Bloody Haitians
2001-01-17 - 22:29:23
I have a dreadful fear of scuba diving equipment. I refuse to breathe with a tube stuck to my mouth, I refuse to believe that there is air on the other side of the tube. I�d rather drown.
Mythic is over...replaced by a class called popular culture. So far, it�s a pretty good class...we write a lot, there�s a lack of page requirements, a good attempt at intelligent discussion, and I have the opportunity to relate Seventeen Magazine to the Cuban Missile Crisis. If I make reference to the teacher of popcult, I will most likely use the name �Dr. H�, because it reminds me of the guy on Red Dwarf, with the �H� on his forehead. In our first class Dr. H off-handedly mentioned that humans invented time. This should be a funn semester.
Sidenote: the whole class critiqued the first draft of one of my essays today, and there was much rejoicing. But it was strange, because it was critiquing to the forth power: the class was critiquing my essay, which in turn was critiquing Berube�s article, which was based on his critique of people whose job it is to critique...
Narrator: The Sirs were playing �American Coast Guard� toady:
Sir#1: Hey, how does ya kill a Haitian?;
Sir#2: Shoot �em!
Sir#1: Nono, this is a joke- you�re supposed to say �umm, I dunno�.
Sir#2: But I already know how to kill �em- you shoot �em!
Sir#1: I know you shoot �em. But it�s a joke.
Sir#2: Oh, okay, so try it again.
Sir#1: So, how does ya kill a Haitian?;
Sir#2: Umm, I dunno.
Sir#1: You give them a shoebox, and tell them it floats.
Sir#2: Tehehe, thet�s a good one...
*Haitian boat floats into view, and the Sirs blow it out of the water*
Sir#1: So, how�s things with the wife and kids?;
Sir#2: Oh, couldn�t be better...
*more shooting of Haitian boats*
On Physics: �If it�s scribbled out, I know it was the wrong procedure...if it�s not, I know the calculations were wrong...�
When I visited Toronto, I didn�t take a moment to look up and see the angels on University Avenue. I must�ve walked past them a dozen times during my stay there, and they never received so much as a glance from me. This struck me while I was wandering aimlessly in my room, and noticed a postcard of the street on my wall. On top of a spire of concrete in the center of the (lazy and somehow bustling...no immediate word in English) road they stood, flew, climbed. Mammoth bronze statues faded to a mint/forest green from a stead interaction with rain. In the corner of the postcard, I can just barely see the caf� my father and I ate at, the second day of the trip...
Take two catastrophes and call me in the morning. If they don�t kill you, you�ll wake up stronger; if you don�t have an antagonist, you eventually become your own.
