Mister, catch me if you can

Another mildly productive weekend. Did some reading, some writing, no marking. Guess I'll have to work extra hard on that in the next couple of days.

Watched The Breakfast Club the other day. It was on Diva. It's probably the only time I've ever watched Diva. Still, despite being shown on such stupidly named station, I watched with glee. Actually, "glee" is too strong a word. Delight. That's better. And nostaglia. Nostaglia for a time when your whole world stood or fell on the opinions of a very small number of people.

I didn't really dig highschool myself. University was a far better experience. Highschool wasn't horrible or anything. I mean, I had friends. I was moderately well-liked. And while I don't think I would have been as easily definable as "jock" or "brain" (I totally wasn't a jock, I can tell you), but I vividly recall the sense of isolation and frustration of being labelled. In highschool I watched a number of friends, for whatever reason, drift into separate groups. Groups that didn't typically hang out.

You broke the boy in me, but you won't break the man

So, my misanthropic tendencies flared up the other day: I was waiting for a bus to take me downtown. Right before the bus pulled up, a class of about 20 Korean ESL students showed up out of nowhere. And they all had large cardboard stand-ups, like old science-fair projects displays. Their teacher, a frazzled-looking, hippie woman with large hoop earring and a babushka, tried to herd them towards the bus, "I hope we can all fit on." And fit on we did - if by "fit" you mean I got crammed between a pole and rather large (and rather smelly) man. What fun! (this is where I’d add the smiley face with the rolly eyes, if I knew how to do that here)

The bus was, sadly, not an express. There are about 10 stops between where I caught e bus and where I usually get off. I figured I'd be stuck next to smelly for a few stops, but that people would get off.

No one got off.

Lots of people got on.

I couldn't take it anymore. I got off a few stops early and, muttering under my breath, walked the rest of the way.

Hung with pictures of our parents' Prime Ministers

Another year, another Oscar ceremony.

Having seen only 10% of all the films nominated, I don't really know if I have any business commenting on who did (or didn't) win; but than again, I DID pick more winners than my wife (who saw 90% of the films). I won. I get to do the dance of superiority. I must limber up. And I while I fully intend to do said dance, what did I really do? Guess the politics of the academy? As George Clooney said in his excellent acceptance speech, it's not they all played the same part. Luckily for me choosing the winners is less about discerning talent and more about knowing the game.

I have no idea if Reese Witherspoon was better than Dame Judi Dench (who should learn how to act happy), but I do know that Dench has won before and is nominated all the time. Witherspoon is young, learned to do things for the role (singing and playing the autoharp), and portrayed a beloved American figure. I picked Reese and it paid off.

I didn't pick Philip Seymour Hoffman, but I should have. This was a category where I had seen one of the movies and went with my reaction to that performance instead of figuring out the game. Joaquin (or however the hell you spell his name) Phoenix was incredible as Johnny Cash. He, like Reese, learned things for his role (singing and guitar), and he played a beloved real-life American figure. That should have counted for a lot, but that beloved real-life American figure wasn't a) disabled or b) gay. The Academy loves marginalized figures: handicapped, homosexuals, mentally unbalanced. Yes, Johnny Cash was a drug addict and that was portrayed in the film, but beloved and drug addicted was trumped by the also real life Capote's sexual preference and overall bizarreness (like that voice!). Not that Hoffman wasn't incredible in the role, but he had more things going for him. I figure that one year an actor will be nominated for playing a gay, handicapped alcoholic. If that happens, the other nominees might as well save themselves the cost of the tux rental.

Okay: true, Felicity Huffman played a transgendered male, but that's still a little too extreme for Hollywood. Or at least that's my way of justifying not choosing her and her not winning.

As for the actual show itself, I liked it. Hang on. Perhaps I should rephrase that. I mean: I liked what little I saw of the Oscar show. I figured, why watch the whole show when I hadn't watched all the movies that the show was about? But what I did see was good. Jon Stewart is one of my favourite TV personalities of all-time. I love the guy to death, but he seemed a little out of his element. Maybe it was the strict run time, maybe it was that he was told not to do anything too political; he seemed uncomfortable. He was funny, don't get me wrong, but he wasn't as funny as he is night after night on the Daily Show. That said, I did LOVE the "defense" of the importance of heterosexuality in cowboy films. That might be the funniest thing I've ever seen on an Oscar show.

Some random thoughts:

Are they making dresses in negative sizes now? Could some of those actresses possibly be in more need of a sandwich? Jessica Alba's a beautiful woman, but dammit, girl, eat something.

In one crowd shot, I thought, "Man, Harvey Ketiel looks scarier than usual." I then realized that it was Heath Ledger. Is he playing Keitel in an upcoming movie? There's no excuse for looking like that.

Is George Clooney the coolest guy in Hollywood? And Jon Stewart's right: how much more can he get?

Who was that weird-assed guy who wrote Brokeback Mountain? I get the feeling he doesn't get out much.

Should Will Ferrell even be allowed in to the Oscars?

Jack Nicholson sat next to Keira Knightley. Can you blame him? I would have fought Jack Nicholson to sit next to Keira Knightley.

It's memories that I'm stealing, but you're innocent when you dream

For the second week in a row the best thing on television was the Best of Monty Python on PBS. This week's episodes (3 and 4 in and series of 6) featured the Best of John Cleese and the Best of Terry Gilliam.

The premise of Cleese's episode, that he's now a senile, cantankerous old man, started off as funny, but became a little tired by the end. Still, I really liked that the show began with a fake memorial to Cleese - showing, once again, that there's not much funnier than death. Again, the focus of the show's is not (necessarily) the most popular sketches, but the personal favourites of the individual members. Cleese has always been my favourite Python. He plays straight-laced authority figures so well - trying so hard to be proper, but seething with rage just beneath the surface.

Gilliam's all animated episode worked surprisingly well. Originally, the stuff that linked the sketches together, there's more than enough substance in these pieces to warrant a full hour. While he's had the most obvious success post-Python, Gilliam always seemed the odd Python out: American, an animator, absent from most sketches. The framing narrative of Gilliam's episode is Terry exposing the secret origins of "Monty Python's Flying Circus." The show was originally supposed to be all animation and that he'd hired these unemployed "University boys" to do voices and a bit of live action filler, who later kissed butt to the bigwigs at BBC to get bigger parts. Gilliam's animation was (and is) unlike anything before. In an age when major animation studios are turning their attention the possibilities of computer-animation, there's a lost magic about the found art and unique vision of Terry Gilliam.

The chair next to you's free

Well, March came in like the proverbial lion. We got dumped with snow Wednesday, just in time for me to drive home from Otterburne through it. Whoopity do. Blizzards make me love driving even more than I do all the other time.

A student puts up her hand today and asks me if I've heard of some poet. I say, "I don't think so; why?" She informs me that I'd like him, 'cause "he's bitter about getting old." Now where did I put that grade book?

I just finished Phillipa Gregory's The Other Boleyn Girl. As far as historical fiction goes, very interesting: I highly recommend it.

Basically, it tells the story Anne Boleyn's younger (in the novel anyway - historians aren't sure who was older) sister, Mary and the events surrounding Henry's attempt to get his first marriage annulled by the Church. Before Anne married Henry VIII, Mary likely had an affair with the King, and possibly gave birth to two children by Henry. While the history is much murkier than Gregory suggests, the description of the politics of court are fascinating and deadly accurate. The deceit and conniving of Howard family (to who the Boleyns were connected on their mother's side) would make contemporary politicians green with envy. They decide to throw both daughters at the King in order to win the crown's favour. Henry, whose reputation for womanizing is well documented, takes the bait; he first beds Mary, then becomes infatuated with Anne. Gregory suggests that this infatuation leads to Henry's descent into tyranny. He challenges the Church, English tradition, even the support of his own people to get what he wants. People who stand in his way find themselves in the Tower of London or on the block. Of course, when Anne falls out of favour, the attitude and temperament she encouraged in Henry become directed at her and her family: trumped up charges, hearsay evidence, unlawful imprisonment and finally execution.

What was one part disturbing, two parts intriguing was the way things were done, particularly in regards to the manipulation of women for political gain. In order for Mary to be the mistress of the King, she had to be married so as to avoid scandal (?!) yet live apart from her husband; in case there was a child, paternity could not be questioned. As long as she was married Mary reputation was, for the most part, secure. Unmarried Anne must deny the King sex for fear of being labeled a common whore. And all the adultery and infidelity is not only encouraged but arranged by the Howard family.

Of course this being a contemporary novel, with contemporary sensibilities, both Mary and Anne have a few speeches about the unfortunate place of women and the role Anne's only child, a daughter, might play in the shaping of England. The daughter, Queen Elizabeth, would of course go on to rule England as one of its greatest monarchs

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.

Before I go insane I hold my pillow to my head, screaming out the words I dread

Thirteen year old boys smell like goats. I don't know what it is about them, but they do. I've shared my "boy smell like goats" thoery to many people, but least you think I'm kidding, lemme tell you about my bus ride downtown today.
So I hop on the good ol' No. 11 - well, "hop" might be overstating it a bit, I'm not a leparchun after all. There are, no surprise, few seats to be found so I move way way to the back of the bus. At the back there are three 13 year old boys sitting there. The seat next to them was free, so I sit.
Now these boys thought they were the bee's knees. They were acting all cool, leaning the way cool people do, talking tough etc. And as I sat there the faint smell of goat hit my nose. As cool as these little goofs thought they were, they smelled like a barnyard. And I couldn't help but laugh.

You can have it all, my empire of dirt

Is there a rash of alien abductions or something going on? Are Manitobans being kidnapped in the thick of the night? Have I been left behind? People seem to be disappearing on me. I am apparently a dangeorus person to know. GET OUT WHILE YOU CAN!!!

And people wonder why I'm paranoid.

God help the boxer with no hands

Man, today's just been dragging by.

One of my co-worker's computer crashed or exploded or something, so she's using the fancy one I usually use in our "shared" office. That means I've been stuck in my little hovel (someone recently described it as a dump) office. I almost never work in here anymore. It's freakin' lonely.

It's also made me realize how much I hate cellphones. My office door is apparently made out of a type of wood that amplifies sound. And as people can't use cellphones in the library (located just down the hall), they invitably come out into the hallway to answer their phones and share their conversations with me. Pimply faces boys stand just outside my door and talk their girlfriends or girlfriend-hopefuls just to "chat"; highly accessorized girls call their friends, who are likely high acessorized as well, and loudly plan to go out and drink later that week; jocks phone their jock-y friends and loudly relate their drunken escapades and conquests from the night before. It's SO MUCH FUN to overhear.

And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night

All right.

I heard the greatest story in the world the other day from my friend, Jaimie. Jaimie often has killer tales, but this is, hands down, my favourite. I couldn't even hope to tell the story as well as she did, so I'll just quote her directly:At first, there’s just the hum of the connection. Then, mumbling, a man with a thick South Carolina accent gives his name and something that might be a phone number, and says that he’s looking for a book. Then nothing again. Suddenly, swelling out of the silence are the pulsing strains of “Eye of the Tiger”. Duh. DUH duh DUH. DUH duh DUH. DUM DUM DUM! The music continues on through the chorus, and I’m thinking, ‘okay, he forgot to hang up’. Then, the chorus ends in a fist-pumping fury, and he says “Thank you.” and hangs up.

Isn't that great? I think it says a lot about telephone etiquette. Being polite on the phone just isn't enough, folks. You gotta ROCK! How much you wanna bet that this man has a mullet, a thin Pedro-stache and a Confederate flag thumbtacked to his wall?

So, whatever you do today, ROCK IT, MAN!

They say it's your birthday

Happy Second Birthday to an amazing goddaughter, Delphine Marlowe Beckett; Del's indoubtedly one of my favourite little people of all time. Hard to believe that she turns 2 years old tomorrow. Where does the time go? This picture is from our adventures in a pool this past summer. Forgive topless Mike. No one needs to see me without a shirt on. Ever. I made the picture as small as I could to hide my terrifying pasty-white skin while still showing how adorable Del is.

Don't bother saying you're sorry, why don't you come in?

Grrrr... What a day.

I've spent the day cleaning the apartment and working. So my hands itch from the various cleaning products and my eyes sting from all the reading. I'd really like a nap, to be honest, but I have somewhere to be this evening so no sleep for Mike. At least no time soon.

Oh, and I shaved today, so my face is a not-quite pleasant tingly as well as all the other irritants. Stupid shaving. I much prefer the House unshaven look... not that I think it looks good on me (or bad for that matter), but it spares me the frustration of shaving. I view shaving like I view cleaning the car: it has to be done sometimes, but I’m happier when I can put it off for as long as possible. I can’t imagine being one of those shave-everyday guys.

She makes me so unsure of myself

So, today was an Otterburne day. Those of you who aren't hip to the 'Toba (oh dear, did I just say that?), Otterburne is this little town/hamlet/couple of buildings about half an hour from Winnipeg. I teach out there. It takes me a long time to drive out there.

I've found myself increasingly bored out there this semester. Not the class - that's fine (actually better than expected). I mean the inbetween time. Last semester was all right because there were a few people to talk to, but with no computer in my life, and people either not there or avoiding me, the time I'm not in class just DRAGS by.

Taught Sylvia Plath's "Daddy" today, so you know it was like a giant party in class. Suicide and patricide - the room was rocking with mirth, merriment and laughter.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well. S. Plath

And I wanna rock your gypsy soul

And the award for most surreal conversation overheard this morning: the two blind people on the bus complaining about how bright it was yesterday.

Time and time again, the bus inevitably proves to be the most clear example of why I am an anti-social person: humanity packed in together, dangling conversations about people you don't know or things you don't care about, screaming children. The other day, this guy sits done next to me, which annoyed me right off the bat, as there were open seats where he wouldn't have to sit next to anyone. What's worse is that he smelled. There was the over powering smell of tobacco, but there something else mixed in with the tobacco, cigarettes don't usually bother me. But this guy had cigarette smoke and something, feces? raw sewage? going on. And I knew when he sat down and pulled out a textbook, this guy was in for the long haul down the university.
So I did what any person in my situation could do (I mean, other than running away): I turned my body into the window... and dug my keys into my leg to take my mind off the stank

I think you're smart, you sweet thing

I don't really have anything to say today, but why should that stop me from writing something on this thing? I never have anything of any merit to say.

I thought I'd explain the phrases that make up my bizarre titles, because people have asked me... all right, that's a lie. No one's asked me, I just can't think of any thing else to write about. Though, I'm pretty sure some people have wondered.

They come from songs, usually songs I'm currently listening to on my mp3 player. They're lines that pop out to me as either hilarious or inane. Today's, for example, comes from the Flys' "Got You Where I Want You," which was featured in that 5 star epic, Disturbing Behaviour before the Flys buzzed off into obscurity.

There's nothing like an election to hammer home the Grand Canyon-like difference between rich and poor. If you're broke, wearing dirty clothes and shoe boxes on your feet, and talking absolute glibberish, you're crazy. If you have some money, are dressed up and talking the same glibberish, you're a politican. The other day I read an article/interview with a group of Manitoba MPs. They were asked mostly ridiculous questions like "What's on your iPod?" and "What's Gwen Stefani mean when she says she ain't no Hollaback girl?" Frankly, I don't know what's more pathetic: that that people running this country are so COMPLETELY obvilious to what's going on the world of pop culture or that this is what constitutes thoughtful journalism. Is it more pathetic that four adults who represent us have no idea who 50 Cent is? Or that a journalist got an opportunity to ask questions of people who make/break policies that effect the entire country and instead of asking about platforms or issues asked (and I wish I was making this up - but I don't have time to make stuff up anymore) "What you gonna do with that junk? That junk in your trunk?"

I see Hugh Laurie won a Golden Globe for playing of Gregory House on "House." Way to go, Hugh. I've said it before, if there's an actor better than Hugh Laurie currently working on television, I'd like to see it.

I'm so obsessed that I'm becoming a bore.

Some little known facts about Mike

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Mike!

1. Mike can run sixty-five kilometres an hour - that's really fast!
2. The canonical hours of the Christian church are matins, lauds, prime, terce, sext, none, Mike and compline.
3. The air around Mike is superheated to about five times the temperature of the sun.
4. New Zealand was the first place to allow Mike to vote.
5. Ancient Chinese artists would never paint pictures of Mike!
6. If you toss Mike 10000 times, he will not land heads 5000 times, but more like 4950, because his head weighs more and thus ends up on the bottom.
7. Red Mike at night, shepherd's delight. Red Mike at morning, shepherd's warning.
   
8. Marie Antoinette never said 'let them eat cake' - this is a mistranslation of 'let them eat Mike'.
9. Ostriches stick their heads in Mike not to hide but to look for water.
10. The water in oceans is four times less salty than the water in Mike.

I am interested in - do tell me aboutherhimitthem

Who knew?

The best line? "Look out for haughty hotties." Story of my life.




You're Great Expectations!

by Charles Dickens

Coming from humble beginnings, you have become pretty stuck-up in your
later years. While hard work and dedication were the path you first walked on, a sudden
fork brought you glory and fortune. Unfortunately, you have changed even more than your
bottom line. You really should turn back to your old friends and at least respect your
old life. Look out for haughty hotties.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Come on join the joyride

Teaching Austen's Persuasion tomorrow. I think I'll begin with a thoughtful analysis of crinolien and swooning; maybe delve into fainting spells.

The new class has, apparently, levelled off at 22. It's not 15, but it's very managable. Hopefully there are some stellar writers in that 22.

And it burns, burns, burns, the Ring of Fire

Finally got a catch to catch James Mangold's Walk the Line this weekend. Now, I've been curious about this film since I first heard it was being made. And while I could see how Joaquin Phoenix would make a compelling Cash, whose demons are well-documented, I was more than a little baffled by the decision to cast Reese Witherspoon as June. Now, Reese is hilarious in Election, but as June Carter Cash? Come on.
And after seeing the film? I think Reese Witherspoon deserves an Oscar.
She brings out the strength and complexity someone who, for better or worse, lived a good part of her life in the shadow and at the side of Johnny Cash. That's how most people think of her, smiling away at her famous husband's side, forgetting that she'd been performing (with her famous family) since she was child and helped Johnny battle drug addiction. June's introduction into the film, and to Cash, is an incredible contrast of the "June Carter" stage persona and the real June Carter, the difference which she explains to Cash in a later scene: I learned to be funny so I had a place to fit in.
The story is as much about June as it is about Johnny.

I know I love you cause I'm watching my weight

All right, so the class of 15 magically DOUBLED in size from the issuing of the registeration list (Tuesday) and the class (Wednesday afternoon). So either everyone brought a friend, or I have twice the marking to do for that class. Wish I had the power to multiple other things like that - money, shoes, bagels.

The only other thing to report (or describe or whatever it is I do here) that that I was struck by a very bizarre reality yesterday: I'm being stalked by the music of Tom Cochrane. It's playing everywhere lately. Whenever I'm driving in the car, his songs are on the radio; when I go into a store, his songs are being piped through the sound system. Currently it's limited to "Life is a Highway" and Sinking Like a Sunset," but the way this is going I'm afraid that "My Boy's Going to Play in the Big Leagues" song isn't far off. And it's not like these are new songs - they're at least a decade old now. Why are they being played so much????

I'm striking matches with explosives so near

You'll have to excuse the blog-silence (blo-ilence?); it's completely unintentional. I'm housesitting this week and can't, for the life of me, figure out how to connect to the internet. The last time I housesat I had no trouble connecting and stayed on-line a huge portion of my time there. Now I'm filling my time with reading, writing (with pen and paper, like a sucker) and a little Smallville. Season 3? Good, good, good (though the inherent flaw in having someone as beautiful as Lana "wait for Clark" is a black smudge on an otherwise intelligent show).

First new class of a brand new semester tomorrow (my other class is a full year carry over). 15 students in it. Good number. I hope they're talkers. I find myself telling the stupidest stories to illustrate points when no one talks. Today, for example, I talked about a theory of female insanity that Dave Foley once shared on the Bill Maher show about menstration and the frequency of periods. And it was to a ROOMFUL OF FEMALES, which is sort of like explaining French to people from France, don'tcha think?

And Resident Evil 4 gives me nightmares.

And who says there's no culture in Manitoba?

Mike and Rachel Boyce basking in the wonder that is Happy Rock

Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle

One of the films I saw over the Christmas holiday was Peter Jackson's King Kong. Now I've been trying to think of something profound or witty (or even reasonably clever) to say about this film, but, alas, everything that can be said about this film has been said already; and by people far more intelligent, handsome/pretty, better dressed etc, than me. So all I can really offer is a pathetic watered down analysis.

First, it's too long, far too long. Everyone's said it, and it's true. I believe the run time is about 37 and half hours: it should be an hour and half tops. Seriously, Peter. You have a monkey, you have a building, you have a girl. An hour and half is plenty of time for you to tell that story. But as long as it was, they still could have added a scene where Naomi Watts grabbed a coat, a jack, a shawl, anything, to cover herself up in the final scene. Winter in New York and on top of the Empire State Building? If the planes didn't kill her, then pneumonia certainly will.

The special effects are, indeed, special and effective. But, as with the run time, it’s all too much. Yes, it's awfully impressive that you can have a fake gorilla fight three fake dinosaurs, but when it goes on as long as the Ali-Frazier fight, it becomes significantly less impressive. Similarly, it's glorious that you can have Kong slide and scamper around on the ice of Central Park and that his fur moves the way fur is supposed to move and all that, but do you need to include that 20 minute vaudville routine when you're building to climax? I think a far better use of 1.5 million special effects artists would have been putting them to work on making Adrian Brody look somewhat human.

That said, I did like the film and was generally entertained (well, until the afore mentioned ice skating sequence, which was, frankly, just plain silly). The casting was first rate (Jack Black and Naomi Watts in particular); and the story is interesting (giant gorilla smashes stuff real good" is a classic plot); but I really don't think this film topped the achievements of the original film. The effects of the original Kong were MORE revolutionary at the time than WETA's effects are now. The only real improvement is found the scene when Kong, looking for Naomi Watts' character, picks up random blondes off the street and throws them over his shoulder when he discovers they're not Watts.

But of course alll of this is moot when compared to the profound moral lesson articulated in the final frames by Jack Black: it was beauty that killed the beast... and obviously guns... and probably the fall of the Empire State Building helped a little bit.

Pretty fly (for a white guy)

As the year has now come to an end, I think it's time that I, for the sake of king and country, prosperity and the what-not, compose some sort of list. That's what New Year's is for, isn't it? Lists and ridiculous resolutions that you really have no intention of keeping?

Let's start with Literature.

Since I read an incredible amount (of books no one really cares about) for work, I'll try to limit this "Best of" to books I hadn't read before, that I enjoyed and that I believe others, somewhere, might benefit from.

1) Neil Gaiman. Read a few of his books this year and they were all fantastic. If you like fantasy and you've not heard of this man, get some of his books. American Gods and Neverwhere were personal favourites.

2) Evelyn Waugh. Read a couple of his books for my last comprehensive exam and I really like his dry wit. Taught Vile Bodies this past semester, and though not everyone liked it, I believe most of them read it - which is something of a minor miracle.

3) Graham Greene's Ministry of Fear. Hadn't read this one before. Great psychological thriller set in WW2.

4) post-rapture radio by Russell Rathburn. Christian fiction that wasn't set either 1)a hundred years ago or 2) a rural town with quirky characters. Smart, funny.

5) Cavell on Film. My advisor turned me on to philosopher Stanley Cavell a couple of years ago. This is the latest volume of previously uncollected material. Heady, but there are few people producing the kind of quality work in film studies as Cavell.

6) Donald Miller's Blue Like Jazz. Two Christian books on one list? That has to be some sort of record. If more Christians approached questions of faith with the insight, honesty and humanity that Miller does, people wouldn't tune them out.

7) Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by David Eggers. Few books make me laugh out loud and want to throw them down in frustration all at the same time.

8) Colin MacCabe's Eloquence of the Vulgar. A bit heady, but a brilliant analysis of culture/pop culture.

9) Notes from Underground. Am I a 19th century Russian bureaucrat?

10) Long Way Down. It's the new Nick Hornsby novel, which, in all fairness, I've only just started but I think it'll be good. I wasn't crazy about his last one (How to be Good), but so far this is more About a Boy/High Fidelity.

New Movies

1) Chronicles of Narina. Damn.

Honourable mentions: Pride and Prejudice. Call me a sissy, this was a solid film. King Kong. This was a ridiculously long film, which occasionally felt like watching someone else play a video game, but it was good. It just needed about an hour cut out of it. Serenity. Still bitter about Wash and Book, but an entertaining film. What Star Wars: Episodes 1-3 SHOULD have been.

Television

1) "Veronica Mars." Pick it back up, CTV-morons!
2) "House." If there's a better actor than Hugh Laurie on regular, week to week TV, I'd like to see it.
3) "Smallville". Superman cum Dawson's Creek. And that Lana is just so darn cute!
4) "Kitchen Confidential." I have no idea if this show's still going or if it's cancelled, but this was a smart and inventive show.

And the "What happened to that show?" mention: "Alias". Okay, so you kill off Vaughan after implying he's been a bad guy all along; the lead actress gets pregnant with an Affleck-spawn, but you write the pregnancy into the storylines so that a cool, kick-ass spy CAN'T DO THE COOL ASS KICKING WE ALL LOVE HER FOR!'CAUSE SHE"S ALL KNOCKED UP: then you stick in a bunch of new faces for what you've admitted is your FINAL SEASON! J.J. Abrams: please stop ignoring you shows. You're going to need as much as possible to fall back on when Mission Impossible 3 tanks at the box-office.

Survey Time

THREE NAMES YOU GO BY:
1. Mike
2. Michael (used to be only my grandmother ever called me that, but now it's more common)
3. Mizzle... no, not really

THREE THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. Um, sense of humour.
2. er, I think I'm very personible (unless you cross me)
3. and I'm exactly the right height (for what, I haven't yet discovered)

THREE THINGS YOU HATE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. Procrastinating nature
2. my mistakes
3. my inability to fly

THREE PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE:
1. English
2. Scottish
3. German

THREE THINGS YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND:
1. People, more specifically women. Someone should write a book.
2. Quantum physics
3. Paris Hilton

THREE THINGS THAT ANNOY YOU:
1. People who expect you to go to the mat for them, but won't return the favour
2. Line dancing
3. Games

THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:
1. Line dancing
2. needles
3. ...dark alleys at night; dark alleys during the day, however, are perfectly acceptable

THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:
1. Music - can't have the soundtrack of your life be the rustling of your jeans as you walk, you NEED TUNES!
2. Food - good food, mind you
3. affection

THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:
1. Pjs
2. grey t shirt
3. fluffy wooly socks that have recently been darned

THREE THINGS YOU SAY THE MOST:
1. Fine (which has, in my vocabulary, about three hundred different meanings
2. Sorry
3. Tis

FIVE OF YOUR FAVORITE BANDS AT THE MOMENT:
1. Beatles - always number one
2. Franz Ferdinand
3. Wolf Parade
4. The Who
5. Velvet Underground

THREE REASONS YOU'VE BROKEN UP WITH EXES:
1. insanity
2. sexuality (hers, not mine)
3. Bad timing

THREE THINGS ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX THAT APPEAL TO YOU:
1. Personality - must have one, and it should be a good one
2. Appearance - not to seem crash, but let's be honest, if she has a third eye or 2nd degree burns she's not APPEALING (this is not to say I couldn't get past appearance either)
3. Ability to dance

THREE THINGS YOU CAN'T DO:
1. Dance
2. Watch "Everybody Loves Raymond"
3. Give blood

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE HOBBIES
1. Reading
2. Watching movies (though that is more work)
3. Accumulating pointless trivia to bore people with

THREE THINGS YOU WANT REALLY BAD RIGHT NOW:
1. A drink
2. Another game for my Gameboy
3. My next chapter to be finished

THREE PLACES YOU WOULD GO ON VACATION:
1. TO - home and I love Toronto; don't care who knows it
2. Some place tropical
3. England - I love England and I don't care who knows it.

It's beginning to look a lot....

... last year. And the year before that. And the year before that.

Well, the fun of holidays is now officially over. I got up this morning, putzed around for a while, and then headed out to figure out what I'm going to do this semester. I have it narrowed down to either 1) interesting and thoughtful analysis of literature or 2) wacky made up stuff, an intricate web of lies to suit my fickle whims. Meh, I got another day or so to decide, right? No rush.

Finished my first chapter of the dissertation last night. It'll likely need some editing, but to have a mostly completed chapter sitting there, staring at me, is both strangely comforting and unnerving. Just four more (and a brilliant introduction that ties everything together) to go. No sweat.

Listening to: Badly Drawn Boy's The Hour of Bewilderbeast - a fan-freakin'-tastic album.

So THAT was Christmas?

Happy Holidays! Happy New Year and whatever other well wishes you think you deserve. All right: pleasantries out of the way, down to business.

The holidays were, mostly, fine. I did find myself trapped with two very sick people for the greater (and I mean that strictly in terms of quantity) part of my time in Saskatoon. So I spent a good deal of the time washing my hands and staying out of the path of germs.

We did stay a little longer than we expected to, as the weather was not cooperating with us. Stupid weather. By Friday we figured we'd risk it and drove from Saskatoon to Regina in a thick fog. Once we were out of Regina, the fog let up and it was pretty much smooth sailing the rest of the way to Winnipeg.

Part of the reason for "risking it" was that we'd been invited to a wedding for New Year's Eve. Fortunately, we made it back and headed up to Gimli (not the dwarf) for hands down the GREATEST wedding I've ever been to. The only drawn back was that we hardly knew anyone there. Once the table we were seated with left, Rachel and I were pretty much on our own. Still, I had a nice time nursing a Dark Ale and watching people dance - there's something strangely surreal about a heavy set dude in a cowboy hat dancing enthusiastically and singing along to "Any Man of Mine" by Shania Twain. Less surreal and more frightening was the Grizzly Adams looking guy, who hand an inch thick ring through his nose, stunk of putchelli and flung his body around the floor like he was having some sort of fit. Maybe he was having a fit? Who knows. Closer to midnight Rachel and I took to the floor and, um, danced on it: she danced well, I...not so much. But I had (some) fun, and I didn’t hurt anyone.

Most highly favoured lady

One of the reasons that I like Christmas is that I can use a few Latin phrases and not look like a complete and utter loser. Gloria in excelsis At least those three years of Latin weren't wasted

And what was in those ships of three?

Likely this'll be the final post of 2005. Man, 2005! When I was a kid I imagined 2005 as this Star-Trekkie future world of flying cars and tin-foil pants. Who knew? So I wanna wish anyone reading this a Happy and Merry Christmas and as-best-as-it-can-be New Year!

I woke up the other morning and it was -29 degrees here in Winnipeg. I kid you not. I went outside to start the car and my face burned. When I put the key in the ignition, my car said to me, "You're kidding, right?" But Petey's a good car, and he started after a little grumbling.

As certain as egg nog and mistletoe (okay, since no one actually has mistletoe anymore make that holly), contemplation has become one of the things unpacked and put up every Christmas, I've been thinking a lot about friends old and new and loved ones. These past few weeks I've reconnected with some dear friends, one from long, long ago and a galaxy far, far away (Oshawa), two from the past few years. We don't tell people what they mean to us as often as we should. Though I'm not one for New Year's Resolutions, I'd like to think that this will be mine: I'll try to tell people who matter how much they mean. Of course, this will likely either fail miserably in the first week of 2006, or cause a whole lotta (more) people to avoid me like the plague.

It's the most wonderful time of the year

All right, it's not. But it's not too bad. It certainly could be much worse.

It's a virtual winter wonderland here in Winnipeg. It's been snowing for about 3 days straight. Luckily it's not too cold, so you can actually go outside and enjoy it a bit. I was waiting for a bus on Portage and was a middle aged man in a calf-length FUR COAT and MATCHING FUR HAT. It was glorious.

Last night we were invited to a carolling party a few blocks from our house. It was fun, but so many of the songs they sang were in German. Childishly, I giggled whenever we sang German words that look like some word in English (like "Nun"; my favourite was "Freud"... my mind came up with all kinds of delightfully inappropiate senarios for that carol).

There are stacks of essays and exams piled up around me, waiting to be marked. I hate marking. I love (or usually love) teaching, but marking is so tedious. Still, classes are over, exams finished. Now, if people could just figure out the difference between "desire" and "deserve".

So this is Christmas?

Being the culturally sensitive Renaissance man that I am, I've always been curious about the ways other countries spin the story of Christmas. I'm not talking about Jesus in the lowly cattleshed or anything, but the extras, the frills we've mixed into the story. I think we've become a tad complacent in our understanding of the holiday; our Santa, we assume, is everyone's Santa. Not so.

While the tradition of presents giving seems to be common to most Christian cultures' tradition, who gives the presents to the children varies. Faeries, saints, Christmas witches, even the Christ-child himself (though I imagine his arms would be somewhat restricted by the swaddling clothes) are all thought to bring treats and presents to deserving children. But of all the present-bestowing folk associated with Christmas, my favourite has to be Black Peter from the Netherlands.

In fairness, Black Peter is depicted as the associate (to be read: slave) of St Nicholas, the common Christmas saint who serves as the model of our Santa Claus. See, during the Middle Ages, the Dutch called the Devil "Black Peter." Somehow, as Dutch Christmas traditions were sorting themselves out, it was believed that St. Nick enslaved "Black Peter" and made him hand out presents to the good little Dutch children on the night before St. Nicholas Day (December 6). And if the children weren't all that good? Well, no lump o' coal in Holland. The children were said to be kidnapped by Black Peter. As the legend evolved, the representation of Black Peter took on political overtones. He became dark-skinned and dressed in the costume of Moorish Spain, for whom the Dutch had a particular hatred for having been controlled by Spain for a time. And where does Black Peter take the naughty children? Spain.

A friend of mine, Chuck, was telling me about growing up in Holland. He remembers being in school and having St Nicholas and Black Peter turn up to give presents to the students at an assembly. One little boy in particular was, according to Chuck, a notorious troublemaker, a real jerk. When Nick and Pete came to that kid, let's call him Johnny, St Nicholas looked down at and said in a booming voice, "And you, Johnny have been very naughty." With that Black Peter picked Johnny up and stuffed him in the sack that had held the presents. Apparently Johnny was always much better behaved after that.

I know that you can love me, when there's no one left to blame

So, I just got back from seeing an afternoon screening of Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. This film is, for me, a more important film then the much loved Lord of the Rings trilogy, because, well, to be honest, I've actually read The Chronicles of Narnia when I was young. And while I have come to read and love Tolkien's books in my adulthood, there's something akin to a deeper, truer love for C.S. Lewis's stories because I loved them in childhood. Yes, there was a cartoon and that BBC thing in the 1980s, but they were both, to be frank, crap. Men in beaver suits does not Narnia make!

And I was not disappointed.

I thought this films was brilliant. The writers/diretor fleshed out the right things by contextualizing the story within the evacuation of London during World War 2. The animals and creatures, always been a problem with adapting LW&W, looked spectular. And the White Witch was strangely erotic.

It was Christmas Eve, babe, in the drunktank

All right, I am sore today: So yesterday morning, I was taking our recycling out to the curb (like the hip, environmentally conscious guy I am). When I got outside, I realized that the truck had already been by. Nothing else to do but return the blue box to the basement and hope I don't miss it next week, right? Well, I open the door, take one step on the stairs descending to the basement and... ffffoomp. My feet, still wet with snow, slip right out from beneath me and I go crashing down the stairs. Apparently I was graceful (and quiet) enough both not to wake my neighbours, whose bedroom door in about 4 feet from where I went down or drop the recycling box. My lower back swollen and an attractive magenta, but I held on to that box, dammit.

Last days of both my half semester courses yesterday and today. The less said the better.

Going to go see The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe this weekend, and I'm quite excited by that. There are few films on the horizon that have peaked my interest. One that I was looking forward to, but am now excepting to be totally and utterly disappointed, is X-men 3. Saw a photo of BEast/Hank McCoy, one of my favourite characters from the comic... and he looks like a gay werewolf. Check it out for yourselves. FABuLOUS Beast

It's coming on to Christmas and that means Christmas music is playing. So here's a question: What Christmas songs (including version by different artists) do you absolutely love? I'll get the ball rollin, 'cause, well, it's my blog and everything; Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without The Pogues' "The Fairytale of New York", the greatest Christmas song of the 20th century. What other Christmas song has a line like "You're bum! You're a punk! You're an old slut on junk?" I get a little misty just thinking about it.

Do you hear what i hear?

All right, it's FREEZING in Winnipeg today. We're talking North Polar, chill to the bone cold. I hate this time of year. People balk when they hear about how truly cold it can get in Manitoba, but in all honesty these Artic tempertures are bearable but they do take some getting used to. It's the first couple of weeks that are the hardest, as your body readjusts to the need for hats, scarves, multi-layers, and thermal underwear. I opted not to wear thermal underwear this morning, and got to experience the completely unpleasant burning that comes from wearing jeans in minus 30 degree weather.
There's something disconcerting about standing at a bus stop with a dozen or so other people, people who you're not sure if you know because everyone has only as much skin exposed as is feasible. In fact you're often not even sure of the gender, as everyone has a non-descript puffy shape.

I want to be good, is that not enough?

My friend Matt emailed with some disturbing news: the run time on the new Woody Allen film is over 2 hours. Shocking? Maybe not as much as anthrax or the rising number of teenagers with syphilis, but as a former Allen fan, I think it ranks right up there because it adds credibility to my theory that Woody Allen has lost his mind. Let's look at evidence:

1) He's no longer shooting in New York. Apparently it's just getting to be too much of a hassle to shoot in New York. Allen's currently amoured with London, after shooting his lastest film there. Now he wants to set all his films there. But can you think about Woody and NOT think New York? The guy's a New York institution, like the Mets or the Yankees or the Dodgers... okay, forget that last one. Allen's screen-persona needs New York and is unable to function in any other city. Long shots of Allen and his 20-something love interests walking around Kensington Park or strolling along the Thames just ain't right.

2) Medicore Television actresses. Starting around Deconstructing Harry, Allen has had a BIZARRE fascination with tv actresses. Apparently he cast Elizabeth Berkley (of Showgirls infamy) after catching a "Saved by the Bell" rerun while he was working up. Perhaps he was using a rowing mahcine and couldn't change the channel. I suppose we should all thank God he didn't see the one with Screech in drag.

3) Drawer films. The last few Allen films to hit theatres (well, select theatres, anyway) have been what he refers to as "Drawer" pictures - scripts or treatments he wrote decades ago and having beed sitting in his bottom drawer, gathering dust. I know his "one picture" a year thing is absolutely incredible in this day and age, but maybe it's time to slow down. If you're making crap you yourself hide, maybe it's time to take a break. What's next? Adapting an old grade school play or a story he wrote in high school?

4) Two hour running time. Allen should be contractly obligated to turn in a 82-85 minute film. Since Annie Hall, Allen's best films have been in the 80 minute range. His humour will NOT work with a Titantic-like run-time.

Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer

Well, the weekend's finally over. Thank God for small miracles. Those of you "in the know" are aware that my wife's resignation was finally made public this past Sunday. It's been a whirlwind of mixed emotions: stress, relief, sadness. They've all been there and present at one point or another. Of course, I might feel differently, less relieved, if I hadn't spent most of Sunday hiding away from people, away from the questions and the whys and the whatnots.

Of course, the real kicker is that after a stressful weekend, I go to work today and it's utterly INSANE at the U of M Press. Apparently everyone in Manitoba, from places I've never even heard before, was trying to order books from us to beat, and I'm quoting here, "the Christmas rush." I was forced to criss-cross the campus a bunch of times (freezing, 'cause I'm too cool to wear a coat, let alone a hat or mittens), carrying huge boxes of books. Everytime I'd return to the office (with another 40 lbs box under my arm) I'd be handed one more order that "needed" to be filled. Like anyone, on Christmas morning, is going to thank Santa and their lucky stars that they got A National Crime: The Canadian government and the residential school system, 1879 to 1986 under the tree! If someone gave me that as a Christmas present, I'd kick them in their knee caps.

So, what else is going on?Well, I got a chance to watch the new Pride and Prejudice with the angelic Kiera Knightley. A solid adaptation, and I highly recommend it to fans of Austen.

"Smallville"... "Dawson's Creek" if Dawson could run really fast and had super strength. In other words: high addictive; like crack or pumpkin pie.

Here comes the twister

I know: I haven't written in a while, but... I'm still not convinced people read this.

Anyway, we had a big snowstorm, which shut the one school I was supposed to be teaching at down completely. Of course, I managed to make it in for my 8:30 am class. As I trudged up the steps, my eyes fell on a 8 1/2 x 11 sheet of white paper. "All classes cancelled due to weather." After waiting an hour for a bus, after stomping through half a foot of unshovelled snow, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Driving out to Otterburne, Manitoba the day after the storm wasn't much fun. I could only go 60 km on the highway (poorly plowed as they were), and when I got there I discovered that the parking lot I've been assigned to use wasn't plowed at all. Grrrrrr. So I'm to drive 2 hours on dangerous roads only to get stuck AT SCHOOL? No way, Jose. Without asking (or even telling) I reassigned my parking space.

Sometimes I wonder why we moved to this crazy province.

Take a look at the crow's feet sitting on the prettiest eyes

Went to a birthday party the other night... for a 2 year old. It's a strange thing to be at a party for a two year old: there's a bunch of kids, running around, getting sticky and causing each other no end of trouble; but there's also a whole group of adults, sitting around eating Dora the Explorer cake and not talking to each other. Who is this Dora, and why don't her parents watch her a little more carefully?

But how can you possibly get to know other adults, even parents, when there's a video of the Doodle-pops, or whatever the heck those things are called, playing? You can't.

And you may ask yourself, "Well, how did I get here?"

Sitting here, letting the days go by.

More silliness in class. Frustration. Apparently, the self-motivated, self-driected approach to the class was a mistake. Oh well. Into the blue again.

Long weekend coming up. That's good. Friday's Rememberance Day, which in Winnipeg is an actual holiday. I love days off!


Same as it ever was;
Same as it ever was.

I think you're smart, you sweet thing

Right. It feels like it should be Thursday (my Thursday being most people's Friday - it's a little confusing at first, but you get used to it).

So, I got up this morning a little later then usual and headed off to Booth for my 8:30 class. I gave the class last Thursday as a work class (ie, don't come to class) on the condition that they have a rough draft of an essay ready for today's class. And how many shiny little essays were on my desk this morning? Seven. From a class of twenty seven. Now, I'm a little rusty at the ol' maths, but that's not good.

Of course this completely screwed up my plans for the class. I was going to have them read and evaluate each other's papers; three papers per person. So people had to work in groups of two, sometimes three. They could only get through 2 papers because the paper had to be passed between two people. And to think, I was worried that, due to the way I designed the course, I was going to have too many "A"s; that's not much a concern any more.

And it's hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain

Had an instructive and stimulating conversation with my advisor. George is unquestionably one of the most intelligent and well-read individuals I know. Just sitting and talking with him makes me want to read more. If my thesis is worth anything when it's all said and done, it will be due in large part to his insightful comments and questions.

The time's rapidly coming up for Rachel's staff Christmas party, which I really do look forward to each year. Last year we tried something new with great success, a murder mystery dinnner; we're all given parts to play and come dressed up. This year I get to be a lounge singer, which is, I think, a step up from the Nazi character I played last year. At least this year, if we use a photo from this as our Christmas card, we won't have to ask the nice guy at Blacks if he can "crop out the swastika."

Proposal Time

I've been working on this silly PhD proposal for the past few hours and I'm quite sure that my brain has exploded and will be, at any second, running out of my ear. So, best to set it aside for a little bit and take a nice relaxing blog-break.

I've found myself rather enamored with the writing of this Neil Gaiman guy of a few posts ago. Someone I know told me to check out Neverwhere; I did. Then I checked out (literally, from the Library) American Gods, Stardust and a couple of slightly disturbing (in a really cool way) Sandman collections. Again, if you like smart fantasy and you DON'T know Gaiman's stuff: pull yourself from under that rock and start reading!

Oh, I decided to show Alfred Hitchcock's The Lady Vanishes in my 20th Century British Literature class. Now the film is a favourite of mine and, after last year's Casablanca debacle, I was a little hesitant about showing a personal favourite that I would have to defend against a group of jaded and superficial Ashton Kutchon fans. For some reason I chanced it and was blown away by the response. They laughed (in the right places), gasped and jumped; they even cheered at the end of the film. It was almost enough to restore my faith.


I am plagued by the fact that Leonard Cohen is starting to look like my late grandmother. I expect him to knit me some mittens.

Happy Hallowe'en, Kiddies

Tis the time for ghosts and goblins to roam the earth and accost people for candy. Here at the university the only people who seem to be in the Hallowe'en spirit are a couple of people who work Administration, unless slovenly lacker guy and slutty girls are real honest-to-goodness costumes. To be honest, there's just something creepy about a handful of 45 plus-ers dressing up as princesses and witches.

This weekend Rachel and I went to see "The Apple Seed girl" at Femfest. It's a great play by my brother-in-law's girlfriend, Kerri. Saturday was the last night, but there was some talk of workshopping it... so if it ever plays near you, see it. While I think I'd need to see it again to catch some of the more symbolic elements, I loved the awkward, flirty conversation of themain character and her neighbour. Kerri seems to write shy, uncomfortable boy-girl dialogue as well as anyone else. Oh, and the main character grows a tree. And horticulture? Always good.

old videos

I'll admit it: I'm becoming addicting to MuchMoreRetro. There's something nostaglic about watching music videos form the 80s; it harkens back to a simpler, more innocent time. While today's videos have budgets comparible to the GNP of many developed countries, more celebrities than a P Diddy birthday, and narratives that have nothing to do with the lyrics, music videos from yesteryear were reassuring forumalic. When you watch one of these videos you can take comfort. You know that the terrorists won't win, that there still is goodness out there, that all will be right with the world.

I have been, as a side project of watching these videos, compiling a list of essential motiffs, themes and images in these videos. and I would like to share them with you.

Things 80's Videos MUST* have:

1) Hair! Lots of hair. Whether you're waking me up before you go go, or blaming it on the rain, you're going to need lots of style, hair-sprayed hair.

2) Shots, often black and white, of people on the telephone. Alexander Graham Bell's invention certainly changed the way we communicate with each other, but it also changed music videos! What better way to visually represent isolation and heartache than a girl on the phone?

3) Shots of the band performing. No matter what else is going on the video, we need lots of shots of the band playing their instruments and singing their song. Sometimes, there might even be elaborate dance sequences. Cross your fingers.

4) Cars. Like the telephone, another important invention is heavily featured in early music videos: the horseless carriage. What better way to express alienation, angst and mobility then with shots of the Go-Gos driving around Los Angeles? There are many videos that use the lead-singer-driving-and-singing plot... derived from the Greeks, I believe.

5) Neon. Nuff said.

*this list is by no means comprehensive. The author fully realizes that there might be many other things needed to make an 80s video.

Neverwhere? Right here

Right. So a friend of mine suggested that I check out this book Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman (which I did, literally, from the library up the street). "You'll love it," she said. So, I dutifully went and got it. I'm a sucker... well, for books anyway.

I started reading it on the walk home. On the inside cover (at this is true of the hardcover) there's a deailed map of the London Underground. "Cool," I think. "I recognize some of these stations."

I had to go out for a little bit, so I couldn't continue reading until later that afternoon. And when I was able to sit down and continue reading I found myself liking it more and more. It's an interesting story: guy moves to London, he finds an injured girl, there are some weird dudes who talk kind of funny. And as I'm reading, I'm thinking to myself, "Hey, this is pretty good." And as I'm thinking this, I look up and realize it's almost midnight! I've been reading for hours and have completely lost track of time. Now I like books, and would consider myself an "avid" reader, but I've never been a lose-track-of-time reader. The story is so interesting, the characters so well drawn, that it's hard not to be absorbed with the narrative.

So, when I woke up this morning all I wanted to do was come down stairs, pour myself a cup of coffee and finish the book. I had it less than 24 hours and it was done. There are very few books that have sucked me in so completely.

I highly recommend this book.

One of those days...

Ever just google your name to check what other people with the same moniker as you have are doing with their lives? What a great way to feel utterly pointless.

There's a Master Michael Boyce who teaches about a thousand different martial arts... I'll bet he's cool. There's just something very cool about a guy who can dislocate your shoulder in the blink of an eye.

There's Admiral Sir Michael Boyce, part of her Majesty's Navy. Guy's in charge of a bunch of boats: how cool is that? Bet he's got all kinds of those shiny little medals. And don't even get me started on the "Sir" thing. What's a guy gotta do to get knighted anyway?

And then there's me. Yes, I do pop up on google, but without all the knighted, ass-kicking coolness. I show up a few times on RatemyProfessor. Apparently someone thinks I'm "hot." Must be the corduory pants I sometimes wear when I teach.

Actually that reminds me: I got some student evaluations from a course I taught last year. Most of them were positive (though there was the constantly frustrating too-much-group-work/not-enough-group-work comments). I am, it seems, amusing. The predominant response was "Mr. Boyce/Michael is very funny." One of the comments in particular threw me for a bit of loop though: "Can we have one class were we don't talk about sex?" Either this student only came to a couple of the racier classes, or I talk about sex a lot more then I'm aware. Of course, I can alwasy shift the blame to the poems. "I don't talk about sex; John Donne talks about sex. Dirty man. I just talk about Donne." This is, of course, a modifed version of the argument I used to use on my mother whenever we were watching a movie that had a lot of swearing or sex: "Hey, I didn't write the movie."

Of course after reading that comment and feeling all self-concious, what do I do? Go into the classroom and start talking about sex.

Cracking!

So, last night Rachel and I decided to set forth into the world and head over to one of the local movie theatres to see Wallace and Gromit and the Curse of the Were-Rabbit. Now, I've been a fan of the plasticine duo for quite some time now, so expectations were high. And a theatre packed of screaming, crying chidlren put a serious cramp into those expectations. However, once the lights dimmed, and all the thirty thousand previews were over, and the film begin, all was well. The plot was a little fanciful, but the wit, humour and imagination of Nick Park was still apparent. There's something almost magical about watching a film where the audience is so caught up in the story that they cheer and applaud when the film ends.

In other news, we got new MTS cable. As part of the package, we got 9 "bundles" of extra channels. There's something profoundly civilized about being able to watch "The A Team" 4 times a day.

Grrrr....

When did I turn into Ben Stein from Ferris Buller's Day Off?

"Anyone? Anyone? Anyone?"

Man, some days class is like pulling teeth!

I forgot my travel mug this morning and, with it, the sweet, sweet caffine-y goodness held within. I've been cruising around looking all day for things with some form of caffine to ingest: a cup of cheap-ass coffee, a watery fountain Diet Pepsi. I'm supposed to see a play with my wife tonight. If I don't get some stimulant in me soon, when the lights in the theatre go out, so will I.

I have to meet Rachel in an hour and a half... What am I going to do for that much time? This computer is seriously solitare-free.

Thanksgiving was fine. Guess I really turned on the world with that last post. The literary THOUSANDS of emails I received... oh, wait, those were for cheap medication and herbal Viagara. Nevermind.

Maybe it's the 12 cups of coffee...

I'm having a Linus moment; you know, one of those "what's the real spirit o' the holidays" things. You see, it's Thanksgiving up here in the Great White North (and in this part of the North it actually is white today). Now we don't have the cultural (and emotional) baggage that the Americans have about this holiday: no Purtians with those amusing belt buckles, no maize, no Indians we later screwed out of everything. Oh we screwed the Indians, all right; we just tended to be a little more subtle about it, is all. Were I an American, I would have real problems with Thanksgiving.

But I'm a Canadian and I rather like the holiday. And what's not to like? Turkey: good! Stuffing: good! Pumpkin pie: GOOD!!!! Food aside though, what's Thanksgiving all about?

"Giving thanks, Mike. You moron. It's right there in the name of the holiday," you're probably thinking to yourself.

And yes, you're right. It is. But do we do it?

So, who are you thankful for? Do they know it? I tend not to assign homework here, but I challange you to let the people who matter most to you know that you're thnakful for them.

Maybe we could start a thing, with signs and T-shirts.... All right, on second thought that sounds like too much trouble. Let's stick to the telling thing. We'll accessorize later, if we need to.

"I need a fix, 'cause I'm going down"

So, my Serenity high didn't last too long. Don't get me wrong, it was good while it lasted, but real life came and kicked me in the gut once again. Monday was the usual humdrum, no-fun at the UM Press. Tuesday was school. Still can't get a handle on my students, even ones I've had before. This one girl I'm pretty sure HATES me came up after class and asked me to edit her paper. I suppose that doesn't prelude hate. But the fire alarm went off during class so that was nice: huddled around the front door, hoping there really was a fire 'cause maybe then we could warm up.

It snowed all day here in Winnipeg. Driving was a pain, slippery roads will be the death of me. Where did the summer go?