Pitch it now, kill it later.

It's become so repulsively trendy lately for companies to appear as though they're "going green." Ford Escape Hybrid commercials feature digitized cornfields applauding a massive suburban that gets a measley 34 miles per gallon (and, notably, still requires our depleting/damaging natural resources and producing pollutants in the process of manufacturing both the auto body and its various types of fuel). Meanwhile, BP commercials obsessively push a "biofuels" campaign that is a half-truth at best, lauding corn ethanol as a sustainable, earth friendly fuel resource despite the fact that corn requires heavy water resources and fertilizers (which are full of heavy metals and other gnarly toxins).
These companies aren't really green and, by the very nature of the products they sell, they never will be. After all, automobiles and oil aren't synonymous with environmental health; industrialization is more like it. If this was a true exercise in corporate environmental altruism, these companies would face (and publicize!) the facts instead of pushing products that will only appease people who haven't done their research.

Furthermore, by so strongly attempting to popularize and commericalize this (so-called) "earth friendliness," companies like Ford and Shell are consciously making environmental awareness nothing more than a short-lived marketing trend. Just watch. All marketing approaches eventually die when corporations realize that consumers have been burned out... in another two years, when being green is no longer a popular marketing pitch (its truth or falsity aside), will people still care about making progress to keep the planet healthy?
Doubt it.
Bet they'll go straight back to driving F350s and guzzling gas.

In my opinion cars aren't the central concern anyway (even though I would like to see those electric GMC cars back on the road; like that'll ever happen). Statistically, producing electricity is a much bigger blow to environmental health than automotive emissions. We really should start implementing wind power up and down our coasts and throughout the Midwest (which is flat and windy, the best place for it imaginable). The output of windpower is comparable to that of coal power plants, but there's been very little action taken with it thus far. Don't know what the hell is wrong with people.

Gripe, grunt, grimace.

Hair loss?

According to this month's issue of National Geographic, only 2% of the global human population has natural red hair (and 13% of all redheads come from Scotland, which I find strangely satisfying, as a fairly strawberry-headed Scotswoman myself). Supposedly redheads are expected to be extinct by the year 2100---a horrendous loss. Apparently the sun is the culprit; red hair's designed to take in as much Vitamin D from the sun as possible (since west European weather is decidedly moody), but unfortunately, the paper-white skin that generally accompanies red hair has a tendency to sunburn to a cancerous crisp. I can vouch for that. I've blistered horribly about four times in my 22-year lifespan. Nature's definitely chosen against me.

That aside, maybe Andy and I should have kids after all. His brother and grandma have red hair... and genetically I have a good chance of having twins and/or redheaded kids, because both run in my family...
We could be like the Weasleys. I'd give my myriad of offspring stuffy European names and we'd keep a menagerie of bizarre animals; it'd be great. I'd knit mad Weasleyish sweaters. And if I did indeed pop out two wee chillens at a time, I might have to name them Fred and George---even if they were, you know, female.



I kid, I kid.
George isn't a completely bad female name though. It has a certain edge. Female Georges make fantastic authors, after all.

Monkey trouble.

An astonishing article I read in The Scotsman (my preferred source for international news) today:

Monkeys ape sex harassment
MARGARET NEIGHBOUR

A GANG of monkeys are sexually harassing women in Kenya, according to reports yesterday.

Women in the village of Nachu trying to protect their crops from a band of about 300 monkey raiders said that the animals were afraid of men but not women and would occasionally attack them.

But they also make sexually explicit gestures in a bizarrely intelligent form of communication. "The monkeys grab their breasts and gesture at us while pointing at their private parts. We are afraid that they will sexually harass us," Lucy Njeri said.

The vervet monkeys have been causing serious problems for villagers by eating corn, beans, potatoes and other crops.

The women have tried to trick the monkeys into believing they were men to scare them off, but without success.

"When we come to chase the monkeys away, we are dressed in trousers and hats, so that we look like men," Ms Njeri said.

"But the monkeys can tell the difference and they don't run away from us and point at our breasts. They just ignore us and continue to steal the crops."

The problems have become so severe that the farming community is receiving famine relief and the situation was raised in the Kenyan Parliament by MP Paul Muite.

He called for the Kenyan Wildlife Service to intervene to help bring the monkey problem under control.

But Mr Muite said some other MPs in the chamber had laughed when they heard the monkeys were apparently mocking the village's women.

Link to this article: http://news.scotsman.com/international.cfm?id=1351502007

This renders me speechless.

A dancing white mare.

As many of my fellow country bumpkins know, I spent most of my childhood rampaging around on horseback in the hills behind my parents' house. When I was a kid my family didn't travel or spend money on cars or camps or frilly dresses for school dances... instead, we kept a couple of horses--a mischievous black Arabian with rubbery lips and a knack for unlocking gates, and a small, spirited, flaming red Quarter Horse, who we rescued from neglect and loved me to pieces.
In general I liked taking my horse (the red one) apple-picking and running wild in the woods, paying as little attention to stuffy riding conventions as possible. We couldn't be bothered to saddle up or "look pretty"--bareback, and with both our manes and tails askew, we stampeded our way up trails and down ravines and had an excellent time together. She was an awesome companion.

Anyway, the way that my horse and I operated was in stark contrast to what follows in this YouTube clip (and I think my horse much preferred it that way, to be honest). Typically I can't agree with people who try to make their horses perform unnaturally, so I don't advocate stuff like dressage (shown in the clip) or show jumping... but nevertheless, I can't resist posting this. (You'll need audio to appreciate it fully, and try to watch at least a few minutes, because she doesn't really get going until the YouTube timer reads 4:50.) The horse is obviously dancing to the music on the loudspeakers and seems to be getting a real kick out of it. Look at her keeping time with her hooves, it's insane... and watch what she's doing with her tail (particularly later on in the video); she's like a sorority girl flipping her hair. Pretty funny.

Anyone who says that animals aren't sentient beings obviously hasn't seen anything like this. No human dances this well.

I'b sick.

Only one week of vacation between summer term and absolute middle school* madness, and what happens? I get a cold within the first 12 hours and spend the next two days knitting scarves, drinking Vernor's, and watching a bewildering combination of apocalyptic OPB programs and Harry Potter dvds (whilst drugged up on cold medicine, no less).
"Smah" is the term that sums it all up most succinctly.
But at least the weather is drizzling along with my nose.

*Can't remember whether I mentioned it or not... I've been placed in Junction City schools for my student teaching bit this year. In the fall I start at Oaklea Middle School (and in the winter I move on to high school). I'm already bracing myself for blasts of excessive eighth-grader cologne and mouldering lockers decorated with Teen magazine clippings. Save me, Suzanne, save me.

After watching Dead Poets Society...

...I so desperately need a teacher who makes me shout "Yawp!" that it's not even funny.



Instead of studying for my impending test (at 3:00), I've spent the last thirty minutes fucking about with my blog colors---because I'm all professional like that. Anyway, while messing with HTML I realized that I had somehow turned off the comment ability some months ago... it's now back on. Yep.

Something wicked this way comes.

Our flat's been overrun by a procession of spinsters: spiders, spiders in the living room, in the bathroom sink, on the exterior of the mosquito netting on my bed... a myriad of black, eight-legged creepy crawlies tiptoeing along the ceiling plaster, traipsing across the countertop, tapdancing through my dreams. I'm living in an Edward Gorey picturebook.

And because I live with one A. Livesay, whose parents perpetually kept a "No Spray" sign in their drainage ditch, and who has grown up stubbornly like-minded in the realm of pesticide useage, I can see that there'll be no Chemical Spider Death bombs allowed on my agenda. Instead we'll simply coexist with these spiders until they grow into Shelob proportions and, eventually, eat us alive with a side of relish (using our own cutlery, no less).

Fall is coming. At night you can feel its damp weight in the air.

Oh, the geekery.

Which Hogwarts house will you be sorted into?

08/08 greatest.

A (day late) compulsive listy-kadoo of the past few weeks' 8 most inspiring and/or frivolously wonderful things.
Brace thyself.

1. Blasting Paul Simon's Concert in the Park album while driving on Highway 99 at night, during a harvest moon, with the sunroof open to the sky.
2. Eating perfectly browned oatnut toast with homemade strawberry jam.
3. Watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (film). Better music, better visuals, a fantastic magic scene in the Room of Requirement, and (and!) the ever-brilliant Helena Bonham Carter. I loved her as Bellatrix.
4. Finding a long, brown, button-down car-coat that makes me feel like a British spy in a 1970s film. (Every woman needs just such a coat, I think, especially at the price of $28.00. Come shopping with me and I'll find one for you. And then we'll sit on a street corner smoking cigars and looking serious.)
5. Picking the first plump blackberries of the season--and freezing them for smoothies.
6. Listening to a family friend from London imitate various regional and colloquial British accents, including South London's (in which, apparently, all 'th' sounds at the end of words are turned into 'f's). I was completely enthralled.
7. Talking about farts with my wunnerful friend Shay. We should have met, like, 13 years ago; we would have been completely inseparable. She is a righteous babe.
8. And (last but certainly not least...) going to Suz'n'Tom's beautiful (and miraculously fun!) wedding, and having a delightful time schmoozing it old school with Joey, Tania, and Kenny, among other things.

A cryptic griping. Skip this one.

It's when you think you've got your feet firmly planted that the rug inevitably flies out from underneath.
It's pretty much impossible to please everyone at once--and since, to a despicable degree, my own sense of fulfillment relies on appeasing other people, I also have trouble pleasing myself. It's all just a brutal cycle of blundering and flapping about like mad to keep everybody happy. No amount of chaotic scrambling ever gets me anywhere, but the scrambling doesn't stop. I wish I'd get the clue.

It would all be so much easier if I didn't take the falls so personally.
And if people weren't so sharp-edged some of the time. It's probably not meant to be taken personally, probably just a lack of social etiquette, but still.

Drop it, Nilly.
Gravity always wins.

An archaeological dig.

This evening, while digging through the mountainous mess that has accumulated atop his desk over the past year, Andy unearthed a mysterious card (written in an unknown, decidedly grannyish hand) featuring a recipe for Elephant Stew.
Hours later, its origins and author continue to elude him.

It's moments like these that make me rethink my compulsive cleanliness. If Andy lets his rubbish and rubble accumulate and germinate long enough, he might eventually unearth something far more valuable and bizarre than an Elephant Stew recipe. A deed to the Taj Mahal, perhaps. Or maybe a Suzuki violin. Or even better, an infant Wookie.
Anything, apparently, is possible.

Do and Don't.

What I simultaneously do and don't miss about being an English student:
1. Writing about I.B. Singer until my eyes blurred with sleepiness or saltwater. (Mostly I miss it. This new stuff doesn't exercise my brain in the same way at all--now I simply read a textbook and regurgitate what I've memorized back into a test. It's a really sad way to educate future teachers; I think they're trying to make us docile enough for The System. It won't work with me, I tell you... I won't be institutionalized again. I'll kick and scream and teach David Sedaris and Jonathan Safran Foer! I'll recite wildly sexual Anne Sexton and Allen Ginsberg poems, and I'll bring the entire acid-tripping works of Ken Kesey into the classroom, because that's the stuff life's about, damnit! I'll teach kids to love writing, or at least I'll teach them to write really excellent, scathing satires! I'll teach media analysis skills and give free karate classes, and there'll be no stopping me!*
And now back to the list...)
2. Reading flowery, verbose ballads from the 1500s that stretched on and on for 150 pages. Spenser, I'm talking to you, baby.
3. Being so challenged by a professor or a text that I could feel my brain physically stretching with stress and new ideas. A feeling reminiscent of those 80's commercials for "Stretch Armstrong" dolls, if you recall.
4. The Oxford English Dictionary (which becomes so familiar to English majors that the acronym OED is no longer an acronym, but a word in itself: oeedee; like see-threepio). Ah, the OED. It is both friend and foe--a revealer of divine light or a sardonic sphinx of the reference section, depending on the day. It helped me understand Shakespeare on a whole new level. (Look up 'will' and 'wit' before you memorize all the sonnets; I learned well from Freinkel...)
5. The hideous 1970s steel-and-brick monstrosity that is Prince Lucien Campbell hall, or PLC. I had a great many undergraduate classes in that hall with people who were more or less equally obsessed with words as I am. It was a windowless hall full of recycled air, and it made us all a little lethargic... but now, for the most part, I miss it. I wish I were still breathing the recycled air of my People.
I'm not so confident that I belong in education, but I think that education should belong to people like me.
We need to shake it up. I know at least a few people in my cohort who will, and that, at least, is encouraging.

Another tangent in a different direction:
At night, I've noticed, Eugene starts to smell a bit skunky. Either all of the citizens of the Eug are coming out en masse and smoking weed in some covert corner, or we've got some sort of gnarly chemical factory upwind that's releasing pungent toxins into the air in the dead of the night.
It's really rather creepy.
If I suddenly grow a half-shell and don a bandana, you'll know why.


*I always write these things in hope that nobody from my department will happen to stumble upon them, but in case anyone does, I have to admit, they're all true. We all know it's the radical teachers who inspire us and get us to grow, and I won't settle for less than that. I feel no need to apologize.