The best thing ever just happened to me. I've been working on this stupid, stupid paper that is totally going to suck even though I've spent half my life on it. Anyway, I'm sitting at my desk in my old bedroom at home, and my mom just called up the stairs, "CC? Dinner's ready!" Dinner! Freshly made! Waiting for me on the stove! I love being home.

I refuse to believe that LFO was anything other than an ironic joke played on the US by the recording industry.

Last night, I went to an on-campus sneak preview of the new movie musical Nine, which will officially open in a couple of weeks. I love musicals and I love free, so I was really excited to go. I was wary of Nine when I first read about it, because it's got a star-studded cast of people I didn't have faith in the singing/dancing abilities of. I was a little concerned that Kate Hudson was going to ruin the movie like she ruined Luke Wilson's life (ouch!), or that Penelope Cruz was going to annoy me beyond endurance. Because she does. (In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have been introduced to her via Vanilla Sky. That wasn't her fault. I should cut her a break. I did respect her in Volver, and in this one, too.)

But I really enjoyed the movie! Nine, which has been on Broadway a couple of times, is not the strongest musical, as source material. So the songs are okay -- appropriate to the characters but not awesome as stand-alones -- and the story, like 8 1/2, is more about impressions than narrative. But thanks to the director, cheorographer, editor, production designer, costume designer, and cinematographer, it's got a lot of style and flash. And there's good acting and singing, especially that Marion Cotillard. With whom I am just a little bit in love. In conclusion, three stars. But honestly, if you can barely stand musicals, this one won't change your mind.

In the auditorium, I was sitting around some of my film studies folk, and as soon as the credits started to roll, Jeremy turned to Takyuya and said, "That was horrible, wasn't it?" (That question was rhetorical.) Now, I ignore 40-60% of what Jeremy says, because he's 10 different kinds of snob. We're taking about a guy who once, upon taking leave of me at a party, bowed. Unironically. Bowed. As if being Belgian means that one lives inside a 18th-century royal court of one's own making. But Takuya -- who, despite being JAPANESE, has never bowed in my presence -- apparently agreed. When he asked me what I thought, and I said, "I really liked it!", Takuya nodded, paused a second, and patted me sympathetically on the back.

Later, Jeremy said to me, only half-kidding, "I think most film studies people would hate that movie. But, you know, it's really good that the program has diversity." To quote Ralph Kranden: One of these days, Jeremy -- TO THE MOON.

That was, I remember now, the second time that day I outed myself as a film studies outlier. Earlier that day, I was sitting with a fellow AmStud-Film student, Josh, and he was going on about Citizen Kane. I actually admire a great deal about that movie, but it can be really undynamic if you're not in the mood. Like if you're sleepy. So I said something like, "That movie can be so boring. Orson Welles? Just a fat man with a camera."

I'm gonna get myself put on film studies probation soon.

I had planned to submit a full draft of my 2nd piece for the Paley Center this week. On Tuesday, I had the whole day to hammer my outline into some serious paragraphs, and boy did that not work out. I stared at my outline, stared at the blank page. Stared at my outline, stared at the blank page. Wrote three really bad sentences. Stared at my outline some more. Laid down and waited for death to come. (Unfortunately, it did not.) Ate a snack. Stared at my outline some more. Etc. In the end, 6+ hours investment converted to 2 1/2 pages of hieroglyphic spume.

I believe I just coined a phrase.

Had to do classwork all day yesterday, but I have no more excuses now. I cannot express how much I do not want to type these words, but I must go: back to work.

In response to comments from previous post:

1. Sorry, Angela. I'm really bad at taking pictures. I don't know why I bought a camera. I should have taken pictures of the Asian people, the non-Asian people, and the mixed-breed dog, rather than just the table.

2. As Requested:

Sweet Potato Pie. Like Mom Used to Make. (Well, Still Does, Actually.)

1 unbaked pie crust (10 inch)

3 eggs, room temperature

1 1/3 cups of sugar

1/2 cup (1 stick) of melted butter

1 1/2 cups mashed cooked sweet potatoes

1 5-oz can evaporated milk

1 teapsoon vanilla

1 teapsoon cinammon

1 teapsoon nutmeg

1/2 teaspsoon allspice

Directions: Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Beat eggs till fluffy. Add sugar, melted butter,and sweet potatoes. Mix thoroughly. Beat milk til foamy and fold into mixture aling with vanilla and spices. Pour into pie shell and bake for 50 to 60 minutes.

I successfully hosted Thanksgiving this year for friends (fellow students who stayed in town) and family (my sister and her dog)! Here is the layout, in which you see: turkey (for the meat-eaters and Pickle the dog), dressing , brussel sprouts, Japanese dumplings, Korean savory pancakes, mashed potatoes (me!), Waldorf salad, broccoli rice and cheese casserole (me!), mixed steamed vegetables, and ginger tofu.

This photo is so weirdly fuzzy. God, how I need to learn how to use my camera. I've had it for two years and still don't know what most of the buttons do.

The above photo doesn't include the dessert: sweet potato pie (me!!!), apple pie, pecan pie (both from Yale bakery), and vanilla ice cream (Friendly's via supermarket). Man, dinner was awesome. And it was just as awesome today, when I had full Thanksgiving dinner + dessert #2. I LOVE FOOD.

And finally, some things I am thankful for:
- friends and family to share the holiday with,
- my Mom, for walking me through how to make mashed potatoes and everything else ("Mom, when I can stick a fork through the potatoes and they break apart, are they done? Yes? Are you sure? Should they be more done than that? No? So I should just go ahead and mash them, then?"),
- my independent study at the Paley Center when I can watch past telecasts of the Kennedy Center Honors,
- the life that the US of A makes possible,
- that I am not the Secret Service agent responsible for letting the Salihis into the White House, because I would be SO SORE from getting my ass kicked into humiliated unemployment.

I received a request -- that is, Karuna asked -- that I post my papers. So I'll link them here to Google documents and tag them "writing and stuff." 'Cause I'm eloquent like that.

First up, the Miley Cyrus/Hannah Montana paper, located at:
http://docs.google.com/Doc?docid=0AYYy4mYjBN4zZGc4N3dwNXpfMGRncHJ2M3Fj&hl=en

By the way, I'm not bragging or anything, but my professor may have written in his comments that "It is exceptionally well-written for a graduate school exercise: not ponderous and overly-hedged but rather lively, supple, and compelling an an exposition."

Now, "supple" is kind of an uncomfortable word, I agree. But Agnew likes words like that, so what can you do.

You shouldn't feel compelled to click the links, much less read the papers, but if you do and have any thoughts/corrections, you'd be doing me a favor if you met me know. And no kidding, it's completely appropriate, even welcomed, to say, "Claudia, this is bullshit." Well, when it is. Otherwise you're just being mean.

THANKSGIVING BREAK!!!!!!!!!!!!
We have all next week off, and I couldn't be happier. (Except I have to go into the Paley Center on Tuesday, but whatev.) My schedule has been ridiculous this semester -- Saturday has been the only day of the week I haven't had class obligations. How I have re-learned the value of the two day weekend. They don't have to be Saturday and Sunday. But they do have to be back-to-back, because I don't do a damn thing on day one. So at this point in the semester, I need to wash and clean pretty much everything in my apartment. And run almost every errand I ever put on a to-do list.

But this may not be a very restful week. I'm hosting Thanksgiving dinner at my place. Martina's coming in from New York, and a few friends from school are coming over. It should be fun, but -- since my sister has to work through the afternoon, it's up to me to cook -- and maybe you don't know this, but I am no chef. I think I burned a peanut butter and jelly sandwich the other day. So I am scheduling my nervous breakdown for 3:45pm on Thursday, so I have time to recover before dinner at 7pm.

And of course I have to spend a fair amount of time doing work. I have a (short) paper due by the end of the weekend -- yech -- and one of my final papers is due two weeks later, and I have to write about five books I haven't read yet. I mean, I haven't even looked at the tables of contents. I did hold them in my hands when I retrieved them from the library, though.

You know, the more I think about it, the more this "break" kinda "sucks"... But NO, despite this depressing meditation on work, I won't lose the awesomeness of break! I just went to the Film Study Center and got some movies/tv -- John Adams miniseries, The Untouchables series from the 50s, and a film noir called Criss Cross. And I will catch up on Glee! And maybe Mad Men, too -- I have the entire season, but haven't been able to sit down with it. Geez, that feels like a lot of time in front of the television. I should make some kinds of plan to leave the house at some point.

I'm published! Well, on the Paley Center for Media's website. If you have any interest in Def Comedy Jam and/or hip-hop and/or me, read "The Def Jam Generation."

Tell your friends. And feel free to contact me with thoughts/reflections/corrections. Or comment on the page, if you're one of those people who likes to do that.

BTW: The music that plays when you load the essay is not my fault. I tried to tell those guys that nobody likes web page sound that you can't mute. Also, the CEO cut out the NWA video, "Fuck the Police." Apparently, the Paley Center for Media is afraid of media. Whatever.

"Tomorrow" was a little ambitious, but it's still this week!
Last night, I went with a couple of classmates to see This Is It, which was awesome. I had two fears:
1. That the film would be filled with treakly confessionals and interviews, as some kind of redundant memorial service and/or overblown recuperative project.
2. That MJ's face would be scary on the big screen.

But no!
1. It was a straight-up concert film, the rehearsals stitched together to allow the audience to experience the concert as it was conceived. Full songs, full choreography, and some really valuable peeks into the rehearsal process. Director Kenny Ortega and the rest of the creative team knew what they were doing. It's all about the music, man. (By the way, Ortega's filmography is fascinating -- from Xanadu to Dirty Dancing to High School Musical. He's one of my new favorite people.)
2. Not scary, because the movie shows MJ as a whole person and not a subject for extended dissection, both in terms of framing (medium and long shots) and content (by capturing genuine human interactions).

Above all, what you get to see is Michael Jackson perform. Watching his body move in space is a recuperative project, and the most appropriate and meaningful memorial for the audience, who never knew the man himself.

And completely from a personal perspective and from this moment in my life: Often in my program I have to watch a lot of boring movies. I find interesting things in them, because that's what I'm trained to do; but sometimes I lose sight of whatever it is I like about this medium, because I spend the course of a movie I don't care about, trying to explain to myself why it has value. Although I always know why I study movies, I don't always know why I watch them. But then I see a film that has value because I really like it. This Is It is not visually distinctive or, you know, part of the French New Wave, but I was totally engrossed for almost two hours, and it made me happy. And that makes me happy, too.

I recognize that my blog has been a negative three on the one-to-ten scale as of late. I resolve to do better.

My major activity of the last few weeks wasn't about me at all, but was KJ's wedding, which is to say, KJB's wedding, which took place on October 10 in Deerfield, IL. It's funny how other people's weddings become all-encompassing even for the people not getting married. I mean, it was just one day of my life, except that it was actually NINE MONTHS of my life.

That's not actual bitterness; it was a great day. Well, first it was a nerve-racking day, and then it was a great day. On Saturday morning, Karuna had us doing hair and make-up in the bridal suite at 8am. During which time I would have had a better attitude if I wasn't completely freaking out over getting the wrinkles out of the silk bridesmaids' dresses that we had all had to smush into our luggage. Maya (another bridesmaid) had steamed our dresses in the hotel shower, but that didn't completely work. Have you ever stood over a silk dress with a hot iron, praying that God would help keep you fron singeing the fabric? Man, that was terrifying.

It took hours, no exaggeraion, but after the major wrinkes were removed from all of the dresses, we briedsmaids got dressed, and then Karuna began to completely lose it. It was great. She was SO calm and happy througout the preceding days, and throughout the morning. And then she was getting her hair curled, and it all became super-real, which for Karuna translated into the fact that her thick hair was going to ruin her wedding day. "It's so heavy," she complained, at which I laughed heartily. Of course, Karuna's hair is gorgeous, and it looked gorgeous. I was, characteristically, really supportive. Karuna'd look in the mirror and ask for opinions on how she looked, and I'd say something like, "I dunno, Karuna -- your hair is looking pretty heavy."

This is the kind of thing that the universe punishes me for, I know.

But the day went swimmingly -- nobody tripped over anything, the ceremony was lovely, and the reception involved serious amounts of dancing. SO fun. And despite the fact that it was overrun with Republicans (Ever had a deep conversation with the White House correspondent for the Weekly Standard? I have!), I was impressed by how lovely everyone was. I love when good people are supported by good people. Second wedding this year, second impressive community of friends.

The official wedding pictures are in process, though I saw the proofs on the photographer's website. Looking through the photos, many of which are candid, I realized that I spend A LOT of time with my head cocked to the side, gazing quasi-patronizingly at people. I find this slightly alarming, pretty funny, and an absolutely accurate encapsulation of my personality.

Unofficial photography from an attending '05-er. Here's the couple emerging from the church into a flurry of bubbles:



And here's me with the cohort of MHC attendees, including the bride:


Note the dress that I had to stop eating in order to get into, because it was too small when it arrived. I place the blame a little bit on the bridal shop for letting me order the wrong size and a little bit on a regular diet of grilled cheese and french fries. I can't really talk about the terror I felt when I took it out of the box and discovered that the zipper wouldn't close. But it's okay, because it's all over now, which is what I repeat to myself when my I'm awoken by nightmares in which my unconscious mind has replayed the trauma.

And, yes, that's make-up all over my face. They made me do it.

Stay tuned for the next installment (perhaps even tomorrow!), in which will recount the post-wedding days I spent touring Chicago.

I feel that I should acknowledge the murder that happened on campus. I didn't know Annie Le, but she was a classmate of mine, and it has been pretty unsettling. An eruption of evil, is all I can understand, and there's nothing anyone can do to make evil go away. It's been a difficult few weeks for all of us around here, but above all, what an unbearable time for her family and fiance. I can only imagine the depth of their loss.

Guys, listen. I keep having this great feeling that this academic year is gonna rock. I'm not sure how or why. But 26-27 has been giving me good vibes since I got back to New Haven. Things that are already fabulous:

1. I live by myself in a one-bedroom apartment with a DVD player and a Netflix account. Happiness.

2. My independent study with the Paley Center for Media is very cool. I go into NYC 1-2 days a week to watch television and write about it. The commute is gonna be exhausting -- :25 walk to train station, 1:40 train ride, :15 walk to PCM. Reverse on the way back. (When it gets unbearably cold, I can take shuttles/subways, but the time investment'll be about the same.) But that's okay, because this week I went into a cubicle and proceeded to watch In Living Color and try not to disturb others with my barely-stifled guffaws. That was for the writing I'm doing. I also watched the 1961 Tony Awards, because I could. BTW, the Tony Awards are BORING before they figured out that they need performances in them. What a waste of a nationally televised event! Young Walter Matthau, though -- what a fox! Okay, not really. He actually just looks like a younger version of Walter Matthau.

3. I'm in class with Joanne Meyerowitz (Readings in the History of Gender), whom I am quickly growing to adore. She's a historian, and her most recent book is called How Sex Changed: A History of Transsexuality in the United States. She's so easy to understand, is utterly reasonable, and I think she thinks I'm funny.

4. My film class this semester is required for all film students, and is taught by Dudley Andrew, of whom I have been afraid. But I totally contributed to class today without him immediately casting about for other ideas. In fact, when I made the suggestion that in Sunrise, the depth of the frame is connected to the depth of its emotional appeal, his eyes alit as if I had mentioned Andre Bazin. We'll be okay, D.Andy and me.

5. I'm auditing a class called Art & Industry in Contemporary Hollywood. It's a undergraduate lecture course, which we didn't really have at Mount Holyoke, at least not in the humanities. Lecture courses are kind of amazing. The professor is the only one who talks. For 50 minutes, twice a week, you sit, and you listen, and you write things down. He teaches, you learn. Awesome. Because sometimes, I just need you to tell me. Just tell me.

6. I am now officially a graduate affiliate of Calhoun College, which is one of the undergraduate dorms. Mount Holyoke likes to boast that it has "dorms like palaces." With Yale, you can replace the "like" with "are." Being an affiliate means that I hang out with some undergrads sometimes in exchange for three free meals a week in the dining hall. Deal. And I requested Calhoun College so I can get free things with my name on them. And so that I can dwell in historical irony as I eat my tater tots under the wild-eyed gaze of a portrait of the Senator from South Carolina. And I may even love tater tots even more than irony. Maybe.

So, even though I have been mucus-y and coughing since Saturday, even though I have yet to be able to wash clothes or go full-out grocery shopping, even though I am currently exhausted even a bit cranky, I nevertheless portend that this false start will clear itself, and this year will reveal its true colors!

I hope soon, because I'm tired of being congested. Yech.

I don't like being sick! I was already sick over two months ago! What is up with sick, as of late? Making me miss a party this weekend! And a 35mm screening of Sunrise (1927)! With Janet Gaynor! Janet Gaynor! Sick is the worst.

Something I was reminded of in film class this morning, when I expressed a thought aloud that resulted in Dudley Andrew nodding briskly and casting around the room for the next idea: Not everything is a Western. If a film seems like it might be in conversation with some Western conventions, but does not have Clint Eastwood in the desert, it probably should not be considered a Western. Even though Westerns are SO COOL, not everything is one.

Here I am, back in "the Have," as some people call it. Which, actually, I think is pretty dumb. But I am nevertheless returned to school and Connecticut, and most important of all: I am in my new one-bedroom apartment, a space I share with no one and nothing except my Sinatra imagery and my tendency to hold conversations with myself!

This apartment was also the site of the party I had this week! I invited all the new first-years in American Studies and Film Studies to my hiz-ouse to hang out and perhaps also participate in an impromptu dance party. Attendance was high, food was eaten and drinks drank, and I got props for being a mad-awesome hostess! And there was a brief impromptu dance party. I call this a a success.

What did you say? You want to see pictures of the apartment? Okay!

Here's my building. You can't see my entance from here, but it's over on the right side of the building. In the middle is the fountain, which I am kind of getting used to the sound of (constantly running water). That would be the thing that runs me out of here, but we're giving it time.

Here's my front doorway! To the front is the living room, to the right you can see a bit of the study nook. The kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom is are to left, entrances obscured by the door.


Study nook! This photo taken from the kitchen.


Kitchen! Notice party supplies on the microwave cart next to the fridge.


Living room:

Bedroom:


Also, you may not remember, but: In the spring, I arranged to buy a bunch of furniture off of the previous lessor, who was moving in with his girlfriend and was selling most of his stuff. So, with the exception of the bedroom dresser (Ikea) and the study nook chair (Staples), all the furniture was in the apartment when I moved in! And cost me a grand total of $400. RIDICULOUS.

Turns out, though, even though you have a sofa, you need a lot more stuff in order to successfully live. Like a dishdrainer. And dishes to drain. And a shower curtain. And soap. So I have spent most of my "vacation" shopping, cleaning, organizing, and arranging. There has been a lot less time for The Sims 3 than I had anticipated! Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I am super-happy to have an apartmenent to shop for, clean, organize, and arrange. The Sims 3 will always be waiting for me...

This morning, Karuna and I went to the Newseum, which we got into for half-price (thanks, WTOP radio!), and which was disappointing for me. One of my new activities is to be highly critical of museum exhibitions. Actually, that's not a new activity. But I've been doing it a lot this summer. I was pretty pissy about it the Newseum, in hindsight. (Sorry, KJ.) But I also only slept for 2-3 hours last night, so some of it was that. And some of it was that someone with a PhD put the phrase "Lincoln freed the slaves" on an exhibit wall without following it with "in the territories over which he had no jurisdiction, and not in the territories over which he did have jurisdiction." Listen, this isn't even a revisionist history argument, it's in the actual document. I'm not saying Lincoln was a bad man -- keep him on the penny, just tell the truth about the Emancipation Proclamation.

In other parts of the Newseum: The J. Edgar Hoover & the News exhibit didn't suck. So that was nice.

After lunch at Heller's bakery, Karuna came over to the apartment and we talked about nothing important for a few hours while I packed. I thought I was about finished when Karuna left a few minutes ago -- but I just realized that I had a full load of clothes in the washing machine and scant room in my bags. Ruh-roh. Um, I think I'm gonna have to take a long nap before I can deal with it. My lack of sleep is blunting my problem-solving skills.

And though it did not happen in DC but did happen this summer: Liz's wedding was the best!
Love that won't die:
a. SRI!
b. Liz and Mike's!

My last day at my internship is Friday, and then I head back to New Haven on Sunday morning. As I close out my summer in DC, I have a few reflections:
1. I still like this city a lot. Walking around at night, turning a corner, and seeing the Capitol dome in the distance -- Mr. Smith moments never seem to go away.
2. My internship was not as bad as it may have appeared on this blog. Some days were quite frustrating because the project was all a mess -- though it eventually cleared a bit. My supervisor was/is a terrible supervisor and an obnoxious person, and that was difficult. But I have some good experiences, I must admit:
a. The other interns have been fabulous, to a man/woman. Actually, except for that one who didn't do any work and yet managed to write a page-long "progress report" for the weekly meetings. Whatever. Everyone else was fabulous, and I liked being the "project coordinator." Leading from within, that's all me.
b. I was given the assignment to conduct the videotaped interviews we've been scheduling with pastors (and other worship leaders), and though I didn't really want to do it, that was mostly because I get scared of people. So being forced to do those interviews will help me later on, because I actually love oral history projects (StoryCorps forever!), and I want to incorporate oral history into my dissertation somehow. So it was actually very beneficial for me to be thrown in the deep end on this interview thing.
c. I got a glimpse inside the Smithsonian, including one very helpful workshop on applying for jobs within the Smithsonian. It was all-day long, which was a little unnecessary, but there were door prizes, so I'm not going to complain about it. And having made a pretty good impression with my work ethic and organizational skills, I think I'm in a pretty good position to ask for recommendations if I ever want to return to the Smithsonian in some capacity. (I am hoping that the relevant staff will forget/overlook the days I got a little testy when dealing with AG...)
3. It was good to reconnect with friends here, to be in town for festivities like KJ's bachelorette shindig, and to feel like no time had passed at all, even though I'd been gone for a year.

I whine a lot, but it's been a good summer. It's time to peace out, but I'm looking forward to a good fall.

I got gently reprimanded earlier this week for being outspoken at a staff meeting. Five interns will be leaving over the next two weeks, and I wrote up a document listing what each of the interns have been responsible for, so we could talk about how the rest of the interns will (or will not) cover their work. Anthony glanced at the list and declared that there would be no problem. I tried to express that if we don't make some intentional decisions here, there most definitely will be a problem, because 5 interns can't do 10 interns' worth of work. I explained that there were some points at which I was responsible for several of the tasks that he thought that one person could handle, and I was overwhelmed, and my quality of work suffered.

After the meeting, Anthony told me that I needed to calm down, that everything would be fine, and that my manner was possibly overwhelming the new intern.
Anthony (cockily): Trust me that I know what I'm doing here, okay?
Claudia (unspoken-ly): Anthony, I've been here for 10 weeks. If you wanted me to trust that you knew what you were doing in relation to this project, you would have earned that trust by now.

Evidentiary support for my position, or things that have indicated that you don't know what you're doing:
1. You don't know what we (the interns) are doing.
2. You are never here. (Thank God.)
3. Though you are never here, and though you declared me the project coordinator (and then disappeared), you have not, in the past several weeks, asked me to tell you about how the project is proceeding.
4. You hold back vital information and reveal it as some kind of awesome surprise that you in your brilliance have conceived of. You do this about once a week. This week, for example: No one, including me and the deputy director, knew that a new intern would be coming on to our project this week. I discovered this on Tuesday morning when an intern introduced himself, said he was working on the houses of worship project, and asked me, "Do you know where Anthony is? Do you know when he'll get here?" I had, let me remind you, spent the previous afternoon trying to make a plan for how to reorganize the project. Knowing that a new intern was coming is essential information for such a task. Note, too, that I was making the plan for reorganization. Not you, the supervisor, but me, the intern. This indicates one of two things:
a. You don't do your job, so an intern has to do it for you.
b. You're bad at your job, as indicated by the fact that none of the interns were aware that you had a plan for transitioning the work, so that an intern felt the need to take the initiative to make such a plan.

Evidentiary support for your position:
1. You know how to hire people to make up for your weaknesses. But since you don't see those weaknesses, you can't be intentionally hiring competent people to compensate for them, so this is probably just luck.
2. You know how to depend on your luck.

I woke up at 7:45 this morning (Sunday, that is) to go to work. There are a number of churches we haven't made meaningful contact with, and so we're visiting when they'll be there -- that is, Sundays. My supervisor was driving us around, I was very quiet in the car this morning. Twice during those three hours, AG asked me if anything was wrong. Each time, I smiled wanly and said, "No, I'm fine," because I couldn't say:
1. It's 9am on Sunday, and I'm at work. I've never in my life been fully awake before 11am, and it's 9am on Sunday, and I'm at work. So.
2. I kind of can't stand you. It's not anybody's fault. It's just that I can't really stand you.

I am so over my internship right now. In the past couple of weeks, our supervisors have begun to realize that we need to be doing a lot more work to successfully make this project happen -- visiting houses of worship nights and evenings, re-visiting houses of worship nights and evenings, reaching out to other staff for internal contacts with these organizations, doing intense follow-up. Also, these past two weeks have been when interns have started to leave. One last week, one this week. The rest of us will be gradually peeling off between now and the end of August.

Listen, I want to do my job well, but I'm not so invested in this project that I want to spend 11 hours a day doing it, which was the case yesterday. And this weekend promises more: I'm committed to visit churches tomorrow night, after a full day, and perhaps also Sunday morning. I moved around some of my work (pushed it off onto others, that is), so I'm hoping that next week and those following will be less stressful. I have really enjoyed taking advantage of the city this summer, and there are things I still want to do (free IMAX with my Smithsonian ID!), and I don't want to spend my last month in DC this way.

I'm a bit of a Negative Nellie this week, but this has been what's occupying me between the conclusion of my MJ insanity and today. And now you are updated. I am off to eat a peach, which I think will improve the quality of my day by 300%. I love peaches.

A few things I've concluded from my disappearance into the Michael Jackson-scape, which I am finally beginning to come out of:

1. God gives some things to some people and some things to other people, and God gave MJ lots of things he didn't give to you or me.
2. One of those things was a completely incomprehensible sexuality.
3. Another of those things was an intensity in performance that makes it completely impossible to turn away from him.
4. I don't necessarily believe that MJ touched children inappropriately, but it's not possible to know (see #2).
5. It's okay to fetishize childhood. It's not okay to fetishize children. So if your behavior is going to be otherwise bizarre, it's best for everyone that you make the aforementioned distinction *really* clear. Because outsiders won't be able to. And that makes it very, very difficult for people to love you and your music without internal conflict.
6. Everything about "Dirty Diana" is right.
7. Don't beat the hell out of your kids. Not any of them. And definitley not the dreamy, sensitive one. Don't call them ugly. Especially not during adolescence. And especially not the dreamy, sensitive one. He'll be able to be an extraordinary entertainer even if you *don't* fuck him up forever.
8. We are each of us more complicated than any of us can fully understand.

I feel better having laid this out. I have been seriously crazy for two weeks trying to figure this man out, then trying to accept that I will never, ever be able to. Fully embracing #8 is my new lifetime goal.

I've spent the last ten days watching every Michael Jackson (and Jackson 5) video on YouTube -- and some multiple times -- and doing way too much related web reading, and also listenening to the MJ discography without a break. I began to see that I was developing a real problem when I couldn't speak two sentences without referencing some part of the of the Michael Jackson world. Which meant I was beginning to hurt the ones I love. By annoying the hell out of them.

So I decided yesterday that I needed to shut this crazy down. And then I decided this afternoon to actually do it. And then, nine hours later, I listened to the entirety of Off the Wall. That is, I couldn't make it from brunch to bedtime. I don't know what it's called when you have intermittent obsessive episodes, but I seem to have that.

MJ. :(

'Cause underneath all the crazy-sketch, "Man in the Mirror" can still bring me to tears, and "Billie Jean" is still "Billie Jean."

In the news:
"Cher will act alongside Christina Aguilera in “Burlesque,” a contemporary musical about a young girl (Aguilera) struggling to make it big in a Los Angeles burlesque club run by an ex-dancer (Cher). The role will mark Cher’s first onscreen gig since 1999." [Variety.com]

A summary can tell you what a movie's about, but it can't tell you how it's about it. So I have to say this: This film could turn out to be much, much better than I'm imagining it will be. However, if my imagination is correct, then on the day after the premiere, I will be gathering a consciousness-raising group, '70s style, to which you are all invited, because the day this movie comes out is the day that feminism dies, and we're going to have to get to work on bringing it back.

Before Damaris sends me a guilt-inducing note about how I didn't acknowledge Father's Day, I'll post about my dad.

Things he does well:
- Tell his kids he loves them and is proud of them.
- Manage my mother. (And vice versa. Thank god they found each other. Sheesh.)
- Fix things, like with tools and stuff. It's pretty neat.
- Engage conspiracy theories. (For the last several months, he's insisted that the key to the Kennedy assassination is, to quote his oft-whispered insistence, "Two Oswalds.")

Things he does badly:
- Pass up french fries. Ever.
- Write. My mother has been trying to read his handwriting for more than 30 years, and I've never seen her successfully make it out.
- Remember things. Like mine and my sister's names. ("Uh, Teeny -- no, CC -- hey, you -- come here for a minute!")

Things I inherited from him:
- My nose. My whole face, my family insists, but I swear, I don't see it.
- 5 feet, 10 inches.
- Compassion & empathy.
- A really high butt.
- Intellectual curiosity.
- Difficulty passing up french fries.

This year, my siblings and I got him 6 months' worth of Netflix. He already has an account, since it was what I gave him for Father's Day three years ago; but fortunately, since he doesn't remember things (see above), it's a gift that we can keep on giving.

Classic example of how my supervisor (does not) communicate. Two weeks ago, I got an email from him with a man's name in the subject line, and in the text it read:
"Locate this man for an interview about his activism. Thanks."

Let me be clear: This guy, a local activist, has nothing to do with our major occupation of the summer, documenting churches in the area. This is just something A. asked me to do, which is fine. So I did whatever Googling, and I have a work address and telephone number for him, and I sent A. an email with the information.

Since then, silence on this. Until yesterday, when A. asked me, "How's it going with the interview?"

At my internship, I have a semi-supervisory position that I call "head intern." It gives me absolutely no authority but does require that I do things like make sure that people know about the upcoming ice cream social and ask them to do the mandatory computer training. In short, I do not run this project. But if our for-real supervisor is out of the office, people ask me questions like I should have the answer, because I'm the one they keep getting emails from.

So what I've concluded today is that there is a thin line between "delegating" responsibilty and "abdicating" responsibility, and my supervisor hops back and forth over that line with regularity. Here is how I see the difference: If you tell the head intern what her responsibilities are, and then you leave the office for two weeks, then you are delegating. But if you are out of the office for two weeks and expect her to provide leadership in your absence without ever having a conversation about that, then you are abdicating.

Do not cast Jessica Biel in anything. No, I don't want to hear it. I've seen Easy Virtue, and I'm telling you: NO.

Interns continue to trickle in to work on our project at the museum. This week, Peter arrived. Turns out that he's subletting a place a couple of blocks away from me in Columbia Heights, so we share a commute. Also, Peter is white. This will become relevant when I recount a piece of our conversation from our journey home:

Peter: So, what are you up to tonight?
Claudia: Twisting my hair.
Peter: Is that a metaphor?

What an adorable-pants.

INTERNET UPDATE: I have it at work now! I have it at home now! More frequent updates from Anacostia and Columbia Heights to come!

The internet situation in my sublet is... annoying. That's why I haven't updated, and why you may not hear from me much this summer. We'll have to see how this thing goes. But I did write something offline on Thursday (4), and here it is:

My internship is a HOT MESS.

My supervisor, god bless him, is a very nice man. Awkward as hell, but has a genuine heart, really. This is what I try to remember when I ask him about the hours I need to come in to work, and he tells me that getting the work done it more important than clocking hours. In a conversation that took thirty minutes and included a monologue about critical race theory. I am not kidding. First day of work, I sat with him in a cubicle and received an hour's worth of information over the course of FOUR HOURS.

Unsurprisingly, he CANNOT run a meeting. CANNOT. He ran an "orientation" for the five interns on Tuesday afternoon, scheduled until 3:30. We were there until 5. And then yesterday, we interns had to meet seprately because NOBODY UNDERSTOOD WHAT THE PROJECT IS. So we now have some kind of common understanding, but we have to meet again today with A. (supervisor) with a list of clarifying questions. Now, I'm an intern, and A. is my supervisor; but he's not that much older than I am, and I don't feel like I need to defer to him in the same way that I would feel compelled to defer to someone much older. Like how you have to listen to your grandma ramble. Maybe that's ageist, but whatever. So I'm really trying to make an effort to be respectful, but I cannot sit in another four-hour meeting in order to get the answer to five questions. Not if I have to dig through the poop of critical race theory to get to the seeds of practical answers.

That metaphor was probably unexpectedly gross. Sorry, it just came out.

And, um, pun unintended.

So that's a big problem, barely understanding my work because I can't get clear answers. The other big problem is that my desk isn't set up. I can't really talk about that right now. But let me say that if you give me the task of calling 80 churches, and I can't leave a voicemail message because I can't set up my voicemail for them to call back because I can't get online to get the instructions because the computer at my assigned desk doesn't have a hard drive and my assigned desk is behind a locked door that I haven't been given access to and so have to have a five-minute conversation with security if I want to even walk into that room, then I will not be able to efficiently complete that task.

But as I say, I can't really talk about that.

And finally, to flag a potential problem: over-eager intern. We'll call her Chaka. Listen, I'm trying to do a good job, but I'm not trying to do the best job ever. On a scale of 1-10, I'd be happy at a 7, maybe 7.5. Chaka wants to do a 10. She's an junior in college, and she's highly organized to the point of irritating redundancy -- I only met this girl on Monday, and I already know this. Case in point: After our meeting yesterday, we had to wait on a few things until we could go to next steps. Like Chaka had to get her voicemail set up. So I got a text message last night requesting that I read my email before work tomorrow. First thing: the internet in the sublet doesn't half work. (I don't want to talk about it.) So I can't necessarily check my email when I want to. Second thing: NO. This morning, Chaka asks me if I checked my email, and I explained about the first thing (therefore skirting around the second thing) and she handed me a print-out of her email, which was a three-paragraph memo about her voicemail, offering instructions to us about how we should proceed with our work in the event that (a) her voicemail is set up within the next day, or (2) if her voicemail is not set up within the next day.

It's not a good idea to irritate me at 9:30 in the morning, five minutes after I've lugged a 10-pound laptop bag across the city because my workspace in unworkable and I have to provide my own work-around. I KNEW I wasn't awake, I KNEW I was grumpy, and what did I decide to do anyway? I decided to make a deal about it. You ever do that? Do you ever hear yourself pick a completely unnecessary mini-fight when what you really need to do is shut your mouth? And twenty minutes later, when I had caffeine and actually read the thing, it was much less obnoxious. It was in my INBOX and therefore didn't need to be in my HAND, but whatever. And so I had to send my little apology email.

In conclusion, I can see this girl is going to come up with some ideas about unnecessary work, and I can see that I'm gonna need to gently set some boundaries. (1) I will not be responding to work emails after work hours. Not even if you send me a text about it. And not even if I actually read it and thought about it. You'll get my response at 11am tomorrow. (2) I'm coming up with nice ways of saying, "I'm not doing that." Because I'm 26 years old, you and I are both interns, and even my mother doesn't tell me what to do anymore.

First day of internship down, 12 weeks to go!

Today was a mixed bag. I really wish there were some other interns here now, but they'll be arriving starting next week, I believe, and throughout June. I'm gonna need reinforcements on this project because my supervisor is a terrible, terrible communicator. That is, he talks a lot, but is not interested in linearity or conciseness. So sometimes it takes AN HOUR to understand what he wants me to prepare BY FRIDAY. I am absolutely certain that this community mapping project is entirely clear in his head, but I am less certain that it will ever be clear in mine.

Worst of all: THE COFFEE MAKER DOES NOT WORK. And this is Anacostia -- there are no corner stores. There are no stores. So only people with cars can get drinks and snacks in the middle of the day. Unless you want to take the bus, which would be, like, a 2-hour trip because the buses run every 30 minutes.

Mixed bag, though, indicates some good things. There's a volunteer, Kevin, who's a good guy. Young, works at a bar in Adams Morgan at night and does this ACM thing during the day. Went to Howard! I dunno if he's there every day, but that would be cool. And the rest of the staff is pretty lively -- the lunch room today was fun. Ladies (and Kevin, and some young white dude) spoke of Trader Joe's, Transformers coming to the IMAX, and the fact that Botox is poison. All subjects I have an interest in.

TERRIBLE JOKE OF THE DAY.
Looking at a map of the neighborhood with Kevin, while he shows me this mapping software.
Kevin: There's Woodland Terrace...
Claudia: That's an apartment complex?
Kevin: Yeah -- you just go out the door, turn left, then turn right. They're right there.
Anthony, from the next cublicle over: Woodland Terrace? Throw a rock. Throw a crack rock.

OTHER TERRIBLE JOKE OF THE DAY.
Anthony, who is white, talking about crime in the area: I've never been mugged. They probably thought I was a cop.

See how both of these came from Anthony? I may need to post daily. Also: Do not repeat these. They are inside jokes, and you don't have the proper cultural capital.

Packing up the last third SUCKS.

Okay, I leave for DC on Saturday at 9:30am. It is now 4:30am on Thursday. (Do not ask about my sleeping/waking schedule. I couldn't explain, anyway.) Between now and then, I must:
a) pack my bags for the summer;
b) pack everything else in my room and move it into storage (just downstairs, thank heaven);
c) finish this 25-30 page research paper, which was actually due yesterday, and is still hovering at about 23 pages. I think I'm too old to play with margins, but in about two hours, it may come to that;
d) do all of the last-minute errands like getting my mail forwarded, returning dozens of library books, washing last-minute laundry, etc.

I am slightly concerned. But I think that if I can just get this goddamned paper finished, then I can send it in (with an apologetic email), and I can just stay awake until Saturday. 'Cause you don't need a full night's sleep to stand in line at the post office, right?

Crap, writing about Native Americans in Westerns is a real problem. In summarizing a film, I just had to write, "Unfortunately, that same night a group of Apaches go on the warpath." I hope that doesn't sound snide when it's read; there's just no way to talk about these films without using their own stupid language and ridiculously off-kilter frames of reference.

Okay, I just changed it to, "A group of Apaches staged an uprising." Better.

I have got to write faster.

I just realized that I have gotten really angry since I started graduate school, or sometime recently. Because I'm drafting an introduction to my paper on black characters in 60s Westerns, and I just wrote:

As the genre of literature and film that draws most directly from US history and speaks most directly to national narratives, it is perhaps appropriate, then, in a really crappy way, that Westerns are built on multiple racist narratives. Most notoriously, they treat Native American like -- well, like the United States government has through its policies of Indian extermination, removal, and reeducation.

Maybe I need to go back to musicals. Except they're built on spectacularized patriarchy, so maybe I'd just bleed all the happy out of them, too. Race and gender are such buzzkills.

Damaris is disappointed that I didn't acknowledge Mother's Day. In appeasement, I paste below the card I sent my mom, which she agreed was honest. Which I then took offense to.

My mother was disappointed because I didn't send her an e-card that sings, as I have done for the past few years. So I re-linked her to this card, which I sent last year, which cheered her up, and she spent Sunday re-playing the card and giggling with my dad. Which was also what she also did last year. My mom is sometimes like those toddlers you buy expensive toys for and then they end up playing with the box.

So many things I'm doing wrong right now, at 4:30 in the am:
(1) Watching a Taylor Swift music video on YouTube.
(2) Not writing my paper on the beach party movies, due Monday.
(3) Correctly recognizing the dude from the Taylor Swift video as the dude from Hannah Montana: The Movie.

*sigh*

Two weeks 'til DC, though! That's exciting. Two papers in the meantime, though. Less exciting.

I finished my Hannah Montana paper, and I'm on to the Beach Party movies. You know -- Frankie, Annette, rock and roll, frolicking in the sand. This assignment is actually a proposal for a longer research paper, and this was a good rehearsal because I have realized that I absolutely don't want to write the longer paper. Critical lesson: Don't choose films to write about based on some vague memory of having found them pleasant at some point in your past. Because sometime in the middle of Bikini Beach, you'll find that you'd rather gouge out the eye on your dominant side than watch five more minutes of this movie. And that moment really sucks, because you have to keep watching, with both eyes, and then, after you're finished, you have to watch Beach Blanket Bingo. Learn from my example, and save yourselves.

Today's sad conclusion: I am not such a big fan of Connecticut. Rainy and cold spring? No, thanks.

You may already know that I am leaving the graduate dorm and will move into a one-bedroom apartment after my DC internship ends in August. I am SO excited. Here's what's most exciting: the guy who's moving out is moving in with his girlfriend, and so he's selling a bunch of his furniture. So here's a list of things I'll be buying that will be waiting for me in the apartment when I get there. Total price: $400.

bed + mattress
sofa
office desk
armchair
dining table + 4 chairs
television
tv stand
2 floor lamps
2 table lamps
4-slot toaster
microwave
kitchen storage cart
bookshelf
3 end tables
rug
window a/c unit

Again $400, and no moving anything up or down stairs! This is gonna be amazing.

But that's all in August. Now, I have to go back to fighting with a tween superstar. (shaking fist angrily:) CYRUS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My work day:
11am-1pm -- Workshop with visiting professor. Unexpectedly-free lunch; awesome.
1pm-4pm -- Parked in Blue State Coffee, working on Hannah Montana paper when not interrupted by Josh Glick.
4pm-6pm -- Lecture and Q&A with aforementioned visiting professor.
6pm-7pm -- Ad hoc dinner with film studies graduate students.
7pm -2:30am -- Parked in Blue State Coffee, working on HM without interruption because no Josh Glick. Still don't finish though. Damn it.

I'm a little tired now.

3. Stephen Colbert is a sexy bastard.

Couple of things:
1. Tina Fey is a genius.
2. Miley Cyrus's autobiography is not good.

It occurs to me that both of these things are self-evident.

My friend Patrick (film studies & German) told me the other day that he refused to be confirmed in the Catholic Church because his parents promised to take him to see Jurassic Park when it came out, but they took him to the local drive-in with terrible sound and worse picture quality. And if they didn't respect his religion, he wouldn't respect theirs.

I may be developing a crush on T.I. He has extraordinary swag. Also, I realize, a prison term. But listen, sometimes you have to carry a lot of illegal weapons at one time. Happens to everyone at one time or another. In any event: extraordinary swag.

I have housing secured!
1. DC for the summer: I will be subletting one bedroom (of a two-bedroom apartment) in Mount Pleasant, from May 25 to August 16. Maybe I've already said this, but I'll be interning at the Anacostia Community Museum, which is a branch of the Smithsonian located in SE DC.

2. New Haven for the new year: Beginning in August, I'll be living in a one-bedroom apartment in downtown New Haven, near Dwight & Chapel. It is SO EXPENSIVE, but since I just cannot live with roommates anymore (after the summer, that is), I'm saying it's worth it to spend 1/2 of my stipend on rent. Because of my increased expenses, I'm looking into jobs next year -- they pay good money around here, $15-20/hour, and I'd only be working 5-10 hours a week.

In terms of my work: Man, I don't know. I thought I had this Miley Cyrus paper figured out, but I haven't at all. The professor gave us a very broad topic, and that may be my undoing. A friend is writing about How I Met Your Mother, and Agnew shrugged and told her -- with some amusement, I imagine, "Here's your rope --" as in, enough to hang yourself with! (Agnew's a BIG fan of metaphors.) He didn't offer me the same metaphor, but my outcome may be the one he anticipated for Andrea...

After watching all 160 minutes of the legendary Nashville (1975) for the first time tonight, my suspicions have been confirmed: I can't stand Robert Altman.

This has not been a fortunate day for me.

1) I went to the police station to get myself fingerprinted for a necessary internship form. (The Smithsonian is part of the federal government, and this is the kind of stuff they require.) Of course, I called beforehand to get my stuff right, and I arrived with my necessary forms within the two-hour window this morning. I had everything, it seems, except the right information about what to bring, 'cause the cop I talked to lied to me, and I needed proof of residence.
Lady: "Do you have a piece of mail, and electric bill, a lease?"
Me: "No. Not on my person." Because I left my lease in my other bag.

So now I have to go back there at 10am on Saturday. Which is not what I wanted to do this weekend, because that's why I had all my stuff ready today, po-po!

2) I went on two rounds of apartment tours. I saw over 20 apartments, and none of them will work.

American Apparel is soon to open a store in New Haven, and some people around here are really excited. Those people are all 5'3" and weigh 105 pounds.

This week's "readings" for Blackspace & Cinema:
The Chappelle Show (selected episodes)
Dave Chappelle's Block Party (2005)
Inside the Actors Studio (with Dave Chappelle)

Some days Iwant to take people apart at this place. But some days, I sit in the Film Study Center with headphones on and giggle myself into near-unconsciousness.

Also, I was amused by one of Chauncey's comments on one of the papers. I am often reluctant to be critical of the work we read, especially in his class, in which I feel that my grasp on the material is tenuous. So in regards to one article, I posed a couple of questions that the author didn't ask, writing, "In light of Baptist's compelling arguments... these questions seem worth pursuing." And Chauncey's note says, "OR -- does this undermine his entire theory?"

Yeah, I wasn't gonna go there. Also: Maybe my grasp on the material is less tenuous than I think it is.

Perhaps I've discussed this before, but let me reiterate: NAPS ARE SO IMPORTANT.

I'm not generally a fan of naps because they compromise my sleep schedule (such as it is). But sometimes, that 60-minute power nap changes the game up. True story: I didn't sleep much last night, because that's the way it goes sometimes. This afternoon, I got two papers back from George Chauncey, skimmed the comments, saw negativity, and almost quit graduate school. This was at approximately 4:00. I then laid down for a few minutes. At 4:15, after I awoke, I looked again at the comments. Turns out, I did fine. But pre-nap, my perspective was so off that all I could see was, "YOU SUCK." Which really was, "YOU ARE EXHAUSTED." But it took a nap to make that clear. And now I can stay in my PhD program. As I say, sometimes NAPS ARE SO IMPORTANT.

I am concerned about od'ing on Simon and Garfunkel. I have gone way beyond the recommended daily listening for "The Boxer" today. Gorgeous verse on Central Park, though. Can't let it go:
"After changes upon changes, we are more or less the same -
After changes, we are more or less, the same."

That Paul Simon. Man.

How I am a "film scholar," I don't know. Because I have conversations like this, with my non-film-studying American Studies cohort member Yusong:

Y: Some of us were thinking about going to see a movie next week at the Criterion. So if you want to come?...
Me: Oh, cool! What do you guys want to see?
Y: Maybe The Class [the French film nominated for an Oscar this year for Best Foreign Language film]?
Me: Oh, man. I was really hoping you were going to say Duplicity or I Love You, Man. Oh, okay. The Class. Okay, maybe.

This is the first installment of a new blog feature, "Nonsense: Direct Quotes from Academia." Today, I quote from Anna Everett's book Returning the Gaze: A Genealogy of Black Film Criticism, 1909-1949. She writes:

"What frustrated Tolson most about Gone with the Wind was the film's ability to trade on the nation's racial imaginary and thus to circulate and indeed to be accepted as a mimetic equivalent to its historical referent." (291)

That is, Tolson didn't like that people believed that Gone with the Wind was actual history. Why did Everett feel the need to invoke theorist Theodor Adorno (mimesis), when it's obfuscating and unnecessary? Because, here as in the rest of the book, she doesn't really have anything to say.

This has been the first installment of a new blog feature, "Nonsense: Direct Quotes from Academia."

I should probably update you folks as spring break comes to a close, since I did do some exciting things. Mostly, I went to San Francisco and Oakland, to hang out with Ashley (friend from college). During the week, I:
(1) Played Ashley's Wii and managed to not embarrass myself through several songs on Rock Band. I'm a natural drummer, didn't you know? I have been waiting for years to play a Wii, but I was never good enough friends with anyone who had one, so this was a very special thing for me.

(2) Went to the Muir Woods, which is where there are some very large Redwoods. See?:

Me with tree.

Ashley with tree.

(3) Ate a lot of different foods, including excellent sushi (twice!), and, with Becky R. (formerly of Palo Alto, now of San Francisco), Nicauraguan (for the first time!). I have no pictures of these meals; you will have to trust that they happened.

(4) Got sick, because Ashley has two cats, and I'm allergic to cats. And even though I didn't stay at her house to that I wouldn't get sick, my allergies still hate me. And/or cat dander.

(5) Saw two films at the Castro Theatere, and old-fashioned one-screen movie palace that now runs films in repertory -- that is, they show old movies and new movies and host film festivals and things. It is in the original gayborhood, the Castro, which you may remember from Milk, if you hadn't before heard of it. This is the Castro theater:

This is Ashley's favorite movie theater, which is why we went once (and saw Diamond Head, 1963, w/ Charlton Heston, great 60s epic soap-style drama). Also, because I like movies, too. I went by myself the second time because I have to write an ethnographic paper on a film theater for one of my classes. (On St. Patrick's Day, saw the very silly Darby O'Gill and the Little People, 1959, Disney live-action feature with a very young Sean Connery.) I took the above picture to include in the paper, which is the paper I am decidedly not writing right now, even though it's due in four days. Four days over which I also have to read two whole books. Because I didn't read them while I was in San Francisco, because of course I wasn't ever going to and why I even made that plan is still a mystery to me.

Off to read Gay New York for G. Chaunc on Monday. I'm reading carefully because it was also, by the way, written by G. Chaunc.

I live next door to a club in New Haven called Toad's, and tonight the Game is performing. And this would be a good night to rob somebody, because every cop car in the city is on my block. Also, I'm glad. Because there is a direct correlation between (a) places where the Game is, and (b) places where people get shot.

I was hoping I'd still be out of town when he (and his crew, obviously) came. As it is, I'm not leaving my dorm room.

A short narrative of a great four hours:
I had an uncommon amount of work this week, and as a result, I had to push back my reading for my 3:30pm class until this morning, when I woke up and immediately began read the most boring book ever written about the movies, Returning the Gaze. It's about black film criticism, which is not an inherently dull topic. And yet, hand an academic a subject and she'll wring every last drop of interesting out of it. So I hadn't even gotten out of bed by lunchtime, when I got up and checked my email. And what was within? A note from my sick professor, who canceled class! YES!

Not only do I not have to read that ol' dumb book (right now), I also get to go and see Broadway Legend Patti LuPone, who is visiting one of the colleges this afternoon! I'm kind of afraid, actually.
So much goes on around here, even huge names will sometimes pull in only a small crowd. And I'm afraid that only a few people will show up, which will just put me too close to Patti LuPone. I mean, this woman is fab, but she is a Diva, for real. It's cool to be close, but... not too close.

Nevertheless. This is the best day ever.

I feel like I just created terrible karma for myself. What I really mean is, bless the Smithsonian, bless the Museum of the Moving Image, and bless the Paley Center for Media. But still, they better recognize.

All the stupid, stupid internship applications are done and submitted. I cannot believe how much time I had to invest in a process in which I asked others to allow them to take advantage of my mad skillz for 40 hours a week for ten weeks, for free. Stupid Smithsonian, stupid Museum of the Moving Image, stupid Paley Center for Media. You better recognize.

Despite the pervasive awkwardness of class, I'm learning quite a lot from George Chauncey & Readings in the History of Gender and Sexuality. I've been working on a paper that's forced me to try and figure out some of the very strange, very nuanced changes in the discourse around gender and sexual deviance in the past 100 years. It's hard because it's complicated, but that's good-hard. For this paper, I've been reading a story that's sad and bizarre. It's sad because it's about the trial of a 19-year-old woman (girl?) who killed her 17-year-old female lover after she tried to break off their relationship. The defendant was named Alice Mitchell, and because she was white and well-off, the story was well-covered in the newspapers of the day. What's bizarre (from our modern standpoint) is how her lawyers built her insanity defense. They argued that Mitchell was a "gender invert," which was considered a mental defect at the turn of the century. That is, she played outside with the boys when she was little, when she got older she never wanted to date men, and when she and her partner decided to run away, Alice was planning to act out the male role when they lived together. And the judge and jury were like, "She wanted to do what? Dress like a man? Act like a man? That girl is crazy!" And so Alice Mitchell went into a mental institution rather than into prison.

And that's just a little bit of gender and sexuality in 1892 for you.