Friday, 24 March 2006

Saturday Self-Indulgence II: This Time It's Still Personal Earlier today I mentioned a panel on academic blogging for the 2006 MLA was in the works . . . and that it would star three of the most prominent bloggers out there. (And me!) The emails poured in: "Who who who who who who who?" That conversation with the sensational comments is still going strong . . . or would be had I any intellectual wherewithal tonight. Tomorrow! An email entitled "URGENT!!!" just arrived. [someone else] wants to know "Who who who who who who who?" Didn't I just cover this? Every grant and fellowship application must be postmarked by midnight April 10th or the applicant will be strung up and pelted with cranberries. Why is that? What so I'm an asshole now because I haven't answered your email of forty-five seconds ago? You really want to know who who who who who who who? Lionel Ritchie. Adam thinks he's so funny. Well . . . he is. Usually. Side-splittingly. Only tonight he's wrong. (In baseball though he'd be batting .700 and that ain't too shabby.) [EDIT: Maybe Adam isn't wrong. But he really oughta be.] What do you mean you don't believe me? But but but I sounded so sincere. You want to know who who who who who who who else? Mandy Patikin. Last night The Little Womedievalist—she's the looker in the goofy hat next to some goofy fool she shouldn't even admit to knowing—and I had so few brain cells firing we watched this thing . It had little plot and what it did have was mind-numbingly episodic. The acting was excrutiatingly actorly. The transitions audibly clunked. Thankfully we have this to look forward to tonight. All hail bow-hunting! He is too still famous. He was on that show . No he didn't sing . . . but yes somewhere deep down and unforgivably corny I wish he had. When The Littlewomedievalist and I watched The Village Thurdsay night I kept thinking (and, yes, saying) "This is exactly like Octavia Butler's book Clay's Ark ." So last night Insomnia and I re-read Clay's Ark and came to a consensus: I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about. The whole night he kept looking at me with his what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about eyes. I shrugged my shoulders and professed idiocy. 'Cause really . . . those two couldn't be more different. Stop hounding me already. I can only check my email ever so often. Fine. I give up. The other three people on the panel are WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU AND WHAT YOU DOING IN MY OFFICE?!? IS THAT A KNIFE!?! WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO WITH THAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

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