Mann. Die Deutschen Mir Up Gecracken.

(Pigeon German for: "Man. The Germans Crack Me Up." Otherwise known as, “Ich denke daß die Deutschen lustig sind,” if you want to be boring.)

You are all so damned cosmopolitan and pop-culture literate, so you probably all have heard of this little gem. I am still catching up with The Last Laugh (1924), so I admit that I am not as German film literate as I probably should be. However, I have discovered a film that brought me real joy.

If you have not yet seen Enlightenment Guaranteed (2000), you should. Particularly if you love (a) Religious-Studies-type entertainment, (b) Germans, or (c) Buddhists. Or any combination thereof.

Truly ausgezeichnet! Ausgezeichnet like ausgezeichnet was going out of style.

Two brothers, each with his own oh-so-German personality quirks, decide to find their center in a Zen monastery in this fall-down-funny German/Buddhist answer to The Blair Witch Project. With production values so cheap it could be a Canadian film, this movie still packs a wallop. As a colleague pointed out to me, this is the true lost in translation story.

So funny. So painful to watch. So bloody German!

Heute benötigte ich diesen Film. Ein Grund deutsche Lektionen zu beachten. Schließlich! (Neben Triumph des Willens, bedeute ich.) Es holte mir Aufklärung. Big time.

Die Deutschen: Könige der Komödie!

The Water was Hot, but I Didn’t Drown.

Well, Monday didn’t end up sucking that bad, after all. It seemed like it at first, though.

I got up at 9am, with about four hours’ sleep, and then got back to marking while I listened to DVDs on Nazi occult religion so that I could prepare a bit for tutorials (through osmosis). I was in email contact back and forth with the prof I work for, who was still urging me to finish the marking before class.

He claimed that he had told the students the papers would be back today. I told him that those were big words coming from someone who didn’t do an inch of marking, and perhaps he’d like to do my straggling ones?

He was not amused, so, though I knew marking 15 papers in an hour could not be done in this time-space-continuum, I kept trying.

Finally, I ran out of the last remaining preparation time for my tutorials, so I got the bright idea of booking an AV cart for my class and showing the documentary in the mystical history of the swastika that I was watching. I emailed the prof to iron this out. His response: “Don’t show movies.” According to him, he shows enough movies in lecture, and we need to actually go over stuff.

So I translated this and sent it back… “So, you’re the only one allowed to slack off. And we can’t… because you do?”

He was not pleased, but he admitted the injustice of this. We compromised with me showing only ten minutes of Triumph of the Will, and then discussing it. As it turns out, there was ONE AV cart left un-booked for today, so I grabbed it. One problem solved.

Finally, when the voice of the other TA in the class (who also was not finished marking), was added to mine, the prof relented his draconian slave-driving and let us have another week of marking.

Whew. Another problem licked.

But I was still tired and under-prepared for my tutorials, so I was dreading them. Certain signs that the day was going to turn out crappy started to appear. I missed my bus by such a small margin that I was there in time to feel the wind from it as it zipped away down the street. Secondly, when I tried to buy a bottle of water from a vending machine, it came out HOT. Not just warm. Hot. Steam rolled off it. Yes, I would get the malfunctioning machine, wouldn’t I?

Yet these turned out to be just false omens, as the day took a sudden turn from triage to actual enjoyment.

The AV maneuvers worked well, I got to class on time, and we actually had GREAT tutorials! The kids enjoyed having a media treat (even in the form of the Nuremberg rallies), and we got a good discussion going. I think I may have taught one or two of them something, as well, which is a nice change of pace.

Then my PhD seminar from 3 to 6pm (which I did read for, albeit at 4am) was incredibly amusing and educational, with a nice free-for-all of one-liners on comparative religious understandings of sex. This then turned into a debate over whether the Jews or the Catholics were the sexier people… I’m not sure if I have ever had an odder grad-class discussion, especially when you consider that the prof is something like 70 years old.

Then the TA lecture from 7 to 10 was GREAT! The prof loves Zen Buddhism, and gave a great lecture and we watched a great film section. Further, he was super-placating because he was worried that he’d been unfair that morning about the marking situation. Then, to top it all off, I got a ride home from class.

And the great thing is that a rumour of my mouthy resistance to the prof has started to spread, and I have become some sort of Grouchoesque folk hero of TA rebellion. Wonderful! Saved from the fire, AND a snappy rep to boot!

So the day that I thought would be brutal was not so bad. Just goes to show that the urge to drink poison at 3 or 4am before a hectic day may be a bit premature.

It’s always good to learn a valuable life lesson.

Just After Midnight, and Monday Already Sucks

(This post has nothing to do with Nolte... However that photo expresses exactly how I feel right now.)

It is 12.15am here, first thing Monday… I still have twenty papers to mark before 7pm, with two tutorials to teach and a seminar class in between. Have only barely prepared for tutorials. Have done no readings for the seminar.

Have received an email from a man editing a book for which I have promised a chapter. I had planned to have that done by now… Amongst other things. Have had to buy time there, but it is not fully due until end of March. Still, I hate to shirk. But, yet, shirk I have done. Yes, yes, I am a hero.

Yup. Spring Break is definitely over.

Already wish I were dead… Sure sign of a typical Monday.

Bless You, George Waring!

And all of you plumbing heroes, known or unknown.

Once again we have drainage! We are safe from malaria and all the other monsters I had imagined festering in my poor clogged sink. It is a glorious thing. I hope you all recognize the wonder contained in that marvel of plumbing efficiency just down the hall from you right now. Take a moment to gaze in awe at its chrome and porcelain gleam. And then remember the heroes who made that possible.

Like George Waring, for one, who was the civic minded genius who wrote the 1876 classic The Sanitary Drainage of Houses and Towns, which is considered to have done as much, if not more, good for the state of modern health than all the doctors of the nineteenth century put together.

As an interesting side note, Waring also spearheaded the campaign for the establishment of “White Wings” (public sanitation workers who cleaned up after horses, cf. Chaplin's City Lights).

As I do not know exactly who first applied harsh chemicals to drains (the Arabs first used lye as a power cleaner in the 7th century, so who knows when it first went down a sink), I have chosen one man to honour in this list as a representative of the drain opener founders.

Philip Drackett was born in Philadelphia in 1856. A chemist by hobby and by trade, he gave up his pharmacy to become what we would call a snake-oil salesman. After he and his wife, Sallie, had raised their children, they took the leap and started their own chemical sales company. P.W. Drackett & Sons became the leading supplier of Epsom salts, and then invented a popular brand of blue window cleaner (you know the one).

There is one invention, though, that no one can ever forget, because its horror and potential devastation haunts our darkest dreams when we have to face opening its lid and pouring… Phil Drackett invented that childhood nightmare, Drain-O (a.k.a. Drāno), in 1923. This product revolutionized the early plumbing industry, and started a whole craze for more efficient and cleaner-running drains.

(And it still scares the hell out of me… Ever since I read about that NYC club kid who used it to melt his dead drug dealer… Urgh.)

Anyway, returning to plumbing…

Last, but certainly not least, we all need to take a moment of silent gratitude to that legendary Frenchman named Paul Plungé (pronounced Plung-jay- get it?), who (according to common lore) invented the standard plunger. The plunger- the stalwart centennial of plumbing health that melts no one and still can be got for a dollar. When you need a plunger, Paul Plungé is a better friend to humanity than Jonas Salk, Fred Banting and Prometheus the Fire Stealer, all together, ever were.

Some may smirk, and claim that Plungé is an urban legend or a joke. I don’t care if he was real or not. Maybe he, like his fellow fake-inventors Otto Tittslinger and Seamore Butts, has a name that is just too damn good to be true. He is still a hero in my eyes, for he represents whatever brave and ingenious soul did invent that miraculous machine.

Bless the unknown and un-memorialized Saints of the Biffy!

We salute you!

Happy One-Oh-Five, Zeppo!

Herbert “Zeppo” Marx
Straight Man; Singer; Actor; Mechanic; Inventor.
February 25, 1901- November 30, 1979

105 years old, and he’s still the youngest brother!


It took a lot of guts to understudy Groucho, and go on for him in Chicago.

It took courage to co-star with Groucho, Chico and Harpo, at all.

It took even more fortitude to leave the team, and strike out on his own.


I hope the cards are hot wherever you are, Zepp.

Happy birthday.

Boned. Powerful Boned.

Yes, indeed. It’s Saturday. One more day, and I return to class and other wastes of time.

Chores completed over this break:

- Rewrote Ritual Studies proposal (optional)
- Read part of Harpo Speaks!
- Started reading Groucho, Harpo, Chico and Sometimes Zeppo
- Read four research articles for Groucho paper
- Edited St. Patrick’s Day article for web
- Made several interlibrary loan and recall requests
- Cleaned bathroom
- Helped remove recycling
- Kept blog updated

Total: Nine tasks completed. v.g.

Chores not completed over this break, thus far:

- 30+ 4 page papers to mark for Monday
- RE700 research paper proposal
- RE700 reading
- Ritual Studies class readings
- Jack Benny chapter written for outside project
- New content for Swank Puppy
- Prepare for Monday’s tutorials
- Write letters to two old ladies, thanking for Xmas checks
- Email woman in Calgary, re: research interests (as instructed by advisor two weeks ago)
- Make student loan application for summer
- Clean apartment entire
- Take complete segment notes for Groucho paper
- Complete research for Groucho paper
- Rough draft of Groucho paper done entire
- Start preparing Groucho presentation
- Start research on RE700 paper
- Rough dissertation proposal done in some fashion
- Help John with summer job applications
- Write lecture for Grimes’ undergrad class
- Do Power Point presentation for Grimes’ undergrad class (?)
- Do Power Point presentations for Groucho seminar
- Do taxes

Total: 20 tasks left uncompleted, with one day left. (Oh, LORD- defin. not. g.)

Yes. I am boned. I stand before you a boned student. I am powerful boned.

CoffeeTime drive thru night shift, here I come...

eep.

Holly & John’s Adventure Down the U-Bend

So, how did I spend my Spring Break…?

Well, partly I spent it trying to work and failing miserably. Another part was spent on guilt about not doing any work. At least an hour was spent playing with a rubber chicken. A depressingly (and surprisingly) small amount of time was spent relaxing in front of a movie.

And, at least one day (today), I blew plunging a stubborn sink clog.

But I did discover one amazing thing:
Plunging + ‘Liquid Plumber’ Fumes + Smoke Break = Buzz
So, I found a new, cheap and efficient form of high. I think it will soon sweep the nation.


Otherwise, little was accomplished. We don’t know what was down there, but if it was food, LORD help our poor insides. If all we did today could not lodge it from our sink pipes, I have no idea how we could digest it. We plunged and plunged, and bombed the sink with enough harsh and destructive chemicals to bring the wrath of Bush upon us.

Then we had a break, while John went to the Dollar Store for another plunger. Thought behind this: Two sink holes, ergo, TWO plungers… Thus, twice the suction!

He returned with a second plunger, and a new taste sensation. He couldn’t pass up buying some of the exotic and horrible food from the Dollar Store in the hopes that it would nourish our bodies and revive our spirits. (Who among us could resist such odd and enticing things?)

So we paused for some foul instant pot noodles and some Turkish cocoa building material claiming to be “Kek.” Cautiously and amusedly, we tore open the strange alien packets with their foreign labels. It all went down alright, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I now have parasites on my parasites in my colon… I will not pass judgment on it until I am sure I’ll live through the night.

So, we went back to plunging, as drain cleaner fumes filled our apartment.

The worst part was the rollercoaster ride of emotions; expectation, and then the inevitable let down. “Plunge, plunge”… “Is that a gurgle of hope?” (Pause to listen with suspended anticipation.) “Nope!” “Plunge, plunge”… “Gurgle!” “Nope.” On, and on, and on it went.

It was like the apartment-life equivalent to the Excalibur challenge.


After six hours of diligent plunging, I was sitting on the kitchen floor in front of the open cabinet with sore arms and a daze of confusion. Then my mind broke. I was contemplating what exactly a drain trap valve was, and how to get it off, when I was suddenly hit with how much time I have wasted in my life, and how futile further effort at anything was. I was at the point of saying: Fine! If the clog in there is so damn tenacious of its life, or at least of my drain pipe, I was OK with leaving it there, and either washing my dishes in the bathtub or ordering pizza for the rest of my time in this apartment.


And then I cried.

And then I contemplated just moving.

And then I sat, stunned, on the bed, praying for swift and painless death.

And then, finally, broken and bowed, I gave up.

End result after hours of plunging (with TWO plungers), two bottles of drain cleaner, a million screamed warnings to the nosy feline, a number of small chemical burns, a billion how-to websites consulted, and at least a dozen empty suicide threats?

The superintendent is coming tomorrow.

I have washed my hands of the whole business… At least I would if I could, but my sink is filled with noxious crap, and I am afraid of spurring my bathroom sink into succession with the kitchen faction, so I am being nice to it.

Oh… Kek!

Henry Bergman: Unsung Hero

Henry Bergman
February 23, 1868- October 22, 1946

A former circus clown and trained opera singer, Henry “Hank” Bergman made his biggest mark as a beloved character actor in several Charlie Chaplin films from 1918 to 1936. He was born 138 years ago today in San Francisco, and it is my privilege to include this largely forgotten kindhearted man in my pantheon of personal heroes. He appears to have been loved by all who knew him, seemed to love his friends even more than they sometimes deserved, and has left one of the greatest legacies of pride amongst the early Jewish actors of Hollywood.

Henry came to the screen later than most actors. He first appeared in the L-KO 1914 silent short The Baron’s Bear Escape in his 46th year, after having worked with Pathé-Lehrman since 1913. His early career was generally undistinguished until he established an enduring working relationship and friendship with a young Charlie Chaplin in 1916, when he appeared in his first Chaplin short, The Vagabond.

A kindly and loving man, his loyalty to Chaplin was one of an almost fatherly duty, and he worked not only as supporting actor, but also as an assistant to the occasionally temperamental Chaplin. Serving as Chaplin’s friend and most dedicated supporter through the years, as well as the tiny director’s sounding board, second unit A.D., and general protector, Bergman established himself as one of the least dispensable staff members at Chaplin Studios in California. Chaplin’s wives came and went, but Henry was always at his side.

The ample Bergman appeared, often in drag, in 22 Chaplin films, including his first four feature-length films, and, along with Charlie and Sydney Chaplin, in the 1918 WWI propaganda short, The Bond (as John Bull, above). He is probably best remembered today as the commedia del' arte clown in The Circus (1928) or as the charitable surveyor Hank Curtis in the 1925 hit The Gold Rush. In most of their films together, Chaplin reflected their off-screen relationship by casting Bergman as the kindly mentor to Charlie’s unfortunate Tramp.

It was in the classic 1916 almost-surrealist masterpiece, The Pawnshop, that Bergman’s legacy was established for me. Chaplin, who was not Jewish despite rumours to the contrary, was certainly no anti-Semite. However, it was his respect and friendship with Bergman, a proud Jewish man, which led to some of the earliest humanized portrayals of Jews on screen.

In early silent cinema, Jewish men were generally far from heroic. With a few notable exceptions, Jews served as the butt of the joke, the villain who sought to destroy young love, or the scoundrels who tainted the business world with their cunning. In The Pawnshop, we see an interesting blend of stereotype and tenderness in Bergman’s Jewish caricature. While a Jewish pawnshop owner who wore a long black coat, spectacles, kippah and grey beard is generally in keeping with Jewish screen stereotypes, The Pawnshop goes wildly off-type in its story. While Jewish bosses of early cinema were often shown to be cruel and stingy with their unfortunate Gentile employees, Bergman’s Jewish boss was a kindly and understanding one. Indeed, when faced with The Little Tramp (a notoriously bumbling worker), Bergman’s treatment of The Little Man is more than fair. When he attempts to fire the Tramp, with just cause, he relents when the Tramp pleads for the welfare of his children (falsely, one assumes), and accepts a sloppy hug and kiss in gratitude.

Compare this portrayal of employer kindness to the one in Sunnyside (1919), in which a farmer, beneath an ironically placed “Love Thy Neighbour” plaque, beats, insults and harangues the Tramp at every opportunity, and then goes off the local Christian church. Clearly, Chaplin was under no misapprehension that abuse of employer privilege rested solely with the Jews. As a result, Bergman’s Jews remain some of the gentlest portrayals in Hollywood’s early history.

Bergman made his final appearance in a Chaplin film in 1936’s Modern Times, as the even-tempered and unprejudiced café boss during the classic “Nonsense Song” routine. At 68, Bergman was slowing down and showing his age. Chaplin, who had very little admiration for old age, helped Bergman establish his famous restaurant in Hollywood, “Henry’s”. Although Bergman, the opera singer, did uncredited production work on Chaplin’s first talkie, The Great Dictator (1940), the world never heard his voice.

In a sad and regretful end to this story, Bergman and Chaplin’s friendship continued unto death, as far as Henry was concerned, but was capriciously left to falter by Chaplin. Dying and desirous of some film work for old time’s sake, Henry applied to Chaplin for a non-speaking role of a judge in what is probably Chaplin’s best talking picture, Monsieur Verdoux (1947). Chaplin decided that Henry was too old to play any role at his studios and denied the application, and, for all intents and purposes, turned his back on one of the closest friends he ever knew. Bergman died in October 22, 1946, before Verdoux was released, without bearing any ill will against his old friend and boss.

The irony is that Bergman, always Chaplin’s greatest admirer, did not live to see Chaplin’s later political troubles in the United States. If he had, he would have clung more firmly to Chaplin’s side than ever. More firmly, certainly, than Chaplin did to Bergman when Henry was attacked by something more immoveable than the State Department. Bergman had been attacked by old age, Chaplin’s greatest fear. In that, Chaplin (the eternally young, original artist of the cinema and usually fearless humanist) was not able to stand by him.

Today, however, we celebrate the birth of a great, unsung hero of the silent era. He was beloved, but not as much as he deserved. Likewise, today he is remembered, but not as much as he should be.

I Put it to You, and I Leave it to You.

Am faced with challenging dilemma.

But YOU can help!

What do I name my dissertation (proposal)?

Here’s the thing. My dissertation is not written. It won’t be done until 2009. However, I am expected to have a working title at least by August of 2006. Preferably, I should have something by which it can be known when I start handing in rough proposal drafts in March…

What else could I do? Call it “Untitled Holly Project”…? That solution may work on IMDB, but doesn’t really seem appropriate for a dissertation title.

The thing is this: the dissertation will be my defining document for many years. Possibly for the rest of my life if I never publish a book, leave a “I’ve gone out the window” note, or write the script I always dreamt of (Citizen Kane II: Leland’s Slinky- think about it).

What I name this dissertation will be written on every CV, every bio, and every rap sheet ever written about me. It has got to be spectacular. The name is, perhaps, even more important than the dissertation itself. Around 6 to 10 people in the entire world will read the dissertation text. Everyone from cleaners to loved ones to repomen will read the title! This is important stuff, here.

OK, to give you guys something to work with – I will give you some parameters and background. My MA thesis was on the good-evil dualism found in the 5th century BCE, Aramaic Dead Sea Scroll “4Q Visions of Amram.” For that title, I took a quote from Jane Eyre, and I called it “The Guide and the Seducer: Dualism in 4QVisions of Amram,” or something like that. Catchy, literate and descriptive. Plus, I made my Religious Studies department use the word “seducer” in their publicity, so that’s pretty fun.

My PhD dissertation is in the department of Religion and Culture in a fairly erudite, but not stuffy, department in English Canada. The scope looks at how North American films have depicted Jewish-Gentile intermarriage (films by either Jews or by Gentiles… haven’t really figured that part out yet), with an eye to how Jewish difference (whether racial, cultural or religious) is dealt with through these narratives. I will be dedicating each chapter (around ten or so) to different “tropes,” or representative stories, such as Annie Hall and Alvy Singer, Baby Houseman and Johnny Castle (gotta get the classics in there), Svengali and Trilby, the Beautician and the Beast, stuff like that. The point is to see how America sees its Jews (and how American Jews see Gentiles, I guess) by how these stories are presented. Get it?

So you have your assignment. Go and find me a pithy and memorable title, my bright and creative reader. My favourite type is one of those clever-title-that-means-nothing-followed-by-a-concise-subject-sub-title titles, such as you commonly see on scholarly lists these days. However, I am not picky and will consider anything. I am that desperate.

Think along these lines:

“Getting Raped by Cossacks: Jewish-Gentile Relationships in North American Film”

See, here we have a quirky line that will be understood only by people who have bothered to memorize Annie Hall, followed by a colon, and then an actual attempt at a descriptive title. Savvy?

Only let’s try not to offend anyone…


“When a Bird Loves a Fish: Romance Between Jews and Gentiles in American Cinema.”

Again, we have a quote, and now completely “rape” free. Good. This time it is from Fiddler, so you know people are going to recognize it, only here it is inverted somewhat into a “When a Man Loves a Woman” parody.

Also, I like the word cinema… Makes me sound like a student hanging around Paris’s left bank community, trying not to get the clap, while musing about the beauty of Buster Keaton’s trajectory gags versus the artistry of Chaplin's dance. Yes, good word, indeed.

Still… this one is kind of boring, no?


“Mixed Marriage? We Aren’t Even Allowed to Mix Flax with Wool!: Jewish-Gentile Marriages in American Cinema.”

This isn’t a quote from a movie… But it should be. Funny, and with hard biblical fact (Leviticus 19:19). That’s a title you can learn something from, and it runs on good observational wit.

However, it also runs a little long, I think.


So, there are a few examples of what you can come up with. If any of your suggestions make it into the final draft, I swear you will get an acknowledgement in the preface of the dissertation. Not that you’d read it, really. However, you’d get a kick out of skimming the title…

I am depending on you, folks.

Get those brains working.

I Love the College Life

Just jaunted off to University of Waterloo to grab a whack of books before they close. Campus is quiet and chilled, with lovely golden street lamps everywhere.

For books, I got:

An Empire of their Own (Gabler)
First Diasporist Manifesto (Kitaj)
And on the Eighth Day GD Created the Yankees (Bove)
Groucho, Harpo, Chico and Sometimes Zeppo (Adamson)
The Comic Image of the Jew (Altman)
Judaism’s Encounter with American Sports (Gurock)
The Trotskys, Freuds, and Woody Allens (Kalmar)
The Americanization of the Jews (Seltzer & Cohen, eds)
SmartJews (Gilman)
The Believer: Confronting Jewish Self-Hatred (Bean)
Why a Duck? (Anobile)

I love a life in which I can take all these things home for free, read them, digest them, spew them back in some critical form, and get funded for that. I complain and crank about school, but I would die without it.

Bless the system that supports this life.

Now I sit here amongst my new friends, enjoying some sort of hideous (but delicious) cinnamon desert thingy and a cup of coffee, and thinking about how nice it is to jaunt to a library for research materials on a chilly winter night with a loved one.

And I think: This is why I put up with the unpleasant aspects.

It's a wonderful feeling.

For You, a Little Link

I just can't sit still...

Having unrequested energy surplus right now. Am trying to put it to good use.

Have updated and overhauled the link list. Highlights? New quote-o-the-day feature, just in case my daily updates aren’t reason enough for you to drop by; the link to Rick Mercer’s blog (!!!); the neato Halifax Web Cams (do you know who’s on the corner of Henry and University RIGHT NOW?); Chaplin’s very stately Times obituary; several things that I have mentioned in posts but neglected to make permanent (the Chicken, the Open Letters, etc); and so forth. So, go! Explore! Just make sure you come back here when you are done.

(Have decided not to provide links- these make it too easy for you to all slip away. I'm wise to your ways...)

However, there is one special new link I have added that I hope you will all stay tune to. Amanda-from-Ohio (who I don’t know why is called that since I don’t currently know any other Amandas… Actually that will be the last time she is called that, I have decided) is starting up a new net mag, The Swank Puppy, which, I believe, may feature yours truly on a regular basis. It is not in full swing yet, but I was forced to contribute my personal manifesto for the contributors’ bio page today, so I guess it should be up soon…? I’ll keep you posted.

Well, the good thing is that there is a ton of new crap to take your time away from more important things. The bad news is that my link list is now longer than my posts, so I now face the challenge of having to make my writing longer than (or at least as long as) my side-board’s bells & whistles column… Tricky.

So, I guess that I really should pad this entry, huh…?

(You can’t see it, but I am humming “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” and tap dancing for your amusement…)

Is that padding enough?

Actually, I really ought to calm down. My productivity levels shot up at about midnight, and in the last couple of hours I managed to clean several tasks off my to-do list: I wrote a revised ritual studies proposal, started the new draft of my PhD dissertation proposal (exciting!!), added those links, sent out some emails, edited my St. Patrick’s Day piece, and wrote a couple updates for the upcoming week (which will not be revealed until their time). I am now torn between three options: 1. Go to bed (Booooo! Hissss! Sleep is for the dead!). 2. Write my first Swank Puppy piece (nerves… all of a sudden nerves!). 3. Continue working on my dissertation proposal (too hyper for scholarly academic-type dryness, perhaps…?)

Or watch a movie. There’s always that.

Oh man… I may never sleep again. Does anyone know if gorilla tranquilizers are available over the counter?

Solitude, At Long Last

Sitting in my office on campus on a Monday, I am lulled by the subtle and repetitive "whir-squeak" of the escalator down the hall. And no other sound!

Outside, when I venture out in the –20 wind-chill for a smoke, there is silence and no motion whatsoever. It is deserted!

When one thinks of Spring Break, it is likely that pictures of Cancun and disease-ridden, gyrating undergrads in plastic leis come immediately to mind… Happily, I have found another image. In this one all the ridiculous little tarts and jocks have flown away somewhere warm and expensive (places which, I hope, will all be hit by massive air-line job actions this Saturday); as a result, this image is serene and particular in its lack of annoyances.

No one clogs up the halls with their inane "conversation" clutches. No one stops traffic to grab a neon-blue cell phone from a gaudy pink vinyl "Hello Kitty" handbag. The halls are un-marred by the clumping of ugly pink mukluks. Not a ball cap to be found. There is not a giggle to be heard. And outside, there is total silence, without a single "woo-hoo" to split the solitude.

Today I would not wish myself in any tropical climes. Why?

Because they are there, and not here. So here is better.

"Wherever you go, there you are." Words to live by… Especially when your current place is unpolluted by the venereal-germ-spreading undergrad population.

(And a word of apology to the populations of Mexico, Dominican Republic, Florida, and all other points of destination for Canada's first year students… Please do not take these yahoos as representative, and I am sorry for the inconvenience. But, coldly, I must assert: "Better you than me, my friends.")

Surprised by (En)Joy(ment).

It is the end of the day, and I am settling down to do some work and to edit John’s term paper before bed. I rented some Albert Brooks flicks, and may watch one before turning in. I haven’t decided. However, I can say with some satisfaction that, considering what has been happening, I have had a day of such unexpected contentment that I am over whelmed with gratitude. Gratitude to John, to the nice folks at the Princess Theatre… To whoever allowed me to have some slice of happiness today.

After having a more restful sleep than I would have expected, I puttered away my afternoon with a long-needed walk to Tim’s and some outdoor time (we’ve been having blizzard after wretched blizzard here, so a peek outside is rare). I did a little work, and have started conceptualizing my first real rough draft of my dissertation proposal (so expect a copy whizzing off to you sometime soon, Catherine!).

We then decided to take to the road and make our way down to the Princess for a movie, and we saw Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World (2005), which I enjoyed very much whatever the critics may say about it. (I am working on a review, so expect it tomorrow if I can put what I saw into words.) This gave me such a hankering for more Al Brooks fare that I zipped all the way home to try to catch the rental place before they shut, and I was not disappointed.

Now we are home (which is finally quiet after the trashies’ big weekend hootenanny), and I have emails from a few friends waiting for responses (which is always cheerful). 2001’s My First Mister (which I adore), and 1999’s The Muse (I’ll let you know) are waiting for me in the queue. And, if I still have the taste (or stomach) for it, there’s always The Jazz Singer (1980) staring at me from my desk.

So here I am. Fine, and finding myself surprised at how fine I really am.

Sorry, but I have no comedy for you right now… I am more than happy to let others entertain me for the evening. Perhaps tomorrow I will feel funny, but, really, I am just pleased to know I can laugh myself, right now. It seems too much to hope that I can return the favour at this point.

Baby steps. It’s all about the baby steps.

Strange Yearnings, Bizarre Happenings and Surprising Coincidences.

The last, first. Did you know that Charles Riesner, better known as Chuck, directed The Big Store with the Marx Brothers in 1941 (one of the movies I am focusing on for my ritual studies research)? Does this name ring any bells? Possibly as Charlie Chaplin’s assistant director for years, the man who introduced him to Lita (for good or bad), and the fellow who played the bully in The Kid (1921)? This coincidence tickled me greatly. It is nice to run into old friends in strange places.

Secondly, the bizarre happening. All the females out there may now have evidence to envy me in my choice of mate. Not only did John sit through the entire BBC/A&E Pride and Prejudice miniseries (1995) with me, but he actually claimed to enjoy it. Yet again I have proof that I am shacked up with a man with an amazingly well-developed feminine side… But I guess how much he liked Notting Hill (1999) should have told me that already.

And the first, last. Last night I couldn’t sleep, because I had a strong desire to watch some movies. No, there isn’t much wrong with that, and it happens to me quite often. However, the movie in question was a little questionable. It was the 1980 Neil Diamond version of The Jazz Singer, with the ever-impressive Lawrence Olivier as his Orthodox Jewish Cantor father… I’ll leave that to your imagination, but will say that the highlight must be Sir Larry’s shouting of “I haff no son!” Ah, quality.

And Neil Diamond… What can I say? Clearly the 1980’s answer to Al Jolson, right…? I mean, it is obvious that Neil Diamond’s name will still be spoken in fifty years, surely? And that blue spangled finale of this picture is really a sight to be seen- when he strikes the “Statue of Liberty pose” at the end of “America”… Seriously, I get misty.

Oh my. Spring Break does create some very odd happenings. Sure, we aren’t in Cancun acquiring some ice-cube-borne disease, but we did spend an hour turning a rubber chicken inside out and doing other odd tricks with him, and I think that is Cancun’s cheap equivalent. And it doesn't require shots.

Yes. Good times.

Today’s Truth: Phil Collins Sucks Arse.

Am settled down and reading Persuasion today in my week-long Austen festival, and am really too languid to update. Still, why break a streak?

Cleaned house yesterday, and am now enjoying the results. However, trashies upstairs do insist on playing Phil Collins and other horrors as loud as they can, while doing some sort of stompy trashie clog dance along with the nasty tunes. I have compromised with great sounds of radio static through head phones to drown out said trashie reveling.

Tomorrow, I think I may head to the office.

For all you Groucho fans who are upset with me for not mentioning his name forty times in this post, try this on for size.

Good night. Damn you, Phil.

When We Do Not Grieve, We Do Not Live.

My aunt’s remains have been identified. It appears that the story is almost at an end…

It would have been nicer to get better news, but we knew that was unlikely. Or if it had been a more positive identification, but, while forensic anthropology is creative science it is also efficient, so I will trust the report. I am just relieved for my dad’s sake, as knowing (even if horrible), must be preferable to wondering and thinking the worst. Now we wait for details on what happened, but we at least know how the events ended- even if not how they took place.

I will call my parents in the morning to let them know that I know. (Thanks to Catherine who heard first, and, in an act of beautiful friendship and charity- one more appreciated then even she knows, I think- called me to tell me and to condole. My mum will be glad to not actually have to break the news to me. She can send her gratitude to Charlottetown for her relief.) I will wait until morning, so I don’t cry. That would distress my mum more than the news itself.

My aunt had a great laugh, she loved dogs, and some of my best memories of home come from her. And when I was little I used to descend the staircase in her old house by scooting down one at a time on my butt, because I was scared of walking down with my small legs. One year she sent me a whole parcel full of old photographs, on the back of each she had written descriptions of each long gone family member, so that I would know them a little. When I told her how much I loved John, she knit him socks to welcome him to the family- letting me pick the yarn, and sitting and talking to me about him and her life and other things while she made them. They are still in the drawer.

I am grateful for these memories, and I am grateful for having known her.

Rest in Peace.


When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. ~Kahlil Gibran

SPRING BREAK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Pleasure overload… I am free! FREE! FREE! FREE!

Wednesday night I had my last class until the 27th of February! What a tremendous feeling: 11 days of self-determination.

The cosmos are kind. Class tonight was even good (for the most part). We actually settled down to discuss the readings and do some real work. I critiqued the heck out of one of my prof’s articles (with some nerves on my part), only to be praised for having the gumption to so (and for being very right in the points that I made). I love you, Dr. G!

However, the last forty minutes of class was only so-so. I am still not certain what to make of it. If you all can understand it, do fill me in.

It got really weird and confessional, with people talking about their feelings on media, face-to-face religion and ritual experiences that they have had in the past. It got pretty creepy. But that’s not the really strange part…

I really freaked myself out by actually talking of my own internal religion (didn’t even know I really had one). I think I may have “come out” as an Open Source Jew… And then got laughed at by the (self-styled) “Real Jew” in the class. Very odd dynamics.

So, am I religious all of a sudden…? And was I just taunted because of my religious convictions…? By a Jew…? Wha? Huh? Sha?

All signs of the Apocalypse, I am sure.

Ah, what the heck. It’s Break, so why think about it right now? I am going to go read Emma and enjoy my first night of freedom, and I will think of what all this means tomorrow.

Oh, and to all of you who are a bit scared and confused right now- first Buddhism and now religious Judaism- don’t worry. I don’t understand it either. I guess new (non-depressed) Holly is just a bit on the spiritual side this week.

Tomorrow, I shall sit in my pajamas and watch Duck Soup, lose all my convictions again, and all will be right with the world once more, I am sure.

For now, though, peace be upon you, my children…

Peace comes from within.

The Buddha said:

All that we are is the result of what we have thought. If a man speaks or acts with an evil thought, pain follows him. If a man speaks or acts with a pure thought, happiness follows him, like a shadow that never leaves him.

So with those sentiments, life comes back on track! I am pretty chipper again. I spent the day assembling my comp list for my field exam, getting through my last set of readings before Spring Break, making plans with friends, and generally pulling myself out of those dumps. I am doing my work without intrusion by the doldrums, though I’m still not enjoying home work, exactly (for that would be sheer insanity), but at least I am back to normal productivity.

Heck, over the weekend I even managed to work my way into a possible contribution to a book by stumbling onto an email address and acting adventurous. I will be writing this over break, but I don’t want to jinx it by getting too hyped up over it. For now, though, I’ll just enjoy doing the work on an absorbing topic that is right up my alley.

Have also picked up pursuits of a cheerful nature again. For example, I am in full blown love with these Open Letters, recommended by Catherine. (The fake boobs, the ant platoon leader, the invading squirrel! A whole world of hilarity.) I celebrated Valentine’s Day in my traditional manner, and read Pride and Prejudice again (after about the twentieth time, it really is possible to read that whole book in one sitting- though how much is actual reading and how much is memorization is unclear).

I have even come back around to thinking the snow is actually very pretty. Not so much that I want it to stay, necessarily, but at least it no longer represents pure evil to me. That’s an improvement, I think.

Further, Mitra the Monk helped me tremendously this week. That sweet man, knowing I did not have a copy of Peter Berger’s The Sacred Canopy (which is on our comps list), gave me an extra copy he found, simply because he thought of me. Wow… You know, I think there really is something to this Buddhism stuff, and if I weren’t such a self-centered jerk from birth, I would probably look into it further.

For now, though, it is enough for me to know that there are those mythical creatures known as Buddhists out there, and that they are gorgeous souls.

There seemed to be a slight hitch as I appeared to be a little sick to my stomach (yes, AGAIN!), and was knocked over by nausea at inopportune moments all evening. But, I refuse; I opt out of this whole system. I am NOT controlled by my bodily shell. Instead, I am pure energy… A free spirit, if you will.

And free spirits don’t puke up their submarine-sandwiches.

So I am determined that all shall be right for a while...

For, as the Buddha said:

Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn't die; so, let us all be thankful.

Nothing inside is seriously upset- in mind or body… And it’s going to stay that way, thank you very much.


***

The Buddha also said:

Ennui has made more gamblers than avarice, more drunkards than thirst, and perhaps as many suicides as despair.

This I believe.

Word to your Buddha, Mitra. He said a lot of pretty great things.

For John...

Happy Valentine's Day.
XXXOOO,
H.

Concupiscence, You Say?

What a day! I am now done the mac/cheese and root beer gorge-fest that was the last hours of the hell that was my Monday. I was starved, as my supper at 11.30pm on Monday was first food since Sunday night at 8pm… Not good, say my stomach and brain. Not good at all.

So, it turned out that yet another Monday went by with no time for any sustenance except for those glorious twin deities of grad school: Caffeine and her filthy consort Nicotine. Oh, sweet, sweet, stroke and cancer causing agents of my dreams!

Other than that all went well. Kids worked hard in tutorials discussing those Danish “cartoons” (read: abominations), despite the fact that it was the last Monday before Spring Break Starts (four more days!!). They all were so tired- every one of them had their paper for my class due today, plus a handful of exams, and about a million other assignments. It was rough, but they pulled through.

I love them to bits, but for now I am happy to not have to see them again for 12 more days! Or hear them whine, bless their dreary little souls.

Seminar was good- the only three classroom hours officially spent on Judaism in my whole darned Judaism PhD… Explain that one to me, if you can.

And now the comp is reminding me that it is Valentine’s Day… Yippee, skippee. Pardon my enthusiasm, but that’s just great. (Sorry, best I can do, folks.)

However, were my mood swings a little more to the amorous side, the world is in perfect alignment for love. Today’s word on Gmail is “concupiscence”… And that is the third time that word has come up independently today.

Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something?

Rrrowwll, Tiger.

Happy 39th (Again), Jack!

Jack Benny
(February 14, 1894- December 26, 1974)

“Gags die, humor doesn't”

I'm Not Sure I Agree With This One...

I mean, just because I don't enjoy home brew gin, that doesn't make me a priest!

Oh well, could have been worse. I could have been Radar.


Or the guy in the Subservient Chicken suit.
(Just type in a command and it's his wish... or vice versa.)

Childhood Pastimes that Never Should Have Been Revisited.

In an email with a friend the other day, the topic of once-loved movies came up, and I got to thinking about the movies I thought were wonderful when I was between seven and twelve or so, but which turned out to be grave viewing errors while in my twenties.

We all have these landmines, I suspect. Small pockets of magical or hilarious viewing experiences of our childhood, ruined by re-watching through more mature eyes. Where there were once nice memories of the past, now we have soiled and disappointing adult experiences. Such revisited childish loves serve only to taint the enjoyment of the past, and make us question the judgment of our younger selves. These are joys that we never should have attempted to recapture.

Here are the top ten childhood films that I regret having seen a-new:


10. The Bay Boy (1984)

This was a cute little Canadian-American (like the new construction?) kid’s first big break. You may have heard of him: Kiefer Sutherland? Remember him?

Anyway, with a brain filled with stories about how my dad’s family knew Donald Sutherland’s family when they were teenagers (both grew up around Bridgewater- it’s a fact!), I was a huge fan of this clan. Frankly, if given the choice between an instant PhD degree (no strings attached), or an hour in a room alone with Donald Sutherland, I may still choose the latter…

However, this film… What can I say? For those of you who have never heard of it, it is the very rural, very Canadian story of a young man coming to age in Nova Scotia during the 30s, and trying to decide between a life in the Church or girls and their various delights. When I was a pre-teen I though Kiefer was about as loveable as they came, and that this film, being one of only a handful that even come close to dealing with rural-Maritime childhood, spoke directly to me.

It has not aged well. The story is as threadbare as the ever-present woolen costumes, and the melodramatics do become a bit much. Further, the obligatory priest-coming-on-to-the-altar-boy certainly doesn’t seem like a daring or innovative idea anymore… It just seems sad.

Is it still better than like 90% of teenager films made in the US today? Hell, yes! But this still doesn’t say much in its defense. (Try 1999’s New Waterford Girl, instead.)


9. International Velvet (1978)

I admit it: I love Anthony Hopkins. Baked, boiled, fried, or raw, this man is a wonder to behold in pretty near any horrible piece he’s been conned into doing. I also admit that, as most girls around nine, I loved horses…

Put them together, and you get a pretty mediocre film, but one which, in retrospect, I couldn’t help falling for. When they made this movie the year I was born, they saw me coming. Those producers knew what they were doing when they put a young girl on a horse and filmed it for two hours. And they knew exactly who their audience was. And I went for it.

All I can say is that this movie makes me very happy the Tony sobered up and started to read scripts before signing on to do them.


8. Mannequin (1987)

Here’s a line never before admitted on this blog, but I am not ashamed to now say it: Meshach Taylor is a genius! There, I said it. It needed to be said. He is the one thing I remember fondly from this dog of a picture.

Hang your head in shame, Kim Catrall. Aside from Pierre Trudeau, this is probably the worse thing you’ve ever done.


7. Labyrinth (1986)

OK, I will admit that, in some moods, this movie does still appeal to me, but in a way that is far from the thrill I used to get from it. David Bowie is still pretty enjoyable, but watching Jennifer Connelly’s stinkerific performance in this makes me think A Beautiful Mind (2001) may have been a miracle of divine intervention.

In Ludo’s words, her acting does, indeed, “SMELL BAD!”


6. Turner and Hooch (1989)

Oh, my, did I once think Tom Hanks was amusing! And when he was threatening a slobbery dog with a handgun in that shrill and tumor-inducing yell of his, I thought he was a comic genius. And then when he and Hooch bond, and then the dog valiantly gave up his life for Turner… Oh, how I cried.

Now how I yawn. And scoff. And roll my eyes… Pretty much anything but laugh or cry.

And then I picture Hanks going down in front of a bullet instead of the poor dog.


5. The Princess Bride (1987)

My first viewing experience of this film was ideal: I was home sick from school and my mom rented this for me to watch- JUST LIKE THE KID IN THE FILM! However, since a friend bought this DVD for me a few years ago as a gift, I seem to only remember the nausea.

This movie once seemed like a living fairy tale to me, with its bright colour scheme and giant rats. Now all I can see is the pre-fab plot. For me, the only bright spot in this thing is the appearance of one of my Idols: Mandy Patinkin. And one of my lesser idols: Wallace Shawn.

Cary Elwes, however, may be the worst hero ever casted, anywhere, and it is hard to picture him inspiring love in anyone. INCONCEIVABLE, in fact!

Sad. Very sad.


4. The Goonies (1985)

I first watched this film in about the third or fourth grade. My teacher rented a copy for us for our Christmas party (along with the terrifying, wet-pants-inducing Return to Oz (1985), about which I still have horrible nightmares), and sitting there in the dark in the middle of the room which usually housed only torturous math tests and hand-writing lessons, it seemed like a dream. To my young eyes it was adventurous, enormous and very funny.

Now all I notice about it is the fact that there isn’t one line in the entire thing that isn’t screamed at the top of pre-adolescent lungs, and that the whole steaming pile makes my ears bleed. What the hell was I thinking?


3. The Outsiders (1983)

When I was a silly and slightly pathetic 12-year-old girl, S.E. Hinton’s tear-soaked tale of teen angst and social injustice seemed to me to be a junior version of Catcher in the Rye. When Pony Boy and his pals jumped to the big screen, I was as enamored with this film in a big way. The romance, the pathos, the greasy hair… So much to love.

However, when I caught this film on late night TV a few years back, thinking “Hey- why not re-live a bit of my youth?” I got a really good answer why I shouldn’t try to re-live my youth… For one thing- really, really, really amateurish acting. For another thing- really, really, really, corny script.

Oh well- not everything green is gold. Some green is just under-ripe.


2. Making Mr. Right (1987)

In my school-girl ideas of romance, this seemed pretty sweet. It also seemed pretty funny. However, if you see this pop up on TBS, as it does almost every day, avoid it.

Do yourself and John Malkovich a favour and forget you ever heard of it.


1. Spaceballs (1987)

This film is the granddaddy of twenty-something disappointment. When I was ten or so, I thought that this movie was the funniest thing ever made. Mel Brooks’ take on Star Wars?!? That has got to be comedy gold, right?

Oh my LORD, that was wrong! So very wrong. So wrong that I wanted to scratch my own eyeballs out to get away from it… puns (so very many puns), and the movie joke equivalents to some old, tipsy uncle getting you to pull his finger at Thanksgiving. This movie is trash, pure and simple. Not even enjoyable trash… Just plain trash.

Not funny. Not clever. Not even good satire. It makes me ashamed.


Finally, a Dishonorable Mention: Walk Like a Man (1987). With all due respect to Howie Mandel, this thing is a crime against humanity.

These were movies I distinctly remember liking or even loving in my pre-teen years… But ones that I probably couldn’t even stand to watch in their entirety now. Something in me died when I realized that, and I don’t want the same thing to happen to you. Avoid your childhood treasures like the plague, and guard those precious memories.

Little Holly, I am so very sorry for you… and, frankly, a little disgusted with you, as well.

On the Other Hand, We Have Some Enduring Classics:

On a brighter note, here are some films that have not faltered in my eyes from then (when I loved them) until now (when I still adore them), even though some may be thought a bit dodgy by others:

18 Again! (1988)
A Christmas Story (1983)
All of Me (1984)
Angel and the Bad Man (1947)
Anne of Green Gables (1985) (Please, don’t hate me, Catherine and John!)
Benji the Hunted (1987)
Coming to America (1988)
Dirty Dancing (1987)
Getting Married in Buffalo Jump (1990)
Glory Enough for All (1988)
Good Morning, Vietnam! (1987)
Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975)
Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)
Scars of Dracula (1970)
Sixteen Candles (1984)
Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home (1986)
The 7th Voyage of Sinbad (1958)
The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938)
The Breakfast Club (1985)
The Changeling (1980)
The Court Jester (1956)
The Jerk (1979)
The Pink Panther series (1960s-70s)
UHF (1989)
When Harry Met Sally… (1989)
Young Sherlock Holmes (1985)

Oh, and hundreds more, including classics that no one would argue with (i.e. City Lights, The African Queen, etc.)… My taste wasn’t all that bad (for a child), and I have to remember that with nice lists like this one, at least to counter-act the pure evil in the above list.

You may not agree with some of these (I saw some of you cringe at Young Sherlock Holmes), but a guilty pleasure is still a pleasure, and it is a gift when you can hold on to come of the loves of your childhood, even if others mock.

So there.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna eat some Malteasers, drink some grape soda, slip in a disk, and relive some good times.

Squeal Like a Pig, Y’all!

Well, at least someone was having fun last night.

OK, I had some fun last night. I watched The Importance of Being Earnest (2002), which, after the first twenty minutes or so, was pretty funny, and then I spent some time exploring the wonderful world of Gmail’s new chat feature, and I did a whole whack of work. Plus, after actually eating a hot, home-made meal with some nutritional value, I was feeling much better than I was when I wrote that last post.

It appears not to have been depression, after all. I think, perhaps, I had just been neglecting my tapeworm. His name is Phil, and I keep him in a box under my bed.

Anyway, I am getting off topic.

So I hit the hay a little early last night in anticipation of getting a good night’s sleep and waking up without this infernal back pain (wrong on both accounts, sadly). So what was keeping me from sleep?

I was lying there, counting sheep and Republicans, when suddenly I started to hear a strange “thud, thud, thud” from upstairs. At first I thought it was their dog scratching himself, as if his foot was hitting the floor. This is a good noise- reminds me of home and childhood, and dogs all over the joint (we lived on a farm, ergo a ton of dogs).

Eventually, though, a horrible idea broke through my nostalgic grin… Those accompanying joyful yelps did not sound canine at all… In fact, I came to realize, that sound was actually my white trash neighbours, doing… well, you know.

Ah, Spring is a'coming! The new Harper baby bonus is coming down the pipes, and a middle-aged white trash’s fancy turns to rutting. The wonders of nature! Don’t it make you want to vomit?

As I was now huddled, horrified, in my bed, with a pillow up over my ears and trying to think of more pleasant things- like the H Bomb- I was suddenly struck by two very clear thoughts on the subject:

1. I really, really, really hope that this blessed event doesn’t turn into something else I have hear night after night up there in about nine months! (I was actually focusing my sterilization will upon the ceiling.)

2. White trash folk never ever seem that enthusiastic or energetic when they are making my regular double-double, or filling up a tank with unleaded. (Now I know where their energy goes, I guess.)

After about 45 minutes or so, I was starting to think I’d have to hire Burt Reynolds to come over with his level-nine-kill-bow and save me, but I eventually did get to sleep. However, I may never be the same again.

Awful, awful, awful!

Last word: I hate you Harper. I hate you so very, very much.

OK, Will Whoever is Playing with the Pins and the Holly Doll, Please Go to Hell!

Worked on my Marx Bro research all day today, and it went pretty well. I have some good, solid sources, and by all accounts I should be pretty high on life right now, but it just isn’t happening.

Now, as I face my last two or so months left in classes, thus marking my transition from passive student to active student as I start my comps and original dissertation research, I find myself depressed in a way that I didn’t even think myself capable of. Usually, even when periodic depression hits, the old Holly sparkle and drive pops up and gives my small attention span cause to forget all about my blues. However, this batch has lasted much longer than I had anticipated.

Loneliness, isolation, general boredom and a sense of dread… It’s not a pretty list of symptoms, but there you go.

Further, my back seems to actually have “gone out” on me… I never really got that expression until today, but there was a popping sensation and then a pain and numbness, and now I can’t bend over for fear of never getting back up again. One small round of the blahs, and suddenly I am a 70-year-old Jewish man whenever I have to move.

Soon will have to venture forth and find a truss store, if such a thing exists.

The main surprise in all of this is that I really shouldn’t be upset. All is right with the world, from the outside. I do have friends, I know this logically, and have gained another one this month who gives me immense pleasure. My mum’s recent cancer scare seems to have been an overreaction of her doctors. John and I are well and happy, though stressed around the edges. I get to sleep every night knowing that my work is under some control…

So why the frown? Why the inner-sense of panic and disease? Why the lackluster feelings of failure? Why the sudden and dramatic certainty that I am a loser, from a long line of losers, and that I’ll never be anything more than a loser?

Why any of this?

Have I fallen prey to the eternal problem of the comic-wannabe? The horrible burden of chronic dissatisfaction?

Yes, I think that may be the case. I am beginning to sense that there will never be a school that I will be entirely content with, a level of achievement good enough, or a state of life sufficiently comfortable for me to actually feel happy. It is soul crushing to look upon a future like that, but I am starting to become suspicious that this is it for me: This is as happy as I can manage…

Stupid neurosis. I’d jump off a building, but I don’t have the back flexibility to get up on a ledge. Stupid back. Stupid ledge.

Stupid everything. I’m going to bed… If I can get my shoes off.

Grrrrrrr.

Really, It Was Bound to Happen.

Well, my computer has hit that dreaded 6 month wall, and it showed its first slip tonight. Some sort of shut down due to some sort of system error. Yet again electronics show us that there is not point in owning any of them, as they are designed to go to pot within a year. Otherwise, how would the companies ever make a profit?

It’s still working, and I’m not detecting any major problems in the scan, but that was it: The first crack in its perfection and efficiency. If I was a millionaire, and it was a blond chippy, I’d file for divorce right now in favour of a younger model.

It’s the beginning of the end.

I hate civilization.

I Can’t Focus… I Mean I LITERALLY Can’t Focus.

All you Mac alum, you may remember that I had myself a little accident a while back when a piece of flaming cigarette paper flew into my eye? Yes, well, it sort of happened again today. I mean, not so bad, as this time it didn’t stick and melt eye-ball flesh or anything, but I am pretty sure it is still in there. And now that eye only sees blurs, and I can’t adjust my focal length.

Do you suppose that’s a bad sign?

In any case, it’s a pain in more ways than one, as right now I am not able to hit the keyboard very easily. It’s more like wildly mashing the keys with my palm and hope it works out.

Man, if anything can go wrong, huh?

However, other than that, it’s been an OK day. I may have a lead on getting some of my writing out to the public (very good), and I have been asked to MC the IAC conference in March. I also got my choice of presentation dates for ritual studies, and so it looks like my two seminars and two speaking engagements in late March will actually be able to coexist, after all.

Also, my class tonight was a bit of a boner as we still didn’t get around to discussing any readings, but we also had a guest lecturer in, and she was phenomenal!

And that’s not even the best part…

Here at Laurier, I have three committee members: My head advisor (a Jewish identity specialist), my current ritual studies prof (a specialist in performance and religion & the arts), and a third, from the Anthropology Department. I had never met this third, and, though I had emailed her in September or October, I had never heard from her. My advisor, I seem to recall, didn’t even know her. Anyway, you can see why this was making me nervous, and I was contemplating changing the arrangement in April.

However, this phenomenal guest speaker was none other than the mysterious third. She’s wonderful! I’d say no more than five years older than myself, Brazilian (yes, and hip as that sounds), and she does ethnicity/racial/national issues as seen in the samba at Brazil’s Carnival! Pretty damned hot stuff, eh? And perfect for me.

Further, when we got into questions of theory and how to apply it, her defense of grounded and practical theory selection was exactly complimented my own! It’s like a match made in heaven… Or in Rio, at least.

So, in sum, one happy camper. So I think there shall be no change there… However, maybe my ritual studies prof would like his freedom to retire in peace, so maybe I’ll rethink that corner.

Yes, my time at Laurier keeps looking better and better.

Everybody, Samba!!!

Swing While You Sell!

Oh for a shotgun, or at least some sort of potion to get this song out of my head…

Realized that I didn’t provide lyrics for my songs in my proposal, or clear segmentation notes of the scenes, so I am up adding them.

However, while lyrics to “Lydia the Tattooed Lady,” and “The Laws of the Administration,” were readily available for pilfering off the web, the same cannot be said for either “Freedonia’s Going to War!” or “Sing While You Sell!”

Hmmm. The two most complex and difficult to transcribe… I wonder if those facts are connected.

In any case, have just spent 40 minutes painstakingly making full transcriptions of those two production numbers, and now I have a damned sore arm and that hideous swing number from The Big Store (1941) stuck right through my brain, with absolutely no way to get it out.

It is now much, much clearer to me why old people always seem like they are looking at the world through a fog… They grew up with this stuff.

It’s probably all they’ve heard in their brains for sixty years.

Kill me. Please. Before the same thing happens to me.

(And, yes, I know this pic is actually from Duck Soup... But it is close to swing, right? Ah, get off my back.)

Bah!

Bah! I say. Bah!

Bah, to self-pity. Bah, to the blahs. Bah, to self-examination.

No more self-castigation. I am good at self-castigation… I’m almost Catholic in my sheer love of it. However, the time for that is passed. I am coming out of my apathy for certain, now, so there will be no more maudlin sentimentality.

Work proceeds nicely on my two seminar proposals. One is on “Jewishness” and “Americanishness” (I love neologisms) in four set pieces by the Marx Brothers (“Wait til I get Through With It!,” “We’re Going to War!,” “Lydia, the Tattooed Lady,” and “Sing While You Sell!”).

The other is most likely entitled “Ball Spielers and Schtick Men: Celebrity, Jews and The American Dream.” (Catchy, huh?) I hope to explore the role of baseball stars Hank Greenberg and Sandy Koufax in the building of American self-esteem in Jews, in comparison with the roles of Groucho Marx and Woody Allen in the construction of success-from-humour paradigm that carries us through even until today. Nifty, ain’t it?

I must admit the title came first, and then I couldn’t resist turning it into a paper… I wonder if this often happens to scholars, but they just don’t confess as readily as I do.

So now I have completed several of the tasks I set forth today: I have completed a draft of my Ritual Studies proposal (due tomorrow night), and settled on a topic for my Religious Diversity in North America seminar, as well as washed those damned dishes that do insist on getting dirty week after week.

Thus, it is time for some constructive and guilt-free slacking off. I had thought of a nap, but that seems like a waste… Therefore, I am hitting that stack of el-cheapo DVDs I hunted down at the mall last week. Malcolm X (1992), Our Daily Bread (1934), Unstrung Heroes (1995), Ragtime (1981), and, last (as well as perhaps least- we’ll see) The Duchess and the Dirtwater Fox (1976).

Ah, yes. The fruits of a successful day’s labour.

Enjoy it while it lasts.

Me? I, Sir, am a Bee With an Itch.

Well, it has been a couple days’ worth of self-exploration for me… and, no, not the kind that requires mood lighting and some sort of aide. I mean real self exploration, like inside my soul, you dirty, dirty people.

In the past few days, maybe a week even, I have been writing about my recurrent cycle of apathy, right? I have portrayed myself as an innocent and inoffensive living-room-equivalent-to-a-sea-cucumber, all mopey-faced in pajamas and with no energy to vent my ill will on others. Too uninterested to even think about, let alone count, the hours I waste staring at screens, any screens, and shaping scented candle wax into non-descript scented blobs.

However, I admit now that this is a false impression. I have also spent my time feeling sorry for myself, taking out my frustrations on anyone around me, and e-bitching at friends (or should I say former friends?).

I basically told one friend to jump off a cliff, and then moaned about having done this to another friend. I have screamed, glared, snapped and rolled my eyes at John more times than I have fingers. I have spat insults at my cat until he is now fighting for hiding places with John. I have appeared sulky and snotty to professors, and have virtually ignored my students (as in I dodge behind bushes or leap into snow banks if I see one of them approach on campus).

Even worse, I openly attacked a classmate as a racist. I am sorry for this one, even though I still don’t agree that those horrendous Danish cartoons were merely some sort of intriguing experiment in freedom of speech. (Sure, and Der Stürmer was just a German version of MAD Magazine!)

I have been universally rude, uncommunicative, unhelpful and, generally speaking, a turd. Besides all this magnificence, I have also managed to feel somehow smug and even superior in my grumpiness, as if my crappy mood indicated a higher state of consciousness than that of happy people (although I’m still not willing to toss that theory out all together).

I basically have acted like such a festering splinter in the eye of society that I expect to get inducted into the Alternative Rock Hall of Fame any day now, despite not being able to play an instrument or sing. (Come to think of it, though, that may not be necessary for that place, anyway.)

So, in honor of all you folks that have bore the brunt of my crapulence and petulance, I apologize. I could, as opposed to this pathetic form-letter-apology, go to each and every one of you separately and make amends in some sort of half-assed proto-Twelve Step voyage of restitution… I could, but I don’t think I will.

First of all, I don’t really want to. But that doesn’t sound very nice, so maybe I’ll resort to my meager knowledge of Biology…

I’m not sure that the human system holds enough moisture to allow me to make all the apologies I’d have to make. I’d dehydrate before I even finished saying “I’m Sorry” to all of the community of public transit users here in KW.

So you can see why personal and sincere apologies would not be biologically possible.

Please accept this e-pology instead:
Yeah, well... I’ve been a sh*t. Sorry.

Wiarton Willy, You Owe Me Big Time!

Is it just my imagination, or has Mother Earth damned us ever since that rodent declared an early spring?? I tell you he has angered the weather deities and now we are paying for it.

It’s been snowing for three days straight here, and I am cold, sore, and pissed off.

It’s currently -3 (Celsius; 26 Fahrenheit); -11 (12.2 Fahrenheit) with the wind chill. That may not be extraordinary cold, but compared to the +5 or more days we were having before Groundhog Day…?

You can suck me, Willy.

Suck me, indeed.

(P.S. Blogspot was just now on hiatus… It scared me- they almost made me miss a day. I worried that perhaps they thought my insightful critique of the weather or of the “Benevolent Leader Willy” would anger the Chinese government. Am glad to see that they came back just so I could update… It’s nice to be the center of the world.)

(P.P.S. But sorry for the delay, anyway… I really will try to update in a more timely fashion tomorrow.)

Posts From the Edge

Have spent yet another Saturday in my campus office bent over school books. Only the difference this time is I actually did something. You are now reading the words of a woman who is not only making headway with her dissertation proposal (see yesterday’s post), but is finally starting to make sense of her ritual studies proposal. V.G.

However, the drunks at the bar downstairs depress me whenever I go down for pop from the machine. Up here in the academic part of the building life is peaceful and serene, but, as I am reading a long series of articles off the library article data base (and this makes me sea-sick), I am consuming my weight in Ginger Ale every hour to keep from losing the contents of my stomach on the monitor. This forces me to wade through a swarm of beer-soaked undergrads hourly. Not V.G.

Not much going on otherwise, but many things have been irking me, or at least grabbing my attention. I take this as a sign that my apathy may be releasing its grip on me (finally). Maybe it is the snow we are getting today, but this would fly in the face of all the science of seasonal mood trends.

Ha! I knew that sunless crap was bull.

I am currently thinking of starting up a Ladies’ Kissables Temperance League (the ladies part is fairly tacked on, but it sounds more turn-of-the-century, and therefore more amusing to me right now). If you have never seen a Kissable, I can try to fill you in. These things are the Devil’s play toys. They are tiny Hershey’s Kisses (or crack cocaine mixed with and shaped into tiny Hershey’s Kisses, I haven’t decided which), enrobed in a hard and oh-so-tasty candy shell, and they come in Devilicious colours. I, for one, have never been able to resist blue candy. Who can?

In any case, I bought a bag on Thursday and they are already gone. Now my baser, more self-destructive impulses are devising ways to tunnel back to Zeller’s, the only place I have found this little treat. I remain, however, resolved not to crawl back to the dealer and beg for one more fix. I am strong, and I will purge this evil confection from my soul.

We had take-out nachos from the campus pub tonight, so my gut is severely rejecting them. (Onion greens and woozy monitor-reading do not a happy tummy make, I guess.) The place, Wilf’s, is much better than most campus pubs, and it is large, bright and attractive (like me, really). However, it does have one massive thing in common with the Phoenix from McMaster.

You have never been fully ignored as a customer until you have been willfully and expertly ignored by a waiter at a campus pub. Little hipsters with mohawks and tight jeans that show their underwear (both male and female employees for both of these characteristics, by the way) who are more interested in changing the CDs and flirting with each other than just bringing you your damn bill. These kids are pros at crappy customer service- you can stare at their faces for five minutes, and they still manage to look right through you. French waiters must come all the way from Paris just to study under these kids. It’s not just that they ignore you, it’s like, to them, you don’t exist at all. It’s fascinating, really.

It’s like their stylists have convinced them that they are so bloody fantastic that we should just feel blessed to be in the same room with them, let alone have them pop up and say “Everything cool, guys? SUPER!” and dash away (without waiting for an answer) every hour. What are they expecting? Sam Phillips, or his millennial equivalent, to just come in and sweep them off to LA based purely on their ability to wear paper-thin “printed tees” like they were anemic club kids from Omaha. (Let’s face it- we’re in Canada, folks, so whatever they wear must be at least three seasons behind New York, so I figure it’s just right for Omaha.)

I wonder what they would do if the dumpy and entirely unfashionable PhD student at the bar just smashed everything in reach, hauled her tired old arse up on the bar, and screamed:

“Hey! Mod-Squad turds! I want my %#@*! cup of coffee NOW, or the little himbo bartender’s bed-head is gonna be impaled on that waiter’s spiked wrist band! Then you shall bring me my bill, take the money right there, and then go wash all the freaking vampira mascara off every male creature on the staff! Got it?”

Trendy hipster bar tenders would tell that story from generation to generation, until the waiters are wearing DEVO-esque moon suits with cropped hair and oxygen masks… Which will probably be in about three months, I guess.

Man, life would be great if it weren’t for people, huh?

And if you lived in a mineshaft filled with Hershey’s Kissables… That would be nice.

My Fayht is in Your Hands

Welcome to a brand new feature for this blog!
Holly's Weekly Interactive Life Planner.

As I have entered into a weird state of walking-dead-style apathy, I have decided that I should put the responsibility for running my life into the hands of my readers. You all seem to still be alive and awake, full of helpful advice and opinions, so I am giving myself up as a ward of my audience.

Now, I should not say that I am being entirely uninterested and uncreative these days, as I have actually been thinking of my dissertation proposal, which is due in August. (Of course, it would be more useful to think seriously about my ritual studies research proposal, which is due on Wednesday, but what can I do? The heart wants what it wants, and that is also true of the imagination. I am just glad to be thinking of something, even if it is not quite timely.)

I just can’t make a final choice. This is where you come in.

So this week’s decision placed before you involves the direction of my dissertation. I want to email my advisor early this week with a general direction, so I can start putting together my second comprehensive-exam reading list ASAP. Thus, I am keeping the polls open at least until Monday, but I will be taking advice for some time after. I will keep you all updated on how the vote is going, and you may make your voice heard via comment or email. It goes without saying that I welcome comments from both friends and strangers, as this is a fully democratic process.

As to the outcome… I can’t really promise that I’ll abide directly with whatever the audience decides, as I may come out of my stupor unexpectedly this week, but, if still infected by the zombie gene, it is likely that your word goes.

To give you the layout of my dilemma, I can start by saying it stems from some indecision and prevarication on my part. If you’ll remember, last October I submitted my proposal for my grant funding and in that I proposed to do theoretical and political “critical race theory” deconstruction of Jewish portrayals in North American films about intermarriage (Jewish-Gentile romance) narratives. I was pretty excited about this, as it seemed fairly dynamic and fresh. However, I have had some doubts as to how I would execute that over the space of 300-plus pages (it seemed both broad and narrow at the same time, somehow), so I recently re-thought the plan. I then turned back to the original proposal I submitted with my PhD application: the defining tropes of Jewish characters in North American film (i.e. the Jewish mother, the Jewish subversive, the Jewish intellectual, the dangerous Jewish genius, the Jewish magician, the errant Jewish daughter, etc.).

I liked the idea of the trope work because it would let me cover a character-type per chapter, and thus give me ten little projects instead of one massive one, and, further, it would let me explore identity construction, which is a major interest for me.

However, both John and Catherine have given me some very good feedback on my desired change, and have reminded me of why I abandoned this trope project to begin with: It is the only area of Jewish-portrayals-in-film that has already been done (a lot), so is there a need for me to do it, too? Shouldn’t I do something new? The only research topic more stale would be Jewish portrayals in films on the life of Jesus, and I would never dream of barking up that dead tree, so why this one?

Thus, I have come around to a third option. I am now thinking of doing tropes of intermarriage narratives instead of the particular characters, thereby benefiting from the elements I like from the trope project, but also allowing me to move into fresher territory. So, I guess I prefer this one, but I’m still not sure it’s what I am supposed to do.

The problem here is that my advisor is pretty much OK with either approach, so it is genuinely my own passion that controls which way I go. This problem is complicated by the fact that I generally have no passion these days… so you can see where I am stymied.

Ergo, I am leaving it up to you, gentle reader. You can choose based on what you’d rather research yourself, or based on what you’d rather read. Just let me know what you think, please, as I am stumped.

Which way should Holly go?

Please choose one of the following options:

a) A chapter-by-chapter exploration of Jewish “Stock Characters,” such as Shylock, Fagin, Svengali, or Woody Allen (The Nebbish), with a organizational thread of identity construction and tropic conceptualization of the North American “Jew.” This option would be slightly different from other work done on Jewish tropes, as many past works are done chronologically, not thematically, but it isn't exactly ground breaking.

b) A unified theoretical piece asking whether Jewish-Gentile intermarriages in film are framed as interracial relationships or interfaith relationships, and what this means about the North American understanding of the “Jew” as a racial being.

c) A chapter-by-chapter exploration of different archetypal intermarriage narratives (i.e. all three of The Jazz Singer versions, Alvy Singer/Annie Hall, Groucho/Margaret Dumont, Svengali/Trilby, etc.) as each representing different motivations, problems and understandings of Jewish/Gentile intermarriage. Topics will include the American Dream as represented by marriage to a Gentile, psychological motivations, the allo-Semitic view of Jewish sexual nature, racialization of Jews, and the construction of not only Jewishness in these films, but also of Gentile-ness.

d) Holly will quit PhD and get a job at the CoffeeTime down the street, while she struggles to become a playwright and develops the obligatory drinking problem and ends up, alone and middle-aged, traveling with a Mexican circus as the sideshow geek.

My future rests with the voters! There are no butterfly ballots, no MP representation, no opinion polls to promote strategic voting. Just honest-to-goodness direct and pure democracy, people.

It’s your vote- use it!

Rule no. 1: Never accept “Elvis Takes ‘Em” as Sound Medical Advice.

We ventured into mall territory again. We were both so out of pants and socks that it was getting hard to leave the house. I decided that the lack of proper clothes was not (a) In keeping with my New Years Resolutions, (b) In keeping with my modesty, and (c) Helping me in my battle with apathy. (I have found that not having a decent pair of trousers often works as a great excuse just to stay in pajamas… Not what I need right now.)

We had our night at the movies with our friend Sio Thursday night. We didn’t get much of a chance to talk to her, as we showed up in time to see the picture, and left directly afterwards. Oh well, no one has time to chat any more. Most of us seem like it’s too much of a bother to breath, let alone talk, these days.

I have to admit that, earlier today, I was very much in the market for a reason not to go to the movies. In keeping with my low-ebb of energy, I so desperately just wanted to stay home and stare at things… I actually contemplated urging other people to join us, so I could cancel at the last minute and not have to feel like a heel who stood up a friend- Sort of like a social event bait and switch.

However, I worried that, for that maneuver, History would have judged me a monster.

So I went, and I actually had a great time. We saw Walk the Line (2005), and, as a Cash fan from a way back, I gotta say I enjoyed it quite a lot.

To me Johnny Cash brings back not only heady memories of my high school "searching for myself" days, but the wonderful image of my parents dancing in the kitchen to the radio... Cash will always be a bridge between me and my folks. That bridge might have felt like Arnhem at times, but at least the sounds were good. (They couldn't dig Leonard Cohen or Marilyn Manson, but they sure did love Johnny.)

Besides the memories from the music, it was just a really fine film. That “Get Rhythm” scene was shot and cut sooooo freaking good. It’s hard to imagine a visual image as rocking as that song, but those travels, cuts and pans really sent me. Beauty!

Further, as one who is seldom ever seen not dressed in all black, that movie made me feel cool by association… That sounds a bit teeny bopper, but, hell, I feel great. Even better now that I have a whole new fleet of black shirts and pants… and red socks to match.

And that’s the first time in days that I’ve been able to say I feel anywheres near good, so bless you Johnny!

(But I do hope that this apathy goes away soon… Those upper pills started to look like a good idea to me tonight. Not V.G.)