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!

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.

Tires, Fowl, and Taxidermy

As I am on Fall break, it was a better idea for me to take the Civic in for new tires than for Monkey to do it. After all, when I checked my calendar, today yawned with a galactic emptiness. When Monkey checked her calendar, she had an eye doctor's appointment (and some other stuff). Of course, that all changed when a co-worker invited me out to lunch with a crew. Mind you, this was no ordinary lunch, either, we were all bound for Unadilla (home of Unadilla Bill), for a chicken dinner at The Bar. I would meet my lunch mates at a local restaurant parking lot, from which we would make the not-too-long drive out to the east.

So, I drove up to the tire place to have four new tires (that Monkey had already ordered and paid for) put on the car. Lo and behold (I am still not completely clear on directions and locations around here) the tire place is right next to the restaurant where I was to meet up with everybody. I figured I could just roll the car from one little parking lot to the restaurant's big parking lot with little fanfare and be off when the time came. I dropped off the car and walked over to a coffee shop/bakery for a croissant, some coffee, and an hour of reading.

Two pages into my reading material, Monkey called me. The tire place had ordered the wrong tires. I'd have to come back some other time. I finished my coffee, marked my page, and picked up the car.

In hindsight, I could have stayed in the coffee shop for a half hour and then went to get the car. Then, I could have simply rolled over to the restaurant. But I didn't do that. I drove home, sat around for twenty minutes, and then drove back out to the restaurant. Stupid and wasteful, I know.

At the parking lot, I piled in with five other teachers and we rolled over to Unadilla (pop. 350ish). The Bar (the actual name of the bar where we had the chicken) was hopping for lunch. And we were by far the youngest patrons on this bright and breezy Tuesday. And the food was good and cheap. Where else are you going to get three pieces of chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, lemonade, lemon meringue pie (not awesome) and a cup of coffee for $8.50? That's right, some other small town in Nebraska. But, today, we got it in Unadilla.

And, in a touching (for me) extra to the day's journey, as I paid my tab at the cash register, I saw, above me on a shelf of honor, the preserved carcass of Unadilla Bill, the most famous groundhog in all of Nebraska. It was a beautiful moment, I must say.








Photo from The Omaha World Herald, accessed at http://www.flickr.com/photos/25702639@N02/2417277608

Where The Wild Things Are, Part Five: The Bear Trap

The start of contract time has curtailed my blogging the past few days, but it is my intention to offer finish this multi part story as soon as possible, beginning today with the story of our hike to Lulu City, a former mining town that thrived for only four years in the mountains of Colorado before succumbing to the economics of the times and becoming a ghost town known mostly for its still-visible bear trap (of which, I neglected to take a photo--I didn't realize it was such a famous bear trap until afterward...hell, I didn't even know it was a bear trap, at the time, but, I digress).

The morning of this hike, we intended to mosey into Allenspark and eat at the wonderful Meadow Mountain Cafe. When we arrived, at exactly the time that they opened, we found the small parking lot full, and the small dining area fuller. Not wanting to wait too long for a table, some coffee, and some food, we decided to head into Estes Park for an alternate breakfast experience.

After a not-so-good-as-Meadow-Mountain-would-have-been breakfast, we drove over Rocky Mountain National Park's Trail Ridge Road, to find the Colorado River trail head, on the other side of the Continental Divide. This trail is relatively level, until the descent into/ascent out of the Lulu City site, and follows the Colorado River for a distance, revealing along the way several mine shaft sites, and the ruined cabins of the man who once owned the mines (I believe his name was Shipler). It was a nice trail through riparian wetlands and wild flowers. Earlier, one of the Ambassadors had purchased a book on RMNP wild flowers, so we had a fine time trying to identify some of the more common flora along the trail. Unfortunately, the wetlands also breeds some local mosquitoes, so we didn't stand still over the flowers for too long.

Once we arrived in the vicinity of Lulu City, we discovered that the only living inhabitants of the site are golden-mantled ground squirrels. We debated whether it was a good idea to feed the squirrels pumpkin seeds (we decided not to), and whether a golden-mantled ground squirrel was any match for a chainsaw beaver (of course, not). Most importantly, we found a beautiful river bank of stones in a river, upon which to have a mid-day snack. It truly was one of the more beautiful places we spent time (of course, there were many of those).

Of course, on our way back to the trail head, it rained. The only difference was that, today, everyone had adequate rain gear. Hooray! The backs of my pant legs did get awfully drenched, however. I think next time, I am toting my rain pants, as well. We stopped by the Ranger's Station after the hike, to get a last check on the weather, but it was not good news. The weather we had been having, we would continue to have, and that, we all decided, was not conducive to scaling any 14000 foot mountains. So, with disappointment, we scrubbed our Longs Peak hike for that trip.

That left us with a decision to make about our last hiking day in the area. Where would we hike? How far? How high? How early? We spent the evening, over dishes of not-very-good Tuscan bean soup (my fault), discussing our options.

Things I'd Like To Do

I have never been one for resolutions. It always seemed too much like making plans. However, it is that time of year to think about what we have done and to think about what we'd like to do. I suppose there are a few things I would like to do in the coming days. I will not refer to them as resolutions. How about we call them suggestions to myself? The following suggestions are bouncing around in my head.

1. Practice more. I picked up the guitar about three years ago and started taking lessons about a year ago. I don't practice everyday. I want to try to practice everyday. Otherwise, I'll never realize my dream of playing with REM on their 2030 50th Anniversary tour.

2. Read more. So many books, so little time. I figure, at my current rate, I'll only be able to read about 1000 more books in my lifetime. I am becoming agitated by the thought that I only get to choose a thousand. I mean, which ones do I pick? If I step up the pace, I could as much as double that number.

3. Look into board certification. This would be a good career move, but I think I should probably wait a few more years to actually do it. Now is the time to start thinking about and looking into what I need to do to get certified.

4. Leave the house more often. Granted, I have been sick, but, I haven't been out of the house since Friday. I haven't even gotten out of my pajamas. Except for the hacking and the phlegm, it has been a great way to end winter break.

5. Not get so wrapped up in organized sports. Watching today's Ravens-Dolphins playoff game was excruciating. The end result makes it a good excruciating, but, if you could have seen me when Miami scored to cut the Ravens lead to 20-9, you'd have thought that the Dolphins had just taken the lead. It's kind of sad that my dog is afraid to sit on the sofa with me when I watch one of my teams play (i.e., Maryland, Mizzou, Ravens--not so much Nebraska...(yet?)). I jump up off the sofa, I yell, I swear. I'm not allowed to have objects in my hands while watching (I might throw them). Once, many years ago, I was watching a football game with a Nerf football in my hands, and during a particularly bad play, I threw the football on the ground. However, the football hit an ashtray on the way down, and broke in two, spilling a mess of ashes, butts, and ceramics at my feet. This did not make me feel any better. I act like a child. I can't help it. This suggestion is the least likely to be acted upon...especially with the Ravens-Titans playoff match up scheduled for Saturday!

A Shock to the System

Reading the other day of the suicide of 46 year old writer David Foster Wallace took me aback. I've never read any of his novels (although Infinite Jest has been on my mental list for about eight years, now), but I remember being enamored with his essay "Consider the Lobster" when I read it in Gourmet in 2004. It was such a remarkably entertaining piece of writing. In 2005, I found his cover article in The Atlantic, "Host," about political talk radio. The article used footnotes in a visual way that was completely innovative. I began to realize that not only was this guy a good writer, but he was perhaps a writer of the best footnotes I had ever read. His short stories (the few I have read) are the same way, innovative in perspective, and containing some unexpected nuance that makes a reader appreciate not simply the joy of story, but the craft of writing.

And then, I read his book on the history of infinity, Everything and More. And I knew this was a brilliant human being. I had to put him on the side of the table with the other people smarter than me (more and more, this side of the table is growing...ah, for the ignorant cocksurety of youth!). And now, we'll get no more brilliance.

It is a tragedy when someone takes their life. It is a tragedy when a writer whom people admire departs this world. It is a tragedy of the highest order when someone so talented and so bright chooses to leave the rest of us behind.

Rest in peace, Mr. Wallace.

My Plan For Immortality

Some might see this as a problem, but I see it as a way to keep myself alive for as long as possible (I hope this is long range planning, but, who can say?). I have been on Goodreads, a kind of bibliophile website, for a few months shy of a year. On this site, one can list books he/she has read, is reading, and wants to read. It is invaluable to a forgetful reader such as my self in several ways. First, I can, using the review and rating feature, keep some record of my reactions to books, then, in the future, I can refresh my memory if need be about whether I have read a book (I forget sometimes), and whether I enjoyed it or not. In addition, I can share my ratings and reviews and such with friends who care to link up to my page. It's a nice way to keep track of, and get ideas from other readers. You can even comment to others' ratings and reviews, thus, a dialogue is possible, too. Most importantly and most enjoyable for me, however, is the feature by which I can keep track of books I wish to read. I used to try to jot downs books I heard about or read about that I wanted to read, but, often, the scrap of paper, or sticky note, or marginal notation on a piece of other mucilage was lost. I even carried around a little notebook for a while, but, that got buried under some pile of other papers eventually. Now, I can keep them handy on this little website. I can print them off when I go to the library or bookstore, and, thereby, I can, in a more orderly manner, wade through my reading list.

So, you might ask, what is the problem? Well, this tomic accounting has revealed to me something I have known all along, the "to read" list, grows more quickly than the "read" list. By a rate (at the present) of 2 to 1. But, if you'll recall, I said this was not a problem, but a way to ensure longevity. How? Well, as long as I have twice as many books to read as I have read, I will always have a goal. With a goal, I will always have something to live for. After all, who wants to leave this earthly sphere not having read the latest Booker Prize winner?

What Would Papa Think? (A Very Long Italian Story, Part Five)

With no prior experience as a European traveler, most of my notions of Europe, for better or worse, come from Ernest Hemingway. The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms, For Whom the Bell Tolls—these were my blueprints for Europe. So, in some way, I imagine Firenze, prior to my arrival, as a place firmly stuck in an era of history that was, at least, eighty years ago. I also imagined myself strolling through it, a suave, hardened man of experience, ordering caffe and grappa from a corner bar, and reading the local leftist paper while I smoked away the morning. Other expatriated Americans would come and go, including Monkey, of course, as we whiled away the day until a late supper found us all gathered around a red-checked table in a tiny eatery, loudly debating local, national, and international politics, surrounded by bottles of wine and more grappa, tearing loaves of bread with our hands to sop up the greasy gravy of a local stew. And of course, the days would be brightly lit by a merciless sun, the evenings would seem eternally crepuscular, and the nights would be candlelit.

And, I guess, some of that came to pass. But first, we had a major museum to tour.

Let me pause here to apologize for the dearth of pictures that this entry will contain. Taking pictures in museums and churches, where we spent most of our time in Firenze, is generally frowned upon. Where it is not strictly vietato, use of a flash is clearly not acceptable. Thus, even were we able to take pictures, which we tried to do where we could, the increased exposure times made taking decent pictures difficult for two folks with limited camera skills (i.e., the Monkeys). So, until we get outside (tomorrow, really), the photojournalism is limited at best. Now, back to the show.

The Accademia is not a very big space. I believe it is part of an art institute in Firenze. It has two floors, the second of which is relatively tiny, and contains some really impressive fourteenth century triptychs and polyptichs and other devotional art in all its gilded two-dimensional glory. The first floor, while also not large, does have the irresistibly attractive centerpiece known as David.

Before one reaches David, however, a long hallway is home to other works of Michelangelo, namely, The Slaves, four unfinished pieces intended for the tomb of a megalomaniacal pope. The power of these pieces is undeniable, but, we found it interesting, in overhearing a tour guide discuss the emotional weight of these figures struggling to break out of the unfinished marble, that the interpretation of the pieces hinges on an accident. As far as Monkey and I can discern, the artist had every intention of finishing these figures. If that’s the case, can their unfinished nature be included as part of one’s interpretation of the pieces? It’s an interesting question to ponder, I think, and one that gets to the heart of meaning making and the role of the artist and the observer in that transaction. But enough about these little unfinished blocks of stone: look down the corridor there, and what do you see, looming three times larger than life itself? The anatomical perfection of David, contemplating his task and clearly certain of his victory.

Everyone has seen pictures of this immense (in size and significance) figure, but seeing it in person, as it fills the atrium of this small gallery, being able to circle it and look at it from many angles and in changing light, is an experience that really can not be described. You just have to see it, really. It’s a beautiful thing.

The remainder of the museum’s first floor is exciting enough, with some wonderfully large Renaissance canvases, but after the centerpiece, the rest is nearly just decoration.

After several hours in the Accademia, the pattern from yesterday was repeated, as we rested up for about an hour at the B&B, and then headed to a little place called Ichee ch’e ch’e (or something along those lines, spelling wise), which translates to “whatever is, is,” for dinner. Without reservations, we were seated in the center of the restaurant at a long “family style” table. Let me tell you something: in general, I hate eating “family style” (unless I am, indeed, with my own family, and, even then, I don’t always enjoy it so much, you know?). We were seated next to a couple, who were seated next to a single hippy. It turns out that the couple next to us were on their honeymoon from New York, and the hippy was a freshly minted high school grad from Cali. As we ate, another couple came in and sat next to us. We recognized them from breakfast. They were staying at the same B&B as we were. They were from Minnesota (via Omaha, believe it or not).

So, in true, Hemingwayesque fashion, we passed the eternal twilight around a red-checked table, a small tribe of very temporarily “expatriated” Americans, drinking wine, sopping up gravy and ragu, and debating, if not the future of the recently installed Italian government, at least the merits of nearby gellaterias.

Something I Never Told You

This is from my journal March 24:

On Friday, took Monkey to get a scan to see where all of her small dose of radioactive iodine had been taken up. I had just finished Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, on Thursday, so I was reading Heat while I waited for Monkey's scan to be through. I'm glad I brought the book, because the scan took a long time.

I imagine when you have a medical prcedure that takes so long, that you become more observant, looking around (if you can), trying to see as much of the detail of a place as you can. I always do this whenever I check out of my "guarded" self. I don't notice much except for what is directly in front of me, most of the time. I am usually aware only of what I am doing, what is before me.

Sometimes, in situations where I sense danger, I will extend my sphere of awareness. This used to happen a lot more when I lived back in Baltimore. I'd almost always be on edge when I was walking around in the city. I've been a victim of crime, I've had a gun in my face. It's not a pleasant thing.

Of course, irony of ironies, I was not wandering the mean streets of Mobtown when crime visited me. I was at work, at my dad's store, formerly located on one of the mean streets of Mobtown. Guy came in the front door of the store wearing a goalie mask, stuck a silver weapon with what seemed like a very big barrel in my direction, and suggested I give him the money in the cash register. I fell down. Literally.

My first reaction was to hit the deck, putting a very large (but transparent and mostly plexiglas) deli case between a bullet and myself. So, I know that in such a situation, my capacity for self-preservation will operate on a high level (as evidenced by my hitting the deck), but my capacity to reason clearly will not (as evidenced by the lack of real cover the see-through deli case actually provided).

My next reaction was to acquiesce, by chanting, "Okay. Okay.OkayOkayokayokayokayokay." The guy with the gun was probably pleased that I was being so cooperative in word; however, in deed, I was still prone on the floor behind the counter. He suggested that I open the register. I crawled (self-preservation reflex strong, see?) to the register and hit the "No Sale" button. The goalie mask helped himself to the bills, spilling change all over the floor, and out the door he went.

It was one of the more memorable days of my life.

So, for better or worse, when I am in a large urban area, I am usually more paranoid/aware than usual. I know that, logically, bad news can befall you anywhere, not just in population centers, but, well, I am conditioned to be more swivel-headed in places like Baltimore, Chicago, and San Francisco, than I am in places like Lincoln, Columbia, or Mendicino. That will probably catch up with me one day.

Usually, when I feel "safe", I am pretty focused on that which is near. However, when I am left in a room for several minutes alone, like happens in a doctor's office, I notice my mind and eyes wandering to every corner of the room; I look at every device and fixture, every ceiling tile, the knobs on drawers, the pile on the carpet, the patterns within the patterns on the wallpaper.

Enclosed in a restrictive scanner, however, is a whole different ball of medical-grade cotton. You just can't look around the room. You can only stare at some spot two feet or less in front of your face, hoping that you don't move enough to blur the image of your insides that the end result of your time in the tube is supposed to be.

In there, I guess, your mind just wanders (unless you are practiced at meditation, I suppose--in which case, you might use your scanner time productively). I'm sure your mind races to many places, some of which must have something to do with the condition that brought you to this particular place and time in the first place. I suspected that Monkey, naturally claustrophobic, anyway, was having a rough go of it.

For me, however, sitting in the waiting room, with its 21 pine-framed chairs; blue, wave-patterned carpet; beige, burlap-textured wallpaper, and a poor selection of magazines--I had my book. So, no wandering, except to count the chairs and admire the carpet and floors. I should have been blissfully content.

As much as I focused on my book (I read about forty pages), I still couldn't help but think of how depressing a place such a waiting room as this (well, all waiting rooms, really) is. Waiting rooms: hospitals, auto repair shops, doctors offices, funeral homes. All places of mostly bad news, or, at least, mostly the anticipation of no good. This one in particular: smack between radiology and oncology. That's a bad rock and a no good hard place. The people looked like I must when in a situation of potential danger: miserable, wary, frustrated, but, many, I'll admit, looked still spirited.

I wondered how I looked. Did I look wary? Did I look frustrated? Did I look miserable? Because while I spent several moments displaying my left-alone-in-a-"safe"-environment habits, surveying the walls and chairs, a large part of me wanted to drop to my knees and chant: "Okayokayokayokay."

One Man's Valentines

Friday night, braving the brisk wind and single digits, Monkey and I headed down to a local bookstore to hear a reading by former Poet Laureate, the famously diminutive Ted Kooser. He has recently published a slim volume of poems that he had composed as valentines and sent out over the years to a list of recipients that eventually grew, according to Mr. Kooser to over 2000 people (all but two of them women). The book, appropriately, is called Valentines, and it is illustrated by a friend of Kooser's who lives two doors down from the Monkey House. Yes, it is a small world.

I have been a fan of Kooser's for some time, and I have enjoyed reading and teaching his poems, and hearing his thoughts on poetry and such in his less poetic writings. So, it was an excellent opportunity to hear him read.

It was a short reading, about a half an hour, but, it was great nonetheless. To hear him talk about his poems, and to hear him read, was a treat (and how often do you find yourself eight feet from a former Poet Laureate?). Monkey and I also got a couple of books signed, but that was a bit perfunctory (there were many people waiting). Of course, I most likely would have held a rather poor conversation with him had I the opportunity, anyway. It would have gone something like this:

Me: "Uh.... Hi."
TK: Hello."
(PAUSE)
Me: "Um.... You know that one poem you wrote? About your grandmother? 'Dishwater?'"
TK: "Yes."
(PAUSE)
Me: "Yeah. Um...wasn't that great?"
(TED KOOSER walks away.)

The Next Worst Hard Time

I am currently reading Timothy Egan's The Worst Hard Time, the story of the folks on the High Plains who didn't leave during the Dust Bowl of the 1930s. It's like a non-fiction companion piece to John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath. I had heard of this book last year. During a trip to the Hyve, I heard Egan on some public radio show. He was discussing his book and the film (which he also discusses in the book) The Plow that Broke the Plains. The film sounds fascinating--a 1930s documentary of how the farming practices of the 1920s contributed to the Dust Bowl conditions. I really want to see this film (it has something to do with that other lives stuff I was talking about in my last post, but, I digress...).

As luck would have it, The Worst Hard Time was selected as the Lincoln One Read Book last month, so the public library featured it prominently during my last foray for publicly borrowed Johnny Cash CDs (I found one). Perhaps it would have been more fitting if I had been looking for Merle Haggard CDs, but, that is not the case, and, in this instant, I have decided not to exercise my right of artistic license. Johnny Cash was whom I was searching for when I found The Worst Hard Time. So, having previously been interested, I picked the book up.

It's been a slow read to start with. That could be because I have not been reading it except for when I am abed. Bleary-eyed and thinking about how much sleep you can get before the alarm goes off at 5am is no way to enjoy a book. But, I am enjoying some of the stories. I sometimes wonder: how entertaining can three hundred pages about flying dirt be? At such times, I remind myself that it is really about the human drama of determination in the face of economic and natural forces.

Underneath it all, however--underlying the stories of the farmers beaten down by the depressed price of wheat, the mortgagees getting foreclosed on, the citizens beating on the closed door of their empty, penniless bank, the desperate and stubborn fighting the drought, locust, and swirling sediment--is the story (reiterated from The Plow that Broke the Plains) of humanity's disregard for the natural world and the consequences of humankind's actions. It is a story we need to hear today more than ever; however, those that need to listen the most, have their ears closed the hardest.

As the ice caps shrink and walruses come ashore far south of the receding ice flow, as oceans rise and temperatures soar, as drought takes hold of larger areas of the planet, and forests are decimated at record pace, as species become extinct before we even discover them, we must make it clear to those that doubt that our actions are surely responsible for these occurrences. It is not a natural trend. It is not something that will soon reverse itself. It is the vision of our future, and it is not pretty.

The Enemy Lends His Support (And Suffers Some Existential Angst)

I sat down here at the old keyboard, perfectly intent on ranting about how ridiculous George Steinbrenner is for even contemplating the firing of Joe Torre. Don't get me wrong, as a life-long Yankee hater, it would be a good thing for me. Torre is an excellent manager, and the Yanks would be hard pressed to find an equal replacement. However, the mere fact that an owner is public threatening to fire a manager who has won four Championships and been to the playoffs twelve times in the past twelve years is simply disgusting to me. That's the short version of what I wanted to say.

When I logged on to Blogger, I found a link to Post Secret, which I have visited before. I meandered over there (as we all have a tendency to do when we are faced with the universe-like infiniteness of the internets), and got a bit lost. I got to thinking of all the little dramas that are being lived in the world right now. All the deviousness and joy. All the betrayal and communion. I began to think of the timbre of other lives, and then I began to think of the lives that I might have lived. That ever happened to you?

I guess that's why I love reading and writing so much. I can experience and create so many different realities to live in for a little bit of time. Escapist? You bet your ass. Have you read the newspaper lately? Milk has doubled in price since 2004, and highly qualified supervisors are losing their jobs because some spoiled rich dude can't buy himself some esteem.

Miscellaneous Comment-Inspired Haiku (For La Fashionista)

On H.P. Lovecraft:
I know the name, not the work.
Scary? Whatever.


Predicting the score.
But shouldn't I remember:
At home, forty one?


stevecarter *dot* com:
Creepy old album covers,
Scrawny naked men.


Poor, poor whistle pig,
Like Ol' Punxatawney Phil,
Gets the shaft, again!


Fairview fifth grader:
"Today--CoMo holiday;
Chicken nuggets! Yum!"


Anon AMV
B run-on sentences! And
six-syllable name!

Beer Cheese Soup

Thanks to all of you for the kind words during my period of slithering through the benthic slime of depression and self-doubt. They helped (note to Comoprozac: reminders are always useful, even when we are already logically aware of a thing, yet we emotional feel completely differently). My colleagues were also spectacular yesterday and today. Of course, the best way to get over the sweep of my emotional (-x,-y) parabola (plot that, y'all!) was to head to the scene of the crime and grab the bull by the horns (bang-bang cliches, there). Which is just what I did. I am feeling much better after today's class. I think we may have worked some things out in that class, but, one day is no evidence. I must still be diligent.

I am in a district book group (we get priofessional development credit for being in it) that focuses on literature of the non-dominant culture. We meet once a month and discuss a particular book. This month, we read Flight, Sherman Alexie's new novel. Many of you may know of my enjoyment of Native American literature. I am a big fan of Louise Erdrich and James Welch. I love Alexie's short stories. This book was pretty good, and a very easy read. It's a bit on the side of magic realism, and the main charcter is an adolescent mixed race boy in foster care. It is violent and funny and kind of heart-warming. I'm not a big fan of the ending, but it is an entertaining diversion.

As part of the food committee for this week's group meeting, I made beer cheese soup. It was pretty good. And not too hard to make: potatoes, celery, carrots, bacon, chicken stock, beer, and cheese; paprika, white pepper, and some smoked salt. To borrow a line from Raising Arizona: "Just like makin' popcorn."

Try it, you'll like it. Something else you might like: check out the link to Cool Dry Place. I had no idea the old homestead was getting such national attention over a monkey. It's a good thing I know where my Monkey is.

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):

Another Day, Another Scholar

Today, I learned how to scan a document to my email, save it as a PDF, and send it as a print job to the print shop to be delivered on a future date. How awesome is that? One more thing that I know how to do.

I also had a better day with my sophomores than yesterday, but we have a whole lot of room for improvement.

Beyond that, not much news to report. Except that, according to a news article in the Lincoln Journal-Star today, one in four people have not read a book this year. That was not a fun article to start off my day with, ladies and gents! (Astute readers will note that the link provided does not take one to the Lincoln Journal-Star, but rather the Baltimore Sun. I could not find a link to the article in the Journal-Star, but, like all good AP articles, it found its way into multiple papers. And, it is a mere coincidence that, when I Googled "reading poll" the first hit was for the Baltimore Sun--my old hometown paper.)

For a narrative reverie brought about by filling a new iPod (something I have been enjoying myself, lately--it's like a universe of infinite space--but it's not), check out one of my favorite blogs, Living in Misery.

All Your Question Answered (This is Not a Typo)

It's been a while since I mentioned anything that I was reading. I know most of you are probably not happy about that. There are only a few burning questions on everyone's mind this summer; one of them is: "What did Lindsey get arrested for this time?" Another is: "Can Nicole Richie's fetus handle four days in jail?" A third is: "Will Hillary's cleavage help or hinder her bid for the presidency?" Perhaps another is: "Whoopi?" But, certainly, the single most important question not involving more important things is: "What's that boy been reading?"

The attempt to read Atlas Shrugged failed. I slogged through 750 pages. I had 450 to go. I just couldn't do it. Honestly, folks, there are some really interesting story lines in this novel, but they are buried under so much didactic preachy crap that it is a crying pain to get through. I mean, for the most part, this book is BAD. Really, really, really BAD. I couldn't take it any more, as intrigued as I was by the main character and the interesting/mysterious plot lines.

I abandoned that, and was so cloudy headed because of the didactic mist in which Rand had enveloped me, that I read nearly an entire collection of Brady Udall's short stories before I realized I had read them in 2003. I then switched to David Mitchell's first novel Ghostwritten. It is very much like his third (great) novel Cloud Atlas, the virtues of which I have related before. The stories that make up the novel are interconnected in clever and clear ways, the settings span the globe (from Ireland to Ulan Bator), and the ultimate theme is never truly clear (at least, I hope, until the novel is complete). I have a pretty slowly developing idea of the theme, but, I am reserving judgement ("a matter of infinite hope," says Nick Carraway).

In the moments when I am not reading Mitchell's book, I am engaged with a biography of Dawn Powell, entitled, appropriately enough, Dawn Powell: A Biography. Powell was a phenomenal writer who enjoyed some success in the middle part of the 20th century, but fell out of favor in the 60s. Thanks in large part to the efforts of Gore Vidal, her work resurfaced in the late 80s, and this biography, by Tim Page, was published in 1998. It's pretty good. Relatively insightful, but a little gushy in places. I've loved Powell since I found one of her books in a book store in Tacoma Park, MD, in the early 90s. I was attracted, as I often am, to the cover art, a blue and yellow filtered photo of a New York street, circa 1950 (and the fact that the book was on the discount rack). The book, The Wicked Pavillion, was a great read, and I have since read two other of her approximately ten available novels.

Along with a ton of short stories for the upcoming school year, I have been reading quite a bit (but I don't really feel like I have).

Let's Get This Show on the Road (and) How Do I Not Know This Stuff?

Tomorrow, I will put summer behind me and begin preparing for the school year in earnest, as I meet my department head at school and begin the acclimation process a few weeks early. In some ways, I feel like I am right on schedule (the normal part of my personality). In other ways, I feel like I am already weeks behind (the unreasonable workaholic part of my personality). At any rate, I am looking forward to it. Of course, I am also bummed that summer is drawing to a close. Ah, the multiple dichotomies of the modern Central Standard existence.

Did anyone catch White Rabbits on Letterman on Thursday?

On a completely different note, let me introduce you to this . It is the blog of Jonathan Hodgman, the Daily Show correspondent and the PC character on those iMac commercials. He wrote a book last year (or two years ago), called The Areas of My Expertise, a completely made up book of facts. I have only read some of the book, but that which I have read is wonderful. His blog is quite as interesting. I just got hip to the blog and who Hodgman actually was. I mean, I knew him from the Daily Show and the commercials, and I knew Jonathan Hodgman was the author of a book, but I had little idea (actually: no idea) that they were the same person. Go fig.

My ankles are really itchy today. Chiggers?

In Which Our Boy Contemplates His Old Age

I was sitting on the sofa the other day, trying to decide whether to get up and eat something or continuing sitting on my duff, when it dawned on me that I am going to be a sad old man (whenever I become an old man). I can only hope that Monkey is around as long as I, so she can keep my miserable backside moving. When she's not around, I sometimes can't get motivated to do anything but go to work (and that is hard going sometimes). I can't even be bothered to blog (yet, here I am...progress?).

It has rained alot this week, that always puts me in a foul mood. Mostly, however, I think I just get a bit blue and self-absorbed when she's not around. After all, she is an integral part of who I am. Without her, it's like a piece of me is not around. I know I sound like a Shel Silverstein poem (or...ugh...a Nick Sparks book), but, it's true.

Come home, Monkey.

I've been reading Atlas Shrugged. It's one of those "I always wanted to read it, but it's so goddamn long" kind of books. I really thought it would be dry and didactic, but, so far, it is pretty captivating. The characters are intriguing, and it has (even though it was written well after and is not quite so futuristic) this sort of Fritz Lang-quality that I like. Maybe I am way off base on that one, but, it's the best way I can describe it.

Also reading High Fidelity. The Nick Hornby book they made into a movie with John Cusack--you know, the one in which Jack Black got his "big break". I hate the movie for that. I mean, the Jack Black character in that movie fits the bill perfectly, but, has anyone noticed that that is all he can do? It's the same damn character in every movie. He's even the same character when he's playing with Tenacous D. Hello! That's not acting, that's just him being him. Can't wait to see him on Inside the Actor's Studio telling all the first years to "be in the moment." That's actor speak for "I don't know how to act." But I digress. The book is actually pretty good. It's British, so, it is far different, on some levels, than the film. Which is a good thing. The most appealing thing about this book is the main character's straight-on analysis of himself as a guy in a relationship (any semi-committed relationship). I am finding him highly entertaining. Is it a book that has a universal appeal? I don't know. Is it great literature? Nope. Am I digging it? I am.

For those keeping up (which I haven't been). I updated The Fingers of Time. I know it's been a few weeks, but I have been busy. I threw two posts on there. Three sections total. Enjoy, if you want.

In Which Our Boy Gets His Ass Up Off of the Sofa

Sunday was the opposite of Saturday. I mostly did errands (cleaned the house, grocery shopped), and, except for a poorly conceived trip to the library (closed for Easter, silly), it was a pretty good day. Took puppy for a short chilly walk around the lake, and watched a crow chase a red tailed hawk up Hinkson Creek. Pretty awesome.

I did manage to skip the return of Sopranos Fellowship Sunday, however. I had a bit of work to do to get ready for school today, and I got engrossed in the latest episodes of Planet Earth. This is one nature show that puts Jacques Cousteau out of mind. The cinematogragphy is amazing. They pulled all the stops out for this one. It is amazing enough watching great white sharks flying through the air as they ambush fur seals, but to watch a night attack by a pride of lions on a full-grown elephant was brutally unique. One thing you do get from this show is a real idea of how rough life on Earth really is. We humans are so far removed from the reality of natural life on our planet that it is not even funny. Don't get me wrong. I am more than content not to have to worry about getting yanked out of my house by a patrolling cougar, but, as I putter to work each morning, it would be beneficial for me to remember that every robin has to kill a worm to survive, every red tailed hawk has to take down some sparrows to make it through the day. That's just the way it is. "Nature, red in tooth and claw," said Tennyson. He was right.

Today, I finally finished East of Eden. Boring Election and Monkey are correct. It is an awesome book. I haven't yet decided if I like it or The Grapes of Wrath better, but I think I am leaning toward Eden. It is just so well-written. Artfully conceived, beautiful prose. A sprawling and heart-wrenching story (I do love those). And a clear philosophical through-line. How have I lived so long without reading this book? Steinbeck, indeed, rules (along with Flannery O'Connor, Louise Erdritch, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and a host of others).

In addition, basketball was cut short tonight because I torqued my ankle...again! It hurt like a bitch, but it is behaving itself, at the moment. I predict I will not only be able to walk tomorrow, but I'll be able to play in the first softball game of the season on Sunday. That's right, loyal reader, the season starts this week. I'll be playing on two teams, a Sunday co-rec league with some folks from work/school and the old Wednesday Deadliners league. Of course, I will only be able to play in a few games before it's off to Lincoln with the Monkeys, but I plan to have a bit of fun and drink a few beers while I can.

The annual MAP testing starts tomorrow for us. The No Child Left Behind-mandated, state-devised assessment of whether we is learnin' the churlen good is always a fun time for everyone. The best part is constantly explaining to the kiddos why they have to take the test, knowing full well that the only real answer is, "Just because you have to." It means nothing to them, simply because it has no direct effect on them. It is not a graduation requirement. It does not alter their grade in any way. They have no stake in the test at all. The real wonder is that so many of them do it without question. Jesus, they don't even get their scores back until their senior year. Maybe I ought to grade their papers on the same schedule?

The saving grace for this episode of the school year is that it only takes two days, now. When I first started, we used to take a full week to do the testing. It was brutal. A death march of testing.

On a completely unrelated topic: why is Don Imus still on the radio?