So on the last entry, rj was talking about how other cultures might see depression, and how it was weird that they were in a sense "celebrating" depression instead of curing it.

This event is definitely a bit quirky, but I do think that the French have an interesting view of "depression". I mean, these are a people known for producing famous existentialists. For the uninitiated, this philosophy is predicated on the idea that life is completely meaningless. The world isn't fair, bad things can happen at any time to anyone, regardless of what kind of person he is. Life has meaning only insofar as each of us thinks it does. Albert Camus once said that "there is only one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide".

The stereotypical Frenchman should be sitting in a caf�, drinking wine, smoking a cigarette and saying, "Life is shit." Only he's French, so it will come out like "Life is sheet," or "La vie... c'est la merde."

And I will finish this later because I must go to dinner. adieu.

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I ventured, for the second time in my life, into the small calligraphy store in the cobblestone alley near my house. The place is kind of intimidating, and what's more, it's usually always closed. I took a look at the calligraphy inks. They came in every imaginable color. I finally summoned the courage to ask the gloomy-looking shopkeeper for his opinion. I carefully unrolled my new calligraphy set. "I got this as a gift," I said, not mentioning that it was a gift from myself. "But I need to buy some ink."

"Did you get this gift recently?" he asked.
"Yes, for Christmas." He looked puzzled.
"It was from a garage sale," I explained, regretting having described it as a gift.
"Ah," he said, "Because I know the man who has made this calligraphy set, but he has been retired now for a long time."

He got out of his seat and came over to the inks. With a flourish, he opened a secret cabinet and started running through dozens of bottles.

"What color do you want?" he asked.
"Black," I said. There was one black pot of ink sitting out on display.

He couldn't find any black inks in the cupboard. "There isn't any more black ink." His eyes fluttered towards the one on display. I could tell that he didn't want to sell it, for whatever reason... it was his last black one. He looked back at my velvet calligraphy set.

"You can have the one on the display," he finally said. The last pot of black ink, for the girl who will bring his old friend's long-neglected calligraphy set back to life!



Then I went to a giant mall and bought myself a beautiful object that I didn't need:



I'm going to put pastries in it I think, after the candle is gone.

---

My church crush wasn't at church today, so I left pretty soon after the service. French A a arr�t� de me faire des bisous. Je ne sais pas pourquoi. I took the m�tro two stops past my station so that I could walk home in the pouring rain. Ok, so I was mostly doing research for my supernatural/demon/historical/action thriller that I am writing. There is going to be a lot of action in the subway tunnel two stations away from my home station. But after that, I was walking home in the pouring rain.

I saw this notice, it is a show that they're putting on down at the Folies Berg�re with the theme of "Depression":


It is sponsored by Kleenex, Nutella, Ben and Jerry's, and the Snuggle fabric softening bear. They invited a bunch of singers to come and sing their most depressing songs, and everyone is supposed to come in dark clothing. You could win a one-way second-class ticket to Lourdes (which is apparently a tiny town in the Pyr�n�es). I kind of wanted to go but it was sold out. I guess everyone else must be depressed, too. Something about non-stop freezing, pouring rain.

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Be it extremely emotional, controversial, messed up, or whatever, this entry has been password protected.

If you know it, enter it; or, ask me for it.

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At the timely urging of my father (hi Dad!) I applied for the Hawaii job. I think my friend that reminded me about the application deadline is a little miffed because now our applications will be competing. Oh well, as he pointed out, he already lives in Hawaii. Not only did I get three people to agree to write me letters of recommendation, all three of them turned the letters in on time! Sacre bleu!

I have to give a talk over Skype at my old university in an hour and a half and I haven't finished it yet, so I'll come back and write more if the meeting finishes before midnight.

Then I'll update you on the tragic lives of French A and French B....

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My bestie foreversie the Canadian has her last day of work tomorrow.

I ain't even sad.

This is because I'm in severe denial. Once she leaves, I'll probably spend the rest of my time in France hanging out in my office looking at Google Earth and writing sad little philosophical treatises on Nutang.

We're buying her some cheese for her new life in Germany.

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I decided that if I am going to do the "Entry-a-Day" February challenge, that I should practice a little bit ahead of time.

At la cantine there is a sauce called sauce salade. I hate it. The taste is sour, or like horse radish. Essence de kimchi. Its acrid, hideous flavor invades and subdues every other flavor. But I still eat it on everything. I can't help myself. During the first couple of months at the cantine I would think, "You hate this. You hate this sauce," even as I pumped it all over my meat and lentils. I would hate every moment of eating it. But I still did it. I still do.

In a similar way, I read radical feminist newspapers and threads. I don't know why. Everything they say pisses me off. Today I didn't have to look any further than an article in the New Yorker about the history of American women getting tattoos:

The third edition of the book, released yesterday, includes a hundred new photographs that examine how tattoo culture has evolved over the past fifteen years. As Mifflin writes in the introduction, �Tattoos appeal to contemporary women both as emblems of empowerment in an era of feminist gains and as badges of self-determination at a time when controversies about abortion rights, date rape, and sexual harassment have made them think hard about who controls their bodies�and why.� As we approach the fortieth anniversary of Roe v. Wade, this observation is especially resonant.

What? What the hell does a bunch of tattooed circus people in the late 1890s have to do with Roe v. Wade? The author uses Roe v. Wade as a "keyword" at the bottom, so it is probably just a scheme to get as much traffic as possible, but really? You really think women get tattoos to "stick it to The Man"? Men get tattoos for their own personal reasons, but women get tattoos to make statements about their empowerment? I guess if all you study is the oppressive patriarchy, you see every single issue or trend through that lens. When all you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.

I read one feminist thread about how every sex act in the history of mankind before the 1970s should be considered a rape because the unequal power dynamics between men and women made it practicably impossible for the woman to freely refuse the man's advances. What? Have you ever been around any members of the human race?
Some poor schmuck joined the conversation and suggested that a) Many women freely rejected men throughout history, because not all men are savage sex-crazed animals b) Perhaps some of the billions of couples that lived and procreated and died on the Earth actually loved each other, c) It may cheapen the word "rape" to call every sexual act that occurred before 1970 a rape.

Naturally this guy was ritually eviscerated by the forum members after which his genitalia were roasted over a bonfire of outrageous self-congratulatory rhetoric.

Sauce salade leaves a better taste in my mouth.

EDIT: This, on the other hand, is hilarious.

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Yeah, I always have things to write about when I'm not near a computer, and then as soon as I have a bit of free time or access to Nutang it all evaporates. I'm going to go home and cook me up some mac n' cheese.

I will say this-- climate science is as boring as hell.

I've been looking through a bunch of climate science jobs and I think I'd rather stab myself in the foot than do any of them. My job right now is pretty cool, but "satellite data assimilation and intercomparison"? Kill me now. I also figured out that I missed the opportunity to apply for a 60 k/yr lecturer position in Hawaii with 3k annual travel budget and possibility for up to 30k more in "extramural funding". The deadline is actually January 31st but there is no way I can get reference letters before then. If NASA decides they don't want to hire me I'm really going to be cast adrift in the winds of fate.

My needs at the moment:

1) An institution through which I can funnel money
2) Cashmoney
3) Business cards
4) A dog
5) A backyard/garden
6) A place to skate around on a long board

Maybe I'll just buy a miniature golf course by the beach and sell homemade ice cream, french fries, and virgin strawberry daiquiris. I'll incorporate and form a one-person LLC through which I will funnel research money. All of my research will be conducted from the inside of a windmill on the 17th green.

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We are drinking tea. Everyone is speaking Italian. I have been learning to strike the balance between seeming too interested in the conversation, which makes them feel like they have to translate it for me, and seeming too disinterested, which makes them worried that they are boring me. I am listening carefully. I can understand about 20% when I listen very carefully, especially if I have a general idea about what they are talking about. Italian is very much like Spanish, so la vida secreta (secretly taking Spanish in the mornings my second semester of grad school) and my many years of listening to Enrique Iglesias and 97.5 Latino and Proud are paying a small dividend.

Right now I have no idea what they are talking about, and everyone in the room is firing away in rapid Italian. "A fish," explains the girl across from me. "Very big. A tuna." They continue on in Italian.

Ok. Context clue. Five minutes pass by.

"We're talking about a statue," says someone else. "She looks like she's making a poo."

"You aren't missing very much," adds another.

"90% of the time we are talking about food," says my host after a few minutes. "It is this way for all Italians."

We finish our tea. Time for a Prosecco and then off to our 8:45pm dinner reservation. Italia.

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