Most of you know are familiar with our cat, Whittier Anique, that fluffy, fully-declawed ball of terror who has a beautiful appearance and an ugly personality. Though the previous owner named the cat after the Quaker (read, ‘pacifist’) poet John Greenleaf Whittier, Whittier has never really evidenced much of a commitment to peace.

We adopted her as a teenage cat, but the relative solitude of her kittenhood had prepared her poorly for our frequent house guests. Her petulance is widely reported upon; visitors exchange tales of derring do regarding how close they were or were not able to get petting Whittier. She has bitten younger siblings, hissed at inquisitive neighbors, and once, upon her untimely escape from our Chattanooga home, dispatched a bigger alley cat by sheer fierceness of personality.

We told her that a change was in order. That she was not participating in our family vision to be a warm and hospitable home. That she needed to make an effort at sociability. Thus far, she has not responded. She remains a privately lovable, publicly cantankerous, ridiculously good looking cat.

And so, after some reading, we decided that it was time to introduce someone new to the mix. A cat with a resolutely amiable personality that will hopefully unleash Whittier’s inner social butterfly.

Pinksy will be joining the Weichbrodt household this weekend.

Pinsky hails from a corn farm in Iowa, the childhood home of one of my fellow grad students. Her parents had a single abandoned kitten from a recent litter and they wanted to send her to a good home. After being assured that the kitten (a) had an extraordinarily people friendly personality and (b) color-coordinated with Whittier, we agreed to adopt.

You may be wondering, “Pinsky? Have the Weichbrodt’s no taste in cat names?” The answer may still be affirmative, but the choice is not without its reason: we were simply trying to thematize. Since we already have one female cat carrying the somewhat androgynous last name of a male poet, we thought we might as well keep things going. Robert Pinksy is the former Poet Laureate of the United States and the recent academic adviser for poet-laureate-in-the-making, R. David Macey. You may also recognize him as the moderator of the Colbert Report’s Meta-Free-Phor All.

It will be an exciting week of cat isolation, monitored visitations, and home exploration. There will be pictures. And stories. For what’s the point of having a house full of poets if you don’t get stories out of their residencies?

Today, I was ‘oriented’ to my new position as Teaching Assistant. Yes, I, Elissa Weichbrodt, am about to be partially entrusted with the minds and grades of WashU freshmen whose parents are paying extraordinary amounts of money for their child to attend a top twenty school.

I’ll be TAing for our so-called “Intro to Western,” that strange beast of a survey class that covers everything in the west from cave paintings to last week in a semester. Yep, a single semester. Depending on the faith you do or do not place in radiocarbon dating, this means that we are covering 32,007 years of art in about twelve weeks.

As a scholar-in-training of contemporary art and theory, I find it hilarious to note the similarity between the cave paintings that we begin with:

And the paintings we end with:

I realize that thinking this is funny rather than proof that culture has died simply underlines the fact that I am, indeed, a hopeless nerd. And that formal teleology is silly. Also that I’m a hopeless nerd.

During an early childhood trip to Virginia, I saw what seemed — to me — to be the most amazing, magical vehicles. Strange contraptions of pastel plastic, the vessels glided across the calm lake, among the waterlilies and ducks, passengers pedaling leisurely. A paddleboat. What a fabulous idea. And thus began a lifelong dream of, someday, propelling one of these fantastic crafts myself.

Basically, I’m saying that I was dreaming about paddleboating for a good five years longer than I dreamed of getting married.

Noel made fun of this fascination rather mercilessly. “They’re silly,” he told me, “you can’t really steer them, it takes more energy than it’s worth, and they’re silly.” And while I silenced my praise and pleading for a while, I was hardly dissuaded.

And then, yesterday, it happened. As a (half) birthday gift, Noel took me to Forest Park and we, indeed, went paddleboating. And I had a blast. We pedaled and paddled through the Post-Dispatch Lake, under bridges, and around the fountains in the Grand Basin at the foot of Art Hill.

Noel, was, of course, correct about the unfortunate physics of paddleboating. It’s certainly not efficient and I was surprised at how quickly my legs started to feel the burn. At first I was startled. Was I so out of shape? How were these retirees across the lake doing this? Then, I realized: being married to a quick-walking, strong-thighed husband does set the bar rather high in terms of velocity. While other couples pushed their legs in languorous, smooth strokes, the Weichbrodts pedaled vigorously, finding the vessel’s peak speed and then metronomically maintaining the pace. Romantic and aerobic. We’re cool like that.

I don’t think I’ve ever done this before in my life but, well, allow me to quote the Beastie Boys:

Brooklyn, Bronx, Queens and Staten
From the Battery to the top of Manhattan
Asian, Middle-Eastern and Latin
Black, White, New York you make it happen.

Picky readers may point out the lack of antecedent for the pronoun “it.” This supposed grammatical failure actually serves as the location for rendering intelligible what the text does not itself think but nevertheless allows to be thought. In this case, “it” refers to the extraordinary happiness experienced by my eyes.

I only saw a touch of what a first time visitor is ’supposed’ to see in New York, but my eyes were pleased to see my pile of research multiply, startled by Eric Fischl’s mosaic in Penn Station, refreshed by the mix of ethnicities, surprised by the orange trumpet vines crawling up Astoria apartments, tickled to see a subway mariachi band, delighted to see one of my favorite up and coming artists, excited to meet an art world rising star, and darn pleased to look at a lot of good art.

Thanks, New York. And thank you, too, Beastie Boys.

Dear Apple,

In May 2006, I made the switch from lifetime PC user to buy my first Mac. I was initially delighted with my MacBook; I found it easy to use, wonderfully portable, and chic. Within two months, however, the glow faded. The chic factor was quickly soiled with a stained keypad. Then, right before my first semester of graduate school, my MacBook began randomly and frequently shutting itself down in the middle of working. After several arduous rounds with AppleCare and repeatedly and frustratingly losing work, I had to send the computer in to have the motherboard replaced. While the servicing was successful, I was hardly pleased that my new Mac had so quickly proven even less reliable than my old Dell. Admittedly, the MacBook functioned reasonably well for the next ten months, but, right after passing the one year mark and just prior to an important research trip, the hard drive suddenly and magnificently failed.

While I understand that flaws and breakage are part of technology’s life cycle, I have been sorely disappointed by the quality of your product. Having been converted by your witty Mac vs. PC commercials, I now find myself adding bitter commentary over your satirizing of the PC’s unreliability: “Hi, I’m a Ma…” “Mac? Mac? Wake up?” “Oh, sorry, my year old hard drive just died and had to be replaced.”

I was ready to convert, I really was. After my experienced with this MacBook, however, I will not be recommending your products to my friends who are currently shopping for new laptops. They may be better off paying less money for equal unreliability.

Unhappily yours,

Elissa Weichbrodt

“Ma’am,” he said, popping his head over my shoulder, “I just wanted to compliment you.”

I was sitting outside my coffee shop haunt — sandals off and feet propped up on another chair — reading a cultural geographer’s apology for the dynamism of space. I was not prepared for compliments.

“You,” he continued, “have beautiful feet. I haven’t seen any good feet since I moved to St. Louis, but you have beautiful ones.”

And there it was.

By now, many of you likely know that our friends at Coptix pulled an April Fool’s joke on most of the free world. Despite the clear opportunistic brilliance and attempt at self-parody, the prank’s targets were far from amused.

I guess some folks are fairly embarrassed by the whole kerfuffle, but I don’t think bitter defensiveness is necessary. Being duped by an April Fool’s Day joke doesn’t mean you’re dumb. You might be British, though.

Last night’s Academy Awards were bookended by two extraordinarily unexpected events. Yes, The Departed was something of a surprise for Best Picture and, sure, maybe Eddie Murphy got robbed, and, indeed, Melissa Etheridge’s labored tune had no business winning Original Song. But let’s set our sights past that for a while.

First, before Ellen ever appeared in her red velvet tux, Cameron Diaz surprised us all by showing up in an envelope:

The visual juxtaposition is incontrovertible. It’s an envelope. But why? Is this some statement on the concealment of communication? Is she sending subtle hints that she’s available for pen pal relationships?

The second earth shaking moment came when the whole show finally ground to a delayed halt. When the confetti cleared, Noel was declared the winner of the Oscar prediction pool. Yes, Noel. Having picked thirteen winners correctly, he won the golden bag of egg-shaped candy and the respect of his peers.

We can perhaps cite Mesh and his handy faking-the-Oscars guide for Noel’s triumph, but I’m not sure if blame can be pinned on the same for Diaz’s stationary-inspired couture.

This knowledge bite is dedicated to R. David Macey, in the hope that it will someday feature in an epic poem.

Yesterday I learned that cheese — yes, cheese — was a medieval metaphor for conception.

Consider: liquids join together to form a solid after a period of waiting. The result could be Gouda… or a kid.

It remains to be seen if some medieval nuns, enamored as they were with the idea of being spiritually wed to Christ, saw their convent’s (economically prosperous) cheese-making as the equivalent of birthing spiritual children.