cyclics

Last day of class, tomorrow.  And my reward? A shitload of papers, followed by a shitload of finals, on Tuesday.  If I handle it right (i.e. punish/reward myself sufficiently), I should have it all cleared off my desk by this time next week, so I can abandon the paper I was working on today (*waves cheerily*) and turn to the one I haven't written (*waves warily*) before then turning back to the one I was working on, etc.  The turn around is brutal - a single week of spring break, and then the new quarter, and in that week the two talks and two classes to prepare.  Yes, of course it could be much much worse, and to the one of you who I know reads this with her 4-4 teaching load, yeah, poor little rich kid, etc., but hell, it's my blog and I'll whinge if I want to.  Last year I taught Fall and Winter, and had spring off - I went to England last April, to look at the books (and drink of the pints, if my increasingly saturated memory serves aright).  An email exchange with the friend who probably will never receive the letter, and a friendly reminder that her shit doesn't stink.  And a thought, unexpected, that if I stay here until they've decided they won't make me leave, I'm playing it safe.  Never been my strong suit, safe, even if it's been my weak point (if that makes any sense, and I think it does, if you know what I mean and I think you do).  Why not shove my head in the jaws of a hostile institution halfway through?  Although I should probably finish this book of mine, in that case, and get it out the door and perhaps a polite review or two.  Or, fuck it, burn the shit.  Admit that I have less control over my life as "successful" than I ever did whilst betwixt and between and in the cracks.  And reassert that control by redefining successful.  Or just admit that I'm annoyed I finished the Scotch.  "I'm out of Chivas," he said to a room full of construction workers, staggeringly slightly.  Not me, fools.  Him. To quote M., as N calls him, "Only to read childrens' books / only to love childish things, / throwing away adult things, / rising from saddest looks."

tis the fricking season

I hate the holidays.  I get surly and sulky and bitter.  Which, when mixed with authentic happiness, gets a bit confusing, really.  It was all fine and dandy to be 18, blasting NIN while wrapping a few presents, angry, heartbroken, and able to escape the familial through regular and judiciously timed smoke breaks.  It was all fine and dandy, too, to just skip family entirely, and spend it with The Ex and her family, if still fraught.  But the mountain has come to Mohammed, and yet rather than being impressed with the miracle I'm feeling alpine-ophobic.  (Damn. There's already a band named "Fear of Mountains.")  Anyway, a professional wobbly yesterday, courtesy Radical Colleague, whom I just don't particularly like, despite having known her for 20 odd years.  She seems to be on a slightly different track, a path of less resistance, perhaps because of a more obviously "sexy" field.  So the additional request I received sent me for a spin, which merely confirmed that I get sulky and surly and bitter around the holidays. I like it that way, I think.  Which is not to say I don't have 30 minutes to shower, shave, shit, shine, and shampoo in time to accompany a family member to purchase cases of wine for the benefit of my alcoholic family, arriving from up North all too soon.  Including my speed-dealing, meth-head, light-fingered cousin, who will be staying with us, along with his latest floozie.  We'll deposit YCT's jewelry at someone else's house, but what about silver candlesticks? Financial documents? I may just go on and on about how broke I am, and he'll not bother to steal my identity. If he's even smart enough to do so.  Then, shopping for pretty much fucking everyone.  Boo. fucking. Hoo.  Merry fucking holidays, all.  I'm slammed until the conference in Chicago, then when I come back I'm teaching (to which I actually look forward), but totally fucking slammed with work until April, at which point I should be able to breathe and get some work done.  

(dol/dull)drums

Seasonal affective disorder, thank you very much. It was a gorgeous SoCal winter day - clear, not warm but not cold nor even terribly cool, blue skies, a hint of the weakness of winter sunlight. So, seasonal, my friends, is relative. Dropped YCT's car off for repairs, walked to the LA subway (past one section of the writer's strike. I honked going and cheered coming. I may well cross the street going, tomorrow, and engage the striking writers more directly. Organized labor is hot.), and took the fricking subway in LA from the Valley to Hollywood. For a buck twenty five, paid by debit card, turnstile free, 8 minute wait for a 6 minute ride. Who knew? I had no fucking idea. Stopped for breakfast in Hollywood, took the leisurely option of the hour-long walk home, enjoying the 'Jim Henson's Studios now occupies Charlie Chaplin's Studios?' (And has Kermit always been on that roof?) moments alongside a few alleys, crack addicts, and the mysterious running homeless guy I've seen _much_ further west, but also earlier in the day. Homie is the Forrest Gump of the homeless, dirty, smelly, and physically disabled crowd of distance runners.

blah blah blah. I'm boring myself. No major crises, but a bad case of the blahs. Perhaps because there's so much to do. Or, so much I haven't done. I drink, numb, rinse, repeat. Waiting for an old friend and I to manage to actually toss back some jars. In a recent conversation, he described England as "[my] promised land." Interestingly apt. And departure of colleague/friend (referenced below, somewhere) has had many a knock-on effect, and shall have many a knock-on more. Both locally, and, intriguingly, bi-coastally. Hmmm. Bored with my own writing - without romantic drama, what is there?

If you're really bored, go check out http://awkwardthingsisaytogirls.com/. Start at the beginning. I have so many better stories than this guy, yet his tale is all too familiar at the same time.

the hours roll on

If I'm not careful, my ass is gonna attach itself to my office chair. Whoever indicated the life of the junior faculty member was anything other than indentured servitude, well, they were full of shit. "Can't complain" my ass. Here last night until 8, a full 8-hour day today, and still I'm panicked about getting shit out the door in time for the talk on Wednesday, so shall be in again tomorrow, in between celebrating the 96th birthday of my 4'8" Jewish step-grandmother from the Lower East Side. Sigh. Although it just occurs to me these recommendation letters could go in late. In fact, fuck 'em. Sorry John of the keen and restless intellect and the methodical deliberation and analysis - it's gonna have to wait. Although no one will be looking at these files until the New Year, so it's not as if I'm single handedly going to ruin your future. And if I do, you'll never know. AnywayS, I gotta tend to my own future. 30 fricking colleagues showing up for what was supposed to be a roundtable discussion populated by 7-10 techies and geeks. My plan is to geek out so much that the colleagues don't know what I'm saying, but throw down enough period-specific detail that the geeks can't fault me for it being mostly tech show-and-tell-and-I-wish-things-would-improve. But "show and tell" means "slides" means "screen shots" means "fiddly ass shit you can't fake" means time, which, of course, is on the short side. fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Shrug. Brother-in-law's birthday party, and Herself is visiting friends up north, so I'm off to drink and drive solo....

hang my head

A Decemberists's's's's's's (silly proper noun plural rules) song, three easy chords (D A G, for those of you following along at home), but a difficult (for me, at least, as a rank beginner) strumming pattern, and all the more difficult to finger the chords, strum, and sing at the same time.  Not really my really my suit in keyboard playing, either, happy to block out the chord's base with my left and do any heavy lifting with my right, and still rhythmically challenged, as it were, when adding a vocal line on top.  My inner metronome, clearly, leaves much to be desired (although there is a certain pleasure in typing this and realizing the fingers of my left hand are essentially numb, as the callouses have largely faded from non-playing until the last few days - the resuming of which probably coincides with the resumption of placing words here), not to mention either/or/and playing and singing.  But something's got me thinking, and it ain't just the ache in my left knee as it protests this whole "running" thing of late (did I mention I refuse to look like my father? absolutely and utterly, and I'm actually willing to sweat to prevent it. I am a stubborn bitch when necessary, and this, apparently, was my cue.)  It ain't just the work, or whatever transition it is I seem to be struggling with.  Err, well, it is probably that last, though if I could place the to and the fro of the equation, it would make this all rather less, well, you know, wordy.  Ah, those three blogger tags below - scooters, vacation, fall.  Scooters? Who was smoking what when they decided that was an ideal exemplum gratis?  "Oh! I see - my post is about scooters! And those cute little Vespas we rode in Majorca on vacation last fall!  So I should tag this post 'scooters, vacation, fall'!"  What about "e.g., Hooters, liposuction, hell"?  Not a bad shorthand tag for Los Angeles, actually.  I miss England, I miss NY, I'm annoyed as fuck that he-who-stole-my-affect is coming to give a talk here the week after next, and terrified about how much work I have to do over the next few weeks. And, ultimately, I'm just a bit fucking moody.  Although Berkeley friend who claims she still loves me coulda shoulda woulda might've called, but didn't. And as it's all about me, well, no points, hon', for that. Although all of my friends seem to think that "Tuesday" passed.  Although the friend with whom that was invented seems to think it was "wednesday", not tuesday, but as all my journals from that period never arrived any place (or, didn't do so from my perspective) there's no way of verifying that claim one way or the other.  Dunno.  I want to put on my Sex in the City voice and ask if my approaches to relationships and friendships are somehow mutually exclusive, but, well, that would be cheap.  A few more sips of wine, some Nadezhda....Hope Against Hope, she writes....unto the very grave.