The “Lorica of St. Patrick” is really stunningly beautiful.

Uh oh.

I heard the funniest anecdotal story told this evening during class. The professor had just finished lecturing on the end of the Cold War and was going around the room asking students how the Cold War affected each of their lives. This girl, who giggles too loudly and voices her simple uninformed opinions on everything (she’s sort of a class joke), raises her hand and tells the following story.

When Gorbachev (check that site out!) came to Minnesota in like 1990, or ‘91, or ‘92 or something, my parents wanted to go see him since he was going to be near our house. My mom told me that the communists love the colour red, and that I should dress in red when we went to go see him, so you know, I got really excited and dressed myself in red, from head to toe. Well, we went to go see the Gorbachevs and as he and his wife were walking past she saw me and said something like “Look, Mikhail Sergeyevich, we have a little fan!” She stopped and hugged me tightly for some moments. I was thrilled. Um, in retrospect…that’s pretty embarrassing.

She then blushes and puts her hands over her face. That story cracks me up. It seems to be quite symptomatic of the uninformed perception that the isolationist American public had of the Soviet Union and communism: they are atheists, they like the colour red for some reason. I really wondered if her parents were attempting to create some ironic spectacle by having her dress in such colours, or really actually thought they were being hospitable. <

I just took Dawn’s retro-girl quiz and scored classy, refined, sophisticated pin-up. I suppose that is undoubtedly better than the other choises: exotic pin-up and seductress pin-up, better than Rosie the Riveter (although she’s sort of cool, when removed from the context of feminist propaganda), better than vapid looking girl next door pin-up, and better than playful pin-up who appears as though she needs a good dose of sobriety in her disposition.

However, I totally wanted to be a swing girl. It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing, bah bah bah dah dah bah bah. But I guess that’s not an option. Jerks.

Half a league, half a league, half a league onward to class. It’s so, so bitterly cold out there.

I just completed a ten page paper on the United States’ decision to venture north of the 38th Parallel in the Korean War. The paper is due at 6:20 this evening; I started it at about eleven lastnight, worked on it til about two in the morning, and decided to get some shut eye and finish it this afternoon. All last night I dreamt about Truman, MacArthur, the Red Chinese, and Syngman Rhee (who was really creepy). The whole time I’ve been writing this paper I’ve had this old, rough, punk song ruminating through my head. It’s a song by this defunct Carbondale band called The Holidays. The bloke on lead vocals screamsings, “Mr. Truman! How can I thank you! For starting up the NSA in 1952!? NSA! NSA! No Such Agency!” It’s driving me insane.

I suppose I’ll get ready for school now. I’m really going to enjoy Thanksgiving break. Hopefully I’ll be able to rest better and dream of conventional things…provided conventional dreams actually exist. My mum’s side is coming over to our house to celebrate on Thursday, so I get to help clean the house tonight, which, for some reason, I’m really looking forward to.