The wheels have begun to fly off . . .

Earlier today, I was the calmest, most relaxed person. I'm under the gun academically, but I haven't been one bit concerned about whether or when all of these assignments were going to be completed. I've done absolutely no research; instead, I've devoted the majority of my free time to watching sporting events, either in person or on television. I haven't really been drinking, just in case I decided to start writing--inebriated prose is generally best left to the likes of published authors.

Today I had a rather pointless meeting with Cyn and E. I think we were only pretending that we were meeting for the presentation--after all, who the fuck meets at a bar and grill to do homework? I watched them eat, and we talked very generally about our presentation for Tuesday. E looked like she hadn't slept in three weeks, which made me feel kinda bad, until I realized that she's doing all of this to herself. Maybe someday she'll learn to organize her time a bit more effectively--perhaps I could serve as a model. But back to the "meeting"--I really tried to sound interested, but I didn't have any paperwork in front of me, and I really have no idea how to setup a syllabus, much less present said syllabus to a class full of my colleagues. So I was pretty fucking worthless. And then I saw that the Mavs pregame was on, and I knew that it was time to call this meeting to a close. So I guess things are up to the other two members of our illustrious group, unless of course someone emails me something to let me know what I need to do to contribute.

So I left there and head home, where I watch the Mavs pull off a rather unlikely victory. During the game, I was flipping through the channels and saw that the Rangers and Indians were playing--the rest of the evening was spent going back and forth. The Rangers won 7-5, so it's been a good sports day. (Not to mention the morning which was spent watching the NFL draft). Tomorrow is NASCAR, but I probably won't watch any other sports besides that.

Anyway, the last game ended about 9:00, and I finally decide to come sit in front of the computer and seriously get started on some lame-ass paper for Shakespeare. I sit down, start shuffling through my papers, and begin the process of deciding exactly what I want to write about. But it's just not going to happen. Why? Because my wife invited one of the neighbors' children to play with my daughter and son in my house at 9:00 at night. Besides all of the unnecessary screaming and running and banging and squealing, it's been relatively quiet--practically an ideal situation to write a research paper. My fucking earplugs (which I often wear when my family is still awake and I'm working) seem to be powerless in overcoming the cacophonous racket eminating from around me. This is really fucking up my game plan. Of all fucking nights, why does this one have to be the day we turn our house into fucking Ronald McDonald land? Son of a bitch.

Now I'm faced with two choices: try to fight through it, or go to bed and start tomorrow. I really don't think doing either is a good idea right now.

Not a Damn Thing

That's how much I did today. With all of the projects that are hanging over my head, I feel very bizarre in that I am not the least bit worried at this point. I feel like I've got a month to work on them, even though the Shakespeare paper is due in 3-4 days. And I haven't looked up one book or article concerning my topic. Maybe I just don't give a flying fuck, or maybe I have way too much faith in my own ability to write on short notice. Either way, I've gotten absolutely nothing accomplished, but like I said . . . I couldn't care less.

So what have I done all of this glorious Friday?

Well, I burned a couple of CDs for people which is a very time-consuming task. I really like doing it, but it can really suck the hours out of the day. I slept until about 9:30 today which was pretty nice. My son pretty much left me alone all day--he was busy playing X-box or watching movies the majority of the morning. And my wife and other friends/family members did not start blowing up my cell phone until later this afternoon. I read about 50 more pages of Absalom, Absalom and I'm about one-third of the way through the book. Faulkner has an interesting way of building suspense, but Jesi H. Christs--learn how to use a fucking period--I swear there was a sentence of multiple pages--instead of a period, he uses a dash or maybe just starts fucking writing a bunch of goddamned gibberish and then out of nowhere comes a list of adjectives which are never separated by commas and other lists of food like cheese, celery and bananas--while the whole time he's trying to figure out a way to throw a unnecessary semicolon somewhere in the passage; unfortunately, he does this regularly (not to mention the massive amounts of parenthetical usage that tends to run on and on and on) so as to confuse everyone into forgetting exactly what the fuck they were reading to begin with--does that make sense?

Tomorrow appears to have more obligations. I have papers to write (no, really--I have to get started sometime); soccer game; meeting with Cyn and E; my buddy wants to watch the Mavs game together; other random shit.

I might get up in the morning and weed my flowerbed, a menial task that is a necessary evil here in the land of the dreaded Homeowners Association--a fascist group that we pay $200/annually so that they can fine us if our weeds are out of control or if we haven't mowed. I don't really understand the logic, but there's absolutely no way to get out of it.

Last but not least, I wanted to share a few lines from one of the many songs that I heard in my prolonged avoidance of academic responsibility. Not only is it very relevant to grad school (especially this time of the year) but it also is pretty relevant to any shitty thing that you've been through that might have molded your character. Because life is truly a bitch.

"No amount of money could buy from me,
the memories that I have of then.
No amount of money could pay me
to go back and live through it again."

----"In the Good Old Days (When Times Were Bad)
Performed by: Merle Haggard
Written by: Dolly Parton

A day of much-needed Ego-stroking

While today certainly could have been significantly better for a few various reasons, all things considered, it was a fairly pleasant day. My Intro to Lit class was cancelled because of a mix-up in room assignments (we had a foreign language conference which infested our building all day; thus, the classes were forced to relocate or cancel), and I spent an hour talking career and departmental politics with my mentor instead of discussing Tennessee Williams' The Glass Menagerie. Afterwards, I met with the Director of the Writing Center over coffee to discuss how the semester has gone so far and what my plans were in the future. She still seems really interested in getting me involved in some form or fashion as some type of administrative presence in the WC. She pitched a couple of ideas at me which I assured her I would consider before making any further decisions. She even re-instated my assistantship in the first summer session (which I have been told off and on that I would/would not get) by going to the college dean and pleading my (or is it her?) case. So instead of sitting around being worthless all Summer I, it appears that I will be gainfully employed. That's good news financially, but I will admit that I was hoping to get a little extra reading done.

Speaking of reading, I have suckered at least one person into tackling James Joyce's Ulysses with me sometime this summer. Even though it is often considered the most important work of the twentieth-century, to academics such as myself, it appears to be nothing more than a feather in the cap, a way of one-upping colleagues by saying "I've read Ulysses." Even the British Lit prof on campus argues that most people haven't read it, and the few that claim to have done so, likely haven't. But I enjoy reading the dead white guys which generally make up the literary canon, so it seems only natural that I should read it at some time. If anyone else wants to join the Eleventh Hour Book Circle, please let me know--I'll forward you the reading list ASAP.

On the ego-stroking front, I also met with my son's daycare teacher and the center director today to evaluate whether or not they felt that he would be ready for kindergarten (he's four and a half). Basically, they gave him a long test to determine his abilities concerning math, vocabulary, speech, logic, comprehension, social skills, emotional stability, etc. It was very long and detailed, much more than I thought it would be, but I did want to share a few things. So pardon me for a little shameless bragging, but here goes:

• Displays enthusiasm about doing things for self: "very independent"
• Allows self to be comforted during stressful times: "We have never seen Tyler to be upset, he has never cried while at school."
  
• Does not withdraw from others excessively: "No, he is an extrovert"
• Initiates activity/play with others: "Tyler will be a leader"
• Shows concern for someone in distress: "Not really. It's not because he is mean, he just doesn't have time to worry about anyone."
• Speaks confidently in classroom: "Tyler, he loves to speak! He may become a politician."
• Speaks clearly enough for adults to understand: "It's like talking to an adult."
• Plays with rhyming words: The teacher told me that rhyming is a very difficult thing for children to be able to do--not only putting words together that rhyme, but understanding why they rhyme--many children don't get this concept until well into kindergarten or later. The teacher said that Tyler went into a long discussion about why "bat" and "cat" rhyme, because they both end with an "a" and a "t". She felt like he was trying to teach her instead of the other way around.
• Writes real alphabet letters (uppercase only): Tyler is the only kid that was able to write both upper- and lower-case letters.

I make mention on occasion that while I love both of my children equally, my son is much different in that he is such a mirror of myself, both when I was a child and even now. While I rarely get emotionally giddy about anything, signs like these that my son is really smart make me feel good. My son is the only one in his school that can read, spends a lot of time learning, and he has a real thirst for knowledge--something which most college students don't even have. The director said that genetics play a big part in things like this, so I feel some personal responsibility for his success, though we do try to foster his advancement as much as possible.

Sorry to go on and on about this, but it's something that is very important and special to me, and I don't get a chance to brag that often.

I should have been researching, but . . .

Instead of that, I took these very bad pictures with my cell phone. While I stopped to pick up my daughter from her after school program, I ran into my neighbor who was there picking up his kids. He asked what I was doing tonight, I told him not much besides watching the Mavs-Grizzlies game. He said he had two tickets, and I'm sure you guys can figure out the rest of the story. The Mavs took over in the second quarter and never looked back. Now it's off to Memphis for two games (let's hope they're the last two games of this series--we need to rest up for the hated Spurs). I should have taken a picture of the fucking Yugoslavian asswhip that screamed the whole fucking game and who has permanently damaged the hearing in my left ear with the dreaded clapper (similar to what you see in the pic). Hopefully, he is lying in a ditch somewhere, face-down, gasping for his last breath. What a fucking dumbass.
On another note, after the game there are always people standing around giving away free shit--practically throwing shit at you, so that they can go home. I think I wound up with a free taco from Taco Bueno (I say taco, you say Bueno . . .), five complimentary passes to the Penthouse "gentleman's club," an issue of a locally published newspaper/journal type thing, and two bottles of VitaminWater--one orange and one fruit punch. Even though they asked that you only take one, my neighbor must have taken at least half a case. I was only planning on taking one myself, but he kept looking at me all disappointed, so I finally grabbed an extra one, just so he wouldn't get mad at me and make me walk back to Rockwall from downtown Dallas. But it was a pretty good time. Though probably not something I should have done. It's just hard to turn down tickets, especially playoff tickets.

I finally got all of my books home that I bought from the Sigma Tau Delta book sale, and I came out way ahead. For a measly nine dollars, I got this interesting collection of literature:

• Oroonoko by Aphra Behn
• Emma by Jane Austen (for the wife)
• Arc of Justice by Kevin Boyle (National Book Award winner)
• Closing Time by Joseph Heller (the sequel to Catch-22)
• Ulysses by James Joyce
• Ulysses by Hugh Kenner (helps explain Joyce's novel)
• Reading Joyce's Ulysses by Daniel Schwarz (ditto)
• Allusions in Ulysses by Weldon Thornton (ditto)
• Stephen Hero by James Joyce (beginnings of A Portrait of the Artist)
• Complete Works of Tacitus (Modern Library edition)
• The Dante Club by Matthew Pearl (Andi recommended it)
  
• Falling into Theory: Conflicting Views on Reading Literature by David Richter (because I'm a grad student in English)

and even a few books by Barbara Park for my daughter:

• Junie B. Jones Has a Monster Under Her Bed
• JBJ is a Graduation Girl
• JBJ and the Yucky Blucky Fruitcake
• Junie B., First Grader: Cheater Pants

The problem is that I no longer have the storage space for these books. Some of them will wind up in a closet, others in a drawer, some stuffed here or there. It's a shame really, but what do you do? I'm starting to feel like the old woman who lived in a shoe.

Do I have time for this shit today?

No. I do not.

When blogging is a chore

I feel a bit weird when I'm out of town and I don't get the chance to blog or even check email because I am usually somewhere where things modern ideas such as "internet" and "technology" are generally frowned upon. So I come back noticing one or two things:
A) No one has been blogging and I've missed nothing; or
B) Everyone has made some insightful point which is too late for me to comment on

I'm not sure where this weekend fell.

So I go eat lunch with E today (I had two beers, she had two [insert whiskey here] and cokes--perhaps lunch is the wrong word), and I bring in a pack of smokes that had found their way into my pocket sometime over the preceding weekend. They belonged to her, so I graciously returned them after I smoked about six or seven. She offered to let me have them, but I really smoked way too much this past weekend (so much in fact that my tips of my thumb and my middle finger on my right hand had a strange orange, nicotine-stained look---gross.). I told her I didn't want them, and I planned on stopping somewhere on the way home to pick up a carton. Which I naturally forgot about until after I have picked up both children and settled in at home. So I'm scavenging the fucking house, looking for any cigarette, checking all of my hiding spots; unfortunately, I am only able to find two empty cigarette boxes. And there's nothing worse than wanting a cigarette and not having it. I will simply say that it has made me a little edgy this afternoon.

This evening, I think I'm going to burn some random country music CDs for E and T. E's problem is that she's never been assimilated into the redneck Texas culture, and T would probably just enjoy some good music that he may not have heard recently. Old country lacks the angst of modern life, but it sure is good to be really fucking beaten down and depressed to. And since alcohol is a depressant, "country music" and it's depressing nature acts as a stimulus for the drinking experience, furthering the drunkeness and the overriding feeling of suicide which pervades the youth of today. I'm thinking some Merle Haggard, but after that I'm up for suggestion--the only rule is that it must not have been recorded within the last 10 years.

Also, it's time for another Shakespeare journal over Antony and Cleopatra, which I haven't read. Nor did I pick up the secondary reading today. Fuck. The reading for my other class is not going to be finished either. This is not a good way to start a week, but it beats shampooing the fucking carpet.

A good/bad kind of day

Today has been mediocre at best. I've had the bad mixed in fairly equally with the good--there's been enough intertwining between the two that I seem to have at least broken even. Not exactly the kind of day that one will probably remember years down the road, unless something horrific happens later today. Let's hope that doesn't happen though.
I intended another postmodern entry, but I find that I don't quite have the energy or mental faculties to pull that off right now. I'll be leaving shortly to go suffer through a dull soccer practice (I used to participate a lot more, but lately I don't really seem to give a shit). Upon my return home, I will resume my reading of the third book in John Dos Passos' USA trilogy The Big Money. It's a book probably worth reading, or at least that's what I'm telling myself anyway. After turning in my annbib late last week, I feel somewhat obligated to read the book in order to help facilitate discussion. I've learned that many of my fellow classmates generally don't read as they should; unfortunately, I don't believe this book is available on Sparknotes. Sorry, guys. So that'll basically leave everyone staring around awkwardly at one another until the prof gets pissed and starts hurling sharp objects in our direction. So hopefully I can make it through the last 350 pages, but I can't make any promises.

On a side note, Spidey missed class on Tuesday. I can only assume he was busy getting his webslinger adjusted. Or perhaps Gotham was in trouble. Either way, I hope he makes it back to class on Thursday. I just feel a lot safer in there knowing that I've got a bonafide crime-fighter in the area. God bless you, Peter Parker!!

I've also officially labeled myself a genius. Based on recent goings-on within our department concerning our "search" for a department head, it appears that my theory of a mass conspiracy is showing to be more and more likely. For those unaware of my theory, here goes:

Our dept. has needed a new head for a while now. The person filling in as interim head is leaving at the end of the semester. A new interim will take over in the fall, unless a good candidate can be located. During the previous fall, the department tried to give the position to a member of the litlang faculty, but his appointment was denied by the dean. My theory is that in response to the move by the dean, the faculty is bringing in rather poor candidates (they only interviewed one in person) to provide a mock sense of searching. Needless to say, the candidate who visited was unanimously denied by the faculty. That means that the person they originally tried to push through will likely become the interim head. And in six months to a year, they will try to push him back through again--only this time, he'll have the leverage of being able to say that he's been running the dept. for a year. Therefore, the whole "search" process has been little more than a carefully orchestrated charade. English people are not only pretty smart, but we are also pretty fucking conniving as well.

Time for soccer . . .

A funny thought while reading Macbeth

Reminded me of a student I know:

What are these
So wither'd and so wild in their attire,
That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth,
And yet are on't? Live you? or are you aught
That man may question? You seem to understand me,
By each at once her choppy finger laying
Upon her skinny lips. You should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so. (Macbeth I. iii. 39-47)

How about another road trip w/her, A-train? That'll put a damper on your Kerouac fantasies, eh?

Five days later, another post . . .

I may give this thing up soon. Blogging may have already served its purpose for me. I let out a lot of useless and bitter ranting so that everyone (friends, family, and various strangers included) likely thinks I'm psychotic, disgruntled, and violent.

But I assure all of you that I am perhaps the least violent person you will ever meet. I just wanted to clear that up. Now that that's settled, let's move on to more pressing business.

Such as the upcoming weeks and how they will affect me--expect a tremendous amount of needless frustration brought on by my need to procrastinate. I told myself earlier today that I should really get a jump on things--be proactive--all that stuff.
*****Pause: I'm trying to tone it down. I'm attempting to not use dirty words or any type of vulgarity. It seems that recent posts have offended various people within my circle of the world, so I am making a conscientious effort to not be angry or negative. I'm finding that to be a difficult process, to say the least. But I will proceed to don the mask of extreme happiness. Here goes . . . *******

I've noticed something weird about my writing. I really like my conversational style, the humor, etc. but I've noticed that I've turned into Emily Dickinson (or maybe just studying her earlier this semester showed me the similarities). I do write about death rather frequently, and for some reason, I've developed an affinity for the dash--as well as for the ellipsis . . . it seems more appropriate for conversation than a bunch of periods and semi-colons. Besides, semi-colons are only wanna-be colons; periods, well, they're just a fucking necessary inconvenience regardless of the denotation.
*****Pause: Okay, I used the f-word. I find that not cursing, unless I'm speaking with people whom I have a certain professional respect for, is a useless thing to do. Especially since there is so much emotion and feeling in that four-letter word. It's like looking at the value of a word like "love", a word which makes everyone all warm and fuzzy. Well, take that word, turn it on its head, slap it in the mouth, punch it in the gut, then jam your arm up its ass until you can't see your elbow--then you get a sense of the f-word. It's truly powerful and filled with a ton of negative energy, something that I tend to thrive on. I probably say it like 40 times a day, unless I'm listening to 2Pac. Then you can probably multiply that times about six. *********

This is my first attempt at postmodern blogging. It's not good at all. If I blog tomorrow, expect a bit more fire. This was an utterly useless and soulless post. I am ashamed.

I was pondering my marital situation the other day and realized how lucky I am to have somebody around that puts up with me like my wife does. Despite all of the nonsense and bitterness that accompanies my public persona, I'm really pretty happily married. Maybe I just like to bitch about stuff just because I know it gets a response (generally shock and confusion) out of people. And I guess I am somewhat of an actor--I do have the ability to pretend and fool people occasionally. So maybe that makes me a fake or a fraud, or maybe that just makes everyone else a fool for believing everything that I say.

Maybe I should turn down the volume . . . just a bit, anyway

How's this for a nice relaxing picture of the motherland? Very calming, at least for me.
Plus, I need to just chill for a while and try to catch my breath, something that's been increasingly more difficult lately, what with life whizzing by at warp speed.
I think I probably scared a few people after the last post. Maybe it was a bit too much, but I wasn't exactly having the best day of my life (nor was I having the worst). I just needed to release some pent-up agression. So everyone can return to reading this blog peacefully. It is now safe to remove the body armor.

Today has been an interesting (peculiar might be a better word)--but good day. Mainly due to a lot of shit it wouldn't be terribly wise to blog about. But I could say it's been full of unexpected surprises, and sometimes that's a good thing. So with that tease firmly in place, I'll move on to another topic.

As opposed to writing a bunch of nonsense like this that no one would fucking understand, I will instead bitch and moan about the daunting amount of homework to do before class tomorrow evening. A 20 entry annotated bibliography which I have not yet begun. I also will be going over Ibsen's A Doll's House (sometimes it's A Doll House, among other names), Act II and showing part of the film (Jane Fonda) in the undergrad lit class.
On a somewhat related note, I spoke with the interim department head today about whether or not it would be in my best interests career-wise to teach composition courses next semester or continue as Assistant Director in the Writing Center. He told me it would make everyone's life a lot easier if I would agree to stay in the WC. With that in mind, I told him that I would rather teach. So, he's supposedly going to try to get me some real classes to teach by myself in the fall.

As usual on nights such as this, I am expecting to pull an all-nighter. I just pray that I may be blessed with some Goose-like abilities tonight which will allow me to complete my assignment just in the nick of time. For now, though, I think I'll go take a nap. Will probably be off an on this damn blog all night. Wish me luck. And for those who have likewise decided to ford this roaring river with me (particularly those in asswhip 521), I would advise you to hang on tight. It's going to get a lot worse before it gets better.

A long fucking rant

Today has been a fucking beating.

I fucking hate life today.

It seems as though TGLJC has it out for me today. Why? Probably due to the terrific amount of blasphemy and other such nonsense which regularly spews from my mouth. My wife asked me today if I planned on going to church with them for Easter Sunday. I thought I wouldn't--I hate to be one of the many hypocrites who crawl into the service on that particular Sunday to pretend like I give a shit. If it mattered that much, I would probably be there every Sunday (twice) and Wednesday nights. I would probably sing in the church choir and everything, as most of you have already witnessed my relative comfort with singing, dancing and making a complete ass out of myself in front of groups of varying sizes, you shouldn't find this too difficult to believe. But for some reason, perhaps it was my troubled youth, perhaps my troubled early adult years, perhaps it is my troubled life now--I don't know--but I just have a hard time crediting someone else for all the bad shit that I've done. No offense, Satan. I'm sure you do your part.

Or maybe it's because life is not a box of fucking chocolates. So who the fuck do you thank for that? Who do you thank for my sorry-ass dad lying to me for years about the affair he had with my mom's best friend? Who do you thank for getting the boot from the house by that same man while I was only a year and a half from graduating high school? Who do you thank for getting a girl I was barely dating pregnant so that I felt responsible enough to marry her, even though it was pretty clear that I didn't really want to? Who do you thank for losing a fucking job (about 55k)--getting fired--because some prick of a corporate VP found my DWI paperwork while rifling through my desk at work (Why would I leave it there, you ask? Because I was working 70 fucking hours a week--which basically meant I had no time to arrange all of the assfuckingload of bullshit at home, because I was never at home)? Who do you thank for losing my last job because I was diagnosed with cancer? TGLJC? Okay, then. Thanks a fucking lot. And this shit is probably the tip of the fucking iceberg. Thanks. So. Fucking. Much.

Hallelujah.

As you can tell, my mood is beyond sour or bitter. Maybe surly would be the best word. I mean can't a motherfucker catch a break? I fucking bust my ass at everything I've ever done--worked as hard or harder than anyone. And the fucking thanks I get? Bullshit on top of more fucking bullshit. Glory to God? Are you fucking kidding me?

It's funny because my mom is such a fundamentalist. I've got a couple of buddies that are very religious. A few years ago, I was at my buddy's house, we were drinking beer and burning a bonfire--cause that's what you do when you're drinking beer in the fucking boonies. So his neighbor/friend comes down, a guy that I knew or knew of, as his brother was my age. So it turns out the guy is a preacher and my buddy is going to his church. So naturally, we start talking about religion and TGLJC, God and all that other stuff. So I tell the guy--and I'm being very fucking honest here--"you know, I've always wanted to be a religious person, but I've never been able to." So like all good Christians, this group of people (I think they all went to the same church) gathered around, asked me to close my eyes and repeat some random prayer after the preacherman. So I did--something about confessing sins and giving my life to the lord and all that. As always, I really fucking tried to believe it was more than fucking smoke and mirrors. I prayed as hard as I could. I was being so completely honest, I just wanted my fucking life to straighten out, to improve, I wanted that sense of peace that many people claim to possess.

But about halfway through my monologue or dialogue with the Supreme Being, I started looking at my shoes and looking around at everyone else. I said it all--all the right words, all the things I was supposed to say. I meant every fucking word. But about halfway through, I stopped being able to imagine that this was doing much of anything besides killing my buzz. "You've gotta have faith"--a common phrase for both religious folk and George Michael fans. But faith is a load of shit. Faith is believing that good things happen to good people, and that everything is going to be okay because we're all in God's hands.

But I know that lots of bad things happen to good people. And maybe that's what makes them worse, or what makes them not believe.

I believe in myself. I believe in my family and friends. I believe in my own abilities. I believe my destiny is in my own fucking hands, and I like it better that way. If I fuck up, that's my bad. And I can take responsibility for it. If I fuck up someone else's life, that's also my bad. And I take responsibility for that as well.
I live by my own fucking moral code, and though that might not particularly jive with what others may think or believe, but at least I don't blame my shitty fucking life on someone else. I am responsible for every decision that I make--not TGLJC, not the devil--and if that makes me a cynical old fuck, then so be it. At least I'm real.

A busy weekend ahead

I've got so much to do this weekend that I probably won't even drink a beer until sometime next week. Because of grad school (and in particular asswhip 521), I am going to be swamped from now until Thursday. This is what's on my shitty to-do list:

• Read all 599 pages of Call It Sleep by Henry Roth. I've read about 10 pages thus far, and I'm already looking around on Sparknotes. The prof said it was very Joycean--similar to A Portrait of the Artist . . . to me, that means it will suck.
• Write an annotated bibliography that is really not coming together very well. The more I have to think about Edith Wharton, the lower my opinion of her becomes. Yesterday she was a no-talent bitch. Today she's a filthy cunt. I should probably hurry up and finish this or else I'll become obsessed with the idea of digging up her rotted corpse and defecating on and around her remains.
• Re-read King Lear? I think that's what up this week, but I should probably check the syllabus. If I were to bet, this is not going to happen. And the journal entry can wait til Monday night.
• Submit to a conference. I'm currently looking at this one. Sounds like a good time, especially if you like a little dancing in the dark.

Missed opportunity

Familial obligations have once again hampered my productivity today.

First of all, I didn't get nearly as much accomplished this afternoon as I had planned, on my annotated bib or anything else. While I did get some research done, unfortunately it was not on Edith Wharton--the most useless person ever to put pen to paper. But I even had trouble on the other research project I've been working on for the last month or so, but lawnmowers and shit kept creating a good deal of racket and continuously broke my concentration. But just as I began to get comfortable with what I was doing, it was time to stop being productive and meet my wife for the Thursday "who wants to take my son so I can get to class" rendezvous. Needless to say, I was extremely disappointed that I wasn't able to do a little more. But what do you do?

So after class, I go to my son's daycare (he had an open house tonight) to meet my family, and they're all sitting in the parking lot in the car, ready to go home. Apparently, I had already missed all of the festivities. So I drove to my brother's house and showed him how to texture walls and didn't get back home until about 1:00 or 1:30 this morning. Naturally, I start checking blogs and see that a great deal of humor has transpired without my knowledge. From E's ridiculous characterizations about the drunk motherfuckers to T's excellent comment about the modern day wisemen, I found myself laughing rather enthusiastically [the main problem with this scenario is that we have no baby Jesi to visit, unless of course we hope to find him submerged in a beer bottle a la Jesus Fetus (see Andi's blog)]. Ironically, the She-Man Pat-type character is probably completely sexless--the same thing could probably be said of Spidey. The senile lady should probably wander into traffic in the near future, just to save everyone a headache. She deserves it for keeping us late. Plus, when you've been drinking all day, and you've sat in class for two and a half hours, some people need to piss. So she's fucking with my bladder, and that's definitely uncool.

I think one person we have neglected to discuss is the lady that looks like the black guy on The Green Mile who always comes to class about an hour late and then leaves after break. I often look over at her and smile at myself, because I feel fortunate that I don't have to get up in the morning and see that shit in the mirror everyday. I'm just wondering why she gets the free pass.

Several other quick notes:

• I may be the most eclectic listener of music ever. On my way home from my brother's, I was listening to a mix CD I made with the following artists on it: Rage Against the Machine, 2Pac, Chemical Brothers, Dirty Vegas, Bob Marley, Sublime, and the BeeGees. Why? I don't know.
• Earlier today, I was thinking of the ways people speak in code. Not really the code-switching that Bethany talks about; more like metonymy in a rhetorical sense--when one word is used as a substitute for another closely related word. It seems like it would be easier to just say it than just beat around the bush. But we see people do it all the time, or maybe we even see ourselves do it. The point: I guess I was just thinking of the old adage of "some things are better left unsaid" and trying to twist it around in my mind to see when it's appropriate and when it isn't. Some things probably are better left unsaid, such as anything anti-Spidey. I believe we must have all forgotten the "Spidey Sense" and are all likely in great danger due to our carelessness.
• On another Spidey note, I seriously considered wearing a Spidey bandana in Karate Kid style to class next week, just to gauge reaction. Perhaps we could duel.
• My first glimpse on Silent Vengeance of the Spidey/Batgirl pic had me thinking that was E and her old man. It took me a minute to affirm that it wasn't.
• T, concerning the comment on E's blog: Yes, I am still a ruthless bastard. I'll stop acting like a bitch now and resume my heartless and insensitive attitude toward everyone. As a matter of fact, I've recently learned that I creep people out when I do not act like that. Especially if I'm being quiet, in which case I think everyone assumes I'm trying to plan my suicide. But for the record, that's not true. I'm actually probably thinking about how I can kill everyone around me without getting blood on my clothes.
  
• E, on words: Though your post is somewhat vague, I thought I'd try to fill in the blank. maybe empty? drained? queasy? Or is it like taking a deep breath and not wanting to exhale, though you know that eventually you must? Grad school, life--these things are fleeting. And as a good friend of mine often tells me, everything must come to an end. You can't live forever. It's simply not practical. In a sense then, I could probably argue that happiness isn't practical either. But who wants to consider that the rest of their miserable fucking lives? Not me.
  
• For those not in the know, T defended his penis this past week. He did a good job, though there were a variety of pokes and jabs from onlookers, mainly professors.
  

I haven't felt particularly funny or clever this week, but there might be a little in this one, if you understand all of the inside jokes. For those who don't, please comment and I will attempt to explain. Many of them are probably explained in earlier posts.

Donnie Darko

After much hype from my colleagues and friends, I finally watched Donnie Darko. I can say that I liked the literary twist of including Graham Greene's short story, but . . .

I was significantly underwhelmed. Sorry, A-train, but the movie wasn't really twisted or scary or anything. Plus, it included Drew Barrymore--perhaps the worst actress in Hollywood. Regardless of the seriousness of her lines (pick a movie, any movie), she always looks like she's about to fucking laugh. Not a good actress. Not at all, my friends.

I didn't hate it. But I would argue that its greatness was significantly over-rated. I'm thinking it must have been the scene of him sticking his hand in his pants that made this flick so pleasing to some viewers--but not me.

By the way, I pulled down yesterday's post. It was just a little too mean. I guess I shouldn't write these blog posts while I'm bored in class. As much as I like to poke fun at others, I rarely try to be genuinely mean. My apologies.

****
On second thought, seeing as how other blogs (Silent Vengeance) are using mine as a reference point, I'll leave it up briefly. You guys are cruel.

Spiderman Returns

Last night was fairly productive for two reasons: No one showed up half (or completely) drunk and reeking of alcohol for class last night; I finally finished the Sedaris book.

What's really funny, though, is that Spiderman made his triumphant return to class the other day. Sure, the guy's been there, but not in full garb. E and I discussed what types of headwear might be appropriate for such a fashionable piece of clothing. Later, E perhaps said the meanest thing that I've ever heard exit her mouth. As the professor was late in arriving, most of the students were holding their own conversations--though obviously not about Othello. We began talking about clothing and we got on the subject of ties, and how many of us were fans of the tie. Not that they're all that comfortable or anything like that, but I like to buy ties and wear ties, and it's not so bad once you get used to them.

Keep in mind that Spiderman is sitting about eight feet away from us the whole time.

So one student mentions a TA in our department that has a tendency toward wearing weird ties--ties with cartoon characters, etc. It was at this point that I address the group with "I won't wear novelty ties. They're fucking stupid-looking. I hate them." To which E responds (a little more loudly than she will admit) : "What about novelty T-shirts?" I don't know if anybody heard, but I was about ready to fall out of my chair. I didn't have the heart to see if the poor bastard had a reaction to it, and mean as it was, it was probably the funniest shit I heard all day.

Along with the awesomely fantastic shirt, I also noted that he wears a digital watch, the kind that probably sells for $3.99 at Wal-Mart. Along with the shirt I'm sure the watch was probably the rest of his gift from his mom on his last (and probably about his 25th) birthday.

He is a fucking dill.

Add to that the fact that he wears a hat (with a bill in serious need of some curl) with a sewed-on American flag on the front, much like those you can find in any retirement community anywhere in these United States. Style and fashion is obviously not his strong point, though I must admit that he makes up for it through his constant academic and critical dishonesty (see previous definition of dill). Sometime during the evening, I looked at his shoes and was disappointed to notice that he wasn't wearing ones with velcro straps. I don't think I've ever seen him open his mouth in any class to converse on a personal level with anyone--he always reserves his speech for the sole purpose of espouse someone else's critical ideas and theories--all the while grinning like a fox. A bitch fox. At some point, he interrupted T, and T countered with his own interruption. It was at this point that Peter Parker became so enraged that his eyes began to glow a bright red. I was afraid that he was about to start shooting webs all over the place.

I'm not going to like teaching

Last Thursday, the professor that I'm team-teaching the literature class with this semester handed me a small stack of "essays" from students--only about five actually. I've been looking at them on and off over the last several days. Surprisingly, they are all from our better students, the ones who actually read and participate in class discussion. He kept the rest of them. But I've learned something from this meager assignment: I hate grading papers, especially when I actually have to evaluate their points within their arguments. That requires thought--an activity which I generally only utilize while I'm blogging or searching for internet porn.
So I'm staring at this small stack (and it is very small), and I keep shuffling them to the bottom of the "To do" pile. The assignment is an asswhip to begin with--it's supposed to be a critical (or critical for an undergrad non-English major) analysis of the lyrics of the student's favorite song. It should attempt to answer questions of speaker, audience, imagery, theme, and other such generic things. My professor told me in essence what he wanted, but I was the one that actually laid out the assignment. And now I have so much regret. I wish I would have made them do a true/false or multiple choice type assignment--they're so much easier to grade.
First of all, most of these songs suck. Besides Evanessence, I don't recognize any of them. There's some Meatloaf, Joni Mitchell, Gary Allan, and James Blunt (who my wife tells is quite popular now). On top of that, I feel weird giving them all good grades despite the fact that they are fairly well-written. I guess I'm just used to having something to compare to--I like seeing the good and the bad in order to fully appreciate what I'm grading. But I only have the good. Though that's certainly up for debate. They're probably okay at best, nothing terribly insightful, but then again, this is a sophomore level course, so our expectations must be relative to the student.

I just can't bring myself to look at them again. They make me want to vomit.

Something else happened today that really had me laughing, though. As most of you are probably aware, I applied for numerous scholarships over the last several weeks, and I actually got two. One of them required letters of recommendation and a written statement of how my grad school work will influence my career, blah, blah, blah . . . all of that usual bullshit. The other one I got was NOT applied for. It seemed to be a gift from the gods of academia, and I honestly feel a little awkward accepting it. But it is money, so what do you do? So this second scholarship is for my service in a particular organization--an organization for which I don't recall doing much of anything with, unless of course my simple registration as a member was so momentous that there was no other candidate that could top it. That's the only thing I can assume. Like I said, I feel really weird about it. Needless to say, I laughed a lot about it and showed my friends who also laughed in amazement. But unless something happens, I anticipate accepting both awards at the Honors banquet in a couple of weeks. TGLJC knows I need the money.

In response to another blog, I would also like to identify some key terms in my life, though they are unlikely to be found (as defined below) in any proper dictionary:

• lurch: v. to hang about unnecessarily in order to get what you want, generally in an annoying manner; can be used in various forms as a noun, adjective, or verb; ex: Why are there always people lurching on us?
• asswhip: n. anything exceptionally tiresome; a bother; ex: Listening to people in a nearby booth talk about their relationship while you are eating lunch can be a real asswhip.
• beating: n. the feeling of defeat one feels when under constant strain or stress; ex: Trying to grade poorly-written essays can be a real beating.
• "two tears": n. condensed form of the saying "Two tears in a bucket . . . fuck it."; usually used when coming to terms with something negative or disappointing in life; expresses a sense of moving on regardless of the past
  
• shitbird: n. a derogatory reference made to poor or annoying drivers; ex: Why won't this fucking shitbird with the Arkansas plates get the fuck out of my way?
• fucknut: n. a derogatory reference made to a person (generally male) who is somehow causing distress or aggravation; when driving, it can be used synonomously with shitbird; ex: Look at this stupid fucking fucknut with the Arkansas plates!! Move, you bitch!!
• TGLJC: acronym for The Good Lord Jesus Christ; biblical character who makes us feel better about all of the sinning that we do; ex: Do you think TGLJC will forgive me for this constant stream of blasphemy?
• dill: n. a person that is stupid and useless; a tool; ex: That guy that always reads literary criticism before class and attempts to pass it off as his own is a fucking dill.

That's probably enough of an education for this evening. Make sure you guys are all prepared for the exam on Friday!!

A Sour Mood

Sour is a funny word. Whenever my mom's family has a gathering, I have an aunt that always asks if you want sweet tea or sour tea. She's really kind of peculiar acting, but in a very fun and friendly kind of way. And she says "sire", just like the rest of us backwoods people do. Anyway, every time I hear that word, that's what I think of.

But sour is probably a good definition of today. I'm probably actually a little bitter that something more dramatic didn't happen today (not too dramatic, mind you--just something to piss me off a little), just because I feel like I'm precariously balanced between a shitty day and an okay day. And while a shitty day sucks worse, it does give me a lot more to write about. When I feel like this, I feel like I'm in neutral emotionally, standing still, watching life pass me by. It angers me that I have nothing to be angry about, yet at the same time, I haven't really been able to develop any sense of happiness or fulfillment. Maybe that's expecting a lot from a day, but this has just been one of those blah days--we lose a fucking hour of our lives and it puts my fucking world out of sorts.

I went to my buddy's house today to watch the race. I didn't want a beer, but he finally talked me into it about four o'clock or so. He was inviting his neighbors over in celebration of the neighbor's birthday, and they all peer-pressured me into staying for dinner and cake. Sam is turning 59 on Monday, and he wanted me to hang around and drink. Whenever I got my undergrad degree, they threw me a little party, and Sam (he's the fucking devil) made me take about 8 straight shots of Drambuie (which he kept calling Jim Bowie). If you've never had a shot of Drambuie, then consider yourself blessed. Not good, not good at all. Needless to say, I followed that beer with several others before I managed to leave.

So we're hanging out, and Sam is flying a kite with his granddaughter, and all of their wives are in another neighbor's yard working in a flowerbed and talking. My buddy and I are sitting on the tailgate of my buddy's truck, and he starts asking me when I needed to be home, etc. I told him soon, and whether it was the tone or a facial expression--I don't know--but he inquired as to how things were going, stating that I didn't act like I wanted to go home. He said I seemed a bit out of it today, quieter than usual, reflective (my word, not his--it seemed much clearer than "like you've been thinking about shit"). School work, I reply. It's getting to be that time of the semester. Which it is, in all truthfulness. Or maybe it's just depressing to sit drinking a beer, knowing that leaving my buddy's house means I'm that much closer to colliding with the reality that is my meaningless existence. And this is not a anti-marriage post. That's not what I'm thinking now or what I was thinking then. It's just that I wish I could spend more time doing things I liked, but only when I like to do them. I don't want to read scholarly fucking journals about Shakespeare or anything else. Not today. Not this week. I left feeling a bit bummed out. He asked me if I wanted to go to his lake house and fish. I think I might. Or maybe that would just give me more time to reflect, which is probably not what I should be doing.

Today has been a really sad day, but for no good reason. Not sad in a fucking boo-hoo kind of way--just very somber. Very much a let-down. Very much a downer. Or maybe it's because I finished Tender is the Night today, and it is a fucking downer. Maybe I'll do a short review, but then again, I find it difficult to read reviews, much less write them. In a nutshell, the book is about a guy that is fun and cool and suddenly he falls in love with a younger girl (Rosemary). His wife (Nicole) is a former mental patient. The ending is very tragic in that he winds up a drunken failure who has lost all of his former coolness. Everyone pities him, and he's left alone and unloved. What a fucking bummer.

So I picked up Sedaris again, hoping to find something worthy enough to drag me out of this fucking funk. This sucks.

****
To make matters worse, as I was heading off to bed, I just remembered the letter of recommendation I was writing for an instructor which needs to be submitted Tuesday. Which I need to turn in tomorrow. So I'll try to finish that before I can finally end this complete asswhip of a day.

Things I realized this weekend . . .

Due to the recent arrival of various religious propaganda on my door/front porch, I felt it necessary to restate some of my ideas concerning people knocking on my door. There may be nothing in life as disturbing as the random knocker, generally because it forces you to put your life on hold to deal with some jackass that you would much rather avoid. Just so everyone knows, these are my rules for someone knocking on my door:

1. I have invited you over to my house. Though this is a somewhat rare occurrence, it does happen from time to time, particularly when mass quantities of alcohol consumption will shortly ensue.
2. We are really good friends. Only a really good friend can show up unannounced, though we would always prefer a quick call, just so that we can drag all of the dead bodies we have stored in the living room into a less conspicuous place.
3. You are holding a fucking pizza.

If none of these rules apply to you, then you should fuck off immediately.

My brother-in-law lived with us for a year or so, and I remember countless times that he would start laughing as he listened to me talk to the random magazine seller (always high-school age kids that talk too fucking much), the over-comfortable and friendly service/salesman (Well, buddy, this is what we could do for you . . . [cringe]), or the under-priveleged black child who is trying to get money to go to church camp (or that's always the story, anyway--never mind the fact that their mother is jittering nervously behind them as if she is thinking about her last and next fix).
Whenever I feel aggravated enough to open the door, the conversation generally follows like this:
"Hello, sir. My name is Jessica and I'm with ____. I'm trying to raise money for ____. --And so they start their lengthy spiel as I'm standing there in the doorway, one hand firmly on the inside knob.
"So what are you selling?" I interject as they start showing me pictures of the starving children they're trying to save. Like I give a shit.
"Well, sir, let me show you what else we're hoping to do with this money . . ."
At this point, I usually grin at them and ask them again what the fuck they are selling. Despite the fact that they have been specifically instructed to say their whole routine before talking about money, the vision of my door closing in the too-near future generally puts their weak-ass presentation in fast-forward.
"Well, sir, we know that everyone reads magazines . . ." they respond, a little downhearted at this point.
"Actually, I don't," I say. "They're useless clutter. I would never buy a magazine ever again. Why would I want a magazine? They're fucking antiquated and the news they deliver is usually a week old."
"Well, sir, but at this price, you could get five different magazines for the price of one . . ."
"Would these be delivered daily?" I ask.
"No, sir, they're weekly or monthly."
Now is the time I give them a very firm NO and proceed to shut the door. Most of them leave, though some of them continue to beg. That's when I start acting like a real jackass. As I'm standing there, and they're telling me how much I could help them, or how much they could help me . . . I reply by telling them that I'm actually dying or that my mother is suffering from dementia and she's in the next room. My wife, of course, is in prison and my children have a horrible case of head lice. Or whatever it takes.
Leave me the fuck alone. Go away.

Not a good morning (Update)

Since I've gotten out of bed, things have not been going well. First of all, I was roused from my sleep by fucking door-to-door salesmen or some fucking charity, ringing my doorbell like it's some kind of fucking musical instrument that they're determined to master before they leave. Fuck!!
I've also had some serious laundry issues-- I may reserve this story for my initial collection of miserable fucking anecdotes. Needless to say, laundry is the bane of my existence, especially today.

Once again, I have found myself paddle-less in the creek of shit. I wonder how many stories I would need to fall from in order to ensure death? I've jumped from the top of my house like six times already this morning, but all I've wound up with is a twisted ankle and grass stains. I knew I should have bought a bigger house.

*********Update*************

Okay, maybe things aren't as bad as they seemed. I've had two showers and something to eat since my last post, so I'm feeling a hell of a lot better. Not very energetic, mind you--just better. I did not have to help my brother today (he called and cancelled about noon) and it's been a relatively quiet day. Laundry is finally fucking done. I've been trying to read Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night, but it's a struggle right now. I'm somewhat disappointed that I can't think up anything witty to say, but my mind is a bit mushy right now. So this is a very boring update. Except for this part, anyway.

Remember when I said I had door-to-door salesmen bugging me this morning? I was wrong, as evidenced by the propaganda left on on my front porch.



















Who is Jesus Christ? I really don't know. But I can tell you this--He's got a damn fine perm. This must have been while he was singing with the Oak Ridge Boys. Any other suggestions? This Jesus really looks familiar, doesn't he?