So You Want to Reclaim the Throne of Gondor

The books and movies I have consumed thus far this year. So's you know what amazing taste I have.

( 2007 )
( 2008 )

I think if I were ever a domestic goddess with a(n) magazine/home decor line/empire, à la Martha Stewart, I would promote my latest handy idea in the post-holiday section of my magazine where I share tidbits on what to do with the gifts you're not wild about. I received a kitten calendar, and it's not exactly to my taste. Not because I don't like kittens - everyone knows they're like organic, furry Prozac - and not because I don't like keeping track of time - although I don't, because it's an inconvenient reminder of my own mortality. It's just that I think a kitten calendar can never equal the real squawking, timorous glory of an iddy biddy widdle kittykins. And there's something Umbridgesque about it, too. But I wasn't about to regift it like a cheap bastard, or toss it on the garbage heap.* No, to make the calendar uniquely my own**, I drew clever little thought bubbles above the kittens' heads, and therein wrote communistic slogans, like, "You are but a screw in the revolutionary machine."*** In short, don't dream it's over.**** Everything has its own calling suited to your minuscule, not-quite-but-almost-original niche in the universe.

*Recycle, you son of a bitch
**that is not a redundant phrase
***I'm pretty sure that's the only communist slogan I know; I actually have to think of 11 more...
****My requisite Crowded House reference du jour, but you should know they have a lot of other good songs besides that, their biggest hit. Also check out the Finn brothers' previous band, Split Enz.

I don't want to overexcite anyone but there is a real possibility that today I am going to finish that behemoth, that 1222-page monster, that obscure compendium of all the French Revolution(s)'(s) greatest hits, full of twists and turns like the 128-mile Parisian sewer; that story with beaucoup de side characters whose life histories are divulged in pages upon pages, only to learn said character has a single line; that tome, with its sentences composed of endless clauses, full of learned Greek references a 21st century reader fairly drowns in; Victor Hugo's lovesong to the word "sepulchral," LES MISERABLES.

Could you tell what I was trying to do there? No? Well I have to go to work in a few minutes so there is no time to expand that, unfortunately.

And just so we're clear, XM25 remains the worst satellite radio station of all time.

I was going to make a post announcing my paramount revelation that Jason Bateman, George Stephanopoulos, and Jeff Tweedy look exactly alike, but when I went to Google Image I realized they actually don't look a thing alike, and now I'm disappointed.

3rd-hand account of a conversation.

My coworker's friend: I'm just calling to let you know I'm okay. Were you wondering if I was okay?

My coworker's other friend: No.

After many phone calls last night I'm pretty sure all my family and friends are fine...and I hope you and yours are too. I don't like to say that not because I don't love you tremendously but I hate to imply it's okay if other people's family and friends die, but you know what I mean. I think.

I try not to be too sanctimonious a vegetarian, but if you want to piss me off really quickly, tell me that God created chickens. I had this conversation at work earlier today. One of my coworkers said, "Well, God created chickens, and that's all I have to say about that!" (Though if she had had more to say about that, it might have been something along the lines of "God created chickens for us to eat." I assume this was the general meaning of her statement, otherwise I would have slapped her in the forehead with the gold "Non Sequitur of the Day" sticker.) I figured this might be an awkward way to begin a conversation about my atheism, so instead I said, "Yes, but God didn't create industrialized farming, or stuff chickens into cages where they get like half a square foot of room, or genetically alter them so they grow twice as fast." Then I splattered her with red paint for good measure.

And that was my Scintillating 30-Second Idealogical Tête-à-tête of the day!

I might also have begun this entry with, "I try not to be too sanctimonious an atheist, but..."

( More things I thought about DH because you haven't had enough of everyone else's stupid opinions; you want mine, too )

So I wasn't even counting on having read this by now, but by Saturday night my sheep sensibilities kicked in and I read the chapter summaries of HPB on Sparknotes in order to avoid actually reading that one again. (I had forgotten what a horcrux was, SO FUCKING WHAT). I went into it with a sparkling, spoiler-free mind (amazing what not using the Internet will do), and the Sparknotes recap was quite beneficial, so that I only had to ask "Who in God's name is THAT" a couple of times during DH.

Spoilerific stuff ahead, as one might guess.

( Some DH thoughts [warning: 'thoughts' erroneously implies thinking] )

The Way of a Pilgrim and Pilgrim's Progress are not the same book. Let's just get that one out of the way right now. I meant to read the former after I found out it was NOT something J. D. Salinger had made up in Franny and Zooey. But when I went to the library to look it up, I became confused, and took home the latter book, never mind that the former was mentioned BY NAME in Franny and Zooey. Now that I've realized my blunder, I am considering permananetly slamming shut Pilgrim's Progress and exchanging it for the correct book, but as I have mentioned here before, I have an unremitting hangup about quitting books once I've begun them. It doesn't matter how terrible, boring, hackneyed, illiterate, unpractically time-consuming, or otherwise undesirable they are. When I give one up I have a feeling like I have left some vulnerable orphans alone in a room with a gas leak.

True story!

Let us pause for a brief moment and remember the books of the last few months that, once begun, never benefited from the warm sunshine of my having completed them:

A Redbird Christmas, Fannie Flagg
The Republic, Plato
This Wheel's on Fire, Levon Helm
Why Intelligent Design Fails: A Scientific Critique of the New Creationism, Matt Young and Taner Edis
De Anima, Aristotle
The Philosophy of History, Hegel

While I'm at it, here's a brief list of the books I have begun and subsequently quit 86 times apiece, but nonetheless vow to finish someday as they are all sitting on my shelves and which, as they communicate to one another by idly ruffling their own pages, are no doubt plotting the details of my death:

White Teeth, Zadie Smith
A Farewell to Arms, Ernest Hemingway
The Inferno, Dante
The Return of the King, J. R. R. Tolkien

IT TEARS ME UP INSIDE.

So there's some Potter shit going on! That's wonderful. I haven't seen it. In fact, I haven't seen Goblet of Fire, either. And I'm not entirely sure when I'm going to read the 7th book, because I still don't own the 6th book, it is furthest from my heart, and I have forgotten entirely what a horcrux is. So basically, nothing in this space can spoil you, the well-familiar, alert and topical fan! All the secrets from my books and movies have long been spilled - unless you are from 1922 and you have not seen Nosferatu, in which case ignore the next sentence.

VAMPIRES DIE WHEN THEY ARE EXPOSED TO SUNLIGHT.

According to the film historian on the DVD commentary of Nosferatu, this movie was the introduction of that particular piece of vampire lore. He also says the entire thing is a sexual allegory full of impotent, repressed men, unfilfilled women, and nights of homoerotic zeal. He makes a pretty case for it, but I found myself really annoyed by the single-minded "this is all sex" interpretation of it. And I am a Liberal, whose attitude toward sex is that everyone - men, women, the eldery, especially sentient aquatic life - need to engage in more of it. Now.

Maybe I am a puritan in disguise. I will just be getting into my pantaloons, now.

(I don't know what Puritans wear.)

I'm in one of those moods where I recite song lyrics or insert their titles quite earnestly in my everyday speech. "Well, you know, Jan, every rose has its thorn."

Come on baby, make it hurt so good.

I love you, honey piiiie.

Spent weekened in the Okoboji area. The Iowegians have the cojones to brand the area as the Great Lakes of Iowa, though I think the Only Lakes in Iowa is more accurate. The fish fly-laden puddles lakes have made them hardened mariners or something and as such, by Iowa State Law, 95% of the merchandise in the tourist shops must be nautically-themed. Arnold's Park is nothing but tropical Santas, flip-flop bracelet charms, sand dollars, toy boats whittled from bigger toy boats, etc. I say this all with loving kindness. The trip was fun, even in Arnold's Park, where the shining zenith of our visit involved assembling a puzzle in the maritime museum, while actual children looked on wistfully.

On the trip I reflected on how I loved Minnesota with a blind, nearly jingoistic passion that is probably very funny to anyone who sees the Midwest as a homogeneous blend of blonds slithering in and out of the corn. That's fine. But let me tell you. Outside one of the Arnold's Park shops I saw a metal wall hanging of the University of Minnesota's mascot, Goldy Gopher. I may or may not have pet him while groaning sadly.

That is all I have to say about that.

PS. Lake Wobegone is cooler than the University of Okoboji.
PPS. I now like Wisconsin better than Iowa.
PPPS. You don't know what it costs me to say that.

It's been so long since I've been on vacation that I am really excited about spending a long weekend in...Iowa.

"A film adaptation of [Brideshead Revisited] is currently in pre-production, scheduled for release in 2008, which will concentrate solely on the relationship between Charles and Julia."

Are you kidding me?

I would have thought the events preceding Charles' and Julia's relationship were kind of important.

In similarly pressing news, I have listened to Purple Rain and more specifically "Darling Nikki" for the first time and I cannot help but feel that Tipper Gore is a Puritan. The song is not all that obscene. Maybe I am not the best person to judge, though.

It's not that I dislike Ulysses, but mother of God, don't put that thing down for more than a week and then expect to know your (its) ass from your (its) elbow when you pick it up again. Oh Mr. JOYCE. What have you done! This will surprise no one, but I have been thinking of it as a 768-page Irish Bob Dylan song. Don't laugh. Desolation Row is already half that, lengthwise.

I will like the book if for no other reason than, in one passage, it asks "Where is fancy bread?", which is how I thought the poem really went because I had only ever heard an auditory fragment from Mr. Wonka. I could not put the pieces together. Then one day I saw it in print, and I was very sad. "Where is fancy bred?" vs. "Where is fancy bread?" Which is the pertinent question? Which would you rather know the location of? Think about it.

I tried to bake this evening and I am still picking dough out of my hair.

...yes.

( A Potentially Unpleasant Picture )

I don't know why I felt compelled to share that.

1. Obscure Goal No. 2349: If I ever make it to grad school I will write my dissertation on the declining quality of the Simpsons in latter seasons. You can do that. I know you can.

If nothing else I am going to write a very long entry about it someday.

2. The School o' Biological Sciences said no, I cannot be admitted, because I don't have the proper prereqs. I said screw you you ewe of a U o' M, I am at least 88 times smarter than anyone up there so wots it to you if I didn't take chemistry in high school. I am still waiting to hear back from the College o' Liberal Arts. I fear they will say the same.

3. (Re the sad results described in the above point:) This is what happens when you sit around doing nothing at a vague, artsy fartsy high school that is in shambles and that doesn't offer classes in science. Or anything, really, as a matter o' fact.

4. I don't think I'll ever stop wanting to be Irish.

5. ...

6. I really like the word "regress"!

Here are some other words I enjoy: myriad, abiogenesis, horticulture, unfortunately, phantasmagoria, sundry, whirligig, apoplectic, cilia, shambles, dregs, itadakimasu, lawsy, chinois...

I think my life would be better if I learned to belly dance.

Hm. I just don't get the appeal of soap operas*, romance novels, Hollywood endings, etc. because they are boring, cliché, uniform, etc. etc. etc. And yet I love Bollywood. Every time I watch one my jaw drops and I squeal and I say "HIS SUICIDE WAS PROMPTED BY FEELINGS OF GUILT OVER THE SELFLESS ACTIONS OF HIS WIFE WHO TOOK IN THE ILLEGITIMATE DAUGHTER FROM ONE OF HIS AFFAIRS AND RAISED THE GIRL AS IF SHE WERE HER BIOLOGICAL DAUGHTER WHEN EVEN THE BIOLOGICAL MOTHER WOULDN'T DO IT?!?!?! NO WAAAAAAAAAAAY! THIS IS THE BEST MOVIE EVER!"

*Passions doesn't count. I actually wrote a paper about Theresa's motivation using Maslow's hierarchy of needs. I is intellekshul.

I have decided to become a vegetarian again. Kind of.