I do not resent Harvard because their theology library has 15 books for every one book that I need from my own library.
I do not resent Harvard because I once spent two hours looking for a Chic-Fil-A that alleged to be on its campus.
I do not resent Harvard because it is Harvard.
I do not even resent the fact that you can’t get into Harvard’s main library unless you are affiliated with the university or if you petition for special permission, up to four times in your life, or some ridiculous rule like that.
I do, however, have a problem with their bookstore, which now thinks it owns ISBNs and other information that could help a student get a book for a reasonable price. The Harvard Coop is not some altruistic, independent bookseller, peddling its wares to street musicians.
It is a Barnes and Noble draped in crimson.
College Bookstores. Feh.
Yesterday Peter and I had the occasion to attend “The Big E,” New England’s equivalent to a state fair. All five of the New England states were represented and wow, was it 207 zip codes worth of crazy.
Among the attractions was typical state, ahem, fare, like livestock and quilting-bee winners and lovely produce. Then there were rides (it cost exactly 14 dollars for me to relive the childhood experience of riding the tilt-a-whirl and ferris wheel once; 14 dollars, no joke) and brightly lit neon signs promising food from around proud New England and the world. Brooke Hogan, Hulk Hogan’s daughter, also performed. I think that makes her a carnie.
Then there were other . . . things. Things that might be normal for a fair, but that I had not expected. Like a girl dressed as a bride, riding a horse dressed as a groom (He had a top hat and tails. Ha. Yes. Tails.), jumping around a ring in time to “Can’t Buy me Love.” After she was finished, (still on top of the horse), she threw her arms around the animal and yelled, “I love you so much!” Then she threw the bouquet she had been holding to her friend. Frightened by the implications of this, I quickly grabbed Peter and we walked away.
The scene at this fair was not unlike a Hieronymus Bosch painting. People were undulating in and through excess. There were wails and anger and oil-on-velvet renderings. There were horrible mechanical devices that I am sure were meant to entertain children, but succeeded in producing a convincing soundtrack for the apocalypse. The metal and manure and fried-food smell lingered together as one, rising up to form a cacophonous cloud of sensation.
But, nonetheless, I was glad to have gone. If only for the pictures! And it was good to walk around the madness with Peter, who is a good one with whom to sip cider through a straw.
Further photo-documentation of our trip can be found here. Hopefully you’ll feel like you know what it’s like to be there from the pictures. Then you can spare yourselves a trip. Because I know the Bible says we know not the day nor the hour of Jesus’ return. But when you hear the angels peddling their dulcet tones at the Big E carnival, you know that the Eschaton is indeed nigh.
Today Boston University and the nation-state triumphed over my one-woman crusade to fight the system that mandates superfluous inoculations.
Earlier this year, the Mini-Empire took away my right to check out books for six months, as I am supposed to be allowed to do as a doctoral student. This irked me, but I decided I would just would carry books back and forth, renewing them every 28 days, if it meant that unnecessary anti-bodies would be kept out of my system. Last week, though, my six-month privileges returned as mysteriously as they had gone away. I smiled a smug little smile, thinking I had beaten the powers once again.
Foolish girl.
Last week, I got a letter from student health services saying that if I didn’t get the Hep B vaccine, a tetanus shot (despite the fact that I’ve had two of these in the last ten years) and the meningitis vaccine, I would no longer be a student at Boston University at all. I wouldn’t be able to check out any books, for any length of time.
These people really know how to hit you where it hurts.
So I grumpily called student health services to make sure I didn’t need anything else. The nice man there again tried to convince me that I should get the HPV vaccine, despite the fact that they don’t give it to you after you turn 26. As I did in 2004. the nice man and I did our linguistic dance around logic. Once. Again.
“But you started here before you were 26. Don’t you see?”
“I agree that is true. But as I am now not, in fact, 26, and would be getting the vaccine now and not, in fact, in 2003 when I started my second degree, it is all really a moot point, isn’t it?”
The man hung up.
However, the phone conversation did lead me to uncover an important revelation--I do not have to have the meningitis vaccine. It is only strongly recommended. So strongly, in fact, that you can only get out of it if you ask again and again why you must have it if you don’t live on campus, until they grudgingly admit that you can come in and fill out a secret waiver form that is kept in a dark room locked in a bomb shelter beneath the city. I was thrilled to learn this and am currently gathering provisions for the three day trek to petition the hermit who keeps the forms for sweet release from this obligation.
And yes, it does occur to me there is the freak chance I could contract meningitis. But mark my words--if I expire while the virus is in my system, it will not be because of the disease. I will have dropped dead from the irony of it all.
And I want that engraved on my tombstone too, thank you very much.
"Hi. This is my laptop. The touchpad works fine, but the click button will not acknowledge any actual clicks. Can you fix it?”
The nice man clicks the click button.
“I see. Yes, the system is non-responsive.”
“Um, well, yes. But that is probably because my computer is not actually turned on at the moment. Should I turn it on?”
The nice man notices my laptop’s bent corner from when Peter some unknown person dropped it a year ago.
“Oh, wow. See this?” He points to the bent case. “This is probably the problem.”
“No, actually. The computer has been fine. I brought it in before and the corner was bent and no one noticed it. The click button problem started three days ago.”
“Oh. wow. See, your logic board is undoubtedly damaged from the fall. Apple Care isn’t going to cover any of this.” He taps the click button some more. “Yeah, it’s the logic board. It’s damaged from the kind of force it took to make this kind of dent. You’ll need a new one.”
I put my palms flat against the sleek partition of glass and steel that seperates us. I lean forward.
“I find it hard to believe any of that.” My words are one long exhalation. “Since you diagnosed the problem without even turning on the computer.”
The nice man blinks and takes a step back.
“Apple Care will cover this,” I say.
“Errrr.”
“Would you like to turn on the computer before I leave?”
He says nothing and types something into a consol in front of him. I leave with a receipt saying that I owe them no money. For now.
“Genius bar.” Genius. I do not think this word means what they think it means.
