Cashed Checks and Imperfect Balances

Should we talk about the weather?

Should we talk about the government?

--REM, “Pop Song 89”

The sweltering of the plains has begun in earnest for the summer. Saturday was steamy hot--which did not preclude us from several beverages out on some friends’ deck; yesterday was slightly more brutal (except we are not sure just how brutal, since, according to the paper this morning, an equipment malfunction made it impossible to read the temperature and humidity…they couldn’t run to the nearest bank to read the sign out front?)—which did not preclude us from mowing the lawn and doing a bit of yard work in the AM; today portends to be more of the same. I planned on a fishing excursion to a nearby lake this morning, but the forecast, along with the fact that I stayed up late watching the rebroadcast of the US Women’s World Cup rousing victory over Brazil, convinced me to stay in this morning. I plan on taking the fishing trip tomorrow. The weather will most likely remain, but I will have had a bit more sleep.

In other news, I have been thinking lately about the current difficulties that we are in as a nation, specifically, that slippery eel that is the economy, which is sluggish to say the least. Here in Nebraska, we have been pretty lucky compared to many other places, but things are still far from perfect. The mayor proposed last week a hike in property taxes and wheel taxes, in order to raise revenue for roadwork and other operating costs. That still apparently will not save the jobs of some city workers.

I don’t mind paying a bit more to keep things running smoothly, to have parks and street lights, paved roads and a fire department. It is worth the extra fifty bucks a year (or so) it will cost us to maintain those services that I find important for my quality of life. And that money is collected and used by the city that I live in. Every day I can see my taxes being necessary when there is a pot-holed road, a broken water main, a darkened street lamp, or an overgrown park field.

On the federal level, however, things are a bit more complicated. I don’t see the money I send to Washington being directly spent…except on things like war, war, and war. Oh, right, we did give all those banks and car companies all that money…and we gave all those folks cash for their push-pull-drag-or-drive clunkers, so I know that money was well spent. But, it appears that the Feds are in a tougher spot than my town is. The deficit rises; revenues are stagnant. Current natural disasters will cost billions; expensive military actions are still being waged on multiple fronts. The promised jobs created by the wealthy are not materializing; some corporations are not paying any taxes. And Congress and the president can’t seem to see eye to eye on any solution.

And here is where our wonderfully balanced form of government is perhaps making things worse when it should be making things better. For, while the Senate has a Democrat majority, which (one would think) would cooperate with a president from its own party, the House is GOP-controlled. And, do you think that maybe the House majority might feel that they have an interest in keeping the economy in the tank until 2012? Wouldn't that be better for their party?

Am I a conspiracy theorist? No. Do I understand politics? Yes, I do. In that respect—the “I understand the gamesmanship of the political arena” respect—I completely understand why the House might be doing what I think it’s doing. But, I don’t like it. But, I am not going to start lobbing “evil Republican” bombs around. I am not going to point some naïve finger and say, “Hey, you red state bozos, quit holding this country hostage and fix the problem.” Nope. I am not going to do that. Because I know a few things: I know that the situation we find ourselves in is the end result of many years of (and both parties’) myopia, avarice, and lack of wisdom. I know that, were the situation reversed, the Dems would do the same thing ( not as effectively…probably more like ineffectively). I know that, most likely, even if the two sides come to a compromise, it will be, like most compromises, well, compromised, and any policy they agree upon will sound great in the paper, but will generally be toothless, useless, and maybe even more detrimental than helpful.

That does not mean I am not fired up at yet another example of party politics taking precedence over the common good. But, what do we do? We do what we always do. We pay our taxes, we try to keep calm, we carry on, we pick cucumbers, we keep the lawn trimmed, we open a beverage, we fill up the kiddie pool, and we hope that the weather breaks soon.

So it goes….

Being What You Are

What are you? Are you more prone to identify yourself by some familial relationship (mother, father, brother, sister, aunt), or are you more likely to identify yourself by your profession (teacher, chef, truck driver, manager)? Are you the thing you practice (writer, musician, quilter), or the thing you have nearly perfected (scrap booker, reader, gardener)? Are you all of these things?

Well, of course, you are. That's probably the easiest set of related questions you might ponder today. We all identify ourselves in multiple ways. One of the earliest activities I do with my kiddos is to have them self-identify. They can find it hard, at first, to discover the words to describe themselves. Many use simple adjectives, but, more often, they use labels that correspond to sports, hobbies, and familial connections. It can sometimes be very telling how a person chooses to describe him/her self.

I had an opportunity to describe myself, this weekend. Meeting new people is always a chance to refine how you identify yourself, isn't it? (Or as James would say, "Init?") So, in meeting new people, the chance to define myself as a "musician" and a "writer" came up. In both instances, I was hesitant to do so. My first tag for myself is definitely, "teacher." It is no surprise that I define myself primarily through my work. It is either nature or nurture, but I get that from family...it goes way back. Following that would be "husband." Third might be "dog owner," since that is a pretty big part of my life right now. Maybe I throw in "baseball fan," or "coffee drinker," or "closet Libertarian," at this point, but "writer" and "musician" come way down the list, if they make it at all.

My reticence to self-identify as a writer led to a discussion of what defines a writer. After all, here I am, right now, writing. Thus, I am a writer, right? Well, yes. What is a writer? A person who writes. Do I write? Yes. So, what's the problem? Right.

Same for musician (but, if I had to only choose a label between "writer" and "musician," I am going "writer" every time...I at least feel like a competent writer...I am not a very competent musician). I play music, therefore I am a musician.

But, is there some other aspect of it that causes me this pause when I have to claim a membership in the writer's club? I suppose it is a need to have some one else lend legitimacy to what I am doing. Here I sit at a desk full of folders of my own products. But very few of those creations have been seen by anyone. A few poems sent out (years ago), some even published. A play that was given a public reading. But, most of it is here with me, and, most likely, here it will stay. Writing isn't my means of making a living, and, as I mentioned earlier, that is the primary way that I identify myself. Until I am regularly (or sufficiently) paid to write, I will not be a writer. The more I think about it, the less I like how that sounds.

In a review of Daniel Johnston's newest release, Douglas Wolk said, "There is no valid excuse for not making your art in a world where Daniel Johnston managed to do what he did." I am really taking that to heart. Surely, however, it begs the question of whether art without an audience is art, at all. Which, in a way, is the same thing as the tree falling in the forest. And, again, presupposes that others legitimize you. And I want to get away from that. So, for the sake of my own argument (and personal growth, perhaps), I am going to say that art without an audience, while denying the world an experience, is still art. David is still David when the lights go out at the Academy.

So, yes, I am a writer. I mean, in a way, this whole self-doubt thing is silly, considering that I spend 190 days a year telling kids who hate to write that they ARE writers. And I believe it, but, I wonder if I might be saying the word in a different way. Yes, they are writers, but David Mitchell, he's a WRITER. I don't know. But, if I am, I am doing them a disservice. Because Johnny Grumplepants in the third row and John Irving both do it the same way. One might be better at it. One might be more experienced. But, the act of writing is the act of writing, and when I write, I am a writer, dammit.

Frozen Water Torture

It seems like it has been snowing here for about five straight days. Except that it is snowing so slowly, that we only accumulate about an inch a day, if that. It seems that the point of all this frozen precip is to get the kids all jangled up, make us clean off our cars more than once a day, make us shovel or sweep the drive and walks once a day or so, and to just make it seem all pretty outside. The roads are not really treacherous. As a matter of fact, they have been quite clear. I guess it's easy for plows and salt trucks to keep up with less than an inch per day of snowfall. Tonight and tomorrow calls for more of the same. I guess this is kind of like what living in a snow globe must be like (with out the intermittent violent shaking).

I have been eagerly awaiting President Obama's reply to my texts about my economic stabilization plan. I am also still awaiting the arrival of a Hawaii quarter. Who is jonesing all the Hawaii quarters! Anyway, I was hoping my texts might reach his NSA-secured Blackberry, but maybe I have a wrong number.

And, last, but not least. I try to ignore this buffoon when this news first broke, but, if Leonard Pitts, one of the finest Opinion columnists of his generation, is going to address it, then I'll say it, too: Rush Limbaugh is un-American.

The Central Standard Economic Plan

It is common knowledge that we are in some financially trying times. The economy is in shambles, employment is down, the stock market is unsettled. Oil prices are so low that even oil barons are having a tough time of it...did you see Dick Cheney in a wheel chair on Tuesday? Needless to say, our new president and his cabinet have a tough row to hoe, as does Congress, of course. They are in this, too.

But, I have an idea that just might help float us up out of these benighted times. I read in a two week-old paper today (don't ask why I was reading a two week-old paper, I just was) that roughly 150 million people have been collecting the state quarters issued since 1999. Now that all 50 quarters have been released, that means that each person with a full set has at least $12.50 just sitting under his/her bed gathering dust. I would venture that many of these collectors have multiple sets, even big ass coffee cans full of quarters, canvas bags of silver coins, Uncle Scrooge McDuck-sized mounds of change piled around the hot water heater in their basements, but, in the interest of being level-headed here, let's assume 50 quarters per collector.

Altogether, that is approximately $1.8 billion. Imagine how fluid our economy might be if that kind of extra money were circulating. If maybe a hundred thousand of those quarters were going to buy a new Chrysler instead of hanging out in the hall closet, than perhaps the auto industry wouldn't need our tax dollars to save it. If sixty thousand of those little twenty-five cent pieces were being put down on a new big screen TV, perhaps Circuit City wouldn't be closing its doors in communities across this great nation of ours. If 264 million of those two bit coins were being used to sign a half-decent twenty-five year old right fielder to a lucrative contract with the Baltimore Orioles.... Oh, wait, never mind on that one.

Anyway, the point here is that it is time to make the tough choices. It's time to make sacrifices. At least, that's what our president said on Tuesday. Maybe our first sacrifice should be to spend those silly collections of coins that we have worked these ten years to cobble together. And let me be the first to ask of you, does anyone have a spare Hawaii? I can't find one.

NIck Markakis: Millionaire!

I don't want to repeat myself. I have, more than once, used this bully pulpit (which really isn't that bully....nor is it a pulpit, either...forget that last noun phrase)...this forum (yeah, that's more like it) to rail at the financial injustices of the sports world. I especially like to point out the absurdity of Alex "Heart of a Poet" Rodriguez's $250 million (plus) contract with the dreaded Bronx Bombers. However, word comes from the sports world that hits a little closer to home, as I read this morning in the local that Nick Markakis, a promising young outfielder, has accepted an offer from the Orioles for $66 million over six years! That's $11 million a year (somebody check my math).

Now, ARod's $25 mill per is ridiculous, but, he is one of the best offensive players of his generation (except in the playoffs, but anyway...). NMark earned his millions by hitting last season for an above-average batting average (.306), some power (20 home runs), and some production (87 RBI). He is also a better than average fielder, but, is he worth $11 million?

My first reaction is no, but, let's look at those numbers. That, of course, is one of the inherent beauties of the game of baseball: the dance of statistics, the symphony of numbers, the nearly infinite number of ways that performance can be divided, extrapolated, compared. Oh, here, in the realm of the baseball statistic is where I think I come the closest to a spiritual experience. Why else would I still love a game that is so disgusting on an economic level?

Anyway, Rodriguez has averaged, over the span of a fifteen year career, a batting average of .306, 44 HRs, and 127 RBI. Using those numbers, one might deduce that Markakis is ARod's equal in hitting for average, slightly less than half as good at hitting for power, and above the median in driving in runs. So, relative to $25 million, which Markakis is most definitely better than half as good as, he's actually being underpaid! At $30,000. + per day. That, ladies and gentlemen is how f'ed up the economics of baseball are.

That is all I got.

Tiny News

The bills are paid for the month.

We bought a paper shredder.

I dropped off a dozen pairs of pants and a shirt to the Goodwill on Saturday.

The tomato plants have been pulled after an acceptable late harvest.

I am waiting on three beet plants, then the garden is done for the season.

My iPod is not working properly, and restoring it has not helped. Next stop: the Omaha Apple store.

Jolie Holland has a new album out.

Term One ends in two and a half weeks!

My newspaper keeps arriving late, and, this morning, we received a copy of Financial Times. We don't subscribe to Financial Times.

Sometimes, I wish my tiny news were more exciting.

What's In It For Me?

After a full week of school, and five days in a row of bike commuting (not to mention the prior week in which I biked everywhere (except my guitar lesson)), I got to thinking about why I have chosen to do this. It all might just come down to something my grandmother used to say all the time: "As you are now, I once was. As I am now, you someday will be." I know this is a cliche that she probably heard a million times (and probably from her mother), but, it certainly made an impact on me. And the older and weaker she got, the more of an impression that trite turn of phrase made on me.

I haven't decided to ride my bike to save money, although the timing would indicate (and I may have even claimed) that I am doing it just for that purpose. When gas was $2.50, I drove to work. When gas was $4.00, all of a sudden , I was Mister Two-wheel Commuter. But, how much money am I really saving? Well, a ten-mile round trip every day adds up to 50 miles a week. If my Honda Civic gets 25 MPG (which it about does in the city), that is a grand total of two gallons of gasoline. Grand savings total between seven and nine dollars, depending on prices. Even if you run that out over a year, it's somewhere less than $500. Not a huge savings, but, it's something.

I haven't decided to ride my bike to save the planet. I am certain that someone has a host of statistics to show that my 50 miles of biking prevents the release of x cubic feet of carbon emissions, or what have you. Which is great. I am glad that I may be impacting the planet a little bit less than I have before. I am all about that. I recycle plastics, glass, paper, tin. I reuse my Ziploc sandwich bag, the cottage cheese tubs, the milk jugs. I make garden stakes out of old broom handles and sticks that fall from the maple out back. I compost. I don't water my lawn. I pack out my trash on hikes. I try to keep the climate control in the house at barely comfortable levels. Jimmy Carter would be proud of me. But, I am not pedaling into work every morning, beating my chest and yelling, "I am saving the planet! What are you doing?"

I haven't decided to ride my bike to be cool or unique. There are several people who bike into work everyday. Many have been doing it for a long time. It doesn't make me different. What makes me different is the 25-year old yellow and aqua Giant Iguana that I ride into work. You can see me coming a mile away, and you have to look twice to see if I have on one glove (a la the King of Pop circa "Billie Jean") or leg warmers (a la Jennifer Beals a la Flashdance). But I digress. Besides, I am already as cool as I can be and as unique as I care to be. How could I improve on that?

No, as I firmly entrench myself in the middle years of my time here on Earth(my plan for immortality notwithstanding), I figured it was time to stop thinking about riding and just do it. Enough with the excuses: "I have too much to carry in to work." "I don't know what to do about clothes." "My bike is too old." "It's going to get cold." Well, there are means to carrying things in to work on a bike, and the clothing situation does require some planning and forethought, but not too much to pretty easily pull it off. An old bike can still be a useful bike, with some tuning up. Now, the cold? Well, that's a different story. Yes, it will get cold. That one, we'll have to evaluate as Winter approaches.

But, why am I doing it? Well, one reason, which I didn't really discover until I started doing it, was that I get to see the sun come up, say hello to people, and watch a heron stalk the shores of a small pond everyday. Going a littler slower can put you in touch with your surroundings just a little bit more. But, most of all, I think I do it because, when I think of my grandmother, only in her late sixties, struggling for breath and wheeling a canister of oxygen behind her as she takes a set of steps one riser at a time (a state I don't expect and hope never to find myself in), I think that that is how I "someday will be;" I won't be able to ride. I do it because I can!

Desperately Seeking Marcus Aurelius (A Very Long Italian Story, Part Fourteen)

The last leg of our Italian journey began as we settled our bill, loaded up the Punto, and headed east to the unknown streets of Chiusi, where we were contracted to return the rental. Our drive to Chiusi was uneventful, if not beautiful, but, as we arrived in town, we were in the midst of the most half-baked plan of any we had devised on the entire trip.

All we knew about the rental office was the address (82 Via Marcus Aurelius). Along with us, we had no map, no Garmin, no directions. Just the address and the assurance from the office in Firenze where we picked up the car that the location was “downtown.” So, as we approached Chiusi, we tried to figure out where “downtown” was. We stayed on the main road, thinking that would lead us into the bustling interior of the urban hive that is Chiusi. The main road took us into the centro storico, instead, the old town, with the tiny streets and the cobblestones.

We were on a sort of deadline, too, needing to return the car before 11, or we’d get charged for an extra day. We had already decided that the short drive to Chiusi had not used up enough gas to label the tank “not full,” so we didn’t fear any fuel charges, but we didn’t want to tack on any penalties, if we could avoid them, and being charged for a whole day when you only had the car an extra fifteen minutes because you were turning circles trying to find the place where you were supposed to drop the car off for an hour plus seemed to us like a height of stupidity to which we wished not to soar.

In the middle of our turning and turning and backtracking and neck craning and street sign reading, we were forced to turn into a parking lot, in order to turn around. I remembered that many of the parking lots we had visited in these smaller towns had large maps of the towns in them, and I spied one as we turned in. I hopped out as Monkey pulled the car out of the main traffic area. After a few moments looking at the map, I found our street, which wasn’t far away. I hopped back in the car, and we headed that way.

We found the road pretty easily, but, as we drove along, watching the numbers, we seemed to drive right by 82 (with no markings of it anywhere). There was 78. There was 81. There was 90. What happened to 82? We knew that in Italy, the residences and the business each had different colored numbering systems, and it was perfectly natural for a business 82 to come just before a residential 34, or after a 126, so we kept driving. Then, as streets often do, Marcus Aurelius took a quick turn, leaving us on a street we did not want to be on, so, we swung around and got back on. A few blocks later, Marcus Aurelius seemed to disappear altogether.

But, we were clearly in a downtown-like area. We did a few turns (and maybe broke a few of those phantom Italian “traffic laws”). We passed the train station, where we needed to ultimately be to get a train to Rome, and, then, as if on cue at the lowest ebb of hope and highest tide of despair, we turned inexplicably back onto Marcus Aurelius, only two store fronts from the Eurocar office.

As we pulled up, the Eurocar rep was getting into a car.

“One moment,” he said, and drove off.

We sat on our luggage. It was 10:45. At 10:55, he did return with a cup of coffee. We checked in with no problem and walked over to the train station to wait for the train to Roma.

Our tickets to Roma cost 16 Euro each. This was a great difference between our tickets to Firenze from Milano, which cost 36 Euro each. We wondered if we had the right tickets, but, as we waited for, boarded, and rode the two hours south, nobody accosted us.

We got off the train in a very hot Roma, walked the three blocks to our accommodations, where they held our luggage, because we couldn’t really occupy our room until 3pm. So, with map in hand, we wandered the streets of Rome, beginning a trend that would continue for the remainder of our trip of walking (nearly) everywhere, covering miles each day, and consuming gallons of aqueduct supplied public water.

We planned our tomorrow: Coliseum, Palatine Hill, Roman Forum, and then got previews of a few of those places. One side note on Rome: I may have mentioned in a previous post that I was nervous about Rome, since I have a sort of loathing of large urban areas (maybe loathing is too strong a word…), but, for the three days plus that we were there, I rarely, if ever, felt the same way as I have described feeling about Chicago, or San Francisco, or Baltimore. I don’t know why, but, my enjoyment of Rome was not in the least hampered by my own paranoid hang ups, so, hooray for me, I guess.

Before I Gotta Go...

Hey, Monkey is shooing me out the door as I type this. We're off for some Bar-B-Q. But, I wanted to do my part for an issue that is close to all of us. And, in the interest of time, I am going to step aside and let comoprozac tell you about it.

Peace.

I Need to Get Paid

It's the last weekend in what seems like the longest month ever. For some reason--probably the way the holidays fell this year (all around the weekends)--I got paid around the 28th of last month. That, combined with the 31 days I must endure this month, the ridiculously cold temperatures that have inflated the heating bill, the outlandish price of cheese, the termination of the six-month introductory cable rate, and the dreaded Christmas charge card bills, have managed to leave me in my own little budget crisis (I think Monkey's experiencing one, too).

As it always happens, however, February is short (although longer than usual this year (Leap, baby!)). Doesn't that mean I'll have lots of money left over after next month? Doesn't it? Huh?

The Company My Dad and Grandfather Worked For Used To Spell "Quality" With a "W"

Sometimes I wonder what makes a thing popular.

Let's assume that the majority of the world equates popular with good. Keep in mind that I am not stipulating that popular equals good. I am not implying that that which is popular is good. If put to it, I would probably prefer to lump everything popular into the category of "not good," knowing full well that in doing so, some things will be erroneous labeled "not good" (e.g., Earth, Wind and Fire: once popular, always good; Superman: really popular, mind-numbingly good). Granted, that last parenthetical might lead to a etymological discussion of "good," but, after this statement, I am going to skip right over that.

Alright, so, things that are good can be made popular, but not all things that are popular are good. So...how do they become popular? Why like something that is not good? And here, I am beginning to see that this argument will go nowhere without a discussion of what it means to be good. Fine. Let's go there.

I, of course, am not talking about "Superman" good. This good is not the sense of "obedient, moral, virtuous." However, the sense I am talking about might have something to do with virtue. I am talking about "good" in the sense of competence, skill, cleverness, validity, genuineness. Yes, good has myriad meanings: unspoiled, pleasant, proper, large, favorable. But, in the sense of, music, movies, books, individuals, products, TV, what have you, let's go with a general sense of quality, shall we?

Yes, yes, before I even begin, I hear the contrarians out there quashing my argument: good is relative, you say. Of course, it is. But, what is not? Quality is an individual determination, right? But, each individual has to exercise his/her right to judge the quality of something for that argument to be valid. I am proposing that very few folks do that.

I'll begin by admitting I don't always do it. I have indulged in things because it was the thing to do, rather than individually assessing anything to decide whether I really liked it or wanted to do it. A bad evening of laser tag circa 1983 comes to mind, among other episodes. We all swallow the line every now and then. But, it seems, and this is not an earth-shattering revelation, at all, that the mass of humanity just takes what they are given without thinking about it.

Whatever is on TV. Whatever is on the radio. Whatever the hot song is. I would extrapolate this out to books, but we already know that a minority of the population reads anything (is my job becoming obsolete?). That being said, I am sure that the majority of that minority buys whatever everybody else is reading.

Ah, I love this train of thought writing. Here is an example of the power of the mass popularity monster: twenty five percent of the US population claims to have read a book last year. That is about 75 million people. Let's assume we have that many "readers" in the US. Harry Potter's latest adventure unleashed itself on the US to the tune of about 5 million copies on the first day. Let's assume the less motivated bought an additional 3 million more (okay?). That's about ten percent of the "readers" buying a book that was media-fied into this thing that EVERYONE was buying. Now, how many people went and bought that book because of the media buzz, and how many bought it because they find the Rowling series to be "good"? Yes, the overwhelming majority of the purchasers of that book would call it good. But is it?

An interesting thing I am discovering as I investigate the phenomenon of popularity, is that it doesn't take much to make something popular. I mean, okay, just about one Bible has been sold for every living breathing person on Earth--that's pretty popular. But, Britney Spears, who at one time was supposedly hotter than Mercury (now she's more like toxic), has sold four million records, according to some, possibly unreliable, figures. That's practically nobody, really. It's not even half the population of Manhattan. Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon has sold about 40 million copies, alone. But still, that still leaves about 260 million people who don't have it. And even if half of them are really old or really young, that's still 130 million for the "not purchased" side, against the 40 on the "purchased" side.

I'm sure that someone with a much bigger brain than me could explain the nuances of these sales figures, but, in the long run, popularity is perception. Quality is perception, too. And, at this point, you can perceive that what you have just read is neither popular, nor quality!

You can blame this entire entry on Geggy Tah (who was once popular...for about ten minutes...in 1996):

The Slower Side of Sears

I have recently had some mail order issues with a few companies. Some clothing I ordered from a small record co. never arrived. It was on back order last time I checked, and the guy who runs the place gave me my money back! I had some issues with an order from a large electronics box store, but that got resolved, and I got the shipping charge refunded. I goofed up my own order from a big box book store and sent the shipment to my old address in MO. That got returned, and I got my money back for that one, too.

My most recent online debacle involves a department store whose name may or may not appear in the title of this entry. I ordered a fuel tank assembly kit for my gas trimmer. That was officially fifteen days ago. My order status tells me that my order should ship in 4-7 business days. It has said that since July 31. I think it has been at least 10 business days. I emailed the customer service folks on Monday night, but I have yet to hear from them.

In the meantime, my trimmer is in pieces in the garage, and the weeds are busting out all over, what with the deadly combo of hothothot, humidhumidhumid, sunnysunnysunny, and afternoon gully washers.

Had a productive day at school, today. Some more district mandated meetings tomorrow, along with open house from 7-8:30 tomorrow night. Monday is the first day for freshman (of which I have none), and Tuesday brings the school year into full effect.

I've been pretty weak on the show-going front. The Monkey 'rents' visit coincided with Centro-matic's show at Knickerbockers (along with a monster headache on Friday afternoon), so I missed that. I am skipping Gillian Welch, too. Okkervil River plays Omaha on 9/14. I'll represent, then, I promise.

Fiscal Responsibility

Daddy loved and raised eight kids on a coal miner's pay
Mama scrubbed our clothes on a washboard every day
I've seen her fingers bleed
To complain there was no need
She'd smile in Mama's understanding way
--Loretta Lynn, "Coal Miner's Daughter"

Maintaining and operating a school district is an endeavor that calls on a vast array of resources. Manpower, electricity, water, natural gas; infrastructure like water and sewer pipes, roads, and bridges; paper, steel, and brick; machines and mortar; iron and fire; the steam-driven ingenuity of American manufacturing and agriculture.... I'm sorry, I got a little carried away. Carried, perhaps, all the way back to the heyday of American industry. But, I have returned. With a point. That point is that it takes a great deal of money to run a school district. Budgets even in modest districts are often in the hundreds of millions.

The modern school district, inundated as it is with educational program demands (new football stadiums, new volleyball shorts), special interest group demands (student vending needs, trophy case cleaning), and other, unfunded, state- and federally-mandated programs (No Child Without a Milkshake, Pepsi-based Education), must do everything in its power to save funds wherever possible. With that end in mind, my new district has a print shop located on the premises of the district office. They prefer that 70% of all copying in the district be done at the district office. It apparently saves a boatload of money.

Each department is budgeted so much money. Each department member has to enter his/her department number into any copier or print order. Each department is charged accordingly. It really makes a great deal of sense, from a budgetary point of view.

But, I need to get used to this system. I am used to showing up at school at 6am, going down to the workroom, and printing 100 copies of an assignment for the day. Now, I have to have it ready the day before (can you believe it?). If I send it off (electronically) to the district office by 3:15pm, it will arrive at my school before class the next morning. Rumor has it that it works flawlessly.

We'll see.

(Author's Note: None of the expenditures mentioned in paragraph two are actually known to be a part of any school district I may be a part of's actual budget.)