Nancy Giles is the name of the actress in "Hold Up." I remember hearing her accuse Bush of Racism after New Orleans:
clip
Friday, January 27, 2006
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.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
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
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
Saturday, January 21, 2006
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…
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…
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
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
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
Saturday, January 07, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
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).
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.
A friend pointed out that my blog was depressing and, at least for today, I’d have to agree.
Friday, December 23, 2005
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.
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.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, December 02, 2005
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.
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.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
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.
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.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
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.
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.
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