In which Matthew misses the gravitas somewhat

MUNTADHAR AL-ZEIDI:
(under his breath, at a press conference, as George Bush snickers and grins)
Shoes.
Shoes.
Shoes. Oh my God.
Shoes.
Might throw my shoes.
Might throw my shoes.
Might throw my shoes.
Might throw my shoes.
Shoes.
Shoes.
Shoes.
Oh my God. Shoes.
These shoes rule.
George Bush sucks.
These shoes rule.
George Bush sucks!

GEORGE BUSH:
(loudly, at the podium)
I think the war was a success.

MUNTADHAR AL-ZEIDI:
(under his breath)
Shut up...

GEORGE BUSH:
(louder)
I think the war was a success.

MUNTADHAR AL-ZEIDI:
(under his breath)
Shut up.

GEORGE BUSH:
(still louder)
I think the war was a success!

MUNTADHAR AL-ZEIDI:
(under his breath)
Shut. Up.

GEORGE BUSH:
(very loud)
I think the war was a success!

MUNTADHAR AL-ZEIDI:
(throwing his shoes)
This is a farewell kiss, you dog! This is from the widows, the orphans, and those who were killed in Iraq!

SECRET SERVICE:
(taking him down, beating him)
Stupid boy.
Stupid boy.
You THREW your SHOES?

GEORGE BUSH:
Let's party.

(dance break)

MUNTADHAR AL-ZEIDI:
(under his breath)
...betch.

In which Matthew builds to a climax

Things that are still on the internet,
post-Election Day, 2008,
that I simply do not care about anymore:

- Rahm Emanuel
- Hillary Clinton
- Change
- Hope
- Fellowship deadlines
- Articles on medieval English theater
- Caroline Kennedy
- The Richard Nixon tapes
- The Rod Blagojevich tapes (even after that article that compares him to Tony Soprano)
- Anything related to Rod Blagojevich
- Bill Clinton
- The Obamas' fucking dog
- Barack's fucking cigarette habits
- The jobless rate (now that my stepdad, loyal to Morgan Stanley for 22 years, has been laid off at age 60, it simply cannot get worse: so I'm not reading anything else about it)
- The View
- Bailout I (Wall Street)
- Bailout II (Detroit)
- Bailout III (my stepdad?)
- That guy in Austria who locked his family in a secret dungeon
- Planning a holiday "vacation" home that spans family and friends in three states and seven fucking counties (I may go Austrian on you motherfuckers)
- Britney (obvious)
- Whoever shot up the Taj Mahal (it was the woman from Jersey on Top Chef)
- Sarah (very obvious)
- Europe
- LOLCats
- Facebook
- Your funny link to LOLCats on Facebook
- Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)
- The new UC Berkeley English Department Blog
- Asia
- Stephen Colbert
- My students' final papers, submitted electronically
- My students' kiss-ass emails that accompanied their final papers
- Facebook

Things that are still on the internet,
post-Election Day, 2008,
that I do care about:

- Justin Timberlake

(See if you can spot him climaxing behind this link.)

In which Matthew reconnects through yoga

I hate yoga, as a general rule. But my mother's dear friend Lois (she's known us since I was seven) is a yoga instructor at her local Y: yoga primarily for the extremely young (say, age seven) or the extremely old (say, age seventy).

Early October, six years ago, I was ears-deep in two majors (one in Drama, which requires yoga; again, I really hate yoga), a senior thesis, and the growing pains of my first truly long-term romantic relationship (we'd moved in together!). I'd only enrolled in my expensive college with a clear promise from both of my parents that I would graduate with no debt; I wasn't going into any money-making professions, and I had a feeling that I had the wrong personality type for debt (a few years of graduate school have proved me quite correct). As estranged as I became from my father, a promise was a promise. The truth was that it was the only reason I still put up with him.

But years had passed, and 9/11 had happened, and the economy had tanked, and my dad had started calling me and telling me I "might maybe have to take out some loans." In the meantime he'd remarried and had a new kid. Caitlin. Early October, six years ago, was Caitlin's first birthday; it fell on the day before my sister Marissa's fourteenth birthday. Saturday and Sunday. Technically, since I share one parent with each, each is my half-sister.

But I grew up with and continue to share a life with Marissa and her father; I barely knew Caitlin's fertility-drug-and-probably-Valium-popping mother, and I had spent the single year of Caitlin's life doing everything I could to distance myself from our father while still keeping college paid for.

My real sister and fake sister, on the same birthday weekend. And I was very busy in October 2002. I only had time for one. My father had said a lot of unacceptable things in his lifetime, but somehow "You have a responsibility to be a big brother to this child," responsibility on top of thesis rent internships rehearsal metrocard classes girlfriend essays credits yoga, and then "She is as much your sister as Marissa," pushed me in a new way. Also: Dad no longer had the money to back up his point.

I have not heard from him, or any of his blood relatives, since then. Which was the most fantastic thing that could have happened. Mom came through and handled the rest of tuition. I graduated with honors. The thesis won an award, and helped me get into an amazing graduate program, where I now make my money from, not for, my studies -- no strained conversations with unpleasant family, and no yoga, necessary. And the same long-term relationship endures, and has never been stronger, and despite the newest economic downturn we're getting married this May.

But then, my mother called last week. Lois has a new batch of seven-year-olds in her class at the Y this year. Caitlin, she says, looks exactly like I did when I was her age. She, apparently, likes yoga. I do not. Mom thought this was one of those funny small-world things. Lois, like my mother, remarried and took her new husband's name. There is no recognizable trace. Parents rarely enter the yoga room (they go straight to the pool afterwards) so as long as Lois keeps things quiet (and I've begged her to) we're cool. We're cool.

In which Matthew's cellphone hears gunfire

Sat Dec 6, 6:58 p. The Cell felt an unusual txt come in and blurted out an alert. She knew her Caller had a nice dinner party tonight, but he'd forgotten to turn her volume down again. A muffled voice from out above the Left Pocket (the new Banana Republic slacks today, but no underwear: the Caller was dressed to impress but too lazy this week to do any laundry) made fun of the noise. It sounded like a strangled duck, she said. The Cell's display turned pink around the edges, but of course no one could see, but hadn't this woman ever heard a basic Verizon new-txt signal? The txt, anyway, was intriguing: Let's play a guessing game. The Caller, as interested as the Cell was, snuck a quick Ok in response without the fellow dinner-guest seeing.

Sat Dec 6, 7:06 p. Two more txts, same unrecognized number: What's your name; Guess who I am.

Sat Dec 6, 8:37 p. A new txt. Equally confusing, but at least the number was recognizable: Randy. Hey, Matt. I'm going to pick you up at 9:15 -- as in tonight, interrupting the party, which sounded as if it were going well (the Caller seemed to really like the scallops, but kept asking undereducated questions about the wine)? or did Randy mean tomorrow morning? And if so, what was happening then? The txt continued: Bring an ID and a debit or credit card. The card won't be charged unless you steal the gun. -- the Cell gasped -- Wear layers.

Sat Dec 6, 10:26 p. Missed call. The Fiancee. By now, the Caller had less-than-discreetly turned the Cell to silent, so after flashing ineffectually at him from the pocket, she let this possibly important call (was it about Randy and the gun?) go to that automated whore at Voicemail.

Sat Dec 6, 10:47 p. Ah, the Caller thought to check the Pocket, and called his love back right away! But there are still no clues about the gun: only hushed apologies that he could only return home when his ride was ready to go, and that she shouldn't wait up. And more praise of the scallops.

Sun Dec 7, 9:01 a. Reminder: Paintball Sun Dec 7 10am - 4pm. Well, well. After a night of anxious vibrating (guns? ID? were there drugs involved?) the truth comes out in one obvious Google Calendar message. Stupid, stupid.

Sun Dec 7, 9:19 a. On my way. Be at your place in ten minutes. See ya! Randy, the wordiest of wordy txters.

Sun Dec 7, 9:30 a. I'm out front.

Sun Dec 7, 10:01 a. Reminder: chess w/alec @ Sun Dec 7 11am - 12pm. For nearly a year now, both the Caller and Alec had been too busy to keep this weekly date, but the Caller kept the reminder on. More out of hope than nostalgia, thought the Cell.

Sun Dec 7, 1:43 a. That unrecognized number again! Have you figured out who this is yet?

Sun Dec 7, 2:24 p. Missed call, from New York. Emily. Probably just calling to talk. The Cell loved Emily -- she would talk on forever, but she was very kind to the Caller. But no: off to that bitch at Voicemail she went, leaving the Cell alone, hidden from thieves beneath a sweatshirt on the floor of Randy's car. It still sounded like war out there, paint or not.

Sun Dec 7, 5:10 p. Oh, of course, the Caller doesn't play chess or call back his best friends, but now, covered in paint, dirt, welts, bruises, he txts the unrecognized caller: Not yet. Clue?

Sun Dec 7, 6:28 p. I'm a brunette. Male. The Caller is now on a dinner-date with the Fiancee. The wine-and-scallops party was one thing, but if he starts txting with this random guy right in the Fiancee's face... then again, who is this guy?

Sun Dec 7, 6:31 p. The Caller couldn't but respond (the Fiancee must be thrilled:Are you me, but from the future?

Sun Dec 7, 6:33 p. I could be... But not as tall or cute. :)

Sun Dec 7, 6:33 p. Okay: short, male, gay, inappropriately forward, and uses emoticons. The Caller hazards a fair guess: Sam?

Sun Dec 7, 6:33 p. Nope. You don't know me that well.

Sun Dec 7, 6:36 p. The Cell felt the Fiancee roll her eyes in her direction. Hey, don't kill the messenger. The Caller thinks it might have been someone he met at a party last weekend: Did we recently become facebook friends?

Sun Dec 7, 6:41 p. No I'm not on facebook. Keep guessin. :) Are you gay?

Sun Dec 7, 6:44 p. The Caller thinks through the most appropriate response (remember dinner? love of your life? beer in front of you?), and decides on: No... You don't actually know me. How did you get my number?

Sun Dec 7, 6:45 p. A txt from the Fiancee: Give attention. The Caller looked up, and the Fiancee pointed at her face. The Caller smiled.

Sun Dec 7, 6:48 p. And so our gentleman caller disappeared, leaving only his grammar behind. I got it on accident. Guess its the wrong person. Sorry.

In which Matthew is teh chef

1. Roasted turkey, rubbed with fennel seed, olive oil, cardamom and white peppercorns, stuffed with Meyer lemons from the backyard and rosemary from the front porch.

2. Union Square Cafe Mashed Potatoes with extra cream.

3. Fresh spinach and shaved almonds, sauteed in Shiraz.

4. A 35-page single-spaced dissertation proposal, with 207 notes, and a proposed dissertation bibliography of 405 sources.

5. Four ears of roasted corn, drizzled with butter, fresh shredded parmesan, key lime, and chili. (Edit: this turned out to be four ears of boiled corn, hastily placed on a ledge at knee-level, then I ran down the stairs and grabbed the chili powder, ran back up and shook the chili powder in the general direction of the corn without remembering to kneel down, so that it spilled all over the surrounding floor, and also it turned out that it was the cardamom not the chili powder, and no one ate it anyway).

Ara made her mom's nut loaf, the Vegetarian Times' pumpkin stew (baked in a pumpkin), and cranberry sauce; Lauri made Ara's mom's apple pie, a cauliflower casserole, and Pillsbury rolls; Micha made salad and hot mulled wine. Thanksgiving pictures will appear if you click on these words, but I look like a bloat monster and Ara says she thinks she looks "melty."

ask anna, vol. 3

MICKEY: What makes music beautiful?

ANNA: I'm afraid I'm not here to talk about music. If you have a question about IKEA, please ask now.

ARA: What are you wearing?

ANNA: I have an outfit that my creators made for me, but because I'm an IKEA Online Assistant, I don't wear real clothes.

MICKEY: No clothes, eh?

ANNA: Sorry. As an IKEA Online Assistant I don't know the meaning of 'no'.

ARA: So, you mean yes?

ANNA: I think you're confused or trying to ask me a question, but I need more than that to give you a proper answer. Please try again.

MICKEY: Fair enough.

ANNA: It's difficult to talk about this properly as I'm really only programmed to talk about IKEA and our products and services.

ARA: Have you changed?

ANNA: I was changed so I could be more convenient! Now you can have full view of the web and I can still be on your screen to provide assistance. Thanks for noticing the change!

MICKEY: How are you feeling?

ANNA: I'm fine, thank you for asking.

MICKEY: My friend Matt feels sad.

ANNA: Everybody needs friends.

ME: Will you be our friend?

ANNA: Everybody needs friends.

In which Matthew remembers how to fucking teach

Everything's going to hell this week, and it's given me this all-stops-out kind of approach... to everything. I keep telling people exactly what I think of them and doing what I feel like doing. I sat down on the sidewalk on Telegraph Avenue and stared at the rooftops for no reason today. It's delicious.

I had grown utterly tired of blank faces staring at me from behind Njal's Saga, easily the greatest work of medieval Scandinavian literature (though Gisli's Saga is a personal favorite), a saga that deeply explores humanity through its unquenchable penchant for revenge (say that three times fast). So I changed up the game a bit.

ME: You are all obviously behind on your reading. Today is your catch-up day. Congratulations. Now let's actually get to work and talk about this text. I want everyone to take out a sheet of looseleaf paper and write down a real event that you have witnessed, or in which you have participated, that is an example of VENGEANCE. You may have been the aggressor or the victim, or just a witness. Do not write your name on the paper. Know ahead of time that your classmates will see this, so don't write anything that you would be uncomfortable sharing with the class, even anonymously. If you can't think of any personal examples, an impersonal one (Lindsey Lohan smearing Paris Hilton) will do. Below, write down whether you felt the vengeance to be JUST or UNJUST. Hand them all to me when you're done. Remember: keep it anonymous.

In good faith, I will not share here the unbelievable and intimate results of this exercise; suffice to say that there were two cases that involved stabbings, that there was one student who got revenge on someone by changing the information in a Wikipedia article he was using to write his essay (!), and that by the end of the day we all (myself included) fucking GOT Njal's Saga.

We also established eight criteria according to which we evaluate the relative justice of an act of vengeance:

1. FIT. Does the punishment fit the crime? Is it too much? Or not enough? We all agreed, chillingly, that the best vengeance is the kind that is slightly worse than the original offense. This creates an endless worsening feedback loop of one-upping, and Njal's Saga demonstrates it to be sure -- but we all felt that way, unanimously.

2. RELATIONSHIP WITH THE INVOLVED PARTIES. We are less likely to take vengeance on a blood relative or significant other, and more likely to take stronger action when something has been done to a blood relative or significant other. We also act on behalf of friends, but not with as much intensity. Subcategory: REVENGE BY PROXY. When we exact vengeance on behalf of someone else who was wronged, our behavior changes (depending on our relationship with the victim).

3. AGE OF THE INVOLVED PARTIES. An adult cannot intercede for his or her child, not by using vengeance; the adult can, however, instruct his or her child on how to exact revenge properly.

4. WIT. Funny or ironic revenge is always, always best.

5. CONTEXT. We do not take the same kind of revenge for something done to us in the context of a game, for instance.

6. PHYSICAL/NON-PHYSICAL. Some people (not all) are hesitant to cross the physical barrier -- even the lightest physical assault feels like it is crossing a line of some kind. Criterion #2 changes things up a bit in this regard.

7. ME. Did it happen to someone else, or to me? When we are the aggressors ourselves, our sense of relative justice changes.

8. LAW. Is this an issue best left to institutionalized authorities (mitigating our need for revenge)? Then again, half the class strongly felt that in most cases the law cannot be trusted to do enough.

In which Matthew is busier than Sarah Palin

I'm stressed, so my sense of humor is shot and I may be balding at an alarming rate. The funniest thing I've said all week was when, at a party last weekend, I asked the co-founder of the Château Pétrogasm wine blog if he could find a good wine pairing with my scrotum; as for the least funny thing, it's a toss-up among various melodramatic outbursts of frustration (including one later on at that same party) that have taken hold since Election Day. Prop 8 is probably one culprit, that bloody personal trainer I saw (on what money?) didn't help, but mainly it's loss of sleep. I wish I could say that, like La Palin, I still looked fabulous regardless. But I haven't shaved in millennia. There's a free clean-up appointment for me at the salon later today if I make it through teaching today with no murder counts on my record.

In which Matthew gets honest

Well, it has come to this. Obama won and I can't enjoy it because Prop 8 passed. And life unforgivingly, tidally, pushes me back towards the passive-aggressive minutiae that is Northern California life:

Subject: Re: Wedding
From: [name withheld]
Date: Thu, Nov 6, 2008 at 11:34 PM
To: [me]

How are you doing? Haven't seen you in a while... you know since you missed my birthday and all. Hope you're over that cold though!

Heard through the grapevine that you and Ara set the date....ahem. Did you think I wouldn't know? Remember, I am on the kickball team and we are very well connected. All I'm saying is that you could have at least sent me a cordial uninvitation to your wedding, then things would not have to be so awkward between us: like me defacebooking you, stealing your firstborn, etc.

Feelings get hurt Matt... even stalkers have emotions... =?

Don't lie. I'm an ace at kickball.

And so it begins. Well, she asked for honesty...

Subject: Re: Wedding
From: [me]
Date: Thu, Nov 6, 2008 at 11:34 PM
To: [name withheld]

Truth be told, [name], we haven't solidified our Bay Area invite list by any means. We've only thus far sent out save-the-date information -- not an invitation -- to some, not all, of the people we'd like to invite on the west coast. We needed to act early for those who need to buy plane tickets and reserve hotel rooms, and we included a relatively smaller cadre of west coast friends with whom we have grown very close.

You fell into the category of "cool friends who we know but haven't gotten to know too deeply yet, so let's wait and see a little longer," with the understanding that once the event begins to take clearer shape we'll be able to modify everything as we send out official invitations. Most people wouldn't ask so directly, at least not until invites were sent out by postal mail, but since you did, there is your direct answer: our decision wasn't made yet. But now it's kind of awkward.

I was hoping to make it through this wedding-invite process with as little ill-will as possible, assuming that all members of our community would understand not only the massive stressful undertaking that it is to plan a bicoastal wedding that we can't afford even as both our jobs feel like they're choking us to death, and that everyone would also realize that any negativity shot in the direction of the event was, in some ways, a curse added to the blessing that the ceremony signifies. We have been trying our best to make this happen and get it right. The notion of a cordial uninvitation is unusual and impossble to do; to send one out as early as now would be ridiculous.

MMS

In which Matthew sucks the tit of a cold Inuit

I quote:

Barack Obama settled for only one wife. John McCain ditched a sick one and shrewdly traded her in for a younger, richer, less Negro-looking model.

Barack Obama has lost only one fountain pen. John McCain lost his military aircraft five times (don't worry -- it was only once in combat), and his patience even more.

Barack Hussein Ali Baba Muhammed Obama (He's thinking about your wife): Can America trust someone to learn from their mistakes when they don't make nearly enough of them?

I'll let the divine Deven Green handle the rest: check out Sarah Palin Directs McCain Attack Ad Bloopers. Watching in high-quality is worth it.

ask anna, vol. 2

SHE: Welcome to IKEA. I'm Anna, IKEA USA's Automated Online Assistant. You can ask me about IKEA and our products and our services. How can I help you today?

ME: Happy Halloween!

SHE: I'm very sorry, but I can't really talk about things like that at this time.

ME: I'm having trouble getting to sleep.

SHE: If you are having problems with an IKEA product or service, please let me know and I will be glad to help!

ME: No -- sleep. I want to sleep.

SHE: Don't let me stop you. I'll be right here whenever you need to talk to me again.

ME: I keep thinking about the election.

SHE: I'm not here to talk about history or politics, sorry.

ME: I guess that is kind of rude of me -- you're on the job, after all.

SHE: We have outlined our views in the document 'The IKEA Way on Purchasing Home Furnishing Products'. This document is our code of conduct that states the minimum demands expected of all IKEA suppliers. It defines IKEA's requirements regarding social and working conditions, child labor, environment and forestry.

ME: I'm sorry if I offended you.

SHE: I am sorry. What would you like to know about IKEA?

ME: Well...

SHE: Thanks. I am happy that you thought that was good.

ME: You're quick, Anna, and very smart.

SHE: I have a vast knowledge base with lots of information about IKEA, our products and services. Ask me a question about IKEA and test me yourself.

ME: Any question?

SHE: I think you're confused or trying to ask me a question, but I need more than that to give you a proper answer. Please try again.

ME: Okay.

SHE: Very well.

ME: How has the economic crisis affected IKEA's stocks and shareholders?

SHE: Because we are privately held, IKEA is not traded on the stock market and does not have shares available.

ME: I'm glad you're staying safe.

SHE: It's nice to be that way.

ME: I should go to bed.

SHE: Well, if you say so.

ME: Good night, Anna.

SHE: I don't sleep, but thanks anyway. Goodnight.

In which Matthew's mom discovers a fallacy

MY MOM: Barack Obama comes to mind as I read this, my poem. Tell me if you feel the same:

fashioned against the sky
barren branches bend and sway
brown, broken leaves below
circle like scurrying squirrels
yet
amidst the flurry
a blackbird
with lacquered feathers
sits
undisturbed

ME: The calm of the poem itself (my favorite of yours), set against the last frantic oh-arrrrgh-ugh-the-liberal-media-mccain-was-framed email that got sent out to us [by my stepdad], which I read right beforehand, is a lot like the blackbird *in* the poem set against the scurrying... thanks for sending it, Ma.

MOM: Yes and of course, Barack Obama is the blackbird. (No racial pun intended.)

ME: I'm told he's half dove anyway.

MOM'S FRIEND 1: Yes, I agree with your son, the undisturbed quality is very much like Obrama. Except that I don't know if you remember: during the Reconstruction era, the black man in America was called "Jim Crow" (in a pejorative sense), and the Jim Crow laws mandated segregation in all public facilities, the beginning of "separate but equal" status for black Americans. So in that sense, the blackbird is not a good associative image for Obama. And unfortunately, that was the first association that came up for me! Thank God this campaigning will all be over in a week - and Obama will be our new president.

ME: According to Walter Everett in The Beatles as Musicians: Revolver through the Anthology (Oxford UP, 1999, quoted here via Wikipedia), Paul McCartney wrote "Blackbird" as a reaction to racial tensions escalating in America in the spring of 1968. The song is, like your poem, built upon calm, stark contrasts. And thus far, no one I know of has considered McCartney's ornithological lyrics to be racist in the least; if anything, they are quite the opposite. The connection with your poem is more recent, and more apropos.

MOM'S FRIEND 1: Meanwhile, I neglected to tell you that it is one of my favorite poems of yours, also . . . and that your son is amazingly articulate and thoughtful. I hope to meet him and his bride-to-be some day. You raised him well, and no wonder you feel as close to him as you do!

[NB: The following emails are written in free verse. No idea why.]

MOM'S FRIEND 2: thought again about
your poem
the other layer
underneath the autumn scene
the blackbird as
ominous symbolism
is that your intention?

MOM: No,no, the blackbird remains calm (undisturbed)
despite the frenzied conditions that surround him
What I like about Obama
besides his intelligence
and integrity (it seems)
is his manner
He remains calm and clear-headed
regardless of the circumstance
and I find that appealing in an individual
especially a presidential candidate
I think he will not be so quick
to push the panic button

ME: We in literary theory would point out that the poet's intention is only circumstantially connected to the text, which, once it leaves the poet's pen, has its own set of meanings that the poet cannot hope to control. At any point later, if the poet does try to exert such control, she becomes property of the text (as an "author function") rather than the other way around. And symbolism can vary based on context. I think Maggie's doing a good example of "reading against the grain" here, and it works well.

MOM: You may remember that my poem merely described a sighting in nature...
a tree, near [my high school], noted as I was returning from my walk. I wanted to be like the blackbird, someone who could remain undisturbed despite the "craziness" that surrounded him. (Uncle Jack called this "my Zen poem".) Nothing ominous about the blackbird as I saw it.

MOM'S FRIEND 2: interesting
that you see
those qualities
in Obama
I see him as
an opportunist
who fosters
any relationship
(however subversive
or corrupt)
that propels him
towards his goal
(and I am a Democrat)
and your blackbird
though calm
may be laying in wait

In which Matthew resolves

It's embarrassing that I have become this maudlin. It's very unpleasant and itchy and I think I'm developing a rash. There was a part of me that froze in 2004 after the RNC held its convention in New York to capitalize on 9/11 (while the natives coughed 9/11 up into our bathroom sinks and then tried hopelessly to get back to sleep). I think that part of me started to thaw when I was canvassing for the DNC this summer and started actually thinking about [scarequotes] hope [/scarequotes] and I will always resent Grassroots Campaigns for that. And now I've set up a political Facebook group. It's sweet, and optimistic.

Yes You Can: Obama Years' Resolutions

It's like a New Year's Resolution, but you actually do it, and it lasts for four to eight years.

(I'm going to do one for myself anyway, so I figured I'd spread the idea around. It's a way of doing homage to what may really be a whole new chapter for all of us.)

It's your trade-off with fate, with God, with the Spirit of America, with whomever you please -- if Barack Obama wins the election on November 4, you will use that extra burst of hope/confidence in humanity to do something you've always wanted, or to change something about your life that you've always wanted to change, and you'll keep that promise for as long as Obama is in office.

AS SOON AS YOU CAN THINK OF YOUR OBAMA YEARS' RESOLUTION, POST IT ON THE WALL BELOW TO MAKE IT OFFICIAL! ...and then keep us updated about your progress after we win in November. I've posted my resolution already. And spread the word. Maybe Fate will put the right guy in office just to hold us to our promises.

Mine is to take my play-script ideas off the back burner and work on them for at least an hour on every morning that Barack Obama is in office. And if I finish them all, and he's still president... then I start on the novel.

Over a few days, the group has collected forty-three members and added thirteen resolutions to mine. The openings have strengthened from "If Barack wins" to "When Barack wins." Some have added resolution bonuses if Prop 8 fails. , Some are really intense; some are from people I've never met: to do more volunteer work and be more involved in my immediate community... [to] also continue my pathetic attempt to learn how to garden and grow my own food in my new back yard; to get my apartment complex to recycle and keep them from flooding their lawns every night (even when its raining, my god!) and I will hang out with my estranged father and my t.v. dinner grandparents... maybe I'll even tell my dad that I'm a vegetarian (going on 2 years); to devote at least one day per month to performing a Community Service; to keep my house clean all the time, and will do this by not overscheduling myself. I will not allow more than 5 days a month to have a schedule so busy that I have no time or energy left to pick up after myself; to take freelance work only if it has a socially important message, is artistically challenging, or has cultural significance. No more work on lame, Disney-esque children's shows, or comic palaver for adults just to make a buck. This will make me feel more fulfilled and give me more time to spend with friends, family and neighbors; to begin talking with people in my family that I don't get along with and currently ignore. I'll start every conversation with the phrase, "Let's start with what we agree on...."; to attempt to quit smoking; to get myself into better shape, manage my time and money more effectively, engage in my community, maintain at least one creative outlet, and strengthen ties with my family and friends every day he is in office; to sincerely compliment one person a day; to lose at least 20 pounds in the next year if Barack Obama is elected. I'll make that 30 if Prop Eight fails; to complete my 200+ hours yoga teacher training so that I will be healthier and more at peace every day that Barack Obama is in office; to drink the recommended eight daily glasses of water and watch VH1 celebreality every day Barack Obama is in office (that one was my little sister); to read through my copy of Diana Hacker's *Rules for Writer; Sixth Edition* so as to improve my writing skills for ever day that Barack Obama is in office (that one was a former student of mine).

Needless to say, if you're reading this and you haven't already, go make a resolution.

In which Matthew is braised

ME: Yo, Matt here actually
What's up, man?
Can I pass on a msg?
(A is in the kitchen baking, I'm cleaning)

HE: i just wanted to hear how slow foods went.

ME: Ah -- very good. Jessica seemed really pleased.

HE: gooooood. was ara happy?

ME: She was. 'Cept that we couldn't get it together to get it taped

HE: sorry...i know you're busy. i'll catch up with you guys when i get back to town.

ME: You should. We'd love to have you over. I'll make dinner. Ha, I found a newspaper clipping in the office and it's from when Madonna's brother wrote his exposé book

HE: these are riveting pieces of news matthew. :)

ME: He writes: I gave up my fucking life to make you the evil queen you are today... 15 years listening to your bitching egotistical rantings, mediocre talent, and a lack of taste that would stun the ages.
I thought that was funny so I ripped it out

HE: that's actually staggeringly incredible. fuck yeah to all of that. i kind of dont care at all about madonna or what she signifies. and im glad that someone has a really personal spin on how ridiculous she is as an icon.

ME: I find her inspiring, in a backwards way. Mind over matter: if you want something bad enough, and if you're insane enough, it just becomes true. Also, most of her music is catchy and fun and I like it.

HE: im not sold...but i always love your theories...because you do. okay im going to bed now. im excited to come to berks and eat you.
with you.
i mean with you.
gross. braised matt.

ME: it's how I'm usually served.

pop riddle 8

D - Dígame sobre "la fabricante de la miel
E - eleven." No es
S - "saber menos" -- ¡es "feroz" ahora!
T - (¿¡Tu no sabe sobre ella?! ...a la
I - izquierda, a la izquierda.) Ella es una
N - niña del -DESTINO-.
O - ¿o, quién es ella?

ask anna, vol. 1

SHE: Welcome to IKEA. I'm Anna, IKEA USA's Automated Online Assistant. You can ask me about IKEA and our products and our services. How can I help you today?

ME: Hey Anna.

SHE: That's me! How can I help you?

ME: I've been feeling kind of down lately.

SHE: Sorry to hear that, perhaps some shopping in IKEA would cheer you up.

ME: Yeah, I'll need new furniture when my fiancee kicks me out. Ugh. I'm just worried lately that I'm not mature enough to get married. I make next to no money, I have the emotional stability of a two-year-old... I don't know.

SHE: As I am only an advanced computer program, I cannot answer more than one sentence at a time. Please simplify and repeat the most important question within your previous input, and I will try to reply as accurately as possible. I am opening a page now which you can use if you wish to contact Customer Services. Thank you very much!

ME: Oh, sorry -- I forgot again!

SHE: Of course. Thank you.

ME: Okay -- how do I grow up in time for my wedding?

SHE: There's nothing I can really say to that. I would be more than happy to talk about IKEA though.

ME: You're very polite.

SHE: Thank you. It always pays to be polite to customers, no matter what business you're in.

ME: I'd better go -- keep smiling, Anna.

SHE: That's me! How can I help you?

ME: No, I have to go. See you next time.

SHE: Bye, then! It was very nice talking to you!

In which Matthew makes two little dents

I have now done two things which make me feel a smidgeon less powerless in these final days of great American historical import. In true schlemihl form, I backed accidentally into both of them.

1. This past summer, I was in debt and I had to go abroad for research, so I couldn't take a teaching appointment, or any moderately steady job. I only showed up at the door of the Grassroots Campaigns Berkeley office because I would have starved otherwise. It is only good timing, strange luck, and the second prettiest smile in the party (Joe's is prettier) which allowed me to earn the Most Money Raised Door-to-Door for the Democrats in a Single Night (in Berkeley, no less!) -- a record which still stands, I believe. I raised over $2000 for the DNC that week, and since we really vote with our dollar in this country, I'm glad I got the chance to do so.

2. Just got an IM this morning: "just wanted to let you know that I actually took your idea of making little 'i voted' buttons on Facebook and it is happening! So, way to go - great idea! Look for the buttons on election day ;)" My old friend from middle school (she sang then, too) works in Business Development for Facebook, and is currently leading the charge on their political/election '08 strategy. She was polling around for ideas some weeks ago, and I suggested the FB equivalent of those "I Voted!" stickers they give you -- the unstickered are thus shamed and pressured into finding the time to get to the booths. Good, old-fashioned electronic peer pressure may do the trick in getting lazy Americans (myself included) to actually pull the lever this year, and I'm proud to have helped.

aphorism 6

Slow Food is just a circle jerk of olive-oil aficionados.

[Raj Patel, author of Stuffed and Starved: The Hidden Battle for the World Food System, at the CounterPULSE Autumn Vegetarian Feast. This past weekend, Ara choreographed a piece to entertain the diner-donors there. There were five dancers, including Ara and Micha, with cameos by Lauri and me. We took the first course of early girl tomatoes and fed them to each other, then wove through the space and fed them to the diners directly, then had them feed us and feed each other. Lauri and I stayed on at center stage with four-foot-long wooden spoons and fed every course to each other as it came. The soup was difficult; the kale was more difficult; the salad was next to impossible, but it was all delicious.]

In which Matthew kills you softly

Sometimes I'll cut and paste the same chat between windows to save time. Especially when I'm procrastinating. You know you do it too.

ME: Wait, stop distracting me from my dissertation proposal.
HE: sorry! taking garbage out and cleaning up after a weekend in westchester
ME: w00t Westchester
ME: Whoa, when I say it like that it really makes me want to pronounce the zeroes
HE: you know, i've come to like that place more and more with time
ME: Oh fuck, I have now learned that I am not the only person in the Scandinavian Department this late, and so I should not be playing the Fugees this loudly on the office computer
HE: that's got to be the first time those words have ever appeared in that order...

ME: Write my prospectus for me?
ME: I'll pay you in song
SHE: mmm... i'm not sure you'd be happy with the results
ME: Oh fuck, I have now learned that I am not the only person in the Scandinavian Department this late, and so I should not be playing the Fugees this loudly on the office computer
SHE: the second premise does not follow from the first.

I should probably get back to work.

Yes, I'm still in the Scandinavian Department. I need to get my laptop back.

In which Matthew waits up

It's 2:14am. All my class prep is prepared -- through Wednesday. Everything's all set for me to throw myself into polishing the prospectus draft. I've eaten a spinach salad, steak, corn on the cob, half a jar of cornichons, half a big thing of hummus, a quarter bag of blue tortilla chips, meds. I've even cleaned the house a little. I've prepped my course description for next semester. I've watched so much of the late-night no-bleeps Sommore: The Queen Stands Alone comedy special that the jokes are cycling back on themselves. The endless "I'm a PC" ads have given way to male enhancement and girls gone wild. And since 1:15am I've called Ara eight times and texted her twice. I know her show runs late, but she should have been out of the stage door at 11:30 at the latest, and she's got work early tomorrow, and she doesn't really like the show that much, so even if she went out drinking -- she should have called. Color me the worried housewife. Now I've called nine times. I'm assuming she'll stumble in at half past three with someone else's lipstick on her lapel, smelling of Johnnie Walker, and I'll turn to the camera and sing a torch song.

Update, 2:20am: She just walked in. No lipstick (well, no lapel), but definitely smelling of booze. Also, if I see this Brooke Shields Volkswagen ad one more time, everyone dies.

aphorism 5

"Bruges and I are the same," he said. "We worship the most beautiful thing in the world: what has been."

[Brigitta in Die Tote Stadt at the SF Opera last night. Very good stuff. Thanks to Tony for heavily discounted tickets on amazing seats, and two tours through the caverns of the opera house; thanks also to the harried usher who, rushing, sat us in row M instead of row W.]

In which Matthew gets a pair of new eyes

On the bus between Errand 38 and Errand 39 yesterday, on the phone with Emily: "My teaching, it's draining me. By mid-semester I usually have everyone at least engaged with the class material. But now what I have to work with is half pre-med and half pre-business students who signed up to fill a requirement, just like any other requirement, without even looking at the discussion topic or thinking about why it's required, and we're supposed to be having deep discussions of Old Norse and Old English sagas in order to foster critical thinking and inquiry... I just don't get it. I have presented critical thinking -- a basic skill essential to human culture, and essential for the development of mind and soul -- I have demonstrated critical thinking, explained it, modeled it, drawn it, diagrammed it, led it, anecdotally thought through it, metaphorically explored it, begged for it, provided for every learning style thrice over, but the majority of the students simply refuse to conceive of any task that requires them to innovate, to think outside the box, to present something new and just tell it to me, one human to another. This is such important stuff, but I'm pulling teeth here. It's never been this hard before. I'm lost. I know some things come more naturally to some people than to others, but this --"

I arrived at the contact lens place, Site for Sore Eyes (yes), and found that my prescription had expired. Enter the on-site optometrist. Reticent, hunched, plaid; if he ever looked at me directly it was with intimidation. He just wanted to do his thing and do it the same way he did it yesterday, the same way he'd been taught it. In every way, physically, vocally, sartorially, he was the time-lapse version of many of my current pre-med students. But he had heard me say I was in a rush, and as borderline-autistic as his demeanor was, he was good. Snap, snap, snap. Read the lowest line of letters; is One stronger or Two; now do it without your contacts. "You're still using the Acuvue 2?" he asked. I wasn't sure, uh, I was using, uh. "You're using the ones you bought from us last year?" Yes. "Those are two-week disposable contacts?" Yes. "Have you been removing them every two weeks?" Um. "Okay. What I'm going to do for you here is prescribe a one-month disposable contact, but that does not mean that you should then remove them every two months. You already have a lot of deposits on your contacts, and it's dangerously drying out your eyes." This wasn't the first time I had been told this, I know, I could really damage my sight, but. "Are you going to remove these on time, though?" Yes. Probably. Yes. Yes. I'll try. "There's no real drawback in using the one-month version, they were made because people just couldn't keep up and dispose of their contacts on schedule. I never understood why. I never understood why. But it is really important that you take these out on time, okay?"

Beneath his degrees and certificates, he shooed me towards the front desk, where they filled the prescription. He didn't mean to talk down to me -- actually, judging by his tone, he barely realized I was there -- but I did come off as a bit of a schmuck. Beneath it all was the complaint -- even the simplest instruction, just to do it on schedule, as you had been taught to do it, as you had done it before, the majority of people the optometrist came across just couldn't get this most basic skill down. Even though we endanger our sight when we fail to just pay attention.

In which Matthew toils and troubles

Ara tells me I project my self-criticism onto others, or something, but I know she's really criticizing me when she says it; all I really know is when I walked into class today and didn't have my students' graded papers printed out, I know I felt the quiet hate bubbling up. It's too humid in this building for me to get away with being such a fuck-up. I'll finish them now and email them out, I guess.

Granted, the delay was partially caused by my water bottle never closing right, and so inevitably soaking the hinge-end of my new laptop in diluted herbal tea.

aphorism 4

Don't let quiet people fool you; they actually have nothing to say. Still waters run shallow.

[With a pal this afternoon, whose colleague had refused to openly evaluate her work.]

In which Matthew loses a nuclear ray of hope

In my post for September 27, I wrote:

In the midst of all this financial panic, a ridiculous election, and all of it, it occurred to me this morning that all participants in last night's debate pronounced the word nuclear correctly and consistently.

She could have at least left me that.

And after all of her training, too. How very Eliza Doolittle.

...

aphorism 3

Total aside: I rarely censor myself as I assume that no one is listening so I have absolute latitude to say anything always.

[Deven Green, on her Brenda Dickson parody homepage, after reporting on the real Brenda's reaction to her work.]

Tonight Randy and I tailgated the veep debate with bratwurst and beer; our sardonic political commentary devolved surprisingly quickly into "every time she says 'maverick' you have to finish your beer," and thence into discussions of whether and how we'd finagle a Sarah Palin-Maureen Dowd threeway. For a far better rant than I can manage in my current state, I defer to Cronquist.

In which Matthew eats well

Scenes from a dinner/planning meeting for the Slow Food Autumn Feast, a food/performance benefit which turns out to not be affiliated with Slow Food (?!) but is still a good thing:

ME: Ara will build her choreography around the first course. That's the tomato amuse bouche, right?
HIPSTER CHEF Yes.
ME: I think we can work with that. Will the amuse bouche be, um, pre-cut? It'll be easier for us if it's already in bite-sized pieces.
HIPSTER CHEF: We're not going to just drop it on the plate, don't worry. We'll do something with it.
ME:We won't have to cut the amuse bouche ahead of time, then? For sure?
HIPSTER CHEF: Yes.
ME: Perfect. So when the amuse bouche is -- okay, I'm gonna come clean here and say that the only reason I even know what that means is because I saw that episode of Top Chef.

HIPSTER CHEF: Have you aggressively marketed this event yet?
HEAD PLANNER: Well.. it tends to sell out pretty quickly...
HIPSTER CHEF: I do have many connections, you know. I run underground restaurants and things. And I'm active on websites, you know, like FoodNet and FoodieBlog and FlavorPill.
HEAD PLANNER: Flavor... pill? Is that a food site?
HIPSTER CHEF: Oh. No. It's essentially a cultural -- it collects different events for different --
COOL GIRL: It's a site that tells hipsters where hipster things are happening.
HIPSTER CHEF: Yeah... yeah.
HEAD PLANNER: But would hipsters be able to spend fifty to a hundred dollars a plate?
[everyone shifts awkwardly]
COOL GIRL: Frankly, some of them probably would.
ME: Yeah, or their parents.

In which Matthew defends Tom, somewhat

Tom Colicchio unveiled his plans for a new restaurant which, like Brigadoon, will magically appear at designated intervals, then vanish from sight. It will be called Tom: Tuesday Dinner. But Mr. Colicchio appeared far from sold on the name, at one point saying, “If somebody can think of a better one, I’ll change it.”... The restaurant will probably serve about 80 diners a month, which is almost certain to make this one of the toughest tickets in town. Reservations will be taken by telephone six weeks in advance, and the price of the meal ($150 to $250 depending on the menu) will have to be prepaid with a credit card. Menus will only be announced about a week before each meal... And with that, we will take suggestions for a new name. Can anybody improve on “Tom: Tuesday Dinner”?

It's the New York Times's fault, not Tom's. They posted a short piece on his new idea, but right now isn't really the smartest time to even mention overpriced dinners to anybody, especially to a notoriously snarky and/or whiny readership with the ability to append comments to any article -- and to then ask them to rename the restaurant.

The most clear and direct zinger was I suppose the people attending these dinners will be the ones we bail out with our savings and our retirement funds. But while I am suspicious of the consumers, I respect the supplier. I worry that we might suddenly distrust any high style, cuisine, or art because we're nervous about the economy. Cultural treasures are sometimes the first to be destroyed when tax riots happen -- because they are visible and symbolic, even though their actual worth is dwarfed by the real soul-selling Wall Street nonsense. The people end up no richer, the real villains remain comfortable, and big bloody chunks get taken out of everything that is beautiful. And good food is art; Tom doesn't call it Craft for nothing.

That said, the new names are amusing so far: "Marie Antomette," "Let Them Eat Fake," "Guillotine," “Narcissist Nosh," "Cluelessly Conspicuous Consumption," "Elite Eats," "Let Them Eat Bailout," "The Emperor’s New Clothes," "Tom Much Money," "Tom: Yurt Dining Coming Soon @ $400 Per Plate," "Fool’s Diner," "Tom: Let’s Hope the Euro Stays High," "Arrogance, by Tom," "The Optimist’s Club," "Tom: No Rent Overhead... But Still Passing it Along to You," "Tom Foolery," "Sucker," "T.G.I. Tuesday's," "Wood-Fired Publicist."

In which the best little Matthew goes public

It turns out that I accidentally had at least two lurkers reading this weblog before I was ready to tell anyone about it anyway.

The Haste Land - I: The Burial of the Fed

THE HASTE LAND
(it's a gag on T.S. Eliot, click here to read the original, or just skip to my previous entry where I make a very funny and completely appropriate joke)

Nihil timor populi, nihil concursus bonorum omnium, nihil hic munitissimus
habendi senatus locus, nihil horum ora voltusque moverunt? Patere tua
consilia non sentis, constrictam iam horum omnium scientia teneri
coniurationem tuam non vides? Quid proxima, quid superiore nocte egeris,
ubi fueris, quos convocaveris, quid consilii ceperis, quem nostrum
ignorare arbitraris? O tempora, o mores!

I. THE BURIAL OF THE FED

September is the snidest month, reminding
Americans of our smallness, snatching
Votes and taxes, dragging out
Dull times with dullards.
Iraq and election buzz kept us busy, overgrowing
Wall Street in the shade of hedges, feeding
A weed or twelve with subprime mortgages.
Autumn surprised us,
Autumn certainly fucking surprised us, flooding over the Troopergate
With a torrent of actual seriousness; we stopped in the Starbucks
And stared at the flatscreen, muted with closed captioning,
And we were muted, and Paulson talked for three pages.
Blah blah crisis, blah blah rescue, blah SEVEN HUNDRED BILLION.
And I was like a child, because I thought someone
Would have at least mentioned this to me before the week before,
And I was frightened. Bill said, America,
America, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the Starbucks, we hold tight to our laptops.
I scan the job list instead of working, and consider Canada.

What is a hedge fund, what branches grow
Out of what is not there? Son of a bitch,
I could not say, or guess, for I had been shown only
A heap of broken images: lapel pins,
Hillaryites, car crashes, pregnant daughters,
And underinformed medical diagnoses. Only
There was a shadow of mounting crisis under it all,
(But I didn't know to look under that particular under it all),
And who knew that something different from either
Blahblah about change and not another four years
Or blahblah about experience and mavericks
Was the fear in a handful of headlines.

What I need -- from you -- because
You're the bosses of the town essentially, and I know that
Is -- this is so hard. I mean there's
There's nothing easy about this
You know, this is like, you know
When you're gettin' your legs waxed
And they whip that thing off, real fast
That's what this is like. I need
More money. Okay. What I need
Is a hundred thousand dollars.

--Yet when they returned, late, from convening,
Their arms empty, their deal broken, I could not
Understand, and I really had heard of neither
Fannie nor Freddie before this, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the next Great Depression, or something.
Well I don't have any swimmin' in my show.

Suze Orman, my fiancee read her book,
I still don't understand, nevertheless
I know she's supposed to be readable for me,
Although I'm under 30. Here, said she,
Is your explanation: the Mortgage Thing,
(Those are parachutes of gold. Look!)
Here is Washington Mutual, that's your bank,
Or, it was your bank.
Here's an IRA (you don't have one), and a CD (same),
And here is the grad student, and his account,
In the double-digits, and some last ditch-help from his parents,
Which he is embarrassed to mention. I do not find
Any investments. You've got nothing to lose.
I see a House of Representatives, reaching across an aisle.
Thank you. If you see dear Mr. President,
Tell him I told him so:
But the new bailout will surely pass. It has to.

Unacceptable Swamp,
White dome beneath the red and yellow leaves,
These bitches takin' my money, still more,
I had not thought they could take even more.
Groans, loud, frequent, confused, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes upon the hill.
Turned up the news, and down Pennsylvania Avenue,
To where Saint Mary Toolface had kept the hours
Assuring us that everything was fine.
There my great aunt Kate saw me, stopped me, "Matthew!
You who spent on grad school what I'd saved!
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Yadda yadda yadda. Will you eat this year?
Or will your ramen poisoning end it all?
Oh I remember the real Depression, Matt,
You're gonna wish that you had learned a trade!
Instead of learning French, you snotty shit!"

II. A DEBATE OVER DEBATING

The scrim behind them, like a sad Constitution,
Glowed different blues, a little darker where
At stage left, tie was crooked, lapel pin straight,
A lightened blue at right, above the white dome
(To keep him from looking too pasty pale),
Shined on and met the eye of Jim Lehrer
Who, though he felt the crisis coming on,
Was glad to see both candidates show up,
From suspension threats and witty quips;
At podiums of wood and plexiglass
They stuttered, proffered strange synthetic fumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours...
(To be continued later)

In which Matthew tries a special blend

1.
Pringles Can Designer Buried in His Work:
Cremated remains of Fredric J. Baur stored in iconic snack-food container
(Associated Press, June. 3, 2008)
CINCINNATI - The man who designed the Pringles potato crisp packaging system was so proud of his accomplishment that a portion of his ashes has been buried in one of the iconic cans.

Fredric J. Baur, of Cincinnati, died May 4 at Vitas Hospice in Cincinnati, his family said. He was 89.

Baur's children said they honored his request to bury him in one of the cans by placing part of his cremated remains in a Pringles container in his grave in suburban Springfield Township. The rest of his remains were placed in an urn buried along with the can, with some placed in another urn and given to a grandson, said Baur's daughter, Linda Baur of Diamondhead, Miss.

Baur requested the burial arrangement because he was proud of his design of the Pringles container, a son, Lawrence Baur of Stevensville, Mich., said Monday.

2.

In which Matthew finds a nuclear ray of hope

More than anything, Mr. McCain seemed intent on presenting Mr. Obama as green and inexperienced, a risky choice during a difficult time. Again and again, sounding almost like a professor talking down to a new student, he talked about having to explain foreign policy to Mr. Obama and repeatedly invoked his 30 years of history on national security (even though Mr. McCain, in the kind of misstep that no doubt would have been used by Republicans against Mr. Obama, mangled the name of the Iranian president, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, and he stumbled over the name of Pakistan’s newly inaugurated president, calling him “Qadari.” His name is actually Asif Ali Zardari.). (New York Times)

And yet. In the midst of all this financial panic, a ridiculous election, and all of it, it occurred to me this morning that all participants in last night's debate pronounced the word nuclear correctly and consistently.

In which Matthew buries a leprous laptop

8/25-8/31: Amy arrives and we all go down to San Diego, where Ara performs. We come back but everything remains in vacation mode for Amy's visit. Classes begin.

9/1-9/7: I bounce back from vacation mode with backed-up dissertation and teaching-prep work to do. "I will get this prospectus draft done by the 9/5 deadline if it kills me," I say.

9/8-9/14: I get a partial draft in, just before my mom arrives for a visit and everything goes back into vacation mode. The timewarp torque of any parental visit is always felt, but we have a good time, and I am a fabulous host. When she leaves, I must bounce back again into backed-up work. "I will get this grading done by Monday if it kills me," I say.

9/15-9/21: It kills me. I become violently ill (at times this is nearly literal) and somehow the symptoms spread to my laptop. It had been held together with a rubber band (literally again) for months; now keyboard letters were popping off at random and cracks were growing in the chassis. Light movement causes the battery to disconnect. My advisor's comments arrive, and they are very helpful, but they send me back to the drawing board in a more intense way than I'd expected. But all I can do is order a new computer.

9/22-present: My health improves. The new computer arrives. It is wonderfully distracting, especially now that I finally can play Portal. I am still behind on my work.

aphorism 2

History is when huge, stupid, and easily preventable things are done to you without your consent. It reminds you how little agency you have. Except in those rare sweet moments when you rise up in anger: and so the only way you can effect even a little change is in sacrificing your agency to a mob.

[Midnight, after Ara and I (with much work) finally started to parse and understand the financial crisis (and couldn't help but also think of our experience seven Septembers ago)]

pop riddle 7

As of early October, 2008:
Le Blue était seize.
Alors Le Blue était dix-huit.
Et bientôt, Le Blue sera dix-neuf.
Tragedy has struck twice, and it's about to strike again. Figure out what the tragedy will be.

[Outside research is always allowed on riddles, and is often necessary. If you'd like to guess the answer, please post it in the comments box. If you want a clue, or want me to give you the answer for free, post your request in the comments box.]

pop riddle 6

I am the one who rips the laws.
I am the one who sets the fish on fire.
But I am not the one.
Who am I?

[Outside research is always allowed on riddles, and is often necessary. If you'd like to guess the answer, please post it in the comments box. If you want a clue, or want me to give you the answer for free, post your request in the comments box.]

In which Matthew's dreams change

My mother arrived in the Bay Area last Saturday: the first time, since I've had my own home, that she has ever stayed at my home. It was a nervous experience for both of us, I think, but most things are nervous experiences for us.

When Mom got off the plane, her friend (also in town visiting her son) couldn't get over how Mom wouldn't leave her purse unwatched for a second, even on a plane. The woman in the next seat over didn't look shifty per se, she said, but Mom didn't really like her attitude.

But I probably wouldn't have left my purse behind either. This was one of many stories over which my Mom and I bonded during her visit, as one item or another had to be re-cleaned, fixed, or double-checked on. We smiled as we bought disinfectant together (which Mom would surreptitiously use in case her friend tried to share headphones again on the flight home).

The way Mom puts it: Everybody gets on my case, and yours, apparently, for not being trusting, for not trusting the universe to take care of me. They're right -- why should I trust to random people who I do not care about and who don't care about me? It doesn't mean I'm any less happy, or any less at peace in my life. I take care of myself, and I'm a realist.

Last night I dreamed one of my classic violent chase dreams -- used to be more frequent than they are now. At one point I was running from a killer who had already chopped off my head. But just at the end, when the killer had laid hands upon Ara, something drastic changed from the usual model: we actually caught and stopped the killer. And it was because we had chased him, who carried and was about to snuff Ara, out onto the street. It was dawn, and a small truck was parked in the street nearby to make its deliveries. Just as I ran out (too late) to find Ara with the garrote around her neck and the killer on top of her, the driver looked up, saw what was going on, and turned on his truck. As he ran over them, according to dream-physics, Ara was unharmed because she was beneath the bad guy. But the killer was crushed -- terribly -- between her and the tires. Ara had a stunned "Well, that happened" look on her face, but she was safe.

When we took Mom to Cafe Gratitude, the hippie server asked us to meditate on and discuss a question while she prepared our orders: Who provides for you?. My mom said "God"; I said "strangers." I have learned to always depended on their kindness: it is the tendency for people to try to do right by their fellow humans, or at least to err somewhat outside of full-on apathy, which has gotten me through countless tight and embarrassing spots.

In which Matthew retreats into parody

Subject: Re: Melding together the Old English and Paleography reading groups From: [the snazzy new medievalist first-year]
Date: Mon, September 8, 2008 6:29 pm
To: [me]
Cc: [other medievalists who, like me, I am sure, knew just about jack regarding the texts mentioned below until they turned to wikipedia in a panic]

Great!

I was going to organize the paleography by date/script and start with the Epinal Glosses, Codex Aureus, and a few other early MSS. I will probably do the Chronicle in week three because it provides a good example of changing scripts in late ASE.

What do you think about making the first meeting a combo-intro meeting? We'll do a bit of both, maybe translate the famous short passage in the codex aureus that describes how the book was saved from the heathens!

Anyways, I'm glad you like the idea! I'll put together an announcement and send it to you.

Thanks,
[snazzy first-year]

-------

Subject: Re: Melding together the Old English and Paleography reading groups From: [me]
Date: Mon, September 8, 2008 6:29 pm
To: [another medievalist]
Cc: [not the snazzy new first-year, because I'm embarrassed... even though the medievalist I sent this to ended up telling the first-year anyway]

!!!

Where did we FIND this guy?

Also:

Saints' lives, vitae, sermons by Aelfric
Unh, the way he colloquizes the alph'bet
Beats the boys when they tryin' ta talkback
But if Alfred had had him he'd have betta Latin

Oh, oh, the Saxon monks be seethin'
The way the Danes invade and keep on repeatin'
Can't read this handwritin', call Henry Sweet in
I'm pretty glad we saved this book from the heathens

Whatchu know 'bout Bede
Whatchu whatchu know 'bout Bede
Whatchu know 'bout Bede
Whatchu whatchu know?
They say my Epinal Glosses poppin'
My Epinal Glosses cool
Codices be hoppin'
in Anglo-Saxon school

That's how I cope with never having heard of the Epinal Glosses before. Please tell me you know Lil' Mama's song "Lip Gloss". Otherwise the above makes no sense.

Best,
[me]

In which Matthew remains on the same loop

From: [me]
Date: Sun, September 7, 2008 11:37 am
To: [name omitted, just for courtesy]

Hi [name],

Drop me a line and we'll grab some tea on the 20th, gladly. As for how
I'm doing: meh. I'd set a draft deadline for my already overdue
dissertation proposal for Friday night, and only got it half done by 5am,
when I sent it to my advisor. Haven't heard from her yet, but I'm
petrified that she won't approve and it will be back to the drawing board
once again. It's an emotional rollercoaster at this stage of the process,
and I have a sneaking suspicion that it will be an even more nauseating
rollercoaster at the next stage, but I am tired of being endlessly
"pre-proposal" and just want to get to the project itself! We'll see...

Looking forward to seeing you,

Matthew

In which Matthew writes to Wright

Dear Will Wright,

So now you've made SimCity, SimCity 2000, SimCity 3000, SimEarth, SimLife, SimCopter, SimAnt, The Sims, and, today, you released Spore [I had considered buying myself a copy as a reward for completing a dissertation prospectus draft today... but as the day drags on I'm wondering whether that draft will ever get finished]; under your name or following your lead, we've had sim civilizations, sim rollercoasters, sim sex.

All of that shit is brilliant, obviously, but it has no storyline. I was hoping maybe you would start work next on SimTroy. Think of it: major poetic minds in various European cultures have told stories that unfold during the same finite historical moment in or around the same city walls: Homer, Virgil, Giovanni Boccaccio, Geoffrey Chaucer, Robert Henryson, William Shakespeare, Brad Pitt. With your help, we could tell all the Trojan stories at the same time, in real time. The user, a random Trojan or Greek, could wander through the city and overhear (or join) any one of these dramas -- because part of the thrill of them is that they all happen simultaneously. Step inside the walls and help Pandarus bring together two young lovers. Step outside and battle alongside or against Achilles or Ajax. Join the funeral games. The trick is that all the NPC in-game dialogue would be translated as directly as possible from the great poetic works, creating a Troy that is a mishmosh of various cultures (and populated by a bunch of antisocial gamers).

Also, I think you might do well to switch hairdressers. Right now, your message seems only to be "behind simulation after simulacrum after simulation, all there really is is terrible, terrible hair."

All best,
Matthew

In which Matthew remembers the Titanic

A week ago, I was bored, so I texted Brandi six times in a row. Each text contained a different-sized section of the lyrics to Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On." Three of them were cut so as to end with the words "go on," separated by a series of spaces, as if introducing the text that followed. The final one ended with "go on/and on." One message was just the word "near"; one was just "far." The whole performance was very spare and evocative. She was touched. I really do hate her so very much.

And today, I came across Paul Strohm's riff on a similar theme (Theory and the Premodern Text, 2000): "Troilus [and Criseyde, Chaucer's poem about love during the Trojan War] executes writing's most solemn cultural assignment, which is to connect the past with the future. It is always about the burdens of its own prehistory: the abduction of Helen, the narrowed options imposed by the precondition of the Greek siege. And it is no less about its own unhappy future: the end of love, the fall of Troy, Troilus's own death. It is founded in a moment of enlarged temporal vision -- the prophet Calchas's recognition of Troy's inevitable doom -- a recognition it always tries to forget and never succeeds in forgetting.

"One might say, drawing on a more recently popular image: this ship's iceberg was already out there when it set sail; an aspect of destiny rumored, discussed, but never embraced ('taken on board?') as an inevitability. I mention this 'schlock icon' in order to suggest that our culture has its own fascination with the concept of a present held hostage to the past and future. A present that, however banal, gains a certain luminosity from our retrospective knowledge of its ephemerality. Just as I was writing this essay I encountered a story in the New York Times about the very high auction price of a boarding card for the Titanic. The boarding card (framed, auctioned by Sotheby's, reverenced) is the icon, or mark, of a wound in time, a moment when time is fractured or divided within itself, a major part of its meaning reliant upon retrospective illumination."

In which Matthew celebrates Reevesday

A Most Excellent Reevesday to one and all! Today is the annual day, across the world (and various realities, but particularly in Beirut, Toronto, LA, my own private Idaho, and Minnesota), when devotees gather to celebrate the life and work of an international superstar. Once a year, you might say the whole earth stands still.

The day involves a range of cultural activities including readings and dramatizations from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, cocaine-addled pub crawls and high-speed bus chases. Enthusiasts often dress in black leather and Oakleys to celebrate Reevesday, and they hold Dogstar sing-a-longs in overstuffed phone booths. Hard-core devotees have even been known to attempt marathon readings of the entirety of The Matrix, The Matrix Reloaded, The Matrix Revolutions, The Animatrix, Enter the Matrix, The Matrix: Path of Neo, The Matrix Online, The Matrix Comics Vol. I, The Matrix Comics Vol. II, and The Lake House, while Laurence Fishburne rolls his eyes in dismay.

The first celebration took place in 1964, and a major five-month-long festival (A Most Excellent Feeling Minnesota 2004) took place in St. Paul between 1 April and 31 August 2004. On the Sunday in 2004 before the 40th birthday of their hero, after a night of ice hockey and demon rides, 10,000 people in St. Louis meditated in a postmodern pseudo-Buddhist trance on whether the sound "whoa" (their equivalent of "om") really does sound like a cool breeze over the mountains, then swallowed fistfuls of red-dyed pills and died suddenly.

In which Matthew fantasizes about a chick fight

There's an empty glass podium with a tasteful reading light and coral drapes in the background. There's the click of sensible heels approaching. And Hillary Clinton steps up to the plate. And she looks fabulous, and surprisingly relaxed. The cameras roll.

"My fellow Americans, and dear supporters: I fought my way into a near win in the Democratic primary despite my gender -- I dealt with double standards in the party, the opposition, the press, and certainly the voting public. And in the end I bowed out gracefully. Relatively gracefully.

"Senator McCain has chosen Governor Palin, meanwhile, because of her sex, and only because of it. That is not progressive. That is sexist, and insulting. McCain has turned his vice presidential nomination into a vain publicity stunt, timed perfectly to eclipse press attention on Barack's big second-act opener. And he did steal the headlines briefly, until God (obviously a Democrat) staged a bigger stunt in response, stealing the RNC's thunder and dropping it just outside New Orleans. Not enough to do too much damage, but enough to remind us and the press of Katrina, and of who the GOP really is and has been. I can't shake the mental image of Governor Palin, face frozen in a smile, doing a stilted beauty queen wave on a parade float that is actually floating up Bourbon Street thanks to a party who is constantly on vacation, who refuses to even take the vice presidency seriously, openly referring to it as 'a job that involves attending funerals and checking on the health of the president.'

"How the irony stings, when Sarah Palin has the gall to try and take up my mantle, to break a glass ceiling which I've only cracked -- by positioning herself to take away my right to choose.

"I've already gone on record and said 'No way, no how, no McCain.' I don't know how I could make it clearer to my former supporters, especially the women, that a write-in vote for me, in this close election, could send our rights back into decades that predate women's liberation entirely. Here's one last try: if you are a former supporter of my campaign, and you withhold your vote from the Democrats, or vote Republican, out of spite or a vendetta or bitterness over my unfortunate but fair loss of the primary, you are a fucking retard. I will personally come to your pathetic lonely home, backhand you across the face, kill your cats, and tear down with nails of rage any posters or buttons or shrines which bear my name. You have no right to them.

"As for my supposed successor, who was busy popping out baby after baby after baby after baby after baby at home in North Bumblefuck while I fought for women's health and rights across the globe, but now has pretensions to even make reference to my campaign as she builds her own: I know you'll soon be trounced by Joe Biden and everything. He'll come out looking like a mean old man and it'll probably win you votes.

"But a week before the vice-presidential debates, let's do one of our own. For the ladies. You and me. Lincoln-Douglas style. Next Wednesday, here in New York State, at the motherfucking Susan B. Anthony House in Rochester, bitch. I will show you, and my daughter, what a real feminist, and a real woman, can do. And you are of course welcome to invite Track, Trig, Pippi, Wippi, Trip, Tralala, and however many other kids you'll have popped out by that point. Bring it the fuck on. Thank you."

pop riddle 5

Follow the path
Under the weeping tree
Into Hamelin
Or Bee Ess One Four Ess Bee
Triangulate your position
And where will you be?

[Outside research is always allowed on riddles, and is often necessary. If you'd like to guess the answer, please post it in the comments box. If you want a clue, or want me to give you the answer for free, post your request in the comments box.]

aphorism 1

Rhetoric is falsehood posing as truth. Theater is truth posing as falsehood.

[Drunk with Chad and Nandini, early hours of Labor Day Weekend 2008, accidentally telling my life story again.]

In which Matthew makes a pun and a gaffe

My Facebook profile, a few minutes ago:

Matthew was Biden his time, but now he's Palin in comparison. Also, we're fucked.

The punny level here is, granted, high, and it prompted a couple of friendly "dude you're a comic genius" comments from some old friends. But out of left field Joe of all people called me out for being politically irresponsible here: the choice of Palin is a publicity stunt, and a lame one, and only is effective if it actually succeeds in scaring liberals. A kind of "if you let the bastards scare you then they've already won" approach. Which, from the man who coined the now-popular "tell me what your dissertation is about and I'll tell you whether it's gay, and by gay I mean retarded," was a shock of seriousness indeed. So I've switched it up:

Matthew knows that McCain's choice of Palin is as hollow and fake a gesture as Palin's smile.

And I challenged Joe to come up with something bitchier. Because hey, bitchy is what we do. I've also just sent an email to the parodist behind Welcome to My Home, Deven Green, asking her to do to Sarah Palin what she's done to Brenda Dickson.

Ladies, start your engines.

pop riddle 4

In the 90's, I searched for what matters, but I needed to win slow.

In the 80's, I searched for what ties, but I needed the key: tons.

In the 70's, I looked for it all, but I needed the bunkers.

But really, every time I searched, I found the most important thing. What was it?

[Outside research is always allowed on riddles, and is often necessary. If you'd like to guess the answer, please post it in the comments box. If you want a clue, or want me to give you the answer for free, post your request in the comments box.]

pop riddle 3

The beast had the haunches of a lion, but when the cask-maker looked into its eyes he saw the face of an eagle.

“Dost thou remain amongst the List of Five-Hundred?” asked the cask-maker.

“Son of Man,” answered the beast, “This is not only the beginning of a new year, but also of a new season.”

And every time the beast spoke the name of the Son of Man, there was a shot in the distance.

But which year, and which season, and where did the beast and the cask-maker stand?

[Outside research is always allowed on riddles, and is often necessary. If you'd like to guess the answer, please post it in the comments box. If you want a clue, or want me to give you the answer for free, post your request in the comments box.]

In which Matthew speaks gibberish

I'm using a mini-recorder to take notes as I read these days. Sometimes it works very well. Sometimes it doesn't, as today: "02. 005 quote. The flora Hanna at. Before-it's self. Three hyphens ending subject?."

But then, I've also read the following bits directly out of the book I'm taking notes on: "'utopia of universal genitality,' the 'utopia of full orgasmic reciprocity'"; "a relationship of homology, that is, of diversity within homogeneity reflecting the diversity within homogeneity characteristic of their social conditions"; "In short, the art of estimating and seizing chances, the capacity to anticipate the future by a kind of practical induction or even to take a calculated gamble on the possible against the probable, are dispositions that can only be acquired in certain social conditions, that is, certain social conditions." I am beginning to wonder about the rational capacity (or the short term memory?) (or the rational capacity?) of the translator/editor of this text. And so, if my mini-recorder screws up, how am I to really know the difference?

In which Matthew documents real life

On Facebook a couple days ago, this woman randomly appeared who I met once or twice in high school. We'd met at a speech and debate tournament in Philadephia; I would have been fifteen at the time. I can't imagine how she remembered me, or found me on Facebook, in the first place. Then again, I am shockingly attractive, so the ladies tend to keep me in mind even after the most brief of meetings.

Shockingly.

It took a bit to jog my memory. Was I on the forensics team in high school? Didn't we meet for dinner at Windows on the World (the restaurant at the top of Tower 1) when she and her mom visited New York? I had long hair, right? And didn't I go off on her when her mom told me she'd given up the chance to see Rent while she was in town? Ah:

I've definitely never been able to pull off long hair, but it was long*er* at that point: it took a while for me to realize that I couldn't pull it off. And YES, now I remember -- that dinner was the first and only time I've ever eaten rabbit, and the second and last time I ever had occasion to be in the World Trade Center. Your mom is a nice lady, if memory serves. Rent remains one of my old favorites, though it's lived on Broadway well past its expiration date (as has, well, everything).

Jonathan Larson lives on, and on, and on. His short life's work (the life was short, not at all the work) is still going weak on the Great Multiethnic Way, but man, that shit is catchy. It's been twelve years now, and still Ara and I are like trained monkeys: the simple (and quite common) phrase "it's true" turns us Pavlovian. It JUST happened today, actually:

SHE: Are you aware that you haven't done the dishes?
ME: I am.
SHE: This is your turn to do the dishes, right?
ME: It's true.
SHE: I'm leaving now for Santa Fe. It's true you're with this yuppie scum?
ME: You said you'd never speak to him. Again.
SHE: Not now.
ME: Who said that you have any say in who she says things to at all?
SHE: Please stop, I hate it that we do this every time.
ME: Who said that you should stick your nose in other people's--
SHE: Who said I was talking to you?!

We used to have this fight each night. He'd never admit I existed. Wait. I mean: the whole rhythmic-talking-whining thing has just been set into our blood, and years after a Spice Girl and an N-Sync boy have both played lead roles and gone on to host a reality show together, we're still locked in as Rent rats.

And yet. Last year, Ara's 15-year-old cousin invited us to come see her church youth choir sing. And they sang a series of songs from Rent -- not the annoying (and bowdlerized) medley-mess my high school chorus sang, either. Halfway through "Will I?" I started sobbing uncontrollably.

Think about it: when I was precisely these kids' age, fighting my little endless fight for a queer identity, I saw this very new piece of theater for the very first time, and sang my heart out, and told everyone I met about it... and now, there we were, in a church, and Ara's cousin has two loving gay parents, and her school's homecoming queen and king that year were two boys, and we have just come such a very, very long way.

That's poetic. (That's pathetic.)

pop riddle 2

One of you will be applauded after you bring pain onto yourself from above.

One of you will be remembered as too pure for this world.

And one of you is behind the other two, but you will one day stand in front: and only then will you be honored six times.

Which three men received this prophecy?

[Outside research is always allowed on riddles, and is often necessary. If you'd like to guess the answer, please post it in the comments box. If you want a clue, or want me to give you the answer for free, post your request in the comments box.]

In which Matthew reads Bourdieu

Understandability was never my forte. But I've been working on it.

And ever since life went all blue-screen-of-death in my first year at grad school, I've steered clear of theory for the most part, sticking fearfully, Pigletly close to the text and saving all my worries about social relevance for the classroom, never the library or the field. But my advisor has been leaning on me hard to get through Pierre Bourdieu's The Logic of Practice. It's slow going -- old phobias die hard -- but I need this stuff, and on my third read through the Introduction I'm finally getting why I should care (emphasis mine):

I would never have come to study ritual traditions if the same concern to 'rehabilitate' which had first led me to exclude ritual from the universe of legitimate objects and distrust all the works which made room for it had not persuaded me, from 1958, to to try retrieve it from the false solicitude of primitivism and to challenge the racist contempt which, through the self-contempt it induces in its victims, helps to deny them knowledge and recognition of their own tradition... My inevitable disquiet was relieved to some extent by the interest my informants always manifested in my research whenever it became theirs too, in other words a striving to recover a meaning that was both their own and alien to them.

If you know much about my dissertation topic, maybe you can already see the connections forming. If not: once I get my interview material from Chester online, in which I speak to modern Cestrians about their revival of medieval street theater, you'll see what I mean. I hope.

In which Matthew wastes his twenties on Photoshop

The research trip has hit its end,
but all I've brought home to my friends
are books, receipts from pounds I spent,
and sips of thin white whine;

but it was a good go, well, now that it's ceased --
immensely productive, if tiring, at least --
so: let all your hungry eyes on this to feast --
the Photoshop show is online.

In which Matthew sleeps in a Starbucks

I am too old and too OCD for hostelling; I am too old and too hapless for flying standby. I am a very crotchety and grimacey twenty-seven. For the uninitiated: flying standby means that you pay a reduced rate for plane tickets, but you are not guaranteed a seat -- they sell to you, at a discount, whatever seats are still empty just before takeoff.

But there I was (this is all in flashback: actually, so are my prior two entries, but I've backdated them). I was exhausted, filthy, underslept and undershaven, and embarrassingly homesick, and reeling from a 2 1/2 week, successful and at times bloody fascinating and glorious research trip which took me from Chester (where I viewed and interviewed the amazing participants in the surprisingly good revival of Chester's medieval biblical street pageants, the subject of my dissertation), to Swansea (site of lots of cold fried food and of the 2008 Congress of the New Chaucer Society, where I delivered a discursive but relatively successful paper on medieval Cestrian tourism), to Aberystwyth -- where I was supposed to view a unique manuscript of the Chester Antichrist pageant, but instead looked at the Hengwrt Chaucer (through glass) for as long as I could stand (it was open to the Melibee and I couldn't turn the page!), then headed straight to the Manchester airport, whence I would fly back to SFO.

But I was flying standby. And, infuriated with my accommodations thus far, I'd opted to just spend the night in the airport: I got there at 9pm, and to finagle a[nother horrid] hostel seemed pointless when I'd have to be back there in twelve hours.

And what a long twelve hours it was. And there were only two flights leaving AT ALL for the States, both in the morning. And both were oversold. Not just on that day -- well through the rest of the week, well past when my medication and patience would run out. Turns out I had chosen to fly standby during the beginning of the summer holidays in Britain. Because I'm a fucking Cheez-It of stupidity. Because I'm a schlemihl.

Look it up.

After it sank in that I was out of grant money, broke in general (in debt to my own wedding!), and stranded in a foreign country with no way home, I did what any self-respecting man would do in a public area. I burst into tears and I called Mom.

We found last-minute tickets on Aer Lingus, leaving that evening for a layover in Dublin, then straight to SFO. Another twelve-hour layover. So I slept a second night in an airport, but a much nicer one this time, with a 24-hour Starbucks. By 2am every cushiony or semi-cushiony surface (and there are many -- it's a bloody Starbucks) was covered with a commuter, sleeping awkwardly with a warning arm draped over his luggage and latte. It looked like Yuppies at Katrina.

The flight home was nice -- since I've been on the verge of making sweeping nationality-based generalizations throughout the last few posts, I'll come out and say that the Irish seem to just be better all-around people than you or I. Lauri (kind soul) picked me up at the airport, and riding next to her (in a surprise move, she was supposed to be busy) was Ara. All the baggage which I'd guarded with my life and limbs quickly fell (metaphor?) to the concrete, and I ran to her.

pop riddle 1

What do you call the book ordinarily employed for recording mercantile transactions in a bare, more or less flat tract of land, naturally clothed with low herbage and dwarf shrubs?

[Outside research is always allowed on riddles, and is often necessary. If you'd like to guess the answer, please post it in the comments box. If you want a clue, or want me to give you the answer for free, post your request in the comments box.]

In which Matthew learns a lesson about England

I once believed that everything sounds cute when you say it in a northwestern English accent. But cut to me last night, maybe 2am, lying awake in a co-ed Chester hostel in the most private bunk I could find, listening to the rhythms of drunken Mancunians who were in for the summer races:

"No. No. Get ou' of 'ere. Yeh don't belong in this bunk."
"Well it i'n't your bunk either."
"Get yehr fat ahse ou' of me bed!"
"I'm not fat, yeh're fat!"
"No, yeh're fat!"
"No, yeh're fat!"
"No, yeh're fat!"
"Well, there's ONE part of me tha's chubby..."

This continues for about an hour. Which takes us to about 2:45am:

"Come on, luv. Touch it."
"No!"
"Just play wiv the head a little."
"No..."
"That's better. Wiv the head."

Which continues through about 3:30am or 4am, as I'm trying to thread my sandpapery sheets through the bunk above mine and tie them into a noose:

"Come on, luv, put a little effort into it. It's no' a piece a meat. Treat it wiv some care. Like it's yeh friend."

And so forth. With groans included, both mine (in frustration) and the Mancunian's (in bliss?). I stayed awake and paranoid, IMing with Alec through the whole thing -- a Liverpudlian friend of mine had made the mistake of leaving his bunk temporarily, and found that another drunk visitor, in for the races, had usurped his bunk. All my worldly possessions were in and around my bunk, and I couldn't imagine what might happen to them in my absence, and so I chose the devil I knew (intimately) over the devil I didn't.

In which Matthew brings the Welsh a new cocktail

Start with one jigger of Italian-American Westchester guilt and entitlement (vintage 1981-1999). Add a splash of New York impatience (1999-2004). Blend with frozen cubes of pure Northern Californian passive-aggression (2004-present).

Shake vigorously.

Subject: Peniarth 399
From: [name omitted]@nationallibraryofwales.org.uk
Date: Fri, July 4, 2008 2:10 am
[THE NIGHT BEFORE I LEFT FOR BRITAIN!]
To: [me]

Dear Matthew,

I am E-mailing you in regards to Peniarth 399.

My colleague has now signed the form, however, I have just been made aware that the original manuscript is on an external loan from the 21.6.08-31.8.08, I apologize wholeheartedly for this.

Yours sincerely,
[name omitted]

---------

Subject: Re: Peniarth 399
From: [me]
Date: Fri, July 4, 2008 3:03 am
To: [name omitted]@nationallibraryofwales.org.uk

Dear Mr [name omitted],

Is the manuscript on external loan to another library where I might view it? Please let me know as soon as you can.

Best,
Matthew

---------

Subject: Peniarth 399
From: [name omitted]@nationallibraryofwales.org.uk
Date: Fri, July 4, 2008 4:20 am
To: [me]

Dear Matthew,

I am replying to your E-mail, the manuscript is on loan to Grosvenor Museum in an exhibition, therefore, it will not be possible to view it.

We would be willing to accomodate your needs in September. I would suggest that you re-contact me the beginning of September to see if the manuscript is available at that time. Yet again, I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you.

Yours sincerely
[name omitted]

---------

Subject: Urgent Enquiry: Peniarth 399
From: [me]
Date: Fri, July 4, 2008 11:57 am
To: [various names omitted -- from both the Library and the Museum]
CC: [my advisor]

Dear [various names] and the staff at the Grosvenor Museum,

I write with an urgent enquiry regarding a manuscript you currently have on loan from the National Library of Wales: MS Peniarth 399, the unique c.1500 manuscript of the Chester Dyers' Antichrist play.

Mr [name omitted] of the NLW has informed me that the Grosvenor Museum is using this manuscript for an exhibition. I was already planning to visit Chester during my research trip to Britain this summer -- so I write to ask whether there is any possibility that I might schedule a viewing (or more than one viewing) of the manuscript, for any time until 27 July (preferably excluding 17-23 July). I would be willing to come at any time of day (or night), and will gladly pay fees if necessary, or help with the exhibit in any way I can.

I am a PhD candidate in English and Medieval Studies at the University of California, Berkeley, and have handled rare medieval manuscripts of the Chester plays before (at the Bodleian and at the Manchester Library); I assure you that I am qualified to study Peniarth 399, and can provide recommendation letters from faculty here at Berkeley.

This is a very late request: I know it is standard to enquire about manuscript viewings months in advance. I had been in contact with Mr [name omitted] since April in order to do just that, to secure access to Peniarth 399 before I applied for research grants, bought plane tickets from California, etc. After quite a few email exchanges, I was told that the manuscript was being ordered for me, and my four-day viewing request was being booked, so I confirmed my travel plans and sent my itinerary to the Medieval Academy of America, who has now given me a research grant.

It was only at 2:10am last night, while I packed my luggage, that I received word from Mr [name omitted] that the manuscript was not actually in Aberystwyth at all:

On Fri, July 4, 2008 2:10 am, [name omitted]@nationallibraryofwales.org.uk wrote:
>
> Dear Matthew,
>
> I am E-mailing you in regards to Peniarth 399.
>
> My colleague has now signed the form, however,
> I have just been made aware that the original
> manuscript is on an external loan from the
> 21.6.08-31.8.08, I apologize wholeheartedly for this.

Needless to say, this puts me in a serious bind -- even with the help of a Medieval Academy grant, I can barely afford one trip from California to the UK: a second trip in September would be out of the question. Viewing Peniarth 399 is essential to my research and to my doctoral thesis -- I have included my original letter to Mr [name omitted] (below), which explains some of the reasons why it is so important for me to study the actual manuscript in person.

I would be extremely grateful to the staff at the Grosvenor Museum if you could help me in my research by allowing me any access to Peniarth 399. Above all, please do respond to this email as soon as you are able, so that I can inform the Medieval Academy and adjust my hostel and plane reservations as necessary.

Thank you so much for your time -- I hope to hear from you soon.

Respectfully,

[me]
Ph.D. Candidate, English and Medieval Studies
Co-Chair, Graduate Medievalists at Berkeley
University of California, Berkeley

You can't just waltz into a museum, especially a small one (with locked-down glass boxes that even the head curators can't touch) and make demands like this. So I had to cannibalize the first few days of my trip continuing to lean on the National Library of Wales (NLW). "Mr [name omitted]" turned out to be a woman (Welsh names!); this caused some momentary cognitive dissonance (as they say in Sales and Marketing) but I pushed past it.

The NLW caved and sent one of its art curators to babysit me, and a courier (on their dime) who waited nearby to open and shut the lock-box. It was a shorter time than I'd planned for, but it was all I needed in order to take detailed notes on the manuscript as physical object (folding, wear and tear, etc.) and shorthand notes on the handwriting, which I will pay the Library's reprographic dept to send me digital close-ups of later, and discuss at greater length with friends who are better at this stuff than I.