Thothmuffin
Don't get any crumbs on the scale of judgement.
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Pedro for President!
I sat down and wrote an 8 page chapter today in 2.5 hours. It felt really good. In that "I've been possessed and now something has been exorcised, plus I took off these 10-lb ankle weights and do you like my new haircut?" kind of way. For the first time in my process of writing my new book, I liked the characters, I liked the dialogue, I liked the action, and everything just came out smoothly and rapidly. It had been way too long since I'd written like that.
High on that feeling, I went to see the movie "Napoleon Dynamite," which is, for those of you who don't know, this sleeper cult movie about an incredibly geeky kid in high school in the incredibly geeky state of Idaho. And this isn't even like geeky in the skilled way, or dorky in the I <3 dorks way; Napoleon is just awkward in that shirt-tucked-into-tapered-jeans, bad curly hair, huge aviator glasses, foam calf-boots, "I'd fit in at Swarthmore but I'm probably not smart or rich enough" kind of way. [<3 Swatties.] He's basically what me and most of my friends were like in junior high school.
Actually, if you want to know what I was like in junior high, you just have to watch this movie for Pedro, the Mexican boy who is an outcast by default because he's quiet and gets sick a lot and kinda likes the people no one else will give the time of day to. He's Napoleon's best friend. I was Pedro. ^_^
Anyway, this movie gives incredible good feelings to anyone who was a little bit of a nerd, dork, geek, or outcast in their youth. Napoleon and company are really quite loveable. I empathized deeply and laughed a lot.
What astounded me was all the bleached-blond, hispter-wearing, preppypunk popular highschool kids who were there. This movie has been out forever and a lot of these people were obviously repeat viewers. Maybe I'm being overly prejudiced by appearances, but a lot of these kids seemed like the kind of kids who would be patronizing and ostracizing me were I still in high school, and I got the ugly impression that many of them liked the movie so much because they were laughing *at* Napoleon. A lot of them, talking to their friends later, said they liked the movie because it was so "stupid and bad and unbelievably weird."
I thought it was silly but had a core of insight about being a pubescent outsider. I knew the people who dressed a decade out of fashion, who drew pegasi in their notebooks, who smelled funny and were from foreign countries, who couldn't regulate their bodily functions, who tried too hard but somehow still didn't care what people thought about them. I was those people. Napoleon is my people. And chances are, even if you've reinvented or just grown into yourself, if you're my friend, deep down inside, you're those people too. So go see "Napoleon Dynamite" if you can, look out for Pedro, and stay after the credits.
High on that feeling, I went to see the movie "Napoleon Dynamite," which is, for those of you who don't know, this sleeper cult movie about an incredibly geeky kid in high school in the incredibly geeky state of Idaho. And this isn't even like geeky in the skilled way, or dorky in the I <3 dorks way; Napoleon is just awkward in that shirt-tucked-into-tapered-jeans, bad curly hair, huge aviator glasses, foam calf-boots, "I'd fit in at Swarthmore but I'm probably not smart or rich enough" kind of way. [<3 Swatties.] He's basically what me and most of my friends were like in junior high school.
Actually, if you want to know what I was like in junior high, you just have to watch this movie for Pedro, the Mexican boy who is an outcast by default because he's quiet and gets sick a lot and kinda likes the people no one else will give the time of day to. He's Napoleon's best friend. I was Pedro. ^_^
Anyway, this movie gives incredible good feelings to anyone who was a little bit of a nerd, dork, geek, or outcast in their youth. Napoleon and company are really quite loveable. I empathized deeply and laughed a lot.
What astounded me was all the bleached-blond, hispter-wearing, preppypunk popular highschool kids who were there. This movie has been out forever and a lot of these people were obviously repeat viewers. Maybe I'm being overly prejudiced by appearances, but a lot of these kids seemed like the kind of kids who would be patronizing and ostracizing me were I still in high school, and I got the ugly impression that many of them liked the movie so much because they were laughing *at* Napoleon. A lot of them, talking to their friends later, said they liked the movie because it was so "stupid and bad and unbelievably weird."
I thought it was silly but had a core of insight about being a pubescent outsider. I knew the people who dressed a decade out of fashion, who drew pegasi in their notebooks, who smelled funny and were from foreign countries, who couldn't regulate their bodily functions, who tried too hard but somehow still didn't care what people thought about them. I was those people. Napoleon is my people. And chances are, even if you've reinvented or just grown into yourself, if you're my friend, deep down inside, you're those people too. So go see "Napoleon Dynamite" if you can, look out for Pedro, and stay after the credits.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Salamander is Love
So I spent the best $5 I've spent in recent memory today. I was in the supermarket and I saw that they were selling huge, 4' long chenille flopsie animals. I touched them because they were shiny and soft, and browsed through the huge heap idly to see if there was anything that caught my fancy: a frog with a bowtie, a flopsy pink pig, rabbit with oversized ears, a crimson salamander with baleful eyes...!
Guess who came home with me! <3
My newest friend is Samael, who looks like an oversized fuzzy lizard with a bad case of angry. I could hardly control my giggles as he glared up at me from one hooded eye on his way down the conveyor belt to be scanned. The checkout lady seemed to feel the same affection for him, because she yelled at the bag boy for stuffing Samael headfirst into a plastic bag half the size of his body. He protested he was just trying to preserve Samael from the rain, and everyone except perhaps the lizard himself was mollified.
I have decided Samael is going to be Larry's comfortlizard. He's so huggable! And angry! I can practically feel him absorbing all the burning, acidic hate and rank corruption of my gut into his relentless demonic furnace...who says you should outgrow stuffed animals? *somuchlove*
And did I mention he was only $5? *happiest dance ever*
Guess who came home with me! <3
My newest friend is Samael, who looks like an oversized fuzzy lizard with a bad case of angry. I could hardly control my giggles as he glared up at me from one hooded eye on his way down the conveyor belt to be scanned. The checkout lady seemed to feel the same affection for him, because she yelled at the bag boy for stuffing Samael headfirst into a plastic bag half the size of his body. He protested he was just trying to preserve Samael from the rain, and everyone except perhaps the lizard himself was mollified.
I have decided Samael is going to be Larry's comfortlizard. He's so huggable! And angry! I can practically feel him absorbing all the burning, acidic hate and rank corruption of my gut into his relentless demonic furnace...who says you should outgrow stuffed animals? *somuchlove*
And did I mention he was only $5? *happiest dance ever*
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Not just a boy in a dress anymore
My left hand and adventuring companion Beta and I officially earned our drag queen licenses tonight. Self-bestowed, of course, but we have very exacting standards.
It was a magnificent confluence of events, a product of a hefty dose of fate and our own indomitible spirit and a hunger for fabulousness. The two of us were making a late-night run to the local grocery store for a 5-pound bag of jumbo cinnamon gummi bears. (Which I think are disgusting, but which Beta and her um,er think are dee-licious.) It's dark, and I'm driving. As we wait at the stop sign to turn left out of her neighborhood, we notice that the bed of the truck in front of us is full of trash cans. Perched atop the tallest trashcan, gleaming in vintage glory in the sodium streetlights, is a navy, baby blue, and white bowling bag with white plastic handles. Oh. Yes Lord.
As we marvel at what a fabulous item this bag is, and mourn that it seems to be going to its doom, a mad idea possesses us nearly at the same time. Beta voices it first, half-joking that we should follow them and pick the bag up casually after its disposers have left. I seize the impulse, and we begin to stalk our prey.
I would like to note that I have never tailed somebody before. They were only going about 1/4 mile, they signaled religiously, and we weren't trying to be inconspicuous, but it still had a delightful sort of naughtiness.
Our quarry travels a short distance and then turns into an apartment complex. Seems the ungrateful owners of such a fabulous accessory are illegally dumping trash in the complex's dumpster. The truck pulls over quickly and two men hop out who are freakily parallel male versions of Beta and I. Beta tries to get me to keep driving past them and park like I live there so we can mount covert rescue operations later.
But I see my double going for our prize, ready to hurl it into the bin, and a wild fever of outrageous audacity seizes me. "Roll down the window and ask for it!" I insist, and Beta obeys.
This all happens in seconds; it goes off with the smoothness of a drug deal. They pull up and start to unload. Just as my double's hand touches the bag, Beta rolls down her window and says, "Yo, can we have that bag?" Startled, and not wanting to waste time discussing things because he's illegally dumping trash, my double says sure and shoves the bag through the window to Beta's eager hands. I start rolling before she has the window up, and we're away to the grocery store.
Later, we saw the same couple in the grocery store and were impressed again by the fact that they were an exact male mirror of our physical types. They even went straight to the candy aisle, just as we did. We thought about chatting them up, but we were still high from the adrenaline rush of the hunt for the bag, and it seemed a shame to break the heady mystery of fate that had aligned us, ever so briefly, on the path to increase the world's fabulousness. Besides, they'd probably had enough time by then to realize that we had deliberately stalked them for their trash, which would be kinda weird if this bag weren't so spanking awesome.
Beta kept the bag, which is in really good condition and only needs a little cleaning inside, and plans to use it as an overnight bag. I am content knowing that I will not be swayed by things like social norms and the creepiness of stalking when it comes to obtaining unique accessories. God save the queens!
It was a magnificent confluence of events, a product of a hefty dose of fate and our own indomitible spirit and a hunger for fabulousness. The two of us were making a late-night run to the local grocery store for a 5-pound bag of jumbo cinnamon gummi bears. (Which I think are disgusting, but which Beta and her um,er think are dee-licious.) It's dark, and I'm driving. As we wait at the stop sign to turn left out of her neighborhood, we notice that the bed of the truck in front of us is full of trash cans. Perched atop the tallest trashcan, gleaming in vintage glory in the sodium streetlights, is a navy, baby blue, and white bowling bag with white plastic handles. Oh. Yes Lord.
As we marvel at what a fabulous item this bag is, and mourn that it seems to be going to its doom, a mad idea possesses us nearly at the same time. Beta voices it first, half-joking that we should follow them and pick the bag up casually after its disposers have left. I seize the impulse, and we begin to stalk our prey.
I would like to note that I have never tailed somebody before. They were only going about 1/4 mile, they signaled religiously, and we weren't trying to be inconspicuous, but it still had a delightful sort of naughtiness.
Our quarry travels a short distance and then turns into an apartment complex. Seems the ungrateful owners of such a fabulous accessory are illegally dumping trash in the complex's dumpster. The truck pulls over quickly and two men hop out who are freakily parallel male versions of Beta and I. Beta tries to get me to keep driving past them and park like I live there so we can mount covert rescue operations later.
But I see my double going for our prize, ready to hurl it into the bin, and a wild fever of outrageous audacity seizes me. "Roll down the window and ask for it!" I insist, and Beta obeys.
This all happens in seconds; it goes off with the smoothness of a drug deal. They pull up and start to unload. Just as my double's hand touches the bag, Beta rolls down her window and says, "Yo, can we have that bag?" Startled, and not wanting to waste time discussing things because he's illegally dumping trash, my double says sure and shoves the bag through the window to Beta's eager hands. I start rolling before she has the window up, and we're away to the grocery store.
Later, we saw the same couple in the grocery store and were impressed again by the fact that they were an exact male mirror of our physical types. They even went straight to the candy aisle, just as we did. We thought about chatting them up, but we were still high from the adrenaline rush of the hunt for the bag, and it seemed a shame to break the heady mystery of fate that had aligned us, ever so briefly, on the path to increase the world's fabulousness. Besides, they'd probably had enough time by then to realize that we had deliberately stalked them for their trash, which would be kinda weird if this bag weren't so spanking awesome.
Beta kept the bag, which is in really good condition and only needs a little cleaning inside, and plans to use it as an overnight bag. I am content knowing that I will not be swayed by things like social norms and the creepiness of stalking when it comes to obtaining unique accessories. God save the queens!
Monday, September 13, 2004
A little Sei Shonagon action
Things I find endearing: The inappropriate use of articles.
Example: A tall, grizzle-bearded, middle-aged black man who waits behind me in the pharmacy line leans down and asks me earnestly, "Do you like the jazz and blues?" I do not like the jazz and blues, but I'm already smiling at the article, so I have to say, "Yeah, they're all right."
Things that make me cranky: Not having health insurance.
Example: I pay $75 for a fascinatingly soft spoken doctor to spend three minutes examining the cavities of my head and write me a prescription for antibiotics and codeine cough syrup. I then spend $35 to receive this medication. But the cough syrup is totally worth it.
And maybe just experiencing that doctor was, too. He reminded me of some small, grave young Confederate gentleman. Not that he had a southern accent or anything, he just had that sort of haircut and beard. And when he came in the room he offered his hand and said, "I don't believe we've met," as though he'd encountered me by chance in the company of mutual friends. So he gets added to my list of things I find endearing: people who are so grave yet courteous they seem to belong to another era.
Example: A tall, grizzle-bearded, middle-aged black man who waits behind me in the pharmacy line leans down and asks me earnestly, "Do you like the jazz and blues?" I do not like the jazz and blues, but I'm already smiling at the article, so I have to say, "Yeah, they're all right."
Things that make me cranky: Not having health insurance.
Example: I pay $75 for a fascinatingly soft spoken doctor to spend three minutes examining the cavities of my head and write me a prescription for antibiotics and codeine cough syrup. I then spend $35 to receive this medication. But the cough syrup is totally worth it.
And maybe just experiencing that doctor was, too. He reminded me of some small, grave young Confederate gentleman. Not that he had a southern accent or anything, he just had that sort of haircut and beard. And when he came in the room he offered his hand and said, "I don't believe we've met," as though he'd encountered me by chance in the company of mutual friends. So he gets added to my list of things I find endearing: people who are so grave yet courteous they seem to belong to another era.
Sunday, September 12, 2004
Touch it
In a fit of "this book will never be any good" despair, I just printed out the 75 pages I have written of my new book and am sitting down to read it consecutively to see if it feels anything like a novel so far. Over the past two weeks, due in part to sickness and travel, I've fallen back into my old high school reading patterns of finishing a book every other day. Consuming so much published text has been a large contributing factor to my concerns that my book lacks continuity or forward momentum, no doubt. Or it could be the mucous talking. Crapshoot, really. But I feel better just having the solid continuous weight of the first half of my book printed and in a three-ring binder in my hands...I hadn't realized I'd written so much since May or whenever this madness really got started.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Why electronics can't entirely replace people
As you may know, I am obsessed with obtaining the perfect copy of Paradise Lost. I found one once, and the post office ate it. I will not be denied. I continue to search ebay and every bookstore I enter for just the right copy.
While on ebay, I found a voice recording of the entirety of Paradise Lost. They did it in 8 hours--Haverford's Miltonathon lasted 11 hours, but we were live, and forced to move about due to inclement weather. I was initially very excited at this discovery, because my professor had believed there was no recording of the entirety of Paradise Lost. And because I'm a big dork.
Then I examined their audio sample only to find that an artificial intelligence reader was reading the poem, and not a live human being. Now, for textbooks or maybe 18th century domestic fiction, butchered rhythm isn't that much of a problem. But when it's Paradise Lost, an epic poem of over 10,000 lines composed orally by a blind, crazed 17th century poet who dreamed angelic revelations in iambic pentameter, well, you need the rhythm. The rhythm *is* the poem. This, whatever this is, is a travesty.
There is a masochistic part of me that wants to buy the CD just to hear how awful it is. Please don't let me.
To hear an example of the AI reader, go here:
http://www.gvfrost.com/ebay/psample.mp3
And then imagine that voice declaiming:
. . . . . . . . . . . Farewell happy Fields
Where Joy for ever dwells: Hail horrors, hail
Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell
Receive thy new Possessor: One who brings
A mind not to be chang'd by Place or Time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.
Such a reader would turn transcendence to mockery. Although, now I wonder how difficult it would be to teach an AI reader how to read iambic pentameter, including stress marks, and even to guess which lines violated the regular pattern. But even if we could, would those lines be as dramatic spoken by something that has no mind?
Oh, and my favorite part of the audio example? "Possibly your eyesight prevents you from reading a book..."
Yeah. Just like it stopped Milton. *hip-deep in irony*
Milton made his daughters learn Greek and Latin just so they could read to him. Although I appreciate that people who can't see well don't always have the privilege of students and family members to draft for reading, I'm sad to think that the grand tradition of employing impoverished college students to record the great classics may be dying out. Poetry's all about delivery, and no matter how "realistic" the timbre of Mr. AI's voice is, I know third graders who could put more soul and meaning into a reading of Paradise Lost.
Edit: Speaking of machines replacing people, I really should turn off the AutoCorrect function in Word, because my spelling's hurtling in a generally abyssal direction. It's so sneaky about fixing mistakes that you don't even know you're making them...
While on ebay, I found a voice recording of the entirety of Paradise Lost. They did it in 8 hours--Haverford's Miltonathon lasted 11 hours, but we were live, and forced to move about due to inclement weather. I was initially very excited at this discovery, because my professor had believed there was no recording of the entirety of Paradise Lost. And because I'm a big dork.
Then I examined their audio sample only to find that an artificial intelligence reader was reading the poem, and not a live human being. Now, for textbooks or maybe 18th century domestic fiction, butchered rhythm isn't that much of a problem. But when it's Paradise Lost, an epic poem of over 10,000 lines composed orally by a blind, crazed 17th century poet who dreamed angelic revelations in iambic pentameter, well, you need the rhythm. The rhythm *is* the poem. This, whatever this is, is a travesty.
There is a masochistic part of me that wants to buy the CD just to hear how awful it is. Please don't let me.
To hear an example of the AI reader, go here:
http://www.gvfrost.com/ebay/psample.mp3
And then imagine that voice declaiming:
. . . . . . . . . . . Farewell happy Fields
Where Joy for ever dwells: Hail horrors, hail
Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell
Receive thy new Possessor: One who brings
A mind not to be chang'd by Place or Time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.
Such a reader would turn transcendence to mockery. Although, now I wonder how difficult it would be to teach an AI reader how to read iambic pentameter, including stress marks, and even to guess which lines violated the regular pattern. But even if we could, would those lines be as dramatic spoken by something that has no mind?
Oh, and my favorite part of the audio example? "Possibly your eyesight prevents you from reading a book..."
Yeah. Just like it stopped Milton. *hip-deep in irony*
Milton made his daughters learn Greek and Latin just so they could read to him. Although I appreciate that people who can't see well don't always have the privilege of students and family members to draft for reading, I'm sad to think that the grand tradition of employing impoverished college students to record the great classics may be dying out. Poetry's all about delivery, and no matter how "realistic" the timbre of Mr. AI's voice is, I know third graders who could put more soul and meaning into a reading of Paradise Lost.
Edit: Speaking of machines replacing people, I really should turn off the AutoCorrect function in Word, because my spelling's hurtling in a generally abyssal direction. It's so sneaky about fixing mistakes that you don't even know you're making them...
Monday, September 06, 2004
I wish earhorns were still cool
I'm back from my trip. It was good, but the pressure in the airplane forced a lot of what I will delicately call "liquid" into my eardrums, and as a result I am now about 70% deaf. I've had this problem before, and as I recall it usually goes away eventually, but sometimes I get earaches. Anyone had this problem/have any suggestions. Eh? Speak up, laddie!
Friday, September 03, 2004
A Few Things
I have the best political discussions with my dad over dinner. His most memorable quote of this evening, regarding how the average liberty-conscious person feels when forced to choose between the Democrats and the Republicans:
"It's like having both sides of your head beaten at once. Sure, one's beating you with an aluminum bat, and the other one's got a wooden bat, but they're still both beating you."
On an entirely unrelated topic, names are funny things. I've got names on the brain, since I'm writing old school fantasy and just finished reading the Earthsea books, which I must shamefully admit I had not read before. Today I was gifted with the best name from, of all places, e-mail spam. It's not unusual for the spam bots to mix up names and send emails addressed to "Thothcuddle" or "Thothydothy" or something like that. But today, I received spam addressed to Nighthawkcoma. That's right. Nighthawkcoma, please your woman with increased girth. How awesome is that?
That nearly makes up for my shameful performance in Wal-M*rt today when, in the course of attempting to pay with credit card for travel-sized hygiene supplies, I signed the first name of one of my characters from my most recent book instead of my own first name. It was very embarrassing, although Wal-M*rt lady was reeling from an influx of LaborDayCampingZombies and didn't notice anything amiss. I was embarrassed for myself, and it's not often that happens. I've accidentally muttered lines of dialogue out loud in public while daydreaming/brainstorming before, but never done something quite this moronic. Granted, the character's name is only two letters away from mine, but...damn. I sort of pulled it together at the end there, but it was still pretty serious. It was like I'd forgotten how to form the letters of my actual name, and even when I tried to remember, it still came out wrong. Very disorienting experience. I blame it on the 36 hours of solid sudafed.
Well, I'm off to upstate NY for the huge family reunion. Gah. I already wish I was back...At least my brother and I can bond over not remembering the names of any of our 30 first cousins. O_o
"It's like having both sides of your head beaten at once. Sure, one's beating you with an aluminum bat, and the other one's got a wooden bat, but they're still both beating you."
On an entirely unrelated topic, names are funny things. I've got names on the brain, since I'm writing old school fantasy and just finished reading the Earthsea books, which I must shamefully admit I had not read before. Today I was gifted with the best name from, of all places, e-mail spam. It's not unusual for the spam bots to mix up names and send emails addressed to "Thothcuddle" or "Thothydothy" or something like that. But today, I received spam addressed to Nighthawkcoma. That's right. Nighthawkcoma, please your woman with increased girth. How awesome is that?
That nearly makes up for my shameful performance in Wal-M*rt today when, in the course of attempting to pay with credit card for travel-sized hygiene supplies, I signed the first name of one of my characters from my most recent book instead of my own first name. It was very embarrassing, although Wal-M*rt lady was reeling from an influx of LaborDayCampingZombies and didn't notice anything amiss. I was embarrassed for myself, and it's not often that happens. I've accidentally muttered lines of dialogue out loud in public while daydreaming/brainstorming before, but never done something quite this moronic. Granted, the character's name is only two letters away from mine, but...damn. I sort of pulled it together at the end there, but it was still pretty serious. It was like I'd forgotten how to form the letters of my actual name, and even when I tried to remember, it still came out wrong. Very disorienting experience. I blame it on the 36 hours of solid sudafed.
Well, I'm off to upstate NY for the huge family reunion. Gah. I already wish I was back...At least my brother and I can bond over not remembering the names of any of our 30 first cousins. O_o
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
sux
I've got some sort of coldfeverthing, so turns out I wasn't able to attend the critique group after all. Frustrating, because I worked really hard revising my first chapter and got excited for it again, and then I started aching and shivering and stuff. Also had to call in sick to work after getting my first paycheck only yesterday, which the Puritan in me finds embarrassing and highly reprehensible. Thank the lemur I finished my journal paper when I did. Also, I'm supposed to fly up into the north country for a ginormous family reunion thingy this weekend. I hate traveling when I'm sick, but I don't want to cancel, so I hope this thing runs its course quickly.
The thing I hate most about fevers is that effect where your mind takes hold of one particular image or phrase or concept and worries at it over and over, all night long, when decent brains would be sleeping or at least creating fantastical opera-set dreams with plot and character. Last night I had a 9-hour fever dream that consisted entirely of me using the Windows "Save As" dialog box to create thousands and thousands of different files. Or perhaps the same one a thousand times. Talk about hellish nightmares.
The thing I hate most about fevers is that effect where your mind takes hold of one particular image or phrase or concept and worries at it over and over, all night long, when decent brains would be sleeping or at least creating fantastical opera-set dreams with plot and character. Last night I had a 9-hour fever dream that consisted entirely of me using the Windows "Save As" dialog box to create thousands and thousands of different files. Or perhaps the same one a thousand times. Talk about hellish nightmares.
