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16th April 2004

8:59am: It's Friday and I'm in love
I'M MAKING THIS PUBLIC, BUT ONLY FOR JENNYSUNSHINE: my impeccable, lovely friend who's going to NYU for grad school! Already, Leah Price is grumbling and groaning: "Grad school I daresay I did just, like, five minutes ago. How my upgraded version lacerates me; she wields well the weapon of literary criticism, but with an angular and aesthetic face! Where's motherly Lewalski? My fresh tears have need of her skirt."

To follow Leah across the Harvard yard, turn to p. 62. For other adventures, keep reading.Collapse )

5th April 2004

10:09pm: Memories of Intro to Fiction (sort of missing it)
The paraphrased gist of Bill Veeder:

"Let's analyze Bartleby any way we see fit. Add what you what, how much you want. Remember, we're all drinking the same martini, no matter how we mix it."

12th March 2004

12:40pm: It's Friday, so:

8th March 2004

10:46am: Boring/informative
After reading Stephen Crane's "The Blue Hotel" for class, I think it ought to be required reading for 7th or 13th-graders because of the questions about friend/enemy-making it brings boldly to surface. I sort of wish I were able to write on this story rather than Flannery O'Connor's "Everything That Rises Must Converge." For the latter, I've already fashioned myself a TA-approved thesis about fashion and self-fashioning that has to explain a) child development b) racism c) the South in 12 sexy pages. (Story synopsis: Woman in ridiculous hat and her begrudging son board a bus that has been recently integrated. Woman makes her standard racist comments until a black lady--in the same hat!--and her son board the bus. The white lady immediately takes to the child and insists on offering him a new penny when they exit the bus. The black lady hollers that her son don't take pennies from no-body, and punches out the white lady who suffers a stroke or a heart attack, the blackness of which envelops her son in an irrevocable mix of guilt, sympathy, and shame.)

Otherwise, there's a Chaucer exam that my prof doesn't seem too worried about on our behalf.

Jennysunshine called me last night lackadaisically en route to Spring Break. Her keyboard, disabled, was speaking backslash and Turkish, so it took us five minutes to move our conversation to the phone. Also, I did all my reading, vacuumed, and called home twice. (Applause.)

29th February 2004

6:17pm: Two 12-page papers...
Sunday afternoon naps really shouldn't incapacitate me. Sunday afternoon naps are cop-outs for skimming, instead of devouring, Hannah Arendt later on. I'm not exactly guilty.

The weekend was beautiful, the weather was miraculous--my nose is even twitching from the newly-exposed allergens. Brian and I were "meh" on Friday night, but we spent Saturday shopping on North. I'm magnetized to Banana Republic, but I used the attraction sparingly. Fifteen-minute clothes shopping makes me feel part-impulsive, part-measured. Last night we met folks (and trixies) at a bar and drank and shouted a few hours away. Then we watched South Park and ate White Castle. Pardon my French?

Today we espied an Eastern European Guido! He was in a sky-blue (velour?) sweatsuit, walking briskly (armed?) across the street, enjoying the sun and the sights. This complicates my cultural stereotypes!

I have discovered that I am a fan of Dr. Katz, based on two episodes. Must...steal...files.
Ok, ok. Schoolwork.

23rd February 2004

1:38pm: SATC Finale, condensed
CARRIE: Paris. Disillusionment. Loneliness. The language of French.
CHARLOTTE: We're not getting the baby.
HARRY: No. God forgot our address.
CHARLOTTE: ...We're getting a baby?! From China?
HARRY: God remembered our address.
SAMANTHA: Feel free to have sex with other women.
SMITH: I won't.
SAMANTHA: No, seriously, feel free.
SMITH: I won't. I'll send flowers. You'll see.
SAMANTHA: Hey, the flowers are nice...
SMITH: Hey, I caught a plane to tell you: I love you.
SAMANTHA: Me too, and not just your cock!
MIRANDA: Steve, your mother can live with us.
STEVE: Really?
MAGDA: Really? Miranda, diz is love. You love.
CARRIE: I am smoking again.
RUSSIAN: Everyone smokes in Paris.
CARRIE: Omigod, I found my Carrie necklace! My identity is symbolically and effectively regained! You made me miss my party and you don't pay much attention to me! It was fun while it lasted--thanks for the jewels--but I'm going back to New York. I guess you shouldn't have kept my apartment for me.
RUSSIAN: Slapping you was accidental.
BIG: Hey kid. Here I am, and just like in your most misguided fantasies, I am, after all, the one for you. Abso-fucking--
CARRIE: Oh! And your first name, it's John!

22nd February 2004

1:01pm: Sunday, bloody Sunday
I spent much of Saturday happily relaxing with Brian (or suffering from my most unfortunate allergy, broccoli cheese soup), and then around 6 I met M. on the Belmont platform. We wormed our way to the end of a huge line outside the Vic, where M. reluctantly sold her extra ticket (to a sold-out show) to the guy who offered her 20 bucks for it (and immediately turned around and sold it for 40 to a girl just behind us in the line). Por supuesto.

The Bright Eyes show was full of 14-year-old girls smoking cigarettes, their gay boyfriends, and not enough emo tears to gratify my fancy. While wristbands for alcohol were highly enforced, everyone seemed to pretend not to notice that these adolescents were not well-versed in polite smoking. The older brother who bought the Camels for the girl sitting next to me should have also explained to her that blowing her smoke directly sideways (without enjoying it first) was a ridiculous move. I have never seen so many emaciated and well-groomed boys in my life, either. It was a sort of pleasant dream. We sat in the balcony, though, where it was easier for me to sneak a single gin and tonic, which I definitely needed in light of the horror of the second act.

M. Ward came on first, though, and he was amazing. You've got to admit that when you critique your favorite music that usually the first thing that flows to mind isn't simply "impressive musicianship," but this guy had the glaring talent. He called attention to the guitar, and had all the grace of Jeff Buckley and the roughness of Bob Dylan. I sound hokey, but I gradually adopted the kind of seriousness in watching him that I used to apply to my observation of my very talented viola instructor. I was prepared to buy his CD and actually support him, but by the time the concert was over, it was so definitely over. I'd already bought my MAXIMIZED EMO Bright Eyes shirt (just for your sake, Brian), so I was satisfied. Okay, I'll just say it: sparsely-drawn girl, hair in her eyes, holding a violin--in the rain--, a snake at her feet. I hate it when that happens.

The second guy--whose name I intentionally forgot--blew. His voice was pleasing in trio with M. Ward and Connor, but on his own, he launched so deep into country that I started whispering sarcastically to a pained Meghan, "Enter Garth." The concert flowed seamlessly with the mere sharing and switching of guitars. Everyone knew everyone's music and there were no annoying intermissions--still the show lasted nearly 3 hours, which was great.

And it's true, Connor Oberst is emo-fantastic. Dressing in the way Rivers Cuomo made even cooler in the nineties. His guitar work was less impressive, but his voice, live, had this surprising capacity for yelling and softness that I didn't really expect. He played a lot of new stuff. He shared a bottle of red wine. He was in a rare friendly mood in that he actually responded to audience interjections, which turned out to be a bad idea. Some kid persuaded him to dedicate his next song to "Celia, from Dan" which was cute, until in every pause, Dan yelled, "Thanks, Connor! I love you, Celia! Celia!" No one forced him to shut up (Connor ignored him at this point), but the more sedate group from the balcony yelled languorous "Fuuuck you"s: so uneffective, and yet so sincere.

After we pushed our way out of the Vic we ended up pushing ourselves out of shitty Clark's, and then I suggested El Jardin (!) for mediocre Mexican and margaritas (which, I forgot, fall out of a machine). I ended up drinking my own drink and most of Meghan's, which made the trek home almost lovely. Parts of the red line were down, so we took an alternate (purple? brown?) line the distance that the subway usually takes us and had a cool view of downtown. Waiting for the 55 took under 10 minutes and I "kept" myself sober enough to meet a snotty physics major whose major errand of Saturday was to come upon used physics books. Oh, U of C (not unfondly).


Tonight, my dears, is the season and series finale of beloved Sex and the City. Preparations included disguised flirtinis and maybe brownies. I will laugh and maybe cry, and if the last scene is of Carrie walking, thought-laden and fashionably dressed, down an emptied New York street, I will curse the writers for too much cliche. It's my suspicion, though. (The Big scenario was set up so deliberately that I'm suspicious it's fake. In regard to that, I think she will discover both lovingly and sublimely that they have all the time engaged in a "divine friendship" that takes them to sex, to relationships, to beautiful walks in the park. But we'll see. The rumors that Samantha dies seem the most unbelievable. Oh, and we all know that nothing earth-shattering will happen to Charlotte, beyond motherhood through adoption.)

And I am a little hungover, but ahead on homework.

18th February 2004

1:42pm: I wanted to be fucking Deleuze and Guattari!
You are Jacques Lacan! Arguably the most important
psychoanalyst since Freud, you never wrote
anything down, and the only works of yours are
transcriptions of your lectures. You are
notoriously difficult to understand, but at
least you didn't talk about the penis as much
as other psychoanalysts. You died in 1981.

What 20th Century Theorist are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Jennysunshine, I hope you got your valentine. Take note that Bhabha is indeed famous. Link: http://quizilla.com/cgi-bin/rlist/list.pl. Moreso than Vendler! (???) Did you secretly know this? It's now necessary to pay further homage to Homi. I can't believe you picked Mori over him, she's worthless!
Okay, okay, okay. Hosted impromptu gin and tonics in my room after the replay of last Sunday's SATC (have things ever changed). Feeling a little scattered and tired, but stuffed on a croissant and tap water. Even grew thankful for the construction work outside, for it functioned in lieu of alarm clock. Humpday, overcome.

15th February 2004

4:15pm: XO
The weekend won! Friday night I was greeted by my man with a single red rose on my half of the dashboard. Our Valentine's dinner was four (?)-course fondue, a new venture for both of us. Needless to say, the pokey-sticks served an enhanced function of prodding the waiter. Our wine came late, only after a jab. We made fun of, like, eveeeeryone and didn't get indigestion!

Allyson, a former co-worker (coffeshop contemporary?) of mine, is in Chicago on some kind of marketing field trip, and she called and left a cryptic message on Valentine's Day. I called her back awhile ago, and she was at a Blackhawks game, unimpressed but not knowing what was going on. She invited me to "come out" later, but since she doesn't even know where she is, and I won't even know where I'm going--plus I missed both classes on Friday--I'm definitely thinking no. No, no. Gotta read D.H. Lawrence and whatever Euro Civ crap.

And: my sister sent me the most intricately-labeled Valentine's Day package. She's convinced the mailroom is inept because the throw pillows she sent me last year mysteriously disappeared. So the package was sent certified mail, my room number and city is in a huge font, and she even had instructions on both sides about which side I was supposed to cut (to get at the card before the candy).

O, conversation hearts.

11th February 2004

2:00pm: There's something unsurprising about running into your Virginia Woolf professor being swept away by her golden retriever, plastic baggie and all.

9th February 2004

9:30pm: Study break: character sketches
1) Her vitriolic was a tear drop that I ignored, tying it into my shoelaces. She changed with five or six seasons, not traditionally, but the way muscles get tauter. In her underwear she stirred her soup and practiced "estudiando el Spanish." She knows pretty much how to change a tire, and she says "I love you" second. She's the antecedent to the living "wind in her father's sails" which blew out when she missed a landmark birthday and summer vacation up in the hills. It wasn't personal or planned; in fact, very little is.

2) I think she'd be inclined to take over every inch of surface area if possible, purchasable. After all, when the tortoise sucks in its head, she slams her bum half-daintily on his little house so he doesn't run away with something useful. It's grotesque and terrible to track her very blur: the slam of shop doors, molars crunching, veins pulling up into the tactical arsenal of her wide forehead. She's going to scrunch her nervous laugh up her nose and tell you she has a plan; her slant will be impeccable, her timing will be "unpredictable."

3) He's been gazing normally at the same space of wall in the cafe for many months, minus the interference of life. Sometimes he doesn't go out for days; still, he averages about a show, a museum, or a movie a week. He's never had the misfortune of contemplating himself as simple v. complicated, social or secret, aloud to anyone. He likes the birds that land on statues. He's almost always on time. He's simply almost always on time.

4) Now, somewhere in the black mountain hills of Dakota there lived a young boy (named Rocky Raccoon). And one day his woman ran off with another guy--hit Rocky in the eye, Rocky didn't like that. He said, "I'm gonna get that boy," so one day he walked into town and booked himself a room in a local saloon. Rocky Raccoon had checked into his room only to find a Gideon's bible; Rocky had come equipped with a gun to shoot the legs off of his rival. (His rival, it seems, had broken his dreams by stealing the girl of his fancy.)

6th February 2004

2:15pm: Viva la caffeine
I don't want to do my taxes. I don't want to apply for jobs. I don't want to do my reading. I don't want to write papers and go to classes that coax me to write them. I don't want to slink through the snow. I want to stay in bed all morning and rock all night with you! (Seriously!)

That being read like civilized beat poetry, let me just say: last night was good fun. I met Jen (well, two Jens, actually), and karaoke was awesome and of course, often funny. I don't know what's more terrifying than witnessing your boyfriend set himself up for crotch and blowjob jokes ("Hey Barry, I'm not wearing any underwear either" was NOT in the script!), but it's part of the job.

This morning the bookshelf over my bed completely collapsed just as I was resigning myself to this bed. I shrugged, threw all the books on the floor and went back to sleep for two hours. I had truly horrible nightmares and woke up after my alarm (set on radio) had been going off for 20 minutes. Still, I made leftist comments on Colonialism in history today, and now I'm running off to that goddamn English discussion section!

30th January 2004

1:37pm: Nerd explosion
OMG! PIPPIN HAS A BLOG: http://www.billyboyd.net.

You have no idea how great and hilarious I think this is! (Done with papers, relieved and receptive.)

28th January 2004

1:37am: Wherein I join the US map clan

create your own visited states map
or write about it on the open travel guide

Magenta/red denoting visited states. Most of the East Coast I've only driven through--in fact, I've only spent significant amounts of time in Florida, Virginia, DC, New York, and just one afternoon in Massachusetts (I remember eating apple chips in a distant relative's basement, going on nine and apalled). But I've definitely "done" the Upper Midwest...I don't actually remember being in North Dakota, but I'm assuming it was simply forgettable.

Earlier on I wrote a great, goosebumped entry about the Rilo Kiley show last night, but Livejournal was having (shocking) technical difficulties, and told me to try again in 5 minutes as it swallowed my entry. Suffice it to say I had my first really close call with my ID--"Is this you?" "Yes. "What's your birthday?" "10-16-80...10-16-81."--and after being closely examined by two bouncers, I got my great neon green armband and could get my own Cosmos. Using the ID was a last-minute gesture of arrogance, though, because it was an 18+ show, and I merely wanted to drink comfortably inside. My nerves rattled under two layers of T-shirts, but alcohol and sadcore/cutecore bands calmed me down to the point of making me beam. I love the Abbey. Jake Bellows was the opening--he was the kind of guy you figure you want to go bowling with and not kiss--and he made this joke that at his ghetto Chicago hotel he spied "a cockroach shitting in a toilet." Much to my amusement and delight (so I'm condescending!), the pretty dorky guy in front of us yelled out, "THAT WAS MY ROOM, I WAS THERE."

Tilly & The Wall came out next, in a snaking line and clapping. They're easily the cutest thing I've ever seen on stage. They kept the hand-clapping and added maracas and tambourines had lots of uppity "Fuck you"-like choruses. They did a self-mocking indie cover of "Hey Ya" that was pretty hilarious, with the sole male of the group yellin' out the Outkastings. At 10, Rilo Kiley came out and played an acoustic set which was really impressive. Jenny had her usual near-flawless intonation despite her cold and played keyboards, harmonica, guitar, etc. They started with "A Better Son/Daughter" but moved into a lot of newer material. To be honest, I'm only familiar with The Execution of All Things, so this didn't bother me so much.

The walk back to the Blue Line was only about five blocks (didn't know that last year), and it wasn't too cold out until we were waiting for the 55, of course. Meghan and I made a very tired trip to Walgreens (I got cereal, and she got ALMONDS), and I was in bed by 2. Tonight, however, I have no excuse for being up this late. I finished my homework around 9, or as much of my homework as I'm going to get done tonight. I think Brian and I ought to make a nutritious feast tomorrow night because I've been abstemiously/slobbishly working around the fact that all the dishes are dirty, and I'm really that uninspired.

26th January 2004

4:59pm: Let us help you be inventive!
EXOTIC FOREIGNER ALIAS = Favorite Spice + Last Foreign Vacation Spot
Oregano Nowhere

SOCIALITE ALIAS = Silliest Childhood Nickname + Town Where You First Partied
Little Pumpkin Chicago

"FLY GIRL" ALIAS (a la J. Lo) = First Initial + First Two or Three Letters of your Last Name
J. Li (like Jelly, I guess!)

DIVA ALIAS = Something Sweet Within Sight + Any Liquid in Kitchen
Pear Bacardi

GIRL DETECTIVE ALIAS = Favorite Baby Animal + Where You Last Went to School
Kitty Washington

BARFLY ALIAS = Last Snack Food You Ate + Your Favorite Drink
Raisinet Gin and Tonic?

SOAP OPERA ALIAS = Middle Name + Street Where You First Lived
Susan Jessica

PORN STAR ALIAS = First Pet's Name + Street You Grew Up On
Tinker Bell Jessica

ROCK STAR ALIAS = Any Liquid on the Bar + Last Name of Bad-Ass Celebrity
Rum Connery

21st January 2004

1:32pm: Musings?
I'm having a hard time falling asleep at night due to the dry, cold climate of my dorm room. Sometimes the wind outside helps to heighten this unpleasant effect. There's not much I can do about it. The heat is technically on, I moisturize like all hell, and I've got blankets.

Outside, walking to and from class (resulting in no less than 3 miles) each day, I've got my ipod to keep me warm. My walks would be even better if people learned to walk briskly in the cold and on one side of the sidewalk. Also, when there's ice, and you have a group of 3, you can't all walk together, blocking people from both ways. (57th St is the worst with the woohoo about the Med and the relentless Streetwise Guy. I seriously go out of my way to avoid that block.)

I gave my presentation on Carlyle today. I even got to reiterate the Henry James quote on him, that he's a "sausage sputtering in its own grease." Somehow I managed to turn the class into a pseudo-literary discussion. Of course, one of the "conservative" members of the class objected to Carlyle's "idealized, abstractified" (his words, you know) portrayal of people. Why be abstract when you're talking about abstraction? Could kill that kid for trying to ruin some of my points. Anyway, if I write a paper on the next two units I will be DONE with the course requirements for the rest of the quarter. I think that's what I should aim for...past midterms, I'll have two important term papers to focus on, and I could possibly get straight A's again this quarter.

Chaucer was so incredibly boring yesterday, mostly because people are inactive in class discussion. She paraphrases and summerizes so often that the lectures are getting less enlightening. I don't need the summary; I read the Modern English translation in accompaniment to the Middle English. This literature isn't that dry, though, and if there's ever a course devoted to Romance of the Rose, I do believe I'll take it.

We're going to be discussing Atwood's "Rape Fantasies" in lecture in an hour. I predict Bill will find a way to make 10 off-color comments. I also predict he'll grab the opportunity to say "fucking." Trust me, he's just that kind of professor.

He'll also probably give an inane quiz where we have to identify things like "egg salad sandwich." The answer is "Estelle was eating this during her daily bridge game when the topic of rape fantasies came up." I loathe these quizzes. They're tricksy! Tricksy hobbitses.

I sort of need to sleep, but yuppie coffee will do the trick.

16th January 2004

9:54am: 100% pure fruit juice and sparkling water
My addiction to the healthful but extravagant sparkling Pear Izze carries over from last quarter.

No impetus to update lately. Everything's normal with a chance of meatballs. EuroCiv II was joined by a guy who combs his nasty beard during class discussion. He does it in a casual and indiscreet underhanded fashion, looking clean and proud as a cat. There's always got to be "one of those."

My Intro to Fiction prof is into his car and getting vehemently excited about diction and syntax in 19th century short stories. He also finds a way to flat-out swear at least three times per lecture. This is one of those "progress" courses--it doesn't matter if you're already flowery enough to consider fiction from his enthusiastic angle, you're going to fail your first paper. "Good luck," he said sardonically. He's got silver hair and a silver grin, probably tenured to the core.

In Chaucer class we all get points for showing minimal amounts of interest. Yesterday my charmingly British prof implored me to call Emilia a "bitch" and smiled at me until I looked up, realized she was still talking to me, and agreed. I'll probably write my term paper on the whorish Wife of Bath.

So concludes that glimmering summary. I have other things that I'm happy about and interested in, but I'll keep them more private than the pilgrims.

26th December 2003

1:47pm: http://chicago.citysearch.com/roundup/39168/?brand=msn. Sweet, my new year's plans are the third listed for the best of Chicago!
1:22pm: My take on AIM via cell phones
Frodo_Shire3212's Buddy List

saur0n 1 message
Gandalf 2 messages
x_smeagol_x 4 messages

saur0n: heh, i just wish i could see you :-*
Auto response from Frodo_Shire3212: Orcs!

Gandalf: Sorry about all these disconnects. Suffice it to say I'm alive and well and brimming with good counsel for you and Sam.
Auto response from Frodo_Shire3212: Orcs!
Gandalf: Ok, Im not talking to an away message.
Gandalf signed off at XXXXXXX.

x_smeagol_x: hey bagginz
Auto response from Frodo_Shire3212: Orcs!
x_smeagol_x: where r u
x_smeagol_x: bagginz
x_smeagol_x: SSS! i <3 your ring icon! im yoinking it LOL
Current Mood: silly

13th December 2003

7:47pm: "Oooh, precious, it's not fair of it to ask us what it's got in its pocketses!"
Paraphrased, probably. I am enjoying the LOTR trilogy so immensely that I'm actually reading The Hobbit at the same time. I had to know the riddling that went on in that cave! I actually let myself off work two hours early today because the end of my shift saw six of us standing around in an eerie lull. I immediately retreated to bed, bringing the cat with me, to cuddle up in that ideal oblivion of blankets and fantasy literature. I then slept (with less than fantastical nightmares) for several hours until my father woke me up to express that my beloved Charlie Brown Christmas was on TV. (It's the modern parable for postmodern social anxiety, I think. Things are easily mended, though, when Linus gets on his surprising soapbox.)

Our tree is up: glorious fakeness and the same string of lights as ever. I told my father on his way out that I'd put my ornaments up (that's my real holiday tribute to my mother, she prayed I'd never see a naked tree)--but he said, "Good luck finding them." I guess I really will have to find them now, to prove a Christmasy point.

Onto Ebay and online catalogues. I'm sadly barren of good ideas, so my brain's a flat plateau for a miracle.

9th December 2003

10:01pm: Calm in winter
Train, train, plane, car: things are fine. The smelly cat's cuddly too, and while my bedroom is as cold as a museum, it's not stuffy like the other museum mood. I had an hour phone conversation with my sister who invited me over for dinner tomorrow night, and to play video games and get my coat tailored (my second button's nearly unthreaded, and for some reason Matt insists on being handy with a needle and thread). Further good news is that, according to her, dad secretly "expects" that I'll get a summer internship. Apparently he senses and accepts that I am squandering my intellect and work ethic by serving bourgeois coffee. (Ironic sentence capacity is increased with "intellect" and "bourgeois." Don't pin me down, don't mock me.)

Brian is sending me pix (per my request!) The first one is of us in an enviably high level of love, and the other two are of him relaxing on the couch. Overall, a fair representation of what matters in life.

This winter break I shall read The Lord of the Rings and at least familiarize myself with The Canterbury Tales. Going well so far. Cuddled up in a blanket, I chuckled as Sam was all "Me come too!" on a perilous, epic adventure.

I shall go to bed soon and unpack my suitcase far later.

8th December 2003

12:28am: Finals on vinyl
I have adjusted my alarm clock twice. The Woolf final is 8-10 tomorrow...vigorous studying was recommended to me, but I honestly (honestly!) don't see the point. We're to connect passages to major themes within each novel in mini-essays, but these themes are supposed to be creative enough that we "haven't discussed them in class." To me, this exam is an exercise in spontaneous conjecturing and bullshitting, and I don't see how putting highlighter on every page is going to guide me through 200 pages six times any better. Still, I'm a little anxious. I spent much of the night nearly finishing my Borges paper which is due on Friday but being turned in tomorrow since I scheduled myself a Tuesday morning flight (if I leave early, I can come back early).

Brian and I spent much--ok, all--of the weekend relaxing. The heavily-edited version is this: Friday night we ate like two British people; Saturday I dragged him to 21 Grams (having personally adjusted to movies with disagreeable characters), and I spent the part of today I should have spent studying (like that bespectacled, Butch girl who said in discussion group, "Anyone want to get together Sunday morning AND STUDY?"--she was so very for real) watching some movie on Comedy Central where Rodney Dangerfield plays an uncouth businessman who goes back to college to support his depressed son and to score in the hot tub he built in to his dorm room. I was all like, "College is a joke!" and ate Captain Crunch Berries without this sinking sensation.

(A really good part was when the horny and more-or-less unattached English prof who wanted to "live in the moment" with Rodney gave him his only "A" for reciting the Dylan Thomas villanelle. He gleaned inspiration from his own theatrics and got straight D's in the rest of his classes, even though he plagiarized! This is a story of inspiration.)

Spoke to Jennysunshine on her mischievous cell today. Then I thought about how I wished tomorrow's English exam could just be me doing something like this...because, for some reason, I find this exercise rather invaluable (and return to it again and again).

I am growing happily tired.
Current Mood: restless

2nd December 2003

8:35pm: Note for the distant future: This is so disheartening. You've got to take those links out of Hotmail with a grain of salt, but still--someone's got this printout stuck to the fridge with a heart magnet, and I know it. (Hope said her latest pregnancy was "fine, he gives me oral.")

I tried to play online Monopoly earlier to distract myself from my paper, but the board froze. I was the Thimble and fled the game early. Then I made myself queasy with Mac and cheese and tried to go to bed early, which never works. Last night I was only able to sleep after a shot of vodka at 3 AM. Just out of curiosity, why is someone always playing a guitar during 10th week?

Some things make a perfectly reasonable amount of nonsense. Yesterday someone offered me detective services that were completely superfluous.

24th November 2003

10:31pm: Nobel Laureates Meme: Complete list of Nobel Laureates for literature. The ones I've read are in bold. Evilicously, I'm counting excerpts here. Also I'll make comments.

2003 John Maxwell Coetzee (read a page or two because he teaches at my school; I was totally going to take a class with him before the fact!)
2002 Imre Kertész
2001 V.S. Naipaul
2000 Gao Xingjian
1999 Günter Grass
1998 José Saramago
1997 Dario Fo
1996 Wislawa Szymborska
1995 Seamus Heaney
1994 Kenzaburo Oe
1993 Toni Morrison (Ugh...)
1992 Derek Walcott
1991 Nadine Gordimer (I did a college project and paper on her short story collection Crimes of Conscience...'She advanced towards him on her haunches')
1990 Octavio Paz (un poquito!)
1989 Camilo José Cela
1988 Naguib Mahfouz
1987 Joseph Brodsky
1986 Wole Soyinka
1985 Claude Simon
1984 Jaroslav Seifert
1983 William Golding
1982 Gabriel García Márquez (he could have won this prize exclusively on the merit of CoaDF, but I haven't read 100 Years)
1981 Elias Canetti
1980 Czeslaw Milosz
1979 Odysseus Elytis
1978 Isaac Bashevis Singer (Shosha, Jewish lit, 2 weeks ago)
1977 Vicente Aleixandre
1976 Saul Bellow (just how is he the Jewish James Joyce? still "fun")
1975 Eugenio Montale
1974 Eyvind Johnson, Harry Martinson
1973 Patrick White
1972 Heinrich Böll
1971 Pablo Neruda (It's cute when he salutes salt shakers and heartbreaking when he's heartbroken)
1970 Alexander Solzhenitsyn
1969 Samuel Beckett
1968 Yasunari Kawabata
1967 Miguel Angel Asturias
1966 Samuel Agnon, Nelly Sachs
1965 Michail Sholokhov
1964 Jean-Paul Sartre
1963 Giorgos Seferis
1962 John Steinbeck
1961 Ivo Andric
1960 Saint-John Perse
1959 Salvatore Quasimodo (I think)
1958 Boris Pasternak
1957 Albert Camus
1956 Juan Ramón Jiménez
1955 Halldór Kiljan Laxness
1954 Ernest Hemingway (pretty much all of his short stories, but just 4 or 5 novels)
1953 Winston Churchill
1952 François Mauriac
1951 Pär Lagerkvist
1950 Bertrand Russell
1949 William Faulkner
1948 Thomas Stearns Eliot
1947 André Gide
1946 Hermann Hesse
1945 Gabriela Mistral
1944 Johannes V. Jensen
1943-1940 No Prize
1939 Frans Eemil Sillanpää
1938 Pearl Buck (excerpt!)
1937 Roger Martin du Gard
1936 Eugene O'Neill
1935 No prize
1934 Luigi Pirandello
1933 Ivan Bunin
1932 John Galsworthy
1931 Erik Axel Karlfeldt
1930 Sinclair Lewis
1929 Thomas Mann
1928 Sigrid Undset
1927 Henri Bergson (shall we penetrate the sphere or circle round?)
1926 Grazia Deledda
1925 George Bernard Shaw
1924 Wladyslaw Reymont
1923 William Butler Yeats (love Yeats!)
1922 Jacinto Benavente
1921 Anatole France
1920 Knut Hamsun
1919 Carl Spitteler
1918 No prize
1917 Karl Gjellerup, Henrik Pontoppidan
1916 Verner von Heidenstam
1915 Romain Rolland
1914 No prize
1913 Rabindranath Tagore
1912 Gerhart Hauptmann
1911 Maurice Maeterlinck
1910 Paul Heyse
1909 Selma Lagerlöf
1908 Rudolf Eucken
1907 Rudyard Kipling
1906 Giosuè Carducci
1905 Henryk Sienkiewicz
1904 Frédéric Mistral, José Echegaray
1903 Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
1902 Theodor Mommsen
1901 Sully Prudhomme
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