The hour badly spent

Housekeeping

striphe — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 07:28:38 +0000

We’re moving! Follow The Hour Badly Spent at (http://slinkers.wordpress.com). Or don’t, whatever. Happy new year!

Forget 2008

striphe — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 07:26:48 +0000

Okay, it wasn’t so bad; after all, I did meet, you know, a special someone, and then her mom. Nevertheless, I like to kvetch and grumble, and fuck it, nobody’s reading this. So, without further ado, the top 10 things I won’t miss about 2008 are:

Twilight: Like all other teenage girls and plenty of grown ass women, Bella Swan is not sensitive, not wise, and she is not "that girl;" she’s just annoying and stuck-up. While we’re at it, let’s just toss out "young adult" literature. If you’re in college and you want to read a book then pick up a real fucking book. Grown-ups shouldn’t be going on and on about The Golden Compass when there’s all that Anais Nin sitting around in the Hale stacks. Priorities!
Mass text messages: Don’t even bother, unless you’re Cate.
Los Angeles: Nothing to do here. More importantly, no one to do it with (ha ha ha, double entendre. I’ve been waiting ages to unload that gem). L.A. is so over!
Sitcoms: Except for 30 Rock, nobody watches these.
Term papers: I just can’t do them any more. My brain no longer works that way. For the next "critical analysis" I turn in, no matter what the subject, I’m just going to sketch a big thumbs down on the page. Dr. Dodd will probably just copy the sketch into her gradebook, in miniature but with many more shades of defail. I mean detail.
Bisexual girls: I get it, I get it. You’re progressive, you’re hip, you’re special, you’re the life of the party, you take all those photos of yourself in bars, and you have lots of threesomes. But it’s all so difficult because of how much you’re socially marginalized! Except for all the threesomes.
Manic pixie dream hipsters: They wear faux-thrift store outfits. They think they’re magical and precious. They sprinkle condescension on you like gold coins, in convivial bon mots at parties at which you thought you were having fun until the next day, when you woke up and asked yourself, "wait, what did she really mean by that? No way!" Love you or hate you (usually both at once, and mostly hate), I’m pretty sure I speak for everyone when I say I’ve had it with all of you. Except Mackenzie. We want lots more of Mackenzie.
Pretentious literary douchebags: Tell the truth: we’re all thinking of the same guy, and it’s not me. Good god how I wish it was me. But it’s not. I’m not namedroppey enough. It’s a certain grad student. Yeah, that guy.
Snark: How can you ever say what you really think of somebody when you’re cowering inside that silly womb of irony? How is anyone supposed to understand the real you? Just come out and show your true feelings already.
Feelings: "People want to know what’s going on inside your head," so I’ve been told. Except no they don’t. Ever try actually talking to someone about these "feelings" things? Maybe a couple of times, right? And how’d that go? Did anyone actually listen to you? Did anyone actually accept you? Or did it just bring on more frustration, further agony, deeper rejection? And how was that? Was it fun, or would it have been better to just shut up and drink?

There ya have it! Kiss 2008 good bye; it just doesn’t love you any more.

I’m so bored

striphe — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 03:15:23 +0000

And my head hurts. I’m supposed to hang out with friends tonight; John will make strong drinks and play Samurai Shodown. Patrick is a self-righteous bloviator. He is always trying to sell me something. See this movie, go to this restaurant, buy this, go here, etc.

That’s what’s in store for me later. For now I’m watching the Protector, and it’s at the scene when Tony Jaa breaks 200 zillion arms in the space of 10 minutes. After that I’m going to rewind and watch it again. I wonder what everyone’s doing in Manhattan tonight.

What did you do when no one would let you mope?

striphe — Sat, 13 Dec 2008 04:03:42 +0000

Did you trudge slowly to Aggieville, reluctantly preparing a face to meet the faces that you meet? Did you run into a pack of grad students, one of whom owed you a drink? How did that conversation go?

"Am I getting you that drink?" "Why, indeed you are."

It was a screwdriver, because they’re only two bucks at Mae’s.

Grad Student paid the waitress. "Tomorrow morning I’ll be drinking a citrusey cocktail as well!"

"While grading portfolios? Let me guess: mimosas."

The two other Graddies discussed who was bringing all the orange juice tomorrow morning. I checked my phone — no new messages since the ones I’d been reading an hour prior (of the soul-destroying "you-hould-stay-away-from-me-or-we’ll-both-get-hurt" variety) — and finished my drink. And another. They decided to go dancing, as if this fucking day couldn’t get any worse.

We ended up at Tubby’s. The grad students weren’t kidding about wanting to dance. I joined in for a minute and sort of swayed back and forth, lazily bending my knees when appropriate, until I got tired (me = olde). The other guys in the bar all looked like date rapists. I went outside for some fresh air.

It was cool outside, and the music was better, more conducive to moping. And then suddenly it wasn’t; a redheaded Irishman started badgering me about oatmeal cookies. "They taste so good. Have one. Have one. Have one."

"But I need something stronger."

"Have one."

His friend — who also looked like a date rapist — bought a round of viking warhammers, whatever the fuck that is. I downed one and checked my phone again (masochism!) and went back to the dance floor. I tried to start again with the knee-bendey thing, but my heart just wasn’t in it.

The English department is made of sexy

striphe — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 16:25:12 +0000

Friday afternoon, servicey tipster Sean Trolinder let us know the wheres and whens of the English department’s super-secret final soiree this semester (Beach Museum, 6pm). Believe me, I really wanted to bring someone with me but let’s face it, you’re all pretty lame, so I went alone.

Upon arrival, the head of the department took my coat, which felt like a little bit of awkward because I also have a class with her (Not for long! End of semester! To be honest I’ll kind of miss it. I’ve been feeling weirdly nostalgic lately. Let’s not talk about this any more). Upstairs, the thing was in full swing. Everyone was dressed to the nines and I hardly knew anybody. And the people I did know had already gone off into grad-student cliques. And I needed a drink.

I spent a few minutes doing that thing where you circle the periphery of the party, gaping stupidly at the people who know what they’re doing but not quite knowing how to approach them and start talking. Largely because, as I’ve suspected all long, they all look pretty fucking sexy and that shit is distracting. What, are you gonna go up to Naomi Wood and tell her "hot dress!" That’s okay, because she came up to me.

"This might be the last of these parties for a while. The English department budget’s getting drastically cut," she said. Oh noes! Then we made fun of the Collegian. With which I acquired a new teacher-crush.

Some professors performed a short reading of ‘A Child’s Christmas in Wales,’ a short story by Dylan Thomas. It is fascinating to watch certain people read out loud: Naomi, Michael Donnelly, Wendy Matlock, Liz Dodd, Donald Kimball, Alyssa Dawson; they all had this incredible ability to inflect the sentence just so the humor comes out just so at the end of it. Fun fun fun (yes, I am a huge dork).

I finally gave Wendy Matlock a piece of my mind. Specifically, she is brilliant and enthusiastic, which makes class with her amazing. But! The students, so christianey; sometimes class feels like church, and when it gets like that, my eyes glaze over and my mind shuts down, not to return until someone says "may I get freudian for a moment?" I was afraid you’d never ask.

Phil Nel, by the way, is massively cooler than you. Just ask him anything about music. I dare you.

Tim Dayton is also massively cooler than you. He only listens to punk rock made between 1976 and 1984. We know this from talking to the head of the women’s studies program, Angela Hubler, Dayton’s wife, who wasn’t afraid to zing him. "Does he ever let one else speak in class?" No, he doesn’t, but we don’t mind. We never have anything important to add anyway.

Then we went to the Kathouse, where I flirted with a bunch of grad students. Happy Festivus!

How the Gonzalez girl lost her accent mark

striphe — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 07:43:29 +0000

We know what the Collegian’s fawning "faculty profiles" mean: nothing else is going on today! Nevertheless, we can’t help but feel a warm glow seeing someone we actually know and like in the spotlight. Have you ever met Tanya González? Did you know:

Just like all the greatest people you’ve ever met, she’s from Southern California.

She describes herself as a "bookworm" (call me!) who is "very passionate about social justice."

She’s one of the few professors who wears hipster glasses.

The Collegian forgot to put the accent mark over the "á" in her name.

Too bad she’s also a massive mentirosa:

She said she chose to come to K-State from California because she recognized the friendly atmosphere of the campus.

"I loved the K-State interview I had," she said. "This department is full of the nicest people. It was a fun transition and completely new experience."

Down the hall, the department head got a good laugh out of hearing that one.

Then several grad students in González’ class produced freshly polished apples and thank-you notes for their teacher. "Aren’t I an extremely accommodating and helpful teacher?" she said. "Yes! She’s an extremely accommodating and helpful teacher," said Ashley Ortiz, who nodded energetically, motioning for the other students to follow suit. They looked up from their blue books, unsure at first, until González flashed a white-hot scowl at them. "Mm-hmm, helpful and accommodating!" they sang in unison.

[K-State Collegian]

Slow newsday: Collegian columnist pulls hackneyed fearmongering out of the dustbin

striphe — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 07:33:46 +0000

It could happen any time, to any of us. Any where. Any time. To any of us. Bioterror, of course.

According to Fox News [ed. Note: you’re kidding right?], a bipartisan commission informed Vice President-elect Joe Biden that the United States can expect a terrorist attack using biological weapons before 2013.

Not "should prepare for" or "vague possibility of happening" but "expect." This should be an extremely frightening thought for U.S. citizens and the government.

The problem, according to the report, is not that terrorists will become scientists but that scientists will become terrorists. Terrorists still lack the ability to carry out a biological attack, but that does not mean the gap is not narrowing.

Everyone has a price, as the saying goes. It is extremely conceivable that if offered enough money, scientists with the knowledge it would take to carry out a biological attack could be bribed to share their secrets or allow the use of their labs which contain dangerous pathogens.

No one should have to live in fear of terrorists using something as simple as everyday life to wreak havoc on us. Let us hope the Obama administration gets off to the right start by making sure the frightening things in this report do not become a reality.

Megan Molitor is absolutely right. It is Barack Obama’s responsibility to protect American scientists from their own greed. It’s important to note that bioterror may not be their only resort. We also need to safeguard ourselves against:

Ecoterror. Captain Planet will not save you.

Aquaterror (pirates and sea serpents and so forth).

Ectoterror. If Obama can’t prevent Ray from thinking about the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, all hell will definitely break loose in New York. Again.

Also: gremlins.

[K-State Collegian]

Giving thanks: urban misanthropy

striphe — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 06:12:11 +0000

Thanksgiving is frankly more of a hassle than not, and becomes more so as I get older. It’s come to be that there’s too much stuff to do on these "vacations" for me to actually enjoy them. And then there are so many reasons I just plain don’t enjoy them.

First, it takes on a Thursday. We all know what fucking Thursdays are like, what they do to you.

Second. Airline travel.

Third. Being home = not all it’s cracked up to be.

Let’s get this one out of the way: everything there reminds me of an ex. It was an appallingly miserable, painful relationship. I’m happy it’s over. I would be MUCH MUCH HAPPIER without that unseen presence lurking around. You know exactly what I mean. The abrasive familiarity of old haunts. The ticket stubs you stashed away so you’d never ever forget that one night on the town. The casual inquiries from mutual friends ("Talk to so-and-so lately?" "No." "Oh. She and I just had lunch together the other day." "Really? How did you keep it down?").

Let’s get this out of the way too: I just don’t do the family thing. Everyone wants me to see everyone else during the few days while I’m there, whether or not I feel like driving 20 miles across town to make small talk about "studies" and "what are you going to do with your hair." Then I’ve got another frenzied rush through traffic to LAX, where I can tuck myself into a plan.

Fourth: I read Eclipse (book 3 of Twilight. Chaste is the new porn), and man, that book is nothing but looooong.

I’m sorta glad that’s over with. Smallville picked me up in Kansas City. She probably couldn’t register this at the time, pumped full of cold medicine as she was (way to operate heavy machinery!), but it was just great to see her. I launched right back into my information compulsion, oversharing the minutae of Starcraft battle strategy. Since she didn’t pass out, I’ll have to assume it was entertaining. Back in Manhattan, everyone’s apparently sick. The same pukey head-cold bug has apparently hit all of Kansas, and seeing as how I don’t get any (a) sleep or (b) vitamins, my only hope lies in whether or not contraband Adderall boosts the immune system. My fingers are crossed. It’s good to be back.

Please, no more! Another Collegian columnist channels Shane Oram

striphe — Wed, 03 Dec 2008 22:09:40 +0000

To be fair, it’s easy to write like Shane Oram. You hardly even have to say anything! But you’ve still got to use a bunch of words.

Hopefully, we all enjoyed the break from school, the time with family and the chance to eat (too much) good food and relax with a book or an Xbox controller. Perhaps we called friends to tell them how much they mean to us or made mental lists of the things we are grateful for.

Chances are, however, that something important, something we might never think to be thankful for, was left off of those lists — the Bad Things.

The Bad Things are those horrible occurrences in our lives: the bombed tests, the breakups, the blizzards (the icy snow kind, not the cookie-dough kind), which make us wish we were someone else in an alternate universe where problems have yet to be released from Pandora’s Box.

"Icy snow" and "cookie dough" are kinda cute, which rescues this column from the level of Shane Oram’s soul-destroying pomp. However!

The Bad Things are painful. They mess up our plans; they rearrange our futures. On the surface, it doesn’t make sense to be thankful for something so disruptive and undesirable.

But as ridiculous as it might sound, the Bad Things in life are often the reason that a multitude of good things occur.

For example, when a child grabs a tray of cookies fresh from the oven, he receives a deep burn, a Bad Thing. His hand feels like a million bees stung it at the same time, his mother is furious that he didn’t stay away from the tray like she told him to, and he still hasn’t gotten the cookie that he wanted. But at the same time, the child has learned valuable lessons about the nature of hot metal and obedience to his mother.

Et cetera, et cetera. Columnists are always trying to act like they’re our parents. "Eat your vegetables." "Don’t inhale that sweet, sweet powder." "Don’t have sex with your relatives." Maybe it’s better when they stick to fixing capitalism and eulogizing chivalry? Or should that be the other way around?

[K-State Collegian]

Collegian columnist refuses to stop losing election

striphe — Wed, 03 Dec 2008 21:54:18 +0000

Tim Hadachek has spent all semester wooing his own doucherie. It’s pretty clear now that he’s fully in love with it and will never let it go, no matter what psychologists recommend. In the matter of HRC’s appointment to Secretary of State:

Hillary is burdened by the curse and blessing of her husband, Bill. On one hand, Hillary would not be where she is today if she hadn’t married a future president. On the other, Bill appears to still carry the lack of restraint that led to his impeachment.

A blowjob much too awesome for the nation to ever forget. Was it somehow special, or are all blowjobs really like this? Take some time to savor that question.

For example, compare the presidential campaigns of Obama and Clinton. Obama’s campaign was airtight; if there was internal conflict, we certainly didn’t hear about it. Some reporters even nicknamed him Barack "NoDrama."

Clinton’s campaign, by contrast, had more leaks than an old faucet. The Clinton camp might as well have invited the New York Times every time a senior adviser was fired. Often, these snippets of info took the form of a Hillary aid criticizing Bill for being reckless and uncontrollable.

Why should we expect Clinton’s gig as Secretary of State to be any different?

This election was an epic clusterfuck, the likes of which mankind has never seen before and will most certainly not see again for at least two years. Hillary ran a piss-poor campaign, but she had a job way before she became President of Harlem. Her goings-on there were probably far more relevant to her Cabinet appointment than some moronic off-the-cuff campaign-trail comments Bill made a zillion years ago that everyone’s forgotten about. We were sure the slinging of irrelevant mud would disappear after Nov. 4, that there was a glimmering hope for change we could believe in, but it’s almost as though one side has a vested interest in keeping political "science" at the level of finding the right table to sit at during lunch in middle school.

Obama has said he wants to assemble a "cabinet of rivals" in the same spirit as his hero Abe Lincoln. Indeed, there is much to be said for avoiding the current administration’s case of groupthink — it’s important to have different types of people advising you.

But Lincoln’s style is not one to be modeled. Civil War historian Chris Pinsker said Lincoln’s cabinet "nearly destroyed the president" and that they were a "plotting, feuding bunch."

Which is better for fostering democracy: an insular cabal of yes-men, or a team of opposing viewpoints trying to build a consensus? It doesn’t matter! To Hadachek, Democrats are wrong no matter what they actually do! Which leads to "critiques" without substance. This elephant is heckling at a game his team has already lost. Without anything constructive to add, wouldn’t it would be more fun if he just shut up and left the ballpark?

[Source: K-State Collegian]

Bitterness: free democratic elections are not the American way

striphe — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 15:24:12 +0000

Shortly after the election, feelings ran high on both sides of the political fence. Some of us were all, "suck on that, red-staters." The others reverted to the same tactics that cost their side the election in the first place. Case and point: freshman Josh Rodrick attempted a call for unity in a letter to the Collegian. But since he could not resist the chance to take a baseless swipe at the president-elect, he comes off as being divisive.

…To say people should unite under one president because it brings change is asking much of a society in which people cannot even respect or agree with their neighbors.

For this American society that voted for a president that flies a flag other than the American flag over his name, where is the unified organization?

The "Obama’s not really American" meme is like a bad neighbor who simply will not trim his encroaching weeds no matter what happens to everyones’ property values. Time and time again, people keep repackaging the old message with shiny new bullshit. There goes the neighborhood.

Our first black president will be the first and definite change, and while he coerced much of the United States to vote for him, we will see come January 2009 how much our nation will change.

There you have it. It’s unthinkable that our first black president would win in a fair, free democratic election. Rather, he "coerced" a majority of the population and the electoral college.

Do not unite under a president; unite together, unite under the American flag and the principles this country was founded on; find some middle ground or cooperation and let your voice be heard.

In making a worthwhile claim, Rodrock resorts to pettiness that undercuts his own message. Neocon doublethink was already rejected by the voters. It insults our intelligence and has no place in a democracy that requires honesty to function. Bitter red-staters should leave the calls for unity to someone who actually means them.

[K-State Collegian]

Collegian: Obama still not white enough to be American

striphe — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 06:55:02 +0000

Perusing the Collegian’s op-ed section is normally the journalistic equivalent of watching your neighbors shoot up heroine. They obviously think they’re having fun now, but just wait. Sadly, one day every year, some wingnut just goes "what the fuck" and overdoes it with something cartoonishly sexist, racist, or homophobic. And just when you think it can’t get any more ridiculous, Mark Erbacher goes and piles on the buffoonery by orders of magnitude. "Obama’s citizenship question could easily be solved." Since when was this a question?

President-elect Barack Hussein Obama has until today to verify that he is in fact a natural-born citizen, according to www.obamacrimes.com, a Web site owned by Philip J. Berg.

Berg has a substantial amount of evidence for his claim that Obama was not born in Honolulu, Hawaii, but rather that he was born in Momboso, Kenya. Berg’s site paid for a full-page ad in the Washington Times on Nov. 17 to lay out the accusation and the grounds for it.

Of course! It was a question because some flyover whacko with a web site says it’s a question. Erbacher goes on to list Berg’s "evidence" against Obama being "American." Don’t bother visiting Berg’s web site, because it will only make you wish you lived in Canada. Or whatever. Go ahead and view it if you want; I don’t care. It’s your life.

If in fact Obama is found to not be a natural-born citizen, the Supreme Court will be forced to invalidate the election and another election will be held.

Erbacher’s column is hands-down the worst thing we’ve read all year, and we just finished Twilight this weekend. This is, in fact, the worst thing we’ve read since the last time the Collegian decided to cynically toss all logic out the window just to see what would happen. Remember that? Remember when Brigitte Brecheisen warned us that Mexicans carry tuberculosis? You were trying to forget? So were we.

We’d be a bit more satisfied if Erbacher at least said what he really meant. The column would look more like this:

President-elect Barack Hussein Obama has until today to verify that he is in fact a white-born citizen, according to www.obamacrimes.com, a Web site owned by Philip J. Berg, some guy who likes to make up shit but could never get his fiction published in Penthouse.

It is clearly stated in clause 3, section I of the U.S. Constitution that "Representatives and direct taxes shall be apportioned among the several states which may be included within this union, according to their respective numbers, which shall be determined by adding to the whole number of free persons, including those bound to service for a term of years, and excluding Indians not taxed, three-fifths of all other persons [ed. note: negroes!]."

Berg has a substantial amount of evidence for his claim that Obama was not born in Honolulu, Hawaii, but rather that he was born in Momboso, Kenya.

First, Berg claims to have a tape of Obama’s paternal grandmother, Sarah Obama, saying "I was in the delivery room in Kenya when he was born Aug. 4, 1961." If such a tape exists, surely this constitutes iron-clad proof. If Berg claims he has a tape, surely he must really have it.

The article goes on to say white experts have called the scanned copy of Obama’s birth certificate that he presented forged. Berg was quoted as saying, "It’s clearly been shucked and jived," which would invalidate the document. If Berg says it’s been altered, the rest of us might as well call it a day. Also, at the time he was born, Hawaiian law allowed for black people to register for the non-hospital short form certificate up to one year after the date of birth.

Thirdly, if Barack Obama did indeed attend segregated school in Indonesia under the name of Barry Soetoro, he would have been required to be a citizen. During this time his citizenship was listed as Indonesian, his religion was listed as Islam, and his father was supposedly Malcolm X. At this time no biracial citizenship was available, and if he had been adopted by his stepfather he would have forfeited his white citizenship. It is a well-known fact that the goal of so-called "biracial" people is to out-black real blacks, usually through performing advanced urban dance moves and impressive freestyling skillz, and Mr. Hippity Hop has yet to decisively address the nation and disavow his negritude.

Ultimately the issue at hand is the U.S. Constitution, that single document that truly makes this country white. Without it, we as a nation are non-white, but when it is upheld as white as it should be and as our white framers intended it to be, our country is truly white. There are very few requirements for becoming the president of neocons’ United States, but if need be, more grandfather clauses could be added. That’s the American way.

[Source: K-State Collegian]

The Internet to invent narcissism

striphe — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 01:42:03 +0000

A recent study has discovered that a Facebook profile really does reveal all you need to know about a person.

The Internet has provided members of a younger generation an outlet through which to express themselves and tell the world who they are. To be “single” or “in a relationship,” writing on someone else’s profile, being accepted as Dane Cook’s friend — these are all ways in which members of Generation Me define themselves.
However, there seems to be a trend of growing egos and self-absorption stemming from this surge of online activity.

Correlation does not equal causality. I was a self-absorbed jackweed* long before I started a blog and plenty of other self-absorbed jackweeds just like me existed way before the intertubez. We will still be around to post our party photos all over the next revolutionary medium.

Researchers at the University of Georgia conducted a study to test if social networking sites like Facebook.com and MySpace increased levels of narcissism, according to a Sept. 22 press release from the university’s news service.

As part of the study, researchers asked 130 Facebook users to fill out personality questionnaires and analyze the content of their profiles.

A second group of untrained observers [ed. note: Joe Plumbers] then analyzed the same profiles and determined how narcissistic the profiles’ owners were.

According to the press release, the research showed the more friends and wall posts a person had correlated with increased narcissism, the trait of excessive self-love or self-worship.

The flashiness of someone’s MySpace is proportional to his or her IRL pompousness. Stroke of genius, that is. The only thing I can add is that when I’m offline, all my excellent features still glow like a post-coital pornstar. I’ve got my roguish smile, devilish charm, elegant manners, and fine tight ass. It’s not narcissism. It’s narcissawesome.

In the release, Laura Buffardi, graduate student in psychology at Georgia and leader of the study, said this is similar to how narcissists act in the real world, forming numerous, shallow relationships with others. Narcissistic personal Web page users also tend to use flashier, more self-promoting profile pictures, the study said.

I wouldn’t necessarily call them "relationships." They were more like one-night deals. A few superpokes, a few comments, and then bam, time to hit up another network. You know how it is.

*Thanks to Smallville for letting me rip off "jackweed."

[K-State Collegian]

Collegian columist zings stupid America

striphe — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 01:08:02 +0000

Mark Erbacher believes that memorizing Revolutionary War documents makes one person more American than others.

As U.S. citizens, we feel we are well versed in our nation’s history and knowledgeable of its laws and practices. However, the Intercollegiate Studies Institute recently found - for the third year in a row - that a great number of Americans know very little about this nation’s history and government workings.

According to americancivicliteracy.org, of the over 2,500 randomly selected Americans who took the 33-question test, 1,700 failed. The average score was a depressing 49 percent. Possibly even more frightening is the average score of the elected officials that were surveyed: 44 percent. That means, of course, that the average person, according to this quiz, is actually more versed in American history and the government than those they have chosen to speak for them.

Eh. Once the "No Child Left Behind" generation grows up, those test scores should fly as high as a bald eagle. Of course this means once we have enough smarties we can take them off the endangered species list and hunt them in defense of our 2^nd Amendment rights.

Some of the results are simply awe striking. More than twice as many people knew that Paula Abdul is a judge on American Idol than knew that the quote “government of the people, by the people, for the people” is taken from President Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, that, coincidentally, President-elect Barack Obama quoted in his acceptance speech.

Is this surprising? Paula Abdul has been fine since the 80s. "Of the people, by the people, for the people" has not characterized government in at least eight years. God damn America.

Almost 40 percent of people surveyed believe that the president has the right to declare war, when he or she doesn’t. Of those elected officials who took the quiz, 30 percent were unaware that “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” are inalienable rights referred to in the Declaration of Independence. Also, 20 percent of these same elected officials thought the Electoral College was established to supervise the first presidential debates.

That’s quite a bit of information. Gee, I wonder where he’s going with all this.

I might be biased; I am, after all, a political science major and have studied a lot of these things more than most, but these results absolutely terrify me.

Part of me thinks my life would be much easier if Mark Erbacher was the standard by which my intelligence was measured. Think it’s tougher than going up against a fifth-grader.

So America, do us all a favor: pick up a newspaper, or a book for that matter, and learn something.

Whatever; books are for coastal liberal elites, like Erica Hateley. Presumably, many of us are reading your column. It might be helpful, therefore, to explain in an entertaining way, what your field of study (lol political "science") actually is and what sort of interesting useful reaganisms you learned in civics this week. Conversely, supercilious gasbaggery really won’t do us any good.

[K-State Collegian]

News article on ‘Noises Off’ demonstrates everything that’s wrong with every Collegian article, ever

striphe — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 22:11:42 +0000

First, the headline: "’Noises Off’ displays play within a play." Although descriptive, it somewhat misses the point, and the "play within a play" concept is not fully explained in the report. That concept is: "Noises Off" farcically reveals the behind-the-scenes antics of "Nothing On," a play performed within "Noises Off."

Of course our description sounds more satisfying, but it’s probably because we’re so pompous. It’s a bit technical, but Noises Off was an extremely complicated production. The headline should probably include a touch of the play’s bedroom humour, giving readers a feel for what was really going on. Something along the lines of ‘Noises Off’ tickles audience until they splooge laughter. You get the idea.

Then there’s the lede.

A man walked lazily across the stage in front of the red velvet curtain. He rubbed at his eyes as though he were just waking from a rough slumber. The man, identified as Tim, yells offstage and the curtain rises to reveal a quaint living room.

Tim, played by Greg Myers, is just one of the many eccentric characters in the most recent KSU Theatre production “Noises Off.”

We see this technique all the time. Amanda Keim is trying to draw you in with a soft introduction. The lede is a special time for a reporter, a unique moment wherein she can demonstrate her style, her attention to nuance, her own true observations; this is the only time she can pretty much editorialize and get away with it.

In keeping with the ambience (we hate that word) of Noises Off, Amanda’s lede should have painted a picture of the stage in all its magic and zest. Unfortunately, Amanda described a scene that was so uneventful, so unlike the rest of the play, that she flat out failed.

Also. "Eccentric" is another word we hate. It might sound impressive, but it’s so general-purpose that it doesn’t actually describe anything.

There were a few more technical problems in the article, articulated nicely in comments left at the Collegian’s website.

To have "Jack McFarland" comment at this blog would make our day.

The lights begin to flash across the stage and Tim yells at the controller to calm them but it is no use. The lights continue to flash and a character claims he is about to suffer a seizure. This ignites the first burst of laughter from the audience.

“It’s pretty entertaining,” said Joe Asley [ed. note: ha ha ha, we kept the misspelling], freshman in history. “They’re too dysfunctional to complete their rehearsal.”

That’s how we know it’s funny; we’re being told of the laughter. Just in case we’re not totally convinced, some freshman gives us an eye-popping description: "It’s pretty entertaining." Ho hum. The Hour Badly Spent believes it was more than "entertaining."

There was a lot of humor packed into Noises Off. It’s a shame that Act II, with all its manic irony and brilliantly timed physical humor is not given any treatment. Instead, the reporter just fixated on sex.

The character Brooke was named a favorite by audience members. She was an attractive and tall blonde who appeared to be very distracted.

“[My favorite part is] probably how dumb the blonde girl is,” said Abi Wilson, sophomore at Manhattan High School. “It’s really funny and it really makes the play.”

Brooke could be seen spacing off and as the night progressed, she was so involved in the performance that she managed to tear her black pantyhose. As Brooke’s pantyhose took a hit, more than one of the male leads was found dropping his pants.

“Sex maniacs everywhere!” exclaimed Roger, played by Michael Wieser.

Come to think of it, on principle, we have no problem with this.

[K-State Collegian]

Fundie sets himself up for mockery with tiresome histrionics

striphe — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 19:55:52 +0000

Weeks ago, the Collegian’s "You Suck" comic depicted Jesus (yeah, I know this is old; it took my uppers this long to kick in). In panel 2, an old lady asks "What did you really want from humanity?" In panel 2, a swarthy, bearded, long-haired toga-clad Jew replies "That’s easy — all I want is for people to get along. Love ach other and be happy…it’s pretty simple."

Jesus goes on, in panel 3, with "Oh — also, don’t f**k panda bears. I can not stress that enough. Love and happiness, and no panda f**king. That’s all I ever really wanted to get across to people."

Comic portrayals of Jesus are hardly a big deal, and this one is fairly basic and pretty tame, if you ask us. Ask a Christhole, however, and you get a different answer. Ben Balman, a K-State graduate, wrote a letter to the editor.

I am writing in regard to the comic “You Suck” printed in the Collegian on Nov. 13. I was extremely offended by this comic strip when I read the Collegian Thursday morning. I did not find it to be even remotely funny. On the contrary I found it quite obscene.

In fact, I believe it crossed the line to downright blasphemy. Not only did it incorporate vulgar language of the worst kind, which would not be printed in any upstanding newspaper, it defamed Jesus Christ. As someone who proudly professes Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior, I was outraged, and not only me, but I know for a fact that many of my friends were deeply offended as well.

I can take a joke, but at some point we must draw the line and I believe that this comic crossed that line - blatantly and unashamedly. I am disappointed and offended beyond words. I expect better discretion by the Collegian staff in the future as far as what is printed. There is so much humor that could be printed that would be far less edgy and controversial — why must we resort to material that is crass, crude and inconsiderate of the faith of the majority of Americans? Is this merely to get a reaction like the one I am now writing?

There are both more appropriate outlets for the brand of so-called “humor” exhibited in this latest comic strip, as well as more appropriate alternatives to print in a campus newspaper. Until this comic strip ceases to be so obscene or ceases to be printed, I will now be removing the entire outer fold of any Collegian I pick up, if I choose to read it at all.

Was Balman for real? Even if he did have a point, he undermined it by making himself look stupid. We especially love the part where he disclaims that he “can take a joke,” then goes on to prove that he, in fact, can not take a joke. As far as "vulgar," since Balman failed to specify what, specifically, he took issue with, we’re going to wildly speculate what he means by "obscene." Which do you think ticked him off more: (1) the use of "f**k," which was redacted as shown, or (2) the blatant heresy that Jesus simply wants us all to get along? You decide! Keep in mind that it’s impossible to argue that Christ is in favor of pandafucking (unless it’s between pandas). We prefer to think that Balman’s biggest problem lies in not touching enough of that sweet, sweet "outer fold" he likes so much. "You Suck" agreed, publishing a very special issue:

"REMOVING THE OUTER FOLD! A new catchphrase craze!"

1. An insult: "Seriously! How did you get so stupid? Did someone remove your outer fold when you were a kid?

2. A threat: "If I ever catch you doing that on my bed again, I’m going to remove your outer fold!"

3. A circumcision euphemism: "…And apparently it also smells good. That’s why I’m glad they removed my outer fold."

Yeah, that wingnut’s letter was a comic gold mine; kudos to Nolan Fabricius and Jeff Brown for taking full advantage. They published another one:

Old lady: "Hey…did you guys hear that you’re blasphemous?"

Slacker (to Jesus): "I didn’t know that you gave your followers the right to go around condemning people."

Zing! At this point, I almost started to feel bad for Ben Balman, but in appointing himself some kind of moral beacon, he asked for it. And fundie humor is like a bottle that never runs dry; you can just reach for it over and over again. So, here’s to hoping that "You Suck" never loses its buzz.

[You Suck@K-State Collegian]

Bitters lament reality’s liberal bias

striphe — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 18:03:25 +0000

After the election, bitter right-wingers like Mark Erbacher were quick to blame everyone for their loss except the obvious: the legacy of their own failed policies. The most obvious target would be manipulation from liberal coastal media elites. Right? Right.

The 2008 election clearly showed that the media lean heavily to the left. Even liberals must admit the mainstream media and its journalists threw objectivity and fairness aside and blatantly took the side of now President-elect Barack Obama.

According to www.telegraph.co.uk, the nonpartisan Center for Media and Public Affairs reported John McCain received substantially more negative news coverage during the campaign. The same article said the Pew Research Center, examining coverage of the last presidential debate, showed Obama’s coverage to be 36 percent positive and 29 percent negative.

Compare this to the staggering numbers of McCain: 57 percent negative to only 14 percent positive. There is some disparity between the parties; 82 percent of Republicans think journalists try to be advocates rather than neutral observers. This coincides with 56 percent of Democrats and 69 percent of unaffiliated voters concurring with their conservative counterparts.

Perhaps Obama’s positive coverage reflected a kind of campaign to which the Right was not accustomed? Perhaps McCain’s negative stories reflected the negativity of his campaign? Perhaps McCain really is the two-faced, hot-tempered scoundrel he seems to be? If you’d like to contemplate a double standard, consider how the media would have handled coverage of a candidate with a known temper problem, a candidate who talked out of both sides of his mouth and constantly went back on his pledges, a candidate that had cheated on his wife and then married into his fortune; now consider how the media would have handled such a candidate if he were black.

The Center for Media and Public Affairs studied 979 election news stories from 33 hours and 40 minutes of airtime from evening newscasts on ABC, CBS, NBC and FOX stations and found stories concerning Obama and Joe Biden recieved 65 percent positive versus 35 percent negative. This was more than double that of John McCain and Sarah Palin, whose numbers were 69 percent negative and only 31 percent positive.

Journalists must remain unbiased in their coverage of the issues. Their job is to objectively report facts so individuals can decide for themselves what they choose to believe

Heh, pretty surprised that he mentioned Fox News. Anyway, it’s about time for a concern near and dear to me: a basic journalism lesson.

According to right-wing gasbags, "objective" journalism occurs when the reporter writes down what one person says, then writes down what another person says, then prints that. By this logic, the substance of a claim does not matter, and it’s not your job to actually go verify the claim; if someone simply makes the claim, you print it. Reporters who actually care about the truth, however, know the difference between journalism and stenography.

Look at what Erbacher reports. Look at the level of doublethink involved in his reasoning. His contention is not specifically with whether any story was biased, but whether a bunch of people believe stories are biased. But how do the people polled even judge bias? What’s their criteria? Just because a story is "favorable" or "unfavorable" doesn’t make bias. It may turn out that historical "facts," or material reportable conditions actually favor one over the other. That’s what a journalist is supposed to report on. "Reality." It’s too bad reality has a well-known liberal bias.

[K-State Collegian]

WWII vets dump their soil on local memorial

striphe — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 17:17:13 +0000

It’s all right there.

…The veterans brought their own soil to add to the seven different types of soil already selected. One by one, they each walked to the front and poured they’re (sic) own personal soil, a proud moment for the veterans to honor their friends and families who served in the war.

They just don’t make diapers like they used to. Those olds must have been carrying around their soil for years, waiting and waiting and waiting for the perfect moment. At long last, K-State’s campus provided the ideal setting for them to dump their soil. I can’t imagine a more fitting place.

[Jasmine Wilcoxson, K-State Collegian]

13 year old boys to dictate culture, TV content

striphe — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 16:41:44 +0000

PBS is the vegetarianism of television. Although it’s a good idea, few of us have the discipline to commit to it. Tim Hadachek’s got a solution.

Like so many other government endeavors, PBS falls into the long list of programs that have outlived their usefulness. Public broadcasting was created in 1967 to provide diversity to television at a time when it was dominated by the three broadcast networks.

But in today’s world of 6,000-channel cable packages, there is little need for more diversity. Science, cooking and home improvement shows — at one time exclusive PBS undertakings — now have networks of their own. Slashing the budget for public broadcasting is a favorite pastime of Republicans in Congress and the White House.

Starting with Newt Gingrich in the 1990s and continuing to the current president, it is almost a yearly ritual for the proposed budget to greatly limit PBS funding. Yuppies everywhere protest loudly, and the $400 million or so is begrudgingly put back into the federal budget.

The problem is that those who protest cutting spending don’t seem to be actually watching. As the New York Times noted, “the highest-rated shows on PBS barely garner half the ratings of the wrestling show ‘Friday Night Smackdown.’”

I couldn’t have said it better, but I will anyway. American media and culture would do better off by pandering to teenage boys. Teenage boys don’t want Shakespeare, classical music, modern art. They want Smackdown. Also: fast-food ads. And Jerry Springer. And Girls Gone Wild. Yeah, lots of medieval-era patriarchy, except you can reach a lot more people with TV than with sonnets.

Public television is based on the assumption that such a thing as “high culture” can be defined. Based on the current programming of PBS, high culture means watching 10-year-old British sitcoms and rich people sell their junk.

Culture can’t be defined; it is whatever people choose it to be, based on their own interests. Shoving large amounts of Shakespearean adaptations down our throats is not going to change that.

In Hadachek’s world — a utopia of Ayn Rand-level dickitude — history and culture are replaced with cynical devotion to the bottom line. Marketablity is the be-all of everything. Instead of Barack, our next prez would be The Rock. Our VP would be Trish Stratus.

Maybe Hadachek is on to something after all.

[K-State Collegian]

Israeli mob violence to destabilize Western civilization

striphe — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 16:19:39 +0000

A bottle recycling cartel (yeah, that’s right; I couldn’t make something like that up) in Israel has become violent of late. In "The Racket With Recycling: Action necessary to prevent Isreali (sic) mafia," Nick Wilson writes:

It is not uncommon for mafia members to use grenades, bombs or anti-tank missiles when carrying out jobs. This often harms more than just their intended target.

It is this lack of control by many Israeli mafia members that leads to heightened tensions within the country. Not only are businesses at risk because of illegal deals, bu the citizens are constantly aware they could fall victim to an attack because of the lack of concern for bystanders by the ~~evil Mossad~~ Mafia.

Three things.

1. I’ve never met Nick Wilson in person, but every single one of his columns features his photo next to it, and in his photo, he is showing off the douchiest smirk possible on a fratty Kansas douchebag. I know, I know, we’re supposed to have reservations about the word "douche." But there is simply no other term that conveys the goyisch conceit and popped-collar smarminess in that photo. Our spy from his hometown confirms that he has indeed become quite the douche after a mere two years at K-State.

2. Way to misspell "Israeli," you douche.

3. Seriously, mob violence in Israel? Even if I did care, it’s not something I’d want to stop. Bottle recycling cartel sounds like the mark of a refined, if hippie-ish criminal element (except for all the gunnings and the innocents and what not). It kinda has the makings of a next-year summer blockbuster. "Schindler’s Hit List" or something.

[K-State Collegian]

All in all, you are just a blogger on the wall

striphe — Fri, 21 Nov 2008 20:13:20 +0000

I went to the reception after Janice Radway’s lecture for six reasons.

Free booze.

Erica Hateley said I should go socialize, and I always do what Erica Hateley says.

If I couldn’t find someone to socialize with, I’d just skulk along the walls, gaping stupidly at the goings-on, and post my gawkings here for the web-savvy to stumble upon when they google themselves the next day.

I always hope each party will be the party where some professor drinks so much port that she starts quoting James Joyce until all her grad students feel uncomfortable and leave early. And I hope that "someone" is Karin Westman.

Uh, five reasons.

I did end up drinking all of James Machor’s white wine. After that I found myself face-to-face with Janice Radway, who followed a long K-State tradition of being an extremely gracious guest.

"Hi. I’m Jan." She extended a hand.

"I’m the only undergrad here," I said, and sat down.

Jan was intensely interested in the small circle of professors around her (Naomi Wood, a well-dressed Donald Hedrick, and two others whose names I forget). As none of us were Kansas natives, she asked what we thought of the place (the consensus is that it sucks JUST a little bit). Then we talked about movies or something.

True to form, Donna Potts and Tanya Gonzalez left for a better party at around 8pm. Wendy Matlock’s cookies were gone. Only one critical issue remained, and Han Yu was the perfect person to raise it. To paraphrase: why do Michael Donnelly’s eyebrows look like they were grafted from a comically overeducated cartoon supervillain?

As it turns out, he does not style or trim them in any way. Which means that until the X-Men step forward, the world is doomed.

God is extra dead

striphe — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 23:24:33 +0000

FWIW, the Students for Free Thought have chalked a Nietzche quote by the Union: "A casual stroll through an insane asylum will reveal that faith proves nothing." It fits right in with the Bible verses chalked all over everywhere else on campus.

Also, if you’re using Twitter, you should follow Paradise Lost.

Proper study techniques

striphe — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 22:54:04 +0000

Among English majors — well, the fun ones, not — there is an unspoken race to make sex the topic of conversation. Wednesday afternoon, in the process of reviewing for an impending exam, I found out that winning isn’t everything. Rhymes With Fairy and I discussed Alan Seeger’s poem, "I Have a Rendezvous With Death."

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.
It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows ’twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear …
But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

It’s funny how even the most hipsterey among us can revert to being un-fun when someone else (it’s always me) wins the TMI game.

Pompous English Major: It’s a strangely erotic poem. It’s written in the language of love, with sexual imagery. I think exaggerating the erotic with the valorisation of Death mocks Romantic ideals.
Rhymes With Fairy: Erotic? I don’t see it that way.
Pompous English Major: "Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep?" Come on. That’s clearly a wet dream.
Rhymes With Fairy: No! I don’t wanna look at the poem like that.
Pompous English Major: "I close my eyes and quench my breath." Come on. It’s an orgasm.
Rhymes With Fairy: Fine, you’re right.
Pompous English Major: Well, what do you think of it?
Rhymes With Fairy: I hate you. [ed. note: not really]

One more such victory will utterly undo me.

Still hip to be square

striphe — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 17:40:09 +0000

The “zine;” what is it? What’s it for? Trite questions, to be sure. Janice Radway’s presentation, "Zines: Then & Now" and the zines’ role in grrl culture, was not so much concerned with answering the questions, instead choosing to pose the inquiry over and over again in compoundingly confusing ways.

It was hot and crowded in there, at 4pm in Union 212; several servicey tipsters pointed out that, as part of their ongoing asault on fun, womens’ studies majors showed up at Radway’s lecture for class credit. The more the merrier!

Her lecture, nominally about something fun and zany, immediately descended into a turgid academic tarpit. "Zining is nothing if not generative." "Zines were involved quite literally in the practice of utopian social construction." "The self constructed within the zine is an intersubjective self."

At first I was afraid; I was petrified. Well, I was anxious. There was barely any time to write this stuff down, let alone take a second and contemplate wtf she just said. But maybe you’re not supposed to. Maybe you’re just supposed to sit back and let the lecturer’s dodecasyllabic prose colonise your mind, coil around your neurons until you’re a theory drone worshipping the Hive Queen. As the minutes ticked by, it felt like my theory-induced trance was indeed bringing me closer and closer to a useful truth: Go to sleep, you’re not actually missing much.

A trite criticism, to be sure. Professor James Machor, at the reception, pointed out that this is necessary of academic work, this translation of ‘low culture’ into ‘high culture.’ Fine and dandy, but this feels kinda pervey and voyeuristic, like a tourist lost on the wrong side of town. The translation robs the zine (and any underground culture) of an essential element: it’s zingy voice, its undergroundey soul. Without capturing this, any attempt to convey wtf a zine is will falsify its findings.

What were the findings?

1. Riot grrls.

2. "Zining is nothing if not generative." People read a zine and react by making another zine. Kind of like blogging.

3. "MySpace and Friendster are very interesting permutations of wht zines were about."

4. The social activity of circulation and citation is at least as important to zining as the material, reified zine. Kind of like life.
5. Zinesters are primarily upper-middle class white kids. Like hippies! And hipsters! And hip-ocrites (see what I did there?)!

Later, Professor Machor asked me what I thought of a so-called progressive, underground movement being confined to said demographic (whites). I’m sure he meant well, but I had other things to think about. Like what’s going up on my next ZineSpaceBookster!

Is this thing on?

striphe — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 17:47:31 +0000

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.

God to troll advertisements in search of fuel for his divine outrage

striphe — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 02:29:45 +0000

In a letter to the editor, fundie virgin Clareen O’Connor expressed shock and awe at a sex education ad.

I am profoundly disappointed in your decision to place an advertisement page promoting sex in one of last week’s papers. “MAJOR IN SEX AND YOU COULD SCORE $25,000” is boldly written on top as well as “and a $2 lift for your ‘studies’ plus trips, entertainment and other divisions to heighten your education.”
On the other side of the advertisement page is a drawing of a male with his arms around two females, all naked, with a blanket on them. The two females seem to be passing around products used for sex. Dotted lines leading from the sex products to these words: “Strawberries,” “Whip Cream,” and “Banana.”

Ha ha, "male with his arms around two females" sounds like she’s narrating something on the Discovery Channel. Anyway. Normally, I hate advertising in all its insidious forms and avatars. But I just don’t see the big f’ng deal here. Maybe that’s because I’m the biggest perv I know? Besides Madeline.

I was personally offended and shocked when my roommate, who was also put off when she saw it, showed it to me.

"Personally offended?" It’s not as though the ad came with a disclaimer, "Clareen O’Connor and her roommate are unpleasant people who you should never ever have sex with." Or would that have been better? I just don’t understand.

Sex among college students is already rampant enough as it is - why encourage it? Being a conservative Christian, I am strongly for abstinence before marriage. As such, I have decided to wait and keep my virginity.

Good for you, Clareen O’Connor. You and your Christian virginity are better than everyone else. It’s not like the mere suggestion of a threesome is enough to shake your faith.

It hurts me deeply that young people have this kind of lifestyle; that they do whatever “feels good” or satisfies their sexual drives during that certain moment in time. Uncommitted relationships lead to broken hearts and are not good for the soul or spirit.

You know what’s good for the soul and spirit? Haughty, judgemental Puritanism. That’s the only way to happiness. Clareen should know. She seems pretty happy.

If they have this kind of ruthless behavior, what will happen when they want to marry? How can they keep a committed relationship, which marriage is and requires if it is to last, if they haven’t held this kind of mindset or practiced such virtues? They will have nothing to give to their spouse since they spent and freely distributed their “love” to a variety of people and called them their boyfriends or girlfriends.

I was just talking to someone the other day about how many people avoid Christianity because they don’t want to be associated with naive, self-righteous prudes, and Clareen O’Connor just volunteered as Exhibit A. What enables her to go into these histrionics is that she profoundly missed the point of the ad. She looked at it with her Jesus glasses and couldn’t see anything beyond her own outrage. It was about sex education, not an invitation to the Houston 500. Why do you think she chose to see it that way?

[K-State Collegian]

Collegian columnist needs to get out more

striphe — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 01:22:36 +0000

Oh, look. In "Sending the wrong signals through clothing easy," Jessica Ulrich’s got a tirade against chicks in skimpy clothing.

We often hear about women getting frustrated that men are only interested in their bodies and not in who they are.

"He stared at my chest the whole time I was talking to him!" they’ll complain, lamenting the fact that men are only after "one thing."

However, the truth is that more often than not it is women’s faults that they are objectified, not the mens."

The article needs imaginary skanks, continually thrusting bare nipples into the face of some drooling fratbag, and it needs this to happen all the time. And we’ve all seen this type of girl before. That’s not a woman "getting frustrated." That’s a woman who likes to demonstrate her superiority by baiting dudes, then throwing them back. Whatever; you shouldn’t even envy her. She’s got way too much ego riding on that shit, and it’s kind of a hoot to watch her run her course.

If a girl truly is intelligent and funny, that will show no matter what she’s wearing. If she’s trying to impress a guy and all he sees is boobs, that’s his loss. If he can’t get a sense of a girl’s personality through conversation, that’s his loss. "Handing out invitations for people to focus on physical attributes" is always the right signal, as long as those physical attributes are boobs.

"Why do so many career and employment counselors advise students to wear subtle, professional and modest clothing to job interviews?"

What do counselors recommend for socializing? A pantsuit, three letters of recommendation? You could talk up your good qualities. Constantly. Keep announcing "I’m funny, vivacious, and intelligent." Then quote Corinthians and we’ll all celebrate your awesomeness.

[K-State Collegian]

Shane Oram is better than everyone else

striphe — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 16:25:42 +0000

Shane Oram’s society has become flat-out rude, as others focus on themselves and never think of Shane Oram. This repugnant behavior can be seen everywhere.

As Shane Oram drives down the road, he experiences the effect of others’ carelessness and arrogance. Those who only care about themselves and getting to their destinations as quickly as possible partake in a lot of risky behavior that is detrimental to Shane Oram when he is also on the road.

Even on the sidewalk, he sees ridiculously rude actions. Bicyclists will nearly run Shane Oram over, so they can get to class that much quicker. People do not even hold doors open for Shane Oram, a few steps behind them, because it might slow them down and distract them from their ultra important task, and they’re pretty sure that Shane Oram can open his own blasted door (apparently they’re wrong).

Shane Oram hates to break it to you, but only Shane Oram is that important. We should be helping Shane Oram, not shouting "Get the hell out of my way, lollygagger" when we see him on campus.

Shane Oram found a CNN article to prove his point. It reads "The quality of Shane Oram’s life is about treating Shane Oram well in every situation. We are the trustees of Shane Oram’s happiness and well-being."

Time after time, only Shane Oram acknowledges those who take his orders or stand behind the counter. If anybody else ever does, they focus on the negative, like Gordon Ramsey, rather than the positive, like a starving street urchin. Shane Oram uses this as an out to degrade and belittle their status unless they’re member of the Shane Oram society.

In addition, it was kinda rude that I pulled out my cellphone to talk and message while Shane Oram was trying to interact with me. However! He was giving me another sermon. He was going on and on and on, when he could have easily made his point in 2 words ("be polite"). I sort of need my information more quickly than that. He should just post his columns on Twitter.

[K-State Collegian]

striphe — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 05:40:13 +0000

This semester, an unprecedented number of K-State students needed on-campus housing. The university responded by placing people in "overflow" housing. The photo accompanying Sydney Eagleton’s follow-up story in today’s Collegian makes dorm life look like the opening scene of a gay porno.

Change we can believe in

striphe — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 19:35:57 +0000

British Survey has been pretty tedious lately. Medieval literature is all "the grace of God this," "forgiveness through Christ that." What a drag. It’s started to feel like going to church, except without all the fun "God Damn America" bits (what’s your church like?). But today we covered Sonnet 135, and Wendy Matlock promised some good stuff.

"It’s always important, in a literature class, to get the sex. We’ve been neglecting that lately." Speak for yourself, Green-stripey-socks-Matlock. Without further ado:

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy ‘Will,’
And ‘Will’ to boot, and ‘Will’ in overplus;
More than enough am I that vex thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea all water, yet receives rain still
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in ‘Will,’ add to thy ‘Will’
One will of mine, to make thy large ‘Will’ more.
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one ‘Will.’

"He’s not sugarcoating this. He’s saying can I put my penis in your vagina," said Wendy. Uh, I mean Dr. Matlock.

I know this was supposed to be sexy, but maybe can we skip the stuff written by other dudes about their own penises? It invokes my castration complex. Kthxbai.

Collegian columnist wuvs his mommy

striphe — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 05:10:14 +0000

In "Parent-child relationships must change, ‘grow up’ as we become older," Chris Brotherton’s intense yearning never to leave the nipple of the maternal teat burns and burns. Can’t you feel it?

Though I have no experience as a parent, I find the idea of imparting knowledge to another person astounding. I have no doubt that parents find this a joyous and memorable time in their lives.

We were all children once and most of us grew up depending on our parents. However, what we might not realize is that our parents depend on us. We have depended on our parents to provide security, comfort, shelter and love, and in return, we have provided them with photo albums full of memories and emotional connections they cherish.

Rawr! So builds the oedipal excitement. Brotherton thinks he’s talking around his passion, draping it behind explanations like "This dependence on our parents changes in many ways as we grow up. As we gain a new identity apart from them during our adolescent years, we find this transition more natural than many parents do." He’s not fooling anyone though. There is only one true "transition;" a hyperlink to milfhunter.com.

Seeing our parents as friends can lessen the load of responsibility while maintaining separate and independent lives. Like friends of our own choosing, parents will be there for us regardless of how old we get.

I need a cigarette.

[K-State Collegian]

Someday you’ll look back at the time that frattey thug at Mae’s tried to embarrass you in front of your girlfriend and your bisexual (?) hippie crush and you’ll laugh. Ha ha ha. But today is not that day.

striphe — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 04:48:18 +0000

It was a chilly night, 28 degrees. The Memory of Water was sold out by the time Smallville & I arrived. Our plans dashed, we ended up going to Auntie Mae’s with the Poetess.

"We’d better smoke all our cigarettes once we get there, while we still can."

The Poetess had just found her long-lost driver’s license and was in a rare celebratory mood.

"You don’t want me to buy the first round?" she offered.

"If you put it that way, I’ll have a screwdriver." They’re cheap here.

"Yuch."

We sat at a booth open right there (it was not as crowded as we’d expected). "How’s your drink?"

"A little weak."

Nevertheless, we were having a good time. We talked and talked and talked. Smallville said later that I kept hijacking the conversation. I’d like to think it was because of the double G&Ts, but it’s more likely that I’m just generally a boisterous fool. I told her and the Poetess, for the 83rd time, about how I used to get awful service at every eatery in Miami; about how it was a while before it occurred to me to not tip people for bad service.

Last call came around. Katie the waitress brought me a Manhattan and my check.

I went up to the bar and got change for a five from Robin, the bartender. She hadn’t served me all night, but I left her a tip just because I like Robin. I got ready to hand the rest of my change off to Katie. Before I could do so, I had the worst "customer service experience" of my life, which I told a friend about over Digsby the next day.

The Hour Badly Spent: i was there with a couple of ppl, and they announced they were closing up
The Hour Badly Spent: i still had a drink, so i started chugging it. this guy comes by and he’s like "get out! get out!" so i chug my drink faster, but it’s a manhattan, so it’s a little hard to down
The Hour Badly Spent: he stopped at our table and said "let’s go! get out!" so i said "i just need 30 sec more to finish this, please"
The Hour Badly Spent: i’ve done that before. i go to that bar a lot
The Hour Badly Spent: and they’re usually like "okay, just hurry up and finish"
The Hour Badly Spent: but this guy said "no. get out"
The Hour Badly Spent: and i said "please, just a few seconds"
The Hour Badly Spent: and he’s like "no, it’s 2 o clock. get out"
The Hour Badly Spent: so i checked my phone. it was 1:49
The Hour Badly Spent: so i said "can you stop being an asshole? i just need a few seconds"
The Hour Badly Spent: and he said "so i’m an asshole? THIS is how much i care about your drink." then he picked up my glass and smashed it on the floor
The Hour Badly Spent: unfortunately, that guy was a bouncer. so he called another bouncer ("Dan," who wouldn’t tell me the name of the guy who slammed my drink on the floor) and they escorted me out.
The Hour Badly Spent: obvs, i shouldn’t have called him an asshole, but i don’t think it justified the display of violence
The Hour Badly Spent: your thoughts?
Magneto: u were in the right.
The Hour Badly Spent: what really sucks is that’s the bar i ALWAYS go to. whenever me or anyone here i know say we’re going to the bars, it’s always that one bar. i’m there at least every week, sometimes twice, and i always just sit w/my friends, drink, and mind my own business

It’s not even that I’m angry; it’s more like did that really just happen? At Mae’s? I went to the speakeasy-type-place to see Jimbo Ivy and sip vodka with other English majors. I ended up swept away in some twatnozzle’s fratboy melodrama. If I wanted this kind of bullshit I could have just gone to Kite’s.

"I didn’t think you were the type to get kicked out of Mae’s," the Poetess said. We were outside. I still had the cash for Katie’s tip in my hand.

[Auntie Mae’s Parlor]

The Memory of Water

striphe — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 05:34:29 +0000

Saturday night, 7:15 right outside the Purple Masque Theatre. All the slackers who hadn’t bought advance tickets were waitlisted. There was me, Smallville, and about ten other people. The Hipster Grey Lady walked by, with her super-sexy already-having-a-ticket, dressed-like-a-soror self. In the hall, three hipsters started announcing a list of American foods shaped like dicks.

"Hot dogs."

"Popsicles."

"Candy bars," I chimed in.

The hipster with the pink scarf had watched Amish Paradise earlier today. The short hipster with the white scarf started talking about the next performance coming up in her drama class.

"There’s one female part. It’s gonna go to Shelby. Everyone knows."

Finally, the hipsters’ convo was getting interesting. But I needed more perspective. I needed an insider.

The Hour Badly Spent: Is there a drama student named Shelby who is annoyingly popular?
Super Hipster Grey Lady: Maybe a freshman. Idk her.

7:36 pm. The ticketmistress called up the first two names on the waiting list: a Megan and an Anne. "We’re all sold out," she announced. So what was the play actually like?

The Hour Badly Spent: meh. shoulda got ticks in advance. learned my lesson
Super Hipster Grey Lady: right.
Super Hipster Grey Lady: still wish you could have seen it tho
The Hour Badly Spent: it was good, wasn’t it?
Super Hipster Grey Lady: i thought so. although you would have been irked by the accents in it.
The Hour Badly Spent: what nationality were the accents?
Super Hipster Grey Lady: most were awesome. but two didn’t have it at all.
Super Hipster Grey Lady: and it took you out big time.
Super Hipster Grey Lady: northern england accents
The Hour Badly Spent: ah
The Hour Badly Spent: i was hoping you’d say russian or something
The Hour Badly Spent: i also wish it were running next weekend
Super Hipster Grey Lady: yeah… that’s how i feel about noises off. i can’t see it
Super Hipster Grey Lady: although, on a side note, the show reminded me why i’m not a theater major
The Hour Badly Spent: oh?
Super Hipster Grey Lady: i’m just too fat.
The Hour Badly Spent: oh christ. wasn’t juliet kinda pudgy, in romeo & juliet last april?
Super Hipster Grey Lady: no. she’s really petite. then. she’s preggers now. i was joking. but they were really tiny. and in their underwear on stage.
The Hour Badly Spent: FUCKFUCKFUCK i can’t believe i missed that
Super Hipster Grey Lady: haha they looked hot.
Super Hipster Grey Lady: pregger juliet was at the show tongiht too
The Hour Badly Spent: she’s with child? [ed. note: Yes, I talk like a dumbass.]
Super Hipster Grey Lady: in her tummy. yes
Super Hipster Grey Lady: its rather large now
The Hour Badly Spent: "The kid is not my son."
Super Hipster Grey Lady: yes. thank you.

No, Grey Lady; thank YOU!

Super Hipster Grey Lady: also…with the girl talking about parts for theater cast, the only theater class that casts is fundies of acting and that’s mainly all non-majors.
Super Hipster Grey Lady: there’s a few but they are likely to be freshman. and not nearly as importnant as they’d like to make themselves sound.
Super Hipster Grey Lady: i can say that since i’m a sophmore, you know.

Visions & revisions

striphe — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 04:02:20 +0000

I’ve felt brain dead all week. Perhaps it was the changing weather? Perhaps I shouldn’t have started the week with Modernist poetry.

"I’m gonna memorize Prufrock," I said. Smallville rolled her eyes. I saw that coming. So did Prufrock.

And I have known the eyes already, known them all–
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

I’ve also been reading White Teeth, and I fear Zadie Smith’s “manic” prose has made mince meat of my brain.

Monday I missed an article deadline and an assignment deadline in playwriting, which set the tone for the rest of my classes. So it goes. I skipped class Tuesday and didn’t have class Wednesday. I returned to White Teeth. I’d read it for fun years ago, but this time, ugh. Not til I had marked up half the book did I remember that my copy was actually borrowed from Cherry. As a woman of integrity, she has most likely stayed true to her promise not to read The Hour Badly Spent any more, so I might be in the clear, but if not, uhh, sorry about that. I don’t know what I did Tuesday or Wednesday, so it couldn’t have been anything special. Both days, perhaps, interchangeable?

For I have known them all already, known them all:–
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.

Except not quite. There is, in fact, so much to do, pages to read, calories to burn, lessons to learn, paragraphs to write, concepts to master, and never nearly enough coffee spoons to measure it all.

The afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

A life of leisure. A guy hanging around with nothing to do, no deadlines, no steps to retrace; not even a job, no need to work that hustle, no-place to be in fifteen minutes. I had a colloquium to deliver. Would there be time, would there be time? Thursday nights, English 635’s class discussions focus on racial and gender oppression, which is just as important as it is tedious. This week was no exception, since many main characters are Jamaican & south Asian. After the break I quietly whipped out the laptop. Jimbo - one-third of our discussion fellowship - hadn’t shown up that night, but he IMed me from home.

The Opera Ghost: sup, yo. are you guys on break, or out of class?
The Hour Badly Spent: just got back from break. we’re on 1 last q
The Hour Badly Spent: this is actually not so bad
The Opera Ghost: what? oh questions?
The Hour Badly Spent: yeah
The Opera Ghost: im sick, btw.
The Hour Badly Spent: we heard :-)
The Hour Badly Spent: flu?
The Opera Ghost: yea.
The Opera Ghost: sad thing is my roommates are still trying to drag me out tonight.
The Opera Ghost: i think i may die if that happens.
The Hour Badly Spent: just bundle up and travel in a palanquin
The Opera Ghost: lol
The Opera Ghost: with a big wooden jug of brandy around my neck
The Hour Badly Spent: if u make me laugh karin [westman] might be pissed
The Opera Ghost: lol sorry
The Hour Badly Spent: ok, got it outta my system. must. stop. thinking of you as friar tuck.
The Opera Ghost: LOL

Whatever; it was funny. You’ll just have to take my word for it.

It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

Then Karin snapped me back to the there-and-now, asking us about the genetically engineered Futuremouse© that brings White Teeth to its climax. Something occurred to me.

"Did anyone else see this as a nod to Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy?" Karin asked me to expound on the connection.

Mice are not, as is commonly assumed on Earth, small white squeaking animals who spend a lot of time being experimented on.
In fact, they are the protrusions into our dimension of hyper-intellegent pan-dimensional beings. These beings are in fact responsible for the creation of the Earth.

Indeed.

Not just a fancy blog

striphe — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 19:49:07 +0000

Glancing over this semester’s collective Collegian front pages, it feels like Manhattan is going through a crime wave. Stabbing rape rape stabbing rape rape rape. "If it bleeds it leads, if it’s sex it’s next" was at first annoying, then just unsettling, then, once it set in that this is not a temporary spike and that Manhattan-Kansas is in fact the rapingest town I’ve ever lived in, a special type of long-iced-over indignation rolls in. "I don’t understand why more women here aren’t up in arms," Madeline said to me the other day.

Perhaps because locally, the most prominent discussion of this issue takes place on the level of a gaggle of hippies huddling together in the rain. The point of consistently reporting the ugly stuff of this town is to raise total social awareness. The other day, Whitney Hodgin penned a pair of pieces, in which two K-Staters told deeply personal stories of rape and its aftermath (in both cases, the legal system turned against the women.

Whitney is a thoughtful reporter, and always manages to get her subjects to say things that add meat and depth to the topic. The articles came out excellent. The Collegian put them on page five, right across from Tim Hadachek’s weekly rant against the government. What urgent topic of great social and political import ran on page 1? "Many students unable to make decisions without help from ‘helicopter’ parents." Of course they can’t.

Among men — men who describe themselves as chivalrous, good guys, men who are oblivious to chivalry’s inherent rapeyness — the conversation begins and ends at "If I found a rapist I would Kick His Ass," with everyone else sitting nearby nodding their assent and scarfing down their cheeseburgers or whatever. If these good guys were listening closely, they’d notice something off about a lot of the dudes at that same table. It’s in their persistent braggadoucherie, and it’s in way they talk about the female teachers they don’t like. You will not see these good guys cheering at Take Back the Night.

Last year, my buddy Eric would party every weekend, telling me about it Sunday mornings over bummed Parliaments. "Some girl got raped at the party I was at last night," he’d tell me. Every weekend. "Were you at TKE again?" was my usual response. Then what? I don’t know. What do you say after that, not really knowing anyone involved?

Then there’s this friend I have. Her rapist still haunts her, in every sense of the word. She’ll be out at Mae’s, or at Finn’s, or at some old place, and OMG look who shows up! This happened about five times in the space of two weeks. She always notices before anyone else, being especially attuned to the particular tones of his voice, and he’s talking especially loud just to get her attention (he usually tries to occupy the booth behind her or the barstool next to her while she steels herself to ignore him). What’s my role here? I consider introducing myself ("Hi, how’s it going? Raped anyone lately?") but she signals "no" with her eyes. An uncomfortable silence ensues. FOR TWO HOURS. She spends the rest of the evening in a quiet trance, staring long-faced at a dark corner of the room. Hours later, nursing a cigarette on her balcony, when she’s ready to speak, I’m still not sure I’m ready to hear it, even though it turns out to be only two words.

"I’m sorry," she mouths.

Of all the things to say, why that? I’m sure I’ll never understand. So am I, I say back.

[K-State Collegian]

striphe — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 06:47:36 +0000

You know what would feel nice in the dorms right now? Heat, that’s what.

Bloggers are really vain.

striphe — Sat, 25 Oct 2008 17:21:14 +0000

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."

[K-State Collegian]

Recollected in tranquility

striphe — Sat, 25 Oct 2008 10:04:24 +0000

Lately, appreciating poetry feels more and more impossible. Some pieces are accessible, but too much of them are all Ezra Poundish, too moderney and inscrutable (maybe I’m just far too lazy to scrute). Wednesday night I went to former Poet Laureate Charles Simic’s reading of his own collected works hardly knowing what to expect, either from him or myself.

Liz Dodd delivered the introductory speech, as she is wont to do. She is actually getting more and more prolix each time she does this, drawing on more interpretations and more metaphors and more more with each speech. The next day’s Collegian article would say that she "opened with an elegant and insightful introduction of Simic, beginning with a brief biography and ending with an exploration of some of the themes within his work." Heh. It simply made me restless; intro is like bling, and the less, the better. Too quotey, I wrote down and showed the Hipster. We ducked behind the people in front of us to laugh, hoping the Eyes of Dodd couldn’t see all the way to our irreverentially muted mirth at the back of Forum Hall.

The Former Poet Laureate began by taking us into his first poem, "Shelley," with a portrait of his own life as it was when he was writing the poem. The portrait did not lack for fine detail, which is to say that as he talked about his life in New York City in the 80s, "a period where nothing much happened to me," he admitted, he began to drift. Nothing much piled on and on, slightly garbled. Perhaps the Former Poet Laureate is nervous in front of crowds? "I was wondering how someone could be the Poet Laureate and have so much trouble speaking English," my companion later remarked. I began to wonder if this was the actual poem (the streaming of consciousness of an Old, which would have actually been amazing). Too New Yorkey, I noted to the Hipster. She agreed. Another bout of stifled laughter.

At length he started to recite "Shelley." The next day’s Collegian article would read, “’Shelley spoke of a mad, blind, dying king,’ he read, his voice rising with import. Then a new tone of conversational story-telling came." Nominally a tribute to the Romantic poet, the piece felt like a ghostly observer gliding through a world of discrete scenes. A hunchbacked shopkeeper. A three-fingered waiter. A man bloodied and half-conscious after a street fight steadies himself upon a lamp post. Every setting is slightly wondrous but vaguely threatening; behind the observer/narrator’s keen eye lies a restless fear of fully apprehending what’s around him.

His subsequent selections grew a bit lighter, often more ironic. "His poetic voice fit his accent," commented Hipster. "My Beloved," a love poem about the impossibility of writing a love poem, was, for this post-happy hour crowd, a bit easier to digest.

“In the fine print of her face/ Her eyes are two loopholes/ No, let me start again/Her eyes are flies in milk/ Her eyes are baby Draculas/ To hell with her eyes/ Let me tell you about her mouth.” Then her breasts. Then her legs. Then the carnal treasure between them, like the precious key to freedom for a jailed convict. It was a perfectly awkward metaphor, so much so that, amid the audience’s reaction, one laugh rose higher and rosier than all the others in Forum hall. "That was a naughty laugh," Simic remarked, his Slavic inflections leaning on naughty just so. That laugh came from Elizabeth Dodd.

He goes on to other poems. By and by I actually begin to like them, although he did offer another babbling introduction to "The Note." Too explainey, I scribble and show the Hipster. She rolls her eyes, exasperated but not acerbic. Of late she has remarked that I seem "happier," that my "eyes look different" these past few weeks, and I’m fairly sure the way she rolls her eyes at my (charmingly?) predictable jokes has something to do with this.

"The Note" turned out to be pretty good; a lighthearted persona poem, terse, but long enough for a story, with a surprise ending and a dead mouse (Ha ha, spoiler alert).

Simic finished up with a poem about a boy on a somewhat failed date. Dodd was the first to stand up. Flowery trousers notwithstanding, she affected the most Creedlike pose possible, holding us all in suspence for a good ten seconds for her cheery announcement.

"There are books! For sale!"

[K-State Collegian]

striphe — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 03:46:09 +0000

This afternoon, the housekeeping staff steam-cleaned the hall carpet. As time went by, the carpet mildewed instead of drying out, and now the hall smells like the boys’ bathroom. Well, more so than before.

Breaking: chivalry still dead

striphe — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 01:51:17 +0000

At this point, the topic sort of writes Shane Oram’s column all by itself.

In past years, gender roles were defined clearly in almost every society. Now, in the face of constant change, it seems chivalry has been cast away to conform to female independence and male laziness.

Our parents’ generations – and the ones before them – were bound to simple standards on how men and women should act. This system seemed to be ideal for many years.

As technology advances and many men get trapped by video games and the Internet, words like “slacker” are being thrown around to describe the increasing lack of motivation this gender might demonstrate. In this generation, men are having a hard time steering through adulthood especially in the areas of friendship, drinking, sex and the future.

Of course the internet is destroying everything, just like it always does. Social interactions were much easier when men just stuck to a medieval rape manual.

However, on the other side of the spectrum, some women have not made it easy for men to be chivalrous. In this shift in role definition, women have become more independent, branching out of the house into more traditionally masculine roles.

No longer do they need a man to support them financially, socially or sometimes emotionally.

Chivalrous actions are based on love and kindness — not some hidden agenda to undermine women. I hope women can accept and enjoy these fruitful displays of honor and respect and not give in to radical schemes and misconstrued propaganda.

Why does chivalry continue to make headlines here? Why can’t we stop being such spazzes, put down the medieval rape manuals and reconceptualize our boy-girl relations? Try this: when a girl calls you and wants to go out somewhere, just say "I can’t; I have to practice my guitar." When she points out that you don’t actually have a guitar, tell her "What is this, the Inquisition? Get off my ass!"

[Source: K-State Collegian]

If your professor has a Facebook account then she is probably a huge nerd

striphe — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 00:11:51 +0000

Exhibit A:

I sort of wish I didn’t know this about Karin Westman. How many others in the department are also infected?

Two twits tussle in a Scriptural scuffle, faith gets ruffled, verses shuffled

striphe — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 03:38:27 +0000

Last week Amanda Moerlien pondered over a struggle that has intrigued mankind ever since man wrote down random shit and called it "The Bible."

We so often hear how wrong it is to focus on material objects. Even the apostle Paul said, “the love of money is a root of all evil.”
Instead of focusing on wealth, we should be focusing on God.
As great as that sounds, faith doesn’t pay the bills, faith doesn’t put food on the table and faith won’t let me sit on my butt all day doing nothing and still be successful in life.
So why do I have to choose between one and the other? Well, apparently, because the Bible tells me to.
“No one can serve two masters. For you will hate one and love the other or be devoted to one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money,” according to Luke 16:13.

Truly we all live in a world hobbled by its own moral ambiguity. Which do you do, eat or worship? Live in sin, or die and go to heaven? Persecute Jews, or persecute Muslims? Is it possible to have money and still be an ethical person? I just don’t know. Does "successful" only mean having a lot of money, or is it more closely related to loving others deeply and being deeply loved in return? Would the righteous thing to do be to just mooch off others, like Jesus would do? I wish there was some sort of guidebook for stuff like this. Not afraid to be servicey, Bailey Embry sent a letter to the editor, out-Christianing Amanda and pointing the rest of the Gentiles to some helpful references.

Scriptures like Psalm 35:27, 37:4, 3 John 2:1, Proverbs 13:22 and Luke 5:1-10 clearly state that the God of the Universe does not have a problem with individuals possessing money.
I believe he has a problem when individuals have a "wrong" relationship with money as seen in Scriptures like 1 Timothy 6:10 and Luke 16:13.

If she knows her Bible that well, imagine how diligently she’ll manage a stock portfolio! When the Jesus market goes south, sell sell sell! Or was it Hell Hell Hell? I always get those mixed up. Does it really make a difference?

[Source: K-State Collegian]

Two queers and a Catholic priest

striphe — Fri, 17 Oct 2008 05:55:57 +0000

Well. So. My playwriting class kinda disliked Laramie Project. Let’s walk through some of their issues.

First. Costumes: We agreed that everyone’s shirts looked kinda dirty. I noted that the costume designer put little logos and symbols on everyone’s grey shirts, but the thing is, the audience couldn’t really see the logos, which renders them pointless. It’s even worse when you can _kind of_ see the logos, but not clearly enough to make them out, so that they just look like dirty spots.

The uniforms and their, uhhh, uniformity, was also confusing to the class. It was confusing to me at first too. A uniform would make a speech, disappear, and another uniform would come back out. After a while I realized that the play was organized in a way that kept story arcs distinct even if characters weren’t. No one else in the class seemed to realize this. Ha ha ha, I’m more sophisticated than everyone else.

Second. Act II dragged. Yeah, they’re right with this one. After the scene with the big-ass band of angels, the other loose plot arcs felt so minor that I wasn’t even concerned with them.

Third. There was a sense that it was too preachy? In a literal sense, there were a lot of priests as characters. But my classmates were annoyed that sometimes the interviewers distracted from the monologues. Like, when talking to negative characters, the interviewers would pace and frown.

I say: so what? Were they supposed to be ‘neutral?’ And if so, why? As someone who’s done a tiny bit of journalism, my best interviews — the ones that yield the most information — are the hostile ones. Like when people feel insulted that they have to answer such a dumb question, or they feel that they’re under attack and have to articulate their positions better. But that’s all beside the point. The point is that the actors are, in fact, not journalists; they’re characters too. Their characters are _acting_ the way a gay man or woman would act confronting a haughty, adversarial religious figure. Can I get an amen?

Fourth. One student (Patrick) said he saw the Laramie Project performed, years ago, at an "International Thespians’ Conference," and that their performance "blows this one out of the water." He mentioned several times that he had been to the International Thespians Conference, from which I believe he meant to make it clear that he is a Pretentious Literary Douchebag. Every English class has one of these, and usually it’s me, but not this time I guess.

Okay, good points:

When I heard about what the play actually was — a series of monologues based on interviews — I was pretty sure it would be boring. But it’s not! Tectonic actually managed to frame some story arcs out of what information they gleaned, and they managed to make an overall story arc out of it, which was pretty rad.

The play builds a sense of "going there," of approaching something and almost arriving but not quite. Even acting out the confession feels lacking; something dire has been excised from the narrative. That something is Matthew Shepard. That, in its subtle way, is the point. He’s gone and can’t say anything, no matter how badly we want to hear from him.

I saw the dress rehearsal, obvs, and that wasn’t bad. There was a long moment, after Reggie found out she might have AIDS, when Mackenzie looked me dead in the eye. I couldn’t turn away, and she just wouldn’t. After a few moments I felt something strange. I….I think some dust got in my eye. Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, I thought her performance would have been powerful and moving without that eye contact. But with it, I felt, just for a moment, that there might actually be more to life than just martinis, girls, and guns, that I have a higher purpose, and that maybe I should live to love more deeply and fully. Then her scene was over and I had a cigarette and was back to normal. THAT WAS A CLOSE CALL.

Before I saw the second performance, the Grey Lady told me she found out how to really make a better emotional connection with her character(s). It sounded like some art-fag nonsense, but then I saw the performance a second time, and she was absolutely right! I kept hoping for her to make eye contact with me, but it’s a good thing she didn’t, because then I might have, ahem, had more dust in my eye. People would have gotten the wrong idea.

Avoiding the expected witticism about ‘coming from down under’

striphe — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 18:07:07 +0000

Wednesday afternoon Erica Hateley presented the colloquium "’It’s Not Just Cricket’: Sexual Colonization in Woody Allen’s Match Point and Someone Else’s Wimbledon." I decided to check it out because the flyer had the word "sexual" near Erica Hateley’s name.

Although she assured us this would be a "post-feminist rant," I wondered whether this would be delivered in saucy layman’s terms, or if instead we would be playing the poststructuralist drinking game. So I sat around for a few minutes and tried to get into the groove of whatever dialect she’s going with this afternoon.

4:06 PM "ideology founded on patriarchy."

4:08 PM "patriarchal heterosexuality." Okay, it’s gonna be one of those.

4:08 PM "psychology of patriarchal capitalist culture"

4:14 PM If Karin Friggin Westman wasn’t sitting right behind me I could just IM this right to all the English majors I know and THEY could play the drinking game along with me. What’s up with that? And why is Michael Donnelly over here too? The back row is for slackers and badasses.

4:15 PM ….

4:15 PM Oh.

4:16 PM "I’m looking at her skirt, not her arse." Tee hee!

4:16 PM "heteronormative patriarchy.”

4:17 PM "It takes a lot longer to find a picture of Anna Kournikova playing tennis than it does to find her…resting."

4:19 PM "destabilize the binary gendered logic of patriarchy"

4:19 PM "scopophilic patriarchy." Okay I FORFEIT the poststructuralist drinking game. Erica wins, because the patriarchy is oppressing us faster than I can type. At this point I decided to just listen, and only use my computer to google the big words.

4:20 PM Oh dear, look at the time! Erica never notices things like that.

4:21 PM There is a "been there done that" popular discourse of feminism internalized by female tennis players. Did I type that accurately?

4:23 PM "the sexualization of tennis-playing woman"

4:24 PM "containing women w/in acceptable patriarchal limits"

4:30 PM "body spectacle:" "pornography’s portrayal of orgasm." There’s something to google.

After she had thoroughly established that tennis is a tool of colonial and sexual repression, we started watching movies.

4:40 PM Heh, Erica said "Scarlett Yohansson."

I wasn’t sure how much I liked Match Point when I actually saw it, but Erica’s analysis pointed out that the film is aware of the colonial representations embedded in its characters, and partly because of that, the mood of the film prevents us from fully sympathizing with Chris Wilton. Uhh, I think that’s what she said. There were more big words too.

4:49 PM In Wimbledon: Why did we fast fwd through the part where Kirsten Dunst is nude? Wouldn’t it be possible to undermine my own internalized scopophilic patriarchal tendencies and make Kirsten Dunst’s ass a site of agency by normalizing her apodysophilia, or would this just reinforce them? Later on, after bumming one of Erica’s Marlboro’s, I felt a little guilty about joining the "I’ll eat out Luce Irigaray" Facebook group. Then I ate out Luce Irigaray.

4:54 PM "retroactive destabilization" what?

5:03 PM Time for questions. Why are these feminized, fetishized representations of America both blonde?

[Erica’s colloquium @Wordle.net]

striphe — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 07:07:01 +0000

Tomorrow, Shane Oram’s column will be about nothing. Well, mentoring. It will probably read something like "It’s good to have a mentor, because a mentor can help you out and shit," except more condescendingly and less stylish than the way I put it. The Collegian is (surprisingly) aware of his bullshit. Copyeditor Jon Garten provided a suggestion:

Get a point!

So why does Megan Molitor let him publish his sad little sermons? We hope the reason is that she’s too busy drinking to give a shit, but we haven’t asked her yet and don’t care that much, because we’re too busy drinking to give a shit.

Tim Hadachek hates charities

striphe — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 18:11:51 +0000

We are all judged by the people we associate with, writes Tim Hadachek. Everything is a continuation of high school.

Barack Obama should not be surprised then when John McCain and Sarah Palin bring up associations from the Democratic nominee’s past. And perhaps unlike your embarrassing roommate, these connections are very pertinent to today’s world.

During the 1960s and ‘70s, at the height of the anti-Vietnam War movement, Bill Ayers was a founding member of the radical group known as the Weather Underground.

Over a period of several years, Ayers and his fellow conspirators conducted various acts of domestic terrorism, the most notable of which were the bombings of the U.S. Capitol and the Pentagon.

Fast forward to 1995. Ayers held a reception at his home for a little-known politician, Barack Obama. Later, Ayers and Obama would serve together on boards for two nonprofit organizations.

What’s interesting is that the actual nonprofit work is not as important as forty-year-old crimes committed by one person on the board. Tim Hadachek doesn’t think charity work is important.

Obama, of course, has denounced his backer’s actions, pointing out, correctly, that he was 8 years old when the terrorist acts were taking place. But he certainly knew of Ayers’ past when he worked with him as an adult.

Obama’s supporters have been outraged at what they see as unfair “guilt by association” attacks.

As an Obama supporter, I have no problem with "guilt by association" attacks. That way I can remind you that Charles Keating, a personal friend of John McCain, bribed McCain to avoid punitative measures during the S&L scandal and helped screw taxpayers out of a lot of cash. Why isn’t this being played up?

Obama is trying to avoid running a negative campaign, a campaign that relies on mudslinging to distract from things like the economy, foreign policy, etc. This is necessary because:
He’s being held to a much higher standard than McCain. When a Republican distorts situations and exercises doublethink to prove an obviously spurious (lol “provocative”) point, nobody’s surprised.

If we want to go the “guilt by association” route, we could also play up the fact that Cindy McCain stole drugs from her own charity and was investigated by the DEA. But Tim Hadachek is willing to overlook that; clearly he doesn’t place much value on nonprofit work anyway.

[Source: K-State Collegian]

White supremacist grad student has big words, not afraid to use them

striphe — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 02:40:53 +0000

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]

See what they did there?

striphe — Tue, 14 Oct 2008 01:26:16 +0000

It’s almost too easy to misread Jon Garten’s headline, “Moran says Kansas economy still strong despite financial crisis.” We wondered whether it was an oversight or unintentional awesome, but some exposition near the end of the article cleared things up for us:

Moran said he’s skeptical of the Bush administration’s bailout plan. A lot of those feelings stem back to the Bush administration’s decision to invade Iraq.

Before the war, Moran said then National Security Adviser Condoleezza Rice told him the reasons for an invasion. Moran said he was given the impression that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction and chemical and biological weapons and was close to acquiring a nuclear weapon.

They’re all morans.

[K-State Collegian]

Cop shows are not appropriate for children

striphe — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 22:42:46 +0000

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]

striphe — Sun, 12 Oct 2008 02:25:14 +0000

Wednesday our somewhat-beloved Saucy Aussie will present "It’s Not Just Cricket: Sexual Colonization in the movies Wimbledon and Match Point deconstructed in a silly accent." Dr. Aussie promises to deliver a "post-feminist rant," and is terrified that the audience will jump down her throat afterwards, colonizing her in a decidedly unsexual way. As a fan of both sexual colonization and post-feminist rants, I think all of you should come by and listen! ECS 017 (I think) at 4 pm! Take the piss out of her by shouting "struth" when you can’t understand what she’s saying! Then throw an egg at her! Afterwards we can all go get drunk on SoCo or something.

Without A Tooth

striphe — Sun, 12 Oct 2008 01:33:33 +0000

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.

“I feel it in my loins”

striphe — Sun, 05 Oct 2008 06:34:33 +0000

When the Claremont Trio — a violinist, a cellist and a pianist — played in McCain Friday night, I faced a special kind of angst: that of writing about musicians without actually knowing anything about music. Fortunately, though, an Expert Vibrato Analyst came along to help clarify the finer points of…well, vibrato and shit. Now we know what a "movement" is! Sort of.

The first piece, Haydn’s Trio in G major, was… well, I don’t remember much of it. The second piece was more modern; Schoenberg’s "Cafe Music." It was faux jazzy; it sounded like a dude in a suit sneaking through dark hallways. I kinda liked it but kinda also thought it felt like a cheap trick? Added just to please the youngs in attendance. The Expert Vibrato Analyst articulated the misgivings perfectly: when jazz isn’t performed by tried and true hep cats, it just sounds funny.

We both enjoyed the third piece: Antonín Dvorák’s Trio in F minor. And the encore — Gallop, the fifth movement of George Bizet’s composition, "Children’s Game" — was an excellent follow up, being that it was (1) upbeat, and (2) short.

Asking people about the music was awesome, as those who weren’t completely comfortable talking about chamber music struggled to sound like they were. "They’re definitely virtuosos," said one kid, adding that he enjoys pieces when they’re "played in minor keys" (ha ha ha, I have no idea WTF that means. I’m dumb. My biggest reason for attending was that the performers are hot). After the show I caught up with Professor AND Mrs. Donald Hedrick: "The playful virtuosity of the encore was fun." He added that he "liked the Dvorák the best. It speaks to my Slavik spirit. It reminds me of Prague (??)," he said (I caught him off guard). Professor Donnelly and his satanic eyebrows hit the nail on the head: "Chamber music scares people."

[Claremont On Tour]

Little Green Pig

striphe — Fri, 03 Oct 2008 23:09:00 +0000

The Grey Lady tipped me off about a clandestine performance of The Pillow Man in K-State’s Purple Masque Theatre two weeks ago. Having no idea what the hell it was, of course I decided to check it out that very night.

I donated three bucks and picked up an orange program. Act 1: 80 MINUTES!!?? What if I get hungry? A child’s voice over a loudspeaker warned the audience, "no texting, you crap-bags." Ooh kay.

The play starts off with an interrogation; one one smartass good cop (Ariel), one toughguy bad cop (Tupolski), and the detainee. The dialogue in this interrogation scene, though snappy and upbeat with yummy the Orwellian overtones (it takes a long time before we find out why Katurian — a short story author — is being detained in the first place), moves along very slowly .

By and by, we find out that the mousey author has a dark past. In his childhood, he and a pillow were involved in two deaths. As a man, his short stories reflect on and play with the gruesome events of his yesteryears, most notably a story he wrote called, "The Pillow Man," from which the production takes its name. He re-relates the tale while locked in a cell with his brother, who has brain damage stemming from a rough childhood. You see the room they’re kept in, with nothing but the bed and the pillow, and you know what’s coming eventually, and then you realize why, exactly, that would have to happen, and who, exactly did what to whom. Kansans seemed to be fond of literature and theatrical works that involve magical gimps. I wasn’t so keen on that, so once I realized what was inevitable and who the real Pillow Man was, my attention started to wander.

Act II wrapped everything up nicely. The detectives, both aggressive and overconfident, started not only to show their chinks but also, propelled by the intuition of Detective Toughguy (who I remember as Tybalt from Romeo & Juliet), caught on, with surprising insight to the full story behind everything. The development of this final interview retains the crisp arrogance of the first one, but plot developments move along quickly enough that the entire play didn’t even feel like 2 1/2 hours. And then, of course, Katurian died. End.

"I need a hug," someone in the audience said. Overhearing it, I immediately turned to the Hipster Elf. "I don’t know about you, but I need a drink."

Big-ass band of angels

striphe — Thu, 02 Oct 2008 18:54:38 +0000

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]

Ha ha ha. But seriously, we like Whitney.

striphe — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 21:34:17 +0000

Overheard in the newsroom:

Reporter: "You can tell which of these things on the calendar was written by Hodgin and which was written by Brisendine, because they both have such different handwriting."

Copyeditor: "They both have really bad handwriting!"
Reporter: "But Brisendine’s is so much better!"

Afterwards we snuck up to the calendar to verify what we’d just heard. Everything was written in Japanese. It looked like a big game of Kanji-Sudoku. I’m pretty sure Whitney was winning.

Chapel of your memories

striphe — Mon, 29 Sep 2008 02:52:42 +0000

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.

Crackcrackcrackcrackcrackcrackcrack

striphe — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 23:57:50 +0000

Sometimes I think you just don’t want to be happy.

A strange intimacy

striphe — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 23:10:40 +0000

So there was this Visiting Writer thingie on Friday, and lo, it appeared in the local rag with a few copyediting inaccuracies, but there it is.

What struck me at Sugi Ganeshananthan’s reading was that, although the story was not particularly suspenseful, everyone in the audience was on the edge of their seats, quiet as housecats. I sat at the back of the room so I could pass notes to the well-dressed and cutely accessorized Hipster Elf, and the only thing that came to mind is ’someone should belch.’

I wrote that down and showed her — I had to be very careful because with no one else fidgeting in their seats and checking the clock I couldn’t just conceal my own fidgeting in the general shuffle. After that I decided to just sit back and listen.

Sugi’s prose was clear and brief, expressing feeling beautifully without making us wade through overbearing complexity. After the reading, someone asked her about the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.

"It’s nice to be in a place where you can say ‘I’m a writer’ and not have people ask you ‘what have you written that I might have read?’"

I mouse-ishly tried to get the commentariat’s reaction.

"You can interview me," said Tanya Gonzalez, bouncing down the hall on her way out. "It was fabulous!"

I guess that says it all.

Since I was trying to commit as many journalistic ethical violations as possible, I took the Hipster Elf with me to the Cathouse to interview sources. The English department and the Visiting Writer were hanging out, in a circle, by the window.

I sat around, trying to overhear and sift through ambient conversation; Saucy Aussie, with her typical aussome, made a boo-boo and dug around in her bag for a bandage (she apparently carries around a first-aid kit everywhere? And weeps at the sight of her own blood); Sean discussed something lofty and English-ey with the Visiting Writer; Jen was being an exceptionally charming and cogent drunk.

"The way that she [Sugi] played with the theme of hurt reminded me of Midnight’s Children," she said. That was the second time in as many days an English major recommended that book to me. Everything is foreshadowing.

I also spoke to the Visiting Writer herself, which felt weird strange because she’s a real journalist and I’m, well, me. And besides the tender, intimate prose, "Love Marriage" — which I have not read — apparently has something important to say about the play of good and evil in a post-9/11 world.

"There is an idea of who is ‘good’ and who is ‘bad,’ but the truth is not always obvious," Sugi said. "There are so many different ways to be wrong and so many different ways to be right. The people who probably think of themselves as good, with a slight turn of their lives — maybe five degrees west, could probably be bad." And with that, the conflict between human and Cylon takes another angle. Nerd.

Anyway. Read "Love Marriage." Go ahead and buy it and then I’ll borrow it from you.

[K-State Collegian]

Collegian rats out last untapped market to corporate America

striphe — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 02:54:01 +0000

In some issue of the Collegian last week, Frank Male penned a beautiful profile of a tiny Alaskan town.

This Hope is nestled in the wilderness of the Kenai Peninsula of Alaska, south of Anchorage. Hope has a population of only 137, according to the last Census. It isn’t even incorporated, but might is measured in more ways than size.

I’ve been told that my small penis jokes are obvious and tiresome.

In this quiet town, the median income is roughly one half of the national average, and more than half the men earn nothing. The McDonald’s revolution passed the town over, so you won’t see any chain restaurants. This is not a rich town, a well-known town or a well-placed town. It is, however, an independent town.

The library is staffed completely by unpaid volunteers and leases its building – which was built as a schoolhouse in 1938 – for $1 per year. Operating costs are mostly covered by private donations, a small gift shop and a used book store, all staffed by unpaid volunteers. The school donates its old computers to the library.

Having spent some time in the working world, I can’t tell you how great it would be if, instead of lazy wage-slaves, our streets were cleaned and our food was served and our papers were filed "completely by unpaid volunteers." Especially if the volunteers are black!

Alaska is known for its rugged individualism and libertarian streak. I think Hope exemplifies this by running a public library as what is basically a private charity.

Most of all, though, I enjoy the people. This little town founded on the basic precept of capitalism - get quick rich by hitting gold - has avoided the fate of so many other gold rush towns and continues to survive with a tourism trade.

A world of Hopes would be a better world indeed.

Hope is small for a reason (multiple entendre!). Imagine trying to run New York City by covering operating costs with private donations. People might even try to buy their way into positions of authority! Churches would manage the public school curriculum. Organized crime would own the police. Visa would own everyone else.

[Source: K-State Collegian]

Collegian: how to end global conflict through global conflict

striphe — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 01:41:41 +0000

Since Iran is a country that has not waged an aggressive war since 1785 and has no air force to speak of, the threat to the world’s only superpower — half a planet away — is clear and present. We simply can’t ignore this any longer, according to Nick A. Wilson, writing at the Collegian.

In a world wrought with global conflict, it is important to make haste in ending all threats of nuclear proportion. The United States has been quite contradictory in terms of its nuclear disarmament. Therefore, it would not be credible to use information from the U.S. government for unbiased intelligence.

Does Iran have nukes? Does Iran not have nukes? Who’s to say, really? What does it even matter? We can sit down and do "research" or even "negotiate," but who has time for that?

With the rapid expansion to the nuclear development in Iran, the U.N. Security Council should take immediate action to do all that is possible to ensure safety to the public abroad.

If the use of soft power continues to produce negative results, military action must be taken to some extent.

Blackwater’s quarterly gains must be sluggish lately. It’s about time to break into a new market.

[Source: K-State Collegian]

Collegian: The floods of God’s vengeance have been withheld; but your guilt in the mean time is constantly increasing

striphe — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 01:15:58 +0000

Okay, not really. But. whether you’re for religion or against it, at some point you just have to come to terms with it. Mark Erbacher, noticing that the institution has come under assault in recent years — perhaps unfairly? — put forth his defense of religion, giving me a chance to heartily keep up the heathen assault.

According to Erbacher, in Germany, "government has realized that religion is not something to be feared but rather to be embraced, if for no other reason than the amazing things a faith-based group can do for a community." Ha ha ha ha soap made of Jews.

Religion has been given a bad rap in the U.S., but we should take a moment to consider that by its own nature, religion cannot be a bad thing. It is an absolute moral good that brings us together.

A personal Jesus can justify anything. Religion does not "get" a bad rap; it has earned it by empowering self-righteous hypocrites who believe, unquestioningly, that their own values are "absolute moral goods." You can tell when you’ve created God in your own image when it turns out he hates all the same people you do.

As Mahatma Gandhi said, “As soon as we lose the moral basis, we cease to be religious. There is no such thing as religion overriding morality. Man, for instance, cannot be untruthful, cruel or incontinent and claim to have God on his side” [ed. note: unless WMDs are at stake].

In trying to end on this laughably false note of hope for true believers or whatever, Erbacher leaves me unconvinced. This essay just doesn’t have the fiery, brimstoney awesome that would really help me make up my mind.

"The bow of God’s wrath is bent, and the arrow made ready on the string, and justice bends the arrow at your heart, and strains the bow, and it is nothing but the mere pleasure of God, and that of an angry God, without any promise or obligation at all, that keeps the arrow one moment from being made drunk with your blood."

Okay. Now I’m convinced.

[source: K-State Collegian, Anne Lamott at Salon, Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God]

Collegian: You kids be good

striphe — Fri, 19 Sep 2008 04:42:00 +0000

In today’s Collegian, Shane Oram offered readers advice on….uh, something, I think. Let’s try and figure this out.

In this outpouring of noise we call college, it is crucial to keep your goals and priorities as your daily focal point.
Why did you come to K-State? For most of us, it was probably for the scholarly atmosphere and academia. But on a deeper level, the reason why becomes a little harder to identify.
In my own experience, it was my chance to become who I have always wanted to be. The collegiate lifestyle provides resources to develop mentally, socially, professionally and spiritually.

Where is this going?

Many students are most concerned about the social scene, and it is a large part of the experience. Whether it concerns long talks that carry on well past midnight with your closest friends or a Friday night out with the gang, our relationships formed now will prove to be the most memorable part of our tenures.
Are your actions reflecting who you want to be? Does the world see you as the person you think you are becoming? Unfortunately, only a small portion of us can reply affirmatively.
Going about our daily routine, it is hard to comprehend how quickly our minor decisions equate our habits. At the time, most of our choices seem like they are the right and natural answer, sometimes even the only answer.
Are they good solutions, or do they create more problems? Do they lead you on a path of righteousness?

The article ends sort of like No Country for Old Men, and I can’t believe I read that far. What is this even about? It’s like I tried to sneak by a geezer, asleep in his rocking chair, but I made a noise that woke him up and then he started sounding off with condescending advice about how to load your gun or minding your manners at the table. Then he takes his meds and goes right back to sleep.

[Source: K-State Collegian]

Business as usual

striphe — Fri, 19 Sep 2008 04:17:37 +0000

It’s been noted, in the past, that this sometimes turns "kinda ragey." Well. I was willing to give the Collegian opinion column the benefit of the doubt, but, well, they really do suck.

“Fairness” should become the official motto for the Democratic Party. In the official party platform found on their Web site, the words “fair” and “fairness” appear 35 times, compared to the words “free” and “freedom,” which appear only 28 times.

Did Tim Hadachek actually read the Democrats’ platform, or did he just press CTRL+F until Safari gave him a "Safari has finished searching this document" popup window? Which do you think it was?

Hadachek implies by negation, of course, that the Republican Party is the party that represents Freedom. I’d be inclined to believe this if I pathologically forget that Republicans have repeatedly tried to assault our civil liberties, treating the Bill of Rights like a naggy voicemail message from your mom. If you ask me, it’s more like the Bill of Lefts. Ha ha, I tried to coin a new phrase and it came off dorky. I suck.

Take for example the party’s position on the energy industry. Like a baseball team benching their best home-run hitter in favor of the untested rookie, Democrats want to hinder the largest contributors to our economy — the oil companies — forcing them to invest in unproven and inefficient alternative sources.

Fuck innovation. Hadachek wants us to stick with oil FOREVER. It’s the least we could do; energy companies like Enron have been so kind to us. And it’s not like we’ll ever run out of oil.

This is like the fair-trade policy mentioned in the Democratic platform and by candidates like Sen. Barack Obama, as found on his Web site. The Fair Trade Federation lists its main tenet as “setting a minimum floor price for producers around the world.”

In practice, this creates an artificial market in which small foreign farmers receive extra money for producing crops like coffee, that they aren’t very good at growing.

Fuck small foreign farmers! We’d rather be ripped off by large American organizations! We’d rather let Dick Cheney’s cronies at Halliburton pocket taxpayer cash in the name of the War On Terror! McCain/Palin 08!

Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi, D-Calif., favors a return of the “Fairness Doctrine,” which, until 1987, forced radio broadcasters to provide balanced viewpoints on controversial issues.

Today, as conservative talk-show hosts dominate the airwaves, Democrats say it isn’t “fair” that there aren’t more liberal points of view. But liberal hosts have the same opportunities as conservative ones; it’s only their small audiences that keep advertisers from supporting their programs.

Hadachek makes no gesture toward addressing the substance of the complaints against conservative talking heads in the media: that they use fearmongering and rely on pandering to the prejudices of uneducated people in order to get ratings, in lieu of promoting intelligent debate, and that this is actually damaging to the listeners but they listen to it the same way people gorge on junk food. Hadachek’s logic is that as long as they’re popular, they must be right (see what I did there). That’s because political discourse is a commodity and nothing more.

An entire society based around fairness has been tried in the past — it’s more commonly known as communism. Communism was like one big T-ball game; everybody was guaranteed a spot on the team, but no one ever improved, because the ball was just sitting there on a stick.

There it is: to neocons, fairness = communism. Hadachek blatantly ignores the more obvious connotation: justice. The concept probably didn’t enter his mind!

This cartoon ran with the editorial:

It’s supposed to represent Democrats. I think it kinda looks more like Hadachek: a braying, uninsightful jackass.

[Source: K-State Collegian]

I thought Tim Hadachek was only kidding

striphe — Fri, 19 Sep 2008 03:39:21 +0000

I know this is a week old. Frankly, the premise of "Palin is a perfect, moderate choice for McCain" was so laughable I was sure Tim Hadachek was kidding. And in reading it, there are so many contradictions that, well, draw your own conclusions:

The Democracts, of course, are beside themselves. How could someone who has only been governor for two years be the running mate? She has no foreign policy experience, they said. David Axelrod, Barack Obama’s campaign manager told Fox News, "All she’s done is read a couple of speeches."

Doesn’t this sound familiar? Weren’t these the same criticisms of Obama just a few years ago?

What’s "a few years" of experience, right? What does running a national campaign mean? The same as reading a couple of speeches, right? Right?

McCain’s choice of Palin is certainly a gamble. His main argument against Obama — that he isn’t experienced enough to be president — was slowly giving him traction in the polls, and the choice of Palin undermines that message.

He’s been getting more experience as this unending campaign plods along. He’s composed himself with more grace under fire than any other candidate, and has run a good campaign without flinging baseless slander. Wait! I guess that really does show inexperience.

But McCain was in a jam with his VP choice. He could either pick a more moderate candidate, like Independent Joe Lieberman…or he could pick a more conservative candidate who would please the right wing of the party…

In Palin, McCain found a candidate who could do both. Her conservative stances on issues like abortion, gun control, and energy make her the darling of the conservative base.

What does "moderate" mean to you?

At the Republican convention she said, "I took on the old politics as usual in Juneau. I stood up to the special interests, the lobbyists, big oil companies, and the good ol’ boys."

I think she was lying.

Both polls and fundraising show that McCain has made the right choice. A Gallup poll released early this week showed McCain-Palin up by 10 percent over Obama-Biden among likely voters.

Unrelated to my original thesis: what do these polls really mean? What are they measuring? Why do we trust them? Who are these people doing the polling? Have they ever polled you? They’ve never polled me.

[Source: K-State Collegian, Reuters]

Guess I don’t need a laptop any more

striphe — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 21:26:14 +0000

A couple of weeks ago, when the weather here was a bit danker and colder, Cherry took me to the junky thrift store by the highway so I could get an actual jacket.

While we looked around we came across an old typewriter. Whenever I see these things I get this vision of myself; I’m chain-smoking at a desk, wearing slacks, a white shirt, suspenders, and a visor that has a piece of paper sticking out of the side. The paper says "Press." I’m clack-clack-clacking at a monstrous Smith-Corona when the boss walks in. The typewriter dings; I whip the paper off the roll and present it to him. "Here’s your exclusive!" Then I sit back down and reach for the fifth of bourbon in my desk.

That typewriter didn’t work. But there was another one!

Cherry saw the crazed old-timey look on my face and bought it for me — a belated birthday gift.

"Your new ROYAL portable combines precision workmanship, found only on the finest office typewriter, with sparkling new features that make it the most modern and durable portable typewriter in the world. It’s truly an office typewriter in portable size."
– (C) 1953 by Royal Typewriter Company, Inc.

Typing is surprisingly quiet. If you strike two letters at once the keys get stuck.

Resting it comfortably on the desk is a simple matter of unscrewing it from brackets on the bottom of the case and hefting the thing out. This is before the Age of Plastic; the cast iron renders it hackerproof. Suck on that, Macbook Air.

Every product, ever, can get you laid

striphe — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 20:18:46 +0000

Whenever you go to the mall, you should just buy condoms along with everything; that gaudy purse, those shoes, that snazzy Sprint cellphone, those jeans. Especially if they’re Levi’s. That brand is just WAY TOO SEXY, according to Corene Brisendine.

On a scale of inappropriateness, sex in advertising has reached an all-time high.

At the movie theater or on prime-time television, consumers can watch a Levi’s Jeans commercial in horror.

The girl on screen appears to be between 12 and 14. She unbuttons her jeans and encourages a boy to do the same in an attempt to get him to do something he is not sure about.

It promotes not only teen sex but also the ideology that young girls must aggressively seek sex to be popular or liked by boys. The popularity this type of behavior promotes is not the type young women should be seeking.

Corene sounds like a lot of fun at parties.

Girls who behave in this manner will never find boys who like them for more than sex or who want to be with them for any length of time [ed. Note: FIND THE RIGHT BOY!!]. Advertisers are absolutely wrong for promoting it.

I’d say advertisers have done a good job. I own 700 Snorg Tees. Thanks, by the way, for "promoting" the "ideology" that all boys are always predatory, infantile jerks.

Why must sex be painted as some sort of automatic loss for girls? Isn’t it possible for a girl to get something out of it too? Is it possible for her to indicate so, by yelling "I win I win I win!" during orgasm?

Music videos are another form of advertising that have hit an all-time high of inappropriate dress and behavior. For example, Rihanna’s song "Disturbia" was enjoyable when it first came out.

However, after watching the music video of a woman dressed in a prostitute’s outfit, complete with fishnet pantyhose and a corset, it makes me sick to hear it.

It makes you sick? It’s a woman in skimpy clothes, not a crime scene. Haven’t rap/R&B videos looked exactly like this for the last 20 years? I haven’t seen Rihanna’s, but I can’t imagine it took much work. They probably just photoshopped her head into the "Baby Got Back" video and called it a day.

This video sends the message to teenagers that women must dress and act like prostitutes to be heard and recognized. Surely women are more intelligent than this video portrays.

Do I want to be recognized just for "intelligence?" That’s hard. You have to, like, read. And solve equations. And talk a lot. Which is pretty boring. And on some level, isn’t it another form of objectification? On occasion, I kind of like to just have sex, and maybe some women do too. Is that wrong? Taking my shirt off and making sexy dance moves is a lot easier than giving an art speech.

[Source: K-State Collegian]

Professor succeeds in shameless attempt to get mentioned on this blog

striphe — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 01:48:13 +0000

Leave it to an English professor to use a high-minded subject like medieval literature as an excuse to flirt with students and fixate on sex, thus guaranteeing a captive audience.

"I’m a big geek," she said, going on to prove it by explaining that she watched the special features on her Lord of the Rings DVDs, which gave her insight into armor worn by medieval knights. Hell yeah that’s hot, and that’s not all.

Today’s topic was the lais (songs performed in 13th and 14th century Europe) written by Marie de France. What are lais usually about? Matlock explained by means of what she called a bad joke: "A lai is basically a brief romance." Actually that was an excellent joke.

One lai was about Lanval, a knight in King Arthur’s court. Depressed, Lanval went off into the forest and fell in love with a magic pixie dream girl. She loved him back and blessed him with wealth. Lanval grew generous at court, and people started to like him.

Once Lanval’s status rose among his peers, Queen Guinivere went after his nuts (and failed). Matlock made kissey noises to illustrate her point.

Later we discussed Tristan and Isolde, a timeless tale illustrating the pleasure of adulterous lovers being together. Matlock was satisfied that the movie "had pretty people." (We like when teachers take backhanded swipes at subject matter).

By the end of the class, there was more material to examine, but not enough time for it. "I skipped the part about celibacy," she said. "You can read that by yourself if you’re interested."

Did she just tell us to go masturbate? We were going to do that anyway.

Moon Festival: a bildungsroman

striphe — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 02:20:28 +0000

That is NOT the Joy Luck Club. Sunday, my roommate Hyun Wook cooked dinner downstairs in the dorm kitchen. He invited a bunch of friends, including yours truly.

He sauteed beef. Medium rare. He plunked it into a tupperware dish, where Angie sliced it up with a pair of scissors.

We picked up the bite-sized pieces with sharpened sticks, dipped them in hot red pepper paste, and enjoyed our fill.

"Sorry, no vegetable," Quan said. No problem; there was something very satisfying about stabbing at bits of meat with pointy sticks. "Yummy," I replied between bites. "Ah, this word I know! Yummy yummy!" Quan said, doing a little dance.

"Come eat, Ajoshi," Dorie said. Later I asked Hyun Wook why they call him Ajoshi. "It means ‘big brother,’" he explained. "But Korean men don’t like it."

"If you are old man and you have many young relatives, then they can call you ‘Ajoshi.’"

"So it’s like they’re calling you an old man?" He’s the same age as I am.

Dorie was ravenous. She looked at the steak like she hadn’t seen food all week. It was delicious. Wookie also cooked salmon. Then he produced another round of steak. And another round of salmon. We stabbed and wolfed it down. Then he boiled ramen.

Quan counted bowls. Not enough for everyone. She looked at me: "I guess you can use the pressure cooker." Then she did a another little dance.

She explained the reason for this dorm feast; Saturday was Mid-Autumn day in China. "Like Thanksgiving. Family have reunion. Only they eat moon cake, not roasted turkey."

Angie went upstairs for a while and came back with a bowl of dumplings. She nuked them and offered them to the rest of us. She explained that in English they would be called rice cakes, but they’re special Korean desserts.

"Is not for every day. Only holiday," she said. "Yesterday was Korean Thanksgiving."

Snow and Quan discussed this for a minute. Then they pointed at Angie. "Our mid-autumn festival, same day as you, different name."

The treats were rice dumplings with sweet paste inside; it was like a bean paste with honey. Dorie took a bite, held it in her mouth, and began to moan, wiggle, and hold her ears.

Naturally, I laughed. Quan explained why she was being silly. "In China, when people are very hot, they do like this."

When we were all finished and Angie and Quan were washing dishes together, Dorie stood in front of Hyun Wook; "Thank you very much Ajoshi," she said, smiling. Wookie rubbed her stomach. Everyone around us suddently got a WTF look on their faces. Then Dorie slapped him twice. It reminded me of GTO.

I hate the rich.

striphe — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 15:15:11 +0000

That is all.

This starts out kinda geigh, but bear with it. Or not, whatever; it’s your life.

striphe — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 01:50:01 +0000

I met Marco Lin last year at a party. Being a pretentious English major, when I got bored at parties I would often take out a notebook and scribble "observations" while coolly sipping a Red Rock.

Marco was curious about this. He’s from Taiwan and we struck up conversations in Engrish. At some point I told him I’d edit his papers whenever he needed it. Late last semester he started taking me up on that.

Saturday night he called again, so this afternoon I visited him. What I like is that every time I go there, his paper is all written out. All I’ve got to do is fix the grammar. He makes the same interesting mistakes all the time, errors that actually make sense in terms of the structure of language. For example, he will write "It’s important participating" instead of "It’s important to participate." In some languages — Spanish comes to mind — the infinitive is also used as the gerund; "Participar es importante." Or something like that. Maybe Chinese is similar that way? He also never quite knows when to use "that," which is extremely tricky. "It’s important to participate" is usually just as correct as "It’s important that you participate," which Marco might make into "It’s important you participate," which is conversational but not quite right in an academic paper.

So I fixed up a short paper for him. Afterwards he had a gift for me:

And another gift: a box of Japanese smokes. It resembles a camera:

I have nothing else to add except that Marco is awesome.

Protected: Pillow talk

striphe — Sun, 14 Sep 2008 19:01:35 +0000

What his wang size says about your relationship

striphe — Sat, 13 Sep 2008 20:29:41 +0000

Cosmo used to have this feature where they’d show a "candid" paparazzi shot of some overhyped celebrity couple out strolling along Rodeo Blvd. Cosmo would "decode" the couple’s body language, fashion style, choice of caffeinated beverage, and based on the details of that particular image in that particular instant, pronounce judgement about the entire history and nature of the couple. So like, if Ben Afleck happend to see a Ferrari rumble by and he’d think "that’s pretty kewl, but MY Ferrari’s better," Cosmo’s take would be something like "See how he’s being aloof and inattentive to J. Lo? NO WONDER they broke up."

Everyone knows that’s stupid. I know that’s stupid. My girlfriend knew it was stupid. We also both knew the article about "What his handholding style says about whatever" is stupid. Nevertheless, she recited, "if his hand is behind yours it’s a sign that he doesn’t have much invested in the relationship." Ha ha ha, I chuckled. As understanding dawned, I chuckled again, but nervously. "So wait a minute. You think that I don’t have much invested here, and that the proof of this is the way I position my hand in yours?"

"Let’s try it differently then," I said, when we got out of the car, in front of her apartment. We walked a few steps with my hand in front this time. Hands not fitting together right are terrible. "I love you, and you know why this feels weird? It’s because you’re taller." Then we went inside and had sex.

She’s not the only one who reads the glossies against her will. They’re all so sexy, with their bright colours and their fun fearless fabulous women of the month, promising to shed light on our most persistent insecurities, presented in a tone of the casual arrogance of the popular bitch in high school, and it’s supposed to come off as "confidence" and generate “mass appeal.” Jessica Ulrich analyzed this bullshit in Friday’s Collegian.

The articles that tend to be the most frustrating are the ones that propose to interpret what people really mean when they speak, suggesting we need conversation explained to us because it was not clear enough the first time around.

The only thing these articles "interpret" is that we are all insecure and stupid. Cosmo is currently running an article on "What His Down-There Grooming Says: His trimming style can hint at the kind of boyfriend he’ll turn out to be." After I read it I had to gouge my eyes out with a Sharpie. Anyone reading this blog can help me out by coming over and jamming this thing in just a little further. Please. I live in Moore Hall. Third floor.

The Internet has picked up on this trend as well — Google yields thousands of sites and discussion boards, each with its own ideas about the underlying significance of various phrases. She says, “I just don’t want to talk about it right now.” She means, “Go away — I’m still building up evidence against you.”

Well, that last part is actually true.

He says, “Yeah, that dress looks really good on you,” but means, “I’ve been sitting here watching you try them on for hours, and I’m starving.”

I say, "Yeah, that dress looks really good on you," but I mean, "Now take it off."

The lists are endless, and the translations range from funny to infuriating in their quest to enlighten us about a very generalized opposite sex.

But we cannot blame the magazines for insulting our intelligence, because they would have no cause to write these articles if not for one problem — people really don’t say what they mean.

We might hint at something or give a significant look, but how often do we just come out and say it?

Ladies, you might think you’re letting him down easy with, “I really, really like you but I’m just not ready for a relationship right now,” but if what you really mean is “I don’t feel attracted to you romantically,” isn’t it more kind to tell him the truth so he can move on?

Jessica, this is wholesome, realistic advice, but does it work in song form? I don’t think so.

On the other hand, this is pretty catchy:

Lately I have desperately pondered,
spent my nights awake and I wonder
what I could have done in another way
to make you stay
Reason will not pledge a solution
I will end up lost in confusion
I don’t care if you really care
as long as you don’t go

So I cry, I pray and I beg

Love me love me
say that you love me
fool me fool me
go on and fool me
love me love me
pretend that you love me
leave me leave me
just say that you need me

Anywho.

One thing I should mention before we rush off to speak our minds is that resolving to say what we mean doesn’t give us the freedom to say everything that crosses our minds, nor does it obligate us to answer questions we would rather not discuss.

Just because you think your friend’s corduroy jumpsuit looks like something a homeless man would wear doesn’t mean you have to say as much.

Actually that’s kind of funny, and since it’s funny, I would probably say it. But Jessica touches on an aspect of all of our social interactions that is nuanced and problematic. The truth sometimes hurts, but it doesn’t always have to. It’s one thing to be "honest;" it’s quite another to use "honesty" as an excuse to be an asshole (I’m looking at you, Fourum).

[Source: K-State Collegian]

Drinking with my Korean roommate who barely speaks English

striphe — Sat, 13 Sep 2008 08:33:32 +0000

I asked him why he doesn’t date the Chinese girl who tutors him in English. He told me he prefers girls with big chests. He called it "volume up."

A warm welcome

striphe — Sat, 13 Sep 2008 06:05:40 +0000

Those of you who actually do give feedback recently observed that in the past, we have been preoccupied with rampant homophobic binge drinking, penis size, and "poetry" about shagging and/or not shagging 21-year-olds.

All that is behind us now. We are completely sober, our penis has grown (I’m a grower!), and uh, we can cool it on the poetry for a little while. Mostly because there are important, more mature issues to focus on. One thing, in fact, has been needling us for weeks now, and the confusion from it is driving us up the fucking wall. WE HAVE TO RESOLVE THIS. Specifically: who exactly the heck is reading this blog from Lake Charles, Louisiana? Seriously. If we don’t find out, we’ll keep blogging, but we’ll feel kinda weird about it. So Lake Charles, feel free to say hi in the comments.

Collegian hunts chivalry deep into forest of modern society, returns victorious with trophy resembling rabbit

striphe — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 08:04:07 +0000

Chivalry: what exactly the hell is up with it? Any mention of it invariably takes the tone of "it’s dead" or "it’s dying." Katie Morford examined it in a feature for the Collegian.

"For me, chivalrous actions could never die out," said a K-State sophomore. "Only the definition of the acts change[s]."

True chivalry still exists on our campus, particularly in different student groups that promote it among members. The K-State chapter of FarmHouse Fraternity, founded in 1921 as an agricultural club, is known on campus for its chivalrous men.

"We emphasize that for true chivalry to occur, one must not separate the social aspect from the moral aspect," said a FarmHouse representative. "Farmhouse has established its reputation for being gentlemen as a result of its foundation in Biblical truths."

Biblical truths? Does it really take that much effort? No, according to a separate editorial that ran in the same paper (this is obviously a huge issue round these parts).

The best way to do this is pretty simple. Guys, open the door for the girl behind you on your way to the dining hall; hold the elevator for the girl racing to make it to her first class, and when the gal behind you at Wal-Mart only has her ‘10 item or less’ armful, let her jump ahead of you and your overflowing basket of Gatorade and fruit snacks. Do the little things that make life less of a hassle. It doesn’t take much effort to be polite.

Good advice. I didn’t care much, however, for the way the piece began.

Chivalry is not dead, but it is dying.

It’s sad to think about how uncommon it is, and if it keeps up at the rate it’s falling, it’ll be gone like a rabbit being chased by a couple of basset hounds. But we must not let chivalry slip away from us as easily as the terrified hare. We must work to keep chivalry alive and thriving.

Who brings this stuff up? I can’t say I’ve really ever heard a woman complain about doors not being held, etc. I’m not saying they don’t have grounds for complaint (I’m also not saying that they do, for that matter); I just can’t imagine that it’s really such a huge issue.

Rigorous "debates" over whether chivalry is "dead" or "dying" or "being chased by a couple of basset hounds" are largely just an excuse for middle-class conservative twits to fall all over each other pointing out how each guy is THE LAST IN THE WORLD to actually hold the door or pick up the check. Clearly this is proof of the deep, abiding respect with which women are cherished, especially if this mindset extends to abortion rights. Or the prosecution of rape. Or whether you guffawed when your dad called Hilary Clinton a cunt, then you repeated the "joke" to your friends.

We like to romanticize the past as being full of knightly men so gallant that all women felt empowered, held their heads high when they walked into a room (someone held the door for them), and never had to worry about intimidation, harassment, or violence. If this is not a hazy legend, if it is indeed true, why has it been so easily forgotten? Backlash to modern feminism? Okay, getting off my soapbox now so someone else can enlighten me.

[Source: K-State Collegian]

Jonathan Holden will beat you up

striphe — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 03:35:10 +0000

I’m always trying to get people to go to the English-majorey events. There’s often free snacks and you get to watch your professors show off. No one I know went to last week’s Welcome Back get-together for creative writing posers. Your bad! You missed an excellent reading by Jonathan Holden, poetry professor here as well as former Kansas Poet Laureate. One poem made Elizabeth Dodd LOL — which is always great because she’s got the loudest, merriest, chirp in all of Kansas. As well as the snazziest pants. I’m posting here, uh, without permission, so, like, don’t tell Professor Holden, because he might get mad and he’s got those really intimidating eyebrows:

Why We Bombed Haiphong
When I bought bubble gum
to get new baseball cards,
the B-52 was everywhere you looked.
In my high school yearbook
the B-52 was voted "Most Popular"
and "Most Likely to Succeed."

The B-52 wold give you the finger
from hot cars. It laid rubber,
it spit, it went around in gangs,
it got its finger wet and sneered
about it. It beat the shit
out of fairies.

I remember it used to chase
Derek Remsen around at recess
every day. Caught, he’d scream
like a girl. Then the rest
of us pitched in and hit.

His poems capture both an emotion and the details that frame the emotion in a way that’s coherent and feels natural. The other thing is the sheer power of Holden’s readings. When he recites, he gets in this groove, this beat, with a loud deep voice. Ordinarily I wouldn’t think he had that kind of energy. But he really loves every poem he recites, and brings that out with his voice.

So, that’s what everyone missed. Except me. While the siren-song of Dodd’s dulcet mirth distracted everybody, I sat right next to the table at the back and ate all the white chocolate chip cookies. And I know this is a week old, but whatever; we’ve all had people to do and things to see.

striphe — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 21:25:27 +0000

Just saw the ever-fashionable Professor Kimball right by Hale. Wearing white pants. AFTER LABOR DAY. Good heavens, don’t you guys know anything? Once you’re done with whatever mindless fluff you discuss in your department meetings, somebody should take him aside and let him know what’s what. You should do the same with Anne Longmuir. Seeing her dressed like a naughty nun? Just plain awkward, even if I was the one who requested it.

Collegian columnist still coming to terms with “electronics”

striphe — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 01:10:44 +0000

We all suck. Our lameness is undermining Western civilization. Our founding fathers would straight up leave our shit and hop on a boat for Africa if they knew how much time we spent on our iPods. There, I just wrote Shane Oram’s Collegian column.

In our society, where more people vote for “American Idol” than for the American president [ed. Note: Is it so far-fetched to imagine that people can actually do both?], it is easy to see democracy is slowly dying.

Let’s face it: we have become flat-out lazy. As long as someone else does the work, we are happy as can be. By the time the situation gets drastic enough, guess what? It is too late— no going back.

Why have we let this standard slip into this state? Laziness is a powerful foe, but the distraction of technology and a fast-paced world cannot be left out of the equation as an attribute to the downfall.

Of course we’re all sluttish, selfish, and trivial. We watch too much TV. We’re on the internet too much (presumably, we’re just using SuperPoke. Who ever heard of anybody doing research? Or reading reading national and world news online!?).

Is democracy an idea meant to be left in history books, or is it worth protecting?

All I know is our predecessors did not fight and die for cell phones and hard drives. They fought for freedom and equality. Would you??

A question central to the preservation of our great democracy. I would sit down and think about it but I just got a sexy text message from Chelsey. It will take everything I’ve got to think of a good comeback. Something fun, something to keep the mood flirty. Can you think of anything? I think Maxim has some advice for this kind of thing.

[Source: K-State Collegian]

Collegian: get off the oil companies’ backs already!

striphe — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 00:36:25 +0000

Oil companies: as evil as the sweet black gold they pump from the deep, ancient heart of our planet, or just trying to make a buck in America like the rest of us? Earlier this week, Tim Hadachek weighed in on the issue, challenging us to put down our shrill, knee-jerk griping every time gas prices creep up a couple of bucks (what do you really need that for, anyway? You’re either giving it to Big Oil or Big Farm). We should examine this in terms of the basic principles of our economic system.

Oil companies want to make as much money as possible, and this is not necessarily a bad thing.

Our economy works best when everyone is free to make as much profit as their skills, intelligence and resources will allow them, as long as it is done fairly.

So why do Democrats want to punish oil companies for living out one of the greatest American ideals?

On average, the largest oil companies make only about 9.7 percent more than they spend each year, slightly above average for an S&P 500 company. Many companies have much larger profit margins.

Google, for instance, operates with a profit margin of about 25 percent, according to CNN on April 29.

I’ve always been disgusted with the way Google and their hegemonic “algorithms” rip us all off every chance they get, then use their leverage to choke the competition. Look what’s happened now! We have to pay whatever price the free search engine cartels wanna stick us with. They’re basically the internet’s warmongering Ritalin dealers. Who among us can honestly go without Ritalin? But, again: greedy as Google is, I can’t really fault them just for trying to make a buck in America.

Adding new taxes on oil companies essentially is punishing them for making money. But basic economics tells us they should make money. They produce a commodity that is of limited supply and in high demand.

Why penalize a company that is willing to invest hundreds of billions of dollars to bring us energy?

Blaming oil companies for high gas prices is like blaming farmers for high food prices.

In the future, we will just outsource the functions of our government’s legislative branch to Exxon’s board of directors. We will outsource our judicial branch to the Mob. The only decision left for President Palin will be whether to waterboard the Liberals in a vat of boiling crude oil or to extradite them to a detention facility in Saudi Arabia, where Blackwater will sodomize them with WMDs.

[Source: K-State Collegian]

I TOTALLY need to stop hating on Erica Hateley

striphe — Sat, 06 Sep 2008 00:40:17 +0000

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.

Wellness

striphe — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 16:32:03 +0000

Having a stuffy head and a sore throat actually carries an unforeseen health benefit: I can’t smoke. When I get better, of course I’ll start up again, but whatever I do will not be nearly as bad as that time I was chomping down a pack a day (right before I got sick). Come to think of it, I could even actually not smoke any more at all! Meh; who am I kidding. It’s 11:30 in the morning and I’ve already got a drink in my right hand. What, exactly, is supposed to go in the left? Before you answer, keep in mind that sometimes a cigar is not a penis.

19th-century poem forces professor to face a harsh truth about Literature

striphe — Sat, 30 Aug 2008 02:58:44 +0000

In American (Literature) Survey, Tim Dayton walked us through Emma Lazarus’ famous poem, "The New Colossus."

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

Yeah, sure, it’s got that last part we all know, but I won’t even pretend like I would recognize anything about the first bit before today. Dayton understands how it goes. "Now you’ve seen the whole thing. You can feel smug about it," he said. "Unless you feel that way all the time." Zing! It’s like he read my horoscope.

Anyway. English majors can skip this next bit:

It’s a Petrarchan (Italian) sonnet, as opposed to a Shakespearian (English) sonnet. What makes it Petrarchan is the "8/6" structure. The first eight lines (an octave) set up an issue, which is reconciled in the last six lines (a sestet). There is a rhyme scheme. The sestet follows a pattern of either "cdcdcd" or cdecde." The octave’s pattern goes "abbaabba." See that? ABBA. Twice.

"To this day we are haunted by that band that bears this name," Dayton said.

"In all my years of teaching this course, I never thought I would be confronted by such a horrid reality."

The lesson plan looks like my blog

striphe — Sat, 30 Aug 2008 02:25:54 +0000

When discussing how we can get a feel for ancient Celtic culture, one student at the front of the Thursday morning’s British Survey I class remarked that "in those days they had a magical world view."

Professor Matlock tactfully compared that believing in some dude up on his cross or whatever, just to show that people really haven’t changed so much since then.

She showed us a slide of a Lindisfarne Gospel. It was covered with red velvet, and gems were attached all along the border. It was magnificent. The process of making it; preparing the paper and the material that covered it, obtaining the red dye from a special beetle in another country, meticulously copying the Word of God onto parchment (by daylight only); "this is a life’s work," she said.

"How does this function as a tool of conversion," she posed. If you’re some Anglo warrior, and you can’t read or write, and you see this book, what do you think of this religion?"

After a brief silence, another front-row student chimed in. "That religion’s awesome."

"That’s a little facile," Matlock swiped, "but yeah, you’d probably think that."

It looks like half of the discussion will be the trading of light barbs at each other, like I imagine WASP-ey college professors do whenever they get together. It sounds fun, but it’s definitely much easier when everyone’s drunk. At 9:30 in the morning, that should be doable as long as I make sure to wake up extra early for, uh, breakfast.

Well, this is still going on

striphe — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 20:53:08 +0000

In yesterday’s Collegian, Tim Hadachek published a bold, crushing, trenchant takedown of Kansas Gov. Kathleen Sebelius’ career. The article was buffeted by information meticulously compiled from mounds of public documents through weeks of investigation. Just kidding. Hadachek was totally blowing smoke out of his ass.

"Sebelius was an early supporter of Sen. Barack Obama, endorsing his candidacy in January. Since then, our governor has made stops across the nation on behalf of the Democratic nominee.

"The governor should be reminded that she already has a job, one that doesn’t end for two more years. Her tenure in our state isn’t an extended job application for team Obama. This sort of opportunism is hardly surprising though, as Sebelius has been a politician her whole life.

"Sebelius has even used important issues to bolster her résumé. Under the guise of saving the environment, the governor vetoed legislation three times that would have allowed power plants to be built in western Kansas.

"These plants would have brought hundreds of jobs, helped the state’s sagging economy and increased our energy supply. Sebelius’ decision was hailed by national environmentalist groups and bolstered her reputation among Democrats. Our environment needs to be protected, but it doesn’t have to come at the cost of sacrificing our economy and shouldn’t be used as a tool for advancing a politician’s career.

Hadachek’s article uses 600 words to point out that Sebelius (1) is a Democrat who – wait for it — does things to promote other Democrats, (2) spends too much time on the runways of London and Paris showing off her sexy platform to the world to have any time left for Kansas residents, and (3) single-handedly keeps a nationwide recession going on the the strength of her ambition.

I challenge anyone to name a single governor who does not work to promote the party to which he or she belongs. And not that I particularly care about the environment in Kansas, but I’ve never heard anything about the state being in some huge energy crunch that they had to have these plants. How much ya wanna bet that the push for these power plants came from a large corporation AND NOT a coalition of middle-class citizens demanding more energy and more jobs?

Sure, I could come up with any number of arguments to refute everything else in Hadachek’s piece, but I’m lazy. Suffice it to say that his article is full of shit and Republicans suck. All I’ve seen them offer here is a church on every dirt road and a gun in every shopping mall. That and an end to the scourge of illegal immigration. "That right there should do wonders for the economy! They ruin our businesses by swamping us with pesos."

[Source: K-State Collegian]

I made fun of a famous piece of art as though it was a tabloid celebrity photo. That’s the highlight of my day.

striphe — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 22:23:35 +0000

The other day I spoke with my Playwriting professor over email. She seemed really laid back:

Because there was a disconnect with the scheduling of the class, the bookstore didn’t order books. I think you can probably get them cheaper through Amazon.com. And I think you can probably get a used copy of The Crucible at The Dusty Bookshelf (I think I may even have seen a copy of Playwriting: Formula to Form there this summer).

We are getting started a bit late, so just bring yourself t class and we’ll start from there!

Sally

Based on that, I assumed my first day of class would be awesome. She did not disappoint.

I trudged up to Nichols 311 and sat down. "Don’t unpack," she cheerfully warned. "We’ll be staying here for the next five minutes, then moving to a better room (It’s debatable whether the Purple Masque Theatre is "better than" anything, but whatever)."

"I know," she sympathized, "if you can find this place in Nichols, you should be able to stay, right?"

No kidding. This is what the lobby looks like:

"Sometimes we get computer nerds in here (the computer science department dominates like fifty floors of this building) and they’re like, ‘Oh no!’"

"And I bet they get the same," she continued. " Theater students, stumbling around confused, with their pink hair."

After five minutes we made our way to the Theatre. The whole time I kept feeling like there was a mosquito somewhere on my left. Judging by the decor, a mosquito explanation is actually more likely than the usual "my glasses are crusted over with blood and mucous." I kept kind of halfway looking over while trying to pay attention to Professor Bailey. Just to get our minds in gear for our homework assignment, she showed a picture and asked us "What would this person say?"

"I never sleep," I whispered at Cherry, who’s also taking the class.* Cherry thinks she’s famous because she has big hair. She did actually recognize the image (I didn’t): La Marquise Casati by Man Ray. If anyone picked this photo, the most suitable dialogue would probably just be lyrics to "Worst Pies in London."

My homework is to write a monologue based on this photo of Patricia Arquette (I only know who it is because it said so on the back):

At last I gave up on ignoring the mosquito and tried to study it for a while.

Oh. It looks like it’s just an oval of light reflected off the oscillating fan. And there’s hardly any blood on my glasses at all.

*Of course we are all TOTALLY psyched about this.

Crisis leads to opportunity

striphe — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 20:56:46 +0000

Last year the campus was gripped by a shortage of smug blonde rich girls. Brave student leaders immediately rolled up their sleeves and got to work on the greatest crisis of our age.

The efforts of the Greek Affairs employees, students and chapter advisers have not gone in vain. The recent changes they made to improve sorority recruitment resulted in an increase in retention, as well as time and money saved for students, staff and volunteers involved in the Sorority Recruitment Week.
“Recruitment went excellently,” said Shawn Eagleburger, assistant director for Greek Affairs. “We started and finished with more women than we ever have at K-State.” [ed. note: Heh.]
Eagleburger, who is also the primary sorority adviser, said he was impressed with the success of Recruitment Week, which took place August 17-21. Eagleburger and other staff and students changed a few aspects of the week to make it more beneficial, cheaper and less stressful for all those involved, he said.
At the end of the week, the sororities were able to offer 525 women membership and retained 86 percent of the women throughout the process, he said.

I live at Zeta Zeta Zeta Zeta Zeta Beta Theta house, the yacht aficionado frat. All 525 of you are invited to my kegger. Right now.

[Source: Deborah Muhwezi, K-State Collegian]

Old-timer gives city piece of his mind

striphe — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 18:22:23 +0000

The Manhattan Board of Commissioners voted on that smoking ban. They chose to spite me and my prediction by rejecting the ban, but I’m not taking it personally. Justin Nutter broke it down for us in the Collegian.

The commission gathered for a special meeting at 7 p.m. Tuesday to discuss the ordinance. City Attorney Bill Frost opened the meeting by discussing the possible outcomes.
“We essentially have one of two options,” Frost said. “We can elect to pass the ordinance as it was submitted, or we can pass a resolution to submit the ordinance to a vote on the Nov. 4 ballot.”
Frost said the ordinance did not appear to contain any legal issues in its presented form.
“From what we can tell, there are no constitutional concerns with the ordinance the way it was proposed,” he said.

Umm, parliamentary procedure? Servicey, I guess. But it gets better. After local resident Stan Watt outlined the bill to the Commissioners, Manhattanite Dee Ross expressed disapproval of the proposal.

“How dare you look a soldier or veteran in the face and tell him thank you for his service to this country,” Ross said. “When you say the Pledge of Allegiance, do you forget to say ‘With liberty and justice for all?’” Ross appeared to become increasingly upset as he spoke, and he ended with a gesture that sent the audience into a buzz.
“Let me end by giving you socialist fascists the New York salute you deserve,” said Ross as he waved his middle finger in the air [ed. note: Oh snap!].
The ordinance failed in a 2-3 vote by the commissioners.

The other day I waxed romantic about how indifferent I am on this issue. But I’ve had a total change of heart. This guy is awesome. He’s basically the Marlboro Man, and I’m joining his militia. It’ll be me and Barack Obama’s white siblings, all dressed like Launch Pad McQuack. During the day we’d use Dee Ross’s WWII pistols to shoot down illegal immigrants. At night we’d cook their remains over a bonfire on the prarie.

"I loooove Mexican," I’d say, wiping my sleeve across my mouth.

"Well then eat up, son," he’d chuckle. "No sissy food; no sissy portions."

[source: K-State Collegian]

“Don’t be a whale.”

striphe — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 02:33:51 +0000

We live in an age of disaffected cynism, of broken hearts, of souls begging for a way, a path, a simple truth that will lead to basic happiness. "Where is the instruction manual," we cry out, wringing our hands at the heavens.

Alyssa Reeves, in a column — nay, more than a column: a beacon of light and hope — in today’s Collegian, counselled readers in love to remember the true purpose of relationships.

As a follower of Christ, I turn to the one who created relationships. The Bible says in Lamentations 3:40, “Let us examine our ways and test them, and let us return to the Lord.”

The better we understand how something is designed to work, the less we will try to make it something it’s not. Have you ever tried cooking eggs in a toaster? The toaster was not designed to cook eggs.

Exactly. Have you ever try to make love to a toaster? I am so not doing that again. It never called me back. Jerk.

The most common misconception about relationships is that a person should find a soul mate to “complete” him or her. The problem is, this turns into spiritual idolatry.

We are to find fulfillment and purpose in God. Our spouse will fail as our “god.” No person can live up to such expectations.

Instead of finding the right person, falling in love and fixing our lives around this person for our future fulfillment, God’s design for relationships is to become the right person by doing what God does. This includes walking in love, fixing our hope on God and seeking to please him with our relationships.

I went to Christian schools growing up, and this kind of vague condescension, cookie-cuttering us as it does into the preacher’s superficial version of a Model Family Member In Christ while shaming us into silence when our individual hearts had individual concerns born of individual passions; this was their advice for everything. Along with "don’t ever masturbate."

[Source: K-State Collegian]

D’oh!

striphe — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 07:40:28 +0000

Putnam, for me, is supposed to be temporary, but apparently everyplace else is filled to capacity. I talked to Housing this afternoon and they’re still processing cancelled contracts and adjusting for students who didn’t show up this semester. So there’s still hope as far as getting a place where I can prance around naked and sip foofy cocktails far from society’s harsh judgements.

Road rage

striphe — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 07:17:35 +0000

As I was on Claflin this afternoon, walking back home from the Housing building (why is it way over on the very edge of campus?), for a minute, I was a few yards behind some girl. A silver 700-series Beemer drove up on the street, slowed next to the girl, and honked. Then it took off. But before it did so, I could see the driver and his passenger, two red-faced guys who looked equally fratty and rapey, bobbing back and forth in their seats with laughter.

I try hard to be smug and indifferent about this kind of behavior, but I was really offended for the girl. I mean, every single time I’ve seen a BMW on the road, the driver absolutely cannot help but act like a huge douche. It doesn’t matter what year or model he has. It could be a rusty ‘83 with the muffler dragging on the ground and the driver still cuts you off like he’s got a brand new Porsche (Porsches are allowed to cut you off. You should really just expect it). And what with all the supercharging and the sport-tuned suspension, you must feel like the absolute King of DoucheyFrattyRapeyDrivingLand.

The thing is, I never pull lame stunts like that to get attention. I don’t even tell people that I’m Knight Rider. If word got out, all my loved ones would be in danger.

Much ado, etc etc.

striphe — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 21:57:03 +0000

I used to take the bus a lot. During the wait, after I whipped out a Parliament, inevitably some grungy-looking lady would make a big production out of faux coughing and fanning the air, as though I had just pulled her into the rancid colon of a dying mastadon. And I’d think to myself, what a prick; she needs this more than I do.

Then I contritely move downwind of her and enjoy my fine tobacco product. Because while the lady is being obnoxious, so am I, which was the focus of Mark Ehrbacher’s Collegian column today. No, not me, silly. Smoking.

“The Manhattan City Commission will vote Tuesday to determine whether to enact an ordinance that will ban smoking within Manhattan city limits at any place of employment or at any public place.

“The argument made for the ban is clear and easy to make. Cigarettes are unhealthy, and has been scientifically proven. It is also a nuisance to some ~~pansyasses~~ people who do not like the smell of cigarette smoke [ed. note: try cloves!].

Years ago, California agreed, outlawing our smoking practically everyfuckingwhere. Now a related bill will be put to the vote locally Tuesday. And lo, some ado is being made about our civil liberties or whatnot. "The ban is wrong on many levels," Mark writes.

"Many restaurants have taken it upon themselves to have smoking and nonsmoking sections. If people do not want to smell smoke while they are eating, no one is forcing them to eat at this restaurant. They can choose to eat wherever they like.

“If there was a large enough outcry for a smoke-free environment, business owners would take it upon themselves to provide one to make more money.

“If a person applying for a job doesn’t like the smoke, they can apply for a job somewhere else.

Then he makes an analogy with people who work in hazmat jobs.

As a dedicated intaker of the sweet, sweet, smokey goodness, I know I should probably take Mark’s side too. But the bill will probably pass, because these bills are passing everywhere. And it’s really not much of a big deal.

In California, you can’t smoke in bars or restaurants. And so, when you’re out at a table, you’ll say "I need a fag," and you’ll go outside and light up. Then a few other people will join you, because either they are trying to fuck you, or because they also need a few minutes away from some other annoying prig at the table, or maybe some will just figure it’s best to do whatever the cool kids are doing. And it will be a nice ten-minute clique. The smokers will all feel like they’re in on a dirty secret together.

And later on in the year, when it gets cold outside, you’ll become more scraggly and determined, huddling in a circle with muddy snow under your boots. And one of you will point out that you’re all pathetic. And you’ll all laugh and take a drag, all secretly knowing that yes, you really are pathetic, which is fine because the people who stayed inside are just not much fun, which is always worse.

[Source: K-State Collegian]

Many a thing I sought

striphe — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 18:14:55 +0000

I knew, after our talk, during Friday’s annoyingly poetic thunderstorm, that eventually you would get bored or curious and click on that link (I don’t mind that anyone finds it; it’s right out there in the open on my Facebook profile). Then you would read back and see "how I really felt," how childish and petty I really was, how prostrating and selfish I really was, how arrogant and judgemental I really was, how lonely and bitter and embarrassed I really was, but mostly how drunk I really was.

So I knew you would find The Hour Badly Spent and that you would tear through all those posts, and I thought of how easy it would be to just make them private, but then why did I put them there in the first place? Also: I am extremely lazy, so much so that I can’t even be bothered with extra mouse clicks. Also: it’s not really a big deal anyway. Nobody reads this shit except for a few people to whom I’ve given obnoxious nicknames [ed. note: I’m tired of trying to amuse my readers — all 3 of them — with with creative monikers. We’ll be on a first name basis. Except for Professor Potts and Doctor Dodd, because that sounds like they teach at Hogwarts. And Doctor Hately. She went on and on about how hard she studied for that title, la dee da, and if the rest of us don’t damn well recognize or whatever, she is not afraid to shank us. Then she downed a shot of Vegemite with horseradish and yelled "Huzzah, beehotch!" at Princess Glitter Bunny, which was utterly terrifying but also kind of hot*].

This stupid blog was not meant to be some sort of cudgel. So, about all those verbal swipes; umm, my bad. Skimming back through them, I’m actually terribly embarrassed. They weren’t really about you; they were about me: a tabloidey chronicle of what the f, exactly, I am doing here, because otherwise I’ll forget. And if now, I am sometimes disturbingly quiet, it is not because of you or any you-and-me stuff. I had a pretty bad summer, during which I made a terrible mistake and now I’m a thousand miles away and cannot fix it. I don’t mean to play the mystery man but I also really don’t want to talk about it. However, it’s on my mind a lot, and at times it will make me kind of withdrawn and surly until I can think of a witty declaration of some sort, which will usually come in the form of a Russian reversal ("In Russia, declaration think of YOU!"), because those are cheap and easy. Everybody knows how I feel about cheap and easy.

Anyway. So. Not to be all "the only emperor is the emperor of ice cream" over this but it really is all kind of old. A month in blog time is like two years of reality. I’ve aged TEN YEARS since, you know, back then. Which makes me forty-fucking-six. And not to diminish what happened, either, because we did, in fact, have a good time.

It was a good time because you took me to Lawrence in the winter, which was beautiful and white everywhere, and to that party full of Lawrence hipsters — who are much better than Manhattan hipsters because in Lawrence their dresses are smaller. It was a good time because of that morning we laughed together for five straight hours, even though I know you are not that funny and neither am I. It was a good time because we drank way too much and spent nights together and all that other stuff, and perhaps there was just not enough "other stuff" but whatever; you get the point.

Let this be the last of these pretentious livejournal-ish rants of mine. And I’ll try to cool it on the Sonnet 30 references. The Collegian is out! Let’s go make fun of it. And maybe while I’m at it I’ll write more coherently.

*This never actually happened. But it definitely should have because isn’t it awesome? Plus you can totally picture it.

I can’t watch porn in my room (yes this really is a BIG DEAL)

striphe — Sun, 24 Aug 2008 23:23:31 +0000

My plan for academic success was as follows:

Smuggle in some vodka and take a shot every afternoon immediately after my last class of the day. Then begin the homework. When done, take another shot. Or two. I think this shows great foresight on my part. When I got my room assignment and schlepped my suitcases up four floors to 426, I discovered that I had a roommate. NO WAY am I gonna share my liquor with some 20-year-old, I thought, but apparently that won’t be a problem. Aaron is my RA.

No, there will not be any catty "check out his hypocrisy" type of blogging, because that’s lame, and would probably go like "He steadfastly maintains he will only drink Dr. Pepper, but I secretly switched his drink with Diet Dr. Pepper and four out of five times, he couldn’t tell the difference!" But needless to say, I need a new blueprint for academic success. I think I’m going to stash some jack in the Hale Library stacks on the fourth floor, somewhere high up behind some foreign-language tomes, and just take a sip every night I go there to study. And if I don’t actually drink it, I will still be happy just knowing it’s there.

And OF COURSE I am working on that maturity thing.

In love again

striphe — Sat, 23 Aug 2008 04:56:25 +0000

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.

Cops is filmed before a live studio audience.

striphe — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 22:37:44 +0000

A couple of weeks ago on The Closer (a television show I do not watch), the police chief tod Kyra Sedgwick that an LA Times reporter would be following her around for the season premier case, involving massive arson in Griffith Park (episode 44: "Controlled Burn"). Immediately Kyra protests with her sassy southern firmness; a reporter will just get in the way, muck up the case, keep the police from doing their jobs, free every rapist in jail, make all the cops look bad when they’re really hardworking, plucky, sharp and competent, et cetera.

This whole "everything would be fine if the reporter wasn’t around, but as soon as he started nosing around it thrashed our whole investigation" meme on cop shows got trite a long time ago. Fact is, we need more of this.

(1) Cops are public employees; everything they do should be accountable to the public, because the public is sort of their boss.

(2) Have you read the LA Times lately? Me either. It’s kind of awful. It doesn’t even have a metro desk. Some local something on a regular basis — not just murder and mayhem or celebrity vaginas, but something — would really do some wonders for this rag. Los Angeles has 88 municipalities (Glendale, Burbank, Santa Monica, Redondo Beach, and so on), each with city halls and courthouses and police stations, but unless something obvious happens — like a natural effing disaster — the Times lets local TV stations scoop them all over the place.

(3) Why would a reporter want to hang out with cops all day when he could stay at his desk, sipping bourbon from the "inhalers" he keeps in the top drawer on the left, just like all the real reporters around him are doing?

It’s just there’s that myth is that a single reporter has — what, days on end? — to dig into the guts of a police unit and bring down the entire system just so he can have his byline over something sensational.

The likely fact is that this overworked alcoholic will lurch in there, read some reports, see what’s happened lately that’s grisly or sexy, write it up, and call it a day.

Everyone’s happy! Except the victim, who is decidedly un-happy until she is avenged by Kyra Sedgwick the Vampire Slayer.

Ultimate destruction of California leaves local residents momentarily stunned

striphe — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 01:25:23 +0000

At 11:42 am today, I was on my way to the barber shop. I had in fact just arrived and was tying up my bicycle (go green!) when a couple of people came out of the shop and looked around, as if making sure everything was okay.

"Day-um, that was a good one," said Tashie, the lady who puts the twists in my hair.

"It felt like this," said another girl, swerving her hips like she was hula-hooping.

This could only mean one thing: the barber shop orgy ended right before I arrived. Wait.

A strong earthquake with a preliminary magnitude of 5.4 jolted large parts of Southern California late this morning, shaking a wide swath from Ventura County to San Diego and causing minor damage and a few injuries.

The quake rattled buildings in downtown Los Angeles and was felt as far east as Palm Springs. It was centered near Chino Hills, about 30 miles east of Los Angeles, the U.S. Geological Survey said. [source: Los Angeles Times]

All right. Los Angeles just experienced a middle-magnitude quake and I didn’t even feel it.

KCAL-9 News was reporting a 5.8 on the Richter scale.

"That wasn’t no five point eight," said a dude checking his text messages.

Tashie’s husband walked in. "Y’all feel that? That was me." Okay, I guess it’s probably for the best I didn’t "feel that."

Seriously, this would have been the most exciting thing since every second of the Dark Knight and I completely missed it. That wouldn’t have happened if I were at the place where I usually am at 11:42am on Tuesdays: a bar, browbeating a cocktail waitress. "You call this a Manhattan? I said shaken, not stirred!" She picks it up. Earthquake happens. Then I snatch it out of her hand, mumbling that’s more like it, keep ‘em coming.

"You all remember the Northridge quake? I ain’t never seen so many people out in the street that early in the morning," said the texting dude.

I remember the Northridge quake. That winter, rain had been coming down for two weeks straight and finally ceased a few days before January 17, 1994.

At 4:30 that morning the noisy rocking of the house woke me up. My five hundred heaviest books fell off the shelf and onto my bed. At that point, I figured, the worst part’s done, and rolled over back to sleep. Then my mom woke me up and handed me a flashlight. The next day our roof caved in.

Back in the here and now, about 20 minutes after today’s quake, the whole thing was filed and forgotten. I was sitting there, bored, while my stylist checked her cellphone. Across the room, some chronic ass was giving a civics lecture to a captive audience — a guy whose hair he was cutting. The news was still going on and on with the camera trained on a seismograph. Someone turned up the radio. "You know one rapper I never liked? Jay-Z," said Tashie. Earthquake or no, I hate it when barbers try to make small talk.

An hour later, the Silver Bullet texted me.

You know what’s funny? When the earthquake started, I immediately went to the hallway doorframe and held on to the tv. Shows you my priorities.

I don’t understand the issue. That’s not "funny." That’s not even unusual. I’ve seen her teevee. It’s flat and it’s big and it’s brand new. She did exactly what any of us would do in the same situation. Natural disasters always bring out our best. That’s why, when I go to Best Buy, I do the exact same thing; wait for an earthquake, then hold on to a TV. In a world that no longer has any use for heroes, I am a legend.

I’m tired of trying to amuse you with clever titles. Here’s my perfunctory Dark Knight review.

striphe — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 22:31:48 +0000

In pretending to be a movie critic, I’ll straight up agree with all the rest of them and say the Joker was every bit the hype we’ve all heard.

Not that you didn’t already know that. In my fair city, the Dark Knight is sold out for the next five days, which means everyone has seen it three times by now. On IMAX.

I went into the theatre thinking, yawn, here he comes, I guess I’d better get ready to be wow’d. I also went to the theatre with this flask that looks like a cellphone, but the "antenna" unscrews and you can pour in vodka. Or whatever you like, which I’m sure will be vodka. It’s even got a belt holster. Anyway. Heath Ledger did not disappoint, delivering a strong presence in every scene, finishing it off with his tics of speech and body language. Solid acting performances all around, along with a plot that kept Batman moving and being amazing, made every minute in that dark theatre fully worth it.

The only thing nobody likes about these movies is Rachel Dawes.

Batman deserves someone with style, with understanding. Katie Holmes made me groan every time she Expressed Disapproval, pursing her lips and doing that thing with her dimples. You just get tired of it. Wouldn’t it be a shame if something were to happen to Rachel Dawes, you think, empathizing with the bad guys (ha ha, spoiler). She was more of a downer than Batman. But you could console yourself, at least, knowing she was pretty. So another groan: finding out that Maggie Fucking Gyllenhaal was going to play this role that was already overbearing, uptight, and hands-down just unappeasable.

Gyllenhaal pulled it off so much better than Holmes. Rather than just berate Bruce, now she’s an unwilling collaborator to Bruce Wayne’s exaggerated, foppish persona. Bruce strides into a party with a famous superhottie. And another one. And another one. Gyllenhaal’s lips curl up ever so slightly at the ends — you’ve gotta be looking for it to see it — wryly, smugly. How far will Bruce go to pull this off, she wonders. And so we see Bruce Wayne through Rachel’s eyes; she’s still huffing with indignation, but she remains, like the rest of us, entertained. One might believe, for a second, that there is a side to her that is a bit glib, a bit saucy, that she doesn’t have such a huge metaphorical pole up her behind (insert obvious anal sex joke here, but do it slowly and lovingly, the way I like it).

To boot, it did look pretty cool when she gut-checked the Joker (Ha ha, spoiler).

By slant and inference, you can see Bruce Wayne losing himself in "Batman." There is one part where you see him shirtless, from the back (settle down), and there are some pretty vicious bruises and scars. In fact, when he’s not in costume, he does look skinny, small; and even his face looks a bit dark and hollow, like he spends his nights being rode hard and left wet, and it hurts, but he likes it. He’s not really there until he puts on the cowl. What brings this out is, when he’s Batman, that way he looks at at the camera when someone is telling him something Really Important; his eyes narrow, focusing on the speaker, and he turns his head a few degrees to the side to hear better.

Speaking of which, that thing they did with the eyes — you’ll know what I mean when you see it (just kidding, they made them glowey. ha ha, spoiler) — was just super kewl.

Particle theory

striphe — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 13:34:53 +0000

I picked up a vial of mystery pills standing in line outside of the Electric Daisy Carnival. It was a rave! Fifty thousand of Los Angeles’ most annoyingly young, all in one spot and dressed like the X-Men.

Woody, Silly Question and I had been standing in line to get into the actual party for about two hours, intending — along with Fernando (yeah, who are these fucking people anyway? Don’t worry; it’s not that important, and none of us dressed up) — to meet Solomon and Manuel at the V.I.P section, then run away before a bouncer could kick our asses.

While we were in line, Fernando disappeared.

Woody, you’ve got his number. Call him. Good thinking, no?

It won’t work. I’ve got his phone.

Why in the world would you have his phone?

He asked me to hold it.

Why in the world would anybody even ask somebody else to hold his phone?

Why, indeed. He produced it from his pocket: an iPhone. It was silver and liquidey. It looked like a jewel.

You should let me hold it. I’ve got better pockets.

I was wearing my corduroy hipster jacket. It makes me look dashing and protects me from the Hulk. Plus it’s got a bunch of pockets.

So there we were, still in line, not even technically at the party yet and already we’ve lost someone. The line hadn’t moved in thirty minutes. Around us, ravers were getting out of line and rushing somewhere else. That’s when I saw the bottle of mystery pills and, anticipating a pocket check at the gate, stuffed them into my sock.

Silly Question made as if to swat the bottle out of my hand, gave me her hand-wringing screed about ingesting foreign objects, and assured me that I wouldn’t have to resort to popping mystery pills. She had some X and intended to share.

Great! So when can I have it?

Just wait.

Wait for what?

I waited.

Silly Question’s shoulder was getting tired. "Hold this," she said to Woody, handing off her spinach-green satchel.

Rumour held it that off to the left, another gate was actually open and that the line was actually moving while ours wasn’t.

Hey, I’m gonna just go check out the other line; see if it exists, divine its true purpose. Wait here. I’ll be back.

I found the gents’ then checked out the other gate. It did exist, it was moving, and it brings a message of peace and compassion. When I went back to the old line, Woody was gone.

He went to look for you.

Why? I took a leak and was gone for like three minutes.

He also took my bag.

"…"

It had my wallet and stuff in it.

Naturally. Why would you even have handed it off to him in the first place?

She explained.

Yeah, your back hurts or whatever, but so what? You can’t just switch shoulders?

After twenty minutes he still hadn’t shown up, so fuck it, we went to the mythopoetic alternate gate, where we got in after five minutes (I survived the pat-down with my mystery maybe-poison pills). We wandered around for a while, looking to and fro, hoping for Woody to materialize. An hour later he texted: I’m at the front gate.

Can we, umm, take the stuff now?

I wanna wait til later. Meet up with everyone and then do it all together.

Life is short. Why wait?

We met up with Solomon and Manuel, but still no sign of Fernando. He had gone missing hours ago, far back in line, so we circled the front area hoping he was just now reaching the entrance and he’d just happen to notice the rest of us as he finally trudged in, dejected and alone. That plan sucked and didn’t work. Sol had a new one.

From now on we gotta stick together.

Be realistic. There’s six of us. Well, five of us. And fifty thousand people swarming around like desert sands. At some point we will get separated. We need a backup plan. A meeting place.

Right here. Front gate.

Front gate?

Front gate.

Front gate it is.

The vodka I had been sipping out of a Gatorade bottle while we were in line was starting to wear off.

Losing buzz, gimme drugs!

Not yet.

It’s already ten. What are we waiting for?

We decided to go into the Coliseum and do the thing. After we popped the pills Solomon wanted to head back to the VIP lounge and I wanted to hit the football field, which was packed wall-to-wall with naked gyrating hipsters. We agreed to split up and meet back in the cheap seats, and if we didn’t see each other there, we’d fall back to the Front Gate Backup Plan.

Silly Question and I maneuvered our way down into the field, shoving our way as close to the stage as we could. There was also a woman dressed like the Amazing Spider-Stripper threading her way up, down, and all over a big steel cage in the middle of the field. At midnight, we headed back to the cheap seats, as planned, and seeing nobody there, made for the front gate. At some point along the way, Silly Question made a left while I went straight, or vice versa, and we lost each other. FRONT GATE: that was the plan, right? I made it there and waited. Silly Question didn’t show. While I was chain smoking, Solomon and Manuel showed up, grinning and sweating like — well, we don’t make that kind of simile on this blog, but you get the idea.

Where’s Silly Question?

We got lost. I’m waiting for her to show.

The pills work?

No.

That sucks. I am feelin pretty good right now.

Then they left: we’re going to the bathroom, we’ll be right back.

Later on, talking about this with the Poetess, she observed that a rave probably wouldn’t be fun if you weren’t high. She’s right. I was getting pissed. If we’d hit the X earlier, I would have known before one in the morning that the shit wouldn’t work. Then I could have made contingency plans. I could have made vodka plans. In Russia, vodka plan YOU!

Silly Question finally texted me; she was standing out on a hill beside the Coliseum, under a floodlight. Christ, what ever happened to "THE FRONT GATE!" When I found her I let her have it. FRONT GATE FRONT GATE FRONT GATE I said. We went back to the FRONT GATE to wait for Solomon.

A half hour later it was pretty clear he wasn’t gonna show. And I was STILL NOT HIGH. Fuck it, I said. We headed back into the Coliseum to try and dance with the raging hordes. What was the point of coming up with a plan nobody would follow?

We stood near the top of the stadium, facing down the same midnight-black soup of naked hipsters we had been wading through hours ago, peppered gently with their glowey, spinney accessories.

Sorry I yelled at you about the front gate. It’s just that we made a plan. A simple plan. If you’re lost, do this. I thought you, of all people, would just follow it. There are fifty thousand people up in here. Of course we’d get separated! My own effing parents could be down there having wild koala sex and I’d never even know it. That’s why we made the plan. Front gate.

She nodded.

Look at them now! Fifty thousand skanks, with their fishnets and their glowsticks. Elbowing their way through spikey-haired tweakers. Tripping over lovers and empty water bottles. Making out with each other. Look at them now; here and there one lights something up and makes it spin. They have all come together, not knowing how beautiful they look from up here. But you and I don’t matter to them one bit.

Dude, I think your pill is kicking in.

Hm. I guess it must be. Yours isn’t having any effect?

Manuel is holding mine.

Jeez, how long ago did we go through this? You’re gonna thrash this high that I only became aware of mere seconds ago. Happiness is fleeting, like glitter in the moonlight. I know, right? That’s the drugs talking. Mostly.

The night was finally picking up. And yes, I still have these:

Ghosts in the machine

striphe — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 20:12:20 +0000

Right before Grey Lady, friend of this blog, left Facebook earlier this week, she poked me one last farewell.

See how it just hangs there all half-done, no "poke back" option? It’s the three-legged puppy of Facebook pokes. And much like a dog needing extra love, I will cherish it forever and never click remove, partly because I’ve got such a big heart, but mostly because my intertubes haven’t been working so well lately and I can’t get online much, so why waste valuable bandwidth on that? I know: I’m a terrible Facebook friend! And a bad blogger! And an awful person! But here’s the kicker:

She left a message on my wall, but since she termed her account, the comment’s gone and I’ll never know what it is. Ahem, was. It would be irresponsible of me to speculate as to its content. Nevertheless, I’m going to assume it was pithy, clever, and saucy, and probably makes me look bad — which is not difficult, so I guess it’s for the best that no one can read it.

In which we become disaffected west coast scenesters and learn to wear black on the outside because that is how we feel on the inside.

striphe — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 09:26:36 +0000

Silver Bullet’s friend Andy is in at least one band, and last night they played at the Malibu Inn (it’s not an actual inn). We picked up Andy’s sister Greta and made the trek up Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu.

The first act was acoustic; skinny black guy — Emory Davis — and his guitar. A girl chimed in for some duets. I liked her voice — it was operatic — but when she wasn’t singing, which was most of the time, she just sort of sat there. Greta was even more annoyed than I.

Gretta’s Jetta: Didn’t he say "she sings like an angel?"
Silver Bullet: Apparently angels only sing falsetto.
Silver Bullet: I don’t know about guys in those low-cut V-neck shirts. It disturbs me.

Cattiness or genuine dislike? I didn’t know what to make of any of this either. The guy’s shirt did hang too loosely on him and you could almost see nipple. Oh skinny emo dude, are you trying too hard or not trying hard enough? Does any of this matter? Music is soooo confusing.

They finished up and a team got the stage ready for the next band. A guy who looked like Jesus fiddled with some equipment then said "check one check two" into the mic, repeating this about ten times. "All sound guys look alike," Greta said.

After that, Andy’s band — Echo Division — hit the stage.

"I saw them at the Light House a few weeks ago and they were trying to be all pop-ish," Silver Bullet said. "It wasn’t working. They’re ten times better tonight."

True to form, I wasn’t impressed. They sounded kind of dull and the lead singer had this Dylanesque wheezey thing going on.

After a while even Andy started getting bored on the stage, because near the end of their set he started flashing gang signs. Then it was another band’s turn.

"Does anyone know who John Hinckley is?"

The name sounds familiar, but the category I picked tonight was "music for $10" and not "I know something you don’t" so maybe we could get on with the music thing. Hey, just for kicks, why don’t you go ahead and tell us who he is, lead singer? Thanks! Servicey!

Apparently, he shot Ronald Reagan so that Jodie Foster would notice him! It was love! Love drives us mad! That’s what the next song is about! Thanks professor; the lecture was much better than your music. Zing!

"I think these are all church bands," Silver Bullet said.

Makes sense. They all sound like Jars of Clay. You ever hear a rock band in church? They’ve got a captive audience, so they just keep going and going and going with the same languid Guitar Solo Of The Lord until you are begging, begging for the chance to sit down and hear a sermon.

I actually liked the next band. Andy was the drummer in this one. They were loud and upbeat. Then the lead singer wanted to, like, talk to us.

"Who here knows who John Calvin is?"

What is it with these nerdy musicians and their pop quizzes tonight?

Actually, he never explained who John Calvin is; only that "I’m a geek and I write songs about theology." Wankerish, but the music wasn’t bad, although it did not succeed with the stated goal of establishing the moral authority of the church. But this was a tough crowd for that anyway. It’s Malibu! We passed a Scientology ~~church~~ stronghold down the street on the way here.

Once in a lifetime

striphe — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 09:24:53 +0000

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."

Retail superhero perfectly articulates our fear of the surging angry mob

striphe — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 05:38:25 +0000

A Blockbuster Customer who had kept a movie so long enough that it was automatically sold to his account brought it back to the store to complain to my friend, the Intimidator, who listened and quickly tired of Customer’s whiney bullshit.

At that point, the Customer — who is always right — punched the Intimidator in his shoulder. Intimidator reached under the counter to that space where the can of whoop-ass was kept, sprung it open, grabbed the Customer’s punching arm, elbowed the Customer — who is always right — then knocked the Customer down with a counterpunch.

"I’ve been wanting to do that shit for so long," reported the Intimidator. He cracked his knuckles and let out a belly laugh. "They always expect us to take their shit."

"Aren’t you gonna get in trouble?"

"No. He punched me first."

Thing is, the Intimidator really does think he’s a superhero.

When I worked retail, I thought I was a ninja. Things like this never happened to me. I was so cool, so in control, so handsome and muscular; incidents always just fizzled out, like a fart in the wind. Stuff would happen during other peoples’ shifts; shoplifters, credit card fraud, back-room blowjobs; but I always miss the good shit. Except for the blowjobs. I never miss a blowjob, unless I’m in Kansas.

My passive-aggressive movie-going experience

striphe — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 21:14:14 +0000

No problem, Lammle’s Santa Monica Theatre. We’ll continue to deposit our feces at the same place we always do: this blog.

Furious groping

striphe — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 01:06:06 +0000

Sorry for being out of touch! My intertubez connection has been kind of wobbly, which has seriously impeded my otherwise steady accumulation of BBW porn (don’t judge me). Also, I’ve been trying to avoid my stalkerey ex. Yeah, I’ve got one of those. And not in the sense of "an enthusiastic follower who just likes me a lot," which is what people in Kansas think a stalker is; no, it’s more like "someone who’s intrusive and crazy and a little bit destructive," which trust me, is soooo much more exciting than the Kansas kind.

Good times, good times. So I’ve been spending my time temping in swank Santa Monica offices as well as furiously groping around for more school money. What’s going on with you guys? Grey Lady? Sexy Communist Spy? Princess Glitter Bunny? Atomic Fireball Candy? Saucy Aussie? Poetess? Sitemeter tells me you all still check in here once in a while (thanks!).

In addition to the money thing and the temping, my friend MiniMii celebrated my return to Los Angeles by taking me to the Wild Goose and springing for my first lap dance ever (don’t click there). And OF COURSE I was gonna write an awesomely cogent blog post about it, transitioning from the viewing of nipples to some revelatory insight on the true nature of man-woman relations, but I got drunk and couldn’t really come up with anything to say about it, except "tits!" which really sums up everything in the world with wit and precision.

Technorati Profile (Don’t click there).

Knowledge is the treasure.

striphe — Fri, 30 May 2008 18:36:05 +0000

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.

Don’t bother me. I’m eating.

striphe — Fri, 23 May 2008 02:22:35 +0000

One afternoon last week as I was in that walkway between the engineering library and the power plant, a bird flew slowly by me. There was had another bird in its claws. Awesome! The bird of prey perched in a nearby tree.

Since I had neither ever seen a hawk up close nor seen one with a fresh kill in its claws (yes, I’m a city dude), I did what came naturally for both of us: I slid open my motorola and started taking snapshots.

Wait wait wait said the bird. Let me show you Blue Steel.

All right. Now make an interconnected series of tunnels like the Viet Cong.

I can’t, on account o’the carcass I got here. Pretty fucking sweet, innit?

Whatever, it’s just a damn pigeon.

At this, the hawk glowered at me as if to say with its eyes, look motherfucker, you could be next.

Squawk. Look motherfucker, you could be next.

Yeah, right. You’re just a fancy chicken. Just eat your little hors ‘œuvre while I handle my business over here. Unless maybe you’re one of those little nancy-birds that gets squeamish when people are watching?

Chicken? Biz-itch, do you even know who the fuck I am, squawk? I oughta come down there and –

Just then some sophomore walked up. What are you taking pictures OH MY GAWD IS TAHT A BIRD OF PREY WITH ACTUAL FRESH-KILLED PREY IN ITS TALONS?

Then the bird got annoyed. Oh my gawd I cannot stand the undergrads here. I’m just trying to get my grub on and they’re always fucking spazzing out over dumb shit.

Then it shat on me and took off.

Squawk.

Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare off your buteo jamaicensis, the girl said.

No worries. I’ve got another bird for ya right here.

Let me find grace in your eyes.

striphe — Wed, 21 May 2008 01:03:30 +0000

The narrative of the Red Tent — a book that I have never read (thanks for lending it to me, Rhymes With Leather!) — begins right after Jacob stole the family’s birthright from Esau and fled to escape the wrath of his brother or something. I’m not cracking open a Bible (which I have also never read) to look up the particulars of the story because eww. So, we hear, in a voice and language reminiscent of the Bible’s beautiful formality, the story of Jacob’s meeting Rachel and Leah, and the births of Jacobs sons and daughters, including the book’s actual narrator: Dinah, daughter of Leah.

The Red Tent was an actual tent that travelled with Jacob’s family and housed the women during their menstrual periods. This was not an exile or a punishment; rather, being in the red tent was an honour that all Israelite women shared. Jacob’s family scorned the women of Esau’s family for not having a red tent. In the tent, there was an underlying mood of solidarity among the women — even among rivals, like Leah — Jacob’s fruitful first wife, and Rachel, who, though nearly barren, was the one he loved most passionately. It is in the red tent that Dinah learns what a family is and what womanhood is. As she grows up, the story of Jacob becomes more peripheral while we, the readers, get a distinct portrait of womanhood in the time of the patriarchs (I don’t know if I should capitalize that and I’m not going to).

There is a formal, romanticized feel to Anita Diamant’s narrative voice. Landscapes, personalities, cooking, even sex and death all burn with a gentle glow in Dinah’s narration. I was impressed with how thorough this voice was: perfumey and smooth, somehow encapsulating all of Dinah’s personality.

So what made her story worth telling? Is it because she grew up knowing bigshot asshole patriarchs? There was something else lurking underneath this voice, thorough as it was, that seemed slightly frustrating and dishonest. Dinah doesn’t seem to be fully there when conflict arises. Because of this, at times it seems more like she is more interested in observing her own life than moving it along, as though it were just part of the scenery she was describing so sweetly.

The best example of this is a retelling of Genesis chapter 34: Dinah’s marriage to the Prince of Shechem. Although Dinah is wooed very tenderly and beautifully and falls in love with the prince and they have lots of great sex (yes, that’s pretty much the only part I paid attention to. Or, at least, I would have if I had actually read the book. Ahem), and the prince agrees that he and all of his kinsmen shall be circumcised to prove good faith before Jacob and his god, Dinah’s brothers act as though she has been raped. They take "revenge" by storming the Prince’s house at night, murdering him and all the other Shechemites there.

Dinah, obviously, is not too happy about this. But what could she do? Did I want her to go upside one of her brothers’ heads? Sure. But she couldn’t. Because they acted under Jacob’s sanction, and it is not possible for Dinah to act against the family hierarchy, whether the H.J.I.C. is male or female. And then it hit me: her lack of agency wasn’t dishonesty; it was her reaction to power and the structure of patriarchy: another lesson learned in the red tent.

Didn’t we almost have it all

striphe — Sun, 18 May 2008 12:37:35 +0000

The last time we met: one day before I left for Los Angeles. A spring afternoon, in her car. I reached over to hug her bye.

"Don’t try to cop a feel."

I wasn’t. Really. But I probably should have.

This may have been the last time we would ever see each other, and really this was all we had to say to each other?

Really?

When I first met her, it seemed as though I could tell her anything. Anything.

Months later, showing her my favorite movie, she buried her face under a blanket and started crying and we could barely talk about it.

After that, we only spoke to each other in this flat, burnt-out tone. Around her, conversation was weird, alien, like we were really only just gesturing to each other in a dark room. She told me I was always trying to figure her out. And she was right. I just wanted to reach her. Why was it so difficult?

One morning I woke up in her bed. Fully clothed.

I had drunk A LOT the night before and my head felt like someone parked an Oldsmobile inside it.

Right then, I had to go. I hadn’t meant to pass out there in the first place. I needed some water and I needed it to taste like aspirin and I needed to go, and I needed all this very badly. But her hair was also right there in my face. Smelling not like chemicals or cleanliness but like her, fresh and sweet. I couldn’t move. Not yet. Even though I had to go, even though I knew that everything would be spoiled when she woke up, and I knw that this was the best it would ever get, and for the rest of the day I would both just go back to being in pain all the time and talking to her like.

It struck me, that morning, that this feeling of unnamed, dreary, half-hidden pain, illuminated this morning by sunlight and hangover, is actually always there. That it might in fact be the reason this thing between me and her, whatever it is, always feels so difficult.

And if I was ever going to cop a feel, that would have been the moment.

Just perfect martinis

striphe — Wed, 14 May 2008 00:17:26 +0000

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?

Facebook helps you stay connected to the five most important people in your life.

striphe — Tue, 13 May 2008 19:33:16 +0000

We just found a new way to stalk you on Facebook. And "you" know exactly who we mean, COUGHCOUGH*sexycommunistspy*COUGHCOUGHCOUGH. Apparently, if you go to the search box and hit the [down] key update: hit the [period] key — Gawker.com), you get a list of five people. Who are they? The following prowlerey theories are circulating.

five people you’ve searched for the most.
five people who have searched for you the most.
five most recent people who have searched for you. Juicy! (we probably show up for The Grey Lady, Saucy Aussie, Princess Glitter Bunny, and Atomic Fireball Candy, and that girl you all thought we would hook up with the other night but didn’t. Did we leave anyone out?).
five people Facebook thinks you like. We could be wrong, but based on some tinkering and some guesswork, we think they use the following snippet of basic fucking arithmetic to figure this out:

Of course, that’s pure speculation. Just, umm, make sure you throw (= 5) somewhere up in there. Calculus is whatever we want it to be.

Go ahead and scope out ours, just for shits and giggles.

Who’s in your five?

How to shmooze with people who have more intelligence, class, and wit than you.

striphe — Sun, 11 May 2008 19:06:38 +0000

The Poetess recently gave voice to the existential horror of attending an informal gathering of English professors: "I’m not smart enough."

Well, yes you are, and that’s really no big deal. English professors are just like the rest of us. Nobody comes to a party to be outsmarted. They just want you to listen to them, get their jokes, seek explanations for what you don’t understand, and squeeze their asses when no one else is looking (Professor Dodd will use colourful pants to indicate her receptivity. But do not try this with the Saucy Aussie. I saw her first!).

Your best strategy is to figure out what everybody thinks of everybody else, which you can use for leverage when you ascend to the top of a multinational crime syndicate. This exercise is all about self-effacement. You are not here to show off your resplendent panoply of grace and charm. And if you have enough grace and charm to impress the English professors then I hate you already.

So don’t name-drop, like I did with Princess Glitter Bunny ("Oh of course I know what you’re talking about. Unlike the other undergrads, I’ve read Derrida! Har har har!") That’s just wankerish. Rather, just ask questions. Find an old man, with a bow tie and bushy eyebrows, who is already drunk. He is the best place to start. He is a font of experience, good humor, and as a bonus, he is actually kind of awesome. Ask about what he’s written, what he likes to read — Milton, apparently — where he’s travelled, etc. Let him do the work. He’s just itching to unload some jovial backstabbey nugget about one of his peers. Just wait. I promise it will be funny. You should also probably try to make yourself as drunk as he is.

Do not sit next to Rhymes With Flan. You did not dress well enough for that, and this fact will gnaw at you every second you are there. She is tall, slender, blonde, stylish, and her diction is flawless. If she were your age, she’d be a wholesome sorority frenemy. You, by contrast, mumble and stutter (which is partly why you’re listening and not talking); your sartorial contribution is a wrinkled green docent shirt your ex gave you seven years ago. You wore it today because you really don’t have a windbreaker, but next to Rhymes With Flan, you look like you’re homeless.

Eventually, something underminerey like this will happen:

The Hour Badly Spent: Do you mind if I smoke?
Rhymes With Flan: Oh. Please, don’t. Ew [shudders].
The Hour Badly Spent: Oh, okay.
Rhymes With Flan: Yech.

If you closed your eyes, drifted away for a second, and paid attention not to what you actually heard but rather what you thought you heard, you’ll realize that the terminal "yech" was not directed at your cancer stick. It was directed at you.

You’ll see the Perverted Shakespeare Professor. In class, he’s so upbeat, almost cheerleaderey; this evening, long after class, he might seem somehow jaded and weary. We suspect the production of ‘Tis Pitty Shee’s A Whore must have been stressful, what with all the preparations being made during those weeks after spring break where everybody goes through a ceaseless gauntlet of exams and term papers and projects. That is why the cast only met for their first full rehearsal a day before curtain time.

I don’t know shit about Jacobean drama. Or any type of drama, for that matter. But I’ll talk about it anyway. The performance — Saturday night, wish you were there! — was fun and celebratory, and slightly campy; just like the Professor conducts his classes, except with slightly more incest. My favorite actor was the Roman soldier: his uniform was a polo shirt with some pinned-on medals.

You might hear about studentfucking. Kind of interesting, but it’s really to be expected, and it’s only juicy if you actually know either of the parties involved, which you don’t, because you don’t know anybody, which is why you’re drinking with English professors on Thursday night and the following Friday afternoon. So put the hearsay out of your mind, because (A) you don’t want to get anyone fired, and (B) you’re not an earnest do-goodey cockblocker. Also: don’t shout out "studentfucker!" in the middle of a lecture (Sorry about that! It was noisy! How was I supposed to know the dean would hear me?).

You might also hear of dumb stuff the students have said — about ethnic minorities and such. It won’t be so bad. All the real wingnuts either go into engineering or polisci. Don’t worry about who, exactly, said what; there’s a good chance you’ll find out soon enough who this person is, based on your ability to stereotype better than she can (a gender neutral pronoun would be really nice right about now!). She will get a column in the Collegian. She will bring guns to class. She will run for student government. She will meet a soldier who will love her for her "values," and they will marry young and have lots of little douchebags, who will attend K-State.

You, however, will not find love. You will find rum, which is just a different kind of love.

Speaking of which, in time, the Most Annoying English-Major Couple will make an appearance. They really are cute together. They will sit next to each other, of course; bemusedly chatting about their plans for the future. They will lightly stroke each others’ arms, but not excessively; they will smile at each others’ literary puns, but not excessively; and one of them will drink. Excessively. And that is the real secret to shmoozing with people who have more intelligence, class, and wit than you.

Dr. Potts brilliantly articulates everything we want out of life

striphe — Sat, 10 May 2008 05:28:24 +0000

Long ago, my mother told me the origin of the word "jazz." Early in the 20th century, white people slandered the art form by calling it "ass" music. When it started actually catching on, everyone had to call it something else, less ass-ish. Add J, change the SS to ZZ. And quit being so square.

As part of my journal project for Development of the English Language, I checked up on my mom’s story and looked up the etymology of jazz in the OED. Turns out my she was mostly right. In West Africa, "jas" or "jass" was a word that meant "hurry up," having a strong sexual connotation. When black people in America started to play the type of music we now call jazz, mainstream musical culture wanted to deride the style by calling it "jass," with emphasis on the sexual connotation. But it caught on. So instead they did the thing with the ZZs.

I dutifully reported my findings to Dr. Potts (legs!) one afternoon after she had showed the class an educational film on jive talk. The next class period, she talked about the word jazz. Exactly what I had told her!

To emphasize her point, she wrote "jazz" on the board.

Then next to it she wrote "jass."

But she put a space between j and ass.

Then she underlined ass.

Then she said something else.

Then she said "ass."

Okay, yes, I know that was a lot of buildup for a minor payoff. But I am, like, really immature. Scope it: later on that day Dr. Potts solicited our input on the origin of the word cockroach.

"Where do you get that word? Does it have anything to do with roach? Or cock?"

In which I mature into a paragon of journalistic integrity

striphe — Sat, 10 May 2008 02:52:25 +0000

Thursday night the Perverted Shakespeare Professor jokingly claimed to "personify radical chic." Suspecting a ring of truth in this, The Hour Badly Spent immediately launched an investigation, and in the process, found out why I never scored a date with any of the hotties in that class: everyone wants to have sex with him.

This irrepressible sexual attraction cuts across all boundaries. It makes no difference whether the student is male, female, gay, straight, promiscuous, or celibate. Yeah, even the virgins.

Later on, the Saucy Aussie and Princess Glitter Bunny turned the tabloidy tables on me. The Hour Badly Spent is not used to being asked direct personal questions. So, when grilled about who, exactly, I supposedly wanted to snog that night up on the hill, I suddenly got all shy and evasive. I didn’t really want to keep anyone in suspense. It was Saucy Aussie. Umm, duh.

Forgive me: I was afraid saying it would bring the drunken revelry to an awkward halt, and then I’d have no one to sit next to duing Tis Pity She’s a Whore. PRIORITIES!! Additionally, where my friend — Atomic Fireball Candy — is going for her doctorate, there are explicit rules against such fraternization. Hey! Don’t ruin this for me with news like that, I begged her, but it was too late. Also, someone recently told me that I "come on too strong." That’s putting it mildly. Between trying to crank out witty sex-related banter and playing like I am not in fact that interested, I probably come off looking half-insane.

Didn’t mean to get all livejournaley there. Anyway, so, I also tried to find out which professor’s raging sex drive has done the most damage to the integrity of the English department. Apropos of nothing, we discovered that East Midlands men have a reputation for being bad in bed. If this is so, how is it that they apparently manage to bone enough lit students to even acquire a reputation? Clearly I’ve been going about this all wrong. My old shtick was to find someone I really like, impress her with my ribald wit, and later on go down on her gently and lovingly for long periods of time. From now on, I will just work on timing my ejaculations to coincide with the ends of Ballykissangel commercial breaks.

Tastiest. Debate. Ever.

striphe — Wed, 07 May 2008 19:19:31 +0000

In keeping with the polarized political climate of the times, the Collegian went all Lincoln-Douglas on us with a spirited dialectic of great social and political import. Joe Vossen took our orders first in "Curly fry best represents Millenials with seasoning."

    Being only a humble opinion columnist with little training or understanding in food science, I will attempt to enumerate for this journal’s readers why the true snack of the future, the tastiest tuber, is in fact curly fries. In double-blinded taste tests administered in the Union food court last week, curly fries were favored for taste by twice as many people as waffle fries (three people were involved in this study).
    Before they are fried, curly fries are coated with paprika and other seasonings (unlike waffle fries, which are merely cut and thrown unlovingly into lava-hot peanut oil) leading to a much more palatable deep-fried experience. Said one person surveyed, "These so-called waffle fries taste like salty chalk."
    French-fry aficionados will appreciate the crunchiness of the curly fry. The spiral shape of the curly fry is achieved with a special cutting tool that is either motor-driven or hand-turned. The cutting implement is set into one end of the potato and the potato rotated, creating the trademark spiral shape. The advantage, of course, is in the increased surface area achieved with the helix shape (over a waffle fry). With more precious potato in contact with delicious oil during frying, the result is a crispier, crunchier fry.

Duly noted. With "Unfailing texture deems waffle fry America’s best," Adam Phan served an elegant, well-salted rebuttal.

One cannot take the particulars of potatoes too seriously.
    To establish a hierarchy is necessary; to crown the waffle variety king of that hierarchy is obvious; to offer a defense of such a position is effortless. And why should that be? The manifest weakness of the competition? We could distract ourselves with a drawn-out discussion of third-party candidates - the road too well-traveled - but most of the lot can be summarized in the space following the semicolon of a single sentence; steak fries are mushy, shoestring fries are gritty and almost everything else is either too trivial or too ordinary.
    Curly fries do deserve their very own special rebuttal, if only for their startlingly effective frivolity. Why have so many bought into the curly cult, anyway?
    "They’re curly," the apologists lamely assert, as if novelty alone could serve a legitimate function. "They’re so spicy and peppery, so savory; how could one fail to appreciate that?"
    And what should be said about this seasoning? As is the case with tasteless little outfits like Arby’s, this so-called seasoning isn’t anything more than a crude preparation of paprika and onion powder glued onto a flash-frozen product.

These are deliciously the best op-eds I’ve ever seen in the Collegian. Yet, as I look around, it’s pretty clear that today’s young snackers have grown tired of all the ketchup-slinging of tasty morsels as usual. It’s time for change we can believe in.
If it was possible to merge the two sides, to sculpt and curve your matted, crispy goodness into a swervy mouthful of chain-linked yummy, then this war would have no losers. We need a fry cook who can bridge this divide and heal our fractured palate. And the healing begins with you. Heap a helping of each on the same plate. Let them mingle and dance. In your mouth. Just move the penis aside (zing!).

Shit, I’m pretty sure this was my totem animal

striphe — Wed, 07 May 2008 17:25:48 +0000

I thought I had a rough night (thanks for nothing, O’Malley’s barkeep), but when I woke up this morning and stumbled outside to finish my whore’s breakfast, this rancid douchebag was just lying there, obviously trying to one-up me. Whatever, dead bird. I’ve still got finals; top that! Guess what’s for lunch at Kramer today? Hint: they just lost their supply of sparrow-pee, so they probably won’t serve anything that goes with their signature sparrow-pee sauce.

There will be time.

striphe — Wed, 07 May 2008 03:07:58 +0000

Few things are more awkward than when a girl brings her friends with her on a date. Like backup in case the evening goes south, and the guy knows it. Saturday night I got to be one of those judgemental cockblockers; Ariana was meeting a soldier for drinks at Mae’s, and she invited everyone along with her.

As soon as I went down the stairs, I was greeted by a bunch of reporters in red T-Shirts. The Collegionnaires were pubcrawling tonight! "Hey, come with us across the street to Pat’s" said Brett King. Hey Brett & Co., just because I may have, on occasion, posted a few unflattering comments about a tiny portion of your writings, this does not mean we can’t be friends, right?

They looked like they were having fun. And I did want to go with them, badly. Nevertheless, I had made a promise to Ariana. You know that I’m like the least manly person you know? That’s true, but it’d be great to have you there anyway. Besides, I really want you to meet him. By the time I showed up (an hour fashionably late), everyone was already drunk and surprisingly huggy - Ariana (felt good!), Cate (felt good!), Carolyn (felt good!), Cherry (slightly awkward!).

I spent an hour or so floating between Ariana, Ariana’s date, and Carolyn, who was kind of down because the football player she was seeing got mad at her for no apparent reason and slammed a door on her foot. That’s a definite no-no. He’s supposed to do that to the other team’s girlfriends!

When the soldier went to the bathroom, Ariana turned to me. You’re not trying to get with Carolyn are you?

Probably not, I said, drinking something that was in front of me. I’m not really in a flirty mood, and besides, my type looks and sounds much more like Ariana (reddish hair!) than Carolyn (skinny & blonde).

And then she hugged me again. Why is she so huggy tonight?

So how are you, The Hour Badly Spent? Her vowels are normally long anyway. Tonight all her small talk comes out like singing.
Super!
You know you can talk to me.
About what?
About anything. I search out her eyes. Maybe she really does want to get to know the real me.
How drunk are you?

By this time, Cherry had surrounded herself with guys, all of them much older and taller than her. One of them was like 50. Looking at her daddy issues on display from across the bar, I couldn’t help but feel cold and dark inside, like I was watching a puppy in a ritual sacrifice, except I can’t tell who’s the puppy and who’s the knife-wielding priest, who exactly is fucking whom, and maybe they are all victims with no predators or maybe they are all predators with no victims or maybe it’s just extreeemely creepy seeing some kid with old guys floating around her like stormclouds. If they’re going to swarm and compete to stroke this girl’s ego, why not just put their dicks on a chessboard? That’s a game I could play, because I get erect in an L-pattern.

At any rate, I settled into a booth, just sort of fading into the scenery. Ariana’s talking to her date. Carolyn left a while ago. Cherry’s doing whatever it is she does with clusters of older guys. I could sit here forever. I could also just go.

So I did.

Outside I tried to catch up with the Collegiannaires. How sick is it that although they’re snotty red-staters I really wanted to drink with them? The streets were full of people, cigarette butts, and vomit. There were purple T-shirts. Baseball caps. Girls with short skirts, long legs. Douchebag guys with their douchebag friends. A girl, frantically crying and pleading to an annoyed cop; her friend being responsible, "Christina, settle down. He’s not gonna do anything." No journalists. Starting with Pat’s, I went from bar to bar (the back of O’Malley’s smelled like gin and semen), skipping the ones with cover charges, peering through and around girls with impossibly clear skin, wriggling around more baseball caps, more short skirts, more long legs, more purple tees. Still no reporters. I went back into Mae’s and told Ariana that I was heading home.

Collegian might dump us to date sexier readers

striphe — Wed, 07 May 2008 01:20:56 +0000

Collegian, I noticed you’ve been distant lately. I thought you were under a lot of pressure, that maybe you just needed your space. I guess I didn’t pay attention to all the hints Blake Osborn has been dropping in every single column he writes about how we spend too much time on Facebook instead of outdoors admiring our muscles in the sunlight. So there it is: we’re just too fat and gross for you. But did you have to go and run two obesity articles at once? Sending Veronika Novoselova with the message, instead of just talking to me face-to-face; that was just cruel.

Genetic mutations, smoking, heavy drinking and negative environmental influences are usually listed as the most common causes of cancer. Now K-State researchers are finding that obesity can be another leading factor.

Say whatever you want to me, Veronika Novoselova; I can take it. But I will not abide the slander of alcoholics. They are a noble class of people who have at long last figured out How the World Works.

According to the Web site for the National Cancer Institute, obesity and physical inactivity can account for 25 to 30 percent of several major cancers - colon, breast (postmenopausal), endometrial, kidney and cancer of the esophagus.

Okay, I get it. We’re all gonna die! Which strikes me as not only a consequence of alcoholism, but also a leading cause of it.

In "Obesity an issue among all", without even bothering to let me down easy with a snappy headline, Krystle Richards notes:

Obesity is at a national, all-time high, and many are calling it an epidemic. According to the New England Journal of Medicine in 2007, the cases of obesity have increased substantially in the last 30 years, and 66 percent of adults are overweight.

Conclusions from a 2007 study revealed infectious causes of obesity are conceivable.

"Having obese contacts might change a person’s tolerance for being obese and might influence their decision of adopting specific behaviors." Similar behaviors are noticed among those who smoke and drink.

Now we can catch the fat. And pass it on to others, like syphilis (gross, but waaaay more fun to spread).

Like I said, I get it. We’re all rotund and lazy. But I’m doing all I can. In the morning I stand in front of the mirror and circle my flaws with a Sharpie. Then I say "fattie!" and hit myself with slabs of cheese until I cry. And at night I skip dinner to snort coke. See? I’m really really trying here. So why, Collegian, why won’t you just love me?

Peevish self-will’d harlotry

striphe — Mon, 05 May 2008 21:09:37 +0000

There has apparently been some sort of show running at Nichols for almost two weeks; Little Red Romeo & Juliet or something. I guess it’s such a big deal that the Collegian did a little write-up on it.

It included a profile of Romeo’s actor. "The roles he has played in the past have been more aggressive, and Romeo’s character is exceedingly vulnerable."

"I bring passion to the table," he said. "The role calls for a lot of passion, and I’m a hopeless romantic." More or less the same as every other handsome, slender, chiselled, actor-type I envy.

Juliet’s actress also got some inches. "I’m usually in musicals, and Juliet’s role is serious and emotional. She was sad, in love, frightened, angry and happy throughout the show. The range is so much broader than any other emotional range I’ve had to go through in a show before."

"Her character’s only 13 and I’m 21. I didn’t want to come off as too old." Ergo, she took Teddy Ruxpin with her on stage, a fact that the article seemed to omit.

Also omitted: everything else that happened on the stage. Fighting. Dancing. Tybalt’s outfit. Mercutio. MERCUTIO, dammit! We already know Romeo and Juliet are characters in this thing, because we read the title repeatedly, sounding it out very slowly, rolling the R’s and softening the vowels so they swim up and down in the air. Also, because everyone knows they’re in it. Everyone also knows fervor and emotion overtook the stage as Romeo enveloped Juliet’s face in his hand, tenderly kissing her as he gazed desperately into her eyes and recited the classically romantic verses that symbolize infatuated young love.

That harlequin-romance prose is in the brochures. Apropos of nothing, I have no idea what a Harlequin romance is, because I’ve never read any romance novels, not that I know it’s a brand of romance novels or anything. So how could Jenna Scavuzzo discuss the event and NOT MENTION any fabulosity particular to the performance (I’m looking at you, Mercutio). Could it be that she didn’t even see the performance at all? In that case, nice touch with the "gazed desperately into her eyes," but that doesn’t sound like Shakespeare’s style.

TEVALs

striphe — Mon, 05 May 2008 19:14:20 +0000

Might as well say a few words about my book-learnin’ and whatnot, since that’s how I pass the time in between drinks.

So I guess I’ll talk about how much I hate Spanish class.

All the Spanish professors I’ve met here are slightly hostile and give lots of busywork.

And there are way too many messy oral presentations (not the good kind). Becoming fluid at one-on-one conversation is one thing. Stumbling through conversation in front of the whole class is completely different. Last week was our biggest project: a group presentation on racism, sexism, machismo, and marianism. I was all set up to deliver a knockout show, complete with Virgin Mary Powerpoint slides (hottie!). But when I started talking, I kept tripping up and saying "uh, umm." I was feeling really self-conscious about my otherwise excellent espanolish, but then I remembered that I do the exact same stupid stumbly thing in English. So in this class, if you’re not good at public speaking already, tu te coges.

Comedy screenwriting was just not what I thought it would be. We watched some sitcoms - which usually just put me to sleep, because I don’t really watch TV anyway (I know what you’re thinking, and I’ll be the one to make the pretentious douchebag jokes). We wrote a scene for Frasier and a script for 30 Rock. That 30 Rock script was a vampire, sucking all my creative semen like a Korean porn star, leaving me with none for myself (I know what you’re thinking, and I’ll be the one to make the contortionist masturbation jokes).

Last semester, in the process of taking Jonathan Holden’s poetry class, I got used to the act of writing poetry regularly. In screenwriting, all we wrote was that one scene and that one script. I had not become used to writing scenes regulary, so when script time rolled around, yo me cogio’ otra vez (it was another frantic clusterfuck). That whole time period gave me writer’s block, and to top it off, the script turned out sort of unfunny. Hopefully they won’t notice at tomorrow’s workshopping.

But at least that’s all done. Development of the English Language was pretty rad. And now that the worst is behind me in the other courses, maybe I can catch up on the reading for Dr. Potts (legs!), so I can stop faking it in front of her. Heh.

Parsing the bumper sticker of the white-Chevy asshole in the parking lot behind Goodnow Hall.

striphe — Mon, 05 May 2008 06:43:15 +0000

Puzzling.

I thought They Hate Our Freedoms. So why would they exercise them?

So I tried to ponder some terrorists.

Yes, there was that business in New York. But there have been other things, too. Tim McVeigh, for instance, struck me as fairly wingnutty. So maybe it’s not traditional acts of terrorism that make you a terrorist. Maybe it’s just the state of being a Democrat. Maybe all Democrats are terrorists! John Edwards does kind of have a wild look in his eye. Perhaps the only way to prove your loyalty to the Constitution and your respect for the rule of law is to join a party with a non-violent platform, like the Communists.

Once, just once, I would like to work for a black woman who is not a self-important princess.

striphe — Mon, 05 May 2008 02:00:13 +0000

Over Xmas break I worked for this lady — a professional screenwriter — doing odd errands for her and getting no pay in return, a relationship known as an "internship." I thought it might be nice to get the experience of being around an experienced writer blah blah blah, but the more she talked — and she loved to namedrop — the more I realized she was a self-centered drama queen. This weekend I got a Facebook message from her. Things like this make me avoid Facebook.

I took A DAY (OMG!) to respond because (A) I had shit to do, and (B) I didn’t feel like resolving a 40-ish-year-old woman’s ‘crisis.’ Since she’s messaging me on Facebook, she must have seen my status update: "I just don’t give a shit." I really don’t.
"Negro?" I know we’re both black and therefore we have that unspoken camaraderie that enables us a certain familiarity. Nonetheless, not even my own mother talks to me that way, and you don’t know me like that.

The reason I addressed her like that is because when a boss is acting like a childish wanker (did I use it right that time?), said boss should have his or her twittery vomited back with a clear explanation as to why it’s coming. As a bonus, I like to throw in a middle finger.

And I wasn’t kidding about the apartment thing. She called me one Sunday afternoon, from Los Angeles, while I’m in Manhattan Kansas — which she knew — and told me she wanted me to find her an apartment by Monday morning. The reason? She had a psycho roommate (her 2nd or 3rd this year — I don’t bother keeping track) and COULDN’T TAKE IT ANY MORE and somehow this was suddenly my problem too.

Part of being a grown-up is learning how to negotiate with the people around you, instead of throwing a shitfit when someone takes a sip of your orange juice or smokes your weed. Right?

See? We’re getting her GOOD SIDE here. Don’t you feel lucky? In her defense, she really did endure a severe personal tragedy last year. Which had absolutely nothing to do with me.

It’s tangential, but this conversation reminds me of an episode of Blind Date I saw years ago. A guy from New York was on with a girl from a small Texas town. The texan was superhot, not a ditz, and she seemed to be putting some effort into the outing. The New York asshat wasn’t having any of it. The whole time, he was all "It’s just that you’re from this small town, where everyone’s so narrow-minded. I’m from New York, where there’s so much going on, so many people from so many different cultures, and it’s really broadened my horizons. Blah blah blah blah, New York is soooo great but your podunk town sucks, ipso facto, you suck and always will." The irony was not lost on the Texan, who kept going "Well, what do you mean? How can I make this date better?"

Of course he couldn’t say what he meant, so I will. "Broadening horizons" doesn’t actually give you a deeper understanding of other people; it just makes you more condescending toward them. In New York, you don’t mix with other cultures. You mix with New York culture. So here’s the question: what is it, exactly, about the Big Apple, that brings out the douchiest in people? That is, of course, rhetorical; I don’t give a shit.

I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine.

striphe — Sun, 04 May 2008 03:56:12 +0000

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.

The angle of the mangle is directly proportional to the mass of the ass.

striphe — Thu, 01 May 2008 07:08:17 +0000

In yesterday’s math lecture, since I sat behind Princess Prettypenny, I could overhear her gossip to her friend about the professor.

"He seems like a creepy old man."

At hearing that I was a bit surprised, and maybe slightly offended on his behalf. I can usually kind of detect traces of sleaze in someone, and this soft-spoken professor is the last person in whom I’d probably see it. During our last recitation, while Princess Prettypenny actually pulled the coy, clueless act, the professor just ignored it.

She brought her homework up to the desk, affecting a cutesey pose with a cutesey smile. "I stayed at Hale til twelve-thirty in the morning finishing this!" Oh my gawd!

The professor thumbed through her work, nodding indifferently. At length, he replied "That’s….." and let the word trail off and hang there while his red pen flourished through her notebook. So either (A) he was trying hard to think of a polite phrase to validate her struggle — maybe midnight is really late in Kansas — or (B) those two did actually fuck mere minutes before class and he was cleverly trying to play it off. Whatever, no one’s radar is perfect.

All I can add to this is that the only reason I’m ever in the library at 12:30 a.m., or any hour of the day for that matter, is because of the anonymous sex with nerdy strangers in the fourth-floor stacks. I take extra care trying not to touch the — ew! — books.

Collegian columnist lauds non-solution to non-problem

striphe — Thu, 01 May 2008 05:31:34 +0000

Months ago, when Brett King first ran an article about Indiana requiring voters to produce valid ID at the polls, the issue seemed a bit strange, and I couldn’t put my finger on exactly why. Requiring IDs to vote seemed like a benign enough idea, but why, exactly, was it necessary?

I can’t imagine Indiana has a huge turnout of illegal aliens sneaking by pollsters in droves, causing severe upsets in the makeup of school district boards or whatever. And most of the time, when I hear about election fraud, it’s less likely to be "Mr. Worthington paid 8,000 fake constituents to show up and vote" — which is properly called voter fraud — and more probably along the lines of "Mr. Worthington bribed a single official to toss out 8,000 ballots" — which is more properly called election fraud.

According to the Chicago Tribune, Justice John Paul Stevens said that Indiana’s desire to prevent fraud and to inspire voter confidence in the election system are important even though there have been no reports of the kind of fraud the law — backed overwhelmingly by Republicans — was designed to combat.

So I was kind of puzzled as to why we would focus the crackdown on the electorate, when the angle of entrenched-power cronyism seems more likely and more pernicious. Then I ran across some new information:

The Indiana law was challenged in separate suits filed by the Indiana Democratic Party and by another group of plaintiffs that included elected officials and community groups.The plaintiffs argued that the state had failed to justify a requirement they said would place a special burden on thousands of eligible voters in Indiana who lack driver’s licenses, a group that disproportionately includes the poor, the elderly and people with disabilities.

Writing for the 2-to-1 majority at the appeals court, Judge Richard A. Posner agreed with the plaintiffs that the law would have the greatest impact on people who were “low on the economic ladder and thus, if they do vote, are more likely to vote for Democratic than Republican candidates.”

I guess it always comes back to red vs. blue. Therefore, Brett’s column this week welcomes us to the New World Order; in which the poor and the undesirables don’t have a say, just like in the Old World Older. As long as we’re getting all regressey, why not just do it exactly the way we used to, where you had to be a property-owning white male in order to vote?

The problem with his argument, though, is the fact that Indiana provides free IDs to citizens who do not have a driver’s license.

Fair enough. I guess this is just like that time conservatives insisted that the government which governs best, governs least, except apparently under certain arbitrary conditions.

After the Democratic Party’s claims of voter fraud in many elections - including the 2000 presidential election - any individual with at least a small amount of common sense would think helping to curve voter fraud would be a good course of action.

Having eligible citizens voting in elections is essential to the progress of our republic, but to encourage participation, voters must feel their vote matters and won’t be canceled out by those attempting to commit voter fraud.

Yeah, a little perspective on that whole Y2K Florida debacle: the problem was NOT that non-citizens were voting. It’s that electoral authorities and the police were removing people from the poll lines and stopping them from voting, and that this took place only in overwhelmingly Democratic neighborhoods. It was pretty clearly NOT voter fraud and SO election fraud. And it wasn’t just the Democratic party making those claims: local newspapers told the stories of a pretty fair number of individuals who were there to witness democracy inaction. I can’t help but wonder if Brett King’s equivocation was accidental right-wing cluelessness or purposeful right-wing malice.

Struth!

striphe — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 21:15:51 +0000

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.

Good one!

striphe — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 20:04:07 +0000

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.

Activism FAIL

striphe — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 15:05:20 +0000

Everybody sucks

striphe — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 07:48:41 +0000

The Frowny Townie texted me late last night, urging me to come to Auntie Mae’s to celebrate the waning hours of her 22nd birthday. When I arrived, she was sitting at a booth, across from a guy named Johann, who was not saying a thing. Seriously, he placed himself just so the light could cast dark circles under his eyes, and spent all night sitting there and looking menacing while Frowny Townie talked.

And talked.

That girl can fit the word "I" into a single sentence 58,000 times. Is this what passes for conversation these days? But with charmingly brooding fellows like Johann - good for nothing except inarticulate indifference - I guess it’s the best anyone can hope for.

Ever and anon more of her friends trickled in. Her brother. Her brother’s girlfriend, Caitlin. Jen. Jessica. Cassandra. Michael. They all sort of segmented off, not bothering to say hi to anyone they didn’t know. If she remembered to, Frowny Townie occasionally introduced people, but what’s the point; why introduce me to people who will neither talk to me nor remember my fucking name? Then they even actually migrated to the next booth and ignored the people left at mine. Exclusion is the new inclusion. I tried striking up a conversation with Johann; what’s your major, how do you know The Frowny Townie, what else can you do, but he just grunted and looked sullen. Why do people come out to bars if they’re just going to sit there and sulk? But at least he had the polite inertia to sit across from me. No one else even looked in my direction. Even when I stood there and said something like "Hi, I’m The Hour Badly Spent, how are you?" Nothing. As if a joke just flew over their heads.

These are annoyingly young snerts. Try introducing yourself to one and you get a cattlesque stare, a neutron star of civility. Try to strike up a conversation and they whip out cellphones to text-message old boyfriends. No wonder I feel all stabby whenever I hang out with people. For the longest I thought it was because I was somehow repulsive and inept, but no; it’s because they actually do just plain suck.

Whatever. I decided to sit back and see where their conversations led them. Frowny Townie and Ryan, my RA, swapped judgements on their classes. Ryan has taken American Survey courses; Frowny Townie has taken the British ones. I haven’t taken either yet, so I listened closely to those two, and actually learned some things in the process.

I had hoped that British Survey 2 would talk about some 20th century authors, like Dylan Thomas, Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, et cetera. But the course is apparently full of Victorian Lit, which Frowny Townie seems to be convinced is somehow relevant and "cool." Get the knack. Victorian everything is depressing. Nobody looks back on those good ol’ days fondly. George Eliot went out of style before your great-grandparents were born. Unfortunately, my only other option is American Survey; I would rather take a bath in a blender than slog through Moby Dick. So Charlotte Bronte, pucker up.

The subject of religion came up. Jessica chimed in, with an excitingly subversive syllogism to share.

"If you’re a Catholic priest, then you’re married to God. Therefore, God is gay."

Ryan took it and ran with it. "No, God loves everyone. He’s bisexual!"

"No he’s not," I piped up. "My church always made it pretty clear that God hates women."

Then someone called me a misogynist.

A while ago this would have sent me into paroxysms of shame and apologies. But fuck it; I’m no longer going to cave in to someone else’s earnest, numb-skulled missing of the point. If you’re too full of your own misguided indignation to understand what a pithy, brutal assault on sun-belt religious mores actually looks like, then you’re way behind on drinks, to say the least. While I’m at it, to hell with sun-belt religious mores. Wow, that was cathartic.

Frowny Townie continued. She had this story about how it was so hawt that she made out with her gay friend! On New Year’s Eve! She repeated it every time someone came into the bar with birthday wishes. By the fiftieth time I’d heard it I called bullshit.

The Hour Badly Spent: Nipple tweak or it didn’t happen.
Frowny Townie: No, he didn’t touch my boobs. He’s gay.
The Hour Badly Spent: What difference does that make?

Well, whether it happened or not, it illustrates the central problem with these kids. Out of sync with their own spirituality, no sense of responsibility, no effort to even reach out to anyone in any meaningful way, and absolutely no sense of humor. By contrast, I spent New Year’s Eve doing the same things I do every day: yoga, then the art museum, then a motivational speech to inner-city children, then the library, then volunteering at the Retarded Dolphin Conservatory. So long, and thanks for all the fish.

“We don’t shoot to kill. We shoot to live.”

striphe — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 22:23:16 +0000

When I was talking with the Saucy Aussie the other day we both noted this one quirk of Kansas: people here tend to say the same things Stephen Colbert would say on his show, except when Colbert says them, it’s satire. The title of this post is a direct quote from a local gun nut. I was hoping that all the gun hoopla floating around campus lately was just whacko buffoonery that would die out if I looked the other way. Surely no one would seriously entertain the paradox that bringing guns to class would prevent school shootings. Enter the Collegian.

Last week they ran two front-page articles on the "debate" hosted by Students for Concealed Carry on Campus. And by "debate" I mean "no one opposing carrying concealed showed up to argue, because as students, they’re probably worried more about writing term papers and shit than waving pistols around." Naturally, I stayed at home to watch porn. But Terence, a K-State senior, diligently went and observed.

The worst problem, and the reason I left, was what this particular audience member said. The question was about the difficulty of identifying the ‘real’ killer if other students were armed and firing. The man’s answer was basically, "If you have a classroom full of students that look like you and you and you, and then a guy in a black trench coat with an AK-47 comes in, you’ll know who the killer is."

When this kind of ignorance and narrow-mindedness is allowed to be spouted, it’s not a debate - it’s propaganda.

Duly noted. SCCC president Ryan Willcott said "the only reason people carry guns on campus is for self-defense purposes. He related carrying a gun to wearing a seat belt in that people wear seat belts in case of an emergency - he said it’s the same with handguns."

While Ryan raises an excellent point, the analogy breaks down in that people don’t use their seat belts to fucking shoot other people.

But why do these emergencies happen in the first place? Why, indeed, are gun-toting crazies springing up on universities? Do they just pop up out of nowhere? Is there a training camp somewhere in Texas? Is it remotely possible that when you tell alienated sociopaths that having and using lethal weapons is the truest expression of your liberty, that it makes you a responsibly functioning citizen, that it connects you with the soul of our nation’s heritage, blah blah blah, well what the fuck else will the frustrated triggerhappies do? Volunteer at a soup kitchen?

Nevertheless, the SCCC seems to have a strident following. It’s inevitable; the struggle between two factions will dominate this campus. On one hand, limp-wristed crepe-chomping femicommunist pacifist Jewish furries; on the other, us, the rugged, individualist protectors, who are really just following the 67th book of the Bible: the Constitution. That’s right; I said us. Between the team that’s armed and the team that’s not, which side did you think I was gonna be on?

"People have the right to defend themselves," said Concealed Carry Instructor Patricia Stoneking. "To post any place as a gun-free zone is to basically pose them as a target."

There you have it. Hordes of bloodthirsty villains lie continuously in wait for the chance to pick me off. With my back to the wall and all hope lost, I’ve got no choice, only one chance to take back control. And this has to be subtle. If it’s overdone, I’ll be posed as a target. Therefore, nothing fancy; just a couple of gats, a bandolier (looks like a seatbelt!), and some surface-to-air missiles slung tastefully across my back. Hell, if you’ve got a problem with my Second-Amendment rights, I’ve got a problem solver. Its name is revolver.

Sex & violence

striphe — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 18:26:31 +0000

In today’s Collegian Sarah Burford shared a story about cocking and shooting off at a local firing range. At first I thought the article was mostly kind of bleh. But when I re-read it, I noticed it seemed eerily similar to the Jenna Haze (NSFW!) movie I’ve got open in another window, right now. I am perfectly aware that this says more about me than about Sarah Burford, but humor me:

"Whoa!"

I let out an involuntary yell as the rifle butt slammed into my shoulder [ed. note: That is HOT!]. The men around me chuckled and continued to advise my shooting skills. It was my first experience at a firing range, and I didn’t know the first thing about guns. To me, they were foreign objects, entirely too powerful and consequently, rather intimidating.

But my timidity lessened and my interest increased as the volunteers at the Fancy Creek Range instructed me on the basics of shooting.

This is where I made a major shooting range faux pas: I described a gun as "cute." No matter what a girl thinks a gun looks like, she [should] keep her comments to herself if they have anything to do with femininity.

So coy, so sexy. It’s totally obvs that it’s her first time, right? Of course you can’t tell a guy that his gun is cute. It invokes the castration complex. THEY ARE ALL BIG AND SHINY. My gun is the resplendent avatar of my virility. I don’t want to give too much away, but let’s just say my actual penis doesn’t suffice at all, wink wink. In terms of length and girth, nudge nudge. This is what it looks like:

Watching porn has made everything else boring

striphe — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 02:06:54 +0000

Friday night at Rusty’s Last Chance, Arianna celebrated the hell out of her 21st birthday. Carolyn, Cate, Cherry, Jordan, Marco, Brandon, and Johnny all showed up to toast the occasion.

Johnny was wearing all black, with a black fedora, black leather jacket, and sunglasses. At midnight. Only complete assholes wear their shades indoors. True to form, he kept trying to grope all the single girls.

"I’m sitting over here," said Carolyn. "Don’t let him find me."
"You can’t really hide from him," I warned. He’s got special nightstalkerey powers. That’s why he’s dressed like a vampire. Who will be the next to fall for his hypnotic charm?"

At some point, after Jordan whipped out a camera, Cherry and Arianna started making out. A few seconds later, Cherry remembered the camera was still going and started getting really into it.

I’m pretty sure those two assumed this would be the highlight of everyone’s night. I, for one, still had the fabulosity of the English department - Chris Kennedy, Anne Longmuir, Erica Hateley, Tony Doerr, et al, on my mind; liquor-laced hilarity sans spectacle. Next to that, watching these annoyingly young snerts ham it up for the camera all over each others’ faces was as much fun as seeing your spaniel lick its own crotch. You take one glance and you’re like, "Muffy you are so stupid," then you go back to something more interesting, like the newspaper. Woman beats off burglar with gnome, page 8.

Saucy English professors are hot

striphe — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 04:57:53 +0000

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.

Will this be on the exam?

striphe — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 03:34:08 +0000

The sensibilities of Southerners are such that because some otherwise ordinary words carry sexual double meanings, their usage is heavily stigmatized. Dr. Potts presented us with a short list of such words:

bed
tail
stocking
piece
maiden
bag
cock

Donna helpfully explained that the word "rooster" became common in mainstream English because Southerners invented a word for "a chicken who roosts" so that they could avoid saying "cock."

In my notebook, I scribbled Dr. Potts is super-horny.

Collegian forgets the point of a sex column

striphe — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 02:16:48 +0000

Is anyone curious about what it’s like to not have sex? The Collegian seems to think so. They weighed in on it this month. Twice. I wonder how much one could actually say about sex without having any subject material? On April 7, Ryne Witt shared his wisdom:

Casual sex for me was never going to be an option, because in order to have such an intimate moment with someone, I needed a certain level of trust with them. That trust can’t be gained in one night at a party or the bars.

Since that trust can’t be gained in one night, it would take a relationship to exist in order for me to have sex and, to be honest, everyone I have dated has never gotten to that point where I trusted them that much.

Blah blah blah blah mommy issues. Eric Davis followed up two weeks later:

I can remember the first time I tried to have sex with a woman who I didn’t know. From the minute we went back to my residence-hall room, I just felt weird. I will spare everyone the embarrassment and just say it didn’t happen. Also, I can’t remember a time in my life that I have been more embarrassed.

Details, Eric, details, or else we’ll be forced to engage in wild speculation. And you don’t want to let that happen, because we’re just going to assume she got freaked out when you told her you’re a furry.

Two of my friends keep going back to relationships they know aren’t healthy, but the sex comforts them. I feel like they have their self-worth wrapped up in their libido and if they sleep alone, they are unwanted.

Here’s the thing about a sex column: when I turn to this page, I expect to see titillating tales of frantic groping in the dark, not predictable bonerkiller haughty virgin preachiness.

There’s a special technical phrase for an otherwise painful relationship wherein one lonely party uses sex to medicate: your twenties. It’s not sad. It’s an awesome learning process. Plus, you get to fuck. Given the choice between - on one hand - an emotionally destructive mindfuck made better by the mutual celebration of sin and carnal delight, and - on the other hand - cultivating your self-esteem through enlightened solitude and frequent masturbation, I’d probably go with "fucking." Why in the world would you opt for a productive, healthy independence, when you could just be having sex instead?

The fearful passage of death-mark’d love

striphe — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 13:37:35 +0000

So far I’ve gone to see Stop Kiss, the Modigliani String Quartet, Huck & Tom and the Mighty Mississippi, Too Many Sopranos, Brian Pemberly’s poetry reading, Dunya Mikhail’s poetry reading, Denise Lowe’s poetry reading, Allison Wallace’s memoir-reading, and lots of other fun stuff, all independent and date-less. But Thursday night’s performance of Romeo & Juliet was different. I’d been looking forward to this since last semester. I needed someone — and not just ANYONE, but someone special: another hyper-literate bastard, to sit with me and make mischief. Otherwise, the whole experience is ruined by constant thoughs of "I’m awesome and everybody else in the world missed out, because they all suck." So, Rhymes With Leather, my favorite nerd, heroically restored my faith in humanity by coming with me to this affair.

The acting was superb all-around. Notable roles:

The lanky Mercutio, of course. He swaggered around with a pimp cane and dick jokes, fucking dominating every scene in which he appeared. Pure awesomeness.

Benvolio delivered his urgent tone with a rich clarity to his voice.

Unfortunately, Romeo couldn’t accomplish this. His lines tripped out over each other at the same high speed throughout his performance; his sense of urgency overpowered, instead of underlining, his emotional expression. No joy, no despair, no delight, no pining adolescent lust, only the same homogenous desperation. Perhaps I was disinclined to like him because of his tousled hair, Ivy League chin, and piercing, intense eyes. But Rhymes With Leather didn’t seem to mind that stuff too much.

He had that kind of angsty, teen aloofness. You know? He reminded me a lot of the way that Leonard Whiting portrayed Romeo in the Franco Zeffirelli version. The fact that he was in love kind of takes over and of course he’s going to go crazy with desperation. His joy was and is Juliet, so–brace yourself–like Edward essentially can’t find his happiness without Bella, Romeo has all of his joy in Juliet. Basically there was no point in finding joy in anything else. This Romeo, I thought, handled that very well, and therefore I was pleased with his performance. He’s a teenager in love; what more can you ask for? You see that Twilight reference I slipped in?

Duly noted. Maybe she should be writing this review.

"It’s a girl thing," she explained during the post-perfomance reception, as I attentively guzzled mimosas. I see what she’s saying. And Romeo truly did a good job of body-acting; gestures, fluid grace moving across the stage — that stuff enhanced his part, and ultimately I did not dislike him.

I was originally disinclined to like Juliet solely on the basis of her pretty blonde tresses. And as The Grey Lady pointed out, Juliet held a doll with her in a lot of scenes, reminding us that she’s playing a 13-year-old, which we didn’t really want to think about. Nevertheless, it was clear early on that the actress really inhabited every scene she was in. Her voice was clear and pleading. She delivered her lines at a musical pace. Every word hung in the air, like the last line of a song refrain. And as she spoke she would move to and fro, across the stage or across the balcony, starry-eyed, clutching her hands and pivoting gracefully on her heeled shoes, putting a lot of body movement, along with the words, into delivering her character to us. Tres magnifique.

All in all, I was on the edge of my seat, the whole time, taking in every movement on the stage (some scenes had a lot of activity; fighting, dancing, more fighting. Those were a real treat) and every word that fell from everyone’s lips. I tip my hat to the pretentious bastard who actually threw the script together.

Collegian: Middle East fine just the way it is

striphe — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 06:53:58 +0000

Jimmy Carter recently began an attempt to reach out to Hamas, an inveterate and influential foe of the Middle East peace process. The logic is that since Hamas has enough power to disrupt peace talks by blowing shit up, making them a party to peace negotiations might discourage them from blowing shit up, which would be smarter than ignoring them and hoping they go away. The talks failed, of course, but in his latest Collegian column, Brett King honored the elder statesman for his courageous idealism:

According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, the definition of senile is "relating to, exhibiting or characteristic of old age: exhibiting a loss of cognitive abilities."

With this definition as the base of examination, it is time for the family of former president Jimmy Carter to call the men in white pants and jackets to escort grandpa back to the home.

In 1979, Carter was successful in orchestrating a peace agreement between Egypt and Israel that has since held strong, but even a blind kid hits a baseball every once in a while.

So there you have it. Old men are useless, so you probably shouldn’t vote for one in November! The blind, too; not much point in having them around, tripping over shit and bungling foreign policy the way they always do, unless it’s to the point when you reach the 8th inning and you’re really counting on a long flyball deep into right field, cuz the blind can swing those stripey canes like they’re bats, and even if it’s not a home run, you can have the runner on third tag up and score. Back to the point: a peace agreement? Not historic at all. In the scheme of things, really no big deal.

Due to the Bush Doctrine and years of commitment to Israel, the United States has avoided communication with the Hamas government. But have no fear, here comes President Carter with hopes of orchestrating a peace deal to fix the whole situation.

Khaled Mashaal, a top Hamas leader who met with Carter, said the group was prepared to offer a "10-year truce if [Israel] withdraws from all lands seized in the 1967 war." How gracious of the murderous thugs to offer peace for only 10 years as long as Israel gives up half the city of Jerusalem and other land holdings it acquired from a war it did not start.

Palestinians didn’t start the war either, but that’s irrelevant to diplomacy. Continual suicide bombings is apparently better than 10 years of peace. Calling names and then leaving the room is the new "diplomacy." In a world where peace is insane, the Bush "Doctrine" is the only thing that makes sense. This is how you decide the future of nations:

Hamas: "American foreign policy has left our people destitute and angry. We will go to any lengths to get attention for our plight."

Bush: "Whatever. Hey Jeb, pull my finger. Heh."

The guitarrist is better than you

striphe — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 23:08:17 +0000

He strides into the party with mirth and fanfare, as generous with his beer as he is with his condescension.

He has travelled far and wide, to mysterious Eastern lands and exotic European capitals. He has gathered a treasure trove of knowledge and wisdom, which he makes no attempt to hide from you.

If he didn’t talk down to you, he wouldn’t be saying anything at all.

So there you are, in his massive apartment on Saturday night, watching him sink into a frantic guitar-plucking trance.

The girls with long hair and gypsy skirts whirl and dreidel around him, hipster ballerinas shitting their small-town angst. He ignores them.

The others languish on the couch, heads propped up on cushions, on shoulders, on curiosity. He ignores them too.

Like this, he’s caught up a zenlike blissful dismemberment. His body fades into nothing, just hands and ears, whipping everyone around him, hornists and dancers and bored onlookers, into a froth of masturbatory coolness.

But you’re getting into it too, and he doesn’t sound half bad, actually, and maybe you could party even longer, maybe even forever, just as long as he doesn’t open his mouth again.

Le mot juste

striphe — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 15:06:15 +0000

Last night the Poetess observed that, though I visit fairly often, I have more or less been a "perfect gentleman" (I know, right?), having never once tried to "take advantage" of her.

I was kind of embarrassed, because I’ve been trying to cultivate the reputation of a lecherous, alcoholic geezer, and comments like that torpedo the effort of months of vodka and hard work (but mostly vodka). Nevertheless, I managed to think of two responses, both of which I believe were wholly appropriate and classy:

"Poetess, I always think you are gorgeous, but especially tonight, with that red skirt and your hair slightly tangled and messy. And when you go without your glasses, like you are now, I could practically lose myself in your eyes."
"I have nothing but the highest regard for your intelligence and wit. Frankly, your ability to pen verse makes me weep with envy. I believe with those things behind you, you will go far in life."

Unfortunately, since I actually tried to say them both at the same time, it came out sounding less like well-mannered verbal cunnilingus, and instead more like "Fuck off, Hippie."

In retrospect, "Fuck off Hippie" does not carry the nuance and depth of the sincere emotion I actually wished to convey regarding her sexiness; therefore, I am deeply sorry for any misunderstanding(s), and will be racking my brain thinking of how to make this up. Does anybody else have any ideas? Anything?

Community thrilled about little slumber party or whatever

striphe — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 07:03:08 +0000

Yesterday I woke up to shitty weather, a sore throat, and a big ass screenwriting assignment due. A Thursday hat trick! Bonus: since I’m sick, I can’t smoke. Without cigarettes, I’m not nearly as smart or funny as I think I am, which makes it hard to write a sitcom script (or an entertaining blog, for that matter), but eventually the script got done and I felt fifty shades of relief. I celebrated by…oh right, no smoking. I took a nap.

I woke up at around 7:35. Five minutes late for the Take Back the Night rally - just in time to miss the strident speech expressing solidarity with women everywhere. I’m sure it was grand. I arrived just before the march started. Those girls I hardly ever see anymore were there too. The ladies marched to City Park. I ducked into the library then met up with them in an auditorium at the park.

There were tables set up. And explanatory pamphlets. And a band. And T-shirts. It wasn’t quite what I expected. The atmosphere was…. kind of, I don’t know, fun? Except that there weren’t really that many students here. Or professors. Or townies. Or local law enforcement. And the weather outside was frightful. The girls I hardly ever see any more left shortly before nine. I decided to stay, in order to spite them (I’m kind of petty) and express solidarity with the cause (I’m kind of noble. Chalk it up to the dual nature of man). Curiously, once they left, the party picked up. Or maybe I just payed closer attention to it.

The band was two MILFs with quirky, subdued humor and a good rapport, one on keyboard and one on guitar, and their songs were actually pretty catchy. The few people who remained even started dancing. It got to feel like I was watching a bunch of friends hanging out. Good times for all, except those who had to trudge back home in the rain. Suckers, I said, before I noticed that my socks were soggy and my umbrella was fucked up. I don’t know what else to add, because I’m still sick and I really have no idea how to frame a coherent narrative without nicotine.

I’m so psyched about tax time!

striphe — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 18:39:05 +0000

The coming of Tax Day apparently brought me so much more happiness than I could ever put into words. So I’ll let Brett King do it for me:

Like the seven dwarfs skipping off to work, our representatives and senators on the state and national level believe every working-age individual should be singing this all the way to the post office: "I owe, I owe, to pay my taxes I go."
Yesterday marked the day when all the good little liberal boys and girls felt joy in their hearts because the "government" received more money to pay for social programs and pork spending.

Unlike normal people, liberals lrrrve paying taxes! Especially to bankroll a war they oppose! Especially if they can do it while skipping along, to a catchy song! Cue the Versificator!

Conservatives rightfully (get it?) hate these "social programs," like health care, public schools, public transportation, and law enforcement. Fuck the cops, eh Brett? So maybe we would be better off privatizing this stuff. Corporations don’t do "pork spending." There’s no waste or corruption in the private sector! All the legislative functions Congress does now should just be outsourced to Exxon’s board of directors. Outsource law enforcement to Blackwater. Do away with the school system; let schools be sponsored by Washington Mutual. In a recession, your monthly bank statement would read "Due to a poor third quarter performance, there will be no basic fucking science taught this year."

It’s like taking dulces from a baby

striphe — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 17:16:10 +0000

In la clase de Espanol we discussed what older cultural customs our families observe. The kewgrish profesora called on The Hour Badly Spent for perspective.
Most of my culture’s customs are from the 60s. Not that old.
But another student noted that if I listen to jazz, rap, or country, I am, in fact, involved in older cultural norms. Schooled!

Embarrassed at my cultural ignorance, I turned to Heart of Bubbles & Gold. "By the way, I hate rap."
"I am starving," she said, producing a cupcake from a secret backpack compartment. "Pregnant girl’s gotta eat," she shrugged.
"I know you brought two. I’ll be damned if someone eats a homemade cupcake in front of me and I don’t get any."

She only had that one, but she shared. Mmm, banana nut. Eat that, next generation!

Aaron McGruder is a Paultard

striphe — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 03:26:13 +0000

Don’t you ever wish people would stop making such a big fucking deal over the word ‘nigger?’ Two of K-State’s "best and brightest" journalism students (take that, Whitney Hodgin!) interviewed Boondocks creator Aaron McGruder in front of a crowd of captive hearts in Forum Hall. So Deborah Muhwezi asked him what was up with his characters’ frequent use of the n-word.

"I’d rather people say ‘nigga’ than say ‘n-word’ because n-word is stupid. It’s fundamentally immature, like saying ‘dookie’ among first-graders; like we are running from a truth we all know is there."

"I certainly understand the sensitivity and power behind it," he continued. But it’s vapid and pointless to huff and puff all your outrage on that. "There are lots of people whose job it is to keep the conversation of race at the level of ‘we shouldn’t use the n-word on TV’," he said, which keeps us from finding any real resolutions to real social problems.

Yeah, so politics is kind of a downer, and McGruder is in the funny business. How does he make it work?

"If you set out to tear down stereotypes, well then that’s positive, and we definitely try not to be that. We have to find a way to make it funny."

In his comedy, McGruder spins a version of what black people seem to talk like behind closed doors when they’re really fucking drunk (like me) and high (not like me, but I’m working on that). The nature of comedy and storytelling is such that positive portrayals are inherently boring; showing us the parts of ourselves that are dirty and embarrassing gives his work a special kind of truthful bite. Servicey!

"We don’t find the stuff very controversial. In other words, we’re not very sensitive people."

Also, without a line between entertainment and news, those two mated and gave birth to a voracious infantile media machine that’s set up to gobble up ratings out of whatever shlock it can find but then use our collective brains as its diaper. So fuck Fox News. And CNN and MSNBC and the whole pundit industry in all its incarnations. But mostly Fox. And BET too. And if Whitney Hodgins’ article ever goes live on the Collegian web site I’ll make sure to link you, ya know, whenever I get around to it. In the meantime I’m doing homework and NOT prowling for Boondocks episodes on teh YooToobz. Probably.

China getting brainy and competitive, Americans say ‘meh’ and go back to their porn

striphe — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 02:54:59 +0000

In "U.S. surpassed by other nations connecting," Blake Osborn rides the cutting edge of some new trend, globali-whatsit or something, all made possible by teh Intertubez. "This unprecedented collaboration that makes geographic distances irrelevant is something to think about. No longer are students competing with people of the same nationality." Really? Better double up on that border fence!

Thomas Friedman, columnist for The New York Times, wrote his book "The World is Flat" in 2005. He observed how, as a result of the Internet and other wireless communication devices, the playing field is being leveled between nations - and this is how the world is being flattened.

Nations from around the world, Friedman wrote, can now "plug in and play;" they can innovate without having to emigrate. In the U.S., the issue is what we look up to. "In China today, Bill Gates is Britney Spears. In America today, Britney Spears is Britney Spears — and that is our problem."

"Americans’ obsession with celebrities and the next winner of "American Idol" is in sharp contrast with the developing momentum in other countries like China. In a March 30 article in The New York Times, Roger Cohen pointed out how the baton has passed to Asia, where there is a "confidence and a burning desire to succeed. Asian business leaders are rock stars."

Because there are no rock stars in China (or maybe it’s because the Chinese music industry hasn’t achieved the same levels of amoral asshattery we have here, under the leadership of guys just like Bill Gates!). At any rate, the proles are all over each other clamouring for a glimpse of the bare crotches of old white geeks. They like this particular "Gates" fellow because in China you can can get Windows XP for about five bucks, which I hear is pretty rad.

"According to an article from the March 24 issue of Time magazine, the Pope created a new list of seven deadly sins. They extend beyond the individual and end up creating voids in society. This "social resonance" of sin resulting from globalization shows how much we are connected as a world, without any frontier or Manifest Destiny to carry us westward." Manifest Destiny; those were the good old days. We didn’t measure our progress as a nation by the same bullshit we go by now; "social justice," "sexual prowess," or "the OLD Book of Proverbs."

"The competition has crossed even the oceans, and Americans are now part of a bigger game. So travel abroad, read the newspapers and get to know people from other countries." I’m so confused. What ever happened to ‘innovate without having to emigrate?’ And if the foreigns’ magazines are full of Bill Gates pics, I think I’ll take my chances at home, where Marilyn Monroe and Lindsay Lohan converge into something so wonderful and beautiful that it fills me with "confidence and a burning desire." Heh. To succeed, you pervs.

“The kind of accent that makes me want to rip my own ears off and throw them at someone”

striphe — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 20:20:32 +0000

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.

Come to class prepared

striphe — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 18:51:41 +0000

My Spanish class is full of superhotties. The final question on this morning’s assignment gleefully reminded me of such. Because, honestly, I hardly ever think about it.

4. Les prestas tu ropa interior a tus amigos?

Comely Flaxen Locks:     Is that question asking if I give my underwear to my friends?
The Hour Badly Spent:     Of course I do! I’m wearing second-hand tightey-whiteys.
Comely Flaxen Locks:     So you’ve got a chain-letter deal going on, eh?
The Hour Badly Spent:     What about you?
Comely Flaxen Locks:     The correct answer to this is "I don’t wear underwear."

Who sees stars more beautifully, the poet or the astronomer?

striphe — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 03:08:14 +0000

Naturalist poet Pattiann Rogers visited K-State Friday as part of the Science & Philosophy Symposium.

Her poetry was interesting enough. Elizabeth Dodd likened it to Walk Whitman, and rightfully so. Each sentence had that feeling of celebration, each verse a menu of things neither good or bad, but like in heaven, only delightful.

I just couldn’t connect with it.

It was all about cosmology; the universe; the geometry of comets drifting and stars colliding. It was all just so big. Are big things inherently scary (yes - they invoke my castration complex)? On that scale, is anything human even relevant? Even when she linked her images to human experience, it felt like an afterthought, as though the distance between human beings is miniscule compared to the distance between galaxies. She did talk about things on earth that brought her awe; beautiful dew-laden forests, sweeping vistas of prarie by sunset, wondrous varieties of local birds, etc. I think country people can groove to that stuff, but I have no link to it except for textbooks, photographs, and the occasional gazing at, years ago through telescopes, of cool shit in the sky, which is exciting but not nearly as much so as making that impossibly painful journey to the heart of another person [ed. note: WTF am I talking about?].

I was waiting for the poet to say something mischievous and dirty. I like my old ladies saucy, see? But, as Rogers said, much of the difficulty here is that there is "something in the language we are locked out of." The vocabulary of outer-space phenomena is limited, clean, removed, and academic; to talk about it requires that you "come at it slant." But with so much dark matter, the targets are small, even at an angle. So easy to miss.

For the astronomer, the distances are magnificent. In the empty spaces lie truth and beauty; "we can go on having fun forever," as one philosopher put it. But modern poets stare at that same space and fill it up with fear and longing. For the poet, science is….whatever we want it to be.

Sometimes it’s like Walden effing Pond up in here.

striphe — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 01:09:53 +0000

A new reader admires The Hour Badly Spent’s willingness to get out and go places, with or without a date. That’s right: nobody here but real troupers!

The Grey Lady: I’m glad I’m not the only one who goes to shows, events, whatever with or without friend accompaniment. I think its a sign of independence (or just bum friends)

The Hour Badly Spent: Hope your weekend’s going great too! I’m still enjoying the "independence;" I played a computer game and went to bed early. What are you up to?

The Grey Lady: Oh no! don’t say it that way. It ruins the sham of independence vs. loser friends. Tonight is closing night, strike, then cast party. I can’t imagine it’ll be anything like mud river stone’s party.

Sorry to burst the bubble, but independence really is a sham.

See, some people become the center of attention just by stepping into the room. Like, all they have to do is show up and suddenly throngs of fervent suitors are tripping over each other with icebreakers and devilish smiles. Because of this, sometimes these superstars just need a few hours of alone time to get away from the spotlight.

"The pressure," exclaims one superstar, to a preppy, winsome engineering student, as the student recites his best pickup lines. "It’s just too intense sometimes!" Then the student excuses himself. At last, some precious time alone for the superstar! Freedom! Independence! Exuberance! And I know exactly how that feels. Ha ha, just kidding.

The sham is that the human being is by nature a social creature. One cannot even declare independence without having somebody from which to declare it. What I have isn’t independence.

See, here’s independence:

Cheerleader A:     So, there’s a new collection showing at the Beach museum. Wanna check it out with me?
The Hour Badly Spent: While I do fancy myself quite the art connaisseur, I’m afraid it would be best if I saw it alone.
Cheerleader A:     [pouty face]
The Hour Badly Spent: Don’t get me wrong. I lrrve your company! But the contemplation of art, an inherently subjective experience, is best accomplished free from another’s intrusive presence. Get me?
Cheerleader A:     I understand….that you’re a pompous windbag! Zing! But call me later, K?

Cheerleader B:     Hey stranger! It’s Friday night! Wanna catch a movie?
The Hour Badly Spent: While I’m sure that would be quite diverting, I feel that your company would undermine the aesthetic experience for me. Therefore, I must decline your generous offer in favor of my own independence.
Cheerleader B:     [pouty face]
The Hour Badly Spent: Nice ass though.
Cheerleader B:     [blush]

Cheerleader C:     So, I’m not busy tonight. Wanna hang out?
The Hour Badly Spent: What did you have in mind?
Cheerleader C:     Maybe I could stop by your place?
The Hour Badly Spent: What would we do there?
Cheerleader C:     [blank smile]
The Hour Badly Spent: [shrug]
Cheerleader C:     Hanky-panky?
The Hour Badly Spent: [another shrug]
Cheerleader C:     [Makes a circle out of her index finger and thumb. She "dips" the index finger of her other hand through the circle. She repeats this motion three times.]
The Hour Badly Spent: [shrugs again]
Cheerleader C:     Sex. I’d like to have sex. With you. Like, tonight?
The Hour Badly Spent: Oh! [Thinks about this for a moment.]
The Hour Badly Spent: I feel that doing such a thing would cheapen what we have You’d lose all respect for me. You don’t want to lose all respect for me, do you? Great. Super. Well, I’m supposed to give a motivational speech to high-school underachievers, and then I’ve got yoga, but you should totally give me a call later! Kthanksbye!

Cheerleaders: Wow, he’s so independent, so rugged! If only he’d open his heart [sigh].

This is closer to what it’s really like:

The Hour Badly Spent: I really like what you’ve done with your hair!
Minerva Magestica:     [pulling out her cellphone, reading a text message].
The Hour Badly Spent: There’s a poetry reading this afternoon. Wanna catch it together?
Minerva Majestica:      [phone rings]
The Hour Badly Spent: Then afterwards maybe we could go for dinner?
Minerva Majestica:      What? Sorry, I’ve really got to take this.
The Hour Badly Spent: [Hangs out for like 15 minutes, then when no one’s looking, fades into the wallpaper].

The Hour Badly Spent:         Like, I, uhh, wrote you a love note.
So Hot It Hurts Your Face:   What is this tripe? Everything’s misspelled!
The Hour Badly Spent:         I, uh, well….
So Hot It Hurts Your Face:   Well, is that it? I’m kind of busy, soooo.
The Hour Badly Spent:         Uh….

The Hour Badly Spent: Let’s hang out tonight! I’ve got movies!
We’re All Size Queens: I can’t. I’m so tired and I’ve got all this, errr, homework.
The Hour Badly Spent: But it’s Friday. And it’s 7p.m.
We’re All Size Queens: What is this, CSI? Quit stalkin’ me.

The Hour Badly Spent:   Let’s go out!
Sic Transit Gloria:          I look kind of grubby today.
The Hour Badly Spent:   I like you just the way you are.
Sic Transit Gloria:          Whatever.
The Hour Badly Spent:   Fine. I’ll come over, bring clothes, apply your makeup, and braid your hair.
Sic Transit Gloria:          I don’t have any money.
The Hour Badly Spent:   I’ll pay for everything.
Sic Transit Gloria:          I don’t like any place within a five-mile radius, and neither of us has a car.
The Hour Badly Spent:   I’ll carry you wherever you want. On my back.
The Hour Badly Spent:   I’ll even get on all fours and gallop, like a horse. Girls like horses, right?
Sic Transit Gloria:          That sounds kind of creepy. I bet that if I asked, you’d even–
The Hour Badly Spent:   Gloria, you do not wanna know the lengths I’d go to.

Kidding again! The Grey Lady is absolutely right: lots of people here do kind of suck, and they all missed a superb performance of Dancing at Lughnasa this week. Is Dancing at Lughnasa better than shallow popularity? Absolutely, suckers!

P.S.: A pox on that Mud River Stone party!

Epithetically speaking

striphe — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 21:38:30 +0000

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.

Lovely and watery

striphe — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 08:09:02 +0000

I have no idea what an assistant stage manager does. However, I know that the assistant stage management of Dancing at Lughnasa was excellent, because that was pretty much the talk of the town after the play was over. I thought I was the only person impressed with the assistant stage management I know nothing about until I overheard two of my friends raving over it:

"What did you think of it?"
"The stage was unbelievably well managed. Assistantly."

Of course, those friends were imaginary, as are all my friends (the conversation, however, feels real). I’ve given up on asking actual people to go with me to these events, because either I’m 100% socially inept or you all suck. And as it turns out, you all do not, in fact, suck; Dr. Donna Potts, hanging out in the drizzle in front of the theater, got sick of waiting for one of her lame English 310 students to show up, opting to give me that student’s ticket - the last one available for opening night!

Whatever, so I’m inept. Back to Lughnasa: a snapshot of a 1936 Irish family holding together long after the passing of its parents; the turmoil of five lively sisters staring into a canyon of spinsterhood that’s staring back at them; and the return of their brother, a wild-eyed barely-there misfit, after 25 years of missionary work in Africa.

The dialogue felt fresh and immediate. Much of my enjoyment came from hearing the accents; the nearly-rolled Rs, the brisk Ts dotting word endings; the long "I" that glides into an "o-i" dipthong ("cider" sounds like "soyder"), the overall birdlike, musical pep of conversation.

Each sister’s inner tensions were barely held in check, always balanced against the concerns of the other siblings by the pious, heavy-handed oldest sister, Kate.

With that dynamic, another strength of Lughnasa, even better than the cute Irish lilts, was the sisters’ interior tumult. It came out most strongly twice. Second, when Kate, distraught over the apparent disappearance of the flighty Rose, angrily demanded that Agnes confess information Agnes have. So angry, she slammed Agnes against the furniture.

But it came out first when they boogied.

They sang and danced at every chance, devouring music like it was soda bread. Would that they could just dance their cares away forever! They really gave it their best shot during an early-on, more joyful outpouring of passion. For a brief time, during this hasty portrait, during a few minutes of music belting from their moody radio, they were all fluid like the sea, all crashing against each other and coming together again.

Michael, the seven-year-old son of Chrissie (the hottest sister — for real, homegirl’s a ringer for Rachel McAdams), largely observes from the periphery, but occasionally interrupts from the point of view of a grown-up narrator to reveal flashes of information on the fate of the family. Despite his upbeat delivery - Michael is genuinely excited about his family and all its quirky, tragic characters - it’s all kind of a downer for everyone, which, as more is revealed, sharpens the nostalgia, the value of this snapshot, the desperate importance of this summer, 1936, in a house on the Irish countryside. This summer is the last time the family is a family before people up and leave, people lose jobs, people die, peoples’ Peter-Pan father figures jaunt off with unsatisfying explanations then it turns out (spoiler!) all along they had another family way down south in fucking Wales, and general disappointment and failure set in for everyone.

It’s all hinted at during the play. Underneath obligations, bickering, the soothing chirp of a Marconi wireless, smoldering behind it all lies an inability to share each others’ sorrow, and deep yearnings that will simply. Not. Pan. Out. But for this one last summer, Time would let them dance and be Golden in the mercy of his means. **

** I’ve been waiting forever to unload that pearl!

Collegian outs all men, everywhere

striphe — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 00:05:16 +0000

Normally, tables for two seat a man and his penis. But when Brad, a freshman, went to Gaymous Dave’s to grab a bite with a friend, his date brought his own penis.

"We were worried the waiter would think we were gay," Brad said.

They wanted him to know for sure.

"I know straight guys don’t worry about this, but two guys eating cock together looked weird. We joked about it all night, spooning in each others’ arms, naked but not doing anything."

According to a New York Times article, the "man date" is increasing in popularity. The article described the event as "two heterosexual men socializing without the crutch of business or sports. It is two guys meeting for the kind of outing a straight man might reasonably arrange witn a woman," adding "Eww, ladyparts!"

Examples of man dates include dinner, a movie, going for a walk, cooking together, or a 3 a.m. booty call.

"I don’t make it a big deal," said Brad, who said he had never previously heard the terms "man date" or "rusty trombone."

"It’s more sexy to keep it casual. A friend and I will just grab some food, then come back and play video games or catch a movie and teabag."

The Times article said attending a movie as a twosome can be an anxiety-inducing event for two self-hating gay Kansas tweens. Some will even go so far as to sit in each others’ laps. However, Brad said this is not something he thinks about and has seen multiple movies with male friends.

"I would definitely sit in the lap of a guy friend," Brad said. "It would be a waste of time to find an extra seat in a theater. I just want to unzip his pants, get in, watch the movie, and get out."

He acknowledges there is a line between what is appropriate for two heterosexual males and what is not, but added it can be difficult to define.

"Anything intimate would not be cool," Brad said. "It’s a tough line to draw, and I’m not much of a cuddler. I don’t want to be the one to draw the line or step over it. Cooking a meal for a friend is weird, but breakfast the morning after is different."

Brad said there are three types of "dates" for men.

"There’s man dates, manly dates, and gay man dates," Brad said. "It’s like Bush’s terrorist threat meter, with elevated, high and low risks." Gay man-dates threaten national security.

He said hanging out with a guy friend one-on-one is more spontaneous and less planned.

"Anything can happen! It’s just so beautiful and natural," he said.

Other men, like Matt, senior in manology, agree that man dates are more spontaneous.

"A date with a woman can have more pressure on it," Matt said. "With a guy, it’s just two guys hanging out. A quaint moonlight post-coital stroll with a buddy is just more casual."

Matt said he prefers the term "Cleveland steamer" to "man date," and would probably opt for lunch with a guy friend instead of dinner to avoid awkwardness. He said, however, he would not worry about the stigma of two men being out together.

"I wouldn’t be doing anything to attract that kind of attention," Matt said. "I can give blowjobs discreetly, under the table, like Michelle in American Pie."

Other men believe the type of place you go to can make a big difference.

"Eating cock casually with a friend is OK as long as it’s not anything big, shiny, and veiney," said Joel, junior in pre-professional business administration. "Eating cock at a nice place would be awkward though. It wouldn’t be any fun to go with just any guy to a restaurant to eat a $30 sausage."

While man dates might be becoming more common, that does not mean all men are comfortable with the terminology.

"The term ‘man date’ is dumb," Joel said. "It is a double standard with women. Two Korean schoolgirls with breast implants, high-heels, hoopy gold earrings and heavy makeup doing an Alaskan pipeline would not be called a date. It’s more normal and accepted, which is fine with me."

[Source: More men spending dates eating out, gaming together (K-State Collegian)].

Flag party demonstrates true meaning of friendship

striphe — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 18:44:15 +0000

Let us be clear on a few things I like. A lot:

enormous swank apartments.
travelling abroad.
kitschy Asian products.
food.

Let us therefore be clear on things I loathe and secretly envy:

kids with enormous swank apartments.
kids who have travelled abroad.
kids with kitschy Asian products.
musicians.

Such was my dilemma, at a Saturday evening birthday party, in a massive swank apartment occupied by Daniel, Andrew - a guitarist with a huge wound on his elbow; the Spy; the Man Who Travels With the Spy; assorted acquaintances dressed up like flags, and of course, various Asian tchatchkes: a sushi kit, lacquered chopsticks, and scary Japanese desserts.

"It’s so vaginal," said Andrew, introducing everyone to his elbow slit.

In Russia, vagina wound YOU!

I didn’t really say that. Actually I don’t even know what a vagina looks like.

The food was still being prepared and the kitchen looked like the set of Iron Chef. I feel weird in other peoples’ kitchens; I want to help with the slicing and cooking, etc, but I don’t know where anything is and would probably just look inept (actually I really am inept!), so instead I stay out of the way and just knock back the beer someone offers, which in this case was Tsingtao, by the grace of Daniel. Then Greta finished making her sushi rolls. (How do you make sushi in Kansas? Canned tuna. Mmmm, but yech). The eggrolls the Spy had been frying were ready. Mmmm, no yech. Katie’s curried veggies were ready. Mmm, no yech. The Spy also fried some orange chicken. Mmmm, more mmmm. So I guess there are advantages to obnoxiously young people who have travelled to China and come back with trendy sinophilia. They cook for ya! And if you’re good they’ll even give you a tour of the swank apartment, which is what Slender Starrypants did.

"This shower is ridiculous. It can fit fifteen people. Seriously, we’ve tried squeezing everyone in here just to see if it would work."

"Shower scene?" I didn’t really say that. Err, actually I did.

After the shower scene I floated around for a few minutes, eventually landing on the enormous white couch, and partook of these obnoxiously young kids’ 5000-inch flatscreen TV. The game was on. I’m pretty sure it was basketball. I was getting really really into it when the Spy disrupted my reverie by offering second helpings of friendship (see what I did there?):

"What are you doing over there? Come mingle with the rest of us."

Petals on a wet black bough

striphe — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 21:57:44 +0000

The International Festival of Talents took place Sunday at McCain Auditorium. The performances were apparently a hit. Whitney Hodgin provided a servicey recap in today’s Collegian.

Singer Minako Nemoto and pianist Jun Tadaki, junior in business administration, conveyed "the beauty of spring" in Japan with such precision that it was easy to forget that most of the audience didn’t understand the language Nemoto was singing in.

"My initial reaction is ‘wow’," said Vikas Bahirwani, graduate student in computer science. "These performances are doing away with the language barrier."

Doing away with the language barrier? All right Whitney, I get it. Whitney’s cultural enrichment this weekend obviously exceeded mine by far. She attended the International Festival of Talents. I attended TengaiCon, a local ~~supernerd~~ gaming convention.

    Whitney heard a Japanese man sing The Marriage of Figaro, bringing Mozart’s score to life. I watched a bunch of kids from Wichita dress up like bit parts in Princess Mononoke.
    Whitney saw Philipinos light up the stage "while balancing candles on their heads." I saw a fat middle-aged guy light up a D&D game board with a lucky roll of the dice.
    Whitney saw an Indian student perform a "personal" dance piece that "combined modern music with several decades of dance moves, including the moonwalk." I stumbled and flailed in front of Dance Dance Revolution for two hours, quitting after I got schooled by some skinny nerd.
    When Whitney walked away from the event, she probably still had "the beauty of spring" resounding in her dulcet ears. When I walked away from the dance pad, I heard the kid go "What does ‘high score’ mean? Did I break it?" Then he dropped a smoke bomb, and although he was no longer there when the smoke cleared, everyone could still hear his villainous laughter.

English Department parties like rock stars

striphe — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 00:33:50 +0000

English Department Head Elizabeth Dodd hosted a soiree after memoirist Allison Wallace’s Friday reading. "You’re all invited!" she told the entire population of Stuni’s Little Hall that afternoon.

This was it! My entire time here I’d been sweating for a chance to hobnob with grown-up English nerds, perhaps even put names to the faces I keep running into at the English majorey events just like this one. At last, the Bard answered my prayers.

Dodd lives in a tasteful house a westward hike away from campus. The get-together was everything I’d hoped for! There were little sandwiches! There was chocolate cake! There was Tanya Gonzalez! There was Jen Roberts! There was Anne Longmuir! There was Imad Rahman! There was Donna Potts (I haven’t finished the reading for her class! Don’t tell her)! There was Chris Kennedy (I was especially pleased about this because he was the only other person wearing a T-shirt)! There were avuncular gentlemen in red bow ties! There was booze! It was Elizabeth Dodd’s booze! I drank Elizabeth Dodd’s booze!

The professors were lively and full of good humor and wit. Why doesn’t it rub off on the undergrads? With that puzzle in mind, I stepped outside for a cigarette with Erica Hateley, who had an important question for me.

Do you find this entire town really, really racist?

Yeah.

I was afraid I was the only one who saw Kansas that way.

Nah. It’s weird how they all think they’re not, too. I come from a big city and even when you find someone who’s full of prejudice, it just doesn’t have the kind of legitimacy it carries in a small town. I spent most of last semester really pissed about it, but I eventually met some other minorities here. Someone took me aside and reminded me that I’m in fucking Kansas.

On a search for a wine glass — umm, and a bottle — I found myself shoulder-to-shoulder with guest of honor herself, Memoriste Allison Wallace, who offered servicey advice for interacting with my undergraduate peers:

You can talk to a sophomore, but you can’t say much.

I’m gonna run home and write that down.

Don’t quote me! I didn’t say that.

Oh, actually I was going to take credit for it anyway.

I see! You’ve got a great writing career ahead of you.

Yeah, speaking of that: James Frey? JT Leroy? Margaret Seltzer? Is this really a new thing, or is it possible that people have been fudging memoirs for as long as we’ve been writing them?

Nowadays we talk about people writing a memoir. It used to be that people wrote their memoirs. A hundred years ago it meant that, near the end of your life, you’d sit down and do it, and there was a sort of gallantry about it. Today you can look for one on, say, Britney Spears or someone like that. It’s not about your life; it’s just a slice of your life. This is a new thing. The conventions for it are only recently being written. And so the people running out and sensationalizing these fake stories are breaking this brand new etiquette that they created.

There you have it. Lesson: Mrs. Dodd’s nose gets really really red in the presence of other authors. Also: spend time with convivial, intelligent grown-ups and you’ll actually learn something new. Parties are the new required reading!

Collegian columnist: research, shmesearch.

striphe — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 20:34:41 +0000

In "Climate hype? People should look at the research," Mark Wampler presents the issue of global warming as bunch of blowhards shouting at each other. One side makes one claim, the other side claims the opposite. Which side is right? It is apparently not Mark’s job to check up on either of their claims. His job is to present one side as a bunch of wild-eyed kooks, and show the other side as being calm and rational without even adding any science to the article, as if his point is self-evident. Instead of putting forth a single bit of evidence either way, he just sells us an image of the people behind the argument, and so undermines the validity of his own headline.

In actuality, leading scientists are divided on the seriousness of the perceived global warming threats. While the cries of ignorance are abound, there is not an overwhelming amount of scientific data that supports climate change disaster.

Underneath Mark’s PR job, his point is that, ecologically, we have nothing to worry about. But what is this conclusion based on? Someone else said so. But why did that person say so? How do rising temperatures affect ecosystems? What does hotter air actually do to the environment, and how does this affect the human population? Though they seem like obvious questions to bring up in an article on global warming, Mark just glides right around them, preferring instead to just cherry-pick some "experts" from either side and call it a day. A vast majority of the scientific community does indeed believe that global warming, a result of increased CO2 emissions, does have lasting effects. This isn’t some radical hairy-fringes brainwashing; this is chapter 13 in a textbook I’m holding in my hand right now.

Measurements made on bubbles of air trapped in Greenland and Antarctic ice deposits show that there was little change in CO2 concentration in the ten thousand years before 1860 [which coincides with intensifying industrializing in Western countries - ed.]. The CO2 content of the atmosphere has gone up by over 20 percent since 1860 and is today increasing faster than ever. The CO2 concentration in the atmosphere is currently 27 percent higher than it has been at any time in the past 650,000 years.

Once industrialization become widespread and far-reaching, CO2 concentration throughout the atmosphere rose. More CO2 concentration bulked up the earth’s greenhouse effect, according to Konrad Krauskopf and Arthur Beiser’s twelfth edition of The Physical Universe, ©Mcgraw-Hill, 2008.

"As fossil fuels continue to be burned at a high rate, the greenhouse ‘window’ of CO2 becomses a better trap for heat and the atmosphere will continue to warm up," according to Krauskopf and Beiser. The proliferation of greenhouse gases produces a global warming feedback loop: as Earth’s average temperature rises, more ice melts. With less ice, sunlight is absorbed instead of being reflected back into space, making the temperature rise further. Krauskopf and Beiser go on:

On the basis of plausible assumptions, the best guess is that the average temperature in a hundred years will be between 1.4°C and 5.8°C higher than it is now. Even the lower figure represents an extremely quick jump, a warming rate nearly 40 times faster than the warming that ended the most recent Ice Age. At a 5.8° increase, the world would be an unrecognizably different place.

But that’s all just "scientific research," which is frequently the least persuasive point one can make in a red state. So if the back-and-forth thing is more your style - as if science is a basketball game - I defer to an international group of scientists who recently convened to report on the effects of global warming. Their results line up nicely with the figures in my textbook. Almost like lovers spooning (actually I don’t really know much about stuff like that). It’s as though their research is based on universally accepted nuggets of information. "Facts," so to speak. Before dismissing them as batty doomsday rhetoreticians, global-warming maniacs, whatever, be aware that they do have a large part of the scientific community behind them. They are the United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, and they won a Nobel Prize last year. They are among the scientists Mark sourced for his column. Too bad he didn’t manage to fit their research in with his argument.

Allison Wallace thinks Elizabeth Dodd has a sexy voice and should read aloud more often, and I do not disagree

striphe — Sat, 05 Apr 2008 17:03:35 +0000

Memoirist Allison Wallace visited K-State and read from her book, "A Keeper of Bees," in which she chronicled the flowering and withering of her marriage against the backdrop of learning how to sustain a bee colony.

Observing and cultivating bees gave Wallace time to reflect on the value of work and the impermanence of achievement. "There is no such thing as work that stays done," she said, having gone through nearly a dozen colonies over the course of her marriage.

She lost some to swarms; she accidentally starved one colony, but she kept learning and kept at it, and remained a hobbyist even after the process of her divorce.

Not wanting to end on a down note, she read us a passage on honeybee sex. "It’ll only take a minute," she promised.

A horny queen bee finds a cluster in the sky where male worker bees hang out; she flies right by them and then they speed up to catch her. The first lucky stud to reach her and tap that ass is "catapulted into a backflip by the force of his own ejaculation." With his endophallus and lower abdomen ripped off, he plummets to the ground, mortally wounded. How is this any different from the way humans do it jokes ensued. Okay, I guess she ended on a down note anyway. Then she fielded some questions:

"What have the bees taught you about creating sustainable communities of people?"
"Oh dear. I don’t know a thing about that." Next?

"Is it safe to say that if honeybees didn’t exist, we wouldn’t exist?" - some fratboy in the back.
The Memoriste paused for a moment, so I decided to let Obi-Wan answer this one. Yes, Mr. Fratkid. Honeybees are the damn Force. They surround us and penetrate us. They bind the Galaxy together.

Collegian article makes you age 60 years

striphe — Sat, 05 Apr 2008 16:09:49 +0000

I’m kind of puzzled. Former yearbook staffer and passive-aggressive gesturist Adrianne DeWeese seems to be on fire with her profile articles, artfully translating slices of someone’s life into something strikingly detailed, so that the readers get a coherent snapshot of her subject. Case and point: "Retirement community resident has seen little change by aging process," in which I found out that at 95, Helen Toburen can beat me at basketball. Whatever; I’d still win at cigarette smoking.

But why can’t looker-awayer Adrianne do the same thing with stories that are not profiles? Case and point: the first two paragraphs of "Study finds more people living to, past 100:"

A recent study suggests the compression of morbidity and compression of disability might be separate phenomena, making it easier for people to live to age 100.
Compression involves delaying morbidity or disability so it takes up a smaller percentage of a person’s total lifespan. The study was published Feb. 11 in the Archives of Internal Medicine.

By the time I finished her article, I had prostate cancer.

I know that you know that I’m not fond of askin’

striphe — Sat, 05 Apr 2008 05:25:58 +0000

I met up with Cate, Carolyn, Jordan, Cherry, and Johnny (an old guy dressed up like a vampire) at Rusty’s for Cate’s 21st birthday. Over the course of three Captain Cokes I figured out exactly what it is about this whole clusterfuck of Thursday-night undergrad social interaction that makes me so suicidal.

Seeing all these kids so effortlessly happy and in-tune with each other, I can’t help but self-indulgently compare it to my own inner turmoil. Their enforced shallowness, the terse, hollow exchanges, their hypercasual "hey good times, see ya around," sending me into stifled palpitations of last-call blues as I attempt various ploys at securing a future reunion, and I come off looking half-insane. The whole shin-dig starts to feel sort of like going to church; you came here wanting to belong, to be accepted for your flaws and whatnot, but they keep making you sing these damn hymms you don’t even know and you just fumble trying to keep up, choking your ability to be honest with yourself or anyone else around you in this chapel of mirth, and you’re no better off than when you first walked in the door.

Also, you probably still had steam to blow off from that nerve-wracking Thursday screenwriting that makes you feel stabby.

[update: an anonymous tipster informs me that "grad students are worse then undergrads because they’re all neurotically self-absorbed." Great, now there really is nothing to look forward to. Except, of course, church. Party on].

You know you’re in Kansas when “hey, check it out, we’ve got people from out of town” is front-page news.

striphe — Sat, 05 Apr 2008 03:00:46 +0000

The Collegian is running a "four-part series investigating the disconnect among certain student demographics on campus.
Apparently if you’re not young, white, and single you’ve come to the wrong fucking school, bro. Scope it:

Dealing with "the other" - meaning anything unusual or out of the ordinary [ed. note: thanks for clarifying!] - also can make American students uncomfortable to try and understand people from different backgrounds, said Bradley Shaw, associate professor of modern languages and director of international and area studies in the College of Arts and Sciences.

"I think that we are sometimes a little hesitant or a little reticent when we’re dealing with things that we don’t understand or don’t know," Shaw said.

Did people from Kansas not know this already? Forget I asked.

In other news, people who are married or have kids have trouble merging with the general population of wingnutty barhopping vikings about campus because they never get to go to the really cool parties.

Many students agree there is a disconnect among traditional and nontraditional students on campus.

As a traditional student, Shane Howard, senior in electronic journalism, said it is not easy to connect with nontraditional students.

"There is a natural disconnect between traditional students and nontraditional," Howard said. "Nontraditional students are forced to do things that traditional students don’t have to do, like taking care of kids. It makes them less free to do spur-of-the-moment things."

Shane, you don’t wanna hang out with these kids anyway. There’s nothing like watching a bunch of 20-year-old drama brats sip tequila out of each others’ bellybuttons to make you really sit down, take a long hard look at what your life really is and how it has led up to this moment, and then just go to hell with it and have an OD, but not on any of this crystal meth/jenkem the kids are into these days. You kick it old school. You kick it opium style.

You kids go take a recess

striphe — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 17:00:55 +0000

Alex Peak and the rest of y’all think you’re all so stressed in college, probably because in high school you got good grades without studying or doing homework and still managed to be peppy and popular, but suddenly a few years later it’s getting close to finals and the teachers just fucking pile on those exams like Halloween candy and you’ve actually got to study. So listen up kids: that is not stress. Stress is fighting 10 miles of highway traffic to eek into a job where you juggle your coworkers’ backbiting, passive-aggressive bullshit with the demands of a boss whose idea of encouragement is not firing you, and after ten, eleven, twelve hours of that every day you fight traffic again going home so you can catch the last fifteen minutes of Grey’s, which is really all you wanted all day long, and as you nod off for the night, you ponder what your life has come to and has it all been worth it or whatever. Then you wake up three days later in a Mexican jail, with a heroine dependency and a case of the runs, right in front of two middle-aged Federales who are seconds away from cumming in your face, and you think to yourself, "shit, this is just like high school." The awesome thing about college is that once in a while you can just call up someone sexy and interesting, get high and play hookey, and just come back whenever you get around to it. I, unfortunately, am old, and those days are far behind me.

New device to be eyed hungrily by super villains at KU

striphe — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 23:27:06 +0000

In "Army pays professors $4.5 million to build laser," Scotty beamed reporter Corene Brisendine into the physics department to scout around for new life and new civilizations or whatever. She found a superweapon! Okay, maybe not.

"Star Trek" pushes the limits of space by "going where no man has gone before." Two K-State physics professors and an associate professor of industrial and manufacturing systems engineering are pushing the boundaries of technology by developing laser technology that might be applicable to futuristic technologies similar to those viewed on science-fiction shows like "Star Trek."

The professors are attempting to build the fastest pulsing laser in history by using attosecond optical technology based on recollision and gating, said Charles L. Cocke, university distinguished professor of physics. An attosecond is .25 billionths, billionth of a second."

In a remarkable display of self-discipline, I am carefully avoiding any "LaserCocke" jokes, which should allow me to focus more on how much of a nerd Corene is. See, nerds are meticulous, loving to do research and find out new and fascinating stuff, pondering diverse applications for new technology.

"On an episode of "Star Trek Voyager," Capt. Janeway uses a hand-held device to check if her food was edible. On another episode, a crewmember uses a device to scan a rock formation on an alien planet. Another crewmember heals an injured patient by waving a device over the patient’s forehead."

Or they bat their eyes at someone and borrow his Star Trek collection, whatever. It’s still hard work. When I went out on assignment, Adrianne also used to make us gather information with our Tricorders. I found them cumbersome, and kept mine hidden whenever I made out with hot alien chicks, which I did every episode of the third season.

Amused at my own shitty jokes

striphe — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 21:17:35 +0000

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.

Collegian columnist learns everything about entire religion, culture, civilization from 15 minutes on YouTube

striphe — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 20:10:48 +0000

"The week passed for most citizens of the United States with little awareness of the powder keg ready to blow in Europe." And so begins this week’s issue of Neocon Weekly in the Collegian’s Op Ed page.

Brett King’s article focuses on the release of Fitna, a 15-minute documentary made by Dutch politician Geert Wilders, that reportedly shows video segments of militant Muslims declaring war on Western civilization, in addition to Quran quotes encouraging violence.

(As if those particular soundbites are the entire Quran. Like they’re even put into context in their respective passages).

In 1984 (what, don’t you fucking read?), Orwell writes about a daily ritual called the two-minutes’ hate, in which the ruling political party gathers all of its members together in front of a bigscreen TV and makes them watch a video depicting an Enemy of the People maligning the nation. Whipped into senseless fury, the party members shout and throw shit at the screen, expressing their surging rage against whoever the authorities tell them to.

The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretence was always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one’s will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic.

Sounds like their team is winning! So why, exactly, are they so pissed? Their authoritarian government has made almost every aspect of human nature illegal (especially fucking); the people come to the two-minutes’ hate so they can expel the violence and humanity simmering beneath their consciousness. That way no aggression will remain to direct against authoritarianism, the true enemy of humanity.

"The only hate speech which seems to be spread is coming from the radical Muslims themselves," wrote King, failing to grasp in the slightest how this film is patently offensive. That, presumably, is always the problem: willful ignorance.

The film is a one-sided portrayal of the Muslim world; a view that panders to racism and fear. Flyover-state neocons will see this and take this video to be the truth about all of Islam. They will write op-ed columns in newspapers across America that will marginalize all Muslims based on this small, vocal segment. I know how it works all too well; in L.A. we’ve all watched "Bowling for Columbine" ten thousand times. We think all Midwesterners are exactly like Tim McVeigh. Also: I learned all about women from 2 girls, 1 cup.

"Racial divides in Europe have increased substantially over the past decades as Muslims have immigrated to many European countries," writes Brett. "Refusing to integrate to European society and committing themselves to continue the practice of Sharia law within the borders of their host country has produced a difficult situation for many." Solution: strike down freedom of religion. Replace it with a border fence!

"Film should not be condemned but studied," reads the column’s headline, somewhat awkwardly. Yes, the video should be studied; but not in isolation, like a formula that purports to tell us exactly how all Muslims supposedly tick. Rather, it should — wait for it — be put into context with the rest of Islamic society.

An enormous portion of Muslim society has been quick to try to distance itself from the rhetoric on Arab TV stations. Yesterday, Radwan Abu Ayyash, deputy minister of culture in Ramallah, was quoted in the New York Times on this exact issue:

What is not fine is to build up children with a culture of hatred, of closed minds, a culture of sickness. I don’t think they always know what they are creating. People use one weapon, language, without realizing that they also use it against themselves.

Seriously man, front-page story. Don’t you fucking read? Of course you don’t. "The week passed for most citizens of the United States with little awareness…"

Zeitgeist

striphe — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 14:56:47 +0000

I left the building, glancing
At white-haired old stranger with a
Marlboro in her left hand, cheap paperback in her right.
And she looked back at me like she just didn’t give a fuck.

Collegian columnist: your online degree isn’t worth the paper it’s not printed on

striphe — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 01:45:38 +0000

As usual, everything’s going to shit, according to Blake Osborn’s latest column. Whatever, just read on.

The fixation of the authenticity in politics and in food is a result of the overarching homogeneity in U.S. culture, according to a recent article in Time magazine. Legendary business consultants James Gilmore and Joseph Pine II, who together wrote "Authenticity," said in the article that America has "toxic levels of inauthenticity." As a result, they claim it is essential for businesses, if they want to thrive, to "start selling experiences" instead of products.

No longer are buyers concerned with only price and quality. Instead, they respond more to the product or the person as an experience. Companies must be "transparent," meaning they are what they claim to be, or they can openly fake their authenticity by offering cheap substitutes blah blah blah."

And in a single stroke, the entire public relations industry is unmasked!

Then he meanders on to his favorite target: teh Internetz.

The "virtualization of life, with friends meeting on Facebook.com and the increasing popularity of blogs, increases the desire for more authentic experiences with others…"

Meeting on Facebook? You can do that now?

But he may have a point. There was that time I went to milfhunter.com and since then I’ve been jonesing for Kylie Minogue. I just can’t get her out of my head. Her loving is all I think about!

Oh, right, I was supposed to say something about online degrees, wasn’t I? Well, how do you get access to education if you’re, like, ridonculously busy, can’t make the commute to class, but really need that extra certification?

Online classes are "not in par, in my opinion, with traditional classes at top-tier universities," a source told Osborne. "The general ambience of the class provides a better experience."

I would have to agree…in regards to education. I would prefer the interactive atmosphere of a classroom to the computer screen. Technology has its limits.
We must not forget the true meaning of authenticity, which is more than a blank computer screen or an ATM.

Authenticity? Nothing provokes an authentic existential crisis like a blinking cursor.

How to phone in your Collegian column

striphe — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 00:38:55 +0000

1. Observe a disturbing "trend" among the young’uns. Examples:

   a. Drinking diet soda.
   b. The interwebz.
   c. Fellatio.

2. Google or use Lexis-Nexis to find evidence documenting the spread of this trend.

   a. News flash: lots of us drink diet soda!
   b. News flash: lots of us use Facebook!
   c. Lexis-Nexis didn’t have much to say about this. I had use a different site for my research.

3. Keep quoting the articles until 80% of your column is really someone else’s column.

4. Use your last two or three paragraphs to decry this phenomenon as the downfall of civilization as we know it. Examples:

   a. Diet Dr. Pepper does not, in fact, taste more like regular Dr. Pepper!
   b. Facebook is the Diet Dr. Pepper of human activity.
   c. Speaking of Facebook, this really oughta be a Superpoke.

There! Next step: type it up on your mom’s old Smith-Corona (because computers destroy your soul. Not Macs, though). Have your "copyeditor" run spellcheck, and you’ve written Blake Osborn’s next column!

Whoops!

striphe — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 05:57:00 +0000

You somehow managed to hail mary right over my trenchant social analyses and hone in on the *other* posts. Those in which I invoke defense mechanisms and feed my delusions of grandeur with alcohol; the posts in which I am pompous, childish, desperate and whiney; petty, self-indulgent, shallow, obnoxious, and worst of all, too prolix (my bad). And in so doing you found that secret thing which unravelled me. Umm, sorry about that whole business, by the way.

And what, exactly, was it? That business?

Yes, there was a party, months ago.

She noticed me. Asked me questions. Got my jokes, even the sly, insiderey one I threw out just to see if anybody was listening. And yes, whatever, I know it was mind-numbingly awful, just like 95% of my "jokes."

Where’d my drink go?
Oh, was that yours, on the table? I finished it off. Forgive me. It was delicious; so sweet, and so cold.
I know what you’re talking about, she said, looking right at me.
Do you now? I tilted my head.

So yeah, I was weak and lonely and stupid (some things never change). One night there was a conversation. And promises.

And then, another night, she visited. Said all the right things. The sort of things you secretly always wanted someone to say to you? Those. "But how did she know?" I wondered afterward, dazed and smiling idiotically.

We partied in Lawrence one night. She invited me over some more; parties, get-togethers, studying, until by and by she didn’t. Then it was all missed phone calls, all sorts of excuses not to make dates, and then all of nothing.

As time wore on and the thing ran its course, I grew more ashamed angrier and angrier still with myself. I withdrew, even despite your kind efforts. Yours too, Sexy Communist Spy. Again, my bad.

In hindsight, this experience has helped me decide on something of great social imprtance which I’ve been mulling over for some time; I will no longer hit on any women under 40.

Except Dessa, of course.

You don’t know me like that

striphe — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 05:56:31 +0000

I love it that Facebook now sifts through your dugout of friends, compares it to other people on your friends’ lists, and nicely lets you know who you might have met at that party two weeks ago but were too drunk to remember last names. Either that or Facebook went to the party too, and saw everything. Even the pervy grin you flashed when the tattooed girl walked by in a miniskirt. Good thing they didn’t make that into a status update. OR DID THEY??

Nostradamus predicted this 500 years ago.

striphe — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 05:56:17 +0000

As Madeline and I left Auntie Mae’s we noticed Cherry and her new boyfriend (What, I didn’t mention that?) in the window. In the three seconds it takes for Madeline to hop back in and say hi, I realize that I cannot imagine a circumstance under which Cherry would go three seconds out of her way for me. So I sort of linger outside. Jordan waves me in and I shake my head. Then Cherry waves me in. Then Jordan, again. What for? A moment of awkward, hollow hellos does not appeal to me in the slightest. I don’t budge.

When I woke up the next ~~morning~~ afternoon, the first thing that popped into my head was "You know what would really shake this hangover? A mindfuck. Yep, nothing like a slight mindfuck to remind you that the sky is blue and water is wet, etc."

Ipso-facto, meenie-mo, magico! A message on Facebook: "i missing hanging out with yoooouuuuu."

Oh, why didn’t ya say so earlier? Let’s see; maybe we should get together for a movie or something. How does six weeks ago sound? Does six weeks ago work for you? Super.

Jump. Jive. Wail.

striphe — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 05:56:06 +0000

I’d been picturing this moment in my mind the second I came here and saw the band: their dark suits, their swing-dancing wingtips, the trumpet and the sax, and every time it runs through my head it goes like this:

"Hey, let’s dance."
"Whatever. I’m leaving.

But the band’s been at it for an hour, ta-tum tum ta-tum tum, and they are kicking ass, and I’m tapping my feet and swaying my head, and for some reason I got all dressed up tonight; new hairdo, favorite shoes, favorite tie, favorite shirt, and I just can not help myself. It’s now or never. I turn to Madeline and ask her.

"Oh, I have no rhythm." That’s not the point! This is Auntie Mae’s, not Soul Train.

But is this one of those times when I’m supposed to be a man and just go for it? I can never tell. So I make for her hand and she moves them both under her bottom. "No means no." Umm, it’s a dance, not a rape, but point taken.

It is never "one of those times."

She gets up to use the bathroom and while she’s gone a couple of girls walk by, going into a holding pattern right at the empty bench.

"Uh, sorry. Someone’s sitting here."
"That’s okay. I don’t want to sit there anyway." The way she says it makes the word there point at me and stick its tongue out. Saucy! As she walks away, I notice a tramp stamp: a ship’s helm (I guess it’s so the seamen know where to go).

Madeline comes back and the band is still going. The helmsgirl flutters back this way, onto the dance floor, with Jimbo (That guy knows everybody). They are dancing and the song winds down and the band announces their next one:

"This is a song by Duke Ellington. He still has it doesn’t he!" That makes one of us. I turn to Madeline again.

"Should have come here with a different girl." Duly noted.

And fifteen minutes later they start up another number, with that tempo again just right, ta-tum tum, called "Let’s drink wine." I know now if I can’t find someone to dance with me on this one I’ll be a miserable failure, sitting here with a stupid twisty hairdo and a stupid black shirt and stupid jolly-roger vans and stupid polka dot tie. I turn to the curly-haired blonde on the barstool next to me.

"Hi there. My name’s Swingie McJazzhands."
"Hi! I’m Anna."
"Nice to meet you Anna. How are you? This band is great, aren’t they?"
"Yeah, I love it."
"Would you like to dance?"
Oh, I can’t. My friend and I were waiting for someone and now we’ve gotta head out."

True to her word, they skedaddle up the stairs and out the door, presumably to a better, albeit torturously jazzless, party.

Jimbo’s on the floor with that girl again. There is exactly one other person here who I already know, and she is sitting front and center, so what the hell, might as well take another crazy chance and ask her. So I do. A moment later I take her by the hand and we start swinging and grinding like we were born for this night.

Ha ha, just kidding. She shot me down too.

We are strong, no one can tell us we’re wrong, searchin our hearts for so long, both of us knowing

striphe — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 23:18:14 +0000

Dunya Mikhail, an Iraqi-born poet who sought asylum in the United States after being threatened in 1996 by the Iraqi regime, gave a poetry reading at Hale Library this afternoon.

She read an hour’s worth of poems, all about war and love in Iraq, to the packed Hemisphere room; about 150 people or so - mostly professors, grad students, and womens’ studies majors (which explains why I never see any undergrads I know at these English majorey events).

Mikhail said that when she was younger, her poetry was laden with metaphors, multiple meanings, multifaceted imagery; since she came to the U.S. and started writing in English, her prose has become more direct. I found her poems to be clean, beautiful narratives, offering slices of life and imagery that connect people.

Coffee cups. Emails. Keys. Harps. Bones. grass. And so on. "We need a second life, for love only," she said.

Near the end of her reading, she let us in on a personal link to her themes (you know, in addition to having grown up and lived there during several wars or whatever).

Long ago in Iraq, she had a fiance. He became a soldier; she moved out of Baghdad, then later back to Baghdad to be a reporter, then in 1995 she left the country and went to Jordan. In 1996 she emigrated to the U.S.

Before the soldier vanished into unknown parts of the world, he had been sending letters, but Iraq’s mail system wasn’t really set up to get mail to Mikhail in case she relocated. So all the letters vanished somewhere, behind wood, or dust, or whatever it is that eventually swallows up all lost secrets written down.

All but one. After ten years, it wound up in the hands of a friend at the Baghdad Observer, who forwarded it to Mikhail, in Michigan. It was from Australia. It was from the soldier.

Today, Penelope and Odysseus are married.

Don’t look at me like that.

Candy still just as dandy, liquor now much quicker

striphe — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 22:29:10 +0000

In "Hopped up: Mixing energy drinks, alcohol common despite health risks" - a thorough, nuanced article in today’s Collegian, Jonathan Garten provides the recipe for a Jager Bomb (Jagermeister, Red Bull) and then, bafflingly, warns us not to drink it!

"Energy drink cocktails…can cause a lower perception of intoxication, heart complications, and dehydration."

According to Dr. Priyantha Ranaweera, cardiologist at Mercy Regional, "mixing energy drinks and alcohol can cause people to drink for a longer period of time than they normally would. The caffeine in a can of Red Bull or Monster could offset drowsiness brought on by drinking alcohol."

What - you expected some smartass commentary? I’m taking notes! Please doctor, continue:

"It doesn’t make sense for people to mix alchohol and energy drinks," Ranaweera said, apparently unaware that she just explained it.

"I mean, how far are they willing to go to get drunk?" she ponders.

One presumes this question to be rhetorical; but really, in these trying times, I find it takes more effort to be sober.

Forget Maroon 5: boogie through the gym with these jazzy tunes

striphe — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 20:22:40 +0000

Earlier today, Collegian writer and looker-awayer Adrianne let us in on her favorite workout songs - angry breakup music! But who wants to think about some douchey ex while you tone up? For me, a healthy part of the grieving process is to ignore the ex and fixate on pornstars. Therefore, I’ve selected a few choice tunes which I think are better suited for pumping iron.

James Brown: "Payback"
I don’t know about you, but something about remembering to walk up to someone and kick his ass really spurs me to go that extra mile in the weight room. Plus, you know, the song is uhh, funky (I’ve gotta practice saying that right).

Duke Ellington: "Sentimental Love"
The reason I go work out in the first place is to seduce hot chicks. What does it matter if I can do so after I leave or while I’m still there? Smooth jazz puts everyone in the right mood. I hate when I sidle up to some skinny blonde Jessica or Megan with my very best line ("Baby, don’t act like you don’t remember me") and she tasers me. Who would taser me to smooth jazz?

Theme song from Terminator 2: Judgement Day
That reverb of solid metal set to a sober military rhythm reminds me of what lies in store for me, and for all mankind: watching Sarah Connor Chronicles on veoh.com. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves.

Dance Dance Revolution techno music
Because, to tell you the truth, I’m not at the gym. I’m in the Stuni game room. Playing Dance Dance Revolution.

80s Pop music.
Don’t judge me.

I would assassinate Thursday with a paring knife except that it would hemorrhage all over Friday and TOTALLY ruin my weekend

striphe — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 19:36:12 +0000

What is it about Thursdays that, by early evening, right as screenwriting class ends, makes me feel hollow, torpid, and dissatisfied?

First thing: one more hour of Spanish this week. It’s actually not so bad - Ms. Diaz is much more simpatica than she seems; but last semester’s god-awful class left a bad taste in my mouth and I’m probably just still just still dry-heaving it.

Second thing: the few people I do know here tend to become scarce all weekend, and there are no new episodes of anything on the tubez, leaving me with nothing to do except write.

Except I can’t, because (third thing) by now I just feel cold and dead inside; no imagination, no oomph, so I end up basically napping from Friday night to Sunday afternoon. Then Sunday night I scramble to finish the homework I put off.

This list is on my mind, halfway through a gin & tonic - extra lime - when the Communist Spy sends me a text.

If you’re not doing anything right now you should join us at Kathouse.

Cigarette in hand, I pound down the drink, dash out the door, and am at the Kathouse in five. I’ve never been here before. The Communist Spy and her cadre of five other girls - Darcy, Leshia, Maureen, Katie, someone else, and a Gentleman who Travels With Katie - are here to see a band. Of the six girls in the group, 9,340 of them have hooked up with someone in the band. The Spy motions for me to take the corner seat, next to her.

"Took you a while."

"I was at Auntie Mae’s."

"You smell like Auntie Mae’s." (In Kansas you can still smoke indoors and Mae’s has a basement, which, aside from the absurdly cheap drinks, is why I like it there).

While I’m waiting for a drink the guitars fire up. It’s funny; all week long, you think to yourself how badly you just need company; the violent jolt of social contact might inspire "emotions," "longing," "happiness," or something. How going day after day with this feeling of isolation makes you feel like a dismal failure; that you should just get out more and be around people.

But then on Thursday night you find yourself in a big dark room, resenting the three-dollar cover charge, the band working the crowd with skill and confidence sharply reminding you that you’re about 3,000 years old, the dizzying pockets of sparse lamp light, the watered-down drinks, the throng of blondes fenced around the barkeep like tube-topped Vikings laying siege to the coast. And the barmaids who ignore you. All of it just grates inexplicably on your nerves. You can fake it for a while; ten, maybe fifteen minutes, before you have no choice but to slink away, find the exit, and disappear into Friday morning.

Creativity, imagination lacking in my ass

striphe — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 08:29:40 +0000

Another Collegian columnist recently decried lazy Facebooking young adults as the corrosion that will soon make all of society crumble.

"We could spend our money in better ways," said Mark Wampler. We just need the vision to see those ways — clothes for the homeless, food for the poor and child support for single parents are just a few ideas." Guess he didn’t read Monday’s front-page story about students volunteering in New Orleans, building houses and taking care of stray animals. Seriously, how could you miss it? There was a photo of a hot chick with a newly-adopted dog right with the article. But I digress.

"How many people have "drinking" (probably not bottled water)…as one of their Facebook.com hobbies?"
As far as I know, alcohol predates writing and even Facebook as a staple of civilization. For a good reason: drinking is and has always been the best defense against self-important judgementalism.

At least Mark is doing his part to stem the tide of cultural decay. He sculpts figures out of chicken nuggets! Maybe he even does it while the poor press against the window and look on! And that’s not all! "You might have seen my friends and me a couple Saturdays ago, handing out ‘green party water’ and green cookies in Aggieville. We had a lot of fun trying to be creative by hanging out with people who we felt weren’t making the most imaginative choices with their lives. The most common resonse we got was, ‘Wow, it’s so cool you guys are doing this."

When I think of someone who just met me two seconds ago me passing judgement on my unimaginative life choices, I know without a doubt that person must be the absolute coolest! Thank you for emitting your artistic farts among the peasants, instead of hording them away in the newsroom. They smell baroque, pregnant with technique and dadaism, twinkling like fresh shrapnel on a summer afternoon. They are like nothing we’ve ever experienced before.

In Russia, media embargo YOU!

striphe — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 07:51:50 +0000

Prince Harry had secretly been serving as an army officer in Afghanistan. The news outlets in on the secret decided, for the sake of security, not to report this information. The Drudge Report got wind of it, blasted it front and center, and Britain was forced to recall the prince. Adam Phan, in the deceptively-headlined "Journalists should be punished for ignoring media embargo," argued that Matt Drudge should, well, be punished for ignoring the media embargo.

It should be noted that Drudge is simply not a journalist. He’s some guy with a blog. Like this one, but more famous and wingnutty and whatnot.

And as much as I want Drudge to be shipped off and waterboarded in a prison somewhere in the poorest, filthiest, most snake-ridden part of the world, punishing him would be an unacceptable kneecapping to freedom of the press. Without that basic principle, democracy is a sham, like in Russia; this particular blog could not exist, and I would have no reason to live. Other than, you know, the redolent spring breeze and all the people who love me and stuff.

There’s no such thing as a media embargo. The media can print anything that’s true. It is their job - and a necessary one - that they reveal, not conceal, information. So they found out what Prince Hal’s been up to. Kind of weird anyway, keeping him squirreled away like that. How long can you expect a figure as high-profile as the crown goddam prince of England to stay hidden? Hopefully his commanding officer, Dumbledore, showed him where to get all the primo Afghani opium, while his old pal Falstaff showed him what to do with it.

Post-Easter Bleh

striphe — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 07:31:42 +0000

I know what you’re thinking: "Finally! A real post! None of that "collegianism" wank we’ve been choking down since you got back from L.A. three days ago!" It’s taken that long for my spring break afterglow — more commonly known as "jetlag" — to subside. How long is that shit supposed to last, anyway? To be honest, though, I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in a while. Saturday I packed. Sunday I flew back to the Isle of Joy and promptly emailed the redheaded cutie I met weeks ago.

Geek girl,
How the hell are ya? Have a relaxing, uneventful spring break? Or did you go wild in Cancun and get caught on video? You don’t have to answer that. Wanna get together again one of these days? Soon? :-)
-Cheeky & Geeky

Then I promptly went over Madeline’s for no good reason, where we self-destructively watched Romeo & Juliet into the wee hours of the morning.

Monday I stayed up til four doing the homework I should have finished some time last week. Tuesday I went to a Writers’ Circle meeting - kind of an informal workshop for English majors - led by Jimbo and attended by Madeline, two guys I didn’t recognize, and one dude who read some wonderful, if depressing pieces at Poetry on Poyntz a month ago.

I passed around some of my doggerel, which I wrote by lighting up a cigarette at three in the morning, remembering a pretty girl, making up the prettiest run-on sentences I could think of about her, then inserting line breaks wherever the spirit moved me to do so. Jimbo said it felt like slam poetry (confession: never been to a poetry slam, have no idea what it is, will forget to google it by the time I finish this post), and they all seemed to like my submissions. Twenty minutes of relief from the inferiority complex!

Madeline read her work as well, but much too quickly. Sitting next to her, I noticed she paced herself by wagging her legs as fast as butterfly wings. She did her poems a supreme injustice; I think everything she writes is graceful and beautiful and brilliant, really; but it’s all paratactical, full of fragments. It’s like she’s describing a dismantled stained-glass window. A listener would need a moment to reflect, to thread each fragment in with the others, or else it’s impossible to make the whole image cohere.

"I can’t read poems out loud," she told me afterwards, over one of my Parliaments. I’m the same way. I learned from public speaking last semester that I should never speak in public again.

"Yeah, you were nervous."

She said she’d rather type up her material beforehand, send it to the other members, and have them critique it without having to read it.

"Absolutely not. If I’ve got to read, so do you." Justice for all, I say.

Today I am so tired that the room’s spinning weirdly (I haven’t drank since I was bumped up to first class on my flight Sunday). It’s kind of cool and kind of scary at the same time, because it could be a breezy altered state of mind, or it could be the beginnings of a brain tumor. Meh.

It took a few days, but the redheaded cutie finally wrote back:

Don’t worry; no one will be seeing lewd videos of me on the internet anytime soon. ^_^ [Editor’s note: Foiled again!]
Spring Break was awesome, although it was followed immediately by a wicked stomach flu. (Sorry I missed your call the other night; was busy vomiting.) This week, I need to chill out, and it looks like I have some stuff going on this weekend (game-intensive, I do tabletop every other weekend) but we should totally chill out sometime next week/weekend. I got the new remastered Blade Runner–have you seen it? It’s fucking phenomenal.
Hope you had fun on the homefront. We’ll chat at ya later!

- Redheaded cutie

What’s suspicious is that this exact thing happened years ago when I went to Mexico: a week of good times punctuated by Montezuma’s Revenge. Maybe my diarrhea has spent ten years migrating eastward from California and is finally proliferating throughout the Great Plains (Take that, red states!). What’s also suspicious is that when you translate "we should totally chill out sometime next weekend" from cutie to nerd it comes out as "I’m just not that into you."

Seriously, why is it impossible, when I ask, to get this response: "Sure, let’s hang. How’s tonight?" My theory: I don’t bathe often enough and smell like loser. "We know your kind," they are thinking. "You are socially inept!" Hence the lucrative offers: tepid promises of future phone calls that are never made, and vague references to getting together that never materialize! Well, with no girls to distract me (pornstars don’t count), now I can really focus on studying.

Collegian columnist picks up main stream media’s slack, redeems journalism

striphe — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 15:24:04 +0000

For the past seven weeks or so, the tone of the media has been, "Hill, you’re gonna lose, so you might as well just quit." At last, an op-ed columnist has offered a concise, realistic analysis of Hillary’s campaign and her treatment by the media. It’s not the lazy, puerile propaganda you’ll see every day in the NY Times (zing!); it’s trenchant, informed, and observant. And it’s from Adam Phan in the fucking Collegian. Behold!

"Clinton also drags alongside her the heaviest set of burdens. She is widely perceived as a conniving carpet-bagger with no sense of humor and a titanic sense of entitlement - an eclectic set of assertions that are part truth, part exaggeration and part fiction entirely. They generally betray more about the perceiver than the senator herself."

"The most grievous insult is that she is "unlikable," an insipid ad hominem whose hurtfulness is matched only by its vagueness, and the most dimwitted insult is that she is "unelectable," a circular contention that inexplicably has managed to become a piece of its own evidence. And this is not even to mention the effect of Clinton’s most fervent and visible surrogate, mixed as it might have been."

I may, however, be biased. I like Hillary. Yes, I know she probably won’t win. I tend to root for the underdog on general principle. Obama has said:

"To achieve the change the country wants, we need a leader who can finally move beyond the divisive politics of Washington and bring Democrats, independents, and Republicans together to get things done."

Get what done? Republicans have been getting "things" done for the past eight years. I don’t want them to get anything done ever again. Lots of teh yung peepl say we want someone who will put an end to the petty partisan cattiness of the last few years, someone who will transform the political climate by reaching across party boundries, etc etc etc.

Not I!

I need someone who won’t put up with wingnut bullshit. At all.

I need someone tough enough to kick their fucking heads in, carve them up like pie, dump their corpses out back with the Dahlia, the same way they’ve kicked the American middle class aside for the last eight years, and I firmly believe Hillary is the best candidate to represent my venomous fury. I think that out of all the candidates, Hillary is the one I’d most like to see in a fistfight. I bet she’d be beaten to a bloody pulp, left for dead, and seconds after you turn your back and walk away, she’d lurch upright like Dracula coming out of his coffin, pounce on you like a five-thousand-dollar whore, garrote you like a Harlem crack-fiend, and that, frankly, is exactly what I want to see in a Democratic president.

Collegian is getting the hang of it

striphe — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 22:17:31 +0000

Piano Man: This is the best Collegian profile I’ve ever seen. First, it’s got a punny headline. Smarmy bastards like me lrrrve puns. Next, Adrianne leads with a scene:

"Wingfield’s instrument - the piano - sits toward a back corner with empty space surrounding it. Students and faculty members gather around the piano each day. A slim man dressed in dark pants, a dressy jacket and wire-rimmed glasses, Wingfield, performs piece after piece and serves as the musical vehicle as he accompanies students and faculty members each day."

So cinematic!

She proceeds with a deep, thorough portrait of campus microcelebrity Bill Wingfield, pretty much writing with as much style as Wingfield plays the piano. By the end, I vaguely got the idea of how awesome it is to be around Bill Wingfield. Then I remembered I have no rhythm, musical talent, or even anything funny to say about this article, so I hit the bars.

[Update: I just passed Adrianne on campus and she did that thing where you look at someone then pretend to be looking somewhere else, INSTEAD of just mutely nodding or waving hello, while you pass. I used to be like that too, but then I turned 15. Imagine being in a newsroom with a "grown woman" who acts like a high school brat. Still, this was a good article.]

Awkward orgy of Collegian columnists leaves blogger crying in the bathroom, avoiding eye contact, hurriedly stumbling back home with pants half-zipped

striphe — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 21:51:32 +0000

When Matt Combes wrote his anal sex column, two things ran through my mind. First: this is a sure way to get all the red staters on campus to get their heads out of their asses and slide some cock in there instead, which - judging by the student body reaction - is what they all secretly want. Second: although it’s informative and frank, it seemed kind of crappy to sort of throw anal sex in their faces; it’s insensitive to their tastes. Nevertheless, there it was. Matt pretty much managed to moon us, and on principle, I always approve of a well-timed ass.

Nevertheless, something bugged me about it, and I couldn’t figure out what until I read Whitney Hodgins’ better-written column, then went back and read Matt’s recent oral sex piece. Matt takes care, early on, to cite statistics and warn us about disease. At the end, when he pats us on the ass and sends us on our merry way, my penis began to feel abnormally cold and dead, as though my mom just had The Talk with me.

Shouldn’t sex columns be, well, sexy? When I go buy my next Porsche, the first buzzkiller to remind me to buckle up will be promptly run over. We read these things for the softer, more personal angle: the sturm und drang of awkward hookups, the agony of slow, drawn-out rejection, the acrid sting of betrayal, the intimate warmth of the layer of sweat between you and the leggy tattooed hipster (I actually have no idea what this feels like), and so on and so forth. Instead, he’s all "90.1 percent of men and 88.3 percent of women have engaged in heterosexual oral sex." Toe-curling epiphany: men and women like to go down on each other. Also: "herpes hits almost anywhere in the mouth region, and along with gonorrhea, can get in your throat." Or, in this case, VD can be written into a column and spread to unsuspecting promiscuous bastards like me.

The Collegian is kind of sexy today

striphe — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 03:55:31 +0000

Drinking age should span all college students. At first, I thought Aubree Casper’s op-ed piece would be shameless, thoughtless cheerleading for the cause of under-21 drinking. But she presented a persuasive, carefully researched argument, backed up by figures (plus, she’s kind of hot): the presence of a university brings people to town; if you allow more people to drink (responsibly), you could also tax their purchases and give some of that money back to the school. That way, everyone’s happy and everyone’s drunk, which makes them happier. We all win! Next round’s on you!

Aubree, I’m sure an intelligent, pretty columnist like you has no trouble obtaining cocktails when the moment is right. However, if you find yourself in dire straits, just, umm, leave me a blog comment. We’ll work something out.

On a related note, what’s with all the cute, smart women writing columns today? The Collegian is kind of making me wet. Thank goodness my martini’s still dry. If the paper hadn’t printed another preachy, unoriginal Blake Osborn column ("As college students we should heed the thrifty admonitions of older generations and not get tangled in the spending spiral that drains so many accounts"), I’d take this as a sign of the end times.

After reading geek girl’s sex column, I need a cigarette

striphe — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 03:18:22 +0000

Today’s sex column, Students should improve sex IQ by understanding myths, courtesy of Whitney Hodgin, was written with humor, class, and balanced with sensitivity toward red-state tastes. I’m sure I’ll never see another article like it.

She gingerly reveals the typical deep-seated sexual fears of, surprisingly, men. Do women fake it? I’ve always found their blank, disinteresed expressions; their derisive amusement over my penis length, and their post-coital mantra: "Hey, it’s been real, but I’ve got a better party to hit up" to be extremely convincing. But Whitney meant something different by "it": "toe-curling orgasms." No, I’ve found that they tend to get bored and fall asleep before they can get around to faking those.

Does size matter? Dave, a K-State human sexuality instructor, said "As long as a guy is two inches long, he’ll get the job done." That’s right - this is serious work! Annisa, a K-State senior, did not agree: "I don’t think two inches would do it," which is not good news for me.

"On the other hand," she continued, "a guy could be really big and not know what to do with it, which is worse." I know what to do with mine. When it’s sunny, I hang my wet laundry across it. That way, all day long, it smells like fresh detergent, although I have to suffer the effects of fabric softener.

Full disclosure: I met Whitney at an English-majorey speech or presentation or something last semester. She suggested that I write at the Collegian, and because she is a cute geek girl, I did not disagree. Sadly, after I had been there for a few weeks, Whitney disappeared from the newsroom, leaving me nothing to look forward to except the aloof self-importance of the remaining more dedicated, if mediocre, writers. Occasionally I would look over at the old, un-manned Macintosh by the window and hope a left-wing geek girl would just materialize into the seat, but it just never happened, which is as good a metaphor as any for my time in Kansas.

Collegian copy editing negatively impacts ability to generate informed, compact stories

striphe — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 02:24:35 +0000

Criminologist discusses gender, urban inequality among African Americans

If Adrianne doesn’t want me to criticize her, why does everything about her March 14 story, from the headline to the ending quote, sound like it was written by a first-year PR robot?

I’m pretty sure she has, tucked away in her repertoire, a passive-aggressive gesture of disapproval for writers who (1) lead with a quote, and (2) lead with an inflated, verbose block of text. So how does she justify this: "Youths’ descriptions fit quite closely to scholars’ examinations of how structural inequalities negatively impact the ability to generate social ties and protective networks necessary to combat crime."

I’d probably paraphrase thusly: "Experts claim that a in white-male centered society, crime is the only path to social mobility for poor urban ethnic kids, and - surprise! - poor urban kids agree." And confirm it with the expert, of course, who in this case was "Jody Miller, associate professor in the Department of Criminology and Criminal Justice at the University of Missouri - St. Louis."

At the end of the article, a source says "It was really interesting to hear a qualitative interview process and getting to see the actual quotes of what people saw in their communities and neighborhoods."

See that? His reaction to the presentation was "It was really interesting," perhaps as opposed to "It was really boring" or, more specifically, "I sat in the ninth row and felt up my girlfriend." People spew "it was interesting…" quotes when they don’t actually have an opinion or any information. At least he provided a handy, concise summary of the event. Maybe that’s how the lede should sound?

The Ides of March

striphe — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 10:13:13 +0000

To recap:

I drank a lot.

"Movies" were "viewed."

I borrowed my friend’s car and managed to avoid a moving violation.

I played rock band for the first time and was not impressed.

I hit the bars! Then I hit them again.

I quit smoking. Then I quit nonsmoking.

I had a blog smackdown! It was even more boring than it sounds.

I read some of Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Klay, and it’s pretty good. I didn’t get around to reading Twilight. Don’t tell Heather.

I revealed the presence of this awesome blog for the viewing pleasure of the teeming masses. The masses said "meh," then went back to listening to pop music and making out with each other.

And now, my hair looks different.

Drive it like you stole it

striphe — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 08:23:11 +0000

My best friend broke his right arm three weeks ago. Unable to drive a stickshift, he let me borrow his Mustang all week. You know what’s more fun than using a muscle car to pick up hot chicks?

Using a muscle car to run over hot chicks.

Honky Tonk Blues

striphe — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 08:07:48 +0000

Over spring break, I drank at John’s house every night until Thursday. On Thursday Woody suggested we drink at the bars in downtown Long Beach, and I offered no protest.

Hours later, while Woody sat passed out, face down at a table in Dubliner’s Irish Pub, John and I scrutinized a nearby hipster.

“You don’t understand, John. That’s exactly my type. The dark-framed glasses; the no-nonsense bangs; the cherry-red lipstick; the heels; the arm tattoos; the leg tattoos; the skirt. Oh god, that skirt. On a related note, holy fuck, am I drunk, or is that is a nice pair of legs?”

“Yes to both of those, man.”

“Like, if she and I were to ever have sex, upon climax, the semen would stream out of me for hours and hours until finally there was nothing left of me.”

“I get the idea. Thanks for the visual. But what do you make of the unceasing swarm of dudes around her?”

“It does kind of take me back to a dark, lonely, miserable place. Remind me, what was that called?”

“Prom.”

“Right. I don’t think I like her so much any more.”

Ha ha Scooter Girl

striphe — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 19:36:41 +0000

-You sure it’s her? She looks so different without wheels. Like being naked.

-Exactly. I’d know that ass anywhere.

-Is that so?

-No, actually. I’d just be guessing. Is that a crime? If memorizing by ass-ociation is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.

-Yeah, well. Stay classy.

Ooh! Me next!

striphe — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 19:13:42 +0000

Kids these days! Anything for a thrill! When I was young it was circle jerking. Nowadays it’s auto-erotic asphyxiation!

According to K-State extension youth development specialist Elaine Johannes in Study reveals hike in choking for pleasure, “When there are cases of children strangling themselves or having friends do it, it can be difficult to know if the child is doing it to get a high or if it is a suicide attempt.”

I’m disappointed that Kristin didn’t even mention the OBVIOUS third option in her article: emo S&M. Include that angle and her figures would rise as sharply as the crack of a leather whip.

Collegian: You kids go play outside

striphe — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 18:54:20 +0000

Blake Osborn in Students should be concerned about, fix unhealthy habits: We all spend too much time surfing the intertubes and eating pizza and it’s making us fat, unlike Blake, who “has learned how much willpower it takes to maintain a nutritious diet.”

Well, I always I worked off the calories by stumbling around hungover to class. Staggering in awkward semicircles is twice as aerobic as making a direct, efficient beeline. Other than that, this is another work of DUH brought to you by a self-promoting windbag. Why not come up with something relevant and topical for your next column? And for fitness’ sake, write it with a quill, on parchment, and then physically walk over to the newsroom and hand it in. If you send it by email, it will just go straight to your thighs.

Study shows Marquis Clark’s op-ed column much longer than the Bible

striphe — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 18:44:21 +0000

If Marquis Clark continues to take weak premises and weak topics and mix them with wordy, convoluted sentences, at some point I’ll have to assume that he doesn’t really know shit and isn’t worth another awesome snarky quip. Seriously, what’s going on here? In Study shows youth change affiliation, not core belief structures as they age, his claims are:

(1) People kinda sorta of change a few of their religious beliefs in the process of growing up. I want to weep when I see expressions such as “This volatility is occurring at the same time that it seems specific religious affiliation is playing an increasing role in the politics of your nation,” which brings me to your second claim.

(2) Religion plays a major role in political debates, too. No fucking kidding.

What is the source of this prolix prose, this pointless blabbering? I’m scanning the article, trying to pinpoint the source of the infection. Ah-ha! Paragraph 11: “The new Al Green album and a bottle of wine forced me to ask….” Blah blah blah. The question isn’t important. If you’re going to sit around and sip wine, of course your social commentary is going to sound like “The subtle ethereal pas-de-deux of Methodism is macadamized by furtive traces of Pleonasticism and helium.” Why don’t you try drinking something less foofy and more scotch-ey? And after you pound it back, give this column another shot (ha ha!) too.

Collegian: Presidential campaign is a real hoot, mostly because of Democrats

striphe — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 18:24:49 +0000

In Brett King’s latest neocon rant, he compares the presidential debate to a circus. No fucking kidding. A CIRCUS.

As we near the end of the state primaries leading up to the Republican and Democratic national conventions, many voters are beginning to realize how each party has put forth candidates who have no business or experience running this country.

With fun-house mirrors, candidate Sen. Barack Obama, D-Ill., enters the tent showing people distorted images of his experience and the future.

Apparently the Collegian is phoning in its analogies these days. But what motivated the need to wax all creative with the extended metaphor? Does having a viable black candidate remind him of a minstrel show? Does having a viable female candidate remind him of a burlesque show? Because both of those are absolutely HI-larious. Just like a circus! Maybe having strong Democratic candidates reminds him that the Elephants should have been roped in four years ago. Zing!

Hey, but can I still borrow some cash this month?

striphe — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 18:19:28 +0000

Hannah Blick offers more evidence that college is the new high school: Parents of new generation more involved in college students’ life decisions.

Running with a report from CNN regarding “hovering” parents, Hannah details the constant contact and influence of overinvolved parents on students. Biweekly phone calls, attempts at frequent updates from the registrar, and even negotiating job contracts.

According to K-State’s office of student life, “This is only crippling the [child] from achieving success on their own.”

Wasn’t it better when you’d flee home angry and bristling with resentment for a distant authority figure and young and dumb and full of come, then return years later still adrift and goalless? It builds character. Not that I know anything about character.

Asteism

striphe — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 20:44:05 +0000

Underminer: a friend who, during ordinary conversations, casually backhands you with condescension.

I.
Cherry and I were walking together, talking about Fake Patty’s Day, in which the bars open early and have specials to accomodate students who won’t be in town on St. Patty’s day, because that falls during spring break.

“I don’t know if I can make it at 9 in the morning.”

“Oh come on.“

What I meant by “come on” is “ start early and make the most of the day.” But she thought I was asking her to come with me.

“Are you begging?”

“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”

Well, what I said was, “Actually, I assumed you had your own crowd to run with, so no, I was not asking for your company.”

What I meant was yeah, because what I’d really like to do for a pubcrawl is kill my buzz babysitting a snotty emobot.

II.
At night, after the Spring Swing Dance, before Jimbo’s party. Cate, Arianna, and I are hanging out at Cherry’s house; I was making mindless banter, like I always do, which inspired her to wistfully reminisce over my best qualities.

“I LOVE the way you say something stupid and then laugh at your own dumb joke.”

“Actually Cherry, I was laughing because I knew you were going to point out how dumb it was, because hello, all my jokes are dumb.”

Okay, I get it: you’re just not that into me. I laughed harder.

III.
Jimbo’s party: She introduced me to the girl with the fantastically WASPy voice from Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds. I did not recognize her at first.

“You’ve seen her before. This is Mackenzie, you jerk!”

But later, behind her back, doing her best impression: “Oh hi, I’m Mackenzie! Look how amazing I am! Ha ha ha!” As it happens, after talking with Mackenzie, I found out she really did skew towards amazing, and this uncharacteristic cattiness confirmed it.

IV.
And of course, there was this Underminerey stroke of genius.

Thanks for the Chinese food!

striphe — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 17:57:12 +0000

Since I haven’t blogged in a few days, that chart shall serve as a benchmark while I recap the week:

Monday: really don’t remember much, except for a couple of bloody marys. That is not a euphemism.

Wednesday: I made a new friend! A supercute 28-year old redheaded geek girl. No, not that supercute 28-year-old redheaded geek girl. Come to think of it, "romp" makes the whole thing sound way more sordid than it really was, which entailed going to Auntie May’s for happy hour, where we bought each other beers and made small talk. Then we walked around for a little bit. The great big city’s a wonderous toy, just made for a girl and boy. We turned Manhattan into an isle of joy! Okay, she walked me to the Digital Shelf, where we drooled over the anime section. One day she will appreciate Ranma 1/2 as much as I do. One day.

Later, I called the Poetess to tell her I made a new friend. She was feeling blue, and wanted company, so I obliged. I drank her box wine and had a long talk with her about the true meaning of friendship. As it turns out, hippies can love after all! Before I left, she let me have one of her uppers.

Friday: I asked Arianna to go a semi-formal dance put on by the Association of Residence Halls. It was held in the Union Ballroom, which is a pretty big place. Because of that, I was expecting to wall-to-wall hotties gyrating in slinky, knee-length dresses. So OF COURSE we arrive and it’s like 15 kids, awkwardly twisting around to the Spice Girls. No, we are not leaving, I told Arianna. She wore these incredibly pointy black shoes that mangled her feet and made movement difficult, but looked terrific. I was deeply moved by her suffering. She and I sat in the back of the room, not-so-silently judging everyone, and talked about the ungodly horror of high school dances, while waiting for the D.J. to play something slow and romantic because that’s why you go to dances in the first place. It didn’t happen, so after an hour, we left to hit up a better party. And OF COURSE as we were gathering our coats and our purses and our, ahem, man-purses, the Old Man Controlling Everything We Hear finally put on a slow number. I might have been able to talk Arianna into staying for three more minutes, but it was a country song, and by then my heart just wasn’t in it.

I had never been to the casa de supernerdy English Major Jimbo; so when I got to his basement, which had a bar and a bigscreen TV and and a bunch of geeks talking about Baldur’s friggin’ Gate and a wall full of action figures and computer circuitboards and a ceiling plastered with movie posters, I didn’t know whether to love Jimbo for having an awesome place, hate Jimbo for having an awesome place, or hate myself for loving Jimbo for having an awesome place, and the whole thing got even more confusing and beautiful after I pulled out the bottle of cheap whiskey I brought.

I met lots of new people, most notably a blonde girl from the theater department, who I thought was cute and intelligent. She was the lead actress in The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds, wherein she did this amazing thing with her voice that made her sound like a domineering 1930s WASP. She got bonus points when I found out Cherry hates her. Nevertheless, I am definitely leaving that one alone. Actresses are terrifying.

Saturday was Fake Patty’s Day in Manhattan. The real St. Patrick’s day falls during K-State’s spring break, so Aggieville celebrates it a week early while students are still in town. I fully intended to start the pubcrawl at 9 in the morning, when the bars open, but I was too hung over. I ended up lounging around all day long, then, at midnight, crashing a get-together at Madeline’s in celebration of the coming-to-town of her childhood friend Megan, who has apparently developed into a cute, aloof hipster.

A moment after I arrived, Jenna, Maddie’s awesome roommate; Jenna’s boyfriend Graham, who is also awesome, and Megan, decided to hit the bars. Despite the fantasticity of Jenna and Graham, along with my typically asinine outbursts of wit, we were unable to stop Megan from sitting around, pouting, and looking bored. Thankfully she left and returned to Madeline’s place on her own, before she completely killed my buzz and ruined my life.

Serendipity

striphe — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 16:04:23 +0000

I’ve run into Adrianne at the library about 3,000 times this week. The first floor study desks; the stacks; the stairs; the entrance hall. It’s not as sexy as it sounds (it never is). Thursday night I even passed by her as I was on the way there, while she was apparently heading home. Usually I spot her first (the local foliage starts to wilt, clueing me in), and can duck out of the way before she realizes I’m around, but she totally got the jump on me this time. She tilted her head and glowered at me as she crossed the street. When I realized who it was, I waved to her and chuckled like a super villain. She shook her head in disgust. When she got to the other side of the street, she turned her head back my way; it still had that same expression - impatience and disgust, which reminded me that she has that expression all the time, whether in or out of the newsroom. Don’t get me wrong; it looks good on her, especially from a safe distance.

As I mob to tha Dogg Pound, feel the breeze biatch

striphe — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 14:28:07 +0000

Someone really does read this thing! The Sexy Communist Spy recently pointed out the following: “enough weepy Romantic poetry. You didn’t even finish the story about the birthday bash.” Well, of course I bailed on the story when it was about to get boring and weepy. But, by popular demand, here’s the rest of it: I didn’t really revoke Sexy Communist Spy’s roommate’s pimp card. At her own birthday party. What I did do was ride with her to the hospital and sit in a dark lobby while Communist Spy and Hannah took turns trying to calm down the Birthday girl. In the waiting room there was also a football player and a woman with teeny tiny jeans shorts. When Megan was in the room I think I managed to grunt out a conversation, but when it was Hannah, she just kept text-messaging someone(s), leaving me no choice but to stare at that other girl’s legs.

At 4 I left. So that’s the complete story of last night’s party (from three nights ago). Of course, the complete story sort of gives a portrait of this blogger as a nuanced, compassionate drunk with some sort of caring streak. However, notice that if I leave the story half-finished, it makes me look impatient, shallow, and kind of snotty, which is how I really am. Watch:

Yes It’s Cherry: you can’t stop me. you can’t stop me.
Cheeky Hipster: i will CUT you
Yes It’s Cherry: :-) whatever
Yes It’s Cherry: happy monday, cheeky hipster
Cheeky Hipster: happy monday? no such thing.
Yes It’s Cherry: it is.
Yes It’s Cherry: just not today…
Cheeky Hipster: well, maybe next week then.
Yes It’s Cherry: hopefully
Say It With Wit: i’m gonna disappear into the night and reappear at Hale in 15 minutes
Cherry signed off at 10:55:58 PM
Cherry signed on at 10:56:15 PM
Yes It’s Cherry: be damnd
Cheeky Hipster: i forgot how moody you are
Yes It’s Cherry: :-)
Cheeky Hipster: moody/ whuttt
Cheeky Hipster: well, your internet connection. you yourself are a paragon of stoicism and apathy
Yes It’s Cherry: that’s correct
Cheeky Hipster: ….and on that note, time for me to duck out for the night
Yes It’s Cherry: eh
Cheeky Hipster: ttyl
Yes It’s Cherry: ya

Wheee! Leaving early! Wasn’t that fun? Did you notice her nonchalant “eh” at the end? Do you think she was wondering where a man of intrigue like me would be heading at such an hour? Or was she, as usual, just flashing that vast indifference popular pretty girls radiate so well all day long? Which one, eh? I’ll leave it for you to decide, because I’ve got better things to think about.

A confession that is both direct and pointed

striphe — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 14:40:13 +0000

One day, the summer we
lived together, I found,
tucked like a whisper, between
pages one hundred thirty-eight,
and one hundred thirty-nine, of
“Handmaid of Desire,”
an old snapshot of you,
which you are never, ever
getting back.

Best parts

striphe — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 14:38:17 +0000

I.
Late at night, you
used to take me
by the hand and,
voice like a halo,
say those three little words:
Come to bed.
How did you ever do that?
What kind of magic makes a whisper glow?

II.
The best part
about having a girl with glasses
always came
right before you took all your clothes off
slid into bed
draped your leg over my hip
and we’d made love;
right before that, when you’d
set your glasses on
the nightstand.

III.
That spring night, when you
wearing that nimbus-white nightgown,
fiddling with your fingers, sat up, because you
couldn’t sleep;
That was the night you told me you loved me for the first time.

Five things you always wore with style

striphe — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 04:29:15 +0000

That fire-red hoodie,
Those sparkly slippers;

Your virgin-white nightgown.

The cut-off denim miniskirt, on which,
while you drove, I liked to put my hand -
Not-so-secretly
loving
the pleasant resistance of your thigh
underneath the fabric;

Also, the longer one, the dark gypsy skirt, which, each time you put on,
you’d show off for me with a flourish
and a smile.

And that smile: it really went with the skirt.
Perfectly.

This didn’t work at prom, either.

striphe — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 02:29:53 +0000

Potterhead: I’m having caffeine withdrawal. I saw a guy playing bagpipes today. And last week I saw a guy on a unicycle.

Too Prolix: Glad you feel better. I’m not seeing any bagpipes or unicycles here. I haven’t left my room in a month. I’m crouched in here in the same bathrobe I’ve worn for 4 days, etching emo poetry and mathematical equations on the walls. On the plus side, I think I’ve discovered hyperspace.

Potterhead: D’ya think you can forget about the emo poetry one night and totally go to the Wizard Rock Concert next Saturday at the Union? The tickets are free and you can get them at the UPC office in the Stuni. :D
Hyperspace? Cool.

Too Prolix: Why am I up so late? I’ve had coffee too! Except it wasn’t really coffee; it was vodka, the coffee of the gods! A rock concert, you say? The idea of a “concert” or a “dance” or a “get together involving music” takes me all the way back to high school, where I always used to sit on the sidelines, forlorn and miserable, looking on while all the cute girs had fun with all the guys who were more muscular and less nerdy than me, and who wants to relive aww fuck it who am I kidding - Saturday, eh? but I don’t hafta like it.

Potterhead: Not like Wizard Rock? That’s ridiculous. You have to like it because I said so.

With so much drama in the LBC…

striphe — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 01:30:38 +0000

I was invited to the Sexy Communist Spy’s roommate’s birthday bash (in Russia, Party throw YOU!). This one had a theme: "thug party," which meant there were a bunch of dry-humping, ass-smacking, half-drunk, red-state 22-year-olds dressed like Missy Elliot. True to form, I showed up late wearing my Super Mario Strikers jersey (I fucking represent!), a pick in my hair, and I threw up lots of gang signs (I don’t actually know any gang signs). K-fed came by too.

An hour after I got there, the party died down. Umm, it wasn’t my fault. This time. Birthday girl was still juiced and wanted to hit the bars, so we did just that (in Russia, bars hit YOU!). I danced and barhopped and met a super-superhot townie and got to mackin’ to this bitch named Sadie (Sadie!) and generally made merry while Birthday Girl zigzagged from table to table, friend to friend, stranger to stranger, nizzle to nizzle, so proud to have people watch her turn 22, but she was also - I dunno - pretty stressed out?

It was obvs she missed her boyfriend pretty badly and no one in these bars could have possibly made up for that. I wanted to tell her to stop, be cool, roll down the street smoking endo sipping on gin and juice, laid back; just chillax and enjoy yourself. It’s YOUR birthday! Tha homies are supposed to come to YOU! But she never really got the chance, because not five minutes after I inhaled the sandwich she got me on her maxed-out Visa, as she dashed off to say hi to a familiar face 10 yards away, she tripped, fell, and busted her lip. While she sat there, crying, bleeding, and ashamed, I promptly revoked her pimp card.

All right, whip it out….on 3

striphe — Sat, 01 Mar 2008 00:17:56 +0000

Poet Bryan Pemberly gave a reading Friday afternoon in Stuni.

Dorky English Majors that we are, Cherry and I pulled out our black journals as soon as it began.

“Copycat!”

“Mine’s bigger. And thicker.”

“Mine is better quality.”

Sitting in front of me, the Kansas Poet Laureate chuckled.

“Wait!” I backpedaled. “It’s not what it sounds like.”

Smoke and glass

striphe — Sat, 01 Mar 2008 04:10:48 +0000

It’s roughly a twenty-minute
walk up hills
around stone walls
across the street
to reach the dimly lit
smoke-filled room
where the bubbly girl
behind the counter
doesn’t know your name
but remembers what drink
you like and her smile,
much too bright for a place like this,
is
the only human contact
you’ll have all night.

Collegian: Fuck you, dead Albanians

striphe — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 08:18:57 +0000

Brett King writes in "Kosovo not justified as separate country from Serbia…"

"Clinton’s evidence of genocide was just as substantial as Bush’s weapons of mass destruction argument in Iraq."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! Oh my god. Huge difference of a factual nature: It can be proved that WMDs never existed in Iraq; it can also be proved that Slobodan Milosovic was in fact responsible for the deaths of thousands of ethnic Albanians. See the difference? Of course not. Oh, wait -

"A Wall Street Journal investigative piece…demonstrated how the number of Albanians killed was greatly inflated and some of the bodies found showed no evidence of mutilation."

I see. Not really that many deaths, and no evidence of mutilation on some of them. Well, that’s that. Carry on. While we’re on the subject, I’d like to take issue with the so-called "Holocaust survivors" that were only in Auschwitz for HALF the time of the other, ahem, residents. Stop whining and come back when you’ve got a real tragedy.

No easy love

striphe — Wed, 27 Feb 2008 22:52:29 +0000

My kewgrish Spanish teacher let us know that her novio, on occasion, lovingly calls her "Gorda."

Every single girl in the class - except the 6-foot athlete - gasped deeply with indignation. At this, Ms. Diaz had to actually explain, to a class full of grown women, the difference between an insult and a term of endearment; that in Hispanic culture, "fat girl" falls into the latter. Bravo! At this point, when women fly off into paroxysms of rage over the F word, I get more annoyed than apologetic.

The girls weren’t hearing it. They were BAFFLED that such an explosive term could casually denote intimacy between lovers. In an attempt to step up and get some action, I told both Jessicas that they were hot, skinny, sexy bitches. But I guess my timing was off, because the blonde one unloaded three rounds into my chest. Nevertheless, the question persisted: is vanity really more important than intimacy?

At this point, when women fly off into paroxysms of rage over the F word, I get more annoyed than apologetic. Like, what is so special and so powerful about that one word that reduces everyone to quivering middle-schoolers? I asked the Sexy Communist Spy about it.

"In Russia, fat girl insult YOU!"*

What for; just because I have a freakishly short, slender penis? My left hand doesn’t mind one bit. But seriously, what’s the BFD? Your boyfriends really couldn’t care less. Single gorditas can easily find non-Dbags who are attracted to them. I feel like the indignation is false vanity. Help me understand, Spy!

"Women are insecure and paranoid and need reassurance about men’s affection. I mean, if you’re joking and she knows it, it could be a little different, but it would still hurt a bit."

- Right. But isn’t the point of relationships that you can overcome paranoia and insecurity through, ahem, love? Could it be that so many girls have no idea how to love? Why do I sound like Carrie Bradshaw?

"My theory is nobody has a good self-esteem and those that ‘do’ are just too stupid to realize they shouldn’t"

Wrong there! I have poor self-esteem AND I’m a moron! Explain that one!

————————————————————————————–

*[ed. note: this quote was manufactured by the Ministry of Truth]

Finely divided material is much more reactive

striphe — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 23:53:32 +0000

Although aluminum doesn’t normally burn, Professor Sorenson demonstrated in physics lecture that if you take a strip of it - with a wide surface area - and toss it into a bunsen burner, you will yield a nice dramatic poof, with an explosion as big and bright as fireworks.

Sorenson thought explosions are so kewl (because face it: they are) that he did it again. And again. After his third go, however, the fire alarm activated: flashing lights and a faraway whistley noise. Peter, a physics GTA, stuck his head in the door to see if we were still alive.

"This the only room it’s going off in?" asked Sorenson.

"Whole building," Peter said.

And so we filed outside, hung out with everyone else who was in the building, and waited for the fire department to swing by to take care of the alarm thingie. After we had been out there for 15 minutes, Sorenson disappeared inside with one of the firemen. When he came back, he addressed the cheering mob of students who could not wait to get back to class:

"I was burning aluminum in a bunsen burner, and apparently the smoke from the demonstration activated the fire alarm. The problem now is that we can’t shut the alarm off. You know, when my smoke alarm goes off at home, I just grab my ball pein hammer and beat the shit out of it. But it looks like we can’t do that here."

"In other news, this will be my last semester at K-State. Just kidding."

Professor, don’t toy with our emotions like that. And when you really do have to go, don’t half-ass anything; be sure to leave with a bang.

Collegian kolumnist kan tranzlate anshent meow!

striphe — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 16:34:02 +0000

As detailed in Residents ‘Plunge’ to raise money, Manhattanites and members of Phi Beta Sigma dove into the ice-cold waters of Tuttle Creek Lake as part of a fundraiser for the Special Olympics.

Doesn’t Scrooge Mcduck do this exact same thing, except instead of water, it’s gold? We should try it that way next year.

52nd-annual KSU Rodeo thrills contestants, viewers
To win 2008’s Miss Rodeo title, sophomore Janae Skelton "had to go through a pageant process which consisted of a written rodeo-knowledg test, a horsmanship contest, a personal interview with the rodeo’s judges, a modeling competition and speech."

A model dressed up as a cowgirl, eh? Why in the world did I miss this? Oh, yeah.

Latin is not a dead language, sharpens vocabulary skills
I couldn’t agree more, Blake! In fact, after reading this article, I felt inspired to take a crash course in Sanskrit, because it’s so close to Indo-European - widely considered the origin of so many Western language families. Now, I like totally have a much broader appreciation of modern culture. For example, I can understand the elusive LOLatin tongue:

"I’m in ur Sennit, stabbn ur Seezr!"

"Almust invaded ya…
wit mah invizible leejun."

"Tha die…
I haz cast it!"

Now, if only your column could help me translate the brutal language of love. Ha ha! Thank goodness for Annette Lawless’ advice yesterday: Sex secrets can be damaging, yet add touch of mystery to relationship.

Today in the Fourum, someone predictably called Annette a "prude" because she dumped the grown man who sleeps with high school girls and videotapes it. I had no idea R. Kelly reads the Collegian! Someone else also left this servicey nugget:

"Hey, Annette Lawless: if you’d like to learn more about mysterious sex secrets, you should come by TKE this weekend."

Did they just invite her over for a fratbang? Those boys, so classy. Real ladykillers, one might say.

How the Red Menace recruits more agents

striphe — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 23:22:55 +0000

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."

Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent

striphe — Sun, 24 Feb 2008 22:35:15 +0000

Cherry had a birthday this week! Friday night she threw a party and everyone showed up. Obviously, no good could come of this, yet I went anyway. I brought her a 3-foot paper-mache rose, a card, and a bottle of Jack (the bottle was really for me. I need it a lot more than she does). Although a dozen people were already there, I somehow managed to sneak the big-ass rose by everyone and smuggle it into Cherry’s room.

Cherry’s parents were there - three weeks ago they threw a Superbowl party and Cherry took me along, and so that’s when I met them. They appointed me the Bartender and Keeper of Cover Charges. I carried this out dutifully, except for when I stepped out to chain-smoke with the Poetess, leaving Chelsea to watch the money.

I hadn’t seen the Poetess in weeks and she looked great. We went out to the porch, down the steps, to the driveway, out by someone’s Honda, and lit up.

"So earlier this week when I told you I was feeling great? I totally lied."
"Me too! Grand. So what’s got you down?"
She related detailed information of a sensitive personal nature. "So hon, your turn."
And we talked some more, then disappeared back into the party; which, for me, was a haze of cash/liquor exchanges, with an occasional pause for me to dose up on whiskey. The chaperones had left by now. Life was great, until I saw Cherry making out with someone on the coffee table.

If I could have just vanished, just poof! and a cloud of bats and I disappear into the night, I would have done exactly that. Instead I had to actually go gather my coat, and my scarf, and my man-purse, and collect my dignity (which - ironic on so many levels - was inside the man-purse), and this took long enough for Cate to see me.

"What’s going on?"

I led her through the crowd, to the porch, to the side of the house, and told her everything.

A couple of people must have heard us talking. All the right players, in fact. Arianna! Chelsea! A bunch of other people! Thankfully not the Poetess. I didn’t know what to say to them other than "Hi guys." So I leaned into Cate’s ear. "LookIhaftagothanks."

I think Arianna kind of knew.

"Where are ya going?"

"Home."

"You’re leaving?"

"Yeah, I’m leaving."

And I left.

When I got home, I remembered the cash cup. It wasn’t safe back behind that bar. I called Arianna and asked her to get the cup, grab the cash, put it in her purse, and deliver the money to Cherry tomorrow. She was fairly drunk so I stayed on the phone with her.

"Hyper-literate bastard, I’m sorry. I can’t find it."

Perfect.

The assistant manager in me decided to head back and find that fucking money my fucking self, and of course I didn’t find it, but now of course I’m back stuck at this thing, the most god-awful party I’ve been at since I was in grade school, and I can’t look anyone in the eye; the kid who was making out with Cherry is now making out with the rest of the theater department (kids these days!); Jimbo, another geeky English major, is grinding with Cherry, and no matter how many times I snap my fingers and whisper "beetlejuice" that fucking money still won’t show up. When I see Cherry alone for a second I let her know it’s missing and swear I’ll pay her back (yay! a reason to whore myself!). Then I finally grow a pair and dance with the birthday girl herself. She was wearing a slinky black strapless number and she was sporting that hemlock-laced smile I love and fear at the same time. So, yeah, we danced for a little while and then separated.

The next time I went looking for her she was nowhere to be found. Neither was Jimbo. The porch, around the side of the house, the garage, the kitchen, the living room, her room, nada. Then I remembered there was another door in the garage. I opened it and there they were (what did I expect?), standing together and talking. OhSorry! I said, slamming the door, maybe a little too fast. "Hyper-literate bastard, wait!" said Cherry. I opened it again and she was fumbling through her coat. "Wish I had my cigarettes," she was mumbing. "Iknowwheretheyare!!" I shut the door again, took a breath, dashed off to the living room, grabbed her swank, shiny, fully stocked cigarette case, returned to the yard, handed her one, and put the case in her pocket.

I held the lighter in front of her.

She hates that. She likes to light them herself. She moved to grab it from me, but I have the reflexes of a meth-addled ninja tabbycat. Plus, she’s pretty drunk. I lit it for her.

"I kind of hate you right now," she said.
"Aw shucks, I know you don’t mean that."
Small talk ensues. A minute later:

"Gimme the lighter. I wanna re-light it.
"Don’t be such a baby."
Jimbo and I both laughed at Cherry. Then he went inside.

"So, are you having fun?"
"It’s your party. Are you having fun?"
"I guess." It’s complicated.
It’s pitch black except for the smokes. Nevertheless, I’m pretty sure we’re both looking at each other.
"You seemed like you didn’t wanna talk to us yesterday."
Pardon?
"Me, Cate, and Arianna thought you didn’t wanna talk to us at the play."
Umm, hello, I’ve been lonely, depressed, and ashamed for a few weeks. Errr, I mean:
"I got the opposite impression. That you didn’t wanna talk to me. I mean, I know you were busy with Mud-River-Stone, but you just never called me back or gave me a text."
I continued. "And I missed ya, a lot, but last night I really didn’t know what to say."

"Listen, I was hoping that, after the party dies down, maybe I could - stay? Spend the night? With you."
"Yeah, sure," she said. "A few other people are crashing here, so no problem."
I didn’t mean it in the sense of "crashing here," but whatever.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

We went in and danced some more. A few hours later, Liz, a drunken emo townie, went ape shit over I-don’t-know-what and refused to let anyone drive her home. The girls went outside to talk her down. Negotiations lasted about an hour and killed the party. Finally, Drunken Emo Townie came back inside; Cherry’s little sister agreed to walk with her to the car. It was 6am. I was out on the porch, chain-smoking, when they walked by me. Not wanting them to get dragged off and raped, I asked quickly:

"Want me to walk with you guys?"
"Yeah," mouthed Jasmine.

We made it up the street a little ways, to the Townie’s car. Although she’s still drunk, she patently refuses to give up the keys or the driver’s seat. In the end we relented and let her almost kill us swerving up Sunset Avenue (doesn’t this defeat the purpose of coming with her?). But we made it to wherever she wanted to go, and she headed inside and sent us on our merry way. Yay! Everyone’s still alive! Now I get to trudge back to campus in this 20-degree dawn. I am not dressed for a 20-degree dawn. Also: since I’m not from this town I have no idea where the fuck I am. Jasmine led the way, up the street, down the street, across the park, a left on Anderson, back to Sunset, up again, to the left, and presto, Cherry’s casa. The sun is fully up and Cherry is probably completely knocked out, so I bid Jasmine good day and go back home, completely cockblocked by that fucking Townie. C’est la vie.

I talked to Cherry again at noon. Hi how are you did you like the party thanks for the rose I might be too busy to see you the rest of the weekend but I hope you had a good time don’t worry we got the money.

"You got the money?"
"Yeah. Earlier, I grabbed the cash cup and I hid it."

Relief.

In which the creative underclass suspends its cattiness and envy long enough to collectively appreciate the fruits of each others’ private labors of love and drink a rich guy’s booze.

striphe — Sun, 24 Feb 2008 17:51:01 +0000

Determined to meet other, better English majors and silently judge them, Friday night I hiked to downtown Manhattan for a poetry reading at the Streckler-Nelson Art Gallery.

What’s more sad: that this kewgr leers down at me on my way up the stairs to the gallery, or the fact that I kind of wanted her? Just kidding! These are both cause to celebrate! I’d never been here before so I gave myself a quick tour. It seemed to be about the size of 10 dorm rooms, all full of paintings and pottery and plants. I would have taken better notes but I was too busy prowling for grad students to hit on. After a minute of this I remembered I don’t know anybody and made my way to the room full of chairs. I sat two seats down from a Pretentious Literary Douchebag who had his nose in Penguin Classics’ Medieval Literature. Jonathan Holden, a poetry professor with furious, leonine eyebrows sat in front of me with his wife. Apropos of nothing, I like to secretly sit behind my professors and snap photos of the back of their heads whenever I see them at some function.

See, I snapped this one of Donald Hedrick - perverted Shakespeare professor - last week at the violin concert:

Meanwhile, the grad students around me made small talk:

"Aren’t we having fun?"
"Fun fun fun!"
"By the way, I put arsenic in your club soda!"
"Great! That way I won’t have to see your douchebag face anymore!"
"Super!"
"Grand!"

Once we got started, the rule was that anybody with poetry of some sort should just walk on up to the podium and show off. Lisa, the first reader, was boring. The guy after her, Joe, wore a button-down shirt two sizes too small, and no matter what he did, he was showing off his triceps. He had taken a passage James Joyce had written about snot and copied it onto a roll of toilet paper. After him, a hipster cutie presented her "Studies in Prepositions," poems consisting of the same preposition repeated musically for entire stanzas. "It does neat stuff in your head," she explained, which I took to mean when she’s done I won’t know whether to hate her for thumbing her nose at conventions I continually fail to get the hang of, or to love her for her playful, impish mastery of the quirks of language. I put this dilemma to rest the instant I realized that this chick was probably kinky enough that if I could give her a really clever pickup line, she might tie me up and ride me so hard I couldn’t stand up straight for three days. In that context, her poems were pretty rad. Her last one was somewhat more traditional. "This is where we move past morphology into syntax," she said. Hot!

Next: until now, all the poets had the common decency to read TWO or THREE of their favorites and then sit back down (Joe: "I’m gonna share a couple of these and then stop ruining your life"), but this particular reader, Nelson, had written a bunch of Really Deep poems about birds and the night and vegetables and breasts, earnestly challenging us to ponder things like The Night and Love and Curiosity and Truth and Beauty and Birds and the size of his thesaurus and, well, Breasts. He must have used the word "breast" every stanza and the thing is, well, the thing is I have NEVER IN MY LIFE WANTED ANYBODY TO STOP SAYING THE WORD BREAST LIKE I WANTED HIM TO STOP FUCKING SAYING THE WORD BREAST but he just went on and on (like this sentence), with these awful mosaics, so many of them, their roman numerals crashing against my BREAST like kamikaze pilots, a sickening montage of VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, XI…… until finally he was done.

It is my secret wish to become the school’s Pretentious Literary Douchebag. But the guy sitting two seats across from me, his nose in Penguin Classics’ Medieval Literature, had me completely outclassed. He was a slender man, with a strong chin, gold-rimmed glasses, hair like a field of sun-kissed Kansas wheat, eyes as blue as swimming pools and flowing with erudition; he wore an oxford and a blazer that had a gold star pinned to the collar, as though he had just stepped out of Dead Poets’ Society and materialized in this very room, Streckler-Nelson Gallery in Manhattan, at 7pm this Friday night in February. He got up and introduced himself.

"Those of you who know me know I’m rather fond of medieval literature," he smirked, leading me to reflect wistfully on James Joyce’s snot. While he read, I got up to get some wine.

The lady after him was excellent; she recited from memory a poem about having an orgasm (or was she really just having an orgasm right before our very eyes?). Climax notwithstanding, she used a lot of muted synechdoche and really managed to craft a good poem. Some other people recited some other stuff after her, but I wasn’t paying attention because an orgasm is kind of a tough act to follow. Then the thing was over! I probably should have stuck around to meet people, but true to form, I had a better party to go to, so I bounced. But not before snapping a pic of Lit MILF Elizabeth Dodd:

Hot pants, Liz! I mean, Ms. Dodd. Ahem.

Wintergreen determined the outcome by throwing all issues of the Collegian into the wastebasket. He found them too prolix.

striphe — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 19:52:34 +0000

It occurs to me that I’ve gone slack on shitpicking at this paper. I haven’t paid attention to the ambiguous headlines, the typos, and the other mediocrity on these pages. And picking on you guys always makes me feel better about myself. So without further ado:

Just kidding. There will be some ado, regarding the candidacy of Pirates and Ninjas: Elise Podhajsky’s interviews cleared a lot of things up for me. While both sides have put forth excellent candidates, and either of them will most likely reinstate the right to duel at dawn, anywhere, I’m gonna have to throw my endorsement behind the Pirates. Ninjas, although you’ve got mad skillz, your ultraconservative anti-rum rhetoric bothers me a lot. Additionally, although you believe ninjas can offer students the best security, I don’t think you’re in any position to fend off the invincible Armada. There; it’s done. Now go disembowel yourselves with honor.

No more bra-burning: Movements have progressed much since 70s. Seriously, as a reader, all the information I need is right there in the headline. Had I known that beforehand, I wouldn’t have had to snooze through "The types of organizing that typefied social and political protest in the 1960s and 1970s have been supported and sometimes supplanted by technological advances and increasingly complex cultural identities."

I say the types of organizing that typefied social and political protest included more fucking drugs, which made everything look more colorful, and color is exactly what this article needs.

K-State Rodeo starts tonight at Weber Arena
"…K-State will compete well in goat tying, barrel racing, and calf roping, and….there is a member of the team that is good at the team roping event. The girls are in really good shape as far as being where they need to be."

They sure are.

Coulter uses shock, biased language to remain in spotlight
A minor objection: Coulter hasn’t been in the spotlight for some time. Why don’t we discuss someone more immediate and relevant to K-Staters, like Brigitte Brecheisen - the Ann Coulter of this very campus? Yeah, call her out and get right up in her grill and put the smack down. What, are you scrrrd?

4 local restaurants lend support to cancer-research fundraiser

"Booyah" is the term chosen to represent the recent community effort to combat cancer, according to Amanda Keim.

Amanda’s loose, fluid writing style is a dollop of pure in-your-face exuberance, which is exactly how a word like "booyah" feels. Sort of like hearing Robocop explain nipple rings. Please Amanda, go on.

"Booyah is a term that represents feelings of euphoric celebration upon fighting through extreme adversity and overcoming daunting obstacles, and we’re using it in this context to emphasize our belief that we will conquer cancer in our time," said her source, who could barely contain his own feelings of euphoric celebration.

I think what Amanda’s trying to say is that Booyah is a knee in the gut from the floor on the chin at night sneaky with a knife brought up down on the magazine of a battleship sandbagged underhanded in the dark without a word of warning. Garroting. That’s what Booyah is, when we’ve all got to be tough enough and rough enough to fight cancer. From the hip. Get it?

“Honest to blog?”

striphe — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 19:04:23 +0000

This morning’s conversation with the cute girl I sit next to in Spanish class:

Heart of Bubbles & Gold: "Your gum smells really strong."

The Hour Badly Spent: "That’s not my gum. It’s my pheremones. They’re grapity-fresh. Later on they become wine."

Heart of Bubbles & Gold: "Well, I’ve also got morning sickness. So it could be that everything just smells stronger."

I pondered this for 0.000000000000003 seconds.

"Pregnant?"

"Mm-hm."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

I started to say "oh congratulations" or something like that but I think it came out as "I’d still hit that."

Drama party

striphe — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 09:11:51 +0000

This morning snow was falling. On my way out the door I realized I’d gone through the entire pack of Parliaments I bought last night at eleven. How the hell did that happen? Whatever. Last time it snowed I fell 352 times. My Aqua Ducks(TM), comfy, springy, and waterproof as they are, offer about as much traction as a surfboard, so I find myself slipping on snowflakes wherever I go. Fun fun fun! The night of that last snow, Cherry and I went sledding in the street on that hill by her house. Today I don’t feel like sledding so much.

Speak of the devil: I bumped into her on my way to class this morning.

"It’s so cold," she said, grimacing. Button up, I say. For a moment it occurs to me that she is overworked and stressed, fraught with the piling-on of test week and increasing tension for the play she’s in (tonight is opening night).

"I think I’m gonna head inside." She can shortcut through the library and warm up on her way to class. Or maybe this is just an excuse to scamper off the other way.

Yeah, with all that on your plate, I can see how it might be hard to call someone back. If you’re an asshole.

She about-faces through the doors and I go my own way to class.

Thing is, I know I’m gonna see the play tonight. It’s inevitable, like a midterm or an execution. But since I absolutely refuse to go alone I called up Heather. And OF COURSE she can’t go with me. Surprise; she’s sick and overworked. So I’ll be alone for the evening. Should I still see the play? The crushing certainty of it, the unspoken expectations to guess at - should I linger afterward and say hi? And after that - will she ditch me for a drama party? Will she call? Like hell. I’m not going. There is homework; math, Spanish, physics; an essay to type up, a book to read (ALWAYS a book to read!). And after that? Two-dollar bloody marys. Again. So I guess that’s that. Definitely not going. Another night of self-imposed exile.

So…seven PM. I’m resigned to finish up my homework and head out for drinks. Surprise! Cate calls! You coming to Cherry’s play? Super! Wanna meet us there? Grand! Yeah, I guess there was no avoiding it after all.

Although I got there without much time for small talk, it took her and Arianna about 10 minutes to notice I wasn’t my ordinary self (probably because I wasn’t cracking so many dick jokes). Big whoop, since I’ve pretty much been drifting through strangers in crowds for two weeks and never really worried about being "on." Cate seemed different too. Kind of nervous, kind of withdrawn, kind of unhappy. What’s up with that? During intermission, I beckon her to the empty seat on my right so she can let me in on The Secret, in third person. "Saturday night Cate and Brandon got really drunk and had sex."

I know I was supposed to act surprised - she had kind of been hoping Brandon’s BEST FRIEND - JOOOOSH! - would make a move, for the past FOREVER. But if anyone needed some sex it was her, and at least now I see why she’s been out of touch.

She’s afraid her big crush will never look at her again. Not that she’ll remember what I say, but I let her know that she should probably go talk to Josh right away, like RIGHT NOW, like YESTERDAY, because if too much time passes he’ll get bitter or something, and that’s no good.

Later we went outside to enjoy my last sample of Fine Tobacco Product. There is much more to Cate than I realized. She’s curious about what’s up with me, but I sort of still hate everybody and I’m not quite ready to sing. Don’t get me wrong; I want to, but what exactly would I say? Consider it deflected.

The play, by the way, was really something else. I loved it. The writer tied each character’s background to a relationship with Africa, showing a canny, realistic understanding of African social norms and their recent disruption against the backdrop of myriad civil wars (right, what would I know?). And OF COURSE I couldn’t take my eyes off Cherry the whole time she was on stage. After it was over I hugged her and told her she was terrific, that I really liked the play. And I meant it. So after I got home, I figured FUCK IT! and went out for drinks again anyway, and after that things started looking up, because when I was done, it was Friday.

I wait for you in crowds

striphe — Thu, 21 Feb 2008 19:03:19 +0000

I’ll never be one to get up and dance
but I like to watch.
And if you look closely, you might
see me sitting here
swaying to
the same tune as you.

And if you could
meet my lingering glance
halfway
with your own eyes

And if you
could follow
the tip of my smile, like a faded trail on a crinkled map

And if you could feel the tug of my heart, invisible, lovely
like the tides

And if you see my lips, locked up tightly, and if you could read between them

You might
discover me so
by these faint
indirections.

Gracious & brutal

striphe — Thu, 21 Feb 2008 15:37:33 +0000

I never thanked you
for taking so long
to call me back.

A moment too soon and I never would have discovered

this book of poetry and the soothing noise crowds crowds make in small spaces
this dimly lit table, this ashtray, my first cigarette in two days
the clink of glasses in the hands of this barmaid,
who forgot my name as soon as I pronounced it
but will remember what I came here for:
this two-dollar bloody mary.

To think! With you, I might never have found out!
Or worse: I would have had to share.

The world will only be a safe place when everyone is dead.

striphe — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 21:06:14 +0000

According to Brett King’s latest right-wing ejaculation, gun control was a measure Nazi Germany took to ensure ethnic minorities were powerless when the government wanted to haul a bunch of them off to death camps. Gun control in America will be like Nazism in America. Get it? GUN CONTROL = NAZISM.

Brett, if you vote Democrat and elect a leader who’s black or a woman, you won’t have to worry about it.

Nevertheless, the central issue remains: will violence be stamped out if we let students with conceal-and-carry permits take guns around school and into classes? You bet it will! It’s like with the atom bomb; when only one nation had it, those white people basically blasted whatever Asians they wanted to; now that a whole bunch of people have nukes, the world is a much safer place! Still not convinced? Consider this chart:

As you can clearly see, the more guns in circulation, the fewer deaths. Until everyone gets them and we all kill each other. But we can cross that bridge when we come to it. The important thing is to take the first step and arm as many people as we can.

Enough quibbling over figures. Why stop with just letting students pack heat? I say we split the campus up, let the elites carrying concealed each be responsible for a different "territory," and the rest of us can just pay protection money!

Also: thanks for sharing that "Hearty Stew" recipe. But I’m kind of a city boy, so instead of venison, I use the flesh of urban schoolchildren. The only drawback is that it tends to be high in crack. On the plus side, it’s high in crack.

Van der Waals forces

striphe — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 07:23:29 +0000

In Tuesday’s physics lecture, Sorenson explained that while sugar water is electrically bland, salt water is conductive.

"Say you’ve got an electric shaver while you’re in a tub of salt water. Say you drop the shaver. What happens? Well, you stop shaving."

Duh.

"Here. I’ll prove it."

Now I sat up. Sorenson strikes me as the type of drunk old man who casually hunts and kills angry hydras for breakfast. Was he really about to hop into a tub of water hooked up to electrodes and have nothing happen to him? I wouldn’t have been surprised, but as it turns out, he just had some hookup to get electricity from a small vat of water. The drunk old man theory, however, picked up weight as he entreated us to further ponder the concept of solubility:

"Do alcohol and water mix? You bet. They’re in my beer."

After he finished the lecture, he decided it might be fun to show us some real mixin’. So he made us cluster around a table and started pouring shit from bottles into beakers that had other shit in it.

Nothing happened.

"There’s some rule about solubility," he explained. "Either you’re supposed to add acid to water or water to acid. I’ve never been able to remember which."

At this, he re-did the procedure correctly. Meanwhile, we all started inching away in terror. "Yeah, you might wanna stand back," Sorenson advised. Chuckling.

Thanks for the tip. But teacher, seriously, why do you have on those enormous fucking goggles, and will the rest of us need a pair?

Umm, this is pretty and all, but did you bring any fucking coke?

striphe — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 14:42:54 +0000

Yesterday a superhot Colombian grad student presented a "deconstruction" of Afro-Columbian art in the Big 12 room. She showed off some older Colombian paintings and sculpture as well as some of her own mixed-media work, which was pretty rad. Sadly, she kind of zoomed through each piece, in soft-spoken Spanish, without giving us much time to reflect on the details of the works she showed us.

Her translator - who was really cute - cute is the new hot - also kept throwing us off with gaffes like this one: "There were very few soldiers within the independence movement who were black. Oh, I’m sorry; there were MANY black soldiers within the movement who were black. They just weren’t recognized."

Apparently, still not.

Lies well disguised

striphe — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 14:40:40 +0000

Just lie, she once told me.

"That’s what acting’s all about." She would know. She’s been in theater productions here three semesters straight.

Of course, she’s not telling me much of anything these days. She’s inexplicably ignored my texts, ignored my calls, and ignored me. I like to think that at my core is a boundless zenlike patience, but one can only take so much shit before you just say fuck it and realize ya gotta move on.

So I did.

Well, I took the first step.

I spent about 37 hours a day refreshing Facebook to see if I had messages. From her. Or from you. Or from everyone else. Thirty-seven hours! Not mathematically possible, you say? Fuck off; nobody likes a math geek. At any rate, I was spending way too much time on that thing. I had become a parody of myself, desperate for hollow virtual attention, dishing out hollow virtual wisecracks like some sort of minstrel persona. What did I expect, really? Recognition of my Wit and Genius? Any "conversation" was generally of the "let’s repeat an inside joke" variety. Meaningless. So I dumped Facebook and went quietly into the night.

Last night I got a text from Cate, of all people. "Are you okay."

I suppose, at this point, I should have been grateful for the scrap of human contact extended here. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but seriously: a text message?

What else was I supposed to say?

"Never better!"

Dread Pirate Willow plunders newsroom, seizes rum, leaves behind treasure map written on backside of awesome article

striphe — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 13:28:14 +0000

Instructors sacrifice comforts to teach in Afganistan
Sacrifice comforts? Of Manhattan? Holly Campbell, are you serious? This place fucking sucks.

U.S. should appreciate life free of forced-child warfare
No kidding, Blake Osborn. Way to make the issue of forced-child warfare really hit home. Now I feel bad, as though the "violence we see in our movies and video games" somehow encourages forced-child warfare in Africa. Wait.

Feminists should reach beyond U.S by Aubree Casper, and while I’m at it, a note on reading comprehension: so-called "hippie-feminists" know that "feeling pretty is something some truly enjoy." The point of books like "Beauty & Misogyny" - which, by the way, I have never read - is that many of us have been bred to accept only a heavily made-up, pornified ideal as the face & body of Beauty. As a culture, we should grow up and expand our understanding of beauty so it reflects something realistic, something that includes real women, not just big boobs and Holy Oil.

Pirates vs. Ninjas in the SGA Election: Together, these articles left me with a deep and thorough understanding of the political process. Perhaps they lack insight into a few key platform issues (Pirates: what will you do about the menace of scurvy? Ninjas: where can I get one of those Naruto headbands?), but overall, this is what political reporting should be! Good work, Rebecca Perez. Willow: superb and amazing! That is all.

The letter I should have written on Valentine’s Day

striphe — Sun, 17 Feb 2008 17:18:56 +0000

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.

The Hours

striphe — Sun, 17 Feb 2008 03:31:14 +0000

If you could transmute silk into music, it would sound like the violin.

What I like about classical music: I can listen to it even when I’m not listening. With, say, rock or rap, I need to tune it out to gather my thoughts. But with violins, it’s different.

This is a blessing.

The Modigliani string quartet, four men, black shoes, black suits, black hair, and white ties; all of them, all at once, suck in their breath, lean back, like throwing a punch, and with a flourish, strike the fist note.

Violins playing is like looking at the world through a waterfall.

Tonight, this is a curse.

My mind wanders. I think of you, what you told me last week. "I don’t want a relationship." What does that mean?

The artists sway with their rhythm. One melody swings around, piggybacking another. Distilling one long note into the emotion of a lover’s voice. Pure and so frail, just like life.

Did I want a "relationship?" What made you think I did?

The sound of the music, now like an oak tree, full and sonorous. Low, like a hungry animal.
Now as high as a songbird in the morning. Dainty and light, like petals.

And why not a relationship? Are you too lazy? Too selfish? Are you seeing someone else?

Sometimes the one on the left likes to put his ear all the way up to the violin, like it’s whispering secrets to him.
For the faster bits, his hand moves frantically, like a sewing machine, like he’s slicing meat.

So hungry.

Is it me? Am I not worth the space on the bed? The jabbing interruption, occasionally, of my voice in the room? The hours in the morning with me and only me? The hand, lost inside mine, when we sit together in the dark?

And sometimes, he leans into the violin’s neck, all the way up to the scroll at the tip, as though he might fall off the end of the note.

Kansas Poets

striphe — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 21:14:27 +0000

I.
The old man
reclines on his chair in a bottom-floor office
His bookshelves burst with novels I know. Phillip Roth! Carol Shields! Anthologies! Histories! Truth! Beauty!
So many magazines; Writers’ Digest, Writers’ Quartely, Writers’ Review, Poets’ This-and That.
An old metal typewriter, a monument, squats against the wall on table of its own.
He’s got papers all over the place. Letters, clippings, rough drafts of his own, assignments not his own.
There’s a classmate’s poem on one sheet. Like what students write these days, it’s full of scattered images, tossed all over the page like fairy dust.

-Sometimes I wish I could do that.
-What, you mean wing it?
-It’s so fluid, so playful.

Nah, you’re not that kind of writer, he said.
Much too serious.

So fucking serious!
Pardon my French.

II.
The other
lives in a bowl of soup.
She writes poems like she’s serving dinner, dishing out love and memory in bite-sized portions, scattered like coins spilled from a piggy bank.

One time,
She came to visit me. We talked, and talked, and talked, all night, while she made a big charcoal sketch of me. The sketch is still hanging on her wall.

And this other time,
she took me to a party, and I found out that when she dances, her hair, long dark and tangly, looks like the edges of a stormcloud. Meanwhile, I got drunk
And met the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.

But that was nothing like the time
She drove me forty miles east of here, turned onto a dirt road, chugged past an iced-over lake, and stopped at the top of this hill.
A graveyard,
Where lay her revered father’s bones.
Big, black, and smooth, his tombstone was the most stylish one around.
And though I didn’t know the guy, seeing him like this almost made me wish I had.

Professor X visits K-State, recruits next generation of young heroes

striphe — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 21:07:12 +0000

I volunteered to go on-stage for Fred Winters’ hypnotism show last night, and it was so educational! He sat the volunteers down on stage, 18 in all, in a semicircle. He talked with a pleasant kind of authority to his voice, and played some 80s music to relax us while he spoke.

It was nice! It was working! I was relaxed - not as deeply as the other recruits (the kid sitting next to me - dressed like Mystery - fell asleep with his head in my lap) - but I felt completely at ease. I didn’t feel the stage fright I usually feel, oh, all the time. I knew the audience was out there laughing at me, but that didn’t seem so important. "Nothing you feel is wrong," said Fred, rightly. They were still laughing, but it was like they were far off, behind a glass wall, up in space. Their volume was turned way down. Everything was fine. There was only music and the Voice of Fred. My feet were on the floor. My hands were in my lap. My eyes were closed. The Voice went up, it went down, it stayed the same, all at once. He counted to ten.

Suddenly, "Sleep!"

The way he said it, fast and powerful, like getting socked in the head; the same jolt, the same flash of white light at the moment of impact, but no aggression, can’t hit back, don’t even want to, just wanna sink into the chair.

"Sleep!" Pow!

My breathing was slow, steady. My head tilted forward toward my lap. Everything was so heavy. Everything just wanted to stay put. Everything was fine.

At first.

My arms and legs felt like cinderblocks, just like he said they would. That was nice. But the part of my brain that connects dots, articulates nuances, makes jokes, appreciates art; that part was turned off. Shut down. Out of reach. As though I could touch it, but the part I could touch was only a memory. I get that same stupid feeling from weed, which is why I hate being high.

After that his suggestions got hairy. Deep down, I didn’t really wanna dance, I didn’t really wanna see Fred naked, and I didn’t wanna act like Fred was invisible. He commanded us to forget our names. Yeah, right. He went to each recruit and asked them, one by one, "What’s your name?" Some were silent. Some stuttered. They even bantered with Fred about shit I’ve forgotten. But they. Just. Could. Not. Say. Their. Names. What gives? I could remember mine, "Hyper-literate Bastard," but it was distant, like the audience, up on a high shelf. I could just reach up and grab it - that’s all! Fred kept going. Students kept forgetting. Until Jeff.

When Fred asked his name, it came out right away, not even missing a beat. "Jeff." Suddenly the spell was broken for me, too. The microphone came down in front of me. I reached up to the shelf and gave Fred what I found: "Hyper-literate Bastard."

These things happen, he said.

From then on, the audience and the lights still had that same distant quality, but not as much so as before. The spell was broken. I didn’t feel like dancing anymore. Earlier, Fred told us that all he does is suggest; that hypnotism won’t work if we don’t open our minds and just let it happen. Well, it wasn’t happening. Maybe I had other things on my mind. Or maybe it’s because I was waltzing with a fat lesbian (Actually, I didn’t mind that so much. By the way, what is it with me meeting all these gay girls? Last semester I couldn’t meet a minority to save my life. Now they’re multiplying like goblins). At any rate, when he told me to act like I had laid an egg, I faked it.

Fuck you Google! Thanks for NOTHING!

striphe — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 20:37:26 +0000

My delicate shell of mean-spirited, drunken snark has now come into the crosshairs of not ONE but TWO proficient googlebastards. I don’t mind the Cranky Editrix peeking here every now and then; my frequent deviations from AP style drive her away after mere seconds of reading; she shouts, shakes her fists at the screen, foams at the mouth, then returns to Facebook and all is well. Plus, she’s repeatedly demonstrated an unfortunate tendency to miss the point, so I’m not worried about what she reads.

But now the Communist Spy has discovered this laughably self-indulgent blog and read about certain things I feel but don’t say. Suddenly, there’s some person out there, not quite a stranger, staring directly into my id, perusing all my emo secrets. Just when I had decided I was intensely depressed and should avoid other people for a while! Life is grand!

My best defense from prying eyes was to make my shit so boring that any normal reader would click away after a few seconds just to avoid gagging. But Communists like to read, apparently! And they’re determined to know stuff! How do I feel about this new development? I think I need a drink!

The way I see it, 3 options:

Abandon this dusty corner of the blogosphere and start over at Wordpress.
Just don’t post any more embarassing livejournalley rants. But who am I kidding? Isin’t that why I fired up this blog in the first place? And did I honestly think it would never be discovered?
Go with the flow, continue blogging as if nothing ever happened, and nervously avoid eye contact whenever I see her on campus (like I don’t already do that anyway).

I think I kind of like it here, so I’m gonna stick around and see where door #3 takes us (probably the same dark ungodly place to which doors 1 & 2 lead). Loyal reader, just remember to comment often and, for fuck’s sake, bring the liquor or bring the funny!

The first rule of Flash Mob is you do not talk about Flash Mob.

striphe — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 23:27:46 +0000

At around 11:15 Megan sent me a text: "Flash mob today at 1 outside the union. Free speech area on the N side."

I had no idea what the fnork a flash mob was, and Megan was being all secretive and mysterious, like a sexy communist spy, so of course I went. I was expecting something like that T-Mo commercial where a bunch of kids whip out silly string in the middle of a mall and just blast each other to hell.

It turned out to be just like that, but lamer! It was more like line dancing. At times, line walking. Occasionally, line jogging. Nick, who planned the party, led us across the courtyard, pirouetted through doorways, and wound through obstacles in the Union. Then Alicia did the same thing, adding some jumps, for fun. I think a random passerby joined us. Oh, and Cherry was watching the whole time. She wisely avoided joining the fracas, preferring instead to silently judge us from afar. Luckily, from that distance, there’s no way she could tell I was blushing.

Actually, she probably could tell.

A predilection for staring fixedly at one side of a question and never seeing the other side at all

striphe — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 22:46:34 +0000

Wednesday the Kansas Board of Regents rejected a motion to cap tuition.

According to the Collegian, "The purpose of the final motion was to avoid creating a cap while still finding a way to ensure that tuition prices do not increase by such a great percentage as they have in previous years."

Yeah, so about that other way to keep tuition down. Did the reporter leave before the Board got around to that part of the meeting? I’m dying to know. It’s like that time Curly pointed over to the left, then while one stooge looked around for buried treasure or something, the others dashed away to the right.

Psalms & Proverbs

striphe — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 22:08:54 +0000

While I was on my way home, a couple of girls dressed like Agent Scully stopped to chat with me. They were with Paige, a redhead who (1) was not dressed up, (2) was my classmate in Public Speaking last semester, and (3) I don’t like very much. Mind you, to make me dislike her, she had to overpower my deeply ingrained redhead lust. How did she accomplish this colossal feat? More on that in a minute.

The tall one introduced herself as "Sister Elizabeth." She led the conversation, talking with me about forming a personal relationship with Whoever and seeking a Purpose In Life (Nothing is true; everything is permitted). I was polite and respectful, I swear. After that, "Sister Carroll," who had nice eyes and entirely too much makeup, handed me a business card. Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I looked at the card, then back at Paige, her auburn locks glimmering under the magical winter sun, and back at the card, as though it held the very secret of her (erstwhile?) doucherie.

Last semester, Paige’s speeches in class always came off as condescending and judgemental. Whenever I talked to her outside of class, I found her cold, snotty, and aloof. In hindsight I could have tried the ol’ "faith in the Lord" spiel to break the ice, but what if I did that and found out she really was the mean snob she only seemed to be? My entire faith in humanity was riding on this question, and to be honest, I wasn’t really willing to risk the answer. And I think that articulates what will probably keep me away from religion forever.

Between me and a personal relationship with God there always lies a Paige. A bullying hypocrite who thinks religion is a war you win against other people, instead of a way to open hearts and minds. When religion can make jerks into kind people, then will I make a joyful noise unto the Lord, but not a moment before.

The Collegian is a toned-down Reader’s Digest

striphe — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 04:57:33 +0000

Just knowing that my pathetic blog got some attention from an editor (wow!) re-ignited the spirit of my vigorous Collegian-bashing. I skimmed through the past two weeks of Collegians looking for typos, stupidity, and basically whatever material I could find. All in all, meh.

I did notice one thing - which I have noted before: this paper hardly contains any news. There are often profiles: a math professor, the president’s son, a community service group; but unless a planned event - such as a speech or a meeting - takes place, we hardly get the impression that anything ever actually happens here.

Having said that, Feb. 4’s Collegian was phenomenal. Monica Castro’s article on a student who has survived cancer and joined Relay for Life was nuanced, informative, and brief, seamly transitioning between the student’s story and the success of the project. Well done.

Aubree’s op-ed piece: "Students should relax, learn to give up control of their lives." I loved this essay, but I have no idea what it was about. That’s good! Keep us guessing! Clarity is like sex: keeping it out of reach only heightens desire.

Thank you, Matt Combes, for being gay enough to tell us all about staging a virtuoso anal sex performance, because I couldn’t just google that. Seriously, it’s good that this kind of stuff would make it into the paper. I would suggest, however, that we ease the readership into an anal sex article - lubricate their expectations, so to speak, instead of just bending them over and ramming it into their eyes. Your comment board is lit up with the back and forth of "Anal sex is nasty!" vs "Stop being so prudish!" yadda yadda yadda. I’m not really sure what to think about the "I’m gay, therefore I’m an anal sexpert" angle Matt took - it probably just made him look obnoxious and he didn’t necessarily need that background info to gain street cred (ass cred?) with the students.

Brett King has been publishing recipes! So helpful. But he’s still hasn’t let us know what goes well with his favorite dish: Flesh of the Poor. I’m guessing he enjoys it with fava beans and a nice chianti.

Real life not about winning, money. Well, I’ve got no money and no winnings, and to be honest, I don’t quite see the point of going on. What gives?

Speaker, workshop promote use of nonviolent communication. As if violent “communication” is really an issue among middle-class college students.

Brett King: Tax rebate stimulus plan awards those who don’t pay.
Those who pay the most in taxes have the most money. Those who already have a lot of money are more likely to squirrel it away instead of spending it. Squirrelling it away does not stimulte the economy. Those who file tax returns but don’t pay - the reason is not that they’re shirking the IRS. The reason is that they just don’t make enough money to have to pay taxes. This special tax bracket, with the least money, these people are most likely to spend it right away, putting money into the hands of enormous private corporations (who also don’t pay taxes) we’ve come to know and lrrrve.

Glaring omissions in “City Council discusses contracts, transportation, blah blah blah.” The city will apparently go ahead and purchase property owned by O’Reilly’s Auto Parts so that O’Reilly’s can move to a different location.

Where, exactly, is the old property? Why is the city buying it, instead of a private purchaser? And if the city is already $3 million over budget and reluctant to make the deal, why did they go ahead and unanimously approve it? Inquiring minds should want to know.

Postponing sex can heighten desires, extend relationships - Annette Lawless
There are a great many jerkwads who despise their sexual partners immediately after sleeping with them. For the rest of us, life is short, and we should seize the day (night).

“Hold out for that first kiss.” “Repressing desire can only make it more powerful.” I guess the basic principle is the myth of “Acting like a fifteen year old is the key to happiness your whole life.”

I firmly believe that the sooner you have sex, the sooner you can have sex again.

Science gives Comfort to the Enemy

striphe — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 00:02:13 +0000

The awesomeness of my physics lecture soared to new heights today. Professor Sorenson, an old-fashioned raconteur, likes to pepper his lectures with cunning insights ("Homework: it’s a good way to learn shit") and instructive metaphors ("Atoms are ticklish, and start to pair up because of chemical desires"). But today, he finally went the distance and just blew shit up.

He filled up a steel bulb with water and let it sit in a vertical cylinder. Then he doused it with a vat of liquid nitrogen. "Watch what happens," he said, ducking out through the emergency exit. "I’ll just wait over here," he snickered.

So we waited.

And waited.

Pow!

As the water in the bulb froze, it expanded. And expanded some more. At last, the steel - notoriously weak compared to my pecs - couldn’t take it any more, and the bulb exploded (a metaphor for my heart on Valentine’s Day!). The tube shat steam and shrapnel up 20 feet. It was pretty rad. Sorenson let me keep some of the bomb fragments. I took them home, melted them down, and forged Excalibur.

Letter from the Editor

striphe — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 17:52:39 +0000

Hyper-literate Bastard,

I worked very hard with you last semester and helped you when you were new at the Collegian. I stayed at the paper one too many times too late waiting on your content to come in. I did my best to work with you and how am I repaid? With rude blog comments about my reporting and writing, which I pour my entire heart and soul into. Did I ever insult your writing and reporting? Nope. I respect your decision to exercise free speech via your blog, but realize that your words are hurtful. I’ve worked my ass off for four years at K-State and at the Collegian, and while I’m not perfect and not even a "real" journalist yet, I don’t appreciate your words.

-Frustrated Editor

————————————————————————-

I believe all the problems with the Fourth Estate are right here in this self-indulgent "complaint." To illustrate:

1. I didn’t criticize her personally. I didn’t even criticize her overall writing style, which is so bland it makes me want to slit my own throat just to make sure I can still feel. I criticized a specific element of a specific article she wrote. I also criticized other specific elements of other specific articles other Collegian staffers wrote. BFD. Yes, my tone was breezy and irreverent. Hello? That’s my writing style. She’d know that if she exercised any reading comprehension skills on the rest of my post; all my remarks were made in a catty, condescending voice. I’m not trying to tiptoe around the tender feelings of these so-called "writers." I’m trying to make fun of them. I won’t flinch. And I’ve got A LOT of material.

2. She tried to work hard with me? That’s up for debate. Yes, I was extremely late on several articles. Not that she cares (she made it quite clear that her own crankiness is The Most Important Thing In The World), but when deadline came around, I was also studying for 18 credits worth of midterms AND working on ways to scrape up enough money to, you know, stay in school (out-of-state fees are a bee-hotch). I’m fairly sure this has happened to lots of Collegian staffers. Whenever I tried to talk to her, she’d act like she didn’t have time (BTW, impatient supervisors are a real pet peeve of mine. You sign on to a position of authority only if you have enough patience to sit down and engage other people. If you’re gonna sigh like you’re too important to be bothered with the paeons, well, grow up. "Working with people" implies a certain measure of patience and helpful, friendly advice, not arrogantly forcing people to pussyfoot around your frazzled nerves). She’d edit the story without reading it; moving chunks of text here and there, changing the flow of the story to make it suck, then leaving me to clean up and make new transitions so it did not, in fact, look like it was edited by a careless snob. The best part: whenever I turned in a story early and left it there for editors to review at their leisure, the next day, the story would appear in print with EXTRA GRAMMATICAL ERRORS (We copied and pasted but left out the prepositions! Oops!) or factual errors (copyeditors should probably not work their "magic" on numbers and figures).

3. "Free speech?" Don’t be so dramatic. Make no mistake; this is not the Washington Post. This is a dumb blog nobody reads.

Fact is, there was nothing wrong with my specific criticisms. The problem lies in the newsroom. I want to stress that this is not the fault of any one particular editor. They all believe that They Are The Deciders. Therefore, they put out a rag full of dull, misleading headlines, factual errors, grammatical mistakes, op-ed columns made of moronic drivel, and STILL THINK THEY’RE DOING A GREAT JOB! They have no capacity for criticism - from themselves or from the hoi-polloi - because in that newsroom, when heads go up asses and don’t come out, they start to think their stuff don’t stink. But when the rest of us actually read the paper, we can smell it just fine.

You’re right. Might as well send it back and call it a day.

striphe — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 16:07:10 +0000

Today truly is a day for lovers. A lady pulled up in front of Marlatt to deliver a Valentine. It was a card with a silver heart-shaped helium balloon attached. The lady handed it off to the front-desk clerk, who blandly informed her that Marlatt could not accept the item, because - no, really - although it was addressed to "Alex" in "room 00X," it did not include a LAST NAME; because of that glaring omission, there was no way to be certain that "Alex" was the intended Alex. No way!

So listen up, you moronic red-tape drone: it was a VALENTINE. These things tend to take a somewhat informal tone. "Dear Alex, I wuv you vewy vewy much, love, Huggymuffin" is stylistically preferable to "Attention Alex W. Smith: Thank you for your romantic attention. Regards, Huggymuffin Lee, Esq."

You could always go the extra mile and contact "Alex" in "room 00X" to verify whether he is, in fact, acquainted with a "Huggymuffin;" when he screams in joy because he was, in fact, expecting a Valentine from a certain "muffinly" individual, that seems like it ought to be enough proof (unless you’re a Terminator). But don’t turn back a Valentine delivered by COURIER just because you’re a fuckwit.

It almost makes me want to believe in love. Just to spite people.

The fear of losing you

striphe — Fri, 01 Feb 2008 21:16:52 +0000

“i know its not really any of my business, and you probably dont care how i feel, but…if you were to hook up with cherry, id probably be really upset. id like to think im a cool person with no hang-ups, and im not really into her, but truthfully it would just piss me off. maybe im just hallucinating, anyway, and she isnt into you, and you arent into her, but. yuk. i cant really say why the idea of you two together wigs me out so much, but it really really does. so i figured id tell you and maybe youll care and maybe you wont, and maybe it doesnt matter anyway.”

-Madeline

And so began Thursday.

There ought to be a word that conveys the sense of “fuckittyfuckfuckfuck,” but - as in mathematical parlance - to the nth degree. Perhaps something like “I want to crawl under a rock somewhere, let maggots pick at my worthless husk, and then in 500 years when I wake up all this will have blown over, even though I’ll look like hell.” Too prolix, no?

Obviously, she’s suspected for weeks. I spent all day turning this dilemma around in my head. Tell the truth, piss her off, watch her walk away. Would she ever come back? Why would she say that I don’t care? How could she even think that? And wouldn’t I have to, like, make it up to her? But how? And what sort of relationship would that be, centered around a debt? Madeline’s been nothing but fantastic to me and now who knows what’s gonna happen? So many questions.

Alternately, lie. Keep my friend (for now, because obvs she’ll find out before long if this keeps up). So I turned this thing around all day, this sword of Damocles, sitting in my head and in my gut, wondering what to do about it? Where to put it? Who to tell? What to say? I thought about this all damn day long. Chain smoking. Physics class. Reading the Times. Eating. Waiting for Cherry to call. Screenwriting class. Another cigarrete. And another.

It snowed that morning. I saw Cherry outside the Stuni, and we talked for a moment before her phone rang again (it was her mom). The snow was really coming down; the wind stabbed and jabbed at our faces, our fingers, any exposed skin it could find, stinging and snipping like a juiced-up prizefighter. She got off the phone and I walked with her to class; we shared schedules; she’s got classes and rehearsal all day long and so I probably won’t be seeing her later; I wanted to tell her about Madeline, but what, really, would I be telling her? So when we reach Bluemont I just hugged her goodbye and headed off to physics. My cig went out and on the way as I fingered through my pockets, juggling papers and quarters and gum and keys and coughdrops and a comb and my ID and STILL NO LIGHTER! So I did it again and then again and then I remembered I handed it to Cherry, and when exactly was I going to see her again?

I was afraid that mentioning this to Cherry would, like, pressure her to give this thing more thought than she’s willing to, which will naturally send her running for the hills. So, is that what it’s come to? Am I supposed to be stuck in this no-man’s land, a streets paved with eggshells, a hazy, dimly lit Hell of Not Knowing? And is this not my own doing? My own timidity, my reluctance to just take charge, manhandle that girl, get up and dance with her and take what I want without apology, albeit in a loving and respectful manner? Niceguyism rears its ugly head once again.

A girl like that, a girl who can do that thing with her lips and her eyes when she smiles, a girl like that is a wicked wicked creature. Being with her is like getting up to dance by the bonfire right after downing a bottle of moonshine, because the fire is so fun and so beautiful and so dangerous at the same time, and while you’re dancing you feel so buyant and alive but also terrified, because that fire could rage out of control and swallow you whenever it wants to, or you could make a single stupid misstep and fall right in at any moment, and you were in fact terrified from the moment you got up to dance but that was really part of the dance too all along, and now its heat is so soothing and so menacing and you can’t stop the dance, even though you know you’re in mortal danger, because you’re drunk and you NEED THAT HEAT like you’ve never needed anything else in your life.

That is Cherry.

At 10:30 that night I stepped outside for (yet another) cig and made that dreaded phone call to Cherry - dreaded, of course, because who wants to be bothered with this shit? I told her what I was thinking about doing (reveal) and asked her what she thought I should do: deny deny deny, adding "Isn’t that what you do anyway?" Excellent point.

At that point, that I hadn’t spoken to Madeline all day probably told her all she needed to know. Nevertheless, I took a stab a the denying thing:

"It is totally your business, and OF COURSE I care A LOT about how you feel, and IT MATTERS. Me and Cherry: not happening.

Having said that, it seems to me that you must have some sort of feelings, either for her or for me. And of course, I can see why you’d be after me; after all, with the right haircut, I’m quite dashing; I’ve been drinking beer for a couple years and have developed an impressive gut - THE MARK of a bon vivant, a man who knows what the ladies like; I’m quite good at certain video games, which no doubt you find irresistable; all in all, with my whole nerdy loser schtick, I pretty much have to fight the ladies off of me. On the other hand, Cherry’s kinda cute too, I guess. Whatever."

Although I was more or less talking out of my ass like I always do, was I on to something? Why else would something like this affect her so? I asked her and she said yes, maybe she does have a thing for me, which I suppose explains it, but not really, because to whatever extent that it’s true, it’s pretty clear that she has no intention of DOING anything with me; she’s had sooo many chances - way more than anybody else in this forlorn town, and she’s also got so many options anyway so what the hell makes me special all of a sudden? I doubt being with her would satisfy her in any way; just the same, there’s no way she’s losing any sleep over not being with me. Bottom line: if she thought I was getting together with ANYBODY ELSE in the world except Cherry, she would not have sent me that message at all.

Not that I feel any better about it. Lying like that was the shittiest, most cynical thing I could have possibly done, and I did it did it anyway; now I have to go back and tell her that not only did I "betray" her but I lied about it, and obviously I lied because I didn’t want to lose her but that does not mitigate the cowardly shittiness of what I did. And what does it say about what I have with Cherry that I have to keep it quiet or else fear that she’d just vanish into the night? I hate just thinking about it, but when I look back I have to ask myself, what, precisely, am I getting out of this? Happiness? Passion? Misery? Hell? Is there even a difference?

Fuck it, I don’t wanna go to your stupid party anyway

striphe — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 20:36:57 +0000

My financial hold was finally cleared on Monday! What followed was a mad dash to enroll in classes I need. My advisor and most of my professors were receptive and understanding of my plight. Here’s what I sent the Intermediate Algebra professor: ——————————————————————————–

Professor Hawkinson,
My name is Hyper-literate Bastard; I am a K-State undergrad English major who would like to enroll in the intermediate algebra course (MWF 10:30, rec W 12:30) this semester. A financial hold prevented me from doing so earlier, but that has been cleared up, and now I would like to meet with you and possibly obtain permission to enroll in your course. Do you think we could make this happen? Thank you very much!
Hyper-literate Bastard, Kansas State University

And this was the response:

Hi. You have been successfully added to MATH010 Intermediate Algebra. 15860 REC T 9:30 CW 023 LEC M W F 10:30 CW 101 Please visit the following web page and acquire a copy of the syllabus. Regards, Dale P. Hawkinson dph@math.ksu.edu <<< Note Email address… KSU Holton 101E Manhattan, KS 66506 USA (785)532-5386

—————————————————————-
Not afraid to be servicey! Sent the same letter to the Physics professor:
—————————————————————-

Professor Sorenson,
My name is Chain-Smoking Atheist; I am a K-State undergrad English major who would like to enroll in your Physics 102 course this semester. A financial hold prevented me from doing so earlier, but that has been cleared up, and now I would like to meet with you and possibly obtain permission to enroll in your course. Do you think we could make this happen? Thank you very much!

And got this response:

Yes, I’m here til 430 and have a meeting at 200. Pick a time within these constraints. CS

—————————————————————-
So, I called him, I showed up, explained everything, ba-da-boom, I’m in.
I need one more semester of Spanish.
—————————————————————-

Professor Copple,
My name is Nihilistic Alcoholic; I am a K-State undergrad English major who would like to enroll in your MWF 8:30 am Spanish 4 course this semester. A financial hold prevented me from doing so earlier, but that has been cleared up, and now I would like to meet with you and possibly obtain permission to enroll in your course. Do you think we could make this happen? Thank you very much!

—————————————————————-
Make it happen, indeed:
——————————————————————–

Hi Alcoholic,
You’ll need to speak with the instructor, Sandra Contreras, to see if there is room in the class. Her email is: sandrac@ksu.edu . If you don’t contact her before class on Wednesday, then attend class and speak with her there.
Mary T. Copple Assistant Professor of Spanish and Spanish Language Coordinator Modern Languages 005 Eisenhower Hall Kansas State University Manhattan, KS 66506 785.532.1924 mcopple@ksu.edu "Live simply so others may simply live."

————————————————-
Si, podemos.
So now I need to seal up that whole English major thing. How bout British survey? No problem!
————————————————-

Professor Donnelly,
My name is Snarky English Major; I am a K-State undergrad English major who would like to enroll in your British Survey course this semester. A financial hold prevented me from doing so earlier, but that has been cleared up, and now I would like to meet with you and possibly obtain permission to enroll in your course. Do you think we could make this happen? Thank you very much!
Major,
I am sorry to say that the course is full to room capacity, and there are people on the waiting list. Even if that were not the case, adding a course with as heavy a reading and lecture load as this one after two full weeks of the semester have passed would probably be suicidal, academically. We’ll have finished Beowulf and the whole body of Anglo-Saxon literature studied by this Friday, and with on-going assignments, anyone adding this late would have to read hundreds of pages a night to catch up–not to mention that having missed the lectures and discussions would deprive such a student of much essential synthesis which will figure in the exams.
I’m sorry, but surely you will be able to find some class that has room and would present less of an impossible challenge as a choice to fill out your schedule. M.D.

—————————————————————-
Wait, what? — did he just say try and scare me off with the "impossible challenge" of "heavy reading?" Hello! I’m an English major. Heavy reading is who I am. And besides, why would he assume I’m not suicidal anyway? You don’t know me. I do what I want! I do what I want! This is a delicate period of my life. I should also clarify something: I am paying A LOT OF FUCKING MONEY to come here, which technically means that YOU work for ME. Jizzwad. Whatever; plenty of other fish in the sea.

I suppose his response was, however, much better than my brush-off from Intro to Fiction Writing professor Mohammad Rahman, who - I just found out - has apparently gone to New York without leaving a note outside his office or a means to contact him. It’s not like they have e-mail in New York anyway; that’s probably just a San Francisco thing. Text messaging is where it’s at. Duh. So I hit up Screenwriting.
———————————————————————–

Professor Reckling,
My name is Soulless Bricoleur; I am a K-State undergrad English major who would like to enroll in your screenwriting course this semester. A financial hold prevented me from doing so earlier, but that has been cleared up, and now I would like to meet with you and possibly obtain permission to enroll in your course. Do you think we could make this happen? Thank you very much!

—————————————————————-
Two days later and no answer. I know she’s held office hourse been in her office and held class since I sent it. I also left a voice message. I also staked out her office Tuesday. Apparently office
hours have been replaced with ninjitsu hours. I’m not letting this one get away. I followed up Wednesday night.
—————————————————————-

Professor Reckling,
Is it still possible to get into your screenwriting course? I’m a creative writing major and I would really like to talk to you sometime soon to discuss the class. Thanks!

—————————————————————-
And so…..
—————————————————————-

Hello,
I’m afraid you’ve missed too much of the class already to join us now. We’re completing our first text book tomorrow and having the first 20% exam. Our syllabus is in place for all the workshopping, as well, based on the enrollment of these past two weeks. I encourage you to think about the course for next spring, and to be sure to sign up earlier. Sincerely yours, Professor Reckling

—————————————————————-
Ho ho ho! A response! An arrogant brush-off, to be sure, but read between the lines: she wants me. Watch this:
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Professor Reckling,
Please, there must be something I can do. I’m completely willing to skip a whole lotta sleep to do make-up work, if necessary. A financial hold is what kept me from enrolling earlier - I’m from out-of-state and it’s kind of tough. Are you sure there’s nothing that can be done? I’m both eager and desperate. Seriously.

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Dear Bricoleur,
Okay. I wondered why you waited so long to decide on this course; now I know. You’ll need to purchase the course packet at the Arts and Sciences Copy Center, which is on the basement level of Eisenhower Hall, just up the hall from our classroom (EH 21). You’ll also need to purchase the two text books in Varney’s. Bring the Smith book to class tomorrow. We’re finishing it, and I’ll be handing out an overview of terms to know for the exam next week. The other book is by Ian Gurvitz, and you’ll need that for later in the course. We’ll be viewing an episode of 30 Rock tomorrow. You will have the teleplay for this episode in your packet, and you’ll be doing work on this teleplay for next week. That work will be much easier work once you’ve seen the teleplay. I don’t generally add anyone this late. If you miss class tomorrow, I won’t add you. I’ll be sending the syllabus on listserve, and other information, as well, so you’ll need to be sure that your e mail address is officially registered with the university (if it isn’t already). The course, as I hope you know, is screenwriting for the small screen, and the focus is on the architecture of comedy in the sitcom. If you’re looking for film or for production, this is not where you’ll find it. If you want to learn how to analyze the elements of comedy in Seinfeld, News Radio, Will & Grace, Frasier, Arrested Development, 30 Rock, and their ilk, and to write original material for 30 Rock, this is the right course for you. You’ll have a lot of catching up to do, and you’ll have to do it rather quickly. We should talk tomorrow after class. Welcome aboard. Sincerely yours, Professor Reckling

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I love it how everyone thinks I’m gonna start wetting the bed just because an exam is coming up. Also: she "wondered" why I "waited so long?" How many times did I have to explain the financial thing? And why is the English department staffed with arrogant douchebags? Now I’m kind of afraid.

Letter to the Editor

striphe — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 17:41:11 +0000

Dear Collegian columnists:

Why bother?

Collectively, your recent spate of indignant finger-wagging strikes me as lazy and dull. Last week Kelcey Childress "reviewed" movies it was pretty obvious she hadn’t even seen; this week pretentious literary snot Blake Osborn whined about how all his peers are hyperactive Youtubers and Facebookers, then he proceeded to - no kidding - name-drop his grandfather’s reading list as though it was his own (Tolstoy! Fitzgerald! Hawthorne! Aristophanes!). Today, Mark Wampler reminded us all of how we don’t "care about the issues of our world blah blah blah," and pretty soon Brett King will vomit more right-wing claptrap about how we’re not doing enough to crush minorities and the poor, just like he always does. Then he’ll probably shake his fist at some newfangled "horseless carriage" as it putters by.

At least your fifth-year advice columnist is fresh and topical. I can only assume it’s because he sits down with a fifth of gin while he’s writing, like I do. The rest of you: get with it. Get off your soapboxes, get out of your rocking chairs, cut out the newsroom navel-gazing, and give us something upbeat, personal, and specific. And for the love of all that is sweet and holy, PLEASE have a drink before you pull up to the keyboard, so that I don’t have to.

Very truly yours,

Hyper-literate Bastard

20 minutes of snow

striphe — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 07:44:24 +0000

Two things that ruin a fresh snowfall:

1. In cold weather, condensation clings to my nose hairs. I walk around feeling like I’m dripping snot. I hate that.

2. Ennui. What’s with that?

Manhattan’s temperature dropped about five thousand degrees overnight. AND it’s windy. In the morning there were itty bitty snowflakes zipping around like gnats. Then it really started coming down. Oh mother nature, why not ease into this with a nice, steady decline? It would feel like using lube before getting intimate - something we can all appreciate.

Scrambling to adjust to the change in weather, at once a refreshing crisp-white and a bland blah-white, we begin to feel disconnected from everything else. The day feels fragmented and broken. The heart feels split in two (zerrissenheit, baby!).

So today, despite the hustle and bustle of finally getting ready to attend classes (confidential to FPS; kinda pissed that the creative writing professors seem to be blowing me off), I just felt sort of like giving up and taking a nap.

Even the Collegian was lame today. And not even in a vibrant, forceful, offensive kind of way. It was more of the same old shitty headlines ("Union Holocaust display educates visitors," "Students are asked to donate in blood drive," and the op-ed’s "Historical events should not be disregarded, forgotten" - which misrepresented the article - which was more half-assed irrelevant finger-wagging, just like "Media spotlight should focus on relevant issues"). At least Eric Davis shows he’s still on the cusp of culture; "MySpace, Facebook users must use caution when dealing with potential online predators." Confidential to Eric: if you’re going to phone in vacuous drivel of the "no shit" variety, would it kill you to take like THREE SECONDS and jazz up your headline? Just throw me a friggin’ bone, know what I mean? Also, according to Allison Voris, a rape occurred somewhere, by someone. Thanks for the heads up Allison! Kthxbai!!!1!!1!!!

Like I said, kinda lame. But sadly, not lame enough to evoke a more heady, vigorous thrashing. You know, the kind where you grab it by the balls, twist as far as you can, and giggle. Maybe some other time, eh?

Cherry’s sick. Do you (just who am I writing to, anyway?) think that has anything to do with my blah mood? Like, we’re bonded on some deep, metaphysical level whereby I intuitively feel her discomfort? Or that maybe, like everything else in the universe, her sickness is really just all about me?

I hate worrying about these “feelings” thingies. I am a simple man, and these things are all murky and complicated.

Perhaps it’s the secrecy element of the whole sitch.

When Cherry and I are alone, it’s like being in our own corner of the world, a warm fuzzy bubble of awesome. Leaving the bubble is the most depressing thing in the world. There is you Inside the bubble, and there is you Leaving the bubble, and never the twain shall meet. But outside of the bubble, you feel alone and disconnected wherever you are. Keeping a secret like this "screws with your sense of reality. It makes you, in a sense, split right down the middle. It cracks you in two. [Strawberry Saroyan]"

I guess the fresh snow just reminds me of my own complicit silence in the whole affair. Le sigh.