Marc
Caught the bottom side of some sunshine today, and I said, "Hey! You look like you need a new pillow." So, that's exactly what I'm going to do - get me a new pillow. That's right.
I've actually written a few BLARGs in the past few days, but failed to post them. Overall, on a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being BLARGtastic! and 1scraping the bottom of the BLARG), I'd say they were all pretty much 2's. Pretty much self-righteous stuff about being bored, and doing homework, and cooking food. No one wants to hear about that (especially Zach, who is always in the back of my head when BLARGing - "that's so ATR, dude"). I'm sure he'll be happy to know that there's this female named Marcy in my Prose class, and I almost responded when she was called upon today. Goddamn psychological mind games. They're always fucking with me.
Anyone out there read anything by Carol de Chellis Hill? ... No? ... Well, do it. The books called Eleven-million Mile High Dancer, and it is fantastic. I got into her through a postmodern literature class that I took about a year ago (hated the class, but enjoyed a couple of the books). Ms. Hill even showed up for a guest-speaking spot. While everyone else in the class was asking her specific questions about the book of hers we were going through (entitled Henry James' Midnight Song), I decided to go a different route: "Miss Hill, what does it take out of you to write a novel like this (HJMS)? I mean, do you just wake up in the morning and start spitting it out? Or is it a taxing experience that drains you both physically and emotionally?" She looked at me - I looked at her - and she said "Writing is a terrible labor. I would've never asked to have been a writer knowing what I have to go through to do this." Don't buy HJMS. Buy EMMHD. Trust me, you won't be disappointed.
That was also the class where I successfully read Thomas Pynchon's Vineland over the course of one night, in one sitting. Ended up on the couch in the living room of our old-old aparment (the one above the bar) at 7am. Our roommate at the time, Dan, was a science teacher at Normal West High School. I hear his alarm go off three or four seperate times, when finally the door opens to reveal a slightly discombobulated version of the man. "What're you doing here?" he says to me as he waddles his way to the bathroom. Great guy, that Dan. He made wonder if his version of being a teacher in real life was anything like the versions my old high school teachers lived (ie- drinking every night of the week, going out on the weekends, napping, being in rock bands, etc.). Probably not, though.
I think we can all relate just a little.
Caught the bottom side of some sunshine today, and I said, "Hey! You look like you need a new pillow." So, that's exactly what I'm going to do - get me a new pillow. That's right.
I've actually written a few BLARGs in the past few days, but failed to post them. Overall, on a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being BLARGtastic! and 1scraping the bottom of the BLARG), I'd say they were all pretty much 2's. Pretty much self-righteous stuff about being bored, and doing homework, and cooking food. No one wants to hear about that (especially Zach, who is always in the back of my head when BLARGing - "that's so ATR, dude"). I'm sure he'll be happy to know that there's this female named Marcy in my Prose class, and I almost responded when she was called upon today. Goddamn psychological mind games. They're always fucking with me.
Anyone out there read anything by Carol de Chellis Hill? ... No? ... Well, do it. The books called Eleven-million Mile High Dancer, and it is fantastic. I got into her through a postmodern literature class that I took about a year ago (hated the class, but enjoyed a couple of the books). Ms. Hill even showed up for a guest-speaking spot. While everyone else in the class was asking her specific questions about the book of hers we were going through (entitled Henry James' Midnight Song), I decided to go a different route: "Miss Hill, what does it take out of you to write a novel like this (HJMS)? I mean, do you just wake up in the morning and start spitting it out? Or is it a taxing experience that drains you both physically and emotionally?" She looked at me - I looked at her - and she said "Writing is a terrible labor. I would've never asked to have been a writer knowing what I have to go through to do this." Don't buy HJMS. Buy EMMHD. Trust me, you won't be disappointed.
That was also the class where I successfully read Thomas Pynchon's Vineland over the course of one night, in one sitting. Ended up on the couch in the living room of our old-old aparment (the one above the bar) at 7am. Our roommate at the time, Dan, was a science teacher at Normal West High School. I hear his alarm go off three or four seperate times, when finally the door opens to reveal a slightly discombobulated version of the man. "What're you doing here?" he says to me as he waddles his way to the bathroom. Great guy, that Dan. He made wonder if his version of being a teacher in real life was anything like the versions my old high school teachers lived (ie- drinking every night of the week, going out on the weekends, napping, being in rock bands, etc.). Probably not, though.
I think we can all relate just a little.
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