poetry wednesday

From Franz Wright's2004 Pulitzer Prize-winning collection of poetry- Walking to Martha’s Vineyard.

LETTER
January 1998

I am not acquainted with anyone
there, if they spoke to me
I would not know what to do.
But so far nobody has, I know
I certainly wouldn’t.
I don’t participate, I’m not allowed;
I just listen, and every morning
have a moment of such happiness, I breathe
and breath until the terror returns. About the time
when they are supposed to greet one another
two people actually look into each other’s eyes
and hold hands a moment, but
the church is so big and the few who are there
are seated far apart. So this presents no real problem.
I keep my eyes fixed on the great naked corpse, the vertical corpse
who is said to be love
and who spoke the world
into being, before coming here
to be tortured and executed by it.
I don’t know what I am doing there. I do
notice the more I lose touch
with what I previously saw as my life
the more real my spot in the dark winter pew becomes—
it is infinite. What we experience
as space, the sky
that is, the sun, the stars
is intimate and rather small by comparison.
When I step outside the ugliness is so shattering
it has become dear to me, like a retarded
child, precious to me.
If only I could tell someone.
The humiliation I go through
when I think about my past
can only be described as grace.
We are created by being destroyed.

since i've been gone...

 The following article is not only well written, but I believe will also help me in the future navigate the economic stratification of the mid-20's birthday dinner. Not that I'm mid-20's or anything.  Happy Birthday, You Bastard: An invective against birthday dinners by John Swansburg on Slate. 

I've recently discovered the joys of the dutch oven (thanks to the De Youngs) and have realized that if you pour a couple of canned items into a pot and heat it, you can create soup! It is wonderful and you can eat it for days and days, and if your bread is stale you can dip it in the soup and you can hardly tell. Words of wise from the impoverished during this difficult economic time. 

I hope soon to post pictures from Monticello where I went with the fam this weekend. Did you know that ole' TJ had pink sheets? Well he did! 

classic Sheffield post, 4/30/2006

Classic post I wrote during my time in Sheffield, England titled: "Eric Clapton's Son Part II, or The Time I Narced on Hooligan Sheffield Kids: You Choose!"

I know that many of you have been on the edge of your seats, trembling with anticipation over the day when I would finally regale you again with a story about Eric Clapton's son, who goes to boarding school up the street from me in Sheffield. Okay well, maybe no one was really waiting for this day but now that it's come, I bet you're at least a little excited? Mildly enthused? Anyone? Anyway this story is in the vein of those Pick Your Own Adventure Books from the early 90's, so play along (anyone else remember those? I actually hated them, I felt they were a sign of an indecisive author but after writing this I'm beg. to think they're highly underrated)...

Last night, at approximately 22:35 pm I was walking back to Halifax Hall after watching King Kong at the union. It was. sadly, the highlight of my weekend. But this story isn't about my pathetic life, every minute of which is spent in anxious anticipation of my departure 35 days from now, it's about the events I witnessed on this fateful spring night on Glossop Road.

I walked briskly, but without any sort of fear seeing as Sheffield's reputation as the safest city in England is well-earned, I once walked home from the union at 2 in the morning without ever seeing another soul. I decided not to listen to my iPod and instead sang that hymn that goes "My God you are my god and I will ever praise you..." under my breath as traffic passed me intermittently. Wearing a skirt, jean jacket, and scarf I was feeling quite comfortable and cheery even, a rare mood for me since I am usually brooding over the stupid papers I have due in the next two weeks. That is until I reached the intersection of Glossop and Endcliffe Vale Road, where I live.

You see across the street (**see photo) from this intersection is one of the Top 3 Reasons I Love Sheffield, the Botanical Gardens (The other 2 Reasons being it isn't Paris and Wokmania, the local Chinese buffet). These gardens are simply beautiful especially now as spring has come. The crocuses and daffodils are all out and it's just gorgeous. I walk through it every day to school, and I've even on two extremely rare occasions jogged through it. I've had quiet times in the Botantical Gardens, everyday I watch mum's and dad's with their kids playing there, and I've even teared up in them after listening to a particularly moving sermon on my Ipod. And I've watched the caretakers, mostly older men take care of the garden, planting, weeding, and mowing; extremely precious.

So you can imagine my horror when, on this pleasant English night when I witnessed several hooligans (teenage kids), all male, congregating across the street by the side entrance of the Botanical Gardens. You see, the Gardens close at 4 pm every day, they lock up the two entrances till the next morning. As I get closer and closer to their position across the street, my jaw drops in horror as I realize what is going on. They are SCALING the freaking wall (don't ask me how, they just run, jump, and climb over. I couldn't do it, I have an extremely low vertical jump)! They are breaking into the Botanical Gardens. They throw each other knapsacks across the wall and I still can't believe what I'm seeing.

:::::ATTN:If you wish to choose the optional Eric Clapton's Son version of the story, continue reading, If not, scroll down to the More True But Less Interesting ending:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It's him. The same hooligan I saw months ago on a structurally unsound ledge near my hall, chain smoking and generally causing mayhem. Eric's Clapton's son (who wil henceforth be known as S. of E.C. for son of Eric Clapton). Not only am I outraged that these kids may or may not be causing damage to my beloved Botanical Gardens, I am now equally outraged that Eric Clapton's son's therapist clearly isn't up to par seeing as he is engaging in criminal activity in order to get attention from his celebrity father. Sigh. It's tough being famous.

I cross the street in a rush, grabbing one of them by the sleeve before he jumps, Michael Jordan-style up onto the wall. "Excuse me, what do you think you're doing?" He looks at me with hardened but sad eyes and points up to the top of the wall where, sure enough, S. of E.C. is sitting. "Oy", he cries. "What do you think yer doin' lady?" I shiver as it's getting a little colder since I stopped my brisk walking. "I just want to talk", I call up. "You don't need to do this". "Yeah", he replies. "And how would you know?". He slides down off the wall, and leans, arms crossed against the stones. "I know it's hard. Living in the shadows" I say softly. "But breaking and entering...criminal activity? It's not worth it. People work hard to make these gardens beautiful. They're for the community. If you destroy that, you'll only be hurting yourself. Not your father". "My father?" he interrupts, "What do you know about my father". "I know he's a multi-platinum award-winning rock god, with a string of hit singles and my parents bought his recent album "Riding with the King" a collaboration with B.B. King which we listened to all the time in the summer of 2000". "Oh" he replies. He pulls out a pack of smokes and offers me one, his voice confident and tough but his eyes betraying the hurt inside. I accept the cigarette which he lights, but don't inhale because lung cancer kills 160,439 people every year.

"Look," he tells me, "I don't know who you are, or where you came from...actually I'm guessing you came from America based on your accent, but that's beside the point. My boys and I, we just like to have a little fun". "Oh, so you want fun?" I ask casually, looking at the other teenage boys standing around who have now let their guard down and seem more scared than excited to vandalize public gardens. "I'll show you some fun. Why don't you come with me?" They try not to let on, but I can see that I have peaked their interest. We walk together across the street, and towards Halifax, exchanging jokes and laughs over all the "danger" lurking around Sheffield, and they regale me with tales of their boarding school and funny impersonations of their headmaster. I tell them all about Chicago and Noodles In a Pot and the Art Institute and Sufjan Stevens, and listen to albums on my computer while I teach things about the Protestant Reformation under Elizabeth's reign and we play Yahtzee and eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which of course they love.

It starts to get late and I gently remind them that they don't want to break their curfew and get in trouble. They agree and S. of E.C. says to me, "Thanks Lexy." "For what?" I reply. "You know...for this. For keeping us from doing something we would regret. And you're right, I should just talk to my dad. Open those lines of communication." "It's the key to a healthy relationship!" I remind him. "And I can't believe I was going to try and mess up the gardens. What a stupid thing to do. I actually really love the day lilies, they are my favorite." "Mine too", I reply knowingly, "Mine too". "And I won't forget to that signed vinyl copy of the acoustic version of Layla for you". "Take your time bud" I say.
I wave good-bye as they walk back up the street toward the boarding school, yelling "Good night! See you later!". "Kids these days", I think to myself, and head up to bed.

::::ATTN: More True and Less Interesting Version starts here:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

I just couldn't believe that some stupid hooligan kids were going to sneak into the Botanical Gardens and vandalize them or worse destroy the foliage. I just pictured the look on those precious caretakers faces tomorrow morning. So I called the cops and reported their asses. And even if it makes me a narc, I really don't care and I'm glad I did it because I love those frakking gardens.

The End.

**View of the Botanical Gardens from Glossop Road

as an apology for my lack of bloggage lately...

I offer you this fun cartoon and a promise that I will be back asap. Cheers!

from Bits of Life

my future dissertation on kanye west and muticultural studies in composition

**special thanks to all who participated in the first blogger challenge- your six word memoirs were inspiring, literally, and made my sardonic, pithy attempts seem silly. anyway look forward to more blogger challenges to come.

You guys might not know this, but I am a huge Kanye West fan. I'm also a graduate student. And I'd like to combine both of these things for you now.

Verse 2 of Kanye West's "Good Morning" off the album Graduation

1 Look at the valedictorian scared of the future/

2 While I hop in the Delorean/

3 Scared-to-face-the-world complacent career student/

4 Some people graduate, but we still stupid/

5 They tell you read this, eat this, don't look around/

6 Just peep this, preach us, teach us, Jesus/

7 Okay, look up now, they done stole your streetness/

8 After all of that, you receive this...

      All right- deconstructing this verse from a multicultural rhetorical viewpoint, we can see that Kanye is making a point about the Academy- the name those of us in the academic world use when we want to be meta and talk about the university system.  In lines 5 and 8, "they" refers to the administration, the Power that Be (TPTB) so to speak, at the university. It is this "they" that determines the canon, and that determines exactly what it is that has value in this particular system. By telling you (the college student that is Kanye's imagined audience in this verse) what to "read", "eat", and "peep" TPTB are changing you; Kanye asserts in line 1 that they make you a "complacent career student" who is continuously afraid (lines 1 and 3) of the "real world". In line 7, speaking directly to the student, he says "okay, look up now", charging them to wake up from this complacency and realize what has happened to them. 

     "They done stole your streetness" is a particularly applicable line for composition studies because it refers to ideas of value and dialogue- what kind of dialogue is prized in the Academy? What kind of students have the most to gain from placing value on "academic" or standard dialogue? What kind of students does this place at a disadvantage? The idea of acculturation of minority students, students who speak a dialect of English, and students who are L2 (also commonly known as ESL) learners, is a hot topic in multicultural studies. Acculturating, or the process assimilation into a dominant culture, or in this case, dialogue, raises a lot of ethical questions- why, for example, is academic dialogue given so much value, and should it? In comp studies, multicultural studies calls for a re-valuation of what they call the "home dialogue" of many minority students. 

     "Home dialogue", or the way languge was composed in a student's home environment (dialogue here refers to both spoken and written language), can be directly linked to the "streetness" Kanye says has been stolen by the Academy in line 7. For many multicultural theorists, "stolen" is exactly the correct word- they believe that in the process of acculturation something is lost in the minority student that is irreplaceable. Instead, these theorists call for the idea of "multiple dialogues", where writing classrooms would stop placing value on only one type of dialogue (the dialogue that is approved by the Academy) and instead teach from the theory of multiple dialogues- instead of acculturating students to lose their home dialogue, teaching them the value of being able to switch between multiple dialogues so that they can master standard dialogue and still at the same time see value in their own specific cultural dialogue. 

    The last line of this verse- "After all that, you receive this", i.e. a diploma, is brilliant I believe because it lets the imagined audience answer for themselves the question implicit in this line- is it worth it? Considering the cost, the price a multicultural student pays for a diploma, is it worth losing your own language to get that piece of paper that represents the stamp of approval by the Academy? From a Marxian perspective, the Academy is a self-affirming institution- meaning it sets its own standards (standard dialogue, standard canon), sets its own hoops for students to jumps through (these are the requirements of a major, the idea you must even have a major to begin with, and qualifying or comprehensive exams that students must pass in order to receive the diploma) and the students who then make it through successfully go into society and our culture with the values set by the Academy. This is how value is disseminated into our culture. 

   My husband-to-be (HTB) asked if I thought Kanye was really "this smart", and I told him (politely, of course!) that I didn't think that was the point. The point isn't if Kanye meant all of this in his rhymes, but that a multicultural theory can be applied to them from the outside. It speaks to an increasing amount of minority and L2 students becoming acculturated into the university system, and how the system needs to adjust accordingly- by changing its values and standards that only prize the work of dead, white, men and broadening the definition of "good" dialogue. 

thanks kanye!

your life in six words

from smithmag.net:

Legend has it that Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. His response? “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Last year, SMITH Magazine re-ignited the recountre by asking our readers for their own six-word memoirs. They sent in short life stories in droves, from the bittersweet (“Cursed with cancer, blessed with friends”) and poignant (“I still make coffee for two”) to the inspirational (“Business school? Bah! Pop music? Hurrah”) and hilarious (“I like big butts, can’t lie”).
Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous & Obscure collects almost 1,000 of these memoirs, including additions from many celebrities including Stephen Colbert, Jane Goodall, Dave Eggers, and more.



This youtube video has many of the images and memoirs from the book.


So my challenge to you, fellow bloggers- what is your six-word memoir? Leave it in a comment, or post it on your own blog.

I will leave you with the following two options for my own six-word memoir:

Wish I were nicer, oh well.

or

My feelings are intense yet changeable.

(admittedly from buffy the vampire slayer, but it was such an apt summation of my life thus far that it needed including)

in honor of the anticipated return of the SECOND most important show of our time-LOST

The return of LOST is slated for Thursday, January 31st at seven pm. With the strike going on, this return will be short-lived but nonetheless, with the end of nearly every scripted show on television early this month, LOST will, for two months, feed our hungry, entertainment-starved souls. Thus:

A tribute to LOST season 4, in two parts. 

Part 1: Classic post revisited "past due shout outs", dated October 20, 2006:

this is a ShOuTz- OuTT which is long overdue to this year's incarnation of "Are you in or out?" Wed. Nights!
So LOST is in its third season. Alot of things have changed, for the castaways and for us as well. We're at the Racine/Wrightwood House of Pain apartment now, with the occasional guest apartment of Lindsey's pad. It's almost just like the Castaway Beach City and the Other's Freaky Village and how in LOST we are starting to get episodes from both. I've realized that as we've grown up over the past two years, the attitude of In/Out Nights has become alot more laid back than it used to be. Maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's just us getting older. We are no longer as obnoxiously in-your-face about spreading the Good News of In/Out Nights to people, and even relaxed our own rules by letting people leave right after LOST who have e-board meetings or just boyfriends who insist on taking them home right away. Wife Swap is off the air now, but thank goodness for ANTM (i.e. America's Next Top Model) on at 7 for our pre-LOST viewing pleasure. We let the real cooks do the cooking (Zac and JP) and haven't had any terrible couscous experiences (yet).
It will be interesting to see where this year goes- we know Kate will pick Sawyer, and that Jack will hook up with Juliet (spoiler alert!). We know that Lexy and Zac will argue over whether the baked potatoe is baked enough, and that JP will just put a ton of cheese on it regardless. Then there are the questions-will we ever find out how Locke became paralyzed? Will Lexy and Lindsey drop their junior seminar class winter quarter like last time, or will they stick it out? Can Desmond really tell the future? Will JP make it to his e-board meetings on time and sober? Will Hurley finally lose some weight? Will Lexy finally learn how to make some stinkin couscous?
Wait and see.....

Part 2: 

24 "Charlie Lives" Theories.

"Charlie Lives" is a movement in the LOST fandom that advocates the theory that Charlie Pace, aka my adorable faux husband, Dominic Monaghan, did NOT die in the flooding of the Looking Glass station as portrayed in the season 3 finale, but will somehow or another (see "24 theories" for speculation) come back during some point in the show's final three seasons.  The theories are, at the same time, wild wish-fulfillment and arguably persuasive, or at least though provoking. I'm not invested in any of these theories, but I have learned not to take anything for granted on a show like LOST. 

I thought this post to be quite timely since it seems I have lead the exodus from xanga to blogger (aka the people's blog- viva la revolución!) and I hope that the LOST fans that have wandered for so long and finally migrated to the promised land of blogger can come together in celebration over the return of our very own golden calf that is LOST. 

today's PSA brought to you by Converse

So has anyone seen those new Converse commercials yet? No, not the one with Dwayne Wade, because he is awesome.  I'm talking about those- "be a free thinker, stop contributing to capitalistic, consumer culture (but buy our shoes!)" ads. 

In one ad, there is a little girl strumming the same three chords on the guitar. She is singing these lyrics:

"Don't tell me what to do/ what to wear, what to say/ don't wanna follow fools/wanna do it my way, I've gotta brain/ I can think for myself/ don't wanna be like everyone else"

The next ad has no sound at all. In the background is a clip of a beauty queen crying while a crown is placed on top of her head and the following text scrolls down in the foreground:

"Why are we sitting watching I Wanna be the Galaxy's Best Supernova Diva Star? Dutifully phoning in our votes for the next big thing while we wait on our couch to die. Continue in this so-called democracy and you may just stop thinking for yourself. That's when you are officially dead.

But you're not dead yet. "

My beef with these ads is that I just cannot believe that advertisers seriously thought that consumers were gonna buy this bunch of hypocrisy. "Buy shoes with our big logo plastered on the side and be progressive! P.S. TV sucks!" And yet...you are advertising on television, which means that you are PAYING the networks for air time and thus financially supporting the thing that supposedly causes people to be dead inside. 

Here is my Public Service Announcement for the day:

Advertisers, please STOP encouraging consumers to be anti-capitalistic and counter culture. People who are truly free thinkers do not buy things based on commercials, and they certainly aren't naive enough to think buying a product would ever make them progressive. Do not try to fool people into thinking you really want people to be like this because then you would not make any money. The public is not stupid, so stop treating us like it. 

You can find these ads on Youtube:

"Three Chords"

"Pageant"

my shiny happy fit of rage

While I rage against the sucky and mindnumbing day that the cruel, decrepit hands of that spinster Fate has doled out to me today, I know I have to take comfort in the little things:

like

and

Tomorrow will be better. (Repeat as necessary)

i've already written his name down in my revenge notebook...

The head of my department that is. He was the sadistic man that administered the grueling Qualifying Exam I took today that everyone is required to take to continue in the MA in writing program. During our breaks, the department chair kindly took it upon himself to fill the silence with extremely tedious and trendy small talk. "Does anyone here have a Hummer?", he asked. "You automatically fail!" Obligatory chuckles ensued and I sat at my computer station admiring this man's ability to make a completely miserable situation even more into something I hate. Of course, if I ever need a recommendation from him at least now I know to tell him beforehand that I own a copy of Who Killed the Electric Car? on DVD. 

 

Anyway, the text for the exam was The Best American Essays 2007 edited by David Foster Wallace, which is actually quite good and luckily made studying a tad more enjoyable. 

So in honor of my finishing the Quals and (hopefully) passing them, I present you with...

Best Essays of The Best American Essays 2007 edited by yours truly.

"What the Dog Saw" Malcom Gladwell

This essay is about Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer. If you've never seen this show, I highly recommend it. In this essay, Gladwell focuses on a movement analysis of Millan by various dance and performance experts. You learn that his physical communication with the dogs is flawless, and Gladwell also pulls in a lot of personal information about Millan's past and his transformation into the Dog Whisperer. This essay was published in The New Yorker. 

"Petrified" John Lahr

Did you know that stage fright is an actual psychological condition, like anxiety or depression? You will also be surprised to find out in this essay many famous and respected actors, such as Stephen Fry, Ian Holm, Ian McKellen, and Nicole Kidman, suffer from it. Lahr takes the reader into the world of the stage and into the courage and commitment needed for this art. Extremely interesting, and also an easy read. This was also published in The New Yorker. 

"Passion Flowers in Winter" Molly Peacock

In this unique essay, Peacock talks about the need, even as an adult, for readily apparent "role models". She chronicles the story of two of her own role models- her mother and a 18th century woman named Mrs. Mary Delaney. Mary Delaney was a British woman fairly high in society, she was related to the royal family but a series of events (her uncle was thrown into the Tower during the Jacobite controversy) changed her life. She married the love of her life well into her mature adulthood and did not start her life's work- exquisite flower collages- until after her husband's death. It's a remarkable story and Peacock interweaves Mary Delaney's story with that of her own mother's. This essay was published in PMS. 

"Onward Christian Liberals" Marilynne Robinson

Marilynne Robinson (winner of the Pulitzer Prize for her amazing novel Gilead) writes an essay about the history of liberal (in the literal, not political sense) Christianity and makes a connection between personal holiness and liberal economics. This was my favorite essay, it was extremely stimulating but also very dense. Robinson's prose is a joy to read though. I have to include one of my favorite quotes from the essay, which will hopefully spur you to read it yourselves:

"What has personal holiness to do with politics and economics? Everything, from the liberal Protestant point of view. They are the mans by which our poor and orphaned and our strangers can be sustained in real freedom, and graciously, as God requites. How can a Christian live without certainty? More funny, I suspect, than one can live with doctrines that constrict the sense of God with definitions and conditions."

This essay was published in American Scholar.

"Rules of Engagement" Elaine Scarry

Another one of my favorite essays, Scarry chronicles methodically the ways in which the United States has broken the laws of the Geneva Convention during the war with Iraq. She argues that as a country, we are dangerously close to crossing over into "neo-absolutism", which is the use of unconventional weapons in warfare as well as conducting acts forbidden by international and U.S. Air Force, Navy, and Army law. She provides illustrations of the United States breaking these "rules of engagement" in several situations since we have invaded Iraq and ends with a warning that the current administration is on a slippery slope. If the rules are able to bent, then what does that say for the possibility of the use of "unconventional"- aka nuclear or biological weapons in the future in order to secure our means? This essay was published in the Boston Review.

"What Should a Billionaire Give- and What Should You?" Peter Singer

Singer provides a window in the philanthropy of some of the richest men in the world- Bill Gates and Warren Buffet and addresses the ethical question of giving. He does some very interesting calculations in this essay, and he runs the numbers on how much exactly the superrich (who comprise the top .001- 10% of American's income) could reasonably give and still live without hardship. His calculations are purely hypothetical but interesting nonetheless, especially when he speculates how easy it could for the world's rich to eliminate global poverty. This essay was published in The New York Times Magazine. 

"Dragon Slayers" Jerald Walker

This funny, biting, insightful essay about a black writer in Academia is slipped in almost at the very end of this collection, but is one that definitely should not be missed. At a cocktail party, the husband one of his white colleagues struck up a conversation with him where it quickly became apparent that Walker, in the man's words, "was a traitor to the black race". "That was unfortunate," Walker writes, "I'd like to think I betray whites too". The essay recounts his mentoring by one of the few black men in Iowa's writing program and it is at the same time shocking and touching, and expands upon Walker's experience teaching black literature at Iowa. This essay was published in The Iowa Review.

That is the end of this year's edition of Best of The Best American Essays, and I hope we've all enjoyed ourselves. Looking forward to next year. 

a chronicle of my inappropriate crushes

Inappropriate Crush #'s 1 and 2:


Daniel Radcliffe and Rupert Grint. Emma Watson is also an I.C. of my husband-to-be.
Inappropriate because? They are barely legal.
Why I love them: Even though they're adolescents, they have a maturity about them that I think is interesting. Also they're British.

Inappropriate Crush #3:


Michael Cera (aka George Michael Bluth from Arrested Development and Paulie Bleeker in Juno)
Inappropriate because? Again, barely legal.
Why I love him: Have you watched Arrested Development? Seen Juno? Then you understand. A-dorable.


Inappropriate Crush #4:


Ricky Ullman (aka Phil of the Future)
Inappropriate because? He is a member of the Disney Channel Circle of Stars.
Why I love him: He is hilariously over-the-top on Phil of the Future, and his brand of goofy dorkiness always appeals to me. (See also I.C.'s 1, 2, and 3)


Inappropriate Crush #5:



Dimitri from Anastasia
Inappropriate because? He is a fictional character. And a cartoon. (But sooo dreamy!)
Why I love him: He's been my favorite Disney "Prince" character since I was little. And he sings and dances with Kelsey Grammar in the movie!


Inappropriate Crush #6:


Lucas Grabeel (aka Ryan from High School Musical)
Inappropriate because? He's in High School Musical. Enough said.
Why I love him: This one I can hardly comprehend myself. It might be his ambiguously gay on-screen alter ego that can pull off a pink fedora in almost any situation, or it might just be that he seems so much cooler than Zac Effron.

And finally, Inappropriate Crush #7:


Sir Ian McKellen
Inappropriate because? Old enough to be my grandfather. And gay.
Why I love him: Can I even count the ways? Lord of the Rings, X-men, Stardust, Gods and Monsters....Oh, and he's British. Curiously, he can also pull of a fedora.

So does anyone else have any I.C.'s they are able to admit? Mind you, inappropriate crushes can range from people you enjoy that are super-cheesy, fictional, a trillion years older/younger than you, or someone you are just embarrassed to enjoy, and can fall on any point in the graduated scale of absolutely inappropriate, borderline scary crushes (say, Johnny Depp's character in Sweeney Todd. Eeks) to the only slightly inappropriate, yet humiliating crushes (like one of the stars of High School Musical).

my life as a girl a cover girl

So I got this new mascara over break-


"Cover Girl Lash Blast Mascara"

Cover Girl isn't sponsoring me or anything but I totally recommend this mascara. It's only eight dollars and as proof to the wonders it works I offer you this- someone asked me if I was wearing fake eyelashes when I wore it out to a bachelorette party over break. I've tried many a mascara over the past couple years, but for the price and what it does Lash Blast ranks up there in the top.

classic posts revisited

from Feb. 24, 2006 in Sheffield, England:

The long awaited...the much anticipated......the Paternoster entry!

All right, I realize that this entry might not actually have been long awaited or much anticipated by anyone except me. I have been waiting for exactly the right moment to wax poetic about....
the Paternoster in the Arts Tower of my uni. I have two classes in the Arts Tower, and thus am forced to go there three times a week, and seeing as one of my classes is on the 9th floor, I am forced to utilise......

the Paternoster!




from Wikipedia: "A paternoster or paternoster lift is an elevator which consists of a chain of open compartments (each usually designed for two persons) that move slowly in a loop up and down inside a building without stopping. Passengers who are agile enough can step on or off at any floor they like"*

*For the moment, please take a mental note of two phrases from the above excerpt:
1) "usually designed for TWO people" and 2) "agile ENOUGH"

Now, more on the paternoster:
"The name paternoster ("Our Father") has been taken from the first two words of the Lord's Prayer in Latin. A special bead on a rosary indicates that a Pater Noster is to be said"

Dear friends, would you like to know WHY the name of this obsolete device is the first two words of Lord's Prayer? I will paraphrase Wikipedia:
BECAUSE THIS THING IS EFFING DANGEROUS AND PEOPLE FEAR FOR THEIR LIVES EVERY TIME THEY GET IN ONE, SO THEY START SAYING THE LORD'S PRAYER, and that is where the name comes from.



There are only THREE of these left in all of England, and none so far as I could see in the United States (all three here in Great Britain are, interestingly enough, at universities. Ironic that higher eductation prides itself on its so-called intelligence and yet doesn't have the sense to get rid of out-dated, treacherous machinery). Therefore, if you unfortunately do not have the athletic stamina to climb up nine floors after walking thirty minutes just to get to the bloody building, you are just going to have to bust out those rosary beads and start with the Hail Mary's, cos you're gonna have to risk your life getting on the paternoster.

*Let's get back to our mental notes. It's personal anecdote time.

I will confess that it has taken me three weeks to venture onto the paternoster. There are several reasons why. Firstly, because it is death trap from the outer circles of hell and I am the biggest wuss and least agile person on the planet. I am so far from graceful it is not even funny; I'm about as agile as a lumberjack okay. Therefore, making me NOT qualified to float on and off where my whimsy takes me. No, it takes me a great deal of thought, concentration, and prayer to get me on and off the suicide cubicle and each time I've left the building/entered class with white knuckles from where I've been holding a death grip on the bar, and sweat pouring off my brow, having to deal not only with my brush with death but also anxiety over my incompetence in the agility department.
And secondly because British university students have a death wish. This is because they get a great laugh out of trying to pack AS MANY PEOPLE AS POSSIBLE into the cubicles of death, despite the fact that it is only safe to have two passengers. Therefore, you can imagine my chagrin when, riding on the paternoster for only the second time on Thursday, TWO kids jumped in it with me. I looked at them incredulously only to overhear the girl say to her friend, "We could have got more people on here". It was at this point ladies and gentleman, that a near fatality almost occured. No, not me, though distracted I was still able to pull together my concentration at the last second and exited the cubicle safely. But I had to restrain myself from pushing that stupid girl right off. I think this was totally justified as she obviously thought it would great fun to crowd MORE kids onto the death box, and therefore trapping me in the back while I searched for a non-existent paper bag to hyperventilate into.




**all photos of paternosters are significantly nicer looking than the one at the University of Sheffield. In fact, these look downright safe compared to the "Little Box of Horrors" that is the Arts Tower Paternoster.

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I forget to tell you that I did find out incidentally that in the fall, the University slows down the speed of the paternoster for freshmen. This is so they can get lulled into a sense of false security, and then have that security jerked away from them when, after two weeks, they really get the thing cranking. I'm just pissed I never even got the chance to get lulled- I mean, I like false security, probably MORE than the next person; in fact I base my entire life around a net of false sense of security I've built up for myself. Therefore, it's unfair that my first experiences with the pasternoter had to be when it was on its Completely Reckless Second Semester Reminds Me Of Raging Bull Speed.

One last grisly, "It's a cruel, cruel world" statistic:
"In 1989, the paternoster in Newcastle University's Claremont Tower was taken out of service after a passenger undertaking an up-and-over journey fouled himself on the drive chain"
Ugh.."fouled himself", it sounds ghastly. Just another thing to put on your prayer list guys- that I don't get fouled on the paternoster.

All right, I'll stop now. Maybe next week I'll have a nice, quiet entry about Eric Clapton's son without any dramatics or plunging, death by paternoster scenes.