There's a place we are, and a place we need to be.

I just had a completely wretched hour of ENG class this morning, and I'm looking forward to cramming in several days of working on a paper into a few hours, but I was briefly stopped by the awesomess that is the Something Awful Comedy Goldmine, a great feature on a long-time favorite site.

First, a quick explanation. I've always had a history of odd behavior during my sleeping hours. As an undergraduate, my roomates would write down the insane rants I would make in the middle of the night; my freshman year roomie would make them his AIM away messages. These tended to be non sequitors, funny but harmless things like: [in an angry voice]"So help me, if you call me Nancy Drew, this apple is going in your eye!"

After I moved in with the wife, she became alarmed at a series of, for lack of a better term, Night Terrors, where I would sit up and move around in the middle of the night. At first, I would just get up and walk around. For example, one night I stood up, walked into the kitchen, filled up a pot of water, then laid down in the hallway and went back to sleep.

One night, though, I sat straight up in the middle of the night, looked around, then stuck my hand in the ceiling fan (lucky for me, I hit the metal brackets in the center-so the fan wasn't damaged). My wife heard the movement (I'm not exactly stealthy, even when awake), and asked me what I was doing. I turned toward her (remember, I'm blind without glasses or contacts), said simply, "Bugs are on you." Then I balled up the comforter and threw it at the nightstand next to her (she still thinks I threw it at her head).

Then I went back to sleep.

Compare that to these other testimonials: "The Craziness You've Heard People Say In Their Sleep"

Itchy runs afoul of an Irishman...

I'm trying my best to void working on a painful paper for my Geneology of American Culture class, so I figured it was as good a time as any to post my favorite Marx quote:

The Irishman no longer knows any need now but the need to eat, and
indeed only the need to eat potatoes-and scabby potatoes at that, the
worst kind of potatoes.

Just to clarify, that's Karl, not Zeppo. And it just might be the best evidence that Socialism works.

I'm in the middle of a foolishly scheduled set of student conferences today, so I'm suffering through 25 freshmen who all want to write about obesity. Ha! Just kidding. The majority of them have no idea what they're writing about (although there are a handful who have excellent ideas, and will produce good work-hooray tiny minority of adequate students!), so I get to slowly (and Socratically) draw ideas out of them. Here's a typical conversation:

Me: What do you want to write about?

Guy: I don't know, I've got some ideas...

Me: What kind of ideas?

G: I don't know.

M: Ok, that's fine. We've got 15 minutes scheduled to talk about this. What's interesting to you?

G: Nothing

M: Nothing at all?

G: Nothing

M: So, what do you talk about with your friends?

G: I don't talk. I just sit there.

M: So what do THEY talk about, then?

G: They talk about sports, I guess.

M: What do you think about sports and what they're saying?

G: I just look at them with scorn. (this is literally what he said)

M: Fine, on a different subject then. What TV shows do you like to watch? (This usually works pretty well, plus it pushes students toward POPC and ACS theory!)

G: I don't watch any TV.

M: None at all?

G: Nope. I listen to the radio.

M: (glimmer of hope) What kind of stuff do you listen to, then?

G: FM, I guess.

M: Any specific kinds of music?

G: I guess I just listen to about 3 songs, then I turn it off.

M: You don't listen to music, you don't watch TV, you don't talk to people? What do you do all day?

G: I read...well, I don' really read much anymore...

M: THUNK!!!!! [sound of me slamming my forehead repeatedly into my desk]

The Tetrannual Valentine's Day Blizzard tradition continues...

I'm stuck in Bowling Green right now, even though the University has closed for the day. Several of the counties that I'll have to drive through to get home are still under a snow emergency, so I'm pretty much waiting until 2pm (my check-out time) to leave.

Four years ago, I flew to DC to spend the weekend with my lovely now-wife, when the entire city got shut down by a foot of snow. Luckily, I failed to plan ahead, and had exactly one change of clothes that had to last 4 days. This year, I've at least got clean underwear.

In theory, I should have got plenty of work done yesterday (I had a virtual stack of papers to edit), and the snow kept me from going anywhere. However, the HBO was showing Star Wars, Episodes II and III, as well as Serenity. So, instead of getting work done, the inner nerd kicked in. Plus I took a nap.

In honor of V-Day, I'll share this, my understanding of what my wife thinks of me:

"Folk art? That's my favorite of all the Folk mediums!"

Well, writing this post during the weekend breaks one of the primary rules of my Blogging:


(courtesy of the ISB)



As part of my plan to get absolutely nothing done this weekend, I watched Sunday night Simpsons episodes for the first time in a long while. They're still not very funny, and insulting to the heritage of golden classic episodes, but they have a few key moments.

Case in point: Lisa, upon finding out that she has no interesting family history, makes up a fake Native American tribe for a class project. At one point in her speech, she explains [I'm paraphrasing here]:

"Our extensive and legitimate records were lost years ago in a fire started by the Europeans, so it would be a grave insult if anyone questioned their validity or tried to substantiate their existence with research."

By the end of the episode, Lisa confesses to a group of Native historians that she has lied about the tribe. At this point, most of the tribal historians in attendance admit to being frauds. "I'm onlyItalian," "I'm Japanese," "I just ski a lot," and my favorite: "I'm really just two midgets in a coat." Of course, Homer then recalls that he had several Aunts and Uncles who were Native Americans after all.

Believe it or not, this whole issue has been a topic of contention in my own classes this semester, where I've encountered another member of my cohort whose focus is Native American Studies. This person, hereafter referred to as "C," claims to be a member of an indigenous tribe, and many of her contributions to class discussions reiterate this point. I say 'claims to be' because her assertion, as well as information regarding her tribe, is backed up by oral history (rather than any written record). C argues that 'her people' (a common phrase) have other ways of recording history, such as beads (I'm not kidding) and storytelling.

I call bullshit.

I have nothing against trying to understand one's own personal history, or the history of any given ethnic or social group. That's an interesting task, and I'm of the opinion that any new information can help increase our overall understanding, and that's a good thing. However, C's behavior bothers me on 2 distinct levels: 1) the attempts to validate unvalidated information by claiming the distinciton of minority/unprivileged/oppressed voice, and 2) demanding unwarranted status by (alleged) membership in said minority community.

Let's deal with the second issue first. I think the Simpsons episode does a fairly good job of presenting the danger of allowing anyone to claim membership in a given group. I'm not saying that all who claim descendency are in error, but there is certainly plenty of room for doubt. I find this especially problematic in the Academic world, where a degree of favor and bias is shown towards members of specific groups. How much easier is it to get into school/get scholarships/etc. when you check the box marked "Inuit/Aleutian Islander"? In my experience, the bias is only more pronounced as you advance in post-graduate programs. But my current complaint is the inability to verify or even define group membership. The federal government requires specific bloodline information in order to get federal benefits and reparations claims, but tribe membership is much more fluid. Honestly, what keeps me from simply claiming to be a member of Running Zack's tribe? (God, I wish I could find a picture of that) I'm sure it would help get me published, and maybe get me a job.

A more pressing issue is the need felt by many historias and cultural scholars to accept the histories of subgroups as true simply because of their origins. C, our wonderful protagonist, would argue that Native beading patterns can reliably provide objective historical accounts. Read that last bit again. She's claiming that the pattern of colored shells in a belt is equivalent (or in C's mind, MORE reliable) than "Western" written records. After all, don't European written histories favor rich white men, since they were the literate class? (apparently, Native beadmakers represented a wide range of socio-economic factors, and are not influenced at all by power and class issues - another example of the "Noble Savage" fallacy) Of course they do. That's why legitimate historians use written histories as one of many sources, alongside archeological findings and other comparable written histories.

There's no such thing Truth, as far as history is concerned. Narratives are merely privileged as true, and as such we should value non-privileged narratives even more so. As such, I announce the establishment of my own historical account, which should be valued more than any other, as it is representative of the greatest possible minority, a single being. Plus, my version of history has more ninjas.

The weather refuses my demands for a cheese sammich

My TV & Culture class got cancelled Monday evening, so not only did I get to go home early, but I didn't have to do my research topic proposal for another week. Woo-Hoo procrastination! I'm thinking maybe I should switch back to Quantitative methodology:

[WHY WON'T THE PICTURE POST, BLOGGER SPONSORED BY GOOGLE?]
(awesomeness courtesy of the geniuses at The Onion)

In other news, it's still really freaking cold outside. I know this because I had the Weather Channel on all day yesterday as background noise while I graded papers. It's the first time I ever watched it for more than a few seconds, and I've found that the channel's programming consists of pretty much the same 11 minutes replayed over and over again.

While watching, I was reminded of a great SNL skit from back when the show was still funny. Sadly, YouTube still cows to the terrifying legal staff at GE, so I can't find the exact clip, but it consisted of Tracy Morgan as "Action Weatherman," with Tracy Morgan-esque dialogue that went something like this:

Action Weatherman: "I make the weather my bitch. I see the weather, I say 'come here, bitch!' And the weather goes (in a falsetto voice) 'Yes, Sir!'"

"Then I say to the weather, 'bitch, make me a cheese sammich!' And the weather goes (in a falsetto voice) 'Yes, Sir!'

For most of high school, this is pretty much the same method we would use to make Brian Butler give us sammiches.

Take that, Snake Eyes!

According to the radio this morning, it was -20 degrees of coldness this morning. I managed to avoid any snowfall, and the inside of my little car was relatively cozy and warm. Unfortunately, I had to get out of the car twice, once to fill up my gas tank, the second time to walk from the parking lot to my office.

Now, in many ways, I've honed my body into a precision instrument for surviving cold temperatures. A diet of Hostess cupcakes and ground beef has built a solid layer of insulating body fat (which also serves as cushioning in case of blunt force trauma), and my thick pelt of back hair traps warm air close to my body (assuming that my back hair functions at all like polar bear fur). As evidence, I point to last evening, when I watched the game in my 65 F home wearing a t-shirt and gym shorts.

However, it was so freaking cold today that I lost feeling in my legs during the 2-minute walk from my car to my building. I've read about Shaolin monks who have developed kung fu techniques that allow them to draw their testicles up into their bodies for protection (since apparently the sworn enemy of a Shaolin monk is a 12-year-old bully who goes around punting people in the nads). I've never understood how that works, but this morning, I was able to (involuntarily) achieve the same result. There wasn't anyone around to kick me, since it was 6 AM, but it's good to be prepared.

(Go ahead, just TRY to kick this guy in the balls)

Quickie review of the Super Bowl: It wasn't a bad game, although I was a little surprised at just how ineffective Chicago's offense was. When you're down by 12 in the 4th quarter, and you know that no team has ever made up a 10+ point margin in Super Bowl history, and your QB has thrown several terrible passes and can't hold onto the ball to save his life...would it really have hurt to put in Brian Griese? Would anyone have criticized that move? Sure, it would have looked desperate, but consider that now, everyone's going to question Grossman the entire offseason. If you put in Griese, and he sucks hard (which is kind of expected, since he hasn't played in two years), the worst thing that could happen is the Chicago fans and media realizing that Grossman might just be the lesser of two evils.

As far as commercials go, it was another fairly lean year. All in all, I'm just thankful they didn't play the damned Rock-em-Sock-em robot truck ad, which just might be the most annoying commercial of recent memory, in competition with the "Head-On" nonsense. Does anyone think, "Well, even though my truck may draw the ire of enraged boxing robots, at least it can take a punch." Wait a minute! Robots shoot lasers! Unless the Tacoma can refract laser blasts (ablative armor used to come standard in most American sedans, but was removed in favor of side airbags - Thank You, Ralph Nader!), then it's not going to be much use once Skynet comes online.

My favorite commercial, hands down, was the Bud Light "Rock/Paper/Scissors," since it included not only "physical comedy/pain," but also had a sweet post-product one-liner: "Low Five!"

Definitely, the high point of my weekend, however, was when I bought my first ever scarf on Friday. I don't have a picture of it, but suffice to say it makes me look a lot more like Storm Shadow then my old lumberjack hat ever did:

The only difference between me and Storm Shadow is that I would never let anyone, not even Snake Eyes, kick me in the back. No way, man. I might let the dude think he's sneaking up on me, but it's just a ruse. That's how I roll.