(written 7/16)
My regular bar has what can only be called character. There is graffiti pretty much everywhere, and if the wait staff catches you trying to carve your name into a table, they are more likely to critique your technique than get angry. The bathrooms are...interesting to say the least. One of them, when the bar is packed on weekends, is predominantly used by law-breakers. This bathroom is affectionately called "the stoner's bathroom."
My old band's sticker is still on the door to the stoner's bathroom. This makes me feel more proud than it should. Amongst the various entries on the stoner bathroom's wall of graffiti) is some scribbling from an English friend. He went to my college, and even though he's went back to the Old Country, every few years, he will show up without warning at the bar. Usually, we skip over the "what in the hell are you doing here" part of the conversation and simply pick up whatever discussion of which we were in the midst when he last left this fair land several years prior.
This night, as I return to my table, a song from some friends' band comes on random play. I take a seat, sip my drink, write a few words, and raise my head to see the bartender riding past on a bicycle. We are, mind you, still indoors. Yet this still doesn't surprise me nearly as much as when I later hear her talking about white wine spritzers.
Do you still need to know why I love this place?
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Monday, July 08, 2013
The Inspired Drunk
It was pointed out to me last night that it had been a while since I blogged about making a new cocktail. Inspiration can come in many forms...and sometimes I even take requests! So let me introduce you to The Inspired Drunk:
- Throw some ice into a pint glass...preferably one with a cool design...or one stolen from a local bar.
- Add one measure of rum and think of the islands...and how glad you're not in those malarial hell-holes.
- Add a half measure of strawberry liqueur...or crush a handful of berries from the farmer's market into the glass and up the rum content.
- Pour to the top with a good root beer. This drink demands IBC or better...because you're worth it, damn it. Okay, maybe you aren't, but I sure am.
- Stir, sit back, and enjoy while watching some high class, sophisticated, cultured, and educational television program such as Naked and Afraid. After all, the point of television is to laugh at weirdos, right?
Wednesday, July 03, 2013
big bang boom
One of the fringe benefits of our new apartment is it's really close to all of the BGSU sports arenas. I've hardly ever gone to any of the sporting events (1 football game, three hockey games since '98), but it's always nice to have the option. Tonight, though, we found another way this works for us...and it involves explosions.
This year, the city had its 4th of July fireworks display tonight. Yes, it's the 3rd. No, I don't get it either.
The name of our complex is Stadium View. We don't actually have a view of the stadium, but the name stays nevertheless. And since the stadium is where the fireworks get launched, we knew we wouldn't have to go far if we decided to watch them.
Luckily, though, we didn't have to go far. While the trees blocked a certain percentage of the display, we were able to see most of the explosions from our balcony. We went out and took our daughter. She was the explosions, looked up at us, and then said "going inside."
My wife and I stayed, though, with her doing the obligatory "ooos" and "ahhhs." My daughter kept coming back out...I'm not sure if the fireworks became exciting to her or if she just didn't want to be by herself, but she stayed longer and longer, eventually copying her mom's "ooos" and "ahhs"...which was as cute as you'd imagine.
So the night was fun. Now, of course, we get the added benefit of being close to the stadium. Soon the toxic cloud of smoke will be upon us! Weee!
What the hell...when we're celebrating America's independence from the British by lighting Chinese firecrackers, there's only a certain amount of sense to be had.
This year, the city had its 4th of July fireworks display tonight. Yes, it's the 3rd. No, I don't get it either.
The name of our complex is Stadium View. We don't actually have a view of the stadium, but the name stays nevertheless. And since the stadium is where the fireworks get launched, we knew we wouldn't have to go far if we decided to watch them.
Luckily, though, we didn't have to go far. While the trees blocked a certain percentage of the display, we were able to see most of the explosions from our balcony. We went out and took our daughter. She was the explosions, looked up at us, and then said "going inside."
My wife and I stayed, though, with her doing the obligatory "ooos" and "ahhhs." My daughter kept coming back out...I'm not sure if the fireworks became exciting to her or if she just didn't want to be by herself, but she stayed longer and longer, eventually copying her mom's "ooos" and "ahhs"...which was as cute as you'd imagine.
So the night was fun. Now, of course, we get the added benefit of being close to the stadium. Soon the toxic cloud of smoke will be upon us! Weee!
What the hell...when we're celebrating America's independence from the British by lighting Chinese firecrackers, there's only a certain amount of sense to be had.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Carolina on my mind
You have seen me write about growing up in Florida many times. And it is true most of my formative years were spent in the sunshine state. But before I lived in Florida, I was a child of the Carolinas.
My father was military--Air Force, specifically. I was actually born in New Jersey, but I left way too early to have any memories at all of that place. When I was one, Dad was assigned to Germany. We lived off-base for a few years. I only have one memory of that house in Mackenbach, and that's of my family's horror at discovering me playing with a dead rat. Hey, I was only two or three...and I haven't actually played with dead rats in...weeks, honest.
We lived on base for several years, and that was the first home I can recall in any level of detail. An air force base, however, is both a place yet not a place. All bases are pretty similar, and they are all insulated from their surrounding areas. On Ramstein, though, that was amplified somewhat by us actually being in the middle of a foreign country. It was cool leaving base, but whenever we did so, we were definitely outsiders stuck in tourist mode.
So when Dad was assigned to Charleston, South Carolina, it was a big deal for me. My brothers and sisters had memories of America. I, however, did not. On the plane ride over, I tried to imagine what my home country, the country in which I was born would be like...but failed miserably to come up with anything tangible.
Upon arriving in Charleston, my observations on living in America were as follows:
This year was my parents' fiftieth anniversary, and they decided to rent a beach house just outside of Charleston for the family celebration. So we all converged on the Isle of Palms so we could be closer to our memories...such (in my case) as they were.
Driving into town was surreal. One of the things about being a military brat is that unlike most people, you really cannot go home again. Seriously. I cannot gain entrance to the base to see where I used to live (even if the house hadn't been torn down). Sure, I could (and had) explored my old neighborhood using Google Maps, but the perspective is off way more than for any normal adult visiting childhood haunts. And since, for the most part, the base was my existence, my experience is particularly skewed.
But then I started noticing some of the street names on the exit signs, and I recognized tons of them. But the names had utterly no connections to any mental pictures. It was the damnedest pseudo-nostalgia one can possibly imagine.
We had been to the Isle of Palms often when I was a kid. Yet while driving over to the island, it became clear this was by no means the same place. Forget the common-place changes brought on by decades past that most experience. Post-hurricane construction had gentrified the island into a whole new social class. This was effectively a new place, with wealth-dominated getaways not just replacing the ramshackle beach shacks of years past but effectively obliterating any trace of them or the island which used to be.
Yes, there were some similarities. It was still way too hot. I still got eaten alive by mosquitoes whenever I went outside. There was still good fried seafood. Tourism was still the main business. And palmetto bugs still made a distinctive crunch when stepped upon.
Mostly though, I spent the trip trying to fit the visions I was seeing to the memories I never got to experience in the first place. And the first time I really had a chance to contemplate this disconnect was when my lovely wife and I were sitting in a beach bar I had never entered before...yet still remembered its theme song from the early 1980s radio commercials.
As the trip wound down, I was unable to see Charleston, my home of many years, as anything other than a nice place to visit. I couldn't even start to experience anything of what I remembered of my life there. Our day trips did bring some memories, but only of the day trips of my youth...not of my actual life.
Our last night together, we hit this small, out of the way restaurant specializing in Carolina Low Country cuisine which my Dad stumbled across. I chatted with my brother, tried to freak out my nephews and niece, and watched my daughter pull my wive around the restaurant while I drank my sweet tea.
For my meal, I ordered a South Carolina Low Country specialty, shrimp and grits. I took one bite. Within seconds, I dropped the spoon and just stared into space for a full minute or more. It was awe-inspiring food. The grits were smooth, creamy, and rich. The shrimp were staggeringly fresh and had obviously been swimming the night before. The gravy exploded in my mouth. Even after just one bite, it had already entered my top five meals ever.
Here's the thing, though. When I actually lived there, I had utterly no interest in South Carolina cuisine...or in Southern food in general. As much as it pains me to publicly admit, I didn't even try grits with an open mind until my thirties. And now, I had my best Southern meal of my life as a tourist visiting from his Ohio home, where he had lived for fifteen years...not when I had any real claim to be a southerner.
You might expect this to be a sad realization, something about the folly of youth. While I did find it revelatory, I took a different view. Yes, my childhood. is either unattainable or superficial. Would my life have been richer if I, as a youth, were more around of the glories around me?
Possibly. But there was another (and I thought better) interpretation.
Yes, I had to wait until year 43 of my life to finally "get" and experience the best of South Carolina cuisine. Yes, this filled an absence in the experiences of my youth. Yet when I did finally partake, I was mature enough to fully appreciate the magnitude of the experience.
More importantly, however, I was able to come to this awareness while watching my daughter shove food down my wife's throat...while tweaking my nephews and niece...while talking to my brother...and while being with my parents who are full, complete people to me rather than just one dimensional mother and father figures.
There's something to be said for perspective...but there's also something to be said for a mean bowl of shrimp & grits.
My father was military--Air Force, specifically. I was actually born in New Jersey, but I left way too early to have any memories at all of that place. When I was one, Dad was assigned to Germany. We lived off-base for a few years. I only have one memory of that house in Mackenbach, and that's of my family's horror at discovering me playing with a dead rat. Hey, I was only two or three...and I haven't actually played with dead rats in...weeks, honest.
We lived on base for several years, and that was the first home I can recall in any level of detail. An air force base, however, is both a place yet not a place. All bases are pretty similar, and they are all insulated from their surrounding areas. On Ramstein, though, that was amplified somewhat by us actually being in the middle of a foreign country. It was cool leaving base, but whenever we did so, we were definitely outsiders stuck in tourist mode.
So when Dad was assigned to Charleston, South Carolina, it was a big deal for me. My brothers and sisters had memories of America. I, however, did not. On the plane ride over, I tried to imagine what my home country, the country in which I was born would be like...but failed miserably to come up with anything tangible.
Upon arriving in Charleston, my observations on living in America were as follows:
- It was hot. I had lived all my life to that point in cold climates. Then you dump me in the middle of a 95 degree summer in the South? Whenever I stepped foot outside, I feared I would spontaneously combust...but then I realized the heavy layer of sweat probably kept me from igniting. To this day, I still hate the heat.
- There were bugs everywhere. Along with beginning to smolder every time I stepped outside, I also was immediately attacked by hordes of little vampires I soon learned were called mosquitoes. They would gravitate to me before even looking at anyone else around me. Then there were the palmetto bugs, giant roaches which crunched when you killed them. And don't even get me started on my shock upon seeing my first cicada. If you've ever seen a shot of civilians fleeing from a rampaging Mecha-Godzilla, you get the picture.
This year was my parents' fiftieth anniversary, and they decided to rent a beach house just outside of Charleston for the family celebration. So we all converged on the Isle of Palms so we could be closer to our memories...such (in my case) as they were.
Driving into town was surreal. One of the things about being a military brat is that unlike most people, you really cannot go home again. Seriously. I cannot gain entrance to the base to see where I used to live (even if the house hadn't been torn down). Sure, I could (and had) explored my old neighborhood using Google Maps, but the perspective is off way more than for any normal adult visiting childhood haunts. And since, for the most part, the base was my existence, my experience is particularly skewed.
But then I started noticing some of the street names on the exit signs, and I recognized tons of them. But the names had utterly no connections to any mental pictures. It was the damnedest pseudo-nostalgia one can possibly imagine.
We had been to the Isle of Palms often when I was a kid. Yet while driving over to the island, it became clear this was by no means the same place. Forget the common-place changes brought on by decades past that most experience. Post-hurricane construction had gentrified the island into a whole new social class. This was effectively a new place, with wealth-dominated getaways not just replacing the ramshackle beach shacks of years past but effectively obliterating any trace of them or the island which used to be.
Yes, there were some similarities. It was still way too hot. I still got eaten alive by mosquitoes whenever I went outside. There was still good fried seafood. Tourism was still the main business. And palmetto bugs still made a distinctive crunch when stepped upon.
Mostly though, I spent the trip trying to fit the visions I was seeing to the memories I never got to experience in the first place. And the first time I really had a chance to contemplate this disconnect was when my lovely wife and I were sitting in a beach bar I had never entered before...yet still remembered its theme song from the early 1980s radio commercials.
As the trip wound down, I was unable to see Charleston, my home of many years, as anything other than a nice place to visit. I couldn't even start to experience anything of what I remembered of my life there. Our day trips did bring some memories, but only of the day trips of my youth...not of my actual life.
Our last night together, we hit this small, out of the way restaurant specializing in Carolina Low Country cuisine which my Dad stumbled across. I chatted with my brother, tried to freak out my nephews and niece, and watched my daughter pull my wive around the restaurant while I drank my sweet tea.
For my meal, I ordered a South Carolina Low Country specialty, shrimp and grits. I took one bite. Within seconds, I dropped the spoon and just stared into space for a full minute or more. It was awe-inspiring food. The grits were smooth, creamy, and rich. The shrimp were staggeringly fresh and had obviously been swimming the night before. The gravy exploded in my mouth. Even after just one bite, it had already entered my top five meals ever.
Here's the thing, though. When I actually lived there, I had utterly no interest in South Carolina cuisine...or in Southern food in general. As much as it pains me to publicly admit, I didn't even try grits with an open mind until my thirties. And now, I had my best Southern meal of my life as a tourist visiting from his Ohio home, where he had lived for fifteen years...not when I had any real claim to be a southerner.
You might expect this to be a sad realization, something about the folly of youth. While I did find it revelatory, I took a different view. Yes, my childhood. is either unattainable or superficial. Would my life have been richer if I, as a youth, were more around of the glories around me?
Possibly. But there was another (and I thought better) interpretation.
Yes, I had to wait until year 43 of my life to finally "get" and experience the best of South Carolina cuisine. Yes, this filled an absence in the experiences of my youth. Yet when I did finally partake, I was mature enough to fully appreciate the magnitude of the experience.
More importantly, however, I was able to come to this awareness while watching my daughter shove food down my wife's throat...while tweaking my nephews and niece...while talking to my brother...and while being with my parents who are full, complete people to me rather than just one dimensional mother and father figures.
There's something to be said for perspective...but there's also something to be said for a mean bowl of shrimp & grits.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
two years of changes
Yesterday morning, after my girl awoke, we did our customary half hour of snuggle time. Her first tangible conscious act of the day was, after shaking the sleep from her eyes, to rock her head from side to side while saying "tick...tock...tick...tock." She stopped to see if I was paying attention, giving me her special smile as she checked my reaction.
As I changed her, I told her that two years ago, at that hour, we were on our way to the hospital for the third trip in three days. We were sleep-deprived and punchy. We were also unbelievably optimistic. We had no idea what lie ahead...certainly not for the endurance test that was the delivery...nor for the roller coaster ride that has been the last two years.
As I finished cleaning her, my mind went back to that day of her birth. I remember going over to the warming bed where they were performing tests. My first words to her were "Hi, Sylvia, I'm your Daddy." She reached over and grabbed my finger.
I remember the hell that was the first eight months, with its bouts of all-day screaming (the result of acid reflux, or dairy intolerance, or who knows what). I remember days being so thankful when my wife came home so I could pass off my daughter, crawl on my bed, curl in the fetal position, and cry uncontrollably for an hour until I could face her again.
I remember the landmarks...such as when she learned to roll over on her own for the first time. I filmed her next success, and then she laughed for a minute. I remember the first time I made her laugh on command (with the toy owl Hoot...an experience which I commemorated in a tattoo). I remember the first time I fed her and had her eyes lock with mine...the first time she said "Daddy"...the first time she kissed me on the cheek...the first time she said "miss you lots"...the first time she said "I love you." With each of these (and many more), my heart softened, exploded, and then grew at least four times.
Later yesterday, when we went out and about, it was not possible for me to not note just how much she's quit being a baby girl and has become a person...in the way she waves and says goodbye to people she sees, the way she holds my hand as we cross parking lots, the way she insists on wearing her ball cap backwards, to the way she just generally interacts with me and the world at large.
I do have regrets. I regret we have to move because the neighborhood kids and the next door neighbors at our old place loved Sylvia. We stopped by last night to grab a few things, and she and her mom ran over to the neighbors. I grabbed some things and packed the car. As I was shutting the trunk, I heard some kids yell...and Sylvia came running from their back yard, grinning ear to ear, as one of the kids chased her. When we finally corralled her and shepherded her to the car, she started to cry. She looked at the next door neighbors, waved, and said "miss you lot." It both broke my heart and increased my desire to punch our idiot landlord in his bearded jaw for not letting us have our daughter grow up on that street.
My biggest regret, though, is that so few of the really wonderful people I know are part of my daughter's life. We have friends who do spend lots of time with her. Their daughter babysat Sylvia last year when I was working. And Sylvia loves the whole family. Every time the two of us do lunch with the guy, when I tell my daughter of our plans, she lights up and says his name over and over...and runs to him when she sees him.
That family, however, is the only one to have such a relationship with my girl, and this frankly also breaks my heart. I'm sad that my friends, who live elsewhere (other cities, other states, other countries) cannot spend time with her. Understandable, yes, but still sad.
What is less understandable, though is the people who could be part of her life but, for whatever reason, are not. It hurts me that they don't get to experience this wonderful girl first-hand. Even worse, though, is that they don't get to help shape my daughter into the person she will become. I love my friends, but it devastates me that they either cannot or will not be part of this wonderful gir's life.
It is a troubling thing bringing a new life, a new blank slate into this uncertain and unstable world. I'm frightened by a lot of things. I'm scared she might feel at some point that life has let her down. I am much more terrified that she might ever think I let her down...and it has becomemy main purpose to never give her a chance to doubt me.
Gotta admit, though...when she smiles at me, when she snuggles into me, when she laughs with me, or when she just gives me that special look which I cannot nor care to explain, those fears go away.
I am not, in general, a strong man. I keep up a good facade, but in spite of the medication, I still feel uncertain more often than not. When I get to bond with my daughter,when she leans in close, when she lifts my heart by words, by laughter, or by just being close, all that melts away...and all becomes right with the world.
If only more people could experience this.
Happy birthday, my girl.
As I changed her, I told her that two years ago, at that hour, we were on our way to the hospital for the third trip in three days. We were sleep-deprived and punchy. We were also unbelievably optimistic. We had no idea what lie ahead...certainly not for the endurance test that was the delivery...nor for the roller coaster ride that has been the last two years.
As I finished cleaning her, my mind went back to that day of her birth. I remember going over to the warming bed where they were performing tests. My first words to her were "Hi, Sylvia, I'm your Daddy." She reached over and grabbed my finger.
I remember the hell that was the first eight months, with its bouts of all-day screaming (the result of acid reflux, or dairy intolerance, or who knows what). I remember days being so thankful when my wife came home so I could pass off my daughter, crawl on my bed, curl in the fetal position, and cry uncontrollably for an hour until I could face her again.
I remember the landmarks...such as when she learned to roll over on her own for the first time. I filmed her next success, and then she laughed for a minute. I remember the first time I made her laugh on command (with the toy owl Hoot...an experience which I commemorated in a tattoo). I remember the first time I fed her and had her eyes lock with mine...the first time she said "Daddy"...the first time she kissed me on the cheek...the first time she said "miss you lots"...the first time she said "I love you." With each of these (and many more), my heart softened, exploded, and then grew at least four times.
Later yesterday, when we went out and about, it was not possible for me to not note just how much she's quit being a baby girl and has become a person...in the way she waves and says goodbye to people she sees, the way she holds my hand as we cross parking lots, the way she insists on wearing her ball cap backwards, to the way she just generally interacts with me and the world at large.
I do have regrets. I regret we have to move because the neighborhood kids and the next door neighbors at our old place loved Sylvia. We stopped by last night to grab a few things, and she and her mom ran over to the neighbors. I grabbed some things and packed the car. As I was shutting the trunk, I heard some kids yell...and Sylvia came running from their back yard, grinning ear to ear, as one of the kids chased her. When we finally corralled her and shepherded her to the car, she started to cry. She looked at the next door neighbors, waved, and said "miss you lot." It both broke my heart and increased my desire to punch our idiot landlord in his bearded jaw for not letting us have our daughter grow up on that street.
My biggest regret, though, is that so few of the really wonderful people I know are part of my daughter's life. We have friends who do spend lots of time with her. Their daughter babysat Sylvia last year when I was working. And Sylvia loves the whole family. Every time the two of us do lunch with the guy, when I tell my daughter of our plans, she lights up and says his name over and over...and runs to him when she sees him.
That family, however, is the only one to have such a relationship with my girl, and this frankly also breaks my heart. I'm sad that my friends, who live elsewhere (other cities, other states, other countries) cannot spend time with her. Understandable, yes, but still sad.
What is less understandable, though is the people who could be part of her life but, for whatever reason, are not. It hurts me that they don't get to experience this wonderful girl first-hand. Even worse, though, is that they don't get to help shape my daughter into the person she will become. I love my friends, but it devastates me that they either cannot or will not be part of this wonderful gir's life.
It is a troubling thing bringing a new life, a new blank slate into this uncertain and unstable world. I'm frightened by a lot of things. I'm scared she might feel at some point that life has let her down. I am much more terrified that she might ever think I let her down...and it has becomemy main purpose to never give her a chance to doubt me.
Gotta admit, though...when she smiles at me, when she snuggles into me, when she laughs with me, or when she just gives me that special look which I cannot nor care to explain, those fears go away.
I am not, in general, a strong man. I keep up a good facade, but in spite of the medication, I still feel uncertain more often than not. When I get to bond with my daughter,when she leans in close, when she lifts my heart by words, by laughter, or by just being close, all that melts away...and all becomes right with the world.
If only more people could experience this.
Happy birthday, my girl.
Moving, part 3 (unpacking): Schrodinger's apartment
Moving into a new apartment, house, or what have you must inevitably involve higher levels of physics and quantum mechanics. It would be simple if this was only a matter of space or motion, but no, bigger issues are at hand: namely uncertainty.
This is both our home and not our home. All our stuff is certainly here...so there is a certain element of familiarity in operation. My couch, for instance, is still in front of my television, so this is definitely my living room...yet the juxtaposition is off. The love seat, for instance, is on the wrong side. There's all this extra space as well. So is this my living room or not? Every time I sit down and look at it, I experience some form of quantum double vision.
I could look over the alternative arrangement of my possessions if it were not for the little things. In these apartments, for instance, all of the electrical outlets are, for some mysterious (or at least forgotten) reason, upside down. Every time I go to plug in some appliance, any conception I have of being in my own home is shaken...almost as if some quantum mechanic is playing with my life's vertical hold.
And then there are the possessions. Out of all possible factors, my "stuff" might hold the key to the sneaking suspicion of being trapped in a Schrodinger thought experiment. I know, for instance, that I own an mp3 player...that my television has an accompanying remote control. Yet neither of these two (or any other of a thousand objects) are anywhere to be found. Am I really sure I in fact had them in the first place?
This, incidentally, is where we do quantum mechanics one better. You might be able at some point to prove if that damn cat is alive or dead. Can you, however, ever definitively prove my mp3 player existed in the first place without actually laying hands on it? Moreover, if it never turns up, it will remain in uncertainty in perpetuity. After all, I only really have my memories to prove it existed in the first place..and can I really trust anything so intangible as evidence?
(This is, incidentally, not the first time I've experienced such uncertainty vis-a-vis objects. I have lost many books to the alternate quantum dimensions of possibility...or "the aether" if you prefer (as I often do). I have no rational explanation for the complete and utter disappearance of an Edgar Rice Burroughs collection. And a large "missing book fine" is the only evidence I had it existed in the first place...that is, if you consider government records to be in any way quantumly certain.)
I should, for the record, note my daughter experiences none of this, so far as I can tell. Of course, she is only two, and, as such, often keeps her own counsel. Yet if there are tangible clues to some struggle to adjust, I am utterly unable to observe them.
Maybe I will slowly adjust. Maybe the uncertainties and incongruities will eventually coalesce.
It certainly is preferable to the constant suspicion this place in which I now dwell both is and is not my home.
This is both our home and not our home. All our stuff is certainly here...so there is a certain element of familiarity in operation. My couch, for instance, is still in front of my television, so this is definitely my living room...yet the juxtaposition is off. The love seat, for instance, is on the wrong side. There's all this extra space as well. So is this my living room or not? Every time I sit down and look at it, I experience some form of quantum double vision.
I could look over the alternative arrangement of my possessions if it were not for the little things. In these apartments, for instance, all of the electrical outlets are, for some mysterious (or at least forgotten) reason, upside down. Every time I go to plug in some appliance, any conception I have of being in my own home is shaken...almost as if some quantum mechanic is playing with my life's vertical hold.
And then there are the possessions. Out of all possible factors, my "stuff" might hold the key to the sneaking suspicion of being trapped in a Schrodinger thought experiment. I know, for instance, that I own an mp3 player...that my television has an accompanying remote control. Yet neither of these two (or any other of a thousand objects) are anywhere to be found. Am I really sure I in fact had them in the first place?
This, incidentally, is where we do quantum mechanics one better. You might be able at some point to prove if that damn cat is alive or dead. Can you, however, ever definitively prove my mp3 player existed in the first place without actually laying hands on it? Moreover, if it never turns up, it will remain in uncertainty in perpetuity. After all, I only really have my memories to prove it existed in the first place..and can I really trust anything so intangible as evidence?
(This is, incidentally, not the first time I've experienced such uncertainty vis-a-vis objects. I have lost many books to the alternate quantum dimensions of possibility...or "the aether" if you prefer (as I often do). I have no rational explanation for the complete and utter disappearance of an Edgar Rice Burroughs collection. And a large "missing book fine" is the only evidence I had it existed in the first place...that is, if you consider government records to be in any way quantumly certain.)
I should, for the record, note my daughter experiences none of this, so far as I can tell. Of course, she is only two, and, as such, often keeps her own counsel. Yet if there are tangible clues to some struggle to adjust, I am utterly unable to observe them.
Maybe I will slowly adjust. Maybe the uncertainties and incongruities will eventually coalesce.
It certainly is preferable to the constant suspicion this place in which I now dwell both is and is not my home.
Moving, part 2 (during): age, pain, and ephemera
(programming note: after the last post, we decided to move that (last) weekend. This part is from Sunday, in the midst of and after actually hauling crap to the apartment.)
As I was starting to load the truck for trip one, it rained. It only lasted for five minutes...just enough for nature to say, "If I feel the need, if it appears things are going too smoothly, I can make your life incrementally more difficult."
Moving makes me feel...not nostalgic, not sad, but simply old. I feel the move in my body in a very tangible and visceral way. Every trip up those stairs adds on a couple of years. My hips radiate pain, even after gobbling Aleve. This is especially traumatic, as I never have hip pain. I sincerely hope this is not another chronic condition emerging.
As the day progresses, the rooms fill up and get increasingly junky. Boxes upon boxes, furniture quickly stacked in blithe disregard for living arrangement, Hefty bags of clothes, papers, and various flotsam mound up in a multitude of locations. In random corners of the apartment, empty and half-filled sports drink bottles gather in an effort to enhance the general ambiance.
Finally, the last helper leaves. I return the rental truck and pick up my car...which now feels low, small, inconsequential by comparison. I have but hours to assemble at least part of the apartment into something liveable. If only I can find those damn allen wrenches and other tools. Now (in what will be my refrain for the next week or so), in which box did I pack them?
As I was starting to load the truck for trip one, it rained. It only lasted for five minutes...just enough for nature to say, "If I feel the need, if it appears things are going too smoothly, I can make your life incrementally more difficult."
Moving makes me feel...not nostalgic, not sad, but simply old. I feel the move in my body in a very tangible and visceral way. Every trip up those stairs adds on a couple of years. My hips radiate pain, even after gobbling Aleve. This is especially traumatic, as I never have hip pain. I sincerely hope this is not another chronic condition emerging.
As the day progresses, the rooms fill up and get increasingly junky. Boxes upon boxes, furniture quickly stacked in blithe disregard for living arrangement, Hefty bags of clothes, papers, and various flotsam mound up in a multitude of locations. In random corners of the apartment, empty and half-filled sports drink bottles gather in an effort to enhance the general ambiance.
Finally, the last helper leaves. I return the rental truck and pick up my car...which now feels low, small, inconsequential by comparison. I have but hours to assemble at least part of the apartment into something liveable. If only I can find those damn allen wrenches and other tools. Now (in what will be my refrain for the next week or so), in which box did I pack them?
Moving, part 1 (pre-move): temporality, motion, & science fiction
(programming note: as I'm finally largely moved into my apartment and now have internet access restored, I am now posting this three part missive (written in the last week or so) about the moving process and all the thoughts it brought up. This part was written on June 4th. After this, regular programming resumes.)
The great move of 2013 is swiftly approaching. You would imagine this would lead naturally to conflicting emotions about leaving this house where I imagined raising my daughter. And, without a doubt, there is some of that. The main issue, however, is one of temporal displacement.
One of the biggest annoyances about this move is the massive last minute nature of it all. We only found out that we had to move a few weeks ago. Then a rushed housing shop, now a rushed packing job. Add this to the previously scheduled week of family gathering, and you start to see my dilemma.
I now have no earthly idea when I'm supposed to move my stuff. Originally, I thought of moving when we returned from vacation. After dinner, though, we studied the calendar. Problems emerged...mainly we would have six days to move, clean, and get the carpets done. And since my wife works ten hour days in the summer, we had the matter of my daughter with which to contend. I either a) move on the weekend (which means when are we gonna schedule carpet cleaning?), b) find someone to watch her (which, as I might have trouble arranging moving help, this might be a bit of a long shot), or c) put Sylvia to work hauling couches (which, as she has to hold my hand going up and down stairs, could be slightly problematic.
The other option is to move before the vacation. This, however, is also fraught with peril. The child care dilemma (from point b above) still persists...as does the difficulty in finding help in general. It would,however, give me tons of time to clean our house...and to schedule carpet cleaning. But could I get cable, electric, and internet hooked up in time? The mind boggles.
This would all be so much easier if we lived in a time which was at least a little more science fictiony. Because what I ultimately need to do is figure out a way to bend the time/space fabric. A time machine would be nice. I could quite comfortably get along with teleportation. A robot nanny would also help. Hell, what would be ideal is if I could simply punch a hole through the said time/space fabric and just cross over to another quantum dimension where the alterna-Mike has already done the move for me.
Of course, magic would also be a possibility. Maybe I could get a wizard to levitate my stuff...or magically transfer....
Nah...magic is just silly.
The great move of 2013 is swiftly approaching. You would imagine this would lead naturally to conflicting emotions about leaving this house where I imagined raising my daughter. And, without a doubt, there is some of that. The main issue, however, is one of temporal displacement.
One of the biggest annoyances about this move is the massive last minute nature of it all. We only found out that we had to move a few weeks ago. Then a rushed housing shop, now a rushed packing job. Add this to the previously scheduled week of family gathering, and you start to see my dilemma.
I now have no earthly idea when I'm supposed to move my stuff. Originally, I thought of moving when we returned from vacation. After dinner, though, we studied the calendar. Problems emerged...mainly we would have six days to move, clean, and get the carpets done. And since my wife works ten hour days in the summer, we had the matter of my daughter with which to contend. I either a) move on the weekend (which means when are we gonna schedule carpet cleaning?), b) find someone to watch her (which, as I might have trouble arranging moving help, this might be a bit of a long shot), or c) put Sylvia to work hauling couches (which, as she has to hold my hand going up and down stairs, could be slightly problematic.
The other option is to move before the vacation. This, however, is also fraught with peril. The child care dilemma (from point b above) still persists...as does the difficulty in finding help in general. It would,however, give me tons of time to clean our house...and to schedule carpet cleaning. But could I get cable, electric, and internet hooked up in time? The mind boggles.
This would all be so much easier if we lived in a time which was at least a little more science fictiony. Because what I ultimately need to do is figure out a way to bend the time/space fabric. A time machine would be nice. I could quite comfortably get along with teleportation. A robot nanny would also help. Hell, what would be ideal is if I could simply punch a hole through the said time/space fabric and just cross over to another quantum dimension where the alterna-Mike has already done the move for me.
Of course, magic would also be a possibility. Maybe I could get a wizard to levitate my stuff...or magically transfer....
Nah...magic is just silly.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
some assembly...
The other night, I dreamed I was playing a prototype of the newest of the Lego video games. Move over, Star Wars Lego, Lord of the Rings Lego, Lego Batman. I was playing the hottest, coolest, most awesome one yet: the Lego version of the classic first person shooter Doom.
Of course, it was recognizably Doom. There were all the weapons,from the lowly knife to the infamous BFG. There were imps, spectres, cacodemons, and worse. There was the creepy lighting and twitch-inducing soundtrack. There were tricks, traps, hidden rooms, and pits...the whole works.
It was, however, also recognizably the Lego version...so the demons were all a bit comical, and when you got hit, yes, you would get bloody--you would probably even lose limbs...but reassembly was never that big of a deal. Get your hand blown off? Just pop it back on.
It was, to be sure, an awesome video game. And as much as I would love to play it in real life, I have ultimately decided I want more.
Screw the game. I want a Lego life.
I want the ability to rebuild. I want to know that, if I so desire, I can rebuild myself. Yeah, I've gained weight....just reach into that box and hand me the teenage torso and metabolism, please. Crave adventure? Just tear apart this police station and build a space ship. Outgrow your hosue? Expansion is as easy as stack and click.
Mostly, though, it would be nice to actually have some control over your own existence. Lego is, in the end, about pure creativity. No outside forces. No social constraints. No mysterious powers which have you eternally at their whim.
It would be a wonderful life...with only some assembly required.
Of course, it was recognizably Doom. There were all the weapons,from the lowly knife to the infamous BFG. There were imps, spectres, cacodemons, and worse. There was the creepy lighting and twitch-inducing soundtrack. There were tricks, traps, hidden rooms, and pits...the whole works.
It was, however, also recognizably the Lego version...so the demons were all a bit comical, and when you got hit, yes, you would get bloody--you would probably even lose limbs...but reassembly was never that big of a deal. Get your hand blown off? Just pop it back on.
It was, to be sure, an awesome video game. And as much as I would love to play it in real life, I have ultimately decided I want more.
Screw the game. I want a Lego life.
I want the ability to rebuild. I want to know that, if I so desire, I can rebuild myself. Yeah, I've gained weight....just reach into that box and hand me the teenage torso and metabolism, please. Crave adventure? Just tear apart this police station and build a space ship. Outgrow your hosue? Expansion is as easy as stack and click.
Mostly, though, it would be nice to actually have some control over your own existence. Lego is, in the end, about pure creativity. No outside forces. No social constraints. No mysterious powers which have you eternally at their whim.
It would be a wonderful life...with only some assembly required.
circular motion
The great landlord controversy of '013 has, in a sense, been solved. Said solution, however, makes me question the notion of trajectory.
When our landlords informed us that, as we had the gall to ask them to maintain their own property, we would need to find somewhere else to live, they also told us they would "work with us." What this mystery phrase seemed to really mean, though, is that we could stay a little bit longer...but just three weeks shy of when 95% of city rental properties became available. As nice as my sister's offer of three weeks in her guest room in Michigan was, though, being without a home of our own was not really desirable...so we limited the search to places immediately available.
The property search itself was...disheartening. We found one place I would actually feel comfortable raising my daughter; it was, however, almost $300 a month over what we have been paying in rent...and had no air conditioner...and had two other apartments on in the house.
Most of the other places, however, were true horror stories. One, for instance, was an old duplex $125 more a month than our current place. When I did my tour, there were hefty bags of trash in more rooms than not. There were piles of dirty laundry on the floor in more rooms than not. One bedroom had two half-full pizza boxes and a half-eaten platter of McDonald's pancakes. The toilets looked as if they had not been cleaned in a year or even flushed within the week. I was glad I didn't have my daughter with me that day, because frankly, I wouldn't want her to touch a millimeter of the place.
The apartment complex we chose is, by comparison, palatial. It's run by the same management company who ran our micro-house of old, so we know the maintenance will be good. It's mostly inhabited by the AARP set, so loud keggers are a little outside of the realm of possibility (although if there is one, I really hope they invite me). Plus they have an indoor pool, an outdoor pool, a fitness room, and a fenced-in kiddie play area where I can drop off my kid before I go hit the bars. Plus the staff is fascinated with my daughter from our last time doing business with them.
So it could be much worse. But, man, I hate that phrase. Yeah, I could be getting repeatedly kicked in the taint by angry Lithuanians. Not the point. Yeah, it could be worse. The problem is this: it is hard to see this as anything other than a step backward in my life.
I thought that, in regard to living arrangements, we were at least on a positive trajectory. I move from my folk's place in the insane state of Florida to my own place in the only moderately insane state of Ohio. I find a nice place in an apartment complex seemingly catering to transients (but in the nicest possible manner). I get hitched and move to a nice micro-house. We have a child and move to a nice suburban-esque house in the townie part of town. All positive moves.
But then our landlord suffers some sort of mental disconnect...and we find ourselves back in apartment living.
I immediately start wondering in what other ways will my life regress. Will I receive notice I have to resume work on my dissertation? Will they make me start taking classes again? Will I have to move back in with my parents? Regrow my heavy metal hair? Go back to work at the pizza place? Wear braces again?
The mind boggles...but when the very concept of trajectory disappears, who knows what past hells I will have to endure...for the second time, no less?
Just please don't make me re-experience teenage angst...it would clash with the angst in which I currently reside.
When our landlords informed us that, as we had the gall to ask them to maintain their own property, we would need to find somewhere else to live, they also told us they would "work with us." What this mystery phrase seemed to really mean, though, is that we could stay a little bit longer...but just three weeks shy of when 95% of city rental properties became available. As nice as my sister's offer of three weeks in her guest room in Michigan was, though, being without a home of our own was not really desirable...so we limited the search to places immediately available.
The property search itself was...disheartening. We found one place I would actually feel comfortable raising my daughter; it was, however, almost $300 a month over what we have been paying in rent...and had no air conditioner...and had two other apartments on in the house.
Most of the other places, however, were true horror stories. One, for instance, was an old duplex $125 more a month than our current place. When I did my tour, there were hefty bags of trash in more rooms than not. There were piles of dirty laundry on the floor in more rooms than not. One bedroom had two half-full pizza boxes and a half-eaten platter of McDonald's pancakes. The toilets looked as if they had not been cleaned in a year or even flushed within the week. I was glad I didn't have my daughter with me that day, because frankly, I wouldn't want her to touch a millimeter of the place.
The apartment complex we chose is, by comparison, palatial. It's run by the same management company who ran our micro-house of old, so we know the maintenance will be good. It's mostly inhabited by the AARP set, so loud keggers are a little outside of the realm of possibility (although if there is one, I really hope they invite me). Plus they have an indoor pool, an outdoor pool, a fitness room, and a fenced-in kiddie play area where I can drop off my kid before I go hit the bars. Plus the staff is fascinated with my daughter from our last time doing business with them.
So it could be much worse. But, man, I hate that phrase. Yeah, I could be getting repeatedly kicked in the taint by angry Lithuanians. Not the point. Yeah, it could be worse. The problem is this: it is hard to see this as anything other than a step backward in my life.
I thought that, in regard to living arrangements, we were at least on a positive trajectory. I move from my folk's place in the insane state of Florida to my own place in the only moderately insane state of Ohio. I find a nice place in an apartment complex seemingly catering to transients (but in the nicest possible manner). I get hitched and move to a nice micro-house. We have a child and move to a nice suburban-esque house in the townie part of town. All positive moves.
But then our landlord suffers some sort of mental disconnect...and we find ourselves back in apartment living.
I immediately start wondering in what other ways will my life regress. Will I receive notice I have to resume work on my dissertation? Will they make me start taking classes again? Will I have to move back in with my parents? Regrow my heavy metal hair? Go back to work at the pizza place? Wear braces again?
The mind boggles...but when the very concept of trajectory disappears, who knows what past hells I will have to endure...for the second time, no less?
Just please don't make me re-experience teenage angst...it would clash with the angst in which I currently reside.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
note from the bar last night iii--comparative losers
I'm sitting in a bar by myself. My only friend in the place was the bartender, and he got off work five minutes after I walked in. So I'm sitting at the back table, doing the tortured artist thing--yeah, it's that kind of week.
The lonely drunk artist thing, though, doesn't come with that much prestige. No one is going to respect me as an artist for scribbling in a notebook while sipping on a mini-pitcher. Well, maybe they'll consider me a poor man's Dylan Thomas in a hundred years. From my perspective, though, this is no real enticement.
One can only be tortured artist thing while alone, though, and that is a drawback. I'm not gonna say I'm friendless, though. I have plenty of friends...just none who live in the same city as me. My best friend lives in another continent, my best friends in the country live in Minneapolis and Los Angeles, and my best friend in the state lives two hours away.
I've just found out I will not have a place to live in a few weeks. Good options are not on the horizon. We will either paying money we don't have, or we will be living in ramshackled tenements. It's not where I thought I would be at the age of 42.
Earlier, I spent hours roaming the streets of this town. It's not an unfamiliar thing to do. I used to do the same thing as a teenager. Then, it was to smoke and listen to music. Now? To try to find a place to raise my daughter.
I really don't have the temperament for this life, I'm discovering. I find myself needing not to think of it too much, but apart from being with someone who must process out loud, I found myself without distraction. It's been months since band practice. I'd just play on my own, but the sound of my guitar seems to send the family to the other side of the house. I would hang out with friends, but, as I said before, I don't seem to have any in the area.
So what do I do?
It all seems terribly melodramatic, I know...and compared to the very real joy of which I do partake on a daily basis, it is inconsequential. I will freely admit this. I still have my turns--I know I will always have them. But they are not my life. They are not my existence. They are not who I am even a significant portion of the time.
It seems, though, that uncertainty and isolation are gonna be a lot of who I am for some time. I just wish I was the kind of person suited for suck a live.
Ah, to be the social butterfly who lives in isolation. To be the one who needs closure in an existence devoid of it.
It is important, though, to maintain perspective.
A little while ago, this couple covertly snuck into the men's room together...I can only assume for some attempt at illicit fun of some sort or another. In thirty seconds, however, they were covertly sneaking back out. I can only assume the illicit fun wasn't very thrilling, or the surrounds did not create the proper ambiance for said fun.
In comparison, I'm not doing all that badly.
At any rate, I'm gaining a certain amount of perspective from the weird week and my most recent turn. Plus I've finished several prose pieces and two lyrics, one of which has been on the burner for three years.
There's something to be said for being the right kind of loser, I guess.
The lonely drunk artist thing, though, doesn't come with that much prestige. No one is going to respect me as an artist for scribbling in a notebook while sipping on a mini-pitcher. Well, maybe they'll consider me a poor man's Dylan Thomas in a hundred years. From my perspective, though, this is no real enticement.
One can only be tortured artist thing while alone, though, and that is a drawback. I'm not gonna say I'm friendless, though. I have plenty of friends...just none who live in the same city as me. My best friend lives in another continent, my best friends in the country live in Minneapolis and Los Angeles, and my best friend in the state lives two hours away.
I've just found out I will not have a place to live in a few weeks. Good options are not on the horizon. We will either paying money we don't have, or we will be living in ramshackled tenements. It's not where I thought I would be at the age of 42.
Earlier, I spent hours roaming the streets of this town. It's not an unfamiliar thing to do. I used to do the same thing as a teenager. Then, it was to smoke and listen to music. Now? To try to find a place to raise my daughter.
I really don't have the temperament for this life, I'm discovering. I find myself needing not to think of it too much, but apart from being with someone who must process out loud, I found myself without distraction. It's been months since band practice. I'd just play on my own, but the sound of my guitar seems to send the family to the other side of the house. I would hang out with friends, but, as I said before, I don't seem to have any in the area.
So what do I do?
It all seems terribly melodramatic, I know...and compared to the very real joy of which I do partake on a daily basis, it is inconsequential. I will freely admit this. I still have my turns--I know I will always have them. But they are not my life. They are not my existence. They are not who I am even a significant portion of the time.
It seems, though, that uncertainty and isolation are gonna be a lot of who I am for some time. I just wish I was the kind of person suited for suck a live.
Ah, to be the social butterfly who lives in isolation. To be the one who needs closure in an existence devoid of it.
It is important, though, to maintain perspective.
A little while ago, this couple covertly snuck into the men's room together...I can only assume for some attempt at illicit fun of some sort or another. In thirty seconds, however, they were covertly sneaking back out. I can only assume the illicit fun wasn't very thrilling, or the surrounds did not create the proper ambiance for said fun.
In comparison, I'm not doing all that badly.
At any rate, I'm gaining a certain amount of perspective from the weird week and my most recent turn. Plus I've finished several prose pieces and two lyrics, one of which has been on the burner for three years.
There's something to be said for being the right kind of loser, I guess.
note from the bar last night ii--Musician, I
My identity has, for a long time, been bound up in relation to music. First, I was the guy struggling to learn. Then I was a guy who was constantly told he sucked as a musician. Then I was the guy who used to be a musician.
Later, I joined a band and then became a guy who struggled to think of himself as a musician. Eventually, I came to terms with being a good guitarist and songwriter. So of course, that band had to break up, and I started to see myself as the guy who used to be in a band.
Relatively quickly, though, I was invited to join another band. I had to get used to being a musician in a whole different context. Then half the band quit on us. Luckily enough, before I could start trying to think of myself as a former musician again, we got a better rhythm section, and I was able to start thinking of myself as a musician in a kick-ass band.
We recently put out an album on an indy label. This means, of course, I feel more of a musician as ever.
This February, I decided to go out on a pretty shaky limb and perform as a solo artist. This meant, of course, another change--into being a self-sufficient musical entity.
I've been writing all night, so I have been feeling all singer/songwriter. Saturday, though, my band plays a show, so I guess I'll revert to lead guitar guy.
It's fun being a musician...regardless of the key of the song.
Later, I joined a band and then became a guy who struggled to think of himself as a musician. Eventually, I came to terms with being a good guitarist and songwriter. So of course, that band had to break up, and I started to see myself as the guy who used to be in a band.
Relatively quickly, though, I was invited to join another band. I had to get used to being a musician in a whole different context. Then half the band quit on us. Luckily enough, before I could start trying to think of myself as a former musician again, we got a better rhythm section, and I was able to start thinking of myself as a musician in a kick-ass band.
We recently put out an album on an indy label. This means, of course, I feel more of a musician as ever.
This February, I decided to go out on a pretty shaky limb and perform as a solo artist. This meant, of course, another change--into being a self-sufficient musical entity.
I've been writing all night, so I have been feeling all singer/songwriter. Saturday, though, my band plays a show, so I guess I'll revert to lead guitar guy.
It's fun being a musician...regardless of the key of the song.
notes from the bar last night i
Do you remember when you eagerly believed in a directing, hands-on God? When there was some higher power to hear your prayers? When you held out home for some sense of cosmic justice, even one comprehensible to man, to make sense of the world as we knew it? When there seemed a point to it all?
What was it like? And were you happier?
What was it like? And were you happier?
the long and terrible saga of being a renter
It started a couple of weeks ago with a crash.
When we moved to this house, we wanted to find a place in which we could hang out for several years. We wanted a nice house where we could live, raise our daughter, pay off our debts, and then look for a place to buy. This house, in other words, was always a long term option.
The first few times we saw our landlords, they told us several times about how they were worried about holes in the wall, how the previous tenants had left tons of nail holes. This was a little puzzling to me...after all, how hard is it to fill a hole with spackle? The husband mentioned those 2 sided tape picture wall hangers, so I went out, bought a bunch, and used them to hang most of our art.
A little over three weeks ago, one of them failed. A picture fell of the wall, tearing off the paint and the drywall paper. I immediately sent our landlords a message explaining what happened. I asked if they wanted us to go to nails, or if they'd rather us continue to use the wall hangers. I assured them we wanted to be good tenants and take care of their house.
No response. A week later, I sent them a text message. Several days after that, I got a reply saying she would send me a proper response via e-mail. Several more days passed. After two and a half weeks, I sent another e-mail. I didn't actually get a response until Sunday, and it was fairly brusque and rude. We left a few messages. Later in the evening, they finally called my wife.
It was, I thought, a good think my wife talked to them...she is able to stay much more calm than I. But as the conversation continued, I saw my wife's face contort, and I saw her make "are these people insane?" gestures, and I knew there were issues. As it turned out, the landlords thought we "were excessive" in our demands. They thought we called in for too much maintenance. They thought that we should take care of all the building maintenance ourselves, and that they shouldn't have to do much of anything other than cash our checks.
This puzzled me, particularly because the last time I asked for maintenance, it was because we had noticed some loose bathroom tiles, and the garage door would not open. As far as the tiles, I thought this was a natural matter for the property owners. I thought they would be concerned about water damage. Yet it took them two and a half weeks to fix the tiles.
After the phone call ended, my wife told me that they would rather not renew our lease because of our excessive demands. As our lease ends June 31, this essentially means we have 5 weeks to find another place to live, secure a new lease, and pack and move all our stuff.
There are several problems with this. First, we live in a college town, and pretty much 98% of the rentals are student-oriented. This means they are in student ghetto areas...and these places are not really conductive to raising a child. But it also means most of the leases are tied to the school year...so there's pretty much nothing available immediately. Our current landlord said they would be open to doing month-to-month for a little bit, but they would raise our rent if we did. Yay.
The second problem is actually trying to find a new place. I took two hours Sunday to drive around the town, noting every "for rent" sign I could find. Most of them were for this one rental agency in town, but they had some really nice properties, in really great areas of town. The only problem was that when I went to their office Monday, they told me most of the places with the "for rent" signs weren't actually for rent. They put the signs up (get this) as free advertising. They only had two properties for rent which fit our needs.
I spent some time searching on-line, but that's really no help. Most of the landlord websites would've looked archaic in 1998. Moreover, they're not up to date at all. I found a great place on one company's website in a gorgeous neighborhood, but when I called that rental company, they told me the house had been rented for weeks, and that they in fact only had two places available (as opposed to the ten or so on their site)...and both available places were in the student ghetto.
The third problem with this is the quality of some of the rentals. We found one place in the paper, so we set up an appointment to see it. When we did a drive-by last night, we saw that it 1) had no front yard, 2) had a moderate back yard facing an auto repair shop, 3) was right next to the railroad tracks, and 4) looked beat up and dingy. Yet they were still asking a lot of money.
Right now, I have three visits set up. The first one is via the rental agency. The house is in an okay neighborhood, but the building itself looks rather run down. The second is also via the rental agency; this one looks nice, is close to both City Park and downtown, and is in a nice neighborhood...but it is $100 more a month than our current lease. Both of these places aren't available until August, which makes them a little more challenging. The third is a private place across from place one; I don't know yet when it's available, and it does look nice...but we would have to rely on on-the-street parking.
Of course, this has me in a bit of a panic. I really don't want to rent a duplex or an apartment after living in a house. I also really want to find somewhere nice where my daughter can safely play outside. And I really don't want to keep renting from our evil current landlords any longer than necessary. Most of all, I really don't want to live anywhere other than Bowling Green. This is where I want my child to grow up.
And if we have to move (a process which I hate with a passion--I'd rather have a railroad spike drove into my forehead), I don't want to settle for a place which sucks and which we'd want to leave after a year. I want somewhere we can hide out for a few years (which is what I thought we were getting in this house).
There are, however, so few choices available, and our time is short. I'm not thrilled with any of our current options. I have a few outstanding phone calls, though, and I'm hoping one of them comes through. But for now, I'm trying not to panic.
I am, incidentally, also spending time trying not to freak out about having to pack up and actually move all our stuff yet again....but that's another post.
When we moved to this house, we wanted to find a place in which we could hang out for several years. We wanted a nice house where we could live, raise our daughter, pay off our debts, and then look for a place to buy. This house, in other words, was always a long term option.
The first few times we saw our landlords, they told us several times about how they were worried about holes in the wall, how the previous tenants had left tons of nail holes. This was a little puzzling to me...after all, how hard is it to fill a hole with spackle? The husband mentioned those 2 sided tape picture wall hangers, so I went out, bought a bunch, and used them to hang most of our art.
A little over three weeks ago, one of them failed. A picture fell of the wall, tearing off the paint and the drywall paper. I immediately sent our landlords a message explaining what happened. I asked if they wanted us to go to nails, or if they'd rather us continue to use the wall hangers. I assured them we wanted to be good tenants and take care of their house.
No response. A week later, I sent them a text message. Several days after that, I got a reply saying she would send me a proper response via e-mail. Several more days passed. After two and a half weeks, I sent another e-mail. I didn't actually get a response until Sunday, and it was fairly brusque and rude. We left a few messages. Later in the evening, they finally called my wife.
It was, I thought, a good think my wife talked to them...she is able to stay much more calm than I. But as the conversation continued, I saw my wife's face contort, and I saw her make "are these people insane?" gestures, and I knew there were issues. As it turned out, the landlords thought we "were excessive" in our demands. They thought we called in for too much maintenance. They thought that we should take care of all the building maintenance ourselves, and that they shouldn't have to do much of anything other than cash our checks.
This puzzled me, particularly because the last time I asked for maintenance, it was because we had noticed some loose bathroom tiles, and the garage door would not open. As far as the tiles, I thought this was a natural matter for the property owners. I thought they would be concerned about water damage. Yet it took them two and a half weeks to fix the tiles.
After the phone call ended, my wife told me that they would rather not renew our lease because of our excessive demands. As our lease ends June 31, this essentially means we have 5 weeks to find another place to live, secure a new lease, and pack and move all our stuff.
There are several problems with this. First, we live in a college town, and pretty much 98% of the rentals are student-oriented. This means they are in student ghetto areas...and these places are not really conductive to raising a child. But it also means most of the leases are tied to the school year...so there's pretty much nothing available immediately. Our current landlord said they would be open to doing month-to-month for a little bit, but they would raise our rent if we did. Yay.
The second problem is actually trying to find a new place. I took two hours Sunday to drive around the town, noting every "for rent" sign I could find. Most of them were for this one rental agency in town, but they had some really nice properties, in really great areas of town. The only problem was that when I went to their office Monday, they told me most of the places with the "for rent" signs weren't actually for rent. They put the signs up (get this) as free advertising. They only had two properties for rent which fit our needs.
I spent some time searching on-line, but that's really no help. Most of the landlord websites would've looked archaic in 1998. Moreover, they're not up to date at all. I found a great place on one company's website in a gorgeous neighborhood, but when I called that rental company, they told me the house had been rented for weeks, and that they in fact only had two places available (as opposed to the ten or so on their site)...and both available places were in the student ghetto.
The third problem with this is the quality of some of the rentals. We found one place in the paper, so we set up an appointment to see it. When we did a drive-by last night, we saw that it 1) had no front yard, 2) had a moderate back yard facing an auto repair shop, 3) was right next to the railroad tracks, and 4) looked beat up and dingy. Yet they were still asking a lot of money.
Right now, I have three visits set up. The first one is via the rental agency. The house is in an okay neighborhood, but the building itself looks rather run down. The second is also via the rental agency; this one looks nice, is close to both City Park and downtown, and is in a nice neighborhood...but it is $100 more a month than our current lease. Both of these places aren't available until August, which makes them a little more challenging. The third is a private place across from place one; I don't know yet when it's available, and it does look nice...but we would have to rely on on-the-street parking.
Of course, this has me in a bit of a panic. I really don't want to rent a duplex or an apartment after living in a house. I also really want to find somewhere nice where my daughter can safely play outside. And I really don't want to keep renting from our evil current landlords any longer than necessary. Most of all, I really don't want to live anywhere other than Bowling Green. This is where I want my child to grow up.
And if we have to move (a process which I hate with a passion--I'd rather have a railroad spike drove into my forehead), I don't want to settle for a place which sucks and which we'd want to leave after a year. I want somewhere we can hide out for a few years (which is what I thought we were getting in this house).
There are, however, so few choices available, and our time is short. I'm not thrilled with any of our current options. I have a few outstanding phone calls, though, and I'm hoping one of them comes through. But for now, I'm trying not to panic.
I am, incidentally, also spending time trying not to freak out about having to pack up and actually move all our stuff yet again....but that's another post.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
meta-blogging
I just noticed that Blogger seems to keep stats of page views. So, not having anything else to do (I've already seen this episode of Team Oomizoomi), I thought I would do a quick scan. Some thoughts:
- According to the stats, pretty much nobody was reading my blog for the first few years. I know I suck, but still...
- The most viewed post was my first academic bio by a mile. The runner-up, though, was my post about meat raffles. with a whopping 361 views.
- Point two obviously contradicts point one.
- Furthermore, I've seen some posts which supposedly had 7 comments but no page views.
one of my turns...an inside view
I've said it before, and I will certainly say it again: depression sucks.
Depression on its own is bad enough. It sucks that you get into random bad moods. It sucks that any tiny little thing will set you over the edge. It sucks that once one bad thing happens, you can't shake the blackness. It sucks that whenever this happens, you start to take it out on the people who still actually stay with you.
Medication certainly helps, but it doesn't cure it. You still have to watch every mood, every action.It sucks even more when legitimate bad stuff (as opposed to imagined stuff) actually happens...because who knows where you will end up?
At first, it's little things, such as when trying to contact friends turns into "I wonder when/if they'll get back to me this time." Then there's the online stories of the fun they had the night before...while you were sitting at home by yourself, staring at a silent phone.
But then, on top of the little things, the big things hit. I had two of those happen today. First, I have realized I'm apparently in a fight with my landlord and might have to rent and move into another place in the next week and a half. I would rather run a railroad spike through my eyeball than move again, and now I might have to do a rush job (on top of trying to find money for a security deposit...because of course this all had to happen right after I paid bills. Then I had my place on the social scale firmly stamped onto my head upon learning an out-of-state friend came to visit a couple of weeks ago, and I was apparently not worthy of even being invited to see her.
What makes this even more harrowing is that I had such a wonderful day Friday, only to have that good mood slowly disintegrate over the next 48 hours. And sadly enough, knowing "this too shall pass" isn't much of a help. I want to be playing with my daughter. I want to be playing guitar. I want to be watching wrestling with friends. I want to finish a couple of songs-in-progress. I want to write that blog post about writing comedy. But instead, I'm just trying to tamp down the black.
Depression on its own is bad enough. It sucks that you get into random bad moods. It sucks that any tiny little thing will set you over the edge. It sucks that once one bad thing happens, you can't shake the blackness. It sucks that whenever this happens, you start to take it out on the people who still actually stay with you.
Medication certainly helps, but it doesn't cure it. You still have to watch every mood, every action.It sucks even more when legitimate bad stuff (as opposed to imagined stuff) actually happens...because who knows where you will end up?
At first, it's little things, such as when trying to contact friends turns into "I wonder when/if they'll get back to me this time." Then there's the online stories of the fun they had the night before...while you were sitting at home by yourself, staring at a silent phone.
But then, on top of the little things, the big things hit. I had two of those happen today. First, I have realized I'm apparently in a fight with my landlord and might have to rent and move into another place in the next week and a half. I would rather run a railroad spike through my eyeball than move again, and now I might have to do a rush job (on top of trying to find money for a security deposit...because of course this all had to happen right after I paid bills. Then I had my place on the social scale firmly stamped onto my head upon learning an out-of-state friend came to visit a couple of weeks ago, and I was apparently not worthy of even being invited to see her.
What makes this even more harrowing is that I had such a wonderful day Friday, only to have that good mood slowly disintegrate over the next 48 hours. And sadly enough, knowing "this too shall pass" isn't much of a help. I want to be playing with my daughter. I want to be playing guitar. I want to be watching wrestling with friends. I want to finish a couple of songs-in-progress. I want to write that blog post about writing comedy. But instead, I'm just trying to tamp down the black.
a gambling man
We had a poker night last night. It's been a long time since I've been in a good poker game, so it was particularly fun for me. I got excited and prepared for the occasion by making chip dip, getting a good folding table, buying several new sets of cards, and procuring real poker chips. Yep, no jars of pennies or cheap plastic tiddly-winks or frozen peas or fingernail clippings or any other betting tokens for us.
It took ages to get a full bevy of players. Many self-professed poker fans said they would love to play but had previous engagements...so many, in fact, that, if I were slightly more paranoid, I would think they were blowing me off. But eventually, we got a full table.
Some of our players, however, were amateurs. This seems like it would be a real advantage, but there were several drawbacks. First, we had to spend an inordinate amount of time explaining rules, hands, betting, and such. This itself wouldn't be a problem...but the two self-professed "poker virgins" were the ones who made the most money through the course of the night...which yes, is slightly aggravating.
I love poker, and while I don't think of myself as a shark or anything, I do have a certain amount of skills. Yet for the first few hours, I was playing horribly. Cards simply were not coming...or, if they did come, someone else would be obviously beating me. We were doing low-stakes ($5), and I started losing around a buck an hour. As the size of my stack shrunk, I started to play more timidly out of necessity...because when everyone else has four to five times the chips, pushing around another player becomes an impossibility. About three hours later, I had to re-buy for $2 more. In about an hour, I had to re-buy again. It was my inaugural poker night, and I was going broke.
Something then snapped. I started to get cards. With the cards, I started to regain the attitude. I pushed all-in a few times and won. I began playing with authority. Eventually, I pulled very close to my original stake...I think I might've lost a quarter or so, but as I was down over eight bucks at one point, I'm pretty happy with the result.
Now if only I could break even at any other part of life.
It took ages to get a full bevy of players. Many self-professed poker fans said they would love to play but had previous engagements...so many, in fact, that, if I were slightly more paranoid, I would think they were blowing me off. But eventually, we got a full table.
Some of our players, however, were amateurs. This seems like it would be a real advantage, but there were several drawbacks. First, we had to spend an inordinate amount of time explaining rules, hands, betting, and such. This itself wouldn't be a problem...but the two self-professed "poker virgins" were the ones who made the most money through the course of the night...which yes, is slightly aggravating.
I love poker, and while I don't think of myself as a shark or anything, I do have a certain amount of skills. Yet for the first few hours, I was playing horribly. Cards simply were not coming...or, if they did come, someone else would be obviously beating me. We were doing low-stakes ($5), and I started losing around a buck an hour. As the size of my stack shrunk, I started to play more timidly out of necessity...because when everyone else has four to five times the chips, pushing around another player becomes an impossibility. About three hours later, I had to re-buy for $2 more. In about an hour, I had to re-buy again. It was my inaugural poker night, and I was going broke.
Something then snapped. I started to get cards. With the cards, I started to regain the attitude. I pushed all-in a few times and won. I began playing with authority. Eventually, I pulled very close to my original stake...I think I might've lost a quarter or so, but as I was down over eight bucks at one point, I'm pretty happy with the result.
Now if only I could break even at any other part of life.
Wednesday, May 01, 2013
the link between television and violence
I finally have proof of the insidious power of the media...and your worst fears have come true. Television will cause erratic behavior in children. They will copy what they see on television. It will be violent. It will be brutal. But most of all...it will be cute.
I know this because I learned it the hard way.
About a week ago, there must've been a program on which featured a pillow fight. My daughter must've seen it. I don't have either a clear memory or 100% verifiable evidence of this. But still, I know this must've happened.
Yesterday, my daughter grabbed my hand and led me down the hall. We bypassed the study and headed into Mommy and Daddy's bedroom. Sylvia wanted up on the bed, so I set her on it and laid down next to her. She went to Mommy's side and picked up her fairly heavy memory foam pillow. Sylvia then said "fight!" and threw the pillow onto my face.
New warnings on television! The world must know how dangerous the wanton televised depiction of pillow fights can be! Back in the good ole days, before we had these darn talking picture boxes in every room, there must've been less pillow-on-Daddy violence.
I know this because I learned it the hard way.
About a week ago, there must've been a program on which featured a pillow fight. My daughter must've seen it. I don't have either a clear memory or 100% verifiable evidence of this. But still, I know this must've happened.
Yesterday, my daughter grabbed my hand and led me down the hall. We bypassed the study and headed into Mommy and Daddy's bedroom. Sylvia wanted up on the bed, so I set her on it and laid down next to her. She went to Mommy's side and picked up her fairly heavy memory foam pillow. Sylvia then said "fight!" and threw the pillow onto my face.
New warnings on television! The world must know how dangerous the wanton televised depiction of pillow fights can be! Back in the good ole days, before we had these darn talking picture boxes in every room, there must've been less pillow-on-Daddy violence.
on endings and perspective
One of the weird things about being even tangentially associated with the academic life is that the end of the school year becomes an end in many different ways. It is an end of sorts for the town, because in a few days, the transient students will abandon the town, and it will once again become ours. This is, for those of you from other paths of life, completely glorious.
It is also an end for many in terms of employment. Some see it as the end of certainty, particularly if they're in a job where renewal is not automatic. Some see it as the end of this phase of their life, particularly if they're making a move to a newer, bigger, better job. And both of these ends affect those of us who stay in one place, so it might be an end of sorts for me too.
It's still early, but so far, the good news from colleagues has been outweighing the uncertainty and fear from other colleagues. I hope the trend continues. I have friends without any definite prospects, and I hope they gain some certainty. I have a friend who desperately wants to return to the country, and there are so many people who also want him back here, there would be mass celebration if he gets good news. The joy, in other words, would definitely spread.
But this time around, the most significant end I'm celebrating? It isn't for the school year being over...it was actually one of the best teaching years I've ever had. It isn't just for the end of night classes...although the opportunity to cook for and eat with my family every single night is intoxicating. And it isn't the end of that horrible time of the year when I have to wear socks...evil, cursed things. While these are all ends worthy of cheer, they're not the biggest conclusion in my life right now.
The biggest change for me is that I have already heard of the good fortune of several of my friends...and the only reaction it prompted within me was of cheer, of admiration, of well-wishes. Not a single time did my thoughts turn to bitter jealousy of careers which actually advance, of professional lives which gain recognition. I am not weeping for my failures. I am not hearing good news and being angry I never received recognition. No, I am only happy for my friends.
Maybe my own depression, my own crushed ego trips, my selfishness...maybe these are what's truly ending. I really hope this is the case. But if they're only diminishing....hell, that would also be a huge victory.
It is also an end for many in terms of employment. Some see it as the end of certainty, particularly if they're in a job where renewal is not automatic. Some see it as the end of this phase of their life, particularly if they're making a move to a newer, bigger, better job. And both of these ends affect those of us who stay in one place, so it might be an end of sorts for me too.
It's still early, but so far, the good news from colleagues has been outweighing the uncertainty and fear from other colleagues. I hope the trend continues. I have friends without any definite prospects, and I hope they gain some certainty. I have a friend who desperately wants to return to the country, and there are so many people who also want him back here, there would be mass celebration if he gets good news. The joy, in other words, would definitely spread.
But this time around, the most significant end I'm celebrating? It isn't for the school year being over...it was actually one of the best teaching years I've ever had. It isn't just for the end of night classes...although the opportunity to cook for and eat with my family every single night is intoxicating. And it isn't the end of that horrible time of the year when I have to wear socks...evil, cursed things. While these are all ends worthy of cheer, they're not the biggest conclusion in my life right now.
The biggest change for me is that I have already heard of the good fortune of several of my friends...and the only reaction it prompted within me was of cheer, of admiration, of well-wishes. Not a single time did my thoughts turn to bitter jealousy of careers which actually advance, of professional lives which gain recognition. I am not weeping for my failures. I am not hearing good news and being angry I never received recognition. No, I am only happy for my friends.
Maybe my own depression, my own crushed ego trips, my selfishness...maybe these are what's truly ending. I really hope this is the case. But if they're only diminishing....hell, that would also be a huge victory.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
a super-concentrated collection of cuteness
I promised quite a while ago that this blog would "not to go all "oooh, you should see the adorable thing my kiddie did today" on you." However, it does occur to me I only really mention her here in passing...and that if you read this, you only get a partial view of her and (by extention) my life. This would be unfair, because so much of my current existence is being the father to the world's most awesome kid...and she seems, over the last week, increasingly intent on proving her awesomeness. How?
- Last week, we were sitting together watching something on television. I told her "I like sitting with you, Sylvia." Without turning, Sylvia said "no problem."
- This weekend, as I was doing some grading, she came into the study and played for a little bit. When I heard her get up to leave, I said "bye bye" to her. She responded with a "see ya!"
- Later, I was still grading. I heard Lori and Sylvia in the hallway. Lori would sing "I got you, babe," and Sylvia would respond with "I got you." Sylvia also does this with me all the time.
- Sylvia has a habit of coming in and keeping me company as I use the restroom. Sometimes she brings me things...my tea mug, my book, and even once my mandolin. Monday, though, as she opened the door, she said "Daddy?" She saw me in there, said "Ooops, sorry," and pulled the door mostly shut. In a few minutes, though, she started to push some bath toys through the door crack.
- Over the last week, she's started to lay some of her stuffed animals down on our bed, cover them with a blanket, and tell them "Night night."
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
on the state of the teaching thingie viii--bragging
The one final thought about teaching has to do with bragging. One of the advantages of teaching writing is that the discipline does not really lend itself to exams, final or otherwise. And in the university structure, the week after classes is reserved for finals.
In the past, I've used this to my advantage. I've had all my work due on the last week of the semester...preferably early into that week. Then I would get all my grading done by the end of the last week of the semester. I would return everything on the last Friday of the semester. Then I would spend the weekend tweaking all my friends who would complain about the stacks of grading still on their docket. I would invite them out for drinks, beg them to stay out late, and when they protested, I would reply "What? You're not done yet??? Why, I've been done for two days." Then I would duck whatever projectile they've thrown my direction.
This year, however, the schedules were weird. My lit class had everything due the Thursday of the last week. Moreover, since it's a lit class, there's a lot of them in there...so that one will take a while. I did have my Comp I scheduled to be in Monday, but they were begging for more time. And then my band got offered a gig at a music fest run by the college radio station, so the due date there got pushed to Wednesday. I'm doing two online classes, and I've realized that, due to a quirk of scheduling, there's actually one less week in Spring than in Fall...so it was either cut the schedule or give them until exam week for their work.
Bottom line? For the first time in ages, I won't be done before finals week. I'm going to be against the wall just like everyone else. Man, I hope no one else gets done early and starts bragging about how they're finished. That would be the worst...
In the past, I've used this to my advantage. I've had all my work due on the last week of the semester...preferably early into that week. Then I would get all my grading done by the end of the last week of the semester. I would return everything on the last Friday of the semester. Then I would spend the weekend tweaking all my friends who would complain about the stacks of grading still on their docket. I would invite them out for drinks, beg them to stay out late, and when they protested, I would reply "What? You're not done yet??? Why, I've been done for two days." Then I would duck whatever projectile they've thrown my direction.
This year, however, the schedules were weird. My lit class had everything due the Thursday of the last week. Moreover, since it's a lit class, there's a lot of them in there...so that one will take a while. I did have my Comp I scheduled to be in Monday, but they were begging for more time. And then my band got offered a gig at a music fest run by the college radio station, so the due date there got pushed to Wednesday. I'm doing two online classes, and I've realized that, due to a quirk of scheduling, there's actually one less week in Spring than in Fall...so it was either cut the schedule or give them until exam week for their work.
Bottom line? For the first time in ages, I won't be done before finals week. I'm going to be against the wall just like everyone else. Man, I hope no one else gets done early and starts bragging about how they're finished. That would be the worst...
on the state of the teaching thingie vii--evaluation
One of the very true things about teaching writing is it makes one become a grading efficiency expert out of necessity. There's just so much to grade. Compounding this is the fact that most beginning teachers tend to want to comment on everything.
Part of this is the "hey, I will give them the feedback I would want" factor. The problem with this is most grad students will be writing and rewriting because it's their job. Their professional development depends on rewriting until everything is as close to perfect as possible. Students, however, will never do that level of writing. The other factor at work is many people think commenting on every single line will make them appear to be that much more of an authority figure. This is important to many people, because let's face it. There's no one as insecure as a young teacher.
When you teach writing, however, you get 4-5 papers for every single student. Then there is the rough drafts, so you can double that number. Then there are proposals and outlines. If you try to comment on everything, you will, quite simply, go mad. The thing, though, is that students just don't need this level of commentary...nor do they want it. Page after page of commentary might actually do more harm than good; after all, students are people too (evidence to the contrary), and seeing nothing but grading marks is a bit disheartening.
My solution? I've gone to just a two page rubric. I read the whole paper in one sitting only. I check some boxes. I give them maybe 5-6 sentences. No conferences...unless they want one. This way, I can bust out 5-6 papers an hour rather than the 2-3 conferences I would do...or the 2-3 papers I would grade when I was the "pages of notes" instructor. The best thing about this, however, is the responses are pretty much the same in demeanor and judgement. And 98% of the students are equally happy. If someone wants more feedback...well, that's what office hours are for.
Lesson? Why kill yourself if only for your own ego? It need not be a requirement of teaching.
Part of this is the "hey, I will give them the feedback I would want" factor. The problem with this is most grad students will be writing and rewriting because it's their job. Their professional development depends on rewriting until everything is as close to perfect as possible. Students, however, will never do that level of writing. The other factor at work is many people think commenting on every single line will make them appear to be that much more of an authority figure. This is important to many people, because let's face it. There's no one as insecure as a young teacher.
When you teach writing, however, you get 4-5 papers for every single student. Then there is the rough drafts, so you can double that number. Then there are proposals and outlines. If you try to comment on everything, you will, quite simply, go mad. The thing, though, is that students just don't need this level of commentary...nor do they want it. Page after page of commentary might actually do more harm than good; after all, students are people too (evidence to the contrary), and seeing nothing but grading marks is a bit disheartening.
My solution? I've gone to just a two page rubric. I read the whole paper in one sitting only. I check some boxes. I give them maybe 5-6 sentences. No conferences...unless they want one. This way, I can bust out 5-6 papers an hour rather than the 2-3 conferences I would do...or the 2-3 papers I would grade when I was the "pages of notes" instructor. The best thing about this, however, is the responses are pretty much the same in demeanor and judgement. And 98% of the students are equally happy. If someone wants more feedback...well, that's what office hours are for.
Lesson? Why kill yourself if only for your own ego? It need not be a requirement of teaching.
on the state of the teaching thingie vi--Mr. Nice Guy
I have finally gotten some key features of teaching down pat. When I was a grad student, I tried to be approachable in class and tried to be fun. However, this got beaten out of me a little when I started adjuncting....I simply didn't have time to think of it.
Since my family leave, however, I've lightened up my demeanor in class. I'm more talkative before class starts. I make more jokes. I'm more likely to engage them in non-lesson related conversations. As a result, my students seem to like me more than before...and this makes classes more fun. Of course, the tattoos and beard might play some role in my new-found popularity. The lesson? Being friendly never hurts...and never underestimate the power of cool, I guess.
Since my family leave, however, I've lightened up my demeanor in class. I'm more talkative before class starts. I make more jokes. I'm more likely to engage them in non-lesson related conversations. As a result, my students seem to like me more than before...and this makes classes more fun. Of course, the tattoos and beard might play some role in my new-found popularity. The lesson? Being friendly never hurts...and never underestimate the power of cool, I guess.
the state of the teaching thingie v--isolation
One thing to which I've been adjusting is the isolation at work. Pretty much no other faculty is in the building. This means I do get more work done. However, there's no one to talk to, to commiserate with, and to generally distract me from the work. Good for productivity, yes, but not nearly as much fun.
the state of the teaching thingie iv--being a lit guy
When I was younger, if you would've asked me, I would tell you I always envisioned myself being the popular culture-oriented professor in a literature department. This is why I got both a BA and an MA in Lit. Literature courses, however, are very hard to come by. Grad students in the English department usually get thrown into writing classes. So do adjuncts.
This semester, however I got a literature class. It was only the second time it happened...and I only was assigned this class when one of my other classes got cancelled. Rather than doing an organizing theme, I decided to just load it up with stuff I wanted to read...so that was cool. We've had:
This semester, however I got a literature class. It was only the second time it happened...and I only was assigned this class when one of my other classes got cancelled. Rather than doing an organizing theme, I decided to just load it up with stuff I wanted to read...so that was cool. We've had:
- The Hunger Games
- World War Z--Terkel meets Romero!
- Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom--this was the surprise of the semester, as it's both a monstrously fun read and brimming with ideas all at the same time
- Gun Machine--Warren Ellis brings his fiction mastery to prose. All cop thrillers should be this much about information
- 1984--while I've been a big fan of Animal Farm, I had never gotten around to this
- Glasshouse--perhaps the biggest head-spinner
- a ton of cool short stories, including stuff from Gaiman, Zelazny, McCarthy, Welty, Assimov, Clarke, Sheckley, O'Brien, and tons more.
the state of the teaching thingie iii--urchin
One of the advantages of the night-heavy schedule is that I do get to spend a lot of time with my wonderful daughter...and don't need a sitter very much. We get to hang out, read, play, occasionally go to our predominantly deserted mall so she can run around untethered. It's cool...I get to be a productive member of society at my job and be with the coolest person ever.
As I'm back in the day shift for the Fall, though, we're gonna have to arrange two full days of day care for her. Yes, it will be more of an expense. I'm gonna miss her tremendously, though. Gotta make the most of the summer. Parks, here we come! That is, if the weather ever stabilizes.
As I'm back in the day shift for the Fall, though, we're gonna have to arrange two full days of day care for her. Yes, it will be more of an expense. I'm gonna miss her tremendously, though. Gotta make the most of the summer. Parks, here we come! That is, if the weather ever stabilizes.
the state of the teaching thingie part ii--food
Along with said lateness of teaching, the schedules have made it very difficult to keep my family in a good supply of food. When in the hell can I cook? Particularly this semester, where I would get home at 7pm two days and 10 two other days. This means that I've had to go to a lot of casseroles and other big meals...which in turn means that starches have played a larger role by necessity in my cooking. This is, of course, not the healthiest thing for someone who is (let's admit it) not exactly svelte.
It's also meant I don't cook as much chicken as I would normally, which means much less stock, which means much less frequent (gasp) red beans and rice...my favorite dish. I don't get to do nearly as many sautes. Nope, everything is casserole or soup. I don't mind cooking such things, but with so much of my culinary efforts going becoming individual leftovers or freezables, I'm beginning to feel like an industrial kitchen. I'm an educator, damn it, not a Hungry Man Frozen Meal subsidiary.
It's also meant I don't cook as much chicken as I would normally, which means much less stock, which means much less frequent (gasp) red beans and rice...my favorite dish. I don't get to do nearly as many sautes. Nope, everything is casserole or soup. I don't mind cooking such things, but with so much of my culinary efforts going becoming individual leftovers or freezables, I'm beginning to feel like an industrial kitchen. I'm an educator, damn it, not a Hungry Man Frozen Meal subsidiary.
the state of the teaching thingie part i
First in a series of posts on my thoughts at the end of the semester on teaching.
Ever since I brought forth Sylvia (with a bit of help from my wive), I have been teaching a primarily night schedule. I have (amongst my other classes) taught Comp I from 7:30-9:10pm. This is pretty late for "welcome to college" students, and the class numbers have, as the semester goes on, dwindled. One of them went down from twenty students at the beginning of the semester to a mere three at the end. I'm down to 7 in my late class, but that's okay...it is admittedly easier to learn their names this way.
Starting in the Fall, I'm back on the day shift. It will be weird walking out of the university and still being able to see the sun. I will also feel like less of a vampire....not that there's anything wrong with that, mind you.
Ever since I brought forth Sylvia (with a bit of help from my wive), I have been teaching a primarily night schedule. I have (amongst my other classes) taught Comp I from 7:30-9:10pm. This is pretty late for "welcome to college" students, and the class numbers have, as the semester goes on, dwindled. One of them went down from twenty students at the beginning of the semester to a mere three at the end. I'm down to 7 in my late class, but that's okay...it is admittedly easier to learn their names this way.
Starting in the Fall, I'm back on the day shift. It will be weird walking out of the university and still being able to see the sun. I will also feel like less of a vampire....not that there's anything wrong with that, mind you.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
on kid television and sci fi
I see much more kid's tv than I ideally would like. It's changing me. This morning, I woke up with a Fresh Beat Band song in my head...and as much as I have a crush on Kiki, I don't really want their music to start invading my slumber.
As I've experienced all this kiddie entertainment, I have also started to analyze it in an attempt to understand it. I can't help it...there are parts of my mind which haven't gotten the "hey, you're not a scholar" message. And I think that, during today's session, I might've actually had a breakthrough...of a sort.
We were watching an episode of Blues Clues, where a neighbor came over. She looked around, and said "wow, this place is bigger than it looks on the outside."
Suddenly, enlightenment came. The people in kid's shows? They're all time lords! They gotta be...that would explain how they operate with next to no understanding of adult thought or customs!
Of course, they gotta be the "B" team, because they're generally not all that bright. They must've been the time lords the daleks looked at and said, "Destroy! Des....oh, what's the point?"
I never said it was good enlightenment.
As I've experienced all this kiddie entertainment, I have also started to analyze it in an attempt to understand it. I can't help it...there are parts of my mind which haven't gotten the "hey, you're not a scholar" message. And I think that, during today's session, I might've actually had a breakthrough...of a sort.
We were watching an episode of Blues Clues, where a neighbor came over. She looked around, and said "wow, this place is bigger than it looks on the outside."
Suddenly, enlightenment came. The people in kid's shows? They're all time lords! They gotta be...that would explain how they operate with next to no understanding of adult thought or customs!
Of course, they gotta be the "B" team, because they're generally not all that bright. They must've been the time lords the daleks looked at and said, "Destroy! Des....oh, what's the point?"
I never said it was good enlightenment.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
the naive notion of the day, 4/14
If there's something I would (naively) like, it would be honesty. I would like everyone to be a bit more honest to each other. I would like:
(yeah, I did say this was a naive notion)
- people who are bigots to just admit they are bigots. Don't hide behind your views. Don't try to justify your bigotry through intellectual dodges such as, for example, "the traditional definition of marriage" (which is, traditionally, more about property and control than anything else). While I don't like bigots, I prefer an honest bigot to bigots who deny their bigotry.
- selfish people to just admit they are selfish. Don't hide behind others as justification for your selfishness. If you're only interested in satisfying yourself rather than compromising and occasionally listening to other people's wants and desires, then just say so.
- people to admit it when someone is doomed rather than filling them with false hope. Sugar-coating one's situation doesn't help anyone. If someone would've actually told me getting a doctorate most likely would not lead to a job, I could've lived my life differently. Similarly, if the people who were supposed to prepare me for the job market would've just told me they weren't really interested in helping me be marketable...I'm not saying I wouldn't have done the same thing, but it would've been nice to at least make informed decisions.
- people who don't like someone to just say they don't like someone. Don't withdraw. Don't "play nice." That only leads to confusion.
(yeah, I did say this was a naive notion)
on connectivity
There are some scientists and philosophers who believe that, at the quantum level, everything and everyone is connected to some degree. In this world-view, every action affects everything else in the world. We are all part of one super organism, and thus, at some level, we are all one. If you've ever heard of the Gaea Hypothesis (that we need to think of our planet as one massive, connected ecosystem), then this view shouldn't be unfamiliar.
I don't know if this is true or not. I know that on some level, I'd like to believe it...it would lead to some justification for being a good person. Cosmic justice based on sound science rather than hierarchy-obsessed moral indoctrination would be nice.
However, if this is true, we have to talk. This means that yesterday, you all were a collection of miserable bastards. I should know, because I had a day full of depression bouts and life kicking me in the face.
In short, y'all need to straighten up. You didn't think about how your moods would affect me, did you? Selfish jerks....
I don't know if this is true or not. I know that on some level, I'd like to believe it...it would lead to some justification for being a good person. Cosmic justice based on sound science rather than hierarchy-obsessed moral indoctrination would be nice.
However, if this is true, we have to talk. This means that yesterday, you all were a collection of miserable bastards. I should know, because I had a day full of depression bouts and life kicking me in the face.
In short, y'all need to straighten up. You didn't think about how your moods would affect me, did you? Selfish jerks....
Saturday, April 13, 2013
on wanting to constantly interrupt
I have a lovely kid. She is utterly awesome, and I realize I am incredibly lucky that I get to spend most days with her. We play and have fun.The days, however, come with what I have to admit is a fairly sizable drawback: it means that I have to watch a certain amount of children's programming.
Don't get me wrong. It's not like we just sit around glued to the television. And it's not like all the shows are terrible. Jack's Big Music Show is actually quite awesome. It's well-constructed and a little off-the-wall. It's surprisingly clever...it kind of has a little bit of a Muppets vibe. So of course it was canceled after three seasons.
(Incidentally, this is an example of what I call the Firefly rule: the quality level of a program is inversely proportional to how long said show will be on the air before being canceled.)
Many of the kid's shows, however, are quite nerve-wracking. How would you like to sit through a program featuring British pigs who snort every ten seconds, accompanied by the world's most intrusive narrator, with opening credits every five minutes? That, friends, is Peppa Pig, and it is even more horrible than one might expect. Sadly, though, it is not the most annoying show on the air.
Regardless of the overall program quality, they all usually share some fairly annoying traits. For example, the characters will frequently ask the kids watching questions about the action. This I understand; interaction is good. The questions need to be at a toddler level of difficulty. I also understand this point, as the kids need to be able to answer the questions. However, it still inevitably makes all the characters act like complete idiots...and this is one of the (many) things I have to just grit my teach and bare.
This requires a lot of patience on my part....and if you know me, you know that patience is not one of my highest virtues. I really don't want to be a father who mocks his kid's favorite shows. This would make me an ass when I would rather be a good parent. So instead, I hold it in.
Lately, though, I've been thinking I need a release. Maybe I could start a Mystery Science 3000-esque show, but one focused on kids shows rather than bad films. There is certainly no end to the potential for mockery with kiddie programs. I can also (believe it or not) be quite humorous if I want, so this is something I could really pull off.
On the downside, though, I'm not really sure there's a market for a parent being a tremendous jerk.
Don't get me wrong. It's not like we just sit around glued to the television. And it's not like all the shows are terrible. Jack's Big Music Show is actually quite awesome. It's well-constructed and a little off-the-wall. It's surprisingly clever...it kind of has a little bit of a Muppets vibe. So of course it was canceled after three seasons.
(Incidentally, this is an example of what I call the Firefly rule: the quality level of a program is inversely proportional to how long said show will be on the air before being canceled.)
Many of the kid's shows, however, are quite nerve-wracking. How would you like to sit through a program featuring British pigs who snort every ten seconds, accompanied by the world's most intrusive narrator, with opening credits every five minutes? That, friends, is Peppa Pig, and it is even more horrible than one might expect. Sadly, though, it is not the most annoying show on the air.
Regardless of the overall program quality, they all usually share some fairly annoying traits. For example, the characters will frequently ask the kids watching questions about the action. This I understand; interaction is good. The questions need to be at a toddler level of difficulty. I also understand this point, as the kids need to be able to answer the questions. However, it still inevitably makes all the characters act like complete idiots...and this is one of the (many) things I have to just grit my teach and bare.
This requires a lot of patience on my part....and if you know me, you know that patience is not one of my highest virtues. I really don't want to be a father who mocks his kid's favorite shows. This would make me an ass when I would rather be a good parent. So instead, I hold it in.
Lately, though, I've been thinking I need a release. Maybe I could start a Mystery Science 3000-esque show, but one focused on kids shows rather than bad films. There is certainly no end to the potential for mockery with kiddie programs. I can also (believe it or not) be quite humorous if I want, so this is something I could really pull off.
On the downside, though, I'm not really sure there's a market for a parent being a tremendous jerk.
on the future of higher education
I just saw a commercial for one of those on-line universities. Having taught many on-line classes and having published work on on-line teaching (in The Chronicle of Higher Education, no less...when I was a scholar, I did not suck), I am enough of an authority to say that on-line education is a pale imitation of person-to-person teaching. Better than a kick to the thorax, maybe, but not an adequate substitute.
This particular "university" had an interesting twist to the formula. It pointed out the perils of higher education nowadays, and pointed out that these problems were really "opportunities"...for college administrators. So you should go to their on-line school, earn your "degree," and then become an administrator....so you would be able to have a good career creatively dismantling higher education as we know it.
Kinda like training at an abattoir school so you can become a barber, I think.
This particular "university" had an interesting twist to the formula. It pointed out the perils of higher education nowadays, and pointed out that these problems were really "opportunities"...for college administrators. So you should go to their on-line school, earn your "degree," and then become an administrator....so you would be able to have a good career creatively dismantling higher education as we know it.
Kinda like training at an abattoir school so you can become a barber, I think.
discovering Pink Floyd's problem
I've been a fan of Pink Floyd for a long time. When I first discovered them, I was near the end of elementary school, and at that time, they just struck me as trippy radio music...not that I really understood what "trippy" meant, but you get the point.
Later, as I entered high school, my hormones started to race, and I started to think about altering one's mind, Pink Floyd really clicked for me. I listened to a lot, but I kept coming back to Wish You Were Here and The Wall. I even bought one of those hi-fi gold cd sets of The Wall. I don't know if it actually did sound better (having never done the comparison/contrast), but it was worth it for me as a symbol of my...I dunno...dedication, maybe?
When one is suffering through teen angst, one gains a certain affinity for angst-ridden music. I did, at any rate. I even went so far (at the suggestion of my brother) as to listen to The Wall on headphones as I fell asleep. The results? Let me tell you: if you think side 3 is depressing, just try experiencing the nightmares it will induce.
Later, as I had more aspirations of being a "serious musician," I gravitated toward Animals. It was more trippy (which I understood more fully, being a little bit trippy myself). It was also a bit more literary, more metaphor-based. Plus, if I'm to be honest, I was mostly drawn to the awesome guitar solos in "Pigs" (which might just shred more than any other solo ever).
I haven't listened to Pink Floyd all that much lately. Part of it was going to see the magnificent Polka Floyd Show...after seeing them, it's hard to hear the original without thinking something is missing. But this is not the dominant reason.
When one is happy, what purpose do depressing words serve? And when one is not happy, will they do anything other than make the situation worse?
Earlier, when my current depression fit hit (I'm beginning to understand they're never completely going to stop), I got a lyric from The Wall stuck in my head: "Nobody Home"'s "I got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains." A cool line, to be sure, but it's from one of a depressing album's more depressing songs. And as I become more and more aware of my own depression, I realize turbo-charging it with even more depression really isn't what I need.
I do fine with the gloom on my own, thank you.
Later, as I entered high school, my hormones started to race, and I started to think about altering one's mind, Pink Floyd really clicked for me. I listened to a lot, but I kept coming back to Wish You Were Here and The Wall. I even bought one of those hi-fi gold cd sets of The Wall. I don't know if it actually did sound better (having never done the comparison/contrast), but it was worth it for me as a symbol of my...I dunno...dedication, maybe?
When one is suffering through teen angst, one gains a certain affinity for angst-ridden music. I did, at any rate. I even went so far (at the suggestion of my brother) as to listen to The Wall on headphones as I fell asleep. The results? Let me tell you: if you think side 3 is depressing, just try experiencing the nightmares it will induce.
Later, as I had more aspirations of being a "serious musician," I gravitated toward Animals. It was more trippy (which I understood more fully, being a little bit trippy myself). It was also a bit more literary, more metaphor-based. Plus, if I'm to be honest, I was mostly drawn to the awesome guitar solos in "Pigs" (which might just shred more than any other solo ever).
I haven't listened to Pink Floyd all that much lately. Part of it was going to see the magnificent Polka Floyd Show...after seeing them, it's hard to hear the original without thinking something is missing. But this is not the dominant reason.
When one is happy, what purpose do depressing words serve? And when one is not happy, will they do anything other than make the situation worse?
Earlier, when my current depression fit hit (I'm beginning to understand they're never completely going to stop), I got a lyric from The Wall stuck in my head: "Nobody Home"'s "I got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains." A cool line, to be sure, but it's from one of a depressing album's more depressing songs. And as I become more and more aware of my own depression, I realize turbo-charging it with even more depression really isn't what I need.
I do fine with the gloom on my own, thank you.
output
So I've been away, yes. Although I haven't blogged very frequently, rest assured I have wanted to write more. Of course, I also want to take more photos, write more lyrics, and so forth. I could say that time is of the essence. And this does have the advantage of being true; between my daughter dragging me around the house to play (which, for the record, playing with her is awesome and amazing and something I wouldn't trade for the world) and then trying to fit actually doing my job and trying to do housework in the rare moments where she actually naps, I don't have a lot of leftover time. How on earth do I have time to write?
I don't, really. But I've determined I really cannot let that stop me. Why? Several reasons:
First, a good friend is putting me to shame by blogging fairly regularly at The Great Concavity. His output is putting me to shame. I cannot be such a sluggard by comparison.
Second, my daughter is getting increasingly adept at expressing herself. About a week or so ago, I was holding her after she woke up, and she leaned forward, put a hand on my cheek, and kissed my other cheek. And it's not just her joy which is inspiring. As of late, she's also been pushing us. One way is by pushing boundaries, and her favorite way to do that du jour is by putting her feet on the table when we eat. After correcting her four times during Wednesday's lunch, she looked at me, got quite serious, and said "Daddy's mean." Well, if she can express herself, why can't I?
So, sorry if this ever gets monotonous or depressing or whatever, but I plan to put a lot more time over here.
It's time to bring the gloom!
I don't, really. But I've determined I really cannot let that stop me. Why? Several reasons:
First, a good friend is putting me to shame by blogging fairly regularly at The Great Concavity. His output is putting me to shame. I cannot be such a sluggard by comparison.
Second, my daughter is getting increasingly adept at expressing herself. About a week or so ago, I was holding her after she woke up, and she leaned forward, put a hand on my cheek, and kissed my other cheek. And it's not just her joy which is inspiring. As of late, she's also been pushing us. One way is by pushing boundaries, and her favorite way to do that du jour is by putting her feet on the table when we eat. After correcting her four times during Wednesday's lunch, she looked at me, got quite serious, and said "Daddy's mean." Well, if she can express herself, why can't I?
So, sorry if this ever gets monotonous or depressing or whatever, but I plan to put a lot more time over here.
It's time to bring the gloom!
on social skills
Self-awareness is an interesting thing. As of late, I've started to realize many things about myself. However, out of all the things I realize, I understand very few of them.
For instance, I realize that the thing which sets me off the most on the road to a bout of depression is feeling unskilled.
After years of work, I'm beginning to feel pleased with my skills in many areas. I think I finally have the teaching thing down better than ever before. Last semester, I got the best student evaluations I've ever received....and since "how much the students like me" seems to be the basis behind my annual evaluations, this is a good thing. I'm teaching a Lit class this semester, and it's completely awesome....in spite of it being a 2000 level class, the conversations often border on senior/grad level. I am now 95% confident in my teaching skills.
Ditto on my music (the band's going great, and I can acquit myself just fine in a solo performance). I'm also fine with my parenting ability to date (which is helped out by having an amazing kid) and my ability to function in a relationship (which is helped out by having an amazing wife).
Why, then, am I so inadequate at having a social life?
My weekends inevitably run the exact same way. I hang out with my wife and kid until my daughter's bed time...then I sit on the couch by myself until I go to bed. Saturday, I get up, feed and then play with my daughter. When I eventually get the time to check the internet, I inevitably find several friends posting about the great time they had the night before, the people with whom they spent the evening, and how hung over they became. Then the evening comes, and the cycle repeats. There will be no calls or messages, but I will inevitably find out the next day about all the massive hi-jinx which happened in my absence.
Then there are the weekends where my band plays. I love playing music...it's one of the best parts of my life. Yet although it's fun, it's not really relaxing. I have to work to get my stuff in and out of the bar, on and off the stage. I will have to get myself in the mood to perform (in other words, keep focused and not freak out), and then, after playing, try to get myself to come back down to where I can reasonably interact with others and maybe eventually sleep when I get home.
Don't get me wrong. In the final balance, my life is great. Yet I wonder what it is about me which makes those in the area not want to hang out with me. Have I offended them? Have I started to bore them? Is there some other reason why they've moved on from me? It makes me wish I didn't need to be around people.
My kingdom for social skills!
For instance, I realize that the thing which sets me off the most on the road to a bout of depression is feeling unskilled.
After years of work, I'm beginning to feel pleased with my skills in many areas. I think I finally have the teaching thing down better than ever before. Last semester, I got the best student evaluations I've ever received....and since "how much the students like me" seems to be the basis behind my annual evaluations, this is a good thing. I'm teaching a Lit class this semester, and it's completely awesome....in spite of it being a 2000 level class, the conversations often border on senior/grad level. I am now 95% confident in my teaching skills.
Ditto on my music (the band's going great, and I can acquit myself just fine in a solo performance). I'm also fine with my parenting ability to date (which is helped out by having an amazing kid) and my ability to function in a relationship (which is helped out by having an amazing wife).
Why, then, am I so inadequate at having a social life?
My weekends inevitably run the exact same way. I hang out with my wife and kid until my daughter's bed time...then I sit on the couch by myself until I go to bed. Saturday, I get up, feed and then play with my daughter. When I eventually get the time to check the internet, I inevitably find several friends posting about the great time they had the night before, the people with whom they spent the evening, and how hung over they became. Then the evening comes, and the cycle repeats. There will be no calls or messages, but I will inevitably find out the next day about all the massive hi-jinx which happened in my absence.
Then there are the weekends where my band plays. I love playing music...it's one of the best parts of my life. Yet although it's fun, it's not really relaxing. I have to work to get my stuff in and out of the bar, on and off the stage. I will have to get myself in the mood to perform (in other words, keep focused and not freak out), and then, after playing, try to get myself to come back down to where I can reasonably interact with others and maybe eventually sleep when I get home.
Don't get me wrong. In the final balance, my life is great. Yet I wonder what it is about me which makes those in the area not want to hang out with me. Have I offended them? Have I started to bore them? Is there some other reason why they've moved on from me? It makes me wish I didn't need to be around people.
My kingdom for social skills!
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
on bagels and genetics
When my wife was pregnant, I used to go with her to her OB appointments. For reasons too confusing to get into, we ended up with a doctor in Toledo rather than one here in Bowling Green. She was pretty nice, even if she gave off the vibe of being the busiest person in the world.
After the appointment, before Lori would go to work and I would either go back home or to my job, we would stop at a bagel place. There isn't anywhere here in BG to get a halfway decent bagel, and we both seriously lust after them from time to time. We'd eat bagels and talk about the appointment, our plans for the delivery, and coping strategies.
Then Sylvia was born...and we've had very little occasion to be in the vicinity of a bagel place around breakfast time. We could, I suppose, buy some and keep them in the house, but the bagels in this town all kind of suck, and frozen bagels are an abomination unto God.
Yesterday, I stopped by Costco on my way home to pick up an industrial pack of paper towels and other stupendously over-sized supplies. When I went past their bakery, I noticed they had pretty good looking bagels...supplied to them by one of the national chains, I believe. So I picked up some. When I got home, Sylvia spotted them and demanded to try one. We gave her one...and she (as you can see) went to town on it. By the time she went to bed, there was a mere 1 1/2" fragment left.
This is, of course, one of the ways we know for sure she's my kid...the other being her abnormally long toes. It does, however, bring up an interesting question: is her bagel lust inherited, or did we program it into her with those post-appointment stops?
The answer, if ever discovered, might just revolutionize science.
After the appointment, before Lori would go to work and I would either go back home or to my job, we would stop at a bagel place. There isn't anywhere here in BG to get a halfway decent bagel, and we both seriously lust after them from time to time. We'd eat bagels and talk about the appointment, our plans for the delivery, and coping strategies.
Then Sylvia was born...and we've had very little occasion to be in the vicinity of a bagel place around breakfast time. We could, I suppose, buy some and keep them in the house, but the bagels in this town all kind of suck, and frozen bagels are an abomination unto God.
Yesterday, I stopped by Costco on my way home to pick up an industrial pack of paper towels and other stupendously over-sized supplies. When I went past their bakery, I noticed they had pretty good looking bagels...supplied to them by one of the national chains, I believe. So I picked up some. When I got home, Sylvia spotted them and demanded to try one. We gave her one...and she (as you can see) went to town on it. By the time she went to bed, there was a mere 1 1/2" fragment left.This is, of course, one of the ways we know for sure she's my kid...the other being her abnormally long toes. It does, however, bring up an interesting question: is her bagel lust inherited, or did we program it into her with those post-appointment stops?
The answer, if ever discovered, might just revolutionize science.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
on coughing and comedy
One of the true perils of being a teacher is that, as you have to handle stuff from a slew of students, you tend to get their germs and get sick a lot more often than does the normal person. In my case, this naturally leads to stand-up comedy.
I thought I avoided the various student plagues when I started making all my students turn in essays electronically. This semester, though, I'm teaching a literature class, and I decided to give quizzes again. Last time I taught some lit, I had complaints from the good students that the evil students weren't actually reading. So now they get the pop quizzes and more students read the material. However, I now have to touch their germy papers and, true to form, I started coughing last Friday...and unfortunately, I have yet to stop.
For some reason, this coughing is always worse at night when I'm trying to sleep. This does not really bother my wife all that much...it just means that I'm waking her up instead of that task being accomplished by my girl.
Last night, I woke up coughing around 5ish. I quickly chewed up a Ricola, which did quiet down the throat. However, sleep did not come quickly. My mind started to race, as it tends to do when I can't sleep. I started to think of a comedy sketch I wrote and performed on a friend's radio show. Then I started to think of an article I read about the art of writing jokes. Next thing I knew, I was deep into writing a stand-up comedy routine...which I'm pretty sure would take at least half an hour. Great.
Don't get me wrong. I love creative bursts, and I love the feeling of creating my own little chunks of culture. It would be nice, however, to actually have the spare time to take advantage of my ideas. Right now, I'm trying to balance being a father, being a husband, being a teacher, being a guitarist for my band, being a songwriter for my band, and being a solo musician. I'm also constantly looking for more chances to be a photographer. I'm deep into doing the artwork for my band's album and related merchandise. I have three or four solo songs which need lyrics. This all on top of the piles of grading I perpetually have waiting on me during the semester.
After last night, though, I now have a burning desire to find an open mic comedy night and try doing a set. Gee, just what I need...something else to do.
Beats coughing, I guess.
I thought I avoided the various student plagues when I started making all my students turn in essays electronically. This semester, though, I'm teaching a literature class, and I decided to give quizzes again. Last time I taught some lit, I had complaints from the good students that the evil students weren't actually reading. So now they get the pop quizzes and more students read the material. However, I now have to touch their germy papers and, true to form, I started coughing last Friday...and unfortunately, I have yet to stop.
For some reason, this coughing is always worse at night when I'm trying to sleep. This does not really bother my wife all that much...it just means that I'm waking her up instead of that task being accomplished by my girl.
Last night, I woke up coughing around 5ish. I quickly chewed up a Ricola, which did quiet down the throat. However, sleep did not come quickly. My mind started to race, as it tends to do when I can't sleep. I started to think of a comedy sketch I wrote and performed on a friend's radio show. Then I started to think of an article I read about the art of writing jokes. Next thing I knew, I was deep into writing a stand-up comedy routine...which I'm pretty sure would take at least half an hour. Great.
Don't get me wrong. I love creative bursts, and I love the feeling of creating my own little chunks of culture. It would be nice, however, to actually have the spare time to take advantage of my ideas. Right now, I'm trying to balance being a father, being a husband, being a teacher, being a guitarist for my band, being a songwriter for my band, and being a solo musician. I'm also constantly looking for more chances to be a photographer. I'm deep into doing the artwork for my band's album and related merchandise. I have three or four solo songs which need lyrics. This all on top of the piles of grading I perpetually have waiting on me during the semester.
After last night, though, I now have a burning desire to find an open mic comedy night and try doing a set. Gee, just what I need...something else to do.
Beats coughing, I guess.
Friday, February 08, 2013
on shifting realities and acoustics
Lately, I've been contemplating the transience of life.
Transience is something I've had to deal with for some time. I grew up as a military kid. While my dad made a point of trying to stay in the same place for as long as he could--meaning we only moved only every five years or so. Most other people were gone after two years. As a result, every school year meant finding new friends...even getting a new best friend each year. Strangely enough, I had two different best friends named Greg two years in a row.
When I was working at Little Caesars, we were happy if someone lasted six weeks. We would hire six people, hoping that one of them would still be there in two months. We used to joke that we would only start to try to remember their names after two weeks...only we weren't really joking. I still remember an awful lot of people with whom I worked. Many more, however, are utterly lost to me...they never made it past my short term memory.
My life in college is also marked by constant change. Friends move onward every year. Students go away every four months. Even people who stay in the area regress as their lives change. One can go from having great friends one year to having no social life at all the next. I know...as this has pretty much happened to me.
Music has been a constant in my life, but even that has change. Bands break up. Musicians move away. People quit, drop out, just plain stop being there. Conflicts arise, turning friends into acquaintances, acquaintances into strangers.
Sometimes, though, you just need something that no one can take away. You need something where you don't have to prove anything to anyone. You need somewhere where you don't need anyone's opinion. In short, you need something of your very own.
This is, I have realized, what I need. I have a great band (album coming in one week), but I still need a musical outlet which is 100% my own. So, for a part of my musical existence, I am going it alone. It means stepping out of the shadows, abandoning my support structure, leaving behind even my dear effects pedals and distortion, relying only on my acoustic guitar and my voce...but it is what I need.
I've already done two open mic nights. For my first performance, I got a cold two days beforehand. I had a brand new guitar cable freak out on me, causing my guitar to cut in and out. I broke a capo. My kazoo flew out of my holder. A friend told me he never heard anyone have so many technical difficulties during a solo acoustic set. But I got through it and even got some complements. The second time, none of my friends came, and the only people I knew in the bar were the bartenders. My set, however, went much smoother. I got good applause after each song Two people danced during one song. And the song that got the biggest reaction? One of my originals.
It's an amazing feeling to know I can be self-sufficient. Doing the occasional brief set, though, is only a step. So I am moving forward. I am now booked for a full evening at our local Irish-esque pub. I will play for three hours. I have been prepping an amazing array of cover songs and am polishing up some originals. I am getting banter ready. The flyer is made. The invite has been sent.
There is, of course, some risk. My voice could give out. My originals could bomb. Frat boys could come in and laugh at me. I'm not going to say this does not scare me. But the reward will be something I really need. I will know 100% that I'm good enough to do this by myself. And I will know 100% that I have something that no one can take away from me, that will last as long as I want it to last.
I've had enough change.
Transience is something I've had to deal with for some time. I grew up as a military kid. While my dad made a point of trying to stay in the same place for as long as he could--meaning we only moved only every five years or so. Most other people were gone after two years. As a result, every school year meant finding new friends...even getting a new best friend each year. Strangely enough, I had two different best friends named Greg two years in a row.
When I was working at Little Caesars, we were happy if someone lasted six weeks. We would hire six people, hoping that one of them would still be there in two months. We used to joke that we would only start to try to remember their names after two weeks...only we weren't really joking. I still remember an awful lot of people with whom I worked. Many more, however, are utterly lost to me...they never made it past my short term memory.
My life in college is also marked by constant change. Friends move onward every year. Students go away every four months. Even people who stay in the area regress as their lives change. One can go from having great friends one year to having no social life at all the next. I know...as this has pretty much happened to me.
Music has been a constant in my life, but even that has change. Bands break up. Musicians move away. People quit, drop out, just plain stop being there. Conflicts arise, turning friends into acquaintances, acquaintances into strangers.
Sometimes, though, you just need something that no one can take away. You need something where you don't have to prove anything to anyone. You need somewhere where you don't need anyone's opinion. In short, you need something of your very own.
This is, I have realized, what I need. I have a great band (album coming in one week), but I still need a musical outlet which is 100% my own. So, for a part of my musical existence, I am going it alone. It means stepping out of the shadows, abandoning my support structure, leaving behind even my dear effects pedals and distortion, relying only on my acoustic guitar and my voce...but it is what I need.
I've already done two open mic nights. For my first performance, I got a cold two days beforehand. I had a brand new guitar cable freak out on me, causing my guitar to cut in and out. I broke a capo. My kazoo flew out of my holder. A friend told me he never heard anyone have so many technical difficulties during a solo acoustic set. But I got through it and even got some complements. The second time, none of my friends came, and the only people I knew in the bar were the bartenders. My set, however, went much smoother. I got good applause after each song Two people danced during one song. And the song that got the biggest reaction? One of my originals.
There is, of course, some risk. My voice could give out. My originals could bomb. Frat boys could come in and laugh at me. I'm not going to say this does not scare me. But the reward will be something I really need. I will know 100% that I'm good enough to do this by myself. And I will know 100% that I have something that no one can take away from me, that will last as long as I want it to last.
I've had enough change.
Monday, January 28, 2013
on "My Fake College Syllabus" and other lies
There's been a piece going around called My Fake College Syllabus. I've seen many discussions of it, but I've tried ignoring them...under my policy of "ignore anything which just drives you crazy yet has no hope of changing or resolving" (which, overall,is a pretty good policy for anyone hoping to maintain some modicum of sanity. However, I've decided to break that policy in this case...it's simply being overwhelmed by events.
So go ahead and read it. I'll wait.
Done yet?
Hurry up, damnit!
Okay, sorry about rushing you, but there is something that bothers me about the original piece. It assumes worst intentions on everyone's part...at least those mentioned. And that, based on my experience, just is not the case.
I've been teaching since 1998. While it is true I've met my share of idiot professors, it is also true that they are the minority. I know far more who care deeply about instruction, about helping students learn. They, however, are also not the majority. The majority of them? They are people who started out caring deeply but have had that care and dedication beaten out of them.
This beating is not, however, always at the hands of the students. True, there are many of the little bastards who have no initiative, who feel they deserve grades regardless of how hard they work, and/or just want to be left alone and not challenged at all. There are more who want to learn very much, who go out of their way to do a great job. Most of them, though, seem to be like the teachers: they cared deeply at one point and then have had that beaten out of them.
When I was a student, I was one of those who cared way too much. The main thing that disillusioned me were two-fold. I hated the various hoops through which I had to jump. Why, for instance, did I have to Linguistics? Still never used that skill. More importantly, though, I hated dealing with the disillusioned faculty. Why, I always wondered, were they just playing politics and going through the motions?
As a teacher, I understand why many of them are going through the motions.There are many reasons why previously dedicated teachers would do this:
This finally brings me back to the article. The picture of a teacher there isn't certainly complementary in any sense. Nor is the picture of the students or what the teacher expects from them. School certainly seems like a pointless, "academic" exercise in this article. And who is at fault in this image? Both the teachers and the students.
Never mind all the systemic faults of the system.
Next time, I will post something 1) not depressing and 2) not about my work. Promise.
So go ahead and read it. I'll wait.
Done yet?
Hurry up, damnit!
Okay, sorry about rushing you, but there is something that bothers me about the original piece. It assumes worst intentions on everyone's part...at least those mentioned. And that, based on my experience, just is not the case.
I've been teaching since 1998. While it is true I've met my share of idiot professors, it is also true that they are the minority. I know far more who care deeply about instruction, about helping students learn. They, however, are also not the majority. The majority of them? They are people who started out caring deeply but have had that care and dedication beaten out of them.
This beating is not, however, always at the hands of the students. True, there are many of the little bastards who have no initiative, who feel they deserve grades regardless of how hard they work, and/or just want to be left alone and not challenged at all. There are more who want to learn very much, who go out of their way to do a great job. Most of them, though, seem to be like the teachers: they cared deeply at one point and then have had that beaten out of them.
When I was a student, I was one of those who cared way too much. The main thing that disillusioned me were two-fold. I hated the various hoops through which I had to jump. Why, for instance, did I have to Linguistics? Still never used that skill. More importantly, though, I hated dealing with the disillusioned faculty. Why, I always wondered, were they just playing politics and going through the motions?
As a teacher, I understand why many of them are going through the motions.There are many reasons why previously dedicated teachers would do this:
- High levels of grad school enrollment. I got into grad school, and I foolishly thought that would lead me to at least a decent chance of finding a job. Don't get me wrong. I knew it would take more than simply graduating, doing my work, and getting good grades. So not only did I work hard, I also did everything else I could think of. I presented at conferences, I served on committees, and did everything else I could. But it didn't help. I failed on the job market, mostly because the odds were stacked against me. No one told me the extent to which academic employment is a buyer's market. With the amount of Ph.D.s graduating and the horribly low number of jobs out there, there's a very small chance of anyone finding a job. It's a crap shoot.
- The insanity of the job market. The best phone interview I ever had--where I was told my course ideas were something the fellow faculty would like to take and that what I could add to the department was exactly what they were thinking of when they wrote the job description--did not yield a campus interview. Hell, the smartest two people I've ever met have job market issues. The first still doesn't have a job, and the second only got one interview on his first year in the job market.
- Part time work stress. See the first year of this blog.
- Uncertain expectations. You think this would be easy. You think that you would be expected to make sure the students learn. Nah. Instead, buzz words like retention get used. One of the reasons I wanted to teach college was that I thought I could hold to my standards first and foremost. Yet whenever I get evaluated, "how much the students like me" is always the first and biggest determining factor. I've fought this for years, but finally, I got tired and ditched things which yielded better results. Why? The students didn't like them.
This finally brings me back to the article. The picture of a teacher there isn't certainly complementary in any sense. Nor is the picture of the students or what the teacher expects from them. School certainly seems like a pointless, "academic" exercise in this article. And who is at fault in this image? Both the teachers and the students.
Never mind all the systemic faults of the system.
Next time, I will post something 1) not depressing and 2) not about my work. Promise.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
the top ten albums of 2012
I'm so short of time as of late, I don't have time for much in my life. I haven't been to a movie in ages, and I'm miles behind on the 3 or 4 television shows I still try to follow. Let's not even get into how infrequently I blog. However, I still have time to listen to music thanks to a long car ride to work. So, without further ado, here's my favorite music of the last year:
- The Dumb Easies--Love! Love! Love! Think hard rock meets 50s girl group pop...with better songwriting than either genre. This one is so catchy, I have to keep myself from listening too late in the day, lest their songs sticking in my head keep me from sleeping.
- Micah Schnabel--I'm Dead, Serious. Micah's live performances are so much more than a typical singer-songwriter act. The same goes for this album, but even more so. Brilliant songwriting which makes you never realized that it's just a man and his guitar...and on the songs with full backing, it's even better.
- Branden Barnett--Verse, Chorus, Curse. Deep, layered songs...both in the lyrics and in the music. When I heard Branden played 95% of the music himself, my jealousy increased exponentially. Get it on Bandcamp.
- Lite--Past, Present, Future. Prog/math rock from this Tokyo quartet. It doesn't matter what instrument you play...these guys are better than you. Yet somehow, it never starts to sound like a bunch of solos glued together. Instead, it's good intellectual music...and I mean that in the best possible sense.
- Patterson Hood--Heat Lightning Rumbles in the Distance. I'm a big fan of The Drive-By Truckers. Hood's previous solo albums were really neat. This one is pure awesome...the most coherent work he's done in ages.
- Redd Kross--Researching the Blues. Power pop extraordinaire. While they sometimes veer more toward the pop side than I would ideally like, when they hit the rock, they really hit it. Plus one of the best guitar sounds I've heard in years.
- The Biters--It's All Chewed Up, Okay? This album sounds like Cheap Trick meets New York City punk rock...only better.
- Henry Clay People--25 for the Rest of Our Lives. Loud, bombastic rock that will bash you against the wall.
- The Sword,--Apocryphon. Proof that not everyone forgot the lessons of early Black Sabbath.
- Dinosaur Jr.--Reach for the Sky. Loud, noisy guitar heroics as always, but a bit more experimental than Beyond. It veers just a little too close to sloppy for my tastes, but still, really, really cool stuff.
- Micah Schnabel, "Sid & Nancy." A haunting love song between two addicts. I was hooked once I heard the line "Carve your name into my arm, I will wear the scars that tell the world I'm yours."
- The Dumb Easies, "Fading Away." This is the kind of killer upbeat pop rock song which will have you driving thirty miles per hour over the limit and hitting the repeat button for as long as the drive lasts.
- Brandon Barnett, "Last Rites." Lyrically, this will knock your heart out: "I wanted you to stay...if only licking wounds was foreplay." The music is equally deep and catchy
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
maintaining perspective
It is increasingly important to maintain a proper perspective.
It's been one hell of a couple of years for me. I had my failure at my chosen career rubbed into my face many times and, as a result, have had to rethink my life, my beliefs, my priorities. I continue to battle depression. I am unbelievably busy, with little to no time to engage in many of the creative pleasures which keep me relatively sane, such as practicing guitar or (as obvious by my volume of posts lately) writing. I have pretty severe bouts of brittleness and loneliness. I suffer many inconveniences and annoyances, all before the taking of a toast and tea (so to speak).
I'm dealing, in other words, with a lot of crap. Overall, I think I'm dealing with everything pretty well in general, may the medication be thanked. There are days, though...there are days where things just bother me...things I know I should really discount or ignore. There are days where I feel the strain. Ours is not to wonder why, ours is but to do or die...that kind of thing.
Today is one of those days where the pendulum had certainly swung. But, as I get ready to retire, what do I take with me? That is the question. Not arguments. Not jealousy. Not anxiety. No, I'm going to remember coming home after another shift of night classes, opening the door, hearing my daughter squeal, and seeing her bursting into the living room, wearing a transcendent smile.
Perspective is important.
It's been one hell of a couple of years for me. I had my failure at my chosen career rubbed into my face many times and, as a result, have had to rethink my life, my beliefs, my priorities. I continue to battle depression. I am unbelievably busy, with little to no time to engage in many of the creative pleasures which keep me relatively sane, such as practicing guitar or (as obvious by my volume of posts lately) writing. I have pretty severe bouts of brittleness and loneliness. I suffer many inconveniences and annoyances, all before the taking of a toast and tea (so to speak).
I'm dealing, in other words, with a lot of crap. Overall, I think I'm dealing with everything pretty well in general, may the medication be thanked. There are days, though...there are days where things just bother me...things I know I should really discount or ignore. There are days where I feel the strain. Ours is not to wonder why, ours is but to do or die...that kind of thing.
Today is one of those days where the pendulum had certainly swung. But, as I get ready to retire, what do I take with me? That is the question. Not arguments. Not jealousy. Not anxiety. No, I'm going to remember coming home after another shift of night classes, opening the door, hearing my daughter squeal, and seeing her bursting into the living room, wearing a transcendent smile.
Perspective is important.
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