Because there is a plethora of children's books out there, it's inevitable that some of them will be not so good.
Because I am forced to read many of them, over and over again, you must share my pain.
There is a category of children's books that are written in verse. Sometimes these stories do not demand to be written in verse--perfectly acceptable prose versions exist in abundance. Still, someone got it in their head that the world needed a sing-songy rhyming version.
Which brings me to the pop-up book of Little Red Riding Hood (sorry about the dull page--it took quite a bit of work to track down this baby).
You know you're in trouble when you don't even have an author. The only information given about its publication comes in the following kid-friendly credit on the back:
"Published by Playmore, Inc., Publishers and Waldman Publishing Corp."
This is written in the world's tiniest font; I actually had to use an electron microscope to make out the copyright notice. Nothing says, "Fun family values" than a mass-produced corporate fairy tale, eh?
The book itself is about the size of a postcard and printed vertically--you raise each succeeding page upwards. This is odd. The entire book is five pages long, each accompanied by various figures that do not so much "pop up" as stiffly rise from the page. The art isn't awful, but I'd doubt if it's won any prizes. It's warm and simplistic, with rosy-cheeked characters that look for all the world like those from old Rankin-Bass animated specials (not the stop-motion ones; the cartoons, like Frosty the Snowman). Occasional freakish eye depictions are evident; the wolf's eyes are far too large and human, giving him a disturbingly sultry look, and Little Red Riding Hood's eyes are like cobalt diamonds, complete with cuts, so that she looks like she's high on crank most of the time.
The thing that really makes my head hurt about this rendition, though, is the text. Here it is, in full:
"'Grandma isn't feeling good
And she's all alone in her house in the wood.
Take her this basket with good things to eat
And don't talk to strangers you happen to meet.'"
This isn't awful, though it's entirely unmetrical and clunky. The odd part is that the speaker isn't identified. Like the other books in this series we have, you have to be familiar with the original story already to understand the book. The children this is aimed for--maybe 2-4--don't know this story most likely. I kind of wondered what I would think was happening if I didn't bring my preconceived ideas to the table. Something surreal, I should imagine. Though I don't remember the mother's admonition to avoid talking to strangers--that sounds like a modern interpolation to me.
"Red Riding Hood promised to obey.
She stopped to pick flowers along the way.
But when a wolf stepped suddenly out of the shade
Red Riding Hood forgot the promise she made."
I'm not certain how stopping to pick flowers constitutes obeying her mother's command; sounds like she's slacking off to me. This page has the aforementioned doey-eyed wolf and crack-frazzled LRRH eyes, so it's fairly bizarre. Li'l Red looks much more dangerous here--I'd advise the wolf to avoid eye contact and flee as soon as possible.
"The sly wolf ran on ahead.
He plopped himself in grandma's bed.
He even put on grandma's clothes
And pulled the covers up over his nose."
Now the story really starts coming off the rails. What the hell? The writer here seems to have forgotten to include the conversation between Li'l Red and the wolf. Any poor kid has got to be wondering how, exactly, she "forgot the promise she made." They don't even mention that there was any exchange of words. And without that, how the heck did the wolf know about grandma? This is so confusing...
The picture on this page shows a slightly concerned looking Grandma hiding in the closet. The whole "I ate your grandmother" thing has been dropped here, I guess. The whole story has been rendered bloodless, which removes any interest I had as a young man in what is about to happen. The wolf's later threats seem much more credible if he's got your old granny in his stomach.
"Red Riding Hood knew something was wrong
When she saw his teeth, so sharp and strong.
'Grandma, what big teeth you have!' she cried out in fear.
Said the wolf, 'The better to eat you with, my dear!'"
Just try to read those last two lines and make them come out right. It's a tough job. The wolf looks so cuddly in this picture that you just can't imagine he's going to do more than give Red Riding Hood a big ol' hug; meanwhile, Red throws her basket in the air and dumps out its contents, reavealing small brown globs that look nothing so much like feces. Here, grandma--have some dung to make you feel better!
"Red Riding Hood screamed as loud as she could.
In rushed a woodsman, who'd been chopping wood.
The wolf ran away. They were out of danger
And Red Riding Hood never again spoke to a stranger."
Again, read those last two lines and try to keep them from falling dead onto the page like a handful of iron slugs. They just make for bad poetry, but the computer which spits this drek out just knows that the last words rhyme, so it's got to be good.
Our moral for the day is hammered home once more. And the wolf lives on to prey on grandma another day...
Our last note: In German, Frosty the Snowman is Frosty der Schneemann.
Geshundheit.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Typing in the Icebox
Sitting in my bracingly cold office seems to be waking me up again, which is good. I was starting to zone out as I finished this latest batch of papers, and I have a bit more work to do before beddy-bye, so the briskness is useful.
Another bracing fact revealed to me this weekend is the fact that my mother is reading my blog on occasion. Gracious. So from now on, you'll see a lot less of the blasphemous profanity I'm wont to use, and a lot fewer discussions of how my childhood and upbringing warped me into the hideous mutant you read about in these pages. No, those disgusting habits of thought and self-destructive tendencies all came from the example of my shiftless friends in high school. Shame on them.
I heard this news at our now annual pumpkin carving party, held on Saturday. For the last few years it's been a delightful event: our family all crowd into our little house and spend an afternoon and evening... well, carving pumpkins. I am brutally mocked every year for taking the longest to produce a jack-o-lantern or, in the worst cases, not getting one done at all. I'm afflicted at those time with the same malaise that kept me from posting here for so long: my desire to do a terrific job keeps me from starting the job at all. I'm so overwhelmed with the possibilities for error and misstep, and so unable to make a decision as to a course of action, that I spend all evening fretting and almost none of it carving sweet pumpkin flesh. Not only that, but a handful of us--my mother-in-law, my wife's brother-in-law, and my father, as well as my eldest niece and nephew--have been striving these past years to create ever more elaborate 'lanterns, complete with shading, see-through panels, and copyrighted characters; my mother-in-law went so far as to graft clear marbles into the pumpkin skin to enhance the light effects. This year saw outstanding renditions of Scooby Doo, Darth Maul, Snoopy asleep atop a Peanuts-style pumpkin, and little Nemo (I fully expect legal squads from Hanna-Barbera, LucasFilm, Disney, and the Schultz estate to come barrelling through the door tomorrow evening, lawsuits in hand). Of course, these people spent hours at the carving table working with tiny awls and planes, but we were impressed.
This year, I only handled one pumpkin, and my carving was all done at the direction of the boys, so I actually finished the first pumpkin. Granted, it was a simple two-eyes, one-nose, spooky-mouth job, but it existed. I felt okay this year, simply because I feel like I'm putting creative endeavor into other areas, so my squash-slicing skills are not as vital as once they were. Now if only I could produce something at some point, I might validate that instinct...
Another bracing fact revealed to me this weekend is the fact that my mother is reading my blog on occasion. Gracious. So from now on, you'll see a lot less of the blasphemous profanity I'm wont to use, and a lot fewer discussions of how my childhood and upbringing warped me into the hideous mutant you read about in these pages. No, those disgusting habits of thought and self-destructive tendencies all came from the example of my shiftless friends in high school. Shame on them.
I heard this news at our now annual pumpkin carving party, held on Saturday. For the last few years it's been a delightful event: our family all crowd into our little house and spend an afternoon and evening... well, carving pumpkins. I am brutally mocked every year for taking the longest to produce a jack-o-lantern or, in the worst cases, not getting one done at all. I'm afflicted at those time with the same malaise that kept me from posting here for so long: my desire to do a terrific job keeps me from starting the job at all. I'm so overwhelmed with the possibilities for error and misstep, and so unable to make a decision as to a course of action, that I spend all evening fretting and almost none of it carving sweet pumpkin flesh. Not only that, but a handful of us--my mother-in-law, my wife's brother-in-law, and my father, as well as my eldest niece and nephew--have been striving these past years to create ever more elaborate 'lanterns, complete with shading, see-through panels, and copyrighted characters; my mother-in-law went so far as to graft clear marbles into the pumpkin skin to enhance the light effects. This year saw outstanding renditions of Scooby Doo, Darth Maul, Snoopy asleep atop a Peanuts-style pumpkin, and little Nemo (I fully expect legal squads from Hanna-Barbera, LucasFilm, Disney, and the Schultz estate to come barrelling through the door tomorrow evening, lawsuits in hand). Of course, these people spent hours at the carving table working with tiny awls and planes, but we were impressed.
This year, I only handled one pumpkin, and my carving was all done at the direction of the boys, so I actually finished the first pumpkin. Granted, it was a simple two-eyes, one-nose, spooky-mouth job, but it existed. I felt okay this year, simply because I feel like I'm putting creative endeavor into other areas, so my squash-slicing skills are not as vital as once they were. Now if only I could produce something at some point, I might validate that instinct...
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Three Days?!?!!??
Yes, indeed. I like to think of it as a mini-vacation from blogging. This is so I don't tear my eyeballs out.
It's just been a rough few days. There have been some good points, certainly--hanging out with Dan at the bookstore for "man time," watching the latests episodes of Cracker with Joanna, and.... um. Huh. That's about it, really. Most of the rest of these days have been full of madness and chaos.
I can't blame life, really--it's my fault I have been too lazy to get on here. I've just been so drained by the time I get a chance to pop online that I can't bring myself to contemplate serious work. Or, alternatively, I'll feel pretty good (like now), but be unable to devote much time to posting since I've got so many other things to do. Usually I just ignore my duties and post here anyway, but these days those duties often involve the boys poking one another with sharp objects or drinking dangerous chemicals or the baby being terrifically fussy and Joanna teetering on the brink of sanity.
So when I don't post, just imagine that I'm hopping up and down, baby on my shoulder, begging her to, for the love of all things holy, stop crying and nudging the boys with my knee away from the wheat combine and trying to keep everything quiet enough that Joanna doesn't lose what precious little is left of her sanity. It is my full intent to resume daily posting, but keep those images handy just in case.
It's just been a rough few days. There have been some good points, certainly--hanging out with Dan at the bookstore for "man time," watching the latests episodes of Cracker with Joanna, and.... um. Huh. That's about it, really. Most of the rest of these days have been full of madness and chaos.
I can't blame life, really--it's my fault I have been too lazy to get on here. I've just been so drained by the time I get a chance to pop online that I can't bring myself to contemplate serious work. Or, alternatively, I'll feel pretty good (like now), but be unable to devote much time to posting since I've got so many other things to do. Usually I just ignore my duties and post here anyway, but these days those duties often involve the boys poking one another with sharp objects or drinking dangerous chemicals or the baby being terrifically fussy and Joanna teetering on the brink of sanity.
So when I don't post, just imagine that I'm hopping up and down, baby on my shoulder, begging her to, for the love of all things holy, stop crying and nudging the boys with my knee away from the wheat combine and trying to keep everything quiet enough that Joanna doesn't lose what precious little is left of her sanity. It is my full intent to resume daily posting, but keep those images handy just in case.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
It's the Little Things that Count
Somehow trips to Costco always cry out to be the blogging subject of the day.
Here's the confusing thing: Costco is the largest store in the known universe, right? I mean, the aisles can comfortably accomodate earth-moving equipment. So how is it that people still manage to block the aisles? The absolutely amazing part is the manner in which such people blatantly pretend to ignore you as they're perusing 1,826 identical crates of sugar packets. It is, in fact, impossible not to see a Costco cart coming at you--the blind can sense such massive vehicles by the way they warp the earth's magnetic field upon approach. But the browsers will simply stand, hand on chin, clucking to themselves softly, peering about as if one of the crates might contain the lost Codices of Enkidu. The urge to ram them senseless is very strong sometimes.
The much more personal crisis occured in the parking lot, however. It isn't Costco specific, either--it's a plague that afflicts many a store parking lot across this nation and, I daresay, the civilized world. It is, of course, the curse of unstowed shopping carts. I found myself parked at the far end of the aisle and several rows over from the nearest cart return, so it was a journey to get my empty cart to it's home. Along the way I passed a dozen untenanted carts strewn haphazardly among the spaces, rammed up into planters, hung from tree branches, and so on. Somehow I was overcome with a smug sense of pride over following the rules of the parking lot; I was then overcome by shame for the same reason, plus the added realization that I was such a petty little man.
I understand there are some moments when you must abandon a cart: you have small children strapped in the car; there is a fire at your house and you must return to rescue your elderly maiden aunt; you are a secret agent and have just observed your nemesis purchasing a twenty-gallon jug of nerve agent and a Kirkland (R) brand Happee-Timez Nerve-Agent Dispenser and you must stop him before he initiates his plan to take over the world. But that still leaves most of us without excuse. I don't know why this particular thing sticks in my craw; like all such pet peeves, it's petty and minor; far easier, I suppose, to get worked up over the guy in the drive-through behind you who has the bass cranked up way too far (and is thereby making your vehicle jump some three feet off the pavement with each beat) or people shouting threateningly at you to take part in Red Ribbon Week or else you are a soulless monster (if you're on a college campus, anyway) than about the vast devestation caused by natural disasters (in the face of which you feel helpless) or the woes of the unending poor.
So help the small-minded among us stay distracted from large, scary issues. Drop your fast-food trash on the median strip of the highway. Natter on endlessly about how your cats are like your children. And by all means, leave a mountain of tangled shopping carts in the aisles of your local stores. You're saving us from despair.
Here's the confusing thing: Costco is the largest store in the known universe, right? I mean, the aisles can comfortably accomodate earth-moving equipment. So how is it that people still manage to block the aisles? The absolutely amazing part is the manner in which such people blatantly pretend to ignore you as they're perusing 1,826 identical crates of sugar packets. It is, in fact, impossible not to see a Costco cart coming at you--the blind can sense such massive vehicles by the way they warp the earth's magnetic field upon approach. But the browsers will simply stand, hand on chin, clucking to themselves softly, peering about as if one of the crates might contain the lost Codices of Enkidu. The urge to ram them senseless is very strong sometimes.
The much more personal crisis occured in the parking lot, however. It isn't Costco specific, either--it's a plague that afflicts many a store parking lot across this nation and, I daresay, the civilized world. It is, of course, the curse of unstowed shopping carts. I found myself parked at the far end of the aisle and several rows over from the nearest cart return, so it was a journey to get my empty cart to it's home. Along the way I passed a dozen untenanted carts strewn haphazardly among the spaces, rammed up into planters, hung from tree branches, and so on. Somehow I was overcome with a smug sense of pride over following the rules of the parking lot; I was then overcome by shame for the same reason, plus the added realization that I was such a petty little man.
I understand there are some moments when you must abandon a cart: you have small children strapped in the car; there is a fire at your house and you must return to rescue your elderly maiden aunt; you are a secret agent and have just observed your nemesis purchasing a twenty-gallon jug of nerve agent and a Kirkland (R) brand Happee-Timez Nerve-Agent Dispenser and you must stop him before he initiates his plan to take over the world. But that still leaves most of us without excuse. I don't know why this particular thing sticks in my craw; like all such pet peeves, it's petty and minor; far easier, I suppose, to get worked up over the guy in the drive-through behind you who has the bass cranked up way too far (and is thereby making your vehicle jump some three feet off the pavement with each beat) or people shouting threateningly at you to take part in Red Ribbon Week or else you are a soulless monster (if you're on a college campus, anyway) than about the vast devestation caused by natural disasters (in the face of which you feel helpless) or the woes of the unending poor.
So help the small-minded among us stay distracted from large, scary issues. Drop your fast-food trash on the median strip of the highway. Natter on endlessly about how your cats are like your children. And by all means, leave a mountain of tangled shopping carts in the aisles of your local stores. You're saving us from despair.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Google Me This
I'm aware that Googling yourself and your friends is a common practice. I have tried out most of the people I've ever known just to see if any of them popped up. I wish I had a heartwarming story about finding my long-lost half-brother, sold to the gypsies to pay for my leg braces, but alas, my life has been remarkably free of semi-siblings sold into slavery so far.
It has, however, had heapings of horrible alliteration.
I tried it out on my own name recently, trying to figure out if a curious administrator from Valley could find my blog through such a search and thereby read my unending statements to the effect that I don't like teaching, I don't want to teach, and I plan on leaving the teaching profession as soon as humanly possible.
Now, I'm not a vain man, but I took a bit of pleasure in thinking my name was somewhat unique. This turns out to be false.
My current profile image reveals my appearance from my travels in the past; this photo depicts my future. This Michael Slusser is a doctor of philosophy at Duquesne University, a specialist in "Christology, soteriology, and the doctrine of the Trinity." Man. It's not like I could find a Michael Slusser who was a ditch digger with poor hygiene and a history of weasel smuggling (though one is taxed to imagine what such a Michael Slusser would be doing with a web site [www.ditchdiggerwhosmugglesweasels.com]). No, it has to be a respected theological scholar at a prestigious university who's published papers on the early church fathers. Way to make a guy feel bad.
I'm not as jealous of this Mike Slusser, as I've no desire to be a sports writer. Still, he's a published writer. That's not helping, either.
Once past these, however, one does arrive at the wild tribes deep in the American midwest and south, living close to my cousins in Kentucky whose farm is devoted to rusted equipment and a large, vicious dog named Queenie. The Michael Slusser listed here is a merit badge counselor for a Boy Scout troop in Kansas, in the field of auto mechanics. That's not so intimidating, though I am completely hopeless around cars and could well do with an extra dollop of mechanical skill, and he has real marketable talents, so really this guy is further up the food chain than I am, as well.
The first actual mention of me comes on page three of the search results, a listing for an online Old English encyclopedia formed haphazardly by the students in my first Old English class at the University of Toronto. If you like Beowulf, there's a small chance you'll enjoy "Human-Like Beasts or Bestial Humans? The Slippery Monsters of Beowulf (my first stab at an academic-sounding title for a paper). Despite the suggestion, none of the monsters is actually slippery (save for Grendel's mother, who lives in a lake, after all). Despite calling the fairly major character Wiglaf by the name of "Wulfstan" in the paper, it's still lingering online five years later. Sad, really.
On page six of the results you'll find my listing at Community Christian College, whose new website is much more slick than the old one, which actually required you to input computer cards and record your results on reel-to-reel tape. No, my picture is not featured on the page; I'm buried amidst the listings of degrees at the bottom of the page.
As a long-awaited closer, if you find listings for George Slusser, he is of no relation. He, too, is a doctor (in comparitive literature--sigh) who graduated from Harvard and teaches at UCR, my alma mater for my undergraduate degree, who is a curator at the library and established a science fiction collection. People always assumed I was his son or nephew while I was there. Never met the man--too full of insane jealousy. I wish all my bretheren well.
It has, however, had heapings of horrible alliteration.
I tried it out on my own name recently, trying to figure out if a curious administrator from Valley could find my blog through such a search and thereby read my unending statements to the effect that I don't like teaching, I don't want to teach, and I plan on leaving the teaching profession as soon as humanly possible.
Now, I'm not a vain man, but I took a bit of pleasure in thinking my name was somewhat unique. This turns out to be false.
My current profile image reveals my appearance from my travels in the past; this photo depicts my future. This Michael Slusser is a doctor of philosophy at Duquesne University, a specialist in "Christology, soteriology, and the doctrine of the Trinity." Man. It's not like I could find a Michael Slusser who was a ditch digger with poor hygiene and a history of weasel smuggling (though one is taxed to imagine what such a Michael Slusser would be doing with a web site [www.ditchdiggerwhosmugglesweasels.com]). No, it has to be a respected theological scholar at a prestigious university who's published papers on the early church fathers. Way to make a guy feel bad.
I'm not as jealous of this Mike Slusser, as I've no desire to be a sports writer. Still, he's a published writer. That's not helping, either.
Once past these, however, one does arrive at the wild tribes deep in the American midwest and south, living close to my cousins in Kentucky whose farm is devoted to rusted equipment and a large, vicious dog named Queenie. The Michael Slusser listed here is a merit badge counselor for a Boy Scout troop in Kansas, in the field of auto mechanics. That's not so intimidating, though I am completely hopeless around cars and could well do with an extra dollop of mechanical skill, and he has real marketable talents, so really this guy is further up the food chain than I am, as well.
The first actual mention of me comes on page three of the search results, a listing for an online Old English encyclopedia formed haphazardly by the students in my first Old English class at the University of Toronto. If you like Beowulf, there's a small chance you'll enjoy "Human-Like Beasts or Bestial Humans? The Slippery Monsters of Beowulf (my first stab at an academic-sounding title for a paper). Despite the suggestion, none of the monsters is actually slippery (save for Grendel's mother, who lives in a lake, after all). Despite calling the fairly major character Wiglaf by the name of "Wulfstan" in the paper, it's still lingering online five years later. Sad, really.
On page six of the results you'll find my listing at Community Christian College, whose new website is much more slick than the old one, which actually required you to input computer cards and record your results on reel-to-reel tape. No, my picture is not featured on the page; I'm buried amidst the listings of degrees at the bottom of the page.
As a long-awaited closer, if you find listings for George Slusser, he is of no relation. He, too, is a doctor (in comparitive literature--sigh) who graduated from Harvard and teaches at UCR, my alma mater for my undergraduate degree, who is a curator at the library and established a science fiction collection. People always assumed I was his son or nephew while I was there. Never met the man--too full of insane jealousy. I wish all my bretheren well.
Nothing Funny This Way Comes
Sorry, kids. I don't have the funny to give. Continued weirdness on the personal front. I won't dive into that inky sea here, though. Ideally it'll be on the mend in the very near future.
It was a busy weekend, though. Friday we bought the boys Halloween costumes. We took them down to Wal-Mart (how creative of us--I hope one day to actually work on making costumes with/for them, but at the moment time is lacking). In the days leading up to the weekend, they were gung-ho to be anything you named: a bat, a train engineer, a dragon, a super hero of any stripe. But they stood in the costume aisle rejecting every suggestion--Superman, Spiderman, a policeman, a lion, a pirate. It really was a superhero parade; if the boys had seen The Fantastic Four (and I'm lead to believe that, for their sake, it's a good thing they didn't, and that none of us did) and wanted to be one of them, we would have been set. All they did want to do was swing plastic swords around. Working off of that, we got them cheap-o little knight sets (breastplate, shield, helmet, and sword all pressed out of the same Grade Y Chinese plastic). They still don't seem interested in much other than whacking one another with swords.
Saturday was a birthday party for a couple of their wee buddies, so off we trundled to that. It was nice that there were other couples there, and a group of adults in general. I always become nervous when the kids outnumber me by a significant percentage and their native keepers are overworked themselves. The home we were in had an enormous playroom given over to toys and bouncing children. It's the most wonderful thing I've ever experienced in relation to the boys and I would instantly turn my office into such a thing if I had anywhere else to keep all my junk.
Today saw church (with an unusual and interesting service) followed by a trip to Grandma and Grandpa's house to make Halloween cookies. I don't recall making a vast, terrifying mess when we used to make them, but the boys have a real knack in that department. Nathaniel was intent on loading each cookie with the maximum load of sprinkles it could possibly hold; Caleb was intent on simply eating all the toppings directly from the bottles. Powdered sugar icing in every Halloween hue was spread everywhere. The results were, indeed, ghoulish, if only because a jack-o-lantern isn't supposed to have mismatched red eyes and a cat shouldn't look like it has a smear of blood splashed across its midsection.
They take after me, you know.
So I'm off to try and grade again, my constant zombified state these days. Pray that I succeed, both for my sake and those of my family, and so that I can get back to putting something else up here besides self pity.
It was a busy weekend, though. Friday we bought the boys Halloween costumes. We took them down to Wal-Mart (how creative of us--I hope one day to actually work on making costumes with/for them, but at the moment time is lacking). In the days leading up to the weekend, they were gung-ho to be anything you named: a bat, a train engineer, a dragon, a super hero of any stripe. But they stood in the costume aisle rejecting every suggestion--Superman, Spiderman, a policeman, a lion, a pirate. It really was a superhero parade; if the boys had seen The Fantastic Four (and I'm lead to believe that, for their sake, it's a good thing they didn't, and that none of us did) and wanted to be one of them, we would have been set. All they did want to do was swing plastic swords around. Working off of that, we got them cheap-o little knight sets (breastplate, shield, helmet, and sword all pressed out of the same Grade Y Chinese plastic). They still don't seem interested in much other than whacking one another with swords.
Saturday was a birthday party for a couple of their wee buddies, so off we trundled to that. It was nice that there were other couples there, and a group of adults in general. I always become nervous when the kids outnumber me by a significant percentage and their native keepers are overworked themselves. The home we were in had an enormous playroom given over to toys and bouncing children. It's the most wonderful thing I've ever experienced in relation to the boys and I would instantly turn my office into such a thing if I had anywhere else to keep all my junk.
Today saw church (with an unusual and interesting service) followed by a trip to Grandma and Grandpa's house to make Halloween cookies. I don't recall making a vast, terrifying mess when we used to make them, but the boys have a real knack in that department. Nathaniel was intent on loading each cookie with the maximum load of sprinkles it could possibly hold; Caleb was intent on simply eating all the toppings directly from the bottles. Powdered sugar icing in every Halloween hue was spread everywhere. The results were, indeed, ghoulish, if only because a jack-o-lantern isn't supposed to have mismatched red eyes and a cat shouldn't look like it has a smear of blood splashed across its midsection.
They take after me, you know.
So I'm off to try and grade again, my constant zombified state these days. Pray that I succeed, both for my sake and those of my family, and so that I can get back to putting something else up here besides self pity.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Bizarro World
Never give yourself an excuse. That's the lesson I've learned this week.
My efforts to give myself a little time off back on Thursday have gone disastrously awry, blog-wise. I put up a short post and ended up missing the next two. I mostly blame you--yes, you. Without the uproar and clamor, the indignant cries of outrage at the lack of posting, the bitter recriminations about my moral laxity and poor personal hygiene, I just couldn't see the point. It became just that much more clear that my postings are entirely for myself, a kind of narcissistic gurgitation spit out at the electrons.
You can tell it's very late, can't you? I'm not 100% certain I'm actually fully awake, so keep that in mind.
But my inner life has just kind of gone off the rails this week. It's been headed that way for a bit, but it seems to have jumped the shark entirely. I've had some incredible high points--a delightful drive through the fall colors up to Big Bear and down to Redlands the other day, some real moments of peace, hashing out some issues with God and feeling, for one of the few times in my life, like I'm after Him in a serious way. Everything else, however, is crashing: I've been endlessly frustrated by the boys who seem hell-bent on doing whatever they can to disobey and then look astonished and hurt when punishment must be dealt out (is there such a phenomenon as the Fearsome Fours? Man). I've been eating like some kind of animal famed for its enormous appetite (it'll come to me in a minute), gorging myself for no reason I can fathom and feeling sick most of the time because of it. I've gotten a bit more sleep but it doesn't feel like it's doing any good. I've not really been helping around the house like I should, and I'm continually annoyed by all that needs to be done, which translates somewhere back in my reptillian brain into annoyance at Joanna, which is utterly unfair as she's wearing herself out as it is. And the times I've set aside for grading have been a total bust. I tried to just mark some 101 papers for grammar the other day and thought my head was going to split in two. I nearly wept.
Whoops--just had to run out because Denver, having complained of a stomach ache earlier, was sleeping in our bed and just fell out, waking up the baby, who turned out to have sprung a diaper leak and now demands to be fed. What an evening. Kind of how everything is going right now.
I like to imagine I'm being tested. If so, though, I don't think I'm passing. I am barely scraping through. I've got to figure out how to use my time in an intelligent manner and how to do all that is needful while still having a little sliver of time left for all these "other things" that would seem to constitute my calling in life. Otherwise this whole show is going to come to a spectacularly ugly end.
It'll be interesting to watch, at least.
My efforts to give myself a little time off back on Thursday have gone disastrously awry, blog-wise. I put up a short post and ended up missing the next two. I mostly blame you--yes, you. Without the uproar and clamor, the indignant cries of outrage at the lack of posting, the bitter recriminations about my moral laxity and poor personal hygiene, I just couldn't see the point. It became just that much more clear that my postings are entirely for myself, a kind of narcissistic gurgitation spit out at the electrons.
You can tell it's very late, can't you? I'm not 100% certain I'm actually fully awake, so keep that in mind.
But my inner life has just kind of gone off the rails this week. It's been headed that way for a bit, but it seems to have jumped the shark entirely. I've had some incredible high points--a delightful drive through the fall colors up to Big Bear and down to Redlands the other day, some real moments of peace, hashing out some issues with God and feeling, for one of the few times in my life, like I'm after Him in a serious way. Everything else, however, is crashing: I've been endlessly frustrated by the boys who seem hell-bent on doing whatever they can to disobey and then look astonished and hurt when punishment must be dealt out (is there such a phenomenon as the Fearsome Fours? Man). I've been eating like some kind of animal famed for its enormous appetite (it'll come to me in a minute), gorging myself for no reason I can fathom and feeling sick most of the time because of it. I've gotten a bit more sleep but it doesn't feel like it's doing any good. I've not really been helping around the house like I should, and I'm continually annoyed by all that needs to be done, which translates somewhere back in my reptillian brain into annoyance at Joanna, which is utterly unfair as she's wearing herself out as it is. And the times I've set aside for grading have been a total bust. I tried to just mark some 101 papers for grammar the other day and thought my head was going to split in two. I nearly wept.
Whoops--just had to run out because Denver, having complained of a stomach ache earlier, was sleeping in our bed and just fell out, waking up the baby, who turned out to have sprung a diaper leak and now demands to be fed. What an evening. Kind of how everything is going right now.
I like to imagine I'm being tested. If so, though, I don't think I'm passing. I am barely scraping through. I've got to figure out how to use my time in an intelligent manner and how to do all that is needful while still having a little sliver of time left for all these "other things" that would seem to constitute my calling in life. Otherwise this whole show is going to come to a spectacularly ugly end.
It'll be interesting to watch, at least.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Just a Word
This is a placeholder post. I'm just putting up a few words to fulfill my contractual obligation, and then I'm going to bed. I've simply got to get back on a reasonable schedule here. I think I was hallucinating from lack of sleep today. I missed a meeting with my dean because I fell asleep at my desk. I can't be certain of exactly what I taught in class; I hope it wasn't pornographic.
So though I feel lucid at the moment and not particularly tired, I know tomorrow will be a killer if I don't get some rest. I'll be working on a more full and robust post then.
Nighty-night.
So though I feel lucid at the moment and not particularly tired, I know tomorrow will be a killer if I don't get some rest. I'll be working on a more full and robust post then.
Nighty-night.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Nothing to Say
No, really.
While my devilish wit is urging me to leave that as the only line of this post, I guess I'll talk about something, 'cause I promised to try to do so every day.
Clearly, this is far more for me than for any of you. I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you.
My brain is a blank because I've been caught up in a brain-eating game. It was bought with the best of intentions. The boys are getting old enough to be interested in the computer (actually, they're fairly behind, as many of my students report that their two-year-olds are using the computer...), but I don't have many games that all of us enjoy. They like Otto, a strange little Q-bert-like game with blobby anime-style characters, but it holds little magic for me. Meanwhile, Age of Empires loses them after a bit (they call it the "cowboy game" because of the scout on horseback you start out with).
So the other day I bought Zoo Tycoon. I'd wanted it for ages, and the deluxe edition was on sale for $20.
They haven't seen it yet. I loaded it up, wanting to get the feel for the game before I brought them over. I knew that the boys would be unwilling to sit through me figuring out the interface or installing the program.
Large mistake. Epic, I daresay.
I got sucked in. It's one of those involving simulation games, much like Maxis' Sim City or The Sims itself. Suddenly I was very concerned about providing enough foliage to keep my saltwater crocodile happy, or making sure my clouded leopard had a special tree to climb in, or where that primate house was going to go. It's addictive.
It's nice to know that there are really good games out there that don't rely on violence or conquest. Okay, so it does have its elements of capitalist greed, but it's in service of the animals. I'd also be a liar if I didn't admit to a certain thrill when you release a Bengal tiger into the crowd and watch them run; I will say, however, that the fun is short-lived because the tiger actually does grab people and shake them like a housecat with a squeaky toy (the grizzly bear bats them around and tosses them aside), and while that is also amusing, it brings the guilt welling up in some of us more concientious folk. The programmers also added in quite disturbingly realistic screaming effects (I do enjoy, though, that you can select any zoo guest and see what they're thinking: "Ouch! I was just attacked by a Bengal tiger!"). There's a whole treatise here to be written about those of us who manage to feel guilty over the mistreatment of electronic impulses that look like people but who, of course, are not actual people in any sense, but that's another entire post.
It's also nice to know that educational games have come so far. There is actually quite a bit of information on animals, habitats, endangered species, vetrinary care, and related zoological information tucked away in the game, but it's not intrusive. When I hear the words "educational game" put together, I can only remember Math Blasters (solve a multiplication problem and shoot a little Space Invaders clone. Fun. The only other educational game I recall is Oregon Trail (the old green-screen line drawing version, not this new high-falutin' fancy-pantsy one the kids got nowadays). I learned one thing from playing Oregon Trail: it was, in fact, impossible to reach Oregon. You started out in Missouri, and I was always starving to death before I crossed the border into Kansas. If anyone ever made it all the way there, let me know. Was it the settlers' paradise we had been promised?
In any case, I spent far too much of today playing the darn thing. I have an easily addicted personality anyway, so such games suck me in like nobody's monkey.
This is rambling and pointless, so I'm signing off. Good night, all. I have to see to the Arctic wolves--they've been urpy since I dropped a troublesome guest into their enclosure.
While my devilish wit is urging me to leave that as the only line of this post, I guess I'll talk about something, 'cause I promised to try to do so every day.
Clearly, this is far more for me than for any of you. I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you.
My brain is a blank because I've been caught up in a brain-eating game. It was bought with the best of intentions. The boys are getting old enough to be interested in the computer (actually, they're fairly behind, as many of my students report that their two-year-olds are using the computer...), but I don't have many games that all of us enjoy. They like Otto, a strange little Q-bert-like game with blobby anime-style characters, but it holds little magic for me. Meanwhile, Age of Empires loses them after a bit (they call it the "cowboy game" because of the scout on horseback you start out with).
So the other day I bought Zoo Tycoon. I'd wanted it for ages, and the deluxe edition was on sale for $20.
They haven't seen it yet. I loaded it up, wanting to get the feel for the game before I brought them over. I knew that the boys would be unwilling to sit through me figuring out the interface or installing the program.
Large mistake. Epic, I daresay.
I got sucked in. It's one of those involving simulation games, much like Maxis' Sim City or The Sims itself. Suddenly I was very concerned about providing enough foliage to keep my saltwater crocodile happy, or making sure my clouded leopard had a special tree to climb in, or where that primate house was going to go. It's addictive.
It's nice to know that there are really good games out there that don't rely on violence or conquest. Okay, so it does have its elements of capitalist greed, but it's in service of the animals. I'd also be a liar if I didn't admit to a certain thrill when you release a Bengal tiger into the crowd and watch them run; I will say, however, that the fun is short-lived because the tiger actually does grab people and shake them like a housecat with a squeaky toy (the grizzly bear bats them around and tosses them aside), and while that is also amusing, it brings the guilt welling up in some of us more concientious folk. The programmers also added in quite disturbingly realistic screaming effects (I do enjoy, though, that you can select any zoo guest and see what they're thinking: "Ouch! I was just attacked by a Bengal tiger!"). There's a whole treatise here to be written about those of us who manage to feel guilty over the mistreatment of electronic impulses that look like people but who, of course, are not actual people in any sense, but that's another entire post.
It's also nice to know that educational games have come so far. There is actually quite a bit of information on animals, habitats, endangered species, vetrinary care, and related zoological information tucked away in the game, but it's not intrusive. When I hear the words "educational game" put together, I can only remember Math Blasters (solve a multiplication problem and shoot a little Space Invaders clone. Fun. The only other educational game I recall is Oregon Trail (the old green-screen line drawing version, not this new high-falutin' fancy-pantsy one the kids got nowadays). I learned one thing from playing Oregon Trail: it was, in fact, impossible to reach Oregon. You started out in Missouri, and I was always starving to death before I crossed the border into Kansas. If anyone ever made it all the way there, let me know. Was it the settlers' paradise we had been promised?
In any case, I spent far too much of today playing the darn thing. I have an easily addicted personality anyway, so such games suck me in like nobody's monkey.
This is rambling and pointless, so I'm signing off. Good night, all. I have to see to the Arctic wolves--they've been urpy since I dropped a troublesome guest into their enclosure.
Monday, October 17, 2005
What Amuses Me
Since the last posting was chock full of extra bloggy goodness, I'm taking a break on this one and simply pointing you toward other people who might amuse and distract you from the tragedy of life. They make me laugh, anyway.
Poking about on the net, I discovered the odd daily installment that is Rocketboom, a "vlog" (that's video blog, for you squares out there) hosted by the delicious Amanda Congdon (who has a blog right here on Blogger, Amanda Unboomed). She has some acting credits (most recently in The Restaurant) and trained with the Upright Citizens Brigade. Rocketboom covers whatever strange and unusual stuff comes Amanda's way from the web and other media. It's uneven and not always a laugh riot, but it's got some very high high points. And Amanda's purty, too.
Today, for instance, Amanda brought my attention to the utterly delightful General Zod in 2008 presidential candidate site. Yes, your favorite villain from Superman II is making a bid for office in the next election. Frankly, his campaign platform has appeal. The political subtext swings far left, but the site is just funny.
Katie Vargas, adorable six-year-old girl: " Mr. Zod, will there be lots of toys when you are President?"
General Zod: "Child, let me explain something quite important to you. Under my new order, I allow you to live. In return for your obedience, you enjoy my generous protection. I expect tribute. Your tricycle, your dolls, everything you own. All these you will gladly give to me. All swear allegience to Zod!"
I enjoy imagining those lines delivered in Terrence Stamp's dulcet, cultured tones that were so impressive to me when I was seven and saw Superman II. Hee hee.
In her archives, Amanda also had a link to the "Terry Tate, Office Linebacker" commercials that made me laugh at their gratuitous violence on television, and continue to do so in a lengthy spot here.
The Slater Boy put me on to this little delight of a guide to programming this very morning. Normally I wouldn't put a book on a new computer programming language into a post about amusing sites, but this one might be worth reading even if you don't program at all (like me). The prose here puts my feeble japes to shame. Just read the opening and see if you don't laugh at why's (poignant) guide to Ruby.
And that's all I have brain power for. Gonna get me in bed before 1am, yessir. That's my plan.
"Kneel before Zod!"
Poking about on the net, I discovered the odd daily installment that is Rocketboom, a "vlog" (that's video blog, for you squares out there) hosted by the delicious Amanda Congdon (who has a blog right here on Blogger, Amanda Unboomed). She has some acting credits (most recently in The Restaurant) and trained with the Upright Citizens Brigade. Rocketboom covers whatever strange and unusual stuff comes Amanda's way from the web and other media. It's uneven and not always a laugh riot, but it's got some very high high points. And Amanda's purty, too.
Today, for instance, Amanda brought my attention to the utterly delightful General Zod in 2008 presidential candidate site. Yes, your favorite villain from Superman II is making a bid for office in the next election. Frankly, his campaign platform has appeal. The political subtext swings far left, but the site is just funny.
Katie Vargas, adorable six-year-old girl: " Mr. Zod, will there be lots of toys when you are President?"
General Zod: "Child, let me explain something quite important to you. Under my new order, I allow you to live. In return for your obedience, you enjoy my generous protection. I expect tribute. Your tricycle, your dolls, everything you own. All these you will gladly give to me. All swear allegience to Zod!"
I enjoy imagining those lines delivered in Terrence Stamp's dulcet, cultured tones that were so impressive to me when I was seven and saw Superman II. Hee hee.
In her archives, Amanda also had a link to the "Terry Tate, Office Linebacker" commercials that made me laugh at their gratuitous violence on television, and continue to do so in a lengthy spot here.
The Slater Boy put me on to this little delight of a guide to programming this very morning. Normally I wouldn't put a book on a new computer programming language into a post about amusing sites, but this one might be worth reading even if you don't program at all (like me). The prose here puts my feeble japes to shame. Just read the opening and see if you don't laugh at why's (poignant) guide to Ruby.
And that's all I have brain power for. Gonna get me in bed before 1am, yessir. That's my plan.
"Kneel before Zod!"
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Fiery Nostalgia
[Warning: If you are using dial-up, I'm going to blow out your browser with all the images in this post. You Have Been Warned.]
Aunt Kathie showed up at our door on Saturday to make the delightful offer of taking the boys for an hour or two over to the local fire station, where they were having safety demonstrations. Denver and Poncho, like all boys, are deeply in love with large trucks, especially those with flashing lights and loud sirens, so they could barely be bothered to say goodbye on their way out the door.
When they returned, they bore with them some free kid-oriented materials handed out at the demonstrations. Among the coloring books and stickers was something that sent me spinning back in time to the fourth grade and the cold, aniseptic beige auditorium of Mary Tone Elementary School. If you were ever present for a school fire prevention presentation, you may remember this (you can click any image below for the much larger version I spent hours scanning and uploading):
I knew that this was the same cover I had seen on my copy from 1982. And I was right--the Forest Service hasn't put out a new copy of this comic since 1969. I was just as delighted to find that the comic within the cover was still the same one I had read those many years ago. From the perspective of a score of years later, however, I found some aspects of the comic queer and amusing. Let's poke about a bit inside, shall we?
The first page opens with a narration from a large bird of prey, which is pretty cool, I must admit:
A few things struck me about this page (and Devin, you are required to chime in here with your professional comical opinion on these matters at some point). The whole comic has a strange, stilted feel as if it were designed and drawn by a Forest Service employee with some drawing talent but no actual knowledge of comic conventions--but the style is common to all "educational" comics that I remember. The cheapness of the production here is visible in the paper quality (if you could feel this image, it would be printed on that cheap newspaper-type stock common to lowest-common-denominator printing) and that fact that the drawings are so simple. The coloring isn't even very good--note the bleed around the eagle's head in the third panel, for instance.
Where did that map come from? It only appears in that one panel, and it's floating in a powder blue void. Our narrator must have ceased his flight long enough to point to it--maybe the other shots are a slide show presented by the eagle, and this is one of his visual aids. The other fun part about the map is its utter uselessness in pinpointing what the heck he's talking about: it's just a big polygon with a dot in the middle stating "Capitan Mtn." How is that useful?
You'll note that each sentence here ends in an exclamation point. This holds true for every sentence in the entire comic. Perhaps the eagle is shouting the whole time--or else an amateur letterer thought this would make the speeches more moving. I have to give the writer grammatical kudos, though--despite the presence of a few run-ons (which we can forgive him, as we suspect this may be dramatic license), he remembers to use opening quotations before every line because it's all the eagle's narration.
We suddenly switch to trout-cam in the last panel here. Not sure whose perspective this is supposed to be from. The eagle is clearly omniscient and omniperceptive.
In the intervening pages, a fire starts from unknown (though unquestionably thoughtless human) causes and burns down the whole world. Lots of animals pose dramatically before yellowy-red flames that bleed color all over the place. The story of twenty-four brave firefighters who lived through an hour-long firestorm on a rockslide is recounted. Oddly, like 95% of all the panels in this thing, all information comes from the eagle's narration--there is one character who speaks a single line in the first ten pages of this comic, and there are perhaps four other examples in the whole thing. An oddly stilted style, but it saves on expensive word bubbles, I guess.
Anyway, the firefighters discover the burned cub pictured here in the smoldering ruins and "rescue" him. They end up naming him after Smokey, who's already a fire-prevention mascot--meaning that the whole "True Story of Smokey Bear" thing is a disgusting lie. This is a bear named Smokey, not the mascot himself.
Does anyone else remember him being called "Smokey the Bear"? I hadn't realized "Bear" was his surname; perhaps he's related to the Berenstein Bears and that Teddy fellow.
Once again, a useless map. This one, however, has an additional useless reference scale so as to allow measurement of the floating shape.
I love that they have to point out that it wouldn't be fun to camp in the burned-out charcoal skeleton forest. And perhaps most moving to children is that the "water producing and storage capacity of the land" is "badly hurt!"
"His feet were carefully bandaged!" Thrills! Excitement!
The comic continues for several pages to chronicle the so-called "Smokey" and his meteoric rise to stardom--the drugs, the parties, the women. Eventually the achieves the dizzying heights shown here: he's so famous that most of the posters don't even feature any words. His very image is enough to remind the world to stop burning down forests, damn you!
The kid in the second panel has the classic Michelangelo pose; today he might be suspended for his overt demonstration of religious dogma in the public school. It's a bizarrely unnatural pose, unless the boy has his arm in a splint under that sleeve. He seems far too eurphoric upon seeing the image of Smokey for it to be entirely moral. The kid behind him has a casual serial-killer smile and clearly here sees his moment to strike, as his simple-minded classmate is enraptured by the sight of a drawing of a bear. He, too, sports an affected mannequin pose.
That must have been a super exciting interview to listen to on the radio. Why even have the bear show up? A fat guy making bear noises would have been more entertaining. The great thing about these is that they're almost certainly modeled on publicity shots that the Forest Service was probably sending out in the fifties--which might also explain why the family in the last panel is watching an antique television. Wouldn't you love to spend an evening with them? They smile grimly at a static image on the screen. Their walls are black, their decor is in various shades of lilac, and they have some strangely communist cubic art on the wall. I feel queasy just looking at them.
Also, where are those kids sitting? To achieve that kind of proximity to their parents, Dad must have had his legs truncated in the war, and poor Mom is just a torso surgically attached to the couch. Perhaps that explains her expression.
One of the big clues as to the age of this piece is the, "Soon he will get a new home in the Washington Zoo" reference. If it were current, he'd have been homeless for fifty years. Note the other non-famously named bears looking on at Smokey from behind the fence; this protects Smokey from the other inmates, who might shiv him in the cafeteria just for the rep.
I also find it jarring to go from the "realistic" bear in the zoo in the first panel to the anthropomorphized Smokey in the next panel. It also appears that he's hammering his poster onto the same tree in his enclosure at the zoo--the branch hanging down is nearly identical. How they expect Smokey to spread his message by only putting up notices in his holding pen is unexplained. Also, why is he using a tack hammer to nail up a poster to a tree? And why do all the bears in that poster clearly have breasts?
The third panel is a picture-within-a-picture, as Smokey is making the same gesture in the real world as he is in the poster itself. I like that there are no words to the image, just the vaguely accusatory hand gesture. "Get it, mankind? Get it? Jerks."
I'm unsure about the contractor in the fifth panel. Did any worker ever wear a fedora on a construction site? The chunk cut out of the plank he's carrying looks far more accidental than intentional, and though I'm no carpenter, I don't think those windows are framed out correctly, unless they're building a church. This looks to me more like a photo op for the head of the firm that drew up the plans for the house, trying to look thrusting and purposeful, a real "hands-on" kind of boss who understands his men; after the shot he gets out of the apron as fast as possible and drives his Mercedes down to the club for a three martini lunch.
"How they burn up timber that could have been used to make homes--perhaps a new home for you..." Way to bring it home to the reader. Now every poor kid knows why he has to live in a run-down efficiency apartment--some bastard burned down the forest whose trees were meant to build him a house. That's the kind of thing that can lead to riots.
What piece of furniture is that? A sideboard? A kitchen cabinet? The woman looks as though she's about to give Humphrey Bogart there (with the super-thick inking lines on his shirt) a backhanded swat on the rump. What did he do? She also gets her art from the same gallery as the Manson Family from the last page.
That kid is not reading a comic book. It's some kind of very large-scale graph paper; perhaps he's perusing the maps of "Capitan Mtn." and "Burn Out" that are all the rage these days.
Remember, kids: the number-one bad thing about forest fires is that they are a setback to Industry!
First panel: the River Styx. You can just spot the ferryman making his way to his skiff on the one piece of eerily green ground.
Clearly, people in the fifties grazed sheep in the woods. You might wonder why they don't just move over to the next hill, which is verdant green, but then you realize the terrifying truth: There's a flood coming. There's no way that lake could swell up into the sky as it's doing here otherwise.
You're really supposed to just hold a match until it's "cold"? Why not dunk it in water, or grind it into the sand? Do you have to keep touching it, giving yourself multiple tiny blisters, until it's cold? And why has this hairy-armed lothario broken it in half? And why was he holding it like a cigarette in the first place? It's clearly still got some energy left, as it's radiating excess power as it's broken.
Another sign of the times here is that cigarette smoking is mentioned explicitly without any negative connotation. Today's version wouldn't even mention cigarettes, and if it did the message would surely be something like, "Like all right-minded humans, you should never, ever smoke a cigarette outside of a concrete bunker in your own home, you filthy monster." Here they're even allowing the reader to smoke (keeping in mind that the reader is an eight-year-old), as long as, when he tosses his butts on the ground, he grinds them out underfoot. Littering is still okay in Smokey's world--just another little jab at his arch-rival, Woodsey Owl. You can understand why he would be bitter--Woodsey is named after the forests that Smokey so loves, while the bear himself is named after the very agent of destruction he is trying to warn the world about. A cruel irony he doesn't fail to mention to his therapist in their twice-weekly sessions.
Yet another shot of Smokey putting up a poster of himself, only this time he appears to be giving the Black Power salute. Smokey has clearly let fame go to his head--look how delighted he is at his own visage. I don't think this is really about fighting fires anymore for Smokey; it's all about product placement and the corporate bosses back at the Department of the Interior.
We finally learn why this is all told by an eagle--sort of. Well, not really. But I don't think that pose is aerodynamically possible for a large bird, unless he's diving in to pluck out Smokey's sweet, sweet eyeballs.
The book begins and ends with these photo pages showing some of the old posters, and this one includes a letter from Smokey himself. He has abnormally small paws for a three hundred pound black bear.
The posters here are great. Again as a sign of the times, notice that two of the posters have overtly religious appeals: an explicit reference to God, and a shot of Smokey praying, for Petey Wheatey's sake. These are also the days when cigarettes have the casual, well-worn appelation of "smokes." Cheaper to print, anyway.
The "Good Outdoor Habits for Everyone" poster does indeed confirm the recommendation to "break your matches." What is this supposed to do? Does breaking them rob them of their magical flammability juice?
Note also, just below, a gaggle of Disney rejects venerating their fire-prevening god, Smokey the Slightly Embarrassed Floating Head.
In the note itself, youngsters are urged to warn their friends that "playing with matches is playing with fire." Isn't this why their friends are playing with matches in the first place? I'm not certain that the reference to a cliched colloquialism is going to get a chuckle from the average fourth grader. And, "Keeping careless use of fire out of the woods," is awfully clumsy syntax.
I can attest personally, though, that the "tiny 'play' campfire... left burning" reference is one worth heeding. As a kid who did exactly that and who burned out a sizeable chunk of our local forests as a result, I can aver that this warning is entirely useful. If only I had more carefully read the last page! I might have avoided a lot of heartache and certainly a litany of lectures from every fire prevention officer on the mountain.
If you've made it this far, congratulations. Consider yourself one of the few. I hope you've enjoyed this little journey and won't report me to the Forest Service for breach of copyright law. Good night, and stop setting fires!
Aunt Kathie showed up at our door on Saturday to make the delightful offer of taking the boys for an hour or two over to the local fire station, where they were having safety demonstrations. Denver and Poncho, like all boys, are deeply in love with large trucks, especially those with flashing lights and loud sirens, so they could barely be bothered to say goodbye on their way out the door.
When they returned, they bore with them some free kid-oriented materials handed out at the demonstrations. Among the coloring books and stickers was something that sent me spinning back in time to the fourth grade and the cold, aniseptic beige auditorium of Mary Tone Elementary School. If you were ever present for a school fire prevention presentation, you may remember this (you can click any image below for the much larger version I spent hours scanning and uploading):
I knew that this was the same cover I had seen on my copy from 1982. And I was right--the Forest Service hasn't put out a new copy of this comic since 1969. I was just as delighted to find that the comic within the cover was still the same one I had read those many years ago. From the perspective of a score of years later, however, I found some aspects of the comic queer and amusing. Let's poke about a bit inside, shall we?
The first page opens with a narration from a large bird of prey, which is pretty cool, I must admit:
A few things struck me about this page (and Devin, you are required to chime in here with your professional comical opinion on these matters at some point). The whole comic has a strange, stilted feel as if it were designed and drawn by a Forest Service employee with some drawing talent but no actual knowledge of comic conventions--but the style is common to all "educational" comics that I remember. The cheapness of the production here is visible in the paper quality (if you could feel this image, it would be printed on that cheap newspaper-type stock common to lowest-common-denominator printing) and that fact that the drawings are so simple. The coloring isn't even very good--note the bleed around the eagle's head in the third panel, for instance.
Where did that map come from? It only appears in that one panel, and it's floating in a powder blue void. Our narrator must have ceased his flight long enough to point to it--maybe the other shots are a slide show presented by the eagle, and this is one of his visual aids. The other fun part about the map is its utter uselessness in pinpointing what the heck he's talking about: it's just a big polygon with a dot in the middle stating "Capitan Mtn." How is that useful?
You'll note that each sentence here ends in an exclamation point. This holds true for every sentence in the entire comic. Perhaps the eagle is shouting the whole time--or else an amateur letterer thought this would make the speeches more moving. I have to give the writer grammatical kudos, though--despite the presence of a few run-ons (which we can forgive him, as we suspect this may be dramatic license), he remembers to use opening quotations before every line because it's all the eagle's narration.
We suddenly switch to trout-cam in the last panel here. Not sure whose perspective this is supposed to be from. The eagle is clearly omniscient and omniperceptive.
In the intervening pages, a fire starts from unknown (though unquestionably thoughtless human) causes and burns down the whole world. Lots of animals pose dramatically before yellowy-red flames that bleed color all over the place. The story of twenty-four brave firefighters who lived through an hour-long firestorm on a rockslide is recounted. Oddly, like 95% of all the panels in this thing, all information comes from the eagle's narration--there is one character who speaks a single line in the first ten pages of this comic, and there are perhaps four other examples in the whole thing. An oddly stilted style, but it saves on expensive word bubbles, I guess.
Anyway, the firefighters discover the burned cub pictured here in the smoldering ruins and "rescue" him. They end up naming him after Smokey, who's already a fire-prevention mascot--meaning that the whole "True Story of Smokey Bear" thing is a disgusting lie. This is a bear named Smokey, not the mascot himself.
Does anyone else remember him being called "Smokey the Bear"? I hadn't realized "Bear" was his surname; perhaps he's related to the Berenstein Bears and that Teddy fellow.
Once again, a useless map. This one, however, has an additional useless reference scale so as to allow measurement of the floating shape.
I love that they have to point out that it wouldn't be fun to camp in the burned-out charcoal skeleton forest. And perhaps most moving to children is that the "water producing and storage capacity of the land" is "badly hurt!"
"His feet were carefully bandaged!" Thrills! Excitement!
The comic continues for several pages to chronicle the so-called "Smokey" and his meteoric rise to stardom--the drugs, the parties, the women. Eventually the achieves the dizzying heights shown here: he's so famous that most of the posters don't even feature any words. His very image is enough to remind the world to stop burning down forests, damn you!
The kid in the second panel has the classic Michelangelo pose; today he might be suspended for his overt demonstration of religious dogma in the public school. It's a bizarrely unnatural pose, unless the boy has his arm in a splint under that sleeve. He seems far too eurphoric upon seeing the image of Smokey for it to be entirely moral. The kid behind him has a casual serial-killer smile and clearly here sees his moment to strike, as his simple-minded classmate is enraptured by the sight of a drawing of a bear. He, too, sports an affected mannequin pose.
That must have been a super exciting interview to listen to on the radio. Why even have the bear show up? A fat guy making bear noises would have been more entertaining. The great thing about these is that they're almost certainly modeled on publicity shots that the Forest Service was probably sending out in the fifties--which might also explain why the family in the last panel is watching an antique television. Wouldn't you love to spend an evening with them? They smile grimly at a static image on the screen. Their walls are black, their decor is in various shades of lilac, and they have some strangely communist cubic art on the wall. I feel queasy just looking at them.
Also, where are those kids sitting? To achieve that kind of proximity to their parents, Dad must have had his legs truncated in the war, and poor Mom is just a torso surgically attached to the couch. Perhaps that explains her expression.
One of the big clues as to the age of this piece is the, "Soon he will get a new home in the Washington Zoo" reference. If it were current, he'd have been homeless for fifty years. Note the other non-famously named bears looking on at Smokey from behind the fence; this protects Smokey from the other inmates, who might shiv him in the cafeteria just for the rep.
I also find it jarring to go from the "realistic" bear in the zoo in the first panel to the anthropomorphized Smokey in the next panel. It also appears that he's hammering his poster onto the same tree in his enclosure at the zoo--the branch hanging down is nearly identical. How they expect Smokey to spread his message by only putting up notices in his holding pen is unexplained. Also, why is he using a tack hammer to nail up a poster to a tree? And why do all the bears in that poster clearly have breasts?
The third panel is a picture-within-a-picture, as Smokey is making the same gesture in the real world as he is in the poster itself. I like that there are no words to the image, just the vaguely accusatory hand gesture. "Get it, mankind? Get it? Jerks."
I'm unsure about the contractor in the fifth panel. Did any worker ever wear a fedora on a construction site? The chunk cut out of the plank he's carrying looks far more accidental than intentional, and though I'm no carpenter, I don't think those windows are framed out correctly, unless they're building a church. This looks to me more like a photo op for the head of the firm that drew up the plans for the house, trying to look thrusting and purposeful, a real "hands-on" kind of boss who understands his men; after the shot he gets out of the apron as fast as possible and drives his Mercedes down to the club for a three martini lunch.
"How they burn up timber that could have been used to make homes--perhaps a new home for you..." Way to bring it home to the reader. Now every poor kid knows why he has to live in a run-down efficiency apartment--some bastard burned down the forest whose trees were meant to build him a house. That's the kind of thing that can lead to riots.
What piece of furniture is that? A sideboard? A kitchen cabinet? The woman looks as though she's about to give Humphrey Bogart there (with the super-thick inking lines on his shirt) a backhanded swat on the rump. What did he do? She also gets her art from the same gallery as the Manson Family from the last page.
That kid is not reading a comic book. It's some kind of very large-scale graph paper; perhaps he's perusing the maps of "Capitan Mtn." and "Burn Out" that are all the rage these days.
Remember, kids: the number-one bad thing about forest fires is that they are a setback to Industry!
First panel: the River Styx. You can just spot the ferryman making his way to his skiff on the one piece of eerily green ground.
Clearly, people in the fifties grazed sheep in the woods. You might wonder why they don't just move over to the next hill, which is verdant green, but then you realize the terrifying truth: There's a flood coming. There's no way that lake could swell up into the sky as it's doing here otherwise.
You're really supposed to just hold a match until it's "cold"? Why not dunk it in water, or grind it into the sand? Do you have to keep touching it, giving yourself multiple tiny blisters, until it's cold? And why has this hairy-armed lothario broken it in half? And why was he holding it like a cigarette in the first place? It's clearly still got some energy left, as it's radiating excess power as it's broken.
Another sign of the times here is that cigarette smoking is mentioned explicitly without any negative connotation. Today's version wouldn't even mention cigarettes, and if it did the message would surely be something like, "Like all right-minded humans, you should never, ever smoke a cigarette outside of a concrete bunker in your own home, you filthy monster." Here they're even allowing the reader to smoke (keeping in mind that the reader is an eight-year-old), as long as, when he tosses his butts on the ground, he grinds them out underfoot. Littering is still okay in Smokey's world--just another little jab at his arch-rival, Woodsey Owl. You can understand why he would be bitter--Woodsey is named after the forests that Smokey so loves, while the bear himself is named after the very agent of destruction he is trying to warn the world about. A cruel irony he doesn't fail to mention to his therapist in their twice-weekly sessions.
Yet another shot of Smokey putting up a poster of himself, only this time he appears to be giving the Black Power salute. Smokey has clearly let fame go to his head--look how delighted he is at his own visage. I don't think this is really about fighting fires anymore for Smokey; it's all about product placement and the corporate bosses back at the Department of the Interior.
We finally learn why this is all told by an eagle--sort of. Well, not really. But I don't think that pose is aerodynamically possible for a large bird, unless he's diving in to pluck out Smokey's sweet, sweet eyeballs.
The book begins and ends with these photo pages showing some of the old posters, and this one includes a letter from Smokey himself. He has abnormally small paws for a three hundred pound black bear.
The posters here are great. Again as a sign of the times, notice that two of the posters have overtly religious appeals: an explicit reference to God, and a shot of Smokey praying, for Petey Wheatey's sake. These are also the days when cigarettes have the casual, well-worn appelation of "smokes." Cheaper to print, anyway.
The "Good Outdoor Habits for Everyone" poster does indeed confirm the recommendation to "break your matches." What is this supposed to do? Does breaking them rob them of their magical flammability juice?
Note also, just below, a gaggle of Disney rejects venerating their fire-prevening god, Smokey the Slightly Embarrassed Floating Head.
In the note itself, youngsters are urged to warn their friends that "playing with matches is playing with fire." Isn't this why their friends are playing with matches in the first place? I'm not certain that the reference to a cliched colloquialism is going to get a chuckle from the average fourth grader. And, "Keeping careless use of fire out of the woods," is awfully clumsy syntax.
I can attest personally, though, that the "tiny 'play' campfire... left burning" reference is one worth heeding. As a kid who did exactly that and who burned out a sizeable chunk of our local forests as a result, I can aver that this warning is entirely useful. If only I had more carefully read the last page! I might have avoided a lot of heartache and certainly a litany of lectures from every fire prevention officer on the mountain.
If you've made it this far, congratulations. Consider yourself one of the few. I hope you've enjoyed this little journey and won't report me to the Forest Service for breach of copyright law. Good night, and stop setting fires!
The Perfect Day
I did another little exercise from CLWL today that I thought I'd share. It asked you to narrate your perfect day, no matter what that looked like. It was pretty fun.
As a note, I'd like to point out that not all the exercises in the book are this kind of "dream about everything you'd like" pie-in-the-sky activities. The vast majority of them are practical excavations into time use, creative skills, and the like. Only a couple of questions each chapter ask you to imagine fancy things--and those do have the purpose of helping you keep in sight what it is you're working toward.
First, though, a disclaimer: I feel like I could have several “perfect days,” depending on what I might be doing and any of them could well be fantastic. My day that includes voiceover work would differ from this, as would the day during which I was directing the Christian Arts colony. I’m going with the simplest one here.
"The alarm rings at 5am. I wake up, feeling refreshed and eager. I jump into the shower, get ready for the day, then step outside. I throw on my old brown jacket to keep the damp wind and fog off of my sweater. The wind moans through the trees in the pre-dawn grayness. I stroll down through the trees along the path, enjoying the morning, filling my nostrils with the scent of pine and earth, damp wood and the sky. My writing cabin emerges from the fog before me. I step into the covered entry, unlock the door, and grab a stack of wood on my way inside.
"Once within, I turn on the light, then light the fire in the woodstove downstairs (and a smaller one upstairs). I start coffee, and as that is brewing I sit at the table, reading my bible and journaling. As the coffee finishes, I take a cup and sit down on the couch, lifting my prayers to God with a thankful and eager heart as the gray outside lightens with the dawn.
"By 7am, I get up and whip up a couple of eggs, some toast, and some breakfast pork product. This I eat at the table while reading a new novel I’m surprised and impressed by, or possibly an old favorite in whose language I delight. By 7:30am I head upstairs to the writing desk. I freewrite for fifteen minutes, getting the pen moving and the creative muscle flexing. I’m so full of ideas that I have to stand up and pace a bit from time to time, just to keep from exploding, possibly to glance out the windows into the woods or the valley below. Then it’s back to the desk.
"On this day, I’m cooking with enough gas that I can go directly the computer. With that booted up and some soft music barely audible in the background, I start to type. Except for pauses to get more coffee and let my overheated brain cool down (possibly with a short trip to the woodpile to split a few more logs), I type without pause. The stuff that comes out is not all brilliant, but the story moves and I make good progress. A few bits are brilliant, actually.
"At 11am, I put the computer on standby, clean the dishes and turn out the lights, banking the fire to keep it in embers. I then head down the hill, hop into the pickup, and drive the fifteen minutes down the winding road into town. Driving past the hardware store, the local market, and various small shops. I pull into the local café and head for our usual table. There I’m greeted by Joanna, between her counseling or decorating sessions, and we spend a leisurely lunch hour chatting and eating.
"After lunch it’s back to the cabin for another few hours, this time working with the pen and paper, letting that slower pace fill my mind with more stuff, following rabbit trails and piling on the imagery. I might write a few e-mails or call publishing agents by about 3pm.
"At 4, I hear the running footsteps of the boys and Madeline, home from school. They give the secret knock, my clue to shut the computer down. I head downstairs and let the monkeys in; they greet me with hugs and stories of whatever they did that day in school. We sit at the table downstairs and play—maybe a game of Once Upon a Time. We tell lies and jokes. After an hour we hike back to the house to hang out with Joanna, attending to daily tasks, perhaps getting their homework out of the way (hey, it’s a perfect day, right?).
"I cook, and we eat dinner together at 6pm. If the kiddos have finished their homework, or don’t have much left, we play a board game or watch a movie or a good television program, the only time of the day the machine comes on. By 9pm, the kids head off to carry out their end-of-the-day tasks. I see each of them off to bed with whatever book they’re reading at the moment. Then I return downstairs to spend another hour or two with Joanna, taking care of any ephemera may still cling about our day.
"Joanna heads for bed at 11pm, and I spend half an hour reading, planning out the next day, or writing letters and such. With thanks for a day of accomplishment, peace, and blessing, I retire to bed."
It seems both self-importantly grandiose and yet tawdry at the same time. I don't know--this would be a good day, certainly, but a perfect day? Hard to say.
So, as before with these little exercises, I invite my lovely readers to chime in with their own visions of a perfect day. Rap with me.
As a note, I'd like to point out that not all the exercises in the book are this kind of "dream about everything you'd like" pie-in-the-sky activities. The vast majority of them are practical excavations into time use, creative skills, and the like. Only a couple of questions each chapter ask you to imagine fancy things--and those do have the purpose of helping you keep in sight what it is you're working toward.
First, though, a disclaimer: I feel like I could have several “perfect days,” depending on what I might be doing and any of them could well be fantastic. My day that includes voiceover work would differ from this, as would the day during which I was directing the Christian Arts colony. I’m going with the simplest one here.
"The alarm rings at 5am. I wake up, feeling refreshed and eager. I jump into the shower, get ready for the day, then step outside. I throw on my old brown jacket to keep the damp wind and fog off of my sweater. The wind moans through the trees in the pre-dawn grayness. I stroll down through the trees along the path, enjoying the morning, filling my nostrils with the scent of pine and earth, damp wood and the sky. My writing cabin emerges from the fog before me. I step into the covered entry, unlock the door, and grab a stack of wood on my way inside.
"Once within, I turn on the light, then light the fire in the woodstove downstairs (and a smaller one upstairs). I start coffee, and as that is brewing I sit at the table, reading my bible and journaling. As the coffee finishes, I take a cup and sit down on the couch, lifting my prayers to God with a thankful and eager heart as the gray outside lightens with the dawn.
"By 7am, I get up and whip up a couple of eggs, some toast, and some breakfast pork product. This I eat at the table while reading a new novel I’m surprised and impressed by, or possibly an old favorite in whose language I delight. By 7:30am I head upstairs to the writing desk. I freewrite for fifteen minutes, getting the pen moving and the creative muscle flexing. I’m so full of ideas that I have to stand up and pace a bit from time to time, just to keep from exploding, possibly to glance out the windows into the woods or the valley below. Then it’s back to the desk.
"On this day, I’m cooking with enough gas that I can go directly the computer. With that booted up and some soft music barely audible in the background, I start to type. Except for pauses to get more coffee and let my overheated brain cool down (possibly with a short trip to the woodpile to split a few more logs), I type without pause. The stuff that comes out is not all brilliant, but the story moves and I make good progress. A few bits are brilliant, actually.
"At 11am, I put the computer on standby, clean the dishes and turn out the lights, banking the fire to keep it in embers. I then head down the hill, hop into the pickup, and drive the fifteen minutes down the winding road into town. Driving past the hardware store, the local market, and various small shops. I pull into the local café and head for our usual table. There I’m greeted by Joanna, between her counseling or decorating sessions, and we spend a leisurely lunch hour chatting and eating.
"After lunch it’s back to the cabin for another few hours, this time working with the pen and paper, letting that slower pace fill my mind with more stuff, following rabbit trails and piling on the imagery. I might write a few e-mails or call publishing agents by about 3pm.
"At 4, I hear the running footsteps of the boys and Madeline, home from school. They give the secret knock, my clue to shut the computer down. I head downstairs and let the monkeys in; they greet me with hugs and stories of whatever they did that day in school. We sit at the table downstairs and play—maybe a game of Once Upon a Time. We tell lies and jokes. After an hour we hike back to the house to hang out with Joanna, attending to daily tasks, perhaps getting their homework out of the way (hey, it’s a perfect day, right?).
"I cook, and we eat dinner together at 6pm. If the kiddos have finished their homework, or don’t have much left, we play a board game or watch a movie or a good television program, the only time of the day the machine comes on. By 9pm, the kids head off to carry out their end-of-the-day tasks. I see each of them off to bed with whatever book they’re reading at the moment. Then I return downstairs to spend another hour or two with Joanna, taking care of any ephemera may still cling about our day.
"Joanna heads for bed at 11pm, and I spend half an hour reading, planning out the next day, or writing letters and such. With thanks for a day of accomplishment, peace, and blessing, I retire to bed."
It seems both self-importantly grandiose and yet tawdry at the same time. I don't know--this would be a good day, certainly, but a perfect day? Hard to say.
So, as before with these little exercises, I invite my lovely readers to chime in with their own visions of a perfect day. Rap with me.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Not a Racial Slur, Really
There's always a bit of trouble when your domestic titles don't match up well overseas.
Take, for instance, Cracker.
Immediately upon pronunciation of this title, American audiences are either offended or expecting to see some kind of "whitey in the 'hood" kind of show, in which most of the humor is painfully unfunny and aimed at the cheapest laugh to be gotten from a "fish out of water" story, but that also shallowly reaffirms our cherished belief that everyone is, deep down, really the same.
You'd be way off if you thought this, however. Cracker is actually a phenomenal British crime drama--the title refers to one who "cracks" cases, if you will. Robbie Coltrane (probably best known to American audiences as one half of the cross-dressing duo in Nuns on the Run, or as a much made-over Rubeus Hagrid in the Harry Potter films) stars as Dr. Eddie "Fitz" Fitzgerald, a psychologist retained by the police to help them in investigating violent crime.
Coltrane as Fitz is a delight to watch. If you can possibly imagine a much less pleasant Hugh Laurie as Dr. House on House who deals with fantastic mental illnesses the way Dr. House deals with physical ones, you'd be on the right track. Bitter, acerbic, and petty, Coltrane still has you rooting for Fitz all the way. Coltrane is a phenomenal actor in any case, if you give him room and keep him out of nun's habits or beards "bushy enough to catch a badger in" (thanks, Blackadder!).
The supporting cast is also terrific, and the writing is fantastic. I am much pleased to see a show willing to carry out the failings and sins of its characters to their logical conclusions. Fitz is brilliant and funny, but he's also incredibly abrasive, socially immature, a smoker, an alcholic, and a gambling addict. In the episodes we've seen (just a few, from everyone's favorite: Netflix), he's spent nearly as much time trying to get his wife to come back (she left after a particularly bad gambling binge) and figure out how to communicate with his teenage son as he has digging into the mental state of psychopaths. And while the cases Fitz tackles are the far-out ones (the first episode involves a homicidal maniac who attacks young women on moving trains), they play out as grounded and believable. I think this is helped by the very realistic, human reactions the cast has to these difficult events.
So it's good, is what I'm saying. You should check it out. I'm posting this late from staying up to watch the three episodes on the latest disc this very night. I'd have written about something else, perhaps, but this is all my brain is capable of processing at the moment.
Okay, that's enough for now. Off with you!
Take, for instance, Cracker.
Immediately upon pronunciation of this title, American audiences are either offended or expecting to see some kind of "whitey in the 'hood" kind of show, in which most of the humor is painfully unfunny and aimed at the cheapest laugh to be gotten from a "fish out of water" story, but that also shallowly reaffirms our cherished belief that everyone is, deep down, really the same.
You'd be way off if you thought this, however. Cracker is actually a phenomenal British crime drama--the title refers to one who "cracks" cases, if you will. Robbie Coltrane (probably best known to American audiences as one half of the cross-dressing duo in Nuns on the Run, or as a much made-over Rubeus Hagrid in the Harry Potter films) stars as Dr. Eddie "Fitz" Fitzgerald, a psychologist retained by the police to help them in investigating violent crime.
Coltrane as Fitz is a delight to watch. If you can possibly imagine a much less pleasant Hugh Laurie as Dr. House on House who deals with fantastic mental illnesses the way Dr. House deals with physical ones, you'd be on the right track. Bitter, acerbic, and petty, Coltrane still has you rooting for Fitz all the way. Coltrane is a phenomenal actor in any case, if you give him room and keep him out of nun's habits or beards "bushy enough to catch a badger in" (thanks, Blackadder!).
The supporting cast is also terrific, and the writing is fantastic. I am much pleased to see a show willing to carry out the failings and sins of its characters to their logical conclusions. Fitz is brilliant and funny, but he's also incredibly abrasive, socially immature, a smoker, an alcholic, and a gambling addict. In the episodes we've seen (just a few, from everyone's favorite: Netflix), he's spent nearly as much time trying to get his wife to come back (she left after a particularly bad gambling binge) and figure out how to communicate with his teenage son as he has digging into the mental state of psychopaths. And while the cases Fitz tackles are the far-out ones (the first episode involves a homicidal maniac who attacks young women on moving trains), they play out as grounded and believable. I think this is helped by the very realistic, human reactions the cast has to these difficult events.
So it's good, is what I'm saying. You should check it out. I'm posting this late from staying up to watch the three episodes on the latest disc this very night. I'd have written about something else, perhaps, but this is all my brain is capable of processing at the moment.
Okay, that's enough for now. Off with you!
Friday, October 14, 2005
Roll Call
Just checking in.
Didn't post last night out of sheer laziness and falling asleep. Not posting much tonight because Joanna isn't feeling well and I've been taking care of the kiddos all afternoon and evening. The baby just fell asleep fifteen minutes ago; here's praying she'll sleep a good few hours before the wake-up call.
Lots of little things buzzing around. Had to miss my class in Sun Valley because of the aforementioned illness of my spouse. That's a $200 hit--ouch. Still worth it, certainly, but we'll cry next month when the paycheck is light.
Finished my Tuesday evening class at Voicetrax; splendid evening, but I'm always sad to have no excuse to get back out there. On the plus side, I did well that night, I got to hear my one-minute "sampler" which was bizarre and gratifying to hear (I'll post more on that later), and also heard the "Desert CD," a compliation being given out to the local radio and ad agencies down that way as a sales tool for folks buying advertising. It's got the voices of a number of students doing some of the best stuff from the summer classes; I got hissed at because I am all over that thing--they actually have to cut some of my stuff out because I'm on it too often. It's nice to know that I did a lot of stuff well, though.
Okay--now to try that whole "sleep in a bed" thing I've heard so much about. Sounds a little dull, but I'll try anything once.
Well, almost anything. There are three things I won't. You'll have to guess what they are. You might be surprised...
Didn't post last night out of sheer laziness and falling asleep. Not posting much tonight because Joanna isn't feeling well and I've been taking care of the kiddos all afternoon and evening. The baby just fell asleep fifteen minutes ago; here's praying she'll sleep a good few hours before the wake-up call.
Lots of little things buzzing around. Had to miss my class in Sun Valley because of the aforementioned illness of my spouse. That's a $200 hit--ouch. Still worth it, certainly, but we'll cry next month when the paycheck is light.
Finished my Tuesday evening class at Voicetrax; splendid evening, but I'm always sad to have no excuse to get back out there. On the plus side, I did well that night, I got to hear my one-minute "sampler" which was bizarre and gratifying to hear (I'll post more on that later), and also heard the "Desert CD," a compliation being given out to the local radio and ad agencies down that way as a sales tool for folks buying advertising. It's got the voices of a number of students doing some of the best stuff from the summer classes; I got hissed at because I am all over that thing--they actually have to cut some of my stuff out because I'm on it too often. It's nice to know that I did a lot of stuff well, though.
Okay--now to try that whole "sleep in a bed" thing I've heard so much about. Sounds a little dull, but I'll try anything once.
Well, almost anything. There are three things I won't. You'll have to guess what they are. You might be surprised...
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Well, If Devin Can Be a Time Traveler...
...then so can I.
This is me from when I traveled back to the Roman Empire and became emperor for a time:
Daisy actually found a similar image years ago during one of her art classes. I apparently took the name Caracalla and ruled for five years from 212-217 AD, at which point I faked my own murder. It was a tough job, I tell you, though I appreciate this thought from De Imperatoribus Romanus: "Yet the moralizing about fratricide by both ancient and modern historians obscures the energetic, reformist and even intellectual character of Caracalla's reign."
Hear, hear.
This is me from when I traveled back to the Roman Empire and became emperor for a time:
Daisy actually found a similar image years ago during one of her art classes. I apparently took the name Caracalla and ruled for five years from 212-217 AD, at which point I faked my own murder. It was a tough job, I tell you, though I appreciate this thought from De Imperatoribus Romanus: "Yet the moralizing about fratricide by both ancient and modern historians obscures the energetic, reformist and even intellectual character of Caracalla's reign."
Hear, hear.
How Do I Know I'll Be Shown the Proper Respect?
That title has nothing in particular to do with this post--it's one of our favorites from Ted L. Nancy in his series of books, Letters from a Nut, in which he writes bizarre and random letters to various corporate and government entities just to see how they'll respond. He has an absolute knack for writing missives that sound real and yet are utterly insane, like writing to restaurants to ask if it's okay to bring his own waiter, or warning hotel chains that he has a rare condition that causes him to eat his own bedding. From his proposed chain of Hungry Mosquito restaurants in New Mexico, to his concerns that San Antonio is going to change the name of its basketball team from the Spurs to the Paper Towels, to his thanks to various foriegn nations for their superb department store staffs that have variously helped him out of air conditioning ducts in which he invariably got caught while attempting to retrieve a lost shoe, the letters are amazing pieces of staged oddity. The title is from a letter to a hotel in which he asks, many times and in various ways, how he can know that he's being shown proper respect from the staff.
That was a lot of explanation for a title that doesn't have anything to do with the actual post. In truth, at this point that will end up being most of the post, as you'll note the timestamp at the bottom of the entry reads something in the neighborhood of 4:10am (if I can wrap this up with some alacrity). I have been asleep again, only to be awakened an hour ago by my long-suffering and ever-patient wife. I'm still hoping to catch an hour more sleep before I get up for work, but I knew my true duty lay here, with my gentle readers. As always, the blog has become a kind of touchstone, a duty to which I look forward and a tiny piece of the kind of life I hope to be living someday. I'd explain that but it's too early.
I had an entire other post planned. Actually, I'm in one of those fecund stages where I seem to have dozens of post ideas, but I had geared myself up to deliver a book review and get that idea out of my brain. That'll have to wait until later today--I'm determined to post earlier today come hell or high water. I've got to get some kind of real schedule working here in the near future or I'm going to stay stuck in the creative rut in which I've been meandering for the past decade.
It's off to sleepy-bobos for me. Keep your eye on this space.
ps--You know, one day I'm going to write a post about the constant cliches I use and how I ruthlessly beat those out of my students' writing and yet continually engage in them myself. Can I get a shout of "hypocrite" from the crowd?
Thank you.
Okay, you can stop now.
That was a lot of explanation for a title that doesn't have anything to do with the actual post. In truth, at this point that will end up being most of the post, as you'll note the timestamp at the bottom of the entry reads something in the neighborhood of 4:10am (if I can wrap this up with some alacrity). I have been asleep again, only to be awakened an hour ago by my long-suffering and ever-patient wife. I'm still hoping to catch an hour more sleep before I get up for work, but I knew my true duty lay here, with my gentle readers. As always, the blog has become a kind of touchstone, a duty to which I look forward and a tiny piece of the kind of life I hope to be living someday. I'd explain that but it's too early.
I had an entire other post planned. Actually, I'm in one of those fecund stages where I seem to have dozens of post ideas, but I had geared myself up to deliver a book review and get that idea out of my brain. That'll have to wait until later today--I'm determined to post earlier today come hell or high water. I've got to get some kind of real schedule working here in the near future or I'm going to stay stuck in the creative rut in which I've been meandering for the past decade.
It's off to sleepy-bobos for me. Keep your eye on this space.
ps--You know, one day I'm going to write a post about the constant cliches I use and how I ruthlessly beat those out of my students' writing and yet continually engage in them myself. Can I get a shout of "hypocrite" from the crowd?
Thank you.
Okay, you can stop now.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Some Kind of Illness
I had many a post idea floating around today, yet they've all melted before the awesome power of the wee hours of the morning. Somehow that little clock reading 1:40am at the bottom of the screen sucks out my will to live.
There must be a mental condition that describes acute, pervasive, and self-destructive procrastination. I mean, I give myself a lot of leeway about doing other things. Time spent with the kids, watching the occasional television program, catching my breath after working hard, making complicated meals--these all I grant myself and don't particularly regret. Though I might have been wiser to tackle the grading rather than these issues, they don't tear me up with self-reproach.
But what do I make of myself when I can sit down and very clearly chart out how long my remaining grading will take, see the lateness of the hour, and then choose to do something entirely frivolous? It's like I have a pathological aversion to grading. I am not an unreasonable man. I like to think of myself as logical. I can see every element of what I need to do laid out before me. Yet I can then immediately go off and do something that makes no sense whatsoever and doesn't even really bring me any satisfaction at all. What that pointless thing was tonight shall remain unnamed, lest I dignify it with attention. Suffice it to say that I've done nothing constructive since Joanna went to bed a while back. What the hell?
On that subject, I read an interesting interview in CLWL (my new abbreviation for that Creating a Life Worth Living book, since I mention it like every other post nowadays) with a short story writer. She worked and did not succeed at writing for a long time, so eventually she went into nursing. It was while there that she was convicted that writing is what she was meant to do. In the process, she discovered she wasn't a really great nurse--not that she couldn't do the job, but it's a job that requires dedication and creativity, and her passion was always elsewhere. That's precisely how I feel about teaching these days. Yes, I have the brain to do it, but not the will.
Of course, that doesn't negate the fact that the grading must get done. So I suppose that, rather than type this post, which I do find interesting, I had best go stare at some more mostly poor narrative essays and pray that I can keep my mind focused enough to get at least a couple of hours' sleep tonight.
Wish me luck.
There must be a mental condition that describes acute, pervasive, and self-destructive procrastination. I mean, I give myself a lot of leeway about doing other things. Time spent with the kids, watching the occasional television program, catching my breath after working hard, making complicated meals--these all I grant myself and don't particularly regret. Though I might have been wiser to tackle the grading rather than these issues, they don't tear me up with self-reproach.
But what do I make of myself when I can sit down and very clearly chart out how long my remaining grading will take, see the lateness of the hour, and then choose to do something entirely frivolous? It's like I have a pathological aversion to grading. I am not an unreasonable man. I like to think of myself as logical. I can see every element of what I need to do laid out before me. Yet I can then immediately go off and do something that makes no sense whatsoever and doesn't even really bring me any satisfaction at all. What that pointless thing was tonight shall remain unnamed, lest I dignify it with attention. Suffice it to say that I've done nothing constructive since Joanna went to bed a while back. What the hell?
On that subject, I read an interesting interview in CLWL (my new abbreviation for that Creating a Life Worth Living book, since I mention it like every other post nowadays) with a short story writer. She worked and did not succeed at writing for a long time, so eventually she went into nursing. It was while there that she was convicted that writing is what she was meant to do. In the process, she discovered she wasn't a really great nurse--not that she couldn't do the job, but it's a job that requires dedication and creativity, and her passion was always elsewhere. That's precisely how I feel about teaching these days. Yes, I have the brain to do it, but not the will.
Of course, that doesn't negate the fact that the grading must get done. So I suppose that, rather than type this post, which I do find interesting, I had best go stare at some more mostly poor narrative essays and pray that I can keep my mind focused enough to get at least a couple of hours' sleep tonight.
Wish me luck.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Six Things about Today
This started out as twelve things, then went down to ten, and now has dropped to six. I had best post now before we have to delve into negative numbers--you'd all owe me posts at that point.
In no particular order:
1) If you've not yet, go see Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit. If you like Nick Park and have enjoyed W&G's previous adventures, this is a delight. And if you haven't seen them before, this is an astonishment. This is the first movie in a long time I can recall getting no bad reviews at all. We took the boys today and it was fantastic.
2) After the movie it was off to the pumpkin patch with Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Kathie. I much enjoy the patch we go to, out in Yucaipa--it's part of a working farm and is an actual "patch" with pumpkins growing on the vine, not just a bunch set out on some vacant lot. There are rides for the kiddos and a petting zoo as well. My only complaint: I know we live in Southern California, but it should not cost $40 for five pumpkins (one small, two relatively small, and two quite medium). It's worth the price to get to go to this place, I suppose, but it just seems a bit much. When we move to the northwest, by gum, I'm a'growin' my own gourds and squash, yessir.
3) Okay, so they're not all about today. I had a long chat with Ben Smedley last night, all about faith and stepping out in it and taking risks. It is always nice to talk to Ben, to get a slightly different kind of mockery than I usually receive, but also because he's the man. His advice and encouragement were really needed and much appreciated. However, in the spirit of the friendships of our masculine social circle (the rules of which state quite clearly that you cannot compliment someone straightforwardly, but must couch all such praise in ironic insult), I will point out that Ben does smell like an unwashed camel.
4) Speaking of taking risks, Marilyn put up a link about Kendall Payne and her album Grown; I listened to a few tracks the other day and was so impressed I ran out and bought a copy. If you like Sarah McLachlan as I do, you'll much like Kendall. And she's a Christian artist, which increases her rating vastly with me. If--sorry, I mean when--the Christian Artists' Colony gets underway, she's high on the list of musicians to invite (along with Michael Card, since he kind of inspired the whole idea in the first place).
The reason I mentioned Kendall in light of taking risks is one of my favorite songs off the CD, "Ups and Downs," which speaks directly to following God's call despite the insanity of life. Have a listen to a clip of that and a few other songs here.
5) Nothing. There is no fifth thing.
6) Oh, man. I better come up with something here. Um... Oh! Here you go. I thought I'd mention that The Sims is the devil. For some reason I can't begin to fathom, I fired that thing up again after not playing it for something like a year. The Sims baffles me, in that we play video games for the vicarious thrill, and here's a game that's utterly absorbing, yet all it does is present us with a simplified version of real life. How pointless is that? It reminds me of the heady days when we used to play the Teenagers from Outer Space roleplaying game (a smashing little game with very silly rules about aliens invading our high schools and dating our women). Our teenagers characters, in a bit of metafictional irony, played a roleplaying game in their spare timed called Boring Old Normal Teenagers; The Sims is the real-world equivalent.
I suppose the draw is that you can actually control all aspects of life in The Sims, in a way you can't in the real world. Sure, they never get weekends off and they're stuck doing the same repetitive things over and over, they don't drive cars (in any meaningful way), and the only way to make them happy is to buy them increasingly expensive material goods (wait a minute--it is like real life). But you can manage all that. No sudden crises strike them. They can make hard choices relatively easily (usually with a yes or no). You get hooked on working for just that one more promotion or one more upgrade, or one more distracting toy. Like real life, it's very easy to get caught up in the minor details. Unlike real life, there's no real-world payoff; I could be the greatest Sims player ever, and have the richest, most powerful Sim on the planet, and that would translate to exactly nothing in any area of my life that counts for anything.
So why do we do it? You tell me, friends. You tell me.
'Cause I have no idea. I'm going to have to take it off the computer again, is all I know, if I ever want to get anything done ever again.
In no particular order:
1) If you've not yet, go see Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit. If you like Nick Park and have enjoyed W&G's previous adventures, this is a delight. And if you haven't seen them before, this is an astonishment. This is the first movie in a long time I can recall getting no bad reviews at all. We took the boys today and it was fantastic.
2) After the movie it was off to the pumpkin patch with Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Kathie. I much enjoy the patch we go to, out in Yucaipa--it's part of a working farm and is an actual "patch" with pumpkins growing on the vine, not just a bunch set out on some vacant lot. There are rides for the kiddos and a petting zoo as well. My only complaint: I know we live in Southern California, but it should not cost $40 for five pumpkins (one small, two relatively small, and two quite medium). It's worth the price to get to go to this place, I suppose, but it just seems a bit much. When we move to the northwest, by gum, I'm a'growin' my own gourds and squash, yessir.
3) Okay, so they're not all about today. I had a long chat with Ben Smedley last night, all about faith and stepping out in it and taking risks. It is always nice to talk to Ben, to get a slightly different kind of mockery than I usually receive, but also because he's the man. His advice and encouragement were really needed and much appreciated. However, in the spirit of the friendships of our masculine social circle (the rules of which state quite clearly that you cannot compliment someone straightforwardly, but must couch all such praise in ironic insult), I will point out that Ben does smell like an unwashed camel.
4) Speaking of taking risks, Marilyn put up a link about Kendall Payne and her album Grown; I listened to a few tracks the other day and was so impressed I ran out and bought a copy. If you like Sarah McLachlan as I do, you'll much like Kendall. And she's a Christian artist, which increases her rating vastly with me. If--sorry, I mean when--the Christian Artists' Colony gets underway, she's high on the list of musicians to invite (along with Michael Card, since he kind of inspired the whole idea in the first place).
The reason I mentioned Kendall in light of taking risks is one of my favorite songs off the CD, "Ups and Downs," which speaks directly to following God's call despite the insanity of life. Have a listen to a clip of that and a few other songs here.
5) Nothing. There is no fifth thing.
6) Oh, man. I better come up with something here. Um... Oh! Here you go. I thought I'd mention that The Sims is the devil. For some reason I can't begin to fathom, I fired that thing up again after not playing it for something like a year. The Sims baffles me, in that we play video games for the vicarious thrill, and here's a game that's utterly absorbing, yet all it does is present us with a simplified version of real life. How pointless is that? It reminds me of the heady days when we used to play the Teenagers from Outer Space roleplaying game (a smashing little game with very silly rules about aliens invading our high schools and dating our women). Our teenagers characters, in a bit of metafictional irony, played a roleplaying game in their spare timed called Boring Old Normal Teenagers; The Sims is the real-world equivalent.
I suppose the draw is that you can actually control all aspects of life in The Sims, in a way you can't in the real world. Sure, they never get weekends off and they're stuck doing the same repetitive things over and over, they don't drive cars (in any meaningful way), and the only way to make them happy is to buy them increasingly expensive material goods (wait a minute--it is like real life). But you can manage all that. No sudden crises strike them. They can make hard choices relatively easily (usually with a yes or no). You get hooked on working for just that one more promotion or one more upgrade, or one more distracting toy. Like real life, it's very easy to get caught up in the minor details. Unlike real life, there's no real-world payoff; I could be the greatest Sims player ever, and have the richest, most powerful Sim on the planet, and that would translate to exactly nothing in any area of my life that counts for anything.
So why do we do it? You tell me, friends. You tell me.
'Cause I have no idea. I'm going to have to take it off the computer again, is all I know, if I ever want to get anything done ever again.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Because I'm Trying to Be Good
And actually get some things done today, here's another little quiz answer in lieu of actual writing. The quiz is "What Obsolete Skill Are You?" from everyone's favorite pointless quiz source, Quizilla.
You are 'Latin'. Even among obsolete skills, the
tongue of the ancient Romans is a real
anachronism. With its profusion of different
cases and conjugations, Latin is more than a
language; it is a whole different way of
thinking about things.
You are very classy, meaning that you value the
classics. You value old things, good things
which have stood the test of time. You value
things which have been proven worthy and
valuable, even if no one else these days sees
them that way. Your life is touched by a
certain 'pietas', or piety; perhaps you are
even a Stoic. Nonetheless, you have a certain
fascination with the grotesque and the profane.
Also, the modern world rejects you like a bad
transplant. Your problem is that Latin has
been obsolete for a long time.
What obsolete skill are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
As seems to be so often the case lately, little grains of truth popping up in entirely inaccurate quizzes. There's a psychological term for finding the answers you're looking for, though I've forgotten it for the moment.
This works the same way at the "astrological fortunes" that James Randi, the famous psychic debunker and author of the book with Devin's favorite title, Flim-Flam! used to give. Randi would take a class of college students in some random subject and get from them information like their name, birthdate, place of birth, etc. He then took the information and had an astrologer do precise personality breakdowns based on readings done using that data given by each person.
A few weeks later he returned and handed out sealed papers upon which these psychological profiles were written. Gasps of shock could be heard throughout the class as they were unsealed. Soon people were imploring Randi, wide-eyed, to know how the astrologer could possibly have known so much about them and described their inner thoughts so perfectly. When Randi asked how many people thought the profiles were "extremely accurate" in really describing the recipient, a good 90% of the class raised their hand. Randi nodded, then asked the students to pass their profile to the person sitting next to them.
It turned out, of course, that every single profile was exactly the same. No one had received anything individualized at all. A lot of people got very angry, though it's hard for me to fathom why.
I imagine a lot of what I'm "finding" in all these breakdowns and quizzes are, in truth, really reflections of what I'm already looking for. Their value, I rationalize, is that they're mirrors in which I can get something of a view of myself I've not had before. It's the result, not the process. To steal from Douglas Adams in Mostly Harmless, it's like using graphite dust on a notepad to find out what was written on a previous sheet that's been removed (see, graphite adheres to the indentation made by the pen through the sheet above, leaving marks that can be read). The graphite's not important; it's the message that it reveals.
Everyone feeling all warm and touchy-feely now? Good. My job is done. I'll come back tomorrow and put a stop to all that.
You are 'Latin'. Even among obsolete skills, the
tongue of the ancient Romans is a real
anachronism. With its profusion of different
cases and conjugations, Latin is more than a
language; it is a whole different way of
thinking about things.
You are very classy, meaning that you value the
classics. You value old things, good things
which have stood the test of time. You value
things which have been proven worthy and
valuable, even if no one else these days sees
them that way. Your life is touched by a
certain 'pietas', or piety; perhaps you are
even a Stoic. Nonetheless, you have a certain
fascination with the grotesque and the profane.
Also, the modern world rejects you like a bad
transplant. Your problem is that Latin has
been obsolete for a long time.
What obsolete skill are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
As seems to be so often the case lately, little grains of truth popping up in entirely inaccurate quizzes. There's a psychological term for finding the answers you're looking for, though I've forgotten it for the moment.
This works the same way at the "astrological fortunes" that James Randi, the famous psychic debunker and author of the book with Devin's favorite title, Flim-Flam! used to give. Randi would take a class of college students in some random subject and get from them information like their name, birthdate, place of birth, etc. He then took the information and had an astrologer do precise personality breakdowns based on readings done using that data given by each person.
A few weeks later he returned and handed out sealed papers upon which these psychological profiles were written. Gasps of shock could be heard throughout the class as they were unsealed. Soon people were imploring Randi, wide-eyed, to know how the astrologer could possibly have known so much about them and described their inner thoughts so perfectly. When Randi asked how many people thought the profiles were "extremely accurate" in really describing the recipient, a good 90% of the class raised their hand. Randi nodded, then asked the students to pass their profile to the person sitting next to them.
It turned out, of course, that every single profile was exactly the same. No one had received anything individualized at all. A lot of people got very angry, though it's hard for me to fathom why.
I imagine a lot of what I'm "finding" in all these breakdowns and quizzes are, in truth, really reflections of what I'm already looking for. Their value, I rationalize, is that they're mirrors in which I can get something of a view of myself I've not had before. It's the result, not the process. To steal from Douglas Adams in Mostly Harmless, it's like using graphite dust on a notepad to find out what was written on a previous sheet that's been removed (see, graphite adheres to the indentation made by the pen through the sheet above, leaving marks that can be read). The graphite's not important; it's the message that it reveals.
Everyone feeling all warm and touchy-feely now? Good. My job is done. I'll come back tomorrow and put a stop to all that.
I Had a Topic Once...
With all apologies to Devin and King Winkles, I'm not going back to add a Wednesday post. Though my failure to put up anything yesterday marks my third such slip since my new lease on blogging, I won't live a lie by backdating entries.
Yesterday was another "crashed-on-the-couch-and-didn't-wake-until-the-morning" evenings; their frequency suggests that perhaps I ought to get more sleep. Seeing as how I'm writing this at 2:05am, that doesn't seem to have happened yet. Joanna claims she tried to wake me a few times last night and get me to come to bed. In her bizzarro-world version, each time she tried I'd look up, nod, then fall back asleep. I dropped off at 10pm (just at the end of Lost, so I don't know what happened at the end; this is not unusual for this show, but this time it was because I didn't see it, not because I did see it and just failed to understand, as is the normal state of things) and awoke at 4am with a splitting headache. An odd way to start the day.
The excitement continued as I made my way down the hill. My left front tire has been getting balder and balder (no, not the Norse god; my tire was not becoming a Scandanavian diety), squealing like a stuck pig on every right-hand turn. When I stopped for gas I inspected it, only to find the head of a large nail sticking out of what remained of the tread. So it was off to Wal-Mart next door (thankfully) to get two new tires. I missed my class for something like the fourth time this semester. Even worse, since it's an 8am class, when I do miss it no one is there to tell the students (the secretary doesn't usually get classes posted before 9am), so they just sit for a while, then wander off. I can't imagine that's going to help my upcoming evaluations any.
On the good side, they got the tire fixed relatively quickly and I was able to keep my appointment to meet young Dan Bloomer over at the Borders in the new Victoria Gardens shopping district in Rancho Cucamonga (and my out-of-state readers will think that "Cucamonga" was just a location Bugs Bunny made up because it sounded funny; Walla-Walla Washington is a real city, too). It's a very nice area, with all new stores built up in a sprawling neighborhood designed with pedestrians in mind--brick crosswalks, generous sidewalks, grassy areas, window-shopping. The only downers were (a) being surrounded by such naked monuments to consumerism (my own hang-up, I know; I spend my days in mega-bookstores like Borders and Barnes & Noble's, so who am I to criticize?) and (b) being surrounded by such expensive naked monuments to consumerism that I can't afford to look at the merchandise too long because I can't afford the "browsing fee." Some very upscale stores down there.
Dan and I had our "man time," wandering around the store, talking about random novels we found, sipping frou-frou coffee drinks (mine: large manly steaming hot vanilla latte; Dan's: girly blended-ice frilly vanilla sissy drink). It was a nice break and Dan was very patient with my constant yapping about nothing at all.
Then it was off to Burbank for a few hours of grading and being smacked upside the head artistically by Madeline L'Engel in her book on Christian art, Walking on Water. She has some slightly oddball views on some spiritual issues that I'm not quite sure about, but she really knows her stuff when it comes to personal faith and the ways in which art interacts with belief in Christ. My favorite bit was that she very firmly states that bad art=bad religion. Right on, sister woman.
Some other stuff happened, but I'm fairly certain that most readers will have nodded off by this time, so I'll trail off aimlessly here with a random unintelligible phrase:
Boy, it's colder than a torpedo in here...
Yesterday was another "crashed-on-the-couch-and-didn't-wake-until-the-morning" evenings; their frequency suggests that perhaps I ought to get more sleep. Seeing as how I'm writing this at 2:05am, that doesn't seem to have happened yet. Joanna claims she tried to wake me a few times last night and get me to come to bed. In her bizzarro-world version, each time she tried I'd look up, nod, then fall back asleep. I dropped off at 10pm (just at the end of Lost, so I don't know what happened at the end; this is not unusual for this show, but this time it was because I didn't see it, not because I did see it and just failed to understand, as is the normal state of things) and awoke at 4am with a splitting headache. An odd way to start the day.
The excitement continued as I made my way down the hill. My left front tire has been getting balder and balder (no, not the Norse god; my tire was not becoming a Scandanavian diety), squealing like a stuck pig on every right-hand turn. When I stopped for gas I inspected it, only to find the head of a large nail sticking out of what remained of the tread. So it was off to Wal-Mart next door (thankfully) to get two new tires. I missed my class for something like the fourth time this semester. Even worse, since it's an 8am class, when I do miss it no one is there to tell the students (the secretary doesn't usually get classes posted before 9am), so they just sit for a while, then wander off. I can't imagine that's going to help my upcoming evaluations any.
On the good side, they got the tire fixed relatively quickly and I was able to keep my appointment to meet young Dan Bloomer over at the Borders in the new Victoria Gardens shopping district in Rancho Cucamonga (and my out-of-state readers will think that "Cucamonga" was just a location Bugs Bunny made up because it sounded funny; Walla-Walla Washington is a real city, too). It's a very nice area, with all new stores built up in a sprawling neighborhood designed with pedestrians in mind--brick crosswalks, generous sidewalks, grassy areas, window-shopping. The only downers were (a) being surrounded by such naked monuments to consumerism (my own hang-up, I know; I spend my days in mega-bookstores like Borders and Barnes & Noble's, so who am I to criticize?) and (b) being surrounded by such expensive naked monuments to consumerism that I can't afford to look at the merchandise too long because I can't afford the "browsing fee." Some very upscale stores down there.
Dan and I had our "man time," wandering around the store, talking about random novels we found, sipping frou-frou coffee drinks (mine: large manly steaming hot vanilla latte; Dan's: girly blended-ice frilly vanilla sissy drink). It was a nice break and Dan was very patient with my constant yapping about nothing at all.
Then it was off to Burbank for a few hours of grading and being smacked upside the head artistically by Madeline L'Engel in her book on Christian art, Walking on Water. She has some slightly oddball views on some spiritual issues that I'm not quite sure about, but she really knows her stuff when it comes to personal faith and the ways in which art interacts with belief in Christ. My favorite bit was that she very firmly states that bad art=bad religion. Right on, sister woman.
Some other stuff happened, but I'm fairly certain that most readers will have nodded off by this time, so I'll trail off aimlessly here with a random unintelligible phrase:
Boy, it's colder than a torpedo in here...
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Personality Puzzles
An e-mail has been making the rounds of our little group encouraging us to take the Briggs-Meyers personality test and see where we fall. I'm pretty certain any potential reader of this blog already got that e-mail from me, so this may be old hat, but I do have some new thoughts tagged on here, so stay with me. I got pegged as an INTP--Introverted iNtuitive Thinking Perceiving, one of 16 personality types. The nickname given to INTPs is "Architect," and we comprise about 5% of the total population. A write-up of the INTP type, provided by the unfortunately named Joe Butt, is as follows:
"INTPs are pensive, analytical folks. They may venture so deeply into thought as to seem detached, and often actually are oblivious to the world around them.
Precise about their descriptions, INTPs will often correct others (or be sorely tempted to) if the shade of meaning is a bit off. While annoying to the less concise, this fine discrimination ability gives INTPs so inclined a natural advantage as, for example, grammarians and linguists.
INTPs are relatively easy-going and amenable to most anything until their principles are violated, about which they may become outspoken and inflexible. They prefer to return, however, to a reserved albeit benign ambiance, not wishing to make spectacles of themselves.
A major concern for INTPs is the haunting sense of impending failure. They spend considerable time second-guessing themselves. The open-endedness (from Perceiving) conjoined with the need for competence (NT) is expressed in a sense that one's conclusion may well be met by an equally plausible alternative solution, and that, after all, one may very well have overlooked some critical bit of data. An INTP arguing a point may very well be trying to convince himself as much as his opposition. In this way INTPs are markedly different from INTJs, who are much more confident in their competence and willing to act on their convictions.
Mathematics is a system where many INTPs love to play, similarly languages, computer systems--potentially any complex system. INTPs thrive on systems. Understanding, exploring, mastering, and manipulating systems can overtake the INTP's conscious thought. This fascination for logical wholes and their inner workings is often expressed in a detachment from the environment, a concentration where time is forgotten and extraneous stimuli are held at bay. Accomplishing a task or goal with this knowledge is secondary.
INTPs and Logic -- One of the tipoffs that a person is an INTP is her obsession with logical correctness. Errors are not often due to poor logic -- apparent faux pas in reasoning are usually a result of overlooking details or of incorrect context.
Games NTs seem to especially enjoy include Risk, Bridge, Stratego, Chess, Go, and word games of all sorts. (I have an ENTP friend that loves Boggle and its variations. We've been known to sit in public places and pick a word off a menu or mayonnaise jar to see who can make the most words from its letters on a napkin in two minutes.) The INTP mailing list has enjoyed a round of Metaphore, virtual volleyball, and a few 'finish the series' brain teasers.
INTPs in the main are not clannish. The INTP mailing list, with a readership now in triple figures, was in its incipience fraught with all the difficulties of the Panama canal: we had trouble deciding on:
1) whether or not there should be such a group,
2) exactly what such a group should be called, and
3) which of us would have to take the responsibility for organization and maintenance of the aforesaid group/club/whatever."
That seems pretty on target to me. The test can be found at Humanmetrics, a scary-sounding site that is more innocuous than the title might suggest (I kind of expect a site like that to have a subtitle suggesting a hidden agenda: "Humanmetrics: Measuring Human Potential for a Eugenically Better Future").
A list of all Mr. Butt's definitions can be found at Typelogic, which includes examples of famous people who represent each personality type (and which include far too many shameful celebrities--I don't really want to know that I'm the same "type" as Rick Moranis or Gerald Ford) and "Type Relationships" which purport to suggest how other personality types fit with yours. Give it a look and post your results in the comments here; we can figure out where you fit into my life, which is really the only important thing anyone needs to know. There is also another take on the personality types at Keirsey.com, which breaks the types into four categories (that's where the "Achitect" title comes from). That site also lists famous persons--more respectable ones, on the whole (I like being linked to Walt Disney and Abraham Lincoln more than the previous mentions).
I must admit to being a bit disappointed that I didn't come out as an "Artisan" or "Guardian." I suppose such tests are of only limited accuracy, basing your entire personality profile on a few dozen questions, but I like to think of myself as more of a free spirit.
You can stop laughing now. I know I'm anal retentive--I just don't have to like it is all. It has its uses, but I often wish I had the capacity for change.
On that note, I just finished a chapter in my constantly mentioned Creating a Life Worth Living in which the reader was asked to classify him or herself into a series of ten artistic "types" as well, though you were encouraged to consider yourself as falling into several types to varying degrees. I had a bit of many--the Interpreter and the Leader most strongly--but it seemed fantastically obvious to me that I was almost entirely a Generator:
"Generators manufacture ideas and schemes. They have enormous enthusiasm and a surplus of initiative. For the generator the best moment in the creative process is the first stage of conceptual ecstasy... Generators adore brainstorming and despise repetition. They have more ideas in one week than they can carry out in a whole lifetime... Thrilled with the search and unattached to the outcome, generators are focused on the sheer production of ideas themselves.
This exaltation of the idea can create postpartum depression when the difficulties and complications of carrying a project through to completion arise. The surfeit of ideas also makes is possible for generators to begin many projects without finishing any of them."
(emphasis emphatically mine)
There's more, but that really struck a chord with me. That's probably what brings on much of my frustration in life--I have so many things I think I could or should do, and the fact that I carry through almost none of them (or so it seems to me) drives me to distraction.
Why don't any of these darn tests provide solutions? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?
Tell me, O computer world. Solve my problems for me. I'll be waiting.
"INTPs are pensive, analytical folks. They may venture so deeply into thought as to seem detached, and often actually are oblivious to the world around them.
Precise about their descriptions, INTPs will often correct others (or be sorely tempted to) if the shade of meaning is a bit off. While annoying to the less concise, this fine discrimination ability gives INTPs so inclined a natural advantage as, for example, grammarians and linguists.
INTPs are relatively easy-going and amenable to most anything until their principles are violated, about which they may become outspoken and inflexible. They prefer to return, however, to a reserved albeit benign ambiance, not wishing to make spectacles of themselves.
A major concern for INTPs is the haunting sense of impending failure. They spend considerable time second-guessing themselves. The open-endedness (from Perceiving) conjoined with the need for competence (NT) is expressed in a sense that one's conclusion may well be met by an equally plausible alternative solution, and that, after all, one may very well have overlooked some critical bit of data. An INTP arguing a point may very well be trying to convince himself as much as his opposition. In this way INTPs are markedly different from INTJs, who are much more confident in their competence and willing to act on their convictions.
Mathematics is a system where many INTPs love to play, similarly languages, computer systems--potentially any complex system. INTPs thrive on systems. Understanding, exploring, mastering, and manipulating systems can overtake the INTP's conscious thought. This fascination for logical wholes and their inner workings is often expressed in a detachment from the environment, a concentration where time is forgotten and extraneous stimuli are held at bay. Accomplishing a task or goal with this knowledge is secondary.
INTPs and Logic -- One of the tipoffs that a person is an INTP is her obsession with logical correctness. Errors are not often due to poor logic -- apparent faux pas in reasoning are usually a result of overlooking details or of incorrect context.
Games NTs seem to especially enjoy include Risk, Bridge, Stratego, Chess, Go, and word games of all sorts. (I have an ENTP friend that loves Boggle and its variations. We've been known to sit in public places and pick a word off a menu or mayonnaise jar to see who can make the most words from its letters on a napkin in two minutes.) The INTP mailing list has enjoyed a round of Metaphore, virtual volleyball, and a few 'finish the series' brain teasers.
INTPs in the main are not clannish. The INTP mailing list, with a readership now in triple figures, was in its incipience fraught with all the difficulties of the Panama canal: we had trouble deciding on:
1) whether or not there should be such a group,
2) exactly what such a group should be called, and
3) which of us would have to take the responsibility for organization and maintenance of the aforesaid group/club/whatever."
That seems pretty on target to me. The test can be found at Humanmetrics, a scary-sounding site that is more innocuous than the title might suggest (I kind of expect a site like that to have a subtitle suggesting a hidden agenda: "Humanmetrics: Measuring Human Potential for a Eugenically Better Future").
A list of all Mr. Butt's definitions can be found at Typelogic, which includes examples of famous people who represent each personality type (and which include far too many shameful celebrities--I don't really want to know that I'm the same "type" as Rick Moranis or Gerald Ford) and "Type Relationships" which purport to suggest how other personality types fit with yours. Give it a look and post your results in the comments here; we can figure out where you fit into my life, which is really the only important thing anyone needs to know. There is also another take on the personality types at Keirsey.com, which breaks the types into four categories (that's where the "Achitect" title comes from). That site also lists famous persons--more respectable ones, on the whole (I like being linked to Walt Disney and Abraham Lincoln more than the previous mentions).
I must admit to being a bit disappointed that I didn't come out as an "Artisan" or "Guardian." I suppose such tests are of only limited accuracy, basing your entire personality profile on a few dozen questions, but I like to think of myself as more of a free spirit.
You can stop laughing now. I know I'm anal retentive--I just don't have to like it is all. It has its uses, but I often wish I had the capacity for change.
On that note, I just finished a chapter in my constantly mentioned Creating a Life Worth Living in which the reader was asked to classify him or herself into a series of ten artistic "types" as well, though you were encouraged to consider yourself as falling into several types to varying degrees. I had a bit of many--the Interpreter and the Leader most strongly--but it seemed fantastically obvious to me that I was almost entirely a Generator:
"Generators manufacture ideas and schemes. They have enormous enthusiasm and a surplus of initiative. For the generator the best moment in the creative process is the first stage of conceptual ecstasy... Generators adore brainstorming and despise repetition. They have more ideas in one week than they can carry out in a whole lifetime... Thrilled with the search and unattached to the outcome, generators are focused on the sheer production of ideas themselves.
This exaltation of the idea can create postpartum depression when the difficulties and complications of carrying a project through to completion arise. The surfeit of ideas also makes is possible for generators to begin many projects without finishing any of them."
(emphasis emphatically mine)
There's more, but that really struck a chord with me. That's probably what brings on much of my frustration in life--I have so many things I think I could or should do, and the fact that I carry through almost none of them (or so it seems to me) drives me to distraction.
Why don't any of these darn tests provide solutions? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?
Tell me, O computer world. Solve my problems for me. I'll be waiting.
A Weekend of Things
Since I'm marginally more awake than last night, I thought I'd report on our dealings over the weekend.
Saturday was the more fun; Joanna and I dropped the monkeys off at her parents' place, then headed out to the Ontario Convention Center for the first ever Log Home Exhibition to be held there. Those who know me in any sense or have read any earlier entries will be aware of my obsession with someday owning and living in a log home. I could hardly say why this seems to important to me, except that it's tied up with all the things I want to be and the way I hope to live, bespeaking of a kind of rustic warmth and nostalgic longing that grips me during most of my waking hours. We certainly don't have plans to buy one immediately, but if we do someday make the move to the northwest and the Christian artists' community, it's something I'd dearly love. I have an actual subscription to Log Home Living magazine to serve as impetus for me to actually do some work (the theory being that if I want to move away and live in a log home, I'll have to get some things published and/or be harder working to support my family). It doesn't work, of course, but it is nice to sit and dream from time to time.
The show itself was smaller than I expected--it is the first one in this area, so that may have played a part. But it was fun to wander around and see some examples of the joining process for the logs, view some great furnishings (one man made tables and chairs out of reclaimed wood after a forest fire that the timber companies didn't want; it was beautiful), and get a vast many log home magazines. There were some timber frame advocates, but the log home supporters quickly drove them off.
It was nice all around, and on Sunday we actually returned to church! We haven't been for many weeks due to a set of difficulties with the child care folks. Not that there was anything bad there, but the boys did not function well in a classroom when Joanna and I were not about, and the leaders were opposed to us being in the classroom with them. This left us with no way to keep the boys there, as they cried and wailed so much that the "teachers" (a gaggle of teenage girls) couldn't watcn them, but we couldn't go stay with them, either.
So we didn't go, but now that the boys are four, we thought we'd give it another try. The four-year-old class is more structured and is taught by someone the boys know, and I think they've passed some sort of socializing barrier that allows them to be in mixed company without us. They were great for the whole class (besides using a lake of glue for a craft project--my boys, after all) and had a good time, so I think we can start going again. Huzzah!
I'm sleepy, so that's all for the moment. Goodnight, folks.
Saturday was the more fun; Joanna and I dropped the monkeys off at her parents' place, then headed out to the Ontario Convention Center for the first ever Log Home Exhibition to be held there. Those who know me in any sense or have read any earlier entries will be aware of my obsession with someday owning and living in a log home. I could hardly say why this seems to important to me, except that it's tied up with all the things I want to be and the way I hope to live, bespeaking of a kind of rustic warmth and nostalgic longing that grips me during most of my waking hours. We certainly don't have plans to buy one immediately, but if we do someday make the move to the northwest and the Christian artists' community, it's something I'd dearly love. I have an actual subscription to Log Home Living magazine to serve as impetus for me to actually do some work (the theory being that if I want to move away and live in a log home, I'll have to get some things published and/or be harder working to support my family). It doesn't work, of course, but it is nice to sit and dream from time to time.
The show itself was smaller than I expected--it is the first one in this area, so that may have played a part. But it was fun to wander around and see some examples of the joining process for the logs, view some great furnishings (one man made tables and chairs out of reclaimed wood after a forest fire that the timber companies didn't want; it was beautiful), and get a vast many log home magazines. There were some timber frame advocates, but the log home supporters quickly drove them off.
It was nice all around, and on Sunday we actually returned to church! We haven't been for many weeks due to a set of difficulties with the child care folks. Not that there was anything bad there, but the boys did not function well in a classroom when Joanna and I were not about, and the leaders were opposed to us being in the classroom with them. This left us with no way to keep the boys there, as they cried and wailed so much that the "teachers" (a gaggle of teenage girls) couldn't watcn them, but we couldn't go stay with them, either.
So we didn't go, but now that the boys are four, we thought we'd give it another try. The four-year-old class is more structured and is taught by someone the boys know, and I think they've passed some sort of socializing barrier that allows them to be in mixed company without us. They were great for the whole class (besides using a lake of glue for a craft project--my boys, after all) and had a good time, so I think we can start going again. Huzzah!
I'm sleepy, so that's all for the moment. Goodnight, folks.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Huh?
You know you're in trouble when the post title is only one word.
I'm just crawling off to bed right now. Fell asleep on the couch about 12:30am when I should have been grading. Now I have to get up in a couple of hours and I'm not sure how that's going to happen. My eyes are stinging, I've got heartburn, and my right hand feels as though it's the approximate size and weight of a boxing glove because I fell asleep on it. And it took me about six minutes to just type that last sentence. Not my bet moment.
I'll try again tomorrow. Or later today. Whatever. Too tired to feel anything right now but an overwhelming sense of disappointment that I'm still so far behind. The whole cigar thing from my last post clearly had no effect whatever, other than to make this moment more bitter.
I'll go now. Sorry. Grrnnrf.
I'm just crawling off to bed right now. Fell asleep on the couch about 12:30am when I should have been grading. Now I have to get up in a couple of hours and I'm not sure how that's going to happen. My eyes are stinging, I've got heartburn, and my right hand feels as though it's the approximate size and weight of a boxing glove because I fell asleep on it. And it took me about six minutes to just type that last sentence. Not my bet moment.
I'll try again tomorrow. Or later today. Whatever. Too tired to feel anything right now but an overwhelming sense of disappointment that I'm still so far behind. The whole cigar thing from my last post clearly had no effect whatever, other than to make this moment more bitter.
I'll go now. Sorry. Grrnnrf.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
The Cigar as Metaphor
I’m always looking for symbols and significance in my life. I always like to start things at a particular time and I’m obsessed with tracking things precisely. And I’m always looking for things to symbolize moments in my life, objects that can serve as reminders for important ideas or commitments.
I’m never certain why I do this, however, because they never work. I can have the most poignant symbolic object sitting on my desk and all it generally does is make me feel guilty for not following through on whatever the heck it was it represented in the first place, which I may well have forgotten by the time I remember it's there.
But my latest symbolic acquisition seemed a little too pitch-perfect to pass up. I had spent the day at my parents’ house “grading” (I don’t have class on Fridays, so I usually try to use it to catch up on work from the rest of the week; this rarely works). I hadn’t done well; I spent a lot of time piddling around with Lord knows what (no, really; I honestly can’t remember what I did half the time). As I was leaving, I grabbed a soda from the refrigerator and noticed my dad was keeping a handful of cigars in there again. So I took one.
Now, despite Garrett’s claims that I smoke and drink (based on the fact that I imbibe wine and smoke my pipe half a dozen times a year), I don’t really engage in too many such vices. But I have smoked the occasional cigar, for no very good reason other than it seems like a manly thing to do. This is almost certainly an extremely convincing argument for the idea that our parents have a lot of influence on us. My dad smoked cigars at only two times: when we went camping and when we went to baseball games. I probably saw him with a cigar three times a year. But it always somehow had an air of manliness and coolness thereby, and so I have been corrupted. Be careful, parents. And no, so far I haven’t smoked in front of my children and don’t intend to. Though one day the boys will find out and their life will follow the very very mildly incautious path that mine has. Better that than them discovering my serial killing, anyway.
At any rate, I climbed into the truck, opened up the windows, lit up, and headed for home. I was a little nervous because there was a good deal of wind in the car and my brain kept picturing a random ember sailing off the big ol’ stogie and setting the mountain aflame and me going to jail. Not the best thing to have on your mind while you’re driving a stickshift one-handed because you have a burning log of tobacco in your other hand. And while it wasn’t a bad cigar, it was a cigar, so by it’s nature it was not all that nice.
Halfway home, it suddenly struck me that I held in my mortal hand a nearly perfect metaphor for much of my life. I was engaged in an activity that had no real purpose, and had you asked me why, I would have been stumped for an answer. It had no redeeming value, could bring me nothing of worth, and was, in fact, bad for me and rather dangerous. I wasn’t even enjoying the experience, yet I continued out of some bizarre sense of I don’t know what. And I was feeling guilty even as I did it, yet did not stop because I felt like I might not have a chance to engage in this particular behavior at a later time. It was all about following a momentary whim and being unwilling or unable to tear myself away, even when I could clearly see that was the most intelligent solution.
Sad, really. But at least in the last few days, I’ve been able to ask myself if any activity I’m engaged in is a “cigar-smoking” moment. It’s sobering, so I’ll hang on to it for as long as it works (if precedence is anything to go by, that will be about a week and a half. We’ll see).
And, in case you were wondering, yes, I missed my second post last night. My excuse: I tried to post at about 11:30pm but the system was down for maintenance. I went out, sat down on the couch, and promptly fell dead asleep. Didn't wake up until 7am this morning, despite Joanna's having a lengthy conversation with me about 1am. So perhaps my body required rest of some kind. Seems bizarre to me, but I can't deny the evidence.
I'm off to play computer solitaire, eat some congealed bacon fat, and whack myself on the head with a meat tenderizer. Goodnight, all.
I’m never certain why I do this, however, because they never work. I can have the most poignant symbolic object sitting on my desk and all it generally does is make me feel guilty for not following through on whatever the heck it was it represented in the first place, which I may well have forgotten by the time I remember it's there.
But my latest symbolic acquisition seemed a little too pitch-perfect to pass up. I had spent the day at my parents’ house “grading” (I don’t have class on Fridays, so I usually try to use it to catch up on work from the rest of the week; this rarely works). I hadn’t done well; I spent a lot of time piddling around with Lord knows what (no, really; I honestly can’t remember what I did half the time). As I was leaving, I grabbed a soda from the refrigerator and noticed my dad was keeping a handful of cigars in there again. So I took one.
Now, despite Garrett’s claims that I smoke and drink (based on the fact that I imbibe wine and smoke my pipe half a dozen times a year), I don’t really engage in too many such vices. But I have smoked the occasional cigar, for no very good reason other than it seems like a manly thing to do. This is almost certainly an extremely convincing argument for the idea that our parents have a lot of influence on us. My dad smoked cigars at only two times: when we went camping and when we went to baseball games. I probably saw him with a cigar three times a year. But it always somehow had an air of manliness and coolness thereby, and so I have been corrupted. Be careful, parents. And no, so far I haven’t smoked in front of my children and don’t intend to. Though one day the boys will find out and their life will follow the very very mildly incautious path that mine has. Better that than them discovering my serial killing, anyway.
At any rate, I climbed into the truck, opened up the windows, lit up, and headed for home. I was a little nervous because there was a good deal of wind in the car and my brain kept picturing a random ember sailing off the big ol’ stogie and setting the mountain aflame and me going to jail. Not the best thing to have on your mind while you’re driving a stickshift one-handed because you have a burning log of tobacco in your other hand. And while it wasn’t a bad cigar, it was a cigar, so by it’s nature it was not all that nice.
Halfway home, it suddenly struck me that I held in my mortal hand a nearly perfect metaphor for much of my life. I was engaged in an activity that had no real purpose, and had you asked me why, I would have been stumped for an answer. It had no redeeming value, could bring me nothing of worth, and was, in fact, bad for me and rather dangerous. I wasn’t even enjoying the experience, yet I continued out of some bizarre sense of I don’t know what. And I was feeling guilty even as I did it, yet did not stop because I felt like I might not have a chance to engage in this particular behavior at a later time. It was all about following a momentary whim and being unwilling or unable to tear myself away, even when I could clearly see that was the most intelligent solution.
Sad, really. But at least in the last few days, I’ve been able to ask myself if any activity I’m engaged in is a “cigar-smoking” moment. It’s sobering, so I’ll hang on to it for as long as it works (if precedence is anything to go by, that will be about a week and a half. We’ll see).
And, in case you were wondering, yes, I missed my second post last night. My excuse: I tried to post at about 11:30pm but the system was down for maintenance. I went out, sat down on the couch, and promptly fell dead asleep. Didn't wake up until 7am this morning, despite Joanna's having a lengthy conversation with me about 1am. So perhaps my body required rest of some kind. Seems bizarre to me, but I can't deny the evidence.
I'm off to play computer solitaire, eat some congealed bacon fat, and whack myself on the head with a meat tenderizer. Goodnight, all.