::alio!::

Stupid Students

There is a pickup truck across from my office that has an antique bathtub in its bed. I wish there were written explanations for these things.

I also just got an email from a student asking me if the "paper" they have to hand in next Thursday has to be in "essay" format. The wording on the assignment sheet, apparently, just says "paper," so there was some confusion.

How do you write a "paper" that isn't an "essay?" Especially after I had to go over the ESSAY style guide for the department with them?

The future of anthropology looks bleak.

In other news, I have finally done it, and I'm surprised it didn't take me very long. I have finally read Clifford Geertz's "Deep Play: Notes on a Balinese Cockfight," the article that basically jump-started the field of sports anthropology, and that I've been putting off reading for years and years. I assumed it would be typically Geertzian: full of beautiful but incomprehensible phrasing and metaphors, and longer than I would ever have time to sit down and finish. I was wrong, though. It's about fifteen pages, if that, and it's in Early Geertz, before he learned all the big words. Interesting read. I can kind of see why everyone wanted me to read it. But I have my issues with it as well. I can't see how it managed to start it all. Ah well.

no shit, no fan

So there was no shit in any fan, and Chel may be back to regularly scheduled programming soon. In any case, I have to be more circumspect about certain things (you know which ones) than I was before, and come up with a new, apt pseudonym sometime soon.

Things at work are interesting. Due to my week off, I have a huge pile of things waiting for my attention, and the elevator is broken, and the code machine to our floor is also finicky, so actually getting into the office in the first place is very entertaining.

As for school, I'm briefly listing some things I need to do below, for my own peace of mind. For some reason I look here more often than I do anything else.

Ethics Clearance: Received. Need to make conditional changes and re-send ASAP to Leslie, c.c. to Brian. [Done: 27/02/06 2:00 PM, full clearance received 01/03/06, 4:00 PM]

Student make-up exam, my office, 1:00 PM on Tuesday,28 February. Pick up exams from Ann in main office, 12:30. [Done: 28/02/06, 1:45 PM]

Meeting with student re: essay issues, 1:45 PM, Tuesday. [Done: 28/02/06, 1:50 PM]

Meeting with Karen, 2:00 PM, Tuesday. Pick reading, prepare response Monday PM. [response done: 28/02/05, 10:30 AM, meeting done: 28/02/05, 2:30 PM]

Begin (and finish) reading book for Peter, response due Thursday. [reading done: 01/03/06. 6:05 PM]

Come up with topic for essay for Peter and prepare 30-minute presentation for the same, due 9 March 2006. [begun 6/03/06]

Go downtown and obtain new health card, Wednesday AM. Then go to License Bureau and obtain new driver's license, Wedneday PM. Both expire 8 March 2006. [Done: 01/03/06, 2:20 PM]

Meeting with student, 1:30 PM, Wednesday. [cancelled by student 28/02/05, 9:30 AM]

Pick up Andrew from airport, Wednesday PM.[Chris did it for me.]

Draft letter to owner re: research plan. Include background, clearance, and memo. Mention issue re: confidentiality and re: remuneration. Send draft to Karen and Brian and obtain substantial amounts of letterhead for final copy, by Sunday. [Done: 05/03/06, 4:30 PM]

Next week (to be completed before 8 March):

Prepare reading and response for Peter, due Thursday. Make finishing touches to presentation.

Prepare reading and response on conflict theory for Karen, due Thursday.

Confirm flight to Rhode Island, find all relevant documentation, do laundry and pack. Leave room for Student Essays, due 9 March 2006.

The Great Delete

Due to a major family problem and breach of internet protocol (nothing to do with me, no worries), all posts that might have to do with anything (read: EVERYTHING) have been deleted until further notice. New posts will continue as usual. All this blank space is intimidating -- I'll have to fill it up fast.

end of holiday

Watching the sun get brighter at the corner of Wood and Young and admiring the little tiny people as they go about their business.

Today we return to the big suck (Otown). Not really looking forward to the bus trip, but at least it won't be busy, and maybe we'll get home a little sooner. I keep forgettng that I'm on vacation this week. Let's see what I can accomplish, right?

Well, better get my tired ass in gear. See you on the flip.

Out.

ARR! It's drivin' me nuts!

What I neglected to post yesterday (likely because I was drunk and high on life -- although not drunk, I am still rather giddy) was that I went to a sketchy clothing store in the sketchy part of Eglinton station and bought a shirt for FOUR DOLLARS.

JB you will appreciate this the most.

The shirt reads, and I quote,

PIRATE PETE'S
ARCADE
Boardwalk Amusement Park - Maryland

[and this is the BEST PART]

"Games is Arrr! Middle Name"

Yes. For real.

And it fits real nice, too.

visiting the village

Drunken post on a keyboard that's not my own. Bear with me on the typos.

Fucking HTML . . .

Staying with Chel from yesterday until Tuesday. She lives in "the Village," at Wood and Church, TWO BUILDINGS DOWN FROM THE FUCKING MAPLE LEAF GARDENS MUTHAFUCKA!

*ahem*

So yes, that's where I am. I'm loving it here. Every other time I have come to TO in the past few years, it's been at the other end of downtown, which is packed with consumer-minded mean people (I'm talking Bloor and Spadina here).

But in the Village . . .

People smile here. They tell you that you're beautiful and don't want to get into your pants. If you sing in the street they smile indulgently and look away so you don't get embarrassed.

So I would totally live here if god forbid I had to move to this godforsaken city.

*sigh*

I had a really fun day today. We've been silly since we got up. Went for breakfast and hilarity ensued. Then booked it out to the Ontario Science Centre to see the Bodyworks 2 exhibit. AWESOME. Then back. Then dinner at this place that was good and had springrolls. Then drinking lots and lots of wine and more giggles with the three of us, then joined by Chel's friend Gui. Then to this wicked bar called Zippers. Of course it's a gay bar.

I danced with lots of gay women and gay men. And Greg. But we all know about Greg. It was a lot of fun, and I didn't want to leave. I made some new friends, who told me I looked like Lindsay Lohan (I have her, Megan Follows, Geena Davis, Andie McDowell, Julia Stiles, and someone else, on my list of people I apparently look like) and made me promise to return with my boobs. Done and done. I haven't had so much fun dancing ever. People touched my ass but only because they thought it was nice and not because they wanted to see it sans jeans. And there was so much space to move, not some piecemeal place with dumbass chicks who get bitchy if you invade their personal domain. Pish.

So it's been a slice, and the evening is not over yet. Wish me luck!

nationalism

If you were getting edgy about Hasek's status (he suffered another injury, possibly to his groin, in yesterday's 4-1 win over Germany, I've just heard over the radio (and can't confirm over the internet) that he's due for an MRI today, and that they're pretty sure the injury is "not as bad" as they'd originally thought. So he may be gone for the Olympics, but hopefully he'll be back in time for the rest of the regular season.

I feel really guilty for not being that concerned that he's out for the Czechs, but right now he's the enemy, and the Czechs actually had a chance to beat us this year with him in nets. Oh, divided loyalties! It's like how once a year, either for the Olympics or for the World Championships, I fall in love with Martin Brodeur, and forget that he's the dude who screwed Ottawa out of the cup back in 2003. *sigh*

anthrobattle

It is surprising to note that very little has been written about the nature of battle. Encylopedias mention only conflicts of historical significance and their impacts, but do not venture to consider the metaphysics of battle. Similarly, tomes chronicling great battles in history or detailing military strategy for past and future clashes and the art of war fail to analyze the nature of battle or the general reasons behind it in the first place.

As Maurice Keen said of chivalry, "[it] is an evocative word, conjuring up images in the mind -- of the knight fully armed, perhaps with the crusaders' red cross sewn upon his surcoat; of martial adventures in strange lands; of castles with tall towers and of the fair women who dwelt in them. It is also, for that very reason, a word elusive of definition" (1984:1).

Perhaps, then, like chivalry, battle is an idea so suffused with meaning that a definition is impossible, and that is why a concrete explanation fo what battle means is so hard to find. Perhaps it would be easier to examine what words and images the thought of battle evokes.

Stories, legends, films, pictures, and even collective memories have contributed much to the image of battle that I'm sure most westerners carry around with them today: set in a desert, an open field, the jungles of Vietnam, or even far-off planets, battles seem to carry the same weight, no matter how big or how small, or even where they are situated. There is a smell of gun smoke and fire and decay, or a sound of metal on metal and screaming and the smell of blood. It is dirty and noisy and confusing and disorganized and terrifying. Modern war, with its rules of engagement and government protocol, its opposing forces sitting comfortably thousands of kilometers back from harm's way, is positively sterile by comparison. The battle we carry with us in our minds is immediate and personal, whereas the methods practiced today are detached and anonymous. Battle is won and lost by those who fight it, not by those behind the desk or by the threat of someone in front of a red button buried in the mountains of Colorado.

Battle's result is determined by the actions of those directly involved in it, those who are engaged in armed one-on-one combat with their foe. The one who demonstrates the most skill, dexterity, and strength of character will be the victor, even if it is only a moral victory. The one who does not display physical, mental, or moral strength will be vanquished. With victory comes status, honor, and power, and with defeat comes poverty and shame. Honor, and its associated masculinity and virility, can be won or lost in the course of a battle, which can incorporate anything from a barroom brawl to a duel to a full-out war.

An honorable and masculine man (because women fighters do not figure prominently in the literature) will do what it takes to defend his honor, even if it costs him his life. In deference to this, most battles are fought in accordance with a code of honor that ensures both opponents have a fair fighting chance.

When people watched battles of yor, be they mock battles or tournaments or deadly duels, what did they think and feel? Did they marvel at the power one opponent had over the other, with the ability to wound, maim, or kill, in a split second? Did they empathize with the fear and anger and instinct for self-preservation that the combatants themselves were certainly feeling? When it was over, did they feel relieved? Was watching someone else's power over life and death come to a conclusion cathartic?

Perhaps that is why ritual battles exist today. The magnitude of real war is too far off and too disconnected for anyone to feel anything by horror for the atrocities those involved have committed. Commencing a battle on a small scale seems to ensure that some measure of control remains on the part of the spectator and the participants. Setting up a system of rules for the battles, similar to the codes of conduct that existed before, helps enforce that sense of control.

Perhaps it is the nostalgic in all of us that insists on recreating an aspect of violence and conflict that we as a species have supposedly outgrown. Maybe it is a desire for times that were simpler and all problems could be solved with a battle between those who were directly involved in the contest, and not innocents who happened to get in the way. A time when honor actually meant something and people were not so constrained with the politics of daily existence that the individual could not do absolutely anything that he set his mind to. A time when there actually was such a thing as the individual, instead of the modern-day, one-among-many, number-but-no-name mentality in which the majority of westerners exist. When battle was still something that was real and tangible, and so was actually able to accomplish something.

I see, more than I did before, how professional sports are the ritual battles, the visits to the Coliseum, of the modern western individual. They are legends played out by real people, enabling the spectator to identify with the players and feel, for once, like who he is really matters, even if only for the duration of the game. It goes back to my reading of Pierre Bourdieu, and whis writings on involvement and illusio, and how those who are truly invested in the game believe without a doubt that they have an impact on the result, and will do anything within their capacity to keep the game going. It ties in to my readings for one of my tutorials about fandom and collective action, where contests between two teams become metaphors for full-scale national uprisings and politico-religious upheaval.

And hockey, hockey is the metaphor taken to the existential. Santized and utterly smooth, sealed in glass and ice and painted in white, blue, read, and black, hockey is so abstract as to be wholly disconnected from the dirt and grit of the battles of long ago. But I think it is more a reflection of our society's changing tastes and our new desire for all that is clean and tidy that has made hockey what it is.

Conversely, of the professional sports played today, hockey still retains all the elements of brutality that can be seen on the battlefield -- if anything, hockey has become even more violent, which I see as a sign that, despite its clean lines and shiny exterior, it represents a stronger desire in today's society to become more in touch with individualism and bodily experience. Strapped into plastic armor and equipped with plastic sticks (a reflection of the current obsession with synthetics?), hockey players sail around the ice on the only real blades they are allowed as they try as hard as they can to kill each other without breaking the codes of honor. Broken bones, concussions, and lacerations are all acceptable if they fall within the rules. Infractions are dealth with by engaging in the hockey player's duel: the fist fight. In the fight, each player tries his hardest to win the fight without actually doing any serious harm to his opponent. Mutual respect is accorded among those men who fight by the rules. These are the real men. They have retained that aspect of honor and masculinity that today's men have lost.

luvz

<3

xox

.

what just happened here?

After a day of feeling like my neck was going to fall off (the glands were so swollen it hurt to move), I went to bed at 700, fell asleep at 730, and woke up this morning with no fever and feeling more or less refreshed, ready to face an awful day with the Wayner.

Who just called me into his office ten minutes ago and told me that he's giving me a raise.

*pauses to watch Hell freeze over*

It's to $14/h, which is a dollar less than I'd asked for back in May, but it's something. And, of course, because he can't be all nice all the time, he hinted that I might take a cut in the summer, depending on how much work there was for me to do. Or he meant that I might take a cut if I work more. I'm not sure I understand him all the time.

But my point is, this payday (hopefully!), I will have a few extra dollars on the cheque. Which is good, because I really need the money right now.

*shivers*

It's definitely cold in here.

in need of zzzzzz

*YAWN*

I am not sleeping well recently. Must be the stress. In any case, I plan to keep myself heavily sedated this weekend to catch up on my Zs. Plus, the Pie will likely stay over, and I always sleep better when he's around.

The game last night SUCKED. I've never been to such a badly-called game. The most heinous crimes were committed by Atlanta with not so much as a peep from the refs, but every tiny infraction was called against Ottawa. And the puck! It looked like a hot potato, bouncing around and not sticking to anyone's puck. At least Hossa didn't score. I only wanted him to score if we won. Which we didn't.

And then I lost my mitten. Again. But there was a mad-cap rescue and all is well.

Two confusing things have happened in recent history. The first is that I keep seeing people who remind me of or who look like an old friend of mine. Except I know that it's not her because she died a couple of years ago. It's just weird. It's not like I've been thinking about her a lot lately or anything. Just weird.

The second is MY PANTS. Don't laugh. This is very serious. I put on this pair of navy blue cords this morning that I bought last August. I was going to wear them to my cousin's wedding if the weather wasn't fine. They were $20 at Winner's, and the only problem with them was that they fit very high on my waist. But they were $20, so I bought them. The thing is, I *thought* when I bought them that they were more snug around my legs, but when I put them on this morning (and I've only worn them maybe once, and washed them only once), they were so baggy I could grab a fistful of fabric behind my legs. WEIRD.

Chel, you were there. Do you remember how they fit before? It's weird.

Aaand . . . I think I had more to say but I've forgotten what it was. So . . . sleeeeeepy . . . zzzzzzzzz

technology and poetry all rolled into one

I have renamed my iPod a "Fucking Piece of Trash" because I've wasted the entire morning trying to do something so simple as transfer music onto it. The manual said to follow the onscreen instructions. However, as I don't have USB 2.0, there were no instructions, because it didn't register the damned thing as being on in the first place. I hate it and I hope its eternal soul is damned into hell. Fucking technology.

And here I am, supposed to be heading off to school so I could get there a little early, but NO, I'm waiting for the fucking thing to update.

Fucking technology.

Later, 9:30 PM

Slightly more cheerful after an energetic walk to school and a successful meeting with my flirty student, who didn't flirt with me, and then forgot his own name (he recently changed it). I listened to Etta James and Guster on the damned piece of trash and all was well. Now iTunes is doing unmentionable things to my computer, but I'll just let it get it on.

I'm about five pages back from being finished volume five of my handwritten "journal." I haven't written so much in this one, only about every two weeks or so, so it has taken a while for it to be completed. I guess I don't have a lot of time/creative energy anymore that I need to use up.

Anyway, as happens every time I near the end of a volume, I review my collection to see which volume I will choose next. It's a tough choice, because it's a book I will haul all over the continent for the next year or so, so I have to make sure it will suit me for that entire length of time. I still haven't decided.

And, as also happens as I reach the end of the volume, I take a skim through the previous volumes and see how the years have turned out and how drastically I've changed since 2000 (when I started writing in a book). It's always entertaining to read about my teen angst over some high school boy who was out of my league or a high school project I never thought I could finish. PAH! I knew NOTHING.

And, I've been reading about the first few weeks of my dalliance with the Pie, and how freaked out I was about the suddenness of the attraction and how angry I was at a certain other person who was involved. And everything. And that wasn't too long ago.

And, I've been reading my old poetry. Yes, I used to fancy myself a wordsmith. I still toy with verses every once in a while, but I don't really have any special skills with them. I know the technicalities and I have a vocabulary, but it's POETRY. So very gay.

Anyway, I ran into something I wrote on 25 April 2002, at the tender age of twenty years. It's not bad. It's not good, but it's not bad. So I shall subject you to it, as it's not as depressing or silly as some other things I have lying around. Here it is:

"After the tone"

I never got the message
when you called to say you cared.
For an ugly twist of freakish fate,
I thought you were just scared.
If only I'd've read it,
on the table in the hall,
the tiny scrap of paper that
said you loved me after all.
I'd've kept it close forever
as I moved on through my life;
but instead of being enemies,
I'd be your loving wife.
I'd've told you that I loved you
every day and every night,
and when our lives were over,
I'd've died, holding you tight.
But I never got the message
when you called to say you cared,
for an ugly twist of freakish fate
I thought you were just scared.
I wonder now what happened,
what kept me from finding you:
was it jealousy, or forgetfulness,
or the winter wind that blew? [yes, I know that's rhyme searching, but it makes sense if you think of a piece of paper blowing away]
For that tiny scrap of paper
on which you'd poured out your heart
wasn't there, upon the table,
not in whole, and not in part.
So I never got your message,
when you called to say you cared.
For an ugly twist of freakish fate,
I thought you were just scared.
No, I never got your message.
I never heard your call,
and I doubt you ever wrote down [I know, I know, HE'D be leaving the message. someone else would write it down -- poetic license, folks]
that you loved me, after all.
I am sending you a message,
just to say that I still care,
even if by twisted fate your note
was never even there.
I just called to leave a message,
just to say that I love you,
and I hope I'll get a message
saying that you love me, too.
If I never get an answer,
if I never hear your call,
then I'll know you never loved me,
never loved me, after all.
So now I cross my fingers,
I close my eyes and start to pray,
as the phone rings - the machine is on
- and I heard you start to say:
"You know, I got your message.
I never knew you really cared.
If I had known, I'd've told you,
but inside I was just scared.
I hope we can start over,
and I know that we can try,
but I'm just glad that you called me,
though I never will know why.
See, some years ago, I called you,
on my sleeve my open heart.
I never left a message.
I had torn it all apart."
As you hang up, I am happy.
We can make a brand new start.
Though you never left a message,
I had read you in my heart.

Yep, that's it. Cheesy, wouldn't you say? I shoulda saved it for Valentine's Day, but I bet you five bucks I can find something far more entertaining for then. Stay tuned.

financial planning

I have a feeling this is going to be a long week. I'm working feverishly on that crazy religious freak file that I mentioned earlier. This thing is generating more paperwork than your average City of Ottawa department. I'm also working a full day tomorrow to make up for going to see Marian Hossa on Thursday. I'm very excited.

I actually got a lot of work done this weekend, school-wise. I'm taking Reading Week off work so that I can work on my papers. My parents are going to Florida on Friday, for three weeks, so this should mean I will be interruption-free. Unless the Pie stays over and harasses me. But at least I can kick him out occasionally. Nothing is worse than your parents who see you in a moment of idleness after you've been studying for two hours, saying, "oh, you're not busy, right? I need you to do [x amount of chores]." Good times.

Things are going to be very busy this month leading up to my birthday. I want to get a fuckton of work done so I can focus on my liasing with the Ottawa Senators. And, despite a trip to Toronto, I'm trying to make myself debt-free by the end of it. I have some people owing me some money, so that will help, and I'm going to try really hard not to spend too much money. I already have new clothes, a new stereo, and a new mp3 player. What else do I need? Nothing. I'm trying to save up to get myself the laptop (Mac Powerbook) that I need for next term when I'm away from home a lot. I can afford it now, but I want to save that money for other things. So I figure I can save now and buy it, with all the bits I want to go with it, some time at the end of June 2006.

At least, that is the plan.

iPee freely

So, I finally caved yesterday and bought an iPod Nano. Yes, I know. *slaps self*

But first I had to return my old mp3 player. Andy threw a stink in Futureshop because I said I never wanted to go there again. They wouldn't give me a refund, but they gave me store credit (which I don't get, as they seem to be like the same thing to me). So I gave it to Andy and he's going to use it. Then we went next door to BestBuy (yes, I know it's the same company, but they're way nicer there) and I got an opened-box 4GB for $269. Then I had to buy a warranty. And a case. And an adaptor (it is thought that it is my computer that breaks the little buggers, so I now have to plug it into the wall).

And then I left it in Andy's car. So now I have nothing.

I also had a witty anecdote for you that came to me over breakfast. But I lost it.

I did have some weird dreams last night, courtesy of the Moxie's Enchilada (heaven plus cheese). Most of them centred around my discussion groups. I couldn't find the damned microphone because there were too many cupboards, and so I couldn't get my students to listen to me. I actually woke up in the middle of the night last night muttering, "attention deficit."

That's all I got.