Christopher's Windy City Weblog

Jogging Envy

2007-08-29T22:31:00.001-05:00

Now that the weather is back down into the low 80’s and high 70’s, and not quite as sweltering as in the past few weeks, I see more and more people out jogging on the streets of Chicago. And I’m jealous.

I never thought I would ever see the day when I regretted not being able to run. It’s been ten days since I last laced up my running shoes and pounded the pavement with my long, loping strides, but that “pounding” part seems to have been the problem. Until my plantar fasciitis clears up, which could take a few more weeks, I won’t be running again any time soon.

I ran track and cross country in high school, and hated almost every minute of it. I did it mainly because Dad said I needed to do something active with my free time. I knew he was right, but that didn’t mean I really wanted to run. We lived in a tiny town in the very rural southwest corner of Michigan. What else was I going to do? (I played basketball in the winter for two years, in 8^th and 9^th grades, before I staged my version of rebellion by deciding I needed my winters off). So I ran.

At the time, I took for granted the excellent physical shape I was in because of these pursuits. Not every high school kid can run a mile in five minutes, 30 seconds (which I only did once, which was quite enough), or run 3.1 miles in 19:30, but there were plenty of other runners who were faster and more resilient than I, and I tended to judge my accomplishments vis-à-vis theirs. I never felt like a very good runner, which was one reason I didn’t really enjoy it. The monotony was another reason.

Back in March or April, I finally decided to do something about the weight I had gained in the past few years. In college, I did a karate workout at least twice a week, and there were some years when I also lifted weights regularly. I wasn’t as trim as I had been in high school, but I stayed fit. My gut stayed behind my belt, where it belonged.

Then came two years of getting a teaching certificate, which included one very stressful year of student teaching. This was followed by a year and a half of ultra-stressful teaching on the South Side of Chicago. My gut wasn’t huge (I never looked pregnant or anything, a look I desperately never want to sport), but I had grown tired of it pushing against the buttons of my shirts. It was time to slim down.

I was too cheap to join a gym, but I had a decent pair of running shoes, so I bit the bullet and started running. As usual, I pushed myself way too hard my first time out. After only about half a mile, I felt like puking. I only made it a mile that day, one very sweaty, achy, gaspingly uninspiring mile. I quickly changed my tactics: a slower pace, permission to walk a half-mile for every mile I ran, less pressure on myself to make some kind of arbitrary time.

Soon I was up to a mile and a half, then two miles, then two and a half miles, then three miles. Every time I went out, I enjoyed myself a little more. The monotony was still there, but this time I taught myself to savor the runners’ high, that rush of endorphins right at the end of a run that makes the senses clearer, the mind sharper, the step light and brisk. Dinner always tasted better after a run.

The other good part came months later. I’m as vain as the next guy, so when friends, acquaintances, and people at work started asking if, and then outright saying, that I had lost weight, I felt another sense of accomplishment. I might never have a 34-inch waist again, but my gut wasn’t pushing quite as far over my belt, my face wasn’t quite so round, and to top it all off, I noticed other health benefits, too: I was sleeping better at night, even if I got fewer hours of sleep; I was more relaxed during the day, and had deeper reserves of energy.

Nine days ago, I ran 3.5 miles in about 33 minutes, without stopping, for the second day in a row. The next day, I limped from morning ‘til night because my right heel hurt badly, as if someone had sunk a nail deep into the muscle and bone, a nail I drove deeper with each hobbling step I took.

When I was seven or eight, and running a mile with my dad before he ran his daily six, I would have welcomed the excuse not to run. Back then, I only ran because I knew Dad wanted me to, and I felt guilty if I didn’t. So I’d have to “tie my shoe” every few hundred yards. Or I’d see “something interesting” on the side of the road that I’d have to stop and check out. I hated running. Didn’t want to do it.

I never thought I’d ever say this, but now, not running is driving me crazy.

First Day of Classes

2007-08-28T21:24:00.000-05:00

I started teaching my two online sections of English 101 yesterday. Some of my students have even started their work, or have at least emailed me with questions. Tonight was the first night of my one face-to-face section of English 101. I haven’t taught 101 at this college before, so I was a little nervous. I shouldn’t have been. When I get in front of a class, it feels like I never left, even if all of the students are new. This is what I need to be doing full-time. Gotta keep sending resumes out.

Harry Potter and the Re-reading Critic

2007-08-10T11:28:00.001-05:00

The best thing about Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone is knowing that there are six more books after it that more fully develop the story. On its own, Harry Potter 1 is a rather bland read. It is intriguing enough, however, that the promise of more depth and detail in the following six books makes it worth the few hours takes to read the first short novel. The story of Harry’s development from a child into a young adult is, of course, timeless and engaging, but just from a technical standpoint, anyone who enjoys arc-driven storytelling will find plenty to admire throughout the course of all seven books.

From the first, I was dead set against reading any of the Harry Potter novels. They were children’s books; I don’t read children’s books. Widespread hyperbolic comparisons to J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, a saga I absolutely adore and have read many times, didn’t help any. It sounded to me like blasphemy to state that anything could be as good as—or even worse, better than—LOTR. Such comparisons are ridiculous, of course, since HP and LOTR are very different literary animals. LOTR is a heroic saga in the mold of the ancient sagas of myth and legend (especially the Norse sagas); HP is a seven-volume coming-of-age tale. The two books share some themes and, of course, magic as a plot device and reality of their literary worlds, but otherwise, comparing the two is like comparing Star Wars with 2001: A Space Odyssey.

When I did eventually give HP #1 a chance several years ago, I wasn’t impressed. After re-reading it in the wake of finishing the seventh book, I am a little more impressed by Rowling’s skill, but the story of the first book, on it’s own, is still fails to move me significantly. In it, Harry is 11 years old, and the story is written to that level of reader: descriptions are suggestive rather than detailed, dialogue is sometimes stilted, and the plot is episodic in the extreme. Each book covers one year in Harry’s life at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; the first book is only 309 pages long, and in it, Rowling has to plant many, many seeds that will enable the following six books to flower effectively. Every character (and there are dozens of supporting players) is new and therefore must be introduced quickly, but effectively enough so that when they show up in later books (and some don’t show up again until book 7) they will be remembered. The plot of HP #1 has to work on its own, yet leave enough unanswered questions to keep readers coming back at least for the second book, which then has to hook readers even more deeply so they’ll come back for #3, and so on. And perhaps most significantly, Rowling has to create an entirely new world and make it believable. On all of these counts, Rowling succeeds in an efficient, workmanlike fashion.

Harry, the Dursleys, Ron, Hermione, and various other “minor” Hogwarts characters like Neville Longbottom, Draco Malfoy, and Severus Snape are efficiently and colorfully brought to life—and although they have small roles in book #1, they will play important roles in the books to come. Even characters who only show up once in this book will play a significant role in the final book—but to tell who they are at this point would spoil the fun. The story these characters bring to life does work on its own—Is the powerful sorcerer’s stone being kept at Hogwarts, and is Snape out to steal it for his old master, Lord Voldemort?—but, since Harry is only 11 years old and just a novice at magic, he gets by on luck as much as he does skill. His bravery, a central characteristic of Harry’s, also get him through many tight spots, but most of his bravery is geared toward things an 11-year-old boy, magical or not, could reasonably accomplish on his own: breaking school rules, standing up to bullies, jumping on the back of a rampaging troll (well, OK, the last one isn’t typical 11-year-old behavior, but even in that scene, he survives mainly through luck).

Of course, Harry and his friends are triumphant at the end of the book (like there is ever any doubt in the reader’s mind they won’t be), but Rowling leaves plenty of unanswered questions: How will the evil Lord Voldemort threaten Harry again? How will the inevitable showdown between Draco and Harry happen? Who is going to be the next Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher? Why did Hagrid get expelled from Hogwarts? Some of these questions get answered in book #2, but even as the old mysteries get solved, new ones crop up. In this way, Harry Potter #1 reminds me of the first season of J. Michael Straczynski’s science fiction “novel for television” Babylon 5: lots of exposition and world-building crammed with new characters and plot points, some of which get resolved that season, some of which get resolved in the next season, and some of which carry through four more seasons to the end of the series. And the whole way, more plot points and characters get introduced, develop, and even die. Like the first season of Straczynski’s masterpiece, the first Harry Potter book often seems clunky, bland, and uninspired. But these kinds of problems are almost unavoidable. Stories have to start somewhere, and the effectiveness of the threads used at the beginning cannot be fully judged until the entire story has been laid out and the full tapestry can be appreciated in its entirety. In this sense, re-reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone is most enjoyable because of the seemingly insignificant details dropped in—a name here or device here, a plot point or setting there—that anyone who has finished the series will recognize as extremely important later on.

Much of what becomes important later on in the series is the wizarding world that Rowling has created: Hogwarts, of course, and Quidditch and Muggles and wands and potions and the Ministry of Magic and an entire history going back hundreds of years that is only hinted at in the first book, but no less real because of it. Harry’s non-wizarding life with the Dursleys is painfully real (they hate him and make him sleep in a cupboard under the stairs, for starters), his wonder at discovering the wizarding world of his birthright is just as believable because readers are introduced to it through the simple faith of an 11-year-old’s eyes. The prose, stilted and bland as it sometimes is, perfectly captures Harry’s point of view and acceptance of a magical world parallel to the regular, Muggle world we are all familiar with. Once Harry accepts it (which he does easily), we do, too. Still, the first book has to cram so much of the world into so few pages that we only get a quick glimpse of this intriguing place, and the best thing about this quick glimpse is that it whets out appetites for more.

In short, Rowling gets the job done, creates a mildly entertaining story, and leaves room for plenty of development. Were it not for the assurance that in six more books all of the characters, settings and plots would get more detailed and more complex (by at least one or two orders of magnitude), the first book would hardly be memorable at all. Every book is longer than the previous one, except for books 6 and 7, which are both a hair shorter than #5, but by that time, Rowling has planted almost all of the seeds she needs to plant to make Book 7 the immensely satisfying and mature conclusion of what started with a mildly entertaining and efficiently-written little children’s novel.

A Thoreau-ly Relaxing Weekend

2007-08-06T23:06:00.001-05:00

The trouble with having a secluded and difficult-to-find camping spot is that every time I myself try to find it, I have difficulty. I tramp around the dunes, looking for my little stand of pine and poplar rooted in sandy soil, sweat pouring off my forehead, soaking my shirt, and even soaking the padded straps and hip-belt of my 60-pound frame pack with all the gear I require for a weekend—or a week—but, eventually, I find it. And I am never so happy as when I have set up my camp there.

Everything I need I have carried in strapped to my back. I could set up “home” anywhere, and I usually choose this spot, about a mile further south along the Lake Michigan shoreline than most people camp, in a sparse copse of jack pine, the silvery, uprooted tree stump exactly where I left it from the last time I was there, about three feet from where I will build my fire. The ashes of my last fire are never visible. I drown and then bury them, hoping to leave the spot as pristine as when I found it. The only evidence that anyone uses the spot at all is difficult to find: a few scattered bits of deadwood, no thicker than my forearm, that I neatly sawed into nine-inch lengths and camouflaged in tufts of dune grass because I never got around to burning them. And, of you look carefully at the thinner end of the stump, you will see another sawed log, about twice as thick as the others, about six inches long, propping it up, making an almost level, single-person bench.

Soon, I have my tent pitched next to one of the few poplar trees in this wide and sandy grove, my pack hanging on one of the pine trees, my food suspended from a high branch to keep it away from hungry and mischievous animals, and, after a trip over the short barrier dune and into the lake, two collapsible buckets filled with water that I will later filter for drinking. The breeze, when it comes, makes a soft rattle in the poplar leaves, and carries the sweet, soft susurration of Lake Michigan surf to my ears.

Sometimes, during the day, if I climb the short barrier dune between my campsite and the lake, I can see others, in pairs or small groups, rarely more than ten people total, often fewer than five, swimming in the lake or playing on the beach. But toward sunset and after, when gray twilight and then star-pierced darkness drapes across the sky, I feel I am the only person for a hundred miles. It’s not true. There are others within a half-mile, usually; certainly within a mile. But it’s that feeling that counts: utterly alone, reliant only on myself, accountable only to myself, needing only myself and the Boy Scout motto for company: Be Prepared; and I am.

During the days, I hike all over the dunes, all through the forest further inland. I’ll hike to Big Sable Point Lighthouse and into Ludington State Park. I’ll converse with complete strangers about the weather, the trails, the park, the view from the top of one of the few lighthouses on Lake Michigan to reach 100 feet (although our shoes, as the helpful informational plaques say, are only 92 feet up). In other words, the weekend as a whole is hardly the exercise in complete solitude I always imagine it will be when I set off from Chicago, city of 3 million people.

But in my campsite, I’m alone, and that’s good enough for me.

Dune grass, waves, and sky

Still point of the turning earth

Thoreau solitude

Still Officially a Geek

2007-08-03T08:30:00.000-05:00

It’s always nice to wake up and read an email that reaffirms your place in the world. In this case, it was an email from my sister:

Hey Geek-Squad,

I am typing this from my own computer--I somehow got the thing to connect! I was up early, mad about the computer, so I decided to try it again. I went back to the beginning and installed the NetGear card. It took me through installation differently than it did last night, and then it found the wireless network. With your help last night I was able to figure some things out this morning, and voila! Internet access! Thanks for your help. Don't put away your pocket protector just yet. . . . You really did help me figure this out, and your idea for the NetGear card was brilliant!

If my younger sister says I’m brilliant, it must be true, and it makes me happy. Hell, I’d be happy even if she hadn’t said I’m brilliant—I was right about the NetGear card! My geek instincts have been vindicated!

Geek Squad Wannabe

2007-08-02T22:57:00.001-05:00

I’m the tech support for my family: something goes wrong with Mom and Dad’s computer, they call me. Tonight, the call came from my sister—who was calling from my parent’s house. She had taken her boys to Michigan for the week; she had packed her laptop, too, and it couldn’t connect to Mom and Dad’s wireless network. Something about the password needing to be either 40 or 104 ASCII characters, something that was never a problem on my computer or the folk’s computer. I had run into the issue with Anne’s computer before, and I knew this was trouble. My geek credentials were about to be sorely tested.

In the past, Anne’s computer has been able to connect to Mom and Dad’s network, but that was before the Geek Squad, the real Geek Squad, came out to set up their new Vista-running laptop, and set the wireless network password for them. Admittedly, setting that password is something I could have done for them ages ago. I just never did, because I knew from past experience that Anne’s laptop, for whatever reason, wouldn’t be able to connect, and I didn’t figure there were a whole lot of computer hackers living in a sleepy Kalamazoo condo subdivision. I had avoided this issue in the past, but with my sister on the other end of the phone anxious to have her computer work the way it had always worked before, it was time to face the mystery of the uncooperative encryption.

I did a quick Google search and came up with a possible reason for the problem—the hardware in her laptop wasn’t set to use the same encryption as the router—or even capable of doing so. Since neither one of us really wanted to mess with the settings of Mom and Dad’s network (at least not without me there to fix any problems that my tinkering might create), that meant we had to find a solution within Anne’s laptop. And then it hit me—Mom and Dad’s old computer used a removable wireless network card! We could insert that into Anne’s laptop, and viola! problem solved!

It wasn’t, of course, that easy.

The first glitch in the process was human error. After a little rummaging through computer disks and peripherals that he hasn’t touched in years—accompanied by, Anne relayed to me over the phone, a little under-the-breath swearing—Dad found the CD with the device drivers, and Anne slipped it into her laptop—but the New Hardware Wizard couldn’t find the drivers. This struck me as odd. The wizard always finds the drivers when (then it hit me) when the right CD is installed.

“Hey Anne, eject the disk and tell me what it says.”

“Um . . . ‘Netgear Wireless Router—’”

I cut her off. “Nope. Wrong disk. We need the disk that came with the adapter.”

“Dad, we need the disk that came with the adapter.” Pause. “He’s swearing some more.”

The swearing must have helped, because Dad quickly found the right disk, which made installing the drivers much easier.

As it turned out, that was to be the only easy part of the whole process, and also the only successful part.

With the new drivers installed, we then disabled the built-in adapter and restarted the computer. So far, so good. But then we couldn’t figure out how to get the damn thing to connect to the internet. Anne was still getting the same error message, something about the password needing to be 40 or 104 ASCII characters long. By this time, we’d been on the phone for almost an hour. Anne kept saying “I know you have better things to do with your time,” but the OCD in me didn’t want to give up. I know we were on the right track. We had disabled the built-in wireless network card. We had restarted he computer. But all to no avail, and I was fast running out of geeky ideas.

After about an hour of fiddling with various control panels and still no internet connection, Anne decided to call it quits. My OCD tendencies would have kept me at the problem for at least another hour, but it was an hour later in Michigan, Anne had had a long drive earlier in the evening, and she finally just resigned herself to not getting her computer to work.

I felt like turning in my pocket protector. Christopher’s Friendly Family Telephone Tech Support had been thwarted by 40 (or maybe 104) ASCII characters.

It’s not that Anne can’t check her email without her computer. She can always use Mom and Dad’s. But as a stay-at-home Mom, she’s gotten used to having the internet just a few steps away while she watches her sons, ages 6 and 3. When they all visit Mom and Dad, the boys play in the finished basement, where the only internet access is wireless. Anne herself said the lack of connectivity wasn’t a big deal, it was just a convenience she had gotten used to, and she could get used to going “old fashioned” for a week. Technology is not the be-all and end-all of our existence.

My sister is right. A break from technology is a good thing. When I’m camping this weekend, there won’t be a computer (or indoor plumbing, for that matter) anywhere nearby. Just me, my gear, and miles of pristine Lake Michigan shoreline. And I don’t need 40 or 104 ASCII characters to enjoy that.

Nostalgia Camping

2007-07-31T21:04:00.000-05:00

Without my father’s encouragement, I never would have joined Cub Scouts as a child, and then never been a Boy Scout, and thus probably never grown to love camping as much as I do. So it is entirely appropriate, even necessary, that I head out for a roughing-it weekend at least once a year with Dad.

It’s been four years since our last camping trip, and before that it must have been at least two years. As we’ve both gotten older and our lives have changed (he’s retired, I live in Chicago), we’ve had less and less opportunity to pitch a tent, hike all day, eat hobo pies, and toast marshmallows over the pulsing coals of a campfire. But this year, despite our busy schedules (in his retirement, he works part-time for a former retail giant; after quitting a steady high school teaching job, I now work two jobs that keep me busy 24/7), we made the time for a weekend at Yankee Springs State Park in Middleville, Michigan.

My first hike in the woods was probably at Yankee Springs. I grew up in Hastings, which isn’t far from Middleville, and Dad still has, somewhere, a picture he took of me and my sister sitting on a carpet of brown pine needles near smooth trunk of a pine tree; an army-surplus backpack lies open at our feet and I’m holding a half-full bag of potato chips. Anne’s holding a half-full two-liter of Pepsi. In those days, I guess that was Dad’s idea of a good trail snack. I’m not sure exactly where in Yankee Springs Dad took that picture, but I’m sure it was at Yankee Springs, somewhere near Hall Lake, on the Hall Lake Trail, a hiking route Dad and I have trekked many times since, including this past Saturday.

We’ve upgraded our trail food in the years since then. I’ve always got at least two bottles of water and a couple of granola bars with me; Dad carried the trail mix this time. But one thing hasn’t changed: Dad still loves to take pictures. Years ago, he had a Minolta Maxxum 5000 SLR camera with a wide-angle and a telephoto lens. He took that thing everywhere, took pictures of everything: the scenery, his children, other people, his students (he was a sixth-grade teacher and then a principal), and he’d even set the self-timer and get into the frame once or twice himself. But as he got older, the camera got heavier, and I “borrowed” it for a photojournalism class or two in college. He stopped taking so many pictures. In some ways it was a nice break. In others, Dad just wasn’t Dad unless he was snapping pictures of everything that caught his eye.

A few Christmases ago, Anne and I went in on a Kodak digital camera for him: smaller, lighter, and with an almost unlimited capacity for pictures (sure, there’s a limit, but not even Dad takes 200 pictures on one trip). This thing fits in the palm of his hand, and has almost as many settings as his old Minolta (which is now sitting in my closet somewhere). He loves it, and puts it to use at every family function: his grandsons’ birthdays, holidays, when we built a retaining wall around the deck a few years ago, and, of course, whenever we go camping.

During this outing, not only did Dad take pictures of our campsite, our tent, our backpacks as they hung from two trees, various odd-looking trees around our campsite, a family we don’t even know as they fished from a skiff on the lake, but Dad took pictures of me, and of us, in the same spots, in almost the exact same poses, as he did four years ago. For some reason I have yet to figure out, Dad has a special affinity for old, large, many-branched trees that look like something out of The Wizard of Oz. As we passed one such tree, which I recognized as soon as I saw it, our conversation went something like this:

Dad: Let’s get a picture of us near this tree.

Me: You mean just like we did four years ago?

My smile as I said those words started out sardonic, but soon turned cheerful as the shared memory passed between us on the quick and good-natured you-smart-aleck-type-glance that Dad shot me as soon as the words left my mouth. Yes, we had taken pictures near this same tree four years ago. And yes, we’d do it again, because this was a new camping trip, and because taking pictures is what we do on camping trips, and camping is what Dad and I do together.

And when I camp solo, to wilder and rougher places than Yankee Springs, places too far out of the way for Dad these days, I take pictures of my campsite, and my tent, and my pack as it hangs from a tree, and strange-looking trees and vegetation, and every so often, I set the self-timer and get into the frame myself, because I know if Dad were there, that’s the kind of picture he’d take.

Galumphing Through the Week

2007-07-24T22:50:00.000-05:00

Final grades are due Wednesday night, so I’m spending each night doing something related to finishing up the semester. Yesterday I graded final exams. Today I graded the final discussion board forums. Tomorrow I’ll do one last check over the grades before I submit them--and I’ll cram too much gear into my external frame pack in preparation for the father-son weekend camping trip, an old summer tradition we’re starting up again after an unfortunate hiatus of a few years.

And in among all of this, the following poem keeps bubbling through my brain. Maybe it’s the Harry Potter influence. Maybe it’s because of my ongoing attempt to memorize it (it shouldn’t be difficult, and yet . . .). Trying to recall the exact order of the stanzas gave me something to do while I was locked out of my apartment last week. In any event, it’s a fun poem, and one I’m certain J.K. Rowling is familiar with. Enjoy.

JABBERWOCKY

Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

No Spoilers Here

2007-07-22T16:32:00.000-05:00

I just finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows about 15 minutes ago. I’ve neglected washing, work, and food (but not sleep, though I also tried to neglect that, too) in order to read it, to inhale it, to drink it in with large, satisfied gulps. Reading a book hasn’t been this much fun since I was a kid sitting in front of a box fan on long, hot summer days working my way through a stack of books Mom had brought home from the library for me.

To discuss the book in any great detail would probably give away plot details that I absolutely refuse to divulge, but it should come as no surprise to anyone who has read the previous six Harry Potter novels that Rowling’s foremost strength as a storyteller lies in her ability to construct and maintain an enormously detailed plot that stretches over generations. Every major event in this book, the last of the series, is somehow foreshadowed or touched upon in one of the previous six books. She has created, not just a world and characters that live and breathe and fully come to life in millions of readers’ minds, she has created an intricate and immensely satisfying seven-book storytelling arc.

Anyone who enjoys the kind of arc-driven storytelling that infused works like Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Babylon 5 will relish the way Rowling’s vast scheme unfolds over the course of all seven books. She said in an interview with NPR back in 1998 that she had already written the final chapter of the series, i.e. she had the entire arc planned, at least in outline form. Now the proof is here, and it doesn’t disappoint. That must have been one hell of an outline.

Powerful Addiction

2007-07-21T19:39:00.000-05:00

I now own a copy of the seventh and final book in the Harry Potter series, and I’m more excited to read it than I thought I would be, because a good story is like heroin—immediately pleasurable and addictive.

I was never interested in reading any of the Harry Potter books. Boy wizard? Didn’t interest me. Give me Gandalf, the gold standard by which all other wizards should be measured. An orphaned boy with silly glasses and a lightning-bolt-shaped scar on his forehead sounded too cheesy for me to want to read about.

And then, as in so many stories, I met a girl. She didn’t change my mind right away (in fact, I almost dumped her when I saw her collection of every Harry Potter book printed up to that time—in hardcover). But then I discovered a used, beaten-up copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone in a box of books given to me for use in my high school classroom, and thought “Hell, since I didn’t have to pay for it, I’ll give it a chance.”

I didn’t like it much. Too juvenile. But seeds had been planted, so I thought I should at least give the second book a chance. I didn’t care much for that one, either, but water had been poured on those seeds, so I gave the third one a try. And that hooked me.

So when I got the “Reserve Your Copy of Harry Potter 7 Now!” email from Amazon a few months ago, I promptly typed in my credit card number and forked over some digital cash. And I never buy hardcover books. I prefer the way a paperback fits in my hands. Also, I’m cheap. But I had to find out what happens to Harry before some inconsiderate asshole spoils the ending for me.

But the copy of what I have so far only read the first chapter of in is not the copy I ordered from Amazon. That copy is still waiting for me in my UPS Store mailbox.

I had to proctor a two-hour final exam for my online students today. At 11 a.m., the time UPS estimated my book would be delivered. And at 2 p.m., I was going to see Mirror of the Invisible World at the Goodman Theater with a friend from work who had free tickets. That didn’t leave me a lot of time to collect my tests, hop on a train, get back to my neighborhood to pick up the book, and get back downtown to the Goodman. Especially after I was a nice guy and let a student who had shown up 45 minutes late stay an extra 45 minutes to finish his test. By the time he was done, I had about 35 minutes to get my book. The UPS Store closes at 5 on Saturdays, and the play was supposed to be two-and-a-half hours long. With my luck, it would run over, and I’d miss my chance to get HP 7 today, fall behind on my scheduled reading, and thus increase the chances of some idiot spoiling the ending for me.

So at 1:30 I stood at the Brown Line platform at State and Lake, waiting for a train. After six minutes, I knew the train was late. I knew my chances of getting my book and getting back to Goodman before 2 were slim to none. I though about bailing on the play, but I love theater, and I had already made plans. But if the play ran as scheduled, I’d probably still have time to get back to the UPS Store before 5. Except with my luck, the show would run late and the Brown Line would break down.

My train pulled up to the station. I had made my decision, but I wasn’t entirely happy: I’d risk missing the play (or being late, which in my mind is even worse) in order to guarantee getting my hands on HP 7 today. I bent over to pick up my backpack, and as I swung it over my left shoulder, I turned right to face the train—and found myself looking at Ana-Luz, my friend with the tickets, who had just gotten off the train I was about to board. Not two feet away from me. Between me and the train that would take me to Harry Potter. I grimaced. I didn’t have time to explain that I’d be late. I’d probably miss the play, but I had to have HP 7. I’d feel guilty and petty, and I hate feeling that way. So I’d be a nice guy and forego my HP gratification. I’d feel anxious and uptight until I had my hands on HP 7, but I didn’t want to look like a dick in front of a friend (although, by my grimace, I probably already did).

Then Ana-Luz pulled the mostly-orange brick of my obsession from her bag. “Here. I didn’t want to feel guilty that you might miss it today,” she said.

I’m an atheist and a pragmatist. I never attribute anything to luck, or fate, or destiny, or God. The world is what it is, and it is shaped by our actions. Nothing else.

But here was, without a doubt, a lucky break.

I was so confounded by this series of coincidences (remember, I was mainly running late because a student of mine had been running late earlier) that, for a moment, I must have seemed angry, because Ana-Luz asked if I was upset. Not upset, I managed to stammer. Just discombobulated. The core of my philosophy of life could not have been more shaken than if God had suddenly appeared before me to say “Hi. You’re wrong.”

I explained all of this to Ana-Luz during the one-block walk to Goodman. She explained that the book had been given to her by another friend who was trying to convert her to Harry-Potterism (“So why start with the last book?” I asked. “Oh, he got me the first one, too,” she answered. “Still strange,” I said. “Yeah,” she answered.) I successfully managed not to read the book during the play. I waited until several hours later, back on the L, headed for home.

When I pulled Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows out of my backpack, I felt like Indiana Jones unearthing the Ark of the Covenant. It seemed to glow. I felt the mass of it in my hands, and I don’t just mean its physical weight. I had known for weeks what the cover would look like. I had seen two people reading the book at the Brown Line stop while I struggled with my earlier ethical decision about ditching a friend. I had even felt it in my hands hours earlier, when Ana-Luz had given me this copy. But now, as I pulled the book from my bag, knowing that this time I was going to actually open and read it, it seemed as though I could not only feel the cardboard and paper that the book was made of, but feel the heft of the story within, pulsing between the covers like a living thing.

Because that’s what story is—life.

The power of story is a recurring theme in the works of Neil Gaiman and Dan Simmons and just about every other author I admire. It was the theme of the play I had just seen. Story is the beauty that never fades , the treasure that never loses value. It is the only thing humans can create that even has a chance of being eternal. And for atheists like me, it is the only eternal thing. Story. Narrative. Tales that tell of fanciful exploits and daring loves, horrors beyond imagining and beauty that rends the heart. Harry Potter may not be the most finely-crafted literature in the English language. It will never be placed in the canon beside such monumental works as King Lear or Anna Karenina or The Old Man and the Sea or Madame Bovary. It has no such pretensions. J.K. Rowling just wanted to tell a tale that meant something to her and that might mean something to others. In that, she was successful. The books hit all the major clichés of a successful story: the characters come to life, the plot is both twisting and cohesive, the world comes to life. These elements of the story stay with the reader, with me, long after the last page is read and we move on to another book. A good story is as addictive as heroin, and (I’m guessing here) pleasurable for many of the same reasons. We read and are transported, taken out of ourselves, and yet a good story grounds us in ourselves as nothing else can.

A long-time fantasy fan (I read The Lord of the Rings when I was something like 10 years old and haven’t been the same since), I have recently started struggling with wanting to feel less frivolous in my reading, and so I read more non-fiction, like Doris Kearns Goodwin’s Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln, Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States, Jared Diamond’s Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies, Henry David Thoreau’s Civil Disobedience, Huston Smith’s The World’s Religions, Thich Nhat Hanh’s The Heart of the Buddha’s Teaching, Reza Aslan’s No God But God. Serious books about serious things, college-reading-list types of books, books that address real concerns in the real world, political philosophies and spiritual truths.

But just often, although in a different way, a good story can teach me—affect me—just as much. So now I’m going to finish reading Harry Potter.

It's Live! Live, I Tell You!

2007-07-19T22:22:00.000-05:00

It probably goes without saying that a world-class city like Chicago always has something to offer. It has two major-league baseball teams, one major-league football team, several highly-regarded museums, more than a handful of historic sites, numerous fantastic attractions, and a wide assortment of restaurants and nightclubs.

I’m probably most fond of the local public radio station, especially the locally-produced and nationally-recognized shows, like This American Life and Wait, Wait . . . Don’t Tell Me! Once I finally got around to discovering podcasts, I’ve been downloading and time-shifting these shows every week. I’ve even been fortunate enough to catch a live taping of TAL (episode #328: What I Learned from TV) and several tapings of Wait, Wait—like the free show in Millennium Park I attended tonight.

The free-and-in-Millennium-Park part was only one (OK, two) reasons this show was special. The third reason was the guest for the “Not My Job” segment—United States Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois Patrick Fitzgerald. You know, the special prosecutor in the Valerie Plame identity leak case; the guy who got I. Lewis “Scooter” Libby convicted of lying to prosecutors during that investigation (and then, of course, President Bush swooped in and bailed out his loyal henchman, but more on that later).

Fitzgerald rarely gives interviews, so his appearance on the show was something of a coup for the Wait, Wait crew, something host Peter Sagal made a point of mentioning, albeit in is usual humorously self-deprecating manner. Before the show started, he told this (paraphrased) anecdote about talking with Fitzgerald back stage:

I was talking with Mr. Fitzgerald back stage, and told him that his public appearance was so rare that a reporter called me up to ask me about it. I explained [to the reporter] what Fitzgerald would be doing on the show, and the reporter asked me what I was going to ask him. I explained that we like to keep the “Not My Job” questions a secret, since we like to surprise the guest with them, but the reporter explained, “It’s OK, I’m writing a story that won’t come out until after the show is broadcast.” So I told him. At which point Mr. Fitzgerald looked at me rather archly and said “So you leaked.”

And then I had to change my pants.

The best joke of this entirely excellent show, however, came about halfway through the taping, once Fitzgerald was actually on the stage. After quickly getting the obvious question out of the way (“Who leaked Valerie Plame’s identity?” at which Fitzgerald only chuckled), Sagal continued with some relaxing banter, inquiring into Fitzgerald’s past jobs (he once worked as a doorman and a janitor, and said it was easier being a janitor), past prosecutorial successes, and the fact that he now lives in Chicago.

Peter Sagal: We hear you live on the north side.

Patrick Fitzgerald: Yes.

Peter Sagal: But you work downtown.

Patrick Fitzgerald: Yes.

Peter Sagal: So, how do you feel about . . . commuting?

I am ashamed to confess it took me about ten seconds longer to get that joke than it should have (I blame Sagal’s completely deadpan delivery), but once I got it, I was howling along with the rest of the crowd.

And yes, the scooter jokes flew fast and thick every moment Fitzgerald was on stage. And if you want to hear them all, I suggest listening to the broadcast of Wait, Wait on your local public radio station, or you can go to iTunes and sign up for the weekly podcast (which you should do anyway—you’ll laugh and learn a thing or two about the state of the world. Nothing that’s really useful, but still).

The last reason you should listen to this show is because I was there. And if you listen carefully, you might even pick out my cackling all the way from the back row of the Jay Pritzker Pavillion in Millennium Park in downtown Chicago (Richard M. Daley, Mayor).

Getting to Know the Neighbors

2007-07-18T21:42:00.001-05:00

For a few years when I lived in Lansing, I would sometimes work for my friend Mark, a journeyman contractor. He’d get a job to, for example, re-do someone’s basement bathroom, and he and I would show up, armed with drill drivers and nail guns, and proceed to tear everything out of the old bathroom, re-route the plumbing, re-wire the fixtures, frame and drywall the room, then sand, paint, and viola! new bathroom.

Since he was a pro and I was merely a professional helper, Mark always handled the actual plumbing and electrical work. I got to run the nail gun sometimes, but that was about as advanced as I got. I’m certain that at some point, Mark pointed out to me that these days, most major electrical appliances, refrigerator, air conditioner, water heater, etc, get their own circuit in the breaker box.

Not, apparently, in my apartment.

The building I live in was originally built sometime around the beginning of the 20^th century. The interior has been updated throughout the years, but it still leaves a little be desired. Floors that cant to the middle of the room are the most obvious drawback of my domicile. Blowing a fuse almost every time I use my air conditioner is another. The A/C itself can run OK, but if I want to use a fan or two to help circulate the colder air, the A/C and everything in my kitchen—the fridge, the microwave—will eventually draw too much power and flip the breaker.

Oh, and did I mention that the breaker boxes for all four apartments that have been carved out of this house are in a tiny, closet-like room accessible only from outside the building? Consider it mentioned. This means every time I blow a fuse, I have to put on shoes, walk about forty feet along the outside of the building, unlatch the wooden door to the breaker closet (imagine the latch on an old screen door; you know, the kind with a hook that fits into an eyebolt?), and find the breaker that’s been flipped.

This isn’t usually such a big deal. Sure, the last time it happened, I was pretty sure I spooked a rat or something that had made a home in amongst the many autumns’ worth of dead leaves that have piled up around the roofing paper, old broom, and other miscellaneous junk that’s kept in there (the door doesn’t come all the way to the ground, making access incredibly easy for small animals), and the first time I blew a fuse, I had to flip switches in each of the four breaker boxes because none of them are labeled. So re-setting my breakers has gotten kind of routine. So routine that I walked out of my apartment rather exasperated—and forgot to grab my keys.

Yep. I locked myself out of my apartment, something I haven’t done since college. And heavy gray storm clouds were moving slowly across the sky, like a hungry bear stalking its dinner. Me.

Those of you who know me will not be surprised that as soon as I realized what I had done, the first word out of my mouth was one that begins with an “f.” Those of you who know me will also be surprised that the very next thing I did was laugh. Loudly. I kept laughing for a good five minutes. What else was I gonna do?

After my short burst of absurdist mirth, I took stock. Did I have a spare key? Yes I did. In my apartment. Could I get in through a window? No, I had been running my air conditioner and all of my windows were closed and locked. Were any of my neighbors home? Elizabeth who lives above me? Nope. Rachelle who lives behind and above me? Nope. Lupe or her husband, who live directly behind me? Bingo!

I only knew Lupe and Juan through their gas bill. It had been delivered to me by mistake shortly after they moved in, so I hand-delivered it to Juan. “Hi, here’s your gas bill, it was in my mailbox.” “Thanks.” That was about the extent of my conversation with Juan.

But Lupe was very helpful. She had the maintenance guy’s number in her cell phone, dialed him for me, gave me a glass of water while I waited for him to show up. We chatted about the gas bill (which unfortunately in the winter tends to be rather large for an apartment in a house that is about 100 years old—I suspect from lack of insulation), and the hassles of parking in the street.

Half an hour later, about an hour after I had locked myself out of my apartment, Brian showed up and let me in.

“Don’t feel bad,” he said. “Elizabeth’s had to call me at least three times.”

I Killed My Television

2007-07-17T21:07:00.000-05:00

I haven’t watched television regularly since December of last year. When I moved into my new apartment that month, I thought I’d save a little cash by not hooking up cable TV. Since I can get the only two TV shows I watched regularly through iTunes, anyway, it wasn’t much of a sacrifice. And I haven’t missed it since.

It would have been easy to get cable TV hooked up. After all, I needed cable internet to be able to effectively teach my online composition courses. That costs me $60 a month, and TV only would have been an extra $40. It was tempting. I have never not been without TV. I don’t think many of us have. That damned cyclopean glass eye is in almost every living room, family room, kitchen, and bedroom in the country.

A number of things held be back, however. First, there was the money. I was only saving $40 a month, but $40 is $40, especially when I knew I would almost never be home to watch the TV I would be paying for. I might have spent the $40 if I’d had a TiVo (and not one of the vastly inferior DVRs that Comcast could provide), but the TiVo I used to have belonged to the ex, so no time-shifting for me. Third, I could actually time-shift the only two shows on television I care about these days, now that anything and everything created by Joss Whedon and/or Tim Minear is off the air; The Daily Show and The Colbert Report are both available through iTunes, for about $20 a month combined, and I can take them on my iPod and watch them during my train ride to work every morning. In the end, it was easy to kill my TV.

The television set itself is still in one piece, actually. It even still works. I needed it for a while to watch movies on. I killed cable, but not my Netflix queue (although I did dial that down to one movie at a time, limit two a month). And after I got a new wide-screen laptop with an absolutely gorgeous screen resolution, I watch movies on that. But I most emphatically do not watch regular television anymore. No slanted cable news, no stupid sitcoms, no shows I love canceled because network execs didn’t get it. I get my news from NPR and the Associated Press (via Yahoo). I get my laughs from The Daily Show and The Colbert Report. I have my favorite movies and TV shows on DVD. I read books. Non-fiction, even. I don’t need television, and I don’t miss it at all.

Summer Job

2007-07-16T20:36:00.000-05:00

I spent the summers of my teen years mowing lawns: $5 a pop for the small ones, $10 a pop for the larger ones. I was the Official Peach Street Lawnmower Man, or I would have been, had Peach been more of a street and less of a packed-dirt rut that connected Harbert Road and Red Arrow Highway. Back then, having a summer job meant independence (I got to drive Dad’s Ford Escort station wagon all by myself once I turned 16—I could fit the push lawnmower in the back) and, of course, money. I mowed a lawn, I got cash, half of which Dad insisted I put in savings. I hated it at the time, but when I finally went to college and had enough for a Macintosh LC, it all seemed worth it. But the feeling of independence the summer job gave me was paramount.

I haven’t felt the same about a summer job since.

In college I had a motley assortment of summer jobs: doing morning delivery for a bakery, working as an office peon for the Central Michigan University Health Sciences Department, stocking shelves and helping customers as a sporting goods associate at Meijer, helping maintain one of the safety systems at a nuclear power plant (it wasn’t nearly as glamorous as it might sound, or as dangerous). Some of the jobs were cool (the nuclear plant), some were hellish (I had to be to the bakery by 4 a.m. every day), but they were all means to an end—getting out of college and getting a real job.

The problem was, I didn’t really want a real job. I would have been perfectly happy as a professional student, and I prolonged college as long as I could by sticking around an extra there years to get my MA in English Language and Literature (had I been serious at all about finding a real job, I would have gotten some other kind of degree).

Random Person: “So, what’s your degree in?”

Me: “English.”

Random Person: “Oh. So you gonna teach in high school?”

Me: “Hell no. I hated high school the first time through. Why would I want to go back?’

But, the job market being what it is for someone with a degree in English, I eventually did get my high school teaching certification. The number one reason I decided setting foot in high school again wouldn’t be so bad: I’d get my summers off.

Granted, that’s one of the worst reasons to become a teacher. Teaching is about so much more than getting two or three months of free time in the summer. But I’m a die-hard outdoorsman, and the prospect of spending weeks out in the wilderness without having to coordinate with some corporate vacation schedule (or spending years accumulating enough vacation time to take the kinds of long trips I had in mind) was vastly appealing.

If you’ve been reading this blog, you know the rest of the story. I enjoyed my one summer off while it lasted, but since I didn’t know at the time that it would be my last summer off, I hardly made the most of it. After the hell that had been my first year of teaching, I figured I had earned the right to slack off for a few months.

And now I work a full-time (although temporary) job for a corporation, and while I have managed to finesse my summer hours so I work more in June in July in order to get every Friday in August off, I know it won’t be the same as having my entire summer to myself.

I do sometimes regret walking out on my students and fellow teachers halfway through my second school year. I let a lot of people down. On the upside, I saved my sanity. I’m much calmer and more relaxed these days. I don’t come home from a day of proofreading, for example, and immediately drink two glasses of strong red wine.

But on summer days when the air is warm and dry, when the sky is brilliant blue and smudged here and there with the white cotton of cumulus congestus, when the trees are replete with leaves and lawns are vibrantly verdant—on days like that, I wish I still had my summers off.

All the same, however, I’d rather have my sanity.

Re-crossing a Metaphorical Styx

2007-07-15T21:30:00.000-05:00

I’m alive.

I thought it necessary to begin that way because, as I have discovered after these many, many, months of not posting to this blog, I have a fan base. A tiny fan base made up mostly of my immediate family and a few close friends, but it’s a start. And, like fans everywhere, these people want to know when I’m going to start writing again, specifically, when I’m going to start writing in this blog again. Apparently, some of them need one more thing to distract them at work.

Therefore: I’m alive. And since I have realized that I am, indeed, alive, and have spent the past several months getting used to that idea, I now find that every so often I have something to say, or, more to the point, write. However, since I am a world-class procrastinator (having been given the rank of “Expert” by the World Procrastinator’s Society; or, at least, I will be given that rank when they finally get around to forming said society), I can always find a reason and/ or a way to put off writing. But if I can motivate myself to wake up at 5 a.m. every morning to do yoga and tai chi before going to work, if I can motivate myself to stay awake while proofreading what seems to be the same math textbook over and over and over again for up to eight hours a day, and if—most amazingly—I can motivate myself to run a little over three miles when I get home from work, if I can find the motivation to do all of these things, surely I can find the motivation to write.

And now, having used up my writerly motivation for the day, I will close this post, pick up my copy of Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States, and read for about 30 minutes before falling asleep. I wrote much more than this, but it’s in terribly rough shape, and I don’t have time to clean it up and make it presentable, as I have a 5 a.m. date with the Yang style short tai chi form, but rest assured, fans: more is coming.

Fun with nucleation sites

2006-06-06T10:12:00.000-05:00

Diet Coke + Mentos = soda fountain. Literally. Just watch the video.

Oh, the things I learn watching Rocketboom.

Summer job

2006-06-05T21:11:00.000-05:00

As of today, I am officially done with my pre-summer-term planning and prep for the two classes I will teach in June and July for that community college down the road from me. I always like this part of the semester: plans always look so shiny before they collide with reality and get a little disheveled. Of course, plans for college courses never get nearly as derailed as plans for high school courses, so I don't think I will have too much to worry about. If the preliminary class lists I saw today were any indication, I will only have eight students in my reading class, and only two students in my writing class. That could, of course, change during drop and add, but I don't think it will get anywhere near a full 25 students per class. Of course, I've been wrong before.

Classy Rejection

2006-05-12T19:21:00.000-05:00

You're the fantastic writer, but I'm the one who must now do some tricky but heartfelt communicating.

First off, you have our deepest thanks for the time you invested in our Reading Comprehension audition. Our projects can be complex and unusual, so they often call for an audition that is likewise. But you were quite up to the task. We knew your material would be strong and you didn't disappoint. You are a writer we like.

The bad news is that we didn't have room on this project for everyone we like, and we’re unable to offer you a position with us at this time.

The good news (at least, I hope you'll think so) is that you'll very likely hear from us again. Now we've had the pleasure of meeting you, and seeing how well you do with our specific kind of writing. That makes it much easier for us to call you for future projects. We hope we can find a better match for you soon, and we’re currently in the contract stage for a lot more work that you’ll hopefully see as right up your alley.

Thanks again for coming in to meet me and creating such a great audition. I wish you the best of luck, and hope we'll be talking again soon.

As rejection letters go, I don't think I've ever received a classier one.

To read my audition, click here.

Audition Submitted

2006-05-10T19:59:00.000-05:00

Now I sit back and wait to see how they liked it.

Nailed the Interview

2006-05-08T15:58:00.000-05:00

Now I just have to nail the audition/ writing test, and I'll have a full-time job through the end of July, maybe longer.

The Christopher Cadre

2006-05-08T09:59:00.000-05:00

As a huge Joss Whedon fan, I keep up with the fan blog Whedonesque, on which other Joss, um, enthusiasts like me keep up with all things Joss, like the new Wonder Woman Trailer.

It was probably Joss's creation and development of Buffy the Vampire Slayer that eventually led to his being tapped by Paramount to script the new Wonder Woman movie, and his success and both writer and director of Serenity that led to him being given the director's reins of WW, as well.

So Joss, and Wonder Woman, is a hot property in Hollywood right now, and it seems that She of the Golden Lasso is the role to get for young actresses these days. The script hasn't even been turned in to the studio yet, but that hasn't stopped casting rumors from running wild (for my money, I'd like to see former Firefly regular Morena Baccarin in the role).

Some sources conjecture that Whedon will opt for a young unknown to play the coveted role, and that has prompted one Atlanta actress to put together her own "cast me! cast me!" Wonder Woman Promotional Trailer.

Kudos to Clarke Wolfe for her enthusiasm and verve. Who knows, maybe she'll start a trend. But by far the BEST thing about this trailer is the crazy guy in the "newscast" at the end, none other than my old college buddy and fellow Star Wars geek Chris Burns!

After watching this trailer, I still want Morena Baccarin to play Wonder Woman, but I just as certainly think Joss should give Burns a role. Something evil. He'd like that.

Couldn't Help Myself

2006-05-07T23:22:00.000-05:00

SJ Writing is now up and running.

I thought I'd wait, but then I figured, "why?"

I have an interview with a small software company tomorrow. It's just a contract job, full-time, but not long-term, but if they called me for an interview after reading my quite audacious cover letter, then I have high hopes for this interview. They need a "great writer" (so said the Craigslist posting) to write interactive dialogue for a new computer game that teaches reading comprehension. I'm jazzed about this.

Finding a Focus

2006-05-06T17:51:00.000-05:00

I've applied to over 45 different jobs since I quit my teaching gig in March. That's a lot of resumes, a lot of cover letters, a lot of self-examination. Some of those jobs were teaching positions, but most of them were either writing or editing positions, because, the more I thought about what I really wanted to do with my time, my energy, my life, I realized that I wanted to WRITE. I got into teaching because I love to write. It has recently occured to me that that's like becoming a mechanic because you want to be a racecar driver.

So, while I'm not completely dismissing the idea of teaching at a high school again (I spent two years and several thousand dollars on a teaching certificate, after all) I have been focusing more these days on writing--and reading--than anything else.

To that end, I've decided to focus my blogging efforts, too, with at least one new blog: SJ Reading, in which I write about the things I've read or am reading--a poor blogger's literature review. I expect SJ Writing will soon follow, once I start having more things to report about my own writing efforts. If you're a fan of this blog, don't worry: it has served me well, and I don't plan on retiring it any time soon.

New E-Mail Updates Available

2006-05-06T01:32:00.000-05:00

If you want to keep up with my postings, but haven't yet figured out RSS, it is now possible to sign up for email updates. In the right-hand sidebar, just above the radio button labeled "Subscribe," there is a box. Enter your email address, click that subscribe button, verify that you do indeed want to get email updates, and soon you will be getting email each day I post something new here.

Thanks to Chris Thilk, my brother-in-law and the insane genius behind Movie Marketing Madness, for mentioning this cool FeedBurner service on his blog.

Blog Envy

2006-04-28T15:28:00.000-05:00

Apparently, rumors and speculation are still flying fast and furious around my old school that I am the author of “Fast Times at [my old school’s name spelled backwards] High,” the blog in which a teacher vented his (or her) frustrations about teaching in a soul-sucking, hope-destroying environment.

Let me make this clear: I WISH that other blog were mine; it’s not. That kind of publicity is a book or movie deal waiting to happen. I always figured I’d turn my blog into a book sooner or later, and I suppose I still could (I could title it: “Driven Crazy: Why I Quit Teaching in an Urban School After a Year and a Half”) but whomever this other blog author is has got a leg up on me: his (or her) blog has stirred up amazing amounts of conflict, and, as I used to teach my students, conflict is what makes stories interesting. In fact, it was THAT conflict which generated news, NOT the blog itself. The blog only became news when it infuriated students and teachers alike (although for different reasons, as I pointed out before). To my understanding, the other blog author only leaked his (or her) involvement in the blog to other teachers at the school, NOT to the media.

If I’m wrong about this, someone please correct me.

And for anyone who would like my old school to continue making the news: PLEASE give this blog address to the media. I would love an increased readership.

Also, anyone reading my blog has to admit that, despite my frustrations with my old school and the educational system in general, I have always taken pains to be as fair in my comments as possible. I mean, my blog never stirred up the kind of resentment “Fast Times at X High” did (in fact, as far as I know, it never upset anyone at all), and I’m sure part of that has to do with my writing style. Maybe the Trib could do a story comparing my blog to the other one, and maybe then the Trib (or some other media outlet) could do some kind of investigation into how many CPS teachers blog. And why stop with just CPS teachers? There are plenty of other teachers who blog from the trenches. Just google “teacher blog” and you get about 51,400,000 hits.