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I am currently obsessed with the following songs:

Fighting for My Love--Nil Lara
Shhhh--Donora
Tell Her This--Del Amitri
Landlocked Blues--Bright Eyes
Doctor My Eyes--Jackson Browne
Wicked Game--Chris Issack
Waiting for My Real Life to Begin--Colin Hay
Dancing in the Moonlight--Toploader
Told You So--Barenaked Ladies
Paperweight--Schuyler Fisk and Joshua Radin

What's on repeat on your ipod?
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Today is Blogging for Choice Day.

Why am I pro-choice?

My last night in Idaho, we went out to dinner as a family. During the course of the evening, it became apparent that my brother is a sexist twerp. We spent a lot of time arguing about various things, and one of those things was abortion. I don't care whether what his feelings on the matter are as such; everyone has a right to believe what they want. What disturbed me was his utter lack of concern for the women involved, whether they choose to abort or no, his appalling ignorance of the facts concerning illegal and legal abortion, his belief that it didn't affect him, and, most alarming, his belief that abortion wasn't a political issue.

I'm pro-choice because a large part of the population doesn't believe that I, or any woman, has the right to make decisions governing our bodies. And many of those are people like ill-informed little brother, who don't see why they should care.
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"I was thinking about all the things you're not supposed to think about during mass, but stop feeling guilty about when you realize you have those same thoughts during sex and sex is a whole lot less boring and by the way you have ADHD."

Yay Jezebel.
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Alaskan teens may abort without parental consent.

What interests me about this is the opposite side of the coin, which I don't think many pro-choicers are aware of and many anti-abortionists would like to pretend doesn't happen. I read somewhere on Feministing the other day an interview with an abortion clinic worker. She noted sadly that she's occasionally had to call state services to collect a minor abandoned by her parents at the clinic . . . when she refused to abort.

The ugly side of parental consent is parental mandate.
fellmama: (pie)

marriedtothesea.com

I went to Whitman College, and all I got was this lousy ego.
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"A related approach to this dismissal of meaning is more cynical: it involves consigning whatever excavated material that we do not understand to the sphere of ritual simply on the grounds that it is a mystery to us. Once consigned, there's an end on it: it is the hocus-pocus we have transcended, or else it is the exploitation of simple people by a cunning priesthood. A Marxist-inclined analysis of this type is attractive to those of a lazy intellectual disposition, and again plenty of present-day advocates might be cited."
--From Etruscan Italy, Nigel Spivey and Simon Stoddart.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: no one does catty better than a British academic.

By the way, the above is exactly why my attitude toward ancient religion is rather knee-jerk reactionary.
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While we're discussing songs, it occurs to me that the lyrics to "Such Great Heights" are more like actual poetry than the banal platitudes which serve most songs.

I am thinking it's a sign
that the freckles in our eyes
are mirror images, and when we kiss
they're perfectly aligned.
I have to speculate
that God himself did make
us into corresponding shapes
like puzzle pieces from the clay.
True, it may seem like a stretch,
but it's thoughts like this that catch
my troubled head when you're away
when I am missing you to death.
When you are out there on the road
for several weeks of shows,
and when you scan the radio,
I hope this song will guide you home.

They will see us waving from such great heights,
"Come down now," they'll say.
But everything looks perfect from far away,
"Come down now," but we'll stay.

I tried my best to leave
this all on your machine
but the persistent beat
it sounded thin upon this end.
And that frankly will not fly--
you will hear the shrillest highs
and lowest lows with the windows down,
when this is guiding you home.

Oh, I did not mention this regarding my car woes. Upon trying to go somewhere late on a rainy Sunday night, I put my key in the door and turned it. The key turned, the lock did not, and my hand came away with half a key. (The other half remaining in the lock.) Fortunately, pliers solved the problem the next day when it was sunny and not raining. But file it under "one damn thing after another."
fellmama: (pie)
Right now I like the following songs:

Let Go--Frou Frou
Everlong--Foo Fighters
Red Right Ankle--The Decemberists
Brick--Ben Folds
Move Along--The All-American Rejects
A Little Respect--Erasure
Hanging by a Moment--Lifehouse
No Emotion--Idlewild
Miserable--Lit
Don't Stop Believin'--Journey

See, you think I'm all emo and then BAM JOURNEY TO THE FACE.
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My shoes were under the piano. :D

Couldn't find the music, though.
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I wrecked my car today. I'm fine (scrapes and bruises from the airbag), but the car . . . not so much.

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.
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I've done nothing of consequence worth writing about. But rest assured, I'm still alive and everything.
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It takes raw talent to drop a copy of Livy simultaneously on each foot. Hurts, too.
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I've decided that if I ever get married, I'm walking down the aisle to the William Tell Overture.
Also, playing Tallis on repeat is something one just has to do now and then.
And French needs fewer tenses kthanx.
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So yesterday I linked to this article: "Pearls Before Breakfast." If you didn't read it then, seriously, go read it now. It's fascinating. For those who have read it and enjoyed it, here is the author's live chat with readers on Monday--lots of interesting points. Some people who wrote to him obviously completely missed the point though, which somehow makes me sadder than what happened when Bell was playing in the first place.
I like my military history seminar. It degenerated today into a comparison of antiquity-themed movies. (In case you're curious, Spartacus is the best, Alexander the worst.) I should really go see 300, but I've never been to the movies alone before. It seems peculiar.
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I realized today, as I was hanging up towels, that I have never before separated my established pairs of said towels. I have always used the Jane Austen towel with the purple, and the teddybear towel with the blue. Always. For four and a half years.
Stuck in my ways MUCH?
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New life goal: work the verb "to poignard" into casual conversation.
Possible scenarios (scenarii?):

Professor: Would anyone care to summarize the circumstances of Domitian's death?
Mary: He was poignarded by a freedman for his excessive brutalities!*

Classmate: Can you BELIEVE Dr. Jones gave us thirty pages of Jerome for next week?
Mary: I'ma poignard him in the EYE.

Gossipy friend: Hey, have you noticed that Jim and Jane are spending a loooooot of time together lately?
Mary: Oh, yeah, he's totally poignarding that.

If nothing else, you read the most interesting things in graduate school.

*Direct quotation--I shit you not--from Saul K. Padover, “Patterns of Assassination in Occupied Territory,” The Public Opinion Quarterly 7 (1943): 681.
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Observations made at the grocery store:
~You know you're cheap when you stop to examine a coupon someone dropped in the parking lot, just in case it's for something you could use.
~There's a brand of salad dressing called "Lily Vintage Dressing." You know, dressing is something that I'd actually prefer not be vintage. In fact, I am PERFECTLY FINE with brand-new salad dressing.
~The tortilla selection in New York sucks.
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For my Latin seminar tomorrow, I was assigned to read and review La predicación cristiana antigua by Alexandre Olivar.  It's about 900 pages long, and, as you may have guessed, is written in Spanish.  I mention this to explain why I happened to be flipping through 501 Spanish Verbs.  In "Thirty Practical Situations for Tourists," I came across the following gems: "¿Puede ayudarme?  Busco una tienda de limpieza en seco" (Can you help me?  I'm looking for a dry cleaner's)  "¿Hace usted tinturas?" (Do you do dyeing?) and the ever popular "Las manchas en esta corbata son de sopa" (The stains on this tie are from soup).  On the next page ("In a hair stylist shop for men and women"), we have "Me gustaría un corte revuelto.  Primero, un champú, por favor" (A crazy-ass hairstyle would be agreeable.  First, a shampoo, please.)  I'm not sure how practical these situations are, but now I know how to say there's soup on my tie.  And as the Spanish would say, de sopa y amor, la primera es mejor.
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Confidential to "Jane":
When I hear the carillon here play "Leavin' On a Jet Plane," I always crack up.
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As I was walking home yesterday, a guy behind me was whistling, loudly, joyously, and tunefully, the theme from "Kirby's Dreamland."
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