Romantic Scribbles

You watch movies and listen to people talk about life and careers and happiness, but some of it just sounds like romantic sentimentalism.  How many people really enjoy what they do so much that they get out of bed on Monday with a smile on their face.  My guess is that if there is any, it must be very few.

However, the start of every new semester makes me happy.  This past week classes started once again.  I ordered my books and eagerly awaited the boxes full o’ knowledge that would arrive at my door.  I prepared my syllabus for the classes I would teach.  Bought some new clothes, new shoes, and new school supplies to replace the worn out stuff from last semester.  I cleaned my office and rearranged to make room for the new folders and books, and to have some space to complete my projects.  Simply put: I am excited to go back to school.  It’s a good feeling.

I know at some level that the feeling is fleeting.  The papers will come due, lectures will need to be prepared, stacks of paper will acculmalate waiting for me to grade them, and the glossy new books will need to be read far more quickly than I am able.  But for now I am content, and excited to get out of bed and start each new day.

***Warning the following contains a tale that may cause disturbing images to appear in your head. Don’t say I did not warn you.***

Previously I wrote about my greatest fear, but I neglected a much more serious fear.  Obviously I angered this phobia and it has enacted its revenge.

When I was a kid I saw that commercial about the old lady that fell down and could not get up.  It terrified me.  Maybe I did not properly associate her age with her inability to get up after a fall…I’m not sure.  All I know is since that infamous advertising campaign, I have sought to avoid the fall that might successfully keep me groping on the bathroom floor, wishing I had purchased that stylish emergency aid necklace.  From that time inanimate objects such as sheets of ice, stairs, and banana peels have become menacing entities seeking my demise.  As frightening as all these are, they are no match for their ruler the slippery shower floor.  Every day I do battle with this foe, and as I have grown so too has my phobia of falling in the shower.

Many of you know that my job has kept me traveling pretty extensively lately.  For the past five weeks I have made my abode every Friday and Saturday night in a Hilton in good ol Jacksonville.  I was impressed that the Institute I teach for sprang for what seemed to be such a suitable to repose; especially considering the other less reputable places they have consistently placed me.  Now I’m not sure they placed me there for my benefit.

Week 1 of my stay I noticed that the bathtub was unusually slippery.  With my unrelenting fear of falling in the shower I was immediately concerned.  My fears were only heightened when my recently acquired Wii fit questioned me after a recent balance test by saying, “Do you find yourself falling down often?”  I know the Wii fit is imperviously perceptive, but prophetic?  Normally I do not fall very often, but perhaps this can be attributed by my constant vigilance.

With the slippery hotel tub and the Wii fit’s prophetic questioning threat level, I raised my fall phobia threat level to burnt orange color—a level it rarely reaches.  However, after 5 weeks of successfully avoiding a gravity-induced mishap, I began to let down my guard, my vigilance became less than constant.  Then it happened…

Sunday morning I was washing my leg, my left leg to be exact.  The water pressure was low; the water was hard.  The soap was not fully rinsed as my smooth, pink foot (thank you Ped Egg) sought its stable home on the slick shower floor.  The soap crept down underneath my foot creating a slickness enhancer that when joined with the sinister shower floor created a perfect storm for falling.  My foot began to slide…I knew, like the old lady from so many years ago that I was going to fall, but I wondered if I would, in fact, be able to get up.

The fall itself was over in a flash, and I can’t recall the entire course of events.  All I know is I must have preformed some sort of pirouette—turning a full 360 degrees before finding myself on the bathroom floor.  In my desperate grasp to steady myself I must have grabbed the cloth shower curtain, as it now was now wrapped around me like some sort of unholy Christmas wrapping paper.  I hit the door on my way down, my sudsy forearm leaving a trail of un-rinsed soap slowly oozing down the exit.  Luckily I missed hitting my head on the marble counter top, and luckily I missed the toilet, a feat I seldom accomplish despite my wife’s complaints.  I did a quick systems check to make sure I was ok.  I hit my leg and my ribs on something on the way down.  I don’t know what but I have a good bruise on my left side as a memento, but other than that I was fine.  Erica slept through the whole ordeal.  I picked myself up, and climbed carefully into the curtainless shower to remove the remaining soap.  When Erica did wake up, it was to fine a bathroom flooded by tragedy—towels and curtains ingloriously strewn about the floor, soap creeping down the hard surfaces, and me white and breathless wrapped in a towel.  We called the front desk and asked for a maid (I wonder what she thought happened) and a bath mat, which they refused to provide.  Needless to say I decided to forgo the next morning shower and waiting instead for my return to my amply textured tub at home.

Other potential titles
The night the shower curtain came down in Florida.
Head over Feet.
Tubs, suds, and flying fat people.

To all of you loyal readers,

I know it has been awhile since my last blog.  Many apologies.  I have been closing up my last teaching responsibilities for my summer job, while simultaneously trying to finish the last vestiges of my schoolwork for the summer.

I’ll probably post more on this in the future, but I am reading the most difficult books of my life.  I have read plenty of difficult books, but these works of literary theory I have been working with lately are without a doubt the most challenging I’ve experienced.  They seem to be written by people speaking another language.  I mean in a difficult book, with careful attention, you can at least formulate some idea of what you just read.  When I’m done reading these books I feel as if my head has actually been emptied of all knowledge.  For the first time in my life I feel I am reading books and walking away from them without the slightest idea of what I just read.  These books seriously make me wonder if I actually have any intelligence at all.  I mean I don’t think I have faked my way through 20 some odd years of academia, but then again who knows.  Maybe this child did get left behind.

I know this comment may sound arrogant or insensitive, but I mean it to be neither. I have wondered if this empty sort-of stupid feeling is what it feels like for some of my academically able students when they read.  If so, it sucks.  Furthermore, I can see why people would avoid reading if it feels like this more often than not.  But then again I know it doesn’t.  So a few more pages to go.  I think there is light at the end of this tunnel…I hope it is a copy of the twilight series burning.

By the by.  If you have any stories of books that make you feel dumb I’d love to hear them.

I know it sounds harsh and maybe even Nazi-esque, but sometimes you meet a book so bad that burning it is not only acceptable, but it is in fact your moral and ethical responsibility.  Let me explain.

I have been out of town for an unholy amount of time this summer.  As such Erica has been reading a lot of books including the pop-culture phenomenon Twilight by Stephenie Myer.  After Erica read the first one she demanded I do the same.  So as an obedient husband I agreed.  It didn’t take me long to finish and as a story it had some parts that were interesting.  Overall, however, I did not love the book.

One of my biggest complaints is Stephenie Myer’s new interpretation of vampires.  Basically take all the things that make vampires supernatural and multiply them by 10.  Meyer’s vampires are glamorous, rich, intelligent, blood-sucking gods.  For good measure she includes an all too average heroine, the young, awkward teenager Bella.  It’s not long before the hopelessly average and clumsy Bella has attracted the eye of the picturesque vampire Edward.  It really is a tale as old as time: *spoiler*

Boy is vampire, boy wants to eat girl, girl is nerd, girl almost gets hit by a car and then almost gets raped, girl and hungry vampire fall in love.  Then, girl almost gets eaten by another vampire.  Vampire 1 (Edward) kills vampire 2 (random unimportant plot device whose name matters not) and vampire and girl go to prom.  Just your standard vampire love story.

Now not to be mean or overly psychoanalytical but sometimes I had to wonder if our vampire hero Edward was not Mrs. Myer’s own fairy-tale version of love.  He is beautiful beyond reason, intelligent, tortured and sensitive, inhumanly strong, and has a confident swagger that lets you know you never need to worry—or think—again.  For added measure Edward can also read minds, has a perfect chiseled physique, has breath that serves as an irresistible pseudo date-rape drug and is a musical savant.  I mean if your going to create you ideal love-interest why not go all out.  Finally, as if everything else wasn’t attractive enough these vampires have no fear of the sun in fact it only serve to make them more enticing by causing their skin to sparkle like a sea of diamonds.  How convenient.

Now if it stopped there maybe it would be ok.  But Myer is not done yet.  Yes she has created what some women may consider an ideal love interest.  Yes she has rewritten the vampire myth to a point that Bram Stoker’s Dracula now really does look like a piece of classic Western literature and its story completely plausible.  And yes she has given us a window into what may appear to be her—let’s call them interesting—sexual fantasies.  But Myer really excels in making her vampire hero, Edward, completely creepy.

Top 3 reasons Edward is creepy.

3.  Edward’s favorite nighttime activity is to watch Bella sleep.  Oh that may sound sweet you say, but let’s put this in context. Edward comes into Bella’s room long before they are “dating”.  He just loves the way she smells so much that he can’t stay away.  Nothing says love like stalking you while nursing an almost uncontrollable to desire to drain your sleeping body of blood.

2.  Did I mention that part of the attraction for Edward is the way Bella smells.  No silly, not her hair or her perfume, her blood.  Bella’s blood is an aromatic bouquet of yummy.  On more than one occasion Edward almost eats her.  And yes I realize that many women enjoy being desired, but I think this form of desire may be unhealthy if not deadly.

1.  And our number one reason Edward is creepy *drum roll please*  Edward is approx 80 years older than our heroine.  Edward was turned into a vampire in the early twentieth century.  (I could fact check this and give the specific year, but it would mean opening the book again and I’m afraid that the simply act of opening that book may steal a portion of my soul.)  Did I mention Bella is not yet 18.  So creepy 100 year old Edward is getting his creep on with underage Bella.  There is no way around it this is creepy.   Even if he wasn’t sitting there watching her sleep at night, even if he wasn’t constantly entertaining the notion of devouring her yummy smelling blood, he’s old enough to be her gorgeous great-great grandfather.  How is this ok? Maybe if he was 82 and she was 24 I could see it.  I mean what’s 58 years between lovers.  However, when she’s too young to vote and he remembers the good ol’ days before women were legally allowed to vote I think we have reached a place we can label disturbing.

After the first book I was sufficiently creeped out enough to stop.  I’m sad to say I’ll never know what happens in the second book when a new love interest emerges.  Yes he happens to be a magical, Indian, werewolf, but why would that seem strange.  Erica, however, is more dedicated than I and she pushed through reading all four in the series.

In defense of Book 1 Erica liked it.  She liked it so much in fact that she defended Book 2 and 3 even though the story—defying all odds—gets worse after Book 1.  It was the fourth book that did it for Erica.  They say you have to hit rock bottom sometimes before you can admit the truth.  Well in terms of the literature, Stephenie Meyer’s fourth book in the series, Breaking Dawn, rests comfortably in that place.  I’m happy that Erica was able to admit now that Books 2 and 3 = crap.  (A suspicion that I was confident enough in that I did not have to read those books to verify it.)  I’m sad though because the book was so bad that Erica has sworn off all books for the time being.  The memory of how bad a book can truly be is just too painful—the wounds too fresh.  On the up side, she has already delivered to me one Christmas request.  This Christmas, when the Tallahassee weather turns slightly cold, we will be having a small bonfire thanks to the fire-creating properties of Stephenie Meyer’s diligent labor.  I’m glad to know that crap is indeed flammable and that we will be doing our part to rid the world of one little piece of evil.

I have been blogging for a little over a month now. This attempt has certainly proved more successful than my previous attempts at such endeavors.  However, lately I have been wondering my own and the more general motivation to blog. Whenever I log in I get excited to see how many people come and visit my blog on a daily basis.  (Currently I am glad to say it is more than just my wife, unless she is logging on from several different computers just to make me feel good.)  And then I wonder whether blogging might be the height of arrogance.  Why should people want to read what I have write, especially given the ramblings that sometimes make it to the site?  Furthermore, why should I expect them to?

Blogging has a lot of purposes–to build internet communities, to share information, to rant, etc.  I created my blog as an excuse to practice writing, to develop some discipline in my writing, and to give me a place to air my voice.  When I started it was weird to write as if others would read it even though I knew no one was coming.  Now that people are coming it is weird but in a new way.  Why are these people coming, and what do they think of the person posting this amalgamation of ideas?

I’m not sure what you will make of this post, but I wanted to let you know that I’m conflicted about this thing.  I enjoy it.  I’m grateful that people are reading it.  I just wonder if it not an extreme exercise of the ego.

Alternative titles for this blog:
Look at me! Look at me! I have a computer.
I love your RSS… That’s what she said.
I’m tired so let’s be introspective.

Some of you may have heard of Joss Whedon’s internet production: Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog. It’s worth your time and I encourage you to take a look. I won’t say it’s awesome because it’s not, but it does have its moments of charm. The music is fun and Neil Patrick Harris plays a lovable evil genius.  The first two episodes are fun, but it does take a slightly dark turn in the third. It’s quirky, but hey, it is Joss Whedon. You can read the FAQ section which explains in a some-what coded fashion why this thing exists. (Think something like youtube but with actual quality productions…oh and perhaps people getting paid.) Enough from me check it out.

PS. Other potential titles for this blog.

1. Dooggie Howser M. Awesome.

2. Songs that Harris sings.

3. Whedon rallies the nerds.

You know those stupid games you play where they ask you questions like “If you had to lose your sense of sight or hearing, which would it be and why?”  Or.  “If you had to lose the use of part of your body which one would you choose?’  (I always choose my little finger.)  Those games = Stupid.  Most of the time I think well I really don’t want to lose one of those things, but if I had to I would survive.  I never was ok with the loss, but I was never really afraid of it.  Then, the other day I was driving and this thought crossed my mind,  “What if I lost my ability to think.”  I was terrified.

I realized losing cognitive function is to me my greatest fear.  I was genuinely terrified by the thought.  Furthermore, I realized how terrified I was of things like Alzheimer’s disease or a stroke.  I know it’s weird, but I think my favorite part of me is my mind.  It is the one thing I have that I feel makes me unique and special.  Without it I don’t have much to offer the world, and the thought of losing it actually worries me.

I don’t typically wander down paths of thought like this one.  But it was surprising to find such a powerful fear lurking there inside my head.  It must have been there for a while I just was not cognizant of it.  Our minds are truly a mysterious place, and I hope mine stays in tact for a long time.

Other fears:
2. Dropping a baby.
3. Snakes (on or off a plane)
4. Beginning to curse uncontrollably during an important speech.  (I have no idea why I am scared of this.)

PS.  I encourage you to leave me a comment concerning your fears if you desire.  Both real and not so real fears will be accepted.