ON ACCEPTING THE FRENCH IDEA OF GENIUS:

Why is that movie almost 3 hours of my life that I'll never get back? Was this REALLY nominated for an academy award? It was horrible. HORRIBLE! I HATED IT LIKE I HATED THE NOTEBOOK. No, the Notebook was better because it had James Garner in it, and I love that man. This. Well, the Benjamin Button was not my thing, no, sir, not...my...thing. Why do I even try to watch these tearjerker things? I guess I should have known. But I had hopes, because I know the F.Scott Fitzgerald story it's based off of (I read it years ago in "Tales of the Jazz Age," a perfectly dull collection, except there was a story about a mountain that I liked. ); as it turns out there is little connection between the story and the film except for the idea of aging backwards, which is not a very clever idea since the ancient britons had it first.

EH. Plus if they wanted Brad Pitt to look younger they should have stolen footage from Thelma and Louise, instead of CGI-ing him into some sort of mechanical looking man thing. The only thing I did like about this film--my girlfriend Tilde Swinton was in it. And she's lovely. (Although in the movie she is described as plain...how can a 6 foot tall, willowy, odd looking woman be "plain?")

And no that isn't a typo. I've been oogling emo and scene haircuts because despite the oftentimes ridiculousness and pretension of them...they are so effing cute that my inner drag diva wants to dip those kids in sparkles and kiss their glittered cheeks. The girls are tricked out like my little ponies on crack. The boys are androgolicious. And I, I am too fucking old to be adorable, except on halloween which reminds me...I should totally dress like a zombie scene girl on halloween, my dreads last year were very scene.

I'm losing my focus though. This isn't about Halloween, or my desire for anime hair, it's about Jared Leto (who, ridiculously, pops up when I'm looking at google images of Scene hair). Yes, it's that time of year again. Time for me to make fun of the hottest cheezedick in the corn maze, Jared Leto (let's hope he remembers that I'm laughing AT him, not with him).

Jared Leto was born December 26, 1971. I need to point that out. He is 4 years older than I am. FOUR YEARS...that makes him 38 years old. Last time I checked that was a fuck lot closer to 40 than to...well, 35. AND

http://www.jaredletopictures.net/displayimage.php?pos=-26765

Jared motherfucking Leto should be hit with a shoe. That's it...hit with a fucking shoe. Right now, I HOPE, his long blonde dead Kurt Cobain look is for a film, because otherwise...this is a worse look than the time he tried to pull off a pair of granny crocs in an emo way. So,

Dear Jared Leto,

Stop. Just....stop. If you need help, I'm here. I have some scrubbing bubbles (because lately, you've been looking smelly), I have some sissors, I have some age appropriate fashion, and I have some shoes that aren't made of plastic. Please...for god's sake...stop. I will put aside the very mysterious and very complete revulsion/passionate need to bone that I seem to feel towards you in order to assist you in becoming an adult. It isn't a bad thing, being an adult. And, if you want, we can still play dress up a few times a year. Put down the pleather pants and back away from the lip gloss.

Love,
M

---

Do they have an intervention for this sort of thing? I should start a Jared Leto tag.

The gunman was a creative writing student in poetry. In Lucinda Roy's classroom. Dang.

I am so angry right now, but I'm not sure why. I'm angry at this kid, I'm angry at what he did to other students, what he did to their families and what he did to creative writers at EVERY FREAKING SCHOOL in the US.

I predict some poetry under attack. POETS of the world, call out your few recognizable voices. Robert Pinsky...take care of this will you? I mean, you were on the Simpsons. You're pretty much it as far as poet/politician goes.

Poets are by nature a peaceful tribe of harmless loonies (ignore the few crazies in the corner...they're long gone), or at least if they get that upset they usually only destroy their own lives (and/or the lives of their children...it's a tradition people, don't judge our cultural morays). So this jackass fucks it up for the rest of us, now, under scrutiny, creative writers everywhere will be on their best behavior for the next year. Nothing important will be said because we're too busy avoiding being targeted as a loner, a malcontent, or an anti-social misfit. Sorry, that's every poet people. EVERY ONE.

---

On a personal note, I applied to the english dept at Virginia Tech three months ago. I was hoping Hickok could put in a good word for me.

And this morning I just said: People in English Departments NEVER do this sort of thing.

Dang.

---

From: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/virginia_tech_shooting;_ylt=Ag11T801Z0T0FXPZs4NAoJ6s0NUE

Meanwhile, a chilling portrait of the gunman as a misfit began to emerge.

Professor Carolyn Rude, chairwoman of the university's English department, said she did not know Cho. But she said she spoke with Lucinda Roy, the department's director of creative writing, who had Cho in one of her classes and described him as "troubled."

"There was some concern about him," Rude said. "Sometimes, in creative writing, people reveal things and you never know if it's creative or if they're describing things, if they're imagining things or just how real it might be. But we're all alert to not ignore things like this."

She said Cho was referred to the counseling service, but she said she did not know when, or what the outcome was. Rude refused to release any of his writings or his grades, citing privacy laws.

The Chicago Tribune reported on its Web site that he left a note in his dorm room that included a rambling list of grievances. Citing unidentified sources, the Tribune said he had recently shown troubling signs, including setting a fire in a dorm room and stalking some women.

ABC, citing law enforcement sources, reported that the note, several pages long, explains Cho's actions and says, "You caused me to do this."

Investigators believe Cho at some point had been taking medication for depression, the Tribune reported.

Classmates said that on the first day of an introduction to British literature class last year, the 30 or so English students went around and introduced themselves. When it was Cho's turn, he didn't speak.

The professor looked at the sign-in sheet and, where everyone else had written their names, Cho had written a question mark. "Is your name, `Question mark?'" classmate Julie Poole recalled the professor asking. The young man offered little response.

Cho spent much of that class sitting in the back of the room, wearing a hat and seldom participating. In a small department, Cho distinguished himself for being anonymous. "He didn't reach out to anyone. He never talked," Poole said.

"We just really knew him as the question mark kid," Poole said.

---

You son of a bitch, thanks for not only killing innocent people, destroying families and breaking hearts...but also for raining shit down on creative writers.

"Chilling?" That's every other student in an intro class...troubled, quiet, wearing a hat.

dammit.

You are every secretary's nightmare


Which Ultimate Beautiful Woman are You?
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Oh, Walwood Hall, you maze of shifting crapola and funny smells! (That's like an invocation to the muse.) Why must the soda machine be in the scariest basement ever created? Here is my journey:

We begin in my cube, which I have plastered with pictures of folk I love, toys, and, of course, anime boys kissing other anime boys (stop judging, dang). I sneak past Kevin's office door, looking like I have some place very important to be (like the copy room), and head towards the very posh lobby of the Graduate College (we have a lovely worn leather sofa and some comfy chairs), but before I reach the comfy chairs I make a right, past the copy room, down a narrow aisle between some cubes and into the fabulous break room (which smells of burnt coffee and curry...since I am a smell oriented person, be ready for smell descriptions), which is not fabulous but who cares because I don't take breaks anyway (except for LJ update breaks, like this one); the break room does have one interesting feature, the windows, which are huge, swing open onto the roof (I will have to play out there one day). So, throught the breakroom and it's many smells of old curry, burnt shitty coffee and some soured smell which I will call spoiled yogurt, yes, spoiled yogurt, around a corner and then another corner, and then down a short ramp that leads towards "Public Affairs and Administration" (yes that's a degree program...not quite sure what they do, but no one is ever in the office). Here is where the candlewax smell begins to blend with the curry/food smell, it is quite pungent really...quick, now a left, right, scamper down a very narrow hallway with nothing but windows on one side, and another left, then the hallway opens up to, dah da da, "Cistertian Studies" (I had to look that one up too, don't feel bad. The Cistertian monks (nuns too) were a sect of the Carolignian Monks (see "The Order" with Heath Ledger) who produced a large quantity of Illuminated Manuscripts. There are still 8 orders of Cisterians in the United States, most of the Monistaries/Convents are self sufficent because they run farms. They do not take a "vow" of silence, but do maintain silence unless speaking is necessary. The Cistertian studies dept at WMU is the only department in America devoted to the studies of Cistertians, and produces the BEST (whatever that is) journal on Cistertian findings in the world.) where we find the freaky elevator (going down?). The freaky elevator is carpeted, has a wastebasket (why?) and both front and back doors. I have never seen anyone else on the freaky elevator (either coming or going) unless I have brought them with me. I highly suspect that no one but me uses the freaky elevator unless it's an emergency. So, I'm on the 2nd floor, the soda machine is on the ground floor...this is the point that, if I am with myself I take a deep breath as the elevator doors clothes, if I am with someone else I say..."Ooooh, you are gonna so love this!" (right Rabbit?), and I push the button for the ground floor. Shake, shake, shake, it stops at the ground floor, which is somehow different from the first floor and first floor reverse, and the back doors open to a landing with nothing but plain yellow brick wall. Now I look around cautiously, why is it so quiet? (Although if I ever actually heard a noise I would freak...actually, a few days ago I had the feeling that something was going to happen and as I was walking to the soda machine I heard voices, it turns out someone was getting a soda, but I was scared nonetheless). What is that smell? Candlewax? Red licorice? Cleaner? Onions? Something dead? (all of the above for some reason.) Okay, out of the elevator, and turn right, there are stairs up to The Medieval Institute straight ahead (nerd city) and to the left 8 stairs that go down to the creepiest hallway ever made. (Think boiler room in "Nightmare on Elm Street," think Romania in winter, think cold war patched up bunker, think any minute an alarm will ring and we will be attacked, think someone is breathing behind that door, think no one can hear you here if you have a problem) The walls are smooth yellow ceramic brick and the hallway (four feet wide) is littered with broken furniture. The floor, which was ceramic tile, is patched in long strips with rough cement. Right, Left, past the empty room with no door, it contains only a light table and a microwave, right, now the long hallway, at least 40 or 50 feet, the ceilings are too high (15 feet?) the hallway is too narrow (4 feet) and there is only one door (Women's Restroom...as IF!!). Five to six feet above the floor (near head height) utilities are stretched haphazardly (wires dangle, pipes turn in and out of view, florescent lights hum and flicker), and every 10 feet there is a space in the yellow brick wall covered by rusty grates that are held in with stripped wire and/or duct tape, the space is filled with wires or pipes (one of them steams a bit...very unpleasant) or (the scariest yet) nothing but crawlspace. The long hall ends in a T, blank wall ahead, Utility room to the right, and off to the left? The Cages. Huge fence cages right up to the ceiling with swinging doors and padlocks. Each cage full of old record boxes, damp, moldy papers, and fun new smells (cardboard, the red licorice smell, mudpuddle, dust, old book). Now you have a choice, go through the cage room to the soda machine (which is at the other end), or down the "rat trap hallway" and to the soda machine. I choose rat traps. Someone could be in the cage room. Okay, past more cast off furniture and carpet rolls, past the sticky rat traps that say "Do not Move: Rose Extermination" and through the doorless door on the right. The cages are behind you, and there is the Coke Machine!!! Oh, glory, glory coke machine! (It's like the garden at the end of purgatory.) How did I ever find you, because most people don't know you are there Blessed Coke machine. I love you, gimme a diet coke please!!!??? So, now I have to do the whole thing backwards. Well, maybe it's not a very good story, but it could be. And to be honest, I would totally like to get it on down there...fear is sexy.

All anyone can do is talk about the weather, and this time with purpose, no small talk here (even the shallow folk, moi, are waxing all philosophical and itchy). Ill wind, loves, ill wind. Okay, Southwest Michigan is not Southern Europe (shocker, indeed), but something is going on here, because no one feels right in their skin. It could be that outside any AC it feels like breathing through a wet rag (and there's no AC for me...well, I guess here at work, but moving in and out of it really hurts more than it helps). What we need is rain and negative ions. Something to lift the large weight of atmosphere that's pushing us all groundward and doing strange things to our brains. (I did start part three of the long poem last night, "Rose of Sharon" is the working title...this will be the paradise section, although what kind of paradise mandie invisions ultimatly will not be the kind a more thoughtful, sensitive person will invision. It's gotten weird, I felt possessed; so, in the end maybe the weight of gravity will be a good thing, I mean it don't make for happy poems, but it do make for serious strangenesses. BGN is off limits for me until the weather breaks, otherwise it will eat my soul and the sorrows will pile up on Winter's head like a soap opera of gaylicious proportions.) COME ON THUNDER!!! Who knows anyone who can do a rain dance? Call them, tell them it's not about crops or the water table, but something far more important.

IS something looming all wicked and contrary? Probebly not. But ain't we all chock full of miasma and anticipated misfortune? And don't that make us see misfortune everywhere, or at least plain dumb luck and poor circumstance? So really it's us maybe? and not the wind? But if we need something to blame I suggest weather as a scapegoat. Weather or astronomy (dog days of summer...dog star biz), yup, why not? I mean we are so completely sane and blameless. Or, I'm wrong and will be attacked by a legion of hot air ballooning spiders this time, and the giant quarter will hit me, and every magic shop in the immediate and outlying areas will be closed to me, and a big wind will blow me into who knows what (only that it's quite uncomfortable), and no one's finaid checks will clear, and no one will love us quite the same way ever because we are filled with dibilitating panic, and we will even forget how to spell dibilitating, and maybe our own names correctly...why not? (None of those things seem particularly tragic on a grand scale though.)


So...for those of you whose skin is crawling in Mid-August Kalamazoo, and those who want to sympathize: the OED's Sirocco entry.

1. a. An oppressively hot and blighting wind, blowing from the north coast of Africa over the Mediterranean and affecting parts of Southern Europe (where it is also moist and depressing). Usually with the.

1617 MORYSON Itin. I. 211 The South-East winde (which the Italians call Syrocco) did blow very contrary to us. 1667 MILTON P.L. x. 706 Forth rush..Eurus and Zephir with thir lateral noise, Sirocco, and Libecchio. 1756-7 tr. Keysler's Trav. (1760) II. 96 The woods south of Rome are kept up as a fence against the Sirocco, or south-west wind. a1791 WESLEY Serm. lxix. Wks. 1811 IX. 251 There will be no Sirocco in Italy. 1818 MRS. E. H. ILIFF Poems sev. Occas. (ed. 2) 120 When dire Sirocco..From Afric's burning sands mephitic vapours brings. 1859 HAWTHORNE Marble Faun xl, Where the sirocco steals away their strength. 1884 F. M. CRAWFORD Rom. Singer I. 21 The sirocco was blowing up and down the streets.



transf. 1848 J. S. ROBINSON Sk. Gt. West 17 The dreaded Sirocco..burns us even through our clothes. 1870 Weekly Standard (Buenos Aires) 21 Dec. (Suppl.) col. 6 The Sirocco on Wednesday was so terrible that in the effort to keep cool, the mind reverted to icebergs and Polar travels but all in vain. 1872 E. BRADDON Life India ii. 14 From the west blows a scorching wind, the sirocco of..the Daodpore desert.



1819 SHELLEY Lett. Prose Wks. 1880 IV. 134 My health is better so long as the scirocco blows. 1861 E. A. BEAUFORT Egypt. Sepulch. & Syrian Shrines II. 223 Under the balmy skies of the early spring, before the horrible scirocco begins to blow. 1866 HOWELLS Venet. Life iii. 33 The insidious heat of the scirocco.



b. With a and pl.

1700 J. JACKSON Let. 2 Feb. in Private Corr. S. Pepys (1926) I. 278 But the weather being changed and the Sciroccos now blowing into the place of the Tramontains, this design is become impracticable. 1820 BYRON Mar. Fal. I. ii. 572 The atmosphere is thick and dusky; 'Tis a sirocco. 1884 St. James's Gaz. 11 Dec. 10/2 The storm..was followed by a sirocco, which lasted until noon.



1841 FITZGERALD Lett. (1889) I. 71 We have incessant rain, which is as bad as your sciroccos. 1860 MRS. HARVEY Cruise Claymore vii. 134 A khamseen was blowing;..this wind, which is an exaggerated scirocco, brings clouds of hot sand from the desert.



c. fig. A blighting influence; a fiery storm.

1864 G. A. SALA Quite Alone I. ii. 40 Now Scandal's sirocco seized a spiteful anecdote, and twirled and twisted and sent it spinning. 1865 J. H. INGRAHAM Pillar of Fire (1872) 401, I..have passed through a sirocco of the soul.



2. ellipt. A sirocco drying-machine (see 3).

1890 Daily News 2 Sept. 2/5 When the hops have been sufficiently rolled..they are..placed in the drying machine or sirocco. 1892 WALSH Tea 105 In the process of ‘firing’ the leaves are..placed in layers in a hot-air machine, known as a ‘Sirocco’.



3. attrib., as sirocco blast, -dust, fog, gale, weather, wind; also sirocco fan, a fan for forcing a strong current of air into a mine, etc.; sirocco drying-closet, drying-machine, oven, a closet, machine, or oven for drying hops or tea-leaves, by means of a hot, moist current of air (cf. 2).

1894 GLADSTONE Horace III. xxiii. 5 Your vines shall mock *scirocco blasts.


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1885 C. G. W. LOCK Worksh. Rec. Ser. IV. 115/2 About a third of the tea..is cured in Davidson's so-called ‘*sirocco’ drying-closets.
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1890 Pall Mall G. 1 Oct. 2/3 The first ‘*Sirocco’ drying machine (in which hops are being made into tea).
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1879 Encycl. Brit. X. 266/1 The dust or sand of dried lakes..borne away into the upper regions of the atmosphere,..may descend again..in the form of ‘red-fog’, ‘sea-dust’, or ‘*sirocco-dust’.
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1861 E. A. BEAUFORT Egypt. Sepulch. & Syrian Shrines II. xxiii. 295 The mountains..were veiled in a dreamy, sad-looking *scirocco fog.
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1895 F. M. CRAWFORD Casa Braccio xxxvi, Then came November with its pestilent *sirocco gales and its dampness.
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1890 Daily News 2 Sept. 2/5 The machinery consists of a *Sirocco oven and a patent tea roller.
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1897 HUGHES Mediterranean Fever v. 193 It [sc. ice] will also be needed in warm and *sirocco weather.
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1777 A. ADAMS in Fam. Lett. (1876) 253 The same effect..which..the *sirocco winds have upon the inhabitants of Sicily. 1794 SULLIVAN View Nat. I. 19 An enfeebling and unhinging power, like that of the Sirocco wind.
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Please rock me like a hurricaine,
Girly Lama

Okay, who knew spiders could construct elaborate hot air ballons out of their bodies and fly through the air? Okay, yes, I saw charlotte's web too, bitches, but this was NO baby spider! This was one of those large assed, orangey striped spiders (a tabby cat of a spider, a meow mix eating Morris of a spider) and it was flying through the air towards me...towards me!! And get this...it was attempting to catch a fly mid air and eat it. (I just had the worst involuntary shudder just then, maybe I shouldn't talk about this?) So, airborne spider special forces attack goes by me in the driveway, my response..."WHAT IS THAT? WHAT IS THAT? OH MY GOD, WHAT IS THAT?" at the top of my lungs as it drifts only 3 feet from me. Then, I freeze,and Roy walks out of the house as I am frozen (literally) big-eyed and pale beside the car. (P.S. if the spider had gotten any closer to me I may have died of cat sized flying spider induced heart attack!) Roy looks at me funny, scans the driveway and says "What's wrong?" in this really strange way that makes me think that I probebly look like a psychopath or Haley Jo Osmont in 6th Sense, I just shake my head no and start wobbling. So he runs over and I can't make words to explain the cat/spider/hotair balloon creature who had invaded my space, finally I get it out and he says "Nuh, uh." My response: "How am I gonna make that up?"

What interests me is that I am the witness to so many spider lives. We have decided that spiders are not, as I believe, drawn to the smell of my fear, but that I am just more aware of their presence. (PS later last night, tiny spider on the toilet paper!!! TOILET PAPER! That goes near my junks, and I DO NOT want no spider, no matter how tiny up near my biddness...dang.) But I am starting to disagree, I am, it seems, under attack...that's my theory.

Okay, time passes, Mandie calms down from surreal spider situation and is driving Roy's sweet ride to Hardings (Jewel-Osco for you old school dorks), as I am stopping at the light on the corner of Vine and Westnedge, a truck makes a left from vine to Westnedge in front of me, and a huge (10 feet at least) circular wooden sign pops out of the back of his pickup, bounces twice, and rolls like a quarter towards me. I do the only thing I can do while trapped in stopped traffic, I close my eyes and wait for the damned thing to run me over. So, I wait like 10 seconds, open my eyes, and it has rolled right past me (hoo-roar!) and is doing the big quarter thing where it rolls on it's edge for a while before flopping down about 8 feet behind me. Close call bitches, and how do you tell your insurance company that you were crushed by a giant quarter? I mean, without them laughing?

Less bizzare stuff: the laundry is done so I am wearing honest-to-goodness underpants instead of biker shorts posing as underpants. Sweet. Underpants! The bridal shower invites have been sent out (don't go running to ya'll's mailboxes you ain't invited). Family fight of the week, my Aunt Mary is gonna be two toes short of a full shoe when I get done with her (more on that later...goddamn old bar whore tries to act all class when really she's all ass). Trip to save a lot this afternoon (any taker's rabbit...I mean ima goin anyways?), to get fud. My glasses are in at Sam's so I should get those sometime. Demolition Derby on Saturdayday...cowboy up! And after work today I have some physical therapy on my hand.

Too bad it's already gone on eBay.

http://www.disturbingauctions.com/

http://www.werenotafraid.com

(Don't freak, I'm not dying...I just thought it might be fun! ---yes, I realize it's a bit sick. ---no, I don't think it's morbid. ---jesus, gimme a break here!)

I, me, being of mostly sound mind and chubby (albiet hot, imho)body, do set for this, my last will and testament. After my death I would, as I have often said, like my head to be turned into a sweet candy dish. I leave the task of decorating my skull to Roy, Vicki and Allison. Roy, per his request, would like to keep my little finger, and it should be mummified so that he might keep it in his pocket. I bequeath to Bruce, provided that he does not preceed me in death, my stuffed animals and dirty underwear. If he does preceed me in death, somebody else can have the stuffed animals, but you should probebly just toss the undies, unless you really want them for some reason. Addidtionally, I would like his body/ashes/mummy/whatever to be placed with me in the ABOVE GROUND temple containing the rest of my body parts, which ya'll should build yerselves and decorate elaborately (remember I like sparkly things, and I love my doggums).
As to my massive amounts of stuff, junk, and the like. Roy gets most of it and can override anything I bequeath here after, quit bitching! Rabbit gets my Manga and my romance novel, if it is not finished, and if it is not finished she should freaking finish it! Ya'll can mud rassle over my poetry, but no matter who gets what poem ya'll better try to publish me posthumously, or I'll haunt your asses like a motherfucker. Vicki gets all of my clothes and my crafting supplies. My momma and poppy get anything they lay claim to, as long as Roy don't want it more, no arguing! My sister gets whatever she wants too, but she must also take the candy dish by my bed, and my wedding dress which is to be used for a halloween costume. Allison is in charge of divvying up any photos that Roy doesn't want, and gets first dibs on any she does want, and she gets my box of dork and "The Sword of Panthor." J-drive gets my car, because he won't drive it anyway and it's falling apart. Robin gets whatever shoes she would like from my closet. Desi gets my tarot cards...give them up Ms. A, you already have some from me...and one of my diamond earrings, which she should put in a ring someday. The other diamond earring goes to my brother, so he can wear it and be all bling. Dave gets my favorite blanket, the one with the snails and stopsigns, so he can snuggle it and cry. Roy is allowed to remarry ONLY if my bitches approve. And for god's sake somebody clean out the naughty drawer!

Also, I want a wake, with a keg, and karaoke, and baked beans. Also, someone should bury headless me in either a prom dress or a space suit in order to confuse archeologists from the future. And make sure I'm giving the thumbs up sign. Plus, I want an altar and you must worship at it at least once a year. Maybe you should start a religion around headless me? And don't fill my skull candy dish with free floating candies, they should all be individually wrapped...I suggest hershey kisses, or wintogreen lifesavers, which you could all stand around and crunch in the dark in order to give me a fireworks display (they spark when you crunch them. Try it, I'm not lying).

Any complaints should be directed to my dead ass. See ya'll in hell, suckas!

This has been the last will and testiment of ME! (Let's see a lawyer try to figure this shit out.)