Wednesday December 16th 2009, 10:27 am
Filed under: copy-and-paste Tags:

Because I can, “Admit it!  Despite your pseudo-bohemian appearance and vaguely leftist doctrine of beliefs, you know nothing about art or sex that you couldn’t read in any trendy New York underground fashion magazine.”  Say Anything’s anti-hipster screed.  Makes me laugh.  Which, as I’m fighting but losing to a cold, is a good thing.

without nostalgia
Wednesday December 09th 2009, 1:13 am
Filed under: blah,Boozy,myjobfuckingsometimesdoesntrock,seasonal,Work Tags:

Well, I’m more annoyed than I was, because I got caught chattably online by an ex-student who was never all that great to begin with.  Setting her and her annoying self aside, however, I also had a lovely long chat online with Crazy (who, despite having any number of intoxicated excuses, still types so slowly it’s amazing she’s such a prolific blogger.). An unexpected addition to the lexicon of people who know I’m an asshole, but mostly harmless, who know I’m grown up but also a child, who know I’m a self-involved wanker but also have a big heart and love to give.  (Also, the period key on my laptop seems to be working only erratically.  I’m finding this very annoying, as my go-to expression of bemused detachment (………..) is complicated without the period.  As is, say, correct punctuation.  Grrrrrr.)  A brief catch-up, really, and moderation in booze this eve prevents the radical overshare.  Which is a shame.  As Crazy said (and, apparently there’s no archive to fbook chat.  Lame!  What will my biographer do?!?!?!), the having of the job is the luxury from which I view the crises of my graduates.  Which is to say, get over myself, and try harder to remember when.  But I do, vividly, remember when, and the dissatisfaction is not entirely born of the luxury.  Harumph.  Fuck this.  To bed.

Tuesday December 08th 2009, 12:27 am
Filed under: blah,Boozy,reminiscence,seasonal Tags:

I miss JW.  I didn’t realize that was the problem, that I lacked a blogosphere detractor who had my number and had no ready reply, as it were.  But perhaps it is.  Home, unsober enough that it feels much later than it actually is.  Authentically listening to the Cranes (third time on repeat – according to itunez it had been well over a year since I had last listened, an inexcusable lacuna.), and I dug up the entry from when I saw them, unexpectedly, in London (June 2004, titled “aged”, fyi.  I’m too lazy to link it.) Reading myself remembering things I lived through and have no memory of.  Pinspot?  Fine wine?  That’s where I last remember that tapestry, as a tablecloth?  I think I included it in a will I once wrote before I didn’t kill myself.  I almost recall it after that, but don’t trust the vague memories.  I also don’t trust the fact that I can’t recall a day when I didn’t drink.  Seriously.  I can go back months, other than swine-cold (when I think I was still self-administering hot toddies without the hot and without the toddy, boiled down to simple glasses of scotch), I just can’t fucking remember not drinking.  I’d ask my liver, but he’s asleep already.  All of which is beside the non-point.  I read my History, Theory, Text book, I check her footnotes twice and wonder about mine. I think of the voicemail left, on finishing the chapter, getting the tenure, winning the war, tigers and bears, oh my.  So much that is right, including a trip to The North and Scotland in mid-Jan, on mostly someone else’s dime.  I want to be “interesting and interested”, he said.  And the long pauses at Saturday’s dinner, the cabal of the under-tenured assembled for light chit chat, only the newest among us still so idealistic as to be rude.  And I lost that, too.  I’m often too tired to be interested, which is death to interesting,but Rochefoucauld doesn’t care that I have it backwards, leaving me unforgiven.  And now, having written several hundred words more than I wrote for my book today, my guilt and I are going to take the puppy for a walk, wonder why I don’t smoke when it’s so beautifully cool outside, and call it a night.

Friday December 04th 2009, 12:20 am
Filed under: bastard,Boozy,can't make that shit up,family,politrix Tags:

“But I think your passion, or perhaps your appetite for debate, interfered with our ability to have a meaningful and respectful conversation.  Eventually I was just annoyed and amused, as I suspect you would be were I to dispute your views on XXXXXXXXX  literature.”

I’m calling bullshit.  I would to his face, but there are, shall we say, familial reasons not to do so.  This motherfucker (Technically, I suppose, his father is the motherfucker, and he’s merely an asshole.  Oops.  Lemme correct myself.  Consultant.  There .   See?)  I would love to have someone debate literature with me, passionately.  Once, 5 years ago, I played the “oh yeah? I went to XXXX university and I do this for a living, and therefore you’re wrong” card.  I lost the argument, immediately.  Telling me that you’re an expert in the matter (in a passive-agressive, back-handed way) has nothing to do with, y’know, making a persuasive argument or stating your case clearly or convincingly.  The issue, you see, was that he told his father who told my mother who told me that he felt that I didn’t respect him or what he did.  Which was, and is, true.  I tried to play nice, despite, umm, err, well, not respecting him or what he does.  The quote above was his response.   And guess what, asstard, or (to borrow an insult in recent circulation), guess what, you cock-juggling thundercunt?  I still don’t respect you, what you do, or your pathetic attempt at a passive-aggressive non-resolution by suggesting you’re the expert and I’ve just got the post-modern/academic equivalent of the vapors.  Bite me.