tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14215527577171007022023-11-16T05:38:24.424-08:00The Great ConjunctionKK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-16133842950416831172015-05-25T10:15:00.001-07:002015-05-25T10:15:35.883-07:00Maddening Max: The Hollywood Heteropatriarchy Strikes Again!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cdn.screenrant.com/wp-content/uploads/Charlize-Theron-in-Fury-Road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://cdn.screenrant.com/wp-content/uploads/Charlize-Theron-in-Fury-Road.jpg" height="160" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Theron as the badass Furiosa.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Some reviews would have you believe that the new Mad Max
film, <i>Mad Max: Fury Road</i>, is </div>
somehow
feminist due to its badass female character, “Furiosa,” played by Charlize
Theron. In fact, some Men’s Rights groups have called for boycotts of the film,
incensed as they are by Theron’s turn as a dirt-spattered, shaved-head,
gun-slinging, ace truck driver determined to screw the postapocalyptic patriarchy.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This fact alone suggests that the film is doing something
transgressive with its representation of women and women’s agency.
Unfortunately, Furiosa’s fury is not nearly enough to deem this film “feminist.”
If anything, the feminist buzz around the film is dangerous, as it blinds
audiences to all the heteropatriarchal banalities we have gotten so used to in
action films.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Additionally, the film is just bad. The original Mad Max
movies (which I have only heard about, never seen) were mostly car chases with
little to no plot set against the backdrop of a red-hazed postapocalyptic
landscape populated by maniacs and murderers. In that sense, the new film is
not really a re-boot of the original, but more a homage to it. Little has
changed: the film has more car chases and less plot or character development
than a “Fast and Furious” film (of which I have seen at least 3, so that’s saying
something). This film dazzles the viewer with sped-up action sequences,
frequent vehicular fires and explosions, and a flame-throwing electric guitar,
all of which serve to make the film seem excessively “cool”—but ultimately degenerates
into visual chaos and confusion that is nearly migrane-inducing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.scified.com/sites_pics/404189427748209.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.scified.com/sites_pics/404189427748209.png" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Immortan Joe"--is he creepy enough<br />for ya?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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From what I could glean, “Max,” who is introduced in an
initial sequence of explosions, lizard-eating, and foot-chases, is a survivor
of the apocalypse and its now-vicious inhabitants. As in many postapocalyptic
films, the future is now run by the worst kind of criminals who enjoy torture,
death, and power. They run the world, including its natural (and unnatural)
resources: water, oil, and bullets. Max is kidnapped by the “War Boys,”
disciples of “Immortan Joe,” a ghastly, Beetlejuice-like weirdo who controls
the water—and the sexiest women of the colony, forcing them to father his
children. Wives past their sexiness in life are forced to pump breastmilk for
Joe and his war boys like cows in a dairy farm.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Imperator Furiosa sets off the events of the film by
taking the sexy wives and hiding them in a large tanker, pretending to be on a
mission to Oil Town. When she veers off course in an attempt to get the girls
to safety (all of whom look like models and are, naturally, scantily clad
throughout the film), she sets off an insane, hour-long car chase/battle
sequence during which she meets Max and they become allies. In the second half
of the film, Furiosa reunites with her home colony, an all-female colony, only
to learn that there are only about 10 survivors, most of whom are elderly, and
that their home, “the green place,” is now despoiled and dried up. They have no
choice but to go back, fight the gangsters of Water Town, Oil Town, and Bullet
Town (very creative names), and take back Water Town for the people.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Throughout the film, I grant you, Furiosa is a total
badass. Charlize Theron, despite starting out as a model, has shown over and
over again that not only is she a versatile and convincing actress, but she
likes a challenge. As Furiosa, she is probably one of the most interesting
female characters in an action film, postapocalyptic or not, to get on screen.
By contrast, Max, played by Tom Hardy, says about 10 lines in the film, and
outshines Furiosa in no apparent way whatsoever.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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On the other hand, it’s hard to ignore the fact, as a
feminist viewer and critic, that the film centers around the fight over women’s
bodies. What makes the bad guys “bad” is that they are nasty old men who want
all the hot chicks for themselves. The film seems to suggest that this is a
result of the postapocalyptic order, rather than acknowledging that this is
happening RIGHT NOW. The girls who escape, the “wives,” have some agency, but
overall they are dainty, in need of saving, and, as mentioned already, wear
incredibly revealing outfits, as if Furiosa were capable of getting 50 guns for
the trip to the green place, but it didn’t occur to her to get a couple of
coats and pairs of pants for the girls.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.autostraddle.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/article-2707869-200CB8CD00000578-835_634x339.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.autostraddle.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/article-2707869-200CB8CD00000578-835_634x339.jpg" height="171" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've dubbed them "the sexy wives" aka the breeders.<br />These women need saving.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
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Then there is the fact that none of the powerful
compounds have any women warriors—aside from Furiosa. All the “towns” or
compounds are run by degenerate men who cannot function without breathing
prosthetics or who display other striking health conditions, such as missing
noses or legs bloated with postapocalyptic edema. Their warrior army, who,
throughout the film, call out the war cry “Valhalla!”, are all men. Meanwhile,
the women of the former “green place,” a colony not expressly described but, it
is hinted, was a peaceful place focused on cultivating the land and sisterhood,
cannot survive. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Clearly, in the postapocalypse, peaceful people aren’t
tough (or something). Why not make the colony strong and vital? Why not have
100 survivor women to take back to Water Town? Or even 50? Instead, we get a
paltry handful (maybe 10?). I’m always
left wondering if the filmmakers consciously decided to keep the green colony
survivor group small, or is it simply that the filmmakers could not envision an
entire colony of tough, brutal women survivors to begin with? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Instead, on the journey back to Water Town, about half of
the green place survivors are killed in brutal ways on the road back to
redemption. Luckily, so is Joe, his bloated body presented to the remaining
leadership of Water Town as proof that his reign is over. Furiosa and Max share
a final, farewell glance that is, thankfully, devoid of any romantic overtones.
The movie at least gets that right: there is no sexual tension between our two
heroes. They are joined in their mutual quest, for as long as it lasts, and
then they go their separate ways.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
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For myself, I wish I could have my $12 back, and I wouldn’t
even need one more parting glance to know that a true postapocalyptic vision
would be one where women are part of the power structure, actively molding it
and controlling it. Instead, this film, like so many others, suggests that the
new world order would simply be the one we have now.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-45634519959984863242014-10-08T17:22:00.001-07:002014-10-08T17:22:28.984-07:00Don't Mess with Texas20 Things I've Learned About Texas (in the 1st 2 months...)<br />
<br />
<a href="http://imgc.allpostersimages.com/images/P-473-488-90/36/3611/4O7EF00Z/posters/don-t-mess-with-texas-littering-sign-texas-usa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://imgc.allpostersimages.com/images/P-473-488-90/36/3611/4O7EF00Z/posters/don-t-mess-with-texas-littering-sign-texas-usa.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a>1. People are REALLY proud to live in Texas--they put stickers on their Toyota trucks that say "Made in Texas" to prove to all the Ford & Chevy drivers that they are still supporting Texas.<br />
2. Trucks.<br />
3. "Don't Mess with Texas" is the slogan of the anti-littering campaign.<br />
4. 90 degrees does, eventually, feel cool.<br />
5. People really can't drive worth a crap.<br />
6. There is lots of scary wildlife, like, everywhere, including tarantulas in the park.<br />
7. Every taco imaginable can be found here.<br />
8. Not everyone talks with a twang.<br />
9. Cowboy hats are practical headwear, especially for balding Texans.<br />
10. There are sidewalks, but you wouldn't want to walk on them, because you'd melt.<br />
11. Your car is always dusty.<br />
12. "Maine Root" is actually a Texas product.<br />
13. Central Market is better than Whole Foods.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/06/AustinSkylineLouNeffPoint-2010-03-29-b.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/06/AustinSkylineLouNeffPoint-2010-03-29-b.JPG" height="165" width="320" /></a></div>
14. Beer is cheap here. So is gas.<br />
15. For a state that seems so proud of its rebellious heritage, there are a lot of rules/laws to follow.<br />
16. Kolaches & Czech/German culture that pop up in random places.<br />
17. Everyone wants you to go to New Braunfels.<br />
18. Everything is better in Austin. Except for the people who prefer San Antonio.<br />
19. There are cacti everywhere. And palm trees. It's kind of like Phoenix, but more humid.<br />
20. "Six Flags"theme park is named after the six flags over Texas, showing the different flags that have been flown over Texas throughout history. (Laredo has SEVEN, 'cause we're special.)<br />
<br />
Next week: the Laredo edition!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://store.legendsofamerica.com/images/products/large_114_cs-tx103-texas-600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://store.legendsofamerica.com/images/products/large_114_cs-tx103-texas-600.jpg" height="248" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-9906131815433186042014-08-30T15:30:00.001-07:002014-08-30T15:30:39.676-07:00On Moving & Being with Yourself<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I took a walk today, and I saw a dead dog. On the sidewalk.
Lying stiffly in a pool of blood.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And I had no one to tell it to!</div>
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<br /></div>
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I could probably just stop writing right there, and this
would be enough to justify my blog post, but instead I will keep going. Because
I’m living alone for the first time in…well…forever, and I just need to tell
someone something. Anything. But since that would be boring, I’ve opted for
telling you all about moving and being alone, which I have optimistically
re-named, “Being with Yourself.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Hmmm….that could sound dirty. But you know what I mean.
Being <i>by</i> yourself implicitly suggests
the aloneness of the endeavor. Being <i>with
</i>yourself suggests that you are your own best friend, boon companion,
onlooker, mutual friend, etc. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I’m still working on that part…</div>
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<br /></div>
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I have never lived on my own; after I left home, I had
roommates throughout college and afterwards, in that strange period of time
when you are Becoming an Adult, also known as the show “Girls,” I also always
lived with others. Even if I didn’t talk to them very often, there was always a
Presence there to speak to. Though there were times when even roommates did not
seem like enough. Living on my own again reminds me of the times when I lived
with roommates who had their own lives, leaving me frequently at home to fend
for myself, which often ended in listening compulsively to Dido and Coldplay
and bemoaning my post-college aloneness.</div>
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<br /></div>
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For the last six years, however, I have had a constant
companion in the form of my wife and best friend, K. For the last six years, in
fact, we have barely been apart (not in a creepy way…but with a touch of
co-dependence, I will admit). Three weeks apart when I traveled to visit
relatives abroad? That last week was always so painful and drawn out! And now
here we are, living apart, 1200 miles apart, in fact, and though it could be
worse (we are, at least, in the same time zone and on the same continent and
country), it feels strange to be missing that ever-present witness to my
everyday, humdrum existence.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It doesn’t help that I am also currently adjusting to
living in a new place, in a new state, with a new job. I moved last year and
that seemed like quite the move, but moving <i>with
</i>someone, it turns out, is quite preferable to moving alone. I mean, with
only myself. (Think positive! or is it “Think positively!”?) Even when you know
no one, you still have that person who is required, by law and love, to
accompany you as you get lost in new neighborhoods, go to bad restaurants, and
get stared at by the locals who, through some kind of 6<sup>th</sup> sense,
innately know you don’t belong. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The last time I moved somewhere totally new and was
totally on my own was when I moved to New York City for my MA. I, somewhat
naively and mistakenly, believed that since I was going to school and living in
Brooklyn, I would automatically make fast friends with everyone else in my
program. NYC is, however, a heartless mistress; people move there with friends
or they go to school there, they stay, set up networks, and then get so
entangled in them that they find little time for newcomers. It’s an insular
world, and, while I enjoyed certain aspects of life in the City, it never felt
like home. When I packed up and moved to Long Island, it was with a certain
relief: here were trees! clean air! and, luckily for me, other desperate,
lonely phd students who were eager to make friends—like I was.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Many people have written about how it’s harder to make
good friends the older that you get. I’m not sure that is true; sometimes I
think it depends on where you are and what you do. Between academia, which
attracts certain kinds of lonely intellectuals, the outcasts growing up who are
constantly searching for friends who understand the lifestyle, and roller
derby, which is centered around bonding and friendship in addition to
sportsmanship, it was fairly easy to adjust to life in Tennessee. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Here in Texas, however, I feel, at the moment, adrift in
space. I check Facebook addictively to see who else is out there, online,
feeding off the meager energy of virtual life. If I put something online, then
it exists; if I don’t, then, it would seem, it doesn’t. I know that with time,
I will meet more people, make friends, get settled. I don’t doubt that. But how
can I come to terms with being with myself, all the time, without being just
lonely?</div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
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And who am I supposed to turn to when I see a dead dog on
the sidewalk?</div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-16325138477624581462014-06-15T14:11:00.000-07:002014-06-15T14:11:04.806-07:00I Heart Tennessee...No, really!<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
As my time in Tennessee comes ever more swiftly to an
end, I am prone to reflecting on the last 10 months. When we moved here with K.
last August, it was both exciting and terrifying to be in a new place. We moved
with nary more than a carload of stuff and spent the first two to three weeks
in Cookeville alternating between cleaning our new home (which was rather
disgusting, as if the people who had lived there previously just gave up on
taking care of it once they realized they were moving) and spending our savings
on furnishing it from the ground up. We had jettisoned so much of our stuff in
the move that we had to buy almost everything from scratch, from shelves to
soup ladles, from couches to kitchen cleaners.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
When I recall that first month of living off Subway
sandwiches, killing cockroaches multiple times a day, not knowing hardly a
soul…I hardly want to move again. But when I remember how quickly and
pleasantly we made new friends and established ourselves at work and in the
community, I feel a bit better about our impending move. K. and I meet and make
friends easily, we open our homes to people, we get involved. We also, I think,
search out people like ourselves, thinkers, doers, creative folks, etc. We
taste the local cuisine and patronize local businesses, preferring local over
chain whenever possible.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Many people both here and in New York look at us askance
when we say that we moved from New York to Tennessee. They all seem to be
thinking, “Why would you do that?” I remember having the same thought when I
met a woman in Maryland who was part-owner of a local business there but fondly
reminisced about her youth in New York City. “Why did you leave?” I asked her
aghast, my 23-year-old brain unable to comprehend why anyone would leave the
most amazing, creative, sociable, cutting-edge place in the world.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cdn.frontpagemag.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/New-York-City-Skyline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://cdn.frontpagemag.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/New-York-City-Skyline.jpg" height="200" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Awesome view of New York, which I also love.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
After living in Tennessee for ten months, however, I
think I have the answer. And that answer is, that creative and awesome people
are everywhere—and so are small-minded assholes.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
New Yorkers, after all, are notorious for believing they
live in “the best city in the world.” I was told multiple times while living
there a version of the following sentiment: Everything that is the best in the
world is here, so why leave or live anywhere else? or If it’s not in New York,
it doesn’t exist. But when I moved to Long Island, I encountered the same
attitude: Why go to New York City when we have so many amazing things here on
Long Island? </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
One of my favorite Long Island anecdotes is actually
K.’s. She went in for a check-up, and the doctor, a handsome man from the
South, was playing some classic jazz tunes on his in-office radio: Ella
Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, that type of thing. After he left, the nurse
helping out leaned over to K. and said, with a thick Long Island accent, “Can
you <i>believe</i> this <i>music? </i>I mean, what a hick!” We cackled and cackled over this
response later because, to us, it was obvious that this nurse was the hick;
what cultivated, cultured human being doesn’t like Louis Armstrong?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Case in point, hicks, or small-minded folks, are
everywhere. You don’t have to go to Tennessee or anywhere else a New Yorker
might consider “the boonies” or “flyover country” to find hicks. They are in
your backyard. They are the people who refuse to leave New York because “why
bother?” They are in New York City just as much as they are in the Tennessee
hills or in London or in China or in a village in Provence, Peru or Polynesia.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://mtv.mtvnimages.com/onair/jersey_shore/season_2/images/series_images//456x330.jpg?quality=0.85" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://mtv.mtvnimages.com/onair/jersey_shore/season_2/images/series_images//456x330.jpg?quality=0.85" height="231" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An asshole by any other name is still an asshole.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Conversely, there are also educated, questioning,
creative, curious, intellectual, fabulous, fashionable and free-thinking people
everywhere as well. Here in the wilds of the Upper Cumberland plateau, I have
had the pleasure of meeting writers, artists, philosophers, thinkers, poets,
actors, readers, vegans and vegetarians, organic gardeners, musicians and many
more category of open-minded, wordly people who, for one reason or another,
live here and not anywhere else.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Of course, it is a lot easier, perhaps, to find these
people in big cities. And cities also provide other kinds of built-in conveniences
like arts newspapers or LGBT publications, a plethora of organizations putting
together events constantly, maybe a wider variety of shops catering to your
person interests and needs. Still, I have found charming bookstores, comfy
cafes, enlightened conversation, and delicious local eats right here in my
proverbial backyard, along with the greenery, rolling hills, lakes and rivers
that make it clear to me why artists, thinkers and writers would choose to live
here rather than, say, Nashville. There a few more beautiful views than the
green hills and clear streams of our very own Putnam County here. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNCOwMW_UxFzp7fQ63bA3n2SiTQpAMIhb_DNDbyFB3J_nNdz0Wufnp5Vmt0QiMMeXZtNwOjrQ1tRIsDHkEEafDHlKjurd5GoH2K7Ho-YNQCMvYO7h36Aj5dRPaFU8Y4MD3irG1CRxtsg/s1600/IMG_1357.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNCOwMW_UxFzp7fQ63bA3n2SiTQpAMIhb_DNDbyFB3J_nNdz0Wufnp5Vmt0QiMMeXZtNwOjrQ1tRIsDHkEEafDHlKjurd5GoH2K7Ho-YNQCMvYO7h36Aj5dRPaFU8Y4MD3irG1CRxtsg/s1600/IMG_1357.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of Center Hill Lake last fall when we visited the Appalachian Center for Craft,<br />a satellite campus of Tech, where students can study weaving, blacksmithing & woodworking,<br />among other crafts. The public can take workshops there, too.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
When I tell people that I really will miss Cookeville and
our friends here, many of them seem doubtful. “Well,” they say, “You are just
good at finding the bright side of things.” And maybe that is true; but maybe
it is also true that there are good things to be found nearly everywhere.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLmuhx9bkYuA_ZCOd-pYdvdXOhY95D7mp3l1-eXCIDX8mvGG_9l4UY0SOfo8VwVvH8tj0ksGYDmk6fSs0kh7sSiZ4Hp-JJWzfuaWsrYMlbZKkxxyFvicd_b4QR7X1AMbaxr33RzKHsbT8/s1600/IMG_2549.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLmuhx9bkYuA_ZCOd-pYdvdXOhY95D7mp3l1-eXCIDX8mvGG_9l4UY0SOfo8VwVvH8tj0ksGYDmk6fSs0kh7sSiZ4Hp-JJWzfuaWsrYMlbZKkxxyFvicd_b4QR7X1AMbaxr33RzKHsbT8/s1600/IMG_2549.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cane Creek Park, on the western edge of town. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-85276992375543476692014-05-30T15:49:00.000-07:002014-05-30T15:49:12.585-07:00Backpacking in the Smokies; or, How I Almost Died Many Times in the Woods<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
OK, so maybe my subtitle is a little on the alarmist side….there
was probably never any real danger of my dying while hiking in the Smokies last
week, though spending even a night in a tent in a forest is generally enough to
give me the willies.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Why do we put ourselves through this? This question was
on my mind the whole time, starting, many weeks ago, when K. first suggested we
go backpacking in the Smokies when her sister L. and brother-in-law C. came to
visit. We’ll just find an “easy” or “moderate” trail, we’ll reserve our
backcountry campsites in the Smokies ahead of time, and we’ll pray it doesn’t
rain the whole time. Easy-peasy.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Backpacking is never an easy endeavor, however. First
off, choosing a trail without ever having walked it before can be treacherous.
You have to read the topo maps very carefully with an eye to elevations; you
have to research the trail online and see what previous people have reported. What
is “moderate” for some might be “treacherously exhausting” for others. Then you
have to figure out how to pack food that is a) light, b) doesn’t spoil, c) is
not disgusting, and d) can be eaten uncooked or cooked over a teeny tiny gas
stove. You also have to pack clothes for all kinds of weather (luckily in the
Smokies we don’t have to worry about snow in May, at least not at our
elevation), your tent, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, said stove & pots, a
pump to clean the river/lake water, emergency whistles & blankets, Swiss
army knife, toilet paper, camp spork…the list goes on and on.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It takes a lot of preparation to leave civilization!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We decided to hike around in the Lake Fontana area, which
is actually in North Carolina, though much of Great Smoky Mountains National
Park is actually in Tennessee. It sounded like it would be nice, with few other
campers to contend with. Plus, to get to the Hazel Creek Trail, we would be
taking a ferry—exciting! There would be lots of access to water and the weather
was promising. The ferry was a little expensive, so we figured we’d just hike
back to our car over the course of days 2 & 3. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Day 1 would be a “short” 5-mile hike to a campsite, day 2
would be backtracking plus an additional 4 miles to the next camp site, and day
five would be 5 miles. Sounded a little daunting to me (I kept thinking about
my first time backpacking when we went the wrong way down the AT and ended up
having to go up switchbacks and rock scrambles in the rain, camp in an
undesignated site, and backtrack the next day, during which I could barely move
because I was so sore), but K. assured me it was an easy-to-moderate trail.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Ride the Dragon</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Our first adventure happened on the way to the ferry. In
all our planning, we had never really looked closely at the roads we would be
driving to and from the Park. Of course, I think we knew, vaguely, we’d be
driving in the mountains, but compared to the Rockies, the Smokies seemed like
they should be relatively easy. We rented a car so we wouldn’t have to worry
about mechanical problems and set off. We were in a bit of a hurry to catch the
noon ferry and contending with losing an hour by crossing into Eastern Time
when we started seeing signs for the “Dragon.”</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
WTF is that? we said. Is that some not-so-subtle
reference to the KKK? There were lots of signs signaling twisty roads, but for
a while, nothing happened. We were gaining some elevation when we saw a
photographer sitting next to a car that had a big URL on it. They were taking
our photo! WTF srsly!? Then, around another turn, there was another
photographer, and a little further up the road, another. Suddenly, the road
turned into nothing but hairpin turns, one right after the other. I was
driving, which was good, since it meant I wasn’t getting carsick by all the
turning; it was bad, though, when suddenly I pushed down on the gas pedal and
nothing happened.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And I mean nothing. I pumped it and pumped it and still
nothing. The car slowed down to almost a stop as we went uphill around another
turn. There was a turnoff area just ahead—up the hill. We were all starting to
freak out when someone asked, “Is there gas?” I looked at the gas meter—E!
Totally and completely empty. In our rush to get to the ferry on time, combined
with the fact that it was a rental and had a different display that I wasn’t
used to, I had completely neglected to note where we were on gas. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
For a moment, I think we were all shaking. I mean—there
we were, on a curve, up a hill, with no gas, on a one-lane-each-way road
roaring with motorcyclists who were taking the curves like they were no biggie.
K.’s sister stood on the other side of the road to warn motorists of our
inanimate vehicle blocking the road, and luckily, for us, very quickly a
grizzled Vietnam Vet named Eddie pulled over and declared (after informing us
that we “can’t park here” and learning that we had run out of gas) that he
would help us. He drove a beat up sedan that had seen much better days, the
backseat of which was home to four fat Chihuahuas. Eddie himself looked like he
had seen better days, but he was friendly enough and his own volunteer spirit
encouraged 2 motorcyclists, both young men in their prime, to pull over and
help push our car up the hill to the pull off area. Afterwards, Eddie drove C.
to the nearest gas station and returned him with a gallon (they only had a 1
gallon canister!) and then followed to the gas station to make sure we got
there ok.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
At the gas station, we learned that we had been driving
on Route 129 AKA “The Tail of the Dragon.” Next to the parking lot stood a
chained dragon with a sign “The Dragon: 318 curves in 11 miles.” ‘Nuff said!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2tThIu5AHCwu5ZIEPEQWpiKXoanhP-dPMe-EPwGPbE1yO4hm_TmbqmpxAM-N9d5o9q-FDRyGvTr1qmYKcwC5dVhaFtaO30ak4qMbiI7_Az1rcRJ79LGtgpPfm71wH8nCApLb1IxLs6jo/s1600/IMG_0002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2tThIu5AHCwu5ZIEPEQWpiKXoanhP-dPMe-EPwGPbE1yO4hm_TmbqmpxAM-N9d5o9q-FDRyGvTr1qmYKcwC5dVhaFtaO30ak4qMbiI7_Az1rcRJ79LGtgpPfm71wH8nCApLb1IxLs6jo/s1600/IMG_0002.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Flora and Fauna</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Finally, with a full tank of over-priced gas, we arrived
at Lake Fontana Marina. We were able to take the later ferry, at 3pm, and
enjoyed a fried lunch at “The Pit Stop,” the only place around that seemed to
offer anything other than chips and trail mix. The ferry ride was lovely—cool breezes
and beautiful views of the lake made us all feel that the trip was worth it. We
were joined on the ferry by an older couple who were staying at the camp site
right next to the ferry landing—the one I had hoped we would end up staying at!
No such luck…we still had miles to go before we slept.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZBw9p7v_0YI8u_D0bSLfYb9GYgPYAb5S-wrDo8e34lUZSjjTY2jsJgYU-t4vvwYsBnLdNOFFnSJS8IdOvdse1zuxXyY-fwsvYZBzKpka0FhOipmF-YNuwDSAQHjbSc6e0np36i6C_wQ/s1600/IMG_0011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZBw9p7v_0YI8u_D0bSLfYb9GYgPYAb5S-wrDo8e34lUZSjjTY2jsJgYU-t4vvwYsBnLdNOFFnSJS8IdOvdse1zuxXyY-fwsvYZBzKpka0FhOipmF-YNuwDSAQHjbSc6e0np36i6C_wQ/s1600/IMG_0011.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view of the lake from the ferry.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The trail was an old road, so it was nice and wide,
shaded by trees on either side. It followed Hazel Creek, so the sound of the
rushing water filled our ears along with the chirping of birds and rustling of
leaves. It didn’t take long, though, for my pack to feel heavy. We stopped to
take some photos at a bridge, and K. declared she thought we might be more than
half way; when we checked the map, it turned out we were only a third of the
way to the campsite! It was a beautiful hike—but it was also hot and muggy and
our packs, it being the first day, were the heaviest they were ever going to
be. Somehow we managed to make it to the campsite, though for a little while I
seriously considered throwing my pack down and howling in frustration.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The evening and night passed without incident. We slept
to the sounds of the rushing creek after a long day of driving and hiking and
no bears or other fauna disturbed our slumber (though a deer approached our
campsite at one point). The next morning we had a leisurely breakfast and
reluctantly (on my part) left for the rest of our adventures. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1W-eudNYJswx6SxltSGIP3VSMgRK1V33o-AH6W5-NHX994H5edDRcTTudxQyx3EO8YjQR0NJh5LG_GZErTjJYMILiVmp99sZ09agda5mdo_4WrGQFReoY_kcy_a6mV9zlNbOlg-o-bY/s1600/IMG_0022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1W-eudNYJswx6SxltSGIP3VSMgRK1V33o-AH6W5-NHX994H5edDRcTTudxQyx3EO8YjQR0NJh5LG_GZErTjJYMILiVmp99sZ09agda5mdo_4WrGQFReoY_kcy_a6mV9zlNbOlg-o-bY/s1600/IMG_0022.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hazel Creek & the woods. Gorgeous.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Day 2 was our “hard” day: 10 miles in one day (it was
supposed to be 9 but it was more like 10). The first five were not so bad; the
trail was flat and even and a little downhill even. We stopped to have lunch by
an abandoned house, after which we stuck our overheated, rather battered feet
into the creek for a bit before packing up again—and heading straight for a
hill.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Well, maybe this hill is the only one, we said to each
other. It’ll probably even out—and it did, occasionally. For the most part, we
were climbing up and up—and it was tough. I’m not gonna sugarcoat it; that was
a hard day. We did get a little bit of an adrenaline jolt, however, when we saw
a gigantic rattlesnake on the trail!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
K., walking on the left side of the trail, passed by it
without even noticing. I, however, was walking on the right side of the trail
and spotted it when I was about 2 feet from it. I jumped backwards with a loud
shout—but not so loud that I didn’t hear its distinctive rattle, which gave me
goosebumps even in the heat.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It was a massive snake with big brown diamonds down its
thick body. It was at least as thick as my arm, if not thicker in the middle.
It slithered to the right, off the trail, but not before giving us a warning look
and rattling its tail a bit more. We didn’t need to be told twice though! No
stopping to take photos here—it was time to book it up the trail. And we did,
only to spent the next hour debating what we would have done if one of us had
had the misfortune to get bitten—especially given that we were in the middle of
nowhere on the trail and hadn’t seen a single soul since lunch.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Luckily, that didn’t happen. Instead, slowly but surely
we made it finally to the next campsite, which was practically on the banks of
one of the inlets of the lake. It was beautiful there, though we made sure to
set up camp and eat dinner in a more timely fashion than the day before. And a
good thing we did, because somewhere around 8:30, the sky clouded over, the
wind picked up and we felt a couple of rain drops. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtlH3BWTiutZFQNrx6LH3O1v8sjJRMGsAcr3utUcz5GD6AViNzQgc0qysg9jfwDCaHpg-rpnzexA3h57LHffbzPsDPbbcUeoLRk-uDrLFanMhxL4bRi0OnIroMVSeloogs6eIoBu5u3vY/s1600/IMG_0040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtlH3BWTiutZFQNrx6LH3O1v8sjJRMGsAcr3utUcz5GD6AViNzQgc0qysg9jfwDCaHpg-rpnzexA3h57LHffbzPsDPbbcUeoLRk-uDrLFanMhxL4bRi0OnIroMVSeloogs6eIoBu5u3vY/s1600/IMG_0040.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of the lake from our campsite.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
After a moment, they stopped, and all of us crossed our
fingers that maybe Mother Nature was just faking us out. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
No such luck. Fifteen minutes later, we heard a crack of
thunder and a lightening flash. We started cleaning up a bit faster, but the
food still needed to be hung up out of the reach of the bears. Moments later,
big, fat raindrops began to splatter all around us—and on us—and most of us, except
C., ran for cover in the tents. I got in just as the heavens ripped open and
sent forth a fury of rain. K. joined me in the tent moments later, already half
soaked. We pulled everything we could into the tent and hoped the rain fly
would hold.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We heard C. running around in the rain for a while,
hanging the food and securing our stuff, and then there was just the sound of
the rain and thunder and lightening. I had already changed into pjs, which is a
good thing, because changing clothes in a backpacking tent is pretty much only
achievable in a horizontal position. K. changed, and we lay down—there was not
much else we could do. It was about nine pm. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The rain raged on and on. After a while, I noticed that
the sides of the tent <i>inside the tent</i>
were went with rain drops. We pulled out our trusty camp towel and dried off
what we could. It was just rain that had come up under the fly and gotten in
through the mesh of the tent.We managed to stay dry, but the rain never let up.
When it became apparent, though, that our rain fly was solid and we were not,
as I feared, going to get hit by lightening or float away on a rivulet or rain
water, we just went to sleep. At 9:30pm. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The next day, we woke up to a very wet world. The
campsite next to ours was also occupied. The people next door had been on a
boat on the way to the campsite when the storm had started! K. and the others
claimed to have heard them arriving (and setting up camp in the rain) the night
before, but I had apparently slept through it. In any case, we cleaned off what
we could and set off, noting with some dismay that it was 5.6 miles to the Lake
Fontana Dam—not 5. At this point, all our feet were sore, our shoulders were
sore, our packs were wet, and L. had twisted her ankle the day before. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We didn’t have any cell reception, either, so we couldn’t
call the marina to pick us up by ferry; we’d just have to walk, a prospect I
didn’t particularly relish.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Trail’s End; or, OMG We made it!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The trail the 3<sup>rd</sup> day wasn’t as hard as the
second half of day 2, but we were definitely tired and sore and moving slowly.
Oddly, I seemed to have finally found my rhythm on day 3—figures it wouldn’t
happen until the last day. Not that it was an easy day—the trail constantly
dipped down and then pushed us back up. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I often wonder how it is I can work out, go for runs and
play derby and still get winded going up hill, but I do. I don’t like hills and
they don’t like me. But slow and steady wins the race—or so I think to make
myself feel better.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Unfortunately, we were going pretty slow—and we didn’t
have any lunch packed. I don’t know if we forgot it or if we thought we’d be
back by lunchtime, but we had to make do with granola bars and trail mix. Funny
enough, I’m not very hungry at all while hiking with a pack on—it doesn’t
usually hit me until I’m resting, so I was ok.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
After 2 days of hiking and not seeing any other hikers,
we finally ran into some hikers—or should I say, horseback-riders. They
informed us that we were getting close to the trail head. Then we passed a
couple hiking (with nothing to drink on this sweltering day but a bottle of
Coke!) who said they had only been hiking for about 10 minutes. Of course, they
had been going downhill, with no packs, so it took us probably another half an
hour to get to the trail head—but we made it! The line of cars in the parking
lot was a welcome sight.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggk-Zm1hFLwqOyl-K2sBQsbhC60W7C7EPpSMPuipA42eABFt-ZVZD3gEp5HW9kqm8kzmvOhZzsWvs-VlPFApLJNZv-LBT2mMCVlFxzBQFRmk9IbpoXIwXdtuHjgLOLFt5ZU1KaOYMtPVI/s1600/IMG_0038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggk-Zm1hFLwqOyl-K2sBQsbhC60W7C7EPpSMPuipA42eABFt-ZVZD3gEp5HW9kqm8kzmvOhZzsWvs-VlPFApLJNZv-LBT2mMCVlFxzBQFRmk9IbpoXIwXdtuHjgLOLFt5ZU1KaOYMtPVI/s1600/IMG_0038.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We also saw tons and tons of moutain laurel along the way. Pwetty.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
By then, L.’s ankle was swelling and she was tired, and,
frankly, we were all about ready take our feet off, eat a horse, drink a lake
(of beer…), and sit in some air conditioning. So, when the couple from the
trail showed up, we coerced them gently into giving K. and C. a ride to our car
at the marina. And thank goodness—I don’t know if I could have walked another
1.5 miles to the car! (Somewhere along the line, our counting of the miles on
the trail got off…not in our favor, either.)</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The Wonders of Modern Civilization</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
When we got back into the car, I could hardly believe how
good the air conditioning felt. When we got to the dam and used the public
restrooms, they seemed like the most amazing thing—which, after doing it in the
woods for 3 days, it kind of was. It’s astounding how quickly living without
the comforts of civilization loses its novelty. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That’s not to say that sleeping, eating, and hiking in
the woods don’t have their charms (though admittedly shitting in the woods is
never charming). The woods were beautiful, and we pretty much had them all to
ourselves for 2 days. It’s frightening to think that if something happened out
there, there would be no one (and no cell coverage) around. But isolation and
quiet can also be restful and beautiful, and we certainly got big doses of
those out in the Smokies.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Overall though, after that trip, I am soooo thankful for
all the comforts of modern civilization…and not dying on a mountain in the
Smokies.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-x2XZC88U-SpCKOMuL5vvunJl0e2pqWtzhyfCjMNq4Xg7uijZZiVy1lUqOojS86L5YYGkiq7wXYl6-7GAebRc4tZPQyrcSvoGIFzCbG-1wRC16T0a-g2RGgO-MnCOmyPl9nRwccwJ9nY/s1600/IMG_0066.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-x2XZC88U-SpCKOMuL5vvunJl0e2pqWtzhyfCjMNq4Xg7uijZZiVy1lUqOojS86L5YYGkiq7wXYl6-7GAebRc4tZPQyrcSvoGIFzCbG-1wRC16T0a-g2RGgO-MnCOmyPl9nRwccwJ9nY/s1600/IMG_0066.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of the Smokies on the Cherohala Skyway on our way to Chattanooga for more civilized adventures.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-59995182084142456992014-04-21T10:09:00.000-07:002014-04-21T10:09:50.235-07:00It’s a Dog’s Life<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Last week, our dog died. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It was a rough week, to say the least. Our nine-month-old
puppy Bingley died quite suddenly, after a week of being mysteriously ill. He
progressively got weaker and weaker, had trouble getting up and lying down, and
seemed to be constantly in pain. Our vet and his colleagues were mystified, as
were we. It was harrowing to watch our lovely Golden Retriever, who had been so
lively, rambunctious, and playful, start acting like a dog ten years his age
with an advanced case of arthritis. After only a couple days of being ill, we
realized that we might have to put him to sleep, which only increased our
distress. We ended up not having to put him to sleep, because he died before we
could get him to the vet last Monday. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Last Monday was one of the most painful days in my life.
For people who have never had a dog, this might sound strange. For a long time,
I was one of those people—a dog-free person. I had always liked the idea of a
dog, but I’d never had the chance to own one. I grew up dog-free, as my father
was adamantly against having a dog or a cat in the house. While I longed for a
cat or a dog, until I had my own, I didn’t quite understand how people grieved
over the death of their pet. Until you are a pet owner, you don’t really
understand how animals affect our lives.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
K. and I adopted Calliope in 2010 when my desire for a
pet reached a fever pitch. She was a kitten and utterly adorable and kooky.
Everything she did was delightful. I was genuinely surprised to notice that she
had facial expressions, that she could look bored one minute and alert or
playful the next. She would come down the stairs in our apartment on Long
Island to greet us when we got home. If I was in one room and K. was in
another, she would frequently nap in between the two rooms, as if trying to
share her presence with both of us (or guarding us in case we unexpectedly
decided to feed her, I suppose). There was nothing better than when she would
deign to come and sit on my lap while I read and nothing worse than when she
got occasionally sick. The thought of having to put her down would immediately
sicken me and raise a lump in my throat.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I had a similar experience with Bingley, though in some
ways, getting used to having a dog was a much larger hurdle than a cat. Except
for the nighttime crazies that occasionally caused Calliope to wake us up
repeatedly in the middle of the night, her behavior and habits were easy to get
used to. When we got Bingley in September, it was a whole different ball game.
Bingley was a puppy, only eight weeks old, and he seemed like a being from another
planet. People warned us that a puppy was
a lot of work, but I thought if I prepared myself mentally, it wouldn’t be a
big deal. I was wrong!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKaDBHTrs5GT-N66AQqb93VS-22kBxIDQtQuK1ZVRTfu02QESHsxrAuTFVF-a8HJeQ18nA3xDRh3uMvUZ7w_S_Tv6OR7qQdU_rl79a2mamR__jQLtsFy3BLyif2-vnp3xZX4y4ysZs6v8/s1600/IMG_0889.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKaDBHTrs5GT-N66AQqb93VS-22kBxIDQtQuK1ZVRTfu02QESHsxrAuTFVF-a8HJeQ18nA3xDRh3uMvUZ7w_S_Tv6OR7qQdU_rl79a2mamR__jQLtsFy3BLyif2-vnp3xZX4y4ysZs6v8/s1600/IMG_0889.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At first, Calliope and Bingley did not get along.<br />
Gradually, they struck up a tentative detente.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
After one week with Bingley, K. and I wondered if we’d
made a mistake. This was a <i>lot </i>of
work. It was a lot of work, and despite his cuteness, sometimes it felt like
there was little payoff. Puppies that small don’t really relate yet to humans;
they are still more attached to their siblings than their owners. Part of
socializing a puppy is making him aware of humans and their responsibility
towards loving those humans. Gradually, Bingley figured this out and became
more interested in us. He also got house-trained and learned (sort of) how to
walk on a leash. As he grew, he only got handsomer, his fur got softer, and,
with some puppy obedience courses, learned how to sit, lie down, shake, and
stay.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl42Q66m4LWILYzSWkIKERNuDWk3lyGHZ41F68UechGXcIjL9a6jyR2EejPZGV6at-XzmWI8ZcI6BNF_KOzCAuahn9Xb9ySpgaKWi38rfT2wZ3r3wz6yk_emMH0TyNvOGMJIi7EyMwQ4s/s1600/IMG_0905.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl42Q66m4LWILYzSWkIKERNuDWk3lyGHZ41F68UechGXcIjL9a6jyR2EejPZGV6at-XzmWI8ZcI6BNF_KOzCAuahn9Xb9ySpgaKWi38rfT2wZ3r3wz6yk_emMH0TyNvOGMJIi7EyMwQ4s/s1600/IMG_0905.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tiny Bingley pup at 10 weeks!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Even more so than Calliope, Bingley could imitate human
expressions. Apparently, this is something dogs learn to do by watching us.
Dogs have been living with humans for many more thousands of years than cats,
and they have evolved to be human-oriented. They can read our faces and
expressions, they can follow a finger to where you are pointing (a cat will
just keep looking at your finger), and they want to please you. Bingley, being
a Golden, had this last quality in spades. He was still a puppy, so naturally
he goofed off a lot, but he really did want to please us. And he could
manipulate us a little, too. He had eyebrows he could move up or down to look
sad, confused, hopeful, and happy. He could move his ears to look alert,
relaxed or playful. I swear, he could even smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Any of this stuff sounds like hocus pocus if you are not
a dog person. Until you live with a dog, you can’t understand what us dog
owners are talking about. But once you have a dog, you create a dog-shaped
space in your life and in your heart, and you start loving other people’s dogs,
too. You start to appreciate the animal-human bond that enhances so many of our
lives. Even going to the zoo or seeing animals in nature has taken on a new
vibrancy for me. Suddenly, these animals seem more alive and more important to
me than before I had a cat or a dog. My childhood pets (2 somewhat boring
guinea pigs) could not prepare me for the love I would gain for animals once I
had Calliope and Bingley.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
When Bingley was sick, Calliope started acting funny.
First, she didn’t seem to realize that anything was wrong; instead, she noticed
that Bingley no longer chased her if she tried to drink from his water bowl, so
she started drinking from it. But when he got a little sicker and it was more
obvious that he was in pain, Calliope starting acting anxious too. She kept
approaching him, as if waiting for him to start playing with her. If he started
whimpering at night, she would race around the house or jump on K. to wake her
up. She could sense something was wrong; she was not just some dumb animal.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Of course, both she and Bingley are “dumb” in the sense
that they can’t speak to us in words. One of the most frustrating things about
Bingley’s illness was that he couldn’t tell us how he felt, where it hurt, or
when it had started hurting. He could look into our eyes, but we could only
guess what he would tell us if he could speak. Sometimes, I think that because
animals can’t speak, we underestimate them. Maybe everyone should be a pet
owner at some point, because it teaches us humility: just because a being
cannot speak, doesn’t mean it can’t communicate, teach us something, or enhance
our lives.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Despite all my initial fears when we first got Bingley
and the little daily frustrations about how many toys and doormats he destroyed
with his voracious chewing abilities or the cost of boarding him when we
traveled, there is no doubt that Bingley enhanced our lives. He made me get out
of the house in the mornings even when it was 20 degrees out, because I wanted
him to have his daily walk. He encouraged me to go for more walks and hikes. He
allowed me to be friendly to strangers. He helped me make friends. He showed me
that I had infinite amounts of love to give. When he died, I felt like a part
of me died, because he had changed me and my life so much for the better.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
He was my first dog, but I don’t think he’ll be my last.
I’ll always remember him, but now that I have a dog-shaped space in my life, I
don’t think I can manage to stay dog-less for long. Now that I’m a “dog person,”
being without a dog doesn’t make me feel dog-free; it makes me feel dog-less: I’m
somehow less for being without a dog. </div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
RIP Bingley: July 17, 2013 – April 14, 2014. You were a
good dog, and you will be missed.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1MvqqVIiYcr4z3Fm6Mo-4cN66iYljROolWQ56B71x4rxxa6DzmnAsnkKWUubudI0M9rE_FsjHuU9cqQHpty0kvCyWWtgw-dB_7zJFFLiSOD7BJ6hP37GHT61aouJDnDS0JUUcbOvk45M/s1600/IMG_2224.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1MvqqVIiYcr4z3Fm6Mo-4cN66iYljROolWQ56B71x4rxxa6DzmnAsnkKWUubudI0M9rE_FsjHuU9cqQHpty0kvCyWWtgw-dB_7zJFFLiSOD7BJ6hP37GHT61aouJDnDS0JUUcbOvk45M/s1600/IMG_2224.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our happy pup, the day before he started getting sick.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-45186952668102938032014-02-26T13:16:00.001-08:002014-02-26T13:16:48.343-08:00Heart of Darkness: The Musical!<a href="http://heathersthemusical.com/assets/images/logo-fb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://heathersthemusical.com/assets/images/logo-fb.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>It seems lately that just about any book or movie is fodder for musicals. Recently, I heard that the 80s black comedy <i>Heathers</i>, starring Winona Ryder and Christian Slater, has become a musical as well as boxing movie <i>Rocky</i>.<br />
<br />
<i>Heathers</i>? <i>Rocky</i>? Really???? Why!? Are we really so creatively bankrupt that instead of writing new musicals, we can only convert other cultural artifacts into slightly-altered new ones, full of badly-timed song-and-dance routines? And who decides what books or movies would make a good musical? It sounds to me like some of these people come up with ideas when they are either high or drunk.<br />
<br />
For example, who would ever have thought that Alice Walker's novel <i>The Color Purple</i>, in which rape is a major theme, would make a good musical? You'd pretty much <i>have </i>to be drunk or high to come up with that. Yet, apparently, it <i>did </i> make a good musical, so successful, in fact, that it is on national tour right now.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, it is an Oprah production, so perhaps its success was a foregone conclusion.<br />
<br />
These weird choices for musicals make me wonder what other completely inappropriate, weird, or bonkers texts we could change into lucrative, big budget Broadway musicals with the added perk of completely draining the original of meaning and/or converting something odd and original into something shiny, polished and big-budget...<br />
<br />
How about, for example, <i>Heart of Darkness: The Musical!,</i> featuring catchy tunes like "Mastuh Kurtz, He Dead" and "The Horror! The Horror!"?<br />
<br />
We could then follow up that bouncy production with a thematically-appropriate follow up, <i>Apocalypse Now: The Musical! </i>We'll have people humming, "I love the smell of Napalm in the morning" quicker than you can say "South Pacific" three times fast.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://media.giphy.com/media/yAj1R2XExILo4/giphy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://media.giphy.com/media/yAj1R2XExILo4/giphy.gif" height="135" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Now that I think about it, <i>As I Lay Dying</i> is just waiting to be converted to a musical, starring James Franco, of course. He ruined the movie adaptation...why not ruin the musical, too?<br />
<br />
But these are only books...what about movies? <i>Heathers</i> and <i>Rocky</i> and <i>Clueless</i> (yes, <a href="http://perezhilton.com/2012-11-03-clueless-musical-broadway-amy-heckerling-reveals-plans" target="_blank">apparently also becoming a musical</a>...though that one I would actually agree to see) were all movies first. So maybe movies are a more appropriate genre to adapt to the musical genre.<br />
<br />
We could have, for example,<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Schindler's List: The Musical! </i>(lots of opportunities for big group numbers)<br />
<i>The English Patient: The Musical!</i> (what a great dance number the cutting off the thumb scene would make!)<br />
<i>The Shining: The Musical!</i> (with memorable tunes like "All Work and No Play Makes Jack a Dull Boy")<br />
<i>Naked Lunch: The Musical! </i>(I'll let your imagination run wild with that one...)<br />
<br />
...and the list could go on and on. Virtually anything could become a musical. I mean, why not take memorable commercial personalities and let them get in on the action? We could have <i>Geico Gecko: The Musical! Flo, the Progressive Girl: The Musical! </i>or<i> Eat Mor Chiken: The Chik-Fil-A Cows Musical! </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Hilarity ensues.<br />
<i><br /></i>
This is only the tip of the iceberg. I'm chock-a-block full of these ideas...if any Broadway producers would like to hire me, just send my secretary an email. I'be happy to suggest more if you ever run out of ideas...<br />
<br />
...after all, there's no horror in making money...is there?<br />
<br />
--UKKK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-71969743632715545342014-02-12T09:14:00.001-08:002014-02-12T09:14:02.694-08:00Oh, Oscar! 2014 Edition<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It’s less than 3 weeks until the Oscars, and I’m working
down the list of nominated films. Well, to be completely truthful, I’m working
down the list of the ones I’ve been wanting to see or at least curious to see. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br />
I will fully admit that there are some films I refuse to see, among them
<i>Captain Phillips</i> and <i>12 Years a Slave</i>, both nominated for Best Picture. Both of
these movies focus on the survival of one man against circumstances out of his
control. They also embody classic narrative tropes: Man versus Himself; Man
versus Other, Man versus Society (emphasis on <i>man)</i>. I have never been a fan of
survivalist stories, especially ones that are so blatantly masculinist, so I’m
not going to torture myself with those two...Aside from the fact that every review of <i>12 Years a Slave</i> harps on how the movie borders on torture porn...</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I also admit, I haven’t gotten around yet to seeing
<i>Nebraska </i>and <i>Gravity</i>. But they are on my list! Hope to get to them before Oscar
night on March 2nd.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I have, however, managed to see quite a few of the
nominated films for this year, and I have for you here my undiluted opinion for
your reading and watching pleasure in order from the ones I enjoyed the least to the ones I enjoyed the most.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Note: there may be spoilers, but I’ve
tried to keep them to information you can readily glean from a theatrical
trailer or watching the Golden Globes.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://g.foolcdn.com/editorial/images/92906/wolf_of_wall_street_ver3_xlg_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://g.foolcdn.com/editorial/images/92906/wolf_of_wall_street_ver3_xlg_large.jpg" height="200" width="135" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The most impressive part of the<br />filmmaking in this movie is<br />undoubtedly the many insanely<br />orchestrated crowd scenes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>The Wolf of Wall Street</i>: Exactly what everyone has said
about it. It has been jokingly called “douche porn”and that really sums it up. I won’t even get into the issues of sexism and women in this movie, as many other articles, including <a href="http://america.aljazeera.com/opinions/2014/2/wolf-of-wall-streetmalegaze.html" target="_blank">this one from Al Jazeera </a>(complete with a discussion
of the male gaze and Laura Mulvey) have already done it. Aside from everything
else, at the very least Mr. Scorsese should invest in a better editor. This
film would probably be quite funny and really live up to its generic convention
as a black comedy if it fit into 2hrs. At 3, it is simply boring--and that
saying a lot, given how much glitz, glamour and blow jobs this movie throws in
our face. And yes, Jonah Hill’s prosthetic penis is really lame.</div>
<br />
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<i>Philomena</i>: I think I wanted to like this film a lot more
than I did. Admittedly, it a “small” film, especially compared to a lot
of other ambitious Oscar movies and thus hard to compare to them, but that isn't usually enough for me to discount a film. Judi Dench is
pretty much brilliant in everything she does, though I’m not sure why she had
to have a (kind of lame) Irish accent for this movie. She and Steve Coogan play off each other well, and the film is both deep and touching. Unfortunately, the film is dogged by typical English anti-Catholic sentiments that have cropped up in a lot of films from the last ten years. Yes, Catholics are creepy, you
have already proved this to us in <i>Elizabeth: The Golden Age</i>, <i>Prince Caspian</i>,
and <i>Brideshead Revisited.</i> Let’s find another theme to harp on, ok?</div>
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<i>August: Osage County:</i> Lot of hype about this movie &
the cast, and it contains another powerhouse over-60 actress, Meryl Streep.
Like Dame Judy Dench, Meryl Streep is really amazing. She just blends into
whatever role she plays with complete self-effacement. I'm not rea`lly sure why she was nominated in the leading category and Julia Roberts was nominated in the supporting category, as they should obviously be reversed. Loved the photography, though I admit it was jarring to see these actresses looking so terrible (lighting is everything and apparently Oklahoma doesn't have good lighting.) Why they couldn’t find American actors to play the male parts, I don’t
quite understand, but the film is really mostly about the female characters, so
I suppose we can give it a pass. (NB: Benedict Cumberbatch does a passably good
Southern accent...Ewan MacGregor still can’t fake a passable American accent of
any kind.) Overall fairly good, but not the kind of movie I would want to watch
again.</div>
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Her:</i> <i>Her</i> is a fascinating film for a variety of reasons:
Joaquin Phoenix’s mustache, high-waisted tweed pants, and Scarlett Johanssen’s
voice being among those reasons. More to the point, the film successfully
manages to convince us that a relationship between a computer and a person can
be as fascinating, complex and original (or even sexy) as one between two humans. The idea,
of course, is nothing new, though the lack of <i>body</i> is perhaps the most
original twist the film brings to the concept. Melancholy and touching, it’s
worth a viewing, even if it wasn’t my fave film of the year.</div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.filmequals.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/her-movie-photo-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.filmequals.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/her-movie-photo-11.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Added bonus: bizarre cameo by Olivia Wilde.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.out.com/sites/out.com/files/DALLAS-BUYERS-CLUB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.out.com/sites/out.com/files/DALLAS-BUYERS-CLUB.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Indeed, who <i>would </i>have thought, ten years ago, that<br />these two would be nominated for acting Oscars? <br />And that they will be totally deserved?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Dallas Buyers Club</i>: A film definitely worth watching first and foremost for the acting. Much has been made of the body transformations
of Matthew McConaughey and Jared Leto, who lost 80 and 60 pounds respectively
to play their roles as AIDS-infected men in the 1980s in Dallas, TX. Their
performances are what make this film so great. The story
is interesting but not earth-shattering, and it’s told in a fairly conventional "this is a true story" kind of way, though I concede that it does reveal a side of the 80s AIDS epidemic that probably many people are not familiar with. The film mis-casts Jennifer Gardiner as a doctor (totally unbelievable),
but she doesn’t ruin the film, which manages to be both touching, original,
funny and heart-breaking by turns.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://img2.timeinc.net/ew/i/2013/07/10/BLUE-JASMINE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://img2.timeinc.net/ew/i/2013/07/10/BLUE-JASMINE.jpg" height="198" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So. Amazing.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Blue Jasmine</i>: This film is <i>not </i>nominated for Best Picture
(gigantic oversight), but Cate Blanchett and Sally Hawkins are both nominated for acting categories. If Cate Blanchette doesn’t win this year, I might finally have to start boycotting the Oscars for real. She is spectacular as the Blanche-esque character in this Woody Allen loose remake of <i>A
Streetcar Named Desire</i>. She IS Jasmine and her performance, along with those of
Sally Hawkins and even Peter Saarsgaard, are brilliant. The colors of the film,
the style of it, as well as the screenplay are well put together, but in the
end, it is Blanchett and, no doubt, Allen’s directing, that make this film
so excellent. Just watching Blanchett's character lose her shit in a key scene is enough to illustrate her amazing acting abilities. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>American Hustle:</i> By far my favorite Oscar-nom movie this year and
one of the best movies to come out of the Hollywood machine in a while. The
film-making borders on the virtuosic. Everything feels perfectly timed, planned
out, and put on screen nearly effortlessly. It helps, of course, that David O.
Russell’s film is able to draw so wonderfully on the clothing, hairstyles, and music of the 1970s to help illustrate his film. The wonder is that the glitz
of it all doesn’t overwhelm the film and distract from brilliant performances
by a slew of actors: Christian Bale, Amy Adams, Jennifer Lawrence,
Bradley Cooper, and Jeremy Renner, as well as Robert DeNiro, who manages to make
an impression in just a five-minute cameo. The plotting is complex
but never complicated and the screenplay is dazzling. From the hilarity of
Lawrence as an unhappy wife (pay no attention to her dodgy Queen-esque accent)
to the surreal beauty of Adams and Cooper dancing in a 70s style discotheque,
this movie is one I will be watching far into the future.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://myreelpov.files.wordpress.com/2014/01/american-hustle-poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://myreelpov.files.wordpress.com/2014/01/american-hustle-poster.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why can't every movie be this good?<br />The soundtrack is pretty amazing, too.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-27664932327279776322014-01-25T12:25:00.003-08:002014-01-25T12:26:46.380-08:00Practice Makes Perfect: Derby Edition<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1RvNuqCbNzJml_DU9vI8UfyO7rD815XIPHMYwKkqKAfn0IHKSM4dxe4uYxa65ANslkUZSVSmecfBCNUBXnY5blXIEhlunEQec5oz_W5Qcj524NSUODW6uBYP3TzOatRhTy5eOuUHNBR8/s1600/IMG_1263.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1RvNuqCbNzJml_DU9vI8UfyO7rD815XIPHMYwKkqKAfn0IHKSM4dxe4uYxa65ANslkUZSVSmecfBCNUBXnY5blXIEhlunEQec5oz_W5Qcj524NSUODW6uBYP3TzOatRhTy5eOuUHNBR8/s1600/IMG_1263.JPG" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me in all my derby gear<br />
about 2 months after joining<br />
SIDR.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It seems fitting, a week before
my first ever bout, to reflect a little on my time so far in roller derby. It’s
hard to believe that come June, I will have been doing roller derby for <i>two years</i>. Two and a half years ago, K.
and I bought our gear, sight unseen, from the internet, strapped it all one,
and hobbled around an empty parking lot on Long Island. I thought I was going
to die. I had figured that since I had skated all throughout my childhood and
into my teen years, it would be a snap to get back in the groove. But I was
woefully mistaken. It took several weeks to feel comfortable on skates and even
longer to do things like cross-overs without thinking about them overly much.
But we persisted, and, eventually, we started driving out to roller rinks on
Long Island to practice surrounded by people. It was at one of these rinks that
we were approached by members of a derby league, who invited us to come to a
practice.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I won’t lie; we almost didn’t
make it to the first practice. The two of us stood there in the parking lot
outside and debated whether or not to go in. Luckily, we didn’t get back in the
car and drive away! Instead, we went inside and participated in our first
practice. It didn’t take long before we were hooked. That’s not to say that
there weren’t moments when I wanted to quit, or I felt like I wasn’t advancing
quickly enough. It can be hard being on a big team, knowing that there are so
many people who are better than you, feeling like you’re never going to get
good enough to play as well as the girls who play <i>really well</i>. I knew pretty soon into joining derby that my goal was
not to be the best ever derby player. My goal was simply to be the best derby
player <i>I </i>could be. Sometimes that’s
hard, because it’s easier to stay home and watch Netflix rather than go out on
a cold night to derby practice. It’s easier to surf the internet in the comfort
of one’s home than to go out to fundraisers, meetings, and other derby-related
events. Even at practice, it’s easier to shy away from difficult jumps,
strategies or activities and just tell yourself, “Well, I don’t need to be a
superstar or anything. I’m just here for the workout.” </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.rollerderbyfoundation.org/sitebuildercontent/sitebuilderpictures/53Barcelona.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.rollerderbyfoundation.org/sitebuildercontent/sitebuilderpictures/53Barcelona.jpg" height="320" width="218" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Badass roller derby dames from the past <br />
are an inspiration, too.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But that is just where derby is
able to teach you a lot about yourself. Through derby, I have learned how much
you can improve when you practice. I thought I had learned this lesson already.
After all, I played the piano for eight years (by the end, I could by <i>Claire de Lune</i> from memory); I learned
Spanish, Italian and Russian in high school and college enough that I can have
a conversation with someone in each of those languages beyond the simple
pleasantries; and I have most certainly become a better teacher over the last
eight years of practicing. But I have never really been into sports. I enjoy
watching the Olympics, the Super Bowl, and the World Cup, and I like playing
things like pool, croquet or minigolf, but I’ve never been one for joining a
team. I found it intimidating; I always thought to myself: well, I’m not good
enough to join x team. I don’t think I ever realized that most people join a
sports team not really knowing how to play the sport, instead expecting to get
better at it with practice.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Derby has shown me just how much
I can achieve with my body with some practice. Things that seemed impossibly
difficult when I first joined derby—doing a turn-around toe stop, for example,
or skating on just my back wheels—have become easy. That doesn’t mean that I
never fuck them up. Because I definitely do. But it means that I have come to
master them to a certain extent, and I can keep on learning and mastering new
skills. All it takes is practice.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The same is undoubtedly true of
playing the actual game of derby. Derby is a mental sport as much as a physical
one, and it’s “mental” in two ways. The first one is what I’ve already
outlined: most of us feel we can’t do something, so we don’t do it. Someone
says, “Jump over this garbage can, turned on its side,” and we say, “I can’t do
that. It’s impossible.” So you try to do it, and you fuck it up and sprawl out,
belly flopping onto the ground. But if you keep trying, you’ll do it. The other
way that derby is a mental game is that there is a lot of strategy. A lot is
happening on the track when you’re out there playing, whether it’s against your
own teammates, or girls from another team. You have to keep your wits about you
and learn to keep track of many things that are happening on the track at the
same time. In this way, I’m sure derby is like a lot of team sports that involve
contact, whether it is intrinsic to the game (like football) or incidental
(like soccer or basketball). It takes some getting used to. In this respect,
however, practice also makes you better. The first time I scrimmaged, I had no
clue what was happening around me. I tried to pay attention to my pivot (the
blocker on my team giving the rest of us blockers directions), but I got
distracted by trying to help our jammer (the point-scorer) get through the
pack. I was so singularly focused on this one objective, that I didn’t hear my
teammates both on and off the track yelling my name. Since then, I have
improved a lot; I’m not perfect, but I’m a hell of a lot more aware on the
track of what is happening around me. There is only one way, really, to get
better at playing the game of derby, and that is to play it, in a bout, in
front of a live audience.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJg7GuLXuKLTLzMt9hpJSml2-VKpg2NY2ABt2BLsGdBlP6gOJppwdLsTQ96Wv45qaEmUyFjqQnmFzJR8ODoUae3H5XNSO2SO4e8ONjac-E99Sv6jkq9quMK67aWc3LLJ53-CtqK1YmhEc/s400/derby_DSC0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJg7GuLXuKLTLzMt9hpJSml2-VKpg2NY2ABt2BLsGdBlP6gOJppwdLsTQ96Wv45qaEmUyFjqQnmFzJR8ODoUae3H5XNSO2SO4e8ONjac-E99Sv6jkq9quMK67aWc3LLJ53-CtqK1YmhEc/s400/derby_DSC0007.jpg" height="256" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Will I ever be able to jump as high & far as Quadzilla?<br />
Maybe not....or maybe yes?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">In one week, I will have my
baptism by fire: I’ll finally be in my first bout. Unlike the bouts I was
supposed to be in with my league on Long Island, which I had to bow out of due
to injury and food poisoning, respectively, this bout will not be a charity
bout in which one of half of the league plays against an equally-matched
opposing team from our league. Instead, we are traveling to another city, to play
a whole different league—one known for playing a tad, uh, aggressively. I have
to remind myself, though, that it’s just another mental game. And the more
bouts I play, the better I will get at bouting. A lot of girls beat themselves
up over their performance on the track, both in games and at practice, and I’m
trying not to be like that. I’m trying to be positive. No matter what happens,
I will put forth my best effort, put on my nicest fishnets, and I will play
like a beast. I’m not fresh meat anymore, but I’m not a seasoned player either.
Next Saturday, let the seasoning begin.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
--UK</div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-57517820271171713692013-11-24T10:17:00.002-08:002013-11-24T10:17:37.302-08:0010 Random Thoughts After Watching Dirty Dancing in Your 30s<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Recently re-watched that classic 80s movie, <i>Dirty Dancing</i>. I guess it was a lot
longer since I’d watched it than I originally thought, because I feel like I
remembered next to nothing about it, except the abortion. Hence, random
thoughts. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHPUBZUuxIztgf79gqCyD03H5psyWCTQ0yUgRhh03Bn0NtRJ0qHQITHKF5gxr29FzJMINvfTOPbGnVgkDbGcDBlvLcQaHQilzkMj1Q75trxqivJ-YN_WKF1IZfv0a-j9l4nEr3KRJ_6BA/s1600/dirty-dancing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHPUBZUuxIztgf79gqCyD03H5psyWCTQ0yUgRhh03Bn0NtRJ0qHQITHKF5gxr29FzJMINvfTOPbGnVgkDbGcDBlvLcQaHQilzkMj1Q75trxqivJ-YN_WKF1IZfv0a-j9l4nEr3KRJ_6BA/s1600/dirty-dancing.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
10. The phrase <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypKSbnYOrwE" target="_blank">“Nobody puts Baby in the corner”</a> actually
doesn’t make sense in the context of the movie.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
9. Patrick Swayze was 35 in that movie…I am almost that
old and I will never be in such good shape. (He makes black look really good!)</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
8. Jennifer Gray was 27 in that movie…and yet she totally
looked 18. Making the age difference between her and Patrick Swayze seem kind of…gross. Though now that I know their real ages, it is totally fine. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
7. Why did Jennifer Gray ever get that <a href="http://celebritynosenjob.blogspot.com/2013/01/jennifer-grey-nose-job-before-and-after.html" target="_blank">nose job</a>?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
6. Jane Brucker, who plays <a href="http://cineclap.free.fr/dirty-dancing/jane-brucker.jpeg" target="_blank">Baby’s sister Lisa</a>, was 29
when the movie came out, further confusing me as to whether she is supposed to
be playing Baby’s older or younger sister. (I have never been clear on that!)</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
5. Her performance on stage <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UlT35Ote09c" target="_blank">singing "Hula Hana"</a> is brilliantly awful, however.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
4. The music and hair styles are just as confusingly 80s
as they always seemed to be.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
3. I really really need to re-watch <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4aVTab4kkUc" target="_blank">Patrick Swayze in <i>North and South</i> (</a>1985).</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
2. The “dirty dancing” of the movie is really…pretty
dirty. Dirtier than I remembered! Forget twerking, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aCioEEHmHA0" target="_blank">this </a>is way hotter.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
1. Baby and Johnny Castle have sex mid-way through the
movie… Totally did not remember that. But it’s hotter than I remembered…</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flix66.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/Dirty-Dancing-Blu-ray-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.flix66.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/Dirty-Dancing-Blu-ray-2.jpg" height="178" width="320" /></a></div>
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KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-15905904681839048182013-11-20T21:32:00.003-08:002013-11-20T21:32:33.723-08:00“Cooking for Company”<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I love old cookbooks. <i>Especially
</i>American mid-century ones. American cookbooks from the 1950s, 60s and 70s
contain bizarre recipes with ingredients in combinations best left untested (though
some have certainly <a href="http://badjellyblog.com/" target="_blank">attempted them recently</a>) that are often overly complicated
unless you have regular “help” around the house, or they demonstrate an
overreliance on canned items (technology! progress!). The illustrations and
photographs are unappetizing at worst and ridiculous at best. Lastly, the
commentary at the start of each section and in the recipes is absolutely priceless.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://31.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lh5i9wZQik1qed8llo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://31.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lh5i9wZQik1qed8llo1_500.jpg" height="320" width="282" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Canning and preservation technologies were celebrated in the 50s, <br />which fed into the mantra of home economics--being economical at home.<br />This led to some highly questionable food choices.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Cookbooks betray so many of the commonplaces of their
time, they are like looking through a magic window into another era. For
historians of her-story, they are an invaluable tool. Of course, <a href="http://recipes.hypotheses.org/" target="_blank">earlier cookbooks and recipes</a> are also wonderful. Cookbooks of the 18<sup>th</sup> and 19<sup>th</sup>
centuries, for example, often had many instructions about how to appear in
society, whom to invite to a party, how to arrange guests at a table, and what
to serve at various times of day (and what to wear!). They was also often
efficiency advice, explaining how to feed a family on budget or how many
housemaids, cook’s helpers and footmen were needed for family dinners versus
dinners for 50.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://feministmusicgeek.files.wordpress.com/2010/10/mad-men-309-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://feministmusicgeek.files.wordpress.com/2010/10/mad-men-309-2.jpg" height="200" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Case in point: On <i>Mad Men</i>, Betty has Carla to help out at parties.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Twentieth-century cookbooks often contain the same bits
of advice, especially books written before the 1990s. It’s much rarer now, in a
regular cookbook, to find suggestions on what to wear during a Sunday brunch.
Similarly, most cookbooks now take it as a matter of fact that one person is
probably making any given dish with no extra paid help. Of course there are
gourmet cookbooks even now, but the kind of everyman (everyperson) cookbooks
that are out there on the shelves of Barnes and Noble or Books A Million are often
catering to people with little time, money or cooking knowledge.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Mid-century cookbooks are quite different. They assume
that the person reading the cookbook is a woman. Who doesn’t work, most likely.
Who has access to help and/or loves to spend the entire day cooking (when, of
course, she isn’t cleaning). She might be totally devoted to her children, or
she may have a bouncy social life that includes heading up steering committees
at the Junior League, but she has plenty of time for cooking. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cdn.blogs.babble.com/family-kitchen/files/anne-taintor-cooks/23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://cdn.blogs.babble.com/family-kitchen/files/anne-taintor-cooks/23.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love Ann Taintor's work, like this piece, that make fun of the 50s housewives<br />who were so devoted to cooking, among other domestic pursuits.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I used to have an <i>Encyclopedia
of Modern Cooking, </i>Volume 1, from the 1950s, but I misplaced it during our
move. (Hopefully it’s just in a box somewhere at my parents’!) Not only did it
have amazing (badly-colored) photographs of the food (see below), but it had a
brilliant section at the beginning on how to plan a week’s worth of meals for
each month, with complete meal plans for all three meals of the day for a
family of four. There was frequently milk on the menu for children, stewed
prunes for the adults, and hot cooked food for the whole family for <i>every single meal</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://g-ecx.images-amazon.com/images/G/01/ciu/13/28/b0f41363ada0c007adb40110.L.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://g-ecx.images-amazon.com/images/G/01/ciu/13/28/b0f41363ada0c007adb40110.L.jpg" height="319" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The inside of the cover of <i>The Modern Encylopedia </i>circa 1953.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Luckily, I recently came across <i>Helen Corbitt Cooks for Company</i> (1974). Here is the cover:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.tias.com/stores/mmkt/pictures/10300a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.tias.com/stores/mmkt/pictures/10300a.jpg" height="320" width="220" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, her dress matches the wallpaper.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This book is as brilliant in its pastness as the <i>Encyclopedia. </i>In some ways it’s better, because
it’s all about cooking for company, so the recipes are complicated and the
menus are ridiculous. Additionally, there are lots of wonderful tidbits of
advice from Helen herself:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Chapter 1: Mid-morning entertaining: “The atmosphere
should be gay and cheery…The food should be flavorful, simple or elaborate, but
dainty in size.”</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Chapter 2: Brunches: “You may omit a first course or a
dessert and no one will talk about you. In fact, very few hostesses today
really go through the soup-to-nuts routine.”</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Chapter 6: Sunday Entertaining: Sunday Night
Entertaining: “Buffet—who has help on Sunday?”</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Chapter 8: Cocktails and Cocktail Buffets: “For those who
drink, you can no longer provide just whiskey. Wine, beer, and champagne are
becoming the usual rather than the exception.”</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Little tidbits like these give way to a flurry of
questions in my 21<sup>st</sup> century mind:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Should there ever be an atmosphere at a party
that is not “gay and cheery”?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->What else is in a “soup-to-nuts” routine?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Who still has help?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Why was it ever ok to just serve whiskey?????</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The suggested menus and recipes are similarly titillating
and strange. The menus frequently juxtapose foods that seem ok, maybe even delicious,
with foods that don’t seem to match at all. Or which one would never serve
today. For example, one of the cocktail party suggested menus reads as follows:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
Broiled oysters Parmesan</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
Honey and Mustard Spareribs</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
Cold Chicken Livers with Mustard Sauce</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
Garbanzo Salad</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
Artichoke hearts (canned) filled with red caviar and
sieved hard-cooked eggs</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
Rich Chocolate Cookies</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
Coffee</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
How about some Sunday entertaining?:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
Tournedos of Beef, in artichoke bottoms</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
Green Enchiladas with sour cream</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
Cold lobster and king crab on rings of papaya with
curried mayonnaise</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
Flageolet Salad</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
Hot bread sticks</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
Glazed strawberries</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Almost all of the suggested menus read similarly. There is
an over-reliance on things like paté, artichokes, caviar, tongue, liver,
lobster and sherry. There are often several meat dishes (why so many!?) as well
as dishes whose names history has long forgotten—maybe for the better?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
One of my favorite recipes in the book (so far…haven’t
read it cover to cover—yet) is the “Little Princess Sundae”:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Place a ball of ice cream in a meringue shell or on a
round white cake to anchor the ice cream to the plate. Place a tiny doll head
(found in variety stores) in the top of the ball. Dribble whipped cream from a
pastry tube or an ice tea spoon to make the ice cream ball look like a bouffant
skirt. Sprinkle with silver dragees and candied flowers (buy also). You may deep
freeze. Place a paper parasol over the head when you serve. Little girls from 3
to 80 love them.”</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzu6vqWigyTQ67bpXk-vtt02qyHkg83T5ft94oWss-ukGU8EIQglLe6_ph72cUvl6EH0JJjrf9_sRQ7mWppUnqLxAn_8LDkUMMRcTIo6enyGklxAv0Rs3LXodGhBfvbuQyc1m73CFsyhg/s1600/IMG_1303.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzu6vqWigyTQ67bpXk-vtt02qyHkg83T5ft94oWss-ukGU8EIQglLe6_ph72cUvl6EH0JJjrf9_sRQ7mWppUnqLxAn_8LDkUMMRcTIo6enyGklxAv0Rs3LXodGhBfvbuQyc1m73CFsyhg/s1600/IMG_1303.JPG" height="425" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Sprinkle with a touch of racism, and it's ready!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
--UK</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-32965411223165479062013-10-24T08:41:00.000-07:002013-10-24T08:41:06.494-07:00(Not-so) Novel Concepts<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This
past Tuesday, Pulitzer-prize-winning author Michael Chabon (author of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mysteries of Pittsburgh, Wonder Boys, The
Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay</i>, and more) was on campus to give
a talk. Squeee! Being the total literary celebrity junkie that I am, I was
super jazzed to have an author of Chabon’s caliber coming to give a talk in our
little town of Nowhere, Tennessee. Not that I had ever read any of Chabon’s
books…that’s not the important part! The important part was that I had always <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wanted </i>to read his books, anyway, so
this was really just an extra-good reason to get on that project, and maybe
also suck up some of his literary glow just by being in the same room with him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Chabon
is not the first writer I have gone to see live, in person. During my PhD, I
had opportunities to hear academic superstars give talks, including Gayatri
Spivak and Julia Kristeva. (Though I drew the line at actually taking Kristeva’s
class on Proust…all of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In Search of Lost
Time</i> in one semester??? No thanks!) While I lived in New York City, I got
to hear Colson Whitehead, Jonathan Lethem, and Margaret Atwood read, and in DC,
I went to hear John Irving do a reading. What differentiated Chabon from some
of the others (like Irving, notably!) was that, well, he seemed pretty normal.
Funny, self-deprecating, approachable, genuinely nice. Which is great, since we
all know what a crazy-bonkers person Jonathan Franzen has become…(I like to
call him the post-couch Tom Cruise of literature.) Additionally, Chabon did not
do a reading of his latest novel (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Telegraph
Avenue</i>, from last year), like most fiction writers when they give talks.
Instead, he gave a talk about…writing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">For
the most part, I am not a fan of writing about writing. It seems…fatuous,
self-indulgent, redundant, and boring. Kind of like spectating instead of
participating. I mean, if I have time to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">read</i>
about writing, why don’t I just sit down at the computer and…write? Similarly,
inspirational talks are also nauseating to me, as I can’t ever get over how
fake they seem. I mean, aren’t inspirational speakers basically on the same
level as, say, tele-evangelists? Chabon’s talk, however, managed to be both
inspirational and about writing and about himself and his inspirations without
being boring, self-indulgent or self-help-y.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Chabon
talked about how being a writer is like being a superhero whose power is, well,
writing, of course! Superheroes, according to Chabon, get their powers from
inheritance (like Superman), discipline (like Batman), and/or luck (like
Spiderman). Writers must draw on all of these elements or “superpowers” for
their creativity. Chabon spent the most time discussing his story-teller’s
inheritance: his father’s love of word play and his mother’s attention to
detail, among others. But he also spoke eloquently about the role of discipline
in the writer’s profession. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
are not born a writer.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This
is completely true. There are no writer-geniuses. While there have been
mathematical or musical child-geniuses, the same does not apply with writing.
There are no <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">War & Peace</i>s, no <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pride and Prejudice</i>s, no <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Romeo and Juliet</i>s penned by 4-year-olds.
Chabon also underscored that almost anyone can be a writer—it just takes
discipline. You must become the Bruce Wayne of writing: apprentice yourself to
masters, practice, take a beating, and keep going. Those of us who have
finished our PhDs can appreciate this on the non-fiction level. In order to
finish a dissertation, you have to put in some serious ass-in-chair time. That
is basically the only difference between finishing and not. You sit and write
and you get it done. End of story. No excuses.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Unfortunately,
the PhD was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> excuse for a long time
(over six years now!) for not working on with my creative writing. I felt like
my creative energy was being sapped by classes, papers, and teaching, and that
I had nothing left over for my creative writing. Yet, I managed to write almost
a whole novel during one semester of my Master’s degree. Of course, there is no
doubt that a PhD is at least 20x harder and more taxing on the brain than an
MA, but still. In order to write, all you need is 30 minutes a day. That’s it. As
with reading, the more you write, the easier it becomes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">In
his talk, Chabon touched on what a lot of writers have said and written about
being a writer, things I often reminded myself while finishing the PhD: You
must write, even when you don’t feel like it. Put in your 1,000 words a day, or
whatever it is, no matter what. Some days are easier than others, but any
excuse for not writing is just that, an excuse.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">November
is National Novel Writing Month, during which people all over the US and the
world pledge to write a novel in a month, aka 50,000 words in 30 days, which
equals 1,500/day, a little more than what Chabon cites as his usual daily goal
of 1,000 words/day. Lastly year I tried—and failed, giving up at just over
16,000 words (a clear lack of ass-in-chair time). This year, I’m gearing up for
another attempt with a different project…and I’m determined to put in the
ass-in-chair time to make it to 50,000 words. Writing and publishing novels has
been a dream of mine since I was a kid—why did I give up? As with having
children, there is never a “good time” to write a novel. We will always have
other claims on our time. Thus, we must find the time, make the time, and
commit to it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">For
those more academically-inclined, Academic Writing Month or Academic Book
Writing Month has started to catch on as well. The idea is to set oneself a
goal that would normally seem absurd for one month’s worth of time, and to,
well, do it! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">So,
although I don’t think Michael Chabon necessarily intended to present a kind of
writerly “call to arms,” I certainly left the auditorium feeling jazzed about
my novel, getting back to writing, and, in general, becoming the Bruce Wayne of
Writing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">For
all that, I say: Thanks, Mike! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">(Is
it ok if I call you that? I’m going to assume, yes.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">--U.K.</span></div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-64434787600859573982013-10-16T13:54:00.000-07:002013-10-16T13:55:44.181-07:00Fall Breakdown<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So, anyone who knows me knows I love a good pun. When
teaching an article on the gendering of meat, I made sure to ask my students, “What
is the <i>beef</i> the authors have with
this topic?” My students chuckled ironically while looking away in mild
embarrassment. I simply can’t help myself, which is why the title of this post
is not “Fall Break” (too boring), but “Fall Breakdown.”</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It’s also called “Fall Breakdown” because, it seems,
every fall there is a breakdown for both instructors and students. For
students, it’s a result of the first round of midterms coinciding with the
first (or second) round of papers at the same time they have the realization
that—especially in the case of freshman—they had better get their rear in gear
if they’re going to get the grades they want this semester. For us
teacher-folk, the breakdown is the mid-semester head-clutching that starts
happening when the papers aren’t improving, student morale is flagging, and we
start questioning our techniques, syllabi, and texts. This head-clutching in
turn leads to long evenings “talking shop” with other instructors, complaining
about these issues as well as the general poor state of the American education
system, which, I think we can all agree, allows its students to graduate high
school and enter college with what many would deem a sixth-grade reading
comprehension and writing level.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It’s hard to see the big picture when you are confronted
with sentences in papers that have no verb, no noun, no visible grammatical
structure, and, in general, seem as though they had been penned by a monkey taught
to type on a computer keyboard. Obviously, some mistakes are the result of
laziness—often flagrantly so. Not only do students leave words misspelled that
any even half-way decent spell-check program would underline in bright red, but
they also occasionally misspell <i>my </i>name…and
sometimes, even their own names. Yes, typos: the obvious sign that you wrote
the paper an hour before it was due. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Then there is the next level of writer error: the writer
herself has no clue that she has </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
a) completely misunderstood the assignment; </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
b) completely misunderstood the text she is writing
about; </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
c) merely paraphrased class discussions and sprinkled in
some quotations with no regard as to whether they make sense or not; </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
d) so many grammar errors that it is next to impossible
to understand the English in the paper; or e) a combination of the above. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
When I encounter ten or more of such errors in a single
class of 25 people, my faith in the education system begins to crumble…</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blooddirtandangels.com/wp-content/uploads/ao_blood/2012/02/8850-Munch-The-Scream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.blooddirtandangels.com/wp-content/uploads/ao_blood/2012/02/8850-Munch-The-Scream.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is generally how I feel about halfway through grading a stack of papers.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In discussing these issue with colleagues, we toss out
various and sundry reasons for these issues…Student laziness, No Child Left
Behind, increased reliance on standardized testing, Gen Y feelings of
entitlement, school administrators’ resistance to failing students at the K-12
level or fear of having too high a drop-out rate. In the case of writing and
reading comprehension, the obvious factor that students just don’t <i>read</i> very much for pleasure (if at all) is
probably a realistic factor, as reading directly correlates to good writing.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So, what is a comp teacher to do? My job is to prepare
these students to write at a college level, whatever that means. I take it to
mean writing in a sophisticated, formal style that would be appropriate in
nearly any job, whether in a lab report, brief, patient summary, grant
proposal, etc. It also has to mean that students will be ready to write a
variety of papers they will encounter during college: reports, summaries,
argument papers, various kinds of analytical papers, and also lab reports,
paper proposals, annotated bibliographies and reflections. When I think about
all of this preparation, and the fact that my students are struggling with
basic issues of organization and sentence structure, not to mention that half
the time they don’t seem to understand the nuanced arguments of the (relatively
simple) essays we read in class, I start to feel like I will never make a dent
in all the things they need to know to become good writers.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
When the mid-semester breakdown gets bad, I remind myself
that good writing is not achieved in a day. While I myself may have entered
college at a higher reading comprehension level or level of writing
sophistication, I was not perfect. There
is, in fact, no such thing as a “writer genius.” Writing is never a matter of
throwing words on the page (except, perhaps in the most basic of cases such as
grocery lists or post-it notes), never to return to them. Writing, as I tell my
students, is a process that, in the real world, often takes many more drafts
than we would ever have time for in a comp classroom. Just as they cannot write
a perfect paper in one or two drafts, so they cannot become perfect writers in
one or even two semesters. I can try to give them detailed feedback, encourage
them, and set them on the path to good habits as writers; I can motivate them
with grades; I can make assignments that challenge them and introduce them to
the requirements of college. Beyond that, they simply have to get through it
and go on. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I think about the
kind of writing I did as an undergrad and even as a MA student—and I cringe.
Even writing from the beginning of my PhD studies pales in comparison with my dissertation.
And I have no doubt that my dissertation will be but a shadow of the writing I
do in the future. The more we write, the better we become. The hopeful,
optimistic side of me believes that my students will become better writers
during the 15 weeks they have to endure with me, even if their writing level is
still much lower than what I would wish for college freshman to have.
Similarly, I hope that they will keep writing in future classes and will keep
improving. This doesn’t mean, of course, that I don’t think we need more
rigorous standards at all levels—we do. But, as an instructor, I have to take
these students as they come to me and do what I can: make as much lemonade as
possible, to strain a metaphor.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So, maybe fall breakdown doesn’t have to be a breakdown.
These are the moments, after all, that motivate us as teachers, even as we
(sometimes) feel paralyzed by the size of the task before us. I will probably
never come to terms with just how badly some of my students write, but I do
what I can to help them improve. In the end, teaching writing is yet another
way that my writing improves, too. After all, how many times can you write “where
is your topic sentence?” on a student paper without thinking about where are <i>my</i> topic sentences? Similarly, I think
back on previous semesters and I know that, at some point, most of my students
will turn a corner. They will start to comprehend what it means to write a
college paper and how to improve their writing, and they do it. Their papers
improve—for the most part. Those who don’t improve, don’t improve because they
didn’t try, which is a factor that I cannot control and, consequently, do not
worry about.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So don’t you worry, either…I didn’t spend <i>all </i>of fall break thinking about my fall
breakdown! I took some time off, put things in perspective, and returned to grading
with hope and optimism for the rest of the semester. And booze in the fridge.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Just kidding!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
(Not really.)</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
--U.K.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-11159067818327662192013-09-26T08:36:00.001-07:002013-09-26T08:36:37.116-07:00“Stugots,” or “Who Gives a F---” about Immigrants?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">So,
K. and I have finally gotten around to watching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sopranos</i>. I say “finally,” because the show was on TV from
1999-2007. There was a lot of fanfare around the show when it was on, and
nowadays many culture critics cite the show as ushering in a new era of TV that
focuses on complex plotting, multiple story lines, and oodles of characters,
many of whom never make it to the final episode. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Sopranos</i> is fairly easy to get hooked on, as it has several qualities that
are generally of interest to avid TV drama viewers: mobsters, wealth, violence,
and psychological depth. The main character, Tony Soprano, goes to a shrink
(the show even makes a quick quip about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Analyze
This</i> at one point, demonstrating that even the writers acknowledge that
such a plot set up has already been done). Similarly, the characters are varied
enough that we all have our favorites, and even the characters that we hate, we
love to hate. Shows like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rome</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mad Men</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Game of Thrones</i> and no doubt many other HBO and Showtime series are
indebted to the plotting and characterization techniques of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sopranos</i>, a show that frequently
introduces new characters and plot lines without explaining them overtly to the
audience. And like the later shows, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Sopranos</i> has some local color—the action takes place in Northern New
Jersey, among Italian Americans who are proud of their origins and often pepper
their conversations with Neapolitan, Southern Italian and Sicilian dialect and
pronunciation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As a former student of Italian
language and a fan of Italy and its cultural heritage and food in general, as
well as a former resident of another North Eastern enclave of
Italian-Americanness (Long Island), I enjoy the show on a lot of different
levels. One thing that bothers me, however, (and I’ll try to keep it just to
that one thing) is that the set-up of the show does little to dispel the mythos
of Italian-Americans as mafia gangsters with serious anger management problems.
Sure, the show includes characters, like Dr. Melfi, her ex-husband who is a
prominent member of the Italian American Anti-defamation League, and the
Sopranos’ neighbors, the Cusumanos, who are Italian-American and deplore this
stereotype. But this rhetoric of resistance against stereotypes seems to be the
exception that proves the rule. By and large, the show focuses on Tony and his
gang of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">capos</i> and underlings who use
explicit language and racial slurs, have no control over their anger, resort to
violence at the drop of a hat, and constantly drink and smoke. That’s not to
say that the Italian-American mobsters who inhabit the show don’t enjoy high
culture. Tony frequently uses SAT words and makes allusions to literature; the
characters often watch classic black and white films; and even Paulie takes his
mother and some other senior ladies to see <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Producers </i>on Broadway. These moments, however, are often jarring or
humorous precisely because we read them as a deviation from the norm.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All these issues got me thinking
about how annoying it must be for many real-life Italian-Americans to be
represented so often on film and television as either poor immigrants or angry
mobsters. When I thought about this a little more, I realized that immigrants
in the US are almost always portrayed as either poor or gangsters—when they get
a role on the screen at all. This characterization flies in the face of my own
experiences. My parents moved to the United States because my father got a
post-doc position at an American university. Growing up, nearly all the Polish
people I met had graduate degrees, often doctorates, in biology, biochemistry,
chemistry, physics and other lab sciences. I had friends whose parents had also
immigrated to the US from other countries, like India or China, and whose
parents were also solidly middle-class and educated. (One film that does
represent such a “class” of immigrants is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Namesake</i>, based on Jhumpa Lahiri’s novel.) Yet, when Poles do get time on
the big (or small) screen, they are cleaners, plumbers, mechanics or other
working-class characters. And I’m not even talking about just the
representation of Polish immigrants (who are usually either cleaners, like on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sopranos</i>, or gangsters, like Ben
Kingsley in the film <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You Kill Me</i>.
Yes, there are Polish gangsters.). Characters with Polish last names are almost
always working-class characters. Consider Vince Vaugh as Gary Grobowski in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Break-Up</i> or as Dave Wozniak in the
recent <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Delivery Man</i> (the title says
it all). Or how about Dave Lizewski, the underdog superhero of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kick-Ass</i>? Or the Lorkowski family that
struggles to pay the bills in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sunshine
Cleaning</i>? The list could go on. Polish-American seems to equal working
class in Hollywood. Why can’t there be a doctor or a lawyer with a Polish last
name? Why do Polish or Polish-American characters have to be yet another
version of Stanley Kowalski?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When we consider the bigger picture,
Polish-Americans and Italian-Americans are not alone. Rarely are there
characters with non-Anglo names in film or television (the one exception may be
Jewish characters, who are frequently depicted in entertainment media as
business owners, lawyers, entertainers and doctors, among other professions). Regarding
the rest of the many immigrant populations, the obvious mental block seems to
be that people (read: Americans) cannot readily believe that someone named Dr.
Kowalski could be a brain surgeon, or that a Ms. Abruzzo could be the CEO of a
company. On the other hand, at least Italian-American actors have many roles to
choose from, even if they are the same kind of role (a large percentage of the
actors on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sopranos</i> have Italian
last names, for example). When the actress playing the Polish cleaning lady on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sopranos</i> spoke in Polish on the
show, she had an accent a mile wide. A quick check revealed that, just as I
suspected, she isn’t at all Polish in real life; she’s Russian. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But maybe the producers of the show
thought we wouldn’t notice…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stugots!</i></span></div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-72006353627257341092013-09-20T15:04:00.000-07:002013-09-20T15:05:20.976-07:00The Puppy Diaries: The First Week<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
For K.K. and I had always known we wanted to be pet owners.
From the earliest times of our relationship we discussed all our hopes and
dreams, and both of us were in agreement that pets—both dogs and cats—would be
in our future. We adopted our kitty, Calliope, in the fall of 2010, after some
friends of ours adopted one. When I saw their adorable kitten, I decided then and there that we would not wait
another month. I wanted a kitten, and I wanted it <i>now</i>. After several weeks of driving around to different shelters
(most depressing thing <i>ever</i>), we
finally found our little tortoise-shell miracle in a cage by herself at a large
shelter on Long Island. She was about 12 weeks old and quite the bundle of
energy and delight. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhefV9BXbheTr43Pf6htXXFHZaUZcvzVonEt3cXjOEy-P0eLjd3syOp28XlEg_G8DyAi05cEasWNVX-146NE8KssJ_KfxU5mWh3fnx7NYuFq8TVcvTUBu7bJ3O38TZbC5VVFV7KBVcuJKc/s1600/DSC09210.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhefV9BXbheTr43Pf6htXXFHZaUZcvzVonEt3cXjOEy-P0eLjd3syOp28XlEg_G8DyAi05cEasWNVX-146NE8KssJ_KfxU5mWh3fnx7NYuFq8TVcvTUBu7bJ3O38TZbC5VVFV7KBVcuJKc/s1600/DSC09210.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Calliope was a grumpy cat before Grumpy Cat.<br />
But we still love her!<br />
(This is at about 4 months old.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
As much
as we loved Calliope, we still wanted a dog. I had grown up without pets (I don’t
count my guinea pigs, which were boring and stinky, mostly) but yearned for a
cat or a dog or both. I had always vowed to myself that I would get a pet as an
adult. Mostly I thought of myself as a cat person, but dogs appealed to me,
too. Once I took up jogging on a more regular basis in grad school, I
especially liked the idea of having a dog I could go jogging or on long walks
with. K.K. had always had dogs growing up and was nearly mad at the thought
that we couldn’t have one in our duplex on Long Island. It just wasn’t feasible
there, however, since we had no yard, a neighbor downstairs, and a picky
landlord. Our move to Tennessee, though, and the house that we found with a
gigantic fenced yard meant that it was puppy time.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We
picked up Bingley last Saturday from a breeder near Athens, TN. (N.B. Cookeville
is near Sparta, TN. I believe there is also a Troy and a Carthage, TN. So it’s
not just NY State with its delusions of Homeric grandeur.) Long ago we had
decided that we wanted a breed of dog that would be predisposed to pleasing his
owners, a naturally friendly and low-key breed. Around the same time, I had
proposed that if Mr. Bingley, the character in the Jane Austen novel <i>Pride and Prejudice</i>, were to be
reincarnated as a dog, he would surely be a Golden Retriever since he was so
friendly, and he always desired to please everyone. (At the same time, he was
very obedient in listening to his good friend, Mr. Darcy.) Thus, it seemed the
very pinnacle of perfection that we should adopt a Golden Retriever and name
him Mr. Bingley.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://austenauthors.net/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/MrBingley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://austenauthors.net/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/MrBingley.jpg" height="320" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I mean...he even looks like a Golden, amiright?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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A week
into puppy ownership, I have to admit I wasn’t exactly ready for what it all
entails. All our friends kept warning us it would be a lot of work and pretty
exhausting, but no one explained that it was more psychologically exhausting
than anything else. Having a puppy in your house is like having a stranger come
to live with you. A stranger who cannot
explain his needs at any given time. I find myself constantly guessing, “Is he
hungry? Is he tired? Is he annoyed? Is he sleepy? Does he need to pee? Have we
spent enough time outside today?” After the first two days, I went back and
reread some sections of the puppy books we bought used off the internet, and I
felt better when I realized that many people get a puppy and then go right back
to work. Our puppy has the advantage that one of us was home almost all day
long, since we teach on alternate days. Maybe I wasn’t such a bad puppy mommy
after all. Similarly, the book explained (something I had missed in my earlier
reading) that between 8-10 weeks, you cannot expect your puppy to do much of
anything, obedience-wise. You are lucky if he doesn’t pee in the house or whine
at night. (Bingley does neither, barring one small accident. But one accident
in the first week seems fine to me!)</div>
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Of
course, Bingley is a little bundle of joy, too. He is probably the cutest thing
with four paws every to walk the planet (except for Calliope when she was a
kitten, of course). He looks a little like a teddy bear, and sometimes, when he’s
rolling around on his back waiting for me to pat his belly, I swear he’s
smiling at me. He’s especially adorable when he’s asleep, pooped after a day of
chewing his toys, running around the yard, discovering all sorts of new smells,
and occasionally growling at his trout-shaped chew-toy. But it’s hard not to
smile when he comes running over to you, too, to say hello and give you a
friendly lick. He’s still transitioning from being dog-oriented to being
people-oriented—after all, it’s only been a week since he’s been away from his
mom and dad and littermates. But it
seems like he’s adjusting pretty well. I look forward to the time when he’ll be
ready to learn how to respond to commands, walk on a leash, and sit calmly when
guests come to visit. (Right now he seems to think of guests as chew-toys…) For
now, he’s just a puppy baby: sweet and cute even when he’s growling at a stick
in the yard. And of course he’s tiny—he weighs just about the same as the cat!</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTAab9XNMTDUgHxL9pcqEhAqVc41-FJrKmOvre0ilryFBYlecZn7tcJl1N2giQg60J1YYLIPopMDWMiLB5s6h8vuE6J7yr0K1039HhyphenhyphenXCN5XimmICa2PEPD14EtRzCy7hGBBZqTaEScFw/s1600/IMG_0905.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTAab9XNMTDUgHxL9pcqEhAqVc41-FJrKmOvre0ilryFBYlecZn7tcJl1N2giQg60J1YYLIPopMDWMiLB5s6h8vuE6J7yr0K1039HhyphenhyphenXCN5XimmICa2PEPD14EtRzCy7hGBBZqTaEScFw/s1600/IMG_0905.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gaaaah! too cute!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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And
speaking of kitty…Calliope is slowly adjusting to having the pup around. We
have a baby gate set up for now between the kitchen (Bingley’s domain) and the
living room and the bedrooms (Calliope’s territory—for now). The first day,
from behind her side of the baby gate, Calliope observed the dog in a position
that clearly screamed, “I’m ready to run at any second.” Sunday morning, it was
clear that Calliope had not expected that the dog would still be here. So far
she has alternately ignored him, watched him carefully, hissed at him (he’s
barked at her only once so far), and run away. Increasingly, she has become more
curious. At first she would only come into the kitchen when we took the dog in
the back yard. Then she would scramble awkwardly onto a counter and over the
gate back into the living room. Last night, however, she boldly sauntered into
the TV room, which is just off the mudroom/kitchen area, where K.K. and I were
watching <i>The Sopranos</i> with Bingley
asleep at our feet. While he slept, she hung out in the den, climbing up the
couches, but always keeping a watchful eye on the dog. She didn’t hang around
long once the dog started to wake up, but this could be the start (we hope) of an
interspecies <i>perestroika</i>.</div>
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KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-73167248248655179552013-08-26T17:05:00.002-07:002013-08-26T17:06:38.340-07:00I Hang My Hat in Tennessee<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It’s been just over two weeks since we moved into our new
place in our new city, Cookeville, Tennessee. </div>
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I know, right? <i>Tennessee</i>.
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It feels a little strange to be living in a “red state,”
after living in one of the bluest states of all, New York (though upstate folks
may have more in common with the average Tennessean than the average New
Yorker!). Living in Tennessee, I am technically no longer married. I cannot
give my job benefits to my partner. Tennessee has a state constitutional
amendment prohibiting gay marriage and prohibiting the recognition of gay
marriages from other states. When the amendment passed seven years ago in 2006,
approximately 86% of Tennesseans disapproved of gay marriage. The most
up-to-date polls put the number now at 64%, which is still higher than the
South in general, which is at 54% disapproval. </div>
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It’s also legal in the state of Tennessee to evict
someone for being gay, or to fire them for being gay. While I don’t think that
those last two points will be issues while we live here, it bothers me to no
end to think about how our beautiful vows to one another are legally irrelevant
in my new state. I also have to try <i>not </i>to
think about the fact that both of our current Tennessee senators and 5 out of 7
congresspersons are Republicans (including the representative of the 6<sup>th</sup>
district, which Cookeville belongs to). </div>
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I’m trying not to focus on these particular realities too
much, however, since the politics of a state are not the end-all, be-all. So
far, I’ve discovered quite a few perks to life in Tennessee. First of all,
there is no income tax. </div>
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<i>Wow.</i> I didn’t
even know there were states where there wasn’t any! That’s a perk, even if the
sales tax is pretty high in order to make up for it, at 7% minimum in the state
and higher in some parts, like Nashville, where the sales tax is 9.25% (that’s
higher than New York!).</div>
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Registering a car is also similarly, laughably cheap: $38
to register a car for the first time in the state, tags & everything. Nice!
Maryland is four times that. Of course, our rent is also incredibly low. We pay
half of what we paid on Long Island, but we have our own house with a gigantic
backyard. We are also close enough to school to walk or bike if we want to. In
fact, Cookeville is small enough that you can drive just about anywhere in five
minutes—unless you get stuck behind a school bus, of course.</div>
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So, things are cheaper here. People are also much
friendlier. That’s not to say that people in Maryland or New York aren’t
friendly! What I mean to say is that people around here are polite, <i>very </i>polite. Everyone says “ma’am” and “sir”—<i>everyone</i>. It’s kind of nice. “Yes, ma’am.”
“No, ma’am.” I could get used to that. Most people are also pretty chatty. I
still have my NY driver license (changing that tomorrow!), and when I have to
show it to use my credit card (yep, that’s happened quite a few times here),
people’s reactions are pretty much uniform:</div>
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“<i>New York!</i>
Well, you’re in for a culture shock!...But I think you’re going to like it
here. Cookeville is a great place to live.”</div>
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I think it’s a pretty good sign when the locals are
trying to sell you on the place where they live.</div>
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*</div>
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Our first week here was surreal. The house seemed foreign
and strange, the grass needed to be mowed, we had no furniture, and the cat was
going crazy with fleas. The stuff that we managed to bring with us was
scattered all over the house, and we ate pizza dinners on camp chairs we had
brought with us—our only chairs. We slept on an air mattress and killed roaches
constantly for the first three days. It was not fun. I knew the roaches would
eventually die from the exterminator juice and our real mattress would arrive
soon, but it seemed hard to remember that in those first 3 or 4 days. </div>
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Our third day the cat caught a lizard in her mouth. It squirmed
until she bit its tail off and let it go. Then it was scampering like mad up
and over all our junk that was scattered around the living room. Its tail lay
on the ground, still moving in a little S shape. That incident did nothing to
shake how surreal it felt to be in a new place with virtually no belongings. </div>
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Finally we began to acquire some stuff. Some housewares
and second-hand furniture. We gave Walmart a good chunk of our savings (there
is no Target in Cookeville, something I still can’t get over!). We went to so
many stores so many times that I went to bed dead tired every day feeling that
I never wanted to go a store again. But we had to. We had jettisoned almost all
our stuff in the Big Move from New York to Maryland, from Maryland to
Tennessee. Some of our stuff is still in Maryland, and some of it is in
Colorado, where we sent stuff we thought we would need when we moved <i>there</i>. That’s how late we got the news
about Tennessee. </div>
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After 4-5 days the house was more habitable. The roaches
stopped showing up so frequently and the house was tidied up. We got the
internet going and were connected to the world. We got some pots and pans and
cooked in our own home again. To celebrate our first week in Tennessee, we
drove for a day trip to Nashville. There we checked out Broadway with all its
tourist shops, honky tonks, restaurants and river views. We ate delicious food
at Merchant’s for lunch and checked out some vintage cars at the art museum,
the Frist Center. We hiked up the hill to see the Ryman Auditorium and the
Tennessee state house, only to return to Broadway and get some margaritas at
Margaritaville—of course. We drove over to Opryland for dinner in Opry Mills at
the Aquarium Restaurant and strolled around the mall. I noted with joy that
Opry Mills has all my favorite brands (yes, that sounds incredibly
consumeristic but clothes shopping in Cookeville consists of Sears, JCPenney,
Old Navy and TJ Maxx).</div>
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A day in Nashville made me wish a little bit that my job
was in Nashville. Nashville had a great vibe—artsy, musical, a little divey…definitely
a city. And certainly some of the faculty live in Nashville and commute to Cookeville,
just like at my old job where people lived in NYC and commuted to the
university. But commuting has never interested me…and really, for a smaller
city, Cookeville is pretty nice.</div>
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Cookeville has a tiny little downtown with some
boutiques, antique stores, restaurants and pubs. The restaurants I have been to
so far have had great food and extensive drink selections. There are several
funky coffee shops with wifi that are <i>not
</i>Starbucks (though there is a Starbucks in town too) as well as at least two
local bookstores. The area by the highway has most of the recognizable
restaurant names, including multiple fast food joints, diners, and places like
Chili’s that we all recognize and reach for in times of need. It is also big
enough to have its own public library, theater, orchestra, multiplex movie
theater, and Shakespeare in the Park. And maybe I exaggerated a little bit
about the shopping—there is quite a bit here. </div>
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On top of all that, there is the university right in the
middle of town. Everywhere you go, you see discounts for students and faculty
members. There are posters that say “Purple Pride” all over town, and there are
signs all around the edges of campus reminding drivers of upcoming football and
soccer games. The presence of a university also helps insure greater diversity
and open-mindedness in general. We’ve even seen several cars with HRC stickers
around town.</div>
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All in all, I’m feeling much better now than I did two
weeks ago. Cookeville is seeming more like home. Our house is comfy and
pleasant and we’ve even hosted some people from work. We’ve been out and about
to campus meetings and orientations. Things are moving forward and looking up. Of
course, I don’t start teaching until tomorrow, so who knows what my perspective
will be like in 24 hours! But that’s a whole different blog post…</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg21F7bmvuaXRd-QlztDC4JmtXVGoXce_cV9Q74LIDr2h3Goxot8CkC6lOtch_wZp3dJ7pWwLMLfPStYfjSOyj4xnWYpb21-09F3P3NA0aZdJ0J_73wR3SDD-L5_GqmwiCud1YZDhkqiiA/s1600/IMG_0651.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg21F7bmvuaXRd-QlztDC4JmtXVGoXce_cV9Q74LIDr2h3Goxot8CkC6lOtch_wZp3dJ7pWwLMLfPStYfjSOyj4xnWYpb21-09F3P3NA0aZdJ0J_73wR3SDD-L5_GqmwiCud1YZDhkqiiA/s1600/IMG_0651.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Historic Downtown Cookeville at twilight.</td></tr>
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--UK</div>
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PS In case you were wondering about the title of the post,
it comes from a song by <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lMNw_-yUm_0" target="_blank">George Strait, “All my ex's live in Texas”:</a><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
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<br />
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<span style="background: white;">“All my ex's live in Texas</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">And Texas is the place I'd dearly love to be</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">But all my ex's live in Texas</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">And that's why I hang my hat in Tennessee”</span></div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-27486918188245252212013-08-14T19:13:00.003-07:002013-08-14T19:13:57.546-07:00Kiss Me, I'm Polish<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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At the end of June I traveled to visit family in Poland.
My parents immigrated to the US before I was born, so my brother and I were
born here. We were both taught Polish and steeped in Polish customs and
traditions. We were brought up to feel proud of our Polish heritage, and I was
lucky enough never to hear a Polish joke until I was a teenager, at which point
I had only scorn for the teller, rather than shame for myself. In fact, it was as an adolescent and teen that I became conscious of how extremely
lucky I was to grow up with a second language and a second culture, not to
mention all the trips to Europe that came with having family abroad.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6u7Q39wQpCR3Mtea0uoIUoHIFPWWoYtesG4W9XgpCHaAvYLh5zkmT4IoLbFxWSpYlqZrRQSDL_vFGaLXelG28emtVn2U-iCCBITqQcGnJN9LEHUoU0485Q-7R63dqyMN34rQrGqIi5o/s1600/pl_map_cities.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6u7Q39wQpCR3Mtea0uoIUoHIFPWWoYtesG4W9XgpCHaAvYLh5zkmT4IoLbFxWSpYlqZrRQSDL_vFGaLXelG28emtVn2U-iCCBITqQcGnJN9LEHUoU0485Q-7R63dqyMN34rQrGqIi5o/s1600/pl_map_cities.jpg" height="178" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poland.<br />It looks a little like Ohio, but it's roughly the size of New Mexico <br />with a similar population to the country of Spain or state of California.</td></tr>
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Many people in the US who are not white and/or have an accent are often
immediately pegged as “different”—my parents, for example, get asked in our
very own hometown where they’re from, even though they’ve lived in the States for over 30 years. I, on the other hand, often “pass” as American, whatever
that means, until and unless a conversation arises about foreign language
skills, travel, or ethnicity. Despite my fluency in Polish, my trips to Poland,
and, most importantly, my Polish-American dual citizenship, I have often had
people say to me, “You aren’t Polish. You’re American.” Perhaps this is true in
the sense that I have lived most of my life in the US; however, there is a very
big part of me that feels intimately connected to Poland and being Polish. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjab6tPKDd1ESEl4e_s0aFOE3wZksagIXDRUM8-irgEhtTtRUsUFuw9CdJOhBHJwCPDlDxswuANr7aTFzChClicpFD89uLKbkcvZhJDvRxCHEbyM31PJhXDcPi5MCyZ3EYjyUrNlfRiesQ/s1600/IMG_0527.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjab6tPKDd1ESEl4e_s0aFOE3wZksagIXDRUM8-irgEhtTtRUsUFuw9CdJOhBHJwCPDlDxswuANr7aTFzChClicpFD89uLKbkcvZhJDvRxCHEbyM31PJhXDcPi5MCyZ3EYjyUrNlfRiesQ/s1600/IMG_0527.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I always get excited when I see signs of fellow Polish-Americans.<br />I took this photo of a Polish flag flying below the American & Colorado flags at what must be<br />a Polish-owned motel in Glenwood Springs, CO.</td></tr>
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For
these reasons, and many others, as an adult I’ve made every effort to go to
Poland as frequently as possible—usually no less than every two years. As a
college student, I studied abroad there for six months, and after college I
taught English there for another eight months. Aside from that, I have visited
four other times as an adult. Most recently I went for nearly three weeks just
over a month ago. When I go, I usually stay with relatives, though I have made
concerted efforts to visit other parts of Poland also. On this trip, however, I
concentrated my time in my mother’s hometown, where my grandmother still lives.
She is elderly and fragile, and I wanted to spend as much time with her as
possible.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDCmzi-XAYJgPoF4jBiUvHe3rDgA4NzKHMvqKU174avzk378taqxjTMDdDbXoDQ0k6URhI9lZH2BHwVsdbVcjRniGCKfw94Q673RsX4XX_YiG1_WumeI2YScK83Td1_Q4D_I7xX1hdi0c/s1600/IMG_0202.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDCmzi-XAYJgPoF4jBiUvHe3rDgA4NzKHMvqKU174avzk378taqxjTMDdDbXoDQ0k6URhI9lZH2BHwVsdbVcjRniGCKfw94Q673RsX4XX_YiG1_WumeI2YScK83Td1_Q4D_I7xX1hdi0c/s1600/IMG_0202.JPG" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wroclaw, where I studied abroad in college and later taught ESL.</td></tr>
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My
grandmother is pretty amazing. She was a teen during the Second World War, and
she loves reminiscing about her girlhood, the war, and her parents. My
great-grandfather, her father, was killed by the Soviet army in Katyn. He was a
medical officer in the Polish army, and, like thousands of others like him, he
was executed in a forest and dumped in a mass grave as part of the Soviets’
plan to eliminate army officers and the Polish intelligentsia so that Poland
would be ripe for the conquest once the Nazis were done with it. My
great-grandmother spent the war struggling to make ends meet with my grandma
and her younger brother (my great-uncle) in Kraków, where they were sent by the Nazis, who
kicked them and many others out of their homes at the start of 1940 in Kalisz.
I try to imagine what that would have been like—to be taken from your home at
the age of 13, not knowing what has happened to your father, allowed only a
couple of suitcases of your things, and taken by passenger train many hours to
an unknown city during wartime… And yet that was her life. From 13 to 18 she
experienced the war in all its dangers and vicissitudes. Her regular schooling,
like that of millions of young Poles, was turned upside down. She was lucky to
be able to get a tutor and later to attend a business high school in Kraków—the
only kind the Nazis would allow to function during the war.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Before
the War, my grandma and her family lived a quiet, contented upper-middle-class
life. My great-grandfather had a thriving medical clinic in Kalisz, and many of
his clients were Jewish. They spent the summers in the country or at the beach.
There are many photos of my great-grandmother and her sisters in fabulous
dresses and hats from the 1920s and ‘30s. She had a beautiful fox-fur coat as
well, which the Nazis would not let her take with her to Kraków. My grandma
reminisces about the housekeeper they had before the War, who would make her
breakfast. Together we looked at a photo album that my great-grandmother put together, full of photos of my ancestors and relatives, my grandma recounting to me
all the family histories that she could remember, including the story of my
great-uncle Zbyszek, who died a war hero during the first days of WWII when his
plane was shot down by Nazis. His godmother had named him Stanisław Florian
despite the parents’ wishes that he be named Zbigniew. Everyone in the family
called him “Zbyszek,” and the mistake was never discovered until he enlisted in the
Polish Air Force!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My
grandma and I also spent a lot of time listening to Classical music on the radio or
watching ballets and operas on TV during my visit. She is extremely
well-read, and she keeps up with the news of the world, so we spend a lot of
time discussing the state of the world, literature, ballet, art, opera,
composers and music. Together we even attended a concert by the local symphony
while I was visiting. Though she may not be very active physically any more,
mentally she is sharp as a tack, and I am always so grateful to have such a
wonderful relationship with her.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnUcOOvdes23ZfMN-Z51w6tsQ-Yw2ECXknLmvIGuuH9MbvEdQE3N-otAvUvTpmOvye64sgicXY4NIxirP1NuB718ohCbG3z27o3oEDGkb92bu9TYwu6rZ8EhscjYS1mYA7PMcF4kLffLk/s1600/IMG_0335.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnUcOOvdes23ZfMN-Z51w6tsQ-Yw2ECXknLmvIGuuH9MbvEdQE3N-otAvUvTpmOvye64sgicXY4NIxirP1NuB718ohCbG3z27o3oEDGkb92bu9TYwu6rZ8EhscjYS1mYA7PMcF4kLffLk/s1600/IMG_0335.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The main square in Jelenia Gora on a cloudy day.<br />An old tram car serves as the tourist info point.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
On my
father’s side, both of my grandparents are dead, and I never had the chance to
have an adult relationship with them. My father’s sister, however, is alive and
well, and I visit her and my uncle whenever I’m in Poland. They are world
travelers who have been to many unusual and exciting locations: Egypt, Nepal,
India, Tibet, Peru, Morocco, Indonesia, Iran, and China, among others. When
they travel, they focus on taking in the natural beauties of the country they are visiting.
They have hiked in the Himalayas, the Atlas Mountains, Macchu Piccu, and been to the highest
peak on Cuba. They use local travel agencies to avoid tourist traps, and they
are avid photographers, so there is always at least one or two sessions of
looking at photos from their most recent trips. This time, my aunt showed me
her photos from two different funeral rites in Indonesia—a Hindu funeral and a Muslim
one. I also revisited her photos from Cuba, which were from the era when my aunt and uncle still made prints of photos and put them in an album. A visit to their place wouldn’t be complete either without French wine and fancy cheeses, as on
their “off” travel years they take their vacations in various European mountain
and wine regions. What a life!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
As if
all this goodness wasn’t enough, my aunt and uncle also took me on some hiking
excursions during my visit. I have hiked in the Karkonosze mountain range, part of the
Sudeten Mountains, many times, as they are very close to where my grandmother lives.
For a change of pace, we hiked Mt. Ślęża and the Góry Stołowe near Kłodzko. Mt.
Ślęża is part of the Sudetes foothills, but it really seems like an anomaly, as
there aren’t any other hills or mountains around it. Probably for this reason, the
pre-Christian Slavs thought the mountain was sacred and used it in their
religious rites, and there are several small rock circles on the mountain still in existence. In the
Kłodzko Valley, we toured the Chapel of Skulls, an 18<sup>th</sup> century
chapel filled with skulls and bones of people who died during the 30 years’ war
as well as from the plague. Creepy and fascinating at the same time, especially
since it is still a working chapel. The nun who gave the tour pulled up the
trap door and showed us all the bones under the chapel, and she also showed off
a couple of particularly creepy specimens of bones, such as a bone that had
broken in half and grown together crooked, as well as a skull with a bullet
hole through it. The rest of the day was spent hiking, first the Błędne Skały,
or “Rock Labyrinth” and then the mountain named Szczeliniec (The Chink), for
all the large boulders and funny chinks in the rocks. Both hikes were
fascinating in their geological oddity.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7YBTjr6wjnpFMAjLYqUK5kPGsg88JbrFfbk1TMJmR5HaAH0LZqa9_pATy6A2WWZZ3d0hRkvoTSuahS8LkT_FlLAptZ7oVWgtVCf3kJoqPGD1Rw7lDxxpdIzbr5qhtYhwH6uXAWsIB6Vo/s1600/IMG_0267.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7YBTjr6wjnpFMAjLYqUK5kPGsg88JbrFfbk1TMJmR5HaAH0LZqa9_pATy6A2WWZZ3d0hRkvoTSuahS8LkT_FlLAptZ7oVWgtVCf3kJoqPGD1Rw7lDxxpdIzbr5qhtYhwH6uXAWsIB6Vo/s1600/IMG_0267.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sign for the Skull Chapel.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhshEHwC0vJswWA-J4fnCHyyiU4KNurEaVqjwouMzYmogSaSW6BywVOiQIleE-pRkXjtw0qt2MUUEq4RAtItavmnBEmX5INejysPSrqBr884q-antccyRWU2A8ecjGUllurPHiYvtBlcs4/s1600/IMG_0283.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhshEHwC0vJswWA-J4fnCHyyiU4KNurEaVqjwouMzYmogSaSW6BywVOiQIleE-pRkXjtw0qt2MUUEq4RAtItavmnBEmX5INejysPSrqBr884q-antccyRWU2A8ecjGUllurPHiYvtBlcs4/s1600/IMG_0283.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A tight squeeze in the Rock Labyrinth.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The end
of my trip arrived all too quickly. All my Polish friends and family wanted to know
when would I return and would I come with my partner next time (the tickets
were too expensive for both of us to go this year). Some relatives even asked me if I
would ever consider moving to Europe or Poland again and working there. The
idea is not a new one for me; sometimes I wonder what my life would have been
like if I had stayed in Poland after college instead of returning and moving to
New York to do my MA in English. That’s another path untaken; who knows, maybe
someday I’ll have that opportunity again. But even if I never return to live
there, I know there’s always Poland in my future as well as in my past and
present, because I’ll always be Polish (-American) and proud of it.</div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-34816081432171581622013-07-31T13:32:00.001-07:002013-07-31T13:41:23.963-07:00The Sob Market<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Transitional stages in life are often the toughest.
After being safely ensconced in a particular way of life for a period of time,
it is often depressing and anxiety-inducing to be faced with a major change. For
me, these periods of time mostly have to do with finishing a degree of some
kind and embarking on the next challenge. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In the
past, the “next challenge” was fairly predictable. When I finished high school,
I knew I was heading to college. When I finished my Master’s, I was already
accepted in a PhD program. The end of my BA was a little different, in that I
had no schooling or employment immediately lined up. This problem fixed itself
fairly quickly, however, once I decided I would go to Europe to teach English
abroad. Not that that was a simple time, as moving to another country, doing an
intense certification program, and finding housing and work were not easy tasks,
either. Those moments of uncertainty were ones that I thought of frequently in
this last year, while I was on the academic job market.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
What’s
different about finishing a PhD, however, is that for most of us, this is the <i>terminal degree</i>. There are some crazy
people out there with multiple PhDs—this is not in reference to them. For many
of us, the end of the PhD is the end of our formal education. From now on, we
will no longer pay tuition, no longer have student ID cards, no longer attend
classes as students. In English, the aim is to become the teacher—the professor
at the head of the class. Even when I was finishing my BA and wondering what
the heck was next, I knew that somewhere in the offing was a grad school degree
I would return to do. I wasn’t sure yet what it would be, but I knew it was
there. The end of the PhD and the looming student loan payments meant that it
was time to seek gainful employment. After 12 years of post-secondary
education, you might say, <i>it’s about time</i>!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Even
before I started a PhD, even before I applied to PhD programs, I knew that the
academic job market was…ahem…not great, to say the least. There is an entire
long-winded debate about this problem and how we should deal with it
(<a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/life/culturebox/2013/04/there_are_no_academic_jobs_and_getting_a_ph_d_will_make_you_into_a_horrible.html" target="_blank">discourage people from applying in the first place?</a> <a href="http://www.insidehighered.com/news/2009/05/13/doctoral" target="_blank">cut PhD programs?</a> change
tenure policies? <a href="http://chronicle.com/article/Altacthe-Tenure-Track/131935/" target="_blank">figure out a way to train PhDs for work outside academia?</a>).
This post is not about that. It’s about the reality of finishing a monumental
challenge—a doctoral degree—of which you and your loved ones are immensely
proud, and then feeling immediately devalued by the dearth of job offers that follow.
I knew that it would be tough, but nothing could prepare me for the months of
feeling rejected, hopeless and rather terrified that I would never…ever…get a
job in my field of expertise.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Our
nation has been in a recession almost since I started my PhD. I started in the
fall of 2007 and the big crash that marks the official start of the recession
was in the fall of 2008. Almost immediately my institution—like many others—instituted
a hiring freeze. All of a sudden, I and many of my peers felt very grateful to
be in grad school and not out on the streets, looking for jobs. I had various
friends and even family members who had tough times finding full-time jobs, and
I sympathized. In the last year, however, that sympathy turned to empathy. It
seemed there was nothing worse than sending out application after application
(the drafting of an individual cover letter and preparation of secondary
required documents could take anywhere from half an hour to two hours <i>per application</i>) and getting absolutely
no feedback.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In the fall,
it was disappointing. I mean, I knew my chances had been pretty low given that
the jobs advertised in the fall for full-time positions were extremely
competitive. So I tried to give it a pass. I redrafted letters for the spring
and focused on a wider variety of jobs ranging from temporary, visiting, and tenure-track appointments. And still, until March, there was nothing but
silence. One phone interview in March improved morale briefly, until it became
obvious that there was going to be no call-back. I defended my dissertation at
the end of March but felt that there wasn’t much to celebrate if I had a PhD
but no job. The only thing to do, however, was to keep trying.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Every
once in a while I would get an actual rejection letter, but most of the time my
applications were met with silence. In the silence, you start to wonder: what
did I do wrong? Do I have some glaring typos in my cover letter or CV? Is it
because I didn’t go to an Ivy? Is it because I’m not local to the job? I had no
idea. Getting a job started to feel a little like winning the lottery. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I felt adrift on a sea of
uncertainty, one storm away from getting smashed against the rocks hidden under
the waves. I started to wonder if I should consider other careers. Could I use
my language skills to work for the Government? Would I make a good school
teacher? Maybe I should use my party planning skills at be a wedding or party
planner? I had to keep reminding myself that it was normal now to have to work
part-time after a PhD and to apply for two or three years after the degree to
find a permanent job. This wasn’t the end of the line, even if it felt like it.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Finally in June things started
to pick up. I had an article accepted by a journal and another article sent to a
peer review.<br />
And I got an interview. It went extremely well.<br />
I finally got a
job offer.<br />
Relief….so much relief. It seemed that with one phone call, with one
interview, I could forget all the worry, heartache, depression of the
application process, the 100 jobs I applied to and all the rejection that they entailed.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I think,
however, it’s important to remember that sense of being unmoored, rudderless,
lost. Many of us tend to think of our lives as a straight line, an
arrow beaming into the future, always advancing, always improving. We are
supposed to be wiser, smarter, and more cautious as we age, moving swiftly past
the mistakes, the foot-in-mouth moments, the disappointments. We want to
believe that our identity is something tangible, inalienable, defining. This,
not that. But the moments of transition reveal the ludicrousness of these
beliefs. The start of a new adventure is the start of new joys, but also new
mistakes and new frustrations. Similarly, the sense of being directionless or
adrift reminds us that there are many possibilities for ourselves and our
future, and that we must be prepared to makes changes and be flexible if things
don’t turn out as we planned. It’s not necessary a bad thing, though I
certainly don’t advocate jumping ship as soon as you lose sight of land,
either. There can be satisfaction in seeing the uncertainties through and come
out on the other side.<br />
--UK</div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-41166768222309502322013-06-03T18:44:00.003-07:002013-06-03T18:44:25.662-07:00New York Trilogy: Au Revoir Empire StateSo...Every so often, I enjoy writing a poem, especially for a special occasion. Here are 3 I penned to say good-bye to New York City, graduate school, and Long Island, in that order.<br />
--UK<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
NEW YORK TRILOGY</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Leaving New York:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
New York,</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I have been leaving you since I arrived</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Don’t take it personally, </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
but now I’m really going.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
No more afternoons in the park</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Evenings in the Village</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Midnight taxi rides</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
or museum expeditions.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We had a good run</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
we even tried a commuter relationship.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It’s time to admit</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
we weren’t right for each other</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
we come from different worlds.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It’s not you, it’s me.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Or maybe it’s you.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Dirty, unrelenting, expensive</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
with a smelly underbelly.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Offering hope</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Only to snatch it away.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I just can’t do this anymore.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I hope we can still be friends.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Notes Accumulated Over Time (Graduate School Year by Year)</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Prelude: Letter of Acceptance</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Thank god!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Someone wants me after all.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’m going to be an Academic!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’m going to live on books and</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Important Conversations!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
They are paying me to be a </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
SCHOLAR.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
1<sup>st</sup> year:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Pleasure & pain intertwine</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Combine</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Easy camaraderie</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Important Conversations</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Beer & blowhards</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Inevitable housing issues</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Inevitable Foucault</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So grateful to be here.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
2<sup>nd</sup> year:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Classes?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’m so over them</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’m ready for the next thing</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
next year </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
next challenge</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
next next next please!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That damned Foucault is still following me</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I had to take out loans;</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
What they pay is a pittance</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
At least teaching is less boring</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
than TAing.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
3<sup>rd</sup> year:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Shouldn’t reading all day long</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
be more fun than this?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’ve developed a permanent twitch in my hand</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
from typing notes</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Exams</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
What a mess</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Then: So…what’s your dissertation going to be about?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
4<sup>th</sup> year:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Indecision</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Derision</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Research more:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Confusion</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
From out the miasma</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
an Idea emerges</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Careful, they say: you’ll have to live with this one for
the next ten years.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Write a proposal:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Immediately trash it.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Start the first chapter.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Move on.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Interlude: Summer work study</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
What am I doing?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
How many hours?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
How do I log them?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
When do I find the time for my work?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Whose idea was this anyway?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
5<sup>th</sup> year:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A recipe:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Research</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Write</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Repeat</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
First years don’t know who you are.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
They look so little.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And hopeful.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
6<sup>th</sup> year:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Edit.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Edit edit edit</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
edit edit edit edit</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Frantically apply for jobs </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Set the date. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Edit edit edit edit</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Defense: Speak. Answer questions.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This is it?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Congratulations! You’re a doctor. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’m a what?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Aren’t you so relieved?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I need a job</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The Long Good-bye</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Long and blue and green</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Sprinkled with turquoise</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
pools and long</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
ribbons of congested highway.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
seen from above</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
a lobster claw</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
a whale</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The first thing I noticed</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
were the trees</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
canopied above</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
bursting flowers</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
water blue sky</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
beach access</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
quiet neighborhoods</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
--the opposite of Brooklyn</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
upon closer inspection—</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
there are no sidewalks</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
food and gas and heat</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
and housing and everything</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
costs. so. much.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
summer traffic is murder:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
2 hours in the car</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
to go to the Hamptons—</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
it’s just stores.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
outsiders don’t live here;</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
we merely survive.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
How will I remember it?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This place with</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
good pizza</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
ocean breezes</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
views of Connecticut</div>
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hazy in the distance</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
ferry boats</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
wine country</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
hiking flat forest trails</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
taking the train to the City</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
News Channel 12:</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
As local as local news gets.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Perhaps</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I look forward</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
to friendly locals</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
People who smile at you</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
for no reason.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Who say “please” and “thank you”</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I look forward</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
to non-aggression</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But I will miss the blue</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And I will miss all of you</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Farewell little island</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
that is not so little</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
for it is Long.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Farewell the</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>drawers<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>dogs<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>coffee<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
and <i>chocolate</i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I stayed for a while</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Longer than I expected</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
now I’m longing to leave;</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’m leaving you.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Good bye.</div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-64680609763715926442013-05-06T18:21:00.000-07:002013-05-06T18:21:00.484-07:00Geek Chic in the Classroom<br />
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I generally don’t think of myself as a person who is “web-savvy.”
While I have dabbled here and there with various programs and I took some
programming classes in high school, mostly I stick to the “holy three”: MS
Office, Internet browsers, and some very user-friendly photo-editing programs.
With the advent of “Digital Humanities,” a movement in the academy that functions
mostly, I think, to make us Ivory Tower dwellers seem like credible sources of
income to University administrators, I have felt somewhat behind. My web
presence is minuscule and cannot, I thought, compare to that of even the most
backward of Millennial-gen kids out there.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://gerrycanavan.files.wordpress.com/2012/09/297823_10152120570170621_1500173932_n.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://gerrycanavan.files.wordpress.com/2012/09/297823_10152120570170621_1500173932_n.jpeg" height="260" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This meme sums up my usual feelings for the term "digital humanities." <br />I mean, no one really knows what it means...So stop using it!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I mean, this new generation, the generation I’m currently
teaching—you know, the kids who never breathed a minute of the 80s?—never lived
during a non-Internet era. They grew up AIM chatting, emailing, and texting.
9/11 is something that happened when they were ten years old—or younger. They
probably never used <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5qWg6cgFnIU" target="_blank">dial-up internet</a>, never used mIRC or ICQ, never had to
worry about mom and dad picking up the house phone and disconnecting them from
a Very Important chat room discussion.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
From what I read about on the web and hear on the radio
and TV, this generation is connected: Facebook is the least of it. They
Twitter, they Instagram, they blog, they code, they make podcasts and seek fame
through YouTube videos. In class, I see them frequently take a photo of what I’ve
written on the board instead of writing it down. They use Ipads to take notes
on (if they bother to take notes), and nearly all of them have smart phones.
They freely admit to being addicted to their phones and most of them walk
around campus with an ear bud or two connecting them to their playlists.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So I am consistently flabbergasted when students display
a basic lack of computer and Internet know-how. Without fail, they don’t know
how to insert page numbers, alter margins, or run spell check (though that last
one might be pure laziness). Despite having a powerful resource in their purse
or pocket, they regularly forget? refuse? can’t be bothered to? look up a word
in an assigned text that they don’t know. Even if the word is in the title of
the story we are reading.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Now, you might say, well, these examples merely point to
the laziness of the Millennials, their sense of entitlement, or their lack of
basic learning skills that resulted from No Child Left Behind and its emphasis
on testing over teaching. So I now progress to the more pointed examples. In
the last two years, the writing program at my institution has changed over from
paper portfolios to ePortfolios through a website called “Digication” (terrible
word). This saves pounds and pounds of paper and is much easier to grade as
well, as instructors are liberated from having to carry around said portfolios.
The portfolios take a little bit of manipulation on the part of the students,
as they require one to use Google Drive, to change the privacy settings, and then
to link the documents to the appropriate spot in the ePortfolio.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Mind you, Digication is a very intuitive. It’s been years
since I built <a href="http://baskajw.tripod.com/harrypotter/harryhome.htm" target="_blank">my own website</a>, but the interface on Digication is probably
easier than that of MS Frontpage, which I used back in 2003. Pasting in the
links consists of highlighting the word you would like to function as the link,
pressing the button that says “insert link,” and then pasting in the hyperlink—much
like on a blog interface. I was somewhat stunned when students had me
running around the classroom today, troubleshooting the most basic of issues. Suddenly
I felt like a real web babe, capable of figuring things out on my own in the
wacky web world! I felt something I had never felt before: I know web stuff!
And more importantly, I’m not scared to learn more if called on to do so. I
grew up tinkering with the web and computers: maybe not as much as others who
might have what we call a “natural talent” for the thing, but I've had my fair
share of tinkering. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My students seem to have no sense of tinkering, of
fiddling with something long enough until a solution emerges. They simply raise
their hands when they can’t figure it out and ask for the answer. In the case
of the ePortfolios, the answers were so simple, I wondered that my students weren't somewhat embarrassed to have asked. One student even asked how to
insert page numbers into a Google Doc, to which I replied, “Hit the ‘Insert’
button.” </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Aside from my frustration with their over-reliance on my
hand-holding (I showed them how to do this as a class, first, and they still
needed my help for the entire class period) and my disappointment in their lack
of “tinkerage,” I ended up feeling quite proud of myself. I can fiddle! I can
tinker! I could take a class and learn more about different kinds of software
if I wanted to! Don’t get me wrong…I’m not going to take up any kind of
hardcore programming any time soon. But I felt enlightened by seeing their
limitations. Their limitations reminded me of my own skill set, and that I am
not as limited, technologically, as I thought I was. Digital humanities? Bring
it on! Web presence? I’ll show you web presence!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’m one viral video away from a full-on interweb
takeover.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
-UK</div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-71550945261255963392013-03-15T10:50:00.001-07:002013-03-15T10:51:27.516-07:00Don’t Dis the Diss—Part II: Walk like a Man, Talk like a Man<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Despite my title, no, this entry is not about being a
woman in academia. Instead, it is about the topic of my dissertation:
eighteenth-century female cross-dressers.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
If that sounds like a confusing mouthful, let me break it
down a little. First of all, literary studies of the eighteenth century focus
on a time period slightly longer than the actual seventeen hundreds. The Long
Eighteenth Century can encompass nearly 150 years, anywhere from 1660 to 1837,
with the ascension of Queen Victoria to the throne. My own dissertation takes
the Restoration into account, but most of the texts I analyze were written and
published roughly between 1700 and 1801—more true to the idea of the eighteenth
century I suppose. It may also be useful to mention here that my focus is on
British literature almost exclusively, despite the fact that there were women
dressing in men’s clothes all over Europe and North America at this time.
Probably in the rest of the world, too.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But I digress, as usual. Specifically, I am looking at
literary representations of women who wore men’s clothes, whether they are
actresses (who were finally allowed onto the English stage starting in 1660),
novel characters (usually ladies who dress in men’s clothes out of necessity or
pleasure), female soldiers (women who passed themselves off as men in order to
join the army or navy—these are historical figures), female husbands (women who
passed themselves off as men in order to seduce other women—usually their
stories are elaborations on facts), or female pirates (pretty
self-explanatory). Their stories were highly popular in the eighteenth century,
and some of the real life passing women were quite famous. Female soldier Hannah
Snell returned from duty, collected her pension, declared she was a woman, and
eventually performed military drills on stage in her uniform. You could even
buy a printed engraving of her to hang up on your wall if you so fancied.
Female soldiers like Snell were often considered heroes who virtuously
protected their female bodies from the sexual advances of men, showed
considerable bravery in the field, and were often thought of as even more
valorous than the men they fought alongside.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2MkTq12VP_-Kx2_20SuYbUAhPSF-hd62sD-Oy-Toh6RKLhU1Q05WXBvxR5NhMcVP5de4Qa7TPEaDVKTWcuoFYJxRB5CYbkCM4PQntyFUTENV2MCGsnh7YmeFoatdASfX07w3wD0mCCq0/s1600/snell_portrait_engraving.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2MkTq12VP_-Kx2_20SuYbUAhPSF-hd62sD-Oy-Toh6RKLhU1Q05WXBvxR5NhMcVP5de4Qa7TPEaDVKTWcuoFYJxRB5CYbkCM4PQntyFUTENV2MCGsnh7YmeFoatdASfX07w3wD0mCCq0/s1600/snell_portrait_engraving.png" height="320" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hannah Snell! Don't you just want her pic on your wall?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Female husbands, on the other hand, were considered
wicked cheats who pulled the wool over innocent women’s eyes, stole their
money, and maybe even indulged in unnatural pleasures with the help of a dildo
(not lying! It’s true!). These women were often castigated and, if caught, were
publicly whipped and/or put in prison for deception. Similarly, female pirates
Mary Reade and Ann Bonny cross-dressed in order to pillage and destroy as
pirates, and to have affairs with the dashing pirates they met (women were
often not allowed aboard ships for superstitions reasons. Also, being the only
woman aboard a ship full of sex-starved men was not a good idea either). These
women were also considered hussies and criminals.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo7RupBj_vVsitJnImerHxeORCEAuXCFiuT2Sbzb6X9MqRbqCRKem6XaBkG9vd9BuCG3hBTqkLOdEgKmkvydMhLn8CsiFyinp5mblYo38fpmB6-WJdZ3Ra7MoVigEQqgh_y9GtbnBzez8/s1600/BonnyRead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo7RupBj_vVsitJnImerHxeORCEAuXCFiuT2Sbzb6X9MqRbqCRKem6XaBkG9vd9BuCG3hBTqkLOdEgKmkvydMhLn8CsiFyinp5mblYo38fpmB6-WJdZ3Ra7MoVigEQqgh_y9GtbnBzez8/s1600/BonnyRead.jpg" height="226" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Female Pirates Ann Bonny and Mary Reade.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> </o:p>Novel depictions of cross-dressing were similarly
ambiguous. Moll Flanders cross-dresses in order to steal; she doesn’t like the
disguise, though eventually it saves her life because no one can identify her
after a job goes wrong. Her male disguise is only one of many, however, and we
don’t get the sense that Defoe thinks that dressing as a man is any worse than
passing herself off as a lady. By the time Elizabeth Inchbald pens <i>A Simple Story </i>in 1791, Miss Millner’s
ambiguously-gendered masquerade costume causes a stir over its unseemly show of
leg while illustrating her ambiguous moral standards. (Showing leg was taboo
for most eighteenth-century women, especially ladies.)</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWL-34eSiXsbAX2OZl5WJ1MQ9qhIxlci5is5Dt-LxLTa_oC_h7yJrVQiKn0HPM8ZPVXZLXX3bvbTdtc0d25FKoJXoBjCmOcZO00ml_x35LeY5VzHfDuyD1cwtonYPwBf2xYhwKtoF8JoA/s1600/gillray+a+corner+near+the+bank.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWL-34eSiXsbAX2OZl5WJ1MQ9qhIxlci5is5Dt-LxLTa_oC_h7yJrVQiKn0HPM8ZPVXZLXX3bvbTdtc0d25FKoJXoBjCmOcZO00ml_x35LeY5VzHfDuyD1cwtonYPwBf2xYhwKtoF8JoA/s1600/gillray+a+corner+near+the+bank.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Showing leg was often associated with prostitution for women, as in this James Gillray print from the late 1700s.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In my dissertation, I consider these representations as
part of a continuum. When I read more closely, I began to see a pattern in the
way that the cross-dresser’s body appeared in the texts. Eighteenth-century narrative
can be remarkably coy about people’s bodies; the cross-dresser’s body, which
would seem to be at the forefront of her story and how she manages her male
costume, only ever appears in fragments. The narratives I explore bring up
certain appendages or body parts only when there is a question about the
cross-dresser’s gender. In each chapter I explore a different appendage in
order to further establish how gender functions in the eighteenth century.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
What has made my dissertation so much fun is exploring
precisely how eighteenth-century Brits felt about beards, breasts, penises,
dildos and legs, and then comparing those attitudes and cultural
representations to the representations in literature. Upon inspection, it
becomes clear that although many writers, physicians, moralists, newspaper
writers, and the general public felt that beards and penises denoted maleness
and breasts denoted femaleness, these assignments were not always so clear.
Although both men and women have legs, the texts I explore suggest that they
only signify sexually on women—even as their exposure comes primarily when
women don breeches.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5KPYYMGUx3gVfLVN1CdmOnLzotzXR0NTqVy01XZsec2AnSPENXzzQu4TmfbwcmjSmIet9eoGTrDDFLCa8ePcooWYFZr2uVSZhpqUfdJ3mIz75uhbLRAejznG2h91LquUvBZmP-MFUBw0/s1600/woffington.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5KPYYMGUx3gVfLVN1CdmOnLzotzXR0NTqVy01XZsec2AnSPENXzzQu4TmfbwcmjSmIet9eoGTrDDFLCa8ePcooWYFZr2uVSZhpqUfdJ3mIz75uhbLRAejznG2h91LquUvBZmP-MFUBw0/s1600/woffington.jpg" height="400" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Actress Peg Woffington was famous for her "breeches parts" on stage. She often dressed in men's clothes to recite epilogues to plays, such as this one "The Female Volunteer." Sexy, eh?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Ultimately, these appendages lose their ability to
signify one gender or another. The texts try to maintain gender dichotomies,
but cannot. Instead, their ambiguity becomes the way through which the
cross-dresser appeals to other women. Her body is at times exposed, at times
hidden, but either way, she is very attractive to other women. These
relationships between the cross-dresser and the women she comes into contact
with form the second half of my analysis. I argue that although not all the
relationships between the cross-dresser and her accomplices are sexual, there
is always a little bit of sexual tension—just enough that we, as readers, learn
how to read for these nuances. Call it eighteenth-century gaydar, if you will.
The cross-dresser’s gender-ambiguous body is attractive to and attracts other
women. Whether they know she is a woman or not doesn’t matter; the reader
always knows.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Whether she was on the stage, on a ship, or in another
lady’s bed, the female cross-dresser is an intriguing figure in the
eighteenth-century. In a time when readership is growing and women are
increasingly picking up paper and quill, the figure of the female cross-dresser
comes to represent the freedoms and restraints that women of the time faced.
This is not to say that there weren’t other kinds of women who tested the boundaries
of social norms, or other kinds of women who engaged in Sapphic practices…it’s
just to say that our understanding of women’s lives and desires, and their
representations in literature, are incomplete until we look a little more
closely at the female cross-dresser.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.nypl.org/index.php?id=PS_CPS_CD5_069&t=w" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://images.nypl.org/index.php?id=PS_CPS_CD5_069&t=w" height="213" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Female Husband Mary Hamilton from Fielding's <i>The Female Husband</i> gets whipped in punishment for her crimes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-17435393028659671712013-03-10T08:16:00.000-07:002013-03-10T08:16:01.389-07:00Don't Dis the Diss -- Part I<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So, I made a resolution to post a blog entry once each
week, and it’s only March and I’ve failed miserably. I blame it on my
dissertation, and for that reason, this post is all about that very special
piece of writing in my life.</div>
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The dissertation is a strange thing. For many of us, it
is a mythological beast of sorts—the unicorn of grad school. Just when you think
you see it in its entirety, it dissolves into the forest of commentary,
criticism and revision. In some ways, perhaps a dissertation is more of a
hippogriff. It is an unwieldy fusion of degree requirement and serious research
project; a not-quite-book but more-than-term paper.</div>
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Finishing the dissertation and applying to jobs bring a
whole new layer of anxiety to the graduate student. We begin graduate school
happy to have gotten in, privileged to join the ranks, but often also with a
sense of smugness. We were encouraged by someone, by several people, at some
point in our young and impressionable lives, to get a PhD. To go to graduate
school. Because we were smart, maybe even very smart. Unfortunately smartness
is pretty easy to come by in graduate school. By the time you make it into a
PhD program, you are no longer the smartest person among your peers. Everyone
is the smartest person, and there are very few compliments or encouraging
comments to go around, especially once you finish your coursework and start
working on your dissertation project.</div>
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Academia is full of egos, so you have to make sure to
stroke your own as often as you can, or find someone who will stroke it for you
on a consistent basis. We also have to delude ourselves a little bit about the
job market—surely, we say to ourselves, <i>we
</i>will get jobs! <i>We </i>will not be
those sad sad phds you hear about who gave up on academia and now drive a truck
for a living, or, god forbid, live off of food stamps while adjuncting somewhere!
We tell ourselves over and over again that what we are doing is worthwhile,
honorable, and maybe even necessary. After all, <i>someone </i>has to educate college students about the beauty of
Shakespeare’s language, the humor of Chaucer’s tales, the beauty and the wit of
Woolf’s prose, and the complex symbolism of the Brontës, Hurston, Morrison,
Faulkner and so many others.</div>
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Of course, that’s not really what the dissertation is
about. I remember very clearly attending my own undergraduate English
department graduation ceremony back in the day. The English department ceremony
included the PhDs, MFAs and MAs in addition to the BAs. The PhDs went first. I
remember this one female student particularly because my senior seminar
professor was hooding her. I don’t remember the exact title of this young
scholar’s dissertation, but I know it had something to do with a medieval woman
writer I’d never heard of.</div>
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“How lame!” I thought. “Why write a dissertation about
some piece of literature no one has every heard of!?” At some point I’d also heard
jokes about over-specialized dissertation topics, topics so obscure no one had
seemed to have heard of them. It all seemed so…ridiculous! Why bother in that
case? Why not write about all your favorite novels or poems or plays or
authors?</div>
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And yet here I am, nine years older and wiser, with the
knowledge that the dissertation, “Why Jane Austen is Amazing,” and
dissertations similar to that, have pretty much already been written. A
dissertation has to make a significant intervention into a complex, some might
say bloated, field of inquiry that is specific enough that you can do the
research on it in 3 years, more or less. Anything bigger, more
all-encompassing, or more complex will take longer than the six long years it
already takes to do a PhD in English “quickly.” (The national average is
somewhere around 9 or 10 years.)</div>
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At the same time, people often naively ask me, “What
could possibly be left to say about ________?” (fill in the blank with a
well-known author or work). Theoretical and social ideologies are changing
constantly, meaning that our interpretations are changing constantly as well.
The study of literature is all about looking for patterns of signification and
for new ways to understand ourselves and the world around us as portrayed
through literature. In the past, different literary schools attempted to
justify why some works were “Literature” and others weren’t; others traced the
psychoanalytic resonances in literature; still others inspected works of
literature for signs of class struggle or representations of racial inequality;
others analyzed the structure and narrative of works of literature as well as
the ways in which readers responded to these works; and others search for the
representations of unusual men and women, non-normative sexualities and gender
configurations, and how literature creates a space for understanding these
ideas and developments now and in the past.</div>
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Given the ever-changing mindset of literary scholars, as
well as the constant re-evaluation of past works of literature and the
discovery of ever more under- or un-studied works by both canonical authors as
well as newly rediscovered ones, the stream of knowledge to be produced in
literary studies is probably endless.
Just as scientists will keep studying space and sub-atomic structures
and the deepest trenches of the oceans in order to keep searching for what we
still don’t know about the material world, so literary scholars will keep
studying creative works to identify and analyze what we still don’t know about
the human condition.</div>
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But I wax poetic. The dissertation is often an un-poetic
creation. It is Frankenstein’s monster, in a way. We piece it together,
learning how it works as we go along. For most of us, this is the longest piece
of analytical writing we have ever done (unless this is your 2<sup>nd</sup>
PhD, in which case, go away). It’s difficult, at times; at other times, things
seem to go swimmingly. Then you get your committee’s comments, and for a while
you might feel like you are right back where you started. But you have to keep
plugging along, because they aren’t paying you enough to linger (or at least
not where I go to grad school). Plus, somewhere in the future is the end of the
rainbow with the ultimate pot of gold: a job as a real live professor of
English literature where you will get to continue your research (hopefully on a
reasonable salary) while you inspire young minds, engineer new syllabi, and
become the intellectual equal of the people you admire.</div>
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The dissertation is not a book; it is not “publishable”
as such. It might have been, in the past, when dissertations were longer,
people spent longer in graduate school, and the state of the academy was quite
different (for ex. you could start a tenure-track job while still working on
your dissertation). Now it is a significant research project that will
eventually become your first book (maybe. It might also just turn into 3-5
articles). How that process works, I’m not quite sure. I imagine it involves
some time in an archive, among other things…</div>
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For now, the defense copy of my dissertation is done and
I await my defense date. Then there will be final revisions and the official
submission to the Graduate School. In the meantime, I am thinking a lot about
what it means to have written it. Of course I am proud of it. It’s nearly 250
pages long. It has a 17 page works cited list. I have spent 3 years working on
it, while also teaching, working on scholarly articles, attending conferences,
writing letters of recommendation, attending meetings, and applying for 60+
jobs. </div>
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On the other hand, the dissertation still feels
unfinished; maybe it will always be that way. Maybe even once it’s a book, it
will still feel unfinished. Writing, when done well, is a lengthy process. I’ve
missed writing creatively in the last 6 years, but the PhD sucks up nearly all
your time and energy for that. On the other hand, I’ve enjoyed writing my dissertation,
coming up with new ideas and ways of interpreting these works, and discovering
strange and sundry literary marginalia to expose to the world…</div>
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I do know, however, I’m ready to be finished with
graduate school and move on.</div>
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Stay tuned for Part II, in which I reveal the topic of my
dissertation & revel in the details!</div>
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-UK</div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-42424828724756469142013-02-14T11:06:00.002-08:002013-02-14T11:06:44.077-08:00Animal Celebrity is a Bitch<br />
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So, many of us were distracted from our workaday lives
recently by the Westminster Kennel Club Dog show—what, you weren’t watching?
(The winner was <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/02/13/sports/no-ordinary-affenpinscher-banana-joe-is-named-best-in-show.html?_r=0" target="_blank">Banana Joe</a>, the first ever affenpinscher to win this particular
event—now he gets to retire in everyone’s favorite retirement spot, the
Netherlands.) Of course, events like this one and the National Dog Show on
Thanksgiving only make me think of one thing—Christopher Guest’s brilliant
mockumentary <i>Best in Show</i> and Parker
Posey’s amazing <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_KrSWI8F2E" target="_blank">“Where is Busy Bee?”</a> meltdown therein—but it did recently get
me thinking of something else. Namely—the fact that man’s best friend is
definitely not the hottest animal on the block, and it hasn’t been for some time.
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These days it takes more than being a friendly,
tail-wagging quadruped to be “trending” at the rate of other species. In fact,
the pop culture popularity of dogs is probably below that of even monkeys.
People who watch videos of dogs—or the dog show—seem quaint and old timey. </div>
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For those of you who aren’t aware of the latest species
trending, this list should help you get back up to speed. Dogs may be cute, but
they are just not that hip anymore. Dogs had the 90s: Budweiser’s Spuds
Mackenzie, the Taco Bell Chihuahua, and the Saint Bernard Beethoven ruled the
big and small screens. Now they, like bunnies (think Energizer or Cadbury’s), must scamper for attention (the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WLnHFDPwoWs" target="_blank">puppy-party-favors of </a><i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WLnHFDPwoWs" target="_blank">Bridesmaids</a> </i>were an notable and adorable exception).</div>
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7. Penguins & Meerkats—yesterday’s news</div>
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Hard to believe that just a couple of years ago, penguins
and meerkats reigned supreme. Who would have thought their day in the sun would
ever end? However, all good things must come to an end. With <i>Happyfeet</i> and <i>March of the Penguins</i> now just DVDs gathering dust, and <i>Meerkat Manor</i> a mere memory, those
animals are on the downswing. Enjoy them while the youtube videos still exist!</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfP8U0NkjS8zZ_QTpW1aMlenZXnoOfULaQHvEMHNeyUqFOcWXKGVr9EbTK2wfOIwenrNxeOEIVOXpaE2jltYwar_E7Dl95QY58bxtLVx0aerAj0YcWeb2_e7YXV4Yv0_PHra4UwJnSjss/s1600/groupstandingonhomemeerkat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfP8U0NkjS8zZ_QTpW1aMlenZXnoOfULaQHvEMHNeyUqFOcWXKGVr9EbTK2wfOIwenrNxeOEIVOXpaE2jltYwar_E7Dl95QY58bxtLVx0aerAj0YcWeb2_e7YXV4Yv0_PHra4UwJnSjss/s1600/groupstandingonhomemeerkat.jpg" height="226" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meerkats watch as fame & fortune leave them.</td></tr>
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<o:p> </o:p>6. Honeybadger—flash in the pan</div>
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Honeybadger don’t care….<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4r7wHMg5Yjg" target="_blank">honeybadger</a> is a badass!</div>
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5. Sea otters—just for Valentine’s Day?</div>
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A furry, graceful animal that <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=epUk3T2Kfno" target="_blank">holds hands with its friends</a>? An instant winner. The jury is still out as to the market power of sea
otters in the long run, but they are the perfect animal celebrity for the “yay
I’m not a sad singelton” marketing campaign that is Valentine’s.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mccljddT0i1rsco2ho1_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mccljddT0i1rsco2ho1_400.jpg" height="216" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That looks says: "We know we're cute."</td></tr>
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4. Pigs—on the rise</div>
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We thought we'd seen the end with the demise of Babe, but they're back! Who can resist Hamlet the pig making his way <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H7leMctSTMc" target="_blank">down the stairs towards his oatmeal</a>? Or how about that somewhat creepy talking pig in
the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-r4Z1K_LDc" target="_blank">Geico commercial</a>? Any way you slice it, pigs are on the rise and going quite
literally into the skies. Pretty soon, these pigs will be bringing home the
bacon, big time.</div>
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3. Hedgehogs—so cute I can barely breathe</div>
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OMG OMG OMG. Hedgehogs!!!! Cute and prickly and just
oh-so-squishy! <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y0JHSPFST_o" target="_blank">Lounging in my hand</a>! <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zXjPQYgT25Q" target="_blank">Going for a swim</a>! Gaaaah!</div>
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2. Sloths—hitting the big time</div>
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Sloths are smelly, slow and kind of scary—obviously a
natural choice for fame and fortune. The Zach Galifinakis of the animal world,
let’s say. But better-looking, because apparently, <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/lyapalater/bradley-cooper-looks-exactly-like-a-sloth" target="_blank">Bradley Cooper</a> looks like one. Actress <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t5jw3T3Jy70" target="_blank">Kristin Bell</a> is crazy for sloths. HuffPost announced today
that a great last-minute Valentine’s gift would be <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lucy-cooke/sloths_b_2672700.html" target="_blank">a bucket of sloths</a>. Sloths
have even had their own <a href="http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/sloths/n12118/" target="_blank">SNL video</a>. Obviously, sloths have arrived…get ‘em while
they’re hot!...or still in the bucket!</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://quantumgeotech.files.wordpress.com/2012/04/bucket-of-sloths.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://quantumgeotech.files.wordpress.com/2012/04/bucket-of-sloths.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This bucket's mine! Get your own!</td></tr>
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<o:p> </o:p>1. Cats—always in fashion</div>
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None of these animals, however, will ever attain the
popularity of the Internet darling—cats. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hPzNl6NKAG0" target="_blank">Cats sliding into boxes</a>, cats making <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0M7ibPk37_U" target="_blank">existential statements</a>, cats <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J---aiyznGQ" target="_blank">playing the piano</a>, or even people just <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sP4NMoJcFd4" target="_blank">singing about cats</a>. We even love <a href="http://www.quickmeme.com/Grumpy-Cat/" target="_blank">grumpy cats</a>. A <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/06/26/technology/in-a-big-network-of-computers-evidence-of-machine-learning.html?pagewanted=all" target="_blank">self-teaching computer</a> programmed to analyze the internet was
able to “learn” how to recognize consistently exactly one thing—cats. Internet
cat videos have even been shown at exclusive <a href="http://www.duluthnewstribune.com/event/article/id/258730/group/homepage/" target="_blank">cat video film festivals</a>. Cats are
simply the Chanel of the animal world—always stylish and always classy with a
little bit of sassy. </div>
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But all you dog-lovers out there, have no fear. Dogs are here to stay, too, even if they aren't lapping the limelight in quite the same way as cats or sloths. And here are some <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/mattbellassai/the-40-greatest-dog-gifs-of-2012-6z51" target="_blank">dog gifs</a> for you too.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr58zW97xxTjk87lkA3zyhs9m1_pzq6cDmdhlQs7Lo-VWTX4bmWpTYkf-1XRXx9gdUQ1baW-SbsFfpgHaZPRr-WNMo_9KuK2W7WMCa7bgtAasveLZur62SsvpFQ9968dmX5Td8GCatIY4/s1600/IMG_2087.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr58zW97xxTjk87lkA3zyhs9m1_pzq6cDmdhlQs7Lo-VWTX4bmWpTYkf-1XRXx9gdUQ1baW-SbsFfpgHaZPRr-WNMo_9KuK2W7WMCa7bgtAasveLZur62SsvpFQ9968dmX5Td8GCatIY4/s1600/IMG_2087.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Great Conjunction's very own grumpy cat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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--UK</div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-69672664062416715422013-02-04T16:07:00.000-08:002013-02-04T16:07:44.600-08:00New Year, New Rules: New Year's Resolutions, 2013 Edition<br />
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So, I’m a sucker for New Year’s Resolutions. As an
academic, I usually make them twice a year—on January 1<sup>st</sup>, like
“normal” people, and again on September 1<sup>st</sup>, with the beginning of
the new academic year. The resolutions I make at the start of September often
have to do with my academic achievements and work ethic; while these figure in
my January resolutions, I try to add the “life improvements” resolutions to
this list as well.</div>
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As usual, my list is ambitious, unrealistic and
unoriginal: manage my time more effectively; be more courteous to others,
especially as a listener; don’t let the little things upset me; eat more
healthily; work out more consistently; be a more enthusiastic and engaged
instructor; stop procrastinating; get back to writing fiction; read more books
for fun. (Naturally I’m most excited by the last one on that list.) </div>
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But I can’t help myself. I like to reinvent and improve
myself, even when I know that these goals are a constant struggle to maintain. But
I also love making lists. I make to-do lists, grocery lists, book lists, move
lists, lists of achievements, lists of failures, pro and con lists, and, as you
are witnessing in this essay, lists of lists. I have a notepad for making lists
and at the bottom it says, “Make a list—you’ll feel better.” If nothing else,
making lists makes you feel in control, even if that’s a false sense of
satisfaction. </div>
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I am also very meticulous about my lists. I joke that
lists are where the Virgo in me really comes out. Not only do I like to make
lots of lists, I organize my lists with categories and subcategories. I like to
make my grocery lists in order of how the food is laid out in the grocery store
that we go to every week. What—you don’t do that? For Christmas shopping this
year, I created an Excel spreadsheet to make sure I had all the recipients and
their gifts listed. I have no doubt this list will prove invaluable in ten
months’ time.</div>
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But back to resolutions! Resolutions are a neat and
orderly list of things I wish to achieve, however esoteric, abstract or
concrete. The key to effective goal-setting is, of course, to make a <i>second </i>list that describes what you will
do in your life to achieve these goals (I think I read that in a book or <i>Good Housekeeping</i>, which mysteriously
keeps being sent to my house). For example, for my resolution of working out
more consistently, I will promise myself to work out 4-5 times a week <i>minimum</i>, with roller derby twice a week,
gym twice a week, and, once the weather gets nicer, running twice a week. In
order to get fitter, I plan on using a fitness journal to mark my progress and
make sure I’m upping the weight on the machines every month. </div>
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The problem with this method is once you get to the more
abstract resolutions. For example—how do I break my bad habit of interrupting
people and, in general, being a bad listener? How do I “manage my time better”
(aside from making more lists)? How do I commit to “not letting the little
things get to me” or “being a more enthusiastic instructor”? The only way to do
that is to remind myself as often as possible about these things. My original
idea was to write myself reminders of these goals in my day planner and on a
sheet of paper by my bed—but then I put that off.</div>
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I suppose in the end it doesn’t matter if you break your
resolutions, as long as you don’t break your resolve. I’m not a fan of
self-help books, so I’ll leave the pep talk for someone else. As far as I’m
concerned, I’ll keep making and re-making myself as often as I can—that’s one
resolution I know I’ll keep. And when that fails, I’ll make a list…and I’ll
feel better. </div>
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[Try not to notice that I already broke resolution #37,
post to blog every week….] </div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1421552757717100702.post-64635465560703185942012-09-14T17:41:00.001-07:002012-09-14T17:42:50.256-07:00The Dirty Thirty<br />
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I turned 30 a couple weeks ago, and it’s made me a bit
reflective. Lots of people freak out about turning 30, but I haven’t really had
the jitters about it. Maybe it’s because my other half turned 30 a while ago
and it took some of the sting out of the whole thing. I like to think it’s
because I’m mature and adult-like and don’t worry about things like aging or
mortality. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But of course I do. 15 years ago I was 15, and it seemed
like hot shit to be 15. Like a major accomplishment. It also seemed like a long
time still to come before I would be an independent adult, free from parental
supervision, with a life and money of my own. That wasn’t even on my radar. But
those second 15 years flew by. I can hardly believe it. Time is nothing to me
now; time just flows by unchecked, except maybe when I’m in the dentist’s chair.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I don’t want this to be my reflections on immortality here;
I’ll leave that to Mr. Wordsworth. Instead, I’ve been trying to think of all
the things I’ve learned in my 20s, my own belated coming-of-age. I’ve been an
adult (sort of) for the last 10 years, and I think I have accomplished and
learned quite a bit. Since I like summing things up and making lists, indulge
me this once…</div>
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<br /></div>
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Things I Have Accomplished in the Last 10 Years:</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have traveled the world (multiple countries, 3
continents, several states)</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have brought my total # of languages to 5</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have completed a BA & MA & am < 1
year away from a PHD</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have fallen in love & gotten married</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have acquired a cat</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have won awards, published a paper, and
presented at multiple conferences</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have befriended my grandmother</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have made some of the best friends of my life</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have gotten in shape (more or less)</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have lived in New York City</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have written a novel (even if it’ll never be
published, that’s still an accomplishment!)</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have lived in Europe</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have joined a roller derby team <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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Things I Learned in the Last 10 Years</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Staying home on Friday night is nice</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->My parents were right about a lot of things,
including making my bed every day</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->It’s not the end of the world when you lose a
friend</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->It’s not the end of the world if people don’t
like you</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I really don’t care what anybody else thinks</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->It’s not where you live, it’s what you make of
it and who you surround yourself with that counts</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Every job has its down sides</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Compromise is necessary and not always painful </div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->There are better wines than White Zin</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Quality over quantity</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Research can be fun</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->People are unreliable, close-minded, and
self-serving, but that’s not the end of the world either</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Your true friends will always be there even if
you lose a lot of friends along the way</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Being disciplined is sometimes more important
than being smart</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Being smart doesn’t make you better than other
people</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->There are many ways to be happy</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->My tastes, interests and dislikes are constantly
changing and capable of being changed</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->No one has life “figured out” and there’s no
pressure if I don’t either</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I may never learn how to stop saying stupid
things but most people are pretty forgiving</div>
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<br /></div>
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OK, enough with the nuggets of wisdom. I’ll stop here go
back to my wine. Not White Zin. </div>
KK and UKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12888196733603226341noreply@blogger.com1