Duck + Horse for America Platform

Happy Interfaith Winter Holidays From Duck + Horse For America

The christmas branch story--it was free!!

Interfaith winter celebration tree!

Student feedback

From the end-of-semester class comments form filled out by students in Basic Composition, an intro to college writing course:

"I did not find the pier reviews of my essay drafts all that helpful."

Duck + Horse for America

A duck riding on a horse is once again running for president and this year, I am voting Duck plus Horse for America! They work as a team, for America.

Parents-dissertation "relations" part 1: the nun

My Mom is helping to organize her college reunion and to that end, has been researching in the college archives. The college archives are run by a prof. at the college who, since it's a Catholic women's college, is a PhD and a nun. Mom has become buddies with the archivist/professor/nun and apparently was chatting away, presumably about her kid who is in a history Phd program, one day when the nun* asked what my Phd diss is on.

An e-mail and phone exchange ensued.

Mom: The professor asked some questions and I couldn't respond. What is your dissertation about?

YSA thinking: This is weird. I've been working on the same topic for years...couldn't she at least give a ballpark answer from memory...like, something about Germany (doesn't she remember when I lived in Germany?) And my dissertation even has nuns in it!

YSA: Mom, but you know what my dissertation is about? Remember? Remember the naked dancing nun? And the sex workers and venereal disease legislation!

Mom: Well, can you write that up so that I can send it to the professor?

YSA: Huh? Like a nun-friendly version of my diss?

Mom: Just write something I can send to her.

I wrote a paragraph and sent it to Mom, who sent it to the nun (nuns have e-mail, too). I never heard back from the nun. But all this seemed a little strange. Didn't Mom know what my dissertation was about?

*Mom points out that she's a nun, yes, but also a history professor. But it's hard for me not to think of her as The Nun.

Parent-dissertation "relations" prelude

Family, into which one is accidentally born, and dissertation project, which who the hell knows where it came from (in the case of dear K., inspired in a tense moment by a poster that happened to be hanging nearby when she said to herself: "crap, I am meeting my advisor in 20 min., what is my project?") maybe don't think on either side (family, dissertation) that they have much to do with one another.

Oh, but they do.

One story about this that I really like was told me by JAH a few years ago. You know how your family members often identify one thing that you like and then use that as inspiration for holiday/birthday presents for the rest of your life? (As in, my brother-in-law is forever getting golf paraphernalia, as if "golf" were the entirety of his life experience.) JAH's Mom apparently did this with her diss project, which is about Nazi Germany. JAH now, every year, gets Nazi history-themed presents: documentaries about them, books, etc.

One X Mas eve she gazed at the family tree and there, beneath it, was a large package bearing her name and wrapped in white tissue paper through which was visible a giant black swastika. (It turned out to be an enormous encyclopedia or something.)

Merry X Mas!

End violence against sex workers

December 17 is the International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers.

It's a job, and it shouldn't be such a terribly dangerous job. Making sex work illegal makes it far more dangerous, because sex workers can't call the police for protection.

The murders of 4 women in Atlantic City in 2006 are still unsolved.

Friends: Please stop eating lipstick

I just heard this guy on Fresh Air on NPR, maybe you guys heard it? There is lead in lipstick.* There is also some kind of weird chemical in all pliable plastic (including your car dashboard and kid's toys) that messes up your hormones.

(Note the New York Time's story on the lead in lipstick--they basically just buy the cosmetic industry's excuse! (Which is that you don't eat lipstick, so who cares?) Wow, the NYT is really awful. I am glad we mostly canceled our subscription.)

Yup, the government has virtually no legal authority to regulate cosmetics; this includes zero power to make sure they're not putting lead in lipstick.

The guy found that the European Union has banned all kinds of chemicals which the EPA of the U.S. has declined to ban. The reason? E.U. countries pay for health care. They have an incentive to protect the health of their populations.

One (just one of many) of the reasons we need to regulate capitalism (and regulate it more) is that we've seen again and again that there's virtually no incentive not to market a product that will cause illness and death so long as the produce doesn't cause an immediate, dramatic situation involving injury or death (such as exploding lipstick). Slow poisoning products (see the cigarette industry, the global warming crisis, cancer clusters, etc.) make it impossible for people to sue. "Industry" is so powerful in this country that we individuals are basically left to regulate it ourselves by suing! That is why there are so many lawsuits, CC! Tell your parents.

*Something funny that's going on in the media coverage of the lead-in-lipstick issue is: As I noted, there's no law about whether you can make lead lipstick. There is, however, a legal limit on how much lead you can put in candy. So the reporters are writing that lipstick is "over the legal limit" because it's over the limit for candy. This is funny because

a) isn't the disturbing thing here the fact that the lead is clearly in the lipstick because no agency regulates cosmetics? There are probably all kinds of junk in lipstick! You know how we know about the lead? Some NGOs tested the lipstick, for lead, just for lead, not for, like, asbestos. Tom, remember when you worked at the cosmetic company and that lady sent in pictures of the chemical burn she got, and they just sent her a big check? That's why--they're totally unregulated, and they want to keep it that way!

b) There's lead in candy???!

Not doing the lesbian avengers proud

I got to my parent's house (accompanied by the lovely CC), the rest of my family showed up, and suddenly and without aforethought, I found myself employing the word "buddy" as a synonym for "lesbian."

My sister-in-law: So where can you get a job after you graduate?
Me: Well, it is hard to find a job, but I am hoping that CC will get me a buddy hire.

(Note: Most people call it a "spousal hire.")

The next day...

My four-year-old niece (pausing in the midst of a sock-hurling game me and CC were playing with her in my parent's living room): Are you [as in, me] her [that is, CC's] mommy?
Me: No, she is my girlfriend.
Silence from four-year-old, and from her parents nearby who are surely listening.
Me: We hang out together a lot. We are, like, buddies.

A tough holiday for history PhD students

A few Thanksgivings ago, my one set of nephews couldn't come to my parents, so set #2 were stuck doing the traditional "basement show"/Thanksgiving pageant on their own. Naturally, having a cast of 2, both of whom would of course be playing arriving pilgrims, they asked their slightly older, history PhD student aunt to guest star as the welcoming Native American person. "We'll arrive on the boat," they told me (they had built a boat set out of a chair and some construction paper) "and you act happy to see us, and tell us welcome to the New World, etc."

(In fairness to them, they were so little (like 4 and 6) that they didn't know what a "pilgrim" was. They thought it was a last name.)

I agreed to appear in the pageant, but explained that my character wouldn't welcome the arriving Europeans, but instead would say things like, "I don't think you should arrive here, I already live here. I think you should return to England," and "I have a bad feeling about this." But though I told them these would be my lines, they (perhaps due to their 30-second attention spans) didn't adjust their part of the script at all. Then, during the actual basement show, with the rest of the family watching, the pilgrims seemed shocked and confused by the lack of welcome they received. So the whole thing ended up weirdly historically representative, at least in a symbolic way.

Resolution!!!

This chapter I am working on, it keeps growing and growing in the form of self-contained sections, and now it's so huge that I can't really handle reading through it or editing it. It's like 50 pages long!

Then I was complaining yet again about this to poor CC and I realized that this chapter is like The House the Pecks Built. Did you read that when you were a kid? It's about this family (the Pecks) who start out with this tiny house, but then they all build different rooms on their house so that they can do their favorite things (a bowling room, a sewing room (this being 1950), a play room, etc.; I kind of forget what the rooms were actually, but the point is) The point is that the house has like 100 rooms and the family members never see one another! And they get lonely. So they tear it all down to two rooms again.

Anyway, so I resolved that today, I am going to do what the Pecks did and delete 9/10ths of the Chapter! No, that is not true. But I resolved to like, just whip this chapter into some kind of "finished first draft" state and then declare it a finished first draft and get on with my life! So at Thanksgiving, like the European imperialist slave-owning pilgrims, I will have something to be thankful for (but unlike them, it will not be imperialism or slavery.)

Hey grant foundation ladies, bring on that cash!

YSA: Would you read my personal statement for this !#@#$$# grant application?
Tom: Sure.
YSA: oh, i should have sent this before. it's the specifications for the personal statement:

”...please state career goals...please describe your helping of other women, as well as how you have worked as a teacher and mentor.”
*************************************************
Personal Statement
I am deeply pleased to apply for the #!@$%$ of ##$%%^* Women Dissertation Completion Fellowship, a fellowship just for women PhD graduate students who need money to finish their dissertations, and especially targeted to help women who have a deep commitment to mentor other women, not only because I myself am a woman, but also because of my own deep and abiding interest in women. All my life I have supported and mentored other women, even going so far as to sleep with them. Indeed, I am still sleeping with them. One is here with me right now, as I write this.

My dissertation, “Women during the Weimar Republic, 1918-1933,” is about women during the Weimar Republic, in Germany. It is about how they mentored one another, for example by creating women-only work spaces (except for the male clients who came by, but they were not there all the time) and making money to support their (female) children, especially when they were working class. Some people who read about my dissertation might say, “Why do I want to read a whole dissertation about prostitution, venereal disease, pornography and sterilization?” But although my dissertation discusses all these things, it is really about women. Women mentoring other women. Mentoring them to run away when the police raided their bordellos, and to avoid venereal disease. Mentoring them to produce postcards of their naked nun cabaret act and not to get those postcards seized by the pornography police.

All of these things, women mentored each other, together. Women together. That is what the Weimar Republic (in Germany) was really all about. The tragic rise of the Nazis put an end to this mass mentoring by German women, but my own commitment to mentor women and girls lives on. As I taught an all-women class twice that was required and that students really resented having to take (and had no clear point), I learned the value of single-sex education and of all-women spaces in which to mentor, mentor, mentor. My commitment to mentoring women has shaped my personal, professional (dissertation) and professional (teaching) lives.

*************************************************
Tom: you should make your personal statement:
"I have achieved all my goals. Now, I am just f-cking around. Send me
some cash, suckas!"
YSA: stay low, bi-atches, and keep the cash comin.
Tom: That should be your motto. Or at least, the motto of your women-only university.

Ultimate Bowling

This game, recently invented by my relatives, is just about the most sporting fun you can have inside your house since knee football. It is full contact bowling. Each team has 4 pins. They set up their pins on opposite ends of the court (rug). There is one nerf bowling ball. The team on offense tries to bowl down the other team's pins. The defense tries to block them by tackling them and taking the bowling ball. (Recently, many teams have been using large red and purple pillows to block on defense, creating a linebacker rush type situation.)

The kinds of stuff I do at work

I pretend to have an "office" and "coworkers" because sometimes as I think to myself how I lack these things, my heart swells with panic (as in: Gosh, how is my work different from unemployment??) I have in my life had a more-readily-recognizable-as-a-job job and therefore I know what it's like in an "office" with "coworkers" and especially what you tell your sweetie at the end of the day with regards to "how was work, sugar lips?"

You think of the most exciting thing that happened that day. For me, it used to be stuff like, "I helped Alice fix the copy machine!" Or, "we went to cover a car fire!" (Some of my former jobs could be pretty interesting.)

Today it was: I remembered that a book just came out on the Weimar Republic. When I remembered this, I was at my "office" which is a desk in a library. I rushed to look--did the library already have this new book?? My dissertation is also on the Weimar Republic--!! What if the new book had scooped my dissertation?? Heart-pounding search for the book. Quick, consult in-library map of book stacks!

Yes, I found it--20 minutes of edge-of-seat consultation of book's index on things like "lesbian" (one mention) and "prostitution" (one mention)...Whew, the book doesn't scoop my dissertation.

Then I got sort of peeved. How could the dude write a whole book and not mention the stuff that's in my dissertation? Aren't my dissertation people important? They are! Dammit.

That is the kind of stuff that happens at work. It's no car on fire, let me tell you. I may not tell sugar lips about this one, I don't want to spend my boredom capital with her unnecessarily.

Running in NJ

I moved out of my old NJ apartment down south a bit, still in NJ but amidst a few more trees. This is my new run through the woods a block from the house. Picture taken about a month ago. I feel really lucky to have moved next to this great run! I didn't even know the park was there until we moved in.

Sex freedom!

Sex toys (including vibrators) are illegal to sell in several states, including Alabama and Mississippi. A 2004 circuit court decision upheld Alabama's ban on the sale of "any device designed or marketed as useful primarily for the stimulation of human genital organs ... ."

Here is a law against queer sex (which I define as any kind of sex that violates dominant social norms) that both 'straights' and 'homos/queers/lgbt/whatever people' can join forces to oppose!

Yay for a sex positive coalition of lots of people! Sex toy shops like Toys in Babeland and Good Vibrations initially sought to market sex toys to women as a feminist act. But they've seen booms in business, and they seem to have made sex toys somewhat respectable even to straight couples. Now will the sex toy industry help build a sex positive political coalition for sex freedom in the U.S.?

(Shout out to HAL for the tip off on these laws.)

Spoooooky

This is our awesome pumpkin.

Nice older men wizards who are GAY

With all this buzz about Dumbledore, let's not forget: Gandalf was also gay.

CBAM emergency: remain calm

I have learned that there was an emergency this evening, when CBAM's cable box went down for about 20 minutes. Do not panic: it is now working again.

Update: The CBAM emergency threat level was raised, then lowered back to its pink/purple level by midnight last night.

Broccoli-ly

HAL has some kind of plan for world domination that depends on making up a very high caliber Tom Swifty. She lately urged people to help her by coming up with one. You know, like "'Pass me the shellfish,' said Tom crabbily." "'Can I go looking for the grail again?' Tom requested."

OK, so here is AM's, it's the best one by far, ever:

"Take that undergarment that's at the moment being worn by that small, furry dog that's traditionally used to herd sheep, and steam clean the undergarment," Tom said broccoli-ly.

(Let's see that pun one more time. It is: "bra-collie-ly"/"broccoli-ly")

Way to go, AM.

Why can't I just write one paragraph?

Why can't I just write one paragraph of my dissertation per day? Every day I could write one really exciting, sexy and/or spooky paragraph. I could do that! Why can't people be happy with that?

Then, in 3 years, my dissertation would be done.

Maybe the problem is that my dissertation is planned to be so long? Maybe a 70-pager would be better?

A cat can cut your hair!

My idea is that a cat could cut your hair, or my hair. And that this would save money. And give cats something to do.

People say that everything has been done, thought of, and is the topic already of a website, but that is not true, I did a google search for my idea (thought of with help from Tom, or maybe by Tom, I can't remember) and it returns zero results because no one has yet thought of the following:
a) How appropriate it seems for cats to cut hair, or to sit on a girl's/boy's head and trim hair while the person goes about their day.
b) How much money I could save by training a cat to do this!

As discussed!

Return to the Isle of Rushin: The Movie

Actual Isle in background!

Return to the Isle of Rushin

No one cried, and this year I didn't get run over by the boat.

Are we getting old? I have a whole complex about getting old, ask CC. Last night we were all at a bar enjoying a table keg--just about as good as it can get, right?--but joy was overcome by unanimous bitching about loud it was in the bar and how no one could hear a bloody thing.*

This year as we voyaged to the Isle, people were responsible, careful not to replicate the crises of yore, such as putting sunblock in one's eyes or becoming over-drunk, falling into the water and being sucked under the raft. Or becoming lodged in the bottom of the raft and unable to sit up, a drowning risk if one's face gets stuck to the rubber bottom (there are about 2 inches of water in the bottom of the raft). On the bus-ride-of-terror (to river; pictured) I had a long talk with Rick about the joys of going to bed at 11 pm.

And on the voyage I thought to myself, 'maybe this would be even more fun sober.'

We sighted the Isle, declared, "Rushin, do not even think about it," and floated on by.

Hmm, I don't know, this sounds like old age to me.

(*Thanks for the beers last night, people. You know people are good friends when you offer to show them your "dissertation", pull out your laptop and display a Word file, and they get all excited and high five you.)

Other problem

I have other problems, too.

Example

Here is what it says in the court document:

In June 1924, two plainclothes police men were on patrol when someone came up to them on the street and invited them to a party. They went and at the party, a woman named Z. approached one of the policemen and told him "that she had learned something beautiful/lovely and would soon do something enticing." Z. and [another woman] S. danced together, with only short skirts, and pulled up [their skirts] so that their pubic hair and “sexual parts” were visible. “After this show it was given out that something particularly interesting and pikantes was coming.” Then S. took off all her clothes except for her bra and lay on the table on her back. “Z. appeared similarly naked, put her heads between the thighs of S. and kissed and licked the sexual parts therein.”

Problem: How much of this do I put in my dissertation?

Right now, I have it like this:

"Z. and another woman danced together, removing their clothing as they did so. “After this show,” the police told a judge later, “the word was put out that something particularly interesting and spicy (pikantes) was coming.” What followed was an oral sex show featuring both women clad only in their bras."

More complaining

I am feeling very sorry for myself lately and you should too, dear reader. Here, I will say why.

It is not fair that it is so hard to get a PhD. It is unfair.

What makes me think this is that the dissertation is so hard to write. It's like, always like this with this fucking degree, when you are taking exams you are like, "well, this is orders of magnitude harder than anything I've done in school before," then when you are in another friggin country reading in the archives you are like, "gee, what the hell was I thinking, this is beyond-belief difficult," but try actually writing a dissertation, baby!!! Now I am like, "hmm, I had it pretty easy going to the archive every day, all I had to do was copy what other people wrote."

It's lovely that nothing you do in the first 3 years of grad school prepares you at all for the dissertation part. That was great planning. Way to go, grad school.

Oh, wait but now I found these great tips, I am saved!

No, not really. Those tips suck. No one can save me.

The spa

(I've got to wrap up this canoe trip story, my boss is going to get on my case as this blog falls behind the latest blog-crazes for Wii and pantsless chainsmoking.)

Then, we drove to the spa. You are not supposed to take pictures of the inside of the spa, but I sneaked this one (above). I love the spa so much. I love to sit in the hot tubs. When I do this, I become very, very happy and am filled with love for humanity. Which is kind of ironic, given the spa's viking theme.

Tomog turns 1.2 Million

Happy Birthday Tom! It seems like just yesterday that you developed lungs and slithered from the primordial ooze onto dry land, flapping your now-useless fins as you went, but here we are and you are over 1 million years old! Way to go.

My French Specialty

We had to take a "foreign language" in high school. This meant like 2 years of language course but, because the language-learning in U.S. schools for the most part like, just rolls off you like water off a duck's back, the language you are studying remains "foreign" forever. Maybe it's because you never speak the language outside of class. I chose French despite my Dad's insistence that Spanish was a better choice. Like all of Dad's suggestions, I rejected this out of hand at the time, but about 10 years later realized that he had a good point--my chances of ever using Spanish were much greater than my chances of ever using French. Spanish is often a requirement in job ads--in the NYC area, French never seems to be.

Also in college, 4 semesters of French. Upon arrival at college, despite the 2 years of French in high school, which I passed, I placed via entrance exam into the absolute beginner French class and learned again to say, "je m'apelle YSA."

After this stunning success at language learning, upon finishing my French requirement in college I set out to also learn German, a glorious adventure that dear reader may remember from former happy and foreign times.

Once I got out of that college requirement, I never expected to use French, or to have to say "je m'apelle YSA" ever again. Then I began to vacation in Quebec.

(This is all by way of explaining what the guide at Le Domaine said when we turned in the canoe.)

At first, the whole Quebec--Canada--bilingualism thing seemed, well, funny--like big high school French class, where I could memorize one silly sentence and crack up CC. Like when I told her that I was learning one sentence in all the world's languages (instead of learning all of one or two of the world's languages, this would be more efficient and international.) It is "Here comes a horse."

(My Mom has the same strategy for language learning. Her sentence is "That beautiful woman passing by is my cousin Jean.")

Then one day we saw a horse coming our way in Mt. Royal Park! I noted with grave dignity, "Un cheval es enroute."

But recently, the whole Quebec--Canada--Everyone-here-is-speaking-French-and-I-don'- know-what-they're-saying,-except-that-it's-about-the sun--thing doesn't make me laugh about horses and cabbages (Les Choux), it makes me want to take remedial French, like, tomorrow.

From the whole German experience, I developed the ability to control my facial expressions so that it seems like I very much understand conversations I'm supposedly having in German, even when I have no clue what the person is saying. (Because what's worse than having bad German is when people find out how bad your German is.) Now I use this when French comes on the scene.

But I know enough French to often understand what CC is saying, though it usually takes me about 10 seconds to dredge up the verbs covered in dust from the depths of my brain.

The result is frequently that me, CC and someone else are all having a conversation in French. (Well, CC and the person are talking in French, and I am standing there seeming that I understand everything they are saying and in fact, am not panicking.) CC says something to the person. I get the basic topic of what she says. Then, I get an idea for something to say myself, feel happy that maybe I am understanding the French after all, and say to the person in English the exact thing that CC has just said in French, realizing (because of the brain delay) as it comes out of my mouth and the person looks on politely, that CC has just made this exact point in French.

I have come to think of this as my French specialty.

Anyway, so we turned in the canoe and the guide asked how the trip was, and CC told her all about the beaver river, the rocks, dragging the canoe because there wasn't enough water, etc. Then I told her the exact same thing in English.

She just smiled and nodded. (Picture to meet a long-ago request by Tom--see, they really call it Poulet Frit Kentucky. French cheers to Fontaine comme Fontaine!)

Coop of Terror coming soon to a theater near you

Before we move on to the exciting conclusion of "My Vacation: The Dissertation-Length Blog Project" here is an excerpt from a soon-to-be released horror movie Coop of Terror that will probably resonate with many readers of this blog. Be warned: it is very scary.

Canoe trip devolves into long hike on logging road

Back to more posting about my vacation.

The canoe route we'd chosen was a circle. As the helpful guide pointed out to us, there was a way to skip about half of the loop by canoing down a lake and then walking on a logging road back to where we'd left the car. After some tense moments apparently lost in the creek below the Lake of Stimulus, which CC overcame with her compass skills, we turned toward the spa.

We left the canoe beached at a campsite on the lake and walked for 3 hours on this road. During that time, we saw one car (sadly heading the other way).

The road (pictured) was pretty intense. The scenery was homogeneous. If you spun around in place and then stopped, you might not remember which direction you'd come from.

The one sign of humans (besides the road itself) we found was a discarded porno mag in the weeds. Hmm.

Upon reaching the car, I was attacked by 15 mosquitos, which all bit my legs at once. This was the most intense mosquito biting that I had ever experienced, but CC seemed alarmingly unconcerned about the bloodsucking cloud surrounding my legs, a clue that Canada is a hard-core place where a lot of mosquitos live. (She often drops hints, in a similar way, about how cold it is in Canada. Like how she can't understand that we in NJ haven't had a frost yet but can already buy apples from the orchard near our house. In Quebec, the apple harvest goes up for sale after the first frost. That's because, dear reader, the first frost is in June.)

Then we drove for 30 min, picked up the canoe, headed back with the canoe on the car on the logging road and after driving for about an hour and a half, reached Le Domaine and camped for the night, in the rain, outside of the canoe rental office.

Oh, and during the night a tent pole snapped. We though, naturally, it was an ax murderer/bear attacking. But it was only the tent breaking.

Shana Tova everyone!

Bring on the bears

Small break from long story: Here is some advice circa 1992 for all you dissertation writers out there, from my 9th grade English teacher.

Ms. Best (Advising 9th grade English class about how to and how not to write an essay):

"Bring on the bears. If you're going to bring on the bears, bring on the bears. Don't bring on all the little dancing trolls first."

Canoeing to the spa, part II

So we were on the water by about 4 pm the first day, setting us well behind schedule. The alarm went off at 6 am the next morning, so that we could get in a 12-hour day in order to catch up.

Vacation, like I said.

All was going well until we reached a portage and had a big fight over how to carry the canoe up a hill. By mid-afternoon, we had reached the small creek section of the trip. Ahead was about 3 km of rapids, beaver dams and marsh.

The lady at Le Domaine had warned us about this section since the water was low and the rapids might be impassable (if there's no water, rapids are just rocks that you can't canoe over). But she didn't warn us enough. (Or maybe she did--the warning was in French. What's French for "five million beaver dams"?)

It took 5 hours for us to travel about 3 km up the creek. We had to literally carry the canoe over the rocks. This often meant taking all the gear out of the canoe first and leaving it perched on rocks in the midst of the stream. It could have also easily entailed smashing a huge hole in the bottom of the canoe, but somehow we managed to get it out of there in one piece.

Some of these rapids had portages (walking trails) around them, but perhaps due to big emotional blow-up on the day's first portage, we almost always forewent these in favor of our dragging-canoe-on-rocks technique.

As it grew dark, we realized we'd have to camp on the creek somewhere and abandon our plan to make it out of the creek and into the next big lake that day. There was only one campsite for mile around--that at the Lake of Stimulus (Lac du Stimulus) which could have also been named 'Mosquito-Infested Marsh of Stimulus'. When we finally reached it, it began to rain. While unloading the canoe, we sighted the World's Largest Leech (red-spotted) heading for our ankles. On shore, we discovered no picnic table. We couldn't drink the lake water due to nearby beavers, which could give us beaver fever, and had to sit in the dirt. Our food got all muddy. Then: We had to eat muddy smores. There was no stimulus, or at least, no good stimulus.

The next day I woke up, left the tent and saw a moose run off into the Lake of Stimulus. That was pretty cool.

But aside from the moose, despair set in. We would have to do a 20-hour day to make up the lost time. We had miles and miles of canoing and muddy food eating ahead of us.

But then, CC won my undying love forever by saying, 'Why don't we forget about the rest of the trip and go to the spa?'

These pictures (above, below) were taken after we had decided to bag the rest of the trip in favor of the spa. Note that the rain finally stopped. Happy times ensued.

But, oh reader, how would intrepid canoers get to the spa with only one day of vacation left? We were many miles from anything remotely spa-like. The nearest shower was at Le Domaine, two day's canoe and an hour's car ride away.

How was your vacation?

When people ask me, 'how was your vacation?' it is hard to explain, concisely, that it was a wonderful experience, full of fun times, passionate romance and great stories, but that during much of it, I longed to cry, sleep and/or hide in a bush. Oh, and that I saw a moose.

(Mom (upon hearing the news): You are the first person in our family to see a moose.)

I did cry during part of it, actually. (Not the moose part.)

Anyway, so this may take a few posts. It started like this. Exhausted from teaching all summer and moving, CC and I set out on a 12-hour drive to Quebec to canoe-camp. Though we used words like "vacation" and "relax" when we arrived in the enormous La réserve faunique La Vérendrye we selected a 60 km canoe route that would require us to canoe about 20 km per day (that's 10 miles).

CC: 20 km is what experts do, if they are going for a workout.
Me (on second canoe-camping trip, ever.): OK.

You can put your canoe right in the lake at Le Domaine (which rents canoes and serves all other needs you might have, being just about the only town in the reserves 1,000 plus square km). That's easier than driving for an hour, much of it on an unpaved logging road, to put the canoe in a remote lake. Which is what we did, naturally, since neither of us had ever put a canoe on a car before.

(Next time: portage of despair and lake of stimulus.)

Loons!

Un-chatty loons on Lac Carriere that refused to make loon noises despite prompting.

Going camping

I am going canoe camping with CC tomorrow for like, a whole week. Wow! Ok, for 4 days. She is packing right now. I am supposed to be packing right now also. I was in charge of packing the food. CC likes to bag each meal separatly (example: for "dinner #2" the pasta, sauce, olive oil, veggies, etc. are all in a labeled bag). But I told her not to worry because I would pack the food. Then when she left the kitchen I threw all the food in a barrel. I did not individually wrap each meal. In fact, I did not individually wrap anything. She may not be so into this when she notices tomorrow. But by then, we will be like 6 kilometers up a lake in northern Quebec with only loons to witness.

THE GAYS

I came out to my class. This is maybe the first time I've done this (there maybe was one other time?) but certainly the first time I've been crystal-clear to the class that yes, I'm A GAY.

(The class is on imperialism, so maybe you are thinking, how did this happen? Was it like the world's most helpful accused witches?) It happened like this.

We were reading this anti-immigration piece by Margaret Thatcher where she says that immigration and 'the growth of the permissive society' or something both threaten Britain. (Oh no!)

Student: What's she mean by the permissive society?
Me: Class, what's she mean?
People in class: Loosening morals, etc.
Me: That's right! She means THE GAYS.
(People in class look confused.)
Me: (Hopping around happily) THE GAYS, that's what she's talking about. She's like, 'Oh no, watch out, spooky immigrants and GAYS!'
Me: (Spooky hand motions)
Student: What? 'The gaze"?

(We talk a lot in class about 'the European gaze.')

Me: (Merrily writing it in huge letters on the board) No, not 'the gaze', THE GAYS.
Me: (Circling 'THE GAYS' on the board)
Me: (Realizing that I've got to tell them I'm a lezzie or they'll think I'm gay bashing) I call it this because I'm one of them. I'm A GAY!
Me: (Realizing that this is super funny to me and my buddies, but my poor dear students are lost, lonely and turning bright red.)
Me: I can call it this because I'm one of them. You don't have to. You can call it gays, lesbians, bisexuals, trans folks, etc. Or queer.

Then we had a big discussion about what "queer" means, how it offends some people, and whether to use it.

Anyway, well, my excuse for not coming out to my classes is that it never comes up, and I don't like to talk about my personal life. But today it came up. Not that they were surprised, I hope.

"Ah, thank you for clearing that up." World's most helpful accused witches.

"Oh, why yes Matthew Hopkins, Witchfinder General, now that we're all here, you're probably wondering, 'What are the names of their familiars?' and why--yes!--here they are, speak of the devil (ha ha!)"

(Note: familiars are obligingly self-arrayed in front of Hopkins, and are even conveniently numbered in some cases.)

(Unrelated: The familiars are so cute! Jamaras' one of those fluffy high-society dogs, how could she/it drink blood etc.?)

(Enormous thanks, naturally, to CBAM for the image.)

Tiger vs. Great White Shark!!!

Some really loyal readers who were reading even before DY went on the air may remember the epic electoral contest TIGER VERSUS GREAT WHITE SHARK!! which was fought online to a tie vote. Today in class when one student pointed out an apparent shark fin (likely a rock, in reality) in a 18th C painting of Captain Cook getting whacked by Hawaiians, I got really excited and it was because I remembered TIGER VERSUS GREAT WHITE SHARK!!!

WHO WILL WIN???!! VOTE!!!!

Ovar-rated

Before you vote for Hillary Clinton just because she has ovaries, harken back to other famous ovary-possessing politicians, like Margaret Thatcher, Indira Ghandi, Angela Merkel. Not ladies known for their progressive politics, peoples.

Ladies only get elected when they're able to overcome the stereotypes about women by proving that they're just as pro-military, anti-social welfare, rabidly nationalist and authoritarian as any dude. Overcoming stereotypes, yay! Yay, feminism!

Exam project 2

(Thanks to JM for more exam answers)

The ideology of _________________claimed that women were fit only for working in the home and was supported by scientists such as the early sociologist August Comte.

1) one answer I got was "suffrage" because the kid later said that he heard it "had something to do with women"

2) another answer I got was "realism"

Exam project

To cheer those of us ankle-deep in papers to grade, here are some verbatim answers to exam questions collected by TAs in years gone by (belated thanks to KA). For these exams, students were asked to briefly identify and explain the historical significance of the item in bold.

Berlin Airlift
Was used for travel between Germany and Europe. It enabled people to leave by using planes and blimps.

Stagflation
The inflation rate that makes more money but loses its rate.

Blitzkrieg
Located in Russia. Was home to communism during the middle of the Century.

War Communism
The communism ideas, being in the war years. Different communism than that which had come, but in the later years.

Bacon’s Rebellion
Historical background for the book Animal Farm. The pigs were tired of being turned into bacon, so they revolted and took over the homestead.

The 19th C will always welcome you back

I signed up to teach this class called AGE OF EUROPEAN EXPANSION and sadly Europe started expanding--yes, that's right, try not to panic--before the French Revolution. You know, in that gray and fuzzy time period I like to call "Back in the Day" (or BITD). When Europeans like, road on burros wacking each other with clubs and had witchcraft familiars named Snoony Tom and didn't believe in evolution. It is also called Olde Time and Ye Olde Time.

So the whole first two weeks of this class, I find myself saying things like, "As the Portuguese extended their chain of forts down the west coast of Africa," and using the word "15" things. As in, "1519" and "1562." Numbers that start with 15. As in, as my own voice comes out of my head, it triggers a faint memory of my 10th grade civics teacher saying much the same thing. And terror. It triggers terror, because instead of the old, familiar and answered-before questions (ex: "Was Hitler gay?") you get stopped in your paces whilst in front of your class with doozies like "Did the Maya have money?" "How did the Aztecs select their kings?" "What was the population of the largest city in Europe in 1500?"

Answer: "Well, the Maya didn't have money as we understand it, of course, but they did have units of exchange."

Answer: "Aztec king selection was a complicated affair, with heavy priest involvement and possible human sacrifice."

Follow-up question: "So, did the Aztecs have a hereditary monarchy?"

Answer: "Well, not per se, but being related to the former ruler helped one get power."

(Note: Post-class research revealed that the Mayan money answer is correct (thanks to roommate research dept.) but the Aztec answer is totally wrong!)

It makes you even wish once again to hear the well-known ring of, "I saw a show on the History Channel--Was Hitler on drugs?"

(Note: the show is called "High Hitler.")

Anyway, but finally tomorrow we are moving on to the Atlantic Slave Trade and the book I've assigned takes place in 1823. Whew. I never thought I'd be so glad to see the 19th C. The 19th C, when things finally start making sense.

I feel bad that I once called it "the null century."

The turtle incident

Grandma and her sister both died this past year. Grandma was 95 and Rita was like 90. This is pretty sad, I miss those old ladies. This is my latest Grandma versus Rita story (they had been battling on and off, sister-style, their whole lives).

Background info
Grandma, a candy lover, had a particular fondness for chocolate turtles.
Grandma stopped driving when she was like 89; Rita kept driving till just before she died. Rita also liked candy. By the time of the turtle incident, Grandma almost never left her house. For her supply of candy, which she kept by the chair she spent most of her time in, she relied on gifts (unprompted; I never heard of Grandma requesting turtles, or anything) from visitors and from my aunt with whom she shared the house.

The turtle incident
Someone bought both Grandma and Rita each a half pound box of turtles (that's like 6 turtles). Grandma put hers into the stash in her room and ate them sparingly, occasionally out of brave and obligatory politeness offering one to a visitor (but visitors knew to decline the offer). Rita took her turtles home and apparently consumed them all, because one day she showed up to visit Grandma and said,
"Aren't you going to offer me one of your turtles?"
Grandma, an unfailingly respectable, devout and polite woman, said no. Insulted, Rita accused Grandma of being a bad hostess and left in a huff.

This incident prompted a debate (of course not including Grandma) on whether Grandma should have shared her turtles. Some people thought it wasn't worth fighting with Rita about.

But I thought that they were missing a crucial point: Rita could drive herself to get more turtles for herself. But Grandma was completely dependent on gifts of turtles from others. In the candy economy, Grandma, though the major consumer of candy in the family, was forced to rely on donations.

Personal victory!

I ended my History of the Holocaust summer course by showing the class this picture.

What's nice about it

What's nice about studying Nazism is that when you are at parties or whatever, you can point out
that whatever has happened to come up in polite conversation (the person's profession, the modern dance performance you're all about to see, etc.) was implicated in German fascism. It's fun at parties and on romantic weekends at B & Bs.

Example:

Someone at cocktail hour: Meet [name], he's a doctor.
YSA: The medical profession is one profession that really hasn't grappled with its involvement in the Nazi genocides at all.

Happy Pride, everyone!

Wow, I am kind of sucking as a blogger. Hmm. This weekend I had a good idea for a post when I was really drunk, but now I can't quite remember it. Except that The Gays shouldn't be forced to choose between the NY Met Opera performing for free in New Brunswick (yes, it happened) and the Dyke March. That is just a purposeful thwarting of homo nationalism by the opera. The opera! I thought they were on our side!

Heidi

Dissertation Year is on vacation this week/staff can't think of anything to write, so we are re-running some of your favorite DY hits of the past year.

(Summer, 2006)

You might think that when you take up with a rugged Canadian Canoe Counselor, you will be doing a lot of macho camping. And that's right! But despite my macho image, I was raised in a suburb and only camped once (in a backyard) and found the experience quite alarming and the danger level of camping generally under-rated.

Then I went on vacation to Maine (pictured) with CC. This was our first camping vacation. We camped at a Kampground of America because to CC 's disappointment, the rugged national park camp was full.

(Kampground of America (KOA) replaces all "C"s with "K"s and thus, unfailingly puts me in mind of the KKK, but I think that's accidental on their part.) They had this somewhat baffeling poster all over of "Heidi" holding an inflatable dinosaur, though there was no swimming pool to be seen. (see picture)

We arrived late the first night and set up our tent in the dark. It began to rain. In the middle of the night, the sounds of my own feet sloshing in a puddle woke me. Woah, I was like, camping emergency! And it was only the first night! Though shocked to realize that my initial inkling that camping was in fact dangerous and uncomfortable was plainly true, I knew this was my chance to show that at heart I was no suburban American, but a rugged camping woman who could sleep through anything, including a flood. I resolutely went back to sleep, bending my knees to avoid the puddle. I found that as the puddle grew, I could bend my knees more and more, till by morning I was curled into a ball, but a ball with a mainly dry torso, and a ball that was ready to spring up come morning and declare myself well rested!

The next morning, we saw that in the dark and confusion of the previous night, we'd set up our tent in a mud puddle in the parking area of our camp site (see picture). Then we realized why Heidi is holding that inflatable dinosaur. She's preparing to happily toss it to the Kampers who are sleeping in big mud puddles.

Blog identity crisis

Hello dear reader, well, now I really am in New Jersey. The dissertation year is over. The original purpose of this blog was so that my mom would be able to read what I was up to in Germany, but I think she actually only reads it when the blog covers golf and I send her a link.

Dissertations take more than one year to research and write, though. Now I have dissertation writing year coming up. What do you think--do you want to read more complaining, but not so much about Berlin? If you feel like it, post and tell me if you want to keep reading, and also what kind of stuff you like to read about.

Cheers queers!

Sad times

This is well written and, naturally, diner-philic. But anyway, sad times around here.

Travel and all that

I'm in Copenhagen, but I'm flying back to Berlin this evening. But then to the U.S. on Tues. CC went back to Norway (pictured) but on Tues. she is on my plane across the Atlantic too, yay! Norway has trolls and mountains. Of Sweden, Denmark and Norway, I think Norway was my favorite. We followed in the footsteps of STY and Alan and took the famous and spectacular train to Flam, and even got off and tried unsuccessfully to break into a quaint Norwegian church, and then were threatened (I think; level of threat unclear) by a dragon-faced goose.

But I know what you are wondering, dear reader, and the answer is: Serbia won the Eurovision Song Contest 2007, meaning that a lesbionic power ballad featuring women in vaguely fascist suits beat out Denmark's Drama Queen, a possible historical first time that sappy lezzie drag beat out plastic-fantastic queen drag.

Fiord

Heartfelt happy wishes

The dream lives on

Happy May 1 (upcoming). Will you be setting the cars in your neighborhood on fire?


Sort of like communism, I am almost finished up here in Europe. I have today at the library and Monday at the archive. Then I'm meeting CC in Norway for a 2-week tour of Scandinavia. Then I'm back in Berlin for 2 days--one of them is an archive day--and I fly home.

The Secret Archive

Because, although Prussia is no longer an autocratic monarchy, it still calls itself "The Secret Prussian Archive," and "Secret Prussian Archive" is even carved in rather large (yet assumedly still secret) letters above the rather large door, the Geheime Staatsarchiv Preußischer Kulturbesitz is thought by some to be cool. Indeed, it has battled Stakhanovite-esquely to best other archives so that all archives and me can have socialist-esque triumph, for example by owning many files labeled "immorality" containing hundreds of pages of documents about "immorality" when my dissertation is about "immorality".

But it is not all cake and ice cream there. "Just put in the file orders, and what comes back from the collection is always a surprise," the staffer tells me. Also, I am enemies with this model-like woman who once told me to blow my nose because my sniffling was distracting her. There used to be a large guy who wore clothes that didn't fit and sat by the door typing out of what looked like medieval manuscripts. I decided that he was my friend (I needed a friend to balance out nose-police woman).

The guy in the German-version-of-Hawaiian shirt who gives you your locker key I guess has a very heavy Bavarian accent and uses all kinds of Bavarian colloquiums (or maybe he's a Sorb? Who can tell?) because I never have a clue what he's telling me, though he's very nice and apparently likes me in particular. He often hands me a piece of candy along with my locker key as he wishes me in some flowerley and incomprehensible German much success, happy greetings and a lovely day etc.. Except for when there was a hurricane and the city declared a state of emergency and nevertheless I biked to the secret archive (not having watched TV and therefore not knowing that it was a hurricane; CC also biked to the library) and he seemed rather upset and went on and on about how it was dangerous to bike in the rain. But at that point I didn't know the German word for "hurricane." So I thought he was overreacting. Then after that he didn't hand me any candy for a while.

They have the best cappuccino machine. But now they are doing construction and they moved us all into a little room in the other building, and the old break room is off limits. No more cappuccino.

Today this woman who I guess is a big deal staffer (because I have never seen her before) came to the reading room. She was looking for one of the "immorality" files. But I did not have it. I gave it back last week. She went to look for it in the file room. I guess someone else ordered it and now it's no where to be found. Some hours passed. Then I looked up and the staffer woman was hovering by my desk looking intently at my half dictionary; actually, she had her head craned down so she had a close view of all the old paper sticking out of my half dictionary. I was like, 'uh--?' And she was like, 'oh, if I could just check this slip--' There was an old, crumpled file order slip hanging out of my dictionary. A pink slip, same as the slip of the missing file. But the file slip hanging out of my dictionary was from the Bundesarchiv (ha! I thought). This was pretty exciting because it's about the most interaction I've ever had with anyone at the secret archive.

Bunker!!!

I was biking around depressively and then I saw this guy come up out of a grate in the sidewalk, and next to the grate was a sign that said "theater in the bunker." They were putting on this one-woman play about Eva Braun. And it was in a bunker! So I went.

(You know, I liked the play, but I'd basically go to anything that was in a bunker. I'd go to like, girl scout craft fair if it was in a bunker. Or to a baby sitting contest or to watch Germany's Next Top Model.)

OMG it was way freaky! Way, way!

Was it the Führer bunker? No, no, that was demolished by East Germany to build apartment buildings as we know. This bunker is dramatically called "the deep bunker" though I didn't go in a deep part. It was built in 1937-1938 in preparation for the world war the Nazi regime was about to start, and it was only for workers in the Reich Agricultural Ministry and was kept secret from the general population. But then the Agricultural Ministry got bombed and they decided to let everybody in the bunker. (Well, everybody aryan and all that, it was Nazi Germany.) Then after the war etc. they forgot about the whole bunker till someone re-discovered it in the 1980s.

Woah, it was way scary in the bunker. The ceilings are not high. It's all concrete, some brick, everything painted white. The walls are about 3 feet thick, even between the rooms, and you're always very aware of the sharp right angles where the concrete walls meet the concrete floor, and there's no furniture or nothing. And man, I was like, not so thrilled to be surrounded by that much concrete, underground--at intermission everyone climbed the steps and stood on the sidewalk and it was a palpable relief to see the sky. Imagine if you couldn't leave the bunker 'cause the whole city was burning above your head. (There was this part in the play when Eva Braun was talking to Blondi the dog and she was was like, 'Blondi, above your dog head and my human head, the whole city is burning,' and I was like, 'holy shit!') This bunker is across the street from Anhalter Bahnhof, the current state of which gives some indication of what the bombing was like.

And of course the play ends with Braun's suicide in a bunker. Majorly creepy.

Oh, and the bunker is built literally on top of the subway tunnel, so whenever a train went by the whole place rumbled.

The bunker seemed to go on and on. I only walked through part of it. It held like 3,000 people. There is apparently a whole network of bunkers under central Berlin. There are also some doozies of above-ground bunkers so massive that they weren't worth destroying. Ones' now a rock climbing wall. Another one they just built an apartment building around and left it locked up.

Holy socks! Bunkers. So if you are feeling blue--bunkers! Woah. But they are creepy to the max, so be aware. (See, we were not supposed to take pictures inside but I totally snapped one, left.)

Archives compete in a friendly way for socialist glory!

Landesarchiv!

Cappuccino?
Cafeteria and 'auto cappuccino' machine that unlike wretched auto cappuccino at Bundesarchiv, does make delicious soda-sweet “cappuccino”.

Located in a former Nazi army base?
Located in a former Nazi munitions factory!

Yelling staff members?
No, everyone is lovely. Sometimes they even load the microfilm for you.

Fun stuff to read?
How can you ask that--this archive, after all, is home to court file A Rep. 358 Acc: 2666, "Anton Sander: Dancer and Transvestite."

Most fun stuff read so far?
The fun stuff is few and far between here--random court cases--but court cases are so interesting. I guess the Sander file is my favorite, but honorable mention has to go to the case I read yesterday of a guy who chanted a little rhyme while he flashed pornographic pictures at people on the street. He seemed nice.

Special powers?
When I was starting my diss research in the fall, I thought I'd do most of my work at the Landesarchiv. I ended up finding very little there and spending most of my time at other archives. Not that that's its fault.

Main special power is the incomprehensible catalogue. (pictured) Other powers include e-mails from helpful archivist recommending files, however e-mails have the wrong file signatures, and when I mail her back saying, 'I'd like to order these files,' she can't order them for me because I have the signatures wrong. (Signature confusion in this case is due to the switch to microfilm. By the way, I agree with CBAM that microfiche is far superior to microfilm. This may be the topic of a future lavish post.)

It's my only archive not within biking distance, and it takes a long time to get there on the subway. Uh, but that is not really a special power. Uhm, 26 cent printing from the microfilm machines?