heading out to the country

Whenever I ask my classes about music, I have at least one (and often many more) who claim "I like every form of music...except country."

I don't believe them, of course. They cannot possibly like absolutely everything. For that matter, they cannot even have experienced a significant sampling of every form of music. My first response is to ask them "Everything? Cool...well, who's your favorite Klezmer artist?" They usually look at me stupidly. I'm expecting that, though, as the whole point of the exercise (and in my class, pretty much everything is an exercise of sorts) is to get them to recognize labels....which, since I annually have students try to convince me there are no genres, is a worthwhile endeavor.

I then slam them on the "country" label. What exactly do they mean by "country?" Do they mean every single artist performing every single variety? Do they include (or have even heard of) alt-country? Bluegrass? Breaking down the country label is important, because it works as a perfect counterpoint to their supposition that there are--or at least, they do not subscribe to--any notion of labels.

Thing is, though, in regard to their distrust of country music, I kinda know how they feel.

I grew up in the South. This means that, for me, there was an influx of Hank Williams Jr. and Garth Brooks (although, to be fair, the latter was probably not geographically limited), and there was something about the music from these two which struck me as...well, formulaic, with a particularly pungent example one being Brooks's song "Rodeo." New Country (so it was called) just hit me wrong. Later, during year one in Ohio, I was riding the off-campus shuttle, and the driver had the radio on a New Country (which, by this time, had achieved such a level of saturation that it was just plain "Country") station, and I finally was able to narrow down exactly the contrived nature of the genre: take out the steel guitar and fiddle, insert a distorted electric, and you would have a hair metal power ballad (which I also loathed). You would, though, have to add a higher level of lyrical obnoxiousness to reach the depths of "She Never Cried When Ole Yeller Died," for which the offending lyricist should be sent to the iron maiden (the medieval torture device, not the band...nah, hell, to one than the other).

It wasn't until I gained a roommate who listened to old-school country (Johnny Cash, Jerry Jeff Walker, Tom T. Hall) where I started to get country, to understand its diversity. Moreover, Cash alone struck me as exponentially more honest than any New Country I've heard. If more people knew this was country, I suspected that maybe the genre wouldn't have such a bad name. In fact, now that I think of it, if I really wanted to get to my students, maybe I could just play them "Sangria Wine" or "Pancho & Lefty."

Most people, though, only have the negative/hokey/cheddar connotations with country music, and so, if they hear anything country-ish, tend to tune out. This includes accents (many Southerners I know hate anything where the singer has a drawl) and instrumentation (fiddle or steel guitar? must be hick!). Hell, I know more than one person who will dismiss a band's whole output if they have one acoustic-based G-C-D song...even if that band happens to be, say, Australian.

This all comes to mind because a few days ago, when I was sorting through my cd collection, I ran across my copy of Billy Squire's Don't Say No and decided to rip it to mp3 for nostalgia's sake. Earlier today, right before lunch, I played the album and live-tweeted my reactions under the hash-tag "isBillySquireStillListenable?" While I found myself still ultimately liking the album (after skipping over a few cheez-puff tracks such as "The Stroke" and ignoring the gloppy production), I kept finding myself thinking of the ineffable connection between country music and arena rock.

There was the obvious one where Squire is, on the cover, playing a Telecaster...which is typically considered a country guitar (though not always; it was in fact their use by the Jacksonville rock bands Radio Berlin and Piewackit which made me want one). There are country chord progressions all over the album, particularly in "I Need You, "My Kinda Lover," and "Don't Say No." True, this is still definitively a rock and roll album, but that doesn't mean country is forgotten. It might even be the nods to country which often contribute to its sing-a-long nature.

Moreover, this is significant in a historical sense. Rock and roll was originally the mad bastard stepchild of a marriage between blues and country music. If you trace rock back to Chuck Berry (as you should), you find yourself with an artist whose songs were remarkably close to country. Slowly, however, in the heavier and more extreme, the familiar country chord structure has been jettisoned, to the point where, in the rare instances we are open to its perception, we don't even recognize it.

Is country now passe? Permanently the land of stereotypes and hicks? Can one even hint at its presence in rock and roll without being castigated, tied to bales of hay and beaten with an old pair of chaps while wearing a crown of tumbleweed?

These are questions I now need to answer.

an evening in the dark

I will always be alone...to some degree

--Jesse Malin

I am, I hate to admit, a deeply insecure person at heart.

I wish I was brave. I wish I was self-assured. I wish I exuded a certain confidence, a certain flair, a certain panache, where my pure awesomeness drew people to me...only so I would always know I had friends.

I doubt myself constantly. I say goofy things to have something to say and do goofy things (such as order customized guitar picks) to give people some reason to remember me....because without a gimmick, who would pay attention? My darling spousal unit repeatedly tells me my fears are uncalled for, that I'm plenty good enough on my own, and at some level, I guess I believe her...yet I have doubts.

Yesterday, I joked in the morning with my 39-week-pregnant spousal unit that we should hold a massive cook-out/party/bash with everyone we know for Memorial Day. She gave me a look of...I don't actually wanna call it "withering contempt," but the term is in fact kinda accurate. However, about a half hour before band practice, she changed her mind. We had my band over for post-rehearsal hot dogs...and then a few additional friends joined us. We went outside to the back porch, a few of us lit cigars, and we hung out until all hours of the night talking about all kinds of random stuff...from pet ownership, to television shows, to critical theory.

It was awesome.

There's something about a dimly lit area, where friends can gather, hang out with no pressure to perform, see what conversational directions come up. Cigars and beer help...they act as a certain kind of social lubricant, an excuse for us to spend time together, to explore ourselves and each other, to look for points of connection...and often, this is exactly what I need.

An evening at the bar, at the porch, or somewhere similar always gives me a better outlook. It doesn't erase the doubts...hell, I have enough of them to last several lifetimes...but if I can have these friends, experience this level of connection, a night like last night will at least take those "you're not worthy" voices in my head down a notch...which is sometimes all for which a paranoid self-doubter like myself can hope.

academic belonging

I just read through the last two months of The Chronicle of Higher Education, and I'm angry.

When I first entered the job market, online notifications were not as omnipresent as they are today, so a Chronicle subscription was a necessity if just for the massive job listings...so I subscribed. Along with the job listings, though, the Chronicle offers enough good entry-level primers for key debates in many fields of study, and some of these are, quite frankly, awesome. It was because of Duncan Watts 's piece in the Chronicle, for instance, that I discovered Six Degrees, one of my favorite books. And of course, when my job search did not go as expected, the paper's "Career" section kept me sane by letting me know that I was not alone in my struggles.

It's different now. When I started reading the Chronicle, I was certain it would be nothing but a matter of time until I moved on to a good job, one which would allow me to write more articles, get that book out, generally create and share new knowledge, maybe even make a difference. Now, however, I frankly know better...and that changes everything.

I'm angry at the job posts...even if I was able to apply for them, they would just lead to more depersonalized rejection. I'm angry at the narratives and analyses of the job market, of the state of academia, because they are all stories and takes that are that much more removed from my personal reality. Most of all, however, I'm angry at the overviews of disciplinary debates, the profiles of scholars, all those think-pieces. They just act as reminders that, not only is no one really interested in what I have to say, I will never have time to expand what I have to say into any form which people might eventually find notable.

The Chronicle of Higher Education used to inspire me and make me feel like a professional. Now, it's more a reminder that it's for academics, for scholars...and I really can't count myself amongst their ranks.

bringing the arena into the club

All of these moves are carefully planned

--Inspector Clouseau

Lately, I've been thinking about space...in particular, arenas.

For the record, I am currently in what might I humbly consider a kick-ass band, with a great singer/guitarist, drummer, and bassist. Clubs are our environment...we've played pretty much everywhere there is to play in this town and made three forays into Toledo, playing with acts both national and local. Over the year plus three months we've been playing out, we've assembled a nice baker's dozen of pretty awesome original songs (three of which you can sample via the video clips on the right) and a few recurring covers. Our drummer, though, is leaving town, so our days are numbered (make sure to come to our farewell show on July 30th at Howard's after you buy some merchandise, end of plug).

Which begs the question: what next?

Once Analog Revolution is gone, I initially pictured myself just sitting on the couch, plunking on guitars while absent-mindedly reminiscing on past glory. Maybe, I supposed, I would record the occasional psychotic instrumental. It would be a far cry from playing on a cramped, sweaty stage, but the year plus in the band has miraculously made me conceive of myself as a guitar player again, and that's something I refuse to give up.

Life, though, has a habit of happening. Rather than reverting to a couch guitarist, I have instead been recruited by a friend to start a new band. My friend is in three other bands, but I guess that's not enough for this madman...he seems to like my playing enough to want to play with me, which is nice. Additionally, as he seems to like my songwriting and has so many other commitments, he has also given me free reign over much of the songwriting. This is perfect, because I have always loved writing as much as playing, and since Analog Revolution hasn't (for some reason) been using any of my stuff for a while, I have a backlog of material ready and waiting. It's even kind of thrilling, knowing I will get to hear my new songs finally performed.

What is most different about my new, yet-unnamed band, though, is that we have time to plan, plot, and scheme. I still have a few months of Analog Revolution, and my friend has his other three bands, so we're not hurting for outlets. Also, I have urchin on the way, so I have other commitments for the immediate future at any rate. We might as well take our time figuring out what our band is going to be. This means that while Analog Revolution was an example of evolution (we never really had a plan and just kinda grew into our identity), this band will be closer to intelligent design.

So, how does space fit into this?

A few sessions ago, we were blasting through a song (okay, more its skeletal framework than its complete structure, but you get the point), and, when we ended, we spontaneously broke into the endless bashing chords with solo guitar over top which is so common in many of the more self-indulgent forms of heavy music which I dearly appreciate. We both laughed, and my friend immediately suggested we end all our songs this way...which made me realize how much I'm gonna love this band. I then quipped that, when people ask us what we play, we needed to call ourselves "alternative arena rock."

This, however, let me into a tough mission. I then had to figure out what exactly "arena rock" meant...and then figure out a way we could possibly be an alternative to it.

I polled friends. I had cigar-based discussions. I drank and thought. Most people seem to tie arena rock to (surprise, surprise) rock and roll played in arenas...but this didn't really work as a set of conventions for me. When asked to get more specific, some people brought up theatrics, some brought up pyro, some brought up commercialism. One online friend said all our songs have to be about "beer and boobs." Others listed possible arena rock bands as including Foghat (which I can see), REO Speedwagon (sure), Styx (maybe early stuff), Motley Crue (hah?), Queen (nah), and WASP (ooooookay). Most people seemed to think a "corporate stooge" label was essential.

There were a lot of qualifications others brought up which I just didn't buy, of course. But through all the debate, I came away with this definition: loud, guitar-based rock and roll, with songs based on simplified (often blues-based) chordal structures containing big/catchy/sing-a-long choruses. This I can do. That arena rock tended to take place in arenas is evident, but I think it could also work in a club environment. Moreover, I know of many cool bands (The Hold Steady on a national level, and the Matt Truman Ego Trip here in Toledo) who are already doing this kind of stuff.

But I doubt they are doing it quite as weirdly as will we.

This means, though, I have to start figuring out how to apply this to the riffs which I have stockpiled. To this end, I have tried several approaches. I have started carrying around a notebook to record cool-sounding lyrical ideas. I have started to keep a recorder near my guitar for any riffs which might present themselves. I have started to, when plunking on riffs, figure out what bits sound more "chorus-y." I have started to try and sing along to said chorus-sounding bits...mostly in a "na-na-na" kinda voice, because I figure anyone can sing nonsense syllables. I have learned drum machine software so that I might construct structured demos. In short, I have been thinking about how to take the "we want everyone to feel the power" attitude of arena rock and translate that into something that will blast people off their barstools.

Moreover, I have been thinking about space: where to fill it, where to leave it open, how to slowly build. People might get crammed into arenas, but they don't need the entire space to be filled. No one wants to be in wall-to-wall humanity and get hit with a million beats. After all, if the band never shuts up, how will the crowd ever participate? It is, I feel, about strategically filling the space...knowing when to hit the damn instrument and when to simply let its vibrations ring out.

I'm still not 100% sure I know how we're gonna do this...but I got a feeling it's gonna be good.

why box stores suck

When I got my full-time gig, I decided that I wanted to decorate my shiny new office with adult-level art. I didn't want to use Dali prints, movie posters, Christmas lights, or anything that would be at home in a college dorm...no, I had a full-time job, so I was now an "adult" (whatever that means). I went to a few art fairs, but the only things that were even remotely affordable were of the "horse" genre, "barn" genre, or the more experimental "horse in front of barn" school of photography....and while I wanted an adult space, I didn't want that space to be reminiscent of adult farmers.

Frankly, I felt I could do better. So, rather than return to my early love of fingerpainting, I decided my quest to take control of my artwork would be better served by buying a digital camera and learning more about photography via first-person experimentation. I got a decent point-and-shoot, started messing around, and eventually, I think I got pretty good for a hobbyist (although you can judge for yourself). My office, in addition to the "wall of band flyers" (of which I'm very proud), has some very cool shots, and my oft-oblivious and next-to-impossible-to-impress students have even complemented me on occasion.

For a fairly old (6 years at this point) point-and-shoot, my camera has done pretty well. However, there are things it does not do particularly stellar. The flash, for instance, sucks...it looks like someone lit a pile of magnesium on fire. I hate flash photography anyway, so I try to do low and natural light images...but people have to either stay perfectly still for several months consecutively (the shutter speed on my camera is essentially glacial), or the image just introduces a whole bunch of noise and blur.

So, when I found out I was gonna be a father, I realized one of my "father" tasks would be documenting Mighty's growth and development...so a new camera, I reasoned, would be a pretty reasonable investment. I asked friends for recommendations, did the research, and settled on a good model. And, for the last baby shower, my awesome sororal unit gave me a sizable gift card for one of the big box appliance stores...I won't say exactly which one, but they claim to have the (ahem) "best buys."

I sit down to purchase it online yesterday. I pull up the store's website, search for the model, and find it. Hey, they even are advertising free shipping! So I add it to my cart, and then it tells me "shipping is not available." Um, okay. Then I see it has "ship to store/pickup" as an option...so I entered my zip code, and it listed a bunch of stores. I click on the "add to cart" button listed for the closest one...and the page refreshed, but with "unavailable at this location." Grr. I then clicked on the next store...and the next...and the next...but the damn camera wasn't available at any store in a hundred miles (a fact the website decided to tell me only in annoying little increments).

By this time, I'm steaming. So, on the suggestion of the spousal unit, I call the company's 1-800 number. They put me through to a digital camera sales specialist. I explain my plight...and the sales expert informs me they only have a few of my cameras available nationwide. I ask if they can ship me one of the models, and they tell me they cannot. Um, okay. I ask them why the model is listed on the website, and they tell me that they've been meaning to take it off-line. Um, sure. I ask them if they're going to get more, and they say they should eventually. That's helpful. I ask if they can tell me when, and they say they haven't been given that information. Gee, thanks. I then ask if they can send me an e-mail or something when they do get some more in, and they tell me, no, for some reason, they cannot.

This is from a customer sales specialist?

I realize that this is the very definition of a first world problem...but hell, why is a store so determined to make it hard to give them money for a product they supposedly stock? If I didn't have the gift card, I'd go somewhere else, but I'm kind of locked in to a store which wants to make it very hard for me to give them my business. And this is not the first time this has happened...a little over a year ago, they refused to honor their price-match guarantee because their mp3 player model was (get this) a different color. I thought about just getting a different model camera, but the next best four options were also back-ordered or out of stock. Sigh.

Yeah, this is so much better than having a local, specialized, service-oriented retailer.

I'm trying to figure out exactly what the benefit might be of such box stores, and I gotta admit, I'm drawing a blank. It can't be an increased selection...because this company only claims a wide selection which they don't actually have. It can't be cheaper prices...because that's kind of a moot issue when they don't want to actually sell you anything. The point, best as it seems, appears to be to dumb down the average consumer to accept whatever crap service the corporations give you.

This is why, the older I get, the more I hate capitalism.

first world problems

There is a ton of stuff going on in my life right now, but I haven't really felt like writing about much of it. You see, I have a fear...and it has to do with my face.

Let me back up. After the first time I took my spousal unit home to stay with my parents, she didn't immediately get our family dynamic. A couple of visits later, there was a night where she looked at me and said "you know, I think I have your family figured out...you express your love for each other by picking on each other." It's true...maybe it's the British in us, but sarcasm is a requirement if you want to survive.

Back here in the great white North, I have plenty of friends, people who love me. They too express their love (or at least a slightly lowered level of disdain) for me by picking on me. While they might do this with each other to a certain extent, I'm pretty sure I get picked on more than the rest. With my family, I could understand the picking as a result of cultural heritage, but save a few far flung friends, Britishness does not run in my circles. So why the biting interaction even emanating from those who, I'm pretty sure, seem to like me for some reason? I can only assume I have one of those faces that says "hey, put me down."

Couple this with my own natural tendency to focus on the elements of my life where foibles exist, where things go less according to plan and instead actively work against me to some degree (which some people, incidentally, interpret as whining), and the level of verbal warfare can become significant. And yes, as I've had this particular style of interaction for all my life, I'm generally used to being slammed, to being put down, to being burned. I can generally tell that it comes from love rather than hate. But there are exceptions, moments where I take things to heart more than I should. Particularly as I get older, as I experience loss and uncertainty more frequently, and I sometimes become hyper-aware of perception.

Particularly lately, I've been holding a lot of stuff in. Part of it is knowing, compared to many of my friends, my lot in life isn't really that bad. Part of it is having so many undeniably good things going on in my life (a beautiful spousal unit, a forthcoming package o' joy, an utterly kick-ass band), dwelling on the negatives I honestly feel might make me come off as at best a bigger whiner than anyone already suspects or at worst an ungrateful bastard...either of which might open me up to more verbal abuse than I can stand.

But if I can't talk about these things, they fester. If I hold in the shadows, it becomes darkness. If I can't write about my own life, my own feelings, my own fears, what am I doing?

I will be posting here more frequently. While I will try to have some kind of balance, at heart, it's really healthier for me to be honest, to work through some issues. And if it ever seems at any moment that I'm turning into one of those tremendously blessed people whining about my first world problems, please realize that I too am aware of my tone...and that I am also working on posts about happy stuff (like dancing baby sloths).

Be patient with me.

my friend Matthew

A friend of mine died last night.

Matthew was someone I was really just getting to know, but I was really enjoying getting to know him. He was working for his MA from the same place I got my Ph.D. He had an unabashed love for and knowledge of cheesy 80s hair metal and role-playing games. He was a fan of my band. He was funny, nice, bubbly, warm, and just willing to go out of his way for you. I hung out with him just Tuesday night, and we talked academics and comics. Afterward, he dropped me off on his way home.

These are only fragmentary recollections...but I guess they'll have to be enough for now. Tonight, my band plays out, and I am going to rip through our set in his memory.

the gender predicative

Since we've made the big announcement, there's been a lot of fear. Not about the impending birth, mind you. Nah, my fear is entirely bound with the level of gender role saturation which inevitably arises whenever either of us mention the forthcoming urchin.

The first thing I noticed is that it mattered not what we said...any observation/fact/detail about Mighty DuBose would invariably be interpreted as a sign we were going to have boy (50% of the time) or girl (50$ of the time). Tell someone that the heart rate was 150 at the last appointment, and you would hear "Oh, that means you're having a boy/girl." Spousal Unit tells someone she's been craving cinnamon, and that definitely means we're having a son. Tell someone she's also craved root beer, and that's a sign it will be a girl. It doesn't matter: how Spousal Unit is carrying, how much sleep she gets, how much and where exactly Mighty kicks, what time of day urchin was conceived, what phase of the moon, how urchin reacts in utero to zombie films, whatever you can imagine, it becomes a scientific marker of sex-to-be.

The absolute weirdest one so far? One co-worker told my spousal unit that if she uses the rest room and then pours Draino down the toilet before flushing, it will change color, and the resulting color will show either boy or girl...said co-worker didn't know what color would mean what, though, so this is one we didn't try. Plus, how did Draino's last reformulation affect its gender-prediction properties? No one is saying.

I've read a lot about how parents are supposed to react to pregnancy, and most sources say both parents will have strong preferences for either a boy or a girl, "I just want it to be healthy" claims to the contrary. Personally, though, I honestly had no real preferences...and I am most certainly an interested party. This makes everyone else's innate need for gender that much more puzzling. Co-workers and good friends both have made it their mission to trick us into saying one way or another. Why are they so invested as to resort to treachery?

The Spousal Unit had someone at work hold a baby shower for her. Spousal Unit told her co-workers that we weren't disclosing the sex of the kid, and that gender-neutral gifts would be best. Nevertheless, one coworker (convinced Mighty would be a boy) got blue clothes with race cars, while another (convinced Mighty would be a girl) got an array of pink outfits.

This weekend, I was telling these tales to a relative. Said relative looked at Spousal Unit for a minute and said, "But I know you're having a boy...I can tell by just looking at you...and I'm 95% accurate."

Sigh.

the costs of pregnancy

Pregnancy does many things to women. The spousal unit, for instance, has been suffering the standard spacial disorientation, pregnancy brain, fatigue, and numerous other symptoms, so I have a little bit of first (well, second) hand knowledge of some of the things pregnancy can dos.

Today, I found another effect of pregnancy.

I was doing student conferences today from home for my online class. In between video and text chats, I decided to use my spare minutes to assemble the urchin's crib-in-a-box. It took a while, particularly since I had very few short or no-show conferences...and it's very hard to get any momentum with a single five minute work session per hour. So, unfortunately, when the spousal unit got home, I wasn't completely finished.

I labored on, though. It was, after all a quintessential male activity...sitting in a study-in-the-process-of-becoming-a-nursery, bolting together furniture for the forthcoming bundle of joy as the pregnant lady rests in the other room. A little under an hour later, I had finally finished.

I came into the living room to grab the mattress, and the spousal unit followed me back to the now-it's-actually-looking-somewhat-like-a-nursery...and, of course, as soon as she saw the criblet out an "awww." I put my arm around her and said "you know, this really helps drive home the fact that in just a little while, I'm going to be a father"...and then, after a brief beat, let out a brief panicky yell and ran out of the room.

Nothing. I came back in the room, and the spousal unit was examining the crib.

"What? No reaction at all?"

She didn't even look up. "Get used to it, dear."

So, one more thing pregnancy does for women...it removes their appreciation for cheesy spousal drama. Sigh.

transition

No, it's not going to stop

so just give up

--Aimee Mann

Some kids want to be firemen or astronauts. Both options never really appealed to me...they both required more energy and physicality than I had. I was always a fairly sedentary child. My parents love to tell how I would always rather read a book rather than go outside and play.

It wasn't that I was lazy, per se. It's just that, given a choice, books always won out over running around. I would prefer to sit around, read, and think about what I had just read. Thinking was about figuring stuff out. It was about entering other words. It was about letting my mind go farther than my body ever could travel. The first books I can remember reading were the "Classics Illustrated" kid's versions of classic books. Then I graduated to the actual classics themselves (A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court was particularly vivid). Then it was on to detective fiction. I started science fiction and fantasy upon stumbling across Lord of the Rings in my middle school library. Then a friend introduced me to horror. Eventually, it was just any book, any story, any genre...as long as it transported me somewhere or let me think, it was where I wanted to be.

Somewhere in high school, my reading became subsumed by events...mostly work, guitar, and partying. Class took some of my time, but I got sucked into a job which occupied many more of my hours. I moved from part-time job to part-time job. Eventually, I found myself selling water as an operator-standing-by. When we were slow, we had permission to read, and it prompted a bit of a resurgence in my readings...I actually went through my local library's entire science fiction section.

Reading became important to me again...I found myself diving back into thinking, exploring, learning. There was, however, an unexpected result: I found myself increasingly aware of exactly how dead-end my series of menial crap jobs had become. I would like to say that I realized how little impact my various occupations (whether water seller, pizza maker, rat killer, or warehouse worker) made on anyone, and that I decided I wanted to move on to a career where I would make the world a better place, but the truth was nowhere so noble. Simply put, reading made me realize that I was tired of not feeling smart.

So I quit my water-selling job and went back to school. From the beginning, I wanted to figure out a way I could make reading and thinking my career, and pretty much from the start, this meant going to school long enough to become a teacher...in essence, I wanted to enter the university and never leave it. I wanted to become a professional thinker, someone who worked with ideas, explored theory, created knowledge. This implied teaching, but although I became very good at, enjoyed, and ultimately found teaching to be very rewarding, it was always about thinking for me, first and foremost.

I did everything I could think of to become a professional thinker. I studied night and day. I became a graduate assistant. I wrote. I read. I started my own literary journal. I wrote articles and published as many as I could. I expanded my vita as much as possible. Becoming a professional thinker--that is, getting a tenure-track professor's job--has pretty much been my focus since I went back to school in 1994. It has been the reason why I've read more than I ever thought I would, taught myself discipline after discipline, and spent my summers reading, writing, and thinking.

Unfortunately, my grand plan didn't work.

I got my Ph.D., entered the job market, and...nothing happened. I sent out over 500 applications in my time, and these did lead to a few phone interviews. The ones I wanted the most, though, I never heard back from the universities. I did get two campus interviews, but they were both at schools (including the community college I , and actually attended) where I really didn't want to work. I published more and more, but it's paid off less and less. It's been years since I've even heard back from any school where I've applied. No one, it seems, is interested in hiring me as a professional thinker.

Yesterday, I deleted all of the job announcement e-mail alerts in my in-box. Some time this week, I will unsubscribe to all my academic job feeds.

It's not, for the record, all bad. I do have a full-time job (albeit in a different field). I have published a lot of my writing, and when I last checked (which was a few years ago--in spite of my ego, I don't really sit around and google myself), some of them were used in classes and in other scholars' dissertations. But ultimately, thinking is not my career...and, as I will not be able to be on the job market for the next two years, there's little hope of me ever becoming a professional thinker.

Why did I not succeed? It's actually not a surprise to me. In an attempt to be different, I picked a topic that no one else was doing. Instead of being cutting-edge, though, my topic was just dramatically unhip. This prevented me from getting work doing anything other than part-time work for the first two years after graduation, and part-time teaching leaves utterly no time or mental energy for thinking or writing. Then, when I finally realized my dissertation was unhip, I rebranded myself...into something else that was also unhip. Then the economy imploded. Then many state governments decided that educators were the problem and that schools could survive without funding.

So it is officially time to give up on the job market. I wish my friends on the market the absolute best of luck, particularly since they're no longer my competition. I envy them: they still live in the world of ideas.

Me, though, not so much. I still have my dissertation-to-book project to write, and I still have three papers in circulation. I might still send out some apps when, in 2013, I'm able to reenter the job market, but I don't really have much hope. If I am honest, I've known for quite some time that I will never be a professor.

There is still tons to do, though. I have become a performing musician. I have pretenses of just being a writer...maybe an essayist, maybe a writer. And I still have article ideas, so the academic world isn't done hearing from me.

It's time, though, to admit that I'm transitioning into being a hobbyist thinker.

style versus innovation

These chords are old, but we shake hands

'cause I believe that they're the good guys

I'm blessed by the ability to play music. Last weekend was a good one for me: an acoustic show, an electric show, converting new fans, getting to see some of my favorite bands, hanging out with my bandmates, feeling fully like a music guy again.

In spite of this, I do believe that in a very real sense, music ended quite some time ago.

When someone decided that kids in between the age of thirteen and eighteen needed to have their own separate culture, music started to change at an astounding rate. Shocking became the key trope in distinguishing "teenage cultural artifact A" from one belonging to your father. Depending on the genre and medium, this could mean any number of things. Obscenity. Blood. Brighter colors. Faster pace. Increasing illegality. Controlled substances. The street. Graphic whatever.

In music, this turned in many cases to an obsession with hardness. In rock, it was first in incorporating the forbidden timbre and groove of black music. Then lyrics became increasingly more... gritty... realistic... guttural... streetwise... obscene... whatever. In the meantime, some pioneer decided that using crappy, inefficient, prone-to-explode equipment could be, in and of itself, both beautiful and transgressive. Tempos increased. Distortion piled on top of distortion. The tone underwent went a slow crescendo into noise.

Unfortunately it was often missed, in this struggle to become more and more shocking, a realization, a certain subtle factoid, and it was this: at an eventual point in time, musicians would reach the point where they physically could not play any faster. Sooner or later, you would run out of startling lyrical possibilities. Eventually, you would meet the maximum level of distortion. Where would you go after you finally hit the wall? When there was no other side as a possible destination? Where can you go when you've gone too far?

I've never really known. My personal musical style could hardly be called progressive, futuristic, envelope-pushing. I am, at heart, just a blues-rock guitarists. My scale is the minor pentatonic. Yes, I use effects, but they are too far out of fashion to even be considered in the neighborhood of retro. I am far from the first person, for instance, to use an envelope filter or analog octave divider.

One friend, upon hearing me play, complemented me before saying she hadn't heard anyone play like me in a long time. My look must've been questioning, because she said, "y'know, like arena rock-ish." It took me a while to realize how accurate she was, and, more to the point, be okay with my arena rock influences. Hell, at one point in my life, I wanted to be a musical pioneer. Then I wanted to be unique. Now, though, I'll settle for just being the kind of guitar player I always wanted to be.

Sometimes, you gotta let the guitar talk. Sometimes you gotta just hit it. That's what I do.

home improvement.

One of the real problems of being a media scholar is that you quickly run out of any entertainment options which might in any way be described as "brainless." I try out tons of programs in the pursuit for something that doesn't really make me think, but sooner or later, I'm breaking down everything. I quit watching food television because I couldn't turn off the gender analysis. I've tried NCIS, but the stereotyping drives me insane. The list goes on.

My latest effort in my pursuit of "not thinking for at least a moment" is home improvement television. Now, I've watched tons of shows in my years. For a while, I could've been described as a Bob Villa junkie. I've seen every single This Old House and Hometimes, many of them multiple times. I enjoy it, but mentally, I already have paper after paper planned. Some of them would be quite good ones, if only I had time to write them...damn job that doesn't reward scholarship.

I try to go more brainless by delving into HGTV, but that doesn't help. Many of the shows feature people looking for new houses...these always drive my thoughts into the area of class warfare, as I have very little sympathy for anyone depressed over the lack of housing options under $650,000. I watch the design shows, and they only make me want to invent a new game: "Gay or Canadian"...because all the hosts seem to be...well, you get the picture.

Lately, I've been watching the Mike Holmes programs Holmes on Homes and Holmes Inspection. They're particularly interesting, because they reverse the standard home improvement narrative. These shows are certainly not telling you "yes, you can do it yourself." No, they make absolutely no attempt at claiming viewer empowerment. You watch this show, and you have no thoughts about your repair competency. Moreover, they don't even hint that professionals in the field might be competent...quite the opposite, in fact. I watch Mike Holmes, and I feel utterly depressed at the possibility of there being anything close to an honest, skilled professional anywhere. Except Mike Holmes himself, of course...he is, according to the show, the construction industry Jesus, albeit with a Canadian accent.

Today's episode was particularly brutal. The previous owners of the hell-house in question had apparently, before selling to the now shell-shocked couple, found massive termite and rot damage, all caused by the fact that the foundation was made of dirt...simple, unpacked dirt. Their solution? Just insulate and drywall over everything. The crew's fix wasn't so much a gut job as a "bomb and start over job." It was truly horrifying.

The critical side of my brain is still trying to process a home improvement show which argues most professionals are incompetent, some of them at levels bordering on criminal. Are they telling us that experts everywhere inherently suck? Is a home improvement channel really trying to dissuade me from ever becoming a home owner?

I would worry about this all that much more if I wasn't doomed to enough poverty to never escape being a renter...and might even make the swarm of bees seem a reasonable price.

Thank goodness for debt.

the Rusty Scotch-Aid

Sitting around late at night watching television? Depressed at the state of the world, your state government, the forthcoming sinus infection, and hopes of a successful resolution to the NFL labor situation? Maybe it's just me...but at times like these, I think the best thing to do is (wait for it) create a new mixed drink! I call it "the Rusty Scotch-Aid":

• take a high-ball glass and add ice
  
• pour in a healthy slug of cheap Scotch that someone gave you
  
• squeeze in a quarter of a lemon and dump in the remainder
  
• add a tablespoon or so of sugar syrup...more if the Scotch is particularly cheap
  
• top off with soda water
  
• stir, sip, and watch scary television
  

I am a rock star

One of these days see me driving round town

In my rock 'n' Rolls Royce with the sun roof down

I am a rock star.

No, not really. In reality, I'm a guy who's married to a wonderful/pregnant spousal unit, teaches writing under an uncertain future (thanks, Senate Bill 5!), and who plays in a local (meaning we can't get gigs the next town over) band. But from the time I bought my first crappy guitar, I always had visions of being on stage, playing to a worshiping throng of admirers who would hang on my every note and scream at the end of the solo. It was my dream

This, of course, never happened for lots of reasons. I've known for ages I would never be a rock star. Going back to college perhaps sealed the deal, but I kinda knew long before that. But there are still times where, when I close my eyes, I wonder what it would've been like to play arenas.

I know, though, I will never be a rock star. So, a few weeks ago, I decided to do the next-best thing: I ordered some custom guitar picks!

I found a place online who sold custom guitar picks for a reasonable price. I went to town with GIMP on a photo from one of my past shows and made myself look like a cool line drawing. I uploaded my photo, moved some stuff around, and gave them my credit card number. A little over a week later, I recieved a bag of shiny, customized .73mm color delrin picks.

The picks are a geeky fantasy come true, something I've always wanted. I've given them to friends, most of whom seem inordinately thrilled to get a 50 cent piece of plastic. Some have told me they're the coolest thing they've seen. One or two (who were admittedly drinking at the time) said something about putting the pick with their special souvenirs. True, one friend, upon seeing the pick, said "DuBose, you're such a nerd" (admittedly, she does have a case), and my singer has threatened to quit the band if I throw a handful to the crowd during some gig.

This past weekend, I went to see Two Cow Garage, my favorite band in the world, when they played at a Toledo bar. I know both Micah, the guitarist and Shane, the bass player, so when I said hello to them, I gave them each a pick. During their set, Shane used my pick...and showed it to me from the stage. Maybe I became a rock star by proxy...just a little, mind you.

Afterward, I was saying my goodbyes. When I was talking to Micah, I told him that I showed one of my classes clips from a documentary someone did on them a few years back, and how it depressed the students. The students, I told him, focused on how hopeless it seemed to make it in the music industry. This puzzled me at the time, and, I told Micah, I couldn't figure out why the state of the industry was of such importance to them...because personally, I don't give a crap about executives, labels, or any of that. Instead, I care about bands and music. The industry? Stardom? Ultimately, it doesn't seem very important.

This does not mean, however, that I will ever give up my custom guitar picks. I'm holding onto at least a small fragment of the dream.

just a number

But you know

The years make things different

When I turned 21, I actually did it at someone else's birthday party. It was close to midnight, and a friend asked who was of legal age. When I said I would be in 17 minutes, he insisted on driving me to the store...and then he insisted on waiting until 12:01...and then he insisted the clerk card me for my beer purchase.

After that, I don't really remember much about most of my birthdays. I understand why many people want to be sentimental about such things, and I kinda wanna be sentimental myself...but there is just very little of most of them that stick in my mind. There have been parties, there have been meetings at the bar, there have been times where I've just stayed at home and watched television. The one that sticks out most in my mind was when it was just me, my lovely spousal unit, and a vampire friend at Howard's Club H. I remember it because, after my spousal unit asked me three times if I wanted a delivery from The Cookie Jar, I finally asked her, "you want cookies, don't you?" She did that enormously cute pseudo-guilt look by way of reply. The cookies ended up being very tasty, though.

Moreover, my age itself hardly sticks with me. When I was 33, I remembered my age for two reasons: the play speed of an LP and the back of a Rolling Rock bottle. I remembered 34 because of a line from a Goober and the Peas song...of course, the song was about stalking, so I tried really hard not to think about it all that closely. I associated 35 with The Jayhawks song "Big Star" because of the line "a has-been at a mere 35"; that song ultimately is more optimistic than it sounds, but I still didn't think about it all that closely.

After that, though, whenever someone asked me my age, I would have to stop and think about it...and, embarrassing enough, do the math before I answered. While I realize some people might look at this as a sign of my encroaching senility, I've just never been that good at remembering some basic, simple facts. Hell, I still have to look at my hands most of the time to remember which side is my left and which side is my right.

The bigger issue is that I simply don't feel all that different. Back when I was still working in the pizza industry, I was sharing a cigarette with my supervisor, and we were talking about age. He took a drag off his smoke, looked into space, and said, "hell, Mike, I still have to stop and realize I'm not 22." When I was 25, this struck me as funny. Now, though, I can completely relate.

There was a time when I started to feel old. It was when I was working at another pizza place, and all the employees were teenies. No surprise there...the restaurant industry feeds on the young. However, I became acutely aware they were all younger than I only because they were all listening to more current music than I. I realized I was up against a decision. I could become a person whose references, experiences, and culture all came from his high school years (you know, the people who don't own an album that came out later than their 24th birthday). Or I could just dive into the world and experience it as I see fit...which might require me to reach a little bit outside my comfort zone. When I started to look outside of myself, age really quit being an issue.

Today, I turned 40. There's no tears, there's no freakout. There's really little significance at all for me. However, there's something better. When I woke up today, there was an awesome card and some organic dark chocolate from my beautiful preggie spousal unit waiting for me. There was about 40 e-mails and notifications wishing me a happy birthday, all of whom I appreciate more than I say. Tonight, there will be a good dinner and drinks with friends. If getting older brings all this, well, that is indeed alright.

my random 83rd Oscar observations.

• King's Speech is a good and worthy film, but I really wish True Grit would've gotten some love.
  
• Whomever the male host was, he acted and looked stoned out of his mind...until, halfway through, it looked like someone had given him amphetamines.
  
• I really enjoy watching the Oscars. I don't care about the telecast in the slightest, really...but it's a wonderful excuse to have friends over, eat good food, and have a great time.
  
• The thing that bugs me most about the Oscars is the self-important "why does anyone watch this?" whining I hear online. I hear the same thing about the Super Bowl...which also bugs me. Hey, it's not a point of honor to not like something. It's not even a good conversational starter.
  
• I really, really, really hated the attempts to make the Oscars look hip...all of which boiled down to "oh, did you know there's such a thing as Twitter?"
  
• Do we really need to hear all the original songs? If you're gonna force us, then you should also, for the "best score" award, play every single second of every score.
  
• I really do not like how the presenters of each of the best acting awards directly address the nominees...it seems creepy and voyeuristic.
  
• If I was one of a few people to win an award, and if my co-winner hogged the mic the entire time, I would punch them somewhere very painful.
  
• If I was a winner of one of the minor awards and was only given 23 seconds for my speech, I would find the actor who was allowed to ramble for five whole minutes and punch them somewhere very painful.
  
• How depressing must it be to have to play the "we're glad you won, but shut up, so we can bring on someone else" music?
  

work and respect

My name is Mike DuBose. The worker's rights that my government and many of its citizens are actively trying to destroy? They are mine. This is my story.

My first job was summer employment. I got a position alongside my brother, who was working at a pavement marking company. We painted the lines on parking lots, school tracks, parking garages, and so forth. This was in Florida, in the summer, and we were almost always working on freshly-laid asphalt. As a result, the working conditions were awful. The heat was enormous...on top of the standard 95-100 degree highs, we also had to contend with radiant heat from the asphalt, which boosted everything by 20-30 degrees. Then there were the surely toxic fumes: paint, mineral spirits, and asphalt...even over twenty years later, the merest whiff of a new parking lot turns my stomach. I have no doubt that had I stayed in this line of work, I would today have serious health issues just from inhaling all the chemicals.

Our boss was a really fun and nice guy. However, he only really cared about working us as hard and as fast as possible. When he would run to the store, he would bring us (fairly awful) coffee--if we gave him money, that is--but he refused to bring us sugar or cream because it took too long for him to grab some packets. When we would break for lunch, he would eat as fast as possible before yelling at us to hurry up so we could get back to work. He loved to yell and berate us if we were not flying at our jobs.

My boss wanted to push us, but he never really reciprocated with any loyalty. I was the summer guy, and, as a result, I was never taught any skills which would increase my future hireability. I never, for instance, got to run the striping machine; this meant that the only real thing I could bring from the experience was the ability to sweep, to carry stuff, and to wait on my other workers who were given the big tasks. However, even the workers who were taught skills were unvalued. One weekend during the next fall, he called me and asked me to help him with a job. I went, because I honestly did like the guy...and also, I could use the cash. When we left for the job, I asked where all the co-workers were, but apparently, my boss had "let everyone go" because he wanted to raise his income.

This led to my first two lessons about work. First, you are only a tool for bosses to use as they sees fit. Second, you have no rights; you are instead a machine cog. Third, it doesn't really matter how nice your bosses are...they are never looking out for you.

My next job was working at a pizza chain. I was a good employee...I would do anything I was asked, I would come in whenever called, I tried very hard to learn, and I worked as hard as possible whenever I was on the clock. Eventually, I became an assistant manager. When this happened, my mindset clicked. I started to demand everyone work as hard as I did. I ran my stores with a maniacal focus. I kept a very close eye on labor and food costs, and I would rather work everyone as hard as possible than treat my employees well if it meant I could bring in good numbers for my bosses (who, I assumed, I could make appreciate me through sheer force of will).

When I got promoted, I read it as a sign that my hard work was paying off, that my bosses were taking care of me. I believed this in spite of getting only about a dollar above minimum wage and working most weekend nights. However, about two months after a major car accident, and while still suffering the effects of broken ribs, I got a call that I was fired. I wasn't even given a good reason, but later, I found out that my manager fired me so she could promote her 17 year-old cousin. Turns out the lesson I should've learned was that promotions and such were not signs you were becoming a valued employee; they were just ways to extract more work out of you.

I then worked at a major package delivery service. My job was to load two 60' semi trailers. These trailers would then be picked up, moved to the other side of the building, unloaded, and moved onto small local delivery trucks. I had two types of interactions with my bosses. They might try to trick me by throwing in packages that were supposed to go to Jacksonville AL or Jacksonville NC rather than Jacksonville FL. Then, when one of these slipped through, they would come and yell at me. Their other method of interactions was to just skip to yelling: first, that I wasn't packing the truck efficiently, then that I had to tear down my truck and start over, and then that, while I was rebuilding the wall of packages, I was falling behind on incoming packages. Finally, they would send over someone to help me get caught up, but only after giving me a "I can't believe how awful you are" look. Eventually, they quit calling me in and, after a few weeks, called me to tell me I was laid off. The only real lesson I got out of this was that even working hard was no real guarantee you would be treated with even a superficial level of respect.

After a while, I started work for a temporary service agency, where most of my work was in warehouses and such...although it occasionally got much worse. As a temp worker, I learned that no matter what I did, I was invisible. Hell, even the other workers wouldn't learn your names...so why would the bosses not treat you with the same respect they would give to a disposable toilet seat cover?

I went to work for another pizza franchise, promising myself I would be just a worker bee, completely uninvested in my work. Only my boss (a supervisor at my old pizza place) forced me into management...and soon, I was back to killing myself every day. I did rise to a valued position...I actually got traded back and forth between the supervisors and ended up working in about ten different stores during my time there. This, however, was by no means a sign they were looking after my best interests, and I eventually quit when my manager kept ignoring my hours requests. This was, I learned, the only real power I had...to walk away.

I worked in telemarketing sales for a while. Again, I worked hard, and again, I did a really good job, but the other shoe dropped when one of my colleagues got a job in the company mail room. He was overly excited about this, because it was actually a full-time job, unlike our sales work, which was all through a temp agency...and his excitement just depressed me further.

I decided to go back to school, because college, I assumed, would lead to a job where I was treated with some level of respect. I figured that if I became a teacher, if I dedicated my life to the public at large, if I just worked at helping people and hopefully making the world a little bit better of a place, things would work out. I never had any hope for fame and riches. I just wanted a job where I could sleep well at night, knowing I made a difference in some small way. Surely that will be respected in some small way...right?

To pay my bills, I went back to work for the pizza place, only because I was good enough to work a morning shift and get all my prep work done by opening. I would wait on customers through lunch and then study. Later, I got a job as graduate assistant for my department (which meant being a glorified office boy); one professor in particular enjoyed dumping piles of photocopying on my desk when I had ten minutes left in my shift. Eventually, I also started working for another professor's teacher-training project, but this prof, I am convinced, was essentially unable to even pick me out of a lineup; when I cut off my long metal hair, she didn't even notice.

I moved to Ohio and became a graduate teaching assistant. I wanted to teach as much of a range of classes as possible (thus expanding my skills and hireability), but my first department refused to give me their film class. I was then transferred to another department, where, although I was a doctoral candidate, my work was analyzed, reviewed, and critiqued by an MA student with years less experience than I, and the decision on whether my students passed or failed was made by someone else. I did one research assistantship where my prof wanted me to write a research paper and him to put his name on it, and another assistantship where I got a spot on a couch rather than an office.

I was then thrust into the world of part-time work, where I was treated even lower, paid less, and remained invisible to my bosses (save one at the lowest-paying community college, who, even though they paid me half of my other schools, still wanted me to wear a suit to teach). I then had to take a part-time job at the local zoo to make ends meet. My bosses there liked me, but only because the rest of the workforce was so lackluster...I still had no rights.

Throughout it all, I remained a good worker. Wherever I have been employed (even at the lowliest of places), I have honestly given my all to my job. When I was doing temp work, I would bust my ass...not because the bosses might see my effort and like me (I knew they usually didn't know who I was) but because that's what you're supposed to do at work. I gave my rural low-paying community college my A game, and my students got a taste of top-level college teaching...even if it was unappreciated to do so. I killed myself at the zoo. I was an awesome employee wherever I worked. It's just, I always thought, how you are supposed to be....and, if you keep doing it (the entirety of American culture tells us), someone will notice.

For my current job, I'm an Associate Lecturer in the Department of English Language and Literature at University of Toledo. I teach composition, business writing, technical writing, and literature classes. The subject matter really is outside my training, but I have worked hard to become a good, pedagogically sound teacher.

I meticulously plan my classes for maximum student learning. For instance, I put in long hours conferencing with students, discussing their writing, giving them the personal educational experience which I never had. I've had colleagues tell me "you're a badass teacher." My departmental evaluations are good, and my boss has expressed admiration at my reach and scope in the classroom.

All I want from work is to be allowed to do my job to the best of my ability, in an atmosphere of relative stability. While I by no means thought I would be a writing teacher, I honestly would be quite happy doing this work, at this school, until the day I die. I like my school, like my colleagues, like my students, like the work. As long as I am at this job, I will give my university as much of me as I can.

Unfortunately, I have learned recently that all the lessons from my previous job still hold true to this day. I might be good at my job, and yes, my bosses might like me. Ultimately, though, I am just a cog in a machine, and those who hold ultimate authority over my labor are not looking out at all for my best interests. Instead, they see me as the enemy.

My state elected a governor who ran on a platform to, among other things, raid my retirement. Now, my governor and legislators are ramming through a bill which will eliminate my right to collectively bargain. This means that my university president, who is already deeply engaged in efforts to undermine my college, will be able to do with me pretty much whatever he pleases. I am a soon-to-be father who is now probably going to have my family leave taken away. I am soon going to suffer a big financial hit when my take-home pay drops when the university administration quits contributing to my health care. I would not be at all surprised if my actual salary gets cut. These, though, are far from the worst thing that can happen. If the current anti-collective bargaining movement passes (as it surely will), my university could fire all us lecturers and replace us with part-timers. And because I wouldn't have the ability to collective bargain, and because the union wouldn't have the power to strike, there's absolutely nothing I or any of my colleagues could do about it.

Aside from my personal doom, the most disturbing thing about all this is that, if they gut my job (as I suspect they will), it will lead to worse teaching. You take away my job security, and I will be a much more panicked teacher. You increase my workload, and that's less time I can spend with my students. You take away my benefits or salary, and I will do my best to leave the business of teaching altogether (assuming, of course, there's anywhere else for me to go...I've even given thought to going back to the restaurant world). Moreover, you will teach me and everyone who does what I do that our work is unvalued...and although we really want to care about our job, there's only so far we can go when that consideration is constantly unreciprocated.

I don't really want much. While I think I deserve it, I have absolutely no expectations for a salary reasonable to my level of training and my work performance. I have no desire for awards, publicity, or accolades. All I want really is to be treated with a little respect and be allowed to keep trying to help the future generation become a bit smarter and better at critical thinking, in hopes that they can make this world a slightly better place. I also want to not be treated as the enemy.

That, during a time where you say we need increased job growth, and that the key to such growth is an educated citizenry capable of doing the work, this is the time you decide to rip the top off education, make all the workers devalued, and try your hardest to drive out the dedicated professionals who teach is frankly befuddling, counter intuitive, and more than a little sad.

exhaustion

I slip in and out of volume, mind cycling into a particularly sweeping tremolo. Blasts of synaptic soundwaves, punctuated by pure desertion. Noise, space. Action, inertia. Motion, stagnancy. Vibration, static.

If only it were slightly more regular, one might read it for signs of some grand pattern in the chaos. Yet it is instead marked more by irregularity, uncertainty, and the occasional patterns where everything just sort of...stops.

I find myself lacking tether. Instinctively, I realize that bases exist, but where? It's not lost. Somewhere, I am sure, the knowledge resides. Where, though, might my center reside? I try to think where, but instead, I grind to another standstill.

My arms ache, but the causal labors in question escape me. My eyes seem to embody more weight than usual, as if they've seen things no one should see...but what? All I can feel is a certain time lapse spreading through my frontal cortex.

The blame can only reside in the nights and mornings.

one of my turns

There are nights where, sitting alone at the bar, I realize that I'm surprised I'm manic.

Moments of blackness. Despair. Utter pissed-offness. Wave after wave crashing upon me, washing me out. The only thing I'm really missing sometimes is the regularity of a tidal schedule...and this, somehow, makes it all infinitely worse, in so many ways.

When these turns come, it makes very little difference if the music is crushing or lilting. Gravity, in this case, doesn't seem to apply...and at any rate, it doesn't seem to help.

This last turn, there was a definite initial incident, yes, but beginnings are ultimately less an issue than progressions.

Whenever it starts, it quickly triggers cascades in other locations. Soon school, scholarship, career, family, friends, all of these start their own respective reactions. One atom flies across the room, smashing into another. Particles fly. Compounds form, react, explode, starting cycles in other nearby atoms. Pretty soon, reactions outweigh elements, the fire builds, and it becomes one massive, devastating event which is quite often hazardous to behold with the unshielded eye.

My logic is a series of forcibly abandoned atolls, each pleasant enough on its own, but with the distant appearance of some innocent eyed pilot on the horizon...things will change.

Atomic rage has implications ranging far and wide.

cold planning

Don't you love it when a plan comes together?

My spousal unit and I often carpool, since we both are working in the same directions and, this semester at least, work similar hours. We save some cash and get to spend some time together...that it's in the earliest hours of the day, when we both would rather be sleeping (or indeed doing anything other than being awake) is a fun bonus.

Today, I got up early, because there was one of those really charmingly fun Ohio weather patterns with both snow and ice (two-fer tuesday!), and the car needed clearance. On top of everything, on our ride home yesterday, one of my windshield wipers shredded, and I had to figure out how to chip off the ice, change the blade, and still clear off all the wintery trash while staying on schedule. But I am efficient, I am a machine, so everything happened according to plan.

I went in, defrosted, showered, ate my yogurt and granola, brewed my tea, watched a little television, noted how much Gadaffi nowadays looks like a very old Gene Simmons, and grabbed my crap for the trip to the car. I cranked the sucker up, scraped a bit of ice stragglers off my windshield, helped the spousal unit into the car, and went to buckle myself in. So far, no problem.

However, when I looked at the dash to see if I needed to stop for gas, I noticed my battery was discharging...badly, with warning lights and everything. This meant that I had to abandon my car, move everything to my spousal unit's car (only after banging off enough ice to unfreeze the doors), de-ice her car (with two days of ice, bordering around an inch), shovel all the freshly-plowed-off-the-road snow from behind her car, go back inside, change out of all my now sweat-soaked clothing, before heading back outside to leave for work, over a half hour late.

I haven't had enough time to plan for my second and third classes. My arms ache from scraping two icy vehicles. My spousal unit accidentally spilled my tea while moving from one car to another. AND, after classes are over, I get to inhale my lunch in about ten minutes before being locked in my office for student conferences for the rest of the day.

Everything is working out just perfectly...but only because, by now, I expect failure.