Let’s Do the Time Warp Again!

Well, folks, it is October 31st! Do you know what that signifies?

Yes, the day before Episode III comes out on DVD, but something better…

Yes, Hallowe’en! The greatest holiday known to man (as well as Diwali for our Hindu friends)… But I had something more personal in mind…

YAY! Yes, you guessed it (or I’m going to pretend that you did, anyway)… It’s my and John’s anniversary… We met at Rocky Horror (1975) waaaaaaay back in 1996.

Nine years. Wow! Where did the time fly to?

At about 9pm on October 31st, 1996, I was still in my maroon Marriott work shirt and trying frantically to write my German composition paper (What I Did on My Summer Urlaub, or some similar nonsense), due the next day. I was eighteen, in first year of university at Mt. Allison, on loan, and had two jobs. I was barely holding on. Not a social person by nature, I hated dorm life, especially as most of the people on my floor had never held a job in their lives more serious than “Summer Camp Councilor (giggle).”

However, I had met Lisa, a great girl on my floor who fit me well as a best friend, and a few interesting people through work and classes. One such “interesting” person was a faux-drag queen named Gregg, with a pink Mohawk and a punk band. The exact type of guy that your parents fear you will meet in university. Anyway, this fella' was pretty popular at that white-bread preppie institution set on rolling green hills. This October 31st, he just happened to bring his slip-covered butt around to my dorm room to take me and Lisa to Rocky Horror.

The problem is that Gregg, while quite a character, was never known for his mindful behaviour towards his friends. He wandered off to see other chums in my residence, and left me with little clue as to where he had gotten off to. The worst thing was that he left his large, taciturn roommate, whom I had never met, smack dab in the middle of my room. This guy settled himself in my chair and started thumbing through my books, well used to being left by his Mohawk-ridden sidekick.

I politely excused myself and made a beeline for Lisa’s room, freaked out by this silent stranger parked in my room… We all went to the movie, and there I was stuck sitting beside this guy. Who the heck was he, anyway? And why didn't he speak?

Little did I know that that silent stranger and I would be celebrating our ninth anniversary of meeting today. Eventually, he spoke, and I guess, though I was oblivious to it, it was love at first sight, and we have been inseparable ever since that day.

I have no idea what happened to Gregg. I heard he moved back to Toronto and went to journalism school. Some say he was shot in the street, others guess he went straight-and-narrow and joined his dad’s firm. In any case, I haven’t heard from him since… oh, I’d say 1998.

But he did me some service when he abandoned John in my room. I hope wherever he is, he gets karma credit for that, at least.

So, Happy Hallowe’en, and Unlimited Love to Y’all.

The Highs and Lows of Society Life

Well, you can’t say that the party tonight was the highlight of the social year. In fact, no one showed up. My friend the monk had obligations at his temple, so he emailed his regrets on Friday. (Always mindful that guy- what a prince!) No one else sent regrets, but still, come 6pm, no one was at our door.

It turns out, though, that the three people I expected to come all (eventually) contacted me, but I was feeling pretty low at about 7pm, when I was woefully plastic-wrapping all that spread out food.

One of my friends emailed me at about 8pm to tell me that she had fallen asleep, and didn’t wake up in time. She claimed “tummy upset” kept her from leaving her couch. Fair enough… Though I thought that excuse only worked for gym class.

At about 8.30pm our buzzer rang. I was in the middle of tutorial prep and was unenthusiastic when I answered. However, it was out new “couple” friends from down the street, very apologetic and bearing a gift of a burned copy of A Tale of Two Sisters (2003). They had had a surprise in-law attack, and were only just then able to weasel away for an hour. They had hot chocolate, we caught up, and then they left at around 9.45pm.

Then John and I finished watching Harry and Tonto (1974), a sad and mellow tale about an old man and his cat trying to find their place in the world, and now I am back to tutorial preparations.

So, over all, not the Hallowe’en I had envisioned, but them’s the breaks, kids.

However, I do have some pretty good friends. Friends who didn’t so much as abandon me, as had their visits postponed.

Happy Hallowe’en, everybody!

Heil, Onkel Hans! (Farewell, October)

It has just occurred to me that October, usually my favourite month, is over without barely being noticed. That’s sad.

So, in honour of October, a brief retrospective…

Uh… Let me think…

Here in Waterloo it was Oktoberfest, but I didn’t go. However, I did see Onkel Hans everywhere, despite avoiding the actual hallowed beer halls of the German ethnic-fest out here. Onkel Hans, the giant orange blow-up-doll in leiderhosen worshipped like a god (pictured above), is slightly horrid, so, in the end, I am glad that I didn’t see what else the event had to offer.

It’s Hallowe’en on Monday, and I am teaching the history of Catholicism in Quebec… I guess that’s scary enough. However, not the fun and games I was used to as a child. I anticipate that there won’t be many students showing up for my tutorial or the lecture, and that’s fine with me. The little buggers are wearing their welcome thin, let me tell you.

Tonight (Sunday night) we have people over, but I don’t really have time for it. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now…

So, really, October was a month of updating the blog daily (if I make it the 31st it will make a full 31 days without missing, a first-ever for this blog), of doing work instead of going to anything fun, yet still not doing enough work…

So many memories.

Maybe November will be better. Let’s hope for that, shall we?

Forgive and Forget (and Remember)

Somewhere between Pluto Nash (2002) and The Haunted Mansion (2003), I think we have all forgotten what Eddie Murphy has meant to us all. I would like to take a moment to remind all of us 80s kids that this man practically raised us, and we owe him something in terms of gratitude.

Tonight I bought a copy of a movie I loved as a child and brought it home to watch. This is a nerve-wracking experience, as you all have probably recognized. What you liked as a child may be better off left as a pleasant childhood memory. Anyone who recently gave way to waves of nostalgia-fueled insanity and rented Spaceballs (1987) can probably attest to this fear… Very much wanting to see something that once gave you pleasure, only to have the very memory soured by how badly the object of your misplaced affections has aged.

However, motivated by a sudden realization that Ghostbusters (1984) is, in fact, one of the best movies ever produced by the international cinema, I felt bold. I thought that about Ghostbusters then, and I know it to be true today, so I got the urge to trust those old tastes of yesteryear… Tonight, thankfully, another old love proved to be true, still.

Tonight I saw, for the first time in maybe ten years, the 1988 Eddie Murphy classic, Coming to America. Maybe some of you never liked this picture, or don’t even know it. Those of you who feel that way I can’t help, and I pity you.

The story, conceived by Eddie himself, for himself, revolves around a pampered African prince who wants to see what “real life” has to offer, and breaks away from his loving but over-bearing royal father (the always-commanding James Earl Jones), with his wry and jerky valet (Arsenio Hall in one of his few fondly remembered appearances). Prince Akeem, shedding his princely lock and determined to find a wife who will love him for who he is, comes to Queens, NYC (where else can you fins a wife for a future king? Ha ha). There he takes a position emptying garbage cans at a McDonald’s-like restaurant. OK, you can probably guess what happens from here. He meets the perfect American girl who ditches a rich American ass for the seemingly-poor African student, Akeem, and they run away back to the kingdom to live happily ever after, Akeem with his dream girl, and the girl being richly rewarded for her loyalty and non-gold-digging ways.

For me this is one of those quintessential 80s comedies that remain true to their form and hit home even in multiple viewings. It’s got sketch comedy rifts, plot-advancing wit, romance, beautiful production values, and some pretty dead-on social satire. I mean, Soul Glo?!? Can there be a better metaphor for what people do to themselves in the never-ending pursuit of style?? In fact, hair is an important symbol in this film.

The tension between 80s commercialism, and the American dreams that it has foisted on African-Americans, despite their shallow celebrations of “Black Awareness Week” (awareness of what?, one might ask), as represented by the messy Gerri-Curl sold by the jerky American boyfriend, and the natural, self-confident African style of Akeem, with his naturally and proudly black hair, threads throughout this film. Never is it crammed down our throats, but the fact that an African “student” can be taunted by a black American as a “monkey chaser” says something significant about the black community of the 80s. Clearly, as Akeem has sought out the true values in life, this film shows that Americans have gone too far from what should be important to them, as well.

Nevertheless, I don’t want to carry the deep introspection too far. As it is, the movie is funny and fairly fresh for something made about 17 or 18 years ago. And with pretty cool cameos by Samuel L. Jackson, beloved Frankie Faison and an ever-amusing Louie Anderson, (with a peek of a very young Cuba Gooding Jr. as a barber shop customer), this movie tickled me to death when I was a kid, and I find, to my delight, that it still does. Sometimes we give into thinking of Eddie Murphy as a bit of a has-been (conveniently forgetting, I guess, 1999’s terrific Bowfinger), but I would like to remind everyone that any one of us would be fortunate to have even a scintilla of his fame. Maybe we have forgotten that Eddie Murphy was once THE man in the 80s, and perhaps we have trouble picturing the power he had.

Well, I for one am glad to have made renewed contact with this old friend, and would like to thank Mr. Murphy, wherever he is right this minute, for his work. Where would I have been without it?

But, as for me, it is back to the grindstone.

So I’ll sign off for now, holding these truths to be self evident: I hate the little shits who live upstairs. Weekends are never long enough. And Where the Buffalo Roam (1980) is by far the worst project that Bill Murray has ever, or ever will be, associated with.

Goodnight, everybody.

Cheaper Than Therapy, at a Buck Fifty.

So, after thirteen hours of sleep, I am back on my feet and am no longer twitching after receiving my cluster of prof bites. Now I am seeing things in better perspective. She has her job to do, and I have mine. Mine is to do my best. Hers is to… Well, unfortunately it seems that hers is to mangle any student who crosses her path. That’s fair. I’ll just have to keep my center of gravity low, and come to class equipped with Bactine.

However, I am on to happier things. Getting some readings done, and thinking of ways to relax. I sent out reminders about the Hallowe’en gathering John and I are hosting on Sunday. We are gonna sit around and watch the original Whale Frankenstein flicks with some of our closest acquaintances. I say acquaintances as they aren’t really friends, yet, but maybe by next week they will be.

This got me thinking about the nicer things in life, and made me realize that we all have, at our finger tips, moments of happiness that cost us far less than $300 an hour. So here are some of the nicest (family-friendly) mini-vacations I could recommend under ten dollars:


$8.99 (initial layout): Ghostbusters (1984) in wide screen on DVD.
(DO NOT try to substitute that hideous VHS pan and scan version, as that is more likely to nauseate than relax).

$5 (each, used): DEVO CDs.
(Robotic sounds and silly lyrics… I dare you not to smile).

$1.35 per cup: The new Tom Horton’s Hot Raspberry Smoothie.
(Hot, frothy, creamy, sweet, tastes like warm candy and oh so very PINK).

25¢ per: A smoke- Nature’s greatest miracle.
(I know, really bad for you and increasingly unacceptable in society, however for the short relief of stress it brings, I’m certainly willing to thumb my nose at snobs and mortgage my future. What was I planning to do with the ten or twenty years it cuts off the end of my life, anyway?)

Free (but for the cost of the internet): Nostalgia Sites (80s Commercials, 80s Film Synopsis, 80s Film Trailers), and, of course, BLOGGING.

Free (but for the price of shoes): Walks in the park.
(Exercise and fresh air helps bring everything down into manageable portions, with the added bonus of getting to visit other people’s dogs).

Absolutely Free: A hug.
(Available in huge quantities, in all seasons, and can be consumed anywhere. The single greatest renewable resource on this planet).


There are also some pleasures that are worth paying over ten bucks for:

$30: The gooiest, cheese-ridden, heart-clogging, sweat-inducing pizza you can find.

$25: Bourbon, and lots of it. Alternatively, coffee… but bourbon sounds tougher.

Approx. $25/mo (upkeep): My cat.
(Sometimes a source of stress, but a good source of free snuggles)


So, there you have it, ten ways to beat stress and have the fortitude to look death (or your prof) straight in the face on a weekly or daily basis. There are many more good, cheap things (especially almost anything involving Denzel Washington or Colin Firth, and CBC radio in large doses), but these are my current stand-bys.

Too much of any one thing may bring you down, but I find a nice round diet consisting of generous helpings of each gives the world a nice balance, and forces me to pull my head out of my ass.

Try them.

I Hate it When I’m Right

I stand before you faceless.

Well, OK, the prof didn’t actually attack me, but she at least made me scared enough to self-cannibalize myself a little. Today, though my readings weren’t quite done, it was not the regularly scheduled course work that proved to be my downfall. Today it was a sneak attack.

The prof went around the room asking us to lay out our major paper topics. I was OK with that, though exhausted and scared, as I had a pretty good idea of what I wanted to do… Or so I thought.

But what do I know?

It turns out, though she never actually got around to me (thank the Lord for running out of class time!), my idea was pretty much crap. Or at least not what she wanted. So, now I am popping new ulcers, and pretty much the only thing I can hope for is to get hit by a car on the way home. Seriously.

I am in the office on campus, and I have managed to stop bawling and type up a page of a new proposal, but I can’t help but feel that it is all for not, and, in the end, she will finally have my disembodied face for toilet paper, after all…

I am so dead.

I Can't Stands No More!

Man, Popeye, you said it.

So much reading, so little time. It looks like another night of skimming for me. This time my luck will run out, and the prof will finally eat my face. This time, I’ll get caught. I know it.

Fruiting around on the net and email was fun, but now I’m really dead.

dang.

Public Service Link

For all those who, by virtue of trying to do something with their lives, have nerves too frayed to actually play a game where you get shot at, try this little gem…

Better than therapy, at a total of $0 per hour…

Flying Man.

I Can Talk, I Can Talk… I Can Siiiiiiiiiiiing!

Well, maybe not sing yet, but a good line is a good line. I overslept horrendously today (which I blame on the cold weather making my hibernation instincts kick in), but when I woke up, other than having a head full of cotton wool, I felt pretty good. My throat still hurts, but at least I can get up to my usual volume and endurance. So, I guess, no permanent damage. What’s one more callous on an already overused vocal chord?

It sounds like the Stompersons have moved to Waterloo from Hamilton, Catherine. They now live above me! The odd thing is that it isn’t regular; it is primarily on Tuesday and Wednesdays only that they clog around like sumos on pogo-sticks, and I hear a strange whining/screaming sound above my head when I am in the study. Last week I finally went to complain. The woman up there had about seven children ranging in ages 2 to 12, and they were screaming so loud she didn’t even hear me at the door. Sometimes I can hear some child having a psychotic temper tantrum above me until 2am. These kids definitely have problems, and they only seem to “visit” once a week. Presumably so their natural parents can go to therapy themselves for wanting to drown the little sons ‘a bitches.

So, basically, I have either a kiddie torture ring, or a child mental camp above me. Oh well, as long as they usually shut up before I go to bed, I really don’t care about their lives.

My sleep patterns are getting to be a problem, though. On Monday and Wednesday nights I can’t even buy sleep, and I have class at 9am on Tuesdays and Thursdays. However, every other night I have to pry myself away from my pillows… It’s getting a bit old. Either grad school is stripping away even the barest hint of normalcy that I did have, and finally killing off the last of my still-functioning biological systems, or I am just loosing my mind. Either way, I have to get this regulated or I am never going to finish everything before the term ends.

*sigh* Well, have to go get my reading done… Now it is back to Talal Asad for THREE more weeks! Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy, and his work has become very crucial to my own, but that will make five weeks spent on his two books, and I’m getting a bit sick of going over him with such a fine-tooth-comb, for weeks and weeks on end. Islam class was never fun, but it would be nice to do something yet undiscovered, just for a change of pace.

Between sleep issues, Damien, Carol Anne and their friends upstairs, a sore throat, and an-ever growing sense of boredom and restlessness (combined with more than a hint of fear over my term papers), I am in good shape, eh?

*sigh*

A Night Lost, sans regret!

Took the evening off tonight, and ate a proper meal and watched two movies (My First Mister (2001) and Ghostbusters (1984) - they were terrific!). My voice is back (a bit), but I have a feeling that it’s going to keep on hurting for quite some time. I don’t use it if I can avoid it, and plan on heading to bed soon to get some more ever-lovin' Asad reading done.

Sleep! What luxury!

Please note the new linkery-doos on the side. Some are particularly apropos for the season, especially sites dedicated to dear Bela and Vincent (in the new fanatic section), but also Find a Grave (go say hi to Charlie for me), and the Death Clock (go try it out). So, go and explore and I hope you enjoy.

As for me, I must return to the sweet embrace of the crypt… Ah, I mean my bed chamber… Of Horrors!

Mwu-ha-ha-haaa!

Now for Something Completely Stupid…

I may be mute for the moment, but that doesn’t stop me from having a good time!

WARNING: The following material is completely inane, and may not be suitable for some (too cool for school) readers.


Find Out Your Super Hero Name!

Find Out Your Sweetish Name! (What would you be if you were a candy?)

Something amusing involving substance abusing monkeys and kittens with lost leopards.


Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Mute in the Face of Great Words

We had our seminar on The Autobiography of Malcolm X today, and, though I hardly expected it, I have become so compelled by his book, and so moved by his life story, that I can understand how it has been said that no one, regardless of his or her colour, comes away from his book unchanged.

This class had an added resonance, coming, as it did, on the heels of the death of Rosa Parks at 92. Forty or fifty years after these events, I’m not sure we can even access the true weight and nature of what people like Malcolm X and Ms. Parks stood for and went through. However, that shouldn’t stop us from seeing how much they can inspire in us in terms of doing what is right, not just what is easy.

As you can see, this topic can get me a little passionate. I am fascinated by the role that people (not governments, you see, but PEOPLE) can play in not only change and personal ethics, but even simply exploring and exposing the traditional and unquestioned discourses alive today in race relations and citizenship issues. To me, that is the greatest font of humanity and democracy. It makes me get a little loud, and it sends me scurrying for the Soap Box Pulpit.

Well, there was rooted my downfall today.

So excited by Malcolm X’s book, and so hyped up on the documentary we watched (he is much more compelling in person than on paper), as well as a lot of coffee and very little sleep, I got waaaaaay too wrapped up in discussion… I was talking about my view that the true value of Malcolm X’s work was the way in which he tried to de-colonize the black mind, and to call for the erasure of the system in which black children were made to grow up hating themselves compared to a socially constructed idea of white beauty. Thus, it was not in his attempts to change the “normal” white system that he triumphed, but rather in his attempts to change the black sub-culture in America.

This links up with my own interests in post-colonial racial mimicry, in my investigation into why Jews are now “acceptable” minorities, and whether or not we should be interested in taking on that label (as opposed to holding on to generations of pain and dehumanization, and just bugger off). That is, should Jews want to be white when it was offered only after 6 million of us died? Part of me wants to tell the "establishment" to stick it up their ‘ooters.

Anyway, in unofficial post-class discussion, I got onto all this, and how intermarriage narratives in films brainwash Jews into hating their “Jewishness” by teaching audiences that Annie Hall, in all her blonde and Protestant beauty, is what Jews should want. Stuff that I can get very vocal about.

However, being high on righteousness and caffeine is no protection against biological limitations, and my voice simply died.

Gone. Nothing. I felt a sharp pain, a strangling sensation in my chords, and a burning dryness, and no sound came out. I have finally managed to render myself mute with a bad case of excess stridency.

Now, before I get a dozen emails asking if I am fine, I can assure you I will seek medical attention if it gets too bad, but for now I am coddling my voice to help it heal. I am as aware of the seriousness of this as is anyone, and I am no more eager to have my speaking career destroyed by a silly string of preaching than is anyone else. I still have a bitch of a sore throat, but I am getting plenty of liquids down there, and am keeping my throat warm and un-exerted.

However, I am still proud of myself. Even after the pop, I managed to finish my thought (in a very raspy and painful way) before I chocked off…

Now, that is dedication.

So, it Begins Again…

Yet another school week is upon us. TA Monday. 701 Tuesday. Islam Thursday. Again and again for the next month and a half. Same old, same old. Yippee.

I try to be enthusiastic. It’s not like I’m not willing to be thrilled by my life, it’s just that it doesn’t give me much reason to be.

Stupid life.

Student Found Dead Under Pile of Work

Cripes. I have yet to finish reading Malcolm X for Tuesday, let alone the five articles I have to read along with it, and I still have to finish my proposal and short review paper, also due for Tuesday. Man, I wish profs would learn to spread out readings and workload evenly from week to week.

My review paper is on Many Petals of the Lotus, one of the most obnoxious and pointless litany of factoids I have ever been cursed with. The fun part is that the author is a prof in our department and friends with the prof who will mark my review. Yay for trying to find enough positive bullshit to fill four pages! Now, if I were free to be crabby about it, I’d have no trouble with ten pages…

Unfortunately, all this work means that my minutes for RCS will be last-minute and low-on-the-priority-list AGAIN. I hate the feeling that I have taken on this obligation and responsibility only to do it half-assedly, but what else can I do?

The “To-Do” list for Tuesday’s 701 also means that Wednesday will be another fevered nightmare trying to keep up with the readings for my Islam class, as well. You know, one of those situations that you promise “will never happen again,” but ends up occurring every single week.

The truly crappy point to all this is the level to which I am able to delude myself into seeing light from around every corner. Every week I tell myself that if I can just get through such and such errand or task then my term will suddenly be so much lighter. Not so! Finishing one task only brings a new urgency on the next, and so forth…

Like a snake eating its own tail, this degree is spinning out of control.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go jump in front of traffic so I can get an extension on my proposal.

Another Day, Another Proposal

Am now working on my proposal for my 701 term paper. When did all I am and do become centered on writing out my life and hopes in 300 words or less?

Hey, remember when you decided what you would be when you grew up?

For some of you, you wanted to be a writer because you loved telling stories (but now all you do is go to meetings about dust jacket styles). Others of you wanted to be mommies because you wanted to kiss sweet smelling babies when you put them to bed (but now all you do is drive from soccer to band practice). Still others wanted to teach, because Morgan Freeman looked so friggin’ cool in Lean on Me (1989), and because you wanted to change lives (but now all you do is do duty at detention, clean graffiti off you car, and sit through budget meetings).

Yeah, I feel your pain.

I wanted to be an academic, because I love to learn about religion and Judaism, and I wanted to do something for the world and for my community, and I wanted a line of work that I was good at, and one in which I could take pride. I wanted to be like the guys in novels who travel, and make witty conversation about Kant and Jane Austin, all while sipping tea in the guest lecturer’s cottage at Yale.

Instead, I am being driven into the ground by the constant need to write proposals. Proposals for grant money. Proposals for minor presentations, and major papers. Proposals for conference talks, and article competitions. Proposals for the dissertation… It never ends…

I thought academics would consist of actually doing stuff~ thinking great thoughts and delivering great lectures. I was wrong. Instead, it is about writing lame proposals about potentially great thoughts, and lectures you would do if you weren’t under pressure for that proposal deadline for SSHRC, OGS, RCS, CSSR, or just your plain old 701 PhD seminar.

OK, I get how to write a proposal. So can I do something real already?

Up to Nuttin’

Well, while interrupted at moments by compulsive reading, my two days of slacking off went very well. I’m not sure exactly how I spent them, but I am certain that pizza was involved, as well as some nice hours spent with my dream men, including Elliott Gould, Ewan McGregor, Morgan Freeman, Gene Wilder, and a few others. I did very little of any nutritional, mental, economic or intellectual value, and I feel grrrrreeeeaaaatt!

*sigh* Now back to the grind stone. See ya around sometime, fellas. Like maybe when I graduate…

The Bride of SSHRC

In my last post I spoke about being done with the SSHRC and OGS applications… I apparently forgot how tedious, frustrating, and stressful just passing that crap in can be. The end result of my efforts to pass it in was that it did finally get in, I almost had a stroke, and I missed my snake handler lecture.

Oh, and I almost dropped out. Don’t forget that part.

So, the rundown of the Friday that almost put me in a coma. I got to campus about an hour before the lecture, which I thought was a reasonable time frame for handing in two small sets of papers. I was a little nervous, as my advisor had not gotten back to me about my reference letter, but I figured the letters would be there for me, as my advisor had to be in on Friday for a staff meeting. Thus, I thought to drop the applications off and run.

This was not meant to be, it seems, for not only was the secretary out to lunch (unexpectedly) until right up to the time of the lecture, but I heard via play-ground rumour that I actually needed SEVEN copies of each 17-page application bundle…

Now, those of you who don’t know about Laurier will not know the crappiest part of that last problem. You can’t get photocopy cards at the library here- you can only put money on your student ID and use those in the machines… As I know nothing about using the system, I didn’t want to risk that. Thus, I was stuck with the only other alternative… Getting the nice but over-worked girls at the copy centre to make me my seven copies. That is, I had to get them to do this after waiting around for the secretary, so she could tell me what exactly I needed seven copies of…

Oh, and so she could tell me that, though SSHRC letters were there waiting for other students from my advisor, there were none for me.

So, after getting my copies and coming back, and handing the bundles in, incomplete, I then embarked on a long and frustrating email hunt for my errant advisor, who for some reason has been dodging my messages…

I start to think that she’s ditched me because she hates my new “race-based” dissertation idea. So, I start to panic. Now it is not just that I can’t get my SSHRC application completed (which is serious in and of itself, as I could loose my funding here for not finishing that application), BUT that she hates me and I am now doomed in the department to either not have an advisor or be hucked out…

Further, I start to wonder if we ever even agreed that she would write in support of my application… Was that just a dream on my part?

Frantically, I hunt through my email for the one in which she promised to do that for me… What did I find?

“I am considering it. I would be willing to write about your project, but you need to ask (your advisor from Mac) to supply your major reference.”

OK, I have the letter in my bundle from my advisor from Mac… The problem now becomes how do you interpret “would be willing to,” and “write about your project”. Does this mean she will write a memo for me, write my second letter outright, or that I needed to propose before she would do either???

So now I am really contemplating death. Worse, I am contemplating getting out of the place all together… If there was a PhD in film here, I would probably have defected that afternoon.

So, I missed my lecture and popped more grey hairs than I want to ever think about… She still hadn’t emailed me back, and it was getting close to Sabbath. So, in fear, I email her one last time, apologizing in case I misunderstood, and basically asking if they could please not pull my funding just because of this mix up. I waited for a half hour or so… Still nothing. I go home, planning to start job hunting in the fast food industry first thing Monday morning. Also, thinking that I should have just gone to that snake handling lecture, if there was no way I could get my SSHRC in anyways.

By the time I had gotten home, I had explored every possible horrible outcome of this fiasco. I checked my email, again, not expecting any good news there…

But, low and behold… There was her email! Not only had she done my letter and emailed the department to let them know that it was going to be in on Monday, but she had apologized to me (to ME!) for making me worry. (Apologies to students were fairly unheard of at Mac, even if your advisor accidentally knocked you down the stairs.) Further, she finally gave me an answer as to how she felt about my new dissertation topic. She LOVES it!! She thinks I should run with it for my proposal due in August.

So, in the end, SSHRC and OGS are finally in, and I don’t care about the outcomes (although advisor told me that my having two research contributions is not as shabby as I think it is- that’s good news). Further, you are now looking at a girl with a dissertation topic and approach… Not too shabby for only having been here for two months. And I think it’s going to stick, too.

I have survived the curse of SSHRC… For now… But for how long…?

G-D Speed Little SSHRC

Well, SSHRC and OGS research grant applications are done for another year!

Rationally, I realize that there is no way in hell that I’ll get either, but it is nice to have it done. Further, the fact that I worked my ass off for them can’t have been lost on my advisors and the profs in the department and in the film department, and I have a good head start on my department dissertation proposal due in August of 2006.

Plus, anything that helps get a line under my name instead of through it is always welcome. (Such as the fact that a nice little perk to that Brantford lecture is that the professor is made a point of emailing the director of my program to rave about how well {he thinks} I did!)

The only thing is, that list you have to create of your contributions and awards is so demeaning and depressing when you have so few. One university journal publication, a few internal grad scholarships, and a year as a research assistant… Yeah, I can see SSHRC just throwing money at me. I guess that Laurier stat of 80% success in external funding competition is about to take a severe beating because of me.

Let’s just hope the absolute sexiness of the racialization of the Jews puts them into a trance that obscures the fact that I am completely under qualified for any type of external funding, let alone $35,000 a year for three years.

That’ll happen.

Welcome, Friends of Catherine!

OK, so we have established that I am getting a bit obsessive about this blog. It’s true- I have no real friends here (have no time for them, either), so I do this instead. Actually this is better, as I can just turn it on when I have a few minutes free, at, say, 3am.

So, out of this obsession I have started to check my site meter’s nifty little locator. This thing tells me not only how many fresh hits I’ve had, but tells me where they are in the world and how long they stayed. It also tells me from where they were linked into my blog (as in what site led them to me).

There are some major trends… While some guy in Philadelphia seems to get me through “My Yahoo,” whatever that is, the vast majority seems to be people I know or folks just cruising by. However, there is one referring site that stands heads and shoulders above the rest. From here they drop in from Halifax, PEI, and all over Ontario.

For some reason, about a fourth of all of you looking at this blog right now came to me via “Sweet Nothings”- my pal Catherine’s excellent (wry) little blog.

I am not sure why you chose to follow this particular link, but WELCOME! And feel free to drop your name on a comment and introduce yourselves.

Anyone who loves Catherine is a friend of mine- since you clearly have such excellent taste.

When the Batteries are Dead, so are You.

I have just realized how much I have been through in the past seven days. Last Thursday’s Asad presentation, Qumran colloquium on Friday, rapid marking, entertaining new friends on Saturday, then SSHRC drafts, then preparing a lecture and teaching, then slave narrative blitz for Tuesday’s class, then the Brantford thing, then 100 more Asad pages to prepare for today (until 3am, right after getting home from my 80 minute lecture- that was fun). Plus, oversleeping on Tuesday and dashing in to be at class on time (I still haven’t gotten over that surge of anxiety).

Tomorrow, there is a lecture on the psychology of snake handling, and the passing in of my SSHRC and OGS applications, which have been (finally) given a clean bill of health by the profs. (Man, I better at least get a nice rejection from those people!)

Tonight I will gather my SSHRC stuff, make the minor adjustments that Catherine and others have suggested, and generally spruce the crap up, but THAT IS IT.

Next week I have a paper and a proposal due on Tuesday, and I have to prepare for my public screening of The Believer for the 7th of November, but today I choose not to think about it.

I am done. Like dinner. There is not a drop of juice left to be exacted from me… Not an ounce of surplus effort… Just today, after the stress of Islam class was over, did I realize the extent to which I am dead tired. I need a break. Sunday, I will write that paper and work on the proposal, and I will type the minutes for RCS and prepare The Believer notes. However, for the sake of the health of my client (me), I am calling a moratorium on all things brutal and unpleasant until at least Saturday night… I am officially “Gone Fishin’.” Do you hear me, world?

I don’t care what I do. I’m gonna update this blog with things other than whining moans. I’m gonna wash my dishes to the great sounds of bad 80s movie soundtracks. I’m gonna sit for hours and stare at my cat while he’s napping. I’m gonna walk to the park and watch the leaves fall. I’m gonna rent some ridiculous romantic comedy involving Hugh Grant, some chick-of-the-month, and absolutely no plot. I’m gonna darn my socks, and spend an hour trimming my nails. I’m gonna reply to all my emails with something other than “Ha-Ha. See you. H.” I’m gonna watch old Bela Lugosi horror-operas until my eyes fall out.

I might even spend an evening working on the seedling novel I started last July.

And sleep. Plenty of that.

The need to recharge can’t be ignored forever. Even for the sake of advancement.

My Adventures in Brantford

I am home and have survived my first guest lecture. Those whom I have spoken to since say it went well… I, on the other hand, have very little recollection. I was up there for 80 minutes. I blurted out everything I knew about the history of the Jew in Hollywood pictures. We watched some clips.

It’s over. That’s the important thing.

Overwhelming impressions:

I was thirsty. So thirsty. I kept drinking, but it didn’t help. My tongue kept swelling and my lips burnt. My throat was rusty, and my voice lost its means of controlling timbre and pitch. I was screeching by the end.

Time went so fast. I went as fast as I could, and ended up wrapping up my talk just as the time was up. I glossed over many, MANY important things, but there still wasn’t enough time. I was racing something, but didn’t know what. I kept looking at my watch, but was too dazed to notice the time- it didn’t penetrate.

Those eyes. 80 sets of cold, dead eyes- starring at me, probing me, glassing over. Accusing me of trying to teach them. It was awful. I’ll see those eyes in my dreams tonight.

It was like I was floating over the podium like a Chagall painting, watching myself swing in the wind. The ride home was so fast, like I finished talking and then I was in my living room. Did it actually happen, or was it one of those “showed up to class naked” dreams?

Now it’s like it wasn’t real. It’s just over, and it’s already fading away from me.

But, the important thing is that it is done. Like yanking a crusty Band-Aid, it is off and over with.

I think I understand what “shell shocked” means, now.

Now, let’s never speak of it again.

Halp! I thing-k I Schwallowed Ma Tong!

So nervous. So nervous. So very, very nervous.

So what’s so new about lecturing before 80 students? I’ve done that before.

But what if they hate it?

So, the important thing is that I do it as well as I can.

What if I don’t do well?

Not likely, I know this stuff inside-out.

But, what if…?

No more “what ifs”. I’ve got to do it, and I will do it.

“I’ve got confidence in confidence alone. I’ll show them that I’ve got confidence in me.”

Ah, singing nuns! Much better than vengeful ones.

The Big Show

Today is the day- Wednesday, the 19th of October, 2005. Today Holly launches into profession land. Today I leave for Brantford at 4pm, to speak for 80 minutes on the history of Hollywood’s portrayals of “the Jew.”

I have my notes done in rough, and there is nothing to do but practice and polish, polish and practice…

Just in case you wonder… The weather in Brantford will be cool and rainy. And I already have my brollie packed!

I don’t know whether I should smile or vomit. I would do both, but my dentist warned me not to do that anymore.

A New Rule for the Path of Holly:

If there is a line up extending around the corner from the campus coffee kiosk and you order anything with the words bubble, chai, frosty, or whipped in it, you’re an asshole who has no idea what the words “in a hurry” mean.

Question on Etiquette…

If a student emails you about the assignment that they just got back, and they whine that they “Have never gotten a grade that low before…” … Is it OK to respond with: “Congratulations. Now you have.” ?

Just wondering…

Will You Take Me Home, Dr. D?

Man, some times you feel like a human, and some times you don’t. Today I am in full control of my humanity.

This weekend, I was wading through my SSHRC proposal, uncertain of it because, though no one booooed at it, it wasn’t setting the world on fire, either. My supervisor was undemanding, and was OK with it. However, Dr. D., the lady who is massively supportive but at the same time is always encouraging us to improve, was never happy with that SSHRC proposal of mine. Not enough theory, she harped. Not enough methodology. Three drafts, and her response was a stiff- "Meh."

Basically, I was being a twerp and not a grown up, and my proposal could have been written by a third-year honours student.

So, OK, says I… I just ain’t smart enough for PhD. I can’t do what you want.

Bull, she said, go work on it.

So I did, and in a fit of bad temper and panic I slashed and burnt the old proposal. I lost pretty much the whole thing, and I put forward something very controversial and high-falutten’. The idea that American films make the Jews into a race, and that the ultimate issue with intermarriage in film is not that it is interfaith, but that it is interracial.

And I sent it off.

So I wait… A day passes… My advisor usually gets back to me within hours, and Dr. D. always emails something the next morning… Still nothing this afternoon …

So I figure I’ve screwed the pooch so bad that nothing good is waiting for me. I mean, I bought that dog dinner and took it back to my place… I’m dead. They are holding their breath for lightening to strike me.

This afternoon I was having heart palpitations. I was trying to read, but my email program was just sitting there… No word came. I tried not to check every ten minutes, but I failed. Nothing, and still nothing. So I was loosing my brain in worry- that SSHRC application is due on Friday. What do I do if they hate it? Worse, what do I do if I offend them? (One is black, the other is a Jew- what if neither enjoy my brain child?)

So, when making my umpteenth visit to the smoke exit, I happened upon Dr. D. (before I had a chance to run the other way… I wanted to know, but not in person).

Oh, Holly, says she, as casual as the air. I read your proposal- that’s some hot stuff. Thanks for re-doing it. It’s much better now. See, that’s what I meant by theory.

Meanwhile, I have fallen on the floor, tears on my face, thankful to still be alive… Well, mentally at least. She actually is finally pleased with that damn proposal... She said it's a fine start for my official one due next year.

So, I am still in the game. And it looks like I am becoming a racial theorist… I don’t know exactly what that is, but it sounds like something that can get my mailbox set on fire…

Oh well, all that matters is that Dr. D. still loves me. I wonder if she’s looking to adopt?

Like Words from the Mountain, It Was

I like to teach, and, sometimes, I’m good at it. I’ve had some very good classes, and some not-so-good ones, but usually they are fine. However, today’s class made me realize that all of my past teaching experiences have been complete garbage compared to the ultimate experience.

Today’s tutorials ruined me for all others.

The scales are off my eyes- like one who used to read about love, and then experienced it.

Today I absolutely freaking killed!

I talked, I joked, I illustrated, I asked their opinions, and I managed to look (and sometimes actually WAS) interested in their answers. Today I gave them exactly the concise and modulated information they need for success on the next assignment, and they hung on my every word.

Now I know how Moses felt! (It may be going to my head, methinks!)

And here’s the kicker… My first tutorial begins at 12.30, and ends at 1.20pm. Usually, I can time this according to when people start packing up (usually at about 1.15pm). Today they didn’t start to pack up at all. Listening, taking notes, participating- they lost track of time and so did I... I had to tell THEM it was time to go! We went to 1.25 before I noticed, and there actually was a groan when I called it quits.

Went out for a smoke afterwards (yes, it was that good), and the students who joined me praised me universally… The BEST class they have had in university, they raved. Not even tutorial, but CLASS.

I know they can’t all be this way, but this has shown me what I can do if I prepare and am ready to fully engage the work for which I am hired. This is a new era for Holly. No more slacking off when it comes to teaching…

THIS is what I am here for.

It could get addictive.

Oh, CBC- Where Did We Go Wrong?

Something has gone out of my life. I support the right to strike, and I feel no bitterness towards the CBC staff who were locked out for over a month. However, I have completely lost the habit of tuning into CBC Radio, a practice that once regulated my life. No more hourly news. No more Sound Advice. I don’t even know the schedule now.

It’s all gone, and I’m not sure we’ll ever get back together. How can you get back into a habit you have lost? Can we say we had our beautiful moment, but now we go our separate ways?

I’m afraid that me and CBC may have broken up for good. It’s sad, but relationships do drift, and CBC and I have clearly just grown apart.

It’s nobody’s fault. These things just happen.

I wish it well for its future relationships, and to show there is no bitterness, it can keep the CDs.

Help Me- I’m a Yuppie!

From the Wikipedia:

"Yuppie", short for "Young Urban Professional," describes a demographic of people comprising baby boomers as well as people in their late twenties and early thirties. Yuppies tend to hold jobs in the professional sector, with incomes that place them in the upper-middle economic class. The term "Yuppie" emerged in the early 1980s as an ironic echo of the earlier "hippies" and "yippies" who had rejected the materialistically oriented values of the business community. Although the original yuppies were "young," the term now applies as well to people of middle age.

I am now a Yuppie, or soon will be if I get a job that pays… Now have two young marrieds as friends. We are now the sort of people who have “other couples” “over” for coffee and board games! Dear Lord, how did this happen???

A fellow PhD student, Andrew, and his very sweet wife, Amanda, came over to watch Zelig and we chatted (notice the word usage there) about the travails of cat ownership, work and traveling for the holidays… John and I even walked them to the door of the apartment and bid them goodnight together as they left. We even promised to “Do this again sometime.” What has happened to the old, schlumpy Holly of yesteryear? Have I become so thirty-something already??

Only yesterday, it seems, I had an edge… I was against the grain, and ran counter to the herd. Now this… Can little alligators on my clothes be too far behind?

Help.

I think I’ll go get a tattoo… A big one.

It's Important to Know the Real You

So, you find out something new everyday...

Sometimes...


Take The Ewan McGregor Test!

Othertimes...


Take The Ewan McGregor Test!

There are many sides to Holly.

It’s all for you Damien!

Just for you guys out there- I have found a blog out there of a pretty superior quality. In fact, he rather gives me blog envy…

So, do yourself a favour and check out “Ron Schuler's Parlour Tricks”, a tasty little piece of work. Here’s a guy who clearly values the higher things in life (AKA silent pictures and Leonard Cohen). Clearly, it would be a waste of time to continue reading my “Amateur Night” here.

In a pretty good mood today. Found out that there is such a thing as quality on the net, and having my first new friends in this city over tonight. Also, have discovered Power Point and its mysteries for my Brantford lecture.

Ummm, pictures.

I Will Survive

As long as I know how to grade grub I know I’ll stay alive.

Sent Islam prof an email asking if I should know a grade soonish for painful presentation. (Thus giving her an opening to let me know if I did OK, grade wise.) She took the bait, and it seems I am back in business.

Still don’t know the exact grade, but she set my mind at some ease.

So, to wrap it up: Didn’t do as well as I should have, but it hasn’t wrecked my career.

Take home point: Don’t depend on being so lucky next time.

Good advice.

Lulavim Shortage Threatens Holiday Lemony-Palmy Goodness

Despite the influx of 70,000 lulavim into Israel this week from Gaza, the Lulav Crisis of 5766 still threatens the Jewish tradition of waving lemons and branches around on Sukkot. Every year, Israeli markets sell over 500,000 kosher lulavim at this time of year, but sources estimate that a mere 300,000 will be on the market this year, due primarily to price speculating on the part of kosher lulavim growers in Egypt.

The scarcity of the ritual palm fronds have become a major political hot spot, as well, as border crossing policies come under question, and boycotts become an issue for some Sukkot-celebrating consumers who refuse to purchase lulavim from the now-independent Gaza Strip.

There are slight hopes that more of the valuable, and oh-so-swishy, fronds will arrive from Spain in time for the holiday, but these hopes fade fast as reports surface of lulavim shipments being lost at sea and even being stolen. Of course, rabbinical courts deny the ritual cleanliness of the latter shipments, as there are strict regulations against the use of stolen lulavim.

Happily, some religious authorities have begun thinking creatively about the problem, and have taken under serious advisement the use of canary palm lulavim in the place of the rare regular palm variety, in light of this emergency frond shortage.

Otherwise, there may well be many empty koisheklach on Sukkot in Israel, a land clearly so happy and at peace that they can afford to worry about the import rates of palm fronds.

Holly’s Person of the Week

Mitra, the Buddhist monk and the exact definition of the word mentsh, is my very first…
PERSON OF THE WEEK!

What does he win? Well, nothing. But he gets this entry dedicated to him… But he doesn’t read my blog… So basically, I’m just giving him good press before a lot of strangers…

And to what does he owe this great and prestigious honour?

Mitra is one of the loveliest people I have ever met. Not only does he have this ready, bright, wide smile so filled with good humour that you would follow him anywhere, but he showed me such an act of kindness today that actually makes me reconsider my decision not to become a JuBu.

Today, Mitra took notes and gave me his fullest attention throughout the entire of my dull, inspiration-less performance. Fasting and freaked out about the mean little prof sitting right next to me, I focused on his calm presence like a lifeline. But then I found out the true beauty of this guy…

He was fasting with me this morning! That is, knowing that I would be giving an hour’s talk without water, he didn’t bring his usual water bottle with him today. He said he had left it at home because he didn’t want to distract me with the sight of water. He felt that it would be unfeeling to drink in my presence on Yom Kippur.

So, we probably would expect a monk to be disciplined and understanding, and a Buddhist to be compassionate and mindful. However, this is a special case. Mitra shines with some sort of unexplainable inner light (yes, I am actually getting a kind of spiritual high off this guy), and has always made think there may be something to this Buddhism thing (which would be pretty stereotypical for me, as nearly a third of all non-Asian Buddhists in North America are Jews, many of them grad students under 30).

For kindness and sympathy, Mitra the Monk fully deserves to be my first…
PERSON OF THE WEEK!

The Yom Kippur Day Massacre

Well, Asad is done. That’s the best thing I can say about that.

Dirty, thirsty and hungry (and not in a minor way having a serious nicotine-fit), I made my way to class for my presentation at 9am for one of the toughest, most terrifying, Foucault-obsessed profs I have ever met. Shaking in my boots, I got there only to find the door was locked!

Fifteen minutes’ worth of extra preparation time while we waited for security to come and unlock that door! A Yom Kippur Day miracle!!

However, this cosmic support was to quickly leave me when I realized that I had completely lost (in the midst of fatigue and blood sugar lows, no doubt) the ability to improvise. Stuck then with 15 pages of barest notes on the book for which I was to give a full analysis, I was able only to read the summary I had prepared. That’s it- I could go no further. There was nothing insightful in my bag of tricks. My charisma was down to nil, and the prof actually turned her back on me while I floundered.

Well, score one there, I guess. She did kindly say that my exegetical training at Mac had clearly been thorough and excellent, and that I had made a very detailed summary of the book. She told me, in a “there-there” sort of way, that it was very good that I could dissect an argument, and that that is a very good way to prepare for class.

She then preceded to tell us all how much we all suck at getting the point of a book and putting it into context of the “broader academic landscape.” (I.e., of course, Foucault.) She then spent an hour listing what I should have said.

Well, I survived, barely, and I am all a-tingle with the lukewarm glow of being adequate.

Yippee… mediocrity… Great.

The Mantra of the Path of Holly

Eight little words: “Here I am! Rock you like a Hurricane!”

That’s the power mantra for public speaking.

Wheel of Fortune Turns Again

Somehow, the counter is back.

Welcome back, counter, but no emotional reunion.

You've burnt me once. That I won't forget.

You've been warned.

Another One Bites the Dust

Yup, another counter dead and buried. No more vanity.

Screw you all, I ain't gonna replace it. My little site meter on the bottom of the blog has never failed, so that'll just have to do. Sure, it ain't fancy laser writting, but dependability is pretty, too.

So there.

Brantford City, Here I Come

Man, do I live in shamrocks or what?

Told the guy in Brantford that I couldn’t come due to not having a way to get there- So he’s arranging for a ride. No public transit for me.

So now I have to survive that freaking presentation on Asad tomorrow morning so I can get working on my first big guest lecture (!!!) on the next Wednesday. Yikes!

Oh, and if anyone out there is available, I’m giving a talk at the WLU campus on November the 10th on The Believer (2001). Good time will be had by all. Punch and Pie.

YAY!!! Brantford!

(Missed) Opportunity Night

I regret to relate to you, dear friend, a sad and bleak tale of disappointment. Yours truly had, for a moment, within her grasp the riches of popularity, fame and a glimmer of academic reputation. Now, it is all lost to me but the faint memory that I was once sought after.

Do not continue if you are the sensitive type.

Today, amidst the satisfying meeting with the advisor, and the near-miss-fakery of class (I promise never to try to slide by again- I swear it), I got the most tantalizing email. Someone from a campus in Brantford had found my profile on the web, tracked me down through my department (he is a former grad), and invited me to speak on Jews in American cinema for his “Race & Film” series, in the popular culture and religion class he teaches. Oh the bubbles that went to my head- I heard music.

“I?” I said graciously, “I had no idea I was so irresistible.”

“Well, dang it Miss Scarlet, if I don’t eat barbeque with you than I’ll starve,” said he.

Actually, he didn’t say that, but I have to admit I felt a bit wooed. And woozy. Finally, some recognition after toiling in obscurity- an invitation!!

Unfortunately it was for next week, but that isn’t too bad. Prepare some remarks, show a film, wrap it up, and field questions. I can do that, right? I do that all day anyway, just from my living room. Big difference!

I already started planning it out… The coke bottle scene from Altman’s The Long Goodbye (1973)… Maybe Charlie’s The Pawnshop (1916)… How about the conversion to fascism from Zelig (1983) as a metaphor for Jewish assimilation and mimicry fears…? Oh! The great lectures I delivered in my head this afternoon!

But wait… Where in the hell is Brantford??? My mind raced- all I came up with is that it is in Southern Ontario somewhere, and that I think Wayne Gretzky was born there… So hardly enough to find it by, I reckoned. In a panic, I dove for a map online… Just as far as Hamilton from here. An hour and a bit by a direct highway route.

Ok, still possible… What do the buses look like?

None. Not a one. Too far to walk, no train, bus or boat going that way, for that time on that day. Nothing. If I want to go to Brantford, I drive (which is hard to do with no license and no car- two major disabilities when driving), unless I want to take a round about way that gets me there too late or a day too early, and which takes me through hell and back before I land.

And no body around here had any better suggestions for me, either.

So, there is no way that Miss Holly will astound the folks of Brantford any time soon. All those poor students without me… What shall they do?

Oh well, they’ll get along. For my part, I’ll be an old, wizened hag in an old folks’ home some day who wheezes on about that one glimpse of fame she had once… For once she was invited to Brantford, the home of Wayne Gretzky, to speak on the topic she was born to teach.

*sigh*

I Wish I Were Dead With My Back Broke

Worked my tail off this weekend. Still mountains to do. Never will get it all done. Going under for the third time. Air being cut off. Help!

Glug. Glug. Glug!

Inner Schuller Says:
No use crying over it, turd!
Turn off the computer, freak, and Do Your F’fing Work!!

Hmm. Good plan. Thanks, Inner Schuller.

Just Be Thankful for What We Got

October 10, 2005: Thanksgiving (Canada).

Well, my shamrock is dying because this apartment gets absolutely no light. I am behind in nearly every class or endeavor in which I am currently engaged. The cat is evil, and I am so tired that I could just go back to sleep right now and stay there for three days. The dishes need to be done again, and so do the garbage cans and laundry. The jerk wads upstairs are stomping and acting like sumo wrestlers on caffeine, and we’ve run out of anti-stink products for the cat box room. I’m no where near ready enough for my class tomorrow morning, but I can’t afford a lot of time away from my presentation for Thursday to get ready. I’m robbing Peter to pay Paul, and soon that will bite me in the ass. I am now deeply concerned that someone will sue me for using copyrighted photos on my blog, so I am stuck with only a vast number of very boring and poorly lit “free” photos from some hippy sites.

However, I am OK financially (knock press board), and my cold is nearly gone. The weather is pretty nice, and there are geese flying by the window making a wonderful sound. I had enough time this weekend to watch a couple movies with John, and to take a couple short walks around the block, and I still managed to do a lot of work. My mind is as comfortable as it can be that I did as much as I could. I still have all of Wednesday to prepare for that presentation, and I have time tomorrow to get the last materials from the library. John is very sweet and will take care of the laundry when the machines are free. All I have to concentrate upon is getting a few pages of reading done for Tuesday so as to be able to fake readiness, and start the final draft of my presentation. I have to do only a few small edits to make my SSHRC somewhat acceptable to my advisor for our Tuesday meeting. I have the rest of the afternoon to do what I have to do for Tuesday, and then I am free to concentrate solely on Thursday’s presentation.

I am not dead, yet. I can pull this thing together.

So, Happy Thanksgiving! Call your mums, and have something made with pumpkin, and count at least one blessing. That is the rule for today.

You be the Judge...

Foucault or Max Shreck in Nosferatu (1922)?

Desperate Acts of Cultural Translation on the Parlor Floor.

Have shocked myself today by not just reading mountains of Asad, Bacon, Foucault, Geertz, and others, but actually getting wrapped up in the modes of scholarly discourse and the politics they assume. It turns out that I, too, am vulnerable to Foucault’s scholarly élan… I feel like I need a shower for saying that.

You see, I always assumed that guys like Foucault worked on the “Emperor’s New Clothes” premise. That is, they were only popular because their reputations saved them from people screaming “What the hell?” every time their theories were aired. That people (like me) who didn’t understand him would be so worried that others would think them stupid they clammed up and pretended to admire the bull. Further, that everyone in the academic world did the same thing. That none of us actually saw those damned new robes, but we were all too scared to admit it.

Well, I still believe that in part. Some of Foucault’s ideas seem half-baked at best, and you can almost tell the places in which he is just cruising. In other places, however, he is as lucid and correct as anything written in the last century. The central thing is to find a balance: Don’t be intimidated by the name. Read him until you get angry and call him all sorts of dirty names, and then let him slowly begin to speak to you as a man, not as a philosophy god.

Always remember: Foucault ate, drank, and pissed the same as everyone else. (Actually not like EVERYONE else- I mean, he was French).

It took Talal Asad to bring me to this new road in my career. Asad is clear, deliberate and insightful- some of the best theory I’ve ever read. He makes Foucault clearer because his work represents a practical way of using the philosophy for scholarly use. He applies Foucault’s oftentimes abstracted ideas of power and the genealogy of thought to the way in which past scholars have discussed religion, and suddenly I have the strangest feeling that I actually get Foucault. Worse than that, I am actually beginning to enjoy it all.

Bless you, Asad. If, as my prof says, one needs to understand Foucault at this level to survive, you may have saved my life.

Foucault Yourself

Well, am feeling much better about Islam class. I have been hard at that presentation for about 10 hours, now, and I feel I have a fairly good grasp on Talal Asad’s Genealogies of Religion (1993). For the presentation, I have to make a detailed reading of the text, and give a blow-by-blow, painstaking page-by-page lecture on what he is saying and from what evidence and sources he is speaking. I have an hour to describe every assertion laid out in 110 pages of his work. That means, about 30 minutes spent on his deconstruction of the definition of “religion” alone. Unfortunately, the prof LOVES Foucault, and believes him to be the central analysis-foundation of the modern university. Therefore, it is not enough to be able to show what the guy is saying or how it said, but to put my entire analysis into the framework of Foucaldian discourse theory.

Good thing I don’t believe in an afterlife, or I would plan to spend mine hunting Foucault down like the dog he is (was), a la Charles Bronson.

However, now it is time to sit and quietly enjoy a bit of supper and watch something. My treat for having been good today. Last night the treat was the phenomenal The Last Man on Earth (Vincent Price, 1964- don’t let Maltin’s blasé review put you off, for me it was compelling stuff). I am not sure what it will be tonight, but I don’t think anything less than another Price-fest will do.

So, to sum it all up:
Love Vincent Price. Hate Foucault. Ambivalent towards Islam class.

This Hideous Addiction Known as Blog

OK. It is now 1am. I have now been up since 7am this/yesterday morning on an hour and a half of sleep… This is ridiculous.

Am so jittered up that I am still here at my desk tweaking my blog (please note the new, spiffy- organized! - links), and trying to learn everything there is to know about Foucault in a weekend.

Don’t worry; I have a graphic novel that is designed to teach me all I need to know in a couple of hours… Do you think the old boy would approve?

Now, I REALLY must toddle off to bed… Only perhaps I should clean up just one or two more things on this damn blog… Or maybe I should up my postings to five times a day… That wouldn’t be at all sick and pathetic…

When Your Heart Stops Pounding…

Well, I got my grimy little mitts on a used VHS copy of Crossing Delancey- Like new. A real peach. It was in my mailbox when I got home today. Only ordered it (from Oregon) last Thursday. Not too shabby.

Have found renewed love of Peter Riegert, and would put up with any amount of pickle smell and hand ball for Sam Posner. No wonder this film launched a degree!

Now, I must toddle off to bed… Been up since 7am on an hour and a half of sleep- but how could resist a movie like that, just waiting to be watched??

How Do You Say “I Wish I Were Dead” in Arabic?

New system of detailed readings by Islam and Modernity class prof is killing me. It’s been two hours, and I am still not done the first article! I don’t know if I’m really as stupid or slow as it makes me feel, but I may be close.

Took two hours off to watch Blazing Saddles tonight, and I may be paying for that two hours for the rest of my life. I’m not sure it was worth it…

So, that’s how they’ll find me in sixty years. Dead and rotted to a skeleton, perched at my desk, surrounded by the Orientalism debate and books by Mahmood Mamdani and Bernard Lewis. Still with only half of it done.

I’m not sure if that is worth it, either.

Holly Begins to Take Root

Well, you are now hearing from the new Recording-Secretary Elect for the Religion and Culture Society at Laurier. Same old, same old, but this secretary’s job has no chance of TA strike attached to it, and possibly no newsletter, so I am quite pleased- Good for the resume with very little effort on my part. Minutes, I can handle.

So, we are beginning to get settled here. Got back my first good grade, am starting to make friends, and even joining clubs (RCS and possibly the GSA). I must say, it is a load off my mind to begin to feel a sense of belonging. Now I just have to get my work done, and I’ll be fine…

In the end, when facing the necessity of job hunting in academics, it’s nice to know that I will have at least one thing on that CV. Departments like to hire joiners- that means less committee crap for the other profs to take on, if they can hire a patsy who pretends they like that stuff.

So don’t worry. Despite my cold, I am out there doing stuff. Gonna’ make you all proud!

However, if I don’t finish that Edward Said material read, my prof will eat my face and no one will be proud, so must dash.

Pride Cometh Before the Fall

Well, it’s official. I’ve been zapped for the pleasure I received yesterday. You see, my philosophy of life generally states that there is only so much good for each life, and when it comes you very soon have to pay with a bit of bad. If you brag, you bring down the evil eye on yourself.

Yesterday I cursed myself by becoming smug.

Nothing too severe. No one has died, and I’m not failing a course, but I am firmly in the “uncomfortable” status.

It seems that, on top of the unnatural heat wave that has struck Ontario for Thanksgiving, I have caught ANOTHER cold. And I can even tell that it isn’t the same one in relapse. This one, while not the plague of last month, is still a pain. My throat is raw and hoarse, my sinuses are bloated and sore, and I’m sneezing all the time, causing a slight pain in my shoulder joints from the jolts.

My rational side blames it on the campus. We’re overcrowded, and crawling over mountains of undergrads just to get through doorways has clearly turned the place into some big biohazard. I expect typhus this winter to spread throughout the village and wipe out half the populace. Too bad for that half, but those who survive will have more room. That's the Circle of (Communal) Life.

Meanwhile, my conscience tells me it was too much happiness.

Well, I have to run to the Religion and Culture Society meeting this afternoon- then I too will be perpetrating the heinous crime of spreading disease and ruination across the Laurier campus by knowingly bringing germs to school.

I promise I won’t be joyful ever again. Maybe just quietly satisfied? Is that OK?

All Hail Before Bunman!

Remember that little line, all ye from Mac? I think it involved something with a dinner roll on a head, or something. Something that was very funny to a clutch of over-worked, under-appreciated markers in the moldy basement of Uni Hall, any way.

In any case, I am giddy with some kind of electric boogaloo fever right now and find that very amusing. And embarrassing.

I had to send an email out to a certain, professional and straight-laced net application, as I had forgotten the password I used therein waaaaaaay back in 2003. The poor man on the other end of my request had to look my file straight in the eye and send it back.

Yes, you guessed it.

He had to write:

“Dear Ms. X. Your password for XYZ account is bunman.”

Oh, what we do to ourselves.

Pleasure Overload

Got an A. Got an A. Got an A.

"Not to worry", huh?

I love Dr. Duncan- Perhaps I mentioned that before?

Now I do the dance of joy.

(And wait for the painful thud of catastrophe, which clearly awaits me after such happiness.)

Mixed Messages?

I just subtly (as a load of bricks) asked one of my profs how I did on my paper- in honour of having my first real meeting with my advisor on the 11th. She said "Not to worry." That sounds OK, huh?

However, I just bit into my Rosh HaShana apple (sans honey as I am in my very non-sticky-hands-friendly office), and it was the most sour and deplorable apple I have ever wrapped my mouth around. Bad omen for the new year, methinks.

Great. The evil eye all year or warm-cuddlies about possibility of good mark. Which do I choose to believe??

Post Interrupted

This is what I tried to post this morning (should I say last night?) from 4.15 to 4.30am, but I couldn’t open the damn site. Don’t know why it’s so important, except I want some vindication of how damn tired I am this morning. Spent an hour last night browsing in (and placing rocks at) celebrity graves of my heroes at “Find a Grave.com” (the regulars- Charlie, Jack, Waltie, Bogie, etc). Spent the rest of the time holding the hand of a basket case student…


Original title: “Eerie”

It’s 4.15am. Can’t sleep. Am in email contact right now with one of my students at her home frantically trying to finish her assignment for tomorrow.

Ah. How I remember that.

Shanah Tova!

Gevalt! All this reading almost made me forget.

Happy Rosh haShanah, everybody!

The Jewish New Year, 5766, is upon us. Enjoy an apple with honey, and hope for a sweet year for us all. Already this year looks more promising for me than last year, but I am just thankful to be still around to have another, new chance for life and happiness. Best wishes to you all, Jew and Gentile alike, and may all of your lives be blessed and preserved.

Shanah Tova to all my friends and loved ones, and blessings on the memories of those who have departed from us.

Barukh atah Adonai, Elohaynu, melekh ha-olam she-hecheeyanu v’keey’manu v’heegeeyanu la-z’man ha-zeh. (Amein.)

Blessed are you, Lord our G-d, King of the Universe, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season. (Amen.)

All the best.

The Impermanence of Being

Spent some time searching for films of note for my research online. Found a disturbing situation: No where can you find The Jazz Singer (1926) on DVD. Only a used copy on VHS for $50.

What is happening in the world? You can get special collector’s editions of everything crappy from About a Boy to Zoolander, but you can’t get this??

Man. If Al Jolson can be forgotten, even the idea of immortality is false. If he ain’t immortal, we’re all dust.

That’s the existential quandary for today.

Live, from Waterloo, It’s Saturday Night…

Ain’t I a wild beast? Working away while the world languishes in hellish excess. I can hear the faint sounds of a barn raising in the next township here in Mennonite land.

Heard at a Mennonite buggy-tailgate party:
“Thou makest a fine jug of pumpkin juice, Elijah. Truly.”

Well, SSHRC proposal, draft three, is ready to launch. Expect copies in your inbox, Christine, Catherine and Dr. Shapiro. (And Dr. Shapiro, if you have found this address, Commies have stolen my brain and made me write everything on this blog.) I hope the prop is now both specific and assertive. I hope I survive this whole bloody mess.

May the Saints preserve us all.

The Silence is Deafening

Well, still no major activity on the SSHRC front. I have ideas, but until now I haven’t really begun to work on the damn new draft with any amount of gusto. I don’t know if I am having post-illness blahs, or what, but I am stuck in slow motion these days.

The real scary thing is that the advisor hasn’t emailed me to yell at me. What does it mean when they go silent, I wonder?

In any case, I’ve already emailed her two excuses this week, so no more of that. I’ll just finish making my adjustments, get John to read it, and send it off ASAP- PDQ- Double Time. I know what I want it to say, I just have to stinking well do the bloody thing.

NO MORE EXCUSES, YOU WORTHLESS DOG!

Thanks, Inner Schuller- I needed that.

*sigh* Onward and Upward!


Wish for the day: To die before my “potential” turns into “failure.”