Punda Malidadi

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Kinky in Germany.

My hair, that is. Bloody humidity.

I have a million things to blog about, but I am sitting in an internet cafe in Nuernberg where one hour costs me 3.50 Euros, so I'll just make a list now so that I won't forget to blog about all this next time I am at my sister's and can do it for free.

1. Shoe-shopping with my mom.

2. The relationship between a crappy economy and cheesy love songs.

3. Muentefering's populist rant against capitalism and our centre-left green party coalition government's turn towards neoliberalism.

There was more, but I only have a few minutes left and I still have to go to the webboard.

Bis spaeter.

Friday, April 22, 2005

So many things to blog about, so little time.

Like, for example, how the situation with my passport played out, the Weakerthans concert I attended yesterday, the night I went to a casino for the first time, the instructional sex video I watched two days ago("Robert likes to stimulate his scrotum."). But alas, I am practically on my way to the airport.

I will leave you with this one:

"Do you think I am crazy?"

"No, not at all. I would say you're off-beat."

"What does off-beat mean?"

"It's a euphemism for crazy."

Coming soon: some serious blogging from Germany. Expect to be amazed. Or something.

Monday, April 18, 2005

And the Cycle of Shit Continues...

Well, thank God for my persistent nature. In my quest to find a loophole to enter my own country, I was unaware that the main entrance was wide open the whole time.

This morning, I instructed my mother to call the German Immigration authorities at the Frankfurt airport, to inquire about getting into the country with an expired passport, and then possibly to get my sister to call back to ask about a "lost" passport.

Guess what? They are not allowed to turn me away as a German citizen, and never would. Now I know some of you have told me this, but I was foolish enough to believe the General consul in Vancouver, who told me there was no way I could enter into Germany. Not only that, my mother was also unmistakenably told that while I might not be eligible for a preliminary passport, that there was a travel document for emergencies that they have to provide me with within 2 hours if I request it. (Quote: What on earth else would we have embassies and consulates for then?)And it doesn't end here: Once I am in Germany, they also have to provide me with a travel document to enter back into Canada.

My mother and I had spoke with four different authorities so far, and it seems three of them had absolutely no clue what the heck they were talking about.

I love bureaucracy.

And please, let that man not have been on crack, because I am deliriously happy right now, and should this all turn out to be a fluke, I am going to get angry like no one has ever seen me before.

Sunday, April 17, 2005

"Look at all these stupid comments. And you're not even in that essay."

Unintelligible grunt.

"I really haven't posted anything about our sex life. Maybe I should."

"Say that we haven't actually done it yet, because I'm saving myself for marriage."

"Maybe I should say 'I haven't posted the part about Steve yet. It's much shorter.'"

"It's funny, because it's a double entendre."

"Triple, actually."



Saturday, April 16, 2005

Voyeurs, this one's for you.

(scroll down to the end for footnotes)

My understanding of sexuality has come a long way since the day in kindergarten when I stood flabbergasted in my aunt’s driveway, trying to figure out whether what I had just heard was an outright lie or the door to a parallel dimension of existence. Just a second before, the neighbour’s daughter had ridden by on her pink bicycle, called out quickly and daringly that “girls have three holes down there!”, then sped off into an adjacent alleyway before I could confront her. The news seemed interesting, sensational even, but the source was unconfirmed and soon I had pushed my newfound anatomical expertise to the back of my mind and run off in favour of finding the gardener’s son, so we could hide high up in the hay in the old shed, eat American army rations, and read comics. Besides, I decided since I had never heard of this ‘hole’ before in my life, let alone used it for anything, it couldn’t possibly be of much importance.
Apart from this incident, however, I had a rather sexually uninformative childhood, and the topic never came up again until about halfway through elementary school. I was fast, good at sports and first in my class in all subjects that mattered to me (I never could sing) but I was certainly not pretty. My hair was a greyish shade of blonde and always in disarray, my teeth protruded in a massive overbite and my glasses were large-rimmed and pink- the colour probably being a result of some kind of last-ditch attempt of my mother’s to feminize me. I usually ran and played with the boys but didn’t mind the girls either, so long as they behaved like boys. Even though my friend Marco, who was forever competing with me for the top marks in all subjects, constantly told me dirty jokes[1] that went completely over my head, I just nodded and laughed like I’d never heard anything as funny as this before in my life.

In the afternoons, I played outside with the similarly-aged kids on my street, the Laerchenstrasse. Most of them were boys, except for one- her name was Katrin. When we played outside, Katrin often turned out to be somewhat of a nuisance, being generally easily scared, more careful, and much too concerned about the cleanliness and intactness of her clothes. One day- and I still remember where we were sitting, it was a yet to be developed housing lot large enough for three or four single family homes, but it looked like a large meadow and featured copious amounts of Dandelions- we decided to play Miss and Mister Germany elections, just that we would elect Miss and Mister Lärchenstrasse. I was certain to come out the winner- wasn’t I much more fun, and wasn’t my friend the one who always started crying when somebody shoved her a bit too hard playing soccer, thereby spoiling all the fun? Yet, somehow I was defeated in my very first attempt to get myself elected, with a very decisive margin- 100% of the votes went to Katrin. The candidates for the Mister Lärchenstrasse position were two brothers, Robert and Jürgen. Through an unfair conspiracy of nature and nurture, Robert was both better-looking and more fun, and Jürgen was the whiny and spoiled equivalent to my friend Katrin. When Robert won his landslide election, his brother threw a tantrum fit and stomped away, and the wisdom of me losing instead of my friend became apparent to me. The moral superiority I felt when realizing that I was a really gracious loser considerably lessened the sting of jealousy and injustice I felt deep inside.

When I was about to turn eleven, and entered the Gymnasium[2], I still hadn’t made any advances in appearance. Worse even, some of my girlfriends had grown over the summer and slowly started to develop tiny little mounds where their breasts would be one day. I still was as straight as a stick and largely unaware of the concept of sexuality. During that year, however, I started to read the infamous German Youth magazine “BRAVO[3]”, which had a sexuality advice column geared towards teenagers written by accredited therapists and doctors, and a little section where teenagers could send in stories about their first sexual experiences. In fact, BRAVO’s pseudonym of Dr. Sommer, first used in October 1969, has long since become synonymous for people asking stupid questions. We read the questions and answers out loud in groups, whereupon the unknown inquirer- say, Sandy, 13, or Paul, 15- was laughed at and ridiculed extensively, and if you didn’t want to give the impression that you might have been wondering about that topic yourself, you had to make sure that you laughed as loudly and as hard as everybody else. Soon I knew that it is in fact possible to get pregnant during one’s first time, that there is a large acceptable range for ages to experience your first menstrual bleeding, and that a small percentage of women had inward-pointing nipples that only became visible when erect. After a little less than a year, and brim-full with technical knowledge, I started to find the columns repetitive and stopped reading the magazine. Luckily for BRAVO, a new generation of grade 5 students was just around the corner, and we, the Grade Sixers, started to mercilessly ridicule them for reading it.

Around that time, boys’ teasing seemed to increase dramatically. Their favourite game was to run after the squeaking girls to try and touch their breasts. I wasn’t quite sure what this was all about, and why I wasn’t very sought-after in this game, until one stray guy ran after me one day and I overheard another one comment: “Oh, don’t bother with her- flat as a board.” Oh, how I wished I would grow breasts soon so that I could get sexually harassed by twelve year-olds along with everybody else! Little by little, the importance of breasts for one’s social status became even more apparent to me. Suddenly, average-looking and dim-witted Carola, for two reasons which barely fit into a B-cup bra, turned wildly popular and held hands with all the boys I had crushes on. It is not without Schadenfreude that I mention that she became so popular that on January 30th 1998, while I took photographs of somebody passed out in his own vomit at my 17th birthday party, she was giving birth to a son, Fabian.

Eventually, though, even my stubbornly non-descript body had to bow to the course of biology. In the summer between grade 7 and grade 8, I took a quantum leap in height, maturity, and apparently sex appeal. One time at the lake, a young man I didn’t know initiated conversation with me. After some small talk, he realized that he had just tried to pick up his good friend’s 13 year-old sister. He was twenty, and never comfortable around me again. However, it wasn’t only strangers- even boys that had taunted me all through grades 5 and 6 by calling me Hässlichkotz[4] now treated me with newfound care. It was then that I realized that, contrary to the empty rhetoric that I heard at home and at school, looks actually do matter in life. I suddenly understood that many of the things adults said were not meant to be taken at face value or even as a reasonably close approximation of reality, but rather as a distant ideal that should be strived towards but that is very unlikely to ever be realized.

What I hadn’t yet figured out, however, was how male attraction worked. I, along with absolutely every other girl I have ever known, assumed that what was seen on TV and in the movies- many of which were American- was exactly what men wanted, and that these requirements for their attention were cast in stone. As a heterosexual girl, I couldn’t rely on any gut feelings when it came to other women’s attractiveness, and so it came that the heights, weights, proportions, hair colours, hair styles and clothes of the famous were seen as the key to pleasing a boy and therefore relentlessly memorized and imitated. I “knew” that fat girls would never be happy, just like I “knew” that Claudia Schiffer was every man’s dream, and that I wanted to be a fashion designer. It took me another decade from then to slowly realize that attraction wasn’t as simple as that- not even sexual attraction.

But before I ever started to think about the concept and the societal implications of sexual attraction, I experienced it myself. His name was Matthias, and he wore brown old men’s shoes, striped sweaters and geeky glasses. The only things I noticed, however, were his quick sense of humour, his black messy hair and his honest and open grin with a chipped front tooth. The tooth, together with his always somewhat sarcastically raised eyebrows and startlingly turquoise eyes, reminded me of the pirates in the historical romance novels which I had started to read by the pound. These books provided me with an excuse to read about “sweaty chests”, “erect manhoods” and “greedy tongues” while picturing the object of my infatuation, and I stopped concentrating whenever I saw him- not very conducive to my academic endeavours, given that I had every single class with him. We started going out when we were both fourteen. He seemed to think I was perfect, and life was an endless string of afternoons spent lying on the couch watching movies together. All was great – as long as nobody asked us about the movies’ plots. In fact, to this day, I still don’t know anything that happened past the first 10 minutes of Batman and Robin, and I intend to keep it that way: some memories are sacred. Besides, it’s also rumoured to be a really bad movie.

Still, I operated on the assumption that our relationship was based on me having successfully fooled Matthias into liking me- after all, there were so many things about my body which weren’t the way they were supposed to be. I had it all figured out: obviously, the trick was not to let him see any more of me than necessary, and of course never in broad daylight. That way, he could imagine me to be perfect, and wouldn't have to deal with the harsh reality of breasts that are definitely not the required c-cup size; the discovery of my small b-cup would surely send him running to one of the Carolas of the world. Slowly but surely, I relaxed a bit; unfortunately, that was largely due to not caring so much any more to impress him, as opposed to realizing that I could impress him the way I was. We became the annoying yet mandatory joined-at-the hip high school couple, and when it ended, it ended badly. He didn’t take well to the difference in our GPAs and the ease with which I aced all my classes, while he was on the verge of dropping out year after year. According to him, everything I did was nerdy, and so were my friends. My puns weren’t funny, my music way too mainstream and my interests in board games and Star Trek just plain embarassing. After a tiring amount of crying and feeling bad about myself, I found myself in class one day without him. It was religious education class, and since Matthias was nominally catholic and I was nominally protestant, we weren’t in one together. Across from me, there was Andreas- he made me laugh every class with his completely inappropriate jokes about abortion, or whatever else he thought he could get a rise out of our teacher with. One day, I caught him sneaking looks at me when he thought I couldn’t see. I felt struck like I had been run over by a bus of truth: someone considered me attractive. In fact, I now remembered that Andreas had also laughed at all the jokes I made, and was hugely impressed by my paper airplane skills. I knew that he was in a long term relationship, but I didn’t mind at all; all I wanted from him, I already had.

A few days later, I told Matthias I wanted to break up with him. He pleaded with me for weeks and even cried, but my resolve was iron, and I didn’t shed a single tear- actually, thinking back about the tears I had shed while with him made my decision all the easier. A few months later, our graduation yearbook came out. The introductory paragraph on Matthias’ double page read:

After those three dark years in your past you finally woke up to reality, and now you’re free from the pseudo-beauty that ruined your life so far. Even though now you’ll have to put on your beer goggles for your girlfriends, we’re happy that you finally came to your senses and good rid of that blonde poison!

I was somewhat taken aback by the open hostility against me demonstrated by Matthias’ all male friends, and for the maliciousness of the yearbook team for allowing this to be printed. Mature as I was, however, I never got upset, and only pitied Matthias for now having to read about me for the rest of his life whenever he looks at his yearbook entry. I quietly moved on, but not without making sure that Matthias’ honour was preserved, and telling everybody I knew that our break-up was mutual.

One of my first activities as a single teenager was to go to a house party, which I had never done before. Liquor was abound, I was dressed up, and felt as free and as pretty as a teenager at a party. When I was standing next to the bar, a rather homely-looking slightly overweight and reasonably tipsy guy approached me, and started to flatter me with rather unimaginative compliment about my eyes. I nodded politely, but my attention remained with the busy bustling of the room. He then turned to me angrily and said really loudly, “Why are your breasts so small?”

At first, I felt like all blood had left my face within a fraction of a second of the last word leaving his slightly drooping, moist lips. The room started to disappear, and I heard a grumbling sound in my ears. I, who had prided herself on being rational and constrained, had the strangest inkling that something significant was about to happen, but couldn’t figure out what it was. I was still unable to move; my whole body seemed incapacitated with anticipation of the force of emotion that would unleash itself onto me in a second. And sure enough, there it was, cleansing and promising and glorious in its strength, enabling me for once and all and evermore to say what needed to be said and to do what needed to be done:

Anger. I was angry.

[1] Little Jimmy doesn’t come home after school one afternoon, so his father goes and looks for him. He finally finds him in the school’s basement, lying naked on top of a similarly naked girl. Infuriated, he slaps Jimmy hard on his bare behind. Jimmy turns his head around and says, “Thanks Dad, now it’s in.”
[2] German equivalent of High School, encompassing grades 5 through 12/13 (depending on the region
[3] BRAVO sold over 2 million copies weekly during the early 1990s)
4] A self-made compound swear consisting of the German word for “ugly” and the German word for “vomit”; it roughly rhymes with my last name.

Friday, April 15, 2005

Change of Pace

Here are some strange and funny things that have happened and occurred to me during the last few days:

1. In my economics class

On Wednesday, I sat behind a guy who took notes by taking a picture of the Blackboard every 2 minutes with his digital camera. I didn't sit in my usual spot that class, and I am wondering if he did that all year. Very strange.

2. In my Art class
On monday, we looked at and talked about each other's cardboard sculptures. As if that wasn't bad enough, I'd slept only a few hours the night before- do you know the feeling when you're so tired that you start raising your eyebrows in the hopes of your eyelids staying open that way?
In one of my more awake moments, I heard my art teacher say this about another student's work:

"Wow. I mean, wow! You totally captured, like, the essence of cardboard!"

Of all the things I had hoped to accomplish in my life, he had to beat me to this. Damn you, capturer of the essence of cardboard!

When conversation turned towards my piece, which I had started and finished in one class-everybody else had used three classes, but I kind of skipped the other two- he said the following:


He walks around, leans head to the left. Walks around again.


Turns it upside down to see if it improves. Steps back, looks at it. Turns it back into its original position.

"This is kind of awkward here..."

I nod gravely.

"Any comments about Catrin's?"


"Do you have a title, Catrin?"

"Oh, yeah. I named it after a Neil Young song."

"Really? That's interesting. Which one?"

"Piece of Crap."

3. In my writing class

Last class ever today. How sad. One last comment from him:

"You know what I just realized? I am younger than Johnny Depp. I am younger than Brad Pitt."

A look of confusion crosses his face.

"I must be eating wrong."

Oh, and this:

"Sometimes I go to the bookstore, and read the appraisals by the New York Times on the back of the cover of books, substituting the author's name with Lahey. It makes me feel good."

4. In my Sociology class.

I am a Hippie. There, I said it. Sue me. I want to live, not spend.

I'll leave you with a quote:

"One of the most baneful assumptions of our materialistic industrial society is that all men should spend at least one third of the twenty-four hour day in some productive occupation...If men still have leisure[after needs are satisfied], new luxuries must be invented to keep them busy and new wants must be stimulated...to take the luxuries off the market and keep the industries going. Of course, the true and rational doctrine is that when men have produced sufficient necessaries and reasonable comforts and conveniences to supply all the population, they should spend what time is left in the cultivation of their intellects and wills, in the pursuit of the higher life."
-John A Ryan, catholic social activist and priest, 1869-1945

I've always thought that if they were a bit more inclusive and a bit less hypocritical, the catholic church could make for some awesome activism.

That said, I am off to write a paper about the Voluntary Simplicity Movement- you should read about it, it's fascinating.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

All Hope is Lost.

I talked to him. He apologized nicely for the incorrect information that was given, and then explained to me how incorrect said information actually was: I was never actually eligible for a temporary passport in the first place. He cited the law, where it said: "...in case of death, sickness or other grave emergency, or where travel arrangements have been made after applying for a regular passport which has not been processed in time for departure."

So, I am screwed. And my MLA can't bend the law either, or at least I sure hope he can't.

Calling my mom it is.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Exciting Update!

So, in accordance with the advice from some smart people, I wrote emails to both my MLA in Germany and to the General Consul in Vancouver, at about 3pm today. By the time I got home at 10pm, the consul had already called and left me a message with his phone number and extension.

Oh, please let this be good.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

Worst Case Scenario

Oh, God.

My family is going to have my head, roast it on a stick, and then feed it to the cat.

And I will deserve it too.

Oh, there is no profanity in this world that could express how I feel right now.

What am I going to tell them?

"Hey Mom. I have good news and bad news. The good news is that I will be able to attend the changeover council meeting! Isn't that exciting! On the downside, that $1100 non-refundable ticket you paid for will go to waste, and that baptism of my niece that you rescheduled for me will have to happen without me."

Oh, I feel like changing my address, phone number, and breaking all ties to my family.

Then again...it's really not my fault at all! Remember how I paid those dimwits at the consulate 390 fucking Dollars for my passport? Well, they never told me that I needed a piece of paper from Germany stating when I ceased to be a resident there. In fact, they said that because I didn't have said piece of paper, I had to pay double the fee- which I did. Not happily, mind you, but I did. And now some asshole in Vancouver won't give me a temporary passport because I don't have it. Did somebody piss in your cornflakes? Oh, I wish it had been me.

Because, if somebody only had told me when I first went to the consulate 4 weeks ago, I would have had said paper sent to me. Now, of course, it is too late, and I better think of something to tell my family.

Does somebody have a car they could run me over with?

Saturday, April 09, 2005

If You Love A Woman, Tell Her to Pass the Butter

Within less than 24 hours, I watched 4 movies- two of them were Last Tango In Paris and Don Juan De Marco. Talk about different perspectives. I mean, God, am I ever confused now. Could you make up your godddamn mind, Brando?

The other two, coincidentally, were The Corporation and The World's Hottest Commercials. Juxtapositions are in the air.

The German Consulate now wants 390 Dollars to renew my passport. I think they fucking lost it. Of course, they told me Thursday at 10am that if they didn't have the money by 12noon, they would be unable to provide me with a passport in time for my flight on the 22nd of April. My ticket is non-refundable- not even the date can be changed.
Unfortunately, I didn't have a penny to my name, and on top of that, they only take cash. After some frantic cycling and[sap]the help of the best friend you could imagine[/sap], I managed to hand them 19 twenty-dollar bills and a ten on time, and slowly started breathing again(did I mention that I hyperventilated?).
Infuriatingly enough, when I listened to my messages Friday morning, there was one from the German consulate saying that they had "been in contact with Vancouver and received new instructions for [my] case" and that I should urgently call them. What's with all the secrecy? It's like they're speaking code. Also, they only have office hours Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday from 9 to 12.
Point of the story: I am very nervous. Again.
Stay tuned on Tuesday for updates.

I have by now received compliments from three separate female acquaintances(I have had a class with each of them at some point or another of my academic career), either in the hallways or per email, about my letter to the Gateway about oral sex. (which was, after all, published last Tuesday).

Comments included, "so great of you to write that on behalf of women", "thank you for finally telling it like it is", to "I laughed so hard-you know, the writer is my friend, and I just couldn't believe he wrote that". So, in short- you better believe.

Although, I had really hoped they would have printed my other letter - but they chose not to, on account of it being potentially libelous. Which is crap, of course.


I am planning a post about women's behaviour in relationships, offering my unrequested advice- to women- on how to *not* fuck things up. Not that I want to insinuate that it's always women fucking things up, but I do think men as a group are generally psychologically healthier than women, and that we could leard a lot from them in terms of self-image, standing our ground, and confidence. I am going to start right now:

I never thought relationships are the kind of thing you get better at with practice, but I sure do.


Friday, April 08, 2005

I will be having breakfast below those parasols on front of the yellow house in t minus 15 days.

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

You got me back, Weezer.

Sixteen more days until fairytale country.
=w= =w= =w= =w= =w= =w=


Let's go away for a while
You and I
To a strange and distant land
Where they speak no word of truth
But we don't understand anyway

far away to stay
on a Holiday
Far away Let's go today
In a Heartbeat!

Don't bother to pack your bags
Or your map
We won't need them where we're goin'
We're goin' where the wind is blowin'
Not knowin' where we're gonna stay

We will write a postcard
To our friends and family
In free verse

On the road with Kerouac
Sheltered in his Bivouac
On this road we'll never die...
Let's go away!

I'm accepting bets on this

Political Science Paper: 2500 words, due yesterday at 2pm. Word count as of 4pm today: 700

Sociology paper: 2500 words, due tomorrow at 11am, current word count: 0

Political Science Take Home Final, handed out tomorrow. Readings done in this course since January 25th: 0

I am now accepting bets on greatest absolute drop in GPA in one semester. Anyone?

Tuesday, April 05, 2005


Mr. Michael Hudema would like me to emphasize that while he did take said book to bed with him, he did not in fact manipulate himself while reading it.

(Happy now?)

I also want to point out that there's nothing wrong with getting off to a book. Not all people are visual, and some of us like using our imagination. I recommend the Wicked Words series by Black Lace Publishers- erotic short stories by women for women(and no, that doesn't mean lesbians).

I own Volumes 4 and 7.

Wait a second, Mike borrowed Volume 4 from me in December...I never did get that one back...


Monday, April 04, 2005


Here I am, insanely tired, having had less than four hours of sleep, yet dragging myself out of bed for my 9am writing class.

Guess who doesn`t show up- Mr. I -like-to-fucking-play-air-guitar-in-class.

That`s right, my esteemed teacher, Dr Michael Lahey, didn`t think it necessary to either come teach his class, send a replacement or at least have someone write on the damn board that the class is cancelled. Since he is always late, we waited until 9.40 before we actually lost hope.

Like I said: GAAAAAAH!

(Oh, my, he`s probably dead or something. Won`t I look like a bitch then)

As requested by Chris Chan....

...a short excerpt from one of Mike Hudema's sex books. Oh, best roommate *ever*!

Ahem. This post will be delayed. He must have taken it to bed with him.

Saturday, April 02, 2005

Too [something] for the Gateway.

It's either boring, hot, or informative. You decide.

Here's my unpublished letter in response to this article. Read and be educated.

Dear Gateway,

I am not writing to join the chorus of others before me complaining about the deteriorating quality of the opinion section as a whole. This letter is part of my constructive effort to contribute to the quality of The Gateway, mainly by preventing a potentially gullible male readership from picking up some very destructive notions about cunnilingus from last Thursday’s opinion article by Christopher White. Firstly, I am a bit at a loss about his idea that the design of the male body would invite the kneeling of the fellating woman- to my humble knowledge, male genitals are situated at the exact same spot of the human body as are women’s genitals. Furthermore, White’s analogy of comparing the performance of oral sex on a woman with getting caught between the hind legs of a bull is not only offensive, but also involuntarily humorous, considering the chosen animal’s sex. Without being overly facetious, I would suggest that if his experience is comparable to the above analogy, the woman in question was most likely buckling in pain, not pleasure- after all, the average clitoris has more nerve endings than the average head of a penis in a fraction of the area. As to the comment about getting “a temporary case of jaw rickets”, I will quote some wisdom from Tracy Cox’ commendable book Hot Sex: ”The tongue movements are gentle and if a guy can’t keep them up for at least ten to fifteen minutes, his tongue’s too tense or he’s doing it too fast.” There is a ton of information out there on how to please a woman, but- gasp!- you won’t find it by googling “cunnilingus”; instead, you might have to go to the sex section of a bookstore and then buy a book that has – gasp! – been written by a woman. Let me know some time how that worked out for you.

Essay Assignment # 6 - a moment of change, again

Instructor: Michael Lahey
Advisor: John Malkovich
Forecast: Insightful, stapled

(If anyone doubts this constitutes the top of my assignment sheet, I'll show it to you anytime. I mean, hey, at least this time it's not Martha Stewart.)

I also registered in Drama 361 today- playwriting. One of you guys should take it with me. All you have to do is go to the Drama general office on the third floor of the Fine Arts building, hand in a writing sample and fill out a consent form, then you're pretty much guaranteed a spot.

Should you go there, I predict the following to happen:

The people behind the counter will smile at you in this really relaxed way, ask for your first name and then tell you theirs. Next, they will politely encourage you to bend and reach over the counter to fish for your own consent forms because they don't feel like getting up from their chairs. Before you'll even be done filling the forms out, they will have offered you a piece of fresh coconut, which you will happily accept. Suckling and nibbling on that piece of goodness, you will hop down HUB mall humming a Gene Kelly song.

What a disturbing experience. I didn't realize the University employed happy people, too.

As to my evening, I just retuned from a Chris Smither concert. It was my first real exposure to live folk music (yadda yadda folk festival yadda yadda I know, I'll go next summer). I loved it! He was quite charming and witty in some of his lyrics. I tried to buy one of his CDs but they were fresh out of every single copy he brought, old and new. How disappointing.

Until I can get my hands on one of them, I'll just hum it in the shower.

"Maybe I was happier blue..."

Friday, April 01, 2005

Writing teacher update!

I am walking to my classroom in Humanities from HUB. My teacher comes from the other direction. We are both late. I walk a bit faster. He speeds up his step. I speed mine up some more. He starts running, reaches the classroom before me, and closes the door in front of my face. When I try to enter, I can't, because, of all things, he is holding the door closed from the inside.

Two days later.

I am on time(hear, hear). As my writing teacher approaches the class room, I close the door and hold it closed.

[imagine tug-o-war between me and a thirty-something, mostly bald bespectacled man in a flannel and a second-hand leather jacket]

I let go. He comes in, and pouts. But guess what the reason is for his annoyance at me? Well, here's what he said:

"Get your own joke."

Other than that, I am happy to let you all know that the best grade he ever gave out this year was A-. Out of 80 essays handed in to him so far, 4 received that grade, and 2 of them were mine. Unfortunately, those two A-s were all in the fall term, and I followed them up in the winter term with two mediocre Bs. Might have something to do with the fall term focusing on logical, coherent, grammatical and analytical writing, whereas the winter term is all that creative shit.

Oh, and should anyone doubt he's funny and/or a hard marker and/or lazy, read this .