Funny Thing About Weekends When You're Unemployed...

...they don't mean quite so much.

That's from an old Primus song, off of (I believe) Frizzle Fry, their first major-label album. I listened to that tape a lot in the summer after my freshman year in high school, and I foolishly wasted about two years learning to play slap bass like Les Claypool rather than just concentrating on learning to play actual bass lines.

Anyway.

I have yet to find a metaphor, or even a general point of comparison, to describe what it's like writing a dissertation. I have days, days, during which I accomplish precisely nothing. Then I'll have a day during which I write pages of stuff or do the citations for a whole chapter or the equivalent. There is neither rhyme nor reason to the (lack of) productivity in this process. I have some vague hopes for today, going through some interviews with Gorz and plopping citations throughout the body of the thesis...

My mom and stepdad arrive this evening for a four-day visit. This is where the Bonny Doon house-sitting gig really comes in handy - our apartment is fine for friends, but there's something about entertaining the parental generation that just doesn't work in a small one-bedroom. Instead, we will kick it up here in the redwoods and all will be well, as long as the weird heating unit underneath the house doesn't blow up.