Fable II: Teaching Mythological Archetypes, perhaps?

Socks, at last

I made these in November and... well... I'm very proud. *sniff.

Baby alpaca in charcoal, perfect for B's cold feet (har. har.) especially the day that I finished, since he'd just contracted the flu.

And now, the moderately close up shot...

Thus, in a word: Ta-da!

Sir Jackson

"This! Is! Sparta! Ka-chow!"

In my family, the geeking-out starts early.

Can I go on your next trip?

Go here (but only if you're seeking pure delight!)

Trust me, it's way more pleasant than Gravity's Rainbow.

Be sure to watch in High Quality (link just below video window).

Pynching (GR, pt. 2)

Posting tomorrow: chs. 2-3.

Right now, posting (briefly) on Chapter One.

• ChapTER One.
• CHAP-ter-ONE.
• Chap, ter one.

I think that moment signifies my favorite thus far in this excursion into TP's brain. Significantly, it felt like an excursion into mine, at least in that moment. "You never did the Kenosha Kid."* Apparently, this blogger experiences a similar phenomenon, at least in the linguistic vs. the musical sense. I know that an error in the brain's auditory co, along with an inherent desire to find patterns (especially with gaps in the patterns - like hearing only a song's title) leads to the "song stuck in my head" problem. Why, then, do we get words or phrases "stuck"? They seem to run around and around, repeating even after I've shouted them at myself, or used them in a blog. (currently, and fortuitously - - sort of - - "auditory" is stuck in my brain. Lucky, that. :-/ )

Here's a commercial example more relevant to the Kenosha Kid situation. The cable channel A&E formerly used the slogan "Time Well Spent." Regardless of the response of wikipedia posters, I think they retired the slogan due to the ridiculous variations on that phrase that viewers, like me, could make:

• Time, well spent (we use time here at A&E, and we use it well.)
• Time, well, spent. (gotta get used up somehow; might as well be here.)
  
• Time Well, spent. (what the heck is a "time well"? or should I say "who"??)

Even now, typing this out, I can feel the "round-and-round" of Slothrop's brain. (auditory, aggregate, enculcate). Even worse, and even dorkier, the eJ, her husband, and I took a trip to VA two years ago for Halloween and, to stay awake on the road, we played a horrible, wonderful, nerdy game. For hours (and hours) we took turns coming up with words that had specific suffixes. So, for instance, one round was "-ate." With a Spanish lit grad student, a history grad student, and an English lit grad student, you can imagine the length of each of the rounds. The trouble wasn't coming up with words; the trouble was stopping before the point of utter mental exhaustion. Even when the rounds were over, words continued to appear in our poor tired brains. We literally couldn't STOP our brains from pursuing that pattern in our linguistic memories.

Thus, I swing 'round back to my original reactions to Slothrop's dilemma(?). First, hilarity as a result of recognition/empathy, as described in the previous ramblings. Second, academic interest in both the psychology of the pattern and also the physiology of it, as described below in my discussion about the sodium-amytal. Finally, pattern-recognition as a catalyst for a close reading. Scary, and overwhelming, and cool.

Okay, point 2, then. The (psychotropic, tropes, aggregate, enculcate**), barbituate, "10% sodium-amytal, one cc at a time, as needed" (62) obviously indicate a jibe against/about human test subjects during the WWII era. For instance, Slothrop sings (recites? chants?) "Re-enlist-- Snap--to, Slothrop! / ...They just look for someplace else to send...me..." (63) , as if the physicians' only concern is to prep depressed, neurotic, suicidal soldiers for a return to the battlefield (see link in next sentence).

Note that the administration of the so-called -perhaps, anyway- "Blue-88" appears after Slothrop has already begun his linguistic spiral, a word I choose intentionally, for the implication is that of a downward tendency. Okay, so. In my case it may be simple OCD of the neocortex, in Slothrop's we must assume that Pynchon wants to say something, or, better, wants to imply that he wants to say something. Regardless, I'm gonna go with the the desire to say something, at least the desire to show something on a linguistic and a musical level. Thus, I've now moved from my previous point of "linguistic vs. musical" to a new region of "linguistic AND musical." Quite an important distinction.

Here we go: Slothrop gets the sodium-amytal, and the already overstimulated Broca's area (frontal lobe, neocortex) invites the auditory cortex (occipital lobe) along for the ride, and the complex, problem-solving/pattern recognition loop adds a soundtrack. Normally, I might argue that Pynchon was in now way references actual, physiological or psychological processes. The problem with my argument would be - and is - that the entire episode turns on psychological experimentation. Perhaps I go too far if I argue that TP intentionally alludes to the various regions of the brain - but do I? Note Slothrop's own words: "Tap my head and mike my brain, / Stick that needle in my vein" (63), and then "yowzah gwine smoke a little ob dis hyah sheeit gib de wrinkles in mah brain a process! straighten 'em all raht out, sho nuf!" (64, TP ital.) At least, based on the context, the essential physio-psychological processes play a role, even if TP doesn't specifically intend to discuss the regions of the brain.

But I do. So that's why I did a little research on the names here, both of the interviewer, PISCES, and the song, "Cherokee," playing during Slothrop's recital, which I hesitate to call a "flashback." Here's the dish: Pisces is the name a 1961 Art Blakey album, as well as a song on that album and this one, The Freedom Rider, from the following year. Considering the tempo of Slothrop's little ditties, as well as the setting, dialect, and storyline of his bathroom recital. I find it difficult to ignore the possible connections. The weird thing is this: I would destroy my students for making such a leap! It's a terrible fallacy to assume that somehow there's a connection between a 1960's jazz tune and one crazy-drug-induced memory. EXCEPT. We're talking Pynchon. The other snag in my neat little fabrication here? I can find no evidence that Art Blakey recorded the Ray Noble jazz tune "Cherokee," despite it's popularity among other greats.

Suddenly, I find myself playing a weird literary game of Six Stages of Separation, and I feel completely OCD.

I think I shall call it quits for one day, and continue these thoughts on the morrow. I'm caught in a lexical loop.

I'll leave you with Ray Noble's classic lyrics:

Cherokee (Indian Love Song)

Sweet Indian maiden, since first I met you,
I can't forget you, Cherokee sweetheart.

Child of the prairie, your love keeps calling,
my heart enthralling, Cherokee.

Dreams of summertime, of lovertime gone by,
throng my memory so tenderly, and sigh. My

Sweet Indian maiden, one day I'll hold you,
in my arms fold you, Cherokee.


~~~
* - Yes, I noticed they're an Athens-based band. More reviews here.
** - Blogger keeps telling me that I've spelled enculcate incorrectly. I checked, and I'm right. So HAH.
**.2 - Interestingly, arbitrarily repeating the "stuck" words seems to alleviate the cacophony/calliope in my head. Perhaps a new Pynchon theory?

~~~~~

Works Cited (referenced, or pointed to)

"3 Smart Things About Music." Wired. 16 June 2008. 7 July 2008.

"Battle of the Bulge." American Experience. Public Broadcasting Station. Transcript. Online. 7 July 2008.

ConstantSkeptic. "Words Stuck in My Head." [Weblog entry.] The Constant Skeptic: Tech-enabled Hipster Xenophiles Seeking to Question, Rant, and Inform Humanity. 17 December 2007. <http://www.constantskeptic.com/index.php/2007/12/17/quote-of-the-day-oscar-wilde/>7 July 2008.

Wikipedia. . 7 July 2008

Verbals Furballs. (Pynchon, Pt. 1)

My god, the man obfuscates.

I have decided, after hours of contemplation, that I'll allow my first post to be little more than a knee-jerk RANT against the refrigerator-poetry of Pynchon's style. But let me start at the start.

I'm blogging, along with K.R., as I read Gravity's Rainbow in a united effort to hold ourselves accountable for actually completing the darn thing. It's my first go, but KR has tried several times and, not "failed," but decided to move on to less irritating reading material. Let me put it this way: many of you know my feelings about Don DeLillo's White Noise and James Joyce's Ulysses, so you'll understand my initial hesitancy when I searched GR on Amazon.com and they BOTH appeared as results. Why? I'm not entirely sure, but I imagine that if you like one or the other of these (supposedly, and I have my doubts) venerable tomes, you're sure to LOVE GR. Not exactly an auspicious beginning to this summer reading adventure.*

So... I decided to take the literary academic approach; or, at least, I decided to make an attempt at such an approach. And I still insist that I will have a few posts along the way that will gesture at scholarship, perhaps even brilliance, although the probability of the latter is quite slim. I'll save my attempts at thematic analysis, linguistic parsing, and etc, for later posts, however, for right now I have a terrible itch that I must satisfy, a tickle in my (virtual) throat: Pbbbttthhhttt! The Emperor is naked!

First, studious little scholar that I am, I practiced my "Fiction Preview" for this book. The steps of the preview are as follows:

1. Read the covers, inside and out (flaps, etc)
   
2. Read everything before Chapter 1 and after the last chapter.
   
3. Read Chapter 1 (all 180 pages).
   

First, the covers: Front cover is apparently black paint/ink splattered on a white canvas/surface, with the shape of a missile - purportedly the V-2 rocket, but not named - marked out as negative space. The edges of said shape are not sharp, perhaps to further indicate the space as negative space, rather than 3-D object. The rocket, then, does not have actual presence on the page (here or in the text), except as, like subatomic particles in physics, the measurement of the reactions or it's imprint on the environment. Okay, got it. The MISSILE/ROCKET represents the centerpiece of the novel, but the novel pivots on it, rather than focuses on it. And that's just Frank Miller's cover. (I KNOW! Frank Miller!)

The back cover, delight of delights, shows war-torn London, the famous bridge aflame in the deep background, rowhouses tumbled into lumber, rubble, and ash, defamiliarized (thank you, for dropping the cake, Jenna) into their disparate elements, though a complete wall of empty windows rises. Notably, perhaps, that wall lines up with the burning bridge in the deep background. Two figures, male and female, seem to have just escaped the collapse of a wall, although the male, following the female, may sill be caught by the legs in the crushing fall of whatever it is. His hand covers one eye and his forehead, and a frightening bit of lumber seems headed straight for a lovely impalement beneath his upraised arm. The woman faces away from the disaster, while the man watches the collapse. The artists depicts most of the scenery in reds and browns, edged in white to emphasize the heat and brightness, but the figures have a greener underlying tint. This coloration may indicate living vs. unliving, although the intuitive tinting for that purpose might have been the opposite: color of living should be red - blood, life, etc, color of death/nonliving/inanimate - green, black, industrial. In this case, the city is bleeding, burning, dying, the humans(?) frozen, copper-statue-like, concrete, mechanical. Hmm..

As I wrote this, I took another look at the inside back cover and learned that the image is "from a German D-Day leaflet showing scenes of apparent disaster in England." Anyway, here's a link to Calvin College's online German Propaganda archive (3rd image down).

Then, I read the only text on this back cover. A quote from The New Republic:
"The most profound and accomplished American novel since the end of World War II."

Um, what exactly is that supposed to signify? That it's a difficult book? That Pynchon somehow "accomplished" some mysterious SOMETHING with it? Is the verbose, complex, style "accomplished"? The in-jokes and puns? The (possibly) throwaway allusions and oblique references that may go somewhere but may have appear as a diversionary tactic? ("Hey, look at this bright, shiny thing I can do! Oh? What? I have no idea how this talking dog got here while you were looking the other way!").

Inside Front:

A
SCREAM-
ING
COMES
ACROSS
THE
SKY

Red font on black background, with mirror-image and reverse countdown to 2 in white at the extreme bottom edge. I now recognize the latter as a reference, not entirely subtle (oh yeah - it's Pynchon) to the Pavlovian reverse-neurological processes, the "ultraparadoxical phase" (Pynchon 49, his ital.) of impending/receding doom. Yes, well. How wonderfully clever.

Clever, clever Pynchon. Does the emperor actually have on a delightful set of magical robes that only the wisest of us can see? Or have we all been hoodwinked (heh, pun) by a man with too much time and too many verbals... or, is that the cleverest joke of all? That he, being TP, knew of the academicians and our desire for meaning, and he weaves a horrifyingly apt post-modern joke to expose - an humiliate us all?!

I don't think that I'm necessarily grasping at straws - or bananas - here, in an embarrassing attempt to explain my ignorance. I'm actually having little difficulty comprehending his "story," if it may be termed such, or even his metaphors, allusions, puns, descriptions, what have you. I'm just a little irritated that he won't let me in past this veritable wall of language to the heart of... himself? His tale? His point? It just makes me wonder if, like the child with the Russian doll, there exists nothing at the heart. Perhaps the tangle of alleyways and darkened windows in/around/through this wall are the point of it. The journey, not the destination, blah-blah-blah. Frankly, I don't know how I feel about picking up all of these jigsaw clues he leaves about in the twisted corridors and on the ledges of his text, only to find that the picture is only another post-modern attempt at abstract expressionism without meaning. Call me a luddite, but I don't care about books that I don't care about, and I especially don't care about Thomas Pynchon's thesaurus-diving.**

Alright. I have read Ch. 1, but, obviously, haven't written on it. I have the notes! I swear, Dr. Roney, I've been keeping up! I'll write on this tomorrow, since I've talked too much today.
~~~~~
* Mantra: I'm reading this for pleasure. I'm reading this for pleasure. I'm reading this... oh hell.
** Yep.

Deep down dark

Sometimes I think I took Mr. Tolkien's words a bit too much to heart: "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit." Granted, as a child I wanted to resemble the noble Lady Eowyn for her courage and audacity, and I had hoped to avoid connection with the silly, munchkin-like hobbits. Now, however, I've realized two significant concepts:

1. Hobbits have a humble nobility and quiet greatness (redundant, yes - - but also hobbitlike)
   


2. Eowyn was not simply "brave": she was in a suicidal despair. Not nearly as much fun.

I would rather not, at least on a romantic, aesthetic level, have exterior associations with hobbit-folk. Really, what woman wouldn't rather remind her friends of Eowyn, beautiful warrior maid (better: Galadriel or Arwen... Elf-Queens!!?!) than short, hairy-footed people that live in little round houses underground?

The point that I have, in all my geek glory, successfully evaded for two paragraphs, shall now make an appearance: I tend toward hobbit-ness more often than elf-queen or warrior-maid. Blech. My poor, feminine, romantic heart wilts just a little at the thought. Before all of the Tolkien fans start heaving mathoms at me, I will offer an advance disclaimer: this post will certainly not focus on the less-admirable attributes of our little friends (Or of me, to be honest) . And, please, D., refrain from all snorts until all names have been announced. :)

This week, I stayed inside my emotional hobbit-hole, dark and cozy and self-absorbed. I took care of my responsibilities, e.g., kid's karate summer camp, SOAR at GSC, some prep for classes, RGTR orientations, dinner for my boyfriend (Bertolli!). I even fed my cats at the designated times and with requisite kitty-cat-talk. But when I wasn't take care of my BIG responsibilities, I avoided phone calls, neglected email, and slept on my couch* --> always a bad sign for me. Generally, I navel-gazed myself into pseudo-depression. Awful. Now, I know you're waiting with bated breath, wondering what the heck was wrong with me this weekend.

As I reflect (now on day 2 of this attempted post), I am learning that I have a few great fears in my heart, and that they typically manifest as minor insecurities until a major event propels me inward toward selfish introspection:

1. Fear of losing my drive for excellence and becoming lazy and "sufficient," rather than outstanding.


2. Fear of incompletion; i.e., becoming a woman that starts many things and finishes none.


3. Fear of mediocrity - coming in 2nd or 3rd instead of shining at the top.

Again, all of these major insecurities appear as minor complaints and worries in almost all aspects of my life - professionally and personally. I want to be the best teacher, best friend, best girlfriend, daughter, sister, karate student - obviously, however, if I'm human, it's virtually impossible to truly be the "best" at anything, much less the best at all of those roles. And thus, the fear of failure, of "mediocrity," raises its head and a cycle begins. I "fail" (per se), feel defeated, wonder if everyone has lost faith in me and my abilities, question my desires and dreams, and basically whine myself into a deep, dark hobbit-hole.

B. has said a number of times that I'm "ruled by my insecurities"; after a lengthy discussion last week about this very topic - and that specific comment - I recognize both the superficial truth and the underlying misdirection that his statement implies. The statement is true, insomuch that I believe most of us use our insecurities as both motivation to succeed and as excuses for failure, thus attesting to the bilateral nature of...well... our nature in general. On the other hand, B.'s comment misleads the object of the statement into an incorrect understanding of one's capacity for growth, either emotional or mental. Basically, when he says that I'm "ruled by my insecurities," I hear "You are incapable of growing as a person because you are controlled by fear rather than a sense of adventure, desire for success, or confidence in your strengths." Of course, he didn't mean it that way - he wants me to "see" myself as he does, which is, by all accounts, in a very, very good light. :)

The point? I have pondered and wandered and explored and explained, trying to find my way out of my own head and back into myself. That is, the self that tries (and fails, often) to become more selfless, even as I hold onto my own ambitions and dreams. I'll offer up my quote, though many of you have seen it. This quote, from Carl Sagan's Contact, feels... right... to me:

"She was determined to be as tough-minded as possible, without abandoning the sense of wonder that was driving her in the first place."

Perhaps I just needed to get this navel-lint out on paper, for all the world** to see, and now I can focus on OTHER THINGS. Whew. Blegh - it was icky in there. I think, for a start, I'll attempt to eliminate all of those self-deprecating comments that aren't really that funny, and really only represent a bid for attention and external ego-pumping (hehe - that's almost bad). After that, the world is my oyster! I will rule! I will become sheer...

~~~~~~
*Obligatory YouTube link.
**Or, any vaguely interested parties.

Happy Snuggle Day!

Love,

Your Funny Valentine :)


(and now the citation for the pic... darn MLA indoctrination)
"UR So Sweet Nom Nom." ICanHasCheezburger.com. Access date: 14 February 2008.
http://icanhascheezburger.com/2008/01/23/funny-pictures-ur-so-sweet-nom-nom/.

Warm head, warm heart.

I finally finished my Christmas gifts - and, yes, I do realize that it's now into the month of February. Lucky for me, the recipients of said gifts reside in the far reaches of New England. My Aunt Elaine lives in upstate New York, in Watertown (or thereabouts), and my grandmother lives in VERY upstate New York: Peru. When I heard that my Aunt's region had received more than three feet this winter, I knew I had some time to spare. Technically, I didn't really, since Christmas gifts are usually, that is to say, traditionally given on or at least near Christmas, and I've extended that deadline a little beyond the pale this time around.*

But at least I finished two little projects!

First, a k1p1 rib neckwarmer for my Gramma (modeled here by my lovely colleague-who-must-not-be-named):




















And for my Aunt Elaine, who is a snow-mobiler extraordinaire, a warm headscarf/earwarmer thingy from knitty, called "Calorimetry". Two models this time: myself (pic #1) and my reading colleague Joy (#2 & #3):

fig. 1














Typical "headbands" always slide off my big head, so the stretchy rib and wide band of this one is perfect. Yay!

fig. 2 & 3












Doesn't she look ready to brave the winter winds? My favorite part about this headscarf is that if the wearer has short hair, curly or straight, the scarf won't "flatten." Likewise, a long-haired girl like me can wear a pony tail and still keep the old ears warm.

Now, for my dad's deliciously warm (and fast) seed-stitch scarf. Not the greatest pic in the world, but red it weirdly hard to photograph:

Luscious,thick, marvelous "soft chunky" from Twinkle knits. Yum!














And on another, other note...

I also started using DPNs yesterday, for my first pair of socks. No pics yet... not too many rows yet... but I have hopes that my confused fingers will learn to deal with four needles at once.

Bryan wants some warm, soft, bed socks, so I chose a pattern that calls for some baby alpaca. What Bryan wants, Bryan gets. Sometimes. :) I took (dragged?) him to Main Street Yarns last Saturday to pick his yarn, and he chose a very masculine charcoal gray. I'm having the time of my life figuring out sock knitting, and I must send a million thanks to the amazing Amy at KnittingHelp.com. She's outstanding!

Happy Knitting!

~~
*Note: If you visit my blog for the spectacular wordplay and lexical nuance, then today's post will disappoint you. I'm awfully sleepy, but so proud of my finished projects that I had to share anyway, regardless of inept semantics. Or something.

1.5 hours later...

I figured out a workaround for my Yahoo! avatar (to the right, there) image. I think that sometimes programmers, in a well-intentioned effort to help the less-savvy consumer (or blogger, in this case) have a more streamlined experience in techno-communication. Thus, the new blogger templates with "widgets." Call me old-fashioned, and nerdy, but I found the classic HTML templates much easier to use, since I could actually see the code I needed to fix or change. I wasn't great at it, but at least I could figure out the location of the issue.

This question, of course, brings me to an issue in the personal computer war that I have spent much time considering: Macs vs. PCs for people-friendly interfaces. Here's the thing: PCs represent (or used to, anyway) a sort of technology designed around the geeks of the world: those users that were versed in regedit and dos (do you remember Tandy's first "desktop" program?! So. Cool. I spent hours playing with those settings.../sigh. The old days) or at least those users adventurous enough to just dive in and figure it out. Macs, on the other hand, were specialized, right from the beginning. I remember when "Apples for Education" was all the rage and the cute rainbow symbol was a marketing tool for less expensive, less powerful, less geek-cool Apple computer. Now, that same Apple logo is translucent, or white, a representation of the graphic friendly, architecturally clean Mac.

The PC is powerful, cheap(er), ubiquitous, and generally easier to "figure out" for even mildly competent users. For instance, if I want to make sure that a program has been completely cleaned from my system, I can easily access the registry and search for log files to delete, etc.

The Mac, also powerful, costs a whole lot more, and I have yet to figure out how to fix my darn machine if anything goes wrong. Interestingly, however, I've had my laptop since 2003, and it has NEVER crashed. Ever. Not a blip. I have had problems, however, on a more hardware level. First, the ultra-cool battery adapter that came with the system had an overly thin cord that wore through in less than a year, since I had to wrap it to keep it in my laptop case. On the Apple website, a new one cost nearly $100. On Mac Mall, I got an off-brand for under $40. It's still working. Second, my screen is doing this weird thing, as if the inner wires are not connecting properly unless I set it exactly perfectly. Thank goodness for PeachMac.

But it's so pretty... and I will insist that the Expose feature, along with amazing overall stability and incredible graphic/video capability (and the pretty), make the Mac a special kind of machine. I just hate that I can't fix it myself if I wanted to.

It's kind of like owning a Volkswagen. Oh, wait...



I guess I'm a sucker for pretty.

Have a Happy New Year's Eve!

Go here.

My little bro is in Hyderabad, India. Go read his ultra-cool blog about his trip!

Good morning!

You might be a cat owner if you laugh at this:




I laughed until I cried, but only because of the similar agony that Galaxy and Xander subject me to every morning.

Putting the "super" back in "supersonic"

I'm back! I'm trying to eat right, exercise, the works. After talking to the now-famous Mel (the Yarn Harlot blogs about her!!) I have decided that part of the plan for fitness must also include accountability. So...I'm going public. I have a link on the left, under "kicking" for my diet/fitness info that I will update daily.

Funny thing - when the world will have a record of one's eating habits, it's really tough to grab that handful of peanut-butter M&Ms and chow down.

If you're curious, check it out. Otherwise, keep moving. Nothing more to see here.

Happy Wednesday!

Always in style...

You Are

A Classic Pumpkin Face You would make a good pumpkin pie.

What's Your Pumpkin Face?

The wait is over.

I've dreamed of fame for most of my life. I've never really yearned for the "fortune" half of that colloquialism; I've just always wanted my name in lights.

And here it is.

I guess I really am a force of nature. (bah-dum-dum-crash!).

By the way, for those of you just joining us for "Heroes," Mel sent me this link to the corresponding online, interactive graphic novel. I've only flipped through the first chapter, but it has already impressed me, in terms of both the artistic content and the storyline.

On that note, I'd like to relate a brief conversation that B and I had about the quality of writing on television these days. Although we bemoan the dearth of good programming with the advent of the "reality TV" shows - and, yes, even Project Runway has its critics - Bryan proposed that the subsequent excess of writers-without-jobs actually creates higher-quality writing for the remaining shows. Sort of an Adam Smithsian effect in Hollywood: low demand, high supply means that producers have their pick of the litter.

I suppose that means that all of the fans of "Lost," "Battlestar Galactica," "Heroes," "House," and pretty much all of the HBO serial programming should give a great big (albeit tongue-in-cheek) HOLLA! to "Flip This House!" and "The Bachelorette 17 (or whatever)." We, of the intelligent, articulate viewing audience thank you, Jessica Simpson, for your marital silliness. Thank you, too, Paula and Simon, for humiliating hundreds of wanna-be superstars. And you, MTV: we thank you for forgetting about that "music video" nonsense and turning to reality shows for your primary revenue.

We thank you as we watch polar bears prowl in the jungle and cheer as adorable Hiro stops time; as we ponder the weird disease of House's patient and despise the pathetic Dr. Baltar.

Go reality TV!

Ouch.

My blog is worth $0.00.
How much is your blog worth?

Who knew?*

Clearly I'm reading other folks' blogs because I stole the idea from Anita.**


~~~~~~
*Rhetorical question. I know, I need to post more. Yadda-yadda, etc.
** Shameless plug.

Polonius-ness

Well, hey ya'll.

It's been a while. I think the thing with the job thing is all getting up in my stuff. And everything. Anyways.

It's not bad, having a full-time gig with benefits and retirement, etc. I went to the doctor for $20 on Friday,* bought groceries (even some /gasp, items that weren't on sale, just for kicks) even took care of dry cleaning that's spent the last 18 months in my car. Oh, and I paid all of my bills. All of them. Even the ones several months overdue. Now that's something to write home about.

I have learned something interesting, though. Even now, I clip coupons, buy generics, peruse clearance racks, curb impulse buying - in short, even when I technically have the money, I have developed such stringent habits from the days of pb & j sandwiches and keeping the A/C turned off, that I continue to practice them. (that "in short" turned into rather a long - and awkwardly phrased - series of dependent clauses... very Polonial. Poloniusal. You get it.) I mean, what better thrill than when you hand the cashier a sheaf of coupons for items that one had intended to purchase anyway, and watch the savings rack up to $20?! Well, my record is only $19.26 @ ye olde Publix, but STILL!

It's good to be chea... err, thrifty. Less money spent = less thinking about money. {End blog topic.}

{Begin anew, anon}

Okay, Wil Wheaton. Either you know his name, or you don't, and either you loved him in ST:NG, or you hated him. Make no never mind either way, 'cause Wesley is gone and Kyle has arrived. Well, Kyle + Rosemary, to more precise. It's the cartoon debut event of the season! All the cool kids will be watching! Plus, the artist, Jun, sent me stickers, like this one, when I complimented her work on her blog. I love cool people. Especially geeky cool people.

Oh, and BY THE WAY, I have a very profound apology to make to all of my friends, neighbors, and strange people in parking lots who insisted that I start watching "Heroes" last year. You were right, I was wrong. It really IS "that good," as Bryan and I have repeatedly stayed up to 3 and 4am to finish the DVDs as they come in from Netflix. If you're not watching, or you haven't watched last season, make like an egg and get crackin' because Season 2 starts on the 24th. Of September, that is. Sylar is waiting, and he's starting to get hungry... (um. ew. sorry)

I would like to dedicate this blog to Heather. She knew that I'd come back, and it was her faith that urged me on (in more ways than one).

Happy Monday!

~~~
* I also learned that I owed $500 from a previous - uninsured - visit, but they're letting me pay in increments. It ain't bad.

Who's scruffy-lookin'?

Luke, I am your father. (sorry about the ads - the only site I could find with a good video)

Also, if you're interested, new book review on ktgwords (from my copy for the "By the Book" section of Lake Oconee Living Magazine, with additional unpublished material). Enjoy!

This just in: Class counts

At least, actually attending class counts. Again, the research demonstrates that student self-motivation [read: personal responsibility] acts as the fundamental component for a successful education.

Duh.

Look, I'll admit to skipping my fair share of classes as an undergraduate. Usually, however, I skipped out on the huge lecture classes and, quite rightly, ended up with a "B" instead of the "A" that I could have earned. I, however, will never, ever complain that the prof. was unfair or biased. I take full credit for any and all mediocre grades that I earned. I wasn't dumb - just, shall we say, lackadaisical.

All of this techie-stuff we've added to teaching, e.g. WebCT, online courses, podcasting, class chat rooms, blogging requirements, and even student shared folders, are only supplemental. And, in some cases, detrimental, insomuch that students get wrapped up in the techno-frustration of reams of new programs, professor-specific methodologies & processes, and the sometimes questionable sincerity engendered in a system, although becoming less-so, that requires additional levels (and angles) of cognition.

Thanks for reading today's blip. Happy Wednesday!

Recipe for a cyborg nation.

Start with one of the most interesting - yet oddly disconcerting - books of satire and speculation that I have ever read:

Limbo, by: Bernard Wolfe

Fold in a little modern controversy:

Amputee Sprinter

Sprinkle some knowledge of the Transhumanism Movement, Modern Pop-Culture "Cyborg" research, and CyberPunk (Informatics, etc)

And thus we have the (very beginnings of) a debate. Get to reading, friends! I'll be back later with some thoughts.