29 March 2004

Heeeeeere's Johnny And Other Crap For Your Consumption


      Okay, so much for leaving on schedule.... Anyway, I know some of you out there are just dying to get naked with Johnny Depp. Well, here's your chance. No thanks are required. I'm also relatively sure some of you will be pleasuring yourselves with this for hours.

      In a semi-related vein, this suggests why my brain is turning to rot. Effing figures. C'mon, ladies, remember: a mind, my mind, is a terrible thing to waste. ;-)

      In other scientific news, this takes recycling to its most radical conclusion. The phrase "the normal colonic flora" is simply priceless; from botox to buttocks, ladies and gentlemen, take care of yourselves, and each other.

Rainy Days and Mondays...


      Well, it's Monday, and I have to head up to the University (or, as a friend calls it, Pork Spew) ce soir for-- ta da!!-- my last class of the year tomorrow. How does one control one's glee? (Answer: With stirrups and bindings made of genuine Saskatchewan seal-skin.) So, this blog will be out of commission for a bit, especially as I deal with the quails of students pleading, with their best Michael-Bolton-like intensity, for more time on the essays they've neglected for so long. Me, cynical? No, but a cursory glimpse of my email already has me rolling my eyes. Four words: uggidy ugh ugh ugh. There are, however, a few things to note here:
  • Sadly, it seems Peter Ustinov, actor, writer and raconteur has passed away at age 82. Sir Peter was one of a breed of gentlemen now unfortunately more common in the imagination than in the reality, a man of wit and cleverness, to say nothing of his very significant personal presence particularly in the movies. Funny, so many people thought he was French ("Belgian, madame!") because of his performances as Hercule Poirot in the late 70s and 80s (Death On The Nile, Evil Under The Sun). Strange; I was thinking about Death on the Nile not too long ago, and recalling when last I saw it, about two years ago. Seems also that not too long ago I was reflecting on him here with the passing of Jack Paar. RIP, Sir Peter.

  • ~~Oh Condoleezza, huh-huh, un-hun-huh-huh...~~ (Anyone remember Shaggy? Probully not.) This blog would probably be a bit remiss if it didn't say something about the Richard Clarke scandal in the Youknighted Stasis. I had started to write something about it yesterday when my machine crashed on me, and I didn't bother to rewrite it. This blog's general antipathy towards Dubya's administration is well-documented, but I think the past week has demonstrated all too well the absolutely vicious yet stubbornly incoherent nature of the Bushies, and I'm genuinely hoping most Americans come to recognize the foaming rabidity of Dubya and his cronies. Someone has described them as "Mayberry Machiavels," and I think the term fits. Leave it to Dick "Needy Chick" Cheney to criticize, with more than a whiff of rhetorical and ethical desperation, Clarke for apologizing to the families of 9/11 victims. Deplorable. (Oh, and Bushie rhetoric on "Spanish capitulation to terrorists" may have problems making political hay, given Spain's addition of soldiers to Afghanistan.)
  • And speaking of deplorable....
  • Also deplorable, but much mure truly deserving of a special canto in Dante's Inferno, there's the tragedy of Cecilia Zhang. There's nothing one can say to this that is not condolence or outrage.
  • Hugh Winsor's column in today's Globe and Mail is about the late Mitchell Sharp and his funeral on the weekend. Shameful, it truly is, to watch Canadian Prime Ministers behaving worse than caffeinated-children. Especially shameful is Martin's behaviour: not even expressing one's condolences to Chretien on the loss of one of his oldest friends? P'shaw. Is it treason if I call the Right Dishonourable Paul Martin a moral fucknut? Gee, I hope not. Fucknut. Perhaps aliens will be able to find something appropriately lacerating with which to probe him. Edit: I originally typed "coldolences" instead of condolences, but on second thought, perhaps the error was more appropriate.
  • Also from The Globe: a surprisingly funny bit by John Ibbitson. Who knew he had it in him? Not this blog, certainly.
  • Reason #436,789 not to go to McDonald's. Clarification: customer wanted it *on* the run.
  • The Coen brothers' remake of the Alec Guinness Ealing comedy The Ladykillers is getting middling reviews which is a bit disappointing. Watched Intolerable Cruelty on Friday and found myself agog at its generic confusion: the film had no idea what it wanted to be, and so we're treated to some of the most head-scratchingly bizarre "comedy" I've seen in some time. Sure, "Wheezy Joe" is funny, and Catherine Zeta-Jones looks hot throughout, but those redeeming factors just weren't enough. I miss the Coen Brothers of Blood Simple.
Anyway, that's the bits and pieces for now. Anyone who's dropped me an email in the past day or two, I'll answer when I get back from my oh-so-wonderful place of employment. It's just a job, you know, / and it's not sweet lorraine / Tell me why, why, must I always explain...

      (What, me, cranky? Nehhhhhhh-verrrrrrrr....)

      Now, off to more pressing matters, though now I think I'm going to have in my mind for the rest of the day the image of M. Emmet Walsh's leathery visage being drip-drip-dripped on. Sugar-pie, honey-bunch...

25 March 2004

From Fodor's Guide To Cambodia


      Pol Pot would be proud.

24 March 2004

Why, Antonin....


      The best part about this article: "If it is reasonable to think that a Supreme Court justice would actually have sex with a plump, tender, young jailbait duckling, even one who wanted it really bad," Scalia wrote, "the nation is in deeper trouble than I had imagined." LOL.

I'm No Health Nut But...


      ...this is just plain gross.

So I Guess "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" Is Out Of The Question?


      Leave it to the Sun (U.K) to report only the most serious of matters. Oy vey.

Tuesday, Tuesday


      Well, there's only one left, one infernally-long Tuesday to go, one more hash at burning the candle at both ends and seeing if Doctor J survives. By the time I returned home last night (well, this morning...), I had been awake for over 45 straight hours and, suffice it to say, I was nothing less that exhausted. Worst part: after a long, long day, I finally board the bus to return home, and I'm surrounded by self-involved Bramptoids and Missississionaries with their cell-phones ringing constantly, all, of course, set to obnoxious renditions of Fur Elise and Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. This, of course, prevented me from getting even the slightest bit of a nap even on the two-hour ride back. These endless Tuesdays have just been sucking the life right out of me. I'm thirty flurkin' years old, and I can't take this much more. I am bound upon a wheel of fire... I consider it a minor personal victory that I've not succumbed to bus-rage yet, although, to be fair, I did imagine grabbing one person's cell and shoving down said person's throat with the same ferocity that Vincent Price shoves the poodle-pies down Robert Morely's esophagus in Theatre of Blood. Oh, restraint, restraint....

      In another very mild amusement, it seems Google's latest capture of this blog emphasizes something er, perhaps, inappropriate. Okay, I found it funny. Also find it funny that if you Google for William Carlos Williams' poem "You Have Pissed Your Life" you will end up here. Not sure if that's significant or not.... *rolls eyes suspiciously* Yes, it seems I've been getting a lot of hits lately for Williams: there must be a class somewhere doing something...

      Back to real life.

23 March 2004

News Flash


      This blog cannot decide if this is hilarious or just plain sad. You decide. I'm inclined toward the latter.

But Would It Have To Be "Tea"?


      Alright, saw this on Christie's site and had to try my hand at it, though the living ones will be much harder...

CELEBRITY TEA PARTY
List nine list celebrities you would invite to a tea party for their wit and conversation. Don't invite anyone just for eye candy. Musicians, writers, PBS hosts, convicts, politicians, etc. all count (not just actors).

  • Van Morrison, Irish musician
  • Leonard Cohen, Canadian poet, musician and two-time novelist
  • Mark Strand, Canadian-born American poet
  • Ray Charles, musician extraordinaire
  • Peter O'Toole, actor, bon-vivant and damned-HIGH-larious story-teller
  • Harold Bloom, critic and theorist and now-infamous-feminist-molester
  • Colin Mochrie, comedian
  • Stephen Fry, actor, comedian and sometime-novelist
  • Aretha Franklin, singer (also extraordinaire)

CELEBRITY TEA PARTY II: Time-travel/universal translator edition
List nine deceased famous people you'd invite to a fabulous tea party. Choose them for their wits and conversation, strange behavior, etc., but not their appearance or fame.

  • Graham Greene, novelist and world-traveler
  • William Shakespeare, DUH.
  • John Donne, poet and clergyman
  • Sir Alec Guinness, actor
  • Marcus Aurelius, Roman emperor and philosopher
  • Wallace Stevens, poet
  • T.S. Eliot, poet and critic-theorist
  • Homer, poet
  • Groucho Marx, DUH.

(But I could do this just with individual writers of individual genres. This list would require an all-out gala.)

CELEBRITY TEA PARTY III: Fictional character edition
This time invite nine fictional characters from books, comics, film, etc., to your tea party, but remember--you're inviting them for their conversation, not their looks.

  • Socrates, philosopher (don't know if he should go here, but have no concrete proof he existed)
  • King Lear, Shakespearean tragic hero (Hamlet wouldn't shut up!)
  • Falstaff, Shakespearean comic "hero"
  • Methusaleh, Biblical character that lived longer than any of us would ever dare imagine
  • Sarah Miles, heroine from Graham Greene's The End of The Affair
  • Colonel Nicholson, character from The Bridge On The River Kwai
  • Tiresias, cursed seer
  • Rick, hero from Casablanca
  • Don Quixote, DUH.

Believe it or not, these aren't all "favourites" per se-- there's actually a kind of conversational rhythm imagined in all these, who could relate to whom, and so on and so forth. I imagine Rick and Sarah Miles would have a lot to discuss, as would Lear and Methusaleh, or Lear and Don Quixote.

And I'm adding this one of my own creation:
CELEBRITY TEA PARTY IV: People I've Actually Met (However Briefly) edition

  • Lincoln Alexander, former Lieutenant-Governor of Ontario and all-round cool-dude
  • Rompin' Ronnie Hawkins, musician
  • Oscar Peterson, jazz legend
  • Ralph Nader, activist and election-spoiler (met him years and years ago, very briefly)
  • Roger Kuin, critic and professor
  • Al Purdy, Canadian poet
  • P.K. Page, Canadian poet
  • D. R. Ewen, critic and retired-professor
  • John Bryden, Canadian parliamentarian

Meh. So, I haven't met as many interesting people as I'd have liked, though I'm deleting some names because, frankly, I don't think I'd want them around. But, there we go. Try it for yourselves, people...

22 March 2004

Sic Transit Vir...


      Er, methinks not:

Scroll in your toga?

Estne volumen in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre?

"Is that a scroll in your toga, or are you just glad to see me?"

You're smooth, okay, but you also need a girlfriend. Bad.

Which Weird Latin Phrase Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Grumble, grumble.... Smooth??? As Dick Cheney's wrinkled ass, I'm sure. As for needing a girlfriend, five words: Beware The Brides of March.

Alternate answer: Et tu, boot-ayyyy?

~~Like A Kiss From A Rose.... ~~

      Ooops, wrong Seal. Pity.

"Ix-nay On The Omos-Hay, Okay?"


      God forbid: common sense. This blog thinks Gene's final proposal one worth serious consideration.

Stiff Competition


      Finally, a part perfect for Keanu Reeves.

Knowing Me Knowing You...


      If this doesn't make your skin crawl, I'm not sure what will. This blog would simply like, for clarity's sake, to juxtapose these phrases: "'The risk ... is essentially zero, it is negligible'" and "Endoscopes are flexible viewing tubes inserted into the colon or down the esophagus" (emphasis added).

      See also this. This blog understands this would be equal to 397 Canadian years.

"Not sin; Aniston"


      Check this out: celebrity palindromes. This blog likes the one from GWB to a certain recently-deceased Ugandan dictator. Yum.

Just In Case


      I don't know if this is simply bluster, but if there's any truth to it, maybe it's time we all started asking for our brown pants.

      The same, by the way, goes for this. Oy vey.

Of Fatigue, Frustration, and Verbal Fornication


      Yes, I've been pretty delinquent with this blog of late, but, as I've said before, it's March, otherwise known as the crap time of the year (I'll resist the ancient temptation to make the oh-so-obvious revision of Eliot's famous line about April). Sitting down to write has been as tempting as a dinner plate of slugs and rat foeces, and I can't say I've been particularly inspired, either. This weekend my uncle came up from Pennsylvania for my year-old cousin's christening. My uncle is cool and always good for a laugh, and he and I wound up watching My Boss' Daughter which turned out to be not quite as horrible as I'd expected based on the reviews at the time, although I'm sure poor Terence Stamp will be looking for parts in future that will keep Ashton Kutcher's face out of his ass. Then there was the christening, and I have to say that I was reminded all-too-well why I don't attend services much anymore, especially as the minister delivered a reading of the Prodigal Son story that was flabbergastingly misguided. Then, of course, there was the post-ceremony reception which necessarily entailed Doctor J being swarmed with little-ones, mainly my two five year-old cousins insisting on piggy-backs and the like. Oh, children, god love them, but I can't help but confess that I needed a serious nap afterwards. For whatever horrible things people might say about Doctor J, warranted or not, I don't think anyone could say that he's bad with kids (or animals, for that matter). It seems that every time children are around, Da Doc becomes a living jungle-jim. Blessed be that they are not my own children; I think I'd die of exhaustion within a week. Frankly, though, I love kids and animals because (well, among other reasons) they have no idea of pretense, no notion of falsehood; they simply are, and they can enjoy life, even the simplest things about it, without any of the catches, contingencies, and qualifications that most of us end up stipulating to every fact as we supposedly mature. I did get that nap, by the way, and, damn, did I need it.

      In other news, Doc J is -- supposedly-- soon to come into possession of two relatively-difficult-to-find texts, a hardback reissue of T.S. Eliot's Homage to John Dryden, and a hardcover 1920 first edition of H.G. Wells' Outline of History. Looking forward to receiving them, providing the sky doesn't collapse sometime in the next while. Also, there are two weeks left in "normal class time," which means it's time to start tying together loose strands and crossing my fingers and hoping that mes eleves are ready for the final crunch. In an effort to clarify matters for my kids, I've promised to write a discussion of the course texts and post it on our group blog, but it's going to be a bitch to write. Why?, I'm sure you're thinking. Well, with fourteen plays, all of the sonnets and The Rape of Lucrece having been on the docket this year, the scope of the discursive territory is huge, and the trick of the task will be deciding what not to say rather than what to say. To write adequately about such a broad expanse, I could probably use the advantage of a book, and not just a single column/post/entry. More energy, I'm sure, that will by-and-large end up wasted, as it generally seems such things are read at best by 30-40% of the class. And, of course, I'll be putting all this together while I'm trying to trudge through a coming batch of essays to mark. Oh well, c'est la vie, n'est-ce pas? I remind myself that I do such things for those that are truly interested and want to know more, and for those that can use all the extra help that they can get. There's also a kind of turn-about-is-fair-play mentality at work there, too. I won't ask my students to do anything that I won't do myself, and I always think it's important that instructors prove their willingness to step into the trenches themselves. It can become too easy for instructors to come in, do their basic job, and retreat into the hills as soon as possible. Never trust a general that won't fight along side his troops.

      It's probably a bit presumptuous to write this, but I can't say I've particularly enjoyed teaching this year. I'm not complaining too much about my students, most of whom seem a good lot, even if the extremely high truancy rate has me worried for several of them. No, I'm more frustrated by the fact that the course this year didn't really demand someone of my experience and skills. Yes, that probably sounds shamelessly egotistical, and perhaps it is to a point. I can't help but feel, though, that this year was more about keeping up with the Joneses rather than providing the class with genuine insights about Shakespeare. My process, such as it is, is to try to keep in tandem as much as possible the centripetal and the centrifugal dimensions of a text, to maintain what Blake called a double vision: to alternate between close-reading and appropriate-generalization, to keep in tandem with one another the processes of interpretation and criticism. Now, of course, we've done some of that this year, but not to my own satisfaction, in large part because the course was so hurried in its approach and so comprehensive in its nature. It just doesn't seem to me that we were able to get a sufficient grounding in "the things you need to know about Shakespeare" or "the things you need to know about XXXX text" before being compelled by time-constraints to move on to the next issue or the next text.

      What am I complaining about? Well, it doesn't seem that we were able to develop some of the most important dimensions of good critical study: intimacy with the subject texts; intimacy with the process of literary inquiry; developing a sense of academic gravitas; developing, too, a sense of intellectual play; developing the necessary understanding of dramaturgy and poesis; and, perhaps most importantly, getting past the idea of "study" as "course." That last point needs some elaboration, I think. I'm not sure that this year we ever got past the idea that we were in a "course on Shakespeare" to enter into that more valuable (and more lasting) state of personal investment in the subject matter. The air of what I call "assignmentism" never seemed to clear. I'm not sure if any of my students will leave my class this year with a sense of qualitative engagement with Shakespeare himself, with a feeling that Shakespeare means something substantial to their experience as thinkers. This is usually one of my strengths, one of the things I do better than most of my colleagues, but I don't think I was able to do that as well this year, largely because this sort of thing takes time and needs to be cultivated with patience and intellectual attention. Crude as this may sound, good intellectual development is like good love-making: it requires an intimacy of knowledge not just of one's subject but also of oneself, and it requires qualities so seldom encouraged in the academy these days, careful-listening, openness, flexibility, but also rigour, intensity, and thoughtfulness. And, yes, passion.

      I don't blame my students for this, because I'm sure several of them were willing to develop these things with the material, and some of them may have done so regardless, and to them I'll doff my hat in respect. I partially blame the design of the course this year, which has tended to foster limited knowledge of a number of texts rather than intimate knowledge of truly significant texts and issues-- and it's in this regard that I think my particular skills seem to have been under-utilized. But, no, I put the larger blame on myself, because something in my says that I should have been able to make things happen in spite of the temporal limitations, that I should have been able to translate my skills more effectively to this slam-bam-thank-you-ma'am format. I can't say I didn't try, and I can't say some of it didn't seep through now and again, but I can't help but think the fault is my own. Maybe I should have done another lecture or two to establish a more concrete model for my students. Maybe I should have been at my computer every week writing out all the stuff I couldn't get to in the scope of our weekly meetings. Maybe I should have come into class each week with a different approach, one more determined on emphasizing basic points rather than resting on my traditional free-form policy. Maybe, maybe, maybe. After every class, I wind up thinking about what happened, replaying the proverbial seventh-inning, and wondering if the game would have been different if I'd done this or that-- a process I think most good teachers go through. (Never trust a teacher that doesn't question whether or not they did things as well they should have.) But my overarching sense this year, as opposed to previous years, is this, that I'm not sure my calls in that seventh-inning were necessarily the best ones. Frankly, I don't know anymore. Perhaps one of the biggest problems for me this year was one of control: as I've said to several people (and possibly on this blog, but I don't frankly remember anymore), it's felt this year very much like plugging holes in a dam with my appendages, knowing eventually I was going to run out of appendages and the damned thing would burst. In previous years, there was always a stronger sense of personal control of matters, but this year, no. In previous years, there was always the sense that I could come back to key issues later if we didn't develop them according to schedule, but not this year, or, rather, not so much this year. I can't help but feel that this year's been inauspisciously vague. It's one thing to generalize, it's quite another to be general, and I'm nagged by a very strong sense that we've done more of the latter than the former this year. And, yes, I guess ultimately it is my own fault.

      There is another possibility, of course, which is that I'm frustrated by the fact that I wasn't able to do things as well as I wanted to do them, and that I wasn't able to them in the way I believe wisest. In other words, I'm worrying more about my own standards than about other standards. That's a very real possibility, and, in which case, my error this year may well have been one of hubris, and this would explain too my own sense of very personal frustration. Perhaps I'm worrying too much about what I believe to be the right thing instead of changing my own stance to meet the climate of the current situation. Perhaps. I said earlier that I think good intellectual development is a lot like good love-making, but perhaps I should have changed my stance on this for the year, and taught according to "the delight of the series of one-night stands." By this principle, each text is a conquest, an experience in the memory to be compared to a litany of other conquests, and understood accordingly. I don't like the word "understood" there, because such an understanding would be limited and finally prone to misinterpretation and reductionism. On the flip-side, though, there is a value to such "experiencing," even though I have serious ideological and pedagogical problems with such a programme of action. Maybe I am too entrenched in my own way of thinking on all this. That said, as much as one can learn from the one-night-stand approach, I still find my stomach unsettled by it: after all, the texts become little more than objects, to be briefly known and experienced and not necessarily to be understood with attention and detail. Maybe I just wasn't the best person to lead my group on this sort of expedition. Fact is, I can't pretend to know anymore.

      Yeah, I've now thoroughly niggled my way through this, though I'm no more certain of anything than I was when I started to let myself mumble-out my own thoughts and doubts. Too many doubts, in fact. I don't think I've ever quite been so daunted by the idea of personal failure, even though, certainly, the effort was there. Personal failure. Failing by my own standards. Yeah, that's probably the problem. I can't help but feeling that I've only given my class this year part of the knowledge to which I think they're entitled, and I suppose I can't help but think they've been jipped.

      Or maybe I should just stop worrying. Yeah, right, like that's gonna happen....

      To those of you that've actually read this whole thing: pardon if my introspection has veered into solipsism. This entry started out as an update and, well.... How about I just shut up now? Good idea? Methinks so, too. Cheers everyone.

20 March 2004

Passages


      Just a few words here: in the past few days the world lost Mitchell Sharp and Mercedes McCambridge, and neither has received their due in recognition. Sharp, the embodiment of "elder statesmanship" in Canada, was one of the few people in politics about whom one could say "he was a good man." McCambridge was one of the better American actresses ever, but never got the attention she deserved: she was one of the stalwarts of Orson Welles' Mercury troupe, but most people will remember her without knowing it. She was the spine-tingling voice of Satan in William Friedkin's The Exorcist, and I don't think any of us will ever quite forget her words, "Keep away. The sow is mine." *Shudder* Is it ironic that McCambridge died during the release of The Passion of the Christ? Let's not think about that fact too closely. RIP, Mr. Sharp, Ms. McCambridge.

That Feeling Of, Er, Accomplishment???


      "I'm not an alcoholic, I'm a drunkard. There's a difference. Drunkards don't like to go to meetings." -- Jackie Gleason

      Oh, the period surrounding St. Paddy's Day is always brutal, for a number of reasons. One is that it's a naturally busy time (March) for work, birthdays, and the lot. Another is that, well, the amount of sleep one gets at this time of year is just less than a Haitian labourer's daily income. Yet another is that with the coming of the Irishman's Holiday, the number of events and festivities multiply, often exponentially. And another, quite particular to Doctor J, is that March brings out the worst in him, particularly the melancholic dimension he tries to suppress most of the time. Oh, March always feels like the last leg of that demolished Spanish Armada, barely making its way around Scotland through frigid temperatures with only the barest idea of making the return home, all the while sporting as broad a facade of contentment as possible. Oh, March, you dastardly fiend you. Worse, in Canada, you've got a wintry chip on your shoulder. Contemptible beast!

      But today, of course, I stumbled on this. Doctor J confesses that he's done numbers 1, 2, 3, 7, 10, 11, 12 (though there was no conspiring involved: Oh, the days of getting pissed with a Scotsman in an Irish bar), 15, 19, 21, 24 (before the job but not during the job, unless I've taken the whole class to the pub) and 32. Could possibly have done #17 had circumstances been different: instead, it just became a rare instance of Doc J acting as bouncer and intimidating an abusive customer to leave a bar some years ago. But, geez, I've done 12 of the 40 things-- 30%. I'm not sure what I should think about that, even if some of them are pretty minor. Doc J, though, has done some more interesting ones:

  • Playing checkers with shots in a bar. Worst part: my opponent and I kept drinking after the game was over.
  • Typical madness of the moonlight that results in rather egregious displays of, ahem, affection in public places.
  • Drinking an entire pitcher of beer in one gesture-- that is, one giant gulp.
  • Swillins: mixing a hefty drink out of the remnants of an entire liquor cabinet. Disgusting, yes. Especially with red wine and dark rum in the mix.
  • A various assortment of drinking games, none worth mentioning here.
  • Taken over behind the bar when hands were short.
  • Makin' the news?: Found myself quoted in a newspaper with, supposedly, the pickup line of the night. (It wasn't a pickup line: it was an old, old Doctor J joke that just found its way through to press.)
  • Danced at the epicentre of a half-dozen or more young ladies, playing the central part in enacting "Paradise By The Dashboard Light" and/or "Brown-Eyed Girl." Imagine Dr J having a dozen young women pointing at him and singing "Will you love me forever?" Oh, dems were da days.
  • Closed a bar. That is, cleaned it up, locked the door, and so on and so forth.
  • Danced on top of a bar. (At that particular establishment, it was a common staff-party and New Year's occurrence among staff and patrons.)
  • Been a regular-friend of a bar such that I drank for free in that establishment. Not just one night, but every night I went in there.
Some things Doctor J hasn't done yet:
  • Been immortalized in song. Oh, the revelry...
  • Had a chair/stool named after me.
  • Played chess with shots. Now *that* would be interesting, to say nothing of semantically difficult.
  • Had a drink named after me. (Gee, what would go into a Doctor J? Wait a second, don't get Freudian on me here, people.)
  • Run up a tab of more than $300 Canadian. ($50 American)
  • Had a bar renamed in my honour. As if I had much honour left....
I've also never sang karaoke in a bar, which is part of my contract with the universe: as long as I don't actually sing, I am allowed to live; violation of this will, I'm told, lead to immediate immolation.

      Seriously, though, this is the dark time of the year, as the sun finally seems nearest. March. Evil, evil March. Frankly, I'm not as young as I used to be, and I'm just not as impressive as I used to be. And yet, I'm too damned stubborn to let myself believe such facts entirely, and I find myself Lear-fully railing against limitation. Stupidity usually ensues. Oh, to be twenty again....

      Alas, I'm just a bad, bad lad. But at least I'm not Dylan Thomas.

Short Note


      Lost In Translation is one of the best films I've seen in years. And Bill is brilliant. He's not merely mugging: he's conveying much more, and with great subtletly. Scarlett's really good, too, as is Anna Farris (but not Giovanni). One of the best films I've seen in -- well-- I don't know how long. A gorgeous film. And it deserved better.

17 March 2004

Crossing Over


      Advice to heed: pills are much easier.

Flipping The Bird


      You won't believe this. It would be a cruel irony if the woman in question eventually died of a stroke, wouldn't it?

Dumbest. Pederast. Ever.


      Should we be mortified by this, or simply dumbstruck by the colossal stupidity of it?

What Type Of Stereo?


      It's nice to know men can still be easily pigeon-holed. Check out this list, and see what you think. And by this standard, what am I? Hmmm. Jester, methinks. Side order of Teddy Bear.

Where's Mencken When We Need Him?


      This is unfathomable. Between this and the Scopes trial, this county really does seem to be setting a standard for intolerance and bigotry.

15 March 2004

Meet The Pathogens


      Darn, I really wanted to see this.

      Darn, I really don't want to see this.

      Gee, isn't the latter reason to commit the removed in the former?

Bits And Pieces


      Some light reading for today which, by the way, happens to be my maternal unit's day of inception. (The pater's, coincidentally enough, was Friday.) First off, there's this piece which should amuse RK, although this blog can't help but pause to wonder how Camus would fit into this scheme. We already have Weapons of Mass Deconstruction proliferant everywhere; problem is, there's no, ahem, trace of them anywhere. Secondly, since we've just survived the 2003 Awards Season, it should put a lump-- yes, a lump-- in your throat to read this; I'm sure downloaders worldwide will be genuinely, er, touched.

      On a more serious note, the election in Spain has proven very interesting indeed, with the rapid turnaround in public support for the Socialists. Whether or not this will prove internationally significant remains to be seen. If Spain does pull out of Iraq (and it's not clear that it will, because the Socialists do not have a majority in government), this may have long-term diplomatic consequences. The Socialist victory, though, could just be a gesture of punishment from a country still reeling, understandably, from a devastating attack.

      From the "Pathetic Idiocy File," there's this. PETA now apparently stands for People for Effluence-Tasting Activism. Oy.

      So many surveys, so little time: these results on the Worst Record of All-Time seem pretty skewed, but, oh, there are so many this blog would press to add
  • Billy Ray Virus' "Achy, Breaky Fart";
  • Witless Houston's "Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii Will Always Love Yoooooooooooooooooouuu";
  • Cryin' Adams' "Every Guy I Do, I Do For You";
  • Barry Manyblows' "Copacabana-boy";
  • Scrote Stewart's "Da Ya Think I'm Sickining?";
  • Beat Loaf's "I Would Do Anything For Love But I Won't Do You";
  • Smeltin John's "Don't Let Your Son Go Down On Me";
  • The Beagles' "I Wanna Hold Your Gland";
  • Ted Pungent's "Jock Scratch Fever";
  • Sticky Martin's "Lickin' La Peter Loca";
  • Toe Jam's "Jeremy" (of course he frickin' spoke in class today! Duh!);
  • Rick Assly's "Never Gonna Give Ewes Up";
  • Pelvis Arsely's "Love Me Blender (Love Me Food)";
  • M.C. Slammer's "U Can't Suck This";
  • Nerdvana's "Smells Like Teen Spit";
  • Koran Koran's "Wilde Boys";
  • Whack's "Careless Whipper";
  • Myskull Boltin's "Self-Love Is A Wonderful Thing";
  • Handson's "Mmmmm-Plop";
  • Poopert Holmes' "Escape" (otherwise known as the "If you like penis alotta, / And getting shot in the rain" song);
  • Digital Undersbrowned's "Dumpty Dance" (aka "Doin' The Humpty Dump");
  • and the inevitable, "Lice, Lice Baby" by Artificial-Vanilla Icing.
Oh, there are so many, I could probably go on forever, and succeed only in further torturing my already cringing mind. This blog is still waiting for Osama bin Laden's cover of Tom Jones' "Sex Bomb" in which an exposed breast sends a terrorist shudder straight through the American body politic.

      Well, there we go. Just some short takes, mainly. Also, did anyone see Real Time With Bill Maher the other night? It was impressive, but not for the reasons you'd expect: Maher's idol, George Carlin, was one of the panelists, along with-- wait for it-- former Canadian Prime Minister-- brace yourselves-- Kim Campbell. And she was funny, and intelligent, and she even managed to get some approving looks from Mr. Carlin. Whoda thunk it? The world may well be coming to an end. A politician making sense? Laughing at the use of the F-word, while cameras are rolling? Natch!

14 March 2004

Reasons Why Doctor J Really Shouldn't Surf The Net


Oh, there are so many, but here are some particular ones; they simply stir my envy:
Oh, to be unflinchingly rich....

13 March 2004

"Oh Shit, It's Mr. Creosote!"

      Read this article and just imagine how incensed Doctor J is. I bet you're expecting him to go off an extended rant only slightly shorter than Pamela, lamenting the death of culture in contemporary society and getting his righteous indignation all hot and bothered. Well, he won't. Da Doc is incensed, but he's exercising restraint today. He won't even begin to explain why this is utterly, impossibly, inconceivably wrong. No. He will be a good boy. He will keep his dander civilly down. He will not erupt like Mr. Creosote after that last "wafeeer-sin" dessert. You should thus be appropriately proud of him. It's as if he went a whole week without a cigarette. Sure, he's itchin', he's fightin' all 'is natural urges. But no. Discipline. Control. That's the ticket, that's the mutha-freakin' ticket.

      BOOM!

Ars Magna Returns


      This is cute. This blog would come up with some clever anagram itself, but it frankly can't be bothered to be clever.

Those Wacky Norwegians


      If one particular name here doesn't gob-smack you, then you must be Paul Wolfowitz. This blog would like to nominate this chap for the Chemistry Prize.

      Awwwh, dat wuvable Dubya has outdun himself agin. Can we get this man a fact-checker, please?

Pain By Numbers?


      This is just too eerie for words. This blog can't help but wonder if there's a numerological significance, though I'll be damned if I can figure out what it could be.

Warren Peace?


      I'm sure you've all been waiting for it: The Exorcist remade in thirty seconds. With bunnies. Well, at least the bunnies are more convincing than Richard Burton was in The Exorcist Part II. This blog can hardly wait for The Legend of Hell House, with a cast of apes. (Oh, yes, this blog is becoming very obscure, and should know better than to make a Roddy McDowall joke.)

Reason #1,345,678 For Canadian Distrust Of The States


      Who else is gonna bring you a broken arrow,
      Who else is gonna bring you a bottle of
NUCLEAR rain?

      Rick Mercer will eat this story alive.

      Aside: tee hee.... Congressman Dicks.... Just imagine his campaign slogans.

Angela Lansbury, Eat Your Heart Out


      Dealing Crack: Not Just For The Young Anymore.

      Accused apparently explained, "I just didn't want to end up 97 and greeting mo-fos for nothing at Wal-Mart."

Yeah, Baby...


      Sometimes, there is a little justice in this world.

~~Think It's Time For A Change...~~

      As much as it may be a pain in the royal (or common) ass to do, I'm considering moving everything here over to another site, an MT-organized site, though that's a bit complicated; it's really more of a Type-Pad site. It'll be a while in the happening, if it does, because that means getting off my very narrow buttocks and re-aligning everything, to say nothing of redesigning matters (and risking losing all of what this site has gathered in the past 11 months). So, my friends, my readers -- should I move over here, or should I stay where I am? I'm diddling on this for a number of reasons, one of which is that I don't trust this new site: a previous site which promised all the same things went defunct very quickly, and I'd rather not eff myself in that way again.

      But you're the ones reading this, clicking to come here, for whatever absurd reason or another. Let me know what you think. Is it worth it to go through the riggamarole? Do you care? Or should I just sleeping dogs slumber accordingly?

12 March 2004

At Least Not By Itself


      This blog will say nothing about this. Seriously. Nothing.

      (pause)

      Hey, this blog said it wouldn't say a thing.

      (pause)

      Stop looking at this blog like that, you sick, menacing perverts!

      (pause)

      Go away.

      (pause)

      Damn you to hell.

Lies Wide Shut


      The fact left out of these findings: the men in question would only be allowed *if* Nicole was wearing that putty on her nose from The Hours. (In fact, this blog has two words on this: "yeah" and "right.")

Look On Her! Look! Her Tits! / Look There, Look There!


      Pardon this blog's uncharacteristic crudity (yeah, right, I know...) but it seems Charisma Carpenter, aka Cordelia of Buffy The Vampire Slayer and the dim-witted sequel Angel, is going to be appearing in Playboy. Hummana-hummana. Kewl, as the kids say. This blog wonders if the photographer said to her "Pray you undo that button."

      (Yes, this blog can be both lecherous and literary at the same time. Most of you should know that very, very well by now.)

Warning: This Rant Ends With A Dangling Participle


      Not to make too much of this, especially since I don't watch the show (but how can one escape the media onslaught?), but The Apprentice has certainly done an about-face. After a start in which the men were systematically annihilated, the numbers have now drastically changed: there are now 4 men remaining against two women, all of the women having been 'fired' in succession since the de-genderization of the 'companies.' There are, of course, a number of reasons this could be happening: the female victory was exaggerated at the outset; the Burnett team suggested the need for parity in the eliminations; and so on and so forth. All I'm really saying here is this: the early evidence, and the early speculations, proved meaningless. After a slew of defeats among the men (not entirely fair, but setting that aside for the moment), once the gender-barrier was removed, the women have been falling like dominoes. There hasn't been a male eviction in -- how long??? This could be payback, it could be a number of matters; as someone who refuse to watch the show, I dare not speculate too certainly. All I say is this: assume nothing. I'm reminded that not too long ago-- less than five months ago-- no one, and I mean NO ONE, thought the Liberals in Canada could be dethroned. There's now a quiver of doubt in this, and we're now prognosticating that a minority govermnent in Canada (the first since Joe Clark's in the early 1980s) is a very real possibility. Go figure. The whirligig of time. At one point, the ladies on The Apprentice seemed invincible: either four or five of the lads had been bumped off, such that the men started looking like condors; and now the women are outnumbered. Robespierre might have snickered had he seen this: slaughter, oh sweet, sweet slaughter. Or sour, I suppose, depending on one's point of view.

      The same is true, by the way, of Survivor All-Stars, in which, so far, only the most threatening figures have been removed in the preliminaries. Yes, part of this is strategy and vendetta, taking out the previous winners and almost-rans. It's also more than that, because (with one remaining exception, Lex, I think, but I could be wrong on that), the major figures from previous seasons have all been ousted with Bolingbroke-like dispatch. The heavy money, I hear, is now on Rob M. (aka "The Robfather") to win, though I'm guardedly suggesting he's going to have to face a comeuppance soon enough from his own Lady Macbeth, the previously below-the-radar (and undeniably lovely) Amber. The contemporary thinking on all of this is that Rob is in charge, and no doubt he is, SO FAR: but I expect, too, there's a volta in the making, and Amber holds the trump-card there. The capacity for betrayals here resounds too much of Graham Greene, unless certain people play matters with abominable stupidity. I like Amber. I stop short of drooling when she's on-screen. (A young lass from "Beaver, PA"-- what else is a boy to do?) But she's also the anchor for the Rawb's machinations, and unless one or the other is removed, they're going to prove titanic in their immobility. But from a purely political stand-point, one or the other has to go, and Rob's the obvious choice: young, hale, arrogant, he's the figurehead upon whom the sensible should exact their remnants of power; but, same be said, remove his Lady Macbeth, and he's as aware of Birnam Wood's approach as can be. This, by the way, isn't "Survivor." It's "Survival of the Most Machiavellian," and that's the fact to watch: will the others develop the wherewithal to eliminate one of the dynamic duo? I don't think so, not at this point: Amber seems so meek, so darling; Rob seems too pricey a target. How does one shiver the four-person block (Rob, Amber, Rupert, and Jenna) without suffering occular-masonry? And better, neither Jenna nor Rupert seem to possess the savvy here. I say that realizing, though, my cheap prognostication is no different than what most of us thought of the Libs a few months ago. Anything can still happen. Survivor is not in the least about surviving in tough climes. It's about human politics.

      With all that said, I'm sure most of you are (a) shrugging your heads in disbelief that Doc J is even aware of such crap [rightly, by the way]; and (b) thinking I'm forecasting bets, speculations or otherwise. Natch, though indirectly, I suppose I am doing so. My larger point is this, that merit has been so thoroughly redefined that we no longer value those most valuable. To use Survivor as an example, I'd rather have a veteran like Rudy, in his seventies and still tougher-than-most-of-us-will-ever-be, in camp, if only for the knowledge that might help get my group through, as weakened as he was when he was dispatched. It wouldn't be about "winning," but about genuine environmental survival. If the cast didn't know that there would be reward challenges by which to win rice and/or luxuriances, would the true survivors be removed? Methinks not. Would you sacrifice a former Navy SEAL, injured as he may be? No, or only with the greatest reluctance, and one certainly wouldn't do it in favour of others far more trivial in their knowledge and experience. This hardly matters, though, because this is not what the game is about: too much like the real world, knowledge and experience are laid upon an altar for other reasons. And, yes, this is disgustingly petty and (dare I say it?) spiritually misguided. The weakest link of The Weakest Link was that people always, swilling in their own mediocrity, opted for sacrificing their betters than their lessers. Yes, this is profoundly anti-Darwinistic, which I suspect is part of its appeal to the masses. Their mediocrity, too, might be allowed to usurp accomplishment and knowledge.

      Sad, very sad it is indeed. We reward mediocrity and stupidity, even to the point of giving (ahem) some people the White House, although, as I write that, I don't want to seem to champion Gore, who, frankly, was not much better. Two syllables, people: MERIT. In normal seasons of Survivor, Dubya would have been voted off tout-de-suite. In this season, he'd be a bloody contender. (Kerry, by the way, is not that different.) We misstate, we misvalue, constantly, all too often because of our own petty, petty fears. Sickening, aren't we? We'd still sacrifice Jesus rather than Barabbas, and we'd find a way to logicalize it to our stupid, stupid selves. We'd still make Socrates drink that hemlock mix, and we'd still convict Oscar Wilde, and we'd do it for all the wrong, pathetic reasons, wouldn't we? We should collectively hang our heads in shame that we act the way we do. We'll cling to our reasons, like Dostoevsky's Inquisitor, but we'll not address our own degree of putrefying self-legitimization. We earn the scorn we deserve, whether we receive it or not. Dostoevsky's Christ merely kisses the Inquisitor and is taken away. Fools we are, and we enact it time and time again, and, I think, reality TV, such as it is, only substantiates this in crass form. The old ceremony, the one we know too well, the one we all perform in our cheap desperation.

      We ought to be ashamed of ourselves. We won't, but, dammit, we ought to.

Brief Post, Entirely Cryptic To All But One Person


      Yes, I get it, and yes I knew you were joking. Sad, isn't it, the reality?

      Was reading an essay on Hamlet tonight by an utterly worthless critic, entirely absent to his own onanism. Said critic couldn't go more than five words without drinking once more from the fountain of jargonism, and said critic didn't have a substantial point in his wee-little head. Yes, this is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but with a simper.

      Side note: reading said paper tonight, I was teasing myself with the idea of writing an article against the self-absorbed, pretentious, useless theories that have come to dominate the academy in recent years like a rapist with a key to the city. Must mull it over a wee more. Maybe it's time I stopped simply rolling my eyes and letting the academy continue in its doldrous state of masturbation. I'm sure it'll also be my death-knell, but, at this point, two questions haunt me: (1) what do I have left to lose?; and (2) will matters ever change if the cynical among us excuse ourselves from the ridiculous debates that now pass for intelligent discussion? There's another, too, on the side of silence: why bother, or, rather, why should I waste my effort? Yes, scrapper as I am, this hegemony of jargonism seems more than a tad monolithic. As much as my inner-Jimmy Stewart reminds me that lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for, the more I realize too this is pissing into the rain, because it's more blowback than engagement.

      Why don't you come on back to the war? is lingering in my head right now. Don't be a tourist....

      My only hesitancy thereto is this: I've been swimming, salmon-like, for so long against the stream. I'm frankly tired. One (in a metaphor I've used countless times) starts to wonder where that line is between Quixotic challenge and simply beating one's head against a Chinese Wall of idiocy. And I have to add, however guardedly, that my recent experience has done little to encourage me to mount Rocinante. One, however, never knows what happens to summon the war-horse from his cynicism. Maybe.

11 March 2004

Make From The Shaft


"I have done you better service than to be slighted thus. Miserable age, where only the reward of doing well is the doing of it!"
         --- Bosola in John Webster's The Duchess of Malfi (1.1.32)

(Ironically, I quoted part of that line to Natalya the other day, but misattributed it to Othello. Boy, my brain really is turning to mush these days. *shrug*)

      I'm not planning on writing too much today, or even dealing too much (if at all) with links or oddities because, quite frankly, I'm pissed off. Severely. I'm aware that I've always been a bit of a maverick, a little off-the-beaten-path in my approach to matters, but it's always been a bit of a personal policy with me: respect me and I respect you. Suffice it to say that I'm feeling more than a wee disrespected of late; hell, I feel like I've been shived (or would that be 'shivved'?) in the back, and I'm suspecting there's more coming down the pike. Some might think that paranoid, and it may well be; but, as the saying goes, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean there's nobody following you.

      Needless to say, my (considerable) indignation right now is gathering, and I'm trying not to let it get the better of me (and those of you that know me know that I can becomes a terribly self-righteous muthafucka if pressed; certainly not a pretty sight). I'm also trying to maintain a degree of flippancy and humour about the whole thing. After all, I don't want to become one of those people I most loathe, the sanctimonious martyr. As Kevin Spacey says to Glynis Johns in The Ref, "You know what mom? You know what I'm gonna get you next Christmas? A big wooden cross, so every time you feel unappreciated for all your sacrifices, you can climb up and nail yourself to it." Ah, calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean, calm blue frickin' ocean.

      Maybe it's time to get my Bosola on.

08 March 2004

Missed It By That Much


      DUH.

      On second thought, after reading this, I think I might have to try it myself.

Putting In The Seed


Oh, yeah, baby, Robert Frost was acquainted with the night, always with miles to go, hookers to do. After all, he did hang around with JFK. Word has it, JFK was a good boy until "Mending Wall" send him hunting after every vagina he could sniff wafting around a corner. He liked da night life, he liked ta boogie. His last words, apparently, were: "Fuck you, Bukowski. I did it with class!"

And remember: drink and be whole again beyond confusion.

The Return of the Lee


      Wow, the turn-around time on films has really become quite short, hasn't it? Just in time for a certain crackhead's birthday?

      See also this. ~~And all he ever needed was the ring / Like freedom feels where wild horses run...~~

...All Wanking The Wank In A Manner So Wankiferouslyly Wankful


      Earlier, I linked to a column by Imre Salusinszky (and, if you read that column, you'll know what the man can do with a column, especially when his columnary soul is fully into it). I knew some of Imre's academic work, but had no idea that he writes regularly for The Australian. Anyway, his most recent article is about David Beckham, and, damn, it's funny. I'm adding "Wankiferouslyly" to my Spell Check. And it's just so nice to see logic prevail.

~~Come On Be A Smarty, Come And Join....~~


      It's Springtime for Doctor J:

You are the grammar Fuhrer. All bow to your authority. You will crush all the inferior people under the soles of your jackboots, and any who question your motives will be eliminated. Your punishment is being the bane of every other person's existence, because you're constantly contradicting stupidity. Everyone will be gunning for you. Your dreams of a master race of spellers and grammarians frighten the masses. You must always watch your back. If only your power could be used for good instead of evil.


What is your grammar aptitude?
brought to you by Quizilla
LOL. Very funny. Smart aleck.

ADDENDUM: On a lark, I went back and did the same quiz intentionally answering the questions wrongly. I expected to see something to the effect of "You are the grammar President Bush" or something satirical or clever like that. What I got was a disturbing image of piled-up bodies from a concentration camp with the tag "You are a grammar Failure. You will be the first to be thrown in the ovens. The world is a better place without you." That's simply not funny. This blog's since removed the images from this blog, for reasons of taste and policy.

On the other hand, this result just beggars all bloody description:

Aphrodite


Meh. Methinks not. Me, EROS??!!??!! That's rather like calling Robert Loggia a stud-muffin. Beauty?!?!?!?!? No. Besides, I gave up love, along with hope, for Lent. Am considering making both conditions permanent. :-)

(Oh Gawd, I remember when I used to believe in such stuff... *rolls eyes incredulously* How embarrassing...)

Blade Runner


      With a name like mine, I had to take this test...

katana
You are a katana! You are sharp, fast, and easy to
control. sometimes you are too short but you
make up for it with your grace and elegance.


What kind of sword are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Short? Me? Why I oughta... ;-) Figures I get the one with the wee wittew gwaphic. Fffetewy. And what's this easy to control crap?

"You teach a child to read, and he or her will be able to pass a literacy test.''


      Required reading, mes amis. Some of this blog's favourite Bushisms:

"More Muslims have died at the hands of killers than—I say more Muslims—a lot of Muslims have died—I don't know the exact count—at Istanbul. Look at these different places around the world where there's been tremendous death and destruction because killers kill."

"The ambassador and the general were briefing me on the—the vast majority of Iraqis want to live in a peaceful, free world. And we will find these people and we will bring them to justice."

"[W]e've had leaks out of the administrative branch, had leaks out of the legislative branch, and out of the executive branch and the legislative branch, and I've spoken out consistently against them, and I want to know who the leakers are."

"I'm so pleased to be able to say hello to Bill Scranton. He's one of the great Pennsylvania political families."

"Security is the essential roadblock to achieving the road map to peace."

"Now, there are some who would like to rewrite history—revisionist historians is what I like to call them."

"I'm the master of low expectations."

"For a century and a half now, America and Japan have formed one of the great and enduring alliances of modern times."

"I think war is a dangerous place."

"The war on terror involves Saddam Hussein because of the nature of Saddam Hussein, the history of Saddam Hussein, and his willingness to terrorize himself."

"In other words, I don't think people ought to be compelled to make the decision which they think is best for their family."

"I was proud the other day when both Republicans and Democrats stood with me in the Rose Garden to announce their support for a clear statement of purpose: you disarm, or we will."

"There's an old saying in Tennessee—I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee—that says, fool me once, shame on—shame on you. Fool me—you can't get fooled again."
Oh, reading these just makes my brain hurt. Bush really is an English teacher's worst nightmare. *Shudddddddderrrrrrrrrrr.*

07 March 2004

Outside The Vales Of Har


A short while ago, RK posted the following in a comment on the Blooming-Wolf fiasco, and though I kept meaning to respond to it I never did. Since, though, that entry is about to fall into the archives, I thought I'd resurrect it here in primary text. Here's what RK wrote:
Well, I sort of stand partly corrected. By a lady of my own age, a good friend, with whom I've discussed this on e-mail, bitching about the New Puritanism, and saying that all the girl had to do was say bugger off, you're old and ugly and I've got a boyfriend and if you do it again I'll tell all my friends which is worse than telling the Dean.

So my friend, whom I respect absolutely, sent me the following, in which I have just suppressed a few names for discretion's sake. But I thought the argument was worth looking at.

"Well, you do have a point. But it isn't just changing times--it's also a curtain-lifting on a real, very real problem. When sex enters a relationship with unequal power it really, really is difficult for the less powerful. And it can work both ways-- X made a pass at a couple of guys I know (before she took to doing it to women) and they were seriously bothered precisely because she has power. It really is creepy when this happens, really upsetting. This is not recent PC, it's only recent willingness to do something, tell somebody, not take it anymore. I had heard tell about HB and I heard (but never asked her about it) that one reason Y came to Columbia for a bit was to get away from HB, who chased her around the desk once too often. This isn't love, after all, or Eros winging through the seminar room and leading to something pleasurable but *mutual*--this is an older guy doing creepy things to an impressed student. A hand on the thigh is not rape, but it is deeply upsetting when the guy is your university's superstar. If he tried this on me I'd react as you say (well, I would have at 45, say), but if oh say Z had done this to me when I was his student at Harvard--and he too had a roving eye--I would have freaked out. Oh well. The gender gap, I guess. I don't mind real Love at the university, just not older famous guys trying to cop a feel from the vulnerable and naive."
(You have to admire the layering functions, n'est-ce pas?)

I agree, copping a feel from the vulnerable and naive is wrong, and the dimensions of power are problematic. Did Bloom act inappropriately, assuming Wolf's narrative is factual (something I'm not willing to say, given Ms Wolf's answers to questions subsequently)? Probably. But here the conditions of context alter matters: at the very least, it's hard for me to read Wolf as being totally blameless in this scenario. So awestruck by Bloom's intellectual stature (recalling that she described him as a vortex of intellect and learning, or something to that effect) and so desperate for his approval on her own poetry, she no doubt sent Bloom some mixed signals, signals which he interpreted as sexual receptiveness but which she may not at all have intended. Suffice it to say, though, that it should have been obvious to her that 'things' were taking a very different course than she intended, and she should have put the kebosh on matters sooner. Why didn't she? Perhaps a bit of intimidation. Perhaps a bit of neediness on her part to have the great HB judge her poetry. But perhaps most of all, a conflictedness within herself between her intellectual attraction to him and her physical disinterest in him. Bloom probably read her intellectual attraction to him as an invitation. She, it certainly seems, hadn't reconciled matters within herself to be sufficiently clear with him. The trouble with this scenario is that it's not just the simple cut-and-dry harassment: there was no issued threat, even by Wolf's account; there's no indication whatsoever that Wolf was physically or romantically dis-interested in Bloom prior to him touching her thigh; and there's no indication either that once his pass had been spurned that he pressured her or threatened her in any way, shape, or form. This isn't the case of a professor manhandling his student for cheap thrills, nor one of him cooercing her sexually, nor one of repeated situation of her as a sexual object. It seems, at least to this observer, that somewhere along the road, the two of them misunderstood one another, and misunderstood one another very badly indeed. Such are the problems or hero-worship, sufficiently ambiguous as to confuse the worshipper as much as the worshipped. Reading Wolf's article, it's obvious that there's still a dimension of hero-worship there for Bloom, albeit now a jaded dimension.

This is why I think Wolf's reaction to this scenario was so extreme at the time, and which has only festered over the years. Why was her stomach so wrapped in knots that she supposedly vomitted after he made the pass? Her hero wasn't seeming so heroic anymore; she was torn between intellectual attraction and physical repulsion; she was in a situation of ugly desire coming from a man she didn't want to believe could possess such a thing, and worse she found herself on the receiving end of that desire. In short, she saw more of the man -- the male, the hu-man-- than she wanted to see, and she didn't know what to do. I'm not trying to minimize matters here. I'm trying to see matters from Wolf's perspective as sympathetically as I can. Here, though, the screw turns.

Much of her 'anguish' over this and over the years (and goodness knows, she makes it seem like her world collapsed around her) is, I suspect, the result of her own wondering if she consciously or subconsciously encouraged this scenario to happen, the scenario not just of an older man making a pass at a younger woman, but of an idol demonstrating and enacting his human weakness to an idolator. No wonder she couldn't then say "get your hand off me," and no wonder she hasn't been able to shrug the scenario off after twenty years, wielding the memory of the experience in flagellation of herself. Wolf's tale isn't as much about sexual harassment as it is about the injury of her imaginative innocence, and, at the risk of sounding a little Freudian, I think we all know that injuries to our innocence are always more damaging than can usually be explained with pure reason.

No wonder so many feminists and other pundits, this blog included, have dismissed her claims of injury. Twenty years later, and she's still traumatizing herself-- notice I'm using the word "traumatizing" in its active rather than its passive form-- with an incident that most of us would have "gotten over" eons ago. To those of us at a remove from this scenario, her story seems rather a trifle, when more serious instances of harassment and rape are elided over. Wolf's story really doesn't seem to be about power exerted by one to the subjection of another. Wolf is clearly the center of her story, not Bloom, not Yale, not even sexual harassment; her article is about herself, and about her own difficulties with dealing with this injury to her innocence. As much as she's tried to frame her story in the context of the institutional failures to deal with sexual harassment, that really seems more like a platform from which she could claim to legitimate her own desire to deal with this matter publicly, to reenact this scenario, perhaps with the subconscious desire to exorcise it from her. Think about it. Did she have to name said professor? Did she have to sketch matters in such detail? Did she have to go out of her way to claim that she doesn't want to hurt Bloom? No. She could, in theory, have told her story more vaguely, more discretely. But, as I've said, this story isn't about an issue per se; it's about one person struggling to deal with an event in her life, and it's one person doing it as a public expurgation. To a very great degree, this story is about Wolf reenacting as a form of thereapy, and the unstated question that lingers beneath this entire story (and seems to linger too in Wolf's very emotional responses to those questioning her story) is this: why can't I deal with this?

She's had twenty years. Twenty years. Some countries recover from civil war in faster time. She's deluded herself into thinking this story is about matters sociological and sexual rather than personal and emotional. Like so many, she's wearing victimization like a cloak, however appropriately or inappropriately, and not realizing why relatively few people can sympathize with her. Some say she's just brooking for attention, which she probably is; some say she's prostrating herself as a victim in the name of feminism, which she probably is; some say she's a frustratingly-frail figure who really should just get over herself, which she also probably is. As I see it, though, Wolf's story is about her own frustration and inability to deal with an injury to her innocence, a frustration that has now manifest itself in a very public attempt at self-exorcism. If Yale would deal with it, if the public will deal with it, the implicit logic seems to be, then perhaps I can deal with it. But the simple fact is that she can't and she won't-- at least not until she stops deluding herself in thinking the problems here about sexual harassment and gender politics than about her own damaged innocence. Let's face it: Wolf is no Lucrece, not even a Norma Rae. She's Blake's Thel, still outside the vales of Har.

With all that said and done, which (really) is just an extended rereading of her own article, it's very much worth reading this article by Imre Salusinszky about writing about this kafuffle. Very, very funny.

And this blog now promises, solemnly, never to mention this topic again. You're welcome. :-)

Just Plain Tired...


      And I don't mean that physically. This is Ms. Plath's poem, "Black Rook In Rainy Weather," a poem I truly wish more did, would, read. It remains one of my personal favourites, anthologized as it now is.

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.
I need something like this. I'll not say more than that. Except that I'm tired. And that it's still a beautiful poem. Magnificent, really, in the truest sense of that word. A certain minor light.... If only.

Langston could imagine a soul deferred; he never bothered to imagine a soul arthritic. Perhaps he never had to do so.

06 March 2004

Terrorism Update


      Now the bastards are using the Amish. Doh!

Divorce And Conquer


"Married men live longer than single men. But married men are a lot more willing to die." --- Johnny Carson

      Check this out, from the Independent's article on the Diane Richie alimony suit:

Detailing her expenditure, she notes: "I spend in excess of $50,000 (£27,000) a month for my own personal services, entertainment and shopping." This includes $3,000 on dermatology, $600 on hair, $250 on nails, $150 on electrolysis, $1,000 on laser hair removal, $450 on facials, $500 for a personal trainer, $600 for Pilates and $600 on massages; up to $15,000 on clothes, shoes and handbags, plus $5000 on jewellery; up to $1000 on "computer lessons", $600 on therapy and a similar amount on vitamins and health supplements. She also spends at least $20,000 a year on plastic surgery. And she adds, without a hint of irony: "These numbers are conservative estimates."
Wholly jebeezuses jawillikers! By the sounds of it, this woman must be the most hideously deformed person in California. $250 a month on NAILS?!?!? Don't want to meet this woman in a dark alley, her claws slightly longer than Wolverine's. $3,000 a month on dermatology? Those aren't pock-marks, Diane; if your skin needs that much work, we may have to ship you to Molokai. $450 for facials? No, no, no... Doctor J, don't touch that one.... Behave.... $1,000 for computer lessons? She must be learning to operate the machines at NASA. $5,000 a freakin' month on jewellery?!?!?!?!? Damn, even Mr. T knows when too much is too much. And with her astounding expenditures on electrolysis and laser hair removal, this woman must be a bloody bipedal sheepdog. The maintenance on this woman must cost more per year than the projected costs for the complete restoration of the Sphinx, though this blog suspects the Sphinx has suffered less from wind erosion.

      For the first time in my life, I actually feel sorry for Lionel Richie. Did I just write that? No, I couldn't have. Oh, damn, I did. I'm just amazed Lionel didn't go O.J. on this little Imelda Marcos. So much for the simple life...

The World's Best-Kept Secret


      The premise alone of this article is good for a laugh: it just gets better after that.

Queen Lear?


      That's the impression one might get from Jeffrey Simpson's piece today on Sheila Copps, whose political future will be determined today. The only thing missing is an explicit association of the people of Hamilton as poor, naked wretches.

      Today should be interesting, with its Thunderdome intensity (two men, er, people enter, one person leaves), and whatever happens this is going to have *nasty* ramifications when the federal election is called. I think what pundits are overlooking in this scenario-- and the pundits, nation-wide, have been watching, very much so-- is the spite factor which tends, however barely, to favour Ms Copps. Hamilton may very well put spite ahead of self-interest. Whoever wins, though, the subsequent factionalism will only make the electoral contest more intense and more vicious. Even if, for example, the Grits nominate Valeri, how will this go over with the general populace? Even if they vote to retain Copps, will the people of the riding send her back? Ladies and gentlemen, this is politics as bloodsport, something we're not that used to seeing in Canada. Whoever wins the nomination today may discover that s/he may just have inherited a crown of eggshells. The other parties smell the blood in the water, and both the NDP and the Conservatives have their best chance in two decades of taking a Liberal stronghold. Jack Layton and the Leader-To-Be-Named-Later must be absolutely giddy with anticipation.

But Will He Climb Atop The CN Tower?


      Tokyo had Godzilla. New York had King Kong. Now, it looks like Toronto will have The Donald. Gawd help us all.

      And remember folks: do not look directly into the hair.

05 March 2004

"Speaking of Pig Flatulence..."


      So, that's how to do it: anthrax in the Metamucil supply. How could we have been so blind? But will they go AARP before they die?

Martha, Martha, Martha


      Where is Jan Brady when you need her? Looks like somebody got hit in the nose real good.

Invade Bill Maher Now


      Like everyone else in this world, it seems Mr. Maher has a blog, too. Check out his recommendation on Canada. This blog will not invoke the War of 1812 in response. Nope, not at all. And certainly not at all what happened to the previous White House. Just remember, Yanks, threaten to invade us and we'll unleash the most horrible fates imaginable: Celine Dion acting, William Shatner singing, and Jim Carrey talking with his butt-cheeks. And there's a wildcard we have that will trump even your entire nuclear arsenal, but I'll keep that one under wraps for now (hint: you "oughta know" the torture that can brought "down on you"). Oh yes, we could turn American real-life into Mars Attacks! and Slim Whitman will not save you. We're, after all, used to Neil Young. So, go ahead. We're ready to kick some serious American Boooo-taaaay. Bring. It. On. Eh? Eh??? EH???

      Pussies. And we didn't even mention Anne Murray. Look on *OUR* works, ye mighty, and despair. Unless ye want the Lincoln Memorial proven truly Ozymandian. We luvs ya, but, we'll make Iraq look like an hour in the sandbox. Just *try* and deal with our weather. And, I'm relatively assured, Tim Horton's will fight on the defenders' side. Starbucks.... 'Tis to laugh.

A Modest Proposal


      This is delicious. This blog wonders if President Butch will think this sound social policy. Yes, it's time for a Swift kick in the Bush. Or the Dubloons, perhaps? One wonders what sort of dicksores, er, discourse, this will engender. Or degender. A bird in the hand, I'm reminded, is worth two Dicks in a Bush. Would that be a daisy Cheney? Replete with Perle necklace? Yes, I'll stop now.

Takes A Licking, Keeps On Ticking...


      I believe the operative term here is "thinking outside the box." Ahem.

Towards A Just Society


      Somehow, I don't remember Sir Thomas More mentioning this in his Utopia. ~~Oh, what a wonderful world it would be, sha la la la... History, don't know much biology....~~

      UPDATE: Expect L.A.-style riots in Berlin. Rosa Parks, this blog has been informed, fell directly into tears with news of the injustice. Rodney King heard to ask, "Why can't we all just get it on?"

Kiss My Grits!


      There's nothing like a little internecine warfare to put a city back on the map.

Coming Back Into The Fold


      This blog wonders if those who left the church after Vatican II might now return. Apparently, the new film "The Passion of the Wrist" had something to do with it.

Maybe, Maybe, Maybe, Maybe, Maybe


      A first review of Christopher Plummer's Broadway King Lear is out in today's NY Times. It seems several members of the original cast have been retained (Domini Blythe as Goneril, Lucy Peacock as Regan, Barry MacGregor as the Fool), but it looks like they dumped the original Cordelia and the original Gloucester brothers, opting for slightly bigger names (Geraint Wyn Davies and Brent Carver as Edmund and Edgar, respectively). I'm not sure how much weight to give this review, as this reviewer some time ago gave a rather generous review to the Stratford production, but c'est la vie. You'll need the free subscription to the Times to read the article. This blog wonders, though, why they kept Blythe and Peacock, both of whom were pretty weak in the Stratford. MacGregor was excellent as the Fool, but Blythe and Peacock? Oy. We'll have to see how well this Canuck-laden producktion does on the Way. Ay, every centimetre a king!

      In a similar vein, it's nice to see that defending the elderly isn't a totally lost concept. Come not between the Walgreen's staffer and his wrath!

Paging Tenzing Norkay


      Did anyone see Christina Ricci on Jay Leno tonight? Normally I can't abide Leno more than a second, but Ricci's such a little cutie, and, hell, we know Doctor J has a soft spot for such cuties. I should say, I've never seen Ricci in an interview scenario before, so I had very little idea what to expect; that said, it's hard to tell whether Ricci was just lit tonight, or if she is in fact simply one of the dopiest young ladies I've ever seen. (I think I'm slightly more inclined to the former than the rather.) I can't remember specific quotes, but the wee thing was spouting some of the densest things without even a hint of irony or self-awareness, to the point that I'm watching the screen with a facial expression I'm sure roughly comparable to that of man who's just had his jaw tied down with an anvil. She was singing the praises of Dr. Phil. She's been a relative shut-in of late watching television shows because, she claims, that's what people who are uneducated do in America. She was, in short, bewilderingly clueless. Let's put it this way: she seemed far more intelligent as Wednesday Adams than she did tonight. This surprised me a bit with this, because she's always seem rather intelligent with her performances, so either the lass is an acting savant, or she was in Happy Land. Watching her, though, I was struck by the amount of innate charm she has; despite seeming migraine-inducingly dippy, something in her giddiness and openness with her own silliness suggested a kind of childish innocence that was somehow disarming. She just seemed to be having so much fun, especially craning over enthusiastically in the next segment to watching in amazement the inventions of a triplet of preteens. The strange thing is, she made dopeyness cute, probably in much the same way that my late cat Blake did. She couldn't have found pretense with directions and a sherpa. Yes, I'm shaking my own head in disbelief probably as much as any of you are now. Yes, it was absolutely goofy, but it was also absolutely disarming. Okay, so I have probably given this young lady too much credit in the past (gee, as if that's never happened before....), but dear oh dear please don't say I'm in progressing years becoming one of those chaps that starts falling for adorable airheads. Oh well. I guess I'll have to hope she was just lit tonight, but if not, that's no biggie either; instead, I will love her and I will pet her and I will feed her and I will call her George....

(And if any of you don't understand that last reference, you're probably not goofy enough yourself.)

04 March 2004

Strictly Ballroom


      This blog knows you've all been wondering, what is the history of underwear? Well, wonder no more. Sorry ladies, nothing on teddies, panties or other forms of lingerie.

Bridget Jones' Diarrhea?


      This blog is terrfied that Microflaccid is trying to develop this. I don't know about you, but if such a Gatesian recording device were monitoring my life signs, I'm sure I'd end up unable to do even simple tasks, parts of me would arbitrarily stop responding to my brain, and my heart itself would repeatedly tell me I'd suffered from fatal exception errors which turn my face bright blue. I'll say nothing about my subsequent susceptability to virii or even, ouch, anonymous penetration. I'm also pretty confident my di*k integrity would end up severely compromised. No, no, no, no, no....

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