tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368206642024-03-07T10:31:53.377-08:00The Zombie ScholarHistorical Research and General Musings by Rodrigo Weiss Regarding the Tzombi Community, Past and Present.Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.comBlogger95125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-42412204272796564352007-07-29T21:12:00.000-07:002007-07-29T21:14:53.844-07:00<strong>TRAGEDY UNFOLDS AT MILLIONAIRE’S BUNKER</strong><br /><em>Los Angeles New Times, July 8, 2007</em><br /><br /><blockquote>Ivo Kashoggian’s newly-erected underground palace collapsed in the middle of a party with an estimated 300 in attendance, police said this morning.<br /><br />“So far, 218 bodies have been found,” police lieutenant Craig Jensen said. “We have a crew working to find the rest of them, but there are very few places left to look.”<br /><br />When asked if some of the victims exhibited signs of PMMS, Lieutenant Jensen seemed hesitant to respond. “Kashoggian was R428 positive,” he said, “although he wasn’t forthcoming about that. It’s true that some of the people we thought must surely be dead turned out not to be.”<br /><br />But is there evidence of foul play? When questioned about the explosive charges reportedly found in the rubble and the bite marks on many of the victims, Police Chief Sandy Coombs was reluctant to comment. “We’re reserving comments until we can put the whole picture together,” he said. “If it turns out the collapse was planned, it wouldn’t be the first time Kashoggian was involved in criminal actions. The only difference is, this time he didn’t get away with it.”<br /><br />Or did he? Though Kashoggian was almost certainly in attendance, his body has yet to be found.</blockquote>Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-10787098154397166812007-06-30T13:59:00.000-07:002008-11-13T14:27:43.451-08:00Ivo KashoggianI don’t know which I am more drawn to, Mathilde or the Black Rock.<br /><br />Whichever it is, I can no longer resist. <br /><br />I am going to Ivo Kashoggian’s to see both of them (the journey will be long). <br /><br />It occurs to me that these computers on which we are communicating are nothing but coffins of glass and plastic. <br /><br />My dear friends, are you out there? Sometimes I think I made the lot of you up.<br /><br />I am cognizant that if I go to Kashoggian’s, some change may happen. At the very least, I may despise myself, I have never been drawn to anything or anyone like this before.<br /><br />At any rate, for the time being, I leave you with a friend to keep you company.<br /><br />I am departing, dear friends. <br /><br />I shall return.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyLHPpWHn0Tt1hGaHKULpwM_mC_tKUT4SPz87Ys3XJ5ps_WH3RDjhDYQ1XMZpXQj8B-li2vvoUO1tL1X61KtRwsOYwx_g9DJR_j4aRgSZK8krTllGx0qN_t2lB4MMQ5CmXdSot/s1600-h/Mathilde+Broomhandle+Illustration+Smaller.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyLHPpWHn0Tt1hGaHKULpwM_mC_tKUT4SPz87Ys3XJ5ps_WH3RDjhDYQ1XMZpXQj8B-li2vvoUO1tL1X61KtRwsOYwx_g9DJR_j4aRgSZK8krTllGx0qN_t2lB4MMQ5CmXdSot/s400/Mathilde+Broomhandle+Illustration+Smaller.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5081733771631559634" /></a>Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-67250106488454527622007-06-29T22:58:00.000-07:002007-06-29T22:59:11.404-07:00Writing on the Wall (Door)My building has been condemned. Apparently somebody complained one too many times about a rodent problem. I found this letter on my door: IT IS ILLEGAL TO TRESPASS, DESTROY, OR REMOVE ANYTHING FROM THESE PREMISES. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.<br /><br />Obviously there are officials who want to see me brought down.Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-17250030332084499892007-06-24T22:55:00.000-07:002007-06-29T22:56:52.714-07:00Shameful SecretsIt is with great regret that I post the following e-mail, one which will lay bare one of the most shameful secrets of my life. Please withhold your judgements.<br /><br />TO: Rodrigo Weiss<br />FROM: Mathilde Bagnoire<br />DATE: 05/25/98<br />SUBJECT: The truth<br /> <br /><br />Rodrigo—<br /><br />All along, I knew the truth. What does it matter? The world is a tomb, and I have loved you since we were children. I know you lost your memory of the accident - perhaps you blocked it out. I was in the car with you. I was wearing my First Communion veil and white dress and I imagined we were on the way to our wedding. <br /><br />For awhile, I believed you knew as well. It was fate that brought us together in college - I did not seek you out. I was sure you recognized me. But I fell so deeply in love with you I couldn’t risk it. I was unaware of how much your Grandmother had suppressed, though I understand her need to do so. I was unaware of how much you had suppressed, as well. When you said you were ready to open up the storage unit, I was willing to support you. I feared I would lose you—please don’t let my worst fears come true.<br /><br />I changed my name when I was “cured.” My doctor thought it would be good to make a clean break with my past. You know me as Mary.<br /><br />The world is a tomb. Cousins, lovers - what does it matter? We make our own rules.<br /><br />Yours,<br />Mary/MathildeRodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-65543908151236647922007-06-21T22:45:00.000-07:002007-06-29T22:51:16.779-07:00<FONT COLOR ="#008000"><br /><br />I remember it. Do you?<br /><br />Do you remember I sang you Edith Piaf?<br /><br />Do you remember how thrilling it was at the beginning of our relationship? That feeling of finding someone? You were conducting your study of Near Death Experiences, and I told you that every day for me was a “Near Death Experience.”<br /><br />We found an understanding.<br /><br />At least for a time.<br /><br />Can we find an understanding again?<br /><br /></FONT>Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-81919800764987253012007-06-19T22:39:00.000-07:002007-06-29T23:05:53.359-07:00Death Be Not ProudAt this point in our correspondence I remember quoting John Donne, the Tzombi poet (those of you in literary circles may scoff at this suggestion, but remember “Death be not proud?") Anyone with a passing familiarity with Izaak Walton’s biography of Donne will know that he exhibited most of the traits associated with the Tzombi race. In fact, one of his early poems, “The Good Morrow”—the title itself a reference to the “morrow” after death—contains the line “Whatever dyes, was not mixt equally.” Most scholars consider this a love poem, when in fact it is a coded reference to his Tzombi status, the term “mixture” being largely applied in the late 1500’s to one’s combination of nationalities. Here he is proclaiming his “mixture” to be equal parts Tzombi and Anglo.<br /><br />At any rate, I remember including lines from the Tzombi poet’s “The Anniversarie”:<br /> <blockquote><em>Only our love hath no decay;<br /> This, no to morrow hath, nor yesterday.<br /> Two graves must hide thine and my coarse,<br /> If one might, death were no divorce.</em></blockquote>Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-64316356444880764452007-06-07T00:05:00.001-07:002007-06-07T00:11:03.786-07:00<FONT COLOR ="#800080"><br />TO: Rodrigo Weiss<br />FROM: Mathilde Bagnoire<br />DATE: 05/18/98<br />SUBJECT: Base desires<br /><br /><br />Rodrigo -<br /><br />Death surrounds us like a shroud, but I must honor it, and you must honor me. I can see you are not ready. It is for your own protection.<br /><br />Mathilde<br /><br /><br />TO: Mathilde Bagnoire<br />FROM: Rodrigo Weiss<br />DATE: 05/19/98<br />SUBJECT: Necrophilia<br /><br /><br />Mathilde -<br /><br />I will honor you. But follow my line of reasoning: love has no logic, but perhaps it can be applied here: if you are, in fact, dead, then the doctors are wrong, and I don’t, in fact, exist. If this is true, everything is in your head and the rules of society hold no sway over us, because society is merely a construct of your own imagination. If I do, in fact exist, then so do the doctors and you are not, in fact, dead. Therefore the necrophilia you mentioned is impossible.<br /><br />I feel like a schoolboy trying to convince his crush to dance with him—forgive me. But this, too, adds to a vitality that I have not felt at all during my adult life, so perhaps these adolescent feelings are appropriate. You have made me new again.<br /><br />Yours,<br /><br />Rodrigo<br /></FONT>Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-27721180916319636952007-06-06T01:04:00.000-07:002007-06-07T00:12:59.676-07:00<FONT COLOR ="#800080"><br /><br />TO: Mathilde Bagnoire<br />FROM: Rodrigo Weiss<br />DATE: 05/18/98<br />SUBJECT: Base desires<br /><br />Mathilde -- <br /><br />I must admit to you that, in general, I am a stranger to base desires. Perhaps it is due to my being steeped in the materialist branches of philosophy; perhaps I recognize such things as simply a means of furthering a species I am uncertain is worth furthering; perhaps I am unable to engage in such things because I see the world as a joyless sham. What I do know is that when I contemplate indulging in the carnal with you it seems, not like the base act it is, but rather an act of affirmation—the ultimate proof that we both exist and have overcome the death which surrounds us. <br /><br />Rodrigo<br /><br /></FONT>Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-46481682536552275202007-06-05T00:02:00.000-07:002007-06-07T00:02:59.934-07:00TO: Rodrigo Weiss<br />FROM: Mathilde Bagnoire<br />DATE: 04/22/98<br />SUBJECT: The solipsistic conceit<br /><br />Rodrigo -<br /><br />I feel I should distinguish for you between the rational, empirically provable fact that I am alive and the emotional truth that I am dead. The paradox here is essentially the same as that which underlies the solipsistic conceit: the doctors can tell me that I have a mental or chemical condition, but when I question the very reality of those doctors, none of what they way matters. I KNOW I am dead. I also know that others find this difficult to accept. I am perfectly within my rights to doubt their existence.<br /><br />When I am capable of being rational, I am fully aware of my situation. I have been diagnosed with Cotard’s Syndrome by a team of doctors in Paris. I spent eight years in an institution on a daily regimen of Venlafaxine and Zuclopenthixol. When my doctor, the leading specialist in Cotard’s Syndrome, decided to relocate to Southern California, I followed him. I have not seen the specialist for years, although I have continued my drug regiment. But when I am here, Paris does not exist, and the doctors do not exist except as constructs of my own imagination. My problem is a reality. I am dead. If the doctors do not exist, their theory that I suffer from mental illness is simply a construction of my mind. Nobody else exists—I am in the grave, surrounded by six feet of isolation. If anyone is capable of making me believe in the autonomy of the other human beings around me, it is you. I know my psyche, which has known so little kindness, love, or generosity, is utterly incapable of inventing a person with such an abundance of these qualities.<br /><br />However, though sweet, your words worry me. I do not want you to be absorbed. If anything, I want to be absorbed into you. As I’ve said before, your existence is proof positive that I am not alone.<br /><br />If you will have me, I am yours.<br /><br />Mathilde.<br /><br />P.S. I suppose kissing is fine, but I will not have you sullied by allowing you to engage in an act that amounts to necrophilia, much as I might desire it. Please honor my wishes on this point.”Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-79611268278409347262007-06-03T00:01:00.000-07:002007-06-07T00:03:55.893-07:00The EpisodeMathilde.<br /><br />You must listen to me.<br /><br />You don’t remember your episode. <br /><br />I remember everything. <br /><br />You were out of your head. I moved you from the window, where you were lying in the sun, complaining that it was burning your flesh away, to the darkened bedroom. I sat with you for hours. You wrapped the sheet around yourself like a shroud. I stayed for several hours until you fell asleep. I came back every day to check on you.<br /><br />I must admit that feeling needed by you was an exhilarating and slightly frightening proposition. <br /><br />Having no family other than my grandmother, the bonds of any kind of love were bound to be a bit untried - I only hope I could honor them to the level at which they deserve to be honored.Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-8442095680137054042007-06-02T01:59:00.000-07:002007-06-02T12:00:53.328-07:00<FONT SIZE = 4><br />You know that blunt trauma to the head was the cause of my syndrome. <br /><br />Be honest with yourself, Rodrigo. You were there.<br /></FONT>Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-55398745700065942132007-06-01T11:00:00.000-07:002007-06-02T11:55:41.997-07:00An Overriding AestheticI would hardly characterize my fastidiousness as a “disorder,” but rather an overriding aesthetic with which I live and work.Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-32301064009992998792007-05-31T05:49:00.000-07:002007-06-02T11:54:45.231-07:00<FONT SIZE = 3><br /><br /><strong>Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD): </strong><br /><br /><br />A condition that is characterized by the presence of obsessions and/or compulsions. Obsessions are recurrent, intrusive thoughts usually irrational worries that often necessitate behaviors to prevent untoward consequences (e.g., fears of contamination from dirt requiring the individual to wear gloves at all times). Compulsions are recurrent behaviors that the individual feels compelled to undertake which are beyond what are considered normal, usually to preserve personal safety, to avoid embarrassment, to perform adequately (e.g., checking multiple times to see that the gas is turned off before leaving home).<br /></font>Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-39409059071219167272007-05-25T23:42:00.000-07:002007-05-25T23:44:34.291-07:00In the Interest of UnderstandingDear Readers:<br /><br />In the interest of understanding, I’d like to draw your attention to the phrase in the above correspondence which Mathilde illegally posted on my blog: “It’s so rarely that I am able to escape my own head.” This statement epitomizes Mathilde’s affliction, which is characterized as a type of megalomelancholia. <br /><br />In the beginning of our relationship, I sympathized with these feelings, even encouraged them, as I felt they were a healthy appraisal of the philosophical idea of <a href=”http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Solipsism”>solipsism</a> , an idea which it is impossible to refute. What I began to realize, however, is that this attitude was a sign of mental illness. <br /><br />Please note I attribute my inability to perform a certain function to the slovenly nature of Mathilde’s flat. Before the function in question was to be performed, I had stepped on a cockroach in my bare feet. This, and the fact that she was wearing her communion veil.Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-50259357370125039642007-05-24T01:01:00.000-07:002007-05-25T23:38:27.846-07:00<FONT COLOR="#000080"><br />TO: Rodrigo Weiss<br />FROM: Mathilde Bagnoire<br />DATE: 05/11/98<br />SUBJECT: Last night<br /><br /><br />Rodrigo—<br /><br />Please don’t be ashamed about last night. Your grief is wholly warranted, and a logical result of these exciting times. I was honored to be there to help you through it. It is so rarely that I am able to escape my own head.<br /><br />Mathilde<br /><br /><br />TO: Mathilde Bagnoire<br />FROM: Rodrigo Weiss<br />DATE: 05/12/98<br />SUBJECT: My failure<br /><br /><br />Mathilde—<br /><br />I have never failed in this capacity before. I have always found myself able to perform. I don’t know where those feelings came from. All of these years I kept my family’s things in storage. I didn’t want to look at them because I didn’t want to be sentimental. I didn’t cry much—my grandmother cried enough for us both, and I often found it embarrassing and even suspected it might be false. I don’t know why now should be the time for me to suffer this sudden access of emotion.<br /><br /><br /><br />TO: Rodrigo Weiss<br />FROM: Mathilde Bagnoire<br />DATE: 05/12/98<br />SUBJECT: Your failure<br /><br />Rodrigo—<br /><br />I know you’re confused by your feelings, and possibly a little frightened. I am confused, too—but remember how you felt when you were able to help me through my melancholic episode? I am here to help you as well.<br /><br />Mathilde<br /></FONT>Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-25545815272267310982007-05-23T10:00:00.000-07:002007-05-25T23:35:39.758-07:00Hot SauceThe hot sauce does not appear to be working, despite the fact that I have slathered it along every available surface. I am desperate.<br /><br />Last night I had a vision of the Black Rock. I saw it standing in a dark cavern, outlined by red lights, with thousands of rodents swarming around it in a frenzy. The rodents were howling -- a high-pitched, unearthly howling which threatened to undo my sanity. And yet I was drawn to it with all the memory in my genes. I couldn’t look away even though I felt myself being consumed. <br /><br />When I woke, I was sitting at my desk at the office. It was well past 11:00 p.m. and everyone had gone home. My fingers were still perched over the computer keyboard.Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-28900813790976318562007-05-22T22:17:00.000-07:002007-05-22T22:29:12.068-07:00<FONT COLOR="#008080"><br /><br />TO: Rodrigo Weiss<br />FROM: Mathilde Bagnoire<br />DATE: 05/06/98<br />SUBJECT: The veil<br /><br />Rodrigo—<br /><br />I am troubled and disappointed that I found you rooting around in my closet last night, but even more so that you responded so violently on finding my veil. Did you think it was a bridal veil? That perhaps I was preparing for our wedding? Or that I had been married before? Or did you know it as from my First Communion, which I was never able to celebrate? You know I’m not religious, but Doctor Brandauer, in the course of my treatment, advised me to make a clean break with my troubled childhood by keeping only one memento. I thought I might wear it for you so you could understand where I came from. I can see now you’re not ready for that revelation.<br /><br />Mathilde<br /><br /><br />TO: Mathilde Bagnoire<br />FROM: Rodrigo Weiss<br />DATE: 05/07/98<br />SUBJECT: The veil<br /><br />Mathilde—<br /><br />I admit the thought crossed my mind that you were indulging in fantasies of marriage, when I thought we had agreed that commitments of any sort would only be detrimental to our relationship. I must admit the veil also reminded me of my upbringing and the painful memories associated with it.<br /><br />Rodrigo<br /><br />TO: Rodrigo Weiss<br />FROM: Mathilde Bagnoire<br />DATE: 05/07/98<br />SUBJECT: The veil<br /><br />Rodrigo—<br /><br />We don’t need to speak the words if you’re not ready.<br /><br />Mathilde<br /><br /></FONT>Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-18999080261744898512007-05-21T10:14:00.000-07:002007-05-22T22:16:08.975-07:00Rodents in a TrapI have finally taken one of the rodents – which I caught with a trap, rather than poison – placed it carefully in a plastic bag to avoid contamination, and compared it to a picture in a book – it is, in fact, a vole. It now makes perfect sense that the poison does not work on them. <br /><br />Thank you, erthwsdm, for providing me with that helpful bit of information. However, I am still at a loss as to how to alleviate the problem.Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-70763741095505280622007-05-17T12:42:00.000-07:002007-05-17T13:44:09.634-07:00Everything Out In The OpenPerhaps erthwisdom is right -- perhaps it is best to get everything out in the open. <br /><br />Mathilde, do you remember the euphoria of those first days together? <br /><br />Why do you persist in antagonizing me? Did we not get some joy from each other?Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-7264469405397450452007-05-15T01:37:00.000-07:002007-05-17T13:41:50.911-07:00<font size=3><br />TO: Rodrigo Weiss<br />FROM: Mathilde Bagnoire<br />DATE: 03/16/98<br />SUBJECT: Broomhandle<br /><br />Rodrigo—<br /><br />The connection you mention is one I have long dreamed about as well, and just as long thought impossible. When I had my accident as a child and was in the hospital for so many long years, I felt that I would never find a connection with another human soul. I so often feel divorced from my body, but with you inside me I know that it is real. If only Broomhandle could fly into my mouth, ending the painful separation between us both! The days are too long without you. I want a tiny version of you that I can keep in my pocket.<br /><br />Mathilde<br /></font>Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-73068169983907052662007-05-11T04:34:00.000-07:002008-11-13T14:27:44.083-08:00<FONT COLOR="#008000"><br />To: Mathilde Bagnoire<br />From: Rodrigo Weiss<br />Date: 03/15/98<br />Subject: This feeling<br /><br />Mathilde—<br /><br />I never knew that this sort of feeling existed. I have had relationships in the past, but have never felt such an intensity. I feel as if I am about to leap off the precipice, but in the full knowledge that I can fly.<br /><br />Rodrigo<br /><br /><br />TO: Rodrigo Weiss<br />FROM: Mathilde Bagnoire<br />DATE: 03/15/98<br />SUBJECT: My feeling<br /><br /><br />Rodrigo—<br /><br />Having your company for the night was the surest proof that I am actually alive. I have never felt this much a part of the world.<br /><br />Mathilde<br /><br /><br />TO: Mathilde Bagnoire<br />FROM: Rodrigo Weiss<br />DATE: 03/16/98<br />SUBJECT: Broomhandle<br /><br /><br />Mathilde—<br /><br />Nor have I. I want to hold you all day and night, and feel your cool flesh against mine. When I was a boy, I dreamed about connecting in this way with a woman. I spent much of my time inventing stories about my alter ego, Sir Roderick, and his love the Lady Madeline, who was imprisoned in a coffin of glass. I know, I know, it sounds a lot like Sleeping Beauty—but to my credit, there was no dragon—just an evil witch. And the only way the coffin could be opened was for the Lady Madeline to open it from the inside, so Sir Roderick sent his pet dragonfly Broomhandle through the keyhole to whisper the magic words in the Lady Madeline’s ear. Sometimes the witch captured Roderick as well, and Broomhandle would have to fly through the keyhole of his glass coffin and out into the forest to the witch’s castle where the Lady Madeline was imprisoned. In one particularly inspired variation, Broomhandle had to sacrifice himself for the love of his master by flying into the Lady Madeline’s mouth and becoming the magic words she was required to speak.<br /><br />I later tried turning these stories into a children’s book, but the publishers to whom I submitted the manuscript felt that its themes were too adult. I include for your amusement the illustration of Broomhandle flying into the Lady Madeline’s mouth, and an “outtake”, from a version in which Sir Roderick first attempts to get the Lady Madeline to say the magic words through a game of charades.<br /><br />Rodrigo<br /></FONT><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYUbz0ZPv3lYLye8Z5Qe3e1vK30L_Wb7My4HI2IAS39_V2KtRRCqv-O3jnN3zP2fcWX5xvwLtKQm8hlUP4J-rENI7Qgc8YononHcR0hnZiT5qBssvvTlLL818hnD4q8_Uxmm8X/s1600-h/Mathilde+Broomhandle+Illustration+Smaller.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYUbz0ZPv3lYLye8Z5Qe3e1vK30L_Wb7My4HI2IAS39_V2KtRRCqv-O3jnN3zP2fcWX5xvwLtKQm8hlUP4J-rENI7Qgc8YononHcR0hnZiT5qBssvvTlLL818hnD4q8_Uxmm8X/s400/Mathilde+Broomhandle+Illustration+Smaller.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063189622759354930" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNkpCXA1SyAEw6Jn6ihWo6ezWbSSrFRIzFOdGOGqtFO0l_ihUfvmH370Ix_ficHRbOZB6IrdMWEOtchFv_R05XFW0DsGaNHgDJNie7aLOzEGFffrnGnODQwT7bVT9x5KVH-LKK/s1600-h/Mathilde+Charades+Illustration+Smaller.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNkpCXA1SyAEw6Jn6ihWo6ezWbSSrFRIzFOdGOGqtFO0l_ihUfvmH370Ix_ficHRbOZB6IrdMWEOtchFv_R05XFW0DsGaNHgDJNie7aLOzEGFffrnGnODQwT7bVT9x5KVH-LKK/s400/Mathilde+Charades+Illustration+Smaller.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063189622759354914" /></a>Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-52043343611099510552007-05-09T17:38:00.000-07:002007-05-09T17:44:47.194-07:00More Disappointing News<blockquote><em>Dear Mr. Weiss –<br /><br />Re: your most recent submission to The Learning Annex teaching pool. I’m sorry you found our standard rejection letter misleading. Let me state clearly and personally that we are not offering classes in any sort of zombie history at this time. Zombies do not exist. Please refrain from submitting another proposal. If you are interested in participating in one of our mental health seminars, I would be happy to provide you with a discount code (I think you could really use some help). Otherwise, the next time you have an urge to send us a packet of your “materials and research,” go to the nearest tall building and take a flying leap.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br />Liz Baker<br />Assistant to the Executive in Charge of Submissions</em></blockquote><br /><br /><br />I choose not to lose my faith in humankind, but to instead believe that this is the work of a bored young woman, perhaps in an argument with her boss, or smarting over being rejected from the English Department at UCLA yet again. I shall submit another application soon, to another department, and press on with my quest to share my research with a larger audience.Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-1747421419889673172007-05-07T12:34:00.000-07:002007-05-09T17:38:12.281-07:00The Price of ProgressA sad note to report: Botanica Mystere, that wonderful shop run by Esperanza McNunn (noted in an earlier entry) has been boarded up, along with The Juice Fountain. Apparently, they are building some sort of hotel complex in the area.<br /><br />I hope the merchants fare well in their new homes.Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-65194404531601510262007-05-01T23:22:00.000-07:002007-05-01T23:23:04.627-07:00Another SolutionI have been advised that mice avoid hot sauce. <br /><br />Of course this made for a rather comical scene at the grocery store, as I pushed a cartful of Tabasco, Cholula, Tapatio, and something called “Mad Iguana” through the aisles, explaining to curious onlookers that it was for my mice. <br /><br />Sometimes the most vexing problems can provide us with a bit of levity.Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36820664.post-24064051238843379222007-04-30T11:14:00.000-07:002008-11-13T14:27:44.489-08:00An Open Letter to the Person Who Spread Dish Soap on My Stairs This Morning<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ZEUQrG57xGhIC6avoa3VKEKF9z5kQWKqMKSYmHH8gh_Suh5Kik6dkk7YBS0VGIPBCVZtODZ8BrndDtY5WUBJx_wZZdUSq5KmBTrYI0yTXkqhBYofaSbKfPdv-NOTyrxsMMb1/s1600-h/PICT0001.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ZEUQrG57xGhIC6avoa3VKEKF9z5kQWKqMKSYmHH8gh_Suh5Kik6dkk7YBS0VGIPBCVZtODZ8BrndDtY5WUBJx_wZZdUSq5KmBTrYI0yTXkqhBYofaSbKfPdv-NOTyrxsMMb1/s400/PICT0001.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5059843246235316706" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGX38nzccKjxLpMuNe4ocEWN451TIj56ye9TC_ehAMTc8XqF6vmDCZh6GjrhvNZNNzduktUwq1GucmEx1HUWv7n7oVfXVAbmmC88Y2tKlWgpfpZ8K9rz-JMpYmP_o0j3BWD6Td/s1600-h/PICT0002.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGX38nzccKjxLpMuNe4ocEWN451TIj56ye9TC_ehAMTc8XqF6vmDCZh6GjrhvNZNNzduktUwq1GucmEx1HUWv7n7oVfXVAbmmC88Y2tKlWgpfpZ8K9rz-JMpYmP_o0j3BWD6Td/s400/PICT0002.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5059843254825251314" /></a><br /><br />I'm not sure whether it was sabotage or simply a poor attempt to clean up the cigarette ash that you've tracked up and down our staircase for the past two years, but please note that dish soap is exceptionally slippery and not suitable for commercial cleaning uses. <br /><br />As for my early morning tumble down the stairs, dear Readers, you can rest assured that I merely sprained my back and my index finger. No permanent damage was done (except to my Grandmother's thermos - my only keepsake of hers - that shattered beyond all repair).Rodrigo Weisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09242287571411363413noreply@blogger.com0