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Saturday,
July 26, 2003
Who says Latin is dead? Amazon.com: Harrius Potter et Philosophi Lapis I should really buy this and send it to Stevenus, rhetor malus. Such a nice guy. Such a bad Latin teacher. I'd write to him and suggest that he incorporate it into his lesson plan (although not in the same unit as Catullus, heh) except I heard he got a job somewhere doing some damn thing with mythology in some library. Good on him. - declared by Liusia @ 1:16 PM Here is a picture of Oleg Menshikov wielding a sabre No commentary is needed, I think. 
- declared by Liusia @ 3:23 AM Eh. High culture, low culture, a temper tantrum. Pretty much a normal day in the Russian School. I'll start with the temper tantrum. A few episodes ago on As The Blogger Turns, I discussed a run-in with Dustin. I've pretty much avoided him since then, in high passive-agressive style. Bitch half-heartedly, run away. Bitch half-heartedly, pretend like I'm not pissed off. Pretty characteristic, really. But today he sat down to eat dinner next to me, and there was really no avoiding conversation. (Okay, flashback. A week or two ago, this stupid thing actually started. I was curled up with a textbook, studying for an exam in one of Bicentennial Hall's super-comfy chairs. A classmate walked by, asked me how I was doing. "Neplokha," I replied, not bad. Admittedly, I Spanished the "kh" all up. It was really more of a "neploja." Dustin bustled over. "Don't do that," he told me in Russian. "I hate it when people pronounce 'kh' like that." "Eh, I can't talk," I replied, not yet the ridiculously defensive mess that I've recently become. "I can't even say 'R' correctly, and I've been speaking Spanish almost my entire life." "You can roll Rs," he insisted. "Not really. I think it's pathological. I'm not worried about it." I went back to reading. So he proceeded to draw a cross section of a human head on the chalkboard, illustrating the proper location of the tongue while rolling an R, and giving me an impromptu, totally one-sided phonetics lecture. At first, it was kind of funny. Believe me, I have seen this drawing before. I have gotten this speech before, from properly accredited professional teachers. I have given this R thing the old college try. Despite this, I have never been able to roll an R, and I've contented myself to the fact that I will probably never roll an R. So I interrupted his speech, and told him not to bother, as it was hopeless. He explained to me that it was only hopeless because I thought it was hopeless, and the problem was all in my head. Maybe, I responded, but I don't really care. It's not a tragedy if my Rs are American. I have bigger linguistic problems than the elusive R. Ah, he responded, but no one will be able to understand you when you speak Spanish! For example, the word "pero" (but) versus the word "perro" (dog)! At this point, my testiness overflowed. In retrospect, the mature thing to do would have been to end this stupid conversation. Instead, I gritted out something to the effect of "In all my life, no one has ever been like, 'oh, excuse me, I didn't realize you were talking about a dog' when I didn't properly pronouce the rr in 'perro,' as in languages there are - surprise - context clues. I'm not worried. I have a stupid accent in English, a stupid accent in Spanish, and an even stupider accent in Russian. Somehow, I have learned to live with this. Somehow, I am still able to communicate. I am working on improving, but I'm sorry, your pretty picture and lecture are not helping. Thank you." Then I resumed studying, or tried to, at least. Instead of taking the hint, he informed me that he had taught English, and he had seen cases like me before, and that the only reason my pronunciation was so absymal was that I wasn't trying hard enough. Believe in yourself! he insisted. I believe it was at this point that I got up and left.) This whole thing is so ridiculously stupid that I'm embarassed to even write about it, but for some reason, I'm continuing. Anyway, back to the narrative thread. Dinner today. Marusya, Katia and I were discussing the addictive properties of chess (yes, we are big dorks). "Narcomania," I joked. Of course I slightly mispronounced it; I mispronounce everything. It's a fact of life. "Narcomania," Dustin repeated flatly, pronouncing it correctly. In retrospect, I maybe jumped to a conclusion here. Maybe he wasn't correcting me. Maybe he was just parroting conversation. It definitely sounded like a correction. "Spasebo," thanks, I snapped sarcastically, stabbing a vegetable. A few minutes. "Do you have a problem with me?" he asked. "No. Why?" Oi, the passive aggression. I don't know why I do this. Seriously, self, either just be nice or shut up or get the righteous bitch on, don't waver. "I'm asking you, are you mad at me?" Okay, I'm not going to literally repeat in translation the conversation, because you don't need to suffer that kind of bad grammar, or that many tirades. I'll just summarize. And I'll try not to angelic myself up. "It'd just be better if you didn't correct me," I said. "It's hard enough for me to speak as it is. I know I'm oversensitive, but I'm asking you to leave it alone." "So how are you ever going to get better?" Whoa. Hello, anger. "I do actually have a few teachers, you know." "I thought we students were supposed to help one another." "Okay, but no, it's too much. Thank you." "First of all, I wasn't correcting you just now, I was just talking. And how did I correct you too often?" "For example, you gave me a half-hour phonetics lecture when I was trying to study. And then there was the other day in class." "Those were the first and last times." "Whatever, I'm just saying, don't do it!" Pause. "So you're saying I don't know anything." It appears he also has the passive-aggression. "That's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is that I don't want your help right now. If people understand me, that's good enough for me." "Yes, but pronunciation is important, for example, in Spanish, there's 'perro' and 'pero' -" "Oh, good God! Once again! Spanish is practically my first language, I know this! Perro, pero, durrrr! For the millionth time, it's not a problem. It's never been a problem!" "Fine, I won't help you." "Ladna! That's what I was requesting!" "I won't help you anymore." "Yes! God!" "Not anymore," he said, as though I was insane for rejecting him, shoving back his chair and leaving the table in a huff, mumbling something about midwestern small-mindedness, as though there's an epidemic of Iowans and Michiganers running around ignoring phonetics advice from aggressive 5th semester language students or something. In conclusion: I am a petty, insecure bitch. But why doen't he notice that and leave me alone about this? I was going to say that I don't know why I'm being so hypersensitive to his corrections, but I do know why. I'm starting to feel like a bit of a dumbass here, and truly the last thing I need is someone who is not really any more skilled than I rubbing it in. Ura, he can roll his Rs and make nice round vowel sounds. That doesn't mean he knows more than I do, and I wish he'd stop trying to make me feel like a retard. I feel stupid enough as it is. Jesus God, we need a new subject here. High culture! Earlier tonight I watched a Soviet silent film from the 20s called "Jewish Luck." It's about a financially unfortunate Jewish guy who tries his hand at matchmaking. Given these facts, I would have expected something fairly offensive, but this was actually cute. I mean, there were stereotypes, but in silent film, everything is caricature, so that's to be expected. I'm arbitrarily deciding that this was high culture based on the fact that the film was accompanied by a fantastically talented violinist and a great pianist. The score was absolutely lovely, and I'm currently trying to find it somewhere to buy or download. As for low culture, I, Marusya, Katia, and Katia's friend Alex, who is a Russian studying in the German school, just finished watching The Barber of Siberia on my little computer DVD player. Oh, the melodrama! It really is the Russian equivalent of Titanic. It was cheese, pure and unabashed. The plot? In the late 1800s, a pretty American lady goes to Russia to try to woo a general and secure a fortune for her "dad" (later, it turns out that he isn't her father, gasp) so he can build a giant woodcutting machine. But she falls for a cadet, played by Oleg Menshikov, instead.  Our heroine falls under the spell of Oleg's majestic profile! Oh, the drama. What will she do? Will she secure the money or will she follow her heart? What is her dark secret, and who is this "father?" Why does the stupid film keep cutting to the year 1905 and a stupid Mozart-loving American kid's misadventures in military boot camp? All will be revealed, and all will be dumb. But it's okay, because Oleg Menshikov is ridiculously pretty. 
- declared by Liusia @ 3:06 AM Thursday,
July 24, 2003
Maracas, mad doctors, indoor lakes and The Raven. As I entered my room and flipped on my computer, I thought, "could this day get any weirder?" My question was answered immediately with a loud and resounding "YES" from the Spanish School, which is currently outside our building, singing Guantanamara and making duck noises. And shaking maracas, of course. What would a chorus of hispanic aquatic avians be without maracas? The day began normally enough. I awoke to the smell of rain and the sound of thunder, which was no tremendous surprise, as it's been pouring all week. No flooding here, but I'd hate to be at the base of the mountains. Class was also perfectly normal - I arrived five minutes late, as usual, and neither distinguishished nor embarassed myself. We discussed the novella we're reading, Heart of a Dog by Bulgakov, which started off as a snarky little tale told by a homeless dog but has turned suddenly into a nasty version of Frankenstein. Look, you have to read it to believe it. I found an English version online, if you're interested. It is automatically better than Frankenstein, as it is sans whiny Elizabeth. Also, it has a snarky puppy! Snarky puppies and mad scientists! This is the stuff of genius. Icky genius. The weirdness started during play rehearsal. We'd just finished running a scene, and director Sergei Borisovnitch, who definitely believes in positive reinforcement, yelled "molotsi!" (clever people!) and clapped his hands. His claps coincided with a tremendous blast of thunder and the lights giving one brilliant flare and going dead. Everyone gasped, then started laughing, of course. He jokingly tried clapping again. Clap, clap. The lights flickered, the air conditioners gave a hiss, but died again within seconds. We laughed again, maybe a little nervously this time. He did not try clapping again. We finished rehearsal in the near dark, as the storm rumbled dramatically and the downpour pounded the windows. Had we been running the Bronze Horseman flood scene, this would have been ideal, but we were practicing one of the comedic romance scenes in Nevsky Prospect. We ended rehearsal early, and I headed upstairs. The first thing I noticed was that our suite's bathroom had been magically transformed into an ocean. Seriously, there was at least a half-inch of standing water covering the floor, and seeping down the hallway rug. The window had been left open, which is not normally an issue, as we live on a middle level of a building with big eaves. Rain does not ordinarily enter. With a sigh, I unlocked my bedroom door. I have to admit that at this point, I swore quite loudly in English. Look, you would too, if you found that your room now featured its own swimming hole. It was a damn fine thing that the electricity was out, too, because all my cords were laying in the middle of a tremendous puddle. I hurried to unplug the cords, fearing that the electricity would come back and I would be zapped into oblivion. On my blowdrier's tag, there is a little stick figure with lightning bolts coming out of his head and a terrified gaping maw in the middle of his round, otherwise featureless head. This image filled my head as I hazarded the puddle. But I survived. Soon we found that it wasn't just the power that was out - the phone, internet and hot water were also gone. Katia observed that the hot water would not be an issue for our suite. Who needs a hot shower when you can swim in your own personal ocean? Upon heading down to dinner, we discovered that the entire campus was affected. Showing great creativity but limited culinary skills, the kitchen staff managed to torch some chicken and vegetables. I think they used the outdoor catering equipment. I think they used it indoors, though, because the dining hall was filled with acrid smoke. I chose to eat on the deck. Professor Rifkin stood up in the middle of dinner and announced cheerfully that he'd been informed that the electricity might be out for several days, and as such, we wouldn't have lights, and as such, we obviously couldn't study, and as such, there would be no exams on Friday. Ura! Of course, we made the mistake of happily discussing this news. The lights burst back into life just as Katia was gleefully observing that she wouldn't have to do her readings for tomorrow. Anyway, after supper, the second wave of weirdness occurred. I went to my weekly meeting of the Dead Russian Poets Society. As we talked about avant-garde insect poetry, a teensy, adolescent bird flew in one of the open, screenless windows, and perched over the fireplace. She did not, however, quoth "Nevermore!" We kind of ignored her, assuming she'd eventually fly back out. Instead of flying back out, though, she bounced ballistically around the ceiling for about ten minutes, then proceeded to get herself stuck between two panes of glass in one of the closed, air conditioner-harboring windows. I really do not know how she got in there. The poor thing flapped around helplessly, but the space was too small for her to get any lift. Her bird family was frantically peeping outside. We couldn't move the windowpane at all, because it was screwed into place with the air conditioner. I was in favor of breaking one of the little glass sections of the window, but no one else was up for destruction of school property. So, we decided that the only way to let the bird out was to remove the air conditioner. We tried calling Security, but they were all busy with the electrical problems. After much searching and wringing of hands, as the sad little bird seemed liable to injure herself in there, a man who had a phillips screwdriver was found. Hey, I tried to help hold the air conditioner. He insisted on doing the unscrewing and air conditioner removing all by himself. The funny thing about removing an air conditioner is that you can't hold it in place while removing screws. Of course, the thing fell three stories and broke on the sidewalk. Luckily, no one was walking there. The bird was freed, and as soon as she had safely flown out the window, the students scattered. I don't think anyone wanted to be there when Security finally showed up. At least, I didn't. Epilogue: Outside, as we walked past the destroyed air conditioner, the dumb little bird was chirping happily in the ivy with her family. Aww, dumb little bird. But I ask you, is it any wonder that I keep imagining myself in a gothic horror novel?  Loom! - declared by Liusia @ 8:25 PM Wednesday,
July 23, 2003
Justice for all Here is an article that really upset me. I'm sure that all of you living in the real world and not the secluded Middlebury Language School already know about this, but I just found out. I simply cannot believe that the US has been broadcasting photos of Saddam Hussein's dead sons. It's just such a...terrorist thing to do. "Be afraid, because we just blew the hell out of these guys! Here's a gory picture of it!" I have no idea if these two were guilty of war crimes. Probably. But they were still people. They should have been arrested instead of blasted, or at least buried instead of broadcast. But I suppose that this, coming from a president who was once the execution-happy governor of Texas, shouldn't surprise me in the least. But it does. It surprises me, and it sickens me. I'm also uncomfortable with MSNBC's decision to put the video up on their website. (Don't worry about clicking the link above; the video is not directly shown on that page. It only appears after you choose to play it.) On the one hand, the government released this to be shown, and people are bound to be curious. And the public deserves to see what the government is doing. On the other hand - it's a video of bloody corpses, for God's sake. Bloody corpses that the US government is waving around in our faces, like a cat delivering a dead squirrel to its owner. Look what I can do; I can kill. Aren't you proud? I did it as a gift for you! Spreading democracy, indeed. - declared by Liusia @ 10:46 PM Area Youth's Freakshow The internet is a strange and disturbing place. No, I'm not talking about fuzzies or hentai. I'm talking about... What Would Uncle Jesse Do? Have Mercy! The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins Spock is scary I ask you, what was Leonard Nimoy thinking? - declared by Liusia @ 3:32 PM You will be relieved to hear that I have regained my sense of humor Today I am finding my linguistic stupidity funny instead of disturbing. It's amazing the coping mechanisms of the human mind! Also, the recuperative effects of a night's sleep. In grammar class today, fellow student Dustin actually made fun of my accent. I mean, my accent in English, that I can understand. My accent in English can get pretty silly-sounding. For example, traditionally, the word "ghost" is not pronounced "gawst." But my accent in Russian? Everyone in the damned class has an accent. That's because we're neither Russians nor fluent speakers of Russian. And while it would be bitchy enough to make fun of my speech, say, outside of class, mocking me in class, during class, in front of the class is just unnecessarily mean. So, anyway, he mimicked what I'd just said, exaggerating my very American vowel sounds. I snapped, "Kak ty sovershenno govorish' po-russki?" (Like you speak Russian perfectly?) He just stared at me blankly for a few seconds, then repeated, "Sovershenno?" (Perfectly?) "Sovershenno," I said flatly, wondering if I'd gotten the word wrong (which I hadn't) and went back to what had been doing. Then he had to get a dictionary and look up what I'd said. At least had the grace to leave me alone after that. I know it's spiteful to gloat about this, but...still. I feel smug. This is the second time he's pulled this, and at least I managed some response other than blushing this time. Maybe I'm just easily amused today, but I also think it's hilarous that someone turned up my site by doing this search. I wonder what they were actually looking for? If you are this person, please, please tell me. And these are among the funniest things I've ever read. Sci-fi movies and US policy wonks. Hi-larious. Unused audio commentary by Howard Zinn and Noam Chomsky, recorded summer 2002, for the Fellowship of the Ring (Platinum Series exended version) DVD Unused audio commentary by Howard Zinn and Noam Chomsky, recorded summer 2002, for the Fellowship of the Ring (Platinum Series exended version) DVD: Part 2 Unused audio commentary by Dinesh D'Souza and Ann Coulter, recorded spring 2003, for Aliens special red-state edition DVD Unused audio commentary by Dinesh D'Souza and Ann Coulter, recorded spring 2003, for Aliens special red-state edition DVD: Part 2 Apparently these guys are coming out with a book of these things. I'm so there. - declared by Liusia @ 12:34 PM Tuesday,
July 22, 2003
Erica is now a grown-up! Everyone say "Congratulations, Er!" Er just got a real job with a real newspaper. Er is about to become a productive member of society. Go, Er! - declared by Liusia @ 9:46 PM Yes, I would like some cheese with my wine. Yet another mediocre day. I'm stuck in a holding pattern here; at first it was nice that life was so structured, but now I just want something unexpected to happen. On the one hand, the trip to NY relieved the monotony; on the other hand, the trip reminded me of how regulated the Middlebury College routine is. Not that my life was a mad rollercoaster before coming here, but still. I think the real problem is that I'm so mediocre here. I can communicate well enough to discuss superficial topics and deal with everyday events, but I can't say what I'm really thinking. My essays in Russian are grammatically correct and occassionally contain a tiny glimmer of wit, but are painfully stilted. In class, I seldom make a fool of myself, but I never, never shine. I had to give a speech today. I decided to talk about the introduction of Slavic writing, since I already know a ridiculous amount about the topic. It's so interesting; perhaps the linguistic morphology isn't that thrilling for the masses, but the political stuff is pretty colorful. Or, it is if you're a big academic geek. In any case, I managed to make it pretty lively the first time around on the topic, when it was my masterwork for my New Media and Power class last semester. I gave an 75-minute talk on the subject, and presented my related website, and my classmates were actually alert, and they actually asked questions at the end of the presentation. Intelligent questions. Lots of them. It was shocking, really, because it's a fairly dry topic and I'm a fairly bad public speaker. I must have done something right. So I felt like I had a pretty good running start on this dumb 15 minute speech, even if I did have to give it in Russian. Eh. It wasn't a nightmare, it was just...mediocre. I managed to talk with a minimum of "ums" and searching for words, but I certainly wasn't clever. One person asked commented afterwards, and it was just to criticize me for not admitting that there was Cyrillic writing in the Slavic countries before the arrival of the Byzantine missionaries. Okay, enough academic-ing: to summarize, when I speak in Russian, I am boring and being boring bores me. You know, I used to feel slightly disdainful toward people who didn't like to read, even though I realized it was snotty and elitist to do so. But I think I understand now. If you're not a good reader, reading is not fun. Period. I've got some lovely lively stuff to read in Russian here, but it's no fun to read, because it's so tedious to slog through. I didn't realize how much I missed reading until reading Harry Potter in English last weekend...reading and having the pictures just form in my head, with no extra thought, to hear the character's voices...God. I'd eat tacks to get permission to read another book in English or Spanish. I mean, I guess I could just break the rules, there'd be no consequence, but it's the principle of the thing. Stupid Language Pledge. I'm sorry. That was really whiny. I need to put on a cheery face and stop hiding in my room, and I'll probably feel better. In less whiny news, I just watched a wonderfully cheezy music video, Du riechst so gut by Rammstein. It's ridiculously gothic, featuring a pasty vampire tracking down a lady in red and snacking on her. There are galloping horses and corsets and ballroom dances and wolves. It's pure cheese, and ergo, right up my alley. Very Le pacte des loups, except without the interminability and incomprehensibility.   
This news story has nothing to do with anything, but it made me laugh: Rubber duckies lost at sea - declared by Liusia @ 6:01 PM Monday,
July 21, 2003
Delusional Special Guest Essay Spoiler disclaimer: The bracketed "invisible" text contains Order of the Phoenix spoilers, and can be seen if you highlight the field with your cursor. Spoilers may also appear in the comments section of journal entries containing spoiler text fields. I did not spoiler plot points from the previous four books, because, let's face it, if you haven't read them by now, you probably aren't going to. Big Head Boy: Why Percival I. Weasley is not a Bloody Git By Jessica #1) He is a Weasley and therefore physically incapable of being a git. [ed's note: A strong opening volley, but I must refute your logic. In the HP-verse, it's quite clear that the apple sometimes falls far from the tree. Sirius, for example, is [cousin to Bellatrix Lestrange, and Narcissa Malfoy is also nee Black.] Not to mention that Arthur Weasley is [directly related to Sirius, and ergo, to several Death Eaters.]] #2) In the second book (Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets), Percy threatens to Owl Mrs. Weasley regarding the other Weasley boys' mockery of suspected heir Harry. [ed's note: I heartily approve of the use of "owl" as a verb. Carry on.] While this threat at first seems immature and git-ty, it is important to remember he's looking out for Ginny, who is greatly distressed at their behavior. Further, we see the softer side of Percy, who is very concerned for his Petrified girlfriend while still forced to maintain calm and control in his role as Prefect. [ed's note: fair enough. I will acknowledge that in this instance he was not actually acting the git.] #3) In the fourth book (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire) he was very concerned about Ron during the 2nd task of the Triwizard Tournament, thus a loving and protective brother, thus not a git. [ed's note: gits are capable of loving and protecting family members without sacrificing their git-hood. I would suggest that Draco Malfoy is a prime example of gittiness, but he clearly defends and cares for his family.] #4) In the fifth book (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - or, more aptly titled, HP and Ron Weasley Coming Into His Own), I do not believe he is a [backstabbing, blindly-Ministry-following, sweater-returning, ungrateful] little bloody bastard git. Instead, I present this alternate explanation: [he is under deep cover, working as Dumbledore's man in the Ministry.] [ed's note: oh, c'mon. Here's a syllogism for you: spys don't wear sweater vests. Percy wears a sweater vest. Ergo, he is not a spy.] In fact, even his parents are [unaware of this maneuver. (It is important here to address John's concern with the Undercover Theory: as mentioned in the book, Arthur Weasley believes Percy's promotion was merely an attempt to spy on the untrustworthy-in-Fudge's-Eyes Weasley family [and surely this example of fatherly pride would injure even the most rational of boys]; Fudge's ulterior plans would be thwarted by a faked estrangement. However, Dumbledore and Percival managed a masterstroke here. Certainly a short-sighted man like Cornelius Fudge would recognize the benefits in having an assistant who would unquestionably support the decisions of the Minister. What better way for the Order to unassumingly infiltrate meetings of and obtain information from the elite members of the Wizarding community - many of whom are suspected Death Eaters?) This brave espionage] is textually supported in two different chapters (See Exhibits A and B), as well as canon-ly supported (Exhibit C). [ed's note: I see that you are attempting to obscure the gititude with jargon. A noble effort, but ultimately futile.] Exhibit A: Chapter 5 (The Order of the Phoenix), members of the Order inform Harry of the summer's goings-on. Sirius Black makes the following statement: ["...It's very important for us to have spies inside the Ministry, because you can bet Voldemort will have them." ] While, ostensibly, this comment refers to Arthur, Kingsley, and Tonks, it immediately follows discussion of Fudge's detrimental running of the Ministry; surely he is the one man they'd like to keep tabs on. Therefore, it is only natural to assume that the three mentioned earlier are not the only [spies within the Ministry, but there is another much closer to the Minister.] [ed's note: a plausible enough theory, but you, my dear forensic antropologist, surely realize that this is purely circumstantial evidence.] Exhibit B: Chapter 27 (The Centaur and the Sneak) describes a meeting attended by [Cornelius Fudge, Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and Percy Weasley, during which Fudge makes a rude and pointed comment about Harry's suspected derangement. Percy boisterously laughs and Harry notices that Dumbledore, rather than looking put out, was also smiling "gently" (as opposed to politely or peevishly). Surely the headmaster, while the possessor of a rather odd sense of humor, would not be amused but rather distressed at such behavior from a former, promising pupil. Therefore, perhaps he is instead impressed by the believable act Percy is delivering.] [ed's note: or perhaps he was thinking about truffles. Who can tell with Dumbledore?] Exhibit C: As supported by canon, the sorting hat does not lie. Even with its Slytherin doubts in regards to Harry, the incident at the Chamber of Secrets proved he was correctly sorted. Further, the Patil twins prove that the Houses are not assigned along family biases. Thus, despite his Ravenclawesque intelligence and the pomposity and ambition that would be perfect qualities for a Slytherin - and had Percy been sorted into this House, a possible defection may have been believable - Percy is a Gryffindor. He certainly possesses the courage to single-handedly face [the horrors of undercover espionage amongst known Death Eaters, ever aware that one false step may mean he will be separated from his family for-ever. ] [ed's note: heh. Thanks, T. Herman Zweibel.] Not to mention, as a Gryffindor, he also possesses the integrity to not be a git. [ed's note: correct me if I'm wrong, because it's been a while since I read the first books, but aren't the Hufflepuffs the ones who are all about integrity?] Therefore, although he has admittedly unlikable (though somewhat understandable) personality traits, Percy is NOT a GIT, but in fact a brave and loyal opponent of Voldemort, a true Gryffindor, a loving son and brother, and above all, a good boy. [ed's note: Percy, whoosa good boy then? Good boy, Percy! Good boy wanna biscuit?!] If you have any further doubts, see point number one. Aside prediction not relevant to this essay: unfortunately, if Percy is [indeed spying for Dumbledore, he has placed himself in great danger. Conversely, if he has - as predicted by many associates of Linca prior to the publication of book five - inadvertently been led astray, the danger is even greater, since he'll eventually have to redeem himself. Percy won't survive the series.] And I'll cry like a big baby. The End [ed's note: I would like to draw a distinction between acting like a git and being a git. Percy is, in fact, a git. He may occassionally do things that are non-git-like, but this does not preclude his being a git. In contrast, Ron sometimes acts like a git, for example, being a big meanie to Hermione through half of book three, but is not actually a git. In conclusion, even if your cockamamie Mulderesque theory turns out to be true, Percy will still probably be a git.] - declared by Liusia @ 12:51 PM I'm a big wuss If you want to read spoilers about the latest Harry Potter book, highlight the bracketed areas with your cursor. Ack. I had to take a break from my Harry Potter marathon, because I'm getting irrationally stressed out. [McGonagall and Fang just got zapped into oblivion] and I'm pretty sure that [Sirius is about to die]. Why on Earth am I so upset about this silly book? Okay. Deep breaths. Slightly recovered. I'm going to go back and finish it up. At the risk of being a pompous Percy-esque git, but I'm going to make a rule about spoilers in the comment box. If there's a spoiler text area in my post, you can go ahead and use spoilers - people who haven't yet read the book, be warned that the comment box below an entry containing spoilers may give more things away. If there's no spoiler text in the post, please refrain from spoilering in the comment box. Thank you, kind souls. - declared by Liusia @ 1:20 AM Sunday,
July 20, 2003
New York City! Well, now I feel slightly more cosmopolitan than I did a few days ago! I realize that anyone reading this who has lived in or spent a major amount of time in a big city is going to think I'm a big hick dork, but I think the Lord of the Rings and Star Trek references sprinkled through this journal pretty much gave the dork part away already, and it's true that I'm from the sticks, so I continue unashamed. Also, I really was raised in a barn, so... We headed out into a very pretty rainstorm mid-morning Friday. Despite the fact that there was no thunder, lightning or high winds, the power in our dorm was out. Ah, rural Vermont, and its tenuous connection to modern accommodations. The rain pretty much bit for Katia, who had to drive, but I enjoy storms, so I was in a good mood. The mountains were doing this crazy thing where fluffy clouds sort of clung to them in white tendrils, trailing off to meet the dark smoky stormclouds. There is probably a perfectly good meterological explanation for this, but I am going to blame it on magic, because I think I need to preserve my sense of wonder. A few hours into New York state, we stopped in a little town called Pleasantville, parked the car, and hopped a train for the city. I haven't ever been on a train before, but I would like to think that I was suave. I was successful in minding the gap, anyway. We took the train all the way to Grand Central station, where we caught a subway car. Considering I've spent so little time in big cities, I expected to be overwhelmed by the number of people and the newness and bustle and the size of the buildings, etc, but...everything seemed fairly familiar, actually. It took me a while to figure out why, but once I did, I was amused at myself. I've seen all these places approximately ten million times in movies and on TV. Granted, it's different to actually be there, but there was really no sense of "oh, what is this newfangled contraption!" when I saw a subway car come zooming up. Although my Hollywood-guided perception of the world led me to vaguely expect some kind of crazy Blade-esque action scene to start up on the tracks. And I wouldn't have been terribly surprised to see a car chase by Rockefeller Center. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We met Katia's friend Jessica when we left the subway in Brooklyn. (Oi, just what this journal's narrative needs, another Jessica. Sorry.) I had been a little leery of the idea of staying with someone I'd never met (it just seemed overwhelmingly anti-Miss Manners, even if I was going along at Katia's request, and had been assured that it was fine) but it was fine. We dropped our bags off at Jessica's apartment and went off to dinner. It was at this point that Jessica lent her copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix to me, immediately endearing her to my pop culture literature-loving self. (To explain: Thanks to the whole Middlebury Language Pledge thing, reading materials in English are not allowed. The internet is an exception, as it is a method of communication with home and friends, and also basically unpatrollable. But for the long weekend, the Language Pledge was suspended. More than a week ago, Jessie mailed me a copy of The Order of the Phoenix to read while it was allowed, but due to the ass-backwards Vermont post system, it had not and has not yet arrived. To my consternation.) We went out for dinner at a little Italian place in the neighborhood, and I had the best gnocci that my palate has ever experienced. Mmmm. Bizarre little pasta things. Yum. After that, we hit a goofy Russian-themed bar called Pravda. While I was ordering my first drink, some kind of crazy passionfruit martini, this creepy old guy leered at me. The bartender put put my change on the bar instead of handing it to me, and it landed in a puddle. The creepy old guy said, I kid you not, "Oh, poor thing...now your money's all wet." Okay, maybe it was all in the tone of voice, but...take my word for it, ew. He also leered at Jessica while she was ordering. Katia and I diagnosed him as a Humbert Humbert. Highlights of the bar scene included a truly delicious chocolate martini, and the funniest barfight I've ever seen. So, the bathrooms are labelled "Gospoda" (gentlemen) and "Damy" (ladies) in Cyrillic letters. For obvious reasons, this did not present me with any problem, and I correctly put myself in the proper line. (One line was all women and one line all men, so that really should have been a clue for the non-Russian-reading bargoers, anyway.) After a few minutes, a fairly intoxicated young man came up and put himself in the wrong line. An older but tough thug-looking fellow in the men's line took it on himself to help the young man. Older man (matter-of-factly): This is the men's line. It ends there. Young man (belligerent): It doesn't say so on the doors! Older man: That says women, and this says men. In Russian. Young man: How the fuck would you know? Older man (confused, slightly irritated): Well, I'm Russian. Young man: Who the fuck cares?! Older man: The fact does remain that you are in the women's line. Young man: It doesn't say so on the doors! Older man (exasperated): It does in Russian. That's what "damy" means. Young man: In this goddamn country, we speak English! (jumping up and down for emphasis, getting in the older man's personal space) Older man: Man, whatever. Young man: You wanna start something? You wanna start something, you bitch? (accompanied by chest-puffing and "bring it on" finger waving.) Older man: Not really. Young man: Bring it! Bring it! (chest bumping the older man repeatedly) Older man: (Looking nothing but annoyed, steps carefully away from the young man, and into a nearby crowd.) Young man: (gets confused, trying to figure out what happened to his opponent, and gradually wanders away.) Heh. The bar was entertainingly silly. There was random Russian stuff on signs (the archways had the words "isskustvo," fine art, and "probliemy," problems, written over them) and the menu was all in faux-Cyrillic lettering, backwards Rs and Ns and such. But the drinks were really good. After going back go Jessica's around 3 am, instead of doing the logical thing and sleeping, I read several hundred pages of Harry Potter. Oh, the teen angst! The rebellion! The hormonal moodswings! Heh. The next day, we brunched at a cafe, then headed off to do some sightseeing, including Times Square (and the Hello Kitty mothership. Whoa.) and the Statue of Liberty. Again with the weird deja vu - everything except the Hello Kitty weirdness seemed very familiar. Yay, pop culture saturation. The Hello Kitty mothership deserves some explanation. It's the Hello Kitty superstore, and it's full of every damn Hello Kitty object known to man. Giant Hello Kitties, luggage, a Hello Kitty pudgie pie maker that burned the image of Hello Kitty onto pudgie pies...oi. I felt like Hello Kitty's people had come to take us back to their home planet, and would not have been particularly shocked if the place had blasted off. I have no particularly clever or interesting observations on the sightseeing - it was just interesting and fun. And a lot of walking. At the end of the day, we re-boarded the train, and headed back to Pleasantville and the car. The drive back was uneventful, except that at about 1:30 am, Katia started to doze off (and I was already out, no big surprise) so we had to pull off to a rest stop and nap for a few hours. Well, I guess she napped for a few hours - the next thing I remember after that was pulling into scenic and pastoral Middlebury. It's weird, and this sounds incredibly dumb to say, but the trip to NYC actually made me really homesick for Madison. When we were wandering around trying to find Pravda, and there were actual buildings towering and people walking and cars whizzing past, I kept thinking that if I were home right now, we could be heading off to the Whitehorse to eat delicious nachos, make fun of Erica's drinking habits, feel bad that Jessie and Liz couldn't come, and make weird drink orders to annoy the waitresses. I remembered the horrible jalapeno-as-a-chaser idea that John had formulated at the going-away party, and started giggling to myself all over again. And while I had, of course, missed home quite a lot in the previous weeks, all at once I missed everyone and everything something fierce. Well, everything except Merlin, really. Time for Harry Potter. The Language Pledge kicks back into effect tomorrow. Must...finish...it...today... - declared by Liusia @ 5:40 PM |
