On the Street Where She Lives..

Cold winds and autumn leaves dance down the quiet street.
Heels clip-clop up the sidewalk
...the sound of ghoulish feet.
Pale hands clutched together as, overhead, witches fly.
Dark skies and Colorado moon
...suffer a black cat’s cry.
Lone door bells chime and glowing jack o’lanterns gleam—
Rejoice! All who may dare—
...tonight is Halloween!

Breaking the Seal (or, "Oh, How I Miss thee, Blog")...

A SAD result of writing and picarooning -- for a living -- is that the writing I do, writing some would see as frivolous, is rarely given the attention I believe it deserves. I'm not suggesting that my extracurricular writing here (or elsewhere for that matter) is ever simply "fun." No, indeed, my (ahem) free-time* writing serves multiple purposes: it allows my creative side to flourish! I find communion with fellow writers! I keep my mind and my pen nimble for the benefit of my students! I am forced to remember that writing does not happen in a vacuum and that vacuuming rarely trumps the need to write.**

Nevertheless, one has to actually WRITE in order to gain said benefits.

New leaf, I turn thee here and now. Seal? Thou art broken.

In the cause,

Dr. T Shandy

*I use the term "free time" loosely. I, like most of you, rarely have any time that does not cost me dearly.

**In the quest for absolute transparancy, I must admit that I found myself vacuuming this weekend in, I was delighted to discover, a ridiculous attempt to avoid writing! The excessive stress and never-ending pressure of numerous writing deadlines has forced me into wonderfully productive "old habits" (of both writing and cleaning, I am proud to report).

Ode, La Nouvelle Orléans

MY ASS aches, and a hazy dumbness pains

My sense, as though Absinthe I had drunk,

And emptied some new shrimps to the drains

One minute past, and Canal-wards had sunk:

'Twas a celebration of our academic lot,

And being too reliev'd in our happiness,

That Thou! Light-winged Drink of ease!,
In some perfidious plot
Of Lafitte's mean, and Abitas numberless,
Screamed our success to the tops o'trees!

O for a moment of clarity! that hath been

Unaffected by barmaid of Orleans girth,

Her lids darkly-lined above eyes of green.

Dance, and 80s songs, and stories of mirth!

And of bathtub full of ice - it had seen no mouth!

Yes, a bathroom -- the likes we’d never seen—

With pee of others lapping at the brim.

Of a liquor-pained South!

O! Night of drink, Orleans unseen,

And pole by pole, left Bourbon Street dim…

Hungover! the very word is like a knell:

A morn knock that pull’d me from my stupor’d self!

Adieu, beignets! You who did treat us so well

As Orleans is famed to do [deceptive pelf!].

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive blues fades

Past near Metairie, past the voodoo stream,

Back home! and now, stories buried deep;

But, next post, all in spades:

I’ll tell of visions, of a waking dream.

Our next memories? abroad! Stories cannot keep.

In the Cause!

Dr. T. Shandy

Wherein I Offer an Apology and a Promise...

HOW COULD I, dear P.R., be so inattentive to this blog? To you, dear Pretend Reader… have I really been so lackadaisical in posting my latest thoughts? It is unconscionable to have left you to your own devices! And here I sit – so much to write – so much to share! Oh! – for that time returned! Nevertheless, as I am not one to revisit the past without direct and irrefutable purpose, I hereby recognize my failures -- even as I pledge to move forward – ever looking to the next post and the next – not backwards to that which might have been, but, most regretfully, was not. Onward!

Indeed, in an effort to discourage this sort of irresponsible and reprehensible blogging behavior in my future, have imposed a penance upon this “lusty picaroon” who writes before you --- I do this, neither out of wantonness or cruelty, but from the best of motives; and therefore, I shall make myself no apology for it when I return, fingers weary from the tap, tap, tapping of the keys: -- yes!; damn the cost, I shall “catch” you “up,” dearest reader on all that has transpired since last we interfaced. Though it will, undoubtedly, take several posts (written in the coming days!), in a quest for clarity and transparency, I shall attempt to outline for you [should you find yourself desirous of skipping past those stories which hold no sway], -- in this fine post, those details and adventures I will share in diatribes to come. So, if we are agreed? -- let this entry serve, as it were, as a “taste” – a pleasant “peek” at what will follow. Guilt, 'tis true!, is a passably fine motivator, when one lacks for a better reason to write.

To begin, I will share with you, in its rich and full-bodied detail, my latest journey: a trip I began with my long-time writing partner, a charming man by the name of Mr. Gilbert Blythe [one, you may recall, I spoke of, fondly, in a previous post] attended a large academic conference in, of all lusty places for a picaroon to find herself! --- that den of iniquity, that nexus of evil, that soulless pit of degradation and moral turpitude, that glorious locale of drinking and dining and pleasures of the flesh!: New Orleans, Louisiana. Though I might simply write “a good time was had by all” [for it is true we each had our own “good time”], such a casual dismissal of our astounding conference performance, of our lusty picarooning, and of our academic hobnobbing is, in truth, to dismiss all that I am -- all that Mr. Blythe and I were, academically speaking, together!

Forgive me while I pause to rebuke a vicious taste -- one that has crept into thousands besides myself, -- that for reading straight forward -- as though reading were a mere skill!, reading more in quest of the facts, rather than for a deep erudition or knowledge with which an adventure of this sort will be cast. After all, our stories are "books," of sorts, are they not? Might we all agree that if one “reads” well, reads people and our stories over as it should always be, we would infallibly impart to our “readers” something that is more valuable than a trove of Blackbeard’s riches? It is in storytelling [and the listening!], I have concluded, that we retain our humanity. ---- But, lest we forget, it is equally true that the mind should be accustomed to make wise reflections, and draw curious conclusions as it goes along; the habitude of which made Pliny (the younger) affirm, “That he never read a book so bad, but he drew some profit from it.” But, I digress.

In addition to a story or two that emerged from our week of debauchery and academic prowess in NOLA, I will, also, take one of these "future moments" to tell you, yes, forthwith!, about my latest “editing” project. Though it, naturally, speaks little to my own artistic pursuits, I have recently been credited with some small degree of “responsibility” (dare I say “credit”?) for its creation. I’ve been told I am the catalyst, and while that may surely credit me, in my own mind, with far more involvement than I deserve, I accept this smallest and most limited position -- that of part “muse” [part “editor” – part “sponsor” – part “fan”] with, one can but hope!, a measure of grace and dignity. Yes, this latest task has been handed to me by my writerly soul mate, my life-long friend, B.F., my own “Mr. Freret” – he of that worldly and infamous Internet sensation, “The Adventures of B. Freret.”

------ But look here, my fair P.R.! Have you yet read over and again this blog’s previous posts, as I desired you? -- You have not? Oh, but I rely on your diligence, dear reader!: upon your second reading of previous musings, you will find yourself up-to-date on my state of mind; you will recall the personage of whom I speak herein: you will observe the passages, upon a second reading, which admits the inferences regarding B.F., Mr. Blythe, and more ---- we will bridge the gap that exists betwixt us, -- but this will require your dedication to the cause as well, dearest P.R.; for, I proudly admit, not a passage exists upon these pages that loves or lives or breathes without purpose!

A suggestion: when you are finished with this day's blog-reading, be pleased, and ponder well [again] the last line of this post, where I will admit that, "It was necessary I should read before I write.'' So, I urge you! – nay, I beseech you: – read! – muse! – think! And, then when you return “home” to these pages, look closely to that most recent post; it will be that one which illuminates the soul and discloses much of my "true" nature (at least as much as it conceals my true person). Until we meet again, dear P. R…. I remain...

In the Cause!

Dr. T. Shandy

Miscellany of Guidance and Reflection

I RECENTLY had the pleasure to spend some hours in quiet reverie with my long-time writing partner, Mr. Gilbert Blythe.* On this particular occasion [though you should note that my qualification ("particular") should not suggest that my previous encounters with Mr. Blythe did not, often, devolve in a similar fashion (if not towards the self-same topic)] -- Mr. Blythe and I spoke quite kindly about his pending wedding anniversary. I was surprised to discover that Mr. Blythe had been many years happily affianced to his amour, Anne**, thirteen in number! -- and that his affection had not waned in all those many years following that fast and passionate betrothal. Indeed, Mr. Blythe admitted to me that less than six weeks of courtship preceded his (inevitable) proposal -- and their subsequent -- and immediate! --courthouse nuptials.

I mention my discussion with Mr. Blythe in our public forum, not as -- as some might suggest-- a betrayal of private or sacred confidence, but instead as proof of my sincerest appreciation for those mortals among us who, despite all life's temptations and challenges, manage to successfully endure beyond the first seven or so years of natural marital harmony. I myself have never maintained any relationship [save the random friendship and a few complex familial ties] for such a significant length.

As you may recall, it is in complicated times, such as these, that I turn again to my friend, and confidant, Diana, for her wisdom and insights. Having been married, divorced, lesbian, straight, childless, and child-ful, Diana -- though oft more vitriolic than in which I can find comfort! -- manages, with regularity, to strike some exposed human nerve in her acquaintances. I have yet to find any individual [of even passable intelligence] who is able to find fault in her immutable logos.

So, to that end, I offer, for your review dear P.R., the following miscellany of "guidance and reflection" on wedding anniversaries (behaviors one might be best to avoid -- and other suggestions that, mayhap, will add to the celebratory atmosphere of these significant, personal moments of marital bliss) from my dearest, and most loyal real-life friend, Diana:

On Wedded Bliss & Celebratory Moments in Time:

1. If you planned your honeymoon around "March Madness," future anniversaries WILL require similar consideration.

2. If you ever find yourself at Taco Bell*** (TM) on your wedding anniversary, rest assured that it is all downhill from there -- regardless of the compelling reasons involving this "one time" dining choice.

3. A spouse who "forgets" his or her wedding anniversary has likely forgotten other crucial aspects of the relationship (eg: that he/she is married, etc. )

4. Ostentatious displays of anniversary-related affection (ie: gifts, preferably those wrapped inside small, light blue boxes) will not dispel existing marital discord or regrets, but they can make enduring it much more pleasant.

5. Any one who finds herself/himself married, for more than seven consecutive years, has been miserable at a (flexible) ratio of 1 to 3.****

6. If you find your spouse's family's actions or habits reprehensible, then you will likely find your spouse to be similarly obnoxious in the years that follow. Double that, if he/she considers "dinner with the parents" an acceptable celebration. Indeed, anniversaries will not lessen this feeling, but, rather, these events often exaggerate the related daily realities of married life.

7. If your spouse's idea of "fun" is a six pack, a bag of Doritos (TM), and football, then he or she is unlikely to plan (or enjoy) more cerebral outings. Despite your dreams to the contrary, this will never change. Your ability to endure such atrocities is, in general, directly related to #5.

8. If you wake up on your anniversary only to discover that you'd prefer to spend the day having a colonoscopy (rather than your spouse), I recommend that you return, immediately, to bed. This day has already hit its orgasmic high.

9. If you, or your spouse, must seek the guidance of a lawyer (for any reason) on your actual anniversary [and is unaware of the significance or irony of this rhetorical choice] might I suggest that you move on -- calmly. That relationship is over.

10. If your spouse ever described Sarah Palin as "do-able" -- run. If she/he made such an observation on your actual anniversary, please see #9.

________

As you can clearly see, dear P.R., Diana is a bitter, bitter woman, but one who, it must be explained, speaks from a place of disparate and first-hand experience. Nevertheless, if upon reading her list, you find yourself equal parts chagrined, depressed, or wary in the ways of love and love lost, know that I, too, remain confident and hopeful that these selected anniversary "gaffs" are certainly not representative of the whole of human experience, and that alternative solutions are solidly possible.

In the Cause,

Dr. T. Shandy

*Any similarities you find, to the original Mr. Gilbert Blythe (of Green Gables fame), is purely coincidental and should not prejudice your opinion of the manliness of my writing partner, Mr. Blythe.

**Anne, though regretfully named, bears no resemblance to her "green" literary sister.

*** Taco Bell (TM) is used, herein, as anecdotal evidence only; any number of other dining choices are equally disturbing on one's anniversary (eg: Golden Corral, Burger King, Village Inn, IHOP, 7-11 -- to name just a few)

****Though the marriage must, necessarily, be "consecutive," I feel compelled to explain that Diane is very clear that "misery" is rarely consecutive and is often punctuated by random and inexplicable bursts of bliss. Misery is, according to Diana's rules, always cumulative.

Dr. Shandy Calling*

ON GOOGLE did our Dr. Shandy
A lusty pleasure-blog decree:
Where Words, like sacred rivers, ran,
Through revelations [man measuring man]—
Twittered down for all to see.

Yes, twice three posts on risky ground
Were memories and facts muddled round:
And the Objects -- rich with old school rills,

Blossomed into an opera the world would see;
Our hometown? [Backwards as the hills!],
Unfolding intersections, most colorful tapestry.

But, oh! that mean professional chasm which planted,
‘Round her ivory tower, a tainted theorist’s cover!
A savage place! as evilly enchanted
As e'er beneath that mountainside was haunted
By woman wailing for log ago dissertation-advisor!
And from this chasm, with senseless academic seething,
As if this campus in entitled patriarchy were breathing,
A mighty creativity potently was forced:
Amid whose online half-Internet’d burst
Huge ideas vaulted like reclaimed mail,
Or like a Floridian’s ‘flock o’seagulls’ flail:
And 'mid these frantic emails, at once and ever,
It flung up [humbly] some sacred words.
Rhetoric meandering with a lazy motion;
Through mountains and swamps the sacred ideas ran,
Then reached their blogs -- those measured man by man,
And soon left in anonymity – lost inside a lifeless Web:
Then, 'mid this tumult, Shandy had an epiphany:
Intersecting voices? A private polyphony!

The value of the blog of pleasure?
Creativity as it flowed from fountains!
Where she wrote their mingled measure,
From the swamps to the mountains.
‘Twas was a miracle of rare device,
A witty pleasure-blog: ‘twould suffice!

A lawyer with a blog
In a vision once I saw:
It was an complex experiment:
A wayward career he’d supplement --
Writing from the Life he'd Lived.
Would that it would renew within me,
[A world left far away and oh, so long!],
To such a deep delight 'twould win me?
That technology offered a lost song,
But, could I create a blog from air?
Those witty words! A new rhetorical device!
That all who heard should read it there,
And all would cry, “Bravo! Bravo!
Her brilliant stance, her willingness to dare!”
I’ll weave my tapestry 'round you thrice,
You’ll close your eyes -- no longer dread,
On Shandy's life blood now be fed
And, I hope, enjoy my corner of Paradise.

-- Dr. T. Shandy (In the Cause!)

*Originally composed while visiting Xanadu; Coleridge's -- not Olivia Newton John's.

What the Gods Hath Laid Before Us...

IN THE TOWN where my father and my mother dwelt, dwelt also a tall, upright, intelligent, wryly notable, good body of a young man, who, with the help of a little plain good sense, and some years full employment in the business of academic success (in which he had all along trusted little to his own efforts, and a great deal to those of fate’s fickle finger -- pray, the pointing digit, not that of his bastard middle brother), -- he had acquired, in his way, no small degree of reputation among his peers in the convoluted world of high school; -- by which with the word world, need I inform you, kind reader, that I mean no more of it than a small circle described upon the circle of the great world, of four East Texas miles diameter, or there- abouts, of which the high school, where the good young man lived, is supposed to be the centre.

In addition to his scholarly pursuits, this young man (we will, henceforth, call him BF – for wont of a more respectable “pseudonym”) had been gifted, it seems, with a modicum of talent for music-making, and so with four of his peers, BF sought out a career in the industry – and, despite the localized limitations of musical success, girls did swoon at his skillful stroking of the bass, though a few others did perhaps see young BF in a different light – not as an object of adoration, but as a fellow scholar, a witty young man with promise, potential, and it should not be ignored, a fairly passable backside (“she” was but sixteen, I should remind you; and as such, her passions were often purely aesthetic -- as changeable and unpredictable as the Red River itself).

Despite my flighty passions of 'lo those many years ago (and more recent tendency to speak of myself in the third person), I am, dear reader, this same "she." To be clear, I was at that time a person of decent carriage, -- serious scholarly deportment, ---- yet a woman fond of words, a thespian, a word-smithing pugilist, if you will; oh! I was a writer. And, even at sixteen, I found, in some small degree, a kindred spirit in young BF: he was a lover of music – yes, a performer in all things -- if even, more often than not, of the more reluctant sort.

Years did pass; lives were made, and new lives were forged, as we sped from decade to decade; and though my friendly high school acquaintanceship with BF lasted no longer than t’would take the ink on our diplomas to dry, I must admit that I did not forget that young man – my young BF! -- so full of youthful promise! – what potential for future greatness! Nor he I. Yet each of us had said “fare-the-well” and moved on to adulthood in the most expected tradition of college-bound teens…

These last words, you must know, fall quite short of summarizing the complicated, transitional years that would pass before our next introduction; – to be sure, nearly two decades would come and go before I would hear what became of my ‘ole friend, BF. But then – in a single and most unexpected coincidence [though I am, admittedly, uncomfortable with the assigning of such random credit to corners unknown] BF was placed squarely back into my life – both of us immediately aware that the other was older, wiser -- older. In the interim, it was clear – without a single word passing betwixt us – that neither of our lives had run according to the old form from which such middle-class licenses, faculties, and powers-that-be usually mandated.

It was the 10^th day of the month – Oh! And how I will remember that day from here after with such fondness! – while enjoying frittering away my day, on the newest virtual gadget of social-networking – Facebook, lo and behold! What message should appear but a simple “I know you”? And, my dear reader, as you no doubt realize, though his hair was shorter --- requisite mullet now a thing of his glorious past! --- and his temples colored by wisps of grey only men sport with such quiet dignity, I “knew” him too. It was BF – just a notable, and perhaps only twice as wry as he had been in his glory days, but the exact BF (in familiar confident spirit if not teenage body) nonetheless. In less than two hours, he and I had established a mutual love of writing, our definitive passion for learning, and the need we both felt to find a “reader” (indeed a “friend”) outside the hallowed halls in which we now found ourselves age’d and imprisoned: I in a world of patriarchal and passionless academia, and he in the soul-sucking world of a barrister.

What we learned was that each had taken a circuitous route to professional success, and yet neither of us had encountered that oft dream’d of font of complete creative nourishment. By week two of continual email, chatting, and Facebooking, we had laid bare our souls, shared secret and sacred writing, and each had found in the other a writerly soul-mate. An old friendship – one that had failed, two decades before, to evolve past that of a one-act-play -- suddenly found itself blossoming into a multi-dimensional opera… it seems that age and time had left us both ready for something more fulfilling – something rich and increasingly robust with creative potential.

We have each become, if only in this virtual world we have created [a modern world where photos replace afternoon meetings and a single email has more power than a dozen phone calls ever could] equal parts sounding board, sponsor, and spiritual guide for the other. The smallest snippet of dialogue continues to reveal intersections that stun us both. Music, humor, books – we found common ground in each subsequent detail we share with the other. Today we have forged a friendship based on intellectual inquiry and mutual admiration… How unique! How refreshing! To find a kindred spirit at such a point in my life...

But, you may ask, what of the future? Admittedly, ours remains a fragile bond. But, unlike those transient friendships of adulthood [which so rarely have the time to broach the difficult subjects: the stories of childhood, the angst of awkward adolescence, and the tragedies of growing older], ours is a bond that is based on an inexplicable common awareness of how far the other really has come in this complex and fucked up world. We are both eons away from that small East Texas town in which this foundation for kinship was first laid, and yet -- there is where, in some small measure, the kinship was formed. Yes, I believe that we grow stronger with each new personal reveal (twenty years of life has passed and must be reclaimed!) – we solidify what a simple message began with each new story we tell – each silent and solitary chuckle (he on his side of the country and I on mine) – each inside-joke one sends to the other builds a new link in a chain that links us willingly to one another. It has been -- fast. Fulfilling. Fabulous.

Mayhap it is coincidence, or, better yet -- do we look to fate or karma? No matter! ---- if any of these be the case, ---- pray, Sir, my BF, what have either you or I to do with it? Dare we question (if even in quiet appreciation!) what the gods have laid out before us? Friends, especially those possessing even an ounce of self-deprecating humor and wry intelligence, are few and far between. I cherish this one and wait -- breathless. What creative trails might we blaze together?

In the Cause!

Dr. T. Shandy

I Which I Make a Charge and Abuse my Captive Audience

IN THE BEGINNING of this blog, I inform'd you that I was born under a cloud of parental subjectivity and genetic misfortune; -- but I did not inform you exactly how. No; that particular detail I will reserve entirely for a blog of its own; -- besides, kind reader, as you and I are in a manner perfect strangers, you must surely realize that it would not have been proper were I to share too many stories of myself all at once. -- You must have a little patience with me, novice blogger and lusty picaroon that I am.

I have undertaken, you see, to write not only my life in this blog, but to test my opinions also; hoping that your slow and gentle knowledge of my character, and of what kind of a mortal I am (vis-à-vis these pages), each by the other, would give you a better understanding of the first: as you read further about me and my often faulty and illogical opinions, I expect that the slight public acquaintance, which is now blooming betwixt us, will grow into familiarity (and, we dare to hope, might be lacking all contempt!); and that, unless one of us is in fault (see post, 28 March, for examples one should avoid), will terminate in friendship. ---- O, diem præ-clarum! ---- then, I know that you, and you alone, will find nothing which has touched my life trifling in its nature, or tedious in its telling. When else does a young academic find herself with such a willing and captive audience? Oh, to finally be able to reveal myself in the very manner I always knew would show its truth in the most realistic light! Would that I had discovered blogging long ago…

Therefore, my dear friend, and newly claimed virtual companion, if you think me somewhat thrifty with my personal narrative during our initial contacts, -- bear with me, -- and let me go on and tell my story my own way: ---- or, if I digress now and then from this blog’s stated purpose, ---- or should sometimes put on a dunce’s cap (yes, complete with bell upon it!) for a moment or two as we pass along, -- please, do not leave me reader-less -- but rather, courteously know that I possess but slightly more wisdom than what appears on these humble pages; -- and as we press on, either laugh with me, or at me, or in short, do anything, react in whatever way feels most authentic to you ---- only keep your temper; and, if possible, enjoy this journey by my side.

In the Cause,

T. Shandy, Ph.D.

In Which I Discuss Picaroons, Peccadilloes, and Fucktards

IN ADDITION to the many posts I anticipate writing on the always titillating topics of love, sex, relationships, and life in academia (as though one could separate these four!), I also fully intend that this blog -- as my ongoing and very public exploration of self-awareness -- should be a site for continued contemplation of the complexities of friendship (often wrongly confused, of course, with any one of the four afore mentioned topics).

As an admitted "lusty picaroon,"* I have enjoyed my share of peculiar peccadilloes. I have made friends, lost friends, and even created friends, and yet, I have never successfully identified even the slightest, singular thread by which these relationships -- with all of their glorious growth spurts or rapid, and often painful, declines -- might be explained. Indeed, if there is a thread to be found among the thirty-some-years of amity in which I have taken delight, it is likely it is I.

So, with this "thread" in mind, I now entertain the possibility that each of my friendships, along with the making, breaking, and defiling of such, are -- you perhaps sense that I am loathe to accept this as truth? -- a signifier of my own unique brand of foolishness, insecurities, and interpersonal missteps. I console myself with the following scrap of logos: if it is true, that I alone am responsible for the decline of these lost bonds, then [praise be!] I am equally liable for the unlikely successes.

While I have any number of long-term friendships I might use as further evidence of my exemplary talents in creating rapport-- outside of my own word, though I imagine one might consider any "proof" I might provide as nothing more than creative wordsmithing, and hence, just more of my "own word" --; I believe that two other avenues of discourse might provide richer data for my continued, critical self-examination.

To this end, future posts will more closely examine 1) an example of friendship lost, including the myriad of ways in which I, no doubt, fucked it up, and 2) friendship reclaimed, via the mechanism of virtual reality: Web 2.0 (the specific manifestation of virtual friendship, in my case, has been the "social networking site" commonly referred to as Facebook).

Meanwhile, I have compiled a list -- offered in no particular order of significance or gross maladjustment -- of but a few ways in which friendships might be destroyed in the grandest tradition of personal drama and decadence. I have gathered these random examples over a good many years, and though I have been guilty of at least one of these transgressions myself, most have been provided courtesy of assholes the world over.

Toward Friendship Reduction:

1. Sleep with said friend's spouse

2. Kill friend**

3. Accuse friend of being "overly" educated

4. Crash friend's vehicle, sleep with friend's mother, and "borrow" $200 --- all on the same weekend

5. Get married

6. Travel internationally with friend and 27 others -- without the benefit of air-conditioning

7. Have grunge sex with (new) friend on a train to Madrid ***

8. Call friend a fucktard**** -- and mean it

9. Report friend to the IRS*****

10. Have friend deported -- even though friend was born in Arkansas

This list is not intended to be exhaustive, but should, instead, serve as a foundation for our future metacommentary here at "The Life and Opinions." I urge you, nay compel you! -- to seek absolution were you ever guilty of even a single indiscretion listed herein. Or, if the dissolution of friendship was well deserv'd, I applaud you for your grandiose, relational contravention!

In the Cause!

Dr. T. Shandy

* Though the word "picaroon" has fallen out of favor with youth today, the Urban Dictionary lists two possible definitions for this apropos term. I would like to think that I easily fit into either category

** To clarify, this must be a successful "kill" and not merely an "attempt"; credible prime-time soap opera research has consistently proven that murder attempts may, in fact, prove more exhilarating than anticipated, which serves to rapidly move friendship -- though also, likely, to an inevitable "end" -- into an entirely new category, that of (ahem) "partnership"

*** Trains elsewhere work equally well, though it has been my experience that international trains offer a unique brand of "grunge," thereby insuring that friendship will not survive said excursion

**** The word, "fucktard," is in no way meant to disparage those persons suffering any form of mental handicap. It is, instead, a simple contraction of the colloquialisms "fuck" and "retard" = "fucktard" (as in, "he is a fucking retard")

***** The "DEA" is also a fine replacement, depending on specific circumstances of friendship in question

Glory to the Trillium, the Heleborus, and the Haiku!

I WILL now take leave of our regularly scheduled posting, to bring you a few haikus I have written as my own humble way of honoring the coming of spring. All hail the tulips stretching upward toward the light! Praise be the daffodils, for they will make you weep at their delicate beauty! Glory to the trillium and to the heleborus, whose weird names belie the soft petals and vibrant colors of the maker's most amazing bloom'd creation.

Cold, crackly, dry grass --

Make way for earth's green glory.
Sing, Hallelujah!
–

Oh, chattering birds!

Would that you might fly elsewhere!
Make your home next door.

–

Birds take wing'd flight,
yet breeze warns winter lingers;

Fuck'd. (surprise!) Blizzard.

In the Cause,

Dr. T. Shandy

A Few "Bon Mots" from Diana: Love, Marriage, & the Road to Self-Awareness

BEING THE romantically unattached, international gadabout that I am, I often find myself intrigued -- nay, obsessed -- with the visceral entanglements of others. My dear friend, Diana*, who also claims academia as her home -- yet manages an openly "tough as nails" approach to her many lovers -- regularly provides me food for thought as she shares her own observations regarding love, marriage, children, and the like. She has been married twice, taken countless lovers of all persuasions, and yet insists that every love-affair (no matter now kairotically different the situation or the players) always ends the same: badly. I suggest, on occasion, that endings, are by their very existence, generally "bad." She scoffs and rambles on, leaving me to take notes and wonder.

Yes, I have collected these random "Diana-isms" for some time, yet lacking an outlet for extended rhetorical contemplation, these wise witticisms gathered dust, and never made it fully into my personal encyclopedia. Now that I have begun this journey toward public self-awareness (for what other "awareness" of self is there -- outside of our public persona?), I feel the need to reconsider these bon mots and, possibly, even begin to consider all the many ways in which I might begin to integrate their truisms into my own trysts.

Meanwhile, perhaps you will offer me YOUR insights, oh-pretend-reader (henceforth referred to as simply "P.R."**)? Will you read and share your own realities -- your own unique knowledge of such complicated human attachments?

Marriage/Sex/Love (Part 1), According to Diana:

1. All women become naggy on a long enough timeline. In fact, all women believe all men need nagging; some actually do, and for the rest, nagging makes whatever "issue" you were nagging over -- infinitely exaggerated

2. No matter how different the men, if husband #1 disliked your unavoidable, immutable "quality A," or if he found your annoying "habit B" less than endearing, then rest assured, eventually husband #2 will too

3. Sometimes sex is just sex; men inherently know this, and women will deny it -- indefinitely

4. Women cling so desperately to their belief that sex is always more than sex, that some will go so far as to marry inappropriate men just to prove that the "relationship" was more than "just sex"

5. Given the proper circumstances, most men will cheat

6. Given the proper circumstances, most women will too (see #4 for the way in which women, generally, handle said dalliance/s)

7. She who holds the remote and/or programs the TiVo, has the power; get it early and keep it

8. All women think all men will change when they get married; all men pray all women will not; everyone is eventually disappointed in this process

9. You should love your kids, and you can love your dog, but it is far better to LIKE your spouse

10. "Like" is an irrelevant issue for a love affair, unless said affair, is, indeed, of the nefarious sort, in which case, see #4, making this a moot point, as #9 trumps #10

11. All marriage involves compromise. Lots of it. Gauge your own willingness and/or ability to compromise daily (even when the compromisee in question is an undeniable dumbass), and you will likely have a good idea how content you will be in any long-term relationship

12. If your partner is unwilling to compromise when he/she is still safely ensconced under the label of "lover" -- he/she will be even less willing to compromise down the road

13. Children never "fix" anything; most complicate matters to the nth degree, in fact. Which is not to negate the value and greatness of kids, but few people are able to admit the very thing that most people, ultimately, must learn the hard way -- usually at the kids' expense


Remember, if you will, that I never claimed Diana to be anything other than a bitter and narcissistic woman, and yet she doggedly contends that all of these observations -- many of which I find "cliché " and disturbingly over-simplified -- are true. Can you corroborate even one, dear P.R.?

In the Cause,

T. Shandy, Ph.D.


*As with all pseudonymous adventures, I have, henceforth, changed my imaginary friend Chastity's name to "Diana" in order to protect her immutable make-believe status.

** Because I am lacking in creativity, and real readers, I have opted to openly appropriate Mr. B. Freret's use of the term "P.R." -- his original "name" for his "pretend" superaddressee (pre the cult-like following he enjoys today). http://freret.blogspot.com/ Thank you Mr. Freret. Thank you. YOU. COMPLETE. ME.

Manipulating the Product: Genetics, Blogging, and the Power of Metadiscourse

I WISH, as I begin this new "blogging adventure," that either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as they were in consequence both equally responsible for the act that led to my conception, had thought for just a moment as they conceived me -- had they duly considered how much depended upon what they were then doing: that not only were they creating a rational being (one may hope), but that possibly this being's physical entire self: mental acuity, potential genius, and, yes, the very cast of her psyche (not to mention her future fortunes gained and lost) would depend on the ability of these two very human humans to raise her [yes, me], manipulate (out of necessity) decades of genetics, and somehow -- somehow -- not totally fuck up the entire "product" in the process.*

Had they sincerely weighed and considered all of these pressing and complex issues of child-rearing, and proceeded more cautiously in my upbringing, well, I am, today, convinced that I should have made a quite different impact on the world -- different, for example, than the PhD'd, middle-America, humanities professor I lay bare before you.

Believe me, good readers, this brand of discourse is not as bizarre a thing as many of you might think; we are all, I am duly persuaded, on a path to becoming our parents. And we hate it. Every minute. Oh, of course we deny any such "nonsense." But, as the old game of logic demands, "If you call a dog's tail a 'leg', how many legs does it have?" Naturally, we all long to scream "five" (if I say you are a liar, for example, well, then, you are a liar), but in truth, you cannot turn a tail into a leg by merely wishing it so. My own life is proof. Likewise, you cannot deny your lineage (nor it's unavoidable impact on you) by simply claiming it has had none. Blood will out. Or something like that.

Take my word... nine parts in ten of any woman's sense or nonsense, her vanities or neuroses, her joys and her sorrows -- indeed, her very successes and failures in this world depend upon this immovable genetic make-up; add to this the remaining one part made up of the different tracks and trains parental guidance lures us into, and well, you quite likely have a mess.

Yet, somehow, no matter how diminished or increased we find our circumstances from that of our parents at a similar age, we do not seem to ever escape youthful imprinting; we become our parents -- if only in reverse. Yes, those who *think* they have escaped this tragic fate, are, without exception, a walking mirror image of their parents. Of course, a "mirror image" is, by its very definition, wholly reliant on the original it mimics; it exists at all, because the original image made it so. Reaction against our parents, in my opinion, generally results in the same outcome as outright mimicry. Naturally, mimicry is more annoying, but you see my point.

Nevertheless, what is perhaps more disturbing, is that we repeat this process, I've outlined above, generation after generation. We procreate without so much as a second thought; and, by treading these same steps over and over again, we eventually beat down a road -- one that appears to be as even and as smooth as any downtown, asphalted surface. And, as we all know, once we do something often enough, the Devil himself is hard pressed to drive us from our chosen path.

I write all of this by way of introduction. Having spent a considerable amount of my life cloistered in the ivory tower of academia, now I seek a different education. I look for life -- for questions rather than answers; I crave a deeper understanding of my fellow humans -- of this fucked-up, mean, beautiful world in which we are all forced to live. I have finished my formal education, yet now I find that I thirst for my real education to begin.

In the meantime, I should make transparent (no pun intended) my belief that any journey which seeks a more complete understanding of the interconnectedness of all beings, must first begin with a smaller journey of self-awareness. To that end, I began this blog at the beginning. My beginning.

I was born. I live. I hate. I have loved. And I blame my parents for all of it. On nights when I find myself awake and alone, I often shudder silently in the darkness when I consider what foundation my parents have laid for the thousand weaknesses of my body and mind -- weaknesses which neither physician nor philosopher will ever set thoroughly to rights. Today, doctorate in hand, I look inward for the correction to the mental and physical maladies life has dealt me. This blog is step one.

In the Cause,

Dr. T. Shandy


*With apologies to my godfather, Larry Sterne; likewise to my namesake, the "original" Tristram Shandy, Gentleman.