...just so that's clear.
This fabulous two-week Christmas break will be marked by some serious road-tripping. When Tyler and I road-trip, we do not mess around. And by that I mean we don't stop. Ever. My road-trip bladder was highly conditioned in my youth to withstand trips across the state of Montana with nary a stop and for this I am eternally grateful. Not because Tyler is a stop-Nazi who veers into maniacal laughter as I beg for relief, but because it sucks to be the stereotypical girl on a road trip who has to pee every fifteen minutes. We stop for gas and gas only, barring any unfortunately-timed energy drinks.
The road-trip in question will be a journey from Pullman, Washington to Denver, Colorado to Whitefish, Montana back to Pullman, Washington. I find it likely to the point of certainty that we will do each of these drives in one day. Pullman to Denver. In one day. Denver to Whitefish. In one day. That is how we roll. And by that, I mostly mean that that is how Tyler rolls. The man can drive indefinitely. And does. He does these 18-hour drives by himself often and seemingly requires little distraction. Give the man a few cds and maybe some food and he is good to go. I also require a few cds but generally lose my mind somewhere around the five-hour mark. This provides some entertainment for my fellow trippers, but I phase in and out of reality once I pass this point of no return. One friend may recall me laughing hysterically at a sign for a historic tree nursery for about a half hour while continuously talking in a British accent that would horrify anyone who is even remotely fond of Britain.
Anyway, that doesn't really matter much because I won't really be driving much. I usually drive in about two-hour stretches with Tyler. I think this is due to three important factors. 1: Tyler feels safer when he drives unsafe stretches (ex. mountain passes, dark roads, winding roads, narrow roads, icy roads, wet roads, roads with wildlife or other drivers anywhere about, etc.). 2: I have the attention span of a head-injured goldfish. And 3: I am not a good driver. This is due largely to the attention-span thing. I get easily distracted by colorful things, shiny things, scenery, motion, or the subject I happen to be talking about at the time. It is also due to random bouts of superiority (displayed by driving almost exactly the speed limit and sadly shaking my heads at all the reckless drivers around me) followed immediately and at random by bouts of extreme and unwarrented aggression (displayed by yelling loudly at drivers anywhere near me, slower drivers, anyone changing lanes, or inanimate objects like stop signs). Apparently, schitzophrenic driving is a little nerve-wracking for passengers.
So we will do this drive. It will be fun. My job will consist mainly of driving briefly to make myself feel better, changing music, sleeping, retrieving food from the recesses of the car for Tyler, trying to entertain Tyler as he drives, and attempting to keep myself sane. I will spend long stretches staring at the scenery around us (this will not happen in Wyoming as the entire state looks the same for hours on end), going over in my head the entire plots of movies I have seen and books I have read, singing loudly to any music that is happening in the car (including all instrumental music), and coming up with ideas for books that I will never write.
I may attempt to get books on tape for this venture, but Tyler has begged me not to get any "girly" books. This is, no doubt, a reference to the fact that I like Jane Austen and he thinks her writing belongs only in convents. O well. I will find something manly.
I am currently debating what foods to bring. It will probably be whatever we have left in the apartment so...walnuts. Yep, that's pretty much it.
Look out, highways. Here we come.
12.03.2010
And now for something completely different...
Up to this point in the land of blog (I refuse to use the term "blogosphere"), I have attempted to be humorous in all my stories for you, dear reader. I want to amuse you, make you laugh, and not turn this thing into some sort of cyber-journal for baring far more of my soul than any would ever care to know. I still promise to never descend into sickening junior high poetry ("no one understands me", "my life is a black abyss", "I am trapped in a circling vortex of black darkness that is o-so dark and black", etc.) but today I am introspective and I thought I would throw my introspection out there and see if anyone else is feeling it or if I am a melancholy ball of psychosis.
The main point of the aforementioned introspection is the feeling of being lost. I think lost is the wrong word. Maybe directionless? Rudderless? Adrift? I don't know. The real issue is that suddenly I don't have a next step. Prior to this point there has always been a next step. I will explain.
Elementary school comes before middle school. Middle school comes before high school. After high school, go to college. And after college...what? Well, ideally you get a job in your field. Sciencey people go into medicine or research or whatever else those sciencey people do. Teaching majors get teaching jobs. Political scientists go into law or politics or something. Theater majors...do theatery things. Peace studies majors go join a commune or a non-profit or a protest group or something. The real dilemma here is that even in majors that have a logical next step after school, people do different things. We pick up jobs in dental offices or schools or libraries or restaurants and we say it's just until we move on. But move on to what?
I don't have a next step. I don't have a goal. I have no clue what I want to do. I don't want to work in the dentist office forever even though it is a good job with good pay and nice people. I want to do what my major said I could, broad and beautiful concepts of changing the world and making a difference and saving little pieces of humanity wherever I find them. But even though I knew I wanted those broad, beautiful things, I never knew how I was going to achieve them. Do I move to an orphanage in Africa? Go teach in China? Head to Northern Ireland and try to make myself useful in some sort of community work? Go build houses in South America? Work in projects somewhere in the states? I have nothing. No leads. No answers. No clue.
I know this sounds a little self-pitying and I don't mean it to be that way. I mean even less to somehow blame others for not warning me that I would suddenly have no advisors or instructors. I knew college would end. I knew real life would happen. My lack of decision is my fault. But what to do? Reality hits hard. Do I want more school? Sure, I would probably enjoy that. But I have to know what I am going to school for. Do I want to work for some non-profit and feel like my life is making a difference? Absolutely. But I still have to pay my rent and insurance and buy food. In this economy, I am thankful that I have a job and it feels almost selfish to complain that it is not fulfilling, that I want more.
But I do.
I want to do something that will make me feel that even if I die tomorrow, I will have done something that matters. I want to leave work feeling fulfilled or accomplished even when I am drained and exhausted. I want to feel that sense of purpose, that drive, that motivation that I felt when I was in school: that I was working towards something.
And I really want to not be the only one who feels directionless and confused right now.
Sorry this was not amusing. I will amuse you later. Now to determine what kind of pizza I eat tonight.
The main point of the aforementioned introspection is the feeling of being lost. I think lost is the wrong word. Maybe directionless? Rudderless? Adrift? I don't know. The real issue is that suddenly I don't have a next step. Prior to this point there has always been a next step. I will explain.
Elementary school comes before middle school. Middle school comes before high school. After high school, go to college. And after college...what? Well, ideally you get a job in your field. Sciencey people go into medicine or research or whatever else those sciencey people do. Teaching majors get teaching jobs. Political scientists go into law or politics or something. Theater majors...do theatery things. Peace studies majors go join a commune or a non-profit or a protest group or something. The real dilemma here is that even in majors that have a logical next step after school, people do different things. We pick up jobs in dental offices or schools or libraries or restaurants and we say it's just until we move on. But move on to what?
I don't have a next step. I don't have a goal. I have no clue what I want to do. I don't want to work in the dentist office forever even though it is a good job with good pay and nice people. I want to do what my major said I could, broad and beautiful concepts of changing the world and making a difference and saving little pieces of humanity wherever I find them. But even though I knew I wanted those broad, beautiful things, I never knew how I was going to achieve them. Do I move to an orphanage in Africa? Go teach in China? Head to Northern Ireland and try to make myself useful in some sort of community work? Go build houses in South America? Work in projects somewhere in the states? I have nothing. No leads. No answers. No clue.
I know this sounds a little self-pitying and I don't mean it to be that way. I mean even less to somehow blame others for not warning me that I would suddenly have no advisors or instructors. I knew college would end. I knew real life would happen. My lack of decision is my fault. But what to do? Reality hits hard. Do I want more school? Sure, I would probably enjoy that. But I have to know what I am going to school for. Do I want to work for some non-profit and feel like my life is making a difference? Absolutely. But I still have to pay my rent and insurance and buy food. In this economy, I am thankful that I have a job and it feels almost selfish to complain that it is not fulfilling, that I want more.
But I do.
I want to do something that will make me feel that even if I die tomorrow, I will have done something that matters. I want to leave work feeling fulfilled or accomplished even when I am drained and exhausted. I want to feel that sense of purpose, that drive, that motivation that I felt when I was in school: that I was working towards something.
And I really want to not be the only one who feels directionless and confused right now.
Sorry this was not amusing. I will amuse you later. Now to determine what kind of pizza I eat tonight.
12.01.2010
Hugh Laurie is the eternal rocker of my world.
For those of you not given to the Laurie fever, let me give you a short list of reasons why you should be.
1) The man is a comic genius. Seriously. I know he plays tons of side characters, but he plays them enormously well. Also, he wrote and starred in two very British comedy shows, "A Bit of Fry and Laurie" and "Jeeves and Wooster". Both are brilliantly, well, British. In the very best possible sense.
2) House. The man is House. Yes, I know lots of people don't particularly like the show, think Dr. House is an ass, all of that. However, you absolutely cannot deny that the man can act. And for those of us that like the occasional dose of evil, sarcastic, aggressively anti-social humour, House is a wonderful chance to indulge ourselves.
3) The man is so good at his American accent for the show that tons of people don't even know he's British! INCLUDING THE EXECUTIVE PRODUCER FOR THE SHOW!!! No, seriously. He called him just the kind of compelling American actor he had been looking for. I bet the rest of that conversation was interesting.
4) He plays like five instruments. Seriously. And apparently he is soon coming out with a blues/jazz album.
5) He is charming. Wait, just to me? Really? Moving on.
The last and most important reason to love the man is that he has written quite possibly the funniest book I have ever read. And I have read Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, which many apparently look to as the king book of random and strange humor. This beats it. No, really.
Hugh Laurie's book, The Gun Seller, is a wonderful spoof on spy thriller-type books. It is engaging and entertaining and made me want to keep reading, leading to many a groggy morning in the ol' dental office. In an attempt to convince you to read it, and an attempt to repeat things that made me laugh earlier, I will now give you snippets of the book.
"Swallows flitted here and there, darting in and out of the trees and bushes like furtive homosexuals, while the furtive homosexuals flitted here and there, pretty much like swallows."
"Rayner was uglier than a car park, with a big, hairless skull that dipped and bulged like a balloon full of spanners, and his flattened, fighter's nose, apparently drawn on his face by someone using their left hand, or perhaps even their left foot, spread out in a meandering, lopsided delta under the rough slab of his forehead. And God Almighty, what a forehead. Bricks, knives, bottles and reasoned arguments had, in their time, bounced harmlessly off this massive frontal plane."
"When the bar had cleared, I leant across to the fat man and gave him a speech. It was a dull speech, but even so, he listened very carefully, because I'd reached under the table and taken hold of his scrotum."
Look, all I am trying to say, really, is that you should read this book. Really. As in, immediately. Or sooner. It is magical and has made me actually laugh out loud. And I am not generally a laugh-out-louder to books.
There you go. Read the book. Grow in your Laurie love. Enjoy.
Off to do work.
1) The man is a comic genius. Seriously. I know he plays tons of side characters, but he plays them enormously well. Also, he wrote and starred in two very British comedy shows, "A Bit of Fry and Laurie" and "Jeeves and Wooster". Both are brilliantly, well, British. In the very best possible sense.
2) House. The man is House. Yes, I know lots of people don't particularly like the show, think Dr. House is an ass, all of that. However, you absolutely cannot deny that the man can act. And for those of us that like the occasional dose of evil, sarcastic, aggressively anti-social humour, House is a wonderful chance to indulge ourselves.
3) The man is so good at his American accent for the show that tons of people don't even know he's British! INCLUDING THE EXECUTIVE PRODUCER FOR THE SHOW!!! No, seriously. He called him just the kind of compelling American actor he had been looking for. I bet the rest of that conversation was interesting.
4) He plays like five instruments. Seriously. And apparently he is soon coming out with a blues/jazz album.
5) He is charming. Wait, just to me? Really? Moving on.
The last and most important reason to love the man is that he has written quite possibly the funniest book I have ever read. And I have read Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, which many apparently look to as the king book of random and strange humor. This beats it. No, really.
Hugh Laurie's book, The Gun Seller, is a wonderful spoof on spy thriller-type books. It is engaging and entertaining and made me want to keep reading, leading to many a groggy morning in the ol' dental office. In an attempt to convince you to read it, and an attempt to repeat things that made me laugh earlier, I will now give you snippets of the book.
"Swallows flitted here and there, darting in and out of the trees and bushes like furtive homosexuals, while the furtive homosexuals flitted here and there, pretty much like swallows."
"Rayner was uglier than a car park, with a big, hairless skull that dipped and bulged like a balloon full of spanners, and his flattened, fighter's nose, apparently drawn on his face by someone using their left hand, or perhaps even their left foot, spread out in a meandering, lopsided delta under the rough slab of his forehead. And God Almighty, what a forehead. Bricks, knives, bottles and reasoned arguments had, in their time, bounced harmlessly off this massive frontal plane."
"When the bar had cleared, I leant across to the fat man and gave him a speech. It was a dull speech, but even so, he listened very carefully, because I'd reached under the table and taken hold of his scrotum."
Look, all I am trying to say, really, is that you should read this book. Really. As in, immediately. Or sooner. It is magical and has made me actually laugh out loud. And I am not generally a laugh-out-louder to books.
There you go. Read the book. Grow in your Laurie love. Enjoy.
Off to do work.
11.01.2010
How to find a good book.
I think I am actually going to make two lists here. One will be the ways that a normal human being would find a good book to read. I do use some of these methods occasionally. The second will be how I find new books. I do this slightely more often than is normal.
List One: The Usual.
1) Read what the New York Times says is the best book to come out ever, what is selling most quickly this particular week or month, or what is most provocative (read: impossible to understand or thinly veiled political commentary). If you get whatever is selling most quickly at the moment, prepare yourself for the possibility that you will be immersed in horrible drivel that may take from you the desire to live. Preteens apparently buy more books than I had anticipated.
2) Read what Oprah tells you. I hear she likes good things occasionally. And sometimes she likes life stories that are not really life stories but pretend life stories about a life that was not actually lived but made for such a good book that apparently that does not really matter. Can't we just change the classification to "fiction" and move on? No? O... ok.
3) Read what is put out on the front tables at Borders or Barnes and Noble. Some of them must be interesting. You would think. I mean, they are placed in the coveted table position.
4) Read books recommended by friends, family, and random strangers that look like they have good taste in books.
5) Read books recommended to you by a love interest so you can appear compatible even in your taste in literature. It will just add to the overwhelming evidence that you are meant to be together.
List Two: The Unusual or Things I Do
1) Go onto the public library's catalog online. Begin to type in random words that you are vaguely interested in, liked at some point, or sound amusing ("penguin", "new zealand", "the modern rap movement"). Read through the list of books that pop up and write down the titles of any that sound potentially entertaining. Go forth and read them.
2) Walk aimlessly up and down rows of shelves, pulling out and examining any book with a brightely colored or otherwise eye-catching cover. The most highly visible books must be the best ones, right? Be sure to wander through the non-fiction section too! How else are you going to find the ultimate guide to fanfiction?
3) Close your eyes, spin, and point in a direction. Walk in that direction until you come in contact with a shelf. Browse shelf.
4) Grab a stack of books. Use as giant dominoes. Check out whatever you can grab before the librarian throws you out for "misuse of reading material".
5) Find the authors whose last names are closest to your own last name. Read their books. All of them.
6) Move on to authors closest to your first name. It's fun! And the books only suck about half the time.
7) Take books off the library's return cart. If someone just checked them out they must be good.
8) Explore the nooks and corners of the library for books that enterprising folk might have left there.
*Fun activity! Hide books throughout the library in random nooks and corners. They will serve as a pleasant surprise to folk who explore random nooks and corners and this will keep the librarians on their toes.
**Also of note: librarians do not appear overly fond of this fun activity.
Well, you now have two lists! Go forth, my highly-literate minions, and read!
List One: The Usual.
1) Read what the New York Times says is the best book to come out ever, what is selling most quickly this particular week or month, or what is most provocative (read: impossible to understand or thinly veiled political commentary). If you get whatever is selling most quickly at the moment, prepare yourself for the possibility that you will be immersed in horrible drivel that may take from you the desire to live. Preteens apparently buy more books than I had anticipated.
2) Read what Oprah tells you. I hear she likes good things occasionally. And sometimes she likes life stories that are not really life stories but pretend life stories about a life that was not actually lived but made for such a good book that apparently that does not really matter. Can't we just change the classification to "fiction" and move on? No? O... ok.
3) Read what is put out on the front tables at Borders or Barnes and Noble. Some of them must be interesting. You would think. I mean, they are placed in the coveted table position.
4) Read books recommended by friends, family, and random strangers that look like they have good taste in books.
5) Read books recommended to you by a love interest so you can appear compatible even in your taste in literature. It will just add to the overwhelming evidence that you are meant to be together.
List Two: The Unusual or Things I Do
1) Go onto the public library's catalog online. Begin to type in random words that you are vaguely interested in, liked at some point, or sound amusing ("penguin", "new zealand", "the modern rap movement"). Read through the list of books that pop up and write down the titles of any that sound potentially entertaining. Go forth and read them.
2) Walk aimlessly up and down rows of shelves, pulling out and examining any book with a brightely colored or otherwise eye-catching cover. The most highly visible books must be the best ones, right? Be sure to wander through the non-fiction section too! How else are you going to find the ultimate guide to fanfiction?
3) Close your eyes, spin, and point in a direction. Walk in that direction until you come in contact with a shelf. Browse shelf.
4) Grab a stack of books. Use as giant dominoes. Check out whatever you can grab before the librarian throws you out for "misuse of reading material".
5) Find the authors whose last names are closest to your own last name. Read their books. All of them.
6) Move on to authors closest to your first name. It's fun! And the books only suck about half the time.
7) Take books off the library's return cart. If someone just checked them out they must be good.
8) Explore the nooks and corners of the library for books that enterprising folk might have left there.
*Fun activity! Hide books throughout the library in random nooks and corners. They will serve as a pleasant surprise to folk who explore random nooks and corners and this will keep the librarians on their toes.
**Also of note: librarians do not appear overly fond of this fun activity.
Well, you now have two lists! Go forth, my highly-literate minions, and read!
10.11.2010
Mayhem.
I want to punch someone in the face. Maybe get punched a few times myself. I would really like to come away with bruises and bloody knuckles. Even the idea of re-breaking my nose is beginning to sound appealing.
I would like to say I crave being bad-ass all the time, but that's not so much true. I mean, I definitely get the odd desire to get into a fight, but I would say that is pretty well suppressed for the most part. But today I watched "Whip it" and now I miss the pride of showing off a killer welt or the satisfying smack of feeling yourself connect with something solid. Hard.
It's possible this desire to destroy things and be mutually destroyed is just residual from seeing a bunch of girls get to wail on each other. It's possible that it comes from some well of repressed violent tendencies that have been ignored because of my gender or societal expectations or the fact that I am a weakling. It's possible that I just can't fight anyone unless I am in some environment that really says the rules don't exist any more and I am supposed to be mean. I don't know. Whatever the reason, I want to fight.
I won't get to though. There is in all honesty no arena for me to fight in. Roller-derby looks crazy-appealing, but I don't know if it exists up here. And I can't roller skate. I can't even stand on roller skates. My ability to stay upright, while already tremulous, becomes unalterably impaired. Too bad. I would like to think there was some way I could release this aggression. Maybe I can find a punching bag.
And no. I don't want some boy, thinking he's being cute, to offer to let me punch him as hard as I can. This is a stupid offer. No one ever actually punches a person who makes this offer as hard as they can. And there are two reasons: 1) Every person in the world overestimates their own strength. From boys bragging that they might kill people if they really released the full force of their punches to girls claiming they become some badger/kangaroo boxing hybrid when released, people are stupid. Even I, a girl who probably has to exert myself more than I should to swat at flies, have some deep-seated subconscious belief that if I were to really unleash all my aggression and bad-assery into a punch I would instantly shatter every bone in the poor recipient's body, leaving them a quivering, jello-like mass on the floor. 2) No person in the world wants to actually punch someone as hard as they possibly can to find that as hard as they possibly can has little to no effect on anyone. I am weak. Quite weak, even. But I don't want to know that if I were ever involved in an actual fight, I would be entirely useless. I want to believe that some stores of adrenaline or latent ferocity would surface and make me an indispensible ally. So boys, don't offer to let us girls punch you as hard is we can. It's patronizing, obnoxious, and insulting. And hopefully someday a strong girl will actually do it and leave you weeping on the floor.
Anyhow, I am going to go attack a pillow or something.
I would like to say I crave being bad-ass all the time, but that's not so much true. I mean, I definitely get the odd desire to get into a fight, but I would say that is pretty well suppressed for the most part. But today I watched "Whip it" and now I miss the pride of showing off a killer welt or the satisfying smack of feeling yourself connect with something solid. Hard.
It's possible this desire to destroy things and be mutually destroyed is just residual from seeing a bunch of girls get to wail on each other. It's possible that it comes from some well of repressed violent tendencies that have been ignored because of my gender or societal expectations or the fact that I am a weakling. It's possible that I just can't fight anyone unless I am in some environment that really says the rules don't exist any more and I am supposed to be mean. I don't know. Whatever the reason, I want to fight.
I won't get to though. There is in all honesty no arena for me to fight in. Roller-derby looks crazy-appealing, but I don't know if it exists up here. And I can't roller skate. I can't even stand on roller skates. My ability to stay upright, while already tremulous, becomes unalterably impaired. Too bad. I would like to think there was some way I could release this aggression. Maybe I can find a punching bag.
And no. I don't want some boy, thinking he's being cute, to offer to let me punch him as hard as I can. This is a stupid offer. No one ever actually punches a person who makes this offer as hard as they can. And there are two reasons: 1) Every person in the world overestimates their own strength. From boys bragging that they might kill people if they really released the full force of their punches to girls claiming they become some badger/kangaroo boxing hybrid when released, people are stupid. Even I, a girl who probably has to exert myself more than I should to swat at flies, have some deep-seated subconscious belief that if I were to really unleash all my aggression and bad-assery into a punch I would instantly shatter every bone in the poor recipient's body, leaving them a quivering, jello-like mass on the floor. 2) No person in the world wants to actually punch someone as hard as they possibly can to find that as hard as they possibly can has little to no effect on anyone. I am weak. Quite weak, even. But I don't want to know that if I were ever involved in an actual fight, I would be entirely useless. I want to believe that some stores of adrenaline or latent ferocity would surface and make me an indispensible ally. So boys, don't offer to let us girls punch you as hard is we can. It's patronizing, obnoxious, and insulting. And hopefully someday a strong girl will actually do it and leave you weeping on the floor.
Anyhow, I am going to go attack a pillow or something.
10.10.2010
Dear all females.
I learned an extremely important lesson this weekend. It is so important, in fact, that I feel every female in the world, and any of the rare and possibly non-existent males out there who like Jane Austen, must know. Wait, I'm not sure I've built up the importance enough. If there was one thing that you should know, one thing I say that you should listen to, I am nearly certain it would be this. I can't think of anything that could possibly trump this short of knowledge of an impending disaster that will end all life as we know it. Ok. Here it comes:
Do not ever, ever, ever watch the movie "Lost in Austen". It is the worst movie ever created. It is not possible for a movie to be any worse.
This is not bad in the sense of the "so bad it's funny" type of movie. This is bad in the "O my sweet Lord, how is it possible that this is getting worse? There was no way for it to be any worse than it just was but somehow it is! How is it...what are they...AUGH! MY BRAIN!" kind of way.
Let me quickly summarize this and why it is so very awful. I was tricked into getting it from the library because I saw it was about a girl who got sucked into Pride and Prejudice. "I love that book!", I naively thought to myself. "This movie has potential to be vastly amusing!"
It was not vastly amusing.
The girl who gets sucked into the book is the worst and possibly stupidest person ever. She destroys everything. And I mean EVERYTHING. She is a slutty imbecile who, though she has apparently read this book more than actually living a life, has not the slightest idea of how to act like a normal person. I doubt she is capable of acting normal even in the real world. How could she destroy everything, you ask?
In the course of this movie:
-Jane marries a sexually deviant Mr. Collins
-Bingley becomes an alcoholic and runs away with Lydia
-Wickham is actually the (only) good guy
-Darcy's little sister is an evil conniving little snot of a thing
-Mr. Bennett nearly dies after fighting Mr. Bingley
-Elizabeth disappears into our world and becomes a nanny
-Darcy is an ass. Just an ass. The only bit of sense he shows is in initally hating our main girl with an intense passion which he then loses to fall in love with her because this movie is the epitome of suck.
-Charlotte dies alone in Africa.
-Caroline Bingley is a lesbian.
Yes. All that awfulness is in one movie. I didn't think it was possible either.
What makes this all worse (if that's possible) is that this movie is ETERNAL. It was almost three hours long! So many times we were about to stop it but then we would think "we've come so far. It must end soon. Surely it is almost done because they can't possibly destroy things any more than this." But they could. And they did. FOREVER.
Lesson to all: never watch this film. Not ever. If you find copies of it, burn them. My soul is slightly more dead now.
Also, I am so sorry to Erica and Elizabeth. I hope you can forgive me for doing this to you.
I'm going to go read the book or something just to be sure that movie has not swept through some horrific vortex and destroyed it.
Do not ever, ever, ever watch the movie "Lost in Austen". It is the worst movie ever created. It is not possible for a movie to be any worse.
This is not bad in the sense of the "so bad it's funny" type of movie. This is bad in the "O my sweet Lord, how is it possible that this is getting worse? There was no way for it to be any worse than it just was but somehow it is! How is it...what are they...AUGH! MY BRAIN!" kind of way.
Let me quickly summarize this and why it is so very awful. I was tricked into getting it from the library because I saw it was about a girl who got sucked into Pride and Prejudice. "I love that book!", I naively thought to myself. "This movie has potential to be vastly amusing!"
It was not vastly amusing.
This screenplay brought to you by the Prince of Darkness.
The girl who gets sucked into the book is the worst and possibly stupidest person ever. She destroys everything. And I mean EVERYTHING. She is a slutty imbecile who, though she has apparently read this book more than actually living a life, has not the slightest idea of how to act like a normal person. I doubt she is capable of acting normal even in the real world. How could she destroy everything, you ask?
In the course of this movie:
-Jane marries a sexually deviant Mr. Collins
-Bingley becomes an alcoholic and runs away with Lydia
-Wickham is actually the (only) good guy
-Darcy's little sister is an evil conniving little snot of a thing
-Mr. Bennett nearly dies after fighting Mr. Bingley
-Elizabeth disappears into our world and becomes a nanny
-Darcy is an ass. Just an ass. The only bit of sense he shows is in initally hating our main girl with an intense passion which he then loses to fall in love with her because this movie is the epitome of suck.
-Charlotte dies alone in Africa.
-Caroline Bingley is a lesbian.
Yes. All that awfulness is in one movie. I didn't think it was possible either.
What makes this all worse (if that's possible) is that this movie is ETERNAL. It was almost three hours long! So many times we were about to stop it but then we would think "we've come so far. It must end soon. Surely it is almost done because they can't possibly destroy things any more than this." But they could. And they did. FOREVER.
Lesson to all: never watch this film. Not ever. If you find copies of it, burn them. My soul is slightly more dead now.
Also, I am so sorry to Erica and Elizabeth. I hope you can forgive me for doing this to you.
I'm going to go read the book or something just to be sure that movie has not swept through some horrific vortex and destroyed it.
10.03.2010
An Ode to my lack of coordination...
Last night, as I made my way across the living room in the dark, I happened to slip and fall on a stack of papers and photographs that has been sitting in an untidy little pile next to our couch while I decide what exactly to do with it. The thud and crackling and rustling and such was enough to probably convince Tyler both that I had broken something important and that my bones are apparently as fragile as little bird bones that snap if the breeze blows wrong. Though the noise was...substantial (our neighbors beneath us may think that people are routinely murdered in our apartment considering how often they hear a body fall. The body is mine, by the way), I did not actually hurt myself in any way, but it reminded me of a story. And really, I like any excuse to tell a good college story because I miss college.
This particular story dates back to my sophomore year. I was, at that time, living with a dear, fiesty, and horrifyingly intelligent bio-chemistry major friend. Some may know her as Kirsten, or perhaps "The Khoe". While not psychotically neat, she was the kind of person who tended to actually have a place that each of her things belonged and who liked to be able to see her floor. There were many days when her bed was made, her books and papers were stacked in neat little piles, and her clothes were generally in her dresser or wardrobe. Her side of the room was a place where the odd visitor need not be afraid of being lost or injured by anything.
My side of the room was slightly different. I am sure at one point I had places for most of my things, but since they were seldom where they belonged I quickly forgot where everything went. The ledge next to my bed, my desk, my dresser, the chair next to my bed...all were completely covered in things that generally had no business being anywhere at all. I don't believe the chair next to my bed was actually ever sat in as it was so full of my jackets, books, notebooks, and other stuff. I would occasionally go on very brief cleaning sprees and would discover on my side of the room things I didn't know existed, much less that I owned. Even our walls reflected our different ideas about acceptable mess. Kirsten's walls, while full, had posters and pictures hung next to each other at perfectly right angles. It was all pretty orderly. My walls had sketches, photos, pictures from magazines, collages, masks, christmas ornaments, cards, seashells, and whatever else I could find hung at odd angles, purposely crooked and pushed into little clusters everywhere. I even had roses hanging upside down from the ceiling for a while.
Kirsten was ridiculously understanding of my mess. I'm still not sure how she managed to put up with it. The only thing she insisted on was that my stuff stay on my side of the room. This would become an issue because of my charming habit of dumping things on the floor around my desk and bed. Clothes formed mounds on the floor and stacks of notes, books, and loose papers were everywhere. I can't be completely sure of this, but I think Kirsten might have pushed the wall of my junk back to my side of the room with a yardstick a few times. I would sometimes come back and find a line clearly dividing the room: floor covered in crap on one side, floor clear but for the rug on the other.
Anyway, this bit of background is important for my little memory. One night, I came back to the room late. I tended to do this often as I had several vaguely nocturnal friends and my earliest classes were at nine thirty or ten. That's just how Peace Studies rolls. Kirsten, being science-y, had eight o'clock classes. And they were tough classes. The kind a person should be awake for. So she would be a good, responsible person and go to bed at a decent hour and I would come sneaking back to the room around one or two in the morning.
She had turned out the lights in the room (not a big deal. There was a street light that shined right into our room, though it was slightly blocked by the tree that grew in front of the window). I planned to be the best roommate ever. I would creep over to my side and go to sleep and not make her lose a second of sleep before her big important classes (I hear they deal with chemicals and numbers and stuff).
I slowly and silently shut the door. I turned and stealthily moved forward in the close-to-darkness. I distinctly remember feeling a bit like a ninja as I moved undetected through the blackened room toward the unmade lump of my bed. "I could be a spy," I thought to myself. "The best spy ever. I would go on missions and routinely save the world in secret. Everyone would owe me and not even know it." I took my first step into the swirling eddies of junk on the floor around my bed...and lost the ninja in me immediately. I stepped on a plastic grocery bag, which not only crinkled loud enough to wake the dead, but caused me to slip forward. I fell onto my bed, hitting the wall with my head. The creaks, thuds, mild swearing and unholy crinkling Kirsten might have ignored if she hadn't heard me distinctly mutter to myself, "This is why I can't be a ninja." I'm not sure I have ever heard her laugh that long. She very much enjoyed telling that story to everyone we saw for the next several weeks and, as far as I know, still tells it.
Nothing like messiness, clumsiness, and late-night mayhem to solidify a friendship.
This particular story dates back to my sophomore year. I was, at that time, living with a dear, fiesty, and horrifyingly intelligent bio-chemistry major friend. Some may know her as Kirsten, or perhaps "The Khoe". While not psychotically neat, she was the kind of person who tended to actually have a place that each of her things belonged and who liked to be able to see her floor. There were many days when her bed was made, her books and papers were stacked in neat little piles, and her clothes were generally in her dresser or wardrobe. Her side of the room was a place where the odd visitor need not be afraid of being lost or injured by anything.
My side of the room was slightly different. I am sure at one point I had places for most of my things, but since they were seldom where they belonged I quickly forgot where everything went. The ledge next to my bed, my desk, my dresser, the chair next to my bed...all were completely covered in things that generally had no business being anywhere at all. I don't believe the chair next to my bed was actually ever sat in as it was so full of my jackets, books, notebooks, and other stuff. I would occasionally go on very brief cleaning sprees and would discover on my side of the room things I didn't know existed, much less that I owned. Even our walls reflected our different ideas about acceptable mess. Kirsten's walls, while full, had posters and pictures hung next to each other at perfectly right angles. It was all pretty orderly. My walls had sketches, photos, pictures from magazines, collages, masks, christmas ornaments, cards, seashells, and whatever else I could find hung at odd angles, purposely crooked and pushed into little clusters everywhere. I even had roses hanging upside down from the ceiling for a while.
Kirsten was ridiculously understanding of my mess. I'm still not sure how she managed to put up with it. The only thing she insisted on was that my stuff stay on my side of the room. This would become an issue because of my charming habit of dumping things on the floor around my desk and bed. Clothes formed mounds on the floor and stacks of notes, books, and loose papers were everywhere. I can't be completely sure of this, but I think Kirsten might have pushed the wall of my junk back to my side of the room with a yardstick a few times. I would sometimes come back and find a line clearly dividing the room: floor covered in crap on one side, floor clear but for the rug on the other.
Anyway, this bit of background is important for my little memory. One night, I came back to the room late. I tended to do this often as I had several vaguely nocturnal friends and my earliest classes were at nine thirty or ten. That's just how Peace Studies rolls. Kirsten, being science-y, had eight o'clock classes. And they were tough classes. The kind a person should be awake for. So she would be a good, responsible person and go to bed at a decent hour and I would come sneaking back to the room around one or two in the morning.
She had turned out the lights in the room (not a big deal. There was a street light that shined right into our room, though it was slightly blocked by the tree that grew in front of the window). I planned to be the best roommate ever. I would creep over to my side and go to sleep and not make her lose a second of sleep before her big important classes (I hear they deal with chemicals and numbers and stuff).
I slowly and silently shut the door. I turned and stealthily moved forward in the close-to-darkness. I distinctly remember feeling a bit like a ninja as I moved undetected through the blackened room toward the unmade lump of my bed. "I could be a spy," I thought to myself. "The best spy ever. I would go on missions and routinely save the world in secret. Everyone would owe me and not even know it." I took my first step into the swirling eddies of junk on the floor around my bed...and lost the ninja in me immediately. I stepped on a plastic grocery bag, which not only crinkled loud enough to wake the dead, but caused me to slip forward. I fell onto my bed, hitting the wall with my head. The creaks, thuds, mild swearing and unholy crinkling Kirsten might have ignored if she hadn't heard me distinctly mutter to myself, "This is why I can't be a ninja." I'm not sure I have ever heard her laugh that long. She very much enjoyed telling that story to everyone we saw for the next several weeks and, as far as I know, still tells it.
Nothing like messiness, clumsiness, and late-night mayhem to solidify a friendship.
10.02.2010
Heat.
I hate heat. I know for some people that is like a sin, but I really hate it. Give me a blizzard over a heatwave any day. I always knew I liked the cold better, but that point has really been driven home to me lately. There are only so many days that you can lie on the floor of your third-story apartment in your underwear with every fan in the house pointed directly at you. I am just saying.
Now, I know lots of people love heat for some inexplicable reason. Maybe it reminds them of summer when they can go outside and hike and get themselves some more melanin and be in water constantly. I like those parts of heat. I do. I also understand the draw of summer vacation. Or I did when I was in school and had summer vacation. It turns out most jobs don't let you have it any more.
I am just saying that those pros do not weigh out the cons of heat. Besides, there are hot tubs and indoor pools if a person really needs water throughout the year, being tan is over-rated (go pale ones!), and fall is a much cooler time to hike (in more ways than one. Do you see what I did there?).
Therefore, I am writing a list of reasons heat stinks and reasons why cold, even extreme cold, is better.
Why heat stinks:
1) It literally stinks. And causes me to stink. Everything is more pungent in heat, and not in that good Las Vegas way. This includes trash, bodies (especially when packed into a bus), stagnant water, and mulch piles, or whatever those piles of coffee grounds and banana peels are.
2) It forces me to do much more laundry than usual because of the copious amounts of sweat that occur.
3) It prevents me from being comfortable. Heat limits my options for comfort to either wearing clothing that I don't feel sketchy in and sweating all day like I have some horrible fever or sweating a bit less and wearing horrible clothing that I am afraid to move in for fear of awkward revelations of flesh to those around me. This leads me to...
4) Lots of body insecurity. Yes, I like to pretend I don't deal with it and lots of times I don't, but it is hard to be completely confident in yourself when there are thin, tan, bikini-clad women everywhere you go.
5) Bugs. Lots of them. Everywhere.
6) Sunburns, heatstroke, dehydration, and a whole list of medical maladies that occur with much more frequency in hot weather. Also, have you ever noticed how much more miserable it is to be sick in hot weather? There will be no bundling up and drinking tea for you, invalid. The weather itself defies your fever to recede.
7) Inability to turn on my oven without transforming the apartment into a stifling gateway to hell. This results in a sad lack of baked goods.
8) No working out outside unless you are one of those morning-types who is up before the world turns sweaty and shoes begin melting to the sidewalk. I am not, by the way, one of the aforementioned morning-types.
9) Every time I get into the car is like stepping into one of those dry-heat wood saunas. However nice those are when one is in a swimming suit and prepared for the experience, it is not so nice when trying to go to a job interview.
10) Things mold more quickly. It's hot, it's moist, the mold goes crazy.
Wonderful things about the cold:
1) Hot tea, hot chocolate, spiced cider...warm drinks are my lifeblood. It is tough to be unhappy when my drink is warming me from the inside.
2) Lots of baked goods. Lots. Breads, pies, cookies, muffins, cakes... The oven is on all the time and when I run out of baked things to make, Tyler can jump in with pizzas and eggplant parmesan and all kinds of other delicious things.
3) Warm sweaters, jeans, boots, scarves, hats... cold weather clothes are fuzzy, thick, and fabulous. And I am never afraid to move in them.
4) I feel not at all bad in cold weather for curling up on a couch with a book or movie and a hot drink. In fact, I think that these things may be designed specifically to be done in cold weather.
5) Gaining a little bit of bodily insulation is perfectly acceptable, even prudent, in cold weather. And it is more difficult for others to detect.
6) Bonfires are enjoyed in the cold. And really, who doesn't like fire?
7) No guilt for working out indoors. After all, I can't really jog in the snow.
8) The bugs are dead. Or hiding. Either way, they are not around to bug me.
9) This is the season of roasts, crock-pot meals, lasagnas, mashed potatoes... Every hot food that is filling and delicious and makes you happy happens in cold weather. Yeah, I know I talked about food earlier, but I really like food.
10) Playing in the snow is wonderful.
11) Playing in fall leaves is even better.
12) Christmas happens.
You know, I am sure I will add to this as time goes on, but I think I have made my point. Cold is awesome. I want it to come more quickly. Begone, heat!
Now, I know lots of people love heat for some inexplicable reason. Maybe it reminds them of summer when they can go outside and hike and get themselves some more melanin and be in water constantly. I like those parts of heat. I do. I also understand the draw of summer vacation. Or I did when I was in school and had summer vacation. It turns out most jobs don't let you have it any more.
I am just saying that those pros do not weigh out the cons of heat. Besides, there are hot tubs and indoor pools if a person really needs water throughout the year, being tan is over-rated (go pale ones!), and fall is a much cooler time to hike (in more ways than one. Do you see what I did there?).
Therefore, I am writing a list of reasons heat stinks and reasons why cold, even extreme cold, is better.
Why heat stinks:
1) It literally stinks. And causes me to stink. Everything is more pungent in heat, and not in that good Las Vegas way. This includes trash, bodies (especially when packed into a bus), stagnant water, and mulch piles, or whatever those piles of coffee grounds and banana peels are.
2) It forces me to do much more laundry than usual because of the copious amounts of sweat that occur.
3) It prevents me from being comfortable. Heat limits my options for comfort to either wearing clothing that I don't feel sketchy in and sweating all day like I have some horrible fever or sweating a bit less and wearing horrible clothing that I am afraid to move in for fear of awkward revelations of flesh to those around me. This leads me to...
4) Lots of body insecurity. Yes, I like to pretend I don't deal with it and lots of times I don't, but it is hard to be completely confident in yourself when there are thin, tan, bikini-clad women everywhere you go.
5) Bugs. Lots of them. Everywhere.
6) Sunburns, heatstroke, dehydration, and a whole list of medical maladies that occur with much more frequency in hot weather. Also, have you ever noticed how much more miserable it is to be sick in hot weather? There will be no bundling up and drinking tea for you, invalid. The weather itself defies your fever to recede.
7) Inability to turn on my oven without transforming the apartment into a stifling gateway to hell. This results in a sad lack of baked goods.
8) No working out outside unless you are one of those morning-types who is up before the world turns sweaty and shoes begin melting to the sidewalk. I am not, by the way, one of the aforementioned morning-types.
9) Every time I get into the car is like stepping into one of those dry-heat wood saunas. However nice those are when one is in a swimming suit and prepared for the experience, it is not so nice when trying to go to a job interview.
10) Things mold more quickly. It's hot, it's moist, the mold goes crazy.
Wonderful things about the cold:
1) Hot tea, hot chocolate, spiced cider...warm drinks are my lifeblood. It is tough to be unhappy when my drink is warming me from the inside.
2) Lots of baked goods. Lots. Breads, pies, cookies, muffins, cakes... The oven is on all the time and when I run out of baked things to make, Tyler can jump in with pizzas and eggplant parmesan and all kinds of other delicious things.
3) Warm sweaters, jeans, boots, scarves, hats... cold weather clothes are fuzzy, thick, and fabulous. And I am never afraid to move in them.
4) I feel not at all bad in cold weather for curling up on a couch with a book or movie and a hot drink. In fact, I think that these things may be designed specifically to be done in cold weather.
5) Gaining a little bit of bodily insulation is perfectly acceptable, even prudent, in cold weather. And it is more difficult for others to detect.
6) Bonfires are enjoyed in the cold. And really, who doesn't like fire?
7) No guilt for working out indoors. After all, I can't really jog in the snow.
8) The bugs are dead. Or hiding. Either way, they are not around to bug me.
9) This is the season of roasts, crock-pot meals, lasagnas, mashed potatoes... Every hot food that is filling and delicious and makes you happy happens in cold weather. Yeah, I know I talked about food earlier, but I really like food.
10) Playing in the snow is wonderful.
11) Playing in fall leaves is even better.
12) Christmas happens.
You know, I am sure I will add to this as time goes on, but I think I have made my point. Cold is awesome. I want it to come more quickly. Begone, heat!
9.21.2010
On what my education has been lately...
So lately my life consists pretty much of applying for jobs, pestering said jobs, the buying, making, or eating of food, going to the library, reading books, and watching movies. Our library has a fabulous movie selection so I have been taking full advantage of that. Here are some things that I have learned in my movie-watching.
1) Old movies are awesome. Sure there is the occasional dud, the odd movie that just doesn't quite do it for you, but overall these movies are fabulous. I already was half-way in love with Paul Newman. Now I am developing a ridiculous respect for Humphrey Bogart, James Dean, Lauren Bacall, Ingrid Bergman, even Clark Gable...the list continues. Audrey Hepburn. I have such a strong affection for her I just don't know what to call it. I have an insanse desire to be her friend and just be able to hang out with the woman. Yes, I know I can't. That is besides the point.
2) Not every foreign film is some work of genius. I used to try to pretend I enjoyed every foreign film I watched just so I could feel cultured and worldly. I don't pretend any more. Some I like but some are just terrible. Really awful and strange and not cohesive or coherent and even...though I hate using this word...weird. I'm sorry. Some are just plain weird. The kind where they end and all I can think is "I could have been watching something else. I could have been watching How I Met Your Mother and at least have laughed or something."
3) Some actors can do no wrong. I mean, they've probably been in some awful movies, but even having seen those awful movies I can't think badly of them. They will in all likelihood never lose my insane fandom. Harrison Ford, for example. I love the man. I mean, love him. Kirsten and I used to turn on the original Star Wars movies and just skip around to the Han Solo scenes because we just wanted to watch him. I love him even though that whole fourth Indiana Jones with Aliens movie happened. I just love him. It can't be changed.
4) Some of my favorite movies are just the worst things ever created. I saw Red Dawn the other day and I don't know that I've ever laughed so hard. The acting, the script, the concept of the whole thing...it was so many shades of ridiculous I just didn't know which made me happiest. I highly recommend this film.
5) Sometimes it's okay to watch movies that have no intelligence value. The mindless action movies, stupid comedies, even the occasional sappy chick flick. These things exist for a reason. That reason is because sometimes we like to be able to sit back and be entertained without thinking anything at all of importance. I am pretty comfortable with that.
On that note, it's time for me to leave and watch a little Harrison. I found Patriot Games at the library.
1) Old movies are awesome. Sure there is the occasional dud, the odd movie that just doesn't quite do it for you, but overall these movies are fabulous. I already was half-way in love with Paul Newman. Now I am developing a ridiculous respect for Humphrey Bogart, James Dean, Lauren Bacall, Ingrid Bergman, even Clark Gable...the list continues. Audrey Hepburn. I have such a strong affection for her I just don't know what to call it. I have an insanse desire to be her friend and just be able to hang out with the woman. Yes, I know I can't. That is besides the point.
2) Not every foreign film is some work of genius. I used to try to pretend I enjoyed every foreign film I watched just so I could feel cultured and worldly. I don't pretend any more. Some I like but some are just terrible. Really awful and strange and not cohesive or coherent and even...though I hate using this word...weird. I'm sorry. Some are just plain weird. The kind where they end and all I can think is "I could have been watching something else. I could have been watching How I Met Your Mother and at least have laughed or something."
3) Some actors can do no wrong. I mean, they've probably been in some awful movies, but even having seen those awful movies I can't think badly of them. They will in all likelihood never lose my insane fandom. Harrison Ford, for example. I love the man. I mean, love him. Kirsten and I used to turn on the original Star Wars movies and just skip around to the Han Solo scenes because we just wanted to watch him. I love him even though that whole fourth Indiana Jones with Aliens movie happened. I just love him. It can't be changed.
4) Some of my favorite movies are just the worst things ever created. I saw Red Dawn the other day and I don't know that I've ever laughed so hard. The acting, the script, the concept of the whole thing...it was so many shades of ridiculous I just didn't know which made me happiest. I highly recommend this film.
5) Sometimes it's okay to watch movies that have no intelligence value. The mindless action movies, stupid comedies, even the occasional sappy chick flick. These things exist for a reason. That reason is because sometimes we like to be able to sit back and be entertained without thinking anything at all of importance. I am pretty comfortable with that.
On that note, it's time for me to leave and watch a little Harrison. I found Patriot Games at the library.
9.12.2010
A letter to psychotic library-man
Don't even try to tell me I'm not educated. It will not end well for you. The only thing that kept me from erupting into an unholy fury at the library today was the fact that the man in question was not actually directing his insane "everyone-but-me-is-a-mere-plebian" speech at me, but at the poor information desk lady who was tragically left with no way of escape.
I was casually browsing the dvds at the public library today because I am too cheap to rent a movie when there is a perfectly good supply of free ones. The long dvd rack is right next to the information desk which is why I was in a perfect position to unashamedly eavesdrop when I heard psycho-man getting worked up into a solid rant.
The first sentence that drew me into the conversation was something to the effect of "you libraries are ruining society". Bold statement. He continued to explain that the library was leading to the downfall of civilization because instead of stocking only classic novels or books on nothing but facts, they insist on including modern "authors" (I use quotes because he also explained that there is no such thing as a modern author. All modern writers are ignorant boobs completely incapable of being as well-read as Sir Hooters-baseball-cap over here.). These modern books are what is destroying society. This is because, as we all know, if there is any alternative to someone of my generation reading a classic work of literature we will take it. That alternative could be some sort of slash fiction about vampire werewolf fairy hookers in victorian london and we would obviously still choose it over a classic. This man was convinced not only that my generation is completely incapable of freely choosing to read a "classic" book, but that should any library worker ever speak against the evil, tyrannical library administration they would be brutally cast out of library-world, never to return.
I would like to point out that I did not decide he was talking about my generation simply because it is fun to be offended sometimes. This man actually pointed directly at me when he talked about the "unread" generation. Granted, I was only facing him sideways, but still. Come on. Then he continued to inform the poor trapped librarian that my generation is so tragic that not only are we ignorant, but we don't even know how ignorant we are. We are too stupid to figure that out, see? And because of our unfortunate mentally challenged generation, aided in our ignorance by the evil libraries that supply us with "drivel" to read and force us to avoid the "classic literature" that they must keep hidden in tucked-away corners, civilization as a whole is going to completely collapse.
I was not able to engage him in a debate because I felt bad for the poor library worker and did not want to keep her trapped any longer than necessary. However, I would like to say that my friends and I read classic literature all the time. For fun. Not just for classes. I will almost guarantee that I have read more "classic literature" than this man. In order to prove this to myself and brag just a little, I am writing out some of the classics I have read that come readily to mind. To prove my generation is awesome, should you read this blog, you should comment with classics you have read.
Les Miserables, Anna Karenina, The Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo, The Odyssey, The Iliad, Medea, Oedipus Rex, Antigone, Romeo and Juliet, As You Like It, Hamlet, Julius Caesar, The Merry Wives of Windsor, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Titus Andronicus, Macbeth, Gone With the Wind, Pride and Prejudice, Crime and Punishment, Emma, Sense and Sensibility, Mansfield Park, Canterbury Tales, Beowulf...I will very likely keep adding to this just to feel even more superior.
Take that, Sir Hooters-hat.
I was casually browsing the dvds at the public library today because I am too cheap to rent a movie when there is a perfectly good supply of free ones. The long dvd rack is right next to the information desk which is why I was in a perfect position to unashamedly eavesdrop when I heard psycho-man getting worked up into a solid rant.
The first sentence that drew me into the conversation was something to the effect of "you libraries are ruining society". Bold statement. He continued to explain that the library was leading to the downfall of civilization because instead of stocking only classic novels or books on nothing but facts, they insist on including modern "authors" (I use quotes because he also explained that there is no such thing as a modern author. All modern writers are ignorant boobs completely incapable of being as well-read as Sir Hooters-baseball-cap over here.). These modern books are what is destroying society. This is because, as we all know, if there is any alternative to someone of my generation reading a classic work of literature we will take it. That alternative could be some sort of slash fiction about vampire werewolf fairy hookers in victorian london and we would obviously still choose it over a classic. This man was convinced not only that my generation is completely incapable of freely choosing to read a "classic" book, but that should any library worker ever speak against the evil, tyrannical library administration they would be brutally cast out of library-world, never to return.
Like this. Only with people and books and such.
So, really, nothing like this.
I would like to point out that I did not decide he was talking about my generation simply because it is fun to be offended sometimes. This man actually pointed directly at me when he talked about the "unread" generation. Granted, I was only facing him sideways, but still. Come on. Then he continued to inform the poor trapped librarian that my generation is so tragic that not only are we ignorant, but we don't even know how ignorant we are. We are too stupid to figure that out, see? And because of our unfortunate mentally challenged generation, aided in our ignorance by the evil libraries that supply us with "drivel" to read and force us to avoid the "classic literature" that they must keep hidden in tucked-away corners, civilization as a whole is going to completely collapse.
I was not able to engage him in a debate because I felt bad for the poor library worker and did not want to keep her trapped any longer than necessary. However, I would like to say that my friends and I read classic literature all the time. For fun. Not just for classes. I will almost guarantee that I have read more "classic literature" than this man. In order to prove this to myself and brag just a little, I am writing out some of the classics I have read that come readily to mind. To prove my generation is awesome, should you read this blog, you should comment with classics you have read.
Les Miserables, Anna Karenina, The Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo, The Odyssey, The Iliad, Medea, Oedipus Rex, Antigone, Romeo and Juliet, As You Like It, Hamlet, Julius Caesar, The Merry Wives of Windsor, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Titus Andronicus, Macbeth, Gone With the Wind, Pride and Prejudice, Crime and Punishment, Emma, Sense and Sensibility, Mansfield Park, Canterbury Tales, Beowulf...I will very likely keep adding to this just to feel even more superior.
Take that, Sir Hooters-hat.
The hat kept his wisdom in.
9.10.2010
Food and other mysterious things...
...well, mostly just food. But mysterious things about food!
Tyler and I are what is commonly referred to as broke. We take great pride in being thrifty at this juncture in our lives, partially because "thrifty" sound much cooler and more responsible than "cheap". One of the exciting ways that we are thrifty is by making our own food instead of going out to eat. This has led not only to adventureous grocery shopping games like "find the cheapest form of cheese that is still actually cheese!" and "do we need that?" but also to some grand cooking adventures.
Tyler is a courageous chef. Challenges like how to make a meal out of a half-jar of pickles, dijon mustard and brown rice do not intimidate him. He boldly goes where no recipe has gone before and always pulls off a surprisingly ridiculously tasty meal. He also is actually good at cooking. Not only does the man have his own meat-grinder, but he also has created a small arsenal of insanely tasty meals. He makes without a doubt the best black bean burgers I have ever eaten. He makes orange chicken that is incredible. He makes pasta and salads and just tonight created a brand-new dish out of home-made sweet barbeque sauce (which apparently included ketchup and whiskey among other things), sausage, brown rice, green peppers, and some mysterious little spicy peppers that released their spicy burning chemical into the air as they cooked and made both of us cough like we had been attacked by a vengeful vindaloo cloud. Really tasty though. I am just saying, the man can cook.
I am not so courageous. When Tyler would come to visit me in Spokane, I made him canned tomato soup, grilled cheese sandwiches, and frozen potstickers. Not so much in the way of "creativity" or "cooking experience" or "anything I actually made with ingredients". I have attempted some meals since being here though and so far they are not complete failures. Nachos have been successful. The tuna melts were another step in the right direction (did you know that dijon mustard works well instead of mayo? and that red peppers are delicious with tuna, mustard, and cheddar?). My boldest move yet has been chicken fajitas (though Tyler insists that I have made incredibly good food so far). However, I am not a daring cook. I am a baking fan. I like being told exactly how much of everything to put in, how long to cook it at what temperature, and knowing that in the end I will be rewarded with something that is tasty. These experiments are not so much my thing. But I am trying.
Really what I am saying is do not be surprised if my new-found boldness results in blogs about some sort of monstrosity made from the leftover sweet potatoes in our pantry and whatever meat we still have waiting in our fridge. Off to cook. Wish me luck.
Tyler and I are what is commonly referred to as broke. We take great pride in being thrifty at this juncture in our lives, partially because "thrifty" sound much cooler and more responsible than "cheap". One of the exciting ways that we are thrifty is by making our own food instead of going out to eat. This has led not only to adventureous grocery shopping games like "find the cheapest form of cheese that is still actually cheese!" and "do we need that?" but also to some grand cooking adventures.
Tyler is a courageous chef. Challenges like how to make a meal out of a half-jar of pickles, dijon mustard and brown rice do not intimidate him. He boldly goes where no recipe has gone before and always pulls off a surprisingly ridiculously tasty meal. He also is actually good at cooking. Not only does the man have his own meat-grinder, but he also has created a small arsenal of insanely tasty meals. He makes without a doubt the best black bean burgers I have ever eaten. He makes orange chicken that is incredible. He makes pasta and salads and just tonight created a brand-new dish out of home-made sweet barbeque sauce (which apparently included ketchup and whiskey among other things), sausage, brown rice, green peppers, and some mysterious little spicy peppers that released their spicy burning chemical into the air as they cooked and made both of us cough like we had been attacked by a vengeful vindaloo cloud. Really tasty though. I am just saying, the man can cook.
I am not so courageous. When Tyler would come to visit me in Spokane, I made him canned tomato soup, grilled cheese sandwiches, and frozen potstickers. Not so much in the way of "creativity" or "cooking experience" or "anything I actually made with ingredients". I have attempted some meals since being here though and so far they are not complete failures. Nachos have been successful. The tuna melts were another step in the right direction (did you know that dijon mustard works well instead of mayo? and that red peppers are delicious with tuna, mustard, and cheddar?). My boldest move yet has been chicken fajitas (though Tyler insists that I have made incredibly good food so far). However, I am not a daring cook. I am a baking fan. I like being told exactly how much of everything to put in, how long to cook it at what temperature, and knowing that in the end I will be rewarded with something that is tasty. These experiments are not so much my thing. But I am trying.
Really what I am saying is do not be surprised if my new-found boldness results in blogs about some sort of monstrosity made from the leftover sweet potatoes in our pantry and whatever meat we still have waiting in our fridge. Off to cook. Wish me luck.
9.03.2010
As luck would not have it...
I have days where I am extraordinarily unlucky. Not in huge things. I'm not country-song unlucky. But still...
I don't just mean in terms of stubbing my toe or something like that. My lack of coordination is so much a part of me that I pretty much just take it for granted that I will injure myself at least once on any given day. Just ask anyone who has lived with me. I stumble around and run into things so much in the mornings that one of my housemates said I sound like a small, crippled elephant when I wake up. Judging purely by the number of unexplained bruises I find on my shins and arms, I would agree.
But today featured just a small spurt of random unluckiness. The main event this revolved around was a bike ride. I woke up really wanting to take a bike ride. There were good reasons for this. Reason 1: I have done nearly nothing in the past several weeks that could really be considered "working out" (unless you count how sore my calves were after a day of walking in heels). My body is beginning to have the definition of a miniature Jabba the Hut. Reason 2: It is ungodly hot here today and my motivation to work out did not quite go far enough to motivate me to go for a run and, as I do not have a gym membership, working out indoors was not exactly an option. Reason 3: I really wanted to go to the bookstore on campus to further waste time and it is too far to walk in the heat and you have to pay for parking.
In order to go on this adventure in athleticism I had to tackle the problem that has been sitting on our balcony: my bike's flat tire. I have never fixed a tire before. Or a tube, which I guess was the problem. I had a replacement tube on hand so I decided it couldn't possibly be that hard to fix. I disconnected my back tire from the bike, getting chain grease all over me in the process. Because I didn't have the precious "tire levers" they recommended that I use, I decided to be innovative and use a screwdriver (of the non-Phillip's head variety. I knew about the puncture risk. I was careful!). Tire - removed. Tube - removed. New tube - inserted. Tire - put back on. After putting my tire back on my bike and feeling far too smug for being able to re-attach the chain all by myself, I pumped up the tire with minor difficulty. Fixed! I felt like some sort of handy-woman goddess. This amount of pride in myself, by the way, was a mistake.
Helmet firmly in place (apparently it's illegal to ride your bike here without one, though I saw lots of other cyclists not wearing helmets), I headed down our three floors to the street, hitting my shins repeatedly with the bike. These things happen. I started biking away from the house, flying down the sidewalks and streets around me, giving nods to all the other biker-people, obviously healthy and active just like me. I shifted and braked, signaled and turned. I was feeling powerful and far, far too awesome. And I was unfamiliar with feeling that athletic and awesome. Which I think is why I was not really very surprised when the back tire completely popped a few miles away from the apartment.
I got off the bike to assess the damage. The tube I am sure was popped but now the tire as well had developed a huge tear just above the rim. I laughed to myself a little. I can't really explain why I was apparently so determined to take this all with good humor. Maybe I was dehydrated or something. It was hot. I promise I lost a bit of the humor of the situation when I got a mile or two into my sweat-soaked, uphill hike with a bike that kept hitting me in the back of the calves and tearing little bits of my flesh out. I felt not nearly as cool walking past all the students and successful cyclists on the way home. In fact, I felt a little pathetic. But I guess I actually got that workout between the biking and the hiking...
Anyway, I am successfully back in the apartment, the devil-bike is sitting in our kitchen, and I am debating whether to read or watch dvds I have taken from the public library. Who am I kidding. I am totally going to sit in the living room and watch dvds. I need a job.
I don't just mean in terms of stubbing my toe or something like that. My lack of coordination is so much a part of me that I pretty much just take it for granted that I will injure myself at least once on any given day. Just ask anyone who has lived with me. I stumble around and run into things so much in the mornings that one of my housemates said I sound like a small, crippled elephant when I wake up. Judging purely by the number of unexplained bruises I find on my shins and arms, I would agree.
But today featured just a small spurt of random unluckiness. The main event this revolved around was a bike ride. I woke up really wanting to take a bike ride. There were good reasons for this. Reason 1: I have done nearly nothing in the past several weeks that could really be considered "working out" (unless you count how sore my calves were after a day of walking in heels). My body is beginning to have the definition of a miniature Jabba the Hut. Reason 2: It is ungodly hot here today and my motivation to work out did not quite go far enough to motivate me to go for a run and, as I do not have a gym membership, working out indoors was not exactly an option. Reason 3: I really wanted to go to the bookstore on campus to further waste time and it is too far to walk in the heat and you have to pay for parking.
In order to go on this adventure in athleticism I had to tackle the problem that has been sitting on our balcony: my bike's flat tire. I have never fixed a tire before. Or a tube, which I guess was the problem. I had a replacement tube on hand so I decided it couldn't possibly be that hard to fix. I disconnected my back tire from the bike, getting chain grease all over me in the process. Because I didn't have the precious "tire levers" they recommended that I use, I decided to be innovative and use a screwdriver (of the non-Phillip's head variety. I knew about the puncture risk. I was careful!). Tire - removed. Tube - removed. New tube - inserted. Tire - put back on. After putting my tire back on my bike and feeling far too smug for being able to re-attach the chain all by myself, I pumped up the tire with minor difficulty. Fixed! I felt like some sort of handy-woman goddess. This amount of pride in myself, by the way, was a mistake.
Helmet firmly in place (apparently it's illegal to ride your bike here without one, though I saw lots of other cyclists not wearing helmets), I headed down our three floors to the street, hitting my shins repeatedly with the bike. These things happen. I started biking away from the house, flying down the sidewalks and streets around me, giving nods to all the other biker-people, obviously healthy and active just like me. I shifted and braked, signaled and turned. I was feeling powerful and far, far too awesome. And I was unfamiliar with feeling that athletic and awesome. Which I think is why I was not really very surprised when the back tire completely popped a few miles away from the apartment.
I got off the bike to assess the damage. The tube I am sure was popped but now the tire as well had developed a huge tear just above the rim. I laughed to myself a little. I can't really explain why I was apparently so determined to take this all with good humor. Maybe I was dehydrated or something. It was hot. I promise I lost a bit of the humor of the situation when I got a mile or two into my sweat-soaked, uphill hike with a bike that kept hitting me in the back of the calves and tearing little bits of my flesh out. I felt not nearly as cool walking past all the students and successful cyclists on the way home. In fact, I felt a little pathetic. But I guess I actually got that workout between the biking and the hiking...
Anyway, I am successfully back in the apartment, the devil-bike is sitting in our kitchen, and I am debating whether to read or watch dvds I have taken from the public library. Who am I kidding. I am totally going to sit in the living room and watch dvds. I need a job.
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