Gotta Move On

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I never said thank you for that, now I'll never have a chance

Yesterday was so strange. Early in the day, I received an email letter from a former student that read:

I wanted to email you to say thank you!! Regarding the email below…go ahead and read it to refresh your memory :o)…I have been thinking about your response lately and want you to know how much I appreciate the fact that you genuinely cared that I learned and were willing to help me overcome my barriers to learning. You didn’t tell me how to do it or hold my hand so that I didn’t actually learn. Instead, you encouraged me and gave me a few ideas to break down my walls of uncertainty in order for me to expand my knowledge and have confidence. You taught me how to enhance the instruction you gave us in class and teach myself outside of class. Which is what college is all about, right?

For any class, but especially for an Intro class, that is an incredible and valuable achievement. You definitely went above and beyond and I want you to know how much I appreciate it!!! You demonstrate a real interest in whether or not your students learn and give them the tools they need to be successful. (I only wish the instructors in my major were as passionate as you and cared about their students.) You are an asset to the college!

I'm sure you can easily imagine how wonderful it is to get a note like this and I do not post it here by way of bragging, either. When I read it I realised that (1) this is the response I have always wanted to what I do, and (2) it's exactly the kind of thing I needed to say to those who inspired me to be this teacher.

Less than half the day later, whilst still aglow, I got the news that one such inspirational figure in my own education had passed away, and it felt as though all the air had gone from the world for a moment. Dr. Paul Farkas was one of the few true scholars I have met in my life. His knowledge and intellect were without parallel; he could have been a professor anywhere, and he chose to be at Metro to teach those who needed his energy and time most. Our department was lucky to have him. We, his students, were even luckier.

One of the first classes I took at Metro as an undergrad - a million years ago now - was Dr. Farkas' Myth, Symbol, and Allusion course. I was quiet, but sitting and listening to him every day were the highlights of my week. Not only did this class significantly contribute to my particular educational path and would ultimately become a key element of my dissertation work, but I simply learned so much. Dr. Farkas had an encyclopedic brain, and he could talk for an entire class period without so much as a pause and none of it was boring. Even though he and I never personally bonded - mostly because this early in my college career I was still content to be a quiet listener - I always admired him and I never forgot the things I learned in his class. Even now when I teach Children's Lit in particular, I feel like I channel Dr. Farkas when I go off on tangents about the significance of the Janus figure at the end of the first Harry Potter book. Or how all things go back to The Odyssey for me. Or when I plan to teach The Odyssey next term and immediately went back to my class nots from his class.

And now the rest is silence.

I am saddened by the fact that I had hoped to tell him one day about the impact he had on me as a student. That his office is in the same hallway as mine makes this crime more egregious. He should have gotten at least an email from me like the one I received. I never would have received it without his being in the world.

[from Jimmy Eat World's "Hear You Me"]

May angels lead you in.
Hear you me my friends.
On sleepless roads the sleepless go.
May angels lead you in.

So what would you think of me now,
so lucky, so strong, so proud?
I never said thank you for that,
now I'll never have a chance.

And if you were with me tonight,
I'd sing to you just one more time.
A song for a heart so big,
god wouldn't let it live.

Genius only comes along in storms of fabled foreign tongues

One of the traits that defines me as I am now - and something that is far different from what I used to be - is my penchant for saying aloud that which should probably not be said. Or written. A colleague laughed last week about my "Irish temper" and how she could picture me leaving DU: not only would I light a match and toss it over my shoulder before I had time to think about the consequence, but I'd probably spend at least a moment to pour some gasoline on the bridge as a I crossed it in my rage.

I'm not sure this is an improvement but it is a meaningful step sideways at the very least.

When we were coming back from San Antonio last weekend, a woman behind us in line to board the plane complained when Jamison joined me in said line - as if he were just jumping in front of her and not with me. As if one more person in front of her was somehow going to affect her boarding or any part of her life at all. Like she didn't have a seat waiting for her in particular. When she said to her companion, "I can't believe that guy just cut in line" I turned around and said, "but look how quickly you're getting over it." I wanted to add, "bitch" to the end of that but didn't. No need for overkill. I'm sick to death of people who think they can do whatever they like and that courtesy will dictate that I keep my mouth shut.

In short, there's a new sheriff in town and she's not taking shit in any form these days.

I told one of my students this semester - when he complained that my assignment was "stupid" - that he could come out the exact same way he came in and not to let the door hit him in the ass. When he backed down, I actually insisted that he leave anyway. Where I got this kind of gumption I haven't the faintest idea. But it feels kinda good.

So. Imagine me striking a match on my shoe right now. One of my friends, Jeni, had a boyfriend (now an ex) I've met a few times and I've always been pleasant to in the name of good manners and mostly for Jeni's sake. Even though I know what he's done to her. More than once. Like the unforgivable Cruciatus Curse in Harry Potter, there are some things you can't take back. No one gets to take comfort and freedom and security from another person's life on purpose and be forgiven. At least not by me.

He knows I know these things and yet he operates under some kind of assumption that because I didn't show up at his door after the last bout of violence with my brother's hockey team to play his head like a puck, that we're friends. Or at least friendly. I get messages and email and I can't possibly fathom why he would contact me as if we should keep in touch. He is an abuser, and abusers make sure that their reputations are solid. It's like having the last word: a woman leaves a man who abuses her and he makes sure that no one believes her because he appears to be such a nice guy. Before I knew what was going on with him and Jeni, he was nice. Came off as pretty cool and normal. They always do, but secretly they want to Just. Control. Everything.

Even more staggering, of course, is why he cares at all what I think of him. Why does my opinion matter - we've never been friends. He clearly doesn't know me, because if he did, he would know full well to stay as far away as possible because now that I don't have to be nice, I won't be. Some people will forgive the sin of violence against people you claim to love, but I won't. I refuse to absolve someone of this crime, particularly when inflicted on someone I love.

I don't know if Jeni's ex has hacked his way far enough to find my little blog here, but I kind of hope so. Dude: you're a fucking coward and stay the fuck away from me.

Burn, baby. Burn.

As though to breathe were life

I taught Tennyson's Ulysses this term and wept as I read it. Never before has this poem so overcome me, and I have always loved it.

Sometimes the world overcomes me and I needs must cry. Just because I can. Sometimes it's nice to feel things on some cosmic level that one cannot explain. Like when I broke down in the car listening to the story about the farmers in northern Colorado who opened their farm after the harvest for anyone to come and reap the remainders (which, by the way, is apparently substantial amounts of quality food) for free. They expected 3,000 people and got over 10,000. All you can carry from the farm for free. It shut down the highway. I could cry right now as I write this and can't verbalize why.

We got back from San Antonio and it was a great trip. I miss Laura and Aidan so much and seeing them was wonderful. I resent that they had to go and why. But I am glad they are doing so well now. We did some shopping and hanging out and lots of eating (oi - I feel so fat now). The one thing we did that I loved was visiting the missions. I admit that in my Anglophilia I never bothered to learn some key things in American history (but ask me anything you want about the British Monarchy), including all things Wild West and along the Mexican border. Mostly because I moved to the west as an older child and had never spent time anywhere near Mexico, but mostly it's a gap in my education. For example, I know what the Alamo is but I never really knew the story of it, or any of the other missions for that matter, and it was educational. And sad.

The ruins are not all ruins - some of them are still functioning parishes and this amazes me. There are so many ghosts in SA; I felt uncomfortable in a couple of places - especially at the first mission (Concepcion, I think) where one room was all wrong. The Alamo is strange because there are so many tourists that it's difficult to pick up on much, but being there at night - I could just feel the energy of the place emanating from its very walls. Laura told me that The Menger hotel (adjacent to the Alamo) is hella-haunted and I believed her. When I went there later that night to photograph it, I couldn't even walk up to the building. About half way across the street walking toward it I felt nausea and the overwhelming sensation of needing to get away. I half expected the photos I did take to have horrible things in them. They don't.

The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide...

It's Monday and I'm over my lost week of jet lag and just getting by. I slept well through the weekend and it was lovely. Today I sit in my office at DU - something I do less and less these days - and as I eat my lunch I realize that what a great space I am in. I went up to the ED to heat my lunch and ran into Katie. I love Katie, and she's the only other person in this place doing a dissertation on anything remotely close to mine, so I always feel like I should know her better or spend more time with her but it never works out. In any case, when I do talk to her, and she tells me her job search and dissertation woes, I smile. She asked me if I'm just writing now, and I said yes, I'm writing a dissertation, a novel, a blog, and I'm teaching five classes and taking one. I have a family and a house, too, and oh yes, just got back from 'cross the pond.

She asks me with wonder how I do it all, tells me I must be some kind of super-woman. Truth is, I tell her, I'm not. I don't believe for one second that any other person couldn't do exactly what I do if they were so inclined. In fact, I often think that I still waste far too many hours in every day that could be more productively spent. I tried to explain to her the Tyler Durden philosophy quoted as my title today, but she just looked at me quizzically. It's true. Priorities are everything, and I decided to not make DU and grad school one of the single digit ones, and I've never been happier or more productive in my life.

No matter what you do with your life, you should love it, always take a day off from it, and never take it too seriously. Take vacations whether or not you can afford them. Realize that money is only money, ice cream is sometimes required, and that $50 for a massage IS better spent there than on groceries some days.

Holy blog posts!

Sunday, the last day in the UK before heading home, was appropriately rainy and gray. I decided to make my pilgrimage to Canterbury. I went by train, and all I can say was that the entire day was spectacular. I got to spend it alone in the rain in a medieval city and while that sounds like a complete nightmare to some, it's probably my version of heaven to a degree. Much of the town still sits inside the Roman walls and on Sunday the whole place is fairly sedate. The cathedral is amazing, and I love that the choir was practising whilst I was there, and that I had lunch at McDonald's in a building older than my own country. Check out the pics on my Facebook. It's all I'm going to say. Some things I want just for me.

Oh so hazy pub crawl...

One thing I am most unused to is a constant state of drunkenness. In my old age, I rarely drink and even more rarely drink to the point of excess. Frankly I can't afford the hangover time anymore and it's expensive. That sounded even older than I wanted it to...

Saturday I went back to the British Library for research purposes, mostly out of guilt for not having done so and needing to report to professors as such back home. I checked out the items I most wanted to see, but felt again disappointed at how I missed out on something by being in a generation where I can see all of these things online and at home. I thought holding 400-year old documents in hand might have some kind of magic, and it does, but not in a way worth the trip probably. Sadly. After a bit, I found myself needing to sit there long enough to justify having someone retrieve said items for me - is an hour enough to prove that I'm a serious scholar? If I were a serious scholar, that question would likely not need asking at all, I suppose.

I met Sarah and we had a nice lunch at Pret - a mushroom risotto soup that was so scrummy that I still want another cup and I'm not even a big fan of mushrooms. I returned to the library for more "work" time and then met up with her at the flat to decide how we'd spend the remainder of our Saturday in London. Originally she had a friend coming to meet her for the weekend, but he couldn't make it, thus leaving us with rearranged plan time. I'm glad, too, because this ended up being one of my favorite days of the whole trip.

We decided to hit Portobello Road market (in Notting Hill) and it was all I wanted it to be and more. Not only is this the cutest damn neighborhood you can possibly imagine, but the market is huge - we walked for over a mile and for hours and didn't see even half of the market. They have everything there from jewelry to antiques to food to ... whatever. You'd have to see it to believe it. I had a blast, and got my future nephew a Ramones onesie. We started to get hungry and decided that hell or high water, we were having curry for dinner tonight and opted for the fail-safe Brick Lane district in Whitechapel. The same Whitechapel made famous by Jack the Ripper (yay). We came across the Ten Bells pub, dated 1666, advertising absinthe (double yay), and vowed we'd stop back in after supper.

Brick Lane is its own little world. I love the three or so block stretch of curry houses where men stand outside the doors and try to lure you in with specials, free wine, discounts, and these get better as you go further down the street. It's strange and it makes me suspicious and uncomfortable, the same way I dodge the people in the mall with clipboards. But we had already decided to eat at Aladdin because it is publicly touted as "the favourite of Prince Charles" and how can you go wrong with that endorsement? In short, the food was AMAZING and inexpensive and it was the kind of food that makes my tummy feel happy in its own right. We ate Chicken Ticca Masala, Saag Paneer, poppadoms, garlic naan, and veggie samosas. I can't remember when I've had a more satisfying meal.

We ventured back to the Ten Bells, which was so cool inside - it was dark and the old wallpaper made it creepy. I'd never had absinthe and so Sarah and I shared one. It's odd because it tastes like anise - which I don't like - but as soon as you taste it, you crave more of it. We chatted up some girls at a nearby table and finished the drink. I see why people love it and why so many places outlaw it. It is more than alcohol; it has some kind of narcotic effect, which I learned is heighted dramatically by movement, say, on an Underground train. I felt impaired after only one-half of a drink and it got better from there. We headed to The George Inn, where we had Strongbow cider and George Inn Ales, met up with some very chatty folk. Then to London Bridge station because I wanted to finally go to that club I missed on my birthday last year, but alas, the queue was already long and not moving, so we passed on. Next up was Cheshire Cheese - probaby the coolest of the pubs I've been in so far. It's 1667 - rebuilt post-fire - and is still in the old style of having small individual rooms, each with a bar, and you can even sit in the hallways between and drink. Here we had more cider - mine was strong and unremarkable, really - and then we discovered Samuel Smith's Organic Cherry Fruit Beer. It's delightful, strong, and doesn't taste like beer in any way. It's like cherry cider and we had a couple of them. We also chatted up an incredibly drunk Englishman who only moments later did not recognize us. Quite amusing. At some point later, I lost the ability to focus - visually, mentally, etc. I may have called Jamison. I definitely walked home from there but don't remember it well. I spent the rest of the night trying to keep the room from spinning.

But I had a great freakin' time...

Down the rabbit hole we go...

Friday we ventured out to Stratford Upon Avon, only to discover something called a Mop Fair going on. It's basically a traveling carnival with rides and such, but I thought it funny that I asked no less than three locals in varied locations what "Mop" has to do with it and none could tell me. I assume it's not a sloppy wet thing on a stick that one uses to swab the deck or clean the floor. In any case, from the train station we walked to Anne Hathaway's cottage, which was some distance from the centre of town, but it was a nice walk through garden paths and flowers and tiny residential districts of Tudor period homes and expensive cars. It must cost a jillion to live here. Along the paths, though, are signs that read "No Fouling" and have a picture of a dog leaving a steaming pile with an "x" through it. Hee-larious. Really. Check out my Facebook page to see the photo (and all of the photos - they're there and I didn't feel like posting them twice).

The cottage was neat and worth the tourist dollars to walk through. Stratford really is charming and lovely and I'm glad I got to come back here. Last time I spent all of an hour after the Shakespeare's house tour and I missed out. Every street is cute, every person smiling and polite, and I simply love the little smart jokes everywhere, like Marlowe's pub "recently refurbished, 1595." Of course there's the requisite Starbucks, but what's nice is that there is always an array of choices for one's coffee needs, and the sweet shops are divine. I got some clotted cream fudge and was immediately sorry for it - I couldn't rest until it was all gone, of course. Dee-licious. I spent the rest of the time trolling the gift shops and finding lunch for us to take on the train - I settled on sausage rolls (as recommended by a local fellow) and some sodas and crisps. We reconvened at the train station to head to Oxford next and ate our lunches on the way there. However, there was a change at Leamington Spa (or something like that) and since they're working on the trains, there was one less running that day. We took the entire rest of the trip - nearly an hour - standing on the packed train and trying to keep busy with iPods.

Oxford is also far more charming than I can stand, and its only down side as I see it is that it feels way too much like an American college town, and I can get that at home. But it's scenic and like everything else in the UK, is home to some great pubs and what seems like the entirety of British history is housed in its very stones. We were greeted off the train by brilliant red leaves on the changing trees and the old castle. Next was to find the oldest pub in town, The Bear Inn, dating back to 1242. It too was under "refurbishment" but still open for business and I feel certain after sitting in it that Lewis Carroll had to have spent some considerable time here. The pub boasts not a single right angle in the whole place, and this is immediately apparent. The poor bartender has to be at a constant stoop because the ceiling is so low and the floor visibly slants to one side in each room. The Ladies' room up the stairs is probably the weirdest one I've ever been in. The steps are crooked and narrow, and get more so toward the top until you reach the door to the Ladies' which is so short even I had to crouch considerably and I'm not tall. Inside is a cramped but cute loo and pedestal sink. It's not for the claustrophobic to be sure. It's very Alice-in-Wonderland. We drank a cider there called Scrumpy Jack, which was delightful and strong.

We then walked round the town, took photos at Christchurch and Exeter - both of which are lovely - and we managed to arrive at the Bodleian just in time for it to be "closed to visitors." Grrr. I really wanted to see the inside of it. From there it was back to the train station, only to discover that there was once more a backup in the system and the fast train to London was standing room only. I was very glad when the train pulled in and emptied so we could sit for the remainder because I was beat. Everyone on the train was grumpy or annoying, so I tuned out and dozed off.

We planned earlier that day to try and find the curry place in Soho that Rick Steves had mentioned in his book, so we got out in London and went to Piccadilly, only to find that it was still rush hour and Friday night (which is pretty much the same travel hell in any country, apparently). We stumbled through Soho hungry and without curry and every place we went to eat had at least an hour wait. I was stressed and grouchy, but I could sense that Sarah was too and since she's far more stable in this regard than myself, took it as a bad sign. Ultimately, we settled on the pasta place next door to our flat (in a nice, business district that's all closed up by 5) and then wandered back home to sleep.

If you don't gotta wear pants, don't

Thursday proved an even more out-of-character day for me, and this change to my entrenched habits can only be a good thing. I spent more than half the day in our flat, watching BBC news, writing, and not changing out of my pajamas. Sarah and Annie had trekked off to the Tower, and even though I'd wanted to see it again, part of me was a bit too stingy to spend the 12 quid for something I'd already done. So I slacked. I had breakfast and piddled around, and it felt nice. Normally I feel pressured to get out the door, to see as much as possible, but this time round I just wanted to feel what living in London might be like. I mustered the energy about midday to head to the British Library, as part of my stated purpose in going to the UK in the first place was "research." I meant it when I said it, even if my actions didn't back me up.

I walked through the exhibits there and seeing the Beowulf text and Shakespeare's first folio was pretty damn cool. I got a library reader's card and felt accomplished. I met Annie and Sarah for Fish and Chips and instead of keeping up the momentum of seeing parts of the city I hadn't before, I went back to the flat again for some more rest. I really feel my age this time; I feel like I can't keep going at the pace my mind wants to but that's okay, I decided. I'm still in the UK, not an old grumpy woman yet, and everyone needs a resting day once in a bit.

I met Sarah later at the British Museum to see the Sutton Hoo exhibit, the Elgin Marbles, and of course, the Rosetta Stone. I really wanted to see my bog people, but that exhibit was under "refurbishment" and that was indeed disappointing. I did find a book in the book shop, however, on marble erotica from the ancient world that was pretty interesting. Sarah then went home and I walked Oxford Street - the hub for all things tourist and cheap, tacky crap stores, which (alone) find delightful. I bought some necessary cheap stuff and scarves, took pictures at Tottenham Court Road - which now explains a lot with the last Harry Potter book; this is a dodgy street to find oneself on amidst an array of otherwise lovely streets. Then I was exhausted - again. Got some pasties and sodas for us, but got seriously frustrated trying to get back home from Tottenham Court station. The Central line, I note, breaks down frequently, and in rush hour, this can only mean too many sweaty people in one underground place, waiting too long for trains that are too full. I knew I wasn't far from the flat and could walk, but by the time I planned this, the platform was way too jammed to get out. After three trains and way too much body contact with smelly strangers, I made it back and with the same feeling of stress I get at home after a hairy freeway drive.

So I stayed in for the night while Annie and Sarah went pub crawling. I really wanted to go, but had been drunk the three nights prior and wasn't up to it. So I put my sweats on, went to the grocery store, and did a load of laundry. I kind of liked it, really.

Shut yer gob and mind the gap

Sorry I've been so lame about writing in this space of late. I really wanted to post all of my trip writing before I moved on to more recent writings. The result is that it all just piles up on me. Sigh.

But here's the next installment of the UK trip stuff:

Tuesday evening, the first night in London, we walked from Holborn up to Angel station so Sarah could get a nice view of the city for the first time. Granted, she saw mostly residential space, but still. I know how discombobulating it is to ride the tube when you're first in town because you get no sense of where you are. I'm glad that Sarah and I are of similar mind in such matters - we're organised map people. Nice. We met Annie at her flat, which was super nice, and walked about town to find sustenance. One thing I hate about London is that finding a place to eat when you're super hungry is often a challenge. I'm not sure why since there are so many places, but this is at least the fourth or fifth time I've found myself wandering too far for food to the point of grumpiness. We settle oddly enough on the place where we started, which is the Angel Pub across the street from the station. I like that everything in the neigborhood is Angel and it became funnier after I got really drunk on Guinness and we stumbled back home.

Wednesday we were up and at it early. After breakfast at Pret a Manger (my favorite chain thing in London), we went to St. Paul's (Sint Paul's to you) and climbed the unholy steps to the top. I think it ends up being 400 or so, maybe more, and many of them are steep spirals. I like St. Paul's, but it definitely doesn't feel like a church. It doesn't have the ceremony or ritual that Catholic cathedrals have for sure. The views from the top were worth it - one can see literally for miles, and it reminds me how odd a city London is. For all its ancient-ness, it's also incredibly modern and that it grew up around its Roman walls and Towers and churches is quite remarkable. From there it was off to Kensington for the day, which I have done before, but love. We stopped by Buckinham for the changing of the guard. It's all tourists and not as big a deal as one might think, but it's also one of those things you have to do, just to say you did. From there we walked along Green Park and by Hyde Park and down to Harrod's, which is always fun. We cruised the food rooms and got a spectacular picnic lunch of a meat pie (not the Mrs. Lovett kind, either), some stinky cheese, a sesame roll, and some sparkling water. Refreshed, we trolled through the Brompton Oratory (now, this is a church! If God exists anywhere, it's here for me) and to the V&A museum. Sarah went on the tour, but I know better; museums overwhelm me entirely and I can't take them in except in small doses. I pick one thing to see, see it, and then leave. It's the only way to maintain sanity in my book. This year I chose to see the plaster castings room and the medieval collection. Amazing stuff.

By then I was pretty tired after the St. Paul's marathon and needed a coffee. Went to the cafe in the V&A (which is beautiful like the rest of the place) and sat with a strong skinny one in a tall cup. Then Jamison phoned, and it was one of those pure, snapshot moments that I know I'll always have in my head - there I was, sitting casually in a London museum having a coffee, listening to conversations around me and talking to my love over a cell phone, who was literally halfway round the world from me. I was thrilled to be that woman in that place and in that time all at once. My mother used to tell me that no one ever "arrives" in life, but I think we get to feel moments in which we do arrive, and this was one such moment for me.

Sarah and I then stumbled to Kensington Gardens, past Royal Albert Hall and the Albert Memorial (which is shameless and shameful all at the same time), and the day was perfect. A beautiful fall day in the Garden and that's another thing I love about London: despite the hustle and bustle, the grime and the grit, and the constant flow of millions of people through this urban perfection, there are still massive parks and gardens right in the middle of it all, so large in fact that one can only scarcely hear the traffic, where leaves turn fall colours and ducks splash and dogs bound cheerfully after balls and frisbees. I could live in a place like this. Kensington Palace was a complete disappointment, however. I had been waiting to see the inside for so long that I think I'd built it up too much. It was boring and oddly laid out, and fairly unimpressive as far as touristy things go here. And we were tired. Without further adieu, we drifted over to The Orangery for afternoon high tea with Annie, and this was the highlight of the afternoon to be sure. I love high tea - the little sandwiches, the ceremony, scones with clotted cream. Ah, clotted cream. It even sounds unhealthy and it is, but so lovely to eat, it's a good thing I don't have it readily available here. Really.

From there we attempted to find Notting Hill gate to no avail and headed back home. We took a short rest and then caught the train to Herne Hill, where our friends Valerie and David live. They had graciously asked us to supper round their place, and it felt nice to be in a home so far from home, to eat home cooked food, and to sit around talking like normal people. Vacations always provide the opposite and it's nice to touch base, I think. I love that people in London follow American politics, perhaps more closely than we do. The UK, in my experience, is Obama-ville, across the board. Their news coverage is unwaveringly liberal and they HATE Sarah Palin, which proves only their collective superiority in intelligence from our beloved U.S. But that's just my humble opinion.

Edinburgh to London

Writing from the train again. Got up this morning and found breakfast at the Elephant House, which is the coffee shop where JK Rowling wrote at least the first Harry Potter book. I had a cheese and tomato croissant with coffee, and looked out the window to note that from said window, one has a clear view of the castle, which looks remarkably like Hogwarts. It is also difficult to ignore that one of the menu items is “Fleur’s delight” and that the Kirkyard round the corner is home to a poet with the last name McGonagall. Love it. We cruised around Grayfriar’s Kirk (a cemetery) and it was most excellent on this crisp morning. We then trolled around a bit waiting for the church to open, went inside and visited, then back to the hotel to check out. We grabbed sandwiches, crisps and sodas for the train trip. I’m amazed by the potato chip flavors here. Even in brands that are the same as the U.S. (like Pringles), one can easily find flavors such as “Prawn Cocktail” or “Roasted Chicken” or “Thai Curry” or “Worcestershire,” the latter of which are actually rather tasty.

This train journey is far more enjoyable because there are fewer stops and the daylight hours are breathtaking. We had a seaside view for the first hour coming out of Scotland and I could only imagine how cold that water must be. The wind here is fierce and bitter cold, and my perpetual thought in the last couple of days is how on earth people survived here in the pre-modern period. How did they not ALL die of plague and exposure in a time before gore-tex and microfleece and vaccinations? It’s unimaginable and it sheds light on just how perfectly harsh the conditions must have been.

*******

Got into London and found our flat, which is super cute! It’s right in the center of the city and round the corner from the Holborn Tube station. There’s plenty of walking to be done here and it’s nice to know that when one is exhausted and cranky, one can return to home base with some relative ease. The flat is basically hotel room with two twin beds, but it also has a full kitchen and a nice bathroom, as well as television, workspace, free wi-fi, laundry facilities, and ample closet space. I find it remarkable that a place such as this is so inexpensive (relative to London, that is). It’s less to stay here than the place I stayed last year, and that one was much dumpier, older, and had far fewer amenities.


More to come...

Monday, 20 October 2008
Edinburgh

Got into Edinburgh last night, after a long, long day of travel. After the end of the train line in Newcastle (which is far larger and suburban than I would have thought), we had to run to catch our bus to Edinburgh, find a loo in the meanwhile. Once we boarded the bus, we were tired and sweaty and hungry. And it was almost three more hours and one stop in Berwick (that’s “Berrick” to you) upon Tweed. We had to laugh because it’s true that the further north you go from London, the less intelligible the English is – full of heavy accent and unfamiliar idioms. When the bus driver asked at B upon T if we need to use the toilets, it took me until we were well beyond the point of that possibility to determine what he had said to me. Once in Edinburgh, we walked out of the train station exhausted and feeling very pack-mule-esque. I was stunned by the beauty of this city at night – it was like arriving at Hogwarts, all lights and castles and stone work. Hills and water and the color green one can only find in the British Isles, I think. The one thing that is difficult here is the lack of street signs in convenient places. We paced up the block and back trying to locate ourselves on a map to figure out which direction to walk and finally resorted to a taxi. The driver laughed heartily at us because the hotel was a whopping two blocks from where we stood. He joked that he could have piggy-backed us there faster (but I can’t recall the term he used).

Thistle Edinburgh is a lovely little hotel that is much more posh than I expected for the price. It came out to just about $100 USD per night, and the room is modern, has flat-screen TV, tea service, closet space, internet, and even heated towel racks. And it’s smack in the center of everything. I joked that you couldn’t get this room in London for twice what we paid here. I hadn’t expected much, either, knowing how hotels in Europe typically work out to be tiny and outdated and overpriced. On another general note, the food round Edinburgh is also quite surprisingly diverse and tasty.

We awoke to traffic noise about 7:30 a.m. and got up and moving for a busy day. Our first order of business was breakfast, and we stopped into a local coffee shop for a caff jolt and some fresh cherry scones with jam. Yum. And water. I’m so dehydrated even after the regular chugging of H2O. We walked through the center of town, and I remarked that my occupational hazard (the scholarship required to study the Middle Ages and Renaissance) is that I imagine all of the UK to be in a perpetual state of Medieval. Not modern, even though I consciously know that it is. It feels strange to travel to Edinburgh by bus on a major interstate, for example. I fully expect the road to turn to dirt and people to be pushing carts alongside. This place is also considerably more hilly and steep than I would have thought – I’ve had quite the workout in the last 24 hours. After breakfast, we worked our way on foot toward the castle, which is so cool and all by itself worth the trip. I can see why JK Rowling used it as her model for Hogwarts – it makes perfect sense when you’re standing in front of it. After the castle, we wended down the Royal Mile, which is cobbled and touristy, but still pretty cool. Trekked through St. Giles Cathedral, which I adore, and went into a few whisky shops and such. Can I say, though, HOLY WIND? I’ve never seen anything quite like it.

Visited Mary King’s Close (all the remaining “closes” are really cool, too). Here is where things got a bit strange for me. It’s a tourist attraction and way commercialized as one of the underground sites – they try to scare you and tell you ghost stories and make loud noises, etc., but it feels a bit like an invasion to walk through there on a tour. Like you know you’re participating in something that isn’t being properly respected and it’s troublesome. So I went with it. In the livestock area, it’s a large room that would have been open to the sky above, but bricked over now, of course. Something about that room was all wrong and I couldn’t wait to leave it. When I left, I felt a hand on my shoulder and expected to find Sarah there but she wasn’t. No one was. I didn’t like that and it didn’t seem at all innocuous to me. In the room where people leave toys for the little girl named Annie who supposedly died there and is looking for her doll, I felt a wave of nausea wash over me and even my mouth got sour. I know that if I’d stayed in that room even one more minute I would have puked all over the floor. Sarah complained that when she went in there, she got an immediate stabbing headache like a migraine. Even after we moved away from the room the nausea waned, but I had to gobble some cinnamon mints to halt it entirely. On the whole, I’m glad I went there, but it haunts me a little even now.

While waiting for the Close tour, we had walked to see the Surgeon’s Hall and stopped into a great toy/comic shoppe called Forbidden Planet. They had dolls from The Goonies! Funny about this film is that I hadn’t thought of it in ages, but when we were talking about Hansel and Gretel stories in my class, I brought it up almost from random memory as a modern-day example of child heroes and fairy tales. I loved the film even though it’s campy and silly. Right after I mentioned it, the movie was on TV and I got to see it; the following week someone mentioned it to me in a completely different context, and then today, alas, a “Chunk” doll in a shoppe in Edinburgh. Weird.

We ate lunch at “Always Sunday,” which was a great little bistro type place where you can choose meal combinations and they are all healthy/nicely made. I had some herb bread with Scottish cheese, and a rocket salad with some tea and it was perfect. Oh, and some vanilla shortbread. Yum. From there we headed out to Holyrood House – the royal residence for the Queen when she is in Scotland. My favorite part was the remains of the Abbey that still sit beside the palace. The weather switched from sunny and clear to cloudy and rainy – any my favorite combination, the clear blue sky with rain (?) – all day long and started to get nasty as we left Holyrood. We had to trek back to our hotel in the wind and rain, which was intensely un-fun but short lived. At that point, naps were in order in lieu of afternoon tea. As soon as I got up, I stuck my hand into my cosmetic bag and took a rather unsettlingly large chunk out of my right index finger. It bled like a mo-fo and still hurts. I had to later locate a box of band-aids and something akin to Neosporin, and imagine trying to explain this to a clerk in a store in Edinburgh, where these things are called “cushioned plasters” and “Germolene.” Mind you, they are manufactured by the same company in both countries, but called something entirely different. I’m properly bandaged now.

Finally, we regrouped, cleaned up (I can’t tell you how the UK weather makes me feel like I’m in a constant state of slimy), and went for dinner at a pub called The Mitre, where the story goes that it’s named after a Bishop who fled Charles I’s religious imposition sometime in the mid 1630’s and was eventually executed. I’ll have to check my notes on that to be sure, however. Sarah had smoked haddock/potato/cheddar patties on a salad and I had pumpkin/marscapone/tarragon risotto – both of which were fantastic meals and especially since it was pub fare. Drank Caledonia ale. The literary pub tour – naturally – didn’t go on Mondays, so we made up our own. Stopped into “The Last Drop” (whose sign is a noose, and located in a former public gallows spot), “The White Hart” and one other I don’t recall, but we tasted scotch, encountered long-haired men in kilts singing along to Britney Spears (you think I jest…), and finally stumbled back to the hotel for a CNN update and showers.

Untie me, I've said no vow; the train is getting way too loud

Sunday, 19 October 2008
10:17 a.m. OR 5:17 p.m., depending on which of my clocks one consults

So far, the journey is long and a bit disorienting. Our flight left a bit late but arrived on time (a mystery that someone will need to one day explain to me). I originally had three seats to sleep, but someone moved into the third spot and thus my sleep was truncated by frequent need to shift position every time my head fell forward. I’m thankful now that I spent a good hour napping yesterday afternoon. Watched Iron Man over and over. I love this film, and since when is Robert Downey, Jr. hot?

I tried to spend some time eavesdropping, as usual, but only heard a single word in the din of conversation: “saturated” which is indeed an odd word to hear both in and out of context. It doesn’t sound like it looks, with the emphasis on the “tch” sound in the middle there. I’m getting loopier, I think.

At first it appeared that my luggage had been lost, and this was dismaying, but I can tell I’m on vacation because it didn’t immediately fire up my rage instinct as this would have done in Denver. Odd. It was quickly located, gods be praised, and we hit the Tube to King’s Cross, and giggled the entire way every time the train voice announced that we were on a train headed for “Cockfosters” (it’s one of those immature moments like “duty free” when it’s hard not to giggle at “doodie”- I’m glad Sarah thinks this its similarly funny or I’d just feel stupid). So somewhere near Kensington two girls get on the train and sit opposite us; they are clearly American from their outfits and then when they begin speaking, we realize that they are from DU. Oy. I thought I’d be further from home by now. Fake tans, over-white teeth, matching fashion, and a compelling discussion about the blond’s Louis Vuitton bag were our bane for the next several Tube stops. Sarah and I have vowed to not talk about DU – dissertations and people there are in-bounds, but politics and griping are not. How lovely.

Got to KC, got tickets, drinks of water, and then pretty much straight on the train, from whence I currently write this. The countryside is beautiful, and it’s easy to see how Harry Potter could only happen here. I can feel it when I get off the plane, and when I see the rows of suburban homes I can only think about Number Four Privet Drive and the owls arriving there. I do rather wish Sarah was here with me (she’s in another car), but the solitude works just as well. It’s great to be far from home, anonymous, and even invisible. No students here. No colleagues. No pompous fellow grad students. Despite my exhaustion, I feel like writing a whole novel right now. And if my battery on the laptop would last or I had the faintest idea where the adapter for my cord was so I could plug in, I’d be at it right now.

Smells are funny things to me. As soon as I stepped off the plane, I remembered instantly the smell of London and I missed it, the same way I missed it before I knew it when I was here a year ago. Just try to tell me that our souls aren’t recycled… Anyway, someone on the train in my vicinity is wearing CK One and this too takes me back in interesting ways – I used to wear it myself at a time in my life when things were tumultuous and that is odd, but the way it’s mixed with a slight smell of alcohol breath is comforting to me. It reminds me of Jamison and I simply adore his scent, which is a keen mixture of his natural scent, deodorant, and alcohol breath (only occasionally on the latter, of course). The smell reminds me of home and it’s nice. That’s all. Just nice.

It’s getting dark and soon I won’t be able to see much out the window, I suppose, but the train ride is still pleasant. I do wonder, however, why my Blogger and Facebook come up in a foreign language in an English-speaking country. I don’t recognize the language, either, but I find it amusing that the default is something akin to Swedish.

Pro-Choice is NOT "Pro-Abortion"

Dear John McCain:

There is no such thing as "pro-abortion." No one anywhere, anytime "promotes" abortion. It's terrible, and as a man you will never know what it's like to make a decision to keep or end a pregnancy. The procedure is painful. It's unpleasant. No one ever jumps up and says "oh boy, it's abortion day!" or "Gosh, I can't wait to find myself pregnant again so I can have another one of those - it was great fun!" or "thank goodness I was raped by my drunken stepfather and find myself pregnant at 13 - thank the gods I can skip happily past the protesters at the local Planned Parenthood." Come ON. Nothing about abortion is simple - emotionally, physically, or spiritually. These decisions are never made lightly and the resulting trauma of having to do it is not something any woman who undergoes the procedure ever forgets. I'm sick to death of self-righteous pricks like you who think that anyone who supports a woman's right to choose for herself what's best is the enemy. It's pricks like you who also condone abstinence-only education with the same kind of unmitigated ignorance to the fact that people have sex, have always had sex, and always will. Of all ages. All walks of life. And a whole lot of that sex is neither consensual nor a good idea but that doesn't change the outcome, does it?

When you and your wife, Cruella de Vil were so righteously adopting your children, I'm guessing that the offspring of a 13-year-old crack whore was not on your list of acceptables.

I'm also guessing that if it turned out YOUR daughter was raped and pregnant at 12, you'd change your tune pretty quickly, especially being in the public eye. What would such a bit of news do to your "distinguished" career as a "maverick"?

Senator, I don't believe there is a single person in the world who doesn't wish that we could permanently eliminate any need for abortions - that we could somehow solve every issue that leads to unwanted pregnancy with some finality but there is nothing realistic about such a wish. Neither does that preclude the fact that we live in a world where abortions are necessary, and for a host of reasons for which I choose not to be a judge.

Why is it so hard for you and your ilk, Senator McCain, to accept that women (frail as we may be in mind and spirit) can make these decisions for ourselves (notice I say "our" because you're not part of this club, my friend)? Why do you find it so utterly pressing to impose your ideas and values upon others in this regard when you yourself have never been there and never will be?

Pro-choice is just that: the promotion of choice among free thinking individuals to decide what is best for their own families and individual lives. I don't believe abortion is "right" so I didn't have one when faced with the decision, and as far as I am concerned, that's the only part I have here. I would never presume to judge another woman for any choice she makes in this regard, but only that she do what she feels is best for her at the time, and for this she has my full and unwavering support.

Pro-abortion? Not a chance. Pro-choice? You bet, and across the board, motherfucker. Mind your own damn business, Senator McCain (and tell that to your little lap dog too).

Sincerely,
Middle-Class White American Mother Who Finds You Morally Reprehensible
(so you can stop targeting me with your stupid phone calls)

Been around the world and found that only stupid people are breeding

Today's news report included a story that says cigarette smoking is bad for your health. What a relief that I stumbled across this piece of information; I'd been living under the assumption that smokers are the ideal picture of good health. Wow. There must be nothing else going on in the world, like - uh, I don't know - war, genocide, mass foreclosures and the failure of the worldwide banking system. Glad those news folks are on the ball.

After watching the final debate (for no apparent reason, really, as I made my decision before the primaries ended), I conclude that John McCain could say he believes just about anything at this point and I couldn't muster even one ounce of respect for this man. He's glib, smug, and the fact that he cannot keep his temper in check on international television makes me sick. His nasty attitude, derisive chuckles, and obvious disdain for Obama doesn't offend me in the sense that Obama can't take care of himself against big, mean McCain, but that such behavior speaks to McCain's character. He can't even be gracious. He can't take the high road. He can't even fake the appearance of tolerance for anyone who doesn't see things his way. In short, he comes across as a bully and a jerk. Anyone who isn't frightened by this aspect of his character in relation to dealing with other world leaders should be. Our reputation is tarnished enough and I'm sick of being represented in the world by angry old men who don't believe the world has changed in the last twenty years. If McCain is so sure he can effect real change, "get" Osama bin Laden, then why the fuck hasn't he in the last 26 years in Congress? I want to punch him in the face, and kick his lame-brained vapid running mate. I get why people don't like Obama or liberals for that matter, but how anyone supports this ticket is genuinely beyond my comprehension.

The other thing that has me unsettled of late is that every time I see a McCain sticker on a vehicle, it's almost always a truck or SUV. The driver almost always male, and certainly wearing a baseball cap despite his age. Even walking across campus, the only McCain buttons I see on backpacks are sported by similarly generic, white-boy American types with ball caps, Oakley sunglasses, Levi jeans and tennis shoes on.

All the McCain supporters look the same to me.

I know how the best will fall and the rest will follow

Unmotivated does not begin to cover the feeling I have toward my dissertation these days. I got up early this morning so I could make to school early so I could have time to write before class so I could turn in the draft of something I am supposed to have produced by today.

Needless to say, it's 8 a.m., class starts in half an hour, and all I've managed to do thus far is save a blank document (lord knows I wouldn't want to lose that) and grouse about how much I don't want to do this today. What's worse is that I haven't done the work for the course and I don't care. It's become a real problem that there is no sense of impending doom in my academic world anymore and I never knew how much I needed it - that I required the threat of failure in order to produce real work. Then there's the issue of what I'm actually doing in this class, because I don't go to class, I'm not really following a syllabus, and the expectations for my work production are - at best - hazy.

I am aware that sooner or later this dissertation thing will need to be written. I may actually have to procure something that looks like research, and I might have to sweat a little. Right now, however, these things have inspired no action in me whatsoever.

Melancholy is one of my favorite words. Ennui on the other hand, not so much.

What I dig about the English language is that it's never been its own language at all, but merely the amalgamation and assimilation of other languages. But that's really another entry and perhaps a journal article, so I won't bore you on this gloomy Sunday morning with such matters.

The word "melancholy" intrigues me today. Its etymology pairs the Greek words meaning "black" and "bile" and thus refers to the excess of this humour, which causes depression and a period of deep sadness. My beloved OED does not, however, note the many benefits of the temporary increase of black humour, a fact which I have most recently discovered.

I came home from Reno feeling a little soul-depleted. Conferences are typically not fun places to be as a general rule, but conferences in casino hotels are even less so. I don't gamble and I rarely drink and I find that cigarette smoke in any form makes me feel nauseated. To be surrounded by all of these things simultaneously for even a short period is taxing to my senses. It makes me grouchy to take a shower and put on clean clothes only to discover that they smell like a bingo hall. Thus I smell like a bingo hall. There is no place to escape in a casino, either. Even finding the outdoors becomes a chore.

Our panel group was spectacular and the presentation part was lovely, even though the hotel put us into the bowels of the building and told no one of this - quite amusing. Hearing the papers for the panel I chaired was illuminating. I somehow managed to pull together four people who are all the same age and interested in the same things. We went to dinner afterward at a darn-good Mexican food joint called Miguel's, and the one thing Reno clearly has that Vegas doesn't is small-town politeness; for all its grit, Reno's townfolk seem really midwestern in their encounters with others, and I mean that in the nicest possible way. It's a place where older women with raspy voices call you "honey" but they mean it so it's okay. Both cab drivers to and from the restaurant were chatty and reminded me of how NYC cabbies would be if they weren't so regularly beleagured by rude tourists: kinda edgy, but happy for the company in an otherwise lonely job. We tipped the hell out of both of them. It was nice to spend time with other scholarly folk who don't subscribe to the pretension of scholars - those who forge their own paths without regard to status quo. We closed the restaurant down talking about teaching and books and movies and telling jokes. I had a nice time, but after a bit, I get tired of being around others and this is never personal.

It's hard to be overstimulated for too long - by surroundings, people - and the worst for me is when I have to perform for too long. Most people don't understand what this means, but as a reasonably introverted person, it's a lot of work to be around others, and even more so with others I don't know well. By the end of any given week of teaching, I feel like a car running on fumes. I need refueling and some down time, and I didn't get it in Reno to be sure. By the time I arrived in Denver, every single person in that airport was on my list. Too many people with too many smells, too many calls to be polite, too many things and individuals bumping into me or touching me, and it all gets to me. When Jamison picked me up with his visiting friend who's staying with us for the weekend, all I could do was lie down in the back seat and close my eyes so I didn't have to be polite or talk. Again, it's nothing personal; I just need some cave time.

I get depressed in this state, and everything quickly becomes overwhelming. School and work and teaching and family time and friends and even having to eat sounds like work and I get all existential about what the point of any of it is when we're just going to die anyway. Melancholy. Not ennui, as Jamison calls it. I feel quite certain at these moments that black bile is all that courses through my veins, and while it doesn't sound so, it's a positive thing in the end.

Most of Saturday was dedicated to being alone in the house whilst it rained, wearing my PJs and watching crap television and playing mindless computer games. One should never underestimate the need for Pajama Day, nor its many benefits. Nothing can revive my state of mind and top up my soul depletion quite like a self-indulgent day crammed with pointlessness and quiet. Today is full of renewal and I embrace the cold wet weather and look forward now to a trip abroad in less than a week. Perhaps the way to rebalance one's humours is not to up the level of the others to compensate, but to let the excess do its work.

Hee-larious

It's true one can never really know what happens to our ephemeral rantings in spaces like this-here blog, but the one thing I feel certain about is that in this democratic (perhaps even anarchistic) space, one is entitled to say whatever one wishes to say and in whatever manner. I espouse this right in any case, and if someone wants to try to censor me, then so be it. I write things often that I fear will offend the random reader, and even more often I write that which I sincerely hope will offend the random reader. Because I can. When I write random rants about my loathing of all things Republican and Sarah Palin in particular, I prepare for angry responses from those who stumble across my blog and mutter the word "liberal" as if it were the worst possible insult.

But when I write random expressions about moments in time I experience, I never expect that I've offended anyone enough for them to write to me about it. Please note the following email I got this morning:

Dave Mencarelli has left a new comment on your post "I hear the train a'comin, right on down the line":

I imagine there are two square block areas of Denver that could be described as unseamly also. Thanks for the review of a town where I've lived for 16 years and thoroughly enjoyed the fact I could watch someone discuss world events with their meal if I so desired. Oh to be lucky enough to live somewhere where the hoity toityness of life in academia can make you look down your nose at senior citizens confined to scooters. I'm making my flight resevations RIGHT NOW!

I don't know who this person is, but it's hilarious to me that of all the things I have said on this blog, this is the one thing that has apparently offended the unknown-to-me reader. The fact that I've offended him does not bother me, but I would like offer the following rebuttal:

1. Blogs are spaces of free speech. If you don't like my opinions, writing, world view, my academic status, gender, politics, taste in music, verbosity, or affinity for the semi-colon, don't read my blog.
2. I look down my nose at all people equally, and to suggest I confine it only to senior citizens in scooters is outrageous. (That's a joke, so freakin' re-lax already.)
3. Of course there's a lot of unseamly-ness in every city everywhere in the world, and if someone chose to point it out even in places I love, so what? Come to Denver, Mr. Whoever-You-Are and I'll even show you the depressing and sad parts where you probably wouldn't want to be holed up for a weekend either.
4. "Reservations" has two R's in it, and please do make those right away. I understand that ski season is rapidly approaching and our mountain views here are spectacular, even on smog days.

Thanks for making my Saturday morning. Really. Awesome.

I hear the train a'comin, right on down the line

It's early morning in Reno and as I look out my 23rd-floor window, I note that (a) the garish casino lights are still on, and by daylight they are more garish than ever; (b) the sun is shining from the east, but it's snowing; and (c) this place is infinitely depressing. Yesterday I went walkabout and trolled the cheap, tacky crap stores. The best store is about two blocks away and the best thing is that in addition to the oddly overdressed "dolls" and 1970's glass frogs, they sell lighters 10 for $1 and coffee mugs are 3 for 99 cents. The best part about the latter is that the mugs are all from Milwaukee. Did I mention that it's sunny and snowing?

Reno is another world, like much of Nevada seems to be. Such strange vibes here. I have been to Vegas many times and even though I kind of like it, I have an exactly 22-hour threshold of tolerance for the cigarette smoke, slot machines, lights and whistles, and crowds of people. I get easily frustrated by the labyrinthine engineering of these buildings, which are designed to make everything BUT slot machines impossible to locate. I get the marketing technique, but if you don't gamble and are staying in a Harrah's casino, say, for an academic conference, you may share my irritation of not being able to achieve goals of being certain places at certain times. You know that when the Starbucks takes work to find, you're in a place that doesn't subscribe to typical rules of capitalism, or at least in a place that prioritizes its capitalistic goals and they don't include Starbucks per se.

After our panel session yesterday, Charly and I crossed the street to obtain the advertised 32-oz., $5 margarita (in its own souvenir cup, no less). The best part is that the souvenir cup hails the drink as the "Asskicker," which in no way kicked my ass, which speaks loudly to the watered-down nature of it because a real margarita of such proportions would have required a long nap or a trip to detox for me. In said bar, where Charly and I caught up and he told me his story of how he proposed to his girlfriend (after all these years, who knew this man was so brilliantly romantic?), I watched a heavy man with scraggly long hair eat entire bags of peanuts at a time. You know, the ones that are 99-cent tubes. He had at least four of them and tipped his head back, eating the entire tube one rather disgusting mouthful after another. He stood at the tall bar table and tipped his head as he ate the peanuts so he could not take his eyes off of the UFC-style match going on the TV over the bar. He glared at us a few times, and I kept wondering if he thought we coveted his prized peanuts or was plotting how to murder us out behind the bar. He had a crazed, Manson expression and a twitchy quality and then when I looked for him again, he was gone.

A young woman came in some time later, and appeared to be about twelve, but was clearly old enough to drink. She wore a hoodie with the hood up and tied around her face, and was nearly as wide as she was tall. She ordered a burger and fries, and then proceeded to engage the meal in some kind of conversation. I wonder if there's a big meth problem in this city. I wouldn't be surprised, of course, as this place feels distinctly like the movie set of a bad after-school movie. No one here is pretty, and people on the street in the middle of the day have a desperate air about them that is deeply unsettling. Old people totter around and ride scooters, and they chain smoke cheap cigarettes and wear mismatched clothes on their disturbingly overweight bodies. And who knew Reno was a haven for seriously unattractive lesbians who are not shy about public displays of affection? I have never witnessed so many ugly couples behaving in ugly ways. How odd.

I'm glad to be leaving here today. I don't know how anyone lives here. It's snowing harder now, with larger flakes sweeping angrily past the window.

For all you do, his blood's for you

No kidding. This is the sign on the church near my house that I drive by each morning. What do you suppose Jesus thinks about a 1970's beer commercial being used so flippantly? Dunno.

At any rate, it feels like there are so many things to say of late that I never know where to start. So I'll begin with television commercials. Some day, someone will have to explain to me the point of election ads. If they are all hyperbole, and they are always put side by side (that is, pro-con-pro-con, etc.) then what do they achieve? One ad says McCain eats babies and the other says that Obama kills puppies, how does this affect my vote?

I also completely fail to understand the massive group of so-called "undecided voters" that everyone is scrambling for. How can anyone be undecided at this point? It's not like these candidates have so much in common that it comes down to splitting hairs here.

Obviously political ads are propagandist in nature, but I love that now the election is growing ever closer, that the rhetoric has been dialed up in really interesting ways. I saw a McCain ad this morning that opens with Obama's face on the screen, and he is made to look like he is much more dark-skinned than he is. He looks like Olivier did in Othello of the 1960's, painted in blackface with some kind of offensive tar paint. This shot of Obama could not make him look any more Other. Then there's a Shaffer ad that criticizes "Boulder Liberal Mark Udall," and makes use of the phrase "Boulder Liberal" about six times in the thirty seconds. The voice over spits out the phrase with marked acidity, as if the notion of a Boulder Liberal is so distasteful. I'd be offended if these kinds of tactics weren't so openly hilarious and appealed to anything more than the lowest common denominator.

But the same strategy has been applied lately to other types of ads. Have you noticed? There is a rash of new Microsoft commercials depicting "normal" people (one of whom looks decidedly like a fundamentalist Muslim with a smile - I'm just sayin'...) using the new Microsoft "Mojave" or something like that. After they've all glowed about how "tight" and "cool" the operating system is, it is revealed to these folks that what they're really using is Windows Vista. They are all surprised, of course, because they've been unwitting victims of the smear campaign against Vista. One guy says "I guess it's all about using it, huh?" as if to say that if you don't like Vista, it's because you're too stupid to use it properly. Love it. Really.

The other one is a play upon the "I'm a Mac; I'm a PC" commercials in which all of the people are "PCs" and incredibly productive members of society. Take that, Apple.

I think my favorite one, however, is the series of ads that run during daytime television in which one mom offers another mom's child a soft drink and the receiving mom says, "don't you know that's full of high-fructose corn syrup? Don't you know what they say about it?" and the asking mom replies "What do they say about it? That it's made from corn and has the exact same calorie value as sugar?" The receiving mom is of course stumped on what to say next and concedes. The voice over says, "find out the facts." Laughable.

If I listened to TV, I would believe that Pizza Hut can make high-end restaurant quality pasta (with clever combinations like bacon cheese macaroni... guh), high-fructose corn syrup is good for me, all politicians are evil (which is probably more like truth), PCs are good things, Windows Vista doesn't suck, and that I need education advice from people who can barely speak their own native language.

I suppose it's no surprise, then, that even the church down the street has resorted to a beer ad to get people to think that Jesus is cool.

Guh. Frustrating.

Few things can get to me like teaching frustrations. What's odd is that I can cope with pain-in-the-ass students, complaints, whining, and so on, but what I can't cope with adequately is when it feels like a class is failing and I don't know why or how to fix it.

My evening Lit class, which is a tiny group of fairly quiet folks, seems like it's always stalling out. We got going with a rough start because they didn't do the reading the first week and there was only so long I could slog through with the spoonfeeding. After that we had to change rooms and now we're in this large space that makes the quiet group seem even smaller and quieter. Perhaps I won a little bit when we took a field trip to Starbucks on about week 4 and had class on the patio, and it seemed to be even more of a success when we repeated the trip the following week. Then we needed to take a unit exam and I gave them a take home because we were so behind. It was due tonight, and I was looking forward to talking about poetry, but only half of them showed up and I knew I'd just have to repeat everything again next week so I let them go - less than a half hour after the start of class because I didn't know what else to do. We've missed so much class time, but sometimes it's just too hard to keep forcing my way through, and I feel like it's me who's failing. Logically, I know I am not - in fact, I daresay that they like me and the class time - but I don't know how to get this ship out of port. In contrast, I have another section of this class that I practically have to shove out the door at the end of class because they want to keep talking.

I'm open to ideas here. Really.

What is not hilarious about this?

Do we need more evidence that the type of folks who hate people blindly are idiots?

Give your feet a chance, they'll do all the thinking

Some days I am so restless I want to just start walking in any direction and keep on going. It's not like I'm depressed or that I dislike my life, I just get bored. I want adventure and novelty. New things are so frightening that it always makes coming home again that much more comforting.

But it's okay. Travels are afoot. Next week I get to go all the way to Reno for a conference. Aren't you jealous? I don't care much for the whole cheesy gambling town thing - save the kitsch factor - and I have about a 24-hour threshold for it. Lucky for me, that's just about how long I'll be there. I opted not to participated in said conference except to chair a panel, which basically means that I'm the one who introduces people and moderates any conversation following. This will be my first conference for which I won't lose sleep or spend the entire time there in my room, frantically trying to finish my presentation before I go on, and hoping that the hotel has some means by which I can print it out in time.

In November, I get to head to San Antonio to see Laura! I've never been there and even though it's Texas, I dig seeing new places and comforting faces. I'm happy for Laura that she made a positive move for herself and her son and got out of a bad situation here, but I miss her terribly. DU feels so perfectly dull as if a layer of color has been removed from all things there.

The one thing I have to look forward to in the coming weeks, however, is my trip to the UK. I am giddy as a school girl about this, even though I cannot afford it, shouldn't put it on credit as I've done, and feel tremendously guilty about leaving Jamison and Sami behind again. Perhaps not "tremendously." I have been waiting my whole life to have the freedom to go when and where I choose and I'm not going to talk myself out of it. Sami's a kid and hasn't earned the right to travel abroad yet (unless I had much more money than I do currently), and I do feel bad leaving Jamison behind - mostly because I'd love to share these experiences with him - but I also can't change the fact that he can't go.

This year I'm visiting Scotland and it's just about all I can do to concentrate on anything else during the day. I am sure I'll eventually have to pay dearly for skipping so much work and family time, but it will also be worth it. At the end of things, I'd rather have fond memories and close relationships than things and money. I don't care if that's responsible or not.

Don't go away mad; just go away

I went to Office Depot this morning on my way home from school to get printer paper. I pulled into the parking lot, parked, and began quickly walking toward the door, full of coffee and a mind to get things off my to-do list as fast as possible. An older man stopped me on my way in the door to ask me if I remembered to post my handicap sticker; he pointed to my car with implied accusation. I told him that while those used to be handicap spaces, they were now painted over and I needed no such thing. He countered with "Oh, I just didn't want you to get a ticket," but it seems to me that he rather thought he'd caught me somehow doing something I ought not be doing. I rolled my eyes and went about my way, thinking, "and what the hell business is it of yours where and how I park my car?" The bottom line is, it's none of his business whatsoever. Even if I had parked in a handicap space - which, by the way, I would never do for even a moment - he can phone the police if he likes.

What makes people think they have the right to do such things? My mother is handicapped, but sometimes can walk on her own and at other times with a cane, and yet other times not at all. One day at King Soopers, some crotchety old fucker swore obscenities at my mother when she got out of her car (despite her handicapped license plates) and told her he hoped that someday she might actually need those plates and someone who didn't would take HER space. It was all I could do not to rip physically rip his head off and do you know what he said when I retorted with "my mother has MS, and it's none of your fucking business"? He snorted and walked away. No apology, no blush.

Sometimes it's difficult not to hate the entire world.

This aggression will not stand; the Dude MINDS.

Something about Christianity lately has me fascinated, and no, it's not the light of Jesus. The signs in front of churches have always been amusing to me. It's not that they're funny or even the slightest bit clever; what's hilarious is the assumption that whoever posted them thinks they're funny and clever. Down the street from my house, the tacky church sign reads "Salvation is a gift, will you accept?" but my absolute favorite one - in all its crackpot glory - reads, "Give God what's right, not what's left." My first reaction was to rant but instead, and perhaps for the first time EVER, the church sign made me think. Not about subscribing to their doctrine of whatever, but why it was infuriating in the first place. There's little need to mention the implication of the statement (right = Christian = good and left = non-Christian = bad), but where I get hung up is all this focus of late on labeling, taking sides, and enforcing discord among groups of people in shockingly new ways.

What I want to know is: why is political "right" necessarily associated with Christians (and it appears to be fundamentalist types) and "left" necessarily associated with whatever is not the aforementioned. Furthermore, why is this such a bad thing?

After the week I've had talking to people about my colleague's public disgrace in the media for daring to ask students to question Sarah Palin (long story...), it has become abundantly clear to me that not only is being "liberal" considered by many to be not only a bad thing, but that it's worth trying to ruin a person's life over. While my initial reaction is fury, it is equally mixed with confusion. I found an array of commentary across the blogosphere accusing colleges in general and liberal arts professors of being liberal and that we enforce our liberal bias to our students, and this is apparently offensive.

I completely understand conservatism, by the way, and here's how I understand it:
(1) generally these folks subscribe to a philosophy that provides tax breaks to the wealthy in the hopes that the prosperity will trickle down to those in lower brackets;
(2) that the separation of church and state is only applicable when it comes to anyone who isn't Christian;
(3) offshore drilling and raping of America is a viable alternative to getting oil from the middle east (despite the fact that a great deal of those elite wealthy, including the Bush family, get the bulk of their wealth from - uh, middle east oil);
(4) people who have money should keep their money and anyone who is poor should simply work harder;
(5) gun control means using both hands;
(6) Manifest Destiny is God's plan, not an ill-conceived notion of genocide for indigenous people;
and finally,
(7) that most of America is white, middle- or upper-class, churchgoing "normal" folk.

Despite my sarcasm, I actually understand some of these tenets, and perhaps if I lived in middle America, or a small town, or even in a wealthy suburb of a major city, and followed the cues from my parents to go to church each Sunday, get married, have babies, get a minivan, and enjoy things like soccer and football, I might believe these things to be worthy of putting my vote into just such a camp.

But here's the big secret as to why so many college professors - and particularly those at Metro State - are "liberals" and hope to encourage (not "indoctrinate") others to follow:

Are you ready? This is a big revelation...

Because our worlds don't look like the one I just described for you. Mine in fact did look like that for most of my life, but it doesn't now. A large percentage of my students seem "typical," but most are not. I encounter people from all walks of life in these classrooms - men and women of all shades of skin tone and from different countries, traditions, belief systems, and educational backgrounds. I know students who are homeless (or were), who are in halfway houses, ex-cons, on the run from abusive spouses, or trying to get their children out of the foster system. Some of my students have in fact been foster kids. Some are the offspring of illegal immigrants. They have been in (or still are) in gangs. They don't comprehend their worlds in any meaningful way. Many struggle to make their lives better and never will. They grapple with learning disabilities, money problems, families, children, full-time jobs, and how to get it all done and stay in school. They worry about how to pay for school and that mountain of student loan debt - their futures already mortgaged. Some can't afford to buy books or come to class hungry because they had to pay to park instead of eating. Some are confused, depressed, and suicidal. I lost a student in one of the very first classes I taught to suicide and I've never been the same.

The point is, it rocked my world to realize that not only was I blessed to be born into middle-class white existence in terms of privilege and education (let's face it, I'm not in the category of people who will ever socially suffer), but that a large percentage of the world I would encounter from now on does not know what this is like. They don't have the options I had and won't ever have them. I couldn't ignore this fact and just go on every day going into classrooms believing what I once did about my world and my country. Teachers see the world in ways that most people don't, and that creates a definition of liberal that looks something like this:

(1) Trickle-down economics is a great idea, but most people who exist waiting for the trickle only feel the sting of injustice for too long, and that's a fact;
(2) Perhaps prayer in school isn't such a bad thing if it applies to everyone equally, and the claims "the right" have to indoctrination should be turned a bit inwardly first - few people who consider themselves liberal care to indoctrinate anyone and the last time I checked, the right-wing folk are touting their Christianity specifically;
(3) Perhaps we could create jobs in America by exploring viable alternatives to and incentives for eco-friendly avenues to transportation, power, and infrastructure;
(4) Stem-cell research and abortion are not pleasant, but perhaps necessary, and should be left to individuals to decide for themselves to either participate in or not;
and finally for this list,
(5) I (and perhaps we) believe the above not because we're not good people, or because we're un-American, or because we don't believe in God or even Christianity itself. I am a so-called liberal because I can't see the world through middle-class white eyes. I have to look out into my classroom every single day with empathy because few of the people I encounter there meet with my expectation of what I thought the world looked like outside my happy little burg. Being liberal to me means that I simply understand that too large a percentage of Americans (who, frankly, so few refuse to acknowledge because they don't fit the mold) don't benefit from the older, conservative way of doing things.

I'm sick of the labels, and the petty squabbling about things that don't matter. Who cares if one is "conservative" or "liberal"? I still believe we all fall closer to the center of this polarization than anyone cares to acknowledge, and the truth is, no matter which side "wins," we all lose unless people are willing to engage this debate with honesty and open-mindedness. I'm waiting for that conversation.

Read at your own risk; I assume no responsibility for offense caused by the following

Some things never cease to amaze me: how a mass of cells can turn into human consciousness, the infinity of outer space, whether or not god(s) exist(s), how cell phones work, and the perpetual mystery of why there always seems to be room for Jell-o.

But none of these things mystifies me more than how in the holy fuck Sarah Palin can manage to have such a fervent cult following that we're not allowed to say anything about her publicly without the fear of swift retribution? Why does it suddenly feel like Big Brother is listening in, ready to ferret out those who oppose this dimwitted, gun-toting, woman-hating fool whose every word sounds like she just popped in from a dairy farm in East Jesus, Wis-cahn-suhn. I wouldn't be at all surprised to get a knock on my door tomorrow from men in dark glasses "asking" me to stop mentioning her name before they break my knee caps. The woman can't answer simple questions in a simple interview that she had time to PREP for, for crying out loud. It's not like Charlie Gibson caught her on her way into Macy's and asked her what her thoughts on the Bush doctrine were and she fumbled. Oh no, in an interview she prepared for - that I'm certain the proper people tutored her for hours if not days for - she couldn't answer a question that I could answer right now, off the cuff.

There is more animosity in the classroom lately than ever about this subject too. I wish I could elaborate here, but I cannot. Suffice it to say that the first student of mine who decides to start shit with me about my open disgust with this woman better fucking look out. I'm meaner than I look and I won't walk around on eggshells around anyone because someone's church told them that voting Republican is the only Christian thing to do. If you're stupid enough to do anything because your church tells you to, then I can only hope you choose not to breed, but sadly, these are the same people who would have 17-year-olds marry their boyfriends and have babies rather than make a decision best fitting to all involved - most importantly that "blessed" child. So when whats-her-whore Spears has a baby at 17, she's a perfect slut and her mother is publicly condemned. If the mother of a similar pregnant teen is Sarah Palin, it's honorable, and what's even more shocking and leaves me in a state of jaw-on-the-floor awe is how many women I've heard say that they admire how this family is "doing the right thing." Is this 1950?

I'm also not normally a conspiracy theorist, but damn, there has got to be something going on in this election that is at least akin to conspiracy - it seems like such a no-brainer that the majority of Americans would reject this crackpot from the sticks of Alaska almost out of hand. It seems intuitive to not trust a person who supports women paying for their own rape kits, who doesn't think abortion should happen for anyone - not even rape victims - and thinks that "winning" in Iraq is somehow God's will. I can't help thinking that if God is out there somewhere, he isn't also rolling his eyes in complete annoyance of this glorified bimbo doing anything at all in his name. The fact that these things seem so obvious and yet aren't disturbs me on some deep level that furthers the kind of cynicism about the world I try to keep at bay. I simply refuse to believe that this country will continue to be controlled by the foolish and the stupid. It's foolish and stupid to believe in whatever this illusion of patriotic vision is that espouses that we should all be Christian, gun-toting, pro-life ignoramii who continue to be the butt of jokes throughout the world. Look who even gets to be close in the running to run the country - or who HAS been running the country, and it becomes immediately apparent why the rest of the world doesn't like us, or even openly hates us. If judged by the leaders we choose, we deserve the ridicule.

Things are shaping up to be pretty odd

Whew. What a week. So many times I sat down to write and couldn't because there's always a distraction - a phone call, a student stopping by, an eye-rolling, hip-shifting teenage daughter, a grumpy hubby, or the perpetual lure of Facebook.

I went last night to my good friend Sarah's birthday party; she's a whopping 30 and while I contend that age is but a number, I looked at the pictures of myself from said party, and for perhaps the first time in my life, I appeared old and this disturbed me. Still disturbs me. I have no intention whatsoever of growing old gracefully - Botox and plastic surgery are in my future and I make no apology for it. Nevertheless, what strikes me at the same time is that I feel as though I've lived so many entire lives in the space of my life that I should in fact be much older than I am. One of Sarah's friends is a guy named Anton, whom I recognized immediately as a person from my hazy past. He's the friend and former roommate of a group of people I ran with six or so years ago when I was in the post-asshole, post-MA, what-the-hell-am-I-going-to-do-with-my-life phase. No one ever tells you that what you are going to "do" with your life is a perpetual re-negotiation process, no matter what your education level.

We hung out at in a dive bar on Colfax, and while I told myself at the time I was doing it in order to write a story, there was also part of me that was just plain slumming, and I won't lie - it was fun to hang out with a bunch of drunks and aimless individuals who talked about nothing and whose only goals were to make enough money during the day (legally or not) to spend the evening at said bar. Quite the contrast to the pretention of graduate school, let me tell you. I guess I dated Anton's friend - but it wasn't really dating so much as it was hanging out and having sex occasionally because I never felt a single thing for him other than pity for his wasted intelligence and nowhere life. Funny thing is, that part of my life ended abruptly and went on to other matters, like Jamison and new friends, and a new graduate program. I closed the book on them - all of them - because after a bit we had nothing to talk about. Every once in a while I will get a random phone call and it feels strange, like a past life coming to call. Seeing Anton was no different, except that seeing him is not and was not the issue.

My friend Sarah is the inspiration for a character in my current novel project. Even though the character is also named Sarah, it's important that I distinguish it's only loosely based on the real Sarah. The stories that I wrote about that group of people in that bar years ago were recently excavated from an old hard drive and I discovered that I really liked some of the pieces. I assigned them to the character Sarah because it seemed like a good fit for her subplot. I'm happy with it and so on, but the odd thing is that Anton is one of the characters in those stories and now so is Sarah, and last night I found out that they are good friends in real life. How strange is that?

Of course I know that Denver is a small town comparatively, but the fact that it shrinks almost around me at times is unnerving. Like the person I know in London who is married to a Scotsman who dated one of my good friends a decade ago and I'd never met her. Or how Jamison spent nearly nine years working and living only steps away from me in a host of places and we never met, but once we did, it was instant and permanent for us to be together. Six degrees of separation? It's more like two at any given moment in my world, it seems. I guess the one nice thing was that Anton didn't recognize me even when I said I knew him - it was much later when he approached me and said he remembered, but that it wasn't fair to him that I had changed so much. He said "every single thing I remember about you is different" and I'm certain he had no idea what a compliment it was to me, but when I commented on the fact that I'd changed my hair and glasses, and so on, he interjected with "but you look really great. And happy." From a person who knew me (even if only on a superficial level) at one of the lowest points of my life to date to say this has given me a solid sense of joy today. Go figure.

I awoke to a threat that was empty; a grandstand of I'm not through with you yet

Ah, another year at DU. Joy. I'm so sick of the crap at this place that I can scarcely vocalize my frustration anymore. There aren't even words. Just elevated blood pressure and a growing sense of rage all over again.

Do you ever feel like every single thing in the world just has to be difficult? It drives me insane that one cannot simply pick up a telephone and call someone and solve a problem. If the internet isn't working, it's an hour-long phone call to Qwest, who will ultimately tell you "oh, yes, I see; we have an outage in your area. Should be back up soon." If you have a problem with health insurance, it's not enough to call the person in the insurance office and get it fixed - heavens no! - you must first call the bursar's office, who will tell you to call the health insurance people who will tell you to call the bursar's office. Each time you place a call back to the place you started, you will reach a different work study student who has a different knowledge base (or complete lack thereof) and will direct you to yet a different place. I'm tired of everything in the world being so fucking complicated.

DU starts next week, and this morning, my scholarship hours were misapplied, I didn't get one of my student loans, and apparently, I have no health insurance. Keep in mind, here, that I did every single thing right, and by the time I was supposed to. I called financial aid, only to be told that they had changed lenders over the summer and I hadn't selected a new lender or signed a new promissory note. When I asked the perky young woman why in the HOLY FUCK someone couldn't have told me this months ago, her pert reply was "sorry, some people were never notified." So by no fault of my own I failed to do something that was never communicated to me that it needed doing at all, nor was said information available anywhere I looked for it in my account information online, but I am somehow supposed to be okay with waiting another two to four weeks to get this loan. I am certain, as well, that something else will go wrong that no one will tell me about.

I then phoned the bursar's office because I noticed that I had not been charged for health insurance, and my doctor's office left a message today saying that my coverage had lapsed. The bursar's office told me to talk to the insurance person, who is not a person at all, but a lengthy recording that is of no help whatsoever. I finally talked to someone in the health center who told me that I needed to fill out a form, bring it down to her with a check and she'd get me in the system. Perhaps by Friday when I need to have a surgical procedure, perhaps not. Laura said when she called that they told her she was already covered unless it went unpaid until the 21st, but alas, I tried to log on and couldn't because the new insurance system doesn't recognize me. Oh, did I mention that they also changed our carrier and our benefit amounts and NEVER so much as mentioned it? This too may or may not be fixed. I'm sure I won't know until something unbelievably infuriating happens.

That's not even the half of it and school has not yet started for the year.

Take me back to New Orleans

There is part of me keeping a wary eye on the hurricane situation with the same kind of trepidation the rest of the country is feeling, and while I am of course happy to see that public figures are falling all over themselves to make sure that NOLA's being looked after, it only revives the sting of Katrina and the sheer indifference of the whole debacle. Part of me also wonders why we are fighting nature so hard to keep a city that is clearly MEANT to be underwater; I don't say that to be flip, either, but if it were me, I'd have high-tailed it out of there permanently after the last time. What is it about human nature that makes us think we can take on forces much larger than ourselves and win? I'm of the mind that sooner or later this planet will get sick of us all and decide to clean house like it did with the dinosaurs.

CNN keeps me pasted to the sofa in the hope that the idiots who are being interviewed who are "gonna ride it out" like good gulf-coasters are "supposed" to do get what's coming to them. It absolutely infuriates me when people who have means and choices to get out of the way CHOOSE not to and then take up public resources for those without choices. These are the same assholes who will need others to risk their lives to save their stupid asses instead of attending to the poor and elderly and sick. Ugh. Human stupidity and selfishness never ceases to amaze the fuck out of me.

And then there's John Mc-Fucking-Cain and his paltry poo-pooing his own convention in light of what might happen with the hurricane. I know I've said quite often lately that I'm going to eschew political rants in this space, but it's starting to feel way too important not to. It seems so perfectly obvious to me that McCain is a crackpot. He's too old, too out of touch, and his VP pick is a downright insulting appeal to "Hilary voters." As if the women who would have voted for Hilary could possibly support this lifetime NRA member, beauty queen, soccer mom who hates abortion (and subsequently choice across the board as far as I'm concerned).

And YET...

The country is clearly falling for it. After Obama's speech the other night - the history making, moving, compelling, intelligent, and frankly fucking LOGICAL speech - the polls still show them neck and neck for th White House. I stand amazed at how this is even possible. I stand amazed at how many lower and middle class women and minority groups are Republican in this day and age. How can people openly support a political party who does not represent nor care about their interests? Perhaps my choice of profession as a member of academia insulates me from typical American society, but still. How can people afford to walk blindly on without ever thinking about the world in which they live?

I'm not so naive as to think that the majority of Americans aren't stupid sheep, but as an educator it's my job to hope that more of them will unplug their fucking iPods and snap their cell phones shut long enough to pay attention to something that actually affects them. I can't figure out how anyone with an IQ over 100 and an income less than a million a year can even BE A REPUBLICAN. I don't even mean that insultingly, either. I'm genuinely mystified by this phenomenon.

If you're still reading this, for heaven's sake, use your brain. Register and vote. Stop being the butt of jokes around the world. Unplug and take ten seconds of your life and think about your future in this country. Ask yourself if abortion and same-sex marriage are really the issues to base a presidency upon, or if having health insurance, owning a home, and being able to get to work and feed your kids might be some slightly higher priorities. I don't know about you, but I'm sick to death of this kind of petty bullshit when oil companies and the Bush family get to enjoy fat tax breaks, graduate from Yale with a C average, and I will never repay my student loans and got A's out of the fucking womb. Think about that next time you pay 20% more at the grocery store and didn't get a raise this year.