Syllabus #187

On Friday, I got pulled at the last minute to cover an hour of music class.  To my utter delight, it was a 5th grade class that would be practicing their repertoire of recorder melodies.  You truly haven't lived until you've conducted a roomful of 10 year olds through a heartfelt performance of Hot Cross Buns.

Lol forever at this Slate article about the physics of greased pole climbing vis a vis the Eagles potentially winning the Super Bowl.  I'm reading it and they quote this 38 year old pole dancer from Philly whose name is SO familiar, and then it hits me.  I had 3 roommates freshman year, and one of them used to steal everyone else's food and use the rest of our dishes without ever washing anything.  I did some light googling to confirm, and it was, indeed, my long lost friend.  [She was unpleasant to live with, but her antics seemed cute in comparison to the sophomore year sea hag who threatened to stab the rest of us, and trust me when I say it was not an empty threat.]  ANYwho, glad to see she's thriving.

I'm trying to understand who these etiquette rules are for?  The internet is freaking out about this eclectic list of social mores from The Cut, so naturally I had to see what all the fuss was about.  And I'm left with only one assumption, which is that there exists a portal to a bizarro uncanny valley world where people look and act and behave mostly like the people in this world, with enough subtle differences to make you question your sanity.  For example, I don't go to a lot of parties, but WHO is setting out bowls of cigarettes for their guests?  Bowls of nuts, candies, mints, pills*, sure even condoms if it's that kind of party**, but cigs?    

71.

 If you put out bowls of cigarettes at a party, you have to let people smoke inside.

They’re not décor.

*I've never been to that kind of party

**Or that kind, but this is a judgment free zone!  Except about bowls of cigarettes.  Ew.

Analog Reading:

Fairy Tale by Stephen King was an excellent exercise in and meditation on storytelling.  It did take a turn into the gory horror bloodbath at which King excels, but there's something so different about reading it on the page versus seeing it on screen.  Your mind's eye makes it exactly as grotesque as you can handle, whereas actually seeing someone else's interpretation of Pennywise the Clown with blood dripping from his fangs, or watching Kathy Bates slam that mallet into the dude's ankles so his feet flop like discarded sock puppets is almost unbearable.

Mrs. Fletcher by Tom Perrotta is SPICY as hell.