Little Boxes

I find the world a frustrating place, oftentimes. Malvina Reynolds understands why.

Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky tacky,
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same.
There’s a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they’re all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And the people in the houses
All went to the university,
Where they were put in boxes
And they came out all the same,
And there’s doctors and lawyers,
And business executives,
And they’re all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf course
And drink their martinis dry,
And they all have pretty children
And the children go to school,
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university,
Where they are put in boxes
And they come out all the same.

And the boys go into business
And marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
There’s a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they’re all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

The Power of Books, or Why I Don’t Own a Kindle

I don’t own a Kindle. I don’t want a Kindle. I don’t believe they’re the future of books, and I have no use for one. Before I explain why, though, let me concede that I do understand that they have a few perfectly valid uses.

Recently, while talking about the enormous novel Invisible Man in English III AP, the discussion turned to Ellison’s use of a single word: “opportunity.” While the students and I thumbed through our books, furiously searching for occurrences of the word, searching for a pattern in the text, a girl at the back who had been reading the book on her Kindle raised a hand and said, “I’ve got them all right here. Kindle lets me search the text.” I was dumbfounded. For the purposes of scholarly interaction with a novel, an e-reader could act as an immediately accessible concordance to any text. What a boon!

Similarly, I have an acquaintance who has spent the last few years of her life laboring over her doctoral thesis, and she squeezes in a few minutes of work anywhere and any time she can. The challenging part of that arrangement, of course, is having the thousands of pages of reference materials that she might need at any given moment readily available for her perusal. She explained to me that she has loaded all of those documents into her Kindle, and it is her personal reference library for working when she’s not at home. This seems like a fantastic idea.

Of course, the paragraphs above are about the kinds of books used for research and academia. For many people, though, the “book vs. digital” debate isn’t about research at all; it’s about leisure reading. They wonder whether the Kindle will replace their trusty, well-thumbed copies of their favorite novels.  A relatively small percentage of the books I read are the subjects of academic debate. They’re mostly just for my personal enjoyment. In this context, I just love books…real books. I carry them around, and people ask me what I’m reading. Many interesting conversations have begun this way. I write in the margins, and years later I can see what I was thinking and how I reacted to the events I read. I lend them to friends, and the physical passage of a book from one hand to another carries far more weight than a simple recommendation to download this or that file. I browse book stores for first editions and signed copies of my favorite novels, and my personal library grows constantly. My collection has not only monetary value; it is also a record of ideas with which I’ve interacted, roads I have traveled in my mind. One day, my collection will be passed on to another generation of readers.

Let me relate a couple of anecdotes that illustrate my point.

On the bookshelf at my house, there’s a hardcover copy of a novel called The Monarch of Deadman Bay by Roger Caras. It’s a good book, but it’s not great. It’s the life story of a Kodiak bear. It’s on my shelf today because, for as long as I can remember, it’s always been in my house. When I was a child, there were a few books in our house, but my parents didn’t keep a personal library or anything. The Monarch of Deadman Bay, though, was one of the relatively few “adult” books we had in the house. My father had read it. I don’t know where he got it, and he and I never talked about it, but when I was old enough to handle it (about 13 years, as I recall), I read and enjoyed the book. When I moved out of my parents’ house, I asked them if I could take it with me. I don’t know if they understood why; in fact, I’m quite sure that they had both forgotten they even owned it. Now, it stands on my bookshelf, the only volume in my library that both my father and I have read. I don’t mean that we both read books with the same title; we both read THIS book. My copy of The Monarch of Deadman Bay is a story my father and I have both experienced. We’ve both held those very pages between our fingers and followed the adventures of that Kodiak bear. One day, when my father is gone, The Monarch of Deadman Bay will be one of the clearest symbols of the connection he and I share. It just wouldn’t be the same if he and I had read the same electronic file on a Kindle.

As I said earlier, I collect signed editions of novels I love. Yes, they’re relatively few and far between. Yes, the search for a reasonably priced copy can be a rather long one. None of this deters me, though. Each time I open a signed copy of one of my favorite novels, I know that I’m handling a volume that has also been handled by its creator. My connection to the author and the text takes on a deeper level of meaning. In a few truly fantastic moments, I have had the privilege of meeting some amazing authors and chatting with them while they signed my copies of their books for me. To date, I’ve met Tim O’Brien, Sherman Alexie, Sandra Cisneros, Karl Marlantes, Gary Paulsen, and Tea Obreht. Each of them has signed a book (or two, if I’m lucky) for me. Talking to these authors about their work in person is a kind of interaction, scholarship, and good will unlike any other in the literary world, and it’s all predicated on the idea of book signings. Without books, I seriously doubt authors would hold events where they met with readers to click their Kindles.

Finally, I love having books in my home. Those of you who’ve visited me know that I have two six-foot bookshelves in my living room and an entire wall of books in my foyer that reaches up to the ceiling. To sit on my sofa is to be surrounded by hundreds of books. Guests in my house often get up and pore over the bookshelves, looking for familiar titles or wondering what I’ve been reading. When they find a title they know, we often share wonderful conversations about books we’ve both read. When they see something of interest, I’m happy to lend out a copy so we can talk about it later. As Micki’s kids become increasingly aware of the books on my shelves, I want them to see that books–and by association, knowledge, art, and culture–have value and hold an important place in my heart, my mind, and my home. A collection of files on an e-reader just can’t do that.

So go ahead and use your Kindle, if you like, but please for the love of God, stop asking me why I don’t have one and explaining how it’s just so much more convenient than my “old-fashioned” books. My love of books transcends a love of words and stories. I love the books themselves. They have a value for me that electronic text never can. If you want to talk about this, come on over to my living room, and let’s discuss it amongst the books.

Flip-Flops

I hereby enact the Anti-Flip-Flop Act of 2011.

I’ve been in Texas for about ten years, now, and I have to say that I’m kinda getting used to the place. I’ve learned to either embrace, tolerate, or ignore the many quirks–and there ARE many–that characterize this large, strange, ridiculously warm land. One quirk that I cannot rectify in any of the aforementioned ways, though, is this: Texans think flip-flops are shoes.

I’m not kidding. Texans will wear flip-flops to dinner, to the mall, while they drive, while in class, and even to work, unless somebody tells them not to. (And if somebody DOES tell them not to, they’ll pitch a fit. Trust me. I’ve seen this first-hand.) I don’t understand this obsession, this righteous indignance that flip-flops are appropriate footwear anyplace besides one’s own home or the beach.

Let’s examine this seriously, shall we?

First of all, flip-flops are generally made of a piece of half-inch thick sheet foam which has been punctured in three places so that a plastic strap can be attached. They offer absolutely no support for one’s arches or ankles, and they encourage flat-footedness, which can lead to knee and back problems. They provide little or no cushion between one’s foot and the ground, making every step a jarring impact for the entire skeleton. Face it, people, they’re just not healthy.

One of the primary functions of shoes is to protect one’s feet from all manner of external harm. Let’s say, for example, that you nudge a book off the corner of your desk as you walk by. Not just any book, either–a big book. Let’s imagine the completse works of Shakespeare. There’s at least a fair chance that Shakespeare will land on your foot after you bump it off the desk. If you’re wearing shoes, it’s most likely that the book will bounce off your foot, give you quite a surprise, and leave you–at worst–with bruises on your toe and your pride. If you’re wearing flip-flops, though, the possibility of a broken toe or broken bones in your instep is very real in this scenario. Shakespeare and I agree: Methinks thy flimsy flip-flops place thy feet/in danger’s way, O stubborn southern folk.

Similarly, imagine that you’re going about your daily chores on a pleasant, but slightly chilly, spring or autumn day. It’s 55 degrees outside, and you’re wearing your flip-flops as you dash in and out of Sam’s Club, Target, Hastings, or wherever else you need to go. Suddenly, it begins to rain. 55 degrees with warm, dry feet is very different from 55 degrees with cold, wet feet, and you’re likely to find yourself at least very uncomfortable, and possibly very sick. I don’t even need to mention snow, do I? On the reverse end of the spectrum, let’s imagine that you accidentally catch the handle of a boiling pot of soup on the sleeve of your shirt and it all comes pouring down your front. If you’re in shoes, you’ve got a messy kitchen. If you’re in flip-flops, you’ve got severely scalded feet.

Sometimes, people need to run. Have you ever watched someone run in flip-flops? It’s ridiculous. If it doesn’t cause him or her to fall down, it will at least give the impression that he or she runs like an eighteen-month-old child and is likely to execute a slow motion faceplant at any moment. There is no way to run at top speed in flip-flops. Now imagine that you’re out in the front yard, mowing the grass, when your toddler’s toy truck rolls out into the street. The little tyke didn’t bother to look up and notice that a very real truck is coming down the street, too, and you need to run like a sonofabitch to keep him from getting pancaked. If your flip-flops slow you down by so much as a moment while you run–or even the moment it takes you to kick them off so you CAN run–that moment could prove unbelievably costly. I’m not making light of this scenario; there are many times when the ability to run might make an important difference: catching a plane, getting to class on time, avoiding a person or animal who’s attacking you…the list goes on.

Consider driving. The very nature of flip-flops makes them a genuine hazard while driving. Say you need to stomp on the brakes, and do so, only to have your foot slip right out of your “shoe” as you try, in a panic, to apply enormous downward pressure. Suddenly, you’re not applying the brakes any more. Or maybe you’re driving and one of your flip-flops comes off. As you fish around on the floorboard trying to find it, you’re not watching the road very carefully, are you? Even if you decide to ignore the flip-flop that has slipped off your foot, it could end up under the pedals, making you unable to brake or accelerate to avoid obstacles in the road. Any one of these scenarios could lead you to injure or kill yourself, your family, or a car full of strangers.

There are parasites and diseases that enter your body through the bottoms of your feet. Ask anyone who’s ever had plantar warts or ringworm. No matter how careful you are in your flip-flops, you occasionally lose one. You backtrack, hoping nobody saw you walk out of your “shoe,” and put it back on, never giving the event a second thought…and in most cases, a second thought isn’t needed. I bet it would only take one wart or case of ringworm, though, to make you wish you’d been wearing shoes.

Finally, flip-flops just aren’t shoes. The only difference between wearing flip-flops and giving the appearance of being barefoot is a little strap that goes across the top of your foot, yet people will wear flip-flops in places where they’d never DREAM of going barefoot. I just don’t see the difference. Flip-flops are to barefootedness as bikini tops are to barechestedness. Sure, you’re doing the bare minimum, but you’re hardly dressed for dinner.

Oh, one more thing. (I guess my “finally” above was a bit premature. Bear with me.) Some of you have gross/weird/ugly feet. Gentlemen, you especially have funky feet. You’ve got at least one thick, greenish toenail that has no business in public, and the hair that sprouts on your poorly-shod digits isn’t something you should show off, either. Ladies, you’re not exempt. I know you go pay tiny Asian women to make your feet “beautiful,” but some of you have that huge swollen joint at the base of your big toe, a bizarre enormous appendage where your second toe should be which exceeds the length of your big toe, heels that are cracked like the surface of some sun-baked desert, and various other podiatric anomalies. I intend no personal offense to anyone, male or female, who has any of the above-listed foot funk situations, but I am saying that it’s time to cover it up. I don’t wear muscle shirts. Wanna know why? Because I know perfectly well that I’ve got a small but noticeable example of the anatomical defect known as “man boobs,” and I don’t want the sides of ‘em sticking out for all the world to see. Those of you with weird feet, return the favor, okay?

Christmas & Ice Fishing Trip 2010

(Special shout-out to Tucker and Keaton Hickman, who are going to love this post. Hi, guys!)

(Also, please be aware that you can click on any picture in this post to get a raging mega-huge version.)

If you’ve followed this blog at all, you’ve probably already encountered The Posts of Christmas Past (here, here, and here). Another Christmas has come and gone, so it’s time for another addition to my proud litany of holiday blog entries. This year’s trip was split into two distinct sections: Hanging Around the House and Ice Fishing. Let’s tackle them in that order, shall we?

It’s been a snowy winter, even by Minnesota standards, and the ground was thoroughly blanketed when I arrived. The giant nativity figures in the front yard were struggling to keep their heads above the snow, and we had completely lost contact with the sheep and the shortest Wise Guy. While no snow fell on the actual day I arrived, it snowed both the day before and the day after. Snow continued, off and on, throughout my stay.

This little pine tree in the front yard shows off the fresh blanket of snow rather well.

The various little tweety birds who stay in Minnesota over the winter were glad that my mom keeps her bird feeders filled, too.

OM NOM NOM

Naturally, the Hanging Around the House phase included all of the traditions you’ve read about in years past. Mom waited until I was home to trim the tree, and she and I decorated it together one of the first nights I was home. I also had the requisite trip or two to St. Stephen with my brother, his girlfriend, and her family. We gathered at the house on Christmas Eve to frost cookies and exchange presents, and both of the boys’ girlfriends were there, too. Like we do every year, we sang along to Anne Murray’s rendition of “Away In A Manger” as we placed the Christ child in the manger of the nativity scene. The only exception to the rule this year was that we showed up at midnight for midnight mass only to find that it had been held at ten o’clock. Who has midnight mass at ten o’clock? Mom was not amused. Nonetheless, we had a great time together.

Cameron (with Tanner), me, Mom, Chissom (with Tinkerbell), and Dad (with Maggie)

One of the more interesting parts of Hanging Around the House was helping Dad with a taxidermy project. He’s in the process of stuffing a series of heads for a guy who just came back from an African safari, and the animal he was working on while I was home, a Greater Kudu, was too big for him to stretch the hide by himself. My dad (and occasionally my brother) does beautiful taxidermy work, but I don’t know much about it. I’ve never really helped before, but we had a good time getting the hide over the form and sewing up the seams on this monster.

The face looks a little funky because Dad hadn't tightened it up, set the ears, sculpted the eyes, or tucked the mouth yet. Still, you can tell it's going to be impressive.

After several days of Hanging Around the House, my vacation shifted into its other phase: Ice Fishing. Dad, Chissom, Cameron, and I piled into Dad’s truck at 5 a.m., along with a SERIOUS amount of fishing equipment, and set out for Lake of the Woods, which is on the Minnesota/Canada border. It’s about a five-hour drive from the house. You’ve probably seen pictures of ice fishing adventures in past Christmas posts, but this year was a bit different. As our Christmas gift, Dad rented a sleeper house for three days, so we didn’t have to set up our own fish houses, drill our own holes, or do any of the setup work related to ice fishing. All we had to do was show up and catch fish. It was pretty fantastic. Fishing with Arnesen’s Rocky Point Resort is a first-class deal, right from the start. Upon arriving at the landing, we were greeted by a friendly employee who helped us load all our fishing stuff into this little rig:

Hey, look. Somebody found an actual USE for a Geo Tracker.

There are a few interesting features to notice about the Tracker. First, notice the snow chains on the tires. There are roads on the lake, but we had to leave the road to get to our fish house, naturally. Also, check out the giant counterweight on the front of the vehicle so that the tongue weight of the trailer doesn’t lift the front tires off the ground and make steering impossible. That big yellow blob in the back is an air bladder, “just in case something goes wrong.” We didn’t expect any problems, but the float is required by law. That thing behind the Tracker is not our fish house; it’s just a trailer used to transport us and all our stuff out onto the lake. There was plenty of room inside for us to sit comfortably and stow our gear, and the trailer was heated. There was about 14 to 16 inches of ice on the lake, which is why we had to use the Tracker. When there’s 18 inches or more, the resort switches to Bombardiers. Now THIS thing is cool:

I need one of these.

It’s just a bit bigger than a full-size van, and it’s WAY faster on the lake than the Trackers. There’s even a hydraulic door on the back that flips down to reveal stairs so people can get themselves and their gear inside. Sadly, we didn’t get to ride in the Bombardier because there wasn’t quite enough ice. As we rode out to the fish house in the trailer behind the Tracker, we had to get out at one point and walk across a short bridge. When a lake as big as Lake of the Woods freezes, it tends to break up into individual ice sheets that grind up against each other as the ice continues to form. If you’ve ever left a can of soda in your freezer, you know that liquids expand as they freeze. As the lake freezes, the ice on top of it expands, and since it can’t push very far up onto land, huge ridges form where the ice sheets meet on the lake. Like plate-tectonics, the ice sheets grind against one another and create miniature mountains of ice. The ridge we had to cross on the way to our fish house was about five feet high, and the staff at Arnesen’s had to crush or grind a flat space in the ridge and lay a bridge across it so the Trackers (and later the Bombardiers) could pass through. We had to walk across this bridge because it’s a potentially weak spot in the ice, and they don’t want to drive us across it “just in case.” Of course, there was no problem, and we hopped back in the trailer after crossing the ridge so we could enjoy the rest of the four-mile ride out to the fish house, 64 Squid.

Home sweet home

This picture was taken shortly after our arrival. From left to right, you’ll see the little blue generator (used to power cell phone chargers, radio, etc), a gas can for the generator, the fish house, assorted fishing gear and storage containers, and the big propane tank that provides fuel to the oven, stove, heater, and furnace inside. The house was ten feet wide and about twenty-two feet long. It contained bunk beds and a restroom. When we arrived, the holes were already cut, the house had been cleaned, and the heater was running. I never put on a pair of boots during the whole trip.

This is where I kicked butt for 48 hours.

Here you see my two fishing rods, which look like tiny versions of regular rods, except that these are only about two feet long. The device on the right is called a Vexilar, and it’s the wintertime version of a fish locator. Those two yellow bobbers spent the weekend disappearing again and again. Before I get into fish pictures, here are a couple more pictures of the inside of the fish house, so you can truly appreciate how firmly we were perched on the lap of luxury.

Facing the back of the house

Here’s Dad, tending his fishing area. You can see my fishing rods on the right. Behind him are the two sets of bunk beds and the restroom. Notice the smoke detector and the carbon monoxide detector. Can’t be too careful! In the foreground, you see the corner of the stove and the corner of the table.

Facing the front of the house

Here, Cameron is set up on the left, and Chissom is on the right. The card table and stove appear again, along with the minnow buckets and the very large heater. Notice the complete lack of cold-weather clothes. We could have had the place feeling like a sauna, with a heater that size. We didn’t have lines in the water very long before we started catching fish…but before I describe that, let’s have a quick review of the fish species in Lake of the Woods, shall we?

• Walleyes: Our primary target species. These are very tasty fish, and they’re prized by Minnesota fishermen. The can reach very large sizes, but the most common size on Lake of the Woods is 14 to 18 inches. Trophy walleyes exceeding 28 inches are caught fairly often.

Walleye

• Saugers: Close cousins to walleyes, saugers differ only slightly. They don’t grow as large, and they’re distinguishable by the spots on their dorsal fins and the lack of a white tip on the lower tail fin. Also, saugers tend to have bigger “shoulders” than walleyes, meaning they’re thicker in the front half of the body, and they provide thick fillets. The differences between walleyes and saugers aren’t as obvious as these pictures make them seem, and the two species can be difficult for some people to tell apart. To further complicate the matter, the two species sometimes interbreed, producing saugeyes, which have the spots on the dorsal fin as well as the white tip on the tail fin.

Sauger

• Yellow Perch: For some bizarre reason, Southerners call bluegills and sunfish “perch,” even though they’re not. A perch is an entirely separate species. These fish are fairly small in most lakes, ranging from six to eight inches, but Lake of the Woods, with its excellent nutritional resources, produces some as big as fourteen inches. Genetically related to walleyes, perch are good eating fish.

Perch

• Eelpout (also called Burbot or Ling Cod): Many anglers really, really hate these fish. They’re big, they’re hungry, and they’re ugly. Eelpout get quite big; in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a particularly small one. As a cod species, they’re pretty tasty, but many people refuse to eat them based on the ugly factor. Nobody wants to catch eelpout, but a big one is sure fun to have on the line.

Eelpout

• Tulibee: Whitefish, tilapia, ciscoe, tulibee, it’s all pretty much the same fish. We don’t keep tulibee to eat, just because walleyes are so much better, but many people do like them. I’ve never known tulibees to get particularly big.

Tulibee

The lake is also home to muskellunge, northern pike, lake trout, and sturgeon, but we didn’t catch any of those, so there’s really not much point in posting pictures. Now, have you got all the above species committed to memory? There will be a quiz later.

As I was saying before the fish descriptions, we didn’t have our lines in the water for more than a few minutes when this happened:

Cameron helps Chissom land a fish

It can be a little challenging to reach down to the surface of the ice while holding a fishing rod in one hand and trying to handle a squirming fish, so the guy nearest someone who’s reeling up a fish usually gives him a hand. Once the action started, it was hand-over-fist for sometimes an hour at a time. Honestly, the fishing was tremendous. Let’s take a look at one of each species…

Dad with a pretty good walleye--see the lack of spots on the dorsal fin and the white tip on the tail? Also, notice the eye from which the species draws its name.

 

Here's Chissom with a fat little perch

Cameron caught the only tulibee of the trip.

This is a pot-bellied eelpout that we estimated at 9 or 10 pounds. Dad was not thrilled to be my fish-grabber on this one.

Of course, taking good fish pictures is all a matter of perspective...

After looking through all the fish pictures, I discover that I don’t have a picture of a sauger. Just imagine a small walleye with different spots, okay? Of course, we did more than catch fish in 64 Squid. We also…

...ate steaks...

...cleaned fish...

...relaxed...

 

...and wandered around the lake in boxer shorts and loafers.

By the end of the weekend, we’d caught over 120 walleyes/saugers, along with a few fish of the non-target species. We ate fish on the lake one night, and we had fresh fish again the night after we got home. All in all, it was a fantastic trip. I hope to go back within a year or two. I was sad to leave ol’ 64 Squid.

Winter, contrary to Southern belief, is beautiful.

Airports

This morning, I rose punctually at 6:00 instead of hitting the snooze, changed the cat litter, dragged the trash can to the curb—even though it won’t be emptied until Thursday and will probably sit abandoned in the street for a week or more until I return—took one last look around the house, although I have no idea what I was looking for,  and finally deposited my battered duffel bag and my college backpack in the back seat of my truck in preparation for the drive to George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston. This is standard procedure; I fly to Minnesota every winter, and preparing to be absent for a week looks more or less the same every time. Sure, my trip to Minnesota has been from a few different states (California, Texas), airports (Bush, Hobby, LAX), and domiciles (apartment, then house, then apartment, then house again), but despite these apparent changes, it’s always the same: provide for the cats, lock the door, drive to the airport. Such is the life of a single man, I suppose.  Returning next week will have the appearance of watching this morning’s events on a surveillance camera while holding down the rewind button: drive back to the house, unlock the door, take care of the cats’ various food/water/litter needs, return to work and daily life. Luckily, I expect my week in Minnesota to bring relaxation, time with my family, and a complete lack of graduate school. Sadly, I can’t leave work behind; the aforementioned grad school, combined with my own complete lack of time-management skills and impulse control, has left me with quite a stack of essays that need my attention. Between merrymaking, ice fishing, drinking Canadian whiskey, and frosting cookies, I’ll have to find some time to remedy various crimes against the English language perpetrated by my sophomores.

That’s not what I sat down to write about, though. In fact, I don’t really know what purpose that paragraph will serve. Ah, well. On I go, dutifully assailing the keyboard.

A moment ago—the moment just before I opened my laptop, in fact—I had an odd and somewhat terrifying experience of not knowing, just for a moment, where I was. It’s got to be the environment here at gate A12 crossing up my neural signals. I know I’m in Houston, but as I sat here for the last couple of hours, the typical airport hubbub has totally engulfed me. I’m surrounded by people drinking coffee from disposable cups, overhead speakers instructing me not to let anyone put a bomb in my backpack, overdressed slicksters shouting boardroom nonsense into their Bluetooth headsets without the first clue that they look like crazy street preachers, abandoned copies of USA Today, elderly people with a look of distrust and dread in their eyes, as though they’re really not sure whether this whole aeroplane business is really safe. It’s the same experience I’ve had at every airport I’ve ever flown into or out of. They’re all the same. Even in Frankfurt and Munich, the only noticeable difference is that the chatter contains a few unfamiliar sounds and the newspapers don’t care what Republicans think about Obama. At an airport, there’s almost no discernable sign of what city lies outside the glass. The people, sounds, coffee shops, and announcements that surround me now are the same ones I’ll encounter when I get off the plane in Minneapolis. Or Denver. Or Atlanta. Or Los Angeles. In fact, Delta could fly me to the wrong airport entirely, and I probably wouldn’t even realize it until I walked all the way through the airport and found that my parents weren’t waiting to pick me up at the curb.

So. For just a moment, about fifteen minutes ago, I had no idea where I was…and I realized that airports are not places. It seems to me that a place should have some kind of defining characteristics. After all, a spot in the ocean that’s 300 miles east of Boston doesn’t have a different name than a spot in the ocean that’s 150 miles east of New York. They’re both just “the ocean.” For all practical purposes, they’re exactly the same, except to oceanographers, marine biologists, and fish. That being said, maybe I shouldn’t say that airports are not places; instead, maybe they’re all the same place.

It’s a bizarre and unsettling phenomenon. How can one place be in more than one place? The sheer ridiculousness of the question is trumped only by the fact that while it seems impossible, it’s happening all around us. Now that I’m thinking about it, I realize that when I get off the airplane in Minneapolis, my parents will drive me out of the city along a highway lined with McDonalds, Starbucks, PetsMarts, Citgos, Wal-Marts, and Office Depots. Minneapolis is, in many ways, the same city as Houston. The same litany of clean, well-lighted places we’d pass in nearly every major city in America. I could be anywhere in the country and get some McNuggets when I’m hungry, go to Walgreen’s when I need batteries, and drive through Starbucks if I’m in the mood for a cup of overpriced coffee. The mall in Norfolk is made up of the same stores as the one in Seattle, and the Target in San Jose uses the same floor plan as the one in Sarasota. None of them are places, in the sense of having defining characteristics. Or rather, each Starbucks, McDonald’s, Walgreens, and shopping mall in America is the same place as each of its brethren. Our cities, then, made up of one after another of these non-places, almost become non-places themselves—one enormous megalopolis of neon signs and fluorescent lights.

Almost.

This is why I love little out-of-the-way restaurants and eclectic mom-and-pop stores. These are places, and I visit them whenever I’m nearby. In St. Cloud, my favorite place is a book store in old downtown. In Kansas City, it’s Korma Sutra Indian restaurant. In Duluth, I always visit Russ Kendall’s Smokehouse and The Anchor Bar and Grill. In Austin, I never miss a chance to visit High Ball. San Bernardino is home to a fantastic series of thrift shops and junk stores. Even Los Angeles, that great plastic wasteland, has Tommy’s Burgers. Here in town, we have The Dixie Chicken, Revolution, The Village Café, and Earth Art.

I can only get an Anchor Burger at The Anchor, and I can only bowl in a retro-1950s alley when I’m at High Ball…and I like it that way. These places—real, genuine places—give their cities life, personality, and identity. Much of their value lies in the fact that they are singular, without franchises, branches, or Second Locations Coming Soon. I don’t get excited about visiting Applebee’s, but I’m like a kid on Christmas morning as I approach Russ Kendall’s.

These places, for me, are opportunities for discovery. Every time I walk into a small, privately owned business, there’s a strong possibility I’ll find something on the menu I’ve never eaten before, notice a rare book that I could never have predicted, or meet an interesting proprietor who’s genuinely happy to have my business. That just doesn’t happen at Target. Or T.G.I. Friday’s. Or Barnes and Noble. Browsing shelves of items I never expected to find, chatting with shopkeepers, and learning that I love (or hate) some bizarre new dish are learning experiences. They broaden my mind and my world. They truly are moments of wonder and joy.

So. If you ask me where I’d like to go for dinner, a drink, or some window-shopping, don’t be surprised if I suggest something unfamiliar. I’m always on the hunt for new places, and I’d like to introduce you to some of them, too.

Hooray for Graduate Studies

So there I was, sitting on a sofa at Hastings, drinking a Diet Dr Pepper, grading timed writings, and minding my own business. Suddenly, from a table about ten feet away, I was inundated by a barrage of ignorance, laziness, sloppy writing, and misguided ideas.

Two women, both about my age, perhaps a bit younger, sat banging away at their MacBooks when the following conversation broke out:

Girl 1: “So I can’t believe the grade that I got. I mean, what does he expect from us? To read his mind? I wrote what I thought!”

Girl 2: “I know, right? He totally counted off points because I didn’t write what he would have written for the answer. How am I supposed to know what he wants?”

At this point, I must assume that they’re either graduate students, which seems most likely, or non-traditional undergrads who’ve gone back to college after taking a few years off. Either way, they’re college students. I fought back the urge to spring out of my seat and start berating them in a manner something like this: “He expects you to give the RIGHT answer! Just because you think it doesn’t mean it’s right! You’re supposed to know what he wants because he lectures about it in class and assigns you to read chapters from a textbook that explain it!” I did not, however, go off on such a rant. Instead, I tried mightily to tune them out and go on with my grading. Besides, I thought, maybe I was taking their conversation out of context. I have, after all, been rather pissy lately. It didn’t take long for me to realize that the problem was not mine. A few minutes later, conversation picked up again.

Girl 1: “I don’t understand why we don’t get credit for participation, like we do in our other class.”

Girl 2: “Yeah. I read the assignment, and I think about what I want to talk about before I go to class. That should count for something.”

Girl 1: “Seriously. I invest time and effort into reading and preparing for discussion. I should get credit.”

At this point, I almost boiled over. Let me get this straight: You want credit for reading and thinking. You want COLLEGE credit for doing the most basic of all academic tasks. You want credit for preparing for class, for laying the basic foundations upon which you MIGHT, if you’re lucky, actually build some knowledge. This is the equivalent  of me believing that I should get some kind of credit in an art class just for showing up with some colored pencils and having an idea of what I’d like to draw. Learning is work, people–long, difficult, arduous work–and sometimes you just have to do a little of that work without getting a damned cookie for your efforts. Because finishing my grading was a better idea than getting thrown out of Hastings for issuing a couple of customers a wicked tongue-lashing, I continued to keep my peace. However…

Girl 1: “God, I’ve got like five pages written, but I just can’t seem to get it going. I haven’t even written my intro yet.”

Girl 2: “You haven’t? Why not?”

Girl 1: “I don’t really…uh…know…uh…”

Both in unison: “what I’m writing about.”

Jesus! You’ve written five pages, but you don’t know what you’re writing about? STOP WRITING. DO SOME PLANNING. I was seriously on the verge of apoplexy. Who ARE these people who don’t know about the writing process, who just drone on and on for five pages without knowing what they’re trying to say, who probably haven’t drafted a thesis statement before charging into the body of the essay with all the wisdom of Napoleon invading Russia?

Girl 2: “Here, let me read you my intro. Maybe it’ll help.”

(She then proceeds to read five sentences, EVERY SINGLE ONE of which has some conjugation of “to be” as its main verb.)

A part of my soul died on the spot. Come on, lady. “To be” is the rosy right hand of English verbs; sure, it’ll get you where you’re going, but pretty much ANY other choice is preferable. Branch out a little, huh? Would you use any other verb in five consecutive sentences? Don’t answer that.

So. I’m a little jaded about graduate students today. I’m also a little jaded about people’s attitudes toward education in general. How are we supposed to assign any kind of importance to advanced degrees if such lazy, whiny, ill-prepared students are plugging away at 500- and 600-level courses and earning passing grades? Are THESE the people who deserve extra letters after their names? I think not.

Thankfully, I finished my grading and got the hell out of Dodge before I committed any kind of social or criminal faux pas. I even left with a little glimmer of hope. Even though those two dullards are going to hold advanced degrees one of these days, the timed writings my AP juniors wrote were brilliant. THEY are the people I trust to take over the world.

Austria Pictures

I’ve finally finished uploading and labeling my pictures from Austria. Although I took close to 800, I’ve narrowed it down to about 325 on ShutterFly. After all, not every picture is interesting. If you’d like to take a look at a photographic representation of my trip, just follow this link to my ShutterFly page.

Austria is the most amazing place I’ve ever visited. The history is mind-boggling. I walked through buildings that were standing 500 years before Europeans reached North America. I visited the birthplaces and graves of people like Mozart, Beethoven, the Habsburgs, and the Esterhazys. I stood on a stage where Haydn himself often performed. As we toured Salzburg and Vienna, the tour guide didn’t even bother to mention buildings that weren’t at least 300 years old.

I loved walking through the pedestrian shopping areas in Austria. Buying meals from street vendors, listening to the German language spoken all around me, and window shopping without buying much of anything was one of my favorite aspects of the trip. Just immersing myself in the city and blending in with the locals made my day every day.

I can see where Europeans get their negative view of Americans. I visited three major cities and a number of little towns while I was in Austria, and I never saw a single piece of trash on the ground. People just don’t litter. I didn’t see a single SUV. The only large vehicles I saw were for public transportation or business. Otherwise, people drive sensible cars. Except for the very old, I didn’t see a single overweight native European. They eat more sensibly than we do, and they walk FAR more than we do.

So. I’m back in the U.S.A. I’m glad to be here, but I’ve decided to make some changes, both for the sake of preserving my memories of Europe and for the sake of embodying the best qualities I saw in Europe and Europeans. I’ve been slacking a little in the eating healthy and exercise department, but it’s time for that to change. I’m going to get back on track. I’m also going to pay a lot less attention to my television and more to my books. I’m going to learn about history. I’m going to start saving money for my next trip to Europe.

BeerFest!

First of all, if you’re here because you think this post is about that terrible movie, you’re about to be sorely disappointed. I saw only snippets of it, and I have no desire to see the rest. Furthermore, gentle reader, even if I had seen the whole film, I wouldn’t subject you to any writings on the topic.

Instead, I’m here to talk about the third annual Brazos Valley Bombers Ballpark BeerFest, which happened yesterday. As with most events of this sort, I was accompanied by WrongFoot and Big T. Basically, the idea was that beer drinkers ranging from Miller Lite purists to connoisseurs of obscure and foreign brews would gather together in one place and celebrate their love of the ol’ Oat Soda. Along with beer, the festival featured live music, a fajita cookoff, a play area for kids (which seemed a bit odd to me, honestly), and various games of tossing things (horseshoes, washers, testicle toss). If you couldn’t have a good time at BeerFest, you probably had some sort of genetic deficiency wherein you lack the fun chromosome.

Before we actually went to BeerFest, though, we decided to gather for a light lunch and a couple pints of Dos Equis. Can’t drink beer on an empty stomach, right?

Luckily, it's oyster season. There's no better food to accompany a whole bunch of beer than raw oysters!

Once we arrived, we were greeted with the sounds of live music, a growing crowd of beer drinkers, and some folks tossing washers. Of course, the music, games, and such were nice, but the main attaction was beer. The event featured over 200 kinds of beer, all of which were available for tasting. The package I bought for the day included tickets for 15 tastings and three fajita tacos. I was pretty excited because the beer list for the event featured a number of beers I’ve never drunk before. Now, I’m an extremely adventuresome beer drinker, and it’s not every day that I encounter a new brew. (I’d link the beer list for you, but the damn BeerFest website doesn’t have a separate page for it. Just click the “Beer List” link on the main BeerFest page, and it’ll pop up.)

Basically, WrongFoot, Big T, and I wandered around to various little pop-up tents of the sort you’d see at tailgate parties and barbecues, each of which featured a large sign proclaiming which beers they had available to sample. When we saw one that looked good, we exchanged a ticket for a 5-ounce taster cup. Some of my favorites included Tona, a very tasty light beer from Nicaragua;  Lagunitas Censored, a fantastic malty brew; and Mighty Arrow, New Belgium Brewery’s seasonal beer for spring. I could list of five or six other winners, but those three were about the best of the lot.

While sipping on my fifteen different 5-ounce beers (which adds up to about a six-pack, total) and listening to live music, I was suddenly struck by the urge to have a little dinner, and this was the result:

Beer and a turkey leg. Mmmm.

You can’t really see it, but that shirt says “Lord of the Beer,” written in the same font as the Lord of the Rings movie titles. It drew lots of compliments.

As if BeerFest wasn’t enough, I also saw J-Roy’s band play on Friday night, accompanied again by WrongFoot, Big T and adding NewGuy, FlashCap, and three former students (SteGr, Big Q, and StarWarsKid) to the mix. Toss in a late-night Saturday viewing of Alice In Wonderland (which is great, by the way), and you’ll see that I had another fantastic weekend. The trend isn’t about to end, either; next weekend, I’ll be in Austria…

Snow!

The other day, February 23, we had snow. I’ve lived here for nine years, and this is only the third time I can remember snow. The last two times were just a dusting, but this was legitimate snow. I’d estimate that we got about three inches. Of course, it was all gone by noon the next day, but it was still a welcome change. For a moment there, this MidWestern kid felt at home.

The MANsion looks good with a blanket of snow, wouldn't you say?

Not the best time to lounge on the patio...

Full disclosure: In the first photo, I photoshopped out a dead plant in my front bed. In the second photo, I eliminated a styrofoam cooler that somehow ended up under my deck.

BRP Learns To Dance (Maybe…)

Take heart, Texan friends. I am about to take one step closer to joining your ranks. Actually, I’m about to take a two-step in that direction. Starting tonight, and continuing on each Tuesday for the next four weeks, I’ll be attending a “Country and Western” dance class here in town. This ought to be interesting.

If you know me at all, you know that I’m not really into being noticed in public. Appearing on stage, being singled out in a crowd, and even dancing with the lights on all make me uncomfortable. On the other hand, EVERYone down here knows how to two-step. Men meet women by asking them to dance. Women talk about who’s a good dancer and who’s not.

So. It’s time.

Can it be done? Can BRP dance? I guess we'll see...

Maybe the next time you see me, I’ll be able to two-step. Hell, maybe I’ll waltz and polka, too. On the other hand, maybe I’ll just be a sadder and a wiser man. Stay tuned to find out.

(Also, give yourself +2 if you recognized the not-so-obscure literary reference in this post.)