Butterflies are Free

One of the great pleasures of teaching undergraduate college students is killing of grandmothers. Figuratively speaking, of course -- but my goodness, these kids go to a lot of funerals. Also, creative illnesses, car trouble, pet difficulties, and -=- to the point of our title, mis-read assignments.

Today's winner comes to us from a genuinely smart kid, who knew that the assignment was to read that "Butterfly" play. So, I figure, he went online, and found David Belasco's Madame Butterfly (1904), the play upon which Puccini wrote his famous(er) opera, Madama Butterfly. Alas, the assignment was David Henry Hwang's M Butterfly, which is another Lepidoptera entirely. He was quite upset when, during the quiz I give at the beginning of class, it became clear that he had read the wrong play.

You may remember that I mentioned that J understands the formulae of movies on a kind of organic level? Well, we learned what happens when that formula doesn't show up -- family movie night was Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Its been on M and I's list since Butch's demise, and J was deemed old enough to watch -- and he really enjoyed parts of it. Others? Not so much. And the ending, when they get -- spoiler alert -- gunned down by the Bolivian army? Waterworks, galore.

On notes of less shadenfreude, more job apps out, more dissertating in train. I'm having a little trouble wrangling chapter 1 to a point where I think my advisor and I can live with it until the whole thing makes more sense. I will be hammering hard at that tomorrow.

Today, day of rest -- yesterday was a long run, 46 minutes in the park. Saturday was 25 on the treadmill. B says I'm going to do a half-marathon in January . . . we shall see!