I don't know if my morals are screwy or what, but it really exasperated me when Eugene decided that he was going to do the right thing, as it were, on p. 232. I think I even said aloud, "Take it, you idiot!" I am continually surprised that Eugene seems to be able to keep more of his scruples than protagonists in some other stories--like, say, "Great Expectations." I like the fact that Eugene tends to be more gray than black-and-white. He was a complete bastard to woo Victorine when he knew how much she wanted him, but I think it was right that he broke it off as soon as she got her money, rather than keeping her on the back burner in case things didn't work out with Delphine, (which may change). He is definitely more interesting to me as a person who is still giving and kind to others (Old Goriot, his sisters) and who still has a conscience despite the fact that he's so focused on money and status, (again, this may change).
I think it would have been really easy, (and didactic—not to mention boring), to make Eugene become completely morally bankrupt as soon as he got some nice clothes or a little bit of notice by the crème de la crème of Parisian society. Some people would probably argue with me, but to me it doesn’t seem like he’s changed much from when he didn’t have any money. He was ambitious then, he’s ambitious now. Then, he studied incessantly and attended law school because his law degree was going to be the means for him to make his way in the world. Now, he studies the manners of the class he wants to emulate, and attends lessons in their drawing rooms and opera boxes.
But are Eugene and Delphine really in love? Their relationship just plagues me with questions. Is Eugene only interested in her because of obligation or pity that he feels towards Old Goriot? Is Old Goriot really just a spectacular puppet-master manipulating Eugene? There is definitely some of both going on. Does Eugene actually feel love for Delphine? I know there was some part earlier in the novel where it said, “He feel more deeply in love with her every day,” but this was shortly after he decided to take up with her because she was his best chance at advancing in society. I think his judgment is a little too clouded by money and status for him to truly love her, in the Renzo and Lucia sense. Although it could be that he only got into it for the social benefit at first, but he ended up falling in love with her for real. And the same with her; does she just want to be with him because he’s young, kind, malleable, moldable, the opposite of her husband? And who the hell am I to judge what “true” love is, anyway? It just seems to me to be very convenient that these two hooked up for convenience’s sake, and “poof!” now they are in love. It’s just so hard for me to believe people can really be in love under the circumstances, awash in the superficiality of Parisian society. The fact that the two haven’t consummated their relationship is something that I could use to argue either the idea of love-by-convenience for them, or that they are truly in love and are waiting for that special moment.
Also, there’s something to be said about the idea of wanting what you can’t have. At the beginning of the story, Eugene was mad for Madame de Restaud, whom he could not have, and that is what drove his ambition. Has he found some way to overcome that part of human nature that makes us prefer what we can’t have over that which we can have easily, (now I am like those authoritative 19th century narrators—but it is so true!), and if so, will he share that secret please? Are we to believe that he has overcome this and will happily settle with Delphine?
Will Eugene show up at de Restaud’s door years from now, making grandiose overtures to her, breaking Delphine’s heart and causing the elderly Goriot to kill him with his own last breath? Will Papa Taillefer call out Eugene in a duel for breaking his daughter’s heart and kill either Eugene or Old Goriot? Will Goriot be revealed as some sort of dastardly mastermind after ruining Eugene? Will Vautrin escape and seek revenge on Goriot for informing the police about him in the first place (which is where, we find out, Goriot got the money to purchase Eugene’s fancy new digs)? So many questions!

The Reporter from Hollywood

(This was an English assignment. We were required to make up our own character introduction in the manner of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales)

One Pilgrim was a man fresh out of his teens
who possessed extravagant taste in jeans.
No expense was spared acquiring that exquisite cut
which most expressively encased his exceptional butt—
for there wasn’t much that he loved more
than getting his cheeks squoze until they were sore.

To boast a fair derriere was his ace
considering that he had an unmemorable face!
The composition of his features made such an impression
that had Secret Agent been his chosen profession
it would have served him well,
because—hell!—(you’ll pardon my digression);
anybody who met him would be hard-pressed thereafter
to recall whether or not he looked quick to laughter,
or sharp of tooth, or square of jaw—
whether the skin ‘round his nose looked reddish or raw.
Had he eyes green and sly or soulful and black—
limpid pools like the sky or red-rimmed from smack?
Was he powerful or pallid, obese or just right?
Was he sexy and dashing—did he look like a knight?
Was his stride somewhat hinky?
Were his eyes too close-set? His nose a bit dinky?
Alack-a-day! Who are we to know
whether he looked as from Heaven or from down below!
(A rumor went ‘round, three years back—maybe four—
his own mom called him “Masher!” when he surprised her at a store).
I wonder: “Were his eyebrows joined as though musing a riddle,
bisecting his face where they met in the middle?”
Enough!
One could ruin days ruminating on such stuff!

“But wait!” you ask, “What did this dandy do?”
Hush your mouth, little sawcebox, and I shall tell you!
From an esteemed journalism school he’d earned his degree
and now a reporter was he for the network of E!
The name he went by was Greg Orree.
The intricacies of Hollywood he studied carefully
because how can world events or D.C. dullness compare with showbiz—
would you rather have a man at a podium or an eyeful of Paris (Hilton, that is)?

Mr. Greg Orree owned book upon book
dissecting and labeling every possible look
or turn of phrase or nod of head
known to betray whom was sleeping in whom else’s bed.
Among his fellow correspondents he found nary a peer,
(actor wannabes who wouldn’t know a Hamlet from a King Lear),
not one of them could discern a slight from a spurn—
which in this business was a very necessary difference to learn!
(Celebrities are congenitally capricious creatures,
one needs a sixth sense to read their voices and features
and deduce when a curse is implied by a sigh,
or whether “Hello” means “Piss off” or “Hi!”).

The employees of E! thought Greg a real peach.
They took turns imitating his swagger and his speech,
‘cause as notorious as his need to be invitingly knickered
was the quirk at which these colleagues quietly snickered:
“Get the just of it,” had become his well-known catch-phrase
yet they were taxed to remember the most hackneyed clichés.
(Poor Greg was innocent of his pet malapropism,
for “gist” he confused with that crude substance, jism).

Truth be told, they were jealous, and here is the reason:
Orree was the most sought-after man in town come Awards Season!
In the off-season, too, invites to his mailbox flew,
he came to work often in frocks from last evening’s do.
From his lips fell reviews of each night’s best-dressed,
stories of sloshed starlets he’d managed to molest,
fairy tale weddings with fountains of champagne,
and epic gambling bashes with mountains of cocaine.

Last Christmas he’d spent at George Clooney’s house in Italy,
and the Lake Como terrain he’d photographed most prettily.
These photos ensured his workmates’ ill will did not waiver
when he used them for his office computer’s screen saver.
Anecdotes about Christmas with George had he plenty—
he would be Godfather to Brangelina child number twenty!
And Malibu beach parties? Man, he’d seen dozens—
at one his booty was grabbed by three of LiLo’s cousins!
Ah, if only that tush could but speak,
it would have its own talk show each night of the week!

Don Abbondio is funny, but his actions, or rather, inactions, are extremely frustrating. He is such a helpless idiot! If I were Perpetua or Agnese, I would have pushed him off the cliffs surrounding The Unnamed's castle during one of his frantic searches for an escape route, (except that Perpetua and Agnese, being industrious sorts of non-whiny people, would have been doing something useful with their time instead of bearing witness to Don Abbondio’s exasperating antics). His selfishness puts others in danger, but he is so wrapped up in himself that he doesn't notice or doesn't care. My favorite Don Abbondioism has to be, "What people there are in this place/world!"
I see the scene where they're leaving his house as a comic one: Perpetua, all business, picks up valuable items from around the house, piling them in a central location, such as the kitchen table. Don Abbondio, his pudgy face red with fear and self-interest, scuttles about behind her, picking up each item as she deposits it and, after staring at it for a bit without recognition, places it back on a shelf or table which was not its original home. At the same time he’s wringing his hands and shrieking profundities such as, "Heaven help me! What can we do? Where can we go?" He stops every few moments to tear his hair, run to the window, and shout at passers-by, "Can it really be that no one will help me? Do you really want to leave me to the mercy of those swine? What people there are in this place! What hard hearts! Each of them thinks of himself, and not one of them thinks of me!"
All he wants to do is run around panicking in order to avoid making a decision—it could be that making a decision is more terrifying for him than the possibility of falling into the clutches of the German soldiers. He's the type who could wait in line at Starbucks, (or your friendly independent coffeehouse, if you prefer), for 10 minutes, with the menu in front of him all the while in perfectly legible lettering. When he gets up to the counter, he doesn't know what he wants, because the whole time he's been waiting in line, instead of making up his mind, he's been worrying about the 7-year-old standing outside the shop with her mother. Though they are nowhere near his car, he’s terrified that the child will somehow manage to throw up on it.
Perhaps at the same time, he's been having a very loud conversation on his cell phone, shouting to the person on the other end things like, "But when did Marty say he's going to get there? But are you sure he'll really be there when he says he will? But are you sure? What about the roast? Are you sure he wouldn't like chicken better? He eats beef but he won't eat chicken?! I've never heard of such a thing! What people there are in this--I have to go! No! No, my—will you shut up a minute? I have to order now! What? I'm at Starbucks. STAR-BUCKS! I have to go! No!" and mutters to himself for another few minutes before starting his indecisive go-round with the barista, "What's an Americano? Oh, that sounds terrible! What about a Cap…cap…how on earth am I supposed to know how to pronounce these things? You need an encyclopedia just to get a drink in here! A what? A latte? No, no, young lady, I can't have milk! No dairy! A black coffee? That still means the same thing it used to—once upon a time? Well, yes! That's what I wanted—I don’t want any of this fancy stuff! I didn't think a guy could get a regular cup of coffee in this world anymore! What?! Young lady, would it interest you to know that there was a time, once, when you could buy a cup of coffee for less than it cost to…"
All the while, the 20 people who have accumulated in line behind him are giving him their most evil stares, clearing their throats insistently, tapping their feet, sighing loudly, or other—ruder—things. Some of them may even be on the verge of grabbing a coffee pot and knocking him out, or plotting something more sinister involving straws…
I just don’t understand; how on earth can someone get that far in life and be so totally unaware that there are other people in the world besides him- or herself?

(One of) the grossest things I've ever seen

I've had this orchid for two years that I've nearly killed at least eight times. A couple of months ago I thought I had finally killed it for good by overwatering it, and so bought a new one. Last week, after almost two months without water, I was surprised to see the old one valiantly trying to grow a new, healthy leaf in addition to some new, healthy roots.
I decided to replant it to help it out and set about cutting off the many dead roots my previous rabid overwatering left behind. (Orchids have wild and wayward roots that look like the picture above).

As soon as I snipped one particularly black and flaccid root remnant, the bottom dropped out of the root clump and out fell what has to be the nastiest consequence ever precipitated by over-watering a houseplant.

It was hideous! Unraveling from the bottom of the plant was a clumpy chain of what looked like tiny, slimy, flesh-colored worms. Some parts of the chain were black and covered with spotty white mold or fungus. The whole thing shivered with simulated life thanks to my shaky hand. I gasped, shuddered, dropped the orchid back into its pot, and ran to the closet to get my gardening gloves. It looked a lot like the ball of worms pictured below. I was afraid to cut it with my scissors because I was sure it would coil up and attack me. I had been hungry up to that point but completely lost my appetite in that moment and I still feel sick now just remembering it. I eventually got the plant repotted, but did not eat dinner or plant anything else--as I had been planning to do--after that fiasco. I may never be able to eat ramen noodles or coconut or rice noodles ever again--for serious.

I know what my nightmares will be about tonight. I just thank fuck I didn't accidentally touch the slimy monstrosity.

(BTW, don't ever try to google images of maggots to, say, illustrate how disgusting something is in a blog entry or something. You will be extremely sorry that you did so).

Hans Eric was a weird kid. Molly used to tell me that she'd had his baby when she went to Florida for summer vacation. The fact that we were all nine years old and didn't actually know how babies were made didn't deter her at all. He was a baby boy named Jareth Luke, or Master Puke, or Dastard Mook, or something. Whatever the name was, it was suspiciously similar to Molly's Cabbage Patch Kid's name. She was obsessed with Hans Eric and especially obsessed with the thought of having his baby. I think it was a by-product of their mothers' friendship, itself a little weird, possibly because their mothers were two of the strangest people I've ever met.
Hans Eric's mom's name was Effi, and she was a solid, ruddy Austrian with a deep voice and an even deeper tan. She used to call him home for dinner by standing at the end of her driveway and bellowing, "Haaaans Ehhhhhhrrrrrrric!" in her guttural Bavarian growl. Her perpetual summer outfit consisted of a tube top or bikini top and terrycloth hot pants. I remember this uniform well. Effi spent Saturdays and Sundays weeding and planting her garden, her butt rising ostentatiously into the air whenever she sensed the presence of a male, like a cat in heat. I’m pretty sure it operated of its own accord, like it was equipped with testosterone-sensing radar. You could be in the middle of a conversation with her, and she’d suddenly bend down, forcing you to crouch to continue speaking to her. 30 seconds later, the guy across the street would come out of his house to get his mail. It was amazing. The ass never went up if it was a woman or a kid heading for the mailbox. It was the same with cars. She lived on the corner of a major neighborhood intersection, and the butt could sense a male driving a vehicle from at least a block away. The intersection she lived on was so busy, however, that on Saturdays, Sundays, and holiday Mondays she basically had to spend the whole day bent over. I don’t know how it didn’t kill her back.

Sexy Songs

Recently, The Boise Weekly published their list of the sexiest songs. And I am now going to publish mine. I take issue with many of their choices, also, they have a list of songs that they think are "Surprisingly Sexy." Well, there is nothing surprising about the sex appeal of "Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing," by Chris Isaak. I mean, come on, Chris Isaak is basically sex personified. Also, I actually have made a CD of songs that I consider sexy, which is something they suggest in the Weekly article. It has gotten me laid before.

Also, "Stairway to Heaven?" Are you fucking kidding me? Possibly the most overrated song of all time? Only to longhaired, flannel and Birkenstock-with-socks wearing potheads. There are much better Led Zeppelin songs that are waaaaay sexier. Like "Kashmir," or "Dazed and Confused."

The biggest problem with this article is that they leave out the sexiest song of all time, "Time of The Season" by The Zombies, which basically = The Boise Weekly staff are a bunch of retards. No one can resist this song. Even if you don't think it's the sexiest song ever, you can't deny it's sexy. And it even has a cool video. How many bands made videos back then? I used to see it all the time on VH1 in 1988. It was the only cool thing ever shown on VH1 for years.

I definitely agree with the following choices: "Cowgirl in the Sand," Lay, Lady Lay," "I Put a Spell On You,"--all versions--"Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone," "Ballrooms On Mars," "At Last My Love Has Come Along," but by Etta James, not Ella Fitzgerald, "Soma"--I really loved this song in high school.

Here goes the rest of the list:

"When Doves Cry," Prince. I used to hate this song as a child. I was a stupid child.
"Slum Beautiful," by Outkast.
"Human," by Elastica.
"Corpses in Her Mouth," by Ian Brown. Weird name, weird song, weird singer. Will make you want to take up bellydancing.
"I'm on Fire," Bruce Springsteen. I can't believe this wasn't on their list!!
"The Blood is Love," Queens of the Stone Age. Josh Homme? Should be Josh Hotte.
"Six-Blade Knife," Dire Straits.
"Dead," The Pixies.
Every song ever recorded by Polly Jean Harvey, she is like the female Barry White or Leonard Cohen.
Any and all versions of, "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You."
"Sweetest Perfection," Depeche Mode. It's funny how many songs about heroin are sexy. Actually, this song may not be about heroin, it may be about gay sex. Or both. I don't really want to think about it.
"Got Love to Kill," Juliette and the Licks. This song would be #1 if I made a list of "Songs that make me want to drive 150 mph or faster."
"Nickel to Roll," Jucifer.
"Creme Brulee," Sonic Youth. You and me burnin' in the summertime? Ok.
"My Favourite Game," The Cardigans. Raddest video ever, which of course puts it on my list of songs that make me drive fast. BTW, I think Nina Persson is a femmebot. If I had to cast an angel in a film, she would be it.
"Psychic Hearts," Thurston Moore.
That version of "Hanging on the Telephone," by Cat Power that they play on the Cingular commercial.
Many many Blondie songs, including, "Fade Away and Radiate," and "Will Anything Happen?" "One Way or Another," and "Call Me."
"Book of The Month," Lovage, aka Dan the Automator & various friends. You are the griddle, I am the meat.
"Hella Good," No Doubt.
"Brass in Pocket," The Pretenders. The best karaoke seduction song.
"Gypsy Eyes," "Red House," Jimi Hendrix.
"Caramel," Suzanne Vega.
"The Pink Room," David Lynch, from the Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me soundtrack. Sleazy.
"Theme," Cibo Matto.
"Mood Swing," Luscious Jackson.
"Where It's At" is probably banned from airplay for the next ten years due to it's being one of the most overplayed songs of all time, but the remix by John King on the Where It's At single has background music so cool you will cream your jeans.
"Feel Good Hit of the Fall," !!!
"Magic Stick," Lil' Kim.
"Wicked Ways," Garbage.
"A View to a Kill," Duran Duran. The song is better than the movie. Also, "Hungry Like the Wolf." I fucking love this song. Hole does a really good cover of it, too.
"Holy Roller Novacaine," "Wasted Time," Kings of Leon--Make me want to smoke.
"Dirge," "Soul Auctioneer," "Aisha," and "Broken Little Sister," Death in Vegas. This is one of those bands whose good songs totally kick ass, and whose bad songs totally suck ass and there is no in between.
"Seven Nation Army," The White Stripes.
"Shake That Ass" 50 Cent, remixed by The Lovemakers. Also, "We Should be Taking Our Clothes Off," obviously.
"Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space," Spiritualized. Also "Any Way You Want Me." I used to have a live album with this song on it and I could kick myself for selling it. It was awesome, because the music would swell to a huge crescendo, then stop completely when he sang, "I've been watching you, and I don't think that you're gay," or whatever the hell the words are.
"Everybody Knows," Concrete Blonde.
Every Blonde Redhead song.
Every Portishead song.
"So Alive," Love and Rockets.
"Animal Nitrate," and "My Dark Star," Suede.
"Do It Again," Tori Amos.
"Crimson and Clover," Joan Jett.
"Sugar on My Tongue," The Talking Heads.
"This Magic Moment," Lou Reed.
"Long Cool Woman (In a Black Dress)," The Hollies.
"Mambo Italiano," Dean martin.
"Rhiannon," Fleetwood Mac. I wish Elastica were still together so they could cover this song.
"Planet Queen," T Rex.
"Penelope Tree," Felt.
Every song on the Cat Power album You Are Free, except "Names." I read about this music critic on Amazon.com who "suggests the Universe was created for the sole purpose of producing [Jimi Hendrix album Are You Experienced?]." This is how I feel about You Are Free.
"Swamp Song," "I'm Just a Killer For Your Love," Blur.
"Overcome," "Vent," "Brand New You're Retro," "Christiansands," "Hell is Round the Corner," "Meditate," "Poems," "Pumpkin," Tricky.
"Remembrance," gus gus. if you are stoned, this song literally lasts your entire lifetime.
"Brand New Cadillac," "Guns of Brixton," The Clash.
"Bang Bang," Nancy Sinatra.
"Rich," Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs.
"Only Shallow," My Bloody Valentine.
"Hot Freaks," Guided by Voices.
"Arabian Nights," Siouxie and the Banshees.
"Black Metallic," Catherine Wheel.
"Season of the Witch," Donovan.
"Look for Me (I'll Be Around)," Neko Case.
"I am Pentagon," The Make-up.
"I Just Want to Make Love to You," Etta James
"Piece of My Heart," Janis Joplin
"Back in Black," ACDC
"Breathe," Prodigy. I hated this song until the scene with Justin Theroux in Charlies Angels Full Throttle.
"Barracuda," Heart.
"Dance Hall," Modest Mouse. Pretty any much song about dancing is a song I'm going to think is sexy.

Zen Book Shopping

I was at Borders today looking for Mil Millington's "Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About." I've tried to find it the last three times I was there, but always to no avail, even though the kiosk computer always says it is "in store." I searched the entire M section, but couldn't find it. Then I wondered over to check out the F. Scott Fitzgerald books. My dad recently got me a book of Fitzgerald's short stories, but "Berniece Bobs Her Hair" isn't in it, and I couldn't remember if he wrote it or not. He did. I thought to myself, "I want to see a picture of Zelda," because, really, she's much more interesting than he is. I went back over to the M section and sat down on the floor. The first book I rested my eyes on had a pink spine and a tiny picture of a pretty woman with shiny marcelled hair, and was called "Zelda" by Nancy Milford. I picked it up and studied the huge picture of Zelda on the cover before reading the description on the back. Sure enough, it was that Zelda--is there any other, not counting the video game? I went to put it back, and the next item I spied was one "Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About" by Mil Millington, on the shelf directly above where it should have been, and slightly to the left, in between authors with the last name of Miles. And, might I add, a place I'd looked for it a million times!

Today at Work

Today at work was interesting. I had little sleep and was pretty cranky. Then I'd run out of my allergy medicine and had to go pick up more at Fred Meyer before work. Luckily, Betty Jo was selling yummy candy bars. At one point, I got a call from this woman who was so crazy, she kept asking me to call her back to get the name of some woman at her bank that she wanted me to call for some reason. Every time I'd call her back at the interval she asked me to, I'd cause her crappy phone to lose the other line. It couldn't handle two lines, so while she was trying to get ahold of some supervisor at her bank so that I could call that supervisor and tell her the same thing that the crazy lady had just told her, I'd make her lose the line and she'd start screaming at me and yell at me to call her back in "10 minutes! No! 20 minutes!" because she'd have to call the bank back and go through 10 people to get to that supervisor again. Man, was she ever a screamer! The first thing she said when I first answered her call was, "DO NOT PUT ME ON HOLD!"

After 2 hours, which included an hour-late lunch, I was finally rid of her. But not before I spied one of the annoying, freaky-looking newbies watching Mr. And Mrs. Smith on his laptop that he had on his desk. I was always told that we can't bring our laptops to work. So I made sure to send an email to my supervisor asking if I too could bring my laptop to work. 'Cause if I'm not allowed to bring my laptop to work, ain't nobody gonna be allowed to bring their laptop to work! And even if they say I can bring it, you can't be on the internet, so it'd be pointless, anyway. Besides, I just think it's kind of unprofessional. Somehow it's worse than crocheting and knitting and making necklaces at work. Also, I'd be afraid of spilling on my nice little laptop.

Frank Fagg

I just wanted to say that today at work, I spoke to a customer named Frank Fagg. If this were your name, wouldn't you change it? Can you imagine going through childhood with this name? D'ya think you'd get beat up alot?