Two quick things:
1. I bought a bicycle from a graduating senior named "Rudolfo." Sketchy name, legitimately good bike. My commute time to work now takes a third of the time, and when I take the bike ramp down to the bike garage in Max Central, I feel like I'm driving into the Batcave!
2. The final schedule for the quarter, after much deliberation and pink-slipping and groveling, turned out to be:
-Media Aesthetics-3: Only 8 people in my class and the professor is awesome, but why aren't we reading To the Lighthouse anymore?
-Intro to Poetry: Professor looks like Binky the Hebrew Clown. But he's supposed to be one of the big guns of the English dept., and I really like how he's teaching poetry. All the same, his lecture on metrics didn't have the same kind of subtlety that Don Allen's explanation of iambic pentameter did ("'a-WAY-and-MOCK-the-TIME-with-FAIR-est-SHOW!' CAN YA HEAR IT?? That's Bill Shakespeare... played shortstop for Pittsburgh? HA!") I also like the swivel chairs in the classroom.
-French 103: Je dread. But the instructor looks like a half-back for a Big 10 school, and he likes to make fun of the French language. Finally.
-Romanticism: the class that wasn't even a back-up, but now I'm in it and I'm kinda excited about it. I know next to nothing about Romanticism. The instructor is a young guy, a Harvard fellow, and in the right light he walks and talks like Derek Zoolander.
What you do not see on the schedule is the coveted Postwar US Lit class. Alas, the professor, who was leather-pantalooned and blue-spectacled, capped the class at 25, orphaning about twice that number who were trying to register in. And the reading list was so good, too. Ralph Ellison, Thomas Pynchon, Patricia Highsmith (Talented Mr. Ripley... wha??), Maus I, and Don Delillo. Delillo! Mice in the Holocaust!
Um, all for now. I need to write something serious for something upcoming, something exciting. Out.
1. I bought a bicycle from a graduating senior named "Rudolfo." Sketchy name, legitimately good bike. My commute time to work now takes a third of the time, and when I take the bike ramp down to the bike garage in Max Central, I feel like I'm driving into the Batcave!
2. The final schedule for the quarter, after much deliberation and pink-slipping and groveling, turned out to be:
-Media Aesthetics-3: Only 8 people in my class and the professor is awesome, but why aren't we reading To the Lighthouse anymore?
-Intro to Poetry: Professor looks like Binky the Hebrew Clown. But he's supposed to be one of the big guns of the English dept., and I really like how he's teaching poetry. All the same, his lecture on metrics didn't have the same kind of subtlety that Don Allen's explanation of iambic pentameter did ("'a-WAY-and-MOCK-the-TIME-with-FAIR-est-SHOW!' CAN YA HEAR IT?? That's Bill Shakespeare... played shortstop for Pittsburgh? HA!") I also like the swivel chairs in the classroom.
-French 103: Je dread. But the instructor looks like a half-back for a Big 10 school, and he likes to make fun of the French language. Finally.
-Romanticism: the class that wasn't even a back-up, but now I'm in it and I'm kinda excited about it. I know next to nothing about Romanticism. The instructor is a young guy, a Harvard fellow, and in the right light he walks and talks like Derek Zoolander.
What you do not see on the schedule is the coveted Postwar US Lit class. Alas, the professor, who was leather-pantalooned and blue-spectacled, capped the class at 25, orphaning about twice that number who were trying to register in. And the reading list was so good, too. Ralph Ellison, Thomas Pynchon, Patricia Highsmith (Talented Mr. Ripley... wha??), Maus I, and Don Delillo. Delillo! Mice in the Holocaust!
Um, all for now. I need to write something serious for something upcoming, something exciting. Out.
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