AE Stueve Presents: Comfortably Numb's Whimsical Web Wanderings

Final Blogger Post

2011-01-10T17:48:00.000-06:00

In honor of my 75th post, I'm growing up and moving to greener pastures. Please follow me to https://aestueve.wordpress.com/ if you would like to continue following this blog. I would love it if you did! Thanks! Also, if anyone is interested, I am now doing professional, more writerly, teacherly tweets, here http://twitter.com/#!/AEStueve. I hope there has not been too much confusion! Thanks again for reading.

Resolution

2011-01-04T14:02:00.000-06:00

None.

I like who I am. Could I stand to lose a few pounds? Sure. Could I stand to stop drinking so many beers and Captain and Cokes? Probably. You know what? Maybe I will stop drinking as much and start working out more. I know over the past few months lifting weights has become far more fun for me than I ever thought it would be. So I've got that going for me.

I feel like I need to write more. I always do though. So that's nothing new. It would be nice if I had a job where I worked less. That's not really a resolution type idea though, is it?

I'm looking forward to this year. My first novel is coming out in May. My 10th anniversary is in June. I'm amazed it's lasted that long. No. That's not the right way to word it . . . . I'm amazed she has stuck around this long. I'll raise a glass to tricking her to stay for at least another 10.

Also, 2011 is our last full year living as we do. According to the way some people interpret the Mayan Calendar anyway. Not that I buy into any of that. Though I do have several contingency plans for survival in the face of a zombie apocalypse, any of which could be tweaked for survival in various end-of-the-world scenarios.

But I'm getting away with myself. I think the one thing I really want to do that A) I don't already do and B) my wife will let me talk about online, is have some kind of format for this blog. I'm kind of all over the place here. Is this a teaching blog or a parenting blog or a general blog about my complaints and concerns? Is it political? Is it all about writing? Yes. No. I don't know. I think I need some direction here. Any thoughts?

On Dying and Other Things

2010-12-29T08:02:00.001-06:00

So, my wife's 85-year-old grandpa is dying. I mean that literally. He is lying in a hospital bed right now, lost in a haze of narcotic-level pain killers as his body all-too-slowly shuts down.

It makes me want to live forever, or at least, die quickly . . . in my sleep . . . at home. Or maybe a heart attack? I don't know--whatever it is, the key is the adverb "quickly" placed in front of it.

But the pragmatist in me says that this is a fact of life and dwelling on death is never a good thing. So I won't. I will instead do all the cliche things like understand he is an old man and had a long life producing three children, seven grandchildren, and four great-grandchildren. That's respectable. I will remember the first time I met him when he offered me a PBR (I think--maybe it was an Old Style) and I knew that I would get along with him. I will "be there" for my wife and children if they need me. What else can I do, right?

Now, how about Christmas? It is a celebration of life coming at the end of the year and the Winter Solstice when the days start getting longer. There are religious connotations too, but for the life of me, I can't remember what they are . . . . I've heard too that it is the celebration of the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus signing the peace treaty that ended a long and horrible war. Or maybe it is Santa Claus's birthday. But seriously, that might be a good idea for a story . . . a world set in such a future so that people have forgotten their history, their religion, their beliefs, tradition, etc . . . . I might have to look into that . . . .

I got off track. What I was going to say: Christmas rocked for me this year. My kids have had a good time, my wife has had a good time, my extended family and close friends have had a good time. It's been a great celebration of making it through one more year intact. Hanging out with one of my oldest friends yesterday took me back to my childhood--any time you can be taken back to your childhood, in a good way, is a good thing. Is that redundant? Or does it make sense at all?

Whatever. I hope everyone else had a good holiday, however you celebrate it, whatever you call it. I know bad comes with good, I know life comes with death, I know it sucks. But I'm trying to latch onto the good. I think it might help me live longer. Here's hoping for a great 2011 . . . .

It's a Wonderful Life

2010-12-24T21:42:00.000-06:00

I don't know how many times I've seen this movie. I remember when I was a boy there was an urban legend . . . or maybe it was fact . . . I don't know . . . anyway . . . this legend stated that the show was played so many times that people were actually getting sick of it and a law was enacted stating that it could only be played so many times a year from so many distributors from now on. Yeah, it is a convoluted mess, I know. So I'm guessing that the trickle down effect kind of messed up the original message somehow--kind of like in economics.

Anyway, I love the story of a good man having a good life. Yes, I've heard the feminist argument against the film. I've heard the capitalist argument against it too. I've also heard the cliche argument. And you know what I say to all those arguments?

PPPLLLGGGGTTTHHHPPHTHTHHTHTPPBBLTH!!!

A good man is backed into a corner. He isn't a moral absolutist. In one line, when he prays to God after the shit has hit the fan, he says, "I'm not a praying man . . . ." He also has a certain destructive side that causes serious injury to several inanimate objects throughout the film. A phrase like, "You're worth more dead than alive," sends him over the edge toward suicide. He has a yearning for things he will probably never achieve and this yearning always haunts him. But this reminds me that, as the first sentence in this paragraph says, George Bailey is "a good man," despite the fact that in one scene he bawls out a teacher for no reason.

You tweak this story for our times and it would still stand. Do you think Four Christmases or Christmas with the Kranks are going to? I'll go ahead and answer that one for you guys. No, they aren't. My first reaction is to examine the film like a writer and come to the conclusion that this movie has stood the test of time for one simple reason: it's real.

George Bailey is one of the best Everyman characters introduced to film. I like him. I like what he's done with his life. I appreciate his sacrifice. I understand his suicidal whim near the end of the film. I even empathize with the few hours he spends freaking out, yelling at innocent teachers and his family, and getting completely hammered. Jesus, if I was facing what he was facing, I might do the same thing, or worse.

I guess what I'm trying to say in this impromptu post, is Merry Christmas or happy holidays, or whatever. There are a few times in our lives when we should just realize that a child's laughter is worth far more than a child's tears. For whatever reason, this film reminds me of that simple fact.

Eclipse

2010-12-21T21:23:00.000-06:00

The eclipse last night was fucking crazy! The moon turned red! It turned red! Did you see it? It was crazy! The moon turned red! Here is a pretty cool website with some photos of it. And this other guy, who, as best as I can tell, is zealously passionate about . . . stuff . . . got some footage of it here. It isn't the best footage, kind of wobbly at times, but hey, it's better than the footage I got. I didn't get any. So I thank him for his.

But seeing it man, seeing it, makes me think how easy it would be for less advanced societies to think all kinds of crazy shit was happening when something like this went down, especially when something like this went down on the solstice. You know, I can imagine all kinds of cowering peasants, frightened priests, and noble knights all fearing the end is near when the moon does something crazy like that.

But I have to take it a step further too. It makes me wonder about all the crazy shit we think now, in what we so arrogantly call "modernity." Like, is our medicine really as awesome as some people would have us believe? Are our politics, science, educational systems, religion, governments, technology, etc, etc, etc. really as "advanced" as we think they are. Is our collective arrogance keeping us tied to old ideas the way former ages were tied to theirs? God, I hope not.

However, I'm inclined to believe we have just as much to learn as we ever did. It's evidenced by every senseless death, by every stupid argument, by every religious zealot, and by every close-minded idiotic move, assumption, or "fact" you might hear every day.

In the end, watching the moon makes me think we need some kind of super man, some kind of combination of Copernicus, Galileo, Newton, King, Gandhi, and any other great thinker, peace bringer, genius I can't think of right now. We need that guy now more than ever. It's time for another huge leap for mankind.

Anybody out there got the tenacity to be that guy . . . or girl? Hell, I think I'd prefer a girl.

Escape

2010-12-14T21:55:00.000-06:00

I’m not a fan of euphemisms, which is odd, since I expect my Creative Writing students to know what euphemisms are and their proper use. What I mean to say is that you shouldn’t expect anything other than the truth from me. That being said, understand this: I’ve made my fair share of mistakes.

Those mistakes, at least the majority of them, lasted for a 10-year period when I was between the ages of 15 and 25. Those mistakes involved drugs, illicit and legal, and alcohol and many of the less than pleasant activities that come from over-usage of them. And I have no excuse for this sordid past. I have no diagnosed mental condition that could cause these mistakes. My parents didn’t beat me. I felt loved. Although my family was never rich, we were never destitute either. “Working Class,” I believe, is the aptly named rung my family clung to on the socio-economic spectrum.

What I see now, what I saw eight years ago when I finally wised up and realized what I was doing, is that I was escaping reality. I wasn’t escaping reality because mine was bad, but it was, as I saw it, dull. This needs little explaining. All teenagers everywhere, and several adults, think their lives are boring. Narcotics helped ease that boredom some. For me though, it was more than just boredom.

I feared, with every fiber of my being, growing up. I think this was in part because my father’s job sucked. He worked at a steel mill for most of my childhood, putting in 50+ hour weeks on a regular basis. He hated it, but did it for his family. Though I found the sacrifice fascinating, comforting, humbling, and passionate, I also found myself fearing it. Through the mixed social messages of television, music, books, and movies, I found myself, as I aged, veering away from my father’s path and using drugs and alcohol to strike my own, quite opposite of my father’s. I was escaping into a pseudo-adulthood that left me free of most of the responsibilities many people my age had.

I had several moments in my journey that made me re-think my thinking—one moment in particular, when a friend downed two hits of acid and did a few lines of coke before blowing his head off in his little brother’s bedroom closet comes to mind as I type this. Another striking moment happened when I was arguing against the benefits of meth to one of my “friends” at a party in the shadiest trailer park I had ever sat foot in . . . and I had sat foot in several at that point for several reasons I don’t feel like explaining.

But nothing woke me up to the fact that I was using these outside elements to escape the fact that I was bored and afraid. Even into adulthood, even into long-term relationships, college, and married life. Ultimately, it was the birth of my son, Quintin, who had a congenital heart defect requiring open-heart surgery when he was five days old, that got me to see the light.

I remember the moment clearly. Quintin had been in surgery for somewhere near seven hours. I left the waiting room because I couldn’t stand being around my family anymore and all their fake happiness that was a horrible mask for their grief (I know they were, by and large, just acting saccharine positive for my wife and me and I thank them for it, but at the time I didn’t want it). I went to an adjoining waiting room, sat down, covered up, and cried. When my wife came in a few minutes later, she joined me.

When that wasn’t enough, when all I wanted was something to dull the pain of this event, to forget that it was happening, that’s when I realized I was walking down a path I didn’t want to finish.

So I stopped . . . for the most part. I straightened up . . . for the most part. I became a teacher, I became a published writer. Life is good.

Am I saying escape is a bad thing? No. Escape can be good. In fact, sometimes, I just need to escape after a hard day’s work. I still go a little too far every now and then. There is nothing wrong with that. The problems arise when you do not realize why you are doing whatever it is you are doing. The problems arise when you don’t know when to say that all too cliche phrase, “Enough is enough!”

If you understand yourself, your motivations, then you can understand your behaviors and be the master of them. It took me 25 years to realize that, which is at least 10 years too long.

Zombies

2010-12-07T21:21:00.000-06:00

This time of year always reminds me of zombies. Their popularity is rising with every episode of The Walking Dead. If you don't believe me, check out what my buddy, the mad genius, Drewsus has to say about it here. But then there are also the comic books that the television show is based on, there is Max Brooks' amazing novel, World War Z, there are the numerous movies, some good, some not so good. In short, zombies are everywhere.

Shouldn't I be reminded of elves and Santa Clause and Jesus right now though? I mean, zombies? Seriously? How fucked up am I, really?

Let me tell you a story.

I'm scared of zombies. It's odd, because I am also fascinated by them. I think it has something to do with what they represent--this total lack of control--this monster that isn't exactly evil but could nonetheless destroy mankind. They aren't like vampires, who keep some aspect of their humanity in that they can communicate, hate, love?, etc. They aren't like werewolves who are really only monstrous one day a month (and seriously, how hard could it possibly be for someone to just find a lion pit or something at a zoo to stay at once a month so you don't hurt anybody?). I could go on and on with this comparison thing, but that might be showing you guys a little too much of the inner workings of my brain.

I remember having horrible nightmares when I was a boy after watching a couple of stupid zombie movies--not even scary really. Nonetheless, they literally scared the piss out of me. I shoved this fear to the back of my mind for quite some time, tried to avoid zombies in general in fact, then in 2004, Zack Snyder remade George Romero's Dawn of the Dead. I avoided it for as long as I could, until late one December night, like really late, my sister and I watched it while drinking and my mind was suddenly flooded with memories from my childhood, the fears that came with the entire concept of zombies. My brain has held onto it ever since.

And that, dear friends, is why this time of year always reminds me of zombies.

Thanks, November 30!

2010-11-30T17:51:00.003-06:00

Thirty days have come and nearly gone. I have been thankful for something everyday. I have shared said thankfulness with you, my dear readers--friends, family, etc. It has been fun. I've learned that I have a lot to be thankful for. It wasn't like I didn't know I had a lot to be thankful for, at least on some level. I've never been one to take for granted all I have.

When I put it that way it kind of sounds like I am bragging and I apologize for that. It wasn't the intent at all. Perhaps, more so, the intent was to get more of you to examine your lives and think about what you might be thankful for too.

That being said, I am thankful for anyone who reads this blog and gets something out of it--even if it is nothing more than a laugh at my idiocy.

But more than all of you, I am thankful for a person who rarely reads this blog. I'm thankful today, and everyday, for my wife, the incomparable Kimberly.

She is, quite literally, my polar opposite, the yin to my yang, the moon to my sun, and the (insert cliche of choice here). I am thankful for her for several reasons, all of which I will not go into here.

But there are a few I will mention.

She gave me my children, who are awesome. She has stood by me for the past ten years. I've known her most of my life but we didn't move our relationship to the next level, as it were, until my little sister's wedding. Kimberly was in her late teens and I was in my early twenties and she saw something in me that I didn't see. I'm still not sure what it is. But she must see it everyday because she is still here.

I am thankful for that.

Is this a bit too romantic for this blog? Probably. A bit too serious? Definitely. But it is what it is. Everything good in my adult life starts and ends with her. She is a relentless pragmatist who tempers my . . . let's just call it "less than pragmatic" behavior. She is a brilliant mother who teaches me something new about my kids and how to deal with them everyday. She is an independent woman who takes shit from no one, least of all me. Not only do I love her so bad I can feel a pang of longing when she is not near (sometimes slight, sometimes immense), but I respect her more than anyone else.

Again, my thankfulness for her knows no bounds.

With that, I'm done. It will probably be a week before you hear from me again.

Something you guys might all be thankful for.

Thanks, November 29!

2010-11-29T21:41:00.000-06:00

Are you ready for the penultimate thankful blog?

Me neither. I haven't exactly thought too much about this, but apparently, this has been good for me. It's true, check it out! This, naturally, is something I've been saying to my students and my children for years.

So I'm thankful science has finally caught up to my genius. And I'm thankful for being thankful.

But my gracious thankfulness in general isn't really what I am thankful for today, I mean, anymore than any other day.

Rather, I would like to thank Julie, or as I like to call her, J-rodite. Her goddess-like awesomeness inspired me to do this for the whole freaking month! Don't believe me? Check out her blog here.

I have to admit, I'm particularly thankful for the blog she wrote today where she lied about me.

Tomorrow, I get a little more serious. Then I get offline for awhile.

Thanks, November 28!

2010-11-28T21:26:00.000-06:00

My daughter isn't feeling well. Right before supper tonight, she coughed so much that she threw up one of the largest wads of phlegm I've ever seen, along with what appeared to be a half-digested clementine. It was disgusting. After a short nap, she felt better. However, I didn't. And I don't.

Based on my first experience with fatherhood, I've developed something of an implacable nervousness when it comes to the health of my children. A slight fever, a barely running nose, the sniffles, a cough . . . you name it . . . whatever minor condition that children find themselves in from time to time is cause for alarm. At least for me.

My wife can handle it. Worst case scenarios don't dance across her brain every time one of our children reaches for a tissue. She is pragmatic. She understands. She is a good mother.

But her mothering gifts aren't today's subject. My daughter is. When she was sick today, when her head was buried in the toilet, when her head was pounding so bad she couldn't stop crying and the crying only made it pound worse, and when she was ready for bed at 6:00pm, I realized that I would die if she did.

Even though when bedtime came around, she was basically back to herself, I felt obligated to let her sleep in my bed--mostly just because I want to be near her if she spikes a fever or something crazy like that.

So today, just like every other day, I am thankful for my daughter.

Thanks, November 27!

2010-11-27T22:23:00.000-06:00

I'm nearing the end of my month long festival of thanks. And this might very well be the most awesome day of thanks blog ever. It's got a picture.

It's my new tattoo! Jodi Wendt at Oz Tattoo etched it into my wrist. I know the photo doesn't do it justice, but trust me, it's awesome.

So today, as if I have to say this, I am thankful for my new tattoo.

Thanks, November #26

2010-11-26T15:09:00.000-06:00

It is 3:08 pm on Black Friday according to my computer's clock. What am I thankful for today? Is that a rhetorical question? Is that a rhetorical question?

The Nebraska game is on, my home state's great golden god is pounding through the airwaves. The city of Lincoln, NE is like a ghost town (or so I imagine) unless you were to get anywhere near the football stadium. A mass of screaming insanity is located there.

I'm sure several of my friends are part of that madness. I'm sure several others are at their various homes participating in that madness vicariously right now.

The game is on in the living room at my uncle's house where I sit and type this, so I am participating vicariously right now. I can see the screen from here. I want to see the screen. God help me, I have gone native. Go Huskers!

I'm thankful I can avoid the lines, the shopping, the general disarray that is Black Friday, and instead stay home with my extended family, eat pie, drink coffee, and watch football.

Thanks, November #25, Thanksgiving!

2010-11-25T16:48:00.000-06:00

Thank you Thanksgiving. Thank you family. Thank you food. We are sitting at nearly 5:00 pm and I am feeling full, gluttonous even. It isn't my scene to do this. I don't like to consider myself the type of American that all the other people in the world make fun of. I'm not a big fan of buffets. I don't use my credit card to buy everything I want. I live well within my means.

But today I'm going to go ahead and be thankful for the fact that I am in a position, in a place, in a land, where I can eat until I am sick with my family once a year.

There are a lot of things about this country that are bad--but the same thing can be said of any country. There are several duplicitous activities in our collective past--but the same thing can be said of any country. We're flawed as a race, and I don't mean Americans, I mean people. It isn't our political ideologies. It isn't our religions. It isn't our social structures. We, the people, are messed up.

But at least here, today, right now, I get to eat an unhealthy selection of foods, hangout with my family, and generally do nothing all day--and this is just the tip of the iceberg. Bring on the holidays, baby.

Thank you, Thanksgiving.

Thanks, November #24

2010-11-24T21:17:00.000-06:00

So yesterday I spent a good long time monologuing on my son and how much I give thanks for him. And all of it is true. I feel the same way about my daughter, thankful every single day for her. However, over the past few days (I know I didn't mention this yesterday, I have no excuse other than I wasn't feeling it), my kids have been driving me crazy. I could create a list for you of all of their various, minor, major, explicit, implicit, and generally aggravating behaviors, but it all boils down to one essential. They have been doing the opposite of everything I've asked and/or told them to do. And I believe they might have a minor case of the crazies . . . perhaps it has something to do with the cycle of the moon. I don't know.

And it doesn't matter. Or maybe it does. Either way, they've been running high on BRAT.

Today I am thankful for my patience which has prevented me from becoming an abusive father on more than one occasion . . . today . . . .

Thanks, November 23

2010-11-23T22:47:00.000-06:00

I am giving over my blog for thanks this month. If you've been reading, you know that. Mostly, my messages are tongue-and-cheek, sprinkled with profanity, and occasionally silly, even glib, but always sincere (is that even possible?). Today, I will plow through my normal fun-filled messages of mirth and give thanks simply, for my son.

He was born, a little over eight years ago with a congenital heart defect called transposition of the great arteries. He also had a hole in his heart. He wasn't breathing. Essentially, he was born dead. His body was limp and gray. After he appeared to a shocked room of white coats and stethoscopes galore, Kim, my wife, whimpered, "Why isn't my baby crying?"

I knew things weren't working out the way they should have been a few hours earlier when our kindly doctor/nurse pair were surrounded by several other white coats with charts, questions, and the like. I'm not going to go so far as to say something as clearly false as, "But I had no idea it was this bad!" I'm not an idiot. I had every idea. Having a father who made it through the storm of leukemia in what I presume was one of the longest years of his life, I know a thing or two about doctors and their behavior when they are in their natural habitat.

Shit was bad and I knew it.

But the nurses managed to get my son breathing. I couldn't begin to tell you how--my mind was swimming with so many emotions that I probably would have punched my best friend in the face through the phone had he called me in those few moments that could have killed me just as easily as they could have killed my son. But they did, and that's what matters.

I left the room to tell the waiting family members that my son seemed to be fine, that Kim was doing okay. When I returned to the birthing room, my wife's doctor was crying on a rolling chair outside the door.

Something in me, some innocence that was barely hanging on, died when I saw that, just like I thought my son had.

But he hadn't.

He was rushed to the NICU. He was flown to a larger hospital that specialized in broken-hearted babies. Kim and I had to drive the hour and 15 minute trip. No room on the helicopter.

Five days later, he had a 12 hour long open heart surgery.

A little over eight years later, he was recognized by his elementary school as an "outstanding citizen." He got a certificate, school wide recognition, the eternal jealousy of his little sister, and two parents in the back of the gym smiling, clapping, wooting, and shouting nonsensically. We were happy for him. He's a good kid. He does what is right. He's the kind of boy I'm glad to say is on my side. And the giant scar running from his clavicles to his belly button tell me every single fucking day that he is as tough as nails.

He is my son, Quintin Moses, and today, like everyday, I am thankful for him.

Thanks, November #22

2010-11-22T22:22:00.000-06:00

Today I am thankful for the final day of my English Composition 101 class. It isn't that I hated teaching it. I enjoyed it. I enjoy teaching. I could probably find a way to have a good time teaching math . . . . Maybe.

But it was a lot of work. I did not like to give up my Mondays. Like, entirely. On Monday I was at work from 7:00 am to 10:00 pm.

I don't particularly like to work. I don't particularly like to not see my family for an entire day once a week. I know I shouldn't complain. Truck drivers, soldiers, politicians of certain stripe, they all miss out on their family's lives far more than me. But I'm not them.

I'm a teacher and a writer and I want to be with my family more than this class has let me. I've enjoyed it. I've enjoyed my students. I've enjoyed my projects, assignments, grading their papers, everything. But more than that, I enjoy my Monday nights and they are mine again. So you know, that's sweet.

Thanks, November #21!

2010-11-21T16:20:00.000-06:00

Today it is gloomy. In fact, today is so gloomy and cold and nasty that I believe whoever invented that word also invented a time machine, traveled to the future to Omaha, NE on this day, witnessed the atrocity that was/would be/is the general aesthetic of the past 16 hours, and quickly returned home to a much more pleasant afternoon where he came up with "gloomy" to describe the horrible, horrible condition of the sky, ground, environment, atmosphere, and mien of November 21, 2010.

So today, friends, I am thankful for tomorrow.

Thanks, November 20!

2010-11-20T17:24:00.000-06:00

Holy crap, I made it posting 20 days in a row! You know, this is something I never thought I would do. And here I am, talking to this mysterious "you" made up of family and friends . . . and maybe a fan or two . . . maybe. Can I get a "Hell Yeah!"? I hope so, because I would be thankful for that.

But lets talk about something more in the now. What am I thankful for today? I'm thankful for my house and my yard and my job and everything I have that so many people don't. I don't deserve the comforts I've come to enjoy. Sure, those comforts come with work, for instance, after taking students to a quiz bowl today, and grading papers while they competed, I came home to rake leaves. I didn't have too many to rake since the entire family took care of most of them a couple of weeks ago aaaaannnndd it wasn't that hard because my version of raking is attaching the grass bag on the lawn mower, putting the mower on the highest setting, and pushing it around the yard. But make no mistake, it is work.

But I digress, which I suppose is one of the many great things about blogs. You can get away with digression.

Sweet.

Like candy.

It reminds me of that Katy Perry video.

Now, that is my kind of digression.

But I digress.

I don't deserve the things I have. I don't live in a mansion, I don't drive a Caddy, and I can't go out and get whatever I want whenever I want. But I'm doing a lot better than I probably deserve. It doesn't feel like a big struggle is what I am saying . . . like I haven't earned the professional respect and publication I've received. It isn't that I don't feel like I've worked for it. Perhaps, more accurately, it feels like it hasn't been that hard for me to get. Time consuming? Yes. Difficult? Maybe at times, but at the end of the day, I love it. Maybe that's what I am thankful for, after all. It isn't that I haven't worked, it is that the work, for the most part, has been fun. And that just makes me want to smile.

You like the way I talked myself through that one? It was sweet.

Like candy.

It reminds me of that Christina Aguilera video.

Now, that is my kind of digression.

But I digress.

Thanks, November #19!

2010-11-19T20:18:00.000-06:00

Today is Friday and it has been a long week filled with lots of work. I'm thankful for Friday, even though I have to work tomorrow morning. It's Friday, and that's worth something and all I have to do tomorrow is drive some kids to a quiz bowl competition. So you know, that's not too bad.

Friday, alright, yeah. This sounds an awful lot like a post from a couple weeks ago, doesn't it? I'm thankful for the ability to repeat myself and not give a damn. Fridays rule.

Thanks, November #18

2010-11-18T20:58:00.001-06:00

Today Britt Sullivan and I took a van-load of high schoolers to the Plains Writers Series up at Wayne State College. We got to see six great poets: Tim Black, Makalani Bandele, Johnny D. Iles, Glenn North, Sarah McInstry-Brown, and Ben Gottschall. The students got to experience something I'm pretty sure few of them have experienced. It was a poetry reading, a great poetry reading. I'm thankful for getting to bring these kids to see a reading this amazing, more so than having seen it myself.

And I'm pretty thankful that I got to see them.

Thanks, November #17

2010-11-17T19:12:00.000-06:00

Today, the amazing artist working on my upcoming novel, Chris Smith, sent me a mock-up of one of his ideas for the cover. I can't share them with you . . . I don't think . . . I will have to check with the editors over at the fine establishment crazy enough to publish just one part of the madness that is The ABCs of Dinkology.

But I don't want to go off on a tangent. I want to talk about Chris and his talent. Not only is he a great artist, but he is a great writer, and a great friend for going through all this nonsense and insanity that is the production of a book.

So anyway, I am thankful for him today . . . and I would be lying if I didn't mention my appreciation of his artistic ability.

Thanks, November 16!

2010-11-16T19:40:00.001-06:00

Today I am thankful for . . . well . . . I don't have anything specific bouncing to the forefront of my mind. That's not to say that I am depressed. I'm not. I'm not a depressed person. In fact, I don't remember a time since I was 21 that I felt a sad tugging on the back of my mind, the kind of tugging that makes you revel in your upsettedness (I made that word up, I'm a writer, writers can do that). And I don't want you to get the wrong idea, there really is no correlation between my 12 years sans depression and my ability to legally purchase alcohol.

Rather, the reason my depression disappeared has to do with a girl. It always has to do with a girl, doesn't it? She was beautiful, she was appealing, she was . . . well . . . I'm not going to say she was kind because that just wouldn't be right. Despite that, I loved her. When I was a teenager, like most kids I think, what I thought was love for another person was really just love of the idea of love. I don't think this is a bad thing; I think it is a necessary evil we all must face so that we may grow as people. I had passed that stage when I met this girl when I was 19. And despite some of our differences, despite our mutual inability to communicate, despite so many issues it is a miracle neither one of us was killed, I loved her and I like to believe she loved me.

But we played a love game, not the good kind either. Confusion, conflicts, and constant combats killed what we had before it could blossom into something beautiful. As cliche as this sounds, it's true. It sent me in a tailspin of depression and depression-like behaviors. I'm not saying I suffered from the disorder. Nothing like that. But I did grow depressed. During that depression I spent a lot of time alone, thinking. One day there was a click in my brain, as though hours and hours of staring at the walls in something of a decompression chamber of the mind, I figured out some things about my emotions. I'm not going to go into all of them here because they all pretty much stem from the realization that I control my emotions. Once I realized that, it was smooth sailing.

Yes, I still get upset. You can ask my students . . . my children . . . my wife . . . . Shit, you can even ask my pets, my cars, my house, my lawn, my bike, and a few neighbors. But overall, I got it under control. I've come to terms with who I am. I've grown to accept that the way I feel can, ultimately, only be blamed on me. I'm thankful for that.

Thanks, November #15

2010-11-15T21:17:00.000-06:00

I am now at the halfway point on this daily blogging thing and yes, dear friends, I am thankful for that. It's going to be a short one today. I'm thankful for that. There are very few places where I have complete control. This is one of them. I am thankful for that.

Thanks, November #14

2010-11-14T19:32:00.000-06:00

I am back home and still thankful. Two weeks straight now. I'm thankful that I have found two week's worth of stuff to be thankful for. I'm thankful I'm finally back home. I'm thankful all nine students made it through this little adventure in Kansas City, MO alive. I'm thankful my wife, son, daughter, dogs, and cats were all still alive when I came back. It isn't that I thought they would be dead, but still, it is nice to know they're not!

And as I said before, I'm thankful that I have been able to be legitimately thankful about something everyday this month. This is a pretty cool exercise. And I'm thankful for that too.

Thanks, November 13!

2010-11-13T22:17:00.000-06:00

The number 13 is unlucky, but tonight I was provided with a free dinner from a crazy expensive restaurant in Kansas City, Mo, called . . . well . . . I don't remember the name of it right now . . . . The yearbook publisher who puts together my school's yearbook footed the bill so I didn't pay much attention to anything else, except for the $100 steak that tasted like it was made from angels. That's not a typo folks. I bet angels would taste like that. So you know what, tonight, I am thankful for that steak at that restaurant, AND I am thankful for the publisher that paid for it.

Thanks, November #12

2010-11-12T16:11:00.001-06:00

Today I am still with students at the Kansas City JEA Convention. I am in Starbucks right now while one of my students rambles on about his new recycled hemp journal. He never stops talking. He's great. But I'm still thankful for privacy today, just as much as I yearn for it.

There are eight of us around a table at Starbucks. We've come here for two reasons. The coffee of course. No matter the caliber of the hotel, the coffee never seems to be their focus. The other reason for this foray into upper-middle-class Americana is because the hotel we are staying at, Embassy Suites in Kansas City, MO, charges $10.00 a night for Internet access. Yeah, seriously. $10.00! I'm a freaking teacher. Seriously, something should be done.

Anyway, I am thankful for privacy again. Maybe it will be different tomorrow . . . then again . . . maybe not.

Thanks, November #11

2010-11-11T23:10:00.001-06:00

Today I would like to let the world know I am thankful for privacy and the fact that I do not spend most of my time in an 11-passenger van with nine teenagers on a road trip to Kansas City for a Journalism Education Association Convention. God bless all the students, but they are loud.

So though I am not experiencing it at this moment, I can bask in the fact that I will soon have privacy and quiet again. All I have to do is live to see Sunday afternoon . . . .

Thanks, November #10

2010-11-10T22:40:00.001-06:00

I've actually made it to the double-digits this month with the daily blog about what I am thankful for. I've tried to skip the obvious--you know, I'm thankful for my family, friends, etc. I haven't always avoided the obvious. But trust me, every time I said I was thankful for the obvious thing to be thankful about, i.e. kids, good students, jobs, etc, I was being sincere. So either way it is a win-win situation.

Right now I'm watching the latest episode of Glee. Is it the best show ever? No. It isn't. But Jesus God, compare it to some of the reality shit or stupid sitcoms (not counting Big Bang Theory which is awesome) out there, it is by far NOT the worst. They try hard to entertain and be socially aware at the same time. That's worth a nod of appreciation. I guess I'm thankful for that tonight. I mean, I hate to sound like a bitter critic, but there isn't a lot I can appreciate on television.

Oh, I'm thankful for veterans too. Seriously. I don't want to fight in no fucking war. So the men and women that do . . . well you know, thanks.

Thanks, November #9

2010-11-09T20:36:00.000-06:00

Often, I have little time to think while at work. I focus on my students, my lessons, my duties, and bore through the day with a smile--and occasionally gritted teeth--making it through work without hurting anyone and hopefully teaching a few. It's a living. Right now, I'm thankful for having one. I don't think I've said that this month. So there you go. Today, I'm thankful I have a job.

Thanks, November #8

2010-11-08T22:00:00.000-06:00

Mondays are long days. I begin at 6:00am when the alarm clock blares some insipid morning DJ touting his or her lack of knowledge on such various and sundry subjects as politics, literature, film, equality, law, religion, or anything else he or she knows next to nothing about. I am immediately awake and full of rage that I quench with a shower, after letting the dogs out and starting my coffee--or boiling some water for tea--depending on my mood. For the past two months it's been almost exclusively coffee, not that it matters. Anyway, after the shower, I get ready for work, drink some coffee (or tea), get my son out of bed, get him breakfast, sit with him for a few minutes while he eats, and head on out the door around 7:00am. On my drive to work I usually eat a banana and a breakfast bar of some sort.

School officially starts at 7:50am, so in the half-hour or so before the first period late bell rings, I tend to run around the building, getting copies, checking mail, talking to students, talking to colleagues, preparing for my day, grading papers, seeing the principal, asking for more money for the journalism department, typing letters to boosters, students, administrators, and occasionally eating a little more.

When school starts I am on GO until lunch. Teaching, teaching, teaching. This, of course, includes actual teaching as well as dealing with minor teenage meltdowns, writing passes, talking to students about their lives, sending students to deans and/or counselors, communicating with other teachers/parents about my concerns for this or that student, grading some more, complimenting students, helping students when I have no idea how to, and essentially being a one man educator, psychiatrist, father, mother, older brother, preacher, boss, and yes, at times, friend.

When the day ends, at 3:20pm, I finish whatever I started before school began, continue working on my adviser duties (I advise for the video yearbook as well as the HAL--high ability learner program), and prepare for my night class, English Composition 101. It's a community college course I teach at my high school. It meets once a week for roughly three to four hours a night. Good times, huh? It is, for the most part, so don't feel bad for me.

All I'm getting at is this:

Mondays are long days. It is now 10:00pm. I'm tired. And I'm thankful for the Miller High Life I am drinking as I write.

Thanks, November #7

2010-11-07T18:57:00.001-06:00

Today was a long day, but it was a good day. I think, for the most part, it was good because of the time change. We fell back last night--one whole hour. And though my wife and I didn't do anything exciting with that extra hour, we were blessed with sleepy, slightly ill children who went to bed early and left us alone to stare at each other, wondering what to talk about, wondering what to do, just wondering . . . .

Eventually we began to talk. And for about an hour-and-a-half last night I went back in time to the early 2000s when Kim and I were living in an apartment above a print shop, spending our evenings as those of us in our early twenties from our particular counter culture often spend our evenings. This was a period in my life when I talked to my wife far more than I do now, far more.

I'm not complaining about my current situation. I love my kids. Do I enjoy the way they suck up a huge chunk of my waking life? Every day? No. I don't. Some days I do, other days I don't. That doesn't diminish my love for them. Sometimes, however, I fondly look back to a time when I could communicate with my wife without my son's DS making music in the background or my daughter . . . well . . . without my daughter talking.

But I digress.

Last night, in the extra hour "falling ahead" gave us, my wife and I sat and talked and talked and talked and talked. I know I am being vague, but some of my life, some of my experiences are just for me. Sorry. So today I am thankful for that extra hour. I am also thankful for my wife.

Thanks, November #6

2010-11-06T20:23:00.000-05:00

The weekend is here and I am thankful for it. No, I do not hate my job and stare longingly every Monday at the calendar where I have stuck a large foamy star sticker to the next Saturday. I like my job--I work with teenagers who can be at times frustrating, at other times nauseating, occasionally--no--often ignorant, but on the whole, and I know this might sound like a bit of a paradox, they are fun to work with. Impulse control issues aside, they're basically great, or they want to be anyway. The world and its harshness hasn't buried them in a dirt pile of malaise and bitterness. They are optimistic and, oftentimes, in their ignorance, endearing.

But regardless, and regardless of the fact that I went in to work twice on my day off, it is Saturday. And Saturdays, much like Fridays, are some of those uncommonly common precious gifts we should all be thankful for.

So today, much like yesterday, I am thankful for today.

Thanks, November #5

2010-11-05T22:40:00.000-05:00

Today I am keeping it short and sweet. I'm thankful for Fridays. Everyone should have at least one a week--even if it doesn't fall on an actual Friday--short of not working at all, and weekends, Fridays rule.

Thanks, November #4

2010-11-04T21:22:00.000-05:00

Today I had to call in to work so I could stay home and take care of my son, Quintin, who spent Wednesday night into Thursday morning puking. I had to stay home because my wife spent 7:00pm Wednesday night to 7:30am Thursday morning working and went back tonight to do the same thing. She had to sleep today. So I sacrificed time with my students for time with my family. As much as I love my students--because on the whole I do, someone would have been murdered a long time ago if that weren't true--it wasn't much of a sacrifice.

But I am not overly thankful for any of that. I mean, the short scenario I just delivered was created on the back of a double bummer--my son's sickness and my wife's third shift hospital job that she has to have because insurance is too expensive otherwise . . . . If only there was some kind of national plan in place that would help keep insurance companies under control, to stop them from being corrupt and basically stealing people's money. If only there was some kind of national plan that would help take care of this country's people. I mean, isn't that what a good government is supposed to do? Wasn't it Lincoln who said the proper role of government was to do that which individuals could not do for themselves? Isn't the fact that I am a successful (in my respective fields--teaching and writing--which by no means makes me rich) man, a positive contributor to society, and the head of a household--a guy who has done everything right--and I cannot afford insurance, and the fact that I am not an exception to the rule, but an example of it prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the government should do something about this??!!!

Shit.

I got off track.

Thankful. I'm thankful today for three students, three of my staff members on the video yearbook, who worked late, called me for help, asked me to come in and help for a little bit after school, and were appreciative when I did. I had a rough day. They did too. But we came together, worked together for about an hour this afternoon, smiled, joked, and had a good time while we accomplished something positive. So today, I'm thankful I'm a so-so teacher who has amazing students.

Thanks, November #3!

2010-11-03T21:05:00.000-05:00

Today I am thankful for a handful of things . . . . You know, that isn't true. I'm thankful for so much every day it is stupid. I'm a lucky man. I have a good job that I enjoy . . . most of the time . . . . I have a loving, beautiful wife. I have two intelligent children with independent minds and bright futures (I'm sure of it--despite my current lack of faith in many Americans both in and out of politics). I could go on and on and on. I really could--and I don't mean to brag. I was just looking at my post from last night and thinking that it was almost negative.

But that isn't a big deal. There are a lot of days in November. I will make up for yesterday's . . . let's call it a misstep.

I'll start on an extra-super-amazing positive.

Today I am thankful for the Halloween candy my two kids brought home on Sunday night. It hurts, but it hurts so good.

Thanks, November #2!

2010-11-02T21:15:00.001-05:00

Is it sad that the main thing I am thankful for today is that I've already voted and can begin resignation now?

Thanks, November #1

2010-11-01T22:20:00.000-05:00

So, my friend--whose blog is amazing--is going to be thankful every day in November on said blog. Not one to be beaten, I am too.

So here I go. On November 1st, 2010, I am thankful that my friend is doing this thankful thing so that I can totally copy.

Is it all that eloquent? No. Does it speak to the truth of my experience as a human being? Why yes it does, thanks for asking.

Oh, there goes another reason to be thankful.

Just

Like

That

(Poetry).

Book Update

2010-10-27T21:09:00.002-05:00

So, up to the point that I signed the contract with WSC Press to publish what will hopefully be the first in a long line of amazing novels published by various and sundry publishers who will fight over me, I lived under the erroneous belief that everything would get easy once my name was on that dotted line. I had several warnings--like a stupid amount--that I was mistaken. Once the editorial process starts, as one of my mentors, the incomparable Mark Haskell Smith said, "things get crazy, dude." It was something to that nature anyway.

He was right. They were all right--all those stupid published authors who warned me with stoic, knowing looks of what was to come. This isn't to say that I feel as though I am in a bad place right now. I'm literally months away from having a book available for you (yes you, and you, and you . . . and you too over there, looking at the back arrow or thinking of exiting your browser--everyone!).

I got a little carried away there. What I mean to say is that I know I am lucky. Yes, talent comes into play, determination comes into play, and all that. But it is pretty sweet that I made it into a writing program where I could . . . get to "know people who know people."

Anyway, the team I'm working with (my editor, my artist, and me) we've just made it through our first meltdown in the process of turning words into an actual book.

I'm not going to get into the details. I'll let you imagine what happened--just like in the movie Jaws--it's scarier when you have to use your imagination. It is enough to say that we had some ups and downs and turn arounds . . . some miscommunication, some wrong interpretations . . . . They came to a head yesterday afternoon. And I will be honest, I was nervous as shit for awhile. All the worst possible scenarios raced through my mind--the head editor calling and telling me to quit, my artist telling me he was done with this mess, my editor going crazy and killing us all . . . .

But nothing bad happened. It didn't. I think we hashed it out. I think we're all cool. Things are back on track. May 2011 is still the date!

Being a writer is hard.

Not as hard as being a teacher though.

Parent/Teacher Conferences In Review

2010-10-23T10:11:00.000-05:00

When I started in education, many moons and seasons ago, I was only sitting on one side of the table during conferences. I was the teacher all the time. Now, with two kids--a son in 2nd grade and a daughter in kindergarten--I am also a parent. I was warned that things would be different now, that my knowledge of education, the intricacies of classroom management, the development of lesson plans, and the barely readable mass of wires that is the child's brain, would cause some kind of friction in the conferencing process. My knowledge, I was told, would interfere with the entire meeting.

Whoever told me that, and I honestly can't remember who it was, lied. Was the lie intentional? I don't know. I don't think so. However, it was nonetheless a lie. Perhaps that is because my son and daughter have amazing teachers this year. Perhaps that is because I am not one to foist my opinions on others. Either way, my meetings as a parent went wonderfully. I feel that the teachers were honest, fair, and, frankly, better than me.

On to the side of the table I am more comfortable with--the teacher side. Have I ever had an irate parent verbally attack me? At conferences, no. There was once a few years ago, back when I was working for the Davenport Community School District when I was minding my own business one afternoon after school, and a mother rushed into my classroom and basically blamed me for all of her daughter's failings. A conversation ensued in which I explained my position (her daughter had been lying to the both of us and trying to play one hand against the other) and before she left the room she was sternly apologetic. There was another time when a male student de-panted a female student in my class. The girl's dad was rightly pissed and his anger at me, at the boy, at the situation, bled through his pours and oozed out of his eyes as the principal, a dean, the parents, and I had a meeting about it. I was apologetic at that meeting, even though it wasn't my fault. Though it was an awkward encounter, I wouldn't use the word "irate" to classify the incident.

My track record stays clean with this week's slate of conferences. No irate parents, no negativity, and since I only teach electives there weren't a lot of issues with parents asking about their son or daughter's chance of passing for graduation. I'm in a pretty sweet spot as an educator. One thing that disturbed me however was the pursuit of "As" many of these students were eager to join. I do not know how many times I explained that my job is to educate, not to hand out "As." I explained the value of a "C" to parents and students alike. I told them that a solid "C" built upon the back of knowledge and newly learned wisdom is far more valuable than an "A" flippantly handed out and easily achieved.

I guess it is a cultural thing though. America is full of egoists and "As" stroke those egoists better than a veteran porn star. So, were conferences all positive? No. Are they ever? No. Were they overwhelmingly negative? No, no, no, no, no! My students' parents, by and large, understand what I am doing--or if they do not understand what I am doing in my classes, they understand its merit. There really isn't much more I can ask for.

Then, of course, the week ended with our district's superintendent abruptly quitting. The battle on the horizon will probably be a bit . . . well, let's just say it won't be pretty. For now though, I'm happy--for reasons the article I linked should explain. We'll worry about all the fallout later. All in all, it was a fine, fine Parent/Teacher Conference Week.

Life, While It Happens

2010-10-16T20:21:00.001-05:00

At my parents' house tonight there is a noise that echoes off the walls and bounces into my brain with an unceasing, thundering power that cannot be stopped. It is my parents' big screen television, avec surround sound, blaring the audio to the film How To Train Your Dragon. Mixed in with this is the audio interplay of three Nintendo DS game systems as my son, my daughter, and one of my approximately five million nieces play the "battle" or "mini-game" mode of Super Mario Bros. DS. Periodically, my nephew answers a question about the film that my mother shouts over the oddly Scottish-sounding Vikings' voices and the dragons' grunts and growls (from the film, obviously, though I would fully understand why you might assume I was actually talking about the denizens of this madhouse).

My daughter just shouted, "I won!"

Now my son has.

I've now noticed a Viking with a distinctly American accent. Also, my nephew telling everyone to "Shut up!" as my son, daughter, and nieces argue over the DSs. My mother tries to stop it to no avail.

Perhaps you think I am a bad father for letting this all happen before my eyes with little to no intervention. Perhaps I am a bad father. Then again, perhaps I am at my parents' house and while I am at my parents' house, my voice has little power in situations such as these. The big deals, the legitimate fights where kids could get hurt, the injuries, the battles at bedtime? Those are still my jurisdiction. Here and now, while the cousins' interplay is something akin to a microcosm of our larger society . . . . Well, I got nothing.

So I write. I write about life while it happens. This is a Saturday night for me. And I don't want you to think I am complaining. I'm not. I love it. I love the madness, the fact that a million things are happening at once, that the sounds ringing through this house are the sounds of children who may be bickering but are, beneath the bicker, happy. I love hearing my parents talk to my kids as though they are adults. I love sitting back and watching it all.

I wish my dad had bought some beer though.

Relaxation, The Perfect Cure

2010-10-09T15:15:00.000-05:00

I don't get sick very often. But when I do, it hits me hard. I don't want to do anything but rest on the couch and watch television. If I had a television in my bedroom, I would stay in bed. I heard once that a television in the bedroom negatively affects a couple's love life. Frankly, I'd rather have to stumble down my stairs with a fever once or twice a year, then do something to upset my love life. Naturally by now you understand that by "love" I mean "sex." You guys got that, right?

Anyway, I'm hopped up on various goofballs in order to make the pain in my throat, head, and muscles dissipate, so I figured this would be a perfect time to grade the stack of papers in my office and on my desktop. So here I am writing a blog between fits of coughing. I don't know why I am telling the world (or my handful of followers) this, it seems a bit pathetic. But such is life.

I'm doing a lot right now, perhaps that's why I got sick. I teach high school Creative Writing and Video Journalism five days a week. I teach a college English Comp class four hours a night, one night a week. I work on my novel daily (due on May 2011, in case I haven't said that enough). I work as an editor as well. Then, of course, I have the family duties that come with being a father and husband. Perhaps I've simply stretched myself to the limit. It reminds of the last time I became seriously ill, it was two years ago actually--I was in the last semester of my graduate program. I was so sick I couldn't think straight--puking, rising temperature, aching body . . . I was the very definition of miserable. My mom called me several times and reminded me of the story of Jim Henson's death.

Essentially, Mr. Henson worked himself to death. He worked so hard on his films that he didn't pay much attention to the fact that he was getting sicker and sicker, and before anyone could do anything about it, the man died of the flu (yes, there were other factors, but as I said before, essentially, this is what happened).

Mom didn't want that to happen to me.

I learned something from that episode. Most importantly, I learned, or rather re-learned, that my mom loves me more than I know (this was evidenced in the genuine fear in her voice when she spoke to me). Also, I learned that everyone has their limit--even mad men like Jim Henson and myself (not that I'm a genius like him, but we are both a bit strange). I mean, has anybody ever seen The Dark Crystal? That shit's crazy.

So I'm taking it easy. I'm not worrying. I'm not even playing much with my kids today. I'm sitting in a recliner, watching television, and typing this silly blog because it is relaxing. And seriously, even if you're not sick, maybe you need a little more relaxing too.

Just Write

2010-09-30T21:37:00.000-05:00

So, I haven't seriously written any of my own work in five days. It is a bit nerve wracking. Even after a day or two you begin to ask yourself if you've lost it. Crazy thoughts start speeding through your head. "I'm done!" and "My talent, the one fucking thing I got, it's just disappeared!" You start to drink . . . then you start to drink more . . . then the drinking isn't enough . . . . Oh my God, by day three, you are so screwed, you might as well be snorting crack off a slutty biker chick's ass behind a seedy bar in a skeezy town. You know, bottom of the barrel shit.

I'm at fucking day five right now, staring down the barrel of day six and frankly wanting to wrap my lips around that barrel and just pull the trigger. Fuck it, right?

I mean, if art is so powerful, why the hell are people still douche bags? You know? I shouldn't have to continually write about the foibles of mankind. Artists shouldn't have to paint about them. Poets shouldn't have to . . . poet . . . about them. Guess what? If mankind hasn't figured out how fucked up it is yet, it isn't going to. No amount of art is going to change that.

Well . . . that might not be entirely true. Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure and Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey said it all. Despite the setbacks, despite the obstacles, despite the fact that nobody thinks it's possible, Bill and Ted kept at it. And guess what? They brought peace to the world with their music. God knows we could use that.

Maybe I won't do that with my silly books and comics. But then again, maybe I will . . . . I think I'll just write and see what happens. Not writing can't last forever for me. And if you consider yourself a writer, it shouldn't for you either.

Why Aren't You Reading This Blog?

2010-09-24T22:15:00.001-05:00

No, not mine. Hers. This week, I'm giving my meager few paragraphs over to a far more articulate writer. She is a humble genius and her words are maddeningly poignant. I'm taking the week off so you guys can read something important.

http://summerprojection.blogspot.com/2010/09/cross-post-dear-oprah.html

Or read it here. And then do something.

http://readingwriting.posterous.com/dear-oprah-how-to-really-fix-public-education

A Dozen Dos Pertaining to Writing

2010-09-15T20:15:00.001-05:00

1) Do make your story go to strange places.

2) Do read anything you can get your hands on and a lot of it.

3) When in doubt, do show, do not tell.

4) Do understand that writing is an art and therefore does not have rules, rather principles.

5) Do, however, understand that these principles have worked for quite some time.

6) Do love all your characters.

7) Do put them through hell.

8) Do use dialogue.

9) Do use imagery.

10) Do use figurative language.

11) Do know that grammar and mechanics do fucking matter.

12) Do live a life, because if you don't, then you won't be able to write about living.

There you go folks, you've just taken my creative writing class. Don't tell anybody that I take a dozen little sentences and turn them into a year of lessons . . . . I might get fired.

Speech Pre-flection

2010-09-10T22:22:00.000-05:00

In preparation for President Obama's big "Back to School" speech next week, I thought I would drop some reality on y'all. As an educator, I'm kind of "in the know."

Most importantly, "Race to the Top"--this grand "new" education plan . . . law . . . thing . . . is "No Child Left Behind"(NCLB) with a different fucking name. So, while I have heard our current president talk about laying blame for the failures of America's educational system not solely on the shoulders of its teachers, but its parents, its media, its politicians, its parents, its eateries, its parents, its social norms, and its parents, based on what I know of "Race to the Top," all that talk is just that, talk.

What else is there? Well, I want to be forthcoming. I want everyone to know that I really do enjoy my job. Do I love it? No. If I could live without having to work, would I. Hell yes. But if I have to work, then teaching is what I want to do. And I teach creative writing and film making. It's right up my alley. I enjoy it--particularly creative writing. I can't get enough of the act of teaching--of being in the classroom and interacting with students--the ones who want to learn anyway--there are certain people I could do without. I eat it up. What I'm getting at is that I am, at least for the past two years, not one of those hardened, grizzled educational heroes who struggles through teaching all the required courses that students hate to take. Most of mine want to be in the room with me (at least four forty-five minutes a day anyway). So you know, take what I say with a grain of salt.

What bothers me most about President Obama, about any politician for that matter, talking about education . . . or health care . . . is that they have no fucking clue what they are talking about. And if you think being a product of the public school system gives anyone a working knowledge of the nooks and crannies of education then I suppose you think spending a few weeks in a hospital makes your average American a med student.

I remember when NCLB passed some representative came to the district where I worked to talk it up. The man began his speech--a man who helped write the fucking law--with a statement along the lines of, "I went to a private school, so . . . ." then began to do his thing.

Does that make sense to anyone out there? Anyone? The people making the educational laws for public schools didn't go to public schools (for the most part--I know President Obama did and I applaud him for it, as I applaud him for many things) and they don't send their kids to public schools. I can't really write any more about it. I'm infuriated. I'm typing on my computer and I'm infuriated.

I'll tell you this though . . . . I am seriously considering starting my own private school. I wonder where I can get capital for that . . . .

Too Much Thinking

2010-09-01T21:13:00.000-05:00

How important is this blog? In the grant scheme of things, not very. I am under no assumptions--after all that would make an ass out of "u" and "mption," right? So why do I do it? I mean, I know why I do it, the same reason the billions of other bloggers do it. We want our voices to be heard. If I was asked, "By whom?" My most honest answer would be, "Everyone." I can say that with a straight face, and a deft hand dancing across the keyboard. In my perfect world I wouldn't have to do anything but write and teach writing to make a living. I love it. I like to think I'm good at it. Some critics have said as much. I've recently signed a book deal with a college press. No small feat I'm guessing. But I don't want to sound like I'm patting my own back because even when I think about my book I wonder how important it is.

I mean, will it be part of the literary canon someday? Will these words be dissected and analyzed by college professors as they delve into the mind of a genius who can tell mankind the Great Secrets? Is that important? What is important? I've gotten existential. I don't like that. I'm a simple man. I don't know how important I am. I don't know how important my writing is.

But you can't get stuck in that muddle for too long because if there is anything that will make you stop writing, it is that kind of thinking.

So I guess this is all I got for this week. Too much thinking going on . . . . I should try a podcast instead.

Video Games

2010-08-26T20:52:00.000-05:00

I'm reading a book by Tom Bissell called Extra Lives: Why Video Games Matter and only three chapters in I am beginning to rethink my stance on video games in general. Now, I've never been an enemy to the video game. Hell, I have some fond memories of video games. I grew up with Mario and Yoshi, Sonic and Samus. They were my friends, so were many other pixelated characters brought to life on the unreasonably small television set my parents allowed us (my two little sisters and me) to use for video games.

I seriously have no idea how many hours I spent basking in the unhealthy blue glow of 8-bit games on up. Like most middle class kids of my generation, I started with Atari and moved my way up the food chain with the various Nintendo consoles and found myself, in the late 90s, playing games like Resident Evil on the Playstation while simultaneously partaking in some . . . less than legal activities . . . . And as I look back, I smile. Sure, I might regret a few times I stayed home and played video games when i could have gone out, but on the whole, I had fun. And what else was I supposed to do back then? Change the world? Volunteer? Mission? Riiiiiiiiiight. No, I played video games. I wasn't a gamer and never will be. As much as I like video games, I am really not all that good at them. In fact, I'm pretty terrible at them. But I have fun, even when my seven-year-old beats me at the simplest game, I have fun.

As a parent though, I put a serious limit on my kids' gaming time. Something my parents never did (one of their many mistakes with me). I guess when I came up with my limit--an hour a day--I didn't consider the fact that I turned out okay. I didn't consider the fact that my kids are pretty freaking smart. I didn't consider the fact that video games are just so Goddamn fun sometimes you really and truly need more than an hour.

As of yet I've come to no conclusions. But Bissell's book is making me nostalgic and more lenient.

Time

2010-08-18T21:48:00.002-05:00

I believe it was the Rolling Stones who said, "Ti-i-i-i-ime is on my side, yes it is." But uh-oh. They weren't the first to say that. It happened to be the jazz trombonist Kai Winding and his Orchestra that originally recorded those famous lines. Seriously. That's right. Kai Winding. Who the fuck is Kai Winding? Not being a jazz aficionado--I'm more like Patrick Star from Spongebob Squarepants--I had no idea who this guy was. But apparently, he was a pretty prolific man. I'm not going to go into a lot of detail about him. If you are curious, here's what wikipedia says.

So what, Dear Reader, am I getting at with all of the above nonsense? I'm not really sure. But as the school year begins--the first week with students is now half over--and the editing of my book begins in earnest--my editor and I have taken the week to examine approximately 15 pages--I feel that the Stones and this Winding guy and Irma Thomas and (drum roll please) the guy who actually wrote that stupid fucking song, Jerry Ragovoy had some kind of key that I sadly lack.

Time is most definitely not on my side. Yes, I know, that isn't what the song is about--it is a song about how one person's ex-lover will be back. But nobody really cares about that. The most powerful line in that song is the one Mic Jagger repeats ad nauseum, "Time is on my side." Maybe Mic, who is approximately 1000 years old, has time in his corner, on his side, at his back, as it were. But the rest of us don't. The rest of us run through life trying to keep up. Some of us do it more quickly than others. Some of us let the fact that we are always never where we want to be eat at our souls until there is nothing left but sad and desperate hunks of flesh waiting to die. Some of us mask our desperation for something else, our desire for more time. Usually these masks have several holes and remind me of the masks Stephen King's Low Men wear. This, I have to tell you, is not so much because of what they look like, but because of their inability to hide what is underneath.

Then, I like to think there is a group that just goes with it. A group that understands in fact, "No, there is not enough time. Nor will there ever be on this mortal coil. But such is life." I like to think that despite my current influx of work and worries, I usually belong to this third group. Perhaps it is my arrogance that is getting the best of me when I say this (I can be smarmy at times and I am raising my son to be a replica of me . . . we're a lot like Miss Havisham and Estella in that one day I will probably be sad because of what I've created . . . I guess we're like Frankenstein and his monster too . . . .). But I tend to deal well. I like to tell people that I am the pebble in the stream as well as the stream flowing over the pebble--perfectly rounded and always moving. I know it's lame, but there it is.

But all this blogging about time could just be a bunch of crap. After all, time takes on a certain strangeness when your wife is out of town.

Peace.

School Daze

2010-08-12T20:50:00.000-05:00

For most of my life, I lived under the impression that grammar school and high school teachers were a unique breed. I thought that they were noble, wiser than most others. They were on a pedestal, even the ones I didn't like--and make no mistake, there were more than a few I didn't like. Sure, I had run into exceptions to the rule, a few idiots and assholes that somehow managed to crawl their way through the arduous expanse of educational theory classes to earn their degrees. But by and large, as a student, I looked up to teachers, even the ones I found . . . disagreeable. I thought they were the kind of people who could have meetings that were over quickly because everyone understood what was being said. I thought they were the kind of people who didn't waste time on needless repetition. I thought they were the kind of people that--while not infallible--were far from the levels of everyday idiocy one sees . . . say . . . at the mall. In short, I thought teachers were special.

Then I became one.

And reality, as it often does, slapped me in the face . . . hard. Initially, I thought this was a bad thing. I felt I had been lied to my entire life. Teachers had worn a mask around me, a mask of wisdom, a mask of glory, a mask of falsity. These people were just like everyone else. They were pulled over for drunk driving, they ate too much, they had disorders, they broke rules, they didn't always prepare, they were late, they were mean, they were naive, they were assholes, they made several . . . several errors. Mind you, I don't mean everyone, but nevertheless, what I saw was shocking and, honestly, a bit disheartening.

And I'm lots of bad things, but I'm not a liar.

So in that spirit of honesty, upon reflection, I realized that this pedestal I had placed educators on was of my making entirely. In fact, this humanity that teachers have, this fact that they are no different than everyone else, that they make mistakes, that they plow through life the same way everyone else does, is what makes them special.

Although, and not to twist you all around again, I do think there are several educators out there that just shouldn't be. But I guess that can be said about any job. Right?

And don't even get me started on college professors . . . . ;)

That's right. I just used an emoticon.

School is starting in a couple of days. A new year, a new list of students, and a new set of challenges. Wish me luck because I've been known to fall into that category of teachers that makes mistakes . . . just like everyone else.

Family Blog

2010-08-04T21:23:00.000-05:00

Those of you who read this with any regularity understand that this is not one of those sappy, "guess what my wittle cuties did today" blogs. Though, before I say any more, I must say that there are a few of those family blogs that have caught my attention. Some of them--even the poorly written ones--are poignant and funny at times. I think those family blogs written by moms and dads who only want to tell their friends and extended family (and I'm sure a good chunk of them hope the world is paying attention, this is the internet after all) what their "wittle cuties" are doing have a certain charm that blogs like mine lack. I don't want to say they are adorable because that would be demeaning. But they surely can be a-damn-dorable.

I wonder if this blog will be as adorable . . . .

Today has been rough. It ended with me standing at the top of my stairs yelling at my five-year-old daughter so hard that it felt as though a blood vessel was going to burst and my voice was just going to stop. Just stop. Yes. I screamed as though I was possessed by the devil at my beautiful daughter who, for the most part, is the honey to my Pooh Bear--I can't get enough of her. But today . . . ah well . . . today. It started easy enough. I woke up, hung out with my family while we ate breakfast, then I went to teach the one class I am teaching this summer, an English Comp I class with a whopping five students. Easy-peasy. Then I got home, ate lunch, had a wonderful conversation with my daughter until she exploded. I don't even know what she was freaking out about now, but freak out she did. And it lasted a long-ass time. Seriously. It was stupid. After shutting her in her room, demanding an apology, and managing to have some semblance of peace as my wife slept for her night shift as a clerk in the NICU at a local hospital, I promised to take her to get a Slushee. She loves Slushees.

Ruh-Row. Can you feel the build up?

So I took her and brought my seven-year-old son who has been down with a virus for a couple days. He's getting better, he wanted to come, then go to the bookstore to spend a $10 gift card. I thought, "What's the harm?" The harm, apparently, is pretty severe. Even after explaining to my daughter that she spent her gift card yesterday and she would not be getting a book and she needed to understand that, the girl flipped out in the bookstore. I responded as any good parent would. Yes dear readers, I was one of those parents that people without kids think abuses his children. All of us parents know that it is the parent who is kind as a damn commercial in public who takes his kids home and pummels them. Don't believe me? Ask this guy.

And then it wouldn't stop.

Nothing stopped it, nothing. No kind words, no yelling, no bribery, no listening. Life was not going the way she wanted it and she took it out on me, and by proxy, my son, who managed to develop a headache over the time spent at the bookstore, in the car, then back home. There was a brief moment of peace as I watered the garden. She even helped, laughed, smiled, spoke to me like a human being. It was magical.

Then BOOM! The beast appeared again, like some kind of ravaging Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

And so this brings us back to the beginning, which was actually the end of the story . . . I think . . . . Storytelling is hard. Anyway, after my explosion . . . or rather . . . during it . . . I realized she had brought me down to her level. She beat me! That little brat beat me! She sucked me into her game of crying, whining, screaming, and generally being the kind of person no one wants to be around so that I was right there with her, yelling like I wanted the Goddamn world to shake with the power of my voice.

So I stopped. I apologized profusely. I realized I've probably done the same thing to my son once or twice, so I apologized to him too. She apologized to me. We hugged and made up and even committed, via the unbreakable oath of a pinky-swear, to never again spend the majority of the day screaming, whining, crying, or generally being the kind of person no one wants to be around (on her part) and never yelling to shake the walls (on my part).

I hope I don't break this swear because I told her God gets mad when you do. Either that, or I hope I'm wrong about God getting mad . . . . Or maybe there isn't a God, or maybe he wasn't listening today . . . .

Eve

2010-07-27T22:35:00.001-05:00

It is the eve of my 33rd birthday . . . . Did you guys read that correctly? 33! 33 years I've been dancing the dance on this damned planet (alliteration, extra points!) and I suppose since 33 is a magic number, one of those I like to call "twins," I guess I should take some time to reflect on what I've accomplished . . . on what I've done with my life . . . on all of my highs and lows . . . even on what I think the future might hold.

Nah.

That's boring. Plus, it's what you would have expected and that just isn't my scene, baby. Right now I am listening to Eminem's The Slim Shady LP and remembering when I bought it on a whim after I heard the edited version of "My Name Is" on some pop radio station out of Norfolk, NE. It was 1998 or 1999 and I was living in Battle Creek, NE with my grandma at the time and going to school at Northeast Community College. I popped the CD in (yes kids, this was many moons and seasons ago before the onset of that magical little piece of technology we call an mp3) as I was driving on the back-roads between Norfolk and Battle Creek. I was making it a leisurely drive. I was smoking. My friend, Adam, was there. It was a sunny fall afternoon.

Wow, this is getting kind of melodramatic, isn't it?

But that's the way it was. I remember specifically thinking the day was just fucking gorgeous, one of those days that only exists in movies that take place in the 60s, but nevertheless was happening at the tail end of the 20th century. So I put that disc in and before too long I had to pull the car over because I was laughing so hard. His lyrics. That's what it was. I recognized his talent as a writer--the man could come up with some wicked rhymes--but his audacity is what got me. It was like he really and truly didn't care. I could respect that. At the ripe old age of 21 or 22, I could love that. I don't know how Adam felt about it, perhaps at the time I didn't care.

So on the eve of my 33rd birthday I am reminiscing about the first time I listened to Eminem without any radio edits. I guess there are worse things to be thinking about right now, right? Maybe I should be a little more concerned with my accomplishments though, and maybe my future. If my 33rd year is going to be anything like history's most famous 33-year-old then I'm screwed.

Big News

2010-07-21T08:32:00.000-05:00

So, before I begin, let me say that I do not like to brag . . . not really anyway . . . . Well, maybe I do like to brag a little bit. But as those of you who are my facebook friends know, I just signed a deal with Wayne State College Press and my first book, The ABCs of Dinkology (part one) is now scheduled for release in May of 2011. But I don't say this to brag--not entirely anyway--I say it with a sigh of relief mixed with a tremendous, nerve wracking jolt of fear. Max, the protagonist of my little novella, is my baby and he will now be "leaving home" so to speak, confronting the dangers of the world . . . including every writer's worst nightmare, an intelligent critic who, with good reason, doesn't like your book. I get shudders just thinking about it.

But I'd like to write about Max's evolution today, not about my fear of the future (always a depressing topic). Max was born in my mind, my own little brain-baby, in Battle Creek, NE, thanks in part to the midwifery of poet Barbara Schmitz who was my creative writing and poetry instructor at Northeast Community College in the late 90s. Over the decade of my 20s he grew into quite the young man. He had ideas and theories all his own. He walked through a fist-full of short stories, some grounded firmly in reality, others dancing around in worlds gorged with monsters and faeries. Some of those stories were published . . . many were not (I'm not providing links to those because . . . well, those stories are OLD, unpolished, and . . . if you're that curious you can find them yourself).

When I began my work with the UNMFA program I knew Max's story was the one I wanted to tell. And so I did. My fist-full of short stories became the workings of a novel and over a two-year period, those workings became a novel. Over the past year, since I have been a graduate, and now a master of the fine art of creative writing (or so they tell me) the novel has grown even more. That novel, which was magnificent in its girth, topping out at around 700-800 some odd pages, has morphed into a series of five novellas, each one telling the continuing tale of Max Dinkman's senior year in high school, the school year of 1999-2000. Max Dinkman, whose father has cancer. Max Dinkman, whose girlfriend is gay. Max Dinkman, who'd rather just get high and ignore reality.

Well, this has been a quick and dirty version of my book's incubation period. Now, The ABCs of Dinkology is poised to begin life out there in the real world. All thanks go to the wisdom of the aforementioned Barbara Schmitz, my mentors in the MFA program--Mark Haskell Smith, Trish Lear, Amy Hassinger, and Karen Shoemaker, my wife, my sisters, my parents, and every writer, friend, and family member whose words or actions seeped into my subconscious and helped me develop this story, and most importantly, Chris Smith, the artistic talent and helluva writer who is providing all the art for this book. I think, when May of 2011 roles around and the book finally jumps into publication, I will be not only happy and content, but able to handle the days my children graduate high school.

Keep reading folks, and thanks.

My summer with Roland

2010-07-13T08:42:00.000-05:00

Before you read this, know that following the links may lead you to story spoilers!

This summer I've been reading Stephen King's Dark Tower series and my face has been melting off while my head is simultaneously exploding. Before I get into the unmitigated awesomeness of this series of books, let me explain my history with them. For the longest time, it was nonexistent. I didn't even know Stephen King wrote a series until I was well into college. I got nothing by way of an explanation for this. I was busy reading his other books in secret (I'll explain that in a second). I read It, The Stand, Gerald's Game, etc.

The fantasy I read came from the likes of J.R.R Tolkien and C.S. Lewis so perhaps that's why Stephen King's seven part opus flew in under my radar. For whatever reason, I didn't know it existed and then when I did discover it--sometime in the late 90s, I put off reading it with a few shallow, ignorant, and compartmentalizing beliefs. First, I thought King was a horror writer and couldn't believe his fantasy could be as good. I only ever wanted King to do two things--scare the shit out of me or freak me out with some kind of off the wall weirdness. Second, I thought this series was pure fantasy. I was ignorant of what it truly is: something that defies category, brilliant. Third, I was in college at the time, an English major, a bit of a literature snob. While I liked King's work . . . a lot, I was fooled by those around me into believing I should be ashamed of my enjoyment. He was a cheap thrill, the modern equivalent of a dime store novelist, a paperback writer who somehow managed to grab pop culture's ears, eyes, and mind but not to be included in the pantheon of great American writers like Mark Twain, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Richard Wright, and the many others someone in an ivory tower (irony?) somewhere decided were "literary." Whatever that means. Yes, "fooled" is the right word. As I grew in maturity as well as age, I realized several, several things about life and all in all what you are about to read is one of the least important (but those others are for a different day).

I learned that when it came to books, to writing in general, I wasn't an expert by any stretch of the imagination, but for the most part, I knew what the hell I was talking about and I was talking about Stephen King and how he was a good writer. So I went back and began reading his many, many other books in public! I haven't read them all, and I don't know that I ever will, but I have yet to be disappointed and frankly one of his newer books, Cell, gave me nightmares. But I held off on what King has himself called his "opus." I wanted to wait until the series was complete. I was being cautious. It had taken him like twenty years to write the first three parts of the series, I didn't want to get hooked like some of my friends, then die or something before the final four saw print. So I waited. And waited. And waited. When they were finally released I kept putting them off. I really have no explanation for this, I think it might be ka. Then, last summer, one of my best friends gave me a copy of The Gunslinger when I graduated from University of Nebraska's MFA program. I read it, I loved it, I bought the next two parts. Over a nine month period I read these books well into the wee hours of the mourning--I loved them. Nothing other than the strains of life and other books I wanted or needed to read prevented me from reading them quicker. But once I hit the fourth one, a few weeks ago, something clicked in me and I told myself I needed to finish this damn series NOW.

And this, my friends, is a great feeling. So I've jumped into them, even re-read the first three books, combing them like an anthropologist, getting to know and love Roland Deschain, Eddie Dean, Susannah Dean, Jake Chambers, and Oy--even to a certain degree Callahan. I have laughed and cried at their trials and tribulations, I have, as I said, found myself staying up until the sun is about to peak out its head just so I could finish one of the parts and yes, even reflect on it for a bit.

I don't want to give anything away directly, even the most mundane aspects of the story seem too important to give away in this quiet, insignificant little blog. If you follow the links, you do so at your own risk, but I will say this: because of these books, for me, the summer of 2010 will be one that I will not soon forget. So thank you Mr. King, thank you Roland and your ka tet. I hope the wheel keeps spinning and more readers enjoy these fantastic stories because that is what they are, in their purest, simplest light: stories.

And some of you know I consider a good story something akin to God's grandchild.

Fourth of July in Review

2010-07-07T14:52:00.001-05:00

So on Fourth of July this year (otherwise known as Independence Day here in the States) I posted a question about wars on my facebook page. It was a silly little question about wars. I know that statement is a bit of an oxymoron . . . or juxtaposition . . . or paradox . . . in and of itself but I asked the "silly question" nonetheless. I asked, and this is a direct quote by the way, "Of all the wars America has fought, how many of them were for our freedom? Just curious." I hoped it wasn't a loaded question. I thought it out, and tried to come up with one that was as innocuous as possible--it was a legitimate question after all, not me being a left-wing liberal smartass (all titles I have gladly worn at one time or another). I wanted to know, like, historically speaking, which ones were for freedom.

The answers I got (55 and counting) were various and sundry, ranging from (and I summarize and paraphrase here) "one or two" to "all of them." And the responders came at me and each other with a sense of rightness that was fascinating. There were arguments, and still may be more before all is said and done, and there were agreements, and there were some attempts at levity (mostly by me I think because I in no way meant to light off a shitstorm of debate). But I liked it. I have an almost wicked streak in me that enjoys watching sparks fly. And there we go. I celebrated the Fourth of July the way most Americans do--by watching sparks fly. Though the sparks I watched all day and into the next . . . and into the next were in the form of a facebook debate. I mean, I also went over to my buddy's house and enjoyed some of the physical fireworks, grilled meat, and libations as well. But reading the arguments and opinions that my question sparked was great, great fun.

If anybody has his feelings or sensibilities bruised, I apologize. But for me it was like being in the middle of a party and just listening. What I am getting at it is quite simple really. I would rather party than talk reasons for war. In the end, if more people were like that perhaps there would be fewer wars . . . . That is what summertime is for anyway: partying. Let's all just go outside by the fire, roast some marshmallows, drink some beer (if you're legal, Kool-Aid otherwise), and accept that we all have our differences (and of course there is a crapload of people who are wrong and those of us with some energy and drive should protest and argue, but not in the summertime man). I hope the remainder of our summer is an awesome one.

Oh, and in the coming weeks I might just have some big news . . . that has nothing to do with this post. So keep coming back . . . .

Public Pool

2010-06-27T11:26:00.001-05:00

Now that summer has come upon us once again, as it is, thankfully, wont to do, I have purchased my very first public pool family pass. It will last the whole season! Ya! At a cool $75, I felt it was worth it. A few years ago, when I lived in an apartment, we had a pool a mere 30 yards away. Life was good then. The past few summers, since we've bought into the American Dream and bought a house, we've tried various small plastic pools and summertime water toys whose lives all ended tragically in cracks, rips, breaks, or leaks. So it seemed logical to take the next step. I felt a lot like Robert Frost though--looking down that famous divergence in the road. Did I want to fork over the big bucks and buy one of those symbols of American middle-classery: the above ground pool? Or did I want to get the pool pass?

Having grown up with an above ground pool it didn't take me long to realize what I wanted to do. I remember the price of the above ground pool, the work, the cleaning, the putting up of the damn thing . . . in a word, it was horrible. In a stronger word, it was shitty. In a stronger combination of words, it was fucking shitty. But I can't say that it was entirely bad. I had some of my first sexual experiences in that pool--alas not sex, but you get the idea. I had some genuine fun in that pool with my friends and no one else. I had an elevated status in my neighborhood as the kid with the pool. But all that fun, even the stuff with girls, couldn't counter the work.

So I got the pool pass. Having very little experience with public pools beyond your average hotel, I wasn't sure what to expect. Yes, the kids and I had fun. Yes, there was a nice little kiddie pool for my youngest. Yes there were about 100 lifeguards who, despite the fact that they looked like they only very recently came barreling into the world, seemed to know what they were doing. My kids saw friends from school there, got to play. We're developing nice tans--starting to put on our summer skin, if you will. And when we were done swimming, we simply dried off and left. It was great. No work involved.

Though there was a downside. No privacy for one thing. And though I may be showing my shallow side, I did see one too many morbidly obese people walking around in very . . . very . . . VERY little clothing. And you know . . . that was horrible. Some of the kids there were little assholes (oh no the grown man is calling little kids assholes, what are we gonna do??!! Meet those kids' fucking parents maybe.) but the lifeguards handled those kids swiftly and with power that was respected. I am, like, the only father there on the weekday afternoons, so while that wasn't necessarily bad, it was odd. You know, having a conversation with a woman while she is essentially standing in front of you in her underwear is . . . well . . . it's . . . uncomfortable isn't the right word. I guess it is just odd when you think about it. Why are bikinis socially acceptable but walking around in your underwear is not? Hey ladies, they're the same fucking thing! And anyone who tells you different is lying. I don't mind it. This isn't really a downside. I'm just saying.

So anyway, I've decided it was a good idea--this public pool pass. I'm going to ignore the fact that there are kids peeing in the pool (there is a shit ton of chlorine in those things after all). I'm going to ignore the fact that old people, fat ladies, and dudes the size of the pool find it exhilarating to walk around in next to nothing (mainly because I plan on being an old fat dude someday walking around public pools in a Speedo). So I'm going to enjoy the pass. I'm going to enjoy watching my kids play in the pool, teaching them how to swim, and lounging as the sun warms us all. Will that make "all the difference"? I don't know. And I'm not going to find out today. Today it is kind of cold. So I'm writing a blog.

A Little Bit About Me

2010-06-14T21:40:00.000-05:00

In my office right now, taped to the wall in front of my desk are a few mementos. First and foremost is a black and white copy of a photo of Johnny Cash looking all surly, flipping me off. This particular copy has seen a few miles. There are pink spots where water dripped on it, the corners are dogeared, and there is some kind of strange repetitive indentation on the left side surrounded by the pink watermark. Also, it has been folded and held in several pockets. But all that was many moons and seasons ago when it belonged to a friend of mine who graciously gave it to me . . . or maybe he accidentally left it at my house one day and it somehow found its way into my collection of what some might call "useless junk." Now, it hangs just above my computer as a reminder that no matter how awesome I get, I'll never be Johnny Cash. Above this inspiring picture and to the left is a greeting card with this simple statement in white letters on black: "Anyone can be cool, but awesome takes practice." This quote is then attributed to one Lorraine Peterson. You know who that is? Well you do now, if you followed my link. Can you believe that book title is the name of a "Devotional for Teens"? Can you believe Lorraine Peterson is who Lorraine Peterson is? Holy shit man, holy shit. That's why that's there. Above and to the right of my rightfully angered Johnny Cash is a post card the great Nebraskan writer Lisa Sandlin sent me after I published one of her stories in my temporarily offline web journal Bring the Ink. The message she wrote is all mine (and the multitude of postal workers who handled it) the image on the front however, if for you all! It is of Tennessee Williams and his cat, Sabbath relaxing by their pool in Key West. Something to shoot for I suppose. Taped alongside Tennessee is a photograph of my son from when he was in kindergarten. He is standing outside of a dark building and holding a bouquet of red and green flowers. His hair is shaggy, but not long, and there is a slight wind blowing, making the tips dance. It is clearly a cloudy day but the weak light shines just right to give him an angelic countenance (despite his army green t-shirt with an image of a rampaging dinosaur emblazooned across the chest). This . . . well this I just like. Further to the right is Yoda's wanted poster on a sheet of computer paper. To quote the incomparable Stan Lee,'Nuff said.

Across the line, lining up slightly below and around Johnny are a series of writings and images, beginning from the right with a Foxtrot comic by Bill Amend in which the references to Kal-El are abundant and amazing. Next comes a quote from the great Russian writer Yevgeny Zamyatin that reads "True literature can exist only where it is created not by diligent and trustworthy officials, but by madmen, heretics, dreamers, rebels, and skeptics . . . ." Then I taped up my grade and summary for my final semester with the UNMFA program. I have it there to remind me when my imagination gets lean and my genius is nowhere to be found that I am pretty good at what I do. And lastly, to remind me to stay me even though I oftentimes get queer looks from the masses, what is arguably E.E. Cummings' most famous quote: "To be nobody-but-yourself--in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else--means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting." That's another one I came by through less than noble means. But whatever.

So there you have it. This has been a little bit about me. I wasn't sure what to write about this week. I think though I've revealed more about myself than I'm normally comfortable with.

Vacation

2010-06-07T14:21:00.000-05:00

I traveled up to the great mountainous region of Western South Dakota last week. I took the family and my itinerary went something like this: Sunday: Swimming at Adventure Land Inn, Des Moines, IA, Monday: Having fun at Adventure Land Amusement Park, Des Moines, IA, Tuesday: Driving from Omaha, NE to some town in South Dakota where we stayed in a cabin for a couple of days while we visited such historic sites as Crazy Horse and some caves and some state parks and all that fun family-type stuff, Thursday: Getting a hotel room and staying there for a couple of days while we visited even more historic sites like Mt. Rushmore and a bunch of other places like Bear Country, USA and Dinosaur Park among others. Saturday: Driving home and stopping at the Badlands and Wall Drug! Sunday: Being home, but only long enough to sleep and go to the circus. Finally, on Sunday night we arrived home for real, where we were all able to soak in everything we did on our jaunt through the coolest part of the Great Plains. Now that, my friends, is a vacation.

But as a teacher and something of a scholar, I have to ask myself one important question about this trip. Just what did I learn? Well, I learned that Americans--no, strike that, Westerners (there were a lot of Europeans all over the place) are an overweight complacent lot that can sit through a 30 minute propaganda speech/film at the foot of Mt. Rushmore and pretend like it is some solemn and wonderful thing. I learned that the story of Crazy Horse is fucked up and I now support fully any and all endeavors to get that damn statue finished because it's the least I could do by way of my American apology to the natives who were systematically "removed" from their land. I learned that people who carve statues out of mountainsides have weird names (Gutzon Borglum and Korczak Ziolkowski). I learned that my daughter can be afraid of the massive heights of a mountain peak on Wednesday and be ready to scale the rocky, dangerous cliffs of the Badlands on Saturday. I learned seven days on the road with anybody can get a bit . . . well, let's just say it can get a bit overwhelming. I learned that being truly amazed at something--say a massive sculpture carved into a fucking mountain or the natural wonder and holiness of a place like Bear Butte is an awesome feeling, a feeling I want to hold onto forever, a feeling that takes me back to my youth when snow storms were magical and a sunny day meant there would be an adventure. I learned that though my children can and do annoy the piss out of me sometimes (particularly on a looooong trip across a large state like South Dakota) my love for them only grows. Now, that is an odd sensation--this knowledge I mean of something like that growing exponentially. Is that even possible?

Yes.

So vacation was good. I saw baby bears. I grilled hot dogs and bratwursts next to a cabin. I swam in a hotel pool. I drove and looked and was amazed. Now, I want to move to Western South Dakota.

Keeping a Presence

2010-05-28T08:54:00.000-05:00

So here I am again and all of my facebook friends who read my posts and try to catch my blogs know that I am trying to keep a literary presence on the Internet. And that is all fine and good except when you feel you are writing crap just to be "keeping a presence." I'm trying to stumble around the web once a week with these little blogs and I usually have some sort of topic in mind when I sit down at my computer to hammer it out.

My kids are away at their grandma's, so that leaves out a lot of possibilities for blog ideas, my brain has been running non-stop--its felt like--learning how to teach a college comp class at Omaha Metro and talking to the people over at Wayne State Press about possibly publishing my novel, or at least a piece of it. I've got the work of two very bright students sitting on my computer right now, waiting to be critiqued--been waiting for quite some time . . . . So yeah, I'm running around, trying to be productive and I am brought back to the blog.

One of the things that gets me about the blog is the narcissism inherent in the very act of blogging. It is what kept me away from it for so long. I mean seriously, why the hell does anybody care what I have to say? It's summer time, I'm a teacher. No one wants to hear from me. And I respect that. Yet, here I am, keeping a presence.

Shrek

2010-05-21T22:31:00.000-05:00

This isn't going to be a review. I'm not a good critic of films I spent time with and pay money to see. I think I have some innate inability to recognize that I might not have liked something I actually forked over my hard earned dollars and time to see--unless of course you count my vociferous anti Batman and Robin propaganda. I hate that movie and am disappointed in myself for ever having wasted the time and money on it. But that one incident aside, I am a horrible critic. I like everything. That's one of the reasons I will not be critiquing Shrek: Forever After.

I know that's not enough. So let me tell you my history with this franchise. In the summer of 2001--a far more innocent time as you'll recall. A time when the bulk of us weren't worried about terrorists, we thought George W. Bush would be nothing more than an illogical four year blip on history's radar, and I was living with the most beautiful woman in the world. Having never lived with the most beautiful woman in the world before, I took it upon myself to propose marriage as we ventured across the country to visit mountains, desert, and other lands. After the proposal we decided to head out to Las Vegas and get married. It had to be one of the shortest engagements of the year.

Shortly after the euphoric unease caused by what we were planning to do registered, we stopped at an old friend's apartment in Norfolk, NE, hung out with him and talked to Ted (those in the know, know what this means) then the most beautiful woman in the world and I decided to go see Shrek. And I loved it. Shrek was an anti-hero right up my alley--a beer drinking, farting, belching, jerk who didn't take shit from anyone. But also could fall in love, could feel, could think . . . . It was complex. It made me laugh and cry. Since I considered myself something of an ogre, I was feeling some surreal connections.

Time tip-toed by and before I knew it, my first son was old enough to be interested in movies--real movies, not those stupid baby ones. And Shrek 2 hit the theaters. So we took him. He loved it. I loved it. My wife loved it.

And time moved on. My second child, my daughter, came around. She grew. She became interested in movies. Shrek The Third was released. We took our daughter. She loved it. I loved it. My son loved it. My wife loved it.

So today, when the entire family decided to make the trek to the theater to see what is being billed as the final installment in the Shrek franchise, you can understand the pressure I felt we were putting on that poor ogre. You can understand why I felt that I would be unconditionally angry at all involved in creating this film if it did not keep all of my memories unsullied. You'll be happy to know, he didn't fail my family. He didn't fail me. Shrek, that lovable jerk, is still a permanent part in the formative years of the Numb family.

That's the closest thing to a review that you'll get from me.

Work

2010-05-10T21:23:00.000-05:00

I have a good job. I'm a teacher. I teach creative writing and a class called video journalism which is kind of a misnomer because there isn't a lot of "journalism" in the class. It is more like a film making and photography class (putting that language arts endorsement to good use there). I'm also the adviser for the video yearbook--wave of the future folks. It's fun. Everyday something different happens. Everyday is a new experience. Everyday I don't know what to expect. Yes, there are times when the happenings are not "fun" in the most commonly accepted sense of the term. However, those days are balanced out by days when I get "thank you" cards from 17 and 18-year-olds about to graduate. There are days when my students win awards for their films. There are days when I can talk a kid off the figurative ledge of a teenage breakdown. There are days when light bulbs go off. There are lots of good days.

I have a good job. I write a comic book. Sure, it isn't a character I created. Sure, it isn't a comic book that sells millions of copies. But it is a blast to write the monthly adventures of a time displaced goddess. How many writers get the okay from their editors to just "go crazy"? Writing Legend of Isis has given me time to exercise my creative juices. Plus, the critics seem to like it. Some of them really like it.

What I am getting at is that I don't mean to complain. I interviewed for an adjunct position at Omaha Metro today and I think the interview went well. I'll know in a few days. If I get it, I think I'll like that job too.

Spider-Man

2010-05-02T20:57:00.001-05:00

I am in a defeated state right now . . . a low point. The Kimmel Harding Nelson Center for the Arts decided I wasn't one of the lucky twenty-something artists to have a residency there this summer. I can't seem to get an agent no matter how many letters I write or how many ways I write said letters. I'm writing a monthly comic book that sells enough copies to warrant the publisher continue to publish it . . . little more. I teach high school creative writing. I have an MFA and approximately $80,000 in unpaid student loans. I sense a crumbling wall of heavy machinery near me. Everything is about to fall and it will squash me.

But I will get back up, even after the tons of equipment straddle my back, even while I am lying prostrate in a puddle that is rapidly becoming a pond. I am like Spider-Man in the classic issue #33 by Steven Ditko and Stan Lee. While the machinery weighs heavy on my back, while the crushing knowledge that all I have done is very close to being for naught, I will push through it. I will remember why I do what I do and I will lift that machinery off my back for my family and friends, but most importantly for myself. And when that machinery is heaped in a harmless pile in the corner, whimpering like a beaten dog, I will shout, "I did it! I'm free!" and I will continue on down the road, always striving to make my life better.

Taylor Swift

2010-01-25T21:09:00.000-06:00

Not withstanding the adorable adolescent beauty the girl has--for a man of my age, social status, and career that means she is the kind of girl you want to see marry your son some day (or daughter, I am, after all, a 21st century father) not something sick and perverted, freaks--I have long been disinterested in her rise to fame.

But that's neither here nor there, what I mean to say is that Taylor Swift is one of those pop starlets that, while actually possessing some genuine talent, isn't really my bag, if you know what I mean. I lump her in there with the Christina Aguileras, Shakiras, Shania Twains, and Faith Hills of the world. Sure, they got talent, they can sing, etc, etc, etc. But I'm not really what you might call "in" to their particular brand of mind numbing bubblegum pop (whether it be twanged with a dance or a country sound).

Now this is where things get weird. As a card carrying member of Club Awesome, a lifetime fan of White Zombie, a frequent listener of Anthrax, and a lover of all things rock, Taylor Swift should be the last possible choice of current pop starlets I have found . . . while not directly to my liking, definitely indirectly.

WHA-WHA-HUH?

I know. I like Lady GaGa too--but only because she's got this whole, "I'm fuckin' nuts" thing going on, which I can respect--even if it is an act.

But again, I'm getting off track. Let me explain what it is about Taylor Swift that I like. I like the fact that my four-year-old daughter likes her. I like the fact that I have actually begun to explain Shakespeare to my four-year-old daughter who has sat listening with rapt attention as I go through the ups and downs of the tragic love story that Taylor Swift has so adorably misinterpreted in her song titled (ironically) "Love Story." I'm not getting into the politics of it, the social implications, sexism, old-timey lame wholesomeness (or how I feel about it), or anything like that. I could give two shits. Taylor Swift's music makes my daughter smile. It's odd, the things you find out about yourself when you become a father--I like Taylor Swift.

Thanks a lot, Addi.

I Don't Know

2010-01-17T08:08:00.000-06:00

I'm not regular with this blog post--not that a lot of people read it anyway! Perhaps I need more fiber in my literary diet. Perhaps I need more of this to write about: www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIv1zFVPrTE

I don't know. I'm not much of a blogger. When I am angry or feel righteously vindictive I don't blog about it. I don't have the eloquent voice of some to do that and not come off sounding like a drunken, unemployed trailer park denizen. There was a time when I was exactly that and perhaps I am just fond of occasionally reliving those memories. I don't know. I also can't think of much of anything to write about on this blog. My teaching life perhaps? My life as a father/husband? That may be interesting . . . . My life as a writer. Nope. There will never be a television show where people compete to be the nation's next best writer because the actual process of writing is kind of boring to the outside world. So the writer's life or craft or whatever you want to call it, might not seem that entertaining. I don't know.

Well, I'm going to think about this.

Done

2009-11-28T21:57:00.001-06:00

So I did it. I wrote a 50,000 word novel in less than a month. Now I am going to celebrate by sitting in front of the television for a few hours. I'll probably drink too. I'm a real writer.

Nanowrimo

2009-11-08T19:23:00.000-06:00

Yes, I am doing it. As of today I am at a whopping 10,000 words on my Nanowrimo novel (give or take). If you are wondering what Nanowrimo is, well wonder no longer. It is a month long writing competition/thing where you write a 50,000 word novel in a month. I know, pretty awesome, right. It has been fun--energizing even. I've been lax lately, trying to find an agent, whipping up scripts for LEGEND OF ISIS, and grading papers. So my baby, the second love of my life--my novel, THE ABCs OF DINKOLOGY--has been put to the wayside. I've touched on it here and there, re-edited, revised, and re-critiqued at various intervals. But at the end of the day I know I haven't been spending as much time with the book as I would have liked. However, with each day I spend on my newest endeavor--a fantasy, that's right, a fantasy, I find myself coming up with more and more ideas for DINKOLOGY. I'm writing them down in my notebook, every writer's best friend and saving them up for the end of November when I am scheduled to finish this new novel. Then I will go back energized to take yet another look at DINKOLOGY.

Or at least, that's how I feel now, at the end of week one of Nanowrimo. Let's see how I really feel in three weeks . . . .

Halloween and Writing Conferences

2009-10-31T17:05:00.000-05:00

Halloween is scary. There are kids everywhere, running into the street, hopped-up on sugar. Mad-faced jack-o-lanterns haunting doorsteps, wait till the wee hours of the morning to be brutally mutilated. The juvenile delinquents take care of that. But this Halloween will be . . . well . . . it will be exactly the same as it has been for quite some time. And that's okay. It is Americana at its finest--the Midwest revelry in an ancient custom it doesn’t understand. Most people, if they took a few minutes to look at the shady past of the holiday, probably wouldn’t let their little cherubs celebrate. But I digress. For Halloween this year, despite its similarity with all the Halloweens of my past, will be a bit different. I am just returned home from the John R. Milton Writers' Conference in Vermillion, SD at the University of South Dakota. And I am flying high off the fumes of a two-day party of writers. Now, it wasn't a party in the sense that you're thinking--there wasn't a lot of drunken debauchery (though I am sure there was some, because when writers get together there is always some). Rather, it was a celebration of the craft. Writers and poets from all over the country paid a visit to the quaint little college town and let loose their magic--and make no mistake, good writing is magic. So, to the great poet, Lee Ann Roripaugh, I say thank you for inviting me. Now, as I walk through the streets of my neighborhood I won’t be so tense when I keep an eye out for any sugared up kid maniacally popping into the street (so I can save him/her and become a hero). And as I am waiting in the wee hours of the morning for the teenagers to steal my jack-o-lanterns so I can jump from the bushes and (literally) scare the shit out of them, I won't be so ready to call it a night and hide under the covers. The magic of great words given greatly will keep me pumped for the duration of the holiday. I just hope I can make it to something else before Christmas, because damn do I need a lot of help at Christmas . . . .

Las Vegas Baby

2009-10-21T21:31:00.000-05:00

So I've had this blog for awhile now and never did anything with it. For my three faithful followers, I apologize. Hopefully those days are over. Welcome.

My first blog is about my favorite city, Las Vegas. Ignore all of the rants about the evils and depravity of the City of Sin, pay no attention to the recoiling liberals who balk at a town filled with half-naked women and the vociferous conservatives who just can't find enough to bitch about--just for a minute anyway. In a word, Las Vegas is awesome. I've just arrived home to Omaha, NE after a three-day stay in what is truly the city that never sleeps (sorry New York) and perhaps that is why I am gushing with love for Vegas. This is not to say that I despise Omaha, with its Old Market, college baseball, and Henry Doorly Zoo. All that's great. The city I lived most of my life, Davenport, IA, is great too. As is the city I was born, Quincy, IL. But what these cities lack, nay, what they NEED, is a heavy dose of reality. Las Vegas gives just that. We are animals. We like sex and debauchery. There is no amount of church or politics that can remove that 100% from our collective conscious. Even the most reserved and repressed of us has an urge buried somewhere deep down inside to gamble and (place everyone's favorite expletive here). Las Vegas knows this; Las Vegas provides a place for this to happen. Anything can happen in Vegas. Anything. In Las Vegas I got my picture taken with SpongeBob Squarepants. In Las Vegas I met a woman breastfeeding her two-year-old son in a casino. In Las Vegas my wife drank a margarita out of a three-foot-tall bong . . . on the street . . . in public. And the boobs? Oh my God, there were lots. My favorite city is Las Vegas. I don't apologize. Las Vegas symbolizes that part of us all that likes to get dirty and be bad. This country, this world, needs something like that. So lighten up everyone, go to Las Vegas, have a good time . . . but one piece of advice for the tourists. What happens in Vegas most assuredly does not stay there.