Wherein I share my notes and try to make it interesting.

One of the notes I took in my lecture class, on Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh:

- Cypress tree = symbol of both death and eternal life. Connects terrestrial and celestial world.

I don't really understand what that means, or why I thought it would be a useful thing to write down, but it sounds very literary and profound. So why don't I like my Art History class? Because my prof has the unique ability to say interesting things in the most boring way possible. He talks like your 104-year-old great-grandfather trying to remember the price of everything in his hometown corner shop. And besides being able to put things into sentences that sound good, the amount of real information in his lectures is...lacking. If he does hit on something useful, you'll know it because he'll repeat it at least fifteen times over the course of three hours. This class has turned me into that jerk who quietly mumbles what the professor is going to say in the long pause before he says it. I know that complaining about the same thing over and over again is unbecoming, but I still feel a little shafted. I still operate under the delusion that you can't become a teacher unless you know how to teach well--years of excellent teachers at Westmount never prepared me for disappointment. How did I manage to be so lucky for so long?

As an unrelated bonus, here is a 224-word palindrome by my current youtube pseudo-crush, Demetri Martin. I spent way too long reading it backwards one night, just to make sure it was legit. (it is!)

http://www.slate.com/id/2101150/sidebar/2101387/ent/2101353/

I would have embedded one of his youtube videos, but as a general rule youtube takes "borrowed" material down as quickly as it gets put up. So I'll leave that up to you. You know, if you want. (I quite like his one-man-show, "If I". It's six videos long, but I thought it was worth it.)

Indiana Jones and the space aliens

I couldn't believe how many people went to see the new Indiana Jones movie. It was like standing in line at the Stampede. But we got in eventually and yes, there were space aliens. In an Indiana Jones movie. Stephen Spielberg and George Lucas, you couldn't resist, could you?

There weren't a lot of memorable lines, but this one stood out for me:
"Their treasure wasn't gold, it was knowledge. Knowledge was their treasure."

Indy, I salute you.



(It really was hilarious, and incredibly fun to watch. When it's old enough to come on TV late at night, we should all watch it sometime).

Still the best thing on the internet

http://www.zefrank.com/theshow/

Maybe I'm a little biased. I miss coming home from a bad day at work, making myself a mug of hot chocolate, and seeing what the day's show had to offer. For a little while I felt like I was part of that sliver of internet community that is neither sad nor creepy. But no good things last forever.

In other news, Hannah left for Edmonton yesterday and I'm feeling maudlin. How do you chase the blues away?

(PS- As is custom, I've joined yet another friggin' internet bandwagon that I'll probably use way too much for the first two weeks, then abandon: Twitter. I thought it might be nice for people like me who get tired of themselves if they write more than 140 letters in a row. If you're interested: twitter.com/ritajmw)

The spoils

Last night, double-h and I robbed for the first time in our lives. We'd seen the suitcase earlier in the day, calling out to us from the bottom of a personal junk-dumpster in a cul-de-sac near our house. It was double-h hatched the plan. We'd go out under cover of darkness, when the street had said its goodnights. That blue vintage suitcase would be ours come sun-up.
The hours passed slowly. Ten...eleven...eleven-fifteen...it was time. We crept out the front door, I in my old black-and-blue slicker, h in our mom's black bunnyhug. The streetlamps were brighter than I'd anticipated, and I began to get cold feet. But double-h knew what she was doing, dodging like a spider behind trees and lampposts, crouching in the shadows of parked minivans. It was a struggle, but soon our target came into view. The giant metal behemoth loomed before us like a giant metal behemoth. It was much bigger up close, and boomed under our weight as we strained to lean over the edge. Futile. The suitcase was just out of reach. I heaved a great sigh, then in a rare bout of courage and athleticism, vaulted over the edge. A hollow crash resounded as I landed among the broken glass and pink insulation. Our hearts were in our throats. Like greased lightning I pitched the suitcase over the edge. Right on cue, double-h caught it deftly, I tumbled out of the dumpster, and we bolted home giggling like a couple of schoolgirls.



(Man, what gives? No severed head, no million dollars, no sacks of cocaine or confiscated handguns. Just a few mysterious stains that may or may not be blood. This neighbourhood blows.)

(PS: sorry for all of the above. I thought it might make a good story...)