like Bush, like Shrub

"The happy ending is our national belief." -- Mary McCarthy

Didn't take long for him to start pretending to be his father. It's hilarious and creepy to hear him explain the No-fly Zone at the press conference this afternoon.

In other news. It wasn't such a bad day. I took the first half of my government test and turned in my astronomy homework. My astronomy professor has the most bizarre grading system. 80-100 is an A. So I got an A on my exam. Hmm. Wild. Took my Czech exam and I think I might have done pretty well. We talked about WWII and the Nazis, and all the hotels we will visit in Prague class.

Professor L. started yelling at me in Czech today, while I was teasing him about his office. I just looked at him and said "I don't want to hear it" in Russian. He stopped, thought a second and grinned. "Good answer," he said. This is why I love my professors. They are so much fun.

mixed emotion

It's hard to know if I feel sad for the farmers who can't afford to farm, or happy for the people getting these potatos.
Farmers offer millions of spuds to poor
WASHINGTON (AP) -- Some 360 truckloads of Idaho potatoes are headed to food banks around the country, a gift from farmers who say they couldn't afford to sell the spuds.

Because of a huge crop last fall, the potatoes are worth so little that farmers say they are better off letting them rot into fertilizer than taking them to market. So rather than do that, the farmers' wives suggested giving away as many of the spuds as they could.

Slavic film nights

This is the magic page that tells you when the nifty cool Slavic Film Series happens. The last two movies are personal favorites of mine, though Alice did frighten me.

It cracks me up that Professor C.'s email address is svejk@.. what a goof ball. And Professor L.'s email now includes his good German middle name. There is a man with some history.

I am cold and lonely and out of things to do. Where are you?

notebook opened

One day I will learn to write. Yes. Real things, instead of notebook paper fragments.

Since I'm balanced on the edge of it anyway, I'm going to turn the stereo up loud and sing until I lose my voice. There is something about these songs of obsession. Something obsessive in me. Something that is definitely not quite put together right. Which would explain so many things and so little, and I have done everything already... but he smiles when he looks at me. Takes me a moment to remember where I am when I look at you like that.
*****
What I've been, I've been everyone else, at this point another change can be so easy. It does matter. I have a stack of books I've never opened but knowledge is so easy in this game. We play in the spaces in between, a thousand words to complete the sentence and when we speak we have the same eyes.
*****
"You told them everything?" he asked, his face expressionless.
"Of course," I nearly shouted before I caught myself. I put my hands up to the top of the shelf and pulled another library book down, deliberately ignoring his cold voice. The open pages crackled, old and faded. Soviet Literature 1929.
*****
He smiles at me and I feel so light. We listen to sirens annihilate the music, and I remember that novel, wondering if it felt this way when he was writing it. This utterly intangible sensation, this unbearable lightness of being.