A Guide to City Life # 11111 - The Country

Welcome to the Guide to City Life #11111 - "The Country". In this module, you will sigh with bucolic longing for the dying ways of your forefathers as their sons and daughters are pulled to the city and forced to labour long days and nights on the loom - the last refrain of a half-forgotten folksong caught in their throat as the whirr of industrial progress drowns out their world-weary dialect.

The country is a place that has no skyscrapers. It barely has any buildings at all, and most of those are filled with livestock, harvested produce, or equipment - rusty, bone-like things with dulled teeth and a nameless smear.

The country is eerie. In it, men have less teeth, and women are interchangeable with tree-stumps. Country-folk, or as they are known to themselves, "us of the patch", have totally different traditions and methods than city dwellers. Unlike you or I or anyone clean, country folk live off the land. They pay homage to the dirt that controls their lives. Sometimes they make out with it.

Country dwellers emerged from rocks about 50,000 years ago. They have gone through a lot. They have been: cave men, neolithic farmers, slaves of the Pharaoh, free yeoman, serfs, peasants, kulaks, industrial farmers, smarmy grandsons of industrial farmers, and smarmy great-grandsons of industrial farmers who decide to buy an organic farm on the side.

Why do city dwellers need to know about the country at all? Unfortunately, the country is where food is made. This is a huge disadvantage for all of us, because it means the food we get is usually pretty dirty and needs to be washed. Or at least rubbed. If you've ever been to a Farmer's Market, you will notice boxes of dirty tubers and leaves. These are actually what vegetables look like when they come from the country. It takes a lot of spa treatment to get them fit for the grocery store or processed ramen soup mix.

In the country it is illegal to smart-mouth a scarecrow.

If your car breaks down in the country, I'm sure someone will be along shortly. Wasn't there a gas station a few miles back? Oh great. It's raining. Just fucking great. This is totally worth seeing your crazy family for.

Music in the country is known as "country", "bluegrass", "folk" or "hoot'en'tootenany". Music plays a large part in country life, because they have a lot to get out of their system. Country music can consist of ancient ballads or tunes that have been passed down from generation to generation, or, alternatively, cheap knock-offs of top 40 hits. The common thread is that all country music must be played on a raggedy string-bereft fiddle, spoons, jugs, washboards, tractor parts, or bags of teeth.

All country music must be run passed Satan before it is allowed to be played in the country.

Here is a list of famous country songs:

• Rock
• Stick
• Beethoven's 6th Symphony "The Pastoral"
• Tube
• The hucky munkin grammophone blues
• Cigarette butt
• Diesel

I bet you didn't realize some of your favourite bangers were actually long-treasured yokel bonfire tunes.

The country...Whispers. The country...Secrets. The country...The old, homey, bonified...The...

Thank you for tolerating the Guide to City Life # 11111 - "The Country". We won't have to deal with it for long, but until we can get the Great Concrete Age fully rolled-out, we'll have to at least try. Please hold your breath until the release of our next module, #4 - "World Cheeses, Local Cheeses, Warlords".

Wolf-Dog, Son of the Wolf and the Dog

The sled toppled over in the snow, but the wolf-dog Mario Hernandez leapt free of the chaos to face the foe before him. A lynx! In a flash he was at the beast’s throat, examining for dry skin. The other mutts cowered like dogs. Not for nothing was the great Sibero-Alaskan wolf-breed prized by Indians, Sourdoughs, and Pita Breads alike. Fierce, loyal, cunning, a little schmutzig, but you know, generally pretty agreeable - as all things, men and beast, are, in the shadow of the Arctic Circle.

“Get ‘im Mario!” cried Mandible Pierre. “Get ‘im in de face, colisse!”

Mario gazed intently at the savage beast. The beast gazed intently at Mario. Then started a round of Devil Sticks. Such is life in the North.

“Oh franchement!” cried Mandible Pierre as he kicked an empty can of erstwhile beans at his smarmy companion of the Gravy Curd.

Long weeks had the team been trailing – from Edmonton they set out, 16 men mushing a team of 21 sled-dogs. By the time they reached the Great Slave Lake those figures had mysteriously reversed - 21 dogs driving a doubtful team of 16 sled-men. In the Yukon country the figures had righted themselves once more and a decent 2 men were warily driving 8 dogs, of which Mario Hernandez was the undisputed Director of Communications.

Proud, cunning, fierce, and staggeringly large – none of these things were Mario Hernandez. A different breed of wolf-dog, Mario had inherited more atavisms and less chromosomes than the average arctic saltlick. Clearly he had that special, semi-retarded breed of Arctic Goonwolf in his pedigree. His head was massive and droopy. His eyes, red and hilariously wandering. His snout was as large as his legs were squat, and his moustache – so rare a “thing” in the dog world – was prominently bushy and usually pretty well maintained with some weird dog-brand of pomade.

“Mario Hernandez!” his first owner had named him, the Indian band-leader called Collectible Figurine. “For the beast looks like a Mario – what a moustache! Clearly the winner of our tribal Movember competition. No contest.”

After a bitter half hour of struggle – a lynx got hands at dem sticks – Mario Hernandez trotted up to his Poutine-stained owner, half a sandwich in his mouth and a bag of Alaskan-themed temporary tattoos tied to his bushy tail.

Such were the tallies on the great Excel Sheet of the Aurora Borealis. A promise made was a debt-unpaid – a debt of death, cold, harsh, or, if unavailable, at least a debt of severe frostbite in the posterior.

The team continued until nightfall, where they set up camp by the lone firelight, the dogs round in a ring howling their “oy veys!” to the nameless snows. Tucked in their furs, Mandible Pierre and his companion Brownie LeBrun discussed the life of the gold seeker and part-time stand-up comedian.

“C’est fucking nuts la. Cold as de tits.”

Mandible Pierre took a long draw from his pipe and frowned.

“’Bernac oui”.

As they were nodding off, they stared dreamily at the hungry eyes glowering at them from the fringes of the forest, beyond the reach of the firelight. Either they were being hounded by wolves, or these trees and bushes had, like, eyes.

Wolf-dog Mario Hernandez did not sleep that night. With droopy vigilance he stared down the pack of hungry wolves, tempting them with all his wolfish blood to just fucking try it. One time a daring silver she-wolf went to make a pass at him – in an instant Mario threw up the doggy gang sign of choice, and was troubled no more that night by silver wolves. One of the other dogs, however, was lured out of the camp to check out this really cool new lamb taco place for wolves – something something camino? I dunno, it got really good reviews so…But actually it was just a ploy, and the wolves totally ate that dog.

At dawn the men swore as they drank their morning coffee from the portable Keurig machine. Then they gathered their spirits, which were mostly marshmallow. They set-off on the sled, stopping at every really big hill for a good slide. Brownie LeBrun would occasionally bust out the GT-Racer for really radical slopes, while Mario Hernandez held up the signed poster of Brett Hull for encouragement.

Eventually the night fell once more, and the dreaded eyes returned. A wary Mario Hernandez started digging trenches. The two Frenchies however decided that there was nothing to fear but fear itself. They were so tired like, it was just a really long day. They were having none of it from some stupid hungry wolves, they are basically all the same anyway, they call at like 8 p.m. on a WEDNESDAY and don’t even know how to pronounce your name properly and just ugh. Not having it.

Another dog got ate that night lol.

When the dawn broke this time, the eyes did not dissipate. Not only that, they definitely had wolves attached to them. Bold wolves. Wolves with striped shirts and well formatted, single-page resumes. Wolves that weren’t afraid to neg a chick if they needed to. Mario Hernandez bristled. The Frenchmen shivered. The other dogs just flipped out. All the while, the wolves stared, licking their chops, tucking serviettes around their necks and banging rudely carved knives and forks against each other.

Mario Hernandez – wolf dog – had had enough. Every fibre in his body was attuned to the wild Salsa rhythms of the forest. His very blood was howling syncopated spasms of carnage and tacos. He was done. Breaking out of the protective ring of the fire, he trotted right up to the biggest, boldest, most aggro wolf in the pack. Mario Hernandez – wolf dog, son of wolf and dog. The big wolf started down at him, laughing weirdly.

And then Mario Hernandez did what he was born to do, what his father was born to do before him, and all the patriarchs of the Northern Wild – Mario Hernandez did that one act that defines a Northerner soul and heart from all other creatures. Growling maw to maw with the wolf, he opened his jaw and said in doggy argot:

“Fuckin’ cold eh? C’est frette icitte!”

Bitching about the weather unites all creatures under the frozen stare of the Midnight Sun. 

A Guide to City Life # ٣٩ - "City Wisdom"

Welcome to the Guide to City Life # CHARNOTRECOGNIZED! "City Wisdom". In this module, you will learn some of the basic chunks of speakwisdom that will serve as your urban astrolabe. They will help you navigate the steel and concrete sea, avoiding pitfalls, pitbulls, pity parties, and pizzicato murder.

What is wisdom? Wisdom can be defined as a gumball machine for proverbs. What is a gumball machine? A gumball machine was an archaic form of sugar infection that involved the exchange of coins for treated rubber.

A proverb is a punchline for the cosmic joke of inevitable failure. Wisdom is an artform that originated in the desert. In the desert, death was dealt out quickly and harshly to nomadic peoples. When some kind, hoary-bearded patriarch was bitten by an ape spider, his dark bearded relatives would, instead of seeking help or praying to the Lord Johobo, reply with a quick punchline or proverb. Thus the prevalence of proverbs in books of desert divinity:

There is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death. Oh snap.

Although wisdom has helped to irritate men for all of history, many of its proverbs have grown irrelevant, if not outright baffling. The city man can hardly expect to relate to the old Arabic proverb الثروة تأتي كالسلحفاة وتذهب كالغزال  because he probably cannot understand old Arabic. If he could, he would  be faced with a new problem of interpretation: what is a turtle? Why a gazelle? Did I run out of staples again?

The city has, happily, grown its own pod of proverbs for the modern proletarian. Here are a few of the better ones, with a commentary to explain their significance.

Kill mosquitoes.
Commentary: Mosquitoes are awful and deserve death.

I've never even seen a goddamn Moose.
Commentary: Less frequently seen than one might suppose, the Moose is a creature of note.

Don't order the beef shawarma are you nuts? That meat has been there for like, 3 days.
Commentary: Vegetarians are usually vindicated through patience and observation.

I like Solange better anyway.
Commentary: In the city, the fine arts are judged by both aesthetic merit, and aesthetic anti-merit (or hype).

Wait, the purple bus tickets expired already? 
Commentary: In the city, "public transportation" is a by-word for death by strangulation.

A fool and his money are easily awesome.
Commentary: No one is impressive by city standards until they make money for spending money.

A stitch in time is a sci-fi novel.
Commentary: Literacy, a common form of improv theatre.

Eat around the Bananas dad, they are just empty calories.
Commentary: This is derived from an old Berlin poem that ends with the lines "girth equals mirth".

Prep your materials and marinate the night before.
Commentary: That which is juicy, is kingly.

Thank you for putting up with A Guide to City Life # CHARNOTRECOGNIZED! "City Wisdom". If this module has been helpful to you, we know a Nigerian prince that could make you quite wealthy. To proceed to the next module, simply think happy thoughts, and then crow.

Sergei Eisenstein's Vine

Recently discovered under a pile of soot under a pile of rubble under a pile of V for Vendetta masks, fragments of a screenplay for Sergei Eisenstein’s lost masterpiece Vine. A multi-second cinematic project, Vine was intended to capture the rhizomatic and variegated forms of human depravity under the economic regime of capital. Eisenstein’s montage technique would have been deployed here to its fullest effect, showing a Bakhtanian eruption of 20^th century man’s most proletarian bodily functions. Although never completed due a complicated ménage of censorship, bureaucratic red-tape, Stalinist politics and significant bowel trouble, the film’s tattered screenplay stands as a testament to its projected grandeur and theoretical import. Here we present the first publication of this fascinating piece of cinematic “fuck your goddamn film thesis”, not seen by human eyes for over 70 years.

Vine, Or, Ten Vids That Shook The World

  

PART 1: THE ODESSA SMACK CAM (Одесса шлепок камеры)

In Odessa, the townspeople stand around the harbour steps bumpin they jams.

Title: In those memorable days, the town of Odessa lived in peace with the rebellious jerks of the Battleship Versace.

An Imperial guard is standing on the steps, minding his own business. Meanwhile off to the side, a sailor fills his hand with rotten caviar and creeps up behind him, arm poised for a devastating smack to the back of the sailor’s head.

Title: SMACK CAM!

The sailor smacks the guard, who falls backward down the steps, knocking over townsfolk left and right. He sets into a downward plunge a perilous baby pram, which does three forward flips before landing upright and flinging the baby into a basketball net.

Cue Music: IF PIRUS AND CRIPS ALL GOT ALONG

PART 2: TERIO, CHILD OF THE REVOLUTION (Истры Дитя революции)

The child emerges from the pram and is noticeably overweight. He stares into the camera and starts to gyrate, before beginning a full-on Twerk.

Title: Within the hearing of the Tsarist Boosie N*ggas, brotherly cheers sound across the water.

Close up shots of the people of Odessa with tears in their eyes, cheering for the glory of the worker’s revolution.

PART 3: DON’T DROP THAT GUNH-GUNH-GUNH (Не бросайте этот пистолет пистолет пистолет)

A shot of the great architectural wonders of Happy Moscow. The camera flits back and forth between the rapid pace of workers in a foundry to the glory of the Red Square, to the cameraman’s unwavering eye.

A gunshot.

The cameraman drops his camera, and starts running.

Title: Can’t even take no vine in Moscow w/o bein’ shot at!!!

PART 4: TWERKERS OF THE WORLD (Туъркинг мира)

Title: Twerkers of the world can’t be comparing…Shock Twerker

A big bottomed proletarian woman is rhythmically pulling levers in a factory. Unlike her comrades, however, she does so in syncopated motions, bent over, and squatting to the beat of an Ernst Busch Worker’s song bumpin over a speaker.

Her colleagues look at her skeptically.

PART 5: BOURGEOISIE BE LIKE… (Буржуазия как)

Title: Bourgeois be like…

A shot of a rich Tsarist merchant with a monocle and stovepipe hat, asking with raised pinky the ambassador’s wife “do you have any Grey Poupon?”

Title: Proletarian be like…

A shot of a worker yelling at a factory cafeteria woman “WHERE DE FRENCHS AT YA BISH?”

PART 6: WHEN THE BEAT DROP (Когда бить падает)

A shot of the Red Army marching.

Cue Music: STRANGE FRUIT HANGIN’

Army waits for the drop. When the drop hits, army get TURNT UP

Cue Music: WE COULDA BEEN SOMEBODY

PART 7: FATHERS STAY IN YOUR SONS LIVES! (Отцы, оставаться в жизни вашего сына!)

A shot of the great statue of Tsar Nicholas II surrounded by an enraged mob.

Title: He says he never smokes Turkish opium or eats p*ssy.

The mob begins to pull down the statue.

Title: “I have enough caviar to eat at home!”

The mob successfully pull down the statue. An orgiastic cheer. The citizens of Petrograd storm the Winter Palace and start raiding the wine cellars. Trotsky in Lenin pull up in a truck and start making it rain roubles.

Title: Meanwhile, extreme ratchet behaviour from the Ratchet Mechanic’s Worker’s Council

Mechanics waving ratchets in triumph. Peasants high fiving factory workers. Shouts of “WORLD STAR REVOLUTION!” echo across the land of Russia.

PARTS 8-10 were, unfortunately, eaten by a Stalin for breakfast on November 16 1936.

A Guide to City Life #237 - Sirens, Alarms, Beeps, and Other Warning Signs

Welcome to the Guide to City Life #237 - "Sirens, Alarms, Beeps, and Other Warning Signs". In this module, you will learn about fear.

In the city, men and women are often about their everyday activities: buying milk, slapping bugs, sarcasm, sighing at birds of ill omen, or brewing soup. They do not usually have time to stop to think of the grim beyond. Sirens, alarms, and beeps are institutionalized auditory reminders to us all that, as Dr. Phil once said, "although we none of us like where we are going, we aren't ever going to get there anyway. Fuck."

A siren is a brightly coloured screaming hat for cars. Hearing a siren usually indicates that someone in your immediate vicinity is in danger of living longer than he or she needs to, and that the Universe, cruel and indifferent to individual plaints of injustice, has provided him or her with a means of escape.

If you hear a siren, be sure to think about everything you love with a cheap, super-imposed 3D Pog style skull overtop of it, with a graffiti text spelling out "Satan Rules". Then go back to your game of whist, or your nap, or you precious YouTube one-upmanship. No harm will come to you yet.

There are also alarms. An alarm is a building's way of telling you it doesn't feel so great and that it is probably going to barf. It could just be a toaster burning some toast. It could be a gas attack. In any case, follow the alarm sound to the nearest puzzled office worker and be sure to shrug your shoulders. You must then put on your coat in a leisurely manner, and ask your co-workers if it's worth it to bring your laptop or is this just, like, a drill. Be sure to grumble when the floor fire-person tells you not to bring your scalding hot coffee into the stairwell. Once you are outside and safely away, huddled in a group of sheep-like untermenschen, make light-hearted jokes about the meeting being late, and look into the building for signs of those who did not make it out in time to avoid the grim reaper.

Many people think alarms all sound the same, but to the well-trained ear, an alarm can be as explicit as a news report. To interpret an alarm, count the length of time between each sound wave. The Government has a secret standard code: 13 nanoseconds means you will all be fine. 15 nanoseconds means the alarm may be serious. 23 nanoseconds means your floor was chosen for the "fool's sacrifice" at the spring equinox, and that you should all accept your fate gracefully.

Beeps are also important. When your phone beeps, you have forgotten something important. You have forgotten to rise from slumber; or an important meeting that will affect the rest of your life is passing you by like a grey cloud before the Moon. Beeps are clever but tricky. Learn to respect them.

The ear is not the only means by which the Big Other wants to discipline your fear gland. Although less popular than auditory warnings, "signs" are also extant, and can provide useful information about how we are all going to die. For instance, a hand with flesh and acid peeling off it (WHMIS number 32) clearly indicates that in this area men do not need to wash their hands after going to the johnson. Or take the classic raised index finger pointing to the constellation Vega (WHMIS number Q), which means the Soviets have taken to the stars once again.

Many of our warning signs were originally designed by sad Reformation artists in the 17th century.

This has been A Guide to City Life module #237 - "Sirens, Alarms, Beeps, and Other Warning Signs". If you would like to review this module before the quiz, tick the "I am humble" box at the bottom of your screen. If you are confident that you got everything in this module, no pity will be had.

Click somewhere likely for the next module, number #238 - "Adults With Comically Childish Handwriting".

A Guide to City Life #134a - Ordering a Coffee

Welcome to "A Guide to City Life" module #134a - Ordering a Coffee.

In this module, you will learn the basics of ordering a coffee. You will learn what a coffee is. You will learn what ordering is, and how everything you do is ordered by unseen powers. You will learn to drink by mandate, for it is a delight.

In the city, humans love coffee. This is because it is a warm, energizing drink.

Humans in the city are very sad. Although happiness is not a tangible thing, they sometimes pretend it is, and this pretend happiness, though merely a hot, brown liquid that scalds if drunk too quickly, is called coffee.

Happiness.

There are two places one can get coffee. One place is everywhere else, and the other is Starbucks.

Starbucks is a special coffee store that does good for the world and is sponsored by the Elders of Zion. They use a special language which will be indicated in this lesson by the open bracket "(" followed by a closed bracket ")" when the term is complete.

Coffees come in small (tall), medium (granday) and large (ventricle).

A coffee dispenser is called a "barrista", or, in the unlikely situation that it is a male, a "barrister".

When placing your order, be sure to specify whether you would like your coffee hot (or, in Starbucks terms, chachuffski) or cold (Starbucks chachuffscoi).

Some people prefer tea over coffee. Some people do, because preferences vary. For instance, some people prefer fascism to democracy, or witchcraft to the one true religion. This is not to say that tea is any worse than coffee.

Coffee comes in a variety of flavours, blends, and mixes. Do not try any of them.

Coffee is an ancient bean.

There are many slang terms for coffee, so deeply is it a part of people's everyday, disgusting, lives. Slang for coffee could include: joe, cup of joe, brown, cahfee, black gold, texas tea, double double, espresso, chino, cappo, marco, groucho, diabolico, and purple drank.

When ordering a coffee, custom usually dictates one must pay in money(s). This is not always the case however. In certain cultures, the scalp of a coffee cup, known as a rim, can be gruesomely torn off and exchanged for a fresh cup. It is illegal to transport coffee rims or materials made out of them in many countries around the world.

Coffee can be enjoyed with a variety of "snacks" or "treats". Donuts or cake, for instance (see lesson 12-Z114-2-A). Many city dwellers have taken to the biscotti, a kind of soft concrete. Many city dwellers are also unfortunate, status hungry apes with poor lineages.

Let us now review our grammar. Choose a pen and mark your score:

1. The active of the verb "to order"
2. A deponent, proletarian, misery
3. Circle the noun in the sky
4. Pour it in a mug

In conclusion, coffee is an integral part of it. Do partake.

Amelia Bedelia: A Woman's Place is in the Revolution

I remember going apeshit over the misadventures of Amelia Bedelia. When I was 6, there were very few things funnier than this crazy bitch who, when asked to bake a date cake, literally chopped up a calendar and put it in the oven. Or when asked to “dust the furniture”, covers every movable in the house with a thick layer of schmutz. Amelia taught me that there weren’t only two ways to do things i.e. the right way and the wrong way. Amelia taught me my first lesson in dialectics: that if one did the wrong way wrongly enough, it was better, so much better, than the quotidian “right way” ever could be.

What is the psychological make-up of a dialectical genius? Amelia is perhaps more cunning than we give her credit for. On the surface she appears like the most vile caricature of a Victorian colonial (she is actually in Cameroon-a fact I never noticed as a child) and worse, a working class hausfrau  – stupid, uneducated, hasty, and glass-eyed. But what if this was all a pose? Or even better, a strategic position designed to subvert and undermine the petty bourgeois who exploit her gender and class?

In 1922 the Czech Anarcho-Bolshevik Jaroslav Hasek wrote The Good Soldier Svejk – a comic novel about the misadaventures of a bumbling Bohemian soldier serving in the Austro-Hungarian army during WWI. To surface observers Svejk is merely a comic oaf, but discerning readers have always noted the anarchistic and dissident undertones of his character. Much like Bedelia, Svejk carries out the orders of his superiors with a degree of literalness crossing over insanity into straight subversion or even mutiny – no matter how simple the order, he always manages to overdo it by following the exact wording, instead of the spirit, of the injunction.

Thus Svejk, when commanded to deliver a message transmitted by his foul-mouthed commander, includes the insults and swear words directed at him as a literal part of the message. Or when asked to retrieve a black market bottle of cognac for his commanding lieutenant “without being detected” manages to drink the whole bottle himself to avoid detection by a nosy officer on patrol.  But, as always, when Svejk is about to be reprimanded, the disciplinary authority catches a glimpse of his “simple, honest face” and loses all composure. Much like Amelia Bedelia’s pies, Svejk’s honest, salt-of-the-earth “good soldier” pose is what saves him from rebuke. There is something inhuman, or perhaps post-human, in Svejk and in Amelia – is he just a cunning man of the people, or just a well-intentioned idiot? Does he represent the Brechtian adage, that “he who fights for communism has but one of all the virtues: that he fights for communism”?

Communists have long admired the Svejkian tactic of resistance. Erwin Piscator and Bertolt Brecht drew directly on the selfish proletarian anti-hero in the figures of Herr Keuner, Azdak, Lao Tze etc. Instead of confronting injustice directly and bluntly, which only serves to prolong the cycle of exploitation by sublating the supposed resisters into the very structure of exploitation, the Svejkian hero resists precisely by complying. This dialectical form of resistance ultimately proves to be the most subversive, undermining the command and the system from the inside.

Is this what Bedelia is up to as well? How can we dare to argue this about one of the English speaking world’s favourite children’s characters? One must always be prepared to read beyond the assertions of the author or the norms genre. The French literary critic and psychoanalyst Pierre Bayard teaches us in his many books of “detective criticism” that one cannot ever trust the intention of the author with regards to his characters – literary characters have a life of their own, and may know things their authors do not about themselves. Bayard is thus unequivocally able to assert that Sherlock Holmes was wrong about the Baskerville case, and that Arthur Conan Doyle himself was duped by his own literary creation.

In this light, the happy-go-lucky stupidity of Amelia Bedelia becomes a conscious social position. The feasibility of Amelia’s “stupidity” becomes less and less likely the more we examine the brilliance of her fuck-ups. Such mistakes are all but impossible to make in the common realm of discourse. The everyday man does not just learn disconnected words and actions – he is taught to obey an overarching superstructure of norms and associated behaviours and phrases that follow one another as a matter of course. He has no business analyzing the discourse of meaning in smaller fragments – such is the work of high culture, the war against cliché that distinguishes the fine arts. When Amelia steps out of the world of everyday meaning and into the strange realm of puns and literal mistakes that she continues to operate in, she is working in the world of the poet or literary genius, not the everyday schlub.

Of course the question of Amelia as a female Svejk adds even further potential for subversion. Instead of the liberated feminist who serves as such an easy target for the Tea Party conservatives of the world, the Bedelia-phenomenon undermines their position from within with a Palin-like elegance. Amelia Bedelia does what a woman in her position “ought to do” – she complies to the letter with every assumption deems to make about the hausfrau – a stupid bumbling idiot who cannot be trusted, but whom we secretly expect to be efficient and cunning. Amelia obliges us further by overidentifying with the male injunctions of identity, like Sartre and De Beauvoir’s waiter of bad conscience:

Let us consider this waiter in the cafe. His movement is quick and forward, a little too precise, a little too rapid. He comes toward the patrons with a step a little too quick. He bends forward a little too eagerly; his voice, his eyes express an interest a little too solicitous for the order of the customer… All his behavior seems to us a game… He is playing, he is amusing himself. But what is he playing? We need not watch long before we can explain it: he is playing at being a waiter in a cafe. There is nothing there to surprise us. The game is a kind of marking out and investigation. The child plays with his body in order to explore it, to take inventory of it; the waiter in the cafe plays with his condition in order to realize it.

Does Sartre himself realize the emancipatory potential in just such an over-playing? We see it in action in the behaviours of the Rogers’, Amelia’s employers, who come to adapt to her literalness and start to tell her to “undust the furniture” etc. A rebellious maid in Cameroon might cause a lot of trouble, become antagonistic with the colonial wealth of the island, get thrown in jail and do nothing for her cause. In a case where open resistance would be too easily quashed, the potential for a Herr Keuner-like adaptive resistance, a resistance that complies until the master is dead, and only then proclaims a loud “NO!”, is called for, and is in this case the more dangerous form of resistance to the powers that be.

It's THAT TIME again

Dear !ERROR,

It is with great pleasure that I enclose your e-ticket to the YOU KNOW WHAT annual gala. This year has just flown by, and we are very excited to see you and your additional party of 1 for an evening of networking, sitting up straight, gentle clapping, fine food, THE ENCOUNTER, and a great set of live music from the Caspar David Friedrich Ukelele Ensemble. We hope you are as excited as we are.

Please note that there will be a few small changes from last year in order to avoid any unpleasantness between descendants of the Huguenots and those who claim affiliation with their traditional enemies the Bourbon Royal family. The reception will now begin at 6:15 in the Torquemada Cocktail Room – religious iconography will be prohibited except for the following benign items:

• Small crosses
• Stars of David
• Unibrows
• Forever 21 sweatshirts
• The Black Calf
• Plastic pirate eye-patches
• Wu-Wear

After the cocktail hour and fifteen minutes, dinner will be served in the Charles Hoy Fort room, presumably on tables, though one can never be certain. A vegetarian option is always a possibility, though I personally wouldn’t depend on it. Bringing emergency celery in your purse is prohibited as foreign dignitaries may be present and must not be exposed to questionable agri-products.

FUN TIP NO. 1: SMART ATTENDEES DO NOT EAT THE PARSLEY.

After dinner, potentiality will reign. A solid two and a half hours are booked in which activities have the strong possibility of occurring. Awards may or may not be presented to entrepreneurs who may or may not be deserving of them. There may be applause. There may be deathly silence. There may be witty banter from an MC whom everybody recognizes but nobody remembers for certain. If you have children, you may forget about them.

FUN TIP NO 2.: SMART ATTENDEES WEAR BUSINESS ATTIRE. FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY MAKE SURE "THE PIN" IS VISIBLE. 

It is at this point that I would like to remind all attendees that there is nothing funny about a person in an ill-fitting camel fur blazer who stutters and sweats profusely on-stage while enumerating various wrongs done to his unrecognized middle eastern nation by imperialist powers. A fellow like that may be responsible for announcing certain awards in the “Best Light Fixture – Eastern Bracket” category.  Laughing at such people, even under one’s breath, even in one’s mind, is considered very gauche. It would besmirch our organization’s very generalized, none-too committed foundational principles outlined in the Terms of Reference if such a trespass should occur this year. Hostages have nothing to do with this situation, nor do strained peace negotiations. Really, it’s just being polite. You haven’t been warned.

And so, before I start rambling on about how excited we all are, what things we will achieve, what cosmic planes of existence we will cross and counter-cross in accordance with the sensitivity of our in-house shaman, I will end this email, and, in accordance with DIRECTIVE 34a, wish you a happy gala evening.

Verpasste Anschlüsse! // Zmeškání Přípoje!

An anonymous aristocrat and long-time devotee from Eastern Europe has sent me the following transcription of a “Missed Connections” post-board from 1890’s Prague. In return he has merely asked that I sign off on several boxes of Earth from his native soil which are to be deposited in the old abandoned school building at Cumberland and Murray. This will go well.

beautiful girl at prague station with the wall-eye – m4w

It was 9:34 in the morning when I saw you getting off the train from Minsk. Whether you saw me or not is another question for the physiologists at Heidelberg. It was either me that caught the blessed ray of your single mannerist glance, or the damned dachshund beside me. I understand that the dachshund and yourself both have crossed eyes, and that there is therefore a natural connection between you. Nevertheless, I should like to plea my suit to you at length. Chaperoned tea?

Old Jew -- You Told Me You Were Going to Cracow!!!

You told me you were going to Cracow. You really wanted me to think you were going to Lemberg, but I knew you really were headed to Cracow, so why did you lie about it?

mensch, 47, pickled herring

You were carrying a beautiful looking jar of pickled herring on the corner of Szlaski and Coleslaw. I would very  much like to purchase one or several of these comestables at a reasonable rate. It has been all but impossible to get them, especially since Old Schmuyl caught the Geschraken in his Chutz. I am destined to leave Prague in a fortnight and would be harangued day and night by my seven bastard shadow-children in Lemberg if I return to them as herringless as I left. I just need that fish so damn bad.

Hunchback in my House on Himmelstrasse – husband 4 wife

The marriage agent assured me you didn’t have any blemishes at all. Turns out you have a hunchback! And now we’re married. How am I supposed to console myself? You are at least making a nice soup for supper I hope. See you at 4:30.

Where is my umbrella?

I had just purchased a marvellous black umbrella from the street vendor. So genteel! I left it at the door of the medical lecture. One of you scumbags made off with it like a cat mit a knackwurst. Who are you to go around taking people’s umbrellas?

Are you married?

Saturday Afternoon, Green Fan at Don Giovanni – gentleman 4 duchess (or higher?)

You were coquettishly cooling yourself with a green fan at last week’s performance of Don Giovanni. You laughed most heartily at Leporello’s recitatives, but turned away yawning at Donna Anna’s aria. The fellow with the red neck kerchief was clearly in your good graces at some point, but the manner in which you derided his snuff-box shows your intentions with him could never be serious.

A game of whist?

Beans

You tried to guess what I ate for supper yesterday. You guessed beans. You were wrong, I had beans two nights ago. Only later did I realize you were looking at some beans that were caught in my beard. It’s not often that happens. I like to take a bath at least once a month – whether I need it or not! But anyway, if the beans looked good to you, I could probably bake you some.

Golem -- Friday Night at “Das Ghetto” - m4w

They called you “the Golem” at the club because you were so Rubinesque. I nearly dropped my seltzer when I first laid eyes on your tuchus. When the Klezmer cover of Blue Danube started up I asked you for a dance. Such Tverking there was! But then your friend in the head-dress totally shmuck-blocked me. What a kleine nachtmusik it could’ve been…

Give me a ring some time -- we grab some supper ! I know a great Borscht place. (It’s my mother’s house).

shouting "to belgrade!" before the statue of radetzky - w4m

I saw you yesterday - a plump man on crutches dressed in Austrian military uniform. You were shouting "to Belgrade!" before the statue of Radetzky. Maybe you saw me? I had a pink dress on and I'm a little cross-eyed. I am from Minsk and am looking for a crazed, homeless local to show me around the city... Do call on me with flowers, or herring.

at the bottom of the moldau – a creepy poem! - m4w

I saw you walking dreamily by the Moldau looking all gothic and bohemian. Literally. Are you from Bohemia? Do you know my uncle Jaroslav? Anyway, I thought you were cute enough to write this creepy poem for. Enjoy!

At the bed of the Moldau

Wander the brinefish

There lay three Kings buried in Prague

The great doesn’t stay so

The small doesn’t neither

The night has twelve hours

And then comes the day,

And then comes the day.

The Seven Liberal Samurai Arts

Have you noticed the liberal arts degree is in “crisis”? With the recent weekly dump of editorials on the subject, I’ll bet dollars to donuts you’ve read at least ONE “omg the humanities!” type article in the last month. What is with these damn things? Has nobody else noticed how weirdly histrionic they are? I am shocked by how quickly they can move from a position of the loftiest self-praise to an account of persecution so paranoid that if a friend of mine started talking like that I would be advising him to seek medical help from two rooms away as I was reaching for my vacuum-cum-impromptu blunt defensive object. Who are these Quixotes, and how many books did they read to get that goddamn crazy?

*

Perhaps the most stirring scene in Kurosawa’s The Seven Samurai is the one right before the end of the first half: the samurai, gathered by economic desperation to defend a village of peasants, are treated skeptically by their charges. Finally, when the time comes to abandon three outer houses in the village for the greater defense of the whole, the inhabitants of the houses in question decide to drop the fight and to defend their homes on their own. Suddenly the righteous military method of the Samurai comes alive – the music swells into the Bushido leitmotif – Kambei runs up with his unit of well-disciplined farmers and cuts off the deserters:

You, pick up your spears and return to you units. There are only three houses beyond the bridge and there are twenty in the village. We cannot endanger twenty because of three. And if the village is destroyed, those three will not be safe  anyway. War is like that. If the defense is  for everyone, each individual will  be protected. The man who thinks  only of himself, destroys himself.  From now on, such desertion will be punished.

How often do those with a liberal arts education feel just like this when leading disillusioned charges through the militaristic discipline of writing a paper, preparing a thesis statement, or using a correct historical or literary allusion! You face the despair of your ill-prepared charge as they resign themselves to mediocrity; the sudden power of years of training in writing and critical thinking takes over: “Pick up your pen and return to your thesis” etc. Moments like that, just like the scene in the movie, serve as subjective justification for the clerisy just as the discipline of the Samurai seems to shine through the screen. One thinks, “how splendid! How could something so fine die out?”

And yet that is what the whole movie is about. The grandeur is just a fading shadow of what it once was; a stirring speech about war and death suitable before the walls of Osaka Castle is spoken in the comic context of the defense of a small village cynical peasants. Eventually most of the samurais die; it is right that they should do so. The remainder leave the village sad and dispirited, continuing their descent into living anachronism by a society that no longer needs killers. This perceived tragic state is how the proponents of liberal arts seem to see themselves today. Indeed, complaining about the state of the liberal arts is becoming a career-making position in its self.

*

I urge you to be critical about the recent dump of essays dealing with the state of the liberal arts. The systematic targeting of liberal arts programs for funding cuts cannot simply be a pogrom of the intelligentsia by the barbarian overbelly of society (managers, business men, suits etc). Nor is it the infection of the liberal arts by “scientizers” who want to empiricism the great and mystical tradition of the Great Books. The question is a complex one, but I suspect it is motivated by a structural need that engenders, rather than depends upon, the outer shell of the debate: a simple war of ideas. A sane consideration would require treatment beyond these histrionics about the misinterpreted “value of education”, as if the problem could be solved with just a spirited Socratic speech delivered to a crowd of knit-browed gentlemen blowing their noses with dollar bills, suddenly converted to the true meaning of education like the Grinch Who Stole Geist.

The people who write these essays are some of the dullest, most naïve, and least critical thinkers in academia. You will notice that they represent an increasingly reactionary tendency against the erstwhile domination of theory; what they preach is the (by no means well pedigreed or historically founded) pseudo-religion of the “great books” – essentially a faith in reading “in general” as the salvation of humanity, values, and tradition. Along with salvation, however, they are also sure to sneak in a pragmatic twist or two: the value of critical thinking for business development or the scarcity of “good writers” among communications students etc. 

Incidentally, I would be hesitant to concede to these people even that which they preach with regards to "Great Books". A lot of them remind me of Bible-Belters who stand by the truth of the Bible with really no interest in reading it. Somehow or another the Bible comes to the defense of the U.S.A, Israel, the Republican Party, Country Music, tax cuts for the rich etc. Their "reading" tends to exclude most of the actual content of the Bible - it serves as an origin rather than an ongoing source of truth. The sanctity of the Lumpen-GreatBooks are similarly often a justification for the economic back-end of the University System as it stands today.

My general requests to these hacks would be: Stop defending culture in my name, or in the name of all people who read books. Stop trying to start shit between me and Scientists. Stop trying to justify money in your pocket with smokescreens like "the death of culture" and stop pretending like what you do is anything like promoting free thought. Also, read more.

*

What these book lovers do not ever seem to do is an analysis of the problem from any perspective other than that of some Haroldo-Allanian Bloom decay of kultur. As soon as the topic of the institution is brought up, a strawman of a “clash of ideas” is immediately put in its place. Ignoring any sort of social or economic analysis of the institution of the University, the structural relation of MONEY to specific programs, the internal politics of funding and funding sources, or the viability of maintaining the system of an arts degree in today’s world, they rather settle on a vague position akin the Hegelian “Beautiful Soul” under siege by the barbaric tendencies of the age. Attacked from all sides, the supposedly objective presentation of great ideas in books simply read without a theoretical framework is being poisoned by demands for pragmatism and science on the one hand and biased, narrow minded European theory on the other. What we are left with is the standard pose of melancholy by a presumed over-class of aristocrats in decay. It is an entirely mythological view of the problem.

Lukacs said: “A conceptual mythology always points to the failure to understand a fundamental condition of human existence, one whose effects cannot be warded off. This failure to penetrate the object is expressed intellectually in terms of transcendental forces which construct and shape reality, the relations between objects, our relations with them and their transformations in the course of history in a mythological fashion.”

Perhaps the true question to ask is why the crisis itself is doing so well. The liberal arts degree as it is currently structured is not an ancient institution – it has, as long as it has existed in its contemporary form, always been in crisis. It is almost as if the right to plead for the liberal arts in the face of barbarity is the very thing one earns when one gets the degree. One is taught how, and then granted the qualification to, speak from the side of culture against the rest of society.

What these articles represent is actually a mindset entirely opposed to the supposed goal of a “liberal education”. They are precisely representative of a sect that is unable to see its interests as part of a greater whole; the worldview expressed in them presents a shockingly dulled sensitivity to the totality of the university system as such. It’s as if a censor had forbid them to actually discuss the bureaucratic operations and relations of the institution, leaving them with only allusions and obscure references in the world of fairy tales to get their subversive message across.

Benjamin Girls

These unpublished letters between the philosophical shyster Walter Benjamin and his pal, Kabbalah scholar and Go partner Gerschom Scholem were discovered in a chest in a Jerusalem closet labelled "String and Elastics", which Scholem was very keen on saving in his golden years. Also discovered was a pictured of Hannah Arendt with a Hitler mustache doodled on. I publish them here for the first time because that's usually considered a pretty cool thing to do:

Liebe Walter,

It has been months since your last letter, and we here in the Holy Land shake our heads in confusion or because there is a big wasp buzzing around. They are crazy big here. Why are you so silent? The last we heard was from that jerk Hannah Arendt, who wrote that you were hanging around with that communist hussy Asja again. Really Walter, I cannot stand the idea of you rising with the proletariat. Why bother with Moscow sluts? We’ve sluts a-plenty here, why, dozens! You should see how their soft European skin blisters in the horrible desert heat! I cannot accept that you truly believe in this socialist doctrine. I know you far better than that, Walter. You are at heart a theologian, a lover of enigmas, and a man who knows how to save string. In other words, Walter, you are Jew. Come to your people! Are you truly naïve enough to believe the Party will stand for your one-liners? Try the one you pulled on Herzl back in 1914, you know, when you asked him whether he was an Essene who believed in low-flying Angels, because his fly happened to be undone! Try that on your Comrade Stalin and see where it takes you! Trust me, Walter – my brother is a communist, and he smells like cabbage.

                We are looking forward to your piece on Heinrich Heine, Moses Mendelsohn, and the Question of Latkas. I cannot imagine this progressing without a knowledge of Hebrew, which, as far as I can tell, you still haven’t bothered to learn. Your laziness astounds me. To that end I have spoken to a friend at the budding University of Jerusalem (the Arts faculty at present consisting of myself, 3 rabbis, one angry Hegelian Jew from Koln and 3 chickens (that belong to the rabbis)) to recruit you for the faculty, and to send you, in order to entice you to our mother tongue, a stipend of considerable sum to come here to study Hebrew. I hope, by hook, crook, or shekel, to draw you over here as soon as possible.

With greatest kicks in the tuchus,

-Gerschom Scholem

P.S. The Arab question here is, I will be honest, worsening by the day. These fellows are intolerable and most un-European. I have personally got into a row with a nasty fellow named Abdelhadi, with whom I had the misfortune of meeting at a supper, and, having accidently trod on his toe, demanded immediate satisfaction or the purchase from him of a herd of goats. I am nearly at my wits end, and am on the cusp of purchasing the animals due to his constant harassment. Particularly irksome is his method, which involves hiring a Bedouin troupe to strategically and maliciously leave camel droppings in hidden areas around my common haunts. Clearly he learned these guerrilla tactics from Lawrence during the war. I am nearly at my wits end with him.

Liebe Gerhardt

Either your last letter carried with it the geistige scent of the Holy Land, or you must cease mixing garlic with cardamom in your supper. I am more than excited to hear about the stipend. Please have it sent over as soon as possible – I feel myself suddenly compelled, as if by a higher entity, to begin again the study of that tongue which I have for so long avoided as “stupid, hard, and totally gay”. In the meantime, I must beg your tolerance of Asja. I don’t know what Hannah may have said about her, but I assure you they really are that big. But she not only offers a testing ground for philosophical manoeuvres – she has also introduced me to many in her circle.

 Perhaps the most exciting is one Bertolt Brecht – a true Marxist who, upon meeting me, slapped me in the face and begun shining my shoes, claiming that a proletarian must do both at the same time. His play How I Met Your Mother, based on Gorky, has made me re-appraise the entire question of Rom-Coms.

I have abandoned the Latkas bit for a piece in a similar, though perhaps more secular vein – namely, Dialectical Materialism and the Mechanical Reproduction of Croissants in the Age of Baudelaire*. You will forgive this vein of inquiry – to be honest, I feel a true split, one side of me longing for the theological categories of our shared mystical youth, and the other, to knock hats off of bourgeois gentlemen in the street while screaming “hoopla!” I can only hope that Asja continues to drop her spoon every time the argument gets too heated – a trick, I admit, that has won over many for the Party before me.

With mostly smiles,

-Walter Benjamin

P.S. I am sorry to hear about this Abdelhadi. Have you tried reasoning with him, or is it a case of kismet on the brain? What will you do with goats, Gerhardt? I hear these Arab nobles have a great fondness for chess – perhaps you could challenge him to a game, the winner walks away with satisfaction, and the loser, the goats? Remember the opening I always taught you, and be sure you do not use it. It is a horrible opening.

* The unfinished drafts of this essay were later purchased by Kanye West, who used their theories on speedy confectionary to great effect in "I Am a God".

Liebe Walter,

I am surprised by your last letter. My friend at the University claims you have already received the stipend – a move I in no way approved of, since it will surely mean your endless procrastination of the trip itself. You are sketchy as an Alexanderplatz fruit salesman sometimes, dear Walter. I am sure you have already spent the cash to pad out your lavish collection of children’s books. What was the last one you showed me? A first edition of Der Struwwelpeter, in which all the naughty boys and girls are subjected to torture by an evil Demiurge. Fate, Walter. I wonder that you do not see your own doomed end in the dilly-dallyings you have with this Muscovite BBW.

In short, Walter, communism is stupid. I have met this Brecht once before – it was at a dinner in Berlin. I accidentally trod on his toe, and the nasty fellow, dressed like a cab-driver in all leather, demanded that I buy a row of tickets for some awful show of his. In all honesty, Walter, I am happier with the goats.

In suspense of your latest sus move,

-Gerschom Scholem

P.S. I took your advice and challenged Abdelhadi to a game. I do not know if it was the strong Turkish coffee or the heat of the afternoon. Try as I might, Walter, I could not help but use your terrible opening. The day was lost, all is lost, except the goats, which have run rampant in the yard. I fear for my rosebushes.

Liebe Gerhardt,

                Excuse my brief letter, which cannot possibly make up for the last one you sent, as well as the charming essay you forwarded on The Golem and its Relationship to Professional Wrestling. Thank you very much for translating it out of Hebrew. I will get right on that stuff, I swear.

You are quite right! The money did make it over after all. It turns out that it really didn’t go very far. I am planning to begin to make preparations to embark for Jerusalem at once. I will go by way of Spain, and the lovely islands of Majorca. You cannot imagine how poor I am, Gerhardt. Nobody will buy shit from me. I tried to pawn off a marvellous essay on the Origin of German LOLspiel to the Warburg Institut but they were having none of it. Only that creepy guy with the weird eyes who always mutters under his breath about jazz – you remember him from that awkward party in the Freienwald? Adorno! He and his gang are showing the slightest bit of interest in me. You wonder why I turn to Marxism – it pays the bills, Gerhardt! Judaica can barely be sold to wrap a wurst in.

P.S. I am sorry, truly sorry, that you fell into the temptation to use my awful opening, and are now in possession of far too many goats. I only assume you did not sell them right away because you were observing the Sabbath. Or is there another reason? I am wondering if you mightn’t send one over here to teach me Hebrew. Those goats pronounce it so beautifully, don’t you think?

Annual Book Sale – Expect Tolstoy, Sluts!

THURSDAY TO FRIDAY – Annual University Booksale!

Thousands of titles to be had, including:

• Sir Walter Scott
• Tolstoy
• A brown book
• Victorian children’s poetry books that smell like scotch and quinine
• Dead spiders
• Books with hair in them
• The Collected Works of NOT FOR RESALE
• Sluts, like, all over the place
• Live spiders
• The Wonderful Colours of Monet – (black and white plates only)
• A shitty early translation of Nietzsche on “The Superman”
• Seriously, sluts love used books
• Old Sawburgh Jahosaphet’s Book of Humourous Tales 1907, including “Mother, The Smoked Herring!”
• First garbage novel by awesome modern author and nothing else
• Automative Repair Manual ‘87
• A book with inappropriate terms for ethnic groups you should buy to show your friends
• Woody Allen: Interviews – This Shit Has No Jokes
• A book of Victorian medical practices you will buy for 25$ and never look at again
• Mein Kampf, but stamped “Perth Public Library – Young Adult”
• A History of Scottish Presbyterianism, Vol. VI Only (MUST PURCHASE WHOLE SET)
• No Jane Austen after 9:15 thanks to that bitch over there
• A box full of nothing but shredded newspaper
• Antonio “Toni” Negri and Michael “Mikey” Hardt – Holy Moly, Revolutioly!
• The Vice Guide To Ethical Butt-Buggery and Fuckbuddery
• The Poems of Alfred Tennyson x 600 copies
• Hearken Not to the Kaiser
• Dual language texts that make Latin students unduly excited: Pominius’ List of Roman Chamberpots
• Edgar Allen Poe – Misc. Unscary Tales – “A New Bedford Jaunt”, “The Dictionary Man”
• Dated fashion magazine your mom makes you buy for your sister not to read
• Pamphlets for things that don’t exist anymore using words you find confusing together
• It’s in old German Fraktur font but check it out I think the title says “Boner”
• The Unpurchasable Works of Rudyard Kipling
• The Cuntlickingly Offensive Book of Limericks (Paris, 1933 how did they know that word)
• A big pile of bags – sorry we’re out of bags
• Grover’s Garlic Garnish - A Utopian Tale
• The Thousand and One Nights - illustrated etchings of Dore w/ Titties Edition
• That lone book in Hungarian
• Christianity – It’s The Only Religion, Stupid!
• Escapades in Far Off Burma Old Bean Lemon Squash Wot
• A Glimpse at the Future: Life As it May Be in the Year 2000 – (moon chalets, top hats)
• No you can’t just leave them here while you get more, I am not a faithful Japanese guard dog
• The Collected Works of Lenin With His Face On The Front – buy this and try not to look insane
• Learn to Play the Sackbut
• That girl over there likes Dostoyevsky and I need to give her my patronymic
• Thomas Pynchon Book, sweet cover, ok, he did WHAT in her WHAT?
• A shitty hymnal you will buy because you thought it was “beautiful even though I’m an atheist”
• Avid book collecting enthusiast who mispronounces “Goethe”
• The Reference/Dictionary section you stand in until somebody moves over in modern lit
• A coursepack with notes in pink pen (“OMG he never even called her”)
• Jacques Derrida’s Really Unpopular Book On Film Or Photography Or Something
• Judaism, Judaica, Jumanji
• Breadmaking for the Nonce
• Tom Brown’s Blah Blah Blah Blah
• The Tactics of the Waffen SS  – A Book For Men In Fedoras
• Oh My God a Book On Etiquette From Like A Million Years Ago
• Commercial Cobblery
• A German Cookbook That Seems Normal Until Page 7 – Pork Foreskin Goulash
• Slavoj Zizek – Something Borrowed, Something Blue: Reading Lacan in the Antepenultimate Times

…And, like, more!