Update: the basics

This past week, I

1. Went to NYC. Fabulous. I, like Madonna, love New York (except I don't think Texas is where "they golf" or, for that matter, agree with any of the other incredibly vapid lyrics of the song. Why Madonna? It's a good song. Must you really taint it with those insipid lines?).
2. Went shopping. And when I say that I went shopping, I mean that I went shopping. My father, bless his soul, came with me to Barney's Co-op. He thought a sweater that I liked there was too expensive, so he suggested that we go to...(drum roll, please...) Bloomingdale's! "Why on Earth," you ask, "would he suggest that you go to Bloomingdale's instead/in addition to Barney's Co-op?" Good question. He, for some bizarre reason, thought it would be cheaper if we went there. Unclear why. Well, I ended up getting a sweater for about the same price (after you took off 50% since it was on sale, and another 15% since he signed up for their credit card). But I also ended up getting a very nice hat, coat, and gloves, spending a total of four times what I would have spent at the Co-op. That said, they were fabulous items, and I love them dearly. Did I say I was "socialist-ish" in my profile? I think the "-ish" stands for: "when it comes to other people." I should probably have clarified that. Ooops.
3. Went on a date with/hooked up with some guy who, of all things, happens to be into Zen Buddhism...really into Zen Buddhism. I think he might be incompatible with my consumer fetishism. If he's not, then he's incompatible with me for other reasons...like the fact that he's way too relaxed, speaks too slowly, and has these intense blue eyes, which, in combination with his other physical/personality features, look like the kind of eyes you would expect a cult leader to have. Also, I felt like he was trying to sweet talk me into bed for like, the last 2 or 3 hours of the date. Now, if I'm not a slut in practice (which, I suppose, would depend on your definition of slut), then I certainly am one in spirit. And I have no patience for sweet talking on dates. Compliments in non-date settings: fine, fabulous even. But excessive use of compliments on a date: irritating at best, painfully awkward at worst. Couldn't he just save me the time, hook-up, and then I would have been able to:
   
4. Try to work on my thesis. I would put a sad emoticon here if it were not for the fact that I use too many emoticons. I find the temptation rather compelling - especially in media where the register is informal and the writing is intended to carry particular, emotive tones. But there's no way around the fact that emoticons are unbecoming. If you ask me, this is the next major political battle in America. We have to move beyond tolerating emoticons; we must accept them and the people who love them. But for now, I'm not sure I'm ready to put my neck on the line...in other words, absolutely no progress on the thesis.

Ok, now if you add periodic consumption of caffeine, you have a relatively complete picture of how I spent my intersession (and a paragraph's worth of ranting about emoticons and Madonna, which can be seen as symbolical of the undescribed portions of my time in that they both are relatively random, unrelated to their surroundings, bizarre, and useless).

Muwahaha

My library privileges have been reinstated... That's right, HCL, I will stand up to your oppression and I will not be defeated!

In other news, I'm pretty sure every other guy here is gay. Maybe one in three...maybe.

The logical question, then, is why on earth can I not find a boyfriend? I think the answer is that I need to cut my hair. And perhaps lower my impossibly high standards...but first I think I'll try the haircut.

Good Thinking

So in my most brilliant move ever, I decided that:

1. I needed to watch Schindler's List because we had discussed it in a very belated VES section (why we had class a month after classes were supposed to end is another story entirely).
2. I would just watch the version they had in the library, which was on VHS, and
3. I thought I would watch it in the library, because I couldn't check it out (in another brilliant move, I managed to get my borrowing privileges suspended...actually, that might be more brilliant that what I'm describing now, but it's embarrassing enough that I'm not going to discuss it publicly - even if no one actually reads this blog).
   

It did not occur to me at the time, though you'd think it would be pretty obvious, that Schindler's List is not really library material. Needless to say, by about 30 seconds into the film I was heaving sobs (you think I'm exaggerating, but I promise I'm not - that first scene with the candles and the kaddish...oy). By an hour and a half into the film (the film is about a one hundred hours long [now I am exaggerating]), I had cried so much and so hard that my eyes were puffy and red, and I was sniffling so much that I had to go to the bathroom every 10 minutes for paper towels. The people sitting near the bathroom probably thought I was one of those rare cases of a boy with a urinary tract infection (and that this affected me very deeply, on an emotional level, or possibly that it coincided with a nasty case of pink eye).

Finally after the end of the film (and the height of my sobbing) the boy behind me, who is watching what appears to be a Korean comedy, asks me a question about the basic operation of one of the pieces of viewing equipment. So I tell him I have no idea how to do the thing with the thing. I can show him wear the eject button is, if he must know. At any rate, while saying this I am clearly unable to choke back my residual sobs (now a good five minutes after the movie ended), so he asks me if I'm alright (not in a compassionate way, though, but in a what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you way). And it is at that moment, ladies, gentlemen and readers of all genders, while muttering something about Schindler's List (using the video's box as evidence to bolster my weakly articulated point), that I realized it is a stupid, stupid idea to watch Holocaust films in public places. So that's the moral of the story (isn't it nice that this post has a moral).

Just say no!

It's 3:25am

And you know what that means...

It's time to post on my blog instead of working on the take-home final that's due tomorrow! Obviously.

The only problem is...there isn't really that much for me to say. I've essentially been living in the library, which is fabulous (don't get me wrong), but the "stories" one accumulates in the library... Let's just say they're not terribly riveting. For example, recent events in my life include:

-Going to the library cafe to purchase food from the vending machine. This is particularly rewarding when the vending machines are fully stocked, and you can get the refrigerated pre-cut apples with caramel dipping sauce. I'm really not sure why vending machines existed before the invention of the pre-cut apple with caramel dipping sauce, because this is pinnacle of vending machine food. At any rate, I went to the cafe, got myself some of these apples, and ate them. You might be thinking: anti-climactic. But I'm thinking: it feels good to break up 12 straight hours of sitting at a desk with a sliced apple and caramel dipping sauce.

-Three times, I went outside the library to refuel on caffeine. "Why didn't you just buy a lot of caffeine at a time so you wouldn't have to refuel three times a day?" you ask. Here's the thing, though...I do buy a lot at a time, it's just not enough since I drink such a large amount of caffeine. But wait, I'm just getting to the interesting part. Sometimes when I refuel, I get to listen to music on my iPod! I know, my life is crazy. Too hot to handle.

-Infinitely many times, I applied, reapplied, washed off, reapplied again both lip balm and hand cream. In that order, so as not to end up applying lip cream, which is decidedly more disgusting than hand balm.

There's so much more I could tell you: like all the times I refilled my water bottle, or went to the bathroom, or got up to stretch, but I'm afraid that if I keep going, I won't be able to stop. Sometimes, I feel like I'm Paris Hilton.

Stop the Slurping!

And the stage whispering, and the jocular laughing in the stairwells, and the hammer-style typing, and any other noises related to bodily functions that are voluntary in any sense of the word.

Just stop. This is a library. People come here to study QUIETLY. There are many, many places to study where noise is acceptable. If you, in your 20+ years of existence, have not learned to drink your coffee without slurping, then go somewhere else. It's really quite simple. Using the library is a privilege, not a right. And it's a privilege that you forfeit if you can't manage to drink your coffee without impersonating a drowning powervac.

If that sounds unreasonable, then I suggest you make a recording of yourself slurping your latte, and listen to it on repeat for a few hours. Then come back and tell me I'm being unreasonable.

Now this post may sound mean-spirited, or even bitchy (a word that I don't particularly like, for obvious feminist reasons), but it is written in a spirit of kind-heartedness and a desire for mutual benefit.

I am very, very stressed out, as can frequently occur during reading period. I also own and carry a large number of sharp items. I only ask for a certain level of respect for basic library etiquette out of a desire to prevent my numerous sharp objects from lodging themselves into you. Repeatedly.

See, I'm practically overflowing with beneficence. A fount of beneficence...which could potentially become a fount of sharp objects. So watch it.

The Sky is Warming, The Sky is Warming!

It is 70 degrees farenheit in Boston on January 6th.

Don't get me wrong, I love 70 degree weather. It's wonderful, fabulous, divine even. But this is some crazy #$%*! A high of 50 would be unseasonably warm and very pleasant (for a little while), but this, kinahurra! And today isn't even that atypical for this year's winter.

Despite the obvious benefits in comfort, there are some often unnerving, frequently under-noticed consequences, like:

• Small talk - how do you make it clear that you're only making small talk with someone (or that you're not making small talk with someone) when the weather--traditionally a bastion of small talk--suddenly becomes fair game for legitimate conversations? I don't think it's necessary for me to elaborate for anyone to grasp the possible enormity of the effects that a blurring of conversational categories could have on dating, relationships, or cocktail parties.
• Fashion - the entire fashion industry is predicated on a meteriological differentiation between seasons...why should I buy a winter wardrobe if winter no longer exists. Does this portend an economic collapse? Of course, on a more personal level, what am I going to do with all the subdued greys and browns and dark-wash denims that I own? This kind of weather could effectively destroy half my wardrobe, and possibly bankrupt me should I try to rescusitate it.
• Diet - I have built into my diet a number of seasonal treats, to celebrate changes in the weather. This means that the first cold night of the year coincides with the first hot Starbucks (often the kind that would constitute a calorie-splurge), and likewise the first warm day of spring is marked by the first iced Starbucks drink of the year. If the weather varies too frequently, I could conceivably get confused and end up drinking one of those 10,000 calorie Frappucinos every couple days. Not acceptable.

This is all very alarming, and I think foreshadows the possibility of even more ominous consequences should we not succeed in stanching the progress of global warming. Scary.

Dining Services...

The dining services here evidently believe that it is their responsibility to make us healthier people.

Now call me crazy, but it would seem to me that if dining services wanted to make students healthier, the logical approach would be through...I don't know...serving healthier food? Perhaps french fries + pizza≠healthy lunch?

They, however, evidently prefer the tried-and-true method of having a paragraph about New Year's Resolutions and "Wellness Matters" on their monthly table-top newsletter. Fine. Whatever. If it makes them happy.

But if you're going to make a half-assed effort to improve students' health, at least give it the full ass cheek. None of this, waving your finger and telling us to sleep 8 hours a night, to stop drinking caffeine after noon, and to start blocking out half an hour before we go to bed to "do something relaxing." And, of course, to top it off, they have chutzpah to tell us this during reading and exam period.

If you want us to have healthier habits, tell us to do something that we might actually do. Little things...like eating one healthy thing before we let ourselves eat something bad, or setting a time limit when we start studying after which point we will go to sleep no matter how much we've done, or even ordering one size smaller coffee than we were planning to. I can do that sort of thing.

Look, I'm all for being healthy. I have plenty of openly healthy friends, and it causes no tension whatsoever. I don't criticize their lifestyle; they don't criticize mine. It's just not an issue.

But when it comes down to it, short of destitution or a brush with death, I don't really see myself altering my caffeine habits in the near future (true story: I think I actually woke up with a caffeine headache this morning from lack of caffeine while I was asleep. Perhaps an intravenous drip is in order?). And with a thesis chapter deadline having come and gone yet no thesis chapter to go with it, I think sleep is going to be on the back-burner for a while.

But thank you HUDS, for your lovely advice. I will think of it as I pull my third all-nighter of the week, so that I can be healthy in spirit if not in practice.

I find this "deadline" concept problematic

I believe that the gratuitous inclusion of Derrida in my thesis entitles me to at least a few moments of postmodern primadonna-dom.

And right now, that means: Social Studies thesis deadline, watch yourself, because I'm about to deconstruct your ass.

First of all, the concept of a "deadline" suggests a clear-cut distinction between two points in time: the "before," when it is acceptable to turn something in, and the "after," when it is not. Of course, one might question from whose perspective "acceptability" is determined; how one draws a (dead)line in time--which is infinitely reducible AND culturally determined (what is 5:oopm in a society where clocks do not exist? Is your 5:00pm somehow equivalent to the universal, ideal, absolute 5:00pm?); how one defines the "completion" and "turning in" of the assignment (when every thing that can be said has been said? when it leaves not questions unanswered? when the question--as if one could isolate and bound a single question--that you ask explicitly has been answered? when the process of altering--but all statements change with context, which in turn constantly evolves--ceases to occur?); and finally (and perhaps most obviously), how we account for and extract a clear meaning from the inherently dynamic and socially determined relation between "deadline" as a signifier and this presumably obvious referent, some "real world," clear-cut, "January 2nd, 2007" from which you, dear Social Studies, presume to pronounce my grade as Sat/Unsat, either/or, one/not the other.

Well, if you want to snub your nose at the last half century of literary, social, and political philosophy and tie yourself blindly to the illusions of essentialism, then be my guest.

But I won't have it. I will not turn my eyes from the dynamic multiplicity of meanings that "deadline: January 2nd, 2007" carries.

In other words, you can look forward to my 1st chapter sometime this week.