on not going to Canada

Each of the last several years, my Loveliest and I have gone to a conference at the end of May in Canada. It's part of the Congress of Humanities and Social Sciences, held each year, as thousands LC Canadian academics descend upon the same college town.

This year, I am scheduled to give commentaries on two papers, and to co-coordinate a workshop on phenomenology. I shall do none of these, at least, not in person.

We are instead holed up in Holland Ohio, visiting my folks. The reason for this is that my passport expired in February, which fact I did not know until packing my passport the day before our trip.

There followed several hours of searching for information on whether I could enter and exit Canada with an expired passport, what would happen if I couldn't, what options there might be for renewing a passport in 24 hours, and thinking up other options. The official rule seems to be the following: you may enter Canada with an expired passport and a valid driver license, but you cannot re-enter the US.

My pal Dave "Dave" Koukal called the border patrol and talked to an actual human border patrol officer, who said I could re-enter with an expired passport, driver license, and birth certificate. The state department begs to differ.

I considered this briefly. If I was not permitted to re-enter the States, I would likely languish in Canada waiting forthe US consulate to expedite a passport renewal. Expited renewal means two to three weeks. It wasn't worth the risk, not after I spent a night in the hospital following a panic attack.

Thus Plan B: fly to Detroit as planned, spend the evening and night with Dave and Sharon as planned, but then catch a lift to Holland and spend the week here, hanging out.

So far, so good. It was 97 here yesterday, rained this morning, is now 86, and tomorrow it will be 70. Lauren has an infected bug bite or sting. We're going to visit my brother , whose birthday is tomorrow. We're going to walk through the park I frequented as a lad, along an old Erie Canal split called Side Cut, to allow boat traffic into Maumee (my home town).

summertime blues

They say there ain't no cure.

So far this has been the summer of miscellaneous busy-ness. The result: I have a chest cold.

It's also been the summer of updating, sprucing, and in general making happy little improvements in the material conditions of life. We bought grass-fed meat. I made a new batch of demi-glace. I have my new contact lenses, which I'm adjusting to fairly well. Lauren has new glasses. I have a new guitar, I'm futzing with several new tunes.

This has all involved a lot of driving hither and yon, culminating in the week of Bobo the Wandering Pallbearer's visit, during which I drove approximately 23,400 miles.

So, as I sit here resting and recuperating, with little energy to do much else, it occurred to me that I do have all that to recuperate from. That makes a little more sense, which somehow makes it a little bit better.

what I learned at Disneyland

I learned a few things at Disneyland, mainly about myself, but also about Disneyland.

1. I don't like roller coasters.

After getting in the car to drive back from Disneyland to Harbor City, I told Lauren, "It turns out that if you want to make me miserable, you can put me in a vehicle I can't control, stop be from being able to see which way it's going, and then make the ride turbulent and really loud." Basically, a roller coaster is everything I hate about air travel (except for 'security') and everything I hate about going to the movies, rolled into one.

Lauren suggested this was mainly a psychological issue about control, but to me a key factor is perception. If I can look forward and out of a vehicle, I don't mind it. I like boats, for instance. I enjoyed being in a teeny tiny two-seater prop plane. I don't mind being a front-seat passenger in a fast-moving car, as long as I can predict where the vehicle will go and can see where it's going and it's not incredibly rough. Take one of those away, and I'm less happy. Take all three away, and you've got a foolproof recipe for making me miserable.

2. I really like carousels.

I had no idea. I'm not certain I've been on an honest-to-Moose carousel before, because I think I would have remembered. Carousels always looked like pleasant, but rather dull, rides. Indeed, it wasn't thrilling riding the big Mary Poppins carousel, but it was much nicer than it seemed it ought to be, if that makes any sense. For as simple and un-thrilling as it is, just going in a circle, it was inordinately pleasant.

3. Disneyland's main purpose is to sell you Disneyland.

I suppose I should've seen this coming. After all, I'd read Peter Steeves' "A Phenomenologist in the Magic Kingdom" before, and remembered his sense of the packaging and sale of experience as a fundamental feature of Disneyland. But I wasn't prepared for the full reality. Every major ride ends in or immediate in front of a souvenir shop selling you ride-related crapola. Famously, Space Mountain ends at a video display of stills of you riding the thing, and a booth where you can plunk down 15 bucks for a copy of the image - selling you your own experience.

Steeves also points out the obvious self-referentiality of the place, which if anything is apparently on the increase (Small World now includes Disney characters, for instance). But more than that, what Disney sells you is your trip to Disney, your being in Disney - at every single moment. It's rather like ads on TV telling you to watch TV, or ads in the mall for the mall, telling you how great it is being in the mall. The big tagline all over the place was "Celebrate Today."

4. Ultimately, amusement parks don't have anything I need.

This is rather sad for my loveliest, because she grew up with and adores Disneyland. I can see that, I really can. I didn't grow up with it, or with other amusement parks. We went to Cedar Point in Ohio all of two or three times when I was a kid. I went to Disneyworld sick as a friggin' dog when I was 9 or 10. I don't have warm childhood associations with it, and unlike Mexican restaurants (the only childhood memories of which were of traumas at my parents' favorite dive in Toledo, called Loma Linda), there isn't something inherent to amusement parks that I can learn to love.

I don't mean that it was a terrible experience, or even mostly bad. I liked Pirates of the Caribbean. It wasn't disturbingly Disneyfied to the point of being hard to take. I was never accosted by a guy in a Mickey suit.

Plus, you know, it's $69 to get in to the place.

goin' to Disneyland

In all frankness, I can hardly believe that I'm going to Disneyland on Wednesday. (If you're there, say hi!) And that about sums it up.

the summer so far. . . .

I had given myself a short list of things to do this summer. So far, I have done one of the big ones and two of the small ones.

The large item I have struck through on my list is the completion of another album-length CD of our music. We finished this just last week, and it has about 10 original songs, including three or four (depending on whether you're counting joke numbers) for which Lauren wrote both words and music, one for which I wrote both words and music, one on which Lauren and I co-wrote the lyrics and I wrote the tune, one on which I wrote the tune and Lauren wrote the lyrics (the afore-posted "5th of July," [top song on the page] which rocks), and a couple instrumental guitar tracks. I'm trying to get more sophisticated with recording, trying to add bass and lead tracks as appropriate, and that made this a bit more complicated and difficult to pull off. I'm happy with it. We're both happy with it. I think we're getting into a good songwriting mindset, and I think we're improving as writers.

Meanwhile, for whatever weird and at this date unexplored reason, over the last two days I've started writing 3 songs. One already has a bridge and chorus, and a lead part.

One of the small things is that we've made it to a couple art museums already, and out to the coast at least once: I wanted to be sure to get in some small day trips, to help our sanity.

The other small thing is that we've been down to LA twice already. I wanted to get down there a handful of times, and go someplace. In fact we're scheduled to take more such outings.

I haven't yet written a paper on Schutz or on Merleau-Ponty (that one will take as looong as it needs; it's still really in the roasting phase, and we're barely thinking about how to grind and percolate it). I have a book review to write. I haven't yet finalized classes for fall, but will soon because I've got some good and some delightfully silly ideas for Theory of Knowledge. We haven't yet watched Blazing Saddles despite threatening too. We watched Head tonight after driving up from LA. That makes much more sense than might otherwise initially seem to be the case.

And that's about it. My mom's birthday is next weekend, and I'm going to the AAUP Summer Institute (aka Red Camp for academics).

gig, LA, *&^@-in' hot

So last Friday we played a few songs at the annual Cow State Santa Claus staff picnic. I couldn't really tell if we went over well or not. It's not that kind of gig, frankly. It's only sort of a gig. People were attentive, at least. I suppose if you're playing at an employee picnic and more people are paying attention to you than to potato salad, you're doing okay. Still, our very first public appearance has been accomplished. Perhaps I won't be so damned nervous next time.

Immediately, and I mean immediately, afterward, we drove to LA to visit, and I mean visit. I believe firmly that no one has ever visited so ferociously before. We played umpteen hands of cards, engaged in commercial and entertainment activities that could have been lethal to mere mortals, went to Long Beach, we even went to the LA County Musuem of Art (LACMA).

LACMA had an exhibition of work by Dan Flavin, whose biggest claim to fame as an arteest is his use of flourescent light. We took a couple pictures inside the exhibition before realizing that it wasn't permitted. Oh well, what are they gonna do, sue us? Anyway, although my loveliest wasn't all that keen on the idea at first, she soon realized what I knew from previous Flavinations I've perused: he has a way of presenting light as art and architecture, and also in a way that challenges you to consider how flourescent light makes you see.

Yesterday we drove home, up the Crankster Freeway, evading all the brain-dead idjits who drive up and down the Crankster Freeway [coupla hints, folks: (1) it's the one on the right; (2) the little white dashes on the road? Those are lanes]. By the time we got to Merced, Eddie Jetta's outdoor thermometer said it was 99 degrees. It was fairly stuffy inside when we got home, and eventually I succumbed and put on the AC, which we'll definitely need today, since it's gonna be 100 degrees here.

To end on a more positive note, I decided last night that today is Unofficial National Turlock Butt Day. So enjoy your butt and the butts of others, with any luck without legal ramifications.

since finishing grading

"Vacation" is one of the sample labels Blogger offers bloggers for their blogs. It reminds me that, officially at least, I am now on "vacation." This apparently means a lot of writing, going many places, buying lots of fruit, and in general being incredibly busy.

Monday morning, filled with anxiety related to all sorts of things only some of which I might later write about, I prepared to wakl to campus to file final grades. I decided that I should wear my contact lenses so that I could wear sunglasses, it being bright and warm out. I promptly lost a lens down the sink. I haven't been to the eye doc for a couple years, so I was looking forward to going and getting, probably, new eyeglass lenses to replace the very badly scratched ones I've got, but now I suppose contacts will be in order.

I got up to campus to realize that I had forgotten the grade list for one class. It was printed and sitting on my printer. I phoned my loveliest and had her read the list. She was patient and caring. I realized I was still missing three final papers. This always happens. I wrote in Incompletes for those, made copies upon copies of everything, then filed grades.

I walked home. Lauren had been baking a surprise, something by way of helping soothe the petty wounds of the day. Grading always puts me on edge, and this other thing I've been dealing with shoved me quite hard edgeward, so I was teetering for much of Monday. I felt very loved. We took off to buy more fruit, hit the grocery store, etc. The prospect of fruit is always nice. That particular afternoon, however, without our being aware of it, had been declared Drive Like A Complete And Total Freak Day. Drivers whose apparent aim in life is to either snarl traffic or cause hazards bug the holy heck out of me, but they make Lauren exceptionally, not to say existentially, jumpy.

But we made it home. We had one of our favorite meals, then watched the Ottawa Senators lose game four of the Stanley Cup Finals to the goddamn Anaheim Ducks (as we call them in a good mood). That was disgusting. We rehearsed a few songs, one I've been uncomfortable with and therefore insisted on playing despite my frustration, and that made me very tense again. I felt my back and neck and jaw all clench (if a back or neck can clench), played the tune through, made mistakes, got further frustrated, did it again, grrr, grrrr, grrrrr. Apparently, this was unpleasant for my love.

I put away one guitar, upstairs in the Room of Requirement, then grabbed another and noodled with it a bit. Downstairs I heard the telltale clinking and general mumble of a kitchen being cleaned up and something be plated and set at table. It was by then around 9:30 or so, and all useful hours of the day had been exhausted. I hobbled downstairs, where Lauren presented me the dessert she'd made for us: little individual heart-shaped tarts with extremely pink pastry creme and strawberries. That made Monday evening much nicer.

Tuesday, which was yesterday, we decided enough was bloody well enough, and we split for San Francisco. The drive out was difficult because of the wind, but it was pretty. We went directly, and without any trouble, to Golden Gate Park, found parking, walked to the de Young museum (first Tuesday of the month admission is free, so we went there and told them deep dark secrets). There's some good modern stuff in the de Young, and that's what I mainly like, so that was good. We only took in the concourse floor, decided that it was late enough in the day to move on to find something to eat and that our legs were tired, and left for North Beach.

We again got there no problem, except for the woman who ran a four-way stop and nearly crushed us. Unfortunately, our favorite place in North Beach was closed, since (we found out) it closes every Tuesday, so we found another place, which was okay. I had penne with pancetta and spicy tomato sauce, and Lauren had spaghetti puttanesca that I dubbed The Saltiest Pasta Dish in History. I mean, yes, anchovies are salty, and yes, puttanesca has to have a lot of anchovies, but holy jumpin' was that some salty stuff.

There was no better way to cure that than to avail ourselves of the very last moments of Happy Hour at the San Francisco Brewing Co., just down Columbus. Thence to City Lights, thence back to the House About Town.

I could summarize the last two days in a word, if forced to by some bizarre provision of the USA PATRIOT act. If so, that word would be: Whoof!