Music Meme

Okay, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I have horrid taste in music. However, I have gamely undergone this somewhat painful meme that the profoundly evil Judith developed. I have done so for one reason--so that I can now inflict it on three people who undoubtedly have better taste in music than I do.

So, drumroll please:

Misanthropster, Alex (of Holtetboards), and Matt (of Animal Mind), you three are on!

What’s a great late night song?
Close the Door, Lou Reed (okay, I'm a little bent)

Name 5 wistful/bittersweet songs:
"I Hold Your Hand In Mine" - Tom Lehrer (okay, I'm a lot bent),
"All I Wanna Do" - Heart
"Somebody's Crying" - Chris Isaac
"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" - Judy Garland
"Christmastime Is Here Again" - Vince Guaraldi



The 4 Best Songs Ever Written:
Nope, I'm not touching that one with a vaccinated crowbar. I will, however, mention three songs that I think are really well done.
"Condition" Kenny Rodgers
"Sweet Home Alabama" Lynyrd Skynyrd
"Free Falling" Tom Petty
"People are Strange" The Doors

3 Current Favorite Songs:
Lately I find myself obsessively listening to Wildflowers by Tom Petty, Rockin' in the Weary Land by Donna the Buffalo, and "Too Long In the Wasteland" by James McMurtry

A Classic Drinking Music album:
Best of Jimmy Buffett

A Song You Want (or did) To Play At Your Wedding:
How about one I wish I played? The Way You Look Tonight

4 Good Angry Songs:
"Hello, Dad, I'm in Jail"
"Sink the Censorship" Disappear Fear
"Idiot Wind" Bob Dylan
"You Oughta Know" Alanis Morissette

One of Your Favorite Lyrics:
From "Angeline," by Larry McMurtry

Barefoot in the autumn weeds
Cotton dress hanging to your knees
to the eyes of a stranger
You offered a smile
I went to work in your daddy's fields
Didn't seem like such a bad deal
At least it would do for a while.

We were both young and unabashed
We took what life offered
When the folks were distracted
Or too tired to care
With a frost on the land
The fates forced our hand
Your dresses fit tighter
With the spring in the air.

3 Cover Songs Arguably Better Than the Original:
Danny's Song - Me First and the Gimme Gimmes
Money - The Flying Lizards
With a Little Help - Joe Cocker



Ironic Song to Brutally Murder Someone to in a movie:
Fish Heads - Barnes and Barnes

Good Album to Clean The House To:
Best of the Temptations

Good Dining Music:
Anything by Mellow, Morphine, or Frank Sinatra

A Good Album To Put You In the Mood (that is NOT Sade, Marvin Gaye or Barry White):
Let's be honest--almost anything will work (I'm a guy)

Good Album To Sleep To:
Nomads, Indians, Saints - Indigo Girls

2 Songs That are Too Damn Sad:
"Hurt" - Nine Inch Nails

Great Love Song:
"They Can't Take That Away From Me" by George and Ira Gershwin. I like to imagine a guy in a mental institution or an Orwellian prison humming this to himself as they administer the Sodium Pentothal.

Song To An Ex That Isn’t Meanspirited:
"Whatever" - The Asylum Street Spankers

Song To An Ex That Is Kinda Meanspirited:
"Don't Fear the Reaper" - Blue Oyster Cult



Song to lose your Mind to:
"When the Trixter Starts a-Pokin'" Gogol Bordello

4 Songs That Make You Feel Amped and Inspired:
"The Battle Hymn of the Republic"
"Rock Me Like a Hurricane" Scorpionz
"Eye of the Tiger" (also best workout song ever)
"When I Was Born" Barenaked Ladies (more inspired than amped)

3 songs that are guilty pleasures:
Most of my preferred music is a guilty pleasure. Okay, how about "Annie's Song" by John Denver, "I Could Be Your Girlfriend" by Avril Lavigne, and "Tom's Diner" by Suzanne Vega. Embarrassingly enough, I also own a fair bit of Roger Whittaker.

Criminally Underrated Band That Didn’t Get Attention and Then Broke Up:
Strange Fruit

Best Screw You I Am a Teenager in Pain Song:
How about "Best I am a whiny pencil-neck living in the middle of the 1980's" song? The answer is, of course, "People Are People" by Depressed, excuse me, Depeche Mode.

Feel No Shame, Great Current Pop Songs:
I hate to say it, but I think "The Black Parade" might count as a great rock anthem.

Album No One Would Expect You To Love:
Latino Crooners

Hip-Hop Song You Know All the Lyrics Too:
Actually, there isn't one.

Random Album You Loved In High School But Are Afraid To Admit It:
Faith by George Michaels

Album You May Have Listened To More In High School than Any Other Album:
Basically, any comedy album by Monty Python, any musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber, and a fair bit of Jethro Tull

Album To Clear A Room With:
Soft, Safe, and Sanitized

Memorials

The first day went really well. I chatted with my students before class began, and after everyone had filed in, I told them all to take out a sheet of paper, as we were going to have a quiz.

They looked at me with terror. They hadn't read the book in a week.

I smiled and said "joke." The students started laughing. I think they were happy to see that some things hadn't changed.

We talked about the remainder of the semester, how I was readjusting the class requirements to help them finish with high grades, and what they had done in their time off. Finally, I told them that they could leave if they wanted, but that some of them had expressed an interest in talking about the situation on campus. In most of my classes, about half of the students left.

My students are trying to figure out how to feel about this. So is the University. It was a day of memorials, of trying to decide how to commemorate the event. Early in the morning, the university assembled on the drill field while the bells in Burruss tolled 32 times. Every time they tolled, a white balloon floated up from the crowd. Across campus, everyone froze and watched the ceremony:




When the ceremony was finished, they released a bunch of orange and maroon balloons and everyone paused to watch them.




On the way to my first class, I noticed the Addison Caldwell statue. "Addy" was Virginia Tech's first student, and he supposedly walked 26 miles to come to the University. They installed the statue this year. I think he looks like a cross-dressing female character from Little House on the Prairie. At any rate, he was sporting a little orange and maroon today:


I also stopped by Norris Hall:




There is currently a little debate on what the University will do with Norris. Some people are arguing that it should be razed and replaced with a memorial, while others think that it should be remodeled. Given the history of the University, the crowded classroom conditions on campus, and Norris' ciderblock construction, my guess is that they will keep Norris around, and will probably do little to alter the building itself. I'm not sure that this is a bad idea. In some ways, I can't think of a better memorial to the rooms in Norris than their continued use for education.

The campus is blanketed in posters letters, sculptures, and other tributes from across the country. Squires student center is covered in wall-to-wall banners:






The students have produced a few tributes of their own. Outside Burruss, I saw the letters "VT" written in daisies:


And a paper chain:


There are three official memorials. The first consists of 33 "hokie stones" outside Burruss. Each one is surrounded with remembrances of individual victims:




These surround a huge cairn of flowers, gifts, and assorted remembrances:


Basically, the whole thing looks like a landfill the day after the Rose Bowl Parade.

The second official tribute is on the drill field, and consists of 32 sign boards:




People have used these boards to write messages to the victims and to Tech itself:




My favorite memorial was set up by the Campus ministries. It is a few yards of string with 33 pieces of white cloth. Surrounding the cloth are ribbons on which people write their messages to the school and the victims.




I like this memorial because it is so alive. At times, it's a little too alive, as the ribbons can do some serious damage when whipped around by the wind. However, it's the lightest of the memorials, and the most comforting. There's something powerful about seeing the memories and kind wishes dancing in the air.


Tech is still trying to figure out how it will embrace this tragedy, and how it will fashion its memorialization. It's pretty amazing to watch the school slowly decide how it will form its institutional memory. In the meantime, the students are getting commemorative tattoos:

Back in the Saddle

I drove back from New York today. It was wonderful spending a few days with the wife and George, not to mention seeing my sister Jen, her fiance, and my godmother. Misanthropster and I played tourist on the south end of Manhattan, and she helped iron out a few of my creases, putting up with my occasional bursts of crankiness. It was amazing reconnecting with my daughter, who has really grown up in the last month. She has a wonderful, wicked sense of humor, and got a real kick out of testing boundaries with daddy. I was too happy to get up in arms about her silliness.

On my first morning in New York, I went out to move the car, as the street sweeper was running through my godmother's neighborhood. After parking the car a few blocks away, I walked back to the apartment. Along the way, a dog almost tripped me with his leash. His owner looked at me with big eyes and apologized profusely. I wondered why she was so apologetic until I looked down and realized that I was wearing a Tech sweatshirt. This happened a few other times, but it always took me by surprise. I was amazed that, even in a city as big as New York, people were still so quick to console.

Of course, some people took this for granted. Misanthropster and I noticed a homeless man was wearing a Virginia Tech sweatshirt to elicit sympathy. To be honest, however, it is quite possible that he was an actual Tech graduate. My bet would be that he majored in Philosophy or English.

I drove back from New York in record time. When I stopped off for gas in southern Pennsylvania, a man at one of the other pumps nodded at the magnetic VT decals on the side of my car and said "Nice." I told him that I taught at Virginia Tech. He asked me if I knew the killer and I said him that I didn't. He shook his head.

Once I entered Virginia, I noticed things starting to change. The first thing was that the highway warning signs were all flashing the same message: "Welcome Virginia Tech. Drive Safely." Every thirty miles or so, I'd see another one of these signs and think about the fact that the cars around me were filled with Tech students who were traveling South, unsure about what the next few weeks are going to hold.

At Harrisonburg, where James Madison University is situated, the students decorated one of the highway overpasses with orange and maroon fabric, a la Christo's Central Park installation. It was a beautiful gesture from a rival school, and I found myself getting back into the pride tinged with melancholy that I felt before I left town. I had the same feeling when I passed the Days Inn located north of Staunton, whose sign flashed the following message:

Great Rooms
Great Rates
God Bless the Hokies

In the entire trip, I only saw one car pulled over. I wonder if the police were taking it easy on the Tech traffic. Regardless, the cars around me were showing the grim determination that characterizes the school. I don't know if everyone is eager to go back or is dreading it, but I do know that they were hell-bent for leather, driving at top speed to return to Blacksburg. As I passed cars, I noticed messages written on the windows in orange electrical tape: "Hokie Nation," "Hokies Forever," and "We Are Virginia Tech." Unlike the shallow rah-rah that usually characterizes Virginia Tech, this touched me, not least because it shows some of the determination and pride that, at its best, is one of Tech's greatest trademarks.

Driving down Route 460 into Christiansburg, I noticed a car pulled over to the side of the road. A young man was sitting on the ground, crying, while his friend hugged him. I'm proud of the students of Tech. They're dealing with some of the hardest emotions that they will ever have to digest, and they're helping each other deal with loss.

I'm worried about what I'm going to say when class starts tomorrow. I always have a friendly banter with my students, and I generally try to help them address the current problems in their world. Simply speaking, I don't know what I can say, what words I can use, to help them make sense of this tragedy. I don't know if even discussing it is presumptuous. I thought about this on the drive down, and I have a few ideas, but I'm still nervous.

Last night, I had a nightmare. I dreamed that it was tomorrow, and that I was trying to help my students finish out the semester. I was teaching in Whittemore, one of the big lecture halls that seats 300 people, and the room was dimly lit. As I tried to talk, the lights flickered and I saw my students faces covered in thick white pancake makeup, like Japanese Noh theater. Their hair was dark and oily. They began to squawk like crows, and the shadowy outlines of their bodies looked like slick black feathers. As I tried to calm them down, they got increasingly distressed and started squawking more and more loudly. I finally woke up. I looked up at the ceiling for a little while and finally snuggled into my wife's back. I fell asleep a few minutes later.

Of course, having listened to Dane Cook recently, I realize that the dream means that I'm a deeply closeted homosexual. Did I mention the crab?

The nightmare was actually somewhat reassuring. Regardless of what happens tomorrow, I can guarantee that my students won't be turning into birds. I can deal with just about everything else.

Today at Tech

Today I tried to wrap my mind around yesterday.

I went to the Tech campus to meet with a few students. We talked a little, but nobody really had much to say.

On the way to school, I kept seeing signs about yesterday. Here's the off-campus bookstore:



Virginia Tech was a weird mix of bustle and silence. I had to park about a mile away from campus, as Blacksburg was overwhelmed with media, parents, and other assorted visitors. However, most of the school was empty.

Here's the entrance to Squires student center:







Inside the student center, there was a billboard where people wrote notes:











I pass Norris Hall, where the shootings occurred, on my way to class everyday. Yesterday, I stopped when I saw the building surrounded by police cars. Here's a few pictures of Norris:









On the way to the convocation, I passed the memorial, which was located on the drill field:











Cassell Colosseum was packed solid, and had incredibly heavy security out front:



So I went to Lane Stadium, where they set up a live feed on the gargantuan TV:







Here's Governor Tim Kaine on the big ol' TV:



And here's George the Second on the big ol' TV:





Outside the stadium, I saw a big tank:



So, anyway, that was pretty much my day. I was going to go the candlelight vigil tonight, but I just feel a little wrecked.

This afternoon, my last student checked in. He'd gone home, and hadn't checked his e-mail. Now that I know my kids are safe, I'm moving from anxiety to anger.

Most of my students have gone home, and I'm following suit. Tomorrow morning I'll be going to New York to see my wife and daughter. I might not be posting much, if at all, for the next few days. Right now, I'm just mad as hell at the University, and I need to work around that before I can be really productive again.

Thank you all for your kind words, thoughts, and prayers. They mean more than I can express.

Today's Shootings

As some of you know, I teach at Virginia Tech. I was on my way to class today when I almost walked into a cordon of police cars blocking off access to much of the upper campus. I went back to my office, where my colleagues and I tried to glean information from news bulletins, e-mails from the University Relations office, and streaming video. The police let us out at noon, and I went home.

A quick thank you to everyone who has checked in. I'm fine, and am currently trying to account for all my students.

The Lost Scrolls

Going through some old papers, I came across notes that I made for a post back in January. As some of you may remember, Misanthropster, my sister Ella, and I reviewed all the deodorants that Wal-Mart carried. For those of you who weren't around yet, here's the post on men's deodorants, and here's the post on women's deodorants.

Having had so much fun "taste-testing" the mass-market deodorants, we decided to check out the more rarified scents that one of the local department stores carry. Luckily, Misanthropster worked at the department store, so she knew how the scents were organized. Unluckily, the cologne counter was manned by 'Nette, a half-crazed cologne Nazi who ran her little spot with an iron hand. Oddly enough, she had absolutely no personal odor (those of you who have read Perfume by Patrick Suskind will understand how creepy that is), and was very stingy when it came to sharing the scents.

Faced with an exciting goal and a formidable foe, our strategic planning went into overdrive. About a week before D-day, I reconnoitered the counter, taking note of all the brands. I then prepared a form that we could use to make comments. My wife checked the schedule, noting the few hours in which 'Nette wouldn't be around. We compared these to Ella's schedule and set the date.

The fact that all of us were doing this together meant that there wasn't anyone to watch George, so she had to come along. On the bright side, the kid loves colognes and perfumes and was happy to join in. The only problems ocurred when we forgot to let her sniff a particular deodorant or testing strip and she went ballistic. She saved all the strips, hiding them around the house. I'm still catching phantom whiffs of "Phat Farm" and "Boss."

The other downside was that we had to do this fairly late in the evening, which meant that we had to rush to make it before closing. Because of this, we weren't all able to test all the scents. We planned to return to the scene of the crime, but Ella had to go to Pennsylvania, where she got a job offer to work in an Art department at a small college, and Misanthropster moved to New York. Perhaps we will one day be able to take advantage of the extensive fragrance counters in Bloomies or Macy's.

Although this list is by no means complete, it does offer some clear tasting notes on a few of the mass-market men's fragrances. We limited our study to the fragrances that featured deodorant sticks for sale at this particular department store. Consequently, I cannot make any claim to completeness!

Looking at this, I can see our distinct personalities emerging. Misanthropster has a very educated nose, and makes numerous connections to other perfumes and colognes. I, on the other hand, am somewhat old fashioned. I like what Misanthropster calls "1940's colognes": woodsy, assertive scents. My sister lands somewhere in the middle, although her tastes revolve around anything that covers up the smell of hemp and paint.

Without further ado, here are our findings:

Aramis
Crankster: Sweet and ice-creamy.
Misanthropster: Like old-timey women's perfume. Smells like a men's version of Estee Lauder's "Youth Dew."
Ella: Like "Teen Spirit." The women's deodorant, not the song.

Atman by Phat Farm
Crankster: Cheap musk mixed with pencil shavings.
Misanthropster: Basil.
Ella: Pine.

Azzaro Chrome
Crankster: Soapy, industrial, and toilet-pucky.
Misanthropster: Like grass.
Ella: Like a women's deodorant.

Boss Selection
Crankster: Like licorice and sugar.
Misanthropster: Like licorice.

Burberry Brit
Crankster: Powdery, like baby oil.
Misanthropster: Warm. A lot like the women's version.
Ella: Musty and complex, with notes of frankincense. Like a Catholic Church.

Burberry Touch
Crankster: Like musk and bananas.
Misanthropster: Very floral.
Ella: Soapy baby powder.

Calvin Klein Eternity
Crankster: Like Ivory soap.
Misanthropster: Soapy.
Ella: Ivory soap crossed with autumn.

Calvin Klein Euphoria
Crankster: Soapy, with a touch of spices and leather.
Misanthropster: Fruity.
Ella: Soapy and sweet, with clover undertones.

Carlos Santana
Crankster: Like soap and vinegar.
Misanthropster: Like Burberry Brit for men.
Ella: I can't smell anything.

Claiborne Curve Soul
Crankster: Leathery, with soap tones.
Misanthropster: Freshly cut grass.
Ella: Grassy and light.

Davidoff Cool Water
Crankster: Soapy.
Misanthropster: Soapy and ocean-y.
Ella: Sweet.

Davidoff Silver Shadow
Crankster: Like vanilla and sugar.
Misanthropster: Like Sweet Tarts.
Ella: Like cotton candy.

Drakkar Noir
Crankster: A LOT of alcohol. It's difficult to decipher anything else.
Misanthropster: Like my high school band director, Mr. Rayford.
Ella:Too much alcohol. It smells like toned-down Old Spice.

Guess
Crankster: Cloying and sweet.
Misanthropster: Ginger.
Ella: Flowery and soapy.

Hugo by Hugo Boss
Crankster: Smells like Bactine.
Misanthropster: Nothing.
Ella: Antibiotic ointment.

Kenneth Cole Black
Crankster: Pepper. Specifically, it smells like lemon pepper.
Misanthropster: Lemony and soapy.
Ella: I refuse to respond.

Kenneth Cole Reaction
Crankster: Smells like cucumbers, looks like nuclear waste.
Misanthropster: Standard men's cologne.
Ella: Subtle. Like cucumbers.

Kenneth Cole RSVP
Crankster: Smells industrial, like cheap, fake musk.
Misanthropster: Like leather and cigars.
Ella: Like musk and frankincense.


Kiss
Crankster: Ball sweat with floral tones.
Misanthropster: Like Gene Simmons' armpits after a long concert and a lot of pot.
Ella: Plastic-y, like a new Barbie.

Ralph Lauren Polo Blue
Crankster: Smells like pears.
Misanthropster: Like apples.
Ella: Smells like apples.

Tommy Bahama
Crankster: Smells like pee.
Misanthropster: Like my grandfather's cigar boxes.
Ella: Cinnamon-y.

Tommy Bahama Very Cool
Crankster: Sweetish. Very herb-y, vegetable-y.
Misanthropster: Standard men's cologne.
Ella: Smells like my ex-boyfriend.

Tommy Hilfiger
Crankster: Strong notes of menthol.
Misanthropster: Smells like bug spray.
Ella: Minty and blue.

Unforgiveable by Sean John
Crankster: Perfectly named. Nasty mix of citrus and cheap musk.
Misanthropster: Smells like rotten fruit.
Ella: Like rubbing alcohol. Overtly.

Us Versus Them

Martin Luther King once said that "If a man has not found something worth dying for, he is not fit to live." I like the idea that the things we support, that we would die for, define us. I have a pretty long list of things I'd die for: my family, the Bill of Rights (except for the second amendment), my country, and so on. On the other hand, I feel like the decision to die for a cause is actually relatively easy. For example, if anyone ever gave me the option to die for something noble like art or knowledge or courtesy, I'd be right there. It would really sweeten the pot if they offered to throw in a statue of me. Nothing too tacky--maybe me reading a book in front of the lamp of knowledge with cupids frolicking at my feet. You know, tasteful.

And being a martyr is actually a pretty good gig, if you think about it. You are officially absolved of all sins and become a beacon for the ideals of your culture and country. Legend has it that J. Edgar Hoover ran through the halls of the FBI loudly rejoicing the day that Martin Luther King was shot. However, it's not to hard to imagine him tearfully regarding the reams of blackmail-worthy material that he'd amassed over the years. Today, however, any discussion of MLK's weaknesses borders on blasphemy. The same goes for John F. Kennedy: in an instant, he was transformed from a brash, self-impressed cocksman to the symbol of a nation's lost innocence and the guy on the fifty-cent piece.

While I recognize the value of King's statement, I'm inclined to consider the opposite side. I ask myself what I would willingly kill for. Who are the martyrs I'd be willing to create? Which ideas are so compelling that I'd be happy to be vilified if I could only support them? This is a tougher one for me; while I despise cruelty, stupidity, laziness, discourtesy, halitosis, and so forth, I realize that the only thing I would really kill for is the people that I love. Actually, killing is only one end of the spectrum on this one. On the other end is the fact that I will gladly make an ass out of myself if I feel that someone I love or care about--one of my people--is being insulted or threatened. I have done so on many occasions and will probably do so in the future. Still, as embarassed as I was...well, you shoulda seen the other guy.

It's interesting that, as evolved as I think I am, I still have this very human tendency to attack, to fight. It gives me a certain kinship with soldiers and serial killers, policemen and terrorists, heroes and bullies. We share the willingness to injure or even kill others, in spite of the fact that our basic empathy, not to mention our sense of logic, mitigates against violence. What is it about humans that makes us so willing to go to the mattresses, to pull the gun, to drop the hammer?

As any student of the past will tell you, the history of mankind is a series of wars and plagues. I sometimes imagine that plagues are the earth's way of culling the human herd. Since instinct doesn't control our reproduction, and since we've mastered most of our natural predators, we clearly need an outside force to keep the population within sustainable limits. Enter Bubonic Plague, the Spanish Flu, Typhoid Fever, AIDS, SARS, cancer, and heart disease. Viewed through this lens, disease seems almost reasonable, as if it is merely part of our ever-evolving relationship with the earth. I'm not saying that we shouldn't fight disease--quite the opposite, in fact--but I do think that disease serves a purpose.

I'm less certain about war, vendetta, murder, massacre, and other assorted forms of human brutality. The fact that we are so willing to take the Straw Dogs route is a little unnerving. I would think that religion would take the edge off. After all, every major religion has some version of the Ten Commandments. We all know that we should not kill, should not steal, should not covet, and so on. Yet, there we are, killing, coveting, and stealing. The key dividing line becomes us versus them. We would never kill a member of our tribe, nor would we steal from him, and so forth. However, the other tribe, whoever they may be, is fair game. Of course, this isn't what God had in mind, but we can usually count on some Brylcreemed Jesus pimp to find a verse in Leviticus that makes everything hunky dory. The other side elevates some power-hungry rat bastard with an equally bent view of Islam and, Bob's your uncle, we've got a holy war. Just in time, too--things were getting a little crowded here.

Talking to a friend about this recently, I wondered aloud if this was another method that nature uses to thin the herd. As the words were coming out of my mouth, I realized that I was hoping that he'd be able to contradict me, but it was not to be. We both had to admit that, maybe, humanity has a built-in pop-up timer, and when we start to get too comfy, hostilities break out in the Gaza Strip, Ted Bundy gets a hankering for brunettes, or the next-door neighbor starts mowing a little too early in the morning.

I still don't have a good rebuttal to my own argument.

And So It Goes

I don't usually write on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but today is a special occasion. One of my heroes died yesterday.

I've found that, sometimes, knowing the right artist can unlock doors. Years ago, I was travelling to a wedding with a couple of gay gentlemen, Ken and Darius. They were nice enough, but had some of the standard defensive nervousness around straight men, and the ride started off a little uncomfortably. We tried to find a conversational topic to which we could all contribute, but we were very different people; I was a graduate student in English, Ken worked for Bell Atlantic, and Darius...well, Darius JUST LOVED TO DANCE. However, I had recently spent a semester researching John Waters, and knew quite a bit about the self-described "Pope of Trash." When I mentioned the magic name, the discomfort evaporated and we spent the rest of the trip merrily discussing the wonders of Waters and the joys of queer literature. By the end of the road, they were talking about making me an honorary member of the rainbow mafia. I still see them from time to time.

Kurt Vonnegut had a similar effect on engineers. As "a teacher at a major mid-Atlantic technological university," to use the parlance of Penthouse Forum, I often find myself trying to communicate with science-related professionals. While some of these people are just like you and me, many of them exist in a semi-autistic world of code, jargon, and self-imposed isolation. I've discovered, however, that a surprisingly large number of engineers and scientists have read, and loved, Vonnegut. In some ways, he is the Rosetta stone, the universal translator, that makes communication possible between the world of scientists and the world of writers.

This isn't too surprising; Vonnegut majored in Biochemistry at Cornell University, and his writing often reflects the straighforward, definitional world of science. His characters are minimalistic, and his scene setting is usually rendered in broad strokes, but the ideas that he explores are wide-ranging, intensely topical, and amazingly deep. Like Orwell, he often adopts a journalistic tone, but modifies it with a truly bent sense of humor that forefronts the absurdity of society. If you haven't read him, you should definitely check out Welcome to the Monkey House, Breakfast of Champions, and Sirens of Titan. While you're at it, you might want to take a peek at Slaughterhouse Five, his most famous work.

I met him when I was still in college. A committee that I chaired brought him to speak. I was the only person in the group who actually knew who Vonnegut was, so we spent most of the evening chatting about his books and Jazz. He was surprised that I'd read Philip Jose Farmer's hoax Venus on the Half Shell. In one of Vonnegut's novels, his recurring character Kilgore Trout authored a book with that title. As a joke, Farmer followed Vonnegut's skeletal plotline and wrote the novel, publishing it under Trout's name. Vonnegut loved the story, although he was angry when people accused him of writing the book.

In the course of dinner, I watched as Vonnegut smoked seven unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes while eating a corned beef sandwich. I was surprised that he'd survived into his late sixties, and my amazement deepened as I watched him put away the better part of a pack over the next couple of hours. In all, I calculated that he was smoking between three and four packs of unfiltered cigarettes a day and was putting away enough nicotine to fell a bull elephant. I thanked God that I'd gotten to meet him, as his smoking and cholesterol consumption clearly made him into a ticking time bomb.

I have to laugh. This was in 1990, when he was 67. He lived for another seventeen years, and was finally killed by brain damage that he sustained in a household fall.

He had a good run. All day, I've been getting e-mails from former students who read his books in my classes. I'm sad that he has died, but he's practically the definition of a life well lived.

And, as my students can attest, it would be foolish to say that he's gone.

Politically Relevant Bluegrass

First off, sorry for all the You Tube postings of late. Basically, it's been pretty busy and is taking me a while to write a couple of huge pieces. I promise they'll come up fairly soon.

In the meantime, here's The Asylum Street Spankers, a politically-charged bluegrass group cum performance art troupe. Frankly, I'm not sure how to feel about it. I do warn, however, that it features strong language and powerful imagery. Anyway, here goes:



And, if that's a bit too much for you, here's a Star Trek parody. Check out Sulu demonstrating some serious sexual ambivalence:



Live long and prosper, baby!

Scooby Snacks

I always knew that Scooby Doo was trippy, but it only gets better when you add in Valerie Solanas, Patty Hearst, the Son of Sam and...is that Ted Bundy?



Oddly enough, the quotes actually come from Solanas' SCUM manifesto.

My Daughter's Gift to Me

Uncle Don was my father's only sibling. When I was growing up, he was a shadowy figure, shrouded in legend. Don was the one who told off my bitter, miserable grandparents, left his wife and son, and ran away to Mississippi. He remarried, fathered a couple of other kids, divorced again, and moved to Orlando. I met him years later, when I was in my early teens. He looked like Kenny Rogers, with a grizzled beard and eyes that were constantly laughing. In his relaxed, laconic style, there was nothing of the grim restraint that characterized my Long Island family. In fact, the only similarity between my grandparents and my uncle was that he was a (mostly) functional alcoholic.

Once Don came back into our lives, we started to see him every couple of years. He and my father could never truly be friends--my grandparents had hardwired hatred and competition into their sons from birth--but the two brothers also understood each other, and there was a genuine love that underlay the fist fights and drunken insults. For me, it was incredibly sad: even as a kid, I saw that, if they could ever get past their compulsive need to attack each other, the two men would be an unstoppable force. I also knew that this would never happen. The Watson boys would always be the best of enemies.

When my father died, Don came to visit. My sisters were convinced that he was sniffing around in search of whatever money he could scam off us. This might be true; he disappeared pretty soon after the funeral. I still like to give him the benefit of the doubt, though. He had his own life and family in Cincinnati and he needed to get back to work. Regardless, he did me a pretty big favor. Shortly after my dad died, I found myself completely overwhelmed. I had to arrange to have Dad's body shipped from the University of Virginia hospital in Charlottesville to the Everly Funeral Home in Fairfax while I was also planning for his funeral, dealing with visiting relatives, trying to get a job to support my family, writing an obituary, and making sure my sisters were doing well in school. In the middle of all of this, the well pump broke, and we found ourselves without water. Realizing that I was a hair's breadth away from a total meltdown, Don put his wife Trish in charge of the well and took me out for a beer. One beer turned into many, and I found myself unable to feel my toes. For the first, and only, time in my life, I had gotten wasted in a mall bar.

As we were draining pitchers, Don got me talking. We discussed all the responsibilities that I had to face, and my plans for the future. In the process, we got on to his relationship with Dad and the fact that they'd never been able to move beyond the hatred that their parents had so carefully cultivated. In the middle of all of this, Don said something really amazing. He told me that I'd completely changed my father. According to Don, Dad had always been taciturn and agressive as a child, and had never really been able to tone down his brutal, cruel intelligence far enough to deal with mere mortals. After I was born, Don told me, my father had finally allowed his humor to emerge, and had become a really funny, lovable person.

All my life, I had enjoyed my father's wicked, keen wit and incredible personal warmth. It had never occurred to me that these were not permanent parts of his personality, much less that I had had anything to do with them. Of course, I realize that Don might have been buttering me up, but I don't think he was. I think he was simply acknowledging a part of my father that he couldn't help loving.

Years later, I came across an interview with my mother's father, Maurice Kramer. Maurice was a health fanatic. He worked out a few days a week, swam constantly, and only ate "natural" food. What's really bizarre is that he followed this regimen in the 1940's, when "healthy lifestyle" could be roughly translated as "only smoking three packs of Luckys a day." At any rate, Maurice stated that he had performed his first handstand in his forties. I had always thought that Maurice was born in a gym, and it floored me to realize that he began working out only after the birth of his first few children. I began to glimpse how much fatherhood had changed even that unchangeable man.

I found out that my wife was pregnant in January 2005. Since then, I quit smoking, gained 20 pounds, began working out three times a week, started doing cardio exercises every day, watched my diet, and dropped 35 pounds. I got a tattoo. I started writing a blog. I began preparations for moving my family to New York. Within the next few months, I will leave Southwest Virginia and teaching and will begin a new life and a new profession in a new city. I have dropped friendships that stressed me out and cultivated relationships that make my life more meaningful. I have, in a very real way, tried to become the person that I always wanted to be. On the other hand, I have also been worrying more and laughing less. I find myself desperately trying to preserve my own sense of humor, even as my sense of self completely changes.

I have not gotten on this self-improvement kick for shits and giggles. Unlike my parents, I want to live to see my children graduate from college. Like my parents, I want to show my daughter what it is to be successful and self-actualized. I want my legacy to be one of joy and fulfillment, not bitterness and disappointment. I want to give George the best of my childhood, and demonstrate the best of my adulthood.

Thinking about my father and my grandfather, I wonder if this is something that every parent goes through. I have heard people whine about how having children forced them to give up their dreams, or cramped their lifestyles. It seems to me that George is making me pursue my dreams, and is forcing me to expand my lifestyle. Because of my daughter, I'm becoming the adult that I always wanted to look up to.

I can't help but think that our children are, at least to some extent, put here to remind us that our dreams are still attainable.

A Little Face Time

By the time I got to New York on the Friday before Spring Break, I was exhausted. Several hours of flying, not to mention cooling my heels in Atlanta when Delta randomly decided to cancel my connecting flight, had left me cranky and fried. Consequently, I didn't really catch on when the wife mentioned that we would be meeting one of my favorite bloggers, Odat, for lunch the following Tuesday. Sometime the next day, as I was wandering from grocery store to grocery store picking up the necessities, it occurred to me that I would finally be meeting one of the people that I regularly welcome into my life. Of course, I immediately got a little nervous. Sure, Odat seemed really cool, and the calming optimism of her posts had been cheering me up for months now, but there was always the possibility...

After all, how many stories have we all heard about psychopaths stalking people on the internet? And, for that matter, don't the neighbors always say the nicest things about serial killers? I mean, can't you imagine someone in Dahmer's building saying, "He was always so optimistic, willing to look on the bright side of things. Of course, he usually had a young swinger sitting on ice in his bathroom, so who can blame him?"

Actually, to be honest, I was never really worried about Odat. I was, however, a little bit nervous about myself. Had I set the bar a little high? Was she aware that I usually draft my posts before I send them out? Jesus, I hoped she'd be as cool in person as she was in her writing.

That's the key point, I guess. A few times a week, I invite a bunch of strangers into my life and take a little peek inside theirs. Maybe I leave out some information, but I write some incredibly intimate things about myself. My favorite bloggers, of course, do the same. We let each other into our thoughts and dare to divulge how our minds work. Admittedly, I'm an exhibitionist, but still...

At any rate, Tuesday came around, by which time I'd managed to put a lid on my nervousness. The wife was feeling pretty sick with a bug that she'd picked up from Georgia. I offered to go alone or reschedule, but she was having none of it. She was eager to meet the legendary Odat, and nothing short of leprosy was going to keep her from this lunch date.

By the time we showed up at Barnes and Noble in Union Square, where we were scheduled to meet Odat, I really had to go to the bathroom. That particular B&N hides their Men's room in a really inconvenient place, which meant that any further nervousness was overshadowed by a frantic search for the porcelain playroom, which I finally located in the computer section. I rejoined the wife by the front door, where she was on the lookout for "a curly redhead." Shortly after I got downstairs, we found ourselves joined by an energetic redhead with a huge smile.

Odat took us to Republic, a fusion restaurant near the bookstore. It had a really spare communal setup that made me think of state-run dining halls in China. The food was fantastic, Thai accented and perfectly prepared. We took off our coats, then put them back on again--it was a beautiful restaurant, but the heat left something to be desired. Somehow, though, the chilly air added to the cozyness of the situation.

Because she was sick, Misanthropster's voice wasn't working too well. When I'm nervous, or forced to carry a lot of the conversation, I tend to get a little Joe Friday. I ask a lot of questions, and probably talk more than I should. Odat was incredibly nice about everything, and I realized that the sensitivity and generosity that pervade her posts have a real basis in her personality. She is, simply, a genuinely kind and thoughtful person.

Lunch ended too soon, and Odat went back to work, while the wife and I trekked back home, where she took a nap. I was only moderately afraid that I had talked too much, and was left feeling pretty amazing about my first blog author meeting.

Which brings me to my next announcement. I'm going up to Arlington, Virginia this weekend to spend Easter with my friend John. He has assured me that he is very much up for a little bar hopping. If any of my favorite DC-area bloggers are available on Saturday or Sunday, please let me know. Having met one of my favorite authors, I'm eager to share beers with a few of the others!

Kermie, the Untold Story

Warning: Although this post begins with relatively harmless reminiscence, it ends with a muppet in a compromising position. To put it mildly, there are things that one cannot un-see. If you will regret seeing Kermit the Frog delving into the depths of amphibious depravity, turn back now. I promise, I'll put something a little more PG up tomorrow!

When I was in third grade, I got in a fight with a couple of other kids. I was never a very good fighter, and a combination of punches, a curb, and my natural lack of coordination led to my first broken nose. Overall, the broken nose has never really bothered me. In fact, when I was a freshman in college, it was a combination of this broken nose and a modest talent for mimicry that gave me my best party trick: a fairly accurate rendering of Kermit the frog.

My friend Julie particularly loved the Kermie voice, and I could usually count on it to send her collapsing into hysterics whenever we were drinking. Of course, I rarely limited myself to straight imitation, and would often describe the most awful crimes against taste and propriety while using the Kermit voice.

I've always found the essential disconnect between innocence and depravity to be the most amazing, shocking, and even funny thing in the world. It's amusing when Sam Kinnison makes scatological jokes. It's hilarious when Mickey Mouse does it.

At any rate, Julie recently sent me a video of Kermit singing the Trent Reznor cum Johnny Cash lament "Hurt." If you have not seen the Cash version of this song, it's necessary reading for the Kermit video. Here's Johnny:



And, if you want the whole story, here's the Nine Inch Nails version:



And now, Ladies and Gentleman, Sad Kermit: