OK, folks.  I need some combined brain power here.

I've been invited to the wedding of some WoW-playing friends, in France this September!  Excellent!  Thing is, the bride and groom are encouraging the guests to costume themselves with a fantasy theme -- elves, trolls, dragons, whatever.  More specifically:

In the invitation's original French  Notre mariage etant place sous le signe de la fantasy et de l'imaginaire, tous les invites souhaitant nous ravir de leur parure de sirene ou de chimere sont invites a le faire.  Toutefois, aucune obligation ne sera faite en la matiere.

In my bad translation:  Our marriage being placed under the sign of fantasy and imagination, we invite all wishing we delight in their finery of sirens or chimeras were requested to do so. However, no obligation will be made in this matter.

I know the bride (at least) really would like to see folks in garb, and I'm happy to play along.  I love to play dress up!  However, I don't really have good garb to wear, and I don't want to really go over the top and make Americans look particularly odd, particularly if the local crowd of family doesn't do the costume thing.  It's an odd mix of 1) wanting to make the day as much like the wedding couple want it to be as possible, 2) not wanting to do something so flashy as to out-shine the wedding party, 3) not wanting to embarrass my country, 4) and just plain being myself, even in garb.

Any suggestions or creativity out there as to what I might wear?  The wedding is a civil ceremony to be held at 4:30 in the afternoon on a Saturday.  Reception to follow at the bride's parents' house, followed by more at a local restaurant.  (I think Vic's planning to just wear his suit, but he's at least feeling the urge of making the wedding couple happy garb-wise somehow.)  I'm willing to invest a bit in garb if I might get reuse of it at later Faires or Halloweens.  Advice as to styles, walking the tightrope between costume and normality, or even good garb providers would be greatly appreciated. 

Yesterday, we came downstairs in the morning and, after a while, realized that Lucas wasn't particularly interested in getting out of bed.  I thought maybe he'd want to sit up, that maybe he just couldn't get traction, so I tried to help him, but he couldn't sit up on his own.  When we helped him to stand, he toppled over once we removed our support.  Between us, Vic and I carried him out to the backyard, so he could sun bathe a bit.  Maybe it would help, we thought.  Maybe it was just a rough morning.

But by early afternoon, we realized he had basically stopped moving, apart from the occasional twitch.  He'd eaten a bit of treat early on, but wasn't particularly interested in another later.  He'd take a little water, but that was it.  And so we called in Stefan, our house-call-making vet.  Stefan came by on his way home from work, around 7pm.  He hadn't seen Lucas for a few months, and ... well, we all knew it was time.  Maybe he was being kind when he said that he thought we should give Lucas the night to see if he improved, then check back in. 

Vic and I stayed up until 3am, though most of the evening was spent distracting ourselves.  After midnight, we did a bit of a vigil, sitting with Lucas and crying and beginning to grieve.  Vic kept looking for reasons, reasons why he went from that old-age stability to this unresponsiveness over the course of 24 hours, but those reasons weren't to be found. 

This morning, Lucas was as we'd left him the night before.  Some twitching, some little reaction to touches or smells, but almost entirely inside his own head.  We've called Stefan, and he'll come by again tonight after work and help Lucas to make the transition he making so slowly on his own.  Vets have always told us that Lucas was the athlete in the family, and his champion heart and lungs seem willing to keep going even after the rest of him is gone. 

I find myself grieving for Lucas, as well as Roslyn and Ellis, who left us more mysteriously last year.  I don't actually know what happened to either of them -- they each ran away -- but they are gone, nonetheless.  Lucas' 14 years with us were remarkable, especially given that we've had vets suggesting it was time for over a year now.  He's hung on, and we've hung on, longer than might've been wise, but it was what we could all do. 

Last year, for Vic's birthday, I had a local friend here turn a photo from last summer into a pencil sketch.  Lucas and his boy.  We've got it framed and sitting on the mantle now.  And so rather than post a picture of Lucas as a puppy or of the bony, diapered guy he is now, I'll post this one.  She really did a lovely job.

I'm doing ok, even if I'm crying.  Really.  But it really does help to know I could collect some hugs from y'all if you were here.  Thanks.

I was talking to a Classics DPhil student the other day who said that he's tired of being around academics all the time, and he'd like to spend some time around people who "actually, you know, do WORK."  (This after he and I had probably spent a good hour whinging about our respective non-works, mind you.)

I can't really disagree with him.  An awful lot of my "working" hours are spent doing things which it's hard to identify as work.  I read, I surf the web, I check Facebook, I even play some computer games and do the crossword.  I maintain that I'm doing mission-critical thinking during those times (at least many of them), but I can't prove that.  It pretty much looks like I'm goofing off.

Today is one of those rare days where I actually seemed to make some concrete progress on the dissertation.  Today, I crossed the 30-pages-long milestone, which feels meaningful.  I'm not saying it's 30 good pages, or 30 pages of deep thought, but it's 30 written pages, and with that I am temporarily content.  It's easier to redraft and edit something that's been written than to come up with the original dreck.  

It's 17-18 pages of introduction (which lays out the context for what I'm trying to do, and defines some terms), 6 pages reviewing the academic publications that deal with my topic, and 4 pages outlining how exactly I plan to do the work.  That means the intro is mostly done, though there are some gaps to fill in.  I need more work on the "how" piece (but I'm that can be something I work out with my committee during my defense in May), and most of what remains to do in the next week is that review of the literature. 

I figure I have one more week to plug away at this before I need to send the draft off to my advisor in New Mexico, one more week to write about 30-50 pages.  Oif.  I'll keep you updated.  Wish me luck, inspiration, and persistence!

Last week, I was taking my usual bus from the house to Vic's office, to meet Vic for lunch at our favorite pub.  Partway there, a white-haired older man sat down next to me, and I muttered a "hello" as he sat.  He noted my American accent (impossible for me to hide for long) and we started talking. 

Talking is just something that rarely happens on British buses.  This is probably the third time in the 18 months I've been here that I've ended up in conversation with someone on a bus or train.

We talked about where in the US I'd been, and he recounted stories of his trip to Tupelo, to see Faulkner's home.  (I didn't mention that I only know Tupelo as birthplace of Elvis.)  He asked if I rode bikes, and I said "sometimes," before realizing that my black leather jacket may have misled him into talking about motorcycles rather than 10-speeds.  I was just explaining that we'd reached my stop when he asked my field.  I said I was a grad student in literature (sooo much easier to comprehend than trying to explain communication as an academic area), and this launched him to his feet, gathering his bags in order to follow me off the bus.

At the bus stop, he scribbled his name and contact information onto a piece of paper from his planner while chatting at me.  He explained that he'd given a copy of Shakespeare's sonnets to all his nieces and nephews for Christmas, said that he'd learned to dress well in France but that it didn't work so well in England, mentioned that his email address was a bit odd because it referenced this club he'd been involved with -- well, I didn't have to do much talking. He assured me he wasn't trying to pick me up, and said that I should bring my "young man, or follower, or fan" over to his place for dinner sometime.

I was vastly amused, feeling like I'd had a good quality run in with one of Oxford's true eccentrics.  Little did I know....

I googled him when I got home.  David Kirke, my odd eccentric, turns out to be one of the founding members of a group called The Dangerous Sports Club, an Oxford-based 1970s phenomenon that seems to have invented bungee jumping, and using trebuchets to fling humans through the air, among other things.  Kirke may be the first person to have actually bungee jumped.  I found this Vanity Faire article, which says this about Mr. Kirke:

Nobody who has ever lunched with David Kirke is likely to forget the experience. Throughout the meal, he keeps up an intoxicating and baffling monologue--a running patchwork of erudition, circumlocution, conspiracy theories, shameless name-dropping (with particular attention to family lineage and whose father flew which aircraft in the war), lapses into French and Latin, aphorism upon aphorism and anecdote upon anecdote, related with the gusto of a man who has dined out on them for years. Except for a spell as drinks columnist for the laddie magazine Men Only, Kirke hasn't held anything as bourgeois as a day job in decades, relying instead on the kindness of friends and sponsors. The bearlike bulk of Kirke's younger days is gone, but the beard remains. At 58, he looks at least 10 years older.

Alone among its members, Kirke has devoted his life to the D.S.C. To him, the club was always about more than a mere adrenaline fix. It was a political, philosophical, and artistic enterprise. Kirke's heroes include Rimbaud, T E. Lawrence, and Antoine de Saint-Exup6ry, the early aviator and author of The Little Prince, who disappeared over the Sahara at age 44. "The D.S.C. was never a thrill-seeking organization," he says. "We're interested in new things. You make a fool of yourself, your girlfriend leaves you, you lose money, but you may have advanced things a tiny little half-inch. It's a vocation, strangely enough, not that different from a Catholic priest."

I've been in email contact with him, trying to set up a chance to buy him a round at a local pub and sit and listen to his stories.  He's perhaps a ltitle more vague now than he was when the article was written, but still ... fascinating man. 

Once upon a time, I had a poem written about me.  Sort of.  I didn't know about it until decades later -- I think.  (I've actually never talked to the poet about this; I don't know what to say.)  In honor of Brigid's holiday, I'm going to share it with you, as a way of honoring both poems, poetry, and poets.

The Swedish Turnip

Rutabaga;
now that's a word I always enjoyed.  Root
a bay guh.  I used to know a girl
who reminded me of a rutabaga.  This, of course,
was long before I looked
it up inside the World
Book.  The World Book kills
all romance.  If it had been correct,
she would've had a bulbous body
curving to hair that stuck in all directions like demented antennae.
She didn't.
I didn't know a rutabaga was actually a turnip;
she was no turnip.
Her posture was far too good.
I think she's engaged
to a pilot now.
Too bad, because I probably still love her.
I read some Vonnegut for answers,
but he just said, "So it goes."
This does not help.
And I find it hard to tell
someone that there's a rutabaga
rooted deep inside me
long past any reasonable harvest.

I write to you from the weird and somewhat confusing world of 2009, which I (intrepid traveler that I am) have reached several hours ahead of most of my friends.  I tell you, my comrades, this is a magical and surprising place, and your eyes will widen with amazement when you see what lies ahead!  

Don't say I didn't warn you!  Enjoy the ride!

Today, I'd like to cram a few good wishes into a single post. 

First off, huge happy birthday wishes to deckard3 , a long-time friend.  I'm a huge fan.  For you, sir, this pic and sage advice:


Secondly, enormous happy birthday wishes to kabekah , a new-this-year friend that really feels like I must've known her longer.  Our IM chats really do help keep me sane and smiling.  For you, ma'am, this birthday wish: 

What more could one ask for?

And also, though they're not here on LJ, I'd like to wish a happy birthday to my friend Sue the amazing baker and tip my hat in honor of my parents' 60-somethingth wedding anniversary.  December 31 is a momentous day, folks.  Wonderous things happen....

Because kabekah doesn't think I'll respond....( Questions about my celebration )

239 movies on this list.  Xs next to the ones I've seen.  Supposedly, if you've seen over 85 of them, you "have no life."  Personally, I think this shows a very limited sense of what "life" is.  I haven't checked off my viewings yet, but I'm predicting it'll be high.

( The movie list )
Cumulative total: 87

I just barely have no life.  Heh.  And yet very few of these movies do I regret seeing, and there are a TON of others that I've seen and consider time very well spent.  Young Frankenstein, Spinal Tap, Singing in the Rain, Batman Begins, Iron Man, Camille...what can I say?  I like movies.

How'd YOU do on this test?

I just finished re-reading Alan Moore's Watchmen graphic novel.  I'd read it for the first time years ago on one of those Christmas pilgrimages to Florida with V's family.  Now, with my oldest sister contemplating reading it for her book club (very surprising) on Time Magazine's recommendation, I bought myself another copy for a re-read.  I wanted to make sure to revisit the text before the movie version comes out in March 2009.  (Kevin Smith says it'll be amazing; I'm having a hard time believing it, even as much as I respect Mr. Smith's opinion when it comes to geekly things.)

I find myself wishing I had someone to talk about this with, a book club of my own, perhaps.  It's funny to me that with all the reading I do, I've never even attended a single book club meeting.  Heck, that's what I have lit classes for, I suppose.  But the book clubs I've known about tend to read Oprah books, which generally aren't my cup of tea.  Sure, I occasionally enjoy something like The Time-Traveler's Wife quite a bit, but I don't live on a diet of that stuff.  I wanna talk about Watchmen.

I want to kick around ideas like the spectrum of stepping in to help someone in the book, from breaking up the fight at the newsstand, to being a costumed vigilante, to decimating NYC in order to bring about world peace.  Are those three things the same sort of thing, or are they in some way different?  How is Nite Owl's worldview different from Rorschach's from Veidt's from Jon's?  Who do you sympathize with, when, and why?  Are women somewhat problematic here, secondary characters just necessary to move the arc of male stories?  Hm.

The first time I read Watchmen, it left me feeling angry, very "what's the point of anything."  Not quite so much this time, but it's still left me a bit confused, wanting me to mull it over with others.  I find myself wanting to take this into a college classroom and get a bunch of students to react.  I'd be curious to see what a bunch of Air Force Academy cadets might do with it, frankly.  Curious to see what students at Colorado College might do, too.  I predict those would be very different discussions, but possibly both quite interesting ones.  (That's a thought that makes me feel more hopeful about being a professor, frankly.)

Merry Christmas eve, y'all.

Do you remember Thundercats?  It was an afterschool cartoon that ran 1985-1990.  I was a bit old for it, but I was certainly aware of it.  I'm pretty sure that my niece had Thundercats sheets.  But neither of us loved it as much as THIS guy:



WormyTV, whoever he is, spent about 18 months on this hobby project, creating a movie trailer for a film that doesn't exist -- a live-action Thundercats starring Brad Pitt, Hugh Jackman, Vin Diesel, among others.  I'm rather stunned at how well it's done.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

I'm always fascinated by the sheer amount of great work that people are willing to do for love, not money.  Maybe just to prove they can, maybe because no one else has done it yet, maybe just to put it out there in public and see what happens.  If you've got similar examples, I'd love to hear about 'em.

This will mean nothing to those of you who don't watch Doctor Who.  And yet ... I couldn't resist sharing it anyway. 



Go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/chick_contender/3116732665/ -- he has video of it, too.  (Found via Boing Boing and the MakeZine blog.)

Ok, I have a new cookie recipe to love, courtesy of Shirley O. Corriher and NPR's website.  Behold -- the chocolate crinkle! 


The recipe can be found at http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=98275947, along with the NPR story that pointed toward it.

Chocolate crinkles -- deeply, richly, darkly chocolate cookies with a thin powdered sugar crust -- are one of those things that I remember from my childhood Christmases.  Since my mother doesn't read this blog, I can openly say that now that I've tasted these, I now know that my childhood memories are of little leaden balls of chocolate.  Tasty, but ... oh, these are so much more.  Light, with the contrast between chocolate and a clearer sugar taste.  I'm definitely going to keep this recipe around.  Mmmmmm....

Shirley O. Corriher is a food scientist frequently featured on Alton Brown's Good Eats, a woman who has spent years figuring out how the chemistry and physics of food has the effect it does on cooking.  I understand her new book, Bakewise, reads a bit like a lab notebook, where each section has a recipe she starts with, and then you follow the steps and missteps she made in improving it.  (That's quite a bit like Cook's Illustrated magazine, which I also quite like.)

The last of the batch is still in the oven, but we'll see how long this three dozen cookies lasts.  Heh.

A year ago today, I walked off a plane and became a resident of the United Kingdom.  Wow.  It's a bit hard to believe it's been a year already, a bit hard to believe it's only been a year.

A lot has happened in the past year, and there have been some changes.  Right now, I'm oddly unequipped to reflect on them. (Me with nothing to say is a bit unusual.)  But I note them now, on the anniversary, even if I don't have thoughtful words to share at the moment.

Thanks, all, for your support, your friendship, and your challenges over the past year.  It really does mean a lot.

Fun meme pirated from artemis112  and others (it would have to be "pirated" from her, wouldn't it?)

If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, (even if we don't speak often or ever) please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL memory of you and me.

It can be anything you want - good or bad - BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.

When you're finished, post this little paragraph in your LJ and see what your friends come up with.

That's the only explanation for why I'm up at 3:43am, though it makes no sense.  I arrived in the UK about noon yesterday, stayed up until 9pm (though by then I was a bit woozy with tired), and I woke at 3:30am with the need to pee and a song stuck in my head ("Dirty Little Secret" from Rock Band, damnit).  It's about 10pm in the Central US time zone, which is what was normal for me two days ago, which isn't a reasonable time for me to just wake up.  And yet ... this seems to be my pattern.  

It took me about a month to shake it last year at this time, so let's hope I don't spend the holidays this year wilting like a flower at 8pm and waking up before the birds. 

(Minsk is still pending.  More info once we know.)

Today is election day in the U.S.  While I have my own opinions about who I'd like to see win in the presidential race, I'm also painfully aware that no matter who wins, there will be a lot of disappointed, disillusioned people out there who backed the losing horse.  Many years, I've been in that group, and I know it doesn't feel good.  It has felt like I'm not particularly welcome in my own country, that the things I find important and meaningful have been dumped in the rubbish bin for another 4 years.

I have a request of all my readers that are happy with today's election results.  When you're buoyant and happy with relief, take the time to reach out to someone in the other camp.  Reestablish bonds of commonality with friends that disagreed with you.  Remind us all that there are basic things -- family, friends, kindness, patience -- that we all value and share, regardless of our political partisanship.  

If you know any resolute non-voters, conscientious objectors who don't vote for philosophical reasons, I encourage you to reach out to them, too.  These days, non-voters are the most acceptable group to heap scorn upon, it seems.  While I don't share their rationale, I have to respect their opinion, just as I do for voters who disagree with me.  

For those on the winning side, there will be a temptation to rejoice and to gloat.  That's fair.  But please keep in mind the impact of your celebration on others.  We've all got to live together somehow.  Be a good neighbor, even to people who haven't necessarily been good neighbors to you in the past.  

Let this election embiggen us all.  Happy election day, everyone.  

Many happy returns, you.  

I know I usually post cute pics, but this one caught my eye.  I thought you might like it.



It's a recent solar eclipse.  Full image at http://apod.nasa.gov/apod/image/0809/Tse2008_200_mo1_big.jpg. It's worth looking at and zooming in to see detail on the central disk.  

Most of you know my ongoing Diet Coke conundrum.  Basically, I don't like coffee, I don't like alcohol, I will drink tea (but I don't terribly enjoy it) and Diet Coke is my tipple of choice.  V disapproves, and we've had occasional discussions about how he'd rather I drank something else.   

The bottom line is that lifelong consumption of aspartame probably increases the risk of cancer. People—especially young children—should not consume foods and beverages sweetened with aspartame, should switch to products sweetened with SUCRALOSE (Splenda), or should avoid all artificially sweetened foods. Two other artificial sweeteners, SACCHARIN and ACESULFAME-K, have also been linked to a risk of cancer.  (Their full research overview available at http://www.cspinet.org/reports/chemcuisine.htm and http://www.cspinet.org/new/200706251.html.)

This made me swear -- it's the research I'd been saying wasn't out there, and from a source that I tend to regard as trustworthy.  Damnit.  So this may be the end of my soda habit.  

I'm not made happy by this.

Last night, I got my first taste of Russian drama, going to see a very well-regarded production of Chekov's Ivanov at the Wyndham Theater in London.  The production starred Kenneth Branagh in the title role, and I'd long wanted to see Branagh on stage, so I'll admit that it was his name (and photo on all the posters) that drew me.   Plus Tom Stoppard (of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead fame, along with Shakespeare in Love) had massaged the translation from Russian, which had promise.  

Now, unlike my review of Hamlet, I'm not going to assume that anyone reading this knows the plot of Ivanov.  There isn't much plot, honestly -- this is a character piece -- but here it is.  Nikolai Ivanov is unhappy.  His farm is on the brink of failure, he owes money, and he's married to a dying woman he no longer loves.  He has few friends, though he is the subject of much gossip and speculation in the district.  His wife, Anna, converted from Judiasm to marry him; her parents disowned her for this, and rumor has it that Ivanov only married her for the money that never materialized.  The doctor accuses him of slowly killing Anna through lack of attention.  

Ivanov has one real friend left in the area, Lebedev, and he spends much time at the Lebedev house.  This is complicated, however, because Ivanov owes serious money to Lebedev's wife and Lebedev's daughter (Sasha) has decided she loves Ivanov.   The screws tighten.  Anna worsens.  Lebedev is sent to get the loan payment out of Ivanov, though he ends up offering to loan Ivanov the money to make the loan payment; shamed, Ivanov refuses.  Anna finds Sasha and Ivanov embracing and accuses him of every rumor she's heard.  Maddened, he reveals that she's dying, regretting it almost immediately.

In the final act, Anna has died, and the Lebedev house is buzzing for the webbing of Sasha and Ivanov.  Sasha is worried that Ivanov doesn't seem happy with her, but she's determined to marry him despite her concerns.  Ivanov himself arrives and wants to call off the wedding, but Sasha will not hear of it.  The doctor accuses Ivanov publicly of killing Anna, and there is an uproar.  Ivanov cuts through the hubub by taking a gun, apologizing, and then walking offstage to shoot himself.  Curtain.

Happy, eh?  And yet, in the midst of all this tragedy, it's a funny play, and comic lines sit right next to the lowest moments of Ivanov's life.  When Lebedev offers the loan, he blusters humorously about "take the money, just don't ever tell my wife it came from me"; chuckling, I glanced at Ivanov for his reaction, only to watch him slowly crumple to his knees as the laughter of the audience stuttered to an uncomfortable halt.  It's a very odd combination, this tragi-comedy.  I've never seen anything like it before.  

For a play originally performed 120 years ago, it feels very modern, full of characters that do nothing but talk about how bored they are.  In this world, the women control the available money, and every man is assumed to be interested in marrying a rich woman.   Scheming and gossip, drinking and bridge-playing -- that's how these characters spend their time.  It's Dynasty, circa 1887.

In this play, Ivanov is its weak center.  He's tired, he gets headaches, he kvetches, and he does virtually nothing concrete.  The world happens to him.  The play begins with Ivanov on stage, staring rather bleakly out at the audience, contemplating his life.  He says nothing, just stares and sifts some chaff through his hands.  He fidgets, he paces, and eventually he forces himself to sit down and try to read.  One of his employees wanders by and shoots off a gun, just to surprise the master, and Ivanov is startled enough to sprawl on his butt in the dust.  That gunshot is the first sound of the play; the gunshot of Ivanov's suicide is the last.  In between, Ivanov is regularly ignored, insulted, told he's wrong, and speculated upon.  He's not a good person or a bad person.  He's just a man in the throes of a midlife crisis and surrounded by (paraphrasing a friend here) people who really need to do some personal work. 

It's a subtle role, where the star performer is in the most-often upstaged position on stage.  We were sitting up in the Grand Circle, perhaps 20-30 feet above the stage, and so I missed many of Branagh's facial expressions, particularly when he was being bowed by circumstances.  I'd see the show again, but only if I got to sit on the floor, where more of the nuances were visible.  I'd know to look for the beginnings of Ivanov's reaction to the loan offer.  I'd know to see if Ivanov's Uncle Matty really does die off to the side in the play's final moments.  

It was a wonderful ensemble piece, where somehow comic characters were able to inhabit the same world as characters with no sense of humor at all and no connection to comedy.  The cast was uniformly strong.  The set design was nifty and rich.  The theater itself (fresh from a remodel) was a jewel-box of a setting.  But I don't know that this production of Ivanov fueled any interest in Russian drama and literature in me.  It left me feeling rather hopeless, like Ivanov maybe did the right thing in his suicide, that maybe that truly was the only way to escape the cycle of dispair in his life, given what his personal resources were.  It's disquieting, destabilizing, and even a bit demoralizing (in every sense of that word).

I find myself feeling like I should say something else and yet not knowing what to say.  If there are things I've left out, things that remain unclear, please do prompt me.  Thanks.