Archive for November, 2011

Maxx Dude

Posted in Uncategorized on November 30, 2011 by Cristina

I loved how in 101 Dalmatians all the owners resembled their pets.
Like soul mates, they were matching pairs.

One morning I awoke with this realization: my pet and I don’t fit the Disney formula. I tried to imagine a human version of my 9 kilo, one-eyed, 26-toed Maxx. The obvious next step was to commission a portrait from Mike Schultz. Here are actual excerpts from email correspondence as I envision the humanoid Maxx:
“a bourgeois middle-aged man… the kind that has longish fingernails and a pinkie ring or something. A glass eye, an eye-patch perhaps… probably flaming gay, dresses in ill-fitting velvet, has some strange low-energy hobby. Like a washed-out yoga instructor, still has the flexibility but lives off of the earnings from an accident so doesn’t have to work anymore. I dunno… he probably does voice dubbing for german movies to make some extra dough. A lot of sedentary computer work and recording his lazy sultry voice over the movies.” The artist’s rendition is a brilliant Dude-esque one featuring a mullet; the other details worked themselves out organically:

Just the right amount of creepy and chill. I suppose I’m glad that there isn’t an owner-pet resemblance here, because this look of desperation for white russians and a body rub is pathetic (as is his girth):

I spent most of my time occupying various administration buildings…smoking a lot of thai stick… breaking into the ROTC… and bowling. Spot on.


IncogNOTo (pun?)

Posted in Uncategorized on November 20, 2011 by Cristina

Portland on Friday night: watch an amateur porn film festival in a theater with 300 people. Only one problem: I have hundreds of former/current students. The city is teeming with them: walking around, at concerts, at the coffee shop. Before the fest, friends and I discussed the possibility of a student being there and maybe even IN a film. Gawd! Or what if they see ME in attendance? Oh looooord! To decrease my recognizability, I hid my hair in a bun. The emcee, sex columnist Dan Savage, introduced the films and asked that we check under our seats for a button; one lucky person would go on stage to receive a gift from the neighborhood sex shop. Button! under! my! seat! Jesus Christ Almighty, incognito attempt thwarted! I ran to the stage, curtsied graciously and tried to make it quick but he wouldn’t give me the bag till I promised I’d use the contents for the filming of an entry in next year’s festival. Yes, yes, just hand it to me so I can scurry back to my seat! Fingers crossed that all of my students were at the library practicing the subjunctive.
Yet another reason to leave the house with a burlap sack on my head.

With pity in his heart and talent on his hands, a good friend imagined that the incident would have gone a little something like this:

Time to invest in some of this scratchy but fashionable head-wear.

Get it?

Posted in Uncategorized on November 11, 2011 by Cristina

Anyone who’s ever learned or taught English knows how ridiculously hard it is. Ever since some bitches in 6th grade made fun of me for pronouncing bass (in the musical sense) like bass (the fish), I’ve been frustrated with the idiosyncrasies of this language. For example, the word thorough has a motherfucking G in it and Thoreau is pronounced almost the same but with the enfásis on a different siláble. Whyyy? Also, phrasal verbs like get change meaning like whoa.

Get up a mountain, get down with your bad self. Pretty different.

Get around on a camel, get around the world. Get through to a chimp, get through tough times with a chimp. A little more complicated.

Get on a horse, get off a horse. Get off on a horse. Frighteningly different. Yeah, English is an unpredictable language. At least it’s not boring.

Loser’s log: Day 9

Posted in Uncategorized on November 4, 2011 by Cristina

In chronological as well as increasing sadness order:
1. Made some podcasts of myself reading literary criticism and excerpts so that I could study while taking long walks in the cold (…aaand now you know with certainty that you’re too cool for me).
2. Reluctantly listened to my annoying, childish voice that sometimes stumbled over words like entrañablemente and cracked while recounting endless human suffering.
3. Started crying during a particularly brutal account of the massacre of indians by some spaniards. That’s right, me listening to me reading made me cry. That’s metafucked up.
4. Wiped tears, kept walking and found a gold wedding band on the sidewalk. Started crying again when thoughts turned to aztec gold and the destruction of a continent. I’m so goddamn dramatic.
5. I’m now responsible for this “blood gold” and am consumed with thoughts like, “What do I do with this ring?” Give it to an Aztec (or at least someone who resembles an Aztec) as reparations?

On a lighter note, I also recently reread a great Cortázar short story called Instrucciones para llorar which makes me smile. Here’s an interesting but disturbing visual interpretation of the story in English:

The spanish original is 1000x more sublime, in case you start thinking about colonial rape for booty (or whatever it is that makes you cry):

Instrucciones para llorar

Dejando de lado los motivos, atengámonos a la manera correcta de llorar, entendiendo por esto un llanto que no ingrese en el escándalo, ni que insulte a la sonrisa con su paralela y torpe semejanza. El llanto medio u ordinario consiste en una contracción general del rostro y un sonido espasmódico acompañado de lágrimas y mocos, estos últimos al final, pues el llanto se acaba en el momento en que uno se suena enérgicamente. Para llorar, dirija la imaginación hacia usted mismo, y si esto le resulta imposible por haber contraído el hábito de creer en el mundo exterior, piense en un pato cubierto de hormigas o en esos golfos del estrecho de Magallanes en los que no entra nadie, nunca. Llegado el llanto, se tapará  con decoro el rostro usando ambas manos con la palma hacia adentro. Los niños llorarán con la manga del saco contra la cara, y de preferencia en un rincón del cuarto. Duración media del llanto, tres minutos.
– Cronopios and Famas de Julio Cortázar

The end. For the record, these are not PMS-induced tears, but rather an unbridled empathy that is just as easily brought on by a Hallmark commercial featuring a kid with Down syndrome. I’ve hopefully cried my 96th tear, time to get back to the studies.