Pumpkin and the Janitor: The Story of a Flightless Victim and a Forgotten One

This morning’s Lincoln Journal Star reported an incident of adolescent hi-jinx this morning in Gretna, NE.  Apparently, a trio of young men placed an emu in the commons of the local high school ten days ago. Understandably, this caused quite a ruckus when the janitor found it the next morning.

Now, I have never encountered a six-foot emu in a school commons area. As a matter of fact, I have only encountered an emu of any size when each of us was standing on opposite sides of a fence.  And, for all I know, that emu could have been an ostrich. So, I can only imagine what the unnamed janitor did when he opened the doors of the commons and saw a bird staring him down from across the feather-and-feces-strewn room. If he were smart, he gently closed the door, walked out to his car, drove to the nearest open bar, and had a shot or two. Then, were he still using his brains, he would have called Animal Control.  I am not advocating drinking as a way to steel one’s courage or cope with one’s situation; one has to suspect that, when Animal Control receives a call about an emu in Gretna High School, the operator’s first question will be, “Have you been drinking, sir?” Why not temper the news by being able to live up to someone’s expectations, especially since the janitor’s were surely not met that morning?

However it was performed, after a bit of a struggle in which our emu (real name: “Pumpkin”) was lacerated on his neck, the bird was apprehended and is now living at a company that puts on wildlife shows for schools and parties. Most likely, Pumpkin spends his days in the pasture wondering how his once-promising life came to this: a six-foot, flightless circus clown.

For Pumpkin once lived the life of the proverbial Riley, living in Iowa, killing chickens, and most likely scaring the hell out of the kids who foisted upon him the less-than-masculine, far-from-noble name of Pumpkin.  But, as the article informs us, the Iowegians put Pumpkin on Craigslist for thirty bucks, and some Gretna boys came a-calling.  When they told the emu’s owner that they were buying it for a friend who raised emu, he took a shine to the boys and let Pumpkin go for free, which was probably good for him to do, since the boys then proceeded to drive the emu over the state line with the intention of causing mischief.  This might be considered illegal animal trafficking, and the previous owner might have been implicated.  As it stands, he appears to be out of the woods.

The boys, however, are not. They have been charged with criminal trespassing and animal cruelty. Their fate hangs in the balance.

It is too bad that these young men, thinking at first to release Pumpkin onto the football field, found the door to their school unlocked.  Would it have been less cruel to leave the bird outside?  It is also too bad that this seemingly “harmless” prank is being punished with criminal charges.  After all, there was a time when these boys would simply have become part of small town lore, like the guy who carried a goat to the top of the water tower in Columbia, Missouri, and tied it up overnight thirty or so years ago.  Is it necessary to mar the record of these three youngsters for what they have done?  Some might say yes, the kids need to learn the lesson that no creature should be treated poorly.  After all, the experience of being carted over state lines, locked up in a school overnight, and apprehended by armed officers in the morning (I am assuming) most likely caused an amount of trauma on this creature that was entirely unnecessary.  This is true.  However, I think maybe having them volunteer at an animal shelter or some sort of experiential punishment might be better, without any need of the courts or legal authorities.

And, really, what about the janitor?  He’s been traumatized—perhaps worst of all.  Not a day will pass from here forward, when he doesn’t have at least a mild flashback as he unlocks a door.  What will be in room 123?  A boa constrictor? A velociraptor? A grizzly bear?  What will lurk in the gymnasium’s darkened corners?  Sasquatch?  A zombie?  The Loch Ness monster?  What restitution does he deserve? He is truly the forgotten victim.

Finally, what about all of the people in the Lincoln area, reading this tragic story and the effect this TRIO of boys has had on man and beast alike, who finish the story on the back of the A section, and then return to the headline, which they quizzically remember as: “Emu in school lands 6 in trouble”? Once again, it looks like the media is not telling the whole story: what about the other three kiddos?

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.

A Bike Commute Quandary

Monday, after the morning gully washer had passed, after some R and R with the dogs, after soccer, lunch, and other trivial pursuits, I decided to pedal my wait out to my new work environment to see what the best way to bike there might be. Perusals of maps determined that it was possible to get from here to there using commuter trails, rather than on road routes, but the situation on the ground is always a little different than it is on the map, ain't it?

My new place of business is in the opposite diagonal corner of town, and at least twice as far. That alone will be a change that I am not looking forward to. In CoMO, my commute was ten minutes (on a bike). I was literally, around the corner from work. My last position here in Lincoln was about twenty-five minutes. I knew that I was looking at at least forty-five minutes of ride time, but I needed to know what kind of ride it was going to be.

In order to stay on trails, I had to ride away from my destination in order to pick up the trail that would take me the way I wanted to go. As far as I can figure it, there really isn't an equally safe, more direct way to go, so I am spending the extra time to ensure my own well-being. This trail, however, basically becomes a wide sidewalk just before it passes a major thoroughfare, leaving me to wait for the crosswalk. This is the same as waiting for a light, so no problem there, but I don't like riding on the sidewalk. That's not a trail, in my opinion, but I understand the dual-use idea makes all trails walks of some sort. I guess I just need to get over it.

Once over the major thoroughfare, the "trail" winds its way along a newly developed (and still being constructed) road with a trail beside it. At this point, the first trail connects to the second trail that takes me in an easterly direction (before that I was headed north-west), however, on the ground, the trails are not marked at all. There are the occasional arrows on the ground, but at this point on this ride, those arrows were few and far between. By the time I came (for the second time) to another major thoroughfare (one I would be crossing in the opposite direction from the one I had already crossed it earlier), I didn't know if I was on the trail, or just riding on a random sidewalk.

I looked to the south and realized I had been on a random sidewalk. There, a giant yellow sign with a bike on it indicated the trail crossing. Ironically, from a safety standpoint, there is no light at the trail crossing, but there is one at the random sidewalk...hmmmmm. I crossed at the trail and continued on my way.

My detours not withstanding, this was a nice trail. Wide, clearly marked, and lacking much in the way of hills. There were quite a few road crossings, but most of the roads were residential and not busy. I made my way east, until I came to another weird intersection and found myself crossing 66th Street. I was looking for 63rd. I must have missed it.

I rode up 66th, looking for a place to backtrack, and when I did, I easily found 63rd. My powers of subtraction are impeccable...up to three digits. I also noticed an apartment complex I had already pedaled through and marked that as a short cut back to my trail, since, now, I was leaving the trail and heading straight out 63rd.

I had to cross a few busy streets along this last leg, but nothing too hairy. A few hills on this little street were tough, especially in the heat of the day, but I managed. Once I arrived at my school, I had been traveling (not counting for back tracks, detours, water breaks, etc.) for exactly one hour. That's a long haul to make every day.

The ride back was quicker by about eight minutes, since I had a better idea of where I was going, but a fifty-two minute commute is one I don't know if I can make everyday. I don't know, yet. But, right now, I am leaning toward biking twice a week. Of course, I really enjoy biking to work, so I may just go all in. But a one hour ride, for me to be mentally ready for school everyday at first bell, means I have strive to be in the saddle at 5:45 every morning (which realistically means 6). That's awfully early, my friends.

--bike image taken from Biking Buck

Sitting Still

In 2006, Monkey and I spent part of June in Maine. In 2007, Monkey and I spent part of June moving from CoMO to Lincoln. In 2008, Monkey and I spent part of Jun in Italy. Last year, Monkey and I spent part of June in OCMD. This year, we aren't going anywhere.

For the most, we are staying put this month due to our new puppy. We will be heading to Colorado at the end of July, but, right now, we think he's a little too young to be left in the care of someone else (especially if he'd be around strange dogs). This is, after all, his formative period, and we wanted to be here to form him, of course.

It's fine by me to be keeping close to home. I find plenty on the old homestead to keep me busy, including reading (of which I have done too little, so far). Add to that that World Cup eating up anywhere from an hour to six of any given day, I am perfectly content to be here.

In a way, however, I am traveling. After three years teaching at my school, my position was cut due to budget tightening. As a result, I spent several weeks this past semester interviewing with other schools in the district who, due to transfers, resignations, retirements, etc., had openings. Lucky for me, a high school position was available, and I was offered it. So, I am moving to a new school next year. I am still in the LPS district, so I keep all of my seniority and such, but I still had to pack everything up and store it here until I can get into my new location.

It is frustrating to lose a position for such arbitrary reasons, but I feel fortunate that I didn't get laid off and left to fend for a new job in a completely new district. That would have really been tough. I am, to some extent, looking forward to the excitement of a new school and new classes.

Yet, staying in one job for a while wouldn't have been bad, either. That seems to be something I haven't done for a long time. And, now that I think about it, the last time I was in the same job for a long time (ten plus years), I kind of grew to hate it.

True/False Before the Madness

Monkey and I met Uncle Joe for sushi last night. It was awesome. Not only was hanging with the biggest dog lover in Missouri (if not the world) a great joy, but the sushi at Osaka was top notch. It made all of the rushing around yesterday in order to get out of town by 4pm worth it. Once again, comoprozac and RAD are being kind enough to put us up for the weekend.

It's pretty busy around (The District). T/F volunteers are ubiquitous, and there seems to be an anticipatory buzz in the air. Also in the air is a bit of warmth that I have not experienced since before December. It is nice to be in a place that doesn't have six inches of snow and ice on the ground, a place where the sun actually seems to warm the air.

In a few hours, we will be meeting up with some old friends for a beverage, before making our way to Monkey's favorite Indian restaurant. After that, we have the opening night film, and another after that. Then, it's really on!

I am looking forward to it.

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.

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

Summer Vacation Stage 3: The Final Hours Elapse (Part One)

Let's call our trip east Stage One, our foray to CoMO (as short as it was), Stage Two, and this, our current experience in the Beaver State, Stage Three. I sit here, a Rogue Brutal Bitter at my elbow, as the hours in Eugene tick down. Early tomorrow, we will be heading back east, stopping overnight in Twin Falls, Idaho, before continuing on to a short visit with friends (Suh-weet and Queen of Spades, if you recall) in Fort Collins, and then a week's stay with the Ambassadors in Allenspark. I don't know what kind of connectivity we may have once we leave the relative civilization of Eugene, so these my be my last posts this month. We shall see.

Needless to say, this has been a wonderful visit, between seeing old and dear friends, attending a great concert, quaffing some tasty adult beverages (two favorites: Widmer's Belgian Style Ale and Bridgeport's Black Strap Stout), and hitting some longed-for mountain trails, my stay in Oregon will only be topped by the time soon spent in Colorado, I bet. Let me catch you up.

Monday, Monkey and I drove to the coast for a hike around Heceta Head. Monkey and I had been there before, back in 2005, but we hadn't hiked this particular trail. We started in the fog-bound morning, hiking from a day use area, along the beach for a mile or so. It was magical, walking on the beach, which is so different from the East Coast beaches I am used to. The beaches here are much longer from dune to surf, the dunes are much bigger, the flotsam and jetsam at the water's edge is different, and, well, it is almost always (in my short experience) foggy as hell. We could barely see to the breakers from the water's edge, really. It was so foggy that we almost missed the turn off from the beach, up the brush-covered fore dune, to the Hobbit Trail.

We scampered up the trail, and ascended about five hundred feet (maybe more) through foggy, cool, mossy rain forest. At the lighthouse, we paused for a snack, and to look at the Brandt's cormorants and gulls on Parrot Rock. I've seen guillemots and muirs here, too, but, with no binoculars and low visibility, it was hard to make out much. From the lighthouse (the last built on the Oregon coast, by the way), we doubled back on the trail, and then crossed Highway 101, over to the Valley Trail, which was made more daunting than its name implies by the "Cougar Sighting" sign at the trail head.

But, the sign didn't have a date on it, so we didn't know if a cougar was sighted any time recently, or if they just put these signs up because cougars might be in the area. At any rate, I did spend some time on the trail trying to devise a suitable escape plan, should a cougar attack, but the only plan I could devise involved self-sacrifice, and me yelling "Run!" at Monkey. Not much of a survivable scenario there.

The cougar preoccupation notwithstanding, the east side of the highway was beautiful. Lush, green, dotted with foxglove and other flowers. The short loop around the creek was particularly pleasant. Having traversed back to the north, we crossed the highway again, and headed back to our vehicle. The last hundred yards of the trail, a dense canopy of moss-covered pines, twisted and bent into surreal positions, prompted Monkey to wax fittingly poetic, as she said, "It looks like Dr. Seuss in here." And at that moment, I could just imagine the Lorax hopping out from behind a tree.

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.

The Odds

As you know, Monkey and I do most of our live music consumption in Omaha. I have been intrigued by a few shows here in Lincoln (particularly a recent appearance by Wichita's Split Lip Rayfield), but I have only managed a few in the two years we have been here (for various reasons--several of which sound suspiciously like the rationalizations of an aging man). Usually, it's off to Omaha for out-of-town bands. Even still, we don't see everybody we want to in O-town. A couple of friends of ours in a COMO band, Malone, played Omaha on Memorial Day weekend, but we were in Minneapolis. That's how it goes.

But, this upcoming week sees a parade of national acts coming through Lincoln (well, two, actually). Cursive plays here on Wednesday next, followed by Deer Tick on Thursday. Monkey and I would definitely check these shows out. The problem? We are leaving for Baltimore on Wednesday morning. We'll be out of towners for both shows! This is the worst music predicament since a couple of years back, when Bobby Bare Jr and The Hold Steady both played in COMO on the same night, and Monkey and I were in Cornopolis painting our new house!

Things We Did In April

Last Saturday, Monkey and I attended a pair of films that were shown as part of the Blacks in Film Festival at the university. Hip Hop: Beyond Beats and Rhymes was an interesting look at misogyny, homophobia, and hyper-masculine attitudes in modern hip-hop. With interview subjects ranging from Chuck D. to members of the Spelman College student government (who rescinded a campus invitation to Nelly over issues with his music and videos), the film was an entertaining and eye-opening look into the collective psychology of hip-hop, both as a culture and as a commodity. After that, we stuck around for WattStax, a documentary on the 1972 WattStax concert at LA Coliseum to celebrate the anniversary of the 1965 Watts riots. A blend of man-on-the-street interviews, Richard Pryor improv, and concert footage, the film was a stellar document of a place and time. However, the issues that were addressed in the film, pride, poverty, and economic empowerment, are still issues that America is grappling with today.

The weekend prior, we were invited to an Easter potluck at a friends house. It was a pleasure to have some ham. Monkey and I hadn't had a proper Easter dinner in ten years. I still didn't get any Easter pie, though. But, that's only because I didn't make any.

The weekend before that, I scored district writing assignments. Whoo Hoo!

And, on Wednesday of that week, Monkey and I headed out to Omaha for some sushi and The Hold Steady. The sushi was top-notch. The Hold Steady were good also. But, with a very crowded Slowdown pumping their fists and throwing beer cans, I kind of wished I was seeing them three years ago at Mojo's.

Does that make me one of those people? The ones who say, "Oh, but I liked them better when...." I guess it does. Oh, well.

The Excitement Continues

I was remiss in keeping all up to date on the doings of myself and the Monkey over the last fortnight or so. The weekend prior to this just past, Monkey House Nebraska was headquarters for the Minnesota Ambassadors' Baby Birthday Ramble. Arriving late on Friday night, the Ambassadors took to the guest room bed of Monkey House Nebraska for a snooze, before some coffee and a damn-good scone in the morning. The Monkeys also enjoyed some Chines and vino with various friends and family of the Ambassadors. Sunday was departure day, after a bagel and coffee downtown. Fortunately, in three short weeks, we will be returning the favor as the Monkeys head to Minneapolis-St. Paul for the opening round of the NCAA regionals (which coincides with my Spring Break!)

This past weekend, as you know, Monkey and I headed back to the ol' stompin' grounds for T/F 09. I will spare you recaps of all the films (a dozen), but, I will say that I felt that this was perhaps the best fest yet. Monkey and I did not feel rushed between films (except once), we felt the films were highest-caliber (except one), I thought the music was spectacular (no exceptions), and, while it was perhaps the coldest True/False, yet, the snow held off and the weather was generally good for walking about. We also found additional time this year for stompin' on the ol' stompin' grounds. It was, as it always is, an exquisite pleasure to spend time with folks I truly miss having in my life on a daily basis. Every time I go back to CoMo, I get a little homesick. This was no exception. Driving out of town on Monday morning was a melancholy moment.

I believe that is all for now.

My Anonymity Remains Intact

This week is shaping up to be a big one for the Monkeys, let me tell ya. First, I just spent the better part of an hour making three pounds of pasta. Three different kinds, all in one pot (i.e., in succession), for tomorrow's food day at school. We have a food day about once a month, organized by one of our colleagues to celebrate birthdays and such. Now, this is not to say that on other days we don't have food. We always seem to have food. But, on these special monthly days, we all pitch in to have a themed feast. This month, it's pasta. And, I am the preparer of the pasta.

Add to that, the fact that I will be taking off from work on Friday AND Monday. This is unprecedented for me. It is usually all I can do to make myself take one day off to accommodate travel, but two? It's simply decadent. I am freaking out, but, most likely, all will be well in my absence.

Of course, the big thing, the thing that is prompting this Four day weekend, is CoMo's annual True/False Film Festival. Monkey and I are heading back to the Education Capital of Missouri, home of the first land grant university west of the Mississippi, to partake of our usual bill of a dozen or so documentaries.

Looking forward to several (really all), but, to name a few in particular: War Against the Weak, and Waltz with Bashir. The film I might be most looking forward to, I don't even have a ticket for, yet: Loot. It seems that for each festival, Monkey and I want to see something different on Sunday morning. This year is no different, but, in order to facilitate our ticket purchasing, we just bought two tickets to the film she wanted to see, and I will stand in the queue for mine. I expect no problems.

I could give you a run down of the films I just mentioned, but that would be redundant, since you could simply go here to read about anything festival. Plus, at this time, I REALLY should go grade at least a half dozen essays.

In Others' Words

I have been away, my friends. In proximity, I have been no more distant than usual, I admit. In my heart, in my mind, however, I think I have been far, far away. What brings me to this place of being and not-being? If only I knew. But, here's what I have been thinking.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This from William Wordsworth. I have been thinking that the world is too much with me. It's not an overly materialistic quality that is with me; it is not that "getting and spending" have laid my powers to waste. But, I am too much wrapped up in the matters of the world that matter to me, namely my job, and it is driving me to distraction. It is a familiar lament you have heard from me, but those several students collected in my mind, those ungraded assignments pooled in the corners of my stacks of "to do," those impending conferences penciled inevitably on my calendar seem to have a stranglehold on me right now. Too often Monkey has to ask if I am okay, as I stand by the stove pouring a cup of tea with a far off look on my face. In some ways it is just the price of doing business, but, in my more gloomily reflective moments, I wonder if I can pedal through these recurring swales of dread (for that is more than half what they are) for many more seasons.

Then again, maybe I just need it to be Spring, and fast!

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.

This from HD Thoreau. Why this metaphysical crisis? [He shrugs.] Does he think there is something else out there for him to be doing? [He yawns.] Is there something that has been brewing somewhere in his creative soul? Something that he feels all mankind needs to hear or see or read in order to complete their lives? [He blinks.] Is there a song in there that has yet to be sung? [He smiles.] Why is he writing about himself in the third person? [He exits.]

++++++++++

I thought to regale you last week with the line up of films Monkey and I will be seeing at CoMo's T/F at the end of the month, but I didn't. And I thought I'd give you an hour by hour recap of my snow day on Friday, but I didn't. Then I thought I'd make a big deal out of the start of Spring Training, but no. This is what you get. I hope it was worth the wait.

Steering a course for clearer skies ahead.

Weekend News from the Plains

We had our first snow of the season on Friday. Mere flurries, but the accompanying temperatures were cold, cold, cold. The wind didn't help much, either. Monkey and I stayed in and watched some DVRed TV. House, I think. And something else I can't remember. I must say, I'm getting a bit tired of this show. (House, I mean.) It's awfully predictable, and the main character has evolved from an intriguing curmudgeon to a full-fledged dick. So much for dynamic characters!

Saturday was nasty cold, too. So cold that a couple hundred students neglected to attend the Husker game versus Kansas at 1:30. Game time temps were in the low 30s, but, the last time I checked, this was Nebraska, where everybody is so proud of their rabid attachment to the scarlet and cream. And their staying home because it's too cold? Please. I find this to be an indication that maybe the vaunted Husker mystique is becoming a myth...after only four years of mediocrity. I have to think that people in Columbia are more dedicated. Even when that team stunk outright, when a win against the then-hapless Jayhawks was cause for tearing down the goal posts and carting them through the streets of town to Harpo's, the students packed their sections. At least until halftime. I hope this isn't a trend here in Huskerland, because once they lose their football rep, well, they ain't got much else.

Anyway, I raked some leaves (I compost them, by the way), we ran some errands, and we spent the afternoon reading by the fire. How pleasant is that. We went out for dinner and a movie Saturday night. Some BBQ and Appaloosa. I had a beer for the first time in two weeks--it was lovely, if only a Boulevard (limited selections). And, while the movie was not bad, the most intriguing thing about it, to me, was Viggo Mortenson's tonsorial choices--very period.

Today, I am hacking up a lung after playing basketball for the first time since the recent unpleasantness. I am taking it as a sign of recovery. What shall the rest of the evening hold...? Well, the possibilities are nearly endless, aren't they?

That Centrally Significant Month

October is an important month here at Central Standard. Yesterday marks a third year here at this home-spun little blog of mine.

I recently spent some time talking to a few blogospherians, and they were making suggestions that might increase my blog's "visibility" or readership. I might focus on one topic, such as books or teaching, writing, biking, whatever. But, of course, I am not going to do that. I guess I am not interested in increasing my profile. I am just interested in having a forum to tap out a few random thoughts about every three days, so that a few close friends and relatives can check in on me occasionally. What more could I want?

Another work week has come to an end. It almost always comes as a surprise to me when I make it through one. I don't know why. I know that I have been complaining up a storm about work, but things are seeming to improve, little by little. And today, I got one of those emails from an old student that reminds you of the value of the job, so that is definitely a positive. All in all a good day.

No travelling this weekend. Monkey and I will stay home and get some chores done, root for the Tigers to defeat the home team Huskers on Saturday, and I just might get in a little basketball on Sunday (which would be the first time in about two months, I'd bet). Looking forward to that.

The debate last night was fascinating, I think. I am particularly biased, but I think Biden clearly won. I have heard people say that Palin did "what she needed to do," which was not come off as quite as much of a jackass as she has appeared. I guess she did that (although there were a few moments when I thought she was ridiculous (winking at her dad; correcting Biden's "drill, drill, drill" comment; evoking the Black Sox scandal of 1919 and the ghost of Ronald Reagan when she tandemed "Say it ain't so, Joe," with "There you go again;" and attributing the "City on a Hill" comment to Ronald Reagan instead of John Winthrop (see "A Model of Christian Charity"))), but is that even close to being a good thing? My, Republicans MUST be desperate.

Looking forward to the next presidential square off...aren't you?

By the way, a shout out to a few CoMoians (particularly Boring Election) whom I did not get the opportunity to see last weekend: catch you at T/F (if you're not too crazy busy!).

I Don't Even Have Time to Be Doing This, Really

A good friend of mine, whom I have had more than a few mind-blowingly intense and mind-blowingly absurd dialogues, one of which, which took place around a back yard fire somewhere in Minnesota, made its way into a novel that could see the light of day any moment now, used to refer to those busy times at work as being "in the weeds." Well, last week's Devil-may-care attitude has left me in a state somewhat more drastic than that. I feel like referring to it as being "mangled near-roadkill, recently flung by the force of a brutal collision into the weeds growing in a cold, swampy culvert." It feels as pleasant as it sounds.

But, really, this state of work being that I find myself in is not the result of this weekend's road trip wedding festivities alone. It's been brewing for a few weeks. This is by far the hardest year I have had (to this point). Last year was tough, as regular readers will recall, but, I don't think I have worked harder at this job than I am working right now, and my Master's program required me to take 33 graduate credit hours over one academic year and two summers WHILE I was teaching full time. That was hard, but this feels harder. Maybe I am just misremembering how hard the past may have been, but, I don't think so.

I have several theories as to why things are as they are, but I shall not bother with them here. However, one of the factors may be the fact that the district puts so many outside requirements on us. I have a three hour class on Monday nights, I had a two hour workshop last Wednesday, department meeting today, Parent-Teacher meetings tomorrow night. When am I supposed to grade and such? Ah, sorry, I am trying not to complain too much, here.

No matter the density of the "weeds" I may find myself in, Monkey and I still plan on heading south this weekend to visit the old stomping grounds. After all, all work and no play....

Two Kinds of Friends

Several recent events have put me in a pensive mood, lately. Or, perhaps I should say a more pensive than usual mood, since I think I am just pensive by nature. At any rate, much of my pensiveness is focused on relationships. Primarily friendships. What makes them? What makes a good friendship? And, why can't I spell friendship? (Thank you spell check.)

It seems that the last couple of months have really brought some highs and lows in the annals of me and friends. Now, I don't want to give you the impression that I am spending time on the phone engaged in some sort of I-don't-believe-he-would-do-that-how-can-I-still-be-his-friend kind of drama. It's really more of the looking back on friends I have had and friends I have in a time of change and, well, just contemplating.

Now, it seems, I have a lot of friends in a lot of places. Who doesn't? But, it wasn't long ago, I thought I would always have the same group of friends who all lived within ten miles of each other. In hindsight, that was a silly notion. And, had my life turned out that way, I most likely would have been the worse off for it.

I was not an Army brat as a child. My parents were not in a witness protection program (if such a thing even exists). My mom or dad never worked in an industry that forced them to relocate often. We stayed put. From my birth until I was thirty, Baltimore was my home. Pulling up stakes in 1999 seemed like the hardest thing I would ever have to do. I was leaving my family. I was leaving my friends. Some of these friends I had known for decades, some I had known for a few years. They all seemed like the best friends I might ever have.

Leaving family was hard, but, I knew I would always maintain my contact with them. I knew I would always come back to see them. Maybe I wouldn't be able to get back as often as I wanted, but, I'd still see them. The friends were another matter.

We all swore we'd keep in touch. We'd write. We'd phone. We'd email. For a while, we did. But, after some time had passed, after they had grown used to me being somewhere else and had busied themselves with their ongoing lives, after I had settled in to CoMo and began to grow a brand new social life, the communication trickled, trickled, and died. I still occasionally keep in contact with a person or two from back in Mobtown, but, for the most part, it's a surprise when I hear from anyone (or when they hear from me). This may seem like a story behind which some Eastern European strings should be playing, minor and slow, but, it's not. This is simply a function of life.

In Missouri, one close friend moved on, leaving a large hole in my life (and Monkey's). However, we stayed in close touch. We see each other regularly (but not often). We are, indeed, still close friends. Even after more years than I care to mention, our friendship seems to have survived a physical separation. Other friends moved on. Some I still connect with (some right here on the ol' Central Standard), while others are simply moving in other spheres, I guess. As my time in Missouri drew to a close, as people left me behind, or I prepared to move on myself, the situation seemed to repeat itself. After a year away, the number of people I stay in regular contact with is small, but, it encompasses the closest of my friends from that most central of central Missouri towns.

And, now, here in Cornopolis, the situation repeats itself, as close friends we have had the chance to meet and quickly grow to love are heading off to greater opportunity. It is a sad, sad feeling, losing friends, but, really, I realize, it is not a loss.

As this school year began, I was introduced to an essay by Jane Howard called, "Families," which appeared several years ago in The Atlantic Monthly. In her essay, Howard uses some terminology from a tribe in Cameroon which identifies two kinds of friends, friends of the road and friends of the heart. Friends of the road are people that you are with by chance: classmates and other people who are somehow in a social group in which you circulate. They are people you like, but, you come to be with them mostly through convenience. On the other hand, friends of the heart are those whom you choose to be in contact with. Those formerly friends of the road who are no longer convenient, yet still draw you to them (and you draw them, too). Reading this essay was definitely a case of the right text at the right time.

I have had many friends of the road, and I am grateful for them and the time we've spent together, but I truly treasure those friends of the heart who have come into my life and stuck there, even when far out of sight, and without the parting, as painful as it is, they don't get to make the jump from the road to the heart. So, I guess I am comforted by the revelation that good friends gone are somehow better friends. The inability to spend more time with them might make one unhappy, but the quality of the relationship grows if the connection is strong enough to transcend distance.

Thanks for listening, friends.

This Way to the Best Meal Ever (A Very Long Italian Story, Part Ten)

I remember that the day I am about to write about is a Tuesday, so, if my calculations are correct, we still have over a week to go. As we are now relaying part ten, two things have already or are about to occur. The first, that this is the longest "Very Long" story I have told (there have been two others), and, after this installment, I can no longer count the number of the part in Italian (eleven is tricky, for me).

On this fine Tuesday, we headed north, first to a nearby former abbey, known as Sant'Anna in Camprena. Only a few kilometers from our vacation house, this abbey was a location for the film The English Patient. This explains why there are pictures of Ralph Fiennes eating in the restaurant where we had dinner in Pienza. The main attraction of the 14th century abbey, however, which is currently very nice-looking B&B, is a small room off the courtyard that contains five-hundred-year-old frescoes by Il Sodoma. The grounds are attractive, as well, and the proprietors of the inn are kind enough to allow visitors to wander the grounds during posted hours.

From Sant'Anna, we drove further north, visiting the very small town of Castelmuzio and then proceeding through the area known as Le Crete to another abbey at Monte Oliveto Maggiore. The skies were a bit gray as we arrived at the abbey, but the rain had held off. Unfortunately, the abbey was on siesta until 3pm, so we headed further north to the town of Asciano.

The drive from Castelmuzio north to Asciano was excellent, the hills revealing spectacular vistas. The only disappointment was the lack of sunshine, which would have made for some beautiful pics. Asciano, itself, however, was not so excellent. We wandered around for a while to kill time, and grabbed some pizza and foccacia for lunch, but the town was, compared to other central Tuscany towns, not very attractive.

Back at the abbey, we entered the grounds over a drawbridge (no longer drawable, it appeared, but still pretty cool), and then had a nice tree-shaded walk to the abbey proper. Within the walls, a small chapel captured our interest, along with a double column of large ants making their way down the trunk of a tree, over about twenty feet of ground, and up the front wall of the chapel, where they disappeared over the edge and onto the roof. Ant prayer services?

The abbey itself was fantastic, its courtyard decorated with more Il Sodoma frescoes of the life of Saint Benedict. While we were there, something like a fire alarm was going off, but, the sexton seemed to be telling everyone that it was just a false alarm, and nobody else seemed too concerned, so, we just made our way through the courtyard. Inside the church, we were treated to another set of monks that were doing their prayers in the manner of Gregorian chant. That was unexpected, and, perhaps due to a different scent of incense, or the ostentatiously baroque architecture of the church, I had nowhere near the same sort of experience here as I had at Sant'Antimo.

We headed back to the pad to get ready for dinner at Poggio Antico, where we had made reservations a few days before. As we sat down to eat, the skies opened up. We sat near a window, watching the rain come down, robbed of the evening view that, according to the maitre d' stretched, on clear days, to the sea. At the restaurant, we noticed that the whole evening, no one else entered the restaurant. We were the only diners. This night, Italy was playing someone for the chance to get to the quarterfinals of the European Cup. Our waiter claimed that that was keeping people home. After further experiences with soccer in Italy, I came to believe him.

At any rate, we enjoyed the attention of the entire restaurant, as we enjoyed what turned out to be, perhaps, the best meal we had ever had. We started off with an excellent Rosso di Montalcino (2006), and were treated to some excellent homemade breads. I greatly enjoyed my primi, a tagliatelle with vegetables, but the high point of the meal, for me, was a dish called peposo, a heavily peppered stew, really, served, in a more modern twist, over pureed potatoes and cream. It was spectacular. Monkey had some excellent dishes, too, a three meat ravioli in brasata and gnochetti with lamb.

The attentions of the wait staff were a nice treat, too, and the maitre d' was such a personable fellow. We spent a good portion of the evening joking and talking with him (mostly in English, of course). Monkey was especially excited, as we left that evening (after the rains, and two hours later), to meet the chef, who was sitting at the front of the restaurant, since, I guess, he only had the two of us to cook for, and we were done.

At the house, we turned on our tiny TV (the first time since we'd arrived in Italy) to see the outcome of the soccer match (il calcio, the Italians call it). Italy had won, and they were going to play in the quarterfinals. That would be Sunday night. We'd be in Rome by then. But first, we were off to Siena in the morning, and a rendezvous that evening with some old friends from CoMo, believe it or not.