. And although I'm against wearing fur, I do have to admit it looks great and is probably quite warm (it's obvious watching the film that much of it was actually shot outside, in deep snowdrifts.)

3. the healthy man-love

It's really odd to think now that this film, which has more homoerotic content than I Love You, Philip Morris, chooses as its moral champion the relationship between the two men while punishing the wayward, sexually charged woman--perfect adherence to the Hayes Code . Films celebrating male friendship are hardly revolutionary, but it's unusual--at least, by today's standards--to see a film celebrate two men being so handsy with each other, unconcerned with upholding the gruffness of masculinity.

But, you know, make the sexuality OVERT and we have GRAPHIC GAY SEX, just like in I Love You, Philip Morris, which has exactly...zero scenes of graphic gay sex, but you wouldn't know from the movie being banned in the U.S., would you?

Seriously, though, take Garbo out and you'd have slash fiction.

You should watch the movie. There are Swedes in it. And as you know, Sweden is a synonym for 'awesome'.

New Blog!

2010-06-21T23:11:00.000-04:00

Are you sick of logging on to Blogger only to see the pages of Gubblebum once again without an update to its name? I know I am--and I'm laboring under the likely mistaken view that you are, too.

If any of you masochists are still there, through the months of sporadic updates, hear me now. I have committed myself--gasp!--to a miniproject called Fox News: My Week With Real America that examines the cray cray that is the home of Fair and Balanced through a feminist lens.

Please visit! Oh, and I only have one follower right now, and you know who that is?

My mom.

Please, guys. Step it up!

2010-03-24T19:55:00.000-04:00

1. What is your current obsession?

Trying to figure out if "queer" and "marriage" are--or should be--mutually exclusive. I never thought about it before I read a fascinating article critiquing marriage from a feminist perspective that questioned whether queers--or any progressive, really--should buy into marriage. Considering marriage is a fundamentally conservative institution that originated as a means to transport a woman as property from one family to the next, I'm not so sure. I still support the fight for gay marriage, though--if straights can marry, why the fuck can't everyone? Just think we need to examine marriage a little bit more closely and see if we can queer it from the inside. That would be AWESOME.

2. What is your weirdest obsession?

FAT BEBEHS. Wanting children, especially fat babies, totally should contradict my espousal of feminism. And yet, I choose to believe that it doesn't. I do, and always will, love fat bebehs.

3. What do you see outside your window?

The cripplingly white stretch of fabric that's the window shade. It' terrifying.

4. What is your favourite colour?

Yellow. Always yellow. I can't dominate yellow.

5. What is your weakness?

If I told you, you'd have to kill me. Or you'd be able to, anyway. You think Achilles TOLD everyone about his heel?

Okay, I'll bite. I'm too proud. I crumble when anyone or anything insinuates I may not be as smart as I think I am.

6. What animal would you be?

I think that's pretty obvious to anyone who knows me, so I'll just not say it.

7. What would you like to learn how to do?

Speak Danish, for fuck's sake!

8. What do you want to never happen in life?

I don't want Thomas or Maddie or my parents taken away from me in some horrible accident. That would break me. Something sudden, and too soon.

9. What is on your bedside table?

Real Simple magazine (I still can't STAND the grammatical error in that title), my bio textbook, and my alarm clock. And the biggest crate of vitamins you've ever seen in your life.
10. What's the last thing you bought?

11. What do you think about the person that tagged you?

BITCH.

No, she's one of my favorite people in the world and my best friend. I guess we're both awesome bitches, though. I mean, really.

12. What was your favourite children's book?

Harry Potter. Which is sort of embarrasing now, because it's not great literature. But it was my favorite.

13. Who do you want to meet in person?

Joan Jett, Frida Kahlo, Gloria Steinem.

14. What did you want to be as a child?

A writer/singer/ballerina.

15. What did you dream about last night?

Oh fuck that shit was messed up. There were all these different countries I kept flying to in hot air balloons, and it was the victorian times, and I landed in an ancient Aztec garden--which was also a university?

16. Which do you prefer, day or night?

Night. I'm by myself, I can do whatever I want, and it's like time stops because there are no interruptions.

17. What's your favourite piece of clothing in your closet?

My vintage cowboy boots I got for $3 at Goodwill. Most comfortable shoes that aren't sneakers I've ever bought.

18. What's your plan for tomorrow?

My dream plan would be to write a novel and get a job at Bitch magazine. But I'll more likely end up going to class and reading Jezebel.

19. What would you like to get your hands on right now?

THOMAS. I shouldn't say any more or I won't be able to stop myself.

20. What is your must have of the moment?

Sleep, the must have of every moment of my day.

21. What's your favourite tea flavour?

Jasmine white tea from the royal tea shop in Copenhagen.

22. If you could go anywhere is the world right now, where would you go?

To Denmark. If I wasn't legally prohibited from entering the country until July, I would be on a plane SO FAST.

Fish in Aquariums Apparently a Shock to Some

2010-03-24T19:32:00.000-04:00

I was in the library yesterday, and I passed a stack of New York Times newspapers. The science section was posed unflatteringly on top, as though it had been dropped from a great height, possibly by a humanities-minded student. The headline said, "Are Aquariums Getting Too Lifelike?"

I stopped. I was on my way to class, and I stopped, because these words pierced my brain with a sentiment that cannot be ignored. The sentiment, of course, being WHAT THE FUCK?!?

TOO LIFELIKE. And they're saying this about a place that, um, by definition, is populated by MARINE LIFE.

Only one conclusion can be drawn--they want to KILL our FISH! Oh my GOD! MY FREEEEEDOMSSSSS!

Why I'm a Feminist--gay rights edition

2010-02-07T22:49:00.001-05:00

Not that anyone's still reading this blog, but I thought I'd blog a bit about a question I get asked a lot. Why are you a feminist?

It appears that most people think we're living in a post-feminist world. Take a look at the writings I've compiled the past few days from the internet (I know, I know, where only nice things are said and all that) and tell me if you still think that's true.

The wonderful people at The Daily What posted this hilarious satire on the gay marriage debate. Read it, and then keep scrolling for some of the...informative comments it received.

12 Reasons Why Gay Marriage Should Be Illegal

1. Homosexuality is not natural, much like eyeglasses, polyester, and birth control.

2. Heterosexual marriages are valid because they produce children. Infertile couples and old people can’t legally get married because the world needs more children.

3. Obviously, gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.

4. Straight marriage will be less meaningful if gay marriage is allowed, since Britney Spears’ 55-hour just-for-fun marriage was meaningful.

5. Heterosexual marriage has been around a long time and hasn’t changed at all; women are property, blacks can’t marry whites, and divorce is illegal.

6. Gay marriage should be decided by people, not the courts, because the majority-elected legislatures, not courts, have historically protected the rights of the minorities.

7. Gay marriage is not supported by religion. In a theocracy like ours, the values of one religion are imposed on the entire country. That’s why we have only one religion in America.

8. Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay, in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.

9. Legalizing gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behavior. People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.

10. Children can never succeed without a male and a female role model at home. That’s why single parents are forbidden to raise children.

11. Gay marriage will change the foundation of society. Heterosexual marriage has been around for a long time, and we could never adapt to new social norms because we haven’t adapted to things like cars or longer life-spans.

12. Civil unions, providing most of the same benefits as marriage with a different name are better, because a “separate but equal” institution is always constitutional. Separate schools for African-Americans worked just as well as separate marriages for gays and lesbians will.

Comments:

Inpachi
God i just dont get what is so bad about renaming it to something that isnt marriage.. The fact of the matter is Marriage is a primarily RELIGIOUS THING the Legal Benifits are just a +! If your not religious why do you NEED SO BADLY to call it marriage? In my opinion gays are going through all this crap just because they can.. The same way Blacks parade around saying "were not equal" blablabal but in reality they just wanna be more than equal they wanna be higher up than any other race in the US.. And you know they kill Gays in other country's? I dare for the gays in the US to go to another country and try what they do here! I bet they wont last 2 days! Just because America is Free people try abuse it.. To further there own stupid ideals.. Then again America sucks now anyways.. SO screw it do what you want with this lifeless corpse we call a country..

I have nothing against gays i just dont like it in the ass.. So i prefer to not take it in the ass.. Its as simple as that.. And i disagree with the whole babys thing.. I think we outta start killing each other more.. Look at the global population problem.. And its all because of medical advancement..

Jamaal
After rereading inpachi's post I realized I glazed over his/her "black people" comment. Pardon me. I still wouldn't say that was racist though. He/she was pointing out a common occurence that some, if not most, African Americans want "extra unearned" equality. Cough, cough reparations, cough... Although we already all are equal, even to the point that it goes beyond being equal, some want more. I can't remember the last time a White American Scholarship fund award was given to a white high school student. I also can't recall what Jesse Jackson or Al Sharpton are doing to help the N.A.A.W.P..
You know the national association for the advancement of white people. Of course that would be racist, an organization to help out white people. For an eye opener from a smart black man on what I'm getting at, try Googling Bill Cosby:We Cannot Blame the White People any Longer.

I believe inpachi was on to something he/she just didn't express it properly. White people in the U.S., especially white males, are demonized these days too much.

EDITOR'S NOTE: You read that right. White males are demonized way too much. Poor white men, all those privileges must be exhausting!

(After a woman's insightful comment about how beastiality does not equal gay sex)

Don't be so smug, bitch. Judging by your overbearing attitude here you don't have long with him [Ed: she mentioned her husband]. If he hasn't figured it out by now, he will soon. You will soon become one of the divorce statistics all the fag lovers in here whine about.

I pointed out that he felt threatened, and the woman said,

I agree with Kat--you're clearly threatened by the idea of an intelligent woman, much less a straight woman who sides with the queers you smear, so you resort to silly little ad hominem attacks in order to bolster your precious ego.

He replied--
Again....Don't flatter yourself. You yourself saying: "The idea of an intelligent woman" = pretentious bitch. An extensive vocabulary doesn't equate intelligence. That's only a piece of the puzzle. Your (principle of what's right or wrong)puzzle pieces are clearly lacking. You are so outwardly liberal that it's clear who you voted for last year. Nice intelligent vote for that guy. Your kind are what's running this Country into the dirt. Of course by dirt I mean a no respect, immoral, unruly, pile of steaming shit.

Battle of wits? Is that what you call defending the actions of people who succumb to their lusts of immoral behavior?

I said--

Lust of immoral behavior? What you've posted clearly displays YOUR lust for immoral behavior--attacking the RIGHTS of a group of people who deserve to have them. If anyone should be prevented from getting married, it's people like you, with your fucking pretentious morality bullshit. If you've read the constitution--hell, if you've taken a history class--you should know that this country was founded on freedom.

Freedom to say whatever you want, and to do whatever you want, as long as it doesn't harm others. That's kinda what the first amendment is about. Christianity is not our national religion. We don't have a national moral code separate from the law.

It's conservatives like you who are running this country into the ground--I bet you're one of those tea party idiots. Well, if you really want this country to live up to the freedom it supposedly stands for, don't force YOUR morals on the rest of us. INDIVIDUAL RIGHTS. Mean anything? Gay people are not harming you. Any self-respecting queer wouldn't come near you, you sack of shit.

Waiting for him to reply. Funny, I have yet to hear any COMPELLING evidence as to why gay marriage shouldn't be allowed.

For the whole list, and comments, click here.

Be sure to look for the guy who stole my username and is posing as me to talk about chicken sex.

Muhlenberg's Underground Music Scene

2010-02-07T00:29:00.001-05:00

Just got back from a rockin' evening at The Red Door. Saw a musical act that was absolutely inspirational. You know those times when you're going along, kind of wanting to do SOMETHING but not really putting much effort into it, and then something or someone HITS you and you KNOW, just KNOW that you're jumping alive and into something and never going back?

Well, I got all that tonight. From a hip-hop collective.

Dan McGee, AKA Albert Rhymestein, and Ryan Acquaotta took the stage as hip-hop duo Masters of the Universe. They were backed up by the fantastic DJ Loose (Pat Cunning). The duo are alumni of Muhlenberg College, and they are going places.

It's about time hip hop met politically-conscious slam poetry, and these guys blend the traditions as though they had never been apart. They shout about gay rights, multiculturalism, art, and peace. They're ecstatic and furious, sometimes simultaneously. It was an invigorating performance, and I encourage you to check them out here and here, where you can check out their song"Elder Blossoms".

I suppose that, while we're on the topic of Muhlenberg bands, I should give a shout out to my fellow film studies major Hugh Trimble and his band Neighbor Poem, which sounds like a cross between Ra Ra Riot and Crosby, Stills, and Nash. I recommend listening to "Adam Stain".

So, I guess I'm going to get my ass moving. Who knows, maybe I'll start rapping myself. That would be...unexpected.

Five Paragraphs

2010-01-26T13:15:00.000-05:00

I always capitalize Writer’s Block. It’s just out of respect. You would think that the master craftsmen of the literary vernacular could have come up with something more suitable. Writer’s Block doesn’t even begin to cover it. Try Writer’s Nausea, or Writer’s Sense of Inevitable Doom. A block is the red wooden cube I selected to crown my Lego castle when I was nine. A block is an engorged mucus blob in your nasal passages. A block is mundane.

I can’t remember the point of entry. There was a before, and there was an after. In the before, I thought Writer’s Block was the dull sinewy ache I felt after practicing my cursive in second grade. Maybe Writer’s Block is like driving on US Route 684—you don’t remember how you got there, and you sure as hell don’t know how you’re going to exit to the left in the next 500 feet. Before, writing was just something I did. I wrote before I knew what writing was. One day, some day, I found out there were rules. I think it was the sandwich model, which later turned out to be the five paragraph essay. We were introduced to our new galactic overlord, the thesis statement. And then I guess it was over.

Wrapped up in this wet blanket was the idea that I was just doing it wrong. What I might have been doing wrong, I wasn’t entirely sure. My essays and papers and stories were met with good grades even after the birth of the five paragraph military dictatorship. Nevertheless, I was curious as to just what kind of alchemy was going on behind the closed screens of my classmates’ laptops. How many of them wrote an outline? Who knew their character arcs prior to the first draft? What is a character arc? Writing couldn’t just be watching my fingers play freestyle DDR for two to four hours as my paper appeared word by word in Times New Roman.

In order to accommodate longer written works, my writing style shifted in college. My paper ideas leaked all over my notebooks. It was a form of planning, and it was about as organized as my dorm room in the middle of move-in. The first paper forced its way out of me when, after several nights of panic and self-doubt, I threw down a few sentences as gingerly as if I were walking along a precipice. There it was, the thesis. The film Now, Voyager, which purports to reveal a more authentic woman in Charlotte Vale after her makeover, falls instead into regressive consumerist propaganda while reaffirming the aspirations of her male compatriot. The next paragraph was a bit more natural, and then it was like I had broken through a wall. I was writing about the ivory boxes Charlotte carved, and how they were manifestations of her authority and authenticity. I went into a writing trance, strung along by a growing euphoria I couldn’t begin to understand. The paper finished itself.

Writing has, since then, been one part blissful reward and three parts pure, unadulterated agony, each impossible to forsee. I am convinced that the ‘creative’ in creative writing is in fact a euphemism for the lengths I’ll go to make the words perform up to assignment standards. And I may be delusional—and I think you must be if you do this sort of thing for fun—but I’m not ready to give up. I don’t want to think about where I would reroute the buckets of energy I’m throwing at my Writer’s Block. Besides, Writer’s Block, once neglected, becomes lowercase writer’s block. And no one wants a neurosis with an inferiority complex.

The Flame

2009-12-27T17:16:00.000-05:00

Being at home during the holidays is an exercise in futility. My days disappear in slipped stitches of late mornings and unscheduled afternoons. You know how you can never do anything after one PM on those days, and when you get up at eleven, it's already too late. I'm hardly lacking in things to do; on the contrary, I should be hard at work on a screenplay this very minute, or writing thank-you notes, or writing a condolence card for one of my favorite professors. Instead, I spend the morning reading, the afternoon lounging, and the evening watching movies. I drape myself over the day. In this way, I am always out of time. I am too busy to see friends, to work on the second issue of my film magazine, or to write angry letters to the editor about how much I hate Robert P. George.

I want to read each delectable book on my shelf at the same time, so I end up reading nothing but Jezebel and facebook. It's pathetic. My Danish teacher told me, "Americans just want everything at ONCE, don't you?" She's right. And by virtue of my desire to digest without chewing first, I end up learning nothing except how fast the holidays can go. If I am to keep my promise to myself and my readers--that is, my promise of WORKING to support basic human rights and progressive values--I really have to--

I was about to write "stop talking and DO something." But that's not entirely true. My talking by way of writing is meaningful in some respects. I hope that it has inspired someone out there to start talking, too.

Forgive the soapbox. I suspect I'll soon return to my standard writing voice, albeit with more of a conscious motive. Comments, as always, are welcome, along with suggestions.

Spark

2009-12-26T18:02:00.000-05:00

Okay, I'm in a terrible mood right now. Know why? Because I keep reading things about my country that would just never fly in Denmark. Two women who are married in California have to suffer through a status shift every time they cross state lines. Denmark was the first nation to legalize gay marriage, in 1989. Then I read about some women bloggers chastising new mothers for not spending enough time with their children when they KNOW that the US doesn't mandate maternity leave, nevermind paid maternity leave. Denmark does.

The kicker was reading an old New York Times Magazine article on Robert P. George, "a Princeton University professor of jurisprudence and a Roman Catholic who is this country's most influential conservative Christian thinker", according to the magazine. He's the reason stem-cell research is still illegal. He's the reason my gay friends can't get married. I'm sure if it were 1864, he'd be against the black vote as well. FUCK that. I'm sorry. I'm just sickened more and more by the egregious civil rights abuses passed off as "moral codes" in this supposedly free country. Glenn Beck, Karl Rove, and Antonin Scalia, three of the world's most horrible human beings, are big fans of his.

I hate stupid conservatives. But I hate smart ones even more, because really, they should know better--and likely do, which infuriates me as I see them using their influence (with the help of buzzwords like "socialist", "traditional marriage" and "Un-American") to draw a fevered following. It's disgusting. It's immoral, and I won't stand for it any longer. Let's all do what we do best and channel our energies into action. If you write, write progressively. If you make art, paint progressively. Work loudly, or work quietly, but please please PLEASE work.

insert band here

2009-09-02T12:40:00.001-04:00

Every time I think of a name for my band (read: me, five lines of lyrics, and garageband), it's already in use, according to google.

My first attempt was Runaway Suitcase, which I believed encapsulated both an escape from daily life and the contradictory desire to hold onto something familiar.

Then I found the page of a Christian Rock band--The Runaway Suitcases.

Skip ahead one month--today I was doing my homework/napping/listening to music (I am a serious multitasker) and I thought suddenly of the name Nonprophet

Of course it's already an atheist radio show, AND a band. So shit.

I'm still thinking, but if any suggestions come to me through teh interwebs, I would give you credit on the album or mention you in a song or something. Just keep in mind that probably no one will ever listen to it.

Oh, and the post title? That's taken, too.

Problem Solved

2009-08-29T08:48:00.002-04:00

I just posted something. So there.

A Vague Apology

2009-08-29T08:30:00.000-04:00

Here's a secret: I haven't posted anything on The Kitten Sandwich, my Danish blog.

That's not such a secret, I guess, if you've been checking it. But it's not for lack of trying. See, I'm limited by this things called "guidelines" and trying to find the right balance between deep and sad (and maybe a little depressing) and quirky and happy. In other words, I don't want to come off like I'm either on too much or too little Prozac.

The other thing is that I have to write, in great detail, about what I've been doing. I'm not so into that. As you know, I mainly write about stuff that's been on my mind/weird dreams I've had/brief anecdotes.

And the truth is, I'm kind of in hermit mode at the moment. I don't really want to leave my room, I'm slightly intimidated all the Danes in my kitchen (I never thought I'd write a sentence like that), and yeah, I'm a bit homesick. I blame it all on my comfortable bed, which I never want to leave.

Yesterday, I took a nap that turned into a three-hour energy gestation period that caused me to miss the boat trip and subsequent party that we new students were invited to.

BUT I DIDN'T DIE!!!!

I'm not a crazy person, I just remember what happened to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Grrrls and Guitars

2009-08-11T22:56:00.004-04:00

Ever thought about starting a band? I'm pretty upset I didn't hear about Willie Mae Ladies' Rock Camp in Brooklyn until two weeks after it was over. I live, like, ten minutes from Brooklyn, and it was on a weekend. I totally could have made it.

But I didn't. And I still hear songs on my constant 8tracks.com stream (BitchTapes channel, sponsored by Bitch magazine, aka my dream job) and dream about forming my own little band with my own little friends and making my own little indie sounds.

Then I remember my innate instinct to throttle anyone who tries to collaborate on lyrics or melody. Maybe I'd better stick to myself. So a few weeks ago I birthed a band with the aid of pure narcissism. Isn't that so twee?

I can't tell you anything else about it for fear of copycats, but I will say that I've composed a melody and the words to exactly one verse. I've been at least a little productive, which is more than I can say for the freak nutjobs who mobbed Arlen Spector yesterday.

Seriously, though. Death Panels? Has anyone actually READ the Life Counseling Clause?

In other news, who noticed my new cornify button on the sidebar? Click it, I dare you.

Train

2009-07-27T19:21:00.002-04:00

3:34

Pull my body up, slip from behind the seat in the shadowed train car. Wanting to be the first person out so I can run to the subway so I can run to the most important meeting of my life. Can't run, my feet are scissored by these old gold shoes that carried me to prom five years ago. Waiting for the train to stop, looking at the watch-face of the elegant yet nondescript woman next to me. She sees something on my bag, points. "Is this true?"

I stare. "What?"

She points again to my bag, this time at the button, which reads "I've Found Jesus!" and, in smaller print, "He was behind the sofa the whole time".

"I'm not religious. It's a...joke," I try to explain, silently willing her to notice the small print before I am forced to explain for the entire car.

All the fervor sweeps out of her. "Oh, that's too bad. For you. That's too bad for you."

I stare at my feet and bite back an "excuse me?"

I then scuttle to work, sliding around in my slippery shoes, wondering why my religious preferences matter to people like this. I appreciate their concern and all, but couldn't it be better directed at something that actually needs it? Like poverty?

My Sister Holly

2009-07-12T16:35:00.002-04:00

Did you know there was about a thirty percent chance I would be triplets? I never had siblings, so just the idea that some people had sisters was, to me, akin to the idea that some people attend Hogwarts. Namely, impossible but wonderful-sounding.

When the nurse wheeled my mom out of the hospital, she whispered frantically in her ear: "You can still try for the next one, but make it soon. Try soon, or it'll be too late." You know, kind of like how we're combatting global warming.

My exhausted parents didn't try again. I don't have a sister named Holly, but I could have. My Mom has said it was a potential name for another girl. Maybe she'd even have math skills.

Maybe she would've persuaded our mom to put real ants in my ant farm. Then again, she might have let them loose over the whole house.

And then I think how much our lives would be different. We'd spin tales around each other, laughing through shadows, singing long into the night.

Yes, I was out until 4 AM

2009-06-28T14:55:00.001-04:00

"Hi, I'm Kaya Oakes," I proffered, my hand shooting into my plastic handbag. "I wrote...not this," for I was about to show the bouncer The Serpent and the Rainbow: A Harvard Scientist's Astonishing Journey Into the Secret Societies of Hatian Voodoo, Zombis, and Magic, "this book on the development and permeation of Indie Culture from its roots in Portland to the rest of the nation."

The bouncer, a soft butch with parallel piercings in her nose and lip, didn't look at my hand, which now held a copy of Slanted and Enchanted: The Evolution of Indie Culture. "Yes, and while I respect that, it's Pride weekend and no one without proof of age can come inside this bar."

"That's too bad," said Kim, "We're doing marketing research."

"Thank you for your time," I told the woman.

We walked away, towards the west. "See? I'm not drunk," I told them.

"That was a woman?" Kim said, turning it lightly with her tongue into a question.

"That was a woman," Keenen clarified.

We now had a vast array of potential facebook album titles, the sources for which had emerged earlier in the evening, when we were at our third dining establishment. "Mush," Kim said, as she mashed the remains of her flourless chocolate torte into the blue clay dish. Soon after that was "My butt is actually a sphere,"--which referred to Keenen's potential list of excuses should he end up crashing that night with a gay man from a bar-- and now there was, "Hi, I'm Kaya Oakes."

They strode through St. Mark's square, leaving me to jog after them. Damn them skinny people. They get everything, and I get a muffin top.

"Fuckin' puddles," said a trashed guy behind us, "They don't have puddles in Jersey."

"They don't have SHIT in Jersey," said his friend, "FUCK Jersey."

"Hey, do you know how to get to the PATH trains," the first one asked me.

"The what?" Said Kim.

"The PATH trains," I repeated.

"What?"

"Jersey," he said, "sucks. You're not from Jersey, are you?"

"No," I said.

"I know a lot of nice people from New Jersey," Kim told him.

He softened. "Yeah, we're just trying to get home."

I tried to tell him he needed to get to fourteenth street, but Kim was telling him to go to Port Authority and eventually Keenen took over and if they hadn't been so drunk I'm sure they would've been fine. As it was, we can only hope for the best.

"Good luck, Nate," said Kim.

"Shit," said the other, "How do you know his name?"

Kim began waving her arns, half indignant and half drunk. "Because you said it, guy-in-red-shirt!"

I think he's probably still confused about that. But they said bye, and Kim shouted "See ya, Nate," when we were about a hundred feet away and everything was fine.

10

2009-06-25T21:44:00.002-04:00

10 Things NOT to do when in Manhattan:

1) Walk in puddles. The sky doesn't rain as often as dogs do.

2) Stand shoulder-to-shoulder on the escalator. You will spend the three minute ride trying not to cause a domino effect as you stand on one foot to allow people to pass.

3) Leave an open box of protein bars in an open suitcase on the floor of your apartment. You will hear a *nom nom* right as you're dropping off to sleep. ROUS? I believe they exist.

4) Wait until you're in front of the turnstile before you look for your metrocard. If you do this, you will be faced with a homeless man begging your bemused coworker, who has already swiped through, to open the emergency gate and let him in. She'll look a little freaked out, but you'll keep rummaging through your purse until the homeless man somehow manages to open the gate and you sneak in behind him.

5) Accept wine from art galleries at 9:35 PM on a Thursday night. You will wake up late to work by half an hour.

6) Sneak into Otto's Shrunken Head, even though the sign on the door clearly forbids entry to those under twenty one. Get thrown out, and sneak in again half an hour later with a tambourine. Get thrown out again.

7) Get roped into setting up a conference call. You will be on the phone with sprint for twenty minutes trying to tell them it doesn't matter to you if callers are announced with a short dial tone or a long one.

8) Try to eat a dosa using just your hands.

9) Attempt to start a conversation with your coworker about how you tried to cut paper but "that thing....you know, the thing" *waves hands like spastic robot* it...well, you know..."

10) Write a list like this.

Observations

2009-05-27T22:14:00.002-04:00

Things I have encountered in my Manhattan neighborhood this week:

An old man peeing in the street, behind a car.

A woman pointing at an oversized universal remote and asking me "what the hell is this?"

An edition of the magazine House and Country that managed to obscure with models and borders precisely the wrong three letters.

In other news, it bothers me that the words gluten and glutton are so perversely similar.

Lady Godiva, children at your feet

2009-05-19T01:11:00.002-04:00

Ever wonder about something your whole life and never really bother to look it up until it looks you up first? Yeah, so Lady Godiva --whose real name was the less-than-luscious Godgifu--was actually some greedy guy's wife who rode naked on a horse because her husband joked that he'd reduce taxes on his townsmen if she did so. That's pretty kickin', but completely ruins my former conception.

Naked Women + chocolate = HIGH FIVE!

Thanks, Laurel Thatcher Ulrich. Thanks a lot. Also, why did you make it so cold today. WHY, Laurel Thatcher Ulrich?!?

High Intelligence

2009-05-17T20:44:00.002-04:00

Don't you hate when you type a URL the length of a tapeworm and hit enter, only to learn you ended it in .coom?

Now every time I try to visit the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, I'll end up at the google help desk.

So yesterday, I saw the movie I Love You, Man and felt that Paul Rudd's character is a lot like me. This is no egotistical boast, as anyone who has seen the film can tell you. You see, his character is also accustomed to making up ridiculous words in lieu of sounding deliciously intelligent. Yesterday, for example, I was ruminating on how thick and clumsy I felt my first week of intensive dance classes two years ago. I told my mom--of course it was my mom--sleepily that I felt like a trinoceros.

Which must be nothing other than the love child of a triceratops and a rhinoceros, right? Ugh.

Talking Guy

2009-04-20T13:09:00.003-04:00

Okay, what is it with older guys talking to themselves? I'm in the library, checking my email, and for like the fifth time this week, I hear a man say, "oh, boy" to no one in particular. Later he says, "oh, crap". That's when I decided to write this post.

Wait! I just heard another man sigh audibly! Why is this an old guy phenomenon? And waiting on the train platform last summer the same old man would come by every day and say "oh, what a day, oh boy oh boy oh boy what a day." It's as if they have to convince themselves they're still alive or something.

Coughing Guy

2009-04-18T21:37:00.002-04:00

Those of you who know me in "real life" (tm) are aware that since I moved across campus I have been plagued by Coughing Guy--an unidentified resident who stands outside my window day and night intermittently and lets loose. His superior disguise mechanisms have made it impossible to identify him--until tonight.

I was walking back from dinner when I heard it--that infernal result of a ruptured lung. I froze, and scanned the quad. I saw a man in the distance, walking towards the dorm, and I hurried to catch up with him. I had seen him before; he's about my age with a premature bald spot. Lovely.

So he walks up the stairs, and I crouch in the stairwell, and I hear it again. It definitely emitted from his mouth. I have identified the perpetrator.

There has never been any mystery surrounding Burping Girl, though. She's my roommate.

Primetime

2009-02-12T15:14:00.004-05:00

First off let me just say that the level of wind on this campus right now is literally gale force. I've been blown!

away.

Um. So I went to Kate's house yesterday at 7 because I wanted to surprise her...she had just finished a paper, and wasn't answering my calls, so I popped in unannounced, only to remember that she was in class. So I waited on the couch for her to come back.

I later learned that she stood for some time outside my dorm window, wondering if I was in my room, so hiding in her house wasn't so creepy in comparison. When she came back she said she'd already told a friend she'd visit, so I waited on the couch until she got back again, at 11. Yeah. During her outing, I spent quality time with my ipod (or ipood as we like to call it) and my closed eyelids. After sleeping for a couple hours, I turned on the tellie and caught the end of Tool Academy (which is all sorts of awesome) and back-to-back episodes of The Girls Next Door!

Shut up, I was tired.

I learned that some people consider the girls "good role models". A mother brought her daughter, who had just turned 18, to the mansion for a surprise. It was all sorts of creepy, and they were all like, don't leave her alone with Hef, she's legal! And I was all like, even if she wasn't...But anyway, then the girls went to a spa for mother's day with their moms and grandmas, and every three minutes one of them would say "It's so great that three generations of women can spend this day together!"

Then they went to New Orleans and flashed everyone and Bridget was really excited when they hosed down the street and she said "It smells like...lemon! That's really cool." And then Kendra was really sad that no one could see her boob job because she was sick. And they had this charity ball or whatever, but all they wanted to do was "go to the REAL party tomorrow!" They are role models, people. ROLE MODELS.

As for the picture, it's the least slutty one I could find. I don't want to get thrown out of the library on pornography charges, not in this wind.

Earth being born

2009-02-02T16:26:00.002-05:00

The delightful forty degree weather allowed me to spurn my unzippable fluffy winter coat (see Coat Saga) in favor of my navy coat with four gold buttons. There should be six, but my jackets hate me.

Anyway, I was walking outside and smelled what struck me as a kind of mulchy smell. Like spring. I couldn't really put my finger on it, but I'm going to call it the Spring Lump for now, because the air was really heavy with it.

And that was my day.

Beer Man

2009-02-01T19:12:00.004-05:00

The first train trip home was blemished by the presence of a beer-drinking white boy, whose idea of fun involved calling each of his friends and complaining about his bitch of an ex girlfriend who apparently told her parents he was hitting her. The guy said it was bullshit, but he also called his friends "my man" and "homie". Ghetto: ur doin it rong.

The second train trip home featured the delightful presence of a beer-drinking white MAN, who growled periodically in my direction and informed me I was not Marilyn Monroe. If he had his way, he'd jettison his body 4,000 feet into the air.

Sandwiched between aforementioned trips was NYC.

Kate, who interned at the Museum of the Moving Image last summer, got us free tickets into MoMA, where we sat, entranced, looking at "Pour Your Body Out".

The video projection covered three of MoMA's twenty-foot-high walls; the above photo belies how insect-like I felt sitting next to it. Highly saturated with a focus on nature and the close up, the shots dissolved easily into one another and were accompanied by a vocal/electronic soundtrack that captured both the familiarity and foreign nature of the images.

There was a COUCH, for God's sake! People took off their shoes and dove in; expelling smells of sock and oily hair into the protesting air.

We hopped through the photography and painting galleries, where I saw my first original Warhol (which is, itself, a kind of oxymoron. How different are the photocopies, really?)After browsing the bookstore, we disappeared into the subway system and popped up again at some vintage stores and American Apparel and Urban Outfitters, where I finally got colored tights and some new shoes.

After visiting some friends of Kate's in Queens (they had four cats and a dog!), we took the train home, and it is on that train that we encountered beer man.

Lord of the G-String

2008-12-28T22:20:00.005-05:00

I love Lord of the Rings like I love my retarded children. When the characters are not under the influence of cocaine (see any of Frodo's expressions), killing each other, or making sweet love, they are in search of a giant, flaming vagina.

My favorite parts are the audience clue-ins, like when Faramir taps on the map 1,230,980,982 times to "inform the characters of his wherabouts" or when an orc says "He'll wish he'd never have been born," to no one in particular. But nothing, and I mean NOTHING, can surpass Denathor's death for sheer ignorance of the laws of cinema, physics, and general intelligence. Denathor--or, this man--

catches the firey wrath of Gandalf and lands on his preemptive funeral pyre. After catching fire, Denathor runs the length of the castle and climbs a bunch of stairs before catapulting off the none-too-short phallic edge of a convenient cliff. This takes ten minutes and twenty eight seconds. Well, okay, more like one minute, but it stretches out during my moments of remeniscence.

As the battle storms on, twenty minutes after the death of Denathor, my friend Madeline nudges my arm and says, "What they don't realize is that Denathor's still burning. He's running to the top of Minas Tirith to jump off again".

"Actually, I believe he's still falling," I replied.

This very same Denathor dismissed Pippin from his service, telling him to die in "a manner best suiting you". Sounds like another quiz for Seventeen Magazine! Customize your perfect death in five easy steps! It'll be right next to "Burn that Fat!" and "The Perfect eyeshadow to match YOUR season!"

Oh, and the title of this post? The actual name of a movie of a certain genre (cough cough)I accidentally caught the end of on HBO when I was twelve.

Iceland will save your soul

2008-12-21T20:19:00.006-05:00

Does anyone else want to live in the J.Crew Holiday Catalogue?

It was shot in Iceland--more specifically, in Kirkjubaejarklauster--where every roof is red and Mommy and Daddy go a-boating to the nearby glacier in order to procure a Christmas tree. Or that's what it looks like at jcrew.com.

Exhausted blonde Icelandic children of murderous appearence lean against their "mothers", their heads topped with red paper crowns bordered with glitter. And even though they aren't pictured, the beaches of Iceland float above my mind. They are black sand beaches. Products of Volcanic ash. I guess I'd scowl just as much if my country were bankrupt. Oh, wait...

In which I try to say nice things about Sarah Palin

2008-10-29T22:53:00.002-04:00

I took a cue from Gawker. Here is my list:

1)

.....

Another one bites the dust

2008-10-09T17:04:00.003-04:00

Iceland has declared bankruptcy.

I couldn't believe it either. Maybe America will annex it.

Not like it hasn't happened before.

Adventures!

2008-09-26T17:00:00.003-04:00

So I was walking back from class one evening with a friend who shall remain anonymous--okay, it was Jon--and he mentioned his uneasiness at the state of the half-moon as of late.

J: It's tilted.
Me: Yeah?
J: It's TILTED.
Me: I know.
J: It's supposed to be 12 to 6, like the hands of a clock.
Me: No...
J:Global warming. We're totally screwed.
Me: No, Jon, I think it just does that...

And right about then, I heard a rustling to my right. We paused. Black, white, fluffy. Undulating along the line of bushes that borders the library.

Me: Move away, very, very, slowly.
Jon: (silence)

And that is how we didn't get sprayed by a skunk on Sunday night.

Yes, I have class on Sunday.

Tea Tree Australian Chewing Sticks

2008-09-20T02:01:00.002-04:00

With one hundred sticks, I figured I wouldn't need to buy another pack for at least a year.

They're a lot cheaper than cigarettes, you know.

Try giving free handouts. My film class is now addicted, and the Australian Tea Tree Chewing Stick is the preferred drug of filmmakers and critics in the Lehigh Valley.

Or, as a friend of mine said, "It tastes like Meth. But I've been wrong before."

Ummmm....right. So what are these sticks, exactly?

A few things they are not:

1. Chopsticks

Yeah. No.

2. Toothpicks

They kind of are, actually. Really.

3. Dietary replacements for starving nations.

4. Large Hadron Particle Collider

No. This is what they are: Tea Tree(oil of melaleuca alternifolia) Australian Chewing Sticks, aka Birchwood impregnated with Tea Tree Oil and other natural extracts.

That is a direct quote from the package. I would never make an analogy between asexual derivatives of flora and products of sexual intercourse, now would I?

Didn't think so.

Anyway, we spent my latest Women Filmmakers class masticating.

Even my professor joined in, but not before complaining that it hindered her ability to teach with focus and concentration.

The flavor is...ohhhh Godddd....explosive. In your mouth.

And now I only have fifty left.

Love Song

2008-09-18T10:58:00.002-04:00

If anyone knows the German word that is used to describe the anxious feeling you get by looking at open cabinets, let me know.

That's probably not a very semantically correct description, but it's the best I can do.

I have intended for some time now to write about my favorite love songs of the moment, so....

1) "Suzanne", by Judy Collins

This is weird in the same way that my cat liking plastic bags is weird. It's about crazy people "touching your perfect body with their minds". Yeah. Good song.

2) "Warning Sign", by Coldplay

Story of my life. Not really, I just like saying that. But it's what I play after I've suffered a breakup, or some shit like that.

3) "Mrs. Darcy", by whoever wrote the Pride and Prejudice soundtrack (I'm referring to the Focus Features film)

Or really the entire soundtrack. It's all a love song. I like to play it on the way to class, especially if I'm wearing pants tucked into leather riding boots.

4) "Let Me Take You Home Tonight", by Boston

Ok, not really a love song, per say. More like the "...in my pants" game we played when we were young teens. And still play, unabashedly, today.

5) Any of McCain's speeches

...

ummmm except not k I'm done now

Technology and Me

2008-09-17T14:26:00.003-04:00

Realatively recently, I discovered the shuffle feature hidden away in my ipod mini. Learning to use it took some smarts, as I was stuck on shuffle for about a week's time, wrenched away from the peaceful-yet-devilishly clever lyrics of "A Very Cellular Song", by The Incredible String Band, and forced into cohabitation with the jubilant white noise of Boston's "Smokin'". Anthony taught me how to turn it on and off. That was very kind of him.

There are many things I don't understand concerning the practical functions of this world.

So this shuffle device, or whatever, has become what I like to call my co-conspirator in Getting Important Things Done. Or that's what I use as justification. Anyway, it saves me from myself, in that I don't need to take twenty minutes trying to match my music to my mood. It also releases me, in effect, from a self-induced ipod samsara* so that I don't spend valuable time singing the next song before it's even begun.

Then again, are my fellow shufflers and I reducing ourselves to being controlled by a machine? I mean, we can't pick our own music. Random properties controlled via machinery picks it for us. What next, automatic career selection? Mate selection?

It frightens me sometimes, thinking about how carelessly we let our autonomy slip free of our high human grasp.

*Samsara: Sanskrit for the ties that bind a soul to the earth, exemplefied by temptations such as finery, lust, and women (yeah, patriarchy still holds sway in Goddess-worshipping societies, too). In this case, I use it to refer to an unusual depth of ipod attachment.

Sedmikrasky

2008-09-16T13:20:00.002-04:00

This image is from Vera Chytilova's brilliant 1966 film
Daisies (Sedmikrasky). Watch it, if only for the wonderful line "we're on fire!" and the subsequent banana castrations.

Watch it, and get back to me, and tell me whether I shouldn't be one of those two chicks for Halloween.

So I've been using these wax earplugs while sleeping because my suitemates cause daily avalanches with their vocal volume. I did laundry two days ago, and I found one of them in the dryer, blubbering all over my clothes. It was was just hot wax by that point. I contemplated using it as my personal seal. Anyone want it?

scholarly update

2008-09-01T17:22:00.005-04:00

My return to school has encompassed impromptu Super Smash Brawl parties (more on that later), waking up earlier than one, and living with five men.

Trust me. It's not as raunchy as it sounds. Since I've arrived, I've managed to turn my favorite bead-bedecked camisole blue. I use this lemon and poppy seed cleanser each morning, so I feel like I'm slathering myself with a bagel every time I wash my face. I've linked onto other people's wireless systems, both with and without their knowledge (okay, mostly without), and one of the only times I truly feel needed is in my film classes, where I seem to have become resident expert on fetishization, penis envy, and fears related to castration.

There is a happy picture on my door that most usefully reveals my name to all who are ignorant of those blessed words; this picture also features a photograph of a rock formation and a sign adjacent to said formation which informs us that it is a "bottomless pit. 65 feet deep". The background of the photo has been crudely juxtaposed with the word fail.

It took me a while to get that.

Another thing I didn't get at first and still don't really understand is the fact that a recent photo I took of a bunch of, um, photos turned out backwards. Is it telling that I noticed this first because my cat's patch appeared on the wrong eye and only later realized that the writing on my French film flyer was backwards too? Lauren tells me that the cause of this inversion is the position of the camera. Yeah, whatever, Lauren.

I think the reason I don't understand that is the same reason that I can't pack suitcases or play tetrus or not just suck at life.

The State of the Union

2008-07-23T20:43:00.002-04:00

A delightfully stretchy companion.

WOW that's a long elastic

2008-07-23T20:28:00.003-04:00

A jubilant mother is not an uncommon sight in our household. Here she is in her spacious loft studio, excited at my record blogging streak of TWO WHOLE DAYS!

I wanted to write about something interesting, but I've forgotten what it was, so I'll just mention that last night I dreamt about tricking my captors into swimming in an oatmeal ocean as I escaped into a conveniently located forest.

Brilliant, I know.

I wish I was one of those just intrinsically fascinating people; you know, the kind that let it slip that they are Christian scholars of the Yiddish Theater, or experts on the taxonomy of the Falkland Islands.

I think I'll try to learn Yiddish. It would be nice if my brain was hard-wired to understand space-time continuoms, metaphysics, or suitcase packing, but I'll just have to accept my mediocre understanding of such things and focus my energy on....twig dissections.

What is the title of this Boondoggle?*

2008-07-23T00:25:00.004-04:00

So I'm lazy. Sorry about that.

In addition to actually imbibing sloth itself, I have this nasty habit of blurting out (if one can blurt in print) the fact. Any attempt to shield from my public my inner nature is thus foiled from the get-go (does anyone else have the desire to take a cue from Petco and recite: "Getgo. Where the Gets go." Or is that just me?), and pretending purity of heart and prolificicity** becomes an instant sham.

I must also enlist my vast storehouse of mental and physical--the existence of the latter unfortunately in heated dispute--capabilities to refrain from beginning every post or line with common phrases such as 'The thing is', 'anyway', etc. because such language cannot possibly coincide with my brave, self-sacrificing mission to convince America that I am as smart as I appear to be.

Perhaps this verbal dodderage that clutters the beginnings of each post is simply my manner of um-ing my way through the bullshit that one must sort through before the final gem of a post.

And now that we're there--

But wait. It's not as if I don't know what to write; contrary to my long held belief that good stories are like classroom acquaintances (they only call you once a year when they're out with croup and they need the Geometry problem sets), I've found that they're actually a lot more like my friend Devin. Namely, they aim to hug at all possible opportunities.

Maybe I'm just frightened. I like that word. It's so quaint. Someone who uses the word 'frightened' can't possibly have much to be afraid of, don't you think? Only people from, like, eighteenth century England used that word. Not like the rest of this post at all.

* Boondoggle n. v. 1. Work of little value done merely to keep or look busy. 2. to do such work.
Post title inspired (who am I kidding, directly stolen from) mother's reading, after which she exclaimed "What is the title of this Boondoggle?"

Neither of us knew the meaning of this word.

**Spellcheck (i.e. my mother) informs me that the word is actually 'proliferation'. And my imbecility comes out again in the form of (a) spelling mishaps and (b) the fact that I informed you of said spelling mishap.

2008-07-19T17:52:00.000-04:00

www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Lt3uDIKmm0

I'm a little hungry

2008-07-14T18:46:00.003-04:00

I can't read what I'm typing, so if I misspell, misspeak, or misbehave I think forgiveness is in order. Why this sudden stroke of blindness? I have a MacBook Pro!!!! And the font is so tiny I can't read it and still haven't figured out how to MAKE IT BIGGER than that. Although I'm sure you're reading this just fine.

But it's okay because I get to be Andy Warhol!

Rampant Mongoose Storms Iceland!

2008-07-10T18:22:00.004-04:00

Soon I will add photography and other unheard-of delicacies to this blog. Soon meaning in the next 39870 days. Or when I feel like it.

Like now. Three dolls.

I was cataloging DVDs at work today and came across one called The Big Sheep.

Hmmm. One sheep or many?

And then I realized that it was called The Big Sleep.

And that was my day at work.

The Place Between

2008-06-28T14:59:00.004-04:00

"I've been all over the world since you called," my mom gushes into the phone to an old friend.

This is a bit of an overstatement, unless you also believe Montana, our home state, and Oregon, where we've been on vacation, make up the entire world. Disclaimer--we don't live in Montana, and we didn't vacation in Oregon, but I don't want to give away my actual location. I mean, God, you already know where I go to school. I don't want to issue a bona fide stalker invitation.

Um, so we have been traveling a bit. Home and all else kind of blended together; driving sleepily down the highways I would lay claim to towns. "Chesterton," I'd think, "We have one of those, too," before realizing that it was my own. And that I'm in my piece of the world after all.

When I think about it, I realize that I have a certain fondness for journey films anchored in the distance between. Cold Mountain, Seven Years in Tibet, Far and Away, even A Little Princess. And I remember being twelve and coming home from Cape Cod and blinking with the exhaustion of home sickness, eyes trailing lines on a map. And then you get home and settled in and it is only a matter of minutes before you look at your couches, your sunny walls, and sigh to leave again.

Herbalhead games

2008-06-11T00:08:00.003-04:00

Yeah, so I haven't been lazy or anything with blog upkeep these past few weeks. I don't answer to anyone but... my mom.

I have been keeping plenty busy. For example, this evening I spent several seconds puzzling over my Herbal Essences drama clean refreshing shampoo conditioner answer. Here's the thing: apparently in a (decidedly lame) effort to cross-promote the brand's conditioner, Clairol has taken to printing random useless factoids ("Herbalhead games") on its shampoo and conditioner bottles in the form of question and answer. Thus on my current bottle I find the alluring "On average, who do you talk to more than anyone else? Find out on Drama Clean Conditioner", flanked by the even more captivating and mysterious "Conditioner answer: pants".

Wouldn't the answer differ from person to person? I talk to my cat more than anyone else, but I doubt this fact will be recognized as universal*. And though I'm mildly intrigued as to what could provoke the egregiousness of 'pants' I'm not going to drive to the A&P to find out. At least not tonight.

*disclaimer: I made that up. I only talk to my cat occasionally.

awkward

2008-05-22T23:03:00.003-04:00

I have almost nothing to say. It is difficult to comment on my life because the most interesting parts of it, ie my internship and volunteer positions, are off-limits for web discussion and other canoodling.

Just know that when speaking with a filmmaker today I got his name wrong three times and in an attempt to thank him, say goodbye, and assure him that I enjoyed his film I spewed out a steaming conglomeration of non-sequitor, amounting to something like "blarye!"

Yeah. I know.

At least I know how much change I should give back when tickets are seven dollars and they hand me a twenty!

I can count! That's right! And I don't care if I figured it out on my fingers, it still counts.

er.

Waaaaaahhhhhh!!!! 2 (or I don't want to go home yet)

2008-05-03T15:03:00.003-04:00

Two and a half days.

That is the dregs that remain of my freshman year of college.

WTFFF??? Where did it all go?

And this is the third time I've been sick this semester (the first was during midterms, the second came about randomly weeks later, and now it's finals week and guess what?)

Seriously, though. I only started blogging in October, and it feels like I've been doing it forever, so why does the rest of the year seem so short?

Please forgive my clumsy diction. I'm just so astounded that friends, classes, food, heartbreak, and joy could dissolve into such a fine point of light.

What I Want To Be When I Grow Up

2008-04-26T21:26:00.002-04:00

Enough Said.

No title. Just Read.

2008-04-22T15:46:00.004-04:00

So what makes a brothel a brothel?

My sleepless nights are fraught with such semantic dilemmas.

I reason that a brothel could be defined as a building where women are paid to have sex with men.

Or perhaps it's like pornography: I can't define it, but I know it when I see it.

Or perhaps it's none of the above.

According to Pennsylvania law, a brothel must

a) house more than four women

and

b) contain a kitchen.

This is apparently why sorority houses on my campus don't have kitchens and are required to keep records of all male guests.

So that's what makes a brothel a brothel. A kitchen.

See, if I were the police, I wouldn't be worrying so much about kitchens. I'd be checking out the houses with six straight men and two straight women, all unrelated. Kitchen optional.

But since this is not considered a brothel, and because it's allowed in the college dormitory system, I am happy to announce that this is exactly who I'll be living with next year.

Heh. heh.

P.S. We're all straight, but don't worry--we have strictly platonic relationships.

Passover Weekend

2008-04-19T11:53:00.003-04:00

Good news: I have pictures. Or rather, my mom has pictures. They have not yet made their way through the anti-primordial world of cyberspace to my inbox to this page. This is because my mom took the pictures with her camera, which is at home, and hopefully connected to the Internet at this very moment in anticipation of the hard, cold, tumble-of-a-journey.*

So they're coming. Ye must be patient.

In other news, I am a bad Jew.

I suppose that is semantically twisted, because I'm only half-Jewish, on my father's side. And in Jewish law, the mother must be Jewish for the child to be Jewish.

But that's beside the point. I've been eating egg matzo for passover for the last few days, and I've been enjoying it. So this morning, I have nothing better to do than to read the side of the box, which informs me:

Egg Matzos may be eaten only by the infirmed, aged, or children according to Shulchan Aruch.

Ooops. I can't talk my way out of this one.

And who's Shulchan Aruch?

Rehearsal for Murder

2008-04-16T18:55:00.002-04:00

My stomach is all wiggly. Rehearsal for Murder debuts at 10:00 tonight.

I will try to post pictures of the show for all you who couldn't make it.

Sorry that this is a boring post.

Okay, I'll make that sentence more interesting: I am most distressed that my individual words have caved into themselves in lieu of fornicating and giving birth to most delightful sentences.

Enough for now.

A look at the inner workings of my Hypothalamus

2008-04-06T00:14:00.003-04:00

First, find my key. There's only so many places this bitch could be.

That wasn't supposed to rhyme, but I suppose I can't complain. I love music and movies so much that I think I'll make this entire post stream of consciousness. Won't that be a delight for you all to read?

I thought so.

If one's mind was spotless, truly spotless, how could one learn? Would not one continue making the same mistakes, cracking the same ice, jumping the fire? I thought as much, and apparently so does Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which I watched for the first time ten minutes ago. When I was about seven, I would lay in bed for hours wondering if I had really always been myself in my environment or if I had been kidnapped and my memory erased. Each second was an untrusted sentinel. I did not depend on my memory, but I never thought to write down my thoughts for proof.

This is all making sense in my head. Sorry you have to suffer through it. Or are you in my head, too? Hmmmm? You're all in my head, aren't you?

My fingers feel like they have been pricked at the tips with super-sharp toothpicks. I'm learning how to play the Ukulele again, and my calluses are still developing. Last night I dreamed that I forced people under glass partitions on couches and propelled them into an alternate universe. It was cathartic, until a golden snake the size of Route 22 rose from a pit of incense and bit me on the index finger of my left hand with its fangs burnished gold as well.

According to my mother, this is auspicious. According to me, it's kinda fucking weird. But I prefer to agree with her on this one, if only because my mind does not appreciate the prospect of being categorized as hyper unusual during REM stages.

I shook Barack Obama's hand last Monday, and thanked him for supporting arts education. He looked me straight in the eye and said, "you're welcome".

It can only go downhill from there.

I should be working right now

2008-03-26T23:42:00.002-04:00

My eyes are tired. And this is only my forty second post.

Did you know the Swedish word for "End" is "Slut"?

I am Famous

2008-03-19T21:45:00.006-04:00

I have devised a plot such that whenever people think of Heath Ledger or Bill Clinton my shining face comes right to mind.

Such that:
+

=

Wow. Formatting that was more arduous than standing in line for three hours and waiting for Bill Clinton to show up.

Anyway, I am always the first to know about anything that concerns Bill and Heath. When Heath died (and though I didn't know him, I was sad because I felt like I was getting old, you know? Because I actually am familiar with his work, not like when my parents are like, "Ramana Panaluke died today, how sad, such a valued member of the Purple Eggs." Or whatever. It makes me feel old, you get the point.) I was the first to spread the news. "Did you hear that Jen cheated on Max?" the girls in the industrial bathroom would flit. "Did you hear that Heath Ledger DIED?!?!?" I'd reply, thinking that I would become the official source of gossip.

"Who's Heath Ledger?"

Ummmmm.....what?

If you don't know who he is, look him up. I'm not that much of an anti-pop culture nerd not to have heard of this dude. And some of his films were excellent.

There went my gossip dreams. But I like to imagine that my face, flushed yet apporpriately solemn as the occasion demanded, is (to them) inexplicably tied with the birth of Heath in their impoverished minds. I am Heath Ledger.

More on Bill later. I'm going to watch my friends play video games and comment on how artificial and pseudo-hipster they all are.

Not Being in Mexico

2008-03-04T23:04:00.004-05:00

So, along the lines of The Best Cruise I Never Took I give you The Best Film I Never Saw: No Country for Old Men.

Or, as my dad mistakenly termed it, No Room for Old Men. Which captures the literal meaning, of course, but really skimps on the poetics. Unless it's a eccentric allusion to the birth of Jesus.

Also known as No Country for Cold Men.

Finally, No Tree for Old Men.

Okay. I'll shut up on the doppelgangers now. Promise.

My dad pointed out that the film had gotten only the best reviews from the nation's top critics. Which are, of course, men, but that's obviously beside the point.

Then I found out that No Country for Old Men is a visual representation of a Cormac McCarthy novel. Since most of All the Pretty Horses was comprised of a baffilingly post-modernist lack of quotation marks, untranslated Spanish, and landscape descriptions that each contained the phrase "And the grass, and the trees, and the horses...", I wasn't expecting much.

I watched the trailer.

I watched the trailer and read one of the [male] reviews, which describe it as "bleak, scary, and violent." I have come to terms with the fact that I can only face one of those three ghouls at a time, so I decided not to go. I did appreciate the author's description of Javier Bardem, something along the lines of a Beatle gone wrong.

My fanatically intelligent film professor says that The Diving Bell and the Butterfly really got snubbed. I totally agree.

A childish post to satisfy my childish whims

2008-02-23T00:58:00.003-05:00

First of all, I'm not going to Mexico. More on that later. Second of all, I'm going to make my MTA debut (that's Muhlenberg Theatre Association) as Monica Welles in Rehearsal for Murder. I'm the lovely leading lady who gets bumped off, hopefully not within the first five minutes.

But I'm not going to Mexico. If you don't know what I'm talking about, don't ask (except you, Maddie, I'll tell you soon). But it's really ok, because now I get to write a David Sedaris-style story called "The Best Cruise I Never Went On" or something like that. Except without the awkward placement of the preposition. Sorry.

Now I'm going to go to bed! Or maybe write more for my essay on The Seventh Seal. Oh, Bergman. Honestly, if you invite a bunch of people to your house during a wicked thunderstorm and everyone's completely unwired and freaked out, do you really think it's a good idea to read them excerpts from The Book of Revelation?!?! Honestly, Ingmar. And the Lamb opened the Seventh Seal, and there was silence in heaven for the space of about half an hour.

And then someone farted. Only not. Oh, I need to go to bed.

Bleach? Blechh...

2008-02-07T20:30:00.000-05:00

We are excited to announce that Blogger is now available in three more languages: Arabic, Hebrew, and Persian!!!!

Okay, it didn't really have that many exclamation points. But it's just so exciting.

My hands went swimming today.

I washed some towels, and since I lack the comfort and assistance of a measuring cup, I opened the bleach bottle and just let it slosh. It spiraled into the washer like vomit.

If vomit was clear and smelled like chlorine.

I just wrote "vomint". Heh.

Yeah, about that...

2008-01-29T23:53:00.000-05:00

So much to post, so little time.

I mean it. I'm sorry, but I have to concentrate on Tech week for this play I'm in.

Yeah...but I promise I'll have LOTS to say when this is all over (and I really mean that, too, I'm keeping a list.*)

But for now, buh bye.

*Yeah, I just admitted, once again, that I am a total nerd.

Blood Will be Spilt II

2008-01-24T19:44:00.000-05:00

I realized a little while ago that a pit doesn't always have to be bottomless. Does that mean that my stomach has a pit? I don't believe so. To me, a pit is something that's between 15 feet and 15,000 feet deep. And though my ability to consume entire pizzas in one sitting may lead others to believe that my small frame belies one whopper of a pit, I think my stomach is a little shorter than 15 feet. Although, maybe with the intestines...

Anyway. People use 'pit' in lots of strange ways. The pit of my stomach. The bottomless pit. Brad Pitt. The pit of a fruit.

That's about it.

Um.

So, who wants to know what classes I'm taking this semester?!?!

Film 388: Major Filmmakers: Antonioni and Bergman
Theater 262: Costume Design I
Music 902: Voice lessons
Physical Education 050: Principles of Fitness and Wellness
Math 104: Statistical Methods
First Year Seminar 250: Wearing the Uniform

Wow...I ranked them without even noticing. My favorite is one, and my least favorite...well, you get the idea. Anyway, they're great. And there's not much more I can say in case my professors are on the prowl.

However...

I must say that my Antonioni and Bergman class is quite possibly the most dynamic, heart-racingly thrilling class I've taken. This is probably due to the fact that it's an elective, so everyone who's taking it wants to...take it. We saw The Seventh Seal last week (a chick flick about furry little LA water park animals...only not...) and L'avventura (which is, like, fashion conscious and more like The Rules of the Game than anything I've seen before).

Yeah, so...watch them. But I'd def recommend The Seventh Seal, especially if you're a Woody Allen fan. Then you must watch the latter's Love and Death.

More on classes later...I have to apply for summer internships.

Oh, but first...I titled this blog because I didn't remember writing a Blood Will be Spilt part I, but the little thingy that fills in your words for you when you type did.

I hope you know what I'm talking about.

Quote of the day:

Jarred (my director): So, as you can see, this script still has a lot of kinks I need to work out.

Me: Yeah, it's pretty kinky.

Protein drinks are delicious

2008-01-19T14:30:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I'm getting that funky feeling in the pit of my stomach that usually means I should start my homework. It doesn't help either that I'm using cliches (ie "the pit of my stomach", which doesn't actually make sense unless the stomach is 1. a fruit or 2. bottomless.) I also know that I'm getting nervous because I'm fraying the ends of my hair with the ends of my frighteningly sharp fingernails (and, yes, I realize that the use of such a banal word as "ends" should be used only once in any professional document. Heh).

And as much as I really want to stop writing right now, and possibly as much as you want me to stop writing right now, I really must continue or give in to that mountain of poisonous lasagna that some call homework.

Oh, yeah, I'd like to thank Anthony for his delightfully serious guest blog. THE REST OF YOU SHOULD ALL BE ASHAMED!!! Especially you,
Kim, as I have reason to believe you have not read my blog in weeks. And if that is indeed the case, that last sentence was pointless, but, you know...
PEOPLE! GUEST BLOG! Maybe if you guys write enough shit I won't have to try to be funny ever again.

Um.

So I can have a more diverse selection of writings for people's browsing pleasure. Especially in this voluptuous digital age.

Yes, voluptuous. Thought it was a stupid adjective last time, too, didn't you?

Here's a list of things on my desk (I'm really getting desperate, can you tell?):

Shampoo (Did you know shampoo comes from the Hindi fasdfpoje;loikhjfoijuramampanaluke? Not really, but it comes from the Hindi something or other.
Conditioner!!! (one bottle, from the English 'to condition'.)
A book called Brooklyn.
A notebook for class
twelve folders, of different colors and featuring different kittens.
A protein drink (in a glass, not just in lake form on my desk)
A box of contact stuff
A hairbrush
A cellphone (turned off, so I can isolate myself in the hopes of getting stuff done. Pretty unlikely, seeing as I spent the last two hours taking a nap and am likely to spend the next two...collecting tea strainers.
a hair dryer
a picture of Monet.
A picture of my eldest cat. (try to guess where I already mentioned this!)
post-its, upside down.
Toothpaste
ipod charger
Ricola wrapper, empty (like my heart)
Shampoo bottle #2, full (like my stomach)
printer
Bulletin board
Tissue box devoid of tissues, now used as temporary housing for dirty dishes.
Lavender pillow.

I saw The Little Mermaid with Anthony and Lauren last night. I haven't seen it since I was about 8, but I still think it strange that I managed to forget the scene where Ursula like, turns into a giant bobo doll and makes the waves move with her giant trident.

Heh. More on that later.

P.S. spell check tried to make me change bobo to boob. Wouldn't be the wrong choice, really, considering the context.

P.P.S. Please comment with a list of whatever's on YOUR desk.

Because Katie Wanted Me To Write A Blog Post...

2008-01-17T23:41:00.000-05:00

So, here I am, sitting in Katie's room, exposing her to the wonderful world of improv that is Whose Line is it Anyway?, when she asks me to write a guest entry on her blog. "Write about anything," she says candidly, "as long as I can check it when you're finished." So I suppose that I won't be talking about such delightful topics as naked ladies and regicide.

No, the topic of today's post is an observation of culture - or lack thereof. Some will remember a few months back, when Newsweek magazine did a cover article on Amazon.com. More specifically, the subject was Amazon’s newest device that was about to be unleashed unto world – the Kindle, the company’s version of the eBook. In bold, red letters on the front of the magazine, ominous words stared back at me, challenging the very foundations of the reality I knew: Reinventing the Book.

Truly, this has to be the greatest insight into contemporary Western life as we know it. And what a cruel, despicable observation it is! Think of it. We live in a society where the most basic, tangible foundation of knowledge, the written page, is under siege for “improvement.” How does one improve the perfect invention ever to grace the face of this earth? Its design is flawless; it requires no handbook to operate; it’s extremely easy to store; it’s the original ultraportable device; not to mention that it has made possible for the common man to access knowledge, the greatest treasure in all of history.

But now, we are told that this timeless object is in dire need of revamping. The insidious tentacles of the technological age have reached the last bastion of a long-forgotten way of life. We go to the supermarket, get some lettuce, tomatoes and other vegetables, go home and make ourselves a nice salad in the middle of December. But think of a time not too long ago – not a few hundred years past – when our ancestors had to harvest their own crops, keep their own livestock, survive by the plow and hammer. Now, the computers and airplanes, the light bulb and the motorcar, and a slew of other shiny metal contraptions are things that we consider to be normal necessities. In our lust for comfort, we have sacrificed what it truly means to be a part of this world.

The rape of the book by the digital age is the crowning achievement, in my mind, of our time. It is the final conquest that needed to be made, the final convenience, for the rabble of society to fully forget what they have lost. Now we can sit in our Starbucks, sipping on our grande peppermint cappuccinos with skim milk, listening to our iPods, watching Hondas and Toyotas speed past, and read Vanity Fair from our eBooks.

It’s disgusting. This fetish with the latest, newest, most cutting-edge materialistic trends is undeniably the root of many of society’s ills. The mantra is, “Whoever has the most toys, wins.” Our fascination with the question, “What shall I do today to buy more shit?” needs to be overcome by the infinitely more important question of, “What shall I do today to help my fellow man?”

Ayn Rand, in her magnum opus Atlas Shrugged, observed that the world was in need of selfishness to overcome the orgy of self-sacrifice. Now, I believe, the opposite is true.

Goddess help us.

-Anthony

The short post

2008-01-15T23:22:00.001-05:00

According to blogspot, Hindi translitaration was one of "the fun things we've done since 2007".

And how can you contest that?

In that light, watching Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal was one of the fun things I've done since 2007.

Nancy Drew and the Crooked Couch, Part I

2008-01-12T13:18:00.000-05:00

I logged on to blogspot, like I do every day, hoping to be struck by inspiration. I let my mind take on the role of a net, searching for sights and sounds, but finding only scattered newspapers and the sounds of smacking, which inform me none too gently that it is lunchtime in this part of the world. I search for hours (OK, more like 1.46 seconds) and find nothing that inspires...um, inspiration.

Then I saw the couch.

Had it always been this gray? My first thought echoed through my mind and hinted at a path of luminescent hilarity. I leaned closer and began peering. Yes, it was distinctly gray. Though originally as colorful as the English garden on which it was modeled, it now bears more of a resemblance to a bulging eye bag. My peering continued. The decaying flap of skin that was once the skirt of the chair is certainly a veritable shade of dust that even the shag-carpeted 70s would have considered passe. I peered at the couch and it peered back at me. We had a bona fide peering contest. Then I brushed my hand against its quivering, wrinkled surface and came away with a strip of cat fur that sat vertically in my hand like an anorexic Brownstone. I rolled it vigorously between my fingertips, wondering what would become of me. What would become of us all?

End of Part I (ie I'm frickin hungry and don't want to finish this crap right now)

Meh.

2008-01-07T17:35:00.000-05:00

Srsly, there isn't much happening here. Almost makes me want to go back to school, even back to that industrial plant posing as a dorm bathroom. My life (which I just misspelled as "lice"--is there a word for a written Freudian slip? Just kidding.) is now equal to the sum of the following:

Dried fruit: apples, pineapples, and mangoes (the latter of which I had to take back to the store because they contained sulfur dioxide or some shit like that)
Silent Cinema book (thanks, Anthony!)
Datebook (which is surprisingly full considering I feel like nothing is going on in my life)
Wednesday, January 9th!!! (of which only a select few Muhlenbergers know the significance)
Flaky ears (apparently the shampoo at the hair salon gave me something akin to a chemical burn)
Lack of sleep (from pillow friction against said flaky ears)
Chocolate-covered blueberries (they speak for themselves)
Maddie (once in person, once in my dreams)
Hipster
Love Actually

Dream

2007-12-31T21:46:00.000-05:00

What can I say?* There just hasn't been too much going on.

I mean, there has, but nothing really blogworthy.

Well, I did have an unusually realistic dream last night. I was visiting my high school.

I took note of the surprising fact that this vision was, indeed, a locale resembling my high school. You see, much of my dreams are of the sort where I wander flooded highways searching for my pink aardvark and thinking to myself, "gee, isn't Disney World nice?"

This was one of the first dreams I've had where I see my school and actually recognize that it IS my school. And vice versa.

So, anyway, I magically appeared right outside the door of the blackbox theatre. I was smoking a ciggy. Apparently I also thought it would be amusing to blow the toxic fumes into the faces of my disgruntled peers. Then I decided to put it out, so I dropped it, fully lit, into my pocket.

But it didn't catch fire, of course. Because dreams just aren't that logical. My jacket's chances of catching on fire would've increased tenfold had I not been smoking.

And that's a fact. But, anyway, I arrived in the middle of a performance. Everyone was in costume, and one of my friends from a nearby high school had arrived for an acting class with my director, who could apparently be in two places at once.

Everyone looked just like they do in real life. And I called them all by their proper names. This is a rare phenomenon in my dreams. Generally, not only do I misname my friends, but I also turn into them at some point during the course of the conversation. IDENTITY CRISIS!!!

So, anyway, I see all my old friends and then I go into the empty theatre (because this is in the middle of a performance, of course it's empty).

That's it.

*I used to look at people's yearbooks when I was a freshman in high school, and I saw this one that said "Dear Jack, What can I say?" It continued, but those four words struck me with their profundity.

Then I realized that everyone signed their yearbooks that way.

The Ultimate Christmas Fake Book

2007-12-23T14:36:00.000-05:00

With a label proclaiming its status of "Newly Revised Newly", The Ultimate Christmas Fake Book enables hopefuls to con and hoodwink their way through any professional Christmas engagement. The deceptively simple anthology features old favorites, such as "Angels We Have Heard on High", "It Came Upon The Midnight Clear", and "Joy to the World". Tucked between these comfort foods rest the eclectic, the overstimulated, and the just plain twisted. Old favorites? Not quite. Fairly early on we are presented with a song title representative of the question posed by any busybody nasal toned housewife while looking into her heathen neighbor's living room: "Do They Know it's Christmas?" This is followed by more meat-and-potatoes carols, but it isn't long before we come across "Neighbor, What Has You So Excited?" You can tell it's trying too hard; it's desperation for news borders on the obscene. I Hope it doesn't have a heart attack. This song title works best in conversation if recited at the speaker's breaking point, so as to create a prepubescent air of chemical imbalance and self-conscious testosterone. And, to round out our Overeager Category, we have "What Month Was Jesus Born In?" Another prepubescent display of awkwardness sure to turn heads, ludicrously emphasized by the uncomfortable placement of the preposition at the end of the sentence.

Speaking of strange wording, what about "Deck the Hall with Boughs of Holly"? I always thought there was more than one hall. Is that just me? Did the people in this song have to downsize, or something?

On the opposite end of the spectrum, we have the great epic titles, like "Ring Out, Ye Wild and Merry Bells!" What terror, what fervor! King Lear couldn't have put it better. Again, note the hints of obsession. Whoever this guy is, he needs to stop hyper-focusing. He really likes those bells. I mean, really, really likes them. Hmmm.

And lastly we have the exhausted, stuttering"Still, Still, Still".

Enough said. Buy this book.

The Boring Manifesto

2007-12-18T01:13:00.000-05:00

I have found many, many ways to combat the post-first semester freshman year existential crisis, none of them being remotely effective in any way. Right now, my eyes are just kind of slicking over the surfaces of the room. I wish I could say that my head was whipping wildly about, or that my eyes were darting, or any of that nonsense, but unfortunately I'm just too sedentary by nature. I killed about fifteen minutes slicking over a green wrought iron gate that stands between the fireplace and me. I contemplate it from different angles. It looks like a bearded flower, with a mouth like a teardrop.

I watched another movie today, went shopping, and curled my hair as a defense mechanism against hard water. I don't mean that in a metaphorical sense; our water softener has been insolently refusing to remove calcium deposits for quite some time now. Hard water seems to encourage and rehabilitate oil, frizz, and dryness so that after a shower my hair resembles, in many ways, a dehydrated squirrel preserved in a bottle of extra-virgin olive oil.

This is not to say that I look back at the past week with fondness and nostalgia; I just managed to kill all my work, and kill it good. Um. Before it killed me. And it almost did. Last week, I read that story about the British teacher arrested in the Middle East for naming a Teddy Bear Mohammed. When reporters asked about her plans for the rest of the season, she expressed her wishes to take a break from teaching until the New Year so she could spend time with her family and recover from her time in jail.

Damn, I wanted to be her. Spend time with my family, even if I had to go to jail.

And here I am, spending time with my family and waiting for the remainder of my friends to get the hell home from college, and all I can think about is a bearded flower and an oily squirrel.

No, I haven't abandoned you

2007-12-15T22:38:00.000-05:00

The tyrant is home.

It was a nice trip. And yes, nice is the only word flowing down my bloodstream through my fingers. This is what happens after finals week. Within 48 hours, I wrote a one act play and a 15 page paper and studied for an exam. So you can't really blame me for losing my facility with language, albeit temporarily.

Then again, my parents are in the living room, too, arguing about the validity and reliability of the weather forecast. Makes concentration something I only wish to aspire to.

Remember my blog idea file? On Microsoft Word on my laptop rests a file entitled "BlogIDEAS!.docx". Guess I thought I'd be extra emotive and just shout it out. OMG! Like blog IDEAS! Not words, not phrases, IDEAS!!! Incredible.

I found something on that list which once tickled my fancy. After waking up at 3:15 AM to finish a project, a thought came to mind and I obligingly opened my BlogIDEAS! file to write it down, chuckling like...I don't know, just chuckling idiotically. When I opened that file this morning, this is what I found.

"what if stage directions were written with emoticons? So instead of '(sadly) I'll miss you.' you'd have :( I'll miss you.' That would be hilarious! Hahahahah!!!"

Yes, I actually wrote "hahahaha!!!". Keep in mind that this was written at 3:15 AM, ironically at the same time as my roommate, Lauren, was finishing up a costume design project for Hamlet and nearly substituted "Opela" for "Ophelia" on her design board.

But seriously. EMOTICONS? Why did I find that funny? Perhaps I was retrieving a seed from my corpus callosum, a seed of sharp satire and political lampoon, a message on the horrors of consumerism and puberty in this country. Perhaps I wanted to show to the world that there was something more to this symbol, this colon and parenthesi, this primitive expression. Or maybe it was my goal to point the beacon of the theater in a direction unforeseen and completely uncalled for. A theatrical revolution that would encompass the powers of the written word and the technological era.

More likely, I was just fucking tired.

Now my parents are talking about Linda McCartney, and whether or not she was the heiress to the Eastman fortune. And something about Kodak. And people sitting next to each other in a restaurant.

You know I've been home for 24 hours and I've already watched 4 movies?

Now that's what I call productive.

Lurgh Lurgh!!!

2007-12-05T15:33:00.000-05:00

So, like, I was looking at facebook at 5 AM this morning, and all of a sudden, I realized:

Oh

My

Godly

Cream

Cheese

I have a blog?!?!?!?!?

Ooops. So I just thought I'd apologize for my lack of upkeep this past week. In my defense, it's the week before finals, and I've been studying. Er, and playing pool. I'm not so good at what you call "pool", but I'm pretty good at just air-hocky-ing my way around the table. Haven't killed anyone yet.

So, again, sorry, and I promise I'll update more frequently after December 15. And I have plenty to share, because I keep a blog file on Microsoft Word where I list my countless amazing ideas!

I'm not nerdy at all.

Why does every post need a title?

2007-11-25T23:09:00.000-05:00

For a comprehensive and highly accurate account of what I did this weekend, I would advise you to visit http://www.myblasphemousramblings.blogspot.com/, which is basically my sister blog. This really awes college kid who goes by Madeline K writes lots of shizz. She updates it, like, more times than I play with my hair, so check it regularly! It's very addictive. More....blogs....uhhh!!!! Neeed...to ramble blasphemously...

Anyway, so I'm at my desk, wondering why everything has grown pink spots. Then I remember...Lauren and I had a pomegranate party last week. See exhibit A.

I was regelated to using my teeth and a plastic knife, even though a hacksaw would've been a more sensible choice.

What's new?

2007-11-23T22:54:00.000-05:00

I think it's time for a new post, don't you?

Even though this is all rather masochistic, seeing as I'm typing on my home computer, which sleeps in the coldest corner of the house. So not only am I having trouble adjusting to this keyboard, my fingers are already becoming quite numb. Let's just see what happens if I stop pressing the backspace button every time I make a mistake:

WEll., I went home on Tuesday evenign and my dad made a wrong turn. It was funny. Not rally at the time, baceous I had

Ok, this is just bad. Yeah, I actually fixed that last sentence. Originally, it read "ok, this is just pad."

I have so much to say, but this post has already taken me far too long. I'd like to de-stiff my hands, now, thank you.

A Hymn

2007-11-17T17:42:00.000-05:00

I don't follow a Bible, but if I did, I imagine it would be Lonely Planet's guide to every country in the world. I don't know the exact title. This is because the book and I keep a certain distance apart, so people won't ask questions. When I visit the Muhlenberg Bookstore, we (the book and I, that is) act like adulterous lovers suspended, vulnerable, trapped at a public crossroads. Can't look. Can't touch. Not when anyone's looking.

How odd. It's not like it's an embarrassing book to be caught with, indubitably verisimilitudinously. But it's almost like I don't want to violate the book. I hold it, in my mind, and I am traveling though Greenland (people do live there, you know), the Falkland Islands, Somalia, and the Federated Islands of Micronesia, my hometown. It's like a jet plane, in my hands, and I'm not sure if I'm ready for even the voyeuristic pleasure of exploration. It is my dream to visit every country in the world, but with the achievement of that dream comes, I believe, a necessary disappointment. What now? No longer will I sit, wondering idly and ignorantly about Norwegian fjords. Iceland is, at present, walking the border of my preconscious, on tip-toes. No, pointe shoes. Just as delicate as the ice that stings your fingers violet when you touch. If I hop on the next plane to Reykjavik, gone are the fragments, the mosaics, the pink silk threads of baseless imaginings and icy heat. So don't look. Don't touch.

More Eisenstein!!!!!!!!!!!

2007-11-14T12:38:00.000-05:00

When I log onto blogspot, I am demanded to procure my username and password. Slumping next to 'password', shoulders hunched, rests a question mark. As in, "What's a password?"

Yeah, so this isn't really going anywhere. Blame it on the anesthesia for yet another toe surgery I was subjected to on Monday. This would be a better excuse if I wrote this on Tuesday. Here's the secret: I started writing this on Tuesday, but had to save it as a draft or risk being late to...something. I don't remember, presently. But the password question mark thingy just struck me as really funny. I guess its for people who've, like, never seen the Internet before.

Or for people who ask the kind of questions like, "Where does the Internet go when you're not using it?"

Ummm....it doesn't go anywhere. It's not even an it. Believe it or not, someone asked me this once. There's an almost mystical wonderment at the idea that this person believed that I was the chosen one; the person who could craft a pearl of the barnacled murk that stands at the intersection of computer science, theology, esoterics, and complete bullshit to satisfactorily answer the question that is so stupid it cannot be answered. And I know lots of things can't be answered, and that doesn't mean they're stupid. But...where does it go? As David Sedaris would say, that's fucked up.

About five times this week, such events have occurred which I desired to commit to the blogosphere. Unfortunately, I have forgotten all of them because I have been too busy to weed them all out. Some of them were worthy of Bridget Jones, too.

Well, we talked about Kerenski again in film. Anyone, anyone? Kerenski? No?

The peacock's ass?

Knew you'd remember that. If you're still like, WTFFF? I'll provide a refresher.

Kerenski is the head of Russia's provisional government. It's 19somethingorother, and we're in the movie October. Yeah, you and I. Okay, I know you'd rather be stuck in a successful revolution, never mind a successful movie, but c'mon, it's Eisenstein. I'd rather be in an Eisenstein movie, even one that's kinda crappy, excessive, and overly ambiguous, than in a horror movie (note: read How to Survive a Horror Movie if you find that I've lucked out with Eisenstein and am now living comfortably on the Russian steppes and you're stuck...in a log cabin in Montana). And the montage is fun to be a part of, you just have to make sure you're not on the edge of the frame or you'll get spliced. So we're in October, yes we are. Do you see that short, effeminate man climbing the stairs over and over and over and over and over? That's Kerenski. Now watch, there's a mechanical peacock. And look...he just walked into its ass. Through the suggestion of editing, of course. And it's supposed to show that he's arrogant. And Eisenstein is really proud of this montage, too, but that's not the point. Yesterday, we watched Rules of the Game in film. One of the characters, the Marquis de Chesnaye, collects mechanical music boxes. It's pretty neat...of course, it's used for different effects in Rules of the Game. Am I going to go into them? No. I'm going to finish writing so I can eat a piece of chocolate and concentrate on solving the enigma of evolution so we can all develop sticky tongues.

Life in Greenland

2007-11-11T11:25:00.000-05:00

During a bout of procrastination yesterday, I left the ice cave that some call my dorm room to slink, unnoticed, along the walls of those brightly lit corridors still barking with brash Halloween decorations (maybe I spelled it right this time?). While slinking, I noticed a sign that whispered (for the letters were very small, and the sign itself was hiding between two bolder ones) "Heating Instructions: Brown Hall."

Heating instructions?

Ummm...what? Like it doesn't just come on automatically?

So I turned it on, and it hissed at me like a cat and smelled funny, too, but it was heat and it was wonderful. Then I went to sleep.

Notes from the Red Door Cafe

2007-11-09T19:12:00.000-05:00

Forgive me if there are more typos in this post than ever have dared to exist before. I am currently hunched, catlike, over a jurassic computer in the Red Door lounge at Muhlenberg. A group of my friends are playing with sticks and pretending to be all mature and sophisticated about it.

They call it pool. I call it, "oooh! shiny objects! Pretty colors!"

I've always been sort of prejudiced against pool as a form of recreation, perhaps of its unavoidable connotations with the swimming pool. I'm the type of person who could live in a swimming pool, so I don't appreciate any reference to this lovely word without the promise of a nice dip afterwords.

One thing I hate about this computer right now is the lack of a wristpad. My laptop also lacks a wristpad (oh, lackaday!) but I at least have the desk on which to rest my poor, weatherbeaten hands. When I realize it's only November, I cry.

I burned my hands a few days ago. They were not so happy about this because they were already in the red due to the grizzled weather we've been having lately. I really like that word, even though it doesn't sense make in the of much context. It makes me think of grizzly bears and sizzling grilled cheese, which, in turn, makes me think of sizzling grizzly bears. If you can picture being set upon by a pack of sizzling grizzlies, you'll be able to empathize with my plight.

So, anyway, my hands suffered some pretty spindly burns.

Don't ever use hot baked beans as a compress.

This is not exactly what I did. I was getting some beans in the Garden Room, with the object of liberally coating the lining of my taco shell, when a conglomoration of beaness propelled itself out of the shell into which it had been planted and onto the tender knuckles of my left hand. I spewed curses in return, and stood very still for several moments like a burnt ferrett.

Then I found a napkin, and my knuckles will never be the same. I'm now going to go back to my room or something and apply a cold compress of lotion.

Again, I wish I had a sticky tounge. None of this would have happened.

My LIFE!!! Ahhh...part 2

2007-11-07T22:36:00.000-05:00

I'm a writer.

I hate writing.

Not all writing. Not most writing. Just essay writing. Whenever I have to write an essay, my heart rate triples (figuratively, I hope) and my stomach turns into an ice-cold slinky. The task of writing an essay is incredibly daunting for me. My thoughts, spinning round me like ill-thrown frisbees, cry "BLACK PIECE OF PAPER BLANK PIECE OF PAPER" because for the first hour or so I try to write the damn thing, that's what I'm facing. Which insinuates an even deeper state of panic. The slinky turns to rubber, and I can't swallow. After a few hours, I have an outline. Maybe. Sometimes, I get so frustrated and panicky I just start writing, but then I end up rewriting it because none of it makes sense. My biggest panic-inducer, however, is the time constraints. I can never put anything off until the last minute.

So here I am, with two reviews due on Friday (one on art, one on film), with literally hours spent on preparatory work and no evidence of any of it. And the more I have trouble writing them, the more I panic because I know, shit, I'm not going to be able to do the REST of my homework for Friday which will really, really, REALLY be bad. Because it's all for the same class (Film) and she specifically told us to have fully processed the readings.

I am now going to have a temper tantrum. Ready?

WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
asd;flkjads;flkajf;lkajew f;lkajwef;liawjef ;alkwejf;lakewjf;lakejf;a lkejf;alksdjdf ;alkjf ;alkwej f;alwekfj

Poopy.

A champion time waster, that's me!

2007-11-04T15:12:00.000-05:00

It is impossible to be bored to tears. Tears imply emotion, whereas boredom is more or less apathy. Then again, I suppose one could become frustrated about this state, and frustration leads to emotion, which could lead to tears. But a direct connection between boredom and crying is impossible and therefore ludicrous.

I am now bored, but that boredom is mixed up with frustration and that sense of dread that always comes my way on Sunday afternoons. Damn, I do have to go write that scene. But I don't, really! I can post on my blog instead!!!!!!!!

But I'll eventually have to write this frickin scene. And by eventually, I mean, like, before it's due at five tommorrow. And I sure as hell am not waiting until then.

Do you ever make lists? I have an affection for them. They come in many varieties and are often underused or limited to the everyday, muslin variety of to-do lists.

If you ever want to make a list, here are some ideas:

List everything you despise that begins with 'a' and ends with 'a'. Like, er, agoraphobia.
Order your friendships. Make a real popularity pyramid out of it. Then drop it discretely on the floor next to one of their rooms, and watch as your friends--disappear! MAGIC!
List every word you know. No dictionaries, that's cheating.
List all operas that require a contralto and a coluratura soprano. And please, only those written between 1834 and 1972.
List the number of times you've had to clean the litterbox. Although, I guess, you could just write down one number and that would make a pretty lame list.
List the locations (complete address) of every bathroom you've used since January, 1976.
List, in great detail, all your dreams about Gene Wilder.
Make a list of 100 reasons your list should never be published. Now, go find a publisher.
100 uses for an OATMEAL COOKIE!
100 reasons why I should be writing my scene, and not posting on my frickin blog.
Oooh, ooo, one more! 100 reasons why we should develop sticky tounges. I'll give you one I thought of yesterday: one could eat Pirate's Booty and take notes at the same time without getting the paper all cheesy.

Get to it! I want these lists, all of them, by 5:00 tommorrow!

A Bricolage, or The Can of Worms

2007-11-02T13:55:00.001-04:00

There's always that moment, right about when I log in to blogspot, when I think, "ok, Katie, what the fuck are you going to write about today? The same shit you always write?"

And the answer is always the same: "yes. Yes, yes, and yes."

Because I really love this blog. And I mean, like it's my child or something. Which it is, in a metaphorical sense.

So, as you can tell, I've once again solved the problem of what to write about! Therefore, movies are like real life.

Here's what I mean: have you ever seen a 1930s Hollywood musical? You know the kind: the biggest problem is that I say banana and you say bahnahnah, and that's why we're getting divorced, but it'll be fine because we can rollerskate and tap dance AT THE SAME TIME even though we haven't rollerskated since we were twelve! (Note: see Shall We Dance? Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers). Now there's an easy problem to solve. The problem with these kinds of movies, especially at the time, is that they both reinforced viewers' values AND also provided those very same values. It's all so capitalist. So you went to the movies, your stomach as empty as a broken window pane, and realized OH! The problem is that a) I don't have enough money b) I don't know how to woo women [these movies were sooo targeted at men] and c) I really need a sense of fashion [ok, this was targeted at women, as was the idea that all women should want to be objectified and admired all day long]. And the solution? Money will come! And I'll frolic and dance as gay as the sprightly sparrows. Which sounds really nice. This one guy, Richard Dyer, wrote a lot about entertainment and Utopia. Then there was this other guy, Siegfried Kracauer (he wrote From Caligari to Hitler, a real beach read, that) who thinks that showgirls in geometric patterns (ie any Dick Tracy musical) are really, really scary. True. They kinda are. But he meant it, too. These women are just cogs in a machine, not knowing what patterns they're so willingly giving their identities up to make. And what's even creepier? We, the entrapped workers (yeah, yeah, Kracauer was a Marxist) go to see these shows and only THINK we're escaping, but we're really just seeing this gruesome play-by-play of our own blind existence. And it was this fact, still eerier, that predicts and supports the rise of Hitler (yeah, yeah, Kracauer was German and wrote most of his stuff in retrospect, but he wrote this one in 1927). When people are so blind that they only pay attention to their small task, they become unaware of what they may be getting themselves into. It was easy for Hitler to take control. And I, personally, think that we should be more aware now. Not to be political or anything, but there's stuff going on right now that we're completely ignoring. Unintentionally, of course. We're too busy watching Paris Hilton's every engagement.

I'm really, really sorry if I've offended or confused any of you. I just needed to get that out there. Don't even get me started on the portrayl of women in movies. Ughhh...But anyway, my point [originally] with all this, was to draw a parallel between how easy it was for Fred and Ginger to stay married, and how easy it was for me to think of something to write about. I'm being rather self-reflexive now, referring to the writing process.

Isn't this blog indubidubly verisimilitudinous?

Are YOU a bare bodkin?

2007-10-31T21:19:00.000-04:00

Again, please accept my apologies for lack of frequent writing. I was busy, um, FORMATTING A SCRIPT AND SUBMITTING IT TO THE TEN MINUTE PLAY CONTEST SPONSORED BY ACTORS THEATRE OF LOUISVILLE. And I found out yesterday, when I thought it needed to be postmarked by November 5, and when it was still happily unformatted, that postmarking needed to have taken place by November 1. I got to really appreciate keyboard shortcuts after that.

They kindly inform entrants that they will be notified of the play's having been accepted or...er, unaccepted by November...2008.

I'll be almost twenty then.

Continuing with my list of excuses (and you must understand that I am not exaggerating in any way, I love writing my blog, it's just that there are these little things called priorities), my first psych paper was due yesterday, and I have auditions for next semester all this week. Wooohooooo!

I did something amazing yesterday in the costume shop. I machine-stitched the most delectable, glorious, perfect button holes. And I used a buttonhole dial, not a buttonhole presser foot. I did it the HARD way. I made two of them. It would be enough to make Edith Head cry (and if you don't know who she is, you should. She created most of Audrey Hepburn's costumes [and then there was that guy...what's his name, Givenchy, yeah...he created the rest]). They rested on the cloth like cats resting on a pile of hangars. Yes, hangars. My cats love 'em. And those buttonholes are a lot like my cats. Sturdy, yet fashionable.

But I digress. From what? I'm not really sure anymore.

Would my blog be more artsy and raw if I didn't spell check it? Or would that just make it stoopid?

It would probably just make it stoopid. But the thing is, I can't spell, and this could lead to hilarious effect in this blog, I'm sure. For example, I can't spell the name of today's holiday. I also can't remember (or I just never learned) whether hangar is spelled differently when referring to something that hangs clothing or acts as an airplane womb.

And in an unbelievable act of double revelation, my psychology class now knows that not only can I not spell, I can't solve puzzles either. We were given a jumbled word. ANIAEV, I think it was. Sounds like Dziga Vertov's brother, or something. But it wasn't. It was 'naive'. And due to my aforementioned faults, I was the only person in my twenty nine student class who could not unscramble this word. Durh.

I am a chameleon. I am also Annie Hall. For the-holiday-whose-name-I-lack-the-ability-to-spell. One person got it. Everyone else either thought I was being myself (of course, I wear ties all the time), or Harry Potter. Which is strange, because my roommate had a dream about Harry Potter last night. GASP!!! Spooky. I was also subjected to remarks such as "you look Prussian" and "you actually look nice in corduroy! That's unusual, for a girl".

Anthony didn't actually say I looked Prussian. He said I looked professional, but I swear, that boy couldn't mumble more if I stuffed his mouth with strawberries. Which would be funny, because Anthony doesn't really like strawberries.

I am now going to awkwardly state the fact that this is a long post. I know we all realize this. I am only still writing because it is a good tool for procrastination.

October 2_?

2007-10-28T00:30:00.001-04:00

I wonder what today's date is. I suppose I could minimize this window and just look at the bottom-right corner of the screen, where I have my handy-dandy windows gadgets, but why be conventional? I'll wait, and see what date blogspot labels it under when I publish this post. There's just something so--I don't know--daring about this mystery that enshrouds my knowledge of time at this particular moment. One loses count of the days, soon the hours. It's after midnight, I know that by looking at the toolbar at the bottom of the screen. I didn't have to minimize a window to do that.

But when you don't know the date--doesn't it just throw you into this emboldened yet terrified state?

Okay, slight overstatement, perhaps. But that's because Peter Lorre is my favorite actor.

Don't expect to find a connection between Peter Lorre and my not knowing the date. Well, I guess you could, if you really stretched it, say that time is a central motif of M in which Peter Lorre starred, only that wouldn't really work because everyone knew what time it was. Always. Wouldn't you, if your child was an hour late from school, and you lived in Dusseldorf? The infamous child murders?

Bitch, please. You'd know the time so well, people would wonder if you'd swallowed a clock. But, anyway, Peter Lorre is amazing and you should see every movie he's ever been in, especially M, The Maltese Falcon, and Arsenic and Old Lace. He's just so good at playing these creepy parts, you know, the ones that leave you wondering "what happened to so-and-so in his childood? Freudian analysis! Go!"

Also, why does he look so different in each of his movies? I didn't even recognize him in Falcon after seeing M.

I think I'm going to go to sleep now. And do you know why? Because I just tried to spell "now" like "know" and vice versa.

Linguistics: Lesson 1

2007-10-24T16:16:00.000-04:00

I FORGOT TO NUMBER MY PAGES!!!!!! For my play. I totally forgot. And I just checked Blackboard (the place where teachers post asssignements), and it told us to make sure we numbered our pages, starting on page 2. WTFFF? If I told my computer to do that, it would looka at me (I'll get back to you soon on the location of its eyes) and squawk "What the hell kind of an arbitrary number is 2? Why start with the second page? BLANK PIECE OF PAPER!"

I would look back at the computer, and remember, this is all theoretical because I wouldn't even be posting this if I'd remembered to NUMBER MY PAGES, and I would say, "Well, at least I'm not an OATMEAL COOKIE!!!"

That made perfect sense, and you know it. You're dazzled at my incandescent brilliance. It emanates from my extra-long eyeballs.

eeegeeGEEgee!

But this mistake is also proof of Divine Grace. You see, I've been trying to think of ways I could insert a Spanish Language lesson into my blog. Particularly, one about how people should convey the fact they've made a mistake. I now have the perfect example. Thank you, Jesus.

A Spanish speaker would never say, "I forgot to number my pages." Oh, no. Instead, they'd say "Se me olvidaron a numerar mis paginas." Roughly, "My pages forgot to number themselves on me."

No wonder Europe is so secular. Gosh darn it! They have no sense of guilt.

Psychology of Perception--the musical!

2007-10-22T23:09:00.000-04:00

My eyeballs are too long.

According to my psychology textbook, people with myopia (nearsightedness) have eyeballs that are so freakin' long that when they stare at something the image goes crazy and misses the retina or goes behind it. Something like that.

All I can say is, I thought everything about me was short.

Weird.

I finished editing my ten minute play today, which I cleverly called Egress. Thank you, Mr. Eynon (my AP English Lit teacher. He had a set of rules, one of which was "place your backpacks under the desk in order to facilitate ingress and egress"). No, really. Thanks, because up until twelfth grade, I thought that an Egress was a type of exotic bird.

Today I bought a book at the bookstore (NO!!!! Existential DOUBT!!) entitled "The Career Guide for Creative and Unconventional People".

When I spotted it across the room, I could only read "Creative and Unconventional People" and I was like, damn right you're unconventional if you can transform yourself into a book. Like, whoah.

And when I brought it back to my room, it insisted on testing gravity by jumping off my bed every time I moved (I had a lot of stuff on my bed). So I guess it is kinda unconventional. Then again, I just looked at it now and read "The Career Guide for Creative and Unintentional People." Ooops! Mom didn't use birth control.

Also, I learned today that Sergei Eisenstein (remember him? The penis guy?) directed a production of Die Valkure in Russia. I was like, ????

Wagner and Eisenstein go together like Lady Catherine de Berg and Soviet sex toys.

Take my word for it.

Blank Piece of PAPER!

2007-10-20T18:12:00.000-04:00

Did you know that bloggers on blogspot have a choice to post in English or...Hindi?

I was very tempted to post in Hindi, but I'm not entirely sure if that would mean all my posts would be in Hindi from now on.

So I wrote the first draft of my ten minute play. I've written a play. I've written a PLAY? When did that happen? I've never, ever, written an entire play before (though I've written scenes longer than this one). I hope it's good. It's my midterm.

By the way, I'm really confused about my final exams. We have one scheduled for Stagecraft: Costume Techniques. What, is the teacher going to see how fast we can sew a zipper? I have yet to sew a buttonhole. That's pretty much the only thing I can't do. That's a total lie. I can't sew for shit. Well, I can sew if you help me with every single tiny step.

See how indescicive I am? And how bad I am at spelling?

Sometimes I'm just going to write for fun. I hope soon, but for now, I have more writing to do for school; this one a screenplay for the feature film the MFA (Mighty Fine Ass, known in some circles as Muhlenberg Film Association) is producing this year. I have organized what some might call a studio system of production. I am very proud of myself right now.

She came in through the bathroom window

2007-10-19T23:00:00.000-04:00

There's a little phrase that pops up when I log in to blogspot. It happily informs me how many posts I've...er, posted. Twelve posts! It giggles. Twelve? TWELVE?!? Wow, I'm not a very prolific blogger. Sorry, guys.

Well, I'm happy that people are going to help me out with that, because so far, three people have expressed interest in guest-blogging. Let's bring that number up higher, people! I mean, it's a one-night stand. No commitment, people.

I should be working on my ten-minute play. It's my Dramatic Writing midterm. It's driving me crazy, just like my film paper from last week (I did well on that, by the way, gracias a dios), probably because it's a midterm. A midterm is very scary for Katie. She is not sure if she can write a play. A scene, fine, but a whole play, even one ten minutes long, is a tad daunting for her.

I'm sorry if I just sounded like an arrogant fish.

It won't happen again.

See? I'm going insane. I'll just keep writing. I got my shades fixed. It was nice. Great success!

Like, the coolest idea ever

2007-10-18T11:30:00.000-04:00

Yeah, I'm sorry I haven't posted in a while. Really, I am. It's quite theraputic for me. But my homework level just jumped a few degrees, again, so I've been kinda preoccupied with that lately.

But guess what? I've thought of a cool idea, one that would promote cross-blog fertilization and diversity in this voluptous digital age. Yes, voluptous. And synergy. Because that was just such a crazy word in In Good Company. Are you ready for this?

Guest blogging!

Here's the concept: Once a month, or more frequently if there's enough interest, one of you lucky people will write a guest blog entry, that is, a post that will go up on my blog. So it better be good. Anyone can write one, just comment on this post expressing your interest, and you can write an email to me and I'll cut and paste your blog post onto my blog!! WEEE!!! You can write about anything you want, so long as it's not porn. That's Maddie's territory. Or, more specifically, gnome porn.

So if anyone's interested, let me know. If you already have a blog, great, you can take this opportunity to spread the word about it. And if not, who cares? Let this be your proxy-blog. Your step-blog. Your I-have-a-plant-but-I-only-water-it-sometimes blog. Because even if you're not ready to commit to a full blog, you can get that one great post out of your head, and into the creepy world of cyberspace!!! WOOOHOOO!

Finally Home!

2007-10-13T15:23:00.000-04:00

Walking into one's home for the first time in one and a half months is a very surreal, almost postmodern experience (I've given up on the spelling of that word. For an informed discussion, see John Barth's Further Fridays). I had forgotten that the shades in my room were just as broken as the shades in my dorm room (wow, I have TWO rooms!), but at least the windows in my room at home have curtains. They're nice and green. It makes my room look like a jungle in Argentina when the sun shines. Not that there are any jungles in Argentina.

I am happy to have home cooked meals again. I am happy to have a personal bathroom. I am happy to live in a space that doesn't look like an industrial plant. I don't have to hear drumming and shouts of "one, two, three, four" coming from the dance studio.

The bathroom in my dorm, while nice and functional, is certainly not built with aesthetics in mind. And Brown is the most aesthetically pleasing dorm in general, so I'd hate to think what bathrooms in other dorms must look like.

It's really nice to be able to type with some control again. On my laptop, which I left at school, the cursor keeps moving around without me touching it. So if I wrote that sentence on my laptop, the cursor would have moved, say, from the 'o' in 'around' up to the 'a' in happy, and the rest of the sentence, unless I paid close attention, would look like "I am haund without me touching it to live in a space that doesn't look like an industrial plant." It's a very strange phenomenon. I don't really know what to make of it. My pinkee hurts.

I'm really writing this to avoid the mountain of homework I should be working on. Luckilly, I have my cats to keep me even more distracted.

Hunh?

2007-10-10T23:03:00.000-04:00

I'm feeling much, much better after writing the first draft of my essay.

This is me a few hours ago.

This is me now!

My shades are still stuck, but what the hell. I can always tape lots of notebook paper so voyeurs will be forever tantalized with my shadow! Mwahahaha...or I could just call Residential Services and place a work order. But that's no fun.

I'm getting pretty excited to go home and see my family and friends. Not that I don't love all you Muhlenbergers terribly, but I haven't seen my parents since about 11:13 PM on August 20. I'm going to bake an organic, dairy-free chocolate cake!! And--wait for it--I'm going to buy a RUG for my room!!! Who wouldn't want to spend their weekend doing that??

My brain is still buzzing with my thesis...I went to an art exhibition today curated by my film studies teacher, and I just went ahead and analyzed everything in the light of my thesis. It made some sense, though. Maybe. In an alternate universe...

My brain is saying this to me right now:

as;dlfkjasd;flkjas;lfkjawe;lfkjae;ofi aoweifj;aiosfj;oaiwejr f;alijsflakjefr;alkjesf;lkajwef;lkj

Okay, I'm going to do some film reading (!) and then I'm going to do some sleeping.

Waaaaaahhhhhh!!!!

2007-10-09T20:23:00.000-04:00

When you blow your head off at the little things, you know you're not in good shape. Like just now I was trying to sign in to blogspot so I could write this here post and the cursor wasn't already positioned in the space designed for bloggers to enter their usernames. I was like, WTFFF (What the fuckity fuck fuck)? And about an hour ago, I tried to pull down one of the shades on my windows, and the cord whipped around the dowel like a hamster on crack. Now it's stuck. And everyone can see me at all times.

Oh, my life is just so great sometimes.

And there's that film paper. I finally--FINALLY!--have a thesis, but the whole writing the paper thing is sort of eluding me at the moment. So I decided to write on my blog instead and try to loosen up, because this is my first paper and for some reason I'm really nervous. I don't know, it's not like that creepy lady from the movie is going to jump off my computer screen and slash my throat, but this is the first formal essay I've written since I took my AP English exam. In May. So that's...almost half a year. Wow.

The cool thing is, the weekly film challenge theme for MFA (Muhlenberg Film Association) is cats. My idea, of course.

Wouldn't it be great if MFA stood for Mighty Fine Ass?

But I couldn't see you! The glass was frosted.

2007-10-07T10:52:00.000-04:00

I just clicked on the "New Post" button and realized that I don't really know what to write for today. Ummm...thanks for taking my poll. It appears that Um, Friday is a clear winner. And whoever voted Friday is incredibly boring.
Guess what, guys? My mommy started a blog! She's an artist, and she posts pictures of what she makes, and I comment. You should check it out at www.cindysilverstein.blogspot.com .
I did so much creative shizz on Friday and yesterday that I really have nothing left for this blog. Sorry. I felt pretty prolific, though. I made part of a film, wrote two scenes, watched a creepy movie called Don't Look Now. If I was younger, I probably would've obeyed the title and missed the movie, but we HAD to watch at least the first seven minutes of it for my Film class. I went through maple syrup (hell is a term far overused) trying to get the library to give it to me again. I checked it out yesterday and watched that opening sequence about three times (on the third time I broke down every shot. It took about an hour) because we have to write a paper on it. Then I returned it, before the time limit of two hours given to reserved materials forcibly ripped it from my fragile hands. And I came back yesterday, and they let me have it again, but noted that the computer claimed it hadn't been returned and that I now owed them 2 million dollars. Okay, 2 dollars. But it's the principle of the thing. They knew it wasn't true because the movie was shelved and I obviously didn't remove it from the library or forget to return it. So they had to figure out how to remove the charge from my account. It was fun! I've had problems with the library before, like I paid them 8 dollars for returning Man with a Movie Camera five days late (but I swear it was due October 2, not September 27!). That was even more of a party.
So I'm not going to write about the movie just yet, in case anyone from my film class is prowling around here without my knowledge. Hey guys!
Okay, so when I actually get my paper back and graded, I promise I'll write something. Maybe.
By the way, the title of this post has nothing to do with this post. I just love The Producers. (I almost wrote the phrase "Post title" but then realized that could be taken as the words after the title which is the post itself. Circular reasoning, indeed).

My little brothers

2007-10-02T22:34:00.000-04:00

My LIFE!!! AHhhhh...

2007-10-02T22:16:00.000-04:00

Have you ever been present at the moment when the sky at dusk preaches an enamel glaze of colors, and clouds carved like marble? If there are buildings in the foreground, they are made more majestic in the light, as if placed inside a seashell. I was walking back from the GQ today (no, I lied, a couple days ago), thinking about autumn and the collective unconscious, when I was met with such a sunset. I whipped out my cell phone and waited as it powered up, but the light was draining away. I took a picture anyway, but it was cheap and just wrong somehow. I ruined it, and the picture came out all dark and scraggly. I took an epic and reduced it to a cartoon. Not that there's anything wrong with cartoons. So instead of posting that awful photo, I wrote this entry. Cause I'm cool like that.

I also made origami at my hall meeting yesterday!!! But my mommy would be ashamed. I tried making a crane. My friend Hannah, who's half Scottish and half Moroccan (just had to throw that in there), says that the crane is supposed to resemble the artist. So I'm basically fucked.

According to this theory, I look like the illegitimate child of a crinkly chicken and a lollipop.

If only I had a picture.

Why didn't I get the camera thingy installed on my laptop? WHY?!?!

Drama Queen

2007-09-30T22:26:00.000-04:00

I haven't painted since May. And believe me, listening to the soundtrack of Frida makes you wanna paint like van Gogh's holding a knife to your ear (Heehee, I once got a card informing me that I had van Gogh's ear for music). But fo sho, I haven't touched my paint-brushes. Well, I kinda can't, they're actually my mom's, and therefore they live in my house. So too bad for me. Or I could sign up for a painting class. But I don't think that would be such a good idea. It's not that I'm a horrible painter. It's just that I go through these phases. Like with dance. I really wanted to dance last year. I went to my first dance class in six years. I fell down the stairs. I didn't want to go back. Fun times. And I stuck with it, and was in really great shape, but I just got so sick of it. I developed a metaphorical allergy to dance. I wish that I was one of those people who was amazing at one thing and one thing only and that this one thing was my everything. As cliche as that sounds. But I'm no permanent resident.

If only I could upload photos...

2007-09-29T00:12:00.000-04:00

I flip-flopped my way over to Film History this morning, more leisurely than usual because I had somehow managed to leave the GQ (General's Quarters, the caf where I have breakfast, for all you non-Bergers) with a few minutes to spare. What an overused expression that is. But I'm a little too tired to change it right now. I'm so tired that I wrote 'write' instead of 'right', but I fixed that, of course. And then I go and tell you all about it, so it's not like fixing it actually accomplished anything, but...anyway...I was flip-flopping when an image assaulted my senses and stirred up everything twisted and surrealist that has ever taken liberties to breed in my preconscious. If only I could upload photos, but this computer is strange and won't let me upload anything from my hard drive...

How to begin...

Allow this image to hover before your inner eye: A haggard line of life-size wooden crosses has been sewn onto Academic Row, complemented by bales of hay that sit, neatly packaged, on the grassy, er...grass. So I think, okay, I know a lot of people like Civil War reenactments, so is this...it can't be...is this supposed to be the Spartacus slave revolt?

The atmospheric aura (that's the buzzword of the day, according to my friends Jordan and Devin) reeked of...I don't even know...it was just incredibly creepy. I mean, a row of life-size crosses (anything life-sized that's not actually alive is creepy. Like life-sized Barbie). Turns out it's for the Muhlenberg Scarecrow-making contest. Which makes sense, I guess, but even when I realized this, I was contemplating the purpose of the hay (maybe the block of hay serves the same purpose as the trapdoor at a hanging?) and especially of the mysterious signs posted on each individual cross.

Delta Zeta.

Communication Club.

Girls Varsity Lacrosse.

Watch out, Chemistry Club. They're gonna crucify you, too. But no, there's a much more realistic explanation: each of the clubs listed above, in addition to several others, purchased a "scarecrow frame"(choughCROSSchough) and bale of hay for the upcoming (well, not really, depends on your definition of upcoming, but let's not get caught up in semantics, here) Halloween festivities.

At least that's what the ADMINISTRATION is telling us.

Hmmm...

In Film today, we studied surrealism: Un Chien andalou, L'age d'or, and some other stuff. Freud would be proud. Maybe he saw them, I'm not sure. I came to one conclusion about surrealist filmmakers:

They're sixth graders with high voices who still have not accepted the fading allure of the penis game. You know, the one where you shout 'penis!!!!' in the cafeteria to your friend with greasy hair at the other end of the room. You have greasy hair, too. You're in middle school.

But seriously. How many penis jokes can you fit into a seventeen-minute film? It reminds me a lot of John Barth and post-modernism, which also boasts more than its share of penis jokes. Eisenstein was a pubescent boy as well in this respect. It's pretty ridiculous. In a way, I can kinda see where Frida was coming from when she said, "I would rather sit on the floor of the market of Toluca and sell tortillas than have anything to do with those "artistic" bitches of Paris." Nevertheless, she was a surrealist as well, but not by her own definition. Sorta like Barth and postmodernism (Postmodernism? post-modernism?), but I digress. At the beginning of film class this morning, we delved into our unconscious by freewriting.

The basin has been full for the past half hour as I sit, drinking its silvery metaphor and I like it and the golden key, resting precariously on the edge of my unconscious with that water. Water may be in the basin what is in the basin is no different that what is in your mind. Now we look contemptuously at it, grinning with all power from the starlit heights, the mist-filled eyes.

And so on. And ending with:

The key looks at us. We look at me. I look at me without a mirror and I mow the lawn as fast as I can. I mow rocks. Someone left them there. This is saddening like the turtle of laughter and Salvador Dali. I think too much about my future, not futurism, my life, as if it doesn't already exist.

Dr. O called on me to read part of it out loud, so I read the first part. She said it was sophisticated and quite surrealist. I said, cool.

Well, not really. But it was a fun exercise. The phrase "turtle of laughter" reminds me of "rabbit of Easter" from David Sedaris' story "Jesus Shaves" Me Talk Pretty One Day (Kim is probably the only one who gets this reference). That means David Sedaris like, lives in my unconscious.

I bet he vacuums, like, all the time. He vacuums my unconscious, I mean. If it has a floor. If it does, I'm sure it's carpeted and covered with cat hair.

Kerenski!

2007-09-27T10:56:00.000-04:00

That is K's name. I remembered when I came back from my voice lesson. I didn't even have to look it up. I'm so intelligent.

By the way, if this is the first blog you've read, be sure to scroll down the page and read the posts from earlier today and yesterday if you haven't already. Otherwise I probably am not making much sense.

But do I ever?