The View From Kalamazoo

An Old-Bulgarian tomb has been revealed nearby the Black Sea cap of Kaliakra.

Medieval language finds revival among Israeli Jews

Will comment after my return, but for those interested in recent inquisition news here are some links:
from Zenit News
from BIGfib.com
from The Washington Times
from the Picayune Item

I have something to say, but no time to say it right now…so stay tooned.

Session organizer letters: printing. And printing, and printing, and printing.

Much packing, laundry, misc. cleaning at home – am leaving for a much-needed no-child jaunt. First down to St.L for a Pat’s pilgrimage and visit with a friend who will be leaving for research and a conference in Jolly Olde for the summer; then to the Grove for time to walk, talk, drink coffee with real cream, and not think very hard unless I want to, not hear endless whining, not experience daily aggravation and frustration that leads me to see job notices like this one and pause..a..little..too..long. Not think about Bri’s likely (and deserved) promotion which will mean him not wanting to move ever for chunk of time…which sure as hell f*cks my future plans. I’m submitting one paper and working on getting a translation spruced to submit for publication – do you wonder why? I do, currently.

And get that damn soundtrack out of my head. And Bri can watch it over, and over, and over while I’m gone – and then lose the DVD just before I come back.

Yes, I need this vacation. Oh yes, I certainly do.

I’m techinically missing my anniversary *mumblelevenmumble*, but I’ll be back in time for my birthday…which I get to spend with my *adjective removed for mixed audience* in-laws at a wedding, the story behind which would make either a soap opera plot of Jerry Springer show. *tossess confetti*

Ok, I have a sense of humor. Really.

Despite the witty repartee I must admit that I find so many of these designs…totally un-funny. Dramatically un-funny. Disturbingly un-funny.

Well, except for the president, one.

Designs include:

I CAN KICK YOUR BABY’S ASS (In Ecuador they actually hold “baby brawls”. It’s kind of like cock fighting, only a lot less cock and a lot more baby talk.)

DADDY DRINKS BECAUSE I CRY (My daddy drinks his life away. He drinks away his dreams. Mommy says just one more day, and fills our hearts with screams.)

PLAYGROUND PIMP (Your baby is the baddest ass in the sandbox…get him this baby t-shirt and he’ll be pulling all the baby bitches.)

THEY SHAKE ME! (Shut your baby mouth and stop complaining. At least your father/mother is not Michael Jackson.)

MY IQ IS HIGHER THAN THE PRESIDENT’S! (With this baby shirt you can take pride that your baby is smarter than the puppet who has access to the little red button.)

I ENJOY A GOOD SPANKING (Some babies like it rough. The leading baby shirt in the states of New York, California and 49 of the other 50 states.)

I SHIT MY PANTS AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT (As if shitting your pants wasn’t reward enough. A Baby Hell, baby t-shirt stinky favorite.)

DADDY’S LIL’ SQUIRT (Remember when your precious, bundle of joy was just a sticky, little puddle of goo who almost ended up on your chin?)

MY PEE-PEE IS BIGGER THAN YOURS! (Let the other boys (and some fully grown men) know who’s in charge with this baby shirt.)

F!#K THE MILK, WHERE’S THE WHISKEY TITS?! (For the future alcoholics of the world. Great baby clothes for casual drinking babies too!)

I HIDE MY CRACK IN MY DIAPER (Baby clothes for all the little thugs and all the little bitches up in this crib, yo.)

ARE YOU MY DADDY? (Rap Stars, Basketball Players, Rock Stars, The Baldwin Brothers: (the top 4 groups accounting for nearly 97% of all the world’s bastards as reported by TIME magazine).)

BROKEN CONDOM (You love your baby now, but remember how you felt when you first found out? Who knew joy felt so suffocating and suicidal?)

POTTY HEAD! (Baby clothes that show the world that your baby supports your almost socially acceptable smoking habits.)

Oh – and this one.

The rest of the site is…interesting, too. I must admit, I did laugh very, very hard at this shirt.

Maybe I’m just somebody’s mother…

Moss may not grow on a rolling stone, but perhaps ivy does?

Hello … I Must Be Going: Most assistant professors at top Ivy League universities won’t be sticking around for the long term

MUST GET TIX

aaaaaaahhhhhhhhgh

Hahahahahahahaha

Paper Friday seemed to go well. Lots of positive feedback. It’s still an unnerving memory – auditorium, stage, podium, MIKE, bright lights…and I was FIRST, kicking the whole thing off. I can’t properly work a microphone, so it was sometimes hard to hear me. I should have turned it off and just projected – I’ve filled a lecture hall 3-4 times the size before without much effort (twice a week for a semester).

Met some very nice folks, tagged along at lunch with some of the other medievalists, sat with a bunch of non-medievalists at the banquet and had all sorts of diverse conversations. Many of the people seemed to know each other, while I didn’t see anyone I knew (ok, one person) until the day after my arrival, so I have a new appreciation of those who come to Congress not knowing a soul. It’s awkward as hell. Had a few people come up who were certain we’d met – and I suggested it was likely Kalamazoo. 😉 Eventually everyone sees me, at least, but these folks were probably at a session I also attended, and one I am certain saw me give my paper in 2002.

Had to leave the conference early, but it was a Good Thing…and I hope this first conference by the ASE folks isn’t the last.

Currently, however, I’m enjoying a sinus infection with a side of bronchitis. Buy one foul plague, get one foul plague free. 800 mg of ibuprofen is barely taking the edge off my headache – I hope the antibiotics start kicking bacterial butt soon – I haven’t slept well in nigh a week.

Final registration count for the International Congress on Medieval Studies, for all those playing along at home, was 2910. This afternoon is the last post-mortem meeting and I can’t be more elated – I hate meetings. My meetings for next year, however, have already begun – another tomorrow. Another year of this…

[Anyone in academia prone to giving warnings about career paths in academia need to do my job for a while – the long hours, lack of sleep, frustration, never-ending projects, disappointment, mire of details, low wages…seem pretty familiar.]

In early August November 1942 a very young Pfc. Philip E. Fiero rode on a transport in the South Pacific.

When his vessel took a lot of structural damage – hit by a falling Japanese plane – he jumped over the side with a buddy. He was picked out of the water by a tin can (destroyer). He never saw his buddy again. On August 7 he stormed the island of Guadalcanal, in the Solomons (just to the east of Australia), and the following day fought (the Battle of Savo) to take control of a crucial strategic airstrip – Henderson field.

That night he stood on the shore and, as he watched the Vincennes attacked and sunk, he thought he’d never see Michigan again. He would, but not before he saw more death than he could have imagined when he enlisted 7 months before; not before he subsisted on 2 meager meals per day of wormy barley, fish heads, and rice captured from the Japanese; not before he killed, saw buddies die next to him – saw the terrible, gruesome gore of war.

There were daily dogfights overhead, and he later spoke of Squadron 223 (manning Grummans), “Those Marines were the fightingest bunch of men I ever saw or ever hope to see.” Two weeks later at the Battle of the Tenaru River (as he would recount) some 1,200 Japanese combatants were killed with a loss of only 28-30 American lives. He helped to bury the dead – dynamite was used to blow large holes that they would fill with bodies, cover well, and then move on to the next hole. He remained, he fought, and eventually he was badly wounded and spent three months in a military hospital before coming home to visit his mother.

This information came from a home-town newspaper interview (the only one he ever agreed to) given within days of his return on this visit. Otherwise, and thereafter, he didn’t speak of it. We might have heard references to going out drinking with his buddies, something about the terrible weather in North Carolina where he had basic training…but there were no war stories, no relating heroic tales, no prosaic reflection of macho deeds done (not even to his two sons). There was no question as to why – my sister and I silently observed his emotional response when a WWII movie set in the Pacific was on TV, when, for a few brief moments, he was transported back to those days and weeks of his life before, wounded, he made it out of Hell. When he sat and cried when he received a phone call informing him that one of his buddies, a man he fought with and barely survived with, had recently passed. Having seen what he saw, every loss of life thereafter broke his heart.

War is not romantic. War is not a topic suitable for light dinner discussion, not a shining series of heroic deeds strung together on the silver screen. War is about death, and dying, and the loss of life and limb even in victory is still loss. War is not protestors with snappy comments on cardboard signs, it’s not politicians in air-conditioned rooms playing a game of chess with real lives, it’s not the bits and pieces of the puzzle the media choose to share to the exclusion of the rest of the picture. War is hell.

The WWII memorial was recently dedicated after a battle for its very existence longer than the Pacific campaign my grandfather fought in and survived. He lost his last fight in November of 1997, some 55 years after he made it through the horrific fighting in the Solomons. I wish he could have lived to see this memorial (and his second great-grandchild, the first boy in the family since his own sons were born. and hear his first great-grandchild call him ‘Gampa’… and my sister’s wedding, where he would have danced with her to the Mills Bros Paper Doll (as I would have done had I not had a very small, scaled-down affair…if I had known..).

Not all of his buddies, and the buddies of so many other Marines, made it home. Very few of those who did are still around to see this long-overdue memorial dedicated, and fewer still able to go and see it with their own eyes (and hearts). Maybe some day I’ll go to D.C. and see it. The memorial in Nashville, next to the Carillon Bells, is wonderful. Many others I’ve seen are noticeably small, or barely there. I don’t know how he felt about memorials and their quality and their heart…but I know I have expectations of a level of respect that only a small handful have met.

Through the period from Memorial Day to his birthday in early July he remains on my mind – though time has passed I still spend this month remembering. As school ends for my daughter I remember that my sister and I would pack up and have a long visit right after school was out…I remember that on the 4th of July we’d celebrate his birthday, mine two days earlier, my sister and uncle’s birthday’s a week on either side of that, and his wedding anniversary (and, later, mine as well). I don’t enjoy celebrating my birthday as much anymore…it’s just not the same.

As all over many listservs, boards, etc..(excerpted):

The Arts and Humanities Research Board (AHRB) has awarded a grant to the Institute of English Studies in partnership with the British Library to produce the first ever digitally illustrated and searchable catalogue of western illuminated medieval and renaissance manuscripts held in the British Library’s collections. A pilot project was previously conducted by The British Library, with the support of the Getty Grant Program, entailing a survey of the collections at shelf and the creation of a pilot website. This currently holds descriptions and selected images of some 250 manuscripts, drawn from different periods and regions.