No One in the Place But You and Me

Comp reading progresses. John is back to work (hello, out there, John if you happen to using the work computer for personal use by peeping in on me!). I am all alone, except for the cat, a book, and thou. Ah! But for a stack of select DVDs! Movies I know so well, I can listen to them while I read! That is a useful talent indeed!

On tonight’s play list:
Angel and the Badman (1947)
Young Frankenstein (1974)
Ghostbusters (1984)
Bridget Jones’s Diary (2001)

And possibly a few Harry Potter hours, and the Weird Al Ultimate Video Collection, should I decide not to sleep tonight.

Those funky tunes, driving us to the dawn.

That reminds me… Maybe I should include Good Morning, Vietnam! (1987) on this list…

A veritable feast of choices!

A Reminder

Is there any frustration that is quite the same as expecting (and needing) something to come in the mails, and the daily ritual of checking the box, only to find a bit of junk mail and something for a previous tenant? Or that is akin to trying to make a web page do something it is simply not inclined to do?

Fuming, I decided that going out for a smoke would be preferable to tossing my comp out a window or decking the mailman.

Outside, I happened upon some of the prettiest pink and bright wild flowers you ever need to see. They calmed me. I wish I could convey the delightfulness of their colours or the perfection of their roundness, or how cheerful their faces were, but I cannot.

But they make me stop and breathe. Things will be fine.

(New review, btw, even if it refuses to post a picture.)

Damn You, Canadian Manners

It’s 2am, and I am deeply tormented by regrets. I was so damned polite in my response to that bullsh*t rejection e-mail! While I did make an oblique jibe by way of “this is far, far less academic than what most publishers would consider acceptable,” I also thanked him for letting me know!!

Now better and ruder responses spring unbidden to mind… My fantasy tell-off boils to the surface. What would it have hurt if I had really cleared the decks and spoken my mind? But could I do that? Noooo!

I am Canadian, hear me whimper.

Dear Pathetic, Mealy Mouthed Prick,

I have received your rejection note with some disappointment, for I so wanted my piece published by your glorified vanity press. However, I have taken another look at your catalogue, and I realize how silly it was of me to hope my article would have a place amongst all the books published by the owner of the company. I now assume that the 5 or so books there not written by him were tossed up by his brother-in-law.

How could I, as a lowly PhD student, ever possibly hope to compete with such prestigious works as (insert crappy title about 50s pin-up girl here)? Silly school-girl fantasy, no doubt.

You have sure learned me. Learned me good.

In future, I will endeavour to spread the word that your fine publishing house considers even the fluffiest pieces as “too academic,” and I will warn anyone with a sixth grade education to look elsewhere for their TV-Guide-quality, pap-crap needs. I will, however, recommend it to GED programs and Sylvan Learning Centers without reservation.

It is too bad that my association with your group must cease, but it appears that one has to get up pretty early in the morning to be a smash hit in the highly charged and fast-paced world that is the publishing industry in Sheboygan.

I had heard that if you can make in Wisconsin, you can make it anywhere. I do so hope that I was misinformed.

I will now take my esoteric self off to die in my ultra-academic chamber of isolation. Should any part of this response fly, sadly, over your head, do let me know and I can try to make it more befitting a demagogue such as yourself. Perhaps I can act it out for you in a series of simple pantomimic gestures, accompanied by some unsophisticated gutturals and clear pictograms.

Good luck with your Xeroxing… I mean publishing. I would say that I hope to see the book when it is finished, but I doubt that your book will ever go out to anyone other than the 20 people who managed to produce at the anti-intellectual level you had in mind. I have very little hope that I could ever find it, even in the very lowest-funded prison libraries, so I highly doubt that I will ever be exposed to your name or that of your cottage industry press again.

In closing, get bent and have a nice day.

Yours,
Miss Academic Smarty Pants

Ah… regrets. Oh well, maybe next time.

Did I Say More Cheerful?

I was very, very wrong.

I received, minutes ago, the first of what surely will be many rejections in my career. The Jack Benny book is a no-go. It seems my submission was “too academic.” Nevertheless, I regret to say that, however academic they think it is, it is far, far less academic than any journal would accept… Therefore, I believe I now have a 4,000 word pile of scrap paper on my hands.

There is no place in this world for my type of stuff… It is too academic for the pulp publishers. Too pulp for the academic publishers.

Oh well. The Advisor didn’t think the book/publisher was prestigious enough, anyway. Of course, folks in the throws of rejection and bitterness are likely to say anything to make themselves feel better, so take that for what it is worth.

Have no fear, though. There are always other avenues of some variety…

Anyone know a quasi-academic journal that specializes in old time radio shows and their cultural significance?

Crap.

More of the Same, Only More Cheerful

I now have my RA assignment sewed up, and now have 10 hours of week of work at $15 an hour. John gets his first pay on Thursday. Loan and refunds are still somewhere in transit (we hope). However, there is a light somewhere at the end of this poverty-stricken tunnel. Peace settles over the homestead once more.

And the a/c starts to revive the cat, slowly, from his heat-induced stupor. Methinks that poor old Fritz is not the cat he once was. Makes me sad to see him move into the geriatric phase of life, and a slightly inflated power bill is a small price to pay to see him play again.

Comp reading continues, and I have my two conference applications written up and waiting for a few final edits before they wing their way off. Interlibrary loan books come in by the armloads, so work on the dissertation proposal proceeds. Scary – it is no longer a matter of a “preliminary statement,” but of a real, live proposal… It seems like only months ago I was applying to this program.

The devil on my shoulder keeps inspiring me to do my research on Irish-Jewish intermarriage in film, as there is a surprising ton of material on this subject so near and dear to my heart… Wonder what the Advisor would think…?

Clapboard Jungle will be updated by Wednesday afternoon. That is the deadline. By hook or by crook. Thinking of doing a dandy little war picture that has taken my fancy recently. Details later.

We enter the last 20 hours of John’s time off from work, so I shall now go back and make hay while the sun shines. We shall gather around the old radio with some juice and the cat… Ain’t we a wild bunch?

MIA

I have kind of dropped out of existence for the past 15 hours or so, and have only surfaced to post. Since only two people on the lists of blogs I read have updated within the past four days or so, I can only assume that everyone out there has dropped out of existence, too, so we are even.

John’s days off are the culprits; further spirits aren’t exactly low around here, really, just subdued.

Also, I am enjoying a rare treat today. John and I have had the air conditioner on since last night! This is entirely not like us, as we are both usually very environmentally conscientious and cheap as hell when it comes to the elec-trickery bill. This may be the one day this summer that we let ourselves luxuriate in wonderful refrigerated air like this, so I must get back to enjoying it.

I am officially “On Vacation,” until tomorrow.

The Archeological Find of the Century

I sent John off to work again tonight, and, as is our habit now, we took a walk to the park on the way to the bus stop. While walking along the creek, between bouts of defending myself from mosquito attacks, I happened to look down at an opportune moment.

A glint of something gold just happened to flash at me. Gold? I stopped, for I surely was a magpie in a previous life. Maybe a treasure? There was a moment of willies, as I worried about what it could be… Lost jewelry? That can only mean one thing. If Law and Order has taught me anything, couples strolling through parks have the unfortunate habit of finding corpses, and the last thing I needed was to trip into a crime scene.

But curiosity won, and I nudged the gold thing with my toe…

Flash, flash, flash. Twinkle.

Against my better instincts, I picked the thing up. Almost as quickly, I dropped the thing in freaked-out disgust.

I had found… A pimp tooth!

A cheap, gold pimp tooth.

Oh! The skin ripples in memory.

How do I know what it was? Well, it was tooth-sized, tooth-shaped, tooth-coloured (in a way). Maybe it wasn’t pure gold, as I think it was peeling, but it had a thing on it that looked like it was geared up to linking with a bridge-work thingy. I’m afraid that’s all the details I have, as I didn’t hang around much to look.

It is a well known fact that where there are pimp teeth, there may well be pimp diseases!

Now, I don’t know much about the history of the area, and my archaeology classes were a whole long time ago, but chances are I had not found evidence of an ancient pimp civilization here, but the material traces of something quite unpleasant…

Maybe this place isn’t Mayberry, after all.

What did I do? Nothing, really. I dropped it, shuddered, and kept on. Perhaps the owner would be back to look for it. I certainly wouldn’t want to be around to deliver it to him. My guess would be that an unpleasant fellow with a less-than-fully-pimped grill would not be a fun person to run into.

My, my. The excitement to be found in even the sleepiest town’s seedy underbelly!

I may stroll through a different park tomorrow.

See What Happens?!?

All this time alone and a month out of school, and I am losing my marbles.

This morning, I woke up in an absolute panic. Didn’t know what day it was, and I thought I had missed the meeting I have on Monday. But it is Sunday. I know, because I had the foresight to calm myself and check my blog for the date.

Trusty blog. Nice blog. My old friend.

My precious.

If I didn’t have blog to update, I’d never know what day it is. (This is an unwholesome and depressing side effect of summer “vacation”.)

It is really hot and muggy here today for the first time this summer, and I have been fantasizing about what kind of fan (or two) I might get when I finally have money again… Tower fans are very strange to my eyes, but I like the tall ones. Did you know they even have fans with remotes now? How awesome is that?

(Have included pic of my dream fan, a 16" Noma Pedistal Fan, in chic black, with remote, who I call Whippy.)

So, while searching for fantasy fans, and having no one around and nothing to do, I contemplated making out a wedding gift registry at Canadian Tire Online (which is my new fetish site), just in case, and pile it with all the magical fans, dehumidifiers and toaster ovens I could ever want.

This is not me! Please help! The middle class has stolen my brain!

(If/when I ever do a wedding registry, you can bet it’ll be on Amazon… Although that Canadian Tire site is pretty damned nifty, too… I can feel my soul cracking.)

Oh man, I really, really, really, neeeeeeeeeeeeed summer to be over.

Immediately.

Man’s Inhumanity to… Babies?

Today marks the 72nd birthday of the famous Dionne Quints. Five girls, all born of a single egg in 1934 in Callander, Ontario, were the first set of quintuplets to survive, and fell prey to the Depression era’s ravenous appetite for entertainment and human interest news.

In the ten years in which the girls were displayed in the zoo-like Quintland hospital they were studied and observed by a fleet of curious medical professionals, and over 3 million tourists came to view the children from their nursery balcony. Taken as wards of the Ontario government, the children were alienated from their parents and were reported to have said the word “doctor” before they learned the word “mother.”

After nine years, they were reunited with their parents, but time could not be rewound and the girls permanently separated from their family at 18, and the three remaining sisters (two died as young women) fought for years for a share in the estimated half-billion dollars of profit made off their careers as side-show attractions, and have since written a book about their experiences.

Parodied in Woody Allen’s treatise on 30’s fad culture, Zelig (1983), mentioned in the Marx Brothers’ A Night at the Opera (1935), and the subject of many films, shorts, newsreels, books, magazines, and documentaries of their own (as well as inspiring the "Dr. Christian" series of the 30s and 40s), the Dionne Quints (Annette, Cecile, Yvonne, Marie and Emilie) became a major slice of pre-war pop culture and remain a nostalgic reference that any Depression era buff would instantly recognize. Sadly, they also stand out as an example of how common goodness can easily fall prey to greed and sensationalism.

One of the Coolest Cats, Ever

Surprisingly, Vincent Price was born in St. Louis, Missouri, of all places, on May 27, 1911. I say this not to cast aspersions on the good people of Missouri, but Price did an excellent job of always sounding so very, very continental. Eternally dashing, it is quite a mystery how he never made it as a leading man. Perhaps it was the intensity of his face, that awesome voice (which could be easily recognized a mile off and underwater), and his noteworthy height of 6’4” that kept him firmly etched in the catalog of American horror saints.

In honour of a man who helped raise my generation, I have elected to re-watch The Last Man on Earth (1964) again as tonight’s entertainment. While this movie seems to be one of those that viewers either love to death or hate passionately, don’t let reviews sway you. I find it gripping from the first seconds of narration all the way to the poignant ending, and it seems just as moving and significant today as it did when made, perhaps even more so.

A world-wide plague sets about killing off humankind, but for, so it seems, the last man, Dr. Robert Morgan (Price), who is forced to make his way in the world and keep his sanity, even after it is revealed that the disease doesn’t just kill its victims, but turns them into mindless nocturnal zombies (bear with me). In the end, Price is faced with the question whether these zombies are the monsters, or whether he is, and the whole thing ends in a sort of fable about how misguided intentions can destroy everything.

I am not usually a major booster of the whole zombie genre, and maybe this film wouldn’t work so well if it were another actor (I can put up with a lot for a good glimpse of Vincent Price), but I enjoy this thing every time I see it. The opening situation of a man alone, and facing being alone for the rest of his life, who dares not even hope for so much as a pet as company, becomes wonderfully enthralling, especially when that man is normally so well-groomed and contained. Further, the camera use and sound, while rough in places, almost seems avant-garde, and the low budget technique gives the film an eerie, pseudo-documentary feel.

Thumbs up, all the way, and, along with Night of the Living Dead (1968) and Carnival of Souls (1962), this is one of my all time favourite cheapie thrillers of the decade.

Vincent Price died on October 25, 1993, just a few years after his touching cameo in Tim Burton’s Edward Scissorhands (1990), and remains one of the few actors of his era who is as cool and recognizable as ever, due to his appearance in some 179 movies, TV shows, radio spots and music videos over a nearly 60-year career. Let’s see those leading men try to claim that!

My First Night as a Night-Shift Widow

I made it through John’s first graveyard shift of the summer. True, he used to work graveyard shifts all the time when we were in Halifax, but those shifts were served downstairs in the same building. Now, but for amalgamation, he’d be in another city!

Further, Halifax is Halifax. Ontario, sadly, is Ontario.

It’s not that I’m scared to be alone. It is simply that I am not used to it, and see no need for it. True enough, I enjoy being free of company from people in general, but I don’t consider John an intrusion. More as if we are alone together. Being absolutely alone doesn’t thrill me.

However, I made it through admirably, I think. I did my reading. Talked to the cat. Finally got to sleep. All the exciting lifestyle features of the poor and pathetic.

Tonight’s plan consists of some Old Time Radio (OTR from now on, just to show how ultra-hip I am), more reading, and probably a movie… And a whole lot more talking to the cat.

It is truly going to be a long summer.

PS. Have made inroads towards becoming more friendly with the folks upstairs, by virtue of their very adorable dog and small talk in the elevator. Can peace talks be too far behind?

Wha…? Where Am I?

(Deep breath.)

Still deeply embroiled in dissertation panic.

I have gone from last year’s intermarriage study in terms of the construction of the Jew and Gentile involved in the romance, to an examination of the rejected Jewish mates seen in the process, to the role of religious differences in film, to a discussion of the Jewish and Gentile parents who oppose the marriage, and then back full circle. Now I seem to be skirting the whole selection issue by looking at all the parties through the process of negotiating assimilation through North America’s cinematic history.

A couple more drafts and I should be on a unified theory of stress related aneurisms.

I have until the first Friday in August (TWO MONTHS) to present a good draft of my 10 page research proposal, and that will initiate a year’s worth of deep negotiations over it, culminating in a departmental presentation in May 2007, and a final draft submitted to grad studies in August 2007.

This all may seem like a long time, but right now it seems like minutes and hours fly by with some supernatural speed designed to kill me and all hopes of academic success. I have re-written my old preliminary statement twice, and have written three and a half totally different drafts today, all spurred, domino-like, by an email from the Advisor. It is going to be a long, long summer. I can feel the hairs going grey as we speak.

Spurts of panic have been making my brain run madly off in all directions every couple of hours, and I will soon be down to either writing "I am a fish" 500 times, or the old classic "All work and no play... yadda, yadda, yadda..."

Still, I try to remain calm. All told, this is the first honest day’s PhD study I have put in since classes ended, and I really don’t like it. All these tasks are really ruining my self image as a lazy sod. Before we know it, I’ll actually believe this is how humans are meant to live. *shudder*

Even when I took a break to walk to the store for a bottle of root-beer to calm the nerves, I was muttering stuff about assimilation and collective guilt the entire way, smoking like a mark on the way to Jersey. Even old war vets looked nervous around me, and I am quite surprised no one invited me to any AA coffee klatches.

I am either now waking up from a horrible dream, atop a pile of books on Jews in film, or I am entering a whole new nightmare… I have not yet decided which, but I can tell that this whole circus is far from over, and will not end until I finally have in my possession one parchment in the summer of 2009, or I am hauled out of my office, feet first, in a long black bag.

However, in the meantime, what I do know is that summer may have seemed far too long, but now it seems far too short. Relativity is making more sense to me all the time.

So dishes remain unwashed, and the weekly comp readings have taken a severe beating. My scholarly forces may not be up to the task of three separate fronts, and I may have to resign myself to losing some battles if I want to win the war.

No Way it Can Be Thursday!

Oh my! Where the hell did the week go?

Am way behind on my weekly reading, and now I am back onto my dissertation proposal pretty heavy after my meeting and having received feedback from the Advisor. I have to clean the house, and read an entire textbook on the history of religion in the US (by Saturday), but yet I am eager to get my dissertation ideas down while they are still fresh!

Crud. The summer is already spinning out of my control, and it isn’t even June yet…

It can’t possibly be Thursday already. The cosmos can’t possibly be that cruel to me.

The Frugal Bacchanalian

Committee meeting went very well. So well, in fact, that, despite being all on my own this evening, I decided to have a victory party. Leaving campus, I had a notion to buy myself a cheap DVD on the way home. However, I soon found that my ATM card was nowhere to be found in my wallet. Ah! It must be at home, I thought. Walking home, undaunted, I made some plans for a celebration on a slim budget of about $25. I deserved it, I thought.

Landing home, I found there was still no ATM card to be found. John left for work with me early this afternoon, so I figured he had my card for our joint account with him (his doesn’t work very well). But I thought that my personal account card, which only represents about $40, but still enough for my purposes, would be here in its hidey hole in the shoe rack. Not a lovely piece of blue plastic to be found.

Celebration attempt foiled again, I moped a little, checked AIM (but found no one), sent off some emails I needed to send, and generally lost all hope of my congratulatory party.

Getting sick of my self-pity, and uneager about an evening spent doing the dishes and then reading more comp material, I started to think creatively. I had a five dollar bill in my wallet from coffee with the committee, and the change jar was sitting in its usual place. Scooping out some quarters (not even I am desperate enough to make purchases with handfuls of dimes, a la hoboes and old ladies), I found myself with an enormous spending power of $9. What a budget for my party!

No matter, I thought. The Dollarama will have to suffice!

I have now returned, and, with a buck left over, I managed to score a used movie on VHS from the rental place’s sale (how fortuitous!), one I have never seen before and seems interesting (despite the presence of David Schwimmer). I also managed to squeeze my coins into a large bag of simulated sour cream and onion ring chips and a liter of milk for coffee (I decided to forgo pop as too extravagant, and will substitute with the bulk-sized grape juice crystals purchased for us against his better judgment by John’s dad last March).

Then for the grand flourish! The Dollarama sells these surprisingly delicious and addictive chocolate bars from Turkey (and, yes, they are vegetarian) called “Roxy Bars.” To describe them, they are slightly chintzy versions of Musketeer bars, only much more chewy, that come in a pack of five for a buck. However, today the Dollarama was sold out.

Drat! Some other poor tub in the city has discovered by supply of cheap chocolate-like-substance!

So I have made the leap to Lady Sarah wafer-bars from Poland, instead. They are still five for a dollar, but they look like they are trying to be more fancy. We shall see how Poland competes with Turkey!

So, the plan for the festivities? Couch. Movie. Junk food. Possibly some form of supper. I haven’t decided.

Ummmmm. I earned my treat.

Second Year

PhD programs, like Hogwarts, measures the progress (or life spans) of its students in years. Today at 1pm I meet with my committee, digest the problems and achievements of the last while, and plan the next 12 months. Here at Laurier, the year runs from May to May, so today marks my leap into “Second Year PhD.” Swanky.

Today I go over my grades and my requirements met, discuss my general comp prep and my field comp list, and (hopefully) get a general go-ahead on my dissertation interest. I also will discuss my language requirements (blech), and my professional development (even more blech). This is the last time for a while that I will have my whole committee together in one room, so I have to make the most of it. The problem is, so will they!

I am not sure if I am worried about the meeting or not. Anxious, I guess, but I don’t anticipate any major bitch-slaps. I will be glad when it is over, though. Because, remember: the day after your committee meeting is the longest possible time before more committee meeting!

That will be a lovely spot in which to be.

The King of Hollywood

123 years ago today, in Colorado, early matinee idol Douglas Fairbanks was born.

As one of the original members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, a husband to Mary Pickford, a business partner to D.W. Griffith, and a best friend to Charlie Chaplin, Doug Fairbanks represented a hub of Hollywood legend, as well as one of the four biggest box office draws in American silent pictures. Fairbanks was for a generation the iconic Robin Hood (1922), an impressive Zorro (1920; 1925), and the ultimate swashbuckling cad in The Thief of Bagdad (1924), as well as one of the most athletic and exciting forms in motion picture history.

It is a shame that he has largely been forgotten outside of old-movie-fan circles, as his films remain remarkably watchable even for silent film neophytes, and his Thief of Bagdad is among the greatest adventure stories ever filmed.

Delayed Birthday Treat

Today, THIS has arrived!

Amanda’s birthday card came today in the ever-speedy international mails, and it looks ten times more wonderful on paper than via scan! It is the perfect gift for me: something absolutely original, and 100% Chaplin-based. I have already gone out and bought a frame for it, and it holds a key place in my study. The envelope also contained the original of that nifty Swank caricature of me, so I now have two Amanda Wood Originals on display in my home, and it has so brightened up my week!

Amanda is an astounding artist - The type that makes me instantly realize the difference between amateur knack and professional skill. And, yes, she does commissions, too. (Wouldn’t your mum love a portrait of you for the holidays? Doesn't your crappy garage band need a snazzy demo-album cover? Wouldn't your spinster aunt like a couch-sized painting of her cats?)

Amanda can be reached through her blog, and I believe her prices are quite reasonable for the quality of the product. By way of recommendation, I can say that I am one hell of a satisfied customer! This is truly one of the nicest birthday gifts I have ever received.

Here’s to Solitude! (Death to St. Nick!)

I survived my meeting this morning, and have discovered, yet again, that my early morning jitters were meaningless. It was a fine get-together, and, despite my fears, there was no pressed suggestion that we prepare for the comps as some big work-sharing Borg collective. I must say, I had been worried about that.

I didn’t know how I would respond to some nonsense suggestion like, “Why don’t we each read seven books and then share our notes!” Bah!

The only major controversy arose when I discovered that the early January 2007 date for the first comprehensive exam has not been set, and that the exam may still be set for early December 2006. I am not pleased. My schedule depends on the January date. This can change around, if necessary, of course, so I will survive this upset. However, the fact that TA duties wind down in the same week that the comp may be set for… ? That I may not survive.

My main problem with this situation is the reasoning behind my colleagues’ desire to keep it in December. They want it in early December so that they can have their Christmas free of comp thought. I try to be tolerant of Christmas and the weird attachment people place on it, I really do. But 28 years’ worth of bitterness spikes my blood pressure when I hear that, once again, Christmas is the reason my plans may go awry.

It seriously makes me want to hunt Santa down and plug him between the eyes!

Oh well, I have logged my displeasure with my departmental rep. This, of course, will not help, because Christmas always wins in these situations. Nevertheless, at least it allowed me to feel even the slightest amount of agency through my ineffectual attempt at protest.

Sigh.

Waiting

I am here waiting for a friend to get back to me about a drive to a meeting. The meeting is voluntary, among the PhD students of my cohort. I find myself hoping he doesn’t show to drive me over. It’s not that I am depressed; rather, I want to be alone. In fact, not meeting up with these folks prevents depression, as I sit there smiling as they try to psyche each other out with talk of conferences and brags about European vacations. No, I am not depressed right now, but, if I go, I will be by this afternoon.

I Hope That Cost a Digit.

One of the strangest laws in the land is found in Ontario. Here, fireworks are illegal, except for on Victoria Day (the Monday before May 24) and on Canada Day (July 1). Does this make sense? Are we to understand it that folks in Ontario need to light fireworks, and the government is obligated to set aside at least two days a year for their use? The days on which the yokels are most drunk??

I ask again: Does this make sense?

So on these two supposedly festive (but perversely awful) days, all the sad drunks clad in Molson caps and WWF gear crawl out of their woodwork in herds to storm the local 7-11 to stock up on cheerfully-coloured explosives and then, with a beer in one hand, take their kids to whatever quarry, field or backyard they can find, to, once again, play Russian roulette with their children’s future as piano virtuosos. And the rest of us have to sit tight, bear the cracks and snaps, and pray one doesn’t land on the roof. (And I can’t even bear to think what it is like for older folks who may reflect on even less pleasant memories with the bangs!)

There isn't even any test to make sure these folksies know why they're celebrating some dead Queen's birthday in the first place!

What really gets me about all this is that Ontarians DARE to cast Maritimers in the role of the nation’s hicks, and the poor Albertans as the country’s rednecks! Listen, there are just as many roll-bars around here as I have ever seen anywhere else in the country, and there can be no greater density of rube-ism as can be seen in this so-called “Golden Horseshoe.”

I am not usually given to low humour, but these folks certainly put the cracker in firecracker. (And I wouldn’t be all that saddened if the firecrackers put the shrapnel in the crackers.)

And at least hicks out East usually confine themselves to hick counties and hick structures (stadiums, hunting lodges, etc), not my backyard. And at least they aren’t armed with rockets and Roman candles. Somehow, they manage to satisfy their hick self-identity with merely the Molson hats, and without the fire.

4.30 In the OMG Morning!

Must go to bed soon, as Mark will be here at around 1pm… It will be nice to see him again, as it will some confirmation that we still have friends.

The firecracker-loving hicks seem to have finally stopped, so it is quiet. However, I cannot go to bed, as I have started a brand new addiction to AIM. Amanda is on the other end, relieving me of the loneliness that is only bound to get worse as preparation for my doctoral exams continue to absorb my life for the next year.

I want to sleep, yet I cannot shut my comp down. Is there a support group?

Bang, Bang, Bang. Bark, Bark, Bark.

That’s all I hear.

Hicks shooting off fireworks. Dog upstairs going ape tar over them.

First the fireworks. Then the barking. I'll hear it ringing in my head for days.

I hate Victoria Day weekend.

Imitating Himself

Jimmy Stewart, movie star and American hero.
(May 20, 1908- July 2, 1997)

Legendary actor and all-around-good-guy James Stewart was born today 98 years ago in a small town called Indiana, Philadelphia (two conflicting place names that have undoubtedly caused confusion since). Graduating from Princeton in 1932, Stewart seems to have been as bright, sweet and calm as he appeared in his films, and his screen persona has become one of the most enduring (and endearing) images in Hollywood history, so much so that Jimmy once wondered if he hadn’t started doing “Jimmy Stewart impersonations” instead of acting!

He is probably best known for (thanks to the innumerable seasonal re-runs) the Christmas myth It’s a Wonderful Life (1946), his Oscar-winning The Philadelphia Story (1940), or for the outstanding Hitchcock classics Rear Window (1956) and Vertigo (1958). Although the list of wonderful pictures this man made during his lifetime would be too long to list here, my all-time-favourite Jimmy Stewart works include his far above average radio Western series, “The Six Shooter” (1954-1956), in which he played a philosophical and observant gunman-hero, and the iconic Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939). Mr. Smith, with its famous filibuster scene in which one average man holds the American government accountable to “We the People,” and to the Constitution, actually made my heart swell, even when I was six. Despite its Capra-corniness, this picture has helped define my own look on life. This film proves that earnestness is not always laughable, and that a film doesn’t have to be a three hour “issue picture” to affect the ethical outlook of subsequent generations.

Jimmy Stewart, even if you have never seen him, has helped to create the North American standard of who is a “good egg.”

In his movies, Jimmy seemed optimistic, kind, gentle and brave, and always polite, or at least just. With his sterling WWII service record, his 45 years of faithful marriage, and even his “Silver Beaver” honours as one of the most devoted supporters of the American Boy Scout movement, Stewart seems to have lived his roles… Or, rather, his roles seemed to have lived him.

Salam Alaikum, Brother Malcolm.

"Don't be in a hurry to condemn because he doesn't do what you do or think as you think or as fast. There was a time when you didn't know what you know today."

Malcolm X
May 19, 1926 – February 21, 1965.

LOL!

Yes. LOL, as the kids say.

I am sitting here alone, taking a break from my comp reading, listening to some more Our Miss Brooks, and I was actually forced to laugh out loud (especially the "Mr. Boynton's Lots" episode), all by myself.

I am embarrassed to report I actually woke up the cat!

What a great way to take a rest from my doctoral dedication! Much better than the forced pause prompted by the fire alarm in my building earlier today… I might have LOL’d then, too, but I was afraid they’d arrest me for cackling while having a lighter in my pocket.

Internal Server Error

In other words, according to HTTP, this is number 500.

The five hundredth post, that is.

Or “D” to all you ancient Romans out there.500 posts ago I was just starting this blog for some unknown reason.

400 posts ago I was flush with Episode III fever and still stuck in Hammy-town.

200 posts ago, I was entering a long depression.

100 posts ago I was half-heartedly trying to finish up the second term of PhD.

300 posts ago ... I seem to have been MIA.

Ah!

So many memories. So little life.

Happy Birthday to Me!

28 years ago this morning, doctors were telling my mum that I was dead and would have to be extracted stillborn. She was horrified, of course. Then, as luck would have it, the guys in white figured out that the machine wasn't actually plugged in.

So 28 years ago, right about now, I came kicking and wailing into this world. Very likely the same way I’ll go out, only I’m pretty sure the end will involve a bus or other large vehicle of some variety.

Still, tonight, all is well with the world. I found hidden money in a forgotten bank account from back in the day, and my new corny, and oh-so-amateur, Geocities website went up with only a few hours’ worth of cursing.

(For those of you who are laughing at me right now, I’ll have you know this isn’t just vanity. In this program, the policy says we have to take a non-credit course in web design for professional, i.e. resume, use, and for classroom instruction purposes. This Geocities thing is so I can have some practice before I have to get graded on the thing.)

Also, John survived his first day of work, and seemed to have made a big hit. He thinks he’s going to like it there, so that is a load off the mind.

And, finally, I couldn’t bring myself to do much comp reading. Instead I asked myself what I would like to do most with my birthday, and the answer came back, “Listen to Our Miss Brooks episodes until my ears bleed.” So, after a little Google activity, I came up with some free download sites, and I was truly in seventh heaven.

I didn’t win the Charlie Chaplin CD boxed set contest I entered, but I am OK with that, and I have almost stopped pouting. (Back when we were completely broke and hopeless, this was our master plan to get me a birthday gift.)

Grand total: a handful of second hand books; a previously viewed movie; two horrendously awful movies from the dollar store (wait until I review them!); $100 from the folks; three birthday cards; one card in the mail; a birthday-eve/new job pizza; two telephone calls; two “Happy Birthday” blog comments; hours of slacking off; a new web page hobby; three birthday emails; one ice cream cone after supper.

Not too shabby. Can’t wait until 29!

(Yes, actually, I can.)

Damn You, Profile. Damn You.

John is off to work for his first day. I am very happy for the promise of income at long last, but also a little sad. We are generally not used to being further away than the next room from each other. (Yes. Sick. I know.)

But what is a birthday with only myself and the worst of the comp books to read?

I won’t tell you which one (in case the author is one of those twists who Googles her name daily), but I call it “The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich for Buddhism.” Facts, facts, facts… for 300 pages. Not cool facts, either. Settlement and migration facts. Dates for the construction of various temples. Those kinds of facts.

Why the hell didn't I think of this when I scheduled that book for this week???

*sigh*

And I have a sore knee today from the six hours of walking on the job hunt yesterday… I am certainly feeling every one of my years right now, so that makes the birthday that much nicer, no? (Birthdays are only a boost if you look and feel at least 10 years younger.)

And now I made the monumental mistake of clicking on my profile. The age has changed. You can’t fool the automated age machine… Well, I could change the birth year, but I haven’t gotten quite that sad, yet. But I wish I could set it to not change until 9pm. I need those extra hours. I’m not yet done with 27.

Gonna write notes to various elderly relatives in thanks for their birthday cards (sad, too, that none can come from my aunt this year), and listen to that birthday episode of Our Miss Brooks…

28? More like 98!

Better make that muffin bran today.

May 17, 1978: A Day That Shall Live in Mediocrity

The day before yesterday, I spent my time planning conference proposals. There were two good ones I am preparing; one in Vancouver on diaspora cultures (pray I don’t run into the wrong junkie), and the other in Kingston-town, just down the highway, on the place of the ‘60s in global consciousness (very neat – hippies everywhere, I hope). Wish me luck in my continuing SSHRC-whoring struggle.

Article polishing cannot progress until I get feedback from my two profs. I am already behind on my comp reading, I have yet to have my committee meeting, and I still haven’t heard back from the Editor. Friday I must toddle over to hear the PhD 2’s dissertation proposal presentations. I am closer to a field comp reading list, but negotiations rage on. I still have not OK’d my preliminary dissertation proposal draft, as I am too lazy and scared to make a preliminary bibliography… I am unexcited about winning myself yet another reading list for the summer. Another list I can’t afford to satisfy, financially or temporally.

However, all progresses fairly well, and the people who have seen my pre-prop say it looks interesting. That is a fine start.

I just have to remember that, a year from next week, I will be ABD! That must keep me going.

Yesterday, I spent helping John job hunt and make it to his THREE job interviews, all over Kitchener. At least the weather was kind to us and the evil yellow face was nowhere in sight… And, best of all, John got me EXACTLY what I wanted for my birthday: A JOB! We are saved! Fritz is safe from being made into emergency jerky rations, once more.

I was very happy when we got back… Until I got my first hate email, ever, over my Swank article, which I guess was not tongue-in-cheek enough. Actually the guy never specified the Swank article, but I assume that is the one he felt was full of “faggotry,” and the reason I should get off the “interweb.” At first I thought the email was about my Jack Benny piece, and I had been rejected by the meanest book editor in the world.

That took the pink tinge off the day. Just a tad.

And now it is today. May 17th.

My 28th birthday.

Whoop-ity-crap.

I have never liked birthdays, frankly. When I was a kid, we didn’t have birthday parties for non-family, because that would mean I would have to shell-out for gifts on reciprocal invitations, and we didn’t exactly live a Dallas lifestyle, if you get my drift. And spending your birthday with parents and siblings lacks a certain something, to put it mildly.

Then, at 16, I started to realize that each year brought me closer to old age and obscurity, since I was no where near a child prodigy in anything, so birthdays from then on only signaled another year in average-ville.

Now I am 28. I have no real accomplishments to speak of, except for the apparent ability to inspire outrage from some crappy net reader who read my article for free, anyway, so really shouldn’t have anything to complain about (at least I gave him something to do with his useless hours since his porn-site account seems to have been cancelled).

That 16-year-old me would still have been mighty disappointed in this me.

So, at 9 tonight thereabouts, I will turn 28 for real.

However, we did splurge on a $7 previously-viewed copy of Broken Flowers (2005), so that is something to brighten my week this year. (Bill Murray always makes things better.) And I picked up a hard-cover book on Israel Lipski, a famed Jewish murderer in Whitechapel, for only a buck at the library sale. And, as we have at least a glimpse of financial security, we ordered a pizza. And I got a $12 cheque from a little old lady back home.

All in all, one of the best birthdays yet, actually.

May 16, 1943: Zydowska Organizacja Bojowa

Today marks the 63rd anniversary of the fall of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, in which less than 60,000 Jews, with less than 1,000 armed resistance volunteers among them, held out for almost a month against German troops in an effort to end the deportation of Jews to concentration camps and win them their freedom.

In the summer of 1942, after 300,000 Jews had been deported to Treblinka, the remaining Jews decided that their lives could only be saved by insurrection. News and rumours about Nazi death camps, as well as Nazi plans to completely liquidate the Ghetto that year, had been leaked back into the Ghetto. The hope that their usefulness as slave-labour would save them dwindled, and underground leaders called on the last Jews in Warsaw to resist being put into the cattle cars by any possible means.

The Warsaw Jews had slowly begun to smuggle in and hide guns, ammunition and incendiaries for years, and convinced the Germans to let them build a series of 631 air-raid bunkers in the Ghetto. The young men and women still left in the Ghetto, a hell on earth that included rampant disease, brutal overwork and constant hunger, formed the Zydowska Organizacja Bojowa (ZOB), or “Jewish Fighting Organization,” led by 23-year-old Mordecai Anielewicz, with the nearly impossible goal of armed combat with the Nazi forces of Poland.

On January 18, 1943, the group successfully repelled a Nazi attempt to deport more Jews to the extermination camps, forcing the armed deportation brigade to retreat after several days of fighting, and the ardent desire to protect Jewish lives and win their freedom swept the group towards a more ambitious plan: a conquest of the entire Ghetto.


On Passover eve, April 19, 1943, the Jews of Warsaw opened fire on German military men who had come to liquidate the Ghetto. The Nazis laid siege to the walled quarter, making inroads and rounding up every Jew they could capture. They shut off the gas, water and electricity to that part of the city, and cut off all entrances and exits. They killed the population of the Jewish hospital and destroyed all means of medical aid for the Jews. In an attempt to force the surrender of the ZOB, German forces set fire to random blocks of the Ghetto, catching and killing people as they were forced to jump from their windows, and laid down blanket machine gun fire into the residential sections. The Nazis piped gas into air-raid shelters, flooded the sewers to cut off escape, and then shelled the ruins to clear out any possible survivors in the bunkers.

The Germans were surprised and startled by the resistance they encountered, noting that both male and female Jews, and even children, were armed, and shot furiously from a gun in each hand or lobbed Molotov cocktails viciously. They had not expected this.

The 750 ZOB resistance soldiers were armed with the most makeshift pile of armaments, loyalty to each other, and the strongest weapon of all in their will to survive, and fueled their revolt for 28 days. They even received some help from non-Jewish Polish resistance groups on the outside, who started to attack the Germans from the rear. Soon, however, the more than 2,000 Nazi troops, under the command of SS Major General Jürgen Stroop, were able to outlast the Jews and crush the rebellion. 7,000 Jews were killed in the fighting, and approximately 6,000 were killed by fire or gas during the siege. 56,000 Jews were captured and were sent to the death camps. Major fighting declined after April 23, 1943, but Anielewicz (1919-1943) was killed in battle on May 8, 1943, and the uprising ended on May 16th. Nevertheless, the Germans were obliged to spend the summer of 1943 suppressing survivors who had regrouped and continued to resist.


There is often a tendency in Jewish circles today to emphasize the ZOB’s role as martyrs and heroes, and there is no question that they fought for a just cause and are admirable figures in Jewish history. However, one should not hold them up as the iconic image of the Jewish Holocaust experience. The truth of the matter is that these people were extraordinarily special. Their bravery, resources, and foresight should not be used as a slight against those Jewish communities – starved, uninformed, and defenseless – who did not resist in such a way.

Nevertheless, the example of the Warsaw Ghetto revolutionaries serves to remind us all that the Jews did resist, and we thank them for their legacy of very human struggle for life and freedom.

The Warsaw Ghetto Uprising of 1943 failed in its goal to free the inmates and end the deportations, but the ZOB succeeded in many other ways, not just in the legacy of resistance and action they left behind, or in the sense of regained power they must have personally felt when resisting their tormentors. Stories of the Jewish armed insurrection in Warsaw spread throughout Europe, inspiring resistance amongst many other communities, even including some slave labour camps. The Jewish insurgents had failed, but the fact that they had held out at all gave hope to thousands.

By 1943 the German army was sapped by two fronts and a shortage of resources, including a lack of soldiers. These armed revolts were like small hemorrhages chewing at the insides of the Reich, reducing German forces in the interior and diverting German energy and attention away from the fronts. There can be no question that these uprisings had a positive effect on the Allied attempt to bring Hitler down.

In 1944 the Polish resistance, Armia Krajowa, staged a major uprising in Warsaw as part of the organized Operation Tempest throughout Poland, and the city was liberated by Soviet forces on January 17, 1945.

In 1949 a group of Warsaw Ghetto Uprising survivors established the Lohamey ha-Geta'ot (“fighters of the Ghettoes”) kibbutz in Israel populated largely by resistance fighters, and worked to record their testimonies. A Holocaust museum has been established there in their honour.

Will They or Won’t They… Or Did They?

The Jack Benny draft is written and sent off, but the legacy of all that Old Time Radio Broadcast learning has left its mark. I have found a long-lasting love of old radio comedies, and even westerns. (That last one surprised me more than you can guess… but I can never resist Jimmy Stewart, whose stutter is even cuter over radio waves, if you can believe it.)

My Saturday and Sunday nights this weekend were spent in utter radio-fan bliss. I was nestled down with my cat, under a breezy open window, tied to a pair of radio headphones. Now, I don’t appreciate much about Hamilton, and I am not normally a fan of that city’s talk radio station, CHML – at least in terms of its reactionary daytime programming. However, over night, when they play old radio shows from the 40s and 50s, I am one of their biggest fans.



Abbott and Costello, Jack Benny, Nero Wolfe (starring the awesome Sydney Greenstreet), Dragnet, The Cisco Kid, Life of Riley, The Six Shooter (which I could listen to for days and days), The Lone Ranger, Fred Allen (and his Alley), The Aldrich Family, numerous playhouse radio dramas and farces (“Arsenic & Old Lace” and “Calling Northside 777” radio-adaptations, “The Girl in the Galaxy” featuring Buddy Rogers, et cetera), Fibber McGee & Molly, Andy Hardy, Gun Smoke… All these and more came to me over my little radio in the low lamp light. I was one with all those kids when these shows were first run, who sat in front of the family radio and held their breath until Cisco and Pancho saved the day, and Friday solved the crime.

I was not one of them, however, by my indecision and discomfort when the station played an episode of Amos and Andy, though, so I guess times have changed, even for old throwbacks like me.

But, by far, the greatest triumph of the weekend was my new obsession, Our Miss Brooks, which was a radio show from 1948 to 1952, when it transferred to TV for another four years. Miss Connie Brooks was a smart and snappy high school English teacher and unwilling spinster, and the show revolved around her dealings with her students, her co-workers, her landlady Mrs. Davis, and, especially, the object of her unrequited affection, Mr. Boynton, the school biology teacher, who is sadly much more interested in his frogs and mice than in the birds and the bees.




Surprisingly, this show never falls into misogynistic stereotypes of female marriage designs. It is true that Miss Brooks wants a loving husband, specifically Mr. Boynton, but the audience never really faults her for this. (Her goals are no more contemptible than all those lonely guys in 80s movies who seek true love and acceptance.) Connie Brooks, as played by the sharp, intense and talented actress Eve Arden, is strong, funny, quick, loveable, and, in short, really quite wonderful.

My only problem these days is the question as to where to find enough of this program, as it is not as available for free downloads as is the Jack Benny Show.


Oh, and my other problem was curiosity. When we are in the middle of a first-run show we are left to wonder if Mulder and Scully ever get around to consummating. But when the show ended fifty years ago, I have been uncomfortably aware of the fact that the answer to “will they, won’t they?” for Mr. Boynton and Connie is only a few small mouse clicks away. I won’t tell you how it ends up, but I got to admit that the age of the show has in no way reduced my anticipation of the next episode I can get my mitts on, and I am currently saving my pennies for the 5 CD set for sale on OTRCAT standing between me and complete Miss. Brooks satisfaction.

Anyway, I was able to find you a little something to whet your appetite. Enjoy!

(Be warned that this contains no ads, but does have the re-run station promos and an introduction attached. It has two episodes of Our Miss Brooks, and runs 59 minutes.)

powered by ODEO

May 14-15, 1970: The Jackson State Tragedy

Most of us have heard of the Kent State Massacre of May 4, 1970, in which four students were killed by the National Guard for protesting the American invasion of Cambodia. However, the fallout of this massacre has received much less attention.

9.30pm, on May 14, 1970, reacting to a rumour that Charles Evers had been assassinated, black students from Jackson State College in Mississippi rioted in protest against institutionalized racism, the war in Vietnam, and the death of their fellow students at Kent State. This was frustration long in the making, and, after whites complained loudly enough to the police and mayor’s office, another American Campus tragedy was set into motion.

When a fire broke out from the riot, a fully-armed brigade of State Police and National Guard forces were called in to hold off the crowd for the safety of the fire fighters. After the blaze was put down, the guard remained on campus and, for reasons unknown, the police spread out with weapons drawn.

At 12.05 am on May 15th, the seventy police officers opened fire on the protestors.

Some say they gave warning, but others claim the gunfire came out of the blue. In either event, after a volley lasting 30 seconds, two students were dead, and at least twelve more were shot. Scores more were wounded in the trample fleeing the guns, and many, many more were traumatized. It was later estimated that more than 460 rounds of ammunition were pumped into the crowd of 70 to 100. 160 bullet holes were counted in the outer wall of the staircase on Alexander Hall, a dormitory, and can still be seen there today, as a silent tribute to these horrific events. The police stopped to retrieve their shell casings before they left the scene.

21-year-old pre-law student (and father of one), Phillip Lafayette Gibbs died instantly with four gun shots to the head and torso. High school senior, 17-year-old James Earl Green, a bystander, was shot and killed by a single shotgun blast to the chest. He had just been passing by, when the action caught his attention. He had just stopped to look.

No arrests have ever been made in connection with these deaths.

The event is sad and frightening, but the fact that it has been so well lost from public memory is even worse. The Kent State Massacre was perpetrated on white kids from the suburbs and therefore it is a newsworthy tragedy; it takes little imagination to guess why the Jackson State Massacre, which took place on a black campus and affected the lives of black youth in the act of protesting racism and violence, has not been as memorialized as much as it deserves. Are we less concerned when young black men are killed?

Let us all remember that these black students were also protesting the deaths of their white compatriots at Kent State, and let’s hope that this act of compassion and co-operation can grow to work both ways.

It is in part to people like the Jackson State protestors that we owe our current freedoms, and it is through their example that we continue to seek better lives for ourselves and future students.

Shall we overcome?

Happy Mother’s Day!

For my mum,
my first and oldest friend.

My Pubes Just Turned Red

Red pubes, for those who don’t know, are the stereotypical sign of the ever-virginal Star Trek nerd. A crude, but evocative, image.

We are a pretty healthy couple, John and I. One of the reasons we don’t have television is because, after nearly ten years of partnerhood, we still talk all the time. (Why have cable when you can hold six-hour conversations and not run out of things to say?) Usually our conversations dwell on memories, or news stories, or issues, or opinions, or things we are studying in school or books we are currently reading. Sometimes we chat about the weather, movies (a lot of those), or just the cat. Not always mind-blowing revelations, but good, solid talk.

Today, however, we had a long, exhaustive talk about Star Trek, particularly on how sad it was that Enterprise failed after only four seasons (when Star Trek series traditionally run seven seasons, as was the case with DS9, Voyager, and the classic Next Generation). We blame the lack of syndication and the exclusive UPN first-run contract, by the way. We expressed the opinion that Chakotay was the best first officer on a ST series ever, at least since Spock, and granted that seven years was a fine and full run-time for TNG and Voyager (both having exhausted their respective situations), but I still maintain that DS9 (though not my favourite ST series) could have gone on longer, as it was a station and more ensemble-oriented than most other ST shows. We agreed, easily, that bald Sisko was much, much more awesome than buttoned-down hirsute Sisko, and that Voyager’s Kazon were just the poor man’s Klingons. However, I think the Vidiians were awesome enemies and stand out as singular nightmares of the Delta Quadrant. And, possibly aside from McCoy, The Doctor was my all-time favourite medico. (Who else compares? Pulaski? G’dawfal Crusher?? Not even Julian tops my enjoyment of my beloved holo-doc.) And has there ever been a cooler Betazoid killer than Suder? (I would rather be locked up with him than Troi, any day, thanks.) We then compared the cool, hard-assed Bajorans of TNG with the lame ones from DS9, and then talked about how nice it would have been if Ro had been first officer on DS9 instead of Kira, whose romance with Vedek Bareil made us want to collectively yak.


So, yes. I officially have red pubes. This suspicion surfaced a couple of weeks ago when I corrected John on the warp capabilities of the Galaxy-class D-series Enterprise (NC-1701-D, to be precise) in comparison with the Intrepid-class U.S.S. Voyager (above), and it has been, sadly, confirmed today. (That is, if the Chekov test from last week didn't already give you a clue.)

However, scoff if you will, but ST has left me a happier and wiser individual. Because of The Franchise, I know never, ever to get into a shuttle with Kirk, Spock and Bones without making my will. That’s wisdom that lasts a lifetime.

Bloggity, Bloggity Blog

For lack of coherent thought of late, I have taken to thumbing through blogs recently… Including my own. I re-read the whole thing, and almost died of boredom over the last three months.

All I can say is that I am shamed and dismayed at how crappy this thing has gotten over the past while. I can picture you all out there, wondering how to gracefully remove my link from your sidebar without looking judgmental. Go ahead. I deserve it. (But before you do that, may I suggest that you replace it with a snazzy link to Clapboard Jungle, instead? That is three blog links in one, you know?)

So, yes, back to my blogging decline. Could I possibly blame this on some degenerative disease that attacks the central sense of humour? Perhaps on my advancing age?

Or possibly the fact that I am now rusticating in Mayberry instead of the hell-hole of my own personal skid-row (aka Hamilton)?

(On that last one, I might have something. It is much easier to be funny when dwelling in constant anger and disgust… But I’d rather be boring here, than funny in Purgatory, thanks!)

Oh well… I promise to do something interesting sometime soon, just for you guys, even if it means jacking a wireless laptop and riding the rails for the next three months. (Actually, no, that’s a lie. I saw that A&E special on the dangers of the box car life.)

But, I have posted a new review on Clapboard Jungle, so that’s something, at least!

I Take it All Back

Remember when I said that the summer did not have enough work for me? I was an idiot. There’s enough work. In fact, I may not survive my to-do list this summer. Even this blog has fallen in the priorities list… and not just because my life is dull as hell right now (the other day, I almost wrote about the new Star Wars Pez dispensers we got, just for something to say… Actually, I still may do that piece, anyway).

I finished reading Mama Lola… So only 35 books left to go. Yikes. However, work progresses, and I am already working on being behind on Religion and Ethnicity. I have two chapters read, but that’s not too great seeing as how I meant to have it read through by Wednesday. And these are books I have read before. I hate to think about what it’s going to be like when I actually start reading books I haven’t laid eyes on yet, let alone those two weeks in the schedule in which I have two books to read, abstract and process.

And I have a draft of my preliminary dissertation idea finished, but it’s not yet ready to be seen by the Committee. And this is a far, far cry from having the ten page dissertation proposal done, which is due in August. No telling how much reading will have to be done for that.

(If you would like to read and comment on this dissertation pre-prop, let me know and it can wing to you in an instant.)

I have also sent in my field comprehensive exam reading list suggestions, but suggestions are no where near the actual list, and I have a feeling that there will be hours more negotiation in my future over this little matter.

And I won’t even go into the editing work needed on those articles I hope to swing this summer, and I still haven’t heard back from the Editor on the Benny thing. For all I know, that will require a full re-write.

And it is again time for me to choose a Clapboard Jungle subject, and I haven’t the foggiest clue… If I believed in ESP, I’d see many, many Wednesdays in my future spent trying to satisfy that thing.

(If anyone has any requests for reviews you'd like to see me do, please send them my way. I'm hurting for ideas, here, people!)

And we still have no income. Mum sent me $100 for my birthday, which helps, but that is a far cry from the rent money, especially when it will probably go for food between now and the first of June.

Thus, because we are broke, I will have no choice but to be grateful if I find work, even though that situation will leave me even less time to satisfy my school obligations. Wonderful.

And we still have not triumphed completely over the silverfish. I saw one just today. Still, this is a much better daily spotting than a month ago, but a far cry from total silverfish-less-ness, which is the ultimate goal. We also have not gotten up the nerve to call the plumber, so I am getting filthy and paranoid about the shower malfunction… I hate having strangers poke around my apartment on maintenance calls. I really do wish I lived on the Enterprise. Sure the computer would go wacko and try to kill me once every season, but I could live with that if it meant that I wouldn’t have to call in a super or plumber.

Also, I was wrong in my totally romantic view of Waterloo’s wooded beauty. I forgot that a multitude of trees meant mountains and mountains of tree pollen floating in through my windows and covering everything (including my lungs) in yellow dust. I have been fighting a losing battle with this corn-mealy film. Yes, it is better than the black residue of Hamilton, but still a pain in the posterior. I am a little less enamored with our woodland wonderland, now.

I just hope the rain can soak down the trees and dune-like terrain enough to make breathing comfortable again.

And I still hate the yokels upstairs... Only now I also have barbecue stink coming in my windows, as well as stompy-stompy parties to contend with. Joy!

So I take it all back. Summer is not a wasteland of boredom. It is still a wasteland of depression, annoyance and financial horror, but not of boredom.

And, yet, even with all this work, I still find myself wasting time. Wednesday night I spent at least an hour wandering down memory lane by re-reading my blog... (And, yes, being unemployed in Waterloo is much better than being unemployed in Hamilton.)

So now, on top of everything, I also have to learn how to kick my own ass.

Whoever said that my late twenties should be the best time of my life should be shot. If I believed that, I may as well end it now, because I really have to believe that there are brighter years ahead somewhere amongst the three to five decades I may have left on this crummy planet...

Is My Face Red.

Having nothing better to do yesterday, John and I took the hike to Kitchener to drop off a resume at a Dollarama that is seeking a cashier and stock person. We left at 12.20pm. At 8pm, we drug our half-baked corpses back into our apartment.

Seven hours under a blazing sun. The breeze was pleasant, but could do nothing to stop the burning.

Gritty from air-born dust (please, let it rain soon!), sunburned and sore, we ate and then collapsed into bed. So now I have the first case of sun poisoning for the season. I feel absolutely hung-over, and now we have to force ourselves into cleaning for the plumber…

Still no word from the Editor, and that makes me tense, but not too worried.

Right now, horizontal is my only concern. How to keep horizontal.

Bless Me, Legba.

Legba, the Vodou spirit of thresholds and liminal states, is on my mind right now… Aside from continued job hunting and the loan process (which leaves us pretty neither here nor there, financially), I am half way between published and not-published, as well. I need all the help I can get, and since Vodou is famous for its practical and luck-based effects, it seems to be the logical refuge.

I sent off my semi-final draft of the Jack Benny chapter to my editor, and am waiting and holding my breath until I hear from him. Regardless of the outcome, big thanks go to Amanda, Allen, Catherine and especially John (who read it very carefully at least twice and helped significantly in re-writes) for all their questions, comments, encouragement, and editing suggestions.

After eight drafts, this thing is as polished as I could get it without a professional Benny-aware editor’s eyes. Now it is in his, and Legba’s, hands… I hope for the best, as always.

I will certainly let you know.

Even more transitory, I have written up the first draft of my preliminary dissertation proposal. In August, I have a ten page proposal due, and this week or next, I hope to submit a two-page trial (so as to find out if the core idea is fine with Advisor before proceeding with ten-pager). So this is a proposal for a proposal, and is in the first draft stage... Weird sort of PhD study equivalent to a promise ring, I guess.

Those of you who usually receive copies of such things for dry runs, expect transmission sometime soon. (At least a draft of a dry-run, if that sounds like it even exists in this dimension.)

Movement on the job front shows promise in terms of my hoped-for research position, and John continues to submit resumes, so that still requires attention and optimism, as well. We are down to raiding the penny jar, so we better get some movement soon before June rent day comes.

So, now that the Benny chapter is seeing its curtain, I am back to comp reading, etc., as well as editing the Chaplin and Groucho pieces for publication. Somehow, though, the Benny chapter has cleared my mind for the next publishing adventures…

The first one was the killer, and I almost feel adequate to future tasks, now.

The next move seems to be forward, I think. And possibly even upwards.

May 8, 1945: V-E Day

Today marks the 61st anniversary of the end of WWII in Europe, V-E Day, marked by the defeat of Nazi Germany, and the liberation of a continent.

Take a moment to celebrate… Light up a Lucky Green, watch Anchors Aweigh, and kiss a vet.

Tee Hee

It’s late, and I’m still up.

I have been to bed around 8pm (at least before 10pm) every night for three weeks. It’s past midnight now. I feel like I’m getting away with something.

Thanks to everyone who put time in reading the Benny chapter. I am actually starting to feel excited about this, seven drafts later… One more read through from John and a couple more from me in the morning, and then it’s off to the races. I’ll keep you posted on how the head honcho Editor feels about it.

Let’s pray for minimal re-writes so I can get on with my life.

Now to bedside comp reading for one chapter and then to sleep. Something tells me I won’t be updating at 6am.

It is fun to be naughty.

Please Direct Me to the Nuclear Wessels

Your results:

You are Chekov


Brash, rash and hasty,
but everyone loves you.

Chekov

---

75%

Jean-Luc Picard

---

75%

James T. Kirk (Captain)

---

60%

Will Riker

---

60%

Geordi LaForge

---

55%

Leonard McCoy (Bones)

---

45%

Mr. Scott

---

45%

An Expendable Character (Redshirt)

---

45%

Spock

---

34%

Data

---

27%

Worf

---

25%

Click here to take the "Which Star Trek character are you?" quiz...

Ditto

Editing continues.
Comp reading continues.
Job hunt continues.

That is all.

Nerves and Gas

Stress and rush, more like. I am behind on this week’s comp readings. Good thing this week’s book was Mama Lola, which I could recite backwards in my sleep, so I can rush through the last couple of chapters before bedtime and still be able to move on to next week’s book on time (I hope). Sunday is the deadline for each week’s reading. Boy, am I a stickler, or what?

I have set the deadline of Monday to submit the semi-final (possibly final, depending on my editor’s reaction) draft of the Jack Benny chapter, so it is down to the last few readings… I am overwhelmed with cold feet. Is it good enough to submit?? What if it fails, or there are errors no one catches, and it become an embarrassment down the road?

It’s going to be printed out, on paper, and placed between covers, and sold to people who care about this subject… What gives me the right to put my words into ink?

If it is accepted and printed, this will be a big first step for me, and I am feeling every inch of pangs that such a leap deserves. My only hope is that these final readings catch as many flaws as possible, so, my wonderful and unpaid volunteer (or drafted) editors, be hard on it. I’d rather you all tell me I’m an idiot than paying strangers.

Oh, and thanks to Amanda who was the first person (ever) to read this thing, and to her friend Allen-somebody in far-off Australia who kicked my ass on a few problematic areas. Keep the insults and assault coming, folks. (And if you would like to review this piece, and have nothing better to do this evening, please contact me through the email listed on the side-bar or go make friends.)

In other news, chemical gas attacks continued on the local silverfish population (this time under and behind the fridge and stove), and their numbers seem to be taking high causalities. Score one for the primates!

Other than that, not much news, except for a small trip to the grocery store for something other than mac & cheese. (Praise be!) Now to settle in for a meal and some more L&O, and take my mind off the stress of it all before I take another run at editing.

(Oh, and a hearty congrats to the first cohort of the UW-WLU PhD in Religion who wrote their second comp in good spirits this week. We all anticipate that they all passed, and we look forward to hearing the final results in a couple weeks. Each milestone they survive is a service to us poor freshmen of the second cohort. Bless you, our vanguard!)

The Blues

I just got back from having coffee with a classmate who is trying to decide which school is right for her, and in talking over my feeling about Laurier to her I was reminded about how much I really do love it here. On the way home, I walked in the cool, sunny and leafy streets, and though about how great this city is, too. Then I got home and listened to the radio a bit with John, and I thought about how much I like my home life and apartment.

And now John is out making some lunch (the poor students’ staple of macaroni and cheese), and I am trying to update this blog, and suddenly I am overcome with this weird maudlin sadness. I’m not even sad in a good crying and moaning sort of way. Just sad in a sluggish and regretful sort of way… But I’m not sure why.

We are broke, and a part of me is really down for a comparatively stupid reason. I would love to make the most of the wonderful pre-summer weather and go shopping. Not for some ridiculous $200 coat, but just a $20 DVD or maybe a few new books. And some coffee somewhere. Just a nice browse with the knowledge that if any thing great turns up I could come home with it. But, in our economic situation (which is surprisingly stable but not healthy), a $20 DVD may as well be a $20,000 car for the impact it would have on our ability to eat next week.

So, in order to avoid the risk of spotting something I really want and not being able to have it, I am just stuck here.

We are fine, rationally, but there is only so much budgeting and rationing someone can take before the desire to bust out becomes a dull ache in the stomach.

I will eat my low-class lunch and continue editing the piece, and try not to think of fun or diversion. I will concentrate on job hunting (joy, oh bliss) and editing, and just be happy with what I’ve got. There are many worse off than us… I try not to remember that there are many who are better off, as well.

I’m made for peaks and valleys, not stretches of bland highway. If the poverty doesn’t kill me, the monotony and captivity surely will. Something good has to happen real freaking soon, or my soul will wither from lack of use.

May 4, 1970

Today marks the 36th anniversary of the Kent State Massacre, in which four students were killed and thirteen more were shot when the National Guard opened fire for thirteen seconds on a group protesting the US bombing of Cambodia.

Allison Krause
Jeffrey Miller
Sandra Scheuer
William Schroeder

"Inquire. Learn. Reflect."

Another Day

I slept in until 9am today, which should bother me than it does… But maybe I deserve some extra rest.

I finished two drafts of the Benny piece yesterday, and just as soon as I finish re-reading the piece again I will do a review for Clapboard Jungle. I finished a bunch of comp reading last night, and yesterday I made some academic contacts. (Awwwww – little Holly is learning to network!) And The Swank Puppy seems to be on the final legs of its construction, and I would not be surprised to see it open its doors very soon. I will have a grand-opening post as soon as it is ready.

And, best of all, John has his first job interview! Let’s all keep our fingers crossed, but I am hopeful. The guy on the phone sounded a bit immigrant-y. Immigrants are the over-educated job hunter’s best friend – they don’t seem to be prejudiced against graduate degrees. Hick bosses hate you on sight if you have a grad degree, and they reckon you will certainly leave them for NASA next week, even if your MA is in philosophy and no one will ever hire you. But if anyone can understand the personal, yet still not economic, value of education, it’s some poor immigrant who probably knows at least three guys with MDs who are driving cabs. Here’s hoping this works out.

It’s muggy here, and the sky looks ripe for a storm of some sort. It seems to me that spring has already bit the dust for the year. Why do the good seasons always die so young?

We are still keeping our heads above water financially, thanks to an extra $80 tossed our way by a concerned parent (not mine, I assure you – they are concerned, but more broke than I am). All in all, everything is progressing fairly nicely.

The Cuts, They Bleed

Had to excise at least 600 words from the Benny piece… One of my nicest paragraphs ended up not being terribly useful, so it hit the cutting room floor.

Still, a lean 3,900 word second draft is ready for proofing. One more draft and I can fit it in the fridge!

The Reversal of Fortune Bites Me.

I went. I sipped raspberry iced cappuccino (which should be outlawed for its addictive qualities). I got misty when I saw the fresh ginger-bread men at Tim’s and thought of Catherine. I sniffed some flowers. I paused to watch a ground hog shuffle through the woods. I had a smoke and then watched a butterfly flit.

I played Lord Byron and sat beside a stream.

And now my block is gone.

That’s the good news.

The bad news is that I have only 500 words left before I exceed the maximum, and the words just keep coming… I clearly used industrial-strength perspicacity Drān-O, because now I can’t stop, and I have to hit the breaks hard.

I just finished the analysis of the comedy trope “schnook,” but I may as well have made it an autobiography, cause you’re looking at the Queen Schnook.

As Benny would say, “Oh fudge the torpedoes, and full steam ahead!”

Anyway, I'm sure I'll be fine... Though I think I am having chest pains. How old was Byron when he died??

Betty Co-Ed Has Officially Hit the Wall.

Recess was a bad idea.

I got 2200 words out of 4000 in a little over two hours, but now I am stymied. I made out an outline before I broke for lunch, but now I haven’t a clue what point I wanted to make…

Energy… dwindling… spirits… draaaaaaaining…

The squid is out of ink for now.

Now comes the big decision. Take a further break and hope it regenerates? Or keep bashing myself against the wall until it comes down?

The problem with this is both of these things have worked at times, but I can never decide which is best at any given time. So… Let’s try both, eh?

I think the situation calls for a walk, a soda and a smoke... All of my favourite stimulants.

The L&O Approach to Scholarship.

After watching a solid week of cross-examinations compliments of Law and Order, I am finding my scholarly writing style is actually changing. Instead of showing how I have come to certain conclusions, my work is becoming slightly interrogational. Each piece of evidence is attacked with force… This fact may show one thing, but I can contend it means the exact opposite (da-da… ominous cut-to-commercial fade musical queue).

With luck, I can become the Jack McCoy of Jewish Studies.

But it seems to be working, so I won’t knock it. It’s in rough form, but I think I’m on to something strong here, and it flows with a good zing. The first full draft is half finished, and it is only 10.30. I am definitely infected with some new source of energy… Perhaps it’s all the Rudy Vallee albums I’m listening to.

As an aside, why do I find the line “she thinks an Israelite is an electric lamp” so damned funny? All morning I have been typing and chuckling…

Oh well, a brief coffee and granola break, and then it’s back to the drafting.

I call a ten minute recess.

Feeling my Ohs!

Today is the day. Today I am ready.

We got a ton of practical stuff done yesterday, including 13 job applications sent off, a bunch of cleaning done, and some important letters sent out. Nothing makes one feel human again like getting a mother’s day card sent out on time and a toilet that smells like a magical, elf-infested forest.

So today is the day for the Benny piece. I feel it. I listened to a million episodes of the show yesterday while working on applications, and I have read four biographies on the guy (with very little differences between them, let me tell you... this guy was a plain doughnut), and I have completed all my extra research into the “nature of Jewish humour” (should such a thing exist – the experts are split). I feel ready, willing and able to bat this out of the park.

Today I will complete three drafts of this paper. It will be edited and stream-lined enough to send to The Advisor for a read-through (if she is ready, willing and able to do so).

Today I will also review something and update Clapboard Jungle. (Why is it that Wednesday always comes so freaking fast? I love movies, but the hardest part about that blog is picking the right movie to do in the first place.) Perhaps I can find a Benny-related film, and roll the projects together...

Comp reading marches on, and I am already thinking ahead to the Chaplin piece and am currently trying to find a venue that would be right for it, as well as my Groucho paper… By the SSHRC and OGS season, I gots to have one journal publication. The book chapter will do, but if I could land a spot in Studies in Religion, I’d be in better shape.

Oh, and The Advisor expects to see me at the AAR conference in Washington, DC next November, so I can meet the “film and religion community”… So these publications better not be embarrassing or shoddy, or my name will be mud before I even finish this damn degree.

But today I feel ten feet tall and bullet proof, so today is a day only for accomplishment, not for discouragement.

Today I will finish this project.

No ifs, ands or buts.