It’s time to diagnose the problem. The folk remedies I have tried are not working. Usually a drink, an annoying email, a fresh can of spray-paint to huff, or a trip to the grocery store provides a natural stimulus. What is the fucking deal? I will now subject myself to some free flowing (visit your analyst style) blog-writing introspection. I will lie back on this divan. You can take one of those leather wingbacks. Let us begin.Our first question comes from Candid Engineer: When you feel the urge, do you run to the computer right away, or do you let it brew for a couple of hours? I, myself, don't fight it.
Well, neither. I get the urge to blog. I have no idea what I’ll write about but I usually sit down with a cup of coffee with the intent to write something, and then it just happens. Or sometimes I like to put on my smoking jacket, don a foil helmet, take my pants off and…oh wait, that’s getting off track. No. I don’t want to discuss that. Never mind. No really, I was just kidding. Uh, so in response to your question, it’s sort of a general urge to write a post but not an urge to write anything specific. Except when Thor…oh fuck. Next question?
I just realized that I would normally be thinking about syllabi right now. It’s Syllabi season, that season of the year falling nicely between Summer and Fucking Hell Is It Winter Break Yet Season? season. The time when you realize that yes, you have taught this course before. But last time it was MWF, and now its T/R; and it was a different semester and the holidays were different; oh, and last time you decided that grading those assignments was horrendous and that you should do it different next time; and that damnit you should work in some new stuff since last time you taught it. It’s that season. I don’t have to do that? For reals? Granted, Syllabi season has its charms. All seasons do. But I don’t mind skipping it this year. I feel for you my readers. I do. I imagine you all engaging in the classic Syllabi season rituals as you prepare to entrench yourselves into another semester. I can’t say I miss it, it’s pretty nice to still be in Summer. But I am over here tipping my hat to you. I am sending you goodwill in the manner most appropriate for the season: a great new review article that could be a perfect start (or ending) for your graduate seminar, my bank of exam questions from when I used that textbook, a PBS film I bought that you could totally blow off two days of class watching without feeling too guilty about, and hey I don’t plan on being on campus much and you’re teaching over in megabuilding right? Cause I have a punch card from the coffee shop in the basement of megabuilding and it only needs one more punch for a free drink, so you may as well have it. Good luck.
What? Do you have a problem with that title? What does it mean you ask? Fuck if I know. What does that mean? Why would someone Google that? Under what circumstances is that something worth googling? I suspect the answer could be very funny, or very, very strange— probably both. Please person who googled that, do it again! Come back here and explain yourself! Did your previous Acadamnit experience leave you wanting more information about pot of gold underwear for your rainbow shits? What did you eat to make yourself shit rainbows? Can I have some? C’mon share! Are you a leprechaun? I don’t know any leprechauns, you could be my first! (If you’re a unicorn, fuck off. I’ve known your type before and you are all insufferable jackasses, you can just shit rainbows all over yourselves for all I care). Pot of gold underwear? That would be really uncomfortable, it’s summer after all and I don’t think gold vessels would look very good under shorts. Look, just come back and explain yourself. Please? Pretty please with fairies vomiting butterflies on top?
Since when does the ice-cream man drive around in a damn minivan? (try to say that really fast 5 times…hard huh?) I heard the telltale music clinking its way up my street. I felt the five dollar bill in my pocket. Ice-cream truck. Ice-cream man. White boxy ice-cream van. An ice-cream sandwich! And then I watched a battered blue minivan drive by, ice-cream man music provided by CD. Fuck Me. A shitty ice-cream sticker stuck to the door, clever money making strategy for sure. But I want the ice-cream man of yore.
