Writing any blog entry on a Friday night invites the world (or, the 3 people who comprise your reading audience) to weep for you. What I'm about to write will only make you pity me more, because truly, it is some kind of pathetic, but at the same time as I feel this shame I also feel a triumph.

Ok, so I am watching tv, and something on there made me ask myself, "wait, who was the professor I had a huge crush on in college?" It was in some way relevant. At first, oh it is sad, I could not think of the name! But then "Maximillian" popped to the fore, and is it any wonder, who has that kind of name, and the rest shortly followed: "Ryan Maximillian Moore."

Oh my, was he endearing. I was in his very first class he ever professored. Full of the vim and vigor he was, it was a sociology class, about youth and music and so it was fun, and he wore this corduroy blazer with elbow patches, and I can't say it's the elbow patches alone that did it, but they sure helped. Someone I used to be friends with had him for another class and had the boldness to make the man a mix cd, which of course he properly appreciated. Why didn't I think to make him a mix cd? Or, you know, to go see him during office hours?
Same answer, really: I was a shy little doofus. But oh, the regret.

Oh, I had a story to tell. The story: I've been drinking a little. And, of course, I am one you weep for in pity etc etc. So I thought, HEY, I am going to look Ryan Maximillian Moore up, on the internet!

Google wasn't into the Maximillian part, so I tried just the initial. Look!

At first I wasn't sure it was him, because he was in Florida (ick) but then he commented on a book called The Professors and mentioned that he has students, and mentioned WHERE he has students, and so I looked the place up and looked him up and BAM, first thing says "sociology of youth" and DUDE that is what I TOOK from him! He is teaching it NOW! How nice.

So I've successfully google-stalked. That seems to be my triumph.

Demand for viewer participation: Did you have any crushes on professors?

my morning so far

An allergy test for a new hair color, on my inner left elbow;

Checkbook found; bills in their envelopes; "Days of Being Wild" netflixed away for "Be Here To Love Me";

Nutty cereal with banana slices; a mug of unmilked coffee;

This;

This;

This.

One's a story that is good and sometimes funny. One is a podcast interview of David Berman, who at this point I'd be frightened of liking more ("Welllll...I was gonna play this Walt Whitman poem"--so perfect). The other is an article with accompanying video, about an exhibition in Switzerland on Patricia Highsmith. I have said if before, but I will say it again, this is a very good book.

I was way, way too excited to see Michael Cera on Veronica Mars this evening. I don't usually watch that show anymore, but oh boy. George-Michael! Sweetheart! Darling! I mean that completely platonically, of course, you young, young man.

OMG Alia Shawkat! Shakwat? I will look it up: Shawkat!

ACK
GEORGE-MICHAEL AGAIN
OH they have to be on that show all the time. Or, you know, Mitch Hurwitz could make another show and have the exact same cast. That would blow my mind, with joy.



This doesn't seem like a week off at all. I feel the constant pressure of things to do, and I had homework. And very little fun happened. Oh, but let us speak no more of it.

ACK
GEORGE-MICHAEL
oh, cruel television show, I can hear him, but where is he?
Let's talk to him, Veronica! Talk to the dorky, witty young man!
Television can be so disappointing.

I haven't sent lit mixes/mix cds yet, but will in the next day or so I believe--I want to know, does anyone not in the, uh, club want one?

Also, lit mixers out there, I'm still planning on sending one to everyone originally in the rotation (and then also Natasha) since this is only my 2nd one and I've received 2 from them...that sound right? I don't want to send them stuff they don't want and all, I just figured fair's fair in the lit mix exchange, 2 for 2.
Of course that sounds right. Ok.

So yeah, anyone else out there, want one? Let me know, soonish. There will be excerpts of stuff from Ander Monson, Donald Barthelme, Richard Brautigan, maybe Calvin Trillin, and there will even be some Magic Pudding. The mix cd has, you know, the kind of stuff I listen to. I cannot tell how much anyone will like either mix, so you take a risk. But it could be something fun to get in the mail.

the streets of bakersfield

I always kind of hated Buck Owens.

See, I'm from Bakersfield, but wasn't always from Bakersfield; I was born in Colorado, near Denver, amidst greenery and winter snow, springtime showers and fresh air. When I was 9, my father got transferred, and we then moved to what can charitably be called a different clime.

Less charitably, we can say a dusty, smog-filled dirthole that culturally was a little bit of the conservative South blown with the Dust Bowl into one of the most godforsaken bits of central California you could find. Before I was even a teenager, I developed a bitter, reactionary prejudice against all things cowboy, all things "country". And then of course we've got some mild father issues entwined here, the father who always had a pair of cowboy boots but never before moving to Bakersfield had stretched out his, what was this, Maryland drawl? Do Marylanders have a drawl, or was he a total Zelig product of his environment? My father was turning hick, was the sad truth, except not entirely, because he himself scoffed at country music, at the very thing he was becoming
oh the complexity of it all.

To me, country was the fakest thing I knew, because I had no knowledge of nor respect for its origins, and the modern stuff was so wrapped up in the growing neo-conservatism that gags one to think of, and so when, during my high school years, Buck Owens in his old age began embracing once more his chosen home of Bakersfield, opening his goddamn Crystal Palace restaurant/club, THAT PEOPLE WERE EXCITED ABOUT AND WENT TO, people I talked to, and then getting a street renamed in his honor---what was wrong with Pierce Road? "Buck Owens Boulevard," it was called. Seriously.
It was like a joke, is the thing, how Bakersfield it all was. All I detested most, embodied in this man, this rhinestone cowboy, with his homey name, his Crystal Palace

Yeah, I really didn't like him.

As I got older, I softened toward country music, and in the aftermath of the Bush re-election I've worked hard at seeing the non-evil in people who don't share my views.

This is to say, when I heard Buck Owens had died, I wasn't indifferent. Not, to be honest, sad, but, well, I started to read about the man. To look and see if there were things I'd missed in my prior wholehearted distaste. I by habit read a lot of music blogs, some by people who enjoy country music to an extent, and so they had some Buck Owens songs. I felt like an entirely other person downloading the tune "Streets of Bakersfield," I will tell you that. I was a bit afraid what I'd hear in the song, thinking surely it would make me hate Buck forever, and is that a kind thing, when the poor man's dead?

It starts out pretty good--reassuringly pretty little guitar intro, and the lines, "I came here lookin' for somethin'--"
I am a big fan of talking about looking for something.
"--somethin' I couldn't find anywhere else."
Unsatisfied searching is even better.
"I don't wanna be nobody, just want a chance to be myself"
Self-identity struggles! Now, that's the stuff!
"I've done a thousand miles a' thumbin'"
Ooo, world-weary.
"Yes, I've worn blisters on my heels. Tryin to find something better"
Aren't we all
"--on the streets of Bakersfield."
Ok, now this is ambiguous. He is looking to the streets of Bakersfield as a likely provider of what he has not found everywhere else he's been? OR, the interpretation I prefer, it's not like he's saying the streets of Bakersfield are great and definitely where he will find better things, but rather the streets of Bakersfield are where he currently is, and maybe has been before, and it's where he is currently trying to find something better, and it's like, Bakersfield is the base setting for his weary, lonely searching. The streets of Bako are where he's trying to find something better, but since he has to try at all, it implies that it's an effort, see, maybe a repeated, ongoing effort, to find something better there.

I am identifying with Buck Owens at this point, is what I'm saying.
The first two years after college, I was right there with you, Buck-o.

"You don't know me but you don't like me"
Well, you know, maybe I was hasty, Buck.
"You say you care less how I feel. How many of you that sit and judge me/ever walk the streets of Bakersfield?"
Not sure this is how Buck meant it, but what I am taking away is, "You don't know what I've been through--STREETS OF BAKERSFIELD, man."
Then there follows a humorous bit about being in jail and stealing money from a drunkard cellmate, then
against all sense
heading back to Bakersfield.

It does tend to pull one back, Bakersfield; like a riptide, quicksand, substance dependency, etc.

So ok, Buck's view of Bakersfield was rosier than mine, but I know what he meant by just wanting a place to be himself; I can say, as he could: "You won't ever really understand me until you go to Bakersfield." And because of that commonality, I can easily continue interpreting this song my way, and I know, I know, soon will come a time for me to try my new motto: How many of you that sit and judge me ever walk the streets of Bakersfield? And I'll have a kicky little tune in my head.

Amends, Buck.
*

I went for a WALK today. I always sort of hope to relive the feel of the best walk I ever took, with my dad outside the hospital my mother's father was dying in. I didn't know that grandfather well, almost thought something was wrong with how unaffected I felt, but mainly just felt the air was so cool, and my legs, it was like I had never walked right before but was sure doing it then. It felt great. I felt very living. I could have walked for hours. I wondered what I'd been doing wrong before, with walking. Stumbling, bumbling, awkward, self-anxious. It was so easy, my muscles stretched and flexed and there was a natural rhythm to the motion, comforting, mindless. I saw myself becoming a great walker, a walk every night, a walk every morning, in afternoons when I could, maybe I'd start bringing a dog.

Never had a walk so good since. I do like walking, though, but I'm not smooth and assured, usually. Just, sort of, making my way along.

It is really hard to get my life in order. That was pretty much my expectation, this break. I pictured it taking place in about a day or two. Instead I've been depressively sabotaging most of my productive actions, being anxious and nutty and etc. Haven't even got my apartment tidy.
Oh, well.
Tomorrow will be only the 5th out of 10 days off, so all is not yet wasted. I'll, you know, make my way along.

oh P.S.:
I feel I should give a movie recommendation, before I forget. I have seen this movie one and a half times now, and I heartily suggest it for your viewing pleasure, when you are in the mood for an old romantic British movie that will make you cry a little. The leading lady, Celia Johnson, is adorable. She giggles great. Seems very kind and matter-of-fact, rather than being flighty and emotional during her love affair. That makes her despair, when it comes around, way more powerful. Not that it's a depressing movie, and not that it entirely isn't. It's one of those good mixes. Try it, you'll see!

Ok, so my friend Brendan is off touring the world and occasionally posting photos on flickr, and though this is perhaps one of his least exciting photos, considering all that he is doing and seeing, well.



It haunts me.


It is in a bank in Romania.
Ok, so now tell me what the slogan COULD POSSIBLY BE.
Am I missing something? A squirrel, on a bike, with a nut maybe as his basket....



In unrelated news, today I checked out three books from the library, two of which have amazing covers, and what the hell, I am doing nothing else:



Shocking!




I like this style of '60s drawing a lot. I think this cover, though, is giving me false hope of interracial romance.


I also went to Borders, in my continuing quest to find a decent newsstand. Sadly, kids, the Borders newsstand IS the best I've seen here. Still, no Virginia Quarterly Review, no Zembla, no American Scholar (saw one of those at an otherwise more pathetic newsstand though), no other stuff that looked super cool that I just had to look into...
I bought a New Yorker because of the hooha on certain websites about the Calvin Trillin article, and I got these in the "buff" color, because, sure.
I don't know why I'm telling you any of this, it suddenly seems extremely boring. Maybe tomorrow I'll be more suited to communication with others.

I'm unexpectedly totally depressive this break so far. What is up with that? I do not know. Anyway, today I went shopping a little, got the Destroyer album finally, the doofuses there still had hardly heard of it, psh, and I got 2 old vinyl records: Frank Sinatra's In the Wee Small Hours and The Button-Down Mind of Bob Newhart. Also I got two used books, which was difficult because most of the stuff, this woman was trying to sell for $6 and up. Filthy thief. Wow, that is a fun phrase. Say it! Spray it!

Anyhow. I got Winesburg, Ohio, which feels like something I already bought but I think I just always thought of buying it, and I got The Abortion: An Historical Romance 1966 by Richard Brautigan of catfish friend acclaim. If you click the amazon link: the picture on the cover of that book is the picture on the cover of my book. Just so you know. That is Richard, and a hot girl. At the bottom of my cover it says "This novel is about the romantic possibilities of a public library in California".
Sometimes I forget that I don't still live in California, that the world is not in fact California, and really what difference does it make, where I am, because it will in part, I bet, feel to me like California, which itself never felt much like "California" anyway.

My hands are tired. It's peculiar.

I wanted to take a walk today, but it is too rainy.

I cut my hair badly this morning. I need to stop it, just get a hairstylist.

Poor, weird-looking, hand-tired me.

I feel like I've already frittered away my entire break. What a negative nelly, eh? Maybe it will get better tonight and tomorrow.

and so my spring break begins

Middle of voicemail message I left for someone tonight, out of boredom, loneliness and retardedness:
"I'm, uh, about to see the directorial debut of Tommy Lee Jones.
I don't know why."


It was pretty good actually. Very corpsey, though.
Death is sure a bummer.

There are daffodils blooming friggin' everywhere around here.

"Friggin'!" What a douche!

Yes, I did call myself a douche. Gross! Is it not one of the worst words ever?

I should have pictorial evidence of the daffodils a-blooming, because I mean it. I had to ask my supervising teacher today, "What is up with all the daffodils? They just grow here, or they're insanely popular springtime garden buys?" and she had to say, "They have naturalized!"
I keep typing @ for ! and I just then typed # for @ and when I went to type # just THEN, I typed @, so clearly I should leave all punctuation alone now

It took some will power to leave off the period there and oh my gosh to not use commas

I can't take it. I cannot live with the punctuation, and cannot live without.

Why am I even typing to you, I so obviously have nothing to say. Except: I think I have heartburn, right now.

The charm of Neko's album is already wearing off, even though I still think it's lovely in parts. I think she does not write songs all that well, and I have little else to say to back up this cutting assertion except that in the song Margaret and Pauline, it's like, the point of the song is that rich people get it easy? Poor people's lives suck? And how is this valid as a songwriting point in the year 2006? It's like, yeah, and? The twist? The purpose of your song? I don't know why this bothers me so much, but somehow it's gotten me all turned against Neko's lyrics. I am capricious.

It is Wednesday, I was supposed to be really happy, for you to see how happy I am now it's Wednesday. Well, I was at the school site from 7:30 to 7pmish, minus the time from 11:40 to 1 that I was out to lunch. So, how happy can I be?
I got to sit around and listen to a lot of personal things about a lot of children and their families, and it makes me a) try to recall what, if any, conferences I or my parents ever attended, b) wonder what would have been said if we had ever had such a conference, c) realize what a bizarre kid I was, all quiet and...weird, and d) long for contact with people I, paradoxically, don't have to talk with. Not strangers, the opposite.


Did you ever have conferences? We just had Open Houses, in my day. Did you have days off, given over to student/parent/teacher conferences? If so, fuck you.
ha ha

One last thought. First graders are much cuter one at a time. You kind of want to cuddle them, or play board games with them. You get sort of, Hey, you're small.

not that i think it's 100% true

ha ha

Hi. I thought I would share that last night I finally watched 2046, a movie I talked about wanting to watch for maybe half a year now, a dvd I've had for over a month, maybe 2? (thanks, netflix!)

My goodness, is it a handsome movie. That is my main point, if I were to write a review. One of the best-looking movies you could see. It's pretty good, otherwise, too---great performances, an ok story I guess. Well, there are problems with it, but I can't bring myself to care enough to try explaining them. So overall, pretty awesome film.

I wish the dvd-makers hadn't been so crafty, I would have liked to show you screen captures of how jaw-dropping gorgeous the movie is, I mean just stating it doesn't give you any idea. Pretty pretty pretty. And I have been looking a little for an internet image of the supremely foxy leading man, but strangely, NOTHING does him justice. His face has to be in motion I guess for it to work its wonders, and a mustache helps, because looking at him all fresh-faced at premieres he's like some kind of goofy nice-guy everyman, which he is NOT, he is FUCKING FOXY. Oh my gosh, Tony Leung. I am having heart palpitations just thinking of you.
Sigh.
And, Zhang Ziyi is in it too--you might remember her in Crouching Tiger as the one who looks exquisitely beautiful.
So, the people are gorgeous, the cinematography is gorgeous, it almost hurts your head, the beauty of it all.
RECOMMENDED.



Even though I only have to teach for two days next week, I am deeply cranky I even have that. Plaster of paris, I have to buy plaster of paris and use it tomorrow. God, it makes me resentful. Just wait how happy I will sound this Wednesday.

I don't know if you'll care about this, but I'm going to want to look at it again and again so I'll stick it here.


one of Wim Wenders' Picture Haikus:


25.
Wall In Paris, Texas

If I had had a hammer,
I would have tried
to chip off more from that stucco
and uncover the entire precious fresco
underneath.
But I only had a camera.

Neko

Crap; I am resigned

Greetings!

I feel I should be out drinking, that I am missing the national go-out-drinking holiday. However, it's how it's got to be--I have class tomorrow, and really I am pretty excited to just sit in my apartment without having to do anything. I might make cookies! I might finally watch 2046!

After work today I went and bought the Neko Case album, which I haven't listened to yet but have unwrapped and let me tell you, the cd is very pretty. Bright light blue with an orangey foxy fox. The album, you see, is called Fox Confessor somethingblahablah. Only bad thing to say about packaging: no Neko picture.
The guy at the music store was telling me about good reviews he's heard it got, and dude, for one I know more about this album than you do, it is why I have come here to purchase it, and for another, he then followed that up with his personal opinion of Neko, which is that he sometimes likes her songs, but he mainly just thinks she's cute, except all the recent reviews apparently have pictures of her looking pissy. He said that: pissy. He didn't seem at all confident in the value of my purchase, based on the pissy pictures. It must be really annoying being a woman in the music world.

They didn't have Destroyer's album or Stephin Merritt's, and like had just heard of the Destroyer one. Ok, none of you care because you're not nerds about this kind of thing like I am, I forget. But, you knew too, because you read my blog, so yeah, see---for weeks we've known about Destroyer's album.

I got Deerhoof's The Runners Four instead.

My missing package is going to be delivered to me tonight! By some man in this complex who received it instead of me. It has been several days, though. Actually, 7.
7 days. So this man is a little bit an asshole. But oh well, soon I will have new work clothes! Hurray!

I was going to talk about the Neko thing and then mention this chat I had at lunch today, but I got distracted by my snob annoyance and the package. I should have stuck the snob annoyance in toward the beginning of the music paragraph. This blog entry is sequenced all wrong. Also, it feels boring. But it is too late! There is nothing for it, now. All it can ever be is crap. I am resigned.

Ok, so today at lunch with student teacher colleagues, we were talking about how people in our program are all cliquey, at least in the elementary section, and maybe it's only the elementary section, in which case why? But what I was going to tell you, was that I was told I was in the "political activist" clique. I find that funny, and also kind of maddening. Granted, looking only at this afternoon: I find music world misogyny at the record store, right after going on and on in the car to one of those student teachers about the anti-feminism of one of our professors, so maybe it's appropriate. Another group got called "beer-drinking hippies," so I guess it could have been worse.

Hippies. Hah.

bored; apparently decided to spread the boredom

I want to buy three new albums:
1
2
3

Even though I am poor.

I might do it tomorrow.

I have been the strangest mix of happy and unhappy for several weeks. There is nothing in particular making me happy, nothing going particularly right with my life, but small things are pleasing me. How some songs sound, how it feels to lay down and rest, how something tastes, I don't know. And then also I am exhausted, and cranky about specific things, and of course as always bleak-viewed. I don't know. How I feel and how I am doing, how things are going, seems truly uncategorizable at this time.

And don't get me wrong, this isn't an interesting time. I don't see anything new or exciting happening anytime soon. But then, I'm not really expecting the opposite so much. I am not expecting at all? That can't be true.
I should stop writing, since I am so tired and incoherent. I was just bored is all, and don't know what else to share with you now.

Someone seems to have stolen a package my mother sent me, filled with expensive clothes and other things. Either they stole it, or it was delivered to the wrong place and is taking a little while to get back to me.
It is sad.

I have a lot of work to do tonight. I am so tired.
I bought some cookies, but I don't know if those will cheer me so much as put me closer to sleep.
What a bummer of a day.

I've had a somewhat enterprising morning. I went to Michael's for lame stuff, Borders for a book for a lesson Monday, and happenstancedly found a super excellent book I'd never heard of but is TRIPPY and REALITY-BENDING and META and FOR KIDS.
Then! I went around some vacant office parks near a stream, to pilfer landscaping rocks. The kids need them to paint and make their pet rocks. I was not about to buy them, and though I started by trying to steal some around my apartment complex, it just got to feeling weird. So: vacant office parks, near the duck pond and stream. Many ducks were sleeping:



Even though stealing landscaping rocks is among the pettiest of petty thefts, the whole thing felt pleasingly like I was in one of those washed-out, tense 70s crime dramas/heist movies. It was the setting, the dreary sky, and with my cameraphone especially I felt very Conversation.



Yes, yes, I am a dork.

My third post in the same day, and it still won't be very interesting: clearly, I am procrastinating like the dickens. ANYWAY, so my subject for this post is that I am watching that Lisa Loeb show, #1 Single. Anyone seen that? I don't know how I get this channel, the style network. So yeah, I'm supposed to be doing many things, powerpointy, drawing and measuring and mocking up worksheets, and I'm instead watching Lisa Loeb's show because I guess I love to be annoyed.
How do you feel about Lisa Loeb? She really really bugs me, and I always feel it's unwarranted, like she's actually a very agreeable person but...wow, I so much dislike her. Maybe I watch this show to help discover the reasons for my distaste.

I don't like her music, there's that; I don't like her eyebrows, and for some reason that seems like a big deal. They're thin, and she has them like sculpted into an arch! She's put on a sassiness costume, with her eyebrows! And, she walked around in a thong without anyone asking her to, but only because she wanted to be kooky. And her sister and friend, these bleached blond like slut-voiced women---where is my hatred coming from? I have no idea. Something is so wrong with me, because she went on this date with a homely writer and was still so nice about him, and interested in him as a person, but she likes Hello Kitty! She's like 40! And will she never get new glasses? And her eyebrows! I cannot get over them! On her face all quirky! And her voiceovers! So...so ...

I have to get back to powerpoint.

For months now, I've been a little obsessed with this ring.
This kind of thing doesn't usually happen to me. Jewelry, it's nice, but I can usually take or leave it--and I would never have thought I'd ever HAVE TO HAVE a ring from Tiffany's.

See it's almost affordable, that's what gets me. I have spent that much stocking up on groceries. If I cancelled cable, after a couple months I'd have that much to spend. But, I should be saving, to pay off loans, to support myself while looking for a job, to have money to move....

Look again, at how pretty:




unrelated ps:

Do any of you know how to mess with mp3 files? I have recordings of classes singing songs with an electric violin, but they're rough, and I can't figure how to bring up the voices, how to take away the "hot" parts where the amp interacted weirdly with the microphone...I am stupid about recording, and stupid about editing recording, so yeah---anyone able to help? Jack? Other people with a surprising hidden talent?

two lame stories for you this morning

I don't believe I was thinking about anything but sleeping before I went to bed last night, at 8, and when I woke up at 11 and thought about staying up for Conan and Duck Soup, then started reading a book and fell back asleep, that did not seem to affect things either. My dream had no Conan, no Finland, no Marx brothers, and my book was about writing and no writing took place in the dream. Dream posts are lame, so I'll try to make it one sentence:
I was hanging out with people from work/school, feeling nervous about the one who's insane and once had a murderous rage burning inside for me, but who now smiles in the halls and laughs at my jokes, when suddenly they all vanished, and I was at some concert, and it was looking lame.

Ok, I had to end that sentence. Next, last:
Then Stephen Malkmus was on, with his Jicks, and he looked so fucking bizarre, long hair, like in the bad way long hair, weird amulet necklaces, and he was doing some silly but actually really pretty much insane kind of presentation of his songs, and his audience was filled with really good-looking people, good-looking young people, who made me feel old, and I got to talking with a couple girls, who it turns out were seriously Jicks groupies, and then there was some like cover of a song played by some pop culture icon of people a few years younger than me, that the Jicks only knew of through avid irony, and all the people around me knew about it, and I felt all weird, and I had to tell them, "Actually, I much preferred Pavement," and they were all, "Haven't really gotten into them," but they were really nice and good-looking, and couldn't tell how old I really am, in my brittle soul, and somehow I didn't hate them, and then I was dating one of the girls. The end.

I thought it was weird. Maybe it's more boring than anything else, retold.


Yesterday I dropped one of the lunch room benches on my foot. At first, naturally, I assumed I had broken my foot. But then it didn't feel too bad, and then it didn't really hurt at all. Oh, I thought, I have a foot of steel! Or perhaps the bench did not mainly fall on my foot, but on the ground and my foot was incidental!
But then it started hurting again, and when I came home and looked at it, it looked bruisey. I thought of foot casts once more. But then this morning, well I will check it again now


it's not even that tender, and doesn't look bruisey! Maybe I need to walk on it for more than 2 minutes and then it will be sad again. Anyway, what a strange injury.
The end.

It was a snow delay today!

I complain a lot still, I still hate student teaching, and I've had a lost/semi-lost voice for....this'll be the 4th day. But today was a snow delay, I am listening to one of my two vinyl records (Another Side of Bob Dylan---the first song, All I Really Wanna Do, is adorable if you want to check it out) and I am thinking of taking snow pictures and/or going to get coffee before work, and yeah today will be another mess of a day, and probably I'll screw up in at least 20 ways, but you know I am feeling not bad. I have been feeling not bad, considering, all this exhausting, stupid week.

I've got the idea I'm entering a long patch of not bad. I might be figuring out how to cope with life or something.


ps: any lit-mixers who read my blog, I have no idea how late I am with my mix (though I haven't received any for several months, so maybe I am not the only one who's late? this doesn't count Amar, who was sadly foiled by the postal service) but yeah I wanted to let you know, look for it in....April? Beginning of April; I should be mailing it out last week this month. Maybe also with mix cds, in apology for lateness.

short, needless bulleted list

*I'm getting the whole cough/sore throat/losing voice thing again. Where have you been, bronchial tube disturbance? I was almost forgetting my life with you--the sudden uncharacteristic desire for tea, the attraction to menthol.

*Some kid threw up in class today, and at first I couldn't figure out that was happening, because the lights were off and it was clear and I'm stupid. I was all, you need a tissue? What's going on? Where did this water come from? Poor kid.

*If I get stomach flu again, someone's getting kicked. Maybe all children I see, afterward.

*I am trying really hard to not be unhappy, or as unhappy. It's some kind of trick. I'm not doing it right, yet. I'm closer to figuring it out than I have been many times in the past though. Possibly.

happy jon stewart day!

There's going to be some kind of movie show on later today, hosted by Jon Stewart, a man I have in past referred to as "my personal Betty Grable". [Reason]

I have been a poor excuse of an obsessed fan for several months now, missing the Daily Show on a regular basis, and now I see missing him being interviewed by Larry King. Well. I guess it's understandable me not keeping up on the Larry King schedule. But anyway, in honor of our Jonny's big day, here's where you can find some video of him on the Larry King show this past week.

What a delightful man.

I was looking through some older photos on flickr, and this one looks so nice to me right now.

I just got back from my school site. IT IS SATURDAY. How retarded. I cut a lot of paper. I did reading group plans, and got stressed, and stole a quarter from the interactive money chart.

I hope I remember to replace it. I really needed some caffeine right then though. It was all I could do to keep myself from rooting around in the pockets of the lost-and-found coats. Yes, looting small children's misplaced coats.

But then I got hungry, and I couldn't leave the building and come back because I would have been locked out, and I couldn't take a chair to the vending machine glass because I think they would have figured out it was me. Also it started to get really cold in there. I don't believe the heater works on weekends. So yeah, it was fucking retarded. And, ok listen to how lameass this is: I brought home yarn, and a hole punch, because I am not through with this dumb shit, I have bucketloads more of it yet to do!
ARGH

I missed Rebecca this week. See, I had retarded shit to do then too. How ridiculous is that? I could have seen this



on the big screen!

Well, I now make this vow, before you all:

NOTHING WILL STOP ME FROM SEEING BUSTER.



Nothing.
Barring death or serious injury.

more in children's literature

I've just started The Magic Pudding; Being the Adventures of Bunyip Bluegum and his friends Bill Barnacle and Sam Sawnoff. So far, there is this koala, who has an uncle whose whiskers really annoy him (the koala--Bunyip). So Bunyip goes and talks to a poet koala, about what he should do with himself because he can't stand living with his whiskery uncle anymore, whose whiskers get in the soup, which makes Bunyip have to eat outside the house so he doesn't eat whiskers and---let me get this right--

Bunyip Bluegum was a tidy bear, and he objected to whisker soup, so he was forced to eat his meals outside, which was awkward, and besides, lizards came and borrowed his soup.

And in the picture, there are these two little lizards, like the size of small dogs compared to Bunyip, standing on their hind legs and holding bowls--they are holding bowls. They are standing up in Bunyip's tree, on hind legs, tiny lizards holding bowls and begging. Bunyip is sitting on a stool in this tree, kind of a small stool, and it does indeed look awkward.
So the uncle won't get rid of his whiskers, Bunyip can't decide if he should be a traveller or swagman, I'm not Australian so I have no idea, and the poet koala says, what you should do is get a cane. A fancy cane, and go around being fancy.
Wait. Shit. I forgot to tell you. The poet koala is Egbert Rumpus Bumpus. I don't know if he's important later in the story too, but there you have it.
So Bunyip takes his uncle's walking stick and he assumes an air of pleasure, the book says, and goes around walking, looking at stuff like dandelions and traction engines, the book says, being conversational with people and very polite. But he starts to get hungry.

"I had no idea that one's stomach was so important,"

he says to himself.
So then he finds Bill Barnacle, a sailor, and Sam Sawnoff, a "penguin bold" who also seems to wear gigantic red trousers up to his wings, like some kind of Fred Mertz of penguins. They are eating a pudding that smells good. Like, a meaty oniony pudding. Not like that you eat with a spoon. It's Australia, I don't know. Bunyip wants some but he's so polite, and Bill and Sam aren't, but the pudding, the pudding then pipes up--it speaks--and asks Bill where his manners are, to give Bunyip a slice. Of himself.

"There you are," said Bill. "There's nothing this Puddin' enjoys more than offering slices of himself to strangers."

And the pudding is not being polite, no. The pudding then recites a poem or song to that effect, that he's not into politeness. Politeness be hanged.
"Always anxious to be eaten....that's this Puddin's mania," Bill says.








Let's get that again:

"Always anxious to be eaten....that's this Puddin's mania"

Well, I just had a class tonight where I spent a good several minutes giggling about this, so.
Anyway, I'm feeling good about this book. I'm not sure I can read it to the class though because the vocabulary is so bizarre. Maybe I'll just read it myself.

First graders get very handsy when I wear patterned stockings. I don't really know how to respond, without being mean or something. "Stop rubbing my legs, kid: it's just not right."?
Sounds a little mean.

I am going to waste time I can't afford to waste by talking to you about the book Sylvester and the Magic Pebble by William Steig. I think it might be one of my favorite books, period. If you are not familiar, it is about this donkey named Sylvester, who at the start of the story is a happy little donkey with a nice rock collection and a tidy mother and a pipe-smoking father. They are all very happy.



Then Sylvester is outside and he finds this pretty pebble, but it's all rainy and cold



and he's thinking, man, I wish it weren't raining.

Then


So Sylvester's like, I've got a magic pebble here. Then WHOA there's a LION on the HILL.

And he's all flustered, as one would be, so he doesn't think too clearly, and what he does is go, "I wish I were a ROCK" because lions don't eat rocks.
So the lion thinks he's crazy.

But alas.
What have you done, Sylvester?

His parents look all over for him.
I like how Steig writes things like this
in his children's book.
The parents also ask the neighborhood "children".

I love this touch.
Life goes on amidst tragedy. Jumproping, even, goes on.

Ok, now here is where it gets so amazing.


Steig just SLAMS it on us--so they're kids, so what? THEY HAVE TO LEARN ABOUT DESPAIR SOMETIME. They may, in fact, already be familiar with it. How can a story have any emotional power if strong emotions are not portrayed? IT CAN'T, PUSSY.
Ok, so then follows this beauteous page, that I have even talked about in another blog before I think, but hey, it deserves all the talk I can give it:



It is perfect.
But does not stop there.

I read this story in class today. Tomorrow morning the kids will do a kind of activity based on it, which is why I have these things scanned in my computer really. Anyway, yeah, I read this today. I made some children almost cry. I could see it, their little eyes glistening, faces somber. And I'm all, YES. They are hearing the melancholy! Awesome!
So, saddest of all pages, would be this one of the poor father.
They cannot find Sylvester, for months. They, clearly, believe he is dead.
Look at this.

"Life had no meaning for them."
Jesus.
Look at his face! And his neglected, despairing pipe!


But then the parents go on a picnic, in spring, AFTER A FALL AND WINTER OF NO SYLVESTER. Here is some of the text on the page when they decide to go on the picnic: " 'Let's cheer up....Let us try to live again and be happy even though Sylvester, our angel, is no longer with us.' "
I mean, god. This book. Ok, so they happen to use Sylvester as their picnic table

and find the pebble, and put it on the table because it reminds them of Sylvester.

And Sylvester thinks, I wish I were me again, right as they say, I wish Sylvester were here, and then TADA!

And could this look happier?

I mean I could cry. The sun! The sun is so beautiful, echoing Sylvester's tear of joy, and they are all so happy. The father is, like, dancing!
And if that were not heartwarming enough for you, after the depths of despair to which Steig brought us, oh my gosh you guys:

Yeah, this book is amazing.