Rate Your Students, which is "a public forum where faculty and students can work out the tricky dynamic of the modern classroom. Students can tell us why they won't take the iPod out during a lecture, and professors can tell us why their clothes are so frumpy."
Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, which you just have to see.
For the last few weeks, I've mostly been focusing on my classes. There's a lot to do...fix the plethora of stupid errors that seem to endlessly creep up in my web material, battle with the bookstore, battle with technology (or lack thereof), answer e-mail questions from people who obviously haven't read the syllabus (or anything else, for that matter), deal with the droves of dropped students...so I haven't given a lot of attention to the myriad of other things that have come up (including, as some of you particularly know, answering e-mails...soon, I promise).
One of the biggest things that has been simmering away is the Great Academic Job Search 2006-2007. I've been thumbing through the postings and such, but I haven't actually sent anything out yet. The teaching work has been one big reason, but perhaps the most important excuse for this procrastination was that I was waiting for a response from a university press who expressed interest in working with me.
Flashback: In 2003, I was finishing up my dissertation. I was lucky enough to get into the American Studies Association. For those of you unfamiliar with this group, they hold what is undeniably the Mac Daddy of all culture studies-oriented academic conferences. I was fortunate in that the panel which accepted me was chaired by uber-scholar Janice Radway and also included Lawrence Levine, also a heavyweight in the field.
It was quite a rush to get regular e-mails from two people who are very influential in my field. The conference itself was magnificent...there was always an interesting panel to go see, and those of you who've gone to lesser conferences know how unique that is. The panel I was on went swimmingly...and no one laughed at me. There was plenty of stuff which covered professional development. Most important for me, however, I recieved a letter from a major university press (who shall remain nameless) who was interested in meeting me...and if this worked, it would be an academic coup.
I pulled out my vita. I polished off the best chapter of my still-in-committee dissertation. I wore a nice tie. And the meeting itself went swimmingly...the assistant editor of the press seemed genuinely excited about my work and the possibility of it fitting in their press. A few weeks later, I was asked for a copy of the full dissertation and a book revision plan.
It took me a little while to get the revision plan to them because my funding had run out, and I was adjuncting at several institutions...in disciplines with which I had no experience....but I eventually got it done and mailed off.
Now, I've never written a book before, so I naturally assumed that the revision plan would cover how I planned to revise the manuscript...and that the press would read both of them. When I finally heard from the press, they were confused about the proposal...and it was very clear, from talking to the editor in chief, that no one had actually read the manuscript. Admittedly, since I wrote the proposal as a companion piece to the dissertation, reading it without reading my big chunk o' work would be a bit puzzling...so I told them I would take another swack at it, now that I (supposedly) knew what they wanted.
The next draft went through several iterations, and it did take a while...I adjuncted for another year before landing my current job, and it took a long time to cope with the heavy grading load that accompanies a 5/4 load in composition (in which I've had very little formal training, so I was behind from the git-go). But when I finished, I was very pleased with the results. It showed a tremendous growth in my thinking. It spelled out my research questions in explicit detail. It was solid and had real potential to make an impact. So, last April, I sent the thing to the press.
Now, as I knew I would be getting back on the job market, I really wanted to hear positive things from the press. My heavy teaching load since the dissertation had kind of put a crimp on the amount of research I could do, and as a result, I haven't published as much as I should. A book contract, however, would be pure gold. It would show that I had some research potential, and it would show that I could put out stuff. Pretty much, it would have, if not guaranteed me a job, then at least really bumped me up in most school's "potential hiree" stack.
So I waited. And then I waited some more. The press's 12 week deadline passed. I waited. After 4 months, I sent a polite inquisitive e-mail. And then I waited. I sent another e-mail. And then I waited some more. I sent another e-mail, cc'd to the press's editor in chief.
Today I got the reply. They do not want to work with me. The story, as the e-mail tells it, is that they couldn't figure out what my research focus was. When I read this, I immediately resisted the urge to grab a whiskey sour (it was, after all, 10:30 this morning) and opened my file of the revision plan I sent them...and in the third paragraph, starting on the first page, was the paragraph that explicitly spelled out my agenda.
If they just didn't like my work and thought I sucked as a scholar, that would be bearable. If they didn't think I fit into their press, that would be understandable. But it was clear to me that they only browsed my proposal and never put real thought into my project. I am going to take great delight in deleting these people from my e-mail address book.
I guess it's a fact of life for me as an academic, but I think I have to start assuming that no one I will encounter will be professional. In my 3+ years on the job market, I've seen some unbelievably rude and amature behavior, and my first university press experience just backs it up. I would be happy if people would just take their job seriously and realize it had severe implications in the lives of others.
I know that if any of my ex-students are reading this, they might giggle...I have, after all, taught while wearing Hawaiian shirts...but that's just mode of dress. In my actions, both in the classroom and in other academic settings, I've always made it a point to take whatever I was doing very seriously. I wish others would do the same. I'm hoping to find out differently, and I really want a future employer and a university press (anyone have any leads on either?) to prove me wrong.
So, granted, I'm feeling a little pressure now. Without a book contract, my application packet might look research-light. Is it worth while to bother with the job market? Do I try to rush out some stuff and neglect the teaching? Do I stare at the wall and listen to Motorhead entirely too loudly?
Thank goodness the Black Swamp Arts Festival is back! Tomorrow, we go see The Reverend Horton Heat. The spousal unit and I are volunteering Saturday afternoon, and then we're back up for several bands I don't really care about...but friends will be there, and the beer tent will be open, so it's all good.
Don't you wish you were in BG?
This week, it occurred to me that, when I teach, I tend to put my hands in my pants pockets...and this is something I never used to do before. Anyone have any clues as to what the significance might be?
Ever since the mighty Slobberbone broke up, I've been searching for my next favorite rock band. Some of the members of Slobberbone formed The Drams, and while I love the album and the show I caught in Minneapolis, it's not the same...they're not doing pure, unadultuerated rock anymore. The race has kind of been a toss-up between the Drive-By Truckers, Grand Champeen, and Two Cow Garage. I never expected The Yayhoos to be in the running, but after seeing them this Saturday, I'm having to put them into consideration.
When I found out that The Yayhoos were playing in Wapakoneta, I made immediate plans to go see them...mostly because I like the bar so much. Rhythm and Brews in Wapak is perhaps my favorite venue to see a rock show ever. The bar itself, first off, is a classic. It is a great roadhouse...but clean, neat, and orderly. They have a good menu and serve a very nice pizza. They have a friendly staff. They have a trough made out of galvanized steel, a pvc pipe, and a screwdriver in the men's room. My wife says the bar reminds her of a clean Urban Cowboy, but without the bull or Stetsons.
Wapak also boasts the best rock crowds I've seen. The audience for the show in Minneapolis had (for the most part) only mildly polite applause, and the crowd all looked bored. The shows I've seen in Detroit mostly consisted of people incessantly discussing their weekend plans and only playing scant attention to the bands. Cleveland crowds, while very appreciative, are a little too "hipster" for my taste. Ann Arbor crowds boast too many college students trying to be hippies, and that can get really annoying.
Wapak, on the other hand, is mostly 50-something farmers and factory workers. But they really love their bands and know all the material by heart. They are loud. They are appreciative. They are boisterous. And they make going to see a band really fun.
Opening the show was some very wirey, 15 year old-looking singer/songwriter wannabe named Wil Cope. His songs were all good, but he was just very one dimensional...everything had the same tempo, same picking pattern, and it all sounded very forlorn. He was okay, but I was amazed at how badly he marketed himself. He only said his name one time, and he only alluded to the fact that he had cds available for sale...maybe he doesn't need the money, but he struck me as someone who was trying too hard to be an "artiste."
The Yayhoos brought it like nothing I've seen in a while. They were loud. Every member was great, had wonderful stage presence. And they played and played...we got two hour-plus sets and two encores. Some highlights:
Before playing "Baby, I Love You," Roscoe told of their last time through. That time, when they were doing their 4pm soundcheck, a man and woman came in who were apparently celebrating their anniversary...but during the 15 minute break they had between split shifts at different factories. Apparently, the couple requested a slow song, the band played "Baby, I Love You," and the couple slow-danced...and that dance apparently bordered on conjugal visit territory.
Halfway through the second set, some sick bastard puked in the men's room trough, clogged up the drain, and it flooded out the bathroom floor...not being able to use the rest room for about 30 minutes put a little bit of a damper on the set, especially since I'd been drinking a number of High Lifes, but the brave (yet disgusted) bar staff managed to get it cleaned up before anything dangerous happened.
Although there were only about seventy people in the crowd, the yelling and stomping pulled the band out for two encores, including a rousing "I Love You, Period"...which was apparently the last song they'll play together on this tour...I guess Steve Earle must be calling Roscoe or something.
It's too cliched to say I felt "rocked-out," but it was one of the best rock shows I've ever seen. The Yayhoos were ultimately much better than I would've guessed. They are tremendously fun, they were very talented, and they worked together beautifully. I don't think they're my favorite rock band (the albums aren't as consistent as was the band live), but I would go see these guys again in a heartbeat.
It was raining for the 1 1/2 hour drive home, and it hasn't stopped since, but that's just not depressing me...I still have a slightly manic grin, even though the ringing in the ears has died down...a little.
I'm at the end of the first week of Fall semester. It's been quite an adjustment, especially coming from the hedonistic no schedule days of summer.
First off? I now know what day of the week it is...without thinking! While those who've been doing the standard 9 to 5 might not find this extraordinary, those of us lucky enough to get the full summer off realize that, when you remove someone from all deadlines, time becomes very fluid. In the summer, I never had a clue what day it was...or for that matter, what week or month it was.
I am also getting used to being an authority figure again. I've got to exercise my booming "teacher" voice. I've had to keep people's attention for over two hours. I've had to funnel cacaphonous conversation back toward whatever point I was trying to make. I've had to do the hardass "if you don't like working, drop the class" bit (which I am good at, although I am nowhere near my old History prof. Dr. Prousis in this regard).
I'm doing two comp ones and two comp one with workshops. All the students seem pretty good...they're not afraid to talk, which is always a plus. I'd much rather put up with students who can't shut up or are prone to open rebellion than deal with a silent group. So their conversational prowess bodes well.
I actually get my hands on technology in the classroom. After three years of teaching in tech-free dives, I have two classes in computer-mediated classrooms and one class in a brand-new refinished building (which comes with an instructor computer and projector). I am using powerpoint for the first time ever. I already have a pile of grading sitting in my inbox.
The most important thing, however, is that I am back to discipline. Ever summer, I have grandiose visions of doing tons of writing, but it always falls through...I need a schedule, and having to be in the office x number of hours a week tends to focus me a little bit...that, plus being away from the TiVo. So, now I am sure I will do some writing. I'm already doing conference prep. I also have plans to return e-mails to the 6 or 7 people to whom I owe. Plus, I have papers coming in next week...so expect more posts to this blog, as I seem to use it as a grading break.
Post #200, by the way...thanks for reading.
Excuse me if I bust out my last observations all together.
The return to the twin cities, from the great northern wilderness, was fairly uneventful...but being back in civilization after so much peace was weird. Personally, I found myself disturbed by how disturbed I was...being a city boy myself.
Friday night was The Drams. For those of you not familiar, when my favorite band of all time, Slobberbone, broke up, one member became a Florida high school teacher...the rest of the band formed The Drams. It's a little less jagged, a bit more melodic, and still very good.
They played the 400 Bar in Minneapolis, and I took my ex-roomie. A good show, by any standards. They started out with a Band cover, played most of the album, threw in one token Slobberbone song. Met with singer Brent Best afterwards, and he's as nice of a guy as ever....we talked about Wapakoneta.
I met some Twin Cities members of the Postcard from Hell contingent (including Lauren, with her "Ryan Adams is no Brent Best" t-shirt), but only at the end of the night...and despite making plans to meet some of them the next night, were never able to hook up again.
Went to the Mall of America, hoping to at least get some good photos. For those of you unfamiliar, the Mall of America is this gargantuan four story shopping mall built on the site of the old Metropolital Stadium, where the Vikings used to play (outdoors, in Minnesota winters, no less). It's so big, it holds its own amusement park (complete with two roller coasters), aquarium, and museum (currently NASCAR).
You think that with a mall that has 4.2 million square feet of space and over 520 stores, there would be something notable and weird to see. Wrong. Instead of having interesting, unique shops, it has five Starbucks, three Gaps, ten pretzel stands, four Carribou Coffees...and a whole bunch more generic crap. The only really photo-worthy element was the very cool Lego store, which currently has a dinosaur garden...and they're all made out of legos, as is the Boba Fett. Oh well.
After eating meals around the state of Minnesota, I have discovered that putting lettuce, tomato, and mayo on a hamburger makes it a California burger...never heard of that one before.
While driving somewhere, we passed a homeless guy begging in front of a "Condos for sale" sign.
We were, for some reason, inside a Target store. The cashier told me that my Hawaiian shirt reminded her of the first time she ever went scuba diving.
We spent one day walking around downtown. I got a photo of the Mary Tyler Moore statue for my strangely obsessed wife, then we headed down to this downtown British pub which had an authentic bowling green on its roof. I drank cider, my ex-roomie had a Bass, and we ate the appetizer platter. About the Scotch egg, my ex-roomie said "I don't think I've ever eaten anything that tastes as fried." We then saw the architecturally beautiful new library building and took some photos of the Grainbelt Bottle Cap sign.
We ended up my visit with a voyage to Porky's, this fifties-esque drive-in in St. Paul. Marvelous shakes, onion rings, home-made fries, and a divine pork tenderloin sandwich. Their sign is very cool, and I was really hoping they'd have some t-shirts with their logo.
Compared to the flight out, the flight back home was very dull. I did find out that the airlines now even charge for their meager packets of trail mix...I still remember flying and getting my choice of breakfasts. The Detroit airport was dull. There was little conversation in the bar, and the only guy who sat near me had a Hooters t-shirt, a copy of FHM, and a NASCAR hat...not someone with whom I was dying to converse. The only thing interesting he did was convince the bartender to give him a to-go cup for his beer.
It was a long (3 1/2 hour) layover, and to amuse myself, I walked the lengths of every concourse. The plane was further delayed becuase, 15 minutes before scheduled takeoff, they decided that the plane was too hot and they needed to run the AC for a while.
And of course, I arrived in Toledo and got to see my beautiful wife. I was away for over ten days, and the longer we were seperated, the more melancholy I got...I don't think I could've survived much more time apart.
Coming soon, the photo-essay!
School starts next week, so my fun week has been spent putting together a new reading schedule (I was on the book committee and still agreed to a new text...what was I thinking?), updating the syllabi for the move to portfolio grading, updating the WebCT stuff, finding a string of vastly stupid errors in my own work, and attending orientation...so more updates when I return to sanity.
Pray for Mojo.
August 1-2. The day after the move, me and my ex-roomie made our way up to his hometown in northern Minnesota. He's from the area around several small towns/villiages, all of which basically rose up as mining towns. Unfortunately, there have been mine closures, so the towns are in a period of decay. Some mines still operate, and there are also attempts to bring tourism to the area.
On the way up, we decided to check out one of the Indian casinos, so we pulled into Grand Casino Hinkley. There really wasn't too much unusual about the casino...lots of noise, flashing lights, and gambling elderly. The casino (at least the slots) operated entirely on real money...you had to get change to play the machines. When I went to the slot room at the Windsor Raceway, they forced everyone into using tokens...which seems like the smarter route, if your goal is to maximize income. If you're using tokens, you are are apt to disassociate it from real money...and thus spend more.
We weren't really there to gamble...we each did lose about $10 on video poker and slots, but the real thrill was the sociological angle. When I commented to my ex-roomie that I was surprised that there were no actual Indians (no idea if the Ojibwe prefer this or "Native American") working there, he told me that they had probably taken in so much money that they didn't have to work there anymore...which makes sense, seeing the hurry everyone was in to give away their cash. He also claims to have heard white patrons making the unintentionally ironic comment "next thing you know, we'll be working for them" while handing over more money.
The whole Indian casino thing is something I feel a little uneasy with, at any rate. Casinos are specifically designed to strip you from your wallet...and gambling has always seemed like a particularly amoral way to make your living. One could argue that the Ojibwes are just treating the Whites the same way they were treated, but this still smacks of vengeance (even if economic), and this still makes me really wonder if this is the right way for the tribes to go about supporting themselves...but the alternative is the crushing poverty most suffered through before, so it's a hard question.
So we left the moral ambiguities at the casino, stopped at the local Hinkley MN landmark bakery (can't remember the name) for some of their famous 3" thick caramel rolls, and headed north. After passing a Frank Lloyd Wright-designed gas station (fallen into disrepair, unfortunately) and a stop at an IGA for some sausages to grill and a bottle shop (what some Minnesotans call their liquor stores) for some Hamms and Schmidt beer (the latter was called "Animal Beer" because the cans had pictures of fish, deer, or other game on them) to drink, we then went to my ex-roomie's parents's cabin.
When we got to the cabin, we met my ex-roomie's mom, who immediately (1) offered us use of her fishing pole and tackle, and (2) gave us a big hunk of smoked salmon...two things that I could never see my own mother doing. We cooked our sausage and drank beer. We also got to meet my ex-roomie's cousins, who were both fun guys. Some of my favorite quotes from our conversations:
The next day, we went to the Soudan Underground Mine State Park, which is an ex-US Steel mine that the state has turned into a tourist attraction. It was open for over 80 years and was incredibly safe...for that kind of place. The tour took you down over 2,000 feet, to the mine's 27th level. Afterward, we hit this area which used to be an open-pit mine. You normally think of such things as environmental eyesores. This, however, was quite nice. The areas where they dumped the rubble had taken on trees, the pits had filled with water, and the whole thing looked like a mini-Grand Canyon...entirely artificial.
We did a few other touristy things, including visiting the World's Largest Hockey Stick and the currently closed US Hockey Hall of Fame, both of which are (for some reason) in Eveleth, MN. We then went back to the cabin, where my ex-roomie's parents joined us for a dinner of various grilled deer sausages and pickles before taking a boat ride around the lake. The next day, before leaving, my ex-roomie took me on a tour of some of his old haunts and then showed me his family's hunting shack, which he said was his favorite place on earth.
The whole northern voyage was incredibly calming, and it was a fun, welcome break from the Twin Cities...I can't wait to go back.
(note: halfway through this trip, I lost my internet connection after my former roomie, with whom I was staying, moved to another place...so the remainder of these posts are from my notes)
July 31...Moving day hell. Of course, it got up to 103, there was no wind, and we had to move relatively swiftly. Rather than a full list of trials, some higlights include:
Helping my ex-roomie move tomorrow (in projected 104 degree weather...wee) and then we're gonna run to the northern part of the state to cool off...his parents have a cabin.
Forgot to mention that when we were at the Global Market place, the Asian food store had Poki Sticks in a flavor labelled "Man."
My ex-roomie has a laptop, and he's sponging off his upstair neighbor's WiFi signal...whenever he needs a connection, he has to hold his laptop up towards the ceiling. It looks like he's offering it to the great internet gods in the sky.
Vietnamese food is the best cuisine in the world. Last night, we went to a local Vietnamese restaurant, and that meal will go down in my top dinners ever list.
Later, we went out drinking at the local VFW hall. Apparently, the Minneapolis branch is open to the public. It is full of hipsters. They sing bad Karyoke. I wonder what the few VFW members who brave the young person onslaught think.
While we were drinking, my ex-roomie pointed out one of the vets who works there. "That's Henry," he said. "Henry has a special ritual. He cuts off all his hair when one of his friends dies." I've thought about this a whole lot since, and I wish I could describe exactly how the thought of this makes me feel...I don't know if I'll ever have the necessary adjective for this one.
My ex-roomie (with whom I'm staying) has one of those claw-foot tubss, so, in order to shower, he's had to rig up a wraparound shower curtain. It does close in on you...and when I left my shower, I felt like I had just been chemically decontaminated.
For lunch, we went to this indoor ethnic marketplace called the Midtown Global Market. It was really cool, lots of weird food booths.
We ate some $1.50 goat tostadas from this Mexican place...they were huge and tasty. The Mexican booth had the most awe-inspiring stacks of pork rind sheets...I will eventually post photos.
There was also a Mexican seafood place (Marlin Flautas), a Carribean Soul Food place, a Mexican breakfast place, and tons of others...all staffed by a selection of gorgeous exotic beauties. Very cool for lunch.
The Detroit airport is one of my favorite...when you arrive on a puddle-jumper, you arrive on an outpost terminal. To get to the main terminal, you have to go under one of the runways. There, they have a psychadelic light show, thunder sounds, and Japanime-esque music...it's what I imagine Tokyo must be like, down to the high-speed train in the main terminal.
I ate at the airport. Note to the restaurant...Mexican food should have some taste other than spackle.
After some junk food (Crazy Bread!) to wash the no-taste of the Mexican food out of my mouth, I hit an airport bar...one of my favorite classes of places. I ordered a bloody mary (an airport tradition) and met my neighbors. The guy to my left was having a plate of french fries for desert "because I had sushi for dinner and needed some starch." As he was reaching for the ketchup, he told me that, as a liberal, he generally only uses Heinz. We then speculated on how much money an airport strip club would make and why we never see them. He also speculated that passengers should have a drink or two before going onboard...so they are properly lubricated to deal with terrorists if they encounter any. These are the types of conversations you can only have at airport bars.
Why is CNN so omnipresent in airports? At the Toledo airport bar, there were two televisions, one tuned to CNN and one tuned to something else. When I sat in front of it, I found out that it was on second day coverage of some minor golf tournament...that had been rain-delayed. Scintillating television, I can tell you. The bartender (a 40-something blonde, minorly leatherish, lived and tanned too hard and it showed in her skin...and every airport in the world has one just like her) sighed, let out an "Oh, man," and tuned the television to...CNN. Thank the heavens for alcohol.
The airport had the PA warning and announcements in several languages, but the English ones were the only ones done by a male...all Asian languages were announced by females. Either this means something, or the three hour layover was starting to take effect.
We boarded the plane and sat on the runway for an hour while waiting for thunderstorms to pass. This brings to mind: how can airplane seats be so unsuited for sitting? Their concaveness really hurt my back.
As the flight attendant passed beverages out to the window passengers beside me, I could feel some effervescence rain down on my arm...it was very surreal.
From a certain distance and altitude, the nighttime city lights of a metropolis look like crashing waves of molten lava.
I know this post is minorly random, but you'll just have to wait for closure...if I get any, you'll hear it here first.
Am I the only one tremendously disappointed that no one ever calls anyone else a "rapscallion" or "scaliwag?"
For those requesting an update on the Polish festival...it sucked. It was mostly a collection of merchants selling stuff that had nothing to do with Poles (a windcatcher table?) or selling food that wasn't Polish (who would eat gyros at a Polish festival?). The pirogi booth was selling frozen merchandise dipped in the fryer. There was a tent where oompah music was going to be played, but that hardly masked my disappointment. The only cool thing was being able to wander around while drinking beer.
I have higher hopes for the upcoming Montpelier Bean Days festival.
When one is from Florida, one has to deal with tourists to at least a certain extent. Yes, I know that tourists go many places...hell, when we lived in Charleston, SC, we had to put up with a ton of them...but Florida basically depends on them for its livelihood.
This overreliance on outsiders (whom the natives invariably resent) is a major cause to the unique Florida character, a major reason why Florida (and Floridians) do things a little differently...and are themselves a little different.
Some areas of difference? Some are nice and sweet...the Florida Welcome Center on I-95, for instance, gives out free samples of orange or grapefruit juice...sweet literally. Some are slightly incongruous...every city in Florida (at least among the coastal/tourist areas) plants palm trees everywhere they can...although the trees are native to very few of the places that grow them. Then, as everyone knows, Florida can get seriously weird...
Case in point: My parents accompanied the wonderful wife and I on a trip down to St. Augustine. For those of you not familiar, St. Augustine is the oldest city in the US, and it is one of the places made famous because Ponce de Leon supposedly thought it contained an actual fountain of youth. They also have a Ripley's Believe It Or Not museum. My wife wanted to see a bit of Florida, so we went for a visit.
The whole way down, however, I kept seeing billboards for a place which billed itself as "The Florida Visitor's Center." They had tons of black billboards with either orange or fluorescent yellow writing advertising alternatively "Indian River Citrus," hundreds of tourist shirts, free orange juice, and the like. The clincher for me is that I saw one advertising a "13 foot alligator." Naturally, I wanted to go see this. Of course, my loving parents refused to believe I was serious and drove straight past the place as I pouted in the back seat.
So we went to St. Augustine, which is actaully pretty nice in spite of being touristy. The secret is that St. Augustine has never been invaded by the major corporations. There are no mouse ears, there are no superhero rides, and none of the restaurants are owned by b-movie stars. It's more kitch than commercial, which is nice. But you can still see historic stuff and get a sense that you are actually in Florida instead of some generic theme park. We wandered around the tourist streets, stared at the river, bought some 2/$5 teeshirts, and trooped around the fort.
On the way back, we stopped at the King's Head British Pub, which is just a nice recreation of an authentic pub run by an authentic Englishwoman. As my Mom's from England, she always feels at home here, and I like it for the good beer selection (I had a Fullers ESB) and good British food...their stilton onion soup is excellent, as is their fish and chips. This place is cool because even though it's just out of a tourist destination, it's not touristy at all...it's just a cool local hangout.
After dinner, we drove back to Jacksonville. I managed, however, to convince the parental units to detour to the Florida Visitor's Center for which I saw so many billboards on the trip down...I think the beer and food helped in that regard. But I'd seen enough serious tourism...I wanted my cheese.
The center was, in a word, fantastic...everything I hoped it would be. In terms of layout, it was essentially a gas station with an extended grocery area filled with all the merchandise you could imagine. They had tons of cheap teeshirts (I got one that had a picture of an alligator and the words "Bite Me...Florida"), tons of silly gator and flamingo knicknacks, gator jerky, key lime candy (in the shape of alligators), and every other bit of cheap crap you could imagine.
They did in fact still have the 13 foot alligator, which was nice. It was stuffed, not live, which was a little bit of a bummer. It was, however, surrounded by hundreds of stuffed gator heads, which made it look like some weird Aztec monument gone seriously awry...which of course made me love it all the more. So we got our cheap, kitch tourist stuff and went home...and I was fully content.
The highlight of the trip was getting a balance of all the tourist styles save the plastic megacorp variety. Let's face it...none of the touristy things that people experience in Florida have any real relationship to the state. It's not really a princess-stuffed land of illusion. Neither, however, is it a historical paradise. And actual Floridians never actually eat gator jerky or drink out of a mug made of shells...unless they're deliberately being stupid, like me.
Tourism is always a game, a ruse. Tourist areas want people to come there, gain some overly romantic or excitement-filled notion of the surroundings which will ensure return visits, spend a whole lot of cash, and then go the hell away. So reality doesn't enter into it at all...but this is obvious to anyone who's either lived in a tourist area or been a tourist themselves.
The reason that tourism holds a certain amount of charm is the varieties of games played, the different narratives of place sold, the subtle line between "we need you" and "get the hell out" on which every tourist-scavanger dances.
I've always preferred the kitchy variety because in many ways, it's the most subtle. "Yes, you may think these shell lamps are junky and goofy...you're right, they are...and you may think that I'm a hick for making and selling them...but you're gonna buy them, and I'm taking money off your idiotic ass in the process...so who's the hick here?" You know every purveyor of junky stuff is thinking this.
Tourism as warfare...it's definitely a topic worthy of further thought...
I have many witty photos up on my Flickr page, such as this one, which I entitle "wrestling with alcohol"...enjoy!
Last night, me and three great friends went to see the midnight sneak peek of the second Pirates of the Carribean film...which I can definitively say was...very long.
There were a number of previews, but the one that got the best reaction was...for the upcoming Transformers film. Hummm...life just gets curiouser and curiouser.
One of the things that fascinated me most about living in the north was the overwhelming number of summer festivals...I guess it has something to do with revelling in the sun while you can...that, and a desire to drink cheap beer in a plastic, fenced-off area after eating crappy food and listening to either oompah music or bluegrass.
The last two years, Lori and I have wanted to do more festivals, and the one that I have been pushing for is the McClure Radish festival. McClure is this microscopic township just west of Bowling Green which is apparently "the radish capital of the world." I personally hate radishes, but the idea of having a whole festival dedicated to them is both perverse and kitchy enough to be very appealing. However, we keep missing it, damnit.
I read about the Michigan Elvisfest in this weekend's paper, and it also sounded perfect...but alas, it's $15 a pop...and I love kitch, but not that much.
So instead, this weekend, we're going to the Lagrange Street Polish Festival in Toledo. I suspect the food will be awesome. Stay tuned for updates.
When my sister married, she (much like me) was lucky to get very cool in-laws. About six years before I moved up to Ohio, me and my brother flew into Ann Arbor MI to visit my sister, and we spent an afternoon or two drinking with the in-laws. When I came to Ohio to find an apartment, my sister's in-laws treated me like lost family, which made me feel really good.
There is the added benefit that they are of Polish descent...and as little as I like so subscribe to ethnic type-casting, I will admit that they share a very large zest for life. Me and my sister's father-in-law have somewhat become drinking buddies. So, since the fourth of July is his birthday, it becomes a nice multi-layered celebration, and the beer does tend to flow.
Unfortunately, since in the last few years the fourth has fallen on a weekday and either my wife or I have to work the next day, we usually don't get to stay very late...and thus miss out on all the major firework displays in the area. There are some fireworks, but they're limited to sparklers, dog-frightening poppers, and the occasional bottle rocket which my sister's husband sets off starting around 4ish...when it's completely and utterly pointless, as the sunlight renders the explosion totally invisible. You have to, however, admire the determination, and I have to admit to holding onto a lit roman candle or two in the midday sun myself.
So the wonderful wive and I usually end up driving home just as it finally turns dark...but that's okay, because we get to see most every firework display between Dexter and Ann Arbor. The sober wife drives, while I, the drunken husband, hold her hand...and we "oooh" and "ahhh" at the distant explosions that occasionally peak over the treetops, even though, to us, they're only the size of a penny.
This year, our timing was perfect...we got to see the entire Bowling Green firework display. We picked it up when the explosions were more or less specks, and we kept it in sight as we breezed down I-75. As we got closer to town and got closer to the fireworks, the pace of the show quickened. When we drove past the BGSU football stadium, where they were shooting them off, the performance started to peak. We pulled into the BG main road right as the fireworks climaxed, and we could see the explosions the clearest right as the finale ran its course...and we were driving close enough to feel the "booms."
Of course, through the clouds of gunpowder smoke rolling in on Wooster, we could see people in lawn chair in the front of the Big Boy, the various gas stations, and the fast food places. They all had great seats too, but while they had to fight traffic, we were already almost home.
I found it all much more romantic than probably would've a normal person.
