Rosanna Rosannadanna would be proud

There are certain days where events snowball into cataclysmic episodes of suckitude.

I woke up with a moderate to-do list, but I still expected to get all my chores done in time to do a bit of reading...I have a friend who's been bugging me about feedback on his dissertation. I checked the e-mail, ate my yogurt, and decided to make a cup of coffee before I delved into the salt mines. Of course, this was issue one, as it took me about 15 minutes to find my French press...and panic/anxiety is not really what you need if you're trying to start the day off on a positive note.

The house cleaning was uneventful, and I finished right at lunchtime. I was looking forward to a nice serving of red beans and rice. However, I miscalculated my food supply, because there were no more leftovers in the fridge. Mild disappointment (red beans and rice is my favorite dish), but I popped a few pounds of popcorn instead.

While I was eating, the UPS guy dropped off my latest guitar gadget purchase, which included a neat little practice amp...which would've been cool, except for the fact it was broken directly out of the box.

After lunch, I decided to assemble our new Ikea shelf. Now, I like the concept of cheap furniture, and Scandinavian design always sounds just a little dirty to me. However, in practice, "furniture in a box" really only serves to tick me off. I get angry, frustrated, and feel like less of a man. Assembling my own furniture without fail precipitates a chain of annoyances and disasters. I also lose faith in there being anything other than a vengeful, prankster deity who's more than a bit of a vindictive jerk.

I found out immediately that the shelving unit had no feet...so the rough-cut wooden boards that made the four side rails had to just sit directly on the floor. Of course, this means a trip to Home Depot, a place which makes me suspect Dante got some of the details wrong in Inferno. After wandering around the cavernous building and purchasing supplies, I get halfway home before I realize that I only bought four rubber feet when I need eight...so I turn around in a parking lot and return to the home improvement hell store.

I get back home and start in on the assembly. Everything's pre-drilled, and I have good Ikea directions, so this will be a breeze, right? Well, no. Within a few minutes, I split one of the shelf supports right down the damn middle.

After much chest-thumping, wailing, and cursing, I eventually patch the board with a carriage bolt and nut, and, two splinters later, I finish assembly...only to find out that Ikea, the Swedish bastards, only include half of the wall-mount hardware. Cue Home Depot trip three.

I finally get the damn shelving unit installed and start on the next chore: cooking for the week. Because spousal unit and I are hardly ever at home together, Monday has become "let's bust out lotsa meals for the week's lunches and dinners" day. I butcher a chicken, separate the leg quarters, and place them on the broiler tray for roasting (later to be used in salads). I then go into a cabinet to grab the salt, but a caper bottle falls out. I try to juggle the bottle and do save it, but the glass kosher salt container falls out, lands on top of a glass measuring pitcher, shatters both vessels, and spreads salt everywhere, all over my freshly cleaned kitchen.

I curse poetically and with verve before cleaning up. I then rinse off the salt-encrusted leg quarters, dry them, and throw them into the oven to cook. I also throw a head and a half of garlic in foil, drizzle on a bit of olive oil, seal up the pouch, and then throw it in the oven, alongside the roasting legs and thighs. I then cube the chicken breast meat and prep veggies for a stir fry. Just as I finish my stir-fry prep, my roasted garlic (destined for pasta-land) is ready, and, wouldn't you know, when I go to pull it, I burn myself on the oven door.

Luckily the rest of the day was relatively free of disaster...because one more thing, and I would probably have to curl into a fetal position and whimper.

dining euphoria

I am married to a wonderful, beautiful, gorgeous person who is the sweetest individual in existence. She does, however, have two very serious flaws. First off, she seems to love me a whole bunch...which is nice and makes me reguarly do a happy dance However, as much as I enjoy her love, it does demonstrate her extremely questionable taste and general low standards.

Secondly, my spousal unit does not really like meat. Oh, she likes dishes which have meat in them, and she does make a really mean meatloaf (something I, for some odd reason, simply can never pull off). When it comes to whole hunks o' animal, though, she's not really a fan.

This means that there are many beast-related meals which I dearly love yet cannot have. At the top of the list, though, is steak. Oh, she'll eat part of one from time to time, but she prefers her steak cooked about 25 minutes past well...and at that level of doneness, what, really, is the point? Other than fixing shoes or patching roofs, that is.

I can generally handle the steak void in my life with relatively good humor. I wouldn't be eating it all that regularly in the first place...after all, I'm not exactly in the steak tax bracket. But every so often, darling spousal unit leaves me at home alone (generally on parental unit visitations), and I can indulge my inner carnivore by eating a piece of cow that's the size of my head.

Today was one of those glorious steak days. I went to the grocery store to pick up my steak (and quite a number of other items, but the steak is most important). I was gonna do my usual top sirloin, but they were the exact same price as porterhouse...which makes utterly no sense to me, but I'm not complaining. I found a nice, evenly cut porterhouse...it was not quite the size of my head, but I soldiered on...I gotta watch my girlish figure, you know.

I cooked the steak simply...salt and peppered, in a NASA-hot cast iron skillet, to a nice medium rare. While the steak rested , I made a pan sauce with stock and red wine, which I finished by mounting some butter. I diced some potatoes, tossed in a few garlic cloves, boiled in salted water, drained, added some cheddar, leftover Stilton, a splash of milk, and a bit of butter before mashing. I diced some zucchini, tossed it in some flour and breadcrumbs, and fried it in some olive oil.

It was, of course, glorious. I love me some steak, and I love cooking my own. Not only do I get to control the doneness, I also get to control the eating environment. After all, if you're at a fancy restaurant, you generally cannot get away with gnawing on bones.

road tunes

Back when I was a high school laddie, a friend of mine's dad was what you would call a bluegrass aficionado. Not only did he listen to lots of bluegrass, travel to bluegrass festivals, and own an awe-inspiring instrument collection (including seven or eight top-of-the-line Martin guitars, which you'd often find just leaned against the couch), he also declared every Wednesday night to be Bluegrass Night. I can close my eyes and see him now. He'd put on his pink blazer, break out his best mandolin, mix a Seagram's and water, and open up his house to anyone who played bluegrass. Players from all over Jacksonville would come to hang out, have a few beverages, and play bluegrass classics until the late hours.

I went on a fairly regular basis. While I initially went to hang out with my high school friends, I eventually learned to appreciate (and even got to play) the music...an unexpected development. Even now, there are still the occasional random melodies and lyric fragments which unexpectedly pop into my head.

But another part of the adventure was getting to know a wide variety of people from circles I wouldn't ordinarily enter. While time has eroded many of them from my memory (the banjoist, who was just blistering, is an exception), I remember one fun-loving guy in particular who always tried to crack us up. One time, upon hearing me moan about my long drive to work, this gentleman told me that he drove an hour each way to his job, but it his favorite part of his day...a time where he could be alone with his thoughts, with no demands on him, and it was the only time where he could play whatever he wanted on his radio without having to consider anyone else's preferences. At the time, I thought he was nuts, but that was probably because I was struggling to keep my 1973 Plymouth Valiant's monstrous gas tank full. 13 MPG is, after all, not exactly easy on the high school income.

Much has changed for me in the over 20 years. Instead of standing on a porch and trying to talk over the sound of G chords and pick noise, I'm waiting in my office for my last class of the semester and avoiding the inevitable end-of-the-term grading load. While there's a part of me that's gearing up for the zombie grading sessions, and another part of me is contemplating my stupidly optimistic summer research agenda, I also realized that today will be the last day for a while where I can pick a cd and blast it on the ride home. I will legitimately miss the ride.

If the interwub is to be trusted, the Wednesday bluegrass jams still go on. Right now, I kinda wish I was living in Jacksonville so I stop by. It would be fun to hear the music, but there's a bigger draw. Now that I'm more mature, who knows what further wisdom I might encounter?

desperate times call for a desperate drink...

...and I call this one the "Final Exam":

• throw a bottle o' vodka and a martini glass into the freezer and wait a while
  
• after doing some grading and hating mankind, fill a shaker with ice
  
• add
  
  
  
  • 1/2 measure of triple sec
    
  • 1/2 measure of peppermint schnapps
    
  • 2 measures of the icy vodka
    
  
  
• shake the mixture while trying to look cool
  
• take the martini class out of the freezer and add two twists
  
• pour the drink into the glass
  
• enjoy while plotting the downfall of undergrads
  

one of my turns

I am currently (for reasons I don't really wanna get into here) in a funk. I spent most of yesterday in a rotten mood...and by rotten, I mean the "I hate everyone of you idiots"/thunderclouds/looks of pure evil/decaying flesh moods. I wanted to hurt every single person, animal, mineral, and vegetable on this and on one other planet.

Ultimately, I realized I needed to get out of said mood. In fact, I spent a lot of the day contemplating various mood elevators. However, each unfortunately possessed a fatal flaw.

I wanted to punch somebody or something. However, I'm currently having arm issues (which I initially suspected were pulled muscles, but the three week duration suggests otherwise). Hurting myself more, when I already feel 183 years old and am contemplating walkers, would not, I suspect, ultimately make me any happier.

I then wanted to play something horrifically heavy on guitar. However, our band's material is really not violent enough save one song, and that one doesn't even have a guitar solo...which would limit the amount of ear drum damage I could achieve. I did try and play some Rage Against the Machine during practice, but while one band member played along, the other members just exchanged the seemingly omnipresent "here Mike goes again" look amongst themselves.

If I couldn't perform violence (or the representation thereof) myself, I wanted to at least see some violence...and lo and behold, there was in fact a wrestling pay-per-view. However, I only know one person who would conceivably go with me, and he wanted to stay in. I should've hunted him down and performed a pile-driver...but I like him in spite of his wimpiness in this particular matter...and furthermore, see the above "hurt" point about self-inflicting injury.

I wanted to drink. And by drink, I meant epic drinking bout. However, I had to be up stupidly early today, so my body wasn't really ready for the inevitable hangover compounding my already inevitable sleep deprivation. Also, I would've had to drink alone, and that tends to elevate rather than alleviate my moods. Hey, my life ain't Barfly

So hear this, every single person in the world: you better be glad I have a lovely spousal unit who makes me feel fuzzy and temperate...because if not for her, you would have had to deal with yesterday's mood compounded for 24 more hours. Trust me: that would not have been pretty.

I was so much older then...

Summers are (as you, oh faithful readers, know by now) my work period. Part of my mental preparation for this work period is to slowly get myself acclimated to the sound of partying and volleyball-playing undergrads frolicking in the frat-boy-hell apartment complex across the street while I'm in my office, chained to various pieces of scholarship-in-progress. Sometimes, it takes all my inner fortitude to not run out and join them. Then I (1) remember how I feel about the average fratboy dude/bro that lives at said complex, as well as (2) remember they likely consider me to be around 187 years old.

The secret is, I have found, to expose one's self in increasing doses to younger people having fun when you are in fact working on something. If one is careful to build up one's tolerance, eventually, the fun-receptors in one's brain can be completely disabled. Yes, it's a type of self-flagellation, but it keeps the working part of my brain somewhat focused.

I started this training regimen today by going to and fro the library by walking across the green on campus instead of taking the (more direct) back way. This way, I would pass a multitude of people both younger and more beautiful than I (which is, admittedly, not all that difficult). Furthermore, since a certain percentage of said good looking kids would inevitably be sunbathing, playing frisbee, or just plain goofing off, it would adequately crush my own internal fun circuit.

It worked kinda sorta, but not as well as I would like. Sure, it reminded me that there are people who have the time to goof off. Yes, it reminded me that the world is full of people considerably more attractive than I. However, it did not make me feel as old and decrepit as it usually would.

Why not? I blame a colleague, who earlier commented "you're a young guy...what are you, 30?"

This shook me. I don't think said colleague was trying to be nice...because it's me, after all, and people just don't ever try to raise my spirit. Did she seriously think I was that young?

Now I'm sitting in my office, but I am mentally torn. Am I ancient or no? Should I sit here and start work on an academic manifesto? Or should I go play beer pong with Natty Light?

riding the writing cycle

Each school year follows a predictable pattern. No, I'm not talking about the prep, making syllabi, and tracing my students on the path from sheet utter panic to comprehension. I'm talking about my own journey as a writer.

The summer is my major productive time, where I write and write and write. Basically, I try to break it up with exercise, glasses of iced tea, and such, but most every summer day is spent either on the couch reading theory or chained to the desk, writing on the computer. I have lofty goals in the summer, ones that require "total dedication."

Of course, although I get an awful lot done (one of my bosses tells me I'm producing tenure-track workload even I'm in a heavy teaching job), I never really come close to completing my "vacation" writing agenda. When the Fall starts, I tell myself that it will be different this semester...I'll find a way to both write and teach. As is, I did pretty good this past fall by getting a brief revision and resubmit out and one conference presentation, but that's it. I never even got that conference presentation written up in draft.

The Christmas break will, I always swear, be the time where I get an article out--this year, it was going to be the Fall conference paper. Unfortunately (for my productivity, that is), there are always visitations, family gatherings, parties, and similar distractions. I always enjoy myself immensely, but again, I never get any writing done.

I tell myself, "well, at least I have Spring semester to write"...but by this point do I really need to go into detail on this semester's work failure?

I'm thinking about these cycles, because although I am still several weeks away from the start of summer, I am at what is most accurately the starting point of my scholarly side. I am at that magical dead space in the semester where the students are buried in their own work and don't really need much hand-holding on my part. I have very few classes left to plan, and I am between conference weeks. This means I have a certain amount of time on my hand, and Summer is on the horizon, I can actually start working without worrying too much about losing momentum in the forthcoming grading/conference period.

There's only one problem: by this point in the year, it's been entirely too long since I ever had to think about anything at all. I know I have mental chops, but it's been way too long since any of them were flexed. My major goal now is to try and get my brain primed and ready to go...so that when the summer finally hits, I can dive into my scholarship.

And I do have a ton of it on the summer "to-do" list...my CSI article, starting a journal with friends, finishing my revision attempt on the music article, the theory-heavy Neuromancer article, and (tee hee) getting a draft of the book done (the latter of these will almost certainly never leave the "dreaming" stage). On top of that, I have a brief smattering of an idea for a paper on the Robert B. Parker Spenser series...as if I need any more work.

I'm starting the brain recharging by reading Robert Heinlein's Starship Troopers. If you've only seen the awesomely fun film adaptation, you should know they are nothing like the same story. Heinlein's version is much more proto-fascist "go military" (although a much-smarter-than-I friend has already engaged me on my reductive descriptions), as opposed to the anti-hierarchy film. Honestly, even though I'm an ex-military brat, my sympathies are with the movie, but the film is more of a think-piece...and I think maybe it's the perfect way to ease me back into mental operations.

With the stupidly heavy workload in my on-deck circle, you would think that I would be in panic mode, but it's not really the case. Instead, I feel like I'm coming back to where I belong. I do love teaching, and I find it ultimately enriching, but the research, the writing, the scholarship, that's what really what drew me to this life in the first place...and that's nice to remember.

I have never come anywhere near where I want to be professionally, but I know I am far from alone in this. I don't know if the writing will help me in my career or not. The one thing I do know? Writers write. I might be stuck teaching "welcome to college" classes in a field far from my own, and I might be doing this forever. Doesn't matter, though. My writing is my true work, and I think it's important to realize that it's valuable in its own right.

I could get depressed by my age. I could get depressed by the fact that I rely on hand-me-down cars from my parents. I could get depressed by having to rent a house in the student ghetto because I can't get out of credit card debt. I could get depressed by the very real possibility that most of my friends will be gone in four months, and most likely not even to better places and situations, because damnit, I want all my friends to get great jobs in vacation-settings, so I have places to visit.

I don't know if doing the work will solve anything. I have no idea if it will ever get recognized. Ultimately, I don't even know if the work has value. But I suspect. I believe.

It might be a cliche to say "the work will set me free"...but I'm okay with cliches...at least at this stage of the writing cycle.

show number four

I've long since realized that I have the tendency to complain and moan. I'm sure this comes as a shock to many, but I also have a love of hyperbole and exaggeration. There's always a certain desire to embellish the truth to make my life seem more impressive than it is in reality. I swear, however, that I'm not doing that when I tell you that, upon loading in my equipment for last night's show, I immediately thought of Silence of the Lambs.

"It puts the lotion in the basket. It puts the lotion in the basket!!!!"

Ahem. Sorry about that.

The show was at an area anarchist bookstore/community center/performance space, and we were scheduled to play with one other local band and two touring acts (one of them from Mexico, no less). And while there is much to say about the evening, I am still trying to encapsulate my experience. My thoughts are, as they say, a work in progress.

First things first. I am not an anarchist. While my understanding of the philosophy is better than the reductive stereotypes which my students hold (and that I used to have myself), I admittedly only have a rudimentary understanding of anarchism and know few of its intricacies. I have sympathies with the suspicion of hierarchy in particular, but I hold my own suspicions of their proposed solutions. I am trying to learn more, and not just because of my anarchist friends...I do have a legitimate intellectual curiosity on the subject. But I'm not there yet, so playing a show at an anarchist center inevitably involved coming to terms with my limited knowledge and some preconceptions to boot.

Nevertheless, the idea of an anarchist community center/concert venue/infoshop is one with which I certainly sympathize. Non-traditional music venues are essential for growing musicians, particularly those who are underage and cannot play in bars. That such a place as an infoshop exists for any philosophy is great, and the communal spirit is undeniable, particularly in terms of community outreach. So it was with a limited knowledge and a selective sympathy that I drove to Monday's show.

At first, I have to admit that I was a little freaked out. My spousal unit got there before I. When, having problems locating the place, she called me, she described the area as generally scary. I eventually found the place, ran into my bandmates, and started the equipment load-in through the center's dark garage/warehouse. This involved passing much salvaged...um, stuff/appliances/crap, walking on a wooden plank suspended over a puddle that verged on underground lake territory, going down the "staircase of death," and entering a large basement space utterly covered with graffiti. This is when the Silence of the Lambs references started echoing in my head.

We went into the bookstore area to wait for the show to start, and my expectations took a little swerve. I expected to see a relatively easy-going space furnished with nice salvaged furniture and shelves upon shelves of zines...and I did find exactly that. What I was not expecting, however, is the Friends board game...it's just not the stereotypical choice of either anarchists or Silence of the Lambs characters.

So, after a certain amount of milling about, we grabbed a table. Eventually, we found out that a local band had been added to the bill, and they were running a little late. Ultimately, I found out that this was reason one why I could never be an anarchist. Most of the people associated with this evening, it was explained to me, were "lifestyle anarchists," which (as it was explained) means "they believe you have autonomy and are free to decide to do whatever we want to"...thus the very idea of a schedule is not really within the realm of discussion.

Now, as much as I would like to be fairly free and loose with my time, I simply cannot be that relaxed. For one, I used to work at restaurants, where everything was timed (length of shift, of service, of cooking for each item, for performing every task, and so forth). Second, my years of grad school and later adjuncting means that I am used to having 3,652,809 thing going on at once, so prioritization and scheduling are not just options...they are ingrained necessities. So the wait was killing me. I assume Buffalo Bill could relate.

Anyway, after a few hours, my drummer told me that if nothing was happening in about a half hour, we would just go downstairs and start playing. However, the local band showed up and started setting up, so we wandered downstairs. This is when I fully was able to comprehend our performance space. Yes, it was low-ceiling, and yes, the stage was only two inches tall, but the graffiti was the most memorable element. Some tags were fairly dull (band names and such), some were quite expected (the anarchy symbol, of course), some were interesting (the one asking me to perform a sexual act on "gender binaries"), and some were just plain puzzling (the sprayed image of a fetus with the legend "abortions send babies to god faster").

The first band started playing pretty late and did a five or six song set. I suppose they were pretty good at what they do, but their music was a cross between 80s new wave and emo, and those are two genres which I simply cannot get into. My main impression, though, was of how young everyone was. I'm sure I was twice as old as 85% of the audience.

After the first band finished, we were able to set up fairly quickly and issue-free. Most people came back down when we started playing, but I noticed a number of them filtering upstairs as our set went on. By the end of it, there were about six people left in spite of us (I would humbly like to suggest) pretty well and mistake-free. The remaining "crowd" was admittedly appreciative (one of them thanked us), but I can't help wish we could quantify how quickly we cleared the room. While we were hauling our stuff back up the stairs of death, our singer and I were complemented by the singer from band one, who particularly liked our last song...the only thing is, I don't remember him still being in the audience when we finished.

While we were packing, my bassist told me she thought it was because we were too loud for everyone to stay. Now, it is true that we are a pretty loud band--we do have a drummer who plays as if he's punishing his instrument, and the rest of us have no real choice but to keep up. We were honestly trying to be relatively tame volume-wise, however. Said drummer was even using his "quiet" sticks. True, he still broke them, but we were trying.

My theory, however, is different. I took last night as a lesson on how well Analog Revolution goes over with "the kids." This is a shame, really, because it means that while we might sell some shirts, our posters will apparently never be over the beds of young girls nation-wide.

In light of this revelation, I guess I will have to adjust my lifelong goals and dreams...somehow. Well, at least I never had to put the lotion in the basket.

show number three

Last night was the second of three shows in this ten day period. I was expecting a certain amount of wear or panic. I was also hoping that someone in the audience would flash the band. Fortunately and unfortunately respectively, I was wrong.

We were able to set up at a more leisurely pace, and it really helped having played on the stage last week...we knew how to better maximize a very small space. There were still electrical issues (albeit not at the Spinal Tap level of last week), and we couldn't hear each other as well as I would've liked, but in spite of that, we had a good night and barely screwed up in noticeable ways. And our new cover (a rockin' version of "Maggie May") went over pretty well.

For playing the same place two Fridays in a row, we had a pretty good crowd...especially considering that lots of our academic colleagues were either at a conference or at someone's party. But it was a pretty full room. We even had someone wearing some of our merchandise...and a non-band member's partner even!...although nobody modeled any of our band thongs. Maybe next time.

The other performers were all awesome, so as well as playing, we got to hear some great music. Afterwards, I stayed talking to friends until we were told (in a gentle manner, though) that we had to leave. All in all, there are worse ways to spend a Friday night.

show number two

My band had its second show on Friday. There's lots to tell, but some of it I don't really remember all that clearly (I was sober, but I tend to be in a little bit of a stupor after I play). For me, however, there are a few elements of note:

First, I found out that unless I stood in a particular place on stage with my guitar at a 30 degree angle to the crowd, I got a nice buzz of static and miscellaneous noise. This meant that I could not channel the spirit of Angus Young, but the stage was too small for that anyway. Moreover, it marks my absolute first Spinal Tap moment.

Also, I found that I absolutely have to put aside some time to mentally come down after the performance. As is, I went home, toweled off, then lay stone awake in bed for an hour and a half because my own band's songs wouldn't leave my head. I guess this is why so many performing musicians keep the same hours as vampires.

lessons from the world of work

For the two or three people in the world who haven't heard this story from my past:

I had just left Little Caesars in a confused state, because I was recovering from a car accident when I was fired. However, nobody could agree on who fired me, or why. Eventually, though, I learned that my manager at the time wanted to promote her cousin but had to get rid of someone first...and that someone was me. She never admitted this, however.

It was a period where there was a really horrible economy, and jobs (especially ones that would work around my college schedule) were scarce. Anyway, I swore that I would never go back to food service after this. I was tired of working stupidly long hours, smelling of food, and being the only person I knew who did not have weekends free. There were very few options, so I innocently applied at a temporary service agency.

For the next few months, I would get random phone calls sending me to a different place about twice a week. The first job they sent me to was at the Revlon plant. I was working on an assembly line. My job was to take a pre-cut sheet of cardboard, fold it into a box, and hand it to the next person...for eight solid hours. Gee, it was exciting.

Most of the time, it was warehouse work...moving boxes, cleaning up, that sort of stuff. I did work at a plastics shop recycling waste material by throwing their scraps into an industrial mulcher. I worked at a meat packing plant with a few other temps, most of whom were fresh out of Navy stints; our job was taking old inventory out of the freezer, painting over the 3+ year old expiration date, and moving the boxes onto a truck bound for a homeless shelter.

One day, I got a call sending me to a dairy packaging plant. I showed up in jeans and tee-shirt. My boss (for the day) looked at me.

"Didn't they tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"You're working in the cooler today."

Naturally, I had no jacket...it was June in Florida, after all. They found a windbreaker for me, and I worked until I lost feeling in my limbs, wandered around outside until I regained feeling, then went back into the cooler.

Obviously, this level of work impressed them in some way, because they invited me back the next day. I pulled up to the plant with jacket in tow, but this day, my boss informed me, I wouldn't be working in the cooler. Instead, I:

• swept the place
  
• moved some boxes
  
• swept the place
  
• mowed some grass out front
  
• swept the place
  
• moved some more boxes
  
• swept the place yet again
  

After the final sweeping, I asked my boss what he wanted me to do next. He showed me the rat traps which they placed around the perimeter of the yard. I was given a bag for any decaying bodies I might find. I was given a box of poison in case the little buggers just grabbed the bait and split. I then made my biggest mistake of the day when I asked, smirking slightly, what I did if there were any live rats in the traps.

The boss, however, thought I was asking a serious question and, without changing expression, reached into a closet and pulled out a broom handle with a nail on the end. Apparently, my job also entailed braining wild rodents. But lest you think this was the worst part of the experience, it was not.

Naturally, I performed my task with the zeal exhibited by any temp...I wandered around outside pointlessly, smoked five cigarettes, and came back in claiming to have found no evidence of rats at all. The boss then told me I had to go in the break room, take a fifteen minute break, and then go home. When I asked if I could just go home and skip the break, the boss yelled at me.

So I went to the break room, where the true horror of the day lay in wait. I sat down next to another temp (we had mowed grass earlier), and we talked a bit. This guy was really, really excited, because they had already asked him back for the next day...which would make four days in a row...which, in his logic, meant he was very close to being offered a full-time job.

This was the worst part of the day. This guy, seemingly intelligent, was thrilled beyond measure that he might get a full-time job where one of the duties was to brain rats with a nail on the end of a broomstick.

Soon after, I said "the hell with it" and went back to work in the food service industry, where I would stay for several more years...through Master's school, in fact. I am eternally grateful for the temp work, however, especially the dairy job. As well as providing me with plenty of exciting repartee for cocktail parties, future book jackets, and such, it taught me an infinitely valuable lesson.

What was that lesson, you might ask? I truly learned exactly how bad things can get.

on the still-practicing musicians of my youth

It seemed like such a good idea at the time.

My band (see the links on the right) is playing a show tonight, so I thought that it would be a good idea to break off my work a little early and mentally decompress. So I retreated to the couch, grabbed the remote, and perused the offerings. That's when I saw it: a broadcast of an Iron Maiden show. This will be fun...right?

Iron Maiden actually holds a pretty notable place in my heart. When many of my high school heavy metal comrades were listening to hair-oriented music, I tended to focus on AC/DC, Black Sabbath, and a decent slew of British metal...Maiden chief amongst them. Iron Maiden was my second concert, and they were awesome. Watching this recording would, I believed, be a fun little way to relax and get into a "rock and roll" mood (whatever that means).

When I turned it on, I noted that Steve Harris (the bassist) still looked about 22...and that really depressed me at first, because I know I haven't fared quite as well in the looks department. He's a rock star AND still looks good? Ick.

But the music was okay...they were playing "The Trooper," after all. And while I normally don't go for oldies acts, it was fine as background noise

Then they started playing some new song called (wait for it) "Dance of Death." It started with some voice-over narration before going into a 12-year-old's stereotype of "classical" music. When singer Bruce Dickinson started singing, I noted that he was wearing some really ridiculous mask and cape...he looked like a 70s Peter Gabriel imitator who really wasn't trying all that hard.

And the song sucked. It was dull, by-the-numbers "I'm trying to be dramatic" music. Lyrically, it sounded like bad dinner theater. And it got me thinking...while I really disdain oldies/nostalgia acts, there is a pretty obvious reason some of them quit writing new music. At this stage, the video wasn't causing me to relax...it was only causing me to wish for a mandatory rock and roll retirement age.

Good Lord, now the singer's wearing a World War 2 helmet and trench coat. Disconnect!

ways to occupy a sick mind

If I were a superstitious man, I would look upon it all as an extremely bad sign. Spring Break started out mildly enough before moving into a period of the standard workload panic. Then, however, the illness set in.

It started out with only a little sinus drainage leading to a moderately-tingling-to-slightly-sore throat, but that didn't stop me from enjoying my day trips. Then the sore throat ramped itself up to a step above annoying. Then my head turned into pudding, which made Friday's band practice real fun. By the time I got home Friday night, I was spent, except for maybe trying to figure out revenge plans for the person who infected me.

Instead of hanging with friends, making grand strides on my research agenda, perfecting my guitar playing, or even getting ahead on lesson planning, I instead got to finish Spring Break in a state of pure sickness. Productivity, socializing, creativity, all that went out the window. I became a cliche of sorts, swigging dayquil as a wino would attack a fresh bottle of Ripple, curling on the couch under my blankie, vacantly gaping at the television, and generally taking moaning to an Olympic level. Luckily, my darling spousal unit was as kind as usual--if I would've had to put up with a sick me, I would've slapped myself after five minutes--but then again, as anyone whose met her will tell, my spousal unit is infinitely tougher than I.

About the best thing that can be said about the weekend is that I got to really explore some of the crannies of my burned dvd collection. Several Woody Allen films? Check. Indoctrinate spousal unit into the cult of Raging Bull? Check. Watch a seemingly never-ending parade of 50s-60s monster movies while serially tweeting? Oh, you better believe it.

The good thing is that I did learn a heck of a lot from monster movies. For instance, I realized that radioactive slugs from the Salton Sea can kill everyone in the world, as can ants from New Mexico and dinosaurs from the arctic circle. I learned that animals infected and mutated by radiation never seem to be the cute ones. I learned that the general public will inevitably wait until the monster hits their immediate vicinity before beginning to scream and run in panic. I learned that the proper response to anyone suffering a state of crisis is to offer them a cigarette. I learned that wherever there are two scientists, one of them will be an old man, while the other one will be a tremendously hot female. Finally, I learned that Them! is infinitely better than most of its competition.

Of course, none of this is knowledge which I will never really have an opportunity to apply...which, now that I think about it, is probably a metaphor for my life in some way.

to do blues

This week is my spring break. No, there's no hotel room full of drunken frat boys, Girls Gone Wild-esque behavior, or kegs of cheap, crappy beer...thank goodness. I'm an academic, and this means that I really don't get vacations. Instead, I just have moments where I deal with students a little less than normal. This does occasionally fill me with delirious joy for inexplicable reasons, though.

This does not mean, however, that there is no "me" time. I celebrated the midpoint of the semester by taking two whole days to not do work. I did pretty much nothing on Monday & took a day trip to Ann Arbor with my lovely spousal unit and two friends yesterday. Wild hedonism, I know, but in my defense, I did get some raw milk blue cheese. That has to make me a party animal of some variety.

Sadly, however, I've spent the last hour populating my "to-do" list (now kept online on the awesome TeuxDeux), and the list of upcoming duties and tasks is overflowing and, in the process, humbling. A small part of me wants to weep and rend something or anther asunder, particularly when I bet my students are sleeping in late or watching CourtTV or something.

Yet another instance, I suspect, of an "if you really think about this or wonder where is the justice, it will only drive you crazy."

Analog Revolution

Yesterday, while my mind and body was still feeling more than a little like cotton, I stumbled into my office, an awaiting student on my heels. I apologized for being a bit late, I said, but I had a late night.

"Concert?" said student suggested.

"No, my band played a show."

"That's what I meant."

I didn't really think to apply the term "concert" until then, but I guess it fits. It's a strange turn of events, though, for someone who publicly thought 12 years ago that I would never be a real musician.

For those of you who (somehow) do not know, I am playing in a band called Analog Revolution (follow us on MySpace, become a fan on Facebook, follow our Twitter feed, buy our merchandise, website coming soon, end of plugs). We mysteriously formed while watching another band, have been practicing for several months, and have 8 or 9 original songs down pat.

Wednesday was our first gig as a band. For me, it was my first gig ever.

My singer and bass player both were visibly nervous as hell. Our singer went as far as worrying that she might throw up before we went on. I, on the other hand, tried to calm them down. After all, I said, we're professionals. We really know our material. We're good. We have the songs. We're rock stars, damnit, I'd exclaim, pounding my fist down on something hard for emphasis...yet said singer somehow didn't seem impressed.

Personally, though, I did spend the entire day trying to clamp down on my nerves...which (I can admit after the fact) were considerable. My stomach felt weird all day, and I was worried stiff I would forget my part on one our songs...a newer one which I start, no less. And what (something in the back of my mind insinuated) happens if our friends, who we've been cajoling for weeks to attend, don't like us? Will they keep in contact, will we be ostracized, or will we hear the infinitely more unbearable "well, um...it looks like you had fun?"

As it turned out, there were about a hundred people in the room when we went on. I would love to say our set went flawlessly, but I did screw up our cover, and our drummer did break a cymbal stand. Didn't really seem to matter, though, because for the most part, we were on. We sounded good, hitting that mysterious zone between loose attitude and tight playing. I didn't even stumble in any of my solos! And the rest of the band was awesome...better than I realized from practice, and very engaging on stage.

Better yet, people seemed to like our songs! Not only was the crowd large, they were very appreciative, with applause, catcalls, and even (somehow) dancing. While I had lots of wonderful friends in the audience, and they all did complement me, I also received a handful of "nice show"s and "you sounded great"s from total strangers...which makes me feel that we must've been pretty good after all. There were a few guys standing by the side of the stage when we were playing, and I heard one of them say "it's just really good hard rock and roll." This made me maniacally giggle.

It was a great night of rock and roll...both of the other bands were great...but the highlight was hanging out with my bandmates and friends, talking, drinking our "victory!" Bushmills, and closing down the bar. There's lots from that night I will never forget, but sitting around a table with my drummer, singer, bassist, and several friends, realizing we did good...it's now burned into my memory forever.

I'm obviously relieved as hell, but I'm wondering when I'm going to come down from the slight adrenaline high I'm currently experiencing. It's a feeling that was entirely too long in coming. I probably won't recover for a while, though, as we currently have four more shows scheduled...one of which we booked even before breaking down our equipment!

One thing's for sure: I know it will be a while before I quit making jokes that end with "trust me...I'm a rock star."

cotton head

Yesterday, I had a full day of online student conferences. By and large, the students were fairly good (only minimal horror/humor stories to tell colleagues at the bar), but online conferences are de-facto annoying. They take twice as long...because there are these dead spaces between me typing in a comment, student reading said comment, and student typing response. This means I can't actually do any multitasking and be productive on something else while awaiting responses. Hell, I can't even get good traction on a game of Spider Solitaire, for Bob's sake!

Day before, I was running in-class conferences and teaching two classes (one of which really enlightened me into the state of American education in a way I really can't explain in a public forum)....so I got no real work done that day either. Wednesday was spent doing more online conferences. Tuesday was a snow day, so I spent most of the time trying to get caught up on a million little things (bills and my scary income tax situation among them) that pile up while I'm doing other things (such as....you guessed it...conferences) when I wasn't outside freeing cars from 37" of snow. I did much the same thing on Monday.

What's the result of such a work week? For starters, my head feels like cotton. Conferences generally do that to me, but this round was did it just a bit more than usual...it was tech writing, which, although I do a decent job at it, just does not critically engage me as much as I would like. Online makes it worse, because I get the lack of critical engagement on top of throbbing eyeballs from staring at my monitor for eight-plus hours.

If only I didn't still have these ideas, theories, and articles floating in my head and no time to start researching them, let alone write them down.

I guess that's why I drink.

the music of my youth

I have always been a music guy. It's kind of strange, considering my father seemingly doesn't want to hear anything that challenges him in any way, and my mother uses music for mostly background noise, but music has always played a special role in my heart.

Moreover, I have the cd collection to prove it. While my 1,000-1,200 cds pales in comparison to some (one friend in TX has, I think, around 20,000), it's still notable in size. Moreover, it's filled with disks that are more than just collections of songs, instead acting as emotional markers, evoking fragments, memories, and stories. This album was originally given to me (several copies ago, originally on cassette) by my first high school crush. I burned through several copies of this one while driving around and smoking cigarettes in high school. This one got me through my last bad breakup. I played this one for my now-wife on the first night she stayed over.

My collection also has cd copies of a lot of old albums which specifically prompt recall of key times when I was really young and first discovering my love of music. Every time I play Judas Priest's Sad Wings of Destiny, I think of my brother bringing home a vinyl copy from the base library. Motorhead's No Remorse makes me think of a recently deceased friend, who owned the leather-bound records. Metallica's Ride the Lightning reminds me of the shock and wonder of discovering something which so blatantly demolished every single rule of music I thought existed, a feeling which my current students (for whom Metallica has long been classic rock) can never understand. These disks in particular act more as markers of my musical experiences and knowledge...metamusic, if you will.

Apart from evoking these memories and stories, however, most of the albums still hold up as really good music. And whenever I realize that the soundtrack to my life also would work as contemporary artistic production, I feel that I've done something right, dedicating a large part of myself to music. It's also one of the reasons that I rarely get rid of anything, album-wise, and why I look down upon with scorn anyone who would trade in cds. Why would you get rid of a cherished memory in exchange for three dollars of store credit? No, keep everything, a part of me (one that clearly doesn't have to worry about storage space) cries.

Lately, though, my head's playback mechanism has been shifting towards the greatest hits of the past which, for one reason or another, don't reside in my collection. Yesterday, snippets of REO Speedwagon songs from when I was a nine year old jumped to the forefront. Today, while showering, it was April Wine, who I doubt I've actually heard in 25 years and haven't thought of in at least a decade. I'm expecting an onslaught of unowned classic rock to consume me this afternoon. Even as I write this, there's most certainly a part of my frontal cortex looking for an old Styx song to recycle.

I've been trying all morning to figure out what my head turning unwittingly has turned into a classic rock station, a format which I normally hate. While I recall April Wine as being enjoyable enough, they never played a role in any significant or memorable event other than vague recollections of idly watching MTV, back in the days the network actually lived up to its name and played music. Nor did they redefine how I thought about music. And I suspect that neither is it sentimentality, a trait that rarely plays a role in much of anything I do.

I'm sitting at the computer, hands on the keyboard. I should be doing any one of about a thousand tasks today (grading, e-mails, taxes), but instead, I mostly hear the guitar crash in "Just Between You and Me's" chorus. I can't explain how it got there or what it's doing to me. My only hope is that it is not signifying some inevitable mental decline into the world of nostalgia.

I've got too much still to do to think of the past in that way.

learning through physical torment

Since I've been playing in a band, I've learned a lot of things about myself and my friends...some scary, some informative, some just plain unsettling. At last night's practice, though, for the first time in ages, I learned through pure, sheer, unadulterated pain.

The practice was productive enough (in spite of me being late...screwed up the starting time). We had moved into another room, were experimenting with our new PA (hey, we can hear each other! I can hear myself!), and everything went well. As we were finishing and putting our stuff up, I moved my amp to its place, put away my pedal board, and went to grab my outer shirt sitting at the front of a closet. However, I didn't really look at what I was doing. If I had, I would've noticed the vacuum cleaner that was directly in line with my eye.

Yes, I rammed my eye with a vacuum cleaner handle. Hard. I immediately saw stars. The rest of the band later told me they heard me scream (like a little girl, I presume) and sit down.

Here's where the lessons begin.

My drummer got me a bag of frozen veggies to use to ice down my eye. After a minute, he looked at my eye, burst out in laughter, and said "Dude, you're going to be screwed up." Thus, I learned something about drummers.

On the way to Howards, my friends started speculating on good stories I could tell about my soon-to-be black eye. They were all much more involved, violent, and mean-spirited than any I could invent...the best I could do is weird ("I was at the grocery store and got into a discussion about cheddar versus velveeta which turned violent"). At Howards, another friend came up with a possible scenario for the eye that was so shocking and obscene, I can't even begin to hint at it on this blog. Thus, I learned something about my friends.

When I finally saw my darling spousal unit, she was as concerned and huggy as I expected her to be. Thus, I learned (again) how lucky I am.

The next morning, I woke up to a slight soreness in my eye, but no real bruising. For some reason, I was a little disappointed. Thus, I learned something about myself.

the ritual of caffeine

Although she's been away from her home country for quite some time, there's an awful lot about my mother that's very British. Now, I don't want to extrapolate too much about the British from one example (other than my Nana, I don't know much of my family on that side...I haven't been over the pond in some time, and I actively loathe my closest living relative over there), but one of the very key parts of that Britishness is a certain love of ritual...it makes them feel civilized.

Probably the most typical of British rituals is of tea. While it doesn't have quite the connotations of the Japanese tea ceremony, it does seem to hold a special place in my mother's heart. The prime evidence of this (if my mummy is any indication) is an incessant love of tea kettles...my mom has dozens of them. Keeping the tea kettle at the proper temperature is very important, so my mom pre-heats the kettle and then uses something called a "tea cozy," a weird knitted tea pot insulator/cover/tuque designed to keep the pot warm in the brewing process. And then, you have to use the fine tea cups and saucers, in spite of the lack of practicality (my mom's favorite set has these handles that do not admit fingers) or expense.

Personally, I always thought the whole ceremonial aspect was sort of silly...particularly in the case of my mom, who, in spite of her tea pot obsession, uses mass-market tea bags. Isn't good quality tea the real point of all this? I suspect the actual ritual is more important to most, though. I get the same feeling when I hear record aficionados talking about vinyl care.

But my mocking of ritual is something events have forced me to reconsider.

A while back, I got tired of trying to clean my drip coffee maker and moved to a french press. Great coffee, but now I need to boil the water, preheat the press, grind the beans, pour the water over the grounds, preheat the thermos, and press out the coffee. It takes a while, but at least I can hum the Dexter theme. Then I got tired of having to drive to Ann Arbor to the one Chinese grocer who stocks the tea I like, I ordered loose leaf online. Now, when I want to do tea instead of coffee, I now have to boil the water, preheat my pot (okay, a glass measuring pitcher...I'm broke) and the mug, measure out the leaves, pour the water over the leaves, and strain the leaves out as I pour.

It's occurred to me that, in the pursuit of gourmet/snob coffee and tea quality, I'm falling into the ritual aspect myself. This gives me the fear. I can justify this to some extent with "well, I am getting better and tastier caffeine delivery devices." This, however, is of little comfort. I have to admit, there's a certain part of me that fears loving the procedure more than the result. I'm too young to become obsessive, damnit!

Well, more obsessive than I am already.

living in a Mad Max world

Gatherings of friends bring joy, yes, but they also bring insecurities, fears, tears, doubts, self-loathing...but at least these are things we're able to share rather than being forced to carry alone.

Flash back to those wonderfully awkward days of junior high school. It was still a few years before people started peppering me with the obligatory "what are you going to do when you graduate?"...questions that would come years later, but that was alright by me. I was young, but in my youthful arrogance, I had began to suspect even at that age that long term work-till-you-die plans would probably never come with any conviction. But while I lacked a real career path, I did already have an option which was more a calling, more an identity than a career, and even that contained a significant element of delusion and fantasy.

I wanted to be a musician.

I had already worked through a bout of being a violinist. The story is actually kind of amusing. My 5th grade teacher told my parents that I was probably mentally challenged (nice lady), and I should probably be tested. So I was shuffled to the guidance counselor's office for an IQ test. When the results came in, my teacher was quite upset to find out that I was not in fact mentally retarded. While I never got to see my scores, I do know that for my next year of school, I was enrolled in an academically gifted program.

The counselor told my parents that I needed more mental stimulation that school (in particular, my 5th grade teacher's craptastic class) could provide...hence the academically gifted program. He also recommended that I take up a musical instrument, and since my dad had a violin from the days he was forced to take up an instrument, the decision was made for me.

Several years on the instrument made me realize I wasn't a bad violin player. I had good technical skills, and I was particularly adept at sight-reading. I even won a superior ranking in some music competition. However, I had absolutely no feel for the music. While I was good at it, I felt no passion. The most heart-wrenching symphonies were merely challenges. I was only someone who played violin, never a violinist. The instrument never became part of who I was.

After a family move to Florida, my folks never found me another violin teacher, and the instrument kind of remained in the closet. However, much to my parent's chagrin, I started to really listen to hard rock and roll and heavy metal, and instead of violin, I now wanted to be a guitarist. For reasons I couldn't fathom at the time, my folks refused to buy me an instrument...so instead I saved up my lunch money for a Chicago-brand Les Paul copy. Of course, I sucked on it for a long period of time, but I loved it.

My folks were less than supportive of my new music obsession. While my Dad would occasionally pick me up a pack of strings, they refused to buy me anything else. When I saved up more lunch money and holiday gift money and wanted a real guitar, my folks made me sell my first guitar (I was told I did not need two). Whenever I left to play with friends, I would be reminded "this is only a hobby. You can't make a living at this." Eventually, I started working so I could buy more music stuff, but even then, I had to be careful. When I bought my honest-to-goodness real vintage Gibson Les Paul, I had to hide it from my mom for a while and lie about how much money I spent. But I didn't care...because I was a guitar player. The music was within me, a part of me. It was who I was.

There came a time where I realized that although I needed a job to buy musical equipment, that work kept me from actually playing. If I wanted the means to become a musician, I had to work at a job that kept me from playing music...and thus prevented me from becoming a musician.

There were many trials and tribulations, many stories of music, failed bands, and stoners passing around unsalted pretzels, but there is a larger point here beyond my doomed teenage music career. Suffice to say, after many failures on my part, I decided that being a musician probably wasn't, for various reasons, in my cards. I went back to school, got a couple of degrees, and eventually moved away to doctoral school.

Moving away from everyone I knew, from everything familiar, was the most significant thing I had ever done. I developed friends, and they became colleagues. We could talk about our lives, our interests, yes, but we could also talk about ideas, theories, concepts, important stuff. We could talk about the best way to reach our students. We could discuss the best ways to refine and present our ideas. We became academics in every sense of the word, because the learning, the thinking, the process of discovery began to pervade everything we did. "Academic," for us, was not our career...it became our identity.

And yet...

One day in particular of Ohio year one, I was sitting in my apartment, where, after hours fighting with some heavy critical theorist or something, I needed to clear my head. I turned on my 19" television to Star Trek: The Next Generation or something, picked up my acoustic, and began to run through some chords. Before long, I was working my way through some Son Volt, some Stones, some Neil Young.

I wasn't thinking about much except for maybe how my voice had, a few years after quitting smoking, become viable as an instrument. I could sing and play, and I actually sounded passable. This was also after I abandoned guitar picks for my acoustic, so I was able to provide much better rhythm and dynamics on the acoustic than ever before.

I finished the song I was playing, but before I could launch into anything else, there was a knock on my door. When I opened it, there was a young girl in the hallway--she must've been around twelve. She said "I just wanted to tell you I think you're good." She smiled at me, turned, and left my hallway. I think about this an awful lot. Years after giving up being a guitar player, I realized, I became a much better player than when I thought I was a guitarist, even if I now thought of myself as an academic.

Nowadays, I'm still playing guitar. I have several great instruments. I have a moderate DIY effects pedal board. Hell, I'm in a band, and we're in discussions for gigs. And this all happened after I gave up hope being a guitar player.

It's very easy to get caught up in expectations...your friends, your families, your superiors. It's even easier to get caught up in your own expectations...of success, of justice, of right and wrong, of "what we deserve." Expectations, however, are all poisonous and will do you in if you pay them heed. A promise of a big reward can in fact be a lie. Any hope of cosmic justice, if it's your main motivating factor, has the opportunity to do you in. The true test of character is how you operate after giving up all hope. If everything is crashing down, will you still fight?

Personally, I have a habit of mentally writing things off as hopeless just because all evidence tells me so. Take my status as an academic, for instance. Will I ever get to be a tenure-track faculty? It doesn't matter how hard I work, how much stuff I produce, how many classes I teach. Things are so bad in the academic job market these days, and my friends are so much better at this and more deserving than am I, that I just know I can't compete, that I will probably always be where I am. It would be illogical to think otherwise, and the sooner I just accept this (says the little voice in my head), the better off I will be.

I know I'm not the only one. There's always the danger that, when you ask academics how they are doing, they might in fact tell you (and most of my friends are academics). Me and my friends, we are in a career that is at its historical low point. The signs of the academic collapse have been chronicled so often, I certainly don't need to recount them here. And you can't go to a bar, go to a party, run into someone on the street without hearing it in someone's voice.

How do we handle it? How do you go on when, instead of having your back against the wall, you have that wall pulled down on top of you? How do you handle knowing that there is no order, no justice, no logic? That things very well might not work out after all? That your current effort do go beyond the call of duty, of reason, of logic probably will not pay off? When there is no hope left, when the world has, for all intensive purposes, ended...what do you do then? How do you survive when survival no longer makes sense? Should you even bother trying to fight? As some struggling musicians I like say, "would you keep on going if you couldn't make it through?"

I hope so. Personally, I don't know if I will ever be a successful academic, but then I have to remind myself: I became a much better guitar player after I gave up being a musician.

Hope is overrated. Work is much more important.