The hour badly spent

collegianism, ivory tower, not afraid to be servicey, joy in the shadows, going native, anne longmuir, blogsome nymphet, journalismism, tim dayton, masturbating copyeditorsNovember 18, 2008 12:47 pm

In Eisenhauer 016, two students had already come up with a plan.

"Let’s pull down the blinds. Dayton will think it’s darker than it really is, and cancel class," said Cherry. She and the Sexy Communist Spy went to work.

Professor Dayton walked in just as they finished up, and he did not give a fuck. "If you think you’re getting out of class because of a little power outage, you’ve got the wrong guy," he said. He rolled up the blinds, tugged his podium over to the window and started the afternoon’s lesson.

The power had gone out on campus 20 minutes prior. It affected buildings on the main campus; the Stuni but not the library, the classrooms and lecture halls but not the dorms, administrative buildings but not Lafene. It was a bright day, a sunny day; the mindset of “let’s just call it a day and head back home” had not set in, except among slackers.

"If there’s anything that K-State’s students are, it’s flexible and accommodating," said Pat Bosco, dean of student life. "They have great common sense about them, and they respond to these natural phenomena with ease." Sunlight streamed in through windows on two sides of his office.

"For me, I’m a little different. I can’t stand being without my phone," he said.

Due to the power failure, Bosco had to cancel a 1:30 lecture he was to deliver in the Little Theater on boscology — "the art of climbing through broken glass."

A lady in the finance office, having been in contact with K-State Facilities, said two squirrels got into a transformer at the Westar power station by St. Isadore’s Church, repeating an incident that had happened years ago. She didn’t want her name printed in the paper.

Another man in the office overheard her. "So we’ve got barbequed squirrel?"

"Fried squirrel," she corrected him.

At the power station by St. Isadore’s, nine guys in white hard hats stood around the transformers, fenced in by barbed wire. Insert your own Stormtroopers joke here. Two of them fiddled around with a tower of machinery that did not, in any way, resemble the Death Star II. They weren’t interested in talking to the press.

"If I were a new teacher, I’d be in trouble," said Robin Mosher, instructor in the English department editing her lesson plan in pen and ink that afternoon. Mosher has taught at K-State for 28 years.

"If the power isn’t on tomorrow, it won’t affect class at all because we have plenty of windows," she said. Technology would help her classes (sometimes she uses PowerPoint slides), but everything can also be done the old-fashioned way, she said.

Terri Engnoth, another English instructor, took her freshman expository writing class outside and handed out papers.

"It was exciting. It felt like a snow day," she said. "All of my students showed up. I couldn’t believe it."

The power came back on after several hours. Westar would not give out any information about the outtage. The Collegian would not print any information without a named source. Thanks a lot, Finance office. Everyone is hamstrung by red tape! Except the Kansas City Star, who, without naming any specific University official, scooped the K-State Collegian with this AP report late in the evening (link provided via Facebook by Princess Glitter Bunny):


MANHATTAN, Kan. | A couple of squirrels put Kansas State University in the dark for a few hours.

The Manhattan campus was without electricity for more than three hours Monday. The university says power was cut when two squirrels got into a Westar Energy transformer.

Electricity was restored around 4:30 p.m., allowing evening classes and activities to proceed.

playing the race card, wingnutz, pretentious literary douchebag, what's the what, absurd liberal myth, going native, shut up kansas, new york salute, multiculturalism, fuck white supremacy, too postcolonialeyOctober 14, 2008 9:40 pm

The K-State campus now boasts a much larger and more diverse student body than ever before, writes Tim Schrag in today’s Collegian.

All of us at K-State are thrilled that we have a record enrollment of 23,520 students,” President Jon Wefald said, “and we are also delighted that K-State has a record number of students of color and international students as well.”

The total for minority students includes record highs for black and Hispanic students, and international student enrollment has increased, including 431 students from China.

And according to Duane Nellis, provost and senior vice president:

There is tremendous value in getting to know students from different cultures,” Nellis said. “These friendships not only enhance an individual’s personal experiences, but also help students understand other cultures. This is vital in an increasingly global society.”

Oh boy! They are just going to LRRVE it here! Grant Jones, PhD history student, gives them a neighborly welcome in a letter to the editor.

One encounters the buzzword “diversity” at K-State ad nauseum. The source of the incessant demands for “diversity” is the doctrine of multiculturalism.

Multiculturalism is the product of moral agnosticism, cultural relativism and ethnic determinism.

This doctrine holds that one should never judge Western/American culture superior to any other. Its purpose is to obliterate distinctions between values and non-values.

For example, the value of individualism is considered equal to the non-value of tribalism. The multicultural doctrine makes no distinction between chosen values such as reason, individualism, personal liberty and non-chosen physical attributes, including race.

I wasn’t sure WTF he meant by tribalism so I looked it up: cultural and ethnic identity. Why is that a "non-value?" Does it really extinguish the value of the rugged individual, or does it respect her and value her role in society? And why not use the phrase "spirit of community?" Could it be that Grant Jones wants to link multiculturalism to the image of bands of nomadic African hunters? How close do you think he actually came to typing the word "niggers" when he wrote his letter?

The epithet “Eurocentric” conflates race and culture.

I was under the impression that, historically speaking, the two were somewhat linked. Being a PhD student of history, Grant Jones would know for sure, and apparently he’s found that there isn’t, probably by not studying very much history at all.

Diversity” elevates unchosen attributes to greater importance than values based on merit, personal achievement and moral character. “Diversity” also requires individuals to primarily define themselves based on these unchosen criteria.

"Diversity" also "requires" that you take your head out of your ass and recognize that values based on merit, personal achievement and moral charactor are not exclusive to Western Civilization. Taking your head out of your ass is difficult for people with rectum-sized comfort zones; you’ll find a lot of that in Kansas!

The agenda is to Balkanize [ed. note: good grief!] the United States.

Twenty years ago Jesse Jackson led Stanford students in an anti-intellectual chant: “Hey, ho, Western Civ has got to go.” Jackson’s nihilistic premise is the basis for both “diversity” and “multiculturalism.”

A history student might want to frame Jackson’s awesome comment in historical context; since Grant Jones hasn’t learned how to do that after 6 years of secondary education, I’ll give it a go:

Jackson grew up attending segregated grade schools in the South, witnessed the assassination of civil rights activist Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, and has travelled all over the world as a spokesman for civil rights issues. Western Civ is bound with a history of unjust oppression of women and brown people, and his "anti-intellectual chant" was speaking to that part of Western Civilization.

Either Grant Jones willfully ignored this crucial aspect of the history of Western Civ just to make a specious point, or the topic just never came up in his K-State history classes. Neither would surprise me.

Anyway, my fellow brown folks: people like Grant Jones — couching their small minds behind big words — are the Whites your parents always warned you about. As long as you avoid the blowhards “studying” history and political "science," and instead just focus on the beauty of the landscapes and the fun weather and dating cute white chicks, you might end up liking it here. And if you enjoy Jamaican food, the Little Grill is somewhere around here. Check it out!

[Source: K-State Collegian, Letter to the Editor]

ivory tower, saucy aussie, going native, trying to amuse erica hateley with clever tags, blogsome nymphetSeptember 5, 2008 7:40 pm

Seriously. I saw her outside Stuni and I’m like "DOCTOR Hateley!" All excited, you know. And she goes "That’s one of the nicer things you’ve said about me."  Touché!

So. Just to set the record straight; she is not the pompous funny-sounding cavewoman I have made her out to be. I personally like this woman. Being around her is pure joy; she is, in fact, good-humored, quick-witted, lively, humble, gracious, she’s got oodles of education and class, and, frankly, she’s kinda cute. But the best thing she’s got going for her is that since she’s spent so much time in Kansas you don’t even have to call her Australian any more! Yay! Glad I could be of service. I’ll be here til around ten if you need anything else cleared up.

livejournaley, everything old is new again, drive it like you stole it, going native, blogsome nymphet, this is dumb, i'm back, this blog is not deadAugust 22, 2008 11:56 pm

As we float towards autumn I can’t help but be reminded of that feeling of being newly in love. The whole world is so beautiful, everything a delight. Winter snow feels like warm summer nights; every outing precious and magical. Even every second you spend alone is surging and overflowing with anticipation, for that next time you meet.

It’s like that night she was in your car, that old 95 Mitsubishi, driving up through the hills with the windows down and the radio way up, and you pretended to sing along to punk rock songs you didn’t know just to impress her. And maybe it worked, because she didn’t mind one bit when you put your hand on her thigh; you even thought you could see her blushing and trying to hide it. Or maybe you were still too shy to touch her but she gave you that look, when you dropped her off, that smile both happy and not really innocent, and you told yourself next time you shouldn’t be so shy.
 
No, I’m not dating anyone. I’m just back in Manhattan, that’s all.

livejournaley, kinda rambly, last night's party, fucking thursdays, reverse cowgirl, good stiff cocktail, oversharing, modern romance, going native, vodka is my anti-drug, rough morning, marriage porn, bleh, vacations, tourists, mergers & acquisitions, hotel california, silver bullet, all girls hate each otherJuly 1, 2008 4:24 am

Everyone knows I’m pretty flakey. Still, my movie-nerd friend, Silver Bullet, made sure to remind me that I had promised to go with her to her sister Erica’s wedding in Palm Springs.

"Sure. Again, when is it?"

"June something."

June something took place last week. Wednesday night we picked up the groom’s brother Donnie and the groom’s brother’s wife Palim from the airport at 11 at night and right away headed to the little resort town.

We got there two hours later, dead tired. Silver Bullet and I checked in; the room was massive. We sat around, amazed at its sheer amazingness. Then we fucked and conked out for the night.

Her phone rang sometime Thursday morning. Erica was perkily inviting us down to the pool for drinks. And swimming, one assumes. We were still groggy and tired, so no. She hung up and we fucked again, which I was almost too sleepy to do at all, and didn’t even have the presence of mind to make her get on top. Thanks for nothing, doggiestyle.

We woke up for real much much later.

"Is it really noon?"

"It’s the curtains. Hotel rooms always make you feel like it’s twilight outside."

Silver Bullet’s phone went off again; sister still bugging us to come outdoors and socialize, so we did. The pool seemed kind of small for a pricey resort in the middle of the desert. This disappointment, however, was mitigated by the open bar and the fact that everyone was dressed to show off as much skin as possible, which I believe is the only upside to California weather.

Donnie ordered me a vodka tonic, then a screwdriver, then another one, which I noticed they made with tequila instead of vodka. Strange, but best to do as the natives do; in Russia, vodka make YOU!

When we were done swimming, Silver Bullet and I walked around in search of a place to eat. The town is really just a big strip mall and everything looks the same. We settled on a Mexican place. The food wasn’t terrific and neither were the margueritas but at least they were big. Evidently I sucked mine down too fast, because when we got back to our room I lost my lunch.

Then I slept.

I woke up hours later, groggy again, but in time to get ready for the ceremony.

"Hey, if you still feel sick you can just hang out in the room during the wedding. I’ll come back afterwards."

"No, I can do this. This is why ya brought me right?" I got dressed and we walked down and across the street to wherever the ceremony was taking place (my memory’s a little tequilic) and took our seats.

So. The wedding happened. Priest, walk down the aisle, speech, kiss, yadda yadda. I’m sure I was supposed to be feeling something — everyone else looks happy and moved or whatever — but I think the tequila was feeling it for me, leaving me to sit around and be bored. When the thing was done everyone walked further up the street, to a bar and grill where reservations had been made. Still bored, I decided the time had come to start shit.

"So, most of your sister’s friends are assholes, right? Which one is the worst?"

"Christina."

"Which one is she?"

"You see the girl back there in the blacknwhite dress? She’s blonde. Yeah, her."

Later on I sat down with the rest of the family — well, the ones who seemed drunk — and asked the same question: which one of Erica’s friends was most turdish? Christina was universally agreed upon as the most vile, smelly turd in the entourage. Awesome! Although I prefer to actually know and associate with gossip targets (it makes the feel gossip much juicier), this was exactly the kind of thing I’d been waiting for! Besides the sex, of course. Sadly, only Silver Bullet was willing to provide a concrete example of said turdism:

"Once I overheard her say something really mean. It was kind of behind my back, but the way she said it, I know she meant me to hear it."

"Well?"

"She said, ‘if I were as fat as Silver Bullet I’d probably kill myself.’"

It doesn’t get much more douchey than that, does it? Silver Bullet is about the nicest girl I know (most of the time); you’d have to be pretty mean to insult her like that — just condescension, no provocation. Maybe Christina should just kill herself anyway.

"Thing is, she used to be really fat. It took time, but I’m pretty sure she only lost that weight from snorting coke."

"Whaddya mean used to be? Also: cocaine is a helluva drug!"

"Are you still drunk?"

"Fuckin tequila. Yes."

going native, moving pictures, indiana jones and the legend of the crystal skull, big dumb puppyMay 30, 2008 1:36 pm

Elsewhere, Indiana Jones & the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull has been likened to a "big dumb puppy." I can’t disagree — not that I even want to; this movie keeps pawing at you with cliches that are supposed to evoke the Indyjones worship of your youth. Hostile savages, the red menace, a hyperintuitive crazyman, a mystic artifact, a hotheaded greaser, an avuncular action icon (How he got to be an icon without pulling off any rad karate moves is beyond me), and his hat.

I wanted to like this movie. I really did.

I don’t have some unexplainable man-crush on Harrison Ford or anything, but I’ve got nothing against the guy. And the movie even had a MILF. But this puppy didn’t really have any new tricks to hold my interest.

What did I expect, really? Not sure. Like many people, my friend Pat came for the nostalgia factor, even buying one of those authentic leather Indiana Jones hats at Blockbuster.

I had no such childhood fascination with which to reconnect. Nor did I go back and study the original trilogy, like Pat did ("Remember, at the end of the one when he dropped the skull?" No. Was that important?). I just came to watch some foreigns get their asses kicked and their ancient monuments destroyed. And although that’s exactly what I got, the route there - taken literally and metaphorically through a series of chase scenes — left me feeling like I could have slept through it without missing anything. So yes, although I didn’t hate the movie, I am going to trash it. Mostly just because.

I simply can’t ever take Shia LaBeouwhatever seriously. His geeky self-effacement felt contrived and overdone in Transformers. In Indy he plays a greaser and he plays it a little too straight.

He rides a Harley. He fences with a sexy communist spy. His compulsive hair-combing is supposed to be somehow charming. His butterfly knife is edgy and badass. Like his personality, see? I’m pretty sure his leather jacket was even full of padding. Like his character, see? Earnest big dumb puppy. Maybe a few adventures in faraway, exotic lands will forge him into the type of charming, encyclopedic old man who’s ready to beat up foreigns at the drop of a hat.

Indy’s character can’t decide between avuncular confidence and smarmy condescension. When he wasn’t all "watch how it’s done kid," he was connecting some artifact to an ancient Sino-Teutonic-Martian-aquatic legend, which sort of made my eyes glaze over because those parts of the movie didn’t make any sense. Not that they were supposed to; the dialogue exists only to hypnotize us into demanding another big dumb puppy: the comically over-the-top chase/fight scenes.

And magical bugs always showed up at just the right time. In a jam? Nobody loves jam more than big red ants! Except maybe big dumb puppies.

I don’t know how faithfully this movie captured the feel of its predecessors. But I do believe that passing on the mantle to Shia LaBeouahmedinejad would probably leave a bad taste in my mouth. It would be like casting Tobey McGuire as Spider-man.

Oh.

cherry bomb, college is the new high school, nice ass, good stiff cocktail, modern romance, fuck it i'm so outta here, mud, river, stone, going native, grey lady, i hate everybodyMay 13, 2008 7:17 pm

In the process of reviewing Dancing at Lughnasa, I noted that one of the sisters was hot. "Hottest," in fact. I hear the actress’ significant other flew into a rage and and wanted to go all Hulk-smashey on The Hour Badly Spent. Well, where I come from, we distinguish between idly admiring a girl for her looks, complimenting her on a sort of striking beauty which is glaringly obvious to everyone anyway, and actually hitting on her.

These subtle nuances are apparently lost on Kansans. Fine; since I have no way of actually knowing who’s boinking whom, I take back the compliment. Everybody in the theatre department is ugly. And not just ugly, but extremely ultrahideous. And not just extremely ultrahideous, but so miserably appallingly haggard that the mere sight of any of you makes me want to repent of my sins and bathe my eyes in battery acid.

Glad I got that off my chest. So what did you think of Mud, River, Stone? I don’t remember too much of it, because I’m not drunk like I was when I saw the play way back in February, but I remember liking it.

In it, a bunch of richly-storied characters, starting with an annoying NYC black couple (they were from NY, right? I hardly remember), were thrown together at a quaint off-the-beaten-path South Africa hotel. Bells and alarms started going off the moment the couple stepped on stage, because I used to watch Friends, a show that proved there are no black people in New York.

Immediately, Sarah Bradley starts bitching because she can’t charge her iPod or something. Which was awesome. My favorite frenemy - Ama Cyllah’s actress - agreed.

My Hair Thinks Its Famous: What did you think of Sarah?
The Hour Badly Spent:        So persistently snotty. So relentlessly catty. Exactly what I look for in a girl.
My Hair Thinks Its Famous: I know. She acts like that in real life too. Isn’t she hot!
The Hour Badly Spent:        Yes!
[Ed. note: I meant no, because as we just established, everyone’s too fugly].
My Hair Thinks Its Famous: You should get her number.
The Hour Badly Spent:        You kidding? Actresses are scary. And I’m not that drunk yet.

Mr. Blake, an affable Englishman — wait, no, a white African with a British accent — wait, no, leader of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen — translates the spit of the country that raised him into a wise, pithy sort of polish. "There is no telephone, no running water, not even a road. Just perfect martinis," he once said (a note on martinis: they are all perfect). Blake is graceful whether he is being conciliatory or aggressive; in fact, his confrontations often move the plot along when it veers into stagnation.

Left stranded at the hotel as part of a peacekeeping envoy, Simone Frick stammered through her part like a mouse talking her way out of a tiger pit. Her crisp uniform and radiant, hyperblonde hair underscored how out-of-place the character felt. Silly Ms. Frick! When you visit a war zone, you’ve gotta do like I do, and walk up in there like you fucking own the joint. You’d be surprised at how far a pimp roll will take you, literally and metaphorically.

There were other actors too. Whatever. Eventually, cabin fever really sets in. Everyone starts to get kinda livejournalley; going through all their character histories, their oedipal issues, proving how "African" they truly are or something. We are given an education that, however self-indulgent, is also insightful and unromanticized. Then someone shoots someone else, and he pretty much deserves it for taking hostages and being a chronic ass. Oh Mr. Blake, why couldn’t you take me too?

your prose is too prolix, ivory tower, not afraid to be servicey, what's the what, creative underclass, saucy aussie, going native, trying to amuse erica hateley with clever tags, anne longmuir, blogsome nymphetApril 30, 2008 4:15 pm

In my crackpot bid to merge my soul with the id of the English department, I started documenting the heroic exploits of the department’s all-stars in a faux tabloidish style on this blog. To my surprise, my wildly inaccurate portrayals of their wit, as well as the gratuitous vagina jokes, have been found and re-googled by some of their subjects (Here’s the drum: whenever you visit The Hour Badly Spent, my site metrics page shows me what search terms you used to find me).

The Saucy Aussie insists - in a funny accent, of course - that I’m upping her street cred, because in truth she is extremely prim and proper, not "tart as a nipple-shaped jawbreaker," as I may have suggested in various bathroom-stall etchings throughout town. Nevertheless, I can’t help but imagine that these hyper-literate googlers get together and peek at the screen over each others’ shoulders and do to my blog exactly what I do to the Collegian - scoff with derisive indignation (No fair! You guys know I can dish it out but I can’t take it), except the bonza English professors probably do it better than me because they use words like trope and metatextual, and I’m deadcert Anne Longmuir likes to make obnoxious literary puns and everyone else has to awkwardly play along like they get the reference.

Anyway, just saying, if you’re going to squiz me regularly, it might be prudent to bookmark The Hour Badly Spent or add it to your RSS reader. That way I won’t see the Google searches on my site metrics page and won’t know it’s you. If, however, you would like for me to know for sure that you’ve been by, feel free to comment the living shit out of this beehotch. Ideally, your responses would consist of:

  • backhanded remarks about my personal hygiene.
  • wild exaggerations of my sexual prowess.
  • well-deserved umbrage whenever I post something stridently offensive or wrong or unfunny or off-limits or just plain too prolix. Fair dinkum?
  • witty and pretentious English-majorey jokes as they relate to the post at hand. Because I, too, would like to dust off my L’écriture et la Différence and undo the chain of logocentric binary oppositions that characterize Western thought, but I can’t do it alone. It’s really hard.
It’s not like you have papers to grade or anything.

 

livejournaley, last night's party, decline of civilization, ivory tower, creative underclass, required reading, too namedroppey, saucy aussie, going native, chunkies, trying to amuse erica hateley with clever tags, chris kennedy, jen roberts, elizabeth dodd, anne longmuirApril 26, 2008 11:57 pm

Yesterday Anthony Doerr visited K-State and read a short story from his latest book, The Shell Collector. That reading was the best K-State’s had this year. Afterward, the English department got together at Rock-A Belly’s. I was midway through my second G&T when the Saucy Aussie made some idle comment that ended with "vagina." I remember precisely what she sad: "Crikey! Kangaroo Kylie Minogue sheila dingo boomerang bushwhacked VAGINA!" The table went silent for a second, and Saucy Aussie seemed embarrassed, probably because she thought she had crossed some comfort line.

Well, that’s not why we were quiet. The word "vagina" is actually a great source of comfort. Hearing it is like having a cool breeze roll across you on a summer day. No; we went silent because each of us had hoped to be the first to say "vagina" that evening, and when she beat us to the (kitty) punch, no one was ready with another clever vaginal follow-up. Personally, her awesomeness made me feel like a slow-witted prude.

I lamely tried to break the silence. "Thanks! I’ve been waiting for someone to say ‘vagina’ all day," I ejaculated. But ‘vagina’ doesn’t roll off my tongue as nicely as it does from hers. OR DOES IT?

After dinner, Rhymes With Visa drove a few of us - Imad, Tony Doerr, Saucy Aussie - to the top of the hill that overlooks the city. We had to get out and hike a little ways to reach the summit, from which we had a beautiful view of Best Buy. Then Rhymes With Visa drove us back to town. Not til much later did I realize how pathetically funny the whole scene actually was: we were basically all guided up to the top of Makeout friggin’ Mountain, and yet it never occurred to anybody to cop a feel. Lame.

Vagina! There; our reputations are safe.

 

ivory tower, what's the what, saucy aussie, going native, chunkies, multiple entendreApril 14, 2008 3:20 pm

Anne Longmuir and the Saucy Aussie visited the Development of the English Language class to guest-lecture on — what else — having a funny accent.

Anne spoke first. Her lilt was so soothing and musical. All the pretty foreign dipthongs and glottal stops ("I speak standard Sco’ish English"). Just hearing her read "Your duties are to put the cider inside the house, walk down the path, and take a ride on the houseboat" felt like someone was strumming a harp nearby and Brave Sir Robin was about to ride through class with a shrubbery.

Saucy Aussie went next, showing appropriate respect to Anne by complimenting her on the application of quaint Scottishisms to describe her outfit.

"’Dungarees?’ What are you, like 75?"

She employed similar dipthongs, glottal stops, but some flatter vowels, and a more rapid, aggressive style than Anne’s relatively subdued Sco’ish. Many Australians are worried about the "Americanization" of their inflections. Saucy Aussie has noticed Americanisms creeping into her speech since she’s come here.

 

"I’m going native." (Get it? She’s saying she will eventually shed her restrictive Australian garb in favor of a loincloth and flower-petal bra).

Most importantly: all the phrases come out sounding quicker and more energetic. Most of the time, they’re also irreverent and pretty dirty. She feels uncomfortable going by "Dr. Saucy Aussie" because titles make you a wanker. Australian culture advocates that you "take the piss out of" wankers (Get it? She’s saying Australians enjoy getting golden showers from those of higher social standing).

With that sort of cultural understanding, phrases that are considered extremely dirty in the rest of the English-speaking world are considered more casual in Australia. "Bloody" carries more conversational heft in Britain than it does down under. Even the word "cunt" doesn’t carry the same bite that it does in the U.S. It’s often just informal and even denotes familiarity; the verbal equivalent of an elbow poke. Australians commonly even address their mates thusly: "G’day you old cunt! I haven’t seen you in ages!"

Get it? Good. I’m not even going to touch that one, no matter how badly I want to.