Apparently Necessary Disclaimer: The Author of this Blog is Himself an Idiot, and Not Unaware that his Ranting can be Interpreted as a Judgment against those he views as Overly Judgmental. Please be Advised that the Delicious Irony of the Situation is not lost on said Author.
(But it's how I really feel, dang it!)
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
I'm about to violate a rule I set for myself.
We're all closet legalists, aren't we? By that I mean we all pretend to interface with the world, react to stimuli, make decisions based on rational thought focused by our experiences . . . but we're also list makers, yes? We have our little clipboards filled with checklists to assess our growth, development, correctness.
I have lists I keep in the back of my head. These lists are my lists; you may have similar ones, dissimilar ones, I don't know. One is entitled "Things My Parents Told Me I Will Never Tell My Children" -- this is a list you may have, as well. You know this list, right? Things your parents told you all the time that you swore to never inflict upon your kids? Things like "You think this is something? Everything was so much better when we were younger *sigh*." Or, "In my day, people had respect for others!" Or even the inevitable, "Appreciate what you have, young man! When I was your age I had to . . ." Insert horribly melodramatic tale of woe here, usually punctuated by immense piles of snow and hurricane force winds. Who knew that West Tennessee became Montana for months at a time in the 1950's?
The rule I am about violate has to do with another list I keep. This list is entitled, "Things To Never Write About on Your Blog Because It's a Public Forum, Idiot."
I'll quit stalling now -- I swore I would never mention religion. To begin, I really don't know enough about the Bible. When I was growing up (by the way, those were much better days!) my family did not attend church much . . . my father was a cynical and lapsed Methodist (a Methodist without Method, perhaps?) and my mother was a pseudo-member of a small church that most of the people in our hometown thought of as some kind of strange legalistic cult. When we did attend church (twice a year or so) as a family, we went to mom's cult. Of course, it wasn't really a cult, but I can't blame anyone for thinking so. After all, we were trained (with long sermons and even longer prayers) to snap viciously if anyone -- ANYONE -- assumed that the church we attended had anything at all to do with any other church, even those nearby of the same name. The Baptists called us "Campbellites"; the other churches around us of the same name called us "anti's," or "non-institutionals"; eighteen elderly people and four younger than sixty (including me) called us "home."
Books could be written about my little "home" church and its wonderful ability to sow the seeds of alienation, division, hypocrisy, and discord. Now, I'm going to try very hard not to be judgmental, as they were; I'm going to try very hard not to loose my anger, either, because I know it's ultimately counterproductive.
That church hurt me. It hurt my mother deeply.
I am reminded of a great poem I read years ago (forget the author, sorry) who wrote about his daughter's response to a day camp at a local church: "How could I tell her the truth/That church was a place for people who wanted only/But to hurt other people with their holiness/And keep a Bible filled with rules she could never fathom." I think everyone who has spent time in our fellowship (though the men of my home church would have said "brotherhood" -- sorry ladies, you get only to cook for us) understands the perilous chasm between legalism and liberality. On the one hand, you have rules that can never be kept that seemingly exist only to prove your own worthiness; on the other hand, you've got a universalism that includes everyone, even those who don't ascribe to your values. Spirit AND truth? You've got to be kidding me.
Those more astute among you may be asking, "Great! What does this have to do with anything?" My history with the church reared its head just recently. While browsing other blogs and websites this weekend, I came across a public message forum that disguised itself as an open forum dedicated to discussion in the body of believers. After one post -- ONE post, and remember, I still quote exclusively from the KJV -- I had received a number of "corrective" e-mails that threatened to collapse my computer monitor under the weight of the scriptures included in them for the sake of eliminating my error. Wow. It seems God does not want us to sing a song during the passing of the Lord's Supper. That's apparently VERY bad.
Even reading those last two sentences I am forced to laugh at the outrageousness of their intimacy. Many of you may not know what I'm talking about -- heck, many ***Christians*** have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about. In order to understand the concept of the debate, you and I have to be so close in doctrinal belief that the world would see no difference in us. Unfortunately, my new acquaintances on the message board certainly did. I am tempted to write back with some shocking sin -- "What does the Bible say about bestiality, friends? Should I be worried about my salvation if I keep eyeing my dog?" The saddest thing about this story is that they would be far more accepting of that struggle than the idea that our worship styles could be different. All of the old anger I felt at my home church came rushing back in a flood of memory. I literally shook with anger at my keyboard. "Don't they know?" I thought. "Don't they understand how much their inflexibility hurts other people?"
And yet, here I am. I'm still in the church, still looking for truth, still trying to understand.
That right there may be the greatest of the miracles of Jesus Christ. In a fallen world filled with flawed people who use the word of God as a defensive weapon to wall off their own faith, we still search for Him.
Crazy, isn't it?
We're all closet legalists, aren't we? By that I mean we all pretend to interface with the world, react to stimuli, make decisions based on rational thought focused by our experiences . . . but we're also list makers, yes? We have our little clipboards filled with checklists to assess our growth, development, correctness.
I have lists I keep in the back of my head. These lists are my lists; you may have similar ones, dissimilar ones, I don't know. One is entitled "Things My Parents Told Me I Will Never Tell My Children" -- this is a list you may have, as well. You know this list, right? Things your parents told you all the time that you swore to never inflict upon your kids? Things like "You think this is something? Everything was so much better when we were younger *sigh*." Or, "In my day, people had respect for others!" Or even the inevitable, "Appreciate what you have, young man! When I was your age I had to . . ." Insert horribly melodramatic tale of woe here, usually punctuated by immense piles of snow and hurricane force winds. Who knew that West Tennessee became Montana for months at a time in the 1950's?
The rule I am about violate has to do with another list I keep. This list is entitled, "Things To Never Write About on Your Blog Because It's a Public Forum, Idiot."
I'll quit stalling now -- I swore I would never mention religion. To begin, I really don't know enough about the Bible. When I was growing up (by the way, those were much better days!) my family did not attend church much . . . my father was a cynical and lapsed Methodist (a Methodist without Method, perhaps?) and my mother was a pseudo-member of a small church that most of the people in our hometown thought of as some kind of strange legalistic cult. When we did attend church (twice a year or so) as a family, we went to mom's cult. Of course, it wasn't really a cult, but I can't blame anyone for thinking so. After all, we were trained (with long sermons and even longer prayers) to snap viciously if anyone -- ANYONE -- assumed that the church we attended had anything at all to do with any other church, even those nearby of the same name. The Baptists called us "Campbellites"; the other churches around us of the same name called us "anti's," or "non-institutionals"; eighteen elderly people and four younger than sixty (including me) called us "home."
Books could be written about my little "home" church and its wonderful ability to sow the seeds of alienation, division, hypocrisy, and discord. Now, I'm going to try very hard not to be judgmental, as they were; I'm going to try very hard not to loose my anger, either, because I know it's ultimately counterproductive.
That church hurt me. It hurt my mother deeply.
I am reminded of a great poem I read years ago (forget the author, sorry) who wrote about his daughter's response to a day camp at a local church: "How could I tell her the truth/That church was a place for people who wanted only/But to hurt other people with their holiness/And keep a Bible filled with rules she could never fathom." I think everyone who has spent time in our fellowship (though the men of my home church would have said "brotherhood" -- sorry ladies, you get only to cook for us) understands the perilous chasm between legalism and liberality. On the one hand, you have rules that can never be kept that seemingly exist only to prove your own worthiness; on the other hand, you've got a universalism that includes everyone, even those who don't ascribe to your values. Spirit AND truth? You've got to be kidding me.
Those more astute among you may be asking, "Great! What does this have to do with anything?" My history with the church reared its head just recently. While browsing other blogs and websites this weekend, I came across a public message forum that disguised itself as an open forum dedicated to discussion in the body of believers. After one post -- ONE post, and remember, I still quote exclusively from the KJV -- I had received a number of "corrective" e-mails that threatened to collapse my computer monitor under the weight of the scriptures included in them for the sake of eliminating my error. Wow. It seems God does not want us to sing a song during the passing of the Lord's Supper. That's apparently VERY bad.
Even reading those last two sentences I am forced to laugh at the outrageousness of their intimacy. Many of you may not know what I'm talking about -- heck, many ***Christians*** have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about. In order to understand the concept of the debate, you and I have to be so close in doctrinal belief that the world would see no difference in us. Unfortunately, my new acquaintances on the message board certainly did. I am tempted to write back with some shocking sin -- "What does the Bible say about bestiality, friends? Should I be worried about my salvation if I keep eyeing my dog?" The saddest thing about this story is that they would be far more accepting of that struggle than the idea that our worship styles could be different. All of the old anger I felt at my home church came rushing back in a flood of memory. I literally shook with anger at my keyboard. "Don't they know?" I thought. "Don't they understand how much their inflexibility hurts other people?"
And yet, here I am. I'm still in the church, still looking for truth, still trying to understand.
That right there may be the greatest of the miracles of Jesus Christ. In a fallen world filled with flawed people who use the word of God as a defensive weapon to wall off their own faith, we still search for Him.
Crazy, isn't it?
Friday, August 06, 2004
I'm back . . .
This time, with an M.A. in English.
Thank you. Seven years . . . how can I fully express the futility and frustration I felt for seven years? It's more than a weight, more than a burden, more than an albatross. Maybe now I have the strength to unleash the burgeoning passion in my soul for interpretive dance.
Both of the regular readers of this blog have asked that I give you an example of the poetry I wrote to complete my creative thesis. As much as I would like to publish examples of my poetry, I am concerned that doing so would put this blog just a "This Page Under Construction" sign away from internet hokeyness. Still, my unimaginable need for attention drives me to post some poetry. Love it, hate it -- I don't care. Just send me money! (Ahem.)
Poem #1: Here's my ode to irony, specifically the air of detachment it assumes in a literary context. I love the juxtaposition of the "postmodern" world view, too -- hey, if nothing is real (or at least provable) through the problematic lenses of sensory perception, and if our engagement of the world must only take place from a distance, then why the heck does my hand ache so much?
IRONY
I cut my hand today; I can never seem
To operate the can opener without tragedy.
Blood pooled at my feet. I should have
Realized the beauty in the agony and
Used the greatest weapon in my arsenal
Of artifice: irony. Certainly Thomas Mann
Would elevate my mere misfortune to high
Farce: sure, Tom and Henry James would
Quickly telescope my hand to rest on some
Distant pedestal. Then we could observe together
In our witty detachment, removed from
The messiness that comes in the moment.
But I could not think to detach myself,
To observe and tease from afar. It hurt too much for poetic devices.
Poem #2: Is this over-the-top, or melodramatic? Sure it is. I wanted to write a poem using the second person and see if the intensity (and general furtiveness) it commands would translate well to poetry. Ah, well. It's an experiment.
CATALYST
Go quickly to the stair. You can almost hear
The voices below urging you to breakfast; your mother
Laughs without conviction, your father equivocates.
Go now, hurry! They are simply biding time, awaiting
Your appearance. Yours is the final entrance.
Have you not heard your cues? You know they are
Making small talk to pass the time until you arrive.
You can almost hear them now. How does the script
Read today? Will this lovely, cloud-filled morning
Bring your mother of compromise, who will allow peace
By temporarily ignoring every wound she's carefully salted
For years? Or will the unforgiving eternal sunbeams reveal
Your mother of retribution: a withered, tattered figure held
Together by secret cunning and an awesome mechanical hatred?
It is the same with your father. "Peace, peace at all costs" is his
Credo, though he confuses peace with avoidance. Will he
Play the part of the blustering, expansive patriarch, eager to
Appease and assert? Or will he assume the role of the sniveling
Conniver, excusing himself on the basis of the world's
Conspiracy against him? How will it be between these two,
Who know no other roles than these? What awaits?
Go. Their world hangs upon your entrance.
Poem #3: I won an award for the following poem. Okay, it's an award I made myself with Microsoft Works, but it's an award nonetheless. Oh, it contains a bad word, that I will star out. (My African-American thesis advisor adored this poem and told me it lost its power if I blunted the word in the first line, but I informed him that not starring it here might annoy some AND cause me to lose my job -- please accept my apologies for equivocating, Doc.)
Achilles in Reformatory
I remember: "n**ger" was the word
He craved, like the chaplain craved for Christ;
instant justification
For all the horror of twelve years
Of warfare to flood over his body
Like the Styx --
We watched as he donned
The breastplate of depravity,
The shield of torment,
And the mighty sword of smoldering rage
Forged all those years ago
By Hephaestus's foundry in East St. Louis --
One time, in the cafeteria, it took six guards to put him down.
Sunlight glinted off of forks and food trays.
Chaos reigned.
When his blood lust was sated,
He shared a laugh with Ares
As they walked him down to solitary.
White Hector they carried to Baptist Memorial.
I was secretly relieved when they
Made good on their threat to keep
Him confined, alone: that way
He could make no friends to avenge.
Poem #4: This poem is a villanelle; a villanelle is a chiefly French verse form running on two rhymes and consisting (typically) of five tercets and a quatrain in which the first and third lines of the opening tercet recur alternately at the end of the other tercets and together as the last two lines of the quatrain. Metrically, you're looking at good old iambic pentameter. Remember Dylan Thomas in Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night?
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
(From The Poems of Dylan Thomas, published by New Directions. Copyright © 1952, 1953 Dylan Thomas.)
Well, I had to write a number of verse forms: x number of sestinas, x number of Petrarchan sonnets, x number of Elizabethan sonnets, x number of Spenserian sonnets, etc. I had to submit one villanelle. Interestingly enough, I have only ever written one villanelle, and I wrote it as a response to James Joyce's autobiographical novel The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Though I adored the book, I did occasionally tire of his portrayal of Stephen Daedalus as the uber-intellectual youth. Thinking back, I decided to write of my heroic childhood in a villanelle.
Villanelle: A Portrait of This Artist as a Young Man
Try not to pick your nose in church today.
Old ladies weep when burdened by your snot --
Show manners once in your young life, okay?
Yes, every week the ladies swoon, for they
Believed at first you had some kind of clot.
Try not to pick your nose in church today.
The worst is when you bow your head to pray:
Must we buy you some kind of chamber-pot?
Show manners once in your young life, okay?
We talk about this every week, I say!
This you will learn if I must force the thought --
Try not to pick your nose in church today.
And even if MY anger is allayed
You know what happened to the wife of Lot!
Show manners once in your young life, okay?
I tell you son, this is the only way.
(Your father teaches lessons best forgot.)
Try not to pick your nose in church today.
Show manners once in your young life, okay?
Thus endeth the boredom. If you wish to taunt me, go ahead. Only know that I am, with a graduate degree from THE Georgia Southern University, sufficiently academically accomplished to ignore your cruelty.
This time, with an M.A. in English.
Thank you. Seven years . . . how can I fully express the futility and frustration I felt for seven years? It's more than a weight, more than a burden, more than an albatross. Maybe now I have the strength to unleash the burgeoning passion in my soul for interpretive dance.
Both of the regular readers of this blog have asked that I give you an example of the poetry I wrote to complete my creative thesis. As much as I would like to publish examples of my poetry, I am concerned that doing so would put this blog just a "This Page Under Construction" sign away from internet hokeyness. Still, my unimaginable need for attention drives me to post some poetry. Love it, hate it -- I don't care. Just send me money! (Ahem.)
Poem #1: Here's my ode to irony, specifically the air of detachment it assumes in a literary context. I love the juxtaposition of the "postmodern" world view, too -- hey, if nothing is real (or at least provable) through the problematic lenses of sensory perception, and if our engagement of the world must only take place from a distance, then why the heck does my hand ache so much?
IRONY
I cut my hand today; I can never seem
To operate the can opener without tragedy.
Blood pooled at my feet. I should have
Realized the beauty in the agony and
Used the greatest weapon in my arsenal
Of artifice: irony. Certainly Thomas Mann
Would elevate my mere misfortune to high
Farce: sure, Tom and Henry James would
Quickly telescope my hand to rest on some
Distant pedestal. Then we could observe together
In our witty detachment, removed from
The messiness that comes in the moment.
But I could not think to detach myself,
To observe and tease from afar. It hurt too much for poetic devices.
Poem #2: Is this over-the-top, or melodramatic? Sure it is. I wanted to write a poem using the second person and see if the intensity (and general furtiveness) it commands would translate well to poetry. Ah, well. It's an experiment.
CATALYST
Go quickly to the stair. You can almost hear
The voices below urging you to breakfast; your mother
Laughs without conviction, your father equivocates.
Go now, hurry! They are simply biding time, awaiting
Your appearance. Yours is the final entrance.
Have you not heard your cues? You know they are
Making small talk to pass the time until you arrive.
You can almost hear them now. How does the script
Read today? Will this lovely, cloud-filled morning
Bring your mother of compromise, who will allow peace
By temporarily ignoring every wound she's carefully salted
For years? Or will the unforgiving eternal sunbeams reveal
Your mother of retribution: a withered, tattered figure held
Together by secret cunning and an awesome mechanical hatred?
It is the same with your father. "Peace, peace at all costs" is his
Credo, though he confuses peace with avoidance. Will he
Play the part of the blustering, expansive patriarch, eager to
Appease and assert? Or will he assume the role of the sniveling
Conniver, excusing himself on the basis of the world's
Conspiracy against him? How will it be between these two,
Who know no other roles than these? What awaits?
Go. Their world hangs upon your entrance.
Poem #3: I won an award for the following poem. Okay, it's an award I made myself with Microsoft Works, but it's an award nonetheless. Oh, it contains a bad word, that I will star out. (My African-American thesis advisor adored this poem and told me it lost its power if I blunted the word in the first line, but I informed him that not starring it here might annoy some AND cause me to lose my job -- please accept my apologies for equivocating, Doc.)
Achilles in Reformatory
I remember: "n**ger" was the word
He craved, like the chaplain craved for Christ;
instant justification
For all the horror of twelve years
Of warfare to flood over his body
Like the Styx --
We watched as he donned
The breastplate of depravity,
The shield of torment,
And the mighty sword of smoldering rage
Forged all those years ago
By Hephaestus's foundry in East St. Louis --
One time, in the cafeteria, it took six guards to put him down.
Sunlight glinted off of forks and food trays.
Chaos reigned.
When his blood lust was sated,
He shared a laugh with Ares
As they walked him down to solitary.
White Hector they carried to Baptist Memorial.
I was secretly relieved when they
Made good on their threat to keep
Him confined, alone: that way
He could make no friends to avenge.
Poem #4: This poem is a villanelle; a villanelle is a chiefly French verse form running on two rhymes and consisting (typically) of five tercets and a quatrain in which the first and third lines of the opening tercet recur alternately at the end of the other tercets and together as the last two lines of the quatrain. Metrically, you're looking at good old iambic pentameter. Remember Dylan Thomas in Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night?
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
(From The Poems of Dylan Thomas, published by New Directions. Copyright © 1952, 1953 Dylan Thomas.)
Well, I had to write a number of verse forms: x number of sestinas, x number of Petrarchan sonnets, x number of Elizabethan sonnets, x number of Spenserian sonnets, etc. I had to submit one villanelle. Interestingly enough, I have only ever written one villanelle, and I wrote it as a response to James Joyce's autobiographical novel The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Though I adored the book, I did occasionally tire of his portrayal of Stephen Daedalus as the uber-intellectual youth. Thinking back, I decided to write of my heroic childhood in a villanelle.
Villanelle: A Portrait of This Artist as a Young Man
Try not to pick your nose in church today.
Old ladies weep when burdened by your snot --
Show manners once in your young life, okay?
Yes, every week the ladies swoon, for they
Believed at first you had some kind of clot.
Try not to pick your nose in church today.
The worst is when you bow your head to pray:
Must we buy you some kind of chamber-pot?
Show manners once in your young life, okay?
We talk about this every week, I say!
This you will learn if I must force the thought --
Try not to pick your nose in church today.
And even if MY anger is allayed
You know what happened to the wife of Lot!
Show manners once in your young life, okay?
I tell you son, this is the only way.
(Your father teaches lessons best forgot.)
Try not to pick your nose in church today.
Show manners once in your young life, okay?
Thus endeth the boredom. If you wish to taunt me, go ahead. Only know that I am, with a graduate degree from THE Georgia Southern University, sufficiently academically accomplished to ignore your cruelty.
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Apologies . . . it's the summer, we just moved into our new house, I'm still driving four hours both ways to graduate school, and my home computer is on the fritz . . . updates will likely be sporadic until late July . . . I know the web needs me, and I'm sorry to seperate you from my genius . . . hello? Is anybody out there? Just as I suspected . . . the world is not ready for me. Go ahead and hate me -- you merely empower my own bitter cynicism. I'm getting a black beret, a tweed jacket, and a mocha latte: soon I will be seen at coffeehouses throughout the south, laconically commenting on the state of world affairs and how it is not my place as an outsider to "engage" it.
Don't you hate those people? Now, I'm pretty much a liberal Democrat (RANT ALERT! RANT ALERT!) but I absolutely despise those people who thrive on their smug ironic commentary. Sure we as a nation (I mean America, not the Democrats) have done despicable, horrible things -- same atrocities, I might add, that every nation has committed -- but I can't stand people who wallow in the pig muck of mistake and guilt. If we are mistaken, help us see it, understand it, and fix it. In my graduate school class (an overview of American literature, this term) there are a number of people who espouse a philosophy centered around the evil that is America . . . every class period I hear how the American Dream is a lie propagated by the powerful, fed by our wanton consumerism, conspired into being by every American citizen; indeed, Marx would be proud, as it is the new opiate of the masses. There is no freedom! they cry. America's insipid class system is destroying us all! they scream. What a terrible place! they moan. We've had an entire class period where various members of my class have decried the Satan masquerading as the American public school system for making them read Mark Twain. I am not kidding. I drive home every night with a headache.
Run for office. Petition your congressman. Get involved in your community efforts. Move. If America is such a horrible place, either do something about it or get out. Before you jump ship for North Korea, however, ask yourself where else in the world you will find the sheer amount of opportunity that exists here in the United States of America. Do some people enjoy greater advantages here? Certainly, and we don't need to kid ourselves that the fight for equality in this country is even halfway over. Think for a moment about that sentence, though: how many other countries around the world struggle with -equality-? How many other governments espouse a commitment to diversity? I can think of at least 17 countries offhand that make assembling en masse to protest the government a crime punishible by jail time or even death (in extreme circumstances.) Here? It's a -right- given us by the first amendment to our Constitution! And we have the gall to say that we are being -OPPRESSED- by the American government, and lied to by the American Dream?
I have a secret dream of my own: you might call it my American Dream. I see seven or eight of my classmates weathering storm, famine, and thirst on a rickety boat for days until finally reaching their freedom by washing ashore on the Cuban coast. Of course I'll not be with them. I've chosen oppression and Mark Twain.
Don't you hate those people? Now, I'm pretty much a liberal Democrat (RANT ALERT! RANT ALERT!) but I absolutely despise those people who thrive on their smug ironic commentary. Sure we as a nation (I mean America, not the Democrats) have done despicable, horrible things -- same atrocities, I might add, that every nation has committed -- but I can't stand people who wallow in the pig muck of mistake and guilt. If we are mistaken, help us see it, understand it, and fix it. In my graduate school class (an overview of American literature, this term) there are a number of people who espouse a philosophy centered around the evil that is America . . . every class period I hear how the American Dream is a lie propagated by the powerful, fed by our wanton consumerism, conspired into being by every American citizen; indeed, Marx would be proud, as it is the new opiate of the masses. There is no freedom! they cry. America's insipid class system is destroying us all! they scream. What a terrible place! they moan. We've had an entire class period where various members of my class have decried the Satan masquerading as the American public school system for making them read Mark Twain. I am not kidding. I drive home every night with a headache.
Run for office. Petition your congressman. Get involved in your community efforts. Move. If America is such a horrible place, either do something about it or get out. Before you jump ship for North Korea, however, ask yourself where else in the world you will find the sheer amount of opportunity that exists here in the United States of America. Do some people enjoy greater advantages here? Certainly, and we don't need to kid ourselves that the fight for equality in this country is even halfway over. Think for a moment about that sentence, though: how many other countries around the world struggle with -equality-? How many other governments espouse a commitment to diversity? I can think of at least 17 countries offhand that make assembling en masse to protest the government a crime punishible by jail time or even death (in extreme circumstances.) Here? It's a -right- given us by the first amendment to our Constitution! And we have the gall to say that we are being -OPPRESSED- by the American government, and lied to by the American Dream?
I have a secret dream of my own: you might call it my American Dream. I see seven or eight of my classmates weathering storm, famine, and thirst on a rickety boat for days until finally reaching their freedom by washing ashore on the Cuban coast. Of course I'll not be with them. I've chosen oppression and Mark Twain.
Monday, May 24, 2004
Did you ever desperately need to be putting grades in your school computer, or grading final exams, or boxing the 7,230 books you own for transport to the house you just purchased, or reading Mansfield Park, or trying to catch up on sleep you've missed because you drive seven hours to graduate school twice a week?
Yep.
So here's the stuff I've found on the internet recently that's fascinated me . . . a hearty Dyersburg thanks to everyone who e-mailed in to contribute to this list -- oh yes, that's only me, Brad Denton, mad props. I am my own peeps. Holla!
(Can you tell I'm not sleeping well?)
1. Random Shirts, Home of the $10.00 tee!: Wow. I've already purchased the double sided "Calvinism -- This shirt chose me/Armenianism -- I chose this shirt" tee, so don't think you've cornered the market on individuality, hombre. I am more expressive than you are, by cracky! (If you know what "by cracky" means, please write in and explain it to me. Or should I do like that weird guy in my grad school class and refer to myself using the editorial and royal "we." Yep, I like that better. If you know what "by cracky" means, please write in and explain it to us.)
2. Lee's Useless Super-Hero Generator: Cresting the wave of popularity created by my mention of the Internet Anagram Server (see earlier post), I only fear that mention of this site will encumber web traffic to the point that all credit card transactions in the U.S. may cease. Hundreds of you -- nay, thousands -- wrote in to say that you enjoyed the Anagram Server, so I offer this to you, you one of many who adore me! Ha ha ha -- I've gone mad!
Ahem.
Anyway, here are my five randomly generated super identities:
Mad Enigma
Power(s): Glows in the dark, Hypnosis
Source of powers: Cybernetics
Weapon: Atomic Pitchfork
Transportation: Vibro 4x4
Wind Midget
Power(s): Super-human stamina, Super strength, Light generation/control
Source of powers: Unknown
Weapon: Foam Pellets
Transportation: Alpha SUV
Archfighter
Power(s): Energy blasts, Animate/control the dead
Source of powers: Unexplained
Weapon: Ether Hammer
Transportation: Insect Glider
Detective Tornado
Power(s): Seventh sense, Flight, Heat generation
Source of powers: Chemical
Weapon: Magnocarbine
Transportation: Crimson Chair
Stone Lad
Power(s): Friction manipulation, Psychic, Super jumping
Source of powers: Abnormal brain function
Weapon: Celestial Rifle
Transportation: Squirrel Catamaran
To be perfectly honest, I've always dreamed of sailing around the world on a catamaran made of squirrels. Uh, shooting foam pellets at people. Um, from my magnocarbine. Righhhhhhhhht. With my warcry of "Fear the Mad Enigma!" I will fight crime using only my manipulation of friction! Evil beware!
3. Aluminum Foil Deflector Beanie: For protection against mind control, of course. Isn't it strange how you find these things? I had an eighth grader who was procrastinating on our career day; he was to have completed at home an online career survey called "Future Focus." Needless to say, he had not finished it and asked to use the computer in my homeroom. He started Internet Explorer, but he could not remember the name of the website where the survey was located. He decided that www.futurefocus.com was a likely site, and so he was directed here. This site, however, was for Future Focus, Inc., a corporate security and investigation site. Intrigued by the "case studies" they presented on the front page, I decided to poke around on the site. That's where I found the aluminum foil link above, and this: the greatest disclaimer in the history of mankind. After reading this, I knew that this site was being produced by one lone pasty guy in a cubicle and not the work of a shadowy organization whose resources rival those of the Central Intelligence Agency.
4. Trinkaus -- An Informal Look: From the Annals of Improbable Research, in itself a fascinating site. Trinkaus is a professor of statistics who has found the perfect way to circumvent the large university "publish or perish" mentality by publishing constantly -- about nothing. I love this guy, and the story is absolutely true.
5. The Political Graveyard: Politicians On Money: Who hasn't forgotten the name of the guy on the dollar coin? Well, I have not -- it's Eisenhower. Okay, what about the guy on the first $500 note issued by the treasury. Easy -- it's Abraham Alfonse Albert Gallatin, of course. Who was the "Poo Bah of the Confederacy," the man on the $2 Confederate note? Simple -- it's Judah Philip Benjamin. If you think for one second I knew any of those before I went to the site, well, you're correct, and I'm a huge loser.
Hopefully, like me, you can avoid most of the things that you need to be doing with these simple diversions. Rock on, people. Rock on.
Yep.
So here's the stuff I've found on the internet recently that's fascinated me . . . a hearty Dyersburg thanks to everyone who e-mailed in to contribute to this list -- oh yes, that's only me, Brad Denton, mad props. I am my own peeps. Holla!
(Can you tell I'm not sleeping well?)
1. Random Shirts, Home of the $10.00 tee!: Wow. I've already purchased the double sided "Calvinism -- This shirt chose me/Armenianism -- I chose this shirt" tee, so don't think you've cornered the market on individuality, hombre. I am more expressive than you are, by cracky! (If you know what "by cracky" means, please write in and explain it to me. Or should I do like that weird guy in my grad school class and refer to myself using the editorial and royal "we." Yep, I like that better. If you know what "by cracky" means, please write in and explain it to us.)
2. Lee's Useless Super-Hero Generator: Cresting the wave of popularity created by my mention of the Internet Anagram Server (see earlier post), I only fear that mention of this site will encumber web traffic to the point that all credit card transactions in the U.S. may cease. Hundreds of you -- nay, thousands -- wrote in to say that you enjoyed the Anagram Server, so I offer this to you, you one of many who adore me! Ha ha ha -- I've gone mad!
Ahem.
Anyway, here are my five randomly generated super identities:
Mad Enigma
Power(s): Glows in the dark, Hypnosis
Source of powers: Cybernetics
Weapon: Atomic Pitchfork
Transportation: Vibro 4x4
Wind Midget
Power(s): Super-human stamina, Super strength, Light generation/control
Source of powers: Unknown
Weapon: Foam Pellets
Transportation: Alpha SUV
Archfighter
Power(s): Energy blasts, Animate/control the dead
Source of powers: Unexplained
Weapon: Ether Hammer
Transportation: Insect Glider
Detective Tornado
Power(s): Seventh sense, Flight, Heat generation
Source of powers: Chemical
Weapon: Magnocarbine
Transportation: Crimson Chair
Stone Lad
Power(s): Friction manipulation, Psychic, Super jumping
Source of powers: Abnormal brain function
Weapon: Celestial Rifle
Transportation: Squirrel Catamaran
To be perfectly honest, I've always dreamed of sailing around the world on a catamaran made of squirrels. Uh, shooting foam pellets at people. Um, from my magnocarbine. Righhhhhhhhht. With my warcry of "Fear the Mad Enigma!" I will fight crime using only my manipulation of friction! Evil beware!
3. Aluminum Foil Deflector Beanie: For protection against mind control, of course. Isn't it strange how you find these things? I had an eighth grader who was procrastinating on our career day; he was to have completed at home an online career survey called "Future Focus." Needless to say, he had not finished it and asked to use the computer in my homeroom. He started Internet Explorer, but he could not remember the name of the website where the survey was located. He decided that www.futurefocus.com was a likely site, and so he was directed here. This site, however, was for Future Focus, Inc., a corporate security and investigation site. Intrigued by the "case studies" they presented on the front page, I decided to poke around on the site. That's where I found the aluminum foil link above, and this: the greatest disclaimer in the history of mankind. After reading this, I knew that this site was being produced by one lone pasty guy in a cubicle and not the work of a shadowy organization whose resources rival those of the Central Intelligence Agency.
4. Trinkaus -- An Informal Look: From the Annals of Improbable Research, in itself a fascinating site. Trinkaus is a professor of statistics who has found the perfect way to circumvent the large university "publish or perish" mentality by publishing constantly -- about nothing. I love this guy, and the story is absolutely true.
5. The Political Graveyard: Politicians On Money: Who hasn't forgotten the name of the guy on the dollar coin? Well, I have not -- it's Eisenhower. Okay, what about the guy on the first $500 note issued by the treasury. Easy -- it's Abraham Alfonse Albert Gallatin, of course. Who was the "Poo Bah of the Confederacy," the man on the $2 Confederate note? Simple -- it's Judah Philip Benjamin. If you think for one second I knew any of those before I went to the site, well, you're correct, and I'm a huge loser.
Hopefully, like me, you can avoid most of the things that you need to be doing with these simple diversions. Rock on, people. Rock on.
Monday, May 17, 2004
More internet stuff. I LOVE the internet stuff. I decided today to "Google" my best friend Dustin -- you've "Googled" a friend, right? Or at least "Googled" yourself, you solipsist! (Even the fact that I've written this in the second person is putting a hop in your step, admit it!) I thought that a name like "Dustin Adkins" would be rare enough as to give me the current information about MY friend Dustin. So I went to "Google" Dustin Adkins, and here are the results:
1. Dustin Adkins, President of Mountain State University Students for Bush! (Not my Dustin, I assure you.)
2. Dustin Adkins, the losing pitcher for the Wichita Rattlers! (Hmm. My Dustin is an extremely unathletic Democrat. Not him.)
3. Dustin Adkins, 5th Place (Senior Division) International Conference 2001 Scenario Writing Winner, Future Problem Solving Program! (Well, Dustin and I graduated together in 1993 from Dyersburg High School in Dyersburg, Tennessee, so I'm hoping he didn't have to remediate for 8 years. In Kentucky. Wouldn't that be a slap in the face of Tennessee education? Your high school was so bad, you had to do 8 more years of it in Kentucky? Have mercy.)
4. Dustin Adkins, Champion Supreme Dairy Female, 10th Annual Livestock Expo-West! (Wow. How the mighty have fallen. Good luck having a future after you've been saddled [no pun intended] with that award by the Department of Agriculture. "What'd you win, Dustin?" "Uh, Supreme Dairy Female." "Dear Lord, what have they done?")
5. Dustin Adkins, Powder Metallurgy Technologist, Level 1! (What can I say here? I'm not even sure what this is!)
And there are so many more fun Dustins that time will not allow me to tell their varied and disparate stories. Suffice to say, you would be horrifically bored.
1. Dustin Adkins, President of Mountain State University Students for Bush! (Not my Dustin, I assure you.)
2. Dustin Adkins, the losing pitcher for the Wichita Rattlers! (Hmm. My Dustin is an extremely unathletic Democrat. Not him.)
3. Dustin Adkins, 5th Place (Senior Division) International Conference 2001 Scenario Writing Winner, Future Problem Solving Program! (Well, Dustin and I graduated together in 1993 from Dyersburg High School in Dyersburg, Tennessee, so I'm hoping he didn't have to remediate for 8 years. In Kentucky. Wouldn't that be a slap in the face of Tennessee education? Your high school was so bad, you had to do 8 more years of it in Kentucky? Have mercy.)
4. Dustin Adkins, Champion Supreme Dairy Female, 10th Annual Livestock Expo-West! (Wow. How the mighty have fallen. Good luck having a future after you've been saddled [no pun intended] with that award by the Department of Agriculture. "What'd you win, Dustin?" "Uh, Supreme Dairy Female." "Dear Lord, what have they done?")
5. Dustin Adkins, Powder Metallurgy Technologist, Level 1! (What can I say here? I'm not even sure what this is!)
And there are so many more fun Dustins that time will not allow me to tell their varied and disparate stories. Suffice to say, you would be horrifically bored.
Sunday, May 16, 2004
If you read the earlier post, you know that I'm back in grad school to finish my M.A.
What classes am I taking, you ask?
You'll all be glad to know that my two seminar topics have amazing relevance to my current career as a junior high English teacher. The first seminar boldly proclaims its message without omitting any extraneous details -- Seminar in the 19th Century English Novel: Jane Austen, Emily Bronte, Charlotte Bronte. That's right! I'm not just reading Emma, no ma'am! Nor am I just reading Emma and Mansfield Park, no no! I'm reading Emma, Mansfield Park, Wuthering Heights, and Jane Eyre! If my eyeballs can survive this month without being forcibly self-extricated using a spoon, I count this month a raging success. Needless to say, I'm not exactly pumped about this half of the class.
However, I've found that I need to be forced to read novels out of my interest field, and I usually end up loving them. So far, I really enjoy the professor, and I love the eccentrics that work on a M.A. at GaSou.
The second half of the seminar promises to be much more exciting (for me, anyway!) -- Seminar: Flannery O'Connor. Now I adore O'Connor's work; she's long been a personal favorite. Plus, she's distinctly a Southern author, perhaps the prototypical Southern author, and I am more interested in Southern American than I am Southern British, 19th century style.
Next update? I'll let you know if the eyeballs make it.
What classes am I taking, you ask?
You'll all be glad to know that my two seminar topics have amazing relevance to my current career as a junior high English teacher. The first seminar boldly proclaims its message without omitting any extraneous details -- Seminar in the 19th Century English Novel: Jane Austen, Emily Bronte, Charlotte Bronte. That's right! I'm not just reading Emma, no ma'am! Nor am I just reading Emma and Mansfield Park, no no! I'm reading Emma, Mansfield Park, Wuthering Heights, and Jane Eyre! If my eyeballs can survive this month without being forcibly self-extricated using a spoon, I count this month a raging success. Needless to say, I'm not exactly pumped about this half of the class.
However, I've found that I need to be forced to read novels out of my interest field, and I usually end up loving them. So far, I really enjoy the professor, and I love the eccentrics that work on a M.A. at GaSou.
The second half of the seminar promises to be much more exciting (for me, anyway!) -- Seminar: Flannery O'Connor. Now I adore O'Connor's work; she's long been a personal favorite. Plus, she's distinctly a Southern author, perhaps the prototypical Southern author, and I am more interested in Southern American than I am Southern British, 19th century style.
Next update? I'll let you know if the eyeballs make it.
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
Big things happening here. As most of you know . . . wait, wait, no . . . as NONE of you know, I am an alumnus of Georgia Southern University. Yes, that Georgia Southern University, the home of the finest English Department on the eastern seaboard! Uh, the eastern seaboard of Georgia. Hmm . . . finest English Department for a *public institution* located on the eastern seaboard of Georgia. No, the finest . . . well, you get the idea.
How did I choose GaSou, you ask? Hearken back with me to the dog days of Spring 1997: how well did you know your future then? I was getting married in June 1998 -- that much about my future I knew in 1997 -- and I had no earthly idea what I was going to do with my life. I had recently graduated from David Lipscomb University (the home of the finest English Department in an American-Restoration-Movement-derived college or university located within the city limits of Metropolitan Nashville/Davidson County) and the employment field confided to me by my college-entrance-mandated career survey (package deal with the Myers-Briggs; "Psychologist/Counselor" and ENFP on the same day, can you believe all the self-awareness I gained that day?) didn't really appeal to me. So: I had won medals at graduation (for something?) from the English Deparment; I was an English major; I was president of Sigma Tau Delta (STD!!!!!!!!) the English honorary society; my advisor and confidante was an English professor. Strangely, I somehow felt that graduate school in English was in my future.
But where to go? Somewhere close to Jami (who would be in Florida student teaching in the second semester of 97-98; also, the June wedding would be there. . .) Plus, somewhere cheap (Public!) and somewhere I could still be admitted, despite the fact it was late March of 1997. Florida State and the University of Florida? All materials due December 15, 1996, thank you very much. University of Central Florida, South Florida, North Florida? No admission after February 1, 1997; no exceptions. Even Valdosta State turned me down (March 1, 1997).
But GaSou had (and has) a rolling admission policy, and they were downright eager to take my money. So I spent 1997-1998 there, doing my coursework for an M.A. in English. It was actually a very good graduate education, all my joking to the contrary.
Of course, I didn't finish my thesis. A million times you've heard this, right? Breeze through the coursework, don't finish the thesis. I began a perfectly serviceable thesis on the humanist framework found in the later novels of Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.; my advisor hated it. So, I started another on a different aspect of his work; never did finish it.
End of grad school. Kaput, right?
Well, no. I never finished my academic thesis, no, but I did channel my inner writer enough to finish a creative thesis in poetry (enjoyed that much more than the non-creative one) and [INSERT DRUMROLL HERE] I discovered that under the conversion to the semester system from the quarter system I needed six more hours of coursework to finish the degree. So I signed up for the course, and here I am . . . with one six hour seminar between me without the M.A. and me with academic bliss.
Here's where the fun begins: I did not know that I lacked coursework until March of this year (March to March, eh -- a fearful symmetry there; Blake would be proud!) and as I am up against the seven year rule, I must finish before August. So I need six hours worth of credit this summer from Georgia Southern. Easy, huh?
I didn't know until yesterday that GaSou had changed its academic semesters in the summer so that the first course started in May . . . May 11 to be precise. So that's why I found myself hightailing it to Statesboro, GA, a three-and-a-half hour trek from my current Atlanta home, in order to make it to my graduate class at 6:30. Oh, yes, I drove back last night, too, when the class ended. At 10:30. So I got home around 1:45 AM or so, just in time to collapse and awaken at 6:15 in order to teach my eighth graders. Yep. I've gotta do this twice a week until the end of school.
However, I'm excited by the prospect of the high adventure that goes along with finishing this seven-year-long chapter in my life; I need epic drama and torment in order to give meaning to those things that would otherwise be devoid of significance.
I need sound and fury. For me they signify . . . everything.
How did I choose GaSou, you ask? Hearken back with me to the dog days of Spring 1997: how well did you know your future then? I was getting married in June 1998 -- that much about my future I knew in 1997 -- and I had no earthly idea what I was going to do with my life. I had recently graduated from David Lipscomb University (the home of the finest English Department in an American-Restoration-Movement-derived college or university located within the city limits of Metropolitan Nashville/Davidson County) and the employment field confided to me by my college-entrance-mandated career survey (package deal with the Myers-Briggs; "Psychologist/Counselor" and ENFP on the same day, can you believe all the self-awareness I gained that day?) didn't really appeal to me. So: I had won medals at graduation (for something?) from the English Deparment; I was an English major; I was president of Sigma Tau Delta (STD!!!!!!!!) the English honorary society; my advisor and confidante was an English professor. Strangely, I somehow felt that graduate school in English was in my future.
But where to go? Somewhere close to Jami (who would be in Florida student teaching in the second semester of 97-98; also, the June wedding would be there. . .) Plus, somewhere cheap (Public!) and somewhere I could still be admitted, despite the fact it was late March of 1997. Florida State and the University of Florida? All materials due December 15, 1996, thank you very much. University of Central Florida, South Florida, North Florida? No admission after February 1, 1997; no exceptions. Even Valdosta State turned me down (March 1, 1997).
But GaSou had (and has) a rolling admission policy, and they were downright eager to take my money. So I spent 1997-1998 there, doing my coursework for an M.A. in English. It was actually a very good graduate education, all my joking to the contrary.
Of course, I didn't finish my thesis. A million times you've heard this, right? Breeze through the coursework, don't finish the thesis. I began a perfectly serviceable thesis on the humanist framework found in the later novels of Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.; my advisor hated it. So, I started another on a different aspect of his work; never did finish it.
End of grad school. Kaput, right?
Well, no. I never finished my academic thesis, no, but I did channel my inner writer enough to finish a creative thesis in poetry (enjoyed that much more than the non-creative one) and [INSERT DRUMROLL HERE] I discovered that under the conversion to the semester system from the quarter system I needed six more hours of coursework to finish the degree. So I signed up for the course, and here I am . . . with one six hour seminar between me without the M.A. and me with academic bliss.
Here's where the fun begins: I did not know that I lacked coursework until March of this year (March to March, eh -- a fearful symmetry there; Blake would be proud!) and as I am up against the seven year rule, I must finish before August. So I need six hours worth of credit this summer from Georgia Southern. Easy, huh?
I didn't know until yesterday that GaSou had changed its academic semesters in the summer so that the first course started in May . . . May 11 to be precise. So that's why I found myself hightailing it to Statesboro, GA, a three-and-a-half hour trek from my current Atlanta home, in order to make it to my graduate class at 6:30. Oh, yes, I drove back last night, too, when the class ended. At 10:30. So I got home around 1:45 AM or so, just in time to collapse and awaken at 6:15 in order to teach my eighth graders. Yep. I've gotta do this twice a week until the end of school.
However, I'm excited by the prospect of the high adventure that goes along with finishing this seven-year-long chapter in my life; I need epic drama and torment in order to give meaning to those things that would otherwise be devoid of significance.
I need sound and fury. For me they signify . . . everything.
Thursday, April 29, 2004
"So I'm surfing the web, right?"
How many conversations about cool things you've found online started with that sentence? I **need** a blog, just to showcase all the eclectic crap I find that absolutely fascinates me.
Here's one for you: the Internet Anagram Server. Fascinating stuff, this. I must have played around with this site for an hour or so, until I decided to put in my own, full name. Whew! I had hoped for some kind of pithy, wise maxim or epigram that I could relate to the students in my English classes, or something (modesty is not a strong suit of mine) that I could put on a bumper sticker and change the world. I needed a phrase that would sell! So, using the "Advanced Anagramming" link I was able to separate the wheat from the chaff and find these world-changing anagrams for "bradley scott denton" :
ABSCOND TENDERLY TOT
Really, excellent advice for absconding tots across the world. Somehow, though, I doubt it will catch on as this year's catchphrase.
A BOLT CONTENTED DRYS
Doesn't this sound like the title of a Movie of the Week?
DEBACLE DON NOT TRYST
This doesn't make a lot of sense, but I love the idea of a literary character named "Debacle Don." Plus, you know he's a pretty good guy, with all his tryst rejecting.
CABLED RODENT SNOTTY
I'd be snotty too, if I were cabled. Or a rodent, for that matter.
ECTOBLAST DENTON DRY
This one frightened me. Not only did it sound like a rejected Ghostbusters script device, but it sounds like it would hurt. Towels are fine, thanks.
CARBON DOTTED YENTLS
Either a strange Barbara Streisand movie sequel or an obscure vegetable.
BLADDER CONTEST TONY
See "Debacle Don," above. "Hey -- who's that . . . OHMYGOODNESS, it's BLADDER CONTEST TONY!!!!!!"
DAYBED CONTROLS TENT
From a Sharper Image catalog, perhaps?
BLOATED CONTENTS DRY
In my case, definitely not true.
BRADLEY SCOTT TENDON
Yeah, this one felt like cheating to me, too.
BLASTED CODY TRENTON
I'm envisioning a Western scene with our hero, Blasted Cody Trenton. Is his first name descriptive, or an expletive?
BALD COTTONY TENDERS
Coming to an O'Charlie's near you.
BRANDON ELECTS DOTTY
In the parliament of his mind . . .
STANDBY CLONED OTTER
Great imperative sentence. I suppose he is to wait for orders from Central Otter Command, or the Mammal Attack Post.
STANDBY COLORED TENT
Otter's buddy.
TABLE CONDONED TRYST
I see this as a strange news headline, somewhere. All we know is that Debacle Don and Bladder Contest Tony were NOT involved.
TENTACLED BODY SNORT
Great prospective name for a band. "Hello, Grayson! We are the men of Tentacled Body Snort!!! Two nights only, no cover!!"
CONSTERNATED BY DOLT
Aren't we all? This may be the closest I've gotten to true wisdom with these.
LANCED DEBTOR SNOTTY
I would be, too -- you owe me money? You stuck a lance in me? What next?
TRANSCEND BLOTTY ODE
I'm trying. I'm really trying.
CANDY BOTTLE SNORTED
Put that down! Stop it!
DYLAN CORBETT STONED
Here is the first saga of the Corbett family . . . more to follow. I envision Dylan as the Prodigal, maybe played by Brad Pitt, returning to the Corbett family after his wild drug days. Or it could be literal, I suppose.
DANNY CORBETT OLDEST
He's the firstborn, and livid at Dylan for tarnishing the good Corbett name, of course.
DONNA CORBETT STYLED
And she looks marvelous.
DAYTON CORBETT LENDS
Here's the bank-owning Shylock of the family, always asking for his pound of flesh . . . seems like every week someone else comes along and sticks a lance in him. . .
As you can see, my name does not lend itself to wise statements guaranteed to rise the consciousness of humanity. However, it does serve to describe me pretty well:
NASTY BLOND DETECTOR
And with that, I adjure you to try the demon machine for yourself. Good luck!
How many conversations about cool things you've found online started with that sentence? I **need** a blog, just to showcase all the eclectic crap I find that absolutely fascinates me.
Here's one for you: the Internet Anagram Server. Fascinating stuff, this. I must have played around with this site for an hour or so, until I decided to put in my own, full name. Whew! I had hoped for some kind of pithy, wise maxim or epigram that I could relate to the students in my English classes, or something (modesty is not a strong suit of mine) that I could put on a bumper sticker and change the world. I needed a phrase that would sell! So, using the "Advanced Anagramming" link I was able to separate the wheat from the chaff and find these world-changing anagrams for "bradley scott denton" :
ABSCOND TENDERLY TOT
Really, excellent advice for absconding tots across the world. Somehow, though, I doubt it will catch on as this year's catchphrase.
A BOLT CONTENTED DRYS
Doesn't this sound like the title of a Movie of the Week?
DEBACLE DON NOT TRYST
This doesn't make a lot of sense, but I love the idea of a literary character named "Debacle Don." Plus, you know he's a pretty good guy, with all his tryst rejecting.
CABLED RODENT SNOTTY
I'd be snotty too, if I were cabled. Or a rodent, for that matter.
ECTOBLAST DENTON DRY
This one frightened me. Not only did it sound like a rejected Ghostbusters script device, but it sounds like it would hurt. Towels are fine, thanks.
CARBON DOTTED YENTLS
Either a strange Barbara Streisand movie sequel or an obscure vegetable.
BLADDER CONTEST TONY
See "Debacle Don," above. "Hey -- who's that . . . OHMYGOODNESS, it's BLADDER CONTEST TONY!!!!!!"
DAYBED CONTROLS TENT
From a Sharper Image catalog, perhaps?
BLOATED CONTENTS DRY
In my case, definitely not true.
BRADLEY SCOTT TENDON
Yeah, this one felt like cheating to me, too.
BLASTED CODY TRENTON
I'm envisioning a Western scene with our hero, Blasted Cody Trenton. Is his first name descriptive, or an expletive?
BALD COTTONY TENDERS
Coming to an O'Charlie's near you.
BRANDON ELECTS DOTTY
In the parliament of his mind . . .
STANDBY CLONED OTTER
Great imperative sentence. I suppose he is to wait for orders from Central Otter Command, or the Mammal Attack Post.
STANDBY COLORED TENT
Otter's buddy.
TABLE CONDONED TRYST
I see this as a strange news headline, somewhere. All we know is that Debacle Don and Bladder Contest Tony were NOT involved.
TENTACLED BODY SNORT
Great prospective name for a band. "Hello, Grayson! We are the men of Tentacled Body Snort!!! Two nights only, no cover!!"
CONSTERNATED BY DOLT
Aren't we all? This may be the closest I've gotten to true wisdom with these.
LANCED DEBTOR SNOTTY
I would be, too -- you owe me money? You stuck a lance in me? What next?
TRANSCEND BLOTTY ODE
I'm trying. I'm really trying.
CANDY BOTTLE SNORTED
Put that down! Stop it!
DYLAN CORBETT STONED
Here is the first saga of the Corbett family . . . more to follow. I envision Dylan as the Prodigal, maybe played by Brad Pitt, returning to the Corbett family after his wild drug days. Or it could be literal, I suppose.
DANNY CORBETT OLDEST
He's the firstborn, and livid at Dylan for tarnishing the good Corbett name, of course.
DONNA CORBETT STYLED
And she looks marvelous.
DAYTON CORBETT LENDS
Here's the bank-owning Shylock of the family, always asking for his pound of flesh . . . seems like every week someone else comes along and sticks a lance in him. . .
As you can see, my name does not lend itself to wise statements guaranteed to rise the consciousness of humanity. However, it does serve to describe me pretty well:
NASTY BLOND DETECTOR
And with that, I adjure you to try the demon machine for yourself. Good luck!
Saturday, April 24, 2004
I had planned yet another over-the-top, literary name-dropping extravaganza
("OH RALLLY? Yew haven't yet read Borges? In the original -Spanish-? Dear me, yew ahre not as smart as I am, now are yew?" It works better if you imagine it in a foppish Bostonian drawl mixed with upper-crust British tones; kind of like that odd accent Madonna has been affecting in her recent interviews. NOT THAT I WATCH MTV -- I'M TOO BUSY TRANSLATING DANTE FOR FUN! I'M REALLY, REALLY SMART!!! SWEAR TO GOD, I AM!!!! EVERYONE REVEL IN MY INTELLIGENCE . . . BWA-HA-HAHA!!!!!!! Ahem. Sorry.) but I ran out of time . . . tomorrow (today! I must sleep!) my JV Academic Team journeys to Gray, GA, south of Macon, to compete in the JV GATA State Tournament. So I don't have time for an original posting.
I know . . . I'll give you some Seanbaby. Seanbaby is one of my favorite finds of the last year or so; he's a Gen X freelance writer who writes some of the funniest (and, occasionally, some of the most obscene -- be careful) magazine articles I have ever read about various aspects of popular culture. The setup for this article: his current hometown of San Francisco was experiencing a mugging epidemic, and the mayor advocated that each citizen should insure that they had some form of protection. Seanbaby's answer? Use those leftover defense guides published during the "kung-fu boom" of the 1970's to arm the citizenry. This from his bi-weekly article in The Wave:
The Complete Guide to Self-Defense Guides
Bringing you the hottest, most high-flying non-stop, commercial-free face rocking since the invention of the groin attack.
By Seanbaby
To survive the streets, you’ve got to turn your hands and feet into deadly weapons. No other form of self-defense can be trusted. Pepper spray has a better chance at making your taco delicious than taking down a mugger; a simple mirror can turn any of your laser weapons against you, and the ladies know what I’m talking about when I say that shotgun holsters don’t go with ANYTHING.
The following books teach the street smarts and deadly attacks that will transform you from a clueless victim wandering into dark alleys counting your money to a barely-contained whirlwind of death. Please be careful with the knowledge gained from this article, and use it only for justice. You see, every day, karate kills 87,000 people around the world.* Some experts say that this number may balloon to as high as a million billion before the year 2000, and that men, women, and children alike will soon only be categorized in two ways: “Karate Star” and “Hold on, what’s that in the bucket?” Do your part.
*This figure is based entirely on speculation by the author and the awesomeness of karate, which sounds a lot like this: “WaoooOOWATA!”
FIGHT FOR YOUR LIFE! The Secrets of Street Fighting, 1982, By Dr. Ted Gambordella
In his foreword, Dr. Ted says that he does not advocate killing people, and his techniques are not to be used for murder. With that out of the way, he really lets you know how to turn someone’s crotch into oatmeal. And while I admit my street fighting experience is limited, a lot of Dr. Ted’s advice seems difficult to apply. For example, his defense against someone punching you in a parking lot is kicking them in the face, giving them a complicated judo throw and tearing their eyeballs out. If I could do all of that, I think I’d be a little too busy infiltrating Baron Von Terror’s satellite bunker to be reading a self-defense book. Maybe I’m thinking too much with my brain here, but it seems a little irresponsible to encourage a casual karate enthusiast into thinking he or she has the option to spinning-heel-kick the guns out of a team of ninjas’ hands and exploding their throats with a backflip fireball.
When Can You Apply It?
All of Dr. Ted’s situations take place in a strip mall parking lot where one or more people totally hate you. He shows you how to break someone’s knees or pubic bones during many types of attacks, and is thoughtful enough to end most of his advice with something like, “Stomp on their groin while waiting for help to arrive.” Dr. Ted hates groins – HATES them. If his book taught me one thing, it’s that you should never run away from a deadly situation when you have the option of maiming someone’s crotch.
Defense Example:
If a thug grabs for your briefcase, pull him in and elbow him in the jaw. Then (and you probably knew this was coming) “smash a knee into his groin, knocking him into the ground, where you finish him off with a smashing heel stomp to his groin.” It ends there, but my own experimentation has found that opening and closing your briefcase on his groin while he’s unconscious keeps the attack light-hearted.
Looking Forward to Being Attacked, 1977, By Lt. Jim Bullard
Policeman Jim Bullard teaches that the key to self-defense is to love getting attacked. In fact, the title of his first chapter is, “You’ll Never Enjoy Being Attacked If You Don’t Change Your Attitude!” So get out there and really get excited about violent assault! He often refers to crippling combat maneuvers as “fun” or “cute.” His chapter, “Life Affords Few Pleasures That Can Equal The Striking of Vulnerable Areas!” will change the way you giggle when you put your fingers in people’s eyes. Not that you need me to point it out, but Mr. Bullard sounds a bit like a lunatic.
When Can You Apply It?
According to Jim, almost any time is a good time to jam your keys into someone’s throat. Of the dozens of situations he teaches you how to demolish your way out of, I’d say about three would be considered “attacks.” He shows you how to deal with a stranger choking you during a tennis game, grabbing hands that shoot out of men’s rooms, and people who sit too close to you at church. I can see how quick, decisive karate is the only option when faced with those horrors. But when Jim showed me how to break someone’s kneecap for standing in my sun while I’m on vacation, I thought that might be excessive. Plus, the four pages on how to kill your dentist should he ever turn evil could be a case of simple insanity – but after he mentions fighting off your dentist twice more in the book, that’s a little... let’s just say I’ll have a lead suspect should there ever be a series of missing dentists.
Defense Example:
If you’re at your favorite department store and a man starts hitting on you, Jim’s advice is, “Bend your knee against the back of his knee to break his balance while throwing your arm into his chest. He will go down with a bang and probably remain there in a crumpled heap. Off you go into the store screaming at the top of your voice.” I’m so glad I read this. I thought I was going to go crazy trying to figure out why every woman I flirt with flings me into the ground and tells nearby shoppers, “AAAAGHHHHHHH!”
Instant Self-Defense, 1965, By Bruce Tegner
Bruce Tegner is a holder of “The Black Belt” in Judo and Karate. He’s probably written at least three books about every martial art on the planet, but if you ask any serious martial artist, they’ll tell you these are terribly inaccurate. This is moot, though, since if you’re really talking to a serious martial artist, then by now he’s punched your heart out and, with a primal scream, sacrificed it to his savage karate gods.
When Can You Apply It?
Bruce’s techniques seem useful no matter where or how you’re attacked, but I especially liked Chapter 3: DEFENSES AGAINST ANNOYING ATTACK. It’s a series of painful holds and attacks you can use against your friends if they annoy you. Like if someone slaps you on the back to say hello, Bruce shows you how to break his arm. He’s even smart enough to suggest that you pretend you didn’t mean to, in case you want to remain friends with the person who used to be attached to the arm you’re holding.
Defense Example:
If one of your pals is leaning on you, Bruce suggests, “Next time he leans, dig into the side of his body just below the last rib, using the extended knuckle in a grinding motion. Grin as you grind – you are not trying to start a fight.” I assume that if my friend was to try for a full hug, I should jam a switchblade between his third and fourth ribs. This would puncture his lung and prevent him from screaming. Then I’d gently caress his hair as he bleeds out – I don’t want him to think I’m angry with him. Thanks, Bruce!
("OH RALLLY? Yew haven't yet read Borges? In the original -Spanish-? Dear me, yew ahre not as smart as I am, now are yew?" It works better if you imagine it in a foppish Bostonian drawl mixed with upper-crust British tones; kind of like that odd accent Madonna has been affecting in her recent interviews. NOT THAT I WATCH MTV -- I'M TOO BUSY TRANSLATING DANTE FOR FUN! I'M REALLY, REALLY SMART!!! SWEAR TO GOD, I AM!!!! EVERYONE REVEL IN MY INTELLIGENCE . . . BWA-HA-HAHA!!!!!!! Ahem. Sorry.) but I ran out of time . . . tomorrow (today! I must sleep!) my JV Academic Team journeys to Gray, GA, south of Macon, to compete in the JV GATA State Tournament. So I don't have time for an original posting.
I know . . . I'll give you some Seanbaby. Seanbaby is one of my favorite finds of the last year or so; he's a Gen X freelance writer who writes some of the funniest (and, occasionally, some of the most obscene -- be careful) magazine articles I have ever read about various aspects of popular culture. The setup for this article: his current hometown of San Francisco was experiencing a mugging epidemic, and the mayor advocated that each citizen should insure that they had some form of protection. Seanbaby's answer? Use those leftover defense guides published during the "kung-fu boom" of the 1970's to arm the citizenry. This from his bi-weekly article in The Wave:
The Complete Guide to Self-Defense Guides
Bringing you the hottest, most high-flying non-stop, commercial-free face rocking since the invention of the groin attack.
By Seanbaby
To survive the streets, you’ve got to turn your hands and feet into deadly weapons. No other form of self-defense can be trusted. Pepper spray has a better chance at making your taco delicious than taking down a mugger; a simple mirror can turn any of your laser weapons against you, and the ladies know what I’m talking about when I say that shotgun holsters don’t go with ANYTHING.
The following books teach the street smarts and deadly attacks that will transform you from a clueless victim wandering into dark alleys counting your money to a barely-contained whirlwind of death. Please be careful with the knowledge gained from this article, and use it only for justice. You see, every day, karate kills 87,000 people around the world.* Some experts say that this number may balloon to as high as a million billion before the year 2000, and that men, women, and children alike will soon only be categorized in two ways: “Karate Star” and “Hold on, what’s that in the bucket?” Do your part.
*This figure is based entirely on speculation by the author and the awesomeness of karate, which sounds a lot like this: “WaoooOOWATA!”
FIGHT FOR YOUR LIFE! The Secrets of Street Fighting, 1982, By Dr. Ted Gambordella
In his foreword, Dr. Ted says that he does not advocate killing people, and his techniques are not to be used for murder. With that out of the way, he really lets you know how to turn someone’s crotch into oatmeal. And while I admit my street fighting experience is limited, a lot of Dr. Ted’s advice seems difficult to apply. For example, his defense against someone punching you in a parking lot is kicking them in the face, giving them a complicated judo throw and tearing their eyeballs out. If I could do all of that, I think I’d be a little too busy infiltrating Baron Von Terror’s satellite bunker to be reading a self-defense book. Maybe I’m thinking too much with my brain here, but it seems a little irresponsible to encourage a casual karate enthusiast into thinking he or she has the option to spinning-heel-kick the guns out of a team of ninjas’ hands and exploding their throats with a backflip fireball.
When Can You Apply It?
All of Dr. Ted’s situations take place in a strip mall parking lot where one or more people totally hate you. He shows you how to break someone’s knees or pubic bones during many types of attacks, and is thoughtful enough to end most of his advice with something like, “Stomp on their groin while waiting for help to arrive.” Dr. Ted hates groins – HATES them. If his book taught me one thing, it’s that you should never run away from a deadly situation when you have the option of maiming someone’s crotch.
Defense Example:
If a thug grabs for your briefcase, pull him in and elbow him in the jaw. Then (and you probably knew this was coming) “smash a knee into his groin, knocking him into the ground, where you finish him off with a smashing heel stomp to his groin.” It ends there, but my own experimentation has found that opening and closing your briefcase on his groin while he’s unconscious keeps the attack light-hearted.
Looking Forward to Being Attacked, 1977, By Lt. Jim Bullard
Policeman Jim Bullard teaches that the key to self-defense is to love getting attacked. In fact, the title of his first chapter is, “You’ll Never Enjoy Being Attacked If You Don’t Change Your Attitude!” So get out there and really get excited about violent assault! He often refers to crippling combat maneuvers as “fun” or “cute.” His chapter, “Life Affords Few Pleasures That Can Equal The Striking of Vulnerable Areas!” will change the way you giggle when you put your fingers in people’s eyes. Not that you need me to point it out, but Mr. Bullard sounds a bit like a lunatic.
When Can You Apply It?
According to Jim, almost any time is a good time to jam your keys into someone’s throat. Of the dozens of situations he teaches you how to demolish your way out of, I’d say about three would be considered “attacks.” He shows you how to deal with a stranger choking you during a tennis game, grabbing hands that shoot out of men’s rooms, and people who sit too close to you at church. I can see how quick, decisive karate is the only option when faced with those horrors. But when Jim showed me how to break someone’s kneecap for standing in my sun while I’m on vacation, I thought that might be excessive. Plus, the four pages on how to kill your dentist should he ever turn evil could be a case of simple insanity – but after he mentions fighting off your dentist twice more in the book, that’s a little... let’s just say I’ll have a lead suspect should there ever be a series of missing dentists.
Defense Example:
If you’re at your favorite department store and a man starts hitting on you, Jim’s advice is, “Bend your knee against the back of his knee to break his balance while throwing your arm into his chest. He will go down with a bang and probably remain there in a crumpled heap. Off you go into the store screaming at the top of your voice.” I’m so glad I read this. I thought I was going to go crazy trying to figure out why every woman I flirt with flings me into the ground and tells nearby shoppers, “AAAAGHHHHHHH!”
Instant Self-Defense, 1965, By Bruce Tegner
Bruce Tegner is a holder of “The Black Belt” in Judo and Karate. He’s probably written at least three books about every martial art on the planet, but if you ask any serious martial artist, they’ll tell you these are terribly inaccurate. This is moot, though, since if you’re really talking to a serious martial artist, then by now he’s punched your heart out and, with a primal scream, sacrificed it to his savage karate gods.
When Can You Apply It?
Bruce’s techniques seem useful no matter where or how you’re attacked, but I especially liked Chapter 3: DEFENSES AGAINST ANNOYING ATTACK. It’s a series of painful holds and attacks you can use against your friends if they annoy you. Like if someone slaps you on the back to say hello, Bruce shows you how to break his arm. He’s even smart enough to suggest that you pretend you didn’t mean to, in case you want to remain friends with the person who used to be attached to the arm you’re holding.
Defense Example:
If one of your pals is leaning on you, Bruce suggests, “Next time he leans, dig into the side of his body just below the last rib, using the extended knuckle in a grinding motion. Grin as you grind – you are not trying to start a fight.” I assume that if my friend was to try for a full hug, I should jam a switchblade between his third and fourth ribs. This would puncture his lung and prevent him from screaming. Then I’d gently caress his hair as he bleeds out – I don’t want him to think I’m angry with him. Thanks, Bruce!
Thursday, April 15, 2004
I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work -- a life's work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand where I am standing.
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.
He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed -- love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
Until he learns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
This is William Faulkner's Nobel Prize acceptance speech -- I have no words to describe it, elucidate it, or even desecrate it. I think it would survive even an attack from my carefully disaffected irony.
Faulkner's a favorite. How could he not be, after reading the speech? To paraphrase a story told by Raymond Carver: "I was taking a class in the short story that year, from the (eventual) novelist John Gardner. We were assigned the story "Blackberry Winter" written by Robert Penn Warren. I read it, but did not enjoy it, so I went to the next class and told him so. His exact, shocked response was 'Read it again.' He was not kidding."
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.
He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed -- love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
Until he learns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
This is William Faulkner's Nobel Prize acceptance speech -- I have no words to describe it, elucidate it, or even desecrate it. I think it would survive even an attack from my carefully disaffected irony.
Faulkner's a favorite. How could he not be, after reading the speech? To paraphrase a story told by Raymond Carver: "I was taking a class in the short story that year, from the (eventual) novelist John Gardner. We were assigned the story "Blackberry Winter" written by Robert Penn Warren. I read it, but did not enjoy it, so I went to the next class and told him so. His exact, shocked response was 'Read it again.' He was not kidding."
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
There are sports guys out there, of every flavor and disposition. Football guys, basketball guys, baseball guys (and I must admit, I'm kind of a baseball guy myself.)
You've also got your car guys (and I dabble in that one, too, though I really lack the resources to indulge in collecting classic cars, or even indulge in gasoline purchases for my '97 Sentra.) Computer guys -- technology guys -- scare me a little. Was I the only person to see the original Terminator?
My dad was a hunting/outdoorsman guy. My paternal grandfather was a gun guy . . . and a suit guy, strangely enough. He didn't get much of a chance to wear them at the Ridgely City Gin, but he sure bought them in record numbers. (He founded three chapters of Alcoholics Anonymous in West Tennessee . . . his set piece was a hilarious retelling of the time my grandmother found his cache in the attic where he kept the suits, guns, and whiskey he spent his paychecks on, instead of food. She found 31 long guns, 12 handguns, 42 three-piece suits, and 35 bottles of George Dickel.)
My maternal grandfather? DeeDee was a reader. And here's where I am, really. I'm a reader, myself. I'm a book guy. I like to think of myself as an iconoclast, but I'm really just kind of dorky.
I'm a book guy. Favorites to follow, in a later post.
You've also got your car guys (and I dabble in that one, too, though I really lack the resources to indulge in collecting classic cars, or even indulge in gasoline purchases for my '97 Sentra.) Computer guys -- technology guys -- scare me a little. Was I the only person to see the original Terminator?
My dad was a hunting/outdoorsman guy. My paternal grandfather was a gun guy . . . and a suit guy, strangely enough. He didn't get much of a chance to wear them at the Ridgely City Gin, but he sure bought them in record numbers. (He founded three chapters of Alcoholics Anonymous in West Tennessee . . . his set piece was a hilarious retelling of the time my grandmother found his cache in the attic where he kept the suits, guns, and whiskey he spent his paychecks on, instead of food. She found 31 long guns, 12 handguns, 42 three-piece suits, and 35 bottles of George Dickel.)
My maternal grandfather? DeeDee was a reader. And here's where I am, really. I'm a reader, myself. I'm a book guy. I like to think of myself as an iconoclast, but I'm really just kind of dorky.
I'm a book guy. Favorites to follow, in a later post.
Monday, April 12, 2004
FEAR. Random, heart-racing fear: adrenalin kicking my heartrate to tachycardia.
Momentary pause. Mild consternation by the realization that I don't really know how to spell "tachycardia."
Return to fear. FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR
I am twenty-eight years old.
I have been married for six years.
I have world-record credit card debt, and a student loan balance that only nine years of dabbling in graduate school can explain. Okay, maybe not -explain-. Had I been attending graduate school in Micronesia and paying weekly airfare using my loans, that might -explain- my balance.
FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR
Jami and I put a contract offer on a house last Saturday. A house. A HOUSE. A backyard-havin', roof-and-everything-included, mortgage-payment-please, oh-dear-golly-how-much-do-I-need-to-borrow? HOUSE.
I get the shakes from clipping coupons. It freaks me out; there's too much pressure. You're tellin' me I've only got NINE days to cash in on Palmolive? I can't handle -- LITERALLY CANNOT HANDLE -- the fiscal responsibility that comes with saving forty-one cents. $ 0.41.
But $140,000? Oh, heck yeah . . . sign me up for two hunnert grand. I'm ready, buddy-o. Bring it on!
(I may have just wet myself. Why lie? I've been wet ever since noon on Saturday . . . selective service, take notice! I AM NOT TO BE TRUSTED IN THE SERVICE OF MY COUNTRY! I CANNOT HANDLE BECOMING A HOMEOWNER! ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
In other news, Jami is excited by the possibility of painting, refinishing, remodeling. She has these, these, whattayacallems, these -- is it -- swatches? She's been calculating the combinations and permutations on those suckers nonstop. It's like watching an insurance actuary take my height, weight, and family history and extrapolate my lifespan. Only, here's the deal: Jami frightens me more. And improvements? I honestly never saw the dozens of subtle improvements that could be made in the home requiring only 1.) every second of my time up until September 2009 and 2.) a small investment of $650,000.00.
I'm married to Bob Vila.
Momentary pause. Mild consternation by the realization that I don't really know how to spell "tachycardia."
Return to fear. FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR
I am twenty-eight years old.
I have been married for six years.
I have world-record credit card debt, and a student loan balance that only nine years of dabbling in graduate school can explain. Okay, maybe not -explain-. Had I been attending graduate school in Micronesia and paying weekly airfare using my loans, that might -explain- my balance.
FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR
Jami and I put a contract offer on a house last Saturday. A house. A HOUSE. A backyard-havin', roof-and-everything-included, mortgage-payment-please, oh-dear-golly-how-much-do-I-need-to-borrow? HOUSE.
I get the shakes from clipping coupons. It freaks me out; there's too much pressure. You're tellin' me I've only got NINE days to cash in on Palmolive? I can't handle -- LITERALLY CANNOT HANDLE -- the fiscal responsibility that comes with saving forty-one cents. $ 0.41.
But $140,000? Oh, heck yeah . . . sign me up for two hunnert grand. I'm ready, buddy-o. Bring it on!
(I may have just wet myself. Why lie? I've been wet ever since noon on Saturday . . . selective service, take notice! I AM NOT TO BE TRUSTED IN THE SERVICE OF MY COUNTRY! I CANNOT HANDLE BECOMING A HOMEOWNER! ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
In other news, Jami is excited by the possibility of painting, refinishing, remodeling. She has these, these, whattayacallems, these -- is it -- swatches? She's been calculating the combinations and permutations on those suckers nonstop. It's like watching an insurance actuary take my height, weight, and family history and extrapolate my lifespan. Only, here's the deal: Jami frightens me more. And improvements? I honestly never saw the dozens of subtle improvements that could be made in the home requiring only 1.) every second of my time up until September 2009 and 2.) a small investment of $650,000.00.
I'm married to Bob Vila.
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
This from James Lileks, one of my favorite columnists of all time, on getting fired from a job:
I was fired today. It was, as the Native Americans say, a good day to die. (Also said by Klingons, and Keifer Sutherland in "Flatliners.") Mid-40s, sunshine, melting water tapping on the porch roof. Warm enough to stand outside and shout into the cordless phone, instead of pacing inside. Because I can smoke outside, and when you're fired, there's nothing better than smoking, pacing and shouting.
Afterwards, though, I went out for errands. I needed to get a pound of overpriced coffee - Fireside Blend, with each bean personally kissed by the Master Roaster - and some groceries. I had a genuinely odd
experience at Byerly's, home of the Exalted Shopping Experience; every item seemed to irritate me. The happy product names irritated me. The 58 varieties of potatoes irritated me. The magazines in the check-out stand irritated me. There was one mag - "Country Wood 'n' Gingham" or some such name - whose cover had the most inane headlines:
The Man who Planted Trees: An inspirational story!
How inspirational can that be? If the man had no arms, dug the holes by chewing through the grass and rolled the tree seeds into the pit with his nose, it would be inspirational.
French Toast - like you've never had it before! You could fill up a magazine with the ways in which I've never had french toast. I've never had French Toast while sitting naked on the Pope's lap. I've never gone to a skeet-shooting range, had them fire the french toast into the sky and then caught it in my mouth as it fell to earth. I could argue that each instance of French Toasting eating is unique, since the date, time, clothing, dining implement, etc., is different from the last time. I was close to pointing this out to the clerk, but caught myself. . .
Yesterday's column was my last. (My parting words to the audience, it now appears, were "enjoy your disasters while you can." Not bad, really.) That does not surprise me, and I can't say I blame them; no point tossing money at me when I'm just going to leave.
But the rest of the conversation was just flat-out jaw-dropping flabbergasting. The reason they made such an underwhelming offer to counter the O.O. was because they were mad at me. If I'd come to them without a competing offer, and said I wanted more $ and some publicity, then we would have had a nice warm confab about my future, and goodness and mercy would have followed me all the days of my life. The act of bringing a competing offer to jump-start the negotiations was seen as blackmail, not leverage.
I can't say I agree. I thought this is how negotiations are done, but what do I know? We parted amicably, even though I thought I would urinate Drano during a few points in the talk. Then I called everyone I knew and vented. (Outside on the porch pacing and smoking. The whole block knows everything now. )There's something fun about being fired; it's like you won the Anti-Lottery. You're full of adrenalin, and when you talk to friends, they're outraged. Everyone is on your side! You're the Martyr of the Hour! And then it wears off, and you feel like slinging a rope over the rafters. Well, I still feel fine. It was just a job, one of many. If the O.O. falls through, I'll make it up elsewhere.
I'll start making money on the Internet! I hear there's a world of opportunity out there, and all I need is a 386 computer, a box of Amway products and ten friends.
Doesn't that perfectly encapsulate the firing experience? I don't know if you can truly appreciate this post if you have never been fired . . . so work on that today, kids. Everybody -- LOSE YOUR JOB!
I was fired today. It was, as the Native Americans say, a good day to die. (Also said by Klingons, and Keifer Sutherland in "Flatliners.") Mid-40s, sunshine, melting water tapping on the porch roof. Warm enough to stand outside and shout into the cordless phone, instead of pacing inside. Because I can smoke outside, and when you're fired, there's nothing better than smoking, pacing and shouting.
Afterwards, though, I went out for errands. I needed to get a pound of overpriced coffee - Fireside Blend, with each bean personally kissed by the Master Roaster - and some groceries. I had a genuinely odd
experience at Byerly's, home of the Exalted Shopping Experience; every item seemed to irritate me. The happy product names irritated me. The 58 varieties of potatoes irritated me. The magazines in the check-out stand irritated me. There was one mag - "Country Wood 'n' Gingham" or some such name - whose cover had the most inane headlines:
The Man who Planted Trees: An inspirational story!
How inspirational can that be? If the man had no arms, dug the holes by chewing through the grass and rolled the tree seeds into the pit with his nose, it would be inspirational.
French Toast - like you've never had it before! You could fill up a magazine with the ways in which I've never had french toast. I've never had French Toast while sitting naked on the Pope's lap. I've never gone to a skeet-shooting range, had them fire the french toast into the sky and then caught it in my mouth as it fell to earth. I could argue that each instance of French Toasting eating is unique, since the date, time, clothing, dining implement, etc., is different from the last time. I was close to pointing this out to the clerk, but caught myself. . .
Yesterday's column was my last. (My parting words to the audience, it now appears, were "enjoy your disasters while you can." Not bad, really.) That does not surprise me, and I can't say I blame them; no point tossing money at me when I'm just going to leave.
But the rest of the conversation was just flat-out jaw-dropping flabbergasting. The reason they made such an underwhelming offer to counter the O.O. was because they were mad at me. If I'd come to them without a competing offer, and said I wanted more $ and some publicity, then we would have had a nice warm confab about my future, and goodness and mercy would have followed me all the days of my life. The act of bringing a competing offer to jump-start the negotiations was seen as blackmail, not leverage.
I can't say I agree. I thought this is how negotiations are done, but what do I know? We parted amicably, even though I thought I would urinate Drano during a few points in the talk. Then I called everyone I knew and vented. (Outside on the porch pacing and smoking. The whole block knows everything now. )There's something fun about being fired; it's like you won the Anti-Lottery. You're full of adrenalin, and when you talk to friends, they're outraged. Everyone is on your side! You're the Martyr of the Hour! And then it wears off, and you feel like slinging a rope over the rafters. Well, I still feel fine. It was just a job, one of many. If the O.O. falls through, I'll make it up elsewhere.
I'll start making money on the Internet! I hear there's a world of opportunity out there, and all I need is a 386 computer, a box of Amway products and ten friends.
Doesn't that perfectly encapsulate the firing experience? I don't know if you can truly appreciate this post if you have never been fired . . . so work on that today, kids. Everybody -- LOSE YOUR JOB!
Thursday, March 18, 2004
Update time -- I'm feeling pretty antsy about my lack of updates, because the ever-popular Matt Elliott has graciously linked to my blog here.
I must admit, I'm uncertain which road to take, Dear Reader. Do I make it a goofy, random-humor-driven site? Do I bore you with never-ending updates about my feelings about teaching, the nature of irony, my personal beliefs ad nauseam? Or do we really just want to know how well I'm doing in Fantasy Baseball?
Hmm. It's a conundrum.
Oh, I'll figure this out. I promise more updates this weekend.
I must admit, I'm uncertain which road to take, Dear Reader. Do I make it a goofy, random-humor-driven site? Do I bore you with never-ending updates about my feelings about teaching, the nature of irony, my personal beliefs ad nauseam? Or do we really just want to know how well I'm doing in Fantasy Baseball?
Hmm. It's a conundrum.
Oh, I'll figure this out. I promise more updates this weekend.
Friday, March 05, 2004
What is the nature of the world? What is the nature of existence? Why are we here? Above all, how are we to live? What is our purpose?
Many people propose to know the truth, to have the truth, to OWN the truth. Who do we trust, in this transitory state between birth and death, to give us the answers?
Well, that's simple.
You trust everybody.
Many people propose to know the truth, to have the truth, to OWN the truth. Who do we trust, in this transitory state between birth and death, to give us the answers?
Well, that's simple.
You trust everybody.
Monday, February 16, 2004
You've got to love those Green Mountain Boys. Ethan Allen -- meet RICHARD STINKING WATTS!!!!!!!
Main Entry: pre·ten·tious
Pronunciation: pri-'ten(t)-sh&s
Function: adjective
Etymology: French prétentieux, from prétention pretension, from Medieval Latin praetention-, praetentio, from Latin praetendere
1 : characterized by pretension : as a : making usually unjustified or excessive claims (as of value or standing) [the pretentious fraud who assumes a love of culture that is alien to him -- Richard Watts] b : expressive of affected, unwarranted, or exaggerated importance, worth, or stature [pretentious language] [pretentious houses]
2 : making demands on one's skill, ability, or means : AMBITIOUS [the pretentious daring of the Green Mountain Boys in crossing the lake -- Amer. Guide Series: Vt.]
synonym see SHOWY
- pre·ten·tious·ly adverb
- pre·ten·tious·ness noun
Main Entry: pre·ten·tious
Pronunciation: pri-'ten(t)-sh&s
Function: adjective
Etymology: French prétentieux, from prétention pretension, from Medieval Latin praetention-, praetentio, from Latin praetendere
1 : characterized by pretension : as a : making usually unjustified or excessive claims (as of value or standing) [the pretentious fraud who assumes a love of culture that is alien to him -- Richard Watts] b : expressive of affected, unwarranted, or exaggerated importance, worth, or stature [pretentious language] [pretentious houses]
2 : making demands on one's skill, ability, or means : AMBITIOUS [the pretentious daring of the Green Mountain Boys in crossing the lake -- Amer. Guide Series: Vt.]
synonym see SHOWY
- pre·ten·tious·ly adverb
- pre·ten·tious·ness noun
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