Ode to pepto

I am going to be getting off the computer soon. I somehow felt the obligation to repost tonight, though I have little to say. I got quite a bit done tonight, which should compensate nicely for the very little I plan on doing tomorrow night. I am going to try to nab some pics of the LR trip from Andi to post. If I'm unable to do that, well, I'll just look through my personal photo albums to find appropriate pics and just make up a caption for them.

I hope to start a battlecat league sometime within the next several months. I found one possible entry, but I was hoping that Rothgar and others might like to participate. Sorry, dog lovers--this would be a catfight only.

Get it? Catfight!! (I laugh deliriously)

I don't even understand what that meant, so don't feel bad if you think it's pretty stupid, too.

I will get to Little Rock eventually, but for now:
Shout out to all of those who kept me safe and sound this past weekend. Thanks for coughing Jesus and the duckbill platypus. Thanks for duckwalks and bad mexican in BFE. Thanks for telling stupid stories about songs that used to mean something. Thanks for not throwing up on me. Thanks for suffering through my sporadic fits of anger while we traversed this great nation of ours. Thanks for putting up a good showing for our TAMUCWC. Thanks for thanking others. Thanks for being thanked. And I really mean that. Thanks.

Ode to ulcers

Despite the fun I had last week, it has recently come to my attention that I didn't attend any of my classes in quite some time (though they were all excused absences). This sudden realization--actually it's been on my mind the last several days--has started to cause me some stress-related problems, namely con el estomago. The guy in the drawing is not providing a fair representation, in my opinion, as he looks like he's about to shit his pants. I on the other hand, have no intentions or questions about that in my life. At least not right now.

Anyway, I got home from work today and immediately took a nap, one which did a fair job of recharging my batteries (I'm no longer that sleepy) but didn't help in getting me any more relaxed. Mainly because I dreamed about school work and not getting shit done. I dreamed about trying to skip my American Lit class to work on my Shakespeare, and then realizing that I hadn't gotten anything done. Wow, that sentence doesn't even make sense. What I mean is this: I've got to read a play (As You Like It), followed by some really academic secondary reading about the play, write a 5 page response, and then present my ideas in a presentation tomorrow. Plus the rather lengthy book which I should have already finished for AmLit--I'm probably not even 100 pages into it.
You know you're having problems when you're having nightmares (during the daytime) about homework. I made a random comment today: I said I was going to drop out of grad school tomorrow. I wasn't serious, but it did feel good as it rolled off my tongue. Hmmm . . .

Basically, in my experiences in grad school, there is always a feeling of being under the gun. After taking last week off, I feel doubly behind. I'm sending my wife to the store for chewable Pepto (the liquid crap is just too f'king gross) to see if it can stop the acidic torments in my gut. Her and the kids will likely go somewhere and eat, so I can be left alone to do homework and/or blog. This is just a lot easier right now, and it helps me wake up.

I'll be up all night working on BS, so I'll probably come back to this sometime tonight and post again.

Ode to curling

Also, it appears that sexuality has always been a key player in this arctic sport. Nice brooms, too.



A quick discussion of curling in Ten Reasons Curling is Great . . .

1. Curling has beer. It is a wonderful blend of competition and refrigeration, the one Olympic sport where you can drink a beer and still win a medal (make a note of that, Bode). I went to the Plainfield (N.J.) Curling Club to learn the game, and they have a beer tap in their bar with the keg sitting IN THE RINK.

2. Curling has calendars. Specifically, the "Women of Curling Calendar." The photographer, in an interview with a Canadian TV station, said that "some of the girls showed a little bit more -- because they wanted to. But it is very, very tasteful." We can only assume the brooms are strategically placed.

3. Curling has love. One Canadian writer said curling is the ultimate hookup sport up North. "You have booze, and it's mixed with boys and girls," he said. "One friend of mine had a good-looking girlfriend. I told him not to bring her." But the guy did, and a few bonspiels later, he was single.

4. Curling is really hard. Bill Peskoff, president of the Plainfield club, gave us a 15-minute lesson. The goal is to "deliver the rock" down the 146-foot sheet into the "house," the large rings at the other end. The team that places one of its four rocks closest to the "button" gets a point.

Next time you're at the airport, step onto the moving sidewalk with only one foot. This is what it sort of feels like, only you're standing on ice, and one foot is covered with a super-slick piece of plastic, and you're trying to release the one thing keeping you from eating an ice sandwich.

"Very good," Peskoff told me after my first try.

"Maybe next time, I should let go?"

"Probably."

5. Curling has Bemidji. Most of the U.S. competitors are from the same small town in Minnesota, where Paul Bunyan is supposedly from. This puts the lie to Dave Barry's assertion that "Curling is popular mainly in the Curling Belt, which stretches all the way from Wisconsin to another part of Wisconsin."

6. Curling has old guys. Poor Michelle Kwan is washed up at 25. But Scott Baird? He is the oldest Olympian in modern history, at 54 years and 282 days, beating out James Coates, who competed in the skeleton for Britain in the 1948 Winter Games, at age 53 and 328 days. "I guess it takes quite a few years to make it into your game in curling," said Baird, who is an insurance agent in -- where else? Bemidji.

7. Curling has Markku Uusipaavalniemi. He is the skipper of the Finnish team at the Olympics. He leads the Olympics in vowels and total letters. For the record, his name is pronounced "MAR-koo."

8. Curling has rocks. And they are cool. They are 42 pounds of Scottish granite, cool to the touch and a load to lift. Back in the old days -- like, the 1500s in Scotland -- the rocks weren't the same size or shape. And yes, the new ones really curl -- up to four feet, in fact.

9. Curling is exercise. While one player delivers, two others "sweep" -- a furious motion that helps create friction on the ice, which creates waters and, hence, helps move the rock "up to 10 percent further," Peskoff said. This is some serious physical activity -- my back ached and I was out of breath after just a few tries. And curling matches last up to three hours.

10. Curling has beer. Did we mention the beer? I played with Peskoff's team for an hour and we never scored a point. But, when they mercifully subbed in a veteran curler, I returned to the bench to find something very special. That Labatt's Blue I opened before we started playing? It was still ice cold.

Exhausted, but home

Dude, I am so freakin' tired. I've driven to and from Houston earlier this week. Then it was Little Rock back and forth. I am happy to be in my own bed. I am happy to not be sharing a room with 3 other people (even though I do admire them greatly).

Tonight, just a note to prove I'm still alive. Nothing cute to say, nothing funny. No rants. It is simply a matter of checking in and going to bed. I'll give a few more details tomorrow. Overall, though, it was a pretty successful trip--if you consider a successful trip to be one where you hang out with English nerds and then spend the evenings singing really badly (and obnoxiously loud) in this piano bar.

I feel like calling in sick to work tomorrow. By posting this, however, I will force myself to go in, since several of my colleagues have a tendency to check this every once in a while.

Until then,
I'm out

You sure got a pretty mouth . . .

What do you mean by "I'd better pray, and pray good?"




















Little Rock: Here we come.

And just as a warning:

we're bringing the bow and arrows with us.

By the way, I'm also missing a dear friend of mine. If you see him, please send me a note, along with sighting location.



Here's a recent picture.
















He may have grown a beard.

Under the gun

It's been a pretty decent day today. I finished installing my tankless water heater about 2:30 this morning (I had to run all new power lines, install disconnects and re-do an assload of plumbing--it shouldn't have been that hard, but it was. As usual). I think the overall cost was right at about $1000. F-me in the drawers.
Needless to say, today was the first day for cars to go round and round, so I had to waste my afternoon doing that. Some of my colleagues attended a reception, but I skipped out. Why? Number 1: I needed the rest. Number 2: I'm sure anyone with half a brain could fill this one in themselves.
Let's see, then I ate, watched Family Guy and American Dad (both re-runs), and then reacquainted myself with the conference paper that I started a few weeks ago. My money still says nobody will be completely done. And the Goose? (shrugs). I have boosted my presentation from 9.5 minutes to almost 13, but I have no sources. And I really don't think I'll use any either. After all, who am I trying to kid? I'm no Writing Center scholar. Just a guy with a sarcastic attitude, no hair, and a crooked grin. So, about the only thing I hope for is at least a few laughs from the audience --if there is one.
I heard a guy read a paper over writing center stuff several months ago, and I don't recall him using any deep theoretical stuff. He just read a bunch of off the cuff BS. And he was a WC director, for heaven's sake. And the paper that I heard him read ---you guessed it--- It's on the program for LR. Same paper, same guy. I think we are taking this thing way too seriously.
But I'm going to Houston on Monday so I can be poked and prodded (ouch!) and hopefully sent home with a good report. This will probably be the last anyone hears from me for a few days, so enjoy.

It's time to get some home improvement done. Installing a tankless water heater, namely. It should take a few hours, but will likely become an all-day asswhip. My brother, who was supposed to meet me at my house this morning, has yet to call me or answer his phone. I do know that he went out with his wife last night. I'm sure he'll call me about 1:00 sounding hungover and defeated.

Pray for me.

Things that made me giggle this week

It's been a weird week.

• I saw a grown man wearing a spiderman shirt. It's really obnoxious, kinda like a NASCAR shirt. --Note: I actually watch NASCAR, but even some fans (particularly those still blessed with all of their teeth) would agree that lots of their merchandise is way over the top. --Anyway, this guy's shirt was obscenely decorated, and is practically identical to a pair of pajamas in my own house. The main difference, of course, is that they belong to my son. And he's four.
• I had an interesting discussion with the Goose concerning nipples. We shyed away from an analysis of the breast, preferring to focus primarily on the oddity of the sagging nipple. I'm not sure if this is actually possible, but the thought of a long, drooping nipple seems funny.
• I heard a guy say the other day that there is no reason to put clown makeup on a midget. Figure that out.
• I had a really bad nightmare that woke me up the other night. It involved having a miserable teaching experience in the classroom. Needless to say, I got out of bed immediately and got drunk.
• Why is that after my wife goes to the store, the only thing I can find to eat are Pringles?
• Another man referred to a class of lit students as geeks. Being calm and well-mannered people, we finished our discussion, then abruptly stoned him to death.
• The best question all week, though, was this gem: "What is literature?" Intended merely to bog the class down with a rather cliche'd discussion point, we all responded by rolling our eyes, dropping to the floor and convulsing. Two people died.

A note for those involved in the upcoming road trip, there are likely to be cigars in LR as well. It's the only way I'll be able to keep my sanity from the expected onslaught of Dave Matthews and John Maher(sp?). Perhaps I'll light it up during our panel discussion. I could see Elise burning through a pack of smokes (we will be there an hour after all), while Andi blogs. The Goose will be unable to do any extracurricular activities during our panel discussion, as he will probably still be working on his paper.

Paul the Insomniac

Disgusted, he tossed the blankets off his body and crawled back up out of bed, pausing briefly to put on a pair of shorts before making his way tiredly down the hall. Paul was not a guy that had trouble sleeping. Ever. Yet here he was, for the third time tonight, getting back up, sitting down in front of the television, and waiting for the tiredness to envelope his mind. This had never been a problem for him in the past, but with the recent death of his wife, it seemed as though sleep would never come.
He clicked through the channels slowly, all one hundred and eighty of them, pausing on those which he remembered were his wife's favorites. It all seemed so distant now. He recalled sitting with her while she watched her shows, how she would curl up at the end of the couch and pull the red and white blanket up to her chin. How she looked so caught up in the movie, so enthralled by the action, how she would respond so vehemently to the actors doing something she didn't agree with. How many times had he felt her get out of bed in the middle of the night, only to hear the sound of the television a few moments later? How many times had she sat up late into the night clicking this remote just as he was doing now?
“Oh, what’s the use,” he thought as he stretched out on the couch, hoping for sleep to come grab him.
As he lay there, Paul thought about his wife again. The way she looked as he held her hand lovingly, as she passed from this earth. The way her breathing next to him no longer lulled him to sleep. How quiet it had become when he lay down in bed. Since her death, it seemed that sleep would never come. Oh sure, often it settled on his brain--like a flock of birds coming to rest, but it was always shooed away. His mind was a whirlwhind, with thoughts flickering and ideas bouncing up and down and striking all four walls of his mind, unable to stop. So they bounced. Each idea. Each thought. And as they wore thin and muffled, they were replaced by new thoughts. New ideas. More bouncing. No peace. No rest.
This was a guy that could sleep on anything, anywhere. He had slept on concrete floors before, in cars, on friends’ couches, in the woods. Paul had triumphed over crying babies, howling wolves, noisy neighbors, bitching women, lustful roommates -- he was able to completely block all of these things out when Mr. Sandman came knocking. Sleep was inevitable, and he always welcomed it willingly. Yet here he was. Lost in the hours of darkness, seeking the god of sleep who was currently missing in action.
He had even taken a couple of sleeping pills his wife had left in the medicine cabinet, but that didn’t help. Warm milk. Had read a chapter or two of Dickens. But nothing seemed to do the trick. Frustrated, Paul wandered back down the hall, slipped his shorts back off and climbed back into bed. Hours seemed to pass as he first looked directly at the ceiling, then turning this way and that until finally his eyes settled upon the spot from where his wife’s gentle breathing used to emanate. Crying, he cuddled up on her side of the bed, and placed his arm around her, never disturbing the pillow he had left covering her face just a few hours before.

*********************
I have done some serious revision on this, but it still seems to lack a bit of flow in places. Any criticism would be most appreciated. It seems to lack the easy rhythm I would like. Maybe a bit disjointed.

"The Eye of the Beholder" : A note on beauty, for Valentine's Day

Beauty.
Anyone who has waited patiently in a supermarket checkout line has been inundated with its selling appeal. Seemingly, the secret to acquiring the right look and style lies just behind the covers of countless magazines which make millions of dollars per year marketing to those who seek to attain this societal definition of beauty. Too often we are left to believe that it is achievable only through a certain type of clothing, or a hairstyle, or the perfect smile. Through a tangled web of stereotypes and sexuality, we are left wondering how we can meet this level of physical perfection that is so readily, though inconsistently, defined by popular culture. Beauty has become a status symbol, a proof of success, an acknowledgment of sexual prowess, and a road to happiness. We define ourselves by how we look compared to the models and celebrities of our generation who pose seductively for us as we wait to pay for our laundry detergent and loaf of bread. And although Americans spend a great deal of their income on becoming more attractive, I believe we have lost the handle on what beauty is, or should be.
As I have begun to age and enter into my thirties, I often laugh at the trials that I put myself through in the journey toward beauty. My teen years were full of anguish in my failed attempts at convincing my mother to buy certain brands of clothes which I knew would surely lead to greater recognition within my social circles, uplifting me to a status that would cause women to swoon uncontrollably in my presence. My male adversaries would likewise develop such awe and jealousy that I would be assured instant popularity, allowing me to pick whichever woman that I wanted. Unfortunately, economic conditions during my adolescence being what they were, I was generally left perusing the racks at outlet malls which carried the cool brands of last season at a discount.
To make up for this, I made regular trips to the barbershop. On the walls, there were dozens of pictures of clean-cut or curly-headed handsome men who smiled knowingly at me, hinting at how their appearance could be duplicated for my own success. The cuts I received were an imitation of what I had seen there, but mornings before school rarely left time for the primping necessary to achieve the desired look. More often than not, a wet comb was the only instrument available to keep my hair from looking like a complete disaster, and I often could only hope that it wouldn’t be sticking up by the time I caught the school bus.
Needless to say, my poor attempts at attaining beauty were generally failing in practically every regard. My thin frame did not allow me to put on the abundance of showy muscle glorified by fitness magazines, nor did any facial creams or ointments give my face the glowing, healthy appearance that I had seen portrayed by people in commercials. No perfume or cologne, no matter how immoderately applied, produced those long, sensational kisses which I had seen in magazines and so desperately longed for. From a physical standpoint, my youthful search for beauty generally ended in a sense of shame and supreme disappointment. Realizing that physical beauty was not a matter of supreme importance was not a concept I was able to comprehend then.
But age does a lot to change one’s ways of thinking. I believe I have finally gotten a grasp on beauty, and I still maintain that it is an essential characteristic for everyone and everything in life. My definition of beauty has definitely changed. At one time the word was inseparable from the idea of physical perfection. Now I can say that watching my daughter sleep soundly and wondering what she is dreaming of is beautiful to me. Beauty is my son kicking a soccer ball in the backyard while the sun sets slowly in the west. Beauty is seeing the look on my mother’s face during the holidays, when all of her children are gathered together, filling her house with laughter and tales of our childhood. Beauty is enjoying my life and those things around me. It is not only the look of something, but also the pleasurable feeling that it fills you with which inspires you to fully appreciate those things around you. Whether it is your wife, or your children, or a cool autumn rain, beauty lies in all these things. And it doesn’t fade; it lingers.

***********P.S.-- I am eagerly awaiting a whirlwhind of scathing comments.

Sundays are depressing

On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
--Johnny Cash
"Sunday Morning Coming Down"

Sunday maybe the beginning of the week nowadays, but it really only amounts to the end of a weekend. It is the day to clean yourself up, to make sure your clothes are washed, to make sure your house is in order. It's more a day of preparation for the week ahead than a day of relaxation. We've got so much to do before the grind captures us and drags us unwillingly through the upcoming week. We lay aside our youthful adventures and put on a mask to wear to work or to school, so that we can conform with the ridiculous nature of our professional existence. We have become our parents, those same people we held in such high-esteem before we realized they were human after all and not the gods and godesses of our childhood. They could do anything, we thought then. Now we know. For we have joined them, we have taken their places, we have debunked the myth of the all-knowing and all-powerful entity which sent us to bed early and fixed our dinners. We have become that which we hated during our adolescence, as surely as our own will hate us during theirs. Yes, Sunday is a day of psyching ourselves up to do it all again, not a day of rebirth or of new beginnings. That's just a bunch of feel-good mumbo-jumbo. It is part of the cycle which keeps us chained to the past and drags us forward.

I wrote a few weeks ago about a sickness which infests me from time to time--not one of suicidal ravings or such as that, but one of seclusion and isolation. I was thinking about a time in school, in the fifth grade, when I first began this periodic habit of pulling away. I was one of the top students in my class, when one day, rather suddenly and for no apparent reason (at least none that I can recall now) I decided to stop taking part in things I enjoyed. I was the kid in class who knew all of the answers (and no, I'm not just being conceited here). One day, I stopped speaking in class. I no longer wanted to prove my intelligence by working problems on the chalkboard while the class watched. I moved to the back of the room, refused my teacher's suggestions to involve myself in the class, talked to virtually no one. The ridiculous thing about my self-imposed exile was that I was enjoying myself. I had nothing to prove to anyone but myself. Some days I would feel differently, and I ached to raise my hand to speak. But usually I just sat there, feeling strangely superior to those idiots who acted the way I had before. I mocked them in my head, when they answered incorrectly or even when they were right. I laughed at their stupidity. I knew all of the answers, but I was tired of being the go-to guy. I felt a strange sense of power because I no longer played their reindeer games. And for some reason, I enjoyed the ability to cut myself off from everything. To exclude myself, a kind of fast from those things which had determined my personality and characteristics. It's almost a religious experience in a way, and I'm sure those who know me will most likely giggle at the obnoxiousness of this activity. Yet it is one of the oddities in my nature. It's what makes me a really difficult person to understand at times.
And I don't really understand it either. I don't understand it at all.

Lots of reading, no writing

Things I read today:
The Merchant of Venice --Shakespeare
"Araby" --James Joyce
"A Loaf of Bread" --James Alan McPherson
"The Swimmer" --John Cheever
"I Stand Here Ironing" --Tillie Olsen
"Uncle Ben's Choice" --Chinua Achebe

I wrote absolutely nothing all day. Tomorrow I write.
Lots of catch-up and a conference less than two weeks away.
Time to get busy writing--and that's it. No room for excuses or weak explanations.

Unfortunately, the process of writing is a painful process--like bleeding to death--slow and agonizing. Every keystoke equals a drop, until finally, there is no more. You have become the proverbial turnip, so to speak.
You collapse. You count the seconds. You breathe a few more times. You lie still.
Your eyes pop open and you're staring at the monitor again, the cursor blinking. You weaken a bit as you start typing. Somewhere you hear the drip-drip-drip of splattering blood. You've heard others say how it cleanses, how it comes so easily, how it is an unstoppable current of passion. They can't live without it, they say. It's who they are, it's what defines them, they say. But you've read the kind of stuff they write. And it's shit.
They're just too stupid to realize it.

What a night I've had!!

Left the house Friday night at 6:30; picked up one liter of Wild Turkey 101, 1/2 gal Bacardi rum. Watched Mavs lose and some Sportscenter. Had two drinks all night; returned home approx. 2:00 Saturday morning very sober, very sleepy.
WTF is really going on? I feel like I should be shopping for rocking chairs or something. Maybe something is finally catching up with me, but I keep looking back and nothing's there.

Anyway, the rest of the weekend will likely be spent working; there's a chance I'll attend a faculty function on Sunday, but it's pretty small at this time. Reeeeeaaaaallllllyyyy small. Friggin' miniscule and shit. But to all those attending --"have a great time!!"
I was wondering if Andi was back in town yet. She'll be glad to be back I'm sure, especially since the ban on sexual innuendos is over and she can get back to that and obsessing over Jake McGillicuddy or whatever.

Story ideas: I was going to post some story ideas I had come up with that I think are pretty original and noteworthy, but someone could possibly happen across my blog and steal them. I'll probably just forget them since I haven't written them down.
I'm bored and tired. Goodnight.

Three day weekends are the best

The way my schedule is arranged this semester, I am off every Friday. No need to visit the campus at all. That is truly greatness. Unfortunately, I also use this day to rest and relax. Which is also what I do on Saturday. And Sunday. I generally lay around like a useless glob of shit all weekend, then I'm up until 4 am on Monday night trying to play catch up.
Think I'm kidding? Check my blog next week. As much as I hope this doesn't happen, it always does. I'm just one lazy mf on the weekend.

Tonight I'm going to a buddy's house to watch the Mavs game and drink some beer. It's either that or stay home for Friday "Movie Night" where the kids'll be watching Fantastic 4. Beer sounds a bit more entertaining, I think. I've been feeling a little unenergetic this year regarding partying. I haven't really had that great of a time drinking in months. When I have drank lately, with every intention of getting wasted, I always find my self petering out after a few. Even the random beer at lunch has not interested me recently. My brother told me something a while back, commenting on my propensity to binge. He said that I need to start looking at alcohol as a beverage, not as a competition or sport. Point well taken. He could be right.

***Possible weekend timeline***
Shop for Valentine's Day, even though I don't want to.
Realize that anything I order online will probably not make it here in time.
Curse the world I live in.
Set out for the mall.
Wander aimlessly, look at prices. Shake head in disbelief.
Go home.
Take a nap.
Eat.
Take a nap.
Realize I'll be out of town on Valentine's Day anyway.
Pretend like I forgot, or find a way to blame it on my wife.
Wonder why my key doesn't fit the locks.
Watch from sidewalk as wife burns my books in the fireplace out of anger/hatred.
Start moving from one homeless shelter to another.
Become a heroin addict.
Spend several years on the streets being ass-raped by other homeless.
Write a best-selling novel about my experiences.
Die a holed-out drughead before it makes me any money.
Wife able to move to the Bahamas on royalties. Takes up with cabana boy named Juan Felipe.

I hate Valentine's Day.

A Rose for Emily

Tomorrow I teach Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily." Tonight must be spent in planning tomorrow's lesson. There can be nothing in the way, so that I may finish early and get lots of sleep. I woke up really late this morning and was about 5 minutes late to the daycare where I leave my son while I'm at school. The neo-Nazi at the door is a little angry-looking lady, but luckily, she was occupied with another parent. Usually, (actually, I've only been late once before) she gives a really disgusted look as she obviously looks from the clock to the parent and back to the clock. Although I understand they have a curriculum and all, and they don't want anyone to get behind or interrupt, etc., I've noticed this curriculum generally consists of gluing cotton balls to construction paper or some-such. Plus, it's not like they discount my bill if my son misses a day or a week or a month. Same price. Don't bring them late, don't pick them up late.

I hope Andi is having a grand time in NM. Today, we all sat around making jokes about how her trip was going and thinking up worst-case scenarios, but I won't publish them out of respect to the readers. It seems as though we are not hitting on all cylinders with Andi gone, but we are struggling along anyhow.The clique went to eat at our Tex-Mex place today, where Beth filled in for her. She really digs some Johnny Cash.

I picked up my new glasses. They are okay. I would've rather spent the money on books or something. I also ran by the post office to pick up a package--The Cell, Stephen King's new book (I've been in his book club forever). I will probably squeeze it in sometime over the next few months, but I have already resigned myself to the fact that it is probably just as worthless as everything else he's written in the last 10-15 years. I ran out of room in my bookshelves in my office, so all the SK books were moved to a closet shelf-- to make room for the higher-browed reading. Now I just read him out of some morbid obligation.

Lost and Invasion are on tonight. Homework may have to wait.
On a sports note -- the Dallas Mavericks have won 12 in a row, and lead San Antonio by 1/2 a game. Avery Johnson is truly awesome. Now if the Rangers could only sign Clemens . . .

Love/hate relationships

I love what I am doing. I like the reading, socializing with others who share similar interests, and the learning. I like teaching students. I do not like, however, the primary parts -- analyzing texts, reading criticism (especially the boring crap!!), staying in class until the late hours of the night. I really question my reasons for doing what I am doing, but I guess I could be repossessing big screen televisions from apartment complexes like I used to do. So I should probably quit bitching.

Game plan this evening:
1. Read secondary material for Shakespizzle, my bizzles.
2. Try to find something online which may clue me into the colloquim readings
3. Reread "The Chrysanthemums."
4. Go back over my teaching notes for it, so that I may be better prepared tomorrow.
5. Pack my bags so that I can stay at my mother's house.
6. Remind my wife that she agreed to iron some things for me about two hours ago (Not sure if I should bust out the tie this late in the semester, but am a little unsure as to what Dr. D really expects dress-wise).
7. Check email.
8. Eat dinner.
9. Clip fingernails.
10. Wash and dry some laundry.
11. Reread "A Rose for Emily." Try to find more notes/criticism relating to the text.
12. Reread "Hills Like White Elephants." Just in case.
13. Read "A Worn Path" for class tomorrow.--This should probably move up to 10.
14. Go to bed.

I was hoping to hit the sack about 10:00, but it looks more like 12:00.

I was a bit disappointed that no one finished their conference papers, not out of any spite towards the others, though. I was just saddened to learn that everyone else seemed to have gotten a lot more sleep than I did. (Sniff!). Thanks, Elise, for taking the time to give me some criticism on mine.
But we've still got a couple of weeks left.

By the way, Andi -- I hope you have a good time in NM. I trust you will act in a manner that will make us all be proud of you. Oh, and I hope your presentation goes well, too. Good luck.

Productivity is down

What a wasted weekend!!
I can't remember working so hard all weekend and getting so little accomplished. I've had two major concerns: first, the conference paper (which still isn't done); second, I may be teaching the lit class for the next week and a half.
Therefore, I've been writing my paper, reading "A Rose for Emily," writing some more, reading "Hills Like White Elephants," writing some more. I'm beginning to feel a little more pressure than I expected in this role as instructor. That doesn't include suffering through the modernism, pedagogy, and drama in my own grad courses. Men need their own version of Calgon, I think. Something that doesn't cause hangovers, though.

I seriously feel like I'm taking on a bit too much responsibility this semester. It's helping me in the long run (I hope), but right now it's kicking me square in the crotch. Between conferences, teaching, running the WC as asst. to the asst.'s assistant, et al; keeping up with my readings, completing journals, researching, etc. --I'm about to lose my fucking mind. I would probably scream at this moment, but then I'd wake up everyone in the house. Right now, I really would like to go to bed, but I need to write more on this paper. I need to get ahead, and it's not quite happening that way. Nope. Not so much. I think, over the next several weeks, I will try to back off a little, so that it doesn't start affecting my grades. I have a small fear that I may revert to my old self --- one who organized this event, headed this committee, arranged this particular thingamabob--- while the grades dramatically nose-dived. Soon after, I found myself stuck in a shit job. Well at least I've got my BA this time.

Read Graham Greene's "The Destructors" and was interested in what other people thought of it. Seemed pretty freakin' wheels-off to me. But it's exactly that type of mindless violence that is very appealing to teenage boys, especially when it involves the destruction of something (a mailbox, a bird's nest, a doll) that someone else may hold dear, but generally lacks an intent to hurt individuals physically. It's what people where I'm from would call "simple meanness." Although as an adult, I cringe at the damage because I know the difficulty and effort and pride this old man felt toward his home; as a child, I may not have agreed with it, but I would probably have been in there sawing like crazy.

Calling it a night . . .

I worked about half the day on my conference paper (which I have concluded only needs to be about a 10 minute presentation) and have half of it written. If I would have worked all day, then, simple math will tell you that I would have finished it. Sounds easy, but I know better. But I do have several pages of finely crafted BS. I only hope that my fellow accomplices are having as much success.

Stein's Three Lives is beginning to bog down, but luckily, I still have almost two weeks to finish it. Warning to all those in the same boat: After about 150 pages, you will begin to suffer from an extreme case of "tired-head."

****Random Point about Literature****
Why is it that "serious" literature has to move so slowly?

****Another Random Point about Literature****
I believe that books with ambiguous endings are just a sign of a writer being too lazy or stupid to finish it.
Could you imagine if you wrote 3/4 of a research paper, only to leave it hanging? Then it would be up to the professor to try and interpret what you really meant.

In my world, that is usually interpreted as an F.

Other things I hate:
1. Tipping waitstaff at a restaurant. Not that they don't deserve it, but you don't tip the employees in Walmart or Best Buy. Somehow, restaurants get away with paying their people shit for wages and forcing its patrons to pick up their slack. Thanks, restaurant management, for making it cost more than it should to go out and eat.

2. Toenails. Why? What possible use could they have? Besides the obvious advantage of letting them grow to about six feet long or so in order to have a picture posted in the Guinness Book of Records, they seem pointless.

3. Commercials on TV usually hawking some medical pill that never ever ever tell you what the product does that they are trying to sell you. Call your doctor, they say. WTF is the purple pill anyway? Is it really worth dealing with the anal leakage or nausea or all of the other effects? I'm doubting it.

4. People that call anonomously asking for donations or political support. You must have me confused with somebody that cares. That's also a good way to get me to not vote for your candidate.

5. Most people in general. I believe that most people are stupid. They generally confirm this when they open their mouths.

My grandmother could have been the dumbest person alive, but no one would have ever known, since she scarcely said more than a few sentences a day.

I found an interesting link to a story told by my great-grandfather (who I was also named after) dated May 31, 1921. I can't say that I share the same views, but it does give an interesting glimpse into rural East Texas during his lifetime. And it's not terribly long. Click here

Some random poetry from my disturbed past

I told Andi that I might post some of my poetry. I think this is c. 1997

The Hardened Heart

Black as a night
Void of glittering stars,
I see her hate grow inside her.
An anger as infinite as space,
So large, so immeasurable,
So hard to keep within boundaries.
Hate swells in the blackness,
And an ebony fortress
Surrounds her heart.
We sit here together,
And I talk, I explain,
While her face hangs like a corpse.
The dead eyes stare back at me,
And I try to shine a light
Through the tunnel of her mind,
Looking for the right switch.
All I can see from the outside
Is a building without light,
And without life.
I knock and knock,
But there’s no answer--
Only silence.
I look into her eyes, empty and black.
In this park, on this bench,
In this dimly-lit area,
I think of teaching her a lesson,
Breaking her silence and leaving her
For some early morning jogger.
Instead, I reach for her hand,
But she pulls away,
Not even making eye contact anymore.
I stand up and walk
Through the shadowy night,
Through the haunting trees,
Regretting ever telling her
About the other woman.

Some much needed rest and relaxation

After getting home from my night class, I went to bed about 9:00 and slept 'til about 9 this morning. I feel a little refreshed, but I must admit that I see little work getting done today, except for a few hours surfing the net and playing my Xbox. I think I may take a nap in a little while. I don't feel like I've reached the minimum number of hours of sleep I need. I should be seriously working on my conference paper by now, but alas, I think I may procrastinate at least one more day.

I visited a new optometrist today for an eye exam and a new set of glasses. They should be in sometime next week. That's about as much excitement as I can handle today. I spent almost $300 on my new glasses which doesn't include what my insurance company kicked in. Earlier in the week, I bought a tankless water heater -- one of those that supposedly provides continuous hot water -- so I'll be installing that sometime within the next few weeks, whenever it arrives. That cost about $700. My budget is feeling a little out of whack at the moment. On top of that, my wife took a week off work to stay home with my daughter who had the flu, and she called today and said she may not get paid as she had expected. Good times. We may be eating leftover SPAM all week.
On a side note, upon leaving the house this morning, I found that the garbage collectors came by today and were kind enough to throw my trash can in the middle of the back alley where some freakin' shitbird was kind enough to drive over it for me. Thanks, I appreciate that.
Y'know, it's not that hard to stop your vehicle, get out, and move it out of the alley and into my driveway. But luckily, in Texas, where everyone drives some big-ass truck or SUV, there's really no sense in doing things so politely. Especially when we can just run shit over. So that's what they did. I think, in order to exact revenge, I will spend the rest of the afternoon pulling everyone else's cans into the street and running over them.

Pondering a bunch of nonsense

I've been thinking recently about language and communication.
Not necessarily in a broad academic sense -- more of a random hey this is kinda weird sense.
For example, I was thinking of the language I use in talking to my children which can only be defined as a normal conversation where I often use fake words in place of real ones. Glim is not a word. I know this. I think almost everyone knows this. Hell, even my kids know this. Yet it is a really weird habit I have of using such a word in a sentence, perhaps one that goes like this: "Would you get me a Pepsi out of the glim?" Stupid? Yes. I probably use the word several times a day when talking to them, though I can't particularly define the actual reason. But I can't help but act a bit silly around my kids, an act which frustrates them both. My daughter is eight. She has already developed the ability to roll her eyes whenever I start rambling nonsense. I have a fear (not really a fear, more of a realization) that I will be one of those parents that's kinda cool to my kids' friends. Naturally, my kids will be utterly embarassed by me. This embarassment should grow exponentially as they age.

I also make my children sing, especially when we are in the truck (ok, Elise. I know it's an SUV. Whatever.), often as loudly as possible. Whether it's due to my own preference to sing along with songs, I'm not sure, but it sure makes an interesting road trip when there are two young children singing beer-drinking songs. Peculiar? A bit. And even a little embarassing at times. A couple of weeks ago my son (he's four) and I were in Wal-hell. He starts singing the chorus to a song. So there we are, walking through aisles of frozen pizzas, ketchup, and corn chips -- all the while, he is singing, and rather loudly "The Lord loves the drinking man . . ." Needless to say, we got some stares. Maybe I should start listening to more age-appropriate music.
Then again, I've listened to my share of Kids Bop and Barney songs.
I should get a little leeway.

I think I need to undergo a psychological evaluation:
For some reason, I've had the recent desire to listen to a lot of old rap. I'm currently listening to "U Can't Touch This" by the great yet bankrupt MC Hammer. I'm beginning to scare myself.

Please help me.