Be safe, mate

Last week I saw a student from my Winter course at the Holland Farmer’s Market. She watched a stand for her employers, a natural/organic grocery store, while I feigned interest in hanging flower baskets. Her name slipped from memory, though I recognised her immediately. The twenty dollar bill, crisp and folded in my wallet, was the entire market budget. I walked up to an ATM, rocking on my heels between two cars waiting for the same machine. My former student’s booth looked expensive (as organic products are wont to be). I focused on market stalls adjacent hers, feigning interest in floral hanging baskets ($10!). That mental persecutor’s voice: I’m on the student’s territory, not a respected teacher but a common (perhaps miserable) man trespassing in barely clean clothes and dishevelled hair hiding under a hat. Because life is life, I made eye contact and we shared a pleasant but fabricated hello. Did I mention that she earned a ‘D’ in my class? Her store sells hummus, peanut butter and the like. I like both of these things. Of course bought one container of each. Why? Obligation. Of what? The prospect of seeing delicious things for sale at 8a, unseasonably cold for even the predictably unseasonable Michigan, and not buying them didn’t sit well. The sale took nearly half of my market budget. Our brief conversation limited to the immediate perspective sale, the sale, the subjunctive future of enjoying said sale. Yikes. Awkward. Over to an opposite stall, stood a handsome young man selling peppers. He struck a pose of self-aware boredom mixed with the effort to mask said boredom. Buying a pound of red peppers he made note of my being his first sale of the day, to which I wondered aloud what the hell these people’s problem could be to not buy such good looking peppers. He shrugged and asked if I’m from Western. “I left two years ago,” he explained, seeing the old WMU faculty id card when the remaining $10 came out from my wallet. “I signed up for the Navy. Leave in February,” he volunteered. Jesus, it’s too cold outside for June; the mug of coffee a waning miracle. “Be safe, mate,” is all I could offer.

It's in a red notebook

The stuff that should be on this site are going into a red notebook. I bought the red notebook last Christmas at the Barnes and Noble store in Grand Rapids. Not only is it red, it is made in Spain. There are any number of ready-made excuses for the posting avoidance: busy with house projects, entertaining guests, attention to the present summer course combining with preparation for the second. Any or all of these. But none, really. The red notebook is without the public air.

Derrick and I talked about homeownership over a vegetarian dinner: pride, prejudice, responsibility, cost, night sounds, neighbours. He’s an invaluable connection in this especially lonely summer. He stayed for five days. The Tigers won and lost their series games against the White Sox. Shayla finished a “Flowers in the Attic,” and maintained social connections on social network sites from my laptop plopped in the kitchen not socialising much with her father and I. We together took on a handful of improvement projects: replaced the original, late 1930’s electrical outlets (which prior owners painted over with the walls), removed the cabinet doors, built bookcases, filled those bookcases, shopped home furnishings outlet stores, swapped old incandescent bulbs with higher-efficiency spirals, moved furniture from room-to-room, tackled the lawn, ran wires from room-to-room, and others I shamefully overlooked completing this morning. I learned to appreciate, and come to rely upon, the employees at Home Depot and Lowes. The advice received from the various folks in those stores is high fucking appreciated, if not a huge savings in avoiding unnecessary work. I realise now that a house is a living thing. Its pipes, a circulatory system (a little rust), electrical wires/sockets the neurologics, the middle wall it’s spine. Put in the context of owning and caring for a life is simultaneously terrifying in its responsibility and a huge source of pride. Reckon this is the nearest to parenting I’ll get (unless a dog enters the picture), so enjoy it. How I feel about being a single parent is a continuing development. On that note, fuck HGTV. That network is yuppie propaganda. Each show I saw about finding/buying one’s first house centered on 20-something straight couples whose criteria, every time, was “enough room to start a family.” Ugh. The realtor made a similar comment to me. Thanks, society, for adding a dash of inadequacy to my once-in-a-lifetime achievement.

Ryu Inu

Ryu Inu is asleep to my right. He’s a four year old male (neutered) Shiba Inu. He came to Holland today from Newaygo. His owners posted a message on Craigslist. I responded, not believing the luck - having wanted a Shiba Inu for a decade. The owners and I agreed on the details of the adoption during a few email messages and phone calls. They gave me two grocery bags of Ryu’s toys and snacks, a folder of veterinary history of immunizations, and his country registration. Now he’s asleep to my left. Tuckered out. We ran a mile in the neighborhood. Before that, we ran three blocks; that is, I chased him for three fucking blocks after he wiggled under the back yard fence. We were home 45 minutes when he made his break. A family of 12, maybe 15, witnessed the chase from point-blank range as Ryu and I tore through their family picnic. I apologized at full speed. Finally caught him, carried in one arm, back from a stranger’s impressive back yard garden. The picnic people applauded as we made our way back to my house. I had no choice. My shoes fell off next to their garage. Those two and a half miles I run at the gym nearly every day paid off in spades. Ryu and Ciela get along famously. By that, I mean they sniffed each other’s butts and afterwards walked in different directions. This is a huge relief. Shiba Inu are hunters. He pulls like a bottle rocket on a string when he notices a smaller animal during our walks. Ciela is fat, lazy, and defenseless. Compared to what Ryu wants to chase, Ciela is an unprotected chocolate cake.

Tonight is the first one. I hope it’s a quiet one. Tomorrow is his first day alone from either previous owners or me. Multiple web sites warn about Shiba Inu predisposition to separation anxiety. Being at the office will suck, I’ll feel anxious leaving him solo. For now though, bedtime. Two animals and a grown man who isn’t a pervert.

update: Ryu shows nearly zero signs of separation anxiety: some minor squeals for a few seconds after the door closes. Nothing what i’d feared: destroyed, chewed up things, pee stained floor, angry neighbors. What a good dog!

Breathing people said.

The Telegraph (UK) published in March a list of twenty ridiculous complaints made by tourists (I presume the British holidaymaker variety). The majority centre around accommodation, animals and perceived bait-and-switch tactics (“the sand in your brochure is white but the actual beach sand is yellow.”) Comments like these are depressingly run-of-the-mill from the mouths of tourists on their first foreign outing. The sorts of people who imagine their vacation destination in terms of a carefully controlled paradise operating on the engine fuel of happy service to the tourists whims; not, God almighty, aware that the dream-land is in fact called by many others as ‘home’ by the Two specifically are walking the line of ludicrous: "There are too many Spanish people. The receptionist speaks Spanish. The food is Spanish. Too many foreigners." and "It's lazy of the local shopkeepers to close in the afternoons. I often needed to buy things during 'siesta' time - this should be banned."

Eulogy

I am terrified that somebody will describe my life better than I lived it.

A weekend in May

This weekend half happened. Yesterday the final parade, Muziekparade, of Tulip Time took place. I napped through it. Saw the new ‘Star Trek’ film (well worth the $6.50). The first class of Summer term went well. The assigned room feels like a prison cell - or, I assume so having not been in a prison cell - but did see a few episodes of ‘Oz.’ Hot, claustrophobic, no ventilation, over-crowded, three hours for the next 13 Saturday mornings. A headache cut short the gym time. Had dinner at Panera, with Steven’s goddamned voice in my head: fat vegetarians eating too many carbs. Tomato soup with croutons, a tomato/mozzarella sandwich with chocolate chip/walnut cookie as dessert. Delicious food accompanied by unfair mental fear-mongering. Took to bed early.

Woke up to blinding sunlight and bird-song. Threw blankets into washing machine, did some perfunctory tidying-up. Critically examining my complexion in the mirror when the idea to drive into Saugatuck popped up. I really need to study Spanish with the Dele now less than a week away. The tourists stop apparently in Saugatuck on their way home from Holland. Out-of-towners swarm the town’s small streets. Didn’t realise that. The tourists mingle with the gay bears. Is it Bear Weekend? Lots of bearded, chubby men walking about - some walking toy dogs. Sitting here since 9a, did lots of studying. Met with a former student turning in some missing work. I’ll submit a grade change later this afternoon. He lives not far from my new house. “It’s probably not up to your standards,” he said describing his Summer English 101 course. I am a tyrant, it seems. Maybe I should take as a compliment former student’s boredom with higher-level courses. Sigh. It’s past 1p. Time to move on, get my ass out of this chair in this cafe, get my feet on the treadmill. I had a cup of the cafe’s organic oatmeal. Lots of fibre and carbs! “Fat vegetarians,” he croons.

Shut up.

Surveys

Last night I had dinner with the Doremire clan (sans mom) and a friend of Adam’s flown in from Seattle... not for this occasion, though. The friend brought up a social geography survey method that gauges the ‘livability’ of American regions, mostly urban to quasi-urban centres. I remember three of the four survey criteria: tolerance, technology, transportation, and something else. Maybe higher education? The implication of the survey is no doubt an arrow in real estate agent’s quiver to justify the $100k tack-on to a loft in San Francisco, but apparently meant to lend a scientific authority for urban relocation away from the small towns and rural landscapes of America. I wouldn’t take a breath for arguing against the awesome appeal of urban living along three to four criteria (plus the hundreds others unmentioned or assumed) and didn’t make an attempt to poke holes in the survey’s methodology or results.

Where I had/have a problem is the cultural chauvinism carried by the survey’s results and replicated in the voice of my fellow dinner guest. I bristled at the unspoken but impossible-to-miss judgement made about living, voluntarily and of sound mind, in Holland. Based on the survey’s criteria, Holland cannot possibly be a satisfactory incubator of talented creative people; the city (if the survey’s advocates would even allow the c-word applied) lacks [unspecified] tolerance, reliable and penetrative mass transit, and high technology firms. Holland comes out at best an interesting backwater, a pleasant tourist destination for Middle Americans and at worst a lockstep Christian identity recruiting pasture saturated with Dell laptops and American sedans. My problem with this came out of Adam’s friend assuming that small cities in provincial areas of the Rust Belt cannot produce or attract talented, creative, intellectual, multi-cultural people; further, that these small cities actively repel / discourage that development. What made me most uncomfortable was the anti-intellectual foundation of this comparison. It assumed, in Holland’s specific case, that easily-defended stereotypes from 15 years ago exist in the same form and ferocity in 2009. It also, in a back-handed sort of way, seemed a personal insult in my deciding to buy a home here. Adam, a bit later, acknowledged my irritation of the argument in an even-handed way but prodded me to continue my response. The bastard. What choice did I have.

Lunatics and civic events

Flowers attract bees. Tulips attract artists. Tulip Time attracts lunatics and tourists... the two groups invariably coming into contact, drawn by the same signal. This year’s festival keeps the human calculus in balance. Lemonjello’s swarms with fat tourists wearing pastels and floral prints collected in table-clusters pouring over maps, mispronouncing place names. The lunatics buzz around the tourist’s periphery working in odd orbits. I avoid eye-contact with the lunatics and tourists alike. They might take an inadvertent gaze as an invitation for communication. To chat. No no. I forgot the earphones, oh no. A Korean boy with a full size red bass guitar stands outside the door, peering inside wondering.... wondering I can’t imagine. Go away.

It breaks one’s heart to see a 40-something sweat in a green polo at 65 degrees hold court with an un-medicated psychotic selling “custom” music CDs.

Competition

The Tulip Time 5k/8k run took place in a track very close to my future residence. I didn’t know about the race before seeing the PDF map on the festival’s website. 5k, hmmm... Every day at the gym I run 2 miles. 2.25 if the morning’s coffee lingered in the blood. Last week I survived the 2.5 mile point. Anyway, these distances aren’t too much removed from 5 kilometres. Race day but I didn’t participate. Running a race adds the element of competition I’ve not yet contended with; at the gym, I compete with myself and the boredom of staring into a car park. And the treadmill is, you know, inside a climate-controlled environment. Running the distance seemed entirely plausible but the context supplied the wrench. While I didn’t run this race, the idea remains an entertaining one to.... uh, entertain. I saved the 5k race track map. When I can run 5k on the treadmill then maybe the outdoors version will be the new goal.

In related news, the scale reads 150lbs. Almost skinny!

Choices

Two years back, the University of Missouri published a paper about human cognitive processes when viewing web pages. The research shows that when the eyes have fewer images to absorb on a single page correlates to increased focus to content. Participants ‘engaged’ the material, reading more closely, contemplated implications and in general understood the content better. Additionally, they were less likely to browse away from the page. Not withstanding meta-content such as chat windows, Facebook or iTunes, the research concludes that fewer distractions lead to increased concentration. That may seem like a ‘no shit, Sherlock’ situation but the implications are noticed in contexts outside of reading web pages, specifically making choices. Popular belief is that as options in a given situation increase the better-considered the the ultimate choice. In other words, quality of results rises with increased sample size. A person shown 5 possible vacation destinations versus 10 possibilities absorbs the increased criteria and as a result makes the best possible final decision. The Missouri research takes some of this popular wisdom and turns on its ear. The consequence of many options is often paralysis. The greater the options, the worse aptitude for a timely and wise choice. Ten vacation possibilities offered will put pressure on the chooser to make a ‘wise’ decision that ultimately forces the person to rely on stereotype and assumption, not well-reasoned, well-researched conclusions. Of course time is an important factor -- the more time one has to sift through options, the more likely a ‘better’ decision will result -- given that the person, you know, uses the time wisely. The time variable looms large and easily ignored in the consideration of choice/decision. We commonly call this ‘procrastination’: viz., “the paper due date is 2 weeks from now... so I have at least 12 days to ignore it.” Anyway, the point that I take from these phenomena is that one most foreclose/shut certain options/doors to make a better decision. I’ve run up against this dilemma in varying situations but most pertinent is whether to enter a PhD program and whether to buy a house.

Exhibit A, the reliable and impenetrable shield deployed to beat back the battery of arguments and remonstrations from friends and colleagues, against buying a house is The Future PhD. They called my attitude “ridiculous,” and “financially inept.” How can I buy a house in this economic climate, I volley? Prices and interest rates are historically low, so right now is the best time to buy, they say. Right! We work in automotive. Layoffs, furloughs, Chrysler bankrupt. What sane person plunges into a mortgage --- especially their first? I answer my own question: the kinds of people who buy coastal property during a Hurricane warning. People who mock logic. Dangerous lunatics. They say I’ve kept the job for nearly 10 years and survived by far the worst, so why stay on the sidelines? A mortgage, though! A 30 year financial commitment. I’ve been alive that long. My mind reels at attempting to wrap around the idea of a 30 goddamned year contract. Yes, they say, but nobody says you stay in the house for that long. The market rebounds, which it always does, and then you sell at a profit. Ah-hah! But what of those who were caught out in that same line of thinking when the market tanked? Well, obviously there are highs and lows... this is a low. They move in for the kill: their loss is your gain. Jesus, I think. It’s a parasitic life span. Look, though; the terrible Exhibit A winches into the open: how can I get into any PhD programs if I’m anchored to a house in Holland? Ahhh... the Missouri choice survey rears its head and I tremble.

Entering a doctoral program loomed, nay dominated, my vision of the future since 2005 at least. Early into the relationship with Mark, I remember telling him that I had no plans to remain in Holland specifically and West Michigan in general. WMU accepted me that summer and I prepared to enter into the mysterious world of graduate work. I also secretly cringed at the denial of doctoral admission at University of Chicago (see previous post). The two year MA @ WMU acted as a step, a half-step necessary to take between the BA and PhD. I hope you’re willing to move in two years, Mark. We broke up during my first teaching semester. Teaching fulfilled. The happiest hours of my day were those in the classroom, at the chalkboard. When the MA ended the domino next to fall was quitting JCI and entering a PhD program. 12 rejection letters and no falling domino. Remain in Holland. Remain with JCI. Waves of urge to quit the job and move, abandon, renounce, crash headlong into Chicago crested and broke in daily and weekly frequencies. Financial prudence kept my feet on Dutch soil and internet browser... other places. On our first date, I told Steven my impatience for leaving this Michigan area and into the arms of Bloomington, Chicago, Madison, or whichever wonderful city would take me. He made his disdain for this area apparent and behold we shared a bias that would be built upon... too much. He did basic research on MBA programs at similar schools. How great if we both land at the same university, albeit different programs? Great, obviously. University budgets fell into abyss, departments admitted ever fewer candidates and job searches (well documented, if semi-apocryphal and hysterical) cancelled in the majority of states. We broke up during my second year of teaching, first year at a different institution; the chalk dusted love affair continued uninterrupted. No doctoral applications filled out, no English department websites investigated. Paging Doctor Martin. Are you in the building?

The goal of working, earning a PhD is to teach full time. In colleges. Adults, not children. Kids make me homicidal. The PhD is the stepping stone means enabling this end. Four year institutions won’t consider MA/MS holders for full time positions. The community/2 year colleges picked up this trend in the last decade or so. And who can blame them? The labour pool of successful doctoral candidates can drown an elephant. That means it’s deep. A deep pool. Why then would any institution of higher education ‘stoop’ to taking on the lowly Master’s peoples? Answer, they don’t. Those folks are hired at part time, little to zero benefits. That’s me. Here’s the thing. JCI supplies income and benefits -- GRCC kicks in teaching experience and income. Two jobs, dual-income and existential wonders. Teaching at the College reduced, by a lot, the desire to get into a doctoral program. Again, the overwhelming thrust (sorry) of getting PhD is teaching full time. Well, teaching part time has been a fucking blast at this institution. JCI continues to decline laying me off. It was a month ago that the PhD shield against the arguments to (in the ready made idioms), “settle down” or “plant roots” in Holland came to resemble a dollar store fly-swatter than a iron-clad logical Pentagon. That sentence may not be sensible.

So it came to pass (sorry - again! - to Tolkien) that the choice of applying to doctoral programs was taken off of the table. Holding out for an uncertain future doesn’t make sense anymore (but it sure did for a looooooong time). I couldn’t rationalise a position highly dependent upon unknowns either to myself or to those around me. But this is important. The closing (or mostly shutting) of the doctoral option forces me to much more closely examine the options remaining over, say, the next five years. And these options are pretty fucking good, I may say. Once my brain accepted the logic of living right now instead of pausing for the future, the decision to buy a house was ludicrously easy to make. Closing happens this month. The list of housewarming invitees needs writing.