Quo Vado?

You are in private when the consequences and/or responses to your behavior bring trouble.

You are in public if the consequences and/or responses to your behavior bring a whole new meaning to trouble.

Eccentricity is not, as dull people would have us believe, a form of madness. It is often a kind of innocent pride, and the man of genius and the aristocrat are frequently regarded as eccentrics because genius and aristocrat are entirely unafraid of and uninfluenced by the opinions and vagaries of the crowd.
- Edith Sitwell

They’re young. They’re irreverent. They’re sponges. They’re English.

OK, so I didn’t get something like more than half the references, but I found myself oddly amused by The History Boys. To get out of the house [1], I followed a whim [2] and headed down to the Tara to see this movie based on the play by Alan Bennett.

The story revolves around the efforts of a headmaster and three teachers to get eight rowdy, hormonal boys to Oxford or Cambridge. A good chunk of the film bounces you between the literature and history classrooms as the conversation about knowledge and the memorable presentation of knowledge plays itself out.

There is a story line involving one of the teachers routinely inappropriately touching the kids. It’s dealt with in a ‘price you pay’ kind of manner by the boys and a ‘I had a suspicion’ manner by the adults. Both of which felt real to the time period.

The performances are spot on, and correctly gaged for film. I enjoyed this movie, even though I didn’t understand all of the cultural references.

The History Boys

• Matinee or Evening Movie: Matinee
• Add to Collection: Yes
• Grade: B+

Hector: The best moments in reading are when you come across something - a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things - which you had thought special and particular to you. And now, here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out, and taken yours.

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[1]As recommended by my Professional Head Shrinker (MyPHS), I’m currently attempting to be out of the house at least three hours every day. Depression sucks.
[2]Inspired by David Edelstein honorable mention, “The History Boys made us want to talk in complete sentences…” as part of his year in films review [3].
[3]Recommended reading in Filmspotting’s Dope Sheet #31.

Patience isn’t a virtue I’ve been blessed with in abundance [1]. I don’t wait for things well. My desperate lack of patience is one of the reasons I hate when the Christmas decorations come out before Thanksgiving. I barely survive the waiting for the opening of gifts when the world shoves it at my face for a month. Even worse than the amplified gift opening jitters, is waiting in line. I want people to know what they want when it’s their turn. I want the workers to move expediently and swiftly to accommodate all of our wishes. I don’t want my feet to hurt.

So, for the love of all that is pure and noble in this world give a girl some slack when she’s snappish about having to stand at your register and CALL you to place her dinner order because you are so busy there’s no one in the front of the house.

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[1] Come to think of it, I’m not sure I have any given virtue in abundance.

… and all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even the kids. Of course, Mom’s catching her sleep before her first day of third shift, Squid’s out with the gang terrorizing my favorite resturant and I’m at the nearest pizza and grinder place with free wi-fi updating the software on Mom’s laptop. All typical day after Christams activities.

I hope all who celebrate the holiday had a good one filled with memorable family moments (that didn’t require hospitals or law enforcement) and lots of laughter.

Last night squid and I had grilled cheese. It’s been so long since I had grilled cheese that I forgot you want the pan to be hot, but not too hot. I ended up sacraficing a piece of burnt bread to the built-in trash bin. Even better than last night’s grilled cheese was this afternoons annual visit to Triangle Park. Grandma B likes eating there so Squid and I usually try to make sure we have at least one meal out with her when we’re home.

Christmas Day had it’s share of tension, but the big drama of last year was avoided. It was a near thing as I was the target of “helpfullness”. I just kept hearing Mrs. Te-has in my head reminding me that my grandmother is a little old woman in large amounts of pain and feeling fairly useless. It helped, but having to stir the pea-less version of Seven Layer Salad in the laundry sink about had me loosing it.

The number of possible people at Christmas dinner jumped from six to eleven this year. As the un-official cook, was only disappointed with the cressent rolls - those needed to cook a little while longer. Luckily for me, part of the dinner is shared in our family with Aunt Cas taking care of the potatoes and desert. We served the new traditional “Oh, my God we have to COOK it?” Ham, cheesy potatoes, Seven Layer Salad, cresent rolls, semi-steamed veggetables and dutch apple pie. Not exactly the fanciest of meals, but well enjoyed none the less. Included in the day’s activities was Mom’s beau. I don’t have a name for him yet, or much of an opinion. He survived the estrogen fest fairly well, but I’m still not sure what I think of him.

All in all it was a good holiday, and now I’m enjoying the quietness that comes so naturally at the homestead. Enjoy the remainder of the holiday season y’all!

So, late last night while trolling the upper levels of the local basic extended cable channels, I stumbled across Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. I couldn’t stop watching. I didn’t understand many of the lyrics. The story bothered my twenty-first century gender sensibilities. The dancing, however, was fantastic. The precision of the footwork was amazing and the men had amazing gymnastic skills. It fun to watch even if it did invade my dreams. Its odd to have my dreams invaded that way, especially when the dancing wasn’t included.

It is likely that I’m one of the most informally dressed professionals you’ll ever know. I live in tee shirts, rumpled polos and jeans. I only dress “formally” [1] to go to work when either I need to do laundry or I have a meeting not proceeded/followed by a site visit. Last week I discovered a third reason to dress formally - to mess with Bossman’s mind. To amuse myself last Wednesday I wore my little black dress and killer boots to work. When faced with the inevitable question about why, I shrugged and mumbled, “It’s personal.” After disappearing early Wednesday, spending half of Thursday getting my eyeballs checked out, and making a site visit Friday morning, Bossman told me that I couldn’t dress for work randomly any more.

Now I don’t have to feel bad about dressing like a kid for work and there are new weapons for mind games in the arsenol. What more could a girl want for Christmas?

[1] Dressing formally requires what LeWho refers to as my princess clothes. You know the hint of knees, ankles and toes. He doesn’t even seem to mind the ‘stomp on your face’ boots I’ve come to love.

… even if it’s somewhat useless.

So, there’s this guy who’s trying to see something about how meme’s work. Here are the great directions, participate if you choose.

1. Write a post linking to this one in which you explain the experiment. (All blogs count, be they TypePad, Blogger, MySpace, Facebook, &c.)
2. Ask your readers to do the same. Beg them. Relate sob stories about poor graduate students in desperate circumstances. Imply I’m one of them. (Do whatever you have to. If that fails, try whatever it takes.)
3. Ping Technorati.

… as seen at No Fancy Name. (Oh, JM where did you go?)

I couldn’t not go. Though my tear ducts protested every time I saw the trailer, when faced with the possibility of seeing a sneak peak this afternoon, I had to go see We Are Marshall. The presence of Matthew McConaughey always makes me leery (there’s something about what he does with his mouth that I find overly distracting), but the promotional material for this movie reached beyond McConaughey and compelled me to watch this film.

I don’t know what to say about this film. It told the story you expected it to tell, yet somehow found a way to suck me - and a theatre full of people - into the story. Oddly enough, by capturing the experiences of nine people the director allowed me to feel as if I were a part of the experience. By spreading the focus to include the team, it’s coaches, the university president and two people left behind by the crash McG makes this sports story something that resonates beyond the field. While McConaughey turned out to be the right kind of crazy to play coach Jack Lengyel, Matthew Fox broke my heart as the haunted Red Dawson. In addition to Fox’s performance, Anthony Mackie shined as Nate Ruffin and David Strathairn layered University President Donald Dedmon with layers of bewilderment, pain and confusion providing the audience with comic relief that wasn’t always about being a stupid intellectual.

In as much as We Are Marshall is about football, it’s also about facing the past and using those experiences to propel individuals, universities and towns toward something. Surprisingly, it left me - a person naturally apathetic about being identified by a specific group - wanting to find a Marshall of my own.

We Are Marshall

• Matinee or Evening Movie: Evening
• Add to Collection: Yes
• Grade: A-

Oh, man I hate doing this, but I have to concede defeat. The black dog has overtaken the castle, and that which I’ve been avoiding for months has become irrefutable. I’m near the bottom of a depression. Not a depression of a great existential thinker disturbed by his own brain. Not a depression fueled by drugs and/or alcohol. Nope, just overwhelming, unending threat of never being done, of always having one more task on the list, of having to redo what was just finished. And the hourly fight against my own violent nature.

So I sit here, fighting the urge to let loose and just verbally ream anyone over the smallest of things and the urge to just curl up in bed and stay there for another day.

Oh, and the voices in my head - the ones I write with - they’ve been silent for over a month. I’ve lost abilities to sing along with the radio and to transfer the nonsensicalness of my own brain into words. Crap.