Now last week, there was a crappy week. Thinking back, the only two highlights were my advisor's apt reference to blogging in class on Tuesday (it seems like just yesterday he was confessing ignorance of the genre) and the call from Adam this Friday officially including me in his wedding party. As Jenna can attest, I was apparently the only one who thought I hadn't already been asked.
Adam, if you're reading this: I don't know what's happened to my phone skills, which seem to have really deteriorated since high school. I submit that henceforth we communicate exclusively via telegraph.
Or passenger pigeon. Am I the only person who just doesn't understand why we can't bring back extinct species? I mean, sure genetic information degrades, but shouldn't it degrade randomly? And if I have a million passenger pigeon cells... I mean, come on, let's do this!
The sooner we bring back the dodo, the sooner we can learn if they do, in fact, "fry up real nice." With sweet and sour sauce.
I wrote down all sorts of information, but since the wedding is months away I feel no need to remember anything but the date, August 19th. As with the Politician's wedding, I have no real responsibilities, which suits me fine; getting to the church on time is usually enough of a challenge.
Saturday night I baked a cake, not to celebrate this pseudo-news — if anything, it was for earning the easy-level takedown trophy in Burnout 3 — but because I had the yellow cake mix and was hungry. My homemade chocolate frosting was awful, which means the cooking curse is still on.
I actually went out and bought a bag of potatoes in the hopes that I can break the curse tonight. It's a complicated story involving demon-children and peyote, but suffice it to say that I don't so much have a spirit animal as I do a spirit vegetable.
Dan's Webpage
Because everyone loves a farce
Sunday, February 26
1:37 PM
Though weeks should really begin on Monday
Thursday, February 23 1:56 AM
Or maybe I just need potatoes
Wednesday, February 22 9:39 AM
Whammy
Tuesday, February 21 11:20 PM
No whammy (as yet)
Sunday, February 19 8:20 PM
The family weekend in Milwaukee
Thursday, February 16 11:59 PM
Opportunities
Tuesday, February 14 12:15 AM
Because what else matters
Monday, February 13 12:17 AM
Alessandra Stanley on Arrested Development
Sunday, February 12 10:46 PM
Perpetual Motion (I'm 23)
Wednesday, February 8 10:56 PM
Lord of the Fruitflies
Sunday, February 5 3:43 PM
Dan foments Islamophobia
12:37 PM
Equivalence
Saturday, February 4 12:38 PM
Name, checked, match
Friday, February 3 1:35 AM
Cookie Theory
Wednesday, February 1 12:04 AM
So now we're adults? Just like that?
Alles Wird Gut
Though weeks should really begin on Monday
Comments (5)
Apparently the cave bear genome has been sequenced. The problem is that a gene sequence in silico isn't sufficient to make an organism. Entire genomes for anything larger than a virus have yet to be synthesized. Proper synthesis would also include 'epigenetic' modifications that affect DNA transcription. These patterns would need to be inferred from extant relatives and would be very difficult to reproduce on a genomic scale.
http://www.sciencemag.org/cgi/content/abstract/309/5734/597?rss=1
From what you're saying, it sounds like we're limited only by technology, not science, at this point. I call that good news.
I never wanted to taste dodo until I read this post.
sorry to break the news to you dan, but the telegram is dead. western union discontinued the service a few weeks ago.
i guess you didn't get the (last) telegram about it?
Actually I was all over the Western Union thing; it was one of my delicious links even. But for some reason I didn't connect the telegraph and the telegram when I wrote this post.
So basically there are no hilariously antiquated communications methods left in this country? Is the blastfax the best we can do?
Thursday, February 23 1:56 AM
Or maybe I just need potatoes
Either my cooking curse is still in effect, or white wine custard is just naturally lousy. Last night's dinner seems to support the former conclusion.
Yes, this is a post about cooking. Carry on.
The last good thing I made?
I've been eating spaghetti four or five days a week lately, because it's cheap and easy, but for educational purposes I've been trying to make my sauces from scratch. I usually make some sort of white sauce, because why would I have tomato sauce just lying around? I'm not made of money, leave me alone.
Late last week the situation got even more dire. I'd run out of flour and didn't have much else in the way of ingredients, so I made garlic butter sauce.
It's delicious, and ridiculously easy. I didn't have real garlic, but for 77 cents I picked up a bottle of garlic powder, a ridiculously potent alternative. 1/8th of a teaspoon is equivalent to a whole clove.
Garlic Butter Sauce
In a small saucepan with the stove on low, melt:
1/3 cup butter
Once butter is melted, stir in:
1/8 teaspoon garlic powder
After a few minutes, stir in:
1/4 tablespoon dried basil
1 teaspoon dried oregano (you could use anywhere between 1/4 and 2 teaspoons for this recipe — start low and add to taste)
Stir the mixture for a few minutes and serve over pasta.
I will never use all that garlic powder, but some of my purchases are even less logical.
Confession. A few days ago I wandered into a big supermarket for the first time in months and just went nuts. Things like pancake mix, even olive oil make sense, but I honestly have no idea what I was thinking when I bought cream of tartar. I had to look up its various uses later that day.
Did I really think my eggs whites weren't fluffy enough? What part of my brain even notices that kind of problem?
So far, none of these new ingredients has resulted in anything good. In fact, the cooking sherry (?) I bought resulted in the second-worst white sauce ever.
My worst sauce is another story. Supposedly, you can substitute beer for butter if you just triple the amount. Of course, this is only for frying and sauteeing, not, say, sauces. And light beer is probably not the best choice either.
God I can still taste it. Slimy and garlicy.
I really don't know how to unjinx my cooking. Plan A is to start simple (garlic butter) and start working my way up. This may take a while, if heating up wine, water, eggs and sugar is really too much for me.
Yes, this is a post about cooking. Carry on.
The last good thing I made?
I've been eating spaghetti four or five days a week lately, because it's cheap and easy, but for educational purposes I've been trying to make my sauces from scratch. I usually make some sort of white sauce, because why would I have tomato sauce just lying around? I'm not made of money, leave me alone.
Late last week the situation got even more dire. I'd run out of flour and didn't have much else in the way of ingredients, so I made garlic butter sauce.
It's delicious, and ridiculously easy. I didn't have real garlic, but for 77 cents I picked up a bottle of garlic powder, a ridiculously potent alternative. 1/8th of a teaspoon is equivalent to a whole clove.
Garlic Butter Sauce
In a small saucepan with the stove on low, melt:
1/3 cup butter
Once butter is melted, stir in:
1/8 teaspoon garlic powder
After a few minutes, stir in:
1/4 tablespoon dried basil
1 teaspoon dried oregano (you could use anywhere between 1/4 and 2 teaspoons for this recipe — start low and add to taste)
Stir the mixture for a few minutes and serve over pasta.
I will never use all that garlic powder, but some of my purchases are even less logical.
Confession. A few days ago I wandered into a big supermarket for the first time in months and just went nuts. Things like pancake mix, even olive oil make sense, but I honestly have no idea what I was thinking when I bought cream of tartar. I had to look up its various uses later that day.
Did I really think my eggs whites weren't fluffy enough? What part of my brain even notices that kind of problem?
So far, none of these new ingredients has resulted in anything good. In fact, the cooking sherry (?) I bought resulted in the second-worst white sauce ever.
My worst sauce is another story. Supposedly, you can substitute beer for butter if you just triple the amount. Of course, this is only for frying and sauteeing, not, say, sauces. And light beer is probably not the best choice either.
God I can still taste it. Slimy and garlicy.
I really don't know how to unjinx my cooking. Plan A is to start simple (garlic butter) and start working my way up. This may take a while, if heating up wine, water, eggs and sugar is really too much for me.
Bottles of spices aren't made to be used up. We have spices at my house that I'm sure we've had as far back as I can remember.
They can be fodder for someday telling your (or just some random) kids "This one here dates back to my destitute grad student days", all kids love to hear random stories about life experiences they couldn't care less about.
Wednesday, February 22 9:39 AM
Whammy
Well, so much for that. I have to wait until January 1st to apply again.
Depressing. Stupid hopes...
More on the utter ridiculousness of federal hiring practices at some later date.
Depressing. Stupid hopes...
More on the utter ridiculousness of federal hiring practices at some later date.
What job was this for? Nova?
Tuesday, February 21 11:20 PM
No whammy (as yet)
I'm supposed to hear back early this week, but so far there's been no news on my eligibility for that very real job I interviewed for last week. Since the worry was that they wouldn't be able to consider me at all (hence: "eligibility") I think no news is good news, for the moment.
Eggs: still in one basket. But I'm working on that, really.
The bigger issue is that my head isn't in the grad school game, what with all this wondering about the future. Will the next morning bring with it an email saying that I'm out of the running? Or will I wait several weeks, only to have my hopes dashed? Or, just maybe...
It's, what's the word? Nerve-wracking.
Well, maybe not. Everyone makes such a big deal about stress that I wonder if I'm really experiencing the same thing.
Stress is no longer the gigantic emotion it was in, say, middle school, when I'd go to bed with some neglected assignment on my mind, thinking what-will-I-do what-will-I-do. Stress should make you feel totally alert. Stress is supposed to crackle in your head.
I mean, I may feel pressure, but that's just the logical part of my brain worrying that I don't have enough time to do something. I may feel mildly frustrated with a situation, but was I "stressed" when work at the Lawrentian went on until dawn? Not really.
I may get nervous, do often get nervous, and maybe that's close to what I think of when I think of stress, but that nervousness is itself a bundle of complicated emotions, each bundle a finely handcrafted work of art, and it's still different from what I'm trying to get at. Nervousness is doubtful and self-conscious, stress is...
Perhaps I'm just misremembering the intensity of my teenage emotions. I could look in my journals, those many volumes from the glory days of the Dan Analog Archive Project, and see what Classic Dan was feeling.
(I had a whole system of past Dans worked out. I can't remember it now.)
But that's not really necessary. I know I've thought in the past that my emotional landscape has leveled, only to be startled by some re-experienced high or low. When one of them comes back, it's like... a sudden breeze on a warm day.
Or the first time I had tarragon.
So I wonder, without any real chance of knowing, if a lot of other people aren't just emotional hypochondriacs. The alternative is that (mad coping skillz notwithstanding) I'm missing out. Maybe my lifestyle, flush though it is with tv shows and video games, just doesn't lend itself to heightened emotional states.
The shows and games are of the highest quality, however.
Another long day tomorrow. Keep sending your extra superstition-based karma my way.
Eggs: still in one basket. But I'm working on that, really.
The bigger issue is that my head isn't in the grad school game, what with all this wondering about the future. Will the next morning bring with it an email saying that I'm out of the running? Or will I wait several weeks, only to have my hopes dashed? Or, just maybe...
It's, what's the word? Nerve-wracking.
Well, maybe not. Everyone makes such a big deal about stress that I wonder if I'm really experiencing the same thing.
Stress is no longer the gigantic emotion it was in, say, middle school, when I'd go to bed with some neglected assignment on my mind, thinking what-will-I-do what-will-I-do. Stress should make you feel totally alert. Stress is supposed to crackle in your head.
I mean, I may feel pressure, but that's just the logical part of my brain worrying that I don't have enough time to do something. I may feel mildly frustrated with a situation, but was I "stressed" when work at the Lawrentian went on until dawn? Not really.
I may get nervous, do often get nervous, and maybe that's close to what I think of when I think of stress, but that nervousness is itself a bundle of complicated emotions, each bundle a finely handcrafted work of art, and it's still different from what I'm trying to get at. Nervousness is doubtful and self-conscious, stress is...
Perhaps I'm just misremembering the intensity of my teenage emotions. I could look in my journals, those many volumes from the glory days of the Dan Analog Archive Project, and see what Classic Dan was feeling.
(I had a whole system of past Dans worked out. I can't remember it now.)
But that's not really necessary. I know I've thought in the past that my emotional landscape has leveled, only to be startled by some re-experienced high or low. When one of them comes back, it's like... a sudden breeze on a warm day.
Or the first time I had tarragon.
So I wonder, without any real chance of knowing, if a lot of other people aren't just emotional hypochondriacs. The alternative is that (mad coping skillz notwithstanding) I'm missing out. Maybe my lifestyle, flush though it is with tv shows and video games, just doesn't lend itself to heightened emotional states.
The shows and games are of the highest quality, however.
Another long day tomorrow. Keep sending your extra superstition-based karma my way.
Sunday, February 19 8:20 PM
The family weekend in Milwaukee
It took me five hours to get back to Chicago. I blame Greyhound for the shoddy state of its fleet — there were breakdown-related delays coming and going — and Our Bold Hero for standing at what must have been the wrong local bus stop for 45 minutes once he got to the south side.
Or maybe the #15 southbound doesn't exist. There's always that. Or the southbound and northbound are the same bus? In any case, I managed to cobble together a route home using the other buses at my disposal.
I just hope that last bit of luck didn't use up too many of the no-whammies I've been stockpiling of late. Granted, it was preceded by a bunch of whammies, but I don't think this system naturally balances itself out.
Milwaukee was fun, odd, whatever. Probably the last time my entire family is together until at least May. It was also a belated birthday celebration of sorts: I got Burnout 3 from my parents and — after failing for several hours to discover the hidden present under the pillow next to me — Illuminati from my brothers. It's not just a game, it's an as-yet foolproof test of how much I'll like a person.
It's the latest edition, almost exactly the same with a few very minor revisions. An update for the other Esteemed Owners of the Cards: the text on Orbital Mind Control Lasers, probably the most controversial card in the game, has been updated. Revised text:
Once per turn, owner can add, remove, or reverse an alignment of any other group in play; change lasts for owner's turn only.
This has been a public service announcement. Now that the card is less ambiguous, Owners won't have to strongarm everyone else with "well, it's my game." (A surprisingly effective argument, actually.)
If you don't think this is a big deal, you haven't played nearly enough Illuminati.
The fulfillment of a dream I'd had since my freshman year of college notwithstanding, yesterday was very low-key. We ate out at one of those microbrewery restaurants, where I polished off a full rack of porkribs and learned (a few glasses in) that dark, heavy beer is still filling. Since I came of legal age it seems like I've been constantly ordering alcohol when eating out with my parents.
After dinner no one felt like doing much of anything. I'd never seen Cast Away, which had come out to some acclaim while I was in Germany, so my brothers and I watched that. And settled into our usual comedic rhythms.
Matt and I tried to figure out the last book he'd read that wasn't about fishing, then moved on to the last book he'd read that wasn't about fishing or for class. All evidence suggests that at a young age I gave Matt my mechanical aptitude and fishing abilities in exchange for his love of reading and one of those fuzzy black caterpillars.
There was a plan to harness our augmented abilities and become superheroes but, well, you know how it goes.
I was surprised by Cast Away, actually. First, because I'd always thought that it was Castaway — a title which would have made the metaphorical senses at work here much less mind-numbingly obvious — and second because, though it was a good film, I thought there'd be more. It felt quick and simple.
Wilson, however, was everything I'd hoped for and more.
That's prettymuch it. I'm not sure I like the idea of putting my family's quirks and conversations out there for everyone to see, however inoffensive and trivial they are, so this entry is probably much less interesting than it should be.
Or maybe the #15 southbound doesn't exist. There's always that. Or the southbound and northbound are the same bus? In any case, I managed to cobble together a route home using the other buses at my disposal.
I just hope that last bit of luck didn't use up too many of the no-whammies I've been stockpiling of late. Granted, it was preceded by a bunch of whammies, but I don't think this system naturally balances itself out.
Milwaukee was fun, odd, whatever. Probably the last time my entire family is together until at least May. It was also a belated birthday celebration of sorts: I got Burnout 3 from my parents and — after failing for several hours to discover the hidden present under the pillow next to me — Illuminati from my brothers. It's not just a game, it's an as-yet foolproof test of how much I'll like a person.
It's the latest edition, almost exactly the same with a few very minor revisions. An update for the other Esteemed Owners of the Cards: the text on Orbital Mind Control Lasers, probably the most controversial card in the game, has been updated. Revised text:
Once per turn, owner can add, remove, or reverse an alignment of any other group in play; change lasts for owner's turn only.
This has been a public service announcement. Now that the card is less ambiguous, Owners won't have to strongarm everyone else with "well, it's my game." (A surprisingly effective argument, actually.)
If you don't think this is a big deal, you haven't played nearly enough Illuminati.
The fulfillment of a dream I'd had since my freshman year of college notwithstanding, yesterday was very low-key. We ate out at one of those microbrewery restaurants, where I polished off a full rack of porkribs and learned (a few glasses in) that dark, heavy beer is still filling. Since I came of legal age it seems like I've been constantly ordering alcohol when eating out with my parents.
After dinner no one felt like doing much of anything. I'd never seen Cast Away, which had come out to some acclaim while I was in Germany, so my brothers and I watched that. And settled into our usual comedic rhythms.
Matt and I tried to figure out the last book he'd read that wasn't about fishing, then moved on to the last book he'd read that wasn't about fishing or for class. All evidence suggests that at a young age I gave Matt my mechanical aptitude and fishing abilities in exchange for his love of reading and one of those fuzzy black caterpillars.
There was a plan to harness our augmented abilities and become superheroes but, well, you know how it goes.
I was surprised by Cast Away, actually. First, because I'd always thought that it was Castaway — a title which would have made the metaphorical senses at work here much less mind-numbingly obvious — and second because, though it was a good film, I thought there'd be more. It felt quick and simple.
Wilson, however, was everything I'd hoped for and more.
That's prettymuch it. I'm not sure I like the idea of putting my family's quirks and conversations out there for everyone to see, however inoffensive and trivial they are, so this entry is probably much less interesting than it should be.
I never knew Illuminati was used as a test of character. You'll have to tell me your judgements at some point, because I think they will be hilarious.
Thursday, February 16 11:59 PM
Opportunities
You know what show doesn't suck? The Dead Zone. Fun fact: it has two opening sequences, a lame one for people who've never seen the show and a second, much hipper sequence for people who have.
It's enough to overcome my general dislike of title sequences, which tend to be overly long and which (early in the series) give away too much about upcoming episodes. Other shows with good title sequences: Arrested Development and Penn & Teller. Bonus points to Lost for realizing that I want as much new content as possible and doing away with the sequence altogether.
(Worst title sequence: Aqua Teen Hunger Force. The episodes are only 10 minutes long and yet the opening takes forever...)
The past few days have been filled with career-related adventure. Or perhaps "adventure!" If you don't see a difference you have much to learn.
There was a community college networking event Wednesday night; I missed my bus and had to bike to school in my carefully researched "business casual" outfit. It was sort of a pointless effort, since I'm not really keen on staying in Chicago, but talking to the various administrators was good practice. Also, there was ample wine and cheese.
And desserts, good desserts. Jeers to the mapher who brought up my penchant for baking in front of a recruiter.
Finally, there was Yorrick. Toward the end of the night I ended up in a protracted discussion about diaries with a professor who specializes in the field, and while I didn't agree with much of what he said (I was applying it all to diary weblogs) it was just the sort of background that's missing from my master's thesis. Exchanged emails, needless to say.
(It was very odd actually recommending that someone read Dooce. How so many diary theorists can ignore the diary weblog, I'll never know.)
And this morning I had a very important job interview downtown. More on that situation as it develops. (But cross your fingers. I mean reeeeally cross them. I should find out if I'm even being considered early next week.)
Assembling a suitable interview outfit proved surprisingly difficult. I found out about the interview on too short of notice to get my suits shipped from home, so I spent two frantic days trying to find someone who was both 1. my size and 2. not using his suit for the networking event Wednesday night.
As luck would have it, I managed to find the consistently well-dressed guy from Zack's high school, who had a suit to spare. A dark navy blue suit.
Honestly, I can't tell the difference between very dark blue and black. I must have gone to four or five people for reassurance that I was dressed for a job interview and not the prom.
(My navy blue suitcoat has anchor buttons on it to avoid exactly this confusion.)
It is fun to be wearing a suit again. I don't know if it's my fond memories of debate or simply the fact that everyone looks better in formal attire, but I'd much rather wear a suitcoat than a simple shirt-and-tie combo.
Unfortunately, until I'm actually hired somewhere it doesn't look like I'll be getting much use out of my suits, and more's the pity. I need to be in more low-pressure, high-style situations.
It's enough to overcome my general dislike of title sequences, which tend to be overly long and which (early in the series) give away too much about upcoming episodes. Other shows with good title sequences: Arrested Development and Penn & Teller. Bonus points to Lost for realizing that I want as much new content as possible and doing away with the sequence altogether.
(Worst title sequence: Aqua Teen Hunger Force. The episodes are only 10 minutes long and yet the opening takes forever...)
The past few days have been filled with career-related adventure. Or perhaps "adventure!" If you don't see a difference you have much to learn.
There was a community college networking event Wednesday night; I missed my bus and had to bike to school in my carefully researched "business casual" outfit. It was sort of a pointless effort, since I'm not really keen on staying in Chicago, but talking to the various administrators was good practice. Also, there was ample wine and cheese.
And desserts, good desserts. Jeers to the mapher who brought up my penchant for baking in front of a recruiter.
Finally, there was Yorrick. Toward the end of the night I ended up in a protracted discussion about diaries with a professor who specializes in the field, and while I didn't agree with much of what he said (I was applying it all to diary weblogs) it was just the sort of background that's missing from my master's thesis. Exchanged emails, needless to say.
(It was very odd actually recommending that someone read Dooce. How so many diary theorists can ignore the diary weblog, I'll never know.)
And this morning I had a very important job interview downtown. More on that situation as it develops. (But cross your fingers. I mean reeeeally cross them. I should find out if I'm even being considered early next week.)
Assembling a suitable interview outfit proved surprisingly difficult. I found out about the interview on too short of notice to get my suits shipped from home, so I spent two frantic days trying to find someone who was both 1. my size and 2. not using his suit for the networking event Wednesday night.
As luck would have it, I managed to find the consistently well-dressed guy from Zack's high school, who had a suit to spare. A dark navy blue suit.
Honestly, I can't tell the difference between very dark blue and black. I must have gone to four or five people for reassurance that I was dressed for a job interview and not the prom.
(My navy blue suitcoat has anchor buttons on it to avoid exactly this confusion.)
It is fun to be wearing a suit again. I don't know if it's my fond memories of debate or simply the fact that everyone looks better in formal attire, but I'd much rather wear a suitcoat than a simple shirt-and-tie combo.
Unfortunately, until I'm actually hired somewhere it doesn't look like I'll be getting much use out of my suits, and more's the pity. I need to be in more low-pressure, high-style situations.
Tuesday, February 14 12:15 AM
Because what else matters
Since I'm lacking in both big news and creativity, here's an annotated side-by-side of Lawrence and the University of Chicago, thanks to the Facebook Pulse. I've excluded "clubs and organizations" because I have better things to do than translate.
Not that any of this affects me much, of course. But their better taste overall gives me more confidence in my fellow UChicago students.
Lawrentians with good taste should go and testify on their profiles. You can have more than one "favorite" on Facebook, people.
Not that any of this affects me much, of course. But their better taste overall gives me more confidence in my fellow UChicago students.
Lawrentians with good taste should go and testify on their profiles. You can have more than one "favorite" on Facebook, people.
It is really depressing that "The Da Vinci Code" is on there. Also, the fact that Love Actually is number four on Lawrence's list makes me ridiculously angry. I didn't realize that Lawrence's tastes were so...meh...but I guess we have to take into account the overwhelming use of facebook by the new freshman class and their subscription to "super pop culture," as opposed to our cool, geeky and elitist pop culture.
And it doesn't seem to count alumni, which I guess makes sense. That would explain why "Lost" isn't showing up in our top ten shows at all.
Ok, so you just compelled me to go find this out about my own school. Not that I was expecting anything else, but still.
Look upon my work (ye mighty) and despair.
Monday, February 13 12:17 AM
Alessandra Stanley on Arrested Development
For reasons I can't quite explain, I've become a regular reader of Gawker, the web's most popular celebrity gossip blog. What drew me in was this post about Alessandra Stanley, the "wrongest of all NYT culture critics."
Not necessarily because her opinions are lousy, though I'm sure they often are, but because so many of her embarrassing mistakes make it past the Times' notoriously keen-eyed copy editors. This is the woman who called a certain long-running sitcom "All About Raymond."
And it's her job to watch t.v. As is also the case with NYT language columnist William Safire, I'm torn between envy that she's getting paid for a job I'd love and disgust that she's doing that job so poorly.
Reading an Alessandra column about a show you know well is just like reading a Wikipedia article on a topic you know well, except that on Wikipedia you can waste an hour or two trying to fix the mistakes.
And so I give you: the Alessandra's Arrested Development post-mortem, "A Quick End to the Cult Series That Lived Up to Its Name".
As I loved the series and watched the two-hour finale this Friday, I'm one of only several million people capable of spotting errors in her NYT article.
I'll point out a few errors, but first, here's her summary of the series, for anyone curious:
Warning: the rest of this post contains SPOILERS.
Compounding the error, and proving that TiVo is a terrible thing to waste, we have this quotation:
And she's misquoted both characters. It's "You're always thinking of others" (yes, my quibble, she seems to like changing "you're" to "you are") and "I tried that, it didn't work either" (less excusable: she's paraphrased and passed it off as a direct quote).
But those little mistakes pale in comparison to the mother lode, a paragraph near the end of her review:
And G.O.B. doesn't insist on being called an illusionist (in "Sword of Destiny," for example, he shouts "I'm the real magician"), he just doesn't like it when people call his "illusions" mere "tricks."
Also, when did he convert to Christianity? It's possible that I'm just not remembering on this one, but the fact that G.O.B. is dating a Christian in these episodes doesn't make him a Christian. He did think the "holy trinity" was a sex act, after all.
Lastly, though G.O.B. sets a bush on fire and says "burning bush," I think Alessandra is the only person who knows just the right amount of English to think that the bush is an "effigy." The Iraqis bring out their own effigies, presumably to burn in the fire G.O.B. has started.
All this probably does "push red-state buttons," but I thought her choice of time-frame for that generalization was telling. Perhaps she didn't want to include episodes before the last four because, not having watched them, she couldn't be sure of the veracity of a broader claim.
That's it for corrections. I'm sure there are more, probably some actor's name spelled wrong or another misquotation, but these were the most glaring. Sorry if I came off as a bit of a crank, I'm just a little frustrated that there's copy out there in desperate need of editing and no one willing to pay me to do it.
As for the episodes, they were good albeit below-average for the series. Best moments: the pimp in the hotel, Homefill in Iraq, Franklin on the stand, and best of all: G.O.B.'s girlfriend and how he met her.
END SPOILERS.
After browsing the stories on TV.com, I think we can be optimistic about Showtime getting Arrested Development. They're very interested, but they want the show's creator to stay on and he's been unwilling to commit just yet. It's fairly certain that ABC and FX won't be picking up the series.
Update: Gawker now has a story on the article, and I'm claiming partial credit for tipping them off. Will my email to NYT corrections have similar success?
Not necessarily because her opinions are lousy, though I'm sure they often are, but because so many of her embarrassing mistakes make it past the Times' notoriously keen-eyed copy editors. This is the woman who called a certain long-running sitcom "All About Raymond."
And it's her job to watch t.v. As is also the case with NYT language columnist William Safire, I'm torn between envy that she's getting paid for a job I'd love and disgust that she's doing that job so poorly.
Reading an Alessandra column about a show you know well is just like reading a Wikipedia article on a topic you know well, except that on Wikipedia you can waste an hour or two trying to fix the mistakes.
And so I give you: the Alessandra's Arrested Development post-mortem, "A Quick End to the Cult Series That Lived Up to Its Name".
As I loved the series and watched the two-hour finale this Friday, I'm one of only several million people capable of spotting errors in her NYT article.
I'll point out a few errors, but first, here's her summary of the series, for anyone curious:
The satire revolves around the Bluths, a family of narcissists and lunatics (a misalliance between "The Royal Tenenbaums" and "The Simpsons") whose real estate company is forever under government investigation. The Bluths are deliciously self-centered and absurd, the dialogue is quick and corrosively funny, and yet "Arrested Development" is not addictive. It is possible to fully enjoy one episode and not feel compelled to see what happens next.And now, some (other) errors.
Warning: the rest of this post contains SPOILERS.
Michael (Jason Bateman) is the show's center, the sanest in the bunch, always seeking to put some order in the family chaos. He gets no help from his sister Lindsay (Portia De Rossi) or her husband, Tobias (David Cross), a homely would-be actor who is sexually confusing."Sexually confusing"? Didn't want to take a chance with "sexually confused," or "a closeted homosexual"? It's a rare viewer that is confused by Tobias' sexuality, as, especially this season, it's crystal clear that he likes men.
Compounding the error, and proving that TiVo is a terrible thing to waste, we have this quotation:
This season, the estranged couple try to rekindle their marriage, but bedroom sparks don't fly. After yet another failed attempt, Tobias tells Lindsay that he just wants her to feel satisfied. "You are always thinking of others," she replies consolingly. "I tried that," Tobias says. "It doesn't work."This was the paragraph that made me wonder if Alessandra bothered (re-)watching any other episodes before writing her review. Because it looks like she's trying to make it look like she's quoting an episode from earlier in the season, instead of one of the final four episodes.
And she's misquoted both characters. It's "You're always thinking of others" (yes, my quibble, she seems to like changing "you're" to "you are") and "I tried that, it didn't work either" (less excusable: she's paraphrased and passed it off as a direct quote).
But those little mistakes pale in comparison to the mother lode, a paragraph near the end of her review:
In its final episodes, "Arrested Development" tries hard to push red-state buttons. Michael's other idiot brother, Gob (Will Arnett), a failed magician who insists on being called an illusionist, travels to Iraq to practice his craft. Recently converted to Christianity, Gob devises a magic act that includes re-enacting biblical miracles. In Baghdad, Gob delights a crowd by conjuring a burning bush. The Iraqis assume it is an effigy of President Bush and riot, and Gob is arrested by American forces as an insurgency sympathizer.First of all, his name is G.O.B., it's an acronym for George Oscar Bluth.
And G.O.B. doesn't insist on being called an illusionist (in "Sword of Destiny," for example, he shouts "I'm the real magician"), he just doesn't like it when people call his "illusions" mere "tricks."
Also, when did he convert to Christianity? It's possible that I'm just not remembering on this one, but the fact that G.O.B. is dating a Christian in these episodes doesn't make him a Christian. He did think the "holy trinity" was a sex act, after all.
Lastly, though G.O.B. sets a bush on fire and says "burning bush," I think Alessandra is the only person who knows just the right amount of English to think that the bush is an "effigy." The Iraqis bring out their own effigies, presumably to burn in the fire G.O.B. has started.
All this probably does "push red-state buttons," but I thought her choice of time-frame for that generalization was telling. Perhaps she didn't want to include episodes before the last four because, not having watched them, she couldn't be sure of the veracity of a broader claim.
That's it for corrections. I'm sure there are more, probably some actor's name spelled wrong or another misquotation, but these were the most glaring. Sorry if I came off as a bit of a crank, I'm just a little frustrated that there's copy out there in desperate need of editing and no one willing to pay me to do it.
As for the episodes, they were good albeit below-average for the series. Best moments: the pimp in the hotel, Homefill in Iraq, Franklin on the stand, and best of all: G.O.B.'s girlfriend and how he met her.
END SPOILERS.
After browsing the stories on TV.com, I think we can be optimistic about Showtime getting Arrested Development. They're very interested, but they want the show's creator to stay on and he's been unwilling to commit just yet. It's fairly certain that ABC and FX won't be picking up the series.
Update: Gawker now has a story on the article, and I'm claiming partial credit for tipping them off. Will my email to NYT corrections have similar success?
"...and yet "Arrested Development" is not addictive"
I don't even know what to say to this.
I think I watched the entire first season over the course of two nights. Not addictive? She probably never watched two consecutive episodes.
Thank you, I was hoping her comment would speak for itself. I'm easily addicted so I couldn't be sure that it wasn't just me.
Also, saying that a comedy is the cross between the Simpsons and something else just seems lazy.
I will say I never felt the need to watch from week-to-week. As a whole, the series has always seemed like a good book I could put down and resume reading at my leisure. I haven't watched seasons 2 or 3, but I know they're there waiting. I don't feel particularly rushed. DVD and the internet are mostly to blame.
Sunday, February 12 10:46 PM
Perpetual Motion (I'm 23)
Of all the birthdays I've had, my 23rd stands out as the most irrelevant.
Up through your teens, each birthday seems to be another step in a glorious progression towards maturity. There are of course the numerical milestones (my first entry into double digits was a big deal) but at a more basic level it seems that you're getting wiser and taller every time your birthday rolls around.
Your parents arbitrarily decide that you get to do something and explain that it's because you're a certain age — in my house, with Matt so close to my own age, these explanations quickly wore thin — and of course there are the societal distinctions that really are tied to your age.
It's these that become increasingly important as you enter the late teens and much of the internal validation you derive from your age goes away. Not completely, of course — in fact I don't think I've met anyone who doesn't conflate age with experience — but enough so that the legal and social distinctions are foremost in your mind.
And so with 17, I could see R-rated movies (and sing Homer Simpson's "When I Was 17"), with 18 I could vote and die for my country and all that, 19 was my last year as a teenager, 20 the first step into the mysterious twenties. When I turned 21 my body could finally process alcohol, and I had my first drink.
I stand by my opinion that, should a C-section be inevitable, you should schedule it so as to land your son or daughter's 21st birthday on a Friday or Saturday. Sure, that doesn't seem important, but you try getting any significant number of college students to hit the bars when they have class the next day.
Granted, my 21st fell on a Wednesday night and worked out well, but not everyone is so lucky. So expectant parents should keep this in mind; it could be the most thoughtful present you ever give.
Last year, I had the Flaming Lips' "When Yer 22" to listen to, and I was indisputably a 20-something, like all those people on t.v. It may not have been a very significant birthday, but maybe that was enough, that I was finally the first of many insignificant ages. I'd taken my first step into the vast wasteland between 21 and 27.
Is 25 significant? I've never thought of it that way. Twenty-four was the oldest I could ever really imagine myself being, back when I was in high school; hence the as-yet-unprophetic joke that I would die in a tragic auto accident at 24.
So now I'm 23? As far as celebrations go, I didn't do anything that different this year; there was drinking and movie-watching, just like last year, except this time I ended up watching the semi-decent Mr. and Mrs. Smith instead of the jerkin' Josie and the Pussycats complete with product-placement drinking game.
Do I feel wiser, or any more special? I feel older, certainly. Twenty-three is a strange age, if only because it's one I've never imagined myself being. I mean, what does a 23-year-old do? Am I supposed to be angsty, or self-assured? What should I accomplish this year? Where do I need to be by the time I turn 24?
I've got no illusions that I'll blink and start "thinking like an adult," but is this the year when I finally learn how to fake it?
In any case, the occasion calls for ice cream.
Up through your teens, each birthday seems to be another step in a glorious progression towards maturity. There are of course the numerical milestones (my first entry into double digits was a big deal) but at a more basic level it seems that you're getting wiser and taller every time your birthday rolls around.
Your parents arbitrarily decide that you get to do something and explain that it's because you're a certain age — in my house, with Matt so close to my own age, these explanations quickly wore thin — and of course there are the societal distinctions that really are tied to your age.
It's these that become increasingly important as you enter the late teens and much of the internal validation you derive from your age goes away. Not completely, of course — in fact I don't think I've met anyone who doesn't conflate age with experience — but enough so that the legal and social distinctions are foremost in your mind.
And so with 17, I could see R-rated movies (and sing Homer Simpson's "When I Was 17"), with 18 I could vote and die for my country and all that, 19 was my last year as a teenager, 20 the first step into the mysterious twenties. When I turned 21 my body could finally process alcohol, and I had my first drink.
I stand by my opinion that, should a C-section be inevitable, you should schedule it so as to land your son or daughter's 21st birthday on a Friday or Saturday. Sure, that doesn't seem important, but you try getting any significant number of college students to hit the bars when they have class the next day.
Granted, my 21st fell on a Wednesday night and worked out well, but not everyone is so lucky. So expectant parents should keep this in mind; it could be the most thoughtful present you ever give.
Last year, I had the Flaming Lips' "When Yer 22" to listen to, and I was indisputably a 20-something, like all those people on t.v. It may not have been a very significant birthday, but maybe that was enough, that I was finally the first of many insignificant ages. I'd taken my first step into the vast wasteland between 21 and 27.
Is 25 significant? I've never thought of it that way. Twenty-four was the oldest I could ever really imagine myself being, back when I was in high school; hence the as-yet-unprophetic joke that I would die in a tragic auto accident at 24.
So now I'm 23? As far as celebrations go, I didn't do anything that different this year; there was drinking and movie-watching, just like last year, except this time I ended up watching the semi-decent Mr. and Mrs. Smith instead of the jerkin' Josie and the Pussycats complete with product-placement drinking game.
Do I feel wiser, or any more special? I feel older, certainly. Twenty-three is a strange age, if only because it's one I've never imagined myself being. I mean, what does a 23-year-old do? Am I supposed to be angsty, or self-assured? What should I accomplish this year? Where do I need to be by the time I turn 24?
I've got no illusions that I'll blink and start "thinking like an adult," but is this the year when I finally learn how to fake it?
In any case, the occasion calls for ice cream.
Have a jerkin' birthday Dan. I'm always going to have a grudge against you for showing me that movie. It doesn't help that I ended up liking it... See you in Milwaukee.
Wednesday, February 8 10:56 PM
Lord of the Fruitflies
The fruitflies have invaded.
They came in last week, actually, when I brought two bunches of bananas home to ripen for banana bread. In an attempt to avoid exactly this scenario, I'd let the bananas get dark and spotty (better bread) inside freezer bags. To no avail, apparently.
The fruitflies are everywhere.
It's a strange infestation. They're too small to be gross, and there aren't enough of them to really bother me. (What's your fruitfly threshold, America?) They don't get on the food because I don't leave food out, they're mortally afraid of me, and I think I've only accidentally swallowed one.
It's not so bad, as infestations go. I'd rather have the fruitflies than the ant problem I had in D.C. — I resorted to keeping my cereal in the fridge after they got into three different boxes — or any of the many small mammals we've had in my parents' house. Here's one of the flying squirrels we caught in the stickytrap:
It's with a nice farm family in the country now, running free in their big yard.
(They're annoying to have in the house, but it still frustrates me that we've never actually seen a flying squirrel in our yard. Everyone knows the squirrel coolness ranking goes albino, flying, black, red, chipmunk, gray. Well, maybe chipmunks are cooler than I'm giving them credit for, but still.)
I'm not sure I'll be able to get rid of the fruitflies. They seem to need so little, and while my apartment is clean, it's only clean proportional to me. I can hardly get rid of every infinitesimal crumb and drop of moisture.
Or perhaps...
No, I can't stand for this. Tomorrow I take the war to their level.
They came in last week, actually, when I brought two bunches of bananas home to ripen for banana bread. In an attempt to avoid exactly this scenario, I'd let the bananas get dark and spotty (better bread) inside freezer bags. To no avail, apparently.
The fruitflies are everywhere.
It's a strange infestation. They're too small to be gross, and there aren't enough of them to really bother me. (What's your fruitfly threshold, America?) They don't get on the food because I don't leave food out, they're mortally afraid of me, and I think I've only accidentally swallowed one.
It's not so bad, as infestations go. I'd rather have the fruitflies than the ant problem I had in D.C. — I resorted to keeping my cereal in the fridge after they got into three different boxes — or any of the many small mammals we've had in my parents' house. Here's one of the flying squirrels we caught in the stickytrap:
It's with a nice farm family in the country now, running free in their big yard.
(They're annoying to have in the house, but it still frustrates me that we've never actually seen a flying squirrel in our yard. Everyone knows the squirrel coolness ranking goes albino, flying, black, red, chipmunk, gray. Well, maybe chipmunks are cooler than I'm giving them credit for, but still.)
I'm not sure I'll be able to get rid of the fruitflies. They seem to need so little, and while my apartment is clean, it's only clean proportional to me. I can hardly get rid of every infinitesimal crumb and drop of moisture.
Or perhaps...
No, I can't stand for this. Tomorrow I take the war to their level.
Dan, that was a surprisingly cute and endearing side of you we so rarely see in any forum, let alone your heroic blogger identity. Please tell me more about squirrels and your inability to control household pets.
Ohi Dan,
Let me tell you a little hint abut fruitflies...they love sweet stuff. By accident I managed to kill our house infestation in one day. Try mixing a sweet tonic of Koolaid/lemonade w/ soap (possibly a little vodka). Make sure that you fill it up with water so that there a bunch of suds and leave it over night.
It worked for me. And don't steal this idea. I have a patent - its in pending status.
PS. The little squirrel is so adorable!! I honestly squeaked when I saw it.
Sunday, February 5 3:43 PM
Dan foments Islamophobia
Over at pretentiousblowhard.org, Graham has been doing some fine blogging about what I've been calling the "Islamocomic controversy."
The trouble started back in September, when the Danish Jyllands-Posten, responding to an author's complaint that no one would illustrate his book about Muhammad because of an Islamic prohibition against depicting the prophet, solicited drawings. You can find the published ones here.
I can't read Danish (though it is tantalizingly close to German) but the copy editor in me feels compelled to point out that, contrary to almost all reports, the Jyllands-Posten did not publish "twelve cartoons of the prophet Muhammad." At least three of the comics don't feature him at all.
The ones that do, especially the three that show Muhammad in a negative light, are what sparked the initial outcry, which Reason wrote about in November:
Artists and editors received death threats; the embassies of several Muslim countries lodged a complaint with Danish prime minister Anders Fogh Rasmussen (who refused to meet with them "because it is so crystal clear what principles Danish democracy is built upon that there is no reason to do so"); and 5,000 Muslims protested in the streets of Copenhagen.
The controversy seems to have only snowballed since. There have been violent protests in the Middle East and calls for censorship from all over the world, usually pitched as a defense of religious dignity against the forces of unbridled free expression.
I've commented quite a bit about this on Graham's site, as it touches on both my atheism (Islam is the craziest of the three major monotheistic religions) and, much more importantly, my support for freedom of expression and the marketplace of ideas.
I sincerely wish that more of the cartoons had actually been good, or funny (one of the best — not one of the offensive drawings — neatly exploited the Danish editors' ignorance of Arabic to mock the newspaper itself), but even the right to make bad art in poor taste deserves to be defended.
As Graham so adroitly put it earlier today: "Hell, I'd fight in a war caused by cartoons. Finally something worth dying for, you know?"
The trouble started back in September, when the Danish Jyllands-Posten, responding to an author's complaint that no one would illustrate his book about Muhammad because of an Islamic prohibition against depicting the prophet, solicited drawings. You can find the published ones here.
I can't read Danish (though it is tantalizingly close to German) but the copy editor in me feels compelled to point out that, contrary to almost all reports, the Jyllands-Posten did not publish "twelve cartoons of the prophet Muhammad." At least three of the comics don't feature him at all.
The ones that do, especially the three that show Muhammad in a negative light, are what sparked the initial outcry, which Reason wrote about in November:
Artists and editors received death threats; the embassies of several Muslim countries lodged a complaint with Danish prime minister Anders Fogh Rasmussen (who refused to meet with them "because it is so crystal clear what principles Danish democracy is built upon that there is no reason to do so"); and 5,000 Muslims protested in the streets of Copenhagen.
The controversy seems to have only snowballed since. There have been violent protests in the Middle East and calls for censorship from all over the world, usually pitched as a defense of religious dignity against the forces of unbridled free expression.
I've commented quite a bit about this on Graham's site, as it touches on both my atheism (Islam is the craziest of the three major monotheistic religions) and, much more importantly, my support for freedom of expression and the marketplace of ideas.
I sincerely wish that more of the cartoons had actually been good, or funny (one of the best — not one of the offensive drawings — neatly exploited the Danish editors' ignorance of Arabic to mock the newspaper itself), but even the right to make bad art in poor taste deserves to be defended.
As Graham so adroitly put it earlier today: "Hell, I'd fight in a war caused by cartoons. Finally something worth dying for, you know?"
12:37 PM
Equivalence
Six hours at Jimmy's = headache.
Saturday, February 4 12:38 PM
Name, checked, match
There's a kid in one of my courses who usually spends a fair bit of the class period trying to write essays with his mouth. This can be mildly amusing or irritating, or — because he's not stupid, and often right — informative.
Earlier this week, however, he said something so jawdroppingly pretentious, so stereotypically "grad school," that I feel compelled to mention it. I approximate:
"I'm reminded of something Kundera said at the beginning of Unbearable Lightness of Being... not my favorite of his books."
I couldn't help but laugh, and once I noticed that the student next to me was similarly amused it was difficult to stop laughing. It was like I'd gotten confirmation that it wasn't just me, that the name-checking here was really that ridiculous. Also, the kid was steepling his freaking fingers as he spoke.
With some effort, we managed to stop laughing, and I'm pretty sure we were quiet enough that no one noticed. Oh, UChicago. Do I really have to choose between cynicism and pretention? Because I know already which I'll pick.
I'm at a disadvantage, of course: I'm so used to off-loading things I know onto my computer that at this point I'm more likely to remember where I put information than the actual information. Plato, that most proto- of proto-bloggers, warned that all this writing would end up as a crutch.
Case in point: Often I'll get into an argument about something I know quite well, but I'll know only that I'm right and where I can confirm this, not the full argument for my position. Inevitably some stubborn Sockless Pete type won't believe me and I'll end up verifying my rightness the next time I'm on the computer.
Sometimes I've remembered incorrectly ("wuv" infuriated Lurr), but often I haven't, and it's a bittersweet triumph to know that someone went home still believing that 20/16 vision is worse than 20/20 (refutation here) or — as happened last night — that abbreviations like "C.I.A." are acronyms (refutation here, definition of acronym here).
Earlier this week, however, he said something so jawdroppingly pretentious, so stereotypically "grad school," that I feel compelled to mention it. I approximate:
"I'm reminded of something Kundera said at the beginning of Unbearable Lightness of Being... not my favorite of his books."
I couldn't help but laugh, and once I noticed that the student next to me was similarly amused it was difficult to stop laughing. It was like I'd gotten confirmation that it wasn't just me, that the name-checking here was really that ridiculous. Also, the kid was steepling his freaking fingers as he spoke.
With some effort, we managed to stop laughing, and I'm pretty sure we were quiet enough that no one noticed. Oh, UChicago. Do I really have to choose between cynicism and pretention? Because I know already which I'll pick.
I'm at a disadvantage, of course: I'm so used to off-loading things I know onto my computer that at this point I'm more likely to remember where I put information than the actual information. Plato, that most proto- of proto-bloggers, warned that all this writing would end up as a crutch.
Case in point: Often I'll get into an argument about something I know quite well, but I'll know only that I'm right and where I can confirm this, not the full argument for my position. Inevitably some stubborn Sockless Pete type won't believe me and I'll end up verifying my rightness the next time I'm on the computer.
Sometimes I've remembered incorrectly ("wuv" infuriated Lurr), but often I haven't, and it's a bittersweet triumph to know that someone went home still believing that 20/16 vision is worse than 20/20 (refutation here) or — as happened last night — that abbreviations like "C.I.A." are acronyms (refutation here, definition of acronym here).
Not to be overly picky, but the definintion of acronym is varying. Check Merriam-Webster. While the "pronounceable as if it were a word" definition is the first definition given, it also lists abbreviations such as FBI as being, at least by some people's definitions, acronyms.
You're right, of course. In my defense, I did mention that the distinction had broken down in common usage as soon as the guy disagreed with me, by way of explaining how someone might rightfully think I was wrong. The problem was, he didn't seem to accept that you could make the distinction at all.
Fair enough. I can see how his refusal to accept a possible distinction could be annoying.
Friday, February 3 1:35 AM
Cookie Theory
After last weekend, when I made myself a late night snack of Moravian Spice Cookies and homemade French Vanilla Ice Cream (the complicated version), I was starting to get illusions of culinary grandeur.
But a quick Google search shows that I not only got the spice cookie recipe wrong — I didn't understand the whole point of the Moravian Spice Cookie. My cooking has failed at the philosophical level.
And I just made a batch of terrible, just terrible chocolate chip cookies for tomorrow's program potluck. I don't know why I'm attending at all; I'm sure part of it was the challenge of cooking for other people, people who haven't been eating either potatoes or spaghetti most nights for the past few months — though if that's really the case, why I did I use the recipe with corn syrup, of all the inanities?
Tomorrow selected Maphiosi will eat my terrible cookies and I will try not to apologize, because now that some of the girls in my teaching class know about my hobby I've been discussing cooking far too often in public anyways. As a general rule, you should talk about your own cooking with the same frequency as you would talk about your dreams.
Speaking of which... really bizarre dreams all week. In this one dream, I was visiting Hamline, but it was Hamline as an acid-tripping ultraconservative might see it, a ridiculous caricature of its charming liberal self. Odd bit of trivia: It's the first dream I've had in which Hamline's Gay Nick has had a cameo.
I used to have this theory that every college had a Gay Nick. Not just someone with a personality Colbert might justly label "gay gay gay gay gay," but such a person who was also actually named Nick. Like many of my undergraduate theories, this was based on no less than two people.
I've since abandoned most of my old theories, and most, but not all, of the theories I got from other people. Still dubious on Graham's theory of intergender friendships, but not quite willing to abandon it, either.
The worst theory I've expressed of late has been "weddings are basically huge parties," a sentiment I managed to bottle up for most of the Politician's wedding. Or at least express in a classier way (e.g. "the most important party you'll ever throw") than how it probably came out when I was talking to Adam earlier this week.
For some reason like four people I get to talk to only very rarely contacted me this week — which was great, but I felt like I'd blogged about "cutting myself" or something — Adam among them. As readers of my del.icio.us linkblog well know, Adam is getting married this summer. Very exciting.
(No, you have to wait for an invite; reading about it on this blog does not mean you are invited.)
One of this week's most entertaining projects (besides the ongoing theoretical work on Literati) has been trying to come up with the most outlandish social combination I'll see at that wedding, which will feature both family and friends. Graham and my father? Jenna's drinking contest with Kittel? I haven't come up with a "these people would explode if they ever came in contact" combo yet, dear reader, but I'm confident I can.
But a quick Google search shows that I not only got the spice cookie recipe wrong — I didn't understand the whole point of the Moravian Spice Cookie. My cooking has failed at the philosophical level.
And I just made a batch of terrible, just terrible chocolate chip cookies for tomorrow's program potluck. I don't know why I'm attending at all; I'm sure part of it was the challenge of cooking for other people, people who haven't been eating either potatoes or spaghetti most nights for the past few months — though if that's really the case, why I did I use the recipe with corn syrup, of all the inanities?
Tomorrow selected Maphiosi will eat my terrible cookies and I will try not to apologize, because now that some of the girls in my teaching class know about my hobby I've been discussing cooking far too often in public anyways. As a general rule, you should talk about your own cooking with the same frequency as you would talk about your dreams.
Speaking of which... really bizarre dreams all week. In this one dream, I was visiting Hamline, but it was Hamline as an acid-tripping ultraconservative might see it, a ridiculous caricature of its charming liberal self. Odd bit of trivia: It's the first dream I've had in which Hamline's Gay Nick has had a cameo.
I used to have this theory that every college had a Gay Nick. Not just someone with a personality Colbert might justly label "gay gay gay gay gay," but such a person who was also actually named Nick. Like many of my undergraduate theories, this was based on no less than two people.
I've since abandoned most of my old theories, and most, but not all, of the theories I got from other people. Still dubious on Graham's theory of intergender friendships, but not quite willing to abandon it, either.
The worst theory I've expressed of late has been "weddings are basically huge parties," a sentiment I managed to bottle up for most of the Politician's wedding. Or at least express in a classier way (e.g. "the most important party you'll ever throw") than how it probably came out when I was talking to Adam earlier this week.
For some reason like four people I get to talk to only very rarely contacted me this week — which was great, but I felt like I'd blogged about "cutting myself" or something — Adam among them. As readers of my del.icio.us linkblog well know, Adam is getting married this summer. Very exciting.
(No, you have to wait for an invite; reading about it on this blog does not mean you are invited.)
One of this week's most entertaining projects (besides the ongoing theoretical work on Literati) has been trying to come up with the most outlandish social combination I'll see at that wedding, which will feature both family and friends. Graham and my father? Jenna's drinking contest with Kittel? I haven't come up with a "these people would explode if they ever came in contact" combo yet, dear reader, but I'm confident I can.
Wednesday, February 1 12:04 AM
So now we're adults? Just like that?
O.k., you can't tell me I've got a three-page paper without also clearly and repeatedly telling me you mean three pages single-spaced.
I would have budgeted days for an assignment like that instead of mere hours. I might have gotten some sleep tonight if I'd realized sooner that I had such a project. And speaking of adulthood: I've got work tomorrow. So thanks.
I would have budgeted days for an assignment like that instead of mere hours. I might have gotten some sleep tonight if I'd realized sooner that I had such a project. And speaking of adulthood: I've got work tomorrow. So thanks.
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