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Saturday,
July 12, 2003 Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!  Thanks Katia! - declared by Liusia @ 1:09 PM In which I whine about my writing project, whine about my exam, and berate you for your reading habits Ack. I've been working on an essay, and it pretty much sucks, so I think I'll take a break and write something in English. The nice thing about writing in my native tongue is that I don't have to look up every freakin' perfective verb in the 501 English Verbs book. I may make grammar errors, but at least in English they don't make me unintelligible. Said essay is about problems related to marriage and family. Instead of writing a thoughtful, insightful piece about the state of the modern family, though, my essay is a laundry list of reasons not to marry or reproduce. Right now I'm questioning whether I should put "And besides, why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?" as the conclusion. On the one hand, it's amusing. On the other hand, I'm a Catholic. I already have enough reasons to feel hellbound. Svetlana Igorevna (my grammar teacher) already read the first draft, and she liked it, so I guess the non-introspective sarcasm will not result in point dockage from the final grade. Thank goodness. Non-introspective sarcasm is my ground state, and having to look half the words I want up in the dictionary is making me an even crabbier bitch. I'm not sure I'm capable of a genteel essay right now. As every Friday, we had exams yesterday. The written exam seemed surprisingly easy, which probably means that I missed the point entirely and will recieve a C. The oral exam was more difficult, as talking is still hard for me. But the topics were pretty insipid ("What role does fashion play in your life?" "Relate the biographical story of an artist or entertainer." "Talk about why sports are important to you." Basically, topics that tied into our vocabulary lists for last week) making things easier. I chose the sports topic and talked about horses. The only really tricky part was explaining dressage, as Svetlana Igorevena had never heard of it. Dressage is hard enough to explain in English. Play rehearsal went well. My character is a bouncy little old lady in restrictive skirts and uncomfortable shoes, so I have to affect a fairly silly walk. The annoyance of having to basically hop everywhere was mitigated, though, by the fact that Sergei Borisovnich, to demonstrate what I was supposed to do, kept bouncing around acting out my part. Hee. Seriously, maybe you had to see it, but try to picture an upper-middle-aged Russian guy acting like Nanny Ogg on crack. Hee. (If you don't know who Nanny Ogg is, shame on you. Get thee to the library and read some Terry Pratchett at once! I recommend Guards! Guards? or Small Gods as a starting place. Maskerade is also a lovely Phantom of the Opera tribute/spoof. Nightwatch is probably the best of the lot, but it's done in a different (read: serious) style. Avoid the earlier books until you are a true Pratchett convert, because some of them are, um, subpar. Pyramids, I'm lookin' your way. PS: I re-read Nightwatch on my way to Middlebury, and I think I have a eensy literary crush on Mister Vimes. "Humans are worse than sheep. Sheep just run; they don't try to bite the sheep next to them!")  Fabricati diem, pvnk! Last night I attended a concert given by Zolotoi Plios, the folk group that is conducting the choir here. Russian folk music is fun. It sounds like what you'd get if you locked a polka band accordian playing grandpa, a dude off a minaret, a Scottish bagpiper, and that chick who always sings too loud in church in a room for a year with nothing but a book about traditional folkways. Argh. Back to the essay. - declared by Liusia @ 12:35 PM Heh. I'm a democratic monkey. 
You know your mind and don't take any bull. At your heart you are cynical, sarcastic and unique... and prone to pessimism. Don't shut out other people. Don't drown out what you don't want to hear with your own talk. Listen. Which monkey are you? Another pointless diversion from Bijouriel  Threat rating: High. The Bush administration is concerned that it may not get a second term. Therefore, we are going to change the rules so that each Democrat vote only counts as 0.2 votes because Democrat is a shorter word than Republican What threat to the Bush administration are you? brought to you by Quizilla - declared by Liusia @ 11:34 AM Friday,
July 11, 2003
Um...yay, girl power? CNN.com - Stonehenge riddle 'solved.' It's a girl - Jul. 10, 2003 - declared by Liusia @ 3:41 PM
Thursday,
July 10, 2003
No gothic horror today, just alienation poetry Yes. Jesus God, I'm sorry, you guys. I'm going to post some poetry about being despondent and alienated. And bleeding. Does it help if I say that I didn't write it myself? And it's classical? I've noticed that bloody awful poetry seems to be a prerequisite for young female bloggers. I will try to buck this trend and post only poetry that only bloody. (Katia has also bucked this trend, by posting poetry of her own that is actually good. I promise I will not attempt this.) We'll start with a non-alienation poetry subject to warm up. Today I had another rehearsal for Vivat Peterburg. Rehearsals go a lot easier for me now that I finally figured out the director's patronymic and I no longer have to address him as "Sergei Mumblemumblevitch." (The polite way to address a Russian superior is by their first name and patronymic. It would be pretty rude for me to call him Sergei, and Ugly American to call him, like, Comrade Kokovkin.) So now I can say things like, "Izvinitiye, Sergei Borisovnich, pochemu ya seichas begu po krugu?" (Excuse me, Sergei Borisovnich, why am I running around in circles now?) I am becoming increasingly suspicious that this play is his way of making lots of aimlessly stupid Americans look even more aimless and stupid. I have not yet mastered the humorous falling, and as such, bruised my shoulder while taking an only mildly funny fall today. Jessica, how do you do it? Now for the bloody poetry section. Today we had the second meeting of the Dead Russian Poets Society. Of course, I cannot reveal the details, lest the blood oath I took cause Pushkin to wreak poltergeistly revenge on me. I can say that we read two poems by Lermontov, Parus and Son, which I will reproduce here (that is, steal from RussianPoetry.net. This site is extra-cool, because not only does it have translations, but it has recordings of a guy reading the poems in the original Russian.) Son V poldnevnyi zhar v dolinye Dagestana S svintsom v grudi lezhal nedvidzim ya, Glubokaya eshchyo dymilas' rana, Po kaplye krov' tochinasya moya. Lezhal odin ya na peskye doliny. Ustupy skal tesnilisya krugom, I solntsye zhlo ix zheltyye vershiny I zhlo menya - no spal ya mertvym snom. I snilsya mnye siyayushchii ognyami Vechernii pir v rodinoi storonye. Mezh yunykh zhen, uvenchannykh tsvetami, Shyol razgovor veselyi obo mnye. No, v razgovor veselyi ne vstypaya, Sidela tam zadumchivo odna, I v grustnyj son dusha yeyo mladaya Bog znaet chem byla pogruzhena; I snilas' yei dolina Dagestana; Znakomyi trup lezhal v dolinye toi, V yevo grudi, dymyas' chernela rana, I krov' lelas' khadeyushchei struei. translation: Dream In high noon's heat in a Caucasian valley I lay quite still, a bullet in my breast; The smoke still rose from my deep wound, As drop by drop my blood flowed out. I lay alone upon the valley's sand; The mountain ledges closed in all around, Sun burned their yellow peaks It burned me, too-but deep as death I slept. I dreamt I saw the shining lights Of evening feasting in my homeland. Young maids with flowers in their hair Spoke gaily of me 'mongst themselves. But one maid sat apart in thought And did not enter gaily in, Her youthful soul was caught it seemed, Lord God knows how, in some sad dream: She dreamt about a valley in the Caucasus; She knew the corpse that lay upon the ground; His breast was blackened by a smoking wound, His cooling blood was flowing in a stream. This poem is nifty for many reasons. For one, It's a dream in a dream in a dream. And secondly, it's creepily presentient, as Lermontov was killed the same year he wrote this - shot in a duel in the Caucasus. And here's Parus: Parus Beleet parus odinokii V tumanye morya golubom!.. Shto ishchet on v stranye dalekoi? Shto kinul on v krayu rodnom?.. Igrayut volny - veter svishchet, I machta gnetsya i skrypit... Uvy, - on schstiya ne ishchet I ne ot schastiya bezhit! Pod nim struya svetlei lazuri, Nad nim luch solntsa zolotoi... A on, myatezhnyi, prosit buri, Kak budto v buryakh yest' pokoi! Sail A lonely sail is flashing white Amdist the blue mist of the sea!... What does it seek in foreign lands? What did it leave behind at home?.. Waves heave, wind whistles, The mast, it bends and creaks... Alas, it seeks not happiness Nor happiness does it escape! Below, a current azure bright, Above, a golden ray of sun... Rebellious, it seeks out a storm As if in storms it could find peace! I think I'm startying to appreciate poetry. I mean, it wasn't like I was a big giant poetry-hating redneck philistine before, but talking about poems in a non-academic setting really does help my understanding. And when I understand them better, I enjoy them more. Before joining this group, I only really relished things like novels in verse, epic poetry, Shakespeare. I like the idea of telling a story in an artistic, creative way, and could appreciate the difficulty in, say, explaining what the hell Lady Macbeth is doing without falling out of iambic pentameter. And there were some straight-up poetry poets that I enjoyed. Percy Shelley, for one, to my everlasting shame. But for the first time ever, I'm getting why people love poetry. That was too freaking serious. Have a picture of Oleg Menshikov dressed as a Mexican cowboy. 
- declared by Liusia @ 9:47 PM This just in: Russia is still weird. I've been slacking off in the Russian Weirdness department lately. So here's something new and freaky: Giant Preschoolers in Wrestling Match It actually takes place in Georgia, but still. - declared by Liusia @ 12:54 PM Wednesday,
July 09, 2003
The Damsel of Vermont (A Tale of Morbid Middlebury): Chapter 2 Alas, for I was unable to infiltrate the depths of the German dormitory. Truthfully, I failed even to pass through the fortress's unhallowed doors, as after my nightly repast, I was overcome by weariness and positively zonked-out whilst reading. When at last I came back to myself, I discovered that I was in a most unlady-like position, absolutely sprawled, and dare I admit, drooling upon my novella. A great indignity to the fine Dame Rowling and her translator, one Comrade Litvinovii.  artist's rendition of the unholy rites may be occuring even now in the German dormitory It was already nine of the clock, and I could simply not gather the courage to partake in adventure, not with the sun disappearing behind the mountains and my tapers burning low. Instead, I, with my dear compatriots Marusya and Katia, attended a tea salon. To my mind it is most irregular to take teatime at such a late hour, but as they say, I must do as the Romans (although of course this is a metaphor, I acutally mean Russians) do, even if they are heathen foreigners. We decended into the very depths of the building. I feel certain that there is evil in this place. I believe I could feel it as I climbed down and down the winding stair. (I have always been quite sensitive to psychic emanations. I know that this is contrary to God's will, and I can only pray that I not be damned for my cursed nature.) Unfortunately, I saw only the standard activities of a tea salon (id est, tea-drinking and biscuit-eating, as well as several ignominious endeavors such as dominoes and playing-cards.) I did not so much as espy a demon-posessed samovar or teacup. So it is with a heavy heart that I slip betwixt my sheets tonight. Perhaps tomorrow I shall make greater progress towards unravelling the threads of the mysterious shroud that is rural Vermont. Before I sign off, dear readers, I give to you these amusing diversions: Udder Insanity, in which one must tend one's cattle herd as Jesus tends his flock of believers, whilst fending off menaces such as cow-tippers and infidels and Sharkbait, in which one must fish for one's sustanance, while avoiding the omnipresent menace that is the electric eel. - declared by Liusia @ 9:48 PM
And now for a special guest essay Confessions of a Cleaning Lady By: Jessica A. Flanders [ed's note: in my brain and in my blog, this Jessica is "Jessie." "Jessica"/"Jess" is the other Jessica, the one who thinks Tolkien is a homophobe. Look, don't blame me. Blame the baby boomer parents that gave all their kids the same damn name.] Upon the completion of the Spring 2003 semester of college, I was faced with two equally unappealing choices. The first was to return home, which is possibly the most boring place on earth, but where I was assured of having gainful employment. The second was to remain in Madison, where I could actually enjoy myself, but would be forced to look for a demeaning and poorly paying summer job. [ed's note: "soul-sucking." You forgot "soul-sucking."] Now I count myself as fortunate, as I quickly found such a job, while countless others were left to beg and plead for any kind of work [ed's note: or embrace a life of lazy-bumness, as I myself did. Dude, this is the first time I haven't had a job since I was thirteen, and it's great.] My job sounds great on paper. I work 8:30-5, Monday to Friday, and I make $8 per hour, which is quite the wage hike from my previous summer job, working for a mega-corporation that will remain nameless. [ed's note: if only I wasn't so familiar with their name. They're the only chain business in Middlebury. I have to, like, import soap, but I can get a Big Mac just down the street.] The downside is that it involves cleaning apartments that college students who have left campus for the summer have vacated. Yeah. Stop and think about the sheer volume of mess that it is possible to accumulate in a year or nine months. Now picture cleaning that mess eight hours a day, for three months, with little to no deviation in the tasks that you perform. You'd be going a little crazy too, wouldn't you? I'm in no position to be judgmental, mind you. I'm a slob, born and bred. I freely admit this. My apartment is by no means spotless, though at present I attribute that to total lack of ambition to clean, having spent the previous eight hours doing so. However, I've noticed a few things that those who are moving into new apartments in August should bear in mind. Trust me, doing these things will stop the person who cleans your apartment when you move out from storming your landlord and demanding your forwarding address, so that they may take their frustrations out upon your tender flesh. [ed's note: no court would convict you.] The first is a fairly simple task. When you move, take everything with you. If you don't want it, throw it away. This includes everything from the empty tape dispenser to the side of beef you have in the freezer. It's just going to get thrown away whenever we get to your apartment. Save us a couple of minutes and do it for us, okay? Though, never underestimate the fun that you can have hiding pieces of beef for an unsuspecting coworker to find. Comedy gold, I tell you. [ed's note: if you don't harass Jess with a hamhock at some point during the summer, I'll never forgive you.] Second, clean your toilet while living in your apartment. Yeah, I know, it's a pain, and it just gets dirty again. But seriously, I can tell when a toilet hasn't been cleaned in a year. And when I see one, I just get homicidal urges. [ed's note: heh. That'd be a hell of a Pavlovian reaction. You hear a toilet flush, you feel the overwheming urge to kill kill kill...] Clean it. And while you're at it, if the bottom of your shower is orange, it might be a good idea to clean that as well. I highly doubt that it turned orange in the gap between your tenancy and my cleaning your apartment. Do you really want to be showering in that? Cleaning products are not that expensive. Invest in them. Lots of them. And then, more importantly, USE them. It doesn't take long to quickly clean your bathroom. Really. I promise. And for all of you guys out there, cleaning does not make you less of a man. In fact, I bet you get more girls that way. Just imagine the shock and amazement your date could experience if she didn't feel compelled to put toilet paper on the seat before she uses your bathroom. Just something to consider. [ed's note: honestly, the only truly clean guy's place I've ever been in belonged to an obsessive-compulsive. Oh, and also John's apartment. Somebody raised that boy right.] Now, onto general kitchen maintenance. Before moving out, take a sponge and run it across the surfaces in your fridge. I have no desire to know exactly what you ate this last year. When you don't do so, I can tell just how many bags of frozen tatertots you consumed. Do you really want me knowing this? I didn't think so. In addition to this, sweeping your floor is an excellent idea. The dried out spaghetti noodles on the ground aren't really that appetizing. [ed's note: in all fairness, those little bastards are hard to catch. It's like playing malevolent pik-up-stiks.]I promise I won't go hungry if you remove them from the apartment. It's awfully kind of you to be concerned about my welfare like that, but even broke as I am, I think I'll get by. I guess that's about it. There are more, but in general, just tidy your apartment. I have no issue with doing what I'm paid to, which is to make your apartment look like someone hasn't lived there before. But please, I beg of you, make my job easier. It doesn't take that long, especially if you've made a habit of cleaning, as my bathroom suggestions suggest imply you should. Your landlord will love you, the cleaning crew will love you, and you get to feel good about yourself. [ed's note: also, as an added bonus, you'll reduce your chances of contracting diptheria or being killed by Jessie or both.] How's that for a win/win situation? - declared by Liusia @ 9:19 PM The Damsel of Vermont (A Tale of Morbid Middlebury): Chapter 1 I awakened this morning to the unmelodious sound of ravens beneath my bower window. I feel certain that this is a harbringer of doom, although I could not tell you why, dear readers. Adding to this inauspicious beginning was the soul-chilling fear I experienced when I gazed into the mirror after my morning ablutions. I had donned a long skirt, a batik tank top and a denim jacket of questionable fashion sense, and twined my hair into two long braids. Upon review of my appearance, to my overwhemling horror, I realized that my outfit resembled nothing so much as the traditional ensemble of Fred Burkle. Frantically, I unwound my tresses, but the damage was already done. I was left with an o'erweening sense of helpless dismay for several hours. After lessons, I ventured into town with the aim of procuring a new hairstyle. I entered a promising salon, and asked whether the craftswoman could, in fact, take a walk-in. The good woman equivocated for several minutes, sighing, saying that she was uncertain, as midday is a busy time for her establishment. However, upon consulting her schedule-ledger, she disclosed that her next customer was not due to arrive for an hour. I do not want to be uncharitable or unchristian, but I must say that I suspect this dramatic display was wholly uncalled-for. I conjecture that even in the unlikely event that entire population of Middlebury (diminutive as it is) scheduled appointments, there would still be time to squeeze in a trim. I shall never understand, kind readers, why the average barber-hairdresser is so firmly incapable of taking simple instructions. A trim, I requested. Please, good lady, remove the unsightly split-ends. "Two inches it shall be," she replied, and I approved. But at the end of the procedure, I discovered that my previously generous locks are now but shoulder-length. And the hairdresser has even deprived me of my faculty for complaint about her misdeeds, as the style actually appears quite pleasant to my eyes. Perhaps tonight I (and my moddish tresses) shall probe the dark past and unseemly present of this institution of higher learning. I am absolutely convinced that there is some foul play occurring in the German dorm. God willing I survive my exploits, I shall keep you informed. - declared by Liusia @ 2:05 PM
Tuesday,
July 08, 2003
I am languishing Alas, I have succumbed to an overwhelming sense of ennui. I do believe that I shall manufacture for myself some gothic horror to pass the time. What undisclosed horrors lie in Middlebury College's shrouded and mysterious past? What festering secrets are concealed between the walls of our monastatic student quarters? What shrouded and arcane rites take place in the German dorm? And what unspeakable acts occurs daily in the Mead Chapel, that they must ring the carillion so long and so loud to conceal the sound? I shall begin my investigation tomorrow. (If you've read Northanger Abbey, this may make more sense. Possibly not. Possibly I need to get some sleep.) Northanger Canon - declared by Liusia @ 10:27 PM Monday,
July 07, 2003
Ura, a submission already! J.R.R. Tolkien: Closet Homophobe? By: Jessica, Pop Culture Ambassador A celebrated author revered worldwide, JRR Tolkien is well known for his themes of friendship with and tolerance of other cultures. In his most famous published work, Lord of the Rings, dwarves, elves, men and hobbits band together in an epic battle against industry and evil. [ed's note: and against ugly things.] And yet his novels, in contrast to the very bonds formed among the previously warring peoples of his universe, reveal Tolkien's deep prejudices, particularly against homosexuals. Set against the background of otherworldly strife, the book's low-key romances provide a humanizing, touching element to the saga of the Ring. Aragorn's lifelong quest to win the hand of the elf-maiden Arwen, and Captain Faramir's wooing of the desperate White Lady of Rohan pluck the heartstrings of even the most cynical reader [ed's note: namely, Jessica]. However, the closest and most loving relationship of the series - that between hobbit hero Frodo Baggins and his loyal manservant Samwise Gamgee, is subverted and broken while all of the heterosexual pairings [ed's note: all two of them] are relatively successful and lasting. Frodo and Sam, whose emotional and physical closeness is repeatedly textually supported, face many horrors during their journey across Middle-Earth. Wounded, tempted and often in mortal peril, Frodo and Sam often survive merely due to their support of and love for each other. [ed's note: c'mon. Sam totally could have scuttled up what mountain sans Frodo Baggage.] However, after all their suffering, one is forced to endure years of torment ameliorated only by an escape to metaphorical death, while the other succumbs to societal pressures, marrying a local female and ignoring his true feelings. [ed's note: I agree, it's a real bitch that Frodo got stuck marrying Lobelia like that.] By examining the outcome of this major relationship, one can see that, despite his supposed advocacy of loyal friendship and love in the form of the Fellowship, Tolkien is a bigot of the worst kind and in fact doesn't support "brotherly love" at all. In denying Frodo and Sam's mutual love, the author respected worldwide for his views on acceptance and respect, is revealed as a narrow-minded homophobe. [ed's note: You're clearly prepared for your academic career. Ura for creative BS!] - declared by Liusia @ 11:22 PM Because even my ego isn't big enough to fill an entire website... I'm seeking non-me-based submissions. Come on, you're all clever people. And you're reading, which means you're at least rudimentarily literate! So, write me an essay, a rant, a travelogue, a movie or book recommendation. Photoshop something! You have to be better at Photoshop than I am! (see exhibit A: my mountain pictures.) Curti, I'm naming you foreign correspondent. Straight up from Cairo, represent! - declared by Liusia @ 10:27 PM
"They're more afraid of you than you are of them." I just got off the phone with Jessica, and she was kind enough to give me that bit of wisdom about the mountains. Heh. Is there a technical name for mountain fear? You know, it's not extreme or incapacitating in any way (not like my Gollum-phobia, that's for sure), it's just that the things are kind of unnerving. Something that big shouldn't be able to hide behind a tree. I'm just sayin'. 
I guess the Gollum-phobia thing deserves some explanation. See, I read The Hobbit when I was pretty little, and The Lord of the Rings not long after that. And Gollum pretty much fit the description of the thing I believed lived under my bed. I was deeply, deeply convinced that the little monster was down there, hiding from the sun. The yellow face, it burnsss, it burnsss uss my preciousssss. What, no fissshes here in our nice dark cave? We ssshall have to eat the girlssses puppy, yess I sshall, my preciousss. Puppieses are tassty! So are girlsess! So, um, yeah. Eventually I reached the point in my childhood where I could tell reality from fiction (well, some of the time, anyway) and Gollum became almost pleasantly creepy, like something from a scary story told around the campfire. Just a hookhanded hitchhiker, something to haul out when roasting marshmallows and trying to scare your friends... Then there was the movie. Damn you, Peter Jackson! Stupid WETA and your stupid groundbreaking CGI! Way to make my MAJOR CHILDHOOD TRAUMA look like it was really, truly pawing at Elijah Wood! Oh, Andy Serkis, so clever with your little motion-capture suit! Damn you all! I adore horror movies. I scoff at vampires and poltergeists. Demented serial killer cannibals? Bring it on. Man-eating sharks? Ha, do your worst. But the three whole seconds of Gollum in the first movie was enough to give me a few good nightmares, and don't even get me started on the all-Gollum-all-the-time fiasco that the second movie was. And you, John, with your ridiculously good impression, hopping like a frog-hobbit from my kitchen counter to my sofa, muttering about nice fishsses! VERY HELPFUL!  Aieee! Ahem. Anyway. Jessie gets the #1 Awesome Friend award, as she's sending me a copy of The Order of the Phoenix to read over my upcoming vacation. Yay, Jessie! And SO not yay to you, Jessica and John, for teasing me about one of the characters dying. "It's James." "He was dead before the books started!" "They bring him back to life. Then kill him." "It's Percy. No, it's not. Or...is it?!" "Dumbledore finds out that McGonagall and Sprout are a couple, and in a jealous rage kills both of them, then himself. It's a murder-suicide." You are bad friends. Not really. It was actually pretty funny. I'm just still bitter that I'm missing all the summer blockbusters. Pirates! Johnny Depp! Sean Connery as a cleverly-literate-comicbook hero! Pixar! Argh. - declared by Liusia @ 9:56 PM Sunday,
July 06, 2003
Agnus dei, qui tollis pecatta mundi...miserere nobis I actually got up this morning and went to church. It was somewhat strange, because I hadn't been in several weeks. I'd blamed it on travelling and moving and blah-de-blah, but the truth is, I could have gone if I'd been less lazy, so I'd been feeling even more Catholic Guilt than usual. I felt a palpable sense of relief when I walked in and sat down in the pew. I'm choosing to believe that this is something God-related and not an example of how my heritage and upbringing have turned me into a opiate-of-the-masses dependent sheep. I'd actually noticed this church on the original drive into Middlebury, and wondered why there wasn't a denomination on the sign, just "St. Mary Church of the Assumption." I'd wondered if it might be Catholic, as I don't think Protestants have the bodily assumption thing, but as my grasp of Protestantism is foggy at best, I'd been unsure. I should really get a book or something, because all I know is the interesting random stuff I've picked up from Jess and Er. That and the writings of Martin Luther. And that time I went to Luthern church with my mom's Luthern boyfriend, and the minister told my mom and I we were backward Mary-worshipping Papist misogynists. Ahem. Definitely time for a book. Anyway, the church was entirely full this morning, which initally surprised me, but then I thought about it for like two seconds and realized that if it's the only Catholic church in the area...well, dur. The mass was very pleasant, but very brisk. They just clipped right along. I'm used to Polish pomp and circumstance and meaningful pauses. There were also, I kid you not, five priests there. I don't know if they were having a priest convention this weekend or some of them were acolytes or what, but it was pretty weird. One of the priests looked and sounded like Liam Neeson, which added a certain ungodly entertainment factor. Except he was cuter than Liam Neeson. Oh, my God, I'm going to hell. One of the statues was turned to face the wall. I assume this is meaningful in some way, but I have no idea how. Maybe it's supposed to be Judas Iscariot, forced to sit in the corner eternally. I'm ridiculously curious about this, but I have no idea whom to ask. "Excuse me, Father Liam, but why is that statue facing the wall? Oh, because they were repainting it? Um, thanks." After church, I spent the entire rest of the day reading Garry Potter, goofing off on the internet, and avoiding my homework. Ura! Ways I wasted time today: I have been entirely capitivated by this orbit simulator. I managed to get one of my asteroids to make a figure-eight around the Earth and moon twice, then slingshot into space. < geek > I could, however, not make any of them slingshot back in time to rescue a pair of humpback whales. < / geek > And this is just internet-based heroin: Defend your castle! - declared by Liusia @ 2:18 PM |
