End of the Term Misc

• The fancy exercise machines at the gym feature media centers with touch screens, but I can't get the touch screens to work. The other day I couldn't get the TV off of C-SPAN2's coverage of Chairman Bernanke talking about housing finance, which mostly made me want to lie down and take a nap. There's also a feature on these machines that allows you to hook your iPod up to the system so that you can use the touch screen to control your iPod. That didn't work out so well for me either because it was taking an eternity to scroll through the artist menu. I got fed up around the "J" portion of the list and ended up listening to Justin Timberlake for the duration of my run. The slow jams are not so great for running to (or for listening to for that matter), but it's pretty awesome to imagine that when JT says, "Damn, Girl!" he's referring to my incredible speed. But then will.i.am (who is featured on the "Damn, Girl" song) says something about "feminine gelatin," and suddenly I am wondering if there is any possible way to construe that as a sexy thing to say, and I conclude that it's not because ew. Then all I can think of is a certain aisle at Walgreens, and by the time I process all that, it's almost time for me to stop running.
  

• Dear Sweatpants, Please break up with Uggs. You guys do not make a good looking couple.
  

• The automated prescription refill lady always sounds so surprised to hear from me when I call her. And each time, I reflexively respond to the surprise in her voice by checking my prescription label to make sure I'm not trying to refill it too early. Last time I was.

• There is something about the Death Cab for Cutie song "Transatlanticism" that just gets me. I would have a huge crush on Ben Gibbard, but I can't get past his resemblance to Corey Feldman.

Ben Gibbard:

Corey Feldman:

• Mr. Banality and I are terrible at grocery shopping, and the consequences are not pretty. The other night, we needed to have some dinner tout de suite because Mr. Banality only had about 30 minutes before he was scheduled to meet his homies at the gym. This happens frequently, so you'd think we'd buy some foods that can be prepared quickly, but we don't. So, the other night we ate leftover cranberry sauce, an apple, and frozen spring rolls that had been cooked in a microwave until lukewarm and flaccid, served with the sauce that comes along with the frozen spring rolls, which had the consistency of rubber cement. If we get a horrible winter storm, we will be trapped in our home with nothing to eat but a box of hummus mix and a nearly petrified baby carrot. Wanna come over for dinner?

Music Meme

I wasn't directly tagged for this, but that's never stopped me before.

First five songs when shuffling the iPod:

"Dig for Fire" (Pixies)
"Shambhala" (Beastie Boys)
"One Sweet World (Live)" Dave Matthews & Tim Reynolds
"Breathing Meditation" Thich Nhat Hanh
"Miss Teen Wordpower" The New Pornographers

More stuff soon.

Another Lame YouTube Video Post

But I can't help it. You'll see what I mean.

I have discovered my winter alternative to running.

Hott.

By "Popular" Demand (sort of)

Warning (a poem by Jenny Joseph)

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me . . .

Screw that. When I am an old woman I shall wear silver leggings and a matching silver bustier thingy.

But, Banality, you are no Tina Turner.

Duly noted. However, since we're on the topic of thighs, can we discuss the thighs belonging to Beyoncé? Apparently, Ms. Knowles' thighs are a significant source of controversy, with some people believing that she should "cover those things up." SRSLY? If anything, Beyoncé should show her thighs more frequently. She should wear a leotard and boots all the time. Everywhere. You can't argue that it would be worse than those hideous outfits she feels compelled to wear just because her mother designed them. (Did you see the thing she wore on Saturday Night Live this past week? Blech!) Plus, she supposedly wants to play Wonder Woman at some point, so why not get used to the costume now? She lives in California, right? Where it's warm? I think this is a brilliant plan.

Yesterday I had lunch with Anne Fadiman, author of The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down, Ex Libris, and At Large and At Small. I am now her BFF, and she is trying to convince me to write my memoirs.

Oh, all right, that's not true. The truth is I had class right before lunch, so I didn't get to the fancy room with its fancy china in time to get a spot at Anne Fadiman's table. I did butt into a conversation between Ms. Fadiman and the college president to awkwardly introduce myself, and then I spent the rest of the lunch hour at a different table, chatting with my colleagues about yurts and morticians. We also discussed the problem with teaching a first-year seminar on the scholarly examination of some aspect of popular culture, which is that the students most likely to sign up for a course on some aspect of popular culture will be the ones least likely to have an interest in the scholarly examination of anything.

That final conversation, coupled with a late-night, post-research-meeting viewing of the SNL digital short classic, "D*ck in a Box," contributed to the dream I had last night that I was teaching a first-year seminar titled, The Cultural Relevance of Justin Timberlake. My students were angry that I wouldn't allow them to use Wikipedia as a scholarly source. Even in my dreams, I demand academic excellence.

And speaking of the first-year seminar, here is my favorite title of the recent batch of papers I'm grading:

There is No Psychiatrist in the World Like a Puppy Licking Your Face

When it rains, it pours . . .

. . . and I'm not necessarily talking about bad things here.

Is anyone out there still checking this blog? If so, weigh in. Agree? Disagree?

Recent Miscellany

• Yeah, it's been a while. I know.

• I'm too serious. I need to lighten up. Seriously.

• My boyfriend from my college days and I recently had a manuscript accepted into the Journal of Sex Research. Which is incredibly funny to me for so many reasons.

• Remember how I got that keyboard for my birthday so I could add melody lines to lead sheets in Band-in-a-Box? Yeah. I haven't actually done that. Mostly I've been messing around with the cool options I didn't think I needed in the first place. If you need someone to play "Hot Stuff" at your next event, let me know. I can totally hook you up.

• I have very limited leadership skills. I stink at chairing committees. Absolutely horrendous at it. My apologies to people who have to serve on committees I chair. I took two "strengths inventories" for one of my classes, and all of my strengths are very much related to my own little inner universe and very much unrelated to anything dealing with the outside world and the people who inhabit it. The good news about this is that if I'm ever stranded on a desert island with some books and maybe a box of trivial pursuit cards and items from that old analytical portion of the GRE, I'll be perfectly happy.

• It's no secret that I have a thing for the late 1950s/early 1960s. I don't regret that I never lived in that era because frankly, I like having a job as a professor and eating tofutti and driving a car that has air bags and being married to a guy who thinks it's perfectly reasonable for men to do laundry. But I do love my 1958 ranch home and my collection of mid-century bar glasses. I love jackets with 3/4 sleeves and Vera Neumann linens. And I adore the 1950s version of Chet Baker. His trumpet playing was amazing, and his voice . . . I can't even describe it. And would you just look at him?
  
  
  I'm more than slightly obsessed. Luckily, similar to the way in which I'm very good at ignoring the fact that the original cabinetry and flooring in my 1958 ranch home's kitchen are quite worn, I'm good at ignoring Chet Baker's later years, when alcohol and heroin and other nasty things took away his angelic voice, his ability to form a coherent sentence, and his teeth:

Most people acknowledged that Chet Baker was a talented musician who could "swing pretty," but there were many who also criticized him for sticking with the cool jazz sound of the 1950s when it was well past its prime--and while other musicians of the same era (like Miles Davis, for example) were adapting to the changing musical times. Apparently, I'm stuck in that era right along with Chet, which is OK with me.

• I just received a list of prospective students, and I've been asked to call them. On the phone. Ugh. (Refer to the earlier point about my not-so-fantastic people skills.) Is it really unreasonable for me to not want to call a prospective student on his or her cell phone?

• Not so stuck in the 1950s, but more like the late 1990s, I've been listening to Neutral Milk Hotel. Does anyone else listen to Neutral Milk Hotel anymore besides me and several hipster-dad bloggers?

• It's fall break. Finally. FINALLY!