Hoover Sucked.

Yes, I know, not very inventive. Oh well, I find it amusing.

It is now 6 in the morning. Have been up all night reading more than half Chaplin’s 2063 page FBI file so far … Some strange stuff passed over Hoover’s desk.

Such as some kind hearted soul that screams in a letter that Chaplin should just be deported based on the fact that he brought his mentally defective mother into their precious country, thereby endangering the populace.

Yes, because one sad and confused old lady could have brought down the whole union, I am sure.

And the interviews are awful! “Mr. Chaplin, where were you this night? That night? Twenty years ago?” and the ever popular, “Have you ever supported any organization that was a front for the Communist Party?”

To which a bleary Chaplin, who had been grilled by this point for pages and pages worth of interview, asked in confusion, “I don’t know – how do I know if something is a front if they don’t tell me? Am I just supposed to know what is a front or not?”

And I love how a whole bureau full of people who were trying to bring him down all slip up from time to time and write “Charlie” instead of “Chaplin”, as if thinking of better times when they were kids and loved him, before they became pencil-necks who hated him.

Oh, and it’s a bit much the way the interviewer kept inferring that a desire for world peace meant that Chaplin wanted a Soviet world domination! It is sad to see Chaplin trying to negotiate that one.

“Yes, I want world peace.” “Why?” “Well… Pardon?” “Why do you want world peace?” “I should think that would be obvious.” “At any cost?” “Ah…” “Would you take up arms if America were invaded by Russia?” “Certainly, I should think.” “To repel the Russians…?” “Of course to repel them!”

No! He’s gonna tell an FBI interviewer that he’d take up arms to help the Russians invade. He’s just that stupid.

Man. I can barely remember my own name right now, so the thought of getting questioned like that, with my life on the line, scares the hell out of me.

While there are some pretty lurid details of the poor guy’s sex life in here, much of the file is generally uninteresting for my research purposes (especially since a lot of it is the annoying repetition of the same one or two nobodies telling some fed, “Yup – Charley sure is a Commie. I seen him misself!” on every second page), but it’s still creepy.

Especially awful are all the drooling memos leading up to the day they could catch him stepping a foot out of US soil. They get pretty frantic and very eager.

My favourite amongst these are discussions between Justice, Hoover and INS over whether throwing Chaplin into detention aboard ship while they work out paperwork would attract negative attention from any press.

One would think that maybe Hoover had one or two other cases to handle. Funny that he seemed to spend so much time clipping notes about Chaplin out of The Daily Worker, Hedda Hopper columns, and Life like a strange cross-breed between a demented Inquisition devotee, John Nash, and a bobbysoxer fan-club president.

And now I spend all my time reading his memos about those clippings, so I don’t know what that makes me. Other than tired, that is.

And now, after so little sleep, I am starting to think I am being watched, and that right now someone is naming MY name… Perhaps I should get to bed…?

Good plan. (If only a couple hours of sleep before I have to get up and keep reading.)

Hail, Newfoundland!

Newfoundland joined Canada today in 1949.
(Much more to our advantage than to theirs, some say.)

A magical land, and a much loved part of my eastern home.

The Tide is High

Just a note to let you all know that I would like to give better updates these days, but work is rising. Chaplin is a-go, and steaming away, as is the Dr. G. lecture for Monday. We got an extension of sorts for ritual studies, so that is some relief.

The weather here is wonderful, and birds, squirrels, chip monks and bunnies scamper and flit freely around the countryside like this were Beatrix Potter land. It is lovely, and I am so happy to be here this year instead of You Know Where… It’s actually like Hamilton was some sort of bad dream that I am now fully coming out of and I only recollect in a haze.

However, it is back to the books for me. We are well, but all deadline reality seems iffy right now. We are in that critical period when mere seconds count.

Pray for me, if you know how. I am not choosy, and will accept blessings from whatever you are into.

I need all the luck I can get.

(PS. Got my 30% participation mark back from ritual studies... Got an A, which is good. But also got some negative comments with it... Again, I wonder what I would have gotten had I actually done well. Oh well, he can call my paper toxic crap floating in a sea of incoherence, if he wants, as long as he gives it an A. I'm flexible, as long as he doesn't say "It's wonderful! - B.")

I Don’t Know How to Feel Just Now

We had our last ritual studies class tonight. This is possibly my second-to-last class ever as a student. This feels weird.

Even worse, the prof, who was instrumental in getting me into this program and has been really kind to me this year, asked us for feedback face-to-face at the end. People ripped him a part. I mean they were bitter and cruel, and ungrateful, really.

He quietly and honestly (I think) said that he was surprised that people felt this way, told us that, for him, it was one of the best class experiences he had ever had, and left looking like he’d been stabbed in the back and in the heart.

I did not participate in this. However, neither did I leap to his defense, as I was afraid that I would look like a suck-up and like I was “against” my classmates in this odd, bitchy power struggle.

Yet, I do not agree with some of the harsh criticisms, so I do not know what to do.

I just know that it was bitter, and that is no way for us to end.

(And I just realized how damn Doogie Howser this entry sounds. Sorry.)

Anything Goes!

2.10pm: Called Dr. B.

(What a wonderful place this is. This program continually astounds me!)

When he said that he hadn’t gotten a chance to send me feedback because he was busy, I replied that that is fine. I don’t need yards and yards of advice. I just need to know if this topic fits the needs of a course on “Religious Diversity in Contemporary North America.”

“Anything fits,” he replied. “You’re fine.”

So I thanked him profusely, told him whatever advice he had time to send me would be appreciated, but mere applicability had been my main concern.

I don’t know if I ever before saw a program that so firmly stuck to its claims of "student freedom," with such fuzzy borders and loose structures. When was the last time I took a class that was so open for experimentation?

Just think: It was only a few years ago that I had to write 30 pages on anything, as long as it came from the 13 chapters of the Book of Matthew we studied that term! (Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed that class, and that paper, but come on!)

Now look where I am!

I am writing a paper for a religion grad seminar on the urban legend of Chaplin's Jewishness...!

Laurier, I love you! Have I told you that recently?

Now for your pleasure, and for mine, the new mantra of the week and an ode to spring (dedicated to Dr. B.):

When the red, red robin comes
Bob, bob bobbin' along, along,
There'll be no more sobbin' when
He starts throbbin' his old, sweet song.

Wake up, wake up, you sleepy head;
Get up, get up, get out of bed.
Cheer up, cheer up the sun is red.
Live, love, laugh and be happy.

What if I've been blue,
Now I'm walkin' through fields of flow'rs.
Rain may glisten, but
Still I listen for hours and hours.

I'm just a kid again,
Doin' what I did again,
Singin' a song
When the red, red robin comes
Bob, bob bobbin' along.

1pm – Still no response.

It has now been 24 hours, and I have still heard nothing from Dr. B. about my topic…

Tried calling, but he is not in. Remember him saying something about a lunch meeting until 2pm on Wednesday… Shall try calling again at 2.30pm.

Pray for me.

If still no response, suggest calling missing persons or morgues.

Or a priest, for I shall need Last Rites by midnight tonight if I don’t get some answer…

If it is “yes,” I need to get going on this topic. If “no,” I have to make it to the library by 5pm to grab anything with the word “Baseball” in the title…

All is lost if no answer at all in a couple days. Then it shall be back to the Mexican circus plan… Must start practicing my juggling.

Wonder: Is this punishment for waiting to contact him?

If so, maybe morgue will still be needed.

Am shedding, I am so on edge. Ulcers bubbling – I can feel new hole growth.

Window is beckoning. But will wait until Al finishes "When the Red, Red, Robin Comes Bob Bob Bobbin' Along." It would be criminal to commit suicide to that song.

AAARRRRGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!

“Assorted French Tarts”

Still no word from Dr. B. on whether or not my Chaplin topic will fly, so what could I do but take the evening off? It is out of my hands. (=cough=)

Watched six or seven of Chaplin’s KeyStone and Essanay shorts as a warm up. I think that counts as research, don’t you?

A couple things spring to mind. The first is the certainty that anyone who has seen Dough and Dynamite (1914) and still thinks that Charlie was a Communist is out of their gourd.

Second, whatever the Tramp ever was, we can be sure that Chaplin’s assertion that, upon first donning the costume, he was “born fully realized” is pretty damned faulty.

Compare the Tramp from A Fair Exchange (1914) with the one in The Tramp (1915), or even in (parts of) The Champion (1915). The way love replaces lust, adoration replaces raunchiness, innocence replaces drunkenness, and the way that pathos replaces crude and incessant violence. The Tramp traveled light years in development in just that year, alone. I can’t even imagine the Tramp from Modern Times (1936) doing half the stuff the Tramp of 1914 did to people, especially women, in those early films. The Tramp remained puckish for all his days, but he softened some cruel edges as time passed.

The Tramp was an on-going process, and may be one of the most fascinating laboratories of organic character development we’ve ever had the privilege to observe. Even think of how Chaplin later describes the Tramp as growing entity, as when he commented that, until The Great Dictator (1940), he had not realized the Tramp was Jewish, but that the Little Man told him so, firmly, when the chips were down in Europe.

So, then, from rascal to romantic, and thus to idealist, is it still a mystery that the Tramp (though officially put to rest with Modern Times) hung on only long enough to meet sound technology face to face and to pour his heart out to the audience? People say that the ending speech of The Great Dictator was an artistic flaw, but in many ways the Tramp was building towards it for 25 years.

Some wonderful, wonderful shorts, and a magnificent body of work… I could thumb through my sets for days.

However, duty calls, and, as I have the joy (and misfortune) of now claiming my hobby as my work, I’ve got to get serious and put away my unfocused delight that accompanies discovering and re-discovering these films.

But, before utility commands me for the next two weeks, I must ask one thing: What could be more beautiful than The Vagabond (1916) and The Immigrant (1917)? Can anything be finer than A Dog's Life (1918)? Has the human mind and hands surpassed those two films in terms of grace, charm and poetry, ever?

What a world that contains such treasures!

Run Faster!

Panic… Panic… Panic…

Adrenalin!

Monday, April 3, 2pm-6pm: RE700 seminar & class
Monday, April 3, 7pm-10pm: Undergrad lecture
Wednesday, April 5, 10am: Ritual Studies paper due electronically
Friday, April 7, 12pm: All grades due for TA class

I am sitting here listening to “The Ballad of Davy Crockett” on the radio and trying not to go out the window. I sent off the Chaplin proposal to the RE700 prof, Dr. B., and I am crawling out of my skin waiting for the verdict. It was chancy to wait until Tuesday to send off a proposal for my MONDAY presentation, but I had to do it.

(Although I should say that I am still interested in hearing your feedback on the matter discussed in the last post.)

If he says yes, I have enough research here and in one book at the library to do this presentation, I think, except for some possible squishiness when it comes to theory surrounding “authenticity.” It will take some work, but if I can get this done by Sunday then I can go into campus and photocopy the handouts, etc., and spend all the rest of Sunday preparing PowerPoint and lecture for Dr. G.’s undergrad class.

(Please, please, please, Dr. B., do not kill me!)

If all goes well, I will survive Monday… And then it is off for 24 hours in hell as I try to write Dr. G.’s grad seminar paper (the one on Groucho) by 10am on Wednesday…

And then get all my marking done before the deadline on Friday morning…

Panic… Panic… Panic…

(Breathe! Calm! Slow!)

As to why I am taking this minute out to update the completely unnecessary blog… All I can say is that I can’t afford the time to see a therapist, so it seemed the lesser of evils.

Back to it…

(PS. Just re-reading this at 6.30pm, I noticed a million typos. Sorrry, I usually try to be so creful. I dot now what possibly coulld've happen. Oh well. Welll try haredr tomorrrrow.)

The Way the Horses are Running

OK, folksies, I have a problem for you to help solve.

I was planning on doing one thing for my PhD seminar research, but I am starting to go a new way for a reason I think is pretty good. I need your feedback on which sounds more exciting from an audience's perspective. However, since I present this stuff on Monday (the 3rd), I need to make a decision pronto.

Both of them contain thought on the "authentic Jew." This idea of authenticity rests on the belief in pop culture that one recognized mode of behaviour represents the whole of a people. (That is, if Tevia from Fiddler on the Roof is "the authentic Jew," then what can we do with, say, Indian Jews?) "Authenticity" is often discussed as the opposite of "stereotypical," but, in fact, it is the same thing - only mixed with the belief that groups have an essential nature, and that we can tell members of the group by the extent to which they exhibit this essential nature.

I was originally planning on doing the idea of the “authentic Jew” in American pop culture, and how this is molded by celebrity activity. My two test cases were to be one hero, Hank Greenberg (star Tigers pitcher in the 30s and 40s), and two co-villains, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg (infamous Communist spies who were executed in the 50s). The idea is that the 6’4” Greenberg exploded myths about Jews and that the Rosenbergs confirmed some of the worst ideas of Jews. (This can also let me tap into the ways in which anti-Semitism, in turn, affected the trials and careers of these celebrities.)

However, I was talking this and my new idea over with a friend today, and she said something terrific: “Sometimes you gotta go where the horse is dragging you.” So maybe this second idea is better suited for me.

This second idea still works with the idea of the “authentic Jew,” or at least with mainstream stereotypes of Jews in American culture. This one deals with the urban legend of Charlie Chaplin’s supposed Jewishness. I would track the legend, give its context and methods, and link his Jewishness with his later troubles. (I can’t help but think that Hoover and McCarthy wouldn’t have believed so many things about him had he not already been constructed as a Jew in their eyes.) And I am also interested in how Charlie himself began to almost believe the construction, although this was also based on supposed Jewish characteristics (i.e. Jewish genius, humour and money sense, all of which he possessed, and wondered if it didn’t come from a Jewish ancestor or possibly even father - his parentage has never been crystal clear), and how this impacted some of his decisions (particularly his anti-fascist stance and the ways in which he performed the Tramp in later films). I would be dealing with the cycle of stereotype/rumour/construction/self-identity/more rumour, etc. from historical sources, Charlie’s own writings, the films, and sociological theory.

And also to what extent this myth is still believed (including the original police speculation that Chaplin's body was stolen in 1978 by anti-Semitic groups who were displeased with a Jew being buried in a Christian graveyard).

The thing is that if I can’t tear myself away from Chaplin, why not make the project work with that instead of against it?

OK, kids. It is up to you to tell me what you find most exciting. What would you be more interested in if you had to listen to one or the other…

I need your help. I’m dying of indecision.

Soon the Calendar Turns…

Did you ever notice how, when you are coming up to a hectic period in the next month, turning the calendar is death? For example, right now I can pretend that I have oodles of time until April 3rd (lecture and seminar day), April 5th (paper due day), and April 17th (another paper due day)… And the end of April (Jack Benny chapter due).

The only things there this week are "loan paper work" by Friday, "ritual studies participation evaluations" for Wednesday, and "final tutorials" today (Dr. G. has given us until April 7th to post the grades for the final papers and tutorial participation, bless his soul.)

So a very nice page, indeed! Clearly, I can afford those extra hours of Chaplin, right?

(Mmmmmm, Chaplin... No! Back on task. Focus!)

No, I can't afford that time.

In less than a week, I must change the calendar above my desk, and I will break into a cold sweat because all of these due dates will come into swift, stark and brutal relief.

I don’t know if I should just enjoy my week, or try to think ahead.

I could work ahead bit by bit, and really not get anything done because I am still distracted by going to class, etc. Or, I can frolic and bask in the newness of spring and pretend, for five days or so, that I am fine...

However, knowing those things lurk on the very next page is killing me… Soon the world will end. Well, soon my well-being will end. Sadly, the world will continue uninterrupted.

I hate you, calendar. So much.

I am so screwed.

Eep.

Chaplin Mania!

OK. Charlie, I love you, but you’ve got to let me go.

For the past four days or so the only thing I feel like doing is watching Chaplin flicks. Or, as a change of pace, a movie or doc about Chaplin. It’s getting epidemic.

I’m not sure what caused it, but I think it has something to do with needing some beauty and subtlety after a month-long steady diet of the picaresque screw-ball antics of the Marx Bros. I love the Brothers, but Chaplin is good for the soul, and oh-my-LORD so wonderful. (And a great deal better looking - sorry Groucho, but it's true, man.)

Wednesday night I watched A Dog’s Life (1918) and Shoulder Arms (1918). Thursday night, I watched Chaplin (1992). Friday night, I watched The Circus (1927) and the re-release version of The Gold Rush (1925). Saturday, I watched The Pilgrim (1923), and Saturday evening, I watched City Lights (1931). That night, I watched a bushel of the old KeyStone and Mutual shorts, and a documentary.

I have marking to do, but I can’t seem to stop watching Charlie’s stuff. And when I do peel myself away from the TV to do some work, I then end up prowling the net for interesting Charlie stories or photos I haven’t seen before.

Am fighting urges towards Limelight (1952) and The Kid (1920) as I write this... And am most likely losing the battle...

Gosh - he's the cinematic equivalent to crack!

It is Viktor Frankl’s birthday today, so maybe, in honour of him, I should decide that Chaplin is the center of my will to meaning. Therefore, it is not my fault that he has become more important to me than my school work, marking, or the daily tasks of being a living organism.

Charlie, Charlie… You are a fine and respectable obsession, but I really can’t get into this now. Maybe after my papers are all done, huh?

But, with his birthday coming up on the 16th of April, it is unlikely that the Chaplin Mania will loose its hold on me for some time.

(I have a graduate degree... How is it that I am still susceptible to school girl crushes? Ah, Charlie... Sigh... Swoon... He's just sooooo DREAMY!)

Do you think I can get a sick leave?

Well, That’s Done

The new stage production of The Lord of the Rings, which debuted in Toronto this past week, may have not pleased too many of its victims, but our conference was a pretty snazzy success.

Décor, speakers, professionalism, food, wine, keynote, attendance, atmosphere… Everything seemed to be in good place. We had folks come from six different universities, and hosted about 95 people throughout the day. Even the emcee managed not to make an ass of herself.

{A run down of my performance, in case you are interested: The morning welcome was a bit underwhelming as it was early and I was tired (I had been up every hour to check the alarm clock). All I wanted was coffee and smoke, and another hour of sleep. I missed the 12.30pm spiel, as people hurried to the buffet before I got a chance to hit the podium. (Good luck trying to get anywhere quicker than an academic group gets to free food.) There was no way I was gonna yell over all the clanking and line-up chit chat, and it wasn’t like I had to say grace or anything. I went on at 1.30pm, to make the “You’ve had your free food, now git out” speech, and that went very well. (Jokes were well-received, and people were generally attentive.) At 3.15pm I introduced the woman who was set to introduce the keynote, without much mishap. I was then done for the day.}

The keynote was terrific! Personable, intelligent, a great speaker – we did so well to invite him. He spoke on the transparency of homeless people and prostitutes, and the social construction of their position. Wonderful! And his wife, who accompanied him, was soooo impressed by our conference that she complimented us a million times, and was very sweet. It turns out that she is Nova Scoatian, so it makes sense that she was so lovely.

Over all, a magnificent coup for the society. And for myself. Several of my profs saw me in a high-profile position at the conference, as well as deans and other movers and shakers, and I met everyone I could from other religious studies departments (I worked the registration table all day). John did a wonderful job as a chair, and there is talk of asking him to stand for grad president of the society next year. All was flawless. There was a two minute delay getting a mike for the speaker, and the dessert trays were smaller than we ordered, but nothing went wrong that the attendees could notice, and several presenters were eager to come back next year.

The only hiccup came when, after the wine had been consumed and the public had left, several of the exec members of the society were infected with bad cases of cattiness, and started three separate fights over very trivial things. Well, I say they are trivial, but when you are 23, drunk, and tired, they may seem very important.

(Hell, we baby-sat Dr. S.’s 6-month-old at the registration table for two hours, and he was better behaved than these people.)

One little group was accusing another person of saying something inappropriate to some ex-girlfriend. Another group was snarky because a sober person (not me) accused them of being obnoxious, and then the drunk faction just started shouting “F**k going to dinner, let’s just go get tanked,” and throwing things around. Someone invited to the after-party as a matter of etiquette ended up inviting five more people without permission, and there was immense tension over the reservation and the society budget. The UN was almost called in to negotiate who was to eat on the society's tab.

Of course, there were also side squabbles. Half the group was angry over who won the “Best Graduate Student Presentation.” A whole whack of people were blaming other people for doing too much themselves and being bossy (Christ, it is fourth grade all over again). There was bitterness over who had gotten thanked in the wrap-up speech without cause. There was some damage, somewhere, to something, and some people were angry at other people for causing it.

You know, the general Fisher-Price playground arguments that result in sniffles, dramatics and some baby screaming about packing up her toys and going home.

A very good reason why PhD students in their late twenties cannot enjoy sustained interaction with people in their second (or just plain extended) adolescence.

Anyway, due to a fog of exhaustion, a total lack of alcohol in my bloodstream, and an almost intolerable annoyance level in reference to my pissy and childish co-execs, John and I decided to forgo the celebration dinner afterwards, and come home. It was a great decision! We came home, ate our own food in peace and quiet, watched two Chaplin pics, and went to bed for some well deserved sleep.

It beats hanging around with a bunch of cranky children.

It was a wonderful day, so I am glad that I didn’t stay long enough for them to completely ruin it. For all I know they are somewhere right now, still at it. Perhaps someone tore the head of someone else’s Barbie. It is amazing how a group of people who could pull off such a wonderful academic event could turn so pathetic when presented with four or five glasses of wine at an open bar.

They may be having a wrap-up meeting next week, but I think I shall skip. I believe I am done with the RCS for this year. Maybe next year, too.

As it is, I have enough to keep me busy for the next couple of weeks, and frankly I am starting to become a little concerned about my survival. Oh well, head down and shoulders to the burden. Mark things as swiftly as possible so I can get on to other things- this is the order of the day.

And prepare for the remaining five hours of public speaking I have left to due between now and April 3rd.

Yay.

(Or maybe I’ll just help Clubby the Seal fight back, on the first day of the contentious seal hunt season. Oh, if only seals in reality could club a few humans and make off with some pelts in fair play! But then we’d have to toss red paint on them, too, and it would turn into another vicious circle.)

We’d Like to Thank our Sponsors…

Well, it’s Friday.

Today is the day that I haul my poor, tired butt out of bed and head to campus for 8am, so I can preside as Master of Ceremonies over our cheerful little conference.

In late March. Perfect!

Exactly when students do not have the time to participate in such things.

From 8.30am to 6pm, the WLU Senate Chambers, as well as five other rooms (the numbers of which look like some weird Kabalistic curse spelling my doom if I fail to remember them all as I direct the show), will sway to the rhythm of sweaty and nervous grad and undergrad students delivering papers on everything from modern medicine’s treatment of deviance to Carrie’s curse. Yes, it promises to be quite an event.

As long as I can stay awake.

You remember that scene in which Bridget Jones has to introduce the guy who will introduce the speaker? Yes, I get to do that, too.

“Now to introduce our keynote speaker is the chair of the Religion and Culture Department and a valuable supporter of this conference -- Dr. Carol D...
Carol…”
(Clap)

(It is important so sound respectful towards the introducer, yet best friends with them at the same time. Hence the use of the full name and formal title, a phony pause, and then the informal and “warm” use of the personal name. Diplomacy is my favourite sport.)

Wonderful.

And I also have to announce the band for the evening, the name of which nobody seems to know. The best people can do is “Nick’s ex-girlfriend’s jazz band.” Is that appropriate?

And five million different wine and cheese receptions (how can you tell we are academics?), speakers, ceremonial do-dads and matters of etiquette to deal with. They are all expecting me to be funny (this is why they asked me to emcee), but I am terrified that I’ll get sudden nervous urges to yell rude things and just run away.

Oh, LORD.

We also have a list of volunteers, sponsors and assistants as long as your arm, and somehow I have to make that interesting to listen to, as I rattle them off (probably dying for a smoke and a coffee).

Oh, yes! I have certainly hit the high life, now. It’s gonna be a long, long, looooong day.

(Why, oh why, did I agree to do this…?)

I wish it were Saturday, already.

Mark, Marking, Marks, & Marx.

Mark
John’s dad, Mark, came for a nice visit today, and bought us something like $4 billion worth of non-perishable groceries. Yay for parental handouts!

Sure there were the inevitable fights over “Do we really need four giant kegs of emergency water in our pantry?” (Of course every parent thinks hurricanes are imminent, and their kid will die if they aren’t immediately presented with flash-light batteries and bottled water upon moving into student dwellings). However, you cannot argue with the glory that is free goods, so whatever he shoved into the cart, we took.

(Except for his pesky and resilient notion that, though vegetarian, we must still eat tuna, so he must buy us a flat of the stuff. This we vetoed. He suggested it at least four times. Each time we explained. This has been going on for years. Some people never seem to realize that fish is not just a swimming vegetable, but actually something with a face – thus contravening the notion of vegetarianism. And it also violates good taste, as fish is as wretched a substance as the human animal has ever chewed upon.)

The only mishap occurred when, while I was trying to store the giant vats of spring water in our cramped storage closet, I gave my big toe such a whack that my children may be born without their nail on the left big toe.

Still, yay for handouts. And I may scoff now, but if their does come a hurricane, I will be glad for those jugs. Unless, of course, I am forced to leave them behind as I flee for safety. Which I almost certainly will. Dang.

Marking
All of my students’ final papers were due by midnight on Wednesday night. Via email. I have been receiving tons and tons of my doom every hour, flooding my inbox and presenting me with the logistics of how to download 50 papers without crashing Laurier’s email system – widely considered to be one of the worse university email systems in this hemisphere since PINE gasped its last.

One highlight? One of my more gifted students seems to have completely missed some sort of message and analyzed Triumph of the Will (1935) as a Jewish piece… I don’t know if I failed or civilization has. One way or another, this time next week I may have given up education and hit the roads of rural Japan (does such a thing exist any more?) with a begging bowl. Surely this world holds nothing for me, any more.

Marks & Marx
Had my ritual studies course tonight, despite my possibly gangrenous big toe (I limped all the way to campus, sour that I had not an audience to witness and validate my pain). A couple things developed in the fall-out from my Groucho Marx presentation.

The peer evaluation comment that almost had me drop out of my program last week (someone accused me of perpetuating anti-Semitic stereotypes by studying them) turns out to have been the work of someone who, quote, “had to write something down,” and had no idea that I would take it seriously. It turns out that he had no major qualms with my paper, and, as he was getting marked himself on his critique of my presentation, wrote that out of a lack of anything else to say. So my life was almost ended over someone’s nervous gushing. Wonderful! That validates my trust in life and luck.

On another flip of fate, the same prof who dinged me with an A- for that presentation offered to help me work my research into an article this summer. I am uncertain about this whole thing. If it was publishable, but only an A-, what would this guy do if my paper was actually good? Or bad? What was it, again? What happened? Who am I? What am I doing?

Huh? Wha? Shuh?


Oh, the world is a scary and horrible place, and I am at its mercy. Charity ruins toes. Nazi propaganda is Jewish. I suck and I’m brilliant.

I don’t know what to believe any more. I may as well enroll in Business College.

I think my brain just melted, and I’m not even sure that’s a bad thing.

I just don’t know.

‘Atsa Good, Eh, Boss?

Leonard “Chico” Marx
Comedian, Actor, Pianist, Gambler.
March 22, 1887- October 11, 1961

In typical Chico style, this might not be the right day to celebrate his birthday. He may have been born yesterday. There is some confusion. That would have been just perfect by Chico.

Chico meant it when he said there was no such thing as Sanity Clause. Actually, put the full stop after Sanity.

Chico Marx was the oldest surviving Marx brother (an older brother, Manfred, died in infancy), and his youth was spent gambling, hocking his father’s sewing supplies (as well as his little brothers’ possessions), and playing pool and piano with equal nonchalance. Mostly he gambled. Girls were a serious hobby throughout Chico’s life (hence the name, pronounced Chick-o, not Cheek-o), but gambling was his life’s passion.

In fact, the later films, which are often cursed needlessly by Marx Brothers fans (I say that mediocre Marx Brothers is better than none), were made specifically to finance Chico’s habits (and to placate his bookies). Harpo and Groucho, both staid family men in comparison to their brother, had invested a nice enough to sum to retire after A Day at the Races (1937). (Actually, Groucho had threatened to retire every year since before Duck Soup (1933), though he never seemed to make it.)

But it was Chico, invariably showing up at one of his brothers’ doors late at night explaining how one of his bookies was going to break his legs, who kept the act going. He needed the cash.

Chico was the Vaudeville Italian of the group, and one of the last remaining artifacts of turn-of-the-century ethnic comedy. However, his parody of the Italian immigrant was never cruel. In fact, his character was much beloved by Italians at the time, and he was continually being invited to come and stay or eat with strangers who wished to claim him as a countryman from Naples or Milan. It is questionable as to whether these people really believed his accent, or whether they just enjoyed being spoofed by one of the most prestigious comedy acts in the world.

A talented and naturally gifted pianist, Chico was characteristically unromantic about his skill. His mother, Minnie, had purchased him cheap one-handed piano lessons as a boy (which he was then supposed to teach, second-one-handed, to his little bother Adolph, a.k.a. Harpo), and he studied only so long as it took to get him pianist gigs in the brothels and saloons of New York or Chicago. Though we enjoy his musical interludes in the films, we should not pretend that his piano meant as much to him as the harp did to Harpo (who was genuinely and sentimentally in love with his instrument). For Chico, the piano meant a source of income, female admirers, and some time-killing. It was a hobby, but not a passion. (That spot was reserved for bridge.)

Chico joined the Marx Brothers act (which consisted of Groucho, Gummo, Harpo, Minnie and anyone else they could hire for a slave wage) during its “Fun in Hi Skule” Vaudeville revue phase, and, after the death of their mother, served as a manager for the group. Though poor at making decisions regarding personal finances, Chico was a dedicated and ambitious man when cutting a deal for the group (mostly because he needed the most money he could get, to pay off his debts). It was he who, at a bridge game, found Irving Thalberg and convinced the young MGM producer that the rumours of the Marxes’ death in show business were grossly exaggerated. (The story often goes that Thalberg won the Brothers, which one can almost believe. Chico loved gambling, but he wasn’t terribly good at it.)

Aside from his film successes with his brothers, Chico led his own big band for a while in the 30s and 40s, and toured as a solo piano act. He also had long stints on the keys in Vegas, performed routines with Harpo around England for a while, and was a favourite act on the army base tours of the 40s. He was also a well-loved member of the Hillcrest Round Table, and seems to have been adored by all who knew him (except perhaps by those who were married to him).

When people reminisce about Chico, they almost always focus on the gambling and the womanizing, but also on a dedication to sharing whatever he had (he was famous for stealing his brothers’ clothing to send to impoverished relatives in Russia) and to making sure the Brothers got along with the beleaguered writers (when he himself wasn’t raising a stink if he had fewer lines than Groucho). Stories about Chico take on the qualities of heroic legends, complete with tall tales, schemes and a punch line. He lived larger than any man has the right, and he died of heart disease in 1961 at the ripe age of 74, leaving behind a daughter and an ex-wife.

Chico remains a mystery to film historians in some ways. He was the only Marx Brother who neither wrote a book, nor gave significant interviews, about his experiences on stage and before a camera. Thus, we will never have Chico’s versions of the stories so lovingly (and ruefully) recounted by his exasperated, yet tolerant, brothers. We don’t even have many photos taken of Chico on set (he was often out playing dice with the teamsters between shots).

However, we have a great number of wonderful screen moments, and perhaps the mystery works with this Chicolini with no real past and hazy details (he doesn’t remember where he was born – he was only a little baby). We have his recorded verbal acrobatics, and his shooting of the keys. We also have glimpses of his magic smile. So maybe that is enough.

Who are you going to believe: me or your own eyes?

March 21

(This is a longer post than most. And probably way too serious and preachy. But even jokers have some things they can't take lightly. Just humour me for once.)

Today is the United Nations’ International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination, patterned after the one that started in South Africa.

The thing about today is that most of us don’t willfully discriminate.

So the question then becomes what can one do to properly commemorate this day? What impact does this day have if you don’t have children to educate or people to influence? What can you do to help eliminate racism when you aren’t in control of the government directly, you aren’t in charge of hiring anywhere, and you don’t control policy at your school? What if you, like me, don’t even have a reason to leave the house today and will probably see no one but your partner or pet?

Importantly, if you are the type of person who cares enough to know what the day is, what more can you do to help than you already do?

Those are the questions that run through my mind today, and I have to confess that I don’t know what to say, except to suggest that you mark the day in whatever way you can make it last all year round.

Well, you can certainly go to any rally or services held in your area and add numbers to the roster. (I will leave that to you whether you feel that will help anything.) You can talk it over with your friends, and that should give you the feeling that you are doing something. And you can definitely think about the issues, and the ways in which you are blessed or cursed by society, and think about how you work within your system.

You could spend some time looking up your MPP or other government representative and take a closer look at the ways they vote on questions of racial difference, and you can think about your next vote. That would help.

But in whatever way you decide to spend this day, I hope that it will be mindful of the distance we’ve all come, the distance we have left to go, and the costs paid along the way. And think about the reasons why this day has been deemed necessary.

Some starting points from history:

March 21, 1933

Construction on the first Nazi concentration camp, Dachau, was completed, 73 years ago today. Years before the world raised an alarm over conditions under Hitler. Decades before we were born.

How can you resurrect the lessons learned from this place in your contemplations and actions today? How can we prevent this in future? How can we make sure alarm is raised quicker? Why are we still silent?


March 21, 1960

The Sharpeville Massacre occurred 46 years ago today in South Africa. 69 black, unarmed South Africans were shot dead protesting their conditions, and another 180 were wounded. These 69 people were peacefully demonstrating against a government that wouldn’t even allow them to go about their daily business without passes that regulated their movements and restricted their freedoms. They were protesting against a system that treated them like objects instead of humans with minds and wills. That is why they came together. They died, however, because law enforcement officials were so blind that they were convinced that blacks were incapable of intelligent and peaceful protest.

Do we take seriously our responsibility to hold our government accountable, and do we watch the use of “official force” with the attention it deserves? Do we see how laws protect but also harm? Do we take for granted our right to free protest, and do we use it wisely?

Do we admit our responsibility for allowing, fostering or creating stereotypes, and do we protest them if we hear them?



March 21

This day also marks one of the two Earth Days (the other is April 22) marked for the promotion of better health and respect for our planet. Underneath difference lies the same need to drink, breath, and eat clean sustenance from a living planet.

The right to a clean environment (and safe air, water, and food) belongs to everyone, not just those who can afford it, or to those whose social capital leads to better environmental protection from governments. Do you consider how your purchasing, voting and practical activities affect the standards of living of people you don’t even know?

These things roll through my mind today. And before you all leave with the impression that I am a naive sod who thinks that UN-sanctioned days actually change the world, I will defend myself from charges that I am simply another impractical pinko idealist who exists securely in the luxury of her own status. I know the world is horribly flawed.

However, I have to admit that this day has got me thinking a bit, and that in itself is a pretty nice reward.

I had a discussion on Monday with someone who seems to think ethnicity is a blessing because it gives you something with which to guilt-trip other people (read: white Christian males). I agree it is a blessing, but not for the reasons he cited. (I see that white Christian males can also be the object of discrimination in some sense, but if considering this new phenomenon causes more bitterness than it heals then perhaps we should leave it alone until we have other messes sorted out.) I could say nothing more than that I hope that some day the honoring of our individual ethnic heritages will not require the dishonoring of others, and I left it at that. (What else could I have said?)

On Monday, as well, a woman scolded me for mentioning that today marks the anniversary of Dachau’s completion. No one wanted gloomy thoughts like that on the first day of (the northern hemisphere’s) Spring, she complained. I explained that just because some people are determined to wear blinders and live purely in the present, that doesn’t mean that some of us shouldn’t be looking back once in a while. (I should have also added that the present isn’t all that hot, either, to tell the truth.)

And it started me thinking about how some people do just think that “happy thoughts” will make it all go away, and I see just how ridiculous that is. It is in this that my idealist-driven pontificating is more than just blind optimism. It is not the day so much as it is the way that it may give a few of us a reason to bring up these issues with our colleagues. And not worry about "bringing out the gloom".

Actually, I think Spring is a great time to deal with this… What better time to hope for a new birth than now? And if thinking about the state of equality and freedom in the world simply spells gloom to you, doesn’t that mean that there’s even more reason to talk about it?

Perhaps we should keep talking until the idea of social justice brings to mind new shoots and buds, instead of gloom and depression.

Spring is here, and I, for one, am hoping for a thaw in more ways than one.

Spring Hasn’t Sprung… Yet!

But it'll be here soon!

(This is one of the brightest posts I've ever written. Please don't be shocked by its cheerfulness. It will pass, I'm sure.)

Today is the first day of spring, and I can almost feel the buds of May blooming in my spirit. If only the snow would stop, we’d be in good shape.

I have a bunch of work to finish, but I have no doubt it will all get done. I’ve had some good reviews from profs, and I am anxiously looking forward to comp work. The dreaded and dirty Ontario Tuition Hike of 2006 has turned out to represent a grand total of 104 dollars per year, so I am not complaining. Compared to what the pessimists were predicting, that is barely a financial sneeze.

And compared to tuition in the States, I would blush to whine.

We are currently facing a summer of minor fiscal uncertainty, in some ways, as I don’t get funding for the summer (our funding is all pooled in the 8 months of school), and I am prohibited from working. However, there is the loan application and the bursary system, and John will be looking for work. We have a little by way of savings, so we have until May before things get too grim. I am sure he can get a job before then, as every shop window here as a "help wanted" sign up.

Besides, the whole thing is only until September when my funding starts back up, and his begins. All in all, survival seems likely.

I have received feedback from my Groucho presentation, and it turned out to be an acceptable A-. Not super-great, but better than I had anticipated from the post-presentation blow back. (And the prof's feedback was quite heart warming, as he seems to think I am way beyond my level at public speaking - nice to know.) Now I just have to kill with the paper, and that class should turn out OK for me. But, either way, it will be done, and that will be enough cause to celebrate.

I emailed the prof to gripe about the grade, and he called me an over-anxious worry wart, and told me that if an A- wasn't good enough in my books I could kiss his ass. So I told him to rotate on his A-.

All tongue in cheek, of course. My profs love me, and, as I said, no one ever takes my complaints seriously. Oh well, if that is my role in life, I can live with that.

(Now if I could just finish my RE700 paper notes, I'd be in truly good shape.)

Sunday has been spent listening to Smokey Robinson and Mary Wells, decompressing from presentation feedback, editing up Mark’s magnum opus, watching a flick, and doing my readings for Monday. All in all a nice prelude to the end of term rush starting next week.

I don’t teach today, and have only the RE700 seminar and the undergrad lecture that I TA for. Thus, it is only a semi-busy Monday, but still a pain...

Just have to remember: After today, there are only two more hell-Mondays left. Two! I think I can manage that.

Everything from this term should be dead and buried by the 18th of April. Less than a month to go before summer "vacation." That's something to focus on, despite the fact that my colleague Andrew is off to Paris for a vacation, and I will be stuck here with my French grammar books, comp list, and my dissertation proposal drafts.

Still, summer will involve lots of pajama time, and no bumming around Hamilton, so it is a vast improvement from where I was last year.

And I prefer reading to France anyway. Riots and peeing in public never did appeal to me, anyhow.

So I will live. Especially since it appears that this month is my last month EVER in normal classes. Sure there may be a language class sometime in the future, and the non-credit four week courses in university teaching and computer technology that I have to take before I graduate, but I will be officially done all my "real" classes, for the rest of my life (it seems).

So, all in all, some clouds in, upon, and over my horizon, but the spirits are rising. Optimism even occasionally wins out. If only the snow would leave for different pastures, I would be in fine shape.

Oh well, you can’t have everything.

In most other respects, life is pretty damned OK.

(P.S. Happy Meatout Day - do yourself a favour, and leave the colon cloggers behind for a day.)

I Ain’t Your Fellow Nothin’

Fight the power, kiddies! That’s today’s message.

I just got some email in from the Jewish Students’ Association (sent before sundown on the Sabbath, I notice, but who am I to judge?). I signed up for their mailing list, not because I enjoy their company, but because I wanted to get notices of any lectures or movie nights that might be going around. Plus, I might need an ethnography base some day, so it never hurts.

Usually they just send out invites to wine and cheese shindigs, sweaty Jewish-undergrad proms, and other things that sound as appealing as a weenie roast at a hospital for the criminally insane. Usually I delete these. However, I am not deleting this new one just yet. I have not yet decided what I shall do with it. If I reply, I think I should wait and decide how exactly to phrase it.

This newest email is addressed, “Dear Fellow Zionist…”

“Fellow Zionist”?

That made me jump. I have been called many things in my life (beatnik, fellow traveler, reactionary, democrat, tree-hugger, pinko, etc), but never that. And never so damn smugly and presumptuously.

I have yet to frame a response that doesn’t involve cussing.

You see, in a perfect world in which Israelis didn’t have to shoot, imprison or round-up Palestinians, maybe I would be a Zionist. Maybe not. Since I don’t live in Israel, I don’t feel pressured to decide. I sure as hell don’t think people around here should be putting in our two cents worth and making the crap-flinging over there worse.

I don’t know about these little suburban-born brats, but I have no plans to leave my comfy and safe Canadian home to get gunned down at an ATM in Jerusalem. I think this fact, alone, disqualifies me from the title. I’m fine with that.

And I certainly don’t enjoy people, any people, making assumptions about my political leanings without knowing me, simply by my email address being on a largely unrelated mailing list. I didn’t sign-up for a “Zionist Mailing List.” I signed up for the “Jewish Students’ Association” list. I see the difference. These people, it seems, do not.

The point is not whether I am a Zionist. The point is their impudence at assuming I am.

Assuming that everyone who cares about Jews is a Zionist is something akin to assuming that anyone who is proud of being German is a Nazi. Both are wrong and grossly insulting to the individuality of the human spirit.

These organizations dissolve the independence of thought that I see as inherent to Judaism. Ever since Abraham walked into his dad’s icon shop and busted up the joint Jews have walked their own path.

So I have not decided how I will respond. I’ve thought of deleting it like the others, but it burns me to let them get away with such a whitewashing of political complexities within the Jewish community. Yet, if I complain they’ll just go into their “self-hatred” or “Anti-Zionism = Anti-Semitism” dance and circle the wagons against the infidel.

Maybe I’ll just show up at the No Palestine Apartheid rally wearing my Star of David, and hope they can at least get that message.

This is Post 400.

Yes, 400-posts-strong and growing!

We survived another St Pat’s Day intact, and the grindstone continues without let-up. Had a meeting with my ritual studies prof on Friday, and we smoothed things out after Wednesday’s loggerhead, so life rolls along without too much hostility. Just a lot of work left before I can start my summer tasks.

A brief summary of the rest of my term:
- Must read interlibrary loan book before it turns back into a pumpkin and the jerks take it back on Monday (and another due back on the 27th).
- Must prepare script and rehearse for mc duties for the IAC conference on Friday.
- Mark 50 dialogues and prepare final tutorials (thank heavens) for the 27th.
- Prepare RE700 seminar for April 3rd.
- Prepare 80 minute undergrad lecture for April 3rd.
- Write ritual studies paper for April 5th.
- Write RE700 term paper for April 18th.
- Mark 50 final exams.

And there is a possibility that I may take my French exam this Spring rather than next, “just to get it out of the way.”

So? How does that sound? Doable? Not quite? Oh well, I will make it – like I always do. Just won’t be pleasant. However, on the bright side, preparing for comps for the three months following this mad dash will seem like a cake walk in comparison!

Life continues as normal, I’m afraid.

***

But, on a nicer note, it is Charles Chaplin, Sr.’s birthday today. He would be 143 years old today if he hadn’t died in 1901. He shared none of his sons’ longevity, but the acute alcoholism probably didn’t help with that. Let that be a lesson to you all!

Oh, and congrats to Jerry Lewis for receiving the Legion of Honor from France this past week. Why am I not surprised? Still, you’d think they would have realized that their choice was a bit on the nose and saved themselves the ridicule. Ah, the French!

Oh well, félicitations, mon schmucko!

And joyeux anniversaire, mon grand lush!

De tout mon cœur!

Top O'the Dung Heap to You!

Got to love the socially-accepted racism just dripping off those charming leprechaun drawings hanging everywhere these days, huh?

Those of you who know me may already know my feelings towards St Pat’s Day. I get green socks in the mail from my folks. I wear them. I consider myself 100% Irish for the day. And I watch The Quiet Man (1952), like nature intended on St Pat’s.

And I stay at home all day and night, hiding.

St Pat’s is fine if celebrated with socks and Maureen O'Hara. However, when celebrated by drunken rowdiness and idiocy, this makes the day, in fact, evil. Socks or no.

And since this St Pat’s is on a Friday, I’m pretty sure anyone who tries to walk the streets at night will be immediately plowed by some drunk Filipino-German-Scotch guy displaying a “Kiss Me I’m Irish” button and careening towards every sober person and lamppost he can find. The latter he will not hit because the luck of the Irish will save him. The former will not be me – I do not depend on the Irish luck, and I am sure my Jewish luck would have my ass in traction, so I am staying home with my cat and praying that a drunk driver doesn’t come hurtling through my fourth story apartment wall.

If you do not know me, and would like to hear more of my views on St Pat’s Day, then please visit my article on OMG Jeremy.

So what else is up…? I have been dreaming a great deal these days. The other night I freaked myself out because every single dream (and they were several distinct ones) featured my Buddhist monk classmate. Some were as mundane as sitting in class, but some others were extraordinarily bizarre. And no, I will not tell you what they were. That is between me and the Buddha.

However, I did look up the meaning of monks in dreams, and I can share this. In fact, it is not good… In China, to dream of a monk: “Foretells dissensions in the family and unpleasant journeyings. To a young woman, this dream signifies that gossip and deceit will be used against her. To dream that you are a monk denotes personal loss and illness.” (The good news is that I don’t think I dreamt that I was a monk… The bad news is people are gonna gossip me to death within a week.)

Of course, according to pop-culture Western dream dictionaries, a Buddhist monk may mean: insight, compassion, and inner spirituality (need for, search for, the advent of… etc.)

Of course this dichotomy is mostly due to the whole Asian association with Buddhist monks as burying practitioners, and the Western image of Buddhism as being all noble and peaceful and wonderful, right? Thus, because I think dream symbols are crap anyway (even though I did look them up and then spend several minutes writing them out), and that if there is anything at all to this stuff it must be culture bound, I choose to believe the Western interpretation.

Destiny is what you make it.

Other than that nothing of any real excitement has occurred since John’s admission to MA, and my presentation. However, I did spend an afternoon cutting out stars for our conference art show and reception today… and I re-read Sense and Sensibility to unwind from my ritual studies ordeal. Oh, and I was almost so un-paranoid about the silver fish, because their numbers had dwindled so, that I was actually surprised to see one scuttle by when I turned on the light tonight! That is a miracle. (Besides - all the talk of the wicked house centipede actually made me realize that my silver fish were really kind of cute.)

And speaking of miracles, my friend Kathryn sent me a little gem on Wednesday night (to cheer me up after my presentation). Enjoy… and wonder.

(PS: I'm sorry that I’m later than usual with my post tonight. I got wrapped up in A Day at the Races (1937). The best tonic for my presentation woe is to get back on the horse… Pun only semi-intentional.)

I or Y? The Mystery that is The Other Chaplin.

Sydney Chaplin
(March 16, 1885 – April 16, 1965)

Today marks the 121st birthday of Sydney (or Sidney) Chaplin.

If remembered at all today, Syd is best remembered for being Charlie’s older brother. He is also often described as “Jewish.” Well, in both cases he was only half, but in general these are correct descriptions. He was also the half brother of Wheeler Dryden, a wonderful Canadian-raised character actor (Limelight, 1957). He also earned the love and admiration from Chaplin fans worldwide for not only partially raising little Charlie, who loved him dearly, but also for getting his brother into show business in the first place.

However, Syd Chaplin should be remembered for more than his familial connections. In fact, Syd Chaplin had a prosperous career of his own on the English music hall stage, as well as in several well-received tours of North America. Further, when he moved to Hollywood in 1915, he attained some impressive success as a silent film comedian. His solo flicks included A Better ‘Ole (1926), Charley’s Aunt (1925) and the Gussle comedy shorts series (1915) for Keystone.


Still, whatever is positive about Syd’s solo career, the most wonderful way to see him on film is working with his little brother. Actually, “Syd Spotting” has become something of a game with us at my house. He crops up in some strange places in the Chaplin shorts. For example, that is him as the lunch-wagon manager in A Dog’s Life (1918), and as the father of the bratty monster in The Pilgrim (1923). And that is also him as the Tramp’s heroic best mate in Shoulder Arms (1918) – in which he also appears as the Kaiser himself! It seems he made a pretty good Kaiser, because that’s him reprising the role in The Bond (1918).

There is magic when Syd and Charlie worked together. The sleight of hand reaches such a level of skill in A Dog’s Life that we ache from laughing at it. And the camaraderie between the two in Shoulder Arms can only serve to make you smile.


Syd never made it big in the talkies. The closest he came was a mono picture (score only) for Warner Brothers in 1927. When the sound revolution swept Hollywood, Syd was happy to return to his first job: looking after Charlie. He was a co-manager at Chaplin Studios until after World War II, even if he did this for some years from Europe. It was a wise move on Charlie’s part to engage him at the studios. He knew how shrewd his brother could be. After all, it had been Syd who had negotiated Charlie’s famous (and historical) million dollar contract!

Syd retired to Nice after the war, and enjoyed a close relationship with his little brother when he moved to Switzerland in 1952. He died on Charlie’s birthday in 1965, at the age of 80, with his wife, Gypsy, by his side.

The Chaplin brothers had a bond forged by a life of poverty and strengthened by the horror of their mother’s mental illness. There was love, respect and mutual dependence between them for as long as they both lived. It may not be fair that Syd is always remembered as “Charlie Chaplin’s brother” (it has a certain irony, because Charlie grew up, and entered comedy, as “Syd Chaplin’s little brother”), but, frankly, I am not sure that Syd would mind.

He knew Charlie was the more talented of the two. And he was perfectly happy taking his credit as the more financially wise one.

In a World of Foucault, I am Far Too Complex?

I am still planning on a note on Sidney Chaplin for today, but I have to share with you the tragic story of my ritual studies presentation first. If for no other reason than to get it off my chest. Otherwise, there’s no chance of sleeping tonight.

Well, the Power Point looked wonderful, the clip was great, and I thought I did beautifully. I mean, I was a little nervous, and I think I rushed a few things, but overall I was very pleased. And the other students were fairly complimentary and I think they enjoyed it. They seemed impressed and engaged.

Then, after my classmate did his presentation, the proverbial shite hit the proverbial fan. Dr. G must not have taken his brain meds today or something, because he then proceeded to dedicate the final hour of class to berating us in front of the group! Wanna know why?

First problem: There were too many words on our slides.

Second problem: It wasn’t simple enough and contained too many complex concepts.

Yes — and that was worth at least 45 minutes of bitching. I’m a PhD student. My classmate is a PhD student. The class is a graduate-level course. We got bitched at because our presentations were too academic… Does anyone know what the hell that means?

By means of illustration: It seems I should have braced the class by telling them that the Marx Brothers were a comedy troupe who appeared in several old, black & white films. Yes, he wanted it that simple, apparently.

And it also seems that smart-ass, hot-shot young academics like my classmate and I are what’s wrong in scholarship today. We go over peoples’ heads! We don’t stick to “the basics,” whatever on earth those are.

OK. To put this in perspective, here is an outline of my presentation:

1) My question: How is Groucho (in his movies) seen as Jewish when he doesn’t come out and say he is?
2) Performance of Jewishness from a performance studies approach can help us
3) Vaudeville has a history of ethnic comedy
4) The Marx Brothers started out in Vaudeville
5) (Show clip)
6) Groucho is read as Jewish because he shows several signs of Jewishness (i.e. accent, dress, etc.) which he gained from Vaudeville training
7) Conclusions: COMPLETE REITERATION of everything I said in the last twenty minutes!

I did not think this was too complex. I still don’t. In fact, on Tuesday I was worried that it was too simple for a class on ritual and performance studies… It seems that was not the directions in which my worry should have gone. It turns out that I am some sort of idiot savant (or mad-with-power-expert) who completely lost my audience… I don’t know whether this should please, stun, or shame me, frankly.

However, this was not the problem that really irked me. (Actually the wordy Power Point slides may be a valid point.)

My problem with it was the fact that he went on for 45 minutes about it. The presentation was over. I couldn’t re-do it. Still he went on, and on… and on. I was happy my talk was over and how well I had done. And then he pooped on me. For 45 minutes. It got to the point that I just wanted to either pack up and leave or plant my foot up his back passage.

The students tried to cheer me up afterwards, but it has still ruined what I thought was a hella good presentation.

And now I get the joy of delivering an 80 minute talk for his undergrad class in three weeks. Goody!

Suffice it to say that I will not be using Power Point in front of him. Ever. In fact, the thought makes me want to vomit.

You know? I really should have planted my boot in his ass.

Ah, missed opportunities.

I Love My Cigar, too (But I Take it Out of My Mouth Sometimes)

Groucho, Groucho, Groucho.

It is newly Wednesday, and I am still banging away at my Groucho presentation for 7pm tonight. On Tuesday I made the Power Point presentation, wrote my speech, made my handout, and practiced it with a friend and John.

Yet, there are still tasks to be done. Finish stray research… Tighten Power Point… Edit and annotate speech… Prepare script to be handed in… Figure out how to put Power Point on CD… Time and choose the clips… Re-watch movies… Practice speech…

Write suicide note… Smash Power Point demon before I go… Smash it into widdle pieces and flush it to where the sun don’t shine…

I am dead. Dead tired. Dead nervous. Dead screwed.

The sad thing is that there are few people in my acquaintance who know the Marx Brothers better than I do. I love these guys, and I can handle any discussion on them. But now how the hell do I give a ritual/ performance studies analysis of them to a class full of Religious Studies grad students who know nothing about them (expect what I have told them)??

And how do I prepare it in a hurry well enough to have some sort of magnificent “performance” of my own in the end??

How can I get this stuff across, while trying to be mindful of my own bodily performance while speaking, and not throw up or just walk out and quit the whole damned business??

It’s all so nerve wracking. Any other time or class, I could have just rambled it off. Now he has turned this into some self-conscious performance thing, and I am suddenly riddled with anxiety.

One piece fails… One little piece… The Power Point fails to fire. The DVD player or projector refuses to co-operate. The audience yawns too much. Anything! And I am dead in the water. And all that could happen so very easily.

I need to calm down, you are saying. I hear you. I could take a couple hours off and do something else. That would be very nice. However, as this thing must be delivered in about 19 hours, there is no time to rest or distract myself.

Until this thing is out of my hands, my life continues to be all Groucho, all the time. Which wouldn’t be so bad if I weren’t ready to vomit over the potential outcome.

Oh LORD. What have I gotten myself into?

Congratulations, John Boy! (And Good Luck!)

John got into Laurier!

Come September he will be a bona fide MA-in-Religion-and-Culture-student!

WLU has never made a better decision… (Except maybe when they let me in.)

Congrats- Now we do the dance of joy!

(No one deserves it more, John Bear!)

Now Tell Me About You!

Hi folks!

I am still pounding away on my Groucho presentation, so not much news to report. However, I did find a new blogging toy.

Through the Woody Allen Jazz Band Blog, I discovered Frappr!, a service that can track and collect “fans” (or, as I more realistically consider them, people who are either bored enough or kind enough to come visit me here).

So come to the group site and show me where you are in the world— I am always interested to see how far my blog goes out, like a message in a bottle out on the great Internet ocean.

Whether you be in Bangladesh, Edinburgh, Ohio, or just plain Ontario, let me know about you.

It’s only fair. After all you know everything in the world about me. It’s time to return some of that favour!

Please take yourself to What the hell is a Blog Readers Group, and show me where you are! (And maybe even what you look like- no dirty pics, please and thank you. This is a family blog, and I have a weak stomach.)

Thanks!

It's Monday... Nuff Said?

You Are an Espresso

At your best, you are: straight shooting, ambitious, and energetic At your worst, you are: anxious and high strung You drink coffee when: anytime you're not sleeping Your caffeine addiction level: high

What Kind of Coffee Are You?

Lespisma sacchrina (Linnaeus)

Out, out, damn bug!

Yes, we are under siege. No, it is not Commies, or, worse, Republicans (shudder). It is the terror of the library— the lespisma sacchrina, otherwise known as the Silverfish.

Soft and low to the ground, these devils are fast and agile. And they seem to have been growing in number since the spring thaw began (is this fair?). We had a few before, as they seemed attracted to the cat’s food. However, we got a food mat to put under his bowls, and this seemed to take care of the problem.

Now they are back in even greater numbers.

We are now on a strict regime of changing the garbage frequently enough to be considered slightly mental, and we now vacuum the kitchen crevices about twice a day. We also spray the joint between the floor and counter-skirt with some concoction of kitchen cleaner, Agent Orange, and vinegar, daily- although this worries me because they’re supposed to like the damp, and I don’t want them to enjoy their stay any more because of my efforts.

I am hoping just to make the place inhospitable enough to make them pack their little insect bags and move on.

I don’t like to kill things… I don’t want to kill things. I consider myself a pretty animal-friendly person. For example, I make sure never to walk on worms outside during the rain… However, in those cases, the worms are OUTSIDE, not in my bloody kitchen. So I don’t know what to do. I could call the super, but I don’t want a bushel of poisons in my kitchen— my cat can be a nuisance some times, but that’s not the way I want him to go. Collateral damage in the war against the silverfish population of Waterloo.

And it’s not like I can trap them and release them back into the wild- these things move faster than innuendo.

I have come down to the realization that it may be a case of kill them or name them, and I am horrified.

So, I am stuck squirting them with vinegar whenever I see them, to make them slow enough to pick up with toilet paper. Then I dispose of the guilty evidence of my crimes (i.e. their little silver corpses). It is an ongoing genocide, and I am sick of it. But it has also become an obsession. I get up in the middle of the night to go throw the lights up, so I can catch them in the act of scuttling.

I am always thinking of how many of the little bastards might be living it up on my kitchen floor right now. And I pace around with my squirt bottle, waiting for them— trying to head them off at the pass before they can make it to my bookshelves.

Yes, I have become the Lady Macbeth of silverfish.

The numbers seem to be dwindling (or at least moving elsewhere— which is fine with me, as they probably originated in some stanky undergrad’s apartment, anyway), but I can’t shake the feeling that they are merely regrouping… In there under that sink and in their dark, damp holes, they are breeding and biding their time. Waiting for a chance to get their own feelers on that spray bottle…

To get their silverfish revenge on their oppressors. (I have always known that the bugs will inherit the earth, but I don’t want to be here to see it.)

It’s all too much. Please send help. We are desperate!

Almost Poetry

These are the words most used on this blog... Fitting that the people who mean the most to me (John, Chaplin, Groucho, Woody and Holly) are all pretty prominent. And, yes, I did realize that "Jewish" was a pretty popular word on this thing.

But I am concerned that "work" is bigger than "reason", and is the same size as "hope"... What does that say about me?


***
And once more, just because. (They are my favourite words, after all!)



(And you can make your own at Snapshirts.)

Let Harpo Do the Talking for Once

“The only tradition in our family was our lack of tradition.”
~ Adolph (Arthur) “Harpo” Marx.

I am so up to my eyeballs in Marx (Groucho, that is) right now that I scarcely have anything to say, and I have even less time in which to say it.

I present my paper on Groucho’s performance of Jewishness (in terms of posture, vocal presence, gender subversion, and humour) on the 15th (next Wednesday for those of you without a calendar and only the fields by which to plan your wholesome little lives). That means that, along with preparing for my tutorials and class for Monday (curse that rotten day!), I now have about four days to prepare a paper, practice my “performance” of that paper (yes, we are getting graded on showmanship), select less than ten minutes of Groucho clips that illustrate my points, construct my Power Point presentation, and do enough extra research that I can handle the questions and critique… Oh, and skim all of the class materials so I can try to use one or two of the readings, and thereby pretend that I actually got something out of the 27 hours I have sat in stunned and depressed boredom in that class. (Well, OK. Maybe a few of those hours were not that bad... Like break times.)

Well, I have no doubt that my presentation will be a performance… It is just down to whether it is a performance of intelligence and competence, or one of incompetent lollygagging— that remains to be seen.

This evening, I started Daniel Boyarin’s Unheroic Conduct (a fascinating and heavily theorized exploration of how Jewish non-masculinity has been constructed), and I am enjoying it very much. Tonight I am also re-reading the particularly “Jewish” passages of Harpo Speaks! (Did you know that Harpo Marx took a tour through Germany on his way to Russia six months after Hitler came into power? Suffice it to say that he cut his plans short and got the hell out of the joint. Being the only Jewish kid in an all-Irish school had taught him enough to know when the odds were against Jewish safety.)

Thus, I have very little to share. Right now, my life is all Groucho, all the time.

I have been discussing Groucho’s manhood (yes, in both the figurative and literal sense) with everyone I meet, and have a pretty good grasp on it (no dirty thoughts there, please). A colleague asserted that Groucho could not practice classical gender subversion, as he was so heavily male because of his moustache. Ah, I responded, but why such a fake moustache? What was he trying to hide? Why couldn’t he grow his own? Perhaps this a part of performing Jewish blurred maleness, like the stage Shylock's long tressed-wig. I even threw him a reference to some hefty tome on hair and sexuality, which is currently lying on my living room floor. I do not remember the name of it, or of the author, but it has already served me well.

You can see that I beginning to enjoy myself. Groucho can be happy that his masculinity is once again some woman's play-thing.

So, I am on my way out of my last term in classes (possibly EVER), and I am enjoying my research, but I am running on empty (just a little bit). I tried to come up with something good for this entry, but the only thing I could easily find in entertainment history for March 9th was Bob Hope’s film debut (1938), and for the 10th the first Warner Brothers film (1918)… Both very important things, but not really up my alley.

Bob Hope, bless him, was many things, but Jewish was not one of those things.

Oh, well… Next week I have a good tribute to Sidney Chaplin (the elder), so that’s something to look forward to. For now I will leave you with a little something from my reading:

“My sex education was direct, no punches pulled, and vividly illustrated. I learned a lot more about the subject and its ramifications than most twelve-year-old boys. But the method had its draw backs. For years I couldn’t eat pickles.”

And if you want to know what that means, you’ll have to read Harpo Speaks!

In Just Seven Days, Jesus Can Make You a Man!

I guess Jesus likes ‘em brawny…

This is what we learned about today in school. I just thought I’d share this nauseating vision of what this continent has come down to: from Master Race to Master Religion. Go, America!

Here you are, folks— The Power Team!

Enjoy! And repent (or they’ll mess you up).

[I still prefer Woody Allen. But what do I know? I'm not even saved.]

So, You’re Not Like Hitler, Then?

A couple of news items caught my attention today, and I have been going over the situation in my head. Frankly, I’m not sure that anyone involved in education can really stop thinking of this one story.

A high school geography teacher in Colorado has been suspended (with pay) pending investigations into his alleged infringement on his students’ rights to free thought and education. Urged by his conservative father, a student recorded his teacher without permission, and turned the tapes over to a local radio station. It seems that this dastardly Enemy Against the State had told his class that the American-supremacy rhetoric used by Bush made him sound Hitler, and that the U.S. was now one of the most violent and dangerous nations in the planet. To be fair, he was also recorded telling his class they were free to disagree with him.

My personal questions (such as “How is what he said not true?”) aside, I am in a state of anger and shock over this case. It is part of a growing movement in the States to root out the “leftists” who supposedly control secondary and post-secondary education today. In some cases, these folks are paying bounties on evidence of subversion in the classroom!

In short, because his views are in discord with those of the conservatives who support Bush, this man stands to lose his job!

One can say that he shouldn’t have been discussing his personal views in class. OK. However, I would point out, first, that nearly everything we teach in classrooms reflects someone’s personal beliefs in some way. Further, if students have parents like this, perhaps it is better that they hear different views in the classroom. Finally, if these groups who seek out and inform on “leftist radicals” claim to care about academic freedom, then they really need to sort out their values.

Our ability to teach is comprised completely of our individual personalities and beliefs. Ideally, each one of us has worked to obtain the qualifications needed to teach in whatever forum we stand in. If we do not insist upon cramming our beliefs down the throats of our students, recognize that they are impressionable and value our roles as educators instead of propaganda mongers, then we have every right to approach subjects like human beings, rather than automatons spouting the directives of our superiors and the political establishment.

The machine that had the greatest control over its educational system in history ended up churning out thousands of Hitler Youth and plunging the world into a darkness from which we still have not recovered. And we don’t even have to go that far to find an example of such organized witch-hunting. Has fifty years erased the memory of the McCarthy era and its destructive legacy? Or how about the universities and officials who opposed civil rights and those academics who supported equality for all citizens? These are not models to which today’s governments should aspire.

And we are, every one of us, obligated to be ever vigilant against this threat. That is the responsibility and the privilege of every free citizen.

There are correct modes of behaviour in the classroom, but the attempt to stomp down the healthy interrogation of a political mandate serves to kill democracy and the intellectual freedom upon which our schools and universities are ideally based. I do not intimately know all the particulars of this case, but there have been dozens of reports of pro-Bush interference into the rights of teachers and professors in the United States. We are on the brink of a catastrophe in our educational system, and it doesn’t stem from the leftist control over these institutions.

On the same day that this story came out, the Supreme Court of the United States upheld the government’s insistence that any university not allowing the armed forces to recruit on their campus would lose their federal funding. These campuses protested Army recruitment, not because they hated Bush, but because they refused to allow an organization that maintains a prejudiced policy against Gays and Lesbians to advertise itself on their campuses. Freedom, like education, it seems, is a hostage in a battle over definitions and limitations over those freedoms.

The right to free thought and speech doesn't seem to swing both ways in America. (Not to mention the right to pursue happiness.)

The same government that hides behind the freedoms instituted by the framers of the Constitution twists these laws to their own advantage and to advance their own neo-conservative values, and they mean to haul this right into the classroom. And ban anyone who dares to stand in its way.

And then they have the gall to insist that leftists control the planet!

When a conservative mainstream disallows liberal views, including the questioning of the President’s office (an office paid for by all Americans of every political stripe), and pulls funding from universities who have legitimate concerns over allowing discriminatory bodies access to their campuses, while tolerating, I must add, clear hate-speech, such as the garbage found on some neo-con websites, something is amiss in the system.

It is not the fear that leftists will conquer the education system in the United States that haunts me. In many ways, it is quite the opposite.

And it chills me to the core.

Chasing My Tail (or Having it Chased for Me)

Back and forth. Forth and back. What a day!

I am yet again cramming mac and cheese (spiked with ground fake-meat— ummm, fake-meat) down my gullet and trying to take note of the developments from another Monday. This is done completely from memory, of course, as I barely have time to find pens when Monday really hits the fan.

I didn’t teach today (thankfully), but I did have to hand back the papers, so that had its own stresses. Including the marked but missing one that seems to occur every year or two. Where do they go? I ask. Probably rode out hooked to someone else’s staple, but I prefer to think it was the work of gremlins… Wait a sec…

The little turd! I just checked. That kid submitted it online, though she swore that I received it in hardcopy and not online from her. So, yeah, not missing, but just a victim of another undergrad that can’t remember what she had for lunch, let alone what she did two weeks ago.

Hmmm. Should I delete all that? Nope. I will let you see a life in progress.

OK… What else happened…? Oh yes! Mix up with one of my speaking engagements. I thought I was lecturing for Dr. G’s class on the 27th (because it was originally scheduled for the 20th, but he had to move it), so I scheduled my RE700 seminar for the 3rd of April. Surprise! Turns out the date was wrong, or tits up, or something, so I am now doing my PhD seminar presentation and my two hour lecture BOTH ON THE 3RD. More than the same day- all within the same seven hour period. Very nice indeed, she said while pulling out her hair and eating it.

That’s what I get for never taking time to write down things on Mondays… He claims it was always scheduled for the 3rd… I remember it differently, but who the hell cares, now? I will be talking for a month straight, anyway, so what does it matter if it is all on one day or not?

No joke, that. I did the math. With my two seminars, my teaching duties, my lecture and my MC spot for the conference here, I have 12 hours of public speaking to do between March 15th and April 3rd… Either I’ll be mad at the end, or dead. In either case, I’ll surely have new calluses on my tonsils. Wish me (and my stutter) luck!

And wish luck for whatever poor souls (i.e. Andrew) have to hear more than half of those twelve hours. Boy, I hope he likes the sound of my voice!

Oh yes, and our guest lecturer in class today hugged us all at the end... Not aggravating, really, but definitely very odd. What was rather aggravating, though, is the fact that she warned us everytime she was going to use a "BIG WORD" (ex. ont-o-log-i-cal— she even sounded it out for us). I wonder if someone ever let her know we were in PhD study...?

Well, that’s about all the gripes for today, except for the fact that I am feeling generally harassed in abstract as well as concrete ways. John had a strange and frustrating day, too, but I am poor on sympathy right now. My vitamin made me vomit this morning, and I was grossly over-charged for a bottle of tomato juice. A student even followed me into the bathroom and insisted on asking me questions through the stall door! And aside from the other fifty scrambling students all whining about various issues, I was also soundly reprimanded because I don’t appreciate the art of Heath Ledger by a complete stranger.

(But if good taste is my worst characteristic, I think I’ll live.)

Sleep now? No. Movie? Better. Movies seldom harass me.

Is it a wonder I prefer them to real people?