I.
Tony's been back in town for two weeks, in an amazing streak of comeback specials, and Shannon and I have taken advantage. Last night, Thursday night, was one of those that "brought us back;" one of those that made me feel like I'd pressed my red heel down on the gas from Mankato speeding up the slick, unlit curves of 169 and thinking that it'd all be worth it.
It wasn't just the music, or the casual energy that comes with slower Thursday nights at the MMC. It was two very incredible people, a married, drunk couple so much in love that neither the fashion of the times nor the embarassment of falling over on the dance floor could stop them. The woman wore a red velvet dress that hit her mid-thigh and that had a sweetheart neckline. The dress was one piece, as though it'd been cut from one swatch of fabric, no definition. The shoulder pads, were, well shoulder pads. She could've been a linebacker if she'd wanted, but instead she wanted to be the spitting image of 1985, wearing pumps that might as well have been worn by the female love interest in Teen Wolf. Her hair a dishwater blonde, maybe permed two years ago, a bit of frazzled, loopy curls remaining.
And she could drink. She slammed her drinks on the rail while standing on the dance floor, and when she wasn't on the dance floor, she was dragging her husband onto the dance floor. When he wouldn't come, sweaty and exhausted from the dance, she'd stand behind his chair, rub her hands on his pudgy chest, and kiss his wet sweat-hair.
The husband, you could tell, danced for her. He was a round ball of a man, looking not like Danny DeVito, but the main character from Who Framed Roger Rabbit? who I always mistook for DeVito when I was younger. Yes, he looked like Bob Hoskins but about 100 pounds heavier. And when he danced, he kicked his short little legs and swung his short arms back and forth. This was comic to watch, really. His limbs like 4 properly placed toothpicks in an orange.
They drew attention to themselves because of her shoulder pads, and his suspenders. As she slammed more shots and he sweat more, the dancing became more intense. At the beginning of the night, she'd noticed that one of his suspenders in the back had come undone. She fixed it, sweetly. By the end of the night, she was snapping them with a sexy, masochistic look in her eye. She'd, by the end of the night, been extending her arm to push herself away from him, all the while keeping the pads of her fingers on his chest, as though she couldn't bear to not touch him. She was moving all over the floor, lifting her hands over her head, which in a short, one-piece dress causes much thigh to be revealed. By the end of the night I was watching her mouth I'm drunk, and watching a sly, short smile form between his chubby cheeks.
And so, I imagined them going home together, however they managed to get home. Walking into their house, with the wood paneled walls, still smelling of stale cigarettes even though he quit a year ago when the doctor told him he didn't have much of a choice. I imagined her pulling her long nightgown out the closet, the nightgown made of cotton, with the capped sleeves, that dragged along the floor and sometimes got caught in her slippers. I imagined them laying down in the bed at exactly the same time, he burping puke burps, craving a sandwich with fresh salami from the fridge, her telling him to just wait for breakfast the next morning. I imagine their bedroom a dark yellow color, thick curtains stained from the same sun they prevent from coming in, lace doilies on the nightstands, under the rectangle black clock radio. They don't have to set it tonight, because it was their night. They took Friday off, and they're sleeping in, which for her is getting up at 8:30 to clean some things up. They fall asleep holding each other, but he snores and she moves her head away, still just keeping one part of her leg near his to physically feel that he is still there.
II.
Dear TSB:
If you didn't play "Purple Rain" anymore, I have to honestly say that I'd be pretty cool with that. While it is a classic cover, and while it is a stand-up song, and while I love listening to Tony's voice echo for that last note of the song, and while the guitar solos are stunning--you don't know what it does to us on the rail. You don't understand that while you're up there, playing that song made so famous by your, um, cousin, that we have to endure what the song does to people.
What does that song do to people, you want to know? Well let me tell you. It gives them license to be disgusting. It's like some sexy version of the "Brown Note" made famous by South Park. But instead of making people all shit themselves at exactly the same time, "Purple Rain" makes people all start making out at the same time. It makes women who wear very, very tight yoga pants with silk see-through dress shirts and dark roots think they are sexy, when in fact they couldn't "sexy" themselves out of a paper bag. It makes their boyfriends and husbands and dance partners think they can run their dirt-caked workman's hands over those women's tiny waists and backsides, slowly and then quickly as they become clearly more aroused.
Yeah, I know. Pretty gross, huh? Watching people grind and gyrate their hips, watching them conveniently place crotch to other person's thigh.
I know this is a pretty ridiculous time to make this request. But I just think you should know that there is a chance your band has caused a lot of men to ruin perfectly good pairs of underwear while out on that dance floor. I mean, if it was me, I'd want to know.
I. Love you guys.
Love,
Jean
III.
I had a dragging, nostalgic day at work today, for absolutely no reason. I was craving the past--and all of it at once. I wanted to swim in pools of Winona; step out into the humid air and sandy shorelines of Mankato to breathe the soybean air. I wanted to go home, exhausted from physical activity, only to lay in bed with pillows of former class syllabi, overtime forensics speeches, those car rides alone down 169 in March, when the spring is like Oh, I'm back and better than ever! Turn up the CCR!
All this from looking over transcripts from my alma maters today while at work, all of it just from glancing down at my ipod to see that a track from a homemade CD Ryan gave me was playing--the CD called, simply March 2005. I saw that and felt as though I'd forgotten that year, somewhere. As though it was my turn to pick 2005 up from soccer practice, and I left it there to watch the sunset and feel the chill of dark move in, while it wondered when I would finally arrive. And what happened to 2002? What was I even doing then? What about those cross-country flights with the speech team, memorizing intros from cramped plane seats? And sure, summer 2004 is a blur as is that weekend I'd spent in Columbia with David and Ryan, walking into patchouli-stinking shops and eating cheese pizza with that weird gay man with the bad teeth, who smelled as though last week he'd smoked weed in the clothes he was wearing. Yes, that's a cloudy memory from, I think, someone else's life. But--what about the summer of 1986? What about the fall of '83? What about 5 years ago, when Ryan and I were sitting on the carpet at King Street, playing cards at 2:00 in the morning trying to get over the awkwardly hot summer, trying to make June pass by? And, eight months ago. What about then, when David and I weren't fighting, weren't metaphorically throwing sharp objects hard at each other's faces from across the room?
What about those years before me that aren't mine but I want to claim anyway? Why am I longing for the long winter of '72? Why am I trying to remember, as though they are there, the warm days of '67 that turned into slow-approaching evenings, those days I spent doing things that I can't remember?
Somehow I got all this life under my belt, all the while thinking: I need to get some life under my belt. (All of this thinking, done to Simon and Garfunkel's "America." It is essential to have a soundtrack.)
It has been a lonely, cold day. Much like what always happens when I'm alone in this house, planes fly low and loud overhead and make everything on these walls rattle.
That should set the scene.
Same shit, different outfit.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Open letters
To: Lake Nokomis
CC: The City of Minneapolis
Dear Lake Nokomis,
Well hello there, stranger! I hope things are going well for you in the new year. Did Beth yet get over her laryngitis? I was so sad to not hear her beautiful mezzo voice in the church choir this holiday.
Anyway, the reason I’m writing is not only to wish you well wishes. I regret to say that I do have some serious issues that I need to discuss regarding the paved paths circling your frozen self.
Okay. I’m just going to get right to it: I think it’s rather shitty that the paths around the little bridge haven’t been scraped. It just doesn’t make sense to me. I mean, you’ve lived in Minnesota your whole life, right? It’s not as though you were imported from, say, Utah and you don’t understand proper winter etiquette.
The issue involving me, personally, is that I haven’t been running around you in quite awhile. Sad, I know. With two jobs in December and the normal hubbub of the holidays, my fun-runs have been put on hiatus. I’ve been running near my parents’ house in Albertville, but we all know the scenery there is sub-par. I can see gas stations and dirty oil-stained snow anywhere. But the lake? One expects that there be snow only tainted by rabbit tracks and the occasional cross-country ski. One, however, does not expect to be running in this snow at the risk of twisting ankles or getting their socks wet. One does not merely expect to step into the holes that runners before her have made with their shoes. This is sort of awkward, and it makes her run slow. One cannot be preventing injury instead of working on her pacing.
I realize that I didn’t run around all of you today. It was getting dark and I have a lot of things to do this weekend. Perhaps you are clearly shoveled elsewhere, like near the beach. But, well, mostly I have to say that I am disappointed in you. I mean, I thought you’d be able to help me out in this new year, you know? Working this 8-4ish job is such a difference from the schedule I had when I could wake up at 10 in Mankato and run around campus. (Or even run to the free gym!) I’m doing the best I can, and I will continue to do that because staying fit is very important to me (after all, I have spent a lot of money in the last two years on smaller sizes of clothing—I hope to keep these clothes). But I’m going to need your help. If I get off the bus at 4:40 and still find daylight, I’m going to want to go running. But if my next thought is your un-scraped and dangerous paths, I might instead decide that the run isn’t worth it. I might instead eat leftover Christmas cookies or pop in a frozen pizza.
Anyhoo…I hope you get scabies. According to my friend Chad, they’re really tough to get rid of. And maybe they’ll teach you a lesson about looking nice and self-respect. You’re being shitty right now.
Best,
Jean Marie
To: Valtrex
CC: The Marketing Team at Valtrex; Chad; Anyone who owns royalties to the song “Happy Days”
Dear Valtrex,
Well, hello! I got your postcard from St. Thomas! Thank you so much for thinking of me while on your cruise. I hope the scenery was just as glossy and cheap looking as the postcard.
I’m writing you with what I’m calling somewhat of a proposal. I’m cautious about getting a little over-excited here, so forgive me if this letter seems a bit in-your-face.
Now, I know that you think you have a really good thing going with your marketing campaign. You’ve helped a lot of people with herpes stop those “flare-ups” or whatever people are calling them. That’s great! Couples are feeling better about their dirty sex around the country. The fact that you’re contributing to that—well, it’s something to be proud of.
The other night, my friend Chad and I were discussing music, and it just so happened that this discussion led to you. Do you know that song, “Happy Days”? It was at the beginning of that sitcom by the same name that took place in the 50s, with the now director Ron Howard. Henry Winkler also gained popularity on the show with his sexually promiscuous character “The Fonz.” (No doubt, he had the herps? Huh?! Huh?! Ah, yes.)
Anyhoo, the song, if you don’t know it, goes something like: “Sunday, Monday—Happy Days! Tuesday, Wednesday—Happy Days, Thursday, Friday—Happy Days! something-something, something-something Happy Days…I’ve been waitin’ all week for you! These happy days are yours and mine; these happy days are yours and my happy days!”
Chad and I were thinking that it might be an absolutely brilliant idea to use this song in a way that promoted your product. For example, with a simple change of one word, the lyric would be an excellent little jingle:
“Sunday, Monday—Herpes days! Tuesday, Wednesday—Herpes Days! Thursday, Friday—Herpes Days!”
And to wrap it up:
“I can have sex because I use Valtrex—Valtrex, I’ve been waiting all week for you!”
There are a number of objectives/messages we think this campaign can meet:
1) As I mentioned earlier, the character of ‘The Fonz” is known as being sexually promiscuous. I think that a take on being safe would correlate nicely. You could even feature The Fonz in the commercial. I’m sure he’d be all about it, because I don’t think Henry Winkler has done much since Arrested Development or the movie Holes. One may argue that the thought of him having sex is a little sickening, but I beg to differ. The man is a sex icon. And I think, like, a whole shitload of old people have Herpes. I mean, sexual viruses actually strongly increased in the elderly with the introduction of Viagra, because old people started having sex all the time and didn’t think they had to use condoms or dental dams.
2) The same goes for the time period of the 50s. The late 50s was a time when everyone was cautious about sex, but secretly having it everywhere. Men were promising to pull out, and nobody knew what the hell that itching was or where those odd red bumps came from. the 50s were, if you will, the pre-cum of the sexual (ahem) explosion of the 60s. Sex has come a long way since then. Your product exemplifies safe, protected sex while staying disease free. It only proves to be the antithesis to the naïveté of sex from the 50s styles “Happy Days” song. It expresses sexual freedom and responsibility! Wow!
3) I know that you may argue that proclaiming every day of the week as a “Herpes Days” may be distasteful. I must beg to differ. First of all, I find your earlier commercials that come on during the early-evening episodes of CSI distasteful, if not annoying. Watching an over-tanned couple proclaim that one of them has Herpes, while the other stays disease free, all the while lying together on a large rope hammock? What does that convey, other than having sex in public? It’s pretty disgusting. I don’t mean to turn you off to my new marketing campaign by slamming your previous attempts—especially because it seems as though they’ve been successful. I just think this idea could really work for you.
Could really work for us.
Please let me know what you think. Because I am so confident in the success of this campaign, I’ve copied this email to all of the 6 people who own royalties to the song “Happy Days.” Let’s hope we’re all on board.
Disease free since 1993,
Jean Marie
CC: The City of Minneapolis
Dear Lake Nokomis,
Well hello there, stranger! I hope things are going well for you in the new year. Did Beth yet get over her laryngitis? I was so sad to not hear her beautiful mezzo voice in the church choir this holiday.
Anyway, the reason I’m writing is not only to wish you well wishes. I regret to say that I do have some serious issues that I need to discuss regarding the paved paths circling your frozen self.
Okay. I’m just going to get right to it: I think it’s rather shitty that the paths around the little bridge haven’t been scraped. It just doesn’t make sense to me. I mean, you’ve lived in Minnesota your whole life, right? It’s not as though you were imported from, say, Utah and you don’t understand proper winter etiquette.
The issue involving me, personally, is that I haven’t been running around you in quite awhile. Sad, I know. With two jobs in December and the normal hubbub of the holidays, my fun-runs have been put on hiatus. I’ve been running near my parents’ house in Albertville, but we all know the scenery there is sub-par. I can see gas stations and dirty oil-stained snow anywhere. But the lake? One expects that there be snow only tainted by rabbit tracks and the occasional cross-country ski. One, however, does not expect to be running in this snow at the risk of twisting ankles or getting their socks wet. One does not merely expect to step into the holes that runners before her have made with their shoes. This is sort of awkward, and it makes her run slow. One cannot be preventing injury instead of working on her pacing.
I realize that I didn’t run around all of you today. It was getting dark and I have a lot of things to do this weekend. Perhaps you are clearly shoveled elsewhere, like near the beach. But, well, mostly I have to say that I am disappointed in you. I mean, I thought you’d be able to help me out in this new year, you know? Working this 8-4ish job is such a difference from the schedule I had when I could wake up at 10 in Mankato and run around campus. (Or even run to the free gym!) I’m doing the best I can, and I will continue to do that because staying fit is very important to me (after all, I have spent a lot of money in the last two years on smaller sizes of clothing—I hope to keep these clothes). But I’m going to need your help. If I get off the bus at 4:40 and still find daylight, I’m going to want to go running. But if my next thought is your un-scraped and dangerous paths, I might instead decide that the run isn’t worth it. I might instead eat leftover Christmas cookies or pop in a frozen pizza.
Anyhoo…I hope you get scabies. According to my friend Chad, they’re really tough to get rid of. And maybe they’ll teach you a lesson about looking nice and self-respect. You’re being shitty right now.
Best,
Jean Marie
To: Valtrex
CC: The Marketing Team at Valtrex; Chad; Anyone who owns royalties to the song “Happy Days”
Dear Valtrex,
Well, hello! I got your postcard from St. Thomas! Thank you so much for thinking of me while on your cruise. I hope the scenery was just as glossy and cheap looking as the postcard.
I’m writing you with what I’m calling somewhat of a proposal. I’m cautious about getting a little over-excited here, so forgive me if this letter seems a bit in-your-face.
Now, I know that you think you have a really good thing going with your marketing campaign. You’ve helped a lot of people with herpes stop those “flare-ups” or whatever people are calling them. That’s great! Couples are feeling better about their dirty sex around the country. The fact that you’re contributing to that—well, it’s something to be proud of.
The other night, my friend Chad and I were discussing music, and it just so happened that this discussion led to you. Do you know that song, “Happy Days”? It was at the beginning of that sitcom by the same name that took place in the 50s, with the now director Ron Howard. Henry Winkler also gained popularity on the show with his sexually promiscuous character “The Fonz.” (No doubt, he had the herps? Huh?! Huh?! Ah, yes.)
Anyhoo, the song, if you don’t know it, goes something like: “Sunday, Monday—Happy Days! Tuesday, Wednesday—Happy Days, Thursday, Friday—Happy Days! something-something, something-something Happy Days…I’ve been waitin’ all week for you! These happy days are yours and mine; these happy days are yours and my happy days!”
Chad and I were thinking that it might be an absolutely brilliant idea to use this song in a way that promoted your product. For example, with a simple change of one word, the lyric would be an excellent little jingle:
“Sunday, Monday—Herpes days! Tuesday, Wednesday—Herpes Days! Thursday, Friday—Herpes Days!”
And to wrap it up:
“I can have sex because I use Valtrex—Valtrex, I’ve been waiting all week for you!”
There are a number of objectives/messages we think this campaign can meet:
1) As I mentioned earlier, the character of ‘The Fonz” is known as being sexually promiscuous. I think that a take on being safe would correlate nicely. You could even feature The Fonz in the commercial. I’m sure he’d be all about it, because I don’t think Henry Winkler has done much since Arrested Development or the movie Holes. One may argue that the thought of him having sex is a little sickening, but I beg to differ. The man is a sex icon. And I think, like, a whole shitload of old people have Herpes. I mean, sexual viruses actually strongly increased in the elderly with the introduction of Viagra, because old people started having sex all the time and didn’t think they had to use condoms or dental dams.
2) The same goes for the time period of the 50s. The late 50s was a time when everyone was cautious about sex, but secretly having it everywhere. Men were promising to pull out, and nobody knew what the hell that itching was or where those odd red bumps came from. the 50s were, if you will, the pre-cum of the sexual (ahem) explosion of the 60s. Sex has come a long way since then. Your product exemplifies safe, protected sex while staying disease free. It only proves to be the antithesis to the naïveté of sex from the 50s styles “Happy Days” song. It expresses sexual freedom and responsibility! Wow!
3) I know that you may argue that proclaiming every day of the week as a “Herpes Days” may be distasteful. I must beg to differ. First of all, I find your earlier commercials that come on during the early-evening episodes of CSI distasteful, if not annoying. Watching an over-tanned couple proclaim that one of them has Herpes, while the other stays disease free, all the while lying together on a large rope hammock? What does that convey, other than having sex in public? It’s pretty disgusting. I don’t mean to turn you off to my new marketing campaign by slamming your previous attempts—especially because it seems as though they’ve been successful. I just think this idea could really work for you.
Could really work for us.
Please let me know what you think. Because I am so confident in the success of this campaign, I’ve copied this email to all of the 6 people who own royalties to the song “Happy Days.” Let’s hope we’re all on board.
Disease free since 1993,
Jean Marie
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Hey Sun! Thanks for being out today. That was pretty cool of you.
When Christina waved goodbye to me on the highway from her car as she merged South on 41 while I merged North, I not only got a very bubbly feeling in the bottom of my gut, but also had strange images of her, Jenny, and I getting together and saying goodbye to each other in the future. These planned instances of us and our other friends all gathered. I flashed to a dream sequence where the P, X, and I all hold hands in a hilly field of long green grass and wildflowers and giggle and run and run barefoot.
So, sometimes when you're sad, the best thing to do is have fresh mashed potatoes and cookies for dinner and that's it. I love Liz.
I mean, look! How could you not love her, what with that dead Billy under the "Christmas Bush"? My roommate, the licensed EMT. Now I can choke or set myself on fire and not be as scared.
And who could not love the P, in Madison, with the "Fuck" box Liz and I gave her after "the fire?" The P, who discussed essay approaches with me this weekend, which made me feel nerd-ily spectacular.
Christmas Eve: Bourbon opens present. I hate to ruin the surprise, but it was pork strips.
And finally, this past weekend of vacation bliss:
Huge Jean Sale? Are you calling me fat? Only huge "Jeans" available? Fucking Vanity.
Christina wrote "strong jeano" as the new greeting on my phone. She has no idea how much it will help to look at that everyday.
(Yes, I'm kidding. What the fuck you guys. Holding hands?) We had an awesome weekend without a hilly field of wildflowers. We had SoCo punch and cheese fondue and amazing underwear sales at Victoria's Secret (10 for $25!) and She-Devil and pajamas and pizza and tacos and Chinese buffets and racist grandfathers and funny, young pictures of fathers in cut-offs and thoughts of Truman photo slideshows to the song "Who Let the Dogs Out" and apocalypse dreams in threes and crime-solving monkeys and mehs and killer showers and 70s style rec rooms and Happy New Years'.
Three nights in a row I dreamt about the end of the world. The first night, floods, the second night replica giants, the third night prophetic calenders. Mark's floral couch is evil. But I sort of wish I was sitting on it right now.
No holiday feels like anything, yet. It doesn't mean, though, that I'm not enjoying them. Just because I didn't feel like saying "happy new year" anymore than I felt like saying "Merry Christmas" last Tuesday doesn't mean that I didn't enjoy drinking 3 dollar champagne from the bottle with Christina while sitting on Mark's sink. It doesn't mean that when we played an impromptu game of "Blind Pictionary" and Mark drew a huge penis for every picture that I wasn't inspired to happily bring in the New Year. It simply didn't feel like.
As Christina explained, nothing feels like anything anymore, so it's just time to get new "feel likes." I think the problem I'm having with the "feel likes," though, is my lack of feeling anything. While I cruised WI 29 in the winter sun and 7 degree weather today, that's what I thought about most. My ridiculous lack of feel-like for a "writer" or a "poet." My "blank slate" and my "inability" to talk about my "blank slate." My "need" to put everything in "quotation marks" because I feel like I can't define any damn thing these days so I better "make sure" I'm "justifying" it. Ho-hum. I am devoid of emotion, and I'd say that this makes me angry, but I can't feel much anger. Everything, as it has been for the last couple of months has been hazy. My memory is absolutely shot in short-terms, as is my sense of time. I feel like a never-used chalkboard and 800 other metaphors I thought of on the ride home.
What matters now is the weekend, and the next weekend, and forcing myself to take care of myself and doing that slowly. Excuse me: "slowly."
This will involve buying and listening to new vinyl throughout all of January and February. It's the only way to make it through these next couple of months. (I explained to X and P this weekend: records are best in the spring, or at least when the sun is out. They just are. There is just something about the sun and not quite being able to go outside yet that makes them good during this time of year--and especially around March and April.) The new year will involve winter runs around the lake to dispose of the 5 pounds I'm guessing I've gained since re-employment, more time with friends now that the second job is done, and coming home to a clean house now that the second job is done. It will involve Saturdays in coffee shops writing more and more and more cover letters for real jobs, it will involve thoughts that once again, "slowly" the days are getting longer, it will involve buying more underwear to make myself feel better; it will involve re-starting my new dog search since I'm employed and feel ready to be responsible for a love-returning dog. It will involve those ideas for poems and essays actually turning into essays and poems and more importantly the writing I need to get me through all of this. Perhaps the worst thing about these last months has been that I haven't been able to write it down in a creative-writing perspective.
Sun! I bought two 70s lamps from an antique store this weekend and put them on my nightstands. They are my new suns. It's been so long since I've seen the sun this much, and it's not until your pupils shrink because of too-much-sunlight do you realize how much you've craved it. Sun!
Here are some fucking pictures. I finally found my camera cord, so I'm dumping them here:
First of all. Tonight when I came home, I saw that it was time to take down the Tony Sims Calender Shannon gave me last year, and I got that empty bubbly feeling in my gut like when I'd said goodbye to X. I missed Tony Sims night like crazy, and I missed Shannon even more, and even more than that, I missed the feeling of beer in my gut to ironically settle the bubbly-lost feeling, because that's what beer does--takes the sadness away. Here's us from the last night of the TSB, sitting at this fucking dwarf table because the bar was so full. But, I mean, it just shows how cool we are. (Plus, um, Tony's band is in town this Thursday, so you can imagine the overwhelming happiness I'd had when I found that out seconds after realizing the calender sadness.)
So, sometimes when you're sad, the best thing to do is have fresh mashed potatoes and cookies for dinner and that's it. I love Liz. I mean, look! How could you not love her, what with that dead Billy under the "Christmas Bush"? My roommate, the licensed EMT. Now I can choke or set myself on fire and not be as scared.And who could not love the P, in Madison, with the "Fuck" box Liz and I gave her after "the fire?" The P, who discussed essay approaches with me this weekend, which made me feel nerd-ily spectacular.The Wednesday before Christmas, Matt came over with Murder-Mysteries and Plum Pudding. a grand night.
Christmas Eve: Bourbon opens present. I hate to ruin the surprise, but it was pork strips.
And finally, this past weekend of vacation bliss:Mary and Liz wiped their boobs on me:
Huge Jean Sale? Are you calling me fat? Only huge "Jeans" available? Fucking Vanity.
I'm not even going to say anything about this picture. Not. a. thing.
But look at the happy drunkard couple! Throwin' one hell of a party, I tells ya what.
And, Happy New Year. Perhaps slogans for '08 can include: '08! Don't Masturbate! Or '08! Year of the ro-ller skate! Or something less gay. 24 hours ago, here I was, full of pudding shots and egg nog and the thought that if 2008 sucks anywhere nearly as much as the end of '07 that I am going to kick it in the fucking balls. Consider that a threat, '08.
Christina wrote "strong jeano" as the new greeting on my phone. She has no idea how much it will help to look at that everyday.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
And in the margins, in red pen, I write: Too much internal and external conflict.
On the ride home from work today, I decided that I'm not really living my life anymore. Instead I'm trapped in a short story that is being written by an amatuer writer. The writer thinks: okay, now the main character is going to...have an anxiety attack. Now, she's going to write websites. Now, she's going to lose her job and have to ride the bus to a different job. Get it? She doesn't like the bus. This is very out of character for her. I'm putting a character in a foreign environment.
He keeps having to start over because one idea doesn't work, so he rips out pages of the story at a time and starts over.
And, seriously, without even realizing it, I've blogged the plot to Stranger Than Fiction. I suppose that's how that movie idea started. Anyway, the point is that I'd assumed by Christmas I'd be feeling a little more comfortable in the shoes of my own life, and I'm really not. There is no way that today is the day after Christmas. No way, just because it couldn't feel any less like Christmas was yesterday rather than just some random Sunday-like day with a big snowstorm. Seriously? It was Christmas yesterday? No. No, no, no.
It was an emotionally difficult holiday, which I won't get into now. It wasn't because of my sister, who is getting sued by the hospital for unpaid bills, or Craig, who kindly dropped a Target giftcard in my lap 4 hours before we opened presents on Christmas Eve, it wasn't because I had to sit in the back at Christmas mass and was the only one who sang (but only could half-sing because I didn't have the hymn book). My family ate dinner together, played Life together. I got everything I asked for, which was mostly a bunch of needs like socks and a electric mixer, but also surprises, like a robin's egg blue box from Tiffany's from David, who has great taste in jewelry. It just didn't feel like Christmas, and there wasn't enough time for it to be Christmas.
Anyhoo-di-do, I'm still walking around in this fake-life in somewhat of a cloud, which was only heightened by the bus ride home on 5E today. The bad bus. They're all bad. The 133 didn't come, so I wandered over to 8th street to catch the 5. Oh, 5. While the 133 is so quiet and calm and everyone noses around in their books, the 5 is full of people screaming into cell phones and starting conversations with strangers. Today a one-toothed man sat next to the bus driver for the sole purpose of talking to her during the entire ride--much like the student who always sits in front of the class and asks you questions during your lecture that only you can hear. He talked and talked and I wanted so badly for him not to talk. He went on about how he knew downtown so well, I been down dere for fi'deen or six'deen years! And when he got off a man with a shovel took his exact seat. Then this man talked to the bus driver for the rest of the ride about his cable TV plan and monthly bill, and about how he had to pay for a month that he didn't even use, and he talked until a bunch of people got on the bus and walked in front of him and interrupted his story, making him visibly annoyed. Everyone else around me started talking and talking, much like a movie scene full of floating heads that happen before the main character goes crazy.
And then I started seeing the bus in the big, wide windows of the buildings we passed, all wavy and snowy, and I started getting seasick. Now it was a dream sequence. Everyone was talking and talking.
He keeps having to start over because one idea doesn't work, so he rips out pages of the story at a time and starts over.
And, seriously, without even realizing it, I've blogged the plot to Stranger Than Fiction. I suppose that's how that movie idea started. Anyway, the point is that I'd assumed by Christmas I'd be feeling a little more comfortable in the shoes of my own life, and I'm really not. There is no way that today is the day after Christmas. No way, just because it couldn't feel any less like Christmas was yesterday rather than just some random Sunday-like day with a big snowstorm. Seriously? It was Christmas yesterday? No. No, no, no.
It was an emotionally difficult holiday, which I won't get into now. It wasn't because of my sister, who is getting sued by the hospital for unpaid bills, or Craig, who kindly dropped a Target giftcard in my lap 4 hours before we opened presents on Christmas Eve, it wasn't because I had to sit in the back at Christmas mass and was the only one who sang (but only could half-sing because I didn't have the hymn book). My family ate dinner together, played Life together. I got everything I asked for, which was mostly a bunch of needs like socks and a electric mixer, but also surprises, like a robin's egg blue box from Tiffany's from David, who has great taste in jewelry. It just didn't feel like Christmas, and there wasn't enough time for it to be Christmas.
Anyhoo-di-do, I'm still walking around in this fake-life in somewhat of a cloud, which was only heightened by the bus ride home on 5E today. The bad bus. They're all bad. The 133 didn't come, so I wandered over to 8th street to catch the 5. Oh, 5. While the 133 is so quiet and calm and everyone noses around in their books, the 5 is full of people screaming into cell phones and starting conversations with strangers. Today a one-toothed man sat next to the bus driver for the sole purpose of talking to her during the entire ride--much like the student who always sits in front of the class and asks you questions during your lecture that only you can hear. He talked and talked and I wanted so badly for him not to talk. He went on about how he knew downtown so well, I been down dere for fi'deen or six'deen years! And when he got off a man with a shovel took his exact seat. Then this man talked to the bus driver for the rest of the ride about his cable TV plan and monthly bill, and about how he had to pay for a month that he didn't even use, and he talked until a bunch of people got on the bus and walked in front of him and interrupted his story, making him visibly annoyed. Everyone else around me started talking and talking, much like a movie scene full of floating heads that happen before the main character goes crazy.
And then I started seeing the bus in the big, wide windows of the buildings we passed, all wavy and snowy, and I started getting seasick. Now it was a dream sequence. Everyone was talking and talking.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Emails I'm putting on here with permission from neither X nor Liz.
Dear Miss Christina,
My friend Liz says that sharks don't sleep because they need to constantly move to get water through their gills. Is this true? Is this why sharks are so angry all the time?
Yours,
Concerned Shark Lover
Dear Concerned Shark Lover:
You’re both right ... sort of! Sharks don’t sleep in the sense that humans do. There’s no eyeshades or warm milk, and there’s certainly no bed or an alarm clock. But it is hypothesized that sharks enter a relaxed state. Their eyes are still open, and your friend Liz is correct in that the shark must move a little to keep water in its gills.
Some sharks, such as the nurse shark, have actually developed a complicated set of spiracles that move water across the gills for them, so they can enter a restful, stationary state. Now if only we could do the same!
Yours,
Miss Christina
Got a question that stems from you and your roommate talkin’ shit to each other on the morning bus commute? Ask Miss Christina!
p.s. As for sharks being angry all the time, it’s thought that their extreme crankiness stems from horrible, searing hot, uncontrollable diarrhea. Yuck!
Dear "Miss" Christina,
I am writing in response to your posting dated Dec 14, 2007, 9:24 AM, in which you answered a "very" important shark question. I was disturbed by the cavalier manner in which you replied, as the Bible "clearly" states that Sharks are God's chosen sea creature and the guardians of Israel.
As you will find in Psalm 121:4, Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. This explains why sharks are constantly moving: they are the protectors of the faithful, warriors of the sea. Your reader's assumption that sharks are angry all the time is her misunderstanding of their protective nature.
If I may quote the Reverend Nathaniel Wardinski, "noted" Shark scholar, Their immovable gills are only the physical manifestation of the true purpose of these magnificent beings. Sharks' lack of sleep is not a mistake. It is the Lord's "supreme" will and part of His "master plan", and by joking about this, you are demeaning not only sharks but yourself as well. I pray that you will "see" your error and print a retraction.
Yours in Christ,
A Disgruntled Sharkist.
Dear Disgruntled Sharkist:
While your argument is clearly thought out (how much time do you have on your hands, anyway?), I do believe you are mistaken. You state that "sharks are God's chosen sea creature and the guardians of Israel."
But in 2004 alone, there were a reported thirty-eight shark attacks off the West Bank. Why would God's chosen sea creature attack God's chosen people? The answer: sharks are not God's sea creature.
No.
Sea lions are.
If a fish is an average person, and a shark is Dr. Phil, sea lions are the John Belushi of the sea. They're fat. They're funny. They have whiskers. And they smell like fish. God loves these chubby, charming mammals, and He smiles upon them.
As we all should.
Sincerely,
Miss Christina
Got a questions about the relationship between the sharks of the sea and the sharks of the delis? Ask Miss Christina!
Dear Miss Christina,
Since you responded to my last letter with such eagerness and knowledge, I have another very important question for you. Yesterday on the bus, my friend Liz and I noticed that a mysterious graffiti artist had taken a black sharpie and drawn an amazing outline of a shark, with gills and a fin and pointy teeth and everything! I found this not only to be an amazing coincidence, but also very inspirational.
Then, last night, I had a dream that my friend Greg had taken a piece of notebook paper and drawn a shark on it and taped it to my front door. This seems to me to be a sign. I feel that God is telling me to somehow send the message of sharks!
So, I guess my question is, do you know of other ways that I could promote sharks in my community? The dream I had last night made me think that my new shark campaign could consist of me drawing pictures of sharks, taping them to neighbors' doors, ringing doorbells, waiting until the neighbor answers, and then screaming: YOU GOT SHARKED! when they look at the picture.
Do you think "You Got Sharked!" is a good way to get people in my community excited about the amazingness of sharks? As always, thank you for your inspirational words. It's just that I care so much about sharks.
Yours in Christ,
A Concerned Shark Lover
Dear Concerned Shark Lover:
Still stuck on sharks, huh? Completely understandable! They have big teeth and are distant cousins of dinosaurs.
The “You Got Sharked” campaign is a good idea ... if you’re a ten-year-old boy! Psyche! This idea smacks of unprofessionalism. Ever hear of “ding dong ditch”? That’s what you’re suggesting. Or worse yet, the ol’ “flamin’ bag of poo” trick. Spreading the word of sharks will require a little more forethought, preparation, and yes, expense than your average prepubescent douche bag.
First, gather as much money as you can. If there were ever a case of go big or go home, this is it! Don’t be afraid to steal any funds. Since God is a shark, He will understand completely. I’d dare say you are going to earn yourself a fucking throne in Shark Heaven for this one ... if you do it right.
Next, buy as many guns as you can. It will be necessary for you to arm yourself in the next steps. At the same time, try to recruit as many people as possible. You are building a militia, which is completely sanctioned by the Constitution. You may consider using a small portion of your funds to woo people to your army, but a better idea is to convince fellow sharkists to join. You want a special brand of crazy, too: think Waco cult. Think “Fight Club.” Not only do fellow sharkists work for free, their rabid fanaticism means that they’re far less likely to concern themselves with the number of laws they’re breaking in spreading the work of the shark. And yeah. You’re going to break a few laws here. Just a few. But don’t worry—they’re only U.S. laws, not shark laws.
It will beneficial to your mission later if you happen upon a few Sharkists working in the U.S. military. See what you can do.
Next step: use your newly founded (and armed) militia and secure a large number of container trucks. Once you have your truck fleet assembled, liberate as many sharks as you can. This will entail raiding Sea Worlds, the Mall of America aquarium, and as many captive sharks as possible. The exception will be the centrally located Cleveland Sea World, which you will storm and capture. It will serve as your new headquarters. The trucks, obviously, are what you and your army will use to transport the sharks to Cleveland. For the time being, it will be acceptable to store the sharks in tanks together. Normally sharks would attack each other in cramped quarters, but you will sing them your plan, and your song will soothe their savage breasts. They will refrain from hurting each other.
Once your sharks are assembled, Operation Shark begins in earnest. I don’t need to tell you that at this point speed is of the essence, since your so-called illegal activities will be under much scrutiny of the government. (But not God —remember, He’s a shark.) What you now need to do is steal transport planes and helicopters. The best source will be the U.S. military—this is where you Sharkist contacts will assist you greatly. Load the sharks onto the planes and spread out so that all your cargo planes, filled with sharks, are in the air spaced evenly over the continental U.S.
Some sharks will not survive the flight. Take those sharks and cut them into tiny little pieces, then blend them to make a thick slurry. Hold this slurry in reserve in barrels on the cargo planes.
Then, at your signal, push the sharks out of the planes.
Ding dong, here come the sharks! Sharks will rain from the sky! They’ll clog traffic on Omaha freeways and crush rooftops in Seattle. They’ll land on schoolchildren in Boston and destroy markets in Chicago. The sky will brim with sharks, big heavy sharks falling to their glorious deaths with jaws snapping. The sharks will be frightened, in part because they will be falling from a great height, but also because your song lied to them! This will cause them to enter a heightened state of agitation, so they’ll fall with their teeth bared and tails thumping. The damage will be multiplied! What’s more, the sharks that do land and live will attack people in the streets. There will be much blood! And teeth!
While the country reels, dump the slurry barrels.
Talk about getting sharked: the U.S. won’t know what hit it! And what better way to spread the glorious word of the shark that to ensure that every single person is displaced by, or covered with, shark! What the shark bodies won’t hit, the slurry will! The U.S. will be aswim in glorious shark goo.
And you, my shark-loving friend, will have spread the word. God will smile down upon you and your people, and your place in [Shark] Heaven will be assured. Hope this helps!
Yours in Shark,
Miss Christina
Dear Miss Christina:
I am a part-time filing clerk, but my friend Jean is a college professor! I was riding the city bus with her when we encountered a question. We immediately thought of your column! So here's the question: You know Cliff Tracts (or whatever), those cartoon Bible verses? What if you picked a really ridiculous one - something very offensive that no one could possibly believe in, like one that says that AIDS is God's answer to homosexuality - and brought it into class as an exercise in argument? The students would have to be completely objective while looking at the logical fallacies, evidence (or lack thereof), and construction of the argument. This could also work for a discussion of the rhetorical triangle. So our real question is this: If we did this, what are the odds that a student would feel insulted, report us, and get us fired? Thank you for answering our pressing bus-related questions!
Sincerely,
Liz
Dear Liz:
Cliff Tracts? What the hell are you talking about?
Sincerely,
Miss Christina
My friend Liz says that sharks don't sleep because they need to constantly move to get water through their gills. Is this true? Is this why sharks are so angry all the time?
Yours,
Concerned Shark Lover
Dear Concerned Shark Lover:
You’re both right ... sort of! Sharks don’t sleep in the sense that humans do. There’s no eyeshades or warm milk, and there’s certainly no bed or an alarm clock. But it is hypothesized that sharks enter a relaxed state. Their eyes are still open, and your friend Liz is correct in that the shark must move a little to keep water in its gills.
Some sharks, such as the nurse shark, have actually developed a complicated set of spiracles that move water across the gills for them, so they can enter a restful, stationary state. Now if only we could do the same!
Yours,
Miss Christina
Got a question that stems from you and your roommate talkin’ shit to each other on the morning bus commute? Ask Miss Christina!
p.s. As for sharks being angry all the time, it’s thought that their extreme crankiness stems from horrible, searing hot, uncontrollable diarrhea. Yuck!
Dear "Miss" Christina,
I am writing in response to your posting dated Dec 14, 2007, 9:24 AM, in which you answered a "very" important shark question. I was disturbed by the cavalier manner in which you replied, as the Bible "clearly" states that Sharks are God's chosen sea creature and the guardians of Israel.
As you will find in Psalm 121:4, Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. This explains why sharks are constantly moving: they are the protectors of the faithful, warriors of the sea. Your reader's assumption that sharks are angry all the time is her misunderstanding of their protective nature.
If I may quote the Reverend Nathaniel Wardinski, "noted" Shark scholar, Their immovable gills are only the physical manifestation of the true purpose of these magnificent beings. Sharks' lack of sleep is not a mistake. It is the Lord's "supreme" will and part of His "master plan", and by joking about this, you are demeaning not only sharks but yourself as well. I pray that you will "see" your error and print a retraction.
Yours in Christ,
A Disgruntled Sharkist.
Dear Disgruntled Sharkist:
While your argument is clearly thought out (how much time do you have on your hands, anyway?), I do believe you are mistaken. You state that "sharks are God's chosen sea creature and the guardians of Israel."
But in 2004 alone, there were a reported thirty-eight shark attacks off the West Bank. Why would God's chosen sea creature attack God's chosen people? The answer: sharks are not God's sea creature.
No.
Sea lions are.
If a fish is an average person, and a shark is Dr. Phil, sea lions are the John Belushi of the sea. They're fat. They're funny. They have whiskers. And they smell like fish. God loves these chubby, charming mammals, and He smiles upon them.
As we all should.
Sincerely,
Miss Christina
Got a questions about the relationship between the sharks of the sea and the sharks of the delis? Ask Miss Christina!
Dear Miss Christina,
Since you responded to my last letter with such eagerness and knowledge, I have another very important question for you. Yesterday on the bus, my friend Liz and I noticed that a mysterious graffiti artist had taken a black sharpie and drawn an amazing outline of a shark, with gills and a fin and pointy teeth and everything! I found this not only to be an amazing coincidence, but also very inspirational.
Then, last night, I had a dream that my friend Greg had taken a piece of notebook paper and drawn a shark on it and taped it to my front door. This seems to me to be a sign. I feel that God is telling me to somehow send the message of sharks!
So, I guess my question is, do you know of other ways that I could promote sharks in my community? The dream I had last night made me think that my new shark campaign could consist of me drawing pictures of sharks, taping them to neighbors' doors, ringing doorbells, waiting until the neighbor answers, and then screaming: YOU GOT SHARKED! when they look at the picture.
Do you think "You Got Sharked!" is a good way to get people in my community excited about the amazingness of sharks? As always, thank you for your inspirational words. It's just that I care so much about sharks.
Yours in Christ,
A Concerned Shark Lover
Dear Concerned Shark Lover:
Still stuck on sharks, huh? Completely understandable! They have big teeth and are distant cousins of dinosaurs.
The “You Got Sharked” campaign is a good idea ... if you’re a ten-year-old boy! Psyche! This idea smacks of unprofessionalism. Ever hear of “ding dong ditch”? That’s what you’re suggesting. Or worse yet, the ol’ “flamin’ bag of poo” trick. Spreading the word of sharks will require a little more forethought, preparation, and yes, expense than your average prepubescent douche bag.
First, gather as much money as you can. If there were ever a case of go big or go home, this is it! Don’t be afraid to steal any funds. Since God is a shark, He will understand completely. I’d dare say you are going to earn yourself a fucking throne in Shark Heaven for this one ... if you do it right.
Next, buy as many guns as you can. It will be necessary for you to arm yourself in the next steps. At the same time, try to recruit as many people as possible. You are building a militia, which is completely sanctioned by the Constitution. You may consider using a small portion of your funds to woo people to your army, but a better idea is to convince fellow sharkists to join. You want a special brand of crazy, too: think Waco cult. Think “Fight Club.” Not only do fellow sharkists work for free, their rabid fanaticism means that they’re far less likely to concern themselves with the number of laws they’re breaking in spreading the work of the shark. And yeah. You’re going to break a few laws here. Just a few. But don’t worry—they’re only U.S. laws, not shark laws.
It will beneficial to your mission later if you happen upon a few Sharkists working in the U.S. military. See what you can do.
Next step: use your newly founded (and armed) militia and secure a large number of container trucks. Once you have your truck fleet assembled, liberate as many sharks as you can. This will entail raiding Sea Worlds, the Mall of America aquarium, and as many captive sharks as possible. The exception will be the centrally located Cleveland Sea World, which you will storm and capture. It will serve as your new headquarters. The trucks, obviously, are what you and your army will use to transport the sharks to Cleveland. For the time being, it will be acceptable to store the sharks in tanks together. Normally sharks would attack each other in cramped quarters, but you will sing them your plan, and your song will soothe their savage breasts. They will refrain from hurting each other.
Once your sharks are assembled, Operation Shark begins in earnest. I don’t need to tell you that at this point speed is of the essence, since your so-called illegal activities will be under much scrutiny of the government. (But not God —remember, He’s a shark.) What you now need to do is steal transport planes and helicopters. The best source will be the U.S. military—this is where you Sharkist contacts will assist you greatly. Load the sharks onto the planes and spread out so that all your cargo planes, filled with sharks, are in the air spaced evenly over the continental U.S.
Some sharks will not survive the flight. Take those sharks and cut them into tiny little pieces, then blend them to make a thick slurry. Hold this slurry in reserve in barrels on the cargo planes.
Then, at your signal, push the sharks out of the planes.
Ding dong, here come the sharks! Sharks will rain from the sky! They’ll clog traffic on Omaha freeways and crush rooftops in Seattle. They’ll land on schoolchildren in Boston and destroy markets in Chicago. The sky will brim with sharks, big heavy sharks falling to their glorious deaths with jaws snapping. The sharks will be frightened, in part because they will be falling from a great height, but also because your song lied to them! This will cause them to enter a heightened state of agitation, so they’ll fall with their teeth bared and tails thumping. The damage will be multiplied! What’s more, the sharks that do land and live will attack people in the streets. There will be much blood! And teeth!
While the country reels, dump the slurry barrels.
Talk about getting sharked: the U.S. won’t know what hit it! And what better way to spread the glorious word of the shark that to ensure that every single person is displaced by, or covered with, shark! What the shark bodies won’t hit, the slurry will! The U.S. will be aswim in glorious shark goo.
And you, my shark-loving friend, will have spread the word. God will smile down upon you and your people, and your place in [Shark] Heaven will be assured. Hope this helps!
Yours in Shark,
Miss Christina
Dear Miss Christina:
I am a part-time filing clerk, but my friend Jean is a college professor! I was riding the city bus with her when we encountered a question. We immediately thought of your column! So here's the question: You know Cliff Tracts (or whatever), those cartoon Bible verses? What if you picked a really ridiculous one - something very offensive that no one could possibly believe in, like one that says that AIDS is God's answer to homosexuality - and brought it into class as an exercise in argument? The students would have to be completely objective while looking at the logical fallacies, evidence (or lack thereof), and construction of the argument. This could also work for a discussion of the rhetorical triangle. So our real question is this: If we did this, what are the odds that a student would feel insulted, report us, and get us fired? Thank you for answering our pressing bus-related questions!
Sincerely,
Liz
Dear Liz:
Cliff Tracts? What the hell are you talking about?
Sincerely,
Miss Christina
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Today I learned that
nobody--no matter what year they graduated and where from--has ever gotten higher than a C in Western Civ. Nobody.
Friday, December 7, 2007
New Obsessions.
Transcripts. I'm starting a new process in the Registrar's Office were I'm required to look at official university records. They're sent over from institutions across the country and scanned into the computer and sent to me. Then I open them and look for important information like degree conferred and GPA.
But the problem is that I get too excited about college classes. Instead of allowing my eyes to scan for the information I need, I instead find myself reading the courses. "History of Teaching and School"? I want to take that class! "Speech Improvement"? Sign me up, please! (Unless it's a MWF class at 8:00. Then I'll take it next semester.)
What really gets me excited, though, are the older transcripts. Yesterday somebody applied for a faculty position and had an undergraduate transcript from 1961. It was half-typed and half-written. It noted his graduating class (151), had a blank spot where one would fill in vocation, and had a blank spot to fill in his religion. Religion on your transcript! How interesting that that goes on your record! Neat! (Have I been living with Liz too long? I'm calling transcripts neat? Come on, now.)
So when I look at the older transcripts, I spend my time daydreaming. I just imagine that spring of 1971 when the transcript-holder was taking his Psychology class. Weeks before the semester ended, that morning wetness in the air as he walked to class in his tight jeans, the sky starting to turn the color of honey (or is that because I picture this like an old photograph?). What was psych class like in 1971? Was it all about those wacky Lithium pills and their severe side effects and the horrible results of ECT, like in the movies?
His teacher, I bet, had those long, thick sideburns that could be mutton chops. His glasses were brown. Nike shoes would show up next year. People were finally starting to get over breakup of the Beatles. And there'd been liberal progress in the last 10 years. At least he didn't have to put his religion on his transcript.
He was smoking cigarettes while typing Psych papers about the new thoughts of B.F. Skinner on his typewriter. When he came up with long strings of thought, words and words of genius, he stuck the cig between his lips and took drags and nodded his heads while his fingers moved on--until the long ash and cherry fell onto his lap and he swiped it away and kept typing on...
...and this is why it takes me, sometimes, 40 minutes to get through a transcript.
Today I tried to figure out a Canadian transcript pre-2003, meaning that it involved a number system instead of a letter-grade system. They assign you 1-9, seven being satisfactory. Then they put a conversion chart at the bottom of the transcript so one can convert 9s to As. It was oddly satisfying to do this, although after 15 minutes of math I was told that I wasn't supposed to do the conversions. They hire someone else to do it.
What's really odd, though, is that after 1986 Canada Universities decided that anything below a 3 was unsatisfactory and this considered an F. Doesn't that seem pretty pointless? Get it? Point-less!?
Why do you even have a 2? So you can grade students and say things like--this paper is so bad, it's not even a 3. It's not even a 2. This research paper about Molson is certainly a 1, eh? You hoser, student. Those crazy Canucks.
And do they get grade points for bringing donuts to class? (Donuts, that's a shout out Shannon. To Dr. Hayes, also known as Captain Corduroy, also known as my Morality Plays and Shan's and my Bible as Lit instructor. He was Canadian, obsessed with donuts and the U of T, and while reading the Canterbury Tales aloud one day came across the word "netherpurse." He said, netherpurse? Netherpurse, netherpurse. Ah, yes. ... Underneath purse! ... Balls.
And continued on. He was also known for being spotted around Winona with his fishing cap, long khaki cargo shorts, sandals, and per usual his round John Lennon glasses.)
Anyway, I could look at those manuscripts all day. Oh wait, that's my job.
*
Which leads me to obsession number two, which I could also look at all day. Thanks to Darren bringing Freaks and Geeks over to my house. Someday, I will have 100 of James Franco's babies.
I'll stop acting like a 12 year old girl when he stops looking so sexy, yet cuddly and puppy-like at exactly the same time.
But the problem is that I get too excited about college classes. Instead of allowing my eyes to scan for the information I need, I instead find myself reading the courses. "History of Teaching and School"? I want to take that class! "Speech Improvement"? Sign me up, please! (Unless it's a MWF class at 8:00. Then I'll take it next semester.)
What really gets me excited, though, are the older transcripts. Yesterday somebody applied for a faculty position and had an undergraduate transcript from 1961. It was half-typed and half-written. It noted his graduating class (151), had a blank spot where one would fill in vocation, and had a blank spot to fill in his religion. Religion on your transcript! How interesting that that goes on your record! Neat! (Have I been living with Liz too long? I'm calling transcripts neat? Come on, now.)
So when I look at the older transcripts, I spend my time daydreaming. I just imagine that spring of 1971 when the transcript-holder was taking his Psychology class. Weeks before the semester ended, that morning wetness in the air as he walked to class in his tight jeans, the sky starting to turn the color of honey (or is that because I picture this like an old photograph?). What was psych class like in 1971? Was it all about those wacky Lithium pills and their severe side effects and the horrible results of ECT, like in the movies?
His teacher, I bet, had those long, thick sideburns that could be mutton chops. His glasses were brown. Nike shoes would show up next year. People were finally starting to get over breakup of the Beatles. And there'd been liberal progress in the last 10 years. At least he didn't have to put his religion on his transcript.
He was smoking cigarettes while typing Psych papers about the new thoughts of B.F. Skinner on his typewriter. When he came up with long strings of thought, words and words of genius, he stuck the cig between his lips and took drags and nodded his heads while his fingers moved on--until the long ash and cherry fell onto his lap and he swiped it away and kept typing on...
...and this is why it takes me, sometimes, 40 minutes to get through a transcript.
Today I tried to figure out a Canadian transcript pre-2003, meaning that it involved a number system instead of a letter-grade system. They assign you 1-9, seven being satisfactory. Then they put a conversion chart at the bottom of the transcript so one can convert 9s to As. It was oddly satisfying to do this, although after 15 minutes of math I was told that I wasn't supposed to do the conversions. They hire someone else to do it.
What's really odd, though, is that after 1986 Canada Universities decided that anything below a 3 was unsatisfactory and this considered an F. Doesn't that seem pretty pointless? Get it? Point-less!?
Why do you even have a 2? So you can grade students and say things like--this paper is so bad, it's not even a 3. It's not even a 2. This research paper about Molson is certainly a 1, eh? You hoser, student. Those crazy Canucks.
And do they get grade points for bringing donuts to class? (Donuts, that's a shout out Shannon. To Dr. Hayes, also known as Captain Corduroy, also known as my Morality Plays and Shan's and my Bible as Lit instructor. He was Canadian, obsessed with donuts and the U of T, and while reading the Canterbury Tales aloud one day came across the word "netherpurse." He said, netherpurse? Netherpurse, netherpurse. Ah, yes. ... Underneath purse! ... Balls.
And continued on. He was also known for being spotted around Winona with his fishing cap, long khaki cargo shorts, sandals, and per usual his round John Lennon glasses.)
Anyway, I could look at those manuscripts all day. Oh wait, that's my job.
*
Which leads me to obsession number two, which I could also look at all day. Thanks to Darren bringing Freaks and Geeks over to my house. Someday, I will have 100 of James Franco's babies.
I'll stop acting like a 12 year old girl when he stops looking so sexy, yet cuddly and puppy-like at exactly the same time.
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