But there is a vasty difference between a "cornuto" and a "cornetto."
*cough*
Speaking of horns, this scene from the Last Unicorn never fails to move me:
Thursday, November 05, 2009
I hate talented people.
Alright, perhaps I don't hate them - yet they make me look so bad. But I can get practically any baby to smile and I can cook...so...there. (**sniff**)
Let me introduce you to some talent:
STRONGHOLD!
This is a webcomic written by my internet-buddy, Brian V., and it's quite superbly illustrated. Plenty of webcomics fall into the trap that plenty of women fall into: a cultivation of the externals the extent to that it detracts from the heart of the story or the being of a person. Everyone has seen the tragedy that is a woman walking around defaced by makeup. Where is the person? Who knows! A similar phenomenon occurs in webcomics - what's the story? What's the point? Who can tell! CAN'T YOU SEE THERE'S PRETTINESS, EH? EH? KAWAAAAIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!! Oh - that plot point? It was so that this character could pose in this totally t'eh awesome way. Stronghold t'ain't like that. Brian is in love with his story and the artist also seems to be grockin' the story. You can tell. (Sorry, sorry! The relation of an artist to their work of art reminded me of this song). Art is made by artificers - from the latin "ars" which translates, roughly, to skill. It is only the human being who can create art - it is only the human being who can so mold creation so that it becomes something new, something beautiful, something that we bring about because we believe that what we are creating is actually something good. A work of art is both dependent on and independent of the artificer - we don't have to know who sculpted what in order to appreciate the sculpture. But that sculpture didn't simply appear in the world for the delectation of man. Art must be created after a pattern that is born within the mind of the artificer - or within their soul, from their being. Whoa. Deep. Sometimes the creation does not match the idea that we have in our heads - I, for example, have had a picture in my head for years that I know I shall never be able to depict. The technical skills necessary to put it into the world would take years of leisure to acquire. Now, I can't say exactly what the pattern is in Brian's head, but it's complicated, and, I think, something beautiful and good and human. It may be a bit difficult to follow the pattern (as Brian admits), but cut thou him a break. You don't get better at something by abstaining from any practice of said thing! I, along with the reviewer here, think somethin' awesome is occurring - major props to Kevin Roberts for the art, Martin Krause for the editing, and Brian V. for the writing!
THE HIP HOP ODYSSEY
An acquaintance in Rome mentioned his site to me, in passing. I must admit I fell in love with the use of white space on this site and paid more attention to the typography than to the music (at first). I must also admit: I hate the genre of hip hop. Most hip hop I've heard is just plain nasty. Perhaps Berkeley's proximity to Oakland is to blame: hearing what qualifies as hip hop being blasted out of pimped up cars with spinning rims did not contribute to a favorable impression of the genre as a whole. Objectifying women? Check! Gratuitous senseless violence? Check! Gangsta affirmation? Check! I also had a classmate turn on...er...suggestive hip hop when I was going over one of his papers, which adds an extra level of "ick" to my acquaintance with hip hop and a shade of absurdity. Suggestive hip hop? Really? Hee hee! But, I recognize that hip hop, as a form of art (fine art --> music), can produce beauty and goodness and that any medium of art can be subverted or utilized for whatever horrid thing a human is capable of imagining. Some mediums of art are more susceptible to subversion (consider photography or film, for example), but the medium itself is not to blame for its abuse. I do think hip hop is a medium susceptible to abuse - perhaps because of the heavy beats that lend themselves very well to the purposes of blasting music - but I'm not really qualified to make this statement as I haven't seriously listened to enough hip hop to justify that judgment. And, anyways, there's this thing in logic called correlation, not causation. Sigh sigh. My training as a philosopher will not allow me to condemn the genre itself! I do love some of the tracks on this website, and I do think that the people involved in this project are extraordinarily talented: it's interesting to listen to because the composers/creators are playing with the music. Heaven preserve me from people who approach music too seriously! I am no musician, but I am a dancer (dancing is a form of art...srsly), and the people who tend to be very serious about dance also tend to exclude a number of possibilities deemed too...unorthodox...too...undignified...too...something. A dance is often enhanced by breaking common patterns into pieces to form new patterns. I'd imagine something analogous happens in music - though I couldn't say for sure - since music is the succession of sounds forming patterns. So give The Hip Hop Odyssey a shot! It's interesting, and, I think, kinda beautiful.
I've added these thingies to my sidebar at right, too, that way you can always find them -->
Let me introduce you to some talent:
STRONGHOLD!
This is a webcomic written by my internet-buddy, Brian V., and it's quite superbly illustrated. Plenty of webcomics fall into the trap that plenty of women fall into: a cultivation of the externals the extent to that it detracts from the heart of the story or the being of a person. Everyone has seen the tragedy that is a woman walking around defaced by makeup. Where is the person? Who knows! A similar phenomenon occurs in webcomics - what's the story? What's the point? Who can tell! CAN'T YOU SEE THERE'S PRETTINESS, EH? EH? KAWAAAAIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!! Oh - that plot point? It was so that this character could pose in this totally t'eh awesome way. Stronghold t'ain't like that. Brian is in love with his story and the artist also seems to be grockin' the story. You can tell. (Sorry, sorry! The relation of an artist to their work of art reminded me of this song). Art is made by artificers - from the latin "ars" which translates, roughly, to skill. It is only the human being who can create art - it is only the human being who can so mold creation so that it becomes something new, something beautiful, something that we bring about because we believe that what we are creating is actually something good. A work of art is both dependent on and independent of the artificer - we don't have to know who sculpted what in order to appreciate the sculpture. But that sculpture didn't simply appear in the world for the delectation of man. Art must be created after a pattern that is born within the mind of the artificer - or within their soul, from their being. Whoa. Deep. Sometimes the creation does not match the idea that we have in our heads - I, for example, have had a picture in my head for years that I know I shall never be able to depict. The technical skills necessary to put it into the world would take years of leisure to acquire. Now, I can't say exactly what the pattern is in Brian's head, but it's complicated, and, I think, something beautiful and good and human. It may be a bit difficult to follow the pattern (as Brian admits), but cut thou him a break. You don't get better at something by abstaining from any practice of said thing! I, along with the reviewer here, think somethin' awesome is occurring - major props to Kevin Roberts for the art, Martin Krause for the editing, and Brian V. for the writing!
THE HIP HOP ODYSSEY
An acquaintance in Rome mentioned his site to me, in passing. I must admit I fell in love with the use of white space on this site and paid more attention to the typography than to the music (at first). I must also admit: I hate the genre of hip hop. Most hip hop I've heard is just plain nasty. Perhaps Berkeley's proximity to Oakland is to blame: hearing what qualifies as hip hop being blasted out of pimped up cars with spinning rims did not contribute to a favorable impression of the genre as a whole. Objectifying women? Check! Gratuitous senseless violence? Check! Gangsta affirmation? Check! I also had a classmate turn on...er...suggestive hip hop when I was going over one of his papers, which adds an extra level of "ick" to my acquaintance with hip hop and a shade of absurdity. Suggestive hip hop? Really? Hee hee! But, I recognize that hip hop, as a form of art (fine art --> music), can produce beauty and goodness and that any medium of art can be subverted or utilized for whatever horrid thing a human is capable of imagining. Some mediums of art are more susceptible to subversion (consider photography or film, for example), but the medium itself is not to blame for its abuse. I do think hip hop is a medium susceptible to abuse - perhaps because of the heavy beats that lend themselves very well to the purposes of blasting music - but I'm not really qualified to make this statement as I haven't seriously listened to enough hip hop to justify that judgment. And, anyways, there's this thing in logic called correlation, not causation. Sigh sigh. My training as a philosopher will not allow me to condemn the genre itself! I do love some of the tracks on this website, and I do think that the people involved in this project are extraordinarily talented: it's interesting to listen to because the composers/creators are playing with the music. Heaven preserve me from people who approach music too seriously! I am no musician, but I am a dancer (dancing is a form of art...srsly), and the people who tend to be very serious about dance also tend to exclude a number of possibilities deemed too...unorthodox...too...undignified...too...something. A dance is often enhanced by breaking common patterns into pieces to form new patterns. I'd imagine something analogous happens in music - though I couldn't say for sure - since music is the succession of sounds forming patterns. So give The Hip Hop Odyssey a shot! It's interesting, and, I think, kinda beautiful.
I've added these thingies to my sidebar at right, too, that way you can always find them -->
Friday, October 16, 2009
Marketing Being
The markets in Italy are wonderful - fresh gnocchi, eggs, fruits, vegetables, fish, meat, and...er...old...but fresh cheese, are readily available. But choose your vendor wisely and, then, stick to them like glue. The vendors develop a rapport with their clients. If you are one of theirs, they give you tips on which fruits/vegetables are particularly ripe or best for your purposes (if you let them know what you're cooking). If you are one of theirs, you get fresh, free herbs - and sometimes vegetables - because you're theirs and they have a sort of obligation to do right by you because you've bound yourself to them with the decision to patronize their market stall. This works both ways - if you have picked your vendor, and become disloyal to him, other vendors *know* you're disloyal and are more likely to give you produce of a sub-par quality. You see, in most fruit and vegetable markets, you Don't Touch the Wares. That's Just Gross. The vendor will come out from behind the register and pick out the produce you indicate - they handle the produce while you watch and they CAN give you the worse wares. Why give what's good to the disloyal if you have loyal customers?
On another note, Brian V. recently wrote a small blogpost on ambiguity. I'd been thinking about this topic before he wrote wot he wrote, because I am now in a foreign country in which, to be American, is to open yourself up to a host of bad things. American women are easy. Americans are easy pickpocket targets. Americans are pushovers. Americans are stupid.
Really, I've never thought of myself as an American or of identifying myself with any particular group - but that might be because I am a mix of Filipino, Chinese, Spanish, Scottish, Irish, Norwegian, and possibly French and Italian. My ancestors were all about diversity. Add to this that I grew up in the Bay Area which has more ethnicities than you could shake a stick at, and you might understand that strict ethnic delineations only make sense to me on a superficial level.
I move among cultures. I don't see different cultures as those things that exclude others, but culture qua culture as something inclusive of all that is good in all cultures - or, in other words, Catholic. Really, I'm comfortable not with ambiguity persay, but I am comfortable with truly loving aspects of a different culture and falling into those aspects. For example, I love, love, love both sushi and Mexican food. I make very good sushi rolls and very good salsa verde. These are radically different cultures, and only a small bit of those cultures, but I don't see this as an intrusion into another culture. Rather, it is an absorption of the good. 'cause sushi is good. And so is salsa verde. And, if you truly love something, you're not going to be treating it in an unseemly or disrespectful or superficial manner - this encompasses not just food, but also clothing, art, literature, etc.
To define oneself is a difficult thing - we are always becoming more or less of who we are. Our intellection of being is a sort of creepy thing. In our soul, we become all things, we have these phantasms, these whatchamacallits. We've grasped the thing - we've touched on being. I suppose what I'm saying is that I've never regarded this ambiguity as an experiment, but as part of being human. Wouldn't it be just a bit wrong if there were something good in front of you and you declined to participate in that good because it just wasn't your cultch'a? The definition of self is continuous and culminates in death. There will always be some ambiguity.
Granted, if you're intoxicated with the idea that you might be mistaken for a Jew, Italian, etc., and you pursue aspects of another culture because of that, the experiment should end. I take delight in being mistaken for an Italian not only because it protects me from unpleasantness and opens doors, but also because it means I am succeeding in grocking parts of their culture. I do not pretend to be Italian - but I do imitate Italians because it is where I am and there are certain conventions that residents of Italy follow and which I also ought to follow because it would be discourteous otherwise. Even if that were not so, I would still delight in being mistaken for an Italian because they have deep (and, in some cases, deeply flawed) loves. Such a mistaken identification may reflect well on one's own being. I'm not talking here of the way one dresses, but of something more profound - an attitude in the face of the universe that takes delight in what ought to be delighted in (though, of course, in the mode proper to the object/subject).
So, if you learn to see that X is wonderful, then, dude, you're on the right track... And, unless it goes against a culture to do or wear x, go for it - whatever it is.
Dude...
Hee hee! So American.
On another note, Brian V. recently wrote a small blogpost on ambiguity. I'd been thinking about this topic before he wrote wot he wrote, because I am now in a foreign country in which, to be American, is to open yourself up to a host of bad things. American women are easy. Americans are easy pickpocket targets. Americans are pushovers. Americans are stupid.
Really, I've never thought of myself as an American or of identifying myself with any particular group - but that might be because I am a mix of Filipino, Chinese, Spanish, Scottish, Irish, Norwegian, and possibly French and Italian. My ancestors were all about diversity. Add to this that I grew up in the Bay Area which has more ethnicities than you could shake a stick at, and you might understand that strict ethnic delineations only make sense to me on a superficial level.
I move among cultures. I don't see different cultures as those things that exclude others, but culture qua culture as something inclusive of all that is good in all cultures - or, in other words, Catholic. Really, I'm comfortable not with ambiguity persay, but I am comfortable with truly loving aspects of a different culture and falling into those aspects. For example, I love, love, love both sushi and Mexican food. I make very good sushi rolls and very good salsa verde. These are radically different cultures, and only a small bit of those cultures, but I don't see this as an intrusion into another culture. Rather, it is an absorption of the good. 'cause sushi is good. And so is salsa verde. And, if you truly love something, you're not going to be treating it in an unseemly or disrespectful or superficial manner - this encompasses not just food, but also clothing, art, literature, etc.
To define oneself is a difficult thing - we are always becoming more or less of who we are. Our intellection of being is a sort of creepy thing. In our soul, we become all things, we have these phantasms, these whatchamacallits. We've grasped the thing - we've touched on being. I suppose what I'm saying is that I've never regarded this ambiguity as an experiment, but as part of being human. Wouldn't it be just a bit wrong if there were something good in front of you and you declined to participate in that good because it just wasn't your cultch'a? The definition of self is continuous and culminates in death. There will always be some ambiguity.
Granted, if you're intoxicated with the idea that you might be mistaken for a Jew, Italian, etc., and you pursue aspects of another culture because of that, the experiment should end. I take delight in being mistaken for an Italian not only because it protects me from unpleasantness and opens doors, but also because it means I am succeeding in grocking parts of their culture. I do not pretend to be Italian - but I do imitate Italians because it is where I am and there are certain conventions that residents of Italy follow and which I also ought to follow because it would be discourteous otherwise. Even if that were not so, I would still delight in being mistaken for an Italian because they have deep (and, in some cases, deeply flawed) loves. Such a mistaken identification may reflect well on one's own being. I'm not talking here of the way one dresses, but of something more profound - an attitude in the face of the universe that takes delight in what ought to be delighted in (though, of course, in the mode proper to the object/subject).
So, if you learn to see that X is wonderful, then, dude, you're on the right track... And, unless it goes against a culture to do or wear x, go for it - whatever it is.
Dude...
Hee hee! So American.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
I am not on speaking terms with the weather in Rome.
You see, a few days ago, I put on two skirts - the one underneath to poof up the top skirt which is made of silk (a very light fabric). The silk skirt is a circle skirt which means, essentially, lots of fabric - qua poodle skirts. I got up early and sat on the porch. It was sunny, clear, still, and beautiful. Perfect! It was my first day of class, so I did my hair up pretty, donned everything I thought necessary, and headed blithely out the door.
Shortly thereafter, clouds darkened the skies and the wind started gusting rather strongly.
Right by Piazza Venezia (a major artery for traffic in Rome), I encountered a...wardrobe malfunction. Circle skirts made out of light fabric do not mix well with wind. Let's just say that, in the middle of the morning traffic, right by Piazza Venezia, I pulled quite the Marilyn Monroe when the wind came. The Italian men were rather fans of this. Remember, I had another skirt on underneath that was quite, quite proper, so it wasn't as if anything indecent really happened, but the knowledge that one's modesty is preserved does little to comfort when under the intense scrutiny of dozens of male drivers with a horn at their disposal.
It was quite embarrassing. I made my way in a daze to the Angelicum in short, little runs between gusts of wind - my poor heart beating with anxiety all the time.
Phew. Safe at the Angelicum! Oh, what's this? Two classes in English that I thought were next semester (because they weren't listed in the student book which listed all the classes) were actually - surprise! - *this* semester and would require the power of bilocation to attend because they were smack in the middle of two other classes I needed to take. So I, regretfully, exchanged them for the equivalent classes in Italian and started my first class a shattered wreck and shadow of my former self.
Next up: Italian Markets - choose your vendors wisely.
Friday, October 09, 2009
I can haz Rome?
Ohhh my lovelies.
Obama ain't got nothin' on Rome. Rome is truly a place of change. Is your bill 2.57 euros? The clerk will wait forever as you count out 57 cents - and the people behind you, in line, will wait for forever and a half. Having the correct amount of change is *almost* a requirement and you run the risk of being turned away if you don't have that 57 cents. Why? Who knows! You might as well ask: why all this senseless bureaucracy? Boh. It's just the way it is and you have to accept it on those terms or else you'll screw yourself over.
Now - I haven't any real tales of Rome to tell. Rome is an exhausting place - hot, humid, full of mosquitoes, art, nooks, crannies, sidestreets, beggars, trash, smoke, ambulances, random cardinals ducking into aforementioned sidestreets, smells, etc. It is, in short, a lot to take in - and so, I am waiting until the tourists to go away before taking most of it in. Where there are tourists, there are pickpockets. So, when I see a group of tourists I assume the characteristic "look" of native Italian women: purse your lips ever so slightly, look just a bit nettled about something, throw your shoulders back and look hawkish. That look works! Srsly - I've been mistaken as an Italian by Italians twice since I figured out that look. Win!
One of the things I didn't really expect about navigating a foreign country is that it is scary to ask for things - I've almost sat down and cried a couple of times because I've tried to do some very simple things, like ordering a meat at the butcher's, and encountered epic communication failures. People do not always make the effort to understand you and will stare at you blankly. Others will immediately grock that you're trying to communicate and will help you however they can.
You are completely vulnerable and that is a little scary.
That's all for now - ciao, ciao, ciao!
Obama ain't got nothin' on Rome. Rome is truly a place of change. Is your bill 2.57 euros? The clerk will wait forever as you count out 57 cents - and the people behind you, in line, will wait for forever and a half. Having the correct amount of change is *almost* a requirement and you run the risk of being turned away if you don't have that 57 cents. Why? Who knows! You might as well ask: why all this senseless bureaucracy? Boh. It's just the way it is and you have to accept it on those terms or else you'll screw yourself over.
Now - I haven't any real tales of Rome to tell. Rome is an exhausting place - hot, humid, full of mosquitoes, art, nooks, crannies, sidestreets, beggars, trash, smoke, ambulances, random cardinals ducking into aforementioned sidestreets, smells, etc. It is, in short, a lot to take in - and so, I am waiting until the tourists to go away before taking most of it in. Where there are tourists, there are pickpockets. So, when I see a group of tourists I assume the characteristic "look" of native Italian women: purse your lips ever so slightly, look just a bit nettled about something, throw your shoulders back and look hawkish. That look works! Srsly - I've been mistaken as an Italian by Italians twice since I figured out that look. Win!
One of the things I didn't really expect about navigating a foreign country is that it is scary to ask for things - I've almost sat down and cried a couple of times because I've tried to do some very simple things, like ordering a meat at the butcher's, and encountered epic communication failures. People do not always make the effort to understand you and will stare at you blankly. Others will immediately grock that you're trying to communicate and will help you however they can.
You are completely vulnerable and that is a little scary.
That's all for now - ciao, ciao, ciao!
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Adjusting to Rome
I am in Rome!
My trip TO Rome was awful. I became quite ill on both legs of my flight - and the take-off of the plane from Philadelphia was extremely turbulent, horrid, and gross: the plane dropped (ahh!), rocked, and people swore and gasped, etc.
"So THIS is what I've gotten myself into," I thought, and regretted ever stepping on the plane.
But now I am here and Rome is quite interesting. I'm not going so far as to say "awesome" or "super-duper," yet, but it isn't as foreign as I expected it to be. Oh, sure, there's the whole "crossing the street" thing, weird labels on everything, forward men, different store practices, tourists galore, and a host of differences that I need to adjust to. Yet, in all, it's feel is similar to that of the Bay Area (San Francisco, in particular).
So far, I have been mistaken for French and Italian but not American (until I do something stupid like not printing the tag for vegetable/fruit purchases). Che fa complimenti!
I have also discovered that you don't need to stand in line for the General Papal Audiences. The Swiss Guard, you see, don't mind letting the individual here and there in - particularly, I think, if they're pretty young women. While many forlorn tourists thronged behind the area reserved for the general audience, I and another girl approached the Swiss Guard and tried charm. And lo - we got within 15 feet of the Pope.
Sadly, I have no very good pictures because this persistent man in front of me, wearing a blue shirt, insisted on standing on his chair and obscuring every view and shot that he could... So I have shots of a blue shirt as this man heroically threw himself everywhere but where he should be. But I saw the Pope! And he has a very cute accent when he speaks in English.
Certain things are much easier than I thought they would be - so my apprehension is quite a bit lowered. Phew.
Ciao, ciao, ciao, ciao.
My trip TO Rome was awful. I became quite ill on both legs of my flight - and the take-off of the plane from Philadelphia was extremely turbulent, horrid, and gross: the plane dropped (ahh!), rocked, and people swore and gasped, etc.
"So THIS is what I've gotten myself into," I thought, and regretted ever stepping on the plane.
But now I am here and Rome is quite interesting. I'm not going so far as to say "awesome" or "super-duper," yet, but it isn't as foreign as I expected it to be. Oh, sure, there's the whole "crossing the street" thing, weird labels on everything, forward men, different store practices, tourists galore, and a host of differences that I need to adjust to. Yet, in all, it's feel is similar to that of the Bay Area (San Francisco, in particular).
So far, I have been mistaken for French and Italian but not American (until I do something stupid like not printing the tag for vegetable/fruit purchases). Che fa complimenti!
I have also discovered that you don't need to stand in line for the General Papal Audiences. The Swiss Guard, you see, don't mind letting the individual here and there in - particularly, I think, if they're pretty young women. While many forlorn tourists thronged behind the area reserved for the general audience, I and another girl approached the Swiss Guard and tried charm. And lo - we got within 15 feet of the Pope.
Sadly, I have no very good pictures because this persistent man in front of me, wearing a blue shirt, insisted on standing on his chair and obscuring every view and shot that he could... So I have shots of a blue shirt as this man heroically threw himself everywhere but where he should be. But I saw the Pope! And he has a very cute accent when he speaks in English.
Certain things are much easier than I thought they would be - so my apprehension is quite a bit lowered. Phew.
Ciao, ciao, ciao, ciao.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Primer for applying to a Pontifical University
A gentleman asked me today about studying at ye olde Angelicum. My write-up of the process is here: http://givetongue.blogspot.com/2009/08/primer-for-applying-to-pontifical.html
In 24 hours, I will be departing Berkeley for life abroad in Rome...
What was I thinking!?
I feel like chickening out at the last moment and saying "Ha hah!!!!! PSYCHE!!!!" after hiding all of my documentation that clearly indicates this is no psyche.
In 24 hours, I will be departing Berkeley for life abroad in Rome...
What was I thinking!?
I feel like chickening out at the last moment and saying "Ha hah!!!!! PSYCHE!!!!" after hiding all of my documentation that clearly indicates this is no psyche.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
When I tell Good Catholic Folk my age that I went to (le gaspe!) UC Berkeley, I usually get the question "... .. . how was it?"
You see, my alma mater gives me quite the disreputable air. I've noticed this doesn't seem to happen to Catholics who went to MIT, Stanford, etc. - let alone a Catholic University, however much or little Catholic in actuality they are. It's just Berkeley. Or maybe it's just me? *sigh* *sigh*
Ok, ok, so there's the occasional nuddie protest at my college and smelly tree-sitters with names like "dumpster-muffin" give us a bad name, but really, what are you Good Catholic Folk supposing I did over my college years? You see, after Good Catholic Folk my age learn of my alma mater, a sudden quiet falls, and then the inevitable questions - "Soooo.... *cough* Read any good books by Thomas Aquinas, recently?" or "(inching away) Er...What are your thoughts on women priests?" and if you say you favor premarital interdigitation you'll get QUITE the raised eyebrow because it sounds too appalling.
These questions come across as:"HELLLOOOO!?!?!? R U CATOLIC!?!?!"
Why, yes. Yes I am. Why couldn't you just...you know...share a pint with me or something like that? Then you'd find out how Catholic I was. Why do you have to be ALL WEIRD?
You see, my alma mater gives me quite the disreputable air. I've noticed this doesn't seem to happen to Catholics who went to MIT, Stanford, etc. - let alone a Catholic University, however much or little Catholic in actuality they are. It's just Berkeley. Or maybe it's just me? *sigh* *sigh*
Ok, ok, so there's the occasional nuddie protest at my college and smelly tree-sitters with names like "dumpster-muffin" give us a bad name, but really, what are you Good Catholic Folk supposing I did over my college years? You see, after Good Catholic Folk my age learn of my alma mater, a sudden quiet falls, and then the inevitable questions - "Soooo.... *cough* Read any good books by Thomas Aquinas, recently?" or "(inching away) Er...What are your thoughts on women priests?" and if you say you favor premarital interdigitation you'll get QUITE the raised eyebrow because it sounds too appalling.
These questions come across as:"HELLLOOOO!?!?!? R U CATOLIC!?!?!"
Why, yes. Yes I am. Why couldn't you just...you know...share a pint with me or something like that? Then you'd find out how Catholic I was. Why do you have to be ALL WEIRD?
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Okie dokie.
Ben & Jerry boycott initiated. Hmm. Not that I ate their ice-cream, before - I love Häagen-Dazs.
People are more interested in being politically correct than ontologically correct.
Ben & Jerry boycott initiated. Hmm. Not that I ate their ice-cream, before - I love Häagen-Dazs.
People are more interested in being politically correct than ontologically correct.
Monday, August 31, 2009
= / =
A lot of people running around in the world think swing looks like this:
Well... It sorta looks like that. It's more like this:
And this:
Well... It sorta looks like that. It's more like this:
And this:
Disney bought Marvel
First they came for the childhood classics.
Then they came for the video rights from Studio Ghibli's non-internationally publicized films.
Then they came for Pixar.
Then they came for Marvel.
Then there was no one left, when they came for me.
--------------------------
Then they came for the video rights from Studio Ghibli's non-internationally publicized films.
Then they came for Pixar.
Then they came for Marvel.
Then there was no one left, when they came for me.
--------------------------
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
The Lady's Reward
I can't help but love the poetess Dorothy Parker - she is exquisitely cynical, but her lyrics betray that she is an actual romantic searching for love and truth even if all her efforts to find those things are frustrated. And that's what many people are after (love and truth) - we just don't all admit when we've found them and call them by other, ugly names.
The Lady's Reward
Lady, lady, never start
Conversation toward your heart;
Keep your pretty words serene;
Never murmur what you mean.
Show yourself, by word and look,
Swift and shallow as a brook.
Be as cool and quick to go
As a drop of April snow;
Be as delicate and gay
As a cherry flower in May.
Lady, lady, never speak
Of the tears that burn your cheek-
She will never win him, whose
Words had shown she feared to lose.
Be you wise and never sad,
You will get your lovely lad.
Never serious be, nor true,
And your wish will come to you-
And if that makes you happy, kid,
You'll be the first it ever did.
Tutta su Eva
Some friends have been "OH WOW! WHAT'S THAT?" when this gets its turn on my playlist. So, for your enjoyment!
Carmen Consoli is an Italian cantautrice (singer-songwriter), who has a lovely, lovely, voice and delivery. My grasp of Italian isn't such that the nuances of her lyrics are caught, but Eva (Eve) is defending herself in this song and swearing before God and her mother that she has not the fault and was not the landlady of her senses when she did wot she did.
This is also a pretty song:
Well-Heeled
Italians - they do the whole "shoe" thing quite nicely, and take it quite seriously, so I bought two pairs of high-heels and am breaking them in so that I will not be laughed out of house and Rome, come late September. Lo! What a difference heels make in how people perceive you. Not only are you suddenly two inches taller, but you also gain poise, instant elegance, and age - at least, in the eyes of men. It's quite flattering when men stop to stare and you know you're dressed in a totally, rockingly modest way with shoes. Italians - you have got something good going on there. Don't stop. I love it. Kiss kiss.
Yesterday, a professor-friend was reading aloud from a Catholic medieval penitentiary book to some student-friends. It was hilarious - though many forbidden acts requiring penance involved vomit, animals, and R-rated material (tsk tsk). But I would just like to share a few things from it:
Mothers: if, for the sake of curing a fever, you put your daughter in the oven OR on a roof, you shall do penance for 7 years! ... .. .
Cooks: according to the book, if a weasel falls in liquid and drowns then you are to throw the liquid out - and if you feed that liquid to others, three fasts are laid upon you! If, on the other hand, the weasel is still alive, you take the weasel for food and sprinkle the liquid with holy water and use it if you need to.
This seemed to be the general rule: animal falls in your food? Check! Is it alive? Yes. Eat it. And sprinkle the food/liquid it was in with holy water. (Did they have holy water dispensers akin to salt and pepper shakers, I wonder?). Is it dead? Yes. Throw everything away. Don't feed anything to anyone. 'cause that's just...ew.
Would-be-thieves: know that if you, by stealth, steal a monk (?!??!), you shall do penance for 7 years. (And if you steal them in public?)
You can read more fun tidbits here.
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