So here's something you might not know about me, because in kind of a weird way it's not really me at all, but a...meta-me. Or better, Optimal-Me (©). I have certain expectations about my likes and dislikes, my personality traits, my modes of operation that, when taken all together, basically amount to an entirely different person who has absolutely nothing to do with what I am really like. This is sometimes depressing; it is also probably extremely common. Optimal-Me is mysterious, cradling a deep and unreachable pain in her eyes. Optimal-Me sits in dark restaurant corners, wreathed in smoke (Optimal-Me will not be defeated by something as mundane as lung cancer, but rather will probably have a nasty run-in with either an Italian assassin or a majestic polar bear). Optimal-Me can afford to buy organic and free-range food, but mostly survives on a haunted diet of champagne and oysters that enables her to retain optimal sveltness. Optimal-Me knows kung-fu, but would prefer to kill with a glance.
Where I'm going with this is that Optimal-Me is also a huge opera fan. Unfortunately, Current-Me has to try really, really hard to sit through even the first act of a performance without fidgeting so much that I knee the head of the poor soul in front of me. I keep trying, recognizing that an appreciation of opera is probably more within my grasp than that terribly romantic sadness I so wish to exude, and so Saturday night's outing to Scottish Opera's Rigoletto was, I expected, to be yet another in a line of Things That I Do Because They Are Good For Me.
But it totally wasn't!! Well, I mean, it was, but I enjoyed it, too! That almost never happens, ever! I would love to take this as a sign of growth/the gradual emergence of Optimal-Me, but I suppose I should give some credit to the Scottish Opera, which did an amazing job. The staging was brilliant, a modernization that actually seemed to have some sense of reason and meaning behind it--when the second act opened with mannequin limbs scattered all over the stage, I understood why those were there. The set was stripped-down, primary-colored and completely innovative. There was this recurring prop of a row of doors that was so effective in getting across the atmosphere of poisonous rumor-mongering that had such tragic (opera!) results.
I suppose Verdi should get some credit, too, since he wrote the thing. Aside from the (in)famous La Donna e Mobile, I wasn't familiar with any of the music. Here are the Three Tenors doing La Donna because, you know, fun.
But it was all so beautiful...and so playful, which I really appreciated, since the entirety of the story is about a betrayal that ends in the accidental murder/martyrific sacrifice of the title character's sainted daughter, Gilda. Bummer.
Also, and I hesitate to admit this, because Optimal-Me would be horrified, but part of the reason I enjoyed this performance maaaaaaay have been because the soprano singing the doomed daughter started spontaneously bleeding halfway through her first aria...fun! I have the eyesight of a ninety-year-old naked mole rat, so it took me a little while to figure it out, but all of a sudden even I was aware of the spreading red stain engulfing the poor girl's sock. I think everyone in the audience thought that our Gilda had been visited by good old Aunt Flo, until she walked across the stage and we could see the PUDDLE she left behind. At that point, the entire auditorium was just waiting for her to pass out mid-vibratto. But she managed to finish, and during the intermission we were informed that she had somehow badly cut her leg just before making her first entrance, and had bravely elected to go on with the show.
AN OPERA WITH REAL BLOOD CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? I WONDER IF THERE WILL BE GUTS AND STUFF AT MY NEXT ONE??!?!
Optimal-Me despises the vulgar obsession with gore, but is more than capable of spilling some, herself. Good day to you, sirrah.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Pop quiz
The tone of this little experiment has become decidedly unscholarly. I am here to learn, dammit, and if I'm forced to do so, the rest of my readers shall likewise be educated. Therefore, a one question pop quiz:
What do you get when you combine a recent expensive trip to Paris with a long procrastinated dissertation?
Give up? So have I. The answer is: not very much. As in, I can no longer afford to do anything other than sit in my room and read 18th-century newspapers online. Which is, coincidentally, a very disconcerting experience--there you are, working your way through scanned page after scanned pages, images appearing in seconds of century-old hand-set lines of type. It feels incredibly inauthentic, and part of me wonders if I'm breaking the rules somehow...is it possible to base a research project around newspapers that you've never held? Do they still count as primary sources if I log into them the same way I do my Facebook account? It's super convenient, but also a bit off-putting. It feels like cheating, to propose an ability to enter into the Hanoverian mindset through an internet browser.
Still, work does continue apace, now that I can't even afford a latte, let alone any activity that might drag me away from the computer for more than 20 minutes. That's not entirely true...I just have to be more discerning about what I'm dropping mah monies on. Tonight, for instance, I'm going to the opera, to see Rigoletto, which was the first opera I ever learned about; I've been waiting to see it since the fifth grade. And I do make an effort to get out of my pajamas for at least a couple hours a day. Most days. Generally.
Because, ye gods, academics in the frenzy of research are disgusting. Take me, for instance (you won't want to). I wake up and eat breakfast while scrolling through pages and pages of newspapers. I brush crumbs onto the floor. I read all morning and into lunch, which is also eaten in front of the computer. I bite my nails. I pick at my cuticles. I twirl my hair. As my body starts to protest at being forced to sit for so long, I begin to unconsciously fidget, shifting my weight back and forth, craning my head from side to side, swinging my chair to the left, then the the right, anchoring myself on my mousepad. Then I start to hum. Then I start to tunelessly sing whatever random lyrics have been caught in my head, in a breathy little half-voice. I'm usually not even aware that I'm doing this until I type the lyric into whatever notes I happen to be taking: "Interesting use of coalition as sign of corruption in the sky with diamonds." Sometimes I don't even notice then. Finally, about four or 5pm, I look up from the screen, neck muscles creaking, eyes struggling to focus in a middle distance. I stand up, brushing the rest of lunch off of my lap. I consider brushing my teeth. I don't consider taking a shower.
And I'm one of the lucky ones...I can engage in this lunatic, soial reject behavior while safely hidden away in my room. There are people who need to go out in public to do their research. I would probably get myself banned.
So that's the glamorous life of the academic. It's all worth it, though, because someday I'll be able to wear a jacket with elbow patches and only look like a pompous ass, instead of an unqualified poser. Ah, life goals.
What do you get when you combine a recent expensive trip to Paris with a long procrastinated dissertation?
Give up? So have I. The answer is: not very much. As in, I can no longer afford to do anything other than sit in my room and read 18th-century newspapers online. Which is, coincidentally, a very disconcerting experience--there you are, working your way through scanned page after scanned pages, images appearing in seconds of century-old hand-set lines of type. It feels incredibly inauthentic, and part of me wonders if I'm breaking the rules somehow...is it possible to base a research project around newspapers that you've never held? Do they still count as primary sources if I log into them the same way I do my Facebook account? It's super convenient, but also a bit off-putting. It feels like cheating, to propose an ability to enter into the Hanoverian mindset through an internet browser.
Still, work does continue apace, now that I can't even afford a latte, let alone any activity that might drag me away from the computer for more than 20 minutes. That's not entirely true...I just have to be more discerning about what I'm dropping mah monies on. Tonight, for instance, I'm going to the opera, to see Rigoletto, which was the first opera I ever learned about; I've been waiting to see it since the fifth grade. And I do make an effort to get out of my pajamas for at least a couple hours a day. Most days. Generally.
Because, ye gods, academics in the frenzy of research are disgusting. Take me, for instance (you won't want to). I wake up and eat breakfast while scrolling through pages and pages of newspapers. I brush crumbs onto the floor. I read all morning and into lunch, which is also eaten in front of the computer. I bite my nails. I pick at my cuticles. I twirl my hair. As my body starts to protest at being forced to sit for so long, I begin to unconsciously fidget, shifting my weight back and forth, craning my head from side to side, swinging my chair to the left, then the the right, anchoring myself on my mousepad. Then I start to hum. Then I start to tunelessly sing whatever random lyrics have been caught in my head, in a breathy little half-voice. I'm usually not even aware that I'm doing this until I type the lyric into whatever notes I happen to be taking: "Interesting use of coalition as sign of corruption in the sky with diamonds." Sometimes I don't even notice then. Finally, about four or 5pm, I look up from the screen, neck muscles creaking, eyes struggling to focus in a middle distance. I stand up, brushing the rest of lunch off of my lap. I consider brushing my teeth. I don't consider taking a shower.
And I'm one of the lucky ones...I can engage in this lunatic, soial reject behavior while safely hidden away in my room. There are people who need to go out in public to do their research. I would probably get myself banned.
So that's the glamorous life of the academic. It's all worth it, though, because someday I'll be able to wear a jacket with elbow patches and only look like a pompous ass, instead of an unqualified poser. Ah, life goals.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Paris en rose
Ah, I love Paris in the springtime. This was my second trip to the city of lovers (boy howdy), at almost exactly the same time as my first visit four years ago. Before the first, I had just turned 21, an achievement rather deflated by the fact that the legal drinking age in Europe is basically two seconds after the obstetrician clears your throat of placenta. This time, I turned 25 in the gardens of Claud Monet and celebrated with a quiet bottle of rosé in the French countryside.
Aside from the timing, things were pretty different this time around. I saw almost none of the typical sights--the Eiffel Tower was not climbed, the Louvre (and its line) was bypassed with a shudder, red said "stop" at the Moulin Rouge. So what, I hear you asking, did you do all week?
The short answer is, I went native.
Cafés, cafés, cafés...Paris is simply covered in places to sit, drink and watch the world go by. So sit is what we did, with glasses of vin or cups of chocolat depending on the time of day, watching people walk by and judging their nationalities based on their shoes. In between cafés, we walked for, literally, miles, averaging about eleven miles a day of Parisian sidewalks and quais. Breakfast was croissants, lunch baguettes, dinner crêpes salées or steak frites or, a little less traditionally, pitas grecs in the Latin Quarter. Once in Belgium, we walked less and drank more, ordering beers from abbeys founded centuries before. We sat along canals and read along the Seine. We went to sleep early in hotels, hostels and bed and breakfasts. C'est la vie.
I know people who don't like to go back to anywhere they've already been. I can understand this impulse, a need to see everything new--to see everything--but I don't share it. I like revisiting places; it seems to give me the best indication of how I've changed through the years (this is the less infuriating explanation for my desire to watch the same movies and read the same books over and over again, instead of trying anything new). Friends and family have been asking how it feels to be 25, and while I don't feel any different to myself, Paris felt different to me, and so I know I've changed.
Very little funds left now for travelling--a short jaunt to Copenhagen planned for June, maybe a mini-break in the Scottish countryside in July. And then, back home to les Etats-Unis and the one thing I've missed while studying abroad: nacho cheese.
Au revoir, mes amies!
Aside from the timing, things were pretty different this time around. I saw almost none of the typical sights--the Eiffel Tower was not climbed, the Louvre (and its line) was bypassed with a shudder, red said "stop" at the Moulin Rouge. So what, I hear you asking, did you do all week?
The short answer is, I went native.
Cafés, cafés, cafés...Paris is simply covered in places to sit, drink and watch the world go by. So sit is what we did, with glasses of vin or cups of chocolat depending on the time of day, watching people walk by and judging their nationalities based on their shoes. In between cafés, we walked for, literally, miles, averaging about eleven miles a day of Parisian sidewalks and quais. Breakfast was croissants, lunch baguettes, dinner crêpes salées or steak frites or, a little less traditionally, pitas grecs in the Latin Quarter. Once in Belgium, we walked less and drank more, ordering beers from abbeys founded centuries before. We sat along canals and read along the Seine. We went to sleep early in hotels, hostels and bed and breakfasts. C'est la vie.
I know people who don't like to go back to anywhere they've already been. I can understand this impulse, a need to see everything new--to see everything--but I don't share it. I like revisiting places; it seems to give me the best indication of how I've changed through the years (this is the less infuriating explanation for my desire to watch the same movies and read the same books over and over again, instead of trying anything new). Friends and family have been asking how it feels to be 25, and while I don't feel any different to myself, Paris felt different to me, and so I know I've changed.
Very little funds left now for travelling--a short jaunt to Copenhagen planned for June, maybe a mini-break in the Scottish countryside in July. And then, back home to les Etats-Unis and the one thing I've missed while studying abroad: nacho cheese.
Au revoir, mes amies!
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Hello there, lovelies
Welcome back, me! Writing that made me feel a little pathetic, welcoming myself back to Scotland, like the time I worked in a bakery and a woman came in to order a birthday cake for herself. Anyway. I'm back from France and I'm sure all of you are very excited to hear about my trip (Croissants. Croissants and wine) but here's the thing--Eurovision happened while I was gone.
Eurovision. This strange thing that I've always heard about, pictures of massive pyrotechnic shows and seven-foot-tall Norwegians in death metal gear singing songs about how, when you are worshipping Satan, it's nice to stop and smell the roses drenched in the blood of innocents.
Seriously. How could you not want to know what that's about. And this is my chance! The one time I will ever see the performances, hear songs expressing heartfelt love of mankind and country in semi-English lyrics (they use a lot of uhuhs and open pronunciation).
So what I'm saying is, France will have to wait because I have three hours of extremely high-production-value variety show to watch. Here are some of the acts I've seen so far. Seizure warnings to date: three.
UPDATE: And the winner is...Azerbaijan? Okay.
Eurovision. This strange thing that I've always heard about, pictures of massive pyrotechnic shows and seven-foot-tall Norwegians in death metal gear singing songs about how, when you are worshipping Satan, it's nice to stop and smell the roses drenched in the blood of innocents.
 |
| To be fair, this is Albania. I think. Nice commitment, guys. |
Seriously. How could you not want to know what that's about. And this is my chance! The one time I will ever see the performances, hear songs expressing heartfelt love of mankind and country in semi-English lyrics (they use a lot of uhuhs and open pronunciation).
So what I'm saying is, France will have to wait because I have three hours of extremely high-production-value variety show to watch. Here are some of the acts I've seen so far. Seizure warnings to date: three.
 |
| Blue, from Great Britain--is it wrong that I wish Billy Mack was representing us? |
 |
| The Moldovan entry. Do yourself a favor and never watch their performance. |
 |
| AHHAAAAAAA, what?! Jedward, from Ireland. |
UPDATE: And the winner is...Azerbaijan? Okay.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Gonna go hang with the French for a while, you know, eat some brie
Chers,
I just wanted to let everyone know that I won't be posting for the next week, because I'll be travelling. I mean, it's not like anyone would notice that, but I just thought I'd let my two loyal readers in Khazackstan know so that they don't worry about me. Even though no one else will. God, sometimes I think I could die in my room and no one would find me until the smell of my corpse overpowered the smell of the mold growing in the walls. Why? Whyyyyyyyy--
Ahem. Let's try this again.
Chers,
I am going to France tomorrow! Since I will be appropriately taking advantage of every cultural opportunity on offer, I won't be posting until I get back, but then I will have some great pictures of my week in the City of Lights! I am really excited to go back to Paris--the first time I went, it was also my first time abroad, ever, and I was terrified to do anything wrong. Like speak. Or go outside. But this time around, I've already spent seven months making an ass out of myself in a francophilic European society, and I have learned a very important mantra to be used during times of cultural stress and confusion. Find your center and repeat after me:
"All y'all can just go fuck yourselves."
See? Don't you feel calmer already?
Also, the girl I'm travelling with is fluent in French, which means I get to just hang back and enjoy the ride/wine she will order for us. Yay! I'm looking forward to picnics in the gardens, walks along the Seine, a birthday celebration under the Eiffel Tower, and an extra-special side trip to Belgium, the land of chocloate, beer and neglected 18th century revolutions. Ça ira!
So that's the sitch, folks. I'll be back next Tuesday with stories to tell and pictures to share.
A tout a l'heure!
I just wanted to let everyone know that I won't be posting for the next week, because I'll be travelling. I mean, it's not like anyone would notice that, but I just thought I'd let my two loyal readers in Khazackstan know so that they don't worry about me. Even though no one else will. God, sometimes I think I could die in my room and no one would find me until the smell of my corpse overpowered the smell of the mold growing in the walls. Why? Whyyyyyyyy--
Ahem. Let's try this again.
Chers,
I am going to France tomorrow! Since I will be appropriately taking advantage of every cultural opportunity on offer, I won't be posting until I get back, but then I will have some great pictures of my week in the City of Lights! I am really excited to go back to Paris--the first time I went, it was also my first time abroad, ever, and I was terrified to do anything wrong. Like speak. Or go outside. But this time around, I've already spent seven months making an ass out of myself in a francophilic European society, and I have learned a very important mantra to be used during times of cultural stress and confusion. Find your center and repeat after me:
"All y'all can just go fuck yourselves."
See? Don't you feel calmer already?
Also, the girl I'm travelling with is fluent in French, which means I get to just hang back and enjoy the ride/wine she will order for us. Yay! I'm looking forward to picnics in the gardens, walks along the Seine, a birthday celebration under the Eiffel Tower, and an extra-special side trip to Belgium, the land of chocloate, beer and neglected 18th century revolutions. Ça ira!
So that's the sitch, folks. I'll be back next Tuesday with stories to tell and pictures to share.
A tout a l'heure!
Friday, May 6, 2011
Olé!
Happy belated Cinco de Mayo, everyone! I am so excited to be able to focus my eyes again.
So, I am going to ask you all not to judge me and my evening, when I tell you that this photo of my friend owning the margarita pitcher is honestly the only one I have from the entire night:
It actually wasn't as bad as all that, if for no other reason that us Americans had to spend so long explaining the concept of Cinco de Mayo to our Caledonian amigos that there literally wasn't any time left for drinking. Le sigh, Scotland, it isn't difficult. Every fifth of May, all of America's young and dissolute residents get together to drink copious amounts of tequila and eat nachos, and justify the whole thing by saying it's the Mexican day of Independance. It isn't. And when I say "Americans," I mean us guys in the middle. Sometimes Canada.
Anyway, like Red Nose Day, it seems that some things just don't translate transatlantically. Perhaps I should let this (NSFW) educational video do the 'splainin (yeah, that's Cuban. I know).
Hey, at least it's not Speedy Gonzales. Feliz Tequila, everyone!
So, I am going to ask you all not to judge me and my evening, when I tell you that this photo of my friend owning the margarita pitcher is honestly the only one I have from the entire night:
 |
| Isn't she lovely? |
It actually wasn't as bad as all that, if for no other reason that us Americans had to spend so long explaining the concept of Cinco de Mayo to our Caledonian amigos that there literally wasn't any time left for drinking. Le sigh, Scotland, it isn't difficult. Every fifth of May, all of America's young and dissolute residents get together to drink copious amounts of tequila and eat nachos, and justify the whole thing by saying it's the Mexican day of Independance. It isn't. And when I say "Americans," I mean us guys in the middle. Sometimes Canada.
Anyway, like Red Nose Day, it seems that some things just don't translate transatlantically. Perhaps I should let this (NSFW) educational video do the 'splainin (yeah, that's Cuban. I know).
Hey, at least it's not Speedy Gonzales. Feliz Tequila, everyone!
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
You know what's fun? When towns get founded by the stolen remains of a martyred Christian
Right, so, time flies when you are reading 18th century newspaper articles at a rate of four hundred a day. Doesn't it? Please tell me the time will start to fly.
So...that's what I've been doing for the last few days. My dissertation has taken the form of a survey of newspaper and public reaction surrounding a set of treason trials in 1794 and blah blah blah social sphere blah blah Habermas bladiblah incipient bourgeois consciousness. Basically, I am reading scans of two hundred year old newspapers for four or five hours a day.
Yeah.
But I was able to have some fun before entering the seventh circle of research hell! (Also, true confession: I don't actually mind the research. That's how you can tell you are a total dork). Over the weekend a friend and I took a daytrip to St. Andrews, lately of Wills and Kate fame (they met at the university there) but also the home of the remains of the eponymous saint, as well as several very nice ruins. I took a LOT of pictures, and I will spare you the majority of those. Even though no one will spare me the newspapers. On the plus side, I no longer have any problems with that s that looks like an f. Fluent!
So yeah, St. Andrews was a fun town. I cannot imagine living there for four years.
When we got back to Edinburgh, it was just in time to head over to Beltane, the world's longest running pagan fire festival! That sounded fun and everything, but then I thought to myself, I have lived in Portland, Oregon for the last six years. I dated a fire-eater. There is nothing going on there that I haven't already seen. Had I realized that Saturday was to be my last day of joy/non-newspaper reading, I might have reconsidered.
That's it for the time being...I wish I had more interesting things to update about, but since the last few nights have seen me passed out in bed with my eyeballs soaking in a glass of alkaseltzer, I find myself coming up a bit short.
OH, but Scottish Cinco de Mayo is in a couple days! I don't really know how we are planning to safely combine those two things, but as long as we're not talking whiskey margaritas I should still be here on Friday to recap. Olé!
So...that's what I've been doing for the last few days. My dissertation has taken the form of a survey of newspaper and public reaction surrounding a set of treason trials in 1794 and blah blah blah social sphere blah blah Habermas bladiblah incipient bourgeois consciousness. Basically, I am reading scans of two hundred year old newspapers for four or five hours a day.
Yeah.
But I was able to have some fun before entering the seventh circle of research hell! (Also, true confession: I don't actually mind the research. That's how you can tell you are a total dork). Over the weekend a friend and I took a daytrip to St. Andrews, lately of Wills and Kate fame (they met at the university there) but also the home of the remains of the eponymous saint, as well as several very nice ruins. I took a LOT of pictures, and I will spare you the majority of those. Even though no one will spare me the newspapers. On the plus side, I no longer have any problems with that s that looks like an f. Fluent!
 |
| Not even a problem. But, really, of all the words to throw together... |
So yeah, St. Andrews was a fun town. I cannot imagine living there for four years.
When we got back to Edinburgh, it was just in time to head over to Beltane, the world's longest running pagan fire festival! That sounded fun and everything, but then I thought to myself, I have lived in Portland, Oregon for the last six years. I dated a fire-eater. There is nothing going on there that I haven't already seen. Had I realized that Saturday was to be my last day of joy/non-newspaper reading, I might have reconsidered.
That's it for the time being...I wish I had more interesting things to update about, but since the last few nights have seen me passed out in bed with my eyeballs soaking in a glass of alkaseltzer, I find myself coming up a bit short.
OH, but Scottish Cinco de Mayo is in a couple days! I don't really know how we are planning to safely combine those two things, but as long as we're not talking whiskey margaritas I should still be here on Friday to recap. Olé!
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