Tuesday Morning Thoughts
I often have college and high school to do over. It is the subject of my dreams on a weekly basis. I always have missed class for weeks on end and am afraid to go. I fear the reprimands from the teacher and I fear being so far behind and lost in class. There is usually a subplot that is sometimes exciting and oftentimes unimportant. Sometimes I am in my underwear. A few nights ago I realized I had missed classes for so long that I wondered if it would be better to cut my losses and drop out for the semester. These are issues I never really had in school.
Last night I dreamt I was in college and finals were the next day. I was glad to get them over with. I also dreamt I had a new apartment and was smoking tobacco out of a hooka pipe and a strange woman entered the door asking for Brian. I started running at her and she left. I then toasted myself a bagel and slurried cream cheese upon it.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
I love the way Frankenstein depicts intellectual life. Victor is an ambitious and talented student who seems to spend his time toting a stack of books around and taking in a few lectures anytime they’d strike his fancy. “Oh,” he’d say to himself as he passed a bulletin board in the quad, “Professor Paddlebottom is speaking on neuroscience at noon. I’ll have just enough time to sit in before we discuss that new Hegel pamphlet at tea.”
Is that how school used to be? Nowadays it seems my grad school chums keep busy reading dense books and then going to class twice a week, a routine that isn’t nearly as enticing as Victor’s. They’re reading enviably alright, and certainly having lively conversations in the taverns, but how much livelier would the intellectual climate be if universities were completely without structure?
Certainly there are more opportunities to invest myself in Milwaukee’s brainy community. What lectures are open to the public at UW-M? Why haven’t I stopped by the Tolkien exhibit at Marquette? Why don’t I carry a stack of books over to the coffee shop and sit for a spell? The public museum is free on Mondays.
Instead, I’ve become sort of an anti-intellectual who cringes whenever someone mentions Lacan at film viewings. I’m forgetting every nugget of Kierkegaard I used to cherish so that when I ask a Master’s student what he knows about the Dane, I’m shocked to hear a substantial summary (that would surely leave Søren cold) following a statement that he knows almost nothing about the subject. I love the occasions when I used to sneak into academic conferences where I understood almost nothing but still felt the jouissance that comes from—as Alanis Morrisette put it—intellectual intercourse. Those days seem to have come and gone. Now I’m eagerly looking for that bulletin board that Dr. Frankenstein must have strolled up to every morning.
After six or seven years traveling from Harvard to Glasgow to the University of Chicago in post-graduate bliss, Bill Brower confided to me that he felt as though he’d finally earned his bachelor’s degree. Perhaps he was being falsely modest, but I understand the sentiment completely. There was a time when someone was either “college material” or he wasn’t, and there was nothing to be ashamed of either way. I simply don’t think I was, or am, of the higher education breed. After “earning” a BA in English, I feel like I’m just about ready to start my junior year in high school. I’d be a top-notch student, certainly, but I honestly think that’s where I ought to be.
I must have written a horrendous paper for Dr. McGuire in my third year at ONU because she suggested I retake the basic composition class. I was too proud to even consider her suggestion, though, or to even think that she meant it as more than another jab at me on account of how “different” I was. I rarely don’t regret not taking her advice, though, if only to learn not to write sentences like this one. I’d love to have another shot at college, to earn good grades and take valuable internships. I’d love to see where that would put me in today’s job market.
The job market is the real test, unfortunately, because opportunities for academic growth outside of a degree program are rare in my town. All that anyone does is go to art shows and prattle on about Lacan. Maybe I should move to 18th century Ingolstadt, or, I guess, read a book.
Is that how school used to be? Nowadays it seems my grad school chums keep busy reading dense books and then going to class twice a week, a routine that isn’t nearly as enticing as Victor’s. They’re reading enviably alright, and certainly having lively conversations in the taverns, but how much livelier would the intellectual climate be if universities were completely without structure?
Certainly there are more opportunities to invest myself in Milwaukee’s brainy community. What lectures are open to the public at UW-M? Why haven’t I stopped by the Tolkien exhibit at Marquette? Why don’t I carry a stack of books over to the coffee shop and sit for a spell? The public museum is free on Mondays.
Instead, I’ve become sort of an anti-intellectual who cringes whenever someone mentions Lacan at film viewings. I’m forgetting every nugget of Kierkegaard I used to cherish so that when I ask a Master’s student what he knows about the Dane, I’m shocked to hear a substantial summary (that would surely leave Søren cold) following a statement that he knows almost nothing about the subject. I love the occasions when I used to sneak into academic conferences where I understood almost nothing but still felt the jouissance that comes from—as Alanis Morrisette put it—intellectual intercourse. Those days seem to have come and gone. Now I’m eagerly looking for that bulletin board that Dr. Frankenstein must have strolled up to every morning.
After six or seven years traveling from Harvard to Glasgow to the University of Chicago in post-graduate bliss, Bill Brower confided to me that he felt as though he’d finally earned his bachelor’s degree. Perhaps he was being falsely modest, but I understand the sentiment completely. There was a time when someone was either “college material” or he wasn’t, and there was nothing to be ashamed of either way. I simply don’t think I was, or am, of the higher education breed. After “earning” a BA in English, I feel like I’m just about ready to start my junior year in high school. I’d be a top-notch student, certainly, but I honestly think that’s where I ought to be.
I must have written a horrendous paper for Dr. McGuire in my third year at ONU because she suggested I retake the basic composition class. I was too proud to even consider her suggestion, though, or to even think that she meant it as more than another jab at me on account of how “different” I was. I rarely don’t regret not taking her advice, though, if only to learn not to write sentences like this one. I’d love to have another shot at college, to earn good grades and take valuable internships. I’d love to see where that would put me in today’s job market.
The job market is the real test, unfortunately, because opportunities for academic growth outside of a degree program are rare in my town. All that anyone does is go to art shows and prattle on about Lacan. Maybe I should move to 18th century Ingolstadt, or, I guess, read a book.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
I was taking one of my students to an appointment the other day and we were listening to the Raleigh (pop) hip-hop station, 97.5. I put "pop" in parenthesis because I think that most to all of the mainstream hip-hop is a bunch of shit. Luckily, the NC State independently run station (88.1) plays "underground" hip-hop every weekday from midnight on. I readily admit to being a novice in the area of hip-hop but am quite willing to learn.
At any rate, this song by Destiny's Child came on the radio--the one where they say, "I need a soldier . . ." referring to needing a man or boyfriend or what not. So my student says, "I have a soldier."
"Oh yeah?" I respond.
"Yeah, a soldier can be a boyfriend or a girlfriend."
My first response was to talk about how traditionally a "soldier" had referred to a male of the species, but instead I didn't. I let it rest. I said, "Well that's pretty cool."
I was suprised and impressed that, at least in this immediate teen culture, "soldier" was readily used to refer to both males and females, effectively stripping the common military term of any gender stereotypes. I thought that was pretty damn cool.
At any rate, this song by Destiny's Child came on the radio--the one where they say, "I need a soldier . . ." referring to needing a man or boyfriend or what not. So my student says, "I have a soldier."
"Oh yeah?" I respond.
"Yeah, a soldier can be a boyfriend or a girlfriend."
My first response was to talk about how traditionally a "soldier" had referred to a male of the species, but instead I didn't. I let it rest. I said, "Well that's pretty cool."
I was suprised and impressed that, at least in this immediate teen culture, "soldier" was readily used to refer to both males and females, effectively stripping the common military term of any gender stereotypes. I thought that was pretty damn cool.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
When the President Talks to God
I was thinking yesterday about writing how I felt about the Iraqi elections. I was feeling somehow convinced that maybe this was a good thing, that maybe, despite all of the bullshit, despite the war mongering and culture raping and oil stealing, that maybe, just maybe there was some hope in it all. I am not convinced that there is not hope. However I think the hope exists apart from and in spite of the occupying United States military. The 8 million or whatever Iraqi people that chose to participate in this election did so, not because they support the U.S. invading their country, or that they support the democratization and westernization of the Middle East. No, they did so because it symbolized a shred of hope that they had some amount of control over their own future and the future of their home. They are a strong people and a noble people and I feel ashamed for what my country has been doing to them for the past decade or so.
I saw a Bright Eyes show last night. Having never seen a Bright Eyes show before, I came away with the feeling that it probably wasn't the best show that Bright Eyes has ever played. I was, however, swept along with the passion and emotion of Conor Obursts protest songwriting. His song, "When the President talks to God" was fucking amazing! All of the false pride or good feeling I had perhaps felt for what my country was doing with the Iraqi elections quickly evaporated. Here are the lyrics to that song:
When the President talks to God, are the conversations brief or long?
Does he ask to rape our womens rights, and send poor farm kids off to die?
Does God suggest an oil hike, when the President talks to God?
When the President talks to God, are the consonants all hard or soft?
Is he resolute all down the line? Is every issue black or white?
Does what God say ever change his mind, when the President talks to God?
When the President talks to God, does he fake that drawl or merely nod?
Agree which convicts should be killed? Where prisons should be built and filled?
Which voter fraud must be concealed, when the President talks to God?
When the President talks to God, I wonder which one plays the better cop.
"We should find some jobs, the ghetto's broke," "No, they're lazy, George, I say we don't;
just give 'em more liqour stores and dirty coke!" That's what God recommends.
When the President talks to God, do they drink near beer and go play golf while they pick which countries to invade, which Muslim souls still can be saved?
I guess God just calls a spade a spade when the President talks to God.
When the President talks to God, does he ever think that maybe he's not?
That that voice is just inside his head, when he kneels next to the presidential bed?
Does he ever smell his own bullshit? When the President talks to God?
I doubt it...I doubt it.
Talk about it.
I was thinking yesterday about writing how I felt about the Iraqi elections. I was feeling somehow convinced that maybe this was a good thing, that maybe, despite all of the bullshit, despite the war mongering and culture raping and oil stealing, that maybe, just maybe there was some hope in it all. I am not convinced that there is not hope. However I think the hope exists apart from and in spite of the occupying United States military. The 8 million or whatever Iraqi people that chose to participate in this election did so, not because they support the U.S. invading their country, or that they support the democratization and westernization of the Middle East. No, they did so because it symbolized a shred of hope that they had some amount of control over their own future and the future of their home. They are a strong people and a noble people and I feel ashamed for what my country has been doing to them for the past decade or so.
I saw a Bright Eyes show last night. Having never seen a Bright Eyes show before, I came away with the feeling that it probably wasn't the best show that Bright Eyes has ever played. I was, however, swept along with the passion and emotion of Conor Obursts protest songwriting. His song, "When the President talks to God" was fucking amazing! All of the false pride or good feeling I had perhaps felt for what my country was doing with the Iraqi elections quickly evaporated. Here are the lyrics to that song:
When the President talks to God, are the conversations brief or long?
Does he ask to rape our womens rights, and send poor farm kids off to die?
Does God suggest an oil hike, when the President talks to God?
When the President talks to God, are the consonants all hard or soft?
Is he resolute all down the line? Is every issue black or white?
Does what God say ever change his mind, when the President talks to God?
When the President talks to God, does he fake that drawl or merely nod?
Agree which convicts should be killed? Where prisons should be built and filled?
Which voter fraud must be concealed, when the President talks to God?
When the President talks to God, I wonder which one plays the better cop.
"We should find some jobs, the ghetto's broke," "No, they're lazy, George, I say we don't;
just give 'em more liqour stores and dirty coke!" That's what God recommends.
When the President talks to God, do they drink near beer and go play golf while they pick which countries to invade, which Muslim souls still can be saved?
I guess God just calls a spade a spade when the President talks to God.
When the President talks to God, does he ever think that maybe he's not?
That that voice is just inside his head, when he kneels next to the presidential bed?
Does he ever smell his own bullshit? When the President talks to God?
I doubt it...I doubt it.
Talk about it.
Saturday, January 29, 2005
Silencio
I was thinking back to when I was in 7th grade. My family had just moved to Perry, Michigan from Saginaw, Michigan. My father was a pastor in the Church of the Nazarene, so we moved around quite a bit. We only lived in Saginaw for about a year and had lived in our previous home in Bradford, Ohio for a mere 8 months.
I remember sitting in my 7th grade math class for two days thinking to myself, "this stuff is easy, do I really belong in this class?" It took another day or so to work up the courage to talk to my teacher after class. I don't remember exactly how that conversation went, but I made her know that I probably shouldn't be in this class. I was transferred to the pre-Algebra class where I felt much more challenged and where I also met my best friend in middle school.
I was relating this story to my work, thinking about all of the kids that don't have a voice or the courage to tell someone they are where they don't belong. I remember working at Indian Oaks Academy in Manteno, Illinois--a residential treatment facility for teenage sex offenders. So many of those kids were so hurt and so doped up that even if they wanted to tell you something, they couldn't. All that came out was a "Fuck you mothafucka," and then a fist or thrown desk.
How many of our children get lost in this system?
What's easier than actually talking to our children about what's going on, helping them learn how to talk about why they're cursing and throwing things and hitting people? Well it's so much easier to prescribe Wellbutrin, Adderrall, Zyprexa, Lexapro, Ridalin, etc.--the miracle drugs of our time that help our children behave. So that instead of teaching healthy ways of coping with anger, depression, anxiety, stress, we are creating a generation of chemically dependent kids.
Will this not be a health crisis some day? Is this not a health crisis right now? Have our children lost their voice? Have we ever tried to give them one? Or is it easier just to silence them?
I was thinking back to when I was in 7th grade. My family had just moved to Perry, Michigan from Saginaw, Michigan. My father was a pastor in the Church of the Nazarene, so we moved around quite a bit. We only lived in Saginaw for about a year and had lived in our previous home in Bradford, Ohio for a mere 8 months.
I remember sitting in my 7th grade math class for two days thinking to myself, "this stuff is easy, do I really belong in this class?" It took another day or so to work up the courage to talk to my teacher after class. I don't remember exactly how that conversation went, but I made her know that I probably shouldn't be in this class. I was transferred to the pre-Algebra class where I felt much more challenged and where I also met my best friend in middle school.
I was relating this story to my work, thinking about all of the kids that don't have a voice or the courage to tell someone they are where they don't belong. I remember working at Indian Oaks Academy in Manteno, Illinois--a residential treatment facility for teenage sex offenders. So many of those kids were so hurt and so doped up that even if they wanted to tell you something, they couldn't. All that came out was a "Fuck you mothafucka," and then a fist or thrown desk.
How many of our children get lost in this system?
What's easier than actually talking to our children about what's going on, helping them learn how to talk about why they're cursing and throwing things and hitting people? Well it's so much easier to prescribe Wellbutrin, Adderrall, Zyprexa, Lexapro, Ridalin, etc.--the miracle drugs of our time that help our children behave. So that instead of teaching healthy ways of coping with anger, depression, anxiety, stress, we are creating a generation of chemically dependent kids.
Will this not be a health crisis some day? Is this not a health crisis right now? Have our children lost their voice? Have we ever tried to give them one? Or is it easier just to silence them?
It is Saturday and I am at work. Am I getting paid for these extra hours? No, I'm on salary. Is my salary large? Not really. I make $27,000 a year--the largest salary I have had to date, but not large. I remember Adam Kotsko posting a while back about those folks who have office jobs, say, in Chicago, and only do actual work about an hour or two a day. Craig Griffin had a job like that once. He got a lot of writing done. I'm pretty sure he made more money than I do. Eventually he saw the light and moved to northern Wisconsin via Milwaukee.
My job is not like that. I work quite a bit--trying to help out kids and their parents. I am rewarded by the knowledge that the kids I help out may turn out to be "successful." This is what successful means to me: you know those people that have jobs where they make a lot of money and don't do that much work--yeah, my kids are successful if they don't rob those people (and get caught) or rape and murder their teenage daughters. Ivy leaguers these kids? Not hardly. But at least we're trying to promote respect for those around them and the fundamental tool of communication.
At least I don't feel bad about posting a blog while I'm at work on Saturday.
My job is not like that. I work quite a bit--trying to help out kids and their parents. I am rewarded by the knowledge that the kids I help out may turn out to be "successful." This is what successful means to me: you know those people that have jobs where they make a lot of money and don't do that much work--yeah, my kids are successful if they don't rob those people (and get caught) or rape and murder their teenage daughters. Ivy leaguers these kids? Not hardly. But at least we're trying to promote respect for those around them and the fundamental tool of communication.
At least I don't feel bad about posting a blog while I'm at work on Saturday.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
If there was some way to track the words I have "added" to MS Word's spell-check, I think I could write a new dictionary. It doesn't know Heidegger? Come on!
Komar & Melamid
Everyone probably already knows about Komar & Melamid. I'm always the last person to find out anything. But I think it's awesome that these two guys have polled citizens of several countries asking what they most and least like seeing in paintings, and then have done those paintings for the people. For the people.
I'm especially fond of China's favorite:
Everyone probably already knows about Komar & Melamid. I'm always the last person to find out anything. But I think it's awesome that these two guys have polled citizens of several countries asking what they most and least like seeing in paintings, and then have done those paintings for the people. For the people.
I'm especially fond of China's favorite:
Monday, January 24, 2005
Jason and I have cold rooms.
Today I only spent five minutes looking for a job. I found a position I might apply for -- a technical writer with a health insurance company -- but it requires 1 to 2 years experience. What the hell? You never know, from what I hear.
I got my hair cut today, and I made this webpage.
Why is it that we can hear people having sex in movies and TV but can't look at them doing it?
Today I only spent five minutes looking for a job. I found a position I might apply for -- a technical writer with a health insurance company -- but it requires 1 to 2 years experience. What the hell? You never know, from what I hear.
I got my hair cut today, and I made this webpage.
Why is it that we can hear people having sex in movies and TV but can't look at them doing it?
What's in Your Pipes?
I can smell the aroma of my own armpits as I type right now. I sit upon my bed, in my bedroom that is "heated" by an electric swiveling heater fan. The two windows in my room leak like a sieve--chill air from the outside world into my drab and styleless bedroom. My hot water has not worked for two days. I'm not sure exactly why, but I think it has something to do with my heat not getting under my floor well enough. But who the hell wants to heat the underside of their floor? I do have oil heating, but I have effectively sealed off my house with blankets so that it heats only my living room, kitchen and bathroom. The only pipes I have are in my kitchen and bathroom, so it stands to reason that keeping those rooms heated would serve to keep them from freezing, right? Yeah, not so much. I suppose it also has something to do with the fact that I live in North Carolina where they have never heard of insulating their pipes.
At any rate, my hot water came on about 20 minutes ago and I'm thinking about taking a shower (or a bath . . . heavenly). I am delaying the inevitable partly because I have gotten used to smelling myself. I kind of like it. I think I'm in love with my own aroma. I doubt my girlfriend . . . er, fiance would agree. I don't think I'll find out.
(Jason Lee has asserted that he has little to few morals and certainly has no right to publish anything)
I can smell the aroma of my own armpits as I type right now. I sit upon my bed, in my bedroom that is "heated" by an electric swiveling heater fan. The two windows in my room leak like a sieve--chill air from the outside world into my drab and styleless bedroom. My hot water has not worked for two days. I'm not sure exactly why, but I think it has something to do with my heat not getting under my floor well enough. But who the hell wants to heat the underside of their floor? I do have oil heating, but I have effectively sealed off my house with blankets so that it heats only my living room, kitchen and bathroom. The only pipes I have are in my kitchen and bathroom, so it stands to reason that keeping those rooms heated would serve to keep them from freezing, right? Yeah, not so much. I suppose it also has something to do with the fact that I live in North Carolina where they have never heard of insulating their pipes.
At any rate, my hot water came on about 20 minutes ago and I'm thinking about taking a shower (or a bath . . . heavenly). I am delaying the inevitable partly because I have gotten used to smelling myself. I kind of like it. I think I'm in love with my own aroma. I doubt my girlfriend . . . er, fiance would agree. I don't think I'll find out.
(Jason Lee has asserted that he has little to few morals and certainly has no right to publish anything)
Friday, January 21, 2005
You may have noticed that it has been nearly two weeks since I have written a post here. There are some good reasons for that, the least of which has been my trying to catch up on paperwork for my job. The largest reason is that there have been some big things for me to think about in the past couple of weeks.
In the span of the next 8 months, I will become both a husband and a father. Yes, that's right, a husband and a father.
Growing up in a very conservative home, I never thought I would be one of those people, but now that I am, I feel quite content. It has been interesting to hear the reactions of friends and family members as we tell them the news. I was so nervous to call my parents, but they reacted with unexpected calm and understanding--my mom was even making jokes. I think my brother was more shocked then they were. Out of all of my friends, Jeff Snowbarger had the funniest reaction. For a student and teacher of Literature and writing, he was definitely at a loss for words. I've never heard Jeff so speechless. His vocabulary consisted of "Wow." "Congratulations." and "This is good news." We talked for about 20 minutes.
I figure I'm 28 years old and it's about time to start doing the things that some of my friends were doing years ago (i.e. getting married and having kids). I could have kept trying to pretend that I was still in my early twenties, but that wouldn't have accomplished much. I'm excited and happy, and a little scared. In making this decision, Emily and I have come to the conclusion that we're not sure if we're ready for this. Is anyone really ever ready for this?
To recap--I'm getting married and having a baby. Our wedding will occur in South Hero, Vermont on May 7th. The baby is due on September 9th. Damn this is cool!
Life is kinda funny isn't it?
In the span of the next 8 months, I will become both a husband and a father. Yes, that's right, a husband and a father.
Growing up in a very conservative home, I never thought I would be one of those people, but now that I am, I feel quite content. It has been interesting to hear the reactions of friends and family members as we tell them the news. I was so nervous to call my parents, but they reacted with unexpected calm and understanding--my mom was even making jokes. I think my brother was more shocked then they were. Out of all of my friends, Jeff Snowbarger had the funniest reaction. For a student and teacher of Literature and writing, he was definitely at a loss for words. I've never heard Jeff so speechless. His vocabulary consisted of "Wow." "Congratulations." and "This is good news." We talked for about 20 minutes.
I figure I'm 28 years old and it's about time to start doing the things that some of my friends were doing years ago (i.e. getting married and having kids). I could have kept trying to pretend that I was still in my early twenties, but that wouldn't have accomplished much. I'm excited and happy, and a little scared. In making this decision, Emily and I have come to the conclusion that we're not sure if we're ready for this. Is anyone really ever ready for this?
To recap--I'm getting married and having a baby. Our wedding will occur in South Hero, Vermont on May 7th. The baby is due on September 9th. Damn this is cool!
Life is kinda funny isn't it?
Sunday, January 09, 2005
Whoa Doggy
I just had a pretty funny man/animal experience. My neighbors to the left of me have two rather large dogs that are always tied up behind their house. For quite some time, these dogs have barked at me whenever they see me, especially if I'm doing something in my back yard. Well yesterday, I made a few trips to my compost pile and not once did they bark at me. I felt pretty good about myself--like I had finally been accepted into the neighborhood.
So today, it's about 8:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning and I'm getting ready to make some tea. I hear both the dogs barking and going at it (not really an uncommon thing, but they're always barking at something) and I decide to open my back door and check it out. What I call my "back door" is technically on the side of my house. It is off of my kitchen and opens into a little alcove where to the left is a little storage room and straight ahead are some steps that lead down into my yard. When I open this door I am facing my neighbors' house, and those dogs, who always perk up and see what I'm up to.
So I open my back door and the two dogs are going crazy--barking, running around, pulling at their chains--at what seems to be something in my back yard. I take a few steps and peek around the corner of my house. Low and behold, there are three stray dogs creeping out from the trees into my back yard. They weren't particlarly mean looking or anything--just that ratty, dirty, unkempt look that stray dogs have. The three dogs are about fifty feet from me and I say, "Get outta here you punks." The three of them stop in their tracks and look at me in silence, not knowing what to think. I say, "Yeah you." Without missing a beat, the three of them turn around and stroll back from where they had come, as if I was their lord and master. I yell to my neighbors' dogs, "See, I got your backs." They look at me incredulously with what seem to be smiles on their faces.
I just had a pretty funny man/animal experience. My neighbors to the left of me have two rather large dogs that are always tied up behind their house. For quite some time, these dogs have barked at me whenever they see me, especially if I'm doing something in my back yard. Well yesterday, I made a few trips to my compost pile and not once did they bark at me. I felt pretty good about myself--like I had finally been accepted into the neighborhood.
So today, it's about 8:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning and I'm getting ready to make some tea. I hear both the dogs barking and going at it (not really an uncommon thing, but they're always barking at something) and I decide to open my back door and check it out. What I call my "back door" is technically on the side of my house. It is off of my kitchen and opens into a little alcove where to the left is a little storage room and straight ahead are some steps that lead down into my yard. When I open this door I am facing my neighbors' house, and those dogs, who always perk up and see what I'm up to.
So I open my back door and the two dogs are going crazy--barking, running around, pulling at their chains--at what seems to be something in my back yard. I take a few steps and peek around the corner of my house. Low and behold, there are three stray dogs creeping out from the trees into my back yard. They weren't particlarly mean looking or anything--just that ratty, dirty, unkempt look that stray dogs have. The three dogs are about fifty feet from me and I say, "Get outta here you punks." The three of them stop in their tracks and look at me in silence, not knowing what to think. I say, "Yeah you." Without missing a beat, the three of them turn around and stroll back from where they had come, as if I was their lord and master. I yell to my neighbors' dogs, "See, I got your backs." They look at me incredulously with what seem to be smiles on their faces.
Saturday, January 08, 2005
The Strange Brew
My fourth endeavor at homebrewed beer is now in the secondary fermenter--I transfered it from the primary fermenter this morning. The beer is now a week old as I brewed up the wort (that's what you call the stuff when you boil it up) last Saturday. This is the first time I have done my own recipe--a variation and combination of a few different recipes, along with a few personal touches. While I was in Vermont I just happened upon a book for old-world medicinal and herbal beers. Of course the chapter heading "Psychotropic and Highly Intoxicating Beers" quickly caught my eye. I combined their recipes for Wormwood Ale and "Gruit" (a wheat beer using various herbs) with a recipe for an Imperial Stout. I added a bit of honey and ginger, along with a little bit of this and a little bit of that. I have no idea how it will taste, but it should be quite an interesting little brew. I wrote down all of the ingredients and measurements and perhaps will post the recipe if I like it (not that anybody who reads this brews their own beer, but you goddamn should!). Word.
UPDATE: I decided to take a little taste of this brew just to see what it was like. Blech! was my initial reaction. It was pretty bitter and pungent and you could clearly taste the ginger that was added. After about a minute, the lingering flavor on my palate made me want more. I am hoping that after I add the fermenting sugar to it, bottle it, and age it, this beer might be something quite impressive. And if I am not satisfied with the flavor I can always make some modifications to the ingredients.
My fourth endeavor at homebrewed beer is now in the secondary fermenter--I transfered it from the primary fermenter this morning. The beer is now a week old as I brewed up the wort (that's what you call the stuff when you boil it up) last Saturday. This is the first time I have done my own recipe--a variation and combination of a few different recipes, along with a few personal touches. While I was in Vermont I just happened upon a book for old-world medicinal and herbal beers. Of course the chapter heading "Psychotropic and Highly Intoxicating Beers" quickly caught my eye. I combined their recipes for Wormwood Ale and "Gruit" (a wheat beer using various herbs) with a recipe for an Imperial Stout. I added a bit of honey and ginger, along with a little bit of this and a little bit of that. I have no idea how it will taste, but it should be quite an interesting little brew. I wrote down all of the ingredients and measurements and perhaps will post the recipe if I like it (not that anybody who reads this brews their own beer, but you goddamn should!). Word.
UPDATE: I decided to take a little taste of this brew just to see what it was like. Blech! was my initial reaction. It was pretty bitter and pungent and you could clearly taste the ginger that was added. After about a minute, the lingering flavor on my palate made me want more. I am hoping that after I add the fermenting sugar to it, bottle it, and age it, this beer might be something quite impressive. And if I am not satisfied with the flavor I can always make some modifications to the ingredients.
Monday, January 03, 2005
Happy New Year
I'm not sure how you ushered in the New Year, but I did it in a pretty low key way. I thought about going down to Chapel Hill and taking in a show at the Local 506. There were four bands playing there that seemed interesting. One of the bands, Kung Flute, is apparently known for smashing ceiling tiles against their, and selected audience members', heads. My other idea was to treat myself to dinner and a movie, but alas, the coffers are less than full. What I did do was cook myself up some cube steak and mashed potatoes, complete with a spinach leaf salad. I even splurged for a cheap bottle of champagne (my kitchen floor is still a bit sticky from the opening). Sifting through Emily's VHS movies (I had her t.v. with a built in VCR for visual entertainment), the best pick was Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Somewhere into Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II, I fell asleep on the couch. At midnight I was awoken by the many fireworks, and probably gun shots, going off. I said to my town, "Happy New Year," and went back to sleep.
I'm not sure how you ushered in the New Year, but I did it in a pretty low key way. I thought about going down to Chapel Hill and taking in a show at the Local 506. There were four bands playing there that seemed interesting. One of the bands, Kung Flute, is apparently known for smashing ceiling tiles against their, and selected audience members', heads. My other idea was to treat myself to dinner and a movie, but alas, the coffers are less than full. What I did do was cook myself up some cube steak and mashed potatoes, complete with a spinach leaf salad. I even splurged for a cheap bottle of champagne (my kitchen floor is still a bit sticky from the opening). Sifting through Emily's VHS movies (I had her t.v. with a built in VCR for visual entertainment), the best pick was Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Somewhere into Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II, I fell asleep on the couch. At midnight I was awoken by the many fireworks, and probably gun shots, going off. I said to my town, "Happy New Year," and went back to sleep.
Sunday, January 02, 2005
Chief Jason's Christmas Debaucle
12/23/04
4:05 p.m.--The time that my flight to Phoenix (via Charlotte, NC) was supposed to leave from Raleigh/Durham airport.
3:05 p.m.--The time that I arrive at the airport (I really hate airports, so the less time I have to spend at them, the better!)
4:15 p.m.--USAirways (yes, I said US mother fucking Airways) personnel come on the intercom to tell it's loyal passengers that their flight has been delayed. Well no Shit.
50 minutes--The approximate time it takes to fly from Raleigh to Charlotte.
6:15 p.m.--The time my connecting flight out of Charlotte is supposed to leave for Phoenix.
4:30 p.m.--USmotherfuckingAirways announce that if your connecting flight is scheduled to leave before 6:15 p.m., then you should call 1-800-you-are-fucked.
4:30-4:45 p.m.--The duration it takes me to decided whether or not I should call the 1-800 number since technically my connecting flight does not leave before 6:15 p.m. I decide to call the number anyway.
30 minutes--The duration of time from my intial dialing of the 1-800-fuck-you-you-mother-fucking-worthless-excuse-for-a-human-being number to my actually talking to a real person from USmf'ingAirways.
Christmas Eve, sometime at night--the soonest USmotherfuckingAir would be able to get me to Phoenix.
6:00 p.m.--The time I decide to say "Fuck this noise" and leave the airport (my plane from Raleigh still had not arrived).
6:15 p.m.--When my plane was supposed to leave from Charlotte en route to Phoenix, and the time I called my parents from my car on the way home from RDU airport.
12/24/04
12:00 a.m.--When I decide I really don't want to deal with all of the bullshit at the airport again and beging to drive up to Vermont to spend Christmas with Emily and her family.
9:00 a.m.-- I call my mom and tell her I am halfway to Vermont, and when she starts crying and lamenting all of the plans she has made and how she is not going to let me ruin their Christmas (you should be telling this to USmotherfucking Airways, I thought to myself).
3:30 p.m.--I arrive at the Lake house (that's Emily's last name) in South Hero, Vermont. I chat for awhile and then decide to go take a nap. Later, we go to an advent service at her church, come home, and then collectively drink about 7 bottles of wine.
12/25/04
9:30 a.m.--when I get out of bed and join Emily's family for the opening of Christmas presents.
2:00 p.m.--When I call home and talk to my dad, my brother, my sister-in-law, and my moth . . oops, my mom wouldn't talk to me, ON CHRISTMAS!!! Apparently she let me ruin her Christmas afterall. MotherfuckingUSmotherfuckingAirways.
Emily and her sister, Sue, left on Sunday to drive to Maryland, from which they were flying to El Salvador the next morning. I myself ended up spending Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday with Emily's sister, Mary, and her boyfriend, Paul, in Burlington, Vermont. I enjoyed it quite a bit, and actually had a really good Christmas holiday. Too bad USmotherfuckingAirways has ruined my family relations. (Not really, I am back on speaking terms with my mom now, although she did take all of my Christmas presents back. Oh well, I'm not too upset.)
Lesson learned: It is much better to drive for 28 hours than to fly during the holidays.
12/23/04
4:05 p.m.--The time that my flight to Phoenix (via Charlotte, NC) was supposed to leave from Raleigh/Durham airport.
3:05 p.m.--The time that I arrive at the airport (I really hate airports, so the less time I have to spend at them, the better!)
4:15 p.m.--USAirways (yes, I said US mother fucking Airways) personnel come on the intercom to tell it's loyal passengers that their flight has been delayed. Well no Shit.
50 minutes--The approximate time it takes to fly from Raleigh to Charlotte.
6:15 p.m.--The time my connecting flight out of Charlotte is supposed to leave for Phoenix.
4:30 p.m.--USmotherfuckingAirways announce that if your connecting flight is scheduled to leave before 6:15 p.m., then you should call 1-800-you-are-fucked.
4:30-4:45 p.m.--The duration it takes me to decided whether or not I should call the 1-800 number since technically my connecting flight does not leave before 6:15 p.m. I decide to call the number anyway.
30 minutes--The duration of time from my intial dialing of the 1-800-fuck-you-you-mother-fucking-worthless-excuse-for-a-human-being number to my actually talking to a real person from USmf'ingAirways.
Christmas Eve, sometime at night--the soonest USmotherfuckingAir would be able to get me to Phoenix.
6:00 p.m.--The time I decide to say "Fuck this noise" and leave the airport (my plane from Raleigh still had not arrived).
6:15 p.m.--When my plane was supposed to leave from Charlotte en route to Phoenix, and the time I called my parents from my car on the way home from RDU airport.
12/24/04
12:00 a.m.--When I decide I really don't want to deal with all of the bullshit at the airport again and beging to drive up to Vermont to spend Christmas with Emily and her family.
9:00 a.m.-- I call my mom and tell her I am halfway to Vermont, and when she starts crying and lamenting all of the plans she has made and how she is not going to let me ruin their Christmas (you should be telling this to USmotherfucking Airways, I thought to myself).
3:30 p.m.--I arrive at the Lake house (that's Emily's last name) in South Hero, Vermont. I chat for awhile and then decide to go take a nap. Later, we go to an advent service at her church, come home, and then collectively drink about 7 bottles of wine.
12/25/04
9:30 a.m.--when I get out of bed and join Emily's family for the opening of Christmas presents.
2:00 p.m.--When I call home and talk to my dad, my brother, my sister-in-law, and my moth . . oops, my mom wouldn't talk to me, ON CHRISTMAS!!! Apparently she let me ruin her Christmas afterall. MotherfuckingUSmotherfuckingAirways.
Emily and her sister, Sue, left on Sunday to drive to Maryland, from which they were flying to El Salvador the next morning. I myself ended up spending Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday with Emily's sister, Mary, and her boyfriend, Paul, in Burlington, Vermont. I enjoyed it quite a bit, and actually had a really good Christmas holiday. Too bad USmotherfuckingAirways has ruined my family relations. (Not really, I am back on speaking terms with my mom now, although she did take all of my Christmas presents back. Oh well, I'm not too upset.)
Lesson learned: It is much better to drive for 28 hours than to fly during the holidays.
Friday, December 31, 2004
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Monday, December 13, 2004
Saturday, December 11, 2004
In one's endless search for love, one always and only uncovers a deeper loneliness.
Only when one is alone is she able to discover where the capacity to love may lie.
Put into practice, it is a deception of the most heinous type where to love another person is just another form of self love, or part of the endless attempt to murder and to bury the loathing of one's self.
So our bodies keep bumping into one another, moving, crashing, falling, rising in the eternal vain attempt to find a meaning to what is forever void of meaning.
And our intellectual murmurs fall effortlessly to the ground, to be trampled over by our own going back and forth.
Only when one is alone is she able to discover where the capacity to love may lie.
Put into practice, it is a deception of the most heinous type where to love another person is just another form of self love, or part of the endless attempt to murder and to bury the loathing of one's self.
So our bodies keep bumping into one another, moving, crashing, falling, rising in the eternal vain attempt to find a meaning to what is forever void of meaning.
And our intellectual murmurs fall effortlessly to the ground, to be trampled over by our own going back and forth.
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