Real Space Age Technology

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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...

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

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

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?

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

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

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?

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.