I kind of want to form a band and name it Inigo Jones. But instead of using this reference to a slightly less than outrageously famous historial figure -- thus, impressive -- on a group of skinny rock-indie kids, I'd take the irony train all the way back to HIptown and make mine a string quartet.
From chapter two, "The Soldier", by Geoffrey Parker, from Rosario Villari's Baroque Personae:
"in the first decades of the [seventeenth] century, it is true, cavalry made up less than 10 percent of most armies in Western Europe: when France went to war against Spain in 1635, orders were issued to raise 132,00 infantry but only 12,400 cavalry. Yet even this relatively small total continued to pose supply problems, since each cavalry trooper would need at least three mounts in the course of a campaign ... and sometimes more: at the battle of Breitenfeld in 1631, the Tuscan officer Ottavio Piccolomini had seven horses shot from under him in the course of a day."
A story from Spigel.de reports that the Italian police service has issued every one of its 14,750 female police officers high heels. The feeling is that it will give the ladies' uniforms a "younger and sexier" look.
The article does not indicate whether the women are expected to wear these shoes while walking the beat. If one was of a cynical disposition, inclined towards wild speculation, one might dourly remark that in Italy, female officers are probably given not public duties but deskwork -- making the footgear a moot point. But only if one were very cynical.
Some people on the internet, I have learned slowly over the years, are assholes.
In a Joystiq post on a blogger fired from her job at Nintendo, a photo was included with the story. Commentators in the ensuing thread felt it relevant to remark that she -- a complete stranger -- was hot, wasn't that hot, wore too much make-up, needed to remove her shirt, looked like a blow-up sex doll, has "what they call in the industry a working mouth", looked good in her first photo, looked "freakish" in her second photo, or was "hot in that slutty 'use me' kind of way ... not someone to take home to Mom." A number of these same souls, however, generously conceded that they'd "still hit that." Those who still found her visage too offensive to their gentle sensibilities were advised -- somewhat ingeniously -- to take her anally.
It is an understatement to say that I want to drive a steel pipe through their fucking goddamn throats. I am bewildered, amazed, stunned, because the state of mind -- if it could be that, because I cannot fathom that any true cerebral processes could have been involved -- which allows them to conduct themselves in these outrageous yet righteous ways, whatever it is, is something alien to me. That otherwise conversant human beings, homo sapiens sapiens, obviously of means and interests to mine -- such mundane, sexless things as gaming, blogs, technology -- can be so completely, utterly foreign ... on some wondrous, horrific level, it both awes and terrifies me. It is sublime.
Girl who mistook the Virgin Mary for Herod the Great, you put a contemptuous smile on my face all day.
The 2007/2008 academic year is my fifth and last year at university. Having spent a half decade dreading the dire job prospects that await my measly BA and me, I'm crotchety, cranky, and deeply ill-tempered.
Listening to your second-year bitching cuts to the heart.
Oh, I can't sit still and listen for two measly goddamn hours, why can't we have a break so I can get my overpriced cup of cream and water? Oh, why can't I take cellphone photos of slides because I don't want to develop critical note-taking skills? Oh, the prof finds this disruptive and distracting for herself and other students, but why have any sense of social consideration? Oh, why can't the prof post image carousels ahead of time instead of after class, because I can't add two and two and simply jot down artists and titles in shorthand and download carousels later to compare?
At this point, I'm craning my neck to see who has the balls to think these things are so important as to actually ask them during question period. Because I want to remember your face, so I know who to present the bill to asking for the refund of my time you wasted requesting silly little concessions no self-respecting adult, and student of the arts, would conceive of deserving. It's arts, at the undergraduate level. It's really not that hard.
So shut your stupid fucking puny overprivileged face. And learn.
There's this dress.
It's very pretty, and made from some deliciously cool, liquid, flowing material ideal for hot summer days. The print is an oversized take on Burberry check -- warm trench, white, black, and turquoise -- enlarged until the colours become like Benday dots, and only a fraction of the pattern is seen. A clever way to modernize a classic design, while minimizing the "plaidness", not often suitable for a dress. I rather liked its graphic quality.
Shoes? Black flats, with diagonal straps. Awesome, comfortable.
I was going to wear this to work for tomorrow because it will be very hot (the weather, not me), before I realized this would be quite impossible.
Why? Because it looks too good. It looks much better than anything else I've ever worn to work -- much more stylish, much more professional. Then, when I go back to wearing the rest of my clothes, they'd only look shabbier in comparison; upon the sight of me, everyone would wistfully think of the day I showed up light, airy, modern, and pleasing to the eye.
Therefore, I can't wear my very excellent, fashionable, work-appropriate dress to work where my excellent, appropriately workish fashionability might impress a colleague or two. Then, casual Friday descends. Then, the weekend, which will be a few degrees too cool for a dress. Then, autumn. My dress!
Why must it be so difficult?
I cried myself to sleep again.
I love art and beauty so, and it only hurts. When my eye takes delight in what looks beautiful, my happiness is fleeting, and mingled with grief, because I am reminded of how little I know of the nature of beauty. I am a stranger to it, because I myself have never been beautiful, and who could know true beauty but one who possesses it herself? I will always take, but never give, delight. My love will remain shallow forever, never whole or perfect in its knowing.
I can never be what I love, and it is a great cruelty against my heart.
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture.
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