thoughts on an ending

Lately, I've been feeling lethargic. I have all new class preps this semester, and that, in addition to the usual array of puzzling student battles (someone is complaining to my boss that I'm making him bring his book to class), has me not really touching my book. The cyberpunk chapter is the sticking point. Sure, every so often, I do reread Neuromancer, but I don't have the time to do a sustained blast at the analysis....and this is turning out to be the kind of scholarship which I just can't drop and return, drop and return. Much like my inability to actually find the time to do more than simply imagine playing my guitars, my inability to write has led, from time to time, to me questioning exactly what I'm doing with my life.

This uncertainty seems to be an increasing element, encroaching on me beyond its normal "winter depression" boundaries. I should be used to it, but every so often, it still takes me by surprise that I am not where I want to be in my life, and that I seem to not be making much progress. Usually it's little things that nudge me into an apathetic lethargy...another job rejection letter, hearing about how my friends are struggling on the market (most worse than me), not finding anything on television, my drinking partners holed up with their computers instead of sharing minipitchers, and so forth. Sometimes its nothing at all. Other times, however, something sizeable comes along and does some real damage.

Last Thursday, I was throwing stuff together for the second of my two night classes. With ten minutes left, I checked my mailbox, hit the restroom, and started filling up my water bottle when my cell phone rang. It was a friend of mine calling from Florida...a really good friend, but I fear he's a bit of a Luddite, so I tend to lose contact with him in between my visits to the ancestral homeland of Jacksonville. The call was, in short, unusual.

I was happy to hear him, but before I could let him know that I was off to teach, he told me "I'm afraid I have to hit you with some bummer news." A friend of ours, it turns out, died that afternoon.

I taught the class pretty much on autopilot...luckily, I've been doing this long enough to where I can go into my "blank space" and just unconsciously ramble on for an hour fifteen without thinking of much of anything...which is what I did. I hurried down to my office, ran into a student, and came very close to snapping off said student's head before heading out to the frigid dark, with car scraping and an icy drive ahead of me. I tried to play loud disgusting rock music for the ride, but it didn't help me much.

The whole time I was heading back home, my brain was locked in the most depressing battle in recent memory. In this corner, I had all the memories of my deceased friend R....and they ranged from life-of-the-party moments, to memories of performing petty vandalism, to the times where my friend would come close to snapping, whether from too much alcohol, girlfriend problems, or, on occasion, for no real reason whatsoever. I remembered when R. began therapy, which somehow made him less social. I remembered hanging out with him and other friends, listening to new (to us) music, smoking way too many cigarettes. I remembered R.'s smile and infectious laugh.

In the other corner, however, battling my varied memories of my late friend, was something else. It wasn't the standard dark, morbid, "what happens when you die?" stuff, either. Instead, something was reminding me of exactly how long it had been since I saw him. I also started to wonder how well I really knew him in the first place. I knew he had some issues, but I never really knew what they were. I knew R. could snap, but I was never able to predict when it might happen...or know if I could anything do about it. This friend was a friend of my brother's first, and during that drive home, something was reminding me that as much as I liked hanging around him, I was probably mostly "the little brother" to him.

Coming home provided no solace. The lovely spousal unit was at a conference, so the house was dark. I called the friend who broke the news to me for more info, but it was not a comforting conversation. R. died of liver failure...but, of course, the story was more complex than that, and I have to wonder if his body gave out or if he simply gave up on living. Knowing I couldn't make it back for the funeral didn't help any.

After the phone call (which I had to break off early because I just couldn't think of anything to say) and a few moments of quiet reflection, I finally decided that, for the love of all that's decent and good, I had to do something fun. Luckily, a friend of mine was available, so we had some drinks and played video games where we smashed stuff.

This isn't the first time I've experienced loss. Both my grandmothers have died in the last few years, and I wasn't there for either one of them. My paternal grandmother had slipped into a coma by the time I could've seen her, and my maternal grandmother was in another country. I don't think I knew either of them nearly enough (especially my dad's mom)...I'm not sure that's entirely my thought in either case, but that doesn't stop me from feeling guilty.

This one was different. I knew R., spent plenty of time with him, and enjoyed his company immensely. However, I always had the sneaking suspicion that, as much as I liked him, I was probably only a blip on his radar. Sadly, this is a suspicion which extends to many people I know...there are many people who I value highly and enjoy immensely, in spite of my suspicion that they don't really think much of me at all or (in one documented case) actively dislike me. But with them, I guess there's always some part of my mind which argues there is still time to make those connections, even though it will probably never happen. No such time exists with R., though...so his death was like having hope torn away.

Even though this upsets me, it's not the thing on which I find myself dwelling. From the sound of it, when R. died, he was not the happy, friendly, lively person I remember. Instead, he was lonely, depressed, and, to some extent, destroying himself. I wonder how he felt about his life, about the impact he had on the world...and, unfortunately, I am not optimistic.

Of course, I've been thinking about this a lot over the last week. I know of no list of "good ways to die" or "good thoughts about death." I hear lots of advice, but most of it seems trite, beside the point, or incredibly naive. It would be easier if I was a Klingon or something...a glorious battle would be enough, in that case...but instead, I just have to struggle on and do the best I can.

What have I come up with? Two things that at least provide a bit of comfort and guidance to me.

One of my favorite tv shows deals with death a lot, and earlier this season, the protagonist told a dying patient that the best he could come up with was to hope your last thought is a happy one. I like that. There are lots of marvelous things out there to see, amazing people to know. Warren Ellis once said that every day we're here is a bonus. I tend to agree. Any day that I know I can converse with friends, learn something, see my beautiful spousal unit...those are good days, and those are things I want to remember when the time comes.

The other good thought comes from one of my favorite books, where the progatonist goes on a rant, which I find notable:

we drink 'til we stink and we smoke 'til we choke because that's how we get things done, you and me. Spending our lives making things and making things out of our lives, because anything else would be dull as hell. And we're damned if we're going to sit at the other end of whatever years we get, saying, well, what the f*&# was that for?

Doing something helps. But it's more than just that. It's good to make an impact on the world, to change things in some way, but there are other issues to consider. Am I helping? How can I make the world a better place than before I got here? What can I do to improve the place, to help people's lives? I firmly believe it's the most moral question we can ask ourselves, the best thing we can do.

And that's all. Know people. Enjoy their company. Try to help them. I hope it's enough.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to dive into that mound of work, try to make some headway...and maybe that will help.

cd warehouse sale

...is now over! Thank you for participating.

emotion and technology

The first real video game was Space War!, but I've never actually seen the original. The first commercial game was Pong, but the first one I remember seeing was Breakout. We were living in Germany on an Air Force base, and the base pizza parlor had a console. I don't remember playing it myself, though.

Not too long after we moved to South Carolina, we got our first video game system. I don't remember the name of the system, but it had four built-in games: Tennis (a Pong derivative), Racketball (don't remember how this was different than pong), Squash (ditto), and a shooting game. In the last game, a big white dot bounced around the screen, and you got to shoot it with a Dirty Harry-esque handgun.

There was a video arcade near the SC base that I'd visit from time to time. On Fridays, they would let you play all you wanted from 8 to 11 for 3 dollars. I would go, jump from game to game, and play until my eyeballs felt like they were about to spontaneously combust. I sucked at the games, but I had one hell of a time killing aliens, shooting tanks, and stabbing monsters.

Later, we finally got an Atari 2600, which took the idea of video games, for me, from a curiosity to a really engaging diversion. I was particularly taken with Yar's Revenge (one of the most fun ways to shoot aliens), but I also remember me and my brother pooling our Christmas money to buy their version of Defender for $50...which is over $110 today.

The Atari was the last system I owned, but I did play others. Many friends had the NES, and I learned that I (a) sucked at Super Mario Brothers, (b) loved fighting in Blades of Steel, and (c) giggled at the racism of RBI Baseball (where all players were white). When I played the Sega, I marveled at the speed of Sonic. I didn't have a lot of experience, but I was pretty sure I knew what video games were.

Later on, though, friends made a point of undermining my outdated knowledge of video games. While I was busy getting a degree, my friends informed me, video games had grown up. There were intricate stories, a variety of genres, many points of view, more dazzling technology. I accepted this, of course...my "young punk" friends were more experienced in this than I. But I only accepted it on an intellectual level. I didn't really know for myself.

Then I got a Wii. Frankly, my main experience with the Wii to date is being constantly surprised by how I react to the games. I wasn't prepared for the atheticism/strategy combination of Wii Sports, for one. Boom Blox I bought because I wanted to smash things. However, there is much more depth, strategy, and subtlety than I was expecting. Wii Fit has actually made exercise something that does not bore me into submission. Exercise can be fun? Apparently so.

But mainly, I wasn't expecting the emotional aspect of the games. I find any number of Wii elements to be very cute. For those of you who don't know me, "cute" is usually the fastest way to turn me off, but I'm enjoying the cuteness of the Wii. Also, I'm reacting weird to the Miis. For those of you who are Wii-inexperienced, you create a virtual version of yourself and use that avatar to play the games. The Wii tends to populate the background of the games with whatever Miis you've created...celebrities, politicians, historical figures, and friends. I find it really funny when I'm playing a game and see Groucho Marx, Teddy Roosevelt, or some character from The Office. However, I also see Miis of my friends show up...and that makes me feel warm and good in ways I can't really yet describe.

Furthermore, I love how it attracts the non-video game crowd. My spousal unit is now a full blown addict. She's got friends of hers who've probably never played a video game in their life to enjoy the Wii.

The Wii continues to shock and surprise me. And I haven't even got to kill a single video game alien or monster yet!

has it been that long?

When I first met her, it was her smile I noticed. There were plenty of other things that could stick in one's mind, but the smile...it lights up rooms. It's amazingly warm, friendly, and inviting...and it makes me feel magnificent, when I see her smile, like somewhere, somehow, I must have done something right in my life to be so well rewarded.

She's the warmest person I know. One quintessential Lori moment? We took a very brief trip to Spain so I could present at a conference. On our third (and last) day, we were walking down some back streets in Alcala (just south of Madrid), past shops and boutiques. As we passed a bistro, a gust of wind blew down a sign outside a restaurant we just passed. The fairly burly restauranteer came out to reset the sign, but Lori already beat him to it. The man didn't need help and couldn't thank Lori anyway, but that didn't matter...Lori saw an opportunity to help someone and did so, without thinking.

She's also hilarious. Much of her hilarity is probably unintentional. Her stories, for instance, often follow their own interesting internal logic, which escapes most conventions of order...she can start out talking about her grandmother and end up in a discussion of jelly packaging, and it somehow makes sense to her. In many respects, it's like being married to Gracie Allen, which means my life with her will always be interesting.

She also can be fabulously lively and crude. She'd hit me if I told too much, but one example will suffice. Since we got a Wii, I've noticed that she can have a tremendously foul mouth. Sneak a serve past her while playing tennis? A throw in Boom Blox doesn't have the proper effect? She gets blown up in Mario Kart? You will hear language out of her that would make most sailors look twice.

The calendar says that come tomorrow, we've been married six years. While I still intimately remember the day (and the city hall ceremony, the room decorated with plans to expand Wooster Street, where we became contractually obligated to each other), I have issues with the time. You see, I have a hard time fully remembering what it was like to not have her sitting next to me, to not see her walking up the driveway and smile when she sees me, to not be able to hold her at night before we both drift off to sleep.

It's a day early, but happy anniversary, my dearest spousal unit. I can't imagine being without you.

hope?

I have to admit something: although I have been public in my support of Obama through the election, I was not sure I really trusted him. I liked him, for sure. Having a president who was presentable and articulate would be a nice change, and I suspected that he would be a better president than #43 (but then again, a dead vole would be better). But trust him?

I had been burned before. I voted for Clinton the first time, largely because I thought the idea of universal health care was a good one. Should the ability to be healthy...to NOT DIE...be the exclusive right of those with lots of money? That didn't (and still does not) seem right. So the failure of Clinton to pursue...hell, their total abandonment of health care in general really stung. Although lots of good things did come out of those 8 years, I lost my ability to really trust politicians.

So, while I loved the rhetoric of Obama, and I definitely thought he was better than the McCain/lunatic governor ticket, I'm not sure I fully trusted him. Secretly, I was expecting the same "great run to the center" as Clinton, where many campaign promises get thrown out.

So, what has happened in the first week?

• Guantanamo Bay has been closed. If we really are a great country, do we need a secret place offshore where we can keep prisoners outside of American scrutiny, where we can hold people forever without charges, facts, evidence? America should not need to sneak around in the dark if we are as much of a force for good as we think.
  
• Also, Obama has officially banned the use of torture. This is definitely an issue of morality, to be sure, and I really didn't like being a part of a country that had to stoop to such awful methods. But there is another concern: torture simply does not work. To quote the last linked article:
  

  
  

  Army Col. Stuart Herrington, a military intelligence specialist who conducted interrogations in Vietnam, Panama and Iraq during Desert Storm, and who was sent by the Pentagon in 2003 -- long before Abu Ghraib -- to assess interrogations in Iraq. Aside from its immorality and its illegality, says Herrington, torture is simply "not a good way to get information." In his experience, nine out of 10 people can be persuaded to talk with no "stress methods" at all, let alone cruel and unusual ones.
  

  
  
• Also,he has ended the funding ban on overseas abortion groups. Now, no matter how you feel about abortion, it is in fact legal in America. And by banning all funding for overseas family planning clinics who offer abortion as an option, the government was unjustly interfering with the rights of Americans living overseas (mostly military) by denying them rights available to the average citizen. Unlike many so-called conservative pundits, I'm really against the government specifically robbing US citizens of their rights.
  

There is a ton of stuff for which I'm still waiting, of course. I still want habeas corpus reinstated, because I don't like the idea that I can be locked away without ever being charged. I still want some movement on civil unions/marriages for gays, because I hate the idea of a large segment of our population being denied basic human rights just because of their choice of partners. I still want some good solution to the Palestine/Israel war, because, as we've had such a large hand in this conflict, we need to be part of the solution. I still need to see the US regain all the international stature we've lost and quit being seen as a power-hungry bully. The US also has to take the lead on working to preserve rather than poison our environment. I don't like the government having the power to covertly go through my private records on a whim. The list goes on.

But, for the first time, I am hopeful...and that is a really nice feeling.

PS: Obama also revives the Freedom of Information Act. Best line? "The Freedom of Information Act should be administered with a clear presumption: In the face of doubt, openness prevails." Cool.

the quest

When I was an undergrad, for some strange reason, I took a lot of medieval literature courses. The professor was cool, but that wasn't the main point. Rather, there was a continuing theme that ran through the sagas and poems, one that stuck with me, one that had been a part of my personal existence for some time. After taking a few undergrad courses (and this, of course, makes me an authority on the subject...doesn't it?), I am convinced that the vast majority of medieval literature was about one thing: the quest.

In medieval literature, heroes are always going on quests...to find some revered object like the foreskin of some long-dead saint, to slaughter and kill others who worship a different deity, to discover the magic rock that will turn any object into either gold or a better long distance plan, something like that. Likewise, teachers of this literature love to push the idea of a quest, usually so they can shove in some cheesy metaphor ("the quest of Sir Gawain to find the magic chalice that will kill the dragon is much like our own quest for knowledge to slay the beast that is ignorance," the teacher will say, as we, the students, try to hide our gagging faces). When discussing quests, these teachers also love to use the theories of some pseudo-hippy philosopher like Joseph Campbell, who's better suited for men who love gathering around fires, wearing loincloths, and beating their drums while reciting Iron John poetry.

In spite of the high schmaltz factor involving quests, I always have been drawn to them. Maybe it's some cultural memory of the time when my European ancestors were searching for the magic dragon or something (although they were more likely working the fields for that questor). Maybe it's some personal search for meaning. Maybe it's just a need for motion, a need to justify some largely irrational action...but the lure of the quest does call to me, from time to time.

In high school, quests would revolve around wild hairs. One of my friends was used to me knocking on his door at 2:30 on a Saturday afternoon, bundling him into my car, and the two of us driving from store to store, all around town, in the religious pursuit for someone, anyone, who had some used Frank Zappa...or that special brand of guitar pick...or bottles of iced coffee (rare, in those pre-Starbucks days). We would hardly ever find what we were looking for, but my friend would have plenty of opportunity to bitch about things, I'd have plenty of opportunity to smoke incessantly while driving around town, and we both would listen to a lot of loud music. Thus, the quest was good.

Eventually, everything else became a quest. I didn't go out to eat but instead looked for the perfect pizza. I didn't go out to a club but instead looked for the ultimate band. I didn't start college for an education but instead looked for the perfectly original idea. I didn't start dating but instead scanned the horizon for the one perfect person who actually got me...which was the one quest that, happy to say, I actually finished. All the others? They were important more for the motivation, the imposition of drive, and, of course, the voyage itself.

I still quest, but I do so with an increased awareness...that the main point of the quest is to bring drive and reason to what would normally be merely the mundane. Today's quest was a simple one, but it's one that, as always, taught me immeasurable lessons about life, the world, philosophy, and everything else imaginable.

Some time in December, I bought a Nintendo Wii. It's a fabulously fun system, and the spousal unit particularly has taken to it in a way that I wouldn't have expected...seeing as she probably hasn't ever played one before for more than a few minutes (and now she devastates me at Wii Tennis quite frequently). When we bought the system, we also wanted to get the WiiFit, but the store was out. I've tried to find it a few other times, but the display cases stubbornly remain empty. The WiiFit has become elusive, more so every time I hit Meijer and note its absence. Normally, this would just depress me, but instead, I realized that all the ingredients were lining up.

My desire for a WiiFit has officially become a quest.

First, the spousal unit and I entered an agreement to always look for one if we go into a store where they might be sold. Then, realizing that I didn't have to teach today until 5:45 and already had lesson plans done, I decided the time was right for an all-out store assault.

Final score? Seven stores visited. Absolutely no WiiFit to be found.

I started at a gaming store. They told me they get one a week. Toldeo Meijers didn't have anyone working the area, but they were certainly out. Toys-R-Us told me there are rumors of them getting one in either Friday night or Saturday morning. Best Buy looked like a Wii-seeking tornado had plowed through and taken half of their games...but leaving a massive stack of Guitar Hero sets intact. Target didn't even have the core system. Lord help me, I even went into Wal-Mart, but they were out as well. By this point, I was beginning to suspect that all WiiFits were swept into some Hadron Collider-created alternate dimension...because they sure aren't here.

By the time I got to Circuit City, I had developed a fairly zen-like sardonic approach to the whole deal. When the guy (who looked suspiciously like Seth Rogan) asked if he could help me, I told him, "I'm on a doomed quest for the WiiFit...don't suppose you have any, do you?" He told me that they actually had eight in the store Sunday, but they were gone within ten minutes. Apparently, when they get mentioned in the sales papers, people camp out. He recommended I do the same. I dunno, but it feels more like trying to get Stones tickets (which I've done & is a story unto itself) than a video game. There has to be a better way, but none has been suggested as of yet.+

Ultimately, I suspect that the WiiFit never existed to begin with...that it's all some giant, conspiracy-driven viral marketing campaign-slash-social experiment-slash-paranoid delusion of my own doing...that the quest I'm on is ultimately doomed, that I will wander the streets forever looking for something that only exists in the rolls of myth, lore, and legend.

Will that stop me, though? Hell, no...it's a quest.

to tweet or not to tweet

I've been cross-posting my Twitter posts to this blog. However, they are also going to the sidebar widget (look right, damnit), and they are now my Facebook status updates. Plus, you can (and should) always just follow me on Twitter.

Because my tweets are available elsewhere, I have suspended the auto delivery, and I'm going to delete the ones here...they mess up the aesthetics and flow of the site.

Back to your regular browsing, please.

the break that is--the mental edition

For me (and, I suppose, many academics), vacations are a double-edged sword. It might be sold to us as a time of rest and celebration, but really, it's the time when we learn whether we should be laughing or crying.

On the plus side, the break is a chance to get away from the often crippling teaching load and do some of the scholarly work which played such a huge role in drawing us into the life to begin with. I, for instance, entered this academic vida loca because I loved reading. Furthermore, I love writing about what I have read.

I gotta be more specific here. While the actual drafting process usually makes me want to drive spikes through my eyeballs, jump in a swimming pool of loose gravel, and then pour lime juice and salt over the resulting wounds (with some tequila thrown in for good measure--it adds to the pain and also makes a tasty margarita), I love having written, I love planning out my papers, I love finishing a nice draft, I love establishing an analytical order for everything. In the final account, I love the writing process and am truly a better person for it.

This break, I had (as I always tend to have) grand plans. I was going to finish the Great Book Revision, the one that's been driving me into the light pole for ages. I was going to knock out the theory revamp/refiguring chapter...it is, after all, the most brutal part of the project. It is where all the "aha"s take place, and it largely spells out everything else I've been hinting at throughout the other chapters. After this chapter is done, I really can fly through the rest. There is plenty of language polish afterwards, but that's an easy task for me. There's an introduction to write, but I've been writing that one in my head for years. There's a conclusion, but that's gonna be a mash-up of several existing pieces. In all, this all hinges on the theory chapter.

It figures, of course, that I haven't actually been able to write word one on the thing all break. I think I have the organization figured out, but I won't really know until I can do some sustained blasts o' writing. And I haven't been able to do said blasts because of...well, family commitments, shopping, celebrations, day trips, and all that...the standard mundane holiday tasks which seem to just suck up every spare moment.

Now that it's after New Years, I thought at first that this would be a prime writing time for me. However, I also haven't done nearly enough of my class prep for Spring, and my utterly fabulous teaching load for the upcoming semester is me basically starting from scratch for four different preps. So, instead of my pre-semester binge writing next week, I will instead be slamming together assignment sheets and setting up my Blackboard online course shell...which is both as fun and as vital as it sounds. It's definitely a sarcastic "weee" moment, but it's one which I cannot not do.

On top of that, most other thinking things are stuck in what seems a perpetual holding pattern. There's the CSI: paper which is, at least in the noggin, completely done but waiting for me to finish the damn book. There is now the Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles paper festering in the Buffy-esque "I've got a theory!" mode of existence. There is the House, M.D. paper which is still caught in journal reader limbo (6+ months and counting), and there is the New Orleans paper, which is also in reader limbo but has been accepted for a conference....the day before the discounted "early bird registration" ran out. Sigh.

So, in terms of my writing, where does this winter break put me? There's a scene in that magnum opus Big Trouble in Little China where the good guys are captured and blindfolded. Jack Burton tries to covertly ask his friend Wang Chi where they are, but one of the evil Furies (Rain, I believe) instead responds with a forceful and dismissive "you are nowhere." Yep, that's me.

Then there's that other side of the winter break sword. For those of us on the job market, the winter break is the breaking point of the first big wave of jobs. The deadlines have since passed, and most institutions are notifying applicants and setting up interviews. This is particularly true if one applies for jobs in the English field (as do I), because much of this interviewing takes place at the MLA, the big mac-daddy of all English conferences.

Well, me and the MLA, we have this arrangement. Every year, a few months before the conference, I look to see where it is and start contemplating if I should attend, in the lucky event that someone wishes to interview me. I fret about this for a while, send out some more applications, and fret again. When December rolls around, I pay special attention to my cell phone and e-mail, in case anyone tries to contact me to schedule a last minute interview. When the conference date itself arrives, I get mean, bitter, and lash out at whomever is nearby. After the conference has ended, I chant some empty mantra about how the job search is not over, that there is still a chance I will find other jobs, get an interview later, then I both hope I haven't alienated any friends and become very thankful that the spousal unit is both forgiving and loving. It's not a great arrangement, but it is, by this point, tradition.

This year, in the final reckoning, I did not make it out to San Francisco for the MLA. There was, apparently, not a whole lot of call for Mike at the conference. Neither did anyone try to make alternate arrangements. This lack of popularity, while certainly not surprising, is at least familiar.

Strangely enough, though, I did not fly into my normal bout of depression. Instead, I've been in a fairly decent mood all break. This I do not understand...and at any rate, my lack of depression is starting to depress me. I'm really hoping I am not becoming resigned to my fate.

At any rate, I know that my success at the job market is by now inextricably tied to my success getting stuff published, and up until this break, I've been doing good on the production front. Over the summer, I did everything I could do. I had a Dec. 2007 publication (it was in their cue for years) that led to an anthology article...that one comes out sometime in 2009. I pumped out 2 book reviews, already published. I sent out two essays that are, in my eyes, the best things I've ever wrote, even though they are still awaiting judgment elsewhere.

But this break has been mostly writing-free, which puzzles me. And it's not like I've been killing too much time in my "I need to have fun" activities. Hell, my guitars are all about in their 6th month of staring at me in neglect. Yes, I have a Wii, but I really have only been using that when all I would've been doing is watching football pregame shows or Food Network programs.

I'm really hoping this is not the resignation phase. I still want this. I can still do the work. I still have ideas that need to be heard, that no one else is saying. I still need the critical engagement. I still have been singing Two Cow Garage's line "I'm not gonna burn out 'cause things didn't turn out like I planned." Honestly, I'm still into the whole scholarship bit.

I just need to produce, and it needs to start happening post haste. Is frustration better or worse than paranoid drive? Than desperation? Than gloom and doom? What negative emotion will yield the most positive results, at least in terms of production?

These are the questions which will drive my new year.

The Year That Was - media edition

Best Music

Yes, this is only a "top 9"...there just simply wasn't a tenth album I will claim as good. A weak year, musically.

1. Two Cow Garage – Speaking in Cursive
   
   While I have been a big fan of this band for quite some time, this album is a monumental step forward, in terms of depth and quality. Just buy it already.
   
   
2. The Hold Steady – Stay Positive
   
   Take off one or two songs with gratuitous keyboards, and this thing really rocks. "Lord, I'm Discouraged" alone has enough lyric power to make you weep. Combine it with "Hey Sapphire," and whoooboy. Plus Craig Finn now sings!
   
   
3. Ben Folds – Way To Normal
   
   Many have expressed disappointment with this album. They're nuts. "Kylie from Connecticut" alone (one of the most beautiful songs of the year?) should propel this into your top album lists. Good, rythmic virtuousity as well.
   
   
4. The Pink Spiders – Sweat It Out
   
   While the production is poppier than I would like and there is (unfortunately) a power ballad (skip "Don't Wait For Me"), this is still a very good album. "Gimme Chemicals" and "Seventeen Candles" are catchy as all-hell.
   
   
5. Magnolia Summer – Lines from the Frame
   
   Many have brought up the Jayhawks comparison. I'll just say that this is alternately lush, rocking, and lyrical. Go buy it.
   
   
6. Jay Bennett – Whatever Happened I Apologize
   
   The best thing he's done since The Palace at 4am. This all-acoustic effort is sweet, complex, and fun. Plus, you can download it for free!
   
   
7. The Raconteurs – Consolers of the Lonely
   
   A good second album of rock, although this sounds more like a band effort than their debut. Consolers more than makes up for the disappointment that was the last White Stripes disk.
   
   
8. Paul Westerberg – 49:00
   
   Sloppy, sticky, catchy in parts, and (sadly) no longer available through official channels.
   
   
9. Gaslight Anthem – The '59 Sound
   
   Nice bar rock with (if I'm not mistaken) a little Clash thrown in.
   

Top Songs

1. “Brass Ring,” Two Cow Garage
   
2. “Lord I'm Discouraged.” The Hold Steady
   
3. “Glass City,” Two Cow Garage
   

Musical Disappointments

• We will probably never see another album from Brent Best, Caitlin Cary.
  
• You Am I forgot how to rock.
  
• The Drive-By Truckers lost it.
  
• Ryan Adams has gone all slick
  

Music I'm Looking Forward To

• New Wilco, Grand Champeen, We Are The Fury, Jason Isbell

Someone I Discovered Much Too Late

• Josh Ritter

Best Movies

1. Wall-E
   
   Gorgeous. Hardly any dialog, but the emotion and meaning couldn't be any clearer. A scathing critique of consumerist culture, and a tear-jerking tale of love and hope at the same time.
   
   
2. Vicky Christina Barcelona
   
   Woody Allen makes a fresh film. It's young, lively, and gorgeously shot. The only down side is that the supreme gorgeousness of everyone in it might make you question your own looks...if you were not as pretty and confident as I.
   
   
3. Zach & Miri Make A Porno
   
   Kevin Smith knocks one out of the park. Both hilarous and touching, more so than it should ever be.
   

Cinematic Crap

• Cloverfield
  
  This one wouldn't be so bad except for one thing: I hate everyone in it.br?
  
• Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull
  
  Space aliens? Space aliens??? Is this really the best they could do?
  

Why in the Hell Haven't These Opened Here Yet?

• Synecdoche, New York
  
• The Wrestler
  
• Zombie Strippers (okay, so I could probably rent this one...)
  

The Year in TV

• The Shield ended perfectly
  
• I got absolutely hooked on Burn Notice
  
• Jeez, The Office is SOOOO much better post-strike
  

My Year in Technology

Why buy newspapers when you can get Darkgate Comics Slurper

• I know I'm late to this one, but I love my Wii
  
• Dr. Horrible's Singalong Blog was probably my favorite bit of entertainment all year.
  

taking the chill off with a lovely beverage

I call this one "The Sub-Zero":

• take a mixer and fill with ice
  
• add
  
  
  
  • 1 measure dark rum
    
  • 1 measure tequila
    
  • 1 measure vodka
    
  • 1/2 measure triple sec
    
  • 1/2 measure strawberry liqueur
    
  • 2 TBSP sugar syrup
    
  • 2 measures grapefruit juice
    
  • 3 measures cranberrry juice
    
  • light squeeze of lemon
    
  
  
• shake vigorously
  
• pour into glass 2/3 full
  
• top off with seltzer/soda water
  
• garnish with lemon wedge
  
• sip and try to forget your heating bill
  

frozen dreams

My favorite band right now is Two Cow Garage. I first met them when they got up and jammed with Slobberbone after one of their Wapakoneta OH shows. While Slobberbone was brilliant (two separate sets, each about 1 1/2 hours, with a 30 minute encore), Two Cow was an unexpected pleasure, unknown, unannounced, raw, energetic. They even did most of their own songs (save a jam/duet/whatever on "Give Back The Key To My Heart" with the 'bone), and each of their originals had a spark, an energy that I really needed to hear in rock at the time.

They were obviously talented, and I was taken with the guys. I wanted to tell all my friends about them. This being the era of the internet, I talked an awful lot online with friends from all over. Word spread. When their first album Please Turn The Gas Back On came out (awesome, raw rock, with some raw country thrown in for good measure, they had established an online fanbase.

As much as I liked album one, it was The Wall Against Our Back that really grabbed me. As well as pure rock your face off tracks like "My Concern" and "Make It Out Alive," the guys in the band started to really think about their situation, the career of an indy, small rock and roll group. They started to explore the class and status structure of rock and roll. Do you hold on to some vague desire for authenticity, or "sign on the dotted line" and become corporate? Do you remain who you are, in the face of overwhelming odds?

This continued with III, perhaps more explicitly. As someone who was struggling with my own job dilemmas (trying very hard to find a tenure-track professor gig, wanting to move into a job where I felt like a scholar and academic rather than just a mechanic, blindly teaching courses outside of my training, specialty, and interests, making entirely too little money and working entirely too much), I could relate. In fact, I needed to have this music. Realizing that other people in other fields were having the same issues as I made me feel a little less alone, a little more hopeful.

It's not much of a stretch to say that The Wall Against Our Back got me through my years of adjuncting, and III helped me adjust to teaching in a field pretty foreign to me. Their latest album, Speaking in Cursive (click on the link, buy it for $5, it's unbridled awesomeness) shows amazing musical and lyrical growth, but part of the reason I'm so taken with it is the theme of "what happens if we never become rock superstars? Is what we have enough?" which pretty much mirrors how I've been thinking of my own career. It's always nice to know you're not alone.

What made my love for this band even better is the personal connection I forged with the guys in the band. One of the first times I saw them, Shane, bass player and singer extraordinaire, came over to thank me for talking them up online. Every time thereafter, we talked a bit more, got to know each other a bit more. And while I don't know him nearly as well as I would like, I do think of him as my friend. I've also gotten to know guitarist/singer Micah, and this personal connection brings a new dimension to their music. I'm not just a fan. I feel I have to fight for these guys, push them wherever and whenever I can.

And, of course, see them perform whenever I can as well. After completely missing their last BG show (even though I was at the bar three days before, I saw no flyers or ads to tell me they were playing), I was pumped to find out that Shane and Micah were scheduled to play an acoustic show at Toledo's Frankie's Innercity. So I gathered up some friends and went, but it was just fated to be one of those nights.

The first issue was the bitter cold. In order to celebrate the first official day of winter, the weather plunged down to a lovely -2...not including the wind gusts of up to 35 mph. My car fought me, but it did eventually start. Of course, it took a good ten minutes to come up to temperature, and my foggy breath was steaming up the windows.

Of course, the drive necessitated going down many roads which have been studiously avoided by any plow or salt trucks, so it's always fun to know that at any minute, you can lose control, slide across intersections, and get run over by a similarly out-of-control semi. But in spite of the mortal peril, we made it.

There was the third issue, related to my inability to find a designated driver. It's always hard to see good rock and roll without beer, but hey, I love these guys, so I was willing. Of course, the bar had to rub my sobriety in my face by having the $1.50 special on PBR, Blatz, and Black Label...it was the trio of destruction, and I could not partake.

Unfortuntately, after an hour or so, we got the announcement: Micah and Shane were stranded outside of Cleveland in a blizzard. So, since I couldn't even drink my oblivion away, I instead had to settle for introducting my mad Romanian friend to White Castle hamburgers.

The guys at Freankies told me that Shane and Micah are planning to try to reschedule for next weekend, though. Hopefully I'll have a designated driver then...or at least, maybe it won't be so damn cold.

a day in my life

In an effort to satisfy those who are bored with my Twitter feed reposts (hopefully it's better than nothing, but who knows?), I realize that I need to provide some original TheMikeDuBose content...after all, you are the ones who pay big money for subscription fees to this site, who send me mountains of fan mail (the photos are particularly appreciated), who give up their jobs and family to follow me on tour, I realize that you deserve something just for you.

Unfortunately, though, my life was (up until yesterday) pretty much filled with grading, conferences, and similarly exciting stuff. And what did I do to actually celebrate was read a book. Trust me, describing myself sitting on the couch under a blankie turning a page does not make exciting, edge of your seat prose. In fact, I've done absolutely nothing that warrants extended writing.

But, in an effort to satisfy my throng of fans, I realize I have to provide something. So please forgive the randomness and look for whatever jewels that might come. After all, even a disjointed TheMikeDuBose is better than none at all. We present you, the reading public, moments in my day:

• Last night, I had another Little Caesars Pizza dream. I worked there 9.5 years (throughout school and such), and on average, I still have one of these dreams every week or so. In these dreams, I'm always the avenging savior assistant manager, sent over to bring law and order to a store on the edge of destruction. This was pretty much the role I played in real life, so the subject matter doesn't surprise me that much. However, what does it say about me that, even in my dreams, that the most heroic role my mind can imagine is to save a pizza franchise? Superheroes, after all, don't usually work for minimum wage, and pizza workers don't usually get the girl. Oh well.
  
• Even though we're renters, we had to spend a few hours doing home improvement. We live in a very small (some would say cute or petite) little bungalow in town, which has as its main advantage washer and drier hookups and no undergrads living either above or below us. Unfortunately, though, if this place is insulated at all, it's with one or two 37 year old copies of The Toledo Blade, which, as you might imagine, doesn't cut down on the wind very much. Our windows are even leakier...sometimes I'm surprised that sparrows and other small birds don't just fly through the gaps. So yesterday, after the spousal unit and I dined on White Castle stuffing for lunch, we went out and applied window insulation kits...it's basically double-sided tape and humongous sheets of plastic wrap. Of course, whenever we've had to do this, the BG wind picks up and gives us hell. But now, our place leaks much less. It's a pain, though, and I often wish we could just tent the house with a giant ziplock bag.
  
• I am used to my car being against me. I am also used to computers trying to sabotage me by randomly freezing or erasing data. General paranoia has made me immune to most shocks when things go horrifically wrong. However, now my own body is trying to kill me. I have a problem where I get hot really easily. This means that when it hits 75 degrees, I start to sweat. My doctor, after hearing my tale of woe, told me that I have "Heat Intolerance" (neat name, at least), and he gave me a prescription for a super-strength antiperspirant, which is basically a super-concentrated solution of the over-the-counter active ingredient, and it glues up your armpits for a few days. Well, I put on my Thursday night dosage before bed, but when I woke up, my armpits were red, tender, and burning. My body has randomly developed an allergy to the only active ingredient in mass-market antiperspirant. I'm sure friends and family will be thrilled to hear this.
  

So there you have it, folks. My post-Fall semester has so far been taken up with an armpit allergy, saran wrap windows, and pizza dreams. Exciting stuff, huh? Rest assured that over the break, as I'll be occupied with syllabi planning, writing, and teaching myself video game theory, that there will be more wacky adventures. Bet you can't wait.

the sutured wound

In honor of my addled-finger state, I have invented another drink, which I call "the sutured wound":

• fill pint glass with ice
  
• fill 1/3 with rye whiskey
  
• add a splash each of strawberry liquour and triple sec
  
• top off with good ginger beer (note: ginger ale, particularly the syrupy mass-market crap, is not acceptable), stir
  
• sip gently while watching sport and dreaming about that perfect location for a nice, sexy scar
  

injury, triage, treatment

I was applying pressure to the wound, hoping against hope I could staunch the flow of blood. Meanwhile, as my head started to sway inside the confines of my skull, I could hear the uneasiness and pain enter my wife's voice. Shock started to set in, and I wondered if I would make it to a safe refuge, or would I instead collapse, blood pooling around my prone, inert body?

What had in fact happened, I wondered as later I sat in the emergency room, my memories still too fuzzy to really know for sure? Somewhere, deep in the confines of my subconscious, I had visions of rage-filled students coming at me with butterfly knives, and me disarming them, protecting my fellow instructors cowering behind me but getting sliced up and mortally wounded despite my eventual victory. Or had I lacerated my torso when, upon entering my house, a bomb planted by some crazed Sara Palin groupie exploded? Had my past as a hardened criminal finally caught up with me when my old comrades Lefty, One-eye, and Chuckles jumped me, whispering in my ear that no one really ever leaves the life?

Unfortunately, none of the above. My life just doesn't have that level of drama, much to my chagrin. I would rather be able to tell people that I wounded myself breaking up a hostage situation. Somehow, cutting my pinkie while trying to core a cauliflower for a curry doesn't have the same level of excitement to it. But at least it was deep.

I could've lived without going to the ER, but when she saw the wound, my spousal unit immediately got the "I must take care of you and protect you from your own macho bs" look in her eyes, so what choice did I have? Later, when she told me she was glad we came, I told her straight out that I knew she wouldn't shut up about it if I didn't go. I could get away with saying this to her, being wounded and all. Me being in pain will lessen her physical displays of rage.

When the ER staff saw that I had a sense of humor about everything, they were quite pleased. A nurse asked me if I needed another pillow, and I said only to stifle the screams. The doc then picked up a towel and mimed strangling me. When the spousal unit said she didn't want to look at the wound as the doc sewed it up because she might get dizzy, the doc encouraged her..."go ahead...you two have good insurance, so we could always admit you if you passed out and hurt yourself...more business for us!" I figure that you have to have a pretty sick sense of humor working in an ER, but I was quite surprised to find out it's almost the same as a restaurant worker's humor. There's a paper in there, I think.

I got a tetanus shot, and the nurse was good...I hardly felt it. When the doc gave me a local anesthetic, though...shots to the pinkey really bleedin' hurt. A good rule of thumb is when the doctor tells you something will "sting," find something hard to bite down on, quick.

Strangely enough, the lady in the bed next to me also was in for some cauliflower-related incident, but I didn't get particulars. I then asked the ER doc if he thought there was some connection, and we discussed it for a while. I brought up the possibility that cauliflowers were really alien brains out to destroy humanity by inducing kitchen-related injuries, a theory I think the doc liked.

Unfortunately, even though I did get five stitches, the fact that they are on my little finger doesn't make them cool enough to brag about, in spite of their relative grossness. I tried wearing the hospital bracelet all night, but as there were no parties where I could impress people with inflated tales, it was kind of pointless. I did hang out with two friends, but they were notoriously unsympathetic.

That's the problem with cauliflower-related injuries...they just don't sound bitchen'. Story of my life, I suppose....I can't even hurt myself in novel, interesting ways.

this is your charge, America

Please, oh country that I love, do not screw this up.

a smartass thought about writing

If I was one of those "gee, see how clever I am" academics, I would point out how Reagan is very close to the word regain, and I would tie that all into the nostalgia tendencies. I would then bring up the etymology of regain, twist something in that to make myself clever, and then throw in some dense theory written either in French or in some East European (but that I will leave in the original language, sans translation) to show that the desire for nostalgia and nationalistic resurgence was built into the linguistic infrastructure which inevitably let to Ronald Reagan becoming president. I would, incidentally, have a smug look on my face while I wrote the above section.

Luckily for the reading public, I am not that kind of academic or writer. But I wonder...if I was that much of a poet/gearhead, would I have an easier time finding a tenure-track job?

multitasking

The major benefit of grad school is, I think, the ability to multitask. When I was a grad student taking classes, I had to:

• plan for the next class I was teaching
  
• grade papers
  
• stay in touch with my department and professors
  
• keep up on department news and politics
  
• take 4 classes, each of which involved
  
  
  
  • at reading one reading apiece
    
  • usually at least two papers
    
  • weekly discussions
    
  • a zillion different theoretical constructs/approaches
    
  
  
• keep my house in workable order and cleanliness
  
• keep my then-date now-spousal unit appeased
  

How did I do it? What makes this all the more fascinating is that I had a fairly active and regular social life, as did all my friends (each of whom were balancing similar workloads). But then, I was on fire. I could do thousands of things. The world was my oyster.

Today, I've had to take care of some students. When I finish with them, I find myself having to adjust back to writing. I go in the bathroom to shave, and I have to run back to the computer to type something important. I finish shaving, come back to type again, and have to run back to plug in the razor to charge...because I know otherwise I'll forget it. I have to then clear blocks where I can write, because when I actively work on my own stuff, I can't really do much else.

Sometimes, I find myself wishing I had half the mental faculties and multitasking ability I had in grad school. But then again, it did take me several years to get the dissertation done, so maybe I'm just being nostalgic.

Now, what did I have to do next?

a brief programming note

I am experimenting with doing this blog over at Wordpress. Blogger has lots of advantages, but there is no way I know to back up your blog. At Wordpress, you can do that. So, please feel free to check out the new experiment at http://themikedubose.wordpress.com/. It might change, as I get ideas/try to avoid real work. Also, feel free to leave suggestions/pass judgments in the comments to this post.

events are conspiring against me

At the beginning of the week, I was looking forward to a long Wed.-Thurs.-Fri.-Sat.-Sun. stretch of writing. I planned to do a lot of work on the (now overdue again) book manuscript, get that damned theory chapter that's been bugging me out of the way, bust out pages like nobody's business. So what happened?


Wednesday, I had a doctor's appointment. When I gave myself runner's knee over the summer, the doctor gave me a knee brace. Said brace did stop the knee, but it also made me walk just differently enough to tweak my old heel spur in the other foot...and it just would not die down. Now, I have a nifty new night splint I get to wear. It's awkward. It takes 5 minutes to attach. I now have to limp/stumble if I have to go to the restroom at night. Plus, I have to get used to sleeping a completely different way. Wee.

Afterward, the spousal unit and I went to vote. That killed over an hour, but I really like the idea of early voting. I hope it causes more people to get out there and vote. The whole time I was at the office, though, I kept whispering to myself, "don't screw it up, America, don't screw it up." These two events, of course, led to me getting nothing done.

Thursday came, and I realize I had essay proposals to review. My students are picking a specific example of someone/thing that goes against normative gender roles and analyzing it. Needless to say, a large part of the assignment is figuring out what they can write about. So far, they want to write big important issue papers. One student wants to write about (paraphrase here) how guys see other guys. So my responses to them took all day, in between bouts of grading.

Friday, was that a day for writing? Of course not. While going to bed the night before, the spousal unit found some water patches in the hallway. This was kind of mysterious, as there were no leaks on the ceiling. They were still there the next morning, so I called maintenance. Our cool maintenance guy looked them over, realized they were next to a vent in our supply/utility closet, and checked out our water heater. Prognosis? It was "about to explode." So maintenance spent all day tearing out the old water heater and installing a new one. I of course couldn't actually write with all this going on, so I got my grading caught up, dealt with "why am I failing" student e-mails (as the result of the aforementioned grading), and ran to a produce stand to get some orchard-fresh apples.

That night, we had the Halloween party. I went as a Mad Scientist. Spousal Unit went as a witch, but a friend asked her "are you some Renaissance Fair person?" A good time was had (and I'll post photos of costumes and our carved pumpkin later). Of course, this meant a late night, so I slept in way too late on Saturday. Spousal unit was on the desktop from the time we woke up until 6, and I just can't do any serious writing on my laptop, as much as I love it.

No real work done so far today. Part of this comes from dealing with students, but there's also the case of I've been away from it for about a week now, and I need to re-immerse myself, saturation, the dunk tank method. Of course, it's almost lunch time...and I still have to write to my publisher-to-be and explain why I'm not done...and there's more student contact to come...and my computer's version of Doom is calling me...

deadline reminder

I'm trying to reach people through as many different ways as possible, so consider this to be a warning...and not your last one.

The Popular Culture Association's 2009 conference is in New Orleans from Wednesday, April 8, through Saturday, April 11. The deadline for submissions is November 30. On their website, they have a complete list of areas, each with its own address or call for papers.

While this conference is used by some academics as simply a vacation spot (and, hint-hint, it is in New Orleans, a great place for a vacation), there are still good panels and papers (including mine). So everyone I know should go.

Plus, it's New Orleans. Jazz clubs. Awesome food. Drinking on the streets. Voodoo stores. How could this not be fun?

Please go. I want to get everyone I know there, so we can act like a street gang and take over the place.

little known facts about me

It's a secret that I've been hiding for ages, and it's finally time to come clean. My soul can't take the deception any longer. Yes, I, themikedubose, have physical deformities. To wit:

• I have a mysterious spot on my left leg where, in a perfect circle, no hair whatsoever will grow. This is puzzling, because I'm quite hirsute otherwise. My parents know of no birth defects, forceps gouging, or massive burns. My theory? Alien abduction.
  
• When it is cold outside, my pinkies are significantly more chilled than the rest of my hand. Maybe this is a sign my hands will still turn into hooves or something.
  
• I get hot entirely too quickly. When I told my doctor this, he thought about it, and then diagnosed me: I have heat intolerance. Oooooh.
  

Okay, so maybe it's not enough to let me join a circus...but have pity anyway. And quit looking at me!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Star Trek and deadlines

One of the best things about Star Trek II: The Wrath of Kahn, other than the very awesome Kirk scream, is its applicability to real life.


Bear with me here.

The Genesis Device (all such sci-fi devices are unique, destructive, and therefor must be capitalized) is about to go off. The Enterprise's warp core is not working. Someone's giving the countdown of doom. Kirk keeps asking for distance from the explosion and time until detonation. If they can't travel fast enough, they are all dead...and with the warp core down, they will certainly be obliterated in the explosion.

Kirk looks worried. But it is not him with whom I identify. Sulu is at the helm, and in a resigned voice, asks no one in particular: "We're not going to make it, are we?"

Star Trek is infamous for putting the ship in mortal peril. They always seem to escape. Sulu knows this. Yet his voice gives away a hint of awareness that their luck might have finally just run out.

It is now October 22. I am supposed to have the book done by the end of the month. And boy, is this thing fighting me. I am having to go do mortal combat with the damn thing every day. I've cut my football back to almost nothing. I've eliminated most of my television viewing...and for that matter, culture enjoyment of all sorts. But the book is working against me at every turn.

Nine days. I know how Sulu felt.


Of course, they did make it, so maybe I will. But they had Spock, who was willing to sacrifice himself in order to save the crew. The good of the many sometimes outweighs the good of the few.

Where's my Spock? Who will take my classes, the dilithium crystals of my life, and fix them so I can heroically escape death by missed deadline?

Zappa Plays Zappa

A brief time out/work avoidance moment to tell you about our experience at Zappa Plays Zappa last night.

I'm a big Frank Zappa fan. I got into him while he was still alive but (unfortunately) after he had stopped touring. I'm a biggest fan of the One Size Fits All era, but I have several timeframes represented. Even so, I feel inadequate...I've only got about twenty of his seventy or so albums.

When I found out that Zappa's son Dweezil had put together a touring Zappa tribute band, I was intrigued. Dweezil always had the technical skills, but he was much more manic than his father, and I wondered if he would have the discipline to pull this off. However, every time I checked their tour dates, they seemed to be focusing on festival shows, and they seemed to never be around where I live, so it was all a moot point...until last night.

Zappa Plays Zappa came into Ann Arbor last night, and I managed to snag two 4th row seats...the joys of working at home. First, it was nice to be so close, I felt like the luckiest little girl in the world! Second, it was one of those shows where the spousal unit and I were lowering the average age...pretty much the exact opposite of what happened when thmarn and I went to see My Chemical Romance. Third, I love knowing that there's no opening act for me to groan my way through.

The band was utterly amazing...almost three hours of music. We got a lot of the classics: "Peaches," "Zombie Woof," "I Am The Slime," a couple songs off Joe's Garage, a dance contest, a smokin' "Cosmic Debris" that featured solos from everyone including the awesome Ray White, and a version of (get this) "Billy the Mountain"...it must've went on for a half hour, weird and funny as all hell.

Dweezil smokes. Having to sit and learn all of Frank's music was really good for him...he's more fluid than I've ever seen him, both faster and with more emotion. He's starting to look a lot like Frank, and he sure as hell can channel his father's playing. More importantly, he was sporting the "how lucky am I?" grin through most of the evening.

I'll never get to see Frank, but this evening made me a little less sad of that fact.

ps: With a crowd that old and a set list that long, people were constantly getting up to hit a bathroom. If Dweezil was more of a commercial slut, he should've had the whole deal sponsored by FloMax.

another beverage

I call this one the "Writing Depression":

• Fill a pint glass up with ice
  
• fill 1/4 with vodka
  
• 1/4 wild strawberry liquor
  
• splash of triple sec
  
• top off with club soda (preferably Big K brand)
  
• sip while watching football, trying to figure out how to fix your manuscript problems, become self-deluded that you'll actually finish the book in 11 days.
  

so, how's it going?

I have just finished stitching together a draft of the completely new chapter of my book. It has 100% of the structure/organization, 85% of the sources (and I know where to find the others), and 70% of the actual language. I should be able to get it more or less complete by the end of the week, if all goes well.

Then I just have to stitch it together with the rest, stitch in the conclusion and expand it, and reword the entire thing. And I have 17 days to do it. Piece of cake!

I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to anyone whom I might've insulted, ignored, or generally treated in a questionable manner during this process. I think I've been handling the stress and workload pretty well, but one thing I learned in the dissertation is that perspective and judgment are the first things to go.

Kind of like in a whiskey drunk.

lazing on a sunday afternoon

Somewhere in Matt Groening's book School is Hell, there's a piece about graduate school, where someone is in the doorway of a graduate student, asking them if they wanna come to a picnic. The student, without looking up from his book, replies with "Sounds great! I'll be there in four or five years.

I spent until 10pm yesterday at my computer busting out job applications. I worked until 9 most nights last week. Today, I'm sitting at the computer again, going over some criticism. It's warm, and in order to battle the heat from the cpu, I've got the window open.

Across the street is one of those mega-apartment complexes for undergrads. If you look through the trees, you can see the "kids" playing volleyball. I assume there's also beer involved.

I remember spending weekend days at a friend's house, drinking beer, playing volleyball in the front yard. Now, I'm thinking of that experience while I watch some other lucky teen punks play volleyball in the sun. In between bouts of bitterness and loathing, I write about really horrible literary criticism.

One would hope this eventually evens out.

blogging activity

Yes, I haven't been around much...been working...but I have not abandoned this. Later this week, I have to type up an entry I handwrote while at the Detroit airport. Then I get to tell you about my new car (pimpmobile). I still have to give the results of my MySpace and Facebook experiment. And there are, of course, more horror stories from work.

However, if you haven't noticed, there is a summary of my Twitter feed on the right. I started Twittering a while back...the short space fits my current workload. If you Twitter, please let me know so I can follow you.

Also, I have a blog chronicling thoughts, ideas, and rants-in-progress about my book and other scholarship. You might've heard me mention it before, but it was previously invite-only. I'm changing that. I'm also moving the academic blog to another site which allows backups (which, inexplicably, Blogger does not). So if you have any interest in seeing what I've been up to in terms of scholarship...or in telling me how I'm wrong...please check out Thought Emporium, my new home for scholarship.

Now, I'm going back to work so I can get this damn book done, move onto a tenure track job, buy a house, start homebrewing beer again, have kids who will take care of me when I get (more) old and decrepit, and spend more time admiring my awesome spousal unit.

seven years gone

I wasn't going to do a post-9/11 post, but someone on a mailing list wrote something that shook me to the core, and I just had to work out some thoughts (albeit a day late). An expansion of my reply:

My experience pales to most people, but I do remember the utter disorientation that everyone at school seemed to exhibit...everyone was walking around like a zombie. I was sitting in my office doing some grading, and one of my colleagues kept wandering the hallways, listening to a portable radio. When I finally asked him what the hell he was doing, I didn't believe his response at first.

I went down to my department's conference room, where there was a tv set up. A number of people had gathered to watch the coverage...by that time, the second tower had already fallen...but no one was really saying anything. I stayed for an hour or so, and then went to my only class of the day. The teacher there had the tv on, and likewise, everyone was just staring, silent. I stayed for about 30 minutes before heading home. I didn't break out my cd player for the walk as I normally would...somehow, I just really needed to hear some quiet.

I got home and watched coverage for a few hours before my mind snapped, and I just couldn't take it anymore. However, nothing else was on. Even Food Network has suspended their coverage, which I understand, but it was a shame...I really needed a diversion at that point.

That night, the spousal unit and an old roomate and I went to BW3s for wing night. We were sitting on the deck, right across the street from a gas station, and it seemed that every 15 minutes, someone from the gas station would come out and raise the prices on the sign. Afterward, we went to Howards (the ultimate BG bar), and we got to see the President-appointee's "I've finally finished reading kid stories and am now ready to pretend to be a leader" speech to the nation, where he begged us, the nation, to show unity by going (wait for it) shopping.

It's a shame those are my two most vivid memories of that day. But it was obvious by them that something in the world (and particularly in the US) had changed for the worse. I was never one of those "capitalism is evil" types, but I became much more cynical about government and authority after trying to juxtapose the gas gouging and the presidential pleas to shop. I still think that 9/11 is the day that W became unglued, and our country and the world has suffered the wrath of a government becoming more egotistical, more evil, and less empathetic ever since.

On the plus side, the actual people of the country drew together in a way that gave me hope. Locally, our Muslim community started to pre-emptively reach out to the area and become more open. The population showed the enormous courage, unity, charity, and grace that those in power so clearly showed they lack.

(Actually, come to think of it, the Katrina aftermath was pretty much the same thing.)

I want to be hopeful here. I want to believe that the people of this country will work not only for their own best interests but for the best interests of us all, even when the government is clearly wrong. However, many good people still actively support a very bad government, one that's making us all look bad and get our souls messy. Please, America, we have a chance to finally do right by each other. Do the right thing.

two completely unrelated thoughts

These have nothing to do with each other:

• My friend Andy, who does political rage better than I, has a good post entitled Dear America: WTF? An Open Letter. If you have heard and even stopped to consider any of the McCain/GOP rhetoric, please read this.
  
• You will notice my Twitter feed to your right. As I get busier, I'm more prone to micro-blog. Please use Twitter...I'm finding it fun, and I wanna follow more friends.

anxiety and the book

A while back, I started on another blog, one designed to help me get back into the swing of writing my book...or, if you prefer, converting my dissertation into a book manuscript. I read a lot of theory, figuring I needed to reflex my brain muscles, become as intellectually nimble as when I was a grad student and being nimble was my only real job. The blog became home to my thinking, my rants, my tangents discovered while diving into theory. I put up somewhere around 25-30 pages of material, and much of it still will find a way into my scholarship somehow.

Then I had a semester of classes for which to prepare. (damn, it might be proper grammar, but that sentence looks funky) Then I had much welcome and enjoyed house guests. I've made a few stabs at getting back into research mode after they left, but there are a few things that have made me rethink my approach.

First, a colleague here at UT who is a creative writer started revising his MFA book..."redlining," he calls it. Then one of my old roommates just published his book (which is both highly entertaining and gorgeously designed), and I'm insanely jealous. These things brought me to some kind of epiphany.

I think what I've realized is that, by submitting myself to a theory overload, I've been trying to put myself through a "DIY" version of doctoral school...and I don't really think I actually need that at this point of my career. I need to remember that the book itself, as the early draft stands now, has more than enough theory in it and behind it. And while I will be revamping the theory section (moving it around, refocusing, all that), it is not going to be a "gearhead" tome.

There's not a lot on the eighties as a decade, and out of what is out there, none of it is really current. My book will not be one of many. It will be an invitation back into the subject, a good reminder of why this decade should be studied, and as such, it has to be approachable. I have to keep it if not informal in tone, then at least accessible. There will be plenty of time to write the heavy theory follow-up article version of the theory chapter...no real need to do it now.

When I was working on the dissertation itself, I had one particular moment of clarity (there were others, but this is the one that's relevant). I was sitting in the library, having just worked my way through a stack of material on Reaganomics and SDI, and I looked at the pile of sociology books on my table. Suddenly, I realized that what I was trying to do was not write my project but become an expert on everything in the world.

This was unnecessary. It was not really helpful. It contributed to and exacerbated a lack of focus (whether real or perceived). On top of all this, I wasn't sure if the need to know everything in the world was either a desire to be the ultimate authority (and thus a signifier of a heavy work ethic) or of a desire to avoid actually finishing the damn project (and thus a signifier of either laziness or fear of the post-grad world).

In my attempt at total theory immersion, I realize I was doing the exact same thing over again.

So I've made a conscious decision. I've decided that, on a general scale, I'm smart enough to do this as-is. I will still do research and reading, but I'm not going to teach myself anything from scratch.

Second, I've decided that I have to have faith in the bones of the project as it currently exists. I might've been trying to start from scratch, to do the dissertation as I'd do it if I were just now becoming ABD. I need to have faith that all I really need to do is refocus and revise what I've done. While much of the language may change, what I have right now is, I need to remember, a worthwhile project that deserves to see the light of day, and sooner is better than later.

I'm moving on to writing. Screw this misplaced desire for total mastery of all knowledge. I'm not that kind of guy, I'm not that kind of academic, I'm not a theoretical gearhead. Time to start acting and writing like the kind of academic I am.

(note to my readers: If you are a theoretical gearhead, please don't be offended by anything I say here. I understand your scholarship. I need to see a lot of your kind of stuff. Deep in my heart, I wish I was you. But I am not. If I have a potential niche as an academic/scholar, it's essentially my ability to apply neat, unusual, skewed perspectives on subjects that manages to provide some kind of neat insight. This is just about playing to my strengths.)

death of nerdy?

Someone I know is playing D&D tonight. And now I'm starting to feel sadness that I'm not playing with them. Suddenly, I am not in with nerd/geek culture anymore. This is the weirdest mood I've been in for ages.

the evaporation of summer

The end of freedom is definitely in the air, and that's something you particularly notice while living in a college town. The traffic on the roads has visibly picked up, you can hear the gentle strains of the mating call of the wild frat boy whenever you step outside, and there's a general sense of anticipation mixed with healthy amounts of fear and drudgery.

Yes, fall semester starts on Monday.

It's always a time of contrasts for me. There are ample opportunities to meet new people, and even though I'm no longer really a part of my doctoral program, I've already started to get to know some of their fascinating new members. Even amongst the established BG veterans, there are increasing levels of contacts and camaraderie...perhaps we're all finally starting to get over losing new friends to jobs and other programs, and we just crave connection. Socially, I feel really good, which is frankly amazing, considering the scores of friends who have left this town, moving onto "elsewhere" and a new chapter in their lives. Most falls, I feel their absence, but the possibility of new connections is, right now, my strongest social sensation.

There is also a new semester of challenges on the horizon. Monday, I walk into my classrooms for the first time. For many of my students, I am the first university teacher they will have, the "welcome to college" sign in their lives, and this is indeed a heady feeling. There is so much to teach them, so many preconceptions to eliminate, so many new intellectual discoveries to facilitate. While I know by experience that not all will make it, I am looking forward to seeing how much most of them will grow.

And I did get a lot accomplished this summer. I've had an unprecedented level of scholarly production...2 reviews, 2 articles, and a start on the book. I've got to travel...the brief sojourn to New York truly being a highlight experience. I've got to see departed friends return for visits. I hosted two wonderfully fun parties, and each yielded unique memories.

There are downsides, though. My health has ground to a bit of a halt. I started off the break by swearing to get out, be active, and I committed to a morning walk and an afternoon bike. Then my knee started to give out. The knee brace helped with that, but then, of course, a heel spur in the other foot that hadn't bothered me in years decided to flare up and just will not heal (perhaps exacerbated by my need to shift my weight to that leg). Now I've been forced back to immobility, and when I do go out, I get to repeatedly answer the admittedly good question of how someone who never runs can possibly get runner's knee while simultaneously trying to decide which method of limping will be the most effective.

And although I did more writing in a summer than ever before, I still didn't come close to finishing my research agenda. My book, although I wanted to have it to the press by the end of summer, has miles of work remaining. Instead of polishing a rewritten manuscript, I have a plan, a bunch of notes, and some stream of consciousness rants that still await incorporation. Now I am facing a heavy writing load and deadline on top of teaching 16 credit hours.

It's a time marked with possibilities and impossibilities, the mixture of the rush of hope with the fear of failure, positives and negatives. After all these years in the academic life, you think I would've gotten used to this feeling by now.

Olympic hero

Dara Torres is my new hero. She swims the 50m freestyle for America. Why is she my hero? First, she's 41. Yes, a forty-one year old Olympian. Also, she's the number one seeded for the finals in her event...at 41.

This is impressive, but it's not all. During her semi, she noticed that the swimmer next to her had a rip in her suit and could not change in time. While the other swimmers were going to their blocks or performing weird pre-race rituals, Dara ran over to ask the judge to hold up the race for the late swimmer. She then told all the other swimmers what was going on, that the race would be a little late. She then raced and kicked ass, posting the fastest semi time.

Normally, I don't get sucked into the "rah rah" bits, but Dara is cool beyond belief.

back to real life

Last week, I had some Bowling Green exiles return for a quick visit, and they stayed with the spousal unit and I. Now they are gone, and there are some big adjustments to be made:

• I have to actually do work again
  
• I feel compelled to restart my daily schedule
  
• I have returned to eating stuff other than cheese, cheese curds, and tubes of meat
  
• my spousal unit is my only audience for jokes, and she's long since learned to ignore me
  
• my house is considerably less cool than it was for my friends' visit
  
• I no longer have to make sure I'm wearing pants or have shut the bathroom door
  

This is what it must be like for soldiers returning from distant lands.

watching the Olympics

I have learned:

• the Croatian female ping pong players wear very mini-skirts and have awesome legs
  
• water polo is next to impossible to follow
  
• amateur wrestling is pretty dull and boring...I understand by professional wrestling was souped-up
  
• there's an Israeli swimmer who's named Nimrod..when I mentioned that Nimrod lost, my spousal unit thought I was being mean
  
• one Chinese swimmer prepares for his events by shaking his left man-boob
  
• I'm both scared to death of and severely turned on by the female fencers
  

killing more time on the interwub

I have now joined Twitter. I have no real idea why, except for maybe wanting to find more ways to kill time when I should be working. Anyone here also on Twitter? Who should I follow?

car talk

Throughout my driving career, I've had a number of pieces of automotive machinery. They've all ended with a certain amount of doom.

• Car one was a 1982 (?) Chevy Impala...well, not really mine but my parents's vehicle. The coolest thing about it was the air conditioner was labeled either A/C or (teehee) MAXCON...which always made me feel like I was working in some underground bunker for the government. This was also the car I killed the fastest, in the silliest way. While driving to a friend's house, I somehow didn't see a pickup truck...carrying a horse trailer. The redneck drivers (I don't stereotype...I met them, and they certainly fit the bill) only said to me "Boy, you almost bought yourself a thoroughbred." Then they hired the city's biggest sleazeball ambulance chaser lawyer and tried to sue me...which would be depressing if it wasn't so funny...how much can you really get from a broke teenager? The net result of this was that the car was 2 feet shorter in the front, and I was looking for new wheels.
  
• Car two was my first beater, a 1973 Plymouth Valiant with a radio that ran off vacuum tubes. It was cool...big, powerful, and fast as all hell. Unfortunately, it didn't take me long to kill this one either. I was driving to another friend's house (a pattern I quickly noticed...which is why I no longer have friends), and I must've went to adjust the radio or something and missed a red light. A brand new Monte Carlo SS was my target this time, and it hit me directly behind the driver's door, pushing the metal between the front and back doors in two feet, causing the roof to dome. It also broke my rib, which sent me to the hospital. While there, I had a 97 year old woman next to me in the emergency room who specialized in whining ("I want to go home. Why won't anyone let me go home?"...for two whole hours) and a doctor who, upon hearing I thought I had a broke rib, pushed down on it with all his might ("Does this hurt?" "AAAAAAHHHHGGG!"), and gave me a prescription for ten whole painkillers...enough to last almost a week! Yeah, a rib will really heal in that amount of time. Compound this with me getting back to work after two weeks and getting fired a week after that, and my memories are not good.
  
• Car three should've bypassed me and went straight to the compactor. It was a '73 Duster. The litany: the roof was rusted out under the vinyl roof; the driver's side door didn't open from the outside; the passenger door didn't open from the inside; the foam in the driver's seat had disintegrated, so I had to stuff an old raincoat down there to keep from giving myself a spring enema. I went on a vacation once, and my Dad went to start my car after a few day's rain. He found two inches of water in the car and had to drill holes in the floorboard to drain it. After that, the car had a permanent mold ecosystem that bleach would not kill. I actually outlasted this one, gave it to my brother after he had an accident, and it threw a rod on him after a week. A fitting end to a car that sucked so bad and was so nasty, it can single-handedly be blamed for three years where I could not get a date...any woman who would get into that piece was not someone I wanted to be with.
  
• Car four was a red 87 Honda Prelude. Hondas will last forever if you take care of them. The previous owner didn't know this, so he beat it to hell and back. The transmission started slipping on me about two weeks after I bought it. It did last for a few years, and the whole time, I felt like I was driving a clown car...to test this, I actually drove seven people to Gainesville for a concert. This car, although it didn't hold rainwater like the Duster, also had an unstoppable mold problem. Finally, the transmission died on me, and we were just able to drive it to the junkyard.
  
• Car five is an 1987 Oldsmobile that I got from my parents...thus, it was the nicest car I'd ever had, as it was the first one that ever had been taken care of. It was also the first car I ever had where the a/c actually worked, too, which was a nice luxury in Florida. The engine died almost immediately (the timing chain broke), but my parents paid for a new one since it was one month from my purchase date. Eventually, though, the car started to wear down. I bumped the front on a pole while exiting a tight parking garage, and then I had a car pull out in front of me on an iced-over parking lot. Eventually, the a/c quit working. The transmission died, and I got it replaced with a junkyard unit. Then, when I was working at the zoo (see the first blog posts), the driver's window also quit working. The driver's back door quit opening about the same time. My last repair was to get the rusted-out brake lines totally replaced, after a fun drive to work where the pedal sunk to the floor.
  

I would like to say that the transition from car to car signaled some great motion in my life, but the only real conclusion I can have is that I've left an awful lot of damage in my driving wake. The only thing that makes me feel better about this is that since all the cars were drastically used by the time I got them, I haven't really made much of a carbon footprint.

Anyway, my parental units called me this week to tell me that they were getting a new car, and would I like their old one? As it's much nicer than the Olds's current state, I heartedly agreed. In a month or so, I will fly down to Florida to pick up a 1997 Buick Riviera. It's pretty swanky...my parents usually buy the demonstrator models, so they have every accessory you can imagine (including five way sun visors and climate control, with separate passenger controls). I will also pass the Olds onto a carless friend, so there are winners all around.

I am thankful to get reliable wheels again...the Olds is valiant, but I'm getting old and wimpy enough to really want air conditioner. Plus, the car is in really good shape, so I hope to get at least eight years out of it before I kill it in some manner. And I'm hoping its the last car I ever own that's fueled by petroleum. The next one should run on either hydrogen, electricity, fryer oil, or live puppies.

Will my Oldsmobile look at me badly? Will it know that I'm giving up on it? Will it sulk? I'd ask it, but typically, it's in the shop...this should be its first clue that it's going bye-bye.

for those of you following the knee saga

After mysteriously starting to hurt and then mysteriously getting better, my knee mysteriously started to hurt again. Luckily, it did this in time for my last annual physical, and I was able to get doctor's advice...which included x-rays and a knee brace. The first night with the knee brace was not a success, but I'll give it a bit longer.

This is what this blog is reduced to: me bitching about my health. What am I, ninety?