yet again, it depends on what "is" is

So, I'm sitting here listening to Lynne Cheney on the Diane Rehm Show--why, why do I do these things to myself. But she's stating that Pres. Bush and VP Cheney never said there was a connection between Saddam Hussein and 9/11--there is no connection, she says. Any American who thinks that there was a connection is wrong, she says. I could go on with my horrified response to this, but you already know what I'm going to say. Who the hell are these people and who do they think they are kidding?

the week in review

Holiday weekends are a pleasure, the way everything relaxes and slows. Thanksgiving is especially lovely because there isn't much to do but cook and eat and chat (all among my favorite activities). And even though tv and movies cast Thanksgiving as sort of a frightening thing, requiring alcohol to get through all of the family time, I quite like my family (although I will admit I was quite ready to get away from them this morning). I let my 5-yr-old niece be in charge of the family photos and she did a surprisingly good job. I especially like this one of my mom looking a bit witchy (she is a much lovelier woman than this suggests):



She also took some charming pictures of the holiday decor:



I also got in some good desert hiking (only one day instead of two because of the impending snowstorm). The canyons we traversed were challenging (ever so slightly beyond our abilities), so they provided good adventure. My arms are bit achy today because of climbing and chimneying and I think I need to get in better shape. It was good to get away. There's this feeling I get when I arrive at the desert (actually it always arrives when I'm driving through Wellington, when I know the desert is just around the corner), this blissful moment, where I instantly feel completely content and calm. I love that. Here are a few shots of the canyon:






The big disappointment of the week was not getting to meet the Rolling Stones. There's this art gallery by work that was showing some of Ronnie Wood's paintings (which, by the way, were all of the Stones, and the gallery could only play their music during the exhibit--if I were part of a larger-than-life rock band, I think I would want to escape it occasionally). Anyway, Mr. Gallery Owner taunted us with the info. that the Stones themselves would be stopping by on the day of their concert for a private party/ art viewing. The date of the show coincided with my 32nd birthday, so I decided I was destined to meet Mick Jagger. I don't even particularly like the Stones (I mean I like them when I hear them, but I don't own any of their albums), but I know celebrity when I see it, and if Mick Jagger is going to be next door on your birthday, it seems like you should get to meet him (or at least catch a glimpse of him). But no. Even though there were photographers hovering outside the gallery (ok, maybe only one) and the place was busier than usual, the Stones never arrived.

weekend lost to cold

Things I didn't do this weekend because of a nasty cold:

*attend my friend's art opening
*watch the latest movie attempt of Pride and Prejudice
*hear Doug Peacock read from his new memoir
*catch up on housecleaning and laundry


Things I did do:
*slept until noon
*watched 4 episodes of Six Feet Under
*read the latest Atlantic
*planned Thanksgiving pie baking
*used up a box and a half of Kleenex
*cut off part of a fingernail with my new chef's knife

the real measure of a teacher

This week, Slate has been running a series of articles about higher education, all worth checking out. One of today's articles was about RateMyProfessor, the oh so informative site for teacher evaluations. I'm very upset that I'm not listed on the site at all. Am I so banal, so easily dismissed that no one wants to dedicate a few minutes to rating me? The article asserts that the folks who get rated are typically those who are either excessively loved or hated. That would mean that I am right in the middle, which sounds just about right. I am a middle sort of person. I'm a tall girl, but not excessively tall (not tall enough, for instance, to join the Tall Club of Salt Lake). I am a good runner, but not a fast runner (in nearly every race I've run, I rate almost exactly in the middle). So, I am used to being average and unremarkable, but still it's an insult to not be on RateMyProfessor. And where's my chili pepper? (the site's marker of "hotness") Really, who cares about the teaching? When I was at Knox, I was hot. I was hip. Freshman boys tried to pick up on me before they knew who I was. The college's alternative magazine published an interview all about me. They asked me to be their advisor. And now? Not one rating. Where have I gone wrong?

where the hell did I come from?

When I tell people that I grew up in Orem, I often joke that it feels like a confession. I just watched This Divided State, the documentary about the UVSC Michael Moore/ Sean Hannity controversy I'm thinking that I should stop telling people I grew up in Orem altogether. I followed some of the controversy, but I didn't fully realize how vitriolic the discourse became. Watching it all was so embarrassing to me. Nearly everyone portrayed in the film is pathetic in their vigorous anger towards the other side. The only key figure in the film who came across without any cause for reproach was the student govt. VP at UVSC (which is funny because I worked with his mom for a while at UVSC and I had very little respect for her). I would have to say, though, that the filmmaker made far more effort to make the conservatives look like asses than he did the liberals (many of whom, including Moore, were just as assinine as Hannity or any of the grumpy neocons).

I imagine that many liberals (from inside and outside the state) will watch this movie and stare open-jawed at the wacky conservatives--as represented by Kay Anderson, an Orem reactionary who cast everything in terms of good vs. evil. No doubt Anderson and his ilk in the film appear idiotic and at times dangerous as they conflate religious belief with political ideology. And I am often critical of Utah Valley and its excessively conservative bent. There's a reason I left the place and a reason that I don't go back except for family obligations. But to cast the entire county as backwards and narrow-minded is absurd. That's perhaps what made me angriest as I watched the film--watching Anderson assert his position as representative of "the community." I imagine that people watching the film who don't know Utah Valley or readily accept its reputation will believe that Anderson does in fact represent the voice of the community. But I grew up in that community; in fact, I lived all of my formative years there--from 4-24 (except for a brief stint as a Mormon missionary in London). I got my bachelor's degree at BYU. I have been immersed in that conservative haven for most of my life and I'm liberal, a registered Democratic, and no longer Mormon. I came from somewhere, so certainly in that conservative town there is room for dissent and independence. And certainly there is (or should be) room for us to discuss our differences.

The movie illustrated so well our dismissal of civil discourse. How embarrassing that both the Hannity and Moore crowds shouted down anyone who dared to speak from the other side (and how embarrassing that both Hannity and Moore encouraged this behavior). Who have we become (in Orem or in the nation) that we are so unwilling to talk to each other, to listen to the opposite view without feeling threatened? How pathetic our own beliefs and opinions must be if we believe that one person speaking can negate them.

ok--just me ranting.

if only it could all be like Candyland

When my sister M was a kid, she made up this board game called Getting Jabbed. It was sort of like chutes and ladders, in that it had a variety of encounters that led you either up or down the game board. However, you could never really make any progress in this game. The end result of the game was always death. Your first roll of the dice might lead you to a man wielding a knife (a bloody knife, mind you). This, of course, would send you to a lower level of the gameboard where you might fall into a boiling cauldron. This would mean that your game was over. You might also fall down to a blank square, but this would only mean that you were delaying your eventual end. Anytime you made some progress upwards, there would be another menacing figure with a knife or a hatchet or some other sharp object. We were laughing about the game today and I was thinking how my day (and recent days) felt just like this (not necessarily the boiling cauldrons and the knives).

By the way, M, despite her childhood morbidness grew up to be an extremely well-adjusted adult.

go see this movie!

Last night I finally saw New York Doll, the documentary about Arthur "Killer" Kane that I've been waiting to see since January, when I couldn't get tickets to any of the Sundance screenings. It's possible that a movie you've been waiting 10 months to see might ultimately prove disappointing, but this one did not. It was glorious.

The story itself is unbelievably charming and ironic (in the film Clem Burke from Blondie says how improbable it was for a New York Doll to become Mormon, like Donny Osmond becoming a New York Doll). I love the paradox of it and what a perfect narrative it creates--absolute symmetry. And there are more improbabilities, a story so perfectly constructed that you can't believe it's true. And Greg Whiteley does an amazing job highlighting the contrasts of Kane's life. Whiteley allows Kane to be both ridiculous and admirable. A fantastic moment is when Whiteley contrasts Kane describing his conversion as "an LSD trip from the Lord" and the Mormon bishop describing conversion as a warm feeling in your heart. Just look at the website, the contrasting images of the glam rocker and the nondescript white-shirted, middle-aged fellow--that says it all.

You need to see this movie. It's currently showing in NY, LA, and Salt Lake and will open elsewhere next week. I may be biased because I love the Dolls and I grew up Mormon, but even if you know nothing about the band (which the folks I saw the movie with didn't) you will still love it (which they did).

peter brady is stealing my memory!

During my Minneapolis crap-tv fest, I watched one episode of "My Fair Brady," The VH-1 horror that follows Chistopher Knight (aka Peter Brady) and his girlfriend (the first-ever "America's Next Top Model") as they try to (I guess) figure out whether they really want to be committed to each other. In the episode that I saw they were on a trip to Puerto Rico and they went to this restaurant in downtown San Juan where all the food on the menu are aphrodisiacs. The owner of the restaurant sits down to chat with them and puts poor Peter on the spot by asking them why they aren't married (and causing Peter, I'm sure, to wonder why they didn't just go out for "pork chopsh and and apple sausch"). After the chat, Ms. Peter goes on about how much she loved the owner of the restaurant, how comfortable he made her feel, how connected he seemed to life and love.

And as the whole scene is unfolding, I realize I've been to that restaurant. Slowly, I began to recognize the details of the courtyard and the inflections of the owner's voice. I didn't eat at the restaurant (way out of my budget), but I spent part of an afternoon in that courtyard, talking with the owner. We (me and various students from Knox, my former place of employment) were loitering outside of the restaurant (looking at a church I think), and the owner came out to chat with us. He told us the origins of San Juan's blue cobblestone streets and he invited us in to see his restaurant. The place was lovely, especially the courtyard. He talked to us about life and love and the importance of food and why he loved owning this restaurant. The afternoon seemed lovely and lucky and perfectly singular. And now Peter Brady and his silly paramour have stolen my lovely memory!

other peoples' habits

This morning, I was pulling an overfull bag of garbage from my garbage can and I noticed two spare bags at the bottom of the can. The last garbage had been changed out by a party guest (what lovely guests--taking out the garbage). I used to take this extra bag approach when I was a lowly Taco Bell employee, but I never do it at home. The person even tucked the extra top part of the bag tidily into the garbage can--unlike me who justs lets the extra plastic hang loosely from the rim. It was a funny moment, this, encountering someone else's habits at my house. It made me feel a bit guilty for not being a more efficient, tidier housekeeper.

some fears should not be overcome: a humiliating story for your entertainment

Imagine a woman who dislikes treadmills. She wants motion, not just the illusion of motion. But more than that, she is afraid of treadmills. It is unnatural--moving, but not moving. And imagine this woman in a hotel, in a strange city, in need of exercise. The woman makes three mistakes:

1. Rather than going outside to run like she ought to, she opts for the hotel exercise room.
2. In the exercise room, she has two options: a stationary bicycle or a treadmill. She decides to face her fear of treadmills.
3. She forgets about an important principle called velocity.

Now picture this: The woman programs the treadmill and begins to walk. She wants to run, but the treadmill is going too slow. So, she increases the speed. Still not fast enough. She increases the speed a little more. And more. And more. Soon she is at a good pace for her run. But the ground beneath her feet begins to move faster. And faster. And faster. Soon, the ground beneath her feet is moving faster than her legs can actually move. She decreases the speed. But nothing happens--at least not fast enough to to prevent the mismatch between the speed of her legs and the ground beneath her feet. She is too panicked to push the pause button on the control panel or the stop button that's on the handrail at her side. No, those bright red buttons are just too obvious. I won't tell you the rest of the tale, as I am sure you already have the frightful image in your head.

Some of you may remember my telling you about the road burn from the 4th of July road race. This is much worse (although, happily, confined to one bruised up knee).

Sometimes, it is a good idea to face your fears and overcome their burden. But there are some things you should be afraid of: grizzly bears, semi-trucks driving the wrong way in your lane, treadmills.

my new career path

I am quitting teaching. Yes, I am quitting teaching to become a wood chopper. My friend has a piece of land in Hanksville where he has a small, rustic cabin and big kiln where he fires his pottery. And he needs a lot of fire to operate that kiln. And thus, my new career. He said he would pay me $5 an hour plus room and board. So, I can live in the desert and soak up the sun and hike as much as I want (when I've recovered from the strain of wood-chopping). I'll have to practice a bit as I have no eye/hand coordination and I might initially be a danger to myself and the rats and lizards. But I will eventually have burly arms. The problem with my new plan, however, is that G. only fires twice a year.

So, my other plan to support me in the wood-chopping off-season is to become a Citizen Blogger. I went to part of a panel discussion last week about the constitutional right to protest the government and the title of one of the panelists was "Citizen Blogger." No other qualifications. I already have some good, blogging experience. However, I don't think that anyone will want me on a panel to discuss my random thoughts about life or the books I'm reading or the food I'm eating. So, I have to think of a new blog topic where people will beg to have me on their panels. I am currently taking suggestions.

math as poetry

Over the weekend I saw Proof, the movie version of David Auburn’s play. Watching the movie (which was good enough—and who really cares, anyway, because Jake Gyllenhaal is pretty) I started wondering why there are so many narratives with math as a backdrop, when most of the people I know find math to be painfully distressing. Is it because we are more willing to accept a character’s purported brilliance if it’s numerical brilliance? Is it just that the precision of mathematics provides an interesting counter-metaphor to the chaos of human relationships? Or is there something inherently poetic about math? Do we hope that there is in fact a theory of everything and that somehow math will save us?

I was never particularly good at math. I could get it done and get the answers right, but it always took me a long time. Part of the frustration was that no one could tell me why I was doing the proofs I was doing: “Don’t ask questions! Just do the steps!” I can’t blame my teachers, though. Most of them were football coaches, not mathematicians. Midway through my junior year of high school, I dropped out of trig and pre-calculus and finished my education blissfully math free. But with the decision to quit math, I also abandoned my latent desire to become an astronomer or a botanist.

In college, I opted for an English degree instead of Journalism because I didn’t want to take statistics. But at the very end of my four years, I took two semesters of symbolic logic—what I considered the easiest way complete my math credits (somehow proofs seem a categorically different thing if they are housed in the philosophy department). I loved every moment of my proof writing. I spent hours working out proofs, fitting them into every spare moment, watching the steps unfold one after another. Maybe what I liked so much is that we actually learned what the proofs were about, why it mattered. When I read about Goedel’s proof, I was amazed at how much it explained, even though I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant. Once, I completed a proof in fewer steps than my teacher had. At first he thought I was wrong, but I argued my steps, showed him the move from one premise to another. And it was dazzling and elegant and surprising—even to my instructor. It was the proudest moment of my educational career. I don’t know what the proof was about or how it related to anything in my world, but as I guided the elegant progression of each line, I was certain of its poetry.

my hour with the salt lake literati

Last night, I went to hear a 50th anniversary reading of Howl. I don't particularly like Howl or Ginsberg or the Beats. Earlier in the week, I told a friend (who is a big Beat fan) that while I recognized the cultural significance of the Beats, I thought their writing was lame (or something to that effect). But, yesterday I heard Gary Snyder talking on NPR about the first reading of Howl, and he made it sound exciting (or at least worth considering). Partly in an effort to be more open-minded about my tastes and partly because I had nothing else to do, I went to the reading.

The evening began with quite a bit of obnoxiously self-indulgent poetry by various local poets, a film interview that Trent Harris did with Ginsberg, and some decent jazz music. Then, Alex Caldiero, self-proclaimed "sonosopher" chanted a dirge for Ginsberg and then (as the advertising for the event claimed) "channeled" Ginsberg for the reading of Howl. His reading was pretty impressive. I was downstairs from the library's auditorium in the overflow section and there were moments when you could hear Caldiero's voice reverberating down the stairs. I still don't like Howl much, but I can certainly appreciate its energy.

Not surprisingly, I ran into my friend who loves the Beats at the reading. We (the friend, his wife, and a couple of their friends) were going to go out for coffee afterwards, but D. somehow got himself invited to the after-party at Ken Sanders' (the used/ rare bookstore for you non-Salt Lakers). We walked over and there's a list (which of course we weren't on, but because D. is friendly and often loiters at the store they let us in). I've never been to any party with a list, so I felt all at once slightly cool and totally lame. I would be tempted to do some name dropping here, but I'm not even hip enough to know who's who. I will say that when we arrived, Scott Carrier was tending the bar, which I found awfully charming.

I realized that there are people who belong at parties like this and those who do not. I am among the latter. I don't know how to schmooze or network or converse with strangers or whatever one does at such parties (and more so, I don't particularly care to). While we did wander through the crowd a few times to get food and drink, we spent the hour we were there hidden among the stacks. And when you consider that we were chatting amongst all the P's and S's of the literary world, it was a pretty good way to enjoy a party.

confessions of the perpetually late

Today, I tried to check out a book from the public library and apparently I owe them so much money ($33.60 to be exact) in overdue fines that I no longer have borrowing privileges. It takes a special sort of person, I think, to be cut off from the public library.

The most pathetic thing is that I probably only finished one of the books that garnered me the thirty dollars in fines. I blame this sorry book-borrowing behavior on two factors: a) my friend Heidi and b) Blockbuster.


When I was in college, I constantly returned library books late (quite late, far beyond the advertised grace period) but I never got any fines. Then my friend Heidi, who worked at the library, told me that the advertised grace period was not the actual grace period. All that really meant is that I kept my books a week or two longer, to the point where I did extend beyond the actual grace period, and I got fines. But because I had a friend working at the library, all of those fines were magically forgiven.

I used to pay a lot of late fees at Blockbuster--not $30 worth, but enough to keep my slackerly habits in check. Now, with the end of late fees, I continue to live with the illusion that no one cares when I return borrowed materials.

watching the pot

Today, as I updated a friend about the banalities that are my current life, she made a throwaway comment about watching the pot.

And it was like this moment of revelation. Yes, I have been watching the pot. Not just watching the pot, but hovering over it, demanding the water to simmer. For months, for more than months. Me--watching over my life, trying to coax the rolling boil. And that clarity has me suddenly evaluating my behavior, planning alterations. How does that happen--a cliche suddenly transformed into the most meaningful idea you've considered in months?

readerly disappointment, or how a book about afghanistan became a book about a dog

This week I finally finished reading a book that I picked up several weeks ago in the Gatwick airport, Rory Stewart's The Places In Between. I had extra pounds that I didn't want to bother changing back into dollars, so a book seemed a reasonable purchase (and provided a good balance for the cookies and chocolate I bought with the rest of my funds). The specific book seemed a good choice because it was about a Scottish journalist walking across Afghanistan in 2002, just after the U.S. invasion. I had just been walking, so reading about walking seemed appropriate. And I want to learn about Afghanistan--it seems essential.

The book made me think about many things--about the value of walking, of seeing "the places in between"; about how unfortunate (and maddening) it is that a man could take this journey, but a woman certainly couldn't; about Afghanistan's ancient history and its present. I liked that Stewart told his story objectively, that he resisted commentary about the people and places he encountered.

At some point in the journey, Stewart acquired a dog--Babur, who he named after a Mogul emperor whose steps he was following. The dog was a nice addition to the story (after all, everyone needs a traveling companion), but at some point the book became about the dog. And this made me grumpy. I like dogs well enough, but I bought a book about Afghanistan, not about Babur the dog. This man walked miles and months across a war-ravaged country, seeing things that very few Westerners will ever see (much less read about) and he ends the book with an elegy for his dog: "I don't imagine Babur would have been very impressed to see my crying now, trying to bring back five weeks walking alone together, with my hand on a grizzled golden head, which is Babur, beside me and alive."

It's not that I think a writer should have to tell me the story I want to hear, or that he has no right to tell his story. Maybe for him the story was about Babur the dog (before walking through Afghanistan, he had walked through Iran, Pakistan, India, and Nepal--so maybe walking had lost some of its fascination). At the very least, though, somewhere in the blurb and the various exclamations of praise on the book's cover someone should have said, "This is a book about a dog."

honk for peace

This morning, on the way to the farmer's market, there was a woman standing on the corner with a handwritten sign that stated "Honk for Peace." There were many peace-loving drivers who obliged, and each time someone honked, the woman yelled with enthusiasm. It was as if with each honk of the horn, she believed peace was actually being achieved.

I want to be cynical about this woman's efforts, that she's not doing much but generating a lot of noise pollution (increased--to good effect, I thought--by the man who sits by the traffic light and asks for spare change respoding with loud singing, including a moving hare krishna chant). But then, I wonder whether my cynicism is right. I've been talking to my students all semester about how language does do something, that it does effect change. Thursday, we talked about the Rwandan genocide and the newspaper publishers who were tried as war criminals for promoting hate propaganda, that their constant references to the Tsutsi as "cockroaches" led, in part, to the genocide. So there is language altering material reality.

Also, my friend G. is a potter and spends weeks by himself firing work at his place near Hanksville. He told me about how someone asked him whether he'd ever felt an earthquake there. He wanted to say yes, but he stopped, thought for a moment, and replied, "I'm not really sure. I think I have, but I've never told anyone about it." So, the experience was uncertain because he'd never put it into language.

And, of course, there is theory about this. Take Saussure: "Without language thought is a vague uncharted nebula. There are no pre-existing ideas, and nothing is distinct before the appearance of language."

So, is the woman with her incitement to honking doing anything? Clearly change can begin with protest, with discourse, but how does that change happen? Is it just about the aggregate--that if enough people honk, someone will listen? Or does the act of discourse (the honking, in this case) change something in the world?

A while back, I heard some commentary about the media attention directed towards Cindy Sheehan's Crawford, TX protest, questioning the relevance of the attention. Why? the commentator asked, are we focusing so much time on something so anecdotal. Someone responded that 40 years ago Rosa Parks was just an anecdote.

So, readers, if you have thoughts about how anecdotes and honking become material change (or whether they actually can), let's hear them.

the weekly(ish) miscellany

a note on similes: At last week's reading, Billy Collins poked fun (a la Shakespeare) at the Petrarchan conceit. He noted that what such poems (old and new) assume that what women really want is a good simile. His comment started me thinking about the few men in my past who wrote me poetry. These men were not poets (not even in the unobtrusively poetic Writer's Digest sense), so I never could understand why they chose to wrote me poetry ("I am like a moth to your flame," "I am left in the desert without food or water") instead of making me dinner or some other more pragmatic gesture of love. They must have held to this notion that women are in want of similes.

a note on metaphor: Listening this week to the John Roberts' hearings, I realized how quickly metaphor can go awry. Early in the week, one senator (can't remember who) and Roberts himself talked about how judges were umpires. For the next few days, the umpire metaphor came up again and again (umpires are just calling the game, but everyone knows they have different strike zones; a different umpire=a different game; an umpire is only an intepreter, not a participant). I was half-expecting (and hoping) to see Roberts show up in a striped suit.

a metaphor of my own: Recently, on my semi-daily run I have noticed that the pathwaysd above Memory Grove are being transformed into some soft of Oly-promenade. There are new black lightposts with the SLC 2002 logo emblazoned on them. The new concrete sidewalk has a full-cover logo embedded in the cement. This perpetual focus on the olympics troubles me. SL is becoming one of those old Hollywood startlets who tries to hold onto fading beauty with too-bright hair dye and carefully pencilled eyebrows.

further evidence that I am aging: Yesterday, someone at the literacy action center made a comment that was delightfully funny and insightful and I was going to post it on the blog, but 10 minutes after I heard the comment, I forgot it. Not just the details--but the entire context within which it was offered. Had I remembered it, I am sure you would have enjoyed it. Sorry!

and a bit of blog cross-promotion: This week, I canned fruit!--which you can read all about at Three Tarts. I only bring this up because I am so proud of my domestic efforts.

is that kenny g knocking on my door?

A few weeks ago, I heard a song that I loved by this Canadian singer Feist, so I went to my B&N and bought the CD (a bargain at $10). I was happily listening to the CD over and over when my sister declared to me that it as "a little smooth jazzy." What?! I responded that the beauty of the album was that it was eclectic. A remake of a Bee Gee's tune ("Inside and Out"), a heartwrenching balad, a sweet French tune, a quirky pop song, and on and on. And this woman has an amazing voice. The more I listened to the cd, though, I had to admit that there is a recurrent smooth jazz vibe. Ugh--I hate smooth jazz. I really hate it. But I love this cd. And this has me worried that perhaps my music tastes are deflating, that it's just a matter of time before I have the Breeze programmed on my car radio. But I have justified myself with an internal dialogue about how Feist is beyond genre and that because she has collaborated on a variety of eclectic projects (from folk to rap) that there is a certain amount of irony in her remake of the Bee Gees and her disco-dripping "Leisure Suite." And if there's irony, it's all ok.

For some reason lately, I'm hyper-aware of the fact that I'm aging. I know I'm not old--just aging. My sister (again) was telling me that she was taking some girls from her church to a local rest home to play bingo and sing the residents songs. Even though I know the possibility is decades away, I had this sudden, frightening image of me as an octogenarian having to play bingo and listen to well-meaning teenage girls sing. And even worse--the idea that, in spite of myself, I might enjoy it.

ucky-ovo

I was just commenting on Dr. Write's site and the letters for confirming my post were uckyovo. I think this should be a word, so I propose you all start using it (I added the hyphen, as it seemed necessary). I was talking with my Lang. in Society students about neologists, and how they could (and probably do) generate new words. I can imagine lots of possible meanings and contexts for my new word. It would make a great exclamation of dismay upon cleaning out one's fridge--"Ugh, ucky-ovo." If I change up a few letters and make it "ucky-evoo," I can actually hear Rachael Ray, that perky foodtv gal, using the word when her precious EVOO (which she always reminds the viewer is her acronym for Extra Virgin Olive Oil--does she not understand the purpose of an acronym?) goes rancid.