Why we fight doc

Just a quick note. Wife and I started this documentary last night. We've put it off as friends have warned it will depress us. So far I haven't learned a lot I didn't know from other sources but I do find the fleshed out historicl context beneficial. And the rhetoricl move to center the movie on Eisenhower's warning that "We must guard against military industrial complex" is brilliant. I also like the music but it seems a carbon copy of Errol Morris' style in Fog of War and Fast, Cheap and out of control. Favorite lines so far:

"I think numbers are almost distracting" Donald Rumsfield

"God bless the military contractors" some senator

Friends' warning was right on: it's quite depressing. AGAIN I wonder why I haven't more actively participated in the anti-war effort. A couple of years ago I met a Quaker war protestor; I've been on her email list for two years. She sends announcements to upcoming rallies every few weeks (she just sent some for the recent Bush visit to SLC). The answers to these simple questions tell it all: how many of her emails have I actually read? About 30% How many rallies have I attended? 0

I just do not understand myself; on the other hand I better understand why we are still in Iraq and why we We WE haven't done anything to put a stop to it.

Cross-Grassers

Having spent much of my adulthood on college campuses, I’ve often been faced with the grassy moral imperative—to tread on or not to tread. At Methodist College in NC it wasn’t really a moral choice as the grass and trees were robust and never seemed to falter. At BYU the moral choice was quickly covered up and hidden away: If a path formed across the grass, the mighty facility crew would cover it up with a new sidewalk the next day, creating a crisscross of sidewalks alighting the most expeditious routes: “We have no sin, no alcohol, no sex and no grass-crossers.”

I looked askew at the grass-crossers at the Y. How could they ruin the unblemished grass, causing much work and chaos at our beautiful campus? How selfish to save a few minutes and ruin everyone else’s day. But that was years ago, a rough draft of beliefs revised thousands of times since. Recently I’ve taken it upon myself to cross as much grass as possible at SLCC. I like the soft impact and life of grass over concrete—whose natural self doesn’t? Certainly I realize our grass isn’t really natural as it requires gallons of water and is merely an adopted practice of the English, but it’s symbolic I suppose: a freshness, a mini-visceral experience as I cross the quad and put to rest for a moment my intellectual positions and pedagogies.

My grass-crossing does have rules. I do not cross where the grass has died out exposing dirt (though my rules do allow for jumping across said sections of dirt); if I’m already walking with someone, I suggest but do not pressure them into the forbidden crossing; when alone I always cross even if some big wig is coming down the sidewalk—it’s not a shifting moral context; I do not merely clip corners—my grass-crossing must be direct and bold.

I often imagine, maybe even hope, that someone, a fellow teacher or, even better, an administrator, will reprimand me for my grass crossing. I have a river of replies: “You know we live in a desert” or “I only walk where no one has ever walked before” or “I’m paying for this damn grass and water and I’m going to enjoy it” or “If the grass dies we can always xeriscape the whole of it and save millions.”

One might think grass-crossers do not respect life but this view accepts the topsy-turvy logic of the modern repressed world. To avoid is not to respect; to merely view with awe the nature, our nature, our animal selves from afar is to fear. Pre-packaged "foundational" selves offered at low prices from marketers, religions, and workplace institutions are held up on scaffoldings of rules, regulations, and prohibitions. To cross through the grass, to engage the sin and live, that IS our great moral imperative.

The magic bullet

I rejected my youngest son's requests to play a game--I'm furiously trying to revamp syllabi and update the 1010 website for the fall. It took several rejections before he gave up, but once he did give up I began to worry about what he was getting into. Turns out he was watching the magic bullet infomercial (the little blender). I asked him why he was watching this particular program.

"Because it's about food" he replied.
"Oh, so are you planning to make up some of that food?"
"Maybe when I'm 12 or 11 or 13. This is my two times [he meant "second"] watching the blender."

He's still soaking up cooking ideas and I'm...well, not really working on my syllabus. One knows your self-respect as a parent is shot to hell when you are blogging and your 5 year old is watching an infomercial.

The living dead

I sat down to read Persepolis 2, an autobiographical graphic novel by Marjane Sartrapi, who grew up in Iran during the tempestuous 70s and 80s. As I often do before I start reading, I turned on the TV--for company? out of habit? fear of missing some great television event? For whatever reason, tonight I did catch a major television event: #6 on the list of Animal Planet's Extreme Animals--The living dead.

Number six is ostensibly about an ant which becomes the "living dead" after its brain is invaded by a parasite. The life cycle of the parasite, though, is even more compelling. The parasite somehow takes over the ant's brain without killing it which leads to the ant climbing a blade of grass to the very tip where it clamps down (something these ants never do for good reason). Here the ant sits for days if necessary until a rabbit (or a grasshopper) eats the ant. Incredibly the parasite escapes the rabbit's digestive system and then hangs out in the liver where layers of something or another cover it as it matures. From here it produces offspring which are peed out in some sort of droplets which, you guessed it, are saborosa tid bits eaten by the ant. Now that's one hell life cycle.

Obviously the parsite's perch of power questions our assumptions about size and strength. The microscopic parasite is running the show from the inside of those seemingly in charge of themselves. It's the physical manifestation of Gramsci's hegemony—no, serious. In one interpretation we humans are of course the brain-dead dangling ants waiting to be consumed; in another, the more Gramscian and the one I prefer, we might be lucky enough to be the rabbits--we unknowingly help the system along, we suffer some physical and mental energy loss, but there's hope that we can identify the potentially mind altering parasite and rid ourselves and our society of the beast. If we are the ants, we're screwed and nothing we "do" matters an iota.

Maybe I dig to deep and should finally, now, read a page of two of Satrapi before I’m too tired. I wonder if Satrapi will ultimately judge her acts of "rebellion" (western rock music and 501 jeans) as something meaningful. Or will she determine, as Fatima Mernissi does in Scheherazade Goes West, that western freedoms ain't what they are cracked up to be: while at a conference in the US she can't find a skirt that fits her beautifully big and appreacited (in her own country) hips without going to a special store.

This could have been posted on the Osterblog

While getting my second massage of the summer from the LDS primary president in our ward (bet you wouldn't have guessed that), she mentioned that she was Greg Ostertag's message therapist for three years. Among other tidbits she told me that one of the first things Greg made clear was this, to paraphrase: "Look you may have heard a lot of criticism about me not living up to expectations and getting crap from Karl Malone, but the deal is basketball is like 4th or 5th on my list of priorities. Family, playing golf...are more important and enjoyable to me." I kind of respect his honesty--could be interpreted as an excuse but doesn't seem that way to me.

She also gave Antoine Carr a massage but only once--said he never took his shades off and was basically an ass. I supplied the word ass for her as she is, of course, our primary president.

Wow: three posts in a day. They've been building up over the last week.

Phrase of the week

My 11 yr old son to my 5 yr son after the younger one excused a punch to the arm by saying "my mind is controlling me" (he used to say his stomach was controlling him--lately he's kind of obsessed with what body parts control him: "I'm thinking in my mind and my mind says I want another treat").

The phrase is: "Sorry but I'm allergic to bullcrap."

Friggin word of the day

I've been trying to remember a particular word this last week, one that can come to me naturally in conversation or writing but one that I can't call up on demand: "I'd like to use that one word, the one that means 'earthy,' connected to the primitive." But it just won't come. I've even put up a little reminder in my home office--still couldn't remember that damn word this morning while laying in bed. Sometimes I think my brain is defective. Often I think of the word "ephemeral" instead of this word. This may be because I had the same issues with emphemeral for quite some time--just couldn't call up the word when I wanted to. Strange since "ephemeral" is, in some ways, the opposite of visceral though not really.

Well, the word is....visceral.

THE greatest comeback in sports

If you missed the Floyd Landis solo 80 mile attack (see image above) on Stage 17 of the Tour de France, you missed one of the greatest comebacks in sports history. After "cracking" (and I mean crack--even I could have beat him up the moutain) on stage 16 to La Toussuire Les Sybelles, Landis somehow mentally and physically recovered overnight, planning and then executing the ludicrous move of taking on the entire peloton all on his own with 80 miles of torturous climbs and dangerou descents ahead.

I'm in awe. Landis, in one day, gave us something Lance the invincible could not: the unexpected, the incomprehensible, from the dregs of defeat to the heights of winning. All of this and more was communicated in "the look"* he had on his face as he crossed the finish line and rose his fist in the air. It brought shivers down my spine: more than confident, more than jubilant, something special that only comes after facing head on despair and defeat only to defy all expectation the next day to conquer them both. His look wasn't about winning the stage but rather to say, "I'm back and I'm going to win this whole damn thing." This was confirmed in the post-race interview when asked if he was excited about today's stage win: "I don't care about that. I want to win the tour." Winning a single stage in the Tour de France is the highlight for many top cyclists; this was Landis' first stage win in the Tour but he did not even care.

Check out the last "real" stage, the time trial on Saturday. Landis must make up 30 seconds on the Yellow Jersey to win. Should be easy (he beat Peirero by 1:40 in the first time trial and he had a bike problem) but you never know in this post-Lance Tour era.

*inexplicably I can't find an image of him crossing the line--I was sure it would be front page.

An ode to Men

What an amazing three day weekend. I can barely walk down stairs, my eyes are but narrow slits because of the lack of sleep, and my every foible and weakness has been ridiculed; still it's all worth it, every pain and ache, every bit of tiredness, and every personal dig.

Saturday I left for Great Basin National Park with three friends from our book club. I can't think of three better guys--honest, spiritual, yet comfortable being Men. That is eager to engage in the not-so-secret arts of manhood--cutting sarcasm and one-ups-manship, good old junior high grossness, and frank discussion about life and sex. Doesn't get any better in my book.

Saturday morning we mountain biked in the desert; then we ascended to 10,000 ft to set up camp at Wheeler Peak campground. That evening we hiked to the glacier on the east side of Wheeler Peak. The anomaly of snow in the summer makes me giddy and “skiing” down was par excellance.

Sunday we hiked Wheeler Peak (13,063 ft)—from 10k to 13k in three miles, the last mile of rock nearly going straight up into the sky. On the way home we stopped for the second time at one of the three restaurants in Baker and the only one open on Sunday—T and D’s. You can only imagine the fun with had with that name.

I got home at about 9pm and immediately started preparing for my next manly activity (I know, females do it too but it's still different)6:15 am departure to Wasatch Blvd where I was to meet Aaron for a kick in the ass hill workout. I thought about bailing--so exhausted--but didn't want to be a wimp. Our plan was to climb two or three (I was always thinking two) SLC canyons. My plan after 10 minutes of riding on my sorry ass tired sore legs (Wheeler Peak was less than 24 hrs old) was to turn around and go back home to my bed. Fortunately the soreness dissipated.

First we climbed Little Cottonwood canyon, a full hour plus of climbing. What a beautiful canyon, what an exhilarating descent: 40-50+ mph all the way with few cars. Next we took on Big Cottonwood, another hour and half of climbing, much tougher of course, with lactic acid from LCC already in our legs and the temperature reaching into the 90s. My legs cracked at Solitude but I finished it out even though Aaron had become a small red dot ahead of me (Aaron once climbed these two plus Millcreek in 6 hrs). To put it mildly the descent sucked—I could barely manage to get into an aggressive downhill stance for a few minutes at a time. All I wanted was to survive. Thank God Aaron waited for me at the bottom and shepherded (i.e. I hugged his wheel and never let go) me back along Wasatch blvd over the last 5 or so miles.

All in all: 64.60 miles in 4:41, average speed: 13.8, max speed: 51.3, approx. elevation gain: 6'000 ft. I sure love being able to measure out, to the tenth, second and foot, the day’s activities—sometimes meaning can be fastidiously calculated and stamped into reality. Long live concrete tangible, male-like, goals.

If I can have a weekend like this every few years for the rest of my life, I think I can pull through to the End and maybe even do some of it with a smile on my face. It's a good day to be a Man.

Porcupine hill climb

As a recovering runner (in the tradition of a recovering alcoholic), I've taken up cycling this summer. I've always used cycling to cross train for running and one summer even did a century ride and one citizen's race, but this year I've decided to try out category racing. As with many new things, it's been tougher than I thought it would be. At the Porcupine hill climb up Big Cottonwood Canyon to Brighton, my first race, I hoped to get under 1 hr 10 min and place in the CAT 5 racers (the lowliest of the racing classes) but wasn't successful. Instead I finished in 1:13:49 (though I'm listed in 1:18 something--they got my number wrong which, even though I hate to admit it, bothers me). The journey has been fun as I've learned a lot about cycling just in time for the Tour de France. Still there have been a few rough spots too: my crash in the MS ride, being dropped from a training peloton of racers out west in Hooper, and making several riding etiquette faux pas (standing while in a tight slip stream, coming off the front on the right when the wind was coming from the left and certainly others I'm unaware of).



Well, none of this is probably particularly interesting to anyone but how about my Porcupine hillclimb photo? Nice tongue, eh? I guess it's my trademark. Early on in my life friends noticed (to my embarrassment) that I would stick my tongue out as I skied, moving it from side to side as I turned and, in general, whenever I had to accomplish a difficult physical task. I'm not sure why the tongue comes out. Good thing I've never bitten it off. Funny, though, how it really hurt me when someone made fun of me (I remember my good friend Corey mimicking me) and how now I can't imagine why I even cared. Too bad big MJ wasn't playing basketball at the time--I could have tied my tongue donning to greatness.

Testimony not borne

Many people today have used the phrase “I’m thankful for our freedoms.” I would also use this phrase to describe how I feel about my country but my definition of these “freedoms” would focus on what I believe is the most important freedom. I’m most thankful that I live in a country where, by and large, protest is protected, protest of war, protest of the government, protest and even hate for a president. In Mormon-speak we often refer to the US as the promised land. I believe the essence of a promised land is one that affords us the freedom to speak out without fear of death or violence from our government.

Even though the public may not know “everything” going on in a war or crisis situation, it’s clear that many times our government does get it wrong. Not so long ago our government supported the persecution, murder, and expulsion of members of our own faith. It’s too bad that more citizens didn’t take their patriotism—their commitment to freedom and justice—more seriously; if they had there would have been demonstrations in support of Mormons spread out from Nauvoo to Palmyra. I hope we remember our divine right to speak out against injustice and even immorality. Many of you, if I recall correctly, took up this right with much vigor, sometimes with more vigor than suited my tastes, in criticizing President Clinton. Even though I often didn’t agree with the rhetoric of impeachment and complete moral failure, I would defend your rights to protest what you saw as immoral and wrong.

I pray we would all defend this right, not only when we agree with the position taken, but even when we do not. If one has held onto to some sort of hope that what Bush did in Iraq was moral, I certainly expect this individual would not deny anyone the right to question, to protest, to disagree with our president. Being patriotic, which we often discuss as a religious duty, allows, even demands, that we give support to what we see as truth and justice, never yielding to blind support of a political party, our country, our president.

My father fought in Vietnam from 1966-68. While I’m grateful to the citizens who supported him personally in the short-term as a soldier, I wish more citizens, more Saints, had supported him in the long-term by protesting the war. If only Vietnam—a war started on false pretenses in the Gulf of Tonkin—had ended a few years earlier, then maybe I’d have that part of my father whhich is now gone and ruined: the emotional void I sometimes see in his face and the occasional tear he has shed after one too many. And maybe the emotional connection I yearned for as a child would have been realized. I too am thankful for our freedoms but let us not imagine that our freedoms are always, or even mostly, threatened from some outside enemy. When patriotism is not allowed to include dissension and critique, our promised land status is put into peril.

Bloggin in my mind

After a long hiatus I finally blogged a week or so ago, which turned on the blogger thought process. Many a blog I have composed in my head over the last week or so but not a one have I written down. I don't have time to compose them all so I will ask for you input in order to help me make the crucial decision of what to blog. Here are a few blog ideas floating around in my head:

#1 "Testimony not born": after listening to several flag waving testimonies last Sunday and my Bishop's admonishment to "not question our political leaders and the war because they know things we don't," I composed a point by point (in my head) rebuttal type testimony, a testimony of protest, on several levels, as it were.

#2 "Biting off more than I can chew (pedal in this case)": one more extreme athletic event--50 mile bike ride where I got dropped from the peleton--where I overestimate my ability. Will I ever be able to concede I'm not as athletic as I think I am or that I once was and that (let those terrible words be said) indeed I am aging?

#3 "I hugged my dad twice!": Overcoming fear and trepidation, I have successfully, after 20 years of uncomfortable goodbyes, hugged my dad after our last two get togethers--my sister's wedding and a trip to the cabin.

Each blog idea sounded better in my head than it does now in bald faced type. Interesting that my three ideas are each caught up in a major theme in my life: religious anxiety, extreme exercise obsession, and father-son relationships. If I could just figure out these few issues, I think I'd be happy as a clam.

Sleepytime Summer

I'm so tired today; I just can't face the student papers I have to read so I've been blogging around. Since starting my Weber class (a TR at 7am!), I've been in constant tired mode. I leave for SLCC every MW by 6 or so in order to beat traffic. I don't teach till 9:45 but until yesterday I'd always made it to campus by 7am in order to prep and miss any traffic issues. Not sure I can keep up the early MWs with my 7am class--the last few MWs I've been zombie, nodding off while reading at 7:30 in the morning. Nodding off at this hour does not inspire confidence in oneself nor in one's ability to make it through to my last class which ends at 4.

Wonderful sleep entices yet hrs, weeks, months, a whole lifetime till we meet.

The MS 150 saga

I’d promised myself that during the ride I would try to keep in mind those with MS, their struggles and devastating physical impairments. Unfortunately this proved more difficult than expected. To my credit I did think of the MS cause twice during the almost 5 hr ride—once near the beginning when I was part of a huge peloton (close to 100 riders) realizing only a cause like MS could pull together such a diverse group of riders at such an early hour for such a punishing experience. My awe of the peloton was quickly shattered when some of the peloton turned left and some went straight leading to a slow down from 25 mph to 0 in a few seconds. I had to slam on my brakes and a rider from behind me clipped me tossing me into the barrow pit. Seems I faired better than another rider who had road rash all down one side of his body. I escaped with a sprained thumb. While I would not fall again, I’d have two more mishaps by mile 50 and I wouldn’t remember the MS cause until after mile 50.

Mishap #2: bee sting ¼ inch from belly button while going close to 30 mph.

Mishap #3: flat tire at mile 52. Luckily I detected it by an aid station and was able to fix the flat in comfort.

Best moment: about 15 miles (30-45) with 9 cyclists working together at the front to catch solo breakaways (no this isn’t an official race but…). We were averaging 23-25 mph—it was efficient, even though this pace was impossible for all of us to keep for another 60 miles except one rider who is normally a cat 2 racer. This was also when I again thought of MS; actually it was after the exuberance of the fast 15 miles as I fixed my flat. The absolute irony of riding 100 miles in order to raise money for those with MS hit me. I wondered if anyone with MS had ever participated. Probably, but if so they would have known their days of riding were numbered.

All in all a great ride. I’d thought about doing 75 miles each day but decided instead to do 100 on Saturday and call it good. Thanks to those who supported the cause and my ride.

The Mormon Contact Zone: From single fathers to gay marriage

**This is the text of a talk I gave in church today--it's quite long. And, no, if you are wondering, I did not use the above title in church**

As I thought about the idea of sacrifice, I was immediately flooded by the myriad ways one might make sacrifice within the gospel community in ways that might not be perceived as sacrifice.

The kind of sacrifice I speak of is often misheard, misunderstood, mistranslated. It is the sacrifice, generally put, of those committed members who do not quite fit in to the mainstream. As Christ says in Matthew, “I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it NOT to one of the least of these, ye did it NOT to me.” It is the sacrifices offered at the margins, in the fringes of our institution. In order to create a frame to discuss this type of sacrifice, I want to take a brief detour through the Spanish conquest of the Americas

Recently I taught an essay by Mary Louise Pratt to a class at Weber State. In her influential essay, “Arts of the Contact Zone,” she contends that all communities are caught up in what she refers to in her title as a contact zone, a place where community members grapple with meaning and being understood, but more importantly where the less “normal” community members struggle to even be heard at all. She gives a poignant example in Guaman Poma, a mestizo of Quechuan and Spanish ancestory. In 1908 a 1200 page letter was found. It was written by Poma in a “mixture of Quechua and ungrammatical, expressive Spanish” and multiple drawings which used the Spanish written language and Andean (indigenous) spatial symbolism.

The letter was dated 1613 and was written to King Phillip III of Spain. It’s not known for sure but it seems clear that the letter was never read by the King—Poma’s critiques of the Spanish (the killing, the Christian conversions by force, the brutality, the misunderstandings of his people, and the parodies of the gold thirsting Spaniards) instead sat collecting dust in a Copenhagen Royal Archive for almost 400 years. Surely the letter—written in a mixture of seemingly broken languages and drawings—was seen as a text written by an illiterate savage, an outsider, and ultimately a potential trouble-maker. I can’t imagine the sacrifice it would have taken for Poma in 1613 to produce this 1200 page multimodal text.

Returning to the theme of sacrifice within our own community, we often hear about the many members who have given their time and even lives defending the gospel from the center. I respect and love these saints, but I also wonder about the sacrifices and contributions of saints on the fringes. I offer what I see as examples of this sacrifice, as possibly modern day Guaman Pomas.

EXAMPLE #1
A man who has been a student ward bishop and who could easily qualify for “high” office, decides his best work in the gospel is to nurture his wife who has multiple health problems. Still, on the sideline he and his wife home teach nine widows. He did not go on to be a high councilman or serve in stake callings; he sacrifices on the fringes

EXAMPLE #2
A sister in her 40s who has never had the opportunity to marry comes to church each week, sometimes sensing that she is not part of the norm, certainly not representative of the ideal: the family group of husband/wife/son/daughter. Still she comes, even on Mother’s day. Not only does she come but she invests in other people’s children. She’s bothered, maybe even annoyed, by some of the talks and lessons that seem to erase her existence; still she is a true latter day saint.

EXAMPLE #3
A young man who finally admits to himself, after years of self-torture and doubt, that he has strong homosexual feelings that will always be part of who he is. He decides to keep working at his marriage and, after coming close to divorce, they manage to come to an agreement and stay married. He and his wife sacrifice “normal” married life together in order to raise their children and serve within the community.

EXAMPLE #4
A single parent and father. As many divorced single parents he knows he doesn’t represent the ideal, the intact family sitting on the pew with his arm around his wife. Even though he aches for a complete family it may not happen for years and even when it does it will still not be the ideal family with one set of parents living in the home. Still, he comes to church each week, sometimes with his children, sometimes without. He wonders what could be done to foster support for parents like him who find themselves, at times, utterly alone.

INTERLUDE: then I will finish with two more examples
Most of us probably do not have much difficulty accepting these examples sacrifice—they might be problematic but they pose no real threat. My last two examples are more problematic; nevertheless, I believe they equally stem from the gospel and its focus on agency, an agency which asks us to follow the spirit even if it may put in peril our standing in the community, our job, or cause us to be derided by family or friends. This last group may be the hardest to listen to—they may seem merely rebellious or selfish or at worst uncommitted. But remember I speak of those who are committed to the LDS community but who also take seriously their conscious, the individual workings of the spirit.

EXAMPLE #1
Recently I listened to President Spencer Kimball’s son, Edward Kimball, speak of a book he wrote about his father: Lengthen your stride: the Presidency of Spencer W. Kimball. Edward discussed at length the tension-filled times when his father worked for a number of years to prepare the Church for the proclamation which extended the priesthood to all worthy males. What an amazing sacrifice by Pres. Kimball to contradict earlier doctrine and encrusted societal views in order to reinstate the priesthood to all members. In addition, what an amazing sacrifice by his son Edward to now speak openly and honestly about this time period. On NPR’s RadioWest Edward said that he personally believes BY got it wrong—that JS had given the priesthood to black members but BY fell to the racist views of the time. But did this personal conviction lessen his testimony of Brigham Young or the church? No.

While a less conventional notion of sacrifice, I believe some can make an important sacrifice to the community when they openly share their beliefs in an act of faith and trust, even when these ideas may be unpopular or unsettling. It was clearly not easy for Edward Kimball to question BY, a man he respects and sees as a prophet of God, but it was necessary and important for him to be honest. It is a type of sacrifice which moves our community closer to truth and closer to God.

EXAMPLE #2
Next I focus on an example more caught up in present issues of the church. I know this last example will not fit as easily into our preconceived notions of sustaining and supporting, of sacrificing for God, country, and the church.

Recently a member in good standing, a gospel doctrine teacher, Jeffrey Nielsen spoke out against the political charge the church made to members to support the constitutional amendment concerning gay marriage. No matter what one feels about this particular issue, I hope each of us can see the courage and sacrifice it took for him to speak out. Mr. Nielsen immediately lost his job at BYU and reaped unwanted negative attention for his family. There are some who speak out in order to call attention to themselves or merely to criticize the church, but I believe this is not the case with Mr. Nielsen. In a recent interview he made clear his continuing doubts about his decision to speak out, his love for BYU and even the colleagues who fired him, and his insistence that he would never speak out about doctrinal issues but only political ones where his own views and the church’s are incongruent. Mr. Nielsen demonstrates how one can “sustain” the brethren and yet disagree on a political issue; he gives hope to many saints who have similar feelings but also want to maintain full membership.

My contention is that the gospel tent is wide and far reaching, inviting all to come to unto Christ. In this wideness there will always be numerous ways for us to make sacrifice for our community, for Christ and for our country. Just as I do not see contradiction in a man “sacrificing” for his country by fighting in Iraq while another man makes an equally important sacrifice by protesting and refusing to fight in what he sees as an unjust war, neither do I see contradiction in sacrifice for the gospel community which constructively and humbly questions current belief. As Jeffrey Nielsen stated in his controversial Op-ed piece, “Freedom of conscience is a divine blessing, and our privilege to express it is a moral imperative.”

Each of us is a unique child of our Heavenly father, each of us have different talents, intelligences, and sacrifices to offer up to the Lord. We are each prepared through our premortal experience, our genetic gifts, and life experiences to contribute to the gospel community in a variety of ways. It’s my prayer that we will recognize these strengths, recognize that there is no cookie cutter shaping and dispensing perfectly formed molly Mormons or white-shirt clad, short haired elders but a myriad of shapes and sizes of saints.

To some of us is given the gift of near perfect obedience and loyalty. I respect and love these members, I marvel at their undying faith, their consistency, their sacrifice;

To others is given the gift of perseverance in the gospel when all seems to have gone terribly wrong, when the reality of their life story does not fit the ideal image of the church. I’m in admiration of these saints who work against all odds to maintain activity and worthiness.

To others is given the gift to question, to see inconsistency, to wallow in ambiguity, and yet be faithful. I too respect and love these individuals; I respect their willingness to hold on to faith and intellectual endeavors even when contradiction and crises arise.

There may not be a 1200 page letter awaiting us like Guaman Poma’s, but there are people right here in our midst who feel they are functioning from the margins, who feel they are misunderstood and even perceived as tearing down the community, making things messy, complicating what others feel is simple. But just imagine what good could have come if Poma’s letter had been read and taken seriously by King Phillip III. Certainly he would never have agreed with everything, but just maybe there could have been more understanding of where Poma was coming from, less judgment, more love and more charity. As Christ reminds us, “the second” great commandment is to “love they neighbor as thyself.” I hear in this statement the admonition to appreciate and recognize the sacrifices of all.

San Diego Vacation

Had a wonderful time with kids and wife in San Diego. I meant to blog from SA but didn't have free Internet access at the Marriot and days of walking and seeing tired me out. A quick highlight as swamp cooler, unpacking, and prepping for new semester await me:

**11 yr old son being picked out of the crowd to give Shamu (man, that whale/dophin is one old dude) commands, a fish, and, as my 5 yr old has named it, a "back rub."

**La Jolla Bay seals in the "wild"--I found out that the seals hand out in what once was a kiddie type ocean pool without waves. Too much nitrate and teeth now.

**Riding bike (4th child on the trip my wife says) to La Jolla Bay.

**Experiencing the Orangutans with my wife for about an hour in two different watchings at the SD Zoo. I'm not much for zoos but this exhibit was amazing as the glass barrier allowed one to be right next to the Orangutans as they ate and played.

**Seeing view from atop Grandma Snapp's home in Escondido--avocado orchards, tangelo and lemon trees, and an amazing view of the mountains and valleys surrounding the Wild Animal Park.

**Bike ride through the just mentioned valley; 43 mph without trying on the downhill into the valley

**Chocolate mole at a mexican restaurant in the Old Towne area.

**Observing kids' wonder and enjoyment; realising the memories would be revisted by them for decades to come.

Anxiously, slowly grading

I’m avoiding end of the semester grading for a moment, just a moment.

Evaluating final projects, papers, and portfolios creates a certain amount of anxiety in me. The anxiety arises from a series of contradictions and tensions:

1. It’s unnecessary: I’m confident I could assign final grades based on what I’ve already seen student drafts and presentation with 98% accuracy.

2. It’s a waste of time: few students care about the details of my evaluation beyond the grade.

3. I’m constantly seduced by the thought that when I’m done grading, I’m completely free for a few days: but no matter how hard I try (timing my readings, setting goals, etc.) I can’t ever seem to just check the damn things off.

4. Often I sense I’m dedicating more time and mental effort to student work than they have given it themselves but, on occasion, some student work demands I do much more than merely record its (its!) score on my little sheet; it demands I email them, point out their amazing improvement, encourage them to submit their work to our student journal, and ensure they will continue to write like this in other courses.

5. And finally: what the hell does this mean anyways? Who am I kidding? This is an authentic evaluation of student effort, intelligence, and skills? It’s all a farce and we all know it, yet if I don’t keep evaluating, everyone (students, administrators, colleagues, family) will question my sanity and competence.

Back to it. I judge each paper, each person, each 3 month’s worth of effort, boiling it down to 80 minute classes and my silly little construction of a "final" project.

unbearable lightness of blogging

Flooded basement (the basement we just finished remodeling) sort of sucked the light hearted blogging spirit out of me. I'm recovering but probably only turned in the direction of, rather than actually moving towards, lightness.

I thought I'd catch up on my blog reading and in the process get inspired. But I read so much I'm now tired, a bit inspired but more tired than anything else.

One happy note: I successfully planned a family trip to San Diego during the break before summer school. I even used priceline.com to bid on a hotel stay: $70 a night for 5 nights at a Marriot 2 miles from ocean. And no we are not, if you were wondering, going to Disneyland. I'm slugging the next person who asks and then looks disappointed when I say no.

Underground at the St. Louis Gatway Arch

While visiting the St. Louis Arch (which is quite impressive) I was taken in by the spatial/visual rhetoric of the underground museum on the Westward Expansion designed by Aram Mardirosian. A 2/3s circle exhibit where the visitor can theoretically (although most, including me, seem to first work around the outer edge which depicts the chronological events of Lewis and Clark) choose where to begin and end their exploration of the museum. At the center of the circle Jefferson stands with his back to the museum entrance, peering off into the tall columns which announce different issues (Explorers, Railroads, Miners, etc.) caught up in the westward expansion, each physically placed closer to the center or further away depending on the time period. As one explores the columns, pragmatically also holding up the ceiling, and hidden cases of "artifacts" in the cut out columns, the dates, all listed on the ceiling, increase as the exhibit extends to the edge of the circle (see the easily navigable virtual tour).

I wasn't all that interested in the subject matter of the museum but the design and rhetoric of the space caught my eye and lead to dozens of photos, discussions with rangers, and the purchase of the official museum book. It goes without saying that constructed space mediates how we experience ideas, particularly shaping how we create hierarchies. It's less clear to me how quickly we can reconstruct our notion of normal and useful. My guess is that most people experience this museum as they experience traditionally sequential museums as attested to by my sister and soon-to-be brother-in-law: "I'd never thought much about the design," i.e. "you are one strange guy to take to a museum."

I'm reminded of Amy Devitt's comments at CCCC, the conference which got me to Chicago and the St. Louis,(thanks Mega for help on this) about how students utilize the rheotrical moves of written genres, whether they are appropriate or not, they learned in high school when confronted with new writing situations. Templates, or genres, help us navigate and make sense of new genres or new spaces, like this less rigid, less chronological museum. But, of course, the old genre can also restrict our ability to fully engage with the new design: "So, where's the beginning?" Maybe it's only possible (and I'm stealing from Mega here) to fully experience new genres of texts and space through repeated experience and sustained effort. That is it's too much to ask someone to get it on the first or second or third try. The rewiring, reconnecting, and recombining takes time. Not out with the old as the mantra but reconfiguring and utilizing the old to contruct a new whole.

It's great to be wanna be rhetorician--life is all the more interesting.

"Son of a Whore" or Shogun revisited

I'm watching Shogun with my son. He's interested in all things Japan so I thought this might be an interesting film to see (any other film recommendations?), not to mention the nostalgia I hoped to experience as I had, as an eleven year-old, eagerly watched nightly installments of Shogun. Of course, as is to be expected, it’s difficult to watch—the special effects are terrible (the first death shows a head flying off before actually being struck by the sword), the Japanese inverted Mohawks look ridiculous, and the cultural authenticity is a stretch at best. Still, it’s kind of fun and I just realized that my son is also eleven.

I wonder how he will remember the film as he gets older. It fully engaged me as a youngster. The only TV series that had more impact on me was Roots. Both seemed, at the time, to be cinematic perfections to my young eyes. Somehow I wish for that simple idyllic day when I could get fully caught up and lost into a so-so film.

My “favorite” Shogun moments so far:

During a storm Chamberlain refers to his ship as a whore; later, in a jocular kind of way, he refers to a Japanese commander as a son of a whore after the commander saves Rodrigo.

Rodrigo, the Portuguese pilot, single handedly conquers all Japanese custom and language in one fell swoop.

A Japanese Samurai falls into the pit of English prisoners; he stays there until they prisoners are finally let out; he bows to his lord (for mercy, for honor?), the lord throws him a sword and the young Samurai commits hare-kare. I vividly remember seeing this scene as a kid—it had really disturbed me. Past met present: “Dad, what is he doing? Why is he killing himself?”

Terrible overbearing music which abruptly screams, “Feel tension NOW”

Unbelievably no foreign translations of the Japanese except when the Jesuits are translating which of course isn’t good for much because the Jesuits are at war with the Spaniards and English and intentionally mistranslate.

First day of spring break

Somehow it doesn't feel much like spring break. First, I just finished shoveling 6" on snow; second, I'm home on a Monday morning, as I am every Monday during the semester, grading papers, scoring a quiz, and reading student email. It might feel more like the break tomorrow except for then I must face my "To do list" which stands as the following so far:

*do taxes
*change over fridge door
*add electrical outlets downstairs and fix three-way in kitchen
*read/think about new YA lit course
*go to bike store: pedals for rd bik, shoes, new bike computer
*figure out new I-Pod (got it for 30 bucks at RC Willey after spending $600)
*read seeing and writing 3 as possible text for visual rhet class
*plan run and bike race schedule for spring and summer
*follow up on several odds and ends I've been putting off for months
*Read: Lance Armstrong's war by Coyle, Nigger by Kennedy, and Seeing voices by Oliver Sacks
*reformat home computer in order to get rid of viruses, slowing etc. Oh how I do not want to do this

May someone (God? the universal existentialist aura? THE force? whatever?) bless me to feel good about what I actually get done this spring break.

All too yellow urinals

I frequent a restroom close to my office and without fail I flush three or four urinals after or while using my urinal--I can pee and flush. How do men in good conscience leave that yellow stuff for the next guy?



I mean come on guys! How hard is it? We don't even have to sit down; all we have to do is unzip and stand there. The damn flusher lever is right there staring at us—one fling of a hand and the movement toward the sink and it’s all done.

Maybe it’s because men wants to pee and run without washing his hands, but most men don’t strike me as germaphobes. Please help me understand. In the meantime I will continue to befuddle the gentleman washing his hands while I bop from side to side flushing every urinal in reach. The last thing I want to do is smell the urine of the last guy there; the only thing worse is when all the urinals are occupied but one and I must stand right next to some stranger urinating. Certainly women have it tough but at least they have the stall wall to provide some distance.

Women may envy the quick pee, especially at concerts and sporting events, but as you can see the urinal poses many a problem and I haven't even mentioned the dangers of the drip or the unintended splash.

p.s. I happened upon this image--maybe this would do the trick to ease my urinal discomfort.

Double NUTS: a 10k at 17 degrees

I was unable to stay away from the NUTS (Northern Utah Training Series--great acronym, eh?) 10k this past Saturday. It was more NUTS than most of these races as it was 17 degrees (instead of 24 degrees for the 5k) at the start of the race with a fair bit of wind. I can only remember one race which was colder: A national TAC race in Cincinnati—6 below zero. I wasn’t planning to run Saturday but then last week I accidentally ran 8 miles (6.2 of them about as hard as I could go) and the hip felt fine so I thought what the hell. My hip didn’t fair as well in the race even though I was only about 1:30 faster than my practice—granted it was a much tougher course with about 2 miles of hills and much much colder.

Even with the cold, it was psychologically an appealing race. Within the first block or two I dropped back to about 25th place. Throughout the first mile, which is all uphill, I slowly pasted 6 or 7 runners ending up with a 6:35 (not bad for an all uphill mile). Through mile two and three I pretty much stayed in about the same position with a group of 5 or 6 runners right in front of me. From mile three on (this is where the downhill starts) I slowly picked off the entire group and then focused on putting distance between me and them (the next runners ahead of me were a good half mile ahead). The downhill miles were faster (6:13, 6:16, 6:05). I snuck a peek behind me on the last corner: one guy remaining from the small group but he was about 15 seconds back. I refocused on my form for the last stretch, trying to hold it together as the pain increased. Just after the 6 mile mark a “fan” said, “Great job guys.” Oops, I immediately realized that the guy behind me had closed in. I tried to pick it up but to no avail—he passed me just a few yards from the finish. That was the only psychological downer but it didn’t dampen my spirits too much as I wound up first in my age division, 13th overall out of a several hundred runners, just under my goal time of 40 minutes, and first place in the series for the rugged 35-39 year olds.

Not the sub 35 I routinely and effortlessly ran as teenager and not the sub 38 I could have run last year but not bad for my higher age and low amount of training. We’ll see how the hip recovers—it’s mighty tight right now. And we’ll see if I can be a so-so runner and still enjoy it. I think I can learn to enjoy running for age division places instead of overall places, but unsure that I can avoid dumb decisions (e.g. ruining stomach with anti-inflammatories and prednisone, running injured, etc.) as all competition seems to make me a bit loony.

High Risk Teddy Bear Births

I had to pick up my daughter from a b-day party, not just any party but a teddy bear building b-day party at the mall. We came in on the wrong end—I don’t know the mall too well. Trying to find the stupid food court we passed a fancy jewelry—diamonds are forever kind of store, a kiosk selling some kind top for women where, for some reason, the manikins had real pointy breasts, a sporty shoe store with an athlete-on-steroids kind of ethos, and a zillion other stores one after another. The party had started off with some sort of teddy birthing experience (the teddy bear technicians wear nursing smocks, they weigh and measure the bears, and give them a name) and then finished up in the food court with cake and ice cream.

They were not hard to find (once I found the food court) as there were twelve giggly girls wearing b-day hats and holding teddy bears. Watching the party I felt a bit over-stimulated, very thankful I’d only be spending a few minutes. At one point I said to the mother, “So, you are really getting into the girl thing, going all out?” (she has two boys who are now adults; she had her 7-year old daughter with her second husband) and she replied, “Oh, this is the cheapest party we’ve done so far.” I mumbled something unintelligible while thinking about saying, “Wow, I think this one party probably equals the total amount of money we have spent on all parties for each of our three children.”

I was with my four-year old and it looked like the eating cake ritual was just getting started, so we went for a few escalator and elevator rides while we waited. Always a delight to see his pure joy at something so simple.

I finally pulled my daughter away—one more party favor to pass out as the girls finished up. Making it through the mall back to where I parked, we passed some sexy underwear store (probably Victoria Secrets but I’m not certain). An overpowering perfume smell emanated out the door which just about gagged me; as if they need additional sensorial grasps on the public. By the time I reached the car, I felt physically ill.

On the way home I asked my daughter about the party—she was so excited about the whole bear experience she could barely get all the info out. I was already nervous that she’d ask for a teddy bear building party, but I tried to empathize with her enthusiasm. Her only complaint was that the b-day girl had to do everything first: “Ok now the b-day girl gets her bear first…her teddy bear gets three outfits because she’s the b-day girl…isn’t the b-day girl’s bear so nifty with its little voice box” (my daughter thought every bear should have come with a voice box).

At this point, I couldn’t take it anymore; I felt mentally and emotionally smothered by the grinning freshly birthed bears, lingering Victoria Secret perfume, pointy manikin breasts, and spoiled children shoving in ice cream with one hand while hanging on to their new born bear with the other: ALL which, somehow, represented pure and simple joy for each of the girls, including my very own daughter.

Untranslatable words

I picked up Howard Rheingold’s They have a Word for it: A lighthearted lexicon of untranslatable words and phrases over x-mas break as I was preparing for my Language and Society course. It’s not so lighthearted, at least in premise: Rheingold subscribes to the Whorfian linguistic claim that language causes us to feel and think differently and therefore sees his book as a way of introducing foreign words into our vocabulary which will change the American worldview and offer up new possibilities as we negotiate relationships, love, spirituality, and technology. Here are a few words I think we ought to start using, and, as Rheingold asserts, let’s just start using them even if you aren’t quite sure how to use the word or pronounce it—native speakers will be grateful either way.

Ho’oponopono (Hawaiian) a social mechanism for healing wronged parties where the offended sit down until the issue is set right. It could come to symbolize a powerful covenant, going beyond mere “family discussion” or “therapy.”

Tingo (Pacuense, Easter Island—rhymes with bingo) to take all the objects one desires from the house of a friend. I like this because we do not have a word that means borrowing with a positive connotation. Personally, I like it when people borrow something from me: it’s kind of a social glue which tells me they trust me enough to ask and which then allows me to ask them for something later on. I hate it when I see everyone with their own snow blower, sander, miter saw, leaf blower, rototiller, etc. Why can’t we all buy one each and then share? We only use these items a few times a year—such a waste.

Gemutlich (German—gem-OOHT-lick with a hard “g”) cozy, snug familial situation usually in a living room. That just nails it for me. Although not too often, my family has a gemutlich ever now and again, sometimes when we do a family cheer (not sure how this tradition started), frequently when we all snuggle up to watch a good film, and when (quite infrequently) we have a group hug.



Aware (Japanese—ah-WAH-ray) ephemeral beauty. This would, of course, counter the western/US notion of beauty which seems so often tied to grandiose, stable, overpowering. Using this term we could, as Rheingold, argues cultivate a bittersweet aesthetic emotion for the transient. I think of the Art of Andy Goldsworthy, not necessarily the photographs of his work, but encountering his work al natural, in decay.

And, finally, just for fun:

Tartle (Scottish) This is when you are in the embarrassing situation of conversing with someone you have been introduced to but can’t remember their name. This is a good one since I often find myself in this situation and, more importantly, because it’s fun to say especially as a dig: “Don’t worry old boy, we all tartle at some point.”

Going NUTS

I ran the N.U.T.S. 5k (and it was nuts to be out there in the 24 degree icy weather) which stands for Northern Utah Training Series—a big series (5k, 10k, 15k, and ½ marathon) used as training for a marathon. I’m only running the 5k. Still, while there I did the following:

*Ran into two people from the past both of whom did not recognize me nor know my name. I forgive the first, a woman I ran with in high school, but not the second, a woman from our past neighborhood whom I’ve run into a ½ a dozen times in the last 5 years. It seems I’m very forgettable.

*Ran what seemed like an eternity first mile for a 5k—all steep uphill, slick with snow, and cold as hell—in 6:45

*Ingested 5 ½ donut chunks, 4 ½ bagel pieces, 2 glasses of Gatorade, and 8 orange slices (i.e. enough to make-up for any calories lost during the race which was my only real goal)

*Completed the 5k in one of my slowest 5k times on record, 19:40, right behind the overall female winner: Results

*Ran without stressing about competing—a glimpse of my future non-competitive running life? I hope so.

"Hold Up," CBS Sunday Morning connection

Nancy Giles is the name of the actress in "Hold Up." I remember hearing her accuse Bush of Racism after New Orleans:
clip

Sundance Shorts

I've been checking out a Sundance short each day. Some interesting and bizarre stuff. It seems like there are more available online this year. Either way it's my only Sundance experience as I'm too busy with work and remodeling.

Sundance shorts

So, far I enjoyed "Hold up" the most. It starts off funny and ends with an embarrassed kind of sadness. Plus I recognized the store clerk--she's the woman who does commentaries on CBS Saturday Morning. Speaking of CBS SM, hearing Charles Osgood on a Sunday morning gives me great comfort for some reason. I just like starting out my Sunday's that way. And I always get a kick out of Bill Geist.

We're almost done

Things we’ve done in preparation for new kitchen cabinets and flooring:

1. at least 8 hours at Home Depot deciding on the layout
2. remove old cabinets, some a few weeks ago and the rest yesterday
3. remove sink, water purification system and disposal; drop very heavy cast iron sink on little pinky finger
4. tear out ceiling getting sheet rock dust in eyes, hair and shirt
5. replace kitchen valves under sink to hot, cold, and dishwasher
6. put new kitchen valves on, but forget to use plumber’s tape; remove valves again and re-do with tape while cussing
7. pull out two layers of old linoleum
8. paint where walls will still show (all wife)
9. paint ceiling (all wife—what can I say? She’s a much better painter than me.)
10. rewire kitchen for canned lights and undercounter lights—wife’s design, dad’s help
11. rewire outlet under sink so we can move the dishwasher to the other side of the sink
12. move stove wire to other side of the room (wire cost $50 and is a bitch to manipulate)
13. hired John, our best find in years, to rough in new ceiling, sheetrock, mud, and advise on a number of details and decisions
14. I hope we haven’t forgotten anything—the new cabinets are here and the installers come Monday
15. p.s. purchased two cookies and one 9 buck loaf of cherry chocolate bread (I’ve never spent that much for a loaf of bread) from Great Harvest in an attempt to comfort myself in the face of spending thousands of dollars and doing last minute prep (see numbers 2, 3, 5, 6, and 7)
16. p.s.s. pulling up part of carpet downstairs and mopping up water because after shutting off the water to replace the kitchen valves, I opened it up too much—it leaked for about 8 hrs. Luckily oldest son noticed it just before we went to bed. Another 10 hrs of leaking would have been too much: no amount of delicious breads at Great Harvest would have healed me

I would have never guessed I was going to spend this much of my life remodeling: wife’s vision of our home + three kids + teacher’s pay = mucho time remodeling

Before and after pictures forthcoming

And life rolls on

A few days ago I went to a funeral, my dad’s sister. My dad isn’t really close with his family; well my dad isn’t really close, in the traditional sense of talking about feelings and confiding, with much of anyone. Not that he doesn’t care; he does which I saw at the funeral and which I receive in many ways in my own life in less overt and obvious ways.

It’s a strange experience going to a funeral or a wedding and seeing relatives one rarely sees, especially on my dad’s side of the family. I talked with a cousin I haven’t seen in over a decade even though he lives about a mile away from my parents in Hyrum. We had great fun as kids. We started camping by ourselves at age 11 or so in Devil’s Half Acre by Hyrum Dam; we “skied” to the top of Spy’ Hill many times; we killed sucker fish—great fun for young boys. My favorite memories are from the camping. I remember one night there was a teenage party up above us on the hill where there was a road. I think they yelled down at us or maybe threw rocks—it scared me but also made me more confident about facing the world on my own. I remember how we took an old cooler down there and dug it into the hillside and then later a hunter shot a huge hole in it with a shotgun. I remember how we spent hours stringing together bailing twine (small twine that binds up bails of hay) for hammocks. We were going to sleep in them. Unfortunately the twine slipped, opening up uncomfortable holes. I remember (and almost all of these ideas were his) how we built an Indian sweat lodge: we’d heat up rocks red hot in the fire, then take them into our lodge (made of tarps and logs) pouring water and sweating it up till late at night. Jeff often made outlandish pronouncements: “I’m going to strip down and sweat it out all night.” He was always, and still is it seems, a bit of a braggart, a storyteller, but in a nice way, not in your face. I don’t remember Jeff ever getting in a fight; he didn’t want trouble and could control his anger and use humor to diffuse a situation.

But now I only know scattered details about the last 20 years of his life, mostly the gossipy kind, details picked up along the way. I know he had to get married; I know his wife embezzled some money and went to jail; I know they had two kids and that they later divorced; I know he remarried; I know he was thinking of majoring in psychology and, then, for whatever reason stopped. That’s all I knew before we talked and I still don’t know much. It’s strange to realize half his life—marriages, divorces, pain, children, different jobs, joy—has gone by without me. I wasn’t part of it. We had a close friendship for years but… Where did it go? Where is it? What does it now mean?

Talking to him, I didn’t feel completely at ease. His face and body seemed so big; he seemed like a different person even though he’s not overweight. I guess he doesn’t match the young cousin I knew and there’s no way to recover that. We could probably spend hours together but it would, of course, never work.

To a lesser degree, I feel this sense of loss about many of the relative there: crazy (in a good way) Aunt June; David (a cousin) who always seemed older than he was; Aunt Carolyn who'd suffered from many ailments her whole life and had now passed on; Sheri who was run over (the side of her head) by her dad's own truck; Aunt Pauline (my dad still hates lima beans because she forced him to eat some as a kid); Lennis, my uncle, and owner of our campground and the bailing twine…

At one point we did get together frequently on this side of the family. My Grandmother Christy (short for Christiansen so the grandkids could pronounce it) held it all together. We’d have Christmas at her house: each year we would drag her fake fireplace mantel down the steep stairs of her 100 year old home, then she’d hang little tree ornament presents for each of us. Did we pretend for her? Probably a bit. When Grandma Christy died we pretty much stopped having any family parties. I know my dad’s sisters stayed in touch but my dad never got together or checked up on them by phone. My mother, though, has stayed in contact with my dad’s sisters. Seems some women, certainly Cache Valley women, feel not only responsible for their own family ties but also for their husbands’.

And, so, life rolls on with or without the friendships or connections of the past; a few years, a decade, a lifetime, births, weddings, accidents, sickness, agony, anger, deaths…

Top 10 reasons why I can't get my blog up (to date)

10. Unsure of my presence in the blogosphere

9. A quickie entry won’t due: I need 40 minutes to do it right

8. I keep spending time with other blogs rather than mine

7. Nervous about unexpected intruders

6. Overwhelmed with numerous New Year’s resolutions that are already in the shitter

5. All my extra energy is spent on maintaining some sense of order to the beginning of the semester

4. Performance anxiety after the long break

3. January/winter blues and dysfunction

2. Fear of commitment to any particular individual idea

1. Other blogs seem so much bigger and better

Cousins invading my blogosphere

While I haven't been writing or reading many blogs, I've had a number of surprising blog experiences and connections of late. First, Howard Dully (discussed below), then Norene from San Francisco commented on my death entry--she has a fascinating blog with a very specific purpose, as she says, "what if every single person devoted 5% of our time and energy to being a better person and creating a better world." She takes on the quotidian tasks of how she simplified her breakfast routine. Then my cousin's husband, one I rarely see and haven't spoken to much over the past few years, posted a comment about my discussion of the Harper's article "Jesus without the miracles."

None of this is that amazing but it got me thinking about blogs, technology, and public writing. First, I'm struck, as mentioned in another post, about the truly public nature of a blog. This reminds me of John Trimbur's (a composition scholar) focus on the circulation of writing. Clearly circulation matters, but often the traditional circulation of our writing is predictable, foreseeable, and limited. Blogs introduce a number of variables. For one blogs seem (and I know this might get overstated at times) to level the playing field a bit as with Dully's comment on my blog--the creator of a radio essay takes notice, albeit a small one, of a nobody like me writing about listening to his essay. Two blogs can surprise: I would have never guessed in a million years that my cousin's husband would not only find and post a comment on my blog but would have actually read the same article I was discussing. We would have never discussed this article and now we will probably talk more at the next family gathering. Still, I probably wouldn't have gotten too excited about all this, if a couple of days later (I believe they worked independently :) another cousin, Shane, from the same family posted a comment to a post I wrote back in August called "Anarchists in Cache Valley?"

And this is where it gets interesting. In Shane's words, "I was doing a blog search for anarchists in Denver the other day and imagine my surprise to find this--and then to find out that I was the Cache Valley anarchist!" When I read the reply, I immediately worried about what I had said about my cousin: had I been rude or dismissive; had I exaggerated? I truly felt caught with my pants down. I'd just never, however naively, thought about my cousin reading my blog. Maybe, then, this is much ado about nothing: this strange blog communication is merely the result of my inabilities to appropriately understand the rhetorical situation of my blog. But the circulation of a blog is unique. On one level, most of my blog readers are colleagues, it's just like any old piece of writing I might share with co-workers or friends. Except I would never have shared this kind of writing with colleagues, friends, or family. There was not technology or genre to support this kind of activity. Further, the reader has more ability to control the circulation of the text. Of course we control circulation as we buy a magazine, but again where else does the reader have control over access to this kind of personal, ranting, observational type writing? Where else can readers easily seek out some average Fred and Freda talking about their lives and thoughts?

I'm not satisfied with my ability to get at the core of this and I'm confident someone else has articulated it much better. But as I'm engaged with this kind of writing, I still hit the "publish post" button, warts and all. Having been found out, as it were, I wonder if I will start to reign in my writing a bit. I wonder how I'd feel if an old girlfriend or particular family members stumbled onto my blog. And I've wondered about bloggers with older kids (Mega?)--will I want my children reading my blog? Not really. I guess I could then turn to limiting access but then that feels so unbloglike. BTW my cousin's anarchist blog is engagingly brave and honest though the blue font is tough to read and there are no dates on the posts (maybe the latter is intended--he is an anarchist)--wonder if he ever imagined I'd be reading and critiquing his blog.

one positive

Howard Dully commented on my post about his NPR piece on ice pick labotomies (see November 17th blog). Dully has a blog about his life story and it looks like he hopes to publish a book. While Dully didn't say much about my response to his story, I still like the idea that he found it. Without the blogosphere, I can't imagine such a connection being made.

Guess I couldn't end on such a downer (see last post).

Unfocused Breaks

I so badly want to be an optimist at this time—hell I just finished a two week break—but I struggle. I struggle each year as the looming semester comes at me. All the stuff I thought I would do is still piled on my desk or, worse, still in a bag on the floor in a corner. Certainly part of the issue is that stuff comes up, important stuff, stuff I haven’t made time for during the semester: taking kids to movies (saw Narnia and King Kong at the theatre and rented War of the Worlds); remodeling kitchen and downstairs bedroom; helping a friend with electrical remodeling; card playing with family; organizing garage and books (well some of my books). But the central issue isn’t this “other” stuff but my inability to focus unless I have a deadline right in front of me. Crap, I’ve been avoiding my blog because of these very pessimistic and depressing words I’m compelled to write. I would much rather happily revel in sleeping in, hanging out, and watching TV like many of my blogger buddies, but I just can’t. I guess I’m cursed to half-heartedly enjoy the break while worrying about what I’m not doing, even though I still don’t get much done which then necessitates an unproductive panic mode a few days before the end of the break.

A friend pointed out that my blog was depressing and, at least for today, I’d have to agree.

Reading from the stacks

Speaking of reading (see Unhip) I finally got some done today after many holiday break setbacks: remodeling kitchen, stomach flu, remodeling kitchen, family get-togethers, remodeling kitchen, and, you guessed it, remodeling kitchen. I read several articles for my upcoming class on language in society and the intro and first few pages from Tannen's You just don't understand; I started Cormac McCarthy's The Crossing(I packed this book without reading a page—I may have read the first paragraph a few times—all through the Uinta mts) which I'm excited to read: my one fiction indulgence of the break and I know I will enjoy it as I loved All the Pretty Horses and the first few pages have already created a real sense, the kind that immediately takes hold in one's mind, of rugged ranch life; and, after weeks of it staring me in the face, I finished "Jesus without the miracles" by Erik Reece in December's Harper's.

I knew I needed to read this article and I'm glad I did as it brought together many ideas I've bumped up against and thought about: the Gospel of Thomas which focuses on Jesus as a philosopher and mystic rather than his miracles and godliness; Jefferson's Bible which cut out the miracles, resurrection and such--I didn't know about his redaction but was aware of the oversimplification many Christians make by asserting that we need to return to the faith and belief in God of the Founding Fathers; “eastern” feel of early Christianity; Elaine Pagel’s work with the Gnostic gospels. Of course Reece, who blames organized religion, in part, for he father's suicide, contends that we must choose the philosopher Jesus of this world, the Jesus of Thomas and the Jesus and America (rather than of Hamilton) of Jefferson. He ends the article by inverting Pascal's famous wager: we should not believe in "heaven because we have nothing to lose but rather [...] we should believe first in the world, because in losing it we may lose everything." In short, important stuff for reinventing Christianity and my own faith.

I guess I better go check on the kids. I’m supposed to be watching them but I couldn’t pass up these few quiet hours even if I wasn’t exactly sure where they were—surely they’re ok and certainly their lives will be enriched by the reading I’ve finally done. Remaining on the stacks: to finish--Jared Diamond’s Collapse: How societies choose to fail or succeed, David Quammen’s Monster’s of God, Ahmed’s A border passage, Nafisi’s Reading Lolita in Tehran, several articles in Harper’s; to start—Moore’s The stupidest angel, Cunningham’s The hours, and one of the latest books by David Sedaris. I think there are several more I started and/or was going to start but I believe my wife has slowly worked them out of the stacks onto shelves, possibly forever lost to my reading life.

The weight of death

I’ve been obsessing a bit about my weight lately. As I mentioned in another blog, I’ve gained weight—about 7lbs—for the first time in my life. Driving to work the other day, I realized my dread is not really about the weight, nor about my running injuries and change of exercise. It’s about—and sorry to get heavy—death. Gaining weight symbolically represents my frailty, my inevitable spiral to old age and sickness. I guess I’ve mostly avoided it till now. I was relating this to a colleague and she countered “I’ve never worried about my own death, only the death of others.” I quickly replied, “And how old are you?” The answer: “23.” Well, talk to me in 15. But then again maybe it’s a gendered obsession. Mulling over all this, I was reminded of the great line from Moonstruck when Rose Castorini, played elegantly by Olympia Dukakis, asks a male friend, “Why do men cheat?” (she’s trying to figure out her husband) and he replies, “Because they are afraid of death.” I didn’t really get that line the first three or four viewings, but this last time (I caught the final 30 minutes on TV last Saturday) it cut to the core.

An unrelated note: I'm hoping for a reply or two from my fellow teachers out there on the post below. I figure I have at least 25 years of teaching ahead of me and I need to create some sort of emotional scaffolding in which to give it meaning, i.e., I'm curious how you all negotiate the teacher life.

A teaching affair

Today is most likely my very last day teaching humanities 1100, a course I’ve put hour upon hour preparing, rethinking, restrategizing, hoping to engage students’ minds. My pedagogical creativity will be gone, only faint nostalgia. Sure it will remain in my head but without future students awaiting the arguments, the evidence, the connections . . . who really cares about the carefully crafted rhetorical parallels between Patton’s address to the 3rd army, King Harry’s St Crispin Day’s speech, and Lt. Col. Kilgore’s “I love the smell of napalm in the morning”?

Teaching: A series of intensely personal encounters; all along you know they won’t last but still you both furtively and openly grasp at each soul in your class. You obsess, you see their faces before you finally sleep, you plan every little detail of the perfect evening. Later, after it’s all over you pass a familiar face between buildings AD and TB, your eyes avert—it’s too much, too much familiarity in an unfamiliar context, to see one another again. On another day, a different devotee, your eyes meet: you acknowledge the past relationship—“Hello”—but you can’t recall when you embraced this student’s ideas, nor even if it was 1010, 2030, or 1050.

How are you?
Fine.
How’s the semester going?
Busy.
Good luck at the U.

The old ardor isn’t there; you both know it’s over, the meaning can’t be resuscitated. One more face in the long line of adulterous affairs.

Today the campus seems mined with remembrances of relationships ended, but also new unfamiliar and unaware conquests I will, I must, I’m required to make.

My Odyssian Snow Journey

I left work at 4:30; I arrived home sometime after 9pm.

After spending an hour on I-215 (I’d still not made it to I-15) I decided to get off the last I-215 exit into Rose Park and then head back to the SL library to catch Scott Abbott’s presentation on the rhetoric of war. I had thought of sticking around for it earlier but a headache pushed me home. Bad idea. From this point on in my journey I battled to keep it together, to believe I could salvage my evening.

**************

Ok, I will just get off here, then call Alison and let her know I won’t be … shit, I forgot my cell phone. First time since I bought the damn thing. That’s all right, I will stop at that 7-Eleven up the road, the same one I stopped at 6 years ago when my car overheated on the way home from teaching a night class as an adjunct. Still here and there’s the phone. Amazing anyone really uses these things anymore. One quarter in, dial, it’s wants another, some guy answers: “No this isn’t the Christiansens.” Ok, that didn’t work. Maybe I need to dial 801, one quarter then another, same guy answers: “shit!” It’s alright; I’m ok. I will check my cell phone number—had them for few months, but I’m terrible with numbers and I never have to dial my number or my wife’s as hers is saved on my phone…. Son of a bitch: 682 not 681. Fine, two more quarters left. It works though Ali ain’t too happy I won’t be home soon.

This evening is going to be OK; I’ve wasted an hr but I was listening to NPR and I didn’t wreck. I’ll zip down to North Temple and hit the Red Iguana for dinner—we were introduced to the multiple moles last week, yummy. No zipping, as roads suck but I travel the 3 miles in about 20 minutes—man I gotta pee. Great meal and a coffee at RI, graded a pile of assignments while waiting, noticed the abundant Frida Kahlo art in the restaurant. Note to self: need to finish Frida as it is due at Hollywood tomorrow night. Note to self #2: need to request one of these nice little cubby hole dining areas back by the bathrooms next time I come. Library here I come.

Looks like I might be late so I try a little zipping. Not a good idea. Car in front of me brakes, there’s no way I will stop in time. I look in the right rear mirror; there’s a car close but probably it can tape the brakes and avoid me if I change lanes. No time—literally like a second—to ponder: I plow over just missing the car in front of me and getting a honk from the car in the next lane. Accident avoided. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck that would have really ruined my evening.

5 to 7, I make it to the library and there’s actually a park right by west entrance—sweet, this evening is going to be ok. I find out where the gig is, 4th floor, go up, take another potty break—coffee goes right through me. I see the room where it must be but no Scott and only a couple of people standing about. This ain’t good. I see Diana Hirschi—she sent me the email about the event—the Quaker war protester. She says it’s been cancelled: the storm which brought me here has prevented Scott from making it—one hour to get from Orem to American fork so he turned around. That’s OK, I wanted to check out the used books they sale in the library story. I head down to the main floor but the store that was just open is now closed. OK, I’m getting a bit pissed. Are the gods against me? I’ve now spent about 2hrs driving and 15 bucks without accomplishing much. It’s ok Ron: we have bags of work,--humanities’ reflection files—and my computer (yippee!) outside in the car. Trudge out, thankful I had a close park, then go back up to the 4th floor: I want to enjoy the view as I check my email and do some blogging. Sit down, get out comp…son of bitch, computer is like roasting hot. What the F… Ok, if my computer is fried—it does smell a bit—I’m like going to fucking freak out. It’s ok. Let’s go plug it in (battery light is on) and see if it’s ok. Holy mother of god—no power cord, I left it at work. Shit, Shit, shit—I needed the comfort of email of blogging, some comfort, PLEASE!!! Anything!*%

In the end I grade 2/3s of my reflection files—maybe it’s better that I couldn’t waste my time emailing and worrying about the ensuing summer contract vote. By damn I have accomplished two things: engulfed wonderfully spicy yellow mole dish and graded 15 reflection file portfolios.

***************

I wonder if my adventures will continue, but it’s a quick ride home and for a bonus (I just realized there’s a KCPW station at 105. something that I can pick up all the way into Layton especially when 90.1 has switched to jazz) I catch some quirky stories about anorexia and money during my drive and I actually hit 60 mph.

Thank God there are not suitors taking over my household and lusting after my wife. If so I might just turn around and go back to work.

having fun with sound files

Probably old news to many, esp Signifying Nothing, but we've been messing around with sound files. Found this nifty website Wavcentral
I was actually reading blogs but my 4-year old climbed up on me (he is very physical) and so I thought I'd help him understand the Internet a bit. I asked him to tell me something he liked and we could look it up; he replied, "I don't know what you mean." So, I showed him some images of cats, then he decided he wanted to look up images of Chewbacca from Star Wars finally landing on Wavecentral where we listened to Chewwies' growl. Once we found the site we looked up a number of movie lines. One that my son is now repeating over and over is Dinero's "Are you talking to me?" from Taxi Driver. This has been an oft-repeated phrase in our family (Seinfeld, Lion King, etc.)--now we have the real mccoy in our family speech. But I don't think I will let my 4-year old listen/ watch much else of Taxi Driver.

I'm thinking of using sound files in my teaching. A few weeks ago I hooked up an old set of computer speakers to my laptop in order play an interview--it was quite easy but I wish I had a real compact set to carry around. Might be interesting to use sound files to demonstrate rhetorical appeals and then, of course, to discuss the differences between writing and speech.

an evening of conscience

Homero Aridjis (poet), Terry Tempest Williams, Sebastiao Salgado (photos currently at the Leonardo in SLC), and the SLC Jazz Orchestra. Through most of the evening Salgado's Exodus photos accompanied the music and speakers. TTW spoke about her month in Rwanda. Again I was embarrassed for myself and my country--what a futile waste of life, of children, of millions. And to think, with all due respect for the victims, of the money, support, and anger created by a relatively few American deaths during 9/11. I'm afraid much of our outrage at 9/11 has much more to do with genetic encoded survival instincts than with charity or empathy. If it were about true charity we would have immediately restructured our way of life and utilized the money and resources now in Iraq and Afganistan in Rwanda; if it were true we would do it again right now in Darfur (I wasn't even sure how to spell it--pathetic). But, I did not leave feeling helpless.

The beauty of the music, images, and words gave me much hope. The event ended with Salgado's new work entitled Genesis--intriguing and eerie black and white photos of natural landscapes and its inhabitants. Some of the most stunning photos were of penguins in the Antartica. The sheer fecundity in this seeming barren land pushed me dangerously close to hope and faith: if this magnitude of beauty is possible then we will, ultimately, be elevated out of our selfishness and ethnocentrism by pure natural force.

Run for the Turkey

I hadn't exercised for about 6 weeks (probably my longest hiatus in 5 years) but was bound and determined to get some exercise during the short Thanksgiving week. I took my mt bike for a 50 min spin--felt great, wasn't sore, "hey, maybe I haven't lost too much." Then before the Thanksgiving feast I decided to hike Adam's Canyon to the waterfall. First mistake was to believe I would merely "hike" it. I wound up running about 70% of it and all of the downhill--today legs are toast, stairs becoming major impediments to safe descent. Now I'm too sore to exercise so there go my plans to get in a lot of workouts over the break (of course it's snowing today anyways); only benefit was that I was able to stuff myself with more turkey, cranberries, and pie as my workout gave me the deep down hungry feel. Last year in November I won a race and the prize was a 20lb turkey; this year I run once in order to plate up a few more scraps of turkey.

I wonder if I can will myself to exercise on a consistent basis over the next 40 years or so without some major goal (I've given up on running ultramarathons and even 5Ks--too many injuries, too much time, too much damage to overall health). I'm simply amazed at those who live the good life (exercising, reading, writing, eating healthy) without any huge goal to propel them. Just a few months ago I could have put in two hours on my indoor bike knowing it would prepare me for the spring running season; today I couldn't make it ten minutes. Motivation is a curious thing.

Ice-pick lobotomy

Recently I've had a number of riveting experiences with NPR. On Monday I was relieved, excited even elated to hear Steven Mintz, author of Huck's Raft (a comprehensive history of American childhood) insist that we need to give ourkids more freedom to explore, make mistakes, and work out differences if we want help them transition into responsible adults. Last week I heard a great little piece on language I will use next semester when I teach Melissa's "Language and Society" course: the impact of using insurgent vs. terrorist in Iraq. Then yesterday I ate my lunch in my car, nice warm sunning coming through the front window, as I listened to Frabrizio interview Doug Peacock author of Walking it off, friend of Ed Abbey, and the guy Abbey based his character Hayduke off of in The Monkey wrench gang; fascinating to find out Abbey used his Doug's green beret skills to do some real monkey wrenching.

But then yesterday a radio essay by Howard Dully blew me away (see his photo to the left). A harrowing tale of Dully finally coming to terms with the ice-pick lobotomy (two ice-picks shoved through the eye sockets into the frontal lob) he received at age 12. The story was so intense I forgot that I was driving; I winced; I held back tears; I was flabbergasted by the audacity of Dr. Walter Freeman who performed 223 of lobotomies in a one 2-week period, 2500 over his "career," and once, to impress the doctors and students of the simplicity of the procedure, he shoved both ice-picks in at once.

Dully comes to terms with his own lobotomy by interviewing other survivors and their families. Near the end of his journey he gains access to Freeman's medical records, hoping to find out why this was done to him as a boy. Here he finds a picture of himself with (incredibly) the ice-picks in. This picture and the info from the medical records helps him to at last confront his father--it's an amazingly complex riddled with ambiguity conversation.

I must confess

Can a real English major not particularly enjoy poetry all that much?
Not like the packed-in meaning,
the laborious pained re-re-re-re-reading?
I thought someday I could
but I can’t: can’t will the desire into being,
can’t fake the literary orgasm.

But give me 800 pages of Quammen
and island biogeography and I’m in
heaven, no faking necessary—ecstatically
re-reading, marking up, eating it up.


I wrote this pathetic verse-like string of words in the back of Random Symmetries: The collected poems of Tom Andrews. We're reading it for my book club this weekend and I haven't made much progress. Of course I feel a bit of pressure since the only other English guy is my friend who chose the book: "So, Ron, you are an English guy--what the hell does this mean?" As If I would know. I don't do poetry that well, never have. It's not that I can't appreciate a poem but I'm not drawn to its intense-every-word-counts style.

Andrews does have some nice one-liners.

In "A language of Hemophilia": "the sun will nickel and dime you to death" and "my solitude can lick your solitude any day of the week"

In "When comfort arrives": "Death is no terrible height/ you peer over now and then--/ it's simple, a fine silence, rain on black/ earth" and "A time comes when you want to account for tears/ and wrong silences, when the promises/ you make to yourself/ and to others are the same promises..."

Still, I know I'm missing so much: I don't recognize the name Mandelstam, unmotivated to look up "trilliums," not sure if the ambiguous pronoun "him" is referring to Mandelstam or death, and even when I almost get a poem (a wonderful image of sun falling like grace and a boy stepping backward down a snow covered road leading to an insight that we can learn to appreaciate small quiet beauties but unfortunately have to blabber about them to make them real), like the third movement in "Praying with George Herbert...", I still can't quite make out "my sins are bright sparks in the dark of blamelessness."

I know the poetry sermons (just sent one out to my students--savor the words, read out loud, the joy will be like that slow then sudden recognition of a magic eye picture) but I'm not really a believer and doubt I ever will be.

Layered bureaucracy

What the hells up with SLCC email? Ever since they fixed stuff a few weeks ago, I've had all kinds of problems and slowing with my email. And it seems like the SLCC server is down most weekends lately--how do they expect us to teach Internet or tech enhanced courses? I'm just ranting but it seems teachers are last to know and last to have input concerning everything that makes up our work: building space, MyPage posting capabilities, technical support, room scheduling, tagging of courses in catalog.... I do believe, last I checked, we are still a TEACHING institution.

Saturday ethos

1. I'm preparing a Gospel Doctrine lesson on "Every Member a Missionary." As I'm very busy and know the tricks of the trade, I've got my GD lessons down to about 50 minutes of prep. Amazing that I feel fairly comfortable living a double life as an active LDS teacher and semi-agnostic reveler in paradox. Go figure. I feel like somekind of double agent at times--teasing out narrow-minded group think from mormon students during the week and then changing into suit (actually I don't own a suit) and tie on the weekend to preach the gospel to the faithful.

2. Reading a number of children's lit historical novels. Just finished The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle by Avi. It has a gawdawful cover (beautifuly young girl in perfectly blue dress with flowing hair on a ship) but turned out to be a good read. It's about a young girl crossing the Atlantic ocean. She's the only female on board. Eventually the once genteel girl is forced too choose between injustice and the crew: she becomes a full-fledged crew member but then is accused of murder. Just started Karen Cushman's the Midwife's apprentice, 1995 Newberry medal winner which is amazingly honest about what it took to survive as an orphan in a small village in the 1800s (sleeping in dung heaps, taunted and beaten by ruffians). I'm truly enjoying children's lit and wish there'd been as much as there is now when I was a kid. Nowadays kids have an amazing array of great literature to choose from.

3. I'm starting to feel a bit manipulated by 24. Last night I finished up episodes 13-16 of season #1. In episode 16 Jack Bauer's daughter and wife, who had spent episodes 2-14 kidnapped, were yet again found by the Drazen clan at the CTU safe house. All of the agents except one protecting them are dead so they get away in a car only to be chased. Wife zips down a hilly road in LA, then alludes chaser on side dirt road; she gets out of car to check if they are still be followed (this didn't seem like a wise choice to me); the car starts rolling down the hill with daughter inside; wife thinks daughter is dead as car explodes and then she faints later waking up with complete amnesia. Wife deserves to faint as in the last 16 hrs she's spent time looking for kidnapped daughter only to find out that the father of the other daughter is the father and is working for the Drazens; she's then kidnapped; she's later on raped in order to save her daughter from rape; then finds out CTU agent debriefing concerning the kidnapping slept with Jack while they were separated.

Point: I'd be hard pressed to explain how 24 is much different from many daytime soaps.

Summary: Hitting close to rock bottom because of manipulation, I was able to drop movie off without checking out the next 4 episodes--certainly to be the accomplishment of the weekend.

4. Must install new sink in the bathroom my wife remodeled. Wife said was merely going to remove some bright yellow wallpaper in bathroom but has now completely repainted bathroom, removed the somewhat less hideous wallpaper in kitchen, and repainted both; removing WP and painting led to dismantling bathroom sink and ultimately the impending installation. Just as with the start of the Jazz season, I know the seemingly easy sink installation will end in chaos, cussing, and loss of productive time.

Beer or Bauer?

Disclaimer: I revised this into a beautiful piece of prose (trust me) but then I lost the revisions--no heart to revise again.

The last 3-4 weeks have been a blur. I arranged for the Envision (writing textbook) authors to visit Oct. 20th and 21st and that’s like the last thing I can remember. From there I know I’ve taught classes, graded papers, and read email but it’s a big wash of work. Being so busy you’d think I’d get focused and really get my work done—but no, instead, I’ve gotten addicted to the Fox series 24.

Stephen Johnson says the complexity of its social relationships are on par with Austen or Eliot. While I agree it has complex social relationships, it’s also a bit manipulative with its cliff hanger episode endings and relentless dragging out (since it’s in real-time) of a particular conflict. And there ain’t too much deep philosophical thinking going on as the ethical dilemmas proposed (does Jack escape from custody, kidnap a co-worker and then later a waitress driving a station wagon in order to rescue his daughter and wife from terrorists because if doesn’t escape they will be killed?) aren’t really dilemmas because you always know Jack can get out of it. But never mind high minded intellectual inquiry: I’m like twitchy sickly addicted.

I just can’t get enough. On Thursday night, after spending the day in Envision workshops, I couldn’t sleep (wife and kids out of town—not enough noise) so I got up and allowed myself, thinking it was OK since I couldn’t sleep and was too tired to read, to watch one more episode (episode 2 of the first season). But, you guessed it, I watch two more episodes then watched the 4th episode Friday night and then rented episodes 5-8 Saturday. Going to the video store the next weekend, I was like a true addict: I’m just going to return this and see if my free copy of Batman (I tried to rent it for my son Friday night and it was guaranteed in stock—yippee free rental!) is in yet; Oh, I might as well just check to see if they have all the episodes of 24 so when I do have time to check them out I will know they are here (very important to comfort myself); well, maybe I’ll just carry around disc 2 while my 4-year old looks for a video: I might read the cover or something; heck, I thought, as I got to the counter to check out Batman and a Dr. Seuss movie, I’ll just have them reshelf 24 as there’s no way I have time this weekend. You know how this ends: just like the drunk who went into the bar for a glass of water on the way home. To top it off, like a truly raving idiot, I then slowly inserted the DVD right when I got home and watched all four episodes one after another, slamming them down with gusto. I’d take Jack Bauer over a beer anyday.