Is this your homework, Larry?

During my freshman year, I, similar to the majority of all NYU students, had to take a class called Writing the Essay. My experience was actually positive, very unlike the majority of all NYU students. Because I was in the Steinhardt School of Education at the time, I had to register for the special subsequent installment, Advanced College Essay. Even though I knew I was transferring into the College of Arts and Sciences - and knew that the class would be ultimately worthless to my history degree - I stayed in it anyway, and with gusto. In Advanced College Essay we analyzed Ghostface Killa in conjunction with a version of the much-covered "Hey Joe," listened to the Kings of Leon, watched "Wondershowzen," and even got to see an independent movie starring Josh Hartnett - the high school "best friend" of my instructor. All of that was swell, but I think the most wonderful thing about the class was getting to write a paper about my favorite movie, The Big Lebowski. (Just now, by accident, I typed The Bi Lebowski and if I ever make my way into the adult film industry - hey, anything to get rid of those pesky loans! - I will consider this as my debut project.). Everyone who knows anything about my being knows that I'm a rather large fan. One of the comedians at a club I used to be a seater/greeter/late show emcee at when I was a wee lass of 14 introduced me to the film. I remember the first time I watched it, I HATED it. Probable because I fell asleep and woke up during the dream sequence. I dropped in from my slumber just to see what condition the condition was in, and I was confused. Then something made me watch it again. And again. And again and... well, there I go ramblin' again. Let's just say I've had my toes painted green.

My essay was a major labor of love. It's an intense analysis of the Eastern and Western philosophies that are inherent in the film, with a little bit of a noir lens thrown in there for you cinema dudes, but then... well, you'll see. I subconciously formatted my argument within the same structure of the film. It must have slipped itself in after countless viewings. Because I'm shamelessly proud of it and want everyone I know to read it (especially fellow fans!) and because I'm afraid of losing the document to the infinite electronic abyss, and because I'm just plain vain, I wanted to post it right here on my blog. (I'm pretty sure I can hear a groan from all of you who are sick of hearing and reading it, but who cares! A girl's gotta be proud of something!)

Enjoy! And let me know what you think. I apologize for punctuation, spacing, and italic flaws. But I'm a little too lazy to correct it all, and I think The Dude would abide.

Nomenclature is Not The Preferred Nomenclature

The flickering candlelight reveals a close-up on the Dude’s oddly feminine and well-kempt feet, toes protruding delicately from the murky soapy water; resting on the far side of the pale pastel pink tub. We can hear the mellow, muffled cassette tape titled, “Songs of the Whale.” The Dude, in all his 45-year-old shaggy-haired glory, smokes a tiny joint, and chokes on his toke at the ringing of the phone. The camera quickly cuts away again, but this time to the answering machine, then back to The Dude, blowing smoke serenely with his eyes closed. The voice we hear is from the L.A.P.D., informing the Dude that his stolen car has been recovered.

“Far out, man…Far fucking out…” we hear the Dude exhale in a reefer-filled whisper, as the tail end of his rejoicing is disturbed by the loud banging of the Nihilists’ baseball bat on his answering machine. The Dude tries to see the ruckus out of the bathroom doorway, declaring “This is a private residence, man!” as three blonde-haired, thin German Nihilists are revealed. As they approach The Dude, the camera follows their boots and the viewer sees that one of them is walking an amphibious rodent – a ferret – on a leash. The Dude nods his head and leans over slightly to look at it, visibly annoyed and mistakenly commenting, “Nice marmot.” We now see the three wan German Nihilists from The Dude’s point of view in the tub, as one of them picks up the rodent and drops it in the water, right between the Dude’s laughable chicken legs. “Where is ze money, Lebowski?!” the Nihilists shout. The Dude, our protagonist in The Big Lebowski played by Jeff Bridges, is a mellow, lazy guy who, in the parlance of our times, does his own proverbial “thing,” and gets mixed up in a confusingly hilarious plot of greed and clashing ideologies. The Nihilists declare that they “believe in nuzzing,” yet they are actively pursuing monetary gain. The Dude is the true Nihilist – he’s too lazy to care…or is it that he’s too wise?

The Big Lebowski is a film about Jeffrey Lebowski – The Dude - whose rug is soiled by two thugs searching for the “other Jeffrey Lebowski, the millionaire,” whose wife owes money all over town. Walter Sobchak, The Dude’s Vietnam vet best friend, convinces him to seek out the millionaire – referred to as “The Big Lebowski” – to compensate him for his decorative loss (the rug really tied the room together). Mr. Lebowski yells, assuming that the Dude is looking for a free hand-out but when Lebowski’s wife is kidnapped, he entrusts the Dude to act as courier for the ransom money. From then on the plot develops into a complex and convoluted story, with, to quote the Dude, “a lotta ins, lotta outs, lotta what-have-you’s.”

He responds to the chaos around him by “abiding” through doing what he is told by various authoritative characters, eventually proclaiming, “Ah, fuck it,” when he realizes that all the falderal isn’t worth whatever compensation he might receive. The Dude rolls through life like his bowling ball down his alley, strikingly similar to the tumbling tumbleweed shown navigating the streets of Los Angeles in the very beginning of the film. He just is, very much like the Tao of Taoism. In fact, one of the rare times that he gets flustered, his friend Walter notices: “C’mon, you’re being very un-Dude,” – how about “un-Tao,” instead? As Zhuangzi, an ancient leader of Taoism, wrote: “The Tao cannot be seen: if you see it, it is not that. The Tao cannot be spoken, if you speak it, it is not that” ("Zhuangzi"). The Dude is effortless in his ways. No matter what happens he somehow always becomes “privy to the new shit” and things seem to work out for the best. As long as he keeps his mind limber and open – usually with the aid of a “strict drug regimen” – he is able to figure out all of the crazy happenings that unfold before him.

The beginning of the film shows us the Dude, donning a robe and jellies, in a brightly lit grocery store late at night. The contrast of his warm-colored clothing in the vibrant super-market really proves to set him apart from everybody else. He’s special, different. As he saunters through the aisle to the check-out counter, our narrator, The Stranger, startles our ears with his raspy cowboy voice, introducing this odd character: “Sometimes there’s a man . . . And I’m talkin’ about the Dude here - - sometimes there’s a man who, wal, he’s the man for his time’n place.” Another man who warrants a similar introduction is no one other than the Buddha himself. The Four Noble Truths and The Eightfold Path of Buddhism are eerily present within The Dude in The Big Lebowski.

For those who aren’t familiar with the whole Buddhist “Eastern thing,” the Four Noble Truths are: 1) Life is suffering, 2) Suffering is due to attachment, 3) Attachment can be overcome, and 4) There is a path for accomplishing this (“The Basics of Buddhist Wisdom”). Who’s more unattached than The Dude? He has no wife, no family, no kids, no job, no money, and he seems perfectly content. Tai-chi, bowling, driving around, the occasional acid flashback, drinking White Russians, and smoking marijuana just may be the Dude’s own abbreviated version of The Eightfold Path. After every time something significant happens to him, he’s either at the bowling alley, rolling a joint, or having a drink. One smashing example of this is when the millionaire Lebowski calls upon The Dude to act as courier. Brandt, The Big Lebowski’s assistant, ushers The Dude in to discuss the situation. It is awkward for the viewer to see the Dude in a dramatically dark room lit only by the serious fireplace, which The Big Lebowski is sitting in front of in his wheelchair with a blanket on his lap. Brandt stands solemnly in his tailored suit between the two men with his head down, arms stiff at his side, fingers spread apart robotically. The Dude, however, is dressed in a light-colored baseball t-shirt and leans back in his chair listening to The Big Lebowski blubber about his manhood and the alleged kidnapping. The Dude interrupts: “Mind if I do a jay?” This juxtaposition is visually intoxicating. In this Western World, The Dude keeps his Eastern composure and stays on track in the face of trouble which turns out to be a scam, anyway. The viewer learns a Buddhist lesson from The Big Lebowski. Once The Dude experiences attachment through desire – or in Sanskrit, “trishna” – of compensation for his rug, life isn’t so pleasant. Suddenly he’s responsible for the removal of a woman’s toe, the destruction of a corvette, and the death of his friend.

When The Dude eventually refuses monetary gain, he finally gets his “Dudeness” back and in the end shares his motto with The Stranger, “The Dude abides.” “Abiding” is essentially what Buddhists refer to as nirvana: “the letting go of clinging, hatred, and ignorance; the full acceptance of imperfection, impermanence, and interconnectedness of life” (“The Basics of Buddhist Wisdom”). One could argue that the Dude “abides” of everything because he’s too lazy to do anything else, but with this one should remember that the real Buddha did spend several years sitting under a tree until he was Enlightened. Perhaps this was The Dude in college, “occupying various administration buildings” and smoking Thai stick. When The Dude and The Stranger are sitting at the bowling alley bar for the first time together, much is revealed. The Stranger offers The Dude a helpful aphorism: “Sometimes you eat the bar, and sometimes the bar, wal, he eats you.” The Dude replies, “Is that some kind of Eastern thing?” to which The Stranger answers with twinkling eyes full of wisdom, “Far from it.”

The film accomplishes its wide appeal and taps into pop-cultural knowledge not only through various characters’ hilarious ravings about everything from Vietnam to hating the band The Eagles, but through the hodge-podge of different traditional genres. Robert Scholes, author of “On Reading a Video Text,” is concerned with this idea of American universal “cultural knowledge” that allows the Coen brothers to make such an intriguing film (205). The different genres present serve as a form of “cultural reinforcement” for the viewer (206). We notice the different elements fused together, which is refreshing because it serves as “a defense against the ever-present threat of boredom” (206). There is a little bit of everything in The Big Lebowski: a cowboy, part of a romance, comedy, a crime drama. . . there’s even a musical number resulting from a drug-induced stupor. All of these components would be considered very “Western” in essence, revealing American values such of entertainment, escape, and intrigue. The use of a Western archetype, the cowboy, to narrate an Eastern message is also truly fascinating. To display the Eastern values of the Dude in such a Western way is to poke fun at both sides of the ideological spectrum, as few aspects of life ever neatly and completely fit into one category or the other. Is sitting under a tree for several years actually fruitful meditation or just an excuse to leave your wife and take a load off? As Brandt would say, “Well, Dude, we just don’t know.”

There are a few times during the film that the viewer feels like he or she should be taking notes, especially when trying to figure out the significance of the very surreal scene that takes place at pornographer Jackie Treehorn’s so-called “garden party.” Topless women are tossed in into the nighttime sky near a bon-fire by the blanket held by a circle of men gazing up at them with mouths agape in ecstasy. All of this occurs in slow motion. Even the viewers who are also on a “strict drug regimen” will want to ask the Coens, in the parlance of our Dude, “What the fuck are you talking about!?” at least once during the movie. An episodic, seemingly unrelated plot is a vital characteristic to the most important genre that The Big Lebowski toys with: the Neo-Noir.

Lee Horsley, in an essay titled “An Introduction to Neo-Noir,” writes that Neo-Noirs, “draw on films and novels of earlier decades,” and this proves to be true. A sister Neo-Noir, L.A. Confidential, was inspired by James Ellroy’s L.A. Quartet series of noir novels, and the Coen brothers were influenced by writer Raymond Chandler and 1946 private-eye flick, The Big Sleep (“An Interview with The Coen Brothers”). L.A. Confidential can be considered the other side of The Big Lebowski. It gives us insight into The Dude’s “worthy adversaries,” the rich, the powerful. One of the Dude’s enemies is the fascist Malibu Chief of Police, and L.A. Confidential is a story about policemen like the Chief, who are caught up in a mixture of lies, corruption, sex, and murder. There are essentially the same elements in each film: political corruption, drugs, pornography, prostitution, and California. L.A. Confidential is set in 1953 and its events can be considered responsible for molding the corrupt world in which the Dude of the early 1990s lives. When compared to The Big Lebowski, L.A. Confidential is more of a classic noir as it deals more directly and literally with what Neo-Noir usually tackles: consumerism. The Big Lebowski deals with our American emphasis on material possessions and consumption, but with a more frivolous intricacy and an Eastern protagonist twist. Lee Horsley mentions Frederick Jameson and his essay titled “Postmodernism and Consumer Society” because Jameson poses this interesting question: “Are self-consciously ‘noir’ contemporary narratives to be seen as escaping from or engaging with contemporary issues?” (Horsley). For The Big Lebowski, the answer is both. Although the Coen brothers do leave little trinkets of repeated dialogue and images throughout the movie for devoted eagle-eye viewers to spot and wring out extensive meaning, they also provide the more passive viewer with more obvious jokes.

At the end of a classic Neo-Noir such as L.A. Confidential, loose ends are tightly tied like the shoelaces of an accomplished adult, similar to the works of Raymond Chandler consisting of tiny little interactions that perpetuate the plot. The “ins and outs” of the incongruous events are curtly explained, leaving the viewer thinking, “Ahh, now I get it.” This is not the case in The Big Lebowski, whose end resembles the loose double-knots and bunny ears of the too-long shoelaces of your average toddler. Not everything ends up making sense, and the viewers are on their own if they want some kind of definite answer. The Coens aren’t concerned with – or, perhaps, are above – providing analyses of their films. It’s up to the viewer to provide meaning for themselves. But that’s how, according to The Stranger, “The whole durned human comedy keeps perpetuatin’ itself:” our lives’ distinctive events may not always be overwhelmingly meaningful upon first glance. To bring back some Eastern perspective, The Western Stranger is promoting the Buddhist principle of “anatman,” or the notion that all things are interconnected and interdependent; nothing has a separate existence (“The Basics of Buddhist Wisdom”).

One of the most brilliant characters actually appears in the film only twice. The arch-nemesis of The Dude is portrayed in a dramatic, slow-motion shot, complete with his own theme song (The Gypsy King’s rendition of The Eagles’s classic “Hotel California”) and lavender jumpsuit. The music builds and swells as Jesus Quintana – no, not Jesus – rolls an emphatic strike and poses in a flamingo-like fashion after his success. The Coens let the characters spend a significant amount of time revealing the background of the character, even employing a rapid flashback to show us his mandatory door-to-door punishment of announcing to his pederasty to his neighbors.

The character Jesus Quintana tends to be the most momentous part of the film to the viewer but really has nothing to do with the rest of the plot . . . or does he? Perhaps if the movie was given a little more time we might have seen the second coming of Jesus as a distant relative of Bunny’s or a former member of the German Nihilists’ techno-pop group, “Autobahn.” Even if this didn’t turn out to be the case, sometimes the most significant events in our lives are the moments that last just a few seconds. Neo-Noir and Eastern philosophy are serious in their critiques of the human existence; the Coens are not. Life’s peculiarity is beyond labeling or classifying, as the message of The Big Lebowski isn’t in the Dude himself, but in getting it from him. Although it is usually detrimental to dissect and inspect films, The Big Lebowski is one of the few whose value increases exponentially with each viewing. If we think hard enough or let a sufficient amount of time pass, we can provide some kind of explanation and label for anything if we really want to – except maybe the floating topless women.

WORKS CITED

"An Interview with The Coen Brothers, Joel and Ethan about "The Big Lebowski".
"IndieWire. 02 Mar 2007. Coen Brothers. 29 Mar 2007 .

Boeree, C. George . "The Basics of Buddhist Wisdom." Shippensburg University. 29 Mar
2007 .

Horsley, Lee. "An Introduction to Neo-Noir." Neo-Noir. 02 Mar 2007. Crime Culture. 29
Mar 2007 .

Pregadio, Fabrizio. "Zhangzi." Taoism and the Taoist Canon. 02 Mar 2007. Stanford
University Department of Religious Studies. 29 Mar 2007
.

Scholes, Robert. "On Reading a Video Text". The Advanced College Essay: Education
and the Professions. Ed. William M. Morgan and Pat C. Hoy II.
Boston: Pearson Custom Publishing, 2007. 205-206.

Perhaps next I will share my Moby-Dick paper with you all, for it is titled "Monkey See, Monkey Do, Monkey Die."

The Short, Cold Winter (Break)

Since I've been home this winter break, I've been staying at my sister's house. Because they just had a new baby, there is no longer a guest room. I'm okay with this. It means I get to sleep in the double-decker palace that is my 4 year old niece's brand new bunk bed, complete with Dora the Explorer Sheets. I sleep in the twin bed on the top and the little rascal gets the full-size mattress on the bottom with the Camp Rock sheets and pictures of the Jonas Brothers that line the wall of her cave. Never in my life have I owned or slept in any size bed other than a twin, and for that I resent her just a little bit. Also, she snores. My resentment, however, fades away when she most amusingly makes up songs with my nickname in them (I'm Aunt Zeldy).

I think I've been at home for a couple weeks now, and despite the usual, ever-present, fret-filled and creaky cogs that turn in my head, I can say I'm doing alright. The most interesting experience I've had in these past two weeks, and perhaps in my entire life so far, is witnessing the birth of my new baby niece. I was present for everything, from the early stages of labor while I was singing and drumming for my virtual band "Cake Ball" in Rock Band, to when the placenta was caught in a garbage can. Being up for over 24 hours is well-worth it when it comes to ushering a brand new life into the world. I can't take credit for the kid or anything, but I can say I've known her the longest! Right now all she does is sleep, and occasionally poop and pee while my brother-in-law is changing her. Sometimes simultaneously - I find this narcoleptic timing rather impressive.

This experience, along with the large amount of time I've created for myself by refusing to get a job this winter has afforded me a great deal of time to contemplate, ruminate, sleep, and play with Bendaroos. These few weeks are probably going to be my last few weeks of idleness for a really really long time. I'm graduating in the fall, and after that I must get a real job with health insurance, hopefully to save money and go abroad. For now, however, I'm trying to relax and perhaps start doing the things I always put off to do school work. I've decided that within the next few months I need to get a lot done. These personal tasks range between everything from writing a song to developing a full opening comedy set, as well as watching, reading, and listening to anything that has to do with Orson Welles, Paul Newman, Moby Dick, whales in general, and pirates.

I really can't get enough Orson. I used to only want to look at pictures of him when he was young and dapper, but I've even grown warmly accustomed to that old, bearded, squishy face he had in his later years. Anyone who can eat himself to death and still be respected is someone I want to get to know in every way I can. Paul Newman was simply attractive - and generous. To watch both in "The Long, Hot Summer" was by far the best visual feast I've encountered in a long, long time. The way I feel about how I'll never meet Orson nor be enveloped by his behemoth being via conversation and hugs and how I'll never get to shake Paul Newman's hand (I'm leaving the hugs to my friend, Jackie, although I wouldn't refuse one if he offered), is the way I used to feel about the Backstreet Boys. One time I remember my former little girl self crying under a wall of posters because I knew I would never meet them. I have not cried for Orson or Paul yet, but I have been known to clutch a pillow during some of their more powerful movie moments. Their greatness is almost palpable and painful. I plan to name my next nameable thing, "Orson" as soon as I get the chance.

I'm going to now do what the professors who run the blog "A History of New York" do, ask you readers a question. (You should really hit up their blog, I'm going to add it to my side menu. It's fantastic)...

Does anyone else have these kinds of admirations? The objects of your admirations can be either alive or dead, of course. I just want to know if I'm alone on this, if I'm even crazier than everyone deems me to be.

As I sit and watch my niece stomp around singing, "I'm mad, I'm mad, I'm totally mad" and when I'm not being the DJ for her Camp Rock dance parties, and when I'm not fetching booties to put on the baby's claws so she doesn't gouge herself, I'm thinking and planning and making lists. Pretty soon, though, the lists need to start meaning something and getting done. Maybe I just don't know how to "take it easy" as the fucking Eagles say. I also can't hide my "lyin' eyes" when I don't have a "peaceful, easy feeling," but that's beside the point. (*Note: All of those songs sound EXACTLY alike. It's like they're the 70's version of Nickelback.)

Now that I've caught up on all of the hours of sleep lost due to finals and babies I should get to steppin' on all this stuff. It may be that the reason Welles & Newman were so successful is that they were always creating and performing and pushing themselves, especially Orson. He started very young and didn't stop until he died, even if that meant doing wonderfully awful and drunken wine commercials. I can't stand to waste another single minute and I get antsy and melancholy when I haven't produced anything for a while, be it a poem or a comedy set or even a really well-written and witty email. Still, maybe I should just really try to relax and enjoy the idleness. Maybe...

but probably not.

Oh, Orson.

Watch him turn the interview around, insult Jerry Lewis, and be generally and pudgily adorabe.

It's a mole? I thought it was a bullethole.

This is a video I made for my friend, Gaar, because he loves animal videos and recently mentioned the song "O Little Town of Bethlehem." In this excellent version, the tune is sung by the phenomenal Aaron Neville. I recommend all of his holiday hits. Enjoy!

People goin' down to the ground, buildings goin' up to the sky

I never thought it would happen, even after tumultuous freshman and sophomore years. When I applied to NYU, the thought of being kicked around by The City actually enticed me. I knew I would thrive in it, like a boxer who picks himself off of the ground just as the announcer reaches the end of the count, and then slugs his opponent for the win. A delayed-gratification kind of success. Sure, I would have to work hard, sure I would have to sell my precious time, my soul and my earthly possessions to raise $50,000 every year for four years. I even thought about letting a nice caucasian couple pay for the removal of a few of my eggs over the summer (luckily me Da came through). I do not regret my decision to live in New York City for college, and I even think I'll eventually end up here. However, never did I ever imagine that I would sincerely miss my Wal*Martian days in Upstate New York.

Over the past couple of months, penetrating pangs of nostalgia and longing have been shooting through my body. The most random incidents seem to set a spark in my brain. Whenever I see an episode of "Judge Judy" or "People's Court" I'm reminded of time spent in the living room of my house on snow days from school when I still watched television. I miss weird things. I miss feeling cozy and bologna and cheese roll-ups made by my Aunt Joan. I miss driving to our really shitty mall, Crossgates, through grey snow with my sister to see a movie and eat at the greasy food court. I miss when my niece, Emma, was still a baby and my sister forgot to strap her into the stroller at that same mall. She tumbled out onto the curb - unhurt, of course, but it's even funnier now because it turned out to be only number one of a series of unfortunate falls.

When my sister had just started dating her husband, we used to go to the mall all the time. Now that I think about it, I think many of their "dates" consisted of taking me to the arcade or going to Chuck E. Cheese. I think I was around 9 or so, very very short for my age. My brother-in-law is very, very tall - and strong! if you're reading this, Black Jesus. I was shy in general, but especially shy around large adults. Whenever I'm home and sitting on their couch during one of our heated life discussions, he always reminds me of just how short and shy I was. Whenever he would ask me a question, even something as simple as, "Andrea, do you want a root beer?" I would look up at him, look back up at my sister for approval, and then look back at him with a meek, "okay, thank you."

What solidified our friendship was The Ninja Ball. A blow-up beach ball with the ying-yang sign on it that I had painstakingly earned from the Crossgates arcade. He would hold it with one hand, and I would try to capture the holy grail from his super-human grasp. Because I was so small, this task proved difficult and I think I spent a lot of time rolling around on the ground. Like a young Jedi, he put me through a series of "Ninja Tasks" that I was to accomplish one by one. I can't quite remember what the rest of them were, but I'm sure they were equally daunting and fun. For some reason jumping on couch cushions fuzzily comes to mind. I also seem to vaguely remember some kind of grand task that was supposed to come with an equally grand reward. Most likely a trip to Chili's to partake in Molten Chocolate Lava Cake. I'll have to pester him about that...

My brother-in-law always had new sayings and new things for me to consider, even at the tender age of 9. There was always something to look forward to or watch out for, I never knew when the Ninja Master would be there to present a new challenge. "Don't fight windmills" and "They screw you at the drive-thru" have been some of the more memorable gems of advice.

As I've grown older, he's still around and every once in a while we have pretty great phone conversations. But, as everything else, things have changed. I don't live at home the majority of the time, I'm not 9, and I'm entirely too large for any Ninja Ball hijiinks. He's also busy making sure my sister gets an adequate birthday celebration, making sure my niece stops falling out of strollers, and making way for their incoming offspring. Whenever I'm working on a paper or getting through yet another ridiculous reading about the "racial education gap" I wish that I still had someone right there to keep things in perspective, make me laugh, and buy me root beers. Someone whose goal is to impress me because they want to marry my sister. I know I can call anytime, but it's not the same. Plus they're already married, so there's no pressure to impress me. I have to be my own Ninja Master, now. And buy my own root beers.

Stay tuned for more NYC frustration posts! Love and hate are so closely linked.

Sailin' and Snugglin'

After a very stressful week, I was delighted to partake is some recreational activities. This Halloween season has been pretty glorious:
- my roommate and I made a pirate ship out of a cookie cake
- I AM The Snuggler.

Zach Galifianakis as The Snuggler has always been a personal inspiration of this young lady. If someone was in trouble or hurt, who wouldn't want a slightly chubby, slightly effeminate, bearded man to come snuggle you back to health? It seems, however, that most normal citizens do not share my views. To each his own, I guess. I can't believe how hard it was to get hold of a plain, yellow polo shirt! What's the world coming to? Also: I'm a bit disturbed that I can don a beard and horrible k-mart cut-off x-tra rugged men's jeans so convincingly. . .

The cookie pirate ship was for our Friendly Faculty Fellow in Residence's daughter's cookie decorating contest. Cookies were judged based on appearance, taste, and "ability to explain what you were going for." Since I've been obsessed with Moby Dick and sea chanteys and pirates and sailing, this kind of scene was perfect. My sister had sent me a "zombie cookie" recipe, so we decided to make zombie pirates with missing, bloody appendages. Look at the detail!

Our scrumption scene was a depiction of the rarely told legend of the Good Ship Venus. On their way to the Canary Islands to retrieve some rum, the boys hit a terrible storm. To keep the boat from sinking they would have had to throw all of the large barrels of rum into the water. Aself-respecting pirate would rather die than waste perfectly fine spirits. Unfortunately, they all fell overboard and sharks mangled their bodies. The pirates are now bound to their ship for all of eternity, haunting any passers-by around the waters surrounding the Canaries.

We did not win, but we were definitely the most creative and had the "liveliest explanation."

Here are some photos:

Thought you all would enjoy that.

If you have no idea who The Snuggler is, shame on you. However, I will present you with this link to correct yourself:

http://www.milkandcookies.com/link/85741/detail/

If I live too long, I'm afraid I'll dieeeee

(Thoughts from sometime in September and just recently completed)

Pretty heavy, I know. But I'm watching The Darjeeling Limited right now, as a reward for my busy weekend and pounding out a five-page education paper about topics I've previously discussed right here on this blog. Within less than 24 hours I went to dinner with my friend and her father, saw a Broadway play, went backstage, went to a party, went on my first Seaport Museum training sail, attended the PhiloStream Planetarium event, and gave a speech at the second annual Broome Street Residential College Convocation. I'm. . . pooped.

I must say that the soundtrack for DL is probably my favorite movie soundtrack to date. In fact, it's the first soundtrack I've purchased since Clueless came out. I'm not afraid to admit that Clueless still might be in my top 10 favorite movies of all time and I'm even less afraid to admit - perhaps even a bit proud - that I can recite most of the dialogue unprovoked. I'm also still a bit depressed to find out with every viewing that my "man Christian is a cake-boy."

I chose this particular lyric from "Strangers" by The Kinks because it proves to be a bit ominous, and I think the topics discussed in the following paragraphs are, too. For my Conversations of the West class I am required to read a few books of the Old Testament. Tonight I dove deep into Genesis and discovered a thought lodged deep in my brain that I had never found before.

We all know the story of Noah and his ark. Here’s the abridged “Leave Your Keys in the Bowl Version” if you’re a little fuzzy:

God thinks that the world has gone to shit. The humans are stinking up the earth. God decided to drown everyone except Noah and his family. He also makes Noah round up some of every "crawling thing" that roams the land so they can procreate after the whole ordeal is over. God, in the parlance of our time, "makes it rain" for 40 days and nights, killing every living thing except those in the ark. Then, the rain stops and Noah and his family and all the animals have a big orgy and repopulate the earth.

God never touches the sea creatures. In fact, he gives them more living space. I know that the humans were the problem, but perhaps the sea creatures have something to do with evil coming back to the earth. Maybe they influenced us to be bad again, after we had just undergone a horrible, horrible punishment - mass drowning. While God was busy with all the land animals, the sea creatures were deviously rubbing their fins together, plotting their evil plans to corrupt humans. We do eat them, after all. Maybe the sea is full of mysterious evil or some other kind of even more powerful force and that's why humans are so fascinated by it. The sea has such a strange and sublime hold on humanity, and no one can quite put their flipper on it.

Also, have you seen these creepy-ass satanic-looking creatures:

I will admit, though, that some of these odd little guys are kinda cute (but then again, I've always been known to love the weird, uncanny type):

Cossack stooge!

This is the testimony of AK, student at New York University, under questioning by the newly re-instituted Un-American Activities Committee. The Committee was reinstated in late September of 2008, when the United States economy plummeted to an all-time low since The Great Depression of 1929. Being a very important election year, the frazzled federal government went into an intellectual “lock-down” of sorts, hoping to quell any anti-American sentiments from spreading further. The political and social atmosphere proved ominous, and fear of possible revolution, rebellion, and assassination following the election was foremost in certain political leaders’ minds. The Un-American Activities Committee was brought back to keep a watchful eye over various aspects of American life, including the hazardously influential world of academia.

TESTIMONY OF A.K.

(The witness was duly sworn by the chairman.)
Mr. MCCONNEL. Miss K, will you give your full name?
Miss K. I am __________.
Mr. MCCONNEL. And your address?
Miss K. Broome Street, New York City during the academic year. Rensselaer, NY the rest of the time until I graduate from university.
The CHAIRMAN. And what university is that?
Miss K. That would be New York University, sir.
The CHAIRMAN. I see... We will get to your academic proposal in just a bit. But first, we would like to ask you a few routine questions.
Mr. MCCONNELL. Yes, Miss Kannes, how old are you and what year are you at New York University?
Miss K. I am 19 years old as of June 22nd, and I am currently in my junior year.
Mr. MCCONNEL. Where are you from originally and what kind of high school did you go to?
Miss K. I am originally from Rensselaer, New York, right across the river from Albany. I went to a small Catholic high school in Troy, New York named Catholic Central High School.
The CHAIRMAN. Are you a Christian, Miss Kannes?
Miss K. Well, no, sir. But I don’t believe that has anything to do with my proposal.
The CHAIRMAN. I think that we will be the judges of what does or does not have to do with our decision, Miss Kannes. So you attended Catholic schooling, but do not conform to the beliefs?
Miss K. Right, I do not.
Mr. MCCONNEL. And would you mind sharing with the Committee why you feel this way?
Miss K. Umm, well... I do not refute all of the beliefs; I believe that their New Testament doctrine of love could be a good thing. However, I think that one must not passively go through their lives. I believe that one must constantly question and challenge what one is taught to get to a greater truth. It is unfortunate that this religion, and most others, does not believe this. I once asked one of my theology teachers –
The CHAIRMAN. Is this relevant, Miss Kannes?
Miss K. You asked me for my reason and I was simply giving it.
The CHAIRMAN. Alright, proceed.
Miss K. I asked one of my theology teachers how it could be possible for all humans to have free will if God already knows everything we are going to do before we do it. He answered, “For those who believe, no answer is necessary. For those who do not, no answer is possible.” Ever since then I have not been a Catholic and have been a firm supporter of the use of reason over blind, submissive faith in anything. Intellectual inquiry and reason –
Mr. MCCONNEL. Next question. Do you or any members of your family have any official political ties or allegiances?
Miss K. Gentleman, I really do not understand what this has to do with the paper I want to write.
Mr. MCCONNEL. We would just like to find where your loyalties lie, nothing more. You opinions will indubitably come through in your academic labor, and it is our duty to find out just what kind of labor we may or may not be allowing to take place.
The CHAIRMAN. This information is of great interest and importance to us, Miss Kannes.
Miss K. I have a strange inkling that although we are in the land of freedom of political beliefs I may be penalized for a “wrong” answer, and I am not sure how American this Committee is turning out to be. You think you would have learned from before tha –
(The CHAIRMAN bangs gavel.)
Miss K. That’s exactly what I’m talking about.
Mr. MCCONNEL. Will you please answer the question? How were you raised politically and what is your status today?
The CHAIRMAN. We must know or we cannot let you pursue your paper.
Miss K. Fine. You’d love my parents. Blind, unquestioning Republicans through and through. My mother even has a job cleaning the Republican majority in the New York State Senate. Depending on how the election goes, she may not have this job for long. My father is a fan of McCain’s without really knowing anything about him. Your favorite type of voter, I’m sure.
The CHAIRMAN. I would be careful with your words, Miss Kannes. Your biases scream with every syllable. Please continue.
Miss K. Everyone has biases. In academia, it’s just a matter of working through them. I am, obviously, more liberal than my parents. Especially once I started going to school in New York City. I am not affiliated with any political party, however. I do not like to make commitments of that nature. I believe in the use of government to ensure freedoms. I believe that there are unnecessary laws in place that waste time, energy, and money of the government. Our system of courts is sometimes glorious, and sometimes too politically charged and bureaucratic to be fair. My father was incarcerated for seven years for a non-violent crime after such a trial, so I have strong feelings about this part of our nation’s notion of “justice.”
Mr. MCCONNEL. Fascinating.
The CHAIRMAN. It says here that you would like to research and report on the use of communism during the Federal Theater Project. Have you ever been involved in any communist or theatrical endeavors?
Miss K. What a poorly worded question. Is this some kind of trap? Have you guys ever cracked open a history book? It’s not going to work on me, sirs.
The CHAIRMAN. Alright, let me restate them as separate questions then. Have you ever been involved in any kind of theater or performing arts?
Miss K. Yes. I performed in plays all throughout high school, wrote a play that was performed by one of the classes, and once directed a children’s play. Currently I do stand-up comedy when I have time. I started doing stand-up when I was 14 years old, which led to a job seating guests and hosting the late shows at an upstate New York comedy club. I am very much a performer at heart and hope to be somehow involved in the entertainment industry at some point in my life.
Mr. MCCONNEL. Do you have any *political* material?
Miss K. Not on purpose.
The CHAIRMAN. Hmm... What is your view of communism within the Federal Theater Project?
Miss K. I have only done limited reading thus far on the subject, but I do believe that there were communists involved in the project. I am of the opinion that the political nature of the project definitely produced some passionate theater. I hope to research this matter further and report on my findings.
Mr. MCCONNEL. So you think it was alright for communists to be infiltrating our nation’s works?
Miss K. I said it made for passionate theater. I did not say I supported the communist party. That’s not what I said at all. Everyone knows that theater with a cause is always more complex and interesting and more electrically charged than a show with no heart behind it.
The CHAIRMAN. I think we’ve heard enough. We will now adjourn to deliberate on our decision about whether or not we will let you pursue your academic endeavor.
Miss K. Wait just a minute, please, Mr. Chairman. You have not let me finish my proposal. There’s more. I know you are judging me on my experiences and thoughts, but I would not be a true historian if I did not know how to set these aside.
Mr. MCCONNEL. Well, then, you think you are a true historian, then? Prove it to the Committee.
The CHAIRMAN. You can say that you will set aside your prejudices, but how can we know that you really will?
Miss K. I think of research and writing as a conversation. In order to have a fully successful and worthwhile conversation, you have to be willing and open to having your mind changed by the end of it. Sometimes it can be just as interesting to try and disprove your own opinion. And usually, through this kind of work, you can make your own argument stronger because you will catch all of its weak spots. Looking at information and documents from different angles is the only way to get everything out of them. My training as a stand-up comedian has taught me to look at situations from different perspectives. It would be unethical to prevent me from pursuing this topic just because you think I might “side” with the people you think of as “the enemies.” I cannot guarantee you what side my argument will prove, if any. I will not know what my argument is until I’ve done extensive research. And this, Mr. Chairman, is what I am seeking permission to do.
Mr. MCCONNEL. Anything else?
Miss K. That covers it, gentleman. I hope that you will consider my proposal for academic study with impartial minds and understand that it is not in my desires to disrupt what is left of our nation’s order. I sincerely think that intense studies of the past can shed more light onto the future. Thank you.
Mr. CHAIRMAN. Alright, Miss Kannes. We will see about this after lunch.
Miss K. When and how will I know of your decision?
The CHAIRMAN. We will let you know of our decision via the great United States Postal Service within 4-6 business days.
Miss K. (under her breath) Did I just order my decision from Amazon.com? I bet I have to pay for shipping...

It was later found out that A, not Barack Obama, had been the one palin' around with terrorists as Governor Palin warned.

Specal K with Ba-na-naaaas.

I have a new post in the works about things I've been thinking about lately and some recent unfortunate events that are sure to amuse you all even if they were horrific for me. But for now I'd like to share this with you:

http://www.zippyvideos.com/5171469584804106/the_mcloughlin_group/

This goes out to you, Meg.

My aunt keeps her shoes in the oven, too!

What exactly is a Maui Taco? I'm still not sure. All I know is that the place that makes them has a basement wtih a stage and a weekly gathering of New York City's unsightly's - including myself. For that one week, at least. Perhaps more in the future, but I'm still recovering from my first experience in front of that disheveled graffiti tin-roof background and duct-taped microphone.

The Maui Taco is indeed a taco eatery, although I did not partake in any of their menu items. I can't eat before I perform. Well, I can, but I've found that my time before getting on stage is best spent looking over my tentative set list than umm. . . well, you understand what I'm getting at. No need to be rude. Let's just say I still get a bit anxious before I perform.

I brought a few friends along for moral support in case the place turned out to be some kind of scary dive bar. In high school I did attend open mics at such places, but never by myself and always with my two 30-something trench-coat wearing bitter yet endearing male comedian friends. And, especially in the city, I was determined not to make a go of it alone at this juncture. My mom makes sure to relay every story about young college girls being raped and mugged in late-night Manhattan.

When we got to the outside of the "venue" -and I use this term loosely - I was confused. It looked like an indie version of a Taco Bell. I kept apologizing profusely to my companions, warning them that this wasn't a regular show, open mics are usually sucky, and not to be alarmed. I promised them that I would do whatever it takes to make up to them this possible several hours of torture. As a comedian I am used to such drudgery, and once once goes to an open mic one realizes why many comics are so bitter and "tortured" and angry by the time they make it. Go to one on a Tuesday or Wednesday night, and stay the whole time no matter what. You're bound to ooze frustration. But it's part of paying your dues and any performer should never complain if they're getting an opportunity to step on a stage. But I still believe it's okay to realize that watching one unfriendly yet unfunny and uncleanly performer after another drunkenly swagger onto a stage that barely sits six inches high off of the floor is a pretty shitty way to spend a night. Getting your own five minutes during which other breathing human beings are forced to listen to your words is definitely worth it, however. I think in a later blog post I will get all "deep" about how weird it is to be alone in front of people with only your words to woo them and get them to like you. The performer is basically in control of the audience's lives for however long they stand up there. But back to the Maui Taco.

The host was drunk, 80% of the other comics were at least a couple drinks in, and the friends I brought were the only non-performers in the dank, dark basement dungeon of forced, uncomfortable laughter. I felt right at home. When I first moved to New York City I had been afraid to perform here, even at the no-pressure open mics. I imagined that everyone would be very cold and snooty and look down on me as a young know-nothing loser who doesn't know a tag from a call-back. So wrong I was. The open mics here are E X A C T L Y like they are in Albany. Awkard but kind of exciting, small audience, small stage. I think it must be universal. It's an interesting experience; everyone pretty much keeps to themselves and talks to whoever they came with. They sit at tables alone while scribbling and clandestinely peering around. There's always one or two comedians that will come over and introduce themselves, and it turns out to be just a passing greeting or something "clicks" and you end up having a really long exchange about your crazy families until the event commences.

Here's a few realy embarassing pictures of me and a couple of my best friends from high school at various open mics around the Capital Region:

My really realy old Webshots!

I would have just posted a couple here, but Blogger is being a douche.

It's nice to connect with other people who have similar inner-workings of the mind; others who are not afraid to share things about themselves at the expense of being considered Odd in "normal" situations. The reality is, once you find someone like that to converse with, you're not weird at all. You fit right in. I kind of befriended this one young woman who used to go to NYU just like me, and she told me some of the darkest, disturbing details of her life and how she got into comedy. I shared some similar stories -although I'm not sure I topped her long family history of debauchery and drugs. Still, I've always felt that in order to be a really good performer, you have to have some kind of burning sense of redemption and miscellaneous yearning working for you. That moment was the first time in a while that I thought, "Wow, this is it. This is where I'm supposed to be. (Not specifically at the Maui Taco, I think I'm at least ready for the Alaskan Enchilada). This is probably the only place where I won't consistently get that 'awww you're kind of funny but really weird and take it a little too far' look." Just ask me about performing at the sonic boom that was Gould Plaza. And any recitation or group hang-out with new people I've ever attended.

I'm so grateful for my friends who came to support me, but there was a point when I felt them getting bored and creeped out by the excessive and aggressively not funny dick/boobie/vagina jokes. I don't really hear them anymore. Whenever there's someone who's having a difficult time onstage, it's best not to dwell on it and I always make sure to laugh heartily at anything they say that might have some kind of potential. What I actually really liked about this particular open mic was that if you had good material, you got laughs. I've been to way too many places where the comics just sit there stone-faced, even trying not to laugh, just because they're too absorbed in their own stuff.

I do believe that mis amigas gained something from the experience. Not only did we "fuse like a family," as any emotionally harrowing experience spent in a beer-stained basement that reeks of sour cream and old salsa (just listen to Colin Meloy and his musical account of male prostitutes), but I think they learned a bit about why I am the way I am. Most importantly, they learned never to eat nachos constructed with a Hawaiian flare.

Here's the video from that night. Thank you Katy for posting it! I look pretty terrible but I'm willing to blame it on the poor lighting choices made by the interior designer of that classy cellar of a room. No, I don't know why I did a jig in the middle of my set, either. It's a compliment that the camera shook a bit at some parts because it means at least Katy was laughing.

Remember, similar to the disclaimer I fed my friends, it was just an open mic. But it's still somethin'.

How do I reach these KEEEEDS?!

I've noticed that my conversations with people go through phases, and that no matter who I'm talking to I always end up mentioning the same 2 or 3 key events or thoughts that are galloping through my brain's pastures at the time. It's as if I need to bounce my words off of anyone who will listen to make sure all that I'm thinking is acknowledged and examined from other perspectives. Another reason behind it could be that my endeavors as a comic have programmed my mind to organize itself into set lists. Once I have those two or three stories/anecdotes/quandaries, I have to try them out on as many audiences as possible until everyone I know is aware and amused by them - or until I get sick of telling them. So, dear reader, I'd like to let you in on my current Mind's Set List. It's a little longer than I would normally work into conversation with any given person, but that's perhaps because all of this has built up within the past couple of weeks of getting back into the school/Broome Street groove.

My first "bit" has to do with something that I'm avoiding by typing this very post. I should be reading a book called SMALL VICTORIES for my class, "Education as a Social Institution." How vague and uninteresting the title is. Guess what the book's about?! I bet you can't. Unless you've seen "Dangerous Minds," "Freedom Writers," that Matthew Perry Hallmark Teaching Movie, or "The Dead Poets' Society," et. al. There's even a South Park episode that mocks this format (it's where I get the title for today's rant). I love inspirational teacher movies just as much as the next over-privileged, spoiled, sentimental little white girl, but I'm sick of learning about it in classes that are supposed to prepare me to be a teacher.

The book is about a young white woman teacher in an urban school who figures out that she needs to "get down with the kids" in order to get them to do their schoolwork. She swears with them, calls them on the phone, brings in food, and does everything but write them a rap song about Walt Whitman. (This has been done, however. See that Matthew Perry movie, he raps about the PreZidentZ.) Her whole goal is to get them out of the Lower East Side and away from their screwed up lives. I appreciate her efforts (she's a real teacher) and I understand her troubles (I actually worked in the very high school she taught in), but I'm just so sick of the plot. At this point I've already had to read a billion of these accounts, including "Educating Esme," which is oddly about another young white woman with red curly hair in a tough New York City school. Her and Jessica Seigel are one and the same. Every NYU education class brings the same discussions and never lets us ever try to solve them for ourselves.

Yes, schools are bad here. Yes, the students have shittily scary lives. Yes, it's a social class issue. Yes, the school system is corrupt and screws with the funding. And that's as far as the classes go. We're never allowed to think of solutions to these problems. Our heads get filled with lofty progressive education ideals and discussons about "mislabeling" students as "learning disabled" when they're really just "learning differences."

If the student needs extra help and cannot function without it, it's a disability that needs to be addressed. When you call it a "learning difference" the effected students and parents could brush it off by saying, "Oh, why are you bothering us? He doesn't need extra help, he's just different." It's one thing if a kid has to go home and sing his vocabulary words to himself to learn them, it's another if he physically can't move his hand to form the aphabet with his pencil. He needs assistance.

With the amount of time that has been spent discussing the "proper terminology" for various problems and worrying about everyone's feelings, phone calls could have been made, help could have been found, and those problems could have been solved. It probably doesn't help that I have fairly radical views about what a good teacher should be, but that's neither here nor there and the explanation of these views deserves another forum entirely.

My second and third and fourth preoccupations are kind of entertwined.

Don't make fun of me, but only just recently have I seen the film "American Beauty."

But I think it's in my top three favorite movies of all time. It makes me wonder why I never thought of/wanted to see it. I think it had something to do with the picture it's famous for. When I read the title and saw the picture, I automatically assumed that Julia Roberts was going to be in it and it was going to have something to do with a woman and a man and they're Hugh Grant-ish dialogue. I didn't realize it was a young girl and not a well-known Hollywood starlette covered in roses.

Pardon me, but I must say: HOLY FUCK was I wrong. I had no idea it was going to be this dark, penetrating, poignant film that would make me sob. And fall in love with Kevin Spacey.

And no, people who know me well, it has nothing to do with the age difference between Lester Burnham and his little rosebud. In fact, the movie argues against their situation. It has everything to do with the idea of saying "Fuck it!" and finally doing what you want. . . and that decision's consequences, good and bad. It's about appreciating the sweetness behind everything and being overwhelmed by it. And realizing that the pain from the raw beauty of everything you see every day is better than not feeling anything at all. The argument and execution is perfect.

Spacey's delivery of lines is so precise and, forgive my annoying oxymoron, seriously comical, that I giggle in all the right places. This exchange is one of my favorites:

Carolyn Burnham: Uh, whose car is that out front?

Lester Burnham: Mine. 1970 Pontiac Firebird. The car I've always wanted and now I have it.

*thrusts fist into the air*. . . I rule!

Never much of a crier, I watched this movie practically three nights in a row and weeped every time. The first time I kind of sobbed, but it could have had a little to do with the rum. The second and third times, however, there were no outside circumstances. This sounds a bit over the top, but I think I can honestly say that something inside craved to see it again. Every time he picks up that picture frame, the string connecting my heart and brain gets plucked, signaling the buckets that had been filling up behind my eyes to spill out their warm liquid. It's an overwhelming feeling that's incredibly intense, making me feel excruciatingly awful and euphoric at the same time. Few other things have ever made me feel this way. Actually, only a couple other fleeting things I can think of. But it's something so rare that I am compelled to share.

I get the same feeling when I think about the ocean. Whenever I get fed up with the life that's directly in front of me and spitting in my face, I've been known to always mention my desire to "go to the ocean and never come back." Escaping completely is not even an option for me (a baby was born 4 years ago and one is on the way - not mine, of course, though I still feel attached to them), but just thinking about it makes me feel powerful.

This brings me to my next topic: being a mariner. I've always loved the water, but ever since the Bryan Waterman (one of the Faculty Fellows in Residence at the Residential College at Broome Street) took us sailing on the historic schooner The Pioneer, I've caught the sea-bug. I desperately want to learn how to sail. Working at the South Street Seaport is something I've already looked into, and I hope to hear from them soon. There's a possibility I could volunteer on a ship and learn to sail with them. The idea of floating out there, away from everyone and everything, is very appealing to me. When I was a kid I loved building forts and sleeping and eating cheese and crackers and milk in enclosed spaces. It made me feel warm and safe and special. (I kind of get the same feeling from reading about certain periods of history and visiting historical sites, perhaps it's linked somehow...).

Recently I've just learned of a program called S.E.A., through Boston University. You spend 6 weeks on the shore in Massachusetts and 6 weeks on a 136ft ship. The students are not only there to study, but they are the crew and the cooks and the scientists. To be away from land for that long is something I'd be very excited about. An act of deprivation and survival and hard work, along with that feeling of starting with nothing is something I've always wanted to experience. I've never had to physically work all that hard ever in my life, and for once I'd like to. As Jack Kerouac said of the Merchant Marine, I want to "work the lard off my belly" and probably gain a new perspective on just about everything.

In the same topic of isolation, I've also deactivated my Facebook. I think of it as a big step into adulthood. I'm not saying I won't regress and that I'll never get back on the wagon, but for the time it just feels good. I've wasted too much time clicking around, being creepy, stalking the same people's pages over and over again that it's unhealthy. I know I'm not the only one who looks for hidden messages in other people's activities and statuses, and it's just an odd way to spend one's days. Being contacted out of boredom is annoying and I'd rather people only contact me who really want to, not because they feel obligated to reply to whatever I may have posted / or if I "wrote on their wall." So sure, I guess it has a lot to do with wanting to remove myself from the norm. But it aso has a lot to do with my personal willpower. I became caught up in stupidities like "OMG What pictures do I have up? What funny link can I post next? I have to make sure everyone knows all of the cool music and movies I like so they know I'm cool." It was pretty pathetic of me and I feel kind of embarassed about it. But, it's okay. Once I learn how to use Facebook without abusing it I will be back. But it might not be for a while. In the meantime, I sure do seem to have an abundance of time to get my reading done!

And I am reading MOBY DICK, for my Conversations of the West requirement. The book is verbal crack. It definitely does not help me in my ever-present desire to figuratively "jump ship" from everything I'm doing right now in Manhatto and scramble onto a real ship as fast a possible. Melville is The Man.

More later. Much more. But the hour is late.