So I felt it was time for a blog post, and here it is. Now all I need is a topic. Topic. Topic, topic, topic.
Sorry.
Anyway, this presents a good opportunity to transcribe for the record last Wednesday night. Since school starts again for me *next* Wednesday, this is probably the end of my "party" themed posts for a bit. Technically, I could have gone out tonight, since a bunch of people are going out for a last hurrah to the local cowboy karaoke bar, which closes for good this Monday. But as regular readers know, I already went recently, and I feel I got the whole experience then. This time, it would be filled to the rosters, and I just don't feel up to dealing with that many people right now. It's even a little hypocritical, since the last time we went, one of the ladies in our party was kind of reluctant, and I gave a big, flowery speech on the importance of seizing the opportunity, going for the experience, and living for the moment. And now that she's putting together the event, I'm wussing out. Sorry, dear, to you and the rest of the group: I know I'd be in great company, but I also know I wouldn't be good company, not this time out. Regrets, and a promise that Stick-in-the-Mud PoC will be out next time.
But right, Wednesday night. It was a grad house party, and I never know how long I'm staying at those things, especially if I didn't come with anybody. This time, I stayed until the dying embers, and had a great time. I think it was party the composition: there was somewhere between a dozen and twenty people there at its height, and I think that's a good number: just right to allow a bit of circulation without being overwhelming. It also helped that the majority of the party was MAs from another non U of Blank program--the remaining PhDs and I banded together a bit, and mixed a bit. It also probably helped that I spent the entire night nursing a six pack of Vex Hard Lemonade. As I was told (repeatedly, in an increasingly slurred tone), it may be the preferred drink for 40 year old female divorcees, but at 7%, it gets the job done.
Is it just me, or do people tend to default back into certain stories and modes of behaviour when party time comes? I suppose part of it has to do with the whole performance aspect: you want to impress people, to a certain extent, or at least make an impression, so you go to what's made an impression on you. In my case, there's a few different things: "racy" Greek myths (I'm looking at you, Tiresias), the Grad student field trip to the morgue, and, the geekiest of them all, the formula.
Every now and then, when I'm inebriated, bored, melancholic, nostalgic, happy, confused, bemused, or feeling abused, I trot out this little gem, aka Person's Law:
2x+2 + 2x = 2x-1 * 10
Now, don't go running to the patent office or anything, because it's actually a fairly banal, basic application of powers. But it's always been a favorite of mine, because I came up with it myself way back in grade 11, from looking at a series of sums another class had left on the board. So, sometimes at parties, or a few other places, I get myself a pen, and play around with some other sums to see if I can come up with any other interesting power/sum relationships.
Arguably, this act may seem antisocial, or arrogant, or showing-off, and I'll admit those are all valid interpretations. Personally, though, I think it's a different form of what I was talking about above. When you go to a party, when you go to connect with old friends and make new ones, you impress with the things that have been impressed on (and in) you. That may be a favorite drink, or a favorite dress. You may show it by pulling out a guitar or pulling out a photograph.
Me? I like stories and numbers. And as far as I'm concerned, that's enough.
(And no; no, beyond the title, you're not getting any more on what happened at the end of that night. Ask someone else. Or buy me a pack of Vex.)
Later Days.
Showing posts with label karaoke. Show all posts
Showing posts with label karaoke. Show all posts
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Book Review: A Saving Grace by Lorna Crozier
First: Went to a Karaoke bar last night. A fun time was had by all. I sang "Everything You Want" by Vertical Horizon, and a tragically shortened version of the "Muppet Show." I had put in a bid to sing "Pretty Fly For a White Guy," but my ride and I left at 2:00 am before the song was called. Moral: bribe the MC.
And now the review!
This is one of those reviews that is going to take some background. A Saving Grace by Lorna Crozier is a book of poems that goes by the conceit that they were all written by the main character of Sinclair Ross' As For Me and My House, Mrs Bentley. For those who haven't read the latter book, its conceit is that it's a journal written by Mrs Bentley, wife to the preacher Philip Bentley, and tells of their life in a small town rural prairie community some time in the early 20th century. It's a tale of crippling isolation on a number of fronts--Mrs Bentley (who never receives a first name, by the way) is desperately in love with a husband who can barely stand her, forced into a community that finds her odd, and trapped in a prairie climate that seems hellbent on removing humanity altogether.
It's not a very happy book. And it's hard to defend it against accusations of misogyny and the like. And you will, very often, find yourself wanting to shake Mrs Bentley and tell her to wise up. But what it does expertly is capture the intense isolation that rural prairie life can entail--I think that everyone who has lived it has felt that isolation at one time or another, and can relate very well to Mrs Bentley's experience.
I sat in on a grad course devoted entirely to As For Me and My House--which meant it was the only work we looked at for three straight months. You can entirely tell who has and has not read the book by this statement alone, as anyone who has read it will react with absolute horror on hearing that previous sentence. However, the main focus of the course was the secondary material on the book. The professor's "operating thesis" was that you could trace the entire body of Canadian literary criticism based on the criticism for this book, and that's largely the case--there are papers on Canadian literary canon, psychoanalysis, feminist perspectives, landscape theory, aesthetics, queer theory, realism, modernism, and even a little bit of postcolonial. Honestly, the most interesting part of the book is how important it has become in terms of prairie and national literary identity.
And that would be why Lorna Crozier chose to write a book of poems based on it. Crozier is, hands down, my favorite living poet. She's in British Columbia now, but large swathes of her poetry are based on prairie experiences, from a poem on what winter would do if it ruled the world, to a poem comparing gophers to prophets (both rely on great faith to stick their heads up!). She also heavily uses the dramatic monologue, which leans on my poetical preferences, and suits the subject matter well. I can't imagine reading this book of poems without having read As For Me and My House--there would be so much lost that I don't know if what's gained would be worth having.
But how are the poems themselves? Well, first and most importantly, Crozier nails the Mrs Bentley voice. It's a mix of bitterness and optimism, and a brittle hope. At the absolute worst, it seems to dip slightly into fan fiction (Did she and Paul...?), but even then it's witty (Paul, the philogist, was very good with his tongue.) and poignant:
I made him promise
not to say a word
And I wrote nothing down.
I wanted it to be
unreadable.
This passage taps into the key element of the original: ultimately, Mrs Bentley's journal--and by extension, Mrs Bentley herself-- is nothing but words, nothing but writing. We only see the parts of her she chooses to show, and an omission can be as significant as entry of a dozen pages.
Other highlights (for me) include "That Kind of Woman" in which one of the townsfolk is found in a well, clutching her baby after disappearing for three days, never crying out to be rescued. "The Painted Door," which gives Mrs Bentley's opinion on the other classic prairie story. "Sins of Omission," which gives a quick, pointform list of things she left out of her journal. "Mrs Bentley," in which she reflects on being the narrating character, yet still invisible and nameless. And "Judith," the poem that comes half way through the novel. I'm not going to spoil the significance of Judith if you hadn't read the original book, but suffice to say, I actually felt the pressure building up to this poem throughout the book, and at its first words, it bursts open like a floodgate:
It's taken me this long to write it.
Judith. A strong biblical name
for such a girl. I should say
woman, Miss Judith West.
And man, does it keep going from there. All in all, it's a wonderful book of poetry--horribly depressing though, much like the original. If you ever read As For Me and My House, and find the memory of it lingering, then I recommend reading this book, one poem at a time, until Mrs Bentley is finished with you.
Later Days.
And now the review!
This is one of those reviews that is going to take some background. A Saving Grace by Lorna Crozier is a book of poems that goes by the conceit that they were all written by the main character of Sinclair Ross' As For Me and My House, Mrs Bentley. For those who haven't read the latter book, its conceit is that it's a journal written by Mrs Bentley, wife to the preacher Philip Bentley, and tells of their life in a small town rural prairie community some time in the early 20th century. It's a tale of crippling isolation on a number of fronts--Mrs Bentley (who never receives a first name, by the way) is desperately in love with a husband who can barely stand her, forced into a community that finds her odd, and trapped in a prairie climate that seems hellbent on removing humanity altogether.
It's not a very happy book. And it's hard to defend it against accusations of misogyny and the like. And you will, very often, find yourself wanting to shake Mrs Bentley and tell her to wise up. But what it does expertly is capture the intense isolation that rural prairie life can entail--I think that everyone who has lived it has felt that isolation at one time or another, and can relate very well to Mrs Bentley's experience.
I sat in on a grad course devoted entirely to As For Me and My House--which meant it was the only work we looked at for three straight months. You can entirely tell who has and has not read the book by this statement alone, as anyone who has read it will react with absolute horror on hearing that previous sentence. However, the main focus of the course was the secondary material on the book. The professor's "operating thesis" was that you could trace the entire body of Canadian literary criticism based on the criticism for this book, and that's largely the case--there are papers on Canadian literary canon, psychoanalysis, feminist perspectives, landscape theory, aesthetics, queer theory, realism, modernism, and even a little bit of postcolonial. Honestly, the most interesting part of the book is how important it has become in terms of prairie and national literary identity.
And that would be why Lorna Crozier chose to write a book of poems based on it. Crozier is, hands down, my favorite living poet. She's in British Columbia now, but large swathes of her poetry are based on prairie experiences, from a poem on what winter would do if it ruled the world, to a poem comparing gophers to prophets (both rely on great faith to stick their heads up!). She also heavily uses the dramatic monologue, which leans on my poetical preferences, and suits the subject matter well. I can't imagine reading this book of poems without having read As For Me and My House--there would be so much lost that I don't know if what's gained would be worth having.
But how are the poems themselves? Well, first and most importantly, Crozier nails the Mrs Bentley voice. It's a mix of bitterness and optimism, and a brittle hope. At the absolute worst, it seems to dip slightly into fan fiction (Did she and Paul...?), but even then it's witty (Paul, the philogist, was very good with his tongue.) and poignant:
I made him promise
not to say a word
And I wrote nothing down.
I wanted it to be
unreadable.
This passage taps into the key element of the original: ultimately, Mrs Bentley's journal--and by extension, Mrs Bentley herself-- is nothing but words, nothing but writing. We only see the parts of her she chooses to show, and an omission can be as significant as entry of a dozen pages.
Other highlights (for me) include "That Kind of Woman" in which one of the townsfolk is found in a well, clutching her baby after disappearing for three days, never crying out to be rescued. "The Painted Door," which gives Mrs Bentley's opinion on the other classic prairie story. "Sins of Omission," which gives a quick, pointform list of things she left out of her journal. "Mrs Bentley," in which she reflects on being the narrating character, yet still invisible and nameless. And "Judith," the poem that comes half way through the novel. I'm not going to spoil the significance of Judith if you hadn't read the original book, but suffice to say, I actually felt the pressure building up to this poem throughout the book, and at its first words, it bursts open like a floodgate:
It's taken me this long to write it.
Judith. A strong biblical name
for such a girl. I should say
woman, Miss Judith West.
And man, does it keep going from there. All in all, it's a wonderful book of poetry--horribly depressing though, much like the original. If you ever read As For Me and My House, and find the memory of it lingering, then I recommend reading this book, one poem at a time, until Mrs Bentley is finished with you.
Later Days.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
And Yet He Looks Like Samuel Johnson
I feel like James Boswell.
Ok, that's going to require a little explanation. First, my last night. As those who know me can attest, I'm not exactly the partying type. Given choice, I'd prefer a small group of close friends over a casbah rocking. But on the other hand, long time readers know that I fancy myself someone who deliberately lives--in small doses--an interesting life. So after much hemming, hawing, and general indecision, I went to an English grad student house party last night.
In retrospect, it went EXACTLY how I should have expected.
And in this case, that's a good thing: I started out slightly awkward, but mellowed out as the night went on. I will credit a large portion of said mellowing to the fact that my four pack of pomegrante cider (Yes, pomegrante cider. Read the link above. Bad drink = good story. Also hangovers and intestinal problems, but those hazards come with the territory.) turned out to be a six pack, so when I thought I was downing my last drink of the evening, I was really just starting on the second half.
I've never drank enough to reach blackout levels, and tonight was no exception to that, but I'll admit to a general blurriness. What really stands out--besides the 5 km walk home at 3 am--is the Rock Band session. As will suprise absolutely no one who really knows me, by the third pomegrante cider, all I really want to do is belt out kareoke all night.
And that's roughly what I did. I performed righteously on "Mr. Brightside," kicked some major patoot on "Eye of the Tiger," and would have delivered an absolutely awesome "It's My Life" if it wasn't for not realizing until the song was half over that I was singing the Gwen Stefani version instead of the Bon Jovi version.
Now, the question I'm sure everyone is asking is: where does Mr. Boswell fit in? And if you're asking yourself that, then I have no choice but to belive that you just don't know Boswell.
John Boswell is an eighteenth century writer best known for his biography on his friend and mentor, Samuel Johnson. But he was also an accomplished autobiographer, and spent most of his life compiling a truly comprehensive memoir/journal. For my scandalous memoirs course, I'm reading "Boswell's London Journal 1762-1763." And if I feel like I had a night out on the town, I'm basically just putting a drop in the bucket to the ocean that is Boswell's life of cavorting and making with the merry.
But while he was an inverterate merry-maker, Boswell was also incredibly reflective. He was an avid church goer, which makes me feel a little guilty in comparison. On the other hand, I spend comparatively little time wenching with whores, so I guess we balance out. His journals show someone who was deeply conflicted with his life, and obsessed with how others saw him. Over and over again in his journals, he talks about feeling that he spoke too freely at a party, that he spent so much time trying to be the clown that he's not just afraid that he lost the respect of others, but that he lost respect for himself.
As someone who, in the past 24 hours, felt it absolutely necessary to convince a room full of people* he could do 50 push-ups, I get that.
And that's what I love about English: being in a position where I'm exposed to these ideas and texts that allow me to compare myself to an eighteenth century rake, or crack wise about Derrida's deconstructionist theories, or debate intepretations of chora. Bottom line: this stuff is fun.
Not fun is hovering around a toilet after the sixth cider, but that's another story. And probably one that doesn't deserve retelling.
*Come to think of it, it might have been an entirely empty room.
Later Days.
Ok, that's going to require a little explanation. First, my last night. As those who know me can attest, I'm not exactly the partying type. Given choice, I'd prefer a small group of close friends over a casbah rocking. But on the other hand, long time readers know that I fancy myself someone who deliberately lives--in small doses--an interesting life. So after much hemming, hawing, and general indecision, I went to an English grad student house party last night.
In retrospect, it went EXACTLY how I should have expected.
And in this case, that's a good thing: I started out slightly awkward, but mellowed out as the night went on. I will credit a large portion of said mellowing to the fact that my four pack of pomegrante cider (Yes, pomegrante cider. Read the link above. Bad drink = good story. Also hangovers and intestinal problems, but those hazards come with the territory.) turned out to be a six pack, so when I thought I was downing my last drink of the evening, I was really just starting on the second half.
I've never drank enough to reach blackout levels, and tonight was no exception to that, but I'll admit to a general blurriness. What really stands out--besides the 5 km walk home at 3 am--is the Rock Band session. As will suprise absolutely no one who really knows me, by the third pomegrante cider, all I really want to do is belt out kareoke all night.
And that's roughly what I did. I performed righteously on "Mr. Brightside," kicked some major patoot on "Eye of the Tiger," and would have delivered an absolutely awesome "It's My Life" if it wasn't for not realizing until the song was half over that I was singing the Gwen Stefani version instead of the Bon Jovi version.
Now, the question I'm sure everyone is asking is: where does Mr. Boswell fit in? And if you're asking yourself that, then I have no choice but to belive that you just don't know Boswell.
John Boswell is an eighteenth century writer best known for his biography on his friend and mentor, Samuel Johnson. But he was also an accomplished autobiographer, and spent most of his life compiling a truly comprehensive memoir/journal. For my scandalous memoirs course, I'm reading "Boswell's London Journal 1762-1763." And if I feel like I had a night out on the town, I'm basically just putting a drop in the bucket to the ocean that is Boswell's life of cavorting and making with the merry.
But while he was an inverterate merry-maker, Boswell was also incredibly reflective. He was an avid church goer, which makes me feel a little guilty in comparison. On the other hand, I spend comparatively little time wenching with whores, so I guess we balance out. His journals show someone who was deeply conflicted with his life, and obsessed with how others saw him. Over and over again in his journals, he talks about feeling that he spoke too freely at a party, that he spent so much time trying to be the clown that he's not just afraid that he lost the respect of others, but that he lost respect for himself.
As someone who, in the past 24 hours, felt it absolutely necessary to convince a room full of people* he could do 50 push-ups, I get that.
And that's what I love about English: being in a position where I'm exposed to these ideas and texts that allow me to compare myself to an eighteenth century rake, or crack wise about Derrida's deconstructionist theories, or debate intepretations of chora. Bottom line: this stuff is fun.
Not fun is hovering around a toilet after the sixth cider, but that's another story. And probably one that doesn't deserve retelling.
*Come to think of it, it might have been an entirely empty room.
Later Days.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)