On the Protection of Certain Accessories: Pertaining to Men's Fashion

I've betrayed myself. It's not so much a bad thing as you think like revealing some great secret (of which I have none) or admitting a crime. Nope, I am still an open book and my roommate's body is still safely hidden in the cellar. This betrayal is nothing more than a changing of mind regarding a certain accessory sported by men and women alike.

I have thicker posts in progress, I promise, but I should be writing a paper so I'm keeping it short, sweet, and silly today.

I often find myself blabbering on about hats, and fedoras in particular. What I wouldn't give to have a proper fedora to display on my nonexistent shelf of proper hats. Also wanted are a top hat, boater, tricorn, and bicorn. I have a bowler, thanks.

These hats would never be worn by yours truly because they are men's hats. Okay, so you can argue that the fedora was intended for women after their first appearance on Sarah Bernhardt in the play by the same name (denoting a princess, however, and not the hat) by Victorien Sardou in 1889. They have since transitioned, and this is probably the only gender swap from feminine to masculine in the history of fashion that is agreeable. Skinny jeans, however, are not agreeable. I saw a boy today showing off his twiggy legs in skinny jeans and I almost started to cry in memory of those who died in the Holocaust. What would the victims say now, knowing that people actually WANT to look like they woke up in Auschwitz this morning?

Off topic, getting back... Fedoras had a golden age. They've since had a revival, and it's this revival that I usually rant and rave about, but today I have to set down the ground rules. This is my betrayal. 'Fedoras' or rather trilbies (there is a BIG difference), I'm sad to say, need to be completely banned, even though I adore them. They look bad on women. While I love feminizing menswear (which worked well until the 1980s), fedoras are an accessory best left to the young bucks. However, even they have lost the rights to fedoras forever, save for a few exceptions.

FEDORA

TRILBY
CAN YOU SEE THE BLEEDING DIFFERENCE?!

There is a certain gentleman who comes in frequently to my work every week wearing fedoras that match whatever suit he's wearing that day. It looks nice, clean, and classic. His suits are not always in the best of fit, but at least he knows how to wear his hat. Now there are also several young men who come in, also wearing fedoras. No. They're wearing trilbies. They more often than not have soul patches or goatees, band T-shirts, necklaces, and baggy jeans with chains hanging off their belt loops. This is precisely why you must all be banned from dress hats. Keep with something casual like a ball cap, or if you MUST go classic, stick with a flat cap.

A man wearing a fedora.

A man wearing a trilby.

................ not a man.................

Now there is absolutely NOTHING wrong with a trilby, but they are under the same protection from now on as the fedora. Both hats should be worn in a dress ensemble. I might be lenient if you happen to be wearing something more than a T-shirt. A vest or a jacket would be acceptable over a T-shirt maybe, but a collared shirt would be optimal. The best choice, however, to accompany the more casual gent would be the flat cap. Add a tie and you're set for a fedora or trilby. They always go best with a tie. If you have doubts and think you might look like a vulgarian, you probably do and should promptly dispose of your lid.

Never. Ever. Do this.

Yes, please.

On a final note, as I gouge my eyes out with a highlighter after staring at a red and blue tartan flat cap on a goofy looking dunderhead, don't wear ostentatious patterns in said caps. Unless you belong to a clan north of the wall. They're horrendous. Keep it simple. Keep it stoic. Patterns are for ladies and foppish popinjays of the eighteenth century. Call me a traditionalist, but I have come to embrace fashion that doesn't let on too much about oneself. If you want to be even more interesting than someone with one too many holes in their heads or cartoons on their arms, don't give away anything by the fashions you sport. People HATE it when they can't automatically stick you in a category based on first look.

On Fitness and Self Motivation

I talked once before about a character I created years ago for the fun of writing silly adventures with my silly friends. It had something to do with another topic, and it is this which I revisit now. Much to my own chagrin, but I figure that I have embarrassed myself enough here for it not to matter anymore that I have imaginary friends. Is this so much a surprise?

Imaginary friends are precisely why I don't feel all that lonely most of the time. I have Erisa. Her elven heritage gives her the wisdom of the ancients, and it is by this infinite wisdom that she can remain as innocent as a child. Come what may, she knows that what counts is attitude and integrity. Then there is Pria, who is a mere mortal with some anger/guilt issues. She's the side of me that worries, stresses, and deals irrationally with my emotions. Both of them came out of writing, as did many others like Jamis the Corsair mobster building a pickpocket army of orphans a la "Oliver Twist", and Auguste Cartier who was a Templar crusader turned vampire.

I don't write with these characters in mind anymore. My writings tend to be more academic in nature now, though I have some ideas floating around upstairs for some fiction. To be honest I'd rather be an artist still, but I'm still missing that muse. Writing has taken off nicely enough, so I'll stick with that for now. No, these characters only come out when I need motivation. Or sometimes to enjoy my music as I walk across campus. When something like the William Tell Overture comes on, you just have to envision a Looney Tunes style battle to the death between foes, and I like to pit Pria against Erisa. If you happen to see me walking around with my earbuds in and a big smile, you'll know that someone has just gotten a face full of gun powder.

Anyway, I mentioned that I was revisiting the topic of fitness. This time, characters have everything to do with it. It's been quite some time since I've gone out to the park for some good ol' activity and I have been antsy all winter. Or rather Erisa has.

"OH! This is a good song! PERFECT pacing for a run or dancing around!" she'll say.

"Yeah. Sorry. I'm going to work, it's not exactly the time for running and dancing. Can't you see that there's ice on the ground that is preventing me from even walking successfully?" I get rather short with her out of my annoyance at the frozen precipitation.

"Aw, come on. If you were running, you wouldn't even noti-"

"Notice it? I'd slip and fall and die, Erisa. NO RUNNING." I end the conversation there by changing the song to a slower one not at all suitable to accompany vigorous activity.

Now today, since it is officially spring and the majority of snow falls are behind us, I dusted off the sneakers, grabbed Tonks' leash, and headed out the door. I had worked up last year to a three to five mile jog/march routine around Sugar House Park at least four times a week. The last time I was out was probably November. Four months later and I'm at a three mile jog, DIE, march, jog, DIE routine. If I need motivation, it's definitely now. Erisa and Pria were more than happy to oblige.

Pria is the most sympathetic, being a self conscience sort, "You're doing good, by the end of the week you'll be able to do it."

Erisa, being an enviable ball of energy, is less sympathetic. She flits ahead like a pixie ought to, completely oblivious. Suddenly though she seems to remember that she exists, or rather that I exist, and she rushes over.

"Come on! It's a beautiful day and we're outside, let's go!"

"I don't want to," I tell her. I glance at Tonks who has foam dribbling at her chin, "I don't think Tonks wants to either." I was past the halfway point of my route and feeling rather at peace with the fact that I was not up to normal performance. It'd been a while after all.

"Of course she does, she's a dog. Dogs like to run and play. OOOOH! Fiddles, pipes, and drums, you HAVE to want to go now!" My shuffle has just brought on a fast Irish jig. Not what I'd call jogging music, but I might as well.

Soon we come to the steep decline by the pond. Erisa crows triumphantly and we fly down. I have to admit that I could run downhill all day. Uphill isn't so bad either, but you can't stretch out in midair and feel that thrill of floating for a split second before gravity pulls you back. Funny enough when I'm hiking, it's the downhill I like least. I'm too scared of tripping down a ravine. However, when you haven't been running down hills all winter, it tends to wind you pretty quickly when you're not pacing yourself.

"Keep going! You're doing great! You'll beat this winter long funk in no time!" Erisa cries, and I try. I really do. I almost get around the pond... and then I die. My side's killing me. I ate too much pasta yesterday, and it's angrily devouring me from the inside out. Thanatos take me now.

This is when Erisa starts pushing, and my resistance becomes increasingly stubborn. I agree to run up the hill on the other side of the pond, and Pria gives me a pat on the back when I make it, "How about some marching now?"

I was too tired for even that, but I search for a song with a reasonable beat for a march, but slow enough to be more like a quick walk. I'm three quarters of the way through by now. Erisa is not pleased at all.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Walking," I reply innocently enough.

"Why?"

"Because I feel like it. My side hurts," I frown.

"You wouldn't have noticed if you'd kept going," she retorts.

"Yes, well I'd have keeled over dead then."

Pria is silent, but I can picture her face. Sort of. I've never really decided exactly what they look like. She looks a little perplexed by Erisa's annoyance.

"Look you," Erisa lectures heatedly, "You come from a long line of great warriors. You are of the line of mighty Danes and Jutes, and a few puny Anglo-Saxons. There's probably Norman in there and a bit of Roman too, and you're just going to walk? I thought you were proud of your ancestral heritage!"

"If I'm going to be a disciplined soldier like you suggest, then I can march too," I said.

"Oh no, you're too good at that already. You need to get running!"

I get a bit angry myself, "For what? To dash over to the next opponent and run him through on a sword? That's a short enough distance. Besides, I'm not some warrior. My ancestors may be, but I'm of the more scholarly monastic class! I'm the one telling stories about Beowulf and singing songs! And I'm a bleeding GIRL anyway!"

Erisa furrows her brow and glares, "You still come from the greatest stock this world has ever seen! You have the power to build nations! Your ancestors built this country, they built Britain, and they took on the world. They're the same as those who defeated Sauron! You could have mighty sons with the brains AND brawn to save the planet if you weren't shaping up to be a weak mother. It doesn't matter if you're a girl! EOWYN WAS A GIRL!"

Oh, it is on. "First of all the Rohirrim were lowly ranchers, NOT warriors, and it is from my ancestors that Tolkien modeled their race, so that only works in my favor. Secondly, they may have mustered and fought bravely at Helm's Deep and at Pelennor, but they weren't the ones to defeat Sauron. The credit there goes to a pair of hobbits. Finally, Eowyn would not have run recreationally a day in her life! Shield maiden she may be, but not a soldier."

Pria leans in and mumbles, "I've never seen her this angry, let alone angry ever. You should start running, or she might catapult mud at you." She was absolutely right. Erisa never got angry, but she's definitely the type who would get frustrated when people didn't seem to think so highly of themselves as she did of them. She shows great faith in people.

"I don't care," I smirk, "there's one thing she seems to have forgotten."

The nice thing about having imaginary friends is that they aren't real, and this fact comes up conveniently when you most need it. Suddenly Erisa became compliant and sweetly encouraging as I marched/walked the rest of my way around the park. Then, as soon as I stepped out onto 2100 South, she and Pria turned off and I was alone with Tonks once more. That was enough motivation for the day. I only ran about a pathetic half mile, but I'll work my way back up, I promise. Maybe I should get an actual jogging buddy who I can't just tune out though.

On Skydiving into History

Forgive the crappy scan. My scanner is, well, crap. It's not meant to be a work of art anyway.

Rather than finish this chapter on the 'fall' of the Roman Empire for my Western Civ class, I got distracted with the idea of what happens when a government starts to take on more than they can handle. Imperialism is little more than babysitting, and as any teacher or child care giver will tell you, you should have so many faculties for so many children. Take on too many, and you will drown.

To be fair, Rome had other problems and while they brought it upon themselves, they deserve some sympathy I suppose. I wasn't planning on blogging, but today is sort of an especially inspiring day (we're on the brink of another war) on which I happened to decide to read the chapter on the entrance of Europe into the Middle Ages. The era was once referred to as the Dark Ages, and while this isn't at all the case as modern historians will now admit, it was still a time of turmoil and grand political shifts. It's what we have to look forward to as Americans entering the twilight of our Golden Age. After the events of the afternoon, I'd definitely say we're on to something similar.

I think it's exciting. As other people run about in a panic because we owe China this, North Korea is threatening that, and the problem in Afghanistan is spreading throughout the Islamic world, I feel a calm about me and a wide smirk crosses my face. Apparently we have no need to study history anymore, but it's at moments like this that we should be hitting the history books and waking up to the reality of being an insignificant blip on the radar. When people tell me that I'm the one with reality issues because I can't live in the present, I retort: "Learn from the past to create in the present a future worth living." It's not that I'm against progressivism, I just know better than to jump out of the plane without proper preparation. And no matter who we have at the helm, we seem to dive without thinking.

I actually have to say that this is how I would let things be. Yes, we should be aware of history, but I don't think I want everyone to be involved. History for me is a rather elitist discipline that isn't for all, though I do wish that everyone else would agree that it's important to have around. The reason it's not for everybody? If average people were spending more time reading up on our ancestors, they wouldn't be out there doing the same stupid things that we have to learn from in the first place. The beauty of history is that few people who make history were thinking of how their actions relate back to their predecessors. And yet we keep it all written down for someone like myself to come along and take note. "Oh, so THIS is what we might expect in the next few decades."

We are the Roman Empire, and we need to at least acknowledge it. It's not a bad thing, and it doesn't mean that we will 'fall'. On the contrary, I think we can expect nothing short of gradual fracturing of the Union until we just happen to be fifty little countries rather than fifty unified states. Rome didn't fall. They were distracted with expansion and had immigrants (rather illegal ones at that) flood in to escape a bad situation at home, only to have these immigrants overrun and overrule the government. Sound familiar?

Now I have to say that on the immigrant issue there is a part of me that cares. There is a part of me that is screaming "No don't let them in! They'll take us down like Goths!" But then there's a part of me that says "Let them in! They'll take us down like Goths!" That part is the rather passive part who would like to see history happen the way it should. It's the part of me that knows the past, can understand what is happening in the present, and predicts what will happen in the future. The former part, the one that doesn't want immigration reform and to just kick them all out, is the part of me that ignores the past, doesn't care about the future, and just wants to be left alone in her present state.

Meanwhile, out on the imperial front, we are fighting war after war, ignoring the Goths sneaking into our home turf. We're too concerned with North Africa and the Middle East (quite literally) to have some protection here. It was an attack at home that sent us to the front in the first place, and we're ripe for the taking again. Now today not only are we fighting a war in Afghanistan and soon Pakistan, but we've joined with our WWII buddies to take on Libya's over-expired Gadhafi regime. Is this a good move on our part? One side of me says no, but the other side says yes. It has to happen and it will, because what do we do? We jump without thinking. Jumping without thinking is what writes history. If we thought about what we were doing and checked the parachute, we would land safe and sound and nobody would remember the event because nothing interesting or out of the ordinary came of it.

So keep jumping America. Take a risk and leave the parachute at home. Jump and feel the thrill of the free fall. Spiral down back to earth and enjoy it for what it's worth. When you land you'll be dead, sure. That might suck, yes. But exactly because you weren't paying attention in history class, you will make mistakes that could have been prevented and you will do stupid things to ensure that you go down into the books and people will remember you a thousand years later.

On Life after Death

It's really hard to soak things up as a child. I don't mean hard as in difficult to comprehend, because that is untrue. I mean hard as intensely overwhelming. Like when you learn how to read, it's suddenly there and new and exciting to the Nth degree. I remember reading and rereading 'The Fisherman's Wife' (my first book) and then going to school the next day and grabbing as many books as my backpack could carry. I skipped through the color coded primers like Dorothy skipped through Oz. This was what I was born to do.

There's one thing in particular we all have to face, and I imagine that the prospects thereof were just as overwhelming for everyone else as they were for me as a kid. Death is not something anyone looks forward to. Nor is it something we can really comprehend unless we were able to come back to life and write stories to reassure everyone that it wasn't really a big deal or that it was a very big deal. I remember being terrified out of my mind in Primary when we talked about Jesus coming back and killing all the bad people when the end of the world came. There would be fire and something called brimstone and earthquakes and cities would fall into the sea. That's right, ENTIRE CITIES. FALLING. INTO THE SEA.

I'm sure that you can see where I'm going with this. However with me it's never really about events, it's about what things can be taken away from such events. While everyone else may be preoccupied with nuclear holocaust right now, I'm more interested in the meaning of death and what sort of presence it has in my life.

So I was scared as a kid. When you're new and the world is still awesome and interesting, death seems to come too soon. It's an end to the exploration of this great wide world. It's an unreasonable conclusion to enlightenment. Perhaps this natural, childlike fear of death is why we created religion. It's a comfort thinking that there will be something beyond, though if we take stock in the idea that infantile perception is carnal fundamentalism, then we know that there is nothing after death. There is no heaven or hell, and there is no God.

If it's true, though, that we create religion to ease the emotional pain of death, why would our forefathers of the classical world believe in such an unparadisaical postmortem existence? How does it make sense that the earliest Greeks thought of Hades as a horrible place that no one could escape from? Eventually the perceptions on the afterlife changed a bit, and we find that within Hades are Tartarus (hell) and Elysium (heaven). This still isn't all that fantastic to know, as at first these places were reserved for the very wicked and heroes. You, sipping your tea, giving to charity, and being a generally agreeable person, were going to wind up in Asphodel where you lose your identity and memory and just sort of... float. That can't have been exciting to think about for the Greeks (the Romans, bless their hearts, opened up Elysium to the rest of us poor yet virtuous mortals).

Egyptians believed that you had to take the necessary precautions and perform certain rituals to even be considered for the afterlife. Mummification was required, and every corpse was accompanied by a Book of the Dead to instruct the soul how to pass successfully through to the next life. Those who couldn't afford such funerary preparations were doomed to experience nothing. Again, how does it make sense to 'create' religion if there is nothing beyond for the majority of us?

Being an 'enlightened' adult now in my mid-twenties, my attitude towards death has changed drastically. I'm no longer overwhelmed with the fear of death. On the contrary, I believe wholeheartedly that death is going to be one exciting adventure that I'm looking forward to. It's not that I want to die, because there are as of yet many things to be done here and now. I just feel at peace and so completely satisfied with myself that were I to die now, it wouldn't phase me. Sure I would miss out on some important milestones, but what does it matter if I'm dead? What does it matter especially if I'm living a better existence? Call it brainwashing rather than enlightenment if you wish, but I'm looking forward to an afterlife. Not an afterlife like what the Greeks and Egyptians believed in, but one in which I can be perfected and live again. I'll be able to do extraordinary things that I can't even imagine doing. Who doesn't want power over nature and the ability to ignore petty mortal tribulations?

In one of my classes the underlying theme this semester is to learn the ways of the 'mythological mindset'. It's been a fascinating journey, and I'm coming to grips with the philosophy. None of it matters, and it's precisely because none of it matters that makes it all so wonderful. Death doesn't matter because it's just as much a part of life as living is. The Greeks were afraid of death because they thought that was it. People today are afraid of death because they think they believe in an afterlife but they're not sure. To be in the mythological mindset, one must know Death and see that it doesn't matter. Afterlife or not, it's just another fact to face and understand. Heroes know this. They face their mortality and walk away from the confrontation stronger and wiser. I'm pretty sure I'm ready to face it and I don't mind if nothing happens; but because I CAN'T believe that we're the ones who made up religion (based on the reasons previously given), I MUST believe that religion comes from some divine entity, and that entity does have a plan, and we do have an afterlife to look forward to. This is when the mythological mindset becomes the 'eternal perspective'.

The eternal perspective has been a theme in Sunday School this year so far, or maybe I only notice it because I'm constantly thinking about the mythological mindset and how I can exemplify its basic principles. As it turns out, the eternal perspective is the same only better. While the mythological mindset is based off the idea that none of this matters, the eternal perspective dictates that none of it matters, but your actions can bring you eternal rewards. 

It's like taking the LSAT. You can choose the wrong answers and they won't count against you. However if you don't prepare for the test, you won't get as many right answers and you'll ultimately reap less of a reward than others who do prepare. Essentially each question doesn't matter. You can miss quite a few and still get a high score. Your score doesn't even matter because you can retake it. But who wants to do that again? (Trust me, I couldn't eat for three days because of nerves, and that's not something I want to endure again.)

Of course though, if there is a heaven and hell of sorts in every modern religion and religion is true, then shouldn't we be worried about all the little points we didn't get (if we can't take it again)? Well... no. Yes, you're stuck with your score, but there is a reprieve. This reprieve, in fact, is the whole reason why nothing actually matters, because all those points we didn't get are accounted for and given to us so we can still get perfect scores. Even if you're not a Christian, and you don't believe in the Atonement and Resurrection, you still win. And even if Christianity is not true, then nobody wins but nobody is a loser either because there can be no losers without winners.

“The Transfiguration or 'Metamorphosis' of Jesus is... an anticipatory glimpse of something to come.” (Miracles, pg. 249) C.S. Lewis talks about the Resurrection in his book Miracles, a subject still weighing on my mind even after I finished it a month ago. We are commanded in the New Testament to “Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.” (Matt. 5:48, KJV) This is impossible which is why we have the Atonement. Christ paid for our sins so that we wouldn't have to suffer from fire and brimstone forever. Then he died and, as Lewis puts it, the natural process was reversed (because God is master of Nature) and He was brought back to life in a perfected body as we will one day be. To be perfect like unto a god, after all, is impossible. But for a Son of God with the capability to die and come back to life and in the process break down the wall between mortal fault and immortal perfection, it's not impossible. We can be with God because we have been bought and paid for from Sin by Christ.

I'm not here though to talk so much about the Atonement. Let's get back to Resurrection and reasons why mortality can't be thought of as something terrifyingly horrific and final. Lewis categorizes miracles as such; those of the old creation, and those of the new. I'm concerning myself with the new. These are the things I'm looking forward to in the hereafter. They are the acts of Christ while here in this life, including the Resurrection itself. “I have heard a man maintain that 'the importance of the Resurrection is that it proves survival,'” says Lewis (Miracles, pg. 236), but this isn't enough. Survival implies a continued existence as one was before, not as something changed. If that's all the Resurrection was, then the religion would be pointless.

What Christ becomes is not a survivalist, but a new entity made of what was his body before. “The body which lives in that new mode is like, and yet unlike, the body His friends knew before the execution. It is differently related to space and probably to time, but by no means cut off from all relation to them.” (pg. 241) He can eat, but He can also 'walk through walls'. Even before the Resurrection, He walked on water, fed thousands with practically nothing, and He healed the sick and dying. Lewis hints at the inheritance of these traits for us, “If we are in fact spirits, not Nature's offspring, then there must be some point at which created spirit... can produce effects on matter not by manipulation or technics but simply by the wish to do so.” (pg. 245)

That is what I want. I want to do what Christ does. Not because it's cool or I want to 'one up' anyone else, but because that is what death means for me. It means that I will be presented with an opportunity to do as my God does, as a child or inheritor of God ought to do which is namely to live in eternal bliss without any pain or suffering, to carry on the work of an exalted being, and to be reunited with a body to which I'm becoming rather emotionally attached. I'm my own best friend, after all! Life goes on, and we continue to progress. That's what an intelligence must do out of necessity or it would cease to exist. And even if there is nothing, this world will continue on, and I will have done my part and left a small legacy upon which is founded a future for posterity.

“Heaven can mean 1) The unconditional Divine Life beyond all worlds. 2) Blessed participation in that Life by a created spirit. 3) The whole Nature or system of conditions in which redeemed human spirits, still remaining human, can enjoy such participation fully and for ever. This is the Heaven Christ goes to 'prepare' for us.” (pg.256)

Status Archive-2/11/11-3/13/11

2/11/11-Here's an idea: Instead of protesting Valentine's Day, why not just celebrate Lupercalia? Rampant frivolity, feasting and sacrifice makes for a fun weekend all across the board!
2/12/11-I have had a glimpse at sartorial nirvana: Walking down a street in London where everyone knew how to wear a suit so well that everyone I passed had taken a huge risk in choices that turned out to be amazing. Example: chocolate brown velvet, double breasted with a wide lapel with a delft print blue and white shirt and a yellow tie. Crazy? Maybe. But the fit was PERFECT.
2/14/11-I think Tonks just volunteered to be the sacrificial canine tonight. Prepare to meet Lupercus, you blasted dog!- Tonks thrashed the backyard and I was very angry. I still haven't finished cleaning it up.
2/15/11-I am totally blown away sometimes by how old civilization is and how Egyptian things were ancient even to other Egyptians. How freaking wild is it that we still know the Epic of Gilgamesh or that the pyramids are still there? How have we not gotten bored yet?
2/16/11-I am burnt out. I want to crawl into a hole with a good book, some epic films, and not see another biped for seven days.
2/17/11-Diana the virgin goddess is also a goddess of fertility. How does that work? Sounds like a thesis begging to be written to me. :D
2/18/11-You'd better feel guilty because at any moment you could get the beating of your life for something you've done, only you'll never know what.
2/19/11-Why does my homework always seem to follow historical patterns? This weekend it's Alexander. I must conquer a test on the Greeks today, ride through reviewing Mesopotamia to get to India where I have to read the Ramayana, and then back through Mesopotamia by Tuesday night. What took him months and years I will do in four days. Harrowing expedition indeed!
2/21/11-I realize that you can't stand being alone for five minutes, but can you not latch on to me of all people? I NEED to be alone, away from homo sapiens; especially those on the lower end of the evolutionary chain. Let me go on a walk by me onesy, PLEASE!!! My goodness, I thought I was clingy!
2/21/11-Deism and democracy be hanged. God exists, and he's not asking for a majority vote of approval, and you'll just have to live with that, won't you?
2/22/11-I am going to kill your boyfriend. I am going to KILL your BOYFRIEND!
2/22/11-AAAAAHHHHHSSYRIAAAAAHHHHHH!!! I drew a panda. WAHAHAHAHA!-I think I was driven mad by studying for midterms. After this I comment on the status and call John Lennon a Marxist hippie D-bag, and I mention my dog's habit of chewing on her own paws.
2/23/11-The cradle of civilization becomes its deathbed. But they don't call it the Fertile Crescent for nothing. Spring will come again, a new day will dawn, and the light of the 'Sun' will bring rebirth.
2/23/11-Well, I think that's enough empire smashing for the week. Assyria certainly has had their first syllable handed to them on a silver platter by yours truly. *cracks knuckles with self satisfaction*
2/24/11-I had a street bum tell me I was pretty. Considering the myriad of inappropriate things he could have said in his permanently drunken stupor, I'm extremely flattered that he deemed this compliment the best thing to say. As alcohol is a truth serum of sorts, I'm convinced that he was not being facetious and that letting this go to my head is allowable.
2/25/11-Instead of the usual 'What class is that for?', my coworker asked 'Where are you going today?' when she saw me pouring over my textbook. I smiled. 'Rome,' I responded. I guess I live the metaphor more than I thought
2/26/11-Family loyalties, ha. What family loyalties? I've just joined in on the war. I keep my ancestral name in memory of greater men, but from the rest of them I set myself apart. My wounds run red, my quarrel is with the white!
2/27/11-You may think you have power as the governor of a subterranean province, but you need to learn quickly that I'm no mere neighboring upstairs governor, I'm the blasted emperor. Under this roof my word is divine law, and I'm banishing your boyfriend. If you don't like it, I can install a new governor.
2/27/11-Funny enough, on the red carpet I'm all about the dresses. Why? Tuxedos are not suits. Duh.
2/28/11-Patriarchal blessing. It's about ruddy time.
3/1/11-I don't have enough dishes for me AND you AND your blasted boyfriend. I've been more than accommodating, the least you could bleeding do is wash the frakking china! You have hereby lost the privilege of benefiting from my generosity. So let it be written, so let it be done.
3/3/11-What do we do with broken or unwanted pottery around here? Chuck it out the window and pray it falls on a slave's head and not a citizen's. When in Rome... wear a hard hat.
3/3/11-Let's put it this way: I did so well on my midterm that it was as though I dragged Sauron out of his tower and threw him into the fires of Mount Doom along with his stupid ring, all before tea time. One DOES simply walk into Mordor.
3/4/11-Artemis: I am the first and the last. Apollo: I am the Son of God. Exploring the duality of the Olympian twins in fiction. Genius! Spring break can't come soon enough!
3/5/11-I don't like it when professors can't answer my questions, but I suppose I do like looking for answers myself too.
3/5/11-It's officially a bad situation. I fly into a panic and start frantically searching for a way out whenever I hear her coming in. I'm not safe in my own house. I don't like socializing.
3/7/11-How about, instead of going to school and working today, I stay home and watch Gladiator, eat some ramen, read some Tolkien, and sleep?
3/8/11-Yes, food is biodegradable (for the most part), but there is a difference between biodegradable and recyclable. If you'd like me to, I could probably whip up some necromancy and reanimate that chicken carcass you threw in the recycle bin and let it terrorize you for the rest of your life. THAT would be recycling!
3/9/11-Well, aren't the Romans having a laugh?
3/10/11-So Trixie doesn't know what cashews, pecans, and hazelnuts are........... and that's all I have to say about that.
3/11/11-Pirate cats make poor oracles. Then again oracles make even poorer oracles. What? Say that again? Oooooh I dunno, I think I've... cross? Boss? Moss? DAMN!-Watching 'The Last Unicorn'. Another 'drunk' status for me.
3/12/11-Mythological Mindset= Eternal Perspective, and I'm trusting my God to guide me through the torrential rains. When Thanatos comes knocking I can greet him with a smile because I know I'm ready for that last adventure. I'd like to say I'm excited for death without sounding morbid, but there's perhaps no way around that.
3/12/11-I have found THE bust. Apollo. Three dollars. Thank you DI!
3/13/11-Geez, Magen. You're such a Pharisee! (And don't I know it.)
3/13/11-Sometimes I wish everyone I knew was dead. And by that I mean that I only want to associate with the deceased. Er... I mean that I only want to hang out with expired pers-... you know what? Never mind.

Adventures with Trixie and Boyfriend Bro: Recycling Poultry

I will admit that it's proven fairly difficult to find things to write about concerning the recent residential addition to my household. She mostly keeps to herself, and I have become a literal shut-in. If Krissy (my other roommate) and I are watching something on the television and I hear her pull up or her footsteps on the stairs I jump into a frenzied panic and bound out of the room like a frightened deer. No joke, I avoid her like the plague.

My dog is not very pleased with the results. Being her mistress, I demand her presence at all times. Tonks follows me everywhere and must stay within eye shot. So whenever I'm home and Krissy is not, I make camp in my bedroom, shut the door, blast the music (being right above Trixie's room, I'm hoping that this annoys her into leaving), close the blinds, and research/read/watch movies to my heart's content. It's not too bad, but it's hardly what Tonks wants to do. She whines and paws and taps at the door begging to go out. I'd love to, but her only other option is her crate in which she already spends too much time. I can't let this dog have full reign of the house.

Anyway, having established the fact that Trixie is exhaustive and abhorable, I have a complaint to make. This can hardly be a surprise, I'm sure. Complaint it is, and it is in regards to her rubbish tossing habits. She doesn't have them. Or rather she does have habits, but she lacks the manners that accompany certain unacknowledged acts that are nonetheless necessary to daily life.

I don't know where she learned how to chuck out her take away dishes, but leaving them on the floor next to the bin is not throwing them out. There's plenty of room in the bin. I got a big one from IKEA that should suffice for a day or two without having to be emptied. But... apparently the floor is appropriate enough for her. I'm sure this has made her Tonks' best friend, since I find Panda Express and Domino's all over my floor. I realize that I gave the implication that I watch my dog like a hawk, but I'm not a hawk now am I?

Nor does she seem to understand what recycling is all about. We have two dumpsters, one for regular trash and the other for recycling. The bin has it there on the lid in nice lists all the things that can be put inside a recycle bin. Paper, plastic, aluminium, but not glass (that makes me angry, but whatever). When I went out to put the post ads out, there at the bottom was a dead chicken. A whole. Bleeding (not really). Chicken Carcass. I knew it was hers because she'd told me the day before that she'd saved the bones to give to Tonks (It really should be common sense that dogs can't eat chicken bones. I realize it's not one of those blatantly obvious no-nos, but it still bugs me that people assume that all bones are okay for dogs.). Next to it was a tub of grapes.

Okay. So here is where we teach a little lesson on what biodegradable and recyclable are, and why they are not the same. Both are adjectives. Both are associated with 'green' living. Both mean that there are special places for these types of waste.

Biodegradation is the decay of carbon based matter, namely plant and animal waste. Your thesis paper is biodegradable. Your salad is biodegradable. Your grandma is biodegrading at this moment, I'll wager.

Recycling is sending things back to be processed through and used again. In regards to paper and plastic and the like, waste is usually pulped and made into something else. Your thesis paper is recyclable. Your plastic bottle you got with your salad is recyclable. A dead chicken is not recyclable.

However, there is a way we can use this. If you would like, Trixie, I would be more than happy to demonstrate to you my prowess in the dark art of necromancy. Necromancy is when you reanimate dead tissue for evil purposes such as instigating a zombie apocalypse or bringing your roommate's dead chicken back to life to terrorize said roommate. For good measure, I think I'll bring her grandma back too.

That is how you recycle a chicken.

On Respectfully Paying Homage to Eros

I'm addicted to Pandora. Honest to goodness, there is nothing like putting a band whose sound you need in the moment and getting more of that sound from artists you didn't know. Funny enough, my most used station is starting to incorporate some very different sounds from what I originally wanted. From Scissor Sisters I somehow got to Fleetwood Mac and then back around to this particular song I want to talk about today. It's by a fellow named David Guetta and is entitled 'Sexy Bitch'. I've only posted half the lyrics since the song repeats itself.

Yes, I can see her
'cause every girl in here wanna be her
Oh! She's a Diva...
I feel the same,
And I wanna meet her
They say: "She low down..."
It's just a rumour I don't believe 'em!
They say: "She needs to slow down..."
The *baddest* thing around town!
She's nothing like a girl you've ever seen before!
Nothing you can compare to your neighborhood whore!
I'm tryinna find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful!!!
The way, that booty movin' - I can't take no more
Have to stop what I'm doin', so I can pull up her close
I'm tryinna find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful
Damn Girl!!!
Damn, you's a sexy bitch, sexy bitch!
Damn, you's a sexy bitch!
Damn Girl!!!
Damn, you's a sexy bitch, sexy bitch!
Damn, you's a sexy bitch!
Damn Girl!!!

I want to draw attention to the part where he begins singing her praises. Or rather, he sings about being unable to find terms appropriate for (I assume) the radio without being disrespectful. Well, Mr. Guetta, damning her and then calling her a bitch (repeatedly) is hardly the best way to compliment the purported girl of your dreams. Oh, but at least she's no neighborhood whore! Because, you know, all neighborhoods have whores to be compared to, and that word is always applicable to anyone of the female persuasion.

That is apparently the best we can do anymore. There is no way in Hades Mr. Guetta could sing praises to sensuality without sounding like a scallywaggish rake. Yet he makes a living off of lyrical music, a poetry of sorts. Really? You can't think of ANYTHING?! Here are two men who had no problem with expressing their arousal without becoming incongruous.

The first to come to mind for me was Bill Shakespeare. A poet, an actor, but most importantly a playwright, Bill became successful in life because he knew how to entertain. The best way to do this, since the origination of theatre in ancient Greece, is to bring in the bawdy. Modern scholars have been trying for the past century to blow the lid on the fact that William Shakespeare was a smutty writer as much as he was a respectable one. By now I would assume that most people know this, but apparently the language still goes over people's heads.

Don't believe me? Read a few sonnets, especially at the end. I'm not going to get graphic, since I really don't like thinking in this particular direction, but here's sonnet 128 for your reading pleasure:

How oft when thou, my music, music play’st

Upon that blessèd wood whose motion sounds

With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway’st

The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

Do I envy' those jacks that nimble leap

To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,

At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand.

To be so tickled they would change their state

And situation with those dancing chips,

O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

Making dead wood more blest than living lips.

  Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

  Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

Here he describes her musical talent and how he is jealous that the instruments she plays have such an intimate relationship with her fingers while he does not. This has nothing to do at first glance with anything inappropriate, but read it again and it's there. What makes Shakespeare smutty yet respectable? Double entendre, my friend. Innuendo is probably the most clever way of saying something without really saying it, and Shakespeare was a master. And he didn't have to resort to comparing the girl of his dreams to a dog in heat.

The real shocker is what you find in the Bible. Solomon was not shy in his praises of his beloved, and the language is easily more decipherable than Shakespeare's. I once had a friend tell me about a missionary companion who liked to read The Song of Solomon in private. This was too much information for me, and I didn't believe him until I finally read it myself. Chapter 6:2-3 (KJV):

My beloved is gone down into his garden, to the beds of spices, to feed in the gardens, and to gather lilies. I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine: he feedeth among the lilies.

I wouldn't have gotten that as a kid, and I probably wouldn't get it today if I weren't looking for it. I'm one of the last ones to catch on to a dirty joke. Then again, maybe the way he puts it is so respectful that most people wouldn't get it. So, Mr. Guetta, if it's possible to respectfully describe sensuality and make it into the Bible, what on earth is your excuse?