A Quick Post
I need a break for a minute from Hemingway (we've spent so much time together lately, I've begun calling him Ernie, as Ernest just seems way too formal. Likewise, he has started calling me J-Dog, which always sounds awkward coming from an old man who is dead). The paper has just started to pick up, as things are beginning to magically come together. Finally, I've been able to piece a few of the random thoughts I had written down into a cohesive argument, though I fear that I may be taking too long to get to the point of the essay. But then again, for a lengthy (and publication worthy) document such as the one I am currently assembling, a little extra explication seems appropriate.
As I have already noted in a few emails, it seems unlikely that I will be attending the post-semester after party which is scheduled for Thursday evening. As my boy Ernie continues to come between me and sleep, it seems a foregone conclusion that I will lack the desire and energy required to participate in that type of debauchery. I do hope that everyone else attends and has a good time. As for me, I figure that I've probably consumed enough alcohol and attended enough parties in my day--I'm sure it won't hurt me to miss one night. But then again, perhaps I may finish early enough to get some sleep sometime tomorrow. If all else fails, maybe I'll attempt to take a nap during Asswhip 521 by stacking an enormous pile of Hemingway novels between myself and the professor, thereby concealing me so as I won't feel obligated to engage in the conversation as I am so frequently prone to do. But then again, even asleep, it may be likely that I will be able to provide almost as much to classroom discussion as many of those who choose not to read the assigned texts. A-train, I know you've read it this week, so I'm counting on you to lead discussion.
Q: What does a person writing a research paper at the last minute and a person with a hangover have in common?
A: Both swear they'll never put themselves through the misery again.
Q: What's the really bad thing?
A: They always do.
Well, that's probably a long enough break. I should get back to work.
But then again . . . I'm sure I've got time to read a little more of Sabbath's Theater . . . maybe a chapter or two. Hmmm . . .
posted by Jeremy @ 12:45 AM
7 comments
7 Comments:
SLEEEEEEEP is for the WEEEEEAK.
Consider me weakened. Or weekend?
Or howabout delirious? Yes, that seems appropriate.
If only I, too, could revolt against poetry. How much power that must give you--it's intimidating.
Seriously, though, I'm having a hell of a lot more fun writing this than the piece on Bill Shakespeare. Interest level is much higher, criticism much more intriguing.
I think Goose is beginning to teeter on the edge.
I have read, and I'll be ready. I even did my damn annotated bib over Hurston, so I know more than I care to.
Though writing in general is an asswhip, it's kind of interesting how much of a difference it really makes when you actually care about what you're doing and want it to be good, as opposed to just rambling endlessly to fill up the page numbers.
Sabbath's Theater is rather amusing in a way that it quite dark and serious. I dig it, so far.
A: Perhaps D-Rock won't notice if I decide to nap beneath the table during class. But I do have other options. For example, I may have a picture of myself blown up to life-size at Kinko's or something, paste it on a cardboard cutout and seat it in the appropriate chair.
Or I might make a life-sized dummy out of construction paper, chewing gum and paper towels. I will provide a string which you can pull at appropriate times which will manipulate my facial expressions--complete with the eye-roll, the sideways glance out of the corner of my eyes, and the patented "what the fuck is this guy talking about" condescending smirk.
Or if you have time tonight, maybe you can finish my portrait before class and put it in my chair. Or perhaps we can locate an easel to set it on.
E: The problem I'm currently having is that I'm relying strictly on my own ideas. Surprisingly they are considerably better than some of the criticism I've read, much of which I don't particularly agree with. But even though I've put myself in this unenviable position, I'm actually enjoying myself. Hemingway is the shit. I can't wait to die so we can fucking hang out together and drink. He's probably thinking the same thing.
J,
I met Hemingway once in a bar outside of Topeka. He was real drunk with beer nuts in his beard and opened 40's of High Grav Steel Reserve in both hands. I tried to ask him about literature and stuff and tell him how much I like his writing, but he puked on me and started singing Toto's smash hit "Africa" really loud. I was pretty embarrased for him and I had to throw away my favorite ironic thrift store T-shirt.
Trust me. Hemingway is not that cool.
J. are you sure you want to trust me with your cardboard cutout? You'd probably end up with a faux dirty sanchez-style mustache just so I could take pics and put them on the internet.
Hem looks fucking creepy. I totally believe Goose's Topeka encounter and am not surprised at all. People just called him Papa to butter him up so maybe he wouldn't puke on them or shoot them with an elephant gun.
Post a Comment
<< Home