tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54184220067414605122024-02-20T10:22:05.565-07:00life as understoodby jeff carr, master of the arts,
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presumably from a couchJeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.comBlogger87125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-56762715201124152112012-10-30T23:03:00.000-06:002012-10-31T00:05:05.143-06:00bachelor's logI write this with the knowledge that it can and probably will be used against me, in untold ways, for years to come. At the very least, it probably won't be interesting. We'll see.<br />
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<b>October 18 (Day 1)</b><br />
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Put Sarah and the kids on a plane, literally. Went through security as an escort, and all the way to the back row, by the bathrooms. Could have EASILY flown to Salt Lake City for free. Didn't. Kissed them goodbye for 10 days. Since our wedding in 2008, I don't believe I've ever been home alone for more than 24 hours.<br />
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Worked. Felt a strange mix of foreboding and excitement. Went to Jack in the Box on the way home, opened all the blinds, watched part of the Giants game, Skyped Sarah, then returned to Palo Alto for the International Documentary Film Festival. Got in free. Learned how Stanislav Petrov may have saved the entire world from nuclear war in 1983. Need to research more about that on Wikipedia. <br />
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Decided just to finish Adam's whole milk instead of going to the store for more 1%. Began cleaning the apartment. Got the drum set from Rock Band out of the closet, but too tired to play. Studied Russian verbs instead.<br />
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<b>October 19 (Day 2)</b><br />
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Stayed in, watched the Giants, ate leftover casserole, folded laundry. Was dreading having to iron about 8 of my nice shirts, which had been building up in a wrinkled pile for weeks, but realized I could just put them all through the laundry again, since I was washing the couch slip covers anyway and there was room. They remained wrinkly. Played Rock Band for far longer than I had planned. Started spreading out on the bed.<br />
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<b>October 20 (Day 3)</b><br />
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Saturday. Found I'm no longer capable of sleeping in past 7:30 or so. Not the worst affliction. Stayed in bed and read <i>Doctor Zhivago</i>. Later, got the car smog certified and took it into the city. Wandered around The Mission, climbed Telegraph Hill and Coit Tower, and got some Persian food downtown. Love the city, but it was lonely wandering around it solo, which shouldn't have been surprising, since I've read books.<br />
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Attempted to purchase 2% milk and ended up with skim -- even worse than whole. Blue used to mean something. Watched <i>Being John Malkovich</i>.<br />
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<b>October 21 (Day 4)</b><br />
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Went to church. Attended a potluck and didn't bring anything.<br />
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<b>October 22 (Day 5)</b><br />
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Visited both the dentist and the DMV today. Finally ceded my Idaho license plates, despite not having lived there (really) since 2003. Was sad at first, but then I almost cut somebody off on the way home from work, and didn't beat myself up over it, for better or for worse. It's liberating to no longer carry the burden of representing my homeland with every move I make on the road. Traffic maneuvers rarely contribute positively to stereotypes.<br />
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Watched the Giants win yet another elimination game and advance to the World Series.<br />
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<b>October 23 (Day 6)</b><br />
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Looked at a lot of pictures of Sarah on Facebook at work. Got jealous of a co-worker (my exact counterpart in another center) who has her own brand new office with a desk that rises and descends at the touch of a button, as if from the future. Watched a bunch of TED talks and a documentary about Hollywood extras. Cleaned the fridge.<br />
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<b>October 24 (Day 7)</b><br />
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Staved off madness by staying at work until 7:30, then going straight to a friend's house on campus. Watched Arrested Development there for a while and didn't end up getting home until 12:45. Didn't so much as touch my beloved couch all day (also missed all but the first inning of Game 1). <br />
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<b>October 25 (Day 8)</b><br />
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Ate a ton of Persian food at work. Stayed late again. Both of these long days, though, have come with dinner and lots of good language practice. Watching the end of Game 2 from the couch -- the only family I have left.<br />
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<b>October 26 (Day 9)</b><br />
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Was able to leave work early, so went up to the temple in Oakland. Got caught in horrible traffic. Vowed, as I often do, never to return to the East Bay.<br />
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<b>October 27 (Day 10)</b><br />
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Saturday again. Managed to sleep in until after 8:00 this time. Dreamt I was back in my childhood home and everything was unchanged. Also, Kim Kardashian was there. Went to the beach. Tried Capitola first before ending up back at good ol' Santa Cruz. Finished <i>Doctor Zhivago</i> in the sun. Got a gigantic serving of shrimp and Gilroy garlic fries on the boardwalk, threw away half. Drove and checked out UC Santa Cruz, which is without question the most unique college campus I've ever seen. It reminded me of a cross between USU and a Montana mountain ranch, only with an ocean view.<br />
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Came home, went shopping, cleaned out the car, put air in the tires, ironed, and patched up the couch. Wanted to go out for the evening, but realized I'm not sure what married guys are supposed to do at night when alone. Just watched the end of Game 3, then <i>Donnie Darko</i> on Netflix while studying more Russian verbs. Thought my family would only be gone for 10 days, but don't seem to see them yet.<br />
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<b>October 28 (Day 11)</b><br />
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Went to church. Played cards with friends. Vacuumed, cleaned the windows, and tidied up the bedrooms. Watched the Giants win the World Series. Heard people whooping, honking horns, shooting off fireworks, presumably high-fiving, for more than an hour. Felt the urge to join in, but wasn't sure how. Whooped a little. Stayed up way too late doing nothing.<br />
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<b>October 29 (Day 12)</b><br />
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Didn't get much done at work in the morning. Arrived at the airport pretty early, waited. Felt nervous for some reason. Saw them come out with the pilots -- the last to leave the plane. Adam spotted me and ran straight into my arms. Avery beamed. Sarah kissed. All was well.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-30909265946938496512012-08-28T23:01:00.003-06:002012-08-28T23:04:38.269-06:00three stories about the health care systemMaybe it should be story <i>problems</i>, like in math class. Sure, let's do that.<br />
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<b>Story #1:</b><br />
Thanks to the Affordable Health Care Act, an attractive young woman -- let's call her Tara* -- returns to her father's health insurance through Insurance Company A. She's married, but under 26, so it's cheaper that way. Then, despite a hearty birth control regimen, she becomes pregnant. <br />
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Certain health issues make hers a high-risk pregnancy, and she could legitimately give birth anytime from March to May. In late March, after one or two labor scares and hospital visits, her father receives word that his company is switching everyone over to Insurance Company B, effective April 1 -- almost immediately. <br />
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Tara is in no position to switch doctors or providers at this point, especially since she has been receiving special high-risk care, and she knows the baby could come anytime before or after April 1. And besides, pregnancy is a clear pre-existing condition that she is assured will be covered by the new plan. Tara is issued a brand new Insurance B card on April Fools' Day. Four days later, she gives birth at Hospital AB, the only option afforded by her provider.<br />
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Thankfully, mother and baby are reasonably healthy, despite negligence on the part of Hospital AB that requires the baby to be re-admitted and placed in the NICU at Hospital K less than 48 hours after discharge.<br />
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Months later, Tara learns that her father's company, under the new Insurance B plan, will <i>not</i> in fact cover the birth, since the baby is the dependant of a dependant. She would have been covered under the Insurance A plan, and Insurance Company B itself even said they would cover it, but according to dad's company, as of April 1, "we don't do that anymore." The baby has been on Tara's husband's insurance (Insurance Company K) since birth, but Company K covers very little at Hospital AB, where Tara was forced to deliver.<br />
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Tara and her husband do not have the means to pay for the birth, and they're not sure how this all happened.<br />
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<i>Question: what could Tara have legitimately done differently? What can she do now?</i><br />
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<b>Story #2:</b><br />
A man calls Hospital K and finds out he has an outstanding balance of several thousand dollars. The billing agent asks, "Would you like to take care of that now?" The man expresses surprise at the amount, as it seems well in excess of his out-of-pocket maximum.<br />
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"But this says you were uninsured," the agent says.<br />
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"No, in fact, we're insured with you -- with Insurance Company K." <br />
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"Oh," says the agent. With almost no effort, he pulls up the correct account.<br />
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Some time later, the man receives a much smaller bill, which he pays immediately. He is never issued an itemized statement, however, despite his having asked upward of four times for such a document over the course of two months. If the receipt is not received and faxed to the debit card provider soon as proof of an eligible medical expense, the payment will be rendered null, the card will be disabled, and the bill will likely be sent to collections.<br />
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<i>Question: Is this also an indication of our broken system, or is it simply that the people who process billing at health care providers are broken? How many people end up paying more than they should?</i><br />
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<b>Story #3:</b><br />
A man -- Josh, perhaps -- and his wife receive a call from a collections agency regarding thousands of dollars in unpaid medical bills at Health Provider AB from more than a year before. They're confused. This is the first they've heard of any such charges, and in fact, they don't even make sense. Josh's wife is listed as the patient, but she received no medical care during the specified time period. <br />
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Josh makes a call to the collections agent, who is just as confused as he. She can't figure out what the charges are or why they weren't covered by their insurance. Josh makes several calls to Provider AB, and is given different answers each time. None of them seem to believe Josh's story -- that his wife never received any such care. On the third or fourth call, a Provider AB billing agent tells yet another story, that the charges are not, in fact, for Josh's wife, but for his son. The agent says the charges are so high because Josh's son was uninsured.<br />
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Josh knows that his son was on the state's Medicaid program at the time, and that Provider AB had billed it correctly on several other occasions. But at the time of these phone calls, Josh no longer has his son's Medicaid card, as that account has been inactive for almost a year. Josh spends hours and days on hold with the state's Medicaid program, which actually usually ends up with him being transferred to phone numbers that don't work, and therefore simply hang up on him. When he is able to speak to a human, the human often tells him that Medicaid numbers can not be released over the phone. He orders a Medicaid verification letter to be delivered to his house. A month passes, and it never comes. He spends more hours and days on hold, and then once, for no apparent reason, a human is more than happy to give him his son's Medicaid number. <br />
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Josh gives the number to Provider AB, who says they'll work on reversing the bogus charges. The outcome remains to be seen.<br />
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<i>Question: WTF?</i><br />
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Responses will be accepted in the comments section, though aggressively partisan arguments risk deletion. These problems (especially as expressed in Story #1) are at once nobody's and everybody's fault. I'm not sure if dealing with them feels more like the eastern hemisphere, the past, or fiction. It could be Dickens's Circumlocution Office, which I guess is technically all three. Anyway, for the first time ever, I think I've actually lost all faith in an American institution, and that makes me sad.<br />
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<i>*The names have been changed so as to not make it sound like I'm just whining, though I suppose I am. I'm honestly just more blown away by the failure of the system than anything. If you hadn't figured it out (Josh and Tara -- come on), each of these stories is about us. This may be the first time that sheer exasperation has driven me to blogging, which goes to show just how out of ideas I am.</i>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-91633465851508247032012-07-05T23:31:00.000-06:002012-07-27T09:41:24.118-06:00the grand scheme<em>a work in progress</em><br />
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Today, my baby girl is three months old. Three lunar cycles, more or less. But it was my son's diaper that made me late yesterday, one full rotation of the earth ago.<br />
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By the time I got down to the Jeep with my running shoes, Uncle Greg was already in the driver's seat. He sat with the engine off, listening to NPR. "What do you think about the Higgs boson particle?" he asked. The name sounded familiar, but I hadn't heard the news -- that this morning, physicists at CERN announced they had almost certainly discovered it, the so-called "God particle" that may be all around us, and may explain how mass is created. The implications are enormous.<br />
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By the time we reached the base of Bald Mountain, the report ended, leaving us to consider the cosmos on our own. As we hiked past the mountain bikers and up the rocky trail, we hit on topics ranging from the origins of the universe to extraterrestrial life to the Sumerians' and other ancient measurements of time and distance. More accurately, I inquired and he responded. I inhaled his observations, as I always do, along with his dust.<br />
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Avery came out way ahead of schedule, but only spent a couple extra days in the hospital. She's strong. Already she looks like her brother and smiles with her mouth wide open. She has a large birthmark on the second toe of her tiny right foot -- an evolutionary anomaly.<br />
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She's our second unexpected child. Twice now, life has been created in spite of our unenlightened schedules and plans. I tend to be too liberal with that information, as though it makes me less irresponsible somehow. After all, among the educated elite of 2012 California, walking around with two offspring while only having experienced 27 revolutions of our tiny planet around the sun is ludicrous. Allowing the universe (God and/or nature) to foul up a resume or a happy hour betrays weakness. The fittest become those who decline to perpetuate their species. <br />
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One of the great ironies is that in fact, having children doesn't fully allow one to keep up with the pace of that society. I can't read all the articles, attend all the receptions my single acquaintances do when I'm not only changing diapers, but occasionally working extra hours to pay for the diapers. As a result, I lately find myself falling behind in worldly conversations. With so much in our ever-expanding universe to see, learn, and experience, it seems a crime to erect such personal-enlightenment roadblocks by producing and focusing on a new life outside one's own. <br />
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It seems that way, but then, it isn't, is it? The truth is, I wish my wife and I had possessed the foresight to want children as quickly as we got them. No experience could be more formative, more refining. Considering the vast expanse and the history of mankind on a cosmic scale is exhilirating, and doing so perched on an overlook high in my Idaho mountains is all the more fitting. But thinking on that scale isn't terribly useful to most. When I returned home from the hike, I smelled my daughter's hair as I drew her up to my chest. We locked eyes, and then -- <em>then</em>, the earth spun a little faster. Time is relative, and creating mass is not the same as creating life. I suspect nothing is. I suspect science would say that in her, I find my cosmic, evolutionary charge, my raison d'etre, to carry on my species and see it progress, however minutely. And that's great. All I know is I hope she never stops smiling.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-14170700748763662402012-03-04T14:14:00.004-07:002012-03-04T21:02:01.816-07:00liveblogging RT's coverage of the Russian presidential electionYesterday, I was looking for channel 42, and I accidentally typed 422, which to my surprise, is not only a channel, but a channel we apparently get. I've never been higher than 63. Incidentally, this month's Comcast bill was also higher than expected. <br /><br />After a few minutes of searching through my newfound three-digit wonders to determine what I actually have access to, I stumbled upon an old friend: RT. RT is a Kremlin-funded station based in Moscow that broadcasts in English, but from what they call a "Russian perspective." In my experience, however, it comes much closer to what I call "state propaganda." It used to be known as Russia Today, but the name was recently shortened to RT seemingly in an attempt to pass off its ridiculous reports as coming from some sort of objective global network (with authoritative British accents), as if that sort of thing exists anymore. Get with the times, Russia.<br /><br />Anyway, yesterday was a rather fortuitous day to re-discover RT, since I had been wondering how I could get live reporting on today's presidential elections without all that onerous typing. This is what I found when I turned it on at around noon Pacific time (midnight in Moscow).<br /><br /><br /><br />-With about half of the country's ballots processed, preliminary results show Putin at 63 percent. This is about what I expected, and about what his poll numbers were showing last week. (There are five candidates, and he needs 50 percent to avoid a second round of elections in a few weeks.) Zyguanov has 17, Prokhorov and Zhirinovsky have 7 or so, and Mironov has 3. <br /><br />-RT's anchors keep noting that the final tally won't be in until tomorrow morning in Moscow, emphasizing the vastness of the country and the nine time zones. This reportage is clearly not for people who know Russia with any sort of intimacy, begging the question of who their target audience is.<br /><br />-Putin declares victory and delivers a speech outside the Kremlin at which he is visibly emotional. A tear track traces down his right cheek. Thousands of people surround the stage. In his speech, Putin says "the people have spoken." Medvedev gets up and thanks the people for voting for "our candidate." The two anchors (one with an American accent, one with a British accent) keep accidentally calling him "President Putin" before catching themselves and laughing.<br /><br />-RT's anchors and correspondents are rather diverse ethnically. They almost all speak with British accents, though they pronounce Russian names much better than most Brits. This is totally a BBC rip-off.<br /><br />-They somehow score an interview with Prokhorov, the New Jersey Nets owner, and the anchor asks him how he feels about his 7 percent, which is higher than expected. He doesn't answer. He can't hear her, so her partner asks the same question, which ticks off the first anchor. It doesn't matter, because Prokhorov can't hear anyone. They cut to a different segment.<br /><br />-RT notes that the elections were graced by more than a million observers, and "more than of 700 of them are international"! A correspondent interviews one of them, a bumbling British senior citizen who talks mostly about the palatial polling stations he saw, which were "much nicer than what we have back home." The correspondent gets him back on track, and he admits that his "observation" took place so early in the morning that almost nobody was there, and the only question he was able to ask to election officials was "have you tested the webcams?" (In a last minute response to expectations of fraud, the Kremlin spent hundreds of millions in taxpayer dollars to install webcams in each polling station across the country. No word on how that will actually ensure fairness.)<br /><br />-The 1-minute RT worldwide weather report breaks in. Reminiscent of BBC, it moves around the globe showing temperatures, three cities at a time. It starts with Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Kaliningrad (a west-facing exclave), then swoops across the whole country and hits Anadyr (a small village and Russia's easternmost point), Oymyakon (another small village known for record-low temperatures), and Vladivostok. The globe keeps spinning, and other continents are covered. The rest of Russia is never mentioned. Maybe I'm looking into this too much, but this seems to epitomize RT's missions to appear international, emphasize Russia's vastness and extremes, and skirt anything in-depth in the country where most people actually live.<br /><br />-Having declared victory, Putin is now sitting in a conference room speaking with a group of on-site, in-uniform factory workers, though it's the middle of the night where they are. One holds the microphone, and dozens of his comrade workers stand nearby. He asks a little girl to come to the microphone. This is the most Soviet thing ever. They praise him incessantly and congratulate him on his victory. Putin corrects them, calling it a mutual victory. He tells them that they have proved that the workers of Russia are smarter than the "so-called intellectuals" who have been "complaining" as of late. Nice.<br /><br />-In a surprising twist, Putin summons all the might of socialist labor, instantaneously grows a mustache, and actually turns into Stalin (minus the genocide). <br /><br />-No, never mind, I just imagined that.<br /><br />-The same scene at the factory takes place with the Pres, er, Prime Minister talking to groups of his supporters in different cities. Putin vocally points out one particularly attractive female supporter. He says he'll visit her city soon, as well as the others, because "there are things that still need to be discussed."<br /><br />-Putin finishes his conference calls, and the anchors talk new numbers. With 60 percent of the votes counted, the Prime Minister now has 64 percent of the vote. <br /><br />-A smug Washington correspondent comes on to "gauge the media reaction" of the West. She holds up an Economist magazine portending "the beginning of the end of Putin," which she smirkingly juxtaposes with the fact that he just won an overwhelming majority. She never mentions which publications are saying what, but she says the talk in the Western press has focused on the public discontent and the protests. (True.) However, she also notes that it would be ridiculous if everyone agreed with the government, and that 41 percent of Americans "strongly oppose" President Obama. On the election results themselves, she notes a "lack of respect of Russians' decision" among Americans and others.<br /><br />-The anchors ask the question, "If the West doesn't like Putin, who would they have wanted to win?" Someone with a Columbia University affiliation gets on in Brussels and talks about how all Westerners want is for Russia to have a weak president, like Medvedev. Merkel and Sarkozy liked him because they could "push him around."<br /> <br />-The phrase "most Americans don't know" is bandied about at least two more times.<br /><br />-An RT promo shows off its motto, "Question more." That's a new phrase for the Propaganda Committee -- of course, RT is not broadcast in Russia or in Russian. <br /><br />And then the coverage starts repeating itself. It is, after all, an election, and there likely won't be much new news for several hours, especially since it's now past 1:00am in Moscow, which means it's even later everywhere else.<br /><br />Meanwhile, back home, Fox News spurts some scary news about the autocrat being reelected and probably uses the phrase "a new Cold War" like a hundred times. I'm not paying much attention. CNN says next to nothing, ostensibly because nothing surprising happened. It really is hard to get the full story if you don't speak Russian, and even then, who do you trust? <br /><br />On that note, allow me to introduce my newest project, The Post-Soviet Post, which among other things, aggregates the biggest stories in Russian (and Eurasian) media, condenses them into narratives, and translates them into English, while providing information about the reportage and the sources themselves (who funds them, etc.). At last!<br /><br /><a href="http://postsovietpost.stanford.edu">http://postsovietpost.stanford.edu</a>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-14476539712143639562012-01-19T00:35:00.000-07:002012-01-19T01:35:28.051-07:00three vignettesI've had thoughts recently -- I really have. You can't know them yet, though. They'll be appearing as a column in the March issue of <em>Idaho</em> Magazine. Meanwhile, here are three vignettes from early 2012.<br /><br /><br /> * * *<br /><br /><br />I arrived at the train station 15 minutes early for my first commute of the new year. I'm not sure how that happened. As I stood, back against the wall, I first glanced down at my ripped shoe, then began to pan slowly from the bystanders all the way to a point far down the empty tracks.<br /><br />For one of the first times in my entire life, I wore earbuds in public. As a rule, I never do that. For one thing, it's always seemed to me a little rude to shut the entire world out so forcefully, even as the rest of my generation has been doing it ad nauseam for years. Mostly, though, I'm strangely bothered by the thought of missing whatever natural sensory experiences are occurring around me. <br /><br />But this day it was earbuds, because I had two new Coldplay albums and I hadn't yet had the opportunity to really take them in -- something I would normally have done in the car. And here I was, leaning back against the wall, combining art and life, and feeling the melancholy, rhythmic waves transform my ripped shoe and the train station into something beautiful. "Warning Sign" seemed to have been written specifically for wall-leaning and gazing down the tracks. <br /><br />I'm still uneasy about musicians explaining my surroundings to me, no matter how meaningful their conclusions. But imposing a little beauty on the mundane moments doesn't seem too sinister. I'm about 10 years late, but I think I understand my own generation a little better now. <br /><br /><br /> * * *<br /><br /><br />Last week, I planted a mini bonsai tree in the cold windowsill in my office. I've always liked those. Growing a plant from the seed up appears to be quite the delicate process, though, and I don't have much faith in this, my first attempt. However, regardless of whether it thrives or dies or never even opens, it seems like this little tree will provide a convenient metaphor for my overall experience in this job, whatever that turns out to be. My legacy in stifling/fertile world of higher ed administration sure was formative, as I discovered it truly was possible/impossible for my real potential to blossom in such an environment.<br /><br />You're welcome, future second-rate biographers.<br /><br /><br /> * * *<br /><br /><br />Growing up, I never had a clear idea of what I wanted in a future spouse, other than the list of obvious, vague attributes most people want. At some point, though, I developed a boiler-plate answer for whenever the subject would arise. "I want a girl who will go with me to a hockey game one night, and to an opera the next," I said. It seemed the best way to illustrate the importance of well-roundedness and general lust for life.<br /><br />Tomorrow night, Sarah and I will be watching the Sharks play Ottawa at HP Pavilion, and on Saturday, we're going to see the new production of West Side Story. We surprised each other with tickets for Christmas. West Side Story isn't the opera, but the juxtaposition still seems significant. <br /><br />Last Thursday, I added something to the list of ideal wife attributes. Sarah was preparing lunch on a low table when Adam made an inexplicable mad dash from across the room straight to the boiling water. Sarah jerked it away and the water cascaded over her arm, and a little on her pregnant belly. She sustained massive second-degree burns from her elbow to her wrist. She's been in intense pain, and her arm has looked like something from a zombie movie ever since. It will heal entirely, but there will be a permanent stain as a mark of her selflessness. Adam would have had it much worse. The water could have landed anywhere on his body and he would have had irreparable, disfiguring scars for life. Instead, her instinct kicked in, and he didn't sustain a single burn. Sarah saved my boy's life. I want a wife like that.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-52244906117359897922011-11-19T17:57:00.004-07:002011-11-19T19:18:07.729-07:00dear mr. presidentI just wanted to write to thank you for a pleasant visit to your fair city, Washington, DC. As always, I have found your restaurants delectable, your hotels luxurious, and your Newseums informative. Yesterday, I enjoyed a brisk walk across the Connecticut Avenue bridge over Rock Creek Park and past the Algerian Embassy, and I kicked myself a little for ever having left this place after that hot, romantic summer of 2008. The streets still vibrate with life, history, and hope in all that our country is and can be. I was even honored to hear the name of my beloved hometown on all of your local news broadcasts last night. What hospitality! I hope to be back again soon for a longer visit.<br /><br /><br /><small>PS: Sorry one of my townsmen tried to kill you the other day he doesn't represent us but I must say I was standing about the same distance from the White House today and it would have been a pretty darn lucky shot although of course you were out of town that day which he probably didn't know because our internet is slow but either way I know not many of us voted for you in 2008 and even fewer will next year but we're not all insane and in fact a few of us have some pretty good ideas and even some progressive tendencies so please don't cut our INL funding or the Areva project and besides that guy's family owns a really good restaurant in town which you should try if you come visit never mind that'd be weird but the point is it's a wonderful city and probably less than 20 percent of us are backwoods anarchists. Tops.</small>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-12108645347618202222011-09-27T00:49:00.004-06:002011-09-27T02:07:06.781-06:00the commuteSome days, it's almost unbearable not to be in Siberia. Lately, that's been happening even more than usual. Yesterday, in public, I had a daydream about stepping out of a plane and onto an icy tarmac and I almost wept with joy, like a pansy.<br /><br />Two weeks in, my new job at the Russian Center, where I'm surrounded daily by books and words and photos, neither satisfies my longing for the sleeping land, nor makes it worse. The commute to and from work, however, does both. It brings me closer, possibly, than anything has in the five years since I left. And now after two short weeks, I'm addicted.<br /><br />The morning commute opens with a 15-minute bike ride to the train station. This leg of the journey qualifies on the merit of its smells -- cigarette smoke and exhaust and laundry left on balconies. Rotting furniture, uneven sidewalks, and weedy vacant lots add to the effect. It's not an upscale neighborhood.<br /><br />The train, of course, is really where it's at. The methodical, metallic whirr, the whistle, the way the upper body bobs around on a fixed seat like one of those inflatable boxing opponents that's weighted at the bottom so it swings right back up. For some reason, I never get motion-sick on trains. <br /><br />There's one spot on the commute where pine trees line up next to a wooden house at just the right distance from the tracks. Other than that, most of the sights from the window bear little resemblance to Siberia. The magic, though, isn't in the objects, but rather in how the train passes them by -- in three-second panoramic snapshots of lives. They're tragically static shots, though. Even when the back side of a house sits only a few yards from the tracks, it might as well be a world away, since the train doesn't stop. Getting there could take hours. The railroad offers only the illusion of intimacy, vivid though it is.<br /><br />My run on the train only takes seven minutes -- no more than a frustrating teaser. According to the Siberian scale of time and distance, such journeys should last hours and days. After seven minutes, a bus takes me the rest of the way to work. <br /><br />Lately, when I've been on my bike in the evening, on the way home, the sun has been in roughly the same position that it was on my first night in Siberia, when I ventured out of my new apartment and internalized just how far away I was. I suspect that memory will own that particular time slot each day for as long as I'll live. On my ride, the aromas dance more now than they do in the stale mornings. It's not the specific smells so much as the sheer number of them fighting for space.<br /><br />Smelling Russia in America is humbling. This is where the epiphany comes in. I am condemned when I consider how I blamed the Russians for so much, as if it was a nationality that made the sky there so gray. In Siberia, I was a sheltered small-city boy who had never seen anything but trimmed lawns back home. My America was far from a complete picture. Had I smelled low-income Northern California on an early evening, I might have been more empathetic than I was. So much of what I initially passed off as "ghetto Russian," as it turns out, is really just "working class" and "human." That's not to say our nations are one and the same. There are no trimmed lawns in Russia. Not that I ever saw, anyway.<br /><br />The Russians came eastward 9000 miles from St. Petersburg to reach California in 1812. That's a longer commute.Three weeks ago, I had the surreal experience of approaching Super Siberia's southeasternmost outpost, Fort Ross, from the southeast. And the pine trees and the dirt there smelled familiar, as they must have to the explorers. Maybe that's what heightened my senses.<br /><br />I'm grateful for the unexpected daily glimpse that is my commute. The real territory is too vast to see in ten vacations, so even when I do make it back, I know it'll never be adequate. So for now, I'll hurry and get my fix before the commute stops reminding me of Siberia, and starts reminding me that I have to go to work. And then I'll have to get my fix somewhere else.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-33063376370462495862011-09-18T23:33:00.003-06:002011-09-19T00:46:39.806-06:00die luft der freiheit wehtThey handed out Hershey's Kisses on 9/11. It's not integral -- just an anecdote. I wondered how United would commemorate the tenth anniversary of their darkest day without scaring the passengers prior to takeoff. The flight attendant handed out Kisses, and mine melted on the surface when I held it too long in my lap, waiting for the drinks.<br /><br />The candy was a cheap and imperfect way to remember the thousands of lives taken a decade earlier, but anything would have been inadequate, and besides, it seemed like the Kiss money came straight from the flight attendant's own pocket. United didn't plan anything for this flight to L.A., so she stepped in to fill the void. She clearly wasn't accustomed to using the intercom for weighty matters, so her ad-libbed speech about her fallen comrades was stumbling, but genuine.<br /><br />Perhaps the greater commemoration was that it was a full flight. Ten years later, and on a day that had seen multiple threats, dozens of people were not afraid to go up again. At least not too afraid.<br /><br />Our connecting flight to San Francisco wasn't full, because we weren't on it. Upon landing at LAX, our plane sat waiting for a gate for so long that our ride home took off without us. It was the last flight of the night, and the hotel voucher wouldn't get me to Stanford by work time in the morning, so I made an executive decision. I took my undersized wife and baby, rented a Mercury Grand Marquis, and headed off through south-central Los Angeles at just before midnight. <br /><br />Despite what the movies show, L.A. to Stanford is a full six hours, even without traffic. I don't remember most of what happened during that time, though I was technically awake for nearly all of it. It was dark. Radio stations came and went. Sarah, my sweetheart, never complained once, even though the likelihood of us veering off of I-5 into a lake at 4am was probably far greater than getting hijacked and rammed into the Golden Gate Bridge at 11:30.<br /><br />In the light of day, after a single hour of subpar sleep, I arose and attended the orientation for my new job at Stanford -- the job that is our reward for taking a leap of faith, or rather, several. I'm not sure if my rash commitment to punctuality would have impressed or perplexed my superiors. Almost certainly the latter. I never brought it up. <br /><br />The point is that I have a job. At 26, for the first time, I have a salary, benefits, and an open-ended position that could last as long as I want it to. The freedom from doubt and worry is exhilirating. But after months of searching, schmoozing, applying, it all came down to me being in the right place at the right time. Perhaps the midnight drive was my penance -- the toil I owe to my superiors and to Stanford for entrusting me with this position, which should have been harder to come by. Freiheit isn't frei. At least, it shouldn't be. But how refreshing it feels.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-43937156905496805052011-06-19T22:03:00.015-06:002011-06-20T00:59:20.554-06:00a new titleNotice: I've altered the subtitle/byline of this blog to reflect a recent development. I am now a Master of the Arts. Going about changing the subtitle has not come without hesitation, however. Ever since the previous subtitle was penned, it's been unclear what would transpire when I inevitably reached this point, since proclaiming Mastery right in the subtitle seems a bit much. In addition to reminding me of <em>Don Quixote</em>, calling myself "Bachelor" had a suave unassumption to it. A Bachelor connotes someone who has, at best, a casual, open relationship with the Arts. Such a man enjoys the benefits of his association with the Arts without a great deal of commitment or expectation.<br /><br />By that logic, advancing from Bachelor to Master in less than a year seems awfully reckless. Perhaps I would have benefitted from some sort of intermediary step, like Partner or Roommate of the Arts. In fact, glancing back on my brief moment as a graduate student, I'm still not entirely certain what qualifies me to be a Master. Ergo, labelling myself as such still seems overly audacious.<br /><br />What's more, I may be a Master at some Arts, but surely not <em>all</em> of the Arts. I can no more lead authoritative tours through the theatre district now than I could before. My opinions on Jackson Pollock carry no more weight. Even the Arts that I <em>have</em> ostensibly Mastered -- Russian history, literature, and language -- I have Mastered only in comparison with other non-Russians. Millions of high schoolers east of Kaliningrad could potentially out-Master me at a number of said subjects, and with their hands tied behind their backs.<br /><br />No, being a Master of such Arts is not likely to win me any new friends, respect, or anything really worth having. It may not even win me a career. But alas, I am a Master all the same, and I've the paperwork to prove it. My Bachelor days are past. So let it be written, up there in the subtitle: I am a Master of the Arts. I cannot paint you a picture, direct you a play, or play you a tune. I cannot find me a job. But if you bring me some Russian, East European, or Eurasian Arts, I will Master them. And I will Master them good.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-26569468713168863752011-05-16T23:08:00.002-06:002011-05-17T02:46:12.823-06:00no placeIf anything I've learned in grad school that has really sunk in personally, it's this: there truly is a place where my career aspirations are realistic and my specific skills are valued to their fullest extent. Unfortunately, that place no longer exists.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaNMl4kbsG4AsmsLBr5Q-R1uSzwBvaLivMT9VXLc5v327oCrLl_kIRINtftGRrluAmkx-AfIMiKbQjQrPcfRvJ9KdUKj86xKQ9rWpux5e4T221CxPBtF-G0Yc3Rup0O4JbS1YdziqgsZU/s1600/map-of-soviet-union.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 231px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaNMl4kbsG4AsmsLBr5Q-R1uSzwBvaLivMT9VXLc5v327oCrLl_kIRINtftGRrluAmkx-AfIMiKbQjQrPcfRvJ9KdUKj86xKQ9rWpux5e4T221CxPBtF-G0Yc3Rup0O4JbS1YdziqgsZU/s320/map-of-soviet-union.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607540585649246626" /></a><br />"The writer is the engineer of the human soul." <br /> -Josef Stalin<br /><br />Among the endless array of reasons that make the Soviet Union a mind-bendingly fascinating place, first and foremost are the ideas and circumstances surrounding its foundation. If you're not a historian, stick with me here. No other revolution, before or since, has been more ideologically driven than the Bolshevik Revolution of October 1917. Of course there were everyday, бытовые reasons which paved the way: no bread, death in an unpopular war, idiot tsar followed by indecisive provisional government. But most of all, the Bolsheviks just saw this time as an opportune moment to seize control. Their new experimental nation was supposed to signal both the beginning and the end of history, and the glorious era when injustice would perish, and utopia would finally, finally prevail. (They were all philosophy majors.)<br /><br />It's funny that in the early days, the Bolsheviks actually used the word "utopia" to describe their bright, socialist future, considering the word's etymology (no place) and the fact that no truly "utopian" society had <em>ever</em>, in human history, survived for a significant period of time. Of course, we know how it all turned out--revolution immediately followed by a bloody civil war, immediately followed by 30 years of history's cruellest mustache, millions of deaths, disillusionment, stagnation, quagmire, and dissolution. The fact remains, however, that behind each major state decision was a vision of paradise. <br /><br />In this world aspiring to perfection, the artist, and especially the writer, was king. Literature and sloganry were among the most powerful tools employed in order to accomplish whatever the state needed: patriotism, enmity, espousal of new ideas, subjugation. And for better or for worse, the Soviets were incredible at it. Good writers are respected everywhere, but in the USSR, wordsmiths were gods. As quoted above, Stalin called them the "engineers of the human soul," which pronouncement carries hefty connotations. A writer doesn't just interpret the soul or enliven it. He creates it, teaches it how to be a soul. Besides, engineers were important in early Soviet society, and nothing is more precious to a Russian than his soul. If I didn't ruffle too many feathers (or starve), I could have scored a meaningful job in the Soviet Union.<br /><br />I don't live in the Soviet Union.<br /><br />My design/marketing class last week was all about storytelling--how to use words, and specifically characters and plotlines, to sell products and persuade people. The professor was lively and convincing. She told how the human brain is wired to remember and learn from stories, not facts or logic. She gave examples from business, as well as support from cognitive psychology and other fields. She didn't have to tell me, though. I already knew. But as I glanced around the room, I beheld a strange and startling sight. My class of 44 students, almost all Stanford MBAs, stared blankly ahead. They didn't get it. They didn't remember the powerful story from the class before--only the numbers that came after. They asked really stupid questions. It was as though their human brains had been re-wired. From the back of the room, I reluctantly lifted my hand time and time again to address the softball, supposedly human, questions because nobody else could.<br /><br />In this current era of relative material stability, people seek stories more than anything else. They seek to contextualize themselves, to surround themselves with beauty, to feel like protagonists in a narrative that makes sense, and is moving toward a resolution. Literature isn't dead, but magazines, newspapers, literary journals, and other organizations touting the real, but invisible power of words and stories are dying off by the day. The Soviet Union went out of business in 1991. Alas, after all this time, the soul remains unquantifiable.<br /><br />If my classmates of today are going to be my bosses of tomorrow, I may have some more explaining to do about how a writing background and humanities degrees make me a smart hire. I thought it seemed clear.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-42302850836329097672011-05-01T17:00:00.003-06:002011-05-01T18:33:05.318-06:00at the art museum with TsuneEverything echoes in the Asian wing of the <a href="http://museum.stanford.edu/">Cantor Arts Center</a>. Even with mountainous canvases lining the walls, all vocalizations bounce. Tsune has a hard time communicating over the phone in English, and I have to assume whispering will be similarly hard, but there's no other way. <br /><br />He points out how the left gargoyle's mouth is open, unlike the one on the right. The slight asymmetry is immediately noticeable and almost jarring to the Western eye, but Tsune explains how the faces represent two separate but simultaneous invocations for the people entering the building. He can't remember what exactly--something like justice and mercy. Though I can't catch every word from his still, small voice, the article on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wabi-sabi">wabi-sabi</a> he printed off provides enough context for me to fill in the gaps. The intentional asymmetry demonstrates the Japanese man's healthy acceptance of his inability to reach perfection. It's in the pottery too. Obviously, <em>I'm</em> the one being tutored. <br /><br />Another hour, and we've only seen a small fraction of the museum, so we agree to come back later in the week. Then, we'll traverse the Western wings and I'll do the explaining. As that day approaches, I'm apprehensive. I'm not an art historian. Tsune isn't either, of course--he's a visiting scholar in the computer science department. But he comes from a nation with a consistent, influential, and overall "rich" culture, and he has no trouble discussing it definitively, even in English. All I'm taught about my own people is that we're money hungry and fat. Innovative, maybe, but generally only at others' expense, and intolerant. When American and Western ways are spoken of, it's almost always derisively, as an impediment to human progress. What could I ever hope to teach a Japanese man about culture?<br /><br />Two days later, torsos greet me at the entrance to the first European wing--perfect, granite male and female torsos on ionic pedestals, straight from ancient Greece. To one side, a portrait of a lower English nobleman, a medieval diptych of two saints, and a breathtaking painting of a fantastical palace with imaginative architecture, and lighting and perspective so perfect, it could be an extension of the museum. Tsune is speechless. I realize I can explain almost all of it, and without the help of any specialized knowledge. I teach him about classical influences, Renaissance humanism, and Catholic patronage, and the Bible. And it hits me that I <em>am</em> part of a unique tradition--the Western world <em>is</em> unique, even if it's huge--I've just never seen the forest for the trees. <br /><br />In the Native American gallery, I don't have as much to say, but Tsune correctly surmises that the drawings, masks, and artifacts are closely tied with the belief systems of each specific people. There, under the brightly colored totem pole-arch, I am shocked by another silent, almost spiritual realization--that I belong also to far more unique and tight-knit subsets of Western culture by virtue of my specific geographic and religious backgrounds. We even have our own art. Most of it may not be museum-worthy, but an outsider could learn a few things about me from studying it. It's good to contextualize once in a while.<br /><br />After a short time, I'm forced to take leave of Tsune and the museum, but he decides to linger. I walk out less alone than ever.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-19894683107747923892011-02-02T22:12:00.002-07:002011-02-03T00:55:14.381-07:00a month of war and peaceThe fact that I'm writing now means it's peace, assuming that the lull between measured attacks constitutes peace. I feel like if we turned off the TV, I could hear the bombers doing fly-bys overhead and the soldiers (hussars, mostly) milling hungrily in the courtyard. <br /><br />Lately I've been talking a lot about how late I stay up studying--my classmates must surely have noticed. 4:00. 3:00. 4:30. I wear it like a medal. Far beyond the family obligations or the part-time job, though, the truth is that I'm just a slow reader, and as a graduate student in the humanities, that's everything. Literally. No problem sets, group projects, even presentations. A few days ago I had, going by my normal rate, about 21 hours worth of reading to do in 22 hours. I skimmed.<br /><br />The moral battle starts around 1:00. Chances are, I could slip by without reading every page. I could skim a couple chapters and hyper-focus on certain other things to buttress the discussion in class. One well-aimed comment and my work could be done. In another class, I could potentially spurn the entire 400-page assignment and get by just fine. After all, the discussion is mostly just criticizing such-and-such historian for attempting to wedge this bit of Russian history into a larger theoretical framework which doesn't quite fit. Tolstoy hated that kind of history.<br /><br />Over the past month, the new longest book I've ever read has taught me all about freedom vs. necessity, chance vs. predestination, consciousness vs. reason, but I've yet to apply any of its lessons to my present situation. Ironically, I'm far too saturated with knowledge to think. I'll take fewer units next quarter. But for now, <em>that </em>reading is finished, and the battle continues.<br /><br /><blockquote>"On the narrow dam of Augesd, on which for so many years an old miller in a cap used to sit peacefully with his fishing rods, while his grandson, his shirtsleeves rolled up, fingered the silvery, trembling fish in the watering can; on this dam over which, for so many years, Moravians in shaggy hats and blue jackets had peacefully driven in their two-horse carts laden with wheat and had driven back over the same dam all dusty with flour, their carts white--now, on this narrow dam, between wagons and cannon, under horses and between wheels, crowded men disfigured by the fear of death, crushing each other, dying, stepping over the dying, and killing each other, only to go a few steps and be killed themselves just the same." (<em>War and Peace</em>, I.3.XVIII)</blockquote>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-7914813519144483302011-01-12T17:04:00.010-07:002011-01-12T22:47:28.212-07:00the day my childhood hero called me a dumb-a**This was yesterday during maybe hour four of my epic read-athon just to keep up in class. After the history book, I had decided to shed my outer shirt and settle into the couch for a long winter's 140 pages of <em>War and Peace</em> when the phone rang. It was Rob. <br /><br />"I got you a present," he said. My first reaction was one of mild self-loathing, because Rob is the sort of thoughtful friend who gives presents for no reason. I, on the other hand, am the sort of friend who forgot his birthday last week, and already felt bad about not calling and saying hi. Hopefully, I thought, he's joking.<br /><br />Rob said he wanted to surprise me, but he couldn't wait. Jeff Hornacek, he said, drawing the name out for effect, came into the campus gym where Rob works, to hold some sort of one-day basketball camp. I instinctively rose up from the couch, walked to the kitchen, and looked down at a recent frivolous purchase of mine--yet another Utah Jazz t-shirt, this one faded green, with the classic old logo emblazoned across my chest. Hornacek wore that same logo on his chest when I was eight through fifteen years old. Notably, he wore it on November 23, 1994, when he went 8 for 8 from behind the arc against the Sonics, and I made shots from across the room as I listened on the basement radio. I remember that night specifically. Later, I modeled my own amateurish game after his.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyR5v8DTg8eGRAxaoHT_RkiEiMycSu87-LA4wRPo10s4dPHu7uJIqPg0MR2JMpMJjYXuEJKX13sTW8Z7kvymsqk4E523PQnzbDpbpDZxM52PRtf2YxqY3J-2JmmeooytixzoI4YcRpebU/s1600/Jeff-Hornacek-.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyR5v8DTg8eGRAxaoHT_RkiEiMycSu87-LA4wRPo10s4dPHu7uJIqPg0MR2JMpMJjYXuEJKX13sTW8Z7kvymsqk4E523PQnzbDpbpDZxM52PRtf2YxqY3J-2JmmeooytixzoI4YcRpebU/s320/Jeff-Hornacek-.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561494046132789954" /></a><br /><br />"Do you like Jeff Hornacek?" Rob asked, knowing only of my allegiance to the team itself. I told him that Hornacek's jersey number, which now hangs high in the rafters, makes up the only two numerals in my internet password--the password I use for everything. It's not a coincidence. As an idol, Stockton reigned over my early childhood, but when we picked up Horny in the most lopsided trade in NBA history, my heart found room for him and his quick release jumper right away.<br /><br />Apparently, being the good friend that he is, Rob chased down the former All-Star as he was leaving the gym. He said he had a friend who was a huge fan and who just got straight A's at Stanford. Rob explained that he strategically threw that part in as sort of an extra hook, which evidently worked. Mr. Hornacek turned and said something to the effect of "oh, a real dumb-a**." He was being ironic, I assumed from context. Then he signed a T-shirt with a personal message for me. Rob's sending it in the mail today or tomorrow.<br /><br />After hearing a story of such personal import and bidding farewell to my dear friend, my reading went extra slow for a while. Mostly, I was wired from my vicarious brush with minor fame, but after a while I became distracted by more fundamental questions. What if Jeff Hornacek was right? In the few seconds he thought about me (ME!), I fear he may have exposed me in the sort of shocking, direct way that only a personal hero can. Here I am, like a fool, slaving over the New Testament in Old Church Slavic, a dead language, when all I really had to do was work more on my free throws and get open on the left wing.<br /><br />Stanford may not have been enough, but mark my words: someday, Jeff Hornacek, somehow, I will make you proud.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-82051984751902726452010-12-24T22:20:00.004-07:002010-12-24T23:51:04.608-07:00as a little childOnce when I was seven or eight or nine, my parents had me sleep in my baby sister's room on Christmas Eve. Maybe it was my idea. Either way, we kids were to be together on that most special of nights, perhaps for solidarity, as we weren't allowed to leave the room until morning. At that point in my life (as with most of my childhood), my official best friend was the cat, so she was included as well. I'm sure I had picked out and wrapped at least one present for her and left it under the tree--a present she would brush by indifferently as she slinked under the branches to drink from the base. I hope I had picked out a present for my sister as well, but I'm less certain about that. <br /><br />Back then, in the early '90s, the cat and I were at the outset of a years-long struggle over sleeping arrangements. I wanted her to spend the night curled up on my bed with me, which she sometimes did, but usually she roamed in and out and all over. This Christmas Eve we had to be together, though--a family--so when she took off after an hour or two, I followed her downstairs. When I appeared in the basement doorway around midnight, my parents looked surprised. The light was on and they were wrapping presents. When they saw me and hustled me back to bed, I seem to remember an added measure of urgency, as though I had really caught them off-guard, but maybe that's just hindsight. I didn't think anything of it, and we never spoke of the matter again. I'm not sure to what degree I believed in Santa at the time, but this potentially traumatic incident didn't affect it either way. Why <em>wouldn't</em> they be wrapping presents at night? <br /><br />That might have been the year I got a Magic 8-ball and an LA Dodgers hat. I didn't care about the team, but my friend Andrew had the hat, and I thought it was cool. I told Santa I wanted those things, and I also told my parents. When I received them on Christmas morning, I didn't have to know the source. I didn't want to.<br /><br />A few years later, we got an artificial tree, and we had to put a bowl of water underneath it, because the cat expected a drink. Around this time, almost every year, my parents started telling me the same thing: "you're growing up now, so you probably won't get as many presents this year." They said that when I graduated high school, got back from Russia, and got married, though I never noticed a sharp decline. Some boxes were always marked "from Santa" and some were explicity from my parents, and though the distinction was fuzzy, it was always respected. In fact, it still is. For all I know, some obese old saint will stumble out of the fireplace later tonight and leave everything I need. It's never been proven otherwise to me, and that's how I like it. I still don't want to know. My parents' silence on the matter may be their all-time greatest Christmas gift to me, to allow me to be more innocent than I am, at least for one morning a year.<br /><br />Before bed tonight, I gathered a few little things and placed them in a stocking for Adam: a pacifier, a pair of blue baby shoes that belonged to me, and a piece of ribbon and a paper cup, which he'll like more than his educational toys from Barnes & Noble. I thought for sure that this year, the first year of fatherhood, the unmagical truth would finally be exposed, but it hasn't been yet. Even though I filled my son's stocking, I will never know for sure who filled mine. Some boxes will say "from Santa" and we'll smile knowingly. And I'll thank my parents, but not for the presents.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-31792399445546774292010-12-14T01:54:00.001-07:002010-12-14T02:00:08.980-07:00in defense of UtahListen up, because there's a good chance I'm never going to say this again in public.<br /><br />Utah is a cool place.<br /><br />And you thought you knew me. This all started Sunday afternoon during a leisurely Sunday drive Sarah and I took through the south end of the Salt Lake Valley, rolling between mountains, temples, and new housing developments. As we began our return to her parents' house, the conversation turned to a familiar topic: the question of where to spend our lives together.<br /><br />Sarah moved to Utah when she was eight, and loves it as one should love her home. I came in college, not intending to stay long, but after five years, I became softened by something that often skirts cursory conversations about the Beehive State: nuanced reality.<br /><br />You see, for me, growing up near the state but not in it, Utahns were the annoying neighbors and perpetual joke-butts. Stereotypes, of course, ran rampant. Since before I can remember, it's been a place constantly derided by friends, family, and others who have spent many years there and elsewhere. I myself even participated in this action on occasion, tossing the term "Utard" around more than I'm comfortable admitting now. <br /><br />(For a full and proper context, please see my landmark June 2009 posting <a href="http://whatsupcarr.blogspot.com/2009/06/cultivating-better-idahoutah-relations.html">"Striving to Improve Idaho/Utah Relations."</a>)<br /><br />Actually, many people jab at Utah from inside and out, but it's important to note that nearly 100 percent of the derision is directed solely at its residents. No one really speaks ill of Utah's cities, which tend to be clean and modern, or its natural wonder, which is extraordinary. A hefty portion of the derision comes from Mormons from other states, but that's not the issue here. <br /><br />The issue is this. I live a couple states away now, and when I tell people I'm from Idaho, I get a wide variety of reactions--potatoes, skiing, fishing, neo-Nazis, BSU football, hicks, corn (for those confusing it with Iowa)--and this is good. Variety and reality, out of which a friendly conversation may ensue. But try to tell someone you've come from Utah, and the initial reaction is the same <em>every single time</em>. It's remarkable. All 2.8 million people, including the 1.2 million who are active Mormons and the 1.6 million who are not, are painted with the exact same brush. I've watched it countless times--in a split-second, the person looks you up and down and almost nods a little, then gives a distinct look that says they immediately know everything about you. Say no more. You're from Utah. I've heard about you. <br /><br />The easy answer, of course, is to not let this bother me. First of all, I'm not from Utah, and secondly, the majority of Utahns don't seem to let the profiling and essential condescension hinder their ridiculously high quality of life. Who knows if we'll ever move back here or not, but if we decide to, I might have to do a little maturing in order to fit in, considering my upbringing.<br /><br />That, and I'd have to stop using my turn signal. Zing! I'm sorry, I know. Sort of sends a mixed message about the place. <br /><br />Well, hey.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-61017643132408313232010-12-11T21:59:00.003-07:002010-12-11T23:13:32.800-07:00talking, but with revisionBy now, you must have noticed it. Of course you have. This blog, you've said, doesn't have a theme, a brand, an <em>essence</em>. It's alternately witty and sappy, trivial and overblown, and pretty much every entry is too long. If you hadn't noticed it, don't feel bad. I noticed it a long time ago, but I never did anything about it. That's probably worse.<br /><br />Why is it that we blog, again? Remind me. For me, maybe my writing voice is the voice I wish was my speaking voice. Maybe it's because I no longer keep a journal. Maybe I just want to be heard. But some of the world's most annoying people are those who just want to be heard. Yes, it's not the most ignoble of desires, but it spawns some bad stuff. Either way, there are something like 13 million blogs out there (made it up), so no one's really getting heard anyway.<br /><br />I remember remarking to my friend Blaine once in an Indian restaurant in a gas station that I thought that writing, for me, represented the most likely opportunity for me to make a real "mark on the world" or something like that. I'm pretty sure I still believe that, but I don't know if I care anymore. Writing for me, I think, represents the thing that makes me feel the best, the most productive. That's what it is. And when someone might stumble in the door and read it on accident, it forces some degree of accountability.<br /><br />This next three weeks might represent the longest vacation I'll have until I retire, assuming I find a job someday. So here's this: I'm going to do my best to write here at least two or three times a week until winter quarter starts and we'll see what comes out of it. Maybe I'll figure out why it is I do this, and what form future postings might take. It might suck for a bit (see "Searching for Teen Wolf" or this entry), but I have hope for a brighter future.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-62974748576315312522010-11-21T17:18:00.015-07:002010-11-22T02:46:17.755-07:00on instananeous aging, and its effectsWhen I lived in Russia, I became witness to a fascinating phenomenon which I like to call "babafication" (бабафикация). That's pronounced BOB-ification, from the word babushka (бабушка), which is one of the two Russian words you already know. Babafication describes the process by which this <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8mHB6TMooxD2gBBtyDcqK2K1YaEDn6VDsEADQvjBtHa84ijDpndmVCfh-us31nL9cOcgvCTliW1v6gd5FBRe1rw6E7suOY9WNVhVdXJNvdLS0i68lIjfx2QmTL1QAgGGBL1F4NOOEDzQ/s1600/sharapova-and-racket-wallpaper.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8mHB6TMooxD2gBBtyDcqK2K1YaEDn6VDsEADQvjBtHa84ijDpndmVCfh-us31nL9cOcgvCTliW1v6gd5FBRe1rw6E7suOY9WNVhVdXJNvdLS0i68lIjfx2QmTL1QAgGGBL1F4NOOEDzQ/s320/sharapova-and-racket-wallpaper.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542168760898475922" /></a><br />becomes this.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPtf62EIq8Pfmy6o3WGbgCNNfQTsVcDh6gugAdeD6JwExpdEgO05SbOjS9juh30jFQeb-L3tlCnWe0ef3eZxjmINZ0hQONqCh6bUHRAcPgj-YFaFI1XyQOioJ4Gm_ch2AusHyBE6_fG6I/s1600/babsukawillgetyou.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPtf62EIq8Pfmy6o3WGbgCNNfQTsVcDh6gugAdeD6JwExpdEgO05SbOjS9juh30jFQeb-L3tlCnWe0ef3eZxjmINZ0hQONqCh6bUHRAcPgj-YFaFI1XyQOioJ4Gm_ch2AusHyBE6_fG6I/s320/babsukawillgetyou.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542168943786553282" /></a><br />Notable is the rate at which this process occurs among Russian women. The above change represents something like a week or two tops, during which time the women must stay inside their apartments, because to my knowledge, no one has ever witnessed this transition, or in fact, any true middle ground between the two varieties of women. On a side note, it is unknown whether or not a similar process applies to Russian men, since there are no Russian men over 55.<br /><br />Over the years, I've conducted a long, informal study on both sides of the Pacific, and I have my theories about why Russians age the way they do. That's not the point here. What fascinates me is the fact that babafication is much more than just a dizzying natural metamorphosis. Much of it appears to be, to some degree, voluntary. <br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Adam watches from his stroller as the tiger sharks swim overhead. He doesn't watch closely. I want him to, but he's still too young to appreciate such a sight. I watch for him, hoping he'll get a sense, through me, that he's witnessing something special. <br /><br />When we talk about Adam's future, snapshots flash of a young man my age, but without any clear distinguishing features. It's nearly impossible for me to picture my son in any state other than baby, and yet, he'll move on eventually. I stroke his tiny fingers as he grasps one of mine, and it floors me to think that these very same fingers will be big someday, and will belong to a man who goes on dates, gets promoted, and grows crippled, hunched over with the weight of the world. I can't equate the baby with the man, or even older child, that he'll become. I can't equate myself with either my past or my future, either. These fingers can't be the same ones. It doesn't make sense. <br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Those that have spent time in Russia know that being a babushka entails much more than just being old. Babushki (pl.) possess enormous cultural importance in the motherland, and have for centuries. They are the consummate representation of the past, the stubborn link to a folkloric time on the steppe that, without them, may have vanished generations ago. Babushki somehow embody the in-born instinct of the Russian soul--not 60 but suddenly 600 years old, complete with all the wisdom, reserve, and longing tediously gathered over such a span.<br /><br />The universal babushka wardrobe, conversely, can be assembled almost instantaneously. It's as rigid as the bristles on the crooked brooms they scrape with. Regardless of the season, the standard-issue outdoor babushka get-up begins with several layers of multicolored sweaters and dresses peering out from under a drab, scratchy overcoat, and accompanied by a scarf, felt boots, and the shawls that have come to symbolize them almost as a distinct race. <br /><br />The question I've wondered for years is this: when do babushki decide it's time to don the uniform? What spark causes them to set out shopping for felt boots? And do they hunch and snort on the way to the boot market, or does that not happen until the bus ride home? The differences between Maria Sharapova and the axe-wielding matriarch are enormous, but the time gap is razor thin--comicially so. One day, one direction, the next day, another. Generations, states of mind separated so clearly, it may as well be law. <br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Deeper down in the Aquarium by the Bay, after the tiger sharks, a man peers into a tank. He wears a red 49ers cap and has a red 49ers tattoo on his right bicep, which is visible thanks to the manual removal of the sleeves from his red 49ers shirt. The physical characteristics of his face escape me, but what I see on his face will remain etched in my mind for many days. As he puts his hands on the rail and looks into the blue, I think I witness the exact moment he advances a generation and becomes old. Maybe this moment has lasted a month or two for him, or maybe I truly am beholding a once-in-a-lifetime realization. Either way, I've never seen a face bearing two opposing forces--the young and the old--in such desperate struggle. He is carefree and immature and then suddenly wizened. Suddenly it's no longer ok to wear a sleeveless shirt to the aquarium. Now he'll be embarrassed when he leaves.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />I have to admit I'm not sure what all this means, these two approaches to aging. Maybe Russian women have it figured out, and they can pinpoint when this transformational moment will come, and thus mentally prepare for the instinctual migration to the felt boot market. Why fight it like so many western women attempt to? To me, the idea of a foreordained babafication ritual seems more graceful than the forced metamorphosis I see at the aquarium. It also seems possible that the anticipation and cultural expectation contribute to the babushki aging so quickly all at once, though.<br /><br />Back in Russia, tangled up in these very questions, I also looked into the possibility that babushki are, in fact, a distinct race, and that they're born in their present form, just slightly smaller. It almost makes more sense.<br /><br />I hope Adam stays tiny forever.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-4011496302302974922010-11-14T00:43:00.008-07:002010-11-14T02:59:08.387-07:00searching for teen wolfFor quite a while now, possibly my entire life, I've been trying to be awesome. I mean, most of us have. We know the actually awesome people are the ones that don't have to try, but that doesn't stop us. It just forces us to be sneakier -- to cover our tracks so it doesn't look like we're trying so hard.<br /><br />Since among my generation, Facebook is the ultimate medium by which awesomeness is not only conveyed, but oftentimes created (and destroyed), I have naturally spent careful hours over the past years tweaking my Facebook profile in calculated efforts to elevate my own stature. The ultimate goal of this, of course, is that in the event of a time warp in which we're all transplanted back to high school, I'll have a greater immunity from dorkitude than I did the first time around.<br /><br />The Facebook profiles of awesome people are often characterized by extreme terseness -- they don't say much. One might conclude that this technique lends an air of mysteriousness to the subject, which we all know is attractive. More importantly, and not unrelated, is that the technique of virtual anti-verbosity lends the impression that one spends little time on Facebook, which is, of course, the equivalent of "not trying." See how this works? In the Facebook realm, as in literature, economy of words equals awesomeness. Ergo, my own profile tweakings almost always take the form of trimming the fat. <br /><br />Trimming the fat used to be easy to do on the sly. Every so often, I'd log on, delete an unnecessary line or two, and the casual viewer was none the wiser. Much to my dismay, however, I discovered yesterday that Facebook has changed things up. Now not only does it publish on my wall every tweak I make, but it has removed the "remove" option, which means each tweak now enters permanent public record as a damning testament to my repeated attempts at awesomeness augmentation, a heinous crime. <br /><br />In the context of the "wistful" or "pensive period" that has defined my recent thoughts, yesterday's debilitating revelation seemed destined to cast me deeper into the stagnant tidepool of unawesomeness. Then something else happened which may prove to reverse my fortunes entirely: I watched that shining beacon of modern cinema, 1985's <em>Teen Wolf</em>.<br /><br />In the film, young Scott Howard seeks fervently after awesomeness, and due to an unexplained genetic anomaly, not only does he find it, but in his words, it "lands on [his] face." After the happy event, the remainder of the film is an unabashed chronicling of his awesomeness, as sampled in the following clip: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7cfx7V5e-8Q&feature=related">here it is in Spanish </a>(this level of awesomeness requires no translation).<br /><br />The lesson here is clear. If an awesomeness of this gut-wrenching magnitude is achievable for one who wanted it as publicly as did Scott Howard, it might be achievable even for me. Not that he hasn't set the bar high. Until I'm doing backflips on top of a moving truck that bears my likeness, I may never know whether or not I've arrived at a commensurate level of awesome. I also have the added disadvantage of being subject to logical transitions, a backstory, and a plot without holes, none of which burdened young Scott. <br /><br />More importantly, the wistful period is over. It may have made for more vogue, publishable memoir, but heaven knows that's not awesome.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-28359861793158791622010-10-23T23:30:00.008-06:002010-10-24T01:26:34.141-06:00периферия / the peripheryNote: Sarah says my writings have been "angsty" lately. I'm not sure about that. I suspect if future anthropologists were to discover this link and hold my blog up as a standard of human achievement in early 21st century literature, the last few posts may be considered to constitute my "wistful" or "pensive" period. It's what's in my heart. So sue me.<br /><br /><br /><br />Last weekend, at Half Moon Bay, Adam saw the ocean for the first time. The pumpkin festival had the highway choked for many miles around, but once we actually arrived at the beach, it was nearly empty. Only after exiting the car, which we parked at the edge of the cliff, did the sandy postcard beach below, with no people, present itself. <br /><br />I came to California to get closer to Siberia, which has been whispering past my ear since before I can remember. Even as I stepped cautiously to the cliff overlooking the ocean, my body, like a magnet, oriented itself 45 degrees to the north. The unifying capacity of oceans is remarkable. Even thousands of miles away, it felt like it was just over the horizon. <br /><br />Just as with oceans, the concept of distance is hard to grasp within Siberia as well. Such vast emptiness plays tricks on the mind, especially when you step past the last house in town and find yourself on the periphery. The next Siberian city, after all, is considered "close" when it only takes an overnight train to get there. I can recall countless instances looking north, especially from the taiga forests outside Ulan-Ude and Novosibirsk, thinking that if I could just walk straight in that direction, I could reach the Arctic Ocean, hundreds of miles away, without encountering a soul. Of course, I'd never survive the trip. I could just soon walk across the ocean. <br /><br />There's something about being on the periphery that's really mystifying. It's impossible not to notice it. In Siberia, of course, that's everywhere. That's all Siberia is--the very edge of a gigantic abyss, as dark and cold and inhospitable as the surface of the moon, and just as far. It's incredible. I guess the ocean's the closest thing we have around here.<br /><br />I wanted to explain all that to Adam, and I will someday, after he's older. Hopefully I can show him in person, so he can feel it too. All I told him last weekend is, "Adam, this is the ocean. Isn't it beautiful?" And then I pointed north, and said "that's where Siberia is." I think I may have said a couple more things, certainly kissed him on top of the head, and then after we took a picture, we returned to the car. Hopefully we'll be back soon.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-28710099096142521712010-09-27T22:53:00.008-06:002010-09-29T00:59:53.989-06:00the revision processThis post isn't necessarily about writing.<br /><br />Stanford University is a stunningly grand place. I'll give you a second to look up photos of campus, which won't do it justice. The colonnades that surround each building on the main quad, for example, could never be captured in anything less than mural form. The corridors stretch seemingly for miles, remarkably unpeopled, enveloping a walker in a space that deftly reverberates with quality and tradition, even as the California sun sends in waves of warm vitality. The physical plant makes me want to be a better student now and a better citizen in the future.<br /><br />It's a good thing, too, because some of the coursework so far has done just the opposite. It's not Stanford's fault. In fact, much of what has exasperated me thus far have been direct products of older and colder schools farther east, where the academy was born. A week and a day into graduate school, I'm starting to completely reconsider my one-time aspirations to become a professor. <br /><br />This is big. A few weeks ago around a bonfire back in Utah, Sarah and I sat with two other young couples, friends of ours, answering questions about our spouses. It was a sort of Newlywed Game without points or explicit consequences. The question was posed: "What is your spouse's #1 interest, in one word?" Sarah looked at me, and didn't even hesitate before saying "academia." I took minor issue with that characterization, suggesting that "universities" or "college" might more appropriately engulf the athletic, administrative, and image aspects which interest me as well. Plus, Sarah is rightfully cynical about much that spews forth from the academy's highest windows. The point remains, though, that despite my admitted lack of career direction, academia has long been my default, so to speak. It has always made sense for me. <br /><br />The cause of the university is something worth believing in--don't get me wrong--but over the past week and a day, I've been reminded of the limitations of certain high-minded academic pursuits. In fact, couple of my classes have already presented me with lectures and readings that seem to alienate intentionally. One professor, who just received his PhD last year from Oxford, presented everything in such a pedantic and arrogant manner that I ended up dropping his class and enrolling instead in another subject that hardly interests me at all. The most frustrating (and possibly appropriate) part is that the really alienating lectures, books, and journal articles are invariably about things that matter the very least. Some things in history, anthropology, and literature matter--in my opinion, the vast majority of things. Just not everyone focuses on those. <br /><br />I, for one, cannot fault a person who wishes to spend his or her career ensconsed in the machinations of one little-known literary critic or in the semantics of how we should define a specific subculture. Critical thinking is good. But I suppose if I'm learning anything in grad school thus far it's that I want to use this critical thinking, this knowledge for accomplishing something real--for <em>creating </em>something real--in whatever sphere that may be.<br /><br />In search of a much-needed break, we took a day trip to Monterey and Salinas on Saturday, where almost all of John Steinbeck's novels are set. We also toured the home where he was born, grew up, and wrote <em>The Red Pony</em> and <em>Tortilla Flat</em>. Next came the National Steinbeck Center, an impressive museum, especially considering that it's dedicated to the life and works of one brilliant, but by all accounts normal, man. In stark contrast to my feelings for my coursework, I was nearly brought to tears several times wandering through the exhibition hall, gaping at the beautiful stories that have touched so many lives, including my own. Especially striking was a quote from the writer which I had read before, explaining his motive behind <em>East of Eden</em>, the best book I've ever read: <br /> <br />"I am choosing to write this book to my sons. They are little boys now and they will never know what they came from through me, unless I tell them."<br /><br /><em>That</em> is a worthy cause. <br /><br />Whatever it is I end up doing, I hereby vow to create (or at least attempt), and create (or at least attempt) with purpose. Getting paid for that can be tricky, but if a position opens up for Nobel Prize-winning writer, let me know. Meanwhile, I may be on the hunt for an alternate future.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-53601449445422802332010-09-16T00:38:00.002-06:002010-09-16T02:05:25.590-06:00settlementTwo things happened over the past few months that have caused me to take a greater interest in my heritage. These are they:<br />1) my son was born, and his name is my name too. <br />2) Sarah and I made the decision to leave the great Eastern Idaho/Northern Utah region where my family has lived for generations. And as I admittedly take great stock in geography and how it defines people, I've been particularly desirous to take in as much of my beloved region as I can--the region that has shaped me so profoundly. In fact, all summer long, I've been wanting to take a heritage tour, a la my favorite movie, <em>Everything is Illuminated</em>. <br /><br />The realization of said tour has taken place only slowly, in meandering steps that haven't left deep impressions. For some reason, I've purposefully been treading lightly. The hunt for the farmhouse in Kimberly, Idaho where my grandmother grew up with her homesteading Danish parents hit an anti-climax when my dad's weird cousin, the current inhabitant, didn't invite us in. I didn't push for it. I also lived literally across the street from my other grandmother's childhood home in Logan, Utah, for nearly two years without ever venturing in.<br /><br />Frankly, it was enough for me to grasp things generally, until I found out about Russian Settlement. I knew I had to see it, touch it, breathe it in.<br /><br />Nobody seems to know whether or not the hundred or so clannish religious outcasts from Russia who settled in Park Valley, Utah in 1914 had a name for their town. Like the village itself, the specifics are lost to history. Driven out by the rising Bolsheviks, they came first to California, and then became uneasy there following another incidence of persecution. Upon seeing a brochure for cheap land in which to "invest dimes and reap dollars" in Utah's far northwest corner, the troops picked up and re-settled. This photo, which I took last week, is probably exactly what they saw: nothing. 96 years later, the whole area remains empty--too wild to tame.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX1bhWKNk4H4Em1t3MIBo0rKu1bclwsJn5c1exHeEEDs4oH18rl2AfiPtJ2D_ul9KyITkGKfEHAc7Ky3ELNmrMye0Dm_V7PLZjKz5KD9XUjB5Cw1eSqi3dZyeccfDeMNMPqw8MY9oMHnQ/s1600/PICT0299.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX1bhWKNk4H4Em1t3MIBo0rKu1bclwsJn5c1exHeEEDs4oH18rl2AfiPtJ2D_ul9KyITkGKfEHAc7Ky3ELNmrMye0Dm_V7PLZjKz5KD9XUjB5Cw1eSqi3dZyeccfDeMNMPqw8MY9oMHnQ/s400/PICT0299.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517408563291949602" /></a> Eventually, the poor band of Russians couldn't sustain themselves any longer and abandoned their desert settlement in 1918, just over three years after arriving in the supposedly lush valley.<br /><br />As I wandered the dusty field where the town once stood, handling shards of bright purple glass and rusty rectangular cans, I wondered at the reasons that these people so quickly entered the realm of the forgotten. My grandfather, born in the valley in 1921, remembers the history, but he's one of only a handful, I suspect. It doesn't help that the area is ridiculously, romantically remote--seven miles on unmarked dirt roads to a town which in 2010 still boasts neither gas station nor cell phone reception. Limited grocery shopping and small doctors' offices are still an hour to two hours away. <br /><br />What struck me more than anything was that, besides the remoteness, the main reason we don't remember Russian Settlement is that they didn't die, didn't eat each other like the Donners. As I surveyed the only existing "structure" of the town, a tiny picket-fenced cemetery with two graves--sisters--I realized that nobody else died. Though the harsh land so much as drove them away, only two out of a hundred people didn't make the long trek back to California, a remarkable feat for that time period. Their experiment failed, but they made a decision and conceded before things got really bad. History, it seems, doesn't shine upon societies that fail untragically.<br /><br />After surveying the scene and its artifacts, I took a few more pictures of the dry landscape and turned the newly filthy Honda Civic back the other way toward the dirt "road" on which we arrived. By lingering at Russian Settlement, I delayed our own emigration to California for nearly two hours, but to me it was well worth it. The region may be behind me now, but as I've begun to introduce myself to others here on the coast, it seems a more palpable part of me than ever. I will be back to settle the arid land someday, I promise.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin1dDoIasHUWWJX4t7z0bawr-9PcX_1IVb4_wpMg1ohhsn1IS-5q570aBuqwd_9_c1Vwy7wxOcl3UnAeGuL8kP1clZ6ZGLWRNRf8TIEf-89reTw-HxFYF3Xc5gfGiJ-17GfT_o2W8_rwY/s1600/PICT0312.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin1dDoIasHUWWJX4t7z0bawr-9PcX_1IVb4_wpMg1ohhsn1IS-5q570aBuqwd_9_c1Vwy7wxOcl3UnAeGuL8kP1clZ6ZGLWRNRf8TIEf-89reTw-HxFYF3Xc5gfGiJ-17GfT_o2W8_rwY/s400/PICT0312.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517409166367581282" /></a>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-40313400473316903352010-08-30T23:57:00.008-06:002010-08-31T01:00:12.170-06:00on chasing dreams, and their fluid naturesMaybe this is what growing up is. <br /><br />Tomorrow is my last day of work. Eight more hours in the PR office of my small-town alma mater, standing up for the little guy, like Jimmy Stewart. Already I embellish it with the twisted goggles of retrospect.<br /><br />Tomorrow, and then it's over--the projects, the relationships, the sense of accomplishment. Then it's off to the big time, paradise, and the chance that Jimmy Stewart, at least in the Christmas movie, never got. At most, my upcoming master's program is literally a lifelong dream come true for me. At the very least, it's the first obvious step in the direction where I <em>think </em>my dreams are, or at least where they've always been. I can't be any more specific than that. I don't know where this master's will lead me, and that's fine.<br /><br />When people ask me, as one of my favorite professors did a couple days ago, where it is that I'm headed, my spiel invariably includes the admission that beyond this next year, I don't know. "I just know what I love," I say, "and we'll see what happens." Adults like that, I've noticed. When I tell them I'm blindly chasing a childhood dream, they smile in a way that lets me know they didn't. They would have, but something came up. At first, I assumed they envied me, and maybe some still do, but lately I've been thinking that smile stands for some secret I haven't fully learned yet, like that dreams change. That dreams, like the people who project them, can grow up.<br /><br />I've never wanted to stay in this town forever, or even very long. And yet right now, remaining alongside friends and working to bring my small-town alma mater the glory it deserves sounds incredibly attractive. I won't stay, of course. After tomorrow, I'll do the smart thing and move on, seize the opportunity I've been given. I'd be a fool not to, and don't get me wrong, it'll be great. But I've just now been wondering if I've finally stumbled onto the secret realization all the adults made long ago by virtue of necessity or practicality--that secret behind the smile--that hitting the big time isn't all that important. Maybe living in this out-of-the-way town performing a low-profile, but fulfilling job could make me just as happy, if not actually <em>happier</em> than fulfilling the grand aspirations of my youth. <br /><br />I'll miss this job. But who knows, maybe it wouldn't have been as good without an expiration date. It's easy to get into a rut when you're in it for the long haul, or so I've observed. In large part, being new and unabashed and having an excuse for not noticing obstacles is what afforded me any degree of success I may have won. Of course, the success has been largely theoretical pomp and circumstance. I'm immensely proud of the work I've performed in this job, but I have virtually nothing to show for it. Random contributions made to a number of non-lifesaving projects that aren't even finished yet.<br /><br />Maybe they will be eventually, though. And maybe something I did will be of use even further down the road. If not, that's probably fine. I never imagined that my first job after graduation would be with one of my favorite organizations on the planet, and I never thought I could get paid for having so much fun. Utah State University and its fine people have done more for me than I could ever possibly do for it. And the Utah State University I know would be very pleased to hear that. And I guess that's just it. <br /><br />In the throes of a glorious project undertaken by myself and a friend and colleague to pin down and improve our university's public image, it was discovered that people just plain love it here. Many could get better pay and more prestige at other institutions, but they stay because they believe in what they do, and with whom. Their dreams grew up. Now I'm feeling the growing pains to the point that sacrificing my own dreams in order to remain here and at the poverty line sounds enticing.<br /><br />But we've established that I'm averse to change. And while most would probably say Jimmy Stewart had to stay home to be who he was, maybe that's not true. Maybe he could have seen the world, come back, and used his experiences to make his hometown a better place. Win-win. Since Capra didn't have an alternate ending up his sleeve, one can only guess.<br /><br />We'll see what happens.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-68990762381852499512010-08-16T22:44:00.018-06:002010-11-11T01:48:49.772-07:00a frame through which to seeIn the basement of my parents' home, there is a room called "the bat cave." It is so named for its proclivity to perfect darkness. There's not so much as a digital clock to light the pillowcase in soft fluorescent green. Pitch black. It's the ideal guest room for breakfast haters. And right now it's filled with junk. My junk.<br /><br />In less than a month, we're moving to California, placing my parents' home at a considerable distance for who knows how long. So when we stayed there this past weekend, I spent some time in the bat cave, sorting through box after box of old memories.<br /><br />This practice of sorting through past personal relics is something we all do from time to time, most often with the noble objective (as was mine) of throwing things away. After all, that's what you do with old junk that piles up in the guest room. What if some weary Elijah needs to stay there for the first time in years? I'm not saying this sacrifice of past knowledge in favor of future uncertainty is wrong. It's just hard for me.<br /><br />From a young age, I've had a difficult time throwing things away--toys, papers, anything that has specific days, places, or people attached. I assume it's lethophobia, the fear of forgetting, which must loom large in me. I've been blessed with an unusually sharp memory, but even the most vivid stories and sensations from the past generally only surface with the help of some physical cue. And as bizarrely painful as it can be to sort through my own joyful youth, I crave those stories and sensations. I love to remember. I imagine I'm no different than many in that respect. It's human to, once in a while, go through old drawers, closets, boxes of physical cues. The ironic thing, of course, is that we only acknowledge these cues, these artifacts, when laden with the task of thinning out their ranks. But are these memories really only useful to us when we're consciously cycling through them, deciding which ones to destroy? Which ones no longer represent whom we want to be? <br /><br />A couple of months ago, while doing research on organizational culture for a project at work, I came across a scholarly article on non-verbal symbols which communicate subconsciously to employees and customers. The article served its purposes well, but it also surprised me with a line that turned out to be much more profound than was possibly intended. It hasn't left my mind since. It said, "there is no looking without a frame through which to see." <br /><br />One of the first lessons taught in English class is on point of view. Truth, we learn, is relative to the speaker. And yet, this lesson is easily forgotten when discussing politics, religion, even sports. Each of us sees through his own completely unique frame--a frame that colors everything we observe in life, and each of our opinions.<br /><br />So as I sat cross-legged on the blue carpet of the bat cave, surrounded by my boxes of memories and experiences, it came to me that these relics are probably the clearest physical representation on the planet of who I am as a person. These relics--unwittingly collected and created over 25 years--constitute the most palpable, graspable frame I have, the explanation of who I am today, and why.<br /><br />And yet, even realizing that, I remained successful in my initial task to find things to throw away. I threw away old sweaters, cards my friend made me in elementary school, and page after page of scribbles demonstrating my near-clinical obsession with the Utah Jazz and the NBA. I made the conscious decision that the memories connected with those artifacts were not worth precious bat cave space. Those experiences will remain part of my frame forever, I suspect, but without the physical reminders, any hope of connecting those pasts with any particular present may be lost. For whatever reason, that was evidence I was willing to destroy. I did not throw away a Valentine's Day card from my 5-year-old sister calling me, in crooked handwriting, her best friend. <br /><br />If I disappear, and those boxes are all that remain to draw sense out of a complex human life, I want that to be part of it. Maybe by keeping it, that card and its happy association will assume a slightly larger percentage of the frame through which I see as well. I suppose there's some sense of hope in the idea that we can shape and refine our own frames over time, whether or not that action is accomplished by choosing what and what not to throw away.<br /><br />I suppose this long, over-thought musing on throwing things away demonstrates pretty well why I'm so bad at it. Despite all this soul-searching, I admit it's probably indeed best not to think about it <em>too </em>much, or else nothing will ever get thrown away and the bat cave will stand as a giant, faceless shrine to my laziness and/or sentimentality instead of whatever I'd like it to be. I guess there's always a balance.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-49046433477578983952010-08-06T20:27:00.005-06:002010-08-07T02:01:58.176-06:00thou mayest"In uncertainty I am certain that underneath their topmost layers of frailty men want to be good and want to be loved." -John Steinbeck, from <em>East of Eden</em><br /><br /><br />I've never had a favorite book before. As both an English major and one who enjoys literary references in everyday conversation a little too much, I've been asked that question a lot: what's my favorite book. The trouble with me is that I like almost everything I read, thanks to a habit of being quite discerning. There are very few risky choices in my queue.<br /><br />I could go on, but nobody wants to hear my thoughts on literature. Besides, my thoughts, despite having received a fine formal education in the subject, are rarely based on much. I still can't describe what I love about O'Connor or Faulkner, or now, Steinbeck, even after all the scholarly articles. I just do.<br /><br />It's not <em>Don Quixote</em> or <em>Ulysses</em> or even <em>Grapes of Wrath</em>, according to most critics. All I know is that I feel more about this novel than any book I've ever read. I finished it last night at 1:00, and spent the better part of the next hour shaking with praise as I read and re-read passages to myself. It's the book I'd want to write, if I was of Nobel caliber and if it hadn't been done already. It's beautiful, simple, and clear. Steinbeck said "I think everything else I have written has been, in a sense, practice for this." And I find myself now in awe and envy over a career so well spent.<br /><br />Product endorsements, even book reviews, aren't usually my thing around here, and I won't tell everyone to read it. It may not do for others what it did, and may yet do, for me. That's how literature works. But I'm proud to join fellow book people who have long claimed profound experiences with certain novels. Maybe not all of them are full of it.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5418422006741460512.post-85893033929638381652010-07-26T19:33:00.006-06:002010-07-26T23:39:17.515-06:00a plan for replenishing the earthWhen something so poignant happens like you become a father, you're not really sure what to write about. This has been my dilemma for the past two and a half months. I could say it's because I'm busy, and I am, but that's not it. Honestly, I've just been struggling to figure out how to place these past 10 weeks into some sort of readable perspective, for myself as much as anyone else. And while I feel no closer to any real conclusions, I feel as though it's time to try, and fake it.<br /><br />Maybe that's all any of us ever do anyway.<br /><br />I watched Adam come out--literally watched it happen. And I didn't faint or become nauseous. He just slipped out, after a bitter struggle, and then he looked each of us, his parents, in the eyes before being pulled into a room in the NICU for 16 days. We lived there at the hospital with him, and each night after work--once I went back to work--I boxed up a few things from our little apartment where we'd lived almost our entire married life together, just the two of us. The morning I drove Sarah to the hospital in labor was the last time she saw it before it was gutted.<br /><br />He was a month early, but really more like a year or two. And the more I talk to people, the more I realize how common that is. In fact, almost every pregnancy I've heard of recently is a year or two too early. I never realized how many of us, the population of earth, made surprise entrances, but it seems to be the case, and maybe entire human race owes its existence to it. Maybe I just know the wrong people.<br /><br />It's strange that so many of us fear it, as I did, because it's such an incredible thing. People always say it is, but nobody seems to believe them, or else they wouldn't be so surprised when it happens. He's a little squirt who gets us up in the middle of the night and doesn't mop or anything, but we don't care. I don't care. I would do anything to keep him from sadness. I know I go to work and offer the customary responses: "oh, you know, good except for the lack of sleep." But I don't really mean that. It's just what people say for some reason, because we've decided that this most universal of shared human experiences should include that touch of cynicism, as if the pure elation is somehow embarrassing. What I honestly feel, even if my bloodshot eyes don't show it, is this: "things literally couldn't be better."Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14064093982789329720noreply@blogger.com3