Spoiler Alert Thursday: I Love You, Have a Seat.

The last episode of Mad Men didn’t just feel like a season finale — it felt like a series finale.

Open thread

Which blog has more completely outlived its mandate: The Weblog or Unfogged?

Lessons in passive-aggression

I received an e-mail last week telling me that book orders for next quarter were due this week. It noted that there was a flyer about their used book program attached to the e-mail and concluded with the following: “Please consider getting your textbook order in on time to help save the students money.”

Tuesday Hatred: unwind-protect

I hate overly-refrigerated businesses. It is, after all, November; it should not be colder within than without the cafe. One would have thought this went without saying—and it is true that less has to be done in my locale to effect the hated differential than in others, where its undesirability would be thus rendered more apparent—but still!

I hate the so-called feature of so-called internet so-called dating sites, whereby one can “view” by whom one’s “profile” has been “viewed”. It makes it possible to know quite clearly when communication, having been established in one direction, will not become bidirectional: namely, when, having sent a one a missive, you see that that one then “v”s your “p”, and—nothing. This is worse than merely nothing because of the element of judgment.

I hate that the depths of procrastination I’ve been plumbing lately have yielded nothing even remotely as useful as reading knowledge of Italian. I hate that our gracious host outdoes everyone even as regards not working.

Airport security and aesthetics

One guy tried to set off a bomb in his shoe, and now millions of shoes have been taken off and put through X-ray machines as a result. A couple of guys had a hare-brained scheme to mix deadly chemicals in the plane’s bathroom — which wouldn’t even have worked, as I understand it — and now we have millions of little plastic bags with little travel-sized toiletries.

Some might admittedly view these new practices as over-reactions. Indeed, some might even mourn the fact that there is no foreseeable way out of these stupid practices, as no politician wants to be the one who loosens up the rules and then gets blamed for the next terrorist attack.

But I think we need to look at the bright side — this is an opportunity for the greatest performance-art piece in the history of the world. All we need is a truly dedicated artist to stage an attempted attack and a new bizarre practice can be imposed upon millions of travellers for years to come. (Perhaps we could brainstorm in comments.) This heroic artist would need to be selfless enough not only to risk jail time, but to be willing to forego claiming credit for the piece, as the confession that it was merely a prank might endanger the new practice’s continuation (though who knows?). Only years later could the artist finally come forward and “sign” their massive work, which had played out for years on a stage the size of the entire nation, perhaps adding a note explaining that the project was meant as a commentary on our security-obsessed age, etc.

In a further twist, perhaps next time you’re unlacing your shoes in order to put them through an X-ray machine along with hundreds of your fellow citizens, you should ask yourself, “Has this already happened? Was the shoe-bomber just a performance artist?”

Friday Afternoon Confessional: American Academy of Religion

I confess that I am addicted to having music going at all times, particularly when I’m working. As a result of this addiction, I went over my allotted free Pandora listening of forty hours last month (I use Pandora in my office). I considered just paying for their subscription service, then I saw I could get unlimited listening for the rest of the month for 99 cents. I’m not sure how that business model works.

I confess that I have an ambivalent relationship with morning classes, particularly 8:30 classes. On the one hand, I hate waking up early and I know that I have already lost one good student for my feminist theology class because it’s at 8:30. On the other hand, it’s becoming clear that having a morning class is the only way to ensure that I do anything at all before noon or so. The best I seem to be able to do is some form of language-acquisition thing, which normally amounts to me spreading out a page and a half of Greek over three hours as I incessantly check Google Reader and ponder chess moves.

I confess that earlier this week, while discussing the concept of structured procrastination with a colleague, I realized that I arguably learned to read Italian as a way of procrastinating on my dissertation. If there is a hall of fame of structured procrastinators, I hope this earns me a place in it.

I confess that I presented my AAR paper to one of my classes. I planned my proposal to match up with what I was teaching, so it was obviously relevant. In addition, the students seemed to enjoy it and colleagues approved of the idea as giving students a window into the world of scholarship. Despite all these positive points, I felt like I was somehow cheating.

Long-time readers may recall that I have historically had something of a travel phobia. I confess that my weekly trips to Chicago to see The Girlfriend, combined with my new “actually having money” state, seem to have lessened this phobia — and additionally, I now weirdly feel like going to the AAR doesn’t count as “travel” somehow. Instead, it feels continuous with “work,” which in the current situation means that it’s “non-travel” as opposed to the “travel” of going to Chicago. I wonder how going home for the holidays will factor into this revamped system.

Spoiler Alert Thursday: Mad Men Again

It’s November 1963, and the ’50s are finally over.

Wednesday Food: Gorp, Scroggin, and Trail Mix

Around this time every year members of my immediate and honorary family set out on a backpacking excursion.  Past trips have included summiting Mt. Whitney and traversing through King’s Canyon, though we’re beginning to shy away from all routes that require bear canisters.  These “working vacations” are breathtaking in both scenic beauty and physical effort, but are generally less than amazing in terms of cuisine.

A number of challenges prevent backpacking food from being anything you would voluntarily eat.  The first consideration is the added weight to what may already be a 30 pound pack.  This means more appetizing things like fresh produce provide less energy than their weight is worth, apples, for instance.  Also due to weight limitations, food must require minimal preparation.  Above the treeline or in fire areas, the only heat with which you have to work is a single butane or propane burner (hexamine if you’re fancy.)  Spoilage is of great concern, as anything hauled must be consumable for days without refrigeration (few cheeses make the cut).  And finally, nutrition requirements limit food items to those which pack in great amounts of protein and carbohydrates.

These considerations are why dried fruit and nut mixes are so typical of hikers.  Other staples would include an assortment of bars, jerky, instant soup and potatoes, not to mention an array of Mary Jane’s Farm and Mountain House pouches.  Within two days of every trip I find myself repulsed by any food product that includes the words “cliff,” “balance,” or “just add water.”

This year was different as we decided to go for something less strenuous and made Santa Cruz Island our destination.  Arduous miles and freezing temperatures were exchanged for casual day hikes and warm nights.  A lack of weight restrictions also meant that anything we could carry from the boat to campsite was allowed, and so fresh tomatoes and beer happily made the cut.  I was relieved that certain party members left their tins of Libby’s Vienna Sausage at home, but there were still the unavoidable packs of plain tuna and endless bags of peanuts.

Not everyone sees exposure to bugs and sun, higher altitude, or sleeping on the ground as appealing.  But I find the feeling of self-reliance and minor risk taking exhilarating, not to mention the absence of human sound and clear view of the Milky Way.  In these circumstances the role of food changes from pleasure-inducing to necessary, and my respect for how and what I consume becomes elevated.

Tuesday Hatred: Chancy Endeavor

It sure would be nice, I think, if the participants in Critical Mass showed their fellow cyclists approximately the same courtesy that they (the participants’ fellow cyclists) get from the drivers of automobiles. For instance, for the most part, the drivers of automobiles cause their conveyances to remain outside the bicycle lanes. This is convenient for many reasons, not the least of which is that it enables those people who use their bicycles to get from place to place to travel at a reasonable speed. In the context of Critical Mass, there would be a further convenience, namely, it would enable people who dislike being surrounded by hooting yahoos to minimize their time in such company. Since I gather that part of the point of CM is to be unpleasant, it’s probably too much to ask that they stop at red lights and let perpendicular traffic through, though maybe they could work out a way to leave a buffer wide enough for cyclists but not cars. Having turned off Market at Hayes (which is earlier than normal) I was very upset to discover that my massive nemeses had also turned off of market, a few blocks on, and were blocking my Hayesish path, despite the light change. I was tempted to dismount and walk as slowly as possible across the intersection, perhaps coming to a deliberate halt in front of a brakeless fixie-rider, but I didn’t think that would end at all well. And besides, I didn’t actually want to get hit. (In fact Market doesn’t have proper bike lanes separate from the auto lanes, but nevertheless autos and heteros manage to coexist reasonably ok on it; better, anyway, than my hetero and those of the Critical Massholes did.)

I was recently reminded of my corporeality, and not in a fun way, either; more like in the way that an extremely novice ship’s pilot might be. The culprits included, as is listed in the great “Selbstporträt mit Kater“, “Fuselöle, Aldehyde, Restalkohol”—a pregnant list. “Restalkohol” perhaps refers to the head and the tail, the first and last of what comes off the still, typically discarded in favor of the “heart” from the middle, but in the given context we can discern another significance. The Restalkohol is not the waste on either end but the excess that cannot be incorporated, the recalcitrant aldehyde which, being pure content without form, is not assimilable and will, until it is passed (through the head or the tail!), dwell uncomfortably in the body and interrupt its proper functioning, resulting in such behaviors as dropping things, saying things you mean, and walking unsteadily.

As you might have noticed, I’ve been experimenting with a new format for the TH in which I don’t say “I hate p” or even, for the most part, discuss my hatred itself at all. Rather I wish to focus on the object of my hatreds. The passion itself is not the thing. Though I am very passionate. Ladies.

Wednesday Food: Halloween Edition

What better way is there to celebrate Halloween than with food?  Not necessarily just another holiday that the Mars candy conglomerate capitalizes on, I like to think of Halloween as yet another occasion to enjoy my favorite produce in my favorite season.

Roasted vegetables are all I crave this time of year and they could not be easier to prepare.  Just cut up how you like, combine with olive oil, balsamic vinegar, seasoning and fresh herbs, and throw into a hot oven until tender to taste.  I find acorn squash, when tossed with melted butter and salt and pepper, is almost dessert with its natural sweetness and beautiful texture.  And if you’re very lucky, the vegetables you roast may be from the farmers market or CSA or your patio planter (my own potatoes are pictured.)

So enjoy the crunch and sweetness of your roasted vegetables, the earthy smell of leaf decay, and drink up the last of those pumpkin beers.  I know I will, in a rockin dinosaur costume to boot.  Happy Halloween!