Musings: 10 December 1994 - 23 December 2006

To the greatest canine companion a neurotic intellectual would-be-writer boy could ever have asked for, who traveled everywhere I went from age 21 to age 32, who lived in two provinces and one state and two countries with me, and who kept me going through dissertation-writing and book revisions and losing Tiger seasons and so many trying times, on the day of his death from old age.

I'll miss you, buddy.

A poem by Pablo Neruda, in tribute:

A Dog Has Died

My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.

Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.

No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.

So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.

Musings: Serendipitous Weekends

So, the Whining Stranger walked into a serendipitous proposition this weekend, my friends. My two serious homebrewer friends invited me to be a judge for a regional beer-brewing competition. That's right: a weekend of sipping porters and California commons and altbiers and filling out comment sheets, in which I scored each beverage on its appearance, its flavor, its aroma, and its "intangibles." Granted it's been a long time since the WS started drinking in the a.m. hours (ah, for my lost salad days), so pacing was a bit of an issue, but overall it was a swimmingly pleasant weekend of foam and hops and good food (prime rib dinner on Saturday night!). A charmed life.

Today though I need to start filling this 30GB of mp3 player space. Any recommendations for must-have songs? Upbeat suggestions are especially welcome since this technological investment was especially made in the interest of charging me up on morning walks to campus, before I go teach. The mp3 player-filling is, of course, another procrastinatory measure when I should be doing scads of backed-up academic work. But all I really want to do is pile into my easy chair with headphones on and a Haruki Murakami novel in my lap. Sigh.

Oh, and go Tigers. Two weeks left to the season and then cling to the AL Central division lead.

Musings: On Mortality, Mine

Debated for a while today whether or not I'd write about this, but then talked myself into it, if only to fashion a procrastinatory measure that keeps me from addressing the five-item to-do list on my desk here at work.

This morning I went to the doctor for a follow-up visit, in part to talk about test results from an MRI I had a couple weeks ago. My doctor recommended the MRI because of my father's death--as a relatively young man, from a brain aneurysm he didn't know he had. The MRI itself was a new (and unwelcome) experience for me, a here's-what-it-feels-like-to-be-shoved-in-a-coffin-for-forty-five-minutes revelation, but with more clanky sound effects than the dead usually have to endure. But whatever. I had the test and pushed it to the back of my mind, to be left aside until today's follow-up.

On the drive though, I--of course, being an imaginative sort--let my mind wander a bit into what-if territory. "So, Whining Stranger, odds are if there was anything really irregular she'd have called you right away, but on the other hand, she may have needed a couple weeks to think of how to let you know that you're in grave danger, that there's an aneurysm in your head, waiting to send you careening toward an early exit." Now, you might think that an anxiety sufferer like me would be sent into pre-emptive convulsions over traveling down such a hypothetical path. (Remember that scene in Hannah and Her Sisters, when Woody Allen sits waiting for test results, convinced that he's about to learn he has an inoperable brain tumor...?) Oddly enough, though, I didn't feel that expected tightness in the chest or nausea in the belly. Instead, mostly calm. A settled searching through the "These are the things I'd do" if I were staring eye to eye with the Fella in the Brite Nitegown.

I'd probably want to quit teaching. (Sorry, kids, but I hope you understand.)
I'd commit myself to writing more. Maybe dash off two or three more inconsequential stories in my remaining days.
I'd make sure that the people I love know how much I love them.
I'd eat sushi every day damn day, and let the dog eat steak.

As it turns out though, everything's OK in my head. (Well, on the aneurysm front, anyway-- I'm still an anxious cat, but that's not terminal.)

And rather than spend the morning thinking about final wishes, I cruised home with the windows down, singing "Louie, Louie" loudly with the stereo. And my partner was waiting with a hug when I arrived.

Shoo, Grim Reaper. I got things to do.

Musings: Conversations, Welcome Correspondence and Frothy Ales

Cool autumnal rains made Labor Day weekend a time of acceptable transition. Summer is over, school has begun, I am lost to books and classrooms and sharpened pencils and striped ties again for the better part of the next four months. On Friday we celebrated with dinner out at a favorite restaurant. On Saturday we attended films on campus, and then went for a dinner and drinks get-together at a colleague's that took us into the early morning hours and carried us home with ample wine and beer in our bellies. Sunday saw me at a beer-tasting. (Yes, you read that right.) I drank different style beers all afternoon before we headed out for Thai food and more beer and wine with other friends, till 3 a.m.

Sunday afternoon we walked the dog in the rain. I napped on the couch. We had tilapia and green beans and couscous and salad. Sunday evening saw me smoking and reading Ralph Ellison in a comfy chair and drinking scotch and listening to the patter of rain and the swell of jazz from the radio.

And this weekend I found out that another story of mine has been accepted for publication.

Life.
Is.
Good.

Will decide on the winner of the Summer Writing contest soon and decide on a prize for said victor. I'm still open to late-entries if you get 'em in quickly.

Musings: On Poll Results and First Weeks of Teaching

So the poll results are in for August. Apparently nobody (but me) gives a rat's ass whether the Tigers win the World Series or whether Barry Sonnefield makes the right casting choice for Jack Gladney in White Noise or if Philip Roth gets his Nobel laureate due. But you do care about fixing that mess down in D.C. that's contributed to our world getting progressively more miserable since early in 2001. (Not to mention that some of you think I'm underpaid. I am. Criminally.)

Meanwhile, your old pal, The Whining Stranger, survived his first week of teaching without too many public speaking panic attacks or confrontations with water-balloon-toting or vodka-swilling hyenas. I was a bit put off by one student in one of my classes who confidently announced to me in his introduction that he doesn't like using intelligent words to discuss literature nor does he find much joy in sitting around talking about books. I told him I expect plenty of both, so hopefully there won't be too much trouble there. Otherwise, the student population in my classes seems eager so far, though my jokes are only earning resounding laughter about 62% of the time thus far. The generation gap is widening, I fear. I need to incorporate more physical comedy into my schtick. Nothing goes better with a good literary discussion than a well-timed pratfall.

And Mom called this morning to say that she scored free tickets to see Steely Dan and Michael McDonald. I'm happy for her. She was envious when she heard my glowing review back in July.

Musings: What a week, what a week--

So Jonbenet's "confessed" killer goes free, The Office (thankfully) wins "Best Comedy" at the Emmys, the Tigers try to rally themselves before the brutal stretch run of September, and I survive my first day of teaching yesterday.

Another earnest group of students, another fifteen-week run through reading and grading and nervous lectures and ironing my shirts in a rush before I take off to campus, and feeling like I'll never get caught up, and asking over and over and over, "How soon till Thanksgiving break?" before finally it's Christmas and I'm on a plane back home and I've made it through another term.

Whew.

More coffee, please.

Musings: Three Reasons to Smile

1. The cover of the latest issue of Sports Illustrated.



2. A new graduate student in my department told me the other day that, bearded, I am a dead ringer for Johnny Damon. I imagine this kid was just sucking up as he'd heard me say earlier that I'm a lifelong baseball fan who would have loved to play centerfield in the majors, but still--



3. The film version of the Amy Sedaris-Stephen Colbert-Paul Dinello vehicle, Strangers with Candy, which I saw last night, and which made me laugh so much that my stomach hurt.

The Whining Stranger on Politics and Current Events: Not as Green As I Thought

I just took the Ecological Footprint Quiz at earthday.net. I went in thinking I'd score well. I walk to work; I drive a fuel-efficient car; I eat vegetarian dinners maybe 4-5 nights a week.

As it turns out, my Ecological Footprint is 18 acres, and more horrifying, if everybody lived like me we would need 3.9 planets.

Go ahead, test yourself.

Musings: Five Great Beards for the Ages

As I take another break, mid-afternoon, here on campus, and run my fingers through two-weeks of new beard growth, I find myself contemplating the great hirsute icons who've inspired me to put the razor away again.

So, Casey Kasem-style, in reverse order, here they are:

5. Croatian tennis great Goran Ivanisevic



Goran tried to revive the Bjorn Borg look in the 1990s, long after the Ice Man had retired from the game.

4. Soul music legend Marvin Gaye



If I had to choose which vision of Marvin to put on a stamp, I'd pick this one. "Let's Get It On"-era Marvin. Never has somebody who embodied virility so thoroughly been able to hit notes so high.

3. All-Star outfielder Johnny Damon (pre-Bronx makeover)



When Johnny Damon first arrived in Spring Training for the Boston Red Sox with full beard and long hair flying out of his cap, I thought baseball had finally again discovered a quirky superstar in the best Mark Fidrych vein. Then Johnny got famous and got interviewed and I realized he's, sadly, a lout. Then he joined the Yankees and went clean-cut. Still, look at that beard. It was a good run for a while.

2. Tintin's seafaring buddy Captain Haddock




Slubberdegullions! That's some kickass facial hair.

1. Inventer of modern fiction Ernest Hemingway



You know this was coming. Pretend to be surprised.

Musings: My Life is Good, But--

I woke up this morning feeling that my life is good. Tremendously good. Last night we drank red wine and had potato-rosemary bread and ate jambalaya. We walked the dog. I smoked. I played the piano. I finished Don Quixote and read a bit of Dostoevsky ("White Nights") in bed. Good life, right?

And then, surfing the web for Plimpton content I read this, from Daedalus Howell, on his blog: Drawn and Quarterly.

My life is grand, it is, but there's still room for jealousy.

Musings: The Cruel Part of the Summer

One of the few downsides of living a life governed by the academic year is that August inevitably carries a bit of melancholic weight. These are the last few weeks of unstructured time before the rigor of classes, and meetings, and stringent commitments sets in. Autumn's cool, crisp winds come nipping in at the corners of your sun-bleached, laissez faire existence. Soon you'll be living by alarm clocks and datebooks again.

This is the month of Jay Gatsby's downfall. This is the busy time of looking ahead to the busier time of school starting.

I sigh.
And I wonder how another summer has so quickly passed.

Musings: Scrapple from the Apple: The Whining Stranger's Back from NYC

So, Friday night I landed, tired, back into my quiet college town, after ten days in the greatest city in the universe. It's over: I took Manhattan, the Bronx, and the Staten Island ferry too. A good trip overall. I was sufficiently productive with the library research I was supposed to do, and I maximized my time in the city, enjoying ten days as a flaneur in midtown, Greenwich Village, Chinatown, SoHo, the financial district... Baseball brought me to Queens and the Bronx. The unlimited-ride MetroCard I bought on Day 2 was my greatest resource. Some highlights and things I did, and discovered:

1. Midtown Manhattan hotel rooms at twilight invite shadowy self-portraits:



2. Ms. Liberty's a looker, even on an overcast afternoon, as viewed from the tip of Battery Park. (I also saw her from the Staten Island ferry, but didn't have my camera to record that first meeting of wayfaring intellectual and gigantic female icon.)



3. My favorite on-the-go lunch is, without a doubt, gyros bought on the cheap from the vendors around the corner from Radio City Music Hall, where I stomped on the avenue in bad sneakers, but sans transistor or large sum of money. A good lunch: greasy, sloppy goodness in a pita with an ice cold can of Coke, and all for five bucks.



4. This unassuming basement venue is--as I knew it would be--the greatest jazz club in the world. The staff could be a little more personable, but man, I sat three feet from Greg Osby (who was fantastic) and couldn't settle the litany in my mind of famous musicians who'd played (and recorded seminal albums) on the stage before me ("Trane!" "Sonny Rollins!" "Bill Evans!" etc.).



...but I also heard amazing jazz from the Mingus Dynasty group here, at Iridium, on Broadway on Tuesday night. A great pick-up performance, and a personal highlight for me, when Ku'umba Frank Lacy acknowledged my applause from the front table with a nod and a finger pointed in my direction.



...and the best serendipitous jazz moment of my visit was getting to catch the Dave Holland Quintet for free at Castle Clinton in Battery Park on my last night in town. Chris Potter and Robin Eubanks were particularly otherworldly.



5. The Metropolitan Museum of Art is overwhelming in its grandeur. I had to limit myself to my bread-and-butter, the modern and contemporary collections. While I can't pretend I wasn't disappointed that they didn't have Romare Bearden's The Block on view, I was moved at seeing Picasso's portrait of Gertrude Stein in person for the first time.



6. At Yankee Stadium, you get this for forty-five dollars:



...but at Shea Stadium, you get this for only sixteen:



So what if Shea's a dumpier ballpark. I like the Mets better anyway. (Though I did have a blast joining the boo-birds in the Bronx when A-Rod struck out three times. I could strike out for less than 25 million bucks a year, dude.)

And those are some highlights from my time in the big city. Sadly, now I'm staring at a mess of work to do in the next three weeks. When-oh-when will those syllabi be finished?

Musings: In Memoriam: Professor J.D. (1938-2006)

Last night my sister called me from back home with very sad news: my favorite undergraduate professor passed away yesterday. And just like that I have lost one of the most important influences in my life. He inspired me to become a literature professor. ("What? A life of talking about books with people? I can get paid for that?") He was one of the surrogate father figures to whom I turned when I lost my father suddenly at age eighteen. Professor J.D. was a model for me in so many ways, ranging from the profound to the superficial. I admired his self-deprecating wit in the classroom. I marvelled at his productivity (he was an internationally admired scholar of American literature; he was a prolific poet; he was a music critic too). I was helplessly flattered when he assigned me an A+ in a creative writing workshop and told me that he hoped it went to my head. I loved our lunches together, when we'd meet over beer and sandwiches at one of the campus pubs, and talk throughout the afternoon about novels and music and sports... Even the way I dress is, in part, indebted to him, such a fan was I of his L.L. Bean sweaters and tweed jackets and pressed khakis.

Last year, when my first academic book was in the proofs stage, I remembered (thankfully) at the last minute to include J.D.'s name in the acknowledgments. He'd long since been a first-hand influence on my scholarly work, but I wanted to register in some public way the long shadow he cast over all that I do professionally. It will long be one of my deepest regrets that I didn't send him a copy of those acknowledgments when the book was published, so he could see while he was alive how I held him in such high regard.

I pray that on some level he knew.

And I'll say now, that if I can ever touch a student even half as much as J.D. touched me in this lifetime, then this career will have been a successful one.

I will miss you, John.