The guy you wrote about in your blog, Cliff, passed away in his bed last night. Just thought I'd let you know.
Eric
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
I will miss this
The heat of the days causes the maple leaves to hang semi-inflated. They swing in the cooling breeze that rises off of the plains and onto this hill. There is a haze upon the main street and the population of student, teachers, administrators and business folks trade places on the sidewalk in a long drawn out square dance to the music of reving motorcycles and cars with air conditioners. In five minutes I have seen five people to whom I have recently been acquainted, and they wave, smile, or fain a sweat in the near vertical sun rays. I wait for the crossing sign with the others and make my way across the bricks trying to record in my memory their unevenness. But I will leave this place, because it is not home, and it will fade into the haze like Brigadoon and that will be fine. Athens I know your soul.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Splat
I found an unfriendly message under my wiper blade recently. The gist of the typed note expressed a certain frustration regarding my choice of parking spot and the dimensions of my "biodiesel behemoth." I studied the unsigned note, and then I walked around the van to see how it might be causing so much unhappiness. Nothing seemed particularly foul to me. The front wheels were snug against the cement parking wedge and the rear wheels were almost perfectly aligned between the white parking stripes.
The note had also made an off-color remark about the vans length. Now, there is no doubt that the van is tall and long, but it always fits well within the boundaries of the average parking spot. But, just to make sure, I looked at the distance between my rear bumper and the next row's rear bumpers and saw no significant impingement.
I just didn't get it. I just couldn't see what was the big issue. But being the good citizen of the world that I am, I took the note into consideration when I parked the big fella in the same lot later that weekend.
After a week, I went down to check on van and was relieved to discover no new communications from the secretive parking critic. I hopped in and drove out to the shopping district. When I pulled into the tight - "more is better" - parking spot at Wal-Mart I took a stroll around the van to make sure that I wasn't going to expose myself to anymore punitive comments. (Who knew where the critic might turn up.) It was then that I saw it.
About six feet up the side of the van was a dent. When I looked more closely, I noticed two greasy hand prints on either side of the dent. Closer still and I noticed the telltale scratches of a metal on metal and the scuff of a black rubber tire where it had careened off my lower body panel. In a flash, the riddle of the note became clear to me.
I had parked the van at the bottom of a steep ramp which passes between the upper and lower campus along the backside of the arts building. I could see in my mind how the cyclist was absently gliding down the walkway gaining easy speed. There's no doubt that he spotted the van from the top of the ramp but I'm guessing he underestimated the extent of the behemoth hidden beyond the corner of the building. He probably came off that ramp thinking he'd be able to just swoop behind another average-sized white, sheet-metal box on wheels, and zoom out into the quiet parking lot with room to spare.
I imagine it must have been quite a shock when the van body failed to terminate at the expected length. Fortunately - judging by the shape of the dent - the rider had the good sense to wear a helmet. Must have made an embarrassing noise though.
The note had also made an off-color remark about the vans length. Now, there is no doubt that the van is tall and long, but it always fits well within the boundaries of the average parking spot. But, just to make sure, I looked at the distance between my rear bumper and the next row's rear bumpers and saw no significant impingement.
I just didn't get it. I just couldn't see what was the big issue. But being the good citizen of the world that I am, I took the note into consideration when I parked the big fella in the same lot later that weekend.
After a week, I went down to check on van and was relieved to discover no new communications from the secretive parking critic. I hopped in and drove out to the shopping district. When I pulled into the tight - "more is better" - parking spot at Wal-Mart I took a stroll around the van to make sure that I wasn't going to expose myself to anymore punitive comments. (Who knew where the critic might turn up.) It was then that I saw it.
About six feet up the side of the van was a dent. When I looked more closely, I noticed two greasy hand prints on either side of the dent. Closer still and I noticed the telltale scratches of a metal on metal and the scuff of a black rubber tire where it had careened off my lower body panel. In a flash, the riddle of the note became clear to me.
I had parked the van at the bottom of a steep ramp which passes between the upper and lower campus along the backside of the arts building. I could see in my mind how the cyclist was absently gliding down the walkway gaining easy speed. There's no doubt that he spotted the van from the top of the ramp but I'm guessing he underestimated the extent of the behemoth hidden beyond the corner of the building. He probably came off that ramp thinking he'd be able to just swoop behind another average-sized white, sheet-metal box on wheels, and zoom out into the quiet parking lot with room to spare.
I imagine it must have been quite a shock when the van body failed to terminate at the expected length. Fortunately - judging by the shape of the dent - the rider had the good sense to wear a helmet. Must have made an embarrassing noise though.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Top three questions college students ask
1> Will this be on the midterm?
2> Will this be on the final?
3> When is the final?
2> Will this be on the final?
3> When is the final?
Email Haiku
I've been noticing lately that when an email message bounces back and forth between different client/servers certain parts of the message get shifted and highlighted in different colors by the computer's attempt to format the message. The result: email haiku.
Here is a Red Haiku where only the red highlighted words are used.
You think, where, when, stuck
use time I would be wrestling
flights and hotels, Yahoo!
A Blue Haiku has a different feel. More lyrical.
See you then, 4PM
meet you, too, and said little
forever, probably good
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Revenge of the Meatloaf
Beware the notion of comfort food or the term "home style cooking."
A Meatloaf dinner and a slice of Debbie's strawberry-rhubarb pie. That's what I thought I wanted. It sounded less challenging than the baby-back ribs and more adventurous than breakfast at 7pm.
The giant white diner plate arrived under my nose after half of my large Dr.Pepper was gone. It was mostly what I expected. There was the veggie portion: steaming bright green broccoli surrounded by a couple of wagon wheels of carrot, some tumbleweeds of cauliflower, and one shriveled green pea. Adjacent to, but not touching were the mashed potatoes: mysteriously white, without a hint of garlic, even though the menu had described them as garlic mashed potatoes. Next to which was the meatloaf: 2-inches x 2-inches x 4-inches; a brick of ground meat with hardened edges and crusts through which steaming fissures of brownish meat were visible. There was no gravy, but I was given a ramekin of BBQ sauce, and a serrated knife, which I presumed, at first, might be required for self-defense.
The knife came in handy as the meat-brick refused to give in without a fight. I used the mash potatoes as spackle, which smoothed out the rough edges of the meat, and I used the sauce as a lubricant, to help get it down. Much to my surprise, the veggies turned out to be the most flavorful part of the dinner. In the end, even though I was full, I was left with the taste of no taste in my mouth. That's when the pie called out to me. I had been told many times that people come here just for the pie. Now, I'd be willing to wager the sentence reads more like, people come here "only" for the pie.
It was a wonderful slice of pie and the waitress served it with a pretty ruffle of whipped cream from a can tucked in behind its backbone of crust. She also served it with a long parfait spoon that had previously been used to dislodge an ice jam in a blender and which now had two very jagged dings on either side of its shallow bowl. The first spoonful yielded a burst of flavor to my tongue and a couple of small abrasions to my upper lip for a sweet-sour-blood thing. When I pointed out the spoon problem to the waitress she deducted the pie from the bill.
As I walked out of the diner at 8pm, distended and distressed, I could not have predicted how the Dr.Pepper, broccoli, and meat would suddenly find their flavor at 2AM.
I should have gone with the breakfast.
A Meatloaf dinner and a slice of Debbie's strawberry-rhubarb pie. That's what I thought I wanted. It sounded less challenging than the baby-back ribs and more adventurous than breakfast at 7pm.
The giant white diner plate arrived under my nose after half of my large Dr.Pepper was gone. It was mostly what I expected. There was the veggie portion: steaming bright green broccoli surrounded by a couple of wagon wheels of carrot, some tumbleweeds of cauliflower, and one shriveled green pea. Adjacent to, but not touching were the mashed potatoes: mysteriously white, without a hint of garlic, even though the menu had described them as garlic mashed potatoes. Next to which was the meatloaf: 2-inches x 2-inches x 4-inches; a brick of ground meat with hardened edges and crusts through which steaming fissures of brownish meat were visible. There was no gravy, but I was given a ramekin of BBQ sauce, and a serrated knife, which I presumed, at first, might be required for self-defense.
The knife came in handy as the meat-brick refused to give in without a fight. I used the mash potatoes as spackle, which smoothed out the rough edges of the meat, and I used the sauce as a lubricant, to help get it down. Much to my surprise, the veggies turned out to be the most flavorful part of the dinner. In the end, even though I was full, I was left with the taste of no taste in my mouth. That's when the pie called out to me. I had been told many times that people come here just for the pie. Now, I'd be willing to wager the sentence reads more like, people come here "only" for the pie.
It was a wonderful slice of pie and the waitress served it with a pretty ruffle of whipped cream from a can tucked in behind its backbone of crust. She also served it with a long parfait spoon that had previously been used to dislodge an ice jam in a blender and which now had two very jagged dings on either side of its shallow bowl. The first spoonful yielded a burst of flavor to my tongue and a couple of small abrasions to my upper lip for a sweet-sour-blood thing. When I pointed out the spoon problem to the waitress she deducted the pie from the bill.
As I walked out of the diner at 8pm, distended and distressed, I could not have predicted how the Dr.Pepper, broccoli, and meat would suddenly find their flavor at 2AM.
I should have gone with the breakfast.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Freedom of Speech
For the past three days the students have been enjoying the company of a neatly dressed man in his late forties. He is outfitted in a leather cap, often wears suspenders, and has a camel water pack on his back. He's a working man. He starts at 9 and knocks of at 5.
The first day I spotted him he was wearing a sandwich board and though I can't recollect what the sign said I knew immediately that he was a preacher of the fire and brimstone variety. By noon on that day he had formed a small clutch of students, male and female, young and old, who were content to hear him do battle with the devil and a couple of philosophy students.
By noon today he had gathered a crowd of over 200 hundred students, soldiers, faculty members, and vendors, most of whom were drawn (as was I) by the size of the crowd and the excitement. He had also drawn in a number of frat presidental candidates, a druid priest, a street performer, and a variety of press photographers. I shot some footage which I think relates the experience pretty well.
From a distance, the roar of the crowd is remarkable. There is chanting, singing, and laughter. It makes me wonder if the Roman Colosseum sounded like this? It also makes me wonder who are the lions and who are the Christians? But all the questions aside, I am impressed that all the voices could be heard.
The first day I spotted him he was wearing a sandwich board and though I can't recollect what the sign said I knew immediately that he was a preacher of the fire and brimstone variety. By noon on that day he had formed a small clutch of students, male and female, young and old, who were content to hear him do battle with the devil and a couple of philosophy students.
By noon today he had gathered a crowd of over 200 hundred students, soldiers, faculty members, and vendors, most of whom were drawn (as was I) by the size of the crowd and the excitement. He had also drawn in a number of frat presidental candidates, a druid priest, a street performer, and a variety of press photographers. I shot some footage which I think relates the experience pretty well.
From a distance, the roar of the crowd is remarkable. There is chanting, singing, and laughter. It makes me wonder if the Roman Colosseum sounded like this? It also makes me wonder who are the lions and who are the Christians? But all the questions aside, I am impressed that all the voices could be heard.
The incredible lightness of bean
It's Wednesday. My email is quiet. My chat window is quiet. My job list is quiet. My teachers at Lesley are quiet. My students here at OU are quiet.
I have just made the first sweep of my apartment since I landed here the last week of March, back when the trees were naked and the bricks on the roadways harbored whiskers of frost in the spaces in between. Now, it is brilliantly sunny outside and the boxwood hedges in the neighboring park are waving cones of blossoms so fragrant that the spring bulbs have packed it in and gone to seed.
My video students are adapting their favorite songs to picture and I am so jealous of their young minds, as proud as boxwoods. My own music: Ben, Rickie, Roger, and Donald & Walter are making me dizzy with their pictures. When so much is blooming around you, it is difficult not to get covered in bright, sticky pollen.
But my papers need to find homes in yellow folders and my entreprenuers are waiting for their mission. They are chopping like a thousand fuzzy catapillars on their white papers, their wings of talent practically bursting from their backs.
It will be brown beans for lunch.
I have just made the first sweep of my apartment since I landed here the last week of March, back when the trees were naked and the bricks on the roadways harbored whiskers of frost in the spaces in between. Now, it is brilliantly sunny outside and the boxwood hedges in the neighboring park are waving cones of blossoms so fragrant that the spring bulbs have packed it in and gone to seed.
My video students are adapting their favorite songs to picture and I am so jealous of their young minds, as proud as boxwoods. My own music: Ben, Rickie, Roger, and Donald & Walter are making me dizzy with their pictures. When so much is blooming around you, it is difficult not to get covered in bright, sticky pollen.
But my papers need to find homes in yellow folders and my entreprenuers are waiting for their mission. They are chopping like a thousand fuzzy catapillars on their white papers, their wings of talent practically bursting from their backs.
It will be brown beans for lunch.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Tuesday Morning
It's Tuesday morning - 9:30 am. The campus looks beautiful and quiet in the sunlight. As I look out my window I notice that the students don't seem to be milling about very much this morning. I also notice that my lemon geranium has flowered. I brought it with me from Providence, a gift from my wife. I brought it with me because the last one that I left with her was allowed to shrivel and die. These blossoms are light pink with little purple tear drop petals. May be they are crying for the other plants in my wife's care. Maybe they know something I don't.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Tower of Power
tow-er of pow-er
- noun
A visiting professor who walks around all day, conducts two lectures, and meets with colleagues for lunch, while wearing his shirt inside-out.
- noun
A visiting professor who walks around all day, conducts two lectures, and meets with colleagues for lunch, while wearing his shirt inside-out.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Wide to Close
I was asked by an accomplished still photographer recently, how I approach a story on video. Without much hesitation I answered.
"I start wide, asking questions with my eyes the way a child might ask with their innocents, and then I move in closer, and closer, trying to answer each question the image begged to have answered."
It came out of my mouth like I knew the answer all along. In fact, I find myself rediscovering that answer everyday. It just happened again.
I was sitting in Perks, a coffee shop on the busy corner of Court and Union, when I noticed an older gentleman shuffling from newspaper box to newspaper box outside the shop's large windows. He was probing the coin returns as he scanned the ground for loose change. He was a large, heavy man, with shoulder length fringe of rust to white hair. His beard, also long and wild, made the mask of his face a full 10-inches wider on either side. At an age when most men are retiring he is busy looking for change left behind or caught between the bricks. My inner child asked, "Mental patient? Traveler?" as he shuffled out of view. I dubbed him Red Fred.
Red Fred appeared before me again, a day later. He was a passenger in a wealthy man's pickup truck. The truck cornered the intersection I was waiting to cross and in the brief slow motion moment when the brain tries to amend its definition of a person, I saw on his face a smile as he rocked his head to strains of classical music that escaped the wide-liner cabin. He was no longer the penniless man of questionable reality. He had people. In a day, a closer look had changed the possibilities. My inner child asked, "village idiot? incorrigible brother or uncle?"
I saw him again this morning at breakfast. It turns out that 8am Sunday morning is too early for most Athenians of the hill. I wandered around from diner to coffee shop in search of breakfast and was forced to hike into the valley where there is a 24-hour place called the Union. I spotted him as I walked in. He was sitting alone at a table talking to a younger man at the the next table, a biker who indicated that he was just passing through. I crossed to the far side of the room and sat with my back to their conversation, not wanting to get dragged in, or left out of their conversation without some choice. My blindness was illuminating.
Red Fred spoke with a smoky eloquence of a wise old gentleman. He was conversant on fishing, wilderness, engineering, and literature. He talked about his travels around the country, life in Canada and Mexico, culture, politics and religion. My inner child asked, "eccentric? stately?" and when I turned to get a closer look at him holding court with the wait staff and strangers he caught my eye and winked in a way that was indeed - stately.
In three brief encounters I experienced the discover of a man. What my eye revealed as an unfortunate existence that most would distancing themselves from, my ears unfolded into an auspicious life many would deem worth knowing personally. Distance and closeness hold many surprises like this and before breakfast was over I was to discover one more. He was a man with a real name and occupation. "My name is Cliff Craft." he said as he offered his hand, "I'm a student here."
At an age when most men are retiring, Cliff is searching for rare coins and knowledge and he succeeds by not being satisfied by the superficial view from a distance.
"I start wide, asking questions with my eyes the way a child might ask with their innocents, and then I move in closer, and closer, trying to answer each question the image begged to have answered."
It came out of my mouth like I knew the answer all along. In fact, I find myself rediscovering that answer everyday. It just happened again.
I was sitting in Perks, a coffee shop on the busy corner of Court and Union, when I noticed an older gentleman shuffling from newspaper box to newspaper box outside the shop's large windows. He was probing the coin returns as he scanned the ground for loose change. He was a large, heavy man, with shoulder length fringe of rust to white hair. His beard, also long and wild, made the mask of his face a full 10-inches wider on either side. At an age when most men are retiring he is busy looking for change left behind or caught between the bricks. My inner child asked, "Mental patient? Traveler?" as he shuffled out of view. I dubbed him Red Fred.
Red Fred appeared before me again, a day later. He was a passenger in a wealthy man's pickup truck. The truck cornered the intersection I was waiting to cross and in the brief slow motion moment when the brain tries to amend its definition of a person, I saw on his face a smile as he rocked his head to strains of classical music that escaped the wide-liner cabin. He was no longer the penniless man of questionable reality. He had people. In a day, a closer look had changed the possibilities. My inner child asked, "village idiot? incorrigible brother or uncle?"
I saw him again this morning at breakfast. It turns out that 8am Sunday morning is too early for most Athenians of the hill. I wandered around from diner to coffee shop in search of breakfast and was forced to hike into the valley where there is a 24-hour place called the Union. I spotted him as I walked in. He was sitting alone at a table talking to a younger man at the the next table, a biker who indicated that he was just passing through. I crossed to the far side of the room and sat with my back to their conversation, not wanting to get dragged in, or left out of their conversation without some choice. My blindness was illuminating.
Red Fred spoke with a smoky eloquence of a wise old gentleman. He was conversant on fishing, wilderness, engineering, and literature. He talked about his travels around the country, life in Canada and Mexico, culture, politics and religion. My inner child asked, "eccentric? stately?" and when I turned to get a closer look at him holding court with the wait staff and strangers he caught my eye and winked in a way that was indeed - stately.
In three brief encounters I experienced the discover of a man. What my eye revealed as an unfortunate existence that most would distancing themselves from, my ears unfolded into an auspicious life many would deem worth knowing personally. Distance and closeness hold many surprises like this and before breakfast was over I was to discover one more. He was a man with a real name and occupation. "My name is Cliff Craft." he said as he offered his hand, "I'm a student here."
At an age when most men are retiring, Cliff is searching for rare coins and knowledge and he succeeds by not being satisfied by the superficial view from a distance.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
De ja Vouz all over again
9:50am and I have the Donkey study room to myself. The sound track for my quiet morning in the Grateful Dead and the chitty-chat of the hippie chicks out front working the counter in their homemade clothing. They remind me of pigeons in a way. They have a dance that they do behind register. One dancer's hand wipes the counter while the other hand smashes the espresso steamer against the bin. The second dancer caps the coffee cup with her left as her right taps in the price and collects the charge. Then they step left and take the other's position. Before coffee it seems like the random, panic of clerk work. After a large iced refill it looks like art.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Vidiots
I attended a symposium last night called "How YouTube has already changed your life." The speaker was Virginia Heffernan, TV critic for the New York Times. Ms. Heffernan, an admitted video addict presented some clips and discussed their relevance in the landscape of the future, our future, "attention share." A couple things resonated for me.
The first notion: The web goes everywhere. We all know this - that's why it is called the world wide web. But, what makes this plain is the fact that videos on YouTube that are independent of language get watched and propagated by a much larger audience.
Secondly: You don't have to change what you are interested in, to find it online. When we watch TV we change channels until we find what we are interested in or (if the remote is missing) we are forced to change what we are interested in. On YouTube it's all there, in one portal.
Thirdly: News, which is provided by companies traded on the stock exchange, is not trust worthy. If a message threatens any investor, or regulator, it will be softened or spun so that the consumer feels no need to react. This defeats the entire purpose of a free press and has the same benefits as campaign financing. You've been warned.
Finally: Television is becoming a billboard for web portals. MTV is changing its programing to drive its viewers to their website. Why would they do this? Because once you are there they can feed you what it is you want to watch, when you want to watch it. In addition, their advertisers don't want to support a system that relies on repetition for response when they can benefit and track real-time reaction, which can lead to real-time purchasing.
My hope is that this trend actually refines our intellect. For years, television has had to serve to the lowest common denominator to track a mass audience. If we actually consume (devote our shares of attention to) what we are truly interested in we might not be such vidiots anymore.
The first notion: The web goes everywhere. We all know this - that's why it is called the world wide web. But, what makes this plain is the fact that videos on YouTube that are independent of language get watched and propagated by a much larger audience.
Secondly: You don't have to change what you are interested in, to find it online. When we watch TV we change channels until we find what we are interested in or (if the remote is missing) we are forced to change what we are interested in. On YouTube it's all there, in one portal.
Thirdly: News, which is provided by companies traded on the stock exchange, is not trust worthy. If a message threatens any investor, or regulator, it will be softened or spun so that the consumer feels no need to react. This defeats the entire purpose of a free press and has the same benefits as campaign financing. You've been warned.
Finally: Television is becoming a billboard for web portals. MTV is changing its programing to drive its viewers to their website. Why would they do this? Because once you are there they can feed you what it is you want to watch, when you want to watch it. In addition, their advertisers don't want to support a system that relies on repetition for response when they can benefit and track real-time reaction, which can lead to real-time purchasing.
My hope is that this trend actually refines our intellect. For years, television has had to serve to the lowest common denominator to track a mass audience. If we actually consume (devote our shares of attention to) what we are truly interested in we might not be such vidiots anymore.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
A compliment...now I must die.
I blame my Catholic upbringing. I haven't been - what my mother would consider - Catholic in many years, but for some reason I still can't trust a compliment for anything. I feel compelled to respond negatively: fight or flight, or a Jackie Chan version of both.
Woody Allen once said that Catholism's moto should be, "Die now, pay later." He saw that the status quo of the Roman church was to maintain a thin veneer of hope over a rock of ages fatalism. Small wonder when our mascot is an emaciated guy nailed to the woodwork. Good news? Happiness? That's just the start of something terrible.
Maybe someday I will take a compliment like a man - then I can die.
Woody Allen once said that Catholism's moto should be, "Die now, pay later." He saw that the status quo of the Roman church was to maintain a thin veneer of hope over a rock of ages fatalism. Small wonder when our mascot is an emaciated guy nailed to the woodwork. Good news? Happiness? That's just the start of something terrible.
Maybe someday I will take a compliment like a man - then I can die.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Mordant
I learned a new word today.
The word was presented, then repeated, for my benefit - the way a high school language lab insinuates a new word into your vocabulary. The word is mordant. Mor-Dant.
I admit, my first thought was, "This is a word about food." I was riffing off of the "dant" sound of it. Words like al dente and dental have that sound. "More-Food?" I thought. Then I saw the "e" was in fact an "a" and my attention was suddenly drawn to the other possible root, "mor," as in: morbid, mortal, morgue. "Dead-Food?" was my next thought, as I still hadn't given up on the food idea yet. Then I leap in a new direction. Dant as in Dante, writer of Divine Comedy, a tour through hell, which opened the door to the idea that, "reading your work is like a tour through hell." This could indeed be what was implied, after all, the word mordant, was presented to me by my writing mentor, about my writing.
As it turns out mordant is a little bit of all of those things. It is derived from the Middle French word, mordre, which literally means to bite - well to have bite, really. You might find this word used in place of expressions like: acerbic, scathing, caustic, and sarcastic. Apparently, I have a knack for using the hard edge of humor in the service of intelligence. Just punchlines in a divine comedy of sorts, a morsel of deadly food after a fashion.
Thank you Alex. I love my new word.
The word was presented, then repeated, for my benefit - the way a high school language lab insinuates a new word into your vocabulary. The word is mordant. Mor-Dant.
I admit, my first thought was, "This is a word about food." I was riffing off of the "dant" sound of it. Words like al dente and dental have that sound. "More-Food?" I thought. Then I saw the "e" was in fact an "a" and my attention was suddenly drawn to the other possible root, "mor," as in: morbid, mortal, morgue. "Dead-Food?" was my next thought, as I still hadn't given up on the food idea yet. Then I leap in a new direction. Dant as in Dante, writer of Divine Comedy, a tour through hell, which opened the door to the idea that, "reading your work is like a tour through hell." This could indeed be what was implied, after all, the word mordant, was presented to me by my writing mentor, about my writing.
As it turns out mordant is a little bit of all of those things. It is derived from the Middle French word, mordre, which literally means to bite - well to have bite, really. You might find this word used in place of expressions like: acerbic, scathing, caustic, and sarcastic. Apparently, I have a knack for using the hard edge of humor in the service of intelligence. Just punchlines in a divine comedy of sorts, a morsel of deadly food after a fashion.
Thank you Alex. I love my new word.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Restarted
Good News! The Ohio River Valley Authority was able to reset the Vernal breaker, thus restarting Spring. Blossoms, buds, and bees are free to continue with their business, while tulips and other flowering bulbs are encouraged to give it another try. As for the co-eds of OU - walk, don't run - to the nearest patch of open land and commence your UV therapy. That is all.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Tragedy is a word of mouth thing
I step over newspapers wrapped in their dewy plastic sleeves. There are three right in a row on College Street. It's 9 am and everyone hurries by the silent rolls, looking the other way, anywhere but at them. I look down at one and make out the word,Virginia.
When I get to the diner I am surprised to discover that the house copy of the Dispatch is stored in a holder by the door, and not scattered around the counter. No one is reading a paper today. It's just too sad. They are talking though. It goes like this. "It's a shame. So many dead." There is a long reverent pause before the tone changes, "It's a good thing he killed himself." The tone is angry, threatening, and I remember a story I once heard about a reporter who got pinned down in a firefight in Iraq. He didn't worry about dying. He wasn't concerned about pain or being captured. His overwhelming feeling was that of humiliation. For some reason, if you can't run, your body wants to fight - and if you can't fight, your body wants to crawl under a rock and die. Strange and primative.
It is four hours to Virginia Tech from Athens and some of my student here know students there. They certainly feel a kinship and the community as a whole seem to be feeling that humiliation. Maybe we aren't as evolved as we think.
When I get to the diner I am surprised to discover that the house copy of the Dispatch is stored in a holder by the door, and not scattered around the counter. No one is reading a paper today. It's just too sad. They are talking though. It goes like this. "It's a shame. So many dead." There is a long reverent pause before the tone changes, "It's a good thing he killed himself." The tone is angry, threatening, and I remember a story I once heard about a reporter who got pinned down in a firefight in Iraq. He didn't worry about dying. He wasn't concerned about pain or being captured. His overwhelming feeling was that of humiliation. For some reason, if you can't run, your body wants to fight - and if you can't fight, your body wants to crawl under a rock and die. Strange and primative.
It is four hours to Virginia Tech from Athens and some of my student here know students there. They certainly feel a kinship and the community as a whole seem to be feeling that humiliation. Maybe we aren't as evolved as we think.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Culture on the Hocking II: Saturday Night
It rained. It rained so much that the bricks were floating and shifting around like icebergs. Well, maybe not that much, but it was wet.
I met my friend Frederick for dinner, at a place called Salaam, in an alley, off Court Street. I walked through a door surrounded by purple twinkle lights, and step into another world. A world carved out of a dark sub-room of brick, cushions and carpets; a world with scents from Morocco and music from Arabia; a world where the slight Germanic woman who served me breakfast at the organic bakery led me past the belly dancer, through the salons, to my own corner table in the back.
If you hadn't guessed. Salaam serves middle-eastern food, really good middle-eastern food - here in Appalachia. And yes, there is a belly dancer, a really good belly dancer, directly from Appalachia. Frederick and I started with the Mezze Platter as we talked about politics and curriculum. Meanwhile, the tables around us cleared, filled, and cleared again. Frederick ordered the special: a bed of rice and cuscus covered in ripe olives and braised chicken thighs. He didn't offer me one bite.
I had the spanakopita. A giant nine-inch triangle of spinach, feta, and who cares what else, wrapped in a flaky phyllo dough that might have changed my mind about all phyllo doughs forever. It was every man for himself.
While we were grazing through a pile of pita bread at the end of the meal, a group of young French speaking students walked out of the rain and filled a large table near by. The belly dancer came over to entertain them and before we knew it the entire table had joined in, spinning and gyrating like dervishes. As it turned out, one of the young women at their table had studied belly dancing and treated everyone to a "call and answer" style dance-off with the house dancer. Fingers were snapping, feet were stomping, and hip bells were ringing. I believe the gentleman at their table had a close brush with nirvana.
Frederick and I clapped along respectfully while we waited for our check, and then parted company in the alley as the rain got just a tad heavier. Well, enough that the catfish were heading up hill.
I met my friend Frederick for dinner, at a place called Salaam, in an alley, off Court Street. I walked through a door surrounded by purple twinkle lights, and step into another world. A world carved out of a dark sub-room of brick, cushions and carpets; a world with scents from Morocco and music from Arabia; a world where the slight Germanic woman who served me breakfast at the organic bakery led me past the belly dancer, through the salons, to my own corner table in the back.
If you hadn't guessed. Salaam serves middle-eastern food, really good middle-eastern food - here in Appalachia. And yes, there is a belly dancer, a really good belly dancer, directly from Appalachia. Frederick and I started with the Mezze Platter as we talked about politics and curriculum. Meanwhile, the tables around us cleared, filled, and cleared again. Frederick ordered the special: a bed of rice and cuscus covered in ripe olives and braised chicken thighs. He didn't offer me one bite.
I had the spanakopita. A giant nine-inch triangle of spinach, feta, and who cares what else, wrapped in a flaky phyllo dough that might have changed my mind about all phyllo doughs forever. It was every man for himself.
While we were grazing through a pile of pita bread at the end of the meal, a group of young French speaking students walked out of the rain and filled a large table near by. The belly dancer came over to entertain them and before we knew it the entire table had joined in, spinning and gyrating like dervishes. As it turned out, one of the young women at their table had studied belly dancing and treated everyone to a "call and answer" style dance-off with the house dancer. Fingers were snapping, feet were stomping, and hip bells were ringing. I believe the gentleman at their table had a close brush with nirvana.
Frederick and I clapped along respectfully while we waited for our check, and then parted company in the alley as the rain got just a tad heavier. Well, enough that the catfish were heading up hill.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Culture on the Hocking
A Friday night in Athens. Somehow I missed it the last time I was here. I think it is because my apartment was so far away from the town, and the rain was so continuous that it was difficult to motivate myself to go out after I got warm and dry. This time I'm less than a 100 yard dash to all the action, although action isn't really the right word for it.
For example: I began the night's adventure at the Donkey. There was a duet performing by the name of Ukulele Typewriter, a name that I thought was intended to sound av ante guard. I squeezed into the back room, paid my three bucks, and looked up to the stage to see two young men setting up their instruments. One had a ukulele, and the other had a Brother Selectric Typewriter. As they prepared to start the Ukist(?) placed a piece of sheet music on his stand, and the typist rolled a form into his typewriter. They paused for a brief introduction, and then the typist explained that he would be filling out a 1040a form during this number. He hit the carriage return, and the Ukist launched into tax man by the Beatles. It was magical.
My brother Dwight had one of those typewriters and I used to play with it whenever he could not whack me. The click-snap of the key strikes are indeed musical. The backspace key makes a nice high-hat sound (Phsss-Shht) and the shift key creates a superb bass kick. As a trained percussionist this guy was able to make the ugly little artifact of office equipment rock.
I stayed for three songs, before the room started to close in on me. There seemed to be about 150 people in a room full of chairs and tables and only one exit. Contributing to my wary/paranoia was the fact that my decaf was more like a three-caf. I couldn't sit anymore, and I probably wouldn't sleep very soon so I ventured down court street - the Bourbon Street of Athens.
The natives are either restless or smart. The students move en mass from bar to bar, chasing drink specials, an activity locals call the Court Street Shuffle. One text message can turn a full house into a vacant bar in a matter of minutes. The bars know this, and program multiple events into the early (11pm to 1am) part of their schedules, which keeps the crowd moving.
I'm more comfortable in a place where there are at least a few sober adults so I shuffled to the Cantina. The Cantina is a the oldest co-op, employee owned, establishment in Athens and draws locals, professors, and a few precocious students. They serve mostly vegan and locally grown food, along with beer, wine, and liquor from all over. Unfortunately, I got there just as they started demanding a cover charge. I opted not to fork out anymore money for music and turned around heading for home when I remembered that the Student Union, called the Baker Center, had a midnight movie.
I got there with time to spare and took the time to tour the new five-story building. It's built on a hill which makes it look like a two-story building from the top and the tower of Babel from the bottom. The building's literature is proud to point out that it has the only escalator for seventy miles. It also has a two-acre food court on the bottom floor, along with a high-end restaurant and bar. What's not open space is dedicated to student organizations and entertainment. I made my way to the 500 seat theater for the Midnight Show: Brokeback Mountain.
Twenty international students, a handful of drunk freshmen girls, and two senior citizens joined me for the two-and-a-half show. I'm not sure any of us understood what Heath Ledger was saying, but the shots were beautiful.
When the show was over at 2:30am. I walked across the campus, pass clutches of drunken youths, curbside food trucks, sidewalk musicians, and a few students just on their way out. The night is young to them, but it is clear by their deference for me, that I am not.
For example: I began the night's adventure at the Donkey. There was a duet performing by the name of Ukulele Typewriter, a name that I thought was intended to sound av ante guard. I squeezed into the back room, paid my three bucks, and looked up to the stage to see two young men setting up their instruments. One had a ukulele, and the other had a Brother Selectric Typewriter. As they prepared to start the Ukist(?) placed a piece of sheet music on his stand, and the typist rolled a form into his typewriter. They paused for a brief introduction, and then the typist explained that he would be filling out a 1040a form during this number. He hit the carriage return, and the Ukist launched into tax man by the Beatles. It was magical.
My brother Dwight had one of those typewriters and I used to play with it whenever he could not whack me. The click-snap of the key strikes are indeed musical. The backspace key makes a nice high-hat sound (Phsss-Shht) and the shift key creates a superb bass kick. As a trained percussionist this guy was able to make the ugly little artifact of office equipment rock.
I stayed for three songs, before the room started to close in on me. There seemed to be about 150 people in a room full of chairs and tables and only one exit. Contributing to my wary/paranoia was the fact that my decaf was more like a three-caf. I couldn't sit anymore, and I probably wouldn't sleep very soon so I ventured down court street - the Bourbon Street of Athens.
The natives are either restless or smart. The students move en mass from bar to bar, chasing drink specials, an activity locals call the Court Street Shuffle. One text message can turn a full house into a vacant bar in a matter of minutes. The bars know this, and program multiple events into the early (11pm to 1am) part of their schedules, which keeps the crowd moving.
I'm more comfortable in a place where there are at least a few sober adults so I shuffled to the Cantina. The Cantina is a the oldest co-op, employee owned, establishment in Athens and draws locals, professors, and a few precocious students. They serve mostly vegan and locally grown food, along with beer, wine, and liquor from all over. Unfortunately, I got there just as they started demanding a cover charge. I opted not to fork out anymore money for music and turned around heading for home when I remembered that the Student Union, called the Baker Center, had a midnight movie.
I got there with time to spare and took the time to tour the new five-story building. It's built on a hill which makes it look like a two-story building from the top and the tower of Babel from the bottom. The building's literature is proud to point out that it has the only escalator for seventy miles. It also has a two-acre food court on the bottom floor, along with a high-end restaurant and bar. What's not open space is dedicated to student organizations and entertainment. I made my way to the 500 seat theater for the Midnight Show: Brokeback Mountain.
Twenty international students, a handful of drunk freshmen girls, and two senior citizens joined me for the two-and-a-half show. I'm not sure any of us understood what Heath Ledger was saying, but the shots were beautiful.
When the show was over at 2:30am. I walked across the campus, pass clutches of drunken youths, curbside food trucks, sidewalk musicians, and a few students just on their way out. The night is young to them, but it is clear by their deference for me, that I am not.
Friday, April 13, 2007
What can possible go wrong?
This is why good television requires schooling.
http://www.forcedshaving.com/2005/01/28/worst-weather-report-ever/
http://www.forcedshaving.com/2005/01/28/worst-weather-report-ever/
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Boomerang
Travel is a strange series of unnatural, counterintuitive events. You drive west to go east. You fly south to go north. You sit around with strangers for ten hours so you can sit around with family for two. See what I mean?
When I fly I like to sit by a window so that I can shake the feeling that I am in a aluminum tube that is hurtling through the air, higher than the Himilayas, with way too many people sitting way to close for comfort. I press my face against the smeary plexi and enjoy all the imaginary foot room below the wing. Nowadays, it is one of the most spiritual things I do, making the term mass transit just a little bit more ironic.
On the home front, after the parking lots, shuttles, planes, trains, people movers, and buses I fall into a rythym. Like that plexiglass window, it's nice and comforting to hold the people we love so close to our face. From there you can see your past, your future, and you can ignore the strangers all around. It makes the journey worth every expense.
But like a boomerang, the inertia reaches it apex where you pause for a moment and then watch helplessly as your destination pulls you back into the bus, the tube, Ohio, where you drive east to find yourself farther from home.
When I fly I like to sit by a window so that I can shake the feeling that I am in a aluminum tube that is hurtling through the air, higher than the Himilayas, with way too many people sitting way to close for comfort. I press my face against the smeary plexi and enjoy all the imaginary foot room below the wing. Nowadays, it is one of the most spiritual things I do, making the term mass transit just a little bit more ironic.
On the home front, after the parking lots, shuttles, planes, trains, people movers, and buses I fall into a rythym. Like that plexiglass window, it's nice and comforting to hold the people we love so close to our face. From there you can see your past, your future, and you can ignore the strangers all around. It makes the journey worth every expense.
But like a boomerang, the inertia reaches it apex where you pause for a moment and then watch helplessly as your destination pulls you back into the bus, the tube, Ohio, where you drive east to find yourself farther from home.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Puppet Shows
Cooler weather has brought back a bit of the focus of my students - thankfully. The first few lectures were brutal - hot, sweaty, and interrupted by snores. These past few have been much more active and students have started to engage with me. If I can have another week of 50 degree afternoons, I might actually start to recognize them with their eyes open.
Meanwhile, the labs and exercises continue to be successful. The students jump in with both feet, stumble around a while, and then start to make the leaps the problems were meant to lead them to.
I tried something on Monday that met with mixed success. I brought a camera into the lecture, along with some action figures (Pirates of the Caribbean) and selected students at random to frame the shots I asked for. They liked the challenge, but they seemed to like my interaction with Capt. Jack Sparrow, Elizabeth, and Will Taylor even more. I guess everyone loves a puppet show.
Meanwhile, the labs and exercises continue to be successful. The students jump in with both feet, stumble around a while, and then start to make the leaps the problems were meant to lead them to.
I tried something on Monday that met with mixed success. I brought a camera into the lecture, along with some action figures (Pirates of the Caribbean) and selected students at random to frame the shots I asked for. They liked the challenge, but they seemed to like my interaction with Capt. Jack Sparrow, Elizabeth, and Will Taylor even more. I guess everyone loves a puppet show.
Week Two
The trees are full of blossoms and little baby leaves this first week of April and as you can see by the "flowers" on my lawn, the weather has caused all sorts of new life to spring up on South College Street. One of the most fascinating rites of spring here are the bean-bag tournaments. (Guess they outlawed the Jart here too.) It seems just about any house or building inhabited by more than four OU students will have a couple of these panels posted on the lawn. It is not played all the time but when it is, the matches can go on and on like a cricket tournament. Also there seems to be a rule about men playing shirtless and howling after like coyotes after each toss.
Friday, March 30, 2007
The Room with a View
This is the lawn outside my apartment window on a sunny Friday in the end of March. Poor-poor me.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Perp Parade
It has happened twice now. Both times I was heading over to the Donkey, Athens best coffee house and study lounge with high-speed internet access. The Donkey is right next door to the Athens County Sherif Department and right up the street from the court house. When the court opens for business, the Sherif marches the nightly haul of evil doers, dressed in orange and white jail house jammies, and dayglow slippers to the cross walk and over to the judge.
The first time, it was two young men, hand-cuffed, hip tied, and shuffling in leg shackles. Although both men were well into their twenties, the expression on their faces was exactly like kids being sent off to their room after getting caught throwing rocks at a vacant house. This morning the parade featured two young women, one small and short, the other tall, and lanky. They were only handcuffed together, but their odd size obviously caused them discomfort as they each tried to dominate or accommodate the other's gate. Their expressions were less repentant than the men I saw. Their eyes were full of disgust, and they blazed when the Sherif gently asked them to "gitty-up" when the crossing light changed to the striding icon.
I thought to whisper, "Walk, don't run," as I passed in the opposite direction but I figured that those jammies could make anyone cranky enough to kick a smart-ass on their way to arraignment.
The first time, it was two young men, hand-cuffed, hip tied, and shuffling in leg shackles. Although both men were well into their twenties, the expression on their faces was exactly like kids being sent off to their room after getting caught throwing rocks at a vacant house. This morning the parade featured two young women, one small and short, the other tall, and lanky. They were only handcuffed together, but their odd size obviously caused them discomfort as they each tried to dominate or accommodate the other's gate. Their expressions were less repentant than the men I saw. Their eyes were full of disgust, and they blazed when the Sherif gently asked them to "gitty-up" when the crossing light changed to the striding icon.
I thought to whisper, "Walk, don't run," as I passed in the opposite direction but I figured that those jammies could make anyone cranky enough to kick a smart-ass on their way to arraignment.
Laundry Day
Wednesday is a quiet day. A good day for a guy to do his laundry in a girl's dorm.
After a quick sort and a scramble for quarters I made my way to Voight Hall's basement. I loaded both machines with soap, water, clothes, and $1.75 in coins, and then headed off on some errands. A half hour later I moved my stuff into two driers. Forty minutes later the entire pile was folded and ready for business.
In preparation for class, I selected a pair of toasty slacks from the top of the pile to replace the sweat pants I usually grace laundry day with. I was looking good and feeling great as I locked my dorm door behind me and started toward the Radio and Television building across the street. I was about halfway there when I detected a thin, scratchy strip of material wedged down the left leg of my pants. When I took another step, I could tell that this thing was on the move.
"Dryer sheet," I thought to myself. Those gauzy things that are supposed to keep your stuff from clinging yet somehow manage to cling to everything. I did an about face and made my way back inside Voight hall just in time to see the rumple appear at my ankle. I lifted my leg so that I could gracefully pull the wad out only to discover what I thought was a cling free sheet was one of my laundry room mate's frilly, purple and white thongs - a gift of the dryer's black hole.
I stuffed the floss like garment into my pocket and walked quietly down to the laundry room where I placed it on a hook intended for unclaimed laundry. I did not see a soul. After all, it was Wednesday, a quiet day, a good day for a guy to do his laundry in a girl's dorm.
After a quick sort and a scramble for quarters I made my way to Voight Hall's basement. I loaded both machines with soap, water, clothes, and $1.75 in coins, and then headed off on some errands. A half hour later I moved my stuff into two driers. Forty minutes later the entire pile was folded and ready for business.
In preparation for class, I selected a pair of toasty slacks from the top of the pile to replace the sweat pants I usually grace laundry day with. I was looking good and feeling great as I locked my dorm door behind me and started toward the Radio and Television building across the street. I was about halfway there when I detected a thin, scratchy strip of material wedged down the left leg of my pants. When I took another step, I could tell that this thing was on the move.
"Dryer sheet," I thought to myself. Those gauzy things that are supposed to keep your stuff from clinging yet somehow manage to cling to everything. I did an about face and made my way back inside Voight hall just in time to see the rumple appear at my ankle. I lifted my leg so that I could gracefully pull the wad out only to discover what I thought was a cling free sheet was one of my laundry room mate's frilly, purple and white thongs - a gift of the dryer's black hole.
I stuffed the floss like garment into my pocket and walked quietly down to the laundry room where I placed it on a hook intended for unclaimed laundry. I did not see a soul. After all, it was Wednesday, a quiet day, a good day for a guy to do his laundry in a girl's dorm.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
First Day of Classes
I got it all. The full-on blast of academia (which I now believe is a chemical imbalance in the blood). The issue is four classes competing for a limited supply of equipment. There is a meeting scheduled Friday. I might be invited.
My first class took place at 1pm in an undersized, stuffy classroom. Temperature was about 85 degrees and the predominate odor was flip-flop foot. The forty, primarily second year students, managed to stay awake for my introduction but better than a third of them were swinging their heads after an half-hour. The good news: they are smart and enthusiastic about almost everything except sitting still. I definitely have sympathy for all the instructors I've know who have had to face a sleepy class. Tough crowd.
My second class took place in the evening (after I took a nap and had my second breakfast complete with coffee). This group was mostly seniors and much better connected with each other and uninhibited with me. I designed a PowerPoint presentation about Myers-Briggs based on the characters from LOST. The bad news: only two of the twenty student had ever watched the program. I suddenly felt like I had dropped onto an island in the middle of nowhere.
I was relieved to have 8pm roll by.
My first class took place at 1pm in an undersized, stuffy classroom. Temperature was about 85 degrees and the predominate odor was flip-flop foot. The forty, primarily second year students, managed to stay awake for my introduction but better than a third of them were swinging their heads after an half-hour. The good news: they are smart and enthusiastic about almost everything except sitting still. I definitely have sympathy for all the instructors I've know who have had to face a sleepy class. Tough crowd.
My second class took place in the evening (after I took a nap and had my second breakfast complete with coffee). This group was mostly seniors and much better connected with each other and uninhibited with me. I designed a PowerPoint presentation about Myers-Briggs based on the characters from LOST. The bad news: only two of the twenty student had ever watched the program. I suddenly felt like I had dropped onto an island in the middle of nowhere.
I was relieved to have 8pm roll by.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Dinner with my associates at the Blue Gator
Just came back from dinner at the Blue Gator, the town's only blues venue owned by former hostage Terry Anderson. The menu features caijun, memphis and criole standards. I had the meatloaf.
We had the place to ourselves as there was no band. I shared the meal with my fellow instructors and now I can't tell if I'm inspired or undone. They are smart, committed people who love what they do and are fierce about having any element compromised. They've set a very high standard for me and I hope I don't disappoint them.
While we were eating a former student of mine dropped in on us to say hello and to mention that he had just gotten accepted to CalArt for a MFA in film. I was very pleased when he recognized me but it brought home what a fleeting experience teaching is. You help a bunch of kids find their way in the world and a few really catch fire and exceed your own accomplishments. Next year, you get a whole new crop.
We had the place to ourselves as there was no band. I shared the meal with my fellow instructors and now I can't tell if I'm inspired or undone. They are smart, committed people who love what they do and are fierce about having any element compromised. They've set a very high standard for me and I hope I don't disappoint them.
While we were eating a former student of mine dropped in on us to say hello and to mention that he had just gotten accepted to CalArt for a MFA in film. I was very pleased when he recognized me but it brought home what a fleeting experience teaching is. You help a bunch of kids find their way in the world and a few really catch fire and exceed your own accomplishments. Next year, you get a whole new crop.
They're Baaaacccckkk!
What a lovely day. Sunny and warm enough for shirt sleeves. I wandered around the main square today trying to familiarize myself with the landmarks and available cuisine. The Diner is still here and in full operation but I've resisted the temptation to go there just yet - mainly for caloric reasons. I indulged every food craving I had on the drive out to Ohio, which has left me feeling a little bloated.
I did some writing this afternoon as I watched nervous parents releasing their young into the gene pool that is Athens. My neighborhood, South College Street, is also the home of many of the campus' Greek organizations (Fraternal - not like you Alana), and the beer drinking, shirtless boys made a great show of enthusiasm for any female who happened to be in the company of a parent. One mother, late forties, surprised them back when she mistook their attention for herself and shouted, "Thank you - handsome boys!"
The boys disguised their embarrassment by hiding their face behind a quick swig from their beer cup.
I did some writing this afternoon as I watched nervous parents releasing their young into the gene pool that is Athens. My neighborhood, South College Street, is also the home of many of the campus' Greek organizations (Fraternal - not like you Alana), and the beer drinking, shirtless boys made a great show of enthusiasm for any female who happened to be in the company of a parent. One mother, late forties, surprised them back when she mistook their attention for herself and shouted, "Thank you - handsome boys!"
The boys disguised their embarrassment by hiding their face behind a quick swig from their beer cup.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Getting aclimated
It Staurday night at 11:30 and the students have started to return. They are babies. Seriously, small young cheribs with almost no form. They scuff around in their flip-flops and fresh faces reciting vulgar lines from hip-hop songs. Welcome Spring 2007!!
Greetings from Athens
I made it.
It was a 700 miles Odyssey which I'm very glad I started at 11pm Wednesday night. With the help of my trusty British accented GPS device I was able to make it through the New Jersey Turnpike "Fruit Loop" with only one brief visit to Bayonne. After that it was a pleasant jaunt down the Penn Turnpike until Carlisle PA. There, I pulled off at at Flying J truck stop for fuel and a nap. The refueling was a bit complicated because of an issue with my credit card and a pump that didn't want to release its product. The nap went well, until the leaf blower men surrounded my van in an attempt to free a plastic bag that had lodged itself to my undercarriage. They dueled with the bag for five minutes of choking two-stroke fumes before I hopped out with my light-blocking eye-shades on top of my head and bellied under the van to seize the rouge bag for them. They accepted the bag from me and then tossed it on the ground so that they could chase it off the property with their three horsepower noisemakers.
The trip from Carlisle to Athens took another six hours along the Mason Dixon line. I remained alert and entertained by the sequence of 2100 plus foot high eastern continental divides and the antics of couple of over-sized cement trucks playing chicken with a nuclear waste hauler and a gasoline tanker on the down slopes of the Cumberland Gap. Ah, another metaphor for life.
I pulled into Athens round 4pm and was loaded into my apartment by 4:30. I proceeded directly to bed for what I thought would be a nice three hour nap but was woken a half-hour later by an OU grounds keeper who was fighting a head wind with an underpowered, un-muffled leaf blower outside my window.
We are doomed.
It was a 700 miles Odyssey which I'm very glad I started at 11pm Wednesday night. With the help of my trusty British accented GPS device I was able to make it through the New Jersey Turnpike "Fruit Loop" with only one brief visit to Bayonne. After that it was a pleasant jaunt down the Penn Turnpike until Carlisle PA. There, I pulled off at at Flying J truck stop for fuel and a nap. The refueling was a bit complicated because of an issue with my credit card and a pump that didn't want to release its product. The nap went well, until the leaf blower men surrounded my van in an attempt to free a plastic bag that had lodged itself to my undercarriage. They dueled with the bag for five minutes of choking two-stroke fumes before I hopped out with my light-blocking eye-shades on top of my head and bellied under the van to seize the rouge bag for them. They accepted the bag from me and then tossed it on the ground so that they could chase it off the property with their three horsepower noisemakers.
The trip from Carlisle to Athens took another six hours along the Mason Dixon line. I remained alert and entertained by the sequence of 2100 plus foot high eastern continental divides and the antics of couple of over-sized cement trucks playing chicken with a nuclear waste hauler and a gasoline tanker on the down slopes of the Cumberland Gap. Ah, another metaphor for life.
I pulled into Athens round 4pm and was loaded into my apartment by 4:30. I proceeded directly to bed for what I thought would be a nice three hour nap but was woken a half-hour later by an OU grounds keeper who was fighting a head wind with an underpowered, un-muffled leaf blower outside my window.
We are doomed.
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