Les Guys de Versailles: Adventures in Selective Memory

Dave Barry, one of my heroes (alongside Jim Henson, the Moomins, and Colin Mochrie), once wrote a column in which he stated that the average person of his generation would be unable to name any Supreme Court justices, but would remember in perfect detail the theme song to the TV show Robin Hood.  


My sister, reading this column aloud, had scarcely gotten to the next sentence when our father (who is of Dave Barry's generation) exclaimed: "Hey! I watched that show!" With no further prompting, he launched right into a jolly rendition of the theme-song, complete with rolled r's and delivery straight from Sadler's Wells. Word-perfect, naturally.


When he was finished, my sister remarked: "Yes, that's right." She had been following the lyrics as Dave Barry had typed them on the page (I assume he did this without having to go back to check anything).


This fits with something I've observed about human memory myself.  It's not just our formative years that stay with us the most strongly.  It's what we watched on TV in our formative years.  And, if you ask me, it's what we watched on Saturday mornings in particular.  Has anybody else noticed this? We remember our morning cartoons in extraordinarily vivid detail.  I do not have the faintest memory of what the trichotomy axiom is,* but I can remember, with photographic precision, any number of individual mornings in 1999, getting up in the wee dark hours with my sister to watch episodes of Pokémon and Sailor Moon.**


And so I say to those of you in MY generation - excepting those of you who spent the year 1999 being Amish - that if you do not remember this, you are lying:

My sister is younger, so thanks to her this was my second go at the whole morning cartoon experience.  As it happens, I myself already had my own stash of useless but incredibly vivid TV-memories from when I was a wee Snark.  The problem is, when you carry these memories around long enough, you start to doubt their accuracy. Case in point: I went around for years convinced I had fabricated a commercial I "saw" as a toddler.  The commercial, for Dreft detergent, featured a female narrator speaking in the softest yet most reptilian voice imaginable about DREFFFFFT: FOR A CLEEEEAN YOU CAN TOUCCCCHHHHH.  This commercial dominated my brain for literally years, replacing recollections of things like upcoming doctor's appointments, drowning out most of college,*** until finally I ran across a video of it last year.  It did exist! See?

Okay, so that lady's voice isn't QUITE as creeptastic as I remember.  I mean, I honestly recalled her speaking Parseltongue.  But whatever! I didn't make it up! Score!****


Obviously, stuff like this takes up critical brain space.  But the question remains: what is it replacing? At least, what is it replacing of use? Because I know that, even without the palliative of morning cartoons, I wasn't about to go around thinking of the trichotomy axiom, and neither were you, stupid.  So morning-cartoon memory syndrome might have an evolutionary function, but it's not to block out math.  Something else would have stepped in to serve that purpose.  


So it's not math, and it isn't history, either.  Yes, yes, I know: every day we see another article bemoaning how today's youth do not know basic U.S. history.  This is an incomplete statement.  I personally have completed an extremely rigorous course of higher education, so I can tell you, from personal experience, that today's youth do not know foreign history, either.  


Why is this? Simple: we block it all out with things we prefer to think about.  I am thinking here of a semester I spent in France, where I took a course in foreign history.*****  For one class, we went to Versailles, which features the Palace of Versailles,****** the former home of Louis XIV (son of Rick and Kimberly XIV).  From there we went to the Salle du Jeu de paume, which is historically significant because during the French Revolution, several hundred members of the Third Estate, angered because they had been excluded from a meeting of the Estates-General, went in there to do battle with Sailor Moon.


Okay, so maybe that wasn't it exactly, but to tell you the truth, my mind wandered.  The professor was telling our group about the history of the place, and actually it was very interesting, but as it happened, my friend and I had found something far more interesting: marble busts of historical guys lining the sides of the room.  Each of these guys had their name carved on their front (you can be sure this was not the case in real life; or possibly they all died of bloodloss).  This was how we discovered that one of them was named "Target."  


I should explain, for the benefit of those not In the Know, that Target is an American low-cost department store, which Americans often jocularly refer to with French pronunciation, as "Tar-zhay."  So my friend and I had a conversation like this:


ME: "Tar-zhay."
MY FRIEND: Heh heh! (Beat.)  How do you think you'd explain that to French people?
ME: Huh.  I dunno.
(Beat.)
MY FRIEND: "Tar-zhay."
ME: Heh heh!


Another girl in the class had also broken off from the group and had undertaken the academic pursuit of determining which historical marble guy was hottest.  As a scholar, I thoroughly respected this endeavor.


The moral of this story is, history is JUST NOT INTERESTING, unlike (a) things we watched when we were little, and (b) the question of which Versailles guy is hotter than all the rest (answer: that one guy, whose name and role in history currently escape me).  And it's not just history; the same goes for sociology, philosophy, science, the sociology of philosophical science, and anything else they teach at a college.


So - and call me a bold and inspiring visionary if you like - I'm unveiling my idea for the College of the Future.  At this college, you would be able to major in only one of two subjects: either Saturday Morning Cartoons or Ranking Dead Historical Figures by Hotness.  Just think of the commitment students would demonstrate to their education! 100% of graduates would go into jobs in their chosen fields.  Granted, their chosen fields would be Cartoon-Watching Expert and Hotness Specialist, but would this really be such a bad state of affairs? Would it really be so much worse than the universities' current practice of annually turning out an estimated 16,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 investment bankers?


Anyway, I don't know about you, but I'm sure sold on my idea.  And as a prospective master's degree candidate at the College of the Future,  I humbly suggest that students also be allowed to minor in Coffee.  I even promise to listen to the lectures, sometimes.






* Answer: it was something in my math book.


** Fighting ee-evil by moon-LIGHT!
     Winning lo-ove by day-LIGHT!
     Never running from a REAL FIGHT!
     She is the ONE NAMED SAILOR MOON!
     She will never, yada yada yada, etc.   


*** I wish.


**** I didn't mean right now.  Come back and read this blog.


***** Of course THEY will try to tell you it's domestic history.   


****** And don't try to tell me this is a coincidence.

©2011 Nicola McEldowney

o snarker, where art thou?

I've been AWOL.  I'm sorry.  There's no excuse.

Well, except that I joined a French theatre troupe, my musical finally received its honest-to-goodness test outing at the Players Club of NYC, I wrote and directed and performed in and made the puppets for two original puppet shows, and ... hmmm, there was one other thing.  What was it? . . .

. . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

Oh, yeah! I graduated from college!

Those of you who have followed this blog (or lack of) over the past four years will recall that, at times* I have been dismissive, derogatory, sneering, snide, even a little ambivalent toward the university system.  But now, here at the "other end" of things, as I look back through the past four years with the kind of reflective stance that can only come of standing reflectively, I must admit, in all honesty, that college is still really pretty stupid.

Naww, but seriously, I have to say the last semester was no slouch.  Here we are, the French/Francophone theatre troupe "L'Atelier entre deux murs" (The Workshop Between Two Walls), performing Ionesco's Le Roi se meurt back in February.  This is the play that gets translated as Exit the King in English, basically because if they translated it literally as The King Dies Himself, the French would all be considered Loony McLoonybutts, except of course for the aristocracy, who would be considered Loony de McLoonybutts.

What with being the only American/non-native Francophone in the company, the onus was on me** to not sound like a total raving dipwad, a feat I am reasonably sure I accomplished with aplomb.***  But either way, you're never going to find out, since these photos can't talk nyah nyah nyah.

In all seriousness, it was a blast, and I only wish we'd gotten to perform the play more times.  We were originally scheduled for an extra performance at the Lycée Français de New York, only to be mysteriously cancelled days before.  I never really got to say goodbye to my character Queen Marguerite and I'm sorry for that.  But I'm glad we got the one go.

As you may note, I played the role in a relatively ill-fitting garment, expressly designed for an individual with more bodice-filling aptitude (this being one of the things they test you on when you take the SAT).  However, it turns out this is an excellent way to keep your energy (alternatively known as "terror") level nice and high during a performance.  Which, in fact, I already knew from prior experience; I've been in shows where (a) I actually had a dress come OFF and (b) a baseball fell smack down onto the middle of my head.  So this was no biggy.  You learn how to roll with things.  Or, as we say in French, "on apprend à roller with things."

Next up: Aisle Six, the glorious premiere at the Players Club last month.  Stay tuned!






* Specifically, all times.
** As in, "AHHH! THERE'S AN ONUS ON ME! GET IT OFF!!!"
*** As in, "Gee, Bob, you washed those windows with aplomb."  "Naw, I'm pretty sure I used a squeegee."****
**** There will be no more stupid word jokes for the remainder of this post.  Probably.

Stop and Smell the Roses (it'll look good on your college application)

Normally, I don't like to get too deep, but today's topic is: life.  This is a pretty universal topic, because chances are most of you reading this are alive, or at least university trustees, so it probably applies to you.  And let's not beat around it; life is hard! Just think of all the problems we encounter in a single day: war, recession, prejudice, inadequate Netflix selection, the gumball not coming all the way out of the machine EVEN THOUGH WE PUT IN A QUARTER JUST LIKE IT SAID. 

Yes, in these troubled times of ours (3:40 and 3:41 P.M., Daylight Savings) it's all too easy too get caught up in the "small picture" and ignore the "big picture."  The reason for this is all too simple: your television has "picture-in-picture," and you have set the small picture to porn while the big picture is on C-SPAN.  Your best bet would be to switch them.

So, how exactly do we learn to "stop and smell the roses?" Ideally by following the words of the great writer Henry "James" Joyce, who said, "Stop and smell the roses."  Of course, moments after Henry stopped to sniff the nearest rose, sixteen killer bees crawled up his nose and pretty much exploded his whole head, but we appreciate the sentiment just the same.

Of course, maybe you don't want to be like Henry, who after all had to go around for the rest of his authorial life with an exploded head, which led to some pretty comical dust-jacket photos.  But you also don't want to be like the other extreme, as represented by the Manhattan mother who recently sued her 4-year-old daughter's pre-school for $19,000, claiming the school damaged the daughter's chances of one day getting into the Ivy League.

Now this is what we would call an example of "small-picture thinking."  Can you imagine claiming that a child's college admission chances could get damaged at age 4? The very idea! No, parents, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but in fact your child's college chances are "made or broken" while he or she is still an unfertilized egg.  Everything rests on the ovary environment.  Is it nutritive* or not? What are those other eggs doing in there? Are they reading The Economist and listening to Bach? Or ... are they reading the National Enquirer and listening to Aaron Copland?**  Your child will come out accordingly, parents.  And no amount of elite pre-schooling can make a damned bit of difference, except as measured in ear infections.***

Besides, no offense, but here's the thing: what were you like when you were four? Because, with all due respect to your little super-spawn,**** four-year-old children have approximately the same academic capacity as Q-Tips, only much shorter attention spans.  Naturally, though, this improves with age, as goes without ... LOOK! A PENNY!

Ha ha, only kidding.  (It was a quarter.)  Now of course I don't claim to know what you were like when you were four; maybe you already had big Harvard dreams.  I myself had but three Life Aspirations:

1. Go to McDonald's.
2. Acquire Happy Meal toy (the girl one, not the boy one).  (Then, before exiting restaurant, promptly lose Happy Meal Toy somewhere in the vicinity of a black hole, leading to extremely loud grief and rage, leading perhaps to acquisition of a replacement Happy Meal toy.)
3. Try to ride the dog.

So naturally my life experience leads me to be a bit skeptical of pre-schoolers' abilities to be on the Ivy League track in the first place, although, admittedly, I could be wrong.  Also the Indian Ocean could be made of "Berry Blue Typhoon"-flavor Hawaiian Punch and the next Nobel laureate could be a Labrador retriever named "Boomer."*****

Which is all to say, take time each day to remember - in the words of somebody who was probably not Henry "James" Joyce, because by this time his head had already exploded - "don't sweat the small stuff; there is no big stuff."  This means, if you absolutely HAVE to sweat, take care only to sweat a little bit and not a lot, because otherwise you will stink and nobody will want to date you.

Also, I personally got into an Ivy League college after having been home-schooled for 12 years, which I mention in order to (a) buoy you hopeful parents out there and (b) say nyah nyah.

But what do you care anyway? You're not listening to me.  You're still watching that picture-in-picture. 




* Get it? Eggs.  Nutritive.  HAH!
** Stop that crying.  Now.
*** But at least they will be elite ear infections.
**** Unless he or she has a name like "Brantleigh" in which case I take back the respect thing and replace it with snickering.  Brantleigh! Hee!
***** I'm going to come back to eat my words on that one, aren't I.  I've doomed myself.

Doctors with borders

So, I don't usually think of myself as a rebel renegade rule-breaking law-flouting system-spitting-at type, but this morning I attempted - yes, I freely admit it - to make a medical appointment.  At the university health center.

(Music: "Night on Bald Mountain")

As you have no doubt guessed by the music, this is problematic on several counts.  First of all, I had a medical need, which quite frankly does not thrill your modern university medical practice.  Your modern university medical practice has no particular desire to see students.  They essentially see us as great festering pestilent wads of social disease with the rational capacities of phlegm.  Needless to say, I heartily object to this characterization of college students, on grounds I have currently forgotten.

But anyway, my point is that the health professionals prefer to keep as great a distance from us as possible, preferring to administer medical care in a more "hands-off" kind of way, like through catchy Health Initiatives, as seen on fun posters in the student union:

SYPHILIS SHEEP SAYS: STDs ARE BAAAAAAAAAAD


Therefore, if you should try God forbid to make an appointment through the health services website (turnbackNOWpunk.college.edu), you will get the following notices:

Do you need a same-day visit? --> No --> There are no appointments available in the next two weeks.

Do you need a same-day visit? --> Yes --> Is it life-threatening? --> No --> There are no appointments available in the next two weeks, asshole.

However, if by some ungodly happenstance you should actually manage to make an appointment, you can rest assured that this will probably not make things any better at all.  In fact, it will probably make things worse.  I remind you we are talking about college health services here, which means that the medical professionals, bless their hearts, may be affected by certain "environmental schemas" about just what might be wrong with you:

University medical professional: What seems to be the problem?

Me: I have a sore throat.

University medical professional: Do you think you might be pregnant?

Me: No, I said I have a sore throat.

University medical professional (with gentle, soothing caring): It's going to be okay. 

I seem to get this a lot, but in fact, I have a suspicion it doesn't really matter who you are:

Patient: I think I shattered my ribs.

Doctor: What makes you think that?

Patient: Well, I fell 20 floors, and they're like all shattered, and every time I try to move, I'm in unbearable agony, plus this bone here is sticking out and inexplicably playing songs from Disney's "Beauty and the Beast," the Broadway smash hit musical.

Doctor: Do you think you might be pregnant?

Patient: No, sir.  Um, I'm a virgin.  And, um, male.

Doctor: What is your estimate of the date of conception?

In other words, college students, you can never win, and it is best, if you have a modicum of common sense, to forget medical care and tough out your medical problem.  The alternative will benefit no one.  You would do better to go to the student union, and get a bubble tea, and space out on posters featuring Syphilis Sheep.  Or, if you absolutely must go to the university health center, at least take advantage of the free condoms on the receptionist's desk, which are useful, among other things, for making fun balloon animals while you wait.  

Vive l'histoire!

Lately, I’ve been negligent about blogging.  This is all college’s fault.  It’s very hard, although I should clarify that this is not what people usually mean when they say college is hard.  What they mean is this.  (Excuse me while I get into character.  Preparation is crucial to an actor.)

LIKE, COLLEGE IS SOOOOO HAAAAAARD! LIKE SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO, LIKE, LEARN STUFF, AND STUFF.  OMIGOD IT TOTALLY SUUUUUUCKS.

Whereas what I think is hard is not having the time to write stuff that actually matters to you, defined as “stuff that does not have the words ‘neo-teological bifurcated gender dichotomy’ in the title.”  Because what college really is, if you ask me, is basically just a big fat old time-sucker, with the only pay-offs being (a) eventual social status (so I’m told) and (b) occasionally the vending machines give you two bags of animal crackers instead of one (this will appear on your next bill). 

So it’s time to multitask.  Today, I’m going to allow academia to seep into blogging (as in, “Ewww! This blogging has academia all over it!”), which means today, we’re going to review for midterms.  Thus, without further ado, I give you:

THE HISTORY OF FRANCE

40,000 B.C. – Cro-Magnon.

30,000 B.C. – Sno-Magnon.  (These were Magnons who sold sno-cones on street corners.  Recently, fossils were found at the corner of 79^th and Broadway.)

12,000 B.C. – Rise of the Gauls, whom historical artifacts suggest to have been a comical race of tiny little yellow-bearded men with big fat sidekicks.

55 B.C. – Beginning of the colonisation of Gaul by the Romans.  Having conquered it, they commence building FNACs.  Of course, nobody knows what the “F” stands for.

45 B.C. – Gérard Depardieu stars in first film.

50 B.C. – The Romans slap their foreheads as they realize B.C. numbers actually go backward.  While the Romans are preoccupied slapping their foreheads, barbarians invade.

500 A.D. – Barbarians slap their foreheads, realizing their invasion actually wasn’t supposed to occur till now.

500 A.D., later in the afternoon – Barbarians get bored and flee, leaving their trash behind.  Everyone else is left picking up White Castle wrappers for days.

800 A.D. – Charlemagne becomes emperor in a special ceremony at Charles de Gaulle airport. 

987 A.D. – Domination of the feudal lords by the monarchy, who merge to become Feudal Lords-The Monarchy Amalgmated Enterprises, LLC, now Time Warner Cable. 

987 A.D. – 14^th and 15^th centuries – Nothing happens during this time.  Everybody gets frankly pretty bored sitting around waiting for the 14^th and 15^th centuries.  “Where the heck are the 14^th and 15^th centuries?” are their exact words.  They are confounded, and with good reason: they did not know they spoke English.

14^th and 15^th centuries: Finally we get back to business with the toe-tapping Guerre de cent ans contre les Anglais (literally, “the Time Warner Cable Guerre de cent ans contre les Anglais”).  The English respond by putting them in English hotels.  France surrenders instantly.  No one blames them.  Also during this time, the exploits of Jeanne d’Arc, played by Gérard Depardieu.

The Middle Ages, Absolutism, and the Enlightenment – These all happened in the same day (“vendredi”), which as you can imagine meant schlepping all over creation.

15^th-16^th centuries: Introduction of the Renaissance in France, a beautiful and enriching era of endless discovery and creation, during which the finest artistic figures in the history of Western civilization – Shakespeare, da Vinci, Lady Gaga, Pikachu, etc. – all go bowling.

16^th century, a little later on that evening – The French decide to appropriate the word “bowling” and pronounce it comically, as in, “Elle fait du bouh-linggg.”  Americans, who do not exist yet, snicker secretly.

1515 – King Francis I takes the throne.  Cards featuring beloved comic character Bécassine are sent out for the occasion.

1562-1589 Wars of religion between the Catholics and the Protestants.  In a stunning upset, they are both defeated by the Knicks.

1589 Henri IV crowned king of France, followed soon by his sequel, Henri V Strikes Back.

1804-15: The First Empire, so called because it is – pay close attention here – the first empire.  People decide that if THIS kind of thinking is the end product of the so-called “Enlightenment,” they want their money back.  Customer Service is invented for the express purpose of denying this request, in a historic ceremony featuring Broadway songs.

1848: The Second Republic, so called because there weren’t any republics before it.

1870: The Third Republic, which causes people everywhere to mumble, “What, another one?” in French.  (“Quoi, another un?”)

1936-8: Le Front Populaire of Léon Blum, followed by the Side Unpopulaire of Léon Blum, then finally the Back, which is so unpopular it goes straight to DVD.

1946-58: The Fourth Republic happens, but by this time no one is even paying attention.
Independence of many of the French colonies, which show their discontent by burning their bras.

1981 – Francois Mitterrand “cohabitates” with Jacques Chirac, which raises eyebrows, especially when they get matching towel sets.

1991 – Election of the first female prime minister, Edith Cresson, played by Gérard Depardieu.

1992-present – France continues to pronounce “bowling” funny.

Thanks for helping me study.  You guys are great.  You’ll let me know if there are mistakes, right? 

Study Abroad Advice

Today's words of wisdom go out to all you fresh-faced underclasspersons who wish to follow in the Snark's fashionable Parisian boot-steps and study over here (where I'm sitting). I expect you have a great many questions about Study Abroad, which I will be all too happy to answer for you as soon as I finish partaking of the local culture by watching these attractive men play rugby at the Esplanade des Invalides. Uh, that is, "going to the Louvre." Yes, "going to the Louvre," that is what I meant to say. Hahahaha! Whoops! I am always making that little typographical slipup. Too easy. Mmmmmm ... Louvre.

Anyway, this installment was inspired by the department of study abroad at my home university, which recently sent me the following questionnaire. Their questions are italicized. My answers are bold.*


* Have you gotten involved in your host culture? It is not too late to find activities that will get you out there and mixing more with the people of the country. Are you getting everything you can out of your living experience?

I am lucky enough to be living with some of the finest people I have ever met. Endlessly kind, hospitable and sociable (please note the omission of second comma, per French university regulations), they have assisted me in all those little “foreigner-abroad” matters such as how best to travel around Europe and how best not to blow up their house by using their gas stove incorrectly. Living with them has allowed me to attain more fluency and comfort with French than I ever dreamed possible. For example, many people told me that no matter how comfortable I got in French, when it came to counting, I would still count in English. Whereas now I find that when I count, it is certainly not in English. It is not in French, either; in fact, it is not in ANY known language, but by gum, it is something. Instead, I find I only revert to English for cursing out drivers. On the other hand, on those occasions when I find the family dog has messed around with my garbage, I am heartened to find that I am now increasingly able to erupt in vile French words without a second thought. That was when I knew I had truly “gotten involved.”

* Reflect on the regional course you took in preparation for the semester abroad. How has it shaped your experience? Can you define one or two themes from your regional course that you see “in action” while you have been abroad? Are there other courses you’ve taken that have helped shape your experience?

My “regional course” was the formidable (for-mee-dable: that’s French) French Cultural Workshop, and while this was one of the two best courses I have ever taken in college,** I must say that while our professor imparted volumes on the political, social, and cultural climates of this country*** - on governmental figures, on ethnic unrest, on artistic predilections and educational methods and familial relationships – I do not believe he mentioned on any occasion that the dog would try to eat my trash. So I suppose I will have to chalk this up to an oversight. Next question.


* What are the main differences you see in the educational system abroad? Do the differences in teaching or learning styles tell you anything about the culture as a whole? Who are your classmates? Do they represent a certain socioeconomic segment of society or does education in your host country cut across these boundaries?

I’m glad you asked. This particular Cultural Disparity was perhaps best “driven home” for me by my literature course at Paris IV, for which I had to write a “dissertation.” This is a French word meaning “academic document you have to write for literature courses at Paris IV, pronounced ‘dis-ser-tah-tion.’” Since I’ve been meaning to get this off my chest anyway, je vous hereby présente the Official National Structure of a university dissertation:


INTRODUCTION
• Introductory Statement
o Say what you are about to say.
o Say the thing you just said you were about to say.
o Confirm that you have just finished saying the thing which you have just finished saying.
o Now, lay out the following parts of your document as follows: Here is what I will say in Part I. Here is what I will say in Section I of Part I. Here is what I will say in Section II of Part I. Here is what I will say in Section III of Part I.
o Here is what I have just finished saying about Part I.
o Now do the same for Parts II and III.
• Part I
o Here again is what I have just finished saying I will say in Sections I, II, and III of Part I.
o Here again (but just by itself this time) is what I will say in Section I.
o Section I (omitted for reasons of length constraints)
o Here is what I have just finished saying in Section I.

I omit Parts II, III, and the Conclusion because no known student has ever gotten to them, for reasons of death. Depending on length, it can take as long as 87 years to write a single dissertation. So you can understand why I don’t elaborate on who my classmates are: I’d ask them, but they are too busy writing their dissertations. So far they have been in the library since February, betraying no signs of life except for the occasional twitch, which I think I might have been imagining anyway.

Obviously this is very different from the American style of learning, in which we just “compare-n-contrast” everything, including calculus, with 20th-century feminist theory and have done with it already.


Thank you. I hope it was as good for you as it was for me. On which note I close by saying to you, study-abroad hopefuls, from the very bottom of my heart: leave me alone. I am trying to enjoy the Louvre here.



* And dynamic, yet with a touch of girlish charm.
** The other being a psychology class in which I learned the scientific foundations of why people act like Whonko McNutasses.
*** France.




©2010 Nicola McEldowney

Rock the Vote

Today’s message from the Snark is brought to you by the Department of Those Highly Politically Active College Students, You Know The Type, Who Color-Code Their Fabric-Softened Clothes, Run For Every Available Office Including Vice President of Vending Machine Affairs, and Still Wet The Bed. Please give them a hand.*

This one is for all you college students out there. People: get out there and vote in your school elections. The Snark doesn’t want to have to say this again. Do you understand, fully understand, what it means to exercise your democratic rights as a student? No, the Snark didn’t think so. Well, allow me to explain it more fully to you. It works like this: if you DON’T exercise your democratic rights as a student, then there will be NO students for apathetic students like the Snark to hide behind. So there. I hope you are ashamed of yourselves.

This has been much on my mind, because recently, election season got into full swing at my current school, the Université Paris IV Centre Malesherbes (named after the eminent seventeenth-century royal court guy the Marquis de l’Université Paris IV Centre Malesherbes). Now you’ll have to forgive me my sentimentality here, but there is something profoundly stirring about the moment when your fellow students – the politically-minded leaders of tomorrow, with the dreams of leadership in their hearts and the condoms of leadership in their pockets – stand up before class, go up there in front of the whole auditorium, and bravely, steadily, voice their visions of the future. “Blah,” they say. “Blah blah. Blah blah, blah, blah blah blah.” I have no idea what they are saying, because everybody is talking over them about other things. But I am nonetheless profoundly stirred by this occasion, and with good reason: it shaves off class time. Therefore I am free to kick back and do my own thing,** and occasionally look up to realize the Leader of Tomorrow is still blah-blah-blahing about whatever. Blah-blah-BLAH BLAH BLAH, they say, reaching their climax of passion,*** at which point SPLOOSH I am free to dunk myself back down into the Great Pool of Cozy Apathy, which is where I write these columns.****

Getting a new cafeteria seems to be the central issue of most of the candidates’ platforms. Though I am not a full-time student over at old Marquis de l’Université, I can frankly understand the need. Our current cafeteria consists of the following:

1. Food (occasionally available, unless sold out) (usually sold out)
2. Vending machines that do not accept certain coins, defined as “coins used by humans.”
3. Students sleeping on windowsills.

So until this pressing issue is resolved, us students will be subject to frenzied Leaders of Tomorrow, with crazed eyes and foamy mouths, leaping upon our persons at every corner and promising to give us pedicures on the spot or whatever if we will only listen to their deepest feelings on blah blah blah. Me, I always do, and I highly suggest you do the same. You might be lucky enough to have an experience such as mine the other day. At the time, I was with a friend of mine who has the remarkable ability – like laser vision or picking things up with his toes – to be interested in The Issues. We were going about our business when we were accosted by a girl who wanted to campaign at us. This included handing us a brochure with the names of the candidates on it. Now in my defense, I tried, HONESTLY I did, to listen carefully to the girl’s speech and consider her views, but unfortunately this was impossible due to the fact that I happened to look down at her brochure and see that one of the candidates is named – really – “Aphrodite Hung.” I do not have to tell you how much The Issues began to mean to me at that point, except to describe the ensuing tableau in which my friend stood there nodding thoughtfully, making Informed Political Decisions, while I was doubled over like a person with a full-body bowel disorder, trying not to spit out her own skull ; that is how profoundly I was affected at that moment by The Issues. I only wish that you will one day experience the same.

Which is all to come back to my original point, which is:***** EXERCISE YOUR POLITICAL RIGHTS, STUDENTS. Don’t relax, react. Think not of your Facebook, but of your future.****** Get out there, whenever it is those elections are,******* and vote, vote, vote. Vote for improvement. Vote for justice.

And please please plEEEEEase -- you will make the Snark's day -- vote for Aphrodite.

* They need it.

** Usually draw pictures of dogs.

*** This is usually the part where they talk about a new cafeteria.

**** That’s why they’re always a little wet when I first post them.

***** Beats me.

****** When you will be on Facebook.

******** Probably yesterday or something.

©2010 Nicola McEldowney

Who Gives a Lit?

Today’s column comes at you from the Dept. of Larnin’, where you too can pretend to do your literature homework while really secretly (SHHHH) writing a column (DON’T TELL ANYBODY).

If, like me, you ever found yourself in the bowels of academia, you no doubt encountered the great ancient philosophy-guy Aristotle, who went by only one name the way at least one contestant always does on American Idol, and who had things to say about philosophy to boot. For example, he said (we understand this was with a straight face) that, in any dramatic story, plot is more important than characters. Clearly, “Aristotle” had never read Shakespeare’s Cymbeline. This was on account of either pig-ignorance or its having been written nearly 2,000 years after his death, but either way, the Dept. of Larnin’ calls it a poor excuse.

Cymbeline, you see, is a play in which the “plot” consists, at one beautiful point – keep in mind the Dept. of Larnin’ exaggerates nothing here – of Jupiter suddenly descending in the middle of a scene, like when the characters are doing the dishes or something, and offering to fix all their problems, to which the characters say (understandably), “Thanks, Jupiter.” In perfect unison. Naturally Shakespeare doesn’t give a stage direction, but I like to think they say it in the exact manner of Suzanne Somers thanking the Thigh-Master (in fact, scholars agree this was Shakespeare’s inspiration for the scene).

And yet, here’s the thing: this is an awesome play. Never mind these little plot kinks; this is the same play in which a girl wakes up from a drugged sleep in a cave, next to a headless body she thinks is her lover’s, and she manages to keep her wits about her enough to say the coolest monologue on earth, which, if I recall correctly, goes something like this:

Yes, sir, to Milford Haven. Which is the way?

(Something) (something) GAH!!!! HOLY CRAP!!!!! A HEADLESS BODY!!!!!!!!

(Something) (something) (something about flowers, I think)

So when’s this mortal coil gonna give us some PAUSE already, huh?

OK, so I don’t remember it exactly, but in my defense, it’s been years. I did once have a rich knowledge of this piece, though; I even, on one occasion, performed it at a conservatory audition in the city, with my green L.L. Bean parka playing the part of the corpse. Sadly, I did not receive an offer of admission, but my coat got in on a full scholarship. (Rim shot.)

Anyway, for next week’s exam, I’ll need to remember the definitions for five terms, all courtesy of our friend Aristotle. In French, these are the exposition, the noeud, the péripétie, the catastrophe, and the dénouement. Let us proceed directly to our roundup of the highly suspicious:

• One of these is called the “noeud.”
• Which, yes, translates into English as “node.”
• But we really know it secretly means “nood.”
• Aristotle was born in “384” and died in “322.” Who else smells a rat? Show of hands.

So this “nood” is defined as “the central moment of intrigue,” or the part of the play between presentation and resolution of conflict. But hands up all who believe THAT. It’s a NOOD.

Meanwhile the exposition is defined as follows (hastily translated): “The first part of the theatrical action … indicating to the spectator the elements which will be necessary for him to understand the action: place, time, reasons for the presence of the characters, relations which exist between them, recent events, and indications of the crisis to come.”

If you want to see these Writer's Tools put to use, look no further than the following little-known example of Aristotle’s own dramatic work. He never made it as a playwright, but as we can see, he had dreams:

Act I, Scene I. A Laundromat.

GLEN: It’s 3:30 here in Florida (“The Sunshine State”).

MINDY: Thank God we’re here, at the Laundromat, for to do our laundry.

GLEN: Why, yes, Mindy, that is the reason for our presence. Not to mention the recent event of casual sex, which also counts as a relation that exists between us.

MINDY: By the way, a crisis is coming.

GLEN: Huh?

(They are hit in the heads by a flying nood)

It goes without saying this is miles better than Cymbeline, the Jupiter scene of which – if Shakespeare had cared a whit for his work – would have gone like this:

JUPITER: … and I’ll fix all your problems. ‘Kay?

EVERYONE: Thanks, Jupiter.

(They are hit in the heads by a flying nood)

Frankly, I see no reason why this handy dramatic device should not be adopted for all pieces of theatre, and fast, please. Not to put too fine a point on it, but it would save the sorry asses of a great many current Magical Broadway Productions. Just imagine the countless souls saved from, for example, Phantom of the Opera. (Yes, as you may already have observed, the sorry-assness of a Magical Broadway Production correlates directly with record-shattering ticket sales, which means, basically, that the Snark should shut her face.)

But that is not why this column exists. This column exists so that we can tell you our dreams, our hopes, our frustrations and our triumphs, and not the least of all, so we can get a good grade on our exam next week, because now we remember how to define exposition and noeud. So, really fast, the other three: péripétie is a reversal which complicates the events of the action; catastrophe is either an ending, or just a catastrophic event within the story; and the dénouement is where all the tensions are quelled by the final moment in the piece, in which (the Snark is hit in the head by a flying nood).

©2010 Nicola McEldowney

How To Study Abroad

Recently, I decided to study abroad. This is common practice among us college students. There comes a day when, tiring of our daily routine of debauching ourselves into vomit-flecked oblivion, we yearn for the cultural breadth that can only come of debauching ourselves into vomit-flecked oblivion in an entirely different country. It is a powerful call, one no thinking soul can help but heed. Yet many of us college students heed it too.

The next step is to choose which country you want to study abroad in. You may find this difficult. I, for one, am notoriously bad at making choices. I routinely enter a state of deep emotional turmoil when, at the bubble tea establishment, I am faced with the decision between taro and sesame.* The only time I ever found it easy to make a choice was during the last Winter Olympics, when I elected to watch the men’s figure skating finals instead of the Westminster Dog Show.**

My point, students, is that you should put a certain amount of care and energy into selecting the country you feel would enhance your being the most, as a student and as a human. The method I recommend is that of writing up a list of all your core traits, then wadding it into a ball and hurling it at the head of whichever professor most recently said to you (WARNING WARNING WARNING THIS IS A TRUE QUOTE AHEAD), “You need to examinate [sic] how to extrapolate out [sic] the ideopolitical structures.” *** For best results, you should attach the ball to a large heavy object.

Because ultimately, you are not going to pick your study-abroad country based on what you write on a silly old piece of paper. You are going to pick it – as we intellectuals have done since the dawn of academia, back in the Upper Paleolithic, when all the intellectuals were australopithecines**** – based on how comical the accents are. I ended up picking France, not because of the accents, but because I can speak some of the going language (French). This is a handy Travel Aid, in a pinch, if you forget English. This does happen to us, especially if we are a 12-year-old dweeb-a-roonie in front of the object of our 12-year-old dweeb-a-roonie Hot Burnin’ Passion. I myself recall this one time, which I am not going to tell you about.

Anyway, once you have chosen your country, you will need to obtain a student visa. For this purpose you will be summoned to the world’s hottest, smallest, crampedest, filled-with-decaying-France-pamphlets-est room, population 786,392,396, which also happens to be the number of hours you will be required to stand in line, until, at last, you are called to The Window, where you are told – in stern tones – to wait in line. But it’s all worth it when – after you submit to a retinal scan, a finger scan, a CAT scan, a DOG scan, etc. – they finally look at you suspiciously and send you home, because your passport photograph is frankly butt-ugly. Ultimately, assuming you finally DO get a visa, they will remedy this by means of taking a visa photograph of you that is even uglier.

Last but not least, you will be given a wad of French documents that clearly Mean Business, in the sense that they are literally belching flames at you. No person, including a French person, could ever actually READ these documents, but the basic thrust of them is that everything you do overseas, as a foreigner, will be considered “bad” and will result in your being drop-kicked off the nearest clichéd French landmark, unless you will agree to adopt the national opinion that the movie “Amélie” is not really very French at all.

In the end, however, all of this nonsense will be the furthest thing from your mind, because once these happy holidays have faded into the midst, you’ll be off, wending your way toward the destination of your choice. We understand there are foreign languages there. So don’t be shy! Go for it, adventuresome student! You’ll learn to navigate another culture, to question your long-held societal presuppositions, and – if you are remotely worthy as a student – to examinate how to extrapolate out the ideopolitical structures. It will surely be an occasion of great personal growth for you. Best of all, I don’t even have to hear about it.




* You can’t choose. YOU JUST CAN’T.
** In a highly controversial decision, Best in Show that year went to American skater Evan Lysacek.
*** And if you doubt the veracity of this quote, frankly you need your head examinated.
**** These individuals – as you have no doubt guessed – are now teaching in the Sociology department.


©2009 Nicola McEldowney
The Snark Ascending

Got a Snickers and I'm Not Afraid to Use It

In these troubled times (10:36 and 10:37 A.M., Eastern), isn't it comforting to know you have something to count on? I refer, of course, to the scientific research community, which is still there for you, as it has always been, to remind you that everything you like will destroy you.

I recently received a charming such reminder in the form of the following Time article, which I found via the exhaustive research method of poking around randomly online and eating things instead of doing work. The piece, written by Alice Park, is entitled:


EATING CANDY IN CHILDHOOD LINKED TO ADULT CRIME

What parent hasn’t used candy to pacify a cranky child or head off a brewing tantrum? When reasoning, threats and time-outs fail, a sugary treat often does the trick. But while that chocolate-covered balm may be highly effective in the short term, say British scientists, it may be setting youngsters up for problem behavior later. […] The research was led by Simon Moore, a senior lecturer in Violence and Society Research at Cardiff University …. [who] had been investigating the factors that lead children to commit serious crimes, when, during the course of his work, he discovered that "kids with the worst problems tend to be impulsive risk takers, and that these kids had terrible diets - breakfast was a Coke and a bag of chips," he says.


Needless to say, this is the kind of thing that can really get your dander up (assuming you have dander and it is down to begin with). Me, I was so incensed I nearly had to spit out my Good 'n' Plentys and abandon my thoughts of brutality. Just where do these namby-pamby, wussy-ass, weeniemeister "researchers" get off revealing their "findings" just because they happen to have "terminal degrees" and "evidence" and "more knowledge of the topic than I, personally, do"? This must end. The time has come for us, the besmirched candy-eating, to take a stand and PUNCH SOME SENIOR-LECTURER FACE MWA HA HA HA HAAAHAHA ha...

A-heh. Actually, what I meant to say was, "make our voices heard." Yes, make our voices heard. Sure, we on the other side may not yet have our Ph.D.*, but even so we bring many fine credentials to the "table," such as:

1. Many years of candy-eating experience in the field of eating candy.
2. References available on request.
3. No, we don't have to prove it.
4. Also, we LIKE candy.
5. So SHUT UP.

It is on this basis that we should like to propound** our OWN theory on the link between candy-eating and crime, which we arrived at only after countless seconds of turmoil and brooding and occasional breaks to blow-dry our hair. It was imperative to us that we formulate this theory based on our extensive store of knowledge from our academic career, at least until we realized we HAVE no such store of knowledge, so we settled for basing it on something we vaguely remember from psychology class last year. This is the idea of the "third variable"***, which goes something like this: often enough, in the study of psychology, cause "A" will seem to lead to effect "B," but this is before you examine the situation at hand much more closely and conclude that, in fact, there is no one very attractive in your psychology class.

Whoops, sorry, wrong conclusion. What we meant to say was, you end up realizing that, in fact, you have ignored the influence of a third variable.**** I am thinking particularly of the iconic psychology study in which a test group of chronic oversleepers all died before age 50, so researchers were all set to propose a link between oversleeping and premature death, until further studies revealed that these individuals had in fact been hit by Mack trucks. See? Third variable! You get how it works?*****

"Well, whoop-de-do for you, Little Miss University-pants," you are saying, "but how does that relate to the case at hand?" Well, I will tell you, by means of deft segue. The Time article goes on to state:

Moore's analysis suggests a correlation: 69% of people who had been convicted of a violent act by age 34 reported eating candy almost every day as youngsters; 42% of people who had not been arrested for violent behavior reported the same. "Initially we thought this [effect] was probably due to something else," says Moore. "So we tried to control for parental permissiveness, economic status, whether the kids were urban or rural. But the result remained. We couldn't get rid of it."

In other words, our current hypothesis goes something like this:

EATING CANDY IN YOUTH (CAUSE) → VIOLENT CRIME IN ADULTHOOD (EFFECT)

Now what if I were to tell you what the article shamelessly withholds from your trusting eyes -- namely, that these same 69% were later determined, via exhaustive laboratory tests, to be assholes? That's right. And what's more, in their youth, there is a strong chance that they were -- you guessed it -- younger assholes. Say it with me: THIRD VARIABLE.

So actually our hypothesis should go something like this:

BEING ASSHOLE IN YOUTH (CAUSE) → BEING ASSHOLE IN ADULTHOOD (EFFECT)

Never let it be said that I am not a courageous pioneer in the sciences.****** In fact, I believe I may say without fear of modesty that, if you would like to bestow upon me large amounts of money for my pioneerings, I will courageously accept it. Then I will spend it on Gummi worms and a phaser. As a pioneer, it's the least I can do for our nation's future. And I sincerely mean that.

Well, okay, also this special message to our nation's youth: Remember, kids: EAT CANDY.





* In fact, we may, hypothetically speaking, have changed our major so many times that our academic advisor now slugs Pepto-Bismol at the mere sight of us.

** pro.pound n. A unit of English currency that is no longer Olympic-eligible, and now spends its days touring with "Stars on Ice."

*** As opposed to the second one, or the first, you see.

**** 'Dja see it coming?

***** It's okay if you don't. You don't go to Bolumbia. (Unless, of course, you do, in which case: Idiot.)

****** Especially as of next week, when I change my major.





©2009 Nicola McEldowney
The Snark Ascending

Little Blog Lost

Do I ever owe you guys an apology. Here goes: Sorry!

These past weeks I've been running around like the proverbial headless chicken, only with nicer clothes*, in a misguided attempt to square away midterms WHILE editing Aisle Six WHILE getting all my ducks in a row to spend next semester in France. This last charming bit is a process that involves giving various institutions just a few simple forms summarizing your intent to study abroad, plus a $600 program fee, plus a $400 intent to pay the program fee fee, plus a $200 making snotty remarks about those other fees in your blog fee, plus all your medical records, financial documents, blood, phlegm, chromosomes, etc.

More on this important subject soon. I swear on the Lady with Stoat.

In the meantime, for those of you in the NYC area as are interested, Aisle Six's initial reading has gotten pushed back to Dec. 3. More on that important subject soon, too.



* And even this really depends on how late I woke up.

What's Your Sign?

While the mental Snark backlog swells dangerously due to that durned personal life, I share with you, ever briefly, a recent sampling of comical signs around the city, brought to you by the Snark Ascending Bureau of Comical Signs Recently Sampled Around The City (not associated with the Snark Ascending City of Comical Bureaus Recently Signed Around The Sample, which, if you even dare think its name in conjunction with this post, will henceforth sue your ass).

First up is a pair of signs courtesy of a Chinese restaurant on the Up-Up-Upper West Side. One of these reads, simply, "RESTROOMS ARE FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY." This much is straightforward, but then there are the teddy bears -- a pair of them, anime-style cute, lying on their bellies, expressionless, as if to say ... well, something. Possibly to illustrate that they were booted forcibly out of the restaurant, onto their bellies, for attempting to use the bathroom without buying anything. I feel for them. But not so much as I feel for the cute bathing seals on the OTHER sign, the one that says, "PLEASE USE OTHER DOOR." The clear implication here is that, if you do NOT use the other door, you will turn into a seal and somebody will bathe you. We must all strive to avoid this fate.

Next up is a sign that graces an eating establishment further downtown. Out of concern for my well-being, I will refer to this restaurant as "Big Al's," so as not to incur the wrath of certain organized organizations (in other words, so as not to tell you that its name is actually "Big Vinny's.") This sign, clearly a gift of the City Dept. of Ill-Placed "Quotation Marks," reads as follows: OUR FOOD IS "TOP" QUALITY.

And of course the pièce de résistance (literally, "this one was OF COURSE on campus"), which I again swear I am reprinting here verbatim:

1 IN 5 SEXUALLY ACTIVE TEENAGE GIRLS BECOMES PREGNANT.
YOU CAN HELP.

Okay, but I might feel awkward.



©2009 Nicola McEldowney
The Snark Ascending

Laughing Time is Over

The other day, in a chilling episode worthy of any cutting-room floor, I walked into a drugstore and picked up a birthday card. You have probably gone down this path yourself. It starts out innocently enough: you stop by the card rack to stock up on li'l nuggets o' Hallmark insincerity for appalling relatives with names like Uncle Sue, and then you make THE FATAL MISTAKE. You pick up the card under the heading "HUMOR." This one had a cupcake on the front, and inside it said - quote - "It's Your Special Day."

Frankly, I'm uneasy. I had prided myself, up until then, on a healthy working understanding of greeting card humor. My first-ever Real Job was at a Hallmark store, where I was able, via the scientific technique of being really bored, to compartmentalize card humor into a few basic categories:

- Certain persons lead lives rich in pickup trucks and beer.
- Certain persons feature bosoms. (BONUS: There is a high chance these persons also feature buttocks.)
- Hillary Clinton wishing you a happy birthday is funny.
- Dogs pee on things.

So after encountering the cupcake card, I stood there, very still except for my eyeballs, which bulged progressively out of my skull while days and nights progressed behind me in comical cinematic fashion. Later, my sister would childishly suggest that perhaps somebody just put the card back in the wrong place. You cannot reason with persons like this. No, my friends, we are witnessing THE DEATH OF HUMOR. We sit idly by as, before our very eyes, it goes the way of audiocassette players, so that one day soon, we will try to tell a joke, and find that it features no orifice into which we can insert our "Soft '70s" tape. I don't want my future children growing up in a world like this.

Further support for this: a classmate of mine once enlightened me to the blood-curdling fact that our school features a course in - get ready - comedy analysis. Really. As in GAWHAWWWWWWHAWW HAKK sorry, that was just the sound of me sobbing out my trachea. No, seriously, as a proud student at wherever-it-is-I-go, I stand firmly behind my institution, which is why, as a token of my gratitude to the school for admitting me and unfailingly billing me since, I will consider their mode of comedy education today.

So what say we throw it over to the insightful dudes and dudettes in Dr. Professor Warwick H. Eggbound's First-Year Seminar in Comedy Proctology ("Looking Up Comedy's Ass Through The Rectoscope of Humanity"):


DR. EGGBOUND: What do you think the author means by "we will tell a joke, and find that it features no orifice into which we can insert our 'Soft '70s' tape?" Explain.

(Dead silence; sounds of sleep, surreptitious autoeroticism, etc.)

DR. EGGBOUND: Jason? Your analysis? (Mouthing along with student.) It's ... funny ... because ... a ... joke ... can't ... feature ... an ... orifice. That's correct. The use of absurdity renders the observation humorous. Academic laugh!

EVERYONE (academically): Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha.

DR. EGGBOUND: Ahhh. I needed that. Now it is vital, too, that we pay attention to the author's use of the transative defamatory conjunction, "GAWHAWWWWWWHAWW." What, precisely, do we find funny about "GAWHAWWWWWWHAWW?" Stewart?

STEWART (a "special student" who still wets the bed): Well, if memory serves, the O.E.D. in fact classifies "GAWHAWWWWWWHAWW" as a laxative depilatory confection that should really only have four W's in a row instead of six. Thus is it rendered "humorous."

DR. EGGBOUND: Now laugh.

EVERYONE: Ha Ha Ha Ha.

(Dr. Eggbound smokes a cigarette)


Speaking as a wide-eyed garbage-disposal style newbie in the academic sphere, I firmly believe that there is actually nothing in the world that cannot benefit from Dr. Eggbound's particular brand of analysis. In fact, such luminaries as he render me totally unnecessary. So I highly encourage all of you, especially you young persons as are yet benighted enough to think comedy is "funny," to take his course. And have a ball. It's Your Special Day.

P.S. Also, Hillary says happy birthday.

P.P.S. Now laugh.





©2009, Nicola McEldowney
The Snark Ascending

Sex Ed

As a hardcore noticer of the highly suspicious (a telltale sign of which is often making hardcore statements such as "Huh!"), sometimes I have to dip back into the archives to reach my noticing quota. It's not that suspicious things aren't going on in the present; it's just that life is full, what with all the exciting and glamorous adventures we young persons have, such as being on the phone with Amazon customer service for 6,253 hours this week. The result being, today's nugget comes courtesy of the November 2007 Marie Claire, the same periodical responsible each month for purveying the following information:

* HOW A FLEETINGLY FAMOUS REALITY-SHOW CONTESTANT WITH A NAME LIKE "CANDEIGH" LEARNED TO BELIEVE IN HERSELF AND GOT A HOT ASS!!!
* 770 SUREFIRE WAYS TO DROP 20 POUNDS WHILE INGESTING FRIED CHEESE BY THE TRUCKLOAD!!!

And of course:

* 353,569,103 SIZZLING NEW TECHNIQUES FOR GETTING YOUR PARTNER HOT IN BED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So of course I follow religiously, even though there are usually actually only 16 SIZZLING NEW TECHNIQUES, and all of them pretty much boil down to, "Involving the naughty parts usually works." But who am I to judge? Especially when -- hold on to your fried cheese now -- it turns out certain other countries believe it takes actual formal education to complete your sexual know-how. Marie Claire says so itself: in Moscow, which qualifies as a location in a certain other country, there is: a sex school. As in, a school that teaches you how to ... like ... do sex. I quote from the article:

On a Saturday night at [the school] ... five students are gyrating their hips and tossing their hair to the manic beat of Russian disco (think early Madonna crossed with Cossack music). And this is just the warm-up. Tonight's class is "How to Be Your Man's Number-One Lover." Lessons include trying out erotic massage on a live male model, practicing fellatio with the aid of bananas and lollipops, and learning how to praise a man's sexual prowess "convincingly."

Now it must be noted that this is only a small excerpt of the article, and there are many other parts (heh-heh) that are seriously depraved and disturbing, and I feel compelled to say that -- as a 21st-century American woman -- I find them funny. This is why -- call me new frontier* if you must -- I am posting here the parts that, as a 21st-century American woman, I find the most funny.

I'm not quite sure why this is. I have never been to Russia ("The Show Me State"), so I cannot identify with the story on anything like a personal basis. That said -- not that I wish to toot my own horn here -- I did personally take one whole entire semester of Russian, during which I attained the invaluable cultural skill of learning words I would promptly forget.** The existence of the sex school, however, entirely restores my faith in a country that could call an innocent alphabet letter an "R" when it is flagrantly a "P." Nobody would have ever dreamed of letting them get away with such a thing if their athletes hadn't kicked all the other athletes' butts dating back to the 3,000,000 B.C. Australopithecine Winter Olympics. (That was the one where the australopithecines in charge of the world figure skating federation engaged in underhanded dealings that were all over the newspapers.) (FUN FACT FOR NON-FIGURE SKATING ENTHUSIASTS: These same individuals are still in charge of the federation today.)

But back to Russia, and why I am cool with the whole sex-school deal. You know what I think it is? I've spent far too much time - approximately 671 years since my birth in 1988 - as an American student in the American system of higher education, which has its benefits,*** but in which they would never dream of hiring a male model as an Educational Supplement. This is because this would constitute an act. In the American system of higher education, theory, theory, theory is the order of the day; the more degrees removed you are from actually doing anything, the better, as evidenced by this highly authentic transcript from a sex class at West Southeast North Montana Technical Agricultural & Umbilical:


PROFESSOR SWITHIN R. HORKBUCKET: ... therefore it is altogether necessary, as we theorize about theorizing about, but do not actually ever theorize about, the theories pertaining to this theory ...

STUDENT: Excuse me. Can we get a male model in here?

PROF. HORKBUCKET: No.

STUDENT: Oh. But uh... we can maybe look at pictures of a male model, right?

PROF. HORKBUCKET: Heh, heh, heh! No.

STUDENT: Are we allowed to, uh...think about a male model?

PROF. HORKBUCKET: Ah-ah-ah! That's thinking. You're at an American university, remember, you little mucus-wad? Thinking is but a baby step from activity, and activity is anathema. The name of the game here is, through inaction and non-thought, to get yourself as close as possible to THE HOLY GRAIL OF NON-BEING.

STUDENT: Uh ... well, then ... can I maybe think about not thinking about a male model?

PROF. HORKBUCKET (grudgingly): Closer.

STUDENT (in an epiphany): Hey ... it's kind of like ... THE HOLY GRAIL OF NON-BEING!

PROF. HORKBUCKET (in a low voice): You getting hot yet?

So I admit I kind of sympathize with the Russians on this one. And get this: the male model isn't even the best part of the article. No, the indisputable best part is the photograph of the chic young bosom-intensive cutie humping -- purely in the academic sense of that word, you understand -- a stuffed tiger. Though, as a scholastic-type, I cannot help but observe this raises the following troubling questions:

- Do they sanitize the tiger between each use?
- Can tigers get human crabs?
- Can crabs get human tigers?
- Do you think the tiger ever gets tired? Or does he just smoke a little cigarette after each "lecture," and then bounce back, good to go?
- Do you think there's any point in my thinking up these questions anymore inasmuch as you guys are all off googling the picture of the chick humping the tiger anyway so actually I can do whatever I want now OOGY BOOGY BOOGY BOOGY BOOGYBOOGYBOOGYBOOGYBOOGYBOOGYBOOGY that was fun?

Still, in conclusion, I must depart on a somber note**** to my fellow young persons: young persons, after you engage in tender moments, ALWAYS remember to sanitize your tiger. There is no excuse to do otherwise. Plus, in some institutions, doing so may get you college credit.





* But before you call me new frontier, remember to punch "7" to dial out.
** I suspect this was because many of these words contained funny letters, which was in itself highly suspicious.
*** Like sometimes the cafeteria serves International Food.
****E-flat.



©2009, Nicola McEldowney
The Snark Ascending

The Next Genderation

I have a bone to pick with the American system of higher education, and not just because the dormitory vending machine ate my money that one time. (There is no sight quite so heart-rending as a defenseless little bag of pretzels dangling by a corner. Except, of course, for a defenseless little bag of Good 'n' Plentys dangling by a corner. That sight would bring any ax murderer to his knees.)

No, my bone is with the Great Academic Obsession that spreads campus-wide, herpes-style, each semester. It's different every time. Back in the fall, it was the word "dialectic." No professor could broach any topic, from cognitive dissonance to Turkish history, from historical cognition to dissonant turkey, without declaring, pants dampening, that we simply had to explore how this concept "functioned in a dialectic." God forbid we should have ever addressed any relevant questions, any difficult questions, such as: What does this concept actually address? Who does it affect? Is it actually interesting?*

But no. Instead we had to explore, class after class, how things "functioned in a dialectic," a phrase so meaningless my memory of it can only be accurate. What does "dialectic" even mean? DOES it mean? I think it does, because I looked it up only a few minutes ago, shortly before it was sucked into a mental black hole, SCHFUPPP up the cerebral Hoover that works 24/7 to ensure my mind remains uncluttered by all but the most crucial memories, such as who played Doctor Who when, or the complete list of Pokémon.**

However, this Great Academic Obsession paled in comparison with this past semester's, namely: gender. This is an issue of great honking academic importance, because it turns out that not only are there - get ready now - two genders, but that these two genders are - you might want to sit down for this part - different from each other. This is all fine and dandy if you limit yourself to frivolous activities such as living your life, but for us thinker types, us members of the intellectual vanguard, this is a far more troubling issue, one that we must address, must change, must ideally ameliorate, by the all at once visionary and active method of reading academic papers other people have written about other academic papers still other people have written, so that eventually we may achieve the academic holy grail of total incomprehensibility:

It is proximally requisite, if we are to dialogue naratogically with the gendered paradigm through and also via a purposively abiding gendered schema, that we must regard gender in a performatively teleological effort to order extra gender with gender on the side (Snyder, 2001), in the reflectionally scatological sense of gendering your gender so fast your gender will gender, but we suggest you go slower for maximum pleasure (Dawkins, 1996).

Of course, I appreciate the sentiment behind this academic movement. The sentiment behind this academic movement is that no matter how advanced we think we have become in our view of gender, we still need to look with a critical eye*** at how far we really are from achieving complete gender integration. So naturally the best way to achieve this is to observe every .003 nanoseconds that there are two genders. Even you might have one! The best part is the Breaking News Manner in which this material is always presented, clearly communicating that this "gender" is the newest, hottest thing, actively being endorsed even as we speak by entertainment personalities such as The Rock.

Naturally the least safe among us are students of the humanities, those disciplines in which, per federal law, you may not make ANY remark, written or spoken, without preceding it with "Well, going off of Meg's point ... " (This law remains in effect even if Meg has not MADE a point, even if there IS no student named "Meg," etc. Also, there is a strict three-"dichotomy"-utterance minimum imposed per sentence.) I recall one session on the Decameron, a fine book by dead author Giovanni "Johnny the Skins" Boccaccio. Now this is actually a pretty funny read, which yet has been somehow magically sludgified, in the Giant Academic Sludg-o-Tron, into a Gender Issue Book. This is despite the fact that Boccaccio is so dead he was dead before gender was even invented. Nevertheless, this one day, right in the middle of what had seemed to be a reasonable and intelligent discussion,**** a female student was called upon, quite without warning, to define the "woman reaction" to the book. The implication was that, as gendered persons, we were required to have gender-based reactions to class material, as summarized in the following handy chart:

Example of a BAD reaction to class material: Consider it.
Example of a GOOD reaction to class material: Ovulate.

Clearly I, as a person of gender, was to further the discussion accordingly ("Well, going off of Meg's ovulation, I feel that the dichotomy..."), then go home and ovulate about this some more. Instead, as a bold rebel type, I went home and watched episodes of Night Court. This proved an infinitely more fulfilling activity, at least until I realized that - you bet your gendered ASS - it is a gendered activity, too. This is because the show features: GENDERS. There is no escape.

So this got pretty bad. Bad to the point that, when on the first day of classes, you entered a new classroom and encountered a new professor of the female gender, your brain would immediately go on MAYDAY MAYDAY PROFESSOR WITH A VAGINA alert, because you knew that, doggone it, you were going to HEAR ABOUT THAT SPECIFIC ORGAN before the END OF CLASS, for your INTELLECTUAL BETTERMENT. Let's be clear now: I am not saying this is not highly socially relevant, just that it can be something of a time-waster when you're studying, say, civil engineering. (Okay, so maybe this is an unfair remark, since I don't study civil engineering. Therefore, I don't know exactly what their female professors have. Maybe civil vaginas.) My point is, the topic was always introduced in a manner that was clearly supposed to make you go, LIKE, OHMYGAW THAR'S SUCH A THING AS WOMENNN?!! WHO KNEW?!! OHMYFREAKINGGAWWWW LET'S ALL GO OUT AND BUY FEMININE HYGIENE PRODUCTS TOGETHARRR!!!!, or some such.

This is all rather distressing to those of us who would rather undergo un-anesthetized bowel surgery than EVER ponder ANYONE'S feminine locale. But there is no use whining. We students are pawns in the giant chess game of higher education. We are powerless to counteract the Great Academic Obsession. There seems to be no solution in sight. Perhaps the vending machine would like to give me two bags of pretzels for the price of one. That'd be a start. However, as an academic of conscience, I must close by advising that anyone who takes pretzels from a vending machine must first consider the very real possibility that these pretzels are gendered. Also, I am pretty sure they could function in a dialectic. Somebody should check this out.*****



* Actually, this is an easy question. Answer: no.
** These are: Pikachu, Snorlax, Borax, Tom Baker, Peter Davison, the old dude in black and white, and the other ones.
*** Our left one. We are free to keep viewing adult entertainment with our right.
**** Not really.
***** Not me.




©2009, Nicola McEldowney
The Snark Ascending