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.
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