Adventures of a StairMaster -or- Perhaps you should consider a system of Post-It Notes

Thud thud thud thud thud thud slam.

The first thing you have to know is that my apartment is made of concrete blocks.

The second thing you have to know is that I live at the top of three flights of stairs, right on the landing.

Thud thud thud thud thud thud slam.

And so. I was all prepared to take a break from Foucauldian hoohah on the discourse of whatnot and post a new saint, or pope, or infectious disease that would entertain and divert all of us, but then...

Thud thud thud thud thud thud slam.

Now, I am a reasonable person. I do not begrudge anyone the use of the stairs, at any time in which they may wish to use them. I do not object to people clomping up the stairs, or to people singing forlornly (read drunkenly) on the stairs, or to people badly mangling "Hotel California" on their lame acoustic guitar which they think makes them cool in the general vicinity of the stairs (although I may make a few choice comments), or to people flinging lingerie into the trees surrounding the stairs - and really, how long is that bra going to stay there? No indeed, I encourage stair usage in all its many wonderful guises and forms. I don't even make much of a fuss about stair hygiene, even though Certain of Our Neighbors consistently mistake the landing for a landfill, an easy mistake...no, I say to myself, "oh, an empty milkjug strewn carelessly on the landing! What a jolly opportunity for a vicious kick and nice string of profanity!" and I go on about my day, with the ol' anger issues firmly in check.

Thud thud thud thud thud thud slam.

No, what I object to is abject stupidity. In all its forms. But especially the form of the head case who lives next door and makes it his personal mission to traipse up and down the stairs, on average, between the hours of eleven p.m. and one a.m., every seven to eight-and-a-half minutes.

Thud thud thud thud thud thud slam.

Which, of course, begs the question...what can he possibly need? Why the hell can't he take whatever's upstairs and leave it downstairs, or drag the whole damn downstairs world up to his apartment, or create a clever system of levers and pulleys which, when operated correctly, will allow him to comfortably avoid the upstairs-downstairs dilemma entirely?

Thud thud thud thud thud thud slam.

But perhaps I am doing him an injustice. Perhaps there is an Indian maiden, turned into a tree by a jealous god, who can only see her lover at dawn or at dusk, and so....but wait. He wouldn't have to tromp up and down the stupid stairs for that.

Well. If there's no Indian maiden, then I say, no excuse. (And there's your Bad Epigram for the day.)

Thud thud thud thud thud thud slam.

All I know is, he'd better straighten it out pretty soon, because otherwise, it might just happen that a milkjug strewn carelessly on said landing will find itself in the middle of the stair tread around eleven-thirty at night, and then, then, Sonny Jim, you won't be climbing any stairs at all for awhile.

Thud thud thud thud thud thud slam.

Hey, you - wanna be like Shakespeare? Here's your chance!

All right, e-savvy Web denizens, I need your help.

It's time to invent a word.

(insert word here): v.trans., to poke around the Web pointlessly, just for the hell of it (e.g. <I was looking at shoes on Amazon, and ended up (the word)ing; eventually I learned about Sri Lankan candle making and dropped forty bucks on handmade candles.>)

I suspect I am not the only person who often spends serious amounts of time eschewing the information superhighway to trip aimlessly down the e-garden path, just to see what I find. It's like poking through someone else's closet without those troublesome "guilt" issues or unfortunate restraining orders...but I digress.

So, what is the verb for that? "Browsing" or "surfing" are not adequate, plus they sounds stupid. We need something which conveys a feeling of even more pointlessness and serendipity. Comment, please, and check the OED to see if you're really being original or just whistling linguistic Dixie. There'll be a prize for the best submission.

Okay, I lied. There is no prize. But you will accrue great karmic benefits and perhaps even attain enlightenment. Right, I'm lying about that as well.

Counting are hard

Today's pope comes to you from Auvergne. Silvester II was elected on 2 April 999 and died 12 May 1003. A strong opponent of debauchery (and incidentally, known as the Blessed Pope Not-as-hip-as-the-Borgias), he was highly cultured and introduced the use of Arabic numerals.

As you probably know, cognoscenti that you are, Arabic numerals are especially useful in that they include zero as a placeholder. Roman numerals do not do this, on account of the fact that they are letters and look nothing like numbers at all (please note that in antiquity people were always mixed up about this: in fact they counted backwards for hundreds of years until the birth of Christ, when he reminded everyone, "blessed are the good at counting, for they shall count forward, which is the right way, obviously").

As we join our hero, millenial anxiety is sweeping Europe. Modern historians, foaming at the mouth for the chance to use the term "eschatalogical," have argued that belief in an imminent Apocalypse led to the general eschatalogical fervor.

Lies.

Everyone in Europe suddenly realized that without zeros, it would be imposible to write "The Year 1000" - instead, they would only be able to write "The year 1, um, well, it's big, right? And it comes after nine hundred and ninety-nine? So, that one - er, damn, that year." Massive anxiety about how one's checks were to be dated and dissatisfaction with writing the date as "1/1/lots," or, even sillier, "1/1/M," led Pope Silvester II to introduce the number zero, thus averting an almost certain Y1K crisis.

So that's all true. Especially the bit about how he was opposed to debauchery.

Education for its own sake "a bit dodgy"

On May 9, 2003, "The Guardian" reported the following:

"Charles Clarke, the education secretary, has continued his assault on the great subjects of academe by revealing that he regards medieval history as "ornamental" and a waste of public money.

Not long after expressing the view that he didn't think much of classics and regarded the idea of education for its own sake as "a bit dodgy", Mr Clarke, who read maths and economics at King's College, Cambridge, went one further.

"I don't mind there being some medievalists around for ornamental purposes, but there is no reason for the state to pay for them," he said on a visit to University College, Worcester. He only wanted the state to pay for subjects of "clear usefulness", according to today's Times Higher Educational Supplement."


Well.

Pursuant to this, I am now draped in ivy and sitting on a doily, attempting to be as ornamental as possible. I'm seriously considering purchasing some colored floodlights and completely redesigning my lighting scheme. A few throw pillows, perhaps.


But lest you cry, "where is the pope of the day?" I have forestalled your request. Today we meet St. Wilgefortis, the Saint of the Day (see? it isn't always popes). Attend:

The legend makes her a Christian daughter of a pagan King of Portugal. Young Wilgefortis had a rather nasty quarrel with her royal Dad, over his insistence that she marry a pagan prince. She wasn't interested at all, and prayed to God for aid.

God caused a beard to grow upon her chin.

The bearded-babe-princess thing didn't fly in pagan Portugal, though, so King Dad did the only thing he could, and had her crucified.

While on the cross, a fiddler wandered by and started sawing away. St. Wilgefortis kicked off one of her boots (some say in gratitude, but maybe she was trying to get him to shut the hell up so she could get on with being crucified). The fiddler was arrested for stealing one her boots (other important fact: the boots were made out of gold) but the good saint kicked off her other boot, too, and the fiddler was absolved.

Play it again, Sam.

Technologically-empowered self-indulgent narcissism (and hyphenation)

So, yes, this is my own personal blog. How trendy.

Of course, some of you may read "Mistress Katia," which you should continue to do. Or Else.

The point of this thing (besides self-indulgent narcissism) is to help me stay in touch with friends and family during the next several years, during which I'll be traveling A LOT. So here, you can always get the latest on egg salad sandwiches, the intricacies of grammar and diction, witty and biting commentary on fellow humans (remember what I said about self-indulgent narcissism?), and of course, the ever-popular POPE OF THE DAY. Popularized by the well-beloved Pope Chart.

So without further ado, the Pope of the Day is....(drumroll please)

Conon (the Slightly Ill-Mannered)

Born in Thrace, he was elected on the 21st October 686 and died on the 21st September 687 (a quick but sincere papacy). His pontificate was deeply disturbed by the anarchy which prevailed in the Church. He was often the victim of the sly followers of the Byzantine Empire (those sly, sly, shifty-eyed Greeks...). He is supposed to have been poisoned (but due to a last-minute sly change of plans, and the fact that the sly followers of the Byzantine Empire never got the poisoning memo, he was sent a lovely fruit basket instead; fortunately he was allergic to bananas). Okay, he was probably poisoned. But still, Byzantines and bananas...a sly and oft-deadly combination!