I finished teaching my winter term course today. We planned to go pay rent and run some other errands this afternoon. As we were getting ready to go, I felt very strange. I realized something, too.
When terrible shit happens (for instance, your beloved cat becomes sick, and wastes away for weeks, and then you have to have him put to sleep), it's really hard to sit there and take it, but there's nothing you can do about it that makes it less terrible shit. Whatever you do, it's still terrible.
I haven't felt good this whole time. I've had delicious food, I've had interesting class discussions, I've been entertained, but have not felt good for any sustained period through it all. I don't think that's extraordinary in the circumstances, but it's remarkable at least.
And all my projects collapsed. I had been writing lyrics, trying to record guitar tracks, working up songs we want to record. That collapsed. I had a hard time getting myself to pick up a guitar.
I felt like I was sleep-walking through my class. I read everything, graded everything, but I couldn't keep connected, or keep anything straight in my head.
I had been working on the paper I'm presenting in Puebla in February, on Marshall McLuhan and media. Now I can't imagine what I was contemplating writing about. I didn't want to write anything here, either. It feels as if I have to start myself over again.
I don't know how. Maybe I'll start by making potato gnocchi.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
hard times
I haven't had anything to say for a week now. Sunday we had our first nearly normal day for a very long time. There simply isn't much to say about the past week. We were traumatized, then we felt intense pain, guilt, despair, numbness, void, disorientation, aching. We were good to each other.
We decided we needed to remember Lancelot as the joyful cat he was. Lauren drew a picture of him from a picture I took of him, lying on the bed, sunning himself. He loved the sun, and the wind, more than any other cat I've known.
I don't know how much sense this makes, but I think we've grieved well. It's hard work. I'd forgotten, or didn't know. I never grieved like this before.
When I was 9, my grandpa died, rather suddenly, and I didn't know what to do. I had this horrible, inarticulate guilt about his death for years, and never really got over it until I was in my 20s. My grandma died when I was in college, not at all suddenly, and her death was more a relief than anything. She had spent the better part of a decade slowly passing. The only other deaths I've experienced very directly have been of two other cats. It's very weird to say so, but I was closer to Lancelot than to anyone else in my life who has died, except for my grandpa. And it's very odd to realize as I'm writing this that I spent more time with Lancelot than with my grandpa. In fact, I believe I spent more time actually interacting with Lance than with any human being I've known. I was his in a profound way. His death has been a lot to grieve.
We're exhausted. We're doing well, though. Lauren has been wonderful to me. Our friend - indeed, Lancelot's friend -, Christina, has been wonderful to us.
So now, as I'm just starting to be able to respond to the world again, I look around, and it seems as though the world economy is collapsing due to the failure of the mass hallucination which is the global financial market. Listen, gang: pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. I know, they call it a Ponzi scheme, but that's almost entirely a bad rep.
We decided we needed to remember Lancelot as the joyful cat he was. Lauren drew a picture of him from a picture I took of him, lying on the bed, sunning himself. He loved the sun, and the wind, more than any other cat I've known.
I don't know how much sense this makes, but I think we've grieved well. It's hard work. I'd forgotten, or didn't know. I never grieved like this before.
When I was 9, my grandpa died, rather suddenly, and I didn't know what to do. I had this horrible, inarticulate guilt about his death for years, and never really got over it until I was in my 20s. My grandma died when I was in college, not at all suddenly, and her death was more a relief than anything. She had spent the better part of a decade slowly passing. The only other deaths I've experienced very directly have been of two other cats. It's very weird to say so, but I was closer to Lancelot than to anyone else in my life who has died, except for my grandpa. And it's very odd to realize as I'm writing this that I spent more time with Lancelot than with my grandpa. In fact, I believe I spent more time actually interacting with Lance than with any human being I've known. I was his in a profound way. His death has been a lot to grieve.
We're exhausted. We're doing well, though. Lauren has been wonderful to me. Our friend - indeed, Lancelot's friend -, Christina, has been wonderful to us.
So now, as I'm just starting to be able to respond to the world again, I look around, and it seems as though the world economy is collapsing due to the failure of the mass hallucination which is the global financial market. Listen, gang: pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. I know, they call it a Ponzi scheme, but that's almost entirely a bad rep.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
goodbye, lovely Lancelot
We brought Lancelot to the vet to be put down this afternoon. The pain is almost too much to bear. My heart is broken. The world is broken. I don't have anything else to say.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
out of order
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
2. Lancelot. I just love him.
As I write this, he's dying.
He's my 15+-year-old domestic longhaired orange cat. I would like to tell his story.
My ex and I had a lovely tortie shorthaired cat named Morgan, who we thought would like a companion, since she had a cat friend when she was a kitten. We visited the county animal shelter in Pittsburgh a few times to try to find a healthy kitten to be her new friend. Those visits were heartbreaking for me. I adore cats, and the sight of all those doomed cats (not to mention the doomed dogs in the other room) was unbearable - a testament to unspeakable human indifference and stupidity, inflicting needless suffering and death, for no reason but contempt or flat lack of concern. The kittens all seemed terribly unhealthy, as well. We had agreed that the only criteria for our new kitten were that it should be healthy, short-haired, and not orange.
Finally, on a third visit, we saw a demon kitten hanging upside down from the rails of his cage, trying alternately to eat the bars or squeeze through them, wailing, drooling, frothing at the mouth. He had mounds of fluffy orange fur and whiskers a mile long. We pulled him out of the cage, and he was immediately quiet and peaceful, purring in our arms. He was clearly the healthiest kitten we would ever find at the pound, and he was also on death row. It was his second day there, late in the afternoon. They would euthanize him in the morning. So we took him home.
We paid the adoption fee, they told us he was probably around 10-14 weeks old, put the kitten in a cardboard carrier, and we started for home. Home at the time was Regent Square, a nice neighborhood in the east side of Pittsburgh. The shelter was on the North Shore, meaning that we had a car trip of about 7 miles, roughly 20 minutes, to get there. By the time we hit the Parkway East (the freeway from downtown), the kitten had chewed through the box.
We brought him home and, having read about how to introduce new animals into a household, let him out of the box in a neutral place - the large anteroom in the old Victorian house we rented the ground floor of. Then we brought Morgan into the room. He immediately approached her, and sniffed at her face. She hissed, swatted at him, and ran away, thus establishing what was effectively their lifelong relationship. We gave him a jingle-ball to play with, and she eventually stole it (she passed years ago, age 12, never having treated him better). We gave him some kitten food, and he vomited some of it, thus establishing his lifelong digestive dysfunction.
Days passed. He got stronger and stood up to Morgan a bit. I named him Lancelot because she was Morgan, and it just made sense. Back then, we let the cats out to play in the yard, because the neighborhood was quiet enough and they didn't roam. Our upstairs neighbor had two cats, and a couple times they escaped from her kitchen window, climbed down the fire escape, and would become belligerent. Once I heard a fight outside, came out to intervene, and saw Lancelot cornering our neighbor's cat, standing with his back arched, hissing and spitting, between her cat and Morgan. Morgan had a scratch on her nose; Lancelot had come to protect her. I grabbed the neighbor's cat, took it inside, then grabbed Morgan, then Lancelot, to get them inside. Lance started to calm down a bit. Morgan sauntered over and swatted him.
Back then he was a terrific and somewhat famous hunter. His specialty was birding. As a kitten he caught a blue jay that was practically the same size he was. He caught numerous sparrows and bluebirds, titmice galore, I think a couple of chickadees. He'd leave them for us on the porch, or roll on them, as cats do. One day he had caught a bird and was playing with it when a woman walked by with her little girl. The girl saw the bird and burst into tears. I came outside, hearing her mom explain that this is something cats do, and removed the bird. A few minutes later, I heard them walking past again, the little girl finally calmed down, and as I looked out the window I saw Lance leap into the air and nab a sparrow, right in front of the girl. She exploded in tears again.
The young boys in the neighborhood loved him. I once heard a boy regaling his comrades with tales of Lancelot's hunting prowess. I went to the window to look. They were standing on the sidewalk, petting him (as he always did with passers-by, Lance had trotted up to them to say hello), when he saw a bird somewhere in the front yard. He growled, dashed off, and snapped at it. The boy pointed and said "see? He's so vicious but he's so nice!"
I was completing my PhD program at Duquesne while living in that house. One of the steps is writing a comprehensive exam - at the time, three essays on historical subjects in philosophy and one thematic essay on a particular topic, randomly chosen from a list of 5 questions on each subject, one per day for 4 days. I wrote my comps along with two other guys, both of whom wrote every essay before the week of comps. I didn't, so that week I wrote 80 pages of essays, basically writing all day, sitting at an old Mac, with Lancelot in my lap. He was my working pal, and I was his heating pad. It worked for us. He was so affectionate and seemed to be really concerned, really listening, when I would read the essays aloud. Later, when I was writing my dissertation, and having late-night anxiety attacks, he was always there with me, purring, rubbing against me, getting me to sit down so he could lie in my lap and sleep.
It was then that he developed the habit of clawing my face. I was growing a beard, and I thought at the time that Lance thought I was a cat, since I was furry like him. He has never stopped doing it.
We moved to California, flat broke, when I took my teaching position at Stan State, almost ten years ago. I drove the rental truck, my ex drove our car. She had Morgan, I had Lance. We took five days to cross the country, stopping in the cheapest motels we could find along the way. We'd get out of the vehicles, get into the room, and Morgan would dive under the bed and hide for most of the night, and Lance would move from under the bed, to us, back under the bed, back to us, trying to give and get comfort to and from everyone. He hates being in moving vehicles, but he seemed to adjust to this weird lifestyle.
For several years we lived in a rented house near Ceres, which made Lance very tense. The cats stayed indoors by then. Lancelot never seemed to sleep. He kept guard hours at a time, staring out the front or back windows. We saved a beat-up cat there who eventually ended up living with us, despite my and Lance's protests (this cat was one against whom Lance had been guarding us all that time). Then another. We bought a house in Modesto, and brought in another cat, who lived separately from the now 4 in the house. Then strays started showing up. Lance had had it. He started getting aggressive with the others, and with my ex. He peed on her dirty clothes (indeed also her clean clothes) on the floor.
Eventually I left my ex, and brought Lance with me, and he was never happier. He had a second kittenhood in the first apartment I shared with Lauren (which we called The Apartment of Earthly Delights). When we moved into the House About Town, he freaked out for an afternoon, but then took to bounding at top speed up and down the stairs, leaping up and off of windowsills, having a wonderful time. He was the youngest 13 year old cat you could ever meet. He was still clawing my face early in the morning, too, which led him to being kicked out of the bedroom most days.
I wrote him a song, which we recorded. He doesn't like it. Lauren started singing in various Stanislaus State choirs, and later in the Modesto Symphony Orchestra Chorus, as a second soprano. He hates this. Apparently, not only is he not a music lover (which Morgan, incidentally, was), but his ears are hurt by soprano singing. He attacks her when she sings, except when she holds him up to her throat and face, and sings "Old Deuteronomy."
About a year ago, his 14 year habit of vomiting about every other day became more constant. We took him to the vet, who talked about the various possible causes, prescribed a liquid antibiotic, and sent us home to try that. Giving Lance drugs is incredibly dangerous, even when he's weak. We stuck to it, through his lacerations, and he got better. He put weight back on. A couple months went by, and he started vomiting again. We went back to the vet, started another round of antibiotics, reopened our wounds, and he got better again. Months went by, and it started again, this time with diarrhea, and for the past month he hasn't gotten better no matter what we've tried.
He spent the night on my chest last night, sleeping a little too quietly for my comfort. This morning he clawed my face, but I didn't kick him out. He sat up on my chest, shaking a little, while I petted him. He followed me downstairs as he always does, and I gave him some canned cat food and some cat treats while I made coffee. He ate a little of that, and he followed me back upstairs. He's lying in the windowsill, resting in the weak sun.
I simply cannot express how much this cat means to me, or how terribly I will miss him, or how awful it is to know it will be soon.
2. Lancelot. I just love him.
As I write this, he's dying.
He's my 15+-year-old domestic longhaired orange cat. I would like to tell his story.
My ex and I had a lovely tortie shorthaired cat named Morgan, who we thought would like a companion, since she had a cat friend when she was a kitten. We visited the county animal shelter in Pittsburgh a few times to try to find a healthy kitten to be her new friend. Those visits were heartbreaking for me. I adore cats, and the sight of all those doomed cats (not to mention the doomed dogs in the other room) was unbearable - a testament to unspeakable human indifference and stupidity, inflicting needless suffering and death, for no reason but contempt or flat lack of concern. The kittens all seemed terribly unhealthy, as well. We had agreed that the only criteria for our new kitten were that it should be healthy, short-haired, and not orange.
Finally, on a third visit, we saw a demon kitten hanging upside down from the rails of his cage, trying alternately to eat the bars or squeeze through them, wailing, drooling, frothing at the mouth. He had mounds of fluffy orange fur and whiskers a mile long. We pulled him out of the cage, and he was immediately quiet and peaceful, purring in our arms. He was clearly the healthiest kitten we would ever find at the pound, and he was also on death row. It was his second day there, late in the afternoon. They would euthanize him in the morning. So we took him home.
We paid the adoption fee, they told us he was probably around 10-14 weeks old, put the kitten in a cardboard carrier, and we started for home. Home at the time was Regent Square, a nice neighborhood in the east side of Pittsburgh. The shelter was on the North Shore, meaning that we had a car trip of about 7 miles, roughly 20 minutes, to get there. By the time we hit the Parkway East (the freeway from downtown), the kitten had chewed through the box.
We brought him home and, having read about how to introduce new animals into a household, let him out of the box in a neutral place - the large anteroom in the old Victorian house we rented the ground floor of. Then we brought Morgan into the room. He immediately approached her, and sniffed at her face. She hissed, swatted at him, and ran away, thus establishing what was effectively their lifelong relationship. We gave him a jingle-ball to play with, and she eventually stole it (she passed years ago, age 12, never having treated him better). We gave him some kitten food, and he vomited some of it, thus establishing his lifelong digestive dysfunction.
Days passed. He got stronger and stood up to Morgan a bit. I named him Lancelot because she was Morgan, and it just made sense. Back then, we let the cats out to play in the yard, because the neighborhood was quiet enough and they didn't roam. Our upstairs neighbor had two cats, and a couple times they escaped from her kitchen window, climbed down the fire escape, and would become belligerent. Once I heard a fight outside, came out to intervene, and saw Lancelot cornering our neighbor's cat, standing with his back arched, hissing and spitting, between her cat and Morgan. Morgan had a scratch on her nose; Lancelot had come to protect her. I grabbed the neighbor's cat, took it inside, then grabbed Morgan, then Lancelot, to get them inside. Lance started to calm down a bit. Morgan sauntered over and swatted him.
Back then he was a terrific and somewhat famous hunter. His specialty was birding. As a kitten he caught a blue jay that was practically the same size he was. He caught numerous sparrows and bluebirds, titmice galore, I think a couple of chickadees. He'd leave them for us on the porch, or roll on them, as cats do. One day he had caught a bird and was playing with it when a woman walked by with her little girl. The girl saw the bird and burst into tears. I came outside, hearing her mom explain that this is something cats do, and removed the bird. A few minutes later, I heard them walking past again, the little girl finally calmed down, and as I looked out the window I saw Lance leap into the air and nab a sparrow, right in front of the girl. She exploded in tears again.
The young boys in the neighborhood loved him. I once heard a boy regaling his comrades with tales of Lancelot's hunting prowess. I went to the window to look. They were standing on the sidewalk, petting him (as he always did with passers-by, Lance had trotted up to them to say hello), when he saw a bird somewhere in the front yard. He growled, dashed off, and snapped at it. The boy pointed and said "see? He's so vicious but he's so nice!"
I was completing my PhD program at Duquesne while living in that house. One of the steps is writing a comprehensive exam - at the time, three essays on historical subjects in philosophy and one thematic essay on a particular topic, randomly chosen from a list of 5 questions on each subject, one per day for 4 days. I wrote my comps along with two other guys, both of whom wrote every essay before the week of comps. I didn't, so that week I wrote 80 pages of essays, basically writing all day, sitting at an old Mac, with Lancelot in my lap. He was my working pal, and I was his heating pad. It worked for us. He was so affectionate and seemed to be really concerned, really listening, when I would read the essays aloud. Later, when I was writing my dissertation, and having late-night anxiety attacks, he was always there with me, purring, rubbing against me, getting me to sit down so he could lie in my lap and sleep.
It was then that he developed the habit of clawing my face. I was growing a beard, and I thought at the time that Lance thought I was a cat, since I was furry like him. He has never stopped doing it.
We moved to California, flat broke, when I took my teaching position at Stan State, almost ten years ago. I drove the rental truck, my ex drove our car. She had Morgan, I had Lance. We took five days to cross the country, stopping in the cheapest motels we could find along the way. We'd get out of the vehicles, get into the room, and Morgan would dive under the bed and hide for most of the night, and Lance would move from under the bed, to us, back under the bed, back to us, trying to give and get comfort to and from everyone. He hates being in moving vehicles, but he seemed to adjust to this weird lifestyle.
For several years we lived in a rented house near Ceres, which made Lance very tense. The cats stayed indoors by then. Lancelot never seemed to sleep. He kept guard hours at a time, staring out the front or back windows. We saved a beat-up cat there who eventually ended up living with us, despite my and Lance's protests (this cat was one against whom Lance had been guarding us all that time). Then another. We bought a house in Modesto, and brought in another cat, who lived separately from the now 4 in the house. Then strays started showing up. Lance had had it. He started getting aggressive with the others, and with my ex. He peed on her dirty clothes (indeed also her clean clothes) on the floor.
Eventually I left my ex, and brought Lance with me, and he was never happier. He had a second kittenhood in the first apartment I shared with Lauren (which we called The Apartment of Earthly Delights). When we moved into the House About Town, he freaked out for an afternoon, but then took to bounding at top speed up and down the stairs, leaping up and off of windowsills, having a wonderful time. He was the youngest 13 year old cat you could ever meet. He was still clawing my face early in the morning, too, which led him to being kicked out of the bedroom most days.
I wrote him a song, which we recorded. He doesn't like it. Lauren started singing in various Stanislaus State choirs, and later in the Modesto Symphony Orchestra Chorus, as a second soprano. He hates this. Apparently, not only is he not a music lover (which Morgan, incidentally, was), but his ears are hurt by soprano singing. He attacks her when she sings, except when she holds him up to her throat and face, and sings "Old Deuteronomy."
About a year ago, his 14 year habit of vomiting about every other day became more constant. We took him to the vet, who talked about the various possible causes, prescribed a liquid antibiotic, and sent us home to try that. Giving Lance drugs is incredibly dangerous, even when he's weak. We stuck to it, through his lacerations, and he got better. He put weight back on. A couple months went by, and he started vomiting again. We went back to the vet, started another round of antibiotics, reopened our wounds, and he got better again. Months went by, and it started again, this time with diarrhea, and for the past month he hasn't gotten better no matter what we've tried.
He spent the night on my chest last night, sleeping a little too quietly for my comfort. This morning he clawed my face, but I didn't kick him out. He sat up on my chest, shaking a little, while I petted him. He followed me downstairs as he always does, and I gave him some canned cat food and some cat treats while I made coffee. He ate a little of that, and he followed me back upstairs. He's lying in the windowsill, resting in the weak sun.
I simply cannot express how much this cat means to me, or how terribly I will miss him, or how awful it is to know it will be soon.
Friday, January 18, 2008
in brief
The cat's still sick. I'm in Sacramento, without my love, for a CFA meeting whose primary purpose is to discuss the doomed state budget and its impact on the doomed CSU and our doomed lecturer colleagues/constituents in this doomed state which is doomed. The Penguins are losing to the freaking Tampa Bay Lightning, and Sidney Crosby left the game with an injury in the first period.
I shall now crawl to the working dinner in a condition of utter abjection. Thank you for listening.
I shall now crawl to the working dinner in a condition of utter abjection. Thank you for listening.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
yet more? yet more
Another of
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
39. Old episodes of The Larry Sanders Show. I just love 'em.
Before The Office, there was the Larry Sanders show (and before that, there was It's Garry Shandling's Show), a show-within-a-show sitcom about an absurdly egomaniacal, vaguely depraved, slightly perverted, utterly unself-aware yet tremendously narcissistic and self-doubting late-night talk show host. I've just given myself the present of the DVD box-set Not Just The Best Of The Larry Sanders Show, reminded as I was of the program by an errant copy of Entertainment Weekly, of all things.
It's delicious. The show's narrative perspective isn't all that inventive: we look behind-the-scenes at the internal comedy of errors that leads to the program's production, with special emphasis on the fatally flawed star. But they got fantastic performances from guest stars playing themselves, and the core group - Garry Shandling, Rip Torn, Jeffrey Tambor, Penny Johnson, and Janeane Garofalo - play their parts to the absolute frigging hilt. You could make this comedy broadly, play it like a Sid Caesar sketch or a Mel Brooks movie, but you'd never crack open the heads of the characters, never get the deep, revolting, hilarious revelation of their psychologies and motivations. What makes the thing tick is the contradiction between the arch-realism of the show's narrative perspective, and the absurd degree to which each character is firmly committed to his or her own particular pursuit, foible, or transgression.
I confess that the reason I first got into the show was a youthful and misguided obsession with Janeane Garofalo (though I'm not the only one), which has so far made no embarrassing reprise. I was a fan of It's Garry Shandling's Show (yeah, I was the one), which was decidedly more radical in approach, but the performances and writing in Larry Sanders were far, far better. Rip Torn is a god.
He's also, incidentally, not allowed in the house. I have my reasons.
Janeane is. Dammit!
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
39. Old episodes of The Larry Sanders Show. I just love 'em.
Before The Office, there was the Larry Sanders show (and before that, there was It's Garry Shandling's Show), a show-within-a-show sitcom about an absurdly egomaniacal, vaguely depraved, slightly perverted, utterly unself-aware yet tremendously narcissistic and self-doubting late-night talk show host. I've just given myself the present of the DVD box-set Not Just The Best Of The Larry Sanders Show, reminded as I was of the program by an errant copy of Entertainment Weekly, of all things.
It's delicious. The show's narrative perspective isn't all that inventive: we look behind-the-scenes at the internal comedy of errors that leads to the program's production, with special emphasis on the fatally flawed star. But they got fantastic performances from guest stars playing themselves, and the core group - Garry Shandling, Rip Torn, Jeffrey Tambor, Penny Johnson, and Janeane Garofalo - play their parts to the absolute frigging hilt. You could make this comedy broadly, play it like a Sid Caesar sketch or a Mel Brooks movie, but you'd never crack open the heads of the characters, never get the deep, revolting, hilarious revelation of their psychologies and motivations. What makes the thing tick is the contradiction between the arch-realism of the show's narrative perspective, and the absurd degree to which each character is firmly committed to his or her own particular pursuit, foible, or transgression.
I confess that the reason I first got into the show was a youthful and misguided obsession with Janeane Garofalo (though I'm not the only one), which has so far made no embarrassing reprise. I was a fan of It's Garry Shandling's Show (yeah, I was the one), which was decidedly more radical in approach, but the performances and writing in Larry Sanders were far, far better. Rip Torn is a god.
He's also, incidentally, not allowed in the house. I have my reasons.
how to get a job in higher ed
There are, I suppose, lurkers reading this blog, and I suppose some of them have certain ideas about the nature of faculty work. Here's some interesting interviews conducted by Marc Bousquet, author of How the University Works.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
it's Tuesday, and I have things
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
41. Union meetings. I just love 'em. Some of my fellow union activists don't love the meetings, and some claim they come just for the food (hotel kitchen food). I come for the meeting.
They're not all great, I admit. I also can't do very much with union rah-rah-ism. But I am a sucker for solidarity, and the meetings almost always build a great sense of solidarity. We're going this weekend to the CFA Lecturers' Council spring planning meeting, and despite the rather gloomy political/budget news of late, I'm optimistic.
40. Excuses to make buerre blanc. I just love 'em. The excuse today was our unscheduled trip to Motown to buy cat digestive enzymes in a further effort to resolve Lancelot's GI problems.
The need to go up there fairly quickly hatched a plan to go to Johnathan's, which is, to be frank, a meat market. But they also are the best source of fresh seafood in the area, and I've been thinking about shrimp lately with a fairly passionate Mediterranean feeling - lots of garlic, saffron, things like that. (Domestic shrimp, which is far better for the planet than imported, is extremely hard to get here, so we eat very little shrimp, sadly.) We ended up getting Louisiana rock shrimp and wild Alaskan coho salmon, and as I started thinking about it, buerre blanc would be perfectly suitable for salmon as well. What the heck.
So, shallots in white wine vinegar and dry white wine, boiled down to a couple tablespoons, with mounds of butter whisked in. This is just about unspeakably good on shrimp.
41. Union meetings. I just love 'em. Some of my fellow union activists don't love the meetings, and some claim they come just for the food (hotel kitchen food). I come for the meeting.
They're not all great, I admit. I also can't do very much with union rah-rah-ism. But I am a sucker for solidarity, and the meetings almost always build a great sense of solidarity. We're going this weekend to the CFA Lecturers' Council spring planning meeting, and despite the rather gloomy political/budget news of late, I'm optimistic.
40. Excuses to make buerre blanc. I just love 'em. The excuse today was our unscheduled trip to Motown to buy cat digestive enzymes in a further effort to resolve Lancelot's GI problems.
The need to go up there fairly quickly hatched a plan to go to Johnathan's, which is, to be frank, a meat market. But they also are the best source of fresh seafood in the area, and I've been thinking about shrimp lately with a fairly passionate Mediterranean feeling - lots of garlic, saffron, things like that. (Domestic shrimp, which is far better for the planet than imported, is extremely hard to get here, so we eat very little shrimp, sadly.) We ended up getting Louisiana rock shrimp and wild Alaskan coho salmon, and as I started thinking about it, buerre blanc would be perfectly suitable for salmon as well. What the heck.
So, shallots in white wine vinegar and dry white wine, boiled down to a couple tablespoons, with mounds of butter whisked in. This is just about unspeakably good on shrimp.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
not a new song!
We've been working on new music . . . that is to say, frankly, I've been working on new music, because my loveliest of all is writing fanfic nearly constantly lately (but Lauren is throwing in her two cents on the stuff I'm doing, plus as of this evening she is officially on notice, because my lyrics need help) . . . [ALERT! SYNTAX APPROACHING CORE BREECH! SHIFT ALL GRAMMATICAL RESERVES TO LIFE SUPPORT!] . . . for a while now [THAT'S GOT IT! AHH, SHIT! INTERJECTION ERROR! CONDITION RED! CONDITION RED!]
Ahem.
The point is, I'm working on about 10 new songs right now, trying to get them into sufficient shape to record them. I've gotten a lot pickier about what I think I want a song to be, which I hope means I'm getting a little better at writing. I have a couple new tunes I adore utterly, a handful I think are serviceable, and one I'm frankly embarrassed about, but which seems to work, so I'll let it be.
Anywhence, I posted a recording we made last summer on our Soundclick page, and now that they have an HTML code embedding script, I thought I'd link that here. (Soundclick, by the way, works waaaaaaaay better than the music stuff on MySpace. MySpace is owned by News Corp., i.e. Fox, i.e. Rupert Murdoch, so I'm not surprised it's a piece of crap.)
Without further ado, Lauren's song, "One Wing Wheeling"!
Ahem.
The point is, I'm working on about 10 new songs right now, trying to get them into sufficient shape to record them. I've gotten a lot pickier about what I think I want a song to be, which I hope means I'm getting a little better at writing. I have a couple new tunes I adore utterly, a handful I think are serviceable, and one I'm frankly embarrassed about, but which seems to work, so I'll let it be.
Anywhence, I posted a recording we made last summer on our Soundclick page, and now that they have an HTML code embedding script, I thought I'd link that here. (Soundclick, by the way, works waaaaaaaay better than the music stuff on MySpace. MySpace is owned by News Corp., i.e. Fox, i.e. Rupert Murdoch, so I'm not surprised it's a piece of crap.)
Without further ado, Lauren's song, "One Wing Wheeling"!
Friday, January 11, 2008
and for those who don't like bad economic news, there's sport
The state government's fiscal crisis continues. 6 years ago the budget analyst at the non-partisan Legislative Analyst office said that California's budget problems are systemic and can only be permanently fixed by either slashing state services to a point that would harm a lot of residents, or else raising taxes. Well, obviously, we can't raise taxes, because that would be ridiculous, of course, because that would mean people would be paying more money for state services.
So, instead, governor Schwarzenegger plans to cut 10 percent from nearly every state agency. The last major cut to the CSU's budget caused enrollment declines, staff layoffs and non-rehirings of hundreds of non-tenure-track faculty. The increases in our budgets since then have barely kept pace with inflation, and the CSU Board of Trustees and the state have begun to depend on increasing student fees in order to fill the gap.
This bugs the hell out of me in every conceivable way. An ideologically driven political agenda beginning in the 70s has made it impossible for the state to adequately fund any of its agencies, by getting the electorate to vote for slashing property taxes and to require a 2/3 majority to pass a budget. Who benefits from that? Who is hurt by it?
So, instead, governor Schwarzenegger plans to cut 10 percent from nearly every state agency. The last major cut to the CSU's budget caused enrollment declines, staff layoffs and non-rehirings of hundreds of non-tenure-track faculty. The increases in our budgets since then have barely kept pace with inflation, and the CSU Board of Trustees and the state have begun to depend on increasing student fees in order to fill the gap.
This bugs the hell out of me in every conceivable way. An ideologically driven political agenda beginning in the 70s has made it impossible for the state to adequately fund any of its agencies, by getting the electorate to vote for slashing property taxes and to require a 2/3 majority to pass a budget. Who benefits from that? Who is hurt by it?
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
nothing to do with the New Hampshire primary
I'll preface this by reporting briefly that I'd rather be playing my guitars right now, but I'm not, because I'm missing my right thumbnail and ring fingernail, both to accidents involving metal things. My thumbnail was gouged when I foolishly tried to open a door on campus with my right hand (I can only reliably open doors left-handed) and my thumbnail struck the metal plate around the door handle. I didn't trim it, and the tear weakened the nail's structural integrity enough that handling the Christmas turkey gravy preparation did it in. [No fingernail fragments were consumed during the dinner, I swear.] I forget what took my fingernail, but in any case, I'm left with long index, second, and pinky nails, and I can't functionally fingerpick my guitars this way.
This is especially distressing because of
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
42. D'Addario 12-string silk and steel guitar strings. I just love 'em.
For a year I've been experimenting with guitar strings. I was gaga for John Pearse phosphor bronze strings, but after putting D'Addario EXPs on my Takamine jumbo 12, and absolutely loving the sound, I decided more experimentation was in order.
I've always been tempted by silk/silver wound so-called "folk/fingerpicking" strings, and I have fallen head over heels and ass over teakettle in love with the sound of these things on my Breedlove. Songs I had tired of, or never felt happy with the sound of, now sound perfect to me. We've been working on a couple covers that I was constantly disappointed with, and now they're spot on, exactly the sound I wanted.
It makes sense. I had a Takamine classical forever, and the silk strings produce a sound somewhere between the classicals (especially the bases) and phosphor bronze. The stuff we do, and especially the stuff I write, is built for that kind of warm tone. The fingerpicked 12-string numbers sound incredible.
I'm gushing. I know. I gush.
Oh, yeah, and John Fahey is not allowed in the house. Lauren asked, as she has to on these occasions, whether he's not dead, and indeed he is, rest his twisted, tortured soul, but that's no reason to let him in. Sorry John. I adore your music, but you'll have to play outside.
This is especially distressing because of
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
42. D'Addario 12-string silk and steel guitar strings. I just love 'em.
For a year I've been experimenting with guitar strings. I was gaga for John Pearse phosphor bronze strings, but after putting D'Addario EXPs on my Takamine jumbo 12, and absolutely loving the sound, I decided more experimentation was in order.
I've always been tempted by silk/silver wound so-called "folk/fingerpicking" strings, and I have fallen head over heels and ass over teakettle in love with the sound of these things on my Breedlove. Songs I had tired of, or never felt happy with the sound of, now sound perfect to me. We've been working on a couple covers that I was constantly disappointed with, and now they're spot on, exactly the sound I wanted.
It makes sense. I had a Takamine classical forever, and the silk strings produce a sound somewhere between the classicals (especially the bases) and phosphor bronze. The stuff we do, and especially the stuff I write, is built for that kind of warm tone. The fingerpicked 12-string numbers sound incredible.
I'm gushing. I know. I gush.
Oh, yeah, and John Fahey is not allowed in the house. Lauren asked, as she has to on these occasions, whether he's not dead, and indeed he is, rest his twisted, tortured soul, but that's no reason to let him in. Sorry John. I adore your music, but you'll have to play outside.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
"torrential downpour"
It rained Thursday night, all Friday afternoon and evening, and overnight Friday. It rained a bit more yesterday. Apparently we got a record rainfall of over an inch on Friday. I just heard Lakshmi Singh call the rain a "torrential downpour." The Governator declared a state of emergency, and thousands of people have no electricity up near Sacramento, where the storm hit hardest.
'Round here, it's just another wet winter day. The storm sewer in the middle of the complex driveway clogged, as they do. My loveliest unclogged it sufficiently (it was blocked by a piece of roofing material) and no harm seems to have been done. A stream formed in the back yard, under the gates between the yards along that side of the complex. Nothing serious.
In fact, it's all good news, because of the correlative heavy snowfall in the Sierras. Which brings to mind one of
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
43. Winter days. I just love 'em. I miss real winter days with snow and cold and all that, of course, but we generally get satisfyingly rainy winter days in December and January. The last couple years have been dry, but we've had a good start this year. Here's hoping for a good wet winter.
'Round here, it's just another wet winter day. The storm sewer in the middle of the complex driveway clogged, as they do. My loveliest unclogged it sufficiently (it was blocked by a piece of roofing material) and no harm seems to have been done. A stream formed in the back yard, under the gates between the yards along that side of the complex. Nothing serious.
In fact, it's all good news, because of the correlative heavy snowfall in the Sierras. Which brings to mind one of
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
43. Winter days. I just love 'em. I miss real winter days with snow and cold and all that, of course, but we generally get satisfyingly rainy winter days in December and January. The last couple years have been dry, but we've had a good start this year. Here's hoping for a good wet winter.
Friday, January 04, 2008
bad weather, bad health, and badness
California makes a person soft. The weather is, for here, terrible: it's been raining all day, with gusty winds up to 40+ miles an hour. Accidents are piling up on the freeway; streets are flooding; chaos and lawlessness are descending upon us. (It's true! We've had to defend ourselves from three bands of roving, devolved troglodytes just this afternoon!) And there's more rain on the way.
In Pittsburgh, you'd call this kind of weather "Wednesday," and it wouldn't strike you as abnormal, except in January or February, when you'd say it was unseasonably warm. And in Fairbanks today the high temperature is -9.
I feel cold and wet. I've lived here almost 9½ years.
We had to risk drowning to take the cat to the vet today, because his GI tract is once again three miles of bad road. Poor old thing. They're running blood tests and have us feeding him antibiotics (which helped the last time), so we'll see. Of course, I'm worried sick, so I didn't sleep last night, which helps tremendously.
By the way, I wasn't kidding about risking drowning. The onramp to get onto the Crankster Freeway was almost unnavigable. The driveway through the complex soon will be. We were planning to go out to a hobby shop in search of model train gear tomorrow, but I've called that off.
In other news, it sure warmed the cockles of my heart to read of Hillary Clinton's response to her coming in third to Barack Obama in yesterday's Iowa Caucus. "Don't have false hopes, don't get your hopes up too high" is such optimistic, forward-thinking speech. It really shows what she stands for.
We also saw Sweeney Todd yesterday, as ruined utterly by Tim Burton. It's a terrible story, of course, but it's a musical, you know, with music, and it's supposed to be entertaining, you know, like entertainment. Burton drained it of almost all humor, made the entire production as grim as possible (with the exception of Helena Bonham Carter's cleavage), and soaked it in blood. Could someone please explain to Tim Burton the difference between a movie musical and a snuff film? Please? Thank you.
Tim Burton is now not allowed in the house.
I don't think Alan Rickman should be, either, but that's still in negotiation.
In Pittsburgh, you'd call this kind of weather "Wednesday," and it wouldn't strike you as abnormal, except in January or February, when you'd say it was unseasonably warm. And in Fairbanks today the high temperature is -9.
I feel cold and wet. I've lived here almost 9½ years.
We had to risk drowning to take the cat to the vet today, because his GI tract is once again three miles of bad road. Poor old thing. They're running blood tests and have us feeding him antibiotics (which helped the last time), so we'll see. Of course, I'm worried sick, so I didn't sleep last night, which helps tremendously.
By the way, I wasn't kidding about risking drowning. The onramp to get onto the Crankster Freeway was almost unnavigable. The driveway through the complex soon will be. We were planning to go out to a hobby shop in search of model train gear tomorrow, but I've called that off.
In other news, it sure warmed the cockles of my heart to read of Hillary Clinton's response to her coming in third to Barack Obama in yesterday's Iowa Caucus. "Don't have false hopes, don't get your hopes up too high" is such optimistic, forward-thinking speech. It really shows what she stands for.
We also saw Sweeney Todd yesterday, as ruined utterly by Tim Burton. It's a terrible story, of course, but it's a musical, you know, with music, and it's supposed to be entertaining, you know, like entertainment. Burton drained it of almost all humor, made the entire production as grim as possible (with the exception of Helena Bonham Carter's cleavage), and soaked it in blood. Could someone please explain to Tim Burton the difference between a movie musical and a snuff film? Please? Thank you.
Tim Burton is now not allowed in the house.
I don't think Alan Rickman should be, either, but that's still in negotiation.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Iowa
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
44. Primary seasons. I just love 'em.
Granted, today was the Iowa caucuses, which are not primary elections, but they do begin the Presidential primary campaigns in earnest (or frank, or randy). Tonight after the Sharks game we switched on CNN, which we almost never do, to see the results, and were surprised to learn (a) that Hillary Clinton finished 3rd, and (b) that David Gergen is permitted to leave his cell without wearing a strait-jacket.
In any case, it brought back to mind the 1988 election, when I got my roommate and friend Doug hopelessly addicted to politics. We routinely stayed up until 2 or 3 AM watching the endless debates, primary returns, and political chat shows. Back then, C-SPAN ran a call-in show after every sane, rational person on the East Coast would long have called it a day, and we were absolutely hooked on this thing.
The irony is, I don't even remember who my favorite was in that race, though I do remember Doug's silly faux-Southern accent when he would shout out, Ã propos of nothing, "I'm Al Gore!!!"
44. Primary seasons. I just love 'em.
Granted, today was the Iowa caucuses, which are not primary elections, but they do begin the Presidential primary campaigns in earnest (or frank, or randy). Tonight after the Sharks game we switched on CNN, which we almost never do, to see the results, and were surprised to learn (a) that Hillary Clinton finished 3rd, and (b) that David Gergen is permitted to leave his cell without wearing a strait-jacket.
In any case, it brought back to mind the 1988 election, when I got my roommate and friend Doug hopelessly addicted to politics. We routinely stayed up until 2 or 3 AM watching the endless debates, primary returns, and political chat shows. Back then, C-SPAN ran a call-in show after every sane, rational person on the East Coast would long have called it a day, and we were absolutely hooked on this thing.
The irony is, I don't even remember who my favorite was in that race, though I do remember Doug's silly faux-Southern accent when he would shout out, Ã propos of nothing, "I'm Al Gore!!!"
Thursday, December 27, 2007
two new entries in the list of non-entries
It's been quite a while since I added to the list of people not allowed in the house.
Regina Spektor could be really sweet, I suppose. I dunno. Her performance at the Bridge School concert was cute and friendly, but her lyrics suggest something deep inside that works in a strange and terrible way. Not exactly deranged, but decidedly, um, unkempt.
Bill Hicks. It's never a good idea to judge a stand-up comic on his stage persona, and I think in Hicks' case that's especially so, because there's no way any human being could truly be that rude. However, there's no way any sane human being could have written his stuff about "goat boy." It has been pointed out to me that Bill Hicks is dead, and that therefore his banishment, like Jeff Buckley's, may not be necessary. Again I reply that their being dead is no reason to allow them into the house.
Regina Spektor could be really sweet, I suppose. I dunno. Her performance at the Bridge School concert was cute and friendly, but her lyrics suggest something deep inside that works in a strange and terrible way. Not exactly deranged, but decidedly, um, unkempt.
Bill Hicks. It's never a good idea to judge a stand-up comic on his stage persona, and I think in Hicks' case that's especially so, because there's no way any human being could truly be that rude. However, there's no way any sane human being could have written his stuff about "goat boy." It has been pointed out to me that Bill Hicks is dead, and that therefore his banishment, like Jeff Buckley's, may not be necessary. Again I reply that their being dead is no reason to allow them into the house.
Monday, December 24, 2007
xmas
These are a few of
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
46. Christmas Eves. I just love 'em. The last three anyway, which I've spent in observance of the Byerly family tradition of having a turkey dinner with accoutrements and a cast that only slightly varies from year to year. I'm on turkey and potato duty again this year, which I adore, because I make a humdinger of a roast turkey and fabtastic mashed potatoes. So there.
45. Christmas gifts. I just love 'em. This year my loveliest gave me a pair of hot-pink high top sneakers from No Sweat Apparel, a sweat-shop-free, all-union-made clothing manufacturer and marketer. They are not only stylish and pink as the day is long, but I can be proud of how they were made as well as what they look like. Maybe there's something a little weird about a consumer choice representing anti-establishment values, since after all it's still consuming, but you gotta consume stuff anyway, and for me, one thing I now hafta consume is high-tops, so what the hell. Did I mention they're pink? They're pink.
I gave my loveliest a how-to-knit book, since she's been talking for a while about wanting to learn. She's made me a long rainbow-colored scarf, and she's even at this moment putting extremely long tassels onto a scarf she made for herself.
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
46. Christmas Eves. I just love 'em. The last three anyway, which I've spent in observance of the Byerly family tradition of having a turkey dinner with accoutrements and a cast that only slightly varies from year to year. I'm on turkey and potato duty again this year, which I adore, because I make a humdinger of a roast turkey and fabtastic mashed potatoes. So there.
45. Christmas gifts. I just love 'em. This year my loveliest gave me a pair of hot-pink high top sneakers from No Sweat Apparel, a sweat-shop-free, all-union-made clothing manufacturer and marketer. They are not only stylish and pink as the day is long, but I can be proud of how they were made as well as what they look like. Maybe there's something a little weird about a consumer choice representing anti-establishment values, since after all it's still consuming, but you gotta consume stuff anyway, and for me, one thing I now hafta consume is high-tops, so what the hell. Did I mention they're pink? They're pink.
I gave my loveliest a how-to-knit book, since she's been talking for a while about wanting to learn. She's made me a long rainbow-colored scarf, and she's even at this moment putting extremely long tassels onto a scarf she made for herself.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
fcc changes rules on media ownership, again
A corporation can now own a newspaper and TV station in the same media market, thanks to a change in FCC ownership regulations. Democrats did a fair job of staging opposition and outrage, but really, it's a token gesture by both the Dems and the FCC. The real regulatory changes came in the 80s, when, under the guidance of such luminaries as Mark Fowler (who called TV "a toaster with pictures"), the FCC opened media ownership across markets and eliminated the requirement that broadcast media provide public affairs information on a regular basis. Corporate media are, at this stage, fundamentally incapable of legitimate news reporting of anything beyond fires and sports scores - and I'm not really willing to stand behind that.
The Democrats' outrage was focused on the alleged clandestine nature of the Commission's vote on the regulation. Whether or not the vote happened late at night, the fact is that the proposed regulation has been floating around for around 6 months.
Debbie Tate is right!
But you can still do rotten things transparently. It's ironic as hell: media have, per the FCC, no responsibility to the public whatsoever. The transparency of any FCC regulation shift depends, in our society, on its being made public through the media the FCC increasingly avoid regulating.
Eh. That's why we only watch ice hockey, the occasional flick, and Comedy Central.
The Democrats' outrage was focused on the alleged clandestine nature of the Commission's vote on the regulation. Whether or not the vote happened late at night, the fact is that the proposed regulation has been floating around for around 6 months.
Republican Commissioner Deborah Taylor Tate described the process as "transparent and thorough." She said the changes proposed are narrow, and hinted she was in favor of a greater liberalization of the media ownership rules.
Debbie Tate is right!
But you can still do rotten things transparently. It's ironic as hell: media have, per the FCC, no responsibility to the public whatsoever. The transparency of any FCC regulation shift depends, in our society, on its being made public through the media the FCC increasingly avoid regulating.
Eh. That's why we only watch ice hockey, the occasional flick, and Comedy Central.
Monday, December 17, 2007
holidaze
Busy. Nutty busy. Two classes' grades down, two to go. Yip.
But it's not just the grade-a-thon-a-rama. It's...
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
47. Christmas cookies. I just love 'em.
My family always made Christmas cookies in tremendous variety and quantity. One year I believe we made something like 15 dozen cookies: sugar cookies, molasses cookies, press cookies, cherry-coconut bars, lemon bars, waffle cookies, macaroons. It was nuts. We had Christmas cookies until Easter.
We've made the sugar and molasses cookies each year we've been together. The molasses are my favorites, because they're unique and because it's the kind of cookie dough that leads to storytelling, chiefly because it's hard to make the dough without breaking a spoon. I've literally broken spoons stirring in the flour, because the dough needs to be that stiff.
This year I broke all tradition by mixing buckwheat flour into the dough. The taste is different in that nutty, woody buckwheat way, and it makes the molasses taste just a bit darker. We've been icing and decorating them, but no pictures are available, because these things must be kept secreted in undisclosed locations for the sake of national security.
No one knows why.
But it's not just the grade-a-thon-a-rama. It's...
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
47. Christmas cookies. I just love 'em.
My family always made Christmas cookies in tremendous variety and quantity. One year I believe we made something like 15 dozen cookies: sugar cookies, molasses cookies, press cookies, cherry-coconut bars, lemon bars, waffle cookies, macaroons. It was nuts. We had Christmas cookies until Easter.
We've made the sugar and molasses cookies each year we've been together. The molasses are my favorites, because they're unique and because it's the kind of cookie dough that leads to storytelling, chiefly because it's hard to make the dough without breaking a spoon. I've literally broken spoons stirring in the flour, because the dough needs to be that stiff.
This year I broke all tradition by mixing buckwheat flour into the dough. The taste is different in that nutty, woody buckwheat way, and it makes the molasses taste just a bit darker. We've been icing and decorating them, but no pictures are available, because these things must be kept secreted in undisclosed locations for the sake of national security.
No one knows why.
Monday, December 10, 2007
something
Another in the blockbuster series that TIME magazine has called nothing at all.
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
48. Last days of semesters. I just love 'em.
Today is, in fact, the last teaching day of the semester. I've taken over the last couple years to trying to make the last day an optional-attendance working-on-final-papers session. It's nice to relax, and additionally, by then, there's not much more anyone can reasonably do that will make a world of pedagogical difference. The informal, sometimes very informal tone is nice too. Some of the barriers between students and faculty break down a bit, so students feel comfortable discussing what they got out of the course, what made it work for them, how they managed the work, and so on. And they ask the questions that are really on their minds, like, "Are you going to grade the final paper as strictly as you did the midterm?"
Good times.
In other news, it may be about time to get back in the recording studio.
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
48. Last days of semesters. I just love 'em.
Today is, in fact, the last teaching day of the semester. I've taken over the last couple years to trying to make the last day an optional-attendance working-on-final-papers session. It's nice to relax, and additionally, by then, there's not much more anyone can reasonably do that will make a world of pedagogical difference. The informal, sometimes very informal tone is nice too. Some of the barriers between students and faculty break down a bit, so students feel comfortable discussing what they got out of the course, what made it work for them, how they managed the work, and so on. And they ask the questions that are really on their minds, like, "Are you going to grade the final paper as strictly as you did the midterm?"
Good times.
In other news, it may be about time to get back in the recording studio.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
year in review on the cheap
My loveliest caught a meme. She's okay; she's not even coughing much. In any case, I caught it from her. It's...
Doc Nagel's Ye Olde Yeare in Reviewe, uh, "e"
The rules of the game are pointlessly simple: You post a post in which you collect the first lines of all your posts from every month of your posts in your blog, which you posted. Those posts you post as a post posting your year in review post. And then you win!
January: home at last. Lauren and I left Turlock on Friday the 22nd for L.A.
February: back in the saddle. Despite tear gas, stomped vegetables, and general discombobulation, we're settling back into home.
March: been busy; strike vote next week. A couple weeks go by, and it's like a couple weeks go by!
April: tentative agreement. CFA announced today that it reached a tentative agreement with CSU on a new contract.
May: happy landings. I'm less neurotic than other people I know.
June: since finishing grading. "Vacation" is one of the sample labels Blogger offers bloggers for their blogs.
July: hot. It was 106 yesterday.
August: thingy. You don't think we should tax . . . ?
September: lesson learned. One night, if you can't sleep, and you get out of bed to shuffle off to the next room to read a bit and try to get sleepy again, don't pick up Theodor Adorno.
October: ach! zings! (think: bad german accent) Ach!
November: election day?? Today is the day that Americans solemnify the basic democratic right to vote.
December: and another thing, and another thing. Recent additions to Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
As you can see, I spent the year planning to strike, voting to strike, not striking, being hot, voting, and writing about things.
Doc Nagel's Ye Olde Yeare in Reviewe, uh, "e"
The rules of the game are pointlessly simple: You post a post in which you collect the first lines of all your posts from every month of your posts in your blog, which you posted. Those posts you post as a post posting your year in review post. And then you win!
January: home at last. Lauren and I left Turlock on Friday the 22nd for L.A.
February: back in the saddle. Despite tear gas, stomped vegetables, and general discombobulation, we're settling back into home.
March: been busy; strike vote next week. A couple weeks go by, and it's like a couple weeks go by!
April: tentative agreement. CFA announced today that it reached a tentative agreement with CSU on a new contract.
May: happy landings. I'm less neurotic than other people I know.
June: since finishing grading. "Vacation" is one of the sample labels Blogger offers bloggers for their blogs.
July: hot. It was 106 yesterday.
August: thingy. You don't think we should tax . . . ?
September: lesson learned. One night, if you can't sleep, and you get out of bed to shuffle off to the next room to read a bit and try to get sleepy again, don't pick up Theodor Adorno.
October: ach! zings! (think: bad german accent) Ach!
November: election day?? Today is the day that Americans solemnify the basic democratic right to vote.
December: and another thing, and another thing. Recent additions to Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
As you can see, I spent the year planning to strike, voting to strike, not striking, being hot, voting, and writing about things.
how to go to concerts, apparently
I've been to two holiday music concerts this weekend: the Modesto Symphony Orchestra and Chorus Holiday Pops concert, guest-conducted by Steven Reineke, and the CSU Stanislaus Carolfest. The Carolfest was, as always, excellent. Reineke's pops stuff was sorta fruitcakey. But in both concerts I sat near people who sang along. I know this is sometimes the thing to do in pop/rock/etc. music, but the etiquette with orchestral music, so far as I know, is that you don't sing along with the trained singers, you sit in quiet enjoyment, or at least quietly so others can enjoy. Today we heard two people singing along, off-key with Handel's Hallelujah Chorus. It doesn't go like that, dummies!
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
and another thing, and another thing
Recent additions to
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
50. Model trains. I just love 'em. I had a Lionel O-27 gauge train as a kid. My grampa gave the starter set to me for Christmas one year, and I eventually ended up with a lot of track, switches, great cars, and so on. I never developed it into a set layout, partly because it's big enough that there wasn't a place to keep it permanently set up, and also because I was never handy with models. The train was a toy, mainly, and a big part of the fun was setting up different layouts whenever I brought it out.
We went to the Turlock toy train show at the fairgrounds last Sunday, and before we knew what we were doing, we bought a transformer, a locomotive, some curved track, and a couple cars, and now we're in the railroad business.
Iconic toy train picture: circular track around a Christmastree rosemary bush. Close enough.
49. Pork roasts and Robert sauces. I think it's now beyond question that my favorite French sauce is sauce Robert, that diabolical brew. You make it by sautéeing shallots in butter, adding dry white wine to that, reducing that stuff until you've got a couple tablespoons, then adding a teaspoon of mustard (whole prepared), some confectioners' sugar, and a couple tablespoons of demi-glace. Holy mother of moose, but that's a sauce. It's tart, sweet, spicy, complex, and is absolutely spot-on perfect with roast pork.
And boy howdy can I roast pork loin. I mean, like nobody's damn business. I did this one rubbed with mustard, nutmeg, garlic, pepper, salt, a leeetle bit of olive oil to hold it together, all roasted high temperature about 45 minutes, absolutely perfect.
As I've mentioned, I am the philosopher-chef. This apparently means that I roast knowledge, as well as that I am saucier than thou. No pictures of that. We ate the whole thing.
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
50. Model trains. I just love 'em. I had a Lionel O-27 gauge train as a kid. My grampa gave the starter set to me for Christmas one year, and I eventually ended up with a lot of track, switches, great cars, and so on. I never developed it into a set layout, partly because it's big enough that there wasn't a place to keep it permanently set up, and also because I was never handy with models. The train was a toy, mainly, and a big part of the fun was setting up different layouts whenever I brought it out.
We went to the Turlock toy train show at the fairgrounds last Sunday, and before we knew what we were doing, we bought a transformer, a locomotive, some curved track, and a couple cars, and now we're in the railroad business.
Iconic toy train picture: circular track around a Christmas
49. Pork roasts and Robert sauces. I think it's now beyond question that my favorite French sauce is sauce Robert, that diabolical brew. You make it by sautéeing shallots in butter, adding dry white wine to that, reducing that stuff until you've got a couple tablespoons, then adding a teaspoon of mustard (whole prepared), some confectioners' sugar, and a couple tablespoons of demi-glace. Holy mother of moose, but that's a sauce. It's tart, sweet, spicy, complex, and is absolutely spot-on perfect with roast pork.
And boy howdy can I roast pork loin. I mean, like nobody's damn business. I did this one rubbed with mustard, nutmeg, garlic, pepper, salt, a leeetle bit of olive oil to hold it together, all roasted high temperature about 45 minutes, absolutely perfect.
As I've mentioned, I am the philosopher-chef. This apparently means that I roast knowledge, as well as that I am saucier than thou. No pictures of that. We ate the whole thing.
Friday, November 30, 2007
weakened weekend
Saturday we plan to stare at a patch on the wall.
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
52. Weekends (more or less) off. I just love 'em. This is the first in a while. I don't plan to drive anywhere, write something, do a ton of grading, or anything else like that. Of course, I do have to prep for Monday, but I'm trying to regard that as somehow just a fun weekend activity.
Teaching in college is not a cushy job, but it has the enormous perk of summers off. I think we pay for that with the tough hours we put in during the academic year. I rarely get a weekend like this coming one, and man, do I need it.
51. Quasi-scientific explanations. I just love 'em. Faux-science charms me, as satire and as silliness. One of the best fake science purveyors is Duck's Breath Mystery Theater's Ask Dr. Science, which airs on NPR. They tend not to rely on one of my favorite fake-science tropes, the inflated "sciency" terminology. If you can slap "quotient," "factor," or "-itis" in there somewhere, you've got instant comedy.
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
52. Weekends (more or less) off. I just love 'em. This is the first in a while. I don't plan to drive anywhere, write something, do a ton of grading, or anything else like that. Of course, I do have to prep for Monday, but I'm trying to regard that as somehow just a fun weekend activity.
Teaching in college is not a cushy job, but it has the enormous perk of summers off. I think we pay for that with the tough hours we put in during the academic year. I rarely get a weekend like this coming one, and man, do I need it.
51. Quasi-scientific explanations. I just love 'em. Faux-science charms me, as satire and as silliness. One of the best fake science purveyors is Duck's Breath Mystery Theater's Ask Dr. Science, which airs on NPR. They tend not to rely on one of my favorite fake-science tropes, the inflated "sciency" terminology. If you can slap "quotient," "factor," or "-itis" in there somewhere, you've got instant comedy.
end of the month
Goodbye, November.
Good riddance. Egad, what a month. I now have 5 more days of class sessions, then final papers, and this semester is over. More on that another time. What's critical here is that tomorrow begins December, and will be spent doing very little. We might go to the toy train show at the fairgrounds. Might.
Last night I came downstairs after working on stuff (after the jazz combo concert on campus) to discover that my loveliest had assembled a model locomotive, entirely out of used aluminum products - a soda can serving as the body, two cat food cans as large wheels, four tealight tins as small wheels and another as the smokestack, and some used foil shaped into the engine room. I love toy trains, so it was a very sweet surprise.
Good riddance. Egad, what a month. I now have 5 more days of class sessions, then final papers, and this semester is over. More on that another time. What's critical here is that tomorrow begins December, and will be spent doing very little. We might go to the toy train show at the fairgrounds. Might.
Last night I came downstairs after working on stuff (after the jazz combo concert on campus) to discover that my loveliest had assembled a model locomotive, entirely out of used aluminum products - a soda can serving as the body, two cat food cans as large wheels, four tealight tins as small wheels and another as the smokestack, and some used foil shaped into the engine room. I love toy trains, so it was a very sweet surprise.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
relations, jury duty
It takes only a short holiday trip to reconfirm what we have all known for generations upon generations: Everyone's relatives are crazy. We know this is true because they drive us crazy, too.
Exactly how it is that we have been able to remain sane, when all of our relatives are out of their minds, is unclear. It is also unknown precisely how it is that their insanity produces our own, or how it spreads to us. Studies have identified correlative factors, but have never reduced these down to a core cause. Of these, the greatest controversy surrounds whether Outrageous Prejudice and Political Views or Dysfunction and Dysfunction-Blindness is the most significant factor. Others argue that Substance Abuse is the key, since it lowers inhibitions about expressing or acting upon the other two. Finally, a small but committed minority of researchers say the entire process is driven by a poorly-understood but apparently very powerful element that they call the Day-amn, These People Are Crazy Quotient.
Recovery times vary, apparently depending on three key variables: Visit-Duration, Relative-Density, and Vegetation-Opportunity. These factors do not mitigate the insanity-producing or -spreading effect of holidays with the folks, but they do predict rates of regaining good senses, within 3%.
We got back from LA early Saturday evening. This is my first post. Lauren's folk don't, for me, have a very high DTPAC Quotient (closeness of relation is probably another factor), but I'm still in the awkward adolescence of newfound sanity, if that makes any sense, and I doubt it. The Visit-Duration was short, Relative-Density less than usual, but what really screwed me this trip was the lack of Vegetation-Opportunity.
I had jury duty Monday. Man oh man oh man oh man do I loathe jury duty. It's not my civic duty that I detest. It's being in the courthouse, in courtrooms, being around bailiffs and judges, and hearing dozens of my fellow citizens plod through oral voir-dire answering 11 frigging questions that should take 30 seconds to respond to. Obviously I can't divulge. But I will say it's amazing to me that none of these people use illegal drugs. Truly, truly amazing. In fact, unbelievable, especially about that one guy.
Exactly how it is that we have been able to remain sane, when all of our relatives are out of their minds, is unclear. It is also unknown precisely how it is that their insanity produces our own, or how it spreads to us. Studies have identified correlative factors, but have never reduced these down to a core cause. Of these, the greatest controversy surrounds whether Outrageous Prejudice and Political Views or Dysfunction and Dysfunction-Blindness is the most significant factor. Others argue that Substance Abuse is the key, since it lowers inhibitions about expressing or acting upon the other two. Finally, a small but committed minority of researchers say the entire process is driven by a poorly-understood but apparently very powerful element that they call the Day-amn, These People Are Crazy Quotient.
Recovery times vary, apparently depending on three key variables: Visit-Duration, Relative-Density, and Vegetation-Opportunity. These factors do not mitigate the insanity-producing or -spreading effect of holidays with the folks, but they do predict rates of regaining good senses, within 3%.
We got back from LA early Saturday evening. This is my first post. Lauren's folk don't, for me, have a very high DTPAC Quotient (closeness of relation is probably another factor), but I'm still in the awkward adolescence of newfound sanity, if that makes any sense, and I doubt it. The Visit-Duration was short, Relative-Density less than usual, but what really screwed me this trip was the lack of Vegetation-Opportunity.
I had jury duty Monday. Man oh man oh man oh man do I loathe jury duty. It's not my civic duty that I detest. It's being in the courthouse, in courtrooms, being around bailiffs and judges, and hearing dozens of my fellow citizens plod through oral voir-dire answering 11 frigging questions that should take 30 seconds to respond to. Obviously I can't divulge. But I will say it's amazing to me that none of these people use illegal drugs. Truly, truly amazing. In fact, unbelievable, especially about that one guy.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
the problem of self-worth
The last therapist I had was really good. I found her through the employee assistance program I have access to, and I was lucky to get her. My problems were depression and anxiety, and although I had some serious depression and anxiety, I must have been strawberry shortcake compared to her main focus of specialization: most of her clients were sex offenders.
In any case, when I got the referral, I called to interview her. I asked about her orientation and methodology. She was amused. I'm pretty sure she thought I was the biggest smart-ass in the world. But I know a little about psychology, have seen a handful of mainly very bad therapists, and I wanted to know. She didn't say.
One of the tasks she kept presenting me was to understand my troubles in terms of how I interpreted and told myself what my experiences meant. (So, if you're keeping score at home, she was probably operating out of some version of rational-emotive or cognitive therapy.) She would ask me why I was focused on the negative judgments of me made by people I didn't respect - which I was, honestly. To me, doofus that I am, this was a revelation.
She also asked me very difficult questions about self-worth that I still struggle with. I'm not sure, even now, what self-worth means, or how it would function in my life. In her view, it meant something like valuing myself, simply and solely because I am me. This is very hard for me to do, to the point that when she would ask me about my self-worth, I would start to rattle off the things I had done or the qualities I had that seemed to be worthy. "I'm intelligent," I'd say, pointing out what seemed obviously to be a worthy characteristic. But she'd say that intelligence isn't something I'd really earned, and isn't something intrinsically worthy, anyway.
It was a trick, of course. Any particular characteristic one has isn't the real source of self-worth. Under this model of therapy, self-worth arises from a rational and emotional notion of one's centrality to one's own life. Let me rephrase that: under this model, self-worth is you telling yourself that you're worth consideration. There is no magic, no psychohistory or psychodrama at the root of the problem of having a poor self-concept.
That it still comes up, while my life in general is demonstrably, objectively, in every way better than it was when I was dealing with depression, is stunning and puzzling to me. But it's true: a bad class session, poor reception of a paper I've written, listening to superior guitarists, an offhand comment, can all shake my self-confidence and undermine my feeling of self-worth.
But this remains an open question for me. As much as I would like to feel good about myself, and not have that sense of my own worthiness threatened on a daily basis, I remain suspicious of the idea of intrinsic self-worth. Do we not need to deserve it? Do we not need to deserve ourselves, or deserve the good, the happiness, the pleasure, that we continuously demand for ourselves?
In any case, when I got the referral, I called to interview her. I asked about her orientation and methodology. She was amused. I'm pretty sure she thought I was the biggest smart-ass in the world. But I know a little about psychology, have seen a handful of mainly very bad therapists, and I wanted to know. She didn't say.
One of the tasks she kept presenting me was to understand my troubles in terms of how I interpreted and told myself what my experiences meant. (So, if you're keeping score at home, she was probably operating out of some version of rational-emotive or cognitive therapy.) She would ask me why I was focused on the negative judgments of me made by people I didn't respect - which I was, honestly. To me, doofus that I am, this was a revelation.
She also asked me very difficult questions about self-worth that I still struggle with. I'm not sure, even now, what self-worth means, or how it would function in my life. In her view, it meant something like valuing myself, simply and solely because I am me. This is very hard for me to do, to the point that when she would ask me about my self-worth, I would start to rattle off the things I had done or the qualities I had that seemed to be worthy. "I'm intelligent," I'd say, pointing out what seemed obviously to be a worthy characteristic. But she'd say that intelligence isn't something I'd really earned, and isn't something intrinsically worthy, anyway.
It was a trick, of course. Any particular characteristic one has isn't the real source of self-worth. Under this model of therapy, self-worth arises from a rational and emotional notion of one's centrality to one's own life. Let me rephrase that: under this model, self-worth is you telling yourself that you're worth consideration. There is no magic, no psychohistory or psychodrama at the root of the problem of having a poor self-concept.
That it still comes up, while my life in general is demonstrably, objectively, in every way better than it was when I was dealing with depression, is stunning and puzzling to me. But it's true: a bad class session, poor reception of a paper I've written, listening to superior guitarists, an offhand comment, can all shake my self-confidence and undermine my feeling of self-worth.
But this remains an open question for me. As much as I would like to feel good about myself, and not have that sense of my own worthiness threatened on a daily basis, I remain suspicious of the idea of intrinsic self-worth. Do we not need to deserve it? Do we not need to deserve ourselves, or deserve the good, the happiness, the pleasure, that we continuously demand for ourselves?
pies
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
53. Pies. I just love 'em. My mom always baked the most wonderful pies. They have set the standard for pies in my life. No store-bought or restaurant pie has ever come close to my mom's apple, peach, or pumpkin - especially pumpkin.
Unfortunately, true to family form, my mom isn't good at transmitting recipes. I called her the other day to get the recipe for apple and to check on the pumpkin recipe, and as she read me them, she kept saying cryptic things like "I add more" or "I add less." That means the recipe isn't what actually goes on, which is to say that it isn't a recipe.
I don't mind that. The good Moose knows, I don't have recipes for most things I cook. But this business of having and disseminating recipes which are not in fact the recipe one usespromulgates an oppressive ideology is very confusing.
I call upon all bakers and cooks to be honest with those with whom they share their knowledge, and to be honest with themselves, and admit when their so-called recipes are mere guidelines, hints, or admonitions. Not all moral prescriptions are absolute and inviolate, and likewise not all culinary prescriptions can be legislated for all times and for all persons.
So there. The philosopher-chef has spoken.
53. Pies. I just love 'em. My mom always baked the most wonderful pies. They have set the standard for pies in my life. No store-bought or restaurant pie has ever come close to my mom's apple, peach, or pumpkin - especially pumpkin.
Unfortunately, true to family form, my mom isn't good at transmitting recipes. I called her the other day to get the recipe for apple and to check on the pumpkin recipe, and as she read me them, she kept saying cryptic things like "I add more" or "I add less." That means the recipe isn't what actually goes on, which is to say that it isn't a recipe.
I don't mind that. The good Moose knows, I don't have recipes for most things I cook. But this business of having and disseminating recipes which are not in fact the recipe one uses
I call upon all bakers and cooks to be honest with those with whom they share their knowledge, and to be honest with themselves, and admit when their so-called recipes are mere guidelines, hints, or admonitions. Not all moral prescriptions are absolute and inviolate, and likewise not all culinary prescriptions can be legislated for all times and for all persons.
So there. The philosopher-chef has spoken.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
dinner
Tonight, I'm making one of my favorites:
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
54. Meatloafs. Meatloaves? Whatever. I just love 'em.
We've all had meatloaf. Most of us, anyway. And most of the meatloaf we've had isn't terribly exciting stuff. Soda crackers, an egg, some milk, ketchup, plopped together. I never thought anything of it, despite my sister's love of the stuff (especially in the rather bizarre form of a meatloaf and peanut butter sandwich). My mom made this meatloaf. Your mom probably did too. Our moms love us, but their meatloaves don't prove it.
I first discovered meatloaf in the full sense from a joint in Mo-town called DeVa. They make a Mediterranean style meatloaf sandwich with tomato sauce and melted cheese. The meatloaf is a revelation: savory, spicy, even juicy. I've devoted myself to finding a way to create gourmet meatloaf ever since.
My current recipe involves ground beef, lamb, and pork, gobs of mustard, either salsa or tomato sauce, and the key ingredients: generous supplies of cumin and garlic. It's in the oven now, baking away.
And for crying out loud, use beef with some damn fat in it, people! You'll get baked cardboard if'n you don't. And add more garlic! More! MORE!
I've made tomato sauce today as well, so I can make us meatloaf sandwiches the DeVa way later this week.
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
54. Meatloafs. Meatloaves? Whatever. I just love 'em.
We've all had meatloaf. Most of us, anyway. And most of the meatloaf we've had isn't terribly exciting stuff. Soda crackers, an egg, some milk, ketchup, plopped together. I never thought anything of it, despite my sister's love of the stuff (especially in the rather bizarre form of a meatloaf and peanut butter sandwich). My mom made this meatloaf. Your mom probably did too. Our moms love us, but their meatloaves don't prove it.
I first discovered meatloaf in the full sense from a joint in Mo-town called DeVa. They make a Mediterranean style meatloaf sandwich with tomato sauce and melted cheese. The meatloaf is a revelation: savory, spicy, even juicy. I've devoted myself to finding a way to create gourmet meatloaf ever since.
My current recipe involves ground beef, lamb, and pork, gobs of mustard, either salsa or tomato sauce, and the key ingredients: generous supplies of cumin and garlic. It's in the oven now, baking away.
And for crying out loud, use beef with some damn fat in it, people! You'll get baked cardboard if'n you don't. And add more garlic! More! MORE!
I've made tomato sauce today as well, so I can make us meatloaf sandwiches the DeVa way later this week.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Chi
Chicago is one example.
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
55. Big cities. I just love 'em. I've been to San Francisco and Washington DC more than other big cities (and some would say these aren't, and in the case of DC they'd be more right than wrong, but anyway), but I've also been to New York a couple times and Chicago a small handful. I love Chicago.
Red-eyed out to Chi for SPEP, Wednesday night to Thursday morning. After getting some breakfast and waiting out our hotel reservation we got in, rested up a bit, then hit the town. We hiked 4 miles from the River North Westin, around the Magnificent Mile and over to the Navy Pier, then back, that afternoon. Friday we did the conference morning sessions and then headed back out, this time south, around Grant Park, all the way over to Shedd Aquarium so I could show Lauren the view of Lake Michigan from there. Along the way you get views like this:
Once you're right at the aquarium, turning toward the lake, the skyline is to your left, and nothing but lake in front of you. The wind at that point is wonderful.
One of the coolest things about Chicago is of course architecture. The skyscraper was born there, and there are fine examples all over the freaking place. Better yet, there are skyscrapers of every era, from the teens to now. This gives you incredible juxtapositions: a 19th century Louis Sullivan monumental hunk of rock next to a postmodern glass frolic, behind a high-modern steel tower and a concrete obelisk.
We didn't close Berghoff's, like I did with a gaggle of Duquesne philosophy grad students years ago (after untold pitchers of German beer and untold platters of German food). We didn't get a hotdog from a street vendor, because there weren't any in evidence. We did get a Chicago pizza, which I love, but Lauren wasn't thrilled by. Best of all, was the walking. Chicago is a fantastic place to walk. Hazardous, but delightful.
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
55. Big cities. I just love 'em. I've been to San Francisco and Washington DC more than other big cities (and some would say these aren't, and in the case of DC they'd be more right than wrong, but anyway), but I've also been to New York a couple times and Chicago a small handful. I love Chicago.
Red-eyed out to Chi for SPEP, Wednesday night to Thursday morning. After getting some breakfast and waiting out our hotel reservation we got in, rested up a bit, then hit the town. We hiked 4 miles from the River North Westin, around the Magnificent Mile and over to the Navy Pier, then back, that afternoon. Friday we did the conference morning sessions and then headed back out, this time south, around Grant Park, all the way over to Shedd Aquarium so I could show Lauren the view of Lake Michigan from there. Along the way you get views like this:
Once you're right at the aquarium, turning toward the lake, the skyline is to your left, and nothing but lake in front of you. The wind at that point is wonderful.
One of the coolest things about Chicago is of course architecture. The skyscraper was born there, and there are fine examples all over the freaking place. Better yet, there are skyscrapers of every era, from the teens to now. This gives you incredible juxtapositions: a 19th century Louis Sullivan monumental hunk of rock next to a postmodern glass frolic, behind a high-modern steel tower and a concrete obelisk.
We didn't close Berghoff's, like I did with a gaggle of Duquesne philosophy grad students years ago (after untold pitchers of German beer and untold platters of German food). We didn't get a hotdog from a street vendor, because there weren't any in evidence. We did get a Chicago pizza, which I love, but Lauren wasn't thrilled by. Best of all, was the walking. Chicago is a fantastic place to walk. Hazardous, but delightful.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
election day??
Today is the day that Americans solemnify the basic democratic right to vote. Er, well, today is the day that many a few Americans solemnify desecrate go vote.
We're going.
It's very exciting this year. No, it's not. I'm sorry. I lied.
Turlock school board. Nnyeh. I will never have a child in a Turlock school, or any other school, for that matter. But of course I care. I want to do anything I can to elect godless communists to the school board.
Irrigation district. Bleh. I don't irrigate, personally. Our tiny little rental yard is irrigated. They're also the people from whom we get electricity, which would make sense if they generated electricity from hydroelectric dams, but of course they don't in any great capacity. Voting for one or another of these guys will make no real difference in the policy of generating power with the cheapest investment for the greatest profit. (I looked into running for the irrigation board, because of my disgust that we only get 1% of our power from solar and less from wind. It was basically impossible for me to run.)
I think there's a proposition or two. These are rarely good ideas.
Frankly, I think I just like to fill in the little balloty thingies.
We're going.
It's very exciting this year. No, it's not. I'm sorry. I lied.
Turlock school board. Nnyeh. I will never have a child in a Turlock school, or any other school, for that matter. But of course I care. I want to do anything I can to elect godless communists to the school board.
Irrigation district. Bleh. I don't irrigate, personally. Our tiny little rental yard is irrigated. They're also the people from whom we get electricity, which would make sense if they generated electricity from hydroelectric dams, but of course they don't in any great capacity. Voting for one or another of these guys will make no real difference in the policy of generating power with the cheapest investment for the greatest profit. (I looked into running for the irrigation board, because of my disgust that we only get 1% of our power from solar and less from wind. It was basically impossible for me to run.)
I think there's a proposition or two. These are rarely good ideas.
Frankly, I think I just like to fill in the little balloty thingies.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
I felt the earth move. . .
Really, I did. My loveliest and I were in the kitchen, debating (I am not making this up) whether airline personnel should be more forthcoming with information about delays, so that passengers will be calmer and feel more in control, when the floor started to roll and shimmy and the wine glasses in the rack started to clink together. It's hard to describe, but if you imagine a big truck driving in front of your place, but then extend and deepen that vibration, make it more side-to-side than up-and-down, and add a bit of sea waves, it's something like that.
[Or better yet, get a big bath, made of ebony...]
In other news, the Penguins won a very satisfying game against the defense-oriented Minnesota Wild. I am still somewhat sick, but more or less ready for class today.
Down south, yet another argument against human reproduction admitted setting one of the wildfires. Over on Hey there, skippy I sort of got into a sort of debate (sort of) about the effect of climate change on the fires. A commentator claimed that saying there was any global warming at play was bogus, and presented as his evidence (sort of) that the fires were set. Indeed, at least one was for sure. My point was that the place was riper than it would have been, the fires more intense, because everything was drier than [insert absurd/obscene comparative term here]. Unless I miss my own point.
Meanwhile, Iran is trying to be helpful by pointing out that we'd be fools to invade Iran. Someone hasn't been paying attention!
[Or better yet, get a big bath, made of ebony...]
In other news, the Penguins won a very satisfying game against the defense-oriented Minnesota Wild. I am still somewhat sick, but more or less ready for class today.
Down south, yet another argument against human reproduction admitted setting one of the wildfires. Over on Hey there, skippy I sort of got into a sort of debate (sort of) about the effect of climate change on the fires. A commentator claimed that saying there was any global warming at play was bogus, and presented as his evidence (sort of) that the fires were set. Indeed, at least one was for sure. My point was that the place was riper than it would have been, the fires more intense, because everything was drier than [insert absurd/obscene comparative term here]. Unless I miss my own point.
Meanwhile, Iran is trying to be helpful by pointing out that we'd be fools to invade Iran. Someone hasn't been paying attention!
Monday, October 29, 2007
sick
Yeah, I'm sick. I feel guilty, because most proximate to being sick today, I was having a lot of fun on the weekend. But the chances are that no matter what I did this weekend, I'd be sick today. So I should relax. In fact, I can't do a whole lot else.
The only reason I'm able to write this at all is due to the next of
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
56. Hot peppers. I just love 'em. My favorite form of hot peppers is habanero sauce, specifically Melinda's XXXX Hot and their Red Savina. They're exceptionally hot, though not the hottest I've tried, but more to the point extremely flavorful. For me, hot sauce is not a macho thing. I love the burn, and I definitely love the so-called endorphin rush, but I really love the taste of hot pepper sauces. Melinda's always goes in black beans and rice, tacos, often in chili, sometimes on hot dogs or on stir-fried dishes.
Last night my loveliest made some soup to help me recuperate, and we added some Asian hot chili sauce. This afternoon we finished it off, and the hot sauce has really helped reduce the pain and discomfort I've been having. And, it turns out, there's medical studies going on about the pain-relieving properties of capsaicin.
The only reason I'm able to write this at all is due to the next of
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
56. Hot peppers. I just love 'em. My favorite form of hot peppers is habanero sauce, specifically Melinda's XXXX Hot and their Red Savina. They're exceptionally hot, though not the hottest I've tried, but more to the point extremely flavorful. For me, hot sauce is not a macho thing. I love the burn, and I definitely love the so-called endorphin rush, but I really love the taste of hot pepper sauces. Melinda's always goes in black beans and rice, tacos, often in chili, sometimes on hot dogs or on stir-fried dishes.
Last night my loveliest made some soup to help me recuperate, and we added some Asian hot chili sauce. This afternoon we finished it off, and the hot sauce has really helped reduce the pain and discomfort I've been having. And, it turns out, there's medical studies going on about the pain-relieving properties of capsaicin.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
exhausting thing
a very brief item from
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
57. Concerts. I just love 'em. I don't go to many, really, but they're a blast.
Friday night we saw the university Concert Chorale, which was cool, especially the Mozart and the "Canciones por las Americas" written by a Canadian composer.
Saturday night we went to the annual benefit show for The Bridge School, a school for developmentally disabled children. The show started at 5 pm, beginning with a couple numbers by Neil Young, who is one of the main organizers of the event, then: Regina Spektor, Tegan and Sara, My Morning Jacket, John Mayer, Tom Waits backed up by the Kronos Quarter, Jerry Lee Lewis, a set by Neil, and finally Metallica. We left Shoreline Amphitheater after midnight.
The Waits/Kronos collaboration was intriguing as hell. One might not think it would work, at face value, but it was perfectly sensible, as understood in the Waits/Kronos context. Lots of Tom Waits fans there, which was nice because people lying on the grass near us didn't understand him, and mistook his voice characterization for not being able to sing. Never mind that they couldn't possibly perform that voice and sing at the same time, they didn't listen to the damned songs. They talked over "The Day After Tomorrow," but it was such a strong and touching performance. So my being upset by those morons was tempered by the people who definitely appreciated him, including the guy next to us who stood and rolled up his sleeping bag right after the set and said, "Well, I can die happy now."
There were a lot of breaks between sets, as you might imagine. But still, 60 songs, 7 1/2 hours of concert, it was terrific.
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
57. Concerts. I just love 'em. I don't go to many, really, but they're a blast.
Friday night we saw the university Concert Chorale, which was cool, especially the Mozart and the "Canciones por las Americas" written by a Canadian composer.
Saturday night we went to the annual benefit show for The Bridge School, a school for developmentally disabled children. The show started at 5 pm, beginning with a couple numbers by Neil Young, who is one of the main organizers of the event, then: Regina Spektor, Tegan and Sara, My Morning Jacket, John Mayer, Tom Waits backed up by the Kronos Quarter, Jerry Lee Lewis, a set by Neil, and finally Metallica. We left Shoreline Amphitheater after midnight.
The Waits/Kronos collaboration was intriguing as hell. One might not think it would work, at face value, but it was perfectly sensible, as understood in the Waits/Kronos context. Lots of Tom Waits fans there, which was nice because people lying on the grass near us didn't understand him, and mistook his voice characterization for not being able to sing. Never mind that they couldn't possibly perform that voice and sing at the same time, they didn't listen to the damned songs. They talked over "The Day After Tomorrow," but it was such a strong and touching performance. So my being upset by those morons was tempered by the people who definitely appreciated him, including the guy next to us who stood and rolled up his sleeping bag right after the set and said, "Well, I can die happy now."
There were a lot of breaks between sets, as you might imagine. But still, 60 songs, 7 1/2 hours of concert, it was terrific.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
trends of the day
Apparently, the thing to do is take this trivia test:
Am-I-Dumb.com - Intelligence Test
Around here, the other thing to do is to be sick. I didn't teach yesterday, and if I had classes today I don't think I'd go in today, either. On the mend, though.
I blame student papers. They are notoriously virulent.
Am-I-Dumb.com - Intelligence Test
Around here, the other thing to do is to be sick. I didn't teach yesterday, and if I had classes today I don't think I'd go in today, either. On the mend, though.
I blame student papers. They are notoriously virulent.
Monday, October 15, 2007
gloating
It's been a while since I gloated about my cooking and home-brewing exploits in this space. Sunday night I made mahi-mahi for dinner, steamed in foil in the oven, with garlic, sesame oil, soy sauce, ginger, coriander, white pepper, and hot chili. As sides, I made jasmine rice cooked with coriander (to marry flavors, you see - and incidentally, if anyone ever asks you if it's a good idea to cook jasmine rice with a handful of whole coriander in the water, you say "yes"), and stir-fried green beans, julienned carrots, and mushrooms, with spicy black bean sauce. As I was finishing cooking I realized this meal deserved a classy presentation, and the square black plates I found to be part of the celebration of my loveliest's birthday in September came to mind. Beautiful, no?
After dinner we bottled the new porter, brewed with molasses (which is a key element of the appropriately-named English beer, Old Peculier [sic]). It''ll take 4-5 weeks to develop its finish, but already it was smooth. Should be a damned good 'un.
Here are the bottles waiting to be filled. Sigfried and Roy (the Bettas) look on in rapt anticipation.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
oooh, things
I realized I misnumbered my last entry in this series, but I don't care. That should show how much I care. Who cares?
It's...
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
60. Hardcore, ass-kicking, take-no-prisoners, damn-the-torpedoes, there-but-for-the-grace-of-Moose writing sessions. I just love 'em. Today I nailed the rough draft of the paper I'll present to the Society for Phenomenology and the Human Sciences this November (yes, after breakfast). I was in Arrgh-Me-Hearties, Eat-Yer-Hearts-Out, Leave-It-All-On-The-Stage, Hyphenate-Effusively Mode for about four hours, knocking the heck out of this paper on intersubjectivity, online community, and so on. Hoo, boy howdy. That felt goooood.
I tend to write in bursts, or rather binges, fueled by adrenalin or whatever else I've got, and the feel of those sessions is one of the main motivations I have for writing. I do some of my best work this way, I think. Back at UNCC, we used to write late at night, essentially breaking into the writing lab on campus and using the Macs long after hours, crashing through papers and keeping the energy flowing by writing side gags about anything that came to mind.
In grad school, I wrote like this all the time. Lancelot became my cat, and I became his boy, during my comprehensive exams, when I spent 6-12 hours every day for a week writing essays to respond to the exam questions, with music, coffee, sandwiches, and the cat my constant companions. I never felt more alive as a writer than the third day of comps, during the 9th hour and the 13th loop of James Brown's Greatest Hits, with Lance in my lap, my left leg bouncing out the beat, juking through Heidegger.
It's the only way to travel.
59. Stand-up comics. I just love 'em.
Well, some of them. I am on the whole fairly forgiving of stand-ups, whom I regard as intellectual cousins, rightly or wrongly. My favorites tend to work in absurdity, non-sequitir, and satire: Lenny Bruce, Eddie Izzard, Lewis Black, and of course George Carlin.
But lately I've had Ross Noble stuck in my head. This is dangerous, and more than a little frightening. I'm not sure that Ross Noble should be allowed in the house. Why should I be hanging around with the image in my head of someone having won the Lick the Dalai Lama contest and proceeding to do so, proclaiming (as Ross Noble does in his show): "BWWWUUHUHUHUHUHHUHHHHH!! SALTY!!"
It's weird. It's captivating. I can't explain that. Please don't ask.
58. People I recognize but can't tell from where. I just love 'em.
Do you know these people? You encounter them in some innocuous, ordinary setting, but they're definitely someone you've seen before. Where? You have no idea. You can't find the memory, no matter how you rack your brain. But you know them.
Clerk at a store? Dunno.
Dental hygienist's friend? Nah.
Once collided shopping carts at Safeway? Possibly. This is a common experience, after all.
Spent an afternoon in court together, waiting for your respective attorneys? Who hasn't done that? And what wonderful and interesting people we meet in courtrooms!
At a Midas, waiting for them to screw up your exhaust system for 80 bucks? It could be!
So many people play walk-on parts in our lives that eventually someone is going to play more than one role. It's meaningless, but it's still disconcerting. Didn't he catch a cab in Boston in Act II? What's he doing in San Francisco in Act IV? Aren't they from Michigan? Weren't they at the lake? Why are they cutting us off in traffic? Hey, weren't you...? No? Then, what the - ? Whatever happened to your schnauzer?
It's...
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
60. Hardcore, ass-kicking, take-no-prisoners, damn-the-torpedoes, there-but-for-the-grace-of-Moose writing sessions. I just love 'em. Today I nailed the rough draft of the paper I'll present to the Society for Phenomenology and the Human Sciences this November (yes, after breakfast). I was in Arrgh-Me-Hearties, Eat-Yer-Hearts-Out, Leave-It-All-On-The-Stage, Hyphenate-Effusively Mode for about four hours, knocking the heck out of this paper on intersubjectivity, online community, and so on. Hoo, boy howdy. That felt goooood.
I tend to write in bursts, or rather binges, fueled by adrenalin or whatever else I've got, and the feel of those sessions is one of the main motivations I have for writing. I do some of my best work this way, I think. Back at UNCC, we used to write late at night, essentially breaking into the writing lab on campus and using the Macs long after hours, crashing through papers and keeping the energy flowing by writing side gags about anything that came to mind.
In grad school, I wrote like this all the time. Lancelot became my cat, and I became his boy, during my comprehensive exams, when I spent 6-12 hours every day for a week writing essays to respond to the exam questions, with music, coffee, sandwiches, and the cat my constant companions. I never felt more alive as a writer than the third day of comps, during the 9th hour and the 13th loop of James Brown's Greatest Hits, with Lance in my lap, my left leg bouncing out the beat, juking through Heidegger.
It's the only way to travel.
59. Stand-up comics. I just love 'em.
Well, some of them. I am on the whole fairly forgiving of stand-ups, whom I regard as intellectual cousins, rightly or wrongly. My favorites tend to work in absurdity, non-sequitir, and satire: Lenny Bruce, Eddie Izzard, Lewis Black, and of course George Carlin.
But lately I've had Ross Noble stuck in my head. This is dangerous, and more than a little frightening. I'm not sure that Ross Noble should be allowed in the house. Why should I be hanging around with the image in my head of someone having won the Lick the Dalai Lama contest and proceeding to do so, proclaiming (as Ross Noble does in his show): "BWWWUUHUHUHUHUHHUHHHHH!! SALTY!!"
It's weird. It's captivating. I can't explain that. Please don't ask.
58. People I recognize but can't tell from where. I just love 'em.
Do you know these people? You encounter them in some innocuous, ordinary setting, but they're definitely someone you've seen before. Where? You have no idea. You can't find the memory, no matter how you rack your brain. But you know them.
Clerk at a store? Dunno.
Dental hygienist's friend? Nah.
Once collided shopping carts at Safeway? Possibly. This is a common experience, after all.
Spent an afternoon in court together, waiting for your respective attorneys? Who hasn't done that? And what wonderful and interesting people we meet in courtrooms!
At a Midas, waiting for them to screw up your exhaust system for 80 bucks? It could be!
So many people play walk-on parts in our lives that eventually someone is going to play more than one role. It's meaningless, but it's still disconcerting. Didn't he catch a cab in Boston in Act II? What's he doing in San Francisco in Act IV? Aren't they from Michigan? Weren't they at the lake? Why are they cutting us off in traffic? Hey, weren't you...? No? Then, what the - ? Whatever happened to your schnauzer?
Friday, October 12, 2007
we're #2!
According to a report in the Modesto Bee, Merced County surpassed Stanislaus County in mortgage foreclosures in September. The last three months, San Joaquin, Stanislaus, and now Merced have taken turns leading the nation in this critical economic activity. The Bee cited something called "real estate experts" who supposedly claimed that the foreclosure rates around here, generally eight times higher than national averages (during a nationwide foreclosure boom), are due to house prices dropping right when adjustable-rate mortgages become too expensive for owners. They can't sell for as much as they owe.
The article does not explore whether there could be some connection between foreclosure rates and the fact that housing is basically unaffordable for most people who live and work here.
In any case, the stats are mind-boggling:
The article does not explore whether there could be some connection between foreclosure rates and the fact that housing is basically unaffordable for most people who live and work here.
In any case, the stats are mind-boggling:
RealtyTrac said lenders repossessed 921 homes last month in Stanislaus, San Joaquin and Merced counties. In September 2006, by comparison, 14 homes were taken back by lenders.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
all work and no things makes Doc lose it, but luckily that's not gonna happen
what a boring title
Eeey-uwwwwrrrrrrhh!
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
61. Loaves of home-made bread. I just love 'em. I am by self-acclamation the Philosopher-Chef, not the Philosopher-Baker, but I do bake bread. Most often I bake a rustic white bread, the kind that you cover in flour so as to prevent it getting terribly dark crust. It's a solid, chewy bread, with substance, depth of character, a square jaw, buns of steel, and so on. I baked two loaves Tuesday morning, before Academic Senate, when other, less brave souls would have been feverishly at work on the paper to be presented in Chicago in early November.
Not I. I've got everything under control, except for my left wrist and hand, apparently. And time and space. And the cat. Well, you get the idea.
In fact, I would claim that I am better off having baked bread than if I had spent that morning trying to write. For one thing, I believe I write better philosophy papers if I'm also doing something creative on the side (writing plays was always my standby in college; in grad school I wrote satires of department and academic affairs - in all senses of that term; later I wrote reviews of ads, political satires, more academic satires; until the recent calamity with my fretting hand, it's been writing songs).
For another thing, I believe I write with more facility than I would otherwise if I am assured that good food is imminent. For a still further thing, I believe I write with more facility than 97.3 of any given 100 people, and more than 98.72 of any given 100 academics. So I don't worry. I relax, have a slice of bread, grab a homebrew, pick up a guitar, think to myself how utterly nuts the whole business is, and it just flows.
62. Classes with zip. I just love 'em. I've always got one section of Professional Ethics that takes the heck off, every semester. It's alchemy, but when if comes together - the right combination of personalities, talents, attitudes, provocations, context, material, stuff in the news - it's beautiful. I feel myself unable to avoid smiling about how good the conversation feels, how much is being revealed or delved into, how insights pop up, seemingly out of nowhere, and how students' faces express their Eureka moments. Damnation, that's fun.
If I could somehow get bread, guitars, homebrew, and writing involved (satire is a given), I'd have Category 5 fun. My classes would leave behind epic devastation. What could be better than that, I ask you?
Don't answer that.
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
61. Loaves of home-made bread. I just love 'em. I am by self-acclamation the Philosopher-Chef, not the Philosopher-Baker, but I do bake bread. Most often I bake a rustic white bread, the kind that you cover in flour so as to prevent it getting terribly dark crust. It's a solid, chewy bread, with substance, depth of character, a square jaw, buns of steel, and so on. I baked two loaves Tuesday morning, before Academic Senate, when other, less brave souls would have been feverishly at work on the paper to be presented in Chicago in early November.
Not I. I've got everything under control, except for my left wrist and hand, apparently. And time and space. And the cat. Well, you get the idea.
In fact, I would claim that I am better off having baked bread than if I had spent that morning trying to write. For one thing, I believe I write better philosophy papers if I'm also doing something creative on the side (writing plays was always my standby in college; in grad school I wrote satires of department and academic affairs - in all senses of that term; later I wrote reviews of ads, political satires, more academic satires; until the recent calamity with my fretting hand, it's been writing songs).
For another thing, I believe I write with more facility than I would otherwise if I am assured that good food is imminent. For a still further thing, I believe I write with more facility than 97.3 of any given 100 people, and more than 98.72 of any given 100 academics. So I don't worry. I relax, have a slice of bread, grab a homebrew, pick up a guitar, think to myself how utterly nuts the whole business is, and it just flows.
62. Classes with zip. I just love 'em. I've always got one section of Professional Ethics that takes the heck off, every semester. It's alchemy, but when if comes together - the right combination of personalities, talents, attitudes, provocations, context, material, stuff in the news - it's beautiful. I feel myself unable to avoid smiling about how good the conversation feels, how much is being revealed or delved into, how insights pop up, seemingly out of nowhere, and how students' faces express their Eureka moments. Damnation, that's fun.
If I could somehow get bread, guitars, homebrew, and writing involved (satire is a given), I'd have Category 5 fun. My classes would leave behind epic devastation. What could be better than that, I ask you?
Don't answer that.
Monday, October 08, 2007
strange note from a previous incarnation of myself
For the next three days, my main task is to get together the paper I'm presenting at the Society for Phenomenology and the Human Sciences next month. This always happens. I send an abstract to a conference, then turn out to have to write something. You'd think I'd learn.
Anyway, the subject is the ambiguous form of community that takes place online, understood from a phenomenological position. This evening I've spent some time digging out some previous work I'd done on similar subjects, and reading it, aloud, in as stentorian a voice as I could muster, here alone while my sweetest sings in Motown. What I read tonight was a paper from the 2003 Canadian Smarties Confab (their annual congress of learned organizations, in which hundreds of academics descend upon a suspecting burg/campus and engage in the most disturbing and learned orgy imaginable for a week). In the paper, I argued that online communities were communities only in a strange, equivocal, indeed virtual sense, in which there could be no real others.
I was someone else then. Oddly, the notion of being in a community with previous versions of oneself is an example in the paper. My words feel alien.
That doesn't matter. I'm writing something new about online community, wondering if there's something between the community rooted in intersubjective empathy that phenomenologists go on about, and the postmodern notion of community as a performance or imaginary. My guess is there is, that the performance of community by online communities is not merely performance, but not independent of empathic community... in a sense which will be named later... I hope..., by, say, Thursday.
OH, OH OH OH! Right! The reason I've got three days mid-week to work on this is that Cow State Santa Claus observes something called "Columbus Day" on Wednesday, which, given my Monday-Wednesday-Friday schedule, gives me a week with only two class days. That Wednesday is neither Columbus Day, nor that California actually observes Columbus Day, nor that Columbus Day is traditionally October 12, seems to have made any difference in the arrangement of the academic year calendar.
I suppose this makes sense on some level.
Anyway, the subject is the ambiguous form of community that takes place online, understood from a phenomenological position. This evening I've spent some time digging out some previous work I'd done on similar subjects, and reading it, aloud, in as stentorian a voice as I could muster, here alone while my sweetest sings in Motown. What I read tonight was a paper from the 2003 Canadian Smarties Confab (their annual congress of learned organizations, in which hundreds of academics descend upon a suspecting burg/campus and engage in the most disturbing and learned orgy imaginable for a week). In the paper, I argued that online communities were communities only in a strange, equivocal, indeed virtual sense, in which there could be no real others.
I was someone else then. Oddly, the notion of being in a community with previous versions of oneself is an example in the paper. My words feel alien.
That doesn't matter. I'm writing something new about online community, wondering if there's something between the community rooted in intersubjective empathy that phenomenologists go on about, and the postmodern notion of community as a performance or imaginary. My guess is there is, that the performance of community by online communities is not merely performance, but not independent of empathic community... in a sense which will be named later... I hope..., by, say, Thursday.
OH, OH OH OH! Right! The reason I've got three days mid-week to work on this is that Cow State Santa Claus observes something called "Columbus Day" on Wednesday, which, given my Monday-Wednesday-Friday schedule, gives me a week with only two class days. That Wednesday is neither Columbus Day, nor that California actually observes Columbus Day, nor that Columbus Day is traditionally October 12, seems to have made any difference in the arrangement of the academic year calendar.
I suppose this makes sense on some level.
needlessly lengthy update
So I laid off the guitar for 4 days. It was unpleasant. Every evening I sat with a guitar, just holding it, which is admittedly pathetic. I felt out of sorts.
We've run through various possible diagnoses and underlying causes. Almost none of them make sense of the onset of symptoms except two: (1) that I suddenly started playing more heavily, and more complicated stuff, leading up to several marathon sessions over a period of about a week, i.e., fatigue and muscle strain, or (2) cutting off circulation for extended periods of time to my left arm, when sleeping, but additionally when walking to and from school, with my bookbag slung over my left shoulder, across my chest and back.
My form, while imperfect, isn't dreadful. I do some weird things with fretting positions, but I've always done that; you can't play minor 7ths with 6ths and 13ths any other way. My habits are awful, but I'll change those ("warming up" doesn't mean playing hot numbers). My posture isn't great either. But none of these really made sense of the pain, because I've always played this way.
My wrist went from stinging with occasional twinges of sharp pain, to feeling mainly tensed with stabs every time I rotated it (at which point I gave up opening doors and turning keys with my left hand, rendering me nearly incapable of either), to feeling more relaxed but weak and sore every time I lifted anything heavier than a fork, to finally feeling basically normal.
Yesterday afternoon I played a few songs on my old Takamine classical. I started with "Norwegian Wood," and then Lauren's song, which I badly missed playing.
This morning my wrist feels ever so slightly tired. We'll see how it goes.
We've run through various possible diagnoses and underlying causes. Almost none of them make sense of the onset of symptoms except two: (1) that I suddenly started playing more heavily, and more complicated stuff, leading up to several marathon sessions over a period of about a week, i.e., fatigue and muscle strain, or (2) cutting off circulation for extended periods of time to my left arm, when sleeping, but additionally when walking to and from school, with my bookbag slung over my left shoulder, across my chest and back.
My form, while imperfect, isn't dreadful. I do some weird things with fretting positions, but I've always done that; you can't play minor 7ths with 6ths and 13ths any other way. My habits are awful, but I'll change those ("warming up" doesn't mean playing hot numbers). My posture isn't great either. But none of these really made sense of the pain, because I've always played this way.
My wrist went from stinging with occasional twinges of sharp pain, to feeling mainly tensed with stabs every time I rotated it (at which point I gave up opening doors and turning keys with my left hand, rendering me nearly incapable of either), to feeling more relaxed but weak and sore every time I lifted anything heavier than a fork, to finally feeling basically normal.
Yesterday afternoon I played a few songs on my old Takamine classical. I started with "Norwegian Wood," and then Lauren's song, which I badly missed playing.
This morning my wrist feels ever so slightly tired. We'll see how it goes.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
repetitive stress injury?
I have not played a guitar for just over 24 hours.
About a week ago, I began to feel pain in my wrist and fingers. This has come and gone for a while now, and I have regarded it as a kind of withdrawal, which has led me to play more. But in the last week, it has become noticeable a lot of the time.
I think it's partly due to the fact that, in the last weeks of summer and the early weeks of the semester, I've gone from playing on average an hour a day to playing more like 90 minutes average daily, but distributed unevenly. This, in turn, is partly due to my uneven class schedule and to my loveliest returning to choir rehearsals on Monday nights. On non-class days and on rehearsal evenings, I've started to play more like 3 hours, often with little or no break.
That doesn't strike me as a lot, especially since I don't play lead and don't tend to play arpeggios. I'm basically a rhythm guitarist. On the other hand, almost none of what I play lacks some kind of extremely weird fingering, and I've been hitting some fingerpicked 12-string stuff and the goofy song I've written with (literally, no exaggeration) 26 chords in it rather hard lately.
So I'm grounded until my left hand stops twinging.
This evening I was reduced to sitting on the love seat, rocking back and forth while holding Kate, my Breedlove 12, and strumming the strings a couple times, without fretting.
Madness shall, without doubt, ensue rapidly, forestalled only by the brief snippets of happiness I'll get watching the Penguins, streamed over the Net, in one-quarter of my laptop screen. Tiny, tiny Penguins scoring tiny, tiny goals.
About a week ago, I began to feel pain in my wrist and fingers. This has come and gone for a while now, and I have regarded it as a kind of withdrawal, which has led me to play more. But in the last week, it has become noticeable a lot of the time.
I think it's partly due to the fact that, in the last weeks of summer and the early weeks of the semester, I've gone from playing on average an hour a day to playing more like 90 minutes average daily, but distributed unevenly. This, in turn, is partly due to my uneven class schedule and to my loveliest returning to choir rehearsals on Monday nights. On non-class days and on rehearsal evenings, I've started to play more like 3 hours, often with little or no break.
That doesn't strike me as a lot, especially since I don't play lead and don't tend to play arpeggios. I'm basically a rhythm guitarist. On the other hand, almost none of what I play lacks some kind of extremely weird fingering, and I've been hitting some fingerpicked 12-string stuff and the goofy song I've written with (literally, no exaggeration) 26 chords in it rather hard lately.
So I'm grounded until my left hand stops twinging.
This evening I was reduced to sitting on the love seat, rocking back and forth while holding Kate, my Breedlove 12, and strumming the strings a couple times, without fretting.
Madness shall, without doubt, ensue rapidly, forestalled only by the brief snippets of happiness I'll get watching the Penguins, streamed over the Net, in one-quarter of my laptop screen. Tiny, tiny Penguins scoring tiny, tiny goals.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
two things
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
64. Deeply weird movies. I just love 'em. One of my all-time favorite films is Delicatessen, which is a French movie that (this isn't much of a spoiler) turns out very quickly to involve both laughable revolutionaries and cannibalism. Yummy and yummy, I say. I'm also inordinately fond of Brazil, Being John Malkovich, The Magic Christian, and Harold and Maude, all of which are really bizarre. My ultimate favorite movie is Dr. Strangelove, which I have on good authority is a weird flick, though it doesn't always strike me that way.
Possibly weirder than the movies I like is that I dislike going to movies. I have almost never initiated a plan to go see a movie, and almost always go only because someone else wants to badly enough that I'd feel bad not to go. I used to have no patience with movies, either, with these few exceptions, but I've had a change of heart. Or maybe of scene?
63. First games of hockey seasons. I just love 'em. I got to see most of two of them today, both with favorable outcomes for me since both the Anaheim Ducks and Dallas Stars lost. Phooey on Anaheim and Dallas. The first game of hockey season is like the first day of a semester. There's the excitement of the return of this thing I love. There's the excitement of anticipation finally coming to fruition. There's the excitement of the unknown future of the season or semester yet to unfold. Everything's new, everyone's score is zero, everything is ready to transpire.
I've made the private prediction that my beloved Pittsburgh Penguins will struggle this year after their glorious turn-around season last year. I'm also fairly certain, having seen them in games already, that Henrik Zetterberg of the Detroit Red Wings and Paul Stastny of Colorado Avalanche are going to raise serious hell on offense this season (tonight: Zetterberg, 1 goal, 1 assist; Stastny, 3 goals - first career hat trick).
The Penguins play Carolina on Friday and Anaheim on Saturday to start their season. So what I'm saying in essence is that all of y'all out there are dead to me until late May at the earliest.
64. Deeply weird movies. I just love 'em. One of my all-time favorite films is Delicatessen, which is a French movie that (this isn't much of a spoiler) turns out very quickly to involve both laughable revolutionaries and cannibalism. Yummy and yummy, I say. I'm also inordinately fond of Brazil, Being John Malkovich, The Magic Christian, and Harold and Maude, all of which are really bizarre. My ultimate favorite movie is Dr. Strangelove, which I have on good authority is a weird flick, though it doesn't always strike me that way.
Possibly weirder than the movies I like is that I dislike going to movies. I have almost never initiated a plan to go see a movie, and almost always go only because someone else wants to badly enough that I'd feel bad not to go. I used to have no patience with movies, either, with these few exceptions, but I've had a change of heart. Or maybe of scene?
63. First games of hockey seasons. I just love 'em. I got to see most of two of them today, both with favorable outcomes for me since both the Anaheim Ducks and Dallas Stars lost. Phooey on Anaheim and Dallas. The first game of hockey season is like the first day of a semester. There's the excitement of the return of this thing I love. There's the excitement of anticipation finally coming to fruition. There's the excitement of the unknown future of the season or semester yet to unfold. Everything's new, everyone's score is zero, everything is ready to transpire.
I've made the private prediction that my beloved Pittsburgh Penguins will struggle this year after their glorious turn-around season last year. I'm also fairly certain, having seen them in games already, that Henrik Zetterberg of the Detroit Red Wings and Paul Stastny of Colorado Avalanche are going to raise serious hell on offense this season (tonight: Zetterberg, 1 goal, 1 assist; Stastny, 3 goals - first career hat trick).
The Penguins play Carolina on Friday and Anaheim on Saturday to start their season. So what I'm saying in essence is that all of y'all out there are dead to me until late May at the earliest.
Monday, October 01, 2007
ach! zings! (think: bad german accent)
Ach!
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
65. Comedy-juggling/magic acts. I just love 'em. Sunday my loveliest and I hit the Northern California Renaissance Faire ("Faire," you see) with our great good friends Christina and Guerin. We're still recovering, which strikes me as weird.
In any case, we had the opportunity to see both Moonie and Broon in their individual acts, juggling, eating fire (in Broon's case), and in general making an anarchic mess of things.
There's something inherently funny about juggling, magic, and hypnosis, so acts that combine these with comedy are, to my way of thinking, puregold entertainment er... entertainment no, dammit, I've done that one already... something. Pure something. Anyway, that's #65.
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
65. Comedy-juggling/magic acts. I just love 'em. Sunday my loveliest and I hit the Northern California Renaissance Faire ("Faire," you see) with our great good friends Christina and Guerin. We're still recovering, which strikes me as weird.
In any case, we had the opportunity to see both Moonie and Broon in their individual acts, juggling, eating fire (in Broon's case), and in general making an anarchic mess of things.
There's something inherently funny about juggling, magic, and hypnosis, so acts that combine these with comedy are, to my way of thinking, pure
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
of things
Ta-da!
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
66. Academic Senate meetings. I just love 'em. Academic Senate is the forum in which faculty authority is most basically exercised, and in which faculty voices on any issue on campus are most publicly heard. Some folks serve in academic senate because they've been drafted by their departments, and some of them loathe it. Some of them bring homework to grade. Some of them fall asleep.
I was first drafted by my department some years ago, in order for me to find a more integral role in the university. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and the rationale, at the time, made sense. In any case, I took to it immediately (which is unsurprising given my past history of speaking on behalf of the graduate students in the philosophy program at Duquesne - and eventually convincing the faculty to have two grad student reps at department meetings -, and my general level of political involvement, smart-assery, etc.).
I like debate. I like airing issues. I like political theater. I thrive on being informed. I thrive on taking an active role in big decisions.
What's kinda weird to me is the basic divide between faculty who are committed academic senators and those who aren't. It seems like some folks just "get it," and some just don't. Why would that be?
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
66. Academic Senate meetings. I just love 'em. Academic Senate is the forum in which faculty authority is most basically exercised, and in which faculty voices on any issue on campus are most publicly heard. Some folks serve in academic senate because they've been drafted by their departments, and some of them loathe it. Some of them bring homework to grade. Some of them fall asleep.
I was first drafted by my department some years ago, in order for me to find a more integral role in the university. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and the rationale, at the time, made sense. In any case, I took to it immediately (which is unsurprising given my past history of speaking on behalf of the graduate students in the philosophy program at Duquesne - and eventually convincing the faculty to have two grad student reps at department meetings -, and my general level of political involvement, smart-assery, etc.).
I like debate. I like airing issues. I like political theater. I thrive on being informed. I thrive on taking an active role in big decisions.
What's kinda weird to me is the basic divide between faculty who are committed academic senators and those who aren't. It seems like some folks just "get it," and some just don't. Why would that be?
Sunday, September 23, 2007
and then, there were things
In fact, there were
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
68. Portabella mushrooms. I just love 'em. For the totally uninitiated, portabellas are the honking big mushrooms with the flat to slightly concave caps. I don't actually remember what made me decide to start eating them (I've never been mushroom-averse, so it wasn't a leap of some kind, unlike a few friends), but hot damn, do I love these suckers.
I tend to prefer them stuffed, with their stems, chopped and sautéed, with various herbs and spices, some grated parmigiano reggiano, bread crumbs, and so forth, and then roasted in this state. Holy jumpin'! But then again, they are tremendous marinated and grilled or broiled, and here my tendency is to soak them down in some kinda booze, garlic, pepper, herbs-a-go-go, and olive oil, and let nature take its inevitable course toward pleasing my palate. (A little-known and still-less-appreciated fact is that nature exists primarily and for the most part to please my palate. Basically, the universe is here so I can eat. It.)
I'd offer a recipe at this point, but I don't really have one. Almost anything a practiced cook would marinate meat in will do wonderful things for portabellas. Stuffing I regard as more complex, but on the whole, not at all unlike stuffing meat fillets.
... Which raises the question: Why not just do the same thing with a steak? For one thing, some of us don't want to eat animal flesh every day. For another, although portabellas are sold as steak substitutes (because, for the life of me, they are awfully steaky in this context), sometimes nonmeat entrées are preferable. So there.
Portabellas cooked this way are the way to convert non-mushroom-eaters. There is nothing quite like a well-cooked shroom, and enough people haven't had this experience that just one is all it takes.
67. Home-brewed beers. I just love 'em. I am at this moment fomenting (not to say fermenting) a home-brewed porter. Porter is a dark, usually somewhat sweet, medium-to-heavy-bodied beer, with sweet accents despite a good bitterness. The beer I'm making should be interesting, because I've added molasses to the brew, and tried to reach my usual porter balance of body, sweetness, bitterness, and color. We'll see, in about 8 weeks.
One may notice a distinct culinary bent in this list of top 100 things. This is certainly not an accident, but some may wonder whether the list is particularly targeted towards the pleasures of the maw. This is not my intent. I suggest that the aesthetic sensibility represented by the numbers of entries related to food correctly represent the importance of taste in my daily life. It figures. I am the philosopher-chef, after all, and I am saucier than thou.
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
68. Portabella mushrooms. I just love 'em. For the totally uninitiated, portabellas are the honking big mushrooms with the flat to slightly concave caps. I don't actually remember what made me decide to start eating them (I've never been mushroom-averse, so it wasn't a leap of some kind, unlike a few friends), but hot damn, do I love these suckers.
I tend to prefer them stuffed, with their stems, chopped and sautéed, with various herbs and spices, some grated parmigiano reggiano, bread crumbs, and so forth, and then roasted in this state. Holy jumpin'! But then again, they are tremendous marinated and grilled or broiled, and here my tendency is to soak them down in some kinda booze, garlic, pepper, herbs-a-go-go, and olive oil, and let nature take its inevitable course toward pleasing my palate. (A little-known and still-less-appreciated fact is that nature exists primarily and for the most part to please my palate. Basically, the universe is here so I can eat. It.)
I'd offer a recipe at this point, but I don't really have one. Almost anything a practiced cook would marinate meat in will do wonderful things for portabellas. Stuffing I regard as more complex, but on the whole, not at all unlike stuffing meat fillets.
... Which raises the question: Why not just do the same thing with a steak? For one thing, some of us don't want to eat animal flesh every day. For another, although portabellas are sold as steak substitutes (because, for the life of me, they are awfully steaky in this context), sometimes nonmeat entrées are preferable. So there.
Portabellas cooked this way are the way to convert non-mushroom-eaters. There is nothing quite like a well-cooked shroom, and enough people haven't had this experience that just one is all it takes.
67. Home-brewed beers. I just love 'em. I am at this moment fomenting (not to say fermenting) a home-brewed porter. Porter is a dark, usually somewhat sweet, medium-to-heavy-bodied beer, with sweet accents despite a good bitterness. The beer I'm making should be interesting, because I've added molasses to the brew, and tried to reach my usual porter balance of body, sweetness, bitterness, and color. We'll see, in about 8 weeks.
One may notice a distinct culinary bent in this list of top 100 things. This is certainly not an accident, but some may wonder whether the list is particularly targeted towards the pleasures of the maw. This is not my intent. I suggest that the aesthetic sensibility represented by the numbers of entries related to food correctly represent the importance of taste in my daily life. It figures. I am the philosopher-chef, after all, and I am saucier than thou.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Tom Jones is not allowed in the house
It's official.
Tom Jones is not allowed in the house. On the way home from our local Borders this evening, Mr. Jones came on the oldies station, singing his hit "Delilah." That did it.
This may have gone without saying for the rest of time, but while I'm at it I may as well announce that Alan Greenspan is not allowed in the house, unless gagged and locked in an iron cage while being beaten continuously with an invisible hand. And let that be a lesson to the rest of you: I'm prepared, in defense of home and hearth, to pun mercilessly, and at times in extremely questionable taste.
Carry on.
Tom Jones is not allowed in the house. On the way home from our local Borders this evening, Mr. Jones came on the oldies station, singing his hit "Delilah." That did it.
This may have gone without saying for the rest of time, but while I'm at it I may as well announce that Alan Greenspan is not allowed in the house, unless gagged and locked in an iron cage while being beaten continuously with an invisible hand. And let that be a lesson to the rest of you: I'm prepared, in defense of home and hearth, to pun mercilessly, and at times in extremely questionable taste.
Carry on.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
and another thing
A further entry in
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
69. Silly holidays. I just love 'em. Today, for instance, is International Talk Like A Pirate Day, me hearties. As holidays go, this must rank among the silliest. My birthday, August 15th, in addition to being the Catholic holiday of the Assumption of Mary, is also the birthday of Julia Child, and of course Relaxation Day, shiver me timbers. My loveliest's birthday, September 22nd, is Elephant Appreciation Day, Hobbit Day, and Fish Amnesty Day (we'll have shrimp for dinner). There's a handy online list of holidays and observances to consult.
Arrrr.
I also like making them up. Tomorrow, for instance, is hereby declared Unofficial Turlock Handkerchief Day. Please enjoy your handkerchief in accordance with your own chosen creed, scurvy dogs.
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
69. Silly holidays. I just love 'em. Today, for instance, is International Talk Like A Pirate Day, me hearties. As holidays go, this must rank among the silliest. My birthday, August 15th, in addition to being the Catholic holiday of the Assumption of Mary, is also the birthday of Julia Child, and of course Relaxation Day, shiver me timbers. My loveliest's birthday, September 22nd, is Elephant Appreciation Day, Hobbit Day, and Fish Amnesty Day (we'll have shrimp for dinner). There's a handy online list of holidays and observances to consult.
Arrrr.
I also like making them up. Tomorrow, for instance, is hereby declared Unofficial Turlock Handkerchief Day. Please enjoy your handkerchief in accordance with your own chosen creed, scurvy dogs.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
hah! new song!
This started as a demo, the guitar and vocal track recorded on live mics late at night. I'd written the song during the evening, and Lauren was away, I forget where. A couple nights ago I picked it to play lead against, and decided this was a damned cool track.
The song is about having rotten memories about exes. And it's called I Found A Letter.
The song is about having rotten memories about exes. And it's called I Found A Letter.
hah! things!
A brace more of
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
71. Freshly-vacuumed carpets. I just love 'em. There's nothing like the well-groomed, fluffed, brushed look of a carpet just after vacuuming. It gives the whole place a clean look, even if it's otherwise not exactly neat and tidy (the room I'm in isn't).
I enjoy most household chores to some extent. Taking out the trash has never been a favorite, and of course cleaning the deep-fryer is admittedly rather disgusting, but other than that, most are satisfying to perform and to have completed. But none of them tops vacuuming. I even like to refer to it as Hoovering, when I'm feeling jaunty and anglophile.
70. Running gags. I just love 'em. In fact, running gags should be much higher on this list, if it's meant to be in some kind of order, which it only sort of is. I don't know if "running gag" is official terminology in the comedy biz, but it's the term my friends and I have used at least since college. I define a running gag as a joke or bit of business whose comic impact is based at least as much on its being repeated as on its intrinsic humorousness.
The grand champion of running gags in our college days was definitely my friend-I-never-hear-from and erstwhile roommate Doug Dyer. Doug would repeat a gag so long, so consistently, and with such tenacity, grit, and endurance, that the gag would be crippled, killed, beaten, buried, dug up and burnt to ashes, and then resurrected, exponentially funnier than it had been in its first life. Then he would begin the long slow torture of crippling it all over again. One of the best and weirdest running gags we had was knocking on the inside of our dorm room door before exiting. Usually, this was reserved for times when someone else was in the room, to respond saying, "Go out." But I suspect Doug would perform this ritual even when he was alone. I know I did.
At present my loveliest and my pal Jim ("The Most Optimistic Man In America, And That's Saying Something") Williams have a running gag going, and I have to confess I'm slightly jealous. When he calls, and she answers the phone, they spend at least 2 minutes swapping long "halllllloooooo!"s. I only ever hear half of this schtick, so from my side it sounds like this:
Lauren: Hello?
[Pause.]
Lauren [singsong]: Oh, helloo!
[Pause.]
Lauren [still more singsong]: Oh, halllooo!
[Pause.]
Lauren [reaching a higher pitch, louder, more singsong yet]: Haaalllloooooo!
[Pause.]
Lauren [still louder]: Haaahhll-looooooooh!
(Etc.)
Classic running gag. It's not actually particularly funny to say "hello" like Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire (at least, I don't think so), but two people swapping this greeting for several minutes over long-distance becomes funny.
Lauren and I have also picked up a running gag that Jim and I started during one of his many visits. I had picked him up at SFO, and driving back took a turn to avoid Tracy ("Tracy: We Think You Can Get That Stain Out With White Vinegar Or Something, Or At Least Make It Light Enough That Nobody Can Really See It Unless They're, Like, Standing Way Too Close") down I-580. The sign indicates that this is the route to Fresno. So, Jim, sounding a little frightened and surprised at the prospect: "Fresno?!" And me, sounding slightly diabolical and sinister, but also sneaky and furtive, in a low tone: "Heh heh heh heh." We ran that sucker probably 6 times that visit, several more the next, and now, because Lauren and I drive up and down to LA so often, we get to run it many times every month. It may be worth noting that making this joke while actually driving through Fresno seems to make the drive through Fresno more pleasant.
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
71. Freshly-vacuumed carpets. I just love 'em. There's nothing like the well-groomed, fluffed, brushed look of a carpet just after vacuuming. It gives the whole place a clean look, even if it's otherwise not exactly neat and tidy (the room I'm in isn't).
I enjoy most household chores to some extent. Taking out the trash has never been a favorite, and of course cleaning the deep-fryer is admittedly rather disgusting, but other than that, most are satisfying to perform and to have completed. But none of them tops vacuuming. I even like to refer to it as Hoovering, when I'm feeling jaunty and anglophile.
70. Running gags. I just love 'em. In fact, running gags should be much higher on this list, if it's meant to be in some kind of order, which it only sort of is. I don't know if "running gag" is official terminology in the comedy biz, but it's the term my friends and I have used at least since college. I define a running gag as a joke or bit of business whose comic impact is based at least as much on its being repeated as on its intrinsic humorousness.
The grand champion of running gags in our college days was definitely my friend-I-never-hear-from and erstwhile roommate Doug Dyer. Doug would repeat a gag so long, so consistently, and with such tenacity, grit, and endurance, that the gag would be crippled, killed, beaten, buried, dug up and burnt to ashes, and then resurrected, exponentially funnier than it had been in its first life. Then he would begin the long slow torture of crippling it all over again. One of the best and weirdest running gags we had was knocking on the inside of our dorm room door before exiting. Usually, this was reserved for times when someone else was in the room, to respond saying, "Go out." But I suspect Doug would perform this ritual even when he was alone. I know I did.
At present my loveliest and my pal Jim ("The Most Optimistic Man In America, And That's Saying Something") Williams have a running gag going, and I have to confess I'm slightly jealous. When he calls, and she answers the phone, they spend at least 2 minutes swapping long "halllllloooooo!"s. I only ever hear half of this schtick, so from my side it sounds like this:
Lauren: Hello?
[Pause.]
Lauren [singsong]: Oh, helloo!
[Pause.]
Lauren [still more singsong]: Oh, halllooo!
[Pause.]
Lauren [reaching a higher pitch, louder, more singsong yet]: Haaalllloooooo!
[Pause.]
Lauren [still louder]: Haaahhll-looooooooh!
(Etc.)
Classic running gag. It's not actually particularly funny to say "hello" like Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire (at least, I don't think so), but two people swapping this greeting for several minutes over long-distance becomes funny.
Lauren and I have also picked up a running gag that Jim and I started during one of his many visits. I had picked him up at SFO, and driving back took a turn to avoid Tracy ("Tracy: We Think You Can Get That Stain Out With White Vinegar Or Something, Or At Least Make It Light Enough That Nobody Can Really See It Unless They're, Like, Standing Way Too Close") down I-580. The sign indicates that this is the route to Fresno. So, Jim, sounding a little frightened and surprised at the prospect: "Fresno?!" And me, sounding slightly diabolical and sinister, but also sneaky and furtive, in a low tone: "Heh heh heh heh." We ran that sucker probably 6 times that visit, several more the next, and now, because Lauren and I drive up and down to LA so often, we get to run it many times every month. It may be worth noting that making this joke while actually driving through Fresno seems to make the drive through Fresno more pleasant.
Monday, September 17, 2007
news flash!
Hang on to your hats! It turns out that the Iraq war may have the teensiest bit to do with oil.
In other news, 2+2=4.
In other news, 2+2=4.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
a thing
Ahh.
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
73. Quick, uneventful drives to LA. I just love 'em. They don't happen often. The last couple of times down we hit intensely ugly, rotten, evil traffic.
Of course, LA is renowned for bad traffic, but this is actually a bit erroneous. Yes, the traffic is bad, but the key is that traffic in LA is different than in other places. It reaches a critical mass and begins a fusion reaction that not only causes temperature spikes (once you come to a dead stop in, say, the San Fernando Valley, right where I-210 splits off for Pasadena, it's suddenly 10 degrees hotter than it was a moment ago), but also melts roads, so that optional routes actually disappear!
Today, however, we left at 8 am, and arrived at Lauren's family's place at a quarter to 1. 326 miles, 4 3/4 hours. We only came to a dead halt once, because a CHP car was zigzagging across the lanes to halt traffic in order to pick up debris. Thanks! And the motorcyclist and his teeny tiny itty bitty girlfriend clinging to his back, weaving around cars in and out of the carpool lane, didn't get run over by lumbering SUVs.
72. Bagels with cream cheese. I just love 'em. We had bagels for breakfast before hitting the road.
My favorite bagel ever came from a closet-sized coffee shop in Dupont Circle in Washington. I was there for the American Philosophical Association meeting at the Washington Hilton (outside of which Reagan was shot), but I was staying with my friend Doug in Alexandria. They left for work earlier than God, so I was dumped at the metro station and took what must have been the first train of the day into the city. I was exhausted from the long journey to DC the previous day, in a diesel VW Rabbit (top speed: 52.2 mph), and I was hungry, cold, and in pain (cheap wingtips). I stepped in, and bought a 12 ounce coffee and a bagel with cream cheese from the possibly Syrian proprietor. The bagel came lightly toasted, the two halves pressed together sandwich-like around 3/4 inch of cream cheese, and cut in two, wrapped in waxed paper. Fantabulous. Perfect. Exactly what the situation called for.
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
73. Quick, uneventful drives to LA. I just love 'em. They don't happen often. The last couple of times down we hit intensely ugly, rotten, evil traffic.
Of course, LA is renowned for bad traffic, but this is actually a bit erroneous. Yes, the traffic is bad, but the key is that traffic in LA is different than in other places. It reaches a critical mass and begins a fusion reaction that not only causes temperature spikes (once you come to a dead stop in, say, the San Fernando Valley, right where I-210 splits off for Pasadena, it's suddenly 10 degrees hotter than it was a moment ago), but also melts roads, so that optional routes actually disappear!
Today, however, we left at 8 am, and arrived at Lauren's family's place at a quarter to 1. 326 miles, 4 3/4 hours. We only came to a dead halt once, because a CHP car was zigzagging across the lanes to halt traffic in order to pick up debris. Thanks! And the motorcyclist and his teeny tiny itty bitty girlfriend clinging to his back, weaving around cars in and out of the carpool lane, didn't get run over by lumbering SUVs.
72. Bagels with cream cheese. I just love 'em. We had bagels for breakfast before hitting the road.
My favorite bagel ever came from a closet-sized coffee shop in Dupont Circle in Washington. I was there for the American Philosophical Association meeting at the Washington Hilton (outside of which Reagan was shot), but I was staying with my friend Doug in Alexandria. They left for work earlier than God, so I was dumped at the metro station and took what must have been the first train of the day into the city. I was exhausted from the long journey to DC the previous day, in a diesel VW Rabbit (top speed: 52.2 mph), and I was hungry, cold, and in pain (cheap wingtips). I stepped in, and bought a 12 ounce coffee and a bagel with cream cheese from the possibly Syrian proprietor. The bagel came lightly toasted, the two halves pressed together sandwich-like around 3/4 inch of cream cheese, and cut in two, wrapped in waxed paper. Fantabulous. Perfect. Exactly what the situation called for.
Monday, September 10, 2007
a brief report from the paranoia-incompetence frontier
I don't often mention religious affairs in this space, for a variety of reasons. This morning the feed from the New York Times included a story about federal prisons purging religious books, that says a lot about the Bush Administration's approach to just about everything, and of these days.
It seems that since September, 2001 (which in the Bush Administration's timeline is yesterday, always), the Bureau of Prisons has been eliminating select religious tracts, allegedly on the basis of their being inflammatory of the kind of religious fervor that would lead someone to become a terrorist. How do you decide something like that?
. . . which turns out to mean throwing out anything published by 9 publishing companies. (There's no word in the story about whether these companies somehow failed to donate to Bush's election campaign.)
How do you become a "reliable subject expert" on religion? And what counts as "reliable teachings"? And, as one interviewee in the story puts it, since when does the government have a role in determining this?
I'd love to say this is some kind of faith-based initiative, but I don't have the heart.
It seems that since September, 2001 (which in the Bush Administration's timeline is yesterday, always), the Bureau of Prisons has been eliminating select religious tracts, allegedly on the basis of their being inflammatory of the kind of religious fervor that would lead someone to become a terrorist. How do you decide something like that?
[Bureau of Prisons spokeswoman Traci (with an i)] Billingsley said, “We really wanted consistently available information for all religious groups to assure reliable teachings as determined by reliable subject experts.”
. . . which turns out to mean throwing out anything published by 9 publishing companies. (There's no word in the story about whether these companies somehow failed to donate to Bush's election campaign.)
How do you become a "reliable subject expert" on religion? And what counts as "reliable teachings"? And, as one interviewee in the story puts it, since when does the government have a role in determining this?
I'd love to say this is some kind of faith-based initiative, but I don't have the heart.
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