Like a hurt lost and blinded fool; Oh, no I said too much

I've discovered something profound about Winnipeg winters and my general dissatisfaction with them: it's not the cold. All right, that's not entirely true. It's partly the cold. But more than cold, it's the overwhelming grayness of the city at this time that makes winter seem so oppressive and bleak. The cold is bad, make no mistake, but the lack of colour and light are so much worse.

Today was a perfect example of this. The temperature was fine (minus 4 by mid afternoon), but the lack of sunlight combined with the dirty snow in the city seemed to have sucked all the colour, all the life, out of Winnipeg. Now there isn't much you can do about the sun. When it does, or doesn't, shine is sort of out of our hands (I think - I seem to remember a show that had some machines with weather-changing abilities, though I can't remember if it was on the Discovery Channel or Dr Snuggles). But what we can deal with is the dirt. You see, Winnipeg uses sand to spread over the icy roads instead of salt, which many other cities use to make their streets drivable. . While salt is more corrosive, sand is... well, sandy. As the winter rolls on, the snow banks on the side of the road look less and less like SNOW and more and more like hills of dirt. Cars get dirty, buildings get dirty, people get dirty... and NOT in the good way! With everything under a fine layer of sand, the city goes from a wonderful cornucopia of colours to a city of neutral tones.

There’s straw for the donkeys and the Innocents can all sleep safely

Someone I know - and love - is dying. It's not much of a surprise, to be honest. She's been in and out of hospital for the past few weeks, and she's been in generally poor health for some time: she's weak, she's coughing up blood, and she's just plain tired.
And I can't help but wonder if that makes it all so much harder. I've lost a number of people close to me over the years; some went quickly, some went slowly. And there's something different about watching (or in this case, hearing about) someone die gradually. People talk about relief of someone dying after a long illness - "At least the suffering's over," they say. This has always struck me as overlooking (glossing over) all the conflicting emotions and feelings that come with death. Yes, their suffering's over, and that is wonderful. But what about the guilt that feeling brings: being glad someone died, even if they were in horrible pain, makes me feel guilty. Isn't fighting for life what makes us human? Should we, even in the face of insurmountable odds, rage against the dying of the light?

Dylan Thomas was often dismissed by critics as being too sentimental a poet to be taken seriously. I think there's something to be said for sentimentality. I think, deep down inside, I am a sentimentalist myself.

Shhhh, it'll be our little secret.

It's the same old thing as yesterday

How sad is it that the thing I'm most looking forward to this week is installment 3 and 4 in the PBS "Best of Monty Python" series airing Wednesday night? Not that these specials haven't been fantastic - I particularly loved the Graham Chapman episode, despite the absence of Cleese's brilliant eulogy - but isn't there something else I could be getting excited about? And what happens after Wednesday? Is it all downhill from there? Oh, the questions.

Regardless, these special have been excellent. If you like, even a little, Python, check them out.

Things are trucking along nicely here in thesis-world (definitely the lamest "world" of all). Lots of reading and writing done; lots more to be done. The thing is I'm starting to put myself to sleep when I try to explain what I'm attempting to do with. Is this the great burden of all Grad students? You work so hard, spend so much time on a topic on something that most people couldn't care less about. I see people's eyes glaze over when I bring up theories of British masculinity or Winnicott's theory of child development. I guess I could look at this as a gauge of true friendship: my real friends are the ones who either stay awake or don't go running, screaming from the room when I talk to them about this.

At this point, the length of this conversation is way out of proportion to my interest in it. Dan Rydell, "Sports Night"

I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign

1. What time did you get up this morning? um, 9:30.
2. Diamonds or pearls? For what?
3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Walk the Line.
4. What is your favourite TV show? Of all time: probably Night Court. I also love Buffy, Veronica Mars, Smallville, Firefly and Angel.
5. What do you usually have for breakfast? Coffee. And more coffee.
6. Favourite cuisine? Indian.
7. Middle name? Got one, thanks.
8. Food you dislike? Brussell sprouts. The devil made them.
9. Favourite CD at the moment? Tie between the Buffy musical and Wolf Parade's "With Apologies to the Queen Mary"
10. What kind of car do you drive? Mazda Protege. Zoom, zoom.
11. Favorite sandwich? The kind someone else made.
12. Characteristic you despise? Extreme moodiness/mood swings.
13. Favorite item(s) of clothing? Jeans.
14. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would it be? Back to London.
15. What colour is your bathroom? White. Very White.
16. Favorite brand of clothing? Oh, I dunno stuff liek that.
17. Where would you retire to? London.
18. What was your most memorable birthday? Turning 23, a party at this dive-ish bar in Waterloo. I don't think I've ever had as much fun.
19. Favorite sport to watch? Basketball, I guess.I'm not really a sports guy.20. Furthest place you are sending this? No place.
21. Coolest place you’ve ever been? Portage and Main. No, wait, that's the COLDEST place; the coolest? Key West or Miami.
23. Favorite saying: Don't think I have one.
24. Birthday? No, thank you.
25. Are you a morning or night person? Definately not a morning person. I am a night person but as responsibilities and adulthood force me to rise before noon, I'm less a night person and more an afternoon person.
26. Shoe size? 10.
27. Pets? Nope.
29. What did you want to be when you were little? Big. My friend Doug wanted to be a purple crayon. I think Doug ate too much paste.
30. How are you today? Same as yesterday.
31. Favourite candy? Chocolate
32. Favourite flower? Huh? You're joking, right?
33. A day on the calendar you are looking forward to: December 25... I hear there's going to be something big up that day.

But it's my destiny to be the King of Pain

My now weekly walk to the library made for an entertaining 45 minutes. People certainly are strange. There was the June Cleaver-esque woman retriving her mail. Her hair looked perfect and she was dressed pearls and an apron. I imagined that inside the world had stayed 1957: that the whole family gathered around the television Sunday nights to watch Ed Sullivan, that pot-roast was served with shocking regularity, that she and her husband slept in seperate twin beds.

Then there was camoflage guy walking his dog. The man was dressed in a full suit of proper green camoflage. He must have been military, as he was also wearing combat boots and a beret (and, really, aren't the military the only people who can get away with wearing those hats?), but I don't know who he thought he was going to hide from in the snow. I had half a mind to bump into him and claim that I didn't see him... but he didn't look like the sort of person who enjoys a laugh.

Where I have to go begging in Beauty's disguise

Post number 200, folks. I'd like to thank the little people, because I couldn't be where I am today without the Munchkins.

So, the Winter Olympics are in full swing. Half my class skipped out of the second period to watch the hockey game (and to see Canada lose... that's God getting them back for skipping my class).

I just can't get into the Winter Olympics. I've tried, but I don't get the point. Too many of the events seem so freakin' silly. Like, how many toboggan-based events do we need? We've got the luge, the two and four person bobsled... I don't know, maybe tobogganing's now an official event. Isn't it all the same premise: slide down hill on something. They should have crazy carpet event. Now those things are hard to steer.

And then there's skating and curling and skiing, and I just can't accept those things as sports. Curling? Shuffle board on ice. Skiing? My dad skis. That disqualifies as a "sport" right there. Those are activities. Sure, they're fun, people enjoy doing them, but they're not sports. Hockey? Okay, now that's a sport, not one I particularly like, but I can accept that one. Now I realize that being Canadian and admitting that I don't like hockey is akin to high treason, but I don't care: I hate the cold. Sue me.

Confusion is nothing new

I had a dentist appointment this morning. Nothing like starting the day off with sharp metal instruments and agressive gum poking. Mmmm.

Now I recognize the necessity of going to the dentist and brushing and all that, but I detest the falseness of the visit. The hygenist asking how you're doing - like she really cares, in few minutes you're going to be bleeding all over her. And she stops every few minutes to see if youre "doing all right." Like the whincing and white knuckled grip on the arm rests is confusing body language. I think the whole thing would be a lot easier if the hygenist just abandoned all sense of civlity or humanity when you walk in to the room: "So you're finally here, are you? You know, nobody likes, you're fat, and you're mother's right about you wasting your life." I think this would make the 20 minutes of oral torture a bit more bearable.

I had to walk a quarter of a kilometre from the dentist to the bustop, but that wasn't too bad. It's only minus 9 out there; almost spring (grrrrr, somebody please kill me). When i finally got to the University, I was met with a wonderful surprise: a beautiful photo/name plate for the door of my dumpy UM office. It's very cool and I spent a great deal of time showing my co-workers. Yes, it was a good way to avoid work, but I am proud of it too.

Sometimes fires don't go out when you're done playing with them

According to their prophets, the Blogging Gods have been appeased by the many sacrifices of comments and posts. They are now happy. We'll see.

It's still cold. And it's nice to know I've not the only one who thinks so. Author extraordinaire, Neil Gaiman has a brilliant post called "Land of Long Underwear" about the affects of the cold Minnesota winters on the mind over at his site. The temperatures are comparable, and Lords knows I wish I was wearing long underwear when I trekked over to the library on Friday. It damn near killed me. Killed me with coldness. I wonder if Neil would appreciate that I often trek to the library in these temperatures to check out his books? That said, I highly recommend his graphic novel,Marvel 1602. If all comics were even half as intelligent as this one, people would be a lot more respectful of the medium.

Anyway, it's cold and I should get a sweater. Almost time for Sunday lunch at Stella’s. Hmmmm, breakfast sandwich.

The Case of the Missing Comments and Posts

What's the definition of insanity? Doing the same action over and over and OVER again and expectig different results. And to that end, I am going to try reposting this AGAIN.

For some reason I have angered the Blogging Gods and they see fit to torment me. First, they started making comments people made vanish into thin air; then, they decided to start making my update posts about the situation disappear too. I have written this same post four times, FOUR TIMES, now and it keeps disappearing. It'll stay up for a few hours, maybe a day, and then, pffttt, it's gone. Where does it go, you ask? I wish I knew.

But like the lab rat I am, I keep re-writing this post over and over again, hoping that this time will be different, that this time it'll stay put.

So, one last time for the fans, here it goes: I don't delete stuff on this blog, especially comments. If you submitted a comment and it's gone, blame the Blogging Gods. It's their fault. I have received email notification of all comments, so I have read them. Thanks.

Now, I think I'll go and stick pencils in my eyes.

Whisper in a dead man's ear doesn't make it real

With the wind chill, it was minus 42 this morning. Minus FREAKIN' FORTY-TWO.

All I had to do was run across the street to feed the cats this morning. About half way there, in the middle of the road, my fingers went numb. About a quarter of the way there I lost all feeling in my feet. And that’s when I began to question, very loudly, why I lived in a place that got this frickin' cold. Minus forty two? To quote Lewis Black, that is not weather, that's an Emergency condition. The government should be called in, trucks should roll into town with blankets, hot chocolate and fire. 'Cause you'd think that if it was that cold outside people would just light fires all over the place, trash can fires that you could warm your hands by. But no. Not here in Winnipeg. Here in Winnipeg we're proud of the cold. When it's cold like this, we feel the need to mention it, often, with awe and pride. We stop each other on the streets: "It's crisp; really gets the blood pumping." "Yes, it does. And it's brisk out here today." Let's be clear about something: minus forty two isn't "brisk". Calling minus forty two brisk is like calling World War 2 a "misunderstanding." Minus forty two is "my eyes have just frozen open."

In his Divine Comedy, Dante described the frozen, desolate waste land reserved for the worst sinners and offenders in all of human history. He called that final level of Hell the "Judecca"... what he meant was Winnipeg.

I can see you're unimpressed

You know, I am a sucker for these things.

Your Candy Heart Says "Get Real"

You're a bit of a cynic when it comes to love. You don't lose your head, and hardly anyone penetrates your heart. Your ideal Valentine's Day date: is all about the person you're seeing (with no mentions of v-day!) Your flirting style: honest and even slightly sarcastic What turns you off: romantic expectations and "greeting card" holidays Why you're hot: you don't just play hard to get - you are hard to get

What Does Your Candy Heart Say?

If someone did manage to penetrate my heart, wouldn't I die?
And slightly sarcastic. Sounds just like me.
I'm hot 'cause I AM hard to get? Oh dear. That's almost as comical as the whole sense-of-humour-is-the-most-attractive-thing-about-a-guy crap.

Wish I could slay your demons, but now that time has passed

All right, my feelings on the whole Valentine's sham are pretty much summed up in the previous post. If you really love someone you shouldn't need Hallmark dictating when to treat that person to something special. The only good thing about Valentine's Day? The romantic crap that gets dragged out every February to make us feel all warm and fuzzy about ourselves. Like I happened to flip past Much More Retro this morning while I was eating breakfast. They'd dedicated the day to, surprise surprise, love songs. And I was so blown away by the cheesiness that I almost dropped my cereal in my lap. Sure, MMR is cheesy by nature, but 80s love song videos are so wondrously crappy that they should be reveled in as pigs revel in poop.

Case in point, Chicago's "You're the Reason in My Life". The video, which I don't think I'd ever seen before, has what I assume to be Chicago sitting around a room playing the song. This is par for the course as far as 80s videos go (see the earlier post about this "band-plays-song" phenomena). There are four, count 'em four, keyboards going, which is amazing for the sheer over-kill of a bad, bad instrument. Like they're saying "You know this song sucks 'cause there's so much keyboard!" The drummer's doing this complicated high hat thing, but there's no high hat to be heard in the song just the painfully simple bass drum, snare drum, bass drum snare drum. And best of all, the lead singer's droning on about this special woman who's his "inspiration," but THERE'S NO BLOODY WOMAN AROUND. Just these coiffed losers in spandex and neon who may or may not know what they're doing.

These endless days are now ending in a blaze

Happy Valentine's Day, kiddies. My heart bleeds.

If my heart could beat it would break my chest

Having returned to Sunnydale after a long hiatus, it was great to get a chance to revisit one of the most inventive episodes in all of television history: the musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Now Joss Whedon has done other noteworthy "special" episodes (the silent Buffy, the puppet-Angel) but "Once More With Feeling" towers above those all both in terms of vision and storytelling.

This episode, the seventh in Season six, perfectly balances and utilizes the novelty of concept and the various storylines already in motion. It's not a one-off, like so many concept episodes of other shows: a dream sequence or the old "What if?" fantasy episode that ignores a show's continuity (Friends had one of these). Buffy is still depressed after being resurrected from a blissful, peaceful paradise by her friends; Willow's addiction to magic is straining her relationship with Tara; Giles is unsure of his role now that his slayer has returned from the dead. And Spike? Well, Spike broods.

The real strengths of this episode are how creator Joss Whedon both uses his universe to his advantage and uses/subverts conventions. Rather than having people sing and dance for no good reason (which is one of the reason I detest most musicals), Whedon offers an explanation -a musical demon named Sweet- and draws attention to the fact that this behaviour isn't normal, even in Sunnydale. There are references to the "fourth wall," implied audience and lines being filler which all function as meta-theatrical commentaries on the constructed (false) conventions of the musical genre. For example, one of the most moving moment of the whole show is the final group number, "Where Do We Go From Here?" The song is really a metaphysical search for an ending that doesn't come: we've done everything we're supposed to do, we've defeated the demon, but things aren't wrapping up nicely. Things are supposed to be resolved at the end of musicals, all the plots tied together nicely. But things don't wrap up nicely in this musical. Various characters have revealed secrets through their songs that will alter the group dynamic; some secrets are minor (Xander and Anya's prenuptial anxieties), some are major (Buffy's confession that she was in heaven). When the ending of the show comes, Whedon gives us the expected kiss and the expected orchestral swell, but this too is a false ending. The kiss doesn’t bring closure; it only invited more questions and more problems. This ending does not resolve plots, it only introduces new narratives. What will happen next? Where do we go from here?

I could tell you, but you should really watch for yourself.

It’s lonely out in space

I've spent almost the whole day reading. There have been a few Buffy-breaks (Rachel and I have resumed our watching of the entire series after an almost six month hiatus) and a couple of trips across the street to check on and feed the cat; but for the most part, I've been couped up here, reading till my eyes have become the dry, stingy marbles that currently reside in my sockets. Stupid eyes.

I have a couple of movies that I got from the library that I need to watch this weekend. They're not "fun" movies, but school movies (to be read: "films I'm using in my PhD"). Not that they won't be fun to watch: I've loved all the films I've watched, and I don't think these two will be any different. One I've been trying to get my hands on for a very long time. Now that I have it in my hands, I'm a little nervous about watching it. Great expectations are hard to live up to. Maybe I'll get to them tomorrow evening. It's not like the Simpsons are worth watching these days.

I wish I had something even remotely interesting to say. But I don't.

I got values, but I don't know how or why

All right, down on your knees and pray, kiddies ‘cause Armageddon's on its way.

Pamela Anderson has recently confirmed that she'll be making a cameo in the new Baywatch movie....

Just let that sink in for a second.

Someone's actually putting up money to turn that decades old lingerie-catalogue of a show into a feature film? Something this bad surely is a sign, like a plague or boils, pointing to the end of the world.

I know David Hasselhoff was successful at sucking in his gut for the 42 minute run time of a show that ran ten years ago, but does anyone in Hollywood or anywhere else in the world honestly think that people will pay their hard earned money to see a fifty four year old Hasselhoff prance around the beach in a Speedo? Oh sure, the Germans will. But they also wear leather shorts.

Will Hollywood make any old crap these days - I thought the barrel bottom had been scraped clean after the Dukes of Hazard movie and the soon-to-be fast-tracked to video Gilligan's Island. Apparently I was wrong. Instead of having meetings with writers or optioning novels of substance, it seems that movie executives green light film versions of whatever they happen to catch on late night TBS.

How many levels of hell did Dante have in La Commedia? I think he forgot one. We're now at the bottom, past the liars and falsifiers of Level 8, past the traitors and betrayors of Level 9. A new level, Level 10 filled with the evil people who made "From Justin to Kelly," "The Flintstones," and "It's Pat: the Movie". Let's all just pray that there isn't an "A-Team" in the works.

Come ride in my streetcar by the bay

Goat-boys on the bus again today.
Same ones. Different ones. Who cares?

Have you ever realized that conversation is like jazz? I only thought about this after a bad conversation, one I thought would go well.

A really good conversation has a rhythm and feel to it and the closest analogy I can come with is awesome jazz. Not that crappy light-jazz you hear in elevators; I mean Miles Davis/John Coltrane jazz; jazz that goes in a thousand different directions but always allows all the participants to reveal their creativity and support the creativity of the others. I love good conversations, and I don't think I've been all the quick to recognize how rare good conversations are. I have a few friends who, whenever we get together, find our groove quickly. We have our parts and we we're comfortable free-forming and improvising. We make incredible music on fly, the completely improv-ed "Elevator to the Gallows" soundtrack.

Uncomfortable conversations are rehearsing without knowing the music - hesitant, scared. You stick to the simplest beat, you play only the notes you have to for fear of playing the wrong note and ruining the music.

You can call me anything you like but my name is Veronica

Vague crisis this afternoon.

People who know me know that there's few things I enjoy then coffee. I love coffee. We're talking love poems and flowers. I'd take coffee on a romantic getaway if I could afford it.

I'd dismissed class, packed up my books and was about to leave when that sinking feeling of forgetfulness swept over me. "Where's my coffee mug?" I asked myself. Which was rather silly. If I knew surely I would have told myself without needing to be asked.

It was no where to be found in the classroom. I went to my office, figuring that I must have left it in there on the break. No such luck. No mug.

My mind raced back to all the times that I was sure I had it: had it this morning in the lounge; had it in my office before class; had it in class, where I drank that final sip of coffee goodness. Okay, so on the break I know I went four different places: 1) office (which I'd already checked); 2) the library 3) faculty lounge 4) washroom.

Three seemed the obvious choice; after all, the lounge is where they have the coffee. If I was going to carry it anywhere it would be where I could get more coffee. So I went to the lounge. I looked on all the end tables and checked by the sink. No travel mug. I even looked through the cupboards on the off chance that one of the ambitious staff memebers washed it and and put in away. No mug.

Fine.

So I rush down to the library. I glance over at the terminal that I'd been on earlier and don't see it. I apporach the front counter and asked if it had been turned it. No mug.

So I rush up to the third floor washroom. I don't usually bring my mug to the washroom, but hey, I was getting desperate. I looked there, and... NO MUG.

Then my mind starts racing. My brain kicks into overdrive. "They've stolen my mug." All of sudden I envisioned this massive student plot to deprive me of my coffee - the little bastards! I figured it was some act of retribution for making them read Salman Rushdie or Sylvia Plath. I started trying to determine who the ring leaders of such a scheme would be and what my next step might be (more Sylvia Plath is really all I came up with).

Defeated, I returned to the faculty lounge where I had left my coat and bag. And there, on the floor by one of the armchairs, was my cup. And all was well with the world once again.

And all I've said is just instead of coming back to you

I went to my neighbourhood video store today. They have this special where you can get one of their older "gallery" movies free. No other rental required. Now their pickings are slim, but a free movie is a free movie. Hey, I'd even watch a Will Ferrell movie if I didn't have to pay for it... all right, that's totally not true. I wouldn't watch one his films if I was paid.

So my friend Matt was working and he's never working when I go in. he walked around with me and tried to steer me to some decent titles. Even with Matt's fine eye and savvy film literate mind, there wasn't much selection. I was half-tempted to rent Hudson Hawk, as it was one of about 5 titles made before 1995.

And I had no idea that Steven Segal made so many freakin' movies! He must be the direct to video king! I can't imagine any of those films are very good. I mean they're supposed to be "action" but he didn't really move around all that much before he packed on the Kirstie Alley weight.
I passed on American Psycho 2, even though it had that really annoying girl from "That's 70s Show" and I was thinking to myself "really annoying girl + nauseating violence = fun, fun, fun! Thankfully Matt was there to correct my math.

I ended up renting... bah, I forget now.

Stupid slim pickin’s!

My name is Ivor, I'm an engine driver

An afternoon of intrigue and insights.

All right, intrigue might be overstating it just a bit. But there have been insights a-plenty. Insight number 3: if you don't safe files properly, you could lose a lot of work. Thought I had that one down pat. Apparently I was wrong. Man, I'm wrong a lot these days. Yeah, so I goofed, double-saved and overwrote a file that had six-seven pages of my lastest thesis chapter. I've spent the afternoon trying to re-create the brilliance of those now lost pages. Of course what I wrote in no way comes close to how good I now believe those pages to be. It's as Keats said in "Ode on a Grecian Urn":

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter

Like the uncut 8 hour, 42 reel Greed or a lost episode of "Night Court" those missing pages have attained perfection through absence. They will be the greatest thing I ever wrote.

Hmmmm, maybe I should erase my whole thesis. Think how good it'll be then!

He was due home yesterday but he ain't here

Technology hates me.

I decided this today as I was trying (mostly in vain) to set up the VPU/computer in my classroom today. You see, I had a Powerpoint presentation to aid in today's lesson - really, if I'm honest, it was just a picture of John Keats, looking all Keats-y in his frilly shirt, and a picture of a grecian urn; not all that essential - but for the life of me, the computer would not cooperate. It would boot, then shut down, then reboot.

No matter what I tried, what threats I uttered (and utter threats I did) nothing would persuade this hunk of chunk to behave. It would discover the same new hardware again and again. It would ask me the same thing again and again.

"You have unused items on your desktop. Would you like to get rid of them?"
"No, thank you. I like them where they are."
"Are you sure? 'Cause I can get rid of them for you. It's no problem."
"I'm quite sure."
"You don't want to think it over a little bit longer? It's a big decision."

And it went on like this for several minutes. The more the cursed thing misbehaved, the more I became determined that it would. I reentered my password three or four times, I opened and closed programs, I tried, tried, TRIED to reason with it, but there was no use.
Then, finally, without warning or justification, it simply decided that it had tormented me long enough and started working. It stopped finding and installing new programs, it ceased worrying about the state of the desktop, it just worked.

But from inside the CPU, very faint but still audible, I heard a chuckle.

Meet the new boss; same as the old boss

I got last semester's student evaluations back today. And apparently, I'm still funny. Maybe I should just chuck this whole academic gig and do stand up. Nah, that would never work. All my jokes are about literature. Couldn't see me standing up at the local Yuk Yuks, "Okay, so John Donne's walking down the street." It'd never fly.

Couldn't find the sem lab (which someone recommended I use to kill time) so I found myself wandering up and down the hallway of the second floor. Pathetic! Someone should just put me out of my misery.