Up for air

Didja miss me? I did.* I should probably make up some story about traumatic amnesia, or accidentally hiking across the border into Crimea and being taken into custody, but who has that kind of time?

In fact, I have spent most of this past year doing things. Not particular things. The focus has been more on the doing. I tend to write when I'm feeling reflective, and -- oddly enough -- not so much during creative periods. My medium of creation is source code, grant applications, project collaborations, and business lunches. My inner child is sent to his room, and the storming part of my brain is kept on a short leash. I think very little about myself during these times, and go days at a time without so much as glancing in a mirror.

Eventually I start to feel ways about things again, and the urge to put something down on paper, or whatever this is, returns.  I have felt it coming for a while now. The culmination was probably the trip home for my uncle's funeral last week. He was a bit of a self-important blowhard and alienated a lot of people, including his kids, but somehow his passing seems to have washed much of that away. We had a wonderful time catching up with relatives who haven't spoken in years, and my uncle's shortcomings barely came up. Except for his toupee. We talked quite a bit about that.

There is a lot changing in my professional life right now -- turning of the academic year, new management, shifting roles all around -- and I will be shifting my priorities as well. Hopefully, I can use the uncertainty to break some bad habits, and maybe even become less habitual over all. I like being productive, but it's very hard to live in the moment going full speed.

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* I never really planned to stop posting here, any more than I planned to write this post since before about five minutes ago. I may not write another one for a year, for all I know. What I do know is that I like having this outlet when I feel like writing, and for now I plan to keep it.

Miss Manners

Image from here

Biscuit has been reading The Ladies' Book of Etiquette, and Manual of Politeness : a Complete Handbook for the use of the Lady in Polite Society, on her Kindle. It was written by a Florence Hartley around 1873, it was free, and it is apparently a laugh riot. Almost every night she regales me with some helpful hint for planning a soirée, arranging one's calendar for receiving callers, or addressing invitations for ladies of every situation. That is, as long as your situations are limited to rich and single or rich and married. Maybe rich and widowed; she didn't read that part.

I used to read the local newspaper most every day, back when people did that sort of thing. I would scour the front section pretty thoroughly, skim the local, sports, and entertainment sections, generally saving the comics and columns for last. One of my favorite columns -- after Dave Barry, of course -- was Miss Manners.

I never read Miss Manners as a youth, assuming that it was all about which fork to use, and whether white could be worn after Labor Day. I started reading in the 1980's when every twenty-something with a Volvo* believed they were only days from being invited to the Carringtons' for cocktails and sex. So we all had to buy Cuisinarts, wear LaCoste and Docksiders, and learn which was the proper spoon for snorting cocaine.

I was generally well-mannered. My parents had made sure I knew to say please and thank you, and not to spit in mixed company or fart at the table. My father was a big believer in chivalry, and tried to make sure I treated women with respect. They even sent me to cotillion. But my paternal grandfather was a working class house builder and my mother's father was a subsistence farmer and country schoolteacher. Neither of my parents probably ever saw a teaspoon growing up, much less a fish knife or finger bowl. I definitely had a few things to learn before I was ready for dinner at Sardi's.

Image from here

Imagine my surprise when I learned that most of Judith Martin's column was not dedicated to the arcane niceties of upper crust society at all. Sure, there were questions about whether fried chicken could be eaten with the fingers,** but most of the questions were split between examples of people trying to exert more control over others than is proper ("How do I ask people to give me cash for my wedding?"), and people asking impolite questions ("How do I ask a friend if they are pregnant/gay/happy with the present I gave them?). Our Miss Manners always took the offender firmly -- but politely -- to task, whether it was the "Gentle Reader," or the party from whom the writer had taken offense.

It was her response to impolite questions that stuck with me the most. This is partly because I hadn't really thought of innocent questions as potentially impolite before, and because restraint from such inquiries seems to be so commonly honored in the breach. It is striking how much of what we think of as politeness and good manners is specifically engineered to avoid such interrogations.

Many of the people who wrote feeling offended had actually been guilty of asking such questions or trying to find a polite way to do so. Our patient columnist pointed out repeatedly that a question is an aggressive type of speech -- a sort of command in reverse. It says "tell me what I want to know," and can place significant pressure on the recipient, causing immediate friction and often eliciting a defensive response. In many cases, the questioner receives an answer they do not wish to hear. "Does this make me look fat?" is a classic example.

This applies almost universally to any form of the question, "Why?" (or "why not?"). I have tried to think of an occasion when this might be appropriate, and the only possibility I can come up with might be, "Why would you ask me that?"  The "why" question is invariably asked in response to information that the questioner does not wish to accept on its face. The explanation will probably be impossible to politely express, none of the questioner's business, or more likely, both. It's a child's question, and it is difficult not to be patronizing in one's answer.

Perhaps the most important thing I learned is that there is virtually always a (more) polite way to provide someone with an opportunity to salve our insecurities, satisfy our curiosity, or fulfill whatever other motivation we have for asking questions. Instead of asking, "Do you like my haircut?" a person can simply remark that they have had a haircut, leaving their companion free to either offer a compliment (if they like it) or (otherwise) bring up their own hair appointment the following week. If you can't think of a polite way to provide a hint, the question is probably not appropriate, no matter how close a friend is your companion. The polite way will not always get the result you want, but you are more likely to get what you are due, and less likely to cause offense in either direction.

I focused on this practice for years, but I'm afraid I may have lost some of the habit recently. Curiosity is a necessary trait for a researcher, and questions are our stock in trade. It is easy to blur the line between "Why did you write it this way?" and "What on Earth made you buy those shoes?"

Also, you should not be too nice to your servants. Apparently, it spoils them.

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* The term "yuppie" is a good example of the attitude of the time. "Young, upwardly mobile professional" was another way of saying "middle class nobody who thinks they are on the way to becoming a fabulously well to do person of consequence." Today we tend to call such people "in foreclosure."

** I don't exactly recall the answer, but I think it centered on what sort of dinnerware was provided. It still seems to be a matter of some dispute.

Behind the swell

Have you felt a change in the blogosphere in the last six months or so? For one thing, I don't think anyone says blogosphere any more. But more significantly, blogging seems to have passed its peak as a medium, or at least the phase of rapid growth and rabid press that typifies popular new things. There seem to be fewer new blogs, fewer new readers, and fewer posts. The mantle of all things to all people seems to have passed to Facebook and Twitter. This was confirmed for me in a recent NY Times article.

It's like when you're surfing*, and you ride the swells, waiting for the right wave, and eventually you see it coming and you start to paddle. Sometimes you start too late, and never really catch the break. Sometimes you go too early and it crashes over you. When it's perfect, you ride and cut and sometimes you even get tubed. But no matter what happens, eventually the wave passes and you're left behind, watching it go (if you're lucky), and you have to paddle back to catch the next one.**

Life is a little like that. Sooner or later, you notice that you're not thinking as much about changing the world as finding a way to enjoy the time you have left in it. You see the younger generation raising their kids, worrying about their careers, and making all the same mistakes you did, and realize that the peak has passed. At least, you do if you're paying attention. And whether you kicked ass or never really got started, there will be no paddling back for another.

It can be a jarring realization, and depressing or frightening for many people, but I find it strangely comforting. In blogging and in life, the pressure is off. Sort of. At least, I know what I've got to work with, more or less how I'm going to handle it, and I feel more comfortable working to my own purposes.  Sensing a decline in something is realizing that nothing lasts forever, including screw-ups.

It doesn't mean we have to retire to the porch and blog about knitting. I'm starting a brand new career, for crying out loud. But I am doing it with a different attitude than most of the twenty-somethings who comprise my competition. No matter how far I go, or where I end up, I will try very hard to treasure the experience.

Who knows, I may even take up surfing.

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* I have never surfed, but I liked the Beach Boys okay. If I ever did hang ten, I would definitely call myself "Moondoggie."

** Yes, I know sometimes you can surf right to the beach, and chicks will run up to you as you pick up your board and toss the water from your hair, and you will all run up the beach to the bonfire and play guitar and do the twist, but I'm trying to build a metaphor here.

Quid Pro Quo

Johnny Virgil has written a book, apparently because he has less to do at work than I do. Or possibly he's one of those people who doesn't watch television fourteen hours a day. I wouldn't know. I haven't read it yet because I'm still catching up on the Twilight books, but I bet it's good. He's a talented writer and a funny guy, so you should probably buy it. Think of it as The Wonder Years, but with real kids.

You can click right on the picture and go straight to Amazon. The Internet is like magic.

I don't usually pimp other people's stuff,* but Johnny bears a good deal of the blame for me starting a blog. Also, I don't want to wade through his old posts trying to remember what sort of hiking boots he bought, and I'm hoping he will tell me. Of course, I just know he's got regular feet, so it won't even matter. Do they make boots for hobbits? Because that's probably what I need.

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* No one ever really asks me.

Wax on, wax off

Most of my life I have been known as a "visionary type," or "abstract thinker." Generally, these have not been compliments. My graduate school advisor called me his "philosopher student" one time, which I still insist on interpreting as a good thing. A few years ago, one of the directors at our company asked me to come into a software requirements meeting he was holding and "do some of that crazy-talking you do."

I realize now that I am a rank amateur. My boss is internationally famous for visionary thinking, and uses  words like "aspirational," "transformational," and "entangle," often in the same sentence. We've been working on a grant proposal for the past few weeks, but he's been busy with other things, so I've been doing most of the writing. Reading through it this morning, I realized it sounds awfully pedestrian. I was very tempted to send a message asking him to run through it and add some of that crazy-talking.

The real road stories

In a previous post, I mentioned my old friend who became an over the road truck driver. Within a few days of writing that post I discovered that John is writing a blog of his own. And it's excellent. I'm not surprised. His father was quite eloquent -- in a Tennessee Ernie Ford sort of way -- and John always had a way with a story.

Road Notes is definitely good reading, especially if you've ever spent time on the highway. Check it out if you like good writing.

Home improvement

I haven't really felt bloggy much lately. For one thing, I'm writing pretty seriously for work at the moment, and it takes most of my mental focus. That is, when I'm not drinking wine and watching movies. There's also a fairly traumatic family thing going on these days. I started to write about that, but I don't think I will.

About the only creative thing I've managed to do lately is to make up a word during a most awesome movie we watched the other night. The word is "eurotard." Yeah, I was pretty proud of it, myself.* If I had any patience I would wait for a suitable situation to use it, instead of just tossing it out there like a sweaty black turtleneck. But I don't. So I did.

Things might be looking up, though. This weekend, the wife and I are planning to replace some really large, really old windows in the house. I'm thinking we may get some pictures of serious destruction, and maybe even have a story of a trip to the emergency room. Or two.

Happy Independence Day!

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* I know I'm not the first person to think of it. I can google like everyone else. Better than some. But I'm pretty sure I haven't heard it before, so I'm keeping it. Also, I think it's brilliant that there is a line of dance clothing with that name.

On truthiness

One good thing about having a blog with few readers is that I have been able to pretty much count on no one I know seeing what I write, and in turn not being offended by it. The only person from my 4-D world who has known about this blog from the beginning is The Wobbler, and the statute of limitations may not have expired on many of the stories I would tell about him, so he doesn't show up in my posts that often.


Over time, more friends and colleagues have discovered my blog, and I think one or two of them still read it. Since I have no imagination, I am more or less forced to write about people I know (or used to know) and things that have happened, setting up the possibility that someone is going to read a story in which they played a significant role. The awkwardness could be amplified by the fact that my posts may be more "based on historical events" than actually true.


My father firmly believed that one should never let inconvenient facts stand in the way of a good story, though he never would have admitted it. I feel somewhat honor bound to carry on that tradition. Plus, my memory is fading fast, so many of the events from my life have big gaps in them. It is possible that there is a pensieve in the house somewhere, but if there is, I have stored within it the memory of where I keep it.


So if you read a story here that seems very much like something that happened to you, but without the fairies and gunfire, let me just apologize in advance and assure you that it's nothing personal. And by nothing personal, I mean I will try to remember not to use your real name. I will also do my best not to reveal any dark secrets. In other words, if I write about it, be assured that I've already told all of our mutual friends.


And if there are stories you know you would rather not have published on the interwebs (possibly with pictures), then you should probably let me know. Because otherwise, you know it's just a matter of time before I write about that one time when we were all at that place with those people and that thing happened.

Gotta be the Dick

Some of you know I've been reading Moby Dick.


Still reading that, you ask?


Why, yes, I respond.


Why so long?* 


Because the shit is boring, thanks for asking.

Seriously, unless you're looking for a do-it-yourself whaling manual, I can't think of a single reason why anyone would want to read this thing. Except for one spectacularly good chapter that doesn't even really fit in the story, it's about like reading a precocious thirteen year old's diary of the year they spent studying for the National Spelling Bee. Or listening to a really old person who doesn't know how to tell stories tell a story. You know the ones I mean. Each digression becomes more detailed and tedious than the one before, until everyone forgets why they are even in the same room. I can usually manage about ten pages before blessed sleep rescues me from this hundred and fifty year old heart-warming tale of a xenophobic know-it-all who wants to make sure I know every frakking thing he had for breakfast one morning in eighteen-fifty-kill-me.

I guess I understand the appeal when the book was written, back in the days when most people had only read two books or less, all they knew was hunting and farming, and South America might as well have been Jupiter. A whale was like a dinosaur to them, so I guess Moby Dick is sort of like Jurassic Park of the nineteenth century. You know what? Jurassic Park sucked, too.

So anyway, the reason I bring this up is that I think it's affecting my writing. In the same way that we are what we eat,** I think we write what we read. And since Melville is an undisciplined rambler with a sharp eye for irrelevant detail, this is not a good thing for me. I think this post serves as an excellent example of this effect.

I'm what I like to euphemistically refer to as a non-linear thinker in the best of times, and my story-telling is in constant danger of being derailed by runaway digressions creating a chain reaction and destroying my train of thought. Being exposed to this kind of meandering crap for this amount of time cannot be good for me.

There is hope on the horizon. I've got the new Terry Pratchett waiting, and maybe some Irving after that. Now if I can just kill this whale (or whatever happens) and get through this piece of crap before I die of boredom.

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* I'm having a really hard time with this one, trying to choose between the tried and true "That's what she said," and the slightly more esoteric, "That's a bit of a personal question, don't you think?" Opinions?

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** That way being simultaneously "completely" and "not at all."

Move over Taylor Swift

I've never really been what you would call a "joiner," or "social," or "a productive member of society." I tend to go my own way, praise my own cooking, laugh at my own jokes and more or less ignore everyone else. So it shouldn't be a surprise that I'm typically somewhat Scrooginesque about blog awards and memes and such, though that's probably mostly because I never win anything.

But Amy, who writes I Wonder Wye, is not only a dear and true friend, she is a professional writer and one of the best story tellers I have ever encountered, including my late Grandpa. She also has ridiculously high standards for practically everything, but don't tell her I told you that. So when she presented me with the coveted Over the Top award, I was not only truly humbled, I was for once motivated to answer questions that I did not ask myself.



I am apparently supposed to answer each of these with a single word, which makes it harder on me, but probably considerably easier on you. So, here goes:

Where is your cell phone? Pocket
Your hair? Deserting
Your mother? Sweet
Your dad? Missed
Your favorite food? Spaghetti
Dream last night? Unremembered
Favorite drink? Cabernet
Goal? Learn
What room are you in? Lab
Hobby? Hobbies
Fear? Time
Where do you want to be in 6 years? Tenured
Something you aren't? Nimble
Muffins? Blueberry
Wish List? Long
Where did you grow up? Arkansas
Last thing you did? Lunch
What were you wearing? Jeans
Your TV? Habitual
Your pets? Cats
Friends? Important
Your life? Sweet
Your mood? Comfortable
Missing someone? Usually
Vehicle? TL
Something you're not wearing? Stetson
Favorite color? Undecidable
Last time you laughed? News
Last time you cried? Friday
Best friend? Irreplaceable
Place you could go over and over? Mountains
Person who em's regularly? AGL
Favorite place to eat? Home

I'm going to pass this one on to Rassles, because I can't think of anything she will hate more, and to Daisyfae for pretty much the same reason. (Have I mentioned lately that I am an ass?) Oh, also because they are both great writers. And to The Wobbler, because he needs an excuse to post something, and because he introduced me to blogging in the first place.

I've never really done this kind of thing before

I don't think I can link to another man's blog in two posts in a row without feeling like we're cellmates and he has the top bunk, if you know what I mean and I think you do. But I'm going to have to do it anyway. Because despite the fact that The Wobbler tried to get me to start blogging as far back as 2003, and The Wife implicitly encouraged me with her near-obsession with reading blogs -- often aloud -- a couple of years back, it was Johnny Virgil's post about the 1977 JC Penney catalog that finally got me interested in reading blogs, and eventually starting one of my own. Really, it's one of the funniest things I've ever read.

So when a Facebook friend posted this picture from his weekend newspaper circular,



I knew I wouldn't be able to let it pass. It's good to know that JCP is still helping losers get their asses kicked after all these years. I guess Every Day Matters because you never know how long you are going to last wearing their clothes.

Up from the Depths

Yesterday was a hard day. It wasn't necessarily a bad day -- or at least it won't have been when it's all said and done -- but it was a hard day. A hard day at the end of an intense few weeks at the end of a long summer. I drank two too many glasses of wine last night, just so I would remember today how hard of a day was yesterday.

I have been pushing since the beginning of the summer to have a paper ready to submit to this major academic conference that is particularly relevant to my research group and our field. It's one of two or three such opportunities that come along in a given year, and arguably the single most important. I have spent the last three weeks or so thinking of virtually nothing else. Up too early, in bed too late, hunched in front of one computer screen or another* morning and night. Too many fast food runs and evening glasses of red to shut my mind off for just an hour or two.

The deadline was yesterday. After spending most of the day reading and talking and editing and talking some more it suddenly became apparent that we needed to pull the plug. The writing was fine, but we just didn't have the results we needed to make the paper something we wanted to put our names on. I turned off the computer, came home, had a few drinks and made bread. The bread was awesome, by the way. I learned how to make kaiser rolls, and there's a lot of banging of dough involved.

There is really no feeling quite like the end of a long, hard project. And writing -- even research writing -- is personal enough that you get pretty wrapped up in it. And when it's finally over, they all seem to feel different. Some make you want to shout, and others make you want to scream. A few smell like napalm in the morning, and some end up smelling like the men's room in a cowboy bar at the end of rodeo season. And then there are those that don't smell like anything.

A project that neither succeeds nor fails is particularly unsatisfying. The work I did is probably not wasted, and plans are already underway for continuing to work to have something even better for the next opportunity in three months, or six, or whenever it is. But there's a process to this, a steady buildup of heavy breathing and sweat and focus. It's not supposed to end just because someone says, "time's up."

One way or another, it's back to the normal rhythm of life. I will go to the gym for the first time in a month, eat some vegetables, clean the house and go back to my every day. At least until the next time.
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* I counted just now, and there are seven different computers in different places that I think of as mine. Though to be fair, I only use five on a regular basis.**

** This is ridiculous

Wreck of the Day

I love music of all kinds, but I'm not usually in love with music. It's only every couple of years or so that a CD (yes, I still buy them -- at least I didn't say "album") comes along that really gets into my head. Lately it's been Anna Nalick's Wreck of the Day. Okay, okay, I know the thing is over two years old and she has newer music, but I just got around to getting it a couple of months ago. I like a singer/songwriter chick as much as the next guy, but the Shawn Colvins, Paula Coles and Sarah McLachlans of the world are not usually the ones making the music that I find myself listening to over and over again. Not only are Nalick's songs musically delicious, but she has a way of tapping into emotions and putting them into words that is way beyond her years and light years beyond any capability I could imagine having.

I did have a personal brush or two with greatness goodness back in the day. My first college girlfriend ended up being a moderately successful singer/songwriter in Manhattan. Of course, I don't think I ever heard her sing, but she was really sweet and funny and she taught me about the importance of paying attention to people "after", if you catch my drift and I think you do. Plus, she's a really good singer. I also had a brief relationship with Linda Ronstadt's wardrobe -- or was it makeup? -- person. This was back when Linda was thin and dating the governor of California and sang songs that sold records. Wendi, the wardrobe -- or makeup -- lady was not really all that sweet as I remember, or all that funny, but she was nice and a lot of fun and we enjoyed ourselves across the Western U.S. and a good deal of Japan.

I also almost blew up Kevin Cronin with some pyrotechnics one time in Rockford, Ill., but those are all stories for another time. The reason I even bring up Anna Nalick here is that I sense a lot of what she sings about in some of my favorite bloggers. I write because I'm a procrastinator and it gives me something else to do besides what I'm supposed to be doing. But some of you seem to write because you must. You write as if your thoughts and feelings are a toxin that will destroy you if not purged through the process of writing them down and broadcasting them to the world. You do it despite the fact that each and every one of us will misinterpret your words and twist them to our own purpose with no regard for what they cost you, or how exposed they leave you.

I don't suppose "thank you" is the right sentiment, since I don't believe you could do anything else. But if you feel like I'm talking about you, then just know that every so often, someone gets a glimpse of what it must cost you to put it all out there. And I, for one, appreciate you doing it day in and day out.