the revolution got me pregnant.

Gordon Wood tells me, in The Radicalism of the American Revolution (which is excellent, btw), that "in the last part of the eighteenth century, one-quarter to one-third of all brides in some areas of America (and England too) were pregnant before marriage."

How, pray tell, was this particularly juicy statistic determined? The information comes from an essay published in the Journal of Interdisciplinary History, so I assume it wasn't pulled out of thin air. I'm picturing a few haggard graduate students poring over the marriage and birth records of England and colonial America, endlessly counting the months between matrimony and arrival of progeny. Or endlessly imputing data into spreadsheets. I hope they were paid extremely well. I bet they weren't.

Fun fact, though, right? And I thought 6th graders were bad. But what do you think got those colonials preggers? Lack of birth control, raging horniness, or the revolutionary spirit? Gordon Wood thinks it's the revolutionary spirit, and I think he might be right. (Changing social mores, rebellion against paternal power, etc, etc...read the book.)

I still feel bad about the grad students, though. I wonder if they're all ABD.

fake trees and plastic people.

Traditionally, I loathe New Years. Too much expectation, never any fun. This year, though, Christmas is coming up as my least favorite holiday. Not only has my family bought a fake (fake! ahhhh!) Christmas tree, but the hoards of holiday shoppers flooding New York has made this years consumption-fest incredibly unpleasant. I know the dollar is weak, and New York is awesome, but can you please, please learn to walk faster? I kind of, like, have places to be. Kthnx.

Or maybe my lack of holiday cheer has something to do with the insipid diamond commercials that play every commercial break. Really, can they be any more saccharine? ("Show you really care...buy your wife some conflict diamonds!") My fervent Christmas wish is that Zales and Kay Jewelers annihilate each other in some freak diamond competition.

To top it all off - you thought I couldn't possibly keep whining, but think again - my cousin (who has a lot in common with Barbie) is getting married the Friday before Christmas. So in addition to presents, I had to buy a dress and shoes and a bag; I'm getting my hair cut, my eyebrows threaded, my nails done, etc, etc. I plan make all the effort worthwhile, btw, by drinking an obscene amount of alcohol at the open bar. The only blessing: I am re-gifting something for the wedding present.

I know, I sound like Scrooge. Well, bahfuckinhumbug. Dickens can bite me.

On the other hand, as much as Christmas is shaping up to suck, I'm excited about New Years. I have plans with awesome people, dinner reservations at a nice restaurant, and I even have a dress to wear (cause, you know, I just wore it to a wedding). So, in the long run, the holiday season will probably end up being just as shitty and just as fun as any other year. Three cheers for balance.

life is hard, #121

I used to spend December on my couch, watching tv and eating cheese. That was good. I enjoyed that. Now, it's December 4th, and I feel like Thanksgiving was a year ago. How can five weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas stretch on for a year? There's just so much work to do, and it's so assface cold outside, and there are so many shiny ornaments and pretty shoes everywhere. It's so tempting to take a two hour lunch, and to just keep pressing the snooze button. How can five more minutes snuggling with my pillows really make a difference, after all?

I've got news for myself: it makes a difference. It's like that month I spent listening to Elliott Smith. I told myself it didn't matter how depressing the songs were, or that he stabbed himself in the chest with a kitchen knife. That wouldn't make me want to kill myself. I was kind of wrong. And if you're looking for a less dramatic example: it's like finishing that whole carton of ice cream. You figure it doesn't actually make you fat. It's only the one time, after all. But then you realize what you just did, and that you are gross.

Either way, I can't help myself. Yes, I finished that carton of ice cream, and yes, I listened to King's Crossing so many times Elliott Smith started to make sense. And this morning, I hit the snooze button five times. That's 30 minutes of snuggling. My pillows don't need that much love, and I needed three cups of coffee this morning before I could look at the computer screen without squinting. That doesn't mean I won't be doing it again tomorrow, though. Apparently, I have no self-control.

And, so what? As with all things, I think to myself, "What would Machiavelli say?" In this case, I think he would tell me to get over myself. Hannah Arendt, on the other hand, she would take a drag on her cigarette, give me a withering glare, and say, "while it is true that freedom can only come to those whose needs have been fulfilled, it is equally true that it will escape those who are bent upon living for their desires."

So maybe I should try to get to work on time? And reconsider buying those $300 boots? Yeah? OK. Thanks, Hannah.

victory is mine.

Google finally, finally implemented my brilliant idea: gmail group chat.

But now when will I do work?

never is a not promise.

Since the last time I whined about how little time I have to read, I've made a concerted effort to do better. Reading is my only hobby, after all. I can't neglect it, otherwise I'll be even more boring than I am now. I managed to finish a few books (see my new goodreads thingy if you actually care) and I feel better about myself now. Go me.

Anyway, as promised, I read the The Scarlet Letter over Thanksgiving. I said I'd never, ever read it, but alas, I'm happy to say I broke that promise. I'll never be a huge fan of gothic romances, but I did enjoy the book. (It was certainly better than the movie, but what book isn't?) I also sufficiently conquered my fear of Puritans that I'm now reading a history of colonial America. I now know that Pilgrims aren't the same thing as Puritans, and that Benjamin Franklin is distantly related to the founder of Folger's coffee (through his mother, Abiah Folger).

Really, the whole story is new to me. I was never taught American history in school. All I remember from elementary school is that the Native Americans invented lacrosse and the Dutch were the original settlers in Manhattan. I studied US history for a brief moment in 9th grade, but my teacher had lipstick covering half her face and that made it difficult to pay attention. Later on, we covered 20th century American history, but I pretty much missed out on everything that came before the First World War. I studied the Mexican Revolution for about six months, but no one ever mentioned the American Revolution.

And up until recently, I wasn't so interested. Pre-20th century American history always seemed like a boring subplot to whatever was happening in Europe. In college I read some Jefferson and learned a little about Constitutional history, but that's about it. It's tempting to blame my lack of curiosity on the fact that I'm the grandchild of immigrants, but really, isn't everyone? And it's not like I know anything about my actual ancestors, who did absolutely nothing of note in the shtetls of Europe and the potato fields of Ireland.

Being something of a half-breed, and the child of transient parents, I really have very little allegiance to anything. I have no religious affiliation, no hometown, dual citizenship and less than a century of accurate family history. The only thing I know for sure is that I'm an American. It might be good to know something about that.

Now, who wants to draw up a syllabus for me?

i love firefighters.

Here’s a rough breakdown of my Sunday night:

4:35-ish: I arrive back home from a nice day out and about in the city.

4:40-ish: I realize that there is water dripping from my ceiling and onto my living room floor.

4:46: I call my landlord. No one answers, I leave a message.

4:47: I call my Mommy. She tells me to go talk to the neighbors upstairs.

4:50-5:02: Rose, my upstairs neighbor, shows me the insane water damage on her ceiling and tells me that she has been calling the management company (they are supposed to fix this sort of thing) since Wednesday night. She also tells me that there is also extensive water damage in the apartments on the 3rd and 4th floors.

5:04: I call my landlord again. He picks up. I give him the low-down, and he tells me that he will call the management company.

From about 5:15 until 8:00, I just putz around. I make myself some dinner, read the rest of the Sunday New York Times, do my laundry, and watch some Grey’s Anatomy. The whole time, the small bubble of water gathering under the plaster of my ceiling is expanding, and the amount of water collecting in a pot on my floor is growing.

8:00-ish: My roommate, Julia, returns. She views ceiling with horror, supplies towels to cover floor with.

9:00-ish: The plaster groans. Daryl and her sister return, the situation is explained. No one is pleased.

9:15-ish: A large chunk of plaster falls off the ceiling. All roommates freak out. Julia calls this "our very own Katrina."

9:25: I call my landlord again. He comes over to see what’s going on. He does basically everything we’ve already done – goes to talk to the neighbors, calls the management company again. By the time he leaves, water has started to seep into the kitchen ceiling, and is now dripping onto our refrigerator and stove.

10:35: A whole horde of firefighters show up at my door.

10:37: My landlord appears, and explains that he called them. He was worried about the electrical system shorting out due to water damage.

10:40-11:00: I discover I love firemen. They are so attractive in their flame retardant suits. They also break down a door in my basement and debate whether or not to turn off the water in the building. After a while they decide not to, and instead issue a violation order for my landlord to deliver to the management company. The firemen explain that if someone doesn’t come in 24 hours to fix the problem, we can issue a summons and sue the bastards. I am silently very grateful for the fact that both my landlord and my father are lawyers.

12:15 am: The head of the condo board shows up at my door. He wants to see the ceiling. He rants for five minutes about the incompetence of various incompetent people. I want to point out to him that I am in pajamas, and would like to go to bed. I don’t.

As of right now, I have no idea what the condition of my ceiling is, but I'm sleeping at my parents apartment tonight, and wrapping all my valuables in plastic bags.

gobble, gobble.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, by far. I love fall, and pumpkin pie, and mashed potatoes. I love Thanksgiving. For years my family would go to Philadelphia to see my relatives there, and that was fine, but since I started college we've stayed in New York, and Thanksgiving has gotten even better.

This year, after going to see the Macy's Day Parade, I spent the day alternating between the kitchen and the living room couch, where my cousin, who came down from Boston, patiently explained the rules of football to me and my sister, yet again. (I still don't understand the scoring.) Then we all pigged out, on squash soup, turkey, mashed potatoes, carmelized onions, salad with pear and gorgonzola, cornbread stuffing and cranberry sauce. After all that, we normally go for a walk to digest and come back for the grand finale: pie. After pie, as per tradition of the last couple years, we went out to a jazz club. My cousin is a jazz musician, so he picks the best show in town, and it's always fantastic. Last night was no exception.

I'm sad Thanksgiving is over. But, for posterity, here is a picture of this years pie, baked with my own loving hands:

vive la france!

Let me preface this post by saying that I like France. Despite my strange allergic reaction to Paris about two years ago, I am not a Francophobe. I like French wine, French literature, French sauce, French fashion, and France in general. I particularly like discussing French literature, in French, while wearing French fashion, drinking French wine and eating something covered in French sauce. Oui, c’est vraiment parfait, n’est pas?

Eh, ben…(translation, for those of you who weren’t in my high school French class: Uh, well….) this does not mean that France doesn’t totally befuddle me. There is a particularly amazing article in the most recent New Yorker on Dieudonné M’Bala M’Bala which illustrates perfectly the nature of my befuddlement. Dieudonné (which just happens to mean God-given, btw) is a successful half-Cameroonian half-French comedian turned politician. Midway through his career, he also became a vocal anti-semite and a leading advocate for the pygmies (who, in case you are wondering, live mostly in Cameroon).

If you think this is all a bit strange, well spotted, because it really is. I’m not in any way qualified to speak on the current state of French racial or religious politics, but clearly, there are some issues going on, and not just in the banlieue. What really struck me, though, was the number of times the French Revolution, the Enlightenment and even Voltaire are mentioned in this article.

When asked if he has a problem with all Jews, Dieudonné says: “If you are French and attached to the philosophy of the Enlightenment – the universal – you do not recognize the border” between religious groups. And his closing line is even better: “The French Revolution is my tradition. It’s a mind-set of the French, that you need a revolution. I am deeply French.” I was waiting for a mention of Rousseau and the general will, but thankfully, that didn’t come up.

Dieudonné is justifying anti-Semitism on the basis that Judaism transgresses the universal ideals of the French Revolution. For some reason, this message has been a huge hit with the youth of the banlieue, and others. I had a predictably Arendtian reaction to the idea, and anyone who has read On Revolution will understand instantly why. I find it amazing that more than 200 years later, some people are still relishing the ideals of the French Revolution. Perhaps they are forgetting it wasn’t a raging success? The King was kaput, yes, but then there was the whole guillotine debacle, and that funky new calendar that never quite caught on, and if I remember correctly, it all ended with a small yet surprisingly feisty Emperor rampaging around Europe. A change, definitely, but most people would argue it could have been handled better.

The ideals of the French Revolution are still very much a presence in French political life, just as we like to quote the Constitution in this country. Nothing wrong with that, per se, except that, in America, the Revolution itself is over. For Dieudonné and those who agree with him, though, it seems that the Revolution is not quite finished. Universal enlightenment has yet to be achieved, apparently. Go figure. While it’s true that Thomas Jefferson wanted the Constitution to be thrown out every seven years so it wouldn’t get stale, T.J. and the Founders (good name for a band, yes?) didn’t actually put that clause into the Constitution. They realized, as Marx did not, that a permanent revolution creates all kinds of problems.

Of course, Dieudonné does not represent France, or the majority of French people. At the same time, though, he is not a complete political or social outlier. Neither is Jean-Marie Le Pen, for that matter. While neither will ever be President, they have support, lots of fans, and most befuddling of all, it seems they also have the universal ideals of the ongoing French Revolution to back them up.

simple pleasures.

A good book + house to myself + yummy Saturday brunch + cute new bag + depressing movie + Sunday New York Times + laundry + pancakes & coffee + Gilmore Girls = the best weekend ever.

life is hard, #43

I’ve got this pair of shoes, and every time I wear them, it rains. They are not rain shoes, either. Sometimes it rains when I don’t wear them, but if I’m wearing them, it always rains. I wore them today, and of course, it rained. Last time I wore them, I had to wait for a bus, for forty minutes, in the pouring rain. Today I only had to walk to Chinatown for lunch, but it was still unpleasant.

The shoes aren’t entirely to blame, though. The weather report told me it was going to rain, and I wore them anyway. So maybe the conclusion should be that I’m dumb? I prefer to blame the shoes. Evil, evil rain shoes.

Anyone who loves the West Wing as much as I do will remember President Bartlet's lucky tie - the one that gets ruined right before the debates, and when he keeps moaning about it Abbey cuts the tie he's wearing in half right before he has to go on stage, and then Josh gives him the one he's wearing, and everything works out in the end. Remember that? Even if you don't, trust me, it was good. Anyway, I don't have a lucky tie, or lucky shoes or a lucky sweater. Not even a lucky pen, to cling to when times get rough. Instead, I have shoes that make it rain.

Ugh.

Life is hard.

wwfd? (what would freud do?)

On the subway this morning, the two women next to me were discussing their mothers, both of whom, it turns out, were formerly nuns.

Upon realizing the coincidence, one of the women said to the other, "Wow, we should really talk more."

regret. that's a song by ben folds, right?

A few weeks ago, I went to a lecture at Columbia called “Freedom and the University.” One of my former professors was speaking on the panel, along with three other well-known professors of history, literature and law. There was a lot of talk about the unhealthy influence of the Israel lobby in determining the hiring and firing of certain professors, as well as the recent attempts by some state legislatures to rid the classroom of political belief and put an end to the “indoctrination” of students by liberal professors.

I was really sad that no one re-enacted the trial of Socrates. Other than that, the conclusions drawn were what you’d expect. Everybody agreed that academics and students should be free to write and say what they want without fear of retribution from the state or the university. Higher education must be a place of free debate, where political concerns are vital but not controlling. How you achieve that, though, is a question no one addressed.

I’ve joked before that Chicago indoctrinated me, though in the opposite way than most other universities would have. From the moment I stepped on campus, I was consistently told that most of what I thought I knew was wrong. I remember one incident in particular, when a grad student TA opened a discussion section by saying, “So, who can tell me why everything Thomas Friedman writes is incorrect?” At that point, I loved Friedman. From Beirut to Jerusalem was one of my all-time top five books in high school. My TA was just being provocative, though, and indoctrination in no way invites provocative debate. In reality, high school was way more indoctrinating than college. I never actually had to defend what I thought, so I never really questioned it. In college I was constantly wrong, until I figured out that actually, everyone else was wrong too. It was great.

This subject was on my mind even before the lecture, actually, because of the Regrets Pamphlet , which was published by N+1 a couple weeks ago. I admit I have not read the pamphlet, but I’ve skimmed it, and I’ve read a lot about it. (It even friended me on facebook. No kidding.) Basically, it’s a series of witty dialogues between the editors of N+1 and their friends, and it includes a list of books each participant thinks everyone should read in college. Ostensibly, they want you to not regret your education. For me, though, the whole point of college was to be stupid, and then to regret it.

I, for one, regret taking that dumb world literatures class, instead of something actually challenging. I regret not taking a grad class on Nietzsche. I regret taking that bio class on the development of fish embryos, instead of reading Habermas and Weber, or finishing the Peloponnesian War. At the end of the day, though, I couldn’t be sure I didn’t give a shit about fish embryos or the globalization of widgets until I had to regret reading about them, just like I didn’t know I cared about philosophy until I started to regret not reading more of it.

We all regret that time we drank so much we puked, but doesn’t it generally keep us from ever drinking that much again? To this day I can’t stand the sight of Bacardi 151, and in the long run, that’s a good thing. At this point, I could say something totally trite and inane, like, “life is meaningless without regret,” but I’ll refrain. I will say, though, that the Regrets Pamphlet is being sold for $9, so clearly, regret is worth something.

philosophers in tights!

It has been a very long week. But now, it’s Friday! I’ve finished preparing an enormous presentation, my boss isn’t coming in, and I’m going out of town tomorrow!

In conclusion, I intend to slack off today. In the hopes that you will too, I present: Action Philosophers! (The one on Descartes is particularly amusing.)

Peace out.


5pm Update: Here's a small [edited] part of a very long gchat, for your amusement.

R: in any case, [when in grad school] i will pretentiously review my course reading on goodreads
and you will get email updates
J: Spinoza: meh - he's ok, I guess
R: exactly
J: Rousseau: what a moron.
R: Plato: overrated
J: Machiavelli: overdone.
R: Foucault: too contrived
R: ok, now i am actually going home
J: oh! i was just going to say something funny about Aquinas
oh well
have a good weekend
R: wait, you were really going to say something about him?
J: yes. but it's too late now. it won't be funny anymore.
R: :( fine
J: another day. we can write a comic book! about ourselves!
R: that's what blogs are for
J: traveling back in time to talk to philosophers
"So, Hobbes, what trauma did you sustain as a child that made you think all men are evil? Please, enlighten us."
it'll be great
ok, ok, you can go
R: ok, i am going. have fun in the bufus of new york
J: i will! have fun in the swamp that is dc
R: indeed

top five novels i should read, but never will.

I know someone who just got a job at The Strand, and according to him you have to pass a literature test before they’ll hire you. After hearing a few of the questions, I quickly realized that I probably would have failed.

The one question I can remember is, “Who wrote the The Master and the Margarita?” For some reason, I thought the answer was Herman Wouk, the author of my all time favorite historical novel, The Winds of War. Turns out, this is totally, painfully, horrendously incorrect. I was drunk at the time, and this is the only excuse I can offer.

Am I really unqualified to work at The Strand? (When drunk, I’m probably unqualified to work anywhere except a strip club, but that’s beside the point.) Whatever. I'm not ashamed of my obviously less than perfect literary knowledge. And neither are lots of other people, apparently. To prove it I have compiled here, for your reading pleasure, a list of the top five novels I should read, but never, ever will:

1. Ulysses. I know I should want to read it, especially since the Modern Library ranks it as the #1 best book ever in the history of books, or something like that. But I read an excerpt of Ulysses for a class, and all that happened was that the main character trimmed his fingernails. Apparently, this is an incredibly meaningful passage. Suffice it to say, I found it dull. Being rather fond of books with plots, I can't imagine I'll ever get around to starting, much less finishing, Ulysses.

2. David Copperfield. Don't get me started on Dickens. Authors who serialized their work make me miserable. And when the second sentence of your book is: "To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night," how do you expect anyone to get even remotely excited? I just know I won't make it past page 15.

3. Moby Dick. While Melville seems like he was a pretty badass kind of guy, we don’t have a good literary relationship. The monstrous length of Moby Dick frightens me; I barely made it through Bartelby the Scrivener, and that was a short story. A really smart friend of my Mom's told her he re-read Moby Dick every single year, but I’ve discovered that he’s sort of a blowhard, so I'm pretty sure his opinion doesn't count.

4. Gravity's Rainbow. After reading about 20 pages of The Crying of Lot 49 for a class in college, I decided Pynchon is not my cup of tea. I mean, what’s it really all about, Thomas? Are all those suggestive clues really meaningless? I, for one, don’t enjoy being stuck inside the mind of a paranoid recluse.

5. The Scarlet Letter. I know scads of people who read this in high school and no one has ever said they enjoyed it. I consider myself fortunate to never have been assigned it, so why would I waste my valuable time reading it now? (I wasted enough time, thank you very much, watching the movie, which was horrendous.) And Puritans? They kind of freak me out, unless they’re associated with either of these two things: Thanksgiving or the Mayflower Compact. The Scarlet Letter, as far as I know, mentions neither.

Edit: Since a couple smart people apparently do like The Scarlet Letter, it's coming off the list. I'll have to think of something else I really, really don't want to read.

in which i whine, and then gush.

I’m so busy at work, I actually brought some home with me this weekend. And it turns out I’m so busy with other things I didn’t have time to do any of it. I didn’t even procrastinate (much).

Ostensibly, a social life is a good thing. Being me, though, sometimes I really just want to read my book. I’ve been reading Lolita for a month now, and while I’m really enjoying it and I really want to finish it, there’s no time. Even in college I had time to read; I used to read for pleasure during finals. What’s happened to my life? I’m completely out of clean clothes, and our cupboards at home are totally bare. It’s getting kind of pathetic, really. I plan to do all of these necessary things (food shopping, laundry) tonight, after I go to the gym. This means that the work I was planning to bring home tonight won’t get done, again.

Despite my whirlwind weekend, there’s nothing interesting to write about. My brain has sort of been turned to mush by my continuing obsession with Jens Lekman, who I fortuitously discovered was playing in Williamsburg last night. And I know I’ve said this about concerts before, but it was amazing.

I’ve seen a lot of mediocre concerts in my day, but in the past couple months I’ve seen a string of fantastic performances. (Another thing to add to my “Why New York Is Better Than Where You Live” list.) Like the last concert I gushed over, this one was pretty spare; it was just Jens with a guitar, accompanied by a woman playing the bongos. He also had this awesome playback thing, so he could record himself beatboxing and then sing over it. Sounds cool, right? It was. Even my roommates, who were not so familiar with his songs to begin with, were fans by the end.

And after he sang a perfect cover of “You Can Call Me Al,” it was all over for me. Combine that with that fact that he has an anti-war song about his hairdresser, a love song about cutting off the tip of his index finger, and a song that mentions Nietzsche, and I'm ready to tattoo his name on my ass. So when Jens asked us, during the second encore, “Does anyone have to go to work in the morning, or can I just keep playing songs forever?” I do believe I shouted out, “Forever!”

Who cares about work, anyway?

life is hard.

This morning, when exiting the bathroom, I walked straight into the closed door of my room. A closed door is a very difficult thing to run into, unless you're blind.

Ugh.

sex, and the end of civilization, part II

This morning my roommate, JV, pointed out this article to me. Apparently, the New York Times decided to jump on the subject convergence bandwagon, and publish an article about a middle school in Portland, Maine that's going to offer birth control pills.

"The clinics at Portland high schools have offered oral contraceptives for years, said Douglas S. Gardner, the city’s director of health and human services. Health officials decided to extend the policy to middle school after learning that 17 middle school students had become pregnant in the last four years, seven of them in the 2006-7 school year.

'It brings home the fact that my 13-year-old daughter has friends and people around her who are sexually active,' Ms. Purington said. 'But at least it’s a good alternative in a not-so-good situation. No one is going to stand up and cheer that 12- and 13-year-olds are having sex, but it’s not anything new.'"


Ms. Purington doesn't think it's anything new that 12 and 13-year-olds are having sex. Maybe she's right. But if 7 middle schoolers got pregnant in the past year, shouldn't the school be teaching the kids about sexual health, and how to use a condom, instead of giving girls who probably just started their periods prescription contraceptives?

And when do these kids even have sex? Between home room and first period? My life in 6th grade consisted of school, soccer practice, and home. If I had wanted to have sex, which I really, really didn't, there wouldn't have been a place or time for it. My parents weren't cool with boys being in my room, much less my bed. Or maybe there are oodles of Humbert's out there, preying on little girls and impregnating them? 6th grade orgies posted on craigslist? What??

sex, and the end of civilization.

In college, I found that classes would sometimes coincide in wonderful ways. For instance, a professor might discuss bildungsroman and Jacques Lacan in one class, and then in a different class later on the same day, those two strange subjects would come up again, totally independently. This happened in subtler and thematic ways as well, and while it is not at all surprising - the same topics are bound to be repeated if you study a subject for long enough - it was always gratifying. The world made better sense: my classes had clearly been picked wisely, and not merely because they fit my work schedule.

This coincidental subject convergence happened to me again yesterday. I was in a bookstore in Park Slope, killing time before I had to be somewhere, and I happened to pick up The Best American Essays of 2007, and found myself reading about Lolita. More specifically, I read Afternoon of the Sex Children by Mark Greif. The essay addresses Lolita as a cultural critique on the growing fascination with the sexuality of children. A relatively new phenomenon when Nabokov was writing, Greif argues that the nearly complete sexual freedom of children, and their status as the most highly desired sexual objects, is a sign of serious cultural decay. ("Child" is used broadly; everyone from 12 to 22ish years old can be one.) Instead of venerating experience or wisdom, the trend is to desire only what is new, fresh, and ultimately, bland. Basically, for Greif, Gossip Girls represents the end of civilization. Furthermore, he argues that sexual liberation has not equaled sexual freedom; the subject has merely gone from absolutely taboo to completely pervasive. Sex has been liberated, but no one has been liberated from sex.

I was at a party on Friday and someone there had made a documentary film in college about the loss of virginity - he basically interviewed a bunch of his friends about their first time. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't interested in seeing the video; from what I heard, it sounds hilarious. Would Greif say that by enjoying and displaying these stories we were all participating in a culture of sexual obsession? Probably. But how can you possibly free culture from sex? Whether it is totally unmentionable or constantly talked about, it will still be on everyone's mind. Sex is a natural imperative, we can't be free of it. In the same way, it's inevitable that young people will be more sexual, and more desired, than older people; biologically our prime reproductive years are between the ages of 12 and 22. Even if people wanted to be liberated from sex, or the desire for youth, it's impossible; both are irresistible, for the obvious reasons. If Greif is right, and the public obsession with youth and sex is culturally destructive, what's the alternative, other than reverting back to 19th century sexual norms? Isn't it better, if we are going to be obsessed with sex anyway, not to deny it?

Greif makes a persuasive case, though, and highly public nature of intensely private subjects, including sex, is a feature of life in the 21st century I find numbing, if also sometimes entertaining. What's private, if everything is reported publicly? (I do realize, btw, the hypocrisy of writing that on my blog.) Even the shock of Lolita and the strangely sympathetic Humbert has sort of worn off. Enjoying a 12 year-old as a sexual object is disturbing, but not unheard of. And if, like me, you read Dan Savage, nothing sexual is shocking. Even when it probably should be.

top five.

If I were to make a list, á la Rob Gordon, of my all-time top five possible careers (if history, money and qualification were no object) this would be it:

1. Any kind of political person in the Florentine Republic, at some point between 1494 and 1512. I just want to work with Machiavelli. I don’t want to be powerful, or anything. Actually I’d prefer not to be important, that way when the Medici seize power, I won’t be tortured.
2. Co-owner of Shakespeare & Company, 1919-1941. I don’t want to steal Sylvia Beach’s thunder, but Paris between the wars, who wouldn’t want to be there? I’d get to meet Hemingway, Fitzgerald, James Joyce, T.S. Eliot, etc, etc.
3. Book reviewer/staff writer for the New Yorker at any point between 1930 and 1965. Exciting times, exciting people. But really, I would condescend to write for the New Yorker at any point. (I love you, Nick Paumgarten!)
4. Book cover designer. I don’t just mean making dust covers, people; I’m talking about Art with a capital “A.” And I’d want to be somebody really good, like Chip Kidd or Jon Gray or Helen Yentus. I’d get to read books and play around with fonts. It would be marvelous.
5. Movie credit designer. Again, Art. Think of the credits for Monsoon Wedding or Volver or Fight Club. You know, badass shit.

If you were to point out to me that the most realistic of these professions would require many years of art school and innate ability I don’t happen to possess, I would have to agree with you. And if you were to point out that I’m really better suited, given that history and money and qualifications are objects, for the job I have now, I’d have to say you were right again.

Oh, well.

An Open Letter to Vladimir Nabokov

Dear Mr. Nabokov,

I really admire that, even though English was your third language, you still use words like "dirndled" and "fructuate." I'm only up to page 63 of Lolita, but I'm really looking forward to seeing what you come up with next.

Love,
Julia

don't talk about my boyfriend.

In the past 36 hours, three people have mentioned my boyfriend. First, it was the guy walking past me on Hanson Place, who suggested I ditch my boyfriend and take up with him instead. Then, the vendor guy in Union Square would only tell me the price for a pair of sunglasses if I told him whether or not I was single. Next, the shoe store guy told me that my new black flats came with an extra set of heels, so if the original ones wore down, my boyfriend could just hammer the new ones on for me.

Just FYI, New York: I know how to use a hammer. And I'm single. There's no need to rub it in.

meet me in gowanus.

A fight broke out on my subway platform today. The cops were called, and for some reason the train wasn't allowed to leave. So we all filed grumblingly out of the station, and I walked with a charmingly indignant Caribbean woman to catch a different train. She bemoaned the burgeoning hooligan movement, and derided passing teenagers for "smoking blunts this early in the morning." I heartily agreed with her; getting high before 10 am is just bad manners.

More interestingly, we talked about the new stadium that is supposed to go up in my neighborhood. When I commented that building a stadium would probably change things, the woman just laughed. "Yes, it will" was all she said, but she looked at me like I might be a bit slow. While my new friend was a little off on the exact location of the new Atlantic Yards development, it's true that they're planning on tearing down a huge swath of housing to build a basketball stadium for the Nets just a few blocks from where I live. This does not excite me. If it was a soccer pitch I might be persuaded, but probably not even then. All those people from New Jersey coming to see the Nets? There goes the neighborhood.

I feel like this sort of thing is happening everywhere in Brooklyn. Even Gowanus is slated to get a face lift soon. I remember driving past the Gowanus canal on the bus on my way to elementary school, and it was a distinctly unpleasant experience, olfactorily and aesthetically. (Is olfactorily even a word? Whatever.) The canal itself is disgusting, or it used to be, and the neighborhood is all industrial. It's sort of amazing to think that one day people might be strolling along the Gowanus canal, enjoying the gentle breezes and feeding ducks. My strongest memory of driving through the neighborhood was a huge radiator factory that was next to a bridge, and every time I read about developments in Gowanus, I wonder where they are going to make radiators now. China?

hypocrite

Definition: a person who acts in contradiction to his or her stated beliefs or feelings.

I feel like it's typical for people to start blogs by protesting that they never thought they ever would. But really, I'm not just saying it. All those years I said I would never start a blog, I really did mean it. Really.

And yet, here I am. The end of college is directly related to dwindling levels of self-control, I suppose.