See? I Knit.

Yes, this blurry mess was the best photo I could be assed to come up with. Give me a break, I'm cramming Homer, Dostoevsky, and Wim Wenders into my already at capacity brain. I'm beginning to feel a certain affinity for my perpetually blocked bathroom sink- I plunge and plunge (or read and read, watch and watch) and yet the water (or knowledge) sits there. Unmoving. Mocking me. Saying yo mama jokes. Occasionally turning blue.

How's that for an overstretched metaphor? I bitch out of love, though. These are my last few privileged months, of having nothing more trying than lazing my way through the (phallo and Western-centric) classics. Sometimes I wish I was a member of the idle rich a century and a half ago, spending my time reading Homeric Hymns in the original Greek and collecting butterflies. Instead, I am facing my complete incompatibility with the job market. Ew.

So, I've rediscovered knitting to calm the anxiety. It also makes me feel thrifty since I'm entertaining myself while knitting through stuff in the stash. These are Monkey Socks, started years after they swept the knitting community. The yarn is Lorna's Laces in Desert Flower, also from years ago. I feel bad that I left the yarn for so long. It hasn't pooled much, and has the loveliest hand. If I ever see a healthy bank account again, I'm definitely buying more. After I finish these, and a project so long in the making I'm ashamed to post it to this blog, I'm going to do something unusual. I'm going to start a project fairly close to the date the project was first posted, and write regular status updates to encourage myself to actually finish. I can't send another sweater to the orphanage of unfinished knits. It's full up.

This Week on NOVAlicious

Gummy Mitosis!
Witness the startling elegance of nature, as found in my baggie of Maynards Juicy Squirts* Citrus. Yes, once I found the middle gummy formation, I spent precious seconds of my life arranging and photographing this delicious illustration. I think it should be included in every textbook, in its edible form.

*Dear CEO of Maynards: UNSPEAKABLE FILTH.

The Hypocrite

Well, right after I wrote about how I had avoided the Reader like a kind of celluloid plague, I... went to go see it. That very night. In my defense, it was an ambush. I had convened a few work friends for drinks, and instead of then going to the rice pudding place, Joel somehow finessed us all to the movie theater. I was trying to drown my sorrows over a middling interview, and Joel- empathetic to a fault- knew that the best way to cheer me up would be a movie about Holocaust guilt and the ambiguous quality of literature.

Or, maybe he just wanted to see lots and lots of Kate Winslet's boobies. In which case he really picked the right film. Both Joel and Polina loved the movie, while I was generally more negatively inclined. I'm not sure what Jonathan, the other textbookian, thought since he booked it home pretty quick to his beloved neutrinos (Jon is a physicist. We all have our problems.)

I would write at length about why I didn't like the movie, but since Poli, Joel and I spent a good hour in lively debate on the topic over fries, I won't. I don't think I'm as coherent without the scent of fryer grease in the air.

Oscar Guilt and the Current Film Diet

Coraline: Eerily Adorable

Before the Oscars, I decided I was going to, for the first time ever, see all of the best picture nominees before the actual ceremony. I made this plan knowing that Oscars are a crock. I like pretty dresses as much as the next person, and better still pretty dresses with pretty people in them. But I'm perfectly aware that the Oscars are just arithmetic. Regardless of merit, they are handed out to whatever best solves an algorithm of buzz, Academy guilt, star power, pretension, and Issues. Every Oscar is an honorary Oscar.

That being said, I always feel like a bit of a fraud for opining about the awards during the ceremony when I haven't bothered to see the annual Ron Howard For Your Consideration project or what Meryl Streep has been up to. This year I managed to see four of the five, before getting hung up on my utter indifference to The Reader. Does anyone else feel like they just threw it in there to make a nice five, and it was the most pedigreed of the other contenders? Holocaust, check, adapted from a novel, check, tastefully shot, check-check. No one seemed to be particularly enamoured of the film, discounting Kate Winslet's performance. These were the thoughts that went through my mind as I invariably chose food, sleep, Milk, or watching infomercials on TV over The Reader. But I know eventually the guilt will get to me and I'll rent the damn thing.

In other movie news, both new and vintage, I saw Coraline last night and rented Beat the Devil (1953). Coraline was lovely, the kind of movie parents think will be too scary for their kids, but will be the only one they'll love and remember when they're the age of their parents. The animation was beutifully down as well particularly the perfectly miniature sweaters. Although stop motion and cell animation are increasingly rare because of the flexibility and power of CGI, I think they're still better for telling certain kinds of stories, ones where wonder is tempered by fear and fragility. At least for now. And having a curious and competent female protagonist is never a bad thing, although I feel like one character was written in partially so that boys wouldn't be alienated. Still, check it out. You'll get a fetching pair of 3D goggles at least.

Beat the Devil is a fun little movie. Truman Capote did the rewrite, and it shows, as the lines and the characters have a kind of nasty cleverness to them. John Huston directed it, and it shows too. Just when you think you're smarter than the movie, it shows you up. I particularly enjoyed Jennifer Jones as a chatterbox who's either cunning or just bezerk. She gets the best line of the beginning (and of Hollywood's deeply sexist past) "Harry, we must beware of these men. They are desperate characters... Not one of them looked at my legs!"

I Love My Roommates

Two Snippets of Dialog:
Protagitron: Tragedy, Iris: Richard is going back to Markham.
Iris: Who's Christian?
Protag: RICHARD.
Iris:... Who's Richard?
Protag: Sigh.

A few minutes later:
Iris: Protagitron, you're the only constant in my life.
Protag: I thought that was Mister Claws.
Iris: But he'll die before you.
Protag:... Who, Richard?
Anthony: Laughs loudly from his room.

Yes, my acquaintance Richard is leaving. If you've stuck around this blog for awhile, he was the mysterious V I mentioned way, way back, upon whom I briefly entertained before the Q shenanigans came underfoot. Somehow we eventually became friends. But he also makes me think that some personal relationships are more complicated than simple categories, and that some have, well, layers. Even if they are only complicated on one side. Look, it's like sedimentary rock: here's the respect I have for him as a person, and there's my loyalty to him as a friend, and above that is the knowledge that's all we are. And of course, there's the fact that, even as I babble to him about Neil Gaiman's current run on Batman, I can't look at him. Because I might let my attraction become less subtextual and more textual (sexual?).

Sometimes I think I would much prefer being a stock character in a movie than someone dealing with real, dull life. The editing would be better, and the soundtrack more exciting.

I am old; I am random

The cats, caught in a rare moment of peace

So, today I finally did that 25 Things Meme that has been plaguing Facebook lately. You know, the one that's been written about in both The New York Times and the Wall Street Journal? Actually, do you know how slow on the uptake I am if the New York Times is on to something before I am? I think it was only last month that they had a columnist decrying the phenomenon of "hooking up" on campuses. Ah, that oh-so-fresh trend of people having casual sex when they're in university.

Anyway, as I was contemplating my own obsolesence, I was also having trouble coming up with twenty five random nuggets of interest. It's not that I don't have any stories, it's just that I have a limited supply of anecdotes, and since my general social strategy is to break the ice with one of them, the stable is getting a little stale. Who among my friends hasn't heard of the time I was going to applying for a job at an adult store, only to walk out with a gift certificate? I eventually came up with the required number of esoteric facts, but it was hard.

Of course, it's hard not to either try and compete with your friends for amusement, honesty, or surprise. Or come to the standard news copy conclusion that it's a little sad viral memes are required for what we used to learn slowly, through actual social interaction and discovery. But, on the other hand it's nice and efficient to be suddenly handed a Cliff's Notes version of the dreams, fears, and ice cream flavour preferences of all of your acquaintances. Now you don't have to risk crossing a border, and asking a question that's just an inch too personal. You just have to deal with the creepy guys who advertise WooMee in the sidebar.

A Bright Spot!

Good news, fellas: the McGill shenanigans have been taken care of. I might be able to graduate on time, and all I had to do was prostate almost every professor in the English department. And then fill out many forms. And, perhaps, sacrifice the blood of a newborn on the eve of the first noon.

So, my relationship with my educational institution of choice has returned from "hate" to "ambivalence." Time to dose the flames on my McGill-wear bonfire.
Q: What does it take to set a pile of 80% cotton 20% polyester on fire?
A: Seething, burning hatred. Also, a match helps.

Detective Protagitron

I'm sorry, I've slipped back into a weekly publishing schedule. Blame my abusive boyfriend, aka McGill University. And the night I was a rent-a-cop for the McGill Model UN. You see, I occasionally, out of guilt, volunteer at Walksafe. That's an outfit at McGill you can phone at night if you need to be accompanied anywhere on the island. In case you need all the safety and protection a 5'1" girl like me can offer. We also annually do "security" at the hotel where the McMun conference is happening. We act as a buffer so the Israeli Security Council doesn't order too many hookers and get the model UN banned from any hotel for life.

Well, in my dreams I hustled hookers out of the door. Actually, I spent most of the night knocking on doors and awkwardly telling rowdy types to simmer down. Oh, and the only semi-professional clothes I own are very "Lesbian at the PTA," except I lack a natural butch authority. They had me with this other guy, who was very sweet and conscientious. He would be the first to knock on any door if he heard a peep. Unfortunately, he would then just stare at them in silence. So it was up to me and my domestic partner pants to instill fear in their hearts. Check it: "Heyyyyyyyy guyyyyys.... Yeah, there's uh, a few too many people in your room, so you need to keep it down, mmmkay?" They positively wet themselves in fear. Well, at least they didn't laugh at me. They are true keeners at heart, so they would whisper an apology and then shut up.

They are horny little monkeys in the pants though. Further evidence that large gatherings of nerds descend into bacchanalias. (see: engineers) I'm just waiting for the cat-loving, comic book-reading, action-loving nerd demographic to reach critical mass so I can engage in some whoring. Unfortunately, I don't think we'll ever achieve the budget of McMun, so we can't give out free muffins to those who keep us in line.