BitchBuzz: I Hate Top 10 Lists

My latest column for BitchBuzz, grumbling about top ten lists:

If there's one thing I hate about the end of the year, it's the proliferation of Top Ten (and Top 100 and so on) lists. Everywhere you turn, there's another blowhard detailing what was really best about the last year or decade or even century. It really irks me.

To explain why, I have created my own Top Ten list in the hopes that the utter irony and chutzpah of this move will cause reality as we know it to implode or at the very least bore everyone so much that they swear off top ten lists forever.

As always, read the rest at BBHQ along with other fine pieces.

I'm just back from my travels, all of which went as well as might be hoped and with only minor irritations, which is fairly amazing for MLA. Dinner with Todd and Isabel at Eulogy was terrific, my breakfast po'boy at the Reading Terminal was delish, the panel went well and was well attended, lunch with Sandi was great -- we caught up on all kinds of news -- and then back to NYC and a bevvie with Karen at Grand Central -- first time we've met in person, glad to find her just as delightful as she is on-line -- and then up to Poughkeepsie where Robert picked me up and gave me a belated Xmas dinner and birthday cake. Quite a satisfying trip all around -- made sweeter by the fact that it was my MLA swan song! Whoo hoo -- I shouldn't have to make another trip to the world's most stressful conference™ anytime soon.

Kipper is happy I'm back, which he showed by wolfing down his food and immediately up chucking it. Ah, home. Now he's staring at the radiator as if there were something alive in it. Not at all disturbing, no.

In Case You're Wondering

This is what a tenure package looks like; this is actually Kim's (who had loaned me hers as a model) because I only remembered that I was going to take a picture of it after I had turned it in. More or less like mine, though the tabbing is far neater. It contains the letter applying for tenure and promotion (the hardest part to produce), CV, all your year end reports, all your faculty data forms (another kind of end-of-year report), nine teaching observations, from other faculty members, and course evaluations from twelve different courses. The letter has to highlight what's important in the hundreds of pages of data included in the binder, so the committee gets a picture of who you are as a teacher, scholar and colleague (assuming they don't already know). I'm fortunate that at least a couple members of the committee know me personally and are acquainted with what I do. The problem of being a medievalist -- what you do seems odd and often obscure to others.

Bootless (but Corseted)

I was all pleased to be without the boot any longer, despite the swelling today (pushed things too much yesterday, I guess -- missing the whirlpool at physical therapy, sigh). But my trip to the orthopedist this morning resulted in another appliance, an ASO, which naturally I have already dubbed "the ankle corset" (nice lacing). Despite their claim that it "will fit in any type of shoe," it could not fit in the slip-on Sketchers, so I had to go home and get the Chuck Taylors.


Here's what it looks like all wrapped and ready to roll (minus the Chucks).

What it Is (Now)

More colorful now -- not as swollen, at least in the morning. The picture doesn't really do justice to the purples and blues, but I think you can get a sense of the omnipresent brownish hue of the whole foot up to the calf. The ankle tends to be more painful in the morning but more swollen in the afternoon; natural enough, I suppose after all that hopping around. I tried to be good yesterday, keeping it elevated as much as I could. Fortunately I had the Punk Rock Jukebox to entertain me while I was immobile. That's really the worst part -- being stuck in one place. I miss my morning walk, sauntering down to campus, or just crossing the room because I need something. Sigh.

I realize I've fallen behind on reviews, too. The second most irritating thing is how much time the injury has taken up. Two things to be sure to mention: Lynda Barry's What it Is. I know I've talked about it before, but I should specify that this is the book to kick start your creativity. If you've read Barry's One Hundred Demons or her decades-worth of comics, you'll know just how magical her work is, but her latest is a how-to volume that weaves a good bit of autobiography into the lessons. Barry starts with recalling the freedom we all have as children, where we draw, sing and write without fear. From her own experiences, she retraces how that fear sets in (am I doing this right? is this really any good?) and how to break ourselves of those habits. If you've always wished you could be creative, this book will help you rediscover that you ARE. Warning! People who read this book and do the exercises tend to become excited and joyful.

I was absolutely bowled over by Aline Kominsky Crumb's Need More Love. Long in the shadow of her more famous husband, Kominsky Crumb explodes across the pages of this gorgeous book in reprints of her autobiographical comics, narrative snippets, letters from friends, photos of herself (showing how beautiful she is) and her gorgeous medieval home in France. Like Barry, Kominsky Crumb's work has often been labeled "ugly" and dismissed as inept, but it's amazingly effective and brilliantly conveys the changing emotional states of her often dramatic life. As crazy as the events are, you often get the feeling that she plays down the drama somewhat -- although the sequence of her throwing herself at poor George Harrison at the height of Beatlemania has been caught on tape. Her story is both completely singular and yet woven into the American 60s and 70s counter-culture, from Greenwich Village to San Francisco. She's always frank about her feelings, mistakes and choices. Unconventional and neurotic, Kominsky Crumb has nonetheless carved out a life that allows her to create her art (I *love* her doll sculptures!), keep amazingly fit and maintain the relationships she needs to be happy. To get a taste of her unique voice, check out this interview at Phawker.

Given the Boot

Yes, I have been booted now, which is a definite improvement over the crutches and Ace bandage. I taught today -- up and down to the third floor a couple of times -- so my foot was quite swollen by the time I got to the orthopedist. Crutches are painful! It was easier to limp up the stairs. But he looked at the x-rays and said very bad sprain, torn ligaments (insert Marge Simpson noise, which is what the doctor did as he pointed at all my bruises), calcium deposits from previous injuries to the ankle and, yes, it's true! A heel spur and plantar fasciitis, but only coincidentally.

So, I have the boot for walking around, I'm back to elevating and icing (or will be in a minute or so), and will be starting physical therapy to begin the healing process so I won't be lame for ever. It's a relief to know what is wrong instead of guessing, but it's still painful (and inconvenient). On the plus side, my students and colleagues were very helpful to me today and I have already Sanrio-fied the boot (well, duh!), Hello Kitty on the left and Badtz-Maru on the right.

A Moment's Inattention

I received a powerful lesson in mindfulness today. As I was out on my daily walk -- my thoughts a thousand miles away -- I twisted my ankle as I walked down the hill coming out of the forest by Buckingham Lake and fell down hard. The scrapes and bruises on my knees and on the heels of my hands were nothing next to the sprain. I could feel it tearing as I was falling and saying, "Ow, ow, ow!" Oddly enough, although it was a time that might legitimately have called for saltier language, I really did just say "ow" repeatedly.

An elderly gentleman, one of the regulars, helped me get up and dust off. He offered to walk with me or whatever I needed, but I told him I would be okay and was going to go sit down. But as I limped along the path, I figured out that it was going to stiffen up quickly if I sat, so I just walked home. Nothing like pain to focus the mind. Every step was vivid. Yeah, it was pretty swollen by the time I got home. Iced it after a shower, but looking on line I find that you're not supposed to ice for more than 20 minutes at a time, so I guess I'll put the ice away and get out the Ace.

Well, I had planned to blog today on the toys: Ianto's new Gelaskin with lovely Ralph Steadman art, "Vintage Dr Gonzo" and the new phone that now features George Spiggot saying "Julie Andrews!" I had planned a lot of things for today that will have to be adjusted now. You'd think, given my natural inclination toward laziness, that this would provide a good excuse to do nothing, but my perverse nature rebels at anything I'm forced to do; so, forced to be immobile, I get antsy. There's no pleasing some people. I'll be quite bereft without my daily walk -- no rabbits, herons, ducks, kingfishers, turtles, and dogs. There's also the whole pain thing...

If Thursday was a Boat...

"Here's why I did not go to work today..."

I'm spending this "surreptitiously unique" day once more in the moving process because time is running out, work was not advancing well anyway, and it's got to get done. Somehow, somehow -- at least Harry Nilsson is in my head.

Think positive: progress is being made. Not entirely tangible right now as I sit among scattered boxes in the still-too-full house, but there has been progress.

Boxing Day

Just taking a break from the numbing process. Today we need to box up everything that's sitting on furniture large enough to have to be moved on the truck that we rented for tomorrow. Time to turn off the brain in order to avoid thinking about a) how much stuff we still have, b) how hard it will be to drag it up to the third floor, and c) how it will not all fit anyway. Yes, yes, we brought it on ourselves. No one should pity us. Just reporting the facts, ma'am. And doing a good impression of a Romero extra.

Tomorrow will be the deciding day: what doesn't fit (furniture-wise), has to go... somewhere. Not in the aerie. Shelves that don't fit mean books that won't fit either. I just don't know. I don't think I can fit too many more books in my office. But we're not going to live with boxes like now; I've had enough of that.

Save the date: Saturday June 28th -- I think by then everything that's going there will have to be situated. Sangria in the afternoon, chips and salsa and the unveiling of the new digs. It's small, but there are the stairs for overflow. Kipper will just hide under the bed anyway.

Yard sale at the old place the day after... everything must go.

Son of Dracula Iron-On

Big thanks to Gene for scanning in this beauty:

Yes, it's the iron-on patch from the soundtrack album for the Apple film Son of Dracula, starring Harry Nilsson and, as Merlin, Ringo Starr. Thanks to the internet, I finally got a copy of the film some time back. It's not good (shock! horror!), but I have at last seen that for myself. And now I can share the wealth with you all. While chatting about the film last week, I remembered the iron-on which I was too indecisive to ever use (and of course, I figured I would no doubt set fire to the house trying to actually apply it -- don't forget I'm the one whose hairdryer started on fire just a couple of weeks ago). So, voilá!

You can find other lovely Harry stuff over at the always wonderful For the Love of Harry blog if this isn't enough for you. Yes, I ought to be thinking about (and doing something about) moving. I'm trying -- yesterday we had the slow leak in the tire patched and the suddenly broken trunk lock fixed. Later in the afternoon the tire blew while Gene was driving on the highway, so now we need a new tire. Sigh. As if moving wasn't horrible enough on its own...

Is it time to just set fire to it all? Ashes take up far less room than books.

How to Survive Moving

Don't do it...

You want fries with that MFA?

I'm not much on the same page with the Atlantic (or anybody else; what can I say? I'm cranky), but I have to say I was nodding my head through this piece by B. R. Myers about yet another inexplicably celebrated MFA-style writer. To be fair, I've not read anything by him, but I'm not going to rush to do so after digesting the excerpts in this article.

Brittle

I find it a tad ironic that last night I made nut brittle and this morning everything was coated with a thick shiny layer of ice -- at least I felt a strange sense of déjà vu as I chipped off the shards of ice glazing the car. I had woken up at the usual time, but went back to bed until I heard the snowplow go by. I figured that after rush hour the roads would be clear. As expected, the worst parts were at each end of the journey to campus, our driveway at home being a sheet of ice and the lot at my office barely punctured by the sprinkle of salt chucked on it. The crossing gates were stuck down at the railroad tracks, but the cops were there to wave us through (which nonetheless made me a tad uncomfortable).

I just don't have the adventures Miss Wendy has, but her story did remind me of a favorite song by Neil Innes that was part of the Rutland Weekend Television (with Eric Idle), where he performs as the Marx Brothers.

Friday with Jordan went okay. After worrying so much, the shot went fine. He never even flinched. Plus, Robert left us yummy enchiladas and fresh guacamole. Not to mention the fabulous breakfast, too -- he always spoils us. On the way home, not quite as many raptors as the last trip, but 17 or 18. Mostly they were red-tails, but there was one that I think was a Broad-winged Hawk, enjoying a meal up on a branch. We saw one in the process of catching her lunch as well. One raven sat way off in the distance on a lone tree.

The season heats up: finals to give this week (tomorrow and Friday), graduation and two parties Saturday, and of course, next Monday is my birthday -- where I already find that most of my local friends have to attend a meeting, while one of my colleagues is giving a holiday party that everyone here will probably attend. Grumble, grumble; nothing like a birthday the week before Xmas.

What's a-matter, short story?

Stephen King has a column in the NYTimes book review today about the state of the short story (you might also want to check out Tom Friedman's scathing column, an excellent read). While King can always make me cringe with his crudeness, he's put his finger on a serious problem: bad writing. Much of it, although he doesn't identify the culprit, is the crap writing created by the plethora of MFA programs that churn out graduates. I am breathing a sigh of relief because our department has decided not to pursue developing an MFA program despite the administration's encouragement. However, there are those whose attitudes provoke this kind of cookie-cutter spineless writing: writing instructors. In particular I mean the kind who think "good writing" only fits into a tiny category (i.e. the realistic setting, the tiny epiphany, the morose tone) and ridicule students who chose not to follow that model.

Kurt Vonnegut wrote a wonderful piece on writing and writers' workshops (but then, he was often full of good advice) that you can find in Wampeters, Foma & Granfalloons. It is called "Teaching the Unteachable" and in it he says:

You can't teach people to write well. Writing well is something God lets you do or declines to let you do. Most bright people know that, but writers' conferences continue to multiply in the good old American summertime. Sixty-eight of them are listed in last April's issue of The Writer [in 1967!]. Next year there will be more. They are harmless. They are shmoos.

He's right, but don't tell my creative writing students that. They're still under the illusion that I am teaching them to write. I am only helping them to write better if they choose to pursue it. Most of them won't. They'll get their feet wet here and then decide it's just too much work. They're right: it's too much work, but some of us can't help ourselves.

They'll miss too the words of Brenda Ueland (which I will give them at the end of the semester, along with Octavia Butler's "Furor Scribendi" which ends with the most important word of all: "persist"). Ueland says: "Everybody is talented, original and has something to say." I'll say it, but most of the them won't hear it.