I have to do weekly reading assignments for my theory class, and I struggle with them every time. It's hard to write three thoughtful paragraph on readings that I didn't have any thoughts about.

Alternately, I have many thoughts about the New Kids, but they are not relevant to this week's assignment (Rigoberta Menchú & the controversy of testimonio). They are, however, relevant to my blog, because I am silly, this blog is silly, and the fact that I traveled across state lines to see a boy band that I last listened to in the fourth grade is very, very silly.

AND AWESOME. I don't know if Madison Square Garden was completely sold out, but if it wasn't at 95% capacity (c. 20,000), I'll eat my head. I went with Kim Baker, who bought our tickets back in July, and on whose floor in Brooklyn I slept on Monday night before turning around on Tuesday to be back in class that evening. And I was lucky; at our age (25-35), everybody else had to be at work the next day. Because it's not 1989 anymore, and we are all really old right now. Joey McIntyre, I include you in this group.

There was serious-ass female hysteria last night, and it was GREAT. Kim was concerned about permanent ear damage, but since I was at my first boy-band concert ever, I was willing to embrace a spell of hearing loss as a badge of honor. ("Sorry, friend, I can't hear you. Me and 20,000 of my closest friends were hangin' tough last night.) On the way back to Brooklyn, Kim and I conversed in a series of "What? I can't hear you"s, but on Tuesday all was back to normal. I was slightly disappointed.

So you want to know the set list, right? It's linked here. The most important thing is that nobody was under the illusion that we were here to hear stuff from the new album (The Block), New Kids included. The transaction was transparent: I give you $75, you give me "Step By Step." And they did. There was some new stuff, of course; their new album has some good pop tracks on it, so that was cool, too. (I'm a fan of "Grown Man" and "2 in the Morning.") But the bulk of the concert was old school, including my favorite, "Tonight." (And Kim's favorite, "Cover Girl.") And Jordan and Joey did their solo hits ("Give It to You" and "Stay the Same"). And through it all, there was fabulous Temptations-style choreography featuring mike stands and hats and what-not. Those boys make some fab sillhouettes.

Also: Donnie unnecessarily grabbed his crotch at least twice. And Jordan unbuttoned his shirt above an air grate during his solo turn because being onstage by himself with a spotlight just wasn't enough "look at me! look at me!" for him. *sigh* Just like old times.

Seriously, folks, the New Kids on the Block are good fun -- everybody was standing and dancing and singing along the whole night. So if you've got a few extra bucks, a closet full of nostalgia (actual or metaphorical), and an upcoming tour date within striking distance, you should take the trip to the arena, wave your right hand in the air, and join in the chorus -- oooh-oh-oh-OH-oh. Or, if you prefer, join in the side-kicks with a chorus of oh-oh-OH-oh-oh.

OMG, Rihanna is SO WHINY. This is why I don't listen to the radio.

I don't feel like writing this paper. I have to turn it in on Monday -- before I leave mid-afternoon to take the train into New York to see NEW KIDS ON THE BLOCK at MADISON SQUARE GARDEN! More on that at a later date.

Before I turn the paper in, I have to write it. I've done all the necessary research, and I even have a very rough handwritten draft. And am I revising it? I am not. Instead, I am having completely unnecessary Facebook time (is there necessary Facebook time?), reading archives of Carolyn Hax's advice column, and thinking about where I'm going to pick up dinner. (Probably Bulldog Burrito, my favorite restaurant within four blocks -- which is why it's one of my favorites. It's like Chipotle or Qdoba -- but not as awesome as Qdoba, obviously.) I am also writing a blog entry. And thinking about getting a latte or some such from the Publick Cup. And wondering how much longer I can keep up these avoidance tactics before I realize how little time I have left and begin to hyperventilate.

Okay, in 30 minutes, I'm going to stop this nonsense and take my computer and my books down to the common room. And when I come back upstairs, I expect to have a revised paper and a Bulldog Burrito to celebrate. Go, writing!

A general note:
When Colin Powell -- who never says anything about anybody, even people who make up evidence to preemptively strike countries that have had the audacity to annoy them -- when Colin Powell finds it necessary to interrupt his busy schedule of completely avoiding public discourse so that he can go on Meet the Press and call you unqualified, then it is time for you to withdraw to a quiet place and re-evaluate your choices.

I offer this advice to anyone for whom it may apply.

Last night I went phonebanking for Obama for the first time -- and since there's nothing I hate more than cold-calling strangers in other states, I like to think that every time I picked up the phone to dial, an angel got its wings or something.

You can get all manner of posters and what-not from the campaign office, and I thought about buying a shirt, but I decided against it. First, it'll be totally passé in about a month, so where would I wear it after November 5? And second, where would I wear it before November 5? I'm a black female who spends all of her time on a university campus. Putting on an "Obama-Biden for President" shirt would feel redundant three times over.

This week's lesson: There is no fool-proof way to try out a new deodorant.

I had a wildly off-schedule weekend -- I seriously overslept twice and am running on fumes right now. This is not unusual for me, but whatever combination of caffeine and/or naps that worked in the past is failing me now. So it's 5:30, and I'm running on fumes, and I'm 99% certain that I'm skipping hip-hop this evening, which is sad because it's fun; but it's not fun if I pass out in the middle of an 8-count.

I did make it through British cinema this afternoon, which was important because I had major issues with one of the films we screened last night, Naked (Mike Leigh, 1993). (I had no issues at all with the other film, A Hard Day's Night (1964), starring four adorable lads from Liverpool -- maybe you've heard of them, the Beatles?)

I HATED Naked, not because it was a bad film in formal/aesthetic terms, but because it was so horrendously misogynistic that I could barely keep my dinner down. I think my friend Ariel encapsulated the horrendousness when she admitted to me, "I turned it off after the third rape scene." (She was smart and watched it at home.)

I was slightly afraid that I *always* talk about gender, and I don't want to be that girl who never says anything unless she can use the word "patriarchal." But whatever -- some shit's got to be said. And this shit was obvious. So I tried to explain that, listen, I don't know whether it's a good movie or not, but I do know that as a woman, like all women, I organize my life around the fear of having my body violated, and as a woman watching, the film hit that fear button too often -- almost constantly -- and to no effect, except to make victims of its female characters physically, verbally, and narratively, and that the movie therefore does violence to the female spectator. I ended with something like, "This movie *hates* women. The *filmmakers* hate women. This movie hates *me*, and I hate *it*."

"Whoa," said Professor Katie Trumpener, "a manifesto." Damn right, KT.

I'm thinking now that I maybe should look into getting that certificate in Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies that the WGSS program offers. This seems to be a preoccupation.

Anyway, I'm proud of myself for sucking it up and risking the label of being "too political" in what can sometimes be an artsy-farsty program. Little victories, friends. Little victories, then bigger ones.

It was a tough week, I realize in hindsight. Over the last weekend I was working pretty hard on the museum review (the one I didn't mention cabbage in), which I turned in on Monday. I had class all day on Monday (ending in hip-hop class, after which I have to lie down). Tuesday and Wednesday I spent working on my presentation for class on Thursday -- I had forgotten, but a 15-minute presentation is actually a fair amount of work. And then class all day Thursday. And I was doing all the necessary reading (skimming) and screenings.

I woke up this morning (Friday) completely unwilling to do any work, and it took a week-in-review to discover why. So I didn't do any work. I ate (a lot), I went to the grocery store, the drug store, and the office supply store. I caught up on episodes of all of my shows this season: Mad Men (the awesomest), The Mentalist (not that awesome but Simon Baker is the handsomest thing on earth), and Private Practice (which is annoying me right now, but I'm giving it time because one must always give Audra McDonald time). And now I'm about to see what movie I can watch online through Netflix.

And then I suppose I'll go to sleep, wake up, and work on a 20-page paper. But my spirit will be buoyed by the memory of today!

Throughout the day I've been working on a presentation for the Class I Barely Understand Anything In. The one about culture in Latin America. My presentation is on Mexico in 1968, and I believe I vaulted over things and people in order to mark that on the sign-up sheet before anybody else took it, because I may not be able to hang with your high theory, but I can do up a historical monograph. Know dat.

That decision does mean that all day I've been reading about the 2 October 1968 Massacre at Tlatelolclo, when the Mexican army fired upon a crowd of student protesters and killed an unknown number (45? 300?) and wounded thousands. It seems that the Mexican government was deeply concerned about the protests that had been happening in the months leading up to the Mexico City Olympics, so they decided to put a stop to them with a display of unprecedented authoritarian violence.

This presentation is contributing to the body of knowledge that I am gaining in this class, which can be summed up in one sentence: Latin America is seriously fucked up. I'm not talking about Latin Americans being biologically distinct. I'm talking about the fact that EVERY WEEK I learn about ANOTHER DIRTY WAR that an authoritarian regime conducted on its own citizens for asking, politely, for 1-2 CIVIL LIBERTIES. Or about a Maoist guerrilla group that somehow forgot that communism is about distributing power equitably to all the people, not killing the ones who don't agree with you or won't buy your cocaine. And the corollary to this is: The United States is seriously fucked up for all of its UNBEARABLY SHITTY behavior that has helped to create or exacerbate the panorama of violence throughout 20th century Latin America.

I'm on my way to bed now, because the last book on my list is called Societies of Fear: The Legacy of Civil War, Violence, and Terror in Latin America. A few minutes ago I read the subtitle, saw that it has fucking Pinochet staring at me from the cover, and I decided that I'm absolutely not going to cuddle up with this book right before bedtime -- not after reading about a massacre all day -- I don't care if I am on a roll.

I don't like being in a class where I can only do the reading in the daytime.

For my fabulous Introduction to the Public Humanities course, each of us has to write a review of a museum, or a film documentary, or of a public art performance of some kind. It's a pretty flexible assignment. Which means that I could have chosen almost anything else, but I decided to go to the Tenement Museum in New York while I was in the city visiting my sister for her birthday this past weekend. The museum was recommended to me by A. Morgan Mathis, and it was a pretty fly, so I won't even complain about the $13 (student price!) it costs to take an hour-long tour. (I try to keep reminding myself that I don't live in DC anymore, and museums aren't free everywhere. And yet it still hurts.)

So the problem isn't the museum. The problem is that I'm a dummy and didn't think about the fact that I have to turn this review in to Matthew Frye Jacobson, who's written three books on US immigration history and another book on white ethnic revival, and who also lives in New York. So I'm pretty sure that he's been to the museum, which involves all of those things. So instead of just tossing something together, I've got to choose my words *very carefully*. I realized this when I caught myself writing the following paragraph in my preliminary draft:

Sure, we saw it [the tenement apartment] all clean and neat, being filed through in orderly lines by comfortable people in fanny packs. But I stopped to imagine it full, as Gene reported, of up to 11 people in each apartment. Including an unbearable number of children (that is, more than zero), and, once the indoor toilet was installed, probably a constant smell of urine or worse, combined with the ubiquitous aroma of stewed cabbage.

And I thought, "Damn. I probably can't turn in a paper trucking in ethnic stereotypes to the man who wrote the book(s) on immigration history." Even though you KNOW that that tenement apartment must have smelled like cabbage ALL THE TIME when the Lower East Side was Little Germany. You KNOW it did.