life as understood

three vignettes

2012-01-19T00:35:00.000-07:00

I'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 Idaho Magazine. Meanwhile, here are three vignettes from early 2012.

* * *

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.

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.

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.

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.

* * *

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.

You're welcome, future second-rate biographers.

* * *

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.

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.

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.

dear mr. president

2011-11-19T17:57:00.004-07:00

I 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.

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.

the commute

2011-09-27T00:49:00.004-06:00

Some 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

die luft der freiheit weht

2011-09-18T23:33:00.003-06:00

They 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

a new title

2011-06-19T22:03:00.015-06:00

Notice: 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 Don Quixote, 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.

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.

What's more, I may be a Master at some Arts, but surely not all 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 have 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.

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.

no place

2011-05-16T23:08:00.002-06:00

If 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.

"The writer is the engineer of the human soul."
-Josef Stalin

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.)

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 ever, 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.

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.

I don't live in the Soviet Union.

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.

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.

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.

at the art museum with Tsune

2011-05-01T17:00:00.003-06:00

Everything echoes in the Asian wing of the Cantor Arts Center. 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.

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 wabi-sabi 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, I'm the one being tutored.

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?

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 am part of a unique tradition--the Western world is unique, even if it's huge--I've just never seen the forest for the trees.

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.

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.

a month of war and peace

2011-02-02T22:12:00.002-07:00

The 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.

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.

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.

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, that reading is finished, and the battle continues.

"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." (War and Peace, I.3.XVIII)

the day my childhood hero called me a dumb-a**

2011-01-12T17:04:00.010-07:00

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 War and Peace when the phone rang. It was Rob.

"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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

Stanford may not have been enough, but mark my words: someday, Jeff Hornacek, somehow, I will make you proud.

as a little child

2010-12-24T22:20:00.004-07:00

Once 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.

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 wouldn't they be wrapping presents at night?

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.

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.

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.

in defense of Utah

2010-12-14T01:54:00.001-07:00

Listen up, because there's a good chance I'm never going to say this again in public.

Utah is a cool place.

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.

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.

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.

(For a full and proper context, please see my landmark June 2009 posting "Striving to Improve Idaho/Utah Relations.")

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.

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 every single time. 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.

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.

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.

Well, hey.

talking, but with revision

2010-12-11T21:59:00.003-07:00

By now, you must have noticed it. Of course you have. This blog, you've said, doesn't have a theme, a brand, an essence. 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.

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.

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.

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.

on instananeous aging, and its effects

2010-11-21T17:18:00.015-07:00

When 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

becomes this.
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.

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.

* * *

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.

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.

* * *

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.

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.

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.

* * *

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.

* * *

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.

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.

I hope Adam stays tiny forever.

searching for teen wolf

2010-11-14T00:43:00.008-07:00

For 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Teen Wolf.

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: here it is in Spanish (this level of awesomeness requires no translation).

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.

More importantly, the wistful period is over. It may have made for more vogue, publishable memoir, but heaven knows that's not awesome.

периферия / the periphery

2010-10-23T23:30:00.008-06:00

Note: 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

the revision process

2010-09-27T22:53:00.008-06:00

This post isn't necessarily about writing.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 creating something real--in whatever sphere that may be.

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 The Red Pony and Tortilla Flat. 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 East of Eden, the best book I've ever read:

"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."

That is a worthy cause.

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.

settlement

2010-09-16T00:38:00.002-06:00

Two things happened over the past few months that have caused me to take a greater interest in my heritage. These are they:
1) my son was born, and his name is my name too.
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, Everything is Illuminated.

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.

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.

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. 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.

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.

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.

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.

on chasing dreams, and their fluid natures

2010-08-30T23:57:00.008-06:00

Maybe this is what growing up is.

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.

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 think 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.

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.

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 happier than fulfilling the grand aspirations of my youth.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We'll see what happens.

a frame through which to see

2010-08-16T22:44:00.018-06:00

In 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.

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.

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.

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?

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 too 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.

thou mayest

2010-08-06T20:27:00.005-06:00

"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 East of Eden

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.

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.

It's not Don Quixote or Ulysses or even Grapes of Wrath, 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.

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.

a plan for replenishing the earth

2010-07-26T19:33:00.006-06:00

When 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.

Maybe that's all any of us ever do anyway.

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.

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.

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."

the corner office

2010-05-10T23:00:00.005-06:00

Room 206 in the Public Relations and Marketing Office on campus might have the best view in the entire gorgeous valley I live in. Since I began occupying said office two months ago, I've actually been approached by a number of colleagues from other buildings who say they've always coveted it. I'll have to get a camera in there as proof, but for now, these probably-copyrighted images will have to do.

When I sit at my computer, in the office's southwest corner, this is what I see, without moving. The left photo represents the view from my left window, only I'm much closer to the historic tower than this.

Appropriately, the right photo represents the view from my right window, also without moving from my computer. It's even better in real life right now, since the mountains are still snow-capped, and the sky, lately, has been bluer. Truly, the sights, and everything about this job and this office, have been pleasures to greet me each day upon arriving in 206.

The truth is that I've been living a professional fantasy life at work for the the past two months. I fell into this wonderful station when a colleague of mine left on maternity leave, and I rose like a spirit from the basement to occupy a place that was never really mine. Over the course of the past nine weeks, though, I've successfully deluded myself into believing that it truly was mine. I printed off a picture of Sarah and taped it over the two tow-headed boys in the frame. I filled it with my music, held meetings, and answered the phone authoritatively. Hello, this is Jeff. I did her job and mine, and did it well.

I almost forgot this day would come. My boss informed me that Maren is returning from maternity leave early, on the 17th. One final week in the corner office, and then the dream is dead.

All along I've known I didn't earn it, such a coveted place, but I worked as though I had. And as I drift back down from whence I came, the basement will likely feel all the more dark, sterile, and lonely, even than it did before. In fact, my former office is no longer available, so I'll finish up my last three months at the blessed place in either the conference room or the kitchen--far from the heights I achieved in my mind, and from the people who held me up in my finest hour simply by treating me as though I belonged.

This final week in the corner office will be a somber one. Who knows how long it will be until I regain such a position. Maybe it'll never happen again. So you'll forgive me if I work longer hours this week. If it's any consolation, you can stop by and see me anytime. I like to be pictured this way.

a husband's take on bedrest

2010-04-22T21:38:00.004-06:00

Yesterday was a month since Sarah took her last step. Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration, I guess. She walks back and forth from the bed to the couch to the bathroom quite a few times a day. And we have doctor appointments every Monday. And we go on wheelchair walks around the block once in a while, and even went to Walmart a couple weeks ago and put her on one of those little carts. It was fun. But the whole thing has certainly been taxing, even for me, and it can't compare to how she feels. But my wife is bedresting like a champion, and has already absolutely saved our son's life. She is a literal hero, and I miss being able to bask in her standing shadow. I find I really look forward to Mondays because we get to be out together for a few minutes, even if it is just the hospital.

While she's on bedrest, Sarah isn't allowed to cook or clean or ever stand up unnecessarily, so it's been a particularly busy time for me, though we have had some help. In all honesty, though, this experience is probably needed preparation for me prior to becoming a father. In a couple days or months, I'll have my partner back to full strength, but there'll be another little dude running around, and I'll be just as busy and tired as I am now. Forever. The easy life is past.

All this musing, though, brings me to my real point, which is that I made the tastiest omelet ever last night. I should have taken a picture of it--it's seriously the best thing I've created in some time. It was Sarah's idea to make one, because she knows how much I value a good omelet. And then I realized, one at a time, that we currently have in our kitchen every single ingredient necessary for the perfect one: eggs, cheddar, ham, onion, green pepper, garlic, ranch, and Tabasco. It was the perfect storm of omeleteering. On a normal day, we might literally have two of those ingredients, but never could I dream that all eight would occur at once. Man, that was fantastic.

Sweet fancy Moses. I just realized I still have enough of everything to make another one.

place, legitimacy, and the grad school decision

2010-04-07T19:30:00.003-06:00

Call it a lifelong quest to self-legitimize.

I've never thought of it that way, but I imagine Freud would. Basically, I'm obsessed with place. This obsession manifests itself in spatial things, like how I gravitate to architecture books in Barnes & Noble and how a good percentage of my dreams feature me discovering new rooms in my own house.

Mostly, though, my interest is geographical. I knew the 50 states and their capitals when I was three years old. I still peruse maps whenever the opportunity arises. And above all, I'm fiercely loyal to and proud of my home country, state, and especially city. Actually, this deep love extends to my university, church, and pretty much every other institution that makes me who I am. I defend each of them voraciously. This is where it gets Freudian, I imagine. One could easily say that I'm just attempting to combat an innate sense of inferiority, especially considering that my state, city, university, and church could all be considered backwards by the mainstream public. That's probably a little bit true. At the very least, the obsession is traceable, logical. I love what's mine because it's mine.

And then there's another place: Russia, and more specifically, Siberia. I loved that long before I had a reason--long before I took it as my own. Since I was 11 or 12 years old, I've been inexplicably fascinated. I have theories for how it budded, but nothing obvious comes up. Growing up, I studied the language, geography, history, and culture to the extent I could with limited resources, and then in 2004 I went there. For two glorious years, I lived and served there, and the interest exploded further.

I haven't talked much about Russian things in this venue for some reason, but I probably will now, because I'm about to start a master's program in Russian Studies. I honestly don't know what I'm going to do with the degree yet, but I suppose this mini-opus is my attempt to make verbal sense of all of this. While I may still not know what the future holds, as far as I can tell, professionally speaking, I was put on this earth to study and utilize this very knowledge.

Those who know me well know that this has been a long journey, to which I'm pleased to announce a landmark development. After more than a year of deliberating, applying, waiting, hearing back, and deliberating some more, I have accepted an offer to pursue this degree at

Stanford University.

Sarah and I couldn't be happier about the school, program, people, or location. Plus, they made us an offer we'd be fools to turn down. It's going to be different living in the most populous and popular state in the union, in a huge and cool metro area, and studying at one of the most prestigious universities in the world, but I tell you what, I'm excited. We both are. I won't go so far as to say that this is my moment of legitimacy, but I do feel like this is the beginning of something new, in a more wide-ranging and profound way even than it appears on the surface. We'll keep you posted. Meanwhile, party in California.

temptation

2010-02-28T23:46:00.004-07:00

I need to blog now. I need to blog now because I'm starting full-time work tomorrow, and I'm not necessarily going to have a ton to do just yet. Blog now, no temptation to blog during work tomorrow.

On a related note, does anyone have any ethical concerns with me attempting to scare a pregnant woman into early labor? How about ideas? No, not Sarah. She's got a few months yet. It's a coworker of mine. You see, on the day after I submitted my last grad school application (that was today), I'm beginning full-time, 8:30-5:00 adult work partially because a coworker is leaving on maternity. So this has all worked out rather nicely, actually: same wonderful job in the same great office with the same fun people. Just doubled. Bonus. But here's the thing: though I begin full-time tomorrow, I don't actually get to assume my coworker's responsibilities (or more importantly, move into her awesome corner office) until she actually has the baby. The due date is March 17th, but it really could happen any day. Until it does, though, I'm stuck in the basement for 8 hours a day with 4 hours worth of work.

So again, ideas? No?

I guess I can ride it out for a few more days. Even when she comes back in June, I get to remain at full-time (with a modest pay increase) until we head off to grad school in August. So it really is a pretty sweet deal. Thank goodness for my wonderful office. And say goodbye to the prospect of knocking doors for the U.S. Census for supplemental income.

Snapshot of America. Ha. On the grad school front, though I did just turn in my last application today, I've already heard from three schools. Four more to go. You'll forgive me if I don't discuss the specifics here, for obvious reasons. When we hear from everyone and make a decision, we'll have a nice signing day ceremony or something, and I'll put on a hat. Probably not an authentic hat, though. Probably my Washington Nationals hat with a college-ruled Sharpie logo taped to the front. Hats are expensive.

the best of the decade

2009-12-31T12:24:00.014-07:00

Ten years ago today, at 14, I stood outside in the snow with my parents' bulky video camera, with nothing to film. I had received some video editing equipment and software for Christmas--the most expensive present I'd ever asked for--and I was desperate to create something poignant and beautiful. This would be the beginning of a burgeoning creative career, I was certain. Slinging the protective bag over my left shoulder, I cocked the camera up to my eye and traipsed the road between the two houses, looking for meaning. By the end of our family's 10-day holiday party, I had captured a few snow football games, Brooke falling through the frozen pond, and the grand countdown to Y2K. Blips of excitement in otherwise listless footage.

Upon returning home, I installed the software and spent numerous hours cutting and compiling everything into a story to be distributed among the family--if nothing else, an hour-long memory of a good time. In the end, though, our dated computer wasn't compatible with the technology to output to videocassette. The footage remained unused, and my expensive present rendered useless. I continued to make movies on a school computer and with my best friend, but his superior equipment and talent soon rendered me obsolete as well.

Over the past week or so, I've ingested decade reviews courtesy Newsweek, Time, CNN, and others. By all global accounts, the '00s have been remarkably crappy. September 11th, Hurricane Katrina, the Asian monsoon, myriad wars, growing distrust of leadership, disdain for the US, a reign of "reality" TV, overshadowing and drought of quality creative work and entertainment, and a major global recession.

I'm not sure how history will remember this decade (or what they'll call it), but I suspect that I'll remember it as the decade in which everything happened, and nothing changed. In the '00s, I started and finished high school, and started and finished college. I moved away, learned about death, love, had my first kiss, won state, gained a sister, partied until morning, served a two-year mission in Siberia, and got engaged, and then married.

This morning, I awoke late in Sun Valley, and leaving my pregnant wife in bed, stepped out into morning on the snowy road between the houses. Slinging the bag over my left shoulder, I opened the screen on our newest, most expensive Christmas present--a JVC digital video camera--and pointed it out into the snow. Still nothing. It was a flailing, futile attempt to close the decade with greater structure than it began, and it failed.

On that very day ten years ago, I began to write in a journal, inaugurating a process that saw the abandonment of moviemaking as my principal creative activity. Now I consider myself a writer, and despite a few publications and a degree, I still don't know what I want to write about. In fact, I still don't know I want to do in general, other than that I want to create something poignant and beautiful. The specifics, through the lenses of both my video camera and my life itself, continue to be withheld from my sight.

The great essayist William Safire, who passed away this year, extolled the importance of people everywhere recording what they see, citing a widespread lack of first-person history in our cultural awareness. I didn't see the hurricane or even the recession, but I did see the road between the two houses. So I guess I'm doing that, recording what I see, but to what end? I certainly never found an answer in this decade. The '10s, though, will be the decade in which the majority, if not all, of my children will be born. I imagine then I'll have something to write about, and something to film.

Even on a macro level, maybe the snow football games and babies are still all that matter. Maybe I'll never get to unfurl a grand global creative insight on the world, but maybe that's ok. After all, despite all that's happened on the outside, and despite my own futility to synthesize it into anything poignant or beautiful, this was a pretty great decade for me. Maybe that's something.

news

2009-12-06T16:19:00.002-07:00

This is longest blog drought in some time now, but that's not without good reason. By the way, I'm resolved to begin each post with a reference to the fact that it's been a while as a punishment to myself for letting it be a while, lest you poo-poo my lack of variation.

Here's the thing. Sarah, my wife, is knocked up. I know, I know, there are probably better ways to say that, but chances are, most caring readers know by now anyway. Sarah posted it on her blog quite some time ago. If this comes as a shock to you, it's because I'm horrible at spreading big news. There are a number of people quite close to me who surely remain in the dark, including pretty much everyone from high school. Well, now you know.

This miraculous development in our lives came as a shock to us as well, actually. I know that's the question everyone wants to ask, especially after they hear me too-adamantly proclaim that "no, we're waiting a while." Well, we were, but Carr Jr. evidently didn't get the memo. But I tell you what--we're excited. It's kind of like when you forget to invite someone to your birthday party, but then they show up anyway and everyone has a good time. It's a little awkward at first, but that's mostly my fault for not inviting him (or her).

The due date is June 8th, so after Sarah graduates, but before we take off for grad school. This means we're just at the end of the first trimester. She's been sick pretty much 24/7 for the last six weeks, and that is hopefully beginning to subside. It's all been fairly surreal so far, because the two of us have just been spending each waking moment trying to keep her from honking. She's also taking 18 credits and working more than 20 hours per week. She's quite the trooper. Needless to say, we probably haven't had ample time to really take it all in. But what we have processed so far is that this is going to be quite the special experience for the next few decades or so. Possibly eternity.

assets

2009-11-11T18:06:00.003-07:00

I'm a recent graduate of Utah State University, a current university employee, and I have a Sustaining Alumni Membership there--each of which attributes provide certain material benefits--but the only thing that can get me into Aggie basketball games for cheap is the fact that my wife is a student. I always suspected she was my most valuable asset, but it's nice to have quantitative proof.

people, politics, and the future: an intelligent discussion?

2009-10-29T15:19:00.017-06:00

I guess I need to figure some things out, for my own sanity.

So, they say that history repeats itself, and that ideals of cultural identity and the political climate in America swing around in cycles. I, for one, am too young to have witnessed many, or any, revolutions of said cycles, but I'm sure it's true. Correct me if I'm wrong, though, but I have to assume that a few scary things that I'm witnessing in the political world today are brand new. They're new due to the evolving nature of the media, which is itself new.

If I was writing a dystopian novel (and I may someday), I think I'd spend quite a bit of time studying the precise rhetorical methods of mainstream media today. Heck, an overly manipulative media was Orwell's greatest fear, and that was in the '40s. Now, I don't like bringing up the subject of media bias anymore, because the issue turns immediately to Fox vs. CNN, left vs. right, yada yada yada.

Ironically, the fact that the discussion immediately turns there encapsulates what actually scares me: Compartmentalization and oversimplification of inherently complex and vital-to-life issues. And nowhere is this more evident than in the infantile pitting, in the media, of the two major American political parties against each other.

It seems like people have woken up to the pitfalls of cable news stations like Fox and CNN, but I wonder if many lessons are being learned. Obviously, the two parties have opposed each other forever, which has resulted in idiotic outbursts for decades (see Preston Brooks). But what's the purpose of the intense polarization that's taking place now between the two parties? No informed citizen could ever honestly say that they believe in every policy of a certain party and loathe every policy of the other. The party stances are completely counter-intuitive to their perceived philosophies on a lot of things. And it's not like one's good and one's evil. As Thomas Jefferson said, "Every difference of opinion is not a difference of principle." The parties themselves aren't that simple, so our responses to them probably shouldn't be either. But I digress.

So why the drama, then? Why are the parties drifting irreconcilably apart? As far as I can tell, it's for the lofty ambition of selling advertising space. Perfect archetypal battles between good and evil are the most gripping stories on TV, and in this case, you can even choose which side is which! The media, for better or for worse, is a business. Each year, in order to accommodate our impatient lives, complex arguments are reduced to smaller and smaller soundbites and simplistic party assignations to the point that no actual knowledge is disseminated on the news. Then we get this:

Dude 1: "The Republicans' health care plan is terrible!"
Dude 2: "What part of the plan?"
Dude 1: "Uh, you know, prices are too high, and they want us to pay for it ourselves."

As if that's the entirety of the issue. MAYBE we understand 10% of it, but no more.

The print media, thank goodness, doesn't always follow suit, but in all honesty, dramatic magazines and newspapers sell better than boring, accurate ones as well. Of course, it's not like this is the media's fault, per se. As a business, they pander to the interests and pocketbooks of the consumers. This phenomenon, to me--the oversimplification and lack of focus on real knowledge and solutions--seems like a product not of the media, but human nature (but what isn't, I guess?).

I guess the scary implications to me is this: that such a culture will continue to affect the way actual politics are done, i.e. increased emphasis on party solidarity and antagonism rather than actual attempts to solve problems collaboratively. Please see this hilarious recent Onion article as a satirical, but all-too-sadly-true example of the same. (PS--you could substitute one party for the other in the article--it doesn't matter.)

It seems to me that it's because of this oversimplification that choosing ultra-adamant opinions has become no longer the extreme, but the norm. Saying something loud has become an acceptable substitute for reasoning out a measured response. This, I suspect, is not entirely new, but I fear that with our technological capabilities at this point, the media isn't going to become any more attentive to those measured responses anytime soon. We're not getting stupider as citizens, but I fear we trample on our own beloved democratic rights by limiting our thinking to only two possible options for each issue--the liberal or the conservative--as if the spectrum really is that one-dimensional.

But then again, what do I know? I'm subject to the same soundbites as everyone else, and this progressive-sounding cynicism of mine doesn't make me any more knowledgeable than anyone else with opinions. When someone says "Hillary Clinton is a ______!" and can't back that up with a single quantitative piece of evidence, it's easy to say they're ignorant. But aren't all of us who aren't on the senate floor or in the intelligence meetings pretty darn ignorant about the actual implications of these issues we care so passionately about? The existence of a whole spectrum of opinions, including a center, is what makes democracy work, and keeps us from the brink of destruction. So why are we so adverse to the idea?

My often-cynical buddy Blaine came home from a congressional internship last year with a renewed faith in the people that actually make our decisions. I've always had a probably-unwarranted faith in our politicians and the fact that they're the right people for the job, but it's a faith I continue to cling to. They know the issues, and due to our own apathy, we only pretend to. One one hand, it's good that they know the issues more intimately than others. On the other hand, though, doesn't increased knowledge and participation on the part of the populace theoretically lead to greater freedom and prosperity? I fear we may never know.

These are extremely nebulous and fairly simple issues I'm treating here, but to me they're fascinating. And I suppose they're issues I don't hear talked about a lot, so I thought I'd try to help fill the void, at least to a small degree. But I'd love to hear your opinions on these things. What is to be done about the oversimplification and shrouding of real issues in America? Should anything be done? Do these things affect real politics already, or just cable news politics? Am I crazy to be worried about this? Please weigh in and let's talk about this--if for no other cause than my sanity.

cliche hospital story

2009-10-07T15:51:00.009-06:00

I've been thrown off. I haven't been writing as much lately, and I've been wasting time in the interim. This is a sorry state of affairs for me, and one that can be attributable to one thing and one thing only: one of my organs has exploded.

Yes, nature's li'l whiner, the appendix, paid me a nasty visit last Saturday. It decided it was done doing whatever it is it's been doing for 24 years, and it burst, sending toxic fluids into my abdomen and onto the benevolent residents thereof. This was, by far, the worst pain I have ever felt. For you ladies out there, the level has been compared to that of childbirth, so you can hold your high horses about that. Anyway, fortunately, this occurred at home on a Saturday afternoon, and Sarah was home, so she was able to take me to the emergency room.

Between throbs of screeching pain, I asked her to take me to InstaCare instead, since my health insurance ran out a month previous, after a lifetime of expensive inactivity. (In fact, I'd never had any health problems to speak of in my entire life--no broken bones, no stitches, hospital stays, or even unscheduled doctor visits.) Had I been in my right mind, however, I would have recalled that InstaCare is worthless. I brought in my buddy Erik who was near death when his lung collapsed, and all they could figure out was that his rib was broken. Anyway, at about 1:00, Sarah drove me to the emergency room.

At about 5:00, I was informed that Mr. Appendix was in fact the culprit, and it was removed (with lasers!) about an hour later. They didn't know it was the appendix, or even particularly suspect it at first, because I had zero pain on my right side, where the little turd is known to hang out. It turns out mine was in the middle. So anyway, they took it out, yada yada, I can't wear pants now.

I'm sorry, I can't do this anymore.

I hate hospital stories, which is possibly because I never had one. I've been obligated to relate this one numerous times over the past week, but I am done. I'm ok now, and that's all that matters. My printing of the story here signifies the end. Sorry if I bored you with it. I realize its complete lack of literary merit. If I was a freshman, I'd make this my personal narrative for English 1010, thereby confessing to a totally meaningless existence, but fortunately, that stage has passed (inside joke). Maybe that's what made me a good writer in college--I never had any stupid hospital stories to fall back on. I had to flail about for meaning when being a frightfully austere WASP with no injuries and a loving family quashed my chances for an easy out.

So here's the question: is my writing going to get lame now that I've been an inpatient? This posting isn't exactly a harbinger of doom for the future, but it's not real promising, either. This was pretty much just a series of ad-lib Dave Barry-esque jokes and simple, fairly obvious observations. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but...

Having an excuse for laziness sucks. It's actually breeding more real and abiding laziness. There's something to think about.

the call to write

2009-09-24T17:32:00.011-06:00

It was announced to the world yesterday that my friend John just won the Norman Mailer College Writing Award. For those of you that are thinking "that's cool," no. It's not cool. It's absolutely incredible. It's possibly the biggest writing award in the country for a college student, and it comes with $10,000, a summer fellowship to the Norman Mailer Writers' Colony in Massachusetts, and a presentation in New York with a number of the world's best writers, including Toni Morrison. And he gets a trophy, as I understand. So not only are he and his wife tremendously better off financially for a while, he's basically going to be able to write his ticket to any MFA program in the country. Beyond that, he could veritably have publishers lined up at his door for years. Basically, he's got it made.

I hope it doesn't look like I'm hitching a ride on his glory, or embarrassing him, as he is a frequent reader of this here blog, but I'm just really excited about this--possibly more so than is necessary. So in order to assuage that awkward over-excitedness, I'll just start talking about me instead. Once I found this out yesterday, my own writing career has taken a slight turn--hopefully, anyway. I've been woefully negligent about my own creative writings since graduation. I submitted a couple things for publication at the beginning of the summer, but I've done very little since. Yes, creative writing is a huge part of my job, but that's completely different.

When I found out about John's good fortune, though, it really hit me all at once how lazy I've been lately. In fact, I became so obsessed with such thoughts that I made an excuse and left work (at about 10:30) and came home and spent the entire rest of the day polishing up an old essay and doing massive research on a few possible target publications for it.

I was happy to discover that, while I'm naturally envious of my friend's life-changing opportunity, the wonderful news has served mostly as a swift kick to the pants of hope. If he can do it, so can I. That's not to say I'm as good of a writer as he is (though we do share a number of similarities and tastes), and I've certainly never written anything as profoundly beautiful as his winning essay "Final Cascade," but let's just say I'm optimistic. Local boy makes good. I guess this is why we need those stories, to remind us that it could happen.

And at the very least, maybe he can put a good word in for me with Norman Mailer. Oh, that's right--he's dead. Thanks for nothing.

(Most of all, congratulations.)

lessons from on high

2009-09-10T17:41:00.008-06:00

You might have guessed that part of the reason I haven't written for a while is the U.S. Open, and you wouldn't be wrong. During Wimbledon, I tried to combine my loves of writing and tennis, but when I penned a piece about the thinly veiled arrogance that characterizes Roger Federer, I got a bunch of hits worldwide, and a few good reviews, which bolstered me up until I realized that the best one by far was from a Nadal fan site. Sigh. So anyway, it's either tennis or writing from now on--not both. Right now, it's writing.

I'm on the job hunt again. True, I have a couple of jobs already, but I want more. I hope that you, dear reader, have a job of your own, because I'd feel bad going about jealously trying to amass jobs like acorns for the winter, if you didn't have any at all. The problem is that my principal employment is only 20 hours per week. My other one, the freelance writing and editing, gives me work here and there, but it's not consistent. Though I'll be spending a serious amount of time this season on grad school application preparation, I certainly feel that I have the capacity to provide my little family with a few more bucks per week. And if I have the capacity, I have the responsibility.

For the past couple of weeks, I've been working, in my role as a freelance writer, with a good gentleman from New Jersey, helping to build content for his website. The site is hireangel.com (don't look at it yet--it's not up), which is his job search consulting business. The man, with whom I'm working rather closely, is a professional job search consultant with a wealth of knowledge and over 20 years of impressive experience. He, the very Hire Angel himself, imparts this knowledge upon me, and I gather it up and make it sound pretty, for that is my calling. This past two weeks, I have literally spent hours upon hours of time staring at, and even writing, expert job search advice so perfect and simple, it's almost as if poured in from beyond the veil.

You know where this is going, don't you? I'm not using the advice myself--at least not well. Me, the very writer of said advice. I know what to do, and I don't do it. I think I'm somehow an exception, just like everybody else. Despite the angelic presence of an expert on my shoulder, I persist in making only cursory attempts at getting another job. Why do I do this? All the resources one could ever want, and instead I elect to fall back on the same shotgun approach that's never won me anything. I suspect this isn't such a rare tendency, but it is baffling.

Remarkably, I have two interviews next week, and they're both pretty decent jobs, at least as far as I can tell. How I landed these interviews, I'll never know. It's almost as if I've been granted mercy that I don't necessarily deserve. Man, I'm the best...

All I'm saying is, maybe we should use our resources.

a personal note

2009-08-30T16:45:00.021-06:00

Many people have inquired lately as to what exactly it is I'm doing with my life now that I've graduated college. Many of you who read this blog know me personally, so for those of you, and any others who have some sort of twisted interest not in my prose, but in the actual details of my personal life, allow me to illuminate. I'll warn you, though. If you don't know me, this won't even be the slightest bit interesting, and even if you do, that still may very likely be the case.

Anyway, Sarah has now begun her senior year and will graduate in May with a BA in history. She's still working at RISE, with people with disabilities, and is quite well. Meanwhile, my job at the university (PR Office, Utah State Magazine) will blessedly continue throughout the school year. I may still be searching for more hours elsewhere, however, and I'm also now a freelance writer and editor through iFreelance.com. That's been fun. Anyway...

I took the GRE on Thursday, and man, does it feel good to have that behind me. Fortunately, I did well--which doesn't guarantee anything, but my scores won't close any doors either. So that's good.

The GRE, for outsiders, is the Graduate Record Exam. For greater understanding of this test's nature, I have constructed the following analogy question.

1. GRE : graduate school

A. MCAT : medical school
B. GMAT : business school
C. SAT or ACT : college
D. political litmus test : good standing with Utah "intellectuals"
E. LSAT : law school

If you guessed the secret sixth option, which is "all of the above," you're right. So by taking the GRE, I am hoping to be allowed entry into grad school. But in what field? Ah, yes. I graduated with an English degree, and for a long time, assumed I would continue with an MA and then a PhD in literature. My course deviated about six months ago, though, when I finally realized once and for all that I won't be academically fulfilled in this life unless I instead opt for an

MA in Russian and Eastern European Studies.

Now, that's "studies," mind you. Not language. And then maybe back to Comparative Lit for my PhD, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. In a way, this Russian MA allows me to keep as many doors open as possible (thereby further procrastinating precise career decisions). More importantly, though, it affords me the opportunity to work for a few years doing exciting things--possibly for the government--before settling down and writing and teaching about things for the rest of my life.

I love it. I think I can do some good as a diplomat, or at least some sort of glorified US-Russian PR agent. Besides, there's just nothing more fascinating to me than Russian/Soviet anything. Plus, it's probably my best chance of getting into a great grad school. I have a long list I'm still considering, including the following. In the interest of confidence, I'll name them here in alphabetical order.

Arizona..........NYU
Columbia........Oregon
Georgetown....Stanford
Harvard..........Washington
Indiana..........Wisconsin
Michigan........

Any suggestions? I'll be applying this winter. Obviously, some schools are more attractive than others, for a wide variety of reasons. There are also other great schools out there, but most of them don't offer this sort of program. Anyway, I just thought you'd like to know. If you aren't even acquainted with my long personal history with Russia, (which for some reason I never write about here), I'll save it for another time and say this:

I can't believe you're still reading. Go outside.

the "look at me" generation

2009-08-24T15:03:00.006-06:00

Sarah and I attended the Sun Valley Writers' Conference this weekend with my family. For those who haven't heard of this, it's one of the world's elite writers' conferences, where mortals like me sit around and quaff in the brilliance of geniuses talking about their specialties. Ironically, it's those mortals that I wish to speak about in this post, but not before putting in a plug for the conference, and some of the fantastic talks we heard there. You don't have to read the list if you don't care.

--"Writing About Wrongs" with Philip Gourevitch, editor of the Paris Review, staff writer for the New Yorker, and author of We Wish to Inform you that Tomorrow we will be Killed with our Families.
--"The Ideals of Medicine, Unchanged Since Antiquity" with Dr. Abraham Verghese. A heartfelt and scientific call for better bedside manner and patient-physician relationships. I'm not into medicine, but this was one of the best anythings I've ever heard.
--"Can Good Writing Redeem Bad Faith? Fiction and Historical Trauma" with Nam Le, winner of the 2008 Dylan Thomas Prize and author of The Boat.
--"A Talk and Reading by Ian McEwan" Absolutely incredible talk and reading by possibly the greatest living writer in the world, who's suddenly somehow friends with my family. Leading us to...
--"WASPs in Literature, in America, and in my Family" with Tad Friend of the New Yorker.
--"The Hemingses of Monticello: Beyond Tom and Sally" with Annette Gordon-Reed, author of a new book on that subject.

Also talks by Roy Blount, Jr., Jan Morris, and Vernon Jordan, and I could have seen this year's Pulitzer-winning poet W.S. Merwin had my priorities not been out of wack.

Anyway, whether or not you're into writing and literature, it's fun just to be surrounded by such brilliance. I could go on forever about the things we learned and experienced. I sure owe my family a ton for helping to provide such wonderful experiences like this for me. But anyway, back to the audience.

I've heard this generation of mine called the "look at me" generation, and what with Facebook status, YouTube, and especially Twitter, you can see where that comes from. In a way, I think it's kind of a shame, and I hope we as a society eventually outgrow the sentiment that everything we have to say deserves to be made public. (Nam Le discussed this phenomenon as well.) But in another way, I have a blog. So I guess it works out for everyone.

It just became sort of tiresome, honestly, to be around large audiences for two days. And I don't mean the crowds. I mean this: Quite frequently, when an expert in his/her field was up on stage calling down rays of glorious wisdom upon us, various members of the audience would do their best to ensure that ample attention was instead turned upon themselves, at least among the few people nearby. Most often, this attention was attained through a cacophony of asides about the audience members' own literary conquests: "Ah yes, of course--Somerset Maugham. Brilliant."

But what got me more than that were the political clappers. Allow me to explain. A political clapper is one who absolutely must make his/her personal political views known to the remainder of the crowd, at whatever the cost to dignity and decency. It's become so that in some venues, one can't even mention certain people or issues without eliciting claps or boos before the sentence is even over. Not long ago on TV, I heard a comedian mention something about our previous president having ruined the nation, and the audience exploded into raucous applause. Were they glad that such an event took place? Is it so important that our petty partisanship be made known that we're willing to applaud a tragedy?

Anyway, I guess we all do it. We all love attention, and that's why we all have blogs. I don't know how or when or why this trend took off. All I know is that if you're reading this, you should tell all of your friends to read it too, and tell everyone they know. These distinct opinions, and no one else's, might save your life, or at least your soul.

why I'm wearing glasses

2009-08-15T23:50:00.010-06:00

It's not because I want to look smarter, though many have said that I do. In fact, I think it does just the opposite. It's called giant papillary conjunctivitis, which is a fancy way of saying that for the past five years, I haven't changed out my contacts frequently enough. The "giant" refers to the papillary, by the way. Not the conjunctivitis. Anyway, I wear some glasses for two weeks and take some drops and then I'm fine, especially fine considering I've saved hundreds of dollars by not changing my contacts very frequently. A small price to pay.

I bring this up simply because I've always been concerned about how I look--more concerned than I care to admit, in fact. It's not so much as how I look physically, though, as how I'm perceived by others. I constantly wonder what categories I fall into in other peoples' perceptions. We all profile others to some degree, which practice has its uses, but sometimes I fear the effects.

Just tonight, I ran into Marla, an old friend, at the grocery store, and this subject was called into my mind once more. She and I used to share long discussions on the topic of personal stereotyping and how people consciously choose to categorize themselves and others. She mentioned tonight about how tired she is of people liking "indie" bands, movies, etc. just for appearances--a sentiment I've always shared. The thing is, Marla, like me, is a great appreciator of a fair amount of indie-type things. She just loathes being pigeonholed, stereotyped, and confused with those, well, posers.

My own personal history with stereotype paranoia is rich, much of it having been inherited from my dad. For as long as I can remember, he's been on a crusade to make people around him think. His role as persistent devil's advocate is one that frustrated me at times growing up, but in hindsight has taught me a great deal. There are no stock characters in life, and there's always a minority report, so to speak. If I spoke up in fervent support of a cause, he'd attack. If I attacked, he'd defend. It was never malevolent, and it was never to make me change my mind--only to ensure that I was, in fact, using it.

It's a lesson that has sunk deep. Easy-on labels for people (granola, victim, hero, Republican) undermine the complexity that individuals inherently possess, and what's worse, they cause us to shop around for labels to affix on ourselves. Then we start making decisions such as "I can't like Rocky IV because I'm supposed to be indie," or "I have to believe in the death penalty because I'm conservative." Worse yet is the further consolidation of labels into ready-made packages such as "indie/liberal/rebellious" and "Christian/mainstream/conservative/sheep". Choice in music somehow leads to choice in politics (as if there were only two), and soon you're so adamant about your adopted views, you can hardly see.

The thing is, even while I spurn these labels, I still find myself thinking about them, and I often fall into the terrible trap of doing just the opposite of the behavior I hate. That is to say, I make conscious decisions about myself and go out of my way in order to AVOID labels. This is just as despicable. I'm still allowing people's perceptions to guide my own decisions, rather than simply doing what I want.

In Mere Christianity, the brilliant C.S. Lewis was speaking of totalitarianism vs. individualism when he said the following, though it seems that the same could be applied to indie vs. mainstream and liberal vs. conservative, among other dichotomies:

"I feel a strong desire to tell you--and I expect you feel a strong desire to tell me--which of these two errors is the worse. That is the devil getting at us. He always sends errors into the world in pairs--pairs of opposites. And he always encourages us to spend a lot of time thinking which is the worse. You see why, of course? He relies on your extra dislike of the one error to draw you gradually into the opposite one."

I like this. And whether or not you ascribe this to the devil, you have to admit it makes sense. It's why extremists are rarely right. And so this: I like Van Halen AND Radiohead. I'm opposed to abortion in most cases and the death penalty in all. And I'm wearing glasses because my giant papillaries are conjuncted, and for no other reason.

Does that answer your question?

I bought a boat

2009-08-07T13:46:00.012-06:00

Well, we bought a boat. I never wanted to be one of those guys--you know, one of those guys that spends so much time talking about his boat, polishing it up, leaving it in the driveway even though there's room in the garage, always saying "hope it clears up by the weekend, so we can take her out on the lake." The truth is, many boat owners are jerks. They'd have you believe that nothing in your pathetically landlocked plans could possibly measure up to spending a day on the water.

It turns out they're right. But I digress.

Our dear friends Rob and Vienna (whose apartment we had toilet papered less than a week before) suggested on Tuesday that we go buy some inner tubes and float the canal up in Logan Canyon. This is a fairly common pastime for students here, but for some reason, in four years, I had never gone. Neither had Sarah, nor our friends. So we got in our swimsuits and went shopping for watercraft, which is evidently a little like grocery shopping when you're hungry. Inner tubes were $11 each, so $22 per couple. But this majestic vessel of inflatable plastic,

complete with oars and seating for two, rang up at only $25. Ridiculous. Rob and I each grabbed one up immediately.

It didn't take long to convince our wives it was a good idea. Once we shoved off down the narrow canal, snaking through the mountains toward the sunset, the general consensus was that the boats had paid for themselves within the hour. Also, they double as air mattresses. With that and the exercise ball we bought last month, we now have living room seating for up to seven.

Rob and Vienna christened their boat Steamboat Willie, despite the marked lack of reliance on steam. Sarah and I had a harder time deciding on a name for ours. I suggested the Andrea Doria, the C-word, the Edmund Fitzgerald, and then, the Gordon Lightfoot. Vienna threw in the Minnow. The names seemed like fine choices, until we realized that each of those boats is only famous for having sunk, with the exception of the Gordon Lightfoot, which never existed.

That maiden voyage down the canal was fraught with poor oarsmanship and some inadvertent 360's, but our trusty vessel steered us safely down the canal. When we reached the end of our journey and returned to land, however, we were left at the mouth of the canyon without car keys. While Rob and I were preparing to hitchhike for the first time in our lives back to the other car up the canyon, a kindly gentleman named Jose Chavez noticed our plight from nearby and offered us a ride there. Having no other way to thank this dear stranger, we elected to name our boat the Jose Chavez in his honor.

The Jose Chavez and Steamboat Willie have since enjoyed the serene Hyrum Reservoir and another trip down the canal, yesterday. Disaster struck as Steamboat Willie ran aground on some sharp rocks halfway down the canal and sprung a leak, but after collecting ourselves and our belongings in the freezing rapids, Vienna boarded with us, and Rob gallantly rode the half-deflated boat the remainder of the way down on his own. It was quite the adventure, the likes of which I haven't had all summer.

And now look. I've gone on and just talked and talked and talked about my boat like some suck who's trying to show off his lavish possessions. Well, let me assure you--we're not wealthy. Remember how I mentioned the boat and the exercise ball as living room seating, and you laughed? Yeah. That was serious.

BLOG (blogging Oregon-style)

2009-07-27T13:51:00.011-06:00

I've mentioned that I'm from Idaho. For the geographically disinclined, that's in the northwest, bordering Oregon. Before this past week, I had never been to Oregon. I had been to 33 states and some wacky countries, including Kazakhstan, Estonia, and Mozambique. I had even been to each state bordering Oregon multiple times (and about 12 trips to Boise) without ever crossing the border into the Beaver State.

Now I have. But that's not the story. Almost all of my wife's extended family on both sides lives in Oregon, and we just returned after spending nine days there, wherein I finally got to meet them all. But that's not the story either, even though a lot of them are crazy (their words, not mine).

The story is about driving in Oregon. There are a number of unique idiosyncrasies about being on the road there that are very indicative of what the state embodies. Mostly, it appears as though they're ultra-paranoid about accidents, maybe because of all the bicycles. Anyway, Sarah and I spent an average of probably 4+ hours per day in the car over the past nine days, but it didn't take that long to notice the following:

Speed limits: 10mph lower than the entire rest of the western United States, even in the deserty parts. 65mph max on all freeways, and 55mph max on all state and federal highways. This was terrible.

The roads themselves: Like sandpaper, only bigger. It was a nine-day-long deafening, vibrating butt massage that was fun for about twenty minutes.

Road signs: This, to me, is by far the most interesting part. The vast majority of Oregon highway road signs demonstrate impressive economy by exhibiting only one word. Common examples include "DEER", "CONGESTION", "ROCKS", and "TRUCKS". The first two are fairly self-explanatory, the third a little hazy, and I never figured out the fourth. What am I supposed to do with the trucks? Pass them? Fear them? Give 'em a shout out? (TRUCKS!) But this isn't all. Speed limit signs don't even say "SPEED LIMIT 65", as they do in the rest of the country. They just say "SPEED 55".

I'm guessing that the idea behind this policy of abbreviation is to keep drivers' eyes on the road, and not spending so much time reading signs. The really funny part to me is that this same format pervades other types of Oregon signs as well. One morning, we saw a family setting up for a garage sale in a neighborhood in Salem. When we drove back through a couple of hours later, there was a homemade posterboard sign on the corner that pointed in the direction of the house and simply said--you guessed it--"GARAGE". A couple days later, my brother-in-law mentioned that he saw a Christian billboard which plastered a singular word: "JESUS". Not "Jesus saves" or "lives" or any of the other common variations. Just the one word.

Oregon's an extremely laissez-faire liberal state, though, which is why they can never decide on their electoral votes, so maybe they felt that making any sort of conclusive statement about the Savior would be better left to the interpretation of each individual passer-by. Similarly, why only draw attention to the falling rocks? We wouldn't want to limit the perception of all rocks to their common stereotype of being fallers. There are some very lovely rocks in Oregon, and there's no need to fear them all. Many of them wish to be recognized for their stability on the mountainside, not the proclivity toward gravity that gives them all such a bad name.

All in all, it was a lovely trip all around the state to some of the most gorgeous sites I've ever seen. But maybe it's for the best that it took me 24 years to get there. Without a background in more explicit signage, I don't think I would have known exactly how to react. I never did figure out what to do around trucks.

Yes, it was a fine time, but I'll admit I breathed a sigh of relief when on I-84 back in my home state of Idaho, I was greeted by the comforting sign "OCCASIONALLY BLINDING DUST STORMS". I know just what to do when that happens: move to Oregon.

the empty palace -or- the business school facade

2009-07-14T23:01:00.012-06:00

Disclosure: I have not attended a business school, but am a recent graduate of a college that competes for funding with one, and wallows in mighty defeat.

I've talked about the subject of business school here in brief, but never known exactly how to approach it more comprehensively. But most of my closest friends are graduates from business school, and they're wonderful people. I don't look down my nose at their degrees or anyone else's. In fact, some of the very smartest, most driven people I know are among them. I guess I'm just trying to figure out for my own sanity if, in the grand scheme of things, business schools actually do anything. Let me explain where this comes from.

My experience with our business school in my current position has been less than pleasant. Every other college on campus is consistently helpful and professional in meeting with me and contributing to my efforts. Almost all of the staff help I've solicited so far at the School of Business, however, has shut me down hard, each time in a very belittling fashion, as though they're too important to take time for me in my job (which is to assist them). It's almost as if they need to put on an air of superiority to mask the fact that many of them are still, in their hearts, undeclared.

In fact, at my university, and I suspect many others, majoring in "business" is often just a less embarrassing way of saying "I'm undeclared." It's a tiny bit different, though. It actually means "I don't know what I want to do with my life, but I'd like to make some money and maybe go on some cool business trips." There's nothing dishonorable about this indecision, of course. It usually doesn't stick, anyway. A colleague of mine who deals with freshman recruitment told me that a very high percentage of high schoolers enter college as business majors, and within four years, the majority have transferred to other departments. Presumably, they've figured out their lives' ambitions and left to follow them.

I'm guessing that most of those that stick around are of some more specific persuasion than simply "business." They are accountants, economists, and so forth. But no doubt, many virtual undeclareds do in fact slip through the cracks and attain degrees. Then, when these graduates grow up and still don't know what they want to do, they decide to work for business schools, in lifelong attempts to legitimize their own degrees. They stand guard at the years-old facade that business school is in fact productive, wary of outsiders who tread near the palace to which they've dedicated their lives, lest an outsider discover that the palace is empty.

An Englishman I knew in Russia, and one of the most successful men I know, told me that if I want to make it big in business, don't major in business. He explained that it takes specialists in other fields not only to come up with the big ideas, but to bring them to fruition as well. It made sense to me. After all, if I'm selling a product, I want engineers developing, building, and testing it. Most everything else, including sales and management, doesn't require any credential other than experience.

The point is, those engineering majors go to school thinking, "I'm going to use my degree to improve people's lives," and certainly, most budding scientists, artists, lawyers and others often feel the same way. Conversely, the very purpose of the business management degree is simply to make the bearer money. Now, I love capitalism as much as the next man (probably more), but I think it's a shame that we're actually spending countless dollars and awarding degrees by training people to increase revenue through self-serving sales and marketing tactics, rather than by building better products and services to aid humanity.

In the long run, wouldn't it make more sense to have the 2000 (estimate) students in our business school each specialize in some sort of beneficial other field, and let those who are eventually going to run a business learn the ropes via apprenticeship and experience, or maybe a cheap book and a community ed class? Friends from the palace tell me that business degrees are essentially useless once you get that first job, anyway--from then on, nobody cares whether you went to Harvard or ITT Tech. Everything in the actual workforce is learned and gained by experience.

I guess what I'm really wondering is this: how many millions of dollars have to be spent on educating students who won't even use their degrees, much less for anything useful, while so many scholars with aspirations in other, often more intrinsically beneficial fields receive fewer resources as a result?

By the way, obviously, many degrees under the business banner, i.e. accounting and economics and whatnot, are actually in and of themselves specialized and useful. In addition, those who want to will go on and do great things. I'm guessing that the palace guards that have been so impertinent and unhelpful to me are in fact those who have yet to decide what they really want to do in this life. I guess, at their age, I'd be pretty defensive about that too.

the inspiration

2009-07-08T18:38:00.014-06:00

I've spent the last week or so lacking in inspiration.

Wimbledon is over, out with a bang in one of the best matches ever played. My guy lost, but he proved himself a fighter, even if his fight will be overshadowed by a broken record, like a broken record.

If there's one actually constructive reason for me to watch tennis, though, it's that it prods me to get myself out onto the court more. My recent play has been shamefully sporadic following a moderately successful junior career as a player and instructor. Late in that "career," I was faced with an ultimatum at the hands of my beloved coach: devote yet more time and energy to the sport and contend for major college athletic scholarships and subsequent bigger and better things, or have a life. I chose the latter. I've never regretted that decision, but I've often thought back on what might have been.

Since then, my prowess in the game has slipped significantly, though my love for it never waned. Last night, though, something inspired me with an excitement for a future that I haven't dared dream of since I played my last junior tournament six years ago. Last night, I finally went out and played with my wife.

I always said that if I didn't marry a tennis player, I'd teach my future spouse to become one. My first date with Sarah, though, evidenced that such would be an uphill battle. She was cute, and oh so smart, but we went miniature golfing that night, and she could barely even hit the ball. She had the club face at like a 45-degree angle. I had taught four-year-olds with better coordination. In retrospect, she was probably just nervous, and we continued to date, marrying a little over a year later. Besides, I had never said that athletic ability would or should be my number one criterion for compatibility. Just a nice perk.

We've been married fourteen months now, and until last night, she'd spent a grand total of about a half hour on the court. I guess I just never wanted to pressure her, and neither of us expected to have a great time out there. Last night, though, my wife and I ventured out, and I led an hour-long private lesson on the basic form of the forehand. The result was unbelievable. I've taught some pretty athletically intuitive people before, but Sarah outshined them all. We spent most of the hour just hitting forehands back and forth, and she returned 80-90% of them back in the court, and with flair. It turns out she's a complete natural.

The lessons/hitting sessions will continue tomorrow and hopefully throughout the summer and the rest of our lives, though it seems possible that before long, the student may become the master. This turn of events doesn't necessarily secure my starry visions of us playing in a mixed doubles league together when we're 40 and 80, but who knows? At least we're both having fun. I guess the real point here is that a potential future of rec league tennis with her is infinitely more exciting to me than whatever minor accolades I could have achieved on my own. Plus, Sarah looks way hot in tennis garb.

Inspiration attained.

accessibility, or a lack thereof

2009-06-30T14:09:00.023-06:00

I guess I haven't had much to talk about in the last little while. Wimbledon is wonderful, but you don't want to hear about that. Besides, due to that, I haven't been outside for days. Hence, no stories. Anyway, work has been rather dull, because I've been on hold for an even longer period of time by a barrage of people who just plain won't e-mail me back. My job consists of two things: e-mailing (input) and writing (output). That is, I'm a writer, but I can't write until people E-MAIL ME BACK. It seems like 50% of the faculty and staff of the university are vacationing/researching in foreign countries right now, not to return for weeks. I hope they're having fun. Excuses from present members of the staff aren't as airtight.

Meanwhile, I've been trying to pass the time researching about certain aspects of the university, so I know my subjects inside and out. Today I took a nice business jaunt to the library, where I stumbled upon this little gem next to the main handicapped restroom on the first floor. Maybe as a PR writer, I should be spending this time staving off a lawsuit.

So if anyone asks, this is for the benefit of our many wheelchair students that routinely enter the library from the sky. Our world-renowned "Jet Packs for Paraplegics" program is second to none.

PR is easy.

The Championships

2009-06-24T18:58:00.010-06:00

It's the most wonderful time of the year. What? Christmas already? Better. It's Wimbledon.

Nothing can get me up way early in the morning like the sweet smell of strawberries and cream, fresh grass, and tennis balls straight from the can, which is what I imagine it's like while I watch the year's greatest sporting event on TV. A solid fortnight of white-clad action from Centre Court with such history, such tradition and emotion. It can't be beat.

But there are those that are trying. Yes, a dark shadow has indeed threatened to cast itself over the grounds at the A.E.L.T.C, and it's not raincloud. It's a shadow which has worked long and hard in an attempt to squelch the Wimbledon magic we witnessed in 2001 with Goran Ivanisevic's dream run to become the only Wild Card ever to win a major.

The shadow is called Roger Federer.

This isn't a syndicated article, and I'll admit my bias flat out. He's a great, great player, but he's ruining professional tennis for the rest of us. He doesn't mean to, of course. He's just extremely good at what he does. But the sad result is that tennis has become completely predictable. Sure, Nadal might beat him once in a while, but there's no one else. It's like U.S. soccer player Landon Donovan said today after his national team upset #1-ranked Spain in a huge match: "This is the reason we play the game. You never know what can happen." This is also the reason we watch the game. Because we don't know. Why watch something when you know how it's going to end? The best movies are unpredictable, and so are the best sports. Sports are even better, in a way, because it's reality. Real, unstaged reality. Yes, it's a game, but it's also the end result of years of blistering work, cunning, and sheer will. It's the realization of hard-earned lifelong goals and dreams. And we get to see it unfolding as each point takes shape.

Now don't get me wrong. I don't fault Federer or any others for being incredibly talented, and there's nothing I can, or would, do about it. May the best man win. But it would help if the best man was likeable. I'm just saying. Those that call Roger a humble victor should watch an interview with him. Any interview will do, but I especially suggest ESPN's Sunday Conversation from June 7th of this year. When Dick Enberg asked Federer what aspects of Rafael Nadal's and others' games elevate him as a player, he responded rather smugly (in his RF hat and jacket): "I have actually helped more the other players than they have helped me to improve, because I put tennis in a different league."

Honestly, in the long run, he's probably right. But is that the sort of self-absorption we want from our champions? This is not an isolated incident. Watch any post-match interview with Federer this week, and you'll see him respond to questions about his hard-fought opponent with answers about his own superiority. He does it every time. We can't be so fortunate as to have Goran Ivanisevic win Wimbledon every year, and we shouldn't. So much of the glory of that 2001 fortnight was in its rarity.

And so much of the majesty of every Wimbledon is in that gentlemanly (and ladylike) atmosphere which many, but not all, rise to meet. It's a special tournament with a sporting tradition that attracts the eyes of fans and non-fans the world over. I wouldn't miss it for anything. I'll watch every minute when I'm home, and track it online while I'm at work. And if Federer wins again this year, I'll be a little disheartened, but he can't ruin everything. It will still have been a wonderful two weeks of small victories. And hey. Maybe something weird and wonderful will happen and he won't win. Either way, I'll be watching. For as great as Roger Federer is, Wimbledon is better.

our couch: magic?

2009-06-17T16:56:00.012-06:00

I sit down and write now, as I usually do nowadays, from our real-life living room couch. It's a soft couch with an ugly white and beige get-up, and some faint light blue and pink vertical stripeage, reminiscent of a design one might find in an Arizona retirement community in the early '90s. Nothing like the gorgeous entity at the top of the page. Over that, however, is draped a much more pleasant pastel-green knit cover, which we bought. There's also a tear on the left arm, under the cover, just behind the front support, which I caused with my foot at the beginning of the couch's ownership. I like this couch a great deal, despite its brevity, though I realize I likely haven't openly acknowledged or appreciated its long months of service to my family. Now, before you immediately write this off as just another run-of-the-mill drunken furniture-appreciation rant, allow me to note that I'm quite sober and of sound mind, or so I've come to believe.

My sudden need to appease the couch comes as a desperate attempt to cover all my bases as I find myself knee-deep in a shenanigan the likes of which I've never seen. I suspect magic. But let me back up a bit.

This afternoon, I've been doing laundry, which involves countless trips back and forth across the parking lot between our apartment and the house where the coin-op machines sit in the musky basement. On my third trip down there, after depositing the darks into the great spinning beast, I saw something in the room that caused me to stagger back and lose my breath. It was our couch, the very couch I had just left quietly in the living room. It was on its back on the concrete floor, the green knit cover falling seductively off the top to reveal its true upholstery: beige and white with Arizona stripes. I sat back on a nearby table to consider what I was seeing. Could it be that someone had moved it here from my apartment when I wasn't looking? Impossible. I had just come from there, and there was no one else in sight. Still, I couldn't fight the feeling that somehow, I had been punk'd.

My buddy Matt who lives in my building has a long history of such tomfoolery, but he never turns it on his friends, save the one time when he rang the doorbell at 3:00am and blasted Brandon in the face with the airhorn. (Yes, we knew that was you.) Even if it was Matt, though, he couldn't carry the couch alone, and not without my noticing. I reached under the green knit cover and felt the left arm of the impostor couch, just behind the support. There was the rip. This was too much. I sat back down on the table, aghast.

After staring for a moment, I ambled back to the apartment, cursing myself for leaving the door unlocked. Even though I was just leaving home for a minute to go deposit the darks, I honestly thought "I hope no one takes my stuff." Boom. But alas, I walked in the door, and there was my couch sitting right where it should, right where it is now, as though it hadn't moved an inch. It was now that I began to consider the supernatural.

As any self-respecting college student would do, I ran back to the laundry room to document my first magical encounter on my cameraphone. The camera, however--of course--didn't work. Like a vampire, the mystical object wouldn't be captured.

Sarah wasn't impressed by my recounting of this story. Perhaps it's because, as part of our mutual agreement, she's currently reading such classic realist fiction as The Great Gatsby while I finish up the Harry Potter series. As a result, she's far more rational lately, whereas my first inclination is to blame some sort of transfiguration.

No, magic doesn't seem likely, and the more plausible explanation of divine intervention doesn't exactly sit right with me either, at least not in this instance. For what purpose God (or Voldemort) would clone my couch, I know not. I may, in fact, have to resign myself to the probable truth that there just so happens to be a new couch in the laundry room, exactly like ours, with the same cover from Walmart, and with the same rip in the same place. I could believe that, but that's no fun.

on old flames and OB/GYNs

2009-06-11T21:09:00.017-06:00

I have a good friend named Emily. We've been close for a number of years now. For a little while, we kind of dated. Kind of. It's a long story. We were definitely mutually smitten for a good while, though, and then I went to Russia. So, bad timing. Anyway, I got back, and she married my good buddy Zach, which was wonderful. Then I married Sarah, which was even better. Everybody wins. The point is, you can see how it might have been awkward when I (me) accompanied Emily into the hospital today for her final OB/GYN exam before she gives birth.

It was like a sudden glimpse into a future that never was, like the mediocre Nicolas Cage film, "The Family Man." Emily and I sat down in the waiting room and she handed me a magazine called Baby Talk or something like that, then laughed before de-gifting it and handing me a dated Sports Illustrated instead. It was hard to concentrate on that or anything else, though. The whole thing was too surreal. I surveyed the other occupants of the vast waiting room that was ours, intent on taking full advantage of my glimpse. Other young women at various stages of pregnancy adorned most of the seats, and a few young kids swung on chair legs and fiddled with the toys. I was the only man. For a few moments, I reveled in the envy that my presence was causing among the other women in the waiting room. "There's a husband who cares." I just knew they were saying it. "He'll be a good father." At least, that's how I imagined it, and it was nice. Yes, I will be a good father.

Emily got called into her appointment, and a few minutes later, I had to step briefly out to pick up Sarah, my wife, and drop her off somewhere else for work. The errand took longer than it should have, though, and as I screeched into the hospital parking lot and sprinted in to collect my stranded, bulbous friend, I could almost see the faces of the other women in the waiting room. My time in the sun was over, and the women scowled and remembered why they came to the hospital alone. "What kind of guy leaves his 9-month pregnant wife alone while he gallivants around town, anyway?" But I never had to face them, those women. Emily met me at the door, and the glimpse ended.

Just as it was for Nicolas Cage, my unexpected jaunt into a parallel reality was rather instructive. I learned that fatherhood is comprised of both ups and downs. And it may be that I'm not quite ready for such a volatile milestone. To be honest, I'm not sure I'm ready for two of my closest friends to reach it either, but by next Thursday at the latest, Zach and Emily will. And then, we'll see what happens.

Sarah and I, meanwhile, spent the next little while at McDonald's, where we ordered off the dollar menu, like the carefree kids that we are.

Hoagiefest

2009-06-08T21:52:00.012-06:00

Yesterday, I spoke with my buddy Trent, who has returned to the Washington, DC area to work sales again this summer. I must say, the decision for Sarah and me not to venture out to DC again in 2009 wasn't a terribly difficult one. We both knew we wanted to be near family and relax a bit before embarking on our new and distant adventures. But I must admit there's something very special about being in DC in the summertime, and until Trent brought it up, I hadn't considered what exactly we'd be missing by electing to stay in the West. I'm sure those of you that have experienced it know by now that I'm speaking, of course, about Hoagiefest.

For those who don't know, and can't gather by clicking on the above link, Hoagiefest is an annual promotion put on by Wawa, a convenience store chain based in the mid-Atlantic. All summer long, four different delicious hoagies for only $2.99. And it's just as fantastic as it sounds. What a reprieve from the sales grind it was last summer, sauntering sweat-borne into the Wawa after a long day, greeted by song and sandwich.

Trent asked if we'd be flying out for the Fest this year, and I was sorry to admit that it wouldn't work out. We'll have to shoot for taking the kids when they're old enough to appreciate it (and when they're conceived and born). Yeah. Forget the Cherry Blossom Festival, the Kennedy Center shows, the Fourth of July on the Mall, Nats games, and the countless museums and architecture. Hoagies are only $2.99.

I don't miss the summer job there, however, which was selling home alarm systems door to door. I'd like to think I learned something, though. I went out and did sales--something that I never in my life wanted to do--and I was blessed for it. I'm a changed man. Now, this summer, once rent and cost of living are factored in, I'll be netting just about as much writing for 25 hours per week as I did offering myself as a barely-human sacrifice 60 hours per week in the hot sun. And I wasn't the worst salesman in the world. Not the best, obviously, but I could have been worse. I just couldn't bear to deceive.

Things like Trent and Hoagiefest got me through last summer when the world of sales threatened to excise the final portions of my soul. Earning potential in that job was astronomical, but my particular company cared nothing for employee morale. I'm glad I learned how much more important happiness is than money. I had always heard that, and assumed so, but never expected that it would be true to the degree that it is. Of course, that's easy for me to say now that I have a job I like, writing for something I believe in. Besides, at only $2.99, I can afford to keep my money AND my happiness. Never again will I have to rely on a brilliant and delectable promotion (now through July 26) to get me through a hot summer day. Now if only I had a delicious Hoagiefest hoagie right now, my new life would be truly complete. And so would yours.

This has been a paid advertisement of Wawa Food Markets, all rights reserved (by someone, probably).

the graduate with a job (an upset victory)

2009-06-05T14:05:00.006-06:00

Watching professional tennis is difficult for me, but not for the same reason as most. I love every minute of the sport itself. It's difficult for me to watch simply because, in a freak statistical anomaly, whatever player I'm cheering for in any given match ends up winning only about 15% of the time.

It's ridiculous. Some sort of weird combination of Murphy's law and my propensity to cheer for underdogs. Either way, I was beginning to draft this in my head while watching the fifth set of Robin Soderling vs. Fernando Gonzalez in the French Open semifinal just now. I was cheering for the Swede, largely due to his Cinderella dethroning of Nadal in the fourth round. (Anytime Federer or Nadal lose, the world grows a little bit lighter.) Anyway, Soderling won the first two sets, lost the third and fourth, and of course called the trainer over because he was developing blisters. Quite often when a player I support is winning, sudden injuries are the "diabolus ex machina" that hose me (and them) in the end.

But today, my guy won. He came back from being down 4-1 in the fifth and took five straight games to advance to the final. I don't even care about Soderling himself that much, and he'll face Federer in the final, which means the fun will likely be short-lived, but today, he won, and he'll be better for it.

Once in a while, I win too.

Frequent readers of this blog will note the recent trend, beginning a month ago, of posts related to my English degree and subsequent lack of employment. Well, my friends, I'm elated to report that I now have a job. The Office of Public Relations here at the university is paying me to write. And what's more, they're paying me more than double what I was paid at my previous job in the English Department. In fact, they're paying me more than I've ever dreamed of being paid while living in the state of Utah, and to do something I love.

I haven't even really started yet, and I'm teeming with excitement. Who knew you could actually make money through writing? Most of the English faculty sure told me I wouldn't be able to, at least not self-respectingly. I've always believed as they've lectured, that creative writing and a steady income are, and probably should be, mutually exclusive. But it seems that is not always the case. This particular job of mine is temporary, far from a career or a hindrance on grad school, but it's certainly opening doors to future jobs and possible careers in similar fields.

So, this isn't the most well-crafted or thoughtful or tightly-written prose of mine, but it is born out of sheer happiness, and that seems like a good enough reason to write. I don't think I've ever really been proud of a job before--at least not like this--and I thought I should share it. This is, after all, essentially a personal blog, and I can write about what I want. And I write: Study what you love. My degree of glory is now paying off in more ways than one.

striving to improve Idaho/Utah relations

2009-06-01T16:09:00.022-06:00

This past weekend, I went golfing with two of my best friends, Steve and Blaine, and Steve's random cousin Bobby, at Homestead Resort at Midway, just outside Park City, Utah. It was a beautiful day. The golf was good, the company great, and the scenery fantastic. For a time, I was able to completely forsake the troubles of the modern life. Unfortunately, though, it doesn't take much to snap one back to reality. Yesterday, on the way back to Logan, I told a girl about the trip, when she burst out saying "Of course you went golfing. You're from Idaho!"

In these troubled times of ever-straining relations, I wasn't sure how to react. I didn't believe my ears, or didn't want to. As an Idahoan living in Utah, I'm quite accustomed to this sort of profiling, but there never seems to be a fitting response. I think I mumbled something like "what?", and so the girl elaborated, telling me that absolutely everyone in Idaho golfs. She expressed surprise that I, having lived there for eighteen years, was completely unaware of such a defining characteristic of my own state.

It became apparent that she was basing this claim entirely off of the experience of her dad, who lives in Utah and does not golf, and her dad's three brothers, who live in Idaho and do. I wasn't offended by the unorthodox generalization itself, as I do indeed enjoy a good round of 9 or 18 now and then, but I got to wondering--is this how hurtful interstate stereotypes begin?

Having lived my entire pre-college life in Idaho before choosing to study abroad in Utah, I've seen both sides pretty thoroughly. I love both states and would be proud to make either my permanent home (except in either Pocatello or Provo, but that's a post for another day). I've traveled extensively in both states, and have friends in all different corners. I even married a naturalized Utahn and couldn't be prouder. And I'm well aware that many well-intentioned hands cross the border in each direction, and yet, I can't ignore the immature, inaccurate profiling that abounds, replacing mutual camaraderie with misunderstanding, hatred, and wanton acts of terror that threaten to tear our great states apart.

What I propose is to alleviate the hurt feelings, to sop up the bitter tears by exposing some of the interstate stereotypes and addressing each one openly and honestly. Hopefully by doing so, we'll come closer to a truth that both parties can agree on.

Stereotype: All Utahns are Mormons-- This is simply not true. It's actually just barely over 50%, and Salt Lake City itself considerably less. Not that the prevalence is a bad thing, anyway. Besides, SLC is a great city with a thriving, secular nightlife and considerable diversity. You're thinking of Utah County, for which the stereotype is completely accurate.

Stereotype: Idaho is just a northward extension of Utah-- This is one of the most offensive attacks of Utahns, aimed at diminishing Idaho's unique identity and replacing it with their own. In reality, Idaho is very different. Our stores are open on Sundays, and our schools and cities actually pay attention to the arts.

Stereotype: All Idahoans golf-- This is ridiculous.

Stereotype: All Idahoans eat a lot of potatoes-- This is pretty much true, actually. But hey, wouldn't you? They're delicious.

Stereotype: Utahns are bad drivers-- This is mostly true, but folks from Jefferson County, Idaho take the cake. If you see a 1J license plate coming your way, duck. No one is safe. This may be a stereotype as well, but in the interest of safety, it's a good one to hold on to, just in case. And no, not all Utahns are bad drivers. Many just don't understand 4-way stops. Mostly, the stereotype comes from the Utah Highway Patrol's extremely lenient policies on I-15. One can exceed the speed limit by 15mph and cross over as many double lines as one wants. As of yet, no one has ever been pulled over.

Stereotype: Idaho is flat-- This is a common misconception of Utahns who have never left I-15 or I-84 when traveling in Idaho. Yes, those interstates pass through mostly flat land. It's easier to drive that way. This is the Snake River Plain, and it's the only plain in the entire state. Utah is no more mountainous, but has simply done an impossibly better job than Idaho at actually situating major cities right close to the mountains. In Idaho, they're a little farther away, and it takes an effort to get there. Also, speaking of traveling on I-84 in Idaho, sorry about the smell between Boise and the Magic Valley. We're not sure what that is either.

Stereotype: Utahns love Jell-O, especially of the green variety-- In four years here, I've seen it only a couple of times, and never green. The most recent issue of Salt Lake Magazine recently named it the #1 "Locavore" food of Utah, though, whatever that means. But I have to assume based on my own experience that this is a myth that no longer has support.

Stereotype: All Idahoans are hicks-- This is by far the most heinous and underlying stereotype of Idaho by Utahns. I currently live in Logan, Utah, and whenever people ask me where I'm from, and I answer "Idaho Falls, Idaho," what usually follows is some sort of jejune reference to a life in the boonies. This is especially odd, seeing as how Idaho Falls is considerably larger and more cosmopolitan than Logan. The metro area is at least double the size. And yet, the generalization persists.

I've thought long and hard on where exactly this comes from, and I've reached a couple of conclusions. First of all, the bulk of Utah's sprawling urban area is far closer to the disputed border than are Idaho's. Also, whenever Utahns have relatives in Idaho, they're often in tiny little towns in the middle of nowhere. The populace in Idaho's larger cities often share more in common with Washington and Oregon than Utah.

The final reason, though, is that I believe that hicks in Utah, of which there are many, take on a very different appearance than do hicks in any other state. Small-towners and farmers in Utah usually are well-educated, don't drink or smoke, and often keep a more cosmopolitan appearance than hicks in other states. This of course, is largely due to the prevalence of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, previously noted as the Mormon church. Due to the influence of the church, discerning between urban and rural folk in Utah is much harder than in other states. Utah, therefore, simply has fewer traditional hicks than anywhere else around. I argue that Idaho has no higher of a hick ratio than any other state, but since it's the closest representation of "the outside world" to Utah, it receives the brunt of the criticism.

In conclusion, I hope this has been an enlightening conversation for the good people on both sides of the border, and a step toward brotherhood. I am proud of my state. Utahns may label me with "Pridaho," but I'll never claim that my state is superior to Utah or any other. That's what Texans are for. I apologize for any fellow Idahoans of mine who may have insensitively fought back against Utah oppression with even more criticism of their own. And I do recognize and appreciate Utahns for not making fun of the name of our state in other ways, which is, admittedly, too easy. We only seek, as surely you do, to be understood and regarded as equals. And when the time comes, we'll work together to divide up Wyoming equally between us. Because come on, how much longer can they last?

Thank you for your time.

hometown, NBA

2009-05-28T13:15:00.009-06:00

I just read one of the best articles I've read in a long time. Of course, as is human nature, I loved it because I agreed with it. It said precisely what I've been wanting to say literally for years, though I lacked the audience.

I found this article, of course, on ESPN.com. For those who don't know me personally, you wouldn't know that I grew up breathing basketball to the point that had my skin turned orange and bumpy, I would have considered it a miracle. You wouldn't know that I stayed up nights studying obscure statistics from the NBA's distant past, that a hoop and literally dozens of Utah Jazz posters adorned my room, or that one of the greatest gifts I ever received was a small-but-real electronic scoreboard. Such was life in hometown, NBA. I even spent weeks devising an intricate dice game that would simulate real scoring patterns and box scores, complete with individual stat ratings on slips of paper for every single NBA player, which ratings I was able to assign based on my own knowledge as an 11-year-old. I kept the game and slips of paper in an old Nilla Wafer box, upon which I drew lines so the cookies looked like little basketballs.

Very few people that know me personally even know that. In junior high, when I stopped growing earlier than everyone else, so did my lofty roundball aspirations. I switched my attention to tennis and got good, but that was also when girls, school, and normal life materialized as well. My devotion to the Association took on a different form, but never waned.

As a quasi-adult, I've been forced to scale my NBA love back considerably. Honestly, I've become a little ashamed of it. But it's not because I've changed so much as that it has. What used to be a democratic league where John Paxson could take the final shot and where the Jazz's old-fashioned teamwork was lauded, has given way to an NBA that calls "ratings fouls" and refuses to acknowledge the skills of anyone not named LeBron or Kobe. If the Rockets beat the Lakers, the question isn't "how did the Rockets outhustle?" but "why wasn't Kobe hitting his open shots? Maybe he was poisoned." That may be a little farfetched, but only a little. In an attempt to hyper-focus on recognizable superstars that non-sports fans can relate to, thereby increasing TV ratings and product sales, the NBA has lost the devotion of its true fans.

Not that the hyper-focus or the superstar treatment are brand new. For in-depth accounts of the bonus calls (and no-calls) Michael Jordan constantly received at the hands of referees, read Sam Smith's revealing book The Jordan Rules. Nobody has been deified like he, but to what purpose? Let his already-stellar stats speak for themselves. If there happens to be someone else who, heaven forbid, plays as well as the superstar, give him the credit he deserves. Isn't the success story of everyman a ratings-grabber as well?

The article is Bill Simmons's "Blowing the Whistle on the NBA's Flaws," a.k.a. "Searching for Danny Biasone." By the way, I did know who he was. And now I'm seriously considering taking Simmons's advice tracking the whistles (and analyst comments) in tonight's Game 5 matchup between Cleveland and Orlando.

I'm afraid I may have opened a can of worms with public revelation of my unglamorous sports obsession. I may feel tempted to write about it much more now. But deep down, it's who I am. Life imitates sports just as it does art. And sports, just like politics, is in desperate need of intelligent conversation and pragmatic solutions in order to preserve the pure spirit of healthy competition that reminds us why we dream and keeps us from taking our anger out elsewhere. The NBA is where I grew up. I don't have all the answers, but forgive my audacity if I attempt some solutions from time to time. Something needs to be said, and I might as well put my otherwise-useless wealth of knowledge to use. After all, it's my home.

speed/writing

2009-05-27T11:02:00.006-06:00

I'm halfway through Stephen King's On Writing right now, which we were going to read in a class last semester, but never got around to. Fine. It's spectacularly well written and fun to read. I've never read a Stephen King book before, as horror is not my genre, but maybe it'd be worth it. Say what you will, he knows what he's doing.

King suggests, as most serious writers do, a daily quota. He himself writes no less than 2000 words per day, which translates to about ten pages or so. Others write for two or four hours per day. I need to do this. Since graduation, I've written very little, and yet, I claim to have aspirations. I also engender constant fears that I don't love writing as much as they say I'm supposed to, which is of course nebulous and unmeasurable.

But alas, the Bible tells us "if ye do my will, ye shall know of the doctrine." That is to say, don't criticize the advice until you've tried it. Therefore, I hereby pledge myself to a goal.

There, that sounds good. Wait, what? Numbers? No. It's enough that I set a goal. Numerical goals sound like the part of my Mormon mission I had trouble with. It sounds so restrictive. What if I do the deep-down wrong thing because I'm too focused on a quota, like my initial impression of the cop who pulled me over on I-15 yesterday for going 4mph over the limit? Generally speaking, I tend to worry far more about potential exceptions to rules than the rules themselves. What if we were speeding to the hospital? You'd be sorry then!

We weren't, though.

So I started thinking. The cop who pulled me over was actually a very nice guy, and did absolutely no harm. He simply suggested that it's not wise to pass an Idaho state trooper when in excess of the speed limit, no matter by how much. Not a terrible suggestion--one I shouldn't have needed, but still, he didn't ticket me, and I then drove slower and safer for the rest of the trip. I realized only a little later down the road, after my heart slowed to a healthy pace, that this particular cop who had so vexed me actually performed his duties of serving and protecting with great aplomb.

So maybe there is a way to enforce meaningful numerical goals to yield a result. If there was no speed limit, it'd be much harder to discern between safe and unsafe drivers. And even if there are exceptions, such instances are rare, at least when compared to the good that the law accomplishes. I hereby pledge myself to a numerical goal. I will dedicate at least one continuous hour per day simply on my creative writing projects. This isn't much, but it's more than I've done since graduation, and besides, unlike Stephen King, I'm not getting paid for this.

There are indeed a couple May 31 deadlines for journals I'd like to hit with my essay "Wartime," though I haven't worked on it in almost a month. It's pretty close. Besides, I just need to get something out. I also received a tip on a possible solicited article for Salt Lake magazine, so I have things to do. Now, if only the French Open wasn't on...

more titular fiddling

2009-05-20T21:05:00.012-06:00

I know what you're thinking: there's been titular fiddling? Well, yes, but it's not as fun as it sounds.

Avid readers know by now that I've been on the market for a new and better title for this here blog for at least five posts now. The previous one, an excellent quote on writing, but far from anything resembling a title, overstayed its brief welcome. It almost seemed somehow too presumptuous, in addition to it not really being a title.

And so the hunt commenced anew. I wanted something that would convey my aspiration to become an expert on a wide variety of topics, while expressing humble realization of my current standing in that battle. Also, I wanted something that would remain entirely left of the couch (not a figure of speech).

So this is what it's come to. The Wannasseur, or wannabe connoisseur, seemed slightly more sophisticated than The Prospexpert, which also might be a prescription medication. Besides, it's an appropriate mix of suave and slang. So anyway, here's the thing. I need to know if this is a solid title or something that we'll all look back and laugh about six months from now. Be honest. Perhaps even more importantly, though, I'm continuing to take suggestions on completely new titles as well. This one hasn't been properly thought out yet. So there it is.

on the topic of stupid Americans

2009-05-17T11:25:00.007-06:00

So, in a sweetly direct transition from the previous posting, I was listening on Friday to a couple of podcast lectures my friend Paul recommended to me. They spoke of responsible media, especially in regards to Russia and Eastern Europe. Paul's a good friend. He knows what I like. The lectures (actually more like panels) were enlightening and quite enjoyable, more than justifying my time spend playing the Wii. There's just one minor detail that necessitates a response from yours truly.

Each panel, headed by Europeans, mostly Brits, featured one American. I should have remembered their names, but I don't. In one of the panels, the American was the clear-cut expert and star of the whole thing. But here's what bothered me. Each time one of the Americans sort of introduced himself and began speaking, he prefaced his words with something along the lines of "Well, I'm just a stupid American, but..."

Is that really what it's come to? Has our recent history completely necessitated that we demean ourselves before we speak in order to be taken seriously? Both of these Americans on these panels were absolute experts in their fields. Both of them were open-minded, sensitive, moral, and abjectly diplomatic in their speech. Everything each of them said was absolutely appropriate and progressive, regardless of personal politics.

So why did they feel the need to preface their words and demean themselves? Humility is a wonderful idea. Don't get me wrong. Opening with "Well, I'm a superior American" would have been far, far worse, and no truer. But these are international professionals speaking on this panel, and probably mostly professionals listening to it as well. Not a whole lot of jobless kids playing Wii. But even if for some reason the Americans were at a disadvantage in this field, they could have said, "Well, I'm obviously a little more geographically removed from the situation, but..." Anything!

I just hope that this "admission" of stupidity hasn't become standard protocol for dealing within international organizations. Surely most European experts aren't so narrow as to believe that the "ugly American" theory pervades every single aspect of our population. We need to make sure we don't end up fulfilling the stupidity that's coming to be expected of us. If we claim equality and nothing more, we'll deal with our foreign counterparts as brothers. If we claim stupidity, our arrogance and single-mindedness will be justified. Others will begin to see us that way, and worse, we'll begin to see ourselves that way.

There are a number of things that make this country great. Just because it's time to stop focusing on the fact that we're #1 doesn't mean we need to stop focusing on the factors and advantages that brought us there. We have some incredible resources here, and we need to showcase them around the world with the attitude of "Here's what we bring to the table. How can we help?" That's neither stupidity nor arrogance if it's done right.

Just because we're not superior doesn't mean we're inferior. Let's stop trying to compensate for wrongs by swinging the pendulum way too far to the other side. That tactic doesn't lead to eventual moderation and equality. It leads to polarization and dischord.

We have a responsibility to serve others, not because we're superior, but because it's the right thing to do.

Whoo. Back to the Wii.

tales from the real world

2009-05-15T16:26:00.001-06:00

Over the past five days or so, I've applied for about a dozen writing jobs online, many of them fake. Craigslist, the too-obvious source of many of the postings, says "watch out for scams" and offers a few tips for keeping safe. The primary one is to beware any sort of work-from-home deals. Too bad I'm a writer.

Some of the jobs have been excellently legitimate, however, and I'm excited to hear back from them. I've also applied to a number of online postings from different sites, and a few local administrative assistant positions as well.

High-voiced boy: "Doesn't that mean secretary?"

Me: "Heh heh heh. Now where did you learn words like that?"

I figure I'll move on to more desperate attempts like restaurant positions once all of these fall through, if in fact such is the case. Not that I frown upon serving at Chili's, as in fact I've served before and very much enjoyed it. Besides, here in Logan, that's about the best money you can make. No, it's not that. It's that at this point nearly two weeks after graduation, I'm still clinging to the hope that having a degree will be worth something. Not that I went to school to become a receptionist, but at least some of my skills can be utilized there, and wearing professional garb would make me feel better about the time and money spent on my degree.

Meanwhile, I am enjoying my reading/putzing around time, the likes of which I've never had. I need to start studying Russian an hour a day or so and get back to my writing and start submitting things to journals, contests, etc., but all in good time. For now, I think I'll turn on an informative podcast or TED lecture and bust out the Wii. Life is good.

the graduate

2009-05-10T18:10:00.005-06:00

So, it's over. I graduated last Saturday in a nice ceremony with a boutonniere and a senator. On the same day, I turned in my last paper, a perpetually-unfinished personal essay about a number of things I learned here at the university. It's tentatively entitled "Wartime," and can now be found, at least in part, on the collected works blog. A couple of hours after graduation, we took off for the coast. The day after graduation, Sarah and I celebrated our first anniversary, and a few days later, I turned 24.

We returned home to Logan last night, and nearly immediately, I found I had nothing to do. The feeling persists today. I can't recall a single time when I've ever had literally nothing to do. Ever. By the way, the task of not taking myself too seriously is becoming progressively easier.

Needless to say, I'm not sure what to do with this freedom. Over the past few days, I read The Sound and the Fury as well as a bunch of letters and criticism surrounding it. (If I could, I'd just read all summer long.) I anticipate being a far better writer and student of literature now that I don't have school to worry about. If I play this right, I could conceivably become smarter. As far as procuring an income, however, I'll let you know when I figure something out. Bah! Money.

heterosis

2009-04-28T17:23:00.008-06:00

I suppose this is as much for me as for anyone else. I've been pondering for days upon how to write this, so as to show utmost respect on this measly site for a man who has meant so much to so many. My beloved grandfather, Dr. T. H. Carr passed away in Idaho Falls on Friday at about 5:00. Until I went off to college, we lived just down the street from each other for my entire life, and I spent time there with him almost every week at some point. He's had a grab bag of various health problems for about the past 20 years or so, but he really took a turn for the worse this last summer at around Father's Day, when Sarah and I were too far away. He was an incredibly selfless man who sacrificed his time making others whole as a surgeon for many decades. As a retiree, he remained in constant pursuit of knowledge, having been engaged in learning about science, current events, sports, and all of the finer things. He cared about his family above all, claiming the theory of heterosis, which is that each generation improves upon the one previous. In speaking of this, he set the bar rather high for those of us left behind, as he himself lived a model life. I will continue to value his opinion as a man of great balance and integrity. I know he was proud of the man I've become to this point, the girl I've chosen for a wife, and my plans for the future. His pride helps to justify my own decisions.

Any attempt at documenting memories, personal sacrifices he made for me, or examples of insights he instilled within me, opening my mind to a world where people are and can be intrinsically good, is in vain. There's simply too much. I wish he could have seen me graduate from college (he missed it by a week), as I've reveled in his level reactions and advice to each of my short life's milestones thus far. I received a card in the mail yesterday, postmarked the day he died but before they had any idea, congratulating me on my achievement, signed with love from Grandma and Grandpa. That, it appears, will have to do. Fortunately, I have a lifetime worth of assurance that doing what Grandpa would have done will be a pretty safe mantra to follow. And I know he's still there, fidgeting around in his chair, waiting, and being proud.

title

2009-04-24T00:34:00.003-06:00

I've been working to try to hook up with some of my writer friends from here at the university whom I'm likely never to see again, with the intent of continuing to read each others' work and see if anyone gets grown-up jobs. If you are one of those people, I welcome you to my lame blog, which by the way, needs a new, less-cliche title--something probably without my name, and without the word "muse" in any form. John's is "Open the Vein," which grossed me out at first, but then the nice quote on the top explained it, validating its coolness far beyond my initial suspicion. I need something like that. Generally speaking, my titles are trite and unimpressive, despite my sometimes-embarrassing regard for good ones, like "Everything that Rises Must Converge" and "Men Without Hats." So be on the lookout for that. If you can't tell, I'm pretty much just writing now in the hopes of getting myself into the habit of writing here much more frequently, and less rantingly. Don't worry, I'll see to it that quality doesn't take a hit. We're all about quality here.

my degree of glory

2009-04-21T14:25:00.005-06:00

In about a week and a half, I will have a college degree with honors and a decent number of academic accolades. Of course, this greatly saddens me, as it appears that this development will greatly proclude the likelihood of me getting a job. The problem, of course, is that I will have a degree in English.

Taken from my department's mission statement, the goal of an English degree is more or less the following: "By studying how individuals in specific historical, cultural, and rhetorical circumstances present their ideas to others through the medium of language, our students learn how to present their own ideas persuasively. They learn to raise key questions, gather relevant information, reach well-reasoned conclusions, weigh alternative systems of thought, and communicate effectively with others."

Notice there's nothing in there about "preparing our students to be high school English teachers," as is the common pigeon-holing misconception. To me, an English education is the single most important education a person can receive, for reasons both idealistic and yes, even practical. In a survey of various employers from a few years back, effective communication skills were cited as being the single most important attribute for employees to possess. In fact, I don't want this to come out wrong, but I'm pretty confident that most of my fellow English majors are even more qualified to run a business than most business majors I've met. Of course, this begs the question:

Why can't I find a job?

My friend Will, also a next-week English graduate with honors, works at a furniture warehouse, where he is forced to handle a bunch of the store's official correspondence and other items that elude the competence of those around him. He doesn't get paid for this, though. He gets paid for selling furniture, which job he is ironically more qualified for even than his superiors. Perhaps the problem is that the skills we've learned are valuable for all fields, but not one specifically. After all, who wants an employee that could veritably excel at jobs other than their own?

I feel like I have learned a great deal throughout the course of my college education, and I remain extremely proud of my English degree. It will indeed prove immeasurably useful in my life, and I don't, nor will I ever regret it for a second. I've loved it.

They say "you can do anything with an English degree," but they don't offer a single specific suggestion. I now have one year before grad school, and I am in desperate need of suggestions. Or just jobs. Would anyone be willing to part with either?

a monopoly on conventional wisdom (a balanced rant)

2009-04-05T19:59:00.014-06:00

Is there any way to suggest discrepancies or fallacies in the media without sounding like a conspiracy theorist? I hope I don't commit myself to endless profiling and labeling with this post, but honestly, I think something needs to be done about mass media in the United States. Let me preface this by saying that the situation is probably worse in just about every other country, so no complaint about that. I just think we should hold ourselves to a higher standard, and we have no one to blame for the current situation but ourselves.

Mass media contains a shameless liberal bias. There, I said it. Now, you probably all immediately think I'm a gun-toting, warmongering, racist, backwoods Republican, but in case you missed it, I voted for Obama. I belong to neither party. And I don't believe the media is any sort of grand conspiracy. In fact, I very much agree with the sentiment of Bozell and Baker: "though bias in the media exists, it is rarely a conscious attempt to distort the news. It stems from the fact that most members of the media elite have little contact with conservatives and make little effort to understand the conservative viewpoint. Their friends are liberals, what they read and hear is written by liberals." Such a minor oversight in this line of business, unfortunately, has broad, sweeping effects. Where can we turn for balanced truth? According to a study done by two university professors in 2004, 18 out of the top 20 mass media outlets in America had a significant leftward lean. Now, obviously it's hard to know about the objectivity of any such study, but please check it out here and see for yourself. The stats are toward the bottom. Anyway, it's not the fact that it's liberal that scares me. Not in the least. It's the fact that it's nearly a monopoly. Obviously every imperfect newspaper or magazine or news network run by imperfect people is going to produce bias of some sort, but what's dangerous is the power they possess to completely alter the thinking of unwitting citizens, simply by shifting the labels of "right," "left," and "center."

Fox News is considered "conservative media" and is generally regarded as unprofessional, but who's labeling it that way? According to the aforementioned study, Fox is in fact one of the two of 20 that lean right, but also, it's statistically closer to the so-called center than CBS, NBC, and ABC. Fox is called conservative media, but liberal media is known simply as national media. Newsweek has a department called "Conventional Wisdom." Well, that sounds like it must be balanced, right? Well done, rhetoric. This past weekend, I read through the last four issues of Newsweek, and found in each edition of "CW" deifying, unstinting praise for the president and anyone aligned with him. and continual bashing on all things right. That's nothing new. It's been that way in every single issue I've read. The notable quotes page from an issue this past month included a very kind apology from President Obama for his Special Olympics slip-up on the Tonight Show--an honest flub. Still, they printed the apology, not the quote itself. I'm no advocate of mudslinging, but the quote page during the Bush administration was a constant litany of examples of him screwing up here and there and everywhere. Can you imagine what would have happen if Bush would have made that remark instead of Obama?

I could go on with plenty more examples, but there's no point. Doing so makes me look like...well, something bad. Media bias an untouchable topic, unfortunately, which makes for pretty good job security for those involved. It's just a shame that we have to deal with the fact that media is a business, and liberal politics is what sells. Successful journalists are those who connect with people. But the GOP is the party of personal responsibility, and who wants to hear that? It's far easier to agree with the policies of a party reliant on the mantra of collective responsibility, and therefore have someone else to blame our problems on. If we don't take enough personal interest in discovering the truth, maybe this is exactly what we deserve. I just wish there was a way for people to get the unbiased, unmitigated truth when they want it, whatever it may be. Then, they could actually understand the notion of thinking for themselves, (which notion, I might add, has been completely commandeered by the liberal left as well--nice job with that one).

So there's my rant for today. I'm sorry if I've lost some respect now. Maybe I read too many dystopian novels. Again, I have absolutely nothing against the intellectual left. I just don't like it being sneakily forced upon me. Liberals should understand that tendency. They're not supposed to like it either.

forced retirement and solicitation, which topics are in no way related to each other

2009-02-19T19:53:00.007-07:00

I know, I know, this looks long, but listen to this. Two things: first of all, I may have gotten one of my professors fired. Yow. Now don't worry, nothing terrible happened.

At first, I was a little wary about writing this down, because I didn't want to fall under the criticism of students, or especially Dr. Weed himself (the names have been changed). But then I figured, hey. I haven't done anything wrong. Plus, it probably wasn't actually my fault. Anyway, here we go.

Dr. Weed is technically a member of the History faculty. He just teaches a couple of folklore in film classes each semester, though, and no matter what the specific topic, they're all the same. The classes are quite famous in the slacker underground, though, because they are guaranteed A's for virtually no effort whatsoever. Also, you can take them for credit as many times as you want. Pretty much the entire hockey team is there. Anyway, I could go on forever about the ridiculousness of his classes, but I won't here. Suffice it to say, he often came to class under the influence of something or other. Who knows. The entire semester grade for his courses consisted only of an extremely simple, subjective worksheet from each film we watched, and then a quiz from each one as well. We were supposed to do the quizzes in class, using each other as study aids. No one ever got less than a perfect score on anything. In class, he would go on and on just talking about "the good old days, when everybody smoked in class" and "the f---ing dean" and other such subjects. My buddy Matt registered for the class a couple of years ago and by the time the semester began, he forgot that he had done so, so he never attended a single session. He didn't know he was supposed to be in the class at all. He found out when at the end of the semester, he had an A in folklore in film on his transcript. Good job.

So here's where I come in. I took his British Comedies class last semester. It finished out my history minor. I admit, I also took it because I had heard it was easy, but in all honesty, I was hoping to learn something still. I like film. The class, of course, was terrible. Dr. Weed was always a very nice guy, and sometimes funny, but I seriously gained nothing from it. He would just incessantly bash American movies, using terrible ones like "The Mummy 3" to compare to British classics, like Alec Guinness movies. Come on. That doesn't work. Anyway, the class was pointless. Once, halfway through the semester, he printed off maps of Europe so we could "see where England is." At the end of the term, when we did anonymous course evaluations, I was honest, as I always am on evaluations. That's what they're for. The professors tell you to be truthful. Usually, honesty works in their favor, anyhow.

My friend Brian had Dr. Weed for sports films this semester. It turns out, the man was irate about the first and only negative evaluation of the year, and possibly decade. "I guess that student didn't realize it was a comedy class," he said. I did. Anyway, Brian said that the evaluation caught the dean's attention, or something to that effect. Then, in the middle of a class last week, the dean came to class with an officer and pulled out Dr. Weed, who was mad. Then, the dean returned and said that class was adjourned for the day. Nobody knows what that was about, but if there was an officer there, surely something must have happened beyond just a negative evaluation. What we're assuming is that he had some choice words for the dean when she denied his request for sabbatical. He would always talk to us about his plan to sit on the beach in Cape Cod and doing nothing for a year and a half, anyway. He was excited. Sure. He thought he had found a way to somehow earn his tenured salary even less than he does when he's teaching. Then, yesterday, he was gone. The dean announced to the class that Dr. Weed had taken an early retirement for "health reasons," though for a 72-year-old lifetime smoker, he looked just fine. Besides, you don't just quit in the middle of a semester.

So, we're not really sure what happened there. I figure, if anything, getting rid of him will save the university tens of thousands of dollars, and he can spend as much time as he wants at Cape Cod now. He's old, and seemingly well-off, anyway. Maybe his 45 years of tenured teaching earned him enough to pay for that himself, instead of taking money from poor students' pockets. Oh well. Just don't tell the hockey team it was me. They'll pin me up against the boards, and I don't have chest pads or shoulder pads.

So I guess my conscience is doing all right. He dug his own grave, and I certainly didn't do anything drastic enough to warrant a mid-semester forced retirement, anyway. This is just part of my campaign to save the university, which is more directly being accomplished through student government elections that are underway. But that's a story for another day. On a lighter note, I was contacted today by the International Writing Center Association for permission to publish "The Receptionist Monologues" as the feature reading on their website. This is fantastic news. I wrote the monologues with my co-workers and friends Audrey and Ashley a few months ago, and we presented it at the IWCA international conference in Las Vegas (I had to miss Dr. Weed's class). It was a big hit at the conference. Anyway, this is more impressive than my other publications thus far, even if it's only online. It's international, baby. (Canada, probably?) So that's something, I guess. But still, who's the nerd now? Yeah, I know. Obviously still me.

Mark Twain

2009-02-12T19:12:00.001-07:00

Yesterday at 1:30, an international student came into work to be tutored. That’s my work, not his. Anyway, he came in, and I think he was Korean, judging by name and complexion. The point is, he had written down on the schedule that his instructor for English 1010 was “M. Twain.” Naturally, I was curious. This was the first time I had heard of such a lecturer in our department. For clarification, as I was filling out his consultation form, I asked him directly who his 1010 instructor was. “Mark Twain,” was the accented, yet clear reply. “That seems highly unlikely,” I responded, but he didn’t hear me. Just as well. I didn’t need to make any enemies, and jealousy for this student had already begun to swell within me. This unsuspecting Korean exchange student —probably not even an English major—was being taught basic composition by possibly the greatest and most prolific writer in American history. Not only that, but I imagined that the class itself was a riot.

Still, a sort of nagging feeling existed. I couldn’t help but recall that not only did the father of American literature not actually teach 1010 in our department, but nowhere in the entire university. Also, he had been dead for over 90 years.

Having no alternative, I wrote down “M. Twain” on the consultation form and sent him in with his tutor, but not before glancing back at the large poster of Twain behind my desk. The poster bore the quote “The difference between the right word and the almost-right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning-bug.” That was especially true for foreigners, I surmised. For the rest of the day, I went on a crusade to find out which of the firefly grad students who teach 1010 had been parading around as Sam Clements. Otherwise, this misled student wouldn’t get credit for his tutoring appointment. The impostor was probably Adam, since he has a mustache. Not only did Twain have a mustache, but generally speaking, mustache guys are sneaky.

On Wifey

2009-01-22T22:29:00.004-07:00

Don't think I haven't noticed that I haven't included as much about Sarah in my blog as she includes about me. I'll justify myself by saying that her blog is the update blog, and mine is the, well, musing blog. Most of my musings are academic in nature, but that's surely not to say that most of my thoughts are as well. I guess I just generally prefer to keep private sentiments private as well, but this shouldn't be an excuse. Sarah is outrageously public with her affections, and as a service to my beloved, I shall now attempt some of the same.

A solid eight or nine months into marriage, I can safely say that it's still as if we got married eight or nine days ago, except we're not in Cancun. It's better, though, because normal college life is spectacular. Sarah makes it so.

She puts up with a lot from me, and takes it in stride. She never complains about my neuroticisms or my constant busyness. I'm gone a lot. She sends me periodic love texts throughout the day, and is always, ALWAYS happy to see me when I come home. Seeing her is a 100%-effective spirit-lifter for me as well. She's a straight-A student with pertinent research interests. She's by far the most attractive person in the History Department, man or woman. She manages to balance home life, studies, friends, spiritual, and all aspects of life with great aplomb. She is beloved by literally, absolutely all with whom she comes into contact. She is open-minded and able to connect to all, while still holding her own values and bubbliness intact. An essay of hers called "The Bluest Blue" is most prizeworthy. I hope it gets posted here beofre long. She is both the smartest and funniest girl I know, and will likely remain so indefinitely. Her selfless experimentations in the kitchen are second to none. She truly is a dream wife in so many ways, and I, the busy academic aspirer, so frequently take her for granted. No longer. She's the wonderfullest. That's right. The wonderfullest. I've smiled so much in the past eight or nine months, I can hardly stand it.

the new year

2009-01-06T11:15:00.002-07:00

Christmas was good. For specifics on that, surely my wife's blog will suffice. Our perfectly parked car was plowed by a snowplow, so we'll be driving back to Sun Valley this weekend to collect it. Finals ended well last semester, and classes are so far so good now. All of my classes this semester are extremely writing-intensive, and mostly creative writing, so chances are, you'll be hearing from me much more frequently. What a relief. I'm very excited to resume work on a story about a salesman, which I believe to be the best thing I will have ever written. I will be producing many creative works throughout the course of the next few months, though in a paradoxically regimental fashion. I also must begin work on a writing journal with entries at least four times a week. I toyed briefly with the idea of including the entirety of said journal in this blog, but decided that it would not only bog down the blog with such an excess of new information that it would be quite off-putting, but also limit my creative output to that which can or should be read publicly. In lieu of that, I will instead include the highlights on this blog as well as the "works" blog next door. I'm excited, though. Good things have happened recently which will augment all of this. Firstly, I helped facilitate the creation of the new position of "supervisor" at the Writing Center, which I then promptly filled. Basically, it's the same reception/administrative duties I've had recently, but with added power, and added free time for writing. Also, my nepotistic article "It Takes a Family to Raise a Village" appeared in the winter issue of Utah State magazine, just sent to bookstands and alumni last week. That was fun. Also, it's nice to have that project no longer hanging over my head, and the editor enjoyed working with me and may have future writing assignments as well. So there's that. Sarah's been under the weather as of late, and I've been not too far behind, but we should be on the upswing, and we're quite happy. Sarah's going to be doing a lot of cool stuff academically this semester as well. I'll get into more of our future exploits soon. But not too far in the future. We still haven't figured that out.

readers

2008-12-01T01:15:00.003-07:00

I fear my blog is beginning to disappoint. Well, that would be somewhat of a relief, actually, because that would indicate that someone would have read it at one point, which would have been validating. Anyway, I know I say this every semester, but the best is yet to come. That is to say, this crazy semester is just about done, and I'll have a whole lot more time next semester. I know, I know, I say that every single time, but check this. I'm running the front desk at the Writing Center for a whopping 15 hours a week next semester, and getting paid for each one. There's definitely plenty of free time in store. Also, I'll be taking three (3) creative writing classes, which means I'll be in the writin' spirit all the time. Speaking of which, it has recently come to my attention that perhaps my writings have garnered more readers than previously thought, so that's good news to any prospective fans out there, and even better news for me, as my creative writing portfolio will grow by a ridiculous amount. I'll be sure to keep the 'works' blog updated as best I can. In academic news, I've finished Don Quixote and Crime and Punishment and I'd love to talk about either one of them. They are now the two longest books I've ever read, and I did them both at the same time. Weird. I'm getting done with Fathers and Sons in the original Russian as well, which is requiring a great deal of time, and throwing me back toward looking into Russian Studies masters programs even more than literature programs right now. So there's that. I'm submitting my proposal tomorrow for my senior honors thesis on "Zamyatin's Real Dystopia" about his novel We and how it is a more effective dystopia than 1984 because in it, the state in essence convinces individuals to sacrifice themselves for the good of the nation, rather than forcing them to do so. Also, it very closely mirrors Soviet propaganda techniques in the 1920's, which is when it was written, though of course not published in the USSR until the '80s. Anyway, in other news, Thanksgiving with the in-laws was wonderful, finals are next week, internships for next year are still pending, and wifey is asleep, but baby, this one's for you all the same.

help me vote correctly

2008-10-28T10:03:00.005-06:00

I don't know who to vote for. There, I admit it. I, me, who am supposed to be a brash, opinionated politicophile who has watched every debate and followed every news brief for the last few months, and when it comes down to it, I still don't know. I need to know, because the TSC does voting early, so today or tomorrow are my options, assuming I don't want to stand in line for literally two hours on Election Day itself. I might have to, though. Here's my thinking. I've been more or less for McCain all along, even though I greatly respect both candidates and think each of them could do well. But I'm somewhat of a conservative largely because I'm somewhat of a realist. And let's face it, a McCain administration is going to run into a lot more obstinacy from Congress, the American people, the media, and our allies abroad, simply because of his party in this ever left-leaning climate. Obama, therefore, might actually be able to get more done. Obviously, his rallying and fundraising ability has been incredible, and that's going on virtually no experience. If he can garner that sort of support for our nation and thereby unify us and increase our standing abroad and respect for the government at home, that's something I want to be a part of. So what now? I believe McCain is an incredible man, I LOVE many of his ideas, and I think overall, he could be one of the best presidents we've had in a long time. But, if he doesn't get much done, and if he's fought and dismembered on his every attempt at governing, maybe we need someone that won't face those sorts of obstacles. So, any thoughts? I turn to you, my dearest friends and family, for support in these troubled times. Please help me vote correctly.

Certainly what this decision represents for me is not a decision between two parties or even two men, but two separate ideals: idealism and realism. The title phrase voting "correctly" is actually more appropriate than perhaps it seems, because I aim to vote based upon set ideals that are important to me. If I succeed, then it's correct. Such a decision, of course, a person may only make for himself, but I still need help.

Another interesting factor is the discussion of urgency. If I believe that McCain is the right man to bring about the sort of change necessary right now, but that reactions to his administration will mire the GOP, and perhaps the presidency, in demobilizing cynicism and backbiting, perhaps my generally conservative ideals would actually be better preserved in the long run with Obama, simply because he will restore the respect to the office necessary to effect real change in the future, perhaps even by conservatives. So here's another question: do I vote for instant help, or extended relief? Obviously, the very idea of conservatism lies within gradual, steady change, so do I vote for a liberal candidate to bring that about in the long run?

The question of idealism vs. realism is so convoluted in this issue, and each absolute could represent each candidate so many times over, even within my own set of values, that I suppose it loses all validity as a basis for my decision.

Perhaps I should just vote on hair, or hotness of wife (or VP) or something. I will now open up the floor to input along those lines as well, but only if all else fails. It seems that I won't figure anything out by today, so consider this note open until the 4th.

academia

2008-10-26T19:40:00.004-06:00

If the family blogging has indeed become a spousal competition, surely I am losing. I blog tonight by virtue of a recurring illness that has strapped me to the couch for the entire day. I've definitely never had as many health things come up in my life as in this past five months of marriage, in which I've been uninsured. Hopefully that state will be resolved very soon. This particular illness is probably a function of having my stomach explode following our Homecoming loss to Fresno State yesterday, in which we were beaten at the literal last second on a mind-blowing 57-yard field goal. This, after the kicker had missed an approximately 21-yarder earlier in the game.
I'm in a one-credit Honors course on preparing grad school applications, and it's actually been my second-most demanding actual course this semester. The necessity to infuse my essays with some sort of academic direction has forced me to actually figure it out, and at least for the time being, I know what I want to do. I'm currently looking into PhD programs in literature, especially with emphasis opportunities in creative writing. California schools top my list right now, but nowhere is out of the question. I've submitted my proposal to the Honors office for my big, final senior thesis, which will be on the ideological threads and fears running through a few seminal works of 20th century dystopian literature, and assessing how far we've come today in dealing with those same issues. This sort of study of political and social ideological trends through literature is what I would like to spend my career doing, as far as I can tell right now.
This new direction of mine, or rather, clarified direction, is being greatly augmented by the first-most demanding course this semester- Studies in Prose, in which we are studying Don Quixote in depth, its position as the first novel, birth of realist literature, convoluting of history and fiction, reality and representation. It is without a doubt the most interesting course I've ever taken, and one that totally restores confidence in my decision to be an English major. The course is taught by a Dr. McCuskey, who is notorious in the department for his excellence in thought and teaching, but whose classes I've been unfortunately unable to take until now. I'm working on an independent research project with him right now, in which we're reading Crime and Punishment together and assessing Don Quixote's influences on Dostoyevsky's early career before he wrote The Idiot, which is entirely based on Quixote. We've also discussed our share of sports.
I've fallen in love with working with Dr. McCuskey, who looks to me a little like Dr. Cox from "Scrubs", which character, of course, is the protagonist's mentor. My friend Vienna says he looks like Hercules. Sarah surmises that we each view him the way we want to, which actually follows right down Cervantes's line of thinking, where outward, subjective representations of reality are all we as humans have to truly understand people. So, good job, babe.
Wow, look how nerdy I am. Also, Steve, Brandon, and I are currently enrolled in a hockey class, which we enjoy twice a week in nearly-full pads. We're getting a ton better, and I'd say I could actually be considered a decent skater now. It's a hard game to get down, but so, so much fun.
Sarah and I are heading down to Vegas at the end of the week, so I can present a monologue at the National Peer Tutoring Conference, along with a couple of friends and colleagues. The school is paying for most everything, so it should be a great weekend, despite the lameness of said conference.
The Homecoming dance was fun, and for further details, I urge readers to reference my foe Sarah's blog. Suffice it to say I am now a true Aggie. Score. Don't tell anyone it took me until senior year.

competition

2008-09-09T13:05:00.002-06:00

First of all, yes, we're back in the west, and back in school. This is a very good thing. There's much to be documented, and believe me, it will be done once I get a second where my conscience isn't telling me to do something else instead. I just thought it prudent to note to my viewer(s) that my lovely wife Sarah has started a blog "for our family". And while I applaud her efforts and encourage her to write at all opportunities, I fear the worst for my own beloved blog. I know it may seem that I neglect the electronic face of my muse all too often, but I'm determined to keep it functioning. And rest assured, Sarah's divisive actions will not be ignored. We will respond thoroughly and swiftly in defending the individual writes and liberties that have long made this the greatest blog in the family. And by "we", I mean "I".

Azkaban

2008-08-07T20:31:00.001-06:00

Two weeks from now, we'll be on the on the happy road west, back from whence we came, away from doorbells and disinterest. The company is making me work on Wednesday the 20th, despite the fact that school starts Monday the 25th 2000 miles away, and all of our belongings are in two different cities at two hours apart from Logan, in opposite directions. We should be able to move everything into the new apartment, but in all likelihood, our late arrival will leave us bedless, as the apartment complex has only one or two they give out to the first-comers who need them. My quest for knowledge this summer has been put to a decisive end by my wife, who triumphantly returned my copy of The Sound and the Fury to the Fairfax County Public Library unfinished. After reading two other 20th century classics earlier this summer, and thus widening my distance over Sarah in the race to read as many of the "1001 books you must read before you die" as possible, she pulled some sneaky witchcraft and checked out the first Harry Potter for me, knowing I would become addicted. I'm on the third one now, and they are indeed very enjoyable, as I suspected they would be, but I fear now that I still have four and a half of those to go before I can fully return to more dignified literature. Once again she has bested me, and I have to give her credit. But this is far from over.

sic semper tyrannis

2008-07-11T09:09:00.003-06:00

One thing I looked forward to this summer, in addition to being married to Sarah, was having free time to write, above all else. I should have known, of course, that such a dream could never be realized. Especially not when halfway through the summer, our tyrannical leaders have decided to overstep their supposed contractual bounds and increase our hours by taking away three of my mornings every week, instead of one. Now Sarah and I see each other in passing between the bedroom and the bathroom between brushing our teeth and getting out of the shower. Fortunately, she's still lovely when she's just woken up, though. I'll abstain from venting about the company and managers that misrepresented themselves to us at the recruiting stage, though I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose. I am, in fact, making a lot of money. I'd rather have more time instead, but I guess that's why I'm an English major and not an aggressive businessman like the managers and most others here. I hope they really are happy. I'll be quite satisfied writing and teaching literature in my mid-sized western college town. Sundays remain for us a day off, but hardly a restful one. We've spent time now at Williamsburg and Jamestown, the National Archives, the monuments, Old Town Alexandria, the National Cathedral, and now Gettysburg. Independence Day watching the fireworks from the foot of the Lincoln Memorial over the reflecting pond to the Washington Monument was pretty spectacular. This is a great city which contributes to the overall worthwhileness of the summer, even if I'm not spending the summer getting publication credits, like my compatriot-rivals. And besides, we'll be back in Logan in no time. It's hard to believe we'll be going back at all, but we've got at least one more fantastic USU schoolyear ahead. And this time we'll have money.

Washington, DC

2008-06-01T19:39:00.002-06:00

Well, we're here. The wedding and the receptions are over, we have driven across the country, flown to Mexico, gotten sunburned, come back, and we're now two weeks into the great experiment. A full-time job, that is. Here's the verdict thus far: sign me up for grad school. I'm not for it--at least not for spending over ten hours of each day knocking doors and offering them decent deals on big decisions, instead of spending that time with my wife, or writing, or learning, or teaching, or anything else. At least Sarah and I get Sundays together, and mornings. We generally spend the latter lounging about the house. As for Sundays, we spent the last one at Arlington National Cemetery, and then today at the Botanic Gardens and the Portrait Gallery, both national. I started out the job doing quite well, and since have hit a bit of a dry spell, but I'm optimistic, and I've already made as much as I made all last summer, so I shouldn't complain. I miss people, school, freedom, and Logan, but all is well. This has been a good experience, and we're finding our step. The marriage part is good.

the end of the semester

2008-04-28T20:05:00.003-06:00

I am getting married in five days. Most everything is done. I took my one and only final today, and I have two and a half days now to finish my one last paper of the semester. It, like the rest of the work I've produced over the last couple of weeks, is probably sub-par. That's how it goes, though. You earn an A in a class for the first ten weeks of the semester, and lose it all in the last two. The GPA is more a reflection of endurance than intellect. I don't know how I'll end up, but fortunately, apathy is another fine by-product of being swamped. I'll just be glad that it's all over. Plus, I'm getting married in five days. So life will be pretty dang amazing then.

Scribendi

2008-04-04T16:55:00.003-06:00

I've just been informed that my short story "Superior" has won the USU undergraduate fiction contest this year. That means publication!!! I hope it doesn't mean, though, that I can never submit it anywhere else. We'll see. Holy cow, I didn't expect this at all. It's on the new collected works blog, so read up, if you're interested, before I have to pull it off for copyright infringement or something. Hey hey!

posting things online

2008-04-03T16:37:00.006-06:00

I'm supposed to be writing a historical essay right now for my medieval European history class. I sure hate that. Someone suggested that I start a blog to showcase some of my work as a writer, and I thought "I have a blog". That was many months ago. It was only now that I realized that just having a blog, and throwing up my musings as well as some crappy poems wasn't really accomplishing what that person suggested. So I've started a new blog, for my works. (Here it is. Click here.) I will do my best to update it as I come out with new stuff and feel saucy enough to let other people read it. For those that are wondering, "Superior" is the short story that got me into the finals of that huge national contest. I get married in one month. Now, back to the 14th century.

between trips

2008-03-16T06:53:00.002-06:00

Sarah's going to pick me up in six minutes to take me to the airport, where I'll fly out to Mozambique. About 18 hours ago, my friends and I returned home from California, where we spent spring break at Steve's house. It was wonderful. I wish I had more time to tell about it. Truth be told, I'm not looking forward to taking off again right now, so soon after arriving. Here is nice. I'm going to miss Sarah a ton. What an experience. I'm a little scared. Two minutes. I'm off.

life

2008-02-06T20:04:00.000-07:00

It became official yesterday at about 8am. My life is amazing. It's too good. I've been realizing over the last little while that life will probably never be as wonderful as it is now, so I'd better enjoy it, but it just keeps getting better. I'm getting married. I'm learning a ton and loving my classes. I've got it all. And now, it's official. I'm going to Africa. Almost immediately after returning from spring break in California, I will be on a plane to Maputo, Mozambique. There, deep in the heart, I will spend a week doing two of the most exhilirating things in the world at the same time- writing and traveling. Not only will I automatically be published--thus directly giving my writing career a huge kick start, spending a week in Africa instead of class, and spending time with my uncles, but also National Geographic will be there. It's networking time. It's a long shot, I know, but maybe I could get my foot in the door looking toward an internship or something. Truth be told, my future career as a professor is probably not in much jeopardy, but the prospect of writing for a magazine, or something akin to that, is becoming more and more intriguing, at least while I'm young and vigorous. We'll see.

Memory Grove

2008-01-21T23:07:00.000-07:00

Apparently, telling people that as of a week ago, my current status is "not NOT engaged" seemed to raise more questions than answers. And they weren't even questions like "When's the big day?" or "Congratulations." They were questions like "what?". Oh well. To clear things up once and for all, yes, Sarah and I are engaged. To be married. And to answer the next question: We're shooting for May 3, but it's still a bit up in the air, due to our strictly regimented summer plans. We'll see. But we'll be sure to let you know.

About the engagement itself? Yes, well, I had known for a while of Sarah's desire to ride in a horse-drawn carriage sometime, and knowing that such an opportunity exists in downtown Salt Lake City, I figured that would be a special and classy way to do it. Now, I wanted very much to retain some semblance of surprise, so in the midst of wondering how to get her down to Salt Lake, we were offered Jazz tickets. I promptly called up the carriage service and arranged for a 10:00 ride up to Memory Grove, just up City Creek Canyon above downtown. For those that have never been there, it's a beautiful private park near the capitol building with monuments and stunning views of the valley. Anyhow, the game was great, and largely uneventful, except for the white gold ring getting me stopped at the metal detector on the way in. Miraculously, Sarah, who had already gone through toward the door, didn't notice my hasty, whispered explanation to the security guard. Thank goodness he trusted me. For future reference, that excuse seems to work. So, the game was wonderful. We beat the Bucks. Anyway, afterward, we walked toward Temple Square, where I nonchalantly hailed a horseman, and he steered us up the canyon toward the grove. Sarah was delighted at the surprise, which she took to be nothing more than the carriage ride. At the apex of the hill inside the grove, however, I mentioned about another surprise, and awkwardly removed a ring box from my left jacket pocket.

It's nice being engaged. It's only been a week, and I've only been able to introduce her as my fiancee a couple of times, but it's been wonderful knowing that it's a step toward eternal permanence. I couldn't be happier. She's absolutely wonderful. She's my best friend. She makes the prospect of marriage seem not only passable, but quite desirable. So this is my fiancee, Sarah. I love her.

"hurry boy, it's waiting there for you"

2008-01-12T12:08:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm a week into the new semester, and I've already lost control of my spare time, meaning that is essentially doesn't exist- or at least, it shouldn't. The first week was particularly stressful, as I had to try to add three classes to my schedule, for various reasons. I've never had to try to add a class late before. Miraculously, I made it into all of them, despite the English advisor's best efforts to prolong my education indefinitely. Usually, at the beginning of a new semester, I find myself thoroughly entertained by my classes, which case is no different now. I wield a general excitement for the most newfound of learning for a few short weeks, at which point the monotony and stress of an 18-credit load inevitably prevail. But now a slight week in, I'm experiencing quite a novel sensation. My excitement has just been completely superseded by something even greater. Uncle Ken called me a couple days ago and said that F. Ross Peterson, the then-history professor, now-administrator who lured me to USU initially, wants to have an article written for the alumni magazine about my dad and uncles' recent work in Africa, and he wants me to write it. As if this news wasn't good enough, I met with Dr. Peterson yesterday, and he wants to send me with a photographer to Mozambique sometime this semester to write it. When I got home, Steve played Toto's "Africa" for me. He doesn't like to travel much, but he loves his friends even more than he lets on. At one point last night during the movie, sitting with Sarah on the love sac, with Steve and my other best friends surrounding, I had to seriously think things through sequentially to ensure that I wasn't dreaming. Dr. Peterson, the photographer, and probably Ken, and I will be meeting next week to discuss particulars and hash out a plan for the trip. Someday I'd really like to do something big and important that hasn't come to me by virtue of membership in my family- something by my own merits- but maybe this article and opportunity will be somewhat of a stepping stone out into that. I'm gonna take some time to do the things we never had. I guess I can't complain about being blessed.

the one-finger salute

2007-12-18T22:16:00.000-07:00

Historically, I haven't minded Christmas shopping all that much. Prolonged shopping in general tends to have somewhat of a negative effect on me, but not as much this time of year. Enveloped in the joy of the Christmas spirit, it really becomes tolerable, and sometimes even fun. I was getting pretty sick of it after a while today, though, but certainly not to the point of blinding, vulgar rage. But that's what I encountered today at the Grand Teton Mall. Just outside of Old Navy, I rolled into a pretty choice drive-through parking spot right next to a really big truck, which obscured my view of all things northward. Just as I stopped in the space, an old car driven by one of the members of ZZ Top peeked its way around the truck. This man, as it seems, certainly tired from a long day of store-hopping, also really wanted that spot. It was a good spot. He came to a stop directly in front of me and looked me square in the eye. At this point, I could already see the pure hellish rage in his snarl, and a maniacal quiver in his long beard. Slowly and methodically, he raised his huge middle finger straight up to the center of the window. He held his hand there for what must have been five whole seconds, and even bounced it up and down in my direction a couple of times, in a completely successful effort to remove all doubt as to who the recipient was of that triumphant one-finger salute. Shocked, I raised my open palms with a confused smile, and the angry, burnt-out rocker rolled away. In one simple motion, the bottom was reached, and summarily placed behind us. The holiday angst had been vented on both of our behalf. I'll never know who that man was or where he was from, but I hope he felt better about his Christmas shopping after that. I know I did.

epiphany

2007-12-09T11:52:00.000-07:00

At last. My semester is nearly done. I have one final tomorrow in French Revolution, and then I can spend the rest of the week doing pretty much whatever I want. That hasn't happened in quite some time, to which my sparsity of blogging can attest. I'll probably spend most of the week reading things for my online class, though, which I'd like to finish over Christmas break. I don't think it should be that bad. On the subject of academia, I've accepted a fairly large decision over the past couple of weeks. I've decided to drop my history major. I'm so excited. First and foremost, I'll be able to graduate with honors. Also, I'll be able to focus more on my English and my writing, which is actually what I'm going to be doing in grad school anyway. The only reason I even was a double major was for that to look better on grad school applications, but I had an epiphany last week that showed me that my resume will in all actuality be more impressive if I can just focus on English and graduate with honors. I should be able to get a solid internship after graduation no matter what. I've also elected to write an honors thesis over the next couple of semesters regarding the origins and idiosyncrasies of the dystopian social commentary in the literature of the Soviet Union and the west. We'll see how that goes. On a more somber note, I was informed yesterday that my cousin Kevin has been missing for over a week now near Crystal Mountain, outside of Seattle. He and two friends went on a snowboarding trip and never returned. The search party was called off yesterday. Best wishes and prayers to him and his family.

the jumbotron

2007-11-12T17:50:00.000-07:00

Friday was a pretty good day. I gave away the paper I'd theoretically been working on for over a month. Specifically, I gave it to Lenny, my 6'4" Jewish Brooklynite history professor. The bulk of my semester is now behind me. I spent the better part of the week on the paper, minus a couple of Jazz games and a trip to Crystal Hot Springs. I don't really feel it was anywhere near my best work, but it'll probably be enough for the class. It was decent, I guess. I'm excited for this semester to be over. I slack off when I have too many easy classes. The remainder of my undergraduate career will be marked by 18-credit terms, however, with extra online classes on the top here and there. The really fun classes begin this January, including Creative Non-fiction Writing and Russian Translation. Anyhow, I felt pretty good on Friday, and I got to the basketball game way early to save seats for everyone. Much to my surprise, I was able to snag 12 seats in the front and second row behind the band. A member of the band told me that they weren't going to show up. Well, they did, so our timeouts were just as loud as the game itself. Early in the second half, we were just settling down to enjoy one (timeout) when I thought I saw one of the TV cameras upon me. As I and the rest of the 10,000-seat Spectrum soon discovered, it was. Yes, it was the popular USU basketball game classic timeout entertainment: the kiss cam-- and it was trained directly on Sarah and me. Anyway, we gave in and went from never having kissed in public to having 10,000 people see it simultaneously. The effects were felt immediately. The congratulatory texts started rolling in, my friend Jessica coyly raised her hand and asked about it as I was teaching Sunday School yesterday, and now people all over campus are throwing me the ol' wink-and-nudge with more frequency than usual. At least now I know why.

a manifesto

2007-10-29T10:55:00.000-06:00

An historic event occurred at our most recent Fast Food Friday, and not a moment too soon. All nine of our group- our current and recent roommates- met at Logan Burger to discuss a pressing matter. A convention took place, and a new document was forged- a declaration of independence, if you will. More than ever, as was alluded to in the previous post, we close friends are dating. A number of us are in actual working relationships all at the same time. This novelty has created a vacuum in which girlfriends have automatic precedence over all non-scheduled time. We friends been able to spend very little time together as of late. The stated purpose of the convention was to address this problem with the institution of a program of scheduled man-time. Our meeting convened in our usual booth at the restaurant with an introduction from me, announcements from Matt, and status reports from each of the council members, following which Erik gave a presentation on a similar program he and his friends had in high school. We then opened for discussion on general ideas of how to run this new program, and what the particulars of it should be. Negotiations took place, concessions were made, and agreements were reached. In the end, a large number of specific motions were voted upon and passed regarding the logistics of the newly created "Man-time" (Tuesdays), the rules governing such, and the consequences for violation. It is a document for the ages-- a MANifesto. Matt scribed it up at the restaurant, so all that remains is for us to print it and post it on the wall under the curling posters. Hopefully it will be as smooth in implementation as it was in inception. Our girlfriends have been notified, and all seem willing to comply.

Angels' Landing

2007-10-21T18:08:00.000-06:00

You try to get away for a man-weekend, but you're never really safe. Steve, Blaine, Erik, Brandon and I spent the last few days based out of Brandon's parents' house in St. George. We went to Vegas one night and saw the famed Bodies exhibit at the Tropicana (not porn). The next day we decided to climb Angels' Landing at Zion National Park, a grueling 2.5 mile hike practically straight up the fiery red rock. It's a lot of switchbacks, and then the last quarter or so of the hike is made up of a narrow ridge only a few feet in width, with cliffs straight down thousands of feet on either side. In that environment, you have to climb up to the last peak. There's a chain to hold onto in some places just in case, but either way, it's no picnic. Nevertheless, we made it. Real sanctuary. As we enjoyed our smashed sandwiches and Doritos in the direct sunlight of the summit, we basked in the serenity of our surroundings, as well as our own accomplishment. It was only a moment, however, before those thoughts were shattered. Arriving behind us soon thereafter on the peak was an annoyance from our past- a pair of girls who graduated last year with degrees in mindless chatter. They bothered us for 20 minutes on that peak, all the while trying to get our phone numbers so we could party that night in St. George. We resisted. They're nice enough girls, I suppose, but it was a man-weekend. Anyway, they soon turned away defeated, and we enjoyed our time alone on the mountain; but we knew we'd probably pass them again on the way down. In anticipation of the repeat inquiry about our evening plans, we decided to tell them we were going to watch movies, and we each selected names (real or otherwise) of porn movies, so as to deter them from joining. Mine was, and will remain, "Buns on the Run". Fortunately, we ran past them on the way down, and then avoided them down at the base, so it never came to that rather heinous lie. It's still good to know, though, that next time our man-peace is threatened, we'll be prepared. That night, we watched the Red Sox/Indians game, an episode of "The Office", and went to bed early.

Emotion Bowl

2007-10-15T09:01:00.000-06:00

I took Sarah home for the weekend, mostly just to get away. Too much has been going on around here-- not bad stuff, per se, just too much of it. Anyway, we went to the Emotion Bowl (which was a slaughtering), Bear World, walked around downtown, hung out with the family, watched movies, etc. It was a great weekend-- with my favorite person in my favorite city just taking it easy. Back to the grind now. For some reason, we've been really busy here at the Writing Center lately. This is supposed to be my paid homework/email time. Oh well. Guess I'll do my job. My buddies and I are heading down to St. George for the three-day weekend here in a few days. Now that all of us (except one) are in some phase of a girl-related relationship, we've found it much harder to spend time together lately, so the council voted yesterday to ban all females from the trip. Chances are, it will involve a good deal of rock climbing, hot-tubbing, and nice-weather-enjoying. Meanwhile, I actually will have an easier week than usual, plus we ordered new curling brooms that are coming in tonight. So there's much to look forward to.

cabinet meeting

2007-10-12T08:34:00.000-06:00

I was sitting in cabinet meeting last night, and we were going around introducing ourselves at the outset. That was our first official meeting. Anyhow, we were supposed to say our name, major, you know, whatever we deemed pertinent. Well, the last guy seemed to think that his entire life story up to that point was pertinent, despite the fact that the first three of us just gave the aforementioned basic information. This dude took about 15 minutes talking about all of his previous majors, why he switched, his jobs, what he likes about them, dislikes, etc. It was excruciating. I would have leaped across the room and tried to take him down, but he was huge. I think he had the biggest feet I've ever seen on a non-NBA player. Peter, the president, is a friend of mine, and did his best to keep the meeting on task, but the guy just wouldn't stop. Throughout the meeting, he seemed to think that every tiny little musing that came to mind was vital for the cabinet. He should start a blog.
I'm at work now in the USU Writing Center. This is probably physically where most of these musings will originate. I'll only have a couple of minutes now, between appointments, because we're booked all day, for some reason. This is a great job, except I had to turn down Jazz preseason tickets the other day because of it. Oh well. We lost anyway.

some poetry

2007-10-11T17:01:00.000-06:00

So, I'm taking a poetry writing class now, mainly because it's required for my emphasis. I'd hoped to enroll in yet another prose class, but it was not to be. As it turns out, I've enjoyed the class a great deal, and have turned out a few lines that I think are decent. None of them are finished products, and most of them were written in an extremely short span of time. But Elton John wrote the majority of his songs in 20 minutes or less, and he's considered a pretty good lyricist. So I think that justifies it. Anyway, here are a few I've been working on. Guess under which circumstances I wrote this first one.

"Lit Analysis"

Few college minds,
Hope of our future,
Are truly awake at this hour-
Too engulfed in last night’s
Party or tomorrow’s exam
To heed Chaucer’s counsel.
The tweed man, conversely, thrives
On his cream and artificial sunrise.
He divulges to us, in big words, secrets
He’s wanted to tell of since he
Was a boy: How Conrad showed
Him mankind as it is. How
Hemingway defined for him a
Generation in five-word
Sentences. How Whitman carried
Him up to the stars and
Made him aware, before MLA
Documentation caught him,
And sent him back to bed.

"Exposition"

If words were vitamins
Or different colored crayons-
This one for contentedness,
And this one for ire,
And this one for admiration-
You would never have seen
The black eeking forth from
The corners of my mouth,
Hardening like wax.
I didn’t know it was there.

We could have made it through,
Under the tripwire, unspotted
By the ambiguity, but
The words don’t let spies through.
They know more than we do.

They send us off in a new direction-
One that we hadn’t planned-
But which on careful consideration,
We find to be right.

"Ode to a Parking Garage"

It’s not always an orphanage
Or a park to be paved
That a parking garage may then rise.
It sometimes is even convenient.
It’s not any small project-
Ten thousand dollars per stall, as it were,
To construct such a place
I consider my own.
It isn’t a forest, a babbling brook,
It’s boxier, darker, and gray.
But shouldn’t I be allowed to take refuge right here?
This cube understands me so well.
Neither inside nor outside,
Nor public, nor private,
Not here, not yet there.
A medium, conduit, channel, no more.
Is it that ambiguity
That turns us against it?
We don’t understand it at all.

“Not another one,” we say,
“Such a blight on our town.”
So it may not be pretty, but
What if it was? Could we ever admit it?
Form that’s born out of function,
Grocery bag tumbleweeds and black oil ponds,
Fresh and thick yellow lines
Direct cars of all sizes, all shapes, and all colors
To commence with their slumber,
Caring not who they are, why it is that they’ve come.

This may not be commonly thought of as beauty,
Or honestly thought of at all.
But my roots are here, safe tight in the sprawl.
If they’re pillars, not trees, then I’m sorry.
Nature cannot provide
This great thing we’ve designed-
A concrete consultant in structural form-
The most natural place in the city.

"The Trans-Siberian Railroad"

We piled the extra horse blankets
In front of the heater to stop the flow
Of Russian over-compensation
And the gentle undulation
That now has lulled
My companions to sleep on narrow sleds
Folded out of the edge
Of a room unforgiving and metallic as the
Clanging of the rails, with gaps swollen
And contracted by the bitter cold that builds
unhindered.

No hills,

No towns,

No trees,

If not for the pervading darkness,
I’d see the axis-pole. But no.
Just a gloss of flaky water
Many meters high, hardened
By months of inactivity. A state
Where life cannot survive under the suffocating
Blankets. A forever sleeping land.
Except every couple hours, a town
Approaches and then passes as quickly as the
Lantern’s flicker as a man dons his fox
And his bear, to prepare to venture out,
The only time today, into the deep
To retrieve unfrozen water from the pump
To bring back to his frozen hovel,
Where no blankets go unused.

So there's that. My favorite thing to write (by far) are short stories, but I'm a little more protective of those. I'll work on some. Anyhow, I'm pretty sure the Diamondbacks/Rockies game is starting soon, so I'll probably go turn down the volume and pretend to read The Anatomy of Revolution to appease my restless self.

howdy

2007-10-11T16:33:00.000-06:00

I don't really have time for this, but I do like to write, and I like to force my life and ideas on others. So I guess this makes sense. For all who've long not talked with me, life here at USU is good. I'm taking 17 credits, with a double major, double minor, honors degree, two jobs, an internship, a girlfriend, officership of a club sport, two student government committees, and a very demanding church calling. Plus, I'm pretty sure there are other extracurricular activities I'm failing to reference. But that's ok. I think I've made my point: that I really don't have time for this. I really should slow down. Curling and writing help. Anyhow, I'm studying creative writing and am already looking into MA and MFA programs for that, although if I could find some sort of good program for foreign language study, I wouldn't be able to rule that out right away. I guess I could do both. Anyhow, I've written some things, and while they're few in number thus far, I figured this may be a decent place to post them. That would force me to boost my revision effort, anyway. So I guess I'll figure out how to do that.