The Zero Review

1. Jejune, R.I.P., “Early Stars”
I first heard Jejune at the Troubadour in Los Angeles back in the late ‘90s. (That wasn’t the show when I was stung by a bee at the ol’ Troube, thank goodness, although other pitfalls have come and gone) (see, the stage has this metal stripping around the edges to hold the carpet down that catches on your jeans and leaves you with a row of unstitched denim tufts along your thighs) (I tell you, I was always due for some form of self-destruction when I went to the Troubadour, sometimes mild, like thrashing my jeans, and sometimes extreme, like the time the singer for Death By Stereo crouched down on one knee, grabbed me by the hair, wrenched my face up next to his sweaty, unshaved cheek, and we screamed into a spit-saturated mic for a stanza; now that was a sore throat...alas, I digress.) Jejune was playing on a four-band bill that also included Gameface (suck city, man), Sense Field (a revelation), and Jimmy Eat World (pretty dang good, really—this was before they sold their musical souls for a hit single). Jejune performed second.
So I’m waiting for Jejune to start, and this tiny woman—Araby Harrison, I’d later discover, the band’s singer—walks up on stage and straps on a dirt-brown Fender bass that’s nearly as big as she is. By the time she put it down, I swore that I’d name one of my daughters Araby. I was totally in love, blown away, eagerly entertaining all the cliché superlatives that suddenly had new meaning in light of what I’d heard. This track, “Early Stars,” perfectly captures what I experienced—a slightly bad sound system, roaring guitars, and Araby’s pouty alto-cum-diaphragm voice plunging through the mix like an icepick into tapioca pudding. It’s what made second-wave emo so exciting when it first emerged from rock’s underbelly: oscillating dynamics, pathetic (see: pathos) vocals, two-guitar harmony—and it all flowed from this girl like lava.
When I left the Troubadour, my ride’s car was being towed down the street.

2. Counting Crows, Films About Ghosts: The Best of Counting Crows, “Angels of the Silences”
Who says that Counting Crows can’t R-A-W-K? No one, hopefully, after hearing this barn-burner. I can only imagine how many speakers they blew recording it. And, yet, it’s more than that; after all, Counting Crows is staffed by a group of very talented, trained musicians, and to merely rock would be beneath them.
Thus, we have this, a very refined stompfest. On one hand, the rhythm guitar bangs out a moderately fast, palm-muted four-chord pattern (G#5—Amaj—Emaj—B5, if you care) for most of the piece. On the other, the lead guitar solo in the middle is so incredibly musical (it even briefly hints at an oblique motion-based run toward its climax) that you know that no theory-devoid punker could have conjured it, even by accident. Add to this Adam Duritz’ voice, which—in my opinion—sounds fantastic when it’s strained, and you’ve got a winner.

3. Tom Waits, Big Bad Love (Music from the Motion Picture), “Long Way Home”
I’m no Tom Waits fanatic, but the genius of this song is self-evident. His voice—which was described in his lawsuit against Frito-Lay as “a raspy, gravelly singing voice [...] [,] like how you’d sound if you drank a quart of bourbon, smoked a pack of cigarettes and swallowed a pack of razor blades [...] [l]ate at night [...] [a]fter not sleeping for three days”—is present in all of its tainted glory. I’m not sure whether this song is inspirational—when Norah Jones later covered it, she made it infinitely more poppy, more upbeat, and I’m not if that’s correct—or not, but it is what it is, and it’s honest. Waits is no sellout, even when he writes a song for a movie, and that’s one of the biggest compliments I can give.
I’ll confess that the first time I heard Waits sing, I didn’t like it. Nope. That voice was just too much, the growling and all. But I took a deeper listen, and that voice—which previously had sounded like fingernails on a very coarse chalkboard—took on a tenderness that few vocalists achieve. For further evidence, take a look at Waits’ album Mule Variations, which is simply unbelievable in its blue-tinged notes.
An interesting anecdote: When Waits’ son asked him why he didn’t have a regular job like everyone else, he said, “In the forest, there was a crooked tree and a straight tree. Every day, the straight tree would say to the crooked tree, ‘Look at me...I'm tall, and I'm straight, and I'm handsome. Look at you...you're all crooked and bent over. No one wants to look at you.’ And they grew up in that forest together. And then one day the loggers came, and they saw the crooked tree and the straight tree, and they said, ‘Just cut the straight trees and leave the rest.’ So the loggers turned all the straight trees into lumber and toothpicks and paper. And the crooked tree is still there, growing stronger and stranger every day.”
Well said, sir.

4. The National, Alligator, “Abel”
ALERT! The National is now my favorite contemporary band—and this song comes very close to being the band’s shout-along anthem. You must download this song. You must. You will then not be able to get it out of your head, but that’s a good thing. You can dance to it. You can yell to/at it. You will thrill. The percussion work alone is worth a Nobel Prize.

5. The New Amsterdams, Story Like a Scar, “Turn Out the Lights”
The New Amsterdams emerged from The Get Up Kids, a lovely little indie-pop group that I must’ve seen live about half a dozen times. This is the definition of sweet melancholy, and I love it. It doesn’t depress, either, which is always a plus.

Well, I think I’ve rambled enough.

Theme songs

I like to have theme songs to keep me company. I'm sitting here, watching Elizabethtown (ah, yes, the obsession returns) with Ladies Jane and Virgina, and thinking about how good music can make any story--even my English major life--seem brilliant.

Lately the song has been "As Far as I Know" from Paul Westerberg's Folker album (courtesy of The Zero Review). I know it's been a while since I've done this, so I hope you haven't grown too used to editorgirl sans lyrics, because here it comes.

I'm in love with someone that doesn't exist
Keep looking for them everywhere I go
I'm in love with something that doesn't get kissed
It doesn't exist
As far as I know

I'm in love with a face that I've never seen
Once upon a place long time ago
I'm in love with a time that never took place
That's easy to trace
As far as I know

And I know everything that I need to sing
I know everything I'm in love with the sound that I never hear
As long as I watch your TV show
I'm in love with that girl that doesn't resist
That doesn't exist
As far as I know

As far as I know, the stars in the sky are dull
As far as I know, compared to your eyes only
As far as I know

I know everything I need to sing
I know everything
I erase the drums, that won't hurt me none
I'm in love with a dream I had as a kid
I wait up the street until you show
That dream it came true, but you never do
No you never did
As far as I know

I hope you made it through the song--it's beautiful and fantastic and you should come visit me and ask for a listen. And then I'll clarify that I'm not thinking about a girl. Promise. No lesbian inclinations here. But the rest became surprisingly accurate last night.

Because there is a boy.

Actually, I'm going to revise that with "man," but same thing.

He's someone I met last year and I never thought I'd ever see him again. But I did, last night. And he remembered me. But in this case, the theme song is all too appropriate.

[/sappy stupid girly soap-opera trash]

12:20 a.m. What this means, so I don't have to puzzle it out when my head is on straight: it means that my finding said male attractive is about as productive as my finding John Cusack attractive. And we all know how that story ends.

any minute now

You really should just skip over this post and read The Zero Review.


I tried to explain to Lady Jane tonight that I feel like something is missing in my life. If you look at my poetry, and even my posts, it's what I spend most of my time thinking about--the gaps, the absences, the holes. I'm not complete yet and no, before someone says this, I don't ever expect to feel complete or satisfied or perfect. I don't want perfect, at least not yet. But I want to feel. . . something. (Perhaps what is missing is the ability to articulate.)

I asked the Jester tonight if he wanted to see Death Cab for Cutie with me in August. (For the newcomers, the Jester is my almost 16 year old brother.) He wasn't too excited. Wait. Let me rephrase that--he wasn't excited at all. Even when I told him I'd pay, that it would be my birthday present to him. I told him to think about it.

My family was in P-town on Monday and brought the treadmill with them. This isn't a normal occurence. In fact, it was a pain. But they left the treadmill in my front room and I've found a nice alternative to eating my weight in whatever is close at hand. Round one for Mom.

I sent my poetry off to Bat City Review. I have a few more on the list, provided I can get my printer working again. Oh, and USF (South Florida) is now at the top of my list for PhD. Jay Hopler is there. Jay Hopler is amazing. And they're in the process of designing something similar to Houston, which should be in place just in time for me to start.

Adam Zagajewski is in the June edition of Poetry. I'll be picking it up tomorrow, along with some decent running shoes. I've been wearing flip flops on the treadmill. Not a good idea.

Good idea: good night.

The Zero Review

I do have many important things to say/blog, but these brilliant music reviews written by my brilliant friend Zero keep showing up in my inbox and it seems such a waste to not share them with you. So this is me, sharing. Take it away, Zero.



1. New Order, Singles: New Order, “Ceremony” AND Joy Division, Still, “Ceremony (Live)”
As most people wearing black Joy Division t-shirts know, New Order was formed from the ashes of Joy Division after Ian Curtis, Joy Division’s lead singer, killed himself. This song, “Ceremony,” was never recorded in a studio before Curtis’ death, although it can be heard on Joy Division’s live album, Still. The quality on that track is really awful, although it gives a glimpse into what this song was supposed to sound like, that is, before Bernard Sumner and company recorded it in the studio as New Order. Now, Bernard was a fine guitarist, a fine singer, but it’s interesting to see the two songs side by side. When Mr. Sumner sings it, it’s moody, sure, but Sumner’s voice just has a hint of muted—happiness?—to it, the same happiness you hear in songs like ”Bizarre Love Triangle” (admit it, you’ve danced to it, we all have). When Curtis sings it, though, it’s a shout in the dark, a man screaming to be heard above himself. Watching forever, indeed.

2. Onelinedrawing, Sketchy e.p. #1, “Aeroplanes”
Onelinedrawing is the name for Jonah Mantrega’s solo project after he finished up Far. I saw him play numerous times in California, and he always kept my attention—no small feat. One time at the Troubadour in L.A., I was stung by a bee in the middle of his set, right about the time when he invited a drunk guy up on stage to sing with him (“That’s the death of emo,” he quipped, and he was right). Anyway, I love the guy’s voice. Nothing more, nothing less.

3. Jimmy Eat World, Clarity, “Blister”
I’ve said a lot about Jimmy Eat World in the past, namely that I think they’re the biggest sellouts since the Beach Boys turned “Good Vibrations” into a soft-drink commercial. However, I finally figured out why their songs are so hit-and-miss: Whenever Jimmy (the guy with the center-parted hair who sings most of J.E.W.’s recent songs) writes music, the songs suck like an anteater. Whenever Tom writes the songs (he’s the guy in the background who usually plays a Gibson SG guitar), they’re awesome. You can tell who wrote which song by who sings it; it’s that simple. Tom has a deep, throaty growl that’s tailor-made for rock. Jimmy always sounds like a part of his body is being slowly pressed onto an electric stove. So, yeah, Tom wrote this song. Enough said.

4. The Sundays, Static and Silence, “Summertime”
This further proves that I’m in touch with my sensitive side. This is a bubbly, perky, reverb-drenched love song about honeymooning in a heart-shaped hotel room right before World War III strikes. Smile!

5. Elliott, False Cathedrals, “Superstitions in Travel”
After recording the pummeling post-hardcore-meets-emo record U.S. Songs, Elliott recorded this album, which sounds like the band was collectively producing—and then explosively burning—serotonin at a breakneck rate. Schizophrenia never sounded so fun. Elliott was one of the best live acts around (R.I.P.!), and I saw them once at DV8 on West Temple. Brilliant stuff, really. At a different show, a friend of mine was standing next to the guitarist—who was a maniac, believe you me—when the guitarist swung his guitar around, hit himself in the face, and completely snapped his own jawbone in half (!). There was a lot of blood, too, but the guitarist just ran up to my friend, slumped against him, and finished the song. I don’t know if he went to the hospital or not.

with Trent

from across the room she looked beautiful

This is becoming a miniseries: "The World's First Unmanned Flying Desk Set's Attempt to Find a Man." At least this installment will be short.

I visited my sister at her office today--she's a secretary on campus. We were chatting, but I was multitasking, seeing as how there was a cute boy with an empty ring finger sitting behind the front desk using the phone. I looked at him and he looked at me, which was an unusualy experience, and I thought, "Huh."

I had no sooner had this profound moment that the boy asked me if I was a friend of LaLa's. We both grinned and revealed our secret--we're sisters. And for a brief moment life as far as flirting goes looked very good. And then. . . (here ends the chapter to keep you reading). . .

And then my sister did something both wonderful and terrible. She told him about me. I teach 115 and 218. I'm a grad student. I'm brilliant. She was talking to Mom and they decided I'm a creative genius.

It was nice to hear my sister say these things.

At least for me. But with each new accomplishment/compliment, the boy withdrew from the conversation. I stuck around to attempt another round of flirting, but the chips had fallen and not in my favor.

"Against My Will" feat. Lady Jane

So after the momentary lapse in focus, we're back. Hormones, people. And there's not enough chocolate in the world this month. Trust me. I've looked.

What does this mean? It means we're talking about men. Because Lady Jane is a more mature and thoughtful person that myself, we're going to talk. . . not physical characteristics. His hair shall be (as Melyngoch reminded me) what color it please God, but there are certain other characteristics we can't pass on (as my anonymous readers will remind me).

Rich. Jane and I can't really comment on this. We're English MAs, which means we've resigned ourselves to lives of poverty. To be quite honest, I don't care what he does as long as he loves it. I don't want to wind up listening to complaints about accounting or business.

Jane: "If he wants dough in this relationship, it's BYOM: bring your own money."

Wise. Hi. Professors. Academics. Intellectuals. And for me, I'm going to add artist (I personally think lit crit is an art, but I'll let Jane speak for herself.) It has become a problem that the gents in Provo who are around my age are My Students. Good grief, hell, and good night. Yet another reason why I must leave this town.

Jane: "This is what I think. I think that the most important thing in a marriage is that you feel the same philosophically. Does that make sense? So that way you can raise children together. There's a quote that says every child needs an exemplary father and a wise mother. So that means I need to be the wise one. And that's a problem."

Virtuous. Um, I'll let you fill in this blank.

Jane: "We were talking about this in Shakespeare actually. Chastity does not mean celibacy. So as long as we keep inside the marriage, I'm okay."

Fair. Oh wait--we already talked about this. But let me repeat: scruffy.

Jane: "I actually like my guys darker, but I'm not picky. Actually, the guy I have a crush on is like albino, so. . . " (insert brief cat fight between Jane and Virgina)

Mild. Hell no. Easy, fine. Pleasant, of course. But give me a guy with a quick wit who doesn't treat me and my intellect with kid gloves. I'm not fragile. And he shouldn't be either. (I'm realizing now that Benedick is talking about a woman and I'm talking about a man and gender stereotypes do apply.)

Jane: "Or come not near me."

Good discourse. I'm going to be honest here. I like a fight. A fight and a debate and intense times twelve. It makes me feel alive. And I like good banter. There is a certain young man starting the MA this fall who fills this role nicely. Please let him be single and up for a year of playing the peanut gallery.

Jane: "I think you have to. . . " (here Jane trails off in thought)

Jane redeems herself: "I think you have to be with someone who you want to talk to 24 hours a day."

Excellent musician. See Johnny Depp/Roux in "What Makes Him Attractive"

Jane: "Guitars are sexy."

Maybe we digressed a bit, but hey--if it makes me happy.

a priori

I'm having a grinding-shoulder, exploding-Jamba, badly-drawn-hair day.

That being said, I need to address an important issue before tonight. Because after tonight, this post will become obselete.

American Idol.

I joined Lady Jane and co. last night to watch the showdown between Taylor Hicks and Katharine McPhee, with the understanding that I would behave myself. And I did. There are holes in my tongue to prove it. And as tonight is the finale, I need to say a few things.

I want to like Taylor. Probably because he's male and breathing, but also because he's fun, entertaining, etc. Katharine is gorgeous, but not much fun to watch. Taylor wins, hands down.

But then the situation was complicated. The TV was turned off and the brother of Lady Jane turned on sound clips. And while I commented on how if this PhD thing doesn't work out I can always go write lyrics for American Idol (has anyone else realized that AI can also stand for artificial intelligence?), I also noticed that I'd much rather listen/sing along to Katharine. Granted, I probably won't buy either CD. But if the airwaves are going to be assaulted, I'd keep the radio on for Miss McPhee.

That said, my money is still on Taylor. Damn that Simon.

What Makes Him Attractive (in eg's opinion)

There has been some debate/discussion over my choice to tout Channing Tatum (seen here, bottom picture) as an attractive man.

In his defense, it's not his best picture, although it was the best one I could find that was, um, appropriate for my blog (meaning clothed). However, I would like to call your attention to his eyes, his lips, and his suit--I like strong/prominent facial features (i.e., great eyes, defined jaw, etc.). But this has led to at least five minutes of serious contemplation of what I find attractive in a man, which has led to the following (incomplete) list:

Jake Gyllenhaal. Scruffy. A bit on the nerdy side. Brilliant actor. I particularly love him as Hal in Proof.

Adrian Grenier. One of my first celeb crushes. The hair. The eyes. And, of course, the scruff. (Minor obsession here, people.) And in regards to the hair: I'm ornery about hair. He's got to have either a good head of hair or look good bald. The thin inbetween is scary enough that he'd better have one amazing personality to offset this problem. (And if he likes to play with my hair, all the better.)

Johnny Depp as Roux in Chocolat. Love Depp as an actor, but let's be honest: I'm not going to swoon over his Willy Wonka. Roux on the other hand. . . I can just say ditto to the qualities of the guys before (hair, scruff, eyes), and then zero in on the guitar, which is why I chose this pic. I'm a sucker for an artist. Ask my first boyfriend. And it doesn't have to be a musician--it doesn't even have to be fine arts. A guy who is passionate about science or math or Latin is just as sexy to me.

Benedick. I've said this before, but he's my perfect man. Witty. Not a pushover. And, while I do prefer dark features, I needed a blond/redhead/whatever he is. . . I guess we could chat about our unknown hair color.

All the good men

I think sometimes I whine about men/guys/boys so much on this blog that I forget to mention all the many brilliant, wonderful, good men in my life. And while it is easy to acknowledge my dad and brothers here (I'm such a Daddy's girl), it's a little more difficult for me to honestly straight up say that I have amazing guy friends.

So where have they gone? Nowhere, at least not yet. Perhaps it is the great irony of this single girl's life that the men I connect with are the married and the unavailable (for various reasons that I'll let you boys discuss if and when necessary). April and Fob both offered up some great guys for me to bond with, and then the grad program gave me this brilliant circle. How many groups of guys would call a girl like me over to their table to talk shop? (And by shop, I do mean creative writing.)

And I have to pause. Because some of them are gone, some are going. The difficult thing about guy friends is that they don't seem to stick around for a long time.

Anyway, the whole point of this post was to throw this up, as an emotional shout out to all the girls who find themselves in a similar situation. In desparation I asked one of the marrieds where single men in Provo are. I hope he doesn't mind my sharing this. I'll keep his identity a secret, unless he wants credit. And then all the world will know why he is my hero. (I'm so sneaky.)

Warning: This may come off as elitist. I’m sorry I don’t know where single guys hang out, although, in all honestly, I don’t think you need to know. We graduate student-types tend to gravitate toward people we meet in activities that interest us, not meeting people during hang-outs. Of course, you know this, I realize that, but I felt the need to say it. In other words, peoples like us are brainy, so you’ll probably meet your future husband while he’s teaching immigrants English or curing infectious diseases or reading voluminous tomes of “lit” that would render most humans’ brains into slurry from overexertion. Yes, trying to maintain patience bites the proverbial big one. I’ve been there.

Oh, Draconian devil!

Confession one: I read The DaVinci Code two Christmas breaks ago.

Confession two: I saw The DaVinci Code on Friday.

I’m not sure why I feel slightly guilty about reading the book or seeing the movie. Probably because both are considered overrated by people I consider “intelligent.” But if you take them for they’re supposed to be (yes, I do have that song stuck in my head now)—which is a mystery novel/movie—they’re not bad. In fact, they present an interesting blending of genres, introducing academic/theological questions to the general public via the mystery novel. (And yes, I consider the general public all those people I growl at when I’m at the bookstore or the library or driving. . . and if you know me, you know what I would say.)

So let’s talk about the movie. Because I do think you should see it. And, let’s be honest. you probably are going to see it, if you haven’t already. I’ll try not to spoil it for anyone, but if you’re a wimp when it comes to critical reviews, back away from the blog now.

I read about halfway through the book again before I saw the movie. The biggest problem I anticipated was translating the long passages of explanation to film. Most of it was internal monologuing or explaining the Priory of Sion and Opus Dei and the history of the Holy Grail. And they did follow the kind of traditional flashbacking: showing the Knights Templar, etc., as they told the story. But the most effective moments of this (for me) was when they would layer time periods—not so much a flashback as walking through history.

The movie has the same problems the book has: it slows down in the middle. You can only watch people solve mind clues for so long before you want to tell them to throw it out with the Friday crossword. Also, for a book centered around preserving the idea of the sacred feminine, there’s only one female character. Where have all the women gone? We don’t freaking know. (If you think about it, the story is terribly male chauvinist: men protecting/preserving women. And I’ll continue with anyone who wants to discuss this with me, but I don’t want to spoil the plot. It’s not worth it.)

The movie is well cast. Tom Hanks isn’t annoying for once. Audrey Tautou wasn’t Amelie, but she wasn’t supposed to be. (I was annoyed that they gave Hanks a lot of her lines from the book.) Ian McKellen, always good, and particularly so here. Alfred Molina wasn’t used enough. And after that laundry list, I want to end on my favorite: Paul Bettany. His Silas is brilliant and awesome and terrible and sad—without becoming tragic or melodramatic. (Although, as Lady Jane observed, how many movies has that guy gone completely naked in? Can we count that high?)

deconstruct your world until you account for it

The eg breakdown. Or break down. Whatever you prefer.

I was watching Hitch Monday night with Virgina and Lady Jane. This was after dinner at the India Garden, picking up Tolkien Boy, rice pudding at Pudding on the Rice, She's the Man at the dollar. It was late and admittedly in that frame of a few hours where you go beyond social constraints to complete unabashed honesty.

So I told Tolkien Boy that I'm in love with him.

Um, kidding.

Actually, I dropped TB at his place and headed to Virgina's to meet up with the girls, at which point in time we mostly discussed about how gorgeous this gentelman is. Channing Tatum, model turned Amanda Bynes' co-star in She's the Man. Really cute. And not my usual type.

So what was on my mind? Men, of course. I probably do have areas of my brain devoted to other topics, but they aren't getting much play time lately. Must find new topic of conversation/thought. . . . Really cute.

Dammit.

authentic my. . .

So I'm home. Which means Virginia and Lady Jane are also home and we're sad not to be together in the car or the house or in front of the Bellagio watching the water show. And yes, I should be sleeping. Or if I'm not going to sleep, I should at least be reading Momaday's House Made of Dawn for class tomorrow. Shame on me. (I love guilt ridden blog posts, don't you?) Since I arrived in Provo around 11:30, I have managed to avoid responsibility by (ooh, it's another eg list!)

1. Showing Sister (formerly known as LaLa) purchases made at the Primm factory outlet stores (there was going to be a blog entry titled "Primm and proper" about Lady Jane's and my outing, but, alas, no wireless connection to be found chez Virgina's parents)

2. inspecting my new phone (same number people, but as my phone broke, I no longer have your phone numbers. Please donate to the cause.)

3. considering ringtones with the help of Saule via IM (current contenders are Cake's "No Phone," Goo Goo Dolls "Broadway," Lauryn Hill's "Doo Wop," and Guster's "Fa Fa"). If you have a suggestion, please let me know. I hate decisions and I hate. . . other things.

4. Bath.

5. Attempted sleep. Not working. Going to look for more ringtones. Maybe sleep.

P.S. Edgy: Come to Fob. We still need to celebrate.

buzz goes the phone

What should I blog about? How about Lady Jane and our not-so-newly found Third Musketeer, which LJ and I have just now (I'm serious, just just now) nym'd. . . nevermind. Jane is too busy finding out who was booted off American Idol tonight. And I wish I could tell you, but she's too busy freaking. . . Chris. Chris got booted off. This is because last night Chris was the incredible singing mannequin. Yes, I watched. Yes, I am ashamed of myself.

So, the Three Musketeers. Why do I need to name every group I take part in? How about because it makes life easier for all of us? Or just because I'm cool like that. Or because I like names and words and everyone knows Three Musketeers are low in fat.

You've been introduced to Lady Jane before, but I'm not sure if you've really met her. She's a babe. Well, we all are. Maybe I should get out what else we all have in common: all female, all English grad students, all. . . there was something else, but I forgot.

Lady Jane is from Washington, some place with a really long funny name. Served a mission in New York. She is studying the Gothic novel or something like that. I really need to get to know my best friends better.

As for the third. . . we'll call her Virginia, due to her thesis topic, the late great Virginia Woolf. And no, number three/Virginia is not suicidal. I don't think. I really should check this stuff out before I make friends. A survey or questionnaire or something. She's petite in stature, not so much in personality. (TB, this is your opportunity to triangle us. And then I'll growl at you and you'll tell me not to look at you that way and I'll slug you and this isn't about you anyway.)

Virginia is from Vegas, which happens to be where our dear friend (yes, D'Artagnan) is getting married on Saturday. And we're going to road trip. Road Trip! We leave Friday, and while it won't be as acclaimed the December Fobtrip, this will be an interesting tangent. . . and now we're going to watch {proof}, because that's what we do.

snooze button on my biological clock

Confession: My life is boring during the summer and I have nothing to report.

Except that I bought Scrubs: Season 3 today. Oh yeah.

about an editorgirl

"Do you want to hear my life story? Cmon. It involves fire eating and a midget." Quinn, Everything You Want

So, am I alive? Yes. What am I alive from? Not a clue.

I just turned into. . . I mean, turned in my grades. It's always. . . and by always I mean the past two semesters. . . a time of guilt and reflection, reflection and guilt. Does he really deserve that grade? In either direction? Was she just kissing up or did she really mean what she wrote in her letter/memo? How am I going to change next semester?

And now that my pondering on grades is over and done with (almost), I'm watching a few minutes of Everything You Want while I type this. Multitasking. It's a gift. EYW, on the other hand, is more a 90-minute DVD of insanity that's giving me weird ideas. . . ideas along the lines of either inventing or hiring a long-distance boyfriend to avoid the joy of this semester's singleness in front of my students. (Once I get out of Provo, this won't matter, right? Right? Anyone? Anyone? Please? I'm begging here.) I figure as long as he looks like Nick Zano or sounds like Orlando Seale, I'm good to go.

This is depressing. What I should be writing about: sending poems out, writing poems, workshopping poems, trips to Macey's and Borders and Barnes & Noble and Target, tomorrow's Fob, putting together a supplemental writing group with KJ, etc., etc., etc.

"Your face is good." Calvin, EYW

And when I reach this point, I should go to sleep.

P.S. And for those who were interested, I have {proof} again. We should watch it.

Confessional

Edited

Lady Jane and I finally got together to purge away the semester from hell tonight. One laughable-plot movie, seven Diet Cokes and half a sandwich later, we have discussed everything from students with crushes (mine) to students who plagiarize (hers) to what music we want on our wedding videos. . . wait, did I actually say that?

So here it comes, from a rather exhausted mind that should be asleep right now:

1. The Book of Love by Magnetic Fields
2. My Baby Loves a Bunch of Authors by Moxy Fruvous
3. Sink to the Bottom by Fountains of Wayne
4. Such Great Heights as covered by Iron & Wine
5. Someone to Watch over Me sung by Ella Fitzgerald
6. something Bollywood

All of these excerpted, of course, and supplemented by future beau's music, provided his taste in doesn't consist solely of showtunes and country.

empty nest

Okay, yes I do know that in order for me to be feeling the pain of empty nest syndrome, I'd actually have to have a nest, but stay with me here.

LaLa and Jeremiah are finally on their honeymoon for ten days.

Roommate is leaving for England and her orchestra tour on Friday.

Substitute Roommate was supposed to move in next Tuesday or so. Now it looks like she's not coming. All because of a dog.

So now, if you will allow me to hijack a phrase that won't apply to me for at least 30 years, I'm stuck in this empty house, most likely at my computer or considering cleaning the kitchen.

Save me.

emBrace me

So the last 617 class--the one held at India Garden--was about vocabulary, about how once you can articulate something, you can navigate it.

This intro, of course, could segue into at least a dozen interesting topics, but I'm afraid only one interests me tonight: my health.

You see, I went home today to visit with an ortho about my shoulder. What about my shoulder? Have you never heard the grinding and popping that occurs when I, oh, move it? For the longest time I didn't realize that it wasn't normal for shoulders to sound like that. But then it started hurting and I started complaining. That was eight years ago. Since then I've been told it's a side effect of carpal tunnel and a shallow socket. Fine, whatever. But since grad school started, the pain has gotten worse, so we finally went to the mattresses. . . I mean, went to a specialist.

After about five minutes of x-rays and five more of having me move my arms in different ways, Dr. Pepper (I'm so serious) diagnosed me with "snapping scapula." Snapping scapula and carpal tunnel. The good news is that surgery isn't the first step--anti-inflammatories and physical therapy are, and a brace for the carpal tunnel (I know you were impatiently waiting for how the title works). If that doesn't work, long needles stuck into the tissue. And if that doesn't work, surgery that will take four months to recover from. I don't have four months to spare.

Damn

Yes, it really is 4:40 a.m. No, I haven't slept tonight. Apparently my body and brain now think that they need to pull an all-nighter every other night. I've spent hours in bed telling them this isn't the case, but they wouldn't listen. The only solution I can come up with that I haven't tried yet is to crash on the couch. I think I could fool them that way. But first. . . ten things I love right now right now.

Pier 1. I suppose I should come up with something generic and/or predictable, but I love going to Pier 1. I can't decorate my house the way I want to yet, but a girl can dream. Or she can buy accent pieces from the Pier, steal/beg/borrow from relatives, and go to

TJ Maxx. Most of my picture frames come from here. I'm an addict. Picture frames, jewlery, and clothes. You have to dig, but it's fun and worth it. I even found Mr. Cogneur a tie there once.

My mother. I can't link to this one, but I'm going to mention that she's the one who taught me how to shop, which in her world means hunting out bargains with the occasional splurge. And since I can't link, let's go with an Easter photo of the family that has everyone except Dad (who was taking the photo) and Sven, speaking of. . .

Educating Archie. This was first a music mix and then my brother Sven's blog. I was messing around this week, trying to avoid paper writing, and I happened to check his blog only to find he's been posting while in the mission field. Somehow I connect better to him in the blogosphere than through email, so I'll keep checking back. Especially for rather interesting thoughts like these.

RomComs. So today my students had their final where they have to present--in groups--what they learned this semester in 115. One of the groups played "Family Feud." They had a question along the lines of "What are [editorgirl]'s favorite kinds of movies?" They said that they were looking for genres. Bollywood was the first answer the class came up with, followed by Divine Comedy, and "John Cusack movies." Maybe I should have taught them how to use a dictionary. . . Anyway, I do love my romcoms (romantic comedies), embarrassing as it is to admit it, although not as embarrassing as admitting that I've spent the past week singing along to

Rascal Flatts. I don't love every song, but there are enough that keep me stealing LaLa's CDs. They're one of my guilty pleasures, along with

tofu.
Rob Thomas, in all incarnations.
Scrubs.
and movies starring Julia Stiles.

And yes, those last four were cop-outs, but the couch is finally calling my name.

Commit me

This should be a post of celebration. And the celebration will come--I promise, cross my heart, etc. But tonight I've been thinking (a dangerous concept / I know).

Everyone. . . okay, every romantic comedy. . . seems to talk about "fear of commitment." Yeah, I don't have that. In fact, I seem to have a flaw in the opposite direction: I overcommit, refusing to back away once I'm committed, regardless how harmful the situation might be.

But everyone must have a fear, right? What else prevents relationships, etc., from happening? (There are other things in life, but why talk about them?) Tonight I realized, in that kind of delayed reaction that makes me really bad at video games, that I'm afraid of rejection. Because rejection means that there must be something wrong with me. I only risk when I'm pretty sure I'll win/succeed or when I'm completely apathetic, or at least can pretend to be.

I'm 99.9% sure you're rolling your eyes at me, but this is the moment in the blog where I hit myself upside the head, so stick around.

I was at dinner last night with my 617 class. The professor zeroed in on me and asked what I wanted to do with my life. . . maybe the question was a little less grandiose, but that's what it felt like. I told her I wanted to be her. . . maybe the answer was a little less grandiose, but that's what I meant. I want to teach and research and write. And she pointed her finger at me in a rather grandiose way (that was real and not for effect this time) and told me I needed to start sending my poetry out, start trying to get published.

I'd like to time out for a second to point out that her first attempt at publication was accepted by the New Yorker and endorsed by Mark Strand.

I'd also like to point out that she's right--I have to try. Even though it means being rejected. Even though Kim was first published in the New Yorker and has this to her credit (and yes I linked that because it's brilliant and I think you should buy it, or at least ask to borrow my copy), she said she still gets rejected at least 70% of the time.

Wait, didn't I say this post was about relationships? Well, that part is much shorter. After five years, I think it's time. Really time. I just wish I knew what that meant.

answergirl

For those of you who are confused, go here.

For those of you who don't care, go here.

And I know it's currently rather sloppy. Forgive me. It will be cleaned up later tonight.

FOBS, Honorary and Not

Master Fob: very expert at passing things off to others (1)
Editorgirl: one girl made angry red marks on a paper with a pen (2)
The Marchioness: the reading girl (2)
Edgy Killer Bunny: I got in trouble once for trespassing and shooting the neighbors rabbits with my BB gun (4)
A. A. Melyngoch: an orange Winnie the Pooh (1)
Queen Zippergut: the sad tale of a queen who had lost her life and her bowels as a result of a number of unfortunate circumstances (5)
Th.: modified the word thanatos, viciously truncating it to two letters(1)
Petra: a large purplish rock (5)
Weed: the weeds (5)
Foxy J: an attractive bluejay (3)
Lady Steed: Lydia, named for one of the characters in The Work and the Glory (4)

Friends I Frequent

Emilie this friend who helps me out in a lot of the dreams I have (4)
Singing Cicada the faint sound of insects (5)
Pieces of Me I'm falling apart (4)
Freelancer I do some freelance work (2)
Sethillama a thick Peruvian accent & “Eet ees like my home in the Andeez. Zee mountains, very famous for zee tourists” (4)
El Veneno Plant had died something less than the good death (5)
The King of Ice A cup of water with a small crown of ice cubes (3)
The Fox Still a fox. (5)
Mr. M. G. I'm Michael Green, the proprietor (3)
The Bard I'm a bard of sorts (5)
Scobberlotch Skaa--brrl--aw--tch (5)
Gilmore Guy Gilmore Girls. (2)
Venerable Ryo bow to the rye (3)
SkyLark a single bird was singing (5)
Mr. Mafia run by organized crime (4)
Special K a box of cereal (1)
Wandering Shepherd a confused-looking shepherd (3)
Yancy play an cyan piano (5)

The Blue-Beta Crowd

Physics Chick one girl frowned as she punched physics equations into a calculator (2)
Eleka Nahmen under a witch's curse, a bad omen (2)
Grad School Guru a graduate student who lives here that goes to every game. A fanatic, of course, but people say he's smart.(5)
Jessica Benet Elizabeth Simpson (4)
Thirdmango a single mango (1)
Cinderella the Cinderella story (5)
Duchess lesser female royalty (6)
Squirrel Boy one of the guys says there's a nest of squirrels in the tree (5)
Brinestone as hot as hades (4)
Ambrosia the food of the gods (4)
Bawb bleed blue and white (5)
Leibniz Leibniz would tell you (2)
Uffish Thought obviously lost in thought (3)
Saule Cogneur one willow tree waving wildly in the wind (3)
Asmond as Monday (4)
Redoubt to doubt again (4)
Naiad Later that night (nocturne) (6)
Miss E Ensign (4)
Morning Glow morning sun was still vibrant in the sky (2)
La Bamba a Ritchie Valens song (3)
Optimistic optimistic thoughts (2)
Photogenic Very photogenic (3)
Azurerocket a blue rocket (3)
LauLau L'ow! L'ow! (4)


Them Whom I Would Like To Meet

Becca: Come avec á mi.” Her Spanish accent turned the vee sound into a b. (4)
Kirsa: a witch’s curse, a bad omen (2)
TK: Turkey King (5)
Rachel: ewes (3)
The Walrus: two tusked walruses battling on a sheet of ice (3)

Whotta Fambly

Bassercussionist I used to play the bass and the snare (5)
The Hurds a herd (3)

The result of pulling an all-nighter, plus the possibility of a second all-nighter, plus almost 2 liters of Diet Coke

I want to take Polish 101 next fall, schedule permitting.

How to write a 20-page paper in one day*

* not recommended for amateurs

11:00 a.m. Finish teaching first-year writing; head to office in order to isolate self from distractions and begin writing paper

11:07 Remember that you need to give Tolkien Boy a new mixed CD

11:08 Stop by Writing Center computer lab to give aforementioned CD to aforementioned boy

11:10 Run into thesis chair in hall; talk to thesis chair about rest of committee

11:14 Stop by graduate offices to check email, shoot the breeze

11:53 Make it to office; open book; see block quote from important source; realize that you don’t have important source; return to grad offices to check library catalog

12:14 Library has book; leave student appointment a note saying that you’ll be right back

12:36 Return to office with book, plus four others, quite pleased with self; begin reading again

1:02 Woken by student knocking on door

1:16 Finish conferencing with student; decide isolation is dangerous; head home to computer

2:30 Sister agrees to wake you so you can take 20 minute nap

6:10 Sister remembers to wake you

7:00 Take bath to wake self up

8:00 Check email; blogs; blue-beta; blogs again; email again

9:45 Decide brain food is needed; run to Pudding on the Rice for an all-night supply

10:00 Decide caffeine is also a good idea; stop at Albertsons

10:03 Recognize happy and recently engaged couple from high school; return to beverage aisle to avoid them

10:06 Decide it’s safe to purchase Diet Coke and leave the store; wind up behind couple in check-out line

10:07 Exchange pleasantries; discuss grad program with Gyn while Guy pays for groceries

10:15 Walk out of Albertsons feeling good about single status

10:16 Single status leads to thinking about SA boy leads to thinking about SA boy leads to thinking about SA boy

10:35 Still thinking about SA boy

10:52 Write thesis by hand; need break—rice pudding and Diet Coke. . . and first few scenes of Clue

12:00 Mr. Body and the cook are dead. Didn’t remember Martin Mull, but he’s funny. Oh, and my paper. . .

12:49 First paragraph!

12:52 Stupid song stuck in my head, thanks to TB, who finally hit his stride. I’m still waiting. . .

1:13 Decide to stop blogging and write the damn thing.

back to the future

I know, I know. Little Miss Blogging Fiend up and disappeared. Well, it's finals time and my life is not my own. Not that it ever has been--at least not for a good long while. So to tide you over, here is the past few days in review and the next week in. . . not review.

Thursday: Happy birthday to me. A good day, with little fanfare and much eating. The family came down for an early dinner at Olive Garden, and then friends came for fondue (thanks for all the help, Brozy). It was an interesting assortment, but a good one, and I felt loved, which I think was the whole point.

Friday: Road trip! to SLC with Saule and Tolkien to meet up with Cindy to. . . what else?. . . shop. Although I think I was the only one to buy anything, and what I bought was books (by Milosz--I highly recommend both Second Space and Road-side Dog). An excellent dinner at Thaiphoon, ran into the Jester and his posse, and did I mention that we were at one of my favorite places ever? I don't know why I love the Gateway in SLC, but it probably has something to do with shopping, eating, and the fountain that scared TB.

Saturday: Date with SA boy. Um, yeah. Have I mentioned that he's the kind of cute that continues to surprise me each time I look at him? And then I'm surprised because he seems interested in what I have to say and that I'm comfortable just chatting with him. . . for hours. We ate at Gurus and then met up with TB and TB's friend for Divine Comedy. Which was brilliant (I'm writing a review and will post that in the near future). Thank you to everyone who coached me through my first date in, oh, a really long time.

Sunday: Church (where I kept my radar tuned to SA boy). And then Easter dinner in Bountiful, with the family and TB and Lady Jane. It was fun, and there will be blackmail pics available in the very near future. And now I have a stack of 115 papers to grade. Yuck.

Monday: Last 115 class of the semester. Write 20-pager (yet to be started) to be turned in on

Tuesday: Last 590R of the semester. Turn in 20-page paper. Last 218R of the semester. Listen to student excuses.

Wednesday, Thursday: Reading days that will be spent preparing for

Friday: 8:00 218R final. Take 590R final (on contemporary poetry of belief) before driving to SLC to turn in a 15-ish page paper articulating a theory for my own writing. Gulp.

Saturday: 2:30 p.m. 115 final.

The nice thing is, after Saturday, I'm done with finals. And during the week I'm planning on supplementing my insanity with trips to Gurus and Pudding on the Rice. . . rice pudding. . . yum.

turning

I've been approaching this week with no small amount of fear or guilt or exhaustion or joy. Tomorrow is not one of the milestones--I'm still a few years away from joining the quarter century club and this birthday will not offer the promise of dating or a driver's license or drinking legally. And I'm aware that I'm a "baby," to quote, oh, everyone. . . everyone until I talk to my youngest sister who is 11 and who, when her Florida- and Rome-bound friends ask her where she's going for spring break, says, "We might get to go to Provo."

Brian Doyle wrote an essay titled "Credo," in which he considers the reasons he is Catholic. I've been mentally composing a similar essay, not about why I'm Mormon, but why I'm me. Tonight seems a good time to throw out some of those ideas, complete with the necessary "end without end, amen, amen, and amen."

I love. I am unabashedly and abashedly passionate about things that do or don't matter, including prayer, the Muppets, modern art, dictionaries, picture frames, earrings, music, dark chocolate, London. But I also love people, a concession I am less eager to make, because admitting that I love people is admitting that I am willing to let people hurt me.

Writing. It was a hobby--a passionate, carefully and carelessly recorded hobby. And now it is one of a few things I refuse to subtract from my life. But it's interesting to see how it winds itself around all those things that I love, including and especially people. April and Fob and inscape and my students. I love a person I've only met a few times in real life because of her writing and her intensity and her brilliance, which you can't ignore. And I love the people who've patiently watched me write to fill the silences I seem to sense without recognizing them as silences.

Maybe this is actually about love, because this paragraph follows on the heels of the other two. I love the arts, not just writing, but the arts I can't enact myself. My writing is necessarily ekphrastic because I can't divorce myself from the movement and color and sound of the world. I love film and theater and theatre and modern art and music--and I've started repeating myself. Which must mean it's important.

Okay, the last thought, I promise. We are whatever we're supposed to be right now. I'm always pushing for the next thing, the next moment. I desparately want to be in a PhD program right now and even more I want to be a professor. Add to that this damn maternal twitch I can't seem to shake, and there's a number of places in life I'd rather be than here. But being there would mean missing out on all the things I just wrote about loving. And in the end, I think love is really all we have. Love in infinite forms. . . end without end, amen, amen, and amen.

half a decade

John Cusack movies I own
Grosse Pointe Blank
Must Love Dogs
Runaway Jury
Say Anything
Serendipity
Sixteen Candles (Oh, he's there.)

John Cusack movie I owned until Sven's roommate disappeared it
Better Off Dead

John Cusack movies I need to own in the near future
Better Off Dead
High Fidelity

There are more lists that belong here, but after that, is really anything else important?

Say What?

Say Anything has a date for Saturday night.



And so do I.



What are the odds?

poor editorgirl indeed

There are some days that are so perfect I don't want them to end. That is so cheesy and Hallmark, but it's the truth. Yesterday was one of those days. I woke up late (11:00), washed my hair (yes, I'm still obsessed with my hair), and met up with Tolkien Boy for the BYU Ballroom Company's "Capture the Magic." Okay, so they need someone to come up with better titles for them (I suggested this to TB as possible post-graduation employment for him), but the dancing was beautiful. I get caught up in the music and the movement. . . maybe not as much as TB, but enough to make it a good few hours. Top it off with a late lunch with Saule and Cindy, and then Arsenic and Old Lace at the Pardoe, and I don't remember being that happy. I kept trying to put off sleep so that the day wouldn't end.

And then I woke up--11:00 again--with an hour to get ready for church. Skirt from LaLa's wedding, a Lauryn Hill song (that woman's voice is the most beautiful sound in the world), and shaved legs. But I was still nervous about church. All those people. Usually I sit with TB and we hold our own meetings of sorts, but today he was teaching--which is always a good thing, but it means I have to behave and listen and stuff.

So I sat with a row of girls during Sacrament Meeting, entertained and disturbed by the homosocial activity in the row in front of me. And then the break. Did I mention TB's parents were there? They were, and they sat in front of me for Sunday School. I choked when TB called on his mother by saying, "Sister Mom." But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It's still the break and we're settling into our seats when I look over and see Say Anything boy across the aisle. There's a bit of a conflict here, because the roommate and I are both interested, but something took over me (hormones maybe?) and I guestured him over to our row and the seat next to me. We chatted for a second and there was a moment when I turned to say something (Say Anything?) to him and I was struck by how cute he is. Anthony Rapp cute.

No way to end this. Actually I know the perfect way to end this.

*turns on Lauryn Hill*

*perfect weekend victory dance*

All Lies

I told everyone I was going to grade post-campus today. I did not. Instead I:

• gave full credit for a bunch of rushwrites
• slept
• listened to Miseducation (which should be required listening--none of this silly paper writing--listen to real music, people)
• read back issues of Writer's Chronicle
• spent two hours at the library reading Kenyon Review and checking out books NOT needed for the research papers I have to write next week
• rented Sons of Provo (on Foxy's recommendation) and Prime (on no one's recommendation, but it's about sex and the guy looks cute, which is all I care about)
• discovered roommate watching her second movie of the day
• resigned myself to watching snippets of Some Like It Hot and reading more Writer's Chronicles
• researched PhD creative writing programs
• panicked

I'm currently still in the panicked state of mind, which I'm hoping my nightly dose of meds will cure. Why couldn't I just stick with the plan and get married young and make babies the rest of my life? But no, I had to be educated and intelligent and want a BA, MA, and PhD. Silly eg. PhDs are for men.

I am now going to go watch my cute-guy movie while my roommate is asleep. That Kirby Heyborne is just so hot.

[insert your favorite line here]

So I've been spending my days--and nights--with Allen Ginsberg. No need to call the Honor Code office. To quote one of my classmates, "It wasn't women Ginsberg was keeping awake at night." Although. . . well, that's a tangent unnecessary.

The reason I've been hanging out with AG and his seminal (pun intended) text is, of course, why I do everything: creative writing theory. The assignment this time around is to "theorize" a text. In other words, to look at what they're doing and how they're doing it and why they're doing it. And I, of course, have written two-and-a-half pages out of the six-to-seven due, oh, Monday.

It's not that I haven't been working on my paper. I have. I've read and read and read. I've taken notes. I've marked passages with post-its. And I listened to/slept through conference, went shopping with my sister, went to dinner with my sister & co., went to Borders (where I bought The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill and Grosse Pointe Blank--and I rather desparately want to listen to TMoLH, but I don't want to associate it with Howl for the rest of my life, which is what will happen).

I'm being driven mad looking for any social interaction that will exempt me from writing this paper and then tonight I realized this was a paper that I cannot write in silence. Nope. It's going to require music blaring--which I unfortunately cannot do because people want to sleep. And it's difficult to figure out what music best complements Howl. Too bad I don't have much jazz in my collection.

"Hold back the edges of your gowns, Ladies, we are going through hell." WCWilliams intro to Howl

straight to the point

Do not read Howl before going to sleep. It's a bad idea. (Well, it was either Howl or the combination of Diet Coke and Reeses Peanut Butter Cup cereal.)

Where are all the gods?

I refuse to sit in the nice, comfy recliner in my therapist's office. Instead, I sit on the couch, which is. . . not so nice and comfy. But it allows me more control of the situation. I don't relax, I don't recline, and I don't squeak, which is the downside of nice, comfy, pseudoleather recliners.

Today was this odd day of breakthroughs. We talked about the normal stuff and still had 20 minutes of the session, which we filled in part by talking about John Cusack movies. (The man is amazing--and no, I'm not obsessed. It's just that when you've recently seen a Cusack movie, it tends to come up in conversation.) And then he (the therapist, not Cusack) asked if I was avoiding anything.

Of course I'm avoiding things, you idiot. I'm (1) human and (2) me. No more explanation needed. But this question led to a rather disconcerting conversation. He asked about relationships--not just romantic, but friends and family--and I realized something. I avoid relationships with "available" men. I know this isn't a shock to my friends, but it's easy to be blind when looking at yourself. I always joke that I sabotage relationships, but there's a lot of truth there. I sat on that damn couch and tried to think of one single (not married or seriously dating or otherwise unavailable) guy that I consider a good friend--and I don't have one. There are some cool guys in my ward who I'm getting to know. There are a few single guys in my grad program. But mostly I fill this weird little sister role with guys. I don't date. (I pointed out that I don't have time to date, but this is obviously a cop out, according to Hitch.)

This wasn't always the case. In high school I felt more comfortable with the guys than most of the girls. I dated. I went to parties. I flirted. More importantly, I had strong friendships with guys. And I still consider them my friends, but they're part of the past. And during my undergrad--not as many, not as tight, but still single guy friends. So what happened this year? Where have all the good (and by good I mean single and available) men gone?

the unhappy part

Part three: This is the unhappy part. I found out today that my junior Honors English teacher died a few days ago. She was pretty young and I was surprised and sad, to say the least. And then I found out she killed herself by hanging. And I stop thinking when I type those words. It turns out she had been dealing with depression for years--not that any of us would have guessed. It scares me. So many people I love are dealing with depression and other things that no one would guess. I want to reach for all of them to say "I'll help you," but I'm just as scared that no one will reach for me. But I will help you, if you let me. I love you. And yes, this is an obnoxious plural "you," but I really do mean it. I apologize for assuming that I could help anyone, but I wonder if the same thing would have happened if we all hadn't been thinking "She was the happiest woman I knew." A facade is a dangerous and scary thing.

the girls are back in town

My friend who abandoned me to go to grad school in Cali decided to visit Utah (and me) for spring break. I know, I know--not the brightest crayon in the box. And actually, first she abandoned me for Japan and then grad school, so we haven't had a chance to catch up for two years. Yet that pattern seems so familiar. . .

So I've written at least a dozen blogs in my head since Monday. There was the blog about being the token woman in 617. There was the "my top five albums" blog. There was the blog about how I like lists. There was the blog that was just a list. There was the blog about talking to Eleka for two hours after Poetasters. And there was the blog about today, which is what I'm about to write. I should warn you that it curves rapidly downhill.

Part one: English 115. Oh the stories I could tell. Today was APA basketball, which is as dreadful as it sounds. One tape-and-paper ball, one trash can, two lines to shoot from--a three-point and a one-point. Of course no one shot from the one-point line--that's for girls. And not even girls, who kept taking their chances from the three-point line. Nevermind that it's for extra credit and that single points can add up. There was one student--we'll call him Wade--who consistently nailed the three-point shot. So after he had been up a few times, and was up again for the last attempt of the day, there was some complaining from the ranks. In a moment of fairy godmother-ness (and pure stupidity), I said that if Wade made the shot, everyone in class today could have the points. No pressure on the poor kid, who stood at the three point line and arced another one headed straight for the "basket." At which point a guy sitting in the front row jumped up and blocked his shot. Brilliant kid, that one.

Part two: Somehow the conversation in 617 today turned to High Fidelity--at which point Kim mentioned that she preferred Grosse Pointe Blank as far as John Cusack movies go. I stopped the conversation to inquire after the comment. Kim loves John Cusack too. I am validated. (And immediately went out and rented GPB, which is brilliant and I'm buying on payday. Movie night anyone?)

smashed family heirlooms

Where to begin? I wish I had the patience of some people I know to draft out their blogs, but I don't. I just sit down and start typing, which must be unhealthy.

Brilliant reading on Saturday. I ran into LLarsen today (or LanceL if you prefer). I'm not sure what possessed him to ask about my weekend, but he did. And I'm not sure what possessed me to tell him that I hosted a poetry reading, but I did. And now I've moved up a few points on the Pritchard scale of stupidity.

Confession: I was not looking forward to Saturday. Well, I was from Thursday night to Saturday morning. And then I woke up to a text saying that someone wasn't going to be coming. I woke up to text that he wasn't coming and my clock reading 12:45. Why can't I just wake up? Morning and I do not get along and I'm supposed to teach at 8:00 this summer. Pray for me.

So the reading went well--not surprisingly, considering that I had begged a few people to come and they came--and a surprise guest made the evening totally worth it. (I almost typed "surprised"--should I have left it?) I did, however, realize that everyone has heard everything of mine and so am beginning new poems. I have a whole notebook of titles and ideas and not one place to start from. But I'm working on it and I'm sure we'll all survive. And then Sunday came.

Sunday, Sunday. 10:00 a.m. meeting with the second counselor. I woke up at 9:45. Made it there by 10:05 and waited five more minutes. Brother Lunt emerged from the bishop's office and we went into another room for the interview. My mind was considering all possibilities (teaching gig, teaching gig, please let it be a teaching gig)--or one possibility. No such luck.

BL: So how are you?
eg: Good.
BL: Good. (awkward pause) How old are you?
eg: I'm 22.
BL: Okay, so no mission.
eg: Nope.
BL: That's okay. (pause) When was your birthday?
eg: Um--it's next month.
BL: Oh, so I'm ahead. (realizes eg has no idea why she's sitting there) Did you know this was a birthday interview?
eg thinks: What the hell?
eg says: No.
BL: Oh, well, that's what it is.
eg: Okay.
BL: Are you dating anyone in the ward?

I'll leave you all with that cliffhanger--because it's a stupid question. And because my arm hurts, my head hurts, and the whole point of this stupid post was going to be that he didn't come on Saturday, so I decided no more men, and then I flirted like a madwoman after church. So the real question is: Can one swear off men but still flirt?

personal revelation, or alstroemeria

So I haven't posted what I consider a "real" post for a while. . . maybe not a Sahara-like stretch, but still, it's time to write.

I've been worried about blogging this week because I wanted to figure some things out in my head first. Here's what (I think) I figured out:

1. My favorite flower is alstroemeria (see left). You can buy them for cheap at Smith's and they have this quality about them--delicate and yet fierce. I know it's nothing concrete, but they make me happy. Maybe I like them because they're always the complementary flower in a bouquet--you notice the roses or gerber daisies, but these show off those flowers.

2. Number one is important, but not the most important thing of the week, which is an accumulation of multiple thoughts, etc.

I've been wondering for a while if my plan to PhD after next year was the right idea. I kept getting stomach aches and head aches and all other kind of aches when I thought about it. Sometime this week (okay, Wednesday around 2:40 p.m.) I realized that I was planning on the wrong kind of PhD. All this time I've been thinking I'd pursue a literature degree and do writing on the side. I need to flip that. I am about to declare something I never thought I'd declare: I am a writer. I'm going to apply to creative writing PhD programs. (I know I posted that, but now I'm saying it and explaining it and just getting it out of my system.)

The big deal here isn't the PhD program, although it's part of it. The big deal is that somehow in the past week I started to think of myself as a writer. I'm having too much fun genre-bending to declare myself poet, but I'm a writer. I'm a writer, I'm a writer. And this means a bunch of scary things, like suddenly caring about sending things out for publication and pursuing poems that I thought were just fun little pieces and being a writer. I've never been one before. I mean, I wrote. But I didn't have the dedication or the persona or the attitude or the thought process. Look at Miss K. That girl is a writer, body and soul. Same with oh!resolution and HMP and, of course, aa is the epitome of the writer-wanderer.

Is it odd that with this revelation comes some degree of sadness that I didn't realize all this last year when we were all together?

Poetry Reading and Open Mic Night

I know, I know. But they're just so much fun. And if we're lucky, Tolkien Boy will read again.

My place
Saturday, 25 March 2006
8:00 p.m.

We'll read for an hour and a half (or so) and then party after. It should be fun.

the art of reading

I am becoming too comfortable. WIM was a sea of well-dressed and well-groomed grad students. I showered this morning, put on a little makeup, one of my standard outfits. Nothing special. I just walked down to the grad student offices and every computer is occupied with someone writing out or reviewing their paper for this afternoon's conference. I have a dozen or so poems with me that I'll decide on as I'm reading.

I know it's nerve wracking to read, even just in front of peers. Most of you have been around me when I'm jumpy and nervous and wanting to throw up. (And when I'm about to read it's even worse.) But today I'm not worried. It's become routine.

This isn't really the art of reading, is it? I guess you'll just have to wait to buy the book.

Run mad as often as you choose but do not faint.

Insanity. Two nights with a bedtime of 2:00 a.m. One annotated bib completed. One short essay on Osherow written. One presentation on Italo Calvino. . . presented. And now. . .

reading tomorrow. Must choose poems.

presentation on Brian Doyle coming up. Must compile.

and the scariest of all--a list of my five cannot-live-without albums for Monday's 617. Oy.

Oh, and by the way, I have decided to look into creative writing PhD. The decision seems to have settled my stomach. Of course, my mother is less than happy that SUNY Buffalo has now topped the list--and ecstatic that the U is now on the list. Heaven help me.

Reading feat. Jeff Tucker

Thursday (tomorrow)

4116 JFSB
3:00 p.m.

Jeff, Scott Ross, and yours truly

Oh, and Jeff is promising puppies to the first 20 people there.

Criticism and Love and Stuff

I went off on a rant today. And it was a very good rant too. Some chick in one of my classes (deductive reasoning will tell you which one, but I won't) was presenting. Part of the presentation is to present criticism about the author/text. She's presenting along and then says, "I couldn't find any criticism about this author. Nobody had anything bad to say about her."

Wait. Advanced level, upper division English course and you think criticism equals negative commentary? Did you skip about a million classes and a good dose of "Duh"? Criticism doesn't mean negative comments. Criticisim means critical comments of all shapes and size and biases--because they are biased.

So I vented. And I just vented again. And then I had this analogous realization. Someone--not family, not LadyJane--told me today "love you" in passing. This isn't attraction and it's not romance, but it felt just as good. I've been so desparate for love that I confused what love was and I'm sure I'll do it again. But for tonight I have my head on straight (and my hair, for the record).

All that being said, it still doesn't excuse the aforementioned female.

straight mode

I should be putting the finishing touches on my annotated bibliography for tomorrow--which, of course, means starting my annotated bib for tomorrow. Or at least reading the poems for my 8:00 class. So naturally I'm writing a blog and half-watching Win A Date with Tad Hamilton. Shame on me.

I should add that the title of my blog comes from Win A Date: "Do you know how long she keeps her hair in straight mode and how long in curly?" It's Pete questioning Tad on whether he knows Rosie well enough to really love her. And I listen to him and I think Topher Grace who plays Pete is cute (sorry to use the word TB, but he is), but I find myself wondering if it really matters. Do you know how long I keep my hair in each mode? Of course not. But you still love me. *shrugs cutely*

If only I had someone to deliver that speech to. Let's face it: I spend my time with men who sure as hell better not be interested in me--it's safer that way. The closest I came to flirting today was with a student, which is verboten for good reasons. Oh well, as least he was a he.

"You can't love someone for what they stand for or what they seem to be. You to love them for their details--for the little things that are them and only them." Rosie just said that in WAD. And then Tad steals Pete's line about Rosie's smiles--apparently she has six. (Honestly I don't think Kate Bosworth is that versatile an actress, but whatever.) This seems to be the message of the movie: that you have to know a person before you can love them. Which doesn't necessarily mean that you know how long they keep their hair straight or curly. But you know them. And no, not in the Biblical sense. Well--eventually in the Biblical sense, but let's take it slow.

So I called Dave tonight. Dave=D. From high school. I admit, I left a message, but, as we learn from WAD, "Honey, your odds go up when you file an application." We'll see what happens. A good chunk of me is hoping he deletes the message or got involved with some female in the two weeks since I saw him (not that I've kept track). But there's this little piece that's hoping he'll call me back and we'll figure out some time to run into each other again.

And if he does, I need to decide whether to wear my hair curly or straight. Because I honestly don't have a system. Yes, it was a trick question.

tremendous

Tonight we celebrated my grandfather's 80th birthday. And by "we" I mean me and 61 other relatives (and kind of, sort of, really not relatives), all seated around small tables at the Skyroom. No, I don't know why we celebrated there. Probably the family's extreme nostalgia for the BYU--I've heard that it can happen to people, although I'm not sure I believe it. And the EN was challenged by the two uncles who opted for USU instead. Let's face it--if you have the choice between a nice celibate lifestyle in Provo and becoming a "True Aggie" in Logan, which are you going to choose? That's what I thought.

I love my grandfather and it was fun to see some of the tributes to him. The five grandsons in the three-to-five year old range sang a song about chewing gum that apparently Grandpa sang as a youngster and most of his children and the older grandchildren remember him teaching them. I admit that I have no memory of the tune, but it was entertaining to watch the boys singing around wads of bubble gum while singing "My dad gave me a quarter to buy a garter. I didn't buy a garter; I bought some chewing gum."

The Jester sang "I Want to Grow Old with You" from The Wedding Singer. He's a good performer and he altered the words about being put to bed when you've had too much to drink. The cousin who jumped on the IWtGOwY bandwagon forgot the alterations, however, and so there was plenty of merriment accompanied by the Jester shaking his head as he played his guitar louder.

Grandpa's a singer himself, so he began with the French national anthem for no apparent reason other than he learned it for a BYU production when he was in college. Then the Nauvoo classic "Old Mother Hubbard." He sings it opera-style and really gets into the performance. The final number was "The Men in My Little Girl's Life," which he sang at each of his daughter's (first) weddings. A girl was chosen from each family. I admit a little chagrin on my own part when they chose LaLa for the "married" stage, along with some ribbing by my older married cousins, but I survived.

Dinner was something chicken or chicken something, naturally. The high point there was my cousin Nate's wife asking if each missionary was given a life-sized cardboard cutout--my dad had brought the Sven cutout and my grandfather had introduced him/it earlier.

I love my family, especially this extended family. Cool uncles, funny aunts, great cousins, cute little kids running everywhere. But I'm starting to feel even more on the outside of things. One of my older cousins (older meaning late 20s, early 30s) proposed to his girlfriend last night. He spent a lot of time talking with LaLa and the cousin her age who got married in the summer. Both of them are 19. There's only two cousins around my age still single. D is in a relationship that's going on year two now and L is a lesbian--with a girlfriend. Even the younger cousins are married or dating. My world of books and poetry, etc., doesn't match up with theirs anymore. Not that it ever did. But when we were all in high school, we were at least on the same page--or at least somewhere in the same text. Now I don't know what book they're reading.

itinerant evangelist (LBB)

Um, it's been a long week. And at the end of said week, I'm finding the need to unwind (times twelve) via blogging. Here I go.

Bedtimes. This week has been marked by an unusually high amount of napping and an even more unusual "early" nights. Last night I asked LaLa to quiet her guests down--I was tired and ready for bed. Then I realized it was before 11:00. No wonder she looked at me like I was crazy.

Oh hell. I don't feel like a list. I'm annoyed tonight. I know we all like MST3K (I've only seen one) and it's fun to comment on bad movies. But even the bad ones deserve a little bit of respect. Tonight I found The Good-bye Girl for cheap at Borders (I was there to buy Howl for 617) and decided I wanted to watch it--Marsha Mason bugs but Richard Dreyfuss totally makes up for it. Yes I'm a romantic and Yes I shouldn't let myself watch chick flicks, even the unconventional ones like TGG. But the friends I watched with tonight went beyond MST3K. They were shrieking and picking it apart and I know they've both sat through and enjoyed worse fare. (Granted, I shouldn't have been surprised by the one who mentioned she'd rather watch The Notebook than About a Boy. Must find new movie watching friends and assign her to lunch dates.)

Deep breath. Back to the list of this week. Maybe.

Homework for next week: Read Calvino's Invisible Cities. Annotated bib for Lance. Presentation on Calvino. (Mon, Tues, Wed, respectively.) There are a million books on Calvino. I have no idea where to start. Oh, and my creative assignment is due Wednesday too. No idea what I'm writing about yet. I'm stuck on the one subject I know I'm not ready to write about yet.

Did not call D this week. Thought about it. No good excuse. Maybe I'll plan a poetry reading. March 31, anyone?

Two readings this week: Peter Makuck on Thursday and Lucie Brock-Broido today. Both of them were excellent readers--I like them reading better than them on the page. He was so friendly and grandfatherly. He taught my 218 class and then I walked him over to the JFSB. We talked about grad programs and the need to experience life outside of Utah--give me more material to write about. L B-squared was intense and other worldly, which seems an appropriate adjective, but I still enjoyed her. I bought books by both poets, but I'm a bit scared to read hers by myself.

About leaving Utah: everyone's doing it. I'm finding myself more and more jealous of people who are leaving this existence for another one, even if that existence isn't necessarily "better." I know I'm lucky to be where I am and I'm happy where I am, but I want to experience something new. I need something new to write about, something new for my brain to mull over. Creative writing theory has provided a lot of, well, theoretical material, but I need to apply to something and everything seems to be stock ideas. Of course, Brock-Broido pointed out today that there are only a few themes everyone writes about--she had a list of 36 by some French author, then her own list of 6, then Robert Graves's list of 3: love, death, and the changing of the seasons.

Maybe that's my answer.

Puking is sort of like writing.

Am I the only person who lives life as if it all belongs in writing? Not that it deserves to be, but pretty much every minute of every day I'm considering how this moment can be transferred to words. (Please no discussion on the inability of the signifier to represent the signified or on how a true autobiography would simply say "I am writing" over and over and over.) This blog serves to allow some of the more banal out in writing and my poetry allows the more. . . whatever. . . out.

All this serves as preface to the past few days. I have been sick with the flu, which is an experience that really can be related in one less than elegant word. But added to that was feeling like every spot on my body was bruised and a sleepless stupor that was accompanied by minute bits of Rent lyrics. (Tolkien Boy warned me to stop, and I took his advice, but listening to Rent for a week straight had already warped my brain. I'm attempting to correct the damage with my new favorite CD: DJ Whitey's Intro to Hip-Hop and Neo-Soul. And no, you're not going to find it on Amazon.) The creepy thing about this experience is that even in my feverish state I was considering how to write about it, complete with interwoven Rent lyrics. (Note: It wasn't any of the good bits.)

But let's back up some more to Sunday night, which I was meaning to write about, well, Sunday night, when I got distracted by what I thought was just a headache and a cold.

We've been hosting Sunday dinners (and by "we" I mean my roommate and I) the past two weeks. These dinners are really just thinly-veiled attempts organized by my RS president friend to meet people (and by people I mean guys). Of course, this has all been helpfully disguised by the girls who have joined us in this endeavor who make it a point to not talk to anyone but other girls. It's a scary situation when I'm the flirtiest girl in the group. After the first week, which honestly just annoyed me, I decided to take matters into my own hands and drag Tolkien Boy into the mix. That boy makes any party a roaring success. At the very least he provides me with someone to make snide comments to--and as we all know, TB is never a "very least" type of person.

There was a point to this story, but in the past few days I've forgotten what it was. It probably boiled down to complaining about my roommate who refuses to flirt (despite subliminal brownie messages) and recruiting every tall male in the Provo area. RSpres even found one to invite to dinner, but he's--get this--too tall. I didn't know there was such a thing.

Where the hell is eg?

I have spent the majority of the past twenty-four hours in bed wanting to kill myself. No, not depression. Flu. I'm still trying to figure out what can make a girl puke lime green.

I wish I had more to write, I really do. But I'm going to go puke again.

Silly boy! Poetry is for smart people.

Today I wrote a rather long epistle to the 2/3 of the Trinity not sitting in my kitchen, complete with anecdotes and much love, and compiled an excellent mix for the 2/3 of the Trinity who can listen to heathen music right now. And then I realized that my printer was out of ink, so I went to campus to print up the epistle and blog posts for Kapka, who's trapped in the MTC.

I printed the epistle and then decided to check the library for a book of poetry criticism I've been wanting to thumb through. They didn't have it, but I found a few more titles and headed up to the fifth floor. I found the PS 325 section just fine and took my sweet time selecting books. Then I headed for PS 3515. I found PS 3511 and then nothing. And then PS 3657 or something. So I walked back to the reference desk and asked for help. (See--I can ask for directions!)

The nice man at the desk checked the call number I gave him and then walked back to the shelves with me, but went in the opposite direction of where I had been looking. For some twisted reason there is a tiny corner of shelves that includes PS 3515. I was grateful for his help and made some crack about "so this is why no one reads poetry anymore." He smiled and then said, "Actually, there's a better reason why people don't read poetry anymore, but I don't think you'll want to hear it."

Jerk.

This is definitely an overshare

I admit that I was happy last night when I realized that some of my "crazy" symptoms were probably just PMS. I wandered through Macey's reciting the first few lines of a poem another chick workshopped in my 319 class: "It's a relief when the blood comes." Can't remember the rest of it, except a comparison to crayon scribblings.

Today my legs have cramped up, I'm heavily drugged, and I seriously contemplated writing a post that consisted of one word repeated over and bloody over again, which I'll refrain from for the sake of my soul.

at the end of the week

Student: "Where did he go?"
eg: "What?"
Student: "Where did he serve his mission?"
eg: "Who?"
Student: "[Jeremiah]."
eg: "Oh. Um. . . Brazil?"
Student: "Are you sure?"
eg: "I don't remember. I think it was Recistencia."
Several students: "That's in Argentina."
eg: "Well, it was somewhere down there."

And thus began my Friday class. I love my students, I do, but they were so dang chatty today. I kept asking them to stop talking, telling them to stop talking, cracking jokes about them, etc. And all this while I'm being observed by my PA. Who luckily didn't mind, although she did point out that one student was texting all the way through class. His cell phone is going in the fish tank. As soon as I buy a fish tank.

So they were chatty, but it's insane how well this class gets along. They must have bonded on those mornings when I was late. When I asked them why they were so chatty today, one girl answered "We missed each other. We haven't seen each other for a long long time. We love each other." I think she was only half-joking.

And when it came time to work, they buckle down. I let them move into their IFATgroups, which they seem to like, and we used [Tolkien Boy]'s Diagram (aka the Diagram of Death) to analyze Lou Gehrig's speech and then put together a thesis statement. It really does make teaching rhetorical analysis a million times easier, which is always good.

Hmm. Maybe today went better than I initially thought. At least, class did. But the follow up. . . I was walking out to my car and hit a patch of ice. I let out a ladylike "Oh shit" as I hit the ground and the box of donuts I was carrying went flying. The donuts were fine, save some smeared frosting, but my hand and my butt are both bruised and my lap top's computer screen is messed up in the very corner, which worries me.

I've been trying to comfort myself with Diet Coke and soup, but it's not helping thus far. I guess I'll just have to grade some papers.

each argument

To days of inspiration
Play hookie
The need to express
To communicate
To going against the grain
Going insane
Going mad
"La Vie Boheme" Rent


Today I confessed that I think I might be going crazy. I'm having a hard time focusing, I'm losing my grip on priorities, There are very few things that I really care about. I seem to be reaching out to people, because with people around I feel better--I have to concentrate on them--I get to concentrate on them--instead of letting my thoughts circle and circle and stop and come back. But even with people around, I lose my focus and have to force it back. I get distracted and tangential. I have to excuse myself for moments to

And I'm back. Interruptions, of the human kind. And Uffish says I look alive, which is a good thing. No need to panic yet. Alive and going crazy is much better than alive and crazy. Wonder when I'll get there.

A few thoughts from Ms. eg before she retires for the evening.

1. Everyone should read through comments for InDialect. In the very near future, I will dedicate a long post to her.

2. I'm tired.

3. I ran into Heavy D tonight. Friend from high school. Who is gorgeous. And brilliant. And just awkward enough to make me feel comfortable. Chalk one up for the "decent guys" score.

4. Still thinking about D. Sorry.

5. D D D D D D D.

6. Okay, that was a little much. My apologies.

7. One page papers are stupid. I will never assign one page papers.

8. I now need to grade a stack of one-page papers. Good night.

A rather atypical post from eg. Enjoy.

Just in case you missed this.

And I know people disagree with me. Well, you go ahead and do that. I'm going to sit here and enjoy my picture of a scruffy Jake Gyllenhaal.

And this is for Thmazing Theric.

And all others wondering what Seth Green would look like with a mustache.

see a secret

I have a new project to work on: Find a form that allows me to write about my life. This is, of course, for cw theory--I would never willingly take on a project that requires me to write about my life. I hate journals. I hate writing things that will date me. I'm not sure what I'm afraid of, or if I'm even afraid. I just know I don't like writing about me.

Now everyone point and laugh and say "What about your blog?"

What about it? It is all true, all the concretes and the abstracts. And if I wanted to I could manipulate it into my project, which is something I've done before. But I don't want to. I want to do something different, something original, something--let's continue being honest--brilliant.

I'm looking at my "idea" board, which hasn't changed much since I put it up. A picture from a magazine of the road sign for "Boring, Oregon Exit 1 Mile." A sketch of me by Kapka, drawn at FroYo one night. I have sad eyes. My 218 letter. An explanation of triangles, by Tolkien Boy, whose real name I suddenly wish I could use on this blog, but I won't. A postcard from Paris that I bought myself. Another postcard from Oxford depicting a stained glass window I don't remember seeing.

What am I doing? What am I living? Poetry? Prose? Something in between? Too bad I can't deliver my bathroom wall. I tried to convince my mother this weekend that I'm all messed up. I couldn't do it. She points out all the times I'm with friends or going to meet friends. She points out that I sound happy--even plays back messages I left her on her phone. I tried to explain that I'm okay when I'm in class, when I'm teaching, when I'm at dinner or Fob or Poetasters or inscape or whatever. But when I'm alone. . . I shouldn't be alone.

I thought about making a postcard to send to postsecret. (This isn't it--it's my favorite secret this week.) I don't have anything to send them. I tell my secrets here, or I spread them out. Some of you know who I was in love with. Some of you know what pieces of my life I shatter on purpose. Some of you know that I like to cook or be kind or that my family's dog and I are tight. And some of you could tell me secrets about myself that I try not to acknowledge.

Here are two tenuously related secrets: 1) I think facial hair on guys is sexy and this is one reason I'll be glad to leave BYU for a PhD program. 2) I was the catalyst behind the 'stache contest among the English grads and faculty. Mostly I just wanted to see if S. Green could even grow a mustace. He can.

I wish I didn't need them so much.

My mommy would cry.

Today's special: Ethos, Pathos, and Logos. They are appeals and are not exclusive and here are video clips to illustrate.

And now, the writing portion of today. A natural disaster (any natural disaster. I suppose we should specify. Hurricane? Earthquake? Fire? Tsunami. Okay) A tsunami is headed for Provo. We have less than an hour. They've just notified us that our class can send two people to the special barracks under LaVell Edwards Stadium to survive (No, there aren't special barracks under the stadium--at least, not that I know of). Everyone else may or may not live. You have to make an argument, appealing to ethos, pathos, and logos, of why you deserve to live. You are not allowed to give up your space in an act of charity or whatever. You have five minutes to compose your argument. Go.

And (selections from) the arguments:

I'm a girl so I need to be saved so I can "replenish" the earth. [Instructor comment: When you think about it, we only need one man and a bunch of women and we're set.]

My mommy would be very sad if I died.

I do have a girlfriend so I have a good chance of marrying. One of my kids could be the next Gordon B. Hinckley.

The only reason I feel I am legitimate enough to be saved from this fatal disaster is because my favorite flavor is orange.

I don't really want to be saved. I'm not afraid of tsunamis. I'm more afraid of lava. If it was lava I'd want to be saved.

I should get one of the spots because I am a very unique individual. I grew up in Brigham City but refuse to see the movie and how many people you know can say that.

I am fairly attractive so while in the shelter people can enjoy looking at me.

I should be allowed to live because I'm really tired right now. Who wants to die when they're tired? It would be fine if I got some sleep before the tsunami came, but two hours just isn't enough. I must live long enough to get sleep!

I'm tall and tall people should be saved.

I have been through too much in this life to not be saved. When I was 9 yrs old my dog got hit by a car and was killed. When I was 14 yrs old our new dog also got hit by a car and died. Haven't I suffered enough?

I love my mom and she would cry if I died. Do you want to make my mom cry? I sure don't.