Doctor Witte's apartment was above her office on Page Street. It was small, but managed to look spacious nonetheless, due to the spartan quality of her furnishings. The living room was no more than two matching chairs, elegant and uncomfortable looking, flanking a small oak table. There was no dining room, only a small two-seater table in the center of a kitchen. The table, with its white cloth cover andvase of wildflowers, and the kitchen itself were pristine, well-stocked and organized in a way that suggested the items in it were purchased by someone who knew what a kitchen should have in it, but never had call to use one herself.

When she did eat in her apartment, it was usually standing over the sink.

The bedroom contained three pieces of furniture; the bed, an armoire that took up most of its own wall, and a vanity by the bedroom's only window. The bed managed to keep the creases at the corners of the sheets in a way that implied it had never once been slept in, although the curious observer might be led to question where the unimpeachable Doctor Witte did sleep, if not in her own bedroom. The armoire was stuffed to the brim with clothing, all on hangars, all pressed. All the shoes, of course, all had cedar shoe trees in them, to help keep their shape. The vanity, with its tiny backless stool, was covered with small, unlabeled vials and jars made of cobalt blue or sepia brown glass. It would not have seemed readily apparent to an onlooker as to what any of them were for, but still, they sat in neat little rows, the largest in the back and the smaller ones in front.

In the main room, where the two chairs and small table made up all there was of a living room, there was nothing decorating the three walls—where the fourth wall would have stood, were instead the kitchen and the door to the bedroom. In place of any art or hangings or decorative statuettes, all three walls were covered with continuous floor to ceiling bookshelves. The books that covered them were categorized first by fiction and non-fiction, then by author, then by title, and then, when appropriate, by year of publication. The number of books was clearly in the hundreds, perhaps even over a thousand, and most curiously, seemed to fit perfectly on the shelves so as to not have any empty spaces, nor have any spill over. As though Doctor Witte knew exactly how many books she needed to purchase to fill the shelves and then stopped altogether.

The truth was, as it usually is, much more exciting and much less easily explained.

But the quantum physics of bookshelves pale in comparison to the oddity of Doctor Witte's desk. Her desk was the only thing in her entire apartment that ever seemed used, and used a great deal from the look of it. It was an old-fashioned affair, with a roll top and drawers and little nooks for wax seals and jars of ink and the like. It had many piles of papers and usually a book, perched and open to a specific, tagged page for reference. There were scraps of paper with jotted notes that still managed to look perfect in her precise, copperplate handwriting.

Other than the fact that it was strange in the sheer fact that it actually seemed lived in, the desk had another wholly unique trait. Should anyone actually attempt to read anything of the papers or books or little scraps of notes on Doctor Witte's desk, they might be surprised to find that none of it made a lick of sense. Sure, the handwriting was neat, and the words were in English, or perhaps French, Latin or Cantonese, but they refused to allow themselves to be read. Sometimes, they'd simply slide off the page should one try to garner their meaning, and sometimes, after intense effort, one could actually catch the full meaning of an entire sentence altogether, only to lose all memory of it upon looking away. It was as though the desk itself, messy and loved, was actually defending itself against prying eyes. And while one might think oneself certifiable for thinking so, the sensation would stick nevertheless until something else would catch the attention and the desk and all of its contents were forgotten altogether.

This, however, is impossible and probably not at all close to the truth.

My goodness, but I'm sleepy. I'd like to blame daylight savings, but I've been ready to fall over since about 6pm. Which means it probably goes without saying, that I haven't done any of the cleaning that I was planning on. I spent all morning/afternoon with Jen, who was cleaning her apartment with such vigor that Martha Stewart would have wept to see. It got me all jazzed up to work on mine and then, bam. Nothing.

I also looked over classes for next semester. If I push myself really hard, I won't be that far away from my degree, which has always seemed indeterminably far in the distance. So, bully on me. I am worried that after I finish latin IV next semester I won't take any more latin and will lose it entirely. I don't want to do that, so I'm amusing myself by imagining taking latin IV over and over again... or something. Not sure.

Last night, I managed to grab some lovely folk together to go see White Ghost Shivers (good as always) and the treat that I was especially looking forward to: Mr. Lewis and the Funeral Five. They were even better live. And Mr. Lewis (Greg) was nice enough to indulge me while I went on and on about how much I love his band when I was drunker than a Singapore dock worker. He even remembered my name... just to give you a good idea of my girlish squeeling. I think we showed David a good time for his first night living in Austin.

Also, I managed to dodge the family bullet. I won't get into the details, but let's just say full week in captivity and leave it at that.

I hope everyone had fun at Pallas! Hopefully will be able to make the next one.

Oh, wow, see if you can stick with me here.

You remember No Doubt? You remember that chick who sang her rocker lungs out about being "just a girl"? Damn, I loved that chick. Of course, there is a possibility that I was thirteen at the time and had the biggest, undoubtedly unrequited crush on Bush's frontman/Gwen Stefani's fiance, Gavin Rossdale.

Yes, I was that kind of teenager.

Well, once the shift came from Anaheim third-wave ska to what I can only guess is eighties dance pop and NOT the good kind, I kind of stopped paying attention. So let's fast forward to finding out about Gwen Stefani's Harajuku Girls.

Like so:


This is apparently an "art project" with multi-faceted purposes. Firstly, the Harajuku Girls are promotion for Stefani's fashion line Harajuku Lovers. Secondly, they're apparently the collective muse for her album, Love. Angel. Music. Baby. And thirdly, to dance/drape/pose in the background for music videos/photo shoots/walks down the red carpet.

And because Asian Americans are cute and doll-like, while we're dressing them up, we're also changing their names (to Love, Angel, Music and Baby. How adorable! How quaint! How novel!), calling them "figments of [her] imagination" and, my personal favorite, contractually obligating them to speak only Japanese.

But those big mean meanies out there aren't as pleased with Stefani's dress-up dolls as one persecuted musician might hope. Such as comedienne Margaret Cho, who posted to her blog:

I mean, racial stereotypes are really cute sometimes, and I don’t want to bum everyone out by pointing out the minstrel show. I think it is totally acceptable to enjoy the Harajuku girls, because there are not that many other Asian people out there in the media really, so we have to take whatever we can get. Amos ‘n Andy had lots of fans, didn’t they? At least it is a measure of visibility, which is much better than invisibility. I am so sick of not existing, that I would settle for following any white person around with an umbrella just so I could say I was there.

Well, worry not, Miss Cho, apparently you just haven't done your research. As Stefani tells ew.com:

She didn't do her research! The truth is that I basically was saying how great that culture is. It pisses me off that [Cho] would not do the research and then talk out like that. It's just so embarrassing for her. The Harajuku Girls is an art project. It's fun!

Cho has two replies to this. The first was a reply to ew.com in an email:

I absolutely agree! I didn't do any research! I realize the Harajuku Girls rule!!! How embarrassing for me!!! I was just jealous that I didn't get to be one! I dance really good!!!

And the second was to Verbicide magazine:

[Gwn Stefani] commented on [my blog] that [I] 'didn't do my research' when it came to the Harajuku Girls. I just thought it was funny, because I didn't know I had to do research to be Asian, or to be offended by another Asian image, in order to talk about it. But I think it's a good thing, because it's one of the first steps to making white people afraid of me.

In the meantime, Stefani is utterly perplexed by how racist people were being!

Stefani continues: ”I was surprised how racist everybody was about them. Especially when I came over here and they’d make all these jokes, like Jonathan Ross.” Ross, a British TV host, asked Stefani whether an ”imaginary hand job” from one of her ”imaginary” dancers would count as cheating on his wife. Stefani responds, ”Everybody’s making jokes about Japanese girls and the stereotypes. I had no idea [I’d be] walking into that.”

You'd be walking into that? YOU would be walking into that terrible racial stereotype? Gee, Gwen that must be so damn hard for you, having to put up with all that racism. I feel for you. Really.

In other words:

Bitch, please.

Oh, you want to know what Caelius told Cicero about the conflicts between Pompey and Caesar that led to the second civil war? No problem, man, I can tell you. What's that? Curious about how Sulla and his ilk led to the first triumvirate? I'm all over that shit. Is tradant a relative clause of characteristic or what's perturbatura doing in that sentence? Well, you can bet your mother its a subjunctive in a quin clause with a verb of doubting that has been negated.

Is Thisbe being a smug bastard? Maybe, but she's a smug bastard who just kicked the ass of her latin exam... feel free to assume subsequent fist pumping into the air.

Valete.

Yesterday was so unerringly fabulous that I feel like actually putting it to letters might break it. Just trust me on this, it was very, very good.

Now, if you see that disturbing sparkle of an idea in my eye, rest easy. There's certainly nothing you can do to stop me.

I just twisted my fucking ankle. God, I'm a twat. After fifteen minutes of limping across the damn apartment complex, I called Sean and asked him to help me up the stairs. I can't put any goddamn weight on it. Ugh, I really really hope the frozen veggies stop the swelling and I can walk tomorrow, I have a lot I have to do.

... dammit.

Mesdames and Messires,

For too long, great minds have been at odds. Woe unto the bleak future should we, the gifted elite, herald in the twentieth century battling amongst each other when there are such better and loftier goals at hand. So here, in your respected hands, sits the invitation to put such pettiness behind us.

Scientist who the public might call "mad", thaumaturgists who may be misnomered "devil-mongerers", and other geniuses shunned by those who don't understand nor show the proper respect to, you are cordially requested to attend the Mad Scientists' Tea Party.

H.M.S. Rapture, the infamous dirigible, will be taking off from the Hidden Gardens launching grounds, ports 216 & 217, this very evening at 7 o'clock in the p.m.

Much effort and planning on the parts of the notorious Doc Sinister, the illustrious Miss Mongfish, and many others (my most humble self included) has been undergone in the attempts to make this an evening you shan't soon forget.

With the utmost respect and in piety & science,

Mdme. Rosamund
Headmistress of Rosamund's Academy for Technologically Advanged Young Girls.

It's finally here! Oh happy day. I do hope to see you all there. Costumes and characters are, of course, appreciated, but if you found yourself unable, please come still, as I doubt you'd want to miss this...

So, since people were actually interested, I'm making a post specifically about getting into my skirts.

( Info here. )