Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Pictures of Walls
One of my co-workers introduced me to www.picturesofwalls.com and I love it. It's nothing but galleries of photos people have taken of graffiti from all around the world. Some of the photos have bad language, of course, (it is graffiti, after all) but some of them are hilarious, others are thought provoking.
Anyway, I thought I'd share some of my faves from Gallery 3.
Anyway, I thought I'd share some of my faves from Gallery 3.
Resentment and Muskrats
I was thinking about resentment last night because it's something I struggle with. People wrong me/offend me/neglect me/whatever and I resent them for a long, long time. I'm much better with it now than I used to be. I mean, after all, once you've been the source of major pain and destruction in other people's lives, you begin to cut others a little more slack. I've begun to think, what if the person who offended me is just another struggling sad sack (like me) who is doing his or her best and just happens to be bad at negotiating life?
Besides, I've begun to see the utter futility in resentment. A friend once told me that resenting someone is like drinking poison and then expecting the other person to die. It doesn't accomplish anything you might want it to. All it does is make you angry, bitter, and no fun to talk to.
As I was thinking about these things, I remembered my first full-on, adult-sized resentment.
I was 12 or 13 and was in Boy Scouts. In my ward in Rexburg, the monthly scout camp-out was as regular and predictable as the sun rising and tears in Testimony meeting. It just happened and you went with it. So one of these camp-outs took place at a place called Badger Creek. I think Ricks College owned it and would use it for leadership retreats, FHE activities, and, obviously, Boy Scout stuff. There's a musty, creaky old lodge set on the hillside (cobwebby and smelly -- I mean, it's the sort of place Scooby and the gang would investigate a mystery) and then there's a series of small, four-man cabins spread throughout the trees. Each small cabin had two sets of bunk beds, one on each wall, and then a pot-bellied stove.
I shared my cabin that weekend with Mike Rogers, a friend of mine, two other kids lost to the mists of time, and Brother Kinghorn. Ed, I think. He was one of our advisers and taught psychology at the college. He was a nice guy and I think most of my peers in the troop liked him because he seemed easy going and fun.
Well.
At some point during the camp-out, I found a lighter. When you grow up in Rexburg, Idaho, lighters are fascinating rarities. Hardly anyone smokes so you never really see them. Plus, if you're 12, something that makes instant fire is automatically pretty cool.
Except the one I found didn't make instant fire or any sort of fire at all. It was out of fluid and so all it would do is spark a little when I flicked the wheel with my thumb. I carried around with me that day, flicking it occasionally to see the spark and spidery bit of smoke that rose up from the wheel.
That night, it was the time when leaders are winding down but the scouts have no intention of sleeping anytime soon. It's the time of snipe hunts and poker games played for M & M's. For some reason, I was in my bunk, Mike Rogers was in his, and Ed Kinghorn was in his. I'm not sure why I'd retired so early -- it probably had something to do with the fact that I'm a huge wuss when it comes to cold and if I have a choice between a cozy, little cabin and following after a bunch of fools in the dark to look for imaginary birds, I'm picking the cabin.
Anyway, I was laying in my top bunk and Brother Kinghorn was below. Mike and I were talking, I think, and I was flicking the wheel of the lighter.
I understand that memory is faulty and we often only remember the things we want to remember but, honest to goodness, to the best of my recollection, it went like this:
Brother Kinghorn heard me flicking the lighter and said something like, "Mark, stop doing that. If your sleeping bag catches on fire, this whole place will go up and we could all die."
One warning is all I remember. Sure, one warning is all any reasonable person should need but I was 12 or 13 and not the sharpest tool in the shed. Maybe I was anticipating a second, firmer warning. Maybe I didn't hear some menace or anger in Brother K's voice. Maybe I was just feeling like an ignorant snot that night. I don't know what it was. I don't think what happened next was because I disliked Brother K or because I had to show him who was boss. If anything, I imagine it was just that in the leaky attic known as a teenager's brain (you know, insulated with cotton candy, wired with fireworks, gassed with hormones, etc.) the phrase, "Stop that" translates into "At some point in the near future, would you possibly think about curtailing that activity that some other, clearly misguided people feel might be a tad annoying and/or dangerous? Thanks so much."
All I know for sure is that I flicked the lighter one more time.
What happened next, I remember with perfect clarity. Brother Kinghorn scrambled out of his bunk with a speed and ferocity and was both surprising and frightening. He jumped up, reached his hand into my bunk, grabbed my right wrist (the hand that held the lighter)with his left hand, grabbed a nearby flashlight with his right, and cracked me over the back of the hand with it, knocking the lighter to the floor.
He immediately got back into his bunk and rolled over.I spent a borderline-teary minute or two studying the small, bloody cut on the back of my hand near my ring-finger knuckle and then determined to get out of there and stay out for as long as possible. I put my shoes on and went and found the snipe hunters and poker players. I told them my story and showed them the cut. Some were outraged, others were completely non-plussed. I remember walking around in the cold, going from one cabin to another, until everyone had packed it in and I didn't have any choice except to go back to mine.
I don't remember much else after that. I don't remember interacting with Brother Kinghorn or really even anything else about that camp-out at all. I have a vague memory of explaining the incident to my parents and getting a "Well, why did you have to flick the lighter again" sort of response. What I do remember clearly is really hating Ed Kinghorn. Deeply. I felt so betrayed and wounded, I couldn't get over it. I think I held onto that hot anger for the better part of a year, avoiding Brother K at church, glaring at him or ignoring him altogether when we had to be in the same room, telling everyone who would listen about how a grown man clubbed a teenager with the butt of a flashlight. I never felt better.
Here's the random resolution to this story. The following spring, my brother David and I were the only ones home and he came to me saying that some hairy animal was in his window. Dave was probably 8 or 9 at the time so I wasn't sure what to think. I went to check it out and, sure enough, there was some oversized rat-like creature stuck in the window well of his room. It was too big to be a rat and not colored or shaped right to be a raccoon or squirrel. It was really unsettling to see something that big and unfamiliar skittering and scratching, trying to make its way out of the window well. Dave was freaked out and so was I.
(Wouldn't you be if something like this showed up at your house?)
Mom wasn't at home.
Dad wasn't at his desk at work.
Jason was gone somewhere.
The bishop was at work.
I didn't know who our home teachers were.
My familiar neighbors were at work.
We were up Rodent Creek without the proverbial you-know-what.
At last, completely out of other options, I phoned the Kinghorn residence. Wouldn't you know it? Brother K was home. I explained to him what was going on and asked if he'd come over to help us. He showed up a couple of minutes later and went into the backyard with us. He peered down into the well and said simply enough, "It's a muskrat." He assured us that we were safe, that muskrats were actually really common in the area and that, more likely than not, the spring runoff had forced the hairy little beast out of a nearby sewer or irrigation culvert. He said not to worry. For me, knowing what the thing was made it a lot less disturbing. I'd actually begun to think it was some irradiated mutant creature. (It was the late 80's okay? The country was still afraid of Russia and nuclear annihilation back then.) Anyway, Brother K awkwardly clapped me on the shoulder/side-hugged me and asked, "Gonna be alright?" and that was it. He left, my dad eventually came home and trapped the muskrat in a box. We took out to a swampy area near Fort Henry out in Burton and were never troubled by it again.
Happily, I didn't feel as angry towards Ed Kinghorn after that. I don't think he was in the ward that much longer. They moved and eventually he transferred to BYU-Hawaii to teach (because, really, who wouldn't?). Something about having to ask him for help made me resent him a little less. I still think he was way out of line and that his reaction was completely inappropriate. But I wonder sometimes if he remembers what happened and if he regrets losing it like that. I wonder if he's always struggled with his temper. I wonder if that's his burden to carry through life.
Anyway, this has turned into an epic post. I'll end it now. Enjoy this additional info on our friend, the muskrat:
P.S. I still have a faint scar on my right hand from that night. If you ever want to see it, just ask.
Besides, I've begun to see the utter futility in resentment. A friend once told me that resenting someone is like drinking poison and then expecting the other person to die. It doesn't accomplish anything you might want it to. All it does is make you angry, bitter, and no fun to talk to.
As I was thinking about these things, I remembered my first full-on, adult-sized resentment.
I was 12 or 13 and was in Boy Scouts. In my ward in Rexburg, the monthly scout camp-out was as regular and predictable as the sun rising and tears in Testimony meeting. It just happened and you went with it. So one of these camp-outs took place at a place called Badger Creek. I think Ricks College owned it and would use it for leadership retreats, FHE activities, and, obviously, Boy Scout stuff. There's a musty, creaky old lodge set on the hillside (cobwebby and smelly -- I mean, it's the sort of place Scooby and the gang would investigate a mystery) and then there's a series of small, four-man cabins spread throughout the trees. Each small cabin had two sets of bunk beds, one on each wall, and then a pot-bellied stove.
I shared my cabin that weekend with Mike Rogers, a friend of mine, two other kids lost to the mists of time, and Brother Kinghorn. Ed, I think. He was one of our advisers and taught psychology at the college. He was a nice guy and I think most of my peers in the troop liked him because he seemed easy going and fun.
Well.
At some point during the camp-out, I found a lighter. When you grow up in Rexburg, Idaho, lighters are fascinating rarities. Hardly anyone smokes so you never really see them. Plus, if you're 12, something that makes instant fire is automatically pretty cool.
Except the one I found didn't make instant fire or any sort of fire at all. It was out of fluid and so all it would do is spark a little when I flicked the wheel with my thumb. I carried around with me that day, flicking it occasionally to see the spark and spidery bit of smoke that rose up from the wheel.
That night, it was the time when leaders are winding down but the scouts have no intention of sleeping anytime soon. It's the time of snipe hunts and poker games played for M & M's. For some reason, I was in my bunk, Mike Rogers was in his, and Ed Kinghorn was in his. I'm not sure why I'd retired so early -- it probably had something to do with the fact that I'm a huge wuss when it comes to cold and if I have a choice between a cozy, little cabin and following after a bunch of fools in the dark to look for imaginary birds, I'm picking the cabin.
Anyway, I was laying in my top bunk and Brother Kinghorn was below. Mike and I were talking, I think, and I was flicking the wheel of the lighter.
I understand that memory is faulty and we often only remember the things we want to remember but, honest to goodness, to the best of my recollection, it went like this:
Brother Kinghorn heard me flicking the lighter and said something like, "Mark, stop doing that. If your sleeping bag catches on fire, this whole place will go up and we could all die."
One warning is all I remember. Sure, one warning is all any reasonable person should need but I was 12 or 13 and not the sharpest tool in the shed. Maybe I was anticipating a second, firmer warning. Maybe I didn't hear some menace or anger in Brother K's voice. Maybe I was just feeling like an ignorant snot that night. I don't know what it was. I don't think what happened next was because I disliked Brother K or because I had to show him who was boss. If anything, I imagine it was just that in the leaky attic known as a teenager's brain (you know, insulated with cotton candy, wired with fireworks, gassed with hormones, etc.) the phrase, "Stop that" translates into "At some point in the near future, would you possibly think about curtailing that activity that some other, clearly misguided people feel might be a tad annoying and/or dangerous? Thanks so much."
All I know for sure is that I flicked the lighter one more time.
What happened next, I remember with perfect clarity. Brother Kinghorn scrambled out of his bunk with a speed and ferocity and was both surprising and frightening. He jumped up, reached his hand into my bunk, grabbed my right wrist (the hand that held the lighter)with his left hand, grabbed a nearby flashlight with his right, and cracked me over the back of the hand with it, knocking the lighter to the floor.
He immediately got back into his bunk and rolled over.I spent a borderline-teary minute or two studying the small, bloody cut on the back of my hand near my ring-finger knuckle and then determined to get out of there and stay out for as long as possible. I put my shoes on and went and found the snipe hunters and poker players. I told them my story and showed them the cut. Some were outraged, others were completely non-plussed. I remember walking around in the cold, going from one cabin to another, until everyone had packed it in and I didn't have any choice except to go back to mine.
I don't remember much else after that. I don't remember interacting with Brother Kinghorn or really even anything else about that camp-out at all. I have a vague memory of explaining the incident to my parents and getting a "Well, why did you have to flick the lighter again" sort of response. What I do remember clearly is really hating Ed Kinghorn. Deeply. I felt so betrayed and wounded, I couldn't get over it. I think I held onto that hot anger for the better part of a year, avoiding Brother K at church, glaring at him or ignoring him altogether when we had to be in the same room, telling everyone who would listen about how a grown man clubbed a teenager with the butt of a flashlight. I never felt better.
Here's the random resolution to this story. The following spring, my brother David and I were the only ones home and he came to me saying that some hairy animal was in his window. Dave was probably 8 or 9 at the time so I wasn't sure what to think. I went to check it out and, sure enough, there was some oversized rat-like creature stuck in the window well of his room. It was too big to be a rat and not colored or shaped right to be a raccoon or squirrel. It was really unsettling to see something that big and unfamiliar skittering and scratching, trying to make its way out of the window well. Dave was freaked out and so was I.
(Wouldn't you be if something like this showed up at your house?)
Mom wasn't at home.
Dad wasn't at his desk at work.
Jason was gone somewhere.
The bishop was at work.
I didn't know who our home teachers were.
My familiar neighbors were at work.
We were up Rodent Creek without the proverbial you-know-what.
At last, completely out of other options, I phoned the Kinghorn residence. Wouldn't you know it? Brother K was home. I explained to him what was going on and asked if he'd come over to help us. He showed up a couple of minutes later and went into the backyard with us. He peered down into the well and said simply enough, "It's a muskrat." He assured us that we were safe, that muskrats were actually really common in the area and that, more likely than not, the spring runoff had forced the hairy little beast out of a nearby sewer or irrigation culvert. He said not to worry. For me, knowing what the thing was made it a lot less disturbing. I'd actually begun to think it was some irradiated mutant creature. (It was the late 80's okay? The country was still afraid of Russia and nuclear annihilation back then.) Anyway, Brother K awkwardly clapped me on the shoulder/side-hugged me and asked, "Gonna be alright?" and that was it. He left, my dad eventually came home and trapped the muskrat in a box. We took out to a swampy area near Fort Henry out in Burton and were never troubled by it again.
Happily, I didn't feel as angry towards Ed Kinghorn after that. I don't think he was in the ward that much longer. They moved and eventually he transferred to BYU-Hawaii to teach (because, really, who wouldn't?). Something about having to ask him for help made me resent him a little less. I still think he was way out of line and that his reaction was completely inappropriate. But I wonder sometimes if he remembers what happened and if he regrets losing it like that. I wonder if he's always struggled with his temper. I wonder if that's his burden to carry through life.
Anyway, this has turned into an epic post. I'll end it now. Enjoy this additional info on our friend, the muskrat:
P.S. I still have a faint scar on my right hand from that night. If you ever want to see it, just ask.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Mexican Soap Opera Delivers The Smackdown To Lame American TV
This tidbit of TV info made me both laugh and cry:
"ABC, which finished second in the ratings behind Fox last week, may have done better if not for the horrid performance of some of its new original shows. "October Road," "Cashmere Mafia" and "Carpoolers" each got fewer than 5 million viewers -- or fewer than Univision's audience for the telenovela "Al Diablo Con Guapos" on four separate nights."
I laughed because I think it's hysterical that a major network is getting spanked by a Mexican soap opera.
I cried because I was one of the 5 million poor saps that watched October Road last week.
I wish I could explain it. I hate the show and it makes me feel like I've been dipped in a vat of stupid sauce every time. And yet I watch it. The thing is, it's not like it's a "so bad, it's good" kind of thing. It's just so bad, it's bad. It just happens to be the only thing on at that hour and I'm too lazy to get off the couch and pick up a book. Sad.
This, on the other hand, is apparently awesome:
"ABC, which finished second in the ratings behind Fox last week, may have done better if not for the horrid performance of some of its new original shows. "October Road," "Cashmere Mafia" and "Carpoolers" each got fewer than 5 million viewers -- or fewer than Univision's audience for the telenovela "Al Diablo Con Guapos" on four separate nights."
I laughed because I think it's hysterical that a major network is getting spanked by a Mexican soap opera.
I cried because I was one of the 5 million poor saps that watched October Road last week.
I wish I could explain it. I hate the show and it makes me feel like I've been dipped in a vat of stupid sauce every time. And yet I watch it. The thing is, it's not like it's a "so bad, it's good" kind of thing. It's just so bad, it's bad. It just happens to be the only thing on at that hour and I'm too lazy to get off the couch and pick up a book. Sad.
This, on the other hand, is apparently awesome:
Why Winter Is Evil -- Reason #63
Okay, I didn't have time to run back into the house and grab my digital camera to document this -- but I will. I will get that camera and I will have pixelated proof of how bad Michigan winters suck canal water.
Soon, I will post a picture of my windshield scraper. Why would you do that, my ever watchful and thoughtful readers might ask. Why post a picture of your windshield scraper? What could that have to do with Michigan winters being a blight on our collective soul?
Well, kids, (as Mr. Sleeve used to say), lemme tell ya:
The ice on my windshield broke my scraper this morning.
Yeah, that's right.
I have one of thos long-handled types with the snow brush mounted on the back. Like these:
They're strong, reliable, and pretty indestructible. Like everyone else in the universe, I keep in under the seat of my car, pull it out a couple times a year, and forget about it utterly for all the warm months. Well, I'm not planning on forgetting this any time soon.
Wednesday is the day I'm assigned to show up early and open the building for the students at 7:30 a.m. (Inhuman, I know.) So I got up at 6:30, jumped in the shower, dressed, and then ran outside to start the car and warm it up a little. I turned the rear defroster on and put the front heater on defrost at full-blast. Then I ran back inside, gathered up breakfast and lunch, kissed everyone goodbye, and went out to the car. I didn't expect five minutes to do too much but I thought it might loosen things up a bit. I also didn't expect the snow and ice on my car to be so frozen and crusty that it was like digging through Texas hardpan or Canadian permafrost. I actually had to jab at the outer layer of snow just to get through to the ice on the glass below. Once there, I had to use both hands and lean into it to make headway.
My students get up pretty early to catch a series of cold, dirty buses to get to school on time. Many of them arrive at or even before 7:30 and, if someone's not there to let them in, they have to stand in the freezing cold.
So I'm hurrying, right? Furiously chipping away at the ice and snow from the hoary netherworld of Beelzebub, the very icebox of Satan, and suddenly there's a snap and I watch a piece of black something or other go somersaulting off into the snow. I look at the little, black chunk on the ground and then at my scraper and realize it actually broke. Aren't these things designed to handle exactly this sort of thing? I mean, isn't this kind of duty what an ice scraper is for? Does it make any sense that an industrial designer would show the prototype to his boss and say, "Yeah, it works great -- except when it's cold and the ice is hard. Then it might break."
I was in a hurry so I didn't let this minor setback deter me. I still had 2/3 of a scraper and I was going to get results. I kept chipping and working for another twenty seconds and then another snap, another acrobatic piece of black plastic vaulting through the air.
Half a scraper now.
I realize it was structurally unsound by this point and that I was putting undue pressure on the poor thing and that it wasn't long for this world. But, in addition to being on the verge of being late, did I mention that it was also bitterly cold outside? Yeah, the arctic wilderness on my car and the shattered ice-chipping tool probably suggest that -- but just in case, I want to be clear: It. Was. Stinking. Cold. So, I didn't want to stop. I wanted to get the windshield clear and get in the car and build a small fire in the passenger seat using gum wrappers and mix tape cassettes from the glove compartment. (They've got to be good for something.)
So I kept at it for another couple of seconds, still only successfully clearing about half of the windshield, and then the final snap came. The location of the original, broad, black wedge looked like a hillbilly with a predilection for Mountain Dew and Snickers bars -- one tooth left.
Anyway, I gave up. I tossed the thing aside and rummaged through our other car for our spare scraper. I found it, finished the job, got on the road, and got here right at 7:30. I'm warm and toasty now but still sort of in shock over just how utterly evil and uncool Michigan winters are. Join me in cursing it, my friends.
Soon, I will post a picture of my windshield scraper. Why would you do that, my ever watchful and thoughtful readers might ask. Why post a picture of your windshield scraper? What could that have to do with Michigan winters being a blight on our collective soul?
Well, kids, (as Mr. Sleeve used to say), lemme tell ya:
The ice on my windshield broke my scraper this morning.
Yeah, that's right.
I have one of thos long-handled types with the snow brush mounted on the back. Like these:
They're strong, reliable, and pretty indestructible. Like everyone else in the universe, I keep in under the seat of my car, pull it out a couple times a year, and forget about it utterly for all the warm months. Well, I'm not planning on forgetting this any time soon.
Wednesday is the day I'm assigned to show up early and open the building for the students at 7:30 a.m. (Inhuman, I know.) So I got up at 6:30, jumped in the shower, dressed, and then ran outside to start the car and warm it up a little. I turned the rear defroster on and put the front heater on defrost at full-blast. Then I ran back inside, gathered up breakfast and lunch, kissed everyone goodbye, and went out to the car. I didn't expect five minutes to do too much but I thought it might loosen things up a bit. I also didn't expect the snow and ice on my car to be so frozen and crusty that it was like digging through Texas hardpan or Canadian permafrost. I actually had to jab at the outer layer of snow just to get through to the ice on the glass below. Once there, I had to use both hands and lean into it to make headway.
My students get up pretty early to catch a series of cold, dirty buses to get to school on time. Many of them arrive at or even before 7:30 and, if someone's not there to let them in, they have to stand in the freezing cold.
So I'm hurrying, right? Furiously chipping away at the ice and snow from the hoary netherworld of Beelzebub, the very icebox of Satan, and suddenly there's a snap and I watch a piece of black something or other go somersaulting off into the snow. I look at the little, black chunk on the ground and then at my scraper and realize it actually broke. Aren't these things designed to handle exactly this sort of thing? I mean, isn't this kind of duty what an ice scraper is for? Does it make any sense that an industrial designer would show the prototype to his boss and say, "Yeah, it works great -- except when it's cold and the ice is hard. Then it might break."
I was in a hurry so I didn't let this minor setback deter me. I still had 2/3 of a scraper and I was going to get results. I kept chipping and working for another twenty seconds and then another snap, another acrobatic piece of black plastic vaulting through the air.
Half a scraper now.
I realize it was structurally unsound by this point and that I was putting undue pressure on the poor thing and that it wasn't long for this world. But, in addition to being on the verge of being late, did I mention that it was also bitterly cold outside? Yeah, the arctic wilderness on my car and the shattered ice-chipping tool probably suggest that -- but just in case, I want to be clear: It. Was. Stinking. Cold. So, I didn't want to stop. I wanted to get the windshield clear and get in the car and build a small fire in the passenger seat using gum wrappers and mix tape cassettes from the glove compartment. (They've got to be good for something.)
So I kept at it for another couple of seconds, still only successfully clearing about half of the windshield, and then the final snap came. The location of the original, broad, black wedge looked like a hillbilly with a predilection for Mountain Dew and Snickers bars -- one tooth left.
Anyway, I gave up. I tossed the thing aside and rummaged through our other car for our spare scraper. I found it, finished the job, got on the road, and got here right at 7:30. I'm warm and toasty now but still sort of in shock over just how utterly evil and uncool Michigan winters are. Join me in cursing it, my friends.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Things I Love
I often tell my students that when they are stuck for subjects to write about, making a list is one of the surest ways to generate ideas. More fortunately for me, a list can be a whole post in blogworld.
Things I Love (not an all inclusive list)
A really good science fiction movie. (Aliens, Star Trek 2, The original Star Wars trilogy, Blade Runner, etc.)
When Avery hugs me for no reason.
The look and smell of a just-mowed lawn.
The bottom of a Dairy Queen ice cream cone.
A fire in the fireplace.
Rufus Wainwright's cover of "Across the Universe."
Sleeping in.
Homemade soup and warm rolls.
Big books from the library with lots of pictures.
Fries from JB's with a cup of white gravy.
"Rebel, Rebel" by David Bowie.
Receiving e-mail from friends.
Archer/Sunnydell, Idaho.
The Boise Art Museum.
"The House on Loon Lake" from This American Life.
Dancing With The Stars.
Anything and everything by U2 with the possible exception of Pop and most of Zooropa.
Eugene, OR.
Papa John's Pizza.
The ease of iTunes.
Eating lunch with Suzanne.
New issues of Rex Libris and The Spirit.
Bread sticks and marinara sauce.
Eric D. Snider's movie reviews (especially when he doesn't like the movie).
Mountains and open spaces.
Peri Gilpin.
Lava Hot Springs.
Reduced Fat Wheat Thins.
Watching Jack Shepherd become more and more unhinged.
The title sequence of The Age of Innocence.
"Roman Fever"
Maryn jumping rope.
Movie trailers.
Action figures.
That's probably enough for today. I have Russian movies to watch this week. Hello, Tarkovsky!
Things I Love (not an all inclusive list)
A really good science fiction movie. (Aliens, Star Trek 2, The original Star Wars trilogy, Blade Runner, etc.)
When Avery hugs me for no reason.
The look and smell of a just-mowed lawn.
The bottom of a Dairy Queen ice cream cone.
A fire in the fireplace.
Rufus Wainwright's cover of "Across the Universe."
Sleeping in.
Homemade soup and warm rolls.
Big books from the library with lots of pictures.
Fries from JB's with a cup of white gravy.
"Rebel, Rebel" by David Bowie.
Receiving e-mail from friends.
Archer/Sunnydell, Idaho.
The Boise Art Museum.
"The House on Loon Lake" from This American Life.
Dancing With The Stars.
Anything and everything by U2 with the possible exception of Pop and most of Zooropa.
Eugene, OR.
Papa John's Pizza.
The ease of iTunes.
Eating lunch with Suzanne.
New issues of Rex Libris and The Spirit.
Bread sticks and marinara sauce.
Eric D. Snider's movie reviews (especially when he doesn't like the movie).
Mountains and open spaces.
Peri Gilpin.
Lava Hot Springs.
Reduced Fat Wheat Thins.
Watching Jack Shepherd become more and more unhinged.
The title sequence of The Age of Innocence.
"Roman Fever"
Maryn jumping rope.
Movie trailers.
Action figures.
That's probably enough for today. I have Russian movies to watch this week. Hello, Tarkovsky!
Monday, February 25, 2008
Spring Is Not Here
Yesterday was beautiful. The sun showed himself for the third day straight and all that light got to me. After church, we changed into warm clothes and went for a walk to the nearby park. The streets had that dusty, newly-unearthed look to them that I love so much. When the streets started looking like that in Rexburg, I knew spring wasn't far away. All the crushed-up lava rock that the city had spread at intersections collected into long piles and got swept away by melted snow.
Here, the streets get bleached by salt but the look of a newly-bare road with that dull shine from the sun is still gorgeous to me. As we walked along, my internal optimist got the better of me and I said, "Wouldn't it be great if this was it? If it just got warmer and warmer from here and then it was just spring? If we didn't have any more snow this year?"
Suzanne, ever wise, said, "Yeah, but you know that's not gonna happen. Every time you think winter is done, you usually have at least two or three more storms to go."
Now, here it is, three in the afternoon of the next day and here's what we've got on for the next 24 hours:
I'm not the kind of guy that gets angry when his wife is right all the time but if there was ever something I wanted her to be wrong about, this would be it.
Here, the streets get bleached by salt but the look of a newly-bare road with that dull shine from the sun is still gorgeous to me. As we walked along, my internal optimist got the better of me and I said, "Wouldn't it be great if this was it? If it just got warmer and warmer from here and then it was just spring? If we didn't have any more snow this year?"
Suzanne, ever wise, said, "Yeah, but you know that's not gonna happen. Every time you think winter is done, you usually have at least two or three more storms to go."
Now, here it is, three in the afternoon of the next day and here's what we've got on for the next 24 hours:
I'm not the kind of guy that gets angry when his wife is right all the time but if there was ever something I wanted her to be wrong about, this would be it.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Bound On Earth part 2
This is a longer, more detailed review of Bound On Earth that I wrote for the Association of Mormon Letters:
Bound On Earth is a rarity among a lot of contemporary literature and especially among the sub-genre of LDS fiction. It is unlike many stories published in the annual O. Henry or Best American collections in its sense of compassion for the characters. Rather than portraying the Palmer family as a collection of freaks and walking dysfunctions as is so popular to do, the book shows the characters as flawed and difficult, humane and striving, sympathetic and, ultimately, deserving of compassion. This is not to say that each member of the family has some easy, trite heroic moment or epiphany. On the contrary, it is their ordinariness, their familiar every-day-ness that makes them so authentic and relevant. A reader won't feel as though he or she is looking at a display behind glass in a literary museum with this book. Readers will feel as though they are visiting home, sitting next to familiar siblings, friends, and relatives at the dinner table.
Rather than the cold, arm's-length distance one has come to expect from authors who seem only able to focus on dysfunction, betrayal, and emotional disaster and death, Hallstrom ably and realistically portrays real people with real struggles. She does it in a way that never insults the reader's intelligence or lets the characters off the hook. The humanity and compassion for its characters and, by extension, for its readers are what set Bound On Earth apart from most of what you can find on the New Fiction shelf these days.
What sets the book apart from a lot of LDS fiction has to do with what the book is not. It isn't any of the things that are normally conjured by the label of "LDS literature." It isn't historical fiction like The Work and The Glory, it isn't weepy stuff targeted at youth like Jack Weyland's stuff, it isn't a missionary narrative. Nor is it centered around someone's struggle with faith and the climax is all about whether or not the hero stays in the church.
The book is distinguished even from wonderful, classic LDS novels like The Backslider simply because it is contemporary. Hallstrom has written about Mormon life as it is right now. This isn't a reformulation of some glorious historic heritage nor is it a fossil of LDS culture from the past. These stories are finely crafted tales that both speak to and show the experience of being a Latter-Day saint in the late 20th and early 21st century.
It's not intellectually popular to talk too much about emotional involvement with a book. It's okay to talk about themes, motifs, possible interpretations, extra-textual connections, etc. but it's quietly, definitely frowned upon to to just talk about how much you love a particular character or event in a story. Too much emotion is unseemly in the academic world. Emotion isn't thought, it might be said.
Nevertheless, I've got to say that I loved this book and I loved these characters. I saw pieces of myself and my loved ones in them and that, I think, is a large part of why people read -- to know that we are not alone in the universe. Bound On Earth makes me feel like I am in good company.
Of everyone, I have to say that I have a bit of a literary crush on the character of Beth. She's the youngest daughter of the Palmer family and her narratives are the head, tail, heart, and funny bone of the book of the book. My heart about broke apart during her Sunday Story of her trying to help her mother around the house as a five year old and I laughed out loud while reading about her crush on her high school English teacher. Her struggles to love and forgive a damaged spouse later in her life struck me as utterly authentic.
It's a small book, just over 200 pages, but it is a substantial, worthwhile read that makes you feel as though you have met people, been places, and done things. It's well worth the small price to buy and ship it to your door.
Bound On Earth is a rarity among a lot of contemporary literature and especially among the sub-genre of LDS fiction. It is unlike many stories published in the annual O. Henry or Best American collections in its sense of compassion for the characters. Rather than portraying the Palmer family as a collection of freaks and walking dysfunctions as is so popular to do, the book shows the characters as flawed and difficult, humane and striving, sympathetic and, ultimately, deserving of compassion. This is not to say that each member of the family has some easy, trite heroic moment or epiphany. On the contrary, it is their ordinariness, their familiar every-day-ness that makes them so authentic and relevant. A reader won't feel as though he or she is looking at a display behind glass in a literary museum with this book. Readers will feel as though they are visiting home, sitting next to familiar siblings, friends, and relatives at the dinner table.
Rather than the cold, arm's-length distance one has come to expect from authors who seem only able to focus on dysfunction, betrayal, and emotional disaster and death, Hallstrom ably and realistically portrays real people with real struggles. She does it in a way that never insults the reader's intelligence or lets the characters off the hook. The humanity and compassion for its characters and, by extension, for its readers are what set Bound On Earth apart from most of what you can find on the New Fiction shelf these days.
What sets the book apart from a lot of LDS fiction has to do with what the book is not. It isn't any of the things that are normally conjured by the label of "LDS literature." It isn't historical fiction like The Work and The Glory, it isn't weepy stuff targeted at youth like Jack Weyland's stuff, it isn't a missionary narrative. Nor is it centered around someone's struggle with faith and the climax is all about whether or not the hero stays in the church.
The book is distinguished even from wonderful, classic LDS novels like The Backslider simply because it is contemporary. Hallstrom has written about Mormon life as it is right now. This isn't a reformulation of some glorious historic heritage nor is it a fossil of LDS culture from the past. These stories are finely crafted tales that both speak to and show the experience of being a Latter-Day saint in the late 20th and early 21st century.
It's not intellectually popular to talk too much about emotional involvement with a book. It's okay to talk about themes, motifs, possible interpretations, extra-textual connections, etc. but it's quietly, definitely frowned upon to to just talk about how much you love a particular character or event in a story. Too much emotion is unseemly in the academic world. Emotion isn't thought, it might be said.
Nevertheless, I've got to say that I loved this book and I loved these characters. I saw pieces of myself and my loved ones in them and that, I think, is a large part of why people read -- to know that we are not alone in the universe. Bound On Earth makes me feel like I am in good company.
Of everyone, I have to say that I have a bit of a literary crush on the character of Beth. She's the youngest daughter of the Palmer family and her narratives are the head, tail, heart, and funny bone of the book of the book. My heart about broke apart during her Sunday Story of her trying to help her mother around the house as a five year old and I laughed out loud while reading about her crush on her high school English teacher. Her struggles to love and forgive a damaged spouse later in her life struck me as utterly authentic.
It's a small book, just over 200 pages, but it is a substantial, worthwhile read that makes you feel as though you have met people, been places, and done things. It's well worth the small price to buy and ship it to your door.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Bound On Earth
This is a message specifically for my sisters-in-law, my mother-in-law, and anyone else who reads this blog who is a regular (or even not-so-regular) book reader: last night I finished a novel called Bound On Earth. It was written by a woman named Angela Hallstrom and I think it's one of the best things I've read in ages. It's short but substantial and totally worth the 10 bucks plus shipping from Amazon. It's a novel but it's told as a series of interconnected short stories from the perspectives of different members of the Palmer family. I'm hesitant to call it LDS fiction because it isn't any of the things that are normally conjured by that label. It isn't historical fiction like The Work and The Glory, it isn't weepy stuff targeted at youth like Jack Weyland's stuff, it isn't a missionary narrative. Nor is it centered around someone's struggle with faith and the climax is all about whether or not the hero stays in the church.
The book tells the story of a wonderfully real LDS family living their lives and dealing with all the difficulties, joys, fears, mistakes, and successes that come down the line. It's faithful without being treacly, intelligent and questioning without being apostate, funny without being silly, sad without being morose. It's really, really good and I think everyone should buy it and read it.
My friend and mentor, Scott Samuelson, once told me that he reads literature in the hope that it will help him love people more. This book made me want to be more loving, more compassionate, and kinder to people. In addition to being well-written and enjoyable to read, I think that's about the highest mission a book can accomplish.
You can find the book here or here.
(And yes, mothers-in-law get access to the family library. No card required.)
The book tells the story of a wonderfully real LDS family living their lives and dealing with all the difficulties, joys, fears, mistakes, and successes that come down the line. It's faithful without being treacly, intelligent and questioning without being apostate, funny without being silly, sad without being morose. It's really, really good and I think everyone should buy it and read it.
My friend and mentor, Scott Samuelson, once told me that he reads literature in the hope that it will help him love people more. This book made me want to be more loving, more compassionate, and kinder to people. In addition to being well-written and enjoyable to read, I think that's about the highest mission a book can accomplish.
You can find the book here or here.
(And yes, mothers-in-law get access to the family library. No card required.)
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Tuesday
It's Tuesday and my throat feels as though little gardeners have been in it, using a rototiller to get it ready for spring planting. I sound like Barry White (Yeah, girl. Alllllright) and I'm tired. Nevertheless, I'm here at work. We are midway though orienting a new group of students and one of the hard and fast rules here is that you can't take time off during orientation. So, in my efforts to be a semi-useful employee, I'm sitting here, waiting for my turn with the students, rather than being at home in bed. It's not as bad as I'm making it out to be. I just get crabby and intolerant when I feel a little run down.
My boss has already put me in a bad mood this morning. Every orientation we show the new students a film, usually something to do with young African Americans overcoming adversity. Freedom Writers, Pride, etc. Well, yesterday when I reminded my boss to get the movie for today he said he was going to have us watch Denzel Washington's latest, The Great Debaters. I pointed out that it was still in second-run theaters and wasn't available on DVD. He threw me a cocky, knowing look and said, "Oh, I got it." I pointed out that, if we're trying to set a good example of being law-abiding citizens for our students, we probably shouldn't show a bootleg copy of a movie in our orientation. He waved me off and mumbled something about getting Freedom Writers. This morning, what's in my box in the mail room? A disc with "Great Debators" scrawled on it with a Sharpie marker.
My guess is that my boss didn't even try to get another movie and that he figures it's my job to do what he asks and that includes showing some movie that he bought from the back of his friend's barber shop. (Bootleg copies of movies are big business in Detroit because not many people have the necessary computer access to download things for themselves). If that is what he figures, he figures right. I think it's a bad idea and a bad example but he's the boss and, ultimately, the responsibility falls to him, not me.
Am I just being needlessly priggish about this? I mean, it isn't as though I don't have a small collection of copied CDs from the public library at home. I'm not exactly guiltless when it comes to taking someone's intellectual property without asking. But at the same time, I don't hand copies out to students and say, "Didn't pay a red cent for this one!" I don't know. It might just be the fact that my boss gets on my nerves and there isn't much that he can do right in my eyes right now.
Whatever it is, it shouldn't matter. Acceptance is the key to serenity. I'll let my boss take care of his side of the street and I'll start worrying more about my side of the street.
....
For the record, I watched the first hour and ten minutes of the movie with the students and then had to leave to teach another class. I liked what I saw for the most part. Washington is a confident, unaffected director and it's always nice to see that. Some contemporary actors have proven themselves to be really talented directors -- The Postman aside, Kevin Costner is good and, anti-Semitism aside, Mel Gibson is too.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Success
There was much screaming, much crying, and it all eventually led to one very frustrated father reaching in and plucking it out like a dandelion head -- but out it came.
Friday, February 15, 2008
100 Days, 100 Chocolate Chips
Avery's 100th Day of School project. I swiped this photo from Suzanne's blog because I love it.
(Plus, if you enlarge it, you get a great shot of our book collection and you can see greats such as "If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of B-Movie Actor." That book, incidentally, belongs to blog favorite, Captain Admiral Brad Barrett. I've had it for six years now or something like that. Possession is 9/10ths of the law, bucko!)
(Plus, if you enlarge it, you get a great shot of our book collection and you can see greats such as "If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of B-Movie Actor." That book, incidentally, belongs to blog favorite, Captain Admiral Brad Barrett. I've had it for six years now or something like that. Possession is 9/10ths of the law, bucko!)
Post Valentine's Day Wrap-Up
As Tom Keiffer, lead singer of the 80s hair band Cinderella, once wailed, "You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone!" Yep, even after I wrote my love letter to technology last week, I still didn't have a full appreciation for how dependent I am on it. Having my computer give up the ghost last week was an eye-opener. Not only could I not blog or obsessively check my e-mail 75 times a day, I couldn't even type up a letter or quickly look up driving directions. I was bereft.
Now, happily, gloriously, I have my computer back. As it turned out, it was just a glitch in the boot-up sequence that was pretty easily repaired. While I'm glad I still have all my files and documents, a nice, shiny, new operating system would have been cool too. I'm not complaining though. A pokey, old computer is better (far, far better) than no computer at all.
So yesterday was Love Day. Maryn and Avery came home with approximately 87 handmade decorations and roughly 6 pounds of candy between the two of them. Suzanne and I shared intimate bonding time watching Sayid from Lost be totally hardcore and cool and inexplicable as a post-island assassin. Romantic, eh?
In a more traditional vein, I thought I'd follow Suzanne's lead and list off a few things that I love about those closest to me.
Avery
I love her personality. She's fun-loving and mischeivious and she gets such a kick out of just playing. When she plays hide and seek around the house, she loves being found as much as she enjoys hiding. When I find her under the bed or behind the shower curtain (two fave spots), she always has her giant, square grin.
I love how tough she is. It's tremendously frustrating when it's turned against me but, when her willpower is pointed in the right direction, it's really impressive and admirable to see how determined she is. She sticks up for herself, doesn't take a lot of guff from Maryn or anyone else and is just generally very much her own person.
I love her head. It's so big and perfectly round. She's got one of the great noggins of all time, I think.
I love her appreciation for and facility with stories. She remembers minute details, exact wording, story sequence, etc. When she's able to read on her own, she'll be an excellent reader. Reading to her, especially long term stories like Bone and the Book of Mormon, is a source of real deep joy and satisfaction for me.
I love what a little poser she is when it's photo time. It's hilarious. I tell her I want to take her picture and she immediately cocks her head to one side, puts one leg in front of the other, and commences to just totally work it in the way that only a smart, sassy five year old can.
Maryn
I love her creativity and artistic ability. Her drawings and self-portraits are becoming increasingly elaborate and detailed. I love having conversations with her about art -- whether it's in a comic book or on the wall at the DIA. She notices interesting things and is just so keenly observant, it's a thrill to talk with her.
I love her enthusiasm. Maryn is never, and I mean never, sad or discouraged for long She's just so full of energy and excitement for life that she doesn't get down often. Even if she's in the middle of a full-on 7 year old fit, she's usually smiling or laughing within minutes. I love that she's not a sulker and that she gets excited about the things we do as a family.
I love it when Maryn tries to make Suzanne and I laugh. She enjoys entertaining us and so when she hits on something that cracks us up, she capitalizes on it and tries to make us laugh even harder. Few things are funnier (at least the first four or five times she does it) than when Maryn pronounces "library" as "LIE-barry" like a hick or when she starts dancing Soul-Train style. She really enjoys making people smile and I think that's a good trait.
I love how forgiving she is. Maryn is a paragon of charity and forgiveness. When Avery apologizes for hitting her or I apologize for yelling, all Maryn ever says is, "It's okay," and she means it. She doesn't appear to have the slightest interest in holding grudges or being angry. She's immensely sweet that way.
I love that Maryn still occasionally pulls out her "Naked Ninja" shtick when it's bathtime and tries to karate chop me instead of getting in the bath. It cracks me up every time.
Suzanne
I love how all-encompassing her mind is. She seems to remember almost everything and keep up with so much. She manages to work full-time, hold down an every-Sunday calling, take care of me and the girls, and still remember that Maryn needs to bring five pounds of flour to Friday Fun Day at the school, and Avery needs new shoe laces and a permission slip signed. There's so much that would go undone at our house if not for her vast capacities.
I love Suzanne's artistic eye and how our homes have always been attractive and eye-catching, even when we didn't have much to work with. She has this almost supernatural ability to arrange things (stuff on a shelf, pillows on a bed, magazines on a table) and make them look better than they did. I remember taking all of my stuff (books, pictures, action figures, etc.) to my first real office and putting everything in roughly the place I wanted it and then asking her to come over and "feng shui" it. She walked it, took about five minutes, and changed the entire place, and made it look really cool. It's a gift. I can't argue with it.
I love Suzanne's calves. I know it sounds weird but she runs three or four miles most days of the week and her calves are practically weapons-grade now. If you stood too close to her and she flexed, she could probably knock you over with them. They're impressive.
I love Suzanne's laugh. She doesn't laugh for just anybody or anything so #1, if she laughs, you know you've said something genuinely funny and #2, there's something so hearty and real about it, it makes you laugh too. When she gets around her siblings, it's a free-for-all and everyone else might as well just sit back and enjoy the show. Once Shauna and Jeff get going, it gets to the point that Suzanne can barely breathe.
I love Suzanne's dignity. Part of it is just a natural, physical thing she's got going thanks to her high cheekbones and long neck. But more than that, she has a stillness about her from having endured a lot of difficulty and trial. She's been through fires that would melt most people but she came out more polished, more kind, more patient, more dignified than ever before.
So there you have it: a little bit (or a lot, as the case may be) of love for the day after Love Day. Cheers.
Now, happily, gloriously, I have my computer back. As it turned out, it was just a glitch in the boot-up sequence that was pretty easily repaired. While I'm glad I still have all my files and documents, a nice, shiny, new operating system would have been cool too. I'm not complaining though. A pokey, old computer is better (far, far better) than no computer at all.
So yesterday was Love Day. Maryn and Avery came home with approximately 87 handmade decorations and roughly 6 pounds of candy between the two of them. Suzanne and I shared intimate bonding time watching Sayid from Lost be totally hardcore and cool and inexplicable as a post-island assassin. Romantic, eh?
In a more traditional vein, I thought I'd follow Suzanne's lead and list off a few things that I love about those closest to me.
Avery
I love her personality. She's fun-loving and mischeivious and she gets such a kick out of just playing. When she plays hide and seek around the house, she loves being found as much as she enjoys hiding. When I find her under the bed or behind the shower curtain (two fave spots), she always has her giant, square grin.
I love how tough she is. It's tremendously frustrating when it's turned against me but, when her willpower is pointed in the right direction, it's really impressive and admirable to see how determined she is. She sticks up for herself, doesn't take a lot of guff from Maryn or anyone else and is just generally very much her own person.
I love her head. It's so big and perfectly round. She's got one of the great noggins of all time, I think.
I love her appreciation for and facility with stories. She remembers minute details, exact wording, story sequence, etc. When she's able to read on her own, she'll be an excellent reader. Reading to her, especially long term stories like Bone and the Book of Mormon, is a source of real deep joy and satisfaction for me.
I love what a little poser she is when it's photo time. It's hilarious. I tell her I want to take her picture and she immediately cocks her head to one side, puts one leg in front of the other, and commences to just totally work it in the way that only a smart, sassy five year old can.
Maryn
I love her creativity and artistic ability. Her drawings and self-portraits are becoming increasingly elaborate and detailed. I love having conversations with her about art -- whether it's in a comic book or on the wall at the DIA. She notices interesting things and is just so keenly observant, it's a thrill to talk with her.
I love her enthusiasm. Maryn is never, and I mean never, sad or discouraged for long She's just so full of energy and excitement for life that she doesn't get down often. Even if she's in the middle of a full-on 7 year old fit, she's usually smiling or laughing within minutes. I love that she's not a sulker and that she gets excited about the things we do as a family.
I love it when Maryn tries to make Suzanne and I laugh. She enjoys entertaining us and so when she hits on something that cracks us up, she capitalizes on it and tries to make us laugh even harder. Few things are funnier (at least the first four or five times she does it) than when Maryn pronounces "library" as "LIE-barry" like a hick or when she starts dancing Soul-Train style. She really enjoys making people smile and I think that's a good trait.
I love how forgiving she is. Maryn is a paragon of charity and forgiveness. When Avery apologizes for hitting her or I apologize for yelling, all Maryn ever says is, "It's okay," and she means it. She doesn't appear to have the slightest interest in holding grudges or being angry. She's immensely sweet that way.
I love that Maryn still occasionally pulls out her "Naked Ninja" shtick when it's bathtime and tries to karate chop me instead of getting in the bath. It cracks me up every time.
Suzanne
I love how all-encompassing her mind is. She seems to remember almost everything and keep up with so much. She manages to work full-time, hold down an every-Sunday calling, take care of me and the girls, and still remember that Maryn needs to bring five pounds of flour to Friday Fun Day at the school, and Avery needs new shoe laces and a permission slip signed. There's so much that would go undone at our house if not for her vast capacities.
I love Suzanne's artistic eye and how our homes have always been attractive and eye-catching, even when we didn't have much to work with. She has this almost supernatural ability to arrange things (stuff on a shelf, pillows on a bed, magazines on a table) and make them look better than they did. I remember taking all of my stuff (books, pictures, action figures, etc.) to my first real office and putting everything in roughly the place I wanted it and then asking her to come over and "feng shui" it. She walked it, took about five minutes, and changed the entire place, and made it look really cool. It's a gift. I can't argue with it.
I love Suzanne's calves. I know it sounds weird but she runs three or four miles most days of the week and her calves are practically weapons-grade now. If you stood too close to her and she flexed, she could probably knock you over with them. They're impressive.
I love Suzanne's laugh. She doesn't laugh for just anybody or anything so #1, if she laughs, you know you've said something genuinely funny and #2, there's something so hearty and real about it, it makes you laugh too. When she gets around her siblings, it's a free-for-all and everyone else might as well just sit back and enjoy the show. Once Shauna and Jeff get going, it gets to the point that Suzanne can barely breathe.
I love Suzanne's dignity. Part of it is just a natural, physical thing she's got going thanks to her high cheekbones and long neck. But more than that, she has a stillness about her from having endured a lot of difficulty and trial. She's been through fires that would melt most people but she came out more polished, more kind, more patient, more dignified than ever before.
So there you have it: a little bit (or a lot, as the case may be) of love for the day after Love Day. Cheers.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
What's the haps, dude?
So I have to apologize to the four regular readers of this blog. Last week, my work computer said, "I'm done, pal," and shut down with not even the courtesy of two weeks notice. And, because I work for a dinky non-profit in the heart of a decaying city, the role of tech support falls to. . . uh, no one. So my computer got carted off last Friday and is supposedly due back tomorrow.
So, what does this have to do with me apologizing to my four regular readers? Well, if you haven't guessed already, most of my blogging gets done at work. Suzanne blogs at work too and feels all guilty and conflicted about it. I blog at work and pat myself on the back for being so clever and making such good use of my non-teaching time. Ah, we're two different people she and I -- and magically, we compliment one another.
With no work computer, my blog offerings have been weak and anemic -- kind of like certain 19th century Russian royalty or me in high school.
I believe in good, regular blog updates. (I'm a regular guy - ask anyone.) But I've sort of fallen short the last several days. I hope my computer will be back at work tomorrow looking tan and healthy from its break. I hope it will look at me and say, "What's the haps, dude? Ready to ride the information superhighway with me?" I'm hoping. We'll see.
Anyway, in the spirit of updating, even though it's not necessarily original material, I offer the Feb. 12 edition of Toothpaste for Dinner:
toothpastefordinner.com
So, what does this have to do with me apologizing to my four regular readers? Well, if you haven't guessed already, most of my blogging gets done at work. Suzanne blogs at work too and feels all guilty and conflicted about it. I blog at work and pat myself on the back for being so clever and making such good use of my non-teaching time. Ah, we're two different people she and I -- and magically, we compliment one another.
With no work computer, my blog offerings have been weak and anemic -- kind of like certain 19th century Russian royalty or me in high school.
I believe in good, regular blog updates. (I'm a regular guy - ask anyone.) But I've sort of fallen short the last several days. I hope my computer will be back at work tomorrow looking tan and healthy from its break. I hope it will look at me and say, "What's the haps, dude? Ready to ride the information superhighway with me?" I'm hoping. We'll see.
Anyway, in the spirit of updating, even though it's not necessarily original material, I offer the Feb. 12 edition of Toothpaste for Dinner:
toothpastefordinner.com
Monday, February 11, 2008
A Good Poem For Bad Times
Stephen Dunn is a terrific American poet and his book Between Angels is one of the best poetry books I've ever bought. This is one of the first works of his I encountered. It's good for when things seem bad.
Sweetness
Just when it has seemed I couldn't bear
one more friend
waking with a tumor, one more maniac
with a perfect reason, often a sweetness
has come
and changed nothing in the world
except the way I stumbled through it,
for a while lost
in the ignorance of loving
someone or something, the world shrunk
to mouth-size,
hand-size, and never seeming small.
I acknowledge there is no sweetness
that doesn't leave a stain,
no sweetness that's ever sufficiently sweet. ...
Tonight a friend called to say his lover
was killed in a car
he was driving. His voice was low
and guttural, he repeated what he needed
to repeat, and I repeated
the one or two words we have for such grief
until we were speaking only in tones.
Often a sweetness comes
as if on loan, stays just long enough
to make sense of what it means to be alive,
then returns to its dark
source. As for me, I don't care
where it's been, or what bitter road
it's traveled
to come so far, to taste so good.
We could easily translate his idea of "sweetness" to "tender mercies."
Sweetness
Just when it has seemed I couldn't bear
one more friend
waking with a tumor, one more maniac
with a perfect reason, often a sweetness
has come
and changed nothing in the world
except the way I stumbled through it,
for a while lost
in the ignorance of loving
someone or something, the world shrunk
to mouth-size,
hand-size, and never seeming small.
I acknowledge there is no sweetness
that doesn't leave a stain,
no sweetness that's ever sufficiently sweet. ...
Tonight a friend called to say his lover
was killed in a car
he was driving. His voice was low
and guttural, he repeated what he needed
to repeat, and I repeated
the one or two words we have for such grief
until we were speaking only in tones.
Often a sweetness comes
as if on loan, stays just long enough
to make sense of what it means to be alive,
then returns to its dark
source. As for me, I don't care
where it's been, or what bitter road
it's traveled
to come so far, to taste so good.
We could easily translate his idea of "sweetness" to "tender mercies."
Friday, February 8, 2008
Color Me Brown
You're brown, a credible, stable color that's reminiscent of fine wood, rich leather, and wistful melancholy. Most likely, you're a logical, practical person ruled more by your head than your heart. With your inquisitive mind and insatiable curiosity, you're probably a great problem solver. And you always gather all of the facts before coming to a timely, informed decision. Easily intrigued, you're constantly finding new ways to challenge your mind, whether it's by reading the newspaper, playing a trivia game, or composing a piece of music. Brown is an impartial, neutral color, which means you tend to see the difference between fact and opinion easily and are open to many points of view. Trustworthy and steady, you really are a brown at heart.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Why I Hate Supernanny
Last night, the reality TV show Supernanny came on and I begged, whined, and complained until Suzanne agreed to turn it off and watch a movie instead. She called me a “big baby” which I am but, in this case at least, I am also right. I have good reasons for disliking the show.
First of all, I want to point out something positive. I like the host, Jo Frost. She seems reasonable and intelligent and, what’s more, it’s really nice to see a chubby person on TV besides Jim Belushi. She looks like a real person and that’s a nice change. (Where Extreme Makeover Home Edition finds its designer/construction women who all look like Miss January is a mystery to me.) Host aside, the show itself is the problem.
There are two things I really dislike: #1. It’s completely exploitive and makes entertainment out of real people’s real pain. You can say the show is all about helping the family and happy endings but, if that’s the case, why are all the advertisements for it focused on children hitting/kicking/scratching/biting their parents and/or siblings? Why the lurid emphasis on small, obviously hurting kids doing things outrageous things? Why is a parent crying always the seeming money shot? The show makes a carnival sideshow out of families that need help, not publicity. Sure, Jo may teach them techniques that enable them to manage their families in a more healthy way (which is good) but the show also makes them into a spectacle for friends, neighbors, and classmates to feast on. If a kid is struggling in school because of his emotionally absent father, is being on television going to help or exacerbate that situation in the long run? The dad may become more involved but he’ll do it just in time to comfort his son who is being mocked at school for crying on national television because his dad doesn’t love him enough. Supernanny turns the viewer into a major league voyeur and a minor league sadist. We want to see these people hurt but only if everything comes out okay in the end. Speaking of which . . .
#2. The happy endings are manufactured, manipulated, and misleading. After spending three quarters of the show zooming in on the problems the family faces, the last five or seen minutes of the show are dedicated to blissful, golden images of familial togetherness and cooperation. The numbingly formulaic structure of the show suggests that overcoming dysfunction is merely a naughty-rug and job-list away. It’s television so of course everything is truncated and edited for time but still, it basically says that lifelong problems and miles-deep divisions can all be healed within a couple of days. I think this is an unfair and wildly unrealistic message to put across in a culture that is increasingly fraught with problems. People struggling with difficult children or problematic family relationships don’t need to hear that everything is easily solved. They don’t need to be fed the line of an easy fix. People who expect things to just magically resolve are going to end up disappointed.
This idea, of course, is the age-old criticism of television: that it presents a world in which even the most difficult of domestic problems is solved in under an hour. Sitcoms and dramas are one thing – we know they are fake. But so-called “reality” programming is a lot more insidious. It’s built on the idea that what we are seeing is actually happening. In its way, it’s a lot more persuasive and, therefore, troubling than regular programming.
So there you go. I think Supernanny, for all its good intentions, is bad for the families that participate and bad for the viewers who watch. I’d much rather watch a fictional show about almost anything than a “reality” show that showcases dysfunction.
Next week, if you’re lucky, I’ll write my long-planned but never-written post entitled, “Why October Road is a sign of the Apocalypse. “
First of all, I want to point out something positive. I like the host, Jo Frost. She seems reasonable and intelligent and, what’s more, it’s really nice to see a chubby person on TV besides Jim Belushi. She looks like a real person and that’s a nice change. (Where Extreme Makeover Home Edition finds its designer/construction women who all look like Miss January is a mystery to me.) Host aside, the show itself is the problem.
There are two things I really dislike: #1. It’s completely exploitive and makes entertainment out of real people’s real pain. You can say the show is all about helping the family and happy endings but, if that’s the case, why are all the advertisements for it focused on children hitting/kicking/scratching/biting their parents and/or siblings? Why the lurid emphasis on small, obviously hurting kids doing things outrageous things? Why is a parent crying always the seeming money shot? The show makes a carnival sideshow out of families that need help, not publicity. Sure, Jo may teach them techniques that enable them to manage their families in a more healthy way (which is good) but the show also makes them into a spectacle for friends, neighbors, and classmates to feast on. If a kid is struggling in school because of his emotionally absent father, is being on television going to help or exacerbate that situation in the long run? The dad may become more involved but he’ll do it just in time to comfort his son who is being mocked at school for crying on national television because his dad doesn’t love him enough. Supernanny turns the viewer into a major league voyeur and a minor league sadist. We want to see these people hurt but only if everything comes out okay in the end. Speaking of which . . .
#2. The happy endings are manufactured, manipulated, and misleading. After spending three quarters of the show zooming in on the problems the family faces, the last five or seen minutes of the show are dedicated to blissful, golden images of familial togetherness and cooperation. The numbingly formulaic structure of the show suggests that overcoming dysfunction is merely a naughty-rug and job-list away. It’s television so of course everything is truncated and edited for time but still, it basically says that lifelong problems and miles-deep divisions can all be healed within a couple of days. I think this is an unfair and wildly unrealistic message to put across in a culture that is increasingly fraught with problems. People struggling with difficult children or problematic family relationships don’t need to hear that everything is easily solved. They don’t need to be fed the line of an easy fix. People who expect things to just magically resolve are going to end up disappointed.
This idea, of course, is the age-old criticism of television: that it presents a world in which even the most difficult of domestic problems is solved in under an hour. Sitcoms and dramas are one thing – we know they are fake. But so-called “reality” programming is a lot more insidious. It’s built on the idea that what we are seeing is actually happening. In its way, it’s a lot more persuasive and, therefore, troubling than regular programming.
So there you go. I think Supernanny, for all its good intentions, is bad for the families that participate and bad for the viewers who watch. I’d much rather watch a fictional show about almost anything than a “reality” show that showcases dysfunction.
Next week, if you’re lucky, I’ll write my long-planned but never-written post entitled, “Why October Road is a sign of the Apocalypse. “
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
What's On Your Nightstand?
The post below was published yesterday on the Mormon arts and culture blog, A Motley Vision. In it, Anneke Majors asserts that Stephanie Meyer's vampire books should be considered "Mormon literature" even though there's nothing explicitly LDS in the content, that Twilight, the first book in the trilogy, is "one of the most blatantly erotic books I've read in a long time," and that the book does a "dismal" job of upholding the standards of the church. Provocative stuff, eh?
The books are a phenomenon across the country. More than three million copies of the books have been sold. Catherine Hardwicke, director of Thirteen and The Nativity Story, will begin filming a movie version at the end of this month. The books are huge everywhere but Mormons especially are interested in Stephanie Meyer because she's so unabashed about being LDS and having attended BYU. Ward book clubs are reading her stuff, youth leaders are recommending her books to the kids in their charge, etc. For my part, I think every one of my sisters-in-law on Suzanne's side has read at least one of the books and a couple of my nieces too. Naturally, I found Anneke Majors' comments pretty provocative and I wanted to know what good, informed Mormon folks who have actually read the book think about what she wrote. I await your opinions.
Squeaky Clean
By Anneke Majors | 2.04.08
What makes literature erotic?
On a recent road trip with my younger sister, I needed a little help staying awake. She volunteered to read to me from the last few pages of a novel I had brought along. This was my first experience with D.H. Lawrence, which is just as well because I think at a younger age I would never have made it through his deliciously drawn-out descriptive prose. My new favorite Mormon curmudgeon, Arthur Henry King, had recommended Lawrence’s The Plumed Serpent to me in one of his speeches from Arm the Children. He assured me that it wasn’t as obscene as Lawrence’s contemporaries complained. My sister, however, was promptly scandalized. Not even three sentences into the book, she paused.
“Uh oh. This is about to get dirty.”
I, having already finished most of the novel, including the part where an incarnation of Quetzalcoatl gives the protagonist advice on marital intimacy, was pretty confident that it wasn’t going to be dirty. “What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say that the next sentence uses the word voluptuous.”
“The word voluptuous is dirty?” I asked her Socratically.
“Well,” she said, blushing, “yeah.”
“I don’t think it is. Keep reading.”
We finished the end of the novel and successfully made it past the voluptuous, sensual and phallic parts. None of them were obscene; most of them were figurative. We skipped back and re-read a passage of the book I had particularly enjoyed - it defined the distinction and relationship of the sexes in a way that I’ve rarely seen in 20th century literature. The way Lawrence views the roles of male and female is remarkably akin to LDS doctrine. I then talked with my sister for a while about what she thinks makes literature dirty. She’s fairly open-minded and an English major, but she’s young, and we came to some interesting conclusions. It was an excellent opportunity for me to vocalize and evaluate honestly my opinions on what literature I find worthwhile for filling my head.
With Lawrence still swimming around in the murky Mexican lakes of my subconscious, I began reading a new novel a few days later. I must admit that I read this book with the express intent of hating it; I’ll state my bias now, but my opinion of the book did not improve upon reading it. Stephenie Meyer is somewhat of a phenomenon in popular Mormon culture these days. The BYU grad emblazons her About the Author bookflaps with those lofty Provo credentials and then ships her books out to the national teenage market. Maybe the Twillight series is not intended to be interpreted as “Mormon Lit;” its marketing strategies and the fact that you’ll find it in bright endcap displays at Deseret Book seem to argue otherwise. Regardless of its “Mormonness,” it is perceived as a Mormon Book and should be considered one. Anything that young girls are reading at the recommendation of their Mia Maid advisers has a responsibility, in my opinion, to reflect and uphold church ideals. Twilight does a dismal job.
Online reviews I’ve read of Twilight emphasize the “squeaky clean,” “necessarily chaste” relationship of the teenage protagonist and her vampire boyfriend. I would argue vehemently otherwise. Meyer doesn’t once use the word voluptuous, but her novel is one of the most blatantly erotic books I’ve read in a long time. Whether or not a sex scene ever occurs in the lines of the text, the erotic effect can be judged by how many sex scenes occur in the mind of the reader. Meyer’s characters Bella and Edward never do anything technically sexual, but she positions them right at the cusp and holds them there - getting just close enough to titillate her teenage readers without ever using any words she’s not supposed to. In contrast, D.H. Lawrence, the notorious libertine, accomplishes an entire novel on the complex intimate relationship of the sexes without once ushering the reader into the bedroom. Sex scenes occur between Lawrence’s lines, but they are private, quiet, appropriate, and never exploited.
Meyer’s novels aren’t considered serious literature by any scholars that I’m aware of. However, their nearly universal presence in our Mormon culture is something we need to watch. Violating nearly every standard in For the Strength of Youth, Meyer still manages to market herself as a worthwhile, squeaky clean alternative to “worldly” forms of entertainment. I would much rather my teenage sisters read novels that would elevate their world views and deepen their respect and appreciation for human intimacy than see them swooning over the abusive, controlling vampire character of Edward Cullen. I would recommend that any parent read these novels for him or herself before passing them along to a child. And I would hope that we, as an LDS community, could recognize what is “lovely, of good report, or praiseworthy,” whencever it comes, and promote higher standards in an increasingly wicked world.
btw, if you're interested, here's the link to the A Motley Vision.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Into the West
To all my loyal Idaho and Utah readers (all four of you):
Good news for me. My paper, "Are You In or Are You Out: Clubhouses and Belonging in Mormonism and Brigham City" has been accepted for presentation to the annual conference of the Association of Mormon Letters. The conference will be held on March 8 at BYU and this means a trip for me. I'll be boarding the Brown Family hovercraft on the evening of the 6th and will spend the 7-9th in Utah. Sometime on Sunday, I'll head north to that sweet cradle of Edenic goodness known as Idaho. I'll be there until Friday.
So, what this means is there must be lunches and dinners had. Captain Admiral (Bradley Leroy), this means you. Clark, if not at the conference, then maybe one afternoon or evening in Pocatello? All the rest of you are on alert: Mark Brown briefly returns to the west. Lock up your comic books and fattening foods. I'm on the prowl.
But I Still Love Technology!
I've experienced a lot of changes over the last eighteen months. I left Idaho for Michigan, started a new job, started graduate work, lived in one apartment and now a house, watched my daughters start school -- lots of different things.
One subtle but important change I've experienced over the last year and a half is my apparent embrace of technology. While I've always been a fan of e-mail (yes, mail still equals gold, even if it's electronic), I've otherwise been immensely slow to jump on the digital bandwagon.
I hated blogs because they seemed self-indulgent, poorly-written excuses for people to blather on about nothing.
I hated cell phones because they were obnoxious, intrusive, and gave average people the opportunity to be rude in above average ways.
I figured I wouldn't get an mp3 player until they were outdated and the world had moved on to music playing microchips implanted in people's heads.
The list could go on. I never considered myself a luddite -- just unwilling to be that person talking on a cell phone while driving in rush hour traffic, unwilling to spend a big chunk of change on a music player that does essentially what a 20 dollar CD player will do.
Well, needless to say, a lot of that has changed.
The fact that you're reading my blog right now suggests I got over that particular phobia. Rather than thinking of them in a negative light, I've decided they actually represent what I teach in my writing classes every day. Blogs enable people who might never think of themselves as "writers" to explore their thoughts in print and, thereby, to learn things they don't already know. I beg, plead, and threaten to get students to write down things involving their memories, their observations, their concerns, etc.every day in class. Why in the world would I not be in favor of something that encourages everyone from Hollywood actors to housewives and high schoolers to write? I think blogging is very democratic and, although there are a lot of blogs I would never bother to read, I love that it's creating a culture of writing in the world.
As for cell phones, after I moved out here, I needed to be in contact with family and friends as much as possible and a cell was the most logical choice. I got an el cheapo phone from Metro PCS and their unlimited talk for 50 bucks a month plan. I don't carry on conversations in stores usually and I always set it to silent before class or any sort of meeting. I confess though that I talk while I drive all the time. It's dangerous but it helps pass the time as I'm hurtling down the concrete gullies between Detroit and Livonia. It is really convenient to be able to call Suzanne from the store and say, "They don't have spinach linguine. Do you want fettuccine instead?" rather than have to just make a guess and probably end up bringing home the wrong thing. I still think my students should check their phones at the door when they come to school simply because most of them don't demonstrate any maturity when it comes to being in a classroom with them. But I might as well ask them to sprout wings and fly to the moon -- so I'll just continue to deal with student cell phones.
This weekend was pretty much a technology bath for me. My old phone died and so I had to buy a new one. (An upgrade as they don't make the el cheapo model any more). I also got a belated birthday present from Suzanne: my very own iPod Classic Silver. Yep, as I type this, I'm listening to Dave Grohl and the other Foo Fighters belt out "The Best of You" in crystal clear digital sound. I spend all of Sunday afternoon uploading songs from various CDs onto my new toy and sort of delighting in how cool it all is. I mean, I always make fun of Suzanne when she talks like a commercial ("I love All-Temperature Cheer. It just gets the whites really white.") but I sounded like the biggest corporate sucker last night. "It's so easy. You just click 'synch' and it's all right there on the iPod. This thing will hold my whole music collection and then some!" I'm such a goob sometimes. I make myself laugh. Anyway, I love the iPod so far. As much as I love the ease and accessibility of it, I really dig the design. The slick, silver back with the logo stamped on it looks like a million bucks and it makes me feel like I'm carrying a Buck Rogers ray gun. It's very cool. The only downside so far is that it has revealed to me that I have uncooperative ears. (Which, if you know my childhood history even a little, is no big shock.) The ear bud headphones don't stay in. For whatever reason, they pop out with almost no provocation. The iPod commercials featuring silhouetted figures dancing around with their players are a hoax as far as I'm concerned. I can't even breathe deeply, much less dance around, without those little buggers falling out. I have headphones that will work but the sleek, modern image is wrecked it I have giant DJ headphones attached to this dainty, silver box. Ah well, vanity and good design may have to take a backseat to actually being able to hear the music.
So, feet dragging, I slowly enter the 21st century. I'm digging it so far but only because it has such a great soundtrack.
As a bonus for faithful readers, I now include the lyrics to Kip Dynamite's wedding day love song to the lovely Lafaundah from Napoleon Dynamite:
Why do you love me
Why do you need me
Always and forever
We met in a chatroom
Now our love can really bloom
Sure the world wide web is great
But you, you make me salivate
Yes I love technology
But not as much as you, you see
But I still love technology
Always and Forever
Our love is like a flock of doves
Flying up to heaven above
Always and Forever
Always and Forever
Yes our love is truly great
Always and forever
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