For it was I who chose to start

All right, hilarious class story:

So, today we were looking at one of my favourite plays, Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest. I ask for volunteers to read a passage out loud, something from the first act. Two ladies volunteer even though one of the parts is male. I say, whatever, no big deal.

Anyway, when they finished, I made whatever point I was trying to make and moved on to another scene, Gwendolen and Cecily's first encounter. I asked for two more volunteers to read and this guy in the front row puts up his hand. Now this guy is a really good student, a little quiet, but really bright. I smiled and told him to go for it. Well, he started. He affected this very board upper-class British accent and his voice went up about three octaves. And he kept it up for the whole scene. It was hysterical. Everyone was laughing. When they finished, I had to applaud.

"That was fantastic," I said.

He smiled and said rather matter-of-factly, "You should hear my Lady Bracknell."

I immediately found a long section with Lady Bracknell in it for him to read.

The neighbours complain about the noises above

Who was accepted to give a paper at the annual meeting of the Film Studies Association of Canada's annual meeting?

Um, that would be me.

The spirits we drank are now ghosts in the room

Yeah, it's Oscar Night. Now, personally I don't care one way or the other about a bunch of plastic, Hollywood phonies giving awards to other plastic, Hollywood phonies, but my wife loves it. She's commendered the television and is happily watching.

That means I have little to do but add another entry.

Actually, that's not true. I have marking. Lots of marking. I have that novel I mentioned I was going to start working on. Haven't really written a word of it yet, though I've panned quite a bit of it. Still, this seems somehow more pressing and attainable. Can't finish the marking this evening, can't write a novel in a night, but I can write an entry.

I cut my forehead this afternoon - just a stupid accident but it bleed for hours. I tried to stop the bleeding the way my father used to stop the bleeding from shaving nicks: toilet paper. Unfortunately when Rachel saw me with a little bit of toilet paper stuck to my forehead ("the blood holds it on" ) she burst out laughing. Hard to expect sympathy that is offered through poorly suppressed giggles.

Apparently some people are incapable of clicking the "My First Film" link on the sidebar (or perhaps are unable to read the sidebar - which is it, Roz?), so I have decided to post it here.


A little history on this piece of cinematic mediocrity: I shot this one afternoon a few years ago. I did everything expect the song. That was done by Jeremy Penner and his band... whose name I forget. As two of his sisters are regular contributors I'm sure they'll chime in with the name. After figuring out all the shots (about 20 minutes), it took 2 hours to film.

Oh, and my head is no longer shaved.

Here comes the story of the Hurricane

All right: another random 10 songs from my iPod.

1) Laid - James My therapist said not to see you no more.
2) Quick One While He's Away (live) - The Who Cello, cello, cello, cello!
3) Stars Fell on Alabama - Ella and Louis
4) Head On - The Jesus and Mary Chain And the way I feel tonight, I could die I won't mind
5) Donna and Blizten - Badly Drawn Boy
6) The Soldiering Life - The Decemberists
7) Sara - Bob Dylan
8) 50 Ways to Leave your Lover - Paul Simon The problem is all inside your head, she said to me
9) The Immigrant Song - Led Zeppelin I come from the land of the ice and snow
10) Dark End of the Street - Flying Burrito Brothers

I took the Wagner off to make room for The Who, some Beatles and a pile of Bob Dylan for class Tuesday and Thursday. Wagner may return, but right now Ella and Louis have caught my fancy, as they should.

Ah, look at all the lonely people

I think today was the worse drive home ever. Once I got close the city the conditions were okay, at least manageable, but most of drive was white-out/near white out conditions. It was a day when I truly wished I'd had someone else in the car with me. Somehow things don't see as crappy when there's someone to keep you company. For some reason, the soothing pessimism of Badly Drawn Boy didn't do much for me.

Come to think of it, the whole day was kind of crappy. Not sure what was up, but people seemed busy. No one showed up for lunch so I ate alone. Oh well, it's not like I think they were purposely avoiding me ... at least I didn't until I typed that!

I taught some Victorian poetry today - Elizabeth Barrett Browing, Robert Browing and Tennyson. While I thought I had lots to say about the Brownings, that portion of the class felt awkward and disjointed. I'm pretty sure a number of them studied "My Last Duchess" last semester, yet it was hard to get the conversation going: "Okay, yes, he is a crazy and controlling Duke who killed his wife. And how do we know that?" The Tennyson ("The Lady of Shallot") went much better. I started with explaining the Victorian interest in medieval stories. I even had some of Julia Margaret Cameron incredible 1875 photographs of Tennyson's Idylls of the King, like this one, "Passing of Arthur."

I was surprised how few knew who Lancelot was. Wasn't he in that crappy King Arthur film from a few years ago for cryin' out loud? Speaking of "out loud," students even read "The Lady of Shalott" out loud without me having to "Buller? Buller?" it. Getting them to read is usually like pulling teeth, despite being the easiest form of participation known to humanity.

You better hope and pray that you wake one day in your world

Rebs' impending paper on The Tragedy of Richard the Third reminds me of a confession that I have yet to make here. It's a little embarassing, but then what good confession isn't a least somewhat embarassing. I wasn't sure if I'd ever broach this subject, but *deep breath* here it goes:

I look like an awful lot like Shakespeare.

You're not convinced? I don't blame you. Let me show you.

This is the portrait of Shakespeare, unquestionably the most widely known of the Bard, originally appeared on the cover page of the printed First Folio (1623) the first collected edition of his plays. Shakespeare died in 1616, so this portrait comes from several years after his death.

I do not look like this, and I don't think anyone should.

However ...

this is a much more recently uncovered portrait, believed to be of a young William Shakespeare. It was painted in 1603, during Shakepeare's lifetime. Many scholars over the past decade or so have argued for the authencity of this portrait as opposed to the more famous First Folio portrait.

This looks quite a bit like me. School children and students have commented on this fact.

Now, if I could only write 3 hit plays a year for the next ten or so years, I'd really be set. And unfortunately this does nothing for Rebs.

It doesn't mean you mean that much to me

So, Reading Weeke the Firste is almost over. I've spent a good chunk of time reading - which I consider to be of the utmost irony, as I never used Reading for its intended purpose when I was student. Perhaps this means I'm growing as a person.

I went to the library the other day to pick up two Stephen Fry books or, rather, what I thought were new Stephen Fry books. One, The Ode Not Taken: Unlocking the Poet Within, is definitely new, and has turned out to be an excellent and accessible guide to verse and metre, which, any teacher of English literature will tell you, is important to understanding poetry, but difficult to teach. I'm considering adding it to future syllabi, either as a required or as an optional text. It has lots of exercises if I was ever so inclined to pick up a pen and write some poetry again.

The other book, a novel, I had not heard of. It's called Revenge. It wasn't until I got it home that I discovered that I own the novel under it's original title, The Stars' Tennis Balls. It seems the Webster quotation was deemed too archaic for American readers and the less impressive title Revenge was substituted. When I discovered this, I was very disappointed. I had planned to read this apparently-new Stephen Fry novel and was rather looking forward it. Thwarted by dumbed down American titles, I turned instead to other classics, Virgil's Aeneid and Sir Thomas Mallory's Book of Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere. I've been toying with the idea of resuming my long neglected novel and have thought about using a little Morte d'Arthur as a running motif.

I've also watched the first series of "Touching Evil," an excellent British cop/mystery show. It stars my imaginary girlfriend from "Spooks," Nicola Walker. She's absolutely brilliant, portraying a character who is much harder edged and more authoritative than darling Ruth.

And finally, following the example of wise friend, Chris, over at "Wrap me up and Call me Jesus", here's ten random songs from my Ipod:

1) Decemberists: Crane Wife 3
2) Gorillaz: Clint Eastwood
3) Joni Mitchell: Both Sides Now (orchestral version)
4) Die Walkkure Act 2 sc 1
5) Johnny Cash: Hurt
6) Das Rheingold: Auf, Loge! Hnab mit dir:
7) Talking Heads: (Nothing but) Flowers
8) Bob Marley: Get up, Stand up!
9) Nirvana: Heart-shaped Box
10) John Cale: Hallelujah

put a little sunshine in your life ...

I'm giving you my heart for Valentine's day.

This is where the love lives.

We'd hit the bottom, I thought it was my fault

Rachel and I went to hear Guy Gavriel Kay read last night at McNally Robinson. The reading started at 7:30, so we decided to go early and have dinner before hand. It turned out to be a good choice: the place was packed. We had a table right up front (I could have thrown things and hit Mr Kay if I was so inclined), which turned out to be a very good thing as I spotted my friend Kara in the balcony and were able to invite her to sit with us. (Hi, Kara, if you're lurking).

The crowd was pretty eclectic, more so then I was expecting, but shocking regular. I guess I had thought there'd be a few males wrapped in cloaks and sporting impressive armbands. No one weilded a sword or swore an oath of fidelity to Mr. Kay in Old Finnish. We all sat quietly and listened to him read, politely applauding when he was finished. And while I've sure there were a few people there who could have asked me to "pass the salt" in Elvish, most seemed like normal, decent folk.

I don't even notice that she's gone

Today had the distinct possibility of developing into a utterly wasted day. I had little desire to do much anything, and so spent a good deal of the morning just filling time. Spent an half an hour or so doing internet research (by which, of course, I mean: reading friends' blogs and answering emails), half an hour or so reading, forty minutes or so watching obnoxious chatshows on telelvision. I suspect that if we still had a hundred or so channels I would have wasted the whole day away. Forty minutes is about all I could stand of the bare-bones basic cable chat shows, so I decided to clean the house instead. It was, obviosuly, what I should have done all along, but the idea of cleaning only seemed feasible when the boredom of television set in.

Yeah, I saw the news happens every day

Last night, while watching "Bones," I got an unexpected treat: Stephen Fry made an appearance on American television. Ever since Hugh Laurie's success on "House," I've been hoping that his regular comedy partner, Mr. Fry, would make an appearance on some mainstream American program. Fry and Laurie were great in everything they were paired in: "Blackadder," "Jeeves and Wooster," "A Bit of Fry and Laurie," even Peter's Friends.

Not only is Fry a wonderfully witty actor and talented comedian, he is a best selling author. I own every one of his books.

I was really hoping that when Stephen Fry finally decided to grace American TV with his presence it would be on "House" as a foil for his old friend, Hugh Laurie. But I was more than pleased with his appearance as a psychiatrist on "Bones."

It's tearing apart my blue, blue heart

Right. So I didn't have to wear a name tag today. I did sort of dress up, though - no tie, but fancy pants and black button down shirt. Not that anyone noticed. I suppose if I want people to comment on my clothes, I'll have to wear ties. And, since I don't want to wear ties, I'll have to be content to slip under the sartorial radar.

Today was a good day. Wednesdays typically are - good compay and really long coffee breaks. This might sound odd, but I really look forward to Wednesdays, despite the long, boring drive. Even class was pretty good today. I still think there are too many people (and far too many giggling girls), but a good number seemed to have read the material and a few new people even spoke up.

She just acts like we never have met

Not so grumpy today. Well, maybe a little bit. There's some big accreditation thing going on at one of the places I teach and, as a result, I had to "dress up" today. And wear a name tag. Frankly, if I stayed in school this long so I wouldn't have to wear a name tag to work. So here I sit with a tie and name tag on.

It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe

There's an idiot wind a' blowing.

Might as well lay my cards out on the table: I'm extremely grumpy, and have been so for several days. Even last night, surrounded by friends and supposed friends, I felt isolated and, at times, slighted. After the exuberence of Sarah's greeting, nods and waves fell flat. Not even the Wii could bring me up. Meh, I'm sure I'm just out of sorts. It'll pass. It always does.

Finally got to see Pan's Labrynith. Easily one of the most beautiful and disturbing movies I've ever seen. Not for the faint of heart, but worthwhile. I suppose such a brutal movie could have something to do with my strange mood. It's possible.

Finished series 4 of "Spooks" (aka "MI5" in the US), a brilliant British spy show. British shows typically have a much shorter "season" than American shows - usually 6-10 episodes. Now that the series is done, I have to sit and wait for series 5 (which has aired in the UK) to come to DVD. Also, I have an unabashed crush on the character Ruth.

I don't typically comment on things I see in the newspaper or hear on the news. I guess I'm reasonably content in my little bubble-world and see no point in letting the "real world" infiltrate my acre of cyber-space. But this NEWS STORY is worth commenting on.

Okay, so some mom has gone to the Ontario Human Rights Commission over the University of Ottawa expelling her twin 10-year old sons from a university class. She claims its a Human Rights violation and age discrimination. Seriously. The kids were signed up a U of O class, called the "activism course" and the University withdrew them without explanation. This boggles my post-secondary-educating mind.

Now, I realize that there are always special circumstances, and that exceptionally brilliant children have succeeded in University (Doogie Howser for one). But some how I don't think these two kids are exceptions.

Two crusading 10-year-olds can't say if they learned to be activists before they were expelled from a University of Ottawa class dubbed the activism course. "I can't answer that," said Sebastien Foster ... "I don't know what activism means."