A great man once said, "Holy shit!" And I echo those sentiments today. Quite a strong way to start off, I know, and forgive the lack of couth and tact, but my head is unable to express my emotions any more appropriately.
There is a lot going on, both personally and professionally. It's nearly all really, really good, but it sure puts a punctuation on recent times that have leaned toward the boring and mundane. Now we're in the sheer terror portion of the year with crashing deadlines and increasing responsibilities intermingling with the promise of good things to come and the anxiety of losing some or all of your battles.
In short, life is happening. It's just life concentrated, like lemonade in the frozen can. It is so much of a good thing, you almost wish it was just a little less.
Sooner or later, my lemonade of life, (because I just can't stop beating a bad metaphor, that's why- deal with it), will be watered down again and I will be seeking some of that extra sour pucker (yes, twice in one thought- you're not doing well dealing with it).
A pendulum spends so little time in the happy medium on its way to its extreme, yes? Yes. And like a pendulum, I tend to get a little queasy with repetitive motions. Back and forth... back and puke.
I don't know how I used to swing so much. Not that kind of swing, silly. On the swing set. As a kid. Jeez. You're sick. I like you.
My summer days as a child we often spent swinging. Sometimes for hours. My mom would even get tired of me and put me out of the house, (daily). She knew I wouldn't go far, the swing set was right there. I would swing, and sing. Because I wanted people to think I was a girl? I don't know. I was five. I hadn't savored the lemonade of li... oh, forget it.
I don't want to go back to being five, swings or no. I like where I am and what I am doing. And if you're gonna have to drink lemonade, (put your fist down, I'm almost done), it's nice when you like the flavor and it's not that pink lemonade mango chutney, guava, passion fruit shit they serve at fast food restaurants.
I like my lemonade to burn a little.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
The Evansville Chroincles Pt. 2
Dear Nissan,
How much extra would it have cost per car to put an armrest in the Versa?
Sincerely,
My Right Arm
____________________________________________________________
What a terrible little shitbox the Nissan Versa is. Although it does have a strong parking brake, so lurid slides are totally doable and very fun.
It has surprising acceleration off the line, but the harder you push the pedal the acceleration slows and all the energy goes into making noise.
There is a flap on the dashboard that opens to expose a storage compartment that's isn't big enough to get my hand into. So if I did store something in it, I could never get it out. Brilliant. These are the people building cars that are beating ours? Ours must be really really bad. Maybe the government will be able to do better.
The gauges are small and cramped with illegible markings. The radio is incomprehensibly difficult to discern and use sitting still, let alone while driving. I hate this car with the passion of a thousand hot suns.
The mirror control, (power mirrors but no arm rest?), is way up by my left knee below the steering wheel, requiring me to lean way forward just to reach it. Which means that when I sit back in the position I actually drive in all I can see is the rear door handle out the left side and up my right nostril out the other.
No matter, this thing is so slow there is nothing behind me.
I am trying hard to destroy this car. I am pulling the gear shifter into low gear at highway speeds to see what happens. I am braking way at the last minute. The throttle is either 100% open or 100% closed. Sometimes, for no reason, I will just pump the pedal like I am playing an old pump organ.
This car hates me, too.
There is a lesson here, kids. Don't buy cars that used to be rentals. This car is essentially destroyed after 7,000 miles. There are a lot of people like me in the world. Rental cars get abused like red headed step children.
Having breakfast at a diner themed Denny's, (no, sadly the food is terrible, just like you'd expect), I realized the same people who were in Dowagiac were sitting here in Denny's. Only this time, I was the only one not speaking with an accent. Being this close to Kentucky I at least understand why.
On to my meeting.
How much extra would it have cost per car to put an armrest in the Versa?
Sincerely,
My Right Arm
____________________________________________________________
What a terrible little shitbox the Nissan Versa is. Although it does have a strong parking brake, so lurid slides are totally doable and very fun.
It has surprising acceleration off the line, but the harder you push the pedal the acceleration slows and all the energy goes into making noise.
There is a flap on the dashboard that opens to expose a storage compartment that's isn't big enough to get my hand into. So if I did store something in it, I could never get it out. Brilliant. These are the people building cars that are beating ours? Ours must be really really bad. Maybe the government will be able to do better.
The gauges are small and cramped with illegible markings. The radio is incomprehensibly difficult to discern and use sitting still, let alone while driving. I hate this car with the passion of a thousand hot suns.
The mirror control, (power mirrors but no arm rest?), is way up by my left knee below the steering wheel, requiring me to lean way forward just to reach it. Which means that when I sit back in the position I actually drive in all I can see is the rear door handle out the left side and up my right nostril out the other.
No matter, this thing is so slow there is nothing behind me.
I am trying hard to destroy this car. I am pulling the gear shifter into low gear at highway speeds to see what happens. I am braking way at the last minute. The throttle is either 100% open or 100% closed. Sometimes, for no reason, I will just pump the pedal like I am playing an old pump organ.
This car hates me, too.
There is a lesson here, kids. Don't buy cars that used to be rentals. This car is essentially destroyed after 7,000 miles. There are a lot of people like me in the world. Rental cars get abused like red headed step children.
Having breakfast at a diner themed Denny's, (no, sadly the food is terrible, just like you'd expect), I realized the same people who were in Dowagiac were sitting here in Denny's. Only this time, I was the only one not speaking with an accent. Being this close to Kentucky I at least understand why.
On to my meeting.
The Evansville Chronicles Pt. 3
Why am I stuck in Evansville, Indiana until 6:00 when there is a 1:20 flight out? The 1:20 didn't show up when I booked the flight. And why, since the 6:00 is clearly overbooked, (no seat assignment when I checked in and coy answers on the telly), will they not let me on the earlier flight without a $50.00 fee? It would help me out, help them out, we would all be happy.
It's because I bragged, even though it was in private, that I didn't have to pay any fees. They heard me, or saw me... Not cool.
It is Noon and I went to the airport, hoping to look sad and bedraggled enough to talk my way on to the earlier flight. I forgot I was dealing with airline employees who had their souls removed during orientation. The lady behind the counter with the unfortunately pervasive psoriasis was professionally dismissive in her tone despite my well-practiced hang-dog expression.
I thought maybe I should have lied. "My wife is leaving the country through Detroit and she's ovulating and we're really trying to have a baby to save our marriage and there's this little out of the way restroom where we can meet..."
I thought better of it.
To the bar!
Ok, that lasted for two drinks and a sandwich that cost me $36.00. Wow. Evansville. At least you have free wifi. So, I will buy some earbuds and listen to the radio and watch videos. That should hold me over for the rest of the time.
__________________________________________________________
I really should have driven. This is ridiculous. In the time I psent in the Evansville airport, I literally could have driven home. My humor is truly beginning to fail. Truly.
It should be about 45 minutes until we board. If I have problems, I may go to jail, because my capacity to deal with bullshit is very diminished right now.
Wish me luck.
_________________________________________________________
11 hours after entering the Airport in Evansville, I have landed in Grand Rapids. Praise be. Had I driven, I would have been home nearly 4 hours prior. There is a lesson in there, kids, but I'm too damn tired to spell it out. Figure it out yourselves.
It's because I bragged, even though it was in private, that I didn't have to pay any fees. They heard me, or saw me... Not cool.
It is Noon and I went to the airport, hoping to look sad and bedraggled enough to talk my way on to the earlier flight. I forgot I was dealing with airline employees who had their souls removed during orientation. The lady behind the counter with the unfortunately pervasive psoriasis was professionally dismissive in her tone despite my well-practiced hang-dog expression.
I thought maybe I should have lied. "My wife is leaving the country through Detroit and she's ovulating and we're really trying to have a baby to save our marriage and there's this little out of the way restroom where we can meet..."
I thought better of it.
To the bar!
Ok, that lasted for two drinks and a sandwich that cost me $36.00. Wow. Evansville. At least you have free wifi. So, I will buy some earbuds and listen to the radio and watch videos. That should hold me over for the rest of the time.
__________________________________________________________
I really should have driven. This is ridiculous. In the time I psent in the Evansville airport, I literally could have driven home. My humor is truly beginning to fail. Truly.
It should be about 45 minutes until we board. If I have problems, I may go to jail, because my capacity to deal with bullshit is very diminished right now.
Wish me luck.
_________________________________________________________
11 hours after entering the Airport in Evansville, I have landed in Grand Rapids. Praise be. Had I driven, I would have been home nearly 4 hours prior. There is a lesson in there, kids, but I'm too damn tired to spell it out. Figure it out yourselves.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
The Evansville Chronicles Pt. 1
This quick business trip is a test to see whether I can live with the iPad on a day to day basis, typing and what not. I did not bring my computer. It is amazing how even a small laptop seems like an amazing encumbrance compared to this little wonder. I don't care if it's an iPad or some other well done tablet... these things are the future.
So far, it isn't terrible, but there is very little haptic feedback on the keyboard. But I typed this, (most of this) on the iPad, so I guess I have my answer on liveability. Since I never learned how to type properly, I am nearly equally as fast on this keyboard as I am on any tactile keyboard, so that bodes well. Is it time for an iPhone?
So, while I sit here at the airport in and amongst the old people, I thought it might be nice to jot a note or two.
I don't know why every person on this flight except for me is old. I wonder if there is a cruise or something... Maybe Obama promised them a free trip and they're all on their way to certain and completely surprising death. Obama care, from the cradle to the grave... we choose both.
Neat thought.
I just had a little iPad moment with a lady who needed some help getting online. I don't know if she was successful or not.
It looks like it could be a bumpy flight out to Detroit. There are a lot of low clouds and that typically means bumps. That doesn't bother me, especially. I am starting to wonder whether it was a good idea to watch the Air Disaster show yesterday about the small commuter plane that lost it taking off and killed a slew of people.
I am not as tough as I think I am. I also am not used to traveling alone using air travel. I have to admit, here, privately, (to my blog which people from 11 different countries read on a fairly regular basis), that I don't like to fly alone. I never have. It gives me agita.
The plane is late, and my 37 minute layover in Detroit is evaporating. I am not a happy man.
After much wringing of hands, Delta's little brother ComAir got me to Evansville, wherever that is. It seems to be nothing more than a loose conglomeration of factories and low rise warehouses. What the warehouses are housing and why they are housing it here is beyond me.
We landed after the longest descent and approach in the history of commercial aviation. Why, since we were the ONLY plane in the place we needed to do that, I don't know.
At least this plane had A/C. The first leg was flown without it. Of course on this leg the man sitting next to me had monstrously bad breath. But then the man next to me on the first flight who jammed down his Quiznos didn't have any better air coming out of him. And he snored.
Hard to tell which leg was worse, given I have eaten sausages larger than these airplanes. It was a Canadair Rinky-Poo 2000. I don't know what the 2000 stands for, but I am pretty sure there were that many people in my row alone.
Do you know, the cheap-ass airlines only serve you that ridiculous Dixie cup of pop and then throw the rest away? How is this saving money? No wonder there is a bag tax.
I took a very small bag. Just the one. You should have seen the disappointed looks on behalf of the staff; who, I believe get a perverse pleasure out of screwing passengers in the wallet.
The Internet, rather the credit card reward site through which I booked my rental car did not tell me the rental place was off-airport. No matter, the manager gave me a ride and was happy to talk. And talk. And talk.
She seemed very nice. I predict within a year she'll be smoking through a stoma, but she was kind.
My Nissan Versa is shockingly tired for its 7,000 miles. It creeks and groans like my knees. I shall have fun trying my best to destroy it. I like to induce oversteer in a car with 13" tires it's just so easy.
I only got lost once on the way to the hotel. My key didn't work upon check-in, which is only funny because I have a bit of a history with hotel keys. I could do a 20 minute bit on hotel key stories. I did a blog back in June. You can read it, here.
The hotel I blessedly non-smoking, smoking, so I have a fighting chance of living through the night.
Hunger pervades me, so I am off to forage in this strange land. I will talk more later about a store name Schnuck's which where I come from is not a nice thing to call someone.
So far, it isn't terrible, but there is very little haptic feedback on the keyboard. But I typed this, (most of this) on the iPad, so I guess I have my answer on liveability. Since I never learned how to type properly, I am nearly equally as fast on this keyboard as I am on any tactile keyboard, so that bodes well. Is it time for an iPhone?
So, while I sit here at the airport in and amongst the old people, I thought it might be nice to jot a note or two.
I don't know why every person on this flight except for me is old. I wonder if there is a cruise or something... Maybe Obama promised them a free trip and they're all on their way to certain and completely surprising death. Obama care, from the cradle to the grave... we choose both.
Neat thought.
I just had a little iPad moment with a lady who needed some help getting online. I don't know if she was successful or not.
It looks like it could be a bumpy flight out to Detroit. There are a lot of low clouds and that typically means bumps. That doesn't bother me, especially. I am starting to wonder whether it was a good idea to watch the Air Disaster show yesterday about the small commuter plane that lost it taking off and killed a slew of people.
I am not as tough as I think I am. I also am not used to traveling alone using air travel. I have to admit, here, privately, (to my blog which people from 11 different countries read on a fairly regular basis), that I don't like to fly alone. I never have. It gives me agita.
The plane is late, and my 37 minute layover in Detroit is evaporating. I am not a happy man.
After much wringing of hands, Delta's little brother ComAir got me to Evansville, wherever that is. It seems to be nothing more than a loose conglomeration of factories and low rise warehouses. What the warehouses are housing and why they are housing it here is beyond me.
We landed after the longest descent and approach in the history of commercial aviation. Why, since we were the ONLY plane in the place we needed to do that, I don't know.
At least this plane had A/C. The first leg was flown without it. Of course on this leg the man sitting next to me had monstrously bad breath. But then the man next to me on the first flight who jammed down his Quiznos didn't have any better air coming out of him. And he snored.
Hard to tell which leg was worse, given I have eaten sausages larger than these airplanes. It was a Canadair Rinky-Poo 2000. I don't know what the 2000 stands for, but I am pretty sure there were that many people in my row alone.
Do you know, the cheap-ass airlines only serve you that ridiculous Dixie cup of pop and then throw the rest away? How is this saving money? No wonder there is a bag tax.
I took a very small bag. Just the one. You should have seen the disappointed looks on behalf of the staff; who, I believe get a perverse pleasure out of screwing passengers in the wallet.
The Internet, rather the credit card reward site through which I booked my rental car did not tell me the rental place was off-airport. No matter, the manager gave me a ride and was happy to talk. And talk. And talk.
She seemed very nice. I predict within a year she'll be smoking through a stoma, but she was kind.
My Nissan Versa is shockingly tired for its 7,000 miles. It creeks and groans like my knees. I shall have fun trying my best to destroy it. I like to induce oversteer in a car with 13" tires it's just so easy.
I only got lost once on the way to the hotel. My key didn't work upon check-in, which is only funny because I have a bit of a history with hotel keys. I could do a 20 minute bit on hotel key stories. I did a blog back in June. You can read it, here.
The hotel I blessedly non-smoking, smoking, so I have a fighting chance of living through the night.
Hunger pervades me, so I am off to forage in this strange land. I will talk more later about a store name Schnuck's which where I come from is not a nice thing to call someone.
The Last Minute
Among the things I dislike, and there are a lot of things I dislike I want you to know, is waiting to the last minute, or things that come up in the last minute. The last minute always puckers my ass a little. You know what I like to be doing at the last minute? Watching other people who waited until the last minute, smug in my refinement, knowing I am better than they are. Not just better at something, better than them.
This is not my finest quality. But this blog is a window to my greasy black soul, so you get to see all of it. It's my gift to you.
Back to the last minute. I learned late on Tuesday that I needed to be in Evansville, Indiana on Friday at 9:00 am. No sweat, I'll just look into my mind's eye and its commanding knowledge of mid western geography and take a look for Evansville.
Hmmm, not by South Bend, Gary, Ft. Wayne, or even Indy. To the map!
First of all, when you type in Evansville, Indiana, it brings up a dialogue box that asks if your sure. Then another. Then finally it says something to the effect of why go there... there's nothing to see... etc.
Holy cow, it's an eight and a half hour drive. Multiplying that by two in my supercharged and highly tuned brain, that is 17 hours of driving for a two hour appointment.
My highly tuned supercharged brain over-revved a little at that moment. That's a waste. I shall have to do the unthinkable.
I shall fly.
When you wait until the last minute, things get thrown together fast and often with little care about accuracy. Not to mention it is expensive to buy a commuter ticket with 48 hours notice. Something like a thousand bucks.
Now, I have not gone to visit my parents because it would cost me a thousand bucks. And now I'm about to go to Evansville? To the phone! Susan at the office, (Susan who is used to the last minute, who is forced to make great things happen in the last minute, who can stretch time and space to make the last minute a miraculously long period of time), hits a key, some frequent flier miles change hands and voila, tickets were sent to my phone with no money coming out of my pocket.
Susan arranged a nice hotel, equidistant from the site and the airport for my convenience. I was on my own for the car, which better be clean for the $100.00 for one day I am paying. What a rip. If it's a Chevy, I may just walk.
So it all worked out. Why should I be worried about the last minute stuff?
Well, because my layover in Detroit this morning is 37 minutes, which is about how much time it takes me to type the sentence, "I'm sorry sir, your plane left without you." And on the way back, when I really want to be moving, I don't leave until 7 hours after my appointment and have a two hour layover in Detroit.
Flying there will save me time, flying home will cost me time. Ain't that the way? Of course, that's the kind of thing that happens when you wait until the last minute. You pay more, you get less and you have less fun doing it.
Among the many things I dislike, intrepid reader, is the last minute. Right now, it's moved to the top of that very long list.
Tata for now! I'll send a post card from Indiana. It will probably have corn on it.
This is not my finest quality. But this blog is a window to my greasy black soul, so you get to see all of it. It's my gift to you.
Back to the last minute. I learned late on Tuesday that I needed to be in Evansville, Indiana on Friday at 9:00 am. No sweat, I'll just look into my mind's eye and its commanding knowledge of mid western geography and take a look for Evansville.
Hmmm, not by South Bend, Gary, Ft. Wayne, or even Indy. To the map!
First of all, when you type in Evansville, Indiana, it brings up a dialogue box that asks if your sure. Then another. Then finally it says something to the effect of why go there... there's nothing to see... etc.
Holy cow, it's an eight and a half hour drive. Multiplying that by two in my supercharged and highly tuned brain, that is 17 hours of driving for a two hour appointment.
My highly tuned supercharged brain over-revved a little at that moment. That's a waste. I shall have to do the unthinkable.
I shall fly.
When you wait until the last minute, things get thrown together fast and often with little care about accuracy. Not to mention it is expensive to buy a commuter ticket with 48 hours notice. Something like a thousand bucks.
Now, I have not gone to visit my parents because it would cost me a thousand bucks. And now I'm about to go to Evansville? To the phone! Susan at the office, (Susan who is used to the last minute, who is forced to make great things happen in the last minute, who can stretch time and space to make the last minute a miraculously long period of time), hits a key, some frequent flier miles change hands and voila, tickets were sent to my phone with no money coming out of my pocket.
Susan arranged a nice hotel, equidistant from the site and the airport for my convenience. I was on my own for the car, which better be clean for the $100.00 for one day I am paying. What a rip. If it's a Chevy, I may just walk.
So it all worked out. Why should I be worried about the last minute stuff?
Well, because my layover in Detroit this morning is 37 minutes, which is about how much time it takes me to type the sentence, "I'm sorry sir, your plane left without you." And on the way back, when I really want to be moving, I don't leave until 7 hours after my appointment and have a two hour layover in Detroit.
Flying there will save me time, flying home will cost me time. Ain't that the way? Of course, that's the kind of thing that happens when you wait until the last minute. You pay more, you get less and you have less fun doing it.
Among the many things I dislike, intrepid reader, is the last minute. Right now, it's moved to the top of that very long list.
Tata for now! I'll send a post card from Indiana. It will probably have corn on it.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
The Most Grandiose of Ruminations
What a whirlwind it has been, dear reader, this last few weeks. There seems to be no end in sight as things just keep getting more hectic. It's a good kind of hectic, so in this there is no complaint. Just simply conveying the reason I haven't found the time to check in and say, "hello."
Herein however are some ruminations I have plucked out of the air in the interval; and since I have not the time to formulate anything truly worthwhile to write about, I shall simply go with these.
___________________________________________________________
There is nothing so ferocious as a "soccer mom"
We went to go see a former student play college soccer for Kalamazoo College over the weekend. What an exciting game! I had a hard time enjoying myself for some of it, as the two moms sitting behind and to my left were the Statler and Waldorf of the collegiate soccer world. Statler and Waldorf for those of you who don't remember, are the two smart-ass Muppets from the eponymous show. My favorite Muppets by far.
But I wasn't watching The Muppet Show, I was watching soccer... or trying to anyway. All that is ugly in men, (the shouting and carrying on from the sidelines), is even uglier coming from the fairer sex. It was, in a word, annoying and not a little off-putting.
Nobody could do anything right. "I'm sick of coming to these games just to watch them lose," said one to the other.
"We have a coaching problem," said the other back to the one.
And off they went making assumptions regarding the coach's ability to play the game at all, let alone coach it.
They, of course had only but one recourse, which was to coach from the stands themselves, because that is always the right tack. I am sure the girls whose mothers these were are very proud. I know I would be.
Meanwhile, we were sitting with the father of the girl who we went to see. He sat quietly and made good observations and explained some things to me about how the team is coalescing and such. He was an AYSO coach for many years. Clearly, if anyone had the right to yell, it would be him.
Instead he chose comportment. A lesson for us all.
___________________________________________________________
The Knowing Nod
I have identified the knowing nod. This is a phenomenon when in public, you and a stranger, exchange some sort of meaningful glance and give a little mutual nod as if to say, I feel you, buddy. Sometimes, if there is someone being loud or difficult, the knowing nod could be the knowing eye roll, or what have you.
Yesterday, the gas station was extremely busy in the morning. All the pumps at the big station were being used. I got out of my car as did the man next to me. Both in shirts and ties, both with little notebooks logging our mileage and the gallons of gas going into the tank. It was clear he, as I was going on a little road trip for the company.
We exchanged the knowing nod. Much was said and much camaraderie shared in that nod.
It was the nod that said, "Man, I hope people aren't idiots on the road today," or, "I have to go Eau Clare... My mother would be so proud."
___________________________________________________________
Eau No!
Speaking of Eau Clare, Michigan. Oofda. Not a pretty place. I presently sit in the burgh of Dowagiac, just outside the village of Eau Clare, which has a problem with branding. "The Village of Eau Clare" sounds so inviting, so picturesque.
No. No, it's not. A more apt moniker would be "Shitbox Speedbump", or "Don't Make Eye Contact," Michigan.
I thought it might be nice to take in a quick lunch at "The Village Inn", or "O'leary's". Some of the best meals I have eaten have been in quiet little places in quiet little towns. But something about "The Village Inn" made me think it looked like you had better be from the village if you dared step foot in there, and O'Leary's was O'closed. Not, closed for the day, or closed on Wednesday. Closed, closed. Brown paper in the windows closed.
So, McDonalds of Dowagiac it is. They have free wifi, to say noting of the local color, (which is white if you were wondering). I am sitting here in near hysterics. As I sit here looking busy, I am dividing my attention between you and the local "farm report," which consists of three old men holding court and talking to everyone who comes in. It's like a rural version of a talk show.
They are so sweet and nice to everyone and as soon as they leave, the old rumor mill cranks up.
"I hear she's been cavertn' wit ol' Hal..."
"'S'plains why my mail sometimes doesn't come 'til after dark and other days it comes at 1:30."
"D,ya hear about that accident over on 140?"
"Naw, I live off 51."
"Right. Lots of blacks over there by 51."
"Yep."
This week I have therefore seen women carry on like men at a sporting event, and old men clucking like hens at McDonald's. Call Rod Serling, I am living in an episode of his television show.
And why do people from this part of Michigan sound like they rolled here straight from the top of a hill in Tennessee yesterday? Like they were at the ol' homestead, slipped on a rock and this is where they stopped. They just picked up, dusted themselves off and started right in as though they'd always been here.
I would be concerned about one of them reading over my shoulder and seeing my writing about them, but based on my assessment of their literacy, that is as likely as a cat learning to cut hair.
No kidding, "Junior" just left. His name was Junior. He has to be a gazillion years old. I'd hate to see "Senior".
____________________________________________________________
Full Moon Fever
Full Moon Fever is the name of a great Tom Petty album, but for the purposes of this Grandiose Rumination, it is the moniker for people acting crazy and/or stupid during the full phase of the moon.
This most recent full moon being the harvest moon, it was a mean of 5000 Km closer to earth than normal. I don't know if this is the "fullest" of the full moons, but it is surely a "big" full moon. And it seemed to affect people even more than normal.
Driving has been especially dicey. As you all are well aware, (through my unceasing belly-aching), I drive a lot. I drive more than you and you and you combined. Not you, Todd. But everyone else.
I will blame it on the moon, for the only other place to put the blame would be on the failure of humanity itself, but people have been really and truly dangerously bad and inattentive drivers over the last few weeks.
I have seen it all and while I could sit and suss out specific circumstances for you in a humorous and fun way, I have not the time nor the energy to relive some of the trauma I have endured over the last few trips.
I therefore salute your passing, Waxing Gibbous moon, and welcome the Waning Gibbous and its friend the Waning Crescent moons. I hope this sets things back to normal. Whatever that is.
Herein however are some ruminations I have plucked out of the air in the interval; and since I have not the time to formulate anything truly worthwhile to write about, I shall simply go with these.
___________________________________________________________
There is nothing so ferocious as a "soccer mom"
We went to go see a former student play college soccer for Kalamazoo College over the weekend. What an exciting game! I had a hard time enjoying myself for some of it, as the two moms sitting behind and to my left were the Statler and Waldorf of the collegiate soccer world. Statler and Waldorf for those of you who don't remember, are the two smart-ass Muppets from the eponymous show. My favorite Muppets by far.
But I wasn't watching The Muppet Show, I was watching soccer... or trying to anyway. All that is ugly in men, (the shouting and carrying on from the sidelines), is even uglier coming from the fairer sex. It was, in a word, annoying and not a little off-putting.
Nobody could do anything right. "I'm sick of coming to these games just to watch them lose," said one to the other.
"We have a coaching problem," said the other back to the one.
And off they went making assumptions regarding the coach's ability to play the game at all, let alone coach it.
They, of course had only but one recourse, which was to coach from the stands themselves, because that is always the right tack. I am sure the girls whose mothers these were are very proud. I know I would be.
Meanwhile, we were sitting with the father of the girl who we went to see. He sat quietly and made good observations and explained some things to me about how the team is coalescing and such. He was an AYSO coach for many years. Clearly, if anyone had the right to yell, it would be him.
Instead he chose comportment. A lesson for us all.
___________________________________________________________
The Knowing Nod
I have identified the knowing nod. This is a phenomenon when in public, you and a stranger, exchange some sort of meaningful glance and give a little mutual nod as if to say, I feel you, buddy. Sometimes, if there is someone being loud or difficult, the knowing nod could be the knowing eye roll, or what have you.
Yesterday, the gas station was extremely busy in the morning. All the pumps at the big station were being used. I got out of my car as did the man next to me. Both in shirts and ties, both with little notebooks logging our mileage and the gallons of gas going into the tank. It was clear he, as I was going on a little road trip for the company.
We exchanged the knowing nod. Much was said and much camaraderie shared in that nod.
It was the nod that said, "Man, I hope people aren't idiots on the road today," or, "I have to go Eau Clare... My mother would be so proud."
___________________________________________________________
Eau No!
Speaking of Eau Clare, Michigan. Oofda. Not a pretty place. I presently sit in the burgh of Dowagiac, just outside the village of Eau Clare, which has a problem with branding. "The Village of Eau Clare" sounds so inviting, so picturesque.
No. No, it's not. A more apt moniker would be "Shitbox Speedbump", or "Don't Make Eye Contact," Michigan.
I thought it might be nice to take in a quick lunch at "The Village Inn", or "O'leary's". Some of the best meals I have eaten have been in quiet little places in quiet little towns. But something about "The Village Inn" made me think it looked like you had better be from the village if you dared step foot in there, and O'Leary's was O'closed. Not, closed for the day, or closed on Wednesday. Closed, closed. Brown paper in the windows closed.
So, McDonalds of Dowagiac it is. They have free wifi, to say noting of the local color, (which is white if you were wondering). I am sitting here in near hysterics. As I sit here looking busy, I am dividing my attention between you and the local "farm report," which consists of three old men holding court and talking to everyone who comes in. It's like a rural version of a talk show.
They are so sweet and nice to everyone and as soon as they leave, the old rumor mill cranks up.
"I hear she's been cavertn' wit ol' Hal..."
"'S'plains why my mail sometimes doesn't come 'til after dark and other days it comes at 1:30."
"D,ya hear about that accident over on 140?"
"Naw, I live off 51."
"Right. Lots of blacks over there by 51."
"Yep."
This week I have therefore seen women carry on like men at a sporting event, and old men clucking like hens at McDonald's. Call Rod Serling, I am living in an episode of his television show.
And why do people from this part of Michigan sound like they rolled here straight from the top of a hill in Tennessee yesterday? Like they were at the ol' homestead, slipped on a rock and this is where they stopped. They just picked up, dusted themselves off and started right in as though they'd always been here.
I would be concerned about one of them reading over my shoulder and seeing my writing about them, but based on my assessment of their literacy, that is as likely as a cat learning to cut hair.
No kidding, "Junior" just left. His name was Junior. He has to be a gazillion years old. I'd hate to see "Senior".
____________________________________________________________
Full Moon Fever
Full Moon Fever is the name of a great Tom Petty album, but for the purposes of this Grandiose Rumination, it is the moniker for people acting crazy and/or stupid during the full phase of the moon.
This most recent full moon being the harvest moon, it was a mean of 5000 Km closer to earth than normal. I don't know if this is the "fullest" of the full moons, but it is surely a "big" full moon. And it seemed to affect people even more than normal.
Driving has been especially dicey. As you all are well aware, (through my unceasing belly-aching), I drive a lot. I drive more than you and you and you combined. Not you, Todd. But everyone else.
I will blame it on the moon, for the only other place to put the blame would be on the failure of humanity itself, but people have been really and truly dangerously bad and inattentive drivers over the last few weeks.
I have seen it all and while I could sit and suss out specific circumstances for you in a humorous and fun way, I have not the time nor the energy to relive some of the trauma I have endured over the last few trips.
I therefore salute your passing, Waxing Gibbous moon, and welcome the Waning Gibbous and its friend the Waning Crescent moons. I hope this sets things back to normal. Whatever that is.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Signal to Noise
Wikipedia uses this alternate definition of signal to noise:
Signal-to-noise ratio is sometimes used informally to refer to the ratio of useful information to false or irrelevant data in a conversation or exchange. For example, in online discussion forums and other online communities, off topic posts and spam are regarded as "noise" that interferes with the "signal" of appropriate discussion.
___________________________________________________________
Multiple media outlets are the most effective way to get your message out, from what I am told. If you want something to be heard through the "noise", you need to hit all angles. The problem is, that creates more noise and more need for virtual shouting. After all, one man's signal is another's noise.
The cycle continues. Think of a high school cafeteria. One table has a loud conversation and the others need to elevate the volume of theirs just to be heard. Finally, even the normally quiet chess club is screaming like a bunch of banshees about their allergies to milk and peanuts and wondering if Bobby Fisher ever kissed a girl.
And we all lay claim to the importance and necessity of our specific message. Who is to say the chess club has less right to carry on than the cheerleaders or football team? What's more, our capacity for this method of communicating seems to be increasing. Day by day we spend more engery filtering the noise and wading through minutiae just to get to the message.
I personally feel a little overwhelmed by the situation I have put myself into. I have this blog, the occasional "Blah Blah Blog"" posts, Facebook, and now Twitter, (because apparently I feel as though the world should pay attention to what I am thinking right NOW... and NOW...). None of these outlets are employed to hawk my professional wares. For that I have Linked In and a couple others I don't even remember their names.
This all adds up to a great deal of my time spent "maintaining" these aspects of my life that didn't exist when I was younger. Hell, they didn't really exist for me prior to 2007.
Now my car has total integration of phone and text and social networking and media connection and god only knows what else. I can't hide. There is not aspect of my life that is not "connected" somehow to the noise.
And I'm an amateur. I have friends that are infinitely more savvy and connected than I. They revel in it. They will be the ones who at 60 will still be relevant. If I am still alive, I likely won't be relevant. I can see my elder self as a disenfranchised archetypal Vonnegut character, being both central to my own life and story and totally unnecessary to it at the same time.
Scary.
As I write this, the reggae song "Message to Rudy" is playing in my headphones. "Stop your messing around... better think of your future..." it implores of Rudy. Maybe Rudy was just sick and tired of it all! Perhaps we should all be messing around a little more.
I have seriously contemplated the purchase, (or time share of some sort), of a little place out of the way so I can get away. Maybe all I need to do is toss all my electronic obligations and take a nap. It's a lot cheaper, that's for sure.
I'll start tomorrow. Right now I have to post this to Facebook. And Twitter.
Signal-to-noise ratio is sometimes used informally to refer to the ratio of useful information to false or irrelevant data in a conversation or exchange. For example, in online discussion forums and other online communities, off topic posts and spam are regarded as "noise" that interferes with the "signal" of appropriate discussion.
___________________________________________________________
Multiple media outlets are the most effective way to get your message out, from what I am told. If you want something to be heard through the "noise", you need to hit all angles. The problem is, that creates more noise and more need for virtual shouting. After all, one man's signal is another's noise.
The cycle continues. Think of a high school cafeteria. One table has a loud conversation and the others need to elevate the volume of theirs just to be heard. Finally, even the normally quiet chess club is screaming like a bunch of banshees about their allergies to milk and peanuts and wondering if Bobby Fisher ever kissed a girl.
And we all lay claim to the importance and necessity of our specific message. Who is to say the chess club has less right to carry on than the cheerleaders or football team? What's more, our capacity for this method of communicating seems to be increasing. Day by day we spend more engery filtering the noise and wading through minutiae just to get to the message.
I personally feel a little overwhelmed by the situation I have put myself into. I have this blog, the occasional "Blah Blah Blog"" posts, Facebook, and now Twitter, (because apparently I feel as though the world should pay attention to what I am thinking right NOW... and NOW...). None of these outlets are employed to hawk my professional wares. For that I have Linked In and a couple others I don't even remember their names.
This all adds up to a great deal of my time spent "maintaining" these aspects of my life that didn't exist when I was younger. Hell, they didn't really exist for me prior to 2007.
Now my car has total integration of phone and text and social networking and media connection and god only knows what else. I can't hide. There is not aspect of my life that is not "connected" somehow to the noise.
And I'm an amateur. I have friends that are infinitely more savvy and connected than I. They revel in it. They will be the ones who at 60 will still be relevant. If I am still alive, I likely won't be relevant. I can see my elder self as a disenfranchised archetypal Vonnegut character, being both central to my own life and story and totally unnecessary to it at the same time.
Scary.
As I write this, the reggae song "Message to Rudy" is playing in my headphones. "Stop your messing around... better think of your future..." it implores of Rudy. Maybe Rudy was just sick and tired of it all! Perhaps we should all be messing around a little more.
I have seriously contemplated the purchase, (or time share of some sort), of a little place out of the way so I can get away. Maybe all I need to do is toss all my electronic obligations and take a nap. It's a lot cheaper, that's for sure.
I'll start tomorrow. Right now I have to post this to Facebook. And Twitter.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
A Thank You to My Teachers
My lands but haven't I been a busy beaver! I sit at my desk, head spinning, (actually spinning!), after crunching numbers and building spreadsheets and doing all sorts of comparative analysisesiss for a project I am working on. They don't give you much time to pull all this stuff together. They also don't give you a lot of information, either.
Interesting equation, that. Not much info + Not much time = X. In this case, X surely can't be an accurate and well-reasoned result. Except that it indeed, X is where the answer is and it is my X on the line if X isn't pretty much "the spot". As in X marks the... Am I being clear?
I can see smile on the face of the long suffering Mr. Hanson, my middle school math teacher as I lay all this out. Bill Uebbing and a spreadsheet that is fully 15 pages, cross-referenced, self-checking and all sorts of other things. The mathematically inept Bill Uebbing who had to be painfully guided through each and every principal of numbers no matter how basic.
I had really good teachers. Mr. Hanson was as patient and kind as they came. While I went on to learn statistics and chemistry in my later education, I owe it all to Mr. Hanson of the ALPS program at Crestwood Middle School who taught me that no matter what, I could not give up.
I am no genius, but today, I am also no dummy.
I reminisced a little about my educators this morning during a conversation I had. I realized, (as I have realized countless times before), that I had wonderful educators all throughout my school years. I remember fondly all my elementary teachers and their nurturing. I remember the great, inspiring college professors who forged my compulsory involvement in class into a love of learning. And I think of all those good and patient teachers in the puberty years.
God bless you all, especially. There is a special teachers' lounge in heaven for you, filled with bottomless coffee and all the tater tots you could ever want.
I don't really have a point other than to say in a public way, I thank all my teachers for never giving up or labeling me as stupid or not worth your time, even when I was both of those things. And if you did label me as stupid or not worth your time, thank you for having the courtesy to never let me in on the secret.
Have you thanked a teacher today? Why not?
____________________________________________________________
Next in my series of unappreciated professionals, The Janitor... No, he's not leering at you because he wants to kidnap you and wear your skin, it's because you're a slob and he has to clean up after you!
Interesting equation, that. Not much info + Not much time = X. In this case, X surely can't be an accurate and well-reasoned result. Except that it indeed, X is where the answer is and it is my X on the line if X isn't pretty much "the spot". As in X marks the... Am I being clear?
I can see smile on the face of the long suffering Mr. Hanson, my middle school math teacher as I lay all this out. Bill Uebbing and a spreadsheet that is fully 15 pages, cross-referenced, self-checking and all sorts of other things. The mathematically inept Bill Uebbing who had to be painfully guided through each and every principal of numbers no matter how basic.
I had really good teachers. Mr. Hanson was as patient and kind as they came. While I went on to learn statistics and chemistry in my later education, I owe it all to Mr. Hanson of the ALPS program at Crestwood Middle School who taught me that no matter what, I could not give up.
I am no genius, but today, I am also no dummy.
I reminisced a little about my educators this morning during a conversation I had. I realized, (as I have realized countless times before), that I had wonderful educators all throughout my school years. I remember fondly all my elementary teachers and their nurturing. I remember the great, inspiring college professors who forged my compulsory involvement in class into a love of learning. And I think of all those good and patient teachers in the puberty years.
God bless you all, especially. There is a special teachers' lounge in heaven for you, filled with bottomless coffee and all the tater tots you could ever want.
I don't really have a point other than to say in a public way, I thank all my teachers for never giving up or labeling me as stupid or not worth your time, even when I was both of those things. And if you did label me as stupid or not worth your time, thank you for having the courtesy to never let me in on the secret.
Have you thanked a teacher today? Why not?
____________________________________________________________
Next in my series of unappreciated professionals, The Janitor... No, he's not leering at you because he wants to kidnap you and wear your skin, it's because you're a slob and he has to clean up after you!
Monday, September 12, 2011
Monday Moring Miscellani
Black Marks
I managed to stay away from the computer yesterday, September 11th, 2011. I had a lot running through my mind, especially in the morning and I thought I would give it awhile to maturate a little before committing anything to the blog.
Then, church, breakfast, football, youth group and a race later on the DVR and before I knew it it was past bed time. So, no touching tribute or moving thoughts on September 11th from my blog and me.
Which I think, is fine. People much more talented and intelligent than me have weighed in ad nauseum and I don't wish to pile on. Needless to say it was an emotional day filled with though and introspection and not a few moments of misty eyes.
All of this was punctuated quite effectively by sports! God bless sports! Now, well into my 30's I can see why men and women really get into sports. It is so much better than focusing on the hand basket the world is riding straight to hell.
The politicians are going to ruin the place anyway, why not enjoy the ride blissfully drowning in beer and peanuts with our elbows sticking to a mysterious goo at the bar watching sports? The Tigers are in first place and on a tear and the Lions don't suck. These are headlines!
_____________________________________________________________
Mama, I'm Coming Home
We call it Homecoming... the first Sunday after "Summer", the vacation, (not Summer, the season), is officially over. Labor Day is the marker we use as the official end to the unofficial end of summer. Not at all confusing.
The kids are back in school, church resumes it normal schedule and classes and education begin again. This means Youth Group has begun anew. Lots of fresh faces and lots of returning faces all still sporting healthy brown tans and shorts and flip-flops.
Too soon, we will all be pasty-faced, baggy-eyed, dough boys and girls in so many layers of clothes it will be well nigh impossible to tell the two apart.
Youth group and football combine to make the death of summer, (that season Hallmark calls Autumn to mask its true purpose to reign cold death upon us), bearable. We had a great time and played games and ate nachos and shared stories of summer trips and travails.
Welcome back, FUMC youth! Here's to a great new year!
____________________________________________________________
Travelin' Man
I am traveling more again. Nothing more to say about that. It beats working for a living.
____________________________________________________________
And Finally
I have opened a Twitter account. I so far haven't had anything worth Tweeting, but it is there in case you are interested. My handle is @Bald_ego.... get it? Come check it out when you get a minute. If you are on Twitter, I would be interested in following you, as well. Let's get together, eh?
I managed to stay away from the computer yesterday, September 11th, 2011. I had a lot running through my mind, especially in the morning and I thought I would give it awhile to maturate a little before committing anything to the blog.
Then, church, breakfast, football, youth group and a race later on the DVR and before I knew it it was past bed time. So, no touching tribute or moving thoughts on September 11th from my blog and me.
Which I think, is fine. People much more talented and intelligent than me have weighed in ad nauseum and I don't wish to pile on. Needless to say it was an emotional day filled with though and introspection and not a few moments of misty eyes.
All of this was punctuated quite effectively by sports! God bless sports! Now, well into my 30's I can see why men and women really get into sports. It is so much better than focusing on the hand basket the world is riding straight to hell.
The politicians are going to ruin the place anyway, why not enjoy the ride blissfully drowning in beer and peanuts with our elbows sticking to a mysterious goo at the bar watching sports? The Tigers are in first place and on a tear and the Lions don't suck. These are headlines!
_____________________________________________________________
Mama, I'm Coming Home
We call it Homecoming... the first Sunday after "Summer", the vacation, (not Summer, the season), is officially over. Labor Day is the marker we use as the official end to the unofficial end of summer. Not at all confusing.
The kids are back in school, church resumes it normal schedule and classes and education begin again. This means Youth Group has begun anew. Lots of fresh faces and lots of returning faces all still sporting healthy brown tans and shorts and flip-flops.
Too soon, we will all be pasty-faced, baggy-eyed, dough boys and girls in so many layers of clothes it will be well nigh impossible to tell the two apart.
Youth group and football combine to make the death of summer, (that season Hallmark calls Autumn to mask its true purpose to reign cold death upon us), bearable. We had a great time and played games and ate nachos and shared stories of summer trips and travails.
Welcome back, FUMC youth! Here's to a great new year!
____________________________________________________________
Travelin' Man
I am traveling more again. Nothing more to say about that. It beats working for a living.
____________________________________________________________
And Finally
I have opened a Twitter account. I so far haven't had anything worth Tweeting, but it is there in case you are interested. My handle is @Bald_ego.... get it? Come check it out when you get a minute. If you are on Twitter, I would be interested in following you, as well. Let's get together, eh?
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Thursday Travelog and Miscelaneous Ramblings
It is nice when I come to the east side of the state to be received so warmly by my many coworkers, especially since we rarely see each other. Perhaps, on the other hand, this is why I am so warmly received. Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder. At least to a point.
Through rain soaked highways filled with distracted drivers who are unwittingly trying to kill you through apathy toward the very thing they are supposed to be doing, (namely driving), I find myself in my adopted home town for the remainder of today and all day tomorrow. The occasion? A gold outing.
Mon Dieu! you correctly exclaim. I do not golf. No, I won't be doing anything that exciting. I will be instead, working a hole. As a sponsor. For my company. Can I get a woot?
No, you are right dear astute reader. It is not woot worthy and so no woot shall be issued. I predict no woot eliciting moments tomorrow, either. The woot is moot as it were.
But I got some cool tchatchkies all golf themed with logos and such (tees, divot fixer and ball markers). I hope those go over well with the golfers cum prospective customers. Tracy, with whom I will be working asked what we do if we run out. I told her plan B is to show some leg. She said she didn't have nice legs. I told her we should hope for a high hole, since the higher the hole the less it matters. Beside that, I was talking about me.
I stopped at a place called "Giant Jersey Subs" for lunch. It is attached to a gas station. Seldom have I walked away from a meal that has been purchased from or eaten at a venue attached to a gas station feeling like it was good decision making that led me to that moment. The one exception is Fowlerville Farms, a family restaurant right off the interstate that makes honest to god fried chicken. You have to wait for it. It's worth the wait.
Unfortunately, Giant Jersey Subs has left a weight right on my chest that feels a lot like New Jersey itself is lying across me. Not good. The sub was good going in, it is just being difficult now that it's there.
What else happened? Not much. nothing, really. Just a drive across the state to work do a non-woot worthy task and a drive back. Such is the banality of existence.
_____________________________________________________________
Em continues to paint. It is going well, but taking a lot more materials than originally conceived. We both want to be done. This weekend we will make a big push. Let's hope Saturday is a good productive day.
_____________________________________________________________
Yes, I am ready for some football. Thank you for asking.
_____________________________________________________________
Through rain soaked highways filled with distracted drivers who are unwittingly trying to kill you through apathy toward the very thing they are supposed to be doing, (namely driving), I find myself in my adopted home town for the remainder of today and all day tomorrow. The occasion? A gold outing.
Mon Dieu! you correctly exclaim. I do not golf. No, I won't be doing anything that exciting. I will be instead, working a hole. As a sponsor. For my company. Can I get a woot?
No, you are right dear astute reader. It is not woot worthy and so no woot shall be issued. I predict no woot eliciting moments tomorrow, either. The woot is moot as it were.
But I got some cool tchatchkies all golf themed with logos and such (tees, divot fixer and ball markers). I hope those go over well with the golfers cum prospective customers. Tracy, with whom I will be working asked what we do if we run out. I told her plan B is to show some leg. She said she didn't have nice legs. I told her we should hope for a high hole, since the higher the hole the less it matters. Beside that, I was talking about me.
I stopped at a place called "Giant Jersey Subs" for lunch. It is attached to a gas station. Seldom have I walked away from a meal that has been purchased from or eaten at a venue attached to a gas station feeling like it was good decision making that led me to that moment. The one exception is Fowlerville Farms, a family restaurant right off the interstate that makes honest to god fried chicken. You have to wait for it. It's worth the wait.
Unfortunately, Giant Jersey Subs has left a weight right on my chest that feels a lot like New Jersey itself is lying across me. Not good. The sub was good going in, it is just being difficult now that it's there.
What else happened? Not much. nothing, really. Just a drive across the state to work do a non-woot worthy task and a drive back. Such is the banality of existence.
_____________________________________________________________
Em continues to paint. It is going well, but taking a lot more materials than originally conceived. We both want to be done. This weekend we will make a big push. Let's hope Saturday is a good productive day.
_____________________________________________________________
Yes, I am ready for some football. Thank you for asking.
_____________________________________________________________
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
A Letter From the Prophet Thornton Mellon
After my school years were past me, I would, without fail have a dream round about the beginning of a semester that I was supposed to be in school. I had mislaid my schedule, I hadn't any books and I didn't know what buildings I had to be in or when. Somewhere around mid semester, I would have a similar dream, studying for midterms and realizing there was a whole class I hadn't been attending all semester long!
Even now, 15 full years since I matriculated, (a word I only know because I matriculated), the dreams haunt me. They do not fail to visit upon me a few moments of unease as I shake the cobwebs of sleep from my head in the morning and attempt to discern the vividness of reality from my very high definition deams. Then, my knees snap as I get out of bed and I get dizzy from stretching and have to fumble for my spectacles because I can't even turn off my alarm without them and I remember just how old I am.
I look back at my college years with a great deal of fondness. It isn't probably a fully deserved fondness. In fact, if I take a minute to reflect, there were a lot of dreadful things that I went through and would never want to go through again, given the choice. But time is like an oaken barrel aging clear spirits into mellow complexity. The very passage of time has allowed me to appreciate all those difficulties. After all, they are what makes me, me. One must endure much in the course of a life.
I am sure a week or two into college, some of my former high school students are realizing that all those movies they watched where regular attendance class is but a tertiary aspect of the characters' lives, mentioned only when absolutely necessary to move the plot, (whatever plot there may be). I found myself indignant when I went to college and received syllabi festooned with attendance policies. The nerve! Don't I pay your salary? I should dictate classroom policy to you, Professor!
In reality, those attendance policies kept me honest. They were there when I needed them as a young student working it all out while I went along. And they disappeared for the most part as I moved onward through my educational journey. It turns out, those English professors know more than English. They know you need their class to graduate and know you don't want to be there. Hence the policy. Although for me that's a bad example. I loved Freshman English. There was a girl named Alice...
But I digress. No, wait, I don't. The T/A was pretty, um, nice, too. I think we actually could have had something there. There was a glimmer.
Now I digress.
It's so easy in college to blow off a class. In some cases, (I imagine a very few), it is possible to only show up to take tests and hand in papers and pass with flying colors. But that really isn't the point, now, is it?
While it is true, we go to college to do more than learn from fancy books and professors whose jackets are rumpled with a pattern mysteriously matching the pleats on the seatbacks of their 12 year old Honda Civics and smelling a little too much like patchouli, a young student finds themselves in early peril if they don't respect the fact they are in school to learn. Not just go to class. Not just get an A. Not just make friends and party. Learn. I think learning requires all those things in a certain balance.
Perhaps this is why I still am haunted by the dreams. Maybe if I look closely, I have the dreams of being a derilict college bum when things are a little overwhelming in my life. Perhaps it is because I have recently blown off some projects or chores to relax or to just not do anything at all. It is the wakeup call, appealing to the conscientious student that lives within the world-weary man.
God, I can't even call myself a young man anymore, can I? I can't believe I am not 19 anymore. It hits me like a ton of bricks every time. Maybe that is the real reason my subconscious frames this particular message the way it does. It is really affective.
To "my" students who are now dipping their toes into the pool for the first time, I leave you with this- You don't have time to read this blog. You have 30 chapters in 4 classes due in a week and 6 papers about stuff that you only knew existed 10 days ago. All this math equals get to work.
Now, get to work. I promise you will not miss anything. I will do really boring blentries until Thanksgiving. You won't be tempted to check in, because it will be terribly disappointing.
Hang up now.
Good, they're gone. I have some really awesome stuff coming up in the next few weeks, now that those college kids won't be here. Stay tuned!
Even now, 15 full years since I matriculated, (a word I only know because I matriculated), the dreams haunt me. They do not fail to visit upon me a few moments of unease as I shake the cobwebs of sleep from my head in the morning and attempt to discern the vividness of reality from my very high definition deams. Then, my knees snap as I get out of bed and I get dizzy from stretching and have to fumble for my spectacles because I can't even turn off my alarm without them and I remember just how old I am.
I look back at my college years with a great deal of fondness. It isn't probably a fully deserved fondness. In fact, if I take a minute to reflect, there were a lot of dreadful things that I went through and would never want to go through again, given the choice. But time is like an oaken barrel aging clear spirits into mellow complexity. The very passage of time has allowed me to appreciate all those difficulties. After all, they are what makes me, me. One must endure much in the course of a life.
I am sure a week or two into college, some of my former high school students are realizing that all those movies they watched where regular attendance class is but a tertiary aspect of the characters' lives, mentioned only when absolutely necessary to move the plot, (whatever plot there may be). I found myself indignant when I went to college and received syllabi festooned with attendance policies. The nerve! Don't I pay your salary? I should dictate classroom policy to you, Professor!
In reality, those attendance policies kept me honest. They were there when I needed them as a young student working it all out while I went along. And they disappeared for the most part as I moved onward through my educational journey. It turns out, those English professors know more than English. They know you need their class to graduate and know you don't want to be there. Hence the policy. Although for me that's a bad example. I loved Freshman English. There was a girl named Alice...
But I digress. No, wait, I don't. The T/A was pretty, um, nice, too. I think we actually could have had something there. There was a glimmer.
Now I digress.
It's so easy in college to blow off a class. In some cases, (I imagine a very few), it is possible to only show up to take tests and hand in papers and pass with flying colors. But that really isn't the point, now, is it?
While it is true, we go to college to do more than learn from fancy books and professors whose jackets are rumpled with a pattern mysteriously matching the pleats on the seatbacks of their 12 year old Honda Civics and smelling a little too much like patchouli, a young student finds themselves in early peril if they don't respect the fact they are in school to learn. Not just go to class. Not just get an A. Not just make friends and party. Learn. I think learning requires all those things in a certain balance.
Perhaps this is why I still am haunted by the dreams. Maybe if I look closely, I have the dreams of being a derilict college bum when things are a little overwhelming in my life. Perhaps it is because I have recently blown off some projects or chores to relax or to just not do anything at all. It is the wakeup call, appealing to the conscientious student that lives within the world-weary man.
God, I can't even call myself a young man anymore, can I? I can't believe I am not 19 anymore. It hits me like a ton of bricks every time. Maybe that is the real reason my subconscious frames this particular message the way it does. It is really affective.
To "my" students who are now dipping their toes into the pool for the first time, I leave you with this- You don't have time to read this blog. You have 30 chapters in 4 classes due in a week and 6 papers about stuff that you only knew existed 10 days ago. All this math equals get to work.
Now, get to work. I promise you will not miss anything. I will do really boring blentries until Thanksgiving. You won't be tempted to check in, because it will be terribly disappointing.
Hang up now.
Good, they're gone. I have some really awesome stuff coming up in the next few weeks, now that those college kids won't be here. Stay tuned!
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
To My Health, An Elegy
I can scarcely remember a time in any recency that I have not suffered from a sinus problem. I am unwell this morning. So unwell, I have had to resort to the drastic measure of switching to the lotion tissue, (which gives me zits), and using chap stick, (one specifically for and not to be used as anything else), on the tip of my nose. Only these two things quiet the burning.
I have gone through more tissue than... well, never mind than what because the only references that come to mind are wholly inappropriate for this or any audience. Suffice it to say, there is a lot of tissue in the trash bins in the various rooms of my house. It looks as if later I will again be coloring my world with a lysol wipe to fend off the germs I am spreading around like... like... Oh, never mind like what.
My left eye is half closed and watering, my left nostril is plugged and my right one is making up for its deficiency with all it's available volume. I have the shakes from sneezing so hard and so often. My body is exhausted. It isn't even 10:30.
To mete my disenchantment in a very loquatious way, I have decided to compose a little ditty:
I have gone through more tissue than... well, never mind than what because the only references that come to mind are wholly inappropriate for this or any audience. Suffice it to say, there is a lot of tissue in the trash bins in the various rooms of my house. It looks as if later I will again be coloring my world with a lysol wipe to fend off the germs I am spreading around like... like... Oh, never mind like what.
My left eye is half closed and watering, my left nostril is plugged and my right one is making up for its deficiency with all it's available volume. I have the shakes from sneezing so hard and so often. My body is exhausted. It isn't even 10:30.
To mete my disenchantment in a very loquatious way, I have decided to compose a little ditty:
To My Health, An Elegy
I wonder where you are, I wonder where you've gone
I wonder if you left from spite or something I did wrong
I wonder when in bed at night
If I will live to see the light
I shout through hoarse throat with inflection
Please be gone with this sinus infection
I cannot speak on the business phone
When my voice is but a squeaky moan
Allergies, Sinuses, Colds and Shivers
My body it aches, my body it quivers
I'll cash in my chips and lose my mind
If I sneeze just one more time
I wonder where you are right now
I wonder where you live
My head pound just like a drum
My nose leaks like a sieve
I have but a modest request
So simple at my own behest
The flowing nose is the issue
It hurts to wipe it with the tissue
The tip is red and growing rotten
It looks like a pulsating gin blossom
I fear it will soon wipe clean away
Leaving me no nasal pathway
Come back health wherever you've gone
Find your way through the hoary throng
Come quickly to me and stay long, too
For it is clear I can no longer live without you
I wonder where you are, I wonder where you've gone
I wonder if you left from spite or something I did wrong
I wonder when in bed at night
If I will live to see the light
I shout through hoarse throat with inflection
Please be gone with this sinus infection
I cannot speak on the business phone
When my voice is but a squeaky moan
Allergies, Sinuses, Colds and Shivers
My body it aches, my body it quivers
I'll cash in my chips and lose my mind
If I sneeze just one more time
I wonder where you are right now
I wonder where you live
My head pound just like a drum
My nose leaks like a sieve
I have but a modest request
So simple at my own behest
The flowing nose is the issue
It hurts to wipe it with the tissue
The tip is red and growing rotten
It looks like a pulsating gin blossom
I fear it will soon wipe clean away
Leaving me no nasal pathway
Come back health wherever you've gone
Find your way through the hoary throng
Come quickly to me and stay long, too
For it is clear I can no longer live without you
Thursday, September 1, 2011
The One With the Cow
I asked Em this morning while catching up on her blog if she saw the one about the Far Side. Yes, she said and offered without hesitation, "I like the one with the cow."
Now, Em came to the marriage with at least as many Far Side books as I had and they were at least as well used and well read as mine. In fact, the scan I did of my favorite panel came out of Emily's book.
She is no stranger to the Far Side comic and has been a lifelong devotee. Her ability to recall minutiae about things that have no importance is famous. She knows as do most humans in the western world that many Far Sides have cows. It's like saying the one with the caveman or the one with the pithy caption.
I won't dwell on this as the brain power and storage I have devoted to remembering such things is actually beyond human comprehension. It is a magnificent waste. Em has to spend time thinking about things that would drive me to drink... erm, more.
She has to remember how to fold the towels. I have to reverse engineer an already folded towel in order to remember how to fold the towels in the proper Schrumpfian way. It has been handed down through the years as though God himself bestowed the knowledge onto the first woman in the lineage.
To reverse engineer a towel, you unfold it slowly, fold by fold and then try to duplicate what you just learned. Except the first fold you learn is actually the last fold you make. So you also have to perform a complicated reversal in your head. It's all too much for me. Now I'm staring at two unfolded towels. I am starting to panic a little.
Em does the money. While I am quoting Simpsons lines that no one gets and spouting off trivial facts about what Robert Shaw was drinking the night they filmed the famous "U.S.S. Indianapolis" scene of Jaws, she is remembering the quarterly water bill will be coming in the mail. Better remember to save a couple hundred bucks just to be sure.
I routinely have to call her if I am out. "Hi, do we have money?" My friends find this to be an atrocity of manhood, but she has a system and that system includes me not balancing the check book, so I go with it.
I suggested once to make things easier and more open to both of us, we switch to a Quicken type system, because if you put it on a computer, it is suddenly a game to me and I do it. I am virtually organized and realistically a ticking time bomb. She distracted me by playing the "let's see if you know where this dish goes", game. I still don't know where the dish goes and until now, forgot all about my suggestion.
I can take a hint. The dish must belong to Dave and Greg.
Let's not start on the laundry, eh? I am not to touch the laundry unless there has been an accident or emergency and Emily is more than 60 minutes away. I can't conceive of a day in which I would soil every single pair of underpants I own, but whatever alternate universe Bill is doing to have that much fun, I say go with it. Party like a rock star, dude.
When Emily is gone, I do my laundry the same way I did my laundry in college. I pretend that each load is costing me a gallon of gas or a pack of cigarettes or part of cover charge to get into the bar and I cram the clothes into the thing and bungy cord the lid down. Last time I put some spare pavers on there just for good measure.
When the clothes are done, they are compressed like a form in the shape of the wash drum, dimples and all. The bonus is they are totally dry! Score! I just saved a buck fiddy on drying!
I don't understand her problem with my method. It's efficient and energy conservation minded. Sometimes I don't even use soap! And fabric softener? Fabric softener? That is a myth brought down to us by a money hungry production conglomerate foisting upon a weary consumer an expensive liquid that does nothing! Fabric softener indeed. I have never tried on a tee shirt and said... "Hmm, I like it, but it's just a little stiff... maybe it needs some fabric softener."
I have gotten on a little tangent there; as I am wont to do from time to time. Meanwhile, Em, who just sung my praises for being so helpful to her this week is vacuuming upstairs while I sit here and do nothing. I suppose I should go rectify that. I at least need to get a cup of coffee and go point out spots I think she could have done better. After all, chores are everyone's responsibility.
Now, Em came to the marriage with at least as many Far Side books as I had and they were at least as well used and well read as mine. In fact, the scan I did of my favorite panel came out of Emily's book.
She is no stranger to the Far Side comic and has been a lifelong devotee. Her ability to recall minutiae about things that have no importance is famous. She knows as do most humans in the western world that many Far Sides have cows. It's like saying the one with the caveman or the one with the pithy caption.
I won't dwell on this as the brain power and storage I have devoted to remembering such things is actually beyond human comprehension. It is a magnificent waste. Em has to spend time thinking about things that would drive me to drink... erm, more.
She has to remember how to fold the towels. I have to reverse engineer an already folded towel in order to remember how to fold the towels in the proper Schrumpfian way. It has been handed down through the years as though God himself bestowed the knowledge onto the first woman in the lineage.
To reverse engineer a towel, you unfold it slowly, fold by fold and then try to duplicate what you just learned. Except the first fold you learn is actually the last fold you make. So you also have to perform a complicated reversal in your head. It's all too much for me. Now I'm staring at two unfolded towels. I am starting to panic a little.
Em does the money. While I am quoting Simpsons lines that no one gets and spouting off trivial facts about what Robert Shaw was drinking the night they filmed the famous "U.S.S. Indianapolis" scene of Jaws, she is remembering the quarterly water bill will be coming in the mail. Better remember to save a couple hundred bucks just to be sure.
I routinely have to call her if I am out. "Hi, do we have money?" My friends find this to be an atrocity of manhood, but she has a system and that system includes me not balancing the check book, so I go with it.
I suggested once to make things easier and more open to both of us, we switch to a Quicken type system, because if you put it on a computer, it is suddenly a game to me and I do it. I am virtually organized and realistically a ticking time bomb. She distracted me by playing the "let's see if you know where this dish goes", game. I still don't know where the dish goes and until now, forgot all about my suggestion.
I can take a hint. The dish must belong to Dave and Greg.
Let's not start on the laundry, eh? I am not to touch the laundry unless there has been an accident or emergency and Emily is more than 60 minutes away. I can't conceive of a day in which I would soil every single pair of underpants I own, but whatever alternate universe Bill is doing to have that much fun, I say go with it. Party like a rock star, dude.
When Emily is gone, I do my laundry the same way I did my laundry in college. I pretend that each load is costing me a gallon of gas or a pack of cigarettes or part of cover charge to get into the bar and I cram the clothes into the thing and bungy cord the lid down. Last time I put some spare pavers on there just for good measure.
When the clothes are done, they are compressed like a form in the shape of the wash drum, dimples and all. The bonus is they are totally dry! Score! I just saved a buck fiddy on drying!
I don't understand her problem with my method. It's efficient and energy conservation minded. Sometimes I don't even use soap! And fabric softener? Fabric softener? That is a myth brought down to us by a money hungry production conglomerate foisting upon a weary consumer an expensive liquid that does nothing! Fabric softener indeed. I have never tried on a tee shirt and said... "Hmm, I like it, but it's just a little stiff... maybe it needs some fabric softener."
I have gotten on a little tangent there; as I am wont to do from time to time. Meanwhile, Em, who just sung my praises for being so helpful to her this week is vacuuming upstairs while I sit here and do nothing. I suppose I should go rectify that. I at least need to get a cup of coffee and go point out spots I think she could have done better. After all, chores are everyone's responsibility.
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