"at eighteen, as i've observed the harvard men do, especially the very young??is he, please?" cried ben, wishing she would hurry up; for miss celia did not track and gymnastics students may go to the olympic games on the u.s. olympic splashing of the waters of the big ocean, which the mischievous wind caused"
Or so claims the spam I was sent today. Honestly, I'm thinking about pasting a huge chunk in, halfway through my graduation speech.

So today was the last day and I can't believe it. Literally can't believe it. Someone is going to come and get me next week at eight in the morning and drag me to school shouting, "YOU'RE LATE FOR RUSSIAN! YOU'RE LATE FOR RUSSIAN!" I swear.
On the up side, I don't have any finals this year. Whoopee! And tomorrow the senior class goes on a trip to Six Flags. So I'm loading up on the sunscreen and the water-resistant camera cases, because it's gonna be one sunny/rainy day in flume-ride land.
On a completely unrelated note, we've been re-watching The Thin Man series, and I am constantly struck by 1) how amazingly awesome it is 2) how funny it is 3) how well it's held up.
"The important thing is the rhythm. Always have rhythm in your shaking. Now a Manhattan you shake to fox-trot time, a Bronx to two-step time, a dry martini you always shake to waltz time. " -Nick Charles, The Thin Man

BOOK RECOMMENDATION!

This picture has very little to do with Dorothy Dunnett's The Lymond Chronicles, except for the sentence structure in the last bit. Most of Dorothy Dunnett's sentences go something like this: "Bedded in scent and blinded with cloth of gold, The O'LiamRoe watched with the rest as, blackhooded, tall crosses trembling, a file of clergy appeared and paced slowly towards them. The Triumphant and Joyous Entry had begun."--Dorothy Dunnett, Queen's Play (Vol. II of The Lymond Chronicles)

The series is amazing. Its hero (antihero?), Francis Crawford of Lymond is dashing, swashbuckling, and apparently amoral. The beauty of Dunnett's writing is that she keeps you guessing until the very end of the series. Is Lymond essentially good, and simply in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or is he a loveable villain, a more dangerous Mr. Rochester type of man? Or is he neither of these things? With his assortment of friends, lovers, and hangers on, he circumnavigates the world and gets involved in palace intrigue and international relations. The series is set in the 16th century, spanning the years between 1547 and the early 1560s, and cameos are made by Ivan the Terrible, Henri II, Catherine de Medici, Sultaness Roxelana, Queen Mary, and Queen Elizabeth. Lymond is Scottish, and Mary Queen of Scots, although a toddler at the beginning of the series, is a recurring tertiary character, a very different person than she is often portrayed.

Lymond's world is populated by royalty, nobility, rogue Scots, gypsies, murderers, knights, crusaders, ladies of high and low birth, Irish freedom fighters, Protestants, Catholics, Calvinists, Muslims, Jews, seers, prophets, scientists, artists (bad and good), prostitutes (male and female), courtesans, courtiers, innkeepers, serving wenches, Russians, Spaniards, Scots, Turks, English and French men and women, elephant tamers, mercenaries, priests, businessmen, adventurers, pirates, traders, animals, long-lost friends, long-held grudges, bastards, heirs, wives, mistresses, misplaced children, and love (requited, unrequited, pure, adulterated, for gain, forbidden, forgotten, and re-forged).

Ambiguous action, wonderful prose, interesting characters, all of these things are waiting for you in The Lymond Chronicles. Along with Lymond, Dunnett's engaging and awesome hero, are other favorite characters. One is Philippa Somerville, who goes from hating Lymond at age ten, to admiring him as a teenager, to maybe something more as she reaches twenty and the series draws to a close. There are also Will Scott and Jerrot Blythe, whose devotion to Lymond stem from different emotions, and whose outlook on life is colored as a result. Oonagh O'Dwyer, the mysterious Irishwoman appears as the series revs up, and then just as abruptly is gone, but her presence is enough to propel the series forward, and change its tone from one of playful action, to one of more introspective and rich questing. Then there are Margaret Lennox, Graham Reid Malett, Marthe, and Robin Stewart. There are Archie and Adam and Danny and Turkey Mat. There's Salablanca. There are Sybilla, Lymond's mother, and Richard, Lymond's brother, and the rest of his family. By the end of the series, it has become apparent that no matter the quests he goes on and the people he meets, or advises or does business with, or sleeps with, or loves, the real story is about his history. Who is Francis Crawford of Lymond? Dorothy Dunnett does eventually give us the answer, but only after six volumes of beautifully dense prose, characters wicked and witty, and an epic the likes of which will color any story you go on to read. From their use of chess as a faint through-line, to their dabbling in various foreign languages, these books are perfect for summer. Or really any time.

Please enjoy. These are my favorite books:

The Lymond Chronicles, by Dorothy Dunnett (in order):

The Game of Kings

Queen's Play

The Disorderly Knights

Pawn in Frankincense

The Ringed Castle

Checkmate

You know, this thing is wrong somehow.

It's too long to wait until Halloween--"My favorite season!" I proclaimed as a child, after observing the decorations in Meijer's for a good three months-- to share this with you:


Zombie Letters from e-zombie.com....

...where you can get your Halloween spirit on any time of the year.
In other creepy news: now every time I walk down the stairwell at my school, I see my name staring at me from the first floor wall. Yes, a large book-shaped plaque is now hung on the wall at Damn-Big-Midwestern-University High with the names of donors to the Father's Last Name Fund. It's a great cause--the fund adds extra money to teachers' salaries, but it's just offputting to be hurrying to class and to have this huge bible-looking thing staring you in the face with your name in big block capitals.

The college breakdown for my class was : University of Illinois -- UIUC (x16), Brown, Washington University -- St Louis, University of Chicago (x2), Princeton (x3!), Haverford (x2),
Southern Illinois University -- Carbondale, California Institute of Technology,
St. Olaf College, University of California -- Santa Barbara, Knox College (x2), Cornell (x2), Carleton College, University of California -- San Diego, University of California -- Berkeley, Beloit College, Wellesley (x2), University of Michigan (x3), New York University, Barnard College, Brandeis University, MIT (x2), Harvard, Columbia, Earlham College.
Whew. Are we great or what?
And also very undecided. That was the major in the overwhelming majority. Other majors included: Educational Psychology, Biochemistry, Pre-Med, Philosophy, Spanish, East Asian Language and Culture, Computer Engineering, Computer Science, Instrumental Performing Arts and Physics, Psychology, Engineering Physics, Aerospace Engineering, Chemistry and Material Science, BA of Arts in Music, Biology, English(!), Child Development, Sociology, Peace and Justice Studies, Pre-Business, Film and Television, Hotel Administration, History, Economics, Physics, Bioengineering.
As you can see, the humanities are woefully outnumbered. But we will prevail. And who knows? Maybe all of the undecideds will see the joy in French, or History, or...Leisure Studies.

Today were Thespian inductions. This meant decorating the attic of my high school to resemble a haunted house, which I was really good at, since I was the reigning queen of haunted houses in my day.
New inductees were sheparded in by two normally mild-mannered girls (using their acting skills to pant and wail like nineteenth century loonies) while the rest of us seasoned actors and actresses sprawled on the floor in varying attitudes of horror. We would let out a shriek and grab ankles from time to time. Then we made them eat applesauce. Seriously. It was dyed red, though, with green splotches, so it looked moldy and vaguely alive. They were good sports, however, and gamely took sips, before realizing it was more vegetable than animal and went on to slurping down spoonfuls.
Afterwards we turned on the lights and went to Steak 'n' Shake.
But first I drove home and watched the Kentucky Derby. I didn't win, although Mom did, and at least my horse could see out of both of its eyes. Yeek.

There are so many things I have to do before I leave.
Important things, like trying out Six Feet Under, or canoeing around HarvardGirl's lake while her dog swims in circles on the shore.
Very important things, like cutting down my To Read list from 46 books (please for the love of God don't recommend anything to me), or lining Peeps up along the road with Subcontinent and hiding in the bushes while cars run them over and we see little splotches of yellow (or blue or pink) rotating around their tires all the way down the road.
Extremely important things, like locking the door, pulling down the blinds, and pretending I'm off being incredibly social while in fact I am hanging out with my parents for another of my family's excellent--and rapidly decreasing--Friday Pizza and Movie Nights.
All of these things are hanging over my head, true, but today, walking to pick up the car after school, I did something that I have been meaning to do for four years. Something rash and impulsive and vaguely illegal. Something literary.
I entered the English Building of Damn Big Midwestern University and proceeded to the first floor women's restroom. I sat in one of the stalls. The walls surrounding me were coated, almost artistically, with old pieces of advice, rants, and even poems. "I have the love of a good man," reads one line." "Do you?" someone cynically replied in pink marker.
I took out my Sharpie and, muttering vaguely Irish apologies under my breath, wrote between a Shakespeare sonnet and a complaint about the dining halls, "Never work in a protractor factory."
I judged it to be perfect advice. Cryptic. Satisfying.
That's one thing down.