The Life of Bryan

In Praise of: Ten Good Years at Clarke College/University

2019-10-17T04:27:00.001+02:00

My office door: Eliza Kelly 306

[Note: I wrote this in July 2017 and never actually posted it. So here it is two years later]

I began my post at Clarke College in August 2007 as an Assistant Professor of Art History. The Clarke University Board of Trustees approved my tenure and promotion and tenure in January 2014. And they subsequently approved my promotion to full professor in January 2017. In short, and in many ways, I have accomplished quite a bit in ten years at Clarke College/University. I am proud of my time here. I'm proud of the teacher and colleague I have become. I'm proud of the students I have taught. I'm proud of the career and life I have forged.

Clarke has been good to me. And I hope I have been good for Clarke.

I likewise have wonderful things to say about Iowa and Dubuque more specifically. I met my wife in Dubuque. Both of my sons were born in Dubuque. I've lived in Dubuque for ten years. Dubuque has become my home.

And yet all that written--I love Clarke, I love Dubuque--I have begun to wonder recently if it might be time to move on to new challenges and adventures.

And today I write that it is.

I am delighted to report that Anna (and Lugnut and Hambone, of course) will be joining the Louisiana Tech University family beginning in the fall 2017 quarter. Anna will join the faculty of the Literature and Language department, and I will become Associate Dean of the College of the Liberal Arts.

I have many people to thank for my happy time at Clarke, and any list would unwillingly omit many people. But in what lines I have left, I hope to acknowledge and thank people who made my time at 1550 Clarke Drive so very happy and productive.

To begin, I would like to thank those students who made my time so joyful. Any list would no doubt be incomplete, so I instead give one mighty thank you to all those who were open to the study of art history. No doubt, my time at Clarke would not have been as happy without you dancing through my life in CBH 109. I am honored to have had the opportunity to share my passion for art and history with you.

Ten Years of My Professional Life: The Friendly Confines of the Office

In Praise of: Authenticity

2019-10-17T04:13:00.001+02:00

I got some unexpected (and, to be fair, some unintentional) affirmation during the past week. This is that story.

But the story does not begin this week. Instead, it begins in July 2017 in the weeks leading up to my move to Ruston to begin my post as the Associate Dean in the College of Liberal Arts at Louisiana Tech University. Indeed, during my last week in Dubuque, Iowa, I asked the Provost at Clarke University, Susan Burns, if I could take her to lunch. This was in part an effort to thank her for speaking on my behalf for the new position, but also to pick her brain about the challenges of the new position. One part of this conversation stands out.

“I’m not sure, Susan,” I said, “that I can show up there and be the high-five giver that I have been here. I guess I think I’ll have to show up and have a greater sense of seriousness, a greater sense of ethos.”

“You have to be you, Bryan,” she said. “Perhaps one of the reasons why you were a compelling candidate for the position is because of your enthusiasm.”

So that settled that—and I’ll forever be faithful to Dr. Burns’s for this advice. To thine on self be true. One of the first things I did once I did when I moved into my office in George T. Madison Hall was to put the words from the Oracle of Delphi—γνῶθι σεαυτόν—somewhere would I would see it each day. These words—know thyself—have been three syllabus that have guided my admittedly brief administrative career. I am upbeat. I allow optimism to guide my day. I believe in kindness and thankfulness. I believe in high fives.

Lots of high fives.

In short, in my slightly more than two years of being an Associate Dean, I have remained authentic to who I am.

Authentic.

As I enter my third years as Associate Dean, I have begun to allow my mind to wonder as to what might me next in my career, and although I was not certain of this when I began at Tech two years ago, I can now write—with some certainty—that I very much look forward to being a Big Dean at some point in the future (to be clear, I am in no rush). And as I have pondered this, I have wondered if I can remain the high-five giver I pride myself in being as a Big Dean.

Last Friday, I was having a conversation with a senior academic administrator at Tech about this very concern. To my delight—and, perhaps, to my surprise—she expressed the idea that she would be disappointed if I were not a high-five giving Big Dean.

In short: be authentic. To thy own self be true.

During this academic year I have the honor of participating in a wonderful program: The Universities of Louisiana Management and Leadership Institute. Once a month, two (ahem!) future leaders from each of the nine universities in our system meet on a different campus to explore the educational landscapes and challenges in our state. This week—on 15 and 16 October—I had the opportunity to visit Southeastern Louisiana University in Hammond and to hear from several educational leaders from our state (two of whom I had never met and another I have the honor to know a bit). The first was Dr. William Wainwright, the Chancellor of Northshore Technical Community College and the second was Dr. Jim Henderson, the President of the Universities of Louisiana System (in essence, Dr. Henderson is my boss’s boss’s boss’s boss). Both of these men—leaders within our state—stressed the unwavering importance of one attribute over most others: the idea of remaining personally authentic.

To thy own self be true.

This was such a wonderful set of messages to hear. I am not sure if I needed to hear them, but I’m thankful I did. Very thankful, for it was during these past few days when this thought was solidified in my consciousness:

Though I am in the early stages of an administrative career, I am confident that through hustle and hard work I will have an opportunity to be a Big Dean someday. And when that happens, I will remain the high-five giver then as I am now. This commitment does not indicate a lack of seriousness of purpose of a lack of devotion to doing an important job exceedingly well.

No. Instead, it’s just a commitment to being authentic.

Know thyself. To thy own self be true.

An open letter to--and In Praise of--Dr. Joanne Pillsbury

2019-07-09T22:27:00.000+02:00

I—as I am wont to do—have a story to tell. It’s a story—and an expression of thankfulness—some fifteen years (!) in the making. But ‘tis better later than never, I suppose, so allow me, please, to make up for some lost time.

I started my PhD at the University of Maryland in 2001, and during that first year, I had a pretty consistent early morning coffee ritual with Katy Dunn and Liz Nogrady. I would exit the front of the Art/Soc building, march five minutes the Adelle Stamp Student Union, and deposit my $2 at the Starbucks (note: I drank regular drip coffee because it’s all I could afford). This continued for part of my second year, too, but I eventually learned that I could walk the other direction out the Art/Soc building and get a cup of coffee at one of the dining halls for $1.25. And I eventually wised up and learned that I could actually buy a coffee maker and brew coffee in my office on the third floor for dimes on the dollar.

And so for the remainder of my second year—and the three years to come—this was my ritual. I was done throwing $10 a week to Starbucks for a single cup of coffee. My buddy who worked at the Starbucks across the street from PG Plaza mall hooked me up with a pound of coffee whenever I wanted, and so I was set from a coffee point of view.

Note: I still have that Starbucks Barista coffee maker, and it is—now as in 2003—still in my office at school

Now before I go on, allow me to write this: I feel that I was a pretty fortunate and supported graduate student. This support is not only meant to suggest support from the faculty who taught me and those who whom I worked, but also the support I felt from the university at large. I would never suggest I was overpaid as a Graduate Teaching Fellow, but I made enough between that gig and my side hustles (Writing Center, Barnes & Noble, Athletic Department) to squeak out a pretty comfortable life (for a graduate student).

So while I wasn’t poor, I certainly wasn’t rich, but I was money conscious enough to forgo trips to Starbucks for the more economical Brew It Myself option.

But here is where I get to the point of my rambling, and where I get to deliver on my expression of thankfulness.

One morning—and I cannot tell you the day or even the year, but I would suggest 2004-2005, I was minding my own business in my office at school—reading, writing, grading, or doing so such related art history graduate student task—when a professor, Dr. Joanne Pillsbury—popped her head into my office and said, “I’m making a coffee run; can I pick you up a doppio?”

Let me pause: I was not Dr. Pillsbury’s TA/TF. I was not in her class (I think I had advanced to candidacy before she had arrived at Maryland). There was no real cause, I suppose, for her to be kind to me aside from one really simple fact:

Dr. Pillsbury was—and I would wager, remains—I remarkably kind person. To everyone.

So, somewhat stunned at the offer, but more than thrilled at something other than drip coffee, I bet I responded with some such as, “Well, golly, I’d be delighted.” SO get this: Dr. Pillsbury paid for, picked up, and delivered my coffee. Wow.

Someone far more cynical than me—and I’m plenty cynical, I suppose—might comment, “Shut your cake eater, Bryan. Shut up. Someone who had the means to buy you a cup of coffee bought you a cup of coffee. Big whoop-di-do deal.”

Fair. But in five years as a PhD student, I can promise you that I can count on one hand the number of professors who bought me a cup of coffee. And I bet I don’t need more than two fingers, to be honest.

But Dr. Pillsbury did, even when I was nothing other than some bloke with a small office on the same hallway.

Although it was but a small gesture, it was one that stayed with me these many years.

Fast forward to June 2019.

I am now—and have been these past two weeks—in Italy with 15 Louisiana Tech students on an Italian Grand Tour of sorts. We began in Rome, took a jaunt to Siena, and we are currently in Florence. One of my students—Sara Beth—turned 20 while we were in Rome, and in order to celebrate her (almost) coming of age in the Eternal City, I suggested we all go out to get some gelato to celebrate her birthday at a great place not from far from where we live in Prati. At the end of the line our tab came to 41E.

“I got this,” I said when the students came up to throw some money into the gelato pot.

Almost to a person they expressed thankfulness at the gesture, and in order to deflect it—or perhaps just to explain—I told them about a wonderfully kind gesture I once received from a Maryland art history professor many years ago, and how wonderful if felt for me—as a professional—to pay that back to a group of students.

Who knows? Perhaps some 15 years in the future another group of people (if not students) might be the beneficiaries of Dr. Pillsbury’s long-oft act of kindness.

So, Dr. Pillsbury: I am more than confident that you have no recollection of this coffee run Way Back When. But I do. And I just wanted to write—with some finality and enthusiasm: Thank you. You were then—and I am confident you remain so today—a gem. Your $2.50 coffee beverage meant for more to me than ten simple quarters.

In Praise of: Walpole Tire and Service

2017-12-12T21:57:00.003+01:00

To the good people at Walpole Tire,

Confession: I’m a historian, not a mechanic. I know the most basic of things when it comes to automobiles (where to put the gas, how to operate the accelerator and the brakes, how to work increasingly more complicated ignition systems). But beyond that, cars are not my thing.

I’m a historian.

So when I brought my aging—but oh so treasured—2006 Honda Element in on Tuesday 3 October because the left front end was making a sound as if I were continually driving over a highway rumble strip, I was more than a little concerned. The day before I looked under the hood and in the area of the general noise making, but as there was no flashing neon sign pointing to an obvious problem, I figured it was a situation best handled by mechanics. Not a historian.

When I dropped off that aforementioned aging Honda Element off at Walpole Tire, I had two related wishes. First, I hoped to escape with a bill somewhere around $500. Second, given the complexity of life—my wife and I both work at Tech, but we have to shuttle two Little Guys hither and tither—I was hoping to have the car done in one day, something I was somewhat doubt of, given my appointment was at 1.30P.

In all ways that are not historical, I’m somewhat of an idiot. I know it’s hard to believe. Here is how things could have gone:

The technician at Walpole could have told me, “Yeah, Bryan; we took off that wheel, and, well, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. We had to replace a whatchamacallit, and you needed two thingamabobs, and although I didn’t think so at first, you need a new thingamajig, too. Let me be honest: it was a red-hot mess in there.”

“Damn!,” I would have responded. “But hey, if that’s what I need, then you better do that. Tires and wheels seem to be a pretty important thing on a car. How much is this going to cost?”

“Well that’s the thing,” a less benevolent technician might have said. “Should be between $700 and $800.”

“You better do it,” I’d respond in kind.

And I never (ever ever ever) would have been the wiser. I never would have known. I brought my car in with a problem. The problem was fixed. I would have assumed—quite naturally—that something (anything!) had been done. And that costs money.

But that’s not the conversation that happened. Much to my surprise (and delight), I received a phone call at about 11.30A to inform me that my car was ready to be picked up. The diagnosis? Two of the five lugnuts on the front left tire were lose. The official Walpole Tire remedy? They tightened them up.

And then—wait for it—the magic line: “No charge. You can pick the car up now if you want.”

Total cost? $0. And, as I have mentioned I am a historian, not a mechanic. I am also not a mathematician. But I am well aware that $0 < $500.

As a consumer, I’m a believer in relationships. When I first started driving—in my hometown of Tucson, Arizona—I always got gas at a Circle K. Not because it was cheaper (I had no idea as if it was or was not), or because the pump handles were nicer than those oat Quik Mart. No, the only reason I went for gas at Circle K was because it was where I bought my baseball cards when I was a wee-little tike.

So I write today—this wonderful, glorious Louisiana day in mid-December—to congratulate you, Walpole Tire. You may not have taken any money from me in October (although goodness knows you could have). But when next I need tires (or any service, to be honest, that you good locale happens to provide), I’ll roll in with the sassy blue Honda Element. I cannot begin to write how wonderfully refreshing it is to know that a business could have taken advantage of my (good-natured) ignorance, and chose not to. From an appreciative customer, let me write—quite simply—thank you.

Sincerely yours,
Bryan Zygmont

In Praise of: The Clarke University Pride, Part I

2017-02-09T05:12:00.001+01:00

When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

St. Paul's first letter to the Corinthians, 13.11

Before I begin, let me write that the words that follow are only those that express my own opinion and views. I write on my own behalf, and do not write on behalf of Clarke University, its administration, or any of its faculty. Also know that this is a multi-part post. I've got lots to say.

Part I: Why we should change the Crusader nickname
Part II: How this change came about and who should have a voice
Part III: Why Pride is perfect acceptable

Recently, Clarke University announced that it would change its (athletic) nickname from Crusaders to Pride. This has caused--in some vocal circles--a great sense of outrage, discontent, and general ill will. Because the squeaky wheel often gets the oil, and as there has been little squeaking by those who are in favor of this change, I thought I would take (metaphorical) pen in hand to express why this change of nickname is not only appropriate, but long overdue.

In this post I am concerned with two related topics, although the first is more important than the second. The first involves as to whether Clarke should change its Crusader nickname. The second point involves the appropriateness of the name Pride. Please note: I'm far less concerned with this second point. Indeed, I would prefer that we would be hitherto known as the Clarke University Clarkies than the Crusaders. But I get ahead of myself.

Let us begin.

And begin we must with the word 'crusaders.' I pause here to write, of course, that words have meanings that extend far beyond my (and your!) own life. These meanings can shift over time, but it is difficult (but not unheard of) for a newer meaning to supplant one that is more established. The traditional definition--that is, the primary meaning of the word--is as follows: "a fighter in the medieval Crusades." The secondary definition--one we will return to--is: "a person who campaigns vigorously for political, social, or religious change; a campaigner."

In order to really understand what a Crusader was, we need to understand what the Crusades were. Further, we need to understand and appreciate what the Crusaders were attempting to accomplish. In what follows, I call upon Christopher Tyerman's 2006 opus (1,000 pages' worth) God's War: A New History of the Crusades (if you need to know Tyerman's credentials, he is Fellow in History at Hertford College and Lecturer in Medieval History at New College, both at Oxford University; needless to say, he knows more about the Crusaders than you or I). More specifically, I refer to pages 58-89.

Let's talk about the motivations behind the Crusades, for this will allow us to more fully appreciate what a Crusader was.

On 27 November 1095, Pope Urban II, the leader of the Catholic Church, gave a speech at the Council of Clermont. Unfortunately, no copy of this speech survives, and what is known of it comes to modern scholars through slightly later accounts and letters that Urban II himself wrote. But there is, however, no reason to doubt the tenor, tone, or gist of what survives. According to Fulcher of Chartes, Pope Urban II said:

I, or rather the Lord, beseech you as Christ's heralds to publish this everywhere and to perse all people of whatever rank, foot-soldiers and knights, poor and rich, to carry aid promptly tho those Christians [in the Holy Land] and to destroy that vile race from the lands of our friends. I say this to those who are present, it is meant also for those who are absent. Moreover, Christ commands it.

Robert the Monk recorded that Urban said:

Enter upon the road to the Holy Sepulcher; wrest that land from the wicked race, and subject it to yourselves...God has conferred upon you above all nations great glory in arms. Accordingly undertake this journey for the remission of your sins, with the assurances of the imperishable glory of the Kingdom of Heaven.

Wait..."remission of your sins?" By killing 'the wicked race' one would get their sins forgiven? How can this be?

Robert the Monk continues:

When Pope Urban had said these...things in his urbane discourse, he so influenced to one purpose the desires of all who were present, that they cried out, "It is the will of God! It is the will of God!" When the venerable Roman pontiff heard that, he said: "Most beloved brethren, today is manifest in you what the Lord says in the Gospel, 'Where two or three are gathered together in my name there am I in the midst of them." Unless the Lord God had been present in your spirits, all of you would not have uttered the same cry. For, although the cry issued from numerous mouths, yet the origin of the cry was one. Therefore I say to you that God, who implanted this in your breasts, had drawn it forth from you. Let this then be your war-cry in combats, because this word is given to you by God. When an armed attack is made upon the enemy, let this one cry be raised by all the soldiers of God: It is the will of God! It is the will of God!

Need more? Great. Let's return to Urban's words as reported by Fulcher of Chartes:

All who die by the way, whether by land or by sea, or in battle against the pagans, shall have immediate remission of sins. This I grant them through the power of God with which I am invested. O what a disgrace if such a despised and base race, which worships demons, should conquer a people which has the faith of omnipotent God and is made glorious with the name of Christ! With what reproaches will the Lord overwhelm us if you do not aid those who, with us, profess the Christian religion! Let those who have been accustomed unjustly to wage private warfare against the faithful now go against the infidels and end with victory this war which should have been begun long ago. Let those who for a long time, have been robbers, now become knights. Let those who have been fighting against their brothers and relatives now fight in a proper way against the barbarians. Let those who have been serving as mercenaries for small pay now obtain the eternal reward. Let those who have been wearing themselves out in both body and soul now work for a double honor. Behold! on this side will be the sorrowful and poor, on that, the rich; on this side, the enemies of the Lord, on that, his friends. Let those who go not put off the journey, but rent their lands and collect money for their expenses; and as soon as winter is over and spring comes, let them eagerly set out on the way with God as their guide.

In sum: How did the Crusades begin? In 1095, the Holy Father called for the (Catholic) faithful to go to the Holy Land and to kill the wicked race, the vile race, the despised and base race, the infidels, the barbarians. And the reward for doing so? The remission of sins. Eternal salvation. A one-way ticket on the express way to heaven.

That was a Crusader. A Christian who was given carte blanche to kill people who didn't look or think like him, and was, in fact, offered complete forgiveness for his sins and promised a place in heaven. That was a Crusader and that was the Crusades. It's a black mark on human history, and a true dark moment within the Christian faith.

So do I want to be a Crusader? No I don't.

And one might want to make the thin argument that the Clarke athletic mascot was not *those* kinds of Crusaders, but *ahem* Crusaders for Justice (Social Change, etc.). I respond to this in two different ways. First, the early mascot was a knight on horseback carrying a banner. This was a traditional visual representation of a Crusader who fought in the Crusades. Second: I think we could classify a 'crusader' from our first definition as a person who blindly follows faith in a quest to harm those who have alternate views. If that be the case, you can put any modifier either before it or after (Crusader for Justice, ...for Good, ...for Social Change) and I want nothing to do with it. The Crusades were bad. Crusaders were (generally) bad. There is nothing you can do to modify those nouns to make me wish to be associate with them.

So let me ask one simple question: is it possible that the nickname Crusaders might be not only offensive to somebody, but to exceedingly large groups of somebodies?

Let me pause to write this: I don't care--DO.NOT.CARE--that you are not offended by the name, or that the name means something virtuous and noble to you. That's not my question. My question remains: is it possible that the nickname Crusaders might be not only offensive to somebody, but to exceedingly large groups of somebodies? If you think this has to do with 'political correctness,' I ask you to think about what that really means. Isn't 'political correctness' really some odd code phrase for "this doesn't offend me, and therefore it shouldn't offend anyone?" But sometimes we should be encouraged to think outside our own narrow world view and embrace the perceptions of others. Atticus Finch would approve--you never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...Until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."

Want me to make it more poignant? I give you some words from Martin Niemoller, an anti-Nazi Lutheran theologian and pastor, who was writing about what happens when you ignore the plight of others:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

The moral of this story? We have an obligation to think of and act on behalf of those who are different than ourselves. So if the name Crusaders is not offensive to you, can you imagine that it might be to someone else? And if so, is it 'politically correct' to change the name? Or is it simply the right thing to do. To say that something is 'politically correct' is to suggest that your own feelings and thoughts are more important than the feelings and thoughts of others.

Don't be that person.

When I was in D.C. last summer, I wanted to bring a dear friend of mine--a man of tremendous faith, but man who is a Muslim--a small Clarke gift to show my appreciation for he being the amazing friend he has been for more than a decade. My first thought? Clarke coffee cup. Could I, in good conscience, give a Muslim a coffee cup with the word Crusader on it, when be both know what the Crusaders meant to Christian and Muslim relations? Would he be offended? I asked him. He said no. But's it's possible--not out of the realm of possibilities--that one might be offended. And do I want the school where I work to offend any group on the basis of what they believe, where they are from, what they look like, or any other arbitrary factor?

No.

In fact, I'm damn proud to work at a school that is ecumenical in spirit.

Part II: Forthcoming.

In Praise of: Long-Term Goals, Beer Bottle Caps, and ArtResin

2016-08-04T19:25:00.000+02:00

During winter break of 2003-04, I made a trip to Sacramento, CA, to visit the then girlfriend and then meet her family (don't ask how that visit went). One of the real highlights of that trip, to be honest, was a visit to the Jelly Belly factory. While there I noticed a really cool portrait of George Washington made entirely out of jelly beans. Being the art history nerd that I am, this totally rang my bell. Even then, I had this thought: if someone could make a portrait out of jelly beans, might I be able to do the same with something smilar, say, bottle caps?

The answer? No. I'm not an artist, dammit. There is no way I could do something like this. But this didn't stop me from collecting beer caps. Lots of beer caps. Lots and lots of beer caps. I finished at the University of Maryland in 2006, got a job during that academic year, and from that time onwards, I saved all the bottle caps from the beer that I drank. When I moved Missouri to Iowa, I packed up all the beer caps and brought them with me. When I moved from Clarke Drive to our new house, I packed up the caps and brought them with me again.

My wife, god bless her, has completely embraced (well, perhaps not 'embraced.' Perhaps it's better said that she has 'accepted') my odd penchant for collecting odd stuff. A couple of Christmases ago, she bought me some kick ass Beer Cap Maps (the Belgium map, atop, is completely filled with Belgian caps; the United States map, still a work in process, has nothing but caps from American breweries). But I still had bottle caps left over. Hundreds and thousands of bottle caps. So I needed another art project. I waited. Patiently.

And then this past spring, I had an idea. I had a coffee table in my office at Clarke Univeristy--it belonged to my grandmother--and the long edges had a nice raised edge. I thought it might be interesting to fill it with caps and then find a way to seal them in. I didn't want to wimp out and do glass, so I consulted Jessica Teckemeyer, the sculpture professor, and she finally recommended a product called ArtResin. It has two parts; the resin and the hardener. You simply mix them together in equal measure and pour.

This was within my skill set. So I set to work. Here was my process.

Sort caps by brand and color. It was staggering in some ways to see how many different kinds of beer I have drank over the past decade, and looking at the caps makes it clear that I have some clear favorites.
I measured the bench and put forth a solid guess as tho how many caps I would need, both width and length
From there, I began to press them with my bottle capper so that bent caps could be made as straight as possible. I knew I couldn't do anything as fancy as a picture, so I aimed for a symetrical design that played with the length of the bench and utilized a interesting color arrangment. I decided to split into left and right halves, and then do several long rows of Sameul Adams and New Belgium caps on the outside permieter.
From there, I began to work on the arrangement, working in loops of black, silver, and white. I then created colored bands in the middle of each loop; the left and right side were symetrically matched.
Once the caps were all in, I needed to create a 'damn' for the short sides. I did this with painter's tape (I did a pass on the bottom so as to seal it). I then created a reinforcement with foamcore and packing tape (just in case the force of the liquid was too much for the painter's tape.
I then tried to make sure the table was level, but this was difficult, given the fact, it seems, that my level is from the 1940s and seemingly doesn't work.
With this, I was ready to go.

In Praise of: Kendal and Hyde

2016-05-15T02:37:00.000+02:00

Anna's hand, Hugh 'Hambone' Kelley Zygmont, his college school bag.
14 May 2016

About five years ago, I purchased a Saddleback Leather Classic Briefcase, and it has been my 'everyday carry' as a college professor ever since. The thing is getting better with age, and I must confess that I love it. When I began this trifle of a blog, my first post was about that bag. If you care, you can find those words here.

When I bought my SBL bag, I was dating a girl named Anna. And then Anna and I went to Italy (I took the SBL bag) and I proposed. After much thought she said yes. So in 2012 she became my wife. And then we had our first son, Clark. Shortly thereafter, I had the thought that I suppose I had always known, but had never quite thought about so pointedly: hot damn, this kid is going to get my bag someday.

And that was that. I had a bag I loved. I had a son I loved. Someday son would get bag.

And then we went ahead and decided to have another child. And that second child decided to be a male. Another son. And then I was hit with a thought that I hadn't yet thought of: second son would need a leather school bag to use at college, too.

So I decided to do something so rational it will surprise no one who knows me:

I decided to purchase my as-yet unborn son a high-end leather school bad so that he might have it when it goes off to college. I would just have an 18-year head start in breaking it in for him.

Despite how happy I have been with my Saddleback bag, I decided that it was appropriate to spread the wealth a big, and so I went in search of another company. After much research and deliberation, I decided to go with a company that (I believe) got their start on Kickstarter: Kendal and Hyde. They currently have two kinds of school bags; the Classic Satchel (a big that looks remarkably similar to the Classic Briefcase I have SBL) and the Classic Attache. For the sake of continuity, I decided to put a bag to give to son #2 that was most similar to the bag that I am to give to son #1, so I went with the Classic Satchel. But that was not the only decision; I had to decided on the color (I went with Natural, an 'un-dyed' leather that will darken and patina over time) and the size (I opted for the bag that could fit a 15" laptop, although my current Mac is only 13".

I thought and I thought and I thought. And then I pulled the trigger. And then son #2 arrived on 28 April 2016. And then the Kendal & Hyde bag arrived just 20 hours later. And let me write this with as much clarity as my limited abilities as a word smith can muster: the bag is fantastic. Fantastic. I love it, and in about 18 years, son #2 is going to love it, too.

There are lots of things to love about it, but I'll give you a few. To begin, the bag is essentially divided into three compartments. The one in the middle is a sleeve for my laptop, something I wish my Saddleback had. Indeed, the laptop upon which I currently type is covered in scratches from being placed in my SBL bag with other stuff. Attached to the back of this 'sleeve' is a slot that is big enough to fit my iPad (in it case; how wonderful is that?). The back compartment of the Kendal & Hyde (henceforth: KH) is large open compartment, ideal for books, folders, and other large items. The front of the bag has two pockets; one that has a flap (with a pocket behind it; ideal for a phone or iPod) and another that is open (with a couple of pen slots). The back of the bag has a 'magazine pocket--ideal for a newspaper or a boarding pass, and there is a nice pocket under the flap (thoughtfully stamped with a trademark). In many ways, the bag has a classic aesthetic, which is one of the reasons why I am so attracted to it, but it has a fantastic sensibility.

One of the things I most like about the KH bag is the hardware. Whereas my SBL bag has very shiny buckles and such, those on the KH bag are a matte silver brass (including a buffalo nickel attached tot the snap on the handle). To be honest, they seem much lighter in weight than the nickel-plated metal on my SBL bag, but I think time will tell that that on the KH bag will be pretty strong enough for toting around some books and a laptop. Like my SBL bag, there are several D-rings on the side of the bag on the KH bag. On my current briefcase, I have a carabiner on here to attach my keys. I will do the same on the KH bag, although they also sell small leather pockets that you can attach to the side.

The leather is vegetable tanned, which means it requires a bit more maintenance than my SLB bag. And by 'a bit more maintenance,' what I mean is that I blasted with with a couple of slatherings of Fiebings Aussie Leather Conditioner (which I can highly recommend, by the way). This darkened the leather a shade or two, but in a really pleasant way (I took the first set of pictures right out of the box; those that follow may look darker, becuase the bag is). The leather is good and think, and I assume that it will lose its stiffness as it gets used (I have about 18 years to break it in).

In all, I was delighted with the bag, and delighted with all of my interactions with those who work at Kendal & Hyde. If the bag and the people are any indication, I strongly suspect that

The Natural leather right out of the bag; a few coats of leather conditioner and it warmed up to a glowing light brown.

Under-the-flap pocket; perfect for small slips of paper (metro passes, business cars, perhaps).

This is the carrying handle cover. Yes, that's a real Buffalo nickel.

This is a 13" Macbook in a slot for a 15" laptop. An iPad can fit in the sleeve behind. Plenty of room for the needs of a college professor. Or his kid. Someday.

Picture got more than a little warm, but I really like the matte nickel hardward. And I'm not sure what Solid Brass means (I know that bass is an alloy of copper and zinc). I hope it means it'll last 50 years.

In front: Lugnut's school bag: a 2011 Saddleback Leather Dark Coffee Brown Classic Briefcase.
In back: Hambone's school bag: a 2016 Kendal & Hyde Natural Classic Satchel.

I've had the kid since 28 April. I've had the bag one day less.

In Praise of: Cafe Fraiche, Eric Wold, and the Second Breakfast

2015-12-04T20:43:00.001+01:00

During the fall 2015 semester, I have been on a research sabbatical from Clarke University. In short, I’ve been writing. A lot. But I have aspired, most weeks, to accomplish my writing goals by Thursday (if not Wednesday), and that has left Fridays open for what Eric Wold and I have called Second Breakfast. Not every Friday, but more Fridays than not, Wold and I would meet at a local eatery for food and camaraderie that we did not get in early morning hollers across the hallway between our offices. You know, sabbatical. At home writing.

Late in the semester a new breakfast eatery opened in Dubuque, and once we found this place, it’s the only we dined. The joint is called Café Fraiche, and it’s located at 609 E. 22^nd Street. It opened only several months ago (late October, I should think), and Anna and I made a run there during one of their first weeks, and we really enjoyed our meal. The décor is charming, and the food was both a) wonderful and b) so reasonably priced I often think I should order two (but in my attempts to slim down, I’ve thus far restrained). Get this: for $4 I get scrambled eggs, hash brown, and toast. Everything has been so darn good. I’ve been there with Eric, The Lovely Wife, and my buddy Kate. All have agreed that the food is totally top notch.

Because I’m coming from home and Eric is coming from Clarke, I often arrive well before him, sometimes as much as a half hour. And yet, the charming staff has been more than content to allow me to drink coffee and read in peace, and I must confess that this is rare indeed. Want to piss off a Village Inn server? Go there, sit down, and read/grade/chill for half of an hour without ordering food. After fifteen minutes you’ll get a line that sounds like this: “Is it time for you to order? Yet?” The ‘yet?’ part announces their frustration at their waiting on you without—as yet, at least—the reward of a tip beyond the cost of a cup of coffee.

But as good as the food has been, the dining experience has been as good. Here is the glory of eating at a locally owned restaurant: everyone is glad that you are there. The servers? Delighted to see you! The owner? Thanks for coming! Tell your friends! Come back and see us again! Little makes me feel better as a patron than a sincere expression of thankfulness for my business. And this thankfulness goes both ways. I’m delighted that they are open, particularly in a different part of town other than on Main St., on JFK, or the West End. I’m thankful for great food and even better service. I’m thankful for Second Breakfast and quality time with The Wold.

I’ve been thankful for the sabbatical, although not necessarily thankful that it’s almost over. I’ll be thankful if Eric and I can find time to visit Café Fraiche during the spring semester. It will be something to look forward to.

By the by, you can find them online at www.cafefraiche.com (check out the menu! Breakfast available from open until they close at 3P!). I can almost guarantee that you'll not only enjoy the food, you'll enjoy the experience.

In Praise of: Nine Great Years

2015-10-29T19:09:00.000+01:00

More often than not, I wake up each and I have no idea what the day will bring. Thankfully, I am an optimist by nature, and I see each day as an opportunity of making someone’s day better. But I have no idea at 6A how this is going to play out.

I just hope it does.

I had no idea, for example, what Thursday 9 November 2006 would be when I woke up that morning. I was in Maryville, Missouri at the time, having begun my first job as an Assistant Professor at Northwest Missouri State University. To be honest, I can tell you very little about this day. It was an autumn day, the leaves were changing, the weather was crisp. But I cannot tell you anything about my day prior to 2P. I don’t recall what classes I had, what I did, if I ate, or to whom I spoke.

No, the things I can tell you relate to one simple fact: this was the day that Romey the Wunderbeagle came into my life. I rescued her from a very bad home.

Clarke University has a literary magazine, and I have contributed to it twice. The second time, some over three and a half years ago, I actually wrote about Romey. I concluded with this paragraph:

It is difficult to say with certainty how old Romey is. She has been with me for more than five years now, and she was probably a couple of years old when I got her. The veterinarian told me today she is between nine and eleven. Her eyes are a bit hazier than I would like, and the knee replacement surgery (really!) from November 2010 means she will never catch the rabbits she chases behind Clarke University. I suppose all of this has me mindful of her mortality and my realization that she will not be burying bones in the living room couch forever. So I try to take to take her for longer walks. I try to give her longer belly scratches. I embarrassingly sing to her. All the time. Perhaps the most important thing she reminds me of daily: Tell Those Who You Love that You Love Them. Everyday.

When I was asked to read at the release party for the Tenth Muse, I was happy to do so, and I even brought the hound. But when I got to the final paragraph, I broke down and openly wept. It would be easy to fall into a cliché and say that it wasn’t I who rescued her, but it was she who rescued me. So I won’t do that. But what I can write, with great confidence, is that this lovely dog was able to see me through some very difficult times. She wasn’t a perfect dog, to be certain. She loved to get into the trash. She always found a way to get the bread off the kitchen counter. For three years I had to secure my fridge with duct tape so she wouldn’t break into it (this sounds like a joke, but I have witnesses). But she was a very good dog; sweet and kind, if at times a bit indifferent to strangers.

Nine years from now, I am not sure what I will be able to tell you about Thursday 29 October 2015. But I know for certain I will recall—with great, gut-wrenching clarity—that it was the day Anna and I had to let Romey go.

This has been a long process. She has long since lost her hearing, and her vision is more absent than not. She has lost a lot of weight. Moreover, over the past two weeks, she has lost the desire to eat—even people food which two years ago she would have scarfed up without any remorse—and her front and back legs seem to be systematically breaking down. She walks with a great limp and only with significant effort. She frequently shakes and collapses, and she no longer is interested in going for the shortest of walks (for example, she hasn’t been beyond the borders of our own home in ten days). She seems to be in great pain, although she acts far more stoic than she ought, and for lack of a better phrase, she seems to have lost the joyous spark that so endeared her to those who met her.

Today I woke up, and I knew what today would hold, and I knew it would be hard. Today is the day that Anna and I let her go. It has been a woefully difficult decision. She currently snores next to me on the couch, as she has for nearly nine years, and it’s hard knowing this is the last time it will happen. But I’m happy that it happened today, and it has happened for nearly nine years now. I know we made each other’s lives better.

If there is a dog heaven (and there might as well be), Romey will be on the express train there. And that means that by tonight she’ll be chasing rabbits, barking at the UPS deliveryman, and dining on a never-diminishing loaf of cinnamon bread. And I take a certain solace in that that.

During our time together, many students and friends have helped look after Romey when I’ve been out of town, so while I am here, I would like to thank Krista, Kate, Jessie, Pete, Lynsey, Max, Sarah, and Danielle for their care. I’ve always appreciated your time with the hound.

Via con dios.

In Praise of: The Moleskine Messenger Bag

2015-10-07T21:30:00.000+02:00

There is a running joke in my house between my wife and I that I have a bag-buying addiction. I hate
to admit it, but I suppose it's true. I buy far more than I need, and use far fewer than I own. And still, I bet there is a good sporting chance that I might go shopping for another something sometime soon.

It's a weakness, I know. But some people's weakness is heroin, so I feel pretty good about my vice.

With a trip to Rome in the hopper for December, I was hoping to find a carry-on sized bag that I can have under my seat that might hold the things that I would want to use over the course of an international flight, things such as my iPad, headphones, a book or two, headphones, and my passport. I think I found a winner with the Moleskine Messenger Bag. It's cleverly designed with thoughtful features. So far I think it's a winner.

The video below shows some of the more interesting features (and if you want to watch me pack a bag, you can zap ahead to the midway point. Now that's riveting viewing!

In Praise of: (Many) Small Gestures

2015-09-11T02:59:00.001+02:00

I want you to give me a dollar.

Actually, that's a lie. I want you to give Lauren a dollar.

Actually, that's a lie, too. What I really want (and by really want, what I mean is really want) is for you to donate one dollar towards Lauren's goal of raising $500 for the Children's Miracle Network, a wonderful charity that specializes in health care for children who are direly ill. It is a responsible and respected charity. Charity Navigator, an organization that tracks nonprofits, scores the Children's Miracle Network as a Four-Star charity (its highest ranking) and gives them an overall composite score of 94.1 (out of 100; 91.7 for financial responsibility, and a perfect 100 for transparency).

Just to give you an idea of what a great (responsible) charity this is, here are some statistics:
American Cancer Society: two-star rating, overall score is 76.4
Wounded Warriors: three-star rating, overall score is 84.5
American Red Cross: three-star rating, overall score is 81.0
Susan G. Komen: two-star rating, overall score is 79.0

Please note: I am not commenting on the worthiness of the causes represented, and am only making a remark about the level of responsibility of each charity. By any measure, the Children's Miracle Network is awesome. I mean, really: they provide care for sick kids. Kids with cancer. Kinds with HIV. Kids awaiting organ transplants. Trust me: they both deserve and would appreciate your dollar.

This this gets us to the cause of you donating just $1 to this wonderful charity.

Lauren Robinson--a brave soul, no doubt, for she suffered through not just one of my general education classes, but TWO--is currently raising money for a dance-a-thon that will be at Clarke University on April 2nd. She aspires to raise $500 for this noble cause, and in doing so will dance for ten hours. Straight. Needless to say, this is not something I could do, nor would anyone want me to try.

So this is why I write to you this evening. I want a dollar. Just one. If everyone who reads this would donate just one dollar to Lauren's cause, she would sail past her goal. And let's be honest about $1 really is. It's one-half of a cup of coffee at Starbucks. It's change in between the cushions of your couch. It's 1/6 the cost of a beer (if you live in Dubuque) or 1/10 the cost of a beer (if you live in DC). Many small gestures can amount to something rather grand.

So how about you hop over to Lauren's page and donate $1. If you are a Clarke student and you don't have a credit card, get in touch with me. I'll find a way to turn your contribution into a contribution for Lauren. Many hands, dear friends, make light work.

You can find Lauren's donation page here.

Thank you so much in the advance.

In case the hyperlink above doesn't work, try this:
http://events.dancemarathon.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=donorDrive.participant&participantID=68467

In Praise of: Actors with Great Five-Year Runs

2015-08-07T20:54:00.000+02:00

I'm a college professor who (occasionally) teaches courses on film. This means I have both lots of time (during certain seasons of the year) to watch movies. It also means that I get to watch movies as a kind of 'work.' Most people would disagree that watching films could every constitute a kind of work, but it certainly is. When I put in a movie, I'm watching with a more engaged, critical eye than most who watch movies for the sake of entertainment.

This is not to say that I don't enjoy watching movies, of course. I do. But like traveling, too, I bring in a different expectation than the average person who walks into a gothic church or a museum. I love walking through the Louve, but I'm working when I do so. This is both wonderful, but it means that vacations are a quite a bit of work, too.

A few days ago I was chatting with a philosophy professor who is teaching a class in an upcoming semester on the concepts of the Self. He asked me if I might we willing to come in, show a film, and then discuss the construction of consciousness and self as it is explored in the movie. Many movies immediately flooded to my mind, but the first was Blade Runner. This is an interesting film for many reasons, not least of which is that it exists in nearly half a dozen versions. The theatrical (both domestic and international) from it's release in 82, a workprint and Director's Edition for '91 (give or take), and then the director, Ridley Scott, release a definitive edition in 2007. The changes between the versions are small, but profound.

So today I watched Blade Runner, the 2007 version. And while watching it, the thought hit me several times: Hot damn Harrison Ford had a great five or six year stretch of films, a run that is quite nearly unprecedented for an actor (please note that I am using this term in its masculine form). Check out this list:

Star Wars, 1977
Apocalypse Now, 1978
The Empire Strikes Back, 1980
The Raiders of the Lost Ark, 1981
Blade Runner, 1982

Hot damn! To be fair, three of those films (Star Wars, Empire, and Raiders) are amongst my favorite movies. Ever.

And then I began to think about other actors who had a similar run of rather great of roles and/or films. And so where are some. I have, no doubt, left off some equally worthy thespians I have left off. But here we go. Movies in bold indicate that the actor received at least an Oscar nomination for his performance.

Jack Nicholson

Easy Rider, 1969
Five Easy Pieces, 1970
The Last Detail, 1973
Chinatown, 1974
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, 1975

Tom Hanks

Philadelphia, 1993
Forrest Gump, 1994
Apollo 13, 1995
Saving Private Ryan, 1998

Peter O'Toole

Lawrence of Arabia, 1962
Becket, 1964
The Lion in Winter, 1968
Goodbye Mr. Chips, 1969

Brad Pitt (honorable mention)

Seven, 1995
Twelve Monkeys, 1995
Sleepers, 1996
Fight Club, 1999

But the grand prize winner, the actor with perhaps the best run--ever, I say!--is Al Pacino. It's a shame that Pacino has become such a shell of what he once was. Looking at his IMDB page for his performances over the past decade is an exercise in sadness. To be fair, there is little he has done in the past fifteen years that I care to watch more the once. He was great in A Merchant of Venice, but mostly because he wasn't acting like Al Pacino. Angels in America is great. Heat and Insomnia are great, but not necessarily because of him. Other than those, his oeuvre is a list of white hot trash. But my heavens, from 1972 until 1975--just four short years--he banged out some world-class performances.

The Godfather, 1972
Serpico, 1973
The Godfather, Part II, 1974
Dog Day Afternoon, 1975

If you have an actor with a better grouping of movies over so short a period of time, I want to hear about it. Comment below.

A twitter buddy, Dr. Shaw, makes an undeniable point (one, to be fair, I considered). John Cazale--who will forever be Fredo Corleone, was in three of the four movies that Pacino was in; both Godfather's and Dog Day Afternoon. And Cazale was effing great in all of them. He was then in The Deer Hunter in 1978--just a bit outside of the five year window, but only by a single year. Steven notes that The Deer Hunter is likely a better movie than Serpico, and I cannot argue (The Deer Hunter was 53 on the AFI top-100 list, and got 5 Oscar wins and four more nominations; Serpico was unranked and got only two nominations). Sadly, Cazele died shortly after finishing The Deer Hunter (at the age of 42). As an actor, he has nearly an untarnished record. Amazing talent that wasn't around long enough.

In Praise Of: Melancholy Departures and the Power of Art

2015-08-06T15:54:00.000+02:00

When I moved to Dubuque in 2007, I purchased a home right on Clarke drive, just about one kilometer from campus. Until I had a Lugnut to shuttle off to daycare, I walked to work just about every day. Uber hot? Windchill of -15? It didn't matter. I walked to work. I loved walking to work. And I loved my house, The 608. It was old--built in 1915--and a bit unusual. It was small (certainly no more than a one-child house). It was quirky. It had a great upper porch (that overlooked the river) and wonderful light. It had a garage. For two cars.

It was my home. I loved it. When The Lovely Wife got there (she was just The Lovely Girlfriend back then), it became our home. I loved our home.

But we've moved. We sold our home. Now to be fair, we sold our home to some wonderful people, and I get to drive by the house all the time and recall all the wonderful memories I had there. But I will still miss it.

I think The Lovely Wife understands this. How do I know this? Well golly. She commissioned a Clarke art major (the wonderful, talented, and charming Emma Duehr) to draw the 608. It was a kind of Father's Day/Anniversary/Birthday present that arrived the last day of July. Anna and I made a run to Galena to have dinner at Vinny Vanucchi's where Emma currently waits tables. During the course of the meal, Anna tried--unsuccessfully, I might add--to get me to spy the wonderful drawing that had been strategically placed within the restaurant. I never saw it. And when I finally did, it moved me (to be perfectly honest) to tears.

Art can do work, dear friends. It can move one to tears and can remind one of wonderful, wonderful times.

Emma, I, the 608, and some photobombing Vinny's waiter.

In Praise of: Falbo Brother's Pizza

2015-07-17T22:35:00.000+02:00

I moved to Dubuque just over eight years ago and the post that follow is the result of eight years of systematic research. I've done my homework. It's time to present the results.

The project? The search for the best pizza in Dubuque.

And that written, allow me to explain some personal prejudices. When it comes to eating out, I generally prefer local establishments to national chains. So just to lay the cards on the table, I did not consider--not do I patronize--establishments such as Papa John's, Pizza Hut, Dominos, or (heaven help us all) Little Caesar's. To be honest, in eight years here, I've never ordered from Dominos or Little Caesar's, and I can count on one hand the number of times I have paid money at Papa John's or Pizza Hut. Not only do I not care for the pizza, I would rather give my pizza money to a smaller, local chain. We have some pretty good pizza options here in Dubuque, but the best as far as I can tell can be had at Falbo Brother's Pizza at JFK (3250 JFK Circle). If The Lovely Wife and I are going to get pizza, there is an 85% chance we're hitting up Falbo's.

Pizza need have three things in order to make it pizza. Crust, sauce, and cheese. Everything else is just toppings, and to my mind at least, toppings can do little good if the first three elements are crap. And this is where Falbo's so clearly excels. The crust is just wonderful (no leaving that uneaten in this pizza), and there is a crust for each kind of pizza lover. The thin crust is wafer light and crispy, the pan is deep and chewy. By The Lovely Wife and I usually opt for the stuffed crust pizza. Pan in depth, and then topped, then covered with a thin sheet of crust, then topped again. It's wonderful.

We have several favorites. One is the stuffed parm pizza; lots of tasty red sauce and huge chunks of breaded chicken, and lots of cheese. It really is like eating the lovely offspring of a pizza and a chicken parmesan sandwich. We also really like several of the chicken ranch pizzas. Rather than a red sauce they are smothered with a wonderful buttermilk ranch, lots of chicken, and more cheese than you feel they deserve.

Have you ordered a pizza from one of those national chains and then get your pizza home and then realize that it looks nothing at all like the pizza you saw on the television? Even Falbo Brother's pizza I've ever ordered looks just like you think a pizza should.

Want a really nice gluttonous treat? Order a large order of the cheese sticks ($10) and get some ranch to dunk it in. You'll be in heaven.

And to top it all off, I can nearly guarantee that every person you interact with at Falbos will treat you like gold. This is, I suppose, the glory of a local chain. The Powers Who Be there must realize that we have many places where we could spend our pizza dollars. I've always been treated as if they are thankful that I'm giving them my business, and this is a rather nice thing indeed.

So mad props to the good people and the good pie at Falbos. Many congrats; you have one happy customer who will be back again and again.

Yes, this is the chicken parm stuffed pizza. No, you cannot have any.

In Praise of: Turning 40, Jen Wold, and Clever Wren Cakes & Sweets

2015-07-17T19:40:00.001+02:00

In January of 2012, the estimable Eric Wold--the graphic design wunderkind who has an office across the hallway from me--suggested that I start a blog. "You like to write and you have interesting things to say," he said. "It could be fun."

I'm at over 200 posts. Finding time to write is a bit more difficult than it once was--Lugnut both provides me with things to write and takes away time from writing--but every now and again I put pen to paper (fingers to keys) to write about whatever it is that has made me happy or pissed me off. To put a fine point on it, however: the reason this trifle of a blog exists is because of The Wold.

When I started this, I named the blog The Life of Bryan (you know, an oh so clever reminder of the Monty Python film) and subtitled it The (somewhat) rambling thoughts of a 30-something art history professor (because, you know, that's what I am).

Or, better said, was.

I was a 30-something in 2012.

But on 8 July--some nine days ago--I turned 40.

I am a 40-something.

And when I think about that, I cannot help but think of the epic rant that Mike Gundy, the head football coach at the Oklahoma State University went on back in 2007 that ended with the wonderful line, "I'm a man! I'm 40!" (fuzzy about the line? Click here.)

I am now a man.

Some people may shy away from getting older. Ask some how old they are, and they may lie, refuse to answer, disdainfully glare at you. Not me.

I'm 40.

If you would have told me at 21 what my life would be at when I turned 40, I suspect I would have called you a liar. At this midpoint in my life, I've completed a Ph.D, found a job that I love, found the girl (woman!) of my dreams, and fathered a wonderful son. We just bought a lovely house. My life is rich in people and experiences. I've seen a good chunk of the world, hope to see more of it. I've accomplished some pretty cool things from a professional point of view. My life is, quite simply put, wonderful.

Forty does not phase me in the slightest. Damn the torpedos. Full speed ahead.

But that written, I suppose that turning 40 is a momentous occasion, and And order to celebrate this once-in-a-life event, The Lovely Wife thought she should invite over three of my dearest friends, people coincidentally, I happen to work with. The Wold was one of them. And The Wold brought The Jen Wold. And as talented as Eric may be, I think Jen may have him beat. Indeed, Jen is the proprietor and chief cake-making goddess at Clever Wren Cakes & Sweets, and for my birthday she conjured up (conjured seems to be an odd verb, but to use the word 'bake' would be misleading, for what she made was nothing short of magical) the most amazing cake I've seen or consumed.

Eric and I both have the distinct honor of having both attended and graduated from the University of Arizona, and I take my pride in school very seriously. I think Eric is the same, perhaps not to the same militant extent that I am, but Eric clearly passed along my love of school to Jen when she conceived of and conjured up The Dessert of the Year. It was two glorious levels of cake deliciousness. The bottom part was four layers of chocolate cake with chocolate ganache. The upper tier was three layers of vanilla cake with vanilla frosting. It was constructed from colored fondant to look like a white button-up shirt accented with a red and blue bow tie (and pocket square!). On the back was the sahuaro cactus from the Arizona logo, the Arizona 'A', and an appropriately sized 40. To be honest, it looked too damn pretty to eat, and too damn pretty to stick candles in.

We did both. And on the eating front, it I was--to put it rather mildly--amazed. Goodheaveshotdamngivemeanotherpiece. It was amazing. In a pretty good sized kitchen, ten people were reduced to near silence aside from the mouthful-of-food questions that kept coming Jen's way. "How did you do this?" "What is that?" "How much time did this take" "Where do you learn to do that?" I've never heard such silence from people who like to talk so much.

And the best part? I have half of a cake left (I may or may not have had another piece last night at 11P and then another this morning at 8A). I am sure that there are plenty of bakery options in the greater Dubuque area, but I could not imagine having a better cake experience than we got from Jen and her Cleven Wren Cakes & Sweets venture (want to find her webpage? You should. Click here). I sheepishly admit that there was a time when I was somewhat addicted to shows on the Food Network, and some bozos made some rather visually extravagant cakes and you just knew were going to taste like room temperature cardboard. This cake will single handedly wreck my attempt to get to 178 pounds.

I could write another 1,000 words about how lovely and delicious this cake was, but I am going to go have another piece. Better yet, I'll go run four and a half miles and then have another piece. You know: I've got to earn it.

The Wold, The 40-year-old author, The Jen Wold

In Praise of (and an apology to): Pancheros' Mexican Grill

2015-06-25T03:53:00.001+02:00

Dear Pancheros Mexican Grill,

The words to follow are a bit of praise and a small bit of a mea culpa. I write, amongst other reasons, to ask for your forgiveness and to try to make amends for my egregious act.

As a way to begin, allow me to write that I moved to Iowa in June of 2007. Prior to that, I had lived in Washington, DC for five years (it was there where I completed my PhD) and before that I had lived in Tucson, Arizona for more than 20 years. By the time I moved to Iowa, I think it fair to say I knew a thing or two about a thing or two about Mexican food. And, to be perfectly frank, I had developed a deep and passionate appreciation for another burrito joint that may or may not rhyme with Old Bay. And so, when I found an (ahem!) Old Bay-ish place on the west end of Dubuque, I was immediately suspicious.

But one day, that June of 2007, I stopped into Pancheros and got a burrito. And after one burrito I was hooked. You've made me vanquish the longing I once had for your Old Bay-ish competitor. When people talk about them, I continually reaffirm one fact I know above most others: the burritos I've received at Pancheros have continually been--and I mean this--lights out fantastic. Any day I stop in for a burrito, it's amongst the best $7 I could ever spend.

Leading up to Father's Day--I am the wonderfully proud dad to a 13-month-old son--Anna, my lovely wife, asked me where I'd like to go for dinner (due to a family dinner on Sunday evening, our celebratory Father's Day dinner was going to happen on Saturday evening). My answer was simple and straight forward.

I want a burrito at Pancheros.

And so on Saturday, Anna and I packed up The Little Guy, and drove to the west end for our Saturday evening burrito. But by the time we arrived, two things happened. First, it was raining (and it was no mere sprinkle). And second, our son was soundly asleep in his car seat. So we did what any reasonable couple would do. I ran in to get the burritos while Anna stayed in the car. I ordered, got the bounty of our two burritos, grabbed some napkins, and as I was leaving, I grabbled a bottle of the (wow, wonderful!) Flavocano sauce (I'm from AZ; I like my burritos HOT!) so that I could more fully enjoy my meal.

Now when I did this, I had every intention (and I mean this, EVERY INTENTION!) of bringing that bottle of sauce back in. I did. I promise. But something happened while enjoying that wonderful burrito. I had poured some of the Flavocano sauce into a freshly bitten burrito when I noticed that some sauce was dripping down the side of the bottle. I did something that I both cannot yet can explain: I licked the bottle both on the side and up where near the cap screws on (don't tell my wife; this very well might be normal behavior, but I would rather her not know).

So I was left with one of two options. One: return a clearly unhygienic bottle of Flavocano. Or two: officially steal that bottle of savory sauce and not let it go to waste. At the time, option two seemed the better of these. However, I have become somewhat racked with guilt--to be honest, I spend much of my time trying to make sure I am acting in a way that my Mom would be proud of me--and it is for this reason that I write today. I would be more than delighted to pay you whatever it is that you would request of me so that I could continue to enjoy this flavorful condiment without the pang of guilt that comes from petty larceny. And if this not be possible, I would greatly appreciate absolution for my theft. Although I guess I did mean to steal the sauce, it was only because I could not in good conscience return it to the store (and, to my mind, I could not let it go to waste). Perhaps a nice compromise would be to only use it on future Pancheros burritos. As the picture makes clear, I use more than a dash in the course of consuming the Amazing Three-Pound Burrito.

In any case, Pancheros, do accept my thanks (for making happiness arrive in cylindrically-wrapped tin foil) and my apologies (for seemingly stealing from your establishment). I promise to order and consume more burritos. And I likewise promise to stop stealing.

My best regards,
Bryan Zygmont

And now a bit of an addition; 16 July...

Not long after I wrote this post I received a twitter reply from Pancheros. They then asked for my email address. They then wrote back asking for my real address. And they then sent me a Pancheros care package. To say that I was elated when it arrived would be to put it mildly. Heck, even the box was cool.

Someone at Pancheros is a very (VERY!) nice person. When I finally dug into the box I was thrilled to find some of the wonderful Flavolcano sauce. And not just one bottle. Six. This means that I will not have to (unknowingly) pilfer from the Pancheros joint on the Northwest Arterial from quite some time. But the burrito madness did not stop there (I"m just getting started!). I also scored two shirts (yes!), a dozen burrito-shaped koozies (yes!), a pen (yes!), a bottle opener (yes! How did they know I'm a beer fan?), some sunglasses, and a lovely note.

In all, it was a wonderfully kind gesture, although one not needed. I have been a fan of the burritos. But now, perhpas more importantly, I'm a fan of the company, and that's a pretty cool thing, too. What can I say? I'm an Arizona boy, but Iowa companies seem to get it right.

So thank you, Pancheros; I'm wonderfully thankful for the flavorful gift!

In Praise of: Returns to Poland, and finding more Komes beer

2015-05-14T19:29:00.000+02:00

I am back in Poland. But first, a quick story.

Several months ago I was in the beer aisle (how I wish it were a beer isle!) at a local liquor store looking for a new beer to try (but, more likely, I found an old favorite to take home). I was in the German/Czech section, when I a gentleman asked me, "Do you know where the good Polish beers are?"I smiled, and then said, "Sir, I lived in Poland for six months. And I feel I can say with confidence that there is no such thing." Now to be fair, this isn't entirely true, but there are few Polish beers that I would actually purchased in the United States aside from a desire to scratch the urge of nostalgia (Belgium? Now that, dear reader, is a different story). But there was a brand that I found that I not only enjoyed, I would purchase it again if I found them back home. I even wrote an "In Praise of..." post about them here.

That gets me to today, 14 May 2015. I returned to Poland, and Lublin, to be more specific, on Tuesday to attend and present at an academic conference. The conference is called Wordstruck and it has been hosted by the Department of American Studies at Marie Curie-Sklowoska University (UMCS). The second day has just wrapped up (I was the first non-keynote paper, so I'm not just learning), and thus far the papers and collegiality have been wonderful.

I must confess that I am a bit surprised to be back in Poland, but it has thus far been a really wonderful experience. What little Polish I knew when I left has somehow returned, and I've felt pretty confident (or, be it better said, as confident as I once was) at interacting with merchants and the like. And for whatever it's worth, the dollar is even stronger than it was when I was a Fulbright Scholar in 2013. Last night, for example, I went down to the hotel bar and had a beer; it was about $3. Lots to like about Poland.

Tonight I got home and decided to take a walk about Lublin; I haven't been here since 2010, and I don't recall walking about the city much when I was here five years ago. Just about back to the apartment, I walked past a liquor store with dozens of kinds of beers, not unlike the one that Anna and I found in Lodz about two years ago. When scanning the shelf I saw my old Polish favorite: Komes. So I bought a bottle each of the two I had when I was here in 2013: the white, which was a Belgian trippel, and the blue, modeled after a dubbel. I also purchased a bottle with the gold label. I have no idea as to what to expect from that, and the label is in, well, Polish. So it'll be a bit of a surprise.

So yeah; I'm back in Poland. Do I miss The Lovely Wife? Heck yes. Do I miss Lugnut? Well of course! But it's been a great conference, and I found some Komes. And it's summer break on the front end of a sabbatical.

Life is good.

In Praise of: Art Historians and the Beer Label Poster

2015-03-02T20:11:00.002+01:00

Let me be clear: I am an art historian, not an art maker. Want to see me burst a blood vessel? Here's how.

When you ask me what I teach and I respond that I'm a art historian, say, quite simply, "Oh wow. I cannot draw a straight line with a ruler!"

When I can finally see straight, I'll say, "Yeah, me neither. Which is why I am an art historian and not an artist. Likewise, someone who teaches American Literature is not a novelist, and one who is an Economics professor does not work at a bank."

I'm a historian. I look at art.

I don't make art.

As an art history undergraduate at the University of Arizona, I was supposed to take Drawing I. I wanted nothing to do with that nonsense. Instead, I petitioned the Dean to allow me to take (traditional, wet) photography. So I did.

That's my one art class. Grade in that art class, by the way: A. Take that, art majors: his doorknob has a 4.0 in all my studio classes.

The moral: I'm not an art maker. And I'm fine with this. But when I was in Poland as a Fulbright Scholar, I did keep a kind of scrapbook where I collected train and airplane tickets, museum passes, and most pertinent for today's post, beer labels.

Lots of beer labels. They all got pasted in.

Beer Label Poster in process

When I got back to the States I had many duplicates and I thought I'd do some kind of project with them. And so the Beer Label Poster idea was born. During the fall of 2013 I found up in the attic an unused poster (it's dimensions escape me, but I'll guess it's about 28"x22". And so, armed with leftover Yes! paste and a paintbrush I had hijacked for an art professor, I set to fill this picture frame up with beer labels.

Completed Beer Label Poster

I am not sure how many different beers are represented on it--I've never bothered to count them--but I would guess it's pushing 70. Pasting them on was a laborious and time consuming process, and it took me more than a year to acquire enough ladles to fill it up, but once I did I must confess that I was pretty damn proud of it. When I was set to hang it in my work office, an art making colleague commented that it looked like hell because of the way in which I pasted them in. Now to be fair, you can see that they are adhered to the background with paste, but I was pleased with the image.

And then, about a week later, the Graphic Design professor told me about an art project he had worked on for his father. He had scanned in old fishing products and then made a kind of poster for his father. And then it hit me: HOT DAMN I COULD DO THAT WITH BEER LABELS!

And thus, the digital beer label poster idea was born. During December and January, The Lovely Wife and I spent 2 weeks in Belgium, and as you might guess, I drank more than a little bit of beer. I drank a lot of beer. It was wonderful. And I brought all of those beer labels back. And so, with a bit of training in Photoshop and Bridge, I began to create a 20"x16" poster of Belgian beer labels.

The goal? Etsy shop. That's right. I think the final product (and you can see it below in a low-res version) is so darn cool that others might want one, too. So I spent a few hours scanning beer labels in at 600 dpi, and then arranged them in photoshop in what I think is a pretty interesting visual way. And from there, I can print this particular image at photo quality (it was created at 300 dpi, which means the photo will look lights-out fantastic). Throw it in a standard frame, and whammo! You've got instant cool beer art for your bar or Man Cave.

So here's my plug: If you want in on this, let me know. The Etsy page is up and running, and if you have a request (you know, I hate Duvel; get rid of that label and add in a St. Bernardus 9), I can do that, too. What to take a look at the Etsy site? You can do so here. Have a question? Send it to bryanzygmont@gmail.com

Here it is, Edition #1: Belgian Beer Label Poster; it's just a low-res screen shot.

There are 49 beers represented They include:

Achel Blonde

Augustin Blonde

Augustin Brune

Brugge Tripel

Brugse Zot Dubble

Brugse Zot Tripel

Chimay Blue

Chimay Red

Chimay White

Chouffe

Ciney Blonde

De Verboden Vrucht

Duvel

Ename Blonde

Gestse Strop

Gentse Tripel

Grimbergen Optimo Bruno

Grimbergen Tripel

Grimbergen Winter

Hoegarrden Grand Cru

Kasteel Tripel

Kwak

La Trappe Dubel

La Trappe Quadrupel

La Trappe Tripel

Leffe Bruin

Leffe Royale

Maredsous Brune

Omer

Orval

Palm

Piraat

Priaat Tripel Hop

Prior Tripel

Ramee Blonde

Seef

St. Bernardus Pater 6

St. Bernardus Abt 12

St. Fueillien Blonde

St. Feuillien Tripel

Stella Artois

Straffe Hendrik Tripe

Trappistes Rochefort 6

Trappistes Rochefort 8

Trappistes Rochefort 10

Tripel Karmeliet

Vedett IPA

Westmalle Dubbel

Westmalle Tripel

The University of Phoenix: Making ASU Look Good Since 1976

2015-02-18T04:28:00.001+01:00

A former student and all-around good guy, Tyler Oehmen, recently posted this Zen Buddhist koan on my Facebook wall:

What a fine question. And at first glance, this may seem to be a difficult one to answer, for if you know me--even in passing, I might add--you know at least one thing about me. I have a rather unabashed love for the University of Arizona. Love it. And a corollary of this, I suppose, is that I have a rather putrid hatred for Arizona State. These things go hand-in-hand.

And yet despite this hatred, I must admit something: despite its many shortcomings, Arizona State is, at least, well, kind of a university. They have an actual campus, professors who attended other universities (and not just ASU), and the seem to hand out degrees that students earn, and not just pay for.

I attended two schools (Arizona and Maryland). Here is where those two schools--and ASU--rank in various systems:

Maryland

National Ranks: 28th, 73rd, 62nd, and 50th
World Ranks: 38th, 117th, and 97th

Arizona

National Ranks: 46th, 250th, 121, and 64th
World Ranks: 86th, 215th, and 86th

Arizona State

National Ranks: 46th, 362nd, 129, and 45th
World Ranks: 79th, 293rd, and 127th

The moral of this story, the University of Maryland, the fine institution where I earned my Ph.D, is rated higher than ASU in every single ranking. ASU only outranks my beloved Arizona in 2 of the 7 (one wonders what Forbes is smoking; how is Arizona the 250th ranked university in the world?).

But the point of this is not to say that Maryland and Arizona are both better than Arizona State. Of course this is true. How could it be otherwise? The point, I suppose, is to point out a rather simple fact: at the very least, Arizona State is a university.

You might be wondering where the University of Phoenix ranks on these charts? They don't. Not at all. As a matter of fact, as best as I could tell, the University of Phoenix has a higher admission rate than Arizona State, and Arizona State let in roughly 90% of applicants between 2008-2012 (it sounds like I'm making this stat up, but it's true). I bet I could get admitted into a graduate program at the University of Phoenix in an area in which I haven't even taken a class.

Why?

All they care about is getting your tuition money. Such is the blight that is the for-profit schools in the United States. If you are willing to pay, you'll get your degree, be it an undergraduate, a graduate, or God help you, an advanced graduate degree like a PhD.

So if the question is where would I have rather attended? Save my soul, but ASU. At least I would have attended a real university, had real professors who are earned really Ph.Ds and done real academic work, and earned a real degree, one that people wouldn't necessarily laugh at if I were to apply for jobs and list it on my resume.

So to conclude, let me write this simple mathematical equation:

Arizona State University > The University of Phoenix (and every other online, for-profit school).

Painful to write, but a truth. Dammit.

In Praise of: Satchel and Page

2015-02-13T19:39:00.000+01:00

The Satchel and Page Map Case

I have many problems, to be certain, one one of those involves a predilection for leather goods and school bags. Back in 2011 I purchased a Saddleback Leather briefcase, a bag that has been my steady school companion for almost four years (and it's finally getting broken in; you can read that post here). But about a year ago I thought it high time to purchase something smaller; big enough to hold an iPad, and iPod and a book or two. This began my search for a tablet bag of sorts. As with my search for my professor bag, this was an intense, research-driven endeavor. I eventually landed on a website called Satchel & Page, where I found exactly what I was looking for, the Map Case (you can find it here).

I was immediately smitten. The design is based on World War II map cases (I have this hope that my Grandpa Clark, a forward observer on a tank unit, had something like this), and it is nearly equal parts beautiful, functional, and antique. Yet despite the seemingly timelessness of the design, it's modern in its execution. There is an iPad sleeve (that at first only fit my iPad when it was caseless, but has been stretched enough to fit it when in the case, too), a slot for several pens and my phone, and enough space left over for a book and the case for my spectacles.

It is the perfect (and I mean it: PERFECT) bag as a second carry-on for air travel. Most of what I need during the course of a flight can fit in here: my passport, a pen for immigration forms, a book to read, a iPad and iPod for entertainment, and my glasses in case I need them. The pocket on the back can hold boarding passes or a newspaper.

In short, it's wonderfully functional. But beyond that, it just looks so damn great. My pictures suck compared to those on their website, but I must confess that I receive compliments on this little bag whenever I take it out. It might seem to be a bit pricey, but its construction and materials (copper rivets, brass hardware) are so top notch that I'm certain it'll be around when it's time to pass it along to my son. And he's only nine months old.

Beyond that, Daniel, the owner, was wonderfully kind to me. We shared several emails about leather bags and Belgian beer. A wonderful dude and I wish him well with his leather endeavors. If the quality of this bag is any indication--and I bet it is--he's on to something grand.

So if your'e looking for a leather bag, I'd strongly urge you to check them out. I'm thrilled that I did.

Big enough for a iPad, an iPod, a paperback (or bigger), passport, pen, glasses. All you'd need for a transatlantic flight to Belgium

In Praise of: Wolfthorn Deodorant

2015-02-13T18:42:00.001+01:00

I have a problem. It's a simple problem and one I have hoped to remedy for some time now:

I am not much of a badass.

Now I know what you are thinking: this is some kind of attempt on my part to illicit some kind of response from you, the ways in which really attractive women criticize themselves as a way of getting compliments from others.

Stunning woman: "I'm just not that pretty; my face looks like a weathered catcher's mitt."
Dopey guy like me: "Are you serious? I'd punch my mother to go out with you!"
Stunning woman: "That's so nice of you to say, and I wish it were true."
Dopey guy like me: "Well, do you want to go out?"
Stunning woman: "With you? NO chance. I'm way too cute for that."

Believe me. This is not what I'm after. I understand my strengths and weaknesses. I might have a certain sense of charm, I'm a nice enough fellow, I have most of my teeth and I know how to iron.

But badass I am not.

And I thought it high time to fix this problem. The larger issue, I suppose, is that I'm generally too damn lazy to do anything about my level of badassedness. It requires too much effort, and I'd rather sit by myself and read a book than exert any sense of effort. I want to be a badass, but I don't want to do much about it. But recently, when doing some general toiletry shopping, I thought I found a solution to my problem, or at least a genesis to solving my soft image.

That beginning? Old Spice Wolfthorn deodorant. The label is promising: it shows two wolves--one snarling the other not--seemingly dancing around a wooden-framed logo. The cap likewise provided hope: For NOCTURNAL CREATURES. Wow. I'm too old to be nocturnal now, lest it be to feed an nine-month-old son. But that too sounded great. And the coup de grâce? The back label stated, with clarity and precision: "In the world of good smellingness, Wolfthron is the PresidentLord."

Be still my heart. This is the ticket to badassedness if here there was one.

In the basket it went!

The next morning I was set to get a whiff of the fragrance that would make me PresidentLord of something or other. Post shower and shave, I was filled with excitement. When I opened up my stick of badasssedness I was simply overwhelmed. Overwhelmed, that is, by the fragrance of oranges.

Yes. Oranges. For the past 6 weeks my underarms--at least from about 6.30A until, I would wager, 9A--smell like a lovely, fragrant orange grove.

So, alas, I remember as soft as I did before I fell pray to interesting packaging and clever text.

The search for badassedness continues.

In Praise of: My Shoplifting Experience

2014-12-28T02:12:00.003+01:00

Not long before the end of the semester, a student enrolled in one of the classes I teach came to my office for no reason, it seems, other than to chat.

Be still my heart.

And then he said something that was rather alarming.

"You seem to project an aura of perfection, Dr. Z.", he said, "as if everything in your life is perfect, and as if you never have done any wrong."

"My heavens!", I responded. "I"m a train wreck. You see me in class. But beyond that, I'm as uncertain as they come, and I was a much different person when I was, say, your age."

Although this conversation was nearly a month ago, it's stayed with me during this passing of time. And so I thought I would along a story from what is perhaps my dumbest moment in life, but what would also turn out to be among the most fortuitous.

Oddly, I cannot tell you the month, but I can set the scene in the spring of 1993. I was 17 years old and a senior at Santa Rita High School. I was (mostly) an Honor Roll student and had two jobs: one at the McDonalds at Golf Links and Harrison and another at Foot Locker (#7603!) at Park Mall. These jobs are important for one single, solitary fact: I had money. This makes the actions to follow all the more incomprehensible. But here goes.

Although I cannot recall the month, I can tell you the day of the week; it was a Thursday. I had left my parent's house (which was, of course, my house too--I was 17) and went to get a haircut from Danny Garicia, the guy who had been cutting my hair since I was about 12 (he, his brother, and his pop had a barbershop at Golf Links and Kolb--it's now on Speedway). I was wearing a long Green Bay Packer shirt, and I'm sure a pair of Guess? denim jeans. After the haircut I drove to Davis Monthan Air Force Base and went to the BX--the Base Exchange--and found my Mom who was doing some shopping. I walked about with her for a while, and then she left. Rather than immediately leave with her--you know; jump into the '75 Ford Granada and drive myself home, too--I decided to do a bit of shopping.

But I wasn't planning on buying anything.

At one point I was looking at a jewelry display of keychains, and I saw one with black onyx, and I had this brilliant thought: "I want that keychain."

But that brilliant thought was followed up with this even more brilliant thought: "And I don't want to pay for it."

So I made the following brilliant decision: I put that keychain into my pocket. I walked around the store for a while--I no doubt looked at the CDs--and then, beyond all possible logic, I attempted to talk about of the front door of the Davis Monthan Air Force Base Main Exchange with an $8 keychain in my pocket and $42 in my wallet.

I made it not more than five steps out that front door when I felt the tap my my right (not the left!) shoulder. Even before I turned around I knew I was sunk. The woman--who was very nice, by the way--led me back to the 'security area' of the store, and as I entered I passed one my neighbors who worked at the store. There I sat as they called base security, and fifteen minutes later a 20-something African-American MP (Military Police) showed up with his German shepherd to retrieve me.

"I'm sorry, man," he said. "But I've gotta cuff you."

He did.

He then led me out of the store. He then put me in the back seat of his squad car, and when he started it up, he had the radio tuned to Power 1490 AM (what was then Tucson's hip hop station). The song on the radio? Black Sheep's "The Choice Is Yours." It was loud. He turned it down. "Turn it back up," I requested.

He did.

We arrived at the police area shortly after the song was over, and he led me inside. First order of business? He had the honor of calling SMSGT Peter Zygmont to inform him that his son--his hitherto crime-less son, had jut been arrested for shoplifting from the Base Exchange. I thankfully didn't hear that phone call. Afterwards, I got the full treatment I got booked, I got a mugshot, I got finger printed. And then I go to look at my father when he walked in a half an hour later. I'm not sure if he said anything--he might have--but I just exited and got into his truck.

A couple of days later I received notice that the Military Police had turned my file over to the Tucson Police Department, and that the court (?) had put me into a first-time offended program. I had to attend a two-day seminar for similarly idiotic criminal masterminds such as myself. And this was the most terrifying part of the whole experience. On two successive Saturdays I had the great honor of going to a workshop with other juvenile delinquents. On the first day we spoke about our crimes. When I explained mine, one John Gotti-in-the-making asked, "Why didn't you just run?"

"I don't know," I responded. "I guess I just thought I'd been caught."

"You're a [expletive adjective expletive noun]!" he said.

And for the rest of the day, I couldn't help but wonder: why the hell am I am in the same room as this guy on a random Saturday in the spring of my senior year in high school? The cop who ran the program must have thought the same thing. I was there for trying to steal an $8 keychain. Other participants were there for Grand Theft Auto, Assault and Battery, Larceny. At the conclusion of our 'seminar' the cop came up and asked a simple question: "Do you feel different from most of the other people in here?"

"Yes sir," I responded.

"Good," he replied. "I don't want to see you back in here."

And this, as best as I can tell, brought my need to be a criminal to an end. It was a stupid, 17-year-old-thing to do, and I suppose if there was something to be learned, hot damn I learned it. But as crazy as this sounds, I often look back at that experience as one of the best things that could have happened to me. I was beginning to teeter on the "it's fun to do bad things!" teeter-totter. And getting the book thrown at me changed that quite quickly.

To be honest, I've done little beyond break traffic laws since. And that's okay with me.

So am I perfect? Hell no. Heck, ask my wife. Ask my Dad. I'm as imperfect as they come.

But I try to be a good guy.

The Great Furnace Outage, 2014 Edition

2014-12-06T15:32:00.001+01:00

Friday morning began as any other. I woke up at 6A, showered, shaved, and ironed. Luggie woke up, and he got fed, changed, and generally entertained. Anna took care of Anna business. The beagles snoozed.

And at some point, close to 7A, I suppose, I went downstairs. As I walked down the stairs, I was hit with one simple fact: "Wow...it feels chilly down here." But this could be easily explained by the fact that Anna and I run space heaters in our bedroom and in Luggie's room to save on running the furnace to heat the whole house at night when the three of us are only in two rooms for eight hours.

So I walked over to the thermostat and took a gander at that. The right hand side read 64--the temperature at which it was set. The left hand side read 55--the temperature in the house. Woah. So I bumped it up a few degrees to see if the furnace would click on.

It didn't.

So I went downstairs to investigate. I am not exactly sure what I thought I was going to see or find, for I'm not a furnace technician. But I did find what appeared to be a light switch. I clicked that off, clicked it back on, and the furnace jumped to life. Score. I had fixed it!

Went back upstairs, and five minutes later I wanted to make sure that warm air was coming through the vents. But, alas, there was only cool air coming through. So I went back to the basement to investigate.

I could smell the natural gas before I got down there. The furnace had clicked off, and the basement was silent and smelly. So I called Molo, our heating/cooling/plumbing people to see if they could come out and investigate. The temperature on Friday (yesterday) and for the foreseeable future was to be pleasant (given the time of year) with highs in the high 20s and low 30s, and lows in the teens, but a working furnace seemed to be a very good idea. I had class on Friday morning, but Anna had the ability to wait about the Molo guy.

The Molo guy arrived, and told Anna that the furnace--which had reached the advanced age of 23 years--was toast. The word he used, 'condemned' seemed particularly interesting. So hooray; Anna and I have the opportunity to purchase a new furnace.

Score.

Bad part? It cannot be installed until next Friday; a week hence. So Anna, Luggie, the beagles, and I are going to hunker down with space heaters and blankets, and will likely spend most of our time in one of the smaller upstairs rooms rather than try to heat a rather wide open lower level. Last night we took Luggie gear up to the Man Room and watched a couple of movies on the TV up there. With a space heater running the room got up to the upper 60s, which was pleasant enough. The age of the house and the wiring that is present means we can only run one such space heater on a circuit at a time. So once the room got warm we began to heat up Luggie's space so that his room would be warm for sleep time.

We woke up this morning, Saturday, and I turned the space heater on again in the Man Room, and the five of us have been hanging out in here for the morning.

It's Saturday. We still have Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday to go. If the Molo people are to be believed, we'll get a new furnace on Friday.

Make it Friday, Molo people. Make it Friday.

In the meantime, The Lovely Wife, Luggie, and I are going to have a lot of quality time in the Man Room.

In Praise of: an easy homemade mayonnaise recipe.

2014-11-09T21:29:00.002+01:00

I must admit--and it is an admission, I fear--that I love mayonnaise. On just about everything. Hamburger? Give it some mayo. Fries? Hell yes, mayo. It's a wonderful, versatile condiment, and I find it enhances many, many otherwise fine foods.

But recently--and recently I mean this past summer--I had the brilliant idea that I could make homemade mayonnaise. I mean, really: it's only a couple of ingredients, most of which I seem to have about the house at any given moment.

Those ingredients:

One egg
One cup extra light olive oil
Lemon juice
Salt

That's it. Really. But if you look at the Hellmann's label, you'll see that they have some interesting ingredients listed on their jar (Canola oil, water, liquid whole egg, vinegar, salt, liquid yolk, sugar, spices, concentrated lemon juice, and calcium disodium EDTA). So I feel I can feel good about making my own (mayo isn't exactly good for you, I'm sure, but if I make it myself, it must be better...right?). To be fair, I often augment my own stuff with some garlic powder and a good healthy dash of Tabasco Chipotle. BOOM! Good stuff. And it takes very little time. How little time? About three minutes. And lets be honest: if I can do it, it cannot be that hard or require too much culinary skill.

Here goes:

The sound of the hand blender might make the end a bit difficult to here, so here's the complicated directions in total:

Crack a large egg into a jar (I generally use an old peanut butter jar).
Add the cup of extra light olive oil
Add salt
Add lemon juice
Add Tabasco or garlic powder if desired.
Put hand blender into jar and allow to rest on the bottom. Turn on and let blend for 20-30 seconds
Gently raise up, mixing as you go.
Enhance your turkey sandwiches like crazy.

Top Ten Books

2014-09-06T04:18:00.003+02:00

A few people (Sunil, Gary, Adam, Tessa) have tagged me in the ‘name your top ten books’ list that has swept through the social media sites, and although I’ve wanted to partake in the fun, it’s taken me a few days to do so. I wanted to give the project its due time.

And that written, allow me to share the following idea: while I love to read (LOVE, yo!), it’s somewhat rare for me to read a book twice (this was not always the case, but I think it’s more true now than ever). This has more to do with how much I have to read rather than a lack of esteem for the things I’ve read.

One of my favorite lines: “Oh God, thy sea is so big and my boat so small.”

It’s how I feel about books. They books are so many and my life so short. So I read and read, and often don’t go back.

But all of these books I’ve read more than once. It’s a list filed with clichés, but there is a reason why they are great. And for the record, it’s not because freaking Oprah says so.

So here goes. In no particular order, but the first two, are, well, in order. So what the hell. I guess there is some order.

To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee. First read: Sophomore year in high school
Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez. First read: Sophomore year in college
War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy. First read: Junior year in college
The Divine Comedy, Dante. First read: Second year MA student
Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy. First read: Second year MA student
The Jack Aubrey-Stephen Maturin series, Patrick O'Brian, First read: When a PhD student*
Picturing a Nation, David Lubin: First read: First year PhD student
The Ancestor's Tale, Richard Dawkins, First read: My first year at Clarke
The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoevsky. First read: First year MA student
The Collected Works of William Shakespeare, First read: On going during my whole life**

Overwhelming fiction, and only one art history book (David Lubin is a great, wonderfully fun writer, even for art history!). Send me adrift with these ten books, and I think I'd be a happy chap. I'll add one more for good measure.

11. The Oxford English Dictionary.

Have I read it all? Nope. But it could keep me busy for a decade, and it is a wonderful read, for one learns about kinds of things about the development of language within its entries. The condensed version I got for my birthday back in 2008 was a rather wonderful gift.

* I realize it may be cheating by putting a 20-novel series (plus one unfinished) as a single book, but if you're read the 'Master and Commander' series, you know it is, at its core, one long buddy story. And it's my freaking list. Deal with it.

**I realize this may be cheating (again...and again, you gots to deal with it!), but I'm not sure how I could pick only one work from The Bard. I could just as easily do a top-ten Shakespeare list. But I do have the Penguin Shakespeare, it is all one book, and this would allow me to read Hamlet, Henry V, R&J (and all the others) at my leisure.