One Realization That Leads to Another

Today is the Feast of Epiphany, according to Western Christians. According to Wikipedia, the feast day commemorates not only the arrival of the Magi in Bethlehem, but the “revelation of God the Son as a human being in Jesus Christ.” I’ll buy the Magi’s arrival; it’s the manifestation of God part that stretches the date’s credibility. Not that there is anything wrong with it. It just isn’t for me.

The same Wikipedia page has a link to the page for “Epiphany (feeling).” Which credits James Joyce for possibly coining the usage of epiphany to mean “an experience of sudden and striking realization.” His stories in The Dubliners all involve characters coming to some realization that alters their view of themselves or the world around them. It is conceivable that large doses of beer and whiskey may have had something to do with those “striking realizations.” Interestingly, for me, anyway, the author of this particular page also equates William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch as a terminology of epiphany, as well. How do Christians feel about having a word so closely associated with the first big feast day of the year secularly implying “drug-influenced state(s)” and beer-soaked revelations? Then again, the Magi brought gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Frankincense and myrrh are both popular for use in incense, and we know who burns most of the incense, don’t we? Let’s just say many of us stop “burning incense” when we get out of college.

Perhaps, in a related vein, back in 1974, Tom Scholz was burning incense when he had an epiphany in his basement in 1974, and the song “More Than a Feeling” manifested itself in his mind. Boston, my favorite band EVER, released the song on their 1976 debut. I am certainly not trying to equate Tom Scholz with the Son of God. Nor am I implying that “More Than a Feeling” is a song of anything more than mild musical significance. It just happens to be where my mind took me on this particular intellectual exercise.

Maybe more significantly, today is also the birthday of Jeanne d’Arc, according to some sources. Being an inveterate skeptic, I suspect that her birthday is more than likely not on January 6. It just seems too coincidental that the day that the (arguably) second most famous Christian martyr (sorry John, the Baptist) was born on the same day as the manifestation of the first most famous martyr as a human being. Then again, if one negates the manifestation of the Son of God thing (see paragraph one), Joanie’s birthday is a bit easier to swallow. At any rate, Joan was a fascinating young woman--most likely delusional, but fascinating nonetheless. And without her inspiring and tragic tale, we would not have one of the most beautiful silent films ever (The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928)) nor one of the best-known Smiths songs (“Big Mouth Strikes Again”). Granted one might argue that the Smiths couldn’t have written that song without the invention of the Walkman, either. You might also argue that they might have written the song even without the allusion to Joan (or a Walkman), but that just wouldn’t be the same song, would it. At any rate, wouldn't it be sad if the Smiths were most well-known simply for "Girlfriend in a Coma." Seriously.

Most unfortunately, however, today is the final day of Winter Break for kiddos in this neck of the woods. Tomorrow, we will be back to shaping young minds. And I hope to find more time to keep up with this blog, albeit with a new focus. Instead of Central Standard's traditional, unfocused, hard to maintain ramble from random thought to random thought, I hope to focus on today's tone of edification and the loose division of fact and opinion to create a regular discussion of topical current and historical events.  If anyone has any ideas for topics, leave a shout in the comments.

Thanks for stopping by!

A Rose by Any Other Name

"Chiara," according to everyone's favorite fact checking site, Wikipedia, is an Italian word meaning "clear."  There are several people with this word as a first or last name, and "Chiara" even forms a morpheme of the Italian surname Chiaramonte, a noble Sicilian family who claim descent from Charlemagne.

I tell you all this because a pair of encounters with said word in this morning's Lincoln Journal Star sent me a-searching for some information on this word.  The two usages, both as proper nouns, referred to apparently different things, and, I was certain, different ideas, and, being the curious life-long learner that I am (and having the power of the Interwebs at my fingertips), I did a little researching.

First, my initial encounters.  Ironically, perhaps, both of my encounters with the word occurred in the "fluff" section of the paper, "The (402)."  I believe I have mentioned this section before, so I will spare you my rail on that particular section's ridiculous name.  However, in the "At a Glance" feature, on page F2, where some events are listed and written about briefly, a headline reads: "Walk to conquer Chiara is at Holmes Lake Park."  The article explains that a fundraiser walk will be held "in an effort to bring awareness and funds to Chiara malformation."

The article further states that Chiara is "a neurological condition in which the brain descends out of the  skull and puts pressure on the spine." Really?  That actually happens to people? Their brains fall out of their skulls.  Why?  How?  It sounds like an awful condition.  Of course, it is, I thought to myself. Why else would they need to raise funds or awareness? Nobody would be interested in a Stubbed Toe 5K, would they?  Who would pay $25 to race in a Pretty Bad Stomach Flu Fun Run?  We only tie up our Mizunos for big causes, like cancer, muscular dystrophy, or chiara, to name just a few.

As I turned the page, I found on F4 a review of a recent chamber music performance: "Chiara members open Sheldon Friends season."  I have heard of this Chiara Quartet, two men and two women, who are well-known in the chamber music circles.  They have made many appearances here in the Lincoln area, always to great acclaim.  But this review, published so close to and on the same day as the fundraiser walk, stoked my inquisitiveness.  I needed to make sure that these chamber players weren't being highly insensitive, naming themselves after a neurological condition suffered by "about 300,000 people in the United States."

And, so, I was led to the Wikipedia, where I find listings for celebrities named Chiara, saints and singers, physicists and attorneys. I find the names of churches and a "religious complex" (don't you mean a "church?").  And, I find links to the aforementioned "Chiaramonte" and a pair of words that are homophones of "chiara," itself.  What I don't find is any mention of any neurological condition.  I had to search the Google a bit more to find any discussion of dropped brain syndrome (an alternate, totally rad, name I have given to the condition, myself), but I did find some information about the condition that affects more people in the US than live in Barbados.

(Interestingly, the website Researching Virtual Initiatives in Education, on their page "All Countries by Population," divides countries using "'scientific' nomenclature." For instance, a country with at least 1000 million people is a "kilostate;" a country with at least 0.3 million but less than 1 million is a "tridecistate" (also known as a minicountry); a country with less than 0.01 million people, a picocountry, is a "millistate." There are also "centistates" and "hectostates," orthocountries, nanocountries, and gigacountries.  Another bit of information learned on this random research project.)

But, back to "chiara."  I learned a lot in the several minutes I spent researching this little mystery, but I was left with a few questions. First, I wondered where the quartet came upon their name?  Is it a tribute to a person, or a place (most likely a church)?  I also wondered if they were even aware of their close association with a leaking skull?  But, more importantly, I wondered how, if the Chiara fundraising initiative was sophisticated enough to organize multiple events such as this weekend's 5K walk, they were unable to draft as valuable a PR tool as a Wikipedia page? Because, when you think about it, not everybody is going to be as dogged a researcher as I have been today.  If people don't get their wiki-fix on the first search, right at the top, they'll go right back to looking for topless pictures of Ryan (Hey, girl) Gosling.  And, if you're trying to drum up support for a disease or a condition, you have to do one of two things: make sure a lot of people suffer from it (i.e., cancer) or that a lot of people know about it (i.e., muscular dystrophy).

Finally, if I were in a string quartet, and I found out it was named after a neurological condition that can lead to deafness, dizziness, double vision, eye pain, headaches, and spasticity (I did not make this word up), I might just change my name to Cancer.

   

The Magic Comes to an End

Summer
It turns me upside down
Summer, summer, summer
It's like a merry-go-round.
--The Cars, "Magic"

This is always a bittersweet time of year for me. Tomorrow is the first official day that teachers are to report for duty. Students will not arrive until next Tuesday, and I have actually been doing some form of "work" or another since last Tuesday, but tomorrow it is official.

On one hand, I am, as I am every year, excited to get back to teaching. I am eager to get to know my new classes and eager to meet all the challenges that a school year brings (some more than others, of course). I am also looking forward to some new challenges, as this year marks my first as yearbook adviser and I have been asked to mentor a new teacher. Every school year seems to bring something new: a new standardized test, a new policy, a new appraisal process, a new administrator, a new class to teach...so much new.

But, as I look ahead upon the challenges that await, I also look back on the freedom that I will lose, again, for nine months. No more sleeping until seven or eight (or later, if I wanted to). No more travel (not much, anyway). No more choosing to do anything without thinking of the five AM wake up on the other end, or the stack of papers to grade, or the lesson to tweak.

In the long run, that's okay. After all, it is a luxury few people have, an eight week layoff with pay. So, I am sad to see it go, but appreciative that I had it.

I didn't really do much professional work this summer, which is fine by me, but that is a rarity. Almost always, I have a workshop or a class to attend, or I read something directly related to my field (besides journals). This year, I did nothing like that. In some way, as an English teacher, every book I read is some small form of professional development, but my choices this summer were selfish. Nothing I might teach as a whole class novel (but plenty I would recommend as personal reading).

So, this summer, perhaps more than any summer since Monkey and I went to Italy, has been a treasure and a joy. It didn't go exactly as I wanted it. My peppers and tomatoes are still lagging behind; I didn't fish as much as I might have liked; I didn't write enough. However, except for the tomatoes, I can say that about every summer.

I'll miss you, my good friend, Summer. I have enjoyed every sweat bead and sun burn, every glass of iced tea and cold beer, every tomato cheese sandwich. I enjoyed crabbing with my nephews and helping them master the techniques of boogie boarding. I enjoyed getting obliterated by post-storm waves in the cool surf of the Atlantic. I enjoyed hiking the Rockies and going toe-to-toe with belligerent rodents. I enjoyed a few lazy days reading with Monkey. I enjoyed the occasional ice cream cone. I enjoyed sporadically interrupted fireworks and a trip to Fenway Park on the fourth of July. I enjoyed it all.

Until Saturday night, but, Summer, I will forgive you a ferocious thunderstorm that breaks my trees and cuts off my power for twenty four hours every now and again. Especially since I also enjoyed a ferocious looking light show after the storm.

Now, it's time to get serious (but not too serious) and get to work. Bring it!

Yankee Arrogance

Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio?

A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

--Simon and Garfunkle, "Mrs. Robinson"

Last night’s MLB All-Star game was a bore. It started with a “titans of baseball” worthy pitcher’s duel, as Roy Halladay, Jered Weaver, Cliff Lee, and Dave Robertson twirled against each league’s starting line-up, and then became just another game as “big” names like Tyler Clippard and Miguel Montero entered the field. In the end, the NL beat the AL 5-1 and I was in bed by 10:30. Who is complaining?

Well, I guess I am. It has become standard the past few days to gripe about the number of ball players who declined their invitation to play in the game. Many were injured, Alex Rodriguez and David Price, for instance, and were unable to play. Some had pitched too recently to pitch again on Tuesday (but don’t tell Cy Young that), such as Justin Verlander, and CC Sabathia. Still others were simply overwhelmed by the day-to-day pressure of their job and needed a break, like Derek Jeter.

I am no fan of the Yankees, you may know, but I have always had a healthy amount of respect for team captain Jeter. He always seemed to play the game the right way, he always seemed to be in the mix during the biggest moments of the biggest games, he always seemed like a winner, but, more importantly, he always seemed like a winner who won with integrity. No cheating, no scandal, no negativity seemed to touch this apparent paragon of America’s game. Until now.

Just this past week, Derek Jeter reached a milestone in the career of any great hitter. He reached 3000 career hits, a feat only 25 or so other ballplayers have done in the more than 100-year history of the game. And he did it in spectacular fashion, going 5 for 5 on the day, driving in his team’s winning run, and hitting a home run for number 3000 (something that only he and Wade Boggs have ever done). He was voted onto the AL roster despite his less-than-stellar .270 average, his meager three home runs, and his paltry 24 RBI. But, no matter. He’s Derek Jeter, and that alone qualifies him for the All-Star team. He is, and always will be, a star. After all, one of my own baseball gods, Cal Ripken, made plenty of All-Star teams during years when he was not performing at his best. It is the nature of the fan vote. Often name recognition is enough to get one elected, even when one is flirting with the Mendoza line.

However, Mr. Jeter, citing the mental and physical toll of his quest for three thousand hits, declined to play in the game. He even declined to show up in Arizona for the festivities. Wow. I guess, when you reach a certain age, and you’re coming off of a calf injury, and you just went through the struggle to reach a milestone in your sport under the watchful eye of the voracious New York media, you might feel a bit spent. Sure, take the game off. But, come on, at least show up for the introductions. The people love you. Give them some love back. Very disappointing, team captain, very disappointing.

Yet, there is more. Many players, as I mentioned, could not or did not play. I believe there were roughly sixteen. Of those sixteen who bowed out of the game, four followed D. Jeter’s lead and neglected to show up for the game at all. Of those five (Jeter included), four were members of the New York Yankees. Is that a mere coincidence? Or is it indicative of an organizational sense of superiority? Was it an indication of personal integrity that the dugout was full of players who were not going to play but still appeared (it is an honor to be selected, isn’t it?), but that eighty percent of the no shows held roster spots on perhaps the most arrogant organization, not just in sports, but, perhaps, all the world?

Again, I have no love for the Yankees…and I probably have less now than I did yesterday morning. But, to be fair, I am probably looking for reasons to hate them. I suspect one day, when my perfect nightmare comes to pass, that the Yankees will merge with the New England Patriots to form the most loathsome, despicable, arrogant franchise in the entire universe. Hell, they might even ask Man U to join them. But, for now, I can despise them separately, and continue to take every small piece of mildly negative news about them and turn it into a significant indication of how awful they are, not just as a franchise, but as people. Okay, maybe I have crossed a line, there. Strike that last bit. Except for…no, no, just forget it.

If I may get back to my main point here, so I can conclude this rambling screed: would the game last night have been better if Derek Jeter and CC Sabathia and Alex Rodriguez were sitting in the dug out? No. But, does the lack of appearance by multiple members of the team with the largest fan base in the entire nation indicate yet another disconnect between players and fans, between baseball and the sad sacks like me who love the game? Yes, it does. Yes, indeed.

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….

Even Sugar Free Jazz Couldn't Mess Up The Night

And it's cool and clean as
Sugar free jazz
--Soul Coughing, "Sugar Free Jazz"

A beautiful summer night, the end of June. Monkey and I decided, with no real premeditation to head down to the Sheldon Museum's sculpture garden for the final performance of the Jazz in June concert series. Monkey was going to be out visiting a friend, but she was going to be downtown, so I biked down and met her.

The bike ride was a bit convoluted, as several trail closures resulting from on-going construction and renovation sent me on a few short, unintended detours, but, all in all, it was good to be riding. I haven't done much lately, what with the increased work commute and other physical ailments of the last few months. This evening was a perfect one to be in the saddle. We've had some massive storms lately, and the forecast is for temperatures to push the three-digit mark, so this might be the last pleasant night for a while.

The weather being what it was, the concert was almost an excuse just to sit outside. Neither Monkey nor I knew anything of the performer, so that was not what drew us. It was just a reason to be downtown and to experience a communal civic event.

Long ago, in a city far away, summer meant festivals. Mostly ethnic or cultural festivals. Baltimore was the place to be for the Polish festival, the Lithuanian festival, Afram, the Greek festival, and on and on. There were (and are) other festivals, mostly focusing more on neighborhoods than ethnicity or culture, but the ethnic festivals were the ones that got my family out of the house. It was wonderful to be out amongst people enjoying the heat, the smells, the sounds, the tastes, of all of these civic parties. I loved them. It seems that time is wearing down this tradition back in my old hometown, but some festivals are apparently still hanging on.

Later, in CoMo, a spring/summer tradition was the Twilight Festival, which was a sort of downtown hodgepodge of music, merchants, horses, and kettle corn. I don't think Monkey and I missed many of those Thursday evenings, strolling the streets of downtown Columbia (uh...I mean, "The District"), running into people, listening to this bit of bluegrass here and this patch of folky strumming there. Again, a tradition that died while we were still in CoMo, but it was fun while it lasted.

So, here in Lincoln, Jazz in June seems to have picked up the communal experience slack where time and distance have intervened in my life. So, it made no difference that the music I listened to this evening, in my opinion, basically sucked. It made no difference that the "jazz" that I heard tonight was sort of soulless, clean, simple (syncopated, but simply so). The performance was spirited, as the sax man wandered the crowd with his cordless microphone, bouncing around like some smooth Pied Piper, enticing young and old to embrace the faux-funk that he was spewing. But, for Pete's sake, the crowd was clapping along in 4/4 time...that's not jazz. Not to me, anyway. But, you know what? There were kids bopping around to the funky groove, and people smiling and clapping along. There were people just chatting with their friends, or munching on the ubiquitous Midwestern delicacy...yes, kettle corn. And, even I, a man who takes his music rather seriously, who likes his jazz to swing or bop (neither of which this music was doing), even I had a wonderful time.

And after, as Monkey and I walked my bike to the car so she could drive us home, as the sun was settling in for the night, and as the chimney swifts were fluttering off to hang from there stone-walled perches, I couldn't recall a single lick, one tiny riff I had heard all night, but, at least I got out with the people.

It Only Took Twenty Years

When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school,
It's a wonder I can think at all.
And though my lack of education hasn't hurt me none,
I can read the writing on the wall.
--Paul Simon, "Kodachrome"

The school stuff (after just a few days) is already catching up with me. Thus my silence this past week. But, I've got my room set up, I've figured out how to get from the car to my room in a direct manner, I can find a bathroom (when I need one), the main office (and my mailbox), the commons, my department offices, the auditorium, and the media center. I haven't visited the second or third floor, but I might wander up there tomorrow. Needless to say, I am doing what I need to do to be ready for next week. Except for actually planning my classes, but anyway....

I am teaching in a new school this year. After three years at my old school, budget constraints forced them to cut my position. Lucky for me, I landed a new job in the same district. So, I have plenty of familiar things to make the transition easier to negotiate. I don't want you to think that this is going to be an easy change for me, but, the more I think on it, the more I figure that it's really not change, so much as it is the continuation of a life trend that began a long time ago.

The biggest change, at least this week, is meeting all of my new colleagues. Having taught at two other schools with faculties of over one hundred people, I know that that may take years, and I may very well retire without meeting everyone. So far, however, so good. I, at least, know my department colleagues by sight, and I could recall all of their names, if you made me. So, you know, that's good.

Another change involves the schedule. My previous school was on a block schedule. Four ninety-minute classes a day. I taught three classes each day, with one plan period, and my class rosters changed every semester. Now, I'll be on a seven period, fifty minute, schedule, with two plan periods. I will generally keep my classes for the entire school year. Actually, this change is not a problem. Prior to moving to Lincoln, I taught a schedule just like this. I won't have much trouble re-adjusting.

Within those five classes, I have two new assignments, this year, English 9 and Composition. This will provide me with countless hours of work to do, so I am grateful for that. I know I will have plenty of assistance in preparing those classes from colleagues who currently teach (and have taught) those classes. I know from experience that teaching a new class is always a bit more stressful than teaching a course you have taught before. Of course, I haven't actually had the pleasure of teaching the same course for more than three years in a row, yet, so I really don't know what it's like to be totally comfortable with a course. I think you need a few more chances to completely screw things up before you get it down pat. Then again, maybe you never get it down pat.

Overall, I am approaching this change with calm. There will be, I am sure, moments of panic, days of doubt, episodes of worry. I may even find myself slumped in a corner at the end of a Friday or two. But, that would happen no matter what. It's teaching, after all. I will continue, as always, to go with the flow.

But I find that my adult life (and I have more than enough years on this side of the divide to call it a representative sample) totally vindicates my youthful resistance to life planning (which I know I've mentioned before). After all, how can you make a five year plan when you find yourself changing things (by choice or otherwise) every three or four years?

Feeding a Passion

Occasionally, in a workshop or a meeting or reading some article somewhere, I'll come across the idea of a "passion." "What is your passion," a presenter may ask. Or a writer might espouse the beauty of her passion in the pages of the latest glossy magazine. I used to think that I didn't have a "passion." I used to think that there were plenty of things I was interested in, but nothing that I was totally crazy about. But, I have since changed my thinking. I realized that, from an early age there were many things that I could potentially point to as a passion. And, the more I thought about it, the longer the list became. I further refined my thinking, realizing that I was listing things that I was merely interested in, such as 19th century American history, rather than those things that were significant enough to my life that I might seriously regret their loss.

Interestingly, as much as I love reading and writing, they didn't make the cut. Don't get me wrong: I love literature. I love writing. But they are somehow not a part of this conversation. Obviously, those things are big parts of who I am as a teacher and as a person. They might even be passions of some sort. But, I have chosen to focus on less obvious parts of me.

I guess I have three things that I might call "passions." Each of them is a thing that I find important to my life in various degrees. Each of them is a thing that I could not do without. The first is food. I am not an amateur gourmet, but I do love to cook. I am not a gourmand, but I do love to eat. I do not have a sensitive palate, but I truly appreciate a splendid meal. I am passionate about food. I grow it. I cook it. I eat it. I appreciate and love it in all of its varieties. I love a well prepared and condimented hot dog just as much as a perfectly prepared and presented filet mignon. I will try anything, in the way of food, no matter how odd it might seem. I read Bon Apetit and Food and Wine. I regret the demise of Gourmet. I eat and talk about food with some of my friends, a lot. So, yes, food is a passion.

My second passion is nature. General, I know, but that is because I couldn't pare this category down from the many possible sub-sets that I had to choose from: hiking, fishing, birding, nature reading, botany, entomology, etc. I have always, since I was a young boy, loved to be outdoors. I especially loved being on the water (which, as many of you know, is an ironic aspect of my personality, since I get sea sick). My first major was biology. I was going to concentrate on marine biology, at first, until I discovered entomology. Of course, then I hit the big brick wall known as organic chemistry, which derailed my scientific ambitions completely. At any rate, I still enjoy a walk in the woods. I am still fascinated by insects and fish. I still have breath-taking moments on new and old trails. I am or have been a member of National Audubon Society, World Wildlife Fund, the Nature Conservancy, the Ocean Conservancy. I am passionate about nature.

Lastly, I am passionate about music. Regular readers know that I write about music quite a bit. I see bands when I can (not as often as I used to), I buy new music I have never heard before regularly (but not as often as I used to), I read about music, and I play music. My first instrument was the drums. Once I moved from my parent's house, however, I had no place for my kit. I sold it. I haven't played since. About four years ago, I bought a guitar and taught myself how to play it. I am still not great shakes, but I can play a dozen chords or so. Recently, I began teaching myself how to play with a slide (it's not as easy as it looks).

This summer, in my quest to keep my brain fresh and my self less complacent, I bought a trumpet. I plan on taking lessons, eventually, since I don't think a trumpet is as easy to self-teach as a guitar, but I don't know when I will start. My plan was to begin this summer, but, since I am back to workshops and meetings already, summer is over. For now, I just content myself practicing the tight-lipped blowing into the mouth piece, trying to make just that one basic sound as pure as possible (again, not so easy). But, musically, I will continue to challenge myself. I don't want to get ahead of myself, but, in a couple of years, I think the violin will be next.

Stuck Between Stations

In the dull morning light at the edge of town, Holly lifted the blinds and sighed. Out the window, the rain had doused the street trash and left it running in the gutter. Her face held the reflected gloom in the wrinkled corners of her eyes and the crags that traced her jowls from mouth's edge to chin. She hacked. She coughed. She got up out of the bed.

She'd had a rough time of it the last couple of years: hospital trips, living in a tent down by the river, being born again (and lost, again), reeling in the years. It seemed like every time she had her cob-webby head above water, bobbing in sight of dry land, some eddy or rip tide would suck her down and drag her back out to sea.

The soundtrack of her life had been little stories of hoodrats and soccer punks, drug dealers, massive nights, and a multitude of casualties. Power chords, key board riffs, and some Kerouac-cum-Randy Newman-sounding dude chattering away and snapping his fingers like a four year-old on speed. It was no kind of soundtrack for a forty year-old. Hell, it was no kind of life, either.

But, lately, something was missing. The spastic energy of her life to this point was bearable, even enjoyable (dim and dangerous, yes, but hella fun), but for the last year or so, something was akilter. Some kind of yin was missing from her yang. Some sort of ipso was no longer a part of her facto. Some manner of tic was not accompanying her toc. The shape was there. The word was there. The sound was there. But it had a different tenor, a new tone, a subtly altered hue.

Last night, that band had played, The Hold Steady. Sounded good. Rocked and rolled in all the right places. Payed its dues with sweat. But where was that other guy, this time? The buttoned-up, mustachioed fellow in the flat cap and suit vest, swigging red wine right from the bottle and zipping his digits over the keyboard like he'd been born behind a Hammond organ? Sure, they had a keyboard player, now relegated to the back of the stage and playing riffs he never invented, but that front-man energy was missing from the stage. That energy that acted as a balance to the lead singer's pogo-stick energy--a balance to the talky-singer's white tennis shoes, his ephemeral, and strangely uncoordinated, stadium rock pose--was not there. The music, it all sounded right. But the vibe, the vibe was off.

It's funny how that happens. You take something away, and you think you can replace it. Hell, for the most part, you do replace it. But something is forever changed. Something you can't even imagine becomes something else (and you might not even notice it IS something else). Like that time, down by the banks of the Mississippi River, when she woke up bathed in a hot soft light....

When Will Buddy Holly Be Coming On?

While the East Coast got hammered with Biblical amounts of snow this weekend (which apparently most denizens of the region seemed to enjoy, according to an unscientific anecdotal study), we here in CS land got anything ranging from four inches of really wet snow to "janky" gray slush (sorry BE). Emotions here are ranging from angry disappointment to angry weariness. We here in Cornopolis have really had enough.

But, even as more fluffy white evil falls from the gray Nebraska skies, we look forward to paying little attention to the out of doors this evening, and enjoying a rousing (non-denominational) American football contest. The contest will also include a halftime performance by half of a legendary (read really kinda old) rock group who probably have never even seen a game of American Football. Yes, The Who will be performing at halftime.

Now, I don't mind that a band whose musical relevance passed into legend thirty years ago is performing on network television. That is almost to be expected in Prime Time. And, really, such performances are often quite enjoyable. Look at Bruce Springsteen's performance last year (admittedly, the Boss is arguably more currently relevant than The Who)--that was a good one. Was it last year? I can't remember. Any way, my point is--and this is a point I have made before--that, as I see it, this isn't just an irrelevant dinosaur from eons past. It's not even the dinosaur they are claiming it is.

I might go so far as to claim that this particular band of hard rocking Brits ended with the death of their ferociously insane imp of a drummer, Keith Moon, in 1978. But, I will give them a bit of wiggle room, since even they realized (after four years and two albums with Kenny Jones) that they were no longer that which they had been before. So, let's give them the last four years of their primary incarnation and say they ended when they say they ended.

However, as these things often do--an extinct rockasaur is a hard animal to keep down--the Who kept at it, appearing sporadically throughout the nineties and the early years of the twenty-first century, almost like the "dying" old man over John Cleese's shoulder in THE HOLY GRAIL: "I'm not dead yet." But, really, they were. Cudgel to the head, please. Thank you.

The cudgel to the head? The death of bassist John Entwistle. We all figure, that's it for them, then. Right? You lose a drummer, no big deal. SPINAL TAP made it clear that the drummer is a place holder, a human metronome. A dime a dozen. (Facetiousness alert! Sarcasm meters should be detecting massive levels of snarkiness.) But, if you lose a whole rhythm section, you are done, ain't ya?

Ummm, apparently not. I guess we can call this the Lynard Skynard paradox. I am still trying to come up with the exact phrasing for this particular popular music theory, but you get the notion, eh?

See, CBS is advertising that The Who will be performing at halftime. But, really, it's Pete and Roger and a couple of other musicians. And that ain't the rockasaur that they are claiming it to be. However, having a zombie rockasaur impostor perform on CBS' halftime show fits right in with the most controversial advertisement. After all, The Who have a right to life, just like little baby Jesus (the 21st century version): Tim Tebow.

The Mathematics of Gremlins: A - A = 0; A - (-A) = 2A (where A = What the Hell Did I Do Today?)

Mr. Horrible? Mr. Horrible?
There's a phone call for Mr. Horrible.
--They Might Be Giants, "Someone Keeps Moving My Chair"

Did you ever have one of those days when you worked for ten hours or so, and, when you looked around at the end of the day, you seemed to have accomplished not one thing? That was my day. We start our second semester on Wednesday, so today was a workday. I had one section of finals left to grade, which I didn't even look at until I got home this evening (I just finished them), and I had planning to do for the upcoming term. But, honestly, the most obviously productive thing I did today was make coffee, and that was done by 7:45!

I guess I just chalk today up to one of those bizarre time warps, where things happen at a pace that seems normal to the person inside the time warp, but where things are actually happening at a much slower pace. However, if that were the case, and I were moving that slowly, I imagine that I would be really tired, right now. It's hard to move directly and slowly for an extended period of time (and I am talking about eight hours of almost perpetual movement (at least of the arms)). But, I am not tired...at least not overtired.

So, what is it? What happened today? Perhaps, as often happens on these "work days," a troupe of gremlins imperceptibly undid everything that I had done almost immediately after I had done it, today. That would leave me with a sense of doing something, but having nothing to show for it. Hmmmm...that MUST be it.

Unless you have any suggestions.

***Twilight Zone still from The Stygian Port

Twofer

Out on the road today, I saw a Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac
--Don Henley, "The Boys of Summer"

(I apologize if my opening lyric today causes anyone shock or illness.)

I know I JUST said, "Don't look back," but, upon a request from a fellow Blogoshpherian, I compiled a short list of the top ten albums of the year. If you are at all interested, you may access it here.

Plans for today include a short visit to Wilber, the Czech capital of Nebraska, to see if they have any kielbasa. Which reminds me that Chicago State actually has a dude on their team named Joseph Kielbasa. Monkey and I figured that if Chicago State had been playing Mizzou, the Antlers would have had an inappropriate field day with that one.

Also on the docket: possible visit to used book store, work party, watching the weather (a potential storm may scrub Tuesday's KC trip). Ah, the holiday season.

Resisting The Urge

All we have is now.
--The Flaming Lips, "All We Have Is Now"

As the year draws to a close, it is natural that we wish to look back, to gauge the year just past to see what was good and what was not, to see how we progressed as we made our way down the road of life. This year, we might feel even more tempted to look back and measure the decade that is drawing to a close (depending on whom you talk to). Honestly, I am pretty blown away by the fact that it was a decade ago that Monkey and I spent our first New Year's Eve in Missouri, wondering if the world would end at the stroke of midnight and prove us wrong for not building a survival shelter, taking our meager savings out of the bank, buying a generator, and stocking up on canned goods, bottled water, and kerosene. I hadn't even thought about it, really, until comoprozac started running his list of the best albums of the Aughts. A lot has changed in ten years, most of which, I don't really need to get into.

As a matter of fact, I am not going to get into any of it. I am going to try to resist the urge to look back. I am going to try to resist the desire to measure my progress. Instead, I am just going to be happy to be where I am, and try to keep my focus on the road ahead...or maybe just the road under my feet. After all, the future is impossible to see.

A Psychedelic Presence Shining in the Park

In the chill of an early October morning, dark except for the glow of streetlights and their reflections on the low-hanging clouds spitting rain above, a vehicle navigates its way through the desolate streets. Its headlights peel back the night before it, as it passes a hedgerow on one side and a burnt out lamp on the other. Suddenly (as is always the case) a small brown rabbit leaps from the hedge, looking to make it safely to the other side of the street. It swiftly penetrates the cone of light before the vehicle, and, in that moment, frightened and naturally skittish, it realizes that the large black tires of the vehicle are about to crush it. In a split second, it redirects its course just enough to avoid being pancaked, but its back leg has been caught. The momentum of the wheel spins the rabbit up and over, around at a blink-of-an-eye speed. It lands flat on its chest and rolls away from the car. It hops, at first, back toward the hedge, then, realizing that is not its intended destination, it again turns abruptly and zigzags across the street. Safely in the grass, it surveys the damage: a broken leg, broken ribs, probably some internal damage. The prognosis is not good.

Is the moral of this story that we should stay committed to our intentions, even if it means getting crushed under the balding treads of fate? After all, the rabbit’s end is the same—perhaps quicker under the tire than panting in the grass. Or is the moral that we should look both ways before we cross? Is it that speed kills, or that a five pound rabbit has little chance to survive an encounter with a 1000 pound vehicle?

Whatever the metaphor, Matt Bauer might not only see it for what it is, but he’d most likely turn it into an atmospheric song for voice and free time banjo.

Opening for Jolie Holland last night at the Waiting room, Bauer and banjo (or guitar) lulled the audience into attentiveness with an achingly earnest voice and minimalist fingering that sketched metaphor after metaphor involving buffalo, horse, fox, and mouse, alike. Joined for three numbers by Holland and her musical partner Grey Gerston, Bauer’s fleshed out compositions were no less starkly beautiful. And Holland got into the animal act by regaling the small crowd with an amusing joke about two whales sitting in a bar.

Bauer finished his set solo, then thanked the crowd for listening. Unlike many openers, he’d captured the attention of the crowd for his entire set (except for the sloppily drunk quartet in the corner who had lost the ability to modulate their voices at all); this may have been a function of his imposingly shaved head or his fiercely long beard, but, most likely, it was his heartfelt songs, his dancing cascades (or soporific drones) of notes , and his Bonnie Prince Billy-like ability to tell a story of rending from which we can not turn our ears.

After a brief pause for Gerston to tune a few instruments and stock the stage with water and wine, the headliner took the stage—just she and her musical mate—to play a languid and low-key set. The musicians had driven themselves from Denver, where they played the night before, and they looked a bit road weary, but the endearingly partisan crowd was full of encouragement. The set list, about an hour-long, included “Littlest Birds,” “Goodbye California,” “Old-fashioned Morphine,” “Alley Flowers,” and a few others, old and new. In addition, Holland played a cover of David Dondero’s “Real Tina Turner,” and a pair from Michael Hurley (one of which Gerston took the vocal lead on).

While Grey Gerston moved easily from solid-body to hollow-body to bass guitars, Holland was doing the same, as she occasionally laid her beautiful flat black Epiphone down to scratch beautifully on a uniquely-shaped fiddle. The instrumental variation aside, the key instrument to the evening was Holland’s voice, a slurry, sultry, trembling trademark that sounds less like it comes from her lungs than directly from her heart. And last night, despite the bone- and road-weariness, Holland’s voice sounded flawless. She has a sweet gift.

As well, she seems a sweet human being. In between songs, as she tuned her guitar, Holland mentioned that last time she was through town someone had given her a bracelet. “Kim?” she asked to the crowd. There, two rows back, Kim raised her hand. Holland was still wearing the bracelet. And, as can happen at some shows, this sweet exchange stayed a constant.

As Holland stumbled twice through the beginning bars of “The Future,” a song she clearly doesn’t play often live (and is played originally on piano—not guitar), but was, she said, “A request,” the crowd was at its most snuggly sweet. Holland apologized, only to be greeted from a shout from the crowd.

“That’s okay—just more show for us!”

Holland finished up her set and thanked the crowd for being “so freaking sweet.” After whale jokes, smoked-honey-dripping melodies, and earnest musical gaffes, the crowd had the same to say about her.

Bad Sports

A rough day for Missouri sports fans yesterday, as Matt Holiday booted the game-ending out, giving the Trolley Dodgers a chance to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Being down 0-2 with your best pitchers waiting their next turn is not a good position for the Redbirds to find themselves in. Let's hope they can mine Busch Stadium for some comeback magic of their own.

As that game was coming to a drastic close, the Tigers were taking on the Huskers in a deluge of biblical proportions. The conditions, perhaps, led to one of the worst three quarters of football I have ever seen, albeit three quarters at the end of which the Tigers held a seemingly solid 12 point lead.

Then, the game took a turn the likes of which I may have only witnessed one other time in my life (2000 NFL season--Jets comeback from 30-7 4th quarter deficit to win in OT over Dolphins), as the Huskers scored three times in three and a half minutes to take the game from a Mizzou team that played really good defense for 45 minutes. Unfortunately, they were playing a team that played really good defense for 60 minutes.

The baseball result is hurtful, but, I must say that the football result really made my life easier. There was a moment, during the 3rd quarter, with Nebraska playing terribly on offense and trailing 12-0, when I thought about calling in sick today, since I didn't want to be around a bunch of miserable people. A Nebraska victory, even one preceded by 45 minutes of ineptitude, really put a spring in my co-workers' steps. So, I hope that my friends in CoMO can be magnanimous enough to see the positives in last night's stunning loss.

And, as I have said before, Sunday, I am going to see Jolie Holland!

Arts and Humanities and Man's Inhumanity to Man (In the Form of a Sporting Event)

A big weekend is brewing here at Central Standard. After navigating another week of shepherding the churlen through the world of critical thinking, close reading, and developed writing, Monkey and I will be heading to a local book store to hear former US Poet Laureate Ted Kooser read from his latest. Monkey is especially excited about this, since she has been desultorily stalking the diminutive Mr. Kooser since we landed in this burgh. Since it is Friday, this reading will most likely be followed by an 8pm "lights out" call and some fitful sleep. Aging...it's so tragic (for us, not Kooser...although it might be tragic for him, I don't know).

Sunday will take us to Omaha, where we will see the unique-voiced Jolie Holland at the always intimate Waiting Room. It will be our first opportunity to see Ms. Holland live. She came through last year at about this time, but previous travel plans made it near to impossible to see her. I anticipate this show with the same eagerness that I might await Okkervil River...yes, I like her that much.

Of course before all of this, there is the big showdown tomorrow night, as the Huskers travel to CoMO to take on the alma mater in a little American football contest. I am sort of torn about this game. Obviously, for reasons of personal pride, I'd like to see the Tigers continue their winning ways against the scarlet and cream of Nebraska. However, the devastation that such a loss might cause among the Husker faithful in these parts makes me kind of hope that Nebraska prevails. It will make dealing with my co-workers a much less maudlin experience.

But, either way, I am seeing Jolie Holland on Sunday, so it's all good!

Jolie Holland photo from: One Way Magazine
Ted Kooser photo from: Writing Time

Meanwhile, Back At The Bourbon

Thursday, Monkey and I headed down to the Bourbon Theater to see one of our old favorites, Split Lip Rayfield, a former quartet (now a trio since the death of guitarist Kurt Rundstrom from esophageal cancer in 2007) of speed-picking Kansans. Opening for them was the more traditional local bluegrass quintet, triggertown.

After our first week of back to work, it was good to get out and see a show. And this was a good show to see. The openers are a good band. They harmonize beautifully, and they sound great. They personably entertained a crowd that took the dance floor at the foot of the stage in larger numbers as the set wore on. The crowd clearly knew and enjoyed the undercard.

SLR took the stage near eleven pm, which didn't bode well for Monkey and I on a school night, but, I honestly didn't mind. I had indulged in a nap after work, so, I felt pretty energized.

This was Monkey's and my first time seeing SLR since they had become a trio. For us, Kurt's absence was clear from the start. Not in the sound, so much, but in the energetic spirit of Kurt's performance. Which is not to say that the rest of the guys are lethargic, by any means, but Kurt just had a way of playing that was mesmerizing. His flaring eyes, his flailing arm, his occasional screams, his throw-himself-into-it-100%-all-the-time spirit added a certain extra joy to a Split Lip show. That wasn't there.

That said, the guys still kicked ass. They sounded great, they played tight, they worked the crowd. And, as I had heard they do, they dedicated the show (and every show they play) to Kurt.

They came back for two encore songs, finishing up with Monkey's favorite "Kiss of Death." This song always reminds me of myself in my earlier years: "I am the kiss of death / To cars / The kiss of death." Returning home safely in the early hours of Friday, I felt that warm hum in my head that only loud live music can provide. And those musical bees, dancing in the jar of my head, lulled me into sleep.

Fanning the Embers of Love

I will apologize for the lack of photos. We've taken a few, but I left the USB connector at home, so they'll just have to wait.

Portland this past weekend was much fun. A great lunch at Ping on Friday (followed by a better dinner at Toro Bravo) was made even better by the company. The concert on Saturday was pretty good. I am not a huge Andrew Bird fan, and, after Saturday night, I am still not, but, well, the man can whistle and loop multiple tracks like nobody's business. The Decemberists, on the other hand, well...!

This was my third opportunity to see Portland's favorite lit-rock collective. My first chance was a dynamite Blue Note show with Okkervil River opening. I fell in love with both of those bands that night. My second visit with Colin Melloy and his cronies was, again, at the Blue Note, during the Picaresque tour, and, honestly, I was a little disappointed. Unfortunately, I can not put my finger on exactly why, but no matter. The outdoor venue in Troutdale, OR, where we saw the band this time was easily bigger than the Blue Note. Hell, it was as big as all outdoors! And we were not close. I really thought that, by night's end, I would have thrown over my years-long love affair with a band with the best vocabulary since REM (my bias might be showing on this one). Boy was I wrong. Joined by Becky Starr of Lavender Diamond and Shara Worden of My Brightest Diamond (two diamonds--go figure), the band came out and played their new recording, the song cycle (I don't know what to call it) The Hazards of Love in its entirety. That alone is impressive--an hour plus of rocking and cooing, of belting and crooning, with nary a break.

They left the stage afterward and soon returned to play another forty five minutes of older tunes, from "July! July!" and "Billy Liar" to "O Valencia!" The additional female vocalists returned for a spot-on cover of Heart's "Coming Straight On For You," before the band called it a set. Of course, they had an encore in them, The Crane Wife's "Sons and Daughters," through which the audience was challenged to keep a message in its heart: the song's ending refrain: "Hear all the bombs fade away...."

As Monkey and I navigated our way back to our friends' house in Portland, I was filled with the satisfaction of knowing my love for Colin and company was safe, and that I had found a new fascination in the powerful vocal work of Shara Worden. This women can belt out a tune. My Brightest Diamond is going to get a long hard look from me.

As if that weren't enough, I got to spend some of Sunday helping in the construction of a chicken coop. How's that for living vicariously?

Stay tuned for news of today's hike along the fog-bound coast around Heceta Head.

Coming at you From the Left Side

Greetings from Eugene, OR!

Arrived yesterday afternoon after a relatively uneventful flight (except for the part where that four year old spilled water all over me, but it was only water--no big deal). After a short tour of our digs, Monkey and I met a couple of acquaintances for dinner at Bepe and Gianni's, a pretty nice Italian restaurant here in town. By 9 pm, I was feeling pretty sleepy, after an early wake up, a long day travelling, the two hour time difference, a handful of dramamine, a plate of ravioli in a bechamel, and one (yes, only one) glass of wine. By 9:30, I was sawing logs.

Today, an early run (so much cooler and less humid than NE) and then we're off for more visiting of old friends in Corvallis, just north of here. Tomorrow, we're off to Portland for more visiting, and Saturday, Andrew Bird and the Decemberists on their home turf. Should be spectacular. I will keep you posted!

The Slow Roll at the Top of the Backside

Does this sound simple?
--Sonic Youth, "The Sprawl"

A short breather at Monkey House Nebraska before heading to the Pacific Northwest and then the Rocky Mountains. I am psyched to get out of the flatland and into the mountains, and, of course, I really can't wait to see Monkey again (she's been away since the second (it seems so much longer)), but I am also starting to feel that "the end is near" feeling, and I am getting a bit melancholy about that. So far, this has been a good summer, relaxing, adventurous, and I expect it to get even better tomorrow, when I touch down in Portland. However, it seems that we've reached that point that we reach every year, and, each time I look at the calendar, I think, "Wow, I need to get ready for school." Is it a guilt factor, growing from having too much time without a work schedule? Is it a natural function of comparing the list of "planned to do" and the list of "actually done" and discovering that one list far outpaces the other? Or, is it a more deep-seated, Freudian fear, one in which, when I see the calendar move to mid-July, I think, "Ugh, only a few more weeks, and my mom's gonna make my brother and me wear matching denim pant suits to school on the first day...again!"

These are, of course, rhetorical questions. Just the pondering of an (occasionally) over-reflective neurotic. Feel free to discuss them amongst your friends, if you have little else to do. Otherwise, take them for what they are: further evidence of the complicated psychological cartwheeling that this boy imposes upon himself (subconsciously), on a semi-regular basis.