Play "Where'd I Read That?" With CheeseQuest!

When it comes to reading, I'm a notoriously bad note-taker. I never figured out how to outline a chapter without going into microscopic detail or just copying direct quotations by hand into a notebook. I tend to focus on weird, tangential stuff that pulls my mind into different galaxies. Typos and grammatical errors can distract me for minutes: I get angry at the author, the editor, the press, and people in general for not being able to write or proofread well. I tell you, it's a miracle I passed my comprehensive exams. Thank god for my loyal study group—MK, PH, KS, and JHS—who either tolerated or didn't notice my inability to write good summaries.

Everyone who has visited Casa CheeseQuest has noticed the 171 library books stacked in neat piles on my living room floor. People are usually impressed that I've categorized them and labeled each pile. What they don't seem to notice is the lack of tape flags or any other indication that these books are being read. If I made my way through each of these books when I checked them out and took good notes, the piles wouldn't be nearly as large and probably not as neat.

I know people who use programs like Bento to keep track of everything they read. Believe me, I've tried Bento (my mother was nice enough to buy it for me a couple years ago, and I upgraded my OS so I could run it). But again, my databases have way too many fields and go into too much detail.

So I find myself playing "Where'd I Read That?" all the time. Right now I'm going through Freud's Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality to find where he talks about the contingency of heterosexuality. At least I'm pretty sure he talks about this in the Three Essays. Actually, he talks about it all over the place, but there's one quotation I really want and I think that's where it is. I've only read a limited amount of Freud (don't tell my adviser), so there's a good chance I'm right. It's a really short book, too. (It's three essays, duh.) So I'm sure I'll find it today. If it's there, that is.

"Where'd I Read That?" can be a cool game, because sometimes when you lose, you win. I've found great stuff poring over books I didn't read all that carefully the first time around, like a minute case study of a knockabout girl who disguised herself as a boy in a book about delinquents. I don't know how much of this stuff will make it into the dissertation, but it's fun to find things like this. On the other hand, the frustrations of "Where'd I Read That?" are obvious. It takes lots more time to write anything. I also sometimes feel tempted to cut out parts of arguments because I simply can't find the historiography that will buttress my assertions, even doing searches on JSTOR or whatever. That's not good. I once made a wish blowing out my birthday candles (yup, I still do that) that I could magically start taking good bullet-pointed notes.

As long as I have funding, though, I'm happy to play "Where'd I Read That?" occasionally. But if you know that quotation from the Three Essays, could you email me, please?

"Cats" Bashing

When I was a child, many years ago, there was one family on my block that seemed more intellectual than most. They subscribed to The New Yorker, for instance, and listened to NPR—with the volume way up, as it was meant to be listened to. I was friends with their youngest daughter. One day, as we were playing in the kitchen, I heard an odd song come over the radio waves. It was something about calico cats, or so it sounded. My friend and I were probably running around playing with this eighteen-inch doll, something like a knight with removable armor, which had belonged to her older brother. The song stuck with me the way songs do when you're a child and you can't quite understand the lyrics. (I was so confused by the word "used-to-bes" in one lyric from "You Don't Bring Me Flowers": "It used to be so natural to talk about forever/But used-to-bes don't count anymore/They just lay on the floor till we sweep them away." What the heck is a yoosta bee, I wondered. Do they sting?)

A few years later I was on a quixotic mission to get the theater people in high school to like me. This was very hard because I was a pretty sour teenager, and to be a theater—excuse me, theatre—person, you had to be kind of in another world all the time, vaguely chipper, constantly journaling, singing randomly in the cafeteria, and so forth. You also had to have a few accessories. One of these was a worn-out Cats T-shirt, possibly with the neck cut away to reveal the collarbone.

In those days, Cats had only been on Broadway for about four or five years. That wasn't so long in relative terms. We're talking about a place where not many people read stuff like The New Yorker or listened to NPR on full blast. People forget this now, but Cats was really, really cool. It was around this time that I learned that the whole musical was based on light verse by T.S. Eliot, which was pretty darn highbrow for a Broadway musical, maybe a rung or two down from Sondheim. What I'd heard as "calico cats" a few years earlier was "Jellicle Cats," from "Song of the Jellicles." I have never seen Cats or studied the poems, so I can't tell you what a Jellicle is or what it has to do with people in cat-patterned leotards.

Even I can't resist making jokes about Cats; any sentence with the word leotard in it has to be a joke, right? I just think it's important to remind ourselves that even when stuff gets super outmoded, it was once important. And we have to remember why. For evidence, look at Frank Rich's New York Times review from 1982.

I was at an interestingly playful "lecture series" the other night, and one of the lecturers did a PowerPoint that used the photo above as a visual punch line. He was a really great, smart guy, and he clued me in on a bunch of interesting stuff going on these days in the theatrical world. But his presentation made me think about Cats and its odd, minor, indirect effect on my life. Anyone who was awake in the 1980s knew about Cats, and it's possible that not all of us were wrong.

This is why I'm sincerely hoping for some kind of revival of Cats, perhaps by an avant-garde outfit like the Wooster Group (although I think they stick to the classics, but someone like them). I don't want someone to "make it relevant for the present day"; I want to figure out what people saw in it in the first place. Unfortunately, I can't do that if the cast wears cat-patterned leotards. Sorry.

Take That to the Bank

Resolution 4 is completed! Today I deposited $91.50 in dimes, nickels, and pennies into my account at the little savings bank down the street. I felt just like Ragged Dick the bootblack.

"I've Been to Vidal Sassoon"

One of my favorite movies is Rosemary's Baby. Mia Farrow plays a woman who gets pregnant, to her joy, only to wonder if she's being hounded by witches who want to get her baby and eat it or something. Her husband, Guy, is played by the amazing avant-garde filmmaker John Cassavetes. Guy is such a narcissistic creep that it's no surprise he's a New York actor. As Rosemary keeps reminding people, "He was in Luther and Nobody Loves an Albatross, and he's done a lot of television and commercials." (By the way, Nobody Loves an Albatross was a real play! The 1960s had a way with Broadway shows that sported flashy, lousy titles, like, I don't know, Stop the World, I Want to Get Off.)

Anyway, until the last quarter of the movie you're never quite sure whether Rosemary is really onto a plot to take her baby or is simply going crazy because she's pregnant. At one point she eats raw liver. Another thing she does is walk into the apartment one afternoon sporting a brand-new, very short, very mod haircut. "I've been to Vidal Sassoon," she says. "It's very in." At which point Guy, ever the gentleman, says, "Well, it looks terrible." Vidal Sassoon was possibly the most influential hairdresser of the pre-hippie 1960s. Rosemary might have been trying to copy the fashion icon Twiggy (whom you might know in her craggly, botoxed form from America's Next Top Model a few years ago). Rosemary's awesome haircut is in the photo above. She is so not crazy for getting that haircut, right? Yet her husband is so vehement, and she's so spacey, it makes you wonder.

I recently got a haircut inspired by Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby. I paid $55 for it, which I think is a deal. (I also tried to find out from the internet how much that haircut would have cost in 1966, when the movie takes place, but no dice.) I don't have the mod clothes to match Rosemary, but I still think I look pretty cute. The stylist had never heard of Rosemary's Baby, so it was a good thing I brought in a picture. I hope it was a learning experience for her, and I hope she watches Rosemary's Baby!

New Year, New CheeseQuest!

In the Land of School, "new year" has two different meanings. There is January 1, the new year that normal (adult) people celebrate, and the day after Labor Day, the new year that U.S. Schoolians celebrate. I used to work at a magazine geared to people under twenty, so there were two official new years, the January issue and the September issue. Both were occasions for the cover line "New Year, New You!" The only difference between January and September in the Land of Publishing in New York City was that on the first day of work after new year's there would be a line of shivering editorial assistants stretching for five blocks in the cold, waiting to get to the salad-tossing station at Cosi. September wasn't much of an "I vow to eat salad every day until I realize it's just a salad" month.

From time to time I like to pretend I'm still living in the Land We Call the Real World and celebrate new year's day on January 1. I do make resolutions every year, but I'm always making random resolutions and forgetting about them. I thought writing them on my blog would get me to hold myself accountable for them. So here we go.

1. I resolve to put up that Ikea bookcase that's been sitting in my dining room for a few weeks. My friend EDB generously gave it to me. He took it apart and saved the screws and drove it all the way from where he lives to where I live. I lost one of the screws. But I think it'll still be good. The only thing is I sliced into the little finger on my left hand a couple days ago and it hasn't quite healed. I'm afraid of screwing things and hammering other things until it looks less like Frankenfinger. Ah, already trying to talk myself out of something. That's no way to begin a year, CheeseQuest! Try again.

2. I resolve to stop trying to make my African American friends think I'm down/fresh/dope/off the hook and start trying to convince my Jewish friends to invite me to more holiday parties. CheeseQuest isn't Jewish, only Jew-friendly. But kids, the Chosen People know what they're doing when it comes to baked goods: rugalach, challah, hamentashen. Brisket? Bring it on. Other stuff (carp, matzoh, kosher wine) I don't particularly care for, but I'd give up pork for at least a day to get one of JF's tasty pastries. Next year in Cheeseville!

3. I resolve to call my landlords to fix everything because I'm paying them enough in goddamned rent. The big pole that holds up the coats in my front closet fell down the other day. I haven't called the landlords to have it put back up. Why? They scare me. I don't want them in my house. (I think they might come in anyway while I'm not here.) But jeez, don't I deserve a little quick action on the repairs? I'm not even asking for them to remove the peeling lead paint that's probably poisoning me or turning me into a moron.

4. I resolve to make a deposit of all my change in the bank. Like a good Yankee wannabe, I save all my change and occasionally put it in the bank. I haven't done this in about four years. I made a first step on making good on this resolution when I gathered my change together into one bag. It weighs a ton! But I use my quarters for laundry, so I was thinking that it might be better to exchange all of my pennies, nickels, and dimes for quarters. Because I've got to do laundry tomorrow.

5. I resolve to avoid people who say they're on a spiritual journey or try to guess my sign within five minutes of meeting me.

6. I resolve to blog more and Facebook less. I've said for a long time (well, a few months) that Facebook is going to kill the blogs. I used to read them avidly. Now I can't even remember the names of the ones I used to like. Some were really good. I have about two political ones bookmarked, two or three academic ones (plus the job wiki), and about five friends' blogs. But we haven't been updating all that much lately. I'm getting so proficient at the two-line status update that I don't feel the need to write a whole blog post about my work. (I do try to avoid the "I'm taking a nap" status update unless I think of a way to make it really pithy.) Not that I blog about nothing (I try to avoid the "I'm freaking out about work" post), there's sometimes nothing to blog about. In the hands of some, blogs can be about nothing. But Facebook is really about nothing. Except funny kitty videos.

Ghia Pet

This is an orange Karmann Ghia convertible. A '68, I think. This is the kind of car my parents drove when they had me. I don't know if you can tell, but it's a two-seater. What did they do with the baby, you ask? Family legend has it that they mounted a small chair between the two front seats. This meant that baby's head was pressed against the windshield as the little Ghia sped through traffic. I was a little Ghia pet, ha ha.

I can't vouch for this legend, for I don't remember much about the Ghia. I only mention it because the baby-with-head-on-windshield metaphor fits my current situation pretty well. Events are hurtling along, and I feel like I'm watching everything come straight at me from a very uncomfortable vantage point. Right now I ought to be (1) finishing a seminar application, (2) finishing a comment on a faculty member's paper that's going to be presented Tuesday, (3) reading three articles by a hotshot postcolonial scholar whom I'm meeting tomorrow, (4) reading another prof's paper to give them feedback.

Run-of-the-mill stuff, I know. But I haven't worked this hard since I started writing my dissertation. Here's hoping that the little Ghia doesn't run out of gas and baby's head doesn't go through the windshield.

To All of My Friends Struggling With Grant Applications

As the deadlines approach, I send you my heartiest, cheeriest, best wishes as well as this blast from the past, YSA's personal statement to end all personal statements.

May you take heart, and be inspired.

Wrap Me Up and Take Me Home

I have time for one last post before I leave to get on the train. I'd call this trip a qualified success. It was disappointing in that I used my grant money to find stuff I already knew was there. But I also ventured into another library on the same campus where they have tons of relevant documents collected by the woman I am studying. I still have some grant money left, and I want to come back to use it at the second library. But that doesn't seem right.

My brown bag talk went well. I'd worried so much about what I could possibly say and figured I'd have to do an air-guitar solo in order to distract them from my failure to find much at their library. But I spent most of my time reading from some of the documents I did find, which they thought were really interesting. They asked a few questions and that was it.

My one big extracurricular activity was a trip to the Marimekko store, where I splurged on a jacket. When I say "splurged" I mean "spent more money on one garment than I ever have before." I was in doubt about the fit. It's a size 38, which nowadays is usually too small for me, but it was a little roomy in the shoulders. I asked if it was possible to get it tailored and sadly because of the way it's lined it would be impossible. Also, it's a cotton jacket, meaning it's totally out of season, and I won't be able to wear it until May, maybe. But it was so, so cute! I mean overwhelmingly cute. Hopefully they will get its Finnish style back in Cheeseville.

OK, it's time to go. Hopefully the train won't take an extra three hours this time.

Wishful Thinking

When I wrote my awesome dissertation proposal, I started in with a juicy anecdote. This, as most students of history know, is a tried (tired?) and true method of drawing readers in and making them think that what they're about to read will be just as interesting. Yes, it's the old academic bait and switch routine. We all love narrative, but we don't trust it because it's not analytical enough.

I digress. I discovered something important yesterday as I retraced my research steps from two summers ago. That symphonic anecdote that anchored my dissertation prospectus was, dare I say, completely false. What happened was that I wasn't allowed to write down anyone's name or correct initials in this protected set of documents. I looked at one institutional report on a girl—let's call her Mildred. Now, pretty much no one today would name their kid Mildred. So it must have been true of the 1920s too, right? Wrong! Oh, so wrong. The Social Security people say Mildred was the ninth most popular name of the 1920s! But as I was reading along last year, I saw "Mildred" on the report. Then, several boxes later, I saw "Mildred" on two letters. I thought they must be the same person. If I had been allowed to write down people's names or make photocopies of these documents, it's likely that I wouldn't have made such a boneheaded mistake.

So far, so excusable (maybe). But how to explain the composition I thought was also written by "Mildred" when it had another person's name written on it? And, OK, the love letter I was sure "Mildred" had written? It was signed with a man's name. A man's name! Last time around, I was totally sure it was the boy name "Mildred" adopted for herself. Wishful motherfucking thinking.

And now I succumb to the throes of panic about what else I might have messed up in my peripatetic research gambols. Remember, I haven't been able to photocopy or photograph most of my evidence. On the bright side, no one on my committee's seen this stuff, so if I am completely wrong, they won't be able to tell.

Thirty Minutes of Funk

Here I am on another research jaunt. I got a grant to come here. But the fact of the matter is that I've already been here. Yes, in the academy you get grants to go to places you've already been. And it's turning out that I maybe didn't even need all that extra money—I thought I'd just scratched the surface of these collections, but I picked through five or so pretty effectively the last time I was here.

I can hear you saying: Well, good on you, CheeseQuest! Take that money and go spend it on the fair-trade yoga clothes on offer at every other store on Main Street here. And have a $4 cup of coffee (also fair trade) while you're at it. Put that grant on your CV and ride into the sunset.

Of course, it's not that easy. I have to give a brown-bag talk on Friday. At first I thought it was no big deal, since I've done enough in-class presentations in grad school. Then I heard it should be thirty minutes long. Did you hear that? Thirty minutes long. I have no idea what I'm going to say. "Thanks for the opportunity to come here. I love your library, especially how each table is equipped with outlets for laptops. It's pretty here. Your call slips are easy to fill out. You get me my boxes real fast-like. I wish I had gotten into your graduate school." That will take up one minute...and then what?

I know, a twenty-nine-minute funk breakdown!