More Mother Goose

When I was little, we had a record (you know, an LP, one of those vinyl spinning things that people in general don't listen to any more and that young people know nothing about) of Mother Goose rhymes set to music. I believe one of the main narrators was Sterlign Holloway, but that has nothing to do with anything. The other day, my little sister decided she wanted to listen to some old records, so as I was going through the stack of music, I came across that particular album and decided it might be funny to listen to. So, I put it on. My sister liked it anyway.

Now, if I had my way, we'd scrap all of these CDs and MP3s and every other music-listening media and go back exclusively to vinyl LPs and 45s. There's something about the sound quality, with all of the tiny scratches and bumps that makes it so much more...more...I don't know, real, I guess. However, once we began to listen to that Mother Goose album with its opening theme ("More Mother Goose, More Mother Goose" da da-da da-da da-da da "More Mother Goose") and all of those scratches, big and small, the album quickly became monstrous damnable and wicked irritating.

But it made me wonder, why on earth my siblings and I ever listened to it in the first place. Not to mention, why would any parent, regardless of race, gender, denomination, or ethnicity, would allow children to be exposed to Mother Goose's ear-clawing and often grotesque nursery rhymes.

In fact, I have here beside me a book of nursery rhymes from Mother Goose's archives. Let's look at a few, shall we?

Oh, here's a great one called "The Three Sons":

There was an old woman had three sons,
Jerry and James and John,
Jerry was hanged, James was drowned,
John was lost and never was found;
And there was an end of her three sons,
Jerry and James and John!

That's PG-13 at least, and these are supposed to be nursery rhymes! Oh, I've found another:

"Virginia had a baby,
His name was Tiny Tim,
She put him in the bathtub
to teach him how to swim.
He drank up all the water,
He ate up all the soap,
And he died last night with a bubble in his throat."

Sweet dreams, little baby.

Away Birds Away!

"Away, birds, away!
take a little and leave a little,
And do not come again;
For if you do,
I will shoot you through,
And there will be an end of you."

Dear me, no wonder children are becoming violent. Between Mother Goose and Ritalin shortages, the world is going to be a very unsafe place.

Bandy Legs

"As I was going to sell my eggs
I met a man with bandy legs,
Bandy legs and crooked toes;
I tripped up his heels, and he fell on his nose."

Yes, and since we want our children to be encouraged in this sort of behavior, let's sing it in a round, as well. I'll start it off.

Goosey, Goosey, Gander

"Goosey, goosey, gander,
Whither dost thou wander?
Upstairs and downstairs
And in my lady’s chamber.
There I met an old man
Who wouldn’t say his prayers;
I took him by the left leg,
And threw him down the stairs."

Got to love religious intolerance. Children, make a note of that: if Gramps won't pray, you know what to do with him. Bad hip and all.

Then of course there are some that aren't exactly bad, but they are still completely devoid of any useful information.

Little Jumping Joan

"Here I stand, little Jumping Joan,
When nobody's with me,
I'm always alone."

Duh.

Or how about this one:

The Old Woman under a Hill

"The was an old woman
Lived under a hill;
If she's not gone,
She lives there still."

Gee, thanks, Mother Goose, I'm pretty certain I never would've figured that one out on my own. What are you, German?

I hope you've got the point. If you haven't, there's a lot more where these came from.

Sadly.

Making Goals

No, I'm not talking about soccer. Actually, I'm not even talking about the importance of goal-setting. The truth is, goals aren't always everything you expected them to be. Sometimes, the achievement of a goal brings a feeling of euphoria. Sometimes, it's just a drag.

For example, I recently purchased a new computer. To break it in, I immediate began to play Freecell on it. As win led to win, I decided I wanted to see if I could win a hundred games in a row.

I did. Every time I needed a break from writing my newest novel, I opened up Freecell and proceeded to rattle off a couple victories or so.

I am now at 132 straight Freecell victories on my new laptop and the feeling of euphoria at having accomplished so much in so little time has yet to arrive.

In fact, it sort of reminds me of my sophomore year when I was introduced to the video game Twilight Princess. I cannot tell you how much time I wasted playing that game, particularly in that one cave with the hundred levels. But I put my head down and I made it through that d--- game at last. Guess what? I didn't celebrate. I didn't feel like I'd changed the world for the better. I felt like crap actually. To tell the truth, I threw down that controller and said, "Thank goodness that's over. Now I can get some work done."

The point is, it's one thing to set and achieve goals, but it's another to set and achieve goals that actually mean something, that will actually affect your life in some positive way.

So, when you get into that mode (goal-setting mode generally only happens once or twice for most people, if that), start by writing all of your goals down on a piece of paper. Then take a red pen and cross out all of the ones that are borderline weak or potential unsatisfactory. The idea of a worthy goal is to create within the individual a sense of real accomplishment, and your job, before you even start, is to figure which of your ideas does not contain that possibility.

Hint: Button-mashing does not count as a goal, so don't think you can follow in my footsteps and have a different result than I did. It won't happen. The only thing you will gain by it is realizing once and for all that you are, in fact, a crazy person.

I'm Back (not a Dinosaur Story)

Yes, my sabbatical is through, and, no, it's not because I have let a woman in my life who wants to redecorate my home from the cellar to the dome or go to the enthralling fun of overhauling me (see film My Fair Lady). No, actually I am speaking of the last, oh, what's it been, five and a half weeks of failing to write on what was once my daily-turned-semi-weekly-turned-completely-ignored-writing blog?

Well, at lot has happened in this time, and, to tell the truth, the break has been quite good for me. I feel invigorated and refreshed and ready to begin anew relating true stories and false, which is to say tweaked or ameliorated or embellished in some way if needs be.

During this period of rest, I have been busy with a whole lot of things, many of which--I am glad to say--have been productive and enlivening. For example, I have been down to Nevada and Arizona, saw a fabulous production of Phantom of the Opera, attended three major league baseball games, accepted an offer to work as a graduate instructor in the fall, registered for classes, got sick, substituted for elementary and middle school classes, worked on two proofreading jobs, and began my third novel. The odd thing is that, though I accomplished a great many things, everything from my bucket list remains undone.

At first glance, you might be asking yourself how I managed to do all of those things and still say I am invigorated and refreshed. Well, the point of all of that is that I have been busy doing things which are not blog writing. My sabbatical was really from blog writing and nothing else. Now that is ended, and I am ready to return and take care of this.

Of course, I understand that many of my old readers have probably come to the conclusion that I have either quit for good or I am dead, one of the two. Perhaps they think that I have quit for good because I am dead. Well, I am no ghost writer, so don't bother thinking otherwise.

Now, I know you've missed me terribly, and you're probably wanting some funny anecdote from my previous week to lighten up your day, but the truth of the matter is, my week has been a little bit melancholy, considering I've been ill since last Thursday. However, I think I might be able to come up with something.

Ah, yes. I have it.

Two weeks ago from tomorrow, a member of the bishopric came up to me, just before I began teaching my Primary class and asked if I would be willing to speak in church the following Sunday. I agreed, of course, because I had no real reason to refuse and he didn't give me one. He did give me a topic however, which was missionary work. He tried to narrow it down for me by specifiying that I ought to speak about things to do while preparing for a mission, things to do while on a mission, and things to do after the missionary comes home (Note: It wasn't until later that I realized that he hadn't actually narrowed it down at all. Not much anyway.). So, I accepted the invite to speak, and he said I would be the final speaker in the meeting and I would only need to speak for ten minutes.

Ha.

Ha ha.

Ha ha ha.

Not.

The next Sunday, I showed up at church, fashionably late, (five minutes or so) right in the middle of the opening hymn. I glanced up at the front and realized that there was not a soul up there except a young woman (she's about thirteen, so I figured she must be a youth speaker), and two members of the bishopric. Of course, being confused by the lack of bodies on the stand, I grabbed a program to make sure that I was in the right place and that I would still be expected to deliver my ten-minute discourse on missionary work.

"Speaker: Brother Jeff Howard," it said. I was in the right place.

But someone else wasn't. The speaker who was supposed to come before me had not shown up at all. As a result, I was now expected to fill up thirty minutes of time instead of ten.

Ha.

Ha ha.

Ha ha ha.

Not.

So, when it came time for the speakers to, you know, speak, the young woman who came before me stood up and gave her four-minute discourse on something (about 90 seconds lopnger than I expected so I was grateful that she took a little extra time). I can't remember exactly what she spoke on because I was suddenly flipping through my scriptures trying to add a few minutes of material to my own talk.

After her talk, there was a musical number by a group of 12-year-old girls which lasted, oh, not quite long enough, and then, dun dun dun, it was my turn.

I stood up.

I started talking.

Eek. My voice sounded awful.

Most people, if they happen to be sick when they speak in church, will immediately apologize for sounding the way they do. However, I don't believe in apologizing at the beginning of a talk of any sort. It's bad form. So instead of apologizing, I talked about people who apologize at the beginning of their talks.

I said, "You know, lots of people in my situation will apologize for the way their voice sounds and after begging the pardon of the audience will entreat the members of the congregation to bear with them. I won't apologize though. Why should I apologize for this when it isn't even my fault that I sound this way and I couldn't do anything about it if I wanted to?"

I continued, "And as far as bearing with me, I'm not going to ask you to bear with me because, really, you have no choice but to bear with me anyway. I'm going to speak and you're going to listen and that's all any of us is going to do."

By then I was kind of on a roll and out of control. The words were coming to mind and out of my mouth. I went on to say that I was not expecting to speak for this amount of time and I did not intend to because I don't like long-winded speakers and neither does anyone else.

I then mentioned that if I put my mind to it, I probably could come close to filling the time; after all, there are plenty of tried-and-true (cliche) stalling tactics that have been developed at our podiums over the years. For example, I could simply start thanking people who had some sort of job during the meeting. You know, all of the people who are mentioned on the program. I could thank the music people for doing such a great job with the music and bring a great spirit into the meeting. I could thank the bishop for being a wonderful person and doing such a good job presiding at the meeting even though presiding just means sitting down and not doing anything. At that point though, the thanking thing just gets ridiculous, so you have to stop.

After a couple of minutes of being a ham, I began to speak on the actual topic. On missionary work. On conversion. On obedience. On the Atonement. A short while later, an amazing thing happened.

I bore my testimony and looked at the clock. There were only five minutes remaining, and only one person in the audience was asleep (Note: He had actually fallen asleep before I started speaking, so it wasn't my fault exactly. I just do anything sudden enough to wake him up.).

One woman in the audience approached me after church and told me that she appreciated my talk, not only for her sake but also for the fact that her inactive ex-husband (who had not been to church for a long time) had been in the congregation and had heard my talk. She said, "A lot of what you said hit home, and I'm hoping it's a coming-to-Jesus day for him."

Now, there a few things in the world as nice as the feeling of finishing a public discourse, but this is one of them: knowing that what you said, whether or not it was what you planned to say in the first place, affected someone in a positive way. This principle has nothing to do with religion; it's about saying the things that will help others to improve their lives in some way. It doesn't take a lot; in fact, you don't have to speak publicly in order to have an effect. Sometimes, you don't even have to speak at all. Sometimes, it's what you refuse to say (yes, I'm talking about swearing and gossip and slander here, among other things) that helps people most. It can even be an action or an attitude that will show the light to the people who sit alone in the shadowy corner.

Beating the Older Brother

Anyone, perhaps, who has ever known what it's like to be a younger brother has, indubitably, felt at one time or another the psychological barrier which often prevents us from scaling the mountainous examples set in place by those within whose shadow we seemed destined to inhabit in perpetuo. At certain junctures (no, that's the wrong word), at extended periods of time, I have experienced the sting of trying to measure up to the achievements and physical prowess and skill, particularly in the field of sports, which my brother has demonstrated, and my cup has, at sundry times, run over with coming short of measuring up.

However, despite this often psychological and sometimes physical obstacle, I am pleased to report that such things need not always remain in place. Just today, I beat my older brother in a game of ping pong (21-17), as well as in two games of pool. He destroyed me in basketball, but I do not wish to address that, as it nothing new or extraordinary or unexpected. Ping pong on the other hand was completely unexpected, most of all by me. It is a dream come true; I have triumphed at last.

That being said, this intrafamilial comparative procedure, though common I'm sure, is actually an example of pure excrement. Unfortunately, the rarity of such victories has ensured that I would not fully understand this point until now. We excel in different thing; we are interested in different things. We are different people. No matter how much we wish to be weighed in an even balance, it will turn out better if we realize sooner rather than later that we all need a different set of scales.

So I have pursued this course, namely desiring to beat my brother in sports, only to realize that I have been a fool.

Attacked

I was attacked today. I was minding my own business, trying to do some research, when out of the blue...

BOOM!

A message popped up on my screen, informing me that my computer was being infected by all sorts of nasty viruses and malware. I'm not sure what I did to deserve it, and I'm not sure why my Internet security was taking a holiday just then; all I know is, I am writing this blog on someone else's computer because mine is being flushed and cleaned and thoroughly disinfected at the computer guy's place.

Tiny silver lining: my computer was needing a checkup anyway, and at the rate I was getting around to it taking to someone to have it cleaned out and have my DVD drive fixed, I was never going to get around to it. Almost three years is a long time to own a thing without having any maintenance on it.

Big black cumulonimbus cloud full of lightning an' thunder an' golfball-sized hail an' stuff: I could have lost everything on my computer to those nasty digital creepy-crawlies. I do have backups of things on CDs, so that's a mercy, but I could have had personal information stolen as well. I mean, I don't think I keep anything very personal on my computer, but you never know....

The funny thing is this: my sister-in-law told me the other day, when I baby-sat her children, that she had not ever been away from them for that amount of time. I now know, to a small extent, how she must have felt. Until now, I have not, since becoming the proud proprietor of my HP laptop computer (I'm not exactly certain why I was proud of owning an HP laptop, but I think it's because I was naive at the time regarding the perceived quality of the d--- piece of technological poo with which I was purchasing), ever been separated from it like this. Not that I'm on it all the time, you understand, (though I am on it a lot) but it's always been there when I needed it. Now, I need it, I want it, and I can't have it because some practically joking sphincter decided to relieve himself on my dual-core processor and already overworker hard drive. You know, I keep going to my room to do work on my computer, only to rediscover that it isn't ther, and that it isn't even in my house. It's an odd feeling, this involuntary absence, sort of like sitting down to a chair you know was behind you the last time you looked and finding, once you've fallen on your buttocks, that someone thought that it would be funny to pull it away at the last second. Only it isn't funny at all, and the chair thief not only won't give your seat back, but he put his fist through it and, until you've paid him to re-upholster it, he won't give it back.

Wait a minute. Did I say it was the funny thing? I meant the annoying-as-a-blowfly-stuck-up-your-left-nostril-that-won't-come-out sort of thing.

Ultimately, "so it goes" (though more in the Billy Joel sense rather than in the Kurt Vonnegut sense, but neither is really accurate) and c'est la vie, etc.--and of course I'm taking solace from the fact that it's raining on those who deserve the unwanted precipitation as well as on me--but this whole nefarious--not hilarious--situation is still irritating enough that even Tiny Tim might forego his usual charity and cheerfulness, raise his glass of warm milk in his right hand while brandishing his crutch like a weapon with the left, and raspily cry, "D--- those chair thieves, every one."

To E.E. and Gertrude

?
Am I right
to believe
believe that
by means of my fingers
fingers and mind
mind within lines
means that I
must ignore invention
?
If
  I
   have
       drift
           for
              you
                 to get,
                       surely
                             the letters
                                      are allowed to drift themselves if
                                                                                        they
                                                                                             want to be gotten?

Direction defines meaninglessness
Ergo
I confess nothing

                                                                  
                            p and d
The Chinese write u        o
                                      w
                                      n
                                        and however they please
If they feel
the need to do so.
They have nothing
to lose
by going
somewhere besides forward
with perplexed simplicity;

And they haven't punctuation
either.
as far as I know anyway(
or do they)


They have enough
Enough
meaning without adding
and subtracting
(meaningless)
more!
Each line line each connects
connects lines
lines within lines
lines outside of time
time and space
and dimensional confines
which are not mine
but his
And timely finely sketches
etches
traces faces
faces facing
sand and dune and hill and real
which do not do
(do not do which)
water works better
better for writing writing
and chiseling the infinite
or infinitely finite
without disturbing
or perturbing
the finite Infinite&

No one can tell
)should they?(
And I won't
won't bring myself
to explain
Not yet yet not
I thought not
I thought I brought
my unwanted thoughts
My my
what is it
I have said
You tell me
Me tell you
It's the same
If it's the same
If only only if
If you only heard me
heard me writing
What it means means
Meaning what:
the lines finely twined
within time
Time within twine finds mine
not yours;
I cannot say;
(not today)
or tomorrow even
even in evening
but the next day
day after that
that after day
that day is almost certain,
the day
I keep my secret
keep keep
to myself
And you will find out
sooner than I
or as soon as I
what we never knew
or hoped?


[Note: In case you are wondering what just happened, don't ask me. However, feel free to look up the poetic works of E. E. Cummings or Gertrude Stein's "A Completed Portrait of Picasso" for examples of whatever this is that I have written above]

Pasta Carbonara

"The time has come my little friends to talk of food and things" (from Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking Glass). Today I have a tasty dish for you that I made only yesterday. I was in a bind because 6:00 p.m. came around and no one had yet made dinner. Not because we're slackers, you see, but actually more because my sister had been throwing up the day before and my mother, feeling the groaning and lurching and churnings of sympathy, had no inclination to eat. Therefore, I, noticing the time, took it upon myself to make something delicious that would only take a little while to prepare. Upon finding a half-consumed package of bacon in the meat drawer in the refrigerator and the leftover bits of ham (from Sunday dinner) in a tupperware on the second shelf, I suddenly sensed a delightful little blip on my revelatory radar: Pasta Carbonara.

Now, I had not made the dish for more than five years (not since I came back from Italy in 2006), so it was a little odd that out of nowhere I thought to make it. However, make it I did, ed fu veramente una meraviglia straordinaria come un sogno fantastico che ricevi senza dormire, cogli occhi aperti e la bocca spalancata. By the way, I just made that one up. Right off the cuff.

Anyway, here's the recipe:

Pasta Carbonara

Four slices of bacon, cut into small pieces
1 cup of cooked ham
2 Tbsp. butter
1/4 medium-sized onion
4 eggs
3 Tbsp. milk
1 lb. linguine pasta
5 oz. parmesan or pecorino Romano, grated
Basil, salt, pepper, thyme, garlic to taste

Fry the bacon in a saucepan with the butter and onion. Boil the pasta according to the directions on the box. Whisk the eggs and milk together in a bowl. When the pasta is done, drain off the water, then quickly add the egg mixture to the pasta and stir. The heat from the pasta will cook the eggs in about a minute or so. Then add spices, bacon, ham, and cheese. Serves four people (Note: I found that out because Mom decided she was hungry after all, and Maren had had just about enough of crackers and 7UP). Buon appetito!

"Dream On"

Yes, this is one of those. Another tense look into the author's psyche. I had another dream last night and I want to tell about it.

Sometimes, dreams can be very scary. Dreams about death and bankruptcy fall into this category.

Sometimes, dreams can be very nice. Dreams about life and opportune inheritances and winning lottery tickets fall into this category.

But sometimes, you get a little of both, mixed into a unconscious cocktail of oddity. Last night, I had one of these.

Now, I don't mean to be awkward in any way, and if at any point this post makes you feel that way, please feel free to stop reading. However, last night, I had a kissing dream. I don't remember who the girl was I was kissing, but I do remember that, I, the slumbering dreamer, felt as virile and confident as Arnold Schwarzenegger in Commando. Then, something happened.

She screamed, "UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!" And ran away.

I woke up.

Talk about an unexpected plot twist.

Tiredly Busy, Busily Tired

Today has been odd since the very beginning. I remember waking up this morning in a haze. Snow was falling outside my window, which seemed only a continuation of the very odd dreams I experienced during the night, of which I cannot relate because I cannot remember an iota about them except that they were, in fact, odd. I dragged myself to the bathroom and, upon looking at myself and my bloodshot zombie eyes in the mirror, surmised that staying up until 2 a.m. reading One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest had been a rather poor decision on my part, despite the fact that I had been extremely pleased with the overall quality of the book. However, it seems to me that nowadays I am more and more prone to making such decisions wherein I choose the pleasure of reading over the strange ecstasies of a normal REM cycle.

However, though I took my waking slow (see Theodore Roetke's "The Waking") I soon managed to encourage myself to shake off somewhat the residual fatigue of oblivion and put myself to work being useful in some way. And not just in some way, of course; in the way, the best way of being useful, as far as I am concerned: Making food.

In fact, I become so rapt with making food for dinner and so on that I completely forgot to have breakfast until around 2:00 p.m. Some might argue and say I had lunch then, but I have to disagree because, after all, who has Cheerios for lunch? Not I, said the pig.

Anyway, today I made a whole slew of food, both for dinner tonight and for Sunday when we shall be having family over for dinner. I, first of all, made dinner rolls. About five dozen, in fact. Turned out nicely. Then I made two pans of sour cream potatoes. Also turned out nicely (I know because we had three-quarters of a pan for dinner tonight, along with cheeseburgers, which I made as well). Then I made deviled eggs, which were spectacular. I kept picking in them up until dinner, and then I had some more. By the way, when will someone invent angeled eggs?

In addition, I did a load of laundry and read Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut. It was good, but certainly odd. And I would know, of course, because I felt very odd myself, this entire day. I told you that I shook off the tiredness with which I awoke, but that is more or less a lie. Today was permeated with haziness and awake-walking. I am surprised I did not lose a finger or two as I was slicing eggs because, to tell the truth, I am not exactly sure I knew what I was doing. However, I still have all of my appendages, and dinner was great, even if I can't remember how exactly I got here.

Time's a-Changin'

Up until this point, I have been fairly good at keeping up with the grind demanded by this daily blog. I have been able to post (with one or two exceptions) every single day since early November. It has been wonderful for me to share with you, and I have enjoyed the challenge of trying to have something to scribble down, even when ideas are difficult to come by.

Well, it seems that the time to meet that challenge has passed. The desire to keep a daily blog has not been vanquished, no. In fact, I wish I could keep up as I have, but unfortunately it's time for me to face the truth of my position: I have neither the intellectual energy nor the time to continue as I have. If I were somehow a perpetual well of fascinating ideas and catchy witticisms and Johnny-on-the-spot nonsense (which border on outright lies), it might be different; however, I am not exactly as I may appear at times. The well runs dry (as I'm sure we all have experienced), and it requires some time to replenish a barren reservoir, especially a mental one.

Consequently, I will be changing the schedule of my posts from daily to semi-weekly: I shall have a post on Mondays, and one on Thursdays, thus providing me with adequate time, I hope, to somehow wring out some good, solid ideas to share with my readership from my sponge of a brain which is currently yearning for a full bucket.

I appreciate, as always, the continued patronage of my readers, and I hope you will continue to visit my blog in the future. The end is not near, no matter how this post may sound; we are simply entering a new phase our relationship.

Love to you all, and keep the faith, my friends, "for my purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset....Though much is taken, much abides" (from Alfred Lord Tennyson's "Ulysses").

"Sunday, Bloody Sunday"

I tried a new tactic with the children in my Primary class today. Instead of giving them cookies or sugary treats, I gave them rolls (I made them myself last night), thinking that something healthy might be good for them, as well as keeping them from having a sugar fix during the lesson.

It didn't work.

In fact, they behaved worse than they ever have before in class. I think I may just go back to giving them cookies and fruit snacks in exchange for good behavior. That'll keep 'em in line.

Maybe.

Just as a side note: One of the speakers in church today said the word perfect in his discourse at least 43 times (that's where I lost count), utilizing that term anywhere from 3-10 instances in a single sentence. I think he really wants us to try and be perfect.

Possibly. Unless I missed the point. Wouldn't that be just perfect?

False Advertising

How is it that so many businesses continue to create commercials which, while putting their company in a better light, falsely depict their products as having a certain effect or possessing a certain appearance? In fact, I'm fairly sure that one cannot watch TV for more than a few seconds without coming across an advertisement that does not bend, stretch, or otherwise disfigure the truth (if not out-and-out breaking it in little pieces, swallowing it, and regurgitating it like a mama robin feeding her young).

For example, Macdonald's food, in reality, looks nothing like it does in the commercial world. Some might even consider the advertised food something of a simulacra, a supposed copy of a copy of something for which there is actually no original (see Jean Baudrillard's Simulacra and Simulacrum). If Macdonald's actuall served burgers that looked like burgers (as advertised) then I would have no qualms about eating there at all. As it is however, I refuse to sample their burgers anymore because their burgers are as greasy as a used-car salesman and as thin as a bolemic crack addict.

Or how about those Axe commercials? I have used Axe body spray in the past, but it didn't work the way the commercials said it would. I have never been chased down a beach by thousands of bikini-clad women coming from every direction; I have never had a woman catch a whiff of my Axe body wash and suddenly start saying "Boom chicka wow wow!" and try to rip my clothing off; and I have never gotten hair-action at a party (or anywhere else for that matter). D--- you, Axe, you're full of it.

Movie trailers are the same. In less than a minute of edited clips, a movie trailer can convince an audience that the movie they're going to see is actually pretty good. Then, once in the movie theater, the viewers find out that they had already seen every good scene that the movie had to offer (see Talladega Nights).

Remember the old commercials for York peppermints patties? The people who took a bite would immediately receive the sensation that they were playing hockey in the kitchen or doing the luge down a mountain slope in their recliner "as the wind whips against [their] body!" But I guess it only works for them because when I bite into a York peppermint patty I get the sensation that I'm...biting into a York peppermint patty. No more. No less.

Also, if Doublemint gum really did double your pleasure and double your fun as the advertisements say it does, it would probably sit next to the KY Jelly instead of in the checkout line opposite the tabloids and Soap Opera Guides.

So, how do we fix this? Well, it cannot be fixed. The people who are trying to sell crappy products will ultimately fail if they come out and  tell their customers how bad their merchandise is, and those who sell better things than their competition have nothing at all to fix. Further, those whose merchandise is only about as good as the rest of the competitors' (such as Axe) will have to continue trying to find ways to make themselves stand out, even if it means making things up. Therefore, we will continue to exist as we have always existed: being let down by crappy movies whose trailers are better than the real thing; finding more delight in watching commercials about food than actually eating it; and waiting forever for hair action that will never, ever, come.

Mistake

I messed up today. Oops.

Substitute-teaching was unfortunately rather trying and stressful on account of certain naughty eighth-graders and the weird Career Day schedule at the middle school. Children were hyper and keyed-up over that, not to mention my over-enthusiastic (which is just a big word for rowdy and obnoxious) students seemed intent on making me pay for my intrusion into their lives, as well as coming between them and their four-day weekend. Needless to say, I was fried by the time I made it home today. So, as I said before, I messed up.

I took a nap.

At 4:30 p.m. Nice move, I know, but I simply couldn't help it.

Consequently, I am up later tonight than I had wanted to be. I would have gone to bed a couple of hours ago, if only I had been tired. Of course, it isn't only the fact that I took a nap which is keeping me up. It's also the fact that I had a craving for ice cream and cookies at 11:00 p.m. I even added some chocolate truffles, but then I decided it was too nasty and junky, so I cut up half a banana to go with it. Made it much healthier, of course, and soothed my conscience. It also infused my body with enough sugar to keep me going for a fortnight without blinking, and since then I have been sitting on the couch reading Go Tell It on the Mountain by James Baldwin and watching old episodes of Newsradio (I just finished the second season). D--- those late night cravings and occasional weakness for vanilla ice cream. Sometimes, I'm just tempted above that which I am able, I guess (and yes, I know that is not in keeping with biblical teaching, but it sure feels that way sometimes). Another truffle or two, and I probably would have gone into a diabetic coma; the bright side of that would have been the fact that I at least would be sleeping right now. The dark side: you would not have a new blog post to read today (Did you think I was going to say being in a diabetic coma?). Anyway, when it does wear off, I hope no one wakes me up until Monday; otherwise, I might get angry. You won't like me when I'm angry (Note: I will wake up for about three hours on Sunday for church, but directly after I will come home and go immediately back to bed; I have learned my lesson about late-night snacking and sugar intake. At least for a while).

Books I Have Read (or Started Reading or Re-read) in the Last Month (and How I Liked Them)

I would like to give an in-detail rundown of all the books I've read recently, but unfortunately the sheer volume of this task would make an extremely long and laborious post. Therefore, I shall have to be content (as will you) with a shortened list and abbreviated review of each of the books I have read in the last month, beginning with some of the most recent.

The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane

Review: A wonderful little novel that entails blow-by-blow the internal struggle of a young soldier during his first encounters with tragedy and death in the Civil War. Five stars out of four (and yes, I did that on purpose).

The Death of Ivan Ilyich by Leo Tolstoy

Review: Chronicles the thoughts and emotional turmoil of a Russian judge as he contemplates death, the events which led to it, and the way in which he spent his life. Ultimately, Tolstoy does an outstanding job of pin-pointing different facets of this dying man's attempts to cope with his own impending death. Unfortunately, the lack of dialogue in the story make this short novel seem much longer; however, that does not diminish its essential masterful qualities. Four stars out of four.

The Tao of Pooh by Benjamin Hoff

Review: A silly little rundown of instances in which the Bear of Very Little Brain and his friends demonstrate the nuances and idiosyncrasies of Western society and Eastern philosophy. Four stars out of four.

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

Review: Apart from all of the swearing, drinking, smoking, and other naughty things which Holden Caulfield engages in, this book is quite well done. Now, reader who are sensitive to such things can do either of two things: Open your mind and look past Holden's bad qualities in order to enjoy the story, or do not read the book at all. I, for one, being of the former inclination, choose to enjoy the story and the interesting intricacies of Holden's anti-hero persona. Four stars out of four.

The Time Machine by H.G. Wells

Review: For me, this story, though probably very ingenious and imaginative for the time in which it was written, seems only to be a washed-up replica of Jules Verne-like genius. Worse still, Wells seems to focus more on didacticism and propagandization of current trends than telling a story which further detracts from what might have been a more interesting tale. One star out of four.

Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes

Review: Don Quixote de la Mancha is one of my favorite literary figures because his mania for chivalric codes and living out his dream of being a knight presents a wonderful contrast with the people who wish to prevent his sallyings-forth and burn his heretical books of knight-errantry. The question thereby presented is this: Even if it is lunacy to consider oneself a knight when indeed one is not, is it worse than being intolerant and judgmental? It is certainly not a book that all will enjoy because it does tend to become long-winded and dry in places, but I still give it four unreachable stars out of four.

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Review: A very short novel, much is packed into its tiny confines. While not everyone's cup of tea, the actions of some of the characters will infuriate anyone. Therefore, if you like the sort of book which will illicit a very real emotional response, this one is a must-read. Three stars out of four.

As I Lay Dying by Willliam Faulkner

Review: I will say the same for this book. The shifting viewpoints creates quite a bit of confusion for the reader, but the anger which one will feel at the end will make up for any inconvenience caused by Faulkner chosen approach to this story. Or mostly make up for it, anyway. Three stars out of four.

Harry Potter volumes 1-7

Review: Each book is better and more engaging than the one before it. As I reached the end, I could not stop reading for the life of me. Five stars out of four.

Elementary, My Dear...

In order to adequately and lucidly set down the events of this day before my brain goes to mush with the lateness of the diminishing hour, I have decided to momentarily set aside Benjamin Hoff's The Tao of Pooh and write this post. Of course, I will subsequently return to Cottleston Pie and the Wu Wei Wu as soon as I am done here, but being the incurably Bisy Backson that I am, I felt I ought to relate my experience at the elementary school today before I am unable to do so in a clear and concise manner. Not that I always have a problem with disclarity and longwindedness (of course I don't). I am not one of those people who sits in the stands yelling "Digression!" (from J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye) every time someone ventures away from the point or takes a slight detour toward point M when traversing the line between A and B. Besides, I have friends who are German, and you can't be friends with a German if you have a problem with thought processes that are sometimes as clear as clay and soliloquys which tend to be as short as a standard State of the Union address. That being said, I will now retreat from my own digression and come to the point.

To begin with, I stayed up far too late last night, as is my usual custom in the event I am either reading a book I enjoy (by the way, Holden Caulfield is one my of new favorite literary characters, despite his pottymouth) or anticipating some new type of experience, and I whole-heartedly expected that teaching fourth-graders would be just such an experience for me. For that purpose, I did "not go gentle into that good night" (from Dylan Thomas's poem "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"), no, indeed, because of my anticipation of "that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns" (from Shakespeare's Hamlet). By the way, I don't mean death; I mean the Crimson Point Elementary School classrooms. I really ought to try harder to go to bed early on the nights before I have to substitute-teach, but I can't force myself to do it. It's a curse. If I were scheduled to meet the President of the United States tomorrow, I would no doubt show up for my appointment on time or early, with bloodshot eyes, unkempt hair, and a half-empty Rockstar in my hand. Oh well, I'll get over it someday.

Alors, this morning I went to the school for my assignment, arriving exhausted (as I knew I would) and exactly 34 and a half minutes early in order to have sufficient time to glance over the somewhat cryptic lesson plans left by the usual teacher. Finally, with two minutes to spare, I successfully deciphered his instructions and waited for the approach of impending doom in the form of nine- and ten-year-olds. I was never afraid that they might sneak up on me like Morlocks in the dark (see H.G. Wells' The Time Machine), because I was forewarned of their arrival (they were extremely boisterous) approximate 3 minutes and twenty-nine seconds before they had even descended from their respective buses.

Well, the day turned out to be fun, despite my initial nervousness. I had some kids that I know from church and so on, and they proved to be fairly helpful and well-behaved. One of them even told me that she was going to be a good girl today because she did not want me to tell her parents that she behaved poorly. I don't normally like being thought of as a tattletale, but if it motivates children to behave then I am all for it.

We started the day off with long division, and I was glad to find that we were doing math I could help with (I have substituted for pre-algebra and algebra classes in which I was absolutely no help at all, for which fact the students ought to have resented me and did not. At least, not vocally). These children were begging to assist at the board and I obliged. Some of them were even miffed when I chose the same people to help multiple times instead of using people who had not had a turn (though in my defense, it is hard to keep track of 20-odd students in a classroom and who has and has not had a turn at the board).

For the next period, we had reading and vocabulary. Some of the children banded together to become a public nuisance, but I put them in their places during the vocabulary portion by glaring at one naughty bespectacled boy for a full thirty seconds without blinking like "the cat that won't cop out when there's danger all about..."

"You shut yo' mouth!"

"I'm just talking bout Shaft!"

Oh, well then, hmm, I guess, yeah, well, shoot; we can dig it.

"Ya d--- right!"

"Digression!"

Anyway, that boy tried to stare back at me like I was going to back down, but he didn't realize that a Care-Bear stare has nothing on the Scare-Glare that I shared with him in there. He quickly quieted his rebellion and worked without defiance for the rest of the period.

Afterwards, one of the girls approached me on her way out to lunch and told me I had a voice like a gameshow host. She did not say which one, but I can only hope she was talking about Alex Trebek and not Drew Carey.

As part of my assignment, I had to perform recess duty, which means watching the children as they play tackle football when they aren't supposed to and find ways to hurt each other when no one is looking. The recess passed almost without incident, except one girl did get whipped in the eye with a speeding jumprope. However, she was the only casualty of that particular fifteen-minute break, so I count myself lucky, as should they.

The last hour and a quarter passed quickly and fairly quietly, although I did at one point raise my voice, which I had told them I do not like to do. The students had informed me earlier in the day that their normal teacher likes to yell, "FREEZE!" in the middle of class if they become too rowdy. As I walked among the desks, I noticed that the students were chatting instead of working on their science packets, so I stopped and yelled at the top of my voice, "FREEZE!"

They jumped. About a foot. In unison.

Then they laughed.

Then one girl said, "You are now officially Mr. Reno." (Mr. Reno is their usual teacher)

Overall, the day was a positive experience. Now, I could look back on it and remember all of the naughty children who tried to pass notes, and look at each other's work, and talk when they weren't supposed to, but I won't. I absolutely won't. No, that would spoil the whole day, especially the end. During the last fifteen minutes, before everyone had to catch their buses to go home, many of them congregated at the board and began to write messages to me, saying things like "We love you as a teacher, hope to see you again"; "you rock"; " U R awesome"; "You're the best substitute ever"; and finally, "Knock knock. Who's there? Dwayne. Dwayne who? Dwayne the bathtub, I'm dwowning!" (a moldy-oldy joke from the Boys' Life magazines, but the sentiment, if there was any, was still appreciated).

"I'd Like to Say Something Classy and Inspirational, but That Wouldn't Be [My] Style"

It's true, it's true. I have now officially posted 100 times on my blog since its commencement in early November 2010, and to celebrate this accomplishment, I would like to have 100 people look at my blog. Of course, I have only so many friends who will help me in this attempt. That leaves it to you, readers, to refer your friends to this blog, perhaps by sending them the links to your favorite posts. However, you choose to do it, I know that it can be done.

Now, having used my time today in a manner which befits my usual productive lifestyle, including finishing The Time Machine (which was more or less uninspiring) by the pioneer of prolific propagandaists himself, Mr. H.G. Wells (not to be confused with Orson Welles, of course); beginning The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger (I am now seven pages into it and already loving it, though we will see if that feeling lasts throughout the course of the novel); warming up leftover pan burritos for dinner; working on an editing project; and doing my laundry, I am now warming up my fingers and firing up my mental capacities to write something of the concrete and inspirational nature which has accompanied my blogging in the past. Oh, d--- my eyes, I need to take a shower.

However, despite my lack of hygiene on this day of days, good things have happened. My sister gave me a box of chocolate-covered macadamias from Hawaii (which I appreciated very much), not necessarily as a commemoration of my blogging triumph but more as a thank-you for being such an optimum specimen of exemplary brotherhood (and also for the fact that I assisted in the top-quality, around-the-clock care of her vomiting children in her absence). The chocolates were quite delicious, I thought, (my mother and other sister thought so too since they helped themselves as soon as the plastic wrapper came off the box).

[Note: Alright, they did not help themselves; they had one each. But they might have had more had I not quickly repossessed the box once it wandered back into my proximity.]

Also, since I am sharing good news, you should know that I received an e-mail from a grad school today saying that I have been accepted (unofficially) to their English M.A. program. This is my second acceptance e-mail in the last week, and I love not being depressed about being rejected by grad schools (specifically Brigham Young University's, though we have yet to see if they will reject me a second time and cause me to dislike them even more than I already do).

Now, having shared these glad tidings with you, readers, I will proceed to shower, put my laundry in the dryer, read some more of The Catcher in the Rye, and try to become excited about teaching a 4th grade elementary class tomorrow (I've never taught at the elementary school level, so I'm a a little nervous about it).

However, I would like to say a few words to you all, if I may:

"Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!" (from J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone).

Thank you all.

Be My Valentine

Valentine's Day. A holiday officially begun near the end of the fifth century by Pope Gelasius I, Valentine's Day is intended to celebrate affection and esteem between lovers. According to tradition and the panepistemic capacity of Wikipedia researchers, St. Valentine lived in the third century and was martyred (beheaded) by Emperor Claudius II [Note: Some might consider the fact that St. Valentine lost his head as an iconic symbol of the effects of love in interpersonal relationships. In fact, they say that such a symbol could only be enhanced had the saint been subsequently castrated]

In recognition of this day, Charles Lamb wrote, "Thou comest attended with thousands and ten thousands of little Loves, and the air is 'brush'd with the hiss of rustling wing.' Singing Cupids are thy choristers and thy precentors; and instead of the crosier, the mystical arrow is borne before thee. In other words, this is the day on which those charming little missives, ycleped Valentines, cross and intercross each other" and "the weary and all forspent twopenny postman sinks beneath a load of embarassments not his own" (from Lamb's Essays of Elia).

By the way, in case you were wondering, Charles Lamb spent his entire life a bachelor, having been frustrated in his attempts to woo two separate women (Ann Simmons and Fanny Kelly), and lived all the while with his lunatic sister Mary with whom he authored the well-known collection Tales from Shakespeare. Such luck in matters of the heart would have, and has (I'm sure), embittered other, lesser individuals, who tend to regard Valentine's Day with a great deal of contempt and distaste, casting about ill-mannered unpleasantries like envenomed daggers to wound the spirits of those who feel the need to revel in the joy of a day dedicated to love.

Perhaps you know people like this. They are generally single and very, very alone. They spit anti-Valentine propaganda and bite "pretty red heart[s] in two" (from Sylvia Plath's "Daddy"). They complain that the day itself, instead of enhancing the quality of existent relationships and encouraging the increase of love and marital harmony, augments materialistic attitudes and only serves to provide more money for the grocery stores and florist shops and candy-makers and the baby-sitters and the three- to five-star hotels.

On the other hand, there are those who believe in the sentimentality of the day and accuse the accusers of jealousy and envy, saying that they perhaps don't get it because they aren't getting any. These people still put stock in love and effectively increase somebody else's stock in chocolate and flowers.

So which is the correct assessment of the merits of the day of love? Is it meaningful or meaningless? These sorts of questions are the reasons why statements such as "life is more successfully looked at from a single window" (from F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby) can be defined as complete and utter bunk.

For me, I believe that Valentine's Day is, if nothing else, certainly worthwhile, even for single people like myself. Even if we haven't got a sweetheart or a Valentine to spend the day with, it serves as a reminder of things which transcend the dreariness of singlehood and reasons for removing ourself from this static state. Rather than give in to jealousy and covetousness by bad-mouthing it and the materialism which Valentine's Day, in all fairness, does seem to promote, perhaps we ought to work harder at finding our own happiness in love, regardless of past and present failures in that regard. Other people have the right to celebrate their love, and we have no right to put that down.

To those who follow the trends of society in celebrating the day of love by giving in to the chocolate and rose-petal cliches advertised by the specialty stores, I have one thing to say: while such things are a nice gesture of affection between significant others, they carry no weight if they are not an extension of your normal behavior. If you never do similar things for your partner or mate or boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever you want to call them, then Valentine's Day will be just as empty and hollow as the bitter and single people say it is. No amount of thoughtfulness one day out of the year can make up for 364 days of neglect and taking others for granted. So, make this day the rest of the year in a concentrated form. A day to celebrate the love and hard work not found in a bouquet of red, red roses or in box of chocolates or chalky conversation hearts.

Living in the Projects (or between Them)

I am a project person. I come from a family of project people. My sisters do projects. My mom does projects. I do projects. (Note: My dad is a project, but tell him I said that. Shhh.).

I'm not sure what it is that drives us. Perhaps it's in our blood to always want something to keep us busy. Of course, the projects that my sisters and my mother focus on are quite a bit different than mine. They tend to make quilts, dishrags, hair bows, thank-you cards, puppets, and so on, and I generally focus more on projects that, instead of fabrics and scrapbooking supplies, focus on different facets of writing: novels, essays, poetry, short stories, etc. Technically, this blog itself is one of my on-going writing projects, and is one of my favorites when I'm not suffering from writer's block.

Well, every once in a while, I come to that barren and stiflingly stagnant wasteland in between the bookends of self-industry in which I have no project to work on (except this one, of course) and no ideas for my next one. I search and contemplate the possibilities, but nothing concrete presents itself. Goodness knows, I do have work enough to do, but I'm not looking for more work; I want a project. A good project that will take a while to complete. In the recent months, I have started a couple of different projects involving collections of poetry, but both ideas, while appearing fresh and interesting initially, have figuratively run aground.

I finished the revisions for one of my books a few weeks ago, and I am currently awaiting feedback on my other one, so I haven't anything to work on as far as my novels are concerned. Further, I am not sure if I should begin to write another and don't know what I would write about even if I decided to embark down that avenue. Up until three days ago, I was working on an essay on T. S. Eliot's poem "The Hollow Men", but I finished it and submitted it to a publisher, so that's not an option anymore. I suppose I could start another essay, a longer one this time, but I can't think of anything regarding which I really am passionate enough to begin doing research at this point. Milton? Hemingway? Faulkner? Cervantes? Stevenson? Too many choices, and no choices at all, and unfortunately figuring it out will take some time. What shall I do in the meantime? I haven't a clue.

Well, that's not exactly true. I do have a clue. I could either sit here and moan about having no project to work on, or simply find something to work on that isn't exactly connected with writing. Perhaps my mental writing-related hemispheres need some rest. Now, I have here on my desk a stack of books on Latin, which I am thinking to utilize in renewing my study of that language. In addition, I have a book of German poetry, another of German short novels, The Divine Comedy, and Don Quixote.

So, maybe if I read all of these books, by the time I finish I will have found something to research, my Latin will have improved, and the feedback on my novel will be back from my readers. Ha! Eureka. (Note: See how useful Latin is?)

Wal-mart after Hours

Another day. Another dollar. Another puking child. My life recently. I thought we had left it all behind us, but no, we couldn't. Unable to pass up an opportunity to blend in with his other cousins, my other nephew has suddenly decided to throw up. Also, as in the case of the others this week, he waited until night-time to break it to his mother that he was indeed ill. I am not sure how he planned it with such precision, but I do know he pulled it off successfully.

Of course, his situation meant an emergency trip to the store for stomach flu prevention and decontamination supplies for his parents: tea and toothbrushes. Consequently, his father and I went to Walmart to purchase the necessary items.

We found more than we wanted to.

At the entrance, we scooted past an anemic looking bearded fellow who might have passed for Steven Spielberg's father about two hundred years ago. Too tired and grumpy perhaps to give us the traditional "Welcome to Wal-mart" greeting, he allowed us to pass unmolested (for which I am grateful). Then, I saw a man restocking coffee and salad dressing who, I am fairly certain, kept speaking with the mustard bottles. Not that I begrudge his right of free speech, but just because an animate object gives you the ability to feel less lonely at work does not mean it's begging for a conversation. Also in the tea aisle, we were stalked by an old hunch-backed witch with black stretch pants and painted brows; I quickly moved out of her way so as to give her no reason to put a hex on me.

On our way to find the toothbrushes, I saw the love-child of Quasimodo and Agnes Moorehead opening boxes of cheap Wal-mart apparel and sporting horn-rimmed glasses only Gary Larson (The Far Side artist) could really appreciate.

Walking listlessly up and down in the refrigeration area was the twin brother of Richard Gere (either that, or the man who ate Richard Gere and absorbed some of his physical features, which is probably more likely).

Then, an old cavewoman who apparently had stolen Jay Leno's chin and pasted it to her own face, along with a unibrow which was quite a bit higher on the right side than the left, was our cashier.

Finally, right before we left the store, we were passed by a group of four teenagers who seemed to be heading for the cracker and chips aisle for obvious reasons and a teenage zombie brunette wearing a baby-blue belly shirt and what appeared to be a glowstick necklace (or a neon green piece of garden hose; once again, I cannot be certain).

Now, I know what you're thinking right now. You're probably thinking, Hey, this guy is lying again.

Well, what can I say? You got me. I did not tell the complete truth. I may have refashioned reality in order to entertain, but here is the real story.

We actually went to buy Powerade, as well.

Happy now?

Another Pizza Night

I realize that I haven't given out very many recipes recently, and I have posted even fewer pictures, both of which are foundation stones for the concept of blogging. Well, I throw myself at your feet and humbly submit these few pictures of pizzas made by me.

Pepper Pinwheel
Sweet yellow peppers, julienned, pepperoni,
spicy italian sausage braised in balsamic vinegar and fennel,
ham, mozzarella, parmesan cheese.

Smiling Pie
(For kids only)
Ham, pepperoni, provolone,
mozzarella, asiago, parmesan.

Ham and Artichoke with Alfredo and Mozzarella

The Super Bowl Supreme
Pineapple chunks, ham, Lil' Smokies diced and rolled in brown sugar,
bacon, mozzarella, parmesan, provolone,

Pepperoni with Mozzarella and Parmesan

The Ugly Duckling
Artichokes, diced; chicken (not duck) cooked in balsamic, fresca, red pepper, thyme, salt, and pepper;
olives, sliced; mozzarella, and parmesan

Enjoy them, readers!

Favorite Addictions

When people mention the word addiction, they generally sound off about it with some measure of dislike for the thing, as if an addiction--and those who have them--can be nothing short of disreputable and worthy of despising. Now, I must concur that, in many cases, such an approach to addictions is probably well-founded to say the least. Addictions to pornography, drugs, alcohol, tobacco, or other harmful substances at their very best often lead to minor misbehavior and better test scores and productivity and at their worst to violence and harm to those who use and abuse them, as well as those interacting with the users. It is due to the use and overuse of such substances and their influences on behavior that the word addiction seems to have gained an increasingly poor connotation in our world. After all, when we discuss addictions of various sorts, we almost never speak of the harmless addictions (disguised as social norms), like wearing underwear or cleaning the bathroom on a very regular basis, or of the very good addictions, like taking meals to families in the neighborhood or mowing your parents' lawn in 100+ degree weather without complaining. But no, it never occurs to us to speak of these addictions because we feel the need to associate addiction with harmful actions.

(Note: I have it on good authority [my own] that some among my readers may protest by my including such as things as underwear-wearing and lawn-mowing to a list of addictions, but I am certainly well within my rights to regard such things as addictions, just as you are all in your rights to say I am not within my rights. Now, if you will consult with Merriam-Webster, the denotation [not the connotation mind you, which matters to me not in the slightest] of the word addiction gives me free rein to refer to anything which is done obsessively and habitually as an addiction. Since it is most certainly a habit of mine to don underwear [as I am certain it is for many others] and a task which I perform habitually, I must say that I am most certainly an underwear-wearing addict. If you wish to press the matter further by speaking of pleasure receptors and so on, well, I am afraid I cannot stop you from speaking your mind. However, if you have ever tried to walk around without underwear for a while, you may have felt odd about the whole thing and immediately decided to put some on. That discomfort is a very good indication of your addiction, my friend, a very good indication.).

Now that we have settled (well, perhaps not completely) the matter of what an addiction can and cannot be, I would like to mention a few of the things I have been and continue to be addicted to. I am constantly acquiring new addictions it seems, but they are generally of the harmless or good kind, I believe.

For example, I have an on-again-off-again addiction for eBay. Yes, I like to walk up and down the digital bookshelves of eBay, daring to look but generally not to touch many good and wholesome items. Sometimes however, my willpower dissolves and I become transfixed to the point that I start buying things, things I could do without but which I cannot help but purchase. However, after I have acquired a few things which I will treaure for a very long time no doubt, I come to my senses and pull myself out before I lose my entire will to it. Despite the fact that I am never really free of this addiction, and I feel its pull from time to time, it is, I think, a harmless and even good addiction at times, if if I do not let it get out of hand.

Further, I am also addicted to cooking. Some people would disagree that this is an addiction, using such words as hobby, pastime, leisure activity, or even passion to describe my affinity for the culinary arts. Well, once again that is their opinion. Not a bad opinion, or even a disagreeable one, but it is an opinion, and I shall leave it at that. When I am in the kitchen, I become frightfully possessive of the space around me and whatever happens to be in the oven or on the stove. If people come in and attempt to snoop or extract secrets from me, I shoo them out or send them packing with poisonous looks, envenomed by non-verbal curse words. They soon get the hint and flee before my basilisk stares. Yes, my friends, I am afraid I can be more than a bit obsessive when I am cooking, especially when something doesn't come out right (I feel very blue about that for hours and hours) or something does come out right after many hours of strenuous labor over a hot range and someone at the table feels the need to complain that it is not to his or her liking (Note: No one is making you eat it, so don't, but keep your comments to yourself, rude thing).

My latest and greatest addiction, though, is for the Harry Potter series. I have withstood constant teasing and good-natured ribbing over the years because I have resisted many recommendations that I read the Harry Potter books. I hate most trends and bandwagons equally, and therefore I have shunned Harry Potter as though I were King Laius and he were my son Oedipus left to perish on a Theban hillside with his ankles tied together. And he could have perished too for all have cared these many years of resisting peer pressure.

Finally, the day arrived when I decided for myself (this day happened a couple of weeks ago) that it was time to see what they were all about. By now, the hullaboo about the books has died down somewhat, leaving me free of the wheels of the passing bandwagons with the bandied shouts and meaningless racket of their occupants. My sister brought one home from the library, and I read it in about three hours. Then, I went to the library the next week and checked out 2, 3, and 4. I read them all in two days' time. This week, I returned again to the library and checked out 5, 6, and 7. Two more days, and I finished those as well. For those of you who care (and for those of you don't) I am currently writing this post at 4:21 a.m and as sleep-deprived (if not more so) than a college students during finals week, mostly because of the recent sickness which has invaded our house but also because I could not put those books down. I finished The Half-Blood Prince at 9:00 and immediately started in to read The Deathly Hallows. I simply had to know how it all ended. I was mad with curiosity, and stayed up until 50 minutes ago finishing the series. While I realize that I have cost myself a good deal of repose in the process, the truth is I never would have been able to sleep after Snape killed Dumbledore anyway. No, indeed, I was better off surrendeding myself to the obsession by staying up and finding out the truth. Some of you may call this obsession, this addiction even, harmful because I am robbing my body (which is still recovering from illness) of much-needed sleep, and once again I will not argue with you, not because I cannot, but rather because I do not wish to. Your opinion is, of course, your opinion in the end. The only difference between your opinion and mine, in this case anyway, is that mine suits me better than yours does. If that ever changes, I shall make sure to let you know.

Stomach Flu

So, my entire family has now come down with the flu. Well, not the entire family; only those who reside at my home address and some who are simply visiting. It began, of course, some few days ago when my niece suddenly commenced throwing up at my brother's place. Her brother contracted this illness a few days later, and offhandedly gave us all the opportunity of contracting it. Needless to say, we unknowingly and unwittingly took him up on it. My mum, dad, two sisters, and me are now reduced greatly in energy and strength. I myself have been fortunate to have recovered, seemingly, much quicker than they all, and have therefore been occupied with supplying my fellow sufferers with whatsoever they stand in need of. I have never run up and down the stair so many times in a single day, I think, nor shall I ever, I hope, do so again. "Jeff?" their voices float through my door. "Jeff, can you get me some water?" "Jeff, I'd like some toast, please." "Jeff, your sister's throwing up again; would you mind helping her with the bowl?"

The answer, of course, is always the same. If I have been lucky enough to escape my bout of illness with minimal damage, then it is indubitably my responsibility to take care of those less fortunate than I. It's isn't easy, not by a long shot. But it is more rewarding than just about everything else you've done in a day because you put other people's needs above your own. I am currently sleep deprived having had two all-nighters in the past two days, and I am halfway to pulling one more tonight, and I have spent my day fetching and carrying and so on.

Now, I do not wish to come across as a braggart, extoling my own praises for the things I've done today. My only wish is to teach those who read my blog something I learned through personal experience. When it comes to family and helping those who cannot help themselves, we should be willing, without reservation and regardless of personal inconvenience, submit ourselves to the task presented to us. Nothing can be greater or more fulfilling than the feeling derived from effort expended in the behalf of family members who cannot do for themselves. In fact, that feeling is probably the only reason I am able to write coherently at this moment.

"Come Inside, It's Fun Inside"

Right now my nephew and niece are watching Little Einsteins with my sister in the living room. I'm always amazed by the amount of educational material the creators of that show can fit into each episode. It's quite good really. In fact, even though it is intended for small children, Little Einsteins and other TV shows like Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and Dora the Explorer have a lot to offer even for adult viewers such as myself. It's almost as good as watching Jeopardy.

However, my affinity for kids shows of this genre only extends so far.

Why? you ask.

Because I can't stand the staring. The blinking.

What do you mean? you ask, wrinkling your brow.

I mean, whenever the character on the TV asks the audience to do something like sing or dance or raise their arms high in the air and say, "Blast off!" they stare at you as if they are actually waiting for a response.

And they blink.

Then they act like you have done whatever they asked or responded  to their question in some way, even if you haven't. I at times feel the urge to turn away or close my own lids in order to avoid those creepy "eyes I dare not meet in dreams" (from T. S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men"). This is perhaps one of my only criticisms of such educational television shows. Please, animators, make them less frightening while they are waiting for a reply.

My other criticism (yes, I have only two criticisms for the shows named above; I would have plenty more if we were talking about The Wiggles and Imagination Movers, but I will not waste digital white space and your time [or mine] in discussing them) is the misnomer interactive TV show. In my opinion, we should probably refrain from referring to shows as interactive because, well, they really aren't interactive at all. Such an appellation suggests that they illicit certain responses and then respond accordingly. But they don't. If you say you don't want to sing with Annie as Rocket as they go on their mission to rescue the lost dragon kites in time to save the kite parade by the Great Wall of China, she'll still act like you said yes. When Mickey Mouse asks if you want to help save Goofy's cattle from falling into the nearby river, you don't actually have to answer him; you merely wait and he'll act as though you volunteered. An interactive Mickey would say, "You want to help me rescue Goofy's cows?" and when you don't respond he would say, "Well, do you?" or "Why are you ignoring me?"

The same could be said for an interactive Dora. "Do you know how to count to ten in Spanish?" Pause. Blinking. "I said," she repeats louder, "Do you know how to count to ten in Spanish?" Another pause. More blinking. Her eyes turn angry. "¡Ai caramba! Escuchenme, cabrones, escuchenme bien. Si no hacen como los dije, los mato como las gallinas en la calle sin salida! Entienden, muchachos?" Then, the phone rings and a raspy voice says, "Uno, dos, tres, quattro, cinco, seis, siete dias...." Click. Fortunately for the viewers though, Dora, unlike Samara (see film The Ring), won't be able to emerge from the well and climb through the television screen to make good on her threats. "Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggety dog!" (see Disney's Mickey Mouse Clubhouse)

Type-Casting

When I was little, I remember watching afternoon cartoons on TV (probably Animaniacs) and seeing a commercial for a local science fiction convention. One of the main attractions of the convention, according to the voice on the advertisement would be a visit by John de Lancie from Star Trek: The Next Generation. Then, probably as a somewhat necessary addendum, the voice continued, "You know, Q."

Yes, we know Q. We don't know John de Lancie. And that, my friends, is an illustration of the danger of type-casting.

Many great actors, including Sylvester Stallone and Matt Damon (among others), have managed to escape this snare by taking on diverse roles and doing well in them. Sure, we remember Sylvester mostly for being a tough guy from roles in Rocky, Rambo, Demolition Man, The Expendables, and Judge Dredd (not that we want to remember that one), but then there are the other lead roles in movies such as Oscar, F.I.S.T., Victory, and Rhinestone Cowboy (another one we'd rather not remember) in which he had to find another dimension in his acting because he couldn't just pass the hour and a half or two hours by hitting people with his fists or blowing them with grenade-tipped arrows.

However, they are the lucky few. They have had enough skill and good sense to find roles which pushed them as actors and not to settle into a certain type of role or allow themselves to be remember for a playing only a single character. Unfortunately, many have not followed suit, including:

Mark Hamill: Luke Skywalker in Star Wars
Sean Astin: Rudy in Rudy, Samwise Gamgee in Lord of the Rings
Dolph Lundgren: The Russian in Rocky IV
Billy Boyd: Pippin in Lord of the Rings (people don't realize he plaed a midshipman in Master and Commander)
Daniel Radcliffe: Harry Potter in Harry Potter
The kid who played Simon Birch: Simon Birch in Simon Birch
Macaulay Culkin: Kevin in Home Alone and Home Alone 2: Lost in New York City
Leonard Nimoy: Spock in Star Trek

For these people, as well as many others, they will always be identified more easily by the role they played than by their actual names. Their being cast in a certain type of role, though giving them a name (though the name is that of a character and not their own), has probably served as something of a hindrance and lessened their credibility as actors because the audience sees them not as Rupert Grint and Lacey Chabert but rather as Ron Weasley (Harry Potter) and Gretchen Wieners (Mean Girls). It's unfortunate, but it's true.

So, what separates certain actors from others when it comes type-casting? How do some actors, i.e. Patrick Stewart, Brent Spiner, William Shatner, on Star Trek escape the type-casting, while other Star Trek actors, i.e. Jordy, Counselor Troi, and Commander Riker (who's only memorable line is "Red alert!"), are doomed to remain forever as characters rather than actual people? Some of it, I'm sure has to do with level of ability; some of it, as in the case of William Shatner, is probably a matter of luck.

But don't worry, kid who played Simon Birch on Simon Birch; even if we can't remember your name, at least you know you won't forgotten. That is, your character won't be forgotten. Of course, I can't forget your name either because I never knew it in the first place. Sorry.

Italy

This month marks the five-year anniversary of my return from Italy. Haven't been back since then. I've thought about it a lot, and to tell the truth this time of year makes me miss it even more. Whenever I tell people that I've been to and lived in Italy, they generally say the same things. "Oh, I've always wanted to go to Italy!" or "I love Italian food!" or "I'm planning on going to Italy soon!" Sometimes, if they're really oblivious or simply have no sensitivity in their taste buds, they'll say, "My mom makes the best spaghetti in the world with Prego spaghetti suace and sliced hot dogs." Ugh.

Well, let me tell you a little secret: Italy is more than food and architecture and art and gondola rides. From the persepctive of one who has lived there for a couple of years, I will tell you exactly why the thought of Italy is such a strong source of nostalgia.

I miss walking everywhere. Lots of people in Italy have automobiles, but they really aren't necessary unless you want to go to the seashore, and even then it's just as easy to take a bus or a train. When you are in town, everything is so close together that one does not have to drive to the grocery store, to the church, or the downtown/ centro area. There aren 't any hills most of the time either, so it's easy to walk for miles without becoming exhausted. However, what I love most about walking is the attitude of not being in such a hurry to get somewhere that you need to take the car. Of course, that's probably part of the reason why many Italians are chronically late to everything, but which is worse: running around so quickly that you never enjoy anything or never being on time? I would say the former.

I miss playing frisbee by the Mediterranean at 6:00 a.m.

I miss the cafes and the pizzerias and the gelato shops.

I miss drinking San Pellegrino Chinotto by the liter.

I miss talking to the weirdos and lunatics every day. The guy who said Jesus was a fornicator and the Apostle John was a homosexual. The hairy-chested bum who walked around Main Street with no shirt or shoes and slept on a bench. The fellow who quoted the Lord's Prayer to me in Latin for no reason at all. The priest who wouldn't stop putting his hand on my shoulder. The old men who asked me daily if I'd been to the local whorehouse. The codger who was missing teeth and couldn't keep his saliva inside his mouth. The girl who walked by me in the street every day and asked if I would give her my tie (I think she was after something else, but I can't be sure). I miss the crazy man who walked past my apartment and made faces at me. I miss Maxwell and Ayo and James and all the rest of the African immigrants on the bus. I miss them every one of them.

I miss buying focaccia in Bari, pasticciotti in Lecce, and pizza at the little hole in the wall down by the train station in Foggia.

I miss the mountains in Sicily and Calabria.

I miss the dialects and look in someone's face when you say something like "Ciao beddu!"

I miss eating spicy calzones at the Romana Due in Crotone.

I miss the attractive girls on the bus.

I miss riding on trains whenever I have to go out of town.

I miss the salutations.

I miss speaking Italian every day.

I miss the open markets and squabbling with the merchants over the price of their merchandise.

I miss the strange hair styles and clothing.

I miss you, Italy.

Magari ci vedremo frappoco. Ciao, bella mia!

My Desk

This last year, when I made up my mind that I would not be attending graduate school until the fall of 2011, I realized that if I hoped to use my room as a work space, I would need to purchase a desk in order to have space enough for my computer and my papers and work and so on. I didn't feel the need to buy a desk chair and consequently I now sit on an uncomfortable old bar stool with wobbly legs that has less surface area on it than the black banana seat on my mom's now-retired one-speed, maroon-colored, chrome-fendered bicycle that was once in style approximately one hundred and sixty-seven years, five months, and twenty-three days ago this June 14 (give or take a day or twenty).

My desk is made of cherry wood and despite the fact that it was made in China, it manages to sustain all of the junk I unfailingly place upon it. I don't dust it often enough, which has just been reaffirmed to me as I seconds ago ran my finger across the interior of the cubby-holes where I keep all of my scratch and copy paper, be it lined, plain white, or eggshell, the latter of which I like to use for resumes. I blow away some of the dust particles, and they scamper.

But my desk bears more than paper and dust. In the upper left pigeon-hole, I see two outdated and somewhat wrinkled wallet-sized photos of my nephews which I hang onto despite the fact that they have survived at least two trips through the washing machine. Beneath them, I have an old pen (lacking in ink and certainly meriting retirement), which I have obviously chewed on once or twice during a moments of pensive concentration; a partial tube of Icy Hot (which I keep around in case my tempermental wrist decides to flare up); a yellow-and-red tube, with a rounded red cap, of original Carmex moisturizing lip balm, a small Christmas present from my ever practical mum; and a partial set of hardly used calligraphy pens which I won in a poetry contest in the fall of 2009 and hope to someday learn to use (If I don't, well, at least they'll never run out of ink as my other pen has). In front of me, I see a container of Right Guard Total Defense with an orange and gray exterior; a partial bottle of White-Out, whose cap is now permanently affixed to the container as I have carelessly allowed a large amount of the liquid to build and harden, little by litte, over a long period of time; and two first-class Liberty Bell stamps, left over from a packet of twenty.

I know what you're thinking now. You must be saying, I thought you said you bought your desk for work; it sounds as though you use it as a dump heap that the Grinch himself might frolic in.

But you would be wrong.

Okay, you're right, but only partially. My desk does indeed serve as a home for all sorts of rubbish. But that's not why I like it as much as I do, although that is certainly part of its charm. Also, I like it because it functions as a halfway house for all of my research and leisure reading material. You see, books need somewhere to stay while they aren't on the shelf. Oh, I know, I could put them back on the shelf when I'm not reading them. However, I find it annoying to have to go all the way to my shelves, one of which is barely an arm's length from my bar stool, to gather up all forty-seven volumes I happen to be pouring over at the same moment. So, instead of leading me into the valley of the shadow of irritation and temporary distress, my desk bears the burden for me by functioning as an extension of my library. You might call it an over-sized bookbag with four legs and no pockets. No monogrammed initials either.

To tell you the truth, at this very moment, my desk, my brave strong desk, is housing thirty-three separate volumes of classic literature and literary theory, not to mention a stack of research essays, all of which have effectively forced me to shift three Harry Potter books to an old chair in the corner for want of more surface area. By the way, this is the first time I have attempted to read the Harry Potter series and I have been so into them that I have read volumes 2-4 in the last thirty-hours. Pretty good, I would say, though I am certain there are those out there, certain unnamed speed readers, who have read them faster and with greater passion than I. However, to discuss such individuals, who are unknown to me and possibly to you is obviously outside the scope of this post because, after all, we were discussing my desk and not the Gryffindoor and/or Slytherin (no one really cares about Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw) adherents who have possibly learned to speak a dialect of Parseltongue and like to spend their time dreaming of flying among the clouds on hippogriffs or studying to become Animagi.

Ultimately though, I like my desk mostly because of its versatility and the amount of wear it takes. A desk, as I have found, is possibly the most versatile piece of furniture one can possess. It is bookshelf, wastebasket, trash compactor, breakfast table, lunch table, dinner table, work station, and time-teller (only because I keep my bell curve clock on it, which also needs dusting and whose battery is currently too weak to allow the seconds hand to ascend after the first half-minute has passed]). I have written two books, multiple essays, and innumerable poems at it. To use the words of Rat from Kenneth Grahame's The Wind and the Willows in mirrored application, it's my desk and I don't want any other. "Lord! the times we've had together."

Currently, I can tell that you are probably comparing me to that nut job in You've Got Mail, "the world's greatest living expert on Julius and Ethel Rosenberg," the guy who's is "so in love with his typewriter," but this judgment is unfair. I am not enamored by my desk; however, you must realize something: when you spend a lot of time with something, you tend to get attached to it and mindful of all of the things it does. But enough about inanimate objects; let's talk about people because people are more important than things. Perhaps some of us are not mindful enough of the people in our lives who do more for us than any others. These lovely folks simply carry on in their own way, doing the things they do because, well, it's what they do (kind of like house-elves). They do not ask for recognition because charity does not beg for reciprocation; however, that they deserve our thanks is beyond our pitiful power to deny.