#teamanthro

[acrickettofillthesilence]

teamanthro answered your question:Important Question Time: When a potential employer...

I would avoid it if possible

Yeah, it probably shows my age. He messed up though, so I wanted to show I wasn’t annoyed even though I kinda was.

[he-harim]

BTW, can I fangirl a little bit about R. Jonathan Sacks right now? I just bought his Koren Rosh Hashanah Mahzor, and it's basically my favorite thing. I'm sad he's retiring, but I figure he'll keep doing his thing, i.e. being awesome. He always has amazing footnotes and source material.

[missionlameturtle]

seascribe replied to your post “I know she’s a forensic anthropologist (implied to have a background...”

SO BAD. *angry squid fingers* Argh. I just. I cannot. I loved that show before I got into my major. Gnargh.

tilathebun replied to your post “I know she’s a forensic anthropologist (implied to have a background...”

YES OHMYGOD. So frustrating! And the worst part is there's this ONE EPISODE where she goes all cultural anthro/ethnographer on Jersey Shore bros, and it is downright painful to watch. She's so bad! But she obviously thinks she gets it! UGH BONES WHY

teamanthro replied to your post “I know she’s a forensic anthropologist (implied to have a background...”

so true!

I still like it, but sometimes it makes me so angry and I just have to stop watching it for a few months. WHY. WHY SHOW WHY CAN'T YOU JUST DO YOUR RESEARCH

[rareandradiant-maiden]

Bis du a hundrik un tsvansik yor alts! ( I'm guessing it's your birthday)

With my mediocre Yiddish skills, I’m guessing this is “to 120!” or similar?

Thank you! (the lateness is my bad, i got this yesterday but elected to sleep bc of my exam today rather than answer it)

[he-harim]

I'm really excited that you're going to Drisha. Some of the most knowledgeable Talmud scholars I know studied there! Hope you enjoy New York.

Wow, that’s great! I’m so excited

[amoretpsyche]

Carl #4

Languidness and drowsiness hangs in the air, listening to the lullabies of soft-flesh lovers. Half-closed eyes, elbows on shaky and slight tables – listening to the messages of truth in friendly voices that have declared themselves in songs.

Carl: “Recently I see a man, on my left or on my right. He has this surprised look and fathomless air. I think I am amazing. Sometimes, he walks by me and does not notice me, but deeply, I know it, he scrutinises me.”

Heaven: “How is he, this man? Tell me, Carl…”

Carl: “He’s so beautiful that I would like to make him into underwear so I could wear him. When he stretches you discover a pure belly made of serpentine shades which announce a passionate vault, and narrow hips with the necessary amount of flesh. He makes me think of a cat really, a cat which would say to the others: ‘look how my tail waves.’”

Heaven: “And did you see it waving? His… tail.”

Carl: “Not yet.” He smiles.

They stop speaking, reunited in the sunset-permeated calm of the factory. They listen to an air of piano, shivering naked on the granite floor – post-love serenity.

*

Carl looks at the birds and imagines them dancing to airs of Beethoven, in an infinite loop on the roofs of middle-class buildings, ridiculous elements in the landscape of cranes which revoke the ground that they bore. He likes to sit down and look, to imagine the destinies of these anthill cities, those buildings where each window is several lives, where life piles up in box-flats, and where monstrous eyes appear reflected in windowpanes. He likes to look at the city in order to develop the bitterness that grows within him, proclaiming himself judge of his generation; a generation of blind people and beggars, always in a hurry to obtain more horror and constraints. More constraints to believe themselves free, free to work, to buy more things — but especially, free to experience the daily sciatica, the woolly discussions and the trifling education, free to believe that the Moloch was only the invention of a degenerate poet, free to believe that prophetic poets deserve to be crucified, and free to believe that they can forget the intolerable daily nonsense.

He observes the crowd that strolls about, these fakirs meditating on the benches of the tramway, these group-rate-families, queuing in fast-food restaurants during peak-time.

At night, trailing along a concentric Soho with shops full of sexual frenzy, Carl roams among the facades of lights. He walks along these aphrodisiac shops with flickering neon signs and discovers the mirrors of the sky, imprisoning his silhouette. His reflection is reduced but multiplied tenfold, decreasing until total disappearance. The passage he uses closes in on him, transforms him into a tiny man travelling up and down the gay neighbourhood. He runs, his coat floats, he breaks away, nervous, in life, conscious of the things which

surround him, as if these things breathed and contained in them, somewhere, the essence of Happiness.

He enters the bar, between these walls that preach liberating pleasure and libertarian customs, a place with red ceilings and smoky perfume of blown-out candles. His finger, above the candlestick, makes the flame vibrate, aiming with outrageousness, and on the tin of it is reflected the decline of the order which governs human behavior. A new body sits at the opposite table, coming out of nowhere. Absorbed in his reading, the stranger wears a fitted coat, and has short hair and tanned skin. Carl thinks of statues, the kind we can see in museums, this place where oh! and ah! obstruct bourgeois silence. He imagines observing this living dream from inside a hotel room where he would see him stretching out through the open door, his thighs not touching, allowing outer brightness to filter through. He would wear a sweater wrapped around his bare shoulders, and the sleeves would swing on the naked flesh of his chest. He would look at Carl as you look for Spring, avid, and his image would remain still, his bare feet on the asphalt. In this dream his silvery body would develop, where the face of one nipple would stand out in sharp relief, while the other would seem hidden in the shadows, and his figure would be an appeal, love would be nice.

Carl dreams a little more, at the heart of waiting for clients. He invents other tableaux, and these images satisfy him, managing to fill the palpitating hole in his chest.

Carl would see him in ghostly corridors, made up of luminous and white reflections. Le

Rêve would be here, lying there against an imaginary wall, hair crowned with the backlight of the hospital.

Or he would hear him sing, playing an instrument in the living room. He would be seated, his guitar on his thigh, strumming with promising fingers. Carl would observe him from the window, hidden behind a scale in the smog of the city.

And of course, he would call him Le Rêve, the dream of an escape out of the Fall.  However, they would never talk. He would be his protective leather against reality.

[missionlameturtle]

sometimes I forget people that I follow also follow me, and then all of sudden they reblog something from me and it's just like

[professorfangirl]

ureshiiichigo replied to your post: Calling any codemonkeys ...

There are key words that you could use to have symbolic meaning - case statements and loop constructs (if a then b else c; while x then y). But “cyberspace” to me, says unix command line, perl, or bash scripting. It depends on the goal of the code.

Yes, it seems control flow was the concept I was after. Looks like my guy is getting home earlier than I thought, and he should be able to help me write something fairly convincing. Thank you all so much!