Love your legs...or else!

So here I am, sitting on a hill in the shadow of what's going to be a freshman dorm after having a morning class canceled so I watched old Vlogbrothers videos all through lunch and that's why I'm talking like this. They tend to get stuck in my head.

Anyway, it's been an interesting week. On Tuesday I took two old pairs of jeans and cut the legs off them; right now I'm wearing the obscenely short ones, which friends say look good and which I can get away with wearing because it's 80 degrees out and will be nearly as warm tomorrow; after that, it'll get chilly again. But I've started thinking of these as my "love your legs...or else!" pants, because when wearing shorts that don't even reach mid-thigh (because I cut the legs where they've started fraying) you have to have high self-esteem or you're screwed. So, here I am, on a hill, learning to love my legs.

The other pair of cutoffs are knee-length (again, where the fraying started) and I don't think they're as flattering. But I'm using those four extra legs to make a tote bag that maybe my knitting needles won't punch through. Speaking of which, I'm knitting a Dalek dishtowel that I found on the Internet, and crocheting a Sierpinski Carpet blanket. Pictures when they're done.

Wednesday night I went to The Finer Things Club, where the board members seem to think I'm cooler than square watermelon. And I'm not quite sure whether they're being ironic, but it's nice to feel like you feel needed. I've joined the Dress Code Committee, because the current board isn't quite accommodating  enough of women. But it soon will be *evil laugh*

Which brings us to my adventures today.

Here are two leaves I caught out of the air on the way to my World Music test. The one on the left I fumbled three times and finally picked up off the ground; the other one I actually caught.

After the test I ran into an astronomy class using solar-filtered telescopes to look at the sun. My response: "ooh, there's spots!" It was awesome.

And now I have a quiz in Chinese. So I'll see you around. DFTBA.

Eat of it and you shall die: how The Da Vinci Code changed my life

Today's post is inspired by NPR's PG-13 series, in which writers talk about the books that influenced them as preteens.

Don't get up. I know what the intelligent world thinks of The Da Vinci Code. And let me be the first to say I agree with them. But that's not what this is about. This is about the day at summer camp when a counselor gave it to me with the best of intentions, and left me alone with it. It fascinated me. It was like nothing my twelve-year-old self had ever read. And it taught me three lessons that have made me who I am.

The first thing I got from The Da Vinci Code was a rough understanding of how sex worked and how people thought about it.  At twelve, I was embarrassed to even think about What's Happening To My Body, let alone to read those cute pink books my mother bought for me. Dan Brown nudged me toward accepting what I was becoming, and may even have been a root cause of my starting to write myself, and about that in particular. My free-range detective Mia Lazarus, whose response to her occasional mental blocks is to get laid, would not have been possible otherwise.

The second lesson I learned was that orthodoxy is not always right, and that challenging it could be worthwhile. I read that the Mona Lisa could have been named for Egyptian fertility gods, that there could be some truth to conspiracy theories, that Jesus could have been married--in fact, the closest I've ever come to believing in Jesus was while I was reading that book. My mother would finish the job in a couple years' time as my high school civics teacher, giving me not only orthodoxies that needed to be challenged but also the tools and arguments to challenge them with. But the world Dan Brown created made me a little more ready to learn her lessons.

I say "created," and that's an important part of the third lesson, which I didn't learn until years later: that books could lie. There's an important distinction in my head between fiction and lies: fiction can be true if it's well-researched or -crafted; if its insights into human nature trump the fact that its events never actually took place. The Da Vinci Code packaged its lies and poor construction in just enough truth that I learned from it--and in addition, I learned how to spot bad writing. The book was both the snake and the fruit in my childhood Garden of Reading.

The game of expectations

I saw two sad youtube videos this morning. Each was part of a series I follow closely, yet one struck me as much sadder than the other.
Here they are: "The Lizzie Bennett Diaries" episode 42 and Doctor Who's "Pond Life" part 5. The second one had a much bigger emotional impact than the first. Go watch them both, and then I'll tell you why.

Meanwhile, here's a picture that might help explain it.

Back? Good. Here's my thought: For one thing, I'm much more invested in the plight of Amy Pond, Doctor's Companion, than I am in the travails of Lizzie Bennett, whiny closed-minded grad student. Why do I follow her, then? Because I want to see what they do with the narrative. Doctor Who, on the other hand, is narrated by much more likeable characters, and practically an adopted religion for me. Second: Amy's troubles are bigger--her husband just walked out for no specified reason. Lizzie's best friend is moving away to take the job Lizzie herself just turned down. I'd tell you the fable of the dog in the manger, but I think you already know it.

The thing that got me thinking about this whole deal, though, was this. Notice I said "narrative" just now. The Lizzie Bennett Diaries are a direct update of Pride and Prejudice; it follows the plot exactly, with a couple of topical changes (the racelifts, the swimmers, job offers vs marriage) that make sense given that it's an update. But it's still a known narrative: I can go to Wikipedia and look up what's just happened and what will happen next.
This Doctor Who story is an entirely new thing. All I knew going in was that Arthur Darvill (who plays Rory, for those of you not yet in the know) said there'd be a cliffhanger leading into tomorrow's season premiere. He didn't say it would involve Steven Moffat punching us all in the gut, as is his executive wont. There's no prestructured narrative, from the perspective of the audience: even with all the online spoilers, everything new is totally new and surprising.

And this didn't make me feel any less like I want a hug. Oh well, I guess I'll go celebrate Bad Wolf Day early.

A little back-to-school pop culture analysis

I have returned to Pittsburgh; the big thing right now, aside from the obvious eighteen credits, is preparing all the clubs I'm on the board of for the school year. Making sure Teahouse has enough spoons (and schmoozing freshmen--when did I learn to schmooze? Must have been in China), getting on the same page with my ex about the Doctor Who Club meeting for the season premiere, three hours of tabling at the Activities Fair, all the good stuff. And I've been relaxing by picking things apart.

First, Nathan Fillion. He really is ruggedly handsome...and I've finally forgiven him, three days after seeing it, for being Captain Hammer in Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. The character of Captain Hammer takes the little bit of immature assholery that make Malcolm Reynolds and Richard Castle amusing, and makes it a defining character trait. But that's not the worst part. The worst part is that you go into Dr. Horrible expecting a lighthearted parody of superhero movies, with heroes that are heroes and villains that are villains. But about the middle of Act II, what's been staring you in the face for fifteen minutes finally slaps you: Billy's an ordinary nerd, and Captain Hammer is deliberately messing with him. And from there, the audience's expectations break down right along with Billy's sanity. And just when you think Dr. Horrible has the upper hand, the bottom drops out.

I'm sure I said at some point on this blog (and if I haven't, I'm saying it now) that I can't play tropes straight anymore. Everything I touch becomes either invoked, subverted, or deconstructed. Joss Whedon writes the same way. And as creepy as Firefly was at times, and as much as I hated Nathan Fillion for what he was doing to poor geeky Neil Patrick Harris...it's beautiful. I can't get it out of my head, not because of the scary, but because of how it transcends scary. Joss Whedon is like Neil Gaiman in that regard: he scares you, but he makes you happy about it.

Next week is the series premiere of Doctor Who. More on that then; I may also blog about "Pond Life," the series of shorts that starts on Monday about Amy and Rory trying to be normal, up until they get dragged back into the Doctor's adventures.

And the other new thing from the Moff this week: three words have been released regarding the next season of Sherlock. The words are "Rat, Wedding, Bow," and I'm fairly sure I know what they mean.

• "Rat" can be the Giant Rat of Sumatra, which is mentioned briefly in "The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire" as "a story for which the world is not yet ready." The story of the giant rat of Sumatra has been written several times by other authors; perhaps the Moff has decided we're finally ready for the story.
• "Wedding" is most likely "The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor," a relatively straightforward runaway-bride case. I look forward to their making it complex and interesting. Alternatively, John could be getting married, as he does at least once (at most thrice, depending on how you order the stories) in the original; however, since everybody but Sherlock and John ship Sherlock/John, I don't think that's likely.
• "Bow" is "His Last Bow," the very last official Sherlock Holmes story. This tells me that the series will end after episode nine.

The Moff has done his homework, and he expects us to do ours. As cheat sheets go, I wouldn't rely on this one for the final, but it's an idea of what you might study.

One more fun thing I came up with today: If David Tennant is TV dipped in chocolate, what are the rest of the New Series Doctors and their Companions? Enjoy.

Week 6: Mahjong, rain, Oxford, and the Enlightenment

It's kind of hard to get my head around that I'm going home in a little over two weeks. Except maybe I have been comprehending it subconsciously: I've been more homesick lately, and more likely to eat Western food--though having a cafe in the dorm helps with that, since in means I don't have to walk twenty minutes to get to the cafeterias on campus.
On the other hand, yesterday I had the most Chinese-y experience I've yet had here, and will probably ever have in this program: my tutor and I and a couple of my classmates spent most of the afternoon at a teahouse. The building was probably a hundred years old. The rituals of steeping and serving the tea (jasmine, by the way, and very good) may not have changed for centuries. The mahjong table was new--the electronic dice and built-in tile shuffler make it maybe thirty years old--but mahjong is mahjong, and all together it gave me a feeling I hadn't yet experienced. I've been to Tian'anmen, and to the Great Wall...but tea and mahjong are the real soul of China.
And the weather held for our excursion. There's been a lot of rain in Beijing lately. Last Saturday floods killed nearly forty people, and it's only supposed to rain more this weekend. Ah well, I guess it's a nice break from hot and humid. If it ever actually rains.
And speaking of last Saturday, that was the evening I finally watched Anonymous. It's a lovely movie; the only people I know of who don't like it are the ones who can't be buggered to put aside their pet theory about who wrote Shakespeare's plays. That the movie supports the Earl of Oxford theory only matters insofar as Edward deVere (said Earl) is a well-constructed and beautifully-acted character. (Not to mention attractive--he's played by Rhys Ifans, whom most people know from Notting Hill, and Jamie Campbell Bower, whom everyone will soon know from The Mortal Instruments.) The point of the story is that no matter who wrote Shakespeare's plays, they're still wonderful works of art, and powerful cultural icons, and a picture of the human condition at a particular point in history that still resonates with modern readers/viewers. All that good stuff.
And so it annoys me that people get bogged down in petty details, and stick to their biases to the point that they can no longer understand why anyone else sees the world differently. Which brings me to this week's episode of Crashcourse, in which John Green tells conflicting stories about the death of Captain Cook and asks whether, since transcending our own biases is so difficult, it's actually worth doing.
My answer: of course it is! As they keep quoting in Up the Down Staircase, "a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?" The fact that something is difficult makes it even more important that we try to do it. Colonizing the Americas was difficult; so were uniting the United States and landing a man on the moon; so too will be curing AIDS and sending manned missions to Mars. Humans do things because they're difficult.
And learning to see things from someone else's perspective shouldn't be all that difficult. To return to the Enlightenment, which I mentioned a couple of months ago and which John Green seems to enjoy talking about: the scientists of the late 18th and early 19th centuries believed it was possible for man to see the world from God's perspective. I'm prepared to argue that we've accomplished that. Now that we can see what a god sees, why do we refuse to see what other human beings see?

Lessons from Abroad: middle of week 4

Almost halfway already. That's a good feeling, oddly enough. The charm of being somewhere exotic and foreign didn't last long...Beida is already just a place to live in. Beyond that, here are some of the things I've learned this week:

• Food from Sichuan province might be hot, but Korean food is as spicy as it gets. One evening last week, I ate at a Korean restaurant on campus. The beef dish I got turned out to be right about at my limit for spicy things; I couldn't eat more than a bite or two at a time. And apparently they make it even hotter in Korea. So I have decided to set a new scale for measuring spiciness, measured in bibimbites (bbb); one bbb is how much my tongue and the roof of my mouth hurt after one bite of that dish (which was not in fact bibimbap, but I needed a cool name). The next day, I ate Sichuan-style liver (it may even have been beef), which was about 3 bbb--that is, it took three bites for my mouth to hurt as much as I remember one bite of the Korean beef taking.
• I'm a lot less picky about food than I thought I would be. I'm still avoiding pork and shellfish where I can, but where I can't I'll eat pork. Various kinds of tofu are also getting less weird for me...and there's some spicy things I find I can eat, because I paid for them and don't want to waste money.
• Thought 1 from homestay: Elderly Chinese people are a lot like elderly Jewish people. I had dinner this evening with my homestay family, an older couple, and the wife was very bubbe-like, urging me to keep eating, making most of the conversation, and occasionally repeating something I'd said to the husband, who wasn't really paying attention. It felt familiar, and was therefore nice. The food was good too--kind of a mild beef chili-soup-thing over beef noodles.
• Thought 2 from homestay: Personal comfort doesn't really seem to be a factor in ordinary Chinese people's lives. My evidence: the beds. Living in the dorm, I thought my bed was uncomfortably hard. Then I moved into the homestay, and discovered how much less comfortable beds could be. The dorm beds now seem nice and soft, and I imagine my bed at home will be heaven. If it's not already too soft.
• The Chinese seem to have a mostly positive stereotype of Jews: they think we're especially smart, and I hope I've met my hosts' expectations in this regard.

Before I go, here's a picture of a Lucky Bird. They're as common on the Beida campus as feral cats, or (for comparison) slightly less common than pigeons in Pittsburgh. And they're prettier than pigeons.

Lessons from Abroad

I've been in China for two weeks already, for an eight-week intensive language-learning program at Peking University, and I'm already getting a decent picture of how urban Chinese society works. I've been so busy lately I almost didn't write this, but here are some lessons I've already learned:

• Americans are neat freaks. In China, there's no assiduous cleaning of restaurant tables and bathroom stalls; certain places will always smell terrible to the average American nose; and if you hand-wash your clothes, it's hard to get the stains out. This is okay. Except that I plan on buying more shirts when I come home to the American standard of cleanliness, because I'm never going to get those beef broth stains out of my light-colored shirts. (Noodles in beef broth behave like spaghetti in tomato sauce; and you'll always be wearing a light-colored shirt when you eat either.)
• Food is fun, when it doesn't get all over you. For one thing, Chinese politeness standards are not American; it's perfectly acceptable to slurp noodles, which I can't seem to do neatly, hence the stains. Still usually fun. For another, chopsticks are awesome things. Third, there's so many exciting dishes, from baozi (the big round dumplings) to chicken soup with the meat still on the bones, to Peking duck in little rice pancakes. (That was an awesome day.)
• You don't need to understand everything that's being said to you to get what's going on. However, when someone is talking directly to you, you'll always wish you could remember all your vocabulary.
• Sunny days are to be appreciated...of course, as with everything else, there are exceptions. We've been lucky enough to have four blue-sky days in a row, but that makes it hotter. Best way to get around that: carry an umbrella. They were invented for the sun, you know.
• Get as much sleep as you can; the teachers will run you ragged.

And with that, I'm gradually off to bed.