hey, that new james bond is really good

uh, I mean hot. I don't really like beefy guys with chiseled features, but there's something about this new Bond. Even the boyfriend has a man crush.

I don't particularly like James Bond movies, but there's something about this new one that I really like. Maybe it's that he's not so slick and polished (in the Bond, James Bond way). There's a beautiful moment where he orders a martini; the bartender asks him whether he wants it shaken or stirred and he replies, "Do I look like I give a damn?" It was refreshing seeing Bond not quite so Bond.

Of course, if they make more movies with this guy, he's going to have to become Bond of the shaken martini, and I think I'll like him much less.

Oh well, it's a good flick. I still haven't figured out why, but it's good. Really. Go see it.

stop that blathering

You know how it is. You read your students' papers and you just want to fill up the margins with big red letters asking, "What the fuck?!" You hold back--you don't want to be that mean. But you're certain that they didn't try at all, that they haven't been listening or reading or caring. You try to look for the effort in the work, but you are pretty sure it's all just a lot of blather.


I've had this experience way too many times this semester. Then, the other night, I ran across an old college paper, from my later Brit survey. It was about Hopkins--God's Grandeur, Binsey Poplars, inscape, instress. It was just a short paper, 3 pages. I got a bad grade on it, a big old B-. And my teacher's comments were mean. He told me that I was just using words to impress, without thinking about what they mean. He said that the ideas didn't seem considered at all, just a bunch of blather. He actually said "blather." I remember writing this paper. I was really excited about my idea (I loved Hopkins) and I couldn't exactly work it out. But I tried. I actually wanted to work out my thoughts. I also remember being very disappointed with my teacher's comments (mean old Dr. Best); I was less concerned about the grade then the complete dismissal of my thoughts and efforts.

So now I'm thinking that I'm turning into the mean old teacher and maybe I need to remember that just because my students don't get it exactly right doesn't mean that they aren't trying or thinking. It's a bit eye-opening. I think maybe I should read those Dr. Best comments before every batch of grading, just to keep perspective.


Side note that may or may not ruin my epiphany: today a student who has been a complete slacker--he submitted a lame review of The Fast and the Furious when he was supposed to do Critical Discourse Analysis--gave me a draft of his final project. Apparently his IQ has gone up about 100 points in the last week. Totally plagiarized. This is a new one for me--submitting a plagiarized draft (and I didn't even ask them for one).

gloomy democracy

During the fall of my senior year of high school, I went out with a couple of friends to steal campaign signs. We gathered them up from various corners around town, stacked them up in the back of the car, and delivered them all to the front lawn of a boy one of us (or all of us) liked. At the time, we thought that our actions were both a) rebellious and b) meaningful. Oh and we also thought we were funny. How wrong we were on all accounts.

So now it's fall again, election time again, and I am older. Today, I drove past dozens of campaign signs. I didn't steal any of them, but I did sort of want to pull down all of the ones for Mr. Orrin (because really wouldn't the world be better off if he could just dedicate all of his time to his music?) I went to my polling station at the Parklane Senior Apartments. I used the fancy new voting machine and made all of my choices; I opted not to do the easy straight ticket option because for some reason I like the act of selecting each candidate. I am more of a citizen than I was back in high school, stealing campaign signs. I can vote; I make choices based on research, thoughtful consideration, and firm hope for change. But I am not certain that my act now is any more meaningful than stealing campaign signs was back in high school. I will watch election returns tonight and I will see that most of what I voted for, hoped for will not go my way. I may get one or two nods that my opinion matters. But most likely, I will have to wait another two years, biting my lip, hoping for change.

Halloween costume, help!

So I have to go to a party on Saturday, one that I didn't know about until yesterday (thanks, w.). I need a costume and I got nothing--except for this hat. So your job, blog reading pals, is to look at this hat (with me in two different moods, so you can consider a range possibilities) and tell me how to build a costume from it. I'm counting on you all, so let's hear those ideas.

I'll take my Pibb straight up, thank you

The other night I went to the movie over at the Hateway and the line for the Prestige was long (who knew it would be so popular?); we were stuck at the back, around two corners, and the usher kept telling us to squish together because they were running out of room for the line. Squish together? Not so long ago I got stuck in an elevator at the Hateway and that was pretty horrific, but being told to squish up with a bunch of movie-goers seemed worse. The only good thing about being stuck in a big line of people while awaiting a movie is getting to listen in on people's conversations and I found a gem:

Wife to Husband: Well, I guess you could get me a Mr. Pibb, but that will keep me buzzing all night. So, if you want that, get me a Mr. Pibb. But the Coke. . . . Tell you what, get me a Mr. Pibb with a lot of ice and if I can't handle it, I'll dump it out before we get into the theater.


Only in Utah, folks. Only in Utah.

a tale of two classes

This semester I'm teaching two sections of the same class and they meet on alternating days. One class makes me feel like a terrible teacher. While there are a few engaged students, most of them look at me like I am doofus with lame ideas. They make me feel like that teacher in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Every time the class ends I think I should probably get a new career.

And then the next day comes and I go to class number two and all of the things that failed miserably yesterday work beautifully. They ask questions, they pay attention, they seem to get it--and better yet, like it. They make me feel like the math teacher in Better Off Dead, where the students anxiously await their opportunity to turn in assignments. I leave the class completely renewed, yet dreading the next day.

What to do? I'm not sure that it's possible for me to change so much from day to day. It must be them. But maybe it is me, and if it is, what's going wrong. Does the one class sense that I dread teaching them? Is it because I wore jeans on the first day of the bad class? Fellow teachers, help!

fall break: in which the desert reminds you that summer is over and you may as well suck it up

The thing about the desert is that it never rains. Unless it does rain and then it really rains.

Over the weekend, I went on a much-anticipated paddling trip on the Green River, through Labyrinth Canyon, a 68-mile stretch of flatwater between Green River and Moab. I've been wanting to make the trip for years and trying to plan a trip for at least a year and finally all of my fellow paddlers figured out a weekend that would fit our schedules.

I anticipated that the trip would give me a final dose of hot sun before the inevitable winter blues set in. I expected to be wearing shorts and tank tops and relaxing. I even bought a new cooler to fill up with ice and beer.

Ha, ha, ha.

What I needed was a constantly brewing coffee pot.

It rained at least three inches over two days. The river gained four feet of depth, maybe more. Waterfalls cascaded all around us. The river was full of floating logs, garbage (and we're pretty certain, sewage). We had to make an early morning canoe rescue because the shore had disappeared over night. We did jumping jacks to keep warm on a one foot wide stretch of sand where we stopped to eat lunch. We paddled thirty-four miles in one day and paddled well beyond sunset because all of the campsites were under water. Not exactly what I had expected.

The rain that we experienced flooded Hanksville, a hundred year flood apparently. The trip was wet and soggy and cold, but it was damn amazing. I've always wanted to see a flash flood, but not be in it and I think I got pretty close. Watching the rain tumble down the canyon walls, watching streams form and surge and disappear in a matter of hours, watching pounds of silt shift and collect, I felt like all of the desert's secrets were being revealed.

a fine piece of reporting

That Salt Lake Tribune. Thank god we have them to really help us understand the complexities of gender and incarceration:

Women in Prison: Even Jailed, Girls Can Be Girls


Let me just offer up the article's opening paragraphs:

"In prison, lipstick is more than a concoction of wax and oil that glides on a woman's full, shapely lips.
Ruby Rush, Latte Lush and Cocoa Delicious are shades of feminism, a woman's link to her inner self. Lipstick distinguishes her in a place that is otherwise drab and gray, making her feel human, even sexy, while she bides her time before she can rejoin the outside world."

Which leads me to the question of what shade of feminist am I? Plum Brulee*, since I am the sort of feminist who likes to sport an apron--a third wave kind of girl? Earth Rose, since we're all connected: earth mother, mother, woman, ecofeminism, it's all about the womb, you know what I mean? Beyond Pink, because don't we really just need to get beyond these constructions of gender? First wave, second wave, third wave--whatever. It's all about the lipstick.


*(these lipstick colors courtesy of L'Oreal)

it's not that the music is so loud, it's that the music really sucks

My neighbor listens to his music really loud. . .really, really loud. Every neighbor (including me) has knocked on his door to ask him to please turn down the music. And he does (for an hour or two). The crazy landlord even came by one day and pulled out his cable connection because he was so disturbed by the loud music and the complaints. But it never stops. And here I am, trying to grade papers, and trying to listen to This American Life. And this is what I have to listen to in the background:

Kelly Clarkson
Prince (ok, Prince can be good, but he's listening to "Purple Rain")
Christina Aguilera
and it goes on. . .

Really, it's terrible.

all the things I should have said about zach braff

sometimes someone gets it all right, says all the right things:

"Why I hate Zach Braff." A perfectly accurate and beautifully articulated assessment of that paragon of twenty-something lameness. by Josh Levin.

Read it.

Bollywood is Beautiful

The other night my sis and I watched a Bollywood film that I had randomly selected from Blockbuster's shelves: Pyaar Diwana Hota Hai (I loved the Blockbuster computer's efforts to pronounce this when it called to remind me of its overdue status). Well, we sort of watched it. We fast-forwarded through most of the dialogue and primarily focused our attention on the song and dance numbers (the movie was 2 1/2 hours long and we just couldn't bear it).

The movie pleased us in all the ways Bollywood should: ridiculous dialogue, spontaneous musical numbers with multiple scene and costume changes. The movie also had some seriously bad fashion. But what I really loved about this movie was its unapologetic mixing of genres. It began as a comedy, with the hero trying to catch a train. While the scenery around him remained static, his movements were sped up, frantic. In the love numbers, the hero and herione danced around in snow. So, we have the requisite water scene, but rendered more playfully in snow rather than the oh-so-erotic water of oceans, fountains, or rain. The characters were absurd, the premise was absurd (the charming couple meet with the pretense that both are mute).

But then, the tone shifted dramatically (more so perhaps because we fast-forwarded). By the end of the film, it was a grand tragedy. The movie ended in the moonlight, by the Taj Mahal. We learn that Sundar, our hero, in a fit of guilt over lying to his love about being mute (he perpetuated the myth because he felt that if Payal knew the truth she would no longer love him) has cut off his tongue. So now, even though Payal has declared her love despite the betrayal, will never hear the words she so longs to hear: "Tell me you love me Sundar. Say it: 'Payal, I love you.'" The movie ends with Payal sobbing against Sundar's chest.

Oh it was fantastic. I was laughing for ages. There should be more movies like this, that begin so wholly in one genre and flip unapologetically to another.

i love the dance (movie, that is)

So this should settle with some finality the lingering question of whether or not I am really unhip: the other night I went to see Step Up, a movie that many teenage Yahoo users have declared the BEST MOVIE EVERRRRRRRR!!!!!! And I didn't go to this movie because someone coerced me. No, I saw this movie because I wanted to. You hear that? I wanted to.

I love dance movies and luckily I have two sisters who also love them, so we go to every one. Ok, we missed Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights.

Why do I love the dance movie?

1. The plot. Boy dances. Girl dances. Boy and/or girl feels uncertain about life and self. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl dance. Boy and girl find new certainty. Boy disappoints girl (or vice versa). Boy and girl no longer dance. Uncertainty returns. Boy dances, girl dances--alone (but what about the dance, all the steps they were learning together?). Camera moves from girl dancing, to boy dancing, to some climatic plot device, the camera moves faster, the music crescendos. Boy and girl realize they need each other. They dance. There is joy.

2. At the end of dance movies, people in the theater dance. They dance badly. And no one cares.

3. The one thing that I really wish I could do but cannot is dance. In my dreams, I am a tap dancer, break dancer, ballerina, fly girl. It all sounds good to me.

4. Because I watched Breakin' too many times when I was a kid. I think this is where it all started. We watched it all night once at a slumber party, so many times that by the morning I had every line memorized. I can still remember the pivotal scene Kelly and Ozone on the beach. The drama! (I never did see, however, Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo)

a usage puzzle

You know those times when a certain word or phrase keeps popping up, as if the phrase wants to get noticed, has been feeling a little neglected, underappreciated. Recently, that phrase for me has been, strangely enough,"salty dog."

Usage #1: Recently I was listening to American Routes and Spitzer played a version of "The Salty Dog Blues," noting that "salty dog" was slang for a certain--ahem--oral activity.

Usage #2: Then, while visiting Friday Harbor, W. referred to some students returning from a seabound research trip as "salty dogs."

A few usages I don't want to think about: This led us to look for a defininitive defintion, including a trip to urbandictionary.com which provided some disturbing, yet amusing, alternative definitions. Not exactly what Spitzer was suggesting (far, far dirtier), but in the same direction.

It's not just me who wonders what this phrase means: Yesterday, while waiting for my iced coffee, one of the baristas referred to a customer as a "salty dog." Then she asked, "What does that mean? Is that dirty?" Someone suggested the sea-worn and ragged connotation, but there was still the lingering question.

So, you smarties, what's your take on "salty dog"? If we take "Salty Dog Blues," there's clear evidence for usage #2: "Standin on the corner with the low down blues/
Great big hole in the bottom of my shoes/ Honey let me be your Salty Dog." But with a bit of imagination, you can understand the logic of usage #1.

Anxiously waiting for your guesses, arguments and usage examples.

my summer book report, so far

Several posts ago I declared that one of my summer ambitions was to read a book a week. I haven't exactly met that goal (what a shock) as this has been a summer seemingly lazier than others. But whatever. Isn't summer by its nature supposed to be lazy?

Even though I haven't read as much as I intended, I have been reading. Here's the quick report of books I've finished (since I apparently have nothing else to blog about):

American Pastoral, Philip Roth: This is the first of Roth's books that I've read. It generated lots of thoughts about narrative voice, but it's been so long since I finished the book, I can hardly recall. I am curious though about Roth's continued use of Zuckerman as his narrator. In American Pastoral, the narrative is at least in part a psychological biography of Zuckerman (his imagined recounting of the Swede's life reflecting his own insecurities). Even though every book reflects something of its author, it's rare to have a consistent narrator constantly acknowledging that fact.

Flight Maps, Jennifer Price: I was compelled to read this after reading Price's compelling essay on nature in LA in The Believer. The book was adapted from her dissertation about American environmental history, focusing specifically on how nature was incorporated into urban contexts. She covers plastic pink flamingos, the Nature Company, and so on and argues for our need to understand nature through an urban lens in order to effect lasting change. The idea of the book is interesting, but the prose gets a little tedious. And she narrows her analysis by focusing too much on the Baby Boomer response to nature. Certainly Boomers have impacted the way we view nature, but they aren't the only story. No offense to Boomer types who may be reading this blog, but I think I'm suffering from Boomer fatigue.

Rainbow Bridge, Charles Bernheimer: A recounting of several anthropological expeditions in Southern Utah between Navajo Mountain and Rainbow Bridge. Mostly I read this one because my great grandfather was one of the guides. Bernheimer was a funny character, a definite city dweller, trying to assert his ruggedness. Interesting descriptions of landscapes that are now partially hidden under Lake Powell.

Atonement, Ian McEwan: I loved this novel. I have a tendency to read ahead in most books and I did here, but not quite to the end. Because I read the almost-end twice, I thought things turned out one way, I really believed it. And I never bothered to consider who was telling the story. And then the last chapter and what I thought was truth was crafting/ editing (and I had a pretty strong emotional reaction to the realization). Of course, every story has been crafted and doesn't necessarily tell the truth. But we forget about that, we forget that there is always a narrator choosing what to tell, what to ignore, what to alter. This is what I liked most about the book, that I was so unaware of the narrator. I never asked myself who was telling the story. Then at the end, the narrator is revealed and we get an insight into the narrative choices. Even though I was distraught by the story not turning out the way I had thought, I found the reason for the alteration even more compelling and emotionally satisfying.

About Looking, John Berger: Theories of visual perception and art criticism. I like the way Berger gives art criticism a personal turn, trying to articulate his own response to a piece of art and trying to get at what the artists were thinking, feeling as they created.

well, you may as well be honest

quote of the week

"Being a responsible adult doesn't necessarily mean speaking slowly about tomatoes. It can also include things like irony and cleverness, and even yelling into your cell phone about sitcoms."

From Sam Anderson's article about Garrison Keillor in Slate.

please don't conserve

Friday morning, I was hanging out at my parents' house, eating my cold cereal (had just returned from a hike to Buckskin Gulch the night before) and reading the always amusing Daily Herald. There was a brief article about a Provo man who decided to take out his lawn and do some xeriscaping. His neighbors in the housing development didn't like it much and complained. The illustrious Provo City Council told this man (and several other water-conscious neighbors) that they had to tear out the xeriscaping and install water-sucking turf. Things are stalled at the moment because people complained about the city council's decision. Maybe, just maybe, the xeriscaping is safe.

I would provide some commentary here, but I know the same commentary is probably already running through your head.

what are you reading this summer?

Last week was "Pulp Fiction" week at Slate. In addition to the fabulous recasting of canonical works with pulp fiction covers, the week's coverage also included a list of writers' picks for "beach reads." I love lists and I especially love lists about books (and I love how often Proust gets mentioned in lists about books, lingering in the background as the thing that should be read, but never will be--nor should it, in my opinion). In this list, I particularly love George Saunders' entry about Moby Dick's memoir. The list has me contemplating what I will read this summer. I have shelves full of books that I haven't yet read (thanks to the library's used book sales), so I'm not sure where to begin. In the immediate rotation:

*Skeletons on the Zahara (Dean King), a real-life adventure tale recommended by my dad

*Geek Love (Katherine Dunn), recommended by Will

*The Dark is Rising Series (Susan Cooper) because I just bought them at the library sale and I loved this stuff when I was a kid.

After that, I'm not sure what I'll read. But the important thing here is what are you reading (or planning to read) this summer?

finally, summer

Sorry for the blog absence--I've been trying to wrap up the semester (responding to complaints about B's! for god's sake and explaining to a plagiarist why she failed my class) and playing (a backpacking trip to Coyote Gulch and a trip to the Mike the Headless Chicken Festival--which included mountain biking and some competitive eating). Oh, and I have been watching the disappointly dull final episodes of American Idol. So, now I think I've created enough distance from the academic year to start thinking about summer and what I'll actually do with my time. Of course at the end of the summer, I will feel that I didn't do enough, that I wasted my time, but I will feel rested and that's all that really matters.

And I am definitely off to a good start with resting and wasting my time--yesterday I didn't get out of bed until 11! I think my first task of the summer is to generate some ambition. Maybe the blog will give me some motivation to think interesting thoughts so I don't bore you all with a summer of sleeping in and trips to the farmer's market (which is all I really want to do). My other summer intentions include reading a book a week, writing (actually writing, not pretending to write), changing curriculum for the fall, making books, hiking, watching season five of Six Feet Under. I feel that I need more ambitions, but who am I kidding?

grades are finished!

well, almost. I still have to post them, but they are all calculated and the comments have been sent off. the final grading process was soul-sucking (three egregious acts of plagiarism and two minor ones). But it's done. Of course, I will be holding my breath for a bit, waiting for the complaints to roll in.

Wednesday I am off to Coyote Gulch for four days of desert healing. Here's to a summer with no teaching.

my momma thinks I'm smart

Egregious student behavior from the last week of class:

1. Complaining about a B+ on a portfolio because friends, fiancee, parents, etc. had read the writing and thought it was great.

2. Asking what materials/ ideas should be included in the presentations that are just about to start.

3. Protesting an F for an assignment which included large chunks of plagiarized material and not seeming to understand that using exact wording without quotation or citation is a problem.

Just needed to vent. Thanks for listening.

slippery memories

Recently, I feel like I'm losing my memory. I have parts of memories, but I can't reconstruct the details. The parts of the memories I do recall are vivid, which convinces me that they are based on real experiences, but I doubt their veracity because I can't connect them to any specific times or individuals.

For instance, the other night, I woke up noticing a very distinct smell (whether it was a smell in my house or a smell from my dreaming, I can't be sure). The smell was sweet and familiar and attached to a very specific memory. The only problem was I couldn't identify the smell or attach it to any specific event.

And another: In the middle of the day, for no reason, I remembered some road trip I took with some guy (I'm assuming an ex-boyfriend) where we stopped at a gas station for road snacks. The some guy was delighted when he saw the shop had Idaho Spud bars. He told me how much he had loved them when he was a kid and how he hadn't had one in years. He bought two and ate both of them on the way home. I told him about how my aunt had sent us a box of Idaho Spud bars for Christmas one year. I vividly remember driving in the car with this mystery guy and I can remember tasting a piece of his candy bar. All of it is perfectly vivid (the tastes, the smells, the sounds) but I can't remember (even though I have racked my brain and even asked the most recent ex) who the guy was. So, did this event not really happen? Did I just dream it? It's so trivial and ultimately doesn't matter but it makes memory seems so unreliable, so useless.

i'm so confused!

This is how I spent my weekend:



And now it is snowing. That's all I want to say.

slogging through

It's always this way at the end. I just don't care. I keep forgetting things. I babble on about nothing in class, while thinking about what I should have discussed if I would have made an effort to plan and prepare. And they don't care. I know they don't. They just find me tedious and the work tedious and wish that I would stop talking and that they could stop writing. It's always this way and I always manage and the semester usually ends well and they feel good about what they've learned and accomplished and I feel good about what I've taught them and I know that I will miss them all, just a little. It's always this way, so why does it feel so much worse this time around?

Maybe it's because, as Lynn pointed out the other day, I have been teach for five semesters straight. But this makes me feel like a boob because other people work year-round without 3-month breaks and they seem to manage. But yes, I have been overworked this year--overworked and underappreciated, I tell you. And there are the break-ups and new relationships and the family matters and not enough time to go running. There are reasons.

But the reasons don't matter. What matters is that there are only two more weeks of class left and I can hardly stand it. I want to cancel the rest of my classes and tell my students to go home, to not worry about thinking and rewriting anymore. I want to tell them that it's hopeless, that clearly I can't teach them anything. Last night, I had to have a serious wrestle with myself in order to find some sort of motivation for class today, some reason to keep trying, to believe that I might actually be able to teach them something and that they might actually care. Today, after receiving my feedback on his draft, a student asked if I didn't like him very much. No, I protested. You just don't know how to make an argument. And he doesn't. But maybe it's true that I don't like him very much. Or any of them.

But I dislike that I dislike them all. It makes me feel like a horrible teacher. And usually I like my students very much. I usually find them clever and interesting and a pleasure to work with. So all I want is for the semester to end with me holding on to some bit of faith in my students and my own efforts. Wish me luck.

maybe i'm not blogging because i've been so busy making books

please don't pray for me.

Last night, as I fell asleep, I was absentmindedly saying a prayer. This is something I often do, largely I suppose out of habit. But as I was thinking my trivial prayer (something about wanting good weather for an early drive to the airport), I started analyzing the efficacy of the praying. (and for whatever it's worth, while the weather today is horrible, it did not start snowing until after I returned from the airport).

Once upon a time when I was a devoted Mormon, I believed that even if my praying didn't get results, at least someone was listening. Now that I am not a devoted Mormon, I never know whether to think A) that someone is listening, and occasionally answering; B) that no one is listening or C) that someone is listening, but not answering me because I am no longer a devoted Mormon (and thus no longer in on the deal).

Because I have this complicated relationship with prayer (and with religion in general), I've been fascinated with the recent release of the big prayer study, wherein it was revealed that intercessory prayer provided by religious strangers has a slightly negative to no effect on post-surgery complications for cardiac patients. The problematic commentary following this study provides ample evidence, I think, to convince my students that addressing religious issues with empirical means really doesn't work (but that's another story altogether). Various articles have asserted that it's not prayer that's at issue, but the study itself: (on Yahoo: "Scientists fail to show. . ."). If those silly scientists would just do things right.

I loved this article in today's Slate where William Saletan details what we can learn about god from this study.

Coffee Tastes Better with Nixon

Last week, shopping in NY at Fish’s Eddy , the excellent purveyor of ceramic wares, I found this beautiful specimen (which my brother convinced me to purchase):




The mug’s stars are:

George Bush, Sr.
Newt Gingrich
Joseph McCarthy
Herbert Hoover
Richard Nixon
Trent Lott
George W. Bush
Strom Thurman
Spiro Agnew
Tom DeLay

Why no Reagan, that’s what I want to know. If the theme is infamous Republicans, shouldn’t Reagan be there? Shouldn’t he replace GHWB? A man in my bookbinding class declared the other day that Reagan should replace Jackson on the $20 because he “saved the modern world.” I may agree that Jackson shouldn’t be on the $20, but I could argue for ages about the assertion that Reagan saved the modern world (but you already know what I would say). Reagan doesn’t belong on the $20 but he does belong on my mug! I think I may have to paint him in.

this is just to say that I am an idiot

today in class, while attempting to use the past tense of to read, I actually said "readed"--with a long e.

let's talk about race, baby

Ok, I know lisa b. already posted about this, but at least I'm posting! How is it possible that Crash won best picture? Was any character in that movie even remotely believable? Hi, I'm Matt Dillon and I'm the white bigot who despite my racist ideology can still be moved by human suffering. An entire movie of mouthpiece performance just doesn't work for me. I think the movie won because we acknowledge that it might benefit our culture to talk about race, to speak frankly about issues that we can pretend don't exist. But there's a difference between talking about race and talking about race with some level of integrity and believability. And then there's the improbability of the plot connections. Most of them I was willing to accept, but the plot line involving Thandie Newton and Terrance Howard strained believability: a couple gets assaulted by white police officers, then the wife gets in a major car accident (which husband seems totally unaware of) and gets rescued by white police officer A, then husband gets carjacked and gets rescued (essentially) by white officer B, who then later kills one of the carjackers. Come on. I had a disagreement about this with film prof. C who told me that I needed to be a little flexible, that this was a movie, not reality. But when the elements of a plot are entirely manipulated in order to assert an argument about race, the thing becomes polemical, not cinematic.

I am delighted, though, that the screenplay for Brokeback won. I was amazed by how well the screenplay matched the pacing of Proulx's story, an impressive feat for a short story, and a spare one at that.

My favorite John Stewart lines of the evening:
Walk the Line is Ray with white people.
It just got a little easier out here for a pimp.

I hope Johnny sticks with the Daily Show, though. I'm just not sure the Oscars is the right millieu for him.

more book excitement

I couldn't get a good picture of the book cloth, but here is the lovely end paper:



My email is currently not working (damn IT) so what can I do but blog? The exciting news for today is that I got new bookbinding supplies in the mail. I really have to practice before I use any of it because it's all spectacularly beautiful. My favorite is some bookcloth that looks like linen and is a pale bluish-green (the color is called "endive" which is probably why I bought it). I also got some wicked cool decorative paper for end pages. Oh, and a very sharp knife that I will most likely cut myself on many, many times. I know you all probably don't care about any of this, but oh well. Later today, when I am at home with my camera, I will post pictures.

my first book

I just wanted to announce the arrival of my first book. Unfortunately, not a book I've written, but I book I've made.

I decided to take a book binding class, something I thought about doing as an undergrad, but never got around to. I made a deal with myself in January that because I had purchased a new kitchen mixer, I couldn't buy any books until March. I've done well at keeping my resolution, but now I'm just spending all my money on materials to make books. It is a very expensive hobby. I also already have too many hobbies. Oh well.

So, here is the unveiling of my first book:





The book has many flaws, but hopefully they aren't visible in the pictures. Yesterday, as I was doing the finally gluing of the book, I was cursing myself for thinking that because I like to read books I would be good at making books. Bookbinding is essentially a complicated craft and I have never been very good at crafts. But I am hopeful that I will eventually figure out what I am doing.

grizzly man

Has anyone seen this movie? Wow. I rented it the other night and it kept me up until 3 in the morning and I can't even explain why. I didn't know much about this movie except that it was about a man who lived among grizzly bears in Alaska and who was eventually killed by a bear. From this, I assumed that Timothy Treadwell, the title character, was a scientist of some sort--a biologist or an ecologist. I didn't know that he was a novice, a lost boy, a manic Mr. Rogers with a bandana instead of a sweater and a neighborhood full of grizzlies. When I first started watching the movie, I thought I couldn't finish it because Treadwell was so saccharine, so absurd.

But I got caught up in the narrative, the strangeness of it all. I started rewatching it the next day, but I didn't think I could handle it all again. I think what kept me up was thinking about how confused we are about the natural world. Here's a man who feels so out of place in the world of people that he decides to retreat to the wild. But he doesn't fully understand what that wild, animal world is all about. He talked often about how the bears could maim and kill, but he didn't really seem to believe it. Or he seemed to believe that it wouldn't happen to him, that he was somehow different, that he was somehow a bear. One of the men who helped with the recovery effort for Treadwell's body said that Treadwell seemed to think that the bears were just people in bear's clothing. That seemed an accurate assessment. I understand his need to retreat into wild nature because we have removed ourselves inappropriately far from those wild places and creatures and I think in doing so, we lose something of ourselves. But in the removal, I think it's easy to forget that wild nature is, well, wild and grizzly bears aren't fuzzy friends that we can call Mr. Chocolate.

the disorganization vortex

I've realized that the one thing that would dramatically improve my work life would be a bit more (ok, a lot more) organization on my part. Then, instead of frantically scrambling before class to find the right handout, I would just go to the place where I knew it would be and then I could relax and read/write blogs (instead of ignoring the clutter I should be organizing right now in order to blog). Life would be sweeter, I would be calmer. The problem is I am so disorganized that I don't know where to start. And I fear that in the process of organizing my current clutter I would just get behind on the things I should be doing now and then that will just lead to a me that is even more stressed. I think that I'll just have to wait until summer, but then I realize that some of my clutter is left over from the other summers where I attempted, but failed, to get myself organized. My brother suffers from the same disorder and he told me the other day that he hired a consultant to organize his studio. He figures that if someone sets up a system for him, he can follow it. This is what I need. Sadly, I don't make as much money as my dear brother does, so I am stuck with my own inability. Unless someone wants to volunteer to be my consultant. It's a good cause. MB? Anyone else have a knack for organizing?

I'm a matchmaker

One of my children's lit students told me today that she'd be missing class the rest of the week because she's getting married. I realize that this is not particularly interesting information, but wait. . .

The real news is that she is marrying someone she met in the writing class she took from me last year (they were always chatty, but I didn't know they'd been courting). I realize that I can't really take credit for their meeting and marrying, but I like to think that I teach writing in a way that encourages love. If you know anyone who needs my services, let me know.

The best part is that no matter how much they may want to forget me or English 1010, the can't. I am a permanent part of their life history.

in the church of johnny cash

Today, I was listening to a CD of Johnny Cash spirituals (the God cd of the Love, God, Murder box set which I borrowed from a friend--ok, ex-boyfriend--and don't want to give back, but I gave it to him, so it doesn't matter, right?) Anyway, while I would rather listen to Johnny Cash sing murder ballads than sing about god, the cd got me to thinking that if religion were just about Johnny Cash singing about sin and salvation I would go to church every damn Sunday.

You're a Goop!

One of my children's lit students brought this book to class this week:

The Gloop Encycopedia (ca. 1916) details all of the bad habits that children have, such as:

Beginning, Not Finishing
Fidgety Dressing
Clothes Snobbery
Silliness and Giggling
Yawning

the list goes one.
The bad habits are presented with little rhymes. Here's a sampling:

"When you are waiting in a shop,
Don't handle things like Sandy Mopp;
He nibbles and he tastes and takes
Such things as crackers, nuts, and cakes.
The Grocery Man, when Sandy's near,
Says, "You're a Goop! Don't Come in here!"

The Gloops are big-headed featureless folks:



I'm so glad children's lit has evolved. Although, maybe I needed something like this when I was a kid because I think I had at least 60% of the bad habits listed.

conscious dreaming

This morning, I woke up early. I read a bit and then I fell back to sleep. And then this happened:

I watched an episode of I Love Lucy , but it was in color. And Ricky was wearing a pink suit. And he was doing the laundry. And Fred Mertz wasn't Fred Mertz, but George Costanza.

And then I decided to make my bed. But when I pulled back the covers there was a pile of squirming black creatures that sort of looked like earthworms and sort of looked like centipedes. And I tried to vacuum them up, but they moved really fast and crawled under my floor boards and into the walls.

And then I was listening to RadioWest and the lights went out. And none of the lights in the house would turn on, but the radio was still playing. And it was dark outside. And then I realized I had forgotten to lock my door. And suddenly someone was trying to get in, I could hear him breathing outside, and I was trying to hold the door closed.

And then I woke up. And I started thinking about dreams, how convincing they can be, and how waking up after a bad dream is the most exhausing thing in the world. It's a curious thing how convincing they can be when they are so improbable. Why, when I am dreaming, can my rational brain not recognize that:

1. If the lights won't turn on, the radio won't be playing.
2. George Costanza is not Fred Mertz
3. Ricky Ricardo does not wear pink suits
4. Ricky Ricardo does not do the laundry
5. I do not make my bed

If I could realize these things, I would not have to wake up exhausted thinking that someone was trying to get into my house or that I Love Lucy had been remastered in color. Someone told me recently how he had taught himself how to dream consciously and how he had knocked out someone in a dream who was trying to harm him. I wish I could learn to do this.

I don't have to know stuff. I've just got to legislate

Today, the news from our favorite state legislature was that a bill for massive new water projects moved successfully out of committee. The proposed water projects will end up costing $1 billion (conveniently, $1 billion is also the amount of the budget surplus). In the report on the bill's progress, various folks questioned the wisdom of moving forward on such expensive (and environmentally damaging) projects without focusing first on conservation. (Why should we get rid of our lawns if we can build a billion dollar damn?)One legislator (can't remember his name and can't get the story to replay on my computer) said that we should pursue these water projects or "stop drinking water." Jackie Bikupski asked whether the state has ever spent so much on a water project. And Mr. Legislator said, "I don't know. I don't know the history of water in this state." Oh yes, this is what we are blessed with. How can you possibly make a decision about water in the state if you don't know the history of water in the state? Especially when you live in a state that has such a complicated and contested history of water rights and usage.

as if you didn't already know, let me tell you: people are strange

Today, I rode the bus to and from Orem to spend time with my family (who complain that I don't visit them enough). I'm not sure why I rode the bus. Partly because the prescription on my lenses desperately needs to be adjusted and my already bad night vision has become horrific and me on the freeway at night with the very bad vision is not the best idea. Partly because I drive too much and occasionally the guilt gets to me. Anyway, I rode the bus. And riding the bus always provides insight into how odd people can be. Tonight's example: A guy had some sort of pink liquid (it looked like lemonade) in a plastic bottle. He shook the bottle vigorously as one might to mix up the pulp in juice. Then, he looked at the bottom of the bottle. Apparently he wasn't successful in mixing up whatever he intended to, because he started shaking the bottle again. Still no luck. He did this over and over--literally for 1/2 hour. It was baffling.

sometimes it's hard to be a woman

Disclaimer: Before I begin this post, I want to assert that while I have watched a couple of seasons of the Bachelor, I do not watch the show on a regular basis (this is for lynn, who thinks I'm addicted to all of the tv shows. While I don't watch the Bachelor regularly, I do very much like to watch the very end of the first episode because there is always one unstable woman who freaks out about being rejected by this man who she's only spoken to for 10 minutes. This week, there was a doozy. This season's spectacle was horrifyingly delicious in the way that only really bad reality tv can be. Apparently, in her brief conversation with the Bachelor (full of cliched desirability, this one--a doctor, and blond!) the crazy woman declared that she was in her reproductive stage. As you can imagine, this was a bit startling to the handsome doctor (the woman is a doctor, as well). When this woman was rejected, she started yelling at all the rejected bachelorettes: "What's wrong with men?! Why are all men such shitheads!" And then she yelled at the Bachelor: "What's wrong with me? Am I too short? Are my breasts too small? Why are you on this show if you don't want to reproduce?" Then she yelled at a member of the filming crew; "Do you know what's wrong with him? What's his problem? I guess I shouldn't have talked about reproducing." And then she started sobbing about how she tries to help people and how she gets nothing in return. And about how she's tried every kind of dating (online, dating service, and now this!) and nothing has worked. Oh, the poor woman.

Woman over a certain age have this reputation--that they only care about making babies, that they are only looking for men to be partners in reproduction. This woman was the stereotype taken to the extreme. Watching her, I thought how crazy she is, how she might want to relax--just a little.

Then, I read a blog posting by a food blogger who is also a gynecologist. She was taking a break from food blogging to write about her practice and women's reproductive health (a strange departure, and she actually took the post down later in the week); anyway, in the post, she had a chart that showed how women's reproductive ability plummets dramatically at a certain age. There is, in fact, a "reproductive stage" for women and if you miss it, you miss it. Men, on the other hand, don't face such limitations.

I've always been rather ambivalent about having kids, so it's hard for me to understand the urgency that some women feel. It's hard for me to understand how a woman can declare without any introduction that she is ready to reproduce and then curse her fate when a man doesn't immediately respond. But maybe I don't understand because I haven't yet reached the edge of that plummet into infertility.

This biological reality puts women in a tough position, I think. You're not supposed to care, you're not supposed to advertise your desire for children, you're not supposed to pursue relationships primarily to reproduce. And yet one's body can assert some pretty persuasive imperatives. And we are, after all, just animals.

euphemisms for death

This morning, the local news guy on KUER mentioned Ariel Sharon's stroke and his critical condition. He mentioned that the Israeli government was making various plans to respond to the crisis in that "Sharon won't be returning to politics." What a strange euphemism for what's actually going on--a critical illness, a hovering death. And my sister the other day referred to a really tragic death that dramatically affected her family as an "unforseen circumstance." I hate these euphemisms for death. I know why we do it--to protect ourselves from the realities of death, to not temp the fates, etc. But I think we should talk about death, look at the thing, call it by name. I'm curious--what euphemisms for death have you heard/ used?

On the topic of death, I have to say how dismayed I am to find out that Six Feet Under has five seasons, not four. I only recently started watching the show and I have a serious addiction. I won't tell you how quickly and dedicatedly I've watched each season--far too embarrassing. I recently finished season three and I felt a sense of relief that at least I only have one more season. And then the addiction can wrap up and I can move on. But no, there are five. Which means that once I finish season four, I have to wait anxiously for season five, which isn't yet on DVD, all caught up in wondering what happens to this fictional family in their fictional funeral parlor.

christmas tree deaths

I was out running today and the air smelled strongly of pine. At first, I thought it was just because of the recent warm weather waking up the sap or something. But then I realized it was abandoned Christmas trees, tossed out into the gutter. It seemed like every other house on my route had a tree outside. It's such a strange ritual, this chopping down of trees for a temporary decorative purpose. And I can't say that I don't understand the appeal. Growing up, I was mildly outraged when my parents stopped buying a natural tree and opted for the synthetic and reusable. The first year I lived in Illinois, I made my then-boyfriend help me tote a tree home and help me string cranberries and make ornaments out of cinnamon and applesauce. Something about the smell of pine in my living room made me feel less homesick, calmer. The abandoned trees reminded me of Hans Christian Anderson's sentimental tale of the little fir tree that desperately wants to leave the forest to become the mast on a sailing ship or, better yet, a Christmas tree. But it all turns out very sad, the once happy tree abandoned in an attic and then burned up in a big fire--all the while regretting how he didn't appreciate his life in the woods. The story is maudlin and asserts an obvious moral, but it always kills me. Maybe it's because when I was in kindergarten, they showed us a film version of the story. And I can still see the image of the fir tree being thrown haphazardly on the ground, the flames wrapping around its branches.