Part 2, Chapter 4 of Albert Camus' l'etranger is the chapter that I have been assigned to teach tomorrow. Naturally, that means that I've spent the evening puttering around the internet trying not to think about the fact that I left the wee tome in my locker. And thus, the origins of this post:
I googled some phrase in Klingon, the only result was an old livejournal. I explored the livejournal. What's this?! The fellow speaks at least 5 languages, how interesting... and then I see a string of comments, a 'conversation' in which the blogger and another non-native English speaker attack an American for using the present tense of 'to forget.' No where else in the world, they say, have they ever heard anyone say 'I forget' instead of 'I forgot' or 'I have forgotten.' The American, they say, is just plain wrong. Now, the American failed tragically in defending himself and his countrymen, and I would have gone hastily to his aid if the thread (and, in fact, the entire blog) had not died several years ago.
So, I will justify the American 'forget' here. This may be not be true of everyone, but when I say 'I forget,' I say it with the expectation that I will remember the information at some point; it has been only temporarily misplaced. I say 'I've forgotten' when I doubt that I will ever be able to drag up the lost kernel of knowledge. Chalk it up to the legendary American optimism! We of the United States refuse to acknowledge the potential endurance of any sort of negativity.
And I should go look for l'etranger again.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Friday, March 7, 2008
Uberdoodle
Wow. This is supposed to be a sketchblog. Sometimes I forget!
I will be surprised and slightly perturbed if anyone figures out what this is about.
Primary Shenanigans
Geraldine Ferraro was on NPR the other day to tell folks about the deluge of Republicans that moseyed across party lines to vote in the Democratic primary. She claimed that if they hadn't done so, Hilary's numbers would have been much higher.
Okay, Geraldine, that's great, just sayin' tho... my observations at the polls contradict your analysis. Most of the Republicans I checked in said that they were voting for Hilary because they didn't think she would be able to win against McCain. Others said that they were voting for Obama because if they had to have a Democratic president, they would rather it be he than Clinton. I think the Republican votes for Clinton and Obama probably cancelled out. If the results were skewed in anyone's favor, I would say that person was Clinton.
Okay, Geraldine, that's great, just sayin' tho... my observations at the polls contradict your analysis. Most of the Republicans I checked in said that they were voting for Hilary because they didn't think she would be able to win against McCain. Others said that they were voting for Obama because if they had to have a Democratic president, they would rather it be he than Clinton. I think the Republican votes for Clinton and Obama probably cancelled out. If the results were skewed in anyone's favor, I would say that person was Clinton.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
NEVER AGAIN NEVER AGAIN NEVER AGAIN
The Government! If I ever had faith in the bureaucracy, I have lost it.
About a month ago, Mrs. Price asked if any seniors who would be 18 before the November election wanted to work at the polls March 4th. Because I am an idiot, I though ah! involvement in the political system! fun!
No. No. No.
The only thing it involves you in is confusion and disillusionment.
First - more of me being idiotic - I lost my notice-to-serve card and didn't know which ward I was supposed to go to. The Board of Elections didn't return (any of) my call(s) until after the Monday night preparation had started. I didn't get that call, though, because I was out driving around town trying to find the place myself. When I finally arrived, we couldn't do anything because the Polling Location Coordinator had not showed (shown?) up. We called the BOE and they named one of the Presiding Judges PLC. They had no idea what was going on, and neither did we. My precinct was also missing its second Republican Judge, and they didn't send us a replacement when we notified them.
So, from 5:30 Tuesday morning, almost nothing went right. Campaigners infiltrated the building, the Republican Judge sitting next to me spent the whole time talking about how Hillary Clinton has no soul and insisting that non-attorneys should not be allowed to vote for judges, and THE POWER WENT OUT. The back-up lights went out shortly after. The PLC called the BOE, but they just said to hold tight while they figured out what to do. The adults all stood around arguing. It was like one of those corny horror movies or reality shows in which a group of regular people hole up together and make pseudo-logical arguments that result in stupid decisions. Holy shit. It was like these people had not even read the handbook, like they were operating on some other plane of existence were rationality had been twisted around in some terrible, wild knot. When I finally got to leave, my car was completely encased in ice. Like a popsicle. A Honda Accord popsicle.
I will never, ever sign myself up for poll working again.
About a month ago, Mrs. Price asked if any seniors who would be 18 before the November election wanted to work at the polls March 4th. Because I am an idiot, I though ah! involvement in the political system! fun!
No. No. No.
The only thing it involves you in is confusion and disillusionment.
First - more of me being idiotic - I lost my notice-to-serve card and didn't know which ward I was supposed to go to. The Board of Elections didn't return (any of) my call(s) until after the Monday night preparation had started. I didn't get that call, though, because I was out driving around town trying to find the place myself. When I finally arrived, we couldn't do anything because the Polling Location Coordinator had not showed (shown?) up. We called the BOE and they named one of the Presiding Judges PLC. They had no idea what was going on, and neither did we. My precinct was also missing its second Republican Judge, and they didn't send us a replacement when we notified them.
So, from 5:30 Tuesday morning, almost nothing went right. Campaigners infiltrated the building, the Republican Judge sitting next to me spent the whole time talking about how Hillary Clinton has no soul and insisting that non-attorneys should not be allowed to vote for judges, and THE POWER WENT OUT. The back-up lights went out shortly after. The PLC called the BOE, but they just said to hold tight while they figured out what to do. The adults all stood around arguing. It was like one of those corny horror movies or reality shows in which a group of regular people hole up together and make pseudo-logical arguments that result in stupid decisions. Holy shit. It was like these people had not even read the handbook, like they were operating on some other plane of existence were rationality had been twisted around in some terrible, wild knot. When I finally got to leave, my car was completely encased in ice. Like a popsicle. A Honda Accord popsicle.
I will never, ever sign myself up for poll working again.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
A Paradox, a Paradox, a Most Ingenious Paradox!
KING:
For some ridiculous reason, to which, however, I've no desire to be disloyal, some person in authority, I don't know who, very likely the Astronomer Royal, has decided that, although for such a beastly month as February, twenty-eight days as a rule are plenty, One year in every four his days shall be reckoned as nine and twenty. Through some singular coincidence, I shouldn't be surprised if it were owing to the agency of an ill-natured fairy, You are the victim of this clumsy arrangement, having been born in leap-year on the twenty-ninth of February; And so, by a simple arithmetical process, you'll easily discover, That though you've lived twenty-one year, yet, if we go by birthdays, you're only five and a little bit over!
RUTH AND KING:
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!
FRED:
Dear me!
Let's see! (counting on fingers)
Yes, yes; with yours my figures do agree!
ALL:
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!
FRED:
How quaint the ways of Paradox!
At common sense she gaily mocks!
Though counting in the usual way,
years twenty-one I've been alive,
Yet, reckoning by my natal day,
I am a little boy of five!
-Gilbert and Sullivan's Pirates of Penzance
Parce que I had this song stuck in my head all day this February 29th
For some ridiculous reason, to which, however, I've no desire to be disloyal, some person in authority, I don't know who, very likely the Astronomer Royal, has decided that, although for such a beastly month as February, twenty-eight days as a rule are plenty, One year in every four his days shall be reckoned as nine and twenty. Through some singular coincidence, I shouldn't be surprised if it were owing to the agency of an ill-natured fairy, You are the victim of this clumsy arrangement, having been born in leap-year on the twenty-ninth of February; And so, by a simple arithmetical process, you'll easily discover, That though you've lived twenty-one year, yet, if we go by birthdays, you're only five and a little bit over!
RUTH AND KING:
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!
FRED:
Dear me!
Let's see! (counting on fingers)
Yes, yes; with yours my figures do agree!
ALL:
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!
FRED:
How quaint the ways of Paradox!
At common sense she gaily mocks!
Though counting in the usual way,
years twenty-one I've been alive,
Yet, reckoning by my natal day,
I am a little boy of five!
-Gilbert and Sullivan's Pirates of Penzance
Parce que I had this song stuck in my head all day this February 29th
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Word of the Day
In other news, here is a cool new word I found:
AUTOSCHEDIASM
It comes from Greek, auto is self and schedios is casual or offhand. Together they make a noun that refers to improvisation or something extemporized.
AUTOSCHEDIASM
It comes from Greek, auto is self and schedios is casual or offhand. Together they make a noun that refers to improvisation or something extemporized.
Snow Day
It has been snowing since I got up at 6 this morning, and it has not yet stopped or slowed. My car is buried under at least a foot of snow, but I don't have to go anywhere today because school was cancelled YEAH! An extra day to study for my Euro test. Another plus, it's beautiful, beautiful, beautiful outside.
But I have a problem with snow days; when I am alone for long periods of time, I think. Generally I just depress myself. Today was not much different.
I tried to figure out what inanimate object I am most like. I had already decided that I was m ore like an inanimate object than an animate one, you see. At first I thought perhaps a dead leaf. It lets itself drift about stiffly and then crumbles into pieces beneath a boot or buries itself beneath a pile of other dead leaves and rots. Then, the lamp on the little desk in the living room caught my eye. I thought, "I am like a lamp." I am purely decorative. People light me up when they will, use whatever illumination I provide, and turn me off again. Then I realized that I could not be a lamp, for a lamp may be turned on, and the reason that I was comparing myself to these various inanimate objects was my uncertainty that I was at all sexual. So, now I was thinking about lamps and sexuality and I noticed that lamps are, in fact, rather sensuous. The squat, rounded base I was picturing seemed like some sort of fertility symbol. I was reminded of that voluptuous prehistoric stone Venus that appears in the first chapter of every art history book I've ever read. The lamps are pregnant, I suppose. And even more appropriately, pregnant women are often said to be glowing. Then, I realized the lamp I had had in mind was hidden away in the back room, and the lamp that I was actually looking at had a very straight base, more like a brass dowel. In fact, as I looked around the room, every lamp that I could see was long and thin. The only one that was even slightly bulbous was clear glass with a straight metal rod inside. I cannot decide whether this is another example of my family's sexual repression, or whether it means that my mother (as she is the one who decorated the house and chose the lamps) is somehow dominated by my father, the only male in the household and therefore the only one to whom a phallic symbol could refer. Sometime within the week I shall take inventory of all our lamps. Maybe there are curvy ones upstairs?
Gah! This is what happens. I can't even decide whether or not this sounds idiotic yet. It probably does and I won't be able to see it objectively enough to notice for months. Frustration.
But I have a problem with snow days; when I am alone for long periods of time, I think. Generally I just depress myself. Today was not much different.
I tried to figure out what inanimate object I am most like. I had already decided that I was m ore like an inanimate object than an animate one, you see. At first I thought perhaps a dead leaf. It lets itself drift about stiffly and then crumbles into pieces beneath a boot or buries itself beneath a pile of other dead leaves and rots. Then, the lamp on the little desk in the living room caught my eye. I thought, "I am like a lamp." I am purely decorative. People light me up when they will, use whatever illumination I provide, and turn me off again. Then I realized that I could not be a lamp, for a lamp may be turned on, and the reason that I was comparing myself to these various inanimate objects was my uncertainty that I was at all sexual. So, now I was thinking about lamps and sexuality and I noticed that lamps are, in fact, rather sensuous. The squat, rounded base I was picturing seemed like some sort of fertility symbol. I was reminded of that voluptuous prehistoric stone Venus that appears in the first chapter of every art history book I've ever read. The lamps are pregnant, I suppose. And even more appropriately, pregnant women are often said to be glowing. Then, I realized the lamp I had had in mind was hidden away in the back room, and the lamp that I was actually looking at had a very straight base, more like a brass dowel. In fact, as I looked around the room, every lamp that I could see was long and thin. The only one that was even slightly bulbous was clear glass with a straight metal rod inside. I cannot decide whether this is another example of my family's sexual repression, or whether it means that my mother (as she is the one who decorated the house and chose the lamps) is somehow dominated by my father, the only male in the household and therefore the only one to whom a phallic symbol could refer. Sometime within the week I shall take inventory of all our lamps. Maybe there are curvy ones upstairs?
Gah! This is what happens. I can't even decide whether or not this sounds idiotic yet. It probably does and I won't be able to see it objectively enough to notice for months. Frustration.
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