Janet Lyon Would NOT Be Proud

One doesn't typically expect high Modernism and lowbrow humor to find common ground on a radio program like The Opie & Anthony Show, but I suppose I've learned in my life to be prepared for anything. Unfortunately, I just wasn't prepared enough.

As I'm driving to campus yesterday, a discussion about scarves on the show led to (I believe) Jim Norton telling comedian Bob Kelly that he hopes his scarf gets caught in something and decapitates him. Bob responded by explaining that it had actually happened, to the general disbelief of everyone else present.

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, listening on my satellite radio, I knew it was true. It was explicitly mentioned in a presentation for a Modernism seminar I took last spring. The only problem? I couldn't remember the person's name.

Despite lacking the key information, I called the show. I figured it would take me forever to get on the line, and in that time I could park my car and pull out my laptop -- and, if I was lucky, borrow a wireless connection in order to look up the name.

I did not anticipate my call being picked up just seconds after I dialed. Fuck. "Who's this?" I told him it was Dave from Jersey. (Yes, I know I was in Pennsylvania. But this state has been on my shit list since I learned that the closest IHOP to State College is in Maryland and that I therefore could not partake in Free Pancake Day. Fuck you, Pennsylvania.)

But when prompted to tell him what I had for the show, all I had was a tenuous grasp. I told him I'd learned in a class that the story was true, that it was a dancer from the 1920s, and that she wasn't decapitated but was dragged to her death. She was friends with Gertrude Stein and her crew, but goddamn it, I wasn't near a computer and I couldn't remember her name.

"Thanks for your help." CLICK. Double fuck.

I just couldn't come up with the name. And for whatever reason, I couldn't get Eudora Welty out of my head, even though I knew it was wrong, because Eudora Welty was a writer, not a dancer. (It also doesn't help that she only died a few years ago.) A few minutes later, the show confirmed why that name was stuck in my mind.

It wasn't Eudora. It was Isadora. Isadora Duncan.

I got an A in that Modernism seminar, too. A seminar that was strongly invested in learning backgrounds and, yes, memorizing names and dates.

Methinks I need to rescind my English snob membership card after this one. Punching out.

Getting Back Into the Groove

I'll be the first to admit it: for someone who really loves writing, and particularly enjoys spending time blogging, I'm pretty legendarily awful at updating in a timely manner.

The simple truth is that, when other things start piling up and I get stressed out about my condition, an activity that takes patience and brainpower is usually the first to go. Especially when I should, by all accounts, be working on writing that will, you know, justify the nice diploma frame I just invested in (because really, if that doesn't motivate me, nothing will [...and that's what scares me...]).

Anyway, this is my ceremonial, every-so-often-after-a-long-period-of-neglect post where I promise I'll be more diligent with my postings in the coming weeks. I swear.

As a gesture of good will, you can take a look over at my other blog, where I'm making better on the good-faith gesture that LibraryThing makes in me, by actually reviewing some of the Early Reviewer books they've sent to me. (Some of them are really good, too!)

Until then, know that I appreciate your endless patience while I deal with the mostly unfunny transition from the comforting craziness of grad school to the scary excitement of trying to find a job with a liberal arts degree in a shitty economic market.

Because really, what do I have to worry about?

When Did This Happen?

Can someone let me know when it suddenly became okay to come into a quiet room, sit two feet away from someone who is keeping to himself, quietly reading a book, and strike up a lengthy and loud conversation about whom your roommate is fucking and how big your exes' cocks are?

Because I was under the impression that, you know, because of tact, that kind of thing was off the table.

Silly me.