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????