Keep Breathing

It's Friday afternoon as I write this. I'm sitting in a little coffee shop at the corner of Boulder street and Tejon (pronounced Tay-hone) - and two of my favorite locals just happened upon me and asked me to go across the street for a drink. As I've already settled in with my latte, I'm going to make them wait a bit.

There's no place like a coffee house on a cold day, and while it is certainly still T-shirt season in CSprings, my house was a too-cool 60 degrees when I got home from work today. Since Retriarus (the god of the internet) has cast a lingering stigma over my house, I decided to suit-up Zach-style (those Vans that I've owned since senior year of high school, my Gerber Scout Camp '99 t-shirt, my too-tight laundry day pants and that brown zippy thing that I wear, you know the one I'm talking about) and head to the local shrine of Retriarus to start picking up what he's putting down.

Oh and Brad, I want to you to know that I just started an Ingrid Michaelson station on your Pandora account, you were already logging in on craptop....

My Life in French

As I mentioned yesterday I've been reading Julia Child's memoir My Life in France. For those who don't know, Wikipedia tells me that Julia's resume includes several cookbooks, a number of Food Network-type shows, and acting as a spy for the OSS in Indochina. Rock on. Also at 6'2" she's pretty much the most intimidating homemaker to ever walk the earth.

My Life in France recounts the years spent with her husband in post-WW2 France that led to her personal and professional interest in cooking. Overall she's a bit pretentious and we've had our disagreements about politics and art, but I'm 150 pages in and I'm honestly enjoying the book. Not only do I enjoy translating the French that she's too pretentious to translate into a variety of dirty words , but I have a pretty good feeling that reading Julia Child while I eat my own dinner makes it taste better. If Julia Child is the garlic and shalots of dinner-reading, then Aristotle is definitely the "crap, the top fell off the seasoning salt mid-shake". Some books are just better spices than others.

I've never seen the value in biography/autobiography, but it's refreshing to read writing with an entirely different aim and tact than I'm used to. I also found out that she did some work on the newest edition of The Joy of Cooking which has recently come into my possession. Really, I was just starting to like the old bag when I read the back flap of her book's dustcover this morning and realized that she's been dead for four years.

Also, I've actually been reading certain excerpts from The Joy of Cooking, including the chapter on wine which, in its description of Pinot Noir, states that: "If the Holy Grail were ever found, Pinot Noir would be the wine they'd drink from it."

Wow. That's a pretty bold statement. I'm pretty sure that if The Holy Grail were actually discovered, nobody would drink from it, and if they did it would be reserved for Easter mass given by the pope at the Vatican. Bold and brazen words from the ever blasphemous and anarchical world of professional gourmets.

Also:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MIKE!!!!
I vividly recall Mike's birthday freshman year when I, attempting to please the palate of my culturally diverse new roommate, got a lasagna dinner to-go from Savarino's and brought it back to Galloway while Mike slept off his first week of college classes.

Have a good one Mike; I trust that the ethnicity of your birthday dinner is the same, but that the quality and the company greatly improved.

This Week's Sponsors: Biting the Hand

Thanks to:

Aunt Lisa for 3 bags of Michigan-made Traverse City Cherry Coffee
BoyScout for "No More Mac and Cheese: The Bachelor's Guide to Cooking with Ease"
Grandma for a little "pick-me-up"
Heidi, Kristen, and Natalie for the phone calls yesterday
Mom for a towel set and classroom posters
and, as much as I hate to admit it....
Maggie for making me read My Life in France (more on that later)

The little things really do mean a lot; thanks.

Eight Days a Week

Have you ever worn the same shirt for everything you had to do outside the house for two or three days in row? Have you ever had this great scheme ruined by seeing someone at Wal-Mart that you are supposed to watch a movie with the next night? Well, don't tell the world, but I only have one non-dress shirt left. Seriously. My luck has held out for like a month: I never see the same people twice outside of work, but soon the inevitable will happen and laundry day will be forced upon me once again.

The Walrus and The Carpenter

I read far too little. As I prepare to teach 2-3 authors per week to my eighth graders I read a lot of mini-biographies (of varying credibility) on figures like Jean De La Fontaine (a French fable-writer), Lewis Carroll, George Orwell, and Robert Service (the poet who wrote “The Cremation of Sam McGee). Learning that Lewis Carroll was reading Pilgrim's Progress at age 7 or that George Orwell had read every work of Charles Dickens before he was twenty, not as a matter of pride, but as a matter of course, I get the feeling that I'm already impossibly far behind. And I am.

I'm twenty-two and it's too late for me.

I could be content knowing that I probably read about ten times more than the average American (after all: it's not what you do, it's who you beat) but I'm not. I love the fact that I'm in a book club with friends from Hillsdale, but I'd like to doing a little more to close the gap between myself and the cultural standards of the past.

So, (and I'm especially talking to Mike, Pat, Kevin and Jose) I'd like to get something going where I can read great authors and discuss their works on a more regular basis. The idea came to me today of starting an “Essay of the Day” group, where we could each suggest one essay by a notable Western thinker every week and write a review to which the rest could respond. It wouldn't be much and definitely no more than one essay per week per person, but it would keep me intellectually engaged outside the classroom and I think I need something to get me involved in conversation with someone older than 14.

I took about 10 minutes yesterday (we were reading “The Walrus and The Carpenter”) to field all the arguments my students could come up with to prove to me that pigs didn't have wings. They were unable to overcome my logic,and the proverbial question of “whether pigs have wings” is still open for debate.

If you read this blog and would like to be a part of something like an “Essay of the Day” group, please leave a comment with your thoughts/suggestions and if there's an interest, I'll take the time to begin putting something together.

Also, I was looking through old files last night and, in addition to uncovering the full album of songs that I wrote in high school (I was emo before Death Cab was a twinkle in Atlantic Record's eye), I found the series of Microsoft Paint single-frame comics I made for my first (and ultimately ill-fated) blog. This was a favorite of mine:

1000 Miles Per Hour

Today I cracked open a bottle of Ok Go, a 2003 vintage. It had all the sweet and subtle aromas of a Michigan fall: the smell of Vivian's rhubarb pie, the cool winds of the Mackinaw straits with all their manifold flavors, the scent of a neighbor's leaf-pile still smoldering after a day of raking and burning, the last attempt to remove nature's first blanket, before she adds her second. The texture was that of evening sand with its fleeting warmth, the soft tucking-in motion of Lake Michigan waves as they wash over your feet, and the comfort of line-dried jeans.

There will be fall in Colorado Springs. Today I could sense that. But it won't be like Michigan, even if the leaves do turn and children wear red zip-up hoodies to jump in the leaves. Even if the stores downtown fill their windows with spiderwebs and bats, and even if storm windows are put up and screens are taken down. Even if there is cider and pumpkins, donuts and hayrides, even if I take the time to walk somewhere just to hear my feet shuffle through the leaves. Even if all that is true here as it is in Michigan, I still will miss the places that own my memories of fall.

Fall is by far my favorite season, I'm sure I'll mention that frequently over the next couple of months, and though I'll surely be busy with school, I'd like to really take the time to slow down and appreciate it this year.

I'm a few days late on the 5 year anniversary (seriously 5 years, or greater than 1/5 of our lives thus far) of these pictures, but here they are:


Three things:
1. I miss the Olds more than you can imagine. When asked the other day what my dream car was, without a moment of hesitation, I answered: a 1990 Oldsmobile Cutlass Sierra - blue.
2. Where is the lobster? Kevin, do you have it? Does Jonathan have it? It would do my old heart good to know that my favorite crustacean still draws breath.
3. Ha! I was really peeved the other day because I was starting to think that my red hat (pictured above) was getting too raggedy to wear. I guess I should be thankful that it even still exists. After all, even 5 years ago, it was still a hand-me-down.

Sleeping To Dream

Today's post is just a copy/paste job of some exercises I've been doing to try to string together memories...

_________________________________________

Places I've Lain My Head:

Elwell Street: In the back corner of a second story room. The corner closest to the tree-fort that I would now and again steal from Nathan Ward, the neighbor boy. The room with the Victorian-patterned light which, as I found out when my sister was old enough to move from the crib in my parents' room to share a room with me, looked far too like E.T. when the light was left on dim. The sweetest smelling and most melodic home I have ever experienced. Always the soft sunshine of fall.

Riverside Drive: In a drawer-bed adjacent to the kitchen where Vivian's banging of pots and pans would wake me up at 5am every Saturday. That vent let in the smells of home and sounds of discord.

Carson City: The back corner of the room. Sleeping beneath my comforter with its African animal pattern, fashioned and fitted over the no-longer-appropriate clown and circus pattern. From there I was able to survey my entire room, and to wake up with chills when I dreamt of a shadowy figure standing the doorway. Again, in the opposite corner near the window, where I would hear children playing outside when I had already been sent to bed.

Stevenson Lake: In a room never quite my own. In a bed too high with too many pillows. Where the sun would pour in far too early. Then on the basement couch where I would fall, exhausted, after everyone had gone to bed and would rise before even Vivian dared to stir. The only time I can remember wetting my bed: while in a virtual coma after a 38-hour work day.

Galloway: The foot-to-foot double-bunked arrangement of our room on the second floor, sleeping on the sheets that came in a cloth bag from Wal-Mart. Coming home midday to find Scott or Abe asleep there. Then in our one-semester room where Mike and I got Axe-bombed. Where I first felt the strain of sophomore year. Where we held our Bible studies. The room I left to drive home in a snowstorm to be with my father when he died. Then the room, twice as big, to which we were relegated due to the Dean's dislike of my tact as an RA. The triple-tiered arrangement which fit perfectly into the corner of the room. Where Abe blew up pictures of Mike and Maggie and Cherrie and I and put them over our beds.

Downtown: The room of my own over the tobacco shop. Third floor with my head near the window. The rush of semis passing at 4am. Hearing Mike make his late night calls to Maggie. Hearing the town clock tower, situated at just my altitude and just across the street, chime every hour through the open window. Sleeping on Mike's floor when I could, out of pure love and loneliness.

West Street: Blinding myself between a dresser and a blank wall. Sleeping “I Love Lucy-style” with Abe. Keeping the alarm clock in my bed like I used to in Galloway. Coming in after a midnight-4am shift on security and falling into bed for the few hours that remained before 8am Anatomy.

Colorado Springs: Floor at first, then double bed again - found next to a dumpster but nearly new. Too much room. Having to sleep diagonally and continually losing my blankets. Having my own room again, and then my own house. Sleeping in a house alone for the first time.

Indoor Living

Ever eat in the shower? It seems like it ought to be against the rules, but take my word for it: shower-eating is exactly the reason why they made Flavor-Ice popsicles. You know the ones contained within the plastic sleeve? Not only is the cold artificial flavoring extra tasty when you are being bombarded with hot water, but they are a good way to conserve water as well. If it takes you longer to shower than it does to eat a popsicle: you are wrong.

Plus, there's nothing like standing in your manwear (dress socks and boxers), listening to your favorite pump-up song (Britney Spears' "Hit Me Baby One More Time") and knowing that you are still eating the same popsicle you were when you jumped out of bed 12 minutes and 43 seconds ago.

Ramen is for Lovers

Despite having a long weekend I spent most of the last four days indoors. I toured the local coffee house scene, spent time in the library, and went into school for a couple hours yesterday. While I'm jealous of friends who were hiking and camping over the weekend, I've been content to stay at home nursing a cold and reading good books.

I finished Chesterton's book on St. Francis, and I'll give a full fledged review of that in the near future, but I also wanted to mention that I started reading both Julia Childs' book "My Life in France" and Frank Herbert's "Dune". Although I can only really stomach Julia Child while I'm actually eating (as a substitute for Colbert or The Simpsons, since the lovely people with the unsecured wireless network have finally shipped out), it isn't bad. In fact, it's nice to be reading a book again that is primarily about vocabulary words and pictures.

Today is the start of my second week of teaching and I'm feeling pretty good about it at this point. Of course, I'm writing this blog post from the past (6:12pm Mountain Time on Sept. 1st) so I'm less than 12 hours from actually being back in the building, which is a little frightening, now that I think about it.

Today is also "Back to School Night" which means I'll be at school for every second of my day. From my arrival at 6:00AM, at which time I will set off the door alarms for the third time in a week, to when the last parents finally leave at 9:30PM, I'll be going non-stop. If there's one way to add pressure to your first month of teaching, it's adding parents into the equation before you've even given the first test. Bad times.

I keep envisioning it as a School of Rock experience, where the parents realize that I'm not at all qualified enough or concerned enough about hygiene to be teaching their kids.

Dear Everyone:
Please come live with me. That is an invitation to every one of you to come out here and spend some time in one of the prettiest states in the union without having to pay for lodging. Give me a couple weeks with The Joy of Cooking and I might even be able to guarantee you food.

Seriously though, the only reason to have a house is to fill it with people. If I didn't think that some of you would be joining me out here (as Brad and Leroy already did this summer) I would probably just live out of my car. So, let me know when you'll be here (notice there isn't a "I won't be attending" box to check). Honestly, if you are reading this you have to be at least in my top 100 favorite people, so make a little plan Stan, just hop on a bus Gus and get yourself out here.

Also, I appreciate how concerned you all are for my culinary health. Last night I made a salad for dinner and if you don't mind my saying so, I don't think it looks half-bad (not pictured: the tator-tots I had for dessert).

Television, Television

Anyone have $20,000 or so I can borrow? It would go to a good cause. You see, they are auctioning off a Spider-man 4 package on Ebay that includes a meet and greet with the cast, a spot as an extra in the new movie and a trip to the premier. But really, I'm just interested because the proceeds are going to benefit Stand Up To Cancer.

Such Stuff As Nerdy Dreams Are Made Of

I've been worrying a lot about this fall lately. Not about school or about bills, about being away from Michigan, or even how I'm going to afford two plane tickets in November. No, I'm worried about not having a TV. It hasn't mattered up until now, but as we near Sept. 22 and the two-hour Heroes season premier, I'm getting progressively more anxious about how I'm going to get my fix without waiting for the episodes to hit Hulu.

Luckily, NBC has come up with a string of webisodes for both The Office and Heroes to tide us over until the coming season.

In The Office summer series Kevin takes out a loan and in the Heroes miniseries we meet Echo Deville, who may be one of the villians from "Level 5".

A teaser for the new season of The Office, featuring Dwight:


Also, it looks as though Britain is taking a cue from the international success of The Office and launching a show called No Heroics which will do to Heroes what The Office did to Ally McBeal and every other corporate drama and sitcom out there. Check out the trailer here.

Of course, a lot of that sexual humor will never cross the pond, but at least we can rest assured that an Americanized version will replace it with racial humor and violence. Huh... maybe it's because I used the phrase "across the pond" but Blogger seems to think "humor" is spelled incorrectly and wants me to change it to "humour"... no lie.

Seriously though, if you have a TV and live in CSprings, or if you want to go halfsies on the Spider-man thing, let me know.