Woo, it's the Super Bowl, the game the Patriots won last year!  There's no way this year's game will be anywhere as good as 2002's, of course, but I'm still looking forward to having a chance to see the evil, hated Raiders go down in the face of the Bucs' mighty defense.  Die, Raiders, Die.  I'm predicting a 20-17 victory for the Bucs, and I think it's going to be an exciting game.

Good to see more people posting on Insult.  This tends to happen in the Spring, I think.  Stuff is going fairly well here, mopping up the last few requirements standing in between me and a degree.  I've got two entertaining Math classes.  One's a Statistics class whose Professor is a zany-Yakov-Smirnov-level stereotypical Russian - he writes things like "What does Statistics?" and "Aspirin does it reduce risk of stroke/hart attacks?!!" on the board, which is remarkably entertaining if you're actually in the class.  He smokes a pipe and seems to wear the same loden-colored sweater every class.  Also a very good professor, makes the material interesting.  The other math class is called Mathematical Explorations, a Math for English Majors sort of thing, and it focuses on the idea of infinity, what it means, how it developed historically, how people contend with its existence, that sort of thing.  Exciting stuff...the class' professor is an elemental Math Professor, pure-Math-Professor-existence, makes sense I guess.

Hm...the cold here's been monumental.  We had about a week where I don't think the temperature (inc. wind chill) made it over zero degrees.   It's a balmy 16F outside right now, and when I walk out to grab some coffee today, that's going to feel like Spring's weather to me - the way things have been going, my face and feet not being numb justifies straw hats and parasol drinks.

Stone

Who needs the ability to erase posts, I can just make small posts about nothing.

I need a maid.

Here's a story:

Fresh from a few months in New York, Robert Benchley is sitting by the pool at the old Garden of Allah, up there on Sunset Boulevard, drinking gin and vermouth in just proportion with the usual crew. Humphrey Bogart, character actor Charlie Butterworth, George S. Kaufman, John McClain (the playboy/journalist who used to go out with Dorothy Parker, not the wiseass cop from Die Hard), a couple of starlets (including Natalie "Mrs. Thurston Howell" Schaefer) and a screenwriter or two. At some point, Errol Flynn comes out of his bungalow, dives into the pool, and starts methodically doing laps. This does not go unremarked by the Benchley crew. "Why don't you get out of that wet pool and into a dry Martini?" "What's wrong, tired of exercising indoors?" (Flynn was alwayswell, you know.) "What is that stuff you're swimming in?" Finally, Flynn takes the bait.

"All right, Benchley, you old soak. I'll tell you what. You swim across this pool once, just once, and I'll pay your bar tab for a month."

"The pool? Come on, Flynn, think big. How's this, old manI'll bet you a straight thousand dollars I can swim all the way to Catalina." Now, Benchley's a big man, but soft and paunchy and nobody's idea of an athlete. In other words, it's a bet. Everybody likes to take advantage of a drunk. In no time they round up a couple of cars, stir up some Martinis for the road, and head down to the ocean.

So there they are, standing around on a pier somewhere near Long Beach. Along the way, Flynn's picked up a cute little carhop. Somebody else has bought a case of beer. The Martinis are long gone. Benchley takes his jacket off. "That's it, out there?"

"That's right. 20 miles. You're sure you want to go through with it?"

"Flynn, when a Benchley gives his word, he gives his bond."

"But really, old shoe, fun is fun. Let's just drop it." Meanwhile, everybody's exchanging private little glances behind Flynn's back. Without a word, Benchley strips down to boxers and undershirt and pitches himself right in. There's a mighty splash, he swims about 12 feet and then, convulsed in laughter, calls for a rope. Everybody's furious, except for Bogart and Butterworth, who are laughing. Bogie, you see, had quietly pulled everyone aside and convinced them that Benchley was a powerful swimmer (his new York doctors had made him start, y'see, and he just took to it), and that paunch he was hiding under his shirt was in fact a cork life-vest. So when Butterworth started making a little book on the proceedings.

Stone

I've been getting a lot of spam recently, various media things, but I don't think I've received any other single offer that is nearly as significant as this one:

Audible.com, some sort of online book audio service that "CNET ranks among the Web's best" is going to allow me to BURN JOHN GRISHAM...FOR FREE!

As you know, there's only one way to cure bedside-table-thriller writers (and homosexuals): fire, and lots of it. Plus, despite my background in English literature, I'm not John Grisham's biggest fan, so, as you can guess, my heart leapt at the chance to burn someone of his stature, at any price, much less for free.

Some sort of limited time offer, I'd assume, I dunno how much burning he's going to be able to take.

Stun 3k

"Happy Birthday, Old Chum!"

Happy birthday, Wilson, we'll celebrate properly in a couple of weeks.

To mark this momentous occasion, here are a few apt lines from Omar Khayaam, take them to heart:

And much as Wine has played the Infidel,
And robbed me of my Robe of Honour well,
I often wonder what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the Goods they sell.

Hmm.

Stone

Love, oh Love
wash away my tears
Love, oh Love
follow me through the years
Love, oh Love
bring me happiness forever
Love, oh Love
fill my soul and never,
Leave me alone, for all my heart is yours
and ill fade away with you into the night leaving behind earthly wonderings...all except love

Like listening to a sad song, you can rip out my heart
And with a breath you can heal the deepest wound
More than a thousand times Ive called you mine
And now I wander the dark searching for an empty bottle
Wind wailing around balls of thunder under the red sky
Walking hand in hand with you thinking we could fly
But falling never ending into the deep
Sometimes even all I want is just one night of peaceful sleep
A raven stands watching our decent with lifeless black eyes
And now our lives become nothing more than an over used blanket of lies
I pray for an answer to all those burning questions
And more often than not all I can offer are humble suggestions
Southbound train always taking me away
Someday I promise ill be able to stay
Until then all I can do is ask that you listen to what I say
Something about the way the sun sets on a cold winter day
And something about all I can do is say
None of it ever matters
As long as you go when the ceiling shatters
Like listening to a sad song, you can rip out my heart
And with a breath you can heal the deepest wound
More than a thousand times Ive called you mine
And now I wander the dark searching for an empty bottle
Extravagant feasts filled with love and laughter
And sometimes I wonder what it is Im truly after
Skating across deep blue glass
Seeing stars that shine only when Im deep in your eyes
Flipping aimlessly through eternities book
I just want someone to stop for one second and look
But they all walk by
As if they were shy
And nothing matters anymore
So ill just drift off until I reach a new shore
A place I can be safe from what I fear the most
Someplace far away from Better Than Toast
Leftorium nations floundering through empty seas
But you can never get away from My BEES!!
Now some may say Im getting off point
But if you dont like it get the fuck out of my joint
Now back to some matters simply more deep
Like the feelings I get when I know you dont sleep
I can't help but wonder if Ill ever make a difference
In making you see all the beauty you given me
And not just of skin and makeup and hair
But the places you bring me and the roads weve traveled to get there
Never stopping to wonder that maybe it wont work

please dont steal my writing, it really means alot to me and if i see it somplace without my permission i will be very sad. thankyou

The grey air attaches itself to the green trees and takes hold of me
Time sighs to a halt and my mind wanders the vast reaches of itself
Time to light up a smoke and wish I could make music
Capture your imagination with my guitar until my fingers turn red
Then play a little more
Take you to where I've been, show you what I've done
Make you dream of pools in the sun
Or being here with me
Day turns to night, crazy dreams turn to dust
But I refuse to blow them away
I'd rather save them for another day

I was just sitting outside with Gunther and started thinking about all kinds of things, and decided to jot down a quick little poem to summarize the experience.

If you read this and you think this sounds like it could pertain to you, if you read this and you think it pertains to something you have recently done, then maybe you might want to be angry with yourself. Use your misdirected anger for some good and make a few changes in your character. Your anger will own you if you let it.

A Poem by GIRLNEXTDOOR: "TORN" copyright May2001 All Rights Reserved Plagiarists and Violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

Anger crushes, you live with it day to day
Wallowing in your pity and crying over your mishaps
Speaking as if you have no faults
I bet you think youre better than those you criticize
Cursing and breaking valued possessions
Disgracing your reputation to those who know you best
Pitiful display and you repress your thoughts
Talk is cheap and yet you cant afford to open your mouth
Leaving with hands clenched in rage
Calming yourself is not something you can attest too
Needing others to stop your inner violence
I watch you rip yourself to shreds
Even when you win the battle you have lost peace of mind

Anything that happens, happens. - Anything that, in happening, causes something else to happen, causes something else to happen. - Anything that, in happening, causes itself to happen again, happens again. - It doesn't necessarily do it in chronological order, though.

I'm not sure how many of you ever read the "Hitchhiker's Guide to Galaxy" series of books. In fact, I don't think any of you have. Either way, they were a great series of books by a man named Douglas Adams. An English chap, a brummy, whatever. And although I'm not especially fond of English humor, I found Adams' books hilarious and well-written.

He died Friday at the age of 49 from a heart attack. That's two really good authors in the same year. =(

42

It's all about the forty-two. Rest in peace, funny English dude.

This is going to be freakishly boring for most of you.

So, a few weeks ago I wrote a good essay for my Children's Literature class. About a week after I handed it in, the professor e-mailed me asking if I could come in to talk about my essay. I was worried, but when I actually met with him, he just asked me to clarify a few of the more complicated things (ie, everything other than "this book am good. this am feminist, this am coming of age"I) had written in the essay. The professor told me that he liked to have a few students come in from each class to talk to him, so he could get to know them better. That sounded like a lie, since the school year was ending in a day or two, but I shrugged it off.

Last Monday I handed in a really, really good essay for my 18th Century Lit class. It was on this novel, Rasselas, by Samuel Johnson, who was this big deal 18th century literary critic and writer. I like almost everything he's written, and I've read almost everything he's written. So, I was able to use all that knowledge to make a bunch of complex allusions and references to other Johnson stuff while commenting on the novel, and I figured that would just come across well. I didn't really care, though, because I knew I had written a bad-ass essay.

Last night, J and I were watching 'the Talented Mr. Ripley', when my 18th Century Lit TA called, asking me to meet him today (today today) so we could talk about my paper. This TA is great, smart, into the class, puts a ton of work into grading the papers.

I meet him, it's really hot out - we talk about the paper, and he asks me to clarify a few things in my paper that he says he didn't really understand. I was surprised he didn't understand them, because I was pretty sure he had read the other Johnson stuff, but, I did it, babbled on, waiting for the ball to drop. And, yes, after I spent about 20 minutes explaining the paper, he basically admitted that the stuff I had written was intelligent, blah blah, better than the rest of the class, so forth, and the allusions were really good and clear (not obtuse like I was lead to believe, at first) - the allusions were actually too clear and too pointed. He thought I'd plagiarized the paper at first, and wanted to test me to see if I knew what I meant, and after my long explanation he realized that I hadn't. Shit - he actually thought the writing itself was too good, and that was a symbol of an "internet paper" too. And, we talked, and had a good conversation, and what not.

But, I'm fucking angry at all of this. I know now that the Children's Literature professor was doing the same thing - seeing if I actually knew what I had written. My shitty papers get to fly by with A-'s. The papers I actually work on, and actually know things about, also get A-'s (for being overly ambitious or some shit), but I have to go in and spend a half-hour defending myself for being doing a better job than the bog standard average. It's pretty fucking anti-intellectual IMO - some of the English kids here are fucking retards that never got beyond an AP English level understanding of books. They don't read on their own, or if they do read, it's based on some cultural or political interest that has absolutely fuck all to do with literature. They don't have any sense of a 'literature' as a whole, they don't read stuff written before fucking 1801 (the school has to require English majors to take 3 pre-1800 literature classes). They don't read any criticism, so they don't have any idea about what criticism is - and yet that's what fucking English essays are. And - English classes are geared towards these fuckwits, and essays are supposed to look like regurgitations of everything the professor said in class combined with an incredibly cursory knowledge of whatever book we're reading. If the essays are anything beyond that, then of course, people are fucking plagiarizing.

And is everyone who does large amounts of plagiarizing (raping an entire essay, etc.) a fucking idiot? If I was to plagiarize something, I would flip through books so as to document the stolen paper as thoroughly as possible, and I wouldn't be confident that the writing would look like my own, so I would purposefully fuck up the syntax and structure until it looked like one of the shitty papers that gets handed in usually. Who the fuck actually hands in a paper that they wouldn't be able to defend if someone asked them about it?

And, this is what gets me - I really thought I was writing below standard for my English classes...that I was getting by because I said a couple of interesting things or whatever. But, bleh - I tossed this shit out Monday morning, and I get called out for it?

Fuck people who say that you don't have to understand literature to write English essays, fuck people who say that older authors are irrelevant, fuck people who say that all ideas are essentially as valid as any other idea, and fuck people who say that self-expression is more important than actually making conclusions in anything creative - prose, poetry, art, fucking cooking.

Stn 2000