It's in!

It's in. I handed my thesis to my advisor yesterday. Wow, did it feel good. I'm not happy happy with the third chapter, but that's what revisions are for. It feels like a weight has been lifted. And I feared a reaction along the lines of, uhhhh, you think 5 weeks is enough to do all this?! But it wasn't bad. Advisor says it's doable. So I will probably graduate in January. THANK GOD!

Sorry this post is neither funny nor intellectual, my faithful readers. No sexy pictures either. But I'm too busy taking it easy this weekend to think. ;)

When I write, it looks like this...

See the duster? When I am stumped, I clean. And the Chicago Manual is never far from me.














Sam looks a little annoyed, doesn't he? He was just attacking my papers before I took this. What a stinker!













Someone has a lil caffeine problem, no?










You may be wondering why I have two copies of the same book. Well, I had one, and it fell behind my desk. Tangled up in the wires as it was, I couldn't find it. Unfortunately, it had since gone out of print. Temple's library doesn't have it (big surprise). And since about half my images came from it, I needed it badly. So I go the gallery where the show was. I ask. I have to flirt just a little. And I get to buy it again. Thaaaaaanks, gallery dude. Thought it'd be free. Anyway, when I moved my desk out of the corner, lo and behold! It fell out of the sky!



I am suprised that I am still married, I must say. I guess I have to thank Kev in my acknowledgements, don't I?

What am I writing about right now?

I am writing about the Penthouse pictures. What fun!! I am detailing their reception, and the polarization of the audience that they entail. I am writing about working practice and sources and all kinds of fun stuff. Want to see Figures 16-20? I know you do, so
here...

One down, two to go!!

Chapters that is. Of my thesis. That's right, I've completed a chapter, my friends. Yaaay-ah! I feel better, a little lighter. I can't wait to hand it in. I think I can do so by Wednesday. Definitely by the weekend, so I can just hang out and be happy happy happy at Andrew's wedding. And I have to buy something to wear. I hope this damn rain lets up, because outdoor hippy wedding + rain = naked, woodstock-style mudsliding. I don't think that's the wedding Nicole is dreaming of, though.

Wish me luck with finishing!

Ahh, Caravaggio

This fine soggy morning, I am going up to NYC to see some Caravaggios. Caravaggio was a painter in the 17th century, and was something of a rock star way before rock was even born. He was your typical romantic artist, homosexual, violent type, or at least that's how they portray them in the media (then and now). Anyway, the Met has three Caravaggios, I think. There are only 7 in the whole US, so that's a pretty strong concentration.

We're going to meet our prof up there around 2 and get a lecture. But I'm up this early because Kev called at 7am. I thought there was something to worry about. He just thought we were leaving mega early. No way. 10am is much better. But I'm up, so I'm cleaning and obviously blogging. Because unlike normal people, who would just charge right through tasks they don't like, I prolong the pain through procrastination. Hello, thesis? But I digress.

There is some kind of terror alert for the subways today. So I'm thinking it's not the best time to try and navigate the system. Springing for a cab sounds like a better idea to me. But if I do that, have the terrorists won? I don't care, I just don't wanna die. And since Kev and I got into an accident in his pops' car, and I managed to be the only one who got hurt, I figure I shouldn't take chances.

Yet another non art post, but...

Man, did I get hurt yesterday. I fell down the steps. It was bad. And it was because I was fighting with my mother. (Remember, I still live with my mom, even though I'm married?) Well, arguing. Well, she was nagging me and I was mocking what she had just said to me and it made no sense. If you know my mom, you know what I mean.

So anyway, I must have missed a step. Or five. I dunno, all I remember was yelling, then flying, then falling. To stop myself, I used my foot. Which is now bruised and swollen and very owy. And I have a bruise on my ass. I narrowly avoided a support column in the basement. Maybe 2 inches separated me from knocking myself unconscious and killing my brain. I wonder if I impaired my brain function if they'd cancel my student loans. I don't think I should have to pay them back if all the schooling leaked out in a freak accident. But I digress.

So I sit here typing this while I should be at a Pearl Jam concert. That kind of sucks. A lot. But I couldn't drive there, park in South Philly at John's house, and then walk to the subway. I couldn't take it! So I'm sorry about that.

There's a lesson to be learned here. I'm probably not going to stop fighting with my mom, not with her frustrating knack of nagging me for not being exactly like her. But at least now I know to keep the arguments stationary. Now I'm going to ice my ankle again. Cause owwwwwwww.

I don't want my blog to be a cheesy internet thing place, but..

Please go here. It's... just... the weirdest!

http://www.badgerbadgerbadger.com/

MUSHROOM MUSHROOM!

Another something fun

Please go here. Ridiculous!

Me and Bobby D.

JPoops brings up a good point in his comment. Now, logically, I know I shouldn't. I kind of don't even want to. But I have to admit it, I HATE BOB DYLAN!

Maybe hate is the wrong word. I don't like him though. I know I should. I like a lot of bands that like him, that are even directly influenced by him. I am the wife of a musician, for God's sake! And a pretentious art nerd besides! And the reason is so superficial. It's...

The VOICE. Good God, to me, it's like nails on a chalkboard. Or a drunk goose barking at me. I can admit that he has great songs, and his writing is impeccable. But sweet merciful crap, I do not want to hear him sing. At all. Ever.

Now, this isn't intended to be mean to Mr. Dylan. I respect him, a lot. But I don't like him. Or love him, which is what, it seems, I am supposed to do. I dunno. Maybe I have horrible taste in music. Judge for yourself in the previous entry. But I can't make myself like him. I know I'm wrong, so don't lecture me in the comments that you big fat won't leave.

Bad Lauren, bad bad Lauren.

Lamenting the bygone record

At the gathering of art nerds party, Kevin and I got into a conversation with a professor of mine. She's super cool, an archaeologist who specializes in Rome. I take lots of classes with her because Rome is my favorite art to look at. Not study as much as to look at it. So cool! But I digress.

She said that on her dig this summer in France, she was saddened by the proliferation of Ipods that the students brought. She couldn't listen to the music they were bobbing their heads to. Of the something-teen diggers, only 3 didn't have ipods.

This lead to the discussion of people buying songs instead of CDs. Kev's new job was the lead-in for that. Which then lead to the discussion of why bands don't make ALBUMS anymore. So I started thinking of albums that I love to listen to, straight through, no skips. I came up with a list, a short one.

Anything by the Beatles after Revolver (which may be my favorite)
David Bowie-- Ziggy Stardust
Nirvana Unplugged-- stripped bare and raw. Not overproduced
Def Leppard-- Hysteria. Totally overproduced. Subject of a gushy blog entry of mine.
Green Day-- might be ruining my street cred here, (as if Def Leppard didn't kill it anyway) but this is a NEW album and it's good.
Police-- Synchronicity-- reminds me of being little and listening to my dad's big ass headphones
Weezer- pinkerton.

Care to add any? NB-- this is not to say that I don't enjoy mix CDs, and I'd take an Ipod if someone else is buying. But it's kind of sad that fewer and fewer bands are making real records any more. It's not a bad medium, ya know?

A gathering of the art nerds

Last night we had our annual party for the department at the Graduate Chair's house. As always, it was fun. Lots of chi chi food, wine as far as the eye can see, and for the first time this year, pretentious beers supplied by the Pattersteins. (that's me and Kev).

It's kind of strange to hang out with people who usually you have a completely different relationship with. We hang out, us students, occasionally, but throw the profs in as well and it can get a little weird. But this year, the profs cleared out early. Probably because it rained and it was crowded in the house. We were all afraid of knocking art off the walls, I'm sure.

It was fun, this year, because we are all a big group and we can talk about things other than classes and art. Kev even found one of the girls' boyfriends and they talked about their bands, which have eerie similarities, and photo. I always feel kind of bad for him, because he doesn't feel all that comfortable with the people from school. I wouldn't feel all that comfortable walking in to a semi-established group, either. I am socially retarded, but at least I know these people already.

We talked until we got kicked out, about 11:30. The drive back to the great Northeast was scary, because I had to drive my handles like a sack of potatoes Taurus on Lincoln then Kelly drive. Think tight curves, small lanes and assholes screaming past at 55 miles per hour in a 25 zone. SCARY! On the way home, we stopped at McDonalds. I am not sophisticated, and these parties always confirm this for me.

At the Christmas party last year, I brought chicken fingers. Of course they went, and faster than the tofu containing pasta junk, and the bitter salads. I felt vindicated when the son of one of our professors remarked, "Oh, thank God, real food!" and scarfed down six fingers himself. Sophisticated, Lauren is not. But pleasing to the masses, and that's something.

Check this out, it's fun

This may be old as the internet itself, but it cracks me up every time. Could be cause the cat looks a little like Sammyboy.

...and I dance dance dance. and I dance dance dance

The infamous thesis and my favorite kind of collectible

So I've given myself a deadline. Two weeks and I have to hand a draft in to my advisor. This can work, I can do this. Really, it's like 3 twenty page papers. I write 20 page papers in a weekend. I even wrote one in a day when the pope died the weekend I was writing a presentation. Thank god it was on Alice Neel, whose work I've already written on. Because, if you know me in real life, you know that I am a popafanatic. I love cheesy Catholic memoribilia, especially Papal kitsch. My good friend Lori at school studied in Rome this semester. She bought me a fan-freakin-tastic keychain. Gold ring, with a disc that spins. On one side, JP deuce. On the other, Benny. How cool is that? I have to remember to Krazy glue JP, his puffy sticker fell off.

Anyway, I think I should get presents when I graduate in December. I also think I deserve a party. A big one. Not huge, like in a hall. That'll be in 2019, when I finally write my dissertation and graduate with a PhD. Kev says then he'll buy me a brooch and a scarf. Standard art historian wear. But I think I deserve something for getting my Masters. I want to go to a spa. Get a massage, a facial and a pedicure.

I got a facial for the first time in May for our anniversary. Spent some money (paper) to get relaxed. Great present, by the way. And if my skin is clear, I won't look so much like a student. And then I will be more respected, dare I say more professional? My jerk ass advisor kind of suggested me wearing suits and stuff when I TA's for him last semester. NO fuckin way! I am an artiste, or at least an artistic soul, and I am not dressing like a lawyer to gain respect. Anyway, so the expense of a facial is justified, and I think I could even use some student loan money to pay for it. Don't you?

Sorry about the security measures

I've enabled word verification, in order that I not get spammed again. BOOO! I love comments, I want everyone to comment on my blog. But not spammers. Spam is the worst type of suck. Suckity suck suck. So the word verification is an extra step and sort of a hassle, but hopefully it will only discourage spammers and not my loyal readers ;)

You people and the washing of the hands!

I'll never understand how people have guests at their house and don't have soap in their bathrooms. Honestly! I mean, fine, you don't wash your hands after peeing or pooping, but give your guests the opportunity to choose! And it's really really gross when you don't. Gross!!

When I am in the house after I realize that they don't wash their hands, I'm all skeeved out. I just get a CSI image of feces streaked sofas and countertops.

This entry is so nasty. But it's my greatest pet peeve in life. eeeeeeeeew! The title is a quote from my cousin Gianna, who is seven. She is from a house that also has no soap in the bathrooms. She seems to think we, as a family, have some kind of problem with washing our hands. I don't know about that...

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!

Wow, just read over the post from last night. Holy crap, I ramble when I'm hurting! What was I doing on the computer anyway?

This weekend is my last one of freedom before school starts. It's the weekend of the christening. Oh boy! Our family and the baby's dad's family in one place, let the white trash wars begin! Of course, there are so many more of them than us, but what we lack in numbers we more than make up for in intensity. Can't wait to update all my rabid readers about this!

School's In! Let the pain begin!

I went to campus today for an introductory breakfast that I helped to organize. We have a student group within the department. It's silly, the acronym is GAHO (graduate art history organization) and we pronounce it gay-ho. I don't think everyone understood when we named it. I said, "G-A-H-O, gay-ho". And they all say, "There it is, our name" to which I reply, "No guys, gay. ho" Do they expect us to be taken seriously with that name? Really?

Anyway, it's funny that later on in the day, I got a migraine. I've been migraine free for about a month now. It's school, it just has to be! Migraines are awful, and I wouldn't wish them on the girl who was supposed to be my best friend in high school who convinced me how much I still really cared for this guy I had been seeing and got me to admit it and tell him and then we went out again and then one night I caught her at my boyfriends house and he was cheating on me with this girl who was totally busted looking and had a big broad back and a hairy upper lip. I mean, I don't think I'm gorgeous or anything, but seriously, I am wayyyy hotter than her. Yeah, so I wouldn't wish the pain of a migraine on her, even.

It makes me sad sometimes that I have to take preventative medicine for my migraines. By the way, don't call them headaches to a person who gets them. I get headaches occasionally too, but migraines are so much worse because they involve nausea, sensitivity to light, sound, smell, and they just hurt like hell on top of it. For me, the pain is always in my eyes, and that is just the worst place for pain. Except maybe your mouth, that sucks too. Anyway, I worry about what I'm doing to my liver. I take a beta-blocker to stop them from coming, Zyrtec for allergies, the sniffling associated with the allergies triggers my migraines, and of course the good ole birth control pill. And then when I get a headache, I take Imitrex. My own little helper. The only bad thing about that drug is that it makes me all flushed. Looking like you've been slapped on both cheeks is not a good look, but anything to take away the searing hot nauseaeous (good lord is that a hard word to say!) pain.

Another side effect is an urge to ramble. I should cut this off before I write another 38 word sentence.

Waiting for the shoe to drop

I sent in a paper to the Rutgers Art Review. It's a grad student publication, and I had thought that I'd have a pretty good chance. That is until I looked up past issues and saw that there are about six papers per year accepted. Oh, now there goes my self-confidence. No way I'll get in now. So I'm waiting for my rejection letter.

The paper is pretty good, though, if I do say so myself. It's about an artist named Hannah Wilke. She was a performance artist and photographer. She did a lot of pieces that involved her being all nakey and stuff. And since she was pretty, she got a lot of craph for it from feminist writers. Ah yes, the f word again. So the gist of the paper is the limitations of working within the feminist rubric when dealing with Wilke's art. Here's the kicker. She died of Lymphoma, a type of cancer, when she was in her early fifties. And she documented the deterioration of her body on film. In brilliant color, not black-and-white, which would give it a more documentary effect. There was also this strong Catholic underpinning in the imagery. And the posthumous show in which this Intra-Venus work was shown served as a memorial/pilgrimmage/relic of her life. Because she showed herself going through these changes and disfiguring of her once-beautiful body, she was lauded for her courage. And her early work was championed in that it served as reminder of her former self. One has to ask oneself-- if she had not gotten sick and died, would her earlier work have been so widely accepted and praised, retrospectively.

Ah, I go on. But that's what the paper is about. I'm pretty proud of it, but I don't think it'll get accepted. Paying dues sucks, and I can't wait to have the PhD after my name to make this all worth my while.

And just so you know, since I never really do this, the second post of the day is so that my blog doesn't have 13 posts in it. Cause I'm crazy superstitious like that. ;)

Strangest request, ever, revisited

Okay, so the funeral for my cousin's wife's mother was on Friday. The typical big Catholic to-do, with viewings and everything all packed in to a couple of fun-filled hours. I wrote the eulogy the night before, as is my usual operating schedule. And it was pretty good, if I do say so myself. Considering I didn't know the lady and all. She used to paint in her spare time. Wouldn't necessarily call her an artist, but that's just me being a snob and not really enjoying her paintings of puppies and stuff. So I did this whole paintings theme. I gave them what they wanted. But my mom, who as you may remember, was reading said eulogy, and she made a few mistakes. First, she got the year of the lady's birth wrong. Not my fault, it was a typo on the notes. And she said the completely wrong month for my cousin's birthday. (Had to do with Corrine being the light of the lady's life, etc etc) But all in all, considering we didn't know this person very well, it went off fine. Although my sister and I did overhear someone saying "Who is that lady" when my mom was at the lecturn reading my speech.

And a big shout out to Andrew M for reminding me of the Newsradio episode in which Dave writes a eulogy for a guy at the office who everyone just barely knew. At least this lady didn't end up having any major skeletons in her closet!

Strangest request, ever

My cousin's wife's mother died this week. (Got that?) She died of some sort of digestive system cancer. Irene was a nice lady. I've met her a few times, at showers for Kelly (the cousin's wife) and their kids' birthday parties. I've been to her house, maybe once or twice. But I didn't know her very well.

Which brings me to my point. Why would they ask me to write her eulogy?! It's not completely my own work, they've "written down their thoughts" for me. I have to string it into a coherent speech. Maybe they liked my work on my mom mom's eulogy? I don't know. But this is my whacked out family, and I'm going to do it. Weird.

Even weirder, they've asked my MOM to read it. With my cousin Corrine, who is 7. My mom didn't know this woman any more than I did. Well, if you know my mom, who is super friendly can talk to anyone, she knew more about her than I did. Still and all, it's gotta be strange. Imagine the cousin's wife's brother being at his own mom's funeral, thinking, "Who's that woman giving Mom's eulogy?" I've never been to a funeral where I didn't know who the eulogist was in relation to the deceased.

I'm warning that there will likely be a follow up to this macabre post. Also, I may detail for all my rabid fans my obsession with funeral homes. Maybe it's related to Six Feet Under's series finale this week, but maybe not. I'll try not to get all creepy up in here. Promise