A-B-C-Baby You and Me

You are so right. That is Jermaine. It’s so very not relevant. So back-up singer to a more important issue. So just along for the ride like. So not the main event. You know, it’s Jermaine. I’m thrilled you want to waste my time with your Jermaine issues. Why bother with the reason we are ALL here when we can revel in more Jermaine topics? What the fuck is with these people? Focus on the fucking fundamentals not the damn Jermaine.

Homo sabbaticus

SShhhhhhhhh! Having spent the last six years living amongst the departmental pack we finally have the animal isolated. We’ve doused ourselves in professor musk and if we stay quiet we can creep into its cave habitat and get close enough for a shot. Once tranquilized we’ll affix the tracking equipment and monitoring devices, don’t worry, the small 20 lb helmet and 65 lb battery pack won’t impede the animals movement in any way. Quick! SSSHHHHHHH. quick! fire the dart before it attacks! The animal is now stirring. Still groggy from the tranquilizer let’s turn on the equipment and listen in on its thoughts:

Write it. Just do it. It’s not so hard.

Yes it is. I’m tired of this stuff.

You can do this. You’ve been doing it for years now. Just do it.

That was almost convincing, but then you sounded like a Nike ad.

Fair enough. But you have been doing this for awhile now. Hey! Remember those black canvas Vans you used to have? Those were great. You should get some more.

A classic shoe really. Good times. Stop distracting me. You’re supposed to be helping me work. You know writing that thing?

Sorry, yeah. You should write that up. You’ve done all the other work. You just need to sit down and crank the mother out.

Ooh funky! P-Funky. like turn the mother out? Give Up the Funk. That’s another classic.

Can you stop making inane pop cultural references and just listen to what I’m saying? Stay focused. Work. Remember that? You need to write that thing about all that stuff? Sound familiar? Or are you just going to keep babbling about random things? Although, you have a point, I have P-Funk blasting on my side of things now too. Good tune.

Really? Cause I just switched to the JB’s…still funky though.

Anyway, look, we need to stop all this nonsense and just get writing. And FYI you need stop consuming scotcholate, stop watching so much tv, and don’t ever give me that decaf shit again.

Hey! That was a freaky accident. I did not purposefully make decaf coffee and it hurt me too you know!

Pass me a peanut-butter cup.

It just seems boring. I think it could be really good though. I’ve been working on this stuff for a long time. But, ugh, and don’t go imposing all your rigid crap on me. Don’t impose a schedule and daily page limits on me. I hate that. It’s so cumbersome. You’re such a tight ass.

That’s cause it works! You’ll do it. You can’t stand missing a deadline. Or at least you think you can’t stand it because you’ve never actually missed one. Have you? See. You’re a punctual motherfucker. Admit it.

Yeah maybe. Join me for a drink?

You idiot, just give me the drink. I’ll grant you 48 hours and after that if I don’t see some real progress you’re going on lockdown. I mean scheduled working hours with daily page limits.

Fuck. 48 hours? When would it start? Can we agree on 48 hours starting tomorrow morning?

Yeah. I’m too full of scotcholate to start right now anyway.

OK cool. Is it time for Lost yet?

Confession: Household Edition

I have a professor house. You know what I mean by professor house? I am sure you do, most of you are probably living in one too. It’s more of an interior aesthetic than an architectural style. It’s an eclectic style with lots of variations, but you know it when you see it. The furniture choices, the art, and the fridge magnets all contribute but it’s the books that always give it away. It’s the books that weren’t deemed worthy of placement in your office. The graduate school castoffs, the duplicates and the “currently being read” books that reliably identify a professor house. But even when lacking books you can just tell. I can tell when I see one and I can tell that I’m living in one. My concerns with all the stereotypical trappings of professordom stem from the fact that I never expected to be a professor. I don’t mean that I just breezed through grad school and fell into a job, oh whoops! I’m a professor! No. But I just didn’t realize how defining this job can be. When I look at houses for sale I see it. I know if my house was for sale people would think professor house or at least “university people” live here. There are worse stereotypes, I shouldn’t complain…my house could be known as the too many scotch bottles in the recycling bin house…but that might be subsumed by the professor house designation…there’s no escaping it. I go back and forth with my professorness.

I wish I could say I’ve avoided the stereotypes, but I look around, and here I am, in my professor house. It’s so damn comfortable. These things bug me.

Remember The Regal Beagle

That is both a question and a command. That cozy lounge where the Three’s Company folks hung out, remember? It was where Jack, Janet, and a revolving troop of idiotic blond Chrissy’s went to have a drink, Jack’s friend (whoever the hell he was) would often be there and the Ropers maybe too? Sorry, my memory of the Regal Beagle is a little hazy. I was pretty young when Three’s Company was on. I remember only that every episode seemed the same. As a kid, each show went like this: “important thing” must happen, misunderstanding occurs, hijinks threatening the outcome of "important thing” ensues, Janet must be made to prove her worth in some way in an attempt to overcome her “not the pretty” one role, Chrissy won’t fuck Jack (which even as a kid I was sick and tired of the whole gay/not gay Jack joke thread), everything works out and you go to the Regal Beagle for a cocktail. I don’t think I’ve seen the show since I was a little sarcastic wee one― so that impression of the show is all I have to work with. But I liked the Regal Beagle. As a kid it struck me as soooooo grown-up. The kind of place I never went to because it was for grown-ups …where even if I did get to go, I’d have to drink some stupidly named soda-with-a-cherry-drink in the corner.

Now that I’m grown up, where oh where is my damn Regal Beagle? Can’t I go out for a drink without running into some student? I thought the Regal Beagle was supposed to be relaxed and boozy. Not a place where one has to hear “Hey I was in your class!” or drunken graduate student research fantasies* Anyway, I want the Regal Beagle!

*there is a place for those, we expect to hear them every time we invite you to a party- it’s OK we expect it. Carry on.

Lost And Found

Wow! Thanks њѲѣфдά*! I do want some Japanese porn! њѲѣфдά was thoughtful enough to leave me a comment with a link to porn. I feel so lucky. Surely, њѲѣфдά doesn’t leave porn links for just any old blogger. It’s a RELIEF actually. I’ve been blogging for well over a year now. It has amazed me that none of you, my smart educated reader peeps, ever thought to send me Japanese porn links. Really! What’s up with that? Clearly this blog is just a plea for links to Asian porn and term-paper writing websites. Until њѲѣфдά came along I was beginning to wonder if anyone was ever going to notice my true agenda. It’s so obvious! It’s just been one long endless plea for naked Asian chicks. Geez. Do you see it now? Do you blog-readers in your fancy professor pants? Do you blog-readers with your all grammatically correct thoughtful prose? (Yeah, I’m a little jealous). How about you stoned students? Well? My new best blog bud њѲѣфдά got it. Damn straight they did. Now, if I could only find links to a website that will give me a great car loan (regardless of my credit history), enable me turn a picture of myself into a cartoon (a personal dream), add all kinds of blinky bouncy things to my blog (so classy), and finish my coursework online for the Associates Degree in "Assistant to the Physicians’ Assistants’ Office Clerk Cause This Ain’t A Real Medical Degree” degree that I’ve been working on I’d be all set!

* Sorry њѲѣфдά but that's the best approximation of your name I can come up, it translates to Assface no?

Withdrawal

I’ve spent the last 24 hours deep in thought. As the Olympics have come to an end, it was time for me to reflect, to ponder the greatness, and get back to ignoring hockey. What have I learned in the last two weeks? Where have I been? What does it all mean? Why don’t I have any booze left? It’s a lot to think about. It’s like houseguests just left. After two weeks of being in my home the Olympics have finally departed. They’ve left me only with soiled Norwegian pants in the hamper and my thoughts of them. Oh, and visions of sugarplums AND giant inflatable beavers. Is there some type of Olympic methadone I can take?