Why is a raven like a writing desk?

Because there is a B in both and an N in neither.

This semester I have been taking Chaucer as one of my high level English classes. Over our trip through the Canterbury Tales something interesting has happened to me. In our modern setting for literature (ever since around the 19th century, I believe) there has been huge mania for the author to be absent from the work. Show, don't tell. I've listened to that phrase repeated over and over until I felt as though were I a horse, they would have been pounding dead chunks of me into the floor rather a while ago. I've been noticing Chaucer, though. In this work, his influence appears everywhere. His commentaries on everyone and everything are woven as delicately through the text as some exquisite thread woven through a tapestry. He speaks through the Wife of Bath,where he gives woman a voice and he tears apart old and shopworn ideas. He establishes the hierarchy (The Knights Tale), and then pulls it apart in front of our eyes (Like with dear ol' Topas). I find I value his opinion, albeit from hundreds of years away and beyond the grave. Where Shakespeare is oft regarded as The Bard (capital letters and all) Geoffrey Chaucer stands out in his work as a nicely flawed, and very real man. Now, likely his personality was nothing like the image I've crafted in my head about this author. Needless to say, there stands some evidence that he was anti-Semitic. He generally tends to be bitingly critical of some, while pardoning others easily and without second thought.
I find I enjoy this image. His contradictions and uncomfortable flaws make him seem like one of us, which may well have held his appeal for the community at large. Not an aristocrat and not a peasant, Chaucer straddled both worlds, and with his quirky honesty becomes appealing to all. Like a good friend, sometimes he drives me up the wall. Sometimes I hate him a bit. Never before in my life have I felt this way about an author. I find I had been content to leave the curtain drawn, and not cared to look at the man behind it. After all, the great Oz told me not to, right? This class has given me a different perspective. I find myself looking at literature in different ways, suddenly conscious about the author in ways I never had been before. Simply, it rocks toast. (Yes, toast.)
I find what I enjoy most to be the picture of him and his motley crew of pilgrims that has formed in my head. Luckily for me they don't have to be based in reality, I have my text, and my imagination. Happily, neither of these things have much to do with the world at large.

Harharhar...

Descartes walks into a bar. The bartender asks, "Would you like a drink?" Descartes replies, "No, I think not." Descartes then disappears.

So Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?

I have stumbled very uncomfortably upon one of the most ingenious scams of all time. Before now I had sympathized with victims of this plot, but never had been on quite this impressive a business end of a car dealership buggery. After doing fairly well today at school and work, I made my humble way over to the car dealership service center to see about fixing my drivers side seat belt buckle. I confidently stepped through the door, assured that I would be well taken care of by the kind female voice that had directed me through the door. Smiling faces lined my way through the winding road up to the service center. Breathing a sigh of relief, I outlined my plight to the kind goateed fellow who approached me, and with an assurance I was in good hands. Grinning, he went inside to price the service that would return my car to safe working order.

Now, a brief tangent: I find life is all about relying on others. Lawyers rely on the cops to bring them the bad guys, investigators to gather up the evidence, judges to argue before. Actors need costumers, writers, directors, (and possibly worst of all) other actors. All of this winds down to the simple fact that where ever one goes, it is impossible to escape without at least briefly being in a venerable position. This leaves room for somebody to screw you over. Usually the person doing the screwing will be wearing a tie.

Back to my original story, the smiling and goateed gentleman who so confidently assured me of his ability to help returned, a carefully calculated look of alarm and empathy on his face. It was at this point a cold stab of fear jolted through me, and I noticed; the man was wearing a red checkered tie. One of those ties that every denizen of a car dealership wears... those terrifyingly ostentatious ties that aught to say "Run! Get out now!" but never seem to become noticeable until the guillotine drops, and your bodiless head lies blinking up towards the sky, a splattering of blood on the pavement.

This all led me to the enlightenment I now suffer. These places design parts to break. Specifically engineered to wear out, keeping the part just complex and unique enough to be exclusively available only from the dealer. It is bloody genius. They have a stranglehold on the masses, people who have no other choice but to play their sick little game. Honestly, I am impressed. And likely will be walking bowlegged until this time next year after discussing the cost for this relatively simple repair.
Never before have I encountered such impressively subtle brutality as that tie wearing gentleman showing me a single slip of paper.