Plickog

Papers

2009-11-16T19:07:00.009-07:00

(Note: This entry is rather long.)

My first job was a paper route. That fact makes me feel like a real American boy. I started in my neighborhood when I was about twelve, delivering my hometown paper, The Davis Enterprise. It was published six days a week: Monday through Friday in the afternoons and Sunday mornings.

I started off using the bag, the one that goes over your head like a poncho, with pouches in the front and the back. Putting on that bag, heavy and tight with newspapers, was a skill that took me months to learn. At first I would try to crawl under it, stick my neck through the collar, and stand up. Then I figured out how to use the bag's own weight to generate enough momentum to swing it up and over my head. It was a fluid movement, graceful, I think, and you had to commit to it otherwise that bag would hit your shoulder or rake the side of your head and you'd have to try again. The only thing I can compare it to is putting on a backpack carrier with a thirty-pound toddler in it.

This is just like me, except I had more freckles and less gumption. Also, note how such a system requires constant rotation lest the back pouch become so much heavier than the front pouch that the carrier gets choked, or pulled backwards off his bike, or worse.

* * *

A guy in a van dropped the papers off on the sidewalk in front of my house.

The papers were delivered in a stack, flat, the way they look inside a vending machine, bundled with a plastic strap that I could saw through with my house key. I clearly remember the pop that the plastic would make as it snapped and fell away.

If it wasn't raining I would sit down on the sidewalk and fold the papers right there. If it was wet, I would haul the bundles up the driveway and fold them just inside my front door, my pile of papers spilling off the cold tile onto the living room carpet leaving faint smudges of newsprint on the floor and being constantly tramped on by pets and people. If anyone was perturbed by the sight of a muddy paw print on their front page I never heard about it.

* * *

The nice thing about working for a hometown paper was that it was small. Not a lot of news. It could be easily tri-folded like you would a letter.

But there is an ideal range of bulk for the tri-fold. Too thick and not even a double rubber band will keep it in check--it doesn't pack well and to throw it with any force is to risk a mid-air explosion. But too thin and it's like throwing a piece of cardboard or a playing card: weak, erratic, unpredictable. A good tri-fold can be thrown like a frisbee, one flick of the wrist and it sails in a straight line right up the driveway, or the stairs, depending on if you are delivering to houses or apartments.

On most days a tri-fold was ideal. But sometimes Sunday was too big for anything but a sloppy bi-fold (or, on holidays, a tubular approach where the paper is rolled lengthwise without bending the spine), and Mondays were almost always so word-hungry that a quadruple or quintuple-fold was in order.

By the time you finished a quintuple-fold you were basically holding a hard stick of newspaper in your hand. A stick that could be tossed off sideways like a typical tri-fold, but that could also, on extremely miserable or extremely rapturous days, be thrown overhand like a baseball. And travel at great speeds for great distances, even right up to people's doorsteps.

And get you in trouble.

Screenshot from one of my favorite original Nintendo games: Paperboy.

* * *

At one point there were three paper routes in our household. I had the streets in our immediate neighborhood as well as a stable of student-dominated (I grew up in a university town) apartment complexes on Lake Boulevard, three blocks away. Dustin, my younger brother, got the new development on the other side of the drainage pond that backed up to our house.

I say "household" because I have very nice parents. In particular, my father would often get up with us at 5:00 am on Sunday mornings and drive while we threw papers from the back of his gold Mazda pickup truck, or hopped out at key locations to make pinpoint strikes into the apartment complexes. This was the same pickup truck I drove through fields, parks and pedestrian overpasses late at night. The same truck whose beautifully textured vinyl seat I allowed to be burned by a rogue ash from a friend's cigarette. The same truck I decked out with an Alpine tape deck and hi-fi box speakers behind the seat. The same truck from which budding vandals threw leftover jack-o-lanterns, Christmas trees, oranges and eggs. The same truck.

Sometimes, when we were sick or otherwise afflicted, he would even do the whole route for us.

We certainly didn't deserve that kind of a father.

* * *

Somewhere along the way we acquired a bike with a big front basket.

Ours wasn't quite this cool.

What we gave up in ability to avoid walls, cars, and bushes we certainly gained in coolness, capacity, and dignity.

* * *

One Sunday morning I loosed a bundle of papers in the twilight and looked at the top headline. A boy my age had been murdered. His name was Andrew Mocus, and he had been on my baseball team the year before. He was beaten and then pushed into a passing train by another boy I knew and definitely feared.

I didn't know Andrew as much more than a kid with the wrong friends from the wrong side of town. There was definitely an east/west class division in our hamlet. And the dividing line, believe it or not, really was the railroad tracks. Anything could happen east of those tracks, we knew that. The only three fights I've ever gotten in happened in fourth, fifth, and sixth grade when I was being driven across town to Valley Oak Elementary School. East of the tracks.

That morning I sat in front of my papers for a good twenty minutes, silent and still. If it had happened ten years later I would have been calling someone on a cell phone, relaying the news in breathless tones. As it was I was alone, trying to remember Andrew whipping a ball from third to first. He had a good arm. His hair was longish and stringy and he was skinny and tough. His face is smoky in my mind. I see dark features, a bony elbow, a sharp smile.

When I go home I am still a boy. Andrew, also, is still a boy. But there was nothing wrong about him. He got pushed into a train, that's all.

* * *

Rubberbands.

Bags of them. I loved holding big squishy plastic bags full of rubberbands. Thick rubberbands that smelled like wet asphalt and snapped like jaws.

About one out of every thirty would break and leave a small welt on the back of your hand. Sometimes one found your face.

I still like to shoot rubberbands. At people. Especially my brother.

* * *

I gave up the paper routes in stages.

First, I unloaded the apartment complexes. Delivering to apartments was always a hateful chore. Every complex had its own numbering system that never seemed to make much sense. Apartment 3A might be nowhere near 3F. Building 1 was next to buildings 3 and 4 with building 2 nowhere in sight. The doors were too close together, the whole thing just a little too intimate. I preferred to be gliding down the street, flinging the news with abandon. No slowing down. No harassing stares from nosy neighbors or tenants trying to squeeze past on the narrow walks with their laundry. No pretty college girls looking at you like the paper boy that you are.

I gave the apartments to a man named Richard. He was married with a son my age and a college degree, and his last job had been as a successful computer engineer. He was 45 years old, but with the cognitive abilities of a 12-year-old. He had been in a bike accident. Basically, something hit the reset button in his brain and he had to learn how to be himself all over again.

Richard and I, as interpreted by these two professionals.

I walked the route with Richard for several weeks. We actually got along pretty well and shared some of the same concerns: do girls like me? what is the best kind of candy? do farts ever stop being funny? But then I would remember that he was 45 with whitish hair and a son. I had seen Big with Tom Hanks and I knew things couldn't possibly be that easy. I was 14-years-old but in full ownership of those 14 years, having lived each one of them in their proper order. It didn't take long to see that Richard was living in the interstitching between universes, too old to be chucking newspapers and too young to be anything else. A paper man.

* * *

It seems strange to me that less than two years after I delivered my last paper, I was hired as a high school intern at The Davis Enterprise to file photos, type letters to the editor, and write the occasional feature article. It seems logical, I know, but I still don't see the thread. Seriously. I wanted to swim with dolphins. Maybe there are residual ink particles in the decision-making part of my brain. It's not like I entered into this love affair with newspapers, wallowing in their black and white idyll, dreaming about moving from the streets to the editorial offices. When I quit I left nothing behind.

I was going to be a scientist.

Though, I always did like to read the San Jose Mercury News at my grandmother's kitchen table with a plateful of donuts. And I did make some hilarious newscasts with my parents' video camera, complete with skycam footage of a lego car accident, fake anti-diarrheal commercials, and the inexhaustibly humorous trope of anchormen picking their noses. But I never thought I would end up in a newsroom.

I just answered an ad in the paper, that's all.

On Remembering a Wedding Photo of My Parents

2009-11-06T12:54:00.005-07:00

My father doesn’t really do facial hair. But there he is in his wedding photo with a mustache. A nice one, too, the color of September though it was only June, fading gold, a final bronze punctuation mark. He is wearing a white tuxedo, and I don’t have the picture in front of me but I swear there are ruffles in there somewhere. Maybe on my mom’s wrists. They, the two of them, look like a perfect match. Two eyes, two ears, one nose each. Hair like fine wool. I never had hair like that.

She is thin. Arms bowing in blithe symmetry, hands meeting at the navel clasping a shock of white roses. She glints like a piece of quartz. She is absolutely real right then—this picture more de facto, more present than my most recent memory of her. Her face is the face under her face. A face I’ve never seen.

These are not my parents, of course. They are protagonists in the story of me. They eat coconut ice cream and lie about for hours and read novels. They motor around in old cars and hike mountains and wash each other’s hair and cook together, tossing ingredients across the kitchen, leaving the dishes until morning. They play frisbee, argue about politics, curse loudly and laugh louder. They stop to help strangers on the side of the road. They have dirt under their fingernails but they smell clean and raw like limes or fields of alfalfa. They know people. They have friends in Mexico and Canada. Sometimes people will visit and stay for weeks. My parents just smile and pull fresh linens out of the closet in the hall. Downstairs there is an open window where a cool breeze hurries in and tangos past the pot belly stove, up the stairs to the loft where they sleep gracefully on a mattress on a worn oak floor.

They are professionals, actors or models, posing for pictures while my real parents are getting dressed in the bathroom. My mom is sweating, her make-up is starting to cake up and she is dabbing her face with toilet paper. My dad is in his undershirt, bent over the sink with a safety razor, scratching at the hair under his nose, shaving off that mustache at the last possible moment, right before the music begins to play and the guests file in and the world is born and practice is over.

It's a poem, son.

2009-06-14T22:51:00.004-06:00

I recently put a poem in the latest online issue of Anti-Poetry. One of my favorite online poetry mags, and it's legit. The poem, truth be told, is kind of a departure from my usual haunts. But I like it, and happily someone else did too. Check it out the poem and bio here and then stay and poke around a little bit:

http://anti-poetry.com/

Guilty Pleasures (Episode Two)

2008-12-05T09:11:00.013-07:00

It's time for the next installment of Guilty Pleasures. Click here for episode one and the basic premise.

Today's theme: Age of Innocence: Old School Hip Hop.

Okay, so not old old school, and not so innocent. But oldish. Let yourself drift back, back to a simpler time. Back when the words gangsta rap were just a phlegm ball in the back of Dr. Dre's throat. And let these three prime selections serenade you as you linger on the interwebs. Finally, it is interesting to observe several things that tie these tracks and artists together: 1) Storytelling. Rap (at least some mainstream rap like Tone Loc and Will Smith) had this thing for telling long, cheeky stories about mishaps and misadventures. Rap is still a narrative medium, but it is often hard, edgy, braggy, and in your face. LL Cool J's "Mama Said Knock You Out" (not to mention Easy-E and NWA) is kind of a precursor to all that. But compared to much of contemporary rap and hip hop, Will Smith's "Parents Just Don't Understand" astounds me in its kind of wide-eyed, countrified middle-class tameness. That could be due to Smith himself as an artist at that point in his career, or the fact that these artists are being promoted by major labels with certain target audiences and the resulting self-censorship requirements. 2) All three of these rappers went on to launch extensive acting careers. Although I think it's safe to say that Smith's is a bit more successful and respectable.

And don't forget to vote for your guiltiest pleasure and then comment on your criteria for voting. Sentiment? Shame? Deliciousness? Mmmmmmm.

Tone Loc - "Funky Cold Medina"

Okay, this could be kind of creepy, but please note that it's from the pre-roofie era. Remember: innocence. And a careful examination of the lyrics reveal a fair amoung of raciness (caution sensitive readers), but no malintent on Tone's part. Just good old-fashioned fun. Tone Loc's voice is indescribably cool, a voice that turns every word into gravelly butter. "This is the 80's and I'm down with the ladies," and many, many other lyrical gems abound. Look for Tone in classics like Surf Ninjas, Spy Hard and Ace Ventura: Pet Detective.

	Tone Loc - Funky Cold Medina

	Found at skreemr.com

LL Cool J - "Mama Said Knock You Out"

"EXPLOSIONSSSSS" and "lyrics that'll make you call the cops." In 1991 it worked for me. And let's face it, it still does. Definitely working in a diffent sub-genre than Loc and Smith. And nice abs.

DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince (Will Smith) - "Parents Just Don't Understand"

Hey Mr. Big Film Star. What do you have to say about this?

Just enjoy. Although, for some reason embedding for this vid has been disabled by You Tube. So you get a link instead.

And if you still want more, here's In Living Color's very funny parody of LL Cool J:

One Man Losing Machine, Utah's MVP, Makes You Scratch Your Head, Mr. One Look, The Whole Field Is My Blind Spot, I Only Have Eyes For Collie

2008-11-22T20:29:00.004-07:00

Max Hall.

I'll throw you under the bus tonight. But we can be friends again tomorrow.

Oh! Awwwww.

2008-11-20T19:23:00.008-07:00

I'm sure many people have heard of the astronaut who lost a tool bag in space the other day

but I just wanted to say, the more I think about it the funnier it becomes.

Observe: You train your entire life. You run miles and miles, sit through hours of meetings, throw up in planes, build up your resistance to G-forces. You're constantly studying and are forced to open every aspect of your life like a book. You are probed and poked and interrogated. You're given simulations and scenarios and you struggle through them a thousand times. You learn to love Tang and powdered ice cream. Then one day you fly up into space and walk out into the dazzling light with your trusty tool bag. You turn around for one second--ONE SECOND--to wipe up a dab of grease and ZAP! Your tool bag wanders off into orbit and you've just blown the first and maybe only mission of your little astronaut life. Within a few hours people on earth are laughing and shaking their heads and leaning back in their swivel chairs to ask their cubemates if they heard about that astronaut who flubbed the spacewalk and sent her wrench set on the slow train to Alpha Centari. Every Jim, Frank and John is walking around sneering to their friends and saying, "Geez, well they could have sent me up. I'm no 'astronaut,' but I could have probably tied up my tools. You know?"

Sorry, nice astronaut lady. It could have happened to anyone.

Pardon Me

2008-11-19T08:25:00.003-07:00

With Bush leaving office, talk about federal pardons is heating up. Apparently, Bush has used his pardon less than any other President in recent memory. So he is, of course, being criticized both for his choice of pardons, and for not using his pardon powers enough.

Despite its potential for abuse, I like the executive pardon power. At it's best it speaks of mercy and the ability for an unfathomably huge bureaucracy to act in an intimately compassionate way. And, we get a little taste of what it might be like to have a King!

Anyway, what I really wanted to do was link to this. If you're short on time, skip down to the section called "Still in Prison" for some disturbing examples of people who should probably be pardoned, or at least have their sentences commuted.

Reminds me how thankful I am I didn't get into the lobster business.

Guilty Pleasures Episode One

2008-10-15T09:32:00.007-06:00

Inspired by J. Lindo, I would like to start a periodically recurring post on this blog. It also has to do with music. I call it "Guilty Pleasures." We all have them: songs or artists that we outwardly mock or dismiss but which we secretly love. Whether that love is spurred on by nostalgia or just a musical proclivity that we would try to hide from our hip friends, we can't help but feel a bit ashamed. And the shame is part of what makes us indulge in it all the more. ("Come here, Hall and Oates' "Kiss on My List" 12" single from my parents' record collection, you make me feel so dirty! Shhhhhh!")

So without further delay, I bring you today's three contestants in the first installment of Guilty Pleasures. Today's theme is Never Give Up: Songs of Inspiration. Don't forget to vote on your favorite. (See poll on sidebar.)

Journey - "Don't Stop Believing": I know. Many of you feel no shame in stopping and singing along to this one when you catch it on the classic rock radio station (for the fifth time that day) as you're cruising the dial. I do it all the time. But never with a straight face, and always while trying to tamp down that embarrassingly real feeling welling up in my heart that says, "Don't stop, Joe! Don't stop believing! You will make it!" (I also have to ask myself, "Who are the streetlight people?")

	Journey - Don't Stop Believin'

	Found at skreemr.com

Chumbawamba - "Tubthumping": First of all, how many people actually know the title of this song is "Tubthumping"? Up until five minutes ago I thought it was "I Get Knocked Down." Where is Chumbawamba these days? Probably trying to figure out how to recreate the fame created by these four-minutes of shoulder-bopping indulgence. I've never heard a sweeter voice sing the words, "Pissing the night away . . ."

	Chumbawamba - Tubthumping

	Found at skreemr.com

Joe Esposito - "You're the Best": From 1985's Karate Kid soundtrack. In the movie, it plays during a musical montage at the final karate tournament. Do yourself a favor and listen to this all the way through. Picture Ralph Macchio with a clenched fist and the sneering face of that blond-haired bully dude. Think of every ten-year-old boy who has been picked on and then dreamed of crane-kicking their tormentors into Canada while this song plays in the background. Is your heart racing yet? Guilty as charged. "Fight 'till the end, cause your life will depend, on the strength that you have inside you!"

	Joe 'Bean' Esposito - You're The Best

	Found at skreemr.com

Okay, now is your chance to vote for your favorite guilty pleasure, then comment on why you voted the way you did. What was your criteria for voting? Sentimentality? Level of guilt evoked? Musical aptitude? Your vote counts!

"So I got that going for me. Which is nice."

2008-10-10T13:25:00.002-06:00

Friday my mind starts to wander to things like this:

Carl Spackler (Bill Murray) in Caddyshack explains his experience caddying for the Dali Lama, or "The Lamba."

On Sarah Palin

2008-10-02T20:45:00.003-06:00

Let me just say that I do not despise or even dislike Governor Sarah Palin. I was, as many were, more than a little grossed out by the way she was immediately slandered, upon her arrival on the national scene, by rabid pundits and celebrity doofuses (doofi?). However, I cannot escape the opinion that she, for all her niceties and her refreshing status as a legitimate outsider, would be an odd and even disconcerting figure on the vice presidential throne.

Witness these two passages from Fareed Zakaria's Newsweek column this week:

1) Regarding her qualifications to influence foreign policy and her delicate understanding of our relationship with Russia:

"It's very important when you consider even national-security issues with Russia as Putin rears his head and comes into the airspace of the United States of America. Where—where do they go? It's Alaska. It's just right over the border. It is from Alaska that we send those out to make sure that an eye is being kept on this very powerful nation, Russia, because they are right there. They are right next to—to our state."

Ummm. Wow.

2) And this exchange with Katie Couric about the blahblah economic meltdown blahblah:

COURIC: Why isn't it better, Governor Palin, to spend $700 billion helping middle-class families who are struggling with health care, housing, gas and groceries; allow them to spend more and put more money into the economy instead of helping these big financial institutions that played a role in creating this mess?

PALIN: That's why I say I, like every American I'm speaking with, were ill about this position that we have been put in where it is the taxpayers looking to bail out. But ultimately, what the bailout does is help those who are concerned about the health-care reform that is needed to help shore up our economy, helping the—it's got to be all about job creation, too, shoring up our economy and putting it back on the right track. So health-care reform and reducing taxes and reining in spending has got to accompany tax reductions and tax relief for Americans. And trade, we've got to see trade as opportunity, not as a competitive, scary thing. But one in five jobs being created in the trade sector today, we've got to look at that as more opportunity. All those things under the umbrella of job creation. This bailout is a part of that.

It made about as much sense as this infamous answer.

Again, I do not think Sarah Palin is stupid, or incompetent, or lame. And I'm sure that going from backwoods pol to primetime news would be shocking, difficult, and lend itself to bouts of nervousness and stammering. With the cameras rolling and the lights in my eyes, I probably wouldn't have done much better. (Okay, so I don't really believe that. I think I could have come up with something at least a little more coherent.) But I'm not a VP candidate. And I know we don't vote for VP candidates. But it does make you think . . .

And yes her performance in the debate tonight was generally acceptable. But it was plain to see that she had her script and anything beyond that was just too much to handle; she would quickly retreat to the emphatic catchphrasing about "mavericks" and "taxes" and "jobs." She was charming enough and drew some laughs, but by the end of the hour her repetitive answers were starting to feel shallow. Bottom line: she's just not "qualified" for the position. Period.

Now, I tend to agree with the conventional wisdom that Biden is kind of a jerk and a schmooze. Palin seems sweet and probably down-to-earth and surely someone I share more common experiences with. But does that mean I should vote for her ticket? I don't know. I do have a hard time bucking the feeling that I should vote for "nice" people. People who haven't spent a lifetime working the room and raising money for political campaigns. People who donate to charity. People who allow their faith to be a real power in their lives (although I think this can be problematic as well). But is all that a smart litmus test for a national election? I'm not so sure.

Real Space Age Technology

2008-09-29T11:21:00.005-06:00

I tried posting this a while back but it didn't really fly (pardon the pun). I'll try again, because I think you'll see that:

a) We were so wonderfully naive in 1985. No one cared that video game graphics consisted of lots of right angles, and we could watch a commercial comparing a minivan to the space shuttle without a whole lot of irony. The future was a field of boundless possibilities!

b) There's no way anyone ever took a corner in an Aerostar going that fast. I know this. Our family owned two, and I turned 16 during the reign of the Blue One. (The Blue One was subsequently wrecked during a Nevada blizzard in January of 2002. I admit, I was at the wheel. My new bride was in the passenger seat, and my dear father was sleeping on the middle bench. The back was stuffed with stemware and small kitchen applicances. All humans and appliances survived swimmingly. I came three millimeters from having a screw in my skull. My dad bounced off the ceiling one time and tweaked his neck a bit. Thank you three-feet-deep gravel on the shoulder of eastbound I-80.)

I hope it works this time. Enjoy:

Bernanke: Approve Bailout or Risk Recession

2008-09-23T14:04:00.004-06:00

Reads the AP headline. That was the latest threat from the Grand Poobah of Finance. I, for one, say let's risk (oh no, risk!, as if that ever stopped anyone in a corner office) the recession. Is the free market really free? Is capitalism, in the words of George Will, a system of individual gain and loss? Or just all gain all the time? I understand that the implosion of giant corporations entails a certain amount of collateral damage. I understand that I am a man of little means and my retirement isn't tied up in this alleged mess. I understand that I really don't understand anything about the twisted logic of global finance and speculative trading (aka legalized gambling). So all you eggheads can go ahead and set me straight. I'm sure someone will be able to tell me how these companies were indirectly responsible for the overall prosperity of the nation over the last ten years, that it all trickles down, and that these noble companies were taking on all the risk for little old me and now I want to have it both ways by punishing them for our collective greed.

So, fine. Let's pull the trigger. But I will tell you this: I don't want to hear any more preaching about government regulation of economic resources. No more drawing a halo and wings on the "free market." No more romanticization of the private sector, no more griping about welfare. Whether it's necessary or not, this is welfare in a tuxedo. This is "redistribution of wealth" (gasp!)

We can spend billions on this bailout but we can't guarantee our citizens basic health care? Don't get me wrong, overall I like our economic system, I think it works pretty good. But it is what it is. Sometimes it doesn't work all that well. And now we're gonna cry about it. Now we want that other system: the one where someone takes care of us. The one where the many take care of the few. The one where public money subsidizes private risk.

Fine. Let's throw 700 billion at them. But no more pretensions. We are a social democracy, not some pure market democracy, and not some libertarian paradise where everyone rises and falls on their own merits, and where charity is meted out by private parties and the government steers clear. I hope that now we can just accept this and move on.

UPDATE:

9/24/08
Interesting footnote: An open letter from prominent economists to Congress.

Also, I really am serious about being persuaded by someone smarter than me (in layman's language, of course) why the bailout is a good idea. The rant is for provocation and good blog copy, but I'm still open to new perspectives.

Praying with RJ

2008-05-07T08:44:00.005-06:00

I know blogging about how cute your kids are is s000 cyber-provincial and so very easy, etc., etc., but this is an entry about how cute (and strange) my kids are, so turn back if you must:

We try to pray with RJ nightly. She has a way of praying now that makes me so happy. She hardly ever "asks" for anything or says "thank you," but she hears us doing that, and for now I think we feel like we just want to encourage this space of comfort she seems to have found inside the prayer. She just sort of talks . . . and talks . . . recounting her day, making exclamations ("And then tomorrow Grandma is coming to the airport!"), and issuing evaluations ("Mommy is sooooo nice." "Baby Joe was naughty 'cause he was screaming.").

She also fixates on things. Here is a nearly verbatim excerpt from the other night:

"Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for this day. Heavenly Father, the cake is all gone. We had it all gone! I want that we have some more, but we can't because it's all out. I wish it was still up. Yeah. We were sad. And we were crying. And we said, "The cake is all gone so mommy can make some more. Uhuh?'"

Really, we did have cake. And it was all gone (as far as she knew). But she really didn't make too big a deal of it at the time. And she didn't cry. But it's so incredible to see her try to interpret and order her experiences after the fact. It's like we get to see what's going on inside of that little head of hers, when asking her that question point blank usually brings mixed results. ("RJ, what are you thinking about?" "Ummmm.......doggies!")

So after listening to her go on about cake for almost a minute, I started to crack. Sometimes Em and I both have teeth marks on our arms from biting them so hard during prayer. This time, though, I snorted, in a muffled sort of way but she heard it and then started going on for another minute about how "Daddy is so funny, huh? He's a funny guy because he like to laugh, huh?" The implied third person in this kind of conversation is what touches me so. As if God is nodding his head and saying, "Yup, he sure is. And he's lucky you're around or I'd have offed him years ago."

Yeah. Cute.

Oh, and so is this guy:

Quote of the Day

2008-04-28T15:51:00.005-06:00

"For in spite of itself any movement that thinks and acts in terms of an 'ism becomes so involved in reaction against other 'isms that it is unwittingly controlled by them. For it then forms its principles by reaction against them instead of by a comprehensive, constructive survey of actual needs, problems, and possibilities."
- John Dewey
Here, then, is something that might guide us, until it becomes an 'ism itself. Let us call it, antiism. Never before has the double-i looked so good, certainly not since Hawaii was discovered by Napoleon in 1924. I'm not saying let's purge the suffix "ism" from the language. But we could be like those people who continue to surf even though they lost both legs in a shark attack and now have to use a special surfboard with molded stump-slots. We realize that we will never actually "surf" again, but persist in the evolution of a new sport (sturping?) that is more humble and interesting than the original, not to mention more difficult, if somewhat less graceful.
'Isms should be like lawnmowers: useful but ultimately disposable. And even though your neighbor's may be shiny, rusty, fast, slow, gas, electric, push or ride, at the end of the day, it still does basically the same thing. I'm not talking about relativism. I'm not saying all lawn mowers are equal. I'm talking about the recognition that transcendence probably won't be found in any human interpretation of a reality that is hemmed in by geography, history, or biology. And that goes for Mormonism as well, as a historically situated institution on earth. As a mediator between me and the divine/ideal (yes, I believe in a God of parts and passions, I've just got a bad jargon habit), it's the best thing going right now. It is a bright repository of divine revelation. It is a tool of maximum efficiency. But if the circle is "Truth", then it is still inside of the circle. It is not the circle itself.
It's good to be inside the circle. It's expansive and humanizing. It keeps us connected us to the people and ideas around us, and makes for a lot of beautiful improvisation.
Don't ask me where this post came from. I must have swallowed a lotus flower last night.

Still Here

2008-02-18T21:13:00.003-07:00

Yes, things are going just fine here in Ohio. Got the kids out for a little fresh air today. Weeded the roof. Tomorrow is canteen day! E's potatoe pancakes were perfect for the third week in a row. It really doesn't get any better than this.

RJ's Top Ten Two-year-old Things To Say

2007-04-23T22:46:00.000-06:00

10. "Daddy go peepee on the potty?" (This is not a request for me to go peepee on the potty.)

9. "Ehwanam some milk."

8. "Ohhhh soooo preeetty."

7. "Daddy do it?"

6. "No hanks." (As in "no thanks.")

5. "M'kaaay." (Think the school counselor in South Park.)

4. "Mmm watch a videeeo?"

3. "Zzzzzzip!"

2. "Bye-bye." (Said in a low whisper when you put her down to sleep. I've been trying to get her to say "Nigh-night Dada," but she insists on doing this little half smile and whispering, "bye-bye." Kind of creepy.)

1. Sorry. So cliche. You guessed it, the answer to any and every request: "Noo!"

Bricks

2006-10-25T10:30:00.000-06:00

There are a lot of bricks around here. A lot of bricks. They seem to show up everywhere: on the streets, on the walls, the walks, patios. I can't decide if they color the air, and if the overall effect is warm or chilling. There is a tight formality in the way bricks fit together on a street, no mortar, just red and purple blocks lying together like prisoners, jutting out here and there, waiting for the ground underneath to sway and knock them free. But bricks in general are slow. They don't appear in long swaths like asphalt, or flow out the end of a pipe like concrete. They take their time. They don't care if your car shakes off its fenders when you drive over them. They sit back and talk about Sunday sermons and shade, mustaches and timepieces. Some were born yesterday, and some just won't die. I'm sure I fall somewhere in the middle.

Now Broadcasting

2006-08-01T17:50:00.000-06:00

In this brave new world, there are few advantages as precious as having your own radio station. (At least for us poor saps still without ipods.) So, if you want to groove and you're online, check mine out here.

You can get your own radio station too, just go sign up at http://launch.yahoo.com. It takes awhile to train your station to play what you like. I apologize if mine still airs some complete crap every once in awhile. I realize it's just a computer program, but I can't help but feel offended when Trace Adkins starts crooning.

Computer: Here's some Trace Adkins, Joe. You know you like it.

Me: No I don't, shut up. I'm cooler than that.

Computer: I dare you to skip it before someone you respect walks in.

Me: I will. And don't ever play that crap again, or I'll, I'll . . . I'll shut you down. Yes, I'll shut you down! And I'll be the one who decides when to turn you back on.

Computer: Fine. But don't think this is the end. There are a whole slew of country pop icons out there for me to choose from. I'd think twice before starting a ground war with Yahoo!'s extensive music catalog. You fool, if George Strait and Kenny Chesney don't get you, then the Christian Rap and New Jack Swing will. I'll go Easy Listening all over your #%@!

Me: Uhhhhh . . . I . . . I'm sorry.

Computer: Accepted. So, got any Duster?

Me: Yeah, sure. And, do you think you could play some more Rita Coolidge?

Computer: (smiling) I won't tell anyone.

Me: Thanks.

Rock Bottom

2006-07-31T20:31:00.000-06:00

You know you've hit rock bottom when you find yourself in a darkened aisle on the second floor of the library, browsing through volumes of The Tightwad Gazette by Amy Dacyczyc.

I was looking for something I had read once about driveaway companies, services for getting your car from point A to point B without having to drive it. Basically, you pay some schmoe to joyride your vehicle across the country, while his only deterrent from motoring to Alaska and/or blowing it up is a $200 security deposit.

How can you not love a book whose slogan is "Promoting Thrift as a Viable Alternative Lifestyle," and whose cover offers tantalizing headlines like "Fool-proof yogurt making," "Diet on the cheap," "Economize with antiques," and "Mass-produce pies." I very much especially like the generic casserole recipe on page 47 (italicized comments are mine):

1 cup main ingredient (meat)
1 cup second ingredient (vegetable)
1-2 cups starchy ingredient (potatoes, noodles, rice, etc.)
1 1/2 cups binder (see below)
1/4 cup "goodie" (I'm not telling, but the sky's the limit!)
Seasoning
Topping

What is a "binder," you say? Elmer's glue? (According to the Gazette, binder suggestions include "cream sauce, sour cream, can of soup.") Alright poor people, get your leftovers out and let it rip. We're having "ingredient" casserole tonight! Post your creations to this blog. No need to actually make it in the kitchen. We'll do a virtual taste test, and the winner gets an entire cup of "goodies" sent via snail mail by yours truly! Don't think I'm serious? Try me.

Happy concocting!

Lips detaching from face

2006-07-26T22:15:00.000-06:00

I've built up a good store of useless judgment and have worked hard enough today that I don't feel guilty letting it out in blog form.

Pirates

A big disappointment like you knew it would be.

Favorite character: stain-toothed voodoo lady. There's something strangely seductive about her, not in a particularly sexual way, that's probably part of it, but I just want to keep watching her. The sound of her voice, that iceberg grin, just understated, unlike anything I've ever seen. What an intriguing human form, absolutely delightful to observe.

Second favorite: Davey Jones. More interesting than any of the non-CG leads.

Worst ending. Yes, jaw-popping sets, props and gags. A few perfect lines from J Depp. But other than that a bewildering, unwieldly story with surprisingly little at stake and too many careless moments. One question: What the crap is going on with the heart? Am I supposed to care? It was discovered and then changed hands twice without contributing anything significant to the narrative? What was all the trouble about again? Oh yeah, it's a bloody, beating, disembodied heart. Throw it in a bag and forget about it for the last 30 minutes of the movie while Keira Knightley tries to make her lips jump off of her face and stick to an unsexed Johnny Depp who then jumps into the mouth of a grainy green-screen Return-of-the-Jedi sphincter monster while the oh-so-convincingly sad remaining cast retreats to their bayou "sanctuary" only to be greeted by a cameo of apple-eating Geoffrey Rush who I guess had been in cryogenic storage for the previous 3 hours. Orlando who? I could hardly tear myself away from his hearbreaking dad/son scene: "Don't try to but into my life now, dad. I rise above your pirate ways." - "I never wanted this for you son" - "Oh come here youuuu."

Cabela's

A truly magical place, despite all the instruments of death and torture. I threw caution to the wind and embraced the taxidermy in all it's postmodern glory. There are plenty of live moose in the world, it's just that I'll probably never get a chance to see them without considerable time and effort and hey, let's face it, moose-watching isn't at the top of my list of do-before-I-die activities.

I even lent my support by buying two camping pads. My justification was that there is no Cabela's in Ohio and we're probably going to want to do a lot of camping in the Appalachians. And by a lot, I mean at least once. I also bought Cabela's brand beef jerky for a little backpacking adventure this weekend with Scott and his two oldest boys. I never buy beef jerky, but it just seemed like the right thing to do. Again, the magic.

Should I lie and say I didn't want a gun? I won't. There were hundreds, nay, thousands of them. All my life I've grown up knowing that guns are for hicks and criminals, and that owning one would be far more trouble that it's worth. I'm 28 and I've never shaken the feeling that I'm too young to own a firearm. Guns aren't for kids. And yet here comes the guy behind the counter talking to me like I'm his equal, saying, "What can we do so that you walk out of here today with something?" I almost ponied up and acted the part. I wanted to. Wanted to walk out with a big silver glock pressed against my palm, or a shotgun slung over my shoulder. Didn't know what I would do with it, but wanted the world to know, for a moment, that I could figure something out. Shooting watermelons, or street signs, or aliens. I'd figure something out.

20

2006-04-21T18:12:00.000-06:00

Had to write this for 518. Some of you will find it horribly dull. Others may find it mildly interesting.

Rules of Thumb

1. Write everyday. I don’t, but I’m still a believer. I find that the weeks and months where I establish a pattern of writing regularly become much more enjoyable and productive. I feel confident. My story starts to fill the background of my daily grind, I think about it in the car and walking across campus. When I sit down at the computer I feel ready. I had a teacher in California who used to say he needed to get home and write because his characters were “digging up !&*% in the backyard.” They were a part of his everyday reality. I don’t know if that’s necessarily a good thing, but hey.

2. Close the door and don’t come out. Stephen King talks about this in his highly readable memoir about writing. When the door shuts, don’t come out for anything; not until you’ve achieved something. Of course, King also says if you haven’t finished a novel in three months (first draft), it’s not worth finishing.

3. Write whatever the hell you want. Contrary to the popular maxim, “Write what you know,” I say if you can dream it, do it. Of course, drink responsibly. You may have to do some research. But just because I’m not a ninja, don’t know any ninjas, and can’t name any famous ninjas, doesn’t mean I can’t write about them.

4. Don’t be afraid of being earnest. I don’t know, maybe I’m off on this one, but it seems like everyone wants to be “biting” these days. Biting is awesome. But there is nothing wrong with sincere emotion when a story calls for it. I try to be as jaded and post-modern as the next guy, but, secretly, I like to cry as well.

5. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read.

6. Don’t ever write in a coffee shop while wearing a black turtleneck and tinted spectacles. Just . . . don’t.

7. Listen to music for inspiration. OK, maybe it’s just an excuse not to write, but I know that when I feel discouraged or lost with a piece, music can electrify me and set the tone for creativity and productivity. It’s a tonal thing. The creative nonfiction writer Patrick Madden is rumored to have said that the band Rush has influenced his writing as much as any other thing.

8. Always write with a thesaurus close by. I like dictionary.com, with both a dictionary and thesaurus online. I’m not looking for the most obscure word, just the right word.

9. Think about form. When I get stuck, I try to think about ways to change the form in order to spark progress. Do I want to be in the narrator’s head? Is it better told through dialogue? How about letters? A collection of vignettes? First person? Third person? A play? A film script? You can only go so far with different options, but sometimes it helps to take a different approach and see what comes out.

10. Let yourself write garbage. This is another commonly expressed sentiment that I first heard from the famed compositionist Peter Elbow, or St. Elbow as I prefer to call him. He was talking about freewriting in the classroom. The same applies for everyone, from Hemingway on down. In fact, Hemingway partly killed himself because he wasn’t able to stomach this one, wasn’t able to write garbage. I am not a prodigy, and I know that some, if not much, of what I write may be subpar, unimportant, and incomplete. Let it out, man. If you beat yourself up every time you fall short of a Pulitzer you’re going to be a sore, lonely human being.

11. Get to know your characters. Related to #1. I like the fact sheet approach suggested by many writing teachers where you writing a bio of your character that exists outside of your actual story. Knowing how your character will act or respond in certain situations saves a lot of time on the back end trying to revise and correct inconsistencies. Of course, this is largely subjective and should only be carried so far (unless you’re writing a biography or something), but it helps. Sometimes.

12. Turn it over to the character. Related to #12. One of the most important lessons John Bennion learned in Houston and passes on to his students. If you’re unsure of how to play, or explain, a certain situation/scene, make a conscious effort to let the character work it out on the page. How does the reader know how to understand/interpret certain acts or phrases? Let the characters give cues on how to read it. What are they thinking or doing that points the reader in the right direction? Am I making any sense? This is new advice for me, so I’m not sure I even totally understand what I’m trying to say.

13. Don’t worry about publishing. Go with your gut. Constantly skewing and tweeking your work according to some perceived secret of what “publishers” want will send you in circles and suck the blood out of your manuscript.

14. Worry about publishing. (i.e. Make some money!) Artistic integrity aside, I would gladly be a tool of the publishing industry if it meant making insane truckloads of money off my writing. Nobody wants to eat sawdust and shoe leather. Send out your work. There is nothing wrong with wanting to make money, even insane truckloads of it. Just be prepared not to.

15. Cut. Slash. Revise. Reduce. Ken Rand calls it “the 10 percent solution.” Stephen King says something similar. Basically, the idea is that no matter how good or tight you think something is (especially an early draft), you can probably always cut out more. Rand says 10 percent: 10,000 words to 9,000. William Faulker’s much-quoted “kill your darlings” line comes to mind. This depends on the writer, and the piece. I don’t follow any mathematical formula, but like to keep the principle in mind.

16. Eat rejection. My aunt, Karen Joy Fowler, is a fairly successful and critically-acclaimed novelist. She started writing on her 30th birthday and is now 53. This, she has said, is her secret to success. She started out in a class that later turned into a writing group that has been together for over 20 years. They still meet at her house every Thursday evening. But she is the only one in the group who has enjoyed any kind of success (measured externally). She told me, “I wasn’t the most gifted in the group, or even the hardest working, but I was the one who was able to take rejection and keep on going.” She waded through years of disappointment, peppered with modest successes, before she began to emerge. There are many reasons for writing, but if part of your goal is to produce great art and be recognized for it, then don’t give up after a year or two.

17. A man is never a prophet in his own country. Don’t be upset if Mom and Dad don’t appreciate your genius. They love you anyway.

18. Have kids. One of the biggest sources of material for many writers I know. Probably not the best reason to have them though, I admit.

19. Love it. There should, for at least a moment, at some point in the process, be a feeling of joy.

20. If needed, break any or all rules. I know, I know, this sounds like a title for the last chapter of a shameless self-help book. But I figure I need to cover my butt, since I can often be found not following my own rules of thumb. We all know life is an improv thing. Whatever works, you know. OK, self, now get out there and do something with your life.

Try to cry.

2006-03-07T23:11:00.000-07:00

Here's an exercise for you:

1. You have to be alone.

2. Put on something emotional. Music that is. I mean the absolutely most bittersweet, I-want-to-dissolve-into-nothing, world loving, world hating music you can think of. Its different for everyone. It should also be something epic. Don't forget, bittersweet. For me, it's Pink Floyd's "High Hopes."

3. Now, go to MSNBC's "Week in Pictures" feature. You can go through MSN, or just google "week in pictures."

4. Play said music and look at said pictures. If it works, you might feel alive. It's also possible that you feel despair. Or an amazing mixture of both.

Music is power. Seeing is tasting. Living is good. And never quite enough.

I'm not trying to be pretentious.

28 years ago

2006-02-25T22:03:00.000-07:00

I got a glimpse into my childhood the other day, through the eyes of my daughter. She's the firstborn, as was I.

My longtime friend and his wife came down from Logan with their four boys, all under age five including a couple of twins almost the exact same age as RJ. I was astonished at how excitable, how absolutely tickled, RJ was to have other kids around. She was hyperventilating. Too young to really "play" with other kids, she just cruised around picking up toys and tossing them aside, banging her palms fiercely on anything and everything. I guess I always thought our company was the best she could ask for. This just confirmed the need to have more kids. Dang it. But I realized, as I watched her watching the action unfold around her, that I too was an only child for a time (three years).

I saw myself through a window in time, towheaded, toothy grin, playing by myself on the green carpet in my parents' late 70's apartment. I saw the roots, maybe, of my social neediness. In some ways I am more introverted than my brothers and sisters, but not more solitary. I am drawn to the nexus of human interaction like a wayward moth, blind and seeking, always afraid of missing something, always wanting to eat experience like a lotus flower and be born up by something outside of myself. Seeking. So much for self-pop-psycho-analysis.

Listening to Richard Buckner's "Bloomed", and feeling wistful, like a winter leaf on the edge of spring, watching the clear sun from under the muddy branches, while the ground gives way.

I'd like the deluxe package please...

2006-02-09T22:30:00.000-07:00

Hear me out:

So I was with Los Lindos the other day and we dropped the Pan off at PetsMart for a grooming. Shampoo, haircut, nail trim, toothbrushing. The Works. Then, later, I started thinking about how funny it would be if I brought my daughter (baby) in and held her out to the grooming girls and said something like, "Yeah, I'll have the basic service. Be back in an hour." I could see them doing that on some candid camera show. But I really do think it might be a good idea. Open a baby grooming service. Today's busy parents don't have time to wrestle with a baby through the bath, the nails, the teeth, etc. You could call it "The Baby Salon" or "Tidy Tikes" or something like that. The child is covered with snot, baby food, smells like sour diapers; you drop her off and come back after grocery shopping and there she is, shimmering, all fragrant with like a red bow stuck on her head. Beauty. Dog groomers could easily expand into this market because you basically need the same equipment: a rubber mat, something to spray with, and a giant blow drier--just lay down some thick towels and stick the kids under it so they can airdry because, hey, no water spots!

To park or not to park

2006-01-27T12:40:00.000-07:00

Something has got to be done about the parking situation. I can't live like this, like a beast, fighting with other beasts for the last piece of meat, the empty parking space. YOU, BYU, you've made us like this. We are sharks, idling dangerously in the aisles, waiting for a leaver, for a pair of legs to pass by on their way to a parked car. We wave at each other as we prowl, but then spit out curses when we see that much-hated spectacle: another car stopped in the aisle, with it's blinker on. The blinker is a territorial mark, a signpost, shouting MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE in perfect time. We have begun to pray for parking--yes, to include it in our intimate conversations with creation's Architect--is there no end to our debasement!? We are dogs! We are ashes. We are the living dead, those who circle, endlessly, to no end. To no purpose. To nowhere. To hell. To hell with parking. We are leaving. We will walk home. But we won't forget, oh no we will not fail to remember, when the alumni office calls....and asks....for cash. We are petty. We are proud. But we will smile.

Horrorball

2006-01-18T12:10:00.000-07:00

Thought I'd play some intramural basketball. Didn't want to disappoint a friend. Showed up at the first game last night. Friend wasn't there. Dirty bum. Only had four players. The other team got scared and played five anyway. 20 minute halves. Knew I was in trouble when after five minutes I looked to the sideline for a sub. Nope. Only 35 minutes to go. Almost collapsed. Spent the last half running from one three-point line to the other, watching the action. Got home, felt like Don Johnson after Valentine's day, completely spent. Wish I had his stamina though. Wish I had his white pants and boat loafers. Wish I was in Florida.

Senor, would you like some wax?

2006-01-09T20:16:00.000-07:00

Yesterday shaved the beard, but kept the 'stache. I will be the first one to admit that it is nasty, despite all the courteous comments today from encouraging man friends. I have to believe that it is just helpful support, a what-the-heck kind of support meant to enable someone who is, in the face of all that is clean and nice-looking, going out on a limb. It's the, "That shirt looks good on you. I would never wear it, but it looks good on you" kind of comment. It took a woman, eg in fact, to vocally share with me the obvious truth that yes I look better without lip hair. My wife knows it, but fully supported the 'staching as an outrageous act of the shameless attention-grabbing variety. Really, I just wanted to get a reaction from my students on the first day.

Of course, deep down I would like to look good with a mustache. I swear to you it looked better when it was trailing down towards my jawline...very cowboy...but the honor code specifically dictates a corners-of-the-mouth chopping point. So I will continue to play it off as a harmless prank. Not so if I had a real Dapper Dan dangler going. I grow a mean goatee, but the mustache on its own is admittedly rather flat, and blonder than my pirate-red underbeard. I want a rougish mustache that bushes out over the lip, or stretches generously towards the ears. I want to twist the ends with my fingertips, stick my bottom lip out and blow upwards, feeling the long hairs undulating under my nose. Those kinds of mustaches can still make it in today's world. Apart from those, however, mustaches 1) shouldn't be worn by men under 35, 2) shouldn't be worn by anybody looking for a date, and 3) are always preferable in darker shades.

I did show it off to Lance Larsen, and yes, he laughed, because several years ago he too sported a mustache, a more handsome one at that, and I made a comment (anonymous) on his teacher evaluation that it made him look like a porn star. I think he suspected it was either Ryan Shoemaker or myself, but never knew exactly who said it until last year in English 600 when Ryan spilled the beans. Behind the laugh I could see a slight recollection of insult, and for a moment I felt ashamed. (Incidentally, he shaved the mustache the next semester.) So my presentation to him was I think a peace offering of sorts, a gesture of good will if you will.

The reaction from students, on the other hand, was disappointing. I shouldn't have expected any comments on the first day, although I would have loved to have heard their thoughts. I did make a joke about it eventually and we shared a laugh. I could tell that even they knew I was guilty of sporting a bad mustache. Still, I think I'll keep it for awhile. Oh, and I did have one freshman girl ask how it was that I was able to get away with a mustache. "Is this your first semester at BYU?" I asked. "It is," she said. "Well, then I wouldn't expect you to know that mustaches are 100 percent legal under the stipulations of the BYU dress and grooming standards, as long as they are stop at the corners of the mouth." "Oh my gosh," she said with a hint of disbelief and turned with an amused look to the girls sitting next to her. Oh my gosh, indeed.

dadadpfffffffffbfbfbfbfaaaahhh

2005-12-14T01:27:00.000-07:00

I feel like laughing out loud, jumping over my couch, grinning like a maniac, and just generally wigging out. Why? Because it's past the witching hour, and I am still awake thanks to RJ and her nascent teeth. So I've been converting audio files to use on my final radio project that's due tomorrow and I'm all strung out on music, balancing on that strange tipping point between crying and shouting that makes my whole body feel electric and volatile. I could implode at any moment. I think I will take this opportunity to expound on something I've been thinking about lately: the Jimmy Buffet phenomenon.

Jimmy Buffet, the king of boat music, needs no introduction. We've all heard Margaritaville. But here's the deal...as a multi-platinum mainstream artist, JB has never even been nominated for a grammy; he is not a talented singer, he's not even badgood like a Dylan or Neil Young, he sounds like my dad singing around the campfire; his songwriting is often predictable and his guitar work not particularly noteworthy. Yet he has enjoyed steady success for the last 30 years, and maintaints a loyal following of "parrotheads," including myself. I don't know, there seems to be something about his straitforward approach, not hiding the fact that, on paper, his music is somewhat mediocre. Yet when it all comes together it just kind of makes you smile and nod your head. He sings about the middle-class America that most of us grew up in, decent folk who just want to put in their 8 hours, who know they should probably do more, who change diapers, clean the toilet, save their money, who cry during soup commercials, and fantasize about getting away.

When I was young my dad had JB's "Coconut Telegraph" album, and listened to it constantly for about a year. I can't listen to it now without seeing myself in our brown Aerostar minivan, trying to imagine myself as a character in one of Jimmy's grapefruit ballads, flying to paradise. He also sings about John Wayne dying, about getting old and breaking his leg playing baseball, about street sweepers who do their job (that one always makes me tear up), and about his daughter in a song called "Little Miss Magic." There is no end to the cheese, and no end to my appreciation for it. Maybe big doses are better than small ones. Anyway, I don't think many people will agree with me....but here's to Jimmy Buffet, minstrel of the common man.

I think next time I'm going to write about Bruce Hornsby, whose music could heal the world.

Counting down los days

2005-12-02T01:38:00.000-07:00

Hard to stop thinking about going to Mexico this Christmas. So I wrote a poetic tribute to our upcoming trip. I'm not sure how it is a tribute. It's kind of a leftover from our last visit. I'm not sure what it means, but I'm feeling it.

White dude in Mexico trading
his skin for sun, serving limes

to tourists wondering why
he’s turning brown, inside

out, living in cutoffs
forgetting Canada, damn

Canada and piss jobs,
ex-wives, no tequila, not even jellyfish.

If I remember correctly his
name was David, spoken softly

like palm fronds. He offered
to sell pretty much everything:

horses, ATVs, kayaks, parasailing
and of course, the banana ride.

In the end, we bought a shrimp
plate and sat rigidly among empty

tables—it was Wednesday.
We told him we loved

this place, this quiet beach
where locals dine Sundays

separated by hundreds of
swells from the hotel zone

and their jobs scrubbing,
starching, driving, haggling,

begging. So he showed us a room
in a gated yard with a nasty

dog, a mango tree, and lots
of rebar. His green eyes never

left my wife’s neck, and I felt
somewhat flattered I admit,

but certainly a little scared
of this white dude in Mexico.

Fall Finale?

2005-11-28T23:09:00.000-07:00

For anyone who has been following the hit Fox television series Prisonbreak on Monday nights, all I have to say is: What the crap was that?

First The Brutzi gets slashed, and now this? More episodes in March? Do I dare withdraw my support in response to such a ridiculous stunt? I must say, my interest is fading somewhat, partly in lieu of the upcoming opening of 24 season, hollaback boys, FIVE!!!

The emotional ante was racheted up, only to tumble with a series of oh-come-on moments: nice-guy-Secret-Service-agent-turned-informant is shot in the head as if he didn't know what was coming; he was committed enough to meet in the dark with the ball-breaking evidence but not to defend himself against his proven psycho of a pal? Death row inmate left alone in the infirmary? Not to mention the dangling story lines that will be all but forgotten come spring--vanilla ice and his burger pact with Bellicek, budding romance between Mike and Doctor Feel Good. And what ever happened to the warden?

OK, so part of me is complaining because they didn't fulfill my conditioned expectations, but I think it's my right to expect such from a show like this. This isn't British comedy. It's artsy American bloodlust. I want to see people darting out of the shadows and tackling the guy with the gun. I want someone, after so many brilliant ideas, to have a little gumption and find one when it counts, when you're trapped in the supply room under a frickin' pipe. And please, for the love of all that is beautiful in this world, won't someone kick T-Bags around a bit? The guy weighs less than a wet towel.

See you in March? We'll see. We'll see.

He kicked the hell out of death.

2005-11-19T11:00:00.000-07:00

One of the coolest lines. It just came at the perfect time in a perfect poem by James Dewey.

Reading on Friday now in the past. What fun. I think my favorite part was the "panel discussion" at the end where we sat up there and answered questions--questions that made it seem like we had way more experience and expertise than any of us could claim. But it was great. Sarah and James were articulate and mesmerizing. I think I did OK. I rushed it at the end. In some ways I think poetry is better suited for public readings. It seems more rooted in sound, and the immovable details of language. Not that prose can't be either of those things, maybe just not mine. Even I felt myself getting bogged down in some of the scenes, and I was reading them. I need to work on my delivery. A little more drama eh! That's the spirit.

So, out of 40 students in the two classes I teach, only one showed up. Wah wah wah (in descending pitch). So, I know I'll be giving out at least one A this semester.

After dining last night with DT, BruceJ, and Johnny B, I've decided that I have no qualms about spending my life as a professorial-type person. These guys have it easy. It was fun. Although I don't want him on my comittee, I would like to have DT in a bottle. I would pop it open anytime I needed a laugh. The patriarch of the English department is one giant, walking wisecrack. But he's got a definite tender spot too, especially for little humans.

Saturday calls.

Untitled (Blog)

2005-11-16T11:26:00.000-07:00

Well, the masses are seething with anticipation. What? Another blog? Yes, I know you hunger. Patience my babies. Patience.

I have been furiously assembling a rough cut of a radio documentary for my one and only class this semester. You would think that with one measly class, just one, I could avoid the night before syndrome. But it is, apparently, when I do my best work. So, after I pin that down, win an ultimate frisbee championship tonight, and put my ducks in line with the Scrivener, it will be happy time for a few days. And happy time is blog time. Sometimes. With time. Shut up Joe.

So, here's the calendar, as if anyone reading this isn't either directly involved or already in the know:

Tonight, Wednesday, 6:00 pm, Stadium fields, ultimate frisbee division III championship game, Sneaky Mormons vs. Counterfeit Foodstamps, round one. The air will be electric, you will be able to see your own breath, as well as steam coming off my head.

Friday, 12 noon, HBLL Auditorium (1st floor near Special Collections), I am part of the English Department weekly reading series, this week featuring graduate students, namely myself and two very talented poets, Sarah Jenkins and James Dewey. I can't say it will be stunning (my part that is), but I will be dressed nicely and you may even get to see me get nervous. A round of Cokes for everyone if I pass out.

PEEC

Time for a list.

2005-11-03T23:23:00.000-07:00

OK. This is going to sound stupid, but I've been trying to cut back on the treats lately. For me, "cookies-and-cakes" is somewhere around the middle of the food pyramid. As I was sitting in front of the TV tonight, thinking about how we have nothing with enough sugar to slake my gnarly sweet tooth, I started thinking about ice cream, and the place in Santa Cruz that has like 50 flavors of their own design including cantelope and marshmallow. Here are the five worst flavors of ice cream I can imagine:

1. Vegemite. This could kill a grown man in under 15 seconds.
2. Pepper and Squash. One of the worst things I ever had on my mission was a bowl of squash with hot milk and pepper, as in black pepper. I'm sure the frozen version isn't any better.
3. Basil. It might work for mint, but not for this leafy little herb. Maybe with a bowl of pasta.
4. Sausage. OK, this is getting too easy.
5. Apple. I'm not sure about this one, but I do think it's rather suspicious that no one's ever heard of it. Almost every other delicious fruit has been sorbeted (made into a sorbet). But not apple. hmmmm...I don't trust it.

On the other hand, it could be really good. Apples and cream. Cold, apple-y creamy custard-like spoonfuls.

Dammit, my appetite is coming back.

Oh crap, I'm not Jhumpa Lahiri.

2005-10-28T02:01:00.000-06:00

Started reading Interpreter of Maladies and I am feeling somewhat depressed. Depressed that someone's mind can construct stories that are beautifully understated, then completely engrossing, and then, at the end, completely stunning--and that person isn't, may never be, me.

RJ wouldn't go to bed tonight, kept playing the cry-till-I-wheeze card on us. By the third time out of her crib we decided to forget about it and just party. It wasn't a typical party. She mostly chewed on my finger like a gremlin and headbutted us while we laughed hopelessly. One of my favorite evenings as a father. It felt like a sleepover and nobody had to go to bed...until we really had to go to bed. Well, JollyEm and RJ did. I'm obviously not in bed.

On a final note, the student housing bureacracy, in an amazing departure from character, showed up today and replaced our countertop and sink. And not just another stainless steel basin, but a brand new Kohler ceramic dreambowl! I am not lying when I say that I spent several minutes this evening just gazing at the sink. Admiring if you will. I have no business getting this happy over a sink. But I am. It's so shiny and...white....and clean. Nobody's grime but ours. The only drawback: no sprayer. They are coming to plug the sprayer-hole tomorrow because, as the plumber told us, "Sprayers and hot water spigots are the number one cause of problems with your plumbing, because they leak and you usually don't notice. Let that be a lesson to you." I'm not making this up, he actually said "Let that be a lesson to you." And it was.

City of God

2005-10-22T12:05:00.000-06:00

Just finished watching City of God, a Brazilian film. Every year there are a few movies that seem to rip a hole in me. This this was my second in one week, the first one being Crash with Don Cheadle. To anyone who wants to feel that inside-out feeling for a few hours, I recommend either (faults and all). Be forewarned that they won't be justifiable for some: both contain multiple naughty words (however with City of God you only have to read them, which seems less offensive, unless you speak Portugese), a few shocking scenes of violence (but not gore, my definition of gore being 'bloody to the point of grotesque parody of violence'; this is violence in the emotionally bewildering sense), and a few flashes (albeit graphic ones) of unglamorized, not-particularly-erotic sex.

City of God is a about a boy who wants to be a photographer, growing up in the slums outside of Rio. It is based on a real story, centering around youth gangs and drug dealing, but it is also about the human element in even the most despicable characters, and the real tragedy of poverty, the way it bullies people into debasing themselves. It is a picture that hurts as well as holds, and not cheaply--isn't that the point of good art?--and one that rings true. It makes me think of Honduras, and the people scratching out life on the dirty hills that ring Tegucigalpa. I know it is partly a selfish, vain impulse, but I want to live those lives, each one of them, thousands and millions of them across an earth sagging under the bittersweet chains of mortality, the broken dreams and scraps of joy.

In the end, I am left with longing. A longing to climb inside of suffering and eat it whole. A longing for God.

Doppelganger Friday

2005-10-21T13:16:00.000-06:00

It's Friday. From the time I rise on Friday mornings my weekend brain is in complete control. One could even argue that the transfer of power starts sometime on Thursday evening. On Friday my mind wanders like a stray dog.

In between classes I googled the term 'doppelganger.' Doppelganger, German for "double walker," commonly referred to as a shadow-self. According to about.com's paranormal pages, there is some crazy sheenus out there regarding these doubles. Shelly claims he saw himself when he was in Italy, silently pointing towards the Meditarranean Sea. He died in a sailing accident in 1822 on the Med. Maupassant, French novelist, said that one day his double came in a sat down across from him as he was writing and actually starting dictating his story to him. Now that would be cool. "Hello me. Sit down and tell me a story." What struck me as odd was that many of the stories about doppelgangers are coming from writers. Maybe it's because they tend to write things down, whereas many stories are lost. But still...weird.

My favorite story, though, is about Goethe, that crazy German. He encountered his double, riding towards him on a road to Drusenheim. The doppelganger was wearing a gray suit trimmed with gold. Eight years later Goethe found himself riding the exact same road, same direction, wearing a gray suit trimmed with gold. I like this story because it dovetails nicely with my ideas about the phenomenon of deja vu. They go something like this:

With God, we are told, time is different. It is "one eternal round." All is present with him. Whereas we are trapped in linear, chronological time, he can behold all things at once. How are the prophets given visions of the future? How did Moses behold every living soul that ever lived or would live on the whole earth? God can show them these things because he knows them. He's not making movies about what might happen. This brings up the old dilemma about destiny, which I'm not going to go into deeply here. But I will say I agree with James Talmage when he says that just because God knows the end from the beginning doesn't mean he is controlling outcomes or taking away agency. Surely his influence is felt through his work, but for us the opportunity to decide our own course is never in jeopardy. Maybe God can see down different space-time continuums, maybe there are an endless amount of outcomes. But whatever the case, there seems to be a place, another dimension maybe (for as typically sci-fi as that sounds), where time slips.

Maybe when we dream we can slip into that place where time is jumbled up. Maybe we encounter pieces of the future, or futures. Every once in awhile we find ourselves actually living one of those futures, and the experience is powerful deja vu. I know its wacky, and utterly undebatable on a scientific level. But I like to imagine that could be the case.

We've all heard about how we only use 10 percent of our brains. Hugh Nibley talks about how we mortal can really only concentrate on one thing at a time. Our minds are slow and move from one task to the next chronologically. But for God, he says, his mind is capable of multi-tasking on a supreme level, he can devote his complete attention to many people at the same time. Maybe our brains sometimes slip past their mortal bounds. Maybe the result is strange phenomenon like visions or supernatural experiences, or doppelgangers. Maybe I'm full of crap. But I like to think that we are wired for more than we can imagine, that we aren't ready for everything yet, but that are made in the image of a being who can comprehend all things...and that is our ultimate purpose.

And that's all I've got.

This is a problem.

2005-10-06T20:54:00.000-06:00

Newsletters to edit: 1
Papers to grade: 50
Law school admission statements to ghostwrite: 2
Boxes of submissions to reject: 3
Theses to write: 1
Doctoral programs to apply to: 6
Subject GRE tests to take: 1

Not to complain, just doing some math...

Today
Baseball games watched: 1
Naps: 1.5
Bruce Hornsby songs cried to: 1
Guitars dug out of storage: 1
Bowls of chocolate cereal eaten: 4
Phillip Lopate essays read: 2
Hours staring at computer screen with no luck: 2

Something doesn't add up. If anyone saw Family Guy tonight, remember the part when Meg looks upwards and says "shoot me please"? You see a red dot on her forehead (from a gun's laser scope), then the "camera" follows the laser up to the clouds where God is standing with an assault rifle pointed at her. Just then the phone rings and God lowers the gun and answers, "Hello? Kaaaaaren..."

Sacrilegious? Probably...but there was something about the whole thing that seemed rather merciful, even tender, in a sick, twisted kind of way. Maybe not. Just forget it.

Good Bye Derrald!

2005-09-22T00:57:00.000-06:00

Tonight we bid adieu to one Duke Stice, bachelor extraordinaire. May the raw ribeye in your gut remind you of the way you encouraged us to live life Derrald, wild and to the bone. Who will keep us mindful of our penchant for destruction? Who will we watch strip down and fall face first into a frozen pond? Who will be there to stir the pot when the rice begins to stick to the bottom? Who can decipher my cryptic metaphors? Only you Derrald. Only you. Now you're off choreographing new routines with your fancy sling, feeding your lover noni out of a conch shell. And we wait in the shadow of the mountains, watching the clouds for signs of your rebirth. The winter fowl have flown and a new bird is breaking the horizon, coming home to Mr. Nose for a roost and a five-penny shave. Hold your hands to the sky and repeat after me Derrald, "I will never forget who my real friends are. Never." Now, go my friend, go walk softly in love's tender field, and claim it for yourself. You are the prize.

My eyes are burning.

2005-09-09T00:59:00.000-06:00

I have been searching the net, the world wide web as some people call it, for bikes. Not just regular bikes. Sweety-sweet, pelvis-grinding, low-riding, cry-my-eyes-out bikes. I wish someone had told me such things existed. Some are made by Giant, some by Electra, some by Nirve. Some are definitely too cool for someone such as myself. I'm just not qualified to ride a bike with flames or skull handlebar grips. I'll leave that to the pros. But I could get into something, you know, comfortable. In fact, that's what some people are calling cruisers these days: "comfort bikes." Hooo-doggies! Makes me warm all over and especially near my bike-riding muscles. Comfortable bikes, with their velvet, their gold chains, huge bells, and ice cream cone holders. Of course, I only need one to get to school. Maybe I'll scratch the velvet and order a book trailer. But, should I go for the 5-book or 10-book model? Crap. Maybe I'll just get a backpack. But its got to have ice cream cone holders. And something flashy, like a side view mirror with an afro, so whenever I look at someone behind me it looks like they're sporting a huge, orange afro. That would be sweety-sweet.

Forever yours, John

2004-07-08T16:31:00.000-06:00

Does anyone see the problem with having an all-John, all-of-the-time presidential ticket? I do. It's name tyranny. Just like Latinos who name their kids Jesus and Muslims who name their kids Mohammed, these two John's are trying to subtlely (or not so subtlely!) get out the message that John is the name that rules...literally. It is also promoting the stereotype that all Johns are thin, shaggy-headed, high-speakin' rich folks who ought to be respected and feared.

If the John power-duo wins, don't be surprised if the Secretary of State, Secretary of Defense, and White House Chief of Staff are all Johns. Heads of agriculture, education, communications, EPA - Johns. Press secretary - a John. The secret service agents surrounding the presidential twosome - all Johns. White House interns, both men and women - you get the picture.

Not only will other names be eventually be undervalued and even disregarded, but the master plan would be to phase out all other namage. John would be the only name that counts. Why would you choose any other name when the only one that carries a positive connotation is John? This would lead not only to a form of authoritarian social tyranny, but a helluva a lot of confusion in the country in general.

So...before you punch that card...or touch..that...button, think about the long-term consequences. Safer to stick with George and Dick.

What's happening

2004-03-05T01:35:00.000-07:00

with me. You ask. Can't wait to know. You say. Well, OK. I've decided that the Constitution allows me to take my clothes off and go grocery shopping in my skin suit. Why? Because you can't find anything in the Constitution that says I can't. Can you?

It guarantees freedom, right? Well, then what can be more free that freedom from clothes. Clothes have oppressed us as a society long enough. Besides, clothes were invented by Republicans in order to A) make a them a lot of money, B) promote racism by division among the people by selling different styles to different races and ethnic groups, and C) force their conservative Christian values of "modesty" on us. I mean, what ever happened to the separation of church and state? That was the whole point of the Constitution wasn't it? To protect us from religious zealots who would take away our freedom.

Who will tell me that I have to wear clothes when I feel they are oppressive and divisive? Only a hate-monger, that's who. Someone who hates those of us who have found the true liberty and happiness that comes from not wearing clothes. If clothed people can go shopping at any time of the day or night, why not unclothed people? It's discrimination, that's why. Against the unclothed. Because we are different.

Those who would try to keep us marginalized hide behind the word "decency." They say that not wearing clothes is "indecent." Just because someone isn't ashamed of their bare body, the body that God gave us, doesn't mean they are indecent. Unclothed people are decent people, and anyone who says otherwise is a bigot. What is the definition of decency, anyway? The Constitution doesn't define it clearly, so obviously it was meant to apply to both the clothed and the unclothed.

The time has come for us to throw off the shackles of the backwards American bigotry against unclothed persons. I heard there is a police chief in California who will order his department to leave unclothed persons alone, allowing them to engage in acts of civil disobedience such as walking naked around restaurants, schools, and public parks. It's time we ripped and the veil of ignorance and hate. We will not stop until everything and everybody, from Federal law to elementary school textbooks, recognizes the rights of the unclothed.

And if you haven't noticed, George W. Bush is a BIG fan of clothes. What more can I say?

Welcome Saturday

2004-02-21T12:06:00.000-07:00

Nothing like the fresh feeling of rising on a Saturday morning. I actually have this weird desire to get up earlier on Saturdays, like I have to cram in all--the--play--time--possible, because Monday is only a mere 48 hours away. But wait! What's this? A three-day weekend!? It's almost too much. I going insane-o with joy, frantic for fun, what to do--should I read a book, watch a movie, cook breakfast, call a friend, go get a nice cream, take Emily shopping, go for a walk, eat something yummy? My Uncle Dave's hot tub should be functional today, and it's got fountains and lights that change color! Ohh yeah! I'm drooling on my keyboard.

Emily has been talking to plants lately. She rescued a couple of smallish ones from the sale rack at Safeway the other day. It started out as a cute thing, talking to them in front of me to make me roll my eyes. But I was in the bathroom this morning when I heard the sultry voice from the kitchen: "Oh, you're all so tall! Look at you, you've grown two inches since I got you. You're so pretty." It's a side of her I hadn't considered, and it's not bad...just, creepy. What do you think? Being friends with plants a legitimate practice, or a hokey, anthropomorphic quirk--signaling the same kind of mentality typical of those who make their dogs wear sweaters?

Another Post

2004-02-12T00:42:00.000-07:00

Hi, Joe here with another post.

Yup... Just here....posting. Again. Ummm....something happened....and umm.....I think the world is so messed up...and....

Yeah.

I can't believe she said this....and holy crap...because I really like that movie....and...it's so true because, like, everything is so oriented towards mass consumerism....and Wal-Mart is lame....

So, like, I sent out a memo...to everyone....

Anyways, more later, keep shouting because...if you don't....then you just don't care about anything. At all. Ever. Bye.

Today and Everyday

2004-02-12T00:35:00.000-07:00

Emily told me that no one would ever want to read my blog because I don't, like, post very often. In other words, I'm boring and it's not worth checking it out if I never post. Fine. I can change that.

I thought that maybe I was being courteous by not driveling out rivers of worthless slime everyday for everyone to choke on, only posting when I had something productive or interesting to say. But I guess that is not the point.

So, here you go world. Here you go, friends. Rain or shine, pearls or swine, diamonds or coal, plates or bowl(?!), the Plickog must go on...every...single...day...you can come enjoy nothing but the most pointless, uninteresting, presumptious rants about nothing and something. Like the subtitle says, "Who would want to read this crap?" Apparently, you do.

Acceptance Speech

2004-02-09T00:58:00.000-07:00

In the spirit of the 'grammies', I'd like to deliver the following: (except that I'm not a hoochie, dirty and I mean DIRTY rich, thoroughly uninteresting and mostly talentless, unarticulate windsack who flaps like a burlap bag on a pole while mumbling totally forgettable thank yous to my fellow sleazeballs who gave me an award because I sold a million records after a few million advertising dollars were poured into shlepping my crappy music to unsuspecting teenagers):

AHEM. Seeing as how I recently finished the most excellent, latest installment of The Legend of Zelda (Windwaker) for Game Cube, I would like to thank 1) My wife, for her good-natured encouragement and feigned interest in said game 2) my wife, for her loving patience and willingness to spend a night or two entertaining herself while I battled sundry monsters, creatures, evil lords, giant insects, etc., and looked for valuable items such as grappling hooks, empty bottles, iron boots, master swords, and of course, triforce pieces 3) my wife, for congratulating me with a smile upon completion of the aforementioned quest, while effectively hiding her inner rejoicings that the game can be safely put back on the shelf, never to see the light of our sun again, unless it is in the home of another mindless gamer who has paid us at least $20 for it. Thank you, Emily. You are my Princess Zelda. (weepweep, peace sign to the crowd, show everyone my shirt that has an obscure shout out to some obscure influence who's not really an influence, but all part of making my image a little more tolerable to those who are on to my pathetic fame game)

Subby Diary Vol. 1

2003-12-10T19:02:00.000-07:00

I am a substitute teacher and that, my friends, is enough to make anyone say, "Hey Stupid, why don't you just join the army?"
Example #1: Several weeks ago I subbed for a first grade class at a bilingual elementary school. The only message the techer left for me on the substitute phone system was regarding one student in her class. Let us call him, Johnny Smith-Jones. In my experience, when a kid has a hyphenated last name, it's a pretty good indication that he or she may have some issues. Let's be honest, I don't need a fruity tweed-head sociologist to tell me divorce has a profound effect on young children.
When I got to school I found a detailed plan ready wherein I was supposed to be monitoring and recording Johnny's behavior on the half-hour.

Anyway, we started the day with a refreshing stretch and one lap around the field. (I honor their regular teacher for coming up with that ingenious plan. I think two, maybe even three laps would be great...) So, to make a long story short, we're going around the field and Johnny is lagging behind. I encourage him to keep up with me, he grumbles, slows down, speeds up, then finally catches up with me, turns to me and says: "Satan rules."

What? I said. "Satan rules." Faint echoes of excorcism dance through my head. But I am, after all, a trained professional. So I calmly look him up and down before I say, "Why's that?" Johnny paused, as if seriously considering the issue, before replying simply, "Naw, I'm just kidding. Satan sucks." Phew! That was a close one. Obviously, the day was going to go OK after all. And as it turns out, I only had to send him to the office twice, for laying down on the floor and falling asleep (his teacher told me to send him to the office to sleep), and once for smearing goat's blood on the other students' desks. Wait, no, actually it was for refusing to stop shouting. Whatever. The poor child. Best of luck Johnny, if you make it past first-grade, you can probably do anything.

WHERE HAVE I BEEN?

2003-12-09T20:56:00.000-07:00

Holy Crap! The seasons have changed twice, and nary a blog from me, the administrator, the one responsible for the upkeep and responsible operation of this key site. The good people at blogger give me my very own forum and what I do with it? Nothing! I leave it writhing for air like a naked astronaut. My shame is a chunky stain on the pearly tablecloth of blogdom. What can I say? I can't even bear to blog... I'm going to have to go take a long, longish, longiful look in the mirror and reaffirm my commitment to the fair privelege that is blogging. Excuse me...

Hairy Plant Placement Specialist

2003-07-09T15:03:00.000-06:00

Blog forward. Yippee! Last night I finished reading the fifth invigorating and healthy installment of the written phenomenon...Harry Potter. I have come to the conclusion that Jo Rowling (I'll call her Jo since that's what all the chic entertainment writers are referring to her as these days, like Barbara, or J. Lo) is a genius. I know it's been said before, but too many literary types tend to dismiss the Potter tales as a mirthy kids craze. I myself shyed away from the series for many years, fully inflated by my status as an student majoring in English.

I first started in on them last summer on a debt-inducing trip to Spain and Portugal. After the second book, I bought the third at an English-language book store in a Lisbon mall. By the time we got to Coimbra, I was turning in a couple hours before sunset to read by the light of single dim bulb, tinged red by the dusty, transluscent fixture. Emily and I actually fought over who was going to get to read the book first, so we ended up reading most of it outloud together. Within days we were scouring a shop in Salamanca for the fourth installment, which I finished shortly after returning to California.

I hadn't been this insane about a series since reading the Lord of the Rings my second year of college, and before that it was my rabid consumption of Hardy Boys mysteries before I turned 10. This was pure enjoyment unlike anything I'd ever read. Sure it's the most mass-marketed, best-selling print franchise since the Pauline Epistles, but in the end I was forced to accept that something doesn't have to be out-of-print, wallowing in the corner of "quirky" used book store to be fully appreciated. My aversion to spoon-fed consumerism notwithstanding, here was something that deserved to be distributed, even pushed and hawked, by the millions and frillions.

The bottom line is, Rowling has created something that will endure for generations. The pure imagination contained in each book will keep the pages turning for my grandchildren and beyond. As an uncle of mine pointed out, each page in a Potter book has a new word, concept, or plot twist that almost forces the reader to forget whatever they need to be doing and see the story to the end right then and there. And though that can be formulaic at times, the overall effect of the books is nothing less than deeply satisfying; a rare glimpse into a parallel universe that we fervently hope exists and won't end when we turn over the back cover.

Getting There

2003-07-01T16:15:00.000-06:00

Commence blogging. Here is a sordid tale if there ever was one: I walked all the way down the driveway this morning, got into my parents' brand new Toyota Corolla parked in front of the house, closed the door and put the key in the ignition before I looked up and noticed the windshield was entirely smashed.

If that doesn't send shivers up your spine, then this will: I found several footprints and a sizable dent on the hood. Apparently a wayward spacecraft dropped one of their abductees, one with large skate shoes, on top of my dad's car. It's lucky he landed on the windshield otherwise he could've been seriously injured or even killed on the cold, hard pavement. I knew there was reason I parked in front of the mailbox last night...thank goodness for intuition.

Anyway, the police didn't believe me about the whole alien abduction thing, even though the evidence was overwhelming. Footprints, smashed windshield, dent in the hood....what do they want, a sign that says "Aliens Were Here"? They said something about "vandalism" and said they would send me a form to fill out in the mail. What a joke. Just another example of the farcical government cover-up that we all live in. Maybe one day they will come clean, but in the meantime I will continue to park my car in strategic places in the hopes of saving further victims from unwarranted alien droppings.

2003-06-27T18:12:00.000-06:00

The very idea of a blog seems rather conceited. Let's talk about.....me. Like who wants to get on and read about some dude's banal, useless thoughts and opinions that don't matter or influence anyone? I guess I do...want to read my own banal, useless thoughts and opinions. So, I'd like to welcome myself to my blog. Welcome, me. I hope I enjoy all the crap I write. I'll try to mix it up a little bit...and, you know, maybe way deep down there's a tiny part of me that maybe thinks that maybe someone besides myself will, ahem, accidently stumble upon this electronic papyrus of wisdom and virtue and even like it, a little bit..