hip theory

On my recent seemingly endless flights to and from London, I finally read Leland's Hip: The History. It was actually pretty good--an interesting look at America's racial and cultural history. For Leland, American culture is all about the evolution and pursuit of hip. There are moments where Leland's prose becomes a bit ridiculous, a little too hip--mostly when he is presenting a summary of of one of his points. For instance, "The hipster, viewed coolly, is the outlaw as metaphor" or "If a tree fall in the forest and no one notices its fundamental dopeness, it is not hip." Luckily, sentences like these only come at the end of sections or chapters, and the rest of the book is quite lucid and full of illustrative examples. It's a smart book full of entertaining pop culture references. (and it is quite lame that he titles his acknowledgement page "shout outs")

After reading this book, I'm thinking that we need to add hip theory to the lit-crit cannon. It seems just as justifiable as feminist theory or queer theory--especially if we're talking about American lit. Leland gets it started with his list of hip authors: Emerson, Twain, Whitman, Raymond Chandler and the like, and of course all of the Beats. He talks more about the writers and their cultural moment than he does aobut the texts themselves, but I think a lot of American lit could be explained by considering it through the lens of the hip. Take The Great Gatsby. Sure it's about class, but I think part of the downfall might be explained by a misguided pursuit of the hip. So, you lit teachers, I think you should start up this movement.

if snoop dogg were to teach my class

So I found this website today--Gizoogle--which translates text into Snoop Dogg-esque slang. I put the course description for my Language and Society class (seemed fitting) through it and this is what came out:

Language impacts bustin' we do . Im crazy, you can't phase me: how we think, how we learn, how we vizzy ourselves n interact wit otha and cant no hood fuck with death rizzow. We wiznill look carefully at tha patterns n functions of language ta gain a gangsta sense of how language establishes our cultural identities n social allegiances, how language creates n disseminizzles knowledge, how it develops n maintains shot calla. We will interrogate tha functions of language n hustla how simple alterations in language use miznight lead ta distinctly different outcomes, bizzoth in terms of blingin' n cultural impact so you betta run and grab yo glock.

That last sentence cracks me up.

post-trip blues

Perhaps it's a bad idea to travel so close to the beginning of the new academic year. Not only do I have to deal with post-trip blues but also with pre-semester anxiety. Last night I had a nightmare (I'm sure partly induced by the fact that I was trying unsuccessfully to convince my body that it was the middle of the night and not eight a.m.) that a woman who lived across the street from me while growing up decided I was an incompetent teacher and staged a coup on my classes. lisa b. appeared in the dream; when I told her how I had handled the situation (basically yelling "give me my fucking class back" to the woman who'd staged the coup) she told me--with a chuckle--that I had responded "exactly wrong." oh well, hopefully tomorrow will be coup-free.

England was excellent. I think we picked the right balance of camping and B&Bing. Just when we were tired and smelly, we had a B&B waiting for us. And while I occasionally was annoyed by my heavy back (especially when we passed the hikers with their small daypacks), my favorite part of the trip was the night we spent camping on the hillside of a small farm. We had an amazing view of another hillside and a river valley. Here's something of what our view looked like, although this certainly doesn't do it justice.



Hiking in the Cotswolds made me think about why I hike. At home, most of the places I go to can't be reached by car, so the walking makes practical sense. But in England, we walked in a variety of environments (woods, hilltops, fields, city streets, golf courses) and roads were never very far away. As the B&B owner in our second to last city reminded us before our final 15 mile walk to Cheltenham, there was also a bus that went directly there. On the way home, I started reading a book about a man who walked through Afghanistan just after the war. People kept laughing at him, telling him to just take a car. Walking from town to town made me realize how big the world really is. We shrink it in so many ways with fast transportation and global markets/ culture, but it's really quite stunning in its immensity. When you take a day to make a journey that you might have made in a matter of minutes, everything feels slower, farther away, more significant. In the walking, you find details. And walking, we were able to meet people that we wouldn't have if we'd been going by car or bus. The woman in Hawkesbury Upton who called at us from across the street just to hear about our journey and to make sure we had enough water. The pub owner who offered us tips on shortcuts. The various people who went out of their way to guide us through the trail's confusing city paths. It was certainly a trip worth taking.

Anyway, here's one more picture--just me on the trail.


And Terra, my fab travelling companion (and long-time friend):

backpacking aesthetics

I'm sitting here with my backpack strapped on, trying to adjust to the feel of it in preparation for the upcoming Cotswolds trip, wishing it weren't so heavy. It has my tent in it and a sleeping bag--things that I don't necessarily have to take on the journey. We are on the trail for five days and we're only camping two nights. I could easily contact B&Bs in those towns and make reservations like I have for the other three nights. Then I could take out the tent and just carry clothes, food, etc. But I won't.

As it is, I feel slighty guilty that I'm sleeping at so many B&Bs. I have this backpacking aesthetic that I can't seem to shake--that you should carry your own stuff, that you should be independent and able to care for yourself on the trail. I'll probably be cursing myself by our last day, but there it is. Perhaps I feel I need to pay penance for my trip to Peru, where porters carried all of my gear and cooked every meal. I didn't think much about the circumstances of that trip. I was going with my dad and some of his friends. Someone else planned it. I just went along. And I felt guilty the entire time that I was carrying a day pack and the porters were carrying everything else (practically running up the mountain to beat us to our destination)--and making very little money. Maybe I'll think about that as I walk down the trail.

We'll see how it all goes. A travelogue of sorts will be forthcoming, I'm sure.

lis' weekly miscellany

I decided to post weekly on all the minor matters that may not deserve an entire post, but are still worth mentioning. So, here you go.

1. My 5-year-old niece to the neighborhood boy who had been harrassing her all day: (with fists up) "Hey buddy, do you wanna piece of me?"

2. Watching PBS's Do You Speak American? Robert MacNeil (talking about Texas metaphors) said he heard LBJ say during the Vietnam War: "If we get 'em by the short and curlies, their hearts and minds will follow." We should never elect presidents from Texas.

3. After ranting to a friend about how annoyed I am by the egos of young twenty-somethings, I realized I am becoming my mother--who we lovingly call "the dream squasher." I am now embarking on a path of recovery. My name is Melissa and I am becoming my mother.

Farewell to Ibrahim Ferrer

I mentioned before on the blog how I love Ibrahim Ferrer, so I was sad to learn this morning that he died over the weekend.

When I saw Buena Vista Social Club, I developed a bit of a crush on Ibrahim Ferrer. He seemed so charming and humble. And then that voice--so rich and expressive. I was so happy when he started releasing solo albums. And I love that he was playful with his music--e.g. collaborating with Damon Albarn on Gorrilaz' "Latin Simone."

And his story, of course, is compelling. How he'd always been a singer, but because of changing tastes and politics he ended up shining shoes for a living. When BVSC came around, he said of the experience, "An angel came and picked me up and said, 'Chico, come and do this record.' I didn't want to do it because I had given up on music. But now I have my own record, my first one ever, so I'm very happy. I don't have to shine shoes anymore." What a lovely thing that a man who's clearly meant to make music gets a chance at age 70 to do it again.

the new food blog

As if one blog weren't enough, a couple of friends and I decided to start a food blog. It's called Three Tarts, so if you like reading about and looking at food, I hope you'll check it out. Friend #3 (Sarah) has yet to arrive at the blog, but she got married last week, so we'll forgive her.

my flashy new shirt

It's the rare shirt that deserves its very own blog post, but you have to see this beauty!

I think I may have a future career as a mannequin

To really appreciate this shirt, you have to see the detail:



Every flower has more than 80 sequins (I counted while impatiently waiting for the picture to load).

I don't know where I'm going to wear this thing, but I'll be happy it's in my closet (along with my red velvet pants)--just in case.

The best part of the shirt is how I got it. I saw it in the window of an antiques shop in Forest Grove, OR. But the store was closed. We went back the next day during posted business hours--still closed. I had to fly home the next morning, so no flashy shirt for me.

Well, this week lovely friend and colleague Jonathan (we were in Forest Grove for a conference) stops by my classroom with a Smith's grocery bag. I was in the middle of student presentations, so I looked at him quizically: "What's this?" "Later," he said. So, when all the students shuffled out, I dug into the bag. The shirt! J. had stayed in Forest Grove a day longer than me and went back to the antique shop. It was a delightful suprise--the highlight of the week, really. And it fits perfectly. Can you be fated to have a piece of clothing?

in praise of schlubbiness

I read an article ("The XY Files," Lori Gottleib)in the newest Atlantic that is really bugging me, and I'm not even sure why. It's a personal narrative about a woman's decision to have a child with anonymous, sperm bank sperm. She talks a lot about Single Mothers by Choice, "a national group for women who want to have children but won't shack up with the wrong guy to do so." I'm not the sort of person who thinks a child necessarily needs two parents to grow up happy and whatever, and I think if a woman wants to have a child, well why not? But the article just made me depressed.

Maybe I just don't like the idea of selecting the perfect genetic material. Diane Rehm recently aired a show about the so-called genius factory, the Nobel Prize sperm bank that ended up having very few Nobel-prize winning donors. One story was about a mother who freaked out when her genius-sperm son declared that he wanted to be a pro-wrestler. Ha! Served her right for trying to concoct a certain sort of child. Poor kid, though. Gottleib's article gets into this territory a bit, as she purposefully avoids "genetic schmutz" like schizophrenia, breast cancer, etc. in the donor's family history.

But more than that, I was bothered by Gottleib's sense of relief at avoiding the messiness of a relationship and getting right to the baby-making. Consider this comment: "Instead of marrying a schlubby but lovable man and thinking, I hope our kid doesn't get his crooked nose or bad eyesight or thin hair, I could pick from cold, hard DNA." Obviously, the carefully selected DNA will surprise her, and she seems to know this (she's clearly not trying to create some sort of uber-child) but what distresses me about the comment is the dismissal of the "schlubby but lovable man." I know she's being playful, but still--it's as if dating and mating have become like shopping, where there's no space for imperfections.

My parents' relationship has always struck me as a bit boring (they don't share similar interests or the "core connection" Gottleib describes), but they have created an amazing life together rich with struggle--and joy. I'm the daughter of a "schlubby but lovable" man, and I unfortunately share many of his schlubby characteristics. Even though I hate the fact that I carry around wadded up tissues in my pockets just like he does, I am always delighted by the recognition that I am very much my father's daughter. Our imperfections make us interesting, give us stories to tell.