Tanya Gonzalez said she liked the line about "taking a cake out of the oven."
"Yeah," I admitted, "it was kind of pompous, but I like that they let me play around with stories about the arts."
Cop shows are not appropriate for children
While it’s cool that we have a program getting young girls interested in the hard sciences, I wonder if CSI was the right model to use. For one, have you ever seen that show? A tad grisly. Which, I get it: blood is just not such a huge deal. But the other thing usually is; in an interview at Salon, author Lisa Jean Moore expressed it this way:
These shows have semen as their very special guest star. The sperm gets billing above the dead woman’s body, which the sperm is sort of tossed out upon. In the transcripts for some of these shows, the discussion about the semen is actually longer than the discussion about the victim: how voluminous the man’s semen is, where it is in the room.
They use their goggles, turn off the light and there’s just sperm everywhere. You’re just like, "Wow! I didn’t know that was possible!"
There’s crazy scenarios where guys mix their sperm with ketchup and put it in the refrigerator.
I don’t know what junior high was like for you, but at my school there was one excessively hot girl who knew way more about semen than I did. She was so educational! Ah, the wonder years.
[Source: K-State Collegian]
The Disgustingly Self-Absorbed Couple arrived at Friday’s Visiting Writer lecture at four on the dot, right on time. The Dodd had already begun her introduction of memoirist Meredith Hall.
Hall explained, before reading, that she had lost a tooth on the plane on the way to Kansas. "It seems to me the only thing people can notice about me. I wanted to tell you that writers from Maine don’t always have teeth missing." Charming! The Olds have the best comic timing!
Hall was ostracized from her small New Hampshire town at age 16, when she got pregnant. Even her parents wouldn’t have her any more.
"It’s a powerful story about being a girl in a world where people don’t want you," said Susan Rodgers. Susan was the head of the creative writing program last year; she abruptly left K-State in August, after she and her husband got jobs at Oregon State Uni.
Hall read chapters from Without A Map, about the months after she was kicked out of her father’s house. She wandered around Europe, broke, stealing and selling shit to get by, relying on the kindness of strangers for the occasional place to crash. She met other families, other drifters, all sorts of people who didn’t speak English.
There was a real sense of disconnection between her and the people and places around her. This was partly due to the difficulty of communicating with people whose language she didn’t speak; much of the process consisted of pidgin sign language and heavy, rigorous observation, in addition to picking and choosing which truths she wants to reluctantly reveal depending on the person listening; but it was mostly because she was in exile. She was hugely depressed. She never missed a chance to remind us of that! It was like an eternally dissatisfied wine-taster, sampling and spitting out everything, all snap judgements and no intimacy. She was romanticizing her isolation. Five minutes into it, the Disgustingly Self-Absorbed Blogger was getting bored. He started passing notes to the Disgustingly Self-Absorbed Hipster.
Blogger: I hate memoirs. I will never, ever read one.
Hipster: Aww…I like them! I like this. You don’t at all do you?
Blogger: Is it that obvious?
Blogger: It’s starting to remind me of Huck Finn
Hipster: How?
Blogger:
1. i can’t quite figure out where she’s going with this.
2. this is almost exclusively her inner life - little interaction with the outside world except to observe it and move on. not quite like Huck, but it’s getting monotonous.
3. the present tense has NEVER EVER SOUNDED MORE ANNOYING to me
4. sorry; only 3 things
Hipster: haha i do agree that it is getting monotonous
Blogger: it’s a travel blog. It feels like IT MIGHT NEVER END
Hipster: yeah I know, and damn you for mentioning the present tense, because now that is bothering me
Ha ha, he’s sorry he ruined it for her, but he really wonders whether she expressed her guilt to him.
The book was originally a collection of autobiographical essays that had been printed individually in various trade publications. Publishers know how to market "memoirs" but they don’t know how to market "a collection of autobiographical essays." Hall didn’t know how to convert her "autobiographical essays" into memoirs, so she called around and spoke to some other authors for help. In the end, she took the title of each of her essays and added "chapter X" to each of them. Clever!
So the reading was kinda dull. Afterwards, at the House of Dodd, Hall was the belle of the ball, still charmingly toothless, warmly engaging everyone including the Underminer but especially a Pretentious Literary Douchebag chatting her up. The Disgustingly Self-Absorbed Couple split up and floated around. They shared a Disgustingly Self-Absorbed glass of white wine, passing it off when their paths crossed. All in all, this soiree was much more fun than expected, except for one glaring omission.
Normally, if Erica Hateley is at an event, all the poorly-dressed slackers have a leader to inspire them. But her absence left the slackers feeling empty, adrift, and pathetic. When the Disgustingly Self-Absorbed Couple stepped out for a smoke with its Underminer, Emily Kennedy stepped up to the plate to lead us.
It turns out that Emily is just as awesome as Erica, except no quirky accent. Except! She also does a pretty good Saucy Aussie impression. "I’m not down with the vag," Erica once told Emily, "but if I were," blah blah blah (we were still processing the confirmation of Erica not being down with the vag so we didn’t hear anything after that, but we know we want to hear Emily do Erica’s accent some more). It was great! Now the slackers have a new punk-rock-girl crush, and Erica has her very own underminer!
After that the Disgustingly Self-Absorbed Couple left to go see the Laramie Project. The Underminer left too, not only so she could go see the Laramie Project but also because she needed to broadcast some more underminerey sweeping generalizations.
This scene was unseemingly heartwarming, which NEVER happens. Elizabeth Dodd, Karin Westman, and Meredith Hall are all talking as though they are actually BFFs. Also, Tanya’s husband lurked around and Kim Baltrip sat back in the foyer. Dr. Westman has this way of craning her neck and tilting her head when she’s listening to someone, and she did just that with Hall. It was cute! The Hour Badly Spent was deeply moved.
Another reason to see The Laramie Project.
Led by Rev. Fred Phelps, supporters of Topeka’s Westboro Baptist Church plan to protest the Friday and Saturday night productions of The Laramie Project at K-State.
Ten years ago, Phelps also showed up at [Matthew] Shepard’s funeral.
“We do a reenactment of a Phelps scene in the play,” [Ariane] Chapman said. “It’s interesting that he’s a character in the play and he’s picketing the play,” she added.
In ten years someone will write another play about Phelps picketing a play in which Phelps pickets a funeral. Then Phelps will picket that, and another actor will show up to picket Phelps’ picketing, and then the universe will finally and instantaneously implode only to be replaced by something even more bizarre and self-referential, a universe in which homosexuals have written the Bible, God is a troupe of travelling actors, and all records of the whole thing are just an echo chamber of hyperlinks leading back and forth between each other, starting with this blog. Thanks to Phelps THE HOUR BADLY SPENT WILL BE THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE!! Until the whole implosion thing happens again. I have nothing to do with that.
[Source: K-State Collegian]
Did you ever go to one of those parties thrown in honour of a certain special someone and there’s a cake and everything and you get there early so you’re waiting for people to show up and then some people actually do come by and then someone hands you a sheet of paper and you realize the guest of honor died exactly a year ago and that what you’re reading — what you will be reading aloud — is a list of happy memories written out by his family? Never went to one of those? First time for everything. Mine was Friday. It felt awkward for me at first in an I-never-knew-Michael-so-maybe-I-shouldn’t-be-reading-this kind ofway, but at least there was cake and everything actually turned into an hour well spent.
I started out, for no reason at all, not in the best of moods. Pile that on with the fact that sometimes Cherry goes into this temper wherein, any time someone opens his mouth, she has to let him know how pompous he is ("You think you’re so witty:" the refrain every time I make some dumb pun). Yes, "him," because she only does it with dudes, and only as long as the dude isn’t Asian. It seems appropriate if you’re trying to stop some chronic ass from giving his tiresome Art Speech, but tonight it’s just Jordan trying to amuse some party guests. I can’t really figure out why this irks Cherry to the point that she has to snipe at him every five minutes (Jordan’s either got a lot of patience or an ENORMOUS shlong or maybe both), and I don’t really feel like being in anybody’s crosshairs, so I just shut up and listened, for once.
I often do that (shut up and listen) better when I avoid looking at the person talking; a little like closing your eyes to really savor a whiff of some nice perfume. So when Cate talks I zone out and gawk at a spot on the concrete, but I can totally hear all sorts of rhythm and inflection that I never noticed before because Ariana always steals the having-cute-speech-patterns thunder. Later the Hipster Elf will say I "looked like I was a million miles away."
I wasn’t, but I was kind of upset about having come across this two hours before, which I suppose is what I get for looking at LiveJournal. Yes, I "screwed somebody and it ended poorly" (when doesn’t it?); so poorly, in fact, that I was really looking forward to not having to talk about it ever again with anybody, ever.
Then there’s the other thing. "Disgustingly self-absorbed couple?" I could maybe handle "Most Annoying English Major Couple," but something about "disgustingly self absorbed" just doesn’t sit right. It makes it seem as though we wait for a crowd to gather and then start humping each other or something, the whole time laughing about how awesome and edgy we are. So. While I was (or wasn’t) a million miles away, I thought about what it’s like to be "disgustingly self-absorbed;" to the extent that the people in a pair technically kind of have to be disgustingly into each other (or else there’s no couple), well, I guess "disgustingly self-absorbed" really is accurate, although just "They Make a Cute Couple; Too Bad About His Face" would be more accurate, and "The S&M Jokes Aren’t Fooling Anyone; We All Know He’s A Fucking Pansy" would hit veeeeery close to home, leaving a welt in my psyche much like that time the Hipster Elf put on those high heels and that leather mask with the zipper in front where a mouth should be, and gave me 40 lashes with a lace flail. I asked Jen Roberts about proper titles at the Kathouse, after Sugi’s reading last week.
"Now that I came here with the Hipter Elf I’m worried about us being the Most Annoying English Major couple."
"Oh don’t worry about it. Everyone in the department is hitched."
Hm. Hitched is being a "couple" in the same way Infinite Jest is "a book."
"But those are actual, like, professors, like Reckling and Kimball. What about, you know, shlubs?"
There are, indeed, many grad student couples — Jen named some people I’d heard of and a bunch of others I hadn’t. Undergrads don’t really count, so I guess I’m off the hook. Although the Man Who Travels With Jen is a townie and not a student, he’s actually met every author that’s come through town, making him a better English major than I am.
Anyway. Then there’s the other thing: there is no "cluster-fuck of understanding" around me. Yes, I am reserved and shy and hardly ever share personal bullshit, but someone who really wanted to "understand" "me" (for the record, I’m really not that interesting) would have to accept that trait of mine, not declare war on it. And I have a feeling it’s not me that she wants understanding on but rather how much does that terse hookup way back in January have to do with how she and I feel about each other now? Let’s face it: thinking about that is kind of a huge downer. So don’t. Just read some cheesy Blink-182 lyrics (in a pinch can just say you were doing it Ironically) and have a drink.
Last year there’s no way I would have been at a party like this. Like, I’d have called someone, and I’d have gotten "you wouldn’t like it very much," or "I’d bring you along, but it’s not really my party," or some other code for "you’re not cool enough" or "Cherry is kinda on a date and wouldn’t it be weird if you came along, ha ha ha, kthxbai." Tonight is different. For them, nominally at least, it is about Michael; for me it is a gift from friends. I sit back and enjoy it. Then I trace circles on Hipster Elf’s right knee and make googly eyes at her. Ariana makes a face like she’s about to vomit, but she doesn’t really mean it.
I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine.
The Poetess tries to peek at my diary journal every time I’m out with her. Thursday night I finally just said what the fuck and handed it over for inspection.
"I won’t judge you for anything I find in here." Not that it’s human nature or anything.
So, as she paged through, I felt the nerves and vessels under my skin getting all twisty. I drummed my fingers on the table. I fidgeted with my beard. I wiggled my leg up and down, insanely fast, like a meth-addled hummingbird. I noticed she was lingering on one page.
"Find something interesting?"
"It’s kind of sad."
The passage under scrutiny: I’m an optical illusion. That’s my secret. Look away and I disappear. Turn off the light and I don’t exist.
Breaking: when no one’s looking, I write reams of angsty, self-indulgent prattle. I’ve also apparently jotted down fragments of Pablo Neruda poetry. And that is definitely the worst of it what was in there (the prattle, not the Pablo). No sordid PILF fantasies (none that I’ve written down, anyway). No shocking gossip. No chronicling private embarrassing habits (I masturbate. A LOT). Am I really so dull that I have nothing to hide? Apparently so.
Therefore, the next night, chain-smoking at a party with Ariana and the usual frenemies, when Limitless Are Leaves asked about taking a peek through the big black book of secrets, I had no objection. And when Brandon, too, wanted to see it, I didn’t mind, although he did sort of seem like he was actually studying it and not just surfing pages.
The party room was so full of Swear Not By The Moon’s laughter that it spilled out through the windows and into the parking lot where the smokers were hanging out. Did she do coke again? No, she’s just always like that. Maybe she’s always high on coke.
I honestly think she is always high. Coke — so I hear, mind you — makes you feel hyper and really important, a perfect party drug. Swear Not By The Moon is a party girl. She’s got the look: annoyingly thin and blonde. She is sometimes fun but she also kind of sneers at you when you talk to her. She powerless to curb her ways. Because of the drugs, you see. Although I’m probably just mad because she never offers me any.
I and Limitless Are Leaves really only came to drink, not to party, so we sort of kept to ourselves and our vodka and let the cool kids do their thing (which, again, may or may not have been coke). It’s a good thing I was really drunk. It’s the only way to deal with certain situations and certain people. Or in my case, all situations and all people. It also somewhat explains why she and I ended up making out on the floor.
All right, ya got me. All semester long I’ve been making fun of Blake Osborn’s weekly articles, calling them "irrelevant," "outdated," "out of touch," "illogical," "asinine," "fucking pointless," "self-congratulatory rubbish," "osbornish," "like getting peanut butter in your hair," "like getting a papercut while reading the Collegian," "like listening to your grandpa rant about loud music," "like being stuck in traffic behind a douchebag in an Escalade who can’t drive," "like being flipped off by an illiterate manatee," etc.
And I was all set to make fun of him again, when I opened Monday’s paper to his column, Higher education vital for succeeding in United States (duh), and read this:
Today, as observed in The New York Times article, having a college education is vital to attaining a middle-class lifestyle.
Every 26 seconds a teenager in the United States drops out of high school. According to the the U.S. Census Bureau’s Web site, "85 percent of adults age 25 and over have completed at least a high-school degree."
The first time I heard these statistics, I was shocked.
I can only assume that "I’m shocked to find out people drop out of high school" is self-parody. Either that or he’s actually mocking my mocking of him. That’s so meta! But I refuse to believe that his message is meant to be taken at face value. Even in Kansas, nobody’s that dense. Right? Right? In other news, compact discs: they’re not just for music any more.
While I was having lunch with the Sexy Communist Spy and her friend Darcy, we discussed whether all women really do hate each other.
Darcy and the Spy stopped eating their soup and began to dry-hump each other to discredit my theory. While they did advance an interesting point, I feel that ultimately they didn’t prove anything. Being wise and discerning, I can tell the difference between true love and a hatefuck. Plus, I’m pretty sure the Spy was only trying to get on my blog.
The Spy bragged about her fancy blog nickname. "Tell her."
"Communist Spy."
"You’re dropping an adjective."
"Sexy Communist Spy." It was difficult to say because it’s true.
Darcy considered this carefully. "There aren’t many Darcys, except for Mr. Darcy, and that’s lame. If we go out places together, will you make up a blog-nickname for me?"
Whatever, Slender Starrypants. You’re not even The Hour Badly Spent’s type, and you obviously don’t understand what The Hour Badly Spent is all about. This is a medium for social debate and artistic review, not a rehashing of some non-erotic drunken ramblings. This blog is a well-mannered, avuncular fellow, amusing itself with a glass of chardonnay while it reflects on The Sorrows of Young Werther. You’re young and superhot, struggling to reconcile your small-town upbringing with your secret wild side. This blog spends its evenings at home wearing an ascot; its only delight lies in illuminating the hidden beauty of the world with its pearls of cheeky wisdom. You, however, often surround yourself with even more superhot women, and you take delight in sexy escapades with brash young musicians. So you see, complete opposites; there’s no way that awww fuck it we’re free whenever you are, and dammit wear something low-cut.
It was sunny today when Professor Potts walked into the classroom, all set to lecture us on modern prescriptivism, and apparently surprised that so many pepole were in the room. "I thought that with the weather turning nice, some of you wouldn’t show up today," she explained.
A dead hush fell over the room.
"The thought never crossed my mind," I said. Little ha-has burst and bloomed around the room. Yay!
It reminded me of the time a dear associate pointed out that I laugh at my own jokes, and they are frequently pretty dumb. I considered this carefully and realized the following five things:
1. People here hardly ever makes any jokes at all. Nobody speaks up in class. Nobody engages you in conversation — looking you in the eye, asking follow-up questions, expressing interest, et cetera. You whippersnappers are becoming progressively more timid and less interesting. The next generation will likely wander around in lead suits and only speak when spoken to. And OF COURSE it has crossed my mind that I’m simply that dull, which tells me you guys probably aren’t drinking enough.
2. When you’re alone and you think of something funny, you laugh. Not some parodic knee-slapping guffaw; just a private smile, maybe a half-muted chuckle. Is it so crazy to do this when you’re around other people?
3. My mom does it. Early on, people learn conversational cues and methods of interactions from their parents. With her, it seems kind of like a gesture of comraderie. Her laugh encourages your laugh; therefore, the two of you are, yes, sharing a laugh! Or is this not done in Kansas?
4. Evaluated in the context of my vast reserves of erudition, it seems I am, indeed, a pompous know-it-all blowhard, and that my shit is kind of funny.
5. Err, four things.
How the Red Menace recruits more agents
Saturday night the Sexy Communist Spy and her friend Hannah kidnapped me, took me to Hastings (like Borders, but with more cockroaches), and then to the movies, to see Charlie Bartlett. This was either a nobly misguided attempt to cheer me up (won’t work) or a cynically well-planned attempt to get on my blog (also won’t work. Wait). At any rate, I had spent the last nine hours chain smoking and listening to an endless loop of Tegan & Sara, so I figured some fresh air and moonlight would do me some good.
Since I’m a fairly big flirt, I feel strange hanging out with women who have boyfriends who are not present. Like, sex jokes are about 96% of any conversation I make; when that topic is suddenly off-limits, I feel like a painter gone blind (your move, Mary Cassat!). So in lieu of raunchy puns, I think we made what she told me was "con-ver-say-shun."
"I’m so not a feminist. I’m the opposite of a feminist. I just want to get married and have babies," she said.
"That’s not un-feminist. True feminism embraces all facets of womanhood, and totally supports your right to make whatever choice you…" then my voice trailed off because I started thinking of all the evangelical womens’ studies Inquisitors who have tried to shank me. Letting Megan think ill of them was really my only revenge possible. Then I made a sex joke or something. Then we went to the movies.
Charlie Bartlett’s projector was broken (heh). We movie-hopped and saw Jumper instead. After the movie, Megan’s beau, McDreamy, showed up and they got married and invited me back for a threesome.
I had to refuse. I mean, I know it’s McDreamy and all, but I still had last night’s god-fucking-awful party on my mind. Awful party = erectile dysfunction. Hey, it happens to everyone. Especially geezers.
McDreamy, however, simply would not take "no" for an answer. He knew some tricks. I don’t want to be graphic, so let’s just say it all worked out marvellously in the end. Let’s also say "bukkake."
The letter I should have written on Valentine’s Day
I know you cringed the instant I whipped out the envelope, even if you tried not to show it.
Well, you can un-cringe. This is not that kind of letter.
I wasn’t sure what to make of the whole "relationship" talk. I walked away with more questions than I started with. Why did she assume I wanted a relationship? Did I give off that vibe (probably tried too hard to impress Mr. Goins)? Did I secretly want a relationship and was just too afraid to say it? Is she avoiding me? If so, why? What gives: a minute ago I had no questions. Now questions are multiplying like goblins. Time to put a stop to this, for my own peace of mind.
I know you don’t want a "relationship." But what does that even mean? I have no idea. It’s just a word. I imagine the only reason it came up is because of a conversation like this:
Cate: You know, he likes you a lot, but he tries to hide it.
Cherry: I know. Who does he think he’s fooling? It’s kinda creepy. Men are dumb.
Arianna: Just watch; I bet you $5 that any day now he’ll hand you some sappy letter, full of tender feelings and shit. Ha ha!
Cate: You’re on. Hey Cherry, can I get some of those nachos?
Cherry: Get your own fucking nachos, bitch.
Cate: One o’ these days….
(chorus)
Or not. Maybe you don’t sit around and discuss me with anyone. What do I know? (Everything I know can fit in a teaspoon).
Here is what’s in that teaspoon: I am lonely and fairly shy. I’ve sat around for a long time feeling ashamed of those facts, like they were some sort of crime. I think this guilty feeling has prevented me from honestly articulating my needs to myself or to anyone else, blah blah blah.
Thing is, I know it’s not a crime. To be shy and lonely is the most natural thing in the world. It’s perfectly human. It’s also perfectly human that I like you. You’re fun, smart, cute (cute is the new hot), and stylish. What’s not to like? (That’s a rhetorical question). It doesn’t make me some emotional parasite, IN NEED OF A "RELATIONSHIP." It just is what it is.
So this is what I really want: I would like to see you more than I have been. I am not going to ask to marry you or go steady or whatever it is emo kids do in Kansas. I’m not going to suck up time you don’t want to give. I don’t mind if you’re with other people, too. I just like you, and I like your company. The most natural thing in the world. I don’t know what you wanna call that, but there it is. Simple as that.
I would also like to know if you feel anything like that too. Possibly, you’d like to visit me and are kind of shy. On the other hand, probably not. Maybe you’re tired of these "talks." Maybe you’ll despise me for writing a long and earnest letter, redeemed only by the mention of fucking nachos. I just didn’t know how else to reach you, so I took a chance, and here it is; that’s all.
And if you don’t feel anything, and if you have no desire to see more or less of me than what we are doing, that is no crime, but I would really like to know. No rush, of course. The beauty of getting a letter is you can take all the time you need to reply.
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