The Arnold Palmer part 7

Read the previous chapter here:

Part 6


---Begin part 7

Steve pulled into his apartment complex, tires screeching as he sped around the curb and into his designated spot. He parked the car and jumped out, leaving his keys in the ignition and the car running. As he slammed the door, he realized his mistake and looked at the closed door in horror. 

"No, no, no, no," he said, but deep down he knew the door would be locked. He began to feel panic creep up the back of his neck. He almost let out a violent scream and was a moment from kicking the car when he reached for the handle and pulled the door open. 

"Oh," he said, looking at the open door in confusion. "Ok." This act, forgetting to turn off his car and keys, somehow seemed like the highlight of his day simply because it didn't turn out to be as bad as it could have. He turned off the car, grabbed his keys, slammed the door, hit the alarm, and sprinted to his apartment.

He nearly ran over his neighbor carrying a garbage bag to the dumpster in the parking lot. 

"Whoa!" the older man said as he jumped out of the way. "Watch it!" 

"Sorry!" Steve sputtered. "So sorry, man. Been a long day." 

"No problem," the man said. "I know exactly what you mean. This morning I..." he stopped mid-sentence as Steve sprinted away. 

"In a rush, have a good one!" Steve yelled behind him. 

"You, too," the man said, then, under his breath he added, "jerk."

Steve turned the key in the lock and shoved open the door to the apartment complex. He ran past the mailboxes, then stopped for a moment, thinking maybe he should get his mail. Then he thought about all the bills waiting for him and continued on his way. 

"They're not going anywhere," he muttered. His day had been long enough. He didn't want to think about how much money he owed. He didn't want to think about anything except the delicious refreshing drink he was about to finally pour himself. A smile came across his face as he envisioned the sound of the ice cubes hitting the bottom of his glass. When he thought of the sweet mixture of iced tea, lemonade, and the finest vodka the local grocery store provided, a tear slowly rolled down his cheek. 

"No time to get emotional," he said as he wiped the tear with his sleeve. "Stay focused."

He ran past the elevator directly to the stairs. The elevator was one of those old ones with the iron gate. It always felt like he was traveling back in time when he pushed the gate aside and stepped in the small box. To be honest, looking out of that little porthole window to the inner machinations of the elevator as it descended and ascended freaked him out a little. His nerves couldn't handle it tonight.

His shoes barely touched the steps as he ran up to the 3rd floor. Any pain from his toe was hardly registering. He opened the door to his apartment, unbuttoned his pants and threw his button down shirt on the ground. His roommate was asleep on the couch, also with his shirt off. Empty pizza boxes, plus a few empty cans, bottles, and glasses were spread out on the coffee table. Apparently he had missed some kind of gathering, because the apartment was not like this when he left in the morning. Not to say it was clean when he left it, per se, but there were only 2 empty glasses on the table at most. Maybe one empty pizza box, too.

Steve walked to the small kitchen and looked for a clean glass in the cupboard, coming up empty handed. The dishwasher had been full of dirty dishes for a couple days and neither roommate had the determination to put detergent in and run it. Instead, they'd grab a dirty glass, rinse it out, use it, and put it back in the machine, just as Steve was planning to do now.

He grabbed the cleanest looking glass, placed it under hot water for a few seconds, then dried it off with a paper towel. 

"Perfect."

Now for the moment he had been literally fantasizing about all day. He opened the fridge and took out the bottles of lemonade and iced tea. There was just enough lemonade for a tall Arnold Palmer. He'd have to go back out to the store if he wanted more; after the day he had, he'd either fall asleep after one drink or need 8. He wasn't thrilled about the idea of going back out, but if he needed to, there was a corner store 5 minutes away. 

He opened the freezer and dropped 4 pieces of ice into his glass. Maybe he could make the lemonade stretch into two drinks after all. He reached for the most important ingredient, the bottle of Smirnoff...only to realize it wasn't where it was supposed to be. He moved the ice trays and the boxes of frozen pizza and chicken nuggets around in the freezer. Still nothing. Frantically he opened the fridge and moved the milk and eggs around, pushed the cans of soda to the side, pulled the box of baking soda out, knocked over the cartons of leftover Chinese food, only to find....nothing.

"No."

It was 10:45pm and he lived in Connecticut. Because of the Puritanical values that still pervaded this New England colony, the liquor stores all closed at 9pm. When he was in college less than 10 years ago, all liquor stores closed at 8pm and didn't open at all on Sunday. People would have to plan their drinking ahead of time like some kind of scientist, it was outrageous. Unfortunately, the extra hour wasn't doing him any good tonight, and he hadn't talked to the bootlegger he went to as a teen since...he was a teen. Maybe he could find his number somewhere? Even if he found it, dealing with that guy usually took hours. Who knows if he still even bootlegged. It would be pretty sad if he was still doing it 15 years later. Steve expected more ambition from his bootleggers. So that wasn't a realistic option. No, if he didn't find the bottle, he'd have to go to a bar. The closest bar was 25 minutes away, and it always smelled like used kitty litter. 

"No."

He looked back in the freezer, hopelessly moving everything from one side to the other in hopes that it would somehow appear.

"No."

Back to the fridge. Then back to the freezer. Then he turned around and scoped out the kitchen counter. Nothing. The kitchen table....nothing. He almost jumped into the living room where his roommate remained snoring loudly on the couch. He scoured the coffee table, the floor, the entertainment center, he lifted his roommates feet and looked under his legs. Still nothing. 

"No!"

He hopped back into the kitchen. He opened the stove just in case. He checked the sink. He checked every cabinet. He ran to his room and looked under his covers, in the closet, in his dresser, then in his bathroom. There was no vodka to be found.

As he ran back to the kitchen, he spotted a white garbage bag near the front door. It was stuffed to the brim, and right at the top, near the red drawstrings, the red top of a glass bottle poked out. He ran to the bag and pulled out the bottle. 

Smirnoff. Empty.

"No!" The vein on his forehead looked like a railroad track crossing from temple to temple. He opened the bottle and tipped it back, hoping for any little bit to drop on his tongue. He didn't realize how much he resembled a cartoon caricature of a drunkard, and he didn't care. He was furious. He had come so close to his cherished Arnold Palmer and it had been taken away from him. 

Before he could think he screamed and kicked the front door with all of his might, then immediately passed out from the pain that shot up from his toe.

"Steve?" his roommate murmured from the couch. He pulled the couch pillow off his head and looked towards the heap of flesh on the ground. "Dude, we're gonna get complaints from the neighbors if you keep yelling. Chill out man." He placed the couch pillow back on his head and resumed his alcohol fueled snoring. 

---End Part 7

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

Dark and Stormy

It was a Dark & Stormy Night; that was the name of the drink he received from the tall, thin blonde with over-sized round glasses. She smiled as she handed it to him. He assumed it was an attempt for a better tip and not an attempt to make an actual human connection. He hadn't had one of those--an actual human connection--for some time, so he wouldn't know what it looked like anyways.

As he sipped the drink, he put a $20 bill on the bar. Not too long ago, he would've waited for change, but he'd come to the conclusion that he'd rather be broke than be looked at like a pariah. He wouldn't have enough money for a cab, but he wanted to walk home tonight anyway. It's not like anyone was waiting for him.

He took the drink and moved from the bar, his back facing the blonde bartender as she asked about his plans for the night. She hoped the others at the bar didn't witness her embarrassment. It seemed the guys she wanted to talk to never felt the same, and every guy she didn't want to talk to felt an unstoppable urge to converse with her for the entirety of her shift.

The man reached the open stool in the corner of the bar and placed his drink on the counter that ran the length of the wall. As he placed it on the coaster with a local brewery's logo, he heard the first notes of Taylor Swift's new song playing loudly overhead.

He was dumbfounded. This was a bar. For adults. Why was this happening? He looked around the crowded, small space. In the opposite corner there was a digital jukebox, with a group of 5-6 young men in baseball caps with college names embroidered on the front, drinking beers and laughing loudly. Two were mouthing the lyrics as one belted out every other word.

He couldn't tell if the guys were truly enjoying the song, or if it was "ironic," but either way, it was beginning to make him gag. He swallowed the knot in his throat, a physical embodiment of the anger he felt brewing inside, then sucked down the rest of his drink. He waked to the bar and put his empty glass down. The bartender asked, "Another round, handsome?" but once again, her words went unnoticed by their intended target as he walked towards the door.

"Sure, I'll have another one, sexy," a middle aged man with an unkempt mustache and eyebrows that stuck out in every direction said as he jiggled the ice in his glass in her direction. She heard the door closing, sighed and went to make another Screwdriver for Eyebrows. As she walked to the end of the bar to take a glass from the shelf, the other bartender, Stinky Steve (the busboys weren't that clever with their nicknames, but they were accurate) walked behind her, forcing her to turn to the side to fit through the narrow area behind the bar. She faced him as he passed and leaned backwards so her breasts wouldn't rub against him; she knew what he was doing and wasn't going to give him the pleasure. She told her boss about his obnoxious behavior plenty of times, but apparently Stinky Steve was related to a family member.

"Excuse me, hon," Stinky Steve said as he passed, lifting his arm towards the shelf, grazing her shirt but not making the contact he desired. A clear look of dissatisfaction crossed his face.

The man who chugged the Dark and Stormy stepped outside into the crisp, early winter air. He muttered to himself, "Really, that's the fucking song you choose? There's other people at the bar, you know. Assholes."

He walked a few paces and took deep breaths, letting the cold air fill his lungs. His mood started to improve as he thought about the blonde bartender.

"That drink was damn good, though. That bartender..." his mind wandered off to a warmer locale, where the sun beamed down on him and the blonde bartender, enjoying drinks with umbrellas in them by the ocean. It was the first pleasant thought he'd had in weeks. A vague semblance of a smile crept onto the corner of his mouth.

Then he remembered the Swift fans. He literally growled, startling the older woman walking past him carrying plastic grocery bags (she avoided grocery stores in the day to avoid dealing with crowds; the downside was that she had to deal with the growlers at night). She tightened her grip on the bags and quickened her pace. She loved this town, but wasn't sure how long she could put up with its residents.

--

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

Prof Thug's Books Review

In literacy education, there is often a heavy focus on finding books that kids can relate to in order to encourage them to read. I understand the thinking behind it, and it can help kids get into reading. I certainly enjoy some books (or movies/shows/music/etc.) in which I can relate to the characters or the situations. But I also love to read about things and people I can't relate to. That's what got me into reading: learning about other people, places, and times I wasn't familiar with. Of course, I didn't view it as learning, it was just interesting. Reading about people just like yourself gets old.

When I was a kid I read "Are You There God, It's Me Margaret." It's about a little girl getting her period. I read it when I was 12. I was fascinated because I didn't know anything about that. At all. Yet it gave me valuable insight into many important aspects of life. It also prepared me for watching Carrie.

I find that when stories are different from my own, I tend to search out the similarities. How can I relate to this young girl going through puberty? How can I relate to this woman who left an arranged marriage in India and started a new life in Iowa? Answering those questions helps to build a connection with people who don't look or act like you. It helps build empathy.

So here are two books I recently read that I enjoyed a great deal. The first one involved a story that most people, especially myself, can not relate to, which makes it interesting and even important. The second book centered on a character who I could relate to almost too much.

Maus

This is a long-form comic/graphic novel. Art Spiegelman tells the tale of his father's life before, during, and after World War II. In the story, Jews are represented as mice, Nazis as dogs, Poles as pigs, and Americans as dogs. His father is a Polish Jew who spent part of the war as a prisoner in Auschwitz and Birkenau. Fortunately, he (and his wife) survived and eventually move to New York.

The story is told from the perspective of the son (Art) who is interviewing his father. We get a personal perspective of Poland before the Nazis came as well as an inside view of the concentration camps. We also get the perspective of a son who has to endure the almost unbearable personality of his Holocaust Survivor father.

The self awareness of the author puts the reader in his shoes, and he addresses most of the issues or questions readers may have. Nothing is taboo; there is no other way to tell a story of the Holocaust.

The fact that it is told in comic form makes some of the events and complex themes easier to take, but it doesn't lessen the impact of the story. In fact, it  magnifies the impact because it's such an unfamiliar way to tell a familiar story. The contrast between the medium (usually reserved for children or light-hearted comedy) and the horror which it depicts heightens the feelings of discomfort. We have all seen Schindler's List or similar movies and we have become desensitized to the tragedies of the past. This book makes us look at the horror in a new light.

It is impossible to truly comprehend the atrocities of the Holocaust. We know people starved and were worked to death or put in gas chambers. Many were forced to dig their own graves or the graves of their loved ones. There's no way to truly understand the psyche these experiences must have created in survivors. Spiegelman was able to give a glimpse into that psyche when his father talked about Jews who turned over other Jews to the Nazis, hoping for preferential treatment. Even within the concentration camps, some Jews would sell out others in order to get in good with the guards. That is the corrosive mentality created living under an oppressive regime.

Because of the weight of their oppression, some Jews started to believe that Jewish people as a whole were inferior. Except for themselves of course. It's similar to Samuel Jackson's character in Django Unchained. This is another effect of being oppressed for long periods of time: the tendency to take on the mentality of the oppressor. It is impossible for me to truly comprehend that mentality, but Maus captured how prevalent it was and helped me understand how and why that mentality existed.

Long after the war, in New York, Art and his wife take their father for a car ride. They see a hitchhiker and decide to pick him up. The father loses his mind and starts yelling at them. His problem? The hitchhiker is black. Surely, this black man will hurt them or steal from them.

Art and his wife are dumbfounded. The wife asks how he can be racist after all that he went through. Art tells his father he sounds like a Nazi talking about Jews. The father is outraged that he would compare Jews to blacks. As bad as Jews could be, they are never as bad as blacks!

It's an upsetting scene that perfectly illustrates the lasting, damaging effects of systemic racism and mental/physical trauma. The realities of the Holocaust are almost inconceivable, so its effects are unimaginable. The book was depressing, but only because life can be depressing. We shouldn't hide from the horrors of the past. However, we can not let the past control us either. The father served as a reminder that letting the past dictate the present can be detrimental to our health and the health of those around us.

The book tells an important story without being pedantic. It's educational and entertaining. I honestly believe it should be taught in school. This is a work of art in which children can learn about the atrocities of the war without having the visceral brutality of it shoved in their faces.


Lucky Jim

The other book is far more light-hearted, despite the fact that it doesn't have cartoon mice.  I could relate (sometimes scarily so) to much of the protagonists' thoughts, feelings, and desires. His actions were much more outrageous than mine, though. Mostly. It reminded me of Confederacy of Dunces in that way.

The titular Lucky Jim is a professor in England a few years after World War II. He doesn't particularly enjoy the subject he teaches, or teaching at all. More importantly, he doesn't appreciate the stuffiness and the pretentiousness that he sees in university life. He is an anti-academic academic.

He avoids his students and most of his responsibilities. He pisses off other instructors, especially Professor Welch, the department head. Jim woos Welch's son's girlfriend. He gets drunk and ornery at Welch's house during an employee function.  And when he finally is required to perform something resembling his job, he mocks Welch in front of a full auditorium before passing out drunk.

After all that, he ends up with the girl and the job he wants because of his honesty and his disdain for the establishment. The story is basically everything I want my life to be.

This book was enjoyable because the main character was so relatable, and not just for me because he was an ornery professor; he is the "everyman". Moderately successful but not very hard working. Charming at times, awkward at others. Friendly when he wants but not overly outgoing. Several vices, but nothing crippling or unusual. Although it takes place in England in the 1950s, his anti-establishment stance is a trait individuals of any era and area can appreciate.

It's written in proper British English, which makes the insults and shenanigans even funnier to me. Since I mostly just read tweets and articles on Cracked  nowadays, it took a little while to adapt to the style, but it paid off. The contrast between the writing style and the ridiculous actions of the main character is hilarious in itself. It's very much British humor. A middle class man working in academia ridiculing upper class elites in their own homes? Yeah. Peak British humor. I don't always love it, but when it's done right, it can be brilliant. Kingsley Amis nails it, which, considering his name, isn't that surprising.


I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

Kill Your Thoughts aka Editing

The hardest thing about writing is editing. Ok, the hardest thing is getting started. No, the hardest thing about writing is research. Actually...

You get the point. There is nothing easy about writing. There are so many facets to writing, and all of them are important in creating a satisfactory finished product. Each stage of the writing process contains a variety of difficulties; editing is just the final stage, and the most important.

Ever since I can remember, I always wanted to be a writer. What I never wanted to be was an editor, and nobody told me that all writers are editors.

All aspects of writing are frustrating, but editing is by far the most humbling. One misconception of writers is that they are "natural" and "born to be a writer." I disagree wholeheartedly; they may enjoy it more than those who don't write, but it never comes easy. It's hard work coming up with ideas and it's even harder getting those ideas down in a way that makes sense to others and expresses your true sentiments. So after all that work, the last thing you want to do is change the majority of it. You just busted your ass writing something, you don't want to reread it, you don't want to work on it anymore, and you definitely don't want to admit that it sucks.

Yet that is exactly what you need to do. When you're a professional writer, you have an editor and a lot of experience dealing with criticism and harsh revisions. As a student, you have the benefit of a teacher helping you edit, and even if the teachers' critiques are harsher than you expect, in a classroom there is an understanding that you will be judged on your work. Even in those situations, however, self-editing is still vital, and it can be an exercise in self-loathing and masochism. Sometimes you craft what you think is a perfect sentence, only to realize it doesn't fit with the rest of your paragraph, and you need the courage to get rid of that beautifully constructed combination of words. If you're honest, you will tear your own work to shreds, giving yourself even more work. It's a Sysiphean task, which is why I love it.

My first experience with the humbling editing process was my 8th grade graduation. I was tasked with making a speech by the principal of my elementary/middle school, Dr. Zoe Athanson (RIP). I spent several days and nights putting together a groundbreaking, mindblowing speech that would have my classmates and their families alternating between fits of crippling laughter and uncontrollable crying. I brought it to her office a few days before graduation with a cheesy grin, full of pride and self worth. She had me sit down in her office while she read it. She took out a pen and quietly, methodically, started scribbling, draining my self esteem with each swipe of her pen. After about 10 minutes, she gave it back to me, completely changed. The general ideas were the same, but the wording and structure were completely different. I didn't even recognize my own writing. Without telling me outright, her edits basically told me, "You don't want to embarrass yourself out there, so here's something more acceptable."

It stung a little bit. I figured she considered me a good writer since she asked me to write something, yet she clearly thought I was garbage.

After I got over my hurt feelings, the experience had a strange effect on me. I always considered myself a good writer (the qualifications included: writing on my own time) but this gave me a glimpse at reality. Just because you do a thing and you like doing that thing doesn't mean you do that thing well. I was hurt by her revisions, but the experience made me want to do better. I didn't want to be passing off her work as my own. I felt bad saying someone else's words; okay, I felt bad until the speech, then I owned it. Staring at all the people staring at me, I was just happy as hell not to be reading the crap I wrote.

In actuality, she had simply edited my paper, helping the golden nuggets that were my ideas shine through more clearly. I have since learned to do that more on my own, and I realized that my experience was something that all writers must face. At some point we have to confront the fact that we are not that good, and we need to improve. That's as hard a reality to accept in writing as it is in life.

I also learned how much editors actually do for writers. Some classic writers are rumored to have been extremely sloppy; are we really idolizing their work or the work of their editors? A lot of writers are upfront about how much their editors do for them; on the other hand, other writers are almost obsessive compulsive about editing their own work, never letting more than a few people see it until it is "perfect" in their minds.

Regardless, all writers realize the importance of editing,whether they do it themselves or with outside assistance. It is important to remember that revising is a separate mental process from creating, which is why it helps to have someone else edit your work at some point in the process. It's also why many editors are not the best writers and vice versa. Editing and creating use two completely different parts of the brain. It is impossible (well, certainly not productive, anyway) to edit while writing. Get everything out on paper, no matter how it sounds, then go back and work on it. That's the greatest part about a first draft: it can be complete trash and eventually turn into a classic.

 

First draft of George Orwell's 1984.

When you set out to write, remember James Thurber's words: "Don't get it right, get it written." You can get it right eventually, but you have to get it down, get it out there. We're all great writers in our heads, but nobody can read your mind. As Margaret Atwood said, "If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word." The greatest thing about writing is that you don't have to get it perfect the first time, or even second time, because there is the implicit agreement that you make when you start writing that you will respect the work, and yourself, enough to revise until it is right.

Or until you are absolutely sick of it and ready to set fire to your computer. That's when you know you are becoming a writer.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

Best Books of 2011 (Well, books that I read in 2011 anyway)

So it’s the end of the year and everyone is doing best of the year lists. I’m looking for that sweet, sweet ad revenue, so I’m not above pandering to the masses’ desire for someone else’s opinion of what they should have been into this year. And since I also like continuity in my blog, here’s my list of Best Books of 2011(Well, books that I read in 2011 anyway).

Simple Times: Crafts for Poor People

By Amy Sedaris

This is best described as a coffee table/bathroom (if you’re that type of person) book, and it’s awesome. This book, from the genius minds behind Strangers With Candy, mixes actual crafting ideas with absurd inventions, delivers hilarious side notes from an old, insane married couple, and tells stories about crafting with the mentally unstable or knitting while high on meth. The inside of the book's sleeve features Amy Sedaris with an Indian Native American style mini-dress and exposed thong, so it’s everything you could ask for in a book that’s intended to be left on the table for any visitors to sift through.

Three Cups of Tea

Greg “I’m a Big Fat Liar” Mortenson

So I received this book as a gift (twice I think) in the past few years, and I had been meaning to get around to it. I even read the first two chapters earlier this year. I knew the story from hearing about it on the news and from several people, and I was truly interested, and even inspired, by this guy. He started a whole bunch of schools for girls in Pakistan and Afghanistan. He was doing amazing humanitarian work in the region of the world that probably needs it the most. And then he wrote a best-selling, world-renown book about his experiences. And it was mostly a lie. 60 Minutes, and a much more respectable author and adventurer Jon Krakauer, called Mortenson on his elaborations. He published a rebuttal, but the fact remains that he lied about key aspects of his book, and he hadn’t helped nearly as many people as he claimed. Granted, if he helped one person, that’s great, but there’s no reason to lie about it. Especially when people are donating to your charity and it’s not being run correctly.

So I actually didn’t read this one. Good thing, cuz I would have been kinda upset.

Sometimes a Great Notion

By Ken Kesey

As I said yesterday, reading in general is very important. But, I believe novels are especially important. Fiction novels explore the inner workings of people’s minds and attempt to show how their actual personalities, their identities, are created. Novels can help create empathy within the reader. It shows you that there are other people just like you, and others who are nothing like you, and even others who have some similar traits yet many different traits as well. Novels explore life and all its complexities.

And not many novelists do that quite as well as Ken Kesey. His second novel, Sometimes a Great Notion, follows the life of the Stamper family, a clan of loggers living in a small town in Oregon. The other loggers in town have formed a union and started a strike in town, but the Stampers are too stubborn and ornery to do anything but keep working. I can’t do the story justice by describing the plot, so I’ll just say the book engulfs you and really places you into the story. There were days when I read the book while on my back porch, with the sun shining down, and I felt like I was there cutting down trees with Hank and Joe Ben.

Now, I do have to make a confession. I started reading this book when Bush was still in office (the first one). It’s a long book, and I don’t have a lot of free time to read novels, but it is also not easy to read. The narrator switches without warning, it changes from first to third person rapidly, and it is often written in a stream of consciousness style. There are also a lot of back stories that aren’t revealed until later on, so a lot of what happens in the beginning holds much more significance as you read on. And all of this adds to the mystical feel of this book. It takes you to the small town, working class, Northwest corner of America and lets you view the world through this family of unforgettable characters, living their ordinary-yet-anything-but-average American lives. 

I could put it down for weeks at a time (unwillingly) and when I came back, I could submerse myself immediately back into the story. Or I could read one page a day over and over and simply enjoy the amazing writing of a master story teller. Some chapters (Sections? Portions? There aren’t really chapters per se) that deal with nothing but thoughts floating in the heads of several different main—and secondary—characters, and other chapters contain some of the most powerful scenes and clear imagery ever described. The book is a true journey, and I highly recommend it, if you are ready to take that plunge into the Oregon wilderness.

So, that’s it really. I didn’t get to read a lot of books this year, but I finished Kesey, so that's good. I would include some of the articles I assign for class, but I’ve read all of them before this year, so it wouldn't fit with the theme. I will recommend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “A Letter fromBirmingham Jail” though. It is a reminder of what our country went through in its recent past, and how people of integrity must often times stand up in the face of an unjust status quo to make historic, positive change. It’s also beautifully written. Dr. King had a way with words, even when that way sometimes involved stealing them. Huh, maybe I’ll give that Mortensen guy another chance…nahhhh.

I Love You All…Class Dismissed.

Reading is F'n Awesome!

Books have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. It’s another one of those things that was just there in my life that I took for granted as a kid. Like heat and hot water. But books and reading have influenced my life more than any other material object or activity. I love tv but I wasn’t allowed a tv in my bedroom until I was in, oh I don’t know, college? So my only option for staying up late for a large portion of my life was reading. And I never really minded that. I love music, too, but I can listen to music while doing other things, and for me, music is a lot like reading, with the lyrics and the melodies and so forth. Reading more than anything enhanced my imagination and helped shape my world view, and even helped shape how I view myself. Reading let’s you explore other people’s minds, and it makes you put yourself into that person’s thoughts. It’s like Being John Malkovich, you are actually in my head as I write this, you are just in the future. So it’s like a Back to the Future situation, or actually more like a Quantum Leap situation, except you can’t do anything to change what’s happening. Wow. My brain leaked out of my ear there for a second. And I’m listening to Bonono Live Sessions right now. Mind= Blown. (I realize I just made an analogy for reading using examples from tv and movies, but we live in the image culture and tv and movies are simply more relatable to a wider audience...and I'm not above selling out. Besides, I really feel that my early appreciation for reading allows me to recognize and appreciate the connections between various art forms.)

If I didn’t stress it enough before, I was literally forced to read starting at an early age. And I think it’s necessary. I mean, I just played Assassin’s Creed Brotherhood from 830 pm to 230am, just because I could. And that’s what I would have been doing when I was younger if I had the opportunity. Video games are instant gratification (a lot of it…that game is sick) and much more immediately stimulating than a book. Of course a kid is gonna choose that over books. But I was forced to read to the point where I enjoyed it and did it (do it) even when I could have been watching tv or playing video games. There are some people who would never or could never become big “readers”, but I think if more people were exposed to reading at an early age, they’d be more inclined, and able, to read.

And I think any kind of reading is great (not Twilight, that actually makes you less of a human being) whether it be novels, short stories, newspapers, magazines, or yes, even the internet. The internet is all reading…except for all the porn. But you know what I mean, you have to read stuff to know what’s going on and to find anything. Some people are concerned that the internet is hurting literacy…there are more people in the world who can read right now, total and per capita, than ever before in the history of humankind, and it’s because of the internet. Yes, it’s not doing anything for proper grammar, but it’s helping more people communicate than ever before. That’s a good thing.  It should be highly supervised with young kids, obviously, but the internet is definitely beneficial to learning. And e-readers…how can anyone argue against those? 2,000 books in the palm of your hand! I held out on ipods for a while (I held out on cds for so long I wasn’t about to just give them up) but when I got one it changed my life. I haven’t gotten an e-reader for the simple fact that I don’t have enough time to read many novels during the semesters I teach (I teach all of them except winter). But when I do, or if I could use it for work, I would in a second. I use my smart phone all the time to read articles online or read my favorite blog. I like the feel of books, and I would still read some novels in book form, but it’s not really about the paper, it’s about the words, and the best words illuminate the truth in life no matter what medium is used.

I Love You All…Class Dismissed.